Perlegi Ingeniosum, & Pium hunc Librum, cui Titulus (The Parable of the Pilgrim) in quo nihil reperio Doctrinae, Disciplinaeve Ecclesiae Anglicanae, aut bonis moribus Contrarium.  
Joh. Hall. Rev. in Christo Patri Humfredo Dom. Episc. Lond. à sac. Domest. Exaedibus Londinens. April 11. 1665.   

THE PARABLE OF THE PILGRIM: Written to a Friend.  
BY SIMON PATRICK. B. D.  
LONDON, Printed by Robert White for Francis Titan at the Sign of the three Daggers in Fleetstreet. 1665.   

  

MY FRIEND,  
THat I send one to wait upon you in the habit of a Pilgrim, which hath been so long out of Fashion, and quite worn not only out of our use, but out of our knowledge; may seem a thing very strange and be surprising to you. But when you shall consider that old fashions are wont to come about again, and that we are much in love with Antiques, and that our eyes are drawn to one that appears in an unusual or foreign dress, who else would not be observed; it may abate a little of the wonder. I say a little, because some will still remain, that he should come from one of my complexion, who have but a little of fancy in my composition; and so must needs be a stranger to works of this nature. But you will receive satisfaction in this also, when you shall know (as the truth is) that I met with a man one day that had put himself in this habit; who pleased me so much, that he persuaded me to conceive this design of providing such another Pilgrim to serve you. It happened, I mean, that reading a little while ago the works of a late Writer 
* Baker's Sancta Sephia.  I found among other matters a short discourse, in the compass of four or five leaves, under this name of The Parable of the Pilgrim: And it was so agreeable to that small portion of fancy I am endued withal, that I presently thought a work of this nature would be very grateful to you also. This was the occasion of these Meditations, which as fast as my other employments would permit I have brought into this shape wherein they are now presented to you. The title of my Book I have borrowed from him, because I could not find a better; and I have made use likewise of one sentence very often which he puts into his Pilgrim's mouth; but with such improvement of sense, that it is little more than the words that I am beholden to him for. And as to the matter of it, I must leave you to judge when you have perused it, how pertinent it is to your present and past condition; being assured that if you find not all that you desire, yet you will find that I had an unfeigned desire to do you service. As to the dress of it, I know that you will not expect this Pilgrim should come to you in fine Apparel and like some Gallant; but rather judge it more decent that he is attired plainly according to the quality and condition of his person and profession. This made me the more careless in what clothing I set him out, and to take such trimming as came next to hand: having a far weightier care upon me, to make him speak such clear and perspicuous language as you might readily apprehend. And indeed if there be any thing here said that is not plain and easy, it is very much against my will: for I am of his mind that hath told us, It is the greatest misery in writing not only not to be understood, but to be understood with difficulty. And now if this poor Pilgrim shall find any acceptance at your hands, and be found capable to serve the ends of Wisdom and Virtue which he would willingly advance; I pray keep him with you, that if he can live longer than I, he may always tell you how much I am  
Your Friend S. P. Covent-Garden, Decemb. 14. 1663.   

An Advertisement.  
THE Reader may be pleased to know that this Pilgrim hath dwelled for some time in the service of a Private Friend, (to whose uses and occasions he was particularly addressed) and there hath been so well entertained, that he was not ambitious of any higher preferment. But he met with a person so charitable, and who proved also such a friend to him; that he was thought worthy to be advanced to a more public employment, and would not be permitted to remain any longer in that private attendance. In obedience therefore to the commands he received, he comes now abroad, and offers his assistance to any that shall think good to make use of it: being grown also bigger since he went thither, and so of better ability to serve more than one. In plain words (for those I most affect; and if you meet with so much as any Metaphorical expressions in the Book, it is but seldom, and only to comply with the Title) this Discourse was writ with a respect to the necessities of a particular person: who imagined that others might possibly reap some benefit by it, and therefore desired it might not lie in a private hand. But it being necessary to transcribe the Papers that they might be read by the Printer; it was thought withal adviseable that some things should be enlarged to make them better understood, and others added to render the usefulness of the Treatise (if it can have any) of greater extent. Only this must be remembered, that a regard was still had to the needs of that Person (which yet are such as all pious Souls generally labour withal) and therefore it must not be expected that every case which can occur in Christian life, should here be handled. And indeed that would have swelled this Discourse to over great a bulk, and required very long consideration; or else it is like it had been attempted.  
It must be noted also, that it was thought fit to make the distance but short between the Pilgrims parting with his Guide and their meeting again; because that would still have too much enlarged this Treatise, to describe particularly, his behaviour in the whole course of an Holy Life, for which that would have been the proper place.  
There are some things also may seem a little strange which are said to have happened to the Pilgrim; but you are to remember that God puts good thoughts into our minds more ways than one; and to know that the substance of what is reported is not a Contrivance, but a real Truth.  
And now it would argue great unexperience of the world to expect, that this Pilgrim should not meet with some, whose curiosity he cannot humour; and others whose sourness nothing can please. But he that sends him abroad will be abundantly satisfied if he become useful to any well-disposed Soul, who shall have a mind to bear him company to Jerusalem. And if he chance to meet with any that shall only study to cavil, and pick a quarrel with him; He is prepared beforehand to take no notice at all of it, nor to be more troubled at their incivility; then a devout Hermit is at the ugly faces, which the Creatures who something resemble men make at him, as he is walking through the deserts.   

THE CONTENTS.  

CAP. I. The occasion and intention of this Pilgrimage, with the time when it was undertaken. Page 1  
CAP. II. The earnest desire of the Pilgrim to be at Jerusalem: and what he expected to find there. p. 5  
CAP. III. The great trouble that he fell into, because of the different ways which he was told of to that place. p. 7  
CAP. IV. How he happily heard of a safe Guide unto it: with a true Character of him. p. 12  
CAP. V. The Opinion which others conceived of that Guide: and his address to him. p. 15  
CAP. VI The Acceptance which he found with him: and how plainly the Guide dealt with him about the difficulties of the way. p. 18  
CAP. VII. The Guide discovers his sincere and upright Intentions. p. 21  
CAP. VIII. He gins his advice: and after the Grand Direction, which contains many of the rest; he gives him sundry preparatory Counsels. And above all, tells him that he must be provided with a strong Resolution. p. 25  
CAP. IX. A more particular Discourse of Resolution: and of the manner how to form such an one as will be sound and firm. p. 39  
CAP. X. Of leaving the world; and how thereby we recover our freedom. p. 51  
CAP. XI. He commends to the Pilgrim, two Companions: Humility and Charity. Directs where to find them. With a large Discourse of the former of them. p. 58  
CAP. XII. Of Divine Charity. The Power that it hath both to establish his Resolution, and furnish him with all other Requisites for his Journey. p. 70  
CAP. XIII. A Description of the City Jerusalem: and of the happiness he should there meet withal. p. 82  
CAP. XIV. The manner of their life who live at Jerusalem: and that all things concur to make it the most pleasant of all other. p. 95  
CAP. XV. A Description of Jesus, who is the true Way to Jerusalem. In which he is propounded to the Pilgrim's imitation. p. 107  
CAP. XVI. Of Faith in Jesus. How imperfectly, or obscurely it is commonly expressed, to the great danger of Christian Pilgrims. What the true notion of it is, which cannot deceive us. p. 137  
CAP. XVII. What place Prayer, Hearing of Sermons, Reading of Good Books, Receiving the Sacrament; have in the Religion of Jesus. And of what use they are to Pilgrims. p. 150  
CAP. XVIII. Of the many enemies he was to expect that would assault his Resolution: Some from within, some from without. Of their subtleties and various arts to deceive. p. 168  
CAP. XIX. Of many other devices to discourage him in his Journey. Especially if he should chance to get a Fall. p. 177  
CAP. XX. How they will endeavour to puff him up with Spiritual Pride. A description of one of our conceited Believers. And also of a certain Artificial Religion which deceives many. p. 195  
CAP. XXI. Of the endeavours of his Enemies to keep him from doing good to his Brethren, under a pretence of Love to God. And of the Excellency of that Brotherly Charity. p. 208  
CAP. XXII. That a Pilgrim must sometimes recreate himself as well as other men. Of the pleasure of good Company. What Men are to be more particularly avoided. Of the Festivals of the Church. How useful they may be. And how much abused. p. 222  
CAP. XXIII. What entertainment all these discourses met withal from the Pilgrim. And of the pleasures he should find in his way, though encumbered with the forenamed Enemies. p. 235  
CAP. XXIV. Upon the Pilgrim's request, the Guide enters into a further description of the pleasures of the Way to Jerusalem; and answers some scruples of his about it. The difficulty of the beginning of his journey. Of taking up the Cross that might lie in his way; and such like things. p. 249  
CAP. XXV. How the Pilgrim and his Guide parted. And with what a brave Resolution he began his Journey. p. 275  
CAP. XXVI. Of sundry troubles which happened to the Pilgrim in his Travels. And how he was delivered out of them. p. 281  
CAP. XXVII. How the Pilgrim fell into a great sadness; and how strangely it was eured by an unexpected meeting with his Guide. Who discourses of the nature of sensible joys. And at last upon his desire contracts a particular Friendship with the Pilgrim. p. 293  
CAP. XXVIII. Of the Necessity of Friendship. Of faithful Counsel. How the Pilgrim doubted whether there was such a place as Jerusalem. The satisfaction which his Friend gave him in this particular. As also the comfort he administered to him in a great Sickness. p. 320  
CAP. XXIX. Of the trouble which the Pilgrim was in about some business which had lain neglected during his sickness. Of his desires after a contemplative Life. Of Solitude. The Profit of it: especially at the beginning of our Christian course. And how they that enjoy it, do not find all the satisfaction which they expected in it. p. 336  
CAP. XXX. How the Pilgrim grew very dull and lazy. By what means he was quickened to greater diligence. How the Guide awakened some sluggish Pilgrims which they met withal: moving them to a great care of their Souls; and to prove their Sincerity in Religion, by their being zealous of good works. p. 350  
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 Virtue gives another. How he was troubled that he should have any passions. Of the use of them. That it is fit for us to love our friends passionately: and to take great delight in their company. p. 371  
CAP. XXXII. How they light upon a company of select Friends who were met at a frugal, but handsome Dinner. The commendation of Temperance. Of the pleasure that Friends enjoy in eating together. The benefit of Friendship. With the Character of a true Friend. p. 386  
CAP. XXXIII. How they chanced to see a very poor man entertaining himself with much pleasure under a Tree. Whence arose a discourse of Contentment: and the means to attain it. Of Humility and Charity. That notwithstanding all our Charity, we must not think to have the World so good as we would wish it. p. 403  
CAP. XXXIV. How they fell into the company of two Travellers. One of which would have pulled out the Pilgrim's eyes: and the other pulled away his Guide. p. 417  
CAP. XXXV. A Discourse with some Pilgrims that were going to Loretto, the Holy Land, or such like places. How much such persons are abused and cheated. The judgement of St. Gregory Nyssen of these Pilgrimages. The Privileges which Rome boasts of above all other places. And what a Market is there held continually for Pardons. Of which a Lease may be bought of many thousand years, for a small matter. p. 428  
CAP. XXXVI. How the Pilgrim had a fair sight of the heavenly Jerusalem: and what ensued thereupon. How easy it is by a true and passion Friendship to learn the greatest Love to God. And that he is to be studied and admired in all his Creatures, as well as in his Son Christ. p. 453  
CAP. XXXVII. How after this the Pilgrim fell into a conceit that he did not profit in Virtue: 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 withal. A beginning of a new discourse about Faith. p. 474  
CAP. XXXVIII. A Discourse with an Acquaintance of the Pilgrims about resting on Christ for Salvation. The wilfulness, and unskilfulness of some Guides in the way to Jerusalem. For what end Christ died: and so what it is that our Faith is principally to respect. That Christ is a means to our end: and therefore Faith must go further than his person. p. 498  
CAP. XXXIX. The joy which the Pilgrim conceived in this discourse: and how much he applauded his happiness in having such a Friend. The Serenity of his Condition after all these Clouds. And how nothing troubled him but only that he could do so little to testify his love to his Guide: who easily gave him satisfaction by showing the true grounds of Friendship. p. 515    

ERRATA.  
PAge 26 l 8 r its bowels. p 59 l 27 r passage. p 62 l 5 r on high. p 90 l 20 r partaker. p 118 l 29 r were filled. p 141 l 9 r he desires. p 173 l 9 r charms. p 177 l 16 r let you. p 202 l 1 r cover them p 219 l 8 r relishes. p 229 l 9 r cheerfully. p 232 antepen. r preposterous. p 257 l 3 r any man p 258 l 24 deal is before any. p 259 l 19 r an Age. p 267 l 8 r trouble. p 268 l 18 r then. p 272 l 10 r deserts. p 295 l 12 r arise. p 299 l 11 r long. p 303 l 22 r taught. p 314 l 3 r hither. p 327 l 24 r disputers. p 330 l 23 r Globe of earth. p 344 l 6 r Wolf. p 361 antep. r thou. p 386 ult. deal great. p 432 l 23 r giserne. p 455 l 8 r passionate. p 459 l 17 r its. p 465 l 10 deal that. p 480 l 24 r great. p 479 penult. r will and nill. p 501 l 31 r too much. p 512 l 5 r needs. p 523 l 1 r were.   

THE PARABLE OF THE PILGRIM.  

CAP. I.  
The occasion and intention of this Pilgrimage, with the time when it was undertaken.  
IT will contribute so little either to the profit or delight which I design you in the reading this History, to know the punctual years and days wherein every thing therein contained was done; that it will be a commendable thrift, to spare myself the labour of that accuracy. It will be sufficient to let you understand, that no great number of years have passed, since a man who now calls himself PHILOTHEUS, but by others is called THEOPHILUS, being weary of the Country where he dwelled, and finding no satisfaction in any thing that he enjoyed, took a resolution to shift his seat, and to seek for that, of which he felt as great a desire as he did a want, in some other Land.  
Many strange Countries there were which he visited in pursuance of this purpose; many steep hills he climbed, and many dangerous praecipices he narrowly escaped; he committed himself not once or twice to the anger of the Sea, expecting to be brought to the Port which he so much wished: But still he was as far from the accomplishment of his desires, as when he first launched out, and found all his pains rewarded with nothing but weariness and tired spirits. If it was the intention of this Paper to recount all his adventures, and the several issues of them (which are enough to fill a volume) the story, I believe, would not be altogether useless, nor without that pleasure which such relations are wont to yield to those that read them. But having resolved for divers causes to begin the History of his life there, where he began to enjoy a taste of happiness; I shall reflect no further upon the former part of it, than only to tell you in what case that blessed hour found him. You must know then, that after many tedious journeys, and as many disappointments, his legs beginning quite to fail him, and to deny him so much as their support; he sat down upon the ground in a deep melancholy, and such a great heaviness of mind, that it was feared he would sink lower, and go no further to seek a grave. His countenance was so altered, that there were very few marks remaining of the same man he was before: His looks were dejected, his eyes grew hollow, his complexion turned sallow; and in short, his blood was so impoverished of spirits, that his flesh fell to the very bone, and his cheeks, in a despair of any other comfort, seemed to desire to meet and kiss, and so bid the world farewel. In this dismal estate he continued but too many days; and according to the nature of that thoughtful humour, which now had gained the supreme power over him, he mused on divers things, and contrived several new journeys in his fancy, which yet he saw at the same moment, would only contribute more to his affliction, and nothing at all to the amendment of his condition. But at last, as if he had been admonished by some courteous Angel which he fancied then flew by him, and gave him a small touch with his wing, he felt a thought stir in his soul, remembering him of a place called Jerusalem, which he had totally forgot in all his travels, and never so much as dreamt of directing his course unto. His heart, you may easily think, leapt at this sudden stroke, and his pulse beat at no ordinary rate; for having heard by some means or other in times past, very much discourse of the beauty, and the pleasant situation of that City; of the sweet temper of the Inhabitants, and the many goodly things that were to be seen and enjoyed there above all other places; he was instantly possessed with a strong desire to remove his seat thither, and to seek his fortune (as we commonly speak) in another world. And pondering seriously with himself the little or no contentment which he had taken in his best condition here, together with the hopes which fluttered in his soul of bettering himself there; his present weakness could not hinder him from being inspired with a conceit that he should be able to travel thither, nor repress his desires from growing into a kind of passion to be at that place, whither his thoughts did run before him without his leave, and could not be persuaded to stand still for one moment. Such is the nature of any excellent good, when it presents itself to us, and fans our souls with any hopes of obtaining it, that our desires think to waft us as fast as they can unto it; and growing continually in strength and swiftness by their own motion, the gale proves so stiff; that our hearts are swelled therewith, and leave no room for any other thoughts, nor can be at any rest, till they be possessed of it. Thus would this poor man have taught those who now beheld him, though they had never read a word in their own souls; for his mind was so impressed with the happiness which he heard dwelled at Jerusalem, that he was not able to discharge his soul at any time of those thoughts and desires which lifted him up from the ground, and told him they would carry him thither. When he did eat or drink, Jerusalem would still be in his mouth; when he was in company, Jerusalem stole away his heart from them; nay in his very sleep it would not stay away, but he was wont to dream fine things of Jerusalem. But that which makes the story of this person the more remarkable is, that it was toward the latter end of the year, and in the decay of all things, when these good thoughts began to spring up in his soul. When the earth had removed itself a great way from the Sun, when all the gallantry of the fields had resigned its place to Ice and Snow, when charity grew cold, and Christian virtue seemed to be gone back to its root, when the ways were untrod, and few or no Travellers upon the road; then did these zealous desires begin to bud in the heart of this honest Countryman, and he felt such a vehement heat urging and stimulating his breast, that he could remain in no quiet for thinking of his journey to that fair place, which had been so much commended to his love, as the most flourishing and glorious that ever eye beheld.   

CAP. II.  
The earnest desire of the Pilgrim to be at Jerusalem: and what he expected to find there.  
MUch time he spent in consultation with himself about the course which would be best to hold in his travel thither. There was no cost spared, no study omitted to get acquaintance with the nearest way to it, nor did he cease to inquire of those who were reputed the most skilful guides, that he might obtain a true information of every passage in the journey, which he seriously resolved to undertake. For though the weather was cold, the ways dirty and dangerous, and the journey he was told would be long, and company little or none could be expected to deceive the tediousness of the Pilgrimage; yet so great were the ardours which he felt within himself, that he regarded none of these discouragements, but only wished that he might be so happy, as to find the right way though he went alone thither. And that which made his desires the more forward was, that he had often heard Jerusalem by interpretation was no meaner place than the VISION OF PEACE. A sight that he had been long pursuing in several forms and shapes wherein it had often seemed to present itself before him, but could never court it into his embraces. O my beloved (would he often sigh within himself) O my hearts desire! O thou joy of the whole earth! in what corner of it dost thou hid thyself and liest concealed from our eyes? Where art thou to be found O heavenly good? Who will bring me to the clear vision of thy face? Art thou company only for the Celestial spirits? Art thou so reserved for the Angel's food, that we poor mortals may not presume to ask a taste of thy sweetness? What would not I part withal to purchase a small acquaintance with thee, and to know the place where thou makest thine abode? Many a weary step have I taken in a vain chase of thy society. The hours are not to be numbered which I have spent in wishing and labouring to lay hold on thee, and still thou fliest away from me. After all the sweat wherein I have bathed myself I can find nothing, but only that thou art not here to be found. Thou art retired it seems from this poor world, and hast left us only a shadow of thee; for when we think to clasp thee hard in our arms, the whole force and weight of our souls doth fall upon Nothing. O my heart, what ails thee? what torments are these which so suddenly seize upon thee? Ah cruel pains, the remembrance of which prepares a new rack for me! The arm of a Giant would not ache more, if with all his might he should strike a feather, than my heart now doth but to think of the anguish it endured when all the strength and violence of its desires were met with emptiness and vanity. O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the only place that can ease us of this misery! the place where the beloved of my soul dwelleth, the vision of peace, the seat of true tranquillity and repose, how fain would I have the satisfaction of being in the sure way to thy felicity! This is all the peace I wish for in the world. No other happiness do I thirst after, as every thing can testify that hath been privy to my thoughts. There is never a room in my house but hath been filled with the noise of my sighs and groans after thee, O Jerusalem. Every tree that grows in my ground hath thy sweet Name engraven upon it. The birds of the air, if they can understand, are witnesses how incessantly my soul pants and longs to fly unto thee, O Jerusalem. What charitable hand will guide me in the way to thy pleasures? who will bring me into that strong City; the retreat of my wearied mind, the refuge to recruit my tired spirits, the only place of my security, my joy, my life itself? Wilt not thou O God, who hast lead me to the knowledge of it, who hast filled me with these desires, and hast brought me into a disesteem and contempt of all other things? O let not these desires prove the greatest torment of all unto me, for want of their satisfaction. O forsake not this soul, that hath forsaken all other delights, and taken its leave of every other comfort, that it may go and seek for thee at Jerusalem.   

CAP. III.  
The great trouble that he fell into, because of the different ways which he was told of to that place.  
IN this manner the poor man was wont to sigh out his soul, hoping that at last the heavens would please to hear him and favour him with the understanding of that, which would make all his groans useless, and render him as cheerful, as now he found himself disconsolate. But that which made the fulfilling of his desires more difficult, and his hopes to arrive more slow, was the many controversies which were in those days fiercely agitated, and the huge quarrels that men raised about the right way to Jerusalem. There were no less than twenty (and some say many more) very different parties that contended sharply with each other; and every one of them confidently affirmed that they only were the people of Zion, and that unless he joined himself to their company (in which alas there was no Peace at all) he should never come to that City of God which he sought after. The heads of these divisions made the world believe that they were the Torches which must light them through the darkness of error; the Polestar to regulate their course in the search and discovery of truth; and that unless men used their Clue (which God knows was most woefully entangled) they should never fail to be lost in the Labyrinths and Maeanders of Ignorance and Folly. Nay to such a degree did they magnify themselves, as if Truth and they had been born at the same time, or at least had come of Age together. It seemed to be a secret till they appeared, and to have been reserved from the beginning on purpose to discover itself to them in Markets and Camps, if not in lewder places. The most modest pretention was, that Truth was but a stripling, or rather went in side-coats, till it came to their schools to be ripened into the wisdom of perfect men. They spoke of the affairs of Heaven, as if they were Counsellors of State in that Kingdom; and opened the secrets of Jesus Christ as if they were his Confidents. St. John who lay in his bosom never delivered any thing with greater peremptoriness than these men did; and, had it not been that they wanted his charity, they might have been thought by most as great Oracles as they thought themselves. There seemed no difference between them and Prophets, but only that they could not prove their mission; else they had the gift of boldness and fell not short in their pretences to inspiration. In this conceit they thrust into the world a great number of books which were called the Word of the Lord, and cried up as the Maps of that heavenly Country, and the exact Charts whereby men must steer their course if ever they meant to come safely thither. Into huge Volumes these writings sometimes swelled, and they were wont to collect and faggot together so many things and so vastly different; that a man could not easily avoid to lose his way in this Wood, while he was seeking his way to Jerusalem. Especially since they never forgot to furnish these bundles with some lusty sticks wherewith to bang their adversaries and beat them down as low as hell. For in the midst of such a fearful scuffle, there was so great a dust raised; that no man could tell where he was, nor discern any thing but only this, that he was not in the way to the Vision of Peace.  
I need not relate how sorely it grieved the good man's heart to see so many different ways, every one of them laying so high a claim to truth, and bitterly reproaching the rest as damnable Heresies. He could bend his course to no quarter, but he was in danger to be assaulted with some question or other, and was put upon his defence against some man of brass, who thought himself worthy to be one of the Champions of Truth. The spirit of common Barratry did not seem a greater plague to him, than these vexatious disputing people. The fury of whom likewise was sometimes so violent, that he thought he had made a good retreat if he were not bruised and almost beat in pieces by their rude blows, whose opinions he adventured to thwart by any strong contradiction. Nay they all taking distant paths and not going in straight and parallel lines, but in obliqne and crooked ways, which crossed each other very frequently; they never met together, but there was such justling and quarrelling about the road to Jerusalem, that no man could be near them but they would engage him to take the one or the other part in the Bloody conflict. So I call it; for they thought that they did God good service, when they dispatched one of their enemies; and that they made him a Sacrifice, when they satisfied their own beastly fury. And this indeed was the saddest thing of all to his thoughts, that their heat and passion they had the confidence to Baptise into the name of holy zeal; and that which was but the love of their own opinion, they constantly miscalled the love of God and of his Truth. Though those days (as I have already said) were very frozen and cold, yet they cudgeled one another so long till they grew not; and then they cried the weather was very warm and the Sun in his highest elevation. God's enemies they thought they opposed in their own; and they fancied themselves engaged against sin while they were buffeting a contrary opinion. There was no heat but they took it for divine, though it were of their own kindling; and so they were but all on fire, they never doubted but it was from heaven. For there was no sin in those days like Moderation, and no virtue comparable to a furious and headlong zeal. But yet he received this benefit by those unhappy feuds, that they made him sometimes think it was no mean thing in the esteem of others as well as himself, for which there was so many and so fiery contenders. The Prize he hoped would prove glorious which had drawn into the field so many combatants, and which with such zealous stickling all sides sought to win. The affliction also which he felt in his spirit when he beheld them so sharply engaged, had this good effect upon him; that it made him more sensibly admire the goodness of God which had preserved him from listing himself in any of those angry parties, and entering into those never enough to be lamented broils. This put him likewise in some hopes that he would not suffer him likewise in some hopes that he would not suffer him to remain long without the knowledge of the Truth, who had so graciously prevented him from diverting into the paths of falsehood. This degree of understanding he had already acquired, That Sweetness and Love, Meekness and Peace were the Harbingers to Divine Knowledge, and since they were become his Guests, he hoped that would not be far behind. But that any man who knows God to be Love, should imagine that he will dwell in a mind where there is nothing but hatred to be found, seemed a kind of Prodigy unto him. And it did quite astonish him to see that so many men did dream that the way to The Vision of Peace lay through the field of strife and war; and that we must come to live together in endless love hereafter, by living in perpetual frays and brawls in the world where we now are.   

CAP. IU.  
How he happily heard of a safe Guide unto it: with a true Character of him.  
AND he truly who is not wont to frustrate the expectations of such well minded souls, did not use much delay before he gave him a sensible demonstration of that which he already believed. He found that the God of peace, could not make himself long a stranger to men of peaceable spirits, and that he waits sometimes to do us a pleasure there, where we feared to meet with harm and mischief. For falling one day into the company of some persons who were discoursing concerning the state of affairs abroad, he happened to light on that which he verily thought their vain jangling would fright and drive away. There were many debates passed about the several opinions that were then on foot, and about the grand supporters of them. Some leaned to this, others to that, but he could not perceive there was any of them who was not addicted to a Sect, and did not seek to hear the voice of Jesus Christ amidst the clamours and hideous noises of the disputers of the world. At last there stood up an old man that was a perfect stranger to him, who told them that in his judgement (if it would be permitted him to deliver it boldly) they were hugely mistaken who marched under the Banners of any of those Leaders in defiance to the rest of their Brethren. Jerusalem he said was very little beholden to them, which was a City at better unity within itself than it was supposed by their Ensigns; and he believed the way to that place would be found to be more peaceable than to be disturbed with the sound of Drums and Trumpets. Their zeal (he continued) might be the effect of little not of much knowledge, and their confidence the nursling of an overweening opinion of themselves, rather than the issue of a sound judgement and clear conception of things. In fine, he told them that if they would take a little time to cool themselves and would abate so much of their presumption as to think they might possibly err, he doubted not but to bring them to a person who (though obscure and of no great note among them) should make them confess he gave them better directions than they ever heard of in the way to Jerusalem. There was none there at that time but either out of curiosity, or some dissatisfaction desired instantly to know who this man should be, and in what place he hid himself from the world. They concealed the anger which they conceived at his free reproof, and having rendered him faint thanks for his liberty of speech (professing they loved an open enemy, better than a dissembling friend) the very love of Novelty lead them to request him to bring them acquainted with this rare person. That is a very easy matter to do replied the old man, for he is one that is conversible enough, and besides not far distant from this place; but for the present I shall choose to spare the mention of his name, and let you know him only by his Character. He is a person then that is altogether disinteressed and a partaker in none of those Sects and Factions that are among us. One that hath Zion and Jerusalem more in his heart than in his mouth, and loves to do, more than to talk. But when he speaks, his words are more than sounds, and have a sting in them which pierces the very heart. If you did but hear him, you would feel that he leaves a true compunction in the spirit, and not a false alarm in the ear. His head is grey, though not his hairs; his wisdom makes him more venerable than his years; he knows better how to live, than others do to dispute, and he can argue more for peace, than they for their opinions. He hath Faith enough to save himself, and Charity enough to believe that others may be saved that are not in all points just of his belief. His compassion is equal to his understanding, his meekness equal to his zeal, his faith is matched with charity, his love to his neighbour is proportionable to his love to God, and his humility and modesty is equal to them all. He seems to me to be a piece of the wracks of Ancient Christianity; a relic of the Golden Age; one of the children, and not of the Apes of Antiquity. He hath escaped the contagion of this evil age, without flying from it; and he is Master of more strength, than custom is of force and violence. The general corruption which hath overspread us, hath not been able to prevail over the purity of his temper. And all the wickedness which could not but touch him, hath not yet had the power to defile or sully him. If those Worthies, in whose veins the blood of Christ did run, could return to visit the world again; I make no doubt but they would discern in him such marks of their virtue, that they would confess him for one of their race, and embrace him as an Inheritor not only of their name, but of their noble qualities. If you would know any more of him, you had better learn it from himself than from me; only this I can assure you, that by his guidance there are many men who have made a very happy progress towards Heaven. And if you fear, that when you go unto him, you may lose your labour, and not find him, or that you may find him little at leisure; I can give you this further assurance, that being a man of peace, he stirs but little from home, and hath but little company neither that frequents his house.   

CAP. V.  
The Opinion which others conceived of that Guide: and his address to him.  
YOu cannot imagine how much it pleased our Traveller (for so he was in his resolution) to hear this news, and how much he thought himself beholden to God for bringing him so fortunately into this company which he studied rather to avoid. Without any compliments therefore, or waiting to hear what others would reply, he immediately offered himself to be conducted to the society of this excellent Person; adding withal, that if the rest pleased not now to go along, they might hear from him when he should be able to make a judgement of him, in what esteem he was to be held. To this they all gave their assent, and were not a little glad of this expedient to keep out of the acquaintance of him whose Character they nothing liked. But the stranger to whom he committed himself, would not stir from that place, till he had taken him a little aside to speak with him: Where he let him know how unworthy a thing he held it to deceive any man's expectations with partial relations, which made him that he could not endure to conceal from his notice a matter that he might think most worthy his consideration, though he did not judge it fit before to declare it. This person (said he) to whom you are about to repair, I must tell you, is generally decried by all parties, as no friend to Truth, because he is no great stickler about the Questions that have vexed our unhappy days. Some say that he is indifferent and lukewarm in Religion. Others will have the world believe, that he is only endued with a great measure of Moral Prudence, but hath nothing of the Spirit in him. And there are some who do not stick to brand him with the mark of Heresy, though (to tell you the truth) I verily think the only reason is, because they imagine he doth believe whatsoever he doth not fiercely oppose. His life indeed is so holy, and without blame, his carriage so sweet and courteous, his conversation so profitable, that I am inclined to think such good things cannot spring from a bad root; but yet there are that say, The poison is the more dangerous which is so finely gilded, and I must leave you to judge for yourself, and either to stop or pursue your resolution of going to him as those things well weighed, you shall see cause to incline. Here the good man made a pause, and seemed to be in a very pendulous condition, till the stranger added, I must be so just, as to remember to subjoin this to the rest that I have said; That indeed all Parties next to themselves are wont to commend him as the best of all. Now I thank you, presently replied the other, that you did not omit to relate that observation, for it brings to my mind the story of Themistocles, which I have often heard our Preacher use in the Pulpit, to whom every one of the Captains yielded the second place after they had preferred themselves to the first, and was therefore concluded to be the most worthy of all, if any thing but self-love might be admitted to give the judgement. Let us go, I beseech you, with all speed, to this brave man, and not stay to deliberate any longer. For I remember also, that I have heard very wise men observe, That there was never any person that advanced excellent things in the World, but his credit and reputation was blasted by those who were unable or unwilling to be so good themselves. I have a very great hope that this is the man whom Heaven hath designed to unscale my eyes, and make me see the way to Jerusalem. Or if it otherwise please, yet I nothing doubt, but being wholly bend to lead a pious life, God will have so much kindness for me, as not to let me be dangerously deceived, nor to suffer a greater film to grow over my sight. These words he uttered with that vehemency and resolution of mind, that the stranger thought it was not fit to hold him in any longer consultation about it, especially since he saw his purpose founded upon so good an understanding. Taking leave therefore of the rest, who were but too glad to be rid of them, he directed him to the house of this Guide, where he found, as he had been told before, that he was at home, and had not one creature in his company. After a very few civilities passed between them, and some excuses that the Countryman made for his boldness in interrupting his Meditations, he plainly told him (for he would not permit any long Apologies) what the cause was of this address, and of the trouble he was come to give him. I am, said he, a true Lover of Jerusalem, and have made a vow to take a journey to that place; but about the way thither I am so perplexed, that I account it a great blessing that I have not lost my wits, and am not become unable to find my way to your house. One cries to me, Lo here, another, Lo there lies the path of life. Some would have me go thorough the water, and be baptised again, telling me the Israelites passed thorough the Sea to go to Canaan; others seem to draw me thorough the air, and teach me to fly aloft in towering speculations; and there are not wanting those who would turn me into a stone, and render me at once as humble, and as lumpish and melancholy too as the earth itself. But every one of these, me thought, did lead me into the fire, and I felt in the water itself the flames of strife and contention about my ears, which made me that I durst not commit myself to the hands of these, or any of their fellow-guides. But hearing, Sir, that you are of great abilities to direct me, and that you are a man of peace, and more than that, a man of good will, who hath a strong propension to do good; I am come to make it my humble request unto you, that if it be true which is reported of you, you will do me the favour to afford me some charitable instructions about the most passable way to Jerusalem.   

CAP. VI  
The Acceptance which he found with him: and how plainly the Guide dealt with him about the difficulties of the way.  
NOw the Inquirer appearing in habit like a Pilgrim, having a very innocent countenance, an humble behaviour, and using such language as signified that it was not curiosity, or a mind to try the skill which the other had in foreign parts, but a real desire to travel, which had brought him thither; Answer was returned by him, to whom he made his application, that he was hearty glad to meet with any man that would ask the way to Jerusalem; and that he thought he read in his face so much of the serenity of his mind, and the sincerity of his heart, that he might be confident he came with a real desire to receive satisfaction about it. But, said he, though I must needs grant that I am furnished with some knowledge of the way to that City, yet perhaps I may spare my pains of giving you any directions in it, because there is some reason to think you will not be at the pains to follow them. For if you will give any credit to my words, I must let you know, that the way is both long, and also full of many and great difficulties; and that there are many ways also which will seem to you to lead strait to it, & which many men will ponyt you unto as the next road; which if you should take, will lead you into great danger, and not only carry you a great deal about, but perchance conduct you to the quite contrary place, and end in your utter undoing. I would wish you therefore to consider a while, whether it be an adviseable thing to undertake such a journey wherein there are so many hardships, and so many cross paths. A journey which is so tedious also, and wherein I cannot promise you security from frights, thiefs, beat, and such ill usages as have made many men possessed with such intentions as you seem now to have, quite to lay aside all thoughts of it, and to sit down contented at their own homes. And after all this, I know not whether you will yield your belief to all that I shall tell you of the way; if you have heard some of the reports which are spread of me, and have received any prejudice at all against me, which I am sure will be increased by some of the Precepts that I must give you.  
The Pilgrim was so far from showing any tokens of disgust at this discourse, that he rather discovered an inward pleasure that he had conceived in the freedom and prudence of it. And after he had rendered him his thanks for dealing with him so impartially, he beseeched him that he would not think it fit to spare his pains which he had already with no small success begun to bestow; but that he would make a poor soul so happy as to let it know from that mouth which he perceived would not deceive or misguide it; that difficult, long, and dangerous way which leads to Jerusalem. I am not ignorant indeed (continued he) how much many men are wont to startle and boggle at those terrible words; but I thank my God they strike no terror at all into my heart, nor move me one jot from the resolution which I hope is immovably settled in it, of going to that blessed place. For so much have I heard of the glory of it, that I am apt to think of nothing else; and so I may but come in safety thither at the last, I matter not at all what the way may be which carries me unto it. Oblige me therefore I beseech you so much as to be my Guide, and to chalk out the way for me. I am confident you will not repent of your labour, when you shall see your directions observed with as much faithfulness and care as they are by you delivered. And as for the trust which I repose in your skill and sincerity, I am as confident by what I discern already, that I shall as little repent of it, as you will of your taking me into your tuition. I doubt not at all but I shall be better taught than yet I have ever been; and if the world judge otherwise, I beseech you do not take me for one that measures men's worth by their esteem with the vulgar sort, or by the favour they have obtained to be commended by the mouth of common fame. The Vulgar themselves have whipped her about the world as a lewd Strumpet; and we have a plain saying, That the common report hath too often a blister upon her tongue. Therefore speak Sir, I entreat you, and let me know what you are from your own mouth, and not from other men's. For as I never intended to trust my neighbour to choose my opinions for me, and to dispose of my belief; so do I never mean to resign my mind to be stamped with those Characters that they shall please to make of men, and of their qualities. I never yet beheld so many Saints as they have created and worshipped; nor can I take all those for Devils, whom they are pleased to defy and abominate.   

CAP. VII.  
The Guide discovers his sincere and upright Intentions  
I Cannot relate how much this devote person was overjoyed to hear this welcome language, but the Reply which he made him, did give no small indications of a great contentment which he took in the Answer he had received. You cannot think it (said he) a greater happiness to be instructed by me, than I do to find a person both so desirous, and so capable of instruction. It gratifies me very much, I assure you, to find such a good will in you (which is no small step in your way to Jerusalem) especially since I see it so unmoveable, that it is not like by any thing which may happen to be so much as shaken. Your resolution truly is admirable; and I cannot tell you what pleasant emotions I felt within me to behold so little amazement appear in your soul at the dreadful noise of trouble, pains and danger. You are excellently qualified, I see, for this undertaking; and without flattery I tell you, there never was any in my opinion better appointed for this journey, if you can but maintain so much courage and patience as you promise; and will, without quarrelling, murmuring or troubling yourself about the affronts which may be put upon you, pass on your way, as if you met with nothing that did displease you. But above all, it highly pleases me to hear you say, That the place whither you would go, is so much in your heart, that you think of it more than any thing else; For something relating to that, contains the greatest part of the Advice which I am to give you. And as for myself, since you will not be prepossessed and forestalled with the common opinions, and the voice of fame, I will be so just as to let you know the very worst of me. 
●lin. l. 18. cap. 6.  I remember that Furius Cresinius, a Peasant that lived near to Rome, was defamed in ancient times by many people of that City, and accused for bewitching the Lands of his neighbours, which though of larger extent, were not wont to yield so fair a Crop as his few Acres. To such an height did their jealousies and envy arise, that a charge was drawn up against him, and standing indicted of such unlawful means to enrich himself, and undo others, a day of hearing was appointed, wherein he was to receive a public trial. What course do you think now the poor man took to confute their calumnies, and justify his own innocence? Truly no other but this would he resolve upon; to bring along with him on the day of his appearance all the Instruments of Husbandry, whereby he used to cultivate the ground, and spread them before his judges. So he did, and made his defence in this sort. If I be guilty of any enchantment, behold I here set before you all the Tools of that wicked practice, and I call all the gods to witness, that I have not concealed one of them. If there be any faith in man you may believe me, that I never used any other Wizzardy to make my Land better than my neighbours, but what you will find to lie in these Spades, Ploughs, and Oxen, together with this my good Daughter. Unless you will reckon a great deal of pains, long watch, and much sweat to be such unlawful drugs and poisons, that none but Witches use them; and these I must confess I cannot produce in open Court, nor find any means to show them to you. He said no more, but it was enough; for he was presently absolved by the suffrage of all the Judges, and dismissed with those commendations of a good Husband, which he had well deserved. This, Sir, is the very picture of myself, who intent now to make you my Judge, and hope for as favourable a sentence from you before whom I have been accused, and as much misreported as this honest man whom I now named. I am, it is true, a person of small capacity, and less learning. There are many of my neighbours, to whom I freely yield the precedence, who enjoy far greater measures of wisdom and knowledge, and exceed me as much in such Talents as the compass of Furius his Land was exceeded by theirs that bordered upon it. But yet, so it is, that by the blessing of God upon my labours, there are many virtuous Minds and Souls truly large and generous, that acknowledge themselves to stand indebted for what they are to my care; and that are esteemed by those that know them to be of a more excellent temper than those who have been managed by many of my litigious neighbours. This hath gained me too many evil eyes, and I am thought to use some Arts of Fascination whereby to allure the best dispositions into my acquaintance and society. Then they will have it, that I mingle subtle potions for them, and that they imbibe such crafty Doctrines from me, as teach them all ways of rendering themselves more fair and plausible than any others in their whole behaviour, in order to the bewitching of more men to become their Disciples. This is the best language they will allow to the good manners wherein I study to educate them; for their envy and vexation will not suffer them to give their holy life the name of Piety, though all acknowledge it carries the show of better fruit than is brought forth by the lazy and idle pretenders to Faith and Devotion. But God knows how far I am from teaching any thing but the naked and undisguised practice of real Godliness. And you shall know also how little I am guilty of evil design, or sinister method of winning to myself Disciples. For I will lay before you the plain, simple and unartificial Rules that I give unto them; which will appear to be as far remote from all subtlety and craft, as the Plough, the Spade, and the Harrow are from incantation, spells, and society with infernal spirits. All that I beg of you to the making of you profit under my hand, and to reap an abundant fruit by my labour to instruct you, is that you will contribute some of your own pains to be joined with mine; and that you will use your best diligence both to receive and understand those seeds of knowledge that I shall sow in your mind; and to keep them safe, that they may not be lost when they are entertained. A little more patience also I must not forget to require of you then Cresinius demanded (for I cannot so soon produce, as he did all the instruments I must use for your good) and then I nothing doubt; but if you pursue your design according to those directions and marks that I shall give you, they will not fail at last to bring you to the Blessed place, on which you have set your heart.   

CAP. VIII.  
He gins his advice: and after the Grand Direction, which contains many of the rest; he gives him sundry preparatory Counsels. And above all, tells him that he must be provided with a strong Resolution.  
YOu shall find me obedient, replied the Pilgrim, in all things unto your Precepts; for truly my heart as you are pleased to remember is very much upon Jerusalem. And since it touched me with no small joy to hear you say, That there was something belonging to this affection I have for Jerusalem which would comprehend a great part of the Directions you had to give me about the way thither; if it will not look like the arrogance of directing you how to place your Instructions, let me be so bold as to desire before you say any thing else, that I may know what the general advice is which you have to bestow upon me. It is well done, replied the Guide, that you have put me in mind of that passage in my former discourse. And I am obliged I think to praise you for it, both because it argues that you diligently attend to what I speak, and because it cannot be better placed than where you would have it, in the very entrance of those Directions that you are to carry along with you. And to make my Counsel the more portable, and to be comprised in as small a room as can be, that which I mean is nothing else but this. As you pass along in the way that I shall tell you of, it will be of great use to you to have these few words always in your mind and sometimes upon your tongue, I AM NOUGHT, I have nought, I desire nought, but only to be in safety with Jesus at Jerusalem. This one sentence you shall see hath so much in bowels its, that if you draw forth the virtue of it and diligently observe it, my life for yours, you shall not fail in a competent time to arrive at the top of your desires.  
Indeed, said the Pilgrim, methinks I feel that I have received very great instruction already from you, and I did not think to have learned so much in so short a space, and by so small a company of words. Sure you have given me some Spirits and the very extract of things, else I could not have so suddenly felt the power of these words diffusing itself through my whole soul. I am strangely refreshed by them, and they have given me such a taste of your skill, that I perceive you can instantly reach my heart when you please but to open your mouth, and if I were half dead I persuade myself you could revive me in a moment. But yet I believe that I should be the more enlightened by them and better know their use; if I might be beholden to you for an account of the secrets of which they are compounded, and understand all the things that are contained in them. Do me the favour therefore I beseech you to open the sense and disclose all the force of those words, that I may know what meaning you have involved in so brief a sentence. You shall not long be ignorant of that, said the Guide, if you will but have the patience to attend a while to what follows as a good preparatory to that discourse and to all the rest that concerns your safe passage to Jerusalem. I must advise you before you enter upon so long a journey or make any further inquiries, to see that your body be in good health, lest you should fall into any such sickness by the way as might prove dangerous and fatal to you. And for that end I would also wish you to take some Physic, the better to prepare yourself for Travel; and to disburden Nature of those ill humours wherewith you may abound, which will at least indispose you and make you lazy and soon weary if they be not timely discharged and carried away. Now the best counsels that I can give you of this kind are these that ensue. First, I would have you purge your mind of all unworthy thoughts of God, and persuade yourself that he is very good, a lover of souls, and exceeding desirous to see them at Jerusalem. Be sure you leave not so much as a suspicion of his willingness to make you happy, and to afford you sufficient means to attain your end. For you will not be able to stir a foot in your way, if you bear any jealousies about you that God may not favour your undertaking, nor go along with you. You have been bred its like in a great detestation of Superstition, and may have heard so many declamations out of the Pulpit against it; that you may think it thunderstruck many years ago: but let me tell you, that if you cherish not good thoughts of God in your mind, all your Religion will degenerate into this spurious and base-born devotion. In stead of that free and friendly converse that ought to be maintained between God and his creatures, you will only flatter him in a servile manner and bribe him not to be your enemy. Do not imagine that I abuse this word Superstition, or that you are in no danger to fall into it; for there are none more guilty of it, than they that seem to be most abhorrent from it. Did you never observe what a terrible image of God there is erected in most men's minds, and how frightful their apprehensions are when they look upon it? Never was there any Devil more cruel, or sought more to devour, than they have painted him in their souls. How is it possible than they should address themselves with any confidence and pleasure to him? How can they entertain any cheerful and friendly society with a Being which appears in a dress so horrible to them? And yet worship him they must for fear of incurring his displeasure, and lest their neglects of him should rouse up his anger against them. Now between this necessity of coming to him, and that fearfulness to approach him, what can there be begotten but a forced and constrained devotion; which because they do not love, they would willingly leave, did not the dread and horror they have in their souls of him drag them to his Altars? And what are they wont to do there? Truly nothing but make faces, and whine, and cry, and look as if they were going to execution, till they can flatter themselves into some hopes that he is moved by these pitiful noises and forced submissions to lay aside his frowns and cast a better aspect upon them. But then his nature remains the same still and they fancy that he delights in the blood of men; though for that time he was pleased to smile a little upon them. And therefore they are constrained to renew these slavish devotions, and to fawn again upon him that they may purchase another gracious look from him. In this circle do these poor wretches spend their days and advance not one step toward Jerusalem. For as there can be little comfort to them I should think in such grim smiles: So you cannot imagine that it can be acceptable to God to see men crouch in this fashion to him, and out of mere fear afford him their unwilling prostrations. No, this if any thing in the world is that which ought properly to wear the name of Superstition. A devotion which hath no inward spring in the heart, no life nor spirit in it; and by consequence is void of all savour and taste to them that perform it. It is sottishness to think that God will be contented with that which hath no better original than outward compulsion, and in its own nature is dead and heartless, dry and insipid; and yet no better service will you present him withal, unless you frame a lovely, fair image of him in your mind; and always represent him to yourself as most gracious, kind, and tenderhearted to his creatures. Let this therefore be your first care, not only to form such a beautiful Idea of him, but also to settle and fix it so firmly in your heart that nothing may be able to pull it out. Then will you be prepared to follow all my other counsels and most cheerfully also resign yourself to the obedience of the hardest commands. This will make you absolutely give up yourself to the Divine Will, and to embrace it freely also as most to be chosen, and that for itself and its own innate goodness. You will think that nothing but good can come from this good God, and therefore you will submit to his Laws as loving commands, and not as imperious, tyrannical Impositions. You will deny yourself in any thing that he would have you, that you may be made better than yourself, by becoming like to him. But otherwise I must tell you (and it is no new observation neither) that if your conceptions of him be not such as make you hearty love him; as you will serve him only with a forced obedience, so you will obey him with a sordid and niggardly affection. You will be very scanty and sparing in those duties which are of greatest moment and most pleasing to him; and study only to express your liberality in things of lighter concernment, and such are most pleasing to yourself. Nay, things of your own devising you will be more ready to heap upon him as so many courtesies whereby you shall oblige him; than to render him those services that are appointed by himself, which will be the less grateful, because they are his will whom you cannot love. This is ever the fruit of hard and penurious thoughts of God, that they shrivel up men's hearts too, and make them needy and penurious in the expressions of their love and obedience to him; and more forward to give him any thing than that which he most desires.  
But I think I might have left you to deduce these things yourself who have a capacity I see for greater matters, and therefore I shall shorten the rest of these kind of counsels and forbear all long Discourses and Comments upon them. Secondly, Than it must be your care when your mind hath recovered right thoughts of God, to purify your intentions throughly and to see that they be clear and unspotted in his sight. Spread your very heart before him, and desire him that you may have his love, and that he would deal with you, as you sincerely aim at nothing, but only to become what he would have you. Tell him that you mean in the greatest simplicity of your soul to do his will. Protest to him a thousand times that you desire above all things to know what that good, that perfect and acceptable will of his is. Let him know that you are so passionately bend to please him, that you would not stick to purchase the understanding of his pleasure at the rate of the whole world, if it was in your disposal. This will prepare you in the third place to throw out the sluggish humour which is in all our natures, and to dispose your will with true fervour to attend this business of searching out the will of God. Engage yourself as solemnly as you can to be very diligent in finding out the truth. Persuade your mind not to rest contented with that which first offers itself to your hands, but to examine and prove all things, and then to hold fast that which is good. It is a fault too common that men take things upon the credit of others by whom they are brought to them; and not upon their own credibility. The reason of which is no other but this, that in the one way we make a purchase of them at a cheap rate, or rather have them for nothing; but in the other they will not come so easily but cost no small pains to acquire them. There is a kind of impatience also in some natures which is not able to suffer any delays: And this being joined with a softness and delicacy which is a sworn enemy to all manner of trouble and pains; it renders men very willing to spare themselves the length and tediousness of an enquiry, together with all the difficulties of a choice. Hence it comes to pass that they love at first sight, and suffer others to choose their belief for them: and then afterwards they retain by custom and prescription, that which they took but by chance and preoccupation. Make an essay therefore of the patience which you promise in your whole journey, at the very entrance of it; and let your diligence to know the will of God be an earnest of that you mean to use in the doing of it. And as I would have you free yourself from this lazy, credulous humour; so let it be your next care to rid your mind of its opposite, obstinate incredulity. Let not the cure of one sickness be the cause of another, nor that which takes away your softness and easiness to believe, render you hard and impenetrable by all the impressions of truth. Employ the thoughts which I would have you spend in serious inquiry, to possess your mind with a strong persuasion of the certainty of Christian Religion, and with a right understanding of the true design of that glorious Revelation. For that both gives you such a prospect of the Blessed place you are going to, as no where else can be met withal; and directs you to such a course of real piety as plainly leads unto it. And the more confident you grow that Jesus is the Son of God (as the voice from Heaven witnessed) that he is the Lord of Life and the King of Glory; the surer will you tread all the way you go, and the less danger there will be of stumbling: The sounder also and more healthful will you grow, so as not to faint, much less to forsake the Christian course. And next to this I beseech you use the greatest diligence to provide that your Faith which is to do all things in your journey, be not itself infected with the common disease of sloth and idleness. Be sure to purge your soul from all the drowsy and phlegmatic opinions you may have about it, which stifle and choke the very spirit and life of it. Do not cease till you have freed it of all obstructions, and rendered it so active and vigorous; that you can be confident in its own nature it will necessarily produce an holy Life. Suffer it not to rest, no not in Christ himself, till it animate you to a free and cheerful obedience to all his commands. Let it give your soul a sense that the whole Religion is comprehended in this one powerful word. Let it seem as a point from whence all the lines of your duty are drawn: like a fire in the middle of a room, sending out its heat on every side in an ardent love of God, and of your Brethren. Esteem it I mean such an hearty persuasion of the Truth and Goodness of all that Christ hath spoken, that by the force and virtue of it you become obsequious to his will in all things.  
And having effected this, then search your Conscience very narrowly to find out all the sins whereof you stand guilty: some of which may lurk so secretly, or look so demurely, that a Faith which is not very busy, may either not espy them, or let them pass for no offences. These must all be purged out and left behind, as things that can by no means be permitted to go along with you. And for that end let me advise you to unload your soul of them all by humble confession: and if any of them lie as an heavy burden upon you, to repair to your spiritual Physician, that he may help by his counsel and prescriptions to ease you of them. And in the last place, Let all these be attended with a strong Resolution, that though your sins should follow, and call after you, and beg to have but one word with you; they shall be so far from receiving any entertainment, that you will not so much as enter into speech with them, nor listen to the voice of any of their temptations. I will not deny but that it is a difficult thing not to lend so much as a good look to an old acquaintance; yet it will appear much otherwise to those who confess their sins so as to hate them, and to purge themselves from all affection to them. That therefore you must give me leave to subjoin to this Advice, That you do not content yourself with such Physic as cleanseth only the first passages, and carries away no more than the grosser humours out of the greater channels of your life; but that you administer such as will search into the furthest parts of your soul, and cleanse the spirit from all its defilements. You must not leave behind so much as a good opinion of any evil way. Not the smallest kindness for it, or if it be possible any inclination to it must be suffered to remain. For this you know undid no less than six hundred thousand Travellers to Jerusalem in ancient times, and left all their carcases buried in the Deserts; who left Egypt, as you now are going to forsake the world; but it was in their Bodies only, and not in their hearts and affection. Their mouths watered still at the remembrance of the Flesh and Coleworts, the Garlic and Onions: and they had a secret inclination which could not be long concealed to return to those enjoyments, which they had abandoned. They loved the Country from whence they were departed, though they hated the bondage: And it was not so much the evil customs, as the cruelties of that Land, which made them sigh for deliverance. Which is but the type and picture of those persons now, who leave their sinful ways and practices, resolving never to return to them; but yet they bear them a great good will, and could be very well pleased if they could gain a permission to enjoy them, and not be damned to the bargain. They are often casting a kind and favourable look towards them; it tickles them to think how happy they should be if they could sometimes keep them company, and suffer nothing by it. It is not their sins that they are fallen out withal, but some of their followers that wait upon them: their smiles and salutes they receive with joy; and fear nothing but the sting which appears in the tail of them. We are wont, you know, to compare such persons to those sick men who dare not taste of the salt meats, and the raw fruit which they see their friends eat before them, because the Physician assures them, that Death lies in ambush under every morsel. But they speak of them with such a gust, that (as we say) they lick their lips at those dishes: They fancy them to be very savoury bits: they have a great longing for them; and the very scent of them is so delicious, that they wish very vehemently they were not forbidden fruit. If they think not sometimes, that sure a little taste of them would do them no harm; yet they should esteem themselves far happier men than they are, if they were not tied to such severities. In such sort do those Pilgrims hanker after their forsaken sins in their former evil courses; who hate not them, but only the mischief which they fear from them; and are not so much their enemies, as friends to ease and a quiet conscience. They would not forbear them, did not so great miseries threaten to come along with them; and their desires should not want satisfaction, were they not combated with contrary desires of avoiding the trouble which that will give them. Let me tell you, it is a thousand to one but they will find the means in some favourable occasion to insinuate themselves into their society again. They are not banished to so great a distance, as long as they hold the place they had in their hearts; but they may be restored and have the liberty to return into their ancient embraces. This forced abstinence is so painful, and their enjoyment is so sweet, that they will live in hope of a reconciliation. The sin and the danger will not ever seem so inseparable. Their affections will make them sue for a divorce, which in a Court where they are Judges may be easily obtained. There are many Arts of blaunching the foulest matters: And virtue doth not so challenge to its self the sole privilege of being innocent, but vice will very often pretend unto it. It knows how to put itself into an harmless dress; and to pass under such borrowed titles, as shall conceal it from the knowledge of those, who are afraid of nothing but its name and its punishment. Love is furnished with as many excuses, as it hath desires; and is full of wit and address to obtain its end. They cannot be long asunder who are already joined in their affections; nor can any danger be so great that lies between to divide them, but it will be surmounted by that which hath already overcome themselves. So great need there is that reason should see to the implanting of this passion which will so soon overtop it; and to provide that it be of a generous and noble stock, seeing it is like ever after to be its Lord and Master. It is in vain to object inconveniences to them, who know none so great as those of being denied their desires. They are afraid indeed of trouble and pain, but who can tell which is the most grievous, that which they feel, or that which they fear? the present misery of wanting what they love, or the future of enduring that which they hate? Doth not the former think you touch them with a quicker sense, being a present and a constant evil, and so most certain to be suffered: whereas the other being to come, may seem doubtful whether it will come or no, and when it doth come, may not cost them half that pain, which they must conflict withal to avoid it? It is a torment they find, to live in restless long, but they hope it will not beso great to give them satisfaction. They cannot rid themselves of the former, but they are persuaded they may soon be eased of the latter. After they have given their desires their full satisfaction, they doubt not with less trouble to give it to God, than they could have denied it to themselves. It is but repenting, they think, of the fact (a business of no great trouble, and soon over) and then God and they are both pleased; They by doing evil, and he by their sorrow for what they have done. Nay, they may seem to have done more for God's sake than for their own, because they enjoyed but only a single pleasure themselves, whilst they have endured a double torment for him: One in denying so long to follow their desires, and another in their regret for following of them now. I hope than you are convinced, that for the continuance of your good Resolution, you ought not to permit so much as the least affection to any sin, to go along with you. It will soon, you see, march after, if you carry such a friend to it about you; and though it follow at a distance at the first, yet it will pursue you so hard at last, as suddenly to overtake you, or to speak more truly, it will bring you back again, and cause you to retreat into its quarters. You must put your fancy therefore out of conceit with it; and possess your mind with odious representations of it. You must loathe it, not as a sick man doth the meats on which he hath surfeited, but as an healthful person doth those to which he bears a particular antipathy in his constitution. You must not abstain from it only as a thing forbidden, but disgust it as that which deserves to be forbidden.  
You see how careful I am to establish this Resolution in your soul, because indeed very much depends upon it, which hath made me to enlarge this discourse to a length beyond that which I intended. And truly it will cost you so much pains to form it; there will so many enemies oppose it; and perhaps when you yourself shall think that it hath settled itself in your heart, there will be so much still wanting to complete it; that I have an inclination (if it will not quite tyre your patience) to add a few words more about the nature of this Resolution. You will lose no time, I am sure, by this means, nor shall I hinder you in your intended Pilgrimage to Jerusalem; but as the foundation well laid doth assure the superstructure, and one foot firmly planted doth make the next step more secure; so will the first part of your journey well performed, render all the rest more easy and safe to you. It is of great avail you cannot be ignorant, in all cases to begin well. There is nothing more imports to the happy or disastrous issue of any affair, than what manner of entrance we make upon it: and therefore let me not seem tedious to you, if I detain you here a while before we advance further, and if I make you stand still for a time, when you have a great mind, I believe, to be going forward.  
I submit myself to your wisdom, said the Pilgrim, and entreat you not to consult my desires at all, but only my Necessity. Or if you would be sure to do what pleases me; know that you undertake an impossible task, unless you take the liberty to say what you think will displease me. If you lose any time, it must be by ask my leave to say your mind. I shall not think that you are guilty of making me stand still, unless you stay to obtain my consent, that you may go forward in your discourse. This will be the only grievous thing that can befall me while I am in your company; and if you have a mind to exercise my patience, it must be by suspecting me impatient of your wholesome counsels. Go on Sir, I beseech you; and give me reasons for what I am to do, but not for what I am to hear. Tyre me if you can with your Precepts, but not with any more of your Petitions to me.  
You shall have no cause hereafter, replied the Director, to complain of that matter; For a pledge of which promise you shall receive no other answer to what you have said, but only this new promise; That if I cannot serve you by the truth of what I say, yet the liberty and freedom of my speech shall make you know that I intent to do you service by revealing to you my very heart.   

CAP. IX.  
A more particular Discourse of Resolution: and of the manner how to form such an one as will be sound and firm.  
LEt it be observed then, that the placing of this Discourse concerning Resolution at the end of my other Counsels was not without design; for I would give you to understand, that it is not of any worth if it be not ushered in by precedent consideration. This must lead the way, or else no solid purposes will follow after. You must first be well acquainted with your duty, before you can resolve to contract a perpetual friendship with it. Do not think that this is a note too trivial and vulgar to have a place among my instructions; for I tell you truly, there are but too many, who when they are best disposed, will resolve to do they know not what: who make large promises of those things, for the performance of which they are furnished with little power, less will, and scarce any knowledge at all. They will undertake a Pilgrimage to the Holy Land before they know a foot of the way, or make enquiry how far it is thither. They will levy war against an enemy, of whose numbers, strength and policy they are utterly ignorant. And what wonder then is it, if they afterward let fall an enterprise that was begun rashly, and to which they were not carried by their judgement, but hurried by their blind and precipitant passion. Of this sort the man in the Gospel seems to have been, who said at the first word, that he would go whither his Father bade him, but afterward his fervour cooled, and he thought good to take his ease and rest himself. I fancy such a person to bear some resemblance to a Child, who having offended his Father, comes and falls upon his knees for a pardon, to the grant of which the good man is already inclined. But then he saith, My Son, you must be careful hereafter of your duty in such things as I shall require a proof of your obedience; and I must enjoin you such a course of life as will keep you in my favour, and finally leave you my blessing. And before he can have finished half a sentence of what he hath to give him in charge, the youth takes the words out of his mouth, and replies, Yes Sir, All shall be punctually done which you desire. You shall never take me in any fault again, nor have cause to complain of my disobedience. I am resolved to be as observant of you in every thing, as any Child in the world can be. Let me but have your pardon, and doubt not of my conformity to your pleasure. But all this while it is the pardon upon which he hath fixed his mind, and he hath so little regard to the conditions upon which it is to be bestowed, that he hath not the patience to hear them particularly remembered. The joy which he conceives from the hope of his Father's love, throws him headlong into a consent, before he consider the instances, wherein the fincerity of his heart will be tried and brought to the test. These may prove as cross to his will, as to enjoy his Father's good affection is agreeable to it: and that which was so hastily resolved, will not be so speedily put in execution. Though he fancied that he would not stick at a thousand things to please his Father; yet when he hears them named, perhaps there is not one of them that will be so pleasing to himself, as to find him ready to performance. Such truly are the motions which many men feel in their souls while the treaty is managed between God and them concerning their return to him to Jerusalem. They are very glad to hear of a truce; and their hearts leap for joy to think of returning into his favour, and seeing his face in that Royal City. As long as the Proposals run in general terms, that they must do the will of God, and run the ways of his Commandments, they find no difficulty to accord him his desires. They readily yield to submit to his precepts, and say, it is pity they should live who will not serve such a Master. Jerusalem is a place of such glory, that while their thoughts post thither, they easily leap over all the difficulties which are in their way to it. But if you descend from hence to those particular differences which have been between Heaven and them; if you stop them a while in their Career, to acquaint them severally with every thing that will exercise their patience in the journey: They appear as desirous in some cases to retain their own will, as before they seemed forward in all to be resigned to his; and it is manifest there are some courses to which their hearts are more wed, than to Jerusalem. They do not like things so well in the pieces, as in the lump. They do with their duty as men do with bitter Pills which they can swallow whole; but if they chaw them, prove so distasteful, that they are ready to spit them out again. These good motions indeed enjoy the name of holy purposes, and men think that now their hearts are fully set towards God; but they deserve rather to be called Natural Propensions, than Voluntary Purposes; and are to be esteemed the Inclination of the soul, rather than the Resolution. For the forming therefore of this, I must leave with you these three directions, in which I shall comprise the safest advice that I can think of in a business of this moment.  
First, You must know, that a good Resolution is never founded, but upon a particular consideration of every thing that is undertaken by you; after you have weighed them, and proposed them to your will severally, one by one. And therefore you having it in your heart to go to Jerusalem, think seriously how many mile it is thither, and get an exact information of every step of your way to it; Set down in writing every thing that is to be done, and all the events which are like to meet you in every stage; and then as you go along in gour meditation, ask your heart if it dislike no passage, and will not be tempted in some occurrences to turn aside. Remonstrate to it, that in such a place your appetite will be tempted with Genial entertainments; and pray it to deal freely with you, and declare whether it can deny to it inordinate satisfaction. Tell your heart, that before you have gone many paces more, the wants of a poorer man than yourself will solicit your charity, and desire to know if it can do good, and trust God for the repayment of it. Represent to it how highly you may be provoked at the next step by the insolence of some unruly Traveller, and demand whether the passion of anger can suffer a bridle to be put upon it. And so laying before your eyes all the paths of Sobriety, Righteousness, and Godliness, which I may hereafter mark and chalk out for you, ask your heart, What dost thou think? What dost thou conclude upon a serious view of all the way to life? Shall we consent to take this course? Or shall we balk some of these paths? What sayest thou? Shall we be sober in our opinions of things, in our thoughts of ourselves, in our desires, in our angers, in our eating and drinking (with all the rest which you must enumerate)? shall we walk in peaceableness, and in patience, and in humility, and in purity? or shall we shun some of these ways and divert into the opposite road? Speak out and let me know thy mind. Which of these dost thou except against, or must we equally approve of all? And never cease to put these and such like questions distinctly to your heart, till it give an express consent to every thing that presses for a resolution.  
2. But than Secondly, after this is done, you must proceed to consider and make choice of every thing you intent to undertake with all its appendent inconveniences, and evils which come along with it: Or else when they shall come to face you, your resolution will start back in so unexpected an encounter. Inquire therefore into all the difficulties of every part of your way: consider the length of the miles, the danger of thiefs, the badness of the weather, the scorching heat of the Sun, the storms and tempests which may arise when you cross the sea, the hard lodging, the corpse diet, and all the mischiefs which I shall shortly show you do attend a way so little frequented as that to Jerusalem. Say to yourself, Will you be abstemious from all the pleasures which others riot in; when, besides the want of their mirth, you yourself will become the subject of it, and be exposed to their scorn and laughter? When your meekness is called cowardice, can you then curb your anger? If you be reduced to a poor condition, and become the object of that charity which others have received from your hands, can you then believe and not be discouraged? Will you still have a good opinion of your choice when you are vilified and condemned for it? Will you pretend to the strictness of this pious course when it procures you nothing but mocks and flouts? Nay will you hold your way, when you are loaden with stripes? Will you march on with a chain about your leg, or a rope about your neck? Do not trust your souls till they have made you a positive answer to these demands, and given you satisfaction; that, notwithstanding all you may suffer in your credit, in your purse, in your body and in your life, they will not alter their purpose of going in these ways to the Holy Land, and the City of God.  
3. And then in the last place, it will much conduce to the settling of a constant Resolution, if you do not conclude too soon, but weigh all these things over again. Ask yourself the next morning, whether you still continue in the same mind. Know of your soul, whether your purpose was not the effect of a present heat, and if after the cool of the night you can allow it. Bid it compare all things deliberately on both sides, and laying them in an equal balance, so incline and determine itself. On that side there are many pleasures which you must forego; and on this are many pains which you must endure. There is a soft and delicate way, and here are stony and cragged paths. In the other road you may enjoy your ease; but in this that I show you, you must deny yourself, and labour hard to be saved. Do not the scales incline to the contrary side? Will you still be in love with this rough way which leads to Jerusalem? What have you now at hand to counterpoise and to weigh down the advantages which seem to lie on the other side against your Resolution? You are undone, if you are not furnished with a multitude of such considerations as these, of the worth and weight of a soul, of the Glory of Jerusalem, of the pleasures that you shall soon taste in these ragged ways; which you must throw into the right-hand scale with all the force of reason you have. Or in one word, you must compare the Beginning and the End of these two together, and then you will soon see the difference. There is nothing, you think, but sweetness in the ways which I forbidden you, till you come to the conclusion of your journey, and then what provision will you find made for you but gall and wormwood? As on the other side you may fancy, there is nothing grows but that bitter herb in the paths wherein I would conduct you; yet at the last however you cannot but promise yourself a Garden of pleasure. Now, which of these will you make your choice; to which of them will you lean; to the present, or to the future good? To the present, no doubt, if you be a beast; but to the future sure, if you be a man, and not forsaken of your reason. For, continue to compare the Length of these two; and see how far it is from the beginning of the pleasures in one way, and the pains in the other, to the end of both. Is it not a very short life of a few days, which puts a period to them both? How can it be any great matter then to enjoy the one, or to endure the other? But then where these end, there is something else gins, and who can tell the length of that, when the other are done and passed away? Now the disparity discovers itself. Now your thoughts will be swallowed up in a bottomless Abyss. For you can see no end of the pleasures to which one way leads you, nor of the pains to which the other brings you. So that you may let your Soul know, that this is the sum of the whole business. Here are on one hand short pleasures, and long pains; and on the other, short pains, and long pleasures. Bid it choose now, like a rational creature, and embrace that which draws the will with greatest force unto it. I am sure, there is nothing can tempt it to incline to the former, but only this, that those pleasures are present whereas these that I speak of are to come. Let it therefore never consider them as mere pleasures, but with this addition of Short and Long; and that will render the difference vastly great, and attract it mightily to the other hand. And if the scale seem to alter again, because you are sure of the present, but not of that which is to come; Here you must employ your Faith, to give a weight to that which is not yet in Being. It must make you feel how solid and massy those future enjoyments are, and then your work is done. For when Faith hath made them present as the other are; they themselves are so ponderous, that it will seem as leight as feathers, whatsoever it be that lies in the balance against them.  
I believe you see by this time, that it is a matter of some labour, to bring yourself to a thorough Resolution: but when it stands on these grounds, I do not apprehend what temptation that should be, which can hope to shake it. There is no new thing can present itself, but what hath been already considered, and for which you are provided: and therefore it will despair sure (being clearly cast, and having lost the day) of recovering any place in your esteem, or being of any moment hereafter with you. Its pretensions being quite spoiled, and all that it hath to allege confuted; it will be to no purpose again to solicit an heart which hath so solemnly given it a repulse, and utterly rejected its suit. One thing indeed must not here be dissembled; which is the great difference that appears between the same thing, while it remains in the speculation of our mind, and when it comes forth from thence to be put in practice. The distance is wide, it must be confessed between thoughts and things. It is not all one to conceive and to bring forth, to discourse and to pass to execution. There is a great deal of pleasure attends upon our conceptions; and clear reasonings are accompanied with a wonderful delight. There we easily master designs; and fight only with the Ideas of things, they will suffer themselves to be conquered by us, and taken captives at our wills. But then, after all this, we must come out to the other part of executing and bringing forth; and there we find a stronger resistance. Then the faces of things are quite changed, and the Soul falls into labour, and suffers the throws of travel. It is not the same thing for a Merchant to think of a storm, and to be driven with the fury of it. A tempest is not so frightful in the Port, as in the midst of the Sea. Then it is that perhaps he reputes of his Voyage, and wishes that he was well at home again: Or, at least, he could be content to be driven thither, and there think he had done nobly in venturing so far as he did upon the treacherous Ocean. And so truly, I cannot tell you how great the difference may be which you will find between yourself hereafter when you come to do these things, and yourself now when you are deliberating of them. We are now in a place of rest and peace; we speak of things absent, and discourse of objects afar off: when you and your enemies come to be upon the same spot, when you are engaged to do what you have in design, than you may not be the same man, nor find things in the same posture: But that may revolt and oppose you in the operation, which was compliant to you in thought, or did not so much resist you in meditation. Then you will find that you must wrestle stoutly with the difficulties that make head against you, and that they will put you to a greater proof of your valour and constancy than you might imagine. Then your case will be very bad if you feel yourself more unwilling to proceed, than now you are: if you must be combating your own will, when you should set upon your enemies; if you must then be deliberating, when you should be doing; and prevailing over yourself, when you should carry the victory over your opposers. And if you should prove like our Hypocrites, who think it is enough to resolve stoutly, and to make resistance, your affairs will still be in a worse condition: For than you will fairly go back, and sit down to comfort yourself with such thoughts as these; That you have gone far enough in undertaking a business of such difficulty, though you never effect it; and that it is an achievement glorious enough for this world, to set yourself against enemies so mighty, though they get the better of you. Thus flatterers have sometimes praised a Prince's valour, for having once put his horse into a rage; and extolled his courage for signing a Treaty of Peace with a great deal of regret.  
That you may be constant therefore and powerful in your Resolution; that not you, but your enemies may yield and leave you the victory; let me earnestly beseech you to represent all things which you now undertake both as truly and naturally; and as lively and strongly as it is possible to your soul. Think that you are now issuing forth into the field of action. That at this moment you are in the agonies which you must expect. That just now when you are deliberating of these things, you feel all the contradiction and resistance that will be made. And for the better security of your Resolution, it will be useful, if not necessary, to renew it every morning; and to go out of your Chamber armed as a man that waits for his enemies. Vow your heart again unto God as soon as you open your eyes. Make a solemn protestation before him, that you mean to continue his faithful servant, and for no reason in the world to be false to your undertaking. Reproach to yourself the baseness and cowardice of which you have been at any time guilty; and swear to him over and over again your constant fidelity. Say with a great courage, I do here in the presence of God, and of my Saviour, and of all the heavenly Host devote all the forces of my soul to execute his pleasure. I renounce the world; I vow a Pilgrimage to Jerusalem; I will wade thorough all difficulties; I will refuse no labours; I will beg my bread so I may come safely thither. This I avow to be my mind; this I confirm and ratify again without any reservations, clauses or exceptions. I will never unsay it, nor revoke it. I will never repent of this promise, or of any part of it. So help me, O my God. And here it will be seasonable to make your humble suit unto him, that he wil● 〈◊〉 pleased to fortify your Resolution too, and 〈◊〉 to aid you by the grace of his Holy Spirit. Represent to him that you are a poor Pilgrim, who have undertaken a long journey for his sake, and forsaken all for no other end, but only to see him at Jerusalem. And therefore tell him you hope he will not suffer your design to miscarry; but that he will make you as valiant in your actions, as through his goodness you are already in mind and heart: and that as you have chosen this way, so he will uphold your go in his paths, that your footsteps slip not. Show him all your weaknesses, and how fearful you are of yourself. Tell him you are sensible the doing of his will, is much different from knowing and purposing to do it. And therefore pray that he will lessen the difference, or take it quite away by his mighty power joined to you, that you may with as much certainty, if not with as much ease, do and effect, as you have projected and resolved. In short, offer up your will to him all broken and contrite, that he may put it into what form and posture he pleases. Show him an heart that quits all interest in itself, and that would be only led and conducted by him. Let him see you standing quite out of your own will; purely indifferent to all things, but only the doing of his. Let him know that you mean never to call it back, or to resume it into your hands any more, though you might possess it of all the world thereby. And then sure he cannot abandon you, nor suffer any thing else to make a prey of that which is thus affectionately addressed unto him. It is not possible that he should refuse the offering you make him, nor can he throw away a heart which puts itself thus humbly and sincerely into his hands; for now it is in the place where he would have it, and it doth but answer the summons of surrender which he sent it. He doth not desire any thing more, than that you would thus resign and make over yourself to him, willing neither one thing nor other but only this, that he would let you know what choice to make for yourself: Then you cannot be long ignorant of your duty, nor impotent neither; for your Will being overcome, you will soon overmaster all other difficulties, either of knowing or doing the will of God.   

CAP. X.  
Of leaving the world; and how thereby we recover our freedom.  
AND now having reduced things to this state, you may esteem yourself deserving the name of a Pilgrim, who forsakes his house, his wife, his children, and all he hath: making himself poor and naked, that he may travel in his journey more lightly and merrily when there is nothing left that may prove an impediment unto him. It may seem perhaps a very beggarly condition, but let me tell you this before I go any further, that if you can thus sincerely part with all the world in heart and resolution; you have got possession of a thing which was never yours before, and is the greatest riches upon earth, I mean yourself. We tell men that it is their duty to take their hearts wholly out of the hands of the world, to let nothing claim such an interest in their affections, that it should say I am yours and you are mine: And this startles and affrights them; they think we are going to rifle their possessions and rob them of all their goods. But if they did see things in a true light and were not hoodwinked with their passion, they would thank us for our advice, & think that we came to restore them a treasure which they had lost, and indeed till now had never enjoyed.  
You shall not take my word long for what I say; but you shall find before you have traveled very far, that you was never happy till you was loosed from those bonds whereby your heart was tied to worldly things; that you was never Master of any thing till you was stripped stark naked of all your earthly affections. Now you will be your own man. Now you will be able to do as you will yourself, and to live according to your pleasure. You will now have the power to dispose of your time and your thoughts, and all things else belonging to you, as you shall think good. You will have the liberty to keep yourself company; to entertain your Saviour when he comes to visit you; to enjoy God in quiet without any thing to disturb you; to converse with the other world as freely as you do with this. Whereas while your heart was chained to any of these things which I wish you to renounce, I appeal to you, whether you was not more theirs, than your own. Was you not forced to go whither they would have you? Did they not draw you from yourself at their pleasure? Was you not bound to keep them company; to employ your time in their service and attendance? Did they not perpetually engross your thoughts, and solicit your desires, and exclude all things else beside themselves from having any place in your heart? In short, was you not ever from home, and did you not always live out of yourself? Let not your poverty then run in your mind though it should be never so often objected to you, for you was never possessor of any thing till now: never rich till you became a Pilgrim: never Master of any thing till you was owner of yourself. Now you have recovered your freedom and your ease both together. Now you may do what you will, and you shall not suffer as you was wont. You can remember the torment I believe which you endured when any of those things were either lost or diminished, to which you had engaged your affections. You felt that if we love and cleave to any thing, we must be carried along with it. With all its changes (which in this uncertain world are not a few) we must suffer a change too. When it is in danger, we shake and tremble for fear. When it is impaired, we are wounded and cut at the heart for grief. When it is lost, we scarce know where we are and cannot find ourselves. And, in one word, we must follow the fortune of these worldly things if we be wedded to them; insomuch, that there is no remedy but to sue out a divorce presently, because it is an unlawful marriage. See then what an happiness falls to your portion when this is once effected and your interests come to be separated by parting you asunder. Now you will not be concerned in any of the mutations of the world. Now any thing in it may departed, and not be followed with your lamentations. And, to speak compendiously, there is nothing can go away from you, which shall carry you away too, but it will still leave you yourself behind.  
Let me encourage you therefore to take the name and weeds of a Pilgrim upon you, as your honour; and to wear them as a glorious mark of your freedom. Though you have given your heart heretofore to the world, yet let it know that you do not intent to leave it in her hands: but presently call it back again that you may bestow it upon a better Master. Do not we say that every Christian must give himself to God, and is it not that which I have now persuaded you to resolve? But how shall a man give that which he hath not? And he hath not himself as I have proved, that hath let out his heart to the world. It is necessary then that you take it home again in order to your being his. You must be your own, that so you may give yourself to him. You must be restored into your own hand, that so you may have something to offer up to his uses. And did you never think in any sickness that you was near to the gates of Death? I beseech you tell me whether it was not a great trouble to you to find yourself so much in the power of other things that you could not resign yourself to God? What misery is there like to this to be so out of our own hands while we live; that we cannot yield ourselves to our Maker when he would have us die? To be tied so fast to other things, that we cannot go to him when he calls us? To feel that this thing holds us, and that pulls us, and the other even clasps about us, and says, You must not leave us? If there were nothing else to thrust you forward in your design, the thoughts of this misery would be a sufficient spur to you to quicken the execution of it. Restore yourself presently to liberty again, and be a servant of the world no longer; if it be but for this reason only, that you may be free to die. Leave the world as you found it: And seeing you must go naked as you came, do not stay for Death to pluck off your clothes, but strip yourself, and own your liberty to your own hands. It will not be long you are well assured ere that debt to nature must be paid; and then there cannot be a greater contentment, than to feel that you are your own at that hour: That you can dispose of yourself to God without any let or hindrance; and that you can die in the freedom wherein you were born. If you stand engaged to the world; it will be sure to put in its claim and challenge an interest in you at that time. It will let you know that it is your Mistress, and still requires your service. And therefore follow your resolution and forsake it betime; that so it may not give you any trouble then, but suffer you to go out of it, as quietly and with as little care, as you came into it.  
He spoke these words with a great deal of heat, and with a tone expressing so much vehemency, that he could not have been more earnest if he had been disputing the liberty of his Country with those, who intended to betray it. But on a sudden repressing himself and letting his voice fall a little, he told him that he would spare the rest of his discourse on this argument for some body that stood in greater need of it. For I perceive (said he) that I have now to deal with an heart that hath already began its own deliverance, and whose weariness of the World's service hath brought it hither to find out a better Master. Besides (added he) it will not be prudent I think to burden you with many things at once: and we are admonished also by the darkness which comes upon us, that it is time to take a short repast and so commit ourselves to rest. I have an empty Bed which will be glad to receive a Pilgrim, or any one that hath set his face toward Jerusalem, being dedicated long ago to Charity. And therefore if you intent to be ruled by me in all things, let me lay my injunctions upon you not to stir a foot to seek a lodging in any other place but in my house. It was a thing of no difficulty, you may easily think to persuade a man to accept of that, which he much desired, and had already prepared himself to beg. And therefore having made him his hearty acknowledgements for that offer and for all the good counsels he had bestowed upon him, together with a promise to be obsequious to them; they sat down to a frugal supper, and a while after commending themselves to God they parted and went to Bed. I say to Bed; for they did not both betake themselves to Rest: The poor stranger's mind being tossed with a thousand thoughts, and travelling all night very hard to Jerusalem. He had no sooner put off his clothes, but he thought that this was a lively emblem of the condition to which he was to be reduced; and it put him in mind how he ought to strip himself of all affections to the world. He took there a solemn leave of it, and bade it eternally farewell. And think not, said he, to meet me again in the morning, and that I will put on my love to you as I do my garments; No, I vow that I would go stark naked if the one could not be resumed without the other. Then he revolved in his mind all that he had heard of the way to Jerusalem, together with the difficulties therein: which in the silent darkness of the night he mused upon more deeply than perhaps he would have done at another time: There being a resemblance he thought between the darkness and the afflictions he was to endure; and between the silence, and the patience he was to use. These and such like reflections succeeded so fast one upon another, that they would not suffer him to close his eyes till towards the morning light: When a weak slumber laying all his senses asleep and chaining up his reason, left only his imagination at liberty to rove about. And it had not pressed many of the footsteps of things which his memory was imprinted withal, before the image of an ancient pious friend of his, dead long ago, and who had often persuaded him to quit the world, presented itself before him. He was clothed in white raiment, and his countenance was very bright, but he approached him with the very same smiles in his face wherewith he used heretofore to run into his embraces. This person he fancied he was going to meet as soon as he saw him come in at the door; but before he could stir, he thought he found him at his bedside praying him not to arise. For (said he) I must soon leave you, and am come only to express to you the joy I have to find you in this Good man's house. Happy is he that hath met with a faithful Guide; but far happier is he who follows his Advice. Make not too much haste to be gone; stir not from hence till you be dismissed. And then I hope we may one day meet, never to part again: But now I cannot be permitted to make a long stay with you. This sight, but especially his speech, gave him such a sentiment of joy, that he hath often since professed he never felt the like, nor had any power to describe it. Yet he wished afterward that it had been less; for it brought him out of his slumber; and opening his eyes, chased away that fair Idea, whose company he would fain have enjoyed a little longer. So agreeable was that object to him, and so delectable did it render that moment or two wherein it appeared, that his spirits were as much refreshed thereby, as if they had been steeped all the night in the dews of sleep. Not hoping therefore, nor wishing to have his eyes shut again (unless it were to behold that friend) he left his Bed, and prepared himself to welcome his Host whom he heard already stirring and calling up his servants. He comforted himself also with this pleasant thought, that he was awaked to see a friend, whose company he should not to lose so soon, and in whose society he might rejoice without fearing to make him vanish out of his sight.   

CAP. XI.  
He commends to the Pilgrim, two Companions: Humility and Charity. Directs where to find them. With a large Discourse of the former of them.  
IT was not long before the Good man of the house came to give him the usual morning salutations, and to inquire how he had rested that night. But when he entered his Chamber he beheld such a joy in his countenance, that it quite turned by that thought, and made him congratulate his cheerfulness, which he told him he took as a certain indication, that his Counsels had found a good acceptance, and were like to be pursued. His Guest was willing that he should impute his pleasant aspect to that cause, and so told him nothing of his dream: Fearing indeed that he might think him childish and superstitious, if he knew that he conceived so much joy from such sleight appearances and shadows of comfort. But having expressed his great satisfaction in those preparatory discourses wherewith he had been pleased to honour him; he told him that the New day was not so welcome as himself, and that the Hours seemed too sluggish, and the morning to make overlong delay, to bring him the rest of of the Counsels which he expected from his mouth, You have given me a rare Good-morrow, replied the Guide, and I have seldom met with such early joys: Let us give thanks to God therefore for this happy beginning, and so qualify ourselves for the continuance of his favours. The poor Pilgrim (for so he esteemed himself) embraced this pious motion with all his heart; and so having joined together in their devout acknowledgements, the one prepared himself to speak, and the other to hear what further related to his intended Journey to Jerusalem. And the Sky being very clear, the Earth having charged the Air with no vapours at all, they were invited into the fields, at once to refresh their bodies with a walk, and their minds with good discourse. Considering also the security they should enjoy thereby from all the diversions that other company might give them; it was agreed, that all the time he stayed there, if the weather were favourable, they should spend the greatest part of the day abroad. You will expect, perhaps, that I should set down at large the particulars of every day's conference, and tell you where the night broke it off, and with what circumstances it was renewed the next morning; but I fear that method would extend my narrative to too great a length: And therefore I shall content myself to give you a continued Relation of the principal things which at several times entertained our Pilgrim, during his stay with this good man; whose charity would not suffer him to departed, till he was fully instructed in all things that concerned his safe pass to the City of God.  
As soon then as they had the house on their backs, and were come into the open Air, the Guide began to speak unto him to this effect. I will not be so distrustful of your memory, as to make a repetition of what hath been already said, but proceed to tell you, that having disposed your affairs in such sort as I have directed, and put yourself in good order for your Journey, you must be sure to provide yourself of two Companions to go along with you, which indeed you can never be without, whose names are HUMILITY and CHARITY. The former of these will always keep you in a mean opinion of yourself, and the latter will raise you to an high esteem of God and your Saviour, breeding in you a passionate desire to be like to them, and a grateful resentment of all their kindness to you. And that you may not think I intent to put you upon some long search for them, I shall tell you for your comfort, that you shall find them both lodged together in one place from whence they never stir, but are always ready at hand to assist those that there seek for them. I know you are desirous that I should acquaint you where that is, and because I would save your pains as much as ever I can, I shall send you no further than yourself, if you still keep in mind that sentence which I told you would be of daily use, and which you requested to have explained; for in that you will be sure to meet them embracing one another in an inseparable conjunction. You do well, I hope, remember it; yet I cannot choose but repeat it to you, and wish you again & again to say as affectionately as you are able, I am nought, I have nought, I desire nought, but only this one thing, which is our Lord Jesus Christ; and to be in peace with him at Jerusalem. HUMILITY says, I am nought, I have nought. And LOVE says, I desire nought but Jesus and Jerusalem. These two you may the better keep in your company, because you cannot lose either of them, unless you will lose them both; (and who is there that would not at least have one friend to be of his society in his travels?) So lovingly they do agree together, that they are by no means willing to be asunder. If the one be admitted, the other will not be excluded; and as the one grows to a taller pitch, the other advances together with it. The more you humble yourself, the higher will your Love ascend; and as that is exalted, so will you learn still lower to depress yourself. For the more you discern yourself to be nothing, with the greater ardency of affection will you embrace Jesus, who is desirous to make you something worth: and the more you admire and love him & his incomparable perfections, the better still will you be able to take a view of your own nothing. And that is a thing which I think fit to observe to you before we pass any further, because it may be of great use unto you in your Pilgrimage. That the Humility which I commend unto you, is not to be exercised so much in a direct considering of yourself, your sinfulness and your misery; (though this be very profitable at the first) as in a still, quiet and loving admiration of the excellent Goodness, Purity and Love of Jesus. When you believe him to have the fullness of the Godhead dwelling in him bodily, and especially when you are endued with a savoury feeling of his holiness and kindness; this sight of him will beget in your soul a more pure, spiritual and sweet Humility, than the beholding of yourself can possibly do, which produces an Humility more gross, boisterous and unquiet. As there is a Love which is calm and quiet, when not at all stirred with the passion, we remain possessed of all the pleasure of it; So is there an Humility of the same nature, which silently sinks us down to the very bottom of our being, without stirring and troubling of our souls, as we are wont to do when we violently plunge our thoughts into them. But both of these descend from above, when our minds are fastened to celestial objects, which always are in a serene tranquillity: they will not spring from things beneath, which are tossed in a perpetual and restless agitation. We never seem less in our own eyes, than when we look down from an high upon ourselves: and being then in peace, we have less also of that vexation wherein our souls are apt to boil and rage when they are the nearest objects of our thoughts. Our Humility will be the more when we admire Jesus; and it will be of a temper more mild and gentle, like him whom we admire. It will not lose any thing of itself by taking its original from him; but only lose that sourness which is mingled with it when it hath its beginning from ourselves. You will plainly understand my meaning, if you do but consider, that by fixing your eyes upon yourself, you may indeed discern that you are a most wretched, sinful creature: but by fastening them upon him, you will both see the same, and that more clearly; and moreover feel that you are a mere nothing. This sense of yourself, which lays you lowest of all other, you can never owe to any thing else, but a sight of him who wants nothing. His Fullness appearing so great, your Emptiness will seem as vast; and in compare with his Perfections, you will think yourself nothing but Imperfection. When you consider that all is his, at that thought you have lost yourself, by finding that you are not your own: and when you think that he is the original of all, you are lost again in a sense that you had been nothing without him. So that in this way you will be as much cast down to the ground, and rolled as much in the dust, as by any other reflections: All the difference is, that you will not roll and tumble about in the turbulence of your own distracted thoughts, and the violent commotion of your furious passions. You will only lie at his feet in a lowly posture, adoring of his Excellencies, praising his surpassing Perfections, confessing your own meanness, beseeching him to pity a poor Soul that thinks itself nothing, unless it may see him there, and desiring him to take the opportunity of doing himself that honour, and you that kindness, as out of his fullness to impart a new spirit, and a divine nature to you. Nay this Humility will make you study to cast all other things out of your thoughts, and labour only to be beloved of him, without which you judge yourself to be of all creatures most miserable. It is not to be told what the benefits of this sort of Humility are: but to let you see something of its great virtue, reflect upon that which we lately discoursed concerning the force of a strong Resolution, and hearty surrender of yourself too God. Which as it contains all things you are to do with in its comprehension, so it is supported by nothing more than a profound Humility. When we consider that we were made by God, that we depend upon him every moment, that we are infinitely engaged to him for many millions of his favours; when we think what a Sovereign Authority he hath over us, how much he is superior to us, what a right he hath to all our services, and how wise and good his will is; it is impossible that we should avoid resolving to give him our hearts, and to persist eternally in the abnegation of our own wills and desires, which we can never suffer to be competitors with his. This Humility will not be forward to clothe you with shirts of hair, to prescribe you no other diet but the meanest you can procure, to put a whip into your hand wherewith to let yourself blood, to rob you of your hose and shoes, that you may go barefoot to Jerusalem: It will not bid you strike your bare breast against the stones, nor tell you, that to be a Saint, you must roll your naked body in the briers, or tumble in the same manner in heaps of Winter Snow, or plunge yourself up to the neck in an Icy Pool: But it will infallibly strip you of yourself, and starve all your carnal desires, and break your will in pieces, and lay you at the foot of the Cross of Christ, and dispose you to all those rigours, and a thousand more if your Lord did signify that he would be pleased with such austerities.  
How safe then and secure must you needs think yourself under the conduct of such a Companion? you cannot have a better Guard, nor be put into a place of greater assurance, if you seek over all the world for it, than that to which Humility will lead you. For making you distrustful of your own power and strength, it will urge you to a continual dependence upon your Lord, without whom you feel that nothing, much less such an excellent thing as you design can be achieved. We accuse very much the weakness of our nature, we complain heavily of the body of flesh and blood, which continually betrays us, we conceit that we should do rare things, were we but once quit of this load of earth, and suffered to move in the free and yielding Air. But let me tell you, and believe it for a truth; though we had no society with a terrestrial nature; nay, though our minds were free and clear from all mortal concretion, though we had no clothes at all to hinder our motion; yet our ruin might arise out of our spirits, and by pride and self-confidence we might throw ourselves down into utter destruction. For what commerce, I pray you, had the Apostate Angels with our corporeal nature? what familiarity with a body? Do we not conceive them to have been pure spirits separated from all earthly contagion? And yet by placing all in themselves, by being puffed up in their own thoughts, and not acknowledging their need of the Divine presence and assistance, we conclude that they tumbled themselves into an Abyss of misery and woe irrecoverable. Now they are in a worse condition then if they were spirits of a smaller size: Now the torment they suffer is proportionable to the nobleness of their nature. For the sharper and quicker the mind is, and the greater its endowments are which it hath received; the greater mischief doth it bring upon itself, and the sadder are its perplexities when it is destitute of the special help and presence of God. As a great Giant being blinded must needs stumble more grievously, and give himself sorer knocks than he would have done, if he had not been of so huge a bulk: So a mind and reason elevated to an higher pitch than others, is carried headlong into an heavier ruin, when it is deprived of that Divine light which is necessary for its guidance and preservation. Excellency of nature therefore little profits if God be not present with it, and he absents himself from all, that place not their strength, sufficiency and safeguard in him, but in themselves. And on the other side Fragility of nature is not that which will undo us if the Divine presence do not withdraw itself, which it never doth from humble and lowly minds that confide in him and not in their own power, which were it a thousand times greater than it is, would not be sufficient to conserve itself. Our pride and vanity and forgetfulness of God than is that which we must accuse; not the infirmity and craziness of our flesh; for as the excellency of the Angelical nature could not save them when they disjoined themselves from their Creator: So the weakness of ours shall not harm us, if we keep close to him and never sever ourselves from that heavenly power which worketh mightily in us. Do you not see then how much you must stand indebted to this Associate in your journey? For it is Humility that must fasten you to God, that will keep you in a constant adherence to him, and not let you stir a foot from him; that will make you tremble to think of looking into yourself and not behold him there. This is in effect your strength and salvation; this supplies the defects of your nature; this is the remedy of your infirmity; and after a strange way this raises you above all the power of the world, by keeping you down and pressing you very low in your own thoughts.  
I must not defraud it therefore of those just praises that are due to its virtue, which may recommend it more to your affection and make its company more grateful in your travels. But it is fit you should know that this humility which makes us seem so little or nothing in our own eyes, is one of the most glorious things in the world, and places a man among the ancient Hero's. It is indeed the height and sublimity of our mind, the true Gallantry of our spirits. It letting us see what poor despicable things we are, causes us to surmount ourselves and to have no regard to such low and petty interests as those of our own. It is not a sneaking quality, that dispirits the soul and deprives it of all its force and vigour, but a generous disposition of mind, that will not suffer it to employ its forces upon such a mean and contemptible service as that of pleasing ourselves. Let it not seem a Paradox to you, for there is nothing truer, that Pride and conceitedness are the qualities of base bred souls, of feeble and ignoble minds; and that lowliness is the endowment of a soul well born, nobly descended, and bravely educated in the knowledge of the most excellent things. For whether is greater I pray you, he that sets a value upon little trifles, or he that despises them? Is not he that despises them? whose thoughts are taken up with sublimer objects that make himself and all things here besides appear as nothing in his eyes. I believe you will say there was not a greater man in the world in those days than Moses, a leader of a mighty people, the Captain General of all the Pilgrims of that Age, who had wrought wonders in Egypt, who had signalised himself by the drowning of Pharoahs' Army in the Sea: 
V christ. in 1 Cor. 1.3.  and yet it is apparent there was not a meeker person living upon the earth: no man had a meaner opinion of himself. He was content to be taught by Jethro though he knew so much himself; nay he was not offended at his reprehension, but submitted his judgement to a better reason. Can there be a greater instance of his Humility and Gallantry both together? He that had overcome so many, now overcame himself. He that had triumphed over mighty hosts, now leads his pride in Triumph and tramples it under his feet. He cared not who had the honour of it, so wise and great things were effected. His own glory he valued not, but his Humility inspired him by all means to seek the people's good. What think you of Abraham also a more ancient Pilgrim than this? who calls himself but Dust and Ashes; who condescended so far as to pray Lot a person inferior to himself, that there might be no difference between them: And yet this was that great man who had overcome so many Kings in battle, and brought away so many spoils, and redeemed Lot himself from Captivity. Hath not his Humility rendered him more famous than those victories? Hath he not crowned himself with greater glory in not vaunting himself in those Trophies, then if he had been served continually by those conquered Princes? If one man thinks clay to be clay and therefore treads upon it; another thinks it to be gold and therefore admires it; which of these hath the braver mind? Hath not he who doth not admire the clay and embrace the dirt? So he truly that calls himself but Dust and Ashes hath certainly a very great soul; while he that understandeth not but hath himself in admiration is a weak and basely minded man. He hath a great spirit who makes no account of those things which others are proud of. He is generous who despises things far greater than those, which others esteem the marks of their glory: who doth not swell with high achievements when his envious neighbours are puffed up with every trifle. Humility than you see is not sheepiness, but loftiness of mind and the most elevated pitch of the soul. It is not dejectedness of spirit, but a raised understanding of God and of ourselves. And therefore let us be low (as one of the ancient Guides of the Church advises) that we may be high. If we admire any thing here, let it be the sublimity of humble minds.  
I cannot conclude before I add for your further incitement, that Humility is of an excellent good nature and hath a singular obligingness in its constitution. It makes us no less acceptable unto men then unto God, and renders us amiable though we have nothing else to give us any advantage. Do you not see how intolerable the Proud are? and what is the reason of it, but because they scorn those who are not of their rank? They cannot be obliged because they think whatsoever you do is due to their merit. They would be loved by all, without loving again. They will command in all companies, and have every one yield to their humours. They will teach all and learn of none. They are incapable of gratitude, and think you are honoured enough for your services, if they do but receive them. They would draw all to themselves, and are unacquainted with that which charms all the world, I mean bounty and liberality. The Humble man no doubt than is the most agreeable person upon earth; whom you oblige by a good word, which he thinks he doth not deserve: who thanks you for the smallest courtesy: who had rather obey then rule: who is desirous to learn of the meanest Scholar: who contemns no body but himself: who loves though he be not loved: who thinks nothing too much to do for those that esteem him: and who is afraid he hath never recompensed enough the civilities which are done unto him. In short, this Humility is of such great value and so good natured, that there is nothing comparable to it but its twin sister, Divine Charity. This amiable pair are like the right foot and the left by which the traveller performs his journey. There needs no more but this happy couple to carry you through all the paths of piety and bring you safe to Jerusalem. Let us turn our eyes then if you please from the one to the other, and look a while upon the beauty and graces of Charity, whose charms are so powerful that you cannot choose but open to it your embraces.   

CAP. XII.  
Of Divine Charity. The Power that it hath both to establish his Resolution, and furnish him with all other Requisites for his Journey.  
ANd that which will very much enamour you at the first glance, is the power which you will discover in it to establish your Resolution, and to make it so firm, that it shall not be shaken by all the force of all the world, which is nothing so strong and mighty as Love. I know this touches you with a strong inclination to it, if you have any mind to offer your will to God as I advised; and therefore you will not think I importune you with a tedious discourse, if I make you more sensible of this following truth. That Love makes one will of two, and causes us to sacrifice all our own desires to the will of that we love, if we esteem it better than ourselves. For what, I pray you, can we say of Love, but which a wiser man than you or I hath told us, who calls it that emotion of the soul whereby we join ourselves in will and heart to that which is presented as lovely and convenient for us? It is such a consent, I say, of the heart to some fair and inviting object, that we consider ourselves as joined and united to it: Insomuch that we do not look on ourselves and it as remaining any longer two things which subsist asunder; but we conceive a Whole, whereof we think ourselves but one part, and the thing beloved to be the other. Is it not necessary then, that we have a mind to cleave to this, and eternally live in dear embraces of it? Can we endure the thought of being torn from this, and so dissolve the Whole which Love hath made? Do not we naturally desire to conserve things, especially those of our our own creating? It is unavoidable then, that in any contest which may arise between these parts, we yield to the will of that we love, for fear of a separation; unless that thing be worse than ourselves, and so we hope to gain by the dissolution. If one of these two must be displeased, we shall ever choose that it be ourselves, unless we esteem the other to be of less value and worth than ourselves. There is but that one Exception lies against this general Truth, which I shall not stick to reiterate, that Love doth so tie us to that we love, that we and it become but one whole consisting of two parts; and that we shall sooner suffer that part which we make, to be crossed in its desires, than the other to which we have joined ourselves to be disgusted. Do you doubt of it? Observe then, that Love being placed on things that differ in three degrees, it comes to be divided into three sorts. Either it is to things below us, and then it is called a bare Affection; or to things equal to us, and then it is termed Friendship; or to things above us, and then it arrives at the name of Devotion. Thus I have learned from a wise man of my acquaintance. Now the nature of Love in every one of these being such, that it joins our hearts to the thing beloved, and we and it make but one whole: in this only they differ, that though we may consent to part, and break with that which we esteem less than ourselves, yet we can never agree to be separated from that which we esteem greater. The less part will always be abandoned to the conservation of the greatest; we must always sacrifice that which is worst, to keep entire the best. And therefore, though in bare Affection a man always prefers himself before that he loves, when one must suffer a displeasure; yet it is quite otherwise in the highest Love (and sometime in the second sort) which we call Devotion, for there a man prefers the thing he loves so much before himself, that he fears not to venture his very life for the conservation of it. He will sooner sever Soul and Body, than consent that this and his Soul should be divided. He will rather quit all the world, and never see it more, than forsake this, and be banished from it. Because, as there is no compare, he thinks, between all the world and this, so he is tied with an incomparably stronger bond to it, than to all the world. Now of this sort is the Love that we call Charity, which is an high Devotion to our Lord. Who since he is Lord of all, the Lord of life and glory, the Author of eternal Salvation, the only begotten of the Father, full of Grace and Truth; if it were possible for us to leave some things that are better than ourselves, in expectation of something better than them, to which we will give that Love which they have lost; yet he will make us love him eternally above all, and live in inseparable union with him, because there is nothing else superior to him on which to bestow our Love if we take it from him. If we once sincerely love him, if we become one with him, it is manifestly in the nature of this sublime affection, to make us part with ourselves for his sake: to resign up all our own desires that his will may be done: to lose whatsoever we call ours, that we may keep him and his good esteem of us. It is not possible that we should grant our consent to have that knot untied, which makes us part of such a whole whereof the Son of God is the other part. There needs nothing to keep it fast, but to keep us in our wits. And therefore since a will distinct from his will, makes us two again, we shall always compromise with his will, that we may continue one.  
I believe now you think you shall make a mighty purchase, if you can but procure this Companion to go along with you. It is apparent to you, that this Charity will help and enable you to do all that is commanded you, though it be never so much, and hard to be otherwise effected. And do you not think that it will make all things easy also to be done? Alas! it knows no difference between doing and suffering but only this, that it chooses the latter many times as a noble testimony to its sincerity and truth. Nothing will seem absurd, nothing will be thought mis-becoming, nothing will appear difficult when once you are. in Love. It is well compared to an Artificial Glass, which when we look thorough, an enemy seems a friend, disgrace is rendered an honour, and hardships look like a pleasure. The Love of Christ, you know, caused him to make himself of no reputation. It preserved his Majesty, and made it seem no disparagement to be so low as a servant, and to court his Vassals. It hath this privilege, that it cannot be defamed. And it hath this generosity, that it cannot learn to deny. Ask any thing of it, and it will make no difficulty to give it. Nay, ask a Coat, and it will give the Cloak also. Ask it to go a mile with you, and it will go two. Ask it to forgive one injury, and it will forgive an hundred. Ask it to render you a service, and it will serve you with its whole self. So that I think one of the ancient Guides of the Church had reason, who said, Love, and do what thou wilt. Take thine own course, so that thou dost but hearty Love. This is a thing so powerful, that it withstands our temperament, and resists our most natural inclinations. It claps a new Bias upon our hearts; it carries us against the stream and tide of sensitive desires; it breaks the chains of custom; it roots up inveterate habits; it is of such vast force that it makes us vanquish ourselves, and obliges us to destroy our own pleasures that we may please another. It is strangely bountiful and liberal with all, thinking it can never do enough to make itself known to those whom it loves. From whence it is, that whereas they who live only in a fear and dread of God have starved and half dead affections to him, which makes them do but little, and that with a pensiveness and sadness, as if they desired to be excused: They whose hearts burn with Love to him have all their powers excited thereby to do their best for him; and they strain themselves with the greatest gladness to execute his pleasure in all things. And to say the truth, there is no passion of the soul, but Love hath it at its full command. They all own their Original to Love, and would have no being at all if it were not in the soul before them. If there were no Love implanted by God in our natures, there would be no desire, no hatred; no grief, no joy; no fear, no despair; for all these grow upon this single root, or rather are but Love shooting forth in divers shapes. They are I say but several motions which Love causes; the different figures which it assumes according as the object and occasion requires. It is Love which desires when the thing is absent, which hates that which would spoil its enjoyments; which grieves for the loss or fears the departure, which despairs of the coming or joys in the presence of a beloved good. What therefore should that be, which Love cannot do; seeing it carries all these along with it, and leads the whole soul thither, whither it goes itself? It is an active and busy affection; having as much Vivacity as it hath strength. It's life consists in motion; and like to the Heart it ceases to live when it ceases to stir. It is painted you know with wings and will make you fly rather than go to Jerusalem. It is like to Fire which is both a greedy and a fierce Element. A very covetous affection I mean, that thinks it never hath enough of that which it desires; and so earnest and vehement that it never rests till it hath spent itself upon its beloved. It is like the holy fire which God sent from Heaven, which was found unextinguished at the return from Babylon (as the Hebrews say) in the bottom of a Well, all covered with mud and dirt. Much water from without cannot quench it; and the dulness and heaviness of our own temper cannot repress it. But as fire elevates the matter to which it takes though it be never so gross and ponderous: So doth Love raise the hearts wherein it makes an impression, and stirs them up to actions far surmounting their Age, their breeding and condition. There is a certain cheerfulness also in this affection, like to the shining and brightness of Fire, which contributes much to the augmenting of its activity. It diffuseth a secret joy through the whole soul which cannot be dissembled; but casts a splendour into the countenance of those in whom it resides. Though Melancholy indeed is sometimes the companion of other Love, yet it cannot find so easy access to Divine Charity: For that which the one wants, the other hath, and that which the one doubts of, the other necessarily supposes. Is not this the common cause of such sadness, that Love meets with no return from an heart to which it hath given its own, or is in despair of overcoming all the obstacles of its satisfaction? But these are things that cannot find a place in this heavenborn affection, which is nothing else but a return of our Love to God who hath loved us first, and thereby given us assurance that he is desirous to be enjoyed by us. All the heaviness then of pious souls is when they cannot make such returns as they wish, not when they feel this flame within them; for than they are strangely pleased and ravished with joy, both because it is an effect of the Love of God to them, and because hereby they do actually enjoy him. Now as Melancholy and sadness do oppress the spirits and make us lazy and unwilling to stir; so this cheerfulness and lightsomeness of mind which Love infuses do set them free, and render us active and vigorous in our motion. Melancholy is a Lethargic humour and binds up all the powers, because its frozen disposition imagines all things impossible to be either done or avoided: but cheerfulness by its heat and warmth gives us some degree of confidence that things are not so hard to be undertaken; and it thaws, melts and loosens our saculties into freedom and liberty, whereby we become of a lively forward and ready disposition. Love therefore being of this pleasant and cheerful nature, you see must needs both quicken your spirit and facilitate your work. Nay it is apt to excite and inspire others who come near us, and therefore much more ourselves. Cheerfulness and the love from whence it springs makes our countenance smooth and clear, and invites others into our Society. When this passion stirs in the heart, the face is all over touched with the sweetness of it; which both entices and inlivens those that approach us. How is it possible then that we should not feel these effects of it ourselves, that are so sensible to others? or what heart is there so cold and indifferent, that would not be possessed with this affection which is as useful as delightful; and whose benefits redound to our neighbours and stay not in ourselves? It will not let us be a terror to our own souls, nor appear with such a dismal aspect that we should scare and affright others. It will not drive others from Piety while it carries us unto it. It will not suffer us to put Religion on the rack that we may look severe. And it is far from making us appear so, as though we imagined we could not be saved, unless we make an ugly face.  
What shall I say more? need I tell you that Love is full of imitation and forces us to conform ourselves to the humour and disposition of him whom we Love? There is a stranger property by far then this which will make you open your heart to it; and that is a singular Sagacity which it is Master of, whereby it knows what is fit to be done without any teaching. If you were fully in the power of it, it would go near to render me of no use, being itself instead of twenty Masters. It knows what will please before it be told and sees what is acceptable without a director. It hath eyes of its own to find out its way, and by its innate wisdom would lead you straight to Jerusalem. It is very skilful to spy out its duty, and hath a quick perception of what is befitting in every passage of life. In so much that when a man gins to Love, he gins to know how to guide himself. His Love will suggest unto him many things which he ought to do; and be instead of a thousand Monitors to put him upon the doing of them. It will make a man descry the least faults in himself, though it hid them in others. It notes an undecency with as much severity, as another marks a gross impurity. It labours to overcome the smallest infirmity, and weeps more for a mote in its eye, than others do for a beam. Nay it is afflicted for those things which no body sees, save only itself. It blushes more for a vain thought, than the rest of the world do for a monstrous act. It hath a curiosity about those little circumstances, which all men are wont to oversee or neglect. It's niceness and delicacy is so great, that it abhors the very shadow of all evil. And it every way strives to adorn itself with such accuracy; that there may not be the least spick to render it less fair and beautiful in the eyes of God.  
Love therefore I beseech you, Love as much as ever you are able, if you mean to be happy. Make your heart ready as an Altar, for this Fire from above to descend upon it. Prepare yourself as a Sacrifice to be offered up in this Holy flame to the Lord of Love. Let all the world know that you are a consecrated thing: tell it that you cannot entertain its suit, nor unhallow the place where heaven is pleased to dwell. Yield yourself a captive to this mighty Conqueror, whereby you will be enabled to conquer all things else. Subject yourself to the power of that, which will bring the Devil, the World, and the Flesh under your feet. Let it take away your liberty of doing what you please, that it may make you free to do as you ought. Possess it of your soul entirely and suffer it to inspire all your desires and to order all your motions; and it will not fail to possess you of that blessed place to which you wish to be conducted. And is this any difficult thing that I require of you? I should rather think that we are highly obliged to God for making the way to Jerusalem so easy and our arriving there so certain as it is. For Love is the most natural and pleasant thing in the world which will certainly bring us thither, and God being so lovely and having loved us so much, one would think it should be an easy thing to beget it in our hearts. Do you not mark how a Dog loves you, if you do but throw him a bone or some such thing, which to you is of no use or worth at all? For this he fawns upon you; for this he stays in your house, and keeps your door, and defends your goods; this makes him follow you at the heels if you please, to travel with you long journeys, to forsake all other Masters for your service, and many times to die with you: though it be a poor thing, which you know not what to do withal, unless you cast it unto him. How can you choose then but love Jesus, and be at his command, and follow his steps, and leave all others for his sake, and even give your life to him; who hath given you not a thing of no value, not that which cost him nothing, or that which he could not tell what to do withal, but himself, his holy blood, his precious promises which it cost an infinite deal of pain to seal and ratify unto you. Are you still insensible of his favours when you think of this? Are you still to learn to Love when such a weight of Love as this doth press your heart? If such a thought could enter my mind, I would send you to the brutes to be their Scholar, I would call your Spaniel and bid him teach you; I would cease to be your instructor any longer, and put you there to learn the affection you own to your dearest Lord and Master. But your blushes bid me spare this language and seem to assure me both that you are ashamed to owe your virtue to such examples, and that you feel already this flame enkindled in your heart. Feed it I beseech you continually and let it increase unto greater ardours of Love as it will infallibly, if you do but consider what great things your Saviour hath done for you, and that he is still busy in procuring your good; and in short, that there is not an hour, not a moment wherein you do not stand indebted to him for eternal blessings, or for the means of them, or for the grace to help you to attain them.  
And indeed the poor Pilgrim's heart did beat at such a rate, that it seemed to knock against his ribs. He was set all on fire with these words; and at last found means to vent himself and burst out in such expressions as these. O Sir, what have you done! I feel the Love of Jesus burn so vehemently in my breast, that I shall be devoured by it, if it last a moment longer in this force. I have scarce any breath left to tell you, that you have made me love yourself also with a violent passion. I have no power no more than desire, to resist this Almighty Lover of Souls. I render myself his prisoner and wish to be eternally held in his chains. You have linked me to yourself too so fast, that I am at once become his slave, and your servant. I would go to the world's end to seek these two Companions Humility and Charity; if they were not already become my guests by your means. You have given me a greater treasure than I thought to find in those few words which I received from you; and methinks I feel already that I am nought, and I have nought, and I desire nought but Jesus and Jerusalem. If it be not absurd to speak in such terms, I am in love with this Love which you have described. I see methinks Humility and all things else in its arms. I embrace them both with all my soul. I welcome them with my best affections into my heart. And if I had more hearts than one, I would offer them all to the Humble Love of my sweetest Saviour. Go on Sir, as long as you please; if you have not taught me all my lesson in teaching me to Love. You have tied my ears to your tongue and they cannot but listen to your speech. Nor shall I ever feel any weariness in hearing of you; for you have made me in Love with your discourse, by breathing the Love of my Lord into my heart.  
Here he making a little rest, the Guide had leave to resume his office: though he was so filled with joy to see the good effects of what he had said, that it was not easy on a sudden to find room for any other thoughts. The desire also that he felt of speaking something extraordinary on this occasion, had like to have imposed silence on him, and denied a passage to his words. But his Prudence telling him how necessary it was to keep himself now from such transports, he soon reduced himself to his usual temper and thus began to renew his discourse. It is no wonder to find that Jesus captivates hearts; and that the Love of a dying Saviour is so powerful as to enthral them to his service. All that surprises me is no more than this, that such feeble words as mine should so sensibly touch your inclinations to him, and with such speed excite so high a degree of Love in your heart. It gives me great encouragement to continue my instructions, and affords no less encouragement to yourself to continue your attention; For if you are already under the power of Love by what hath been now delivered, I shall make you love unmeasurably before I have finished this discourse. You have seen but half of the riches of that golden sentence, and there are greater secrets still behind in those two precious words which are at the conclusion of it. For I pray you satisfy me in this demand; Have you well considered what Jerusalem is, to which you now direct your face? I will not stay for your answer, but proceed to tell you that I am now going to give you such an Idea of it, that if you keep it fresh in your mind, you cannot imagine how it will snatch you from the world and heighten your love unto your Saviour, and lift you quite out of your own will, if you had a mind to fall into it back again. And truly I cannot think that you should have any great list to travel long, or that you should not soon feel a weariness to invade your members; if you go you know not whither, and carry not along with you a true information of the happy repose, you are like to meet withal at your journey's end. Let Jerusalem then be the subject of our next discourse, and suffer your eyes to be drawn to that blessed place, which I believe you have often heard commended, as the Perfection of Beauty and the Joy of the whole earth.   

CAP. XIII.  
A Description of the City Jerusalem: and of the happiness be should there meet withal.  
I Have no faculty (it must be confessed) of making good descriptions of those places which I have seen; and therefore it must not be expected that I paint you exactly a place which I know but by report. It is sufficient that I tell you nothing but the truth, and do not imitate them who fill their Maps with Chimaeras of their own brain; though I do not completely delineate every part of it, but leave many spaces void to be filled up by yourself when you shall have the happiness to arrive there. Know then, that as to the situation of this City, it is agreed by all to be incomparably sweet, beyond the fairest place that this world of ours doth afford. For it is seated on a very high mountain, loftier than Olympus itself; which yet is said to lift its head above the clouds, and to be obnoxious to none of our storms and tempests; and to be deprived of the Sun beams by nothing else, but only the night itself. It is advanced I say far above the highest part of this heavy earth and foggy air, aspiring into the purer sky; where the Sun never withdraws its rays, and where there is not the least shadow of mist or vapour, either to obscure its light, or to offend the most delicate sense that can be conceived. There are nothing but pure and fragrant odours which perfume that happy climate; there is a perpetual calm and quiet which reigns in that noble region; there is no noise but that which infinitely delights and charms the soul into still and quiet meditations. But that which is of greatest remark and most to be remembered is, the glorious Prospect which a place of this advantage yields. All the world here presents itself before one's eyes; and makes them the centre in which, the beauty and glory of it conspires to meet. I would not have you think I mean a world so small as that, which we inhabit upon this Globe of Earth; but one which comprehends the Sun and Moon and all the other adjoining orbs which are there beheld to move in comely measures about that Prince of lights. Those balls of Fire also which you see fixed in the firmament so remote from you, will fall into your better view: who though they seem here but like blinking candles and sickly flames; will there appear most noble lights, designed for some greater end, then to lend us a feeble comfort in the night. It will be infinitely contenting to see the beauty and fair proportions of every part of this vast frame; the fitness, usefulness and correspondence of it to all the rest of its neighbouring parts; together with the exact and admirable order of the Whole. And can you imagine into what transports it will cast your soul to hear the praises of the Creator sung by all his Works of wonder? And yet that is another privilege of this blessed place, by the advantage of whose holy silence, you will receive the cheerful hymns wherewith every creature you behold, doth celebrate the wisdom, power and goodness of him that made it. You have heard (no doubt) of the Music of the Spheres, which they say would ravish souls from these mortal bodies, should it but strongly touch their ears; and therefore is almost drowned by the noise and clatter of this lower world. This is it which I am now commending to you, that sweet consent which all creatures make among themselves, that rare harmony which there is in the motion of all the heavenly Orbs; which strikes the mind so agreeably, that one cannot choose but dance for joy together with them. But it is the proper entertainment of those who dwell in that still Region, in which alone it can be distinctly heard; and where an everlasting song to the Creator of all doth melt their hearts to join in consort with that Universal harmony.  
But yet the place is nothing so considerable as the Persons that inhabit it; nor will it be so useful to draw their pictures curiously as to describe their life and manners. Inquire not therefore of the vastness of this place, the stateliness of its buildings, the riches of their furniture, and such like things; but know that it is the City of the Great King: the seat of the Imperial Majesty of Heaven and Earth: the place where the Lord and Governor of the whole world, whose Dominion is an everlasting Dominion, and who reigns through all Generations, keeps his Court. Do you not think it will be a pleasingly amazing sight to behold the Majesty of his Glory? Or, What greater happiness can you wish, if you were to be the disposer of your own fortune, than always to stand before the Sovereign of the World, as one of his Ministers and Attendants; and to live in his blessed presence, as one whom he highly favours? To behold the wisdom of his Government, the righteousness and goodness of his Laws, the admirable contrivance of all his Works, the universal care which he takes of all his Creatures, the infinite extent of his Providence, and the power of his Authority, whereby he doth whatsoever he pleases in Heaven and Earth, and Sea, and all deep places. To see how he brings those things together which were removed far asunder; and dissolves the combinations and confederacies of those things which were closely united. To contemplate how he hereby makes those designs abortive, which were just bringing forth, how he disappoints the devises of the crafty, and confounds all the subtlety of the world, and catches it in its own snares. It will strangely transport you to see the beauty of his Holiness, the splendour and brightness of his Understanding, the largeness of his Love, his uncorrupted Justice, his unexhausted Goodness, his immovable Truth, his uncontrollable Power, his vast Dominions, which yet he fills with his presence, and administers their affairs with ease, and is magnified and praised in them by the throng of all his creatures. These things I will leave to your own private thoughts, that I may have time to speak of the rest of the celestial Inhabitants, but especially of the King's Son, who is a principal ornament (if I may speak in so low a phrase) and a great glory to this place. And of him I shall need to tell you no more than this, that in his person there is to be seen at once the most illustrious Lover and Warrior that ever was. His Conquests have been innumerable. His Victories no History but one of his own inspiring is able to recount. He hath trodden down the most potent and giantly enemies. He hath triumphed over the Powers of Earth and Air. He hath trailed the greatest Tyrant that ever was seen at his Chariot-wheels. And there is one universal triumph of his over all things still behind, wherein there will be special marks of honour set on all the Citizens of Jerusalem, who are to bear a part in it; which will astonish and ravish all their hearts with Admiration, Love and Joy. This will be the most splendid show, the most illustrious appearance that ever the Sun saw; for all Angels, and all Men; all that ever have been, are, or shall be, will there be summoned to attend in some sort or other upon the Pomp of that great day. Then all the Citizens of Jerusalem will be seen with Crowns of Gold on their heads which this great Prince will bestow upon them; then they will appear on the Theatre of the world as so many Kings reigning together with him; and then all the Heavens will ring with shouts of joy and praise to him that redeemed them, as they march along in his train thorough the Air to Jerusalem. For, as I told you, he is the most glorious Lover that ever was: and the greatness of his valour and courage, doth not at all extinguish his nobler flames. He is owner of the most tender heart that ever was in any breast; and hath rendered himself redoubtable to his greatest enemies by nothing more than this, that he hath won so many hearts, and triumphed over so many brave souls, who were vanquished by nothing else but the power of his mighty Love. Such a generous Lover he was, that though he was rich, he became poor, that they on whom he had set his heart might be made rich. He laid aside the Robes of his Glory, that they might be invested with them. He took upon him the shape of a servant, that he might prefer them to be the Sons of God, and Heirs of a Kingdom. And at last he voluntarily, and without any compulsion but that of his Love, died upon a Cross to save the lives of those who were so far from having any resentments of Love to him, that they had the hearts of most desperate enemies against him. For you must know, that he is such a Lord of Love, that the hatred and malignity of men could not extinguish the fervours of his passion. All the discourtesies they could do him, were not able to prevail with him to lay aside his thoughts of kindness toward them. The innumerable affronts which he received could not make him go back to Heaven, and forsake this ill-natured world; till he had expressed all the Love conceivable unto it. No, he died for those who took away his life. His bowels earned toward those who were ready to rake into them with their bloody hands. His heart burnt with affection to those wretches, that cruelly pierced it, and thrust it thorough with a spear. And therefore I cannot but think you would have a mind to take a journey to Jerusalem, and judge your pains and travel well bestowed, if it were for nothing else but to see this Illustrious Person; especially to behold him in all his glory, and his highest exaltation, who is the Patron of all good souls, the great Protector of all Pilgrims, the Guide and Rest too of all noble Travellers; and who bears a particular affection to yourself, who hath suffered so much for you; who hath sent you so many messages of his Love, who hath endeared himself to you by a thousand favours, and was never contented till he brought you to himself, that you might be there where he is, and behold the glory which his Father hath given to him. There he intends to entertain all pious men with an everlasting Supper, to make them a never-ceasing Jubilee; and treat them with such sumptuous magnificence, that there will not be tongues enough among them all to publish his praises, and their own thankfulness. Only you must remember that the entertainment he will give them, is himself, and that they will feast eternally upon his blessed face. Their happiness will be to see God, to behold the glory which is given to our Lord; that is to know him, and to be filled with his Wisdom, Love and Likeness.  
And here, lest I should not be understood, and you should imagine the happiness of seeing God and his Son to be less than it is, let me stop a while to explain this part of my description to you, before I pass unto the rest. You must not then conceive that the pleasure of Jerusalem, is to sit whole Ages, and merely to gaze upon the Divinity; or that they who enjoy the repose of that happy place, do nothing else but feed their eyes with the beauties of our Saviour's face: No, these are the fancies of low and uninstructed minds, who know no higher enjoyments than those of sense. To see God, will be to have such a knowledge of him as gives our hearts a powerful touch, and strikes them with such a lively sense of him, that he turns them perfectly into his nature, and transforms them into the likeness of his divine excellencies. This glorious object doth, as I may so speak, diffuse and spread itself all over enamoured souls, and by a living heat doth animate them into the same disposition with itself. The beauty on which they fix their eyes, doth imprint its own form upon their hearts, and makes them fair and beautiful with the same lovely qualities which they delight to behold. They do not busy themselves there, as men imagine, in gaping upon the splendour and the many ornaments of that place, but they themselves become a part of its glory, and are changed into that on which they fasten their eyes. They do not spend their time only in looking upon God, and curiously prying into him; but they receive him into their hearts, and he enters into their souls. He doth not gild them with his beams, but they themselves become Light in the Lord. There is not a glory only cast about them, but they receive such rays of light from his face, as dart into their very hearts, and shine thorough their whole souls, so that they also become luminous and bright. They are so ravished with his Goodness, that they are made Good. They are so affected with his Wisdom, that they become Wise. The sense they have of his incomparable Purity, renders them more Holy; and his dear Love so over-masters their souls, that they conform in all things to his hearts desire, and it seems as if both their hearts had but one and the same motion. In short, my meaning is, that they are not happy at Jerusalem by any external enjoyment of God (which is all the vulgar conceit doth reach, when we speak of seeing his glory) but they are inwardly moved by a powerful efflux from him, which quickens them into the same thoughts, will and desire with himself. Their souls are not outwardly painted with him, and some colours, as it were, of his Wisdom living Images of God, and really changed into a true resemblance of that which they behold. It is not some glory that appears before them which makes them blessed; but they are made all glorious within, and become themselves Godlike creatures. They do not behold the Divinity only without themselves; but they see God within them, and looking into their own souls, there they find him, and are happy in him. And let me add this by the way, as I pass to other things, that such a knowledge and participation of God you must pursue in this world, if you mean to come to Jerusalem. You must here be partakers of a Divine Nature, and now be transformed by the renewing of your mind, proving what is that good, and perfect, and acceptable will of God.  
But I think it is time to lead you to other Spectacles which are worthy your sight, and to tell you that in this City, all the glorious Ministers of State to the King of Kings, have their Mansion-houses, and Noble Palaces. All the Heroes of ancient days do here make their abode. Nay all the spirits of just men that are made perfect, do here inhabit and have their constant residence. And all those glittering Angels, and those brave minds that ever flourish in this heavenly Court, I believe you will think sufficient of themselves, if there were nothing else to render this a very splendid place. The Laws indeed of which are such, that none can be permitted to live there but Noble men, persons of high birth, and illustrious descent; for they are all called the Sons of God. But that which gives them this Nobility, and stamps such an honourable title upon them, is not such poor things as swell the men of our world into an airy and imaginary greatness; but the height of their minds, the purity of their hearts, and the excellent qualities wherewith they are endowed, which entitle them to the kindred of God. Insomuch that the meanest Pilgrim on the earth that is found worthy by reason of his virtuous disposition, and generous spirit, to be admitted a Citizen of Jerusalem; instantly becomes Noble, and is enrolled among the Princes of heavenly Progeny. Into this blessed society then when once you are received, How delightful do you think their company and acquaintance will prove? Are you not highly pleased now with a rare History, and could you not lend your ears for a whole day to hear the adventures of some one famous person? And yet these are nothing to the pleasures that they can entertain you withal. There were never such things yet reported, as the Inhabitants of Jerusalem will be ready to impart and communicate with you: Who can tell you a long story of the Love of God, and make a never-ceasing relation, an endless history of all the rare passages of his providence throughout the whole world. They can present you with a thousand abraham's, and as many joseph's, whose adventures were so strange, that fiction is not able to invent any thing so surprising. Nay out of those Countries where you thought there was nothing but horrid deserts, savage souls, and barbarous customs; they may produce you many worthy minds, whose renowned acts it will give you an infinite joy to have rehearsed.  
But there is nothing, I believe, will touch you with a greater inclination to their converse, than the knowledge of the singular love and friendship that is between all the Inhabitants of that City: provided you be already touched with any sense of the pleasure of that noble passion. They are a people, I told you, of the most excellent nature, and the sweetest disposition in the world. They are void of all deceit and guile; of all hatred and envy, of all covetousness and self-love, of all anger and peevishness, with whatsoever other things there are that disturb our peace, and spoil our converse here below: So that they make the most agreeable society that ever was, and interchange to each others such pleasures as my tongue hath not expressions powerful enough to paint them forth. There is no strangeness at all among them. You can meet no body there, but they will entertain you with as much kindness and sincerity, as if they had known you many years. And when many come together in one place, there is no danger of their jarring, by reason of their different sentiments; but they bring a great addition of pleasure, and make the most delicious harmony that ever moved the heart of man. There they entwine in the dearest embraces. There they open to each other their very hearts. There they study to increase, not to diminish their mutual happiness. There they think all that another enjoys, is as if they did enjoy it themselves. And what they have of their own, it is not for themselves alone, but for every body else. There you shall meet with no pale fears, no anxious cares, no fruitless wishes, no tormenting jealousies, and no amorous sighs neither; for every one will love others as much as they desire, and wish for no return again, but only Love. If there be any particular Friendships there; they do not at all spoil the universal kindness of the place. Others will not be loved the worse for them, but rather loved better; because they will teach those united hearts the greatest Love. They may be esteemed also one of the beauteous spectacles of the place, and be reckoned among the grateful varieties which will entertain us: When after the pleasures of a more general and large conversation, every one may retire to the company of those he loveth most.  
There you will be met with such great and shining lights as St. Paul, who set all the world on fire with the flames of their love. You will fall into the company of those burning hearts who were martyred first by their own Love, and then by their Persecutors fury for the good of the world. And do you think they have put off their affections when they laid aside their rags of flesh? Did all their fire go out, when they suffered a dissolution of their house of earth? Or shall we imagine that this generous passion is the offspring of our body, and owes its being, birth and strength to this corporeal nature? We may not so defame and asperse the Love of our Lord; who no doubt hath a more tender heart in the heavens, than he had upon the earth. We may expect to find there more Love in the breasts of these holy Lovers who followed him, than here they were owners of; though they had then so much that it was large enough to embrace the whole world. They have not left their nature, but only its imperfections. They have not changed their affections, but only heightened and improved them. And therefore judge how happy you will be in the acquaintance of such persons, and how much more happy in their excellent friendship. Your Love will be raised to a strange pitch, when you approach such intense and vastly increased flames. Your heart will be all Fire when you come near to such huge furnaces; the heat of whose Love in this cold region was so strong, that it would have forced a sensible soul to expire with them. And is the joy think you conceivable which you will feel, when you find yourself in the arms of those mighty Lovers? For my part I can imagine nothing but an Ecstasy, when we shall be placed in such great Hearts; which are nothing else but Love and Joy to see us at Jerusalem. I cannot propound to my desires a pleasure more charming than this, unless it be to join both heart and voice with the whole number of those glorious friends, to chant the praises of our Creator and Redeemer. And indeed it is beyond the measure of my poor skill to invent any words that can tolerably describe the Melodies which will then be made, when the glorious company of the Apostles, the goodly fellowship of the Prophets, the noble Army of the Martyrs, the glittering Troops of Confessors, and the innumerable Hosts of triumphant Souls, shall compose but one Choir to sing their Anthems and Hallelujahs to the God of Love. But yet I am apt to think that their Music will receive no small part of its graces from hence, that there will be no discord in their hearts nor jarring in their affections, but that Love will exactly tune them to a perfect harmony. Nay, this seems to be the sum of what we can say of the happiness of that estate, that it consists in a rapturous Love of God, and a most passionate Love of one another. And truly this is a thing so inviting, and I have such a particular affection to this Unity of Spirit among Brethren, that I should be tempted here to speak a little of that Charity which you ought to have to your neighbour (as I have already instructed you about that you own to God) but that I have assigned another time and place for that discourse.   

CAP. XIV.  
The manner of their life who live at Jerusalem: and that all things concur to make it the most pleasant of all other.  
YOU have great encouragement then to make haste to Jerusalem, for you see they pass their time there more delightfully then in any other place; and lead a life so much to their content, that one may truly say their employment is to please themselves, and to do according to their desires. The most vigorous Soul that this earth affords, is but a drone in compare with the sprightly air of them that inhabit those Celestial Regions. You would say the most pleasant days that here we lead and study to prolong to an hundred years, are but like a sleep and a dream, a mere image and shadow of life; if you could but be raised for one minute to the strength and activity of those happy people, and receive but the sleightest taste of those lively and essential delights which force the whole soul to attend unto them. The briskness and cheerfulness of our youthful time, doth not so much excel the flat and insipid pleasures of our decrepit Age; as they themselves are surpassed by the quickness and height of those joys wherein the Citizens of Jerusalem are eternally immersed. It is impossible for me to declare the smallest part of the sweet delectations which they resent; but, to gratify those long which I discern I have already excited in you, I shall run the adventure of describing a few of those pleasures that gush out of that full and ever-springing fountain of Good with whom they live and maintain an happy converse. And because I believe you are desirous to know, how they receive and take in those voluptuous enjoyments, I will endeavour with one labour to satisfy you in both.  
You may conceive then if you please that such a spirit as your own being advanced and fortified much beyond the feeble narrowness of this present state, doth continually employ the highest and most Sovereign powers that it hath, upon the highest and most supreme Good. That it is daily admiring his excellent nature, loving and embracing his amiable perfections, blessing and praising his bounteous disposition, studying to conform itself to all his desires, rejoicing in the full satisfaction which he communicates to its heart, and in one word doing all those actions which a soul is capable to perform upon any other object in this world: And then you will have a little Idea of that infinite delectation which such a conjunction of the very top and flour of the mind with the beginning and original of all good must needs produce. Look how you are moved in the enjoyment of any sensual good, and that will tell you what they do who live at Jerusalem, and wherein the pleasure of their life doth consist. You see it or some way or other perceive it, you apprehend and lay hold of it; you feel it; you cleave unto it; you are tickled and delighted in it: and just so will you and all they live and be happy in God who arrive at that blessed place. Their life and felicity consists in a clear and distinct perception of him; in a close union and conjunction of heart and will with him; in a feeling of the pleasures that are in him; in an ardent embracement of him that they may more feel him; and in an high delight and ravishment of spirit in such enjoyment of him. Thither if we can but get, we shall love as much as we are able, and be able to love far more than we can now think. The greatness of the object will intent the affection. The vastness of the Good will force the will to desire and love more than else it would. We shall enjoy according to the wideness of our Capacit; and all our Capacities will be so enlarged, that they will exceed the extent of our present thoughts, as much as our present thoughts exceed our present enjoyments. It is a life wherein we shall do nothing but what we desire; and wherein all things shall be just as we will ourselves; and wherein we shall will nothing but that which is most to be chosen. A life every act of which must needs be sweet, and full of joy, beyond all the measures of all our present wishes. When we think, we shall rejoice; when we love, we shall rejoice; when we adore or praise, we shall rejoice. Whatsoever we do it will have infinite delight and pleasure in it; and when we have done it never so oft it will be eternally to be done again: and we shall likewise have more power to do it; and every repetition of such acts will be with a fresh addition of contentment in the doing of them. There is no satiety nor loathing in the enjoyment of that good; no fainting nor growing weary: but we shall always think we have enough and yet still be enjoying more; we shall be in a perpetual youth and vigour, and yet daily growing more strong and able to converse with God. For that great Good cannot be known at once, nor can all the sweetness of that life be instantly tasted, nor the rivers of those pleasures be drunk up at one draught: but fresh delights will continually entertain us; new pleasures will be springing forth unto us, and a flood of joy that we never knew before will overflow us, out of that full fountain who now issues forth in so many streams, and diffuses himself in such great varieties in this world; that our minds may be every moment employed in some rarity of nature which till then did never affect their eyes. A happy life sure this will be, when we shall have before us such an inexhausted ocean of Good to fill us, and such great appetites to be filled, and such repeated satisfaction in the filling of them, and such an increase of strength by their satisfaction; and wider capacities also created by the continual flowing in of that good upon us, which will distend and stretch our souls by its enjoyment, to make us more able to enjoy it.  
And now need I be at any pains to persuade you that this City is a place which abounds so much with a plenty of all good things, that there can be no want at all; but a perfect fullness of whatsoever may be an happiness to us? It is apparent already that whatsoever we can desire, there it is present, and whatsoever is present is Good, and whatsoever good there is, it is all Good, pure good, without any evil; and that pure Good is all in one Good, GOD himself, who can be nothing else but Good. How much do the Good things of this world delight us, which yet are not Good by themselves, nor contain in them all that Good is, nor are only Good neither, but come with a great mixture of trouble to us? Will not the enjoyment then of him give us infinitely more pleasure and make us perfectly happy, who is Good by himself and not by derivation from any other, and so is perfectly Good, and nothing else but Good without any thing at all to abate his sweetness. These things here below (saith an ancient Guide to Jerusalem whom I have met withal) are something Good, 
St. Aug.  else how should they at all delight us? but they could not be Good at all, if it were not for him that is All Good and only Good who hath made them to be what Good they are. For all Good was created by him, and he is that Good which was created by none. He is Good by his own Good, and not by any participated Goodness; He is Good from his Good self, and not by adhering to any other Good. As much therefore as he excels all other Good, so much must our enjoyment of him excel all other enjoyment. As he is a Good that is from none but himself, so our happiness will be a Good that depends on none but his happiness. When we are with him we shall but ask, and we shall see; we shall but see, and we shall love; we shall but love, and we shall eternally rejoice: or rather we need not ask at all, for he will but present himself before us, and force us to love and rejoice without any measure.  
And seeing it is a place of such full satisfaction you will not question its tranquillity and repose: especially since it is (as you heard before you came hither) the very Vision of Peace. The life which they lead there is so full of content, that they are not disturbed by any passion, nor disquieted by the violence and disorder of any unruly affection. A life it is, void of all sadness, free from all grief, quit of all care, and rid of all anxiety of mind. Where there is no adversary to assault, no forbidden fruit to tempt, no impetuous desire of the flesh to molest them, and no fear neither that ever they shall be haunted with these enemies of their peace and contentment. O how happy should we find ourselves if we were but come to the top of that high Mountain, which will seem the more clear and quiet, because so many clouds have here so often overcast us, and so many sudden blasts have ruffled and discomposed us. There we shall not accuse one another of any injuries, because we shall not do the least; nor be troubled to pursue our right, because we shall not be wronged. There we shall live without jealousies; and converse (as I have told you) without suspicion; and pass Eternity without any difference of opinion, or debates and controversies in Religion, which now are no small disease and bring no little burden upon our hearts. Nay, the very actions of Piety many of them, will be of a different kind from what they now are, unattended with those passions to which we are now moved, which make us suffer evil, while we do good. Here, as the forenamed person well observed to me, we do good works, when we deal our bread to the hungry, and receive the distressed stranger, and cloth the naked, which is a kind of affliction and tribulation which we endure by our sympathy with them to whom we pay our Charity. For we find miserable persons on whom to exercise our Mercy, and the misery which we see they lie under, makes us compassionate, that is, to suffer with them. How much better than shall we be, when we shall find no hungry mouth to feed, no stranger to entertain, no naked body to cast our garments over, no sick men to attend, no prisoner to visit, no tormented person to commiserate, no differences to compose, no contenders to reconcile: but our Love shall be of another sort, all joy, all pleasure in the good and in the perfect happiness of every one that we behold. And if there were nothing else there to entertain us, but the comforts of that friendship I told you of, and the delights we shall interchange by a constant amity and good will, to one another; it were sufficient to recommend this life to any wise man's affection, and make him willing to forsake this world, to go to a place of such endless love and kindness.  
And, doth there now need any demonstration that this is a place of great safety and security environed on all sides with the power of God against the attempts of all the enemies of our happiness? No sure; for than we should be in danger of some disturbance. If we should conceive indeed any forces could be gathered against it, and that it were not impregnable in itself, we might easily imagine that so many troops of illustrious friends, so many bands of holy Lovers as here inhabit, would perform strange things against the most puissant Invaders. There is nothing, I told you, so strong as Love by the force of which in one single person, incredible things have been achieved: and therefore much greater would the united power of it appear in so many hosts of noble spirits all inspired with the highest degree of this affection, who would do their utmost for the service and safety of one another. But yet we need not have recourse to such fancies as these, for the assurance of our peace in that blessed place. It is impossible that any thing should wound the quiet of such happy souls, or make the least breach in any of their enjoyments. There cannot be so much interruption given to them as the scratch of a pin among us amounts unto; because they are out of the reach of the evil one, and placed in such still and calm Regions, where nothing breathes, but only that love and dear affection for ever.  
Upon which account also it is, that there can be no intermission of their enjoyments, no more than there will be interruption and disturbance. It being a full and perfect happiness, there will no time pass wherein they will not be happy. The days there have no nights: The life hath no sleep, which is but the Image of death. There will not be so much diversion there from the proper exercises of that life, as meat and drink now creates, which are the present support of our infirm bodies: Much less will there be any disease or decay of strength, or the encumbrance of any of those employments which engage so great a part of our time and thoughts. Our Love therefore shall never languish, or stand in need of any refreshment; our charity shall not cool and abate its heat; our joy shall not exhaust our spirits, and leave us dull by the excess of it, as here it sometimes doth. But, as I said before, we shall rather gather strength, and grow more apt to receive an increase of joy, by the greatness and force of that which we have already received.  
I need but just remember you, it being a thing you have heard no doubt an hundred times, that this life of theirs is without any death: An eternal life (as the Holy Books call it) where we shall not have so much sadness as the thoughts of its having an end would beget. But we shall rejoice first, that we have so much, and next of all, that we shall never have less, and then that we shall still enjoy more; and above all, that what we do enjoy shall live as long as God who is the cause of it, that is, for ever.  
I believe you are not weary of so delightful a discourse, yet lest I should keep you too long from the rest of my Instructions, I shall shorten it as much as I can, and shut up this description with a meditation of that devoute person, who, as I told you long ago, undertook the Guidance of men to Jerusalem. How different, saith he, is the life of those in that place, from that of ours here? Here there is falsehood; there is truth. Here is perturbation; there is a faithful possession. Here is bitterness and hatred, there is dilection and eternal love. Here is dangerous elation of mind, there is secure exultation of spirit. Here we are in doubt, whether they that love us may not change their thoughts; there is perpetual friendship, and no possibility of being enemies. Here whatsoever is good, we are afraid may perish; there whatsoever we receive will be preserved by him that gave it. Here there is death, and there is nothing but life. Here we enjoy what the eye, and the ear, and our thoughts present unto us; but there we shall see what the eye hath not seen, and hear what the ear hath never heard, and understand what the heart cannot now comprehend: And seeing, hearing and knowing after that manner, we shall rejoice with joy unspeakable. For what kind of joy must that be, when thou seest thyself in the company of Angels; a partner in the Kingdom of Heaven, to reign with the King of the world; desiring nothing, to possess all things; rich, without covetousness; charitable, without money; triumphing, without the fear of any barbarous Invaders; and living this life, without any death? O sweet life! the more I think of thee, the more I love thee; the more vehemently I desire thee; the more I am pleased in the remembrance of thee; I love to speak of thee, I love to hear of thee, I love to write of thee, to confer of thee, to read of thee; that so I may refresh the pains and the sweat, and the dangers of this tedious life, by laying my weary head in the bosom of thy secure pleasures. For this end I enter into the Garden of the Holy Scriptures; I gather there the sweet flowers of Divine Say; that which I gather, I eat; that which I eat, I chew over again; and that which I have tasted, I lay up in mine heart; that by such sweetness I may allay the bitterness and irksomeness of this miserable life. O that my sins were done away! O that laying aside the burden of this flesh, I might enter into thy ease and quiet! To receive the Crown of Life; to be associated to the celestial Singers; to behold the face of Christ; to see the uncircumscribed light, and without fear of death to rejoice without any end. There is the goodly fellowship of the Prophets, there are the glorious twelve Apostles; there is an innumerable Army of Martyrs; there is the holy Company of Pious Confessors; there are the Divine Lovers of Solitude and Retirement; there are the holy Women that have overcome the infirmities of their sex, and the powers of the world; there are the brave Youths and Virgins, whose holy manners transcended their years; there are the Sheep and the Lambs that have escaped the danger of glutting themselves with these earthly pleasures; there perfect Charity reigns, because God is there All in All. There they see without fear, and love without measure, and praise without ceasing. There loving they praise, and praising they love, and it is their work to do so always without any interruption. But alas! Who can tell what a Great Good, God is? (as he proceeds in another place) Who can declare how full he is, or relate the happiness that he will give us? We cannot tell it, and yet we cannot hold our peace: It is more than can be uttered, and yet we cannot choose but talk of it. And if we cannot tell it because of our ignorance, and yet cannot hold our tongues because of our joy for what we know; in what condition are we, which will neither let us speak, nor yet be silent? What shall we do with ourselves, if we can neither tell what it is, nor yet cease to speak of it? I'll tell you in two or three words; Let us rejoice: Let us praise God: Let us keep a perpetual Jubilee here in our hearts: thanking him very much that we know so much of this happiness; and thanking him more, that it is so great that we cannot know it all.  
Here, if the Guide had not made a little stop, I think the Pilgrim had interrupted him; for he had kept his silence thus long with great difficulty, and now cried out with a more than ordinary vehemence; Blessed be God that he hath brought me to this place! This is none other than the suburbs of Jerusalem; this is the Gate of Heaven. Happy was the day which let me see your face! I heard something of Jerusalem before by the hearing of the ear; but now mine eyes see it, and I am all enamoured of it. You have shown me a sight so glorious, that it is beyond our thoughts, and beyond our desires; I was going to say, beyond our Faith, and beyond our hope. Sure you are one of the Angels of God sent from Jerusalem to fetch me thither. You had inflamed me with an high Degree of Love before, but now you have put me in a fiery Chariot, and methinks I am not upon the earth, but ascending up to those heavenly Regions. Nay, you have transported me to the City of God already. Methinks I see the Lord of Glory. I behold the Thrones that are erected for all the Noble Travellers to that Holy Land. I fancy myself in the dear embraces of those Glorious Lovers. And I am apt to embrace you as one of the Seraphims that have fired my soul with the same Love. I see the blessed Jesus preparing himself for his appearance; and begin to think that I am triumphing with him. Or, if I am but in a dream of these things, yet it is so pleasant, that I could wish it might last for ever; and that nothing might awake me out of such a delightful slumber. Not so, said his Guide (interrupting his speech) I love you better than to let you enjoy such a wish; and I would rouse you up to demonstrate their reality, if I thought you took these things for charming dreams, and painted shadows. You shall not make such a mean supposal, nor content yourself with such airy pleasures; for I will make you know at once both that there is such a blessed place as I have described; and discover to you more perfectly the way unto it. There is another dear name enclosed in those words which I told you must always be sealed upon your heart, and that is the Holy JUSUS. On whom I do not intent that you should look only as he sits on his Throne of Glory at Jerusalem, but as he walked up and down the world, and was a Pilgrim like yourself travelling to that place. He published the Glory of it; He brought life and immortality to light; He set open the Gates of Jerusalem to all faithful Travellers; He run the Race himself wherein you are to follow; and for the joy that was set before him when he should come thither, he was not ashamed of a poorer habit than the meanest Pilgrim wears. If you take a view therefore of his life, and trace his holy steps; you cannot miss the Road which I would have you take, nor fail to be convinced that it can carry you to no other place but the City of God. For, Do you not remember that this person hath styled himself the WAY? There is nothing so necessary than in all that sentence as this one word Jesus to have always in your mind: whom I shall now describe unto you as a fair Copy, not only of that Humility and Charity which I named before; but of all other things that you must resolve to undertake if you mean to come at Jerusalem.   

CAP. XV.  
A Description of Jesus ', who is the true Way to Jerusalem. In which he is propounded to the Pilgrim's imitation.  
ANd first I must set this Jesus before your eyes as one that was dead to these outward things while he lived among them; and that withdrew his heart from the world while he conversed with it. He was not a person cloistered and retired from the society of men. He led not an Anchorets' life, which obliged him to shun their company. Nor did he put on a sullen gravity that should affright men from his fellowship; but he used the greatest freedom, and treated men with such familiarity, that he invited them into it. He did eat and drink as other men do; he refused not their invitation when they were desirous to entertain him, and even at a Marriage he denied not to be a Guest when his presence was welcome to them. He had opportunities of enriching himself as well as other men. Honour's would have waited upon him if he had pleased, without a Miracle. It depended upon himself alone to become the greatest man in the world. And the pleasures which others seek would have pursued him, if he had but given them encouragement. Herein he made himself glorious, and hath left us a noble example; that he was mortified to all these carnal delights, when they were ready to thrust themselves upon him; that he denied the desires of wealth, when it would cost him no more pains, than to receive it; and that he refused all the Kingdoms of the world, which would have easily disposed themselves to his obedience. He walked into Cities and Towns; and was still as unspotted from the world, as he was in a wilderness. He lived in the thickest of its temptations; but none of them could fasten or stick upon him. He had power at will, and his will set bounds to it when it had none of its own. He was a Sovereign Lord, but made no advantage thereby, save only to be better, and to do more good than any of his subjects. He used greater moderation in all enjoyments, than those did on whom he bestowed them. He lived in a sense of the Spiritual World, while he was a man of this, and encompassed about with our infirmities. He was a stranger to all the evil manners and customs of men while he was familiar with themselves; and he testified against their wicked deeds while he kept them company: Nay he purified many by his example, remaining uncorrupted by any of theirs. And truly such a life it is that you are to lead. Your way to Jerusalem lies through the World. You must not think to step into none but Religious Houses, or to fall into no company, but that of the Pious: much less must you expect to lie immured from the spectacles of Vanity; and to secure yourself from temptations within the enclosure of high walls which they cannot climb over to approach you. But your manner of life will lead you through the crowd: your way will bring you into open fields, and expose you oftentimes to the throng of sensual objects; against which you will have no defence but your own valorous resolution. You will not be able to refuse them your company, or to pass along without their acquaintance. It will not be at your choice whether you will see, and hear, and feel those things that are amiable and delightful: nor can you stop your ears so close but you will perceive they invite you to a friendship with them. Your skill and your courage therefore consists in this; that in imitation of your Master Jesus you live and converse with all these things as a man that is Dead. You must keep them company in such a sort, that they may find it is but the shadow of you that is among them, and that they do not possess yourself. Let them know that they may as well invite a Ghost to their intemperance, uncleanness and greediness of the world, as waste their time in soliciting of your affection. Make them feel, that is but half of you and the worse half which walks among them; and that it is impossible they should have the better part. Let men have your company, but be not partaker with them in their sins. Fellow your affairs like other folk, but take heed and beware of covetousness, and watch that you be not overtaken with surfeiting and drunkenness or the cares of this life. Let the World understand that you can see it every day, and not fall in love with it: that you can deal and traffic with it if need be, and yet not be unrighteous: that you can behold all its honours and not be ambitious: that you need not hid your eyes from its beauties, and yet retain your own and live in purity of heart. Beware of pleasing and humouring any of your senses. Suffer them not to feed too greedily upon any object, lest your soul be enchanted and cast into a forgetfulness of Jerusalem. And remember always that you are to sue all these earthly things rather of necessity, then of choice: and to afford them your company but not your friendship.  
And this, let me tell you, is a more excellent and useful life, I may add more laborious too, than any other; though the austerities of Monks and Hermit's seem so grievous and horribly affrighting. Notwithstanding all the sharpness they enjoin themselves, they reap a great deal of ease who are sequestered from public offices and live without the encumbrance of many affairs. Though their Rules to which they are tied appear so rigorous, yet they are neither so many in number, nor so thorny in their nature, nor have so many faces, as those which bind a man of exact integrity in civil life. They have but a few things to employ them, and he is engaged in a multitude: and they have the same things to do over again, but his rules vary with a thousand circumstances. It is a pleasure to avoid the pains of well doing among those that are evil. It is a repose to have but few enemies and those such as have been beaten an hundred times. These people may have some other glory, but that of overcoming difficulties methinks belongs not to them. Moderation is a virtue much more toilsome, than their Sufferance. That hath a thousand several fashions, whereas this hath no more than one. It is no wonder that a man should be good where he sees nothing that is bad. He may well keep his innocence where it is hard to lose it: and soon secure his soul when there is nothing offers to rob him of it. He is a very unfortunate man (as I have heard somebody well express it) who drowns himself in that place, where he can scarce find water enough to quench his thirst. His hap is exceeding hard who shall take a surfeit, where there is scarce so much victuals as will break one's fast, But when we are thronged with temptations, and beset with enemies; when there is a battery planted against every gate, and not one of our senses is free from assault: than it is a business of some labour and it deserves praise, to secure our souls and to defend them bravely in such a violent storm. To escape drowning when we are upon the Sea, when the winds are boisterous, the channel dangerous, and we are cast among rocks and have shelves and quicksands very near us on the right hand and on the left; is a business that calls for an excellent skill, and a very even steerage, and such an experience as cannot be learned without a great deal of pains and diligence. Then Piety will thank us for our Love, when we are courted by Vice. And we shall seem to have done some honour to Goodness by cleaving to her, when we had large offers to become bad. So that I cannot see by what merit the Secluse do assume to themselves the title of Religious more than others: seeing they give a greater proof of their Virtue who are in the World and the World is not in them; then those in whom indeed the World is not, but they also are not in the World. It is more glorious to beat an enemy, then to fly away from him; and it requires a greater spirit to maintain a Breach, then to hold out within the Walls.  
Not that I discommend Solitude at your first setting out, or would have you neglect it at certain seasons through your whole journey (for you shall know the use of it better hereafter) but it is not fit to design to live always in secret, if it be possible to live and be safe in the World. This I would have you think is the more perfect life and more like to our Saviour's: and therefore aspire to it; and stay not in the other any longer, then only to fit and prepare yourself for this. And tell me I beseech you; do you not think it possible for a man to have his heart in the World when his legs and arms are out of it? May it not dwell in his fancy when he sees it not with his eyes? May he not please himself in the shadow and image of his old friend which he says is dead and buried? May not one leave his soul behind when he withdraws his body from all the World? I wish there be not many of such Religious men and women. As on the contrary I hope there are not a few whose minds and hearts are shut up from the World, though they are with it every day. Who have made a Cloister for their souls, while their bodies are at liberty. Who bridle their appetites and lay restraints on their desires; though they live at large and are under no Vow but that of their Baptism.  
Consider therefore how ridiculous it is to imitate another sort of men, who hearing us speak of forsaking the World, and renouncing all its Pomps and Vanities; imagine that they should throw away their rich garments, forbear the civility of a compliment or so much as a salutation, let their Gardens become wildernesses, and their Pictures make fires, with abundance of such like follies. Alas! what have these poor things done that we should revenge ourselves upon them? what is their guilt that we should be so severe and fierce against them? Is this the mortification the Scripture speaks of to execute our anger upon insensible things? It would seem more reasonable if when a man reads of crucifying the flesh, he should go and pierce his own body and strike nails through his hands and his feet. And yet what blame doth it lie under, that we should put it to that torment? or what is that which we kill by such cruelty? No, no, we must turn the blow another way. We must cut off our affections from these worldly enjoyments. We must walk in the flesh, but not after it. We may feel its desires, but not follow them. We must labour to become poor in the midst of abundance; to be humble in high places; to be temperate amongst the baits of pleasure; to use those things well which custom hath abused; to think of ourselves in fine clothes, just as we did before they came on our backs. And in a few words, to withdraw ourselves from all the inveiglements of the world, not in the common way of removing our persons from it, but by removing it from our esteem and affections.  
But I am afraid of running into that error which I purposed to avoid, if I should continue to give such a large and punctual account of all that the Good man said in this Argument. And therefore I will keep more exactly to my method in what ensues and contract the rest of his discourses concerning Jesus.  
You must look upon Jesus (proceeded he) in the next place, as a person that was highly contented and very liberal in the midst of the greatest Poverty. It would have been little less than a wonder (as the world now goes) if I had said that he thought he had enough though all the ground he trod upon had been his own; and that he was bountiful though he had been able to pave his way with Silver and Gold. But he hath left us an higher pattern and taught us even in our Poverty to be charitable to those who are reduced to greater necessities, and in the meanest condition to be better pleased, then worldly men are in the greatest superfluities and abundance. He had no lands nor yearly revenues, and yet the Hospitality was noble which he maintained. His incomes were uncertain, and yet he never complained or troubled his mind because his estate was no better assured. His Disciples were men of a small fortune, and yet he labours to infuse into them a most liberal disposition. He stuck not to spend all the victuals he had upon the hungry multitude. He chose to lay out the whole provision of his numerous family in one feast, rather than suffer them to faint who were come to hear his Word. Though he lived as a Beggar himself, yet he kept a purse for the Poor. Though he was supported by the Charity of others, yet he would be no more than their Steward and receive their Alms to give it away. Great persons ministered to him, but he himself was the Minister of all. His Poverty might have enriched himself, but he chose by it to enrich others. And this truly seems to have been the proper effect of his being dead to the World. He felt no need of its Riches, and so he did not covet them. And he did not let them into his heart when they came to him, and so he was not unwilling to part with them. He thought the goodness of all these things consisted in their Use; and he knew no better employment for them, then to send them to serve those who were pressed with want. You cannot therefore better please him, then by imitating this bounteous disposition. There will nothing more endear you to him, than such a generosity, which may show itself in a mean as well as in a plentiful fortune. Do you not observe what praises he bestows upon a poor widow who had cast all her living into the public stock? It seems to me that this was a more pleasing spectacle to him, than all the offerings of the Rich. Read but his famous Sermon which he made to his followers, and there you will find so many precepts of taking no care for meat and drink and clothes; and of giving away hoping for nothing again, that you will think he had a mind to recommend to them this contentedness and Charity above all things else. And lest you should fancy that all the acts of his Charity were miracles, which are no examples to us; or be like the Hypocrites who imagine his precepts were given to upbraid our weakness and reproach to us our fall, rather than to direct our practice: observe the smart Question which he asks toward the conclusion of that Sermon, Why call you me Lord, Lord, and do not the things which I say? 
Luk. 6.46.  As if he should have said; are you not ashamed to call me your Master and yet do nothing that I command? What mischief is this, that you should acknowledge mine Authority, and yet not be governed by my Will? Away with this Hypocrisy; Cali me Lord no more, when you will neither do as I say, nor as I do. The very same words should I now say to you, if I did not think that you were resolved to tread in his steps; and that you esteemed poverty with contentment the greatest riches; and a liberal heart with a small estate, the largest possessions. You will not fail I know to scatter your Charity as you go along to Jerusalem. If you meet with any distressed person in your way; you will be sure to do like the good Samaritan and provide for his health and deliverance. Nay, spare not to seek for opportunities to do good: and since we live in an ill natured and hardhearted age, let your light so shine before men that they may see Jesus still in the world. And indeed I have often beheld to my great astonishment a poor Pilgrim give more largely to a charitable use, than a person of high condition in the World. There are many Rich Gluttons who will bestow more upon their Dogs, then upon a needy Lazarus. I have heard men wonder they are not ashamed to see themselves outdone by people of a meaner rank; and that they do not fear the bowels of the Poor will groan against them and complain to heaven of their unmercifulness: But so it is, that they have hardened their own bowels toward them, and think that heaven is as insensible of all their cries as themselves. Their hearts are as cold as stones; and you may as soon move a Statue to do good as one of these Images of men. They are not crucified to the world, but they are killed in her embraces and she hath hug'd them to death in her arms. The world hath poured too many of her favours upon them and pressed them to death with the weight of Silver and Gold. Their hands are fast closed, their fingers are stiff and rigid: they hold their money so hard, that a dead man's hand cannot be more inflexible, nor hold that thing harder which he grasps when he is just expiring. Nothing but the example of the Lord of Life will be of any power to get them open. There is none but himself can breathe such a spirit into them, as will loosen the cold bands of death, and make them stretch forth themselves to the relief of their perishing neighbours. Propound therefore this pattern every where in your practice: and if men like not to be the followers of Christ on these terms, tell them they must look for their wages at the Devils hands. He hath as fast hold of those miser's souls, as they have of their money. Hell is as greedy as their desires. It gapes for them, as they do insatiably for Riches. And besides, if there be any truth in our sacred Books, they, and their riches, and their posterity, shall rot and become as vile as those whose miseries they will not pity.  
And when you have well affected your heart with this heavenly-minded and compassionate Jesus, then turn your eyes to another sight, and behold in him the deepest humility, and the most profound lowliness of mind, joined with the greatest perfections, and highest abilities that ever any man had. If there were ever any man in the world that had cause to bear himself high, this was the person. His endowments were divine; his reasons were inspirations; his words were oracles; and yet blocks and trunks are wont now to lift up themselves higher in their own conceit than he could be tempted to do. Never had any one so large a knowledge, that boasted so little of it. His power was not to be equalled on earth, and yet it did not domineen over the meanest creature. He could do what he would with a word; but would not employ the least breath in his own praises. The very hemm of his garment was thought to be of a miraculous virtue, but it was touched with pride as much as himself. The wonders which he did, were always accompanied with another wonder, that he took not the honour of them, but gave it to God. He was dead indeed not only to the outward world, but also to himself. He was not only insensible of the blandishments of fleshly pleasures, but of the flatteries of spiritual pride. He wrought such Miracles as to raise the dead, but they could never raise any self-conceit, nor give vainglory in him any life. He would have concealed his works, if God's Glory had not been concerned in them more than his own. He would have stopped the people's mouth as well as his own breath; and stifled same as much as others seek to give it air, if it had not been for the good of the world that he should be known. And therefore when the fame of him did fly abroad, it could carry no other news but that he was as humble as he was great. When he was so high in the people's esteem, that they would have advanced him to be a King, he chose rather to remain a private man: When they would have carried him into a Palace, and made him a Court, he liked better to steal away into a Desert. Poor men were his Companions; Fishermen and the meaner sort he took for his Attendants. When he was in his greatest triumph, he was meek and lowly riding upon an Ass. When his ears was filled with Hosannas, he was going to humble himself to the shameful death of the Cross. He was in truth no other than the King of courtesy and humility. A Prince that listened to the petitions of the poorest Supplicants; that stood still to hear the cries of blind Beggars; that would not refuse a work of Charity because of its vileness; and in one word, that stooped so low as to wash his Disciples feet, which was the meanest office of a servant. I need not tell you sure for what purpose he did this, seeing he himself hath saved me the labour by that speech of his to those whom he had so washed, 
Joh. 13. 2●  I have given you an example, that you should do as I have done to you. Let me say to you therefore as he doth presently after to those persons, If you know these things, 
Vers. 17.  happy are you if you do them. You must lay yourself as low as the dust you tread upon in the way to Jerusalem. You must not study Fame so much as Virtue. You must acknowledge God in all, and magnify yourself in nothing. You must raise a name to him, and not seek your own renown. When you are praised, you must be the same that you are when men discommend you. You must think it dangerous to aspire to honours, and hunt after promotions. Let them find you as unwilling to receive them, as others are to forbear their Courtship towards them. Condescend to men of low estate, and sort yourself familiarly with those who are below you. Let the poor never be the object of your scorn, but think that pride doth render you poorer and more despicable than them. Remember to stoop to the meanest offices of Love, whereby you may serve your Brethren; and when you have done them, think that they are to be done again when their needs require them. And that I may not seem to impose any heavy burden upon you, do but look at Jerusalem, and see how Jesus is advanced by humbling himself; and you will not need any exhortation to this Virtue which before I so much praised, and now again commend to your affection. Many of the Angels, they say, made it their study to raise themselves higher than they were, but miscarried in the enterprise, and were not able to effect it. They tried their wings, and began to soar aloft, but they failed them sadly, and let them suffer a shameful fall. But Jesus, on the contrary, studied to be a great deal lower than he was; not only lower than the Angels, but inferior to men, even the vilest of men. The issue of which was, that you see him exalted at God's right hand, and he hath raised himself thereby, not only to the places from whence those Angels fell; but to such a dignity that he is higher than all principalities and powers, and hath the noblest creatures put in subjection under his feet. Be a follower of Jesus therefore in his Humility, depressing yourself as low as you can in your own thoughts; for that is the way to raise yourself to the highest pitch of Glory, and to be made equal to the Angels of God, who have kept their station, and always had their dwelling at Jerusalem. And it may not be amiss the more effectually to excite you, if you consider how those noble persons have preserved their first habitation, and remained so long in the Celestial Court. Was it not by humbling themselves to the meanest employments, to which the Sovereign of all orders and ranks of being in the world was pleased to assign them? Are they not content to come and wait upon the poorest of us, and to serve as a Guard to the most abject of the Sons of Men? Let us not refuse then to submit to any condition of life, wherein our wise Governor thinks good to place us, nor imagine any office below us, in which we may be useful and serviceable to our neighbours. If we had no greater example than the Angels, it might well be expected that we should not disdain to appear in the meanest dress; but since the Lord of them all is pleased to become our pattern, and to abase himself far lower than they, it should make us love to be all over covered with this Humility, and to esteem it the most glorious Robe that we can wear. And truly if our hearts were touched with such a Charity to others as He was endued withal, we should not stick to bow ourselves, though we were never so high, to the vilest services, for the succour and help of those whose miseries implored our assistance.  
Let me propose to you therefore the blessed Jesus in the next place, as a person that was very full of love, tenderness and bowels of compassion towards those that deserved nothing, nay, towards those that deserved ill at his hands. He was so disposed to do good, that they could not miss of his kindness, who neither desired it, nor were willing when it was offered to receive it. He did not only pity the weakness and infirmity of his Disciples; but had a feeling of the sufferings of those who were strangers: neither was he only kind and benign towards Supplicants; but his heart was tender to the perverse, untoward, and ungrateful people. There was nothing of roughness, sourness and uncivility in his manners; but they were smooth, sweet and full of Courtesy. His heart was not at all pinched and narrowed by the Love of himself; but it was enlarged into such an universal Charity, that he seemed to forget his own concerns, the better to provide for the good of others. The Instances of his benignity and good nature are so many, that to reckon them all, would be as long as to tell a story of his whole life; for he went about doing good. It was his work and employment to do benefits to the world. He was the Sun of Righteousness, that run a long race for no other prize, but only to have the honour of spending his beams. He rejoiced to spread his healing wings over every place. It was his pleasure to shed his influences, and to make all that saw him sensible of his flames. The Patients that solicited his healing-power were innumerable; and the Cures which he wrought were not fewer than they. He lived all his time in a kind of Hospital; being thronged with sick men, with Lazars, and other diseased folks. And though it were turned sometimes to a Bedlam, by the company of Daemoniacks, and phrenetical people; yet he never complained of the burden, but cheerfully entertained the occasion of putting them in possession of their wits again. Never did he send any man away without satisfaction to his desires; but he cast out Devils, cleansed their Leprosies, cured their Palsies, untied the tongue of the dumb, opened the eyes of the blind, restored feet to the lame; and besides, relieved their necessities, had compassion on their hunger, and fed their bodies and their souls both together. The whole Country seemed to be his family, and if he had been the Father of them all, he could not have been more tender, or yearned with greater bowels of mercy towards them. The opposition and contradiction of brutish men did not alter the sweetness of his disposition towards them; but he continued to do them good, to beseech and entreat them, to weep over them, and sigh for their Infidelity. And when it grew to such an height, that they sought to kill him who had saved the lives of so many; yet so great was his Charity, that he passed by their offences; sought not for revenge, which it was easy for him to find; and to speak all in one word, forgave the most ungrateful enemies that ever were. I believe you will easily grant, that it is a matter of less difficulty to forgive the injuries we receive from one that never was obliged to us; then to pardon him to whom we have expressed the greatest kindness, and used with the highest civility, especially if his malice arise so high as to seek our life. And yet so loving was our Lord, and so desirous to set us a noble example; that he never expressed greater Charity, than when he had the greatest reason to be incensed. He freely remitted the wrongs of those who not only hated him without a cause, but who had great cause to love him above all the world. And though the wrongs were as great as the benefits he had bestowed, and they were beyond all measure; yet as his benefits did not make them become his friends, so their wrongs could not make him become their enemy. What greater malignity is there than that which moves men to bereave others of their life? and what greater Charity than that which endeavours to preserve it? We can conceive of none higher, unless it be this, to sacrifice our own life for the preserving of other men's; especially of theirs that take it away. And such was the Love of our Lord, who was so great a friend to so great enemies as sought for that which he was ready to offer for them. You know very well his words upon the Cross, when he made intercession for the transgressors, saying, Father, forgive them. Can he more effectually at that time testify his kindness than by such an indulgence in the midst of their cruelty toward him? What do we expect more from a Parent, than that he should overlook the faults of his children when they repent and submit themselves to him? And yet our Lord uses these men with greater clemency, and gives them his pardon whilst they were committing of the fault. Nay, he not only forgave them himself; but desires God to grant them remission too, that he might be the only sufferer, and they be free from punishment.  
You see then how your way lies if you will travel to Jerusalem and desire to be with Jesus. The roughness of your way and the asperities of men's manners, must not spoil the smoothness of your soul nor exasperate your spirit: but you must be loving and kind to all, even to the greatest offenders. Nay, if your nature be crabbed and austere, you must look so steadfastly upon Jesus and steep your thoughts so long there, till he infuse himself into you and change the harshness of your disposition into a sweeter humour. The way to Jerusalem I assure you is full of sad spectacles which will afford you no other pleasure but that of having a tender sense of their miseries and doing of them good. You must be civil and affable to every one you meet upon the road. You must pity and secure those who are ready to perish. You must counsel and advise the Ignorant and those who are out of the way. You must bless those that throw a curse at you as you go along. You must pray for those that do you wrong. And if any fellow-traveller to whom you have afforded your help should prove a robber and make an assault upon you; you must still preserve your love to him and not suffer him to rifle you of your grace to forgive him. And indeed when we consider how much more reason there is that we should do good to others, then that God should do good to us; and when we think also how much more he hath done for us than we can do for others; and when we remember withal that they are our equals in the chiefest things, and that in some they may be our superiors, when as he is so much above us in all; it will set our hearts wide open and make them free and generous, though they were never so fast locked and barred before; and render them soft and tender though they were as hard and stubborn as bolts of Iron. We shall not then be backward to forgive injuries, to do good to enemies, to repay wrongs with courtesies, to bear with men's folly and weakness, to envy no man's prosperity, but to rejoice in the good of all as if it were our own happiness. But poor Pilgrims will find themselves in such need of the charitable help and comfort of others, that I think it is not necessary to press you any further to this thing which will be nothing more, then to do to all as you would that all should do to you.  
Let me therefore proceed to tell you how Jesus bore the contumelies, reproaches, and slanders of others with the greatest meekness, though he was a person of the greatest quality, and of the highest dignity and worth. No man ever did things with a better grace or deserved more to be accepted with admiration and praise; and yet there never was any person entertained with greater scorn, or suffered more obloquys and ignominious usage from the World. But did he receive them with that choler and wrath which they who call themselves High Spirits do suffer their souls to be transported with all? No such matter; but he was dumb as a Lamb before the shearers and did not so much as open his mouth; though considering his high birth and the manner of other men, he was tempted to roar like a Lion and speak with a voice of thunder against his insolent despisers. I will not recite all the vilifying language, nor give you a catalogue of the contemptuous actions which he was affronted with; but leave it to your own diligence to observe them, and together therewith the mildness of his spirit and the admirable temper and moderation of his mind in the sharpest provocations to anger and displeasure. When they called him Devil he confuted the calumny by not suffering the least spark of that hellish fire to kindle. When they said he was an impostor and came to deceive the world, he was only excited thereby more boldly to speak the Truth. And when they charged him with treason he asserted his innocency by no other means, than subjection of himself to the vilest death. When they scourged him on the back and buffeted his face; he did not return them so much as a lash or a blow with his tongue. When they committed all the outrages that could be devised upon him, they only served to prove how free he was from passion and rage. Which methinks should be sufficient to cool the boiling heats of the fiercest spirits; and to quench the intemperate fires that burn in the most enraged minds. There is no man that can boast of such an extraction as his, or that can endure such indignities: and therefore it is insufferable that men's passion and anger should take countenance from the quality of their persons or the quality of the reproaches that are offered to them. No, the noblest men in the World ought to extinguish these flames by such a glorious example, and to put up offences and scorns quietly without answering and returning the like again. And I beseech you to learn this lesson well if ever you mean to arrive at Jerusalem. You will have very great use of it, and will find it impossible to hold on in your journey unless you be fortified with this meekness of spirit and can be content to be despised and set at naught, to be esteemed a fool, an idiot, or any thing else that men please to call you while you are about God's business and doing his will among them. The very way to Jerusalem is loadned with many reproaches, and therefore they who are in it must not expect to have a privilege of sustaining none of them. A man cannot take a Pilgrimage through such a world as this, and meet with no affront and unworthy usage in his passage. Your very habit and fashion, I mean your manners and course of life are so different from theirs, that they will not love you, though in all things else you please them well enough. A mortified life is a reproach to those who are dissolute. And if they cannot find in their heart to discommend Jerusalem, it is a grievous rebuke to them that they do not travel with you thither. You disturb them so much, that you must either have their company, or their calumnies. They must either do well, or speak ill of your do. They are exasperated hereby to slander you, that they may justify themselves; and to follow you with backbiting language, to excuse their not following of your pious life.  
It is the part now of a gallant spirit to despise their revile as much as they despise you. You cannot express greater magnanimity then to neglect these little barkings, and not so much as lift up your staff against those that pursue you with them. Let them know that they are below your anger, and that your resolution is not to be moved by their petulant speeches. As you think that Temples and Kings Palaces are not dishonoured when the dogs that come by do lift up their legs against them; 
Julian. Orat.  so you must not think yourself the worse for the disrespects, the aspersions and contemptuous language that you meet withal in the world; but be as little concerned in them as you are in the rudeness of those impudent creatures. Let them not have so much power over you as to make your tongue stir, unless it be to bless them: impose a perfect silence on yourself except it be to speak to God and not to answer them. But of this ill treatment which you must expect, and your meek endurance of it, I shall have further occasion to admonish you some other time.  
Let me now lead you to take a short glance of his admirable Patience under unheard-of sufferings, though he was a person no less sensible of pain, than he was innocent and deserved to be freed from it. For which I shall refer you to the History of his bloody and cruel Death where you will behold an heart so resigned to God, that the greatest torments could not make it recoil back into Self, nor seek for ease in any other place then in union with his Will. All that I shall say in this argument is, that you must learn thereby to endure all things with a constant submission to the Divine pleasure and appointment, without those murmur and complaints which are apt to accompany the crossing of our Desire. For we have a great deal more reason to do so then He, in as much as though we may be innocent toward men, yet we are not so toward God; and if our offences were punished according to our desert, they would receive a sharper chastisement then that which we endure. He suffered for well doing, and we for ill; He bore other men's faults and we our own; he endured much and we little: and therefore it will be a great shame if when our sufferings are little, our repinings are great, and when we suffer what we deserve, it makes us so restless and impatient that we add to our ill deservings. I pray you therefore to fortify yourself with a great stock of this Virtue of Patience, for I must tell you ere long a number of things that will try its mettle, and show you in what great need you will stand of it in your way to Jerusalem.  
For the present I will divert your thoughts from these sad spectacles and carry you to more pleasant contemplations. Behold then how Jesus was much with God by Meditation, Prayer and devout affection, in the midst of all his business, and in a great crowd of followers and attendants. He lived as I said in the World but in that he sought for solitary places and abstracted thoughts. When he was with the people He never forgot God: upon all occasions He took notice of him, and in whatsoever he did acknowledged him. But besides he devised many times of retirement, and was wont upon a remove to send his Disciples away before, that he might stay alone with him. Nay so desirous he was of this heavenly Solitude, that sometimes he continued a whole night together in Prayer and holy thoughts. And so truly would I have you do in your Travels: Take the advantage of any Shades or Groves that you shall meet withal, for secret conference and discourse between God and your Soul. Repose yourself as long as you can in those cool and still places, and there invite heaven into your Society and prepare yourself for the present it will make you of the best of its blessings. Nay, I would have you form to yourself such occasions as oft as you are able, and contrive opportunities for privacy and enclosed thoughts. Build a great many little Arbours with your own hands, into which you may withdraw yourself and be alone. Get out of the throng, and make all affairs give way to the entertainment that God will give your soul in his blessed company. Bid them stand aside a while and not presume to disturb the business which you have above. Let every thing understand that you are entered into an holy place, whither they must not dare to approach. And when you are thus sequestered, let me tell you this for your comfort, that you will have the fairest prospect before your eyes that is to be found on this side Jerusalem. You will see the Glory of God that shines in all the world; you will hear the music which all his creatures make in his praise; you will be ravished with the taste of his goodness which you will feel him pouring out on every side; and in one word you will behold so much of the Beauty of Jerusalem itself, that you will travel with the better courage thither. But that in which I would have you spend the greatest part of those private seasons, is in thinking of your own estate and comparing your life with the life of Jesus. Let him be your companion when you are alone: look steadfastly on his face and observe what resemblance you bear to him. Pray him to draw and describe himself more exactly upon your soul, and to supply all the lines that are still wanting to render you an accomplished image of him. Show him how desirous you are to be conformed in all your thoughts, words, desires and actions to that excellent model of perfection which he hath given you in his own example. Let him know how much you are in love with him, and that you wish for this above all the world, to be like to him. It cannot be thought that he will deny your desires, or let your endeavours want his help for the making you more complete in him. You will come out of these secret places with a greater lustre and issue forth with a greater force and power to follow the steps of your Saviour. Your face will be endued with such a brightness and cast such a splendour round about, that it will be seen by all that you have been with Jesus. Who can express the pleasures that hid themselves in these retreats? or tell the contentments that are locked up in those unfrequented closerts? Do but enter into the first of them that presents itself, and there will need nothing more than the sensible delectation which you will find in it, to invite you to seek such silent retirements. These quiet places are the resemblances of the serene regions above, and little models of heaven. They are hung round about also with a great many Pictures of Jesus which will ravish your heart and draw it out of your body to snatch it up to himself. In one corner you will see him pictured as the Lover of men; and in another you will behold him in the greatest abasement and humility that ever was. On this side you will see him dealing his Charity to the Poor, and on that he will discover himself attending on the sick. Here his Meekness, there his Patience will be lively represented to your eyes. In one place you will find him pouring out his Instructions, and in another pouring out his Blood for the Good of men. And from every one of these you will receive such touches and feel your heart so wounded; that you will never be more enamoured of him then when you and he thus meet alone and he makes this private visit to your Soul. There he will open his very heart to you and let you see how much you are in his favour. There he will impart to you his consolations and fill you with his Spirit. Your mind will there be illuminated, your affections inflamed, your resolutions strengthened, and all your faculties invigorated with a greater cheerfulness in obedience to his Will. And therefore do not fail as oft as you can to get out of the dust and heat of this World into these close and cool walks which Jesus frequents. For though the dews of the Divine grace fall every where, yet they lie longest in the shade. These sugared drops do love most to stay in the solitary places. And when you can find no where else this milk of heaven wherewith all things are nourished and refreshed; you will be sure to meet with plenty of it in these hidden recesses.  
But then I must remember you, That in the greatest, most open and full manifestations of the Glory of God upon Jesus, he was very private too, and cared not for having it published and talked of abroad in the world. When he was transfigured in the Holy mount, you read that he went aside privately with a few of his Disciples; which may well commend unto you the love of retirement: And that brightness also wherewith he was clothed, he commanded to be concealed as a great secret till a a fit season to divulge it; which may well teach us to keep to ourselves what passes between God and our souls, till others may be concerned in it as much as ourselves. You may refer this perhaps to the Humility of his Spirit, but yet I thought good to advise you of it alone, because it deserves a particular consideration. There is a vanity you may be guilty of if you heed not this, of glorying when you come abroad again, of the secret communication that you have had with Jesus in the time of your Solitude. For I observe it is the Genius of some who profess acquaintance with Him, when they feel any delicious joys exceeding the common sort (which perhaps are indulged only in favour of their weakness and intended merely to cherish their present childish condition) to blaze them every where and report them to others without any great occasion for it. They think it a piece of Religion to communicate their experiences to the next passenger they meet withal: They love that others should know how nobly they are treated: and so they lay a double snare, one for themselves by the high conceit which they may raise in others of their excellencies; and a second for their neighbours, by the discouragement they may feel for want of such elevations. If your spirit therefore be at any time transported; if God shine into your heart very brightly and darken all this world in your eyes by causing his glory to cover you; I beseech you cast a cloud about it, that no body else may see it, unless the good of others make it necessary that it should be revealed. Draw a vail over your face when it is so radiant, least by shining too brightly upon others it hurt their eyes; and the reflection of it prove dangerous to yourself. As when you are in the World you must not forget to be private with God; so when you have been the most with God it is safest to keep it private from the World.  
It may be seasonable here to add, that while He maintained this delightful Converse with God for his own benefit, his life was most profitable to others. Prayer and Meditation did not hinder his labours; but they were spurs to industry, and made him more careful to do his work for which he was sent into the world. He was not only attended to his own spirit that it might be kept with God, but he watched for advantages of bringing the hearts of others to him. Much less did he spend his time in pleasing amusements to think how much he was in the favour of Heaven; but he issued out of these delicious thoughts, and took as great a pleasure in introducing others into the same favour. There was no hour passed, but he did some good or other to the world. The finishing of one undertaking, was but the passage to another. When he ceased to do any thing, it was only that he might begin again. The change of his labours served him instead of repose. And to go to a new work was all the Rest that he desired. His greatest pleasure was to do a pleasure to other men. He chose rather to want his meat, than suffer them to want his help. The greater pain there was in any business, the more he delighted in it: and pleasure could not win his love, but by means of the labour which did bring it forth. In which diligence it concerns you very highly to imitate him if you mean to assure your arrival at Jerusalem. The world is then to be feared, when it finds us empty and void of employment. We are safe enough though we live in it, if we do not live in idleness. While we have something else to do, we shall easily resist it, and turn aside the strongest of its temptations. You must not be at leisure to go about any thing that is bad. You must deprive vice of all means to approach you, and let it have no time wherein to make its assaults. Whensoever it attempts to enter, let it find that you are full and that there is no room at all for its entertainment. Let the solicitations of the flesh ever come out of season, and know that you have not a moment but what is prae-ingaged to some other employment. When any temptation desires to speak with you, let the answer be ready that there is other company within, and that you cannot attend it: and when it would violently draw you away, let it find you bound and held very fast by something else. Finally, be unwearied in well doing and allot every portion of your time to some honest use or other: So will the world despair of winning you to her desires, when it always takes you other ways busied and perceives that all your hours are destined to other purposes. And truly if this were the constant end of our living, to do good or to receive it, it would prove the Bane of so many unprofitable thoughts when we are alone, and so many unprofitable words when we are with others; that we and the World would be very much amended by it.  
But now it is time to draw to an end of this discourse and therefore I will only give you a short remembrance of this one thing more, That Jesus was very strong to resist the temptations of the Devil in the midst of his greatest weakness, and had a great Faith and confidence in God in the midst of the greatest dangers and most sudden surprises. His long hunger was not so sharp, as to provoke him to take any undue means for its satisfaction. When his Disciples awaked him in the middle of a tempest, his heart was not terrified nor his thoughts disordered; but he gravely reproves the smallness of their Faith. He ever held Heaven fast by the hand, and whatsoever it was that assayed to shake his constancy; he stood firm, and would not be moved so much as to doubt of the presence and power of God with him. Be you sure to have this Faith and powerful confidence of his always in your eye: for you must not expect (as I shall shortly tell you) to pass to Jerusalem without many conflicts. When you are most infirm, your enemies will most strongly assault you, and strive to hale and draw you another way. Your afflictions will give them resolution, and in the time of your languishments they will take to themselves the greatest courage. Whatsoever other weakness therefore you labour under, be sure you be not weak in Faith: and when all other supports in the world fail you, remember to cleave and adhere closely unto God. Keep awake a sense of his presence with you, by often thoughts of him; thrust yourself into his arms continually by a firm trust in him; be strong in the Lord, and in the power of his might, by taking hold of his Almighty Goodness. And then let your Adversaries be what they will, whether from within, or from without; let their Armies be never so numerous which are set in battle against you: Doubt not but through an holy confidence in God, and the fervent prayer of Faith for the aids of his Spirit; they shall all disband and fly away like so many heaps of dust before the wind, and yield you the victory which they promised to themselves. In this assurance I think it is best to seal up the secrets of that sentence which I have been so long disclosing to you. For, though there are many other things remarkable in Jesus (as you will see if you frequently fasten your eyes upon him) yet if I should enumerate them all, I must turn over the leaves of the whole Gospel and unfold them to you. The particulars also that I have mentioned, are sufficient to give you such a taste of him, that if you like them, you cannot but delight to seek out all the rest yourself; and therefore I shall not deprive you of that pleasure, presuming that you are not insensible from what hath been said, that there is no greater than to know and follow Jesus.   

CAP. XVI.  
Of Faith in Jesus. How imperfectly, or obscurely it is commonly expressed, to the great danger of Christian Pilgrims. What the true notion of it is, which cannot deceive us.  
AND truly herein he was not mistaken, for though he spoke these last words with an accent very sharp, yet the Pilgrim hath often since said, that he thought his heart made a shriller Echo, and bade him, Fellow Jesus. It is not in the compass of my power to relate the contentment which the poor man took in this discourse. He felt rather an excessive joy, than a bare satisfaction, which gave many indications of itself, though it could not be expressed. But the first words, as I remember, which he uttered, when the other made a little stop, was this vehement exclamation. Oh Sir, how happily have you undeceived me! I have thought sometimes, that the way to Jerusalem lay most of all through Churches; and that a Pilgrim had little else to do but only to hear Sermons very oft, and read good Books, and make many prayers; and that in these the very life of Religion did consist. Nay, I have been persuaded to think that he had no other task but only to Believe on Jesus, and that he would take care to carry him to Jerusalem. But thanks be to God and you, I have now heard another lesson, which I will study to learn my whole life. I find myself already so much in love with Jesus, that I believe I shall carefully mark every step of his holy feet, of which he hath left us any print; and endeavour to tread in them, following of him with as much exactness as I am able. He would have added a great many more protestations of his hearty intentions, but that the Guide thought it fit to lay hold on this occasion to instruct him a little further about those things wherein he had been so grossly abused. Having let him know therefore that he was no less pleased than himself to see so sudden a fruit of his labours, he proceeded to tell him that he had taught him nothing new in all his discourse, nor spoke one syllable but what was comprehended in those few words, if rightly understood, Believe in the Lord Jesus. For, though Faith in Christ hath sometimes a restrained sense importing our trust in him for help and secure; yet when it stands alone by itself, it hath a more comprehensive meaning. It is so far from denoting such a part of Religion as those now mentioned, that it frequently comprises the whole; and it must always be conceived such a part, as necessarily implies and infers all the rest. I speak now of the Pilgrim's Faith, which you must carry along with you. Of which, whosoever gives you any other description than such as this doth but deceive you, viz. that it is such an hearty persuasion of the truth and goodness of God's Promises, and of every thing else that he hath spoken, as makes us obedient in all things to his commands. There is nothing more visible than this in the very first man of the Order into which you are entering: Abraham I mean, the most ancient Pilgrim that I read of, and the Father of faithful Travellers. Who being commanded by God to leave his own Country, his Kindred, and his Father's house, most readily obeyed; in a persuasion that God would be as good as his word, and bless him with possessions somewhere else. He was the man whom God called to his foot, and who marched whithersoever he would lead him: in resemblance to whom all his children are described in the Christian Church, as those who follow the Lamb whithersoever he goes. Conformity to Jesus is absolutely necessary to make us such believers as shall inherit the promises. Though the general notion of Faith do not include obedience (being only our persuasion of, and assent unto the truth of what is delivered to us upon the testimony of God) yet saving Faith, that Faith which will carry us to Jerusalem, can never be understood without it. All the definitions you meet with, whatsoever they be, which separate obedience from this Faith, I do confidently assure you are but a mere cheat, and a dangerous illusion. Obedience is so much of the nature of the Pilgrim's Faith, that I say it again, it ought to enter its Definition. Which is as much as to say, that one cannot speak in any terms or phrases which are not deceitful and liable to be abused, of that Faith which will bring us safe to Heaven; but he must make mention of the obedience it produces to the commands of our Saviour. This is the very thing that distinguishes saving Faith from that which is not saving, and therefore if this be left out when we speak of it, we may make men Hypocrites sooner than sincere Christians.  
But if I may be so bold, as to interpose a Question (said the Learner) I pray satisfy me why you call this the Pilgrim's Faith: is there any else besides? There is, replied his Teacher; we meet in this world with a Faith more gallant, fine and delicate, than the plain and homely belief which I have described. A modish and courtly Faith it is, which sits still, and yet sets you in the lap of Christ. It passes under so many names, that I cannot stand to number them all now. It is called a casting of ourselves upon Christ, a relying on his merits, a shrouding ourselves under the robes of his Righteousness: and though sometimes it is called a going to him for Salvation; yet there is this mystery in the business, that you may go, and yet not go; you may go, and yet stand still; you may cast yourself upon him, and not come to him; or if you take one little step, and be at the pains to come to him, the work is done, and you need not follow him. It is indeed a resting, not a travelling Grace. And such a grand secret there is in it, that a man may rest before he stir a foot; he may lean on Christ, and approach no nearer him than he was before; he may lay hold on him, and yet remain at the greatest distance from him. It will carry you to the end of your way, before you are at the beginning: The very first step of it, is to stay yourself: the beginning of its motion, is to be at rest. Do you not see a strange enchantment in it already? Is it not a magical operation, or much beholden to strength of fancy, and the witchcraft of imagination? For my part I should take myself to be in a far worse condition than Cresinius was, if I should be accused of vending such drugs and dealing in such dangerous charms. I would grant my enemies had cause to exclaim, and should never expect to clear myself, if I stood charged with such incantations. There is no juggling so artificial, whereby I could hope to hid the deceit if I abused the world with these impostures. My own conscience, I mean, would indict me, and pronounce my condemnation, though I think, if the greatest part of the men among us, were to be Judges, I need not fear their sentence against me. For the charm, I observe, is so powerful, and the fascination of such pleasure, that the numbers are not to be told which are bewitched with it. The multitude goes in crowds in this wide road: the voice of the people cries up this as the only way to Heaven. All the lewd men in the world are well contented to take this journey, which may be finished at one step; and to run this race which may be accomplished in a breath, and for which the last breath in their body may as well serve as any else. There is no man but he takes hold of Christ, and having heard that this is Faith; do what you can, it is not possible to beat off his hands. There is not a soul so wicked, but it applies to itself his righteousness, and fancies all its sins to be covered therewith. It is the sweetest thing in the world to cast themselves into his arms, and expect not to go, but to be carried to Heaven. They rest on him and him only for Salvation. They rest on him so solely for it, that they are loath to stir a foot to contribute any thing toward it. They would have him to take all the honour of the business to himself: and are desirous to do not so much as one good action; but leave him to do all, and impute his do to them. Thus they imagine themselves to be the only advancers of Free Grace: and they think there are none but they that set the Crown upon Christ's head. Such an admirable subtlety there is in this Faith, that they can serve their own interest by it, and yet seem all the while to be the best servants of Christ. They can promote their own desires, and yet sound aloud his Glory. They can invade his rights as much as they list, and yet be thought the only persons that make it their care he should not be wronged.  
Nay, it makes men think that God is beholden to them, for being so cautious as to give him nothing. He should not be so much obliged, if they should endeavour to become better. The only qualification that they know of for his favours, is not to be qualified at all to receive them. He owes, it seems, much of Glory to their want of virtue. If they should give him more than they do, he would have less. To bring any thing to him, would be to rob him, and take away from him. His Grace would lose its name, if they should study to attain it. They should detract very much from the freeness of it, if they should provide for any thing but only to receive it. It would not be so rich if they were not poor and beggarly in all good works. His Honour relies very much upon their weakness, and his Glory is supported by their imbecility. To be much in debt to him, is the best payment that can be made him. To win his love, it is best to be men of no desert. And to be out of all danger of trusting to their own righteousness; they judge it the surest course to have none at all.  
These are the men who make the Grace of God so free, that he leaves nothing for himself. The riches of it is so abundant towards them, that he gives away all his own right. He makes such liberal grants to these favourites, that there remains nothing as a Duty to him. He takes such a great care of their pleasure, that he forgets his own. And loves to let them have their will so much, that he suffers his own to be crossed for their sake. It is not He, it should seem, but they that rule the world. His will bends to their desires: and since they have no mind to be be good; they have invented a way that he may love them, though they continue bad. He sees them not (as they fancy) in themselves, but in a disguise. They do not appear in their own colours, but in another's dress. He doth not behold them naked, but covered in the Robes of Christ. And though they have a world of sins, yet they think to have them hid, while he looks upon their garments, and not upon them. And indeed so free is this Grace, that he can have no title to their obedience, but only their own gratitude. He holds his Kingdom and Authority, only by their good will. If they do what he desire, it is their kindness, and more than they own him. Since Christ's obedience is personally imputed to them, he cannot in justice require any at their hands. Since he hath performed the Law in their stead, and made his righteousness immediately theirs; he cannot expect that they should perform it too, nor exact any righteousness of their own. For this would be to demand the same debt twice; and to call for the payment of a bond, which hath been already satisfied. In fine; He can claim nothing as his due, but must be content with that which they will give him: and it is thought the safest way to give him little or nothing, lest they should at all abate of the freeness of what he he is to give.  
I hope your soul will never enter into this secret, nor follow the rabble in these groundless fancies. But you will rather put to your hands to pull down that Idol of Faith, which hath been set up with so much devotion and Religiously worshipped so long among us: That dead Image of Faith which so many have adored, trusted in and perished. I mean the notion which hath been so zealously advanced, how that believing is nothing else, but a relying on Jesus for salvation; a fiducial recumbency upon him; a casting our selves wholly upon him and his merits; or an applying of his righteousness to our souls. And if you throw all those other phrases after them, which tell us that it is a taking of Christ, a laying hold of him, a closing with him, or an embracing of him; you shall do the better, and more certainly secure yourself from being deceived.  
For as to these latter expressions is it not visible at the first naming of them, that they are obscure, doubtful and metaphorical words? Is it not as hard to know what it is to take him, and to close with him, as it is to understand what it is to Believe? Whatsoever than you have been told of me, I doubt not but you will sinned that I direct you in a plain and honest path; it being indeed against my nature to like any thing which is intricate, perplexed, and so mysterious, that a simple man cannot comprehend it. Who is there that doth not understand me when I say, that to Believe is so hearty to give your assent to the truth of the Gospel, that you live according to it? What word is there of all these, that hath a doubtful meaning? or if ten thousand men should hear them, what possibility is there that among them all there should be found so much as one different sense about them? whereas those words, To take Christ, to embrace him and close with him, are of such dubious signification, that both the act and the object (as we usually speak) have an ambiguous meaning. There are several ways of taking, and embracing: and by Christ is sometimes meant his person, and sometimes his Gospel or Doctrine. Now if to Take, be with our mind and heart to allow, approve, assent to any thing; then to take Christ in the first sense of that word, is to acknowledge him for the Son of God; the promised seed which he said should be sent into the World: And to take him in the other, is nothing else, but that which I told you; To assent in such manner to all that is said of him, or he hath said in the Gospel, that we become obedient to his word. To what purpose then is it to use these phrases, when there are better at hand whereby we must explain them? Since this must be said which I have told you, why cannot it be said at first? When things can be clearly expressed, why should we choose to speak them darkly? especially since there can be no fruit of it but only this, that men are longer before they understand us; and perhaps at the first hearing of what we speak obscurely, their minds are impressed with some such dangerous sense which they form to themselves; that all our explications cannot blot it out. It is of great moment, what men's souls are first imprinted withal. They will retain those words; and perchance think good to make the exposition according to their own fancy. Why should not our words therefore carry their interpretation in them? or what should make us love to talk in such terms, that we cannot be certainly apprehended unless we talk a great deal more?  
Of that said the Traveller (who was desirous to know all he could in this matter) I would willingly be informed by yourself. You would oblige me very much if you could think fit to resolve your own question. For truly I love so dearly to understand what I hear (as thanks be to God I do what you say) that I wonder any men should go to seek for hard words, when those that are plain do thrust themselves into their mouths.  
I meant not replied the Guide to draw my discourse to this inquiry, but only to express to you by those questions the unreasonableness of such men's proceed. Yet since it is your desire and I am not willing to deny you any thing; you shall know what I conceive in this matter, provided you will be content with that answer which lies uppermost in my thoughts, and offers itself first to my mind.  
They are not in love I am apt to think with such a definition of Faith as I have given you, because it is Pilgrim-like, plain as a Pikestaff. It is in this case as in many other: there are a company of men in the world who despise any thing which they understand easily, and imagine there is no great matter in it, if it be presently intelligible. They admire that most which they do not comprehend; and conceive there is some mystery and depth in it, if it be difficult to be explained. Just as you see abundance of men affect hard words, nay bombastick language and a fustian kind of dialect; though there be no greater eloquence then to speak naturally and with facility of expression: So there are as many, who love things obscurely delivered and which have a cloud about them; though it be the perfection of our understandings, to render our conceptions clear and easy to enter into the most vulgar capacities. As they think him an Orator who mounts and soars aloft (as they call it) in highflown words; so they take him for a deep Divine whose notions of things are so expressed as they cannot presently sound and dive to the bottom of them. Hence it is that they contemn such a familiar, plain and facile explication of the word Faith, as doth not intricate a man's conceptions, but can at first sight be apprehended; and they had rather have you speak of it in Metaphorical or borrowed words, which belonging more properly to other things than they do to this; make an uncertain sound, and leave the mind in confusion. If you say that it is a Taking of Christ, of whole Christ; an applying of what he hath done, to the soul; a cleaving to him, or in such like words express yourself: all these seem to have more of mystery and Gospel-secrets in them, than the poor Pilgrimphrase hath; and so they win more credit with those men who are not wont to like any thing which every child may understand as well as themselves. Besides it must be confessed, that such words as those do not touch the bottom of the heart, nor so instantly penetrate to the very quick as the other plainly do, and so they must needs be better accepted in the world. They do not so necessarily and clearly imply men's obedience to our Lord, which in this that I mention is in direct terms expressed; and so they will be sure to meet with kinder welcome and entertainment.  
He was proceeding to add some other words much to the same effect when the Pilgrim begging his pardon for diverting him from his main discourse, told him that he was too much satisfied in the truth of what he said and desired to hear no more of this folly of mankind. But what think you (added he) of those other descriptions of Faith which tell us that it is A relying upon our Saviour? cannot every body understand this language as well as that which you speak? I grant it, answered the Director; but if it be not liable to the first defect which I objected, it is notoriously guilty of the last and worst: for there is in it nothing of our obedience. As the former were faulty in regard of their obscurity, so this is manifestly chargeable with lameness and imperfection. You shall be convinced of the truth of this imputation in a very few words. For first, the most that can be made of this reliance on Christ for Salvation is, that it is one act of Faith, but there wants a great number more to make up an entire body of Christian belief. And, secondly, as it is but one single act, so it is far from being the first, but must suppose many others that go before it. As for example, it is necessary we be persuaded that Jesus is the Christ of God, that what he hath spoken in the Gospel is his will, and that if we hope for salvation by him we must be conformed in all things to this will of God. And then thirdly these persuasions or acts of Faith that thus precede, must produce a sincere and cordial obedience to his laws, before we can reasonably arrive at this confidence of relying upon him for salvation. Now why this particular act of Faith should be alone mentioned in the definition of it, which is but one and not the first, nor chief, and all the rest left out; is past my capacity to understand. When our Faith hath rendered us obedient to him, than we may take the boldness to persuade ourselves that he will save us: and this is nothing but an obedience to his command also, who hath bid us trust him and take his word that he will be the Saviour of all faithful persons. But it is a presumption to do it sooner, and the ready course to destroy the Religion of Christ to advance such an hasty and forward belief in men's souls.  
And therefore let me beseech you as you love your soul to be a follower of faithful Abraham, who (as I told you) was the founder of your Order. Remember that such as he was, such must you be if you hope to come to Jerusalem and inherit the land of promise: and that in his example you meet with nothing earlier than this, that by Faith, when he was called to go out into a place which he should after receive for an inheritance, he obeyed, and went out, not knowing whither he went. This was the first thing wherein his Faith employed itself, and the last was like unto it: For when he was tried by God he offered up his only begotten Son who was to be the heir of that inheritance which was promised to him. From this active Faith no doubt it is that He and all good Christians are called Faithful and not from a lazy recumbency on Christ for Salvation; or the strongest application of his merits to their souls. If these were sufficient to make a person of that denomination; then we need no better character of a faithful servant or steward (which the holy writings sometimes mention) than such an one as follows. He is a person that relies upon his Master's merits; and depends only on the worth and sufficiency of his Lord. He trusts in his goodness for a pardon of all his faults, and hopes he will esteem him a good servant because he is a good Master. He leans upon his arm, and clasps fast about him, and is resolved not to let him go till he have paid him his wages. He embraces him kindly, and hopes he will account him righteous because he is so himself. And in one word, He applies to himself all the good works that his Master hath performed; and prays to be excused if he do not his business, because that his Lord can do it better. Is not this a very ridiculous description? or would you be content to be thus served? Do not imagine then that God will be served after this fashion; or that such an ill-favoured notion as this, is the best that can be found to compose the definition of a true believer. But first do all that you can, and then acknowledge yourself an unprofitable servant. Let it be your care to follow your work, and then rely only upon the goodness of our Lord to give you a reward. Be sure that you be inwardly righteous, and then no doubt the righteousness of Christ will procure you acceptance, and bring you to that happiness which you can no ways deserve.   

CAP. XVII.  
What place Prayer, Hearing of Sermons, Reading of Good Books, Receiving the Sacrament; have in the Religion of Jesus. And of what use they are to Pilgrims.  
AND that you may be able to make a better judgement of what I have said, and I may also return to the occasion and beginning of this discourse, let me entreat you to consider well the nature and ends of Prayer to God. It is manifest from the life of Jesus that it is but a part of that duty and obedience that we own to God, and yet it is a powerful means to bring us to all the rest. It is the converting and turning about of our minds and hearts to the original of our Being. It is our reflecting and looking back upon him from whom we came. It is our circling and winding about (as Heathens themselves have well conceived) to that point from which we took our beginning, that we may be fast united to God and never be divided from him. It is an acknowledgement of God in all his perfections: An expression of our dependence and subjection: an oblation of ourselves, both soul and body to him. Think therefore to what purposes it most naturally serves: for it being a thing of daily use, you may judge thereby what the great business of Christianity or Believing is. Doth it minister chief to our confidence of being saved; and are we to swell ourselves by this breath with great hopes that we are beloved of God? Or rather is it not most properly subservient to the putting of us into a state of Salvation, and the rendering us fit objects of the Divine Love. It is not intended to inspire us with conceits that we are the children of God, but to breathe into us the spirit of sons, and to impress upon us the image of him upon whom we fix our eyes. It is the elevation of our minds to him, and the fastening of our eyes upon him, in order to our being made more like him. It is the oblation of ourselves to his uses and service, and not a giving of ourselves to be saved by him. Here we place our minds in the brightness of his heavenly light. Here we expose our cold affections to the warmth and heat of the Sun of righteousness. We behold our Lord most clearly in these devout Meditations; and by the frequency of them, we shall learn his carriage and gestures, and conform all our actions to the excellent model of his. I beseech you descend into your own heart and if you know what it is to pray, tell me what Faith it is which you feel then most stirring in your heart. Is it only a reliance on Christ, and an application of his merits to your soul? Or is it not rather a vigorous application of your mind to him, that you may feel him more, begetting and promoting his life in your heart? Is it not a strong desire to be touched by him, to be impressed with his likeness, to be joined to him and made one spirit with him; and in one word, that you may be made more ready and disposed to every good work? I will evidently convince you that this is the great end of Prayer, and consequently, the main work of believing on the Son of God.  
We are, you know, of kin to two Worlds, and placed in the middle between Heaven and Earth. With our Heads we touch the one, and with our Feet we stand upon the other. Man is the common term wherein these two meet and are combined. By his superior faculties he holds communion with the inward and spiritual world, and by his lower he feels the outward and corporeal. But there is a great difference between the correspondence which we hold with one, and that which we maintain with the other. For to this sensible World we lie open & bare, but between us and the invisible World there is a gross cloud and veil of flesh which interposes. Or to speak more plainly; Our senses have nothing that comes between them and their objects to hinder their free approach to them; whereas our understanding hath those very objects wherewith they are prepossessed, to interrupt the light of celestial things which shine upon it. The outward man is continually exposed to the strokes of the things of this outward World, and without any difficulty or pains is moved by them: but our Mind is not so patent to the things of the other, nor is our Will so easily inclined by them. For they being already impressed and engaged by sensible objects, these lie between us and the higher Regions; and they having enjoyed a long familiarity with them before we received notice of any thing else beside; it will require some labour to bring us and those Nobler objects together. In short, the senses have nothing else to do, but only to receive those things which present themselves before them, nor are they solicited by any other enjoyments: But our minds and wills are haled two ways, and solicited by this World as well as by the other; so that to perceive that which is Divine we must remove this out of the way, and pull our souls from those thoughts and desires wherein these lower things have entangled our hearts. Unless our Understanding draw herself aside to the contemplation of Divine Truths, and thereby carry the Will to the taste of an higher Good, it cannot be avoided but that we become mere men of this World, and by being wholly carnal, lose our acquaintance with the other celestial Country. We shall be altogether fraught with fleshly opinions and affections, and have nothing remaining in us of a spiritual sense. This therefore breeds an absolute necessity of constant holy Meditation, and devout Prayers. By the one of which our mind being abstracted from, and elevated beyond the things of corporeal sense, is brought to a converse and familiarity with heavenly notions: and by the other our Will is possessed with spiritual inclinations; nay, ravished into the embraces of a Divine Good. Meditation furnishes our Understanding with right opinions, and noble thoughts: and Prayer carries our Will to the love of them, and joins our affections fast unto them. By the one we are tied in our mind, and by the other in our choice to the better World. This, it is manifest, is the natural and true use of these devout exercises: to dispose our souls by drawing them away from these inferior enjoyments, to receive communications from above, and to be made partakers of a Divine Nature. There is no question to be made of it, that God loves to impart himself to rational Being's. But in what manner, I beseech you, can he do it, unless it be by our Understandings and Wills rightly disposed? And what other end therefore can these two have which put us in a fit disposition and capacity for him; than to bring us to that true knowledge and love of him, whereby we partake of his nature. In these you must employ yourself, and they are to be thought more necessary than any other business; but yet you see they are but the means and way to a Divine State, and have something beyond themselves which they are to effect: and that is the bringing of us to the life of the blessed Jesus.  
If Prayer be not thus designed, and do not produce such fruit, it is so far from procuring us acceptance with God (though it be top full of that Faith which relies upon Christ) that it proves a thing very fulsome and displeasing unto him. It is a mere noise and clamour in his ears, than which there cannot be any thing more troublesome and offensive. He loves not to be disturbed with such sounds as have nothing in them, but flattery and nauseous commendations of him. He cares not for being extolled by such unhallowed mouths. It is a great injury to him to be praised and magnified by evil doers. He hates the pretences of their Friendship, and loathes the compliments which they load him withal. He cannot endure to have his Courts filled with these impudent people; lest he should be thought such an one as themselves. As the Sacrifices of old were esteemed no better than Murders, and all the offerings but so many butcheries which were committed, when they left themselves behind, and brought not their hearts and affections to be offered up to God: So are all men's confident Prayers and Devotions now, no better than profanations of his Name, and a kind of blasphemy, or evil-speaking of him; while they are enemies to the Life of God, and despisers of good works. They do most basely reproach him in the world, by taking upon them the title of his greatest Favourites. They expose him to scorn, by appropriating to themselves the name of his servants. There cannot be a greater wrong to him, than to make men believe, that he is a lover of such filthy Hypocrites. You have observed, no doubt, that the Sacrifices in ancient times were called the Meat of God, and the Food or provision that was made for his House. And yet in the company of evil works they are said to be an Abomination to him; and he professes that he had as lief they had brought him a Dog, as offer a Lamb, and that a Swine would have been as acceptable as the fattest of their Bullocks. He protests that his soul abhorred their New Moons, and solemn Assemblies: that their Incense was an unsavoury stink, and that the Fat and Blood of their Beasts, were no better than their Dung and Ordure. He bids them bring him no more vain oblations. He saith, that he was full of them, and nauseated the Table that they spread for him. And in plain terms he lets them know that it was to no purpose to multiply their Prayers, for he could not hear them. And so truly may you assure yourself, that though pious Prayers are now most prevalent and forcible with him, yet the grunting of Swine, or the howling of Wolves are altogether as welcome; as the clamorous petitions of those who sue for his Love, without any thorough amendment of their lives. He detests those bawling worshippers, who intent nothing else but to drown the cry of their sins, and to make him deaf to the accusations which their iniquity brings against them. Their breath is an unwholesome and infectious vapour, which poisons the World, and is the Pest of Religion. Their meetings and assemblies are so many conspiracies against the Authority and Life of God. Their words do but wound his ears, and their loud cries are but so many assaults and batteries against Heaven. He hates to see those hands lifted up unto him, which will instantly be lifted up against him. He cannot endure they should lay hold on him, and esteems such rude attempts to be the committing of a rape upon his mercy, and an endeavour to force his favour. He hath opened no way for such bold access unto him. He river intended to encourage such impudence. Their zeal is a strange fire which kindles another in Heaven against them. And notwithstanding all their fawn upon him, the Dogs which follow them to the place of their assemblies, shall as soon be accepted as themselves. And therefore be sure to make your Prayers touch your own heart before you expect they should reach Heaven. Let them work upon yourself, before you assume a confidence that they will have the desired effect upon God.  
And now I have little to say concerning the hearing of Sermons, reading of the Bible, and other good Books (which you say there are many think do compose the whole of a Religious life) for it is plain enough they can have no other end than to furnish your mind with pious Meditations, and dispose your will to Prayer, and all other holy duties. You cannot well think that these have any other place in the godly life, than that of Instruments and Helps whereby to arrive at it. And it is very easy to know from what hath been discoursed, what Sermons are most to be regarded. Not those which give your fancy a pleasure, and tickle your imagination: but those which powerfully enlighten your understanding, and move your will to the choice of that which is right and Good. There are too many of those frivolous Hearers, who are more pleased with little jingles, and the tinkling of words, than with the most persuasive arguments which the most piercing reason in the world can urge upon their hearts. But their punishment is heavy enough for this levity; they being condemned for ever to be fools or children, whose minds are enchanted with the Rhyming of words, or with their countermarching and the ringing of changes upon them, or other such like adulterate Ware, which would fain pass for wit and elegance. Next to the love of Gibberish, and of canting phrases, there is no greater dotage than this, of courting the diseases, corruptions, and the rotten carcase of eloquence, and slighting the life and spirit of it. One would wonder that reasonable souls should delight in toying and playing with letters and syllables. There is nothing more strange unless it be this; that there are a company of men to be found who are at a great deal of pains to trim themselves with these tinsel ornaments, and with much curiosity study to speak absurdly. It is not their negligence, but they take a care to trifle. They do not slip unawares into childish expressions, but they fall into them by design.  
But if you would be wise and good, you must open your ears to plain words, and strong sense, to proper and significant language, which brings along with it powerful and convincing arguments; to that which strikes and penetrates into the soul, and doth not merely glide smoothly over the surface of it. You must not come to be tickled, but to be taught; not to be pleased, but to be made better; not that a man may speak to your gust, but to your necessities. You must not think you have spent your time well when the Truth peeps into your soul, but stops at the door; or when your will is slightly moved, and then stands still: but when the light pierces into your mind, and makes a broad day there; when a secret fire creeps into your veins; and continues to burn in your heart; when all your affections are carried away, and remain in the possession of Truth.  
And for this purpose you must read the Holy Scriptures themselves, not to store your mind with high notions, or to replenish it with a large furniture, and matter of discourse, or to find support for some of your opinions; but to get a stock of efficacious reasons for well doing, and to overpower your heart by the force of them to consent unto it.  
And let this be your Rule also in reading other pious Books: For there are too many who regard only the lightest things in any discourse: the fringes, the lace, and other ornaments, more than they do the body itself. They note the pretty stories, the apt similitudes, and here and there a small sentence which smites their fancy; but mind not the clear reasons, the nervous arguments, and much less the whole scope and design of the treatise which they read. Much like some Writers we have seen, who reporting the History of their times; take notice of little more than of Justings and Tornaments, of Bear-baitings, and launching of Ships, and such like frivolous matters which are of no moment. Or like those Beggars, who travelling many Countries, behold a great number of fair buildings: but know nothing either of the persons or the furniture, or the order and regular form which is to be observed in them.  
I think it is not amiss to add that this likewise is the end you ought to propound to yourself in all your conferences with wise and pious souls, who may give you great assistance in your journey to Jerusalem. Not to breed in yourself an opinion that you are Religious, because you frequent their company; but to receive greater illumination of mind from their Torches, and to have your heart warmed with a greater love to God at their holy Fires.  
And here it will be seasonable at the conclusion of this discourse, to admonish you of a thing which may do you very much service, and save you abundance of trouble which else may arise in your mind. There are many things, as you see, that will further you in well doing, viz. Prayer, Reading and Hearing the Word of God; Meditation, Conference with good men, and such like; some of these, you must understand, will serve your purpose at one time, and some at another, according as you are disposed, and they shall be found efficacious for the end to which they are designed. There is a great variety also in these, of which you may make an advantage, if you choose that use and practice of them which you shall find to have most power in it at the present, to withdraw your mind from worldly vanities, to mortify your passions, and to establish your will in the Love of Jesus. As for instance; sometimes it will be fit for you to Meditate, and sometimes to Pray, and sometimes to Converse with your friends: and it is not so much to be asked, which of these you shall choose, as which of them will best at that instant advance you in your way, and move your will with the greatest force to virtuous actions. And then in Meditation, there is the Life of Christ and his Death; his Resurrection and his Glory; his Coming again to Judgement, and the Life of the World to come; the long Experience you have had of his Goodness; the Instances which he daily gives of his Providence; the Example of all his Saints; and an hundred things besides to exercise your thoughts; and have a great virtue in them to make you do your duty toward God and Man. In like manner there are sundry Books, in the reading of which you may employ your time (though I would rather have you choose the best, than a multitude) and several ways of praying and addressing your Petitions to God, which may every one of them have their places and seasons according as you shall be disposed to serve your soul of them. And therefore if you perceive that some of them through custom and long use do in time lose their Savour and their Power to increase the Love of God in you, and it seems to you there may be more profit in another way; take that new course, and leave the former without any scruple. For that Meditation which will not now affect you, at another time will prove more efficacious than any else; and that way of opening your soul to God, which now you forsake, will come about again to be in use. Only of this you must take a great care, to stir up yourself to a continual attendance upon the Public Service of God. For that is a necessary acknowledgement of his Supreme Authority and Dominion in the World: and though you feel yourself indisposed, dull and heavy at certain times in these addresses, yet there is this good always done; that by your very presence there you have paid part of your homage to him, have owned him to be your Lord and Governor, and confessed that he is worthy of all Honour and Service. But, as for the rest, though the inclination and resolution of your heart to love Jesus, and to be like to him, must be unchangeable; nevertheless the ways and means which are to be employed to the nourishing and strengthening of your resolution, may and aught to be changed, according as you feel yourself disposed, and find them to be effectual.  
But especially let me remember you of this Advice which was long since given me by a good man, NOT TO BIND YOURSELF UNALTERABLY TO VOLUNTARY CUSTOMS. Since these are imposed upon us by ourselves, we may grant ourselves a release when we we see it most convenient, and not tie ourselves unto them, as if there were an indispensible obligation lying upon our conscience. The rigorous observance of these, doth always hinder the freedom of the heart in the Love of Jesus, when a better course to promote us in it doth present itself to our choice. And therefore do not think there is any necessity that you should always pray in the same way, or pray so long, or read so many Chapters in a day, or study such a Book whereby you have reaped much benefit, or think every day of the very same things; but you are at liberty to do in these matters as shall most conduce to the ends for which they serve, and that is, The quickening of you to live agreeably to the Rules of Sobriety, Righteousness and Godliness. Be not timorous and fearful of stepping aside out of your ordinary course, when you only leave what you have bound upon yourself by your own will, and go to do the Will of God. If we can do well, what matter is it, though it be not in the form that we have prescribed? If our business be effected, why should we trouble our heads because it was not done in the order and method that we appointed? Is it not a madness to deny ourselves a natural happiness, because we cannot have it according to the precepts of Art? It is just as if a man would not speak nor hear Reason, unless it be in mode and figure; or as if a man would not be saved from drowning, unless a friend would bring a Boat to fetch him out of the water: or as if a captive Prince should refuse to satisfy his hunger, unless all his servants and attendants were admitted to wait upon him. What a sottish obstinacy is this, thus to adhere to our Rules? What a rigorous Justice is it, that makes us unjust to ourselves? What shall we do with this scrupulous Piety, which claps fetters and bolts upon our own legs? We should wonder if a man, to observe some unnecessary terms of Law, should suffer all Laws to perish; and it is no less strange if to maintain some free impositions, we sustain a loss in the most necessary improvements of our souls. This extreme right is an extreme injury. It would be an offence against reason, not to offend here against a form. And we should very much departed from God, if we did not here departed a little from ourselves.  
To this let me add another thing, which it will be profitable to you to be advised of; which is, that when you are following Jesus in acts of Justice or Charity, or any of the rest, you do as strongly attract and draw down the blessing of Heaven upon you, as by the best devotions which you perform upon your knees. You do not think, I believe, that they are the words which you speak, that have any virtue to charm the celestial Powers, but that the Love to God which is expressed in Prayer, invites him to come and dwell with you. Now this Love is testified as much in other actions of an Holy Life, especially when we deny ourselves any sensible good in the performance of them; and therefore they cannot choose but reinforce our Prayers, and redouble our Petitions, and call still for new Grace to make us able to do better. Besides, it is to be considered, that doing of good being the use and improvement of that Grace of God which we obtain by our Prayers, it must needs entitle us to the right which the Promise of God gives us, of more Grace to be added unto that which we have already received. We render to God hereby his own with Usury and Increase; and so cannot miss of procuring more Talents to be lent unto us. And indeed if you enter into a strict Examination of things, you will find that every act of Virtue hath the very same effect upon the Understanding and Will, which I attributed to Prayer itself. For there is nothing more inlightens the Mind in the knowledge of good, than the experience and taste which the practice of it gives us; and the Will is so effectually determined hereby to the choice of it, that it gets an habit, and naturally propends unto it. There is nothing can more dispose the soul to well doing, than the doing well: and we are never more secure of the help of God's good Spirit, than when we follow the motions of it.  
Behold then what a dangerous Rock doth here discover itself, upon which many have dashed and split themselves, and perished. Men think there is no Communion with God, but what is held by Prayer, and such like holy duties. Nay, as if this was all we have to do for maintaining friendship with him, it hath engrossed the name of duty, and enclosed the greatest part of Religion in itself. A strange conceit! As if in the constant exercise of an Holy Life we did not keep a fellowship with him, by doing the same that he doth, and showing forth his Virtues to the World. Is there any thing more visible than that by Righteousness, Charity, Patience and such like, we approach to God, and are made partakers of him? Do we not feel him by these things? Are we not made one Spirit and Nature with him? Doth not he dwell in us, and we in him? What is the reason then that men confine Divine Communion to Prayer and receiving of the Sacrament, as if we never enjoyed him but in these immediate addresses to him? What is it that makes them imagine God is here to be found, and no where else? They know not sure what it is to pray, and partake of those holy Mysteries. They fancy it is but the pouring out such a number of words, or the stirring of some devout affections in them. These they conceive will put them in the favour of God, and secure them there without any further labour. Which hath caused, it is like the corrupted Church to increase the number of Sacraments, and create a great many more than God hath made. For it is an easy matter to receive these Seals of Grace, and there is no such repugnance to them in our fleshly nature as there is to the life of Jesus. Hence it is that men would have the whole sum of Religion to be contained in these small volumes. They would have all Piety cloistered up in these narrow walls, and are loath to give it a larger compass. Within these limits they would willingly have it confined, and not have it walk abroad in our common conversation in the World. But if they had any true relish of virtue, they would soon discern that these Holy Duties are preparations for whatsoever else we have to do. They are so far from excluding all the rest, that they include them every one and carry them in their Bosom. All the Virtue's resort hither, at the time when these are to be performed. Here they all agree to meet, and (as I may speak) to keep their General Rendezvouz, the better to strengthen and advance each other. At these holy retirements they all come together, to consult for the preserving of their common interest. There is not one of them absent when we pray as we ought, or address ourselves in due manner to the Table of the Lord. Then they assemble themselves to join in one Band, in order to the making a more powerful impression upon their enemies; and to increase their strength, the better to encounter them at all times else. They are all in Action at once upon these occasions. And by their united force do more mightily engage the will to the love of them at all other seasons. When we pray, we make a solemn acknowledgement of God in all his attributes. We confess him to be the Cause of all things. We extol his Sovereign power and Supremacy over all creatures. We acknowledge his Independency, and ourselves to live and move and have our being in him. We ascribe to him Liberty and Freedom in that it is in his will and choice what, and when, and how much we shall enjoy. We give him the Glory of his Fullness and Alsufficiency, of his Immensity, his Omnisciency, his Eternity and Immutability, his Goodness and Bounty, and of whatsoever other excellencies belongs unto him. We humble ourselves also before him. We profess our Faith and confidence in him for all that he hath promised. We hope in his Mercy: and resign our Souls and Bodies into his Hands to be governed by his Holy Laws. Prayer is the Silence of our Souls: the stillness and calm of all our Passions: the satisfaction and contentment of our Desires: and in one word it is the Union of our Wills with the Divine.  
And if you turn your eye from hence to the Holy Sacrament of Christ's Body and Blood, there you will find the very same concourse of all the Graces to assist at that solemn time. They all conspire to be present then to wait upon our Lord; and to improve themselves by exerting their utmost vigour and strength in that Holy Action. The very business and employment of a Christian soul at that Feast is to celebrate the Divine Goodness with our highest praises, to profess ourselves the Disciples and followers of the Crucified Jesus: to express the greatest passion of Love to him: to offer our Souls and Bodies to his service: to accept of his yoke and take his Cross upon our shoulders: to embrace each other with a fervent Charity: to open our hearts unto all the World: to excite ourselves to the doing of good: and to proclaim forgiveness to all that have done us evil. Here all our troublesome Passions are laid asleep, and dare not so much as stir; being now in the presence of our Lord. They are all hushed and still; out of the Reverence they bear to him and his Sovereign Authority. Here we can neither be careful, nor angry, nor fearful, nor desirous of any other thing but only Him and his Love. Nay, here all the inordinacy of them is quelled, subdued and brought under the Government of his Laws. They are not only cast into a sleep, but mortified and slain at the sight of the Passion of our Lord. Anger and hatred give up the Ghost, and yield themselves victims to his conquering Love. All our care for the World expires into the Bosom of God. All Fear vanishes, and turns into Faith and trust in his Providence. All Pride and Vainglory dies at the feet of his Humble Majesty. The Impure desires of the Flesh receive their mortal wound, when we feel the pangs and agonies and travel of His soul. There is nothing left but an indignation at our sinful selves, a care to please him, an holy fear to offend him, an hatred of the very garment spotted with the flesh; a love of Piety, and an ambition to be like to this Holy Saviour. It would be too long, if I should tell you how all the life of Jesus was at once expressed in his death: and how as he hung upon the Cross, he acted all the Virtues which he had so long preached and practised. But you will soon discern by your own observation if you please but to look upon him in that last Scene of his Tragedy; that he never gave greater instances of his Humility, Charity, Meekness, Patience, Confidence in God, and contempt of the World, then when he left it in those shameful and ignominious torments. And therefore since this Crucified Jesus is so lively set before our eyes in this Holy Sacrament, we must either shut our eyes, or else he will imprint such an Image and draw such a Picture of himself upon our hearts, that all those Graces will shine together there.   

CAP. XVIII.  
Of the many enemies he was to expect, that would assault his Resolution: Some from within, some from without. Of their subtleties and various arts to deceive.  
HEre the Good man made a pause; the Other seeming as if he had a mind to interpose some doubt, or to make some observation upon what had been said. But he modestly praying him to proceed, and telling him that he had no desire to do any thing but only to hearken to his Instructions, which would sooner tyre the Giver than the Receiver; it was no long stop to his speech which thus continued. I am so desirous you should think it is easier to understand then to follow the Christian course which leads to Jerusalem; that I would have you know there remains not much more to be added, than what relates to those things which have been already spoken. But you having thus disposed of your affairs and put yourself in such good order as I have directed; it will be time to begin your journey in Gods Name thither. Only be sure at your setting out, that you confirm the Vow you have made by setting to it the Seal of that Holy Sacrament of which I have now discoursed. It will be a very good Viaticum for you, and in the strength of this Food you may travel many days: still looking at Jesus whom you beheld there so feelingly represented. And truly you will find there is great need of fortifying yourself very well, for I must let you know that at your first stepping out of doors, before you have gone many paces, you will be encountered with a World of enemies of several sorts; that will beset you round about and boldly assault your resolution of going to Jerusalem. We are told indeed as I have heard some relate out of Diodore of Sicily, that among the ancient Indians there were certain officers appointed on purpose to take care of Travellers and Strangers, and to see that no body did them any wrong. And if it chanced that any such person did fall sick they provided a Physician for him, with all other things that the necessities of such a condition did require. If he died they gave him a decent Burial, and if he had any money or goods about him they took care to have them restored to his heirs if they could be found. But now you will very much deceive yourself if you expect such kind usage from the world, or think to be preserved in your travels from their injuries and affronts. There is not so much Christianity left among them as will equal the virtue of those Pagans. Men are more busy in passing the sentence of Damnation upon them, then in condemning themselves for not excelling and outstripping the Piety of Infidels. They take care for little else but to have it believed, that those heathens shall not be saved notwithstanding all their good works; and that they themselves shall be saved notwithstanding their barrenness of them. They will be so far from doing you any good, that they will not stick to do you harm. They who you would think should be a guard to you, may prove the most dangerous enemies and take an opportunity to rifle you. There are many will be forward to offer you their service, but it is because they would willingly have an occasion to betray you. They would be content no doubt to bury you, but it is because they are glad that they see you dead. And yet you must not think that evil men will be your only or your greatest opposers; for there are sundry others as I told you that will be ready to join their forces with them, and such as are of a more dangerous and malignant disposition. There is never a thing you see in the world but it may prove an Adversary and endeavour to hinder you in your journey: but there are many besides more potent which you do not see that will back and second them in their mischievous design. Though they disagree never so much among themselves in other things, yet they will all combine together and conspire in this, to use their utmost skill and endeavour to check your desires, and break your purposes, or at least to give you many discouragements that may stop you in your course and hinder your going forward to Jerusalem. I have known many Pilgrims of great courage and undaunted Resolution, and yet I could never hear of any whom more or fewer of these armed enemies had not the hardiness to set upon: And some I have been acquainted with who were either forced or persuaded by them to make a retreat after they were well advanced in their way thither. And therefore you must not think you shall be such a privileged Soul as to escape their assaults: since Heroical Virtue could never terrify them from making a proof of its constancy and valour. And you must not think neither that they are without stratagems and subtle Arts to deceive those whose strength they cannot overmaster. They will spare neither lies, nor flatteries, nor bribes, nor fine entertainments (if they see that Violence is like to effect nothing) to corrupt your mind and induce you to change once more and return home again to those enjoyments which you have quit and left behind you. There is nothing so afflicts them as to see a Soul in love with Jesus, and resolutely bend to travel for to find him. This urges them to use their greatest industry and wit to extinguish that good will, with the loss of which they know your journey will cease and come to nothing. Against these therefore you must be well provided, that when they come and make an impression upon you; it may find such a noble resistance that it may fly back with shame in their own faces, and only set a mark of honour and token of Victory upon yours. And truly to expect and look for them, is half way to a conquest: their greatest advantage lying in the security of a Soul which fears no danger. Which makes this Warning that I give you before hand the more necessary, because it is a part of your Armour, and not only an Alarm to make you careful to be well appointed.  
I believe you are desirous to have some list of these Enemies; and therefore I think fit to let you know that you will find none more forward to set upon you, than some within yourself. The Fleshly desires I mean and the Worldly fears of your own naughty heart, who the more they have found you a friend to them heretofore, will now become the more pestilent enemies and do you the greater mischief. These will be very unwilling that you should do so much as Pray, or Meditate with any seriousness of Jesus and Jerusalem; and much more opposite will they be to the Life of Sobriety and self-denial which they see you entering upon. If their consent were first to be obtained, you should not stir so much as one foot in this way wherein I have directed you. They would murmur and repine most sadly; they would put a thousand jealousies in your mind, and remember you of as many services which you own them, without the performance of which they can never rest contented. And therefore when you have made a little progress, and tasted some of the difficulties of your way; then is the opportunity of the Flesh to set in strongly with its reasons, and to suggest to you that it is a course not to be endured. It cannot be expected that in so fit an occasion it should be silent, but that it should entreat you of all Loves not to be so cruel as to proceed in your purpose and to deny it those satisfactions which are not to be met withal in such a dismal road. Sometimes it will cry out of the injuries that have been done it and complain of the violence that Temperance hath offered to its pleasures, and the robberies which the poor have committed upon its goods, with other intolerable wrongs of the same nature: And sometimes it will shriek and cry out for fear of the Danger and Hardships that are still ensuing, and will be sure, as it fancies, to make a total spoil of all its contentments. And though many of these piteous lamentations be neglected by you, yet it will not cease; it is like, to follow you with them; and at some seasons plainly to grapple with you and struggle for the Victory. And since after some difficulties that are overcome, there may well be supposed others to be remaining that will try your constancy; these will be sure to be represented to you in a very formidable shape and made to appear far bigger and vaster then really they are. That so your fleshly desires may have the fairer pretence to wish you to consult for your ease and safety both together, by returning back to the place from whence you came. Many evil Spirits likewise there is no doubt, will join themselves to this party: and observing the best advantage that shall arise, they will use all the sleights, and temptations, and power that they are Masters of, to entice or draw your heart from the Love of Jesus, and make you weary of prosecuting your purpose of going to him. But whatsoever any, or all of these shall say, and in whatsoever form they shall make either their addresses or assaults; believe not a word they speak, or rather stop your ears as much as you can to all their chams. And be sure at least to betake yourself to that one secure Remedy which I told you of, answering thus unto them; I desire nought but the Love of Jesus, and to be with him in peace at Jerusalem. This word will drive them all away, as having no hopes to find any room in those souls that are full of such desires. And unless you cease to say and think that, or you give it but a cold remembrance; they will let you go on in your way thither, without any further disturbance from such persuasions.  
But yet when they see that they cannot be admitted at this door, they will try to enter in at another; or at least they will endeavour to repress the forwardness of your course, and to make your way intricate and perplexed. For finding that you cannot be persuaded to be in love with them, or any of their confederates, they will begin to throw scruples and fears into your mind, that you may bear an affection to some or other of them. When they cannot disturb your Passions, they will be so subtle as to trouble your Fancy. And when they cannot persuade you to break off your journey, they will labour to possess you with a conceit that you have not yet prepared yourself sufficiently for it. They will often be stirring up such thoughts as these in your mind; that you have not washed yourself clean enough by sorrow and contrition for your sins; that your conscience hath not been thoroughly searched, nor your faults duly confessed, nor your heart rightly humbled, and deeply afflicted: and therefore that it would be best for you to return again, at least for so short a space till you may be better purged, and so the better provided for travel. With much speciousness, and very fair shows of faithful counsel will all this be represented: and they will make you believe, if they can, that you cannot please God better than by going back to the very place where you first began, in order to prepare yourself with more exactness for such a long journey. But do not give any credit to a syllable of all this, nor think yourself obliged to ransack your conscience all over again, and to spend your time in I know not what pensiveness and tiresome humiliations. For these courses may endanger to keep you always at home; either because you will never think that you know the bottom of your heart, or because you will still seem not to be sorrowful and penitent enough, or because these horrors will even affright you from Religion, and make you think (as I have known some do) that it is impossible to be saved. At least these things will put you into uncouth and unknown ways, and make others think that Piety is madness. They will hinder you also exceeding much, so that (if you go on at all, yet) you will travel very slowly, and be a most tedious time before you come at Jesus. Say therefore to these scruples, when they buzz in your ears; I am nought, I have nought, etc. I have sunk myself as low as I can in my own esteem, I have forsaken all, and carry nothing in my heart as he knows but only Jesus and Jerusalem, and therefore molest me not in my passage to them.  
And if they shall still proceed to tell you (upon the discovery of this Artifice to deceive you) that it is too great a boldness for such a person as you, to think to see Jesus and Jerusalem: if they say that you are not worthy of his favour, nor aught to be so presumptuous as to hope for it; answer them again in the very same words, I am nought, I have nought, etc. I know as well as you can tell me, that I am unworthy of any thing, and much more of his favour: but therefore it is that I desire him, and am going to him, that I may have some worthiness, by resembling him.  
I do not presume upon my own deserts, but upon his Love; nor am I pricked forward by my own desires only, but by his invitations; nor was it my motion, but his own, which first put me upon this design of travelling to him. Nor shall you ever persuade me to desist in this enterprise, unless you can tell me from his own mouth, that he will do no good unto a sinner (as I confess myself to be) but I will continue to pray without ceasing, and to labour perpetually that I may be righteous, like to himself; and so be accepted with him. I am not so foolish indeed as to imagine that he will receive me to himself at Jerusalem, if I become no better than I am; but I study by his Grace (which I know he is not wont to deny) to be made so conformable to his desires, that he will not think me unworthy to be there entertained by him.  
And now if any old friend or acquaintance should chance to cross your way; and pitying that poor and desolate condition wherein you seem to be, should in civility invite you home to him, and pray you to accept of the kindness of their Country; or if he should promise you some great pleasures, and rare divertisements to the flesh, which are far more eligible in his opinion, than such a miserable Pilgrim's life as he sees you lead; turn a deaf ear to him, and do not go along with him.  
Nay, if he only stop you in your journey by vain, frivolous and impertinent discourses, which, you think, detain you too long from accomplishing your intentions; break lose from him as soon as you fairly can, and say only this to him, Sir, I would fain be at Jerusalem. And if he persist to trouble you, and follow you with his importunities to turn aside to his dwelling, or to let him have more of your company; invite him to go along with you, and tell him that then he shall enjoy as much as he pleases of it. And if to these Temptations there should many others succeed from the proffers of Gifts, Honours and Preferments which will incommode you, and be a clog to you in your journey; regard them not, but still bear in your minds the thoughts of what you shall have at Jerusalem. Which is not meant as if I thought the Rich and the Honourable could not get thither as well as we; but only to preserve you from the greedy humour of the world, who catch at all that presents itself, though they start out of their way to get it; and turn into an hundred by-paths to possess and augment it.   

CAP. XIX.  
Of many other devices to discourage him in his Journey. Especially if he should chance to get a fall.  
HEre the Holy man rested himself again for a little space, to see if th●● were aught that his Disciple had a mind to propose, who all this while had been in a profound stillness. But when he saw that he did nothing but ponder upon what he had spoken, and remained so fixed, as if he had been chained to his mouth, and could not stir from thence; he went on in his discourse, which he clearly discerned the poor soul most greedily received. You look, said he, as if you were not at all dejected at what I have delivered; and perhaps you are the better satisfied, because you expect to be entertained with more pleasant news than hitherto hath saluted you. But I must deal sincerely with you, and ler you know that many of the pleasures in this way that you are to go, consist more in beating enemies, than in having none; in victories and triumphs, rather than in not being exposed to dangerous conflicts. And therefore be contented to hear that all your enemies will fall into a rage, and be filled with madness, when they see their stratagems become so unsuccessful. And that they may take some revenge for so shameful a disappointment, they will procure that you be exceedingly despised and scorned as a very poor wretch, and a silly creature. They will set the very Boys and Girls to laugh and hout at you: or, which is worse, they will lay all the false things to your charge that they can devise, and throw in your teeth any old fault which you have committed, and not only brand you with very disgraceful names, but also calumniate you as a man of ill designs. But if you will be safe, I charge you not to heed these things at all; no not if they go about to rob you, or proceed to beat you, or use you very despitefully, and persecute you with as much violence as malice can minister to their fury. Remember what I now say unto you, as you love your life, and contend not with them, strive not fiercely against them, nor spend so much as a fit of anger upon them. Content yourself as well as you can with the damage received, and pass on quietly, as though no hurt had been done, lest you involve yourself in worse dangers, and suffer a far greater harm than they have in their power to do you. Carry this only in your mind, that to be at Jerusalem in safety with Jesus, is a thing that ought to be purchased with far harder usage than all this; and than you will not so much as repine at it, but be more comforted by your patience, than you could have been by remaining free from such afflictions.  
Let this also be added for your support, that if they see you are so hardy, as not to be at all moved by these affronts, but rather well contented with such rude and dirty abuses; it will give as great discouragement to them, as they hoped thereby to have given you. You will grow a very considerable person in their account, and they will stand in fear of you as one that is like to hearten many others in this journey, from which they labour by so many ways that they may be deterred. Which must not be expounded as if their heart would not serve them to trouble you any longer when they see you return all their blows upon themselves; for as long as their malice lasts, they will not cease to be a vexation to you, and to labour to bring you into some new danger. Nay, it is likely they will from all these disappointments only learn to go to work more craftily, and lay all their heads together to contrive some insensible ways of effecting your ruin. But, as I said before, keep in your mind Jesus and Jerusalem, and they will give you security, and countermine all their plots to undo you. As for instance, it is possible they will endeavour to sow some differences between you and your fellow-travellers, when you meet with any to bear you company. They will study to work in you an ill opinion, and to make you shy of each other; nay, to cast such bones of contention among you, that you shall grow passionate, fall out by the way, & break company: of which separation they will be the more desirous, because they know it is so profitable for you in your travels to have the benefit of good companions. Now if in this case you do but look upon Jesus; though the fire were already kindled, it would be instantly extinguished. And if Jerusalem do but come into your mind, if you do but cast a glance upon that sweet and quiet place; it will presently make a calm in your soul, which cannot think it likely you should come thither, but in the paths of Peace and Love. As much as in you lieth therefore, live peaceably with all men, and much more with your Brethren and Companions. And as one of the Eldest Guides that ever traveled this way hath left us directions, let it be ever a principal part of your care, to keep the Unity of the Spirit in the bond of Peace.  
I hope that what I now say, together with that disposition which brought you hither to me, will render one caution (which else should have been here interposed) as unnecessary to you, as it is needful in itself: which is, That you enter not into hot disputes, and sharp contentions with any man, no not about the Opinions in which they pretend Religion is concerned. But yet let me pass an Observation or two upon those Contests which seem to exercise so much of some men's zeal, and tell you; That I do not remember I have been acquainted with any man who was in love with Controversies, that much minded the way to Jerusalem, or studied to be so able to do the Will of God, as to confute and silence the Adversaries that he opposed. This wrangling piece of Learning, is always wont to leave the most necessary truths, that it may pursue those which are are unprofitable and good for nothing. Nay, it is observed by wis men, to be generally accompanied with this base quality; that it cannot exercise the Understanding without provoking the passions, nor speak of Moderation itself without distemper, nor treat of peace and quietness, without putting the soul into disorder. And therefore I could never discern that such Disputers have any great faculty of descrying the Truth about which they contend; but make that a matter of great difficulty and perplexity which the peaceable people, and they who are free from passion and prejudice, do eafily discover. And here I shall not stick to refresh your mind a little with the pleasure of a Story or Parable which I have somewhere met withal out of Anselme a man of no mean esteem in the times wherein he lived. There were two men, saith he, who a little before the Sun was up, fell into a very earnest debate concerning that part of the Heavens wherein that Glorious body was to arise that day. In this Controversy they suffered themselves to be so far engaged, that at last they fell together by the ears, and ceased not their buffet till they had beaten out each others eyes. And so it came to pass that when a little after, the Sun did show his face, there was neither of these doughty Champions that could discern one jot a thing so clear as the Prince of lights, which every child saw beside themselves. It would be too great a disparagement to your understanding, if I should spend a moment in teaching you to apply it to our present purpose. It is sufficient to add, That though zeal for Religion be not only commendable, but required of us, yet we must take great heed lest we strive so hotly and passionately for every Opinion which we have conceived, that we quite lose our faculty of discovering either that, or any thing else which is truly good. I may well say any thing else; for these controversies in Religion I have heard some wise men observe, do much hinder the advancement of other Sciences and the increase of good knowledge in the World. And therefore a great Restorer of Learning among ourselves was wont to say, that he was like the Miller near one of our famous Universities, who used to pray for peace among the Willows. For while the wind blew and the Windmills wrought, the Watermill was less customed. And just so it is with these disputes: while they are high and set men's wits in agitation, they draw away their thoughts from other profitable studies, and hinder their minds from such noble inquiries as would do a great service to mankind. Pray therefore for the peace of those that travel to Jerusalem and do you seek it and pursue it by all means possible. Or if any be contentious and obey not the truth; mark such persons and avoid them.  
And truly there are so many enemies as you have heard to exercise our zeal, that we had not need to create more and to seek for enemies among ourselves. They are so combined and confederate for our mischief and undoing, that it stands us in hand to unite our forces also for our mutual defence and not to give them that advantage which they greedily gape for and will certainly have by our sad divisions. So great is their subtlety and so intent they are to make the utmost use of it, that if we have any wit it had need be joined to obviate their designs, and not employed to make wide breaches, at which without much difficulty they may easily enter and destroy us. For, besides all the ways of deceiving us that have been already related, I must not forget to remember you of a condition into which you may fall, of which they will not fail to serve themselves as much as they are able. It is possible I mean that some way or other a fit of sickness may surprise you in your journey; or it may so happen that such a great want may be your portion, that no man will offer you any help, or regard your cries when you beg for relief. At this season your enemies will gather about you, and as if they meant at once to swallow you up, they will put strange fancies into your head and abuse your mind with such black and melancholy thoughts as may prove no small affliction to you. They will insult over you, and tell you that your folly and presumption in undertaking this tedious journey, hath reduced you to so great extremities: or that some heinous sin for which you have not yet been humbled, is the cause of this sad condition: or that you are one whom Jesus hates, which hath made him to abandon you to these straits to chastise your confidence: or that he loves you so little, as not to care whether any body mind you: or at least that you have so ill deserved of mankind, that none of them regards you or hath any solicitude for your welfare. And all these tales they will tell over and over again in your ears, to feed your melancholy and disquiet of Spirit; to make you murmur and fall into discontent; to breed in you an ill opinion of your Jesus, or to provoke you to anger and displeasure against your Brethren; and if it be possible to work you into such uncharitable thoughts of them, that you should never love them any more. But now it will concern you very much to stop your ears to all these lamentable stories, and to make as if you heard them not at all. You must say over your old lesson as oft as they repeat these suggestions and whisper to yourself these words, I am nought, I deserve these miseries; it is not strange that I am sick or poor, but that I am no worse. And then, if you please, you may defy all these enemies and let them know that you do not so much as desire the removal of these burdens, nor care for any thing in the World but only for the Love of Jesus, and to be with him in peace at Jerusalem. Tell them, you cannot believe that he hates a man who is possessed with this Desire; but howsoever it be, that you are resolved to try him by going on and persevering perpetually in it.  
But then if it should happen that any of these assaults which I have named should prove so strong as not only to shake you but also to make you stumble, yea to throw you down and to give you such a fall that thereby some hurt is done you: Or suppose that you should chance to step aside and to divert a little out of the direct path which leads to Jerusalem; you must know that they will make a foul stir about it, and accuse you heavily for having done that, which they laboured with all their power to make you do. I cannot tell you how you will look upon yourself in such a case if you should slide into it, but if you will follow my advice, I would not have you to esteem it so great and horrid a matter as they will make it, nor suffer yourself to be affrighted and astonished at it. All that any wise man would bid you do in such a condition is no more but this; That as soon as you observe your fall and are come to yourself again, you get up presently, return into the old path, and use such remedies and medecines as every good body prescribes in such cases. Consider seriously by what means you were drawn aside, humble yourself at the feet of God; be afflicted, mourn and weep so far that the smart you suffer may keep you hereafter from the sin; strengthen your resolution; fortify yourself in those weak places where you are liable to surprise; be more watchful for the future, and more instant in prayer for the aides of Divine grace. But when this is done be sure you do not lie along upon the ground crying and bewailing your misfortune, nor stand amazed in your error complaining that you have been so miserably misled. For I am certain this will do you more harm then good, and give your enemies such advantage against you, that they will double their laughter at your folly; first for your fall, and then for your lying along or standing still after you was cast down. And truly I am of the opinion, that your fall will not do them so much service as your lying still: and that they will not clap their hands so much to see you down, as to see that you have no heart to rise, but go about to bury yourself in sorrow. If you would deject them and spoil their mirth, lift up yourself from the earth; and when you are upon your legs again, remember for what end they are bestowed upon you. Proceed forward I mean in your journey as fast as you can, and do not think it is to any purpose to stand looking into your wounds and weeping into your sores. For besides that all that time you make no progress in your way, the wounds themselves also are made more angry and you hinder the speediness of the Cure. Provide therefore that they be instantly bound up, that the parts may close and unite together, that your strength may return, and your journey may be continued with as much courage and alacrity as it was begun. But immoderate grief I assure you will never suffer this; which will rather keep the wounds open, make your weakness greater, and cause the stop which hath been occasioned by your fall to last longer. I know your enemies will be always casting this miscarriage in your teeth, and be calling upon you to remember the place where they tripped up your heels: but whatsoever they say, do not think yourself obliged to be continually turning your head that way, nor to be ever looking back upon your lapse and your pain. For they intent nothing else but to detain you in your course: and if they cannot freeze your blood and make you stand stock still in a cold amazement, yet they hope hereby to dis-spirit your soul and render you so dull, lumpish and unfit for travel, that you shall move but a very slow pace in the way to Jerusalem. Be not ignorant therefore, I beseech you, of these devices, but take heed lest they make as great advantage of your sorrow as they could of your sin. So you be drowned and swallowed up, they care not whether it be by over much pleasure, or by over much grief. They can serve themselves of your spiritual trouble and affliction of mind, as well as of your carnal delights and bodily enjoyments. They can make use of either to draw you from God, or at least if by the one they draw you away from him, they will labour by the other to keep you from returning back unto him.  
Nay, i'll tell you a fetch they have beyond this. When they have immersed you as deep as they can in sorrow, if they perceive you are ware of their design and that you resolve not to sink any further nor to be overwhelmed with it; then will they make that sorrow which you have already felt, to be the instrument of plunging you into a new gulf of which you did not so much as dream. They will take that very part upon them, which you yourself should have acted before; and tell you that it was very ill done to spend so much of your precious time in unprofitable grief. They will call you Fool for your labour, in afflicting your soul so long. They will persuade you, it was a new sin to waste those hours in bewailing your offences, which should have been employed in amending of them. And therefore it is but necessary that I warm you again to be before hand with them and to secure this weapon for your own use. Keep it I say in your own power, lest if they wrist it from you, it serve them in due season to wound you withal. Let your soul know from yourself that it is not fit to stand wring your hands when you should be using them in your work; and do not stay to hear this from your enemy's mouth. Do not let them have the contentment to see you cast down so immoderately by your own means, that if you rise, it may be only to fall again by theirs. But put them to as great an affliction by the discovery of their practices, as they would have made you endure by the success of them. Let them know that your error shall only make you take the greater heed, that you mean to go the faster by your fall, and to recompense your remissness with an higher zeal. But as for affliction and sorrow, that you will reserve yourself for them till a time when they shall be more profitable, then now that you have a mind to be doing better than ever. Tell them that you do not intent to engage Religion against itself, nor make it guilty of being an hindrance to its own proper business. Give them to understand that since you have done yourself so much mischief already, you will take care there be no addition to it by the means of the pious pretences of deep Humiliations. Remember them effectually of the old observation which may serve to quash them in the midst of their greatest triumphs over you, viz. That those things which for the time that is passed are worst of all, may prove for the time to come to be the best. We take advice of the future of those things which are gone by us. Good counsels in our after-actions own not a little to the miscarriages of former days. Our follies do teach us wisdom, and by lapses we learn to go more steadily.  
And if they continue still to insult and to make ado about this business, give not the least regard to them; but call to your soul continually and cry, On, on, (my Soul) stand not to hearken to what they say, look not back again, get thee forward as fast as thou canst; and in stead of losing more time by these dejections of spirit; let us study by our courage to regain that which we have already lost. Nay, I would have you to proceed in your course, just as if nothing at all had happened, keeping Jesus in your mind and a vehement renewed desire and endeavour to continue in his favour; which he is never wont to deny those, whose hearts are sincerely bend to please him.  
And yet it may happen after all this that you may meet with a worse use that they will make of your lapses. They may take occasion from thence to persuade you to be well contented with such miscarriages and not to trouble yourself to amend such faults as have no remedy. Their endeavours will not be wanting to possess you with an opinion, which hath infected too many minds; That you cannot imitate Jesus, but have undertaken an impossible task which you will never be able to perform. This they may represent with a great deal of artifice and many fair colours: saying, Alas poor Soul! in what a vain and idle labour hast thou engaged thyself? what meanest thou thus to strain thy wings in aspiring to that which no creature on earth can reach? Dost thou think to be like the Son of God? To wish to be so good, is the highest perfection of humane weakness. But to go about it; is only to make a more large discovery of that natural frailty. It is a pattern too illustrious for thee to look upon, much more to follow. It belongs not to mere men to be such great undertakers. Thou mayst as well think to work miracles, as design to imitate his Virtues. It lies not within the compass of flesh and blood to become so spiritual and divine. And if thou hadst not already forgotten thy falls, thou couldst not dream of raising thyself to so high a pitch. Can any heart put up such affronts with patience as thou meetest withal? Who can endure such abstinence, or exercise such Charity, or practise such Meekness as thou seest in Jesus? Sat down vain man, and comfort thyself in this, that He hath done so worthily. It is enough to praise and extol such perfections: but it is too much to arrive at them. There is no man in his wits would trouble himself about a business, though he apprehend his obligations never so great that press him to it; when he hath so good an excuse as this at hand, that is not possible to be effected.  
I cannot stay to tell you the long speeches that they will detain you withal in this Argument. Only you may know that there is no Theme more easy and plausible than this, wherein to dilate themselves: and therefore you may expect a world of specious reasons to induce you to believe that no man can obey the Commands of Christ, or follow his great Example. Which persuasion, if they can by any means instill into your soul, I must assure you beforehand, that it will prove the most dangerous temptation that ever made an assault upon you. It will cut (as I may so speak) the very sinews of your spirit, and cramp your soul, so that you will never be able to travel to Jerusalem. This infusion will not only discourage you, but perfectly benumb you, and make you languish in a perpetual lethargy. The opinion of Necessity doth not more quicken and excite us, than that of Impossibility doth deaden and dis-spirit us in any undertaking. And therefore now if ever, you must run as fast as you can to the extract which I gave you. You must take a good draught of those enlivening spirits which I commended, and are enclosed in that sentence which you must carry along with you. You must repeat it again and again; I desire nothing but Jesus; nothing but Jesus. He hath filled my soul with a purpose to go to him. He hath inspired me with strong resolutions to follow after him. And sure He will not fail to be my help, my strength, and my salvation.  
And here let me beseech you to consider diligently beforehand, that they are his own words to his Disciples just before he left the world, 
Joh. 13.15  I have given you an example, that you should do as I have done to you: And how that one of those persons hath also told us, That he left us an example that we should follow his steps. 
1 Pet. 3.21  To what end, I pray you, did He give us that which we cannot take? What are we the better for the Copy which he hath left, if it be such as we cannot transcribe? Did he intent to brave us, rather than instruct us by his actions? Were they meant to upbraid out imbecility, and not to inspire us with courage and strength? Instead of provoking our spirits, were they only designed to make our ambition despair? And when he should have awakened our diligence, did he only come to astonish us with wonders, and cast our souls into a stupifying admiration? These are base and lewd supposals, of which the ancient Pilgrims did never so much as dream. They thought they saw in him what mortal men by the Grace of God might hope to attain. They looked upon him as the advancer of humane Nature, not only in his own person, but also in all those who would undertake to follow him. They were encouraged and inflamed by beholding him to imitate his heavenly life: and by his Grace have left us themselves as instances and examples of that excellent virtue which Believers on Jesus may come unto. They imitated him so happily, that they themselves are become Originals. They cry out aloud unto us, that we should be followers of them, as they were of Christ. 
1 Cor 11.1  And must we now stand only gazing upon them; and spend our time in commending the Piety of ancient days? Must we think that those were privileged Ages which were attended with such a Grace that doth not descend upon future successions? Did the favours of Heaven die with those great souls? Must we seek for Christians only under their ruins, and in their Monuments? Must we adore their relics in Books, and please ourselves in Ideas, and Patterns of things which we cannot imitate? Is it enough that we live in a profound sleep, if it be but interrupted sometimes with pleasant visions? Do they speak only to the firstborn children of Christ, when they say, Brethren, 
Phil. 3.13  be followers together of us, and mark them which walk so, as you have us for an ensample? Was it the privilege of their birthright to be so good, and must we be contented to remain bad? Are we such puisnees that must expect no portion of Divine Grace, 
Eph 5.1  or think of being followers of God as dear Children of his? For the Love of God let us not think that his treasures are exhausted, or that he is weary of his first munificence. His arm is no shorter than it was, nor are his hands less open. He is still willing to dispense his largesses, and to make us know that they did not end with those Ages. Let us rouse up ourselves therefore, and not lose the benefits of Heaven, by thinking we cannot have them. Let us not impute to it such an unkindness of giving us so high an example, that it might oblige us to an unprofitable trouble. These are the old subtleties of the Serpent, which the Heathen Divines have detected as well as we. The Philosophers themselves were haunted with these clamours, and the people rang this continually in their ears; it is impossible to follow such examples as you propose. But they set themselves stoutly against this sluggisness. They pursued men's souls that made these excuses, and ferretted them out of such pretences wherein they sought to borrow, and to make a Sanctuary for their laziness. You imagine, saith one of them, that those things cannot be done, which you do not. You will needs have them far to surmount the nature of man, because you will not be at the pains to acquire them. How much better do I think of you, than you do of yourselves? I honour you so far, that I am of the mind you can be so good, but only you will not apply yourselves unto it. For, Who is there that hath made a trial with all his heart, that failed in the attempt? Who hath buckled himself to the work, that was destitute of strength? To whom have not these things appeared more easy in the act, than in the imagination? The very truth of the business is, That it is not because they are so difficult that we dare not enter upon these things; but because we dare not enter upon them, therefore they are difficult. We affright ourselves with imaginary hardships: and this fear magnifies objects, and infinitely multiplies every individual. Be but pleased resolutely to undertake the task, and you shall find it as sweet and easy as now it seems harsh and formidable. Do but think that all things yield to hard labour, and you have overcome the greatest difficulties by that one thought.  
Do you hear, Sir, what this person saith? Shall we not have as much courage as Heathens? Is there not so much of God remaining among us, as inspired them with such strong resolutions? It seems to me that he hath touched the right string, and did we not supinely neglect ourselves, and forget even the words of Jesus, we should conclude, That to him that believeth all things are possible. We hinder the proficiency of our souls in Piety, just as men do the advancement of good Learning. There are few that understand (as perhaps you have heard it observed) either the Estate they possess, or their Abilities to purchase more: but they think the one is greater, and the other less than indeed they are. So it comes to pass, that overprizing what they have already acquired, they make no further search, nor think of a due progress: or undervaluing the power that God hath given them, they expend their strength and force, in things of lesser consequence, and make no experiment of those which are the highest and noblest improvement of their minds. They content themselves to read and pray, and confess their sins, and take these for the best attainments of Christians. These are the fatal Pillars, beyond which they have no hopes to penetrate. Here they make a stand, when they should go on to all other actions of an Holy Life. They run round in a perpetual circle of these Duties, when they should move forward to a complete imitation of their Blessed Saviour. Rouse up yourself therefore, I beseech you, and do not despair by his assistance of following the great Example which he and his Holy Ones have left us. As the opinion men have of their wealth is the cause of want; so the conceit of an incurable weakness, is the cause that we do no better. They that are gone before us, have not left us to sigh and mourn that we cannot go after them. They have not rob us of all the Glory of doing well. We in this present Age, if we do but stir up the Grace of God which is in us, need not degenerate from the brave examples of our predecessors. Let us but look upon them now, and in good time we may look upon ourselves. As their example will encourage and excite our souls at present; so hereafter we shall draw much spirit from our own. Having done so well at first, we shall blush not to do better afterward. And while we imitate others, we shall at least endeavour with all our might to excel ourselves.  
I can see no hindrance that lies in our way but only our own laziness, together with this weak persuasion wherewith our enemy's labour to possess us: That because the business is not presently done, it is not likely to be done at all. And yet to say the truth, I think that our Idleness is to bear the blame of this persuasion also; for otherwise we should never entertain such unreasonable apprehensions. There are a great number of men that would do well, if they had but the courage to endure for a few days. They have eager motions, or rather furious passions, and if the business could be done in a moment, or in that fit, there would not be braver men than they. But they are not willing to carry on a design of any length: they cannot hold out to make a work and a labour of becoming good: and so their slothful humour makes them, after the first attempt, to give back, and to cry out, to be better than we are it is impossible. A long march after our Saviour is a bugbear that affrights them. A tedious War with their enemies quite dispirits them. They are loath to be at the pains of subduing many resistances, and undergoing a laborious and continued course of destroying their opposers. They would not be soldiers all their life: nor ever engaged in a combat with their Adversaries. They see their sins, but they either seem so great, that they imagine they cannot be vanquished: or at least they will not be at the trouble of it, if it cannot be done in an instant. After the first onset, which is commonly very violent, they are wont to cool and make a retreat if they meet with any difficulties. They would have all effected now, and nothing left to be done to morrow. They do not care for overcoming their enemies, but they had rather end the War with them; or if they must fight, it shall be but one Battle. They would not be at the trouble of getting the better of any opposition; but they wish there were none, or that it were soon removed. They love the peace which will follow the victory, but they have no list to obtain it by a prolonged War. They would have their Adversaries yield without many blows, and are content to engage but once for all against them. In this encounter, you would not think there were to be found any souls that are more courageous. They are all on fire, and you would take them to be more than men. But it is their idleness and sloth that makes them thus active. It is their cowardice, and not their valour that puts them into such a fury. It is because they would have no more to do; but only to enjoy their ease, and take their repose. They had rather have nothing at all to do; but if they must employ their Arms, they desire instantly to lay them aside again. You mistake them if you think they have a mind so much as to conquer, and triumph, and reign; all they desire is only to live, and be in quiet. But if they must needs overcome, and they cannot otherwise have their wishes; they would do it presently, and by once taking pains, ever after have leave to play. Do not therefore deceive yourself, nor take a measure either of their courage, or of the success by one impression upon your enemies. 
Heb. 10.36  You have need of Patience (if you will be a follower of Jesus) that after you have done the Will of God, you may inherit his Promises. This is a Virtue which is absolutely necessary in all great enterprises, but in none more than in this noble undertaking which you have in hand. If this be wanting, you must needs stay short of Jerusalem; but if you be armed with it, you need not despair of executing the pleasure of Jesus, and having the favour of seeing him there. 
1 James 4  Let it but have its perfect work, and then you will be perfect, entire, and wanting nothing. By this the first Pilgrim which I told you of, came happily to his journey's end; 
Heb. 6.15  for after Abraham had patiently endured; he obtained the Promise. And if you inquire of all that succeeded, you will hear this language from every one of them, Be not slothful, but followers of them who through Faith and Patience inherit the Promises. 
Ib. v. 12  Wherefore being encompassed with a cloud of witnesses, and having on every side so many glorious examples, run with Patience the Race set before you, looking (especially) unto Jesus the Author and Finisher of your Faith, who for the Joy set before him, 
Heb. 12.1, 2, 3  endured the Cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of God. For, consider him that endured such contradiction of sinners against himself, lest you be wearied and faint in your mind.   

CAP. XX.  
How they will endeavour to puff him up with Spiritual Pride. A description of one of our conceited Believers. And also of a certain Artificial Religion which deceives many.  
AND now if they see that your Will to him is so strongly set, and your Heart touched so powerfully with his love, that neit her by Poverty nor Sickness, by Fancies nor Fears, by Persuasion nor Violence, no nor by sins neither it can be hindered from going to him; they will grow extreme angry and you may expect the very last assault of an enraged enemy which commonly is worse than all the rest. Nothing can more provoke their spirits then to find that all they say is slighted and disregarded. There are no words you can speak of them that they esteem so reviling, as the scorn you put upon them by not harkening to any of their words to you. It will incense them to take a sudden revenge, when they see you so obstinately resolved as to force your way through the midst of all the difficulties wherewith they surround you. This will necessitate them to invent a new Method to surprise you and to lay their trains in a way quite different from the preceding: which though they may seem not hard to discover, yet have more of Malice, if not of Craft, than any other. For now it is possible they will fain a compliance with you and make as if they neither could, nor had a mind any longer to resist you. They will commend your constancy, and praise your resolute mind, and endeavour to make you believe that they are so sensible of it, that they will forbear to trouble you. Nay, to such a complaisance will they form themselves, that you shall hear no more of the badness and difficulty of the way wherein you are; but they will say, it is excellent, easy and void of all dangers, which are now disheartened from presenting themselves to a mind that is only resolved to overcome them. By this means they will secretly labour to cause a very good opinion of yourself to steal into your mind, and study to blow you up into an empty conceit of your own worth and sufficiency. They will bring before you all the good deeds that you have done and display your Victories before your eyes and let you know what a gallant person you are accounted. They will tell you how all men admire you; that the whole world must needs love you and have you in great esteem for your piety; yea, even venerate the sanctity of your Conversation. They will not spare to say that you have shown such love to Jesus as none can equal, and especially that your courage and valour is so eminent that it is above their praises. And all this with a great deal more they will suggest unto you, only to breed in you as lofty an esteem of your piety as they persuade you others must needs have of it; and to puff you up with such a vain joy, that you may please yourself in yourself and forget to go forward to Jerusalem. But if you tender at all your own welfare and would not miscarry after you have done so worthily, hold all this for an illusion and a dangerous piece of flattery. Look upon it as a deadly poison under the taste of honey and so throw it away saying, I will have none of it: I AM NOUGHT, I HAVE NOUGHT; Do not think to please me with this dissembled sweetness, for that which I desire is nothing short OF THE PEACE which is promised to me at JERUSALEM.  
And here I should have entered a serious caution against Spiritual Pride and a vain conceit of your own abilities, with which most of the world is infected; but that is included already in the general advice that I have given you: and besides I see you are so humble as to become a learner. It may seem indeed a thing worthy of little or no praise for those who are Ignorant to come to be instructed; but there are few I assure you of our contentious Christians though never so silly who are yet arrived at this perfection. They think themselves fit not only to dispute with their Minister, but to be his Teachers. They are his Masters rather than his Scholars: and they do not only call him in question, but boldly deliver their opinion of him. If they had so much modesty and sense of Christian duty left, as to bring their doubts unto him about what he says, it could not but be esteemed a commendable care of their souls. But alas! they are grown to that degree of insolence and are so monstrously arrogant, that they have possessed themselves of the chair, and sit as Judges of his Sermons. What else means the rebukes which they meet withal, the hasty censures which are passed upon them, and the Magisterial sentence which is instantly pronounced with such a peremptoriness, as if there lay no appeal from the Bar of their understanding? It hath been my hard hap to converse with many of them; and among the rest I fell into the company of one the other day, who spoke of his Guide with such a scorn, and condemned his Sermons with so much confidence and laughed so loudly at his Ignorance, and likewise cavilled so impertinently at his expressions when he had nothing to say against the sense of what he had spoken, that a well disposed man (though a little fierce) said he had some doubt whether the Devil did not appear unto us to try if he could infect us with the leprosy of his Pride and Passion. And indeed I thought that I never saw those things more evident in any man, except it was in another of the same sort who came to cheat us (as a neighbour of mine said) in the shape of an Angel of light. This Person after a great many godly expressions, whereby it is like he deceived himself into an opinion of his Saintship, fell into a kind of Christian compassion, and seemed to have his Bowels yerning over his Teacher; saying, Alas poor man! my soul is grieved for him: He is so weak and unquallified for the work he hath undertaken. He is utterly void of the Spirit, and understands not the workings of it in the hearts of God's people. I can never think of him but it pities me to see how much he is in the dark: a stranger to the power of Godliness, and the mysteries of the Covenant of Grace. Poor Soul! who puts us upon doing (and they say is careful of that himself) but knows not what it is to believe. Is it not a great happiness Sir that we have the teachings of the Spirit; and that the vail is taken from our eyes which still hangs before the men of the World? Hath not Christ done much for us who hath made us wiser than our Teachers?—  
I could not for my heart but here interrupt him (knowing that the person whom he thus undervalved was a true lover of our Saviour and excellently skilled in his Religion) or else I think we should have heard as much in his own praise as we had in the others discommendation. But the truth is, I never heard any thing so fulsome from the mouth of man; and found myself far more impatient of such filthy stuff, than he could be of the Sermons at which he expressed so great dislike. And, to say nothing at all of the man, I cannot but think that this Spirit is the very Firstborn of the Devil, the eldest of all the daughters of Pride, the Prince of Darkness in the garments of Light, the dregs of Christian Pharisaism which now as much despises Christ's Ministers, as the Jewish did Christ and his Apostles. God I hope will never suffer you to suck in this poison of the Serpent, nor lick up this vomit of the old Scribes and Pharisees. I discern methinks that you are as far from it, as they were from the Kingdom of Heaven, or else I should bestow more time upon you to season you against this leaven, which will sour the whole lump of your Religion and render it as offensive to God as itself is to all sober Christians. But I need not have said so much: I must suppose you as empty of all humanity as this disposition is of Christianity, as far from Reason as it is from the Spirit of God, or else hope that this Spiritual Pride, this devout Devil shall never possess you. For what is it but madness (even in the opinion of those men) for one that was never bred in the mysteries of that profession, to come into an Apothecary's shop, and there to condemn all his Drugs and Medicines for rotten and corrupt, to spit upon his compositions, and offer to throw them all out of doors as fit to be mingled with the dirt? And yet there is not more sense in the humour of those persons that use the Sermons they hear after that fashion: which evidently proves that they deserve not the name of Sober, much less of Wise and understanding Christians. Though the matter of such discourses have been long considered and duly weighed, and diligently composed out of the Word of God; yet these men who do not ponder them so many Minutes as their Instructers do days, and have no more skill in those matters then in their neighbour's trades which they never professed; reject them at first hearing, bespatter them with their ignorant censures, and (as if they were in a frantic fit) cast them out, as they would fain do their Authors, like unsavoury salt that is good for nothing but to be trodden under feet.  
It will seem a wonder perhaps unto you that such men as these should esteem themselves Religious, How is it possible, will you be ready to say, that such a notorious want of Modesty and Humility of Spirit should not make them suspect their want of true Christianity? I know indeed that nothing is more confident than Ignorant heat, but I marvel that in their cool moods, they do not accuse themselves at least of rashenss and inconsiderate zeal. And truly I should stand amazed at it too, did I not know that there is such a fair counterfeit of Religion in the World that not only deceives others, but those also in whom it is. You behold every day many Images which have all the outward parts and proportions of men to whose similitude they are exactly form. And perhaps you have heard of a Statue that walked and that spoke also, wherein the Artist endeavoured to express the motions of inward life. Which may serve as a resemblance to you of such an Artificial Religion, that not only the outside and the garb of Piety is represented by it, but there is an imitation also of the inward motions of the soul in such affections of fear and love and joy as are in truly Religious hearts. Do not think it strange nor wonder at this which I now tell you, for it is a very great truth which I thought not safe to conceal from you. And if you will have so much patience, I will discover to you the trick of it, and show you by what mechanical powers this liveless Engine (for it is no better) is stirred and acted in the ways of God.  
You know the force that Colours and Sounds and other such material Objects have upon our senses; and how they excite a great many motions in our animal spirits without ask our leave or staying for our consent. You cannot be ignorant neither that these motions are in the soul itself, which hath resentments according to the quality of those objects that it is impressed withal. And again you cannot but perceive by my discourse with you, that the figures and images of things may be raised in your fancy by that means, as well as conveyed by the doors of sense. Suppose then that the beauty and loveliness of Christ were described to a company of men in very fresh colours and fair lineaments. That he was painted before their imagination by some sweet-toned Orator as white and ruddy, the chiefest often thousand. That this speech of him should be trimmed with nothing but gems and precious stones, rays and glories, odours and perfumes, crowns and diadems wherewith he saith this Prince of Glory and Wooer of Souls is perpetually adorned. And then he should tell them that his heart stands open to them, that he intends to lay them in his very bosom, that he would fain embrace them in his arms, and will wash them in his blood, make them amiable and fair as well as himself, put upon them the robes of his righteousness cover with his glorious garments to hid all their deformities, and so present them to God without spot or blemish that they may reign as so many Kings with him for ever. Suppose I say that such a discourse were made with much affection (and I believe you have sometimes heard the like) would it not as agreeably move the imagination of a fleshly man and be as apt to touch his heart with an inclination to this beautiful person; as a lovely face presented before the eyes doth give him a pleasure and stirs up a passion in him toward it? Truly I nothing doubt but this picture of Christ might impress such a conceit of him in the fancy, as might excite admiration, desire, love, delight and such other passions as shall be the imitation of those that are in pious souls who are in love with the Virtues and Spirit of our Saviour. He may not at all suspect but that he bears an affection to the Lord Jesus, and in great zeal anathematise and curse all those who are not just affected like himself. He will condemn as much as yourself all those dull and gross souls who are employed in setting the postures of the face, and amusing the world with countenances. He laughs at them who are busied in ordering the motions of the head, and bending the eyes to devotion. He is far above these actions of the body and feeling his soul in a devout posture and touched with Religious passions; he knows no reason why he should not think himself to be worthy to wear the name of devout and Religious.  
And when these apprehensions and emotions (as we call them) are once begotten, it is no hard matter to maintain and breed them up to a greater growth. They may be fed perpetually with new objects that yield a fresh delight. The description of Jerusalem may be made so full of pleasure, that an earthly man may be ravished therewith. And he hearing also certain signs and marks given of those who are said to have an interest in Christ, and shall be Heirs of Jerusalem; it is very easy to conceive how such a man may set himself a work, first to imprint his Fancy with such Characters, and then to form his passions to some expression and Apish imitation of them. Fancy, you know, hath a great command over all the passions, and being acquainted very well with the way to them, and the manner of awakening them, can call them forth upon this occasion as easily as upon any other. It can make them as busy when these divine matters present themselves, as when sensible objects knock at our doors, and demand to be admitted to our converse. There are no names of dearness which men of this stamp cannot bestow upon Jesus. They can speak of him with an high pleasure: and pray in a pathetic style, and not without devout transport. They find a Love to this kind of Communion with him. They can rejoice to think of his fullness and sufficiency. They can be astonished at the freeness of his Grace. They can mourn for their sins, and then call themselves blessed for so doing. Nay, more than this, they can excite the passion of gratitude in their hearts: and if they hear withal that they must be regenerate and born again, they can follow the Fancy of that so long, till they think that they feel the throws and pangs of the new birth, a change wrought in their souls, and all the rest, in the method and order wherein they had it described to them. They will first be cast down in great humiliations. They will complain of the naughtiness of their hearts, and the corruptions of their natures. They will loathe and abhor themselves as abominable creatures. They will disclaim all their own righteousness and strength, and think of bringing their hearts to the Promise. And if they have heard any better language to express this work, they will bring themselves to an imitation of all that is contained in that also. They will labour to detest their former courses, and to make a choice of a new life. They will strain themselves to spit upon their sins, and to cast a smile upon the ways of Virtue. They will at least offer themselves to Christ to be form anew, and pray him to make them such as he pleases.  
Thus is one of the Religious Puppets of the world produced. This is the beginning and progress of that piece of work, which a good man now at Jerusalem was wont to call a Mechanical Religion. And if you doubt at all whether or no there be such an Artificial Device as this, which passes for Piety, do but call to mind one thing which you cannot but know if you have been a person of any observation, and you shall be convinced of it. There arises, you see, very often new modes and fashions of Religion among us. The old ways are much decried, and the last invention is voted to be altogether Divine. Now if one of these persons whom I have spoken of shall chance to fall into the acquaintance of a Sect, that is much different from the present which he hath long followed, you shall see him easily shift his form, and speedily turn into another shape. He can soon quit the way wherein he was, and become religious after the manner of this novel platform. All the old signs and marks of Regeneration shall stand for nothing, and now he distinguishes himself from the men of the world by other Characters. Which is an evident token that he is moved by the power of imagination, and as external objects shall strongly impress themselves: that he hath no internal life, but is carried by the impulse of foreign things, which change his motions at their pleasure. He seems to himself to be alive, and to be no less than divinely acted; but alas! he is only a walking Ghost, as appears in this too plainly: That like those Images of living Bodies, he can alter himself so quickly, and be moulded into another figure. Such a shadow of a Christian, perhaps, was he that hath been the occasion of all this discourse: whom we are not to think to have an inward life because of the noise and bustle that he made, and the confidence wherewith he spoke; for these do but still render him more like those Ghosts, who have a greater boldness, and cause many times more stir, than they that are really alive.  
That we may be sure therefore that you are a living man, you must expose yourself to our touch, and demonstrate it to the sense of feeling. You must say as our Saviour did when his Disciples took him for an Apparition, come near and handle me, and you shall see that I do not cheat you. Let those that approach you perceive that Christ liveth in you, and show forth your works out of a good conversation, and that in meekness of wisdom. I mean in plain words, that it must appear to the world, that you are a substantial Christian by all the acts of an Holy Life. You must make them sensible of your exact Justice, your unfeigned Charity, your Self-denial, your Patience, your Peaceableness, and above all, your Meekness, Humility and Modesty of Spirit: that if they had a mind they may not have the face to say, you have but the semblance and Apish imitation of Piety. And to say the truth, there is nothing will certainly evince it to yourself, but only this, that you feel in your heart a constant, powerful, and prevailing inclination to all good works. 
1 Joh 4.13  Hereby we know that we dwell in him, and he in us, because he hath given us of his Spirit. If we know that he is righteous, we know that every one that doth Righteousness is born of him. 
Cap. 2.19  Let no man deceive you, he that doth Righteousness is righteous, even as he is righteous. He that committeth sin is of the Devil. 
Cap. 3.8, 9, etc.  Whosoever is born of God, doth not commit sin, for his seed remaineth in him, and he cannot sin, because he is born of God. In this the Children of God are manifest, and the children of the Devil; whosoever doth not Righteousness is not of God, neither he that loveth not his Brother. And indeed by this one mark last named, you shall detect the Artifice of those seeming people: who notwithstanding all their fair speeches whereby they deceive the hearts of the simple, are never found to have a true and hearty Love to those that follow not the Sect which they have embraced. It is a great while ago since a very eminent person told the world, that he noted but two small wants in that sort of men, viz. of Knowledge and of Love. He might have bated them one of the two, and yet their condition had been bad enough: though, if he had lived till now, he would have seen their Poverty increased, and that they want Humility as much as either of the other. They are indeed but small wants in their account (especially the two last of the three) and they can be very well content without them, if God will be so too. They esteem themselves Rich enough in other invisible treasures; nay, they have one Jewel of such inestimable value (viz. their Faith) that it will compensate for a thousand wants that are no greater than these. But either I have lost all my labour, or else I have made you sensible that there is nothing more imports you, than to see that you be not deficient in these two, Charity and Humility. I may safely, I suppose, refer you to your own memory for to be satisfied in their necessity; and so only say this concerning the former of them: That all your Faith is worth nothing, which worketh not by Love; and that he is a Liar, who saith he Loveth God, and loveth not his Brother also.  
That you may secure yourself therefore the better from this, and all other illusions, what other counsel should I give you, than to ponder that sentence much which I wished you to carry along with you, and to let your thoughts run as little as may be upon any other thing, save Jesus only and Jerusalem? Draw your mind from the things which you see in this outward world, and make it to retire within unto yourself; that there you may talk with Jesus, and behold Jerusalem, and see that Glory where he is. Which when you have practised a competent time, as every thing will be unwelcome and painful to you, which is not related to them: So you will entertain every thing as very acceptable, which brings you into their familiarity. Not as if I would have you to neglect any business to which you are obliged in the world; for whatsoever it be which either Necessity or Charity requires, whether it be for yourself, friends, or Christian Brethren, I must charge you to apply yourself to the doing of it with all care and exactness. Jesus is not out of your eye (as I shall tell you further) when you are so employed; for this is the thing by which he was known above all other, that he went about doing good. But if it be a business of no necessity, or if it be one wherein your particular person is not concerned, and your neighbour challenges not your assistance, let it alone, and trouble not your thoughts about it. And if it offer itself to you, and press upon you, and would make you a meddler in other men's matters (as most of our vain Believers are) tell it, you have something else to do, and repeat still those words, I HAVE NOUGHT, AND NOUGHT DO I DESIRE BUT TO BE IN PEACE WITH JESUS AT JERUSALEM.   

CAP. XXI.  
Of the endeavours of his Enemies to keep him from doing good to his Brethren, under a pretence of Love to God. And of the Excellency of that Brotherly Charity.  
AND here it seems very seasonable to remember you, of another common subtlety whereby your Adversaries will study to deceive you, and put a great stop to your progress in the way you are about to enter. Which is, to detain you in the amusements of contemplation, and to busy your head only with Meditations and Conferences with Jesus. They know that this will keep you too much at home, as well as any thing else, and that you will travel in your mind and thoughts only, but not with your whole man to Jerusalem. And therefore they will labour to persuade you of this at least, that there is not half so much Piety can be exercised abroad as in your Closet, and that the good we do our Brethren, is nothing comparable to the Meditations we have of God and our Saviour, and the Affections we express unto them. This will very much hinder your proficiency, and put a greater rub than you imagine in your way, if you lend any belief unto it. It will keep you very much behind, under the pretence and colour of putting you forward, and it will depress and thrust you down below others, while you seem to be mounting up on high, and soaring to a pitch far above them. For your Enemies understand very well, that God accounts all that as done to himself, which is done to your Brethren for his sake. He hath made over all those benefits to them which are owing to him, because he is in no need of them. They are become his Receivers, and he hath devolved the right which he hath to our returns of Love to him, upon our Brethren. Be not you ignorant of this then, but understand it as well as your Enemies, that you never serve God better, nor so well neither, as when you are doing any service to your poor Neighbours. You are bound, you think, to express such Love to God, as he hath expressed to you. Only you find that he is not capable to receive such effects of it, as you experiment in yourself from his affections to you. But will you imagine now, that he will lose the right he hath to your thankful retributions, because he is in want of nothing? No such matter: he hath deputed those who are in need to receive from us that which is due to him, and employ it to their own uses. He hath communicated (as I may say) all his claim to them, and bids them demand in his Name that which we cannot give, much less forgive to him. So that you exercise Justice and Charity both together, when you do good to your Neighbour; and there is a double Charity in it also, one to Him, and another to them. They have good done them upon his account, and he takes it so much as done to himself that he acknowledges an obligation, and binds himself to pay us again.  
Nay, let me tell you, that there is nothing in all the world can render you so divine and heavenly as to do much good. This puts us in the place of God to our poor Brethren to whom he sends relief and help by our hands. Is not this a very high honour? And is not that a very noble quality which so differences us from all others, that it makes us like to the Most High? The Mechanical Christian will here find himself to be dead and void of God; it being nothing but a Spirit of Life, and that very Divine too, which will carry us out of ourselves, and fill us with perpetual ardours of Love to others, and instigate us to be doing of good to all. This is the very Character of the Deity, for God is Love, and he that loveth, dwelleth in God, and God in him. And therefore if you covet to excel all others, study to be endued with the most profitable Gifts, as the great Apostle adviseth: and yet, saith he, I show you a more excellent way, and that is Charity. For this causes us to make use of all those Gifts for the benefit of Mankind. This is the rarest way of excelling others, because it makes us excel ourselves, and likens us to God. The Angels, you know, had the ambition of being like to God in Power and Majesty, aspiring, as is conceived, to the Throne of the Most High. Our first Parents were soon infected with the like vanity, and they rubbed their Leprosy upon them, for they affected to resemble God in wisdom and knowledge. But by this means you know that both of them lost what they enjoyed, instead of adding more unto it. What must we do then who see their falls? must we be content not to be like to our Creator? Not so neither, but we must endeavour to imitate him in Love and Goodness, in which there is no danger. This admits of no excess (as wise men observe) but only of error. We cannot love too much, though we may be imprudent in the communications of it. Though Angels and Men suffered so much by the desire of other things in excess, yet in Charity there can be none, nor shall either of them suffer any damage by it. And therefore it was that God sent his Son Jesus into the world that by looking on him we may know how to become Divine. All his acts of power were acts of Love. All his Miracles were Mercies to men. He never employed his Might but to do benefits. To teach us that they are truly great who are little in themselves (as he was) and great in Charity. That they are endued with most power who can do most good: and that they are nearest to God and most highly exalted, who are nearest to their neighbours and most deeply humbled. You know that if a Circle be made, and you draw lines from the circumference to the middle point or Centre where they all meet; the further these lines are in any place one from the other the farther they are from the Centre; and the nearer they come to that, the nearer also and the clofer their approaches are to each other. This may be a resemblance if you please of our condition here in this World, where we are all in our way to God the Centre of our Rest, and travelling to Jerusalem where we hope to meet in him. We are desirous now to draw as nigh to him as we can, and many fancy that their muse, meditations and prayers, are the chiefest if not the only things that bring them near unto him. But as I have told you heretofore so let me now repeat it again, That God and our Brethren are so inseparable that we cannot touch the one but we must be joined to the other also. The further any of us is removed from his neighbour (as you see in that similitude) at the greater distance he is from God. He cannot go away from the former, but he goes away in the same proportions from the latter too. And the nearer and closer he is joined in the affection of Charity to his neighbour, the nearer he is unto God, the more doth he approach to his excellencies, and to an union with him. If you will be a follower of God then as a dear child of his, Walk in love. You cannot choose sure to do otherwise when you have so glorious a pattern before you. It is an honourable thing now you see to love, since God himself is become a Lover. You may have imagined perhaps that some offices of Charity are ignoble and disparage a person of honour: As most men of condition think it below them to go into a poor man's house, to come near the stinking wounds and the dirty beds of the meaner sort: and there are very few who do not account it a sneaking quality to put up injuries and pass by affronts. But you cannot be of this mind if you look upon God who by loving us hath also taught us how honourable and glorious all these things are. They are not below us since they are not below himself. There is no man so much our inferior, as we are all beneath Him. And yet he condescended to them. He comes and dwells in this perishing flesh of ours. He despises not our poor cottages: he dresses our wounds: he takes care of our sores: he heals our sicknesses, he passes by our transgressions; yea, he prays us to be friends, and entreats us to be reconciled. And that is a thing which men think to be so poor and mean that no great spirit can endure to submit unto it. To go to others who have offended us and beseech them to lay aside their enmity is thought to savour of baseness and to be an argument of a low and cowardly mind. But God will give us leave to think so no longer. He hath shown us that it is the effect of a most generous and noble disposition, and so far from being a blemish to us that we should glory in it to be the first in making peace and offering terms of reconciliation. Others may think to give proofs of their gallantry by standing in defiance to all those who will not submit themselves and lie at their feet; yea by trampling on them who shall in the least offend them: but God teaches us by his own example that there is no greater height of mind, then in Humility and Meekness to condescend to others, yea to lay ourselves at their feet and beg of them for the sake of the Lord of Peace that they will be the children of Peace. This is to become the sons of the most High and heirs of the greatest Glory.  
And now let me ask you for what end would you shut up yourself in your Closet, or make a Cell of your house? Is it not that you may improve yourself in the knowledge of God; and do you not hope there to converse more with Heaven? you need not then be put to the trouble of this confinement, for I assure you nothing will so much promote your end as Love of your neighbour. This will make you feel what God is and give you the clearest and strongest sense of him. And the larger and wider your Charity grows, the more able will you be to conceive the vastness of God's Love, and the less doubt you will have of his Universal good will. It will dispose you also more than any thing else to believe the Gospel, and will win your assent to those reports which seem most incredible. When you find in yourself such a great loye to others, it will be easier for you to conclude that God might love us so much as to send his only Son into the World, and give him also to die for us sinners. And if there be any thing of greater force than other to bring you acquainted with the joy and peace of Jerusalem, and to make discoveries beforehand of it, this must be that happy Spy. For they consist very much in the dear love and friendship which there is between all the inhabitants of that blessed place. But these things I will leave to your own thoughts and only pray you to employ your mind in all your secret retirements so much in these meditations, that you may issue forth from thence very full of God, and as a man inspired to do much good. For this active devotion is that which God loves. He will impart more of his blessings to you if you open your hands in doing benefits to others, then if you should lift them up all day in prayers to Heaven. He refuses nothing to the stirring and diligent souls, whom love and goodwill have set in motion. He delights to give to those who employ his Grace. It is a pleasure to him to bless those who go forth to meet his favours and do not expect them in their Chambers. But we never employ his Grace better than when we imitate the effusions of it upon us in our kindness and benignity to others. And we are never more like to meet his blessings, then when they are blessing of him for the good that we have brought unto them.  
I know you will be ready to say hereafter, that you can design a great deal more, than you doubt you shall ever do. That the Idea you have of this Noble quality is very high, but you are afraid it is above your reach. And therefore I pray you before hand that you would not trouble yourself with such thoughts, but only remember these two things. That when you have done all the good that ever you can, that will dispose you still to do more: and in the mean season you are to take care of this, to rejoice hearty that there are others in the World who can do more good than you. If we were once arrived at this noble disposition of rejoicing in the good of others, either in that which they enjoy, or that which they can do, we should be so far from wanting Charity, that we should equal ourselves with the most excellent and blessed natures. As we should have no cause to complain that we are not in the same throne with Princes, nor to envy the learning of those who sit in the Chairs of Wisdom: so we should not come behind the devotion of the greatest Saints, nor be much inferior to the Angels, who think it no small part of their happiness that they can rejoice in God and in all the marks of his goodness wheresoever they can discern them. Are we less happy because our Wit is not so strong, our revenues not so large, our station not so high, and so our power to oblige others not so great as those of many of our neighbours? No such thing, but we shall rather be the more happy if in the midst of a low condition and in a meaner rank, we can keep ourselves from the rust and canker of envy which is wont to grow soon in such places as are low and damp. He hath raised himself to a very high pitch whose soul surmounts all discouragements and rejoices in the Universal good of mankind by whomsoever it is procured. Hereby we shall make the happiness of every person that is above us to be our own. For how is he more Happy than I who gets a victory, if I triumph in it as much as himself? Wherein is he Superior to me whose riches increase, if I be not only contented therewith, but much better pleased in his prosperous estate than I was before he enjoyed it? Nay, if it make me well, to see him in health, and refresh my spirit, to see him merry, and really render me better to behold his progress in wisdom and virtue; then I have the benefit of all these, and they become mine as much as his in whom they are. And can you contrive a better way than this to make your soul the resort of all pleasures; the very Centre wherein the happiness of the whole world shall meet, the Rendezvouz (if you will give leave to that word) of all those joys which are scattered every where among God's creatures? It is not possible for you to do it: nor is there any delight so noble and sublime, so pure and refined as this that with so much ease you may enjoy. It is the very extract of all other pleasures; it is the Essence and Spirit of them without the grosser parts, which are wont to detain half of the pleasure from us. Though other pleasures make more noise, yet this gives greater contentment. They make a louder sound, but the commendation of this is its silence and quiet. The world takes more notice of others but the very secrecy of this joy increases its sweetness, and vapours not out the purity thereof. Other enjoyments may be greater in bulk, but this is more in value. They are obtained at a great charge, but this we enjoy at other men's cost. Those persons have the labour and sweat together with their delight, and we have the pure pleasure. They work not for themselves only, but they must do us some service thereby. We come in for a share of all their get, and want nothing which they have, but only the toil and the pains. And yet so innocent is this pleasure, that while we enjoy all that others do we leave them all they had and take nothing away from them. As the Bees suck an invisible sweetness, which robs the Flowers of none of their beauties from whence they fetch it: So do we when we solace ourselves in other men's goods; which are not impaired by our rellishies nor made less by all the contentment we draw from them. Nay we oblige them by this means, and pay them largely for all that we take. It will be an addition to their pleasures to know that others are pleased with them. It will be the best part of their satisfaction to understand that you cast not an evil eye upon their enjoyments. Their happiness would be imperfect, if you did not think yourself happy too. They will owe as much to you as to their own acquisitions, and you equal yourself to them by not envying their superiority.  
But I think it is time to conclude this discourse concerning the good you are to do your Brethren; and therefore I shall only admonish you of a thing which may be apt, if you have not considered it, to trouble you in your way to Jerusalem; and so pass to other matters. After you have done all the good you can, you must not think to have the pleasure of finding all these persons grateful on whom you have bestowed your favours. You must rejoice in your own Virtue, without expecting that additional delight which reciprocal love would afford you. Such a good nature I believe as yours will make you suppose that you have received a favour when one hath but done you justice, and therefore you will be infinitely senfible of any kindness, and think that it lays an everlasting obligation of gratitude upon you. But do not imagine that you shall meet with much of this ingenuity in the World: There are a far greater number of such a wicked disposition, that they look even upon kindnesses as their due, and will render you no more thanks for them, than men commonly do for Justice to which every body claims an equal right. Nay you will meet with those who when they are highly obliged, do love to avoid the persons that put those bonds upon them. They will not behave themselves so well as to take your kindnesses for their due, but carry it rather as if you had done them a sensible wrong. And I wish I could not say that there are such ill natures who cannot endure so much as to behold those who have been their benefactors, but eat them as if they were their deadly enemies. But you will find I fear too many of these wretches, who think whensoever they see you that you upbraid them with all the good they have received from you. When you did them benefits you laid chains upon them, and they think it no crime to hate him that hath made them his Prisoners. They will hearty wish you were dead, that so they may be freed from their bonds which will die and be buried in the same grave together with you. For they, measuring other men's natures by their own evil disposition, which inclines them to do good to none, unless it be with a design to make them slaves; they could wish never to see those persons, who they think, look upon themselves as their Lords and Masters, by having thus engaged them. Their courtesies are mere traffic, and they always expect to gain more than they give: which makes them hate their benefactors, who look they imagine for payment also far greater than they have a will to make. Nay, they had rather do a courtesy to those who never did any thing for them, than be officious to those persons who have so much obliged them. Just like those wicked people who had rather make a present to others, than pay what they own to their Creditors. Which, to say the truth, is no more than the necessary confequence of that cursed principle I named before, of trading with kindnesses, and putting them out to Use, that they may improve into greater, to be rendered back to them. I know very well there is no vice more odious than this, or which lies under greater reproach even by ungrateful persons themselves; but yet I assure you, it will be found that there is none more common. And the mischief of it is, that it is never so likely to grow in base natures, as when they have been highly bound to you. The kinder you have been, the more ungrateful they are like to prove: like those, who having contracted a vast debt, and having little to pay, run away with shame, and pay just nothing at all. You must do good therefore merely for the Love you bear to itself; and though you desire no payment but only the pleasure of having it kindly resented, you must be content sometimes to lose that small return, and rest satified in what you have done, and in your pious disposition to do the same again.   

CAP. XXII.  
That a Pilgrim must sometimes recreate himself as well as other men. Of the pleasure of good Company. What Men are to be more particularly avoided. Of the Festivals of the Church. How useful they may be. And how much abused.  
AND now I think it is time to remember you for the prevention of all mistakes, that there never was any Pilgrim who could always be exercised in doing good to others, or in Prayer and Contemplation; but he was forced to attend sometimes to himself alone, and provide for the needs of his Body by the use of Meat, and Drink, and Sleep; wherein you must not think to be unlike them. Nay, there is a great need also at certain seasons of innocent Recreations, which Pilgrims must not be so morose as utterly to deny themseles; for in truth there are none so fit as they to enjoy them. And in all these things I would have you to use the best discretion that is in your power, avoiding, as you would the greatest danger that hath been mentioned, all foolish scrupulosity about them. Do not measure your Drink, nor weigh your Meat, nor confine your Divertisements to a minute, but enjoy them freely as the best wisdom you have shall at that present direct you, resolving not to trouble yourself about any after accidents. For, though it is necessary that we take a care to spend our time well, and there is nothing of which we should be more frugal; yet it is not good to be over rigorous in exacting an account of our hours. We may run our selves thereby into infinite scruples, and busy our thoughts about such endless niceties, that we may lose much time while we are thinking how to save it, and impoverish ourselves by studying to be miserable good husbands. Do not grudge therefore to these things a fair portion of your time, out of a fear that they will be too great an hindrance to you; for though they seem to stay you for a while, they do very much further you, and give you strength to walk more carefully for a long time after. Discreet stays and rests make speedy journeys. It is no turning out of your way, to divert yourself sometime in a pleasant Meadow. That is the nearest way to a place, which brings you soon thither. And as the old saying is, soft and fair, goes far.  
And indeed it is impossible that all the hours of a man's life should be equally grave. The wings of the soul cannot be always stretched, and it is idle to think its vigour shall receive no abatements. Let it soar never so high, it will be forced to stoop again; and by sitting still, and refreshing itself, be made more able for a new flight. Of this you must be well advised, or else you will never get to Jerusalem. It is the counsel of nature which must be followed, that all who work, do take some rest. The continuance of labour depends upon Moderation, and Nature always threatens violence with an end. I grant that your desires may be ever pricking you forward, and that they may be loath to give you a moment's rest. But they will stimulate you even till they gall you, and if you take not heed, will make you rest of necessity, and not out of choice. The best courser that is may run himself off his legs. You may tire and jade yourself by overlong journeys. And though your mind be of such a make, that if it were alone, and had nothing to carry along with it, possibly it might never be weary, but would run continually: yet while it is engaged in the company of this terrestrial body, it must sit still and ease itself, if it be but for the sake of its fellow-traveller. We are not yet divorced from sense, nor do we enjoy the liberty which we hope for at Jerusalem. We are far from the purity of simple Being's, and whether we will or no, shall find ourselves to be mixed with matter, which will not always move. It will be a slug do what we can: and if we will not find it some refreshment, it will take some of itself, and more sometimes than we need to give it. It is better that it should be at our dispose, than at its own. It will be content with less, if we do not deny it all. We shall find it more obedient if we do not by our rigour provoke it to a plain rebellion. We shall use greater Moderation, if by defrauding ourselves of all recreations, we do not become so impatient as to play the gluttons, when we take the liberty to enjoy them. It is, no doubt, a true observation, That the ready way to make the minds of youth grow awry, is to lace them too hard, by denying them their just freedom. When you rob the appetite of its lawful and innocent delight, it hath such a desire to break this Prison, that it ofttimes furiously bursts forth into unlawful and forbidden pleasures. And therefore use a due care at least in your first setting out, that you run not with too great a violence. Do not make more haste than good speed, as you will be apt to do when you begin your journey. Young Pilgrims are wont to be very forward, and to tie themselves to such long stages; that they grow weary, and turn aside to some more pleasing courses. And it is well if they divert not to such as are lose after too great strictness. They are very happy if they leave not off their travel, by travelling too fast. The very best that we can expect, is that they sit down as men out of breath, and that they lose more time in recovering of it, than they would have done in seasonable refreshments.  
Nay, let me tell you, the oldest traveller upon the Road will find that he hath great use of them, and cannot give so good an account of his time, unless he bestow a little of it upon them. Recreations are part of the needs of humane life, and though a man be never so well provided, he will be liable to this want. The most vigorous minds will sometimes be weary, and call for quiet and ease. The strongest eyes will at last grow weak, and desire to shut themselves The life of the greatest Sages (as a wise man once told me) is not altogether serious. All their say are not Sermons: nor is all they writ either their last Testament, or the confession of their Faith. And therefore study not how to live and use none, but rather to use none but those which are good and worthy of a man. Think not to be employed so as not to need them, but take care that under a pretence of need they do not become your employment. Order the matter so discreetly that they may be as profitable as they are delightful. See that they render you the hours back again which you have bestowed on them. For there is nothing more certain than that we may gain time by intermitting our labours, and rid the more ground by standing still a while.  
And because the greatest part of a wise man's pleasure consists in good diverting company, let me here remember you to provide that it be carefully chosen, and that you do not lightly take men into your familiarity. Excellent men you are rather to be conversant withal, than excellent Books. You may learn more of them than all your study can teach you. You may at once give your soul a recreation, and your body a repast: You may divert yourself and others both together. He who asks and inquires of his company, shall both receive much learning, and give much content: especially when his questions are addressed to such whose skill lies in that whereof he demands satisfaction. For than he offers them a fit occasion to please themselves in speaking, and he gains much knowledge himself by being possessed of their conceptions. And therefore it is most advisable for you to frequent the society of those who have more knowledge than yourself. Though there are who affect the company of ignorant persons, that so they may be taken for knowing men; yet they who are really knowing, seek for the wise, that so they may know more. In the one you may be admired, but in the other you shall be acquainted with things that are worthy of admiration. And I beseech you, which is better, to learn wisdom from those who are wise, or to be accounted wise by those who are ignorant? It is a pitiful thing, in my judgement, to be thought wise when you are not: and yet it is still more deplorable when you please yourself in being so thought by those who indeed are very fools. If you would win the reputation of Wisdom, let it be with those who know what it is. But you must first have it, before you have their esteem; and the first step to it, is to be so wise as to know in what company it is to be learned.  
But it is not my intention to make you a long discourse on this subject; and therefore I shall not warn you of all those who are to be avoided, but only of one sort who will more abuse your time, and also do you greater mischief than any else beside that are not openly wicked. They that I mean are a talkative generation, who are ever chattering and babbling as if they had obtained a Patent for prating. People that are so much in company with others, that they can never find leisure to keep any with themselves. Who are a burden to themselves when they are at home, and to their neighbours when they are abroad. Whose minds are stuffed with nothing but News, of which they are so full, that they have no room for one wise thought to lodge there. But above all others, I would have you mark and shun a complaining sort of people who are ever finding fault, and never can be pleased. Their minds feed upon the sins or the harms of others, and they have always some News to make you sad. The subject of their discourse most commonly is, the evil of the days wherein they live. They always praise that which is past, and discommend that which is present. The wise men of former days they are ever magnifying: and they will allow no body to be good, but those who are dead. They seek for examples of Piety in the Acts and Monuments of the Church, which they would not follow nor applaud if they were alive again. Nay, they have in great admiration all that is done abroad, but are illaffected to all that is done at home. Nothing can be so well managed, but they will show you some error in it: nor can there be so profound a peace, but they will fright you with some thing that portends Wars, or other Calamities. They never look upon the Kingdom where they live, but they see it full of the tokens of God's wrath. There is no spot that can appear, but they make it a mark of the plagues of Heaven that are coming upon us. They have lost their taste and judgement through the gall and bitterness of their own heart. Their choler overflows so much, that they have no sense or relish of any of God's mercies, but cry out perpetually of woes and miseries. One would think by their talk, that the tranquillity of their Country is a trouble to them, and rather than have no disturbance, they will begin it in themselves. Nay, let things be in what posture they will, you shall never find them at any ease. Let them change their faces never so much, they still retain the same sad countenance, and follow you with their complaints. If all things be in a prosperous estate, they fill you with fears of the evils that are to come. And if the times be very miserable, than they bethink themselves of the happiness which they could not see before in the days that are past. When they have nothing to say, they will give you a very grave nod, by which you must gather, their heads are full, if their wisdom thought it fit at that time to empty them. And when they are afraid to speak their thoughts, than they will shake their head, and give a terrible shrug, as if all were nought and going to ruin. In short, you shall hear these men speak nothing but Lamentations: and they will mix their words with such sighs, that you would think they laid to heart the badness of the times. But do not believe them: this may be no more but a copy of their countenance. For there are a number of them who conceive a secret joy when they hear an ill story of one whom they hate: and could not tell how to appear good, unless they had some men's vices to speak against. They would not be able to live, if all men should leave their sins. There would not be found a man so bad as they, if all should become so good as they seem to desire. They would be more troubled at the reformation, than they are at the disorders. And, unless their hearts were changed, they must either than be dumb, or else make faults where they could find none. And that is a matter, I assure you, very easy for them to do. For they never regard whether their complaints be just or unjust: and it would be to suppose them too reasonable, if we should think they are never discontented without a cause. Mingle not yourself therefore with such men: but judge it better a great deal to travel alone, than to fall into such company. If you mean to finish your journey, stay not to listen to their tales, for they have no end, and they will detain you with them for ever. There is no thing, no person can escape the scourge of their tongues; and since those are innumerable, so are their stories.  
But in this and all the foregoing Directions which I have given you, it will be of great use to mark the footsteps which you will meet withal of many Travellers who have gone before you. Some of the Prints of their feet you will find bigger, and others of them less than your own; but all of them will so encourage you, and excite you, and supply the place of a Guide unto you, that I may leave the rest to their instructions. And indeed the wisdom of the ancient Church seems herein to have been very great, who chose to honour the days of relaxation and intermission of labours with the names of the Apostles and Saints of God. It is fit as I said that we should sometimes use recreations, but they would teach us to begin and end them with acknowledgements of God. It is necessary that we cheer our spirits and refresh our minds, but we must still remember that there is no greater pleasure then to praise our Lord. When we divert ourselves we should have the example of brave men before us. In all our Sports and Mirth, there must nothing be admitted which is unbecomeing the gravity and purity of good Christians. And therefore let me entreat you on all the Festivals of the Saints to season your mind in the morning with the meditation of their holy lives. When you keep the days which preserve their memory, be sure to follow their virtues which in effect will make them still to live in the World. It is a ridiculous thing to bless God for those examples which we never mean to imitate. It is monstrously absurd to maintain the memory of Holy men's names, with an utter forgetfulness of their Piety. If they be capable of any grief in the blessed place where they now are, and have carried their passions away with them to the other World; it makes them sigh one would think to see the lewdness of those that honour them, and the disgrace that is done to Religion under the countenance of their great names. It wounds them sure to hear themselves commended lavishly, and to see their lives reproached as guilty of too much severity. It was an odd saying, but spoken with much simplicity and zeal by an old Preacher, That he wondered the Saints did not rise out of their graves to drive those away from their Temples, who use so much ceremony in celebrating their Festivals, and take so little care to follow their Virtues. But I may rather wonder with what face men can speak against those who neglect the observance of these Days, when they themselves are the chiefest cause of it, or the best colour for it. They dishonour all holy rites, and bring a reproach upon holy times: and if it had not been for such as them, those days might have been in more credit, even with those who now despise them. What do we see say those scrupulous persons but riot and luxury at such seasons? All places are full of vomit and men seem to be celebrating the Feast of Ceres and Bacchus, i. e. of Bread and Wine, of some heathenish, drunken belly-god. They fancy there is no restraint laid upon their appetite, if they do but strictly forbear their ordinary labours. They are like some bad Christians in the old times, who made no doubt of being drunk, so they did but take off their cups as they sat on the Martyr's Tombs. It is easy indeed for these objectors to see something else: They might behold some devout people who frequent the Worship of God and rejoice most in remembering their Saviour and his great Grace in sending those that Preached the Gospel to the World. But the number of the other are so great who never regard such things, that by looking on them they are tempted to take no notice of all the rest. The Taverns are fuller by far then our Churches; and the Theatre is more frequented than the House of God. And therefore it is for such as you to set yourselves a work to take away this objection which they will not take away themselves. Do you satisfy them that these days are no necessary cause of doing evil, by your own example of doing good. Leave their Argument no force at all, for it is in your power to do it: and let them see that the marriage between these Festivals and Profaneness is not so legitimate, but they may be divorced. Deprive them of this colour and leave their peevishness so naked that it may be exposed to the view of all. Or if they have taken a real offence, remove it out of their way and let all that they allege have a full confutation in your holy life. Answer them by your behaviour, that there is no need to take away these days, for you can take away all the wickedness and leave them still remaining. Let them see that you can rest from your labours and yet not spend your whole time in sport and play. Let them find the Bible or some good book in your hand oftener than they do the Cards. Let your Spirit rejoice in God your Saviour, more than your body doth in meat and drink. Feed your soul upon the Heavenly mysteries of our Religion, and do not live as if the Saints were only good Purveyors for our Kitchens. So will you both bring these days into esteem with others, and yourself into greater favour with God. And I beseech you, desire all you know that they would not slight such admonitions as these I give you: But that for the Honour of our Lord, for the credit of his Church who hath appointed these solemnities, for the love of their own souls who are intended to receive the benefit of them, they would behave themselves soberly and religiously at such seasons. That so the Church may not be forced to do with these as it hath done with the Feasts of Love and other rites used by the Apostles themselves, i. e. abolish and banish them because of men's obstinate abuse of them. For it is a very absurd thing, (as one of the ancient Guides saith) to study to honour the Martyrs with too much fullness, who we know pleased God by fasting and abstinence. It is a prosperous way of doing honour to our Saviour, by pampering and pleasing ourselves; who it is known did honour his Father by denying himself and despising all the pleasures of the flesh. Therefore exhort every one to feast themselves with an holy fear. Let them make Feasts of Charity and doing good to their poor neighbours. Let them be Feasts of Love to make us friends one with another. Feasts of the Spirit to put us in mind of the joys of the Lord and the eternal Supper of the Lamb.  
And now I think I may have leave to conclude my directions (having put you into the hands of better Guides than myself) the sum whereof is briefly this: Let your principal design ever be to knit your heart to the Love of Jesus, and the ardent desire of being with him at Jerusalem. Let this be your great business to set your. Soul directly towards the place where he is, and to stir up in it such long as these, O that I were with Jesus! when shall I come to Jesus! And since he is the Way to himself there is nothing more needful for the accomplishing your desire then to propose him before your eyes for your imitation. As for Prayer, Meditation, and such like things, they are to be designed to this end, that your Love to him may be inflamed, your Desire after him increased, and your Resolution of doing his will and treading in his steps be made unmoveable. Whatsoever therefore you find proper to advance that Love, that Desire, that Resolution, be it Praying or Reading, Discoursing or Solitude, Walking or Reposing yourself, Visiting of others, or Keeping at home; make use of it for the time that your Soul relishes it, and as long as it quickens your Desire and endeavour of enjoying the love of Jesus and the blessed sight of him at Jerusalem. But when any of these shall prove irksome to you, be not troubled at it, but try for that time some of the rest, which may be then more useful because more pleasant to you. And when any of those Enemies I have mentioned shall disturb your peace, beat them off as soon as you can; but be not troubled because they do not presently yield, provided you do not yield to them neither. And if after a Victory they rally in the same manner again, be not affrighted at that neither, as if now they had greater courage; but endeavour only to beat them as before, and by obtaining a new Victory to show that it is your courage which is increased. And do not think you shall be in danger to lose the Victory over them, if you suffer your Bow sometimes to be unbent. Do not think a Pilgrim must be so severe as never to recreate himself in the way he goes. By perpetual Watch and labours your enemies may undo you as well as by any other means. Take but heed that you fall not into their Quarters when you divert yourself, and let but your pleasures still lie in your way, and you need not fear to make use of them. Remember the Example of the Saints of God, and stir up yourself to imitate their zeal and their discretion both together. And rest assured (my Friend) that this good Desire thus cherished, thus augmented, and thus strongly and wisely pursued, will bring you safe to the end of your Pilgrimage; and set your feet in the midst of Jerusalem, where I shall be right glad to meet you.   

CAP. XXIII.  
What entertainment all these discourses met withal from the Pilgrim. And of the pleasures he should find in his way, though encumbered with the forenamed Enemies.  
AND now I am sure you will expect to hear that the Pilgrim broke his silence: If not to thank this person for the satisfaction he had received, yet to tell him how much he thought himself engaged by the pains which he had most friendly taken for his satisfaction in the way to Jerusalem. But yet he could not for the present speak so much as one Word; such a violent passion seizing on him that it blocked up all other passages but only those for Tears. Which gushing out apace and seeking for more vent than they could find; caused a greater obstruction, and were ready to choke not only his Words, but also Himself. The good man who had hitherto been his Guide, thought that now he must become his Physician. And fearing that this passion might grow to some danger, and suspecting withal that it was the effect of a great sadness which he had conceived at his discourse; He went to him and taking him by the hand entreated him to resist this tide so long, till he could take so much breath as to tell him the cause of it. Now that the Pilgrim might show how obedient he was like to prove to the rest of his Words, he strove so earnestly with himself, that many Minutes were not passed before he recovered the use of his tongue and was able thus to speak to him. You have obliged me Sir so much beyond all my expression by the Instructions you have bestowed upon me, that as an endeavour to do more than we can, doth frequently make us to do just nothing at all; so I felt enough from thence arising to stifle my words, while my Soul laboured such expressions of Gratitude as could not be uttered. My Tears Sir could only tell you how much I think myself indebted to your Charity. For they did not spring from Grief as perhaps you might imagine, but from a very great joy, which flowed partly from the remembrance of the Providence which brought me hither, and partly from the sense of your friendly love, but chief from the good news you tell me, that the way to such a Blessed place as Jerusalem, is encumbered with no greater difficulties than you have related. O Sir I am overjoyed to hear that the journey will be no worse. It is a beginning of the pleasures I expect there, to know that the way is so good; for I was willing to have undertaken far greater things, rather than forsake my resolution of going thither. And here his voice was intercepted by a new passion like to the former, though it was not long before it had spent itself and gave him liberty to utter his mind as freely as he pleased.  
But before he could begin to discharge himself of those thoughts with which his Soul seemed to be filled, the other prevented him and told him that it was no small joy to him also to find himself so deceived and to meet with such a flood of joy in that place, where he feared he should have found a deluge of sorrow. And since, said he, you take so great content in what I have said about the way to Jerusalem, which others hear with as much heaviness as you did with pleasure; I shall give you a fresh addition of joy by something else which I reserved as an encouragement to you, but now I see must be a part of your comfort. And truly by what I shall say, you will plainly see how well Jesus rewards his servants that are willing to obey him; giving them far more than they durst expect, and where they looked for nothing but trouble and anguish, causing joy and gladness to spring up unto them. You shall never meet, I am confident, with worse entertainments, than I have mentioned in your way to Jerusalem, unless it be Death which we may meet with every where. But far better than have been spoken of, I do not fear to promise, if the Directions be followed which have been delivered to you. For besides the pleasures that will attend all your Victories, which are indeed unspeakable, and more than can be numbered; I must tell you there is much contentment to be fetched from the consideration of the way you are to go. Though in many places it may be rugged and hard, as you already perceive, yet it is always very strait and easy to hit, having none of those wind and turn in it that perplex and intricate men in the contrary paths; which, methinks, is no small comfort to a Traveller. Do you not see how many thousand Arts men are at the labour to devise that they may cheat and circumvent their neighbours? What a number of shifts they are put unto to make good a lie, and to palliate a piece of knavery? What a loss they are at sometimes to compass their revenge, or to satisfy an unchaste desire? And what a vast burden of cares they are afflicted withal who do not depend on God? What troublesome thoughts, what fears and frights, what discontents and disgusts, and such like passions as disturb their quiet they are continually pestered withal? There is none can tell you how these men wander up and down, and are at their wit's end, and when one way fails, are put with as much incertainty to devise a new, to attain that which they design. Whereas the ways wherein I would lead you are simple and plain, and lie so openly before your eyes, that you need not study what you have to do. Every body may soon know what Justice is, and there needs no Art at all to define it. To live purely, to forgive enemies, to trust in God, and to speak the truth, are things of no intricacy, and will not torture your mind for one moment to know what belongs unto them. They are very strait paths, and there are no labyrinths in which they involve you. Bring but honesty enough, and there needs not much wit, and no cunning at all to follow these courses. Do but consider this well, and you will think it a great happiness to follow Jesus. For the obtaining of whose love and favour, of his rest and peace, you need not use any base Arts, nor practise deceitful tricks, nor work treasons, nor be at the charge to calumniate your neighbours, nor take the pains to lie and cozen, to cog and flatter, to humour the lusts of men, to contradict your reason, and wound your conscience. It will cost you neither bad nights, nor unquiet sleep, nor vexatious days, nor careful thoughts; it will stand you neither in the loss of honour, nor the loss of life and happiness; but in natural and easy ways, in pleasant and safe courses you may provide for the immortality of them both. I cannot but call them pleasant, because I am assured that when you are once used to the Road, you will find the most rugged ways to be more delightful, and in all regards more easy to the Pilgrim's feet, than any of those are, which lead unto the opposite Countries. The greatest difficulty will be at the first entrance, as indeed it uses to be in the beginning of all other labours; but when you and the ways are once acquainted, I am confident you will not be persuaded to turn into any other paths, though you were infallibly assured they would lead you to the Imperial Throne, and make you Lord of the world. There is never a step of your Journey (as it were easy for me to demonstrate) but it will have something of sweetness in it; your soul will close with every thing that you have to do, no otherwise than your stomach embraces the meat it loves; you shall not stay for all your peace till you come to Jesus at Jerusalem, but he will make you know that all his ways are pleasantness, and all his paths are peace.  
And here I cannot but call to mind a pretty Fable, 
Dion. P●us Orat. 1. de Reg.  or as the Author of it saith, a most wholesome and sacred Story, under the scheme and in the habit of a Tale; which will well represent unto you the easiness and pleasantness of the way to Jerusalem, and much encourage you in it. It is designed indeed to show how much more safe, facile and happy it is for a Prince to rule his subjects by his Laws, than by an absolute will, and licentious power; but it may indifferently serve to instruct all manner of persons (who seek the way to Happiness as well as they, and may be taught by their great examples) how securely and comfortably they live, who observe the Laws of their Saviour, above those whose lust is their Law, and that have no other measure of goodness but their own sensual desires. It is in a Writer, I grant, that knew nothing of Jerusalem, but this will give you the greater pleasure, to hear that your way thither is so sure, that you may learn something of it from every body, even from those that are but strangers to the place. The Story is this:  

When Hercules was yet but a little Youth educated at Thebes, Mercury was one day sent to him from Heaven, that he might make a trial of his inclinations, and encourage him in all virtuous and noble undertake. For this end he carried him in unknown ways to the top of an high Mountain, which it would be too long to give you a description of in my Author's words. Thus much it is necessary for you to know, that it seemed but one to those who stood at the foot of it, having but one root and one body as far as their eyes could reach; but indeed was parted into two Hills before it came to its utmost height, which were also very widely distant the one from the other. The one of these was called the Royal Tower, or the Temple of King Jupiter: The other had the name of the Tyrannical Fort, the seat in old time of the proud Typhon, whom Jupiter struck down with Thunder from Heaven. To these two there was a several access; and the way to that where Royalty dwelled was very safe, wide and plain, so that a man might ascend even in a Chariot to that lofty place, without any danger or fear of falling: But to the other the way was narrow, crooked, and so dangerous, that a man must creep upon his hands and feet who intended to come thither. Nay, so full of hazard it was, that many who adventured to go in it, had been seen to precipitate themselves, and were utterly lost in a great Lake which was at the bottom of it. To those who beheld them afar off, they seemed, as I said before, to be but One; but the Royal Hill was far more eminent, lifting its head above the Region of the Air, and enjoying the benefit of the pure Sky; and the other was more depressed, having a cap of Clouds continually upon its head so thick and foggy, that they made it an obscure and dismal place. Now Hercules being brought thither, and having the nature of this Mountain thus shown to him, was already touched with so much ambition as to desire to be admitted into the interiours of them both. Which he had no sooner signified, than it was by Mercury granted, who said, Fellow me, and thou shalt behold most clearly the vast disparity of these two, which is altogether hid from the eyes of Fools. And presently he discovered to him upon the top of the former, a Woman sitting on a very splendid Throne: who was exceeding beautiful, and of goodly proportions; clothed in white raiment, and having a Sceptre in her hand neither of Silver nor Gold; but of a more pure and shining nature, like to that which Juno wields. Her countenance was composed of a mixture of smiles and gravity; so that all good men looked confidently upon her, and the evil were no more able to behold her, than they who have weak eyes can endure to turn them to the Sun. She seemed moreover to be so fixed, and always like herself, that her countenance and eyes did not betray so much as an inclination to change her serious sweetness. And indeed it was admirable to see the quiet, peaceableness and constant temper of that place, to behold the plenty of fair fruit, which it every where yielded, and to observe how all the creatures of every kind which lived there, did skip and dance round about it, as if they were tickled with an inward pleasure. Of Gold and Silver, and other Metals, there lay great heaps before her; and yet she seemed to be pleased with none of them, but only in the fruits and in the several creatures which she beheld in such contentment surrounding her. When Hercules therefore had fixed his eyes a while upon her, he blushed exceedingly, and fell down in a humble veneration of her, no otherwise than as a dutiful Child would do before a brave and generous Mother. And having at last demanded of Mercury the name and condition of this person, he told him, that it was the blessed and heavenly Queen, BASILEA, the Daughter of King Jupiter, whom he saw attended with many fair Ladies that were easy to be discovered, and of no less Nobility than the Queen herself. It is true, replied the young man, I behold, to my no small satisfaction, several divine persons waiting upon that Heavenborn Basilea; but may I be so happy as to know their Names also? She, said Mercury, on the Queen's right hand, who looks upon us with a stern mild countenance, is Justice a person of great account, and very beautiful? Hard by her there stands Uprightness, or Integrity; who is so like the former, that you can scarce know them asunder, and is not inferior to her in fairness. As for her whom thou beholdest on the other hand, a woman very specious and goodly, bravely clothed, and smiling on us, her name is Peace. She that stands just before the Queen, and even touches her Sceptre, an ancient gray-headed Matron, strong, and as thou easily seest, very magnanimous, She is called Law, or as others sometimes name her, Right Reason: A person who is of her Privy Council, and never stirs from her, without whom it is a crime to do, or so much as to think any thing.  
It would be too tedious to relate how the Youth was ravished with this sight, and how he endeavoured to print his mind with it, so that he might never forget it. But in short, he gazed so long upon Basilea, and her Royal Attendants, that Mercury was fain to call to him, and bid him not to spend his whole time in that contemplation, but to descend a little with him, and look a while upon the other place also, which was not unworthy of his observation. And indeed he thought with himself that it might be useful to him as well as this, and therefore he willingly consenting to go whither he would carry him, Mercury instantly brought him to a certain path which led to the Tyrannical Tower. There they saw a great number who waited for an opportunity to crowd into it (the way, as I told you, being very narrow) and many that were contending, yea kill one the other to force their passage. The Father there was murdering his children, the children dragged their Parents to execution, and one Brother embrued his hands in another's blood: Desiring nothing else but the greatest evil, and calling that the highest Happiness, which is only Power and Folly married together. And first of all he bade him take notice of the entrance to that place, how dangerous it was, how full of precipices, and how it was so undermined in several passages, that the earth was ready to fall under those who trod upon it. All the way likewise he showed him was besmeared with blood; and paved with skulls and dead men's bones, so that he saw it was not fit to let him set his foot in it, but he carried him in a fairer tract to an advantageous place, where he might take a just prospect of that part of the Mountain whereon Tyranny had seated herself. To a great height she was raised, though (as I noted before) she could not be elevated to such a pitch, as to free herself from the vapours and mists which infect these lower Regions. But he could clearly discern that she studied be to like the incomparable Basilea, and therefore feigned and counterfeited as much as she could the face, the gestures, the very Air of that Queen of Beauties. Nay, her Throne seemed to be far higher and better than the others, having many fair sculptures upon it, and being adorned with Gold, Ivory, Ebony, and such like varieties as Riches furnished her withal: But yet the foot of the Throne was not fixed, nor could all the wealth she was Mistress of procure, that it might stand fast without any shaking or tottering at all. Nor was there any thing orderly and handsomely disposed about her; but every thing was fashioned to comport with the Ends of Glory, Pride and Luxury, which in truth reigned over her, as she over others. Many Sceptres there were in her hand, and more than one Diadem upon her head; but they could not make her beautiful, because the more she studied to imitate the others manners the more deformed and ugly she appeared. When she thought to come forth with her friendly smiles, the eyes of those that looked upon her were entertained with nothing but a base and filthy kind of crafty grin. In stead also of the Gravity which she affected, a strange fierceness and terror discovered itself in her looks. Nay, that she might seem magnanimous she would not often cast her eyes on those who approached her, but turn them another way with a lofty disdain; whereby she became the object of all men's hatred, as they were of her scorn. Care she took of no body but herself; nor could she by all her care make herself to sit in quiet; but often stared round about her, and started up, or leapt out of her Throne, as if she sat uneasily, or apprehended some approaching danger. Gold she sometimes filthily kept in her very bosom; sometimes in a fright threw it abroad among the people; and then again snatched it out of their hands and was so greedy of it, that she pillaged every body that had but the least grain of it about them. And not to name her garments which he says were of divers colours, she herself used to be of as many colours as they. Being sometimes in Fears, sometimes in Anger; sometimes troubled with a fit of Jealousy, and sometimes over confident of herself and others. Now being very humble and servile; and presently after proud and insolent; at this moment laughing very loudly; and in the next as bitterly bewailing some misfortune or other. They that were about her also were as different from the Attendants before named, as she herself was from the Queen. Their names were, Cruelty, Contumely, Iniquity, and Sedition, who all served only to corrupt her and bring her to destruction. And I must not forget to relate that instead of Friendship, of which all are in so great need, she was daily attended by a servile and illiberal fellow called Flattery, who was no less treacherous to her then the rest, and indeed above all others sought her ruin. He was ever studying to form pleasing propositions; and if they were but grateful to her it was sufficient; for he never took any care about the good or hurt that was in them. It was a wonder to observe the Arts whereby he insinuated himself into her mind: what a strict intelligence he kept with her passions: and how he seized on all the avenues and locked up all the passages of her soul when he was once possessed of it, that none could be admitted to such a confidence as himself. He was ever whispering some of his lewd Maxims into her ear, and breathing some vicious Counsel or other into her heart: But he did it so softly that they could then hear nothing that he said, and therefore he that relates the story hath reported nothing of it. But I have been informed by another who hath approached very near to the secrets of that Villainy, that he was wont to advance such doctrines as these. That a Prince ought not to suffer himself to be bound with the fetters of Laws. That it was below him to be subject to the Fancies and Visions of ancient Legislators. That every thing was Just which was his Will. And that it was a weak and feeble thing to seek to be beloved. A great spirit ought rather to endeavour to make himself feared: and at the most he should aim only at his, that he might not be hated. Nay I have heard that he should say (and I give you the very words of the person from whom I had it) That Honesty was the Virtue of a Merchant and not of a Sovereign. That in Heaven they put the very Oaths of Princes in the same scales with those of Lovers. That Jupiter commands them to be thrown into the wind as trivial things and of no value. For this he alleged some Poet, for they were all the Divines which he consulted, and were frequently also abused by him. And so in a way of Fooling and telling of Tales he persuaded her that she need not keep her word, nor tie herself to follow any thing else but her own desires. It would be too long to tell you how ingenious this person was in inventing pleasures: and how he studied to endear himself by shameful services. And indeed most of those things were then concealed and had a curtain drawn before them, only thus much he overheard: That he jeered at Virtue and laughed at Piety as a sneaking quality, and the effect of a creeping, weak and superstitious mind. And that he commended a voluptuous life out of all measure, calling them Fools whose nice and delicate consciences, made them rude and cruel to their flesh.  
Now when Hercules had carefully viewed this Golden Creature with all her Servants, as well as he had done the other, Mercury, according to his Commission demanded of him, that he should tell him truly which of these did please him best and was held by him in greatest admiration. To which he presently replied, In good sadness, the former seemed to me so glorious, that I not only loved and admired her, but took her for a Goddess and thought her worthy of Worship and Imitation: But this is so odious and abominable in my opinion, that I would gladly have the liberty to throw her headlong from this high rock and break her neck. You know how much I loathe the brutishness of her life (continued he, as some Authors relate) and how I despise all her base and sordid pleasures. For when Pleasure herself appeared to me in a Vision and presented me with all her beauties; you may well remember how I scorned her courtship, and resolved to embrace laborious Virtue as the Mistress of greater pleasures. Therefore if it be not lawful for me to lay Violent hands on that Fury, yet let the heavens spurn her into that condition, which she kicks others down into; and let not prosperous Impiety be always held as good as Virtue. This heat of his, Mercury repressed and bade him have Patience in as great esteem as any of the Virtues he had beheld; but his Judgement which he had given in favour of Basilea he praised and commended as it did deserve, and having told it unto Jupiter, That was the thing, they say, which gained him the Empire of the World, and moved the Heavens to commit all Mankind to his care and Government.   
I doubt I have tired you with this long Story, but I shall not trouble you much further. Nor shall I study to show you how fitly may hence be represented the Happiness of all other men in their several conditions who take the ways of Piety, and the Misery of all the rest who tread in any other path; for you are of capacity to do this service for yourself. All that I shall say is only this, That to the men of this world they seem the very same as the Mountain in the story did: And because all things here fall alike to all, they think it is all one what course a man holds if it be but conformable to his own appetite. But you may look upon me if you please as standing in the place and quality of a Mercury to you, to show you the Holy Hill of God, and the beauteous City which is built upon it, and the Glorious Monarch which inhabits it, together with the way which leads thither, and the vast advantages which it hath over that Babel which men have built in their own fancies, and which would fain reach up to Heaven, but tumbles down together with them into endless ruin. And truly I cannot but fancy you to be another courageous Hercules, who seeing how high the ascent to that City is, and over what difficulties you are to climb, yet are not at all dismayed, but resolved to march in the way thither, though all the Silver and Gold, all the Jollity and pleasure of the World should lie in the way on the other side. The Heavens no doubt applaud your choice and they bid me tell you it shall be well rewarded; nay, I have already shown you that you must needs be more happy in that course then in any else that can be invented. For though the Hill be high and steep which you are to mount, yet the way is plain and easy, pleasures guard it round about, and a glorious place it brings you unto at the last. As you will totally escape those ways wherein, according to the story now told, there are nothing but intricacy and uncertainty, mists and darkness, trouble and sorrow, anxiety and disquiet, and in a word a great deal of pains to make a man doubly miserable: So you will be conducted in plain, natural, and unperplexed paths, in paths of pleasure and peace, of confidence and assurance, of light and serenity, of set ledness and stediness of mind, which will not let you be a stranger to an abundant happiness. I know the pretended satisfactions in the other way may make a greater show, and appear more splendid, accompanied with more pomp and noise: but if you be in love with still and silent joys, with grave delights and serious pleasures, they are only to be found in this way which I have pointed you unto. You shall never tremble in the midst of these enjoyments, nor shall you be troubled with fear lest you should lose your happiness. There are no mock-smiles here, when the heart is wrung within: but the ease of the mind makes the countenance smooth, and the joy of the heart casts a splendour into the eyes and a sweetness into the face. You shall never be flattered and cheated here with the delusions of momentary pleasures: but every taste you have of joy shall be an assurance of an everlasting felicity. Nay, you shall give a great joy to others also, and please them as well as yourself. You shall make all that are about you to rejoice, and their contentment will be an addition to your own. The satisfaction of making others happy and seeing them full of comfort by your means; will not let you doubt of your own happiness, nor want that peace which you give to them. And then after all this, you shall find yourself at last, though not made Master of all this World; yet brought to Jerusalem the City of the great King, of the Lord of all; there to reign with him in eternal Glory.   

CAP. XXIV.  
Upon the Pilgrim's request, the Guide enters into a further description of the Pleasures of the Way to Jerusalem; and answers some scruples of his about it. The difficulty of the beginning of his journey. Of taking up the Cross that might lie in his way; and such like things.  
I Will not undertake to express to you the silent admiration wherewith the Pilgrim entertained this discourse. He looked upon him with no less wonder then if he had thought him an Envoyé from Heaven, and taken him to be dispatched with a message immediately from God to transport him thither. He was almost lost in a new passion; and if it had not been for fear that the good man would here make an end if he did not entreat him to continue his discourse, he had abandoned himself to those pleasant imaginations which the telling of that story had raised in his mind. But recovering himself from their enticements, he got leave of them to speak to his Guide to this effect. Ah Sir, what a favour have you done me? Into what a delightful train of thoughts have you lead me? It is impossible to relate the pleasure you have now given me. I do not think that yourself can bestow the like upon me by any other means, but only by making this Story a little longer. You do it a great deal of wrong I assure you, in calling it tedious; for if it were lawful to gratify myself in the way that I fancy most, I should wish that it might last to the end of my life. You are a true Mercury indeed, the Orator of the Great King, the interpreter of God. You are sent to do me a double kindness; first to be my Guide, and then to ravish me into the way you show me, by your eloquence. May not the celestial natures be presumed to have some Patience, as well as so much Charity? Shall I offend you if I desire a more particular description of the ease and pleasure which you promise me in my way? Or cannot you stay so long as to pull a little scruple out of my mind, and tell me how this way can be so broad as your Story saith, since I have learned of one more Sacred that it is straight and narrow? I know I am indebted to you but too much for the favours you have already done me; And except it be in my hearty wishes I can never be so bountiful as you have been. But yet give me leave to say that this excessive freeness, is a temptation to run further into your debt. If you had been more reserved at the first, you had made me more modest; but now that you have been so prodigal of your counsel, pardon me if I think that I have nothing else to accuse of my confidence. If you would not have had me become such a Beggar, you should not have been so generous: you should either have withheld your hand sooner, or not be offended that I implore a fresh taste of your liberality. Go on good Sir to add to my obligations: for though they are so great already that you force me to be ungrateful by leaving me no power, not so much as that of words, to thank you; yet let me see you take such a pleasure in doing of good that you think yourself sufficiently paid for what you have done, by gaining men's will to a hearty desire of receiving more.  
I am no Master of eloquence, said the Guide, but you are beholden as I told you to a Stranger for that pleasant description. It is enough for me if I can point at the way to Heaven, and give you some plain and familiar directions how to find it. But you must persuade yourself to learn and follow those instructions, and not expect the assistance of any Rhetoric of mine to woe your heart to entertain them. And truly if I may judge by what you just now said, you have power enough in your own hands to charm your affections, and insinuate what I teach you into their favour. You may be indebted to yourself more then to me; and own your happiness rather to your own persuasion, than any Oratory that I can employ. But yet if you can be content with such dry narrations as I am able to make, you cannot demand any thing with more ease, than I shall yield to the satisfaction of your desires. It will be no trouble to me I assure you to prolong my discourse on this delightful theme, and I shall more gratify myself thereby then oblige you; though I must needs say that I think there is not so much need of it as you may imagine. You may take this upon my credit, that you will better experiment the pleasure of your way as you go along, than it is possible to perceive it by the most accurate description which can be made of it by the pen or tongue of man. You have often no doubt tasted the sweetness of honey: but suppose you had only seen the golden colour of it with your eyes, or only heard a graceful speaker make an Oration in its praise; would either of these have made you acquainted with it, so well as one little lick with your tongue is able to do? The case is not at all different here, and therefore begin to prosecute your resolution presently of travelling to Jerusalem; go to the ways themselves to learn their pleasantness; for they will teach you more in an instant, than I can do by many of my long discourses. But yet that you may not imagine I put you off, and refer you thither only to spare my pains, I shall at least give you some satisfaction in the truth of what I say and convince your reason that you must needs find the ways you are to pass very delightful notwithstanding all those difficulties which you may meet withal.  
All the actions of nature you will grant to be very pleasant, for they flow from us with ease and facility; and they also tickle us as they pass along because they run smoothly and do not grate upon us. Now there is nothing plainer than that the ways of Temperance, Charity, Trust in God and such like wherein you are to walk are most conformable to the right frame and constitution of your soul. You will move consonantly to your own principles which God hath naturally endued you withal: you will but follow the inclination of rational nature and that in its highest improvement, which must needs yield you the highest delight and satisfaction. Will you but be pleased for the proof of this to ask your soul a few Questions? I am confident if it go about to resolve them, it will give itself a sense of the goodness of the paths of Piety; and without any other evidence than they carry in themselves, it will pronounce that they are far easier and so infinitely more sweet than any that oppose them. I appeal to you and to all the world whether it be not a business of quicker dispatch to forgive an injury, then to take revenge for it? whether he doth not more seek his own ease and repose who studies to forget the malice of men towards him; then he that suffers the remembrance of it to ferment and boil perpetually in his mind? Is it not a business of less difficulty to be peaceable and quiet, then to be ever contending, quarrelling and falling out with our neighbours? And what toil is there in sitting still and not so much as lifting up our hands? and on the other side, what labour in fight, and beating, and wounding one another? Is it not far more easy to hold one's peace, then to rail and revile as much as we please? Which puts us to more pains to say nothing but well of others, or to be always finding fault, and still speaking evil of them? Meekness seems to me to be far less troublesome than anger and rage. Charity is more easy and delightsome, than covetousness and scraping up of wealth. To drink little is sooner and easier done, then to drink and swill as if we were in a perpetual Fever. And I cannot see what should hinder you from confessing instantly that it is a thing of far more ease and facility to live by Faith in God, to depend on his providence in honest ways, and to cast our burden upon him; than to be always careful and solicitous, to be ever vexing ourselves with worldly thoughts, and to be devising shifts and naughty Arts how to get more than we need. Is it any burden to praise God for the blessings he sends us? Or, Is it not more natural than to praise and commend ourselves to which all men seem so forward? And how can it be so toilsome to pray to him for what we want, as it is to spend our time in a laborious diligence, without a serious and hearty acknowledgement of him? To be humble and modest is far more agreeable than to bear it high, and lift up ourselves above others. It is nothing so hard to obey Governors, as to be turbulent, and fall into rebellion against them. Yea to suffer wrongs breeds us less molestation than to do them. To be patiented creates us not half so much trouble, as it doth to vex, and fret, and sum within ourselves. To rejoice in God is a thing that more gratifies, than all the pleasures of sense. And even to mourn for our sins doth give us more satisfaction, than to mourn and grieve for worldly losses.  
It would be a very easy matter, I believe you discern to make a long discourse on this argment: as also to show that besides the ease and the pleasure that there is in doing these things, they leave also a certain joy and contentment when they are done. They that hold the course into which you are entering, do feel that every step they take leaves a certain print behind it, which it is an infinite delight to reflect upon. They enjoy a repose and security in their consciences, which is not to be uttered: and remain in great tranquillity. all their lives. There is no body that can rob them of their pleasures; neither can any man intercept them, and hinder them from coming into their souls: nor will they themselves be ever weary of them, or desire to make an exchange of them for some other contentment. There is no disgust in those holy delights. They breed no dislike by their frequent enjoyment. They depend not as others do on infinite circumstances, whereof the want of any one makes them either odious or unprofitable: but they have a constant cause, and depend but upon one thing, which is always present, and inseparable from all good souls. They live without fear in their possessions; and without distrust in their wants. They do not blush in the company of others; nor do they tremble when they are alone. They are not bitten with remorse, nor covered with shame for what is past; and their present condition is not troubled with any disquiet; and they have nothing but fair and goodly hopes for the time to come. In fine, they are the portion of God in the world, they are his treasure; they are his delight and his joy: and whensoever he makes them know so much, there is not an higher pleasure that the heart of man is capable to possess. To make joy in Heaven, to give delight to the King of the world, O what a ravishment is it? What glorious hopes doth the thought of it inspire us withal? It would make any man cry out, I will be good; I vow that I will be good, though the whole world should oppose me in it. Your very flesh will consent to be one of the subjects of Jesus, if you do but let it know the happiness that he will bring unto it. It will become a Votary to him, when you understand how much the better it shall far for that repose of your mind, and the constant pleasure of a regular life. Your very stomach cannot but commend his measures, and submit itself to his Laws, who lays no burden upon it, but rather eases it of all its loads. It will complain of your unkindness if you deny it the favour of being absolutely governed by his will. There is never a drop of blood in your body, but had rather be spilt in his service, than that you should refuse his blessed life, which leads to such endless felicity to the whole man. Consult every thing about you: Take advice of every thing that belongs to you: and it will confess that there is no such Master of pleasure in the whole world as the Holy Jesus; that it is the greatest Epicurism to be one of his followers; and that if a man should study till the world's end, he would never cast himself into such an ecstasy of joy, as the knowledge and belief of what he hath promised, and an heart full of love to him proportionable to that belief, will put him into. And therefore it is a wonder that the Voluptuaries of the world go to any other School than his, to learn the Art of making much of themselves. Here is true pleasure; here is the very spring of all contentment. It is the very inscription upon the door or entrance of Christ's School, that Blessed are the poor in spirit, blessed are the pure in heart, blessed are the meek, blessed are the peaceable, blessed are the merciful, yea blessed are they that mourn, and that suffer for righteousness sake. Nor are these vain brags, and empty boasts; like the Papers which Empirics set upon posts pretending to the cure of all diseases. But if any man will try, he shall find all this to be the very truth; he shall preach this doctrine himself to the world; he shall avow it confidently to all that he meets, that Jesus only brings true rest to their souls and bodies. Nor is the trial of such difficulty that you or my man else should refuse it. When you have left my company, and are retired to yourself, do but fix your mind, as long as you are wont to do on lesser businesses, upon these truths; that Jesus is exalted at the right hand of God, that he hath received a Kingdom and Glory from the Father, that he hath power to raise up you to sit with him in his Throne, that he will infallibly take you up to himself, that you may be there where he is, and behold the Glory which God hath given him; and then tell me if ever you felt any thing touch your heart with such a pleasure as the bare contemplation of those divine enjoyments. The very fancy of them is delightful. Such a dream, if a man was in it, he would not lose for all that he sees here. He would be troubled to be awaked, and shut his eyes again, wishing that it may know no end. And therefore the assurance of these things to be a certain truth which the Holy Ghost coming down from Jesus hath given to us, must needs give us a far greater satisfaction. A satisfaction as much beyond that of fancy; as a sensible enjoyment is beyond a dream. And what the contentment will be if we suffer these truths to go down to our hearts, to ravish our wills, to breathe into us the Love of Jesus, and to bring all those Blessed Virtues into our esteem and affection, I have not power enough to express. But as you love your soul, do not deny it your best endeavour, that before this day be at an end, you may have a real feeling of it.  
And now it may be fit for your fuller conviction in this particular, to bid you turn your eyes to the condition of other men who are engaged in a quite contrary course: and you will soon see that to be a pleasant path wherein I conduct you, by the misery and confusion which you will discern in their lives. It will not be long before you be satisfied, that they are not in a state of Nature. They will presently discover to you, that they are not as they should be: Nay, that they would be something else, than what they are, and that long use and custom hath rendered contradictions familiar to them. There is not one of them but he loves that which he hates, and pursues that which he flies, and praises that which he cannot but also discommend. There are strange seditions and clashings in their desires, and they are tossed about with I know not how many contrary winds. They all desire to be rich, and yet this very desire will not let them be so. They fear nothing more than need, and yet they are ever in great want, and cannot be filled. For they always think that which they have to be less than that which they have not; and they take that which is present to be so little, that it is not worth their notice in compare of what they expect in time to come. And is there is any greater consistency in their desires of pleasure? Alas! they pursue mirth, but they ever pull upon their heads a great deal of sorrow. They would have nothing at all but sweetness; and the more greedy they are of it, the greater is their bitterness. When they think to heighten their delights; they quite destroy them, and take them away. When they would leave no place empty, they are so full that they cannot feel them. Do you not see all this verified in drunken fools? Where is their pleasure after their Understanding is once blasted with the fumes of Wine? A Sponge is as good a Judge as they of pleasures, which, without any difference, sucks in the best and the worst of liquors. And as for Death, Which of them is there that doth not fear it, and yet they take no care at all to live? They dread diseases, and yet they will not abstain from noxious and unwholesome things. When any trouble falls upon them, than they wish they were out of the world, and bless those that are dead; and yet when death comes, though they are never so ill, they wish it would stay a little longer. They hate many times to live, and yet they are afraid to die. They think them happy who are in the other world, but yet they are loath to come among them. They cry out of the evils which they suffer, and yet they would fain spin out the most miserable life to the greatest length. But there is another thing that is stranger than this. For you have often heard them complain (I believe) of the great scarcity of time, and yet which of them is there that is not so prodigal of it, as if he had half a Age to spare? They say that it runs away very swiftly from us, and yet they spur on their hours, and would have them fly away faster than they do, as if they had too many of them. There are but a few seasons, they say, in time, and yet they let those opportunities grow old in their hands, and suffer them to be bald before they mind to apprehend them. And did you ever mark how they deal one with another? Each man suspects his fellow, because he deserves to be suspected himself. Every one is afraid to be deceived, and labours all he can to deceive. He hath a great mind to be revenged, and yet he would not have Justice itself take any vengeance of him. He hates Tyranny, and yet he would fain be the Tyrant. He would have all men subject to those Laws, which he hath no mind to observe. He accuses many things as base, but will not stick to do them. And on the contrary, he holds good fortune in great estimation, but cares not a rush for virtue, which yet he acknowledges deserves only to be fortunate. 
Max. Tyr. dissert. 20.  Philosophers themselves have been ashamed to see how they all behave themselves in every condition like unconstant fools. They abhor War, but cannot tell how to live in Peace. They are miserably dejected if they be made slaves, but are so insolent in liberty, that they draw servitude upon them. They desire children, and when they have them take no care about them. They would leave them estates, but no virtue to use them well, and to preserve them. They desire to have their family always flourish; but breed them so, as if they meant it should die with the next Generation. Nay, God himself is not better used by them. For they pray to him, as if he was able to do them good, and yet they affront him, as if it was not in his power to do them hurt. At other times they fear him, as if he could severely punish, and yet forswear themselves, as if he had no Being but only when they pleased. But that I may not run into infinite particulars, let us once for all take a view of those who would attain to great honours, and see by what low, mean and servile practices they labour to ascend unto them. There is nothing which their heart abhors more than subjection to others, and yet they are forced to the basest prostrations. They stoop to the very feet of those, upon whose heads they would tread. They kiss those hands, which they wish a thousand times were cut off, if they oppose their designs. Their very idleness is in action day and night. The compliments and ceremonies they bestow upon others, are a business of greater trouble, than the ruling of Provinces, and disposing of Kingdoms. It may seem strange, but there is nothing truer, That if a man would climb to the highest place in the world, it is necessary he should become lame, and breath short, and take such little steps, as if a long Ague had but just left him to the use of his legs; and in one word, seem altogether unfit for the business he designs. You know what a glory it is to be the supposed Head of all Christendom. And yet they that are well acquainted with the ways to that office, tell us in plain terms, that he must keep his Bed, and use all the Arts which Physic can assist him withal, not to be well, but to be ill; who hopes to attain that dignity. He must put himself into a feavourish heat; he must beg the help of defluxions and catarrhs; he must procure a pale look, and a meager aspect; he must cough as if he was calling for his grave; or else he must lose that place which will not come at easier rates. And now what think you? Are not these fine ways to Glory? Have not they a great mind to trouble themselves, that purchase trouble at so great a price? For the rising to high places (as a wise man of our own observes) is very laborious, and by pains men come to greater pains: Nay, it is sometimes very base, and by indignities men come to dignities. Perhaps this ambitious fool doth flatter continually those whom he hates: He applauds and praises those whom he despises: He admires all that is ill done: He approves of all that a wicked and debauched appetite desires: He speaks against his conscience; and smiles on him whom he could by't and fasten his teeth upon with all his heart. He dissembles all his resentments; and though he love revenge as well as his life, yet he is put to the pains of stifling all those passions which are its servants. There is a fire in his bones, and he dare not give it the least vent, that others may feel it as well as himself. He swallows all the affronts which a Porter gives him at a Great man's Gate; and he bribe's those with gifts whom he wishes dead, that he might enjoy their places. And when he is mounted to the top of his desires, I beseech you, on what Pinnacles doth he tread? Which are so small, that there is but a little between him and the danger of a fall; and withal so sharp, that they wound the feet which tread upon them. And did you never perceive the delight that some men take in laughing at the meanness of the extraction of this Meteor? The greatest honours are not able to cleanse the blemishes of his family. And when he hath done all that he can, bold spirits will throw in his face the dirt from whence he is sprung; and wound him with a remembrance that he is but a New Man.  
But then if one of these persons chance to drop down to the place where he was before, and become the object of scorn, in what a sad condition is he? When the Play is ended, and the high-heeled Buskins are pulled off which raised him above others, and the gaudy clothes are torn from his back, and he returns to his first form; he becomes a despicable creature even to himself. So mad a thing it is to judge of a man by the height of honour, to which he is advanced, for it is as if you would take the measure of a statue by the pedestal on which it stands. But besides all this, the conscience he hath of his crimes will render him still more miserable, because it will ever put him in mind that he deserves his misery. And as for others, it will likewise be a dangerous thing for any man to undertake the protection or comfort of such a person, who is known to have merited his misfortune. Nay more than this we have heard of such fools, that before they had lost all their imaginary happiness, have deprived themselves of the remainder, out of vexation that it did not continue as great as before. So that great glutton Apitius having wasted the best part of his estate, and finding but two hundred thousand Crowns remaining; imagined himself a Peggar, and drunk a draught of poison, because he thought he had not sufficient to maintain his ancient riot. For which he was sound jeered by one of the Sages of those days, who said this was the most wholesome draught that ever he made, which put an end to such a dissolute life.  
Thus, you see, these vicious men are so hated while they are alive, and their memory is so persecuted when they are dead, that I believe you would not stand in one of their places. And the more injuries they have done to others, to raise themselves; the more odious they grow, and the more curses follow them to their graves. So toilsome it is to follow those courses, that men will not suffer them to rest in peace even in the Sanctuary and common refuge of all the miserable. They that did not know how to be revenged on their persons while they were here; are wont to fall upon the Phantasm which they have left of themselves in their imagination; and to wreak their spleen upon their memory, and stab their reputation. They please themselves in their greatness for a while, and then they pay very dearly for it. Nay, the time of their pleasure is so small, that they come to it by a far longer time of pains; and when they enjoy it, we scarce know how to distinguish the moments of the one from those of the other; for pains are either mingled with their pleasures, or presently tread upon the heels of them.  
All which, when I consider, it calls to my mind the Story of the Fool, who passing thorough the Forest of Ravenna as he came from Rome, filled a whole Wallet and a Pillow-bear top full of Flies, Gnats and Hornets, of which that place affords good store, and of no small bigness, to bring them home with him. Wither when he was arrived, he sent to his friends and kinsfolks round about, desiring to see them, that he might present them with some rarities and curious things which he had brought from Rome. Though they knew him to be a Ninny, yet they could not imagine him to be such a Sot as afterward they found him; but fancied that he might have light upon something in his Journey, which might be worth one of theirs to go and see it. But when they were met together, and were come into his Chamber, after many compliments and great expectations; he had nothing to entertain them withal, but a huge number of those troublesome creatures which he poured out of his bags upon them; thinking because of their various colours, that they were precious things, and would yield a fine sight unto his friends. They laughed a little at the jest at first, but they soon felt there was no cause, when they found them about their ears, and flying in their faces, and their eyes in such a manner, that it was no small affliction and pain unto them. Just such, methinks, is the condition of those who live in sin. They are promised fine things, and secret delights by the temptations which send to them, and invite them into their society. Great hopes are given them of new pleasures, and such rare satisfactions as hitherto they have not met withal. And they are such fools as to believe their imagination, or an idle companion who entices them by fair speeches, though they know very well how often they and others have been deluded by such flatteries. The sin indeed seems pretty at the first; it makes them some sport for a while, and you think that they are much pleased. But alas! they come a great way for that short mirth, and it is so trivial, that it is not worth a fly; and at last they are stung worse than by a whole nest of angry Wasps. Their conscience is always buzzing some evil in their ears; they are persecuted by it continually, and it follows them with its secret murmurs; they are tormented as with a swarm of Hornets, which will never cease to trouble them as long as they stay there, and will not open the door and run away from their sins.  
And truly by this time it is like you will wonder that they should be content to stay in their company. You may very well ask, what do these men mean thus to trouble themselves, when there is such a visible way to their peace and quiet? Why do not they break lose from their sins, and seek their satisfaction in some other course? Had they not better become good, than be at so much pains to make themselves miserably bad? They cannot but discern sure, that happiness lies not in their Road; and that to enjoy repose, they must become the followers of Virtue. And to tell you my mind plainly, I verily think there is a number of them would gladly be her servants, if to be made so might be wholly the Act of another, and not at all their own. They would think it a blessed change to do well, as naturally as they do ill; if this New Nature would but come into them of itself, and not require their pains to quit the Old. They commend the ways of Virtue, and think them happy who live temperately and chastely; but how to get into them, there is the difficulty. They would gladly find themselves there the very next moment, but to travel thither is a business of too much labour. Their own life is a very great trouble to them, but there is some trouble also in the beginning of a new. Though the way that I show you be so pleasant, that they who are not in it cannot but have a mind to be translated thither; yet the entrance of it is not without some difficulties. The stings which I told you are in their conscience, cannot be pulled out without more pain than they are willing to endure. It is a business of much anguish to have the wounds which are made in their natures searched and dressed, and such applications made, as will draw out all the corruption and filth. They had rather palliate their sores, than have them raked into, in order to their being healed. It is a new thing to which we would engage them, and they apprehend it so laborious also, that they think it better to continue as they are, than with a great deal of pains to take upon them another burden. They that are free from their prepossessions, find excellent things to be very irksome when they first begin to set about them. With what unwillingness do children learn their first letters, though afterward it prove delightful to be able to read? And how hard do most men find the first step to any Science, which when they are a little Masters of, is infinitely pleasant? And therefore every one must expect to find the gate to be straight which opens to that way wherein you are to travel. There all their old customs are to be put off. There I know not how many desires of the flesh are to be denied and left behind. There a man must be stripped stark naked: He must become like a little child, and reduced just to nothing in his own eyes, that so he may be able to enter. And then also there are many strange paths present themselves with which he hath had no acquaintance; which is the cause that many are affrighted and start back again, rather than they will undergo the troll of pressing in at so straight a passage. Though, if it be well considered, this is just such a folly as if a man in a long Journey perceiving himself out of his way, should choose still to go on in his error, rather than go back again, because of the many wearisome steps which he must be forced to take before he recover the right Rode. The further he goes on, the further is he out of his way; and consequently must never come to his Journeys end, unless it be with greater pains hereafter, than those which he now avoids.  
But not to deceive you, (nor forget a short Answer to your other doubt) I must also let you know, that the way itself, for a few of the first miles, is very narrow as well as the gate; though afterwards it be as wide and broad as heart can wish. That which a man hath put off in resolution at his entrance into the way, he may find still to hang upon him when he comes to move, and very loath to be quite shaken off. His desires which he had contracted, may begin to stir and to enlarge themselves, and complain that they are confined too much, and reduced into too narrow a room. And so it will still seem, till by often denials they grow content, and make room for nobler desires to spring up in him. Then will he think himself pressed and straitened no more, when he finds his soul enlarged another way, and his appetites carried unsatiably toward diviner objects. Then he will not say he is penned up, when he feel, that the retrenching of his worldly desires hath set his heart at liberty to go whither it naturally would, without any restraints upon it. He will find that he is at ease by being straitened; that he hath got his freedom by being bound up; and that he enjoys as much as he desires, by denying and pareing of his desires. It may seem indeed a strange way of enlarging our souls, by bringing their desires into a narrow compass: but if you consider it, there is nothing truer, than that it is much better, and more to our content, not to desire some things at all; than to desire them, and withal to have them as much as we desire. As for example; we see men mad to have their fill of bodily pleasure. But how doth it far with them at that season? Have not these desires brought a torment to them? No doubt they have much more pleasure than in abstaining from that of which they were so greedy, than in continuing to enjoy it. Why should it not be thought better than to do that out of virtue which disordered fullness forces them to? Is it not much more eligible to abstain out of choice, than not to forbear till we are constrained? Yes verily; and men would receive a greater satisfaction in subduing such mad desires; than it is possible to do in the fulfilling of them. It is with these carnal people, saith one of the old Directors in the way to Jerusalem, as if a man should be so dry, that he calls for one cup after another, and though he drink never so much, yet cannot quench his thirst. Certainly such a man cannot be esteemed happy, because he never wants liquor, but hath still at hand as much as he desires. No, he is the happy man, who feeling no thirst is free from this necessity of drinking so much, and is no way urged to desire it. For the first is like a man in a burning fever, and the other like one that enjoys a perfect health. And there is another of them also who verifies this in his own example. For he confesses that walking one day with some friends through the City of Milan, having his head full of an Oration he was to make in the Emperor's praise, and his heart thirsting after Glory and preferment, which he thought it would procure him; and therewith very much contentment: He chanced to cast his eye upon a Beggar who having newly received an Alms, was very blithe and of a pleasant countenance. At which spectacle, he fetched a deep sigh and said to his company, What a mischief is this that I should thus drag my own infelicity after me by the fury of my desires, and with so much trouble seek in vain for that satisfaction, which this poor fellow is already arrived at, without so much ado? It is better by far to have none of these long, then to take such pains, and perhaps without any fruit, to give them contentment. If we should have all that our desires crave, yet it is a shorter way to make us happy, To be without them. For why do we desire those pleasures or honours so inordinately? Is it not for the satisfaction and joy which we expect to meet with in them? But that we may have sooner if we can be rid of those desires. Especially since by wanting them, the soul hath leave to fill itself with better pleasures. Such pleasures as we cannot desire, but we shall have them: and which we cannot have, but we shall be filled: and which by filling of us do only more enlarge our souls that we may receive a greater fullness.  
But there is something still more considerable in those words of Jesus which have occasioned this discourse, course, for if the propriety of that word be examined whereby he expresses the condition of the Way, it doth not seem to signify so much the narrowness of it, as the roughness, stoniness and external difficulties wherewith it is encumbered. There are many afflictions and crosses which may lie in this way; and they deter so much the more delicate sort, that they seem to be the greatest rub they meet withal, and the strongest objection which they make against what I have said of the pleasure of these paths. But let me tell you, that if you imagine it to be far more pleasant to live after the flesh, then to take up your Cross and follow Christ in his sufferings; there is not a grosser error that can possess your mind. For he was made perfect through sufferings: And there was a joy set before him which made him dure the Cross: 
1 Pet. 4.13, 14.  And his followers bid us also rejoice in as much as we are partakers of the sufferings of Christ, that when his Glory shall be revealed, we may be glad also with exceeding joy. Nay for the present they say we shall feel ourselves happy if we be reproached for the name of Christ; for the Spirit of Glory and of God resteth upon us. It is a most Heroic and Divine temper of mind which expresses itself in meek and cheerful suffering. Then we have opportunity to use the most glorious virtues. Then those Graces of God shine most illustriously which else would be obscured. And cherefore one of these great souls cries out and says, Behold, 
Jam. 5.11.  we count them happy which endure. The bravest men that ever the world bred, were of the mind that there was no joys comparable to those, which are proper to courageous and patiented Virtue. It was impossible to gratify them more; you could not lay an higher obligation upon them; then if you presented them with an occasion to show their Constancy, their Faith and their Valour. You know who he was that refused to be called the son of a King's daughter; choosing rather to suffer affliction with the people of God, then to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season; 
Heb. 12.25, 26.  esteeming the reproach of Christ greater riches than the treasures of Egypt: for he had respect to the recompense of reward. Nay I have learned thus much from Heathens themselves (for I do not think them unfit for my converse) that it is necessary for good men to enter into agonies and conflicts. They are in need of some thing or other to combat withal: and therefore afflictions and troubles are the Antagonists of Virtuous souls, without whom they could not be lawfully crowned. The Generosity then of Christian Religion I am sure is such that it will make you welcome Crosses and stretch out your arms to receive them with more resolution and cheerfulness then ever Pagans did. You have been a Schoolboy it is like in your time, and then you could not but hear as well as I the story of Ulysses. How he was persecuted at home and abroad; how he encountered Giants, barbarous and inhospitable people; how he was in danger of Witchcraft and enchantments; underwent cold Winters, Shipwrecks, and Beggary, being forced to wander about in rags: And I can receive no other account of all this from the Wise men of those days, but that, he being a good man, 
Max. Tyr. diss. 22.  God was pleased in mere love and friendship to him thus to exercise and try his Virtue; proposing him as an example of the contentment which both God himself and virtuous souls do take in their enduring the hardships which heaven lays upon them. And what do they say think you of that great man Hercules the beginning of whose story you heard before? They tell us that he was beloved of God, and had the highest place in his favour; nay they call him his son, and say that God committed to him the Government of the World. And yet he was always assaulted with some Monster or other, and God would not suffer his own child (as one of them speaks) to be nursed up in idleness and the delicacies of life. No, he fought with Lions, and Boars, and Serpents, and Tyrants, and Thiefs; and he was appointed to travel into strange lands, to cross dangerous seas, and to go through terrible wildernesses and deserts; And all to testify the favour of Heaven to him that would thus employ him. No doubt his Father could have freed him from such conflicts, but he would not; because (as they render the reason) it is not lawful for him to will any thing but that which is best and most excellent. Or he might have freed himself and perhaps some men would have advised him to flee these dangers, and rather to quit his place then expose his life to so many hazards. But they knew not the pleasure which he found in his heart, when he remembered that he was thought worthy by God to be singled out to be his Champion; and that Heaven had not an ill opinion of him, nor judged him a weak and effeminate person. It was a strange contentment also to imagine that all these dangers presented themselves only that he might overcome them; and he felt that there was not half so much pains in fight, as there was pleasure in the very hopes of having the Victory. Nay if he had perished in the encounter, so he had carried Victory out of the World with him, he would have thought himself crowned with an high satisfaction. He would have thought that he died more happily than Cowards live; and that it was more glorious thus to end his days, then to spin them out basely to the longest Age. Besides, herein there being so considerable a proof of the sincerity and fidelity of such persons unto God, it cannot but please them very much to reflect upon it. It yields them a great joy to remember that they have his approbation, and that after many fiery trials, he finds that they are not endued with a counterfeit Virtue. Nay, it is some joy to think that their enemies judge them so considerable, as to raise such mighty forces against them, and fight so many battles with them. They assure them hereby, that they are more in their account, than they could wish. And that power which gave them a shock, but could not shake them, doth demonstrate the solidity of their souls, and the great strength they have to resist such forcible impressions.  
I do not know whether it be a tale or no, but I have been told that among other ways, the Queen of Sheba tried the wisdom of Solomon, by offering certain Boys and Girls to be distinguished one from the other by him, when they were put into the very same garb and had been taught the same gestures and carriage of their bodies: And that he calling for some cold water, commanded them all to wash themselves. Into which the youths plunging their hands boldly, and then rubbing their faces very hard; and the others tenderly dipping their fingers, and only sleaking their faces over with it; he soon discerned the difference, and separated them according to their sexes. Hardships will make a true proof of the strength and masculine force of our spirits. Prosperity (as a wise man of later times observes) doth best discover Vice, and Adversity makes the best discovery of Virtue. And as the one is not without many fears and distastes; so the other is not without its hopes and comforts: of which this is not the least, that God thinks us worthy to be the men, in whom he would make an Experiment, what Christian souls are able to suffer. The Virtue of Prosperity is Temperance, and the Virtue of Adversity is Fortitude; which in the account of all the world is the more Heroical of the two, and yields the greatest Triumphs. Nay, He fears not to say, that Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament, and Adversity is the blessing of the New, which carries the greater benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favour. And therefore do not take that ill, which to such a man as you is a mark of the Divine Love. Be not unwilling that God should do you an honour, and bestow upon you a blessing. Let him have the pleasure of seeing you behave yourself gallantly. Deny him not that spectacle which is not to be had in Heaven, and for which he manifested himself in flesh. Let it not repent him of his choice, if he pick out you for some notable Combat. The General appoints the stoutest men for the hardest services. And they do not say. He bears an ill will to us, and owes us a spite; but he hath an high opinion of us, and intends to do us credit. Do you now issue forth with an heart full of the same thoughts, and take my word you shall never want the noblest pleasures. You will thank God for placing you in the foremost rank of Christian Soldiers. You will praise him for esteeming a poor Pilgrim capable of such achievements. You will rejoice to see yourself herein preferred before the Angels: For if they can do more than you, yet you can suffer more than they. Nay, you will find yourself in the fellowship of the Son of God, who was never so glorious as when he hung upon the Cross; never triumphed so much as when he seemed to be trampled under feet; and then spoiled principalities and powers, when he was robbed of all, and lost even life itself.   

CAP. XXV.  
How the Pilgrim and his Guide parted. And with what a brave Resolution he began his Journey.  
WHen the Good Father (for so we will hereafter call him) had said those words with some other to the same effect; he told him, that now he thought it would be an injurious act to hinder him any longer by his discourses, from going to prove the truth of what had been said. If I am a Mercury (continued he with a little smile) as you have been pleased to fancy, I may have leave to make use of my wings and fly away. There remains nothing now to be done, but that which I cannot do for you; and the greatest courtesy that is left in my power, is to keep you no longer from doing it yourself. Whereupon, after he had exhorted him briefly to be strong in the Grace of Jesus Christ, and to endure hardship as a good Soldier of his, He bade him hearty farewel, and put himself into a posture of departing. But the Pilgrim being sorely afflicted within himself at this news, suddenly caught hold of his Garment which gently moved towards him as he turned about; and in a contest between joy and grief, uttered these words, as well as those passions would give him leave. Let me entreat you, Dear Sir, to prolong your patience so far, as before you go away to receive my thanks for the good Directions you have furnished me withal; and to give your Blessing likewise upon a poor heart that is resolved by the help of Heaven instantly to set forth in this way which you have described. If I had been born your Son, I could not have thought my obligations greater to you, than now I feel them. Nay, I shall take the liberty to say, That I stand more indebted to your Piety, than I do to Nature. For fancy ofttimes makes Parents, but it is only reason, truth and goodness which have tied my heart to you. And therefore since I am the issue of your mind, you may justly expect a greater reverence, love and obedience to your commands, than if I was the issue of your body. I have heard your discourse Sir, with great attention; I have marked every particular passage of it with diligence and care; and such a gust hath every word given me which dropped from your mouth, that it hath seemed to me not many minutes long. It is not to be expressed how your Golden Sentence pleaseth me, which you have put into my mouth. I am resolved to go along this Journey chanting it continually, with no less delight than the Birds are wont to do their Melodies. Nay, I cannot forbear (and be not weary, I beseech you Sir, if I hold you longer than I thought) but I must here before you renounce my own proper will, and protest that I desire nothing but to be what Jesus would have me, and to be where Jesus, you say, will bring me. O thou enemy of God my self-will, that hast reigned so long, come down from thy Throne. I proclaim War against thee, and am resolved from this day forward to oppose all thy desires. I set myself here in open defiance to thee; I will have no peace with thee for one moment; because thouart no friend of God, to whom I now deliver myself. Let him be pleased to come and reign in my heart, for I am absolutely his. May it be his will to accept of a poor Slave, that devotes all his powers to his service. This I will beg of him perpetually, that he would vouchsafe to let me know what his will is; and that shall be my Guide, though my own will be never so desirous to hold a contrary course. Let it pain me, or let it please me, I am resolved to bind myself fast to God; that he may carry me not whither I would, but whither himself thinks good. Say the word, O my God, and it is enough: I am prepared to be conducted by thee. Led me whither thou wilt, O thou blessed Providence; thou shalt have a faithful follower of thy wise Counsels. I am no longer afraid of any dangers. Those terrible Monsters, Poverty, Reproach, and all the rest, do strike no dread at all into me. Farewell offices and honours, if you must be the recompense of crimes. Farewell my friends, if I must be the companion of your sins. Farewell all the world, if it must be the price of my soul. But as for you Sir, I am loath to bid you farewell. I must be snatched, rather than go from your company. For you are my Father, my Oracle, a Messenger sent from God to bring me to him. And if you will go to Heaven without me, I pray you once more to receive my acknowledgements, which testify that I would thank you if I were able, both for your former Directions, and for this Patience.  
Truly (replied the Father) I think myself rather obliged to thank you most hearty that you would come to me, and being come, that you would hear me not only with Patience, but Acceptance. For there is nothing, I am so greedy of, as to meet with a soul that is sincerely desirous to know the way to Jerusalem; neither do I know any pleasure equal to that of pouring out my heart into such thirsty minds, unless it be this of seeing them relish those Waters of Life which flow from Wisdome's lips. And that same Jesus who, I see, hath touched your heart already with his Love, and excited you to take this Journey; give you his Blessing, and send his Spirit the Comforter to accompany you in your travels, and assign you to some good Angel of his that may conduct you to that happy place, the Heavenly Jerusalem, where he lives. In the way to which I am so desirous you should enter, that I will not be your hindrance by any further discourses; but shall be very glad, as I told you, to find you in safety arrived there, where we shall never part more, nor have any cause to say this sad word, Farewell.  
Must I part then with you, said the Pilgrim?— Here he made a pause, and tears spoke the rest of his mind: for I could hear never a word he said, till after a great many sighs he thus proceeded: Well, let it be so. It is part of my duty, you say, to be contented with every thing. And therefore I now freely resume my former resolution, and say in the words (I hope in the Spirit also) of Jesus, Not my will, O Lord, but thy Will be done. Only let me again renew my desires that you would accompany me ever with your good Prayers, for I hope it is not too great a gratification of myself to be pleased in your friendship, and in the belief that you remember me: Nor will it be accounted a crime that I am not willing to be left out of your thoughts, especially when they are addressed in devout supplications to Jesus. I have been long persuaded that I use to prosper the better in all my designs for the good wishes of pious persons: and it hath been some support to me also when I have had no great store of good desires in my own heart, or been but cold in those I had, to think that the concerns of my soul were presented to God by some Friend or other, in their more fervent Devotions. And therefore it will be at the most but a pardonable error, if I do with some Passion beg the prayers of such a person as you are, and if I comfort myself sometimes with the interess I have in you and them. Especially since I see by your charitable instructions, and the patience you have used towards me, that you have an heart so full of Love and Goodness, that it will neither suffer you to remember me coldly, nor to be weary in recommending me to the Grace of God.  
The Father would not make any long reply to these words, for fear they should never break off, but be always linked together by the chains of this pleasing conversation, and the delight which he perceived begun to spring up in him by the interchanging so many expressions of their mutual Love. But after he had assured him by a solemn promise that he would never fail to commend him to the love and care of Jesus, they took their leave one of the other, not without a great many embraces, and hearty wishes to see each other again in peace at Jerusalem.  
You may be sure the Pilgrim could not but often reflect with a sad heart upon this dear person whose counsels he carried along with him in his breast. And while the image of him was so fresh in his mind, it did not a little wound him that he could enjoy no more than that shadow of his friend. Sometimes he complained Plained of the imperfections of this state and the miseries of the world, that will not let those who love most, be most together. Sometimes he blamed his own unworthiness, which made such a felicity as the constant company of so good a man too great for him to possess. Sometimes he called him back and wished in his heart that he would return. And by and by he was ready to follow after him and thought he could fly presently into his embraces; so strong were the desires he felt of being with him. But in the midst of these restless thoughts which for a little space were tossed up and down in his mind; It pleased God to remember him of the Vow he had made of his will to him. He put him in mind that he stood still all this while, though he was in so great an agitation, and that to follow his Friend would be to go back from his Resolution, and that he had more than the image of his body to bear him company, there being left behind the very picture of his soul described in those Directions which he had bestowed upon him. Such thoughts as these put away that fit of passion wherein he was engaged, and caused the qualm that went over his heart to vanish. So that now loosened from all the world (as he thought) he blessed himself, and without any discomposure took his staff in his hand and said: From this moment farewell all my former enjoyments; Do not trouble me; for I now begin my designed Pilgrimage. I am nought, I have nought, I desire nought but to be with Jesus at Jerusalem.   

CAP. XXVI.  
Of sundry troubles which happened to the Pilgrim in his Travels. And how he was delivered out of them.  
A Fine Sunshine-morning it was when he first went out of his doors; The Air was perfumed with the sweet Odours which the Sun exhaled from the flowers, the birds whistled and sung their Hymns to him that made that glorious Light; and there was no hedge that he passed by, but it welcomed him with some new Songs and pleasures, nor any Traveller he met, but wished him, Good speed. He was so much pleased in every thing that he saw and heard, in all the Works of God, in his Word which he bore in his Mind, in the smoothness of the Way, in the remembrance of the Father he left, in the assurance he had of his Prayers and such like things, that he never thought himself at home, till now that he had no home at all, but was seeking one. He could do nothing but compose Praises to God; nothing but laud the Name of Jesus that had brought him into so happy a condition; and by his good will he would have made this the business of all the day to sing a certain Ditty, the beginning and the end of which (I remember) was nothing but this, Bless the Lord O my Soul. Whether it was the novelty of those Objects that presented themselves, or the Greatness and Beauty of them, or the good Society he met withal, or an immediate touch from that Spirit which the Good man prayed might be his Companion, or all these, or any other thing, that made him so merry, I had not leisure to examine; but he was never known in all his life to have expressed so much contentment in any condition, as in this Pilgrimage wherein he was engaged to Jerusalem.  
Yet he had not passed many weeks in these rapturous joys (for they were little less) before he found them so much abated that he thought himself less happy than he imagined. The ways were grown a little more rugged, the Heaven began to be overcast, and the Country through which he went was more barren and yielded not those Fruits which he had before tasted; which together with other things cast him into a damp, and procured to his soul more sadness than he used to be acquainted withal. At the first indeed he was only moved to some wonderment to find such an alteration, and thought that in half a day's travel or such a space, he should recover more pleasant paths. But when he found contrary to his expectation that they still continued uneasy, and likewise chanced to see some of his old Companions who called to him at some distance and persuaded him to go back again; he was much affrighted, and began to feel wild imaginations roving about his Soul, and strange desires of quitting a course which was like to prove so ungrateful to that part of him which was most concerned in the things of this World. For it was represented to his thoughts that the ensuing part of the road was very dangerous, beset with Thiefs and many Difficulties, tedious and of a strange length; and, besides that he might be in a wrong way, it was very doubtful whether there was such a place or not as he fancied, seeing no body had been there. From all which and many other considerations they told him it was most adviseable if he consulted his own peace to return with them to his former habitation and his ancient neighbours: who were all very sorry to hear that he had quit his present possessions, in they knew not what hopes of getting better at a place which neither he nor any of his friends had seen.  
But though this Push by the unexpectedness of it made him reel and stagger a little, yet he soon recollected himself: and calling to mind what he had been taught, and repeating that charm (as I may call it) which he always had about him, I am nought, I have nought, etc. he found himself as firm in his resolution as if he had not been at all assaulted. Shall I forsake my Lord (said he to himself) so soon as ever I have begun his service? Is it handsome for me to recoil, merely from the noise and report of dangers? What a Coward shall I for ever hold myself, if I run away before my enemies be in view, upon a rumour of their strength and power? I will march up towards them, and at least look them in the face. I will not trust this Fame which all the world hath branded for a Liar: Since common observation also tells us, that the Lion is not so terrible as he is painted. Much more he spoke to this effect, which moved him to a kind of indignation against himself that he should so much as shrink back thus early, before sufficient trial, and upon such sleight information.  
And yet it was not at all to his disadvantage that he had felt this shock, but it rather had many happy effects upon him: like a fit or two of an Ague, which is thought rather wholesome, then to deserve the name of a Disease. For as it gave him more understanding in the nature of his way (of the smoothness of which notwithstanding all that had been said, he too much presumed) and made him watchful because he saw he could not pass without some enemies: So it gave him some degree of courage, because he perceived they might be overcome, and confirmed his belief of the Wisdom of his Director who foretold these troubles; and gave a proof withal of the efficacy of that Remedy which he had prescribed, and above all revived that Joy and gladness in his heart which he thought began to languish and faint away. Full of joy he was even to an excess, and he suffered by it a kind of transportation; partly from the brightness of the Truths he had received, which yet were fresh in his mind; partly from the increase of his understanding by the experiment which he had made; but chief I think from the Victory which he had obtained over those enemies that attacked his Soul. For in truth, there is no greater Triumph than that which the Soul feels when it comes off a Conqueror; and applauds itself for the Valour and Courage which it hath expressed in its conflicts. There was another thing indeed which added something though not much to his joy, viz. that ded something though not much to his joy, viz. that his enemies he hoped had received such a foil, that he had sent them away discouraged if not disabled, from making any further attempts upon him.  
But so mutable is our condition here, and so many are our enemies, that he had not traveled many days after this Triumph, before he was arrested with a new trouble to exercise his Wisdom and Patience. His soul which just now was ready to leap out of his body, he felt to sink so low, that it was as if he had no soul at all. His spirits not only began to flag and hang down their heads; but were grown quite faint and weary, as if they meant to swoon away. Which was partly occasioned by his going too fast, and taking overlong Journeys; and partly by a very hot day, when the Sun beat very strongly upon his head; and partly by the very violence of his joys which stirred his spirits so much, that in the agitation they flew away; and partly by letting slip two or three of those Instructions which had been left with him which should have been a Cordial to him, but were as impossible he found to be by any means recalled, as it was to bring back his tired spirits which were flown from him. Very melancholy and sad he now began to be, and the more because he had been so joyful. O how desolate (said he within himself) is this place into which I am fallen! I am forsaken sure of God, or else I that was so high yesterday, should never have sunk into this pit, which is next door to the dwelling of damned spirits. Was ever any man in such a deplorable estate? Was there ever any bereft thus of all his comforts which should sweeten his way when he hath no other company? Oh Who, will restore unto me the days that are past? Who can call back but the joys of yesterday into my bosom? What are those sins that have cast me into the displeasure of my Lord? Or, What shall I do to regain his favour, which I would purchase at any rate, though I died the next moment? Thus he lay many days, sometimes bewailing his former affrightment, which he suspected might deserve this desertion (as he was apt to call it) sometimes complaining that he could not find the cause, and so could not be cured; sometimes reflecting on the times of joy which were gone; and sometimes taking a view of his misery, which made him but the more deeply miserable. And, which was worst of all, he kept his bed all this time, and stirred not a foot in his Journey; being indeed so ill, that he despaired of life.  
But see how the Providence of God watches for an opportune season to do us a kindness. When he was in the greatest torture that he had felt all the time of this Agony, there came an unexpected Letter to his hands from his beloved Father, which was to this effect.  
My friend (for so I cannot but call you, since you express such love to me) These are to let you know, that though I am absent from you, yet I follow you with my thoughts and good wishes, which attend you in all your motions. I am so far from being forgetful of my promise, that I am much better, I assure you, than my word. You desired me to pray for you, and so I do. But I cannot content myself with that, unless you, as well as God, know that I have a remembrance of you. That is the very reason of my sending this Paper after you; that it may be a token how regardful I am of your concerns, and solicitous about your welfare. So solicitous, that having enjoyed some good thoughts this morning, I could not but impart them unto you, because I fancied they would prove upon some occasion or other very useful to you. They are a Meditation upon one of the Fsalms of David, where he bids his Soul not to be disquieted, but to hope in God as the health of his countenance and his God: and they are enfolded in a distinct Paper within the bosom of this Letter, because they were too long to be inserted in the body of it.  
Farewell.  
Upon the very first receipt of this Letter, before he had broke it up, his pale cheeks began to be streaked with a little blood, as a prognostic of his recovery to health again. But when he opened it, and read the kind expressions of the Love of his Friend, one might see how the spirits crept up as he went along, out of the Centre whither they were retired: In so much that the light danced in his eyes, yea leapt out as if it meant to kiss those lines which now saluted them. But then, as soon as he arrived at the Meditation itself, and had carefully perused all the parts of it; his face shined like an Angel, and one would have thought he had not been the man that was so lately dejected. For it was so pat to his present condition, and so exactly suited to the necessities under which he laboured, that it seemed as if it had been indicted by God, and not by his Friend. There he found a discourse of the Nature of Joy, of the causes of its decay, of the Interess that our Animal Spirits have in it, of the way to recover it, and the means to be content without it, and above all, of the Resignation of ourselves to the Will of God, to serve him cheerfully without those sensible pleasures, as well as in their company. And not to name other things which were more fully debated between them afterward; these now rehearsed were so fully opened, that he was partly amazed, and partly elevated to the height of his Joys again, when he thought that God had put it into the heart of the Father to send at this time a Letter of such comfortable import unto him. I see, said the Pilgrim, that not my Friend only, but Jesus also is mindful of me. I see both that He prays for me, and that Heaven likewise hears those Prayers. It would be an unsufferable wrong to my Blessed Saviour, should I hereafter think my soul forsaken of him. Nay, it will be an ill requital of the favour he hath now done me; should I not resume my ancient joyfulness again. And therefore be no longer disquieted O my Soul, be not cast down within me. It is not in vain to hope in God, but in that very hope thou mayest be joyful: and therefore in the fruition of thy expectations, O how greatly oughtest thou to rejoice. 
Psa. 97.11  Light is sown for the righteous, and joy for the upright in heart. 
Psa. 9.10  They that know thy Name will put their trust in thee, for thou Lord hast not forsaken them that seek thee. And therefore I cannot but say, Wait on the Lord, 
Psa. 27.14  be of courage, and he shall strengthen thy heart: Wait, 
Psa. 13.6  I say, on the Lord. I will sing unto the Lord, because he hath dealt bountifully with me. Yea I will hope continually, 
Psa. 71.14  and will yet praise him more and more.  
Many other the like effusions of his heart, one might then have heard, and they lasted so many days, that they became instrumental to the redeeming much of that time which had been lost in fruitless complaints upon his bed. He did not go so fast as he was wont, but he went much further than before in the same number of hours. His Joys were not so violent, but they became more sweet, and they grew more equal. He could not recover yet the Memory of some things he had received; but this he better understood, that he must desire nought but Jesus. He was not so full of heat, but his light was more resplendent. He did not expect now to be always in the same temper, yet he was confident he should never more suspect the Love of his Saviour. He perceived that he could not ever retain the same Joys, yet he learned withal, that the way to have them sooner restored, was not to fret for want of them.  
But though in this condition he made a great progress his way towards the Holy City of God; yet the light which was in his mind, did not cast such a splendour about his soul, but that one day he suffered some obscurity. The occasion of it was a cloudy thought which came over his understanding, suggesting to him; That he did not serve God purely enough, because his eye was too much upon Jerusalem. For it had been commonly received for a Truth among some persons whom he had formerly conversed withal, That we must obey God out of mere Love to him, without any hope of rewards at all. This, you will say, was a strange conceit, and it had as strange a cure. For it pleased God, that he opening a Book which he carried along with him, the next morning after these thoughts troubled him; the first thing that he cast his eye upon was this passage in a certain Chapter of it, That Moses had respect to the recompense of reward. 
Heb. 11.29  You cannot think how much it surprised him, that he should light upon these words rather than any other, without his choice or so much as a design to receive satisfaction in this particular. And yet that which I am next to relate was more wonderful in his eyes, and made him stand in a greater astonishment at the goodness of God towards him. For it being suggested to him from the memory of some fragments of certain Sermons which he once heard, That Moses and those under the Law who were but Bondmen, might have respect to Rewards, but that it did not become those who had the Spirit of Adoption, to be so Mercenary; and he being a little perplexed with this trifling Objection; It happened, that looking down upon the same page of his Book again, his eye fell directly upon the second Verse of the next Chapter, which told him, That Jesus endured the Cross for the Joy that was set before him. The first glance which he had of this place, was like a Beam of the Sun in his eye, which immediately dispelled all his darkness, and made his soul flash out in such expressions as these. Who are these men that are wiser than Jesus? What mean these dreamers to fancy themselves above that, which was not below our Saviour? Or how came they to be so proud as to despise the Promises of God, and think they stand in no need at all of them? On, my soul, go on, and be not stopped a minute longer by this scruple. Fix thine eyes upon Jerusalem, and let thine heart be ravished with it; for the Mediator of the second Covenant, as well as of the first had a respect unto it.  
After he had hit so luckily on these two passages which lay so near together, a great many more of the same kind presented themselves instantly to his mind: not much unlike the Beams of the Sun, which having once torn a cloud in sunder, break forth more and more, till the whole body of that great light appear to us. And this likewise raised his spirits unto some further degree of cheerfulness, when he thought how our Lord still provided for his relief, and took the pains to pull the smallest Thorn that troubled him out of his feet. And yet this could not hinder but that they were too much dejected a little after by a company of other petty thoughts, which, like so many importune Flies, were always buzzing this new fancy in his ears; That he did not directly intent the glory and honour of Jesus in all his Actions. He considered indeed with himself, that he endeavoured to do well, and that he he loved to do so, and that he looked upon it as the very Life of God; but yet he thought he did not so actually respect him in every particular motion as his duty required. Now here it fell out very happily, and not without a Divine Providence, as he thought, that one night being in a dream, he imagined he saw one coming to him, and whisper this sentence in his ear, which of a long time he had not read, 
Rev. 19.9  They repent not, to give him Glory. Whereupon starting suddenly out of his sleep, as if some good Genius had awakened him, and given him a new mind, he presently began to tell himself, that when he first repent, and undertook this New Life, he gave Glory to God: and that by every step he took in this course of Repentance (i. e. amending of himself) he did actually honour him, and more materially than any other way glorify his name: For this is a constant acknowledgement of him, a minutely confession that we are fools, and he is wise; that our will is nought, and his is good; that he is our Lord, and we his Subjects; and that after all our search we find our Happiness to lie in him alone, and in separation from him, the best condition in the world will leave us miserable. And he had not long pondered upon these things with much satisfaction, before those words of the Psalmist came into his mind, He that offereth praise, glorifieth me, 
Psal. 50.21  and to him that ordereth his conversation aright, will I show the Salvation of God. Which made him fall into the praises of God, and to resolve that he would do so every day, and early design all the employments of it to his service: concluding, that whilst he held this course, and ordered his ways aright, he exalted God in the world; by lifting up his Will into a pre-eminence and command over his own, & subjecting himself unto it both as most supreme, and also wise and good. And after a great many thoughts of this nature, at last he made a short reflection upon the person who had made him this visit in the night. And when he remembered that he fancied it was his Friend who came to his Bedside, he had a new pleasure to think of the benefits of Sleep. The praises of which he could not upon this occasion forbear, though at certain times he wished his thoughts might never be intermitted by it. What an heavenly power (said he) is this, for so I am ready to call it? how much am I beholden to it for its silent refreshments? That which useth to part the dearest friends, hath now brought them together. That which separateth those who touch each other, hath made those near who are far asunder. O Divine Gift! O beloved Rest which God bestows upon us! How great are these charms which lock our doors to all the World and now have opened them to my friend? How much better are these dreams then many of my waking thoughts? How much rather had I be in the arms of the brother of death, then in the feeble enjoyments of many parts of my life? I am content just now to be restored to his embraces, if my Friend will but meet me there again in this manner. At least I hope I may conclude that when we are Dead indeed, he will not fail to meet me; whose Image finds me out when I am in the Images of death.   

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 joys. And at last upon his desire contracts a particular 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 impediments in his way of divers sorts, he was willing to believe that he should be molested no more, but pass in perfect peace to the Vision of Peace. A great many days 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 seldom departed from meditation but either with his mind illuminated with new light from heaven, or his will inflamed with a new ardour, 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 joys 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 reproached, 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 wherein the Generality of men were then very zealously engaged: nor did he affect any Victories among the disputers of the World. He lived in love and peaceableness with all his fellow-travellers. He thought himself so rich also in these graces, that it was no trouble to him to be poor. And he had such a sense from whence he received them, that they were no temptation 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 indisposition, 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 affliction 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 joys 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 forsake his way, which was now become but irksome to him without those refreshments. The pleasure and relish 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 professed that he could feel nothing at all; but remained as a man that had lost the use of his soul. And therefore though he continued for a while to pray and perform 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 taste, 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 accordingly he gave up himself wholly to be tortured by his own thoughts, which employed themselves in nothing else but making sad representations of the misery of this state: which you must needs think was so grievous that it is not possible to draw a picture of it. For since the soul is of far greater force than the body; the pains and anguish which arises in it, must needs be far more pungent and afflictive than 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 than the Martyrs endured. For they being 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 ardours of Love in their hearts which like a greater fire put the other out. But he poor Soul, though always 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 torments and deprived of those divine delights, which cheered the bright souls of the blessed Martyrs, and made them shine with a greater lustre than 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 immovable for some space, as if he had been dead. And a blessed occasion this was; though all his acquaintance 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 bade 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 Vision (or what else you please to call it) was in stead of an Oracle, and had discovered to him one of the greatest causes that he continued so long ill of these grievous 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 employed 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 stirred from the bed whereon he lay. But remembering presently the voice (to which he thought himself 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 himself 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 Chapel which had been built in the road by some charitable person, for the use of devout passengers to Jerusalem.  
And no sooner had he entered 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 behind; 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 received 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 myself 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 constrains me to this presumption of prostrating myself at thy feet. The weight of which oppresses me so much, that it hath left me little more power, then to expose myself before thee, as an object of thy wondrous Charity. O what a Wilderness am I fallen into where I can find no water! What Deserts are these, in which all comfort forsakes my Soul! Into what strange regions am I wandered, where there is nothing but darkness, and the valleys of the shadow of death! O the terrors that surround me! how dreadful are they? O the affliction and torment which I endure! what tongue can express it? my Soul is parched and dried 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 days 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 hid not thy face from thy servant, 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 pity 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 nowhither but to thee. All the world have I left, that I may find my happiness only in thee. And at thy heavenly motion it was, that I undertook this long journey. I am become a Pilgrim merely 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 ahandoned all things else for the sake of thee? Hast thou called me from mine own Country and Father's 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. Pity, O pity an Heart, which thou hast made too great for all the World and cannot be satisfied with less than thee. Canst thou see it die for lack of one smile from thee? yea, canst thou let it die of love to thee? for that hath brought me thus far to seek thee. And wilt thou suffer it to die at thy feet? Canst thou endure to behold it perish in thy arms, into which it now throws itself with all the force it hath? Shall it miscarry full of prayers and longing after thee? Shall it expire in cries and tears which it pours out for thy mercy? O where are thy Bowels? what are become of thine ancient lovingkindnesses? 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 addresses to thee. It inspires me with some hopes to find these holy breathe in me. It rejoices 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 thyself. Shape it after thine own heart; and make it such as thou canst embrace. 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 stopped the passage of his words, and sighs and groans supplied their place. In which having vented himself a while; it fell out that the tide of his passion being a little fallen and his sighs growing something silent; he should hear the voice of another person that was drowned before in his louder cries; 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 refresh 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 struggling 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; withal hoping that God had sent his Director 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 surprised 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 absence. 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 recite what he said unto him; and indeed it was not much; because the young Pilgrim, though wonderfully enlivened by the fight of the Father, yet could not so disguise his soul, but that it left some deadness in his countenance. The Joys 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 entered 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 unbosom the grief of his heart to him; thinking to find some ease, both by discharging his soul into that breast, and ●●●eceiving it back again better informed in all its concernments. Many things he related to him; but above the rest, I remember he insisted upon his present dulness, and the loss of those Joys that were wont to attend him; which he had no means left to recover, unless he was now sent by God to restore them. And all the time of his speech on this argument he looked so sorrowfully, that it would have moved an heart most void of compassion to behold him. His words likewise were all uttered with mournful accents, and not without the addition of some tears, though he endeavoured 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 concluded in a plentiful shower.  
At the end of which he being very silent, the Father thus addressed his speech to him. And is this all you have to say against yourself? Then you may wipe your eyes, and look more cheerfully, for you are not so ill as I see you imagine. You are more afraid than hurt; and unless you will be your own tormentor, there is nothing appears that can disturb your repose. 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 before your setting out, bid you expect some cloudy weather in your Travels? I thought you would have under stood by those discourses, that we must not expect always the same joys and consolations in such a variety 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, etc. and did you not find this a most effectual spell to drive away all these black and dismal thoughts? Why then did you think yourself worthy at all times to enjoy these pleasures? Why did you not abase yourself 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 restingplace? 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 ourselves before our Lord there is no small satisfaction; unless it be no pleasure to be united to his Will, which is inseparably 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 misbecoming 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 yourself in the direct way to abiding and never-fading Joys? Can you not have thought it Happiness 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 remembered of it? But that which seems more strange to me than any thing else, is; that after you had resigned yourself to your Saviour's Will in this particular, you should fall into the same trouble, if not fault again. You have taught me this by it, that I must expect to find my Patients 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 traveled thorough a sandy and barren desert once before, 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 Joys, 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 discourse, and more than Angelical in his own conceit; for he spoke of nothing but Ecstasies 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 desirable things than these Joys 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 Joys do not spur you to Obedience, and make you fruitful in every good work, they are not of such value as you imagine: and if in the absence of them you mind your duty, 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 imperfect 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 itself, 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 diet, which is most agreeable to its affectionate part. And withal he provides hereby that the heart which hath left the pleasures of the world, may not be discouraged at the first entrance into his ways 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 Religion itself, 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 Novices in the Spiritual Life. Or, Do you think that he loves those best to whom he grants this kind of Consolation? I might as well imagine that the Gardener 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 underprop 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 pours 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 toys to please her; when you were left to dress yourself, and study better satisfactions, which yielded you the more pleasure, because you contributed something 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 upon 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 passed 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 Joys that ever you had amount unto? He feeds you, perhaps, with harder meat than Milk, but it gives you more nourishment, and greater strength; with more spirit and vivacity also, if hearty embraced. Do you not understand 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 account of them? Be contented then; for what greater 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 understand this among the rest of the Truths which (blessed be his Name) you are well acquainted withal; That it is no sign God doth not love you, when you are not transported with sensible Joys; and that your passions, which are otherwise quiet, ought not to be disturbed for want of them. There is no cause, I assure you, that they should; for it will not be demanded at the last day, What comforts you have enjoyed; but rather what discomforts you have suffered without failing in your duty or slackening your Obedience.  
You have heard, I believe, very often the Story of the Prodigal Son, who having wasted all his Patrimony 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 clothed with the best Suit 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 music, and singing, and dancing to be heard; and we may very well think that He also gave him many embraces 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 many years, that had never offended him in word or deed; for whom there was no such cheer provided. But, Would you have joined 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 have judged it very unreasonable 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 stayed and sober a man as he that always obeyed him? It is possible you might have run into this mistake, till you had heard the Father say, My Son, thou art always with me, and all that I have is thine; and than 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 easily apply all this to yourself, and considering that you are now grown up in the Love of God, and enriched with the knowledge of Christ, and possessed of so many heavenly virtues; 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 yourself otherways. 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, whereby you are assured of the truth of all the Promises, and have a good foundation of your hope. You have received the Witness of the Spirit, which was poured 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 murmur 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 regarded, will yield far more solid contentment.  
And that you may see what satisfaction lies already 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 thorough discouragements; unless it be this, to know that God is well pleased with you? And that is a thing which he will soon satisfy you in, if you can but satisfy yourself 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 persuade myself that you believe, God is more pleased to see us obey him in the weakest manner, than merely 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 Joys, we do what he commands; than if we did the same without any opposition, and when we have the Wind and Tide of these pleasures to help us forward. Tell me therefore why we ourselves 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-interess, but performed out of clear and pure obedience to God. It is pity 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 entreat you now for the love of yourself, 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 hindered 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 Joys, not having an heart able to bear the weight of Divine Favours. Another he sees will proceed to overmuch 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 perhaps 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 putrify if they were always fed with these sweets, and therefore he thinks it best to give them some myrrh, by the bitterness 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 trial of the sincerity and strength of those Graces in what way he pleases? He would know perchance 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 attractive. And who can take it ill that he makes such a proof of us, seeing we do it every day ourselves 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 punishment 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 ourselves? I never thought he loved us so little: and me thinks it ill comports with the notion of a Father, to represent him so severe. It is very necessary indeed that you should weigh your faults, and confess them sorrowfully, and mend them speedily; but I can never think it is pleasing to him that you should be so dismayed at them and afflicted for them, as to imagine he will cast you off and never look upon you more. No; I believe rather he esteems this a greater dis-service to him, than the very fault itself; 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 yourself, you shall make a sin that is no bigger than a grain of Mustardseed, as great as an Elephant; I beseech you what service 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 con you any thanks for aggravating your offences to this height, or accusing yourself 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 hid 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 myself. And then on the contrary, you groan under the sense of an heavy guilt; when as you did but neglect a freewill 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 burdens upon its back. Which when you are not so well able to bear, as sometimes you find yourself; 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 enjoined yourself, 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 far the better for it in your after-course. And first I must not have you lay more loads upon yourself then Christ hath done; nor oblige yourself 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 tyre 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, unseasonable 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 beseech you that Lesson, which I think was taught you before this journey, That you bind not yourself always to one way of Prayer or Meditation, nor confine your soul to one exercise only at the hours of retirement; but choose that which shall like you best, and wherein you can proceed with the greatest freedom 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 enjoin, that you give yourself sometimes a little divertisement from more serious employments. And truly if you should say, as I know some do, that it is not for want of these Joys that you complain, but because you can neither understand nor taste the goodness of Divine truths; this last advice is one of the most useful that I can give you for the remedying of that melancholy 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 itself, 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 lose before. I must not forget likewise to acknowledge my new obligations to you, from whom I have now received 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 myself, 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 pity, and love and joy and wonderment altogether, burst out into these expressions of them.  
Now blessed be Jesus who hath brought me to you so opportunely. O magnify 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 interpose thy power to save us, when we have lost ourselves. Whither should we stray, didst not thou so graciously 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 astonished 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. Ten by the rareness of thy heavenly arts thou turnest our deepest sorrows, into the greatest occasions of excessive joys. And there where we thought to find nothing but trouble and heaviness, thou makest gladness and light to spring up unto us. O how unsearchable are thy ways, 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 than bind ourselves 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 always go along with us as our Guide. And let thy good Angels never fail to be our Guardians. Uphold our go 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 hearty, said the Pilgrim (when the other had ended this acknowledgement) for these good thoughts you have breathed into me. I feel myself as if a new Soul did inform 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 always 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 together 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 days, as to know that while Hercules was cutting off the heads of Hydra, there was one jolaus 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 undertake. Do not expect then from me that I should be more than a Miracle. Do not blame me that I cannot be so hardy, as to travel any further alone toward Jerusalem. Though I should call for all the supports and aids that my courage can give me, yet I must be beholden to the help of some associate in my labours. And O that it might be my lot to fall into your company, or custody rather; for I shall acknowledge 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 either that pleasure which I hope will not displease yourself; 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 violent I am; and I am very sensible of your great sobriety 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 join then our hands and our hearts together, if you do not think me unworthy of such an honour. Let this be our Wedding-day: and from henceforth take me for your inseparable 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 affection, I ought not to be less forward than yourself to advance it unto a more noble signification. I have no cause at all to suspect you of the vanity of Courtship and Compliment; and therefore I will be so presumptuous as to believe you have conceived for me an affection 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 man's 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 myself in so weighty a charge. But since I discern a more than ordinary Love in your breast towards me, and since I am touched with a reciprocal affection, and (which is more) do feel a certain inclination towards you above all others; I cannot contain myself, but I must agree to your motion. It is true indeed, we are engaged to love all men, and our Charity ought to be as diffusive as the Sunbeams; but yet I am of the mind that some may challenge a more peculiar portion of it than other of their neighbours. For I observe that the Sun itself 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 motion, 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 hid itself, and secretly bewail his absence. 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 communicated more of his secrets. When his own Son appeared to men with the greatest kindness toward them, yet than 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 service; he made choice of Twelve Men to be entrusted more immediately with all the Mysteries of his Kingdom. And methinks these Twelve did not equally 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 culled out to be witnesses of his Glory, and before whom he was transfigured 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 bosom friend than either of the other two. And therefore since the Saviour of the World, that great Mirror of all Virtues, had his inclinations and particular 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 correspondent in so dear a Love (as I guess both by his sending 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 embraces, and hereafter become your perpetual Companion, as well as your Director and Guide.   

CAP. XXVIII.  
Of the Necessity of Friendship. Of faithful Counsel. How the Pilgrim doubted whether there was such a place as Jerusalem. The satisfaction which his Friend gave him in this particular. As also the comfort he administered to him in a great Sickness.  
NOw the poor man's heart was filled with an inexpressible Joy, and he could scarce travel for a while by reason of this passion which was as troublesome to him, as the contrary had been before. But having at last overcome the excess of it, and dissembled it also while it stayed as well as he could, lest his Friend should think he was made up of nothing but contrariety and inconstancy; On they went very merrily, singing several Hymns which they had learned, for divers miles together. When they were ended; they fell into a very pleasant discourse about heavenly Poetry. And the good Father did highly extol those Divine Souls, who had converted the Muses, and of Courtesans and lewd Strumpets made them turn Religious and Saintly Creatures. Surely, said he, it was a brave and noble Act to reclaim them from such a debauched life as they had a long time lead. It was a piece of very eminent service to the world, to reform their impure speech, and teach them the language of Angels. If there were a greater number of such inspired minds, one would think they should convert the whole World, by pleasing and instructing it both together.  
After he had proceeded for some time in this strain, the young Pilgrim took occasion from thence to discourse of the Harmony that is between some souls, and the sweet consent of two equal and well-proportioned hearts, which he thought were able to interchange the greatest felicities in the World. I have heard indeed, said he, that it was the opinion of some of the ancient Sages, that a wise man stands in need of no body but himself, and that whatsoever is without him, is not at all needful to him. But sure these were peevish and morose people, whom I cannot but condemn as guilty of one of the most dangerous Schisms in the world. He was far wiser, I think, that said; If we look on men in general, they do not seem so much a great many several entire bodies, as so many divided parts which Society reunites: I must needs confess, for my own part, that I feel myself but half a man without a friend. I cannot but place him in the number of necessary, and not only of delightful things. It is the prerogative of God to need none but himself. It is too much for us to live alone, who enclose so small a portion of wisdom and strength within our Being's. I do not reckon myself safe without your company. My felicity would be imperfect if you did not complete it. I dare not so much as trust my own thoughts unless you approve them; nor follow my own counsels unless you allow them.  
And here he began to speak of the necessity of faithful counsel, and that it was not to be procured without a friend. For though we love ourselves never so well, yet a friend will be less treacherous to us, than we shall be to ourselves. This brought to mind a Comment which was made by a wiser man than any of those sullen pieces of gravity beforenamed, upon that old obscure saying; Dry light is ever the best. Certain it is, saith he, That the Light which a man receives by counsel from another faithful person, is drier and purer than that which cometh from his own understanding and judgement. For as that which he receives is separate from all interest, so that which he gives himself is commonly infused and drenched in his Customs and Affections. So that there is as much difference between the counsel of a friend, and that which a man bestows on himself, as between the counsel of a friend and of a flatterer. For there is no such flatterer as in a man's self; and there is no such remedy against the flattery of a man's self, as the liberty of a friend. And, as one thing usually draws on another, this brought to his thoughts a handsome discourse of another person whom he had met withal, which very well illustrated the reason of it; and was to this effect. Every man, we say, is nearest to himself; but yet he is too near to be his own Counsellor in things which concern himself. There is not space enough between both, wherein to debate the counsel which is given, and which is received. He cannot hinder those two Reasons which deliberate in him from confounding themselves in communication; for that which proposeth is too much mixed with that which concludes. He can find no place free wherein to weigh his Reasons. But he proposes those which will favour his own humour, and then he inclines unto them, because they are his own. He who counsels therefore must be another person distinct from him who is counselled. The objects must be set at a proportionable distance from those faculties which judge of them. And as the most quicksighted can never see themselves; so the greatest wits want perspicacity in things that respect their own interest.  
In such delightful and useful talk as this they beguiled the time, and shortened the length of the ways. And it was no small contentment, you may well think, to the good old man, that he was possessed of such a friend who could refresh him with his apt discourses, and give as well as receive instruction. But though the young Pilgrim was a person of such competent abilities, and had so good a friend as this to assist him, imagining also when the first contract was made between them, that he should now be no more disturbed; yet he was not without some melancholy thoughts at certain seasons, of which this, as I remember, was the chief. They two being talking one day about the Pleasures of Jerusalem, and the great happiness they should enjoy at their arrival there, which ought to sweeten by its expectation all the difficulties of the way; he asked his companion with a very sad and desponding countenance, if it might not admit of some dispute whether there was such a place or no, and how he would prove the existence of it.  
At which Question, because he seemed to make a real doubt, the Father gave a very great start, and said with a more than ordinary vehemence: What? Are we now to begin again, and do you remain unsatisfied of that which was the first thing you learned? What was it that made you stir one foot in this Journey, if you were not persuaded you should come to Jerusalem? Or how came you to hold out thus long, and that you did not tire many months ago? And did you not once, when you were tempted by some idle persons to disbelieve it, reject with anger all their frivolous allegations? Good God What a thing is the Soul of man? How weak and infirm is our nature? How fickle and uncertain are our most serious thoughts? And what a great patience is it that we exercise every day? Surely if thy Love were not wider than the Circle of Heaven, we should throw ourselves out of the compass of it.— Say no more, said the other (who here interrupted his speech) for I am very sensible of the truth of what you affirm. The Soul of man is an object very worthy of your pity, and whose state can never be sufficiently deplored. Nor do I know any Soul that deserves it more than mine, which is made, it seems, to exercise your patience as well as God's. We cannot help it, I think (so short and forgetful are our Thoughts) but we must go backward and forward. Sometimes we are confident, and sometimes we are doubtful. Now we are merry, and presently we are sad even because we were merry. Nothing will shake us in this temper, but in another a leaf or a feather will make us turn aside. But do not, I beseech you, upbraid unto me this misery; which rather implores your charity to find a cure for it.  
Well then, said the other, in compliance with your necessity, let us step back a little (which I hope will not prove a very great hindrance to us) and let us search if we have foolishly undertaken this Journey to Jerusalem. So he led him by the hand to a certain friend's house which they had not left much behind, and there (without accepting of any refection which was offered to them) presently called for a certain Book which was full of Maps attended with Discourses of several Countries: in one of which was a description of the promised land and the famous City Jerusalem. And that he might be assured of the faithfulness of it, he bade him cast his eye to the bottom, and there he should find the name of the man that was the Author of those fair Tables: and who should that be, but Jesus, together with a servant of his St. Paul who finished by his direction what his Master had begun. There he found that the former of these persons professed that he came from Heaven, which he proved also by many Arguments of Divine Authority: and the latter that he was caught up into Paradise and the third Heavens, where he had a perception of such things as could not be painted in those Papers. And then turning over several leaves that treated of this Country; he shown him such an exact Description of the Situation and Nature of the place, of the Quality of the Inhabitants, of the employments wherein they are engaged, of the Fruits of the Soil, of the Way that led to it, of the Travels of several persons that had gone thither, of the return of one of them (even Jesus himself) upon several occasions into this World, and of the descent of Angels which assured men of it, together with the testimony of many undeniable Witnesses (all servants of Jesus) concerning the truth of these things, whom he also there examined over again before him; that he was ashamed of his incredulity and blushed to think that he had given him this new trouble. But above all, the Good man showed him that Jesus by his last Will and Testament had made over an inheritance in Jerusalem to all his faithful Followers. And that he had sealed and ratified this Will with his own dearest blood. And that God had set to it his Seal also, by raising him from the dead and giving him Glory at his own right hand. And that this was demonstrated and that Deed of Christ further established, by the sending of the Holy Ghost upon the Apostles and those to whom they Preached. For this made it evident, said he, that Jesus is Crowned King in Jerusalem from whence he sent these Royal gifts to men, and it is the earnest of our inheritance; and by it we are sealed to the day of Redemption. All which and much more for his further satisfaction and better remembrance he afterward got one to comprise in a little Book; wherein was shown that This is the record which God hath given of his Son, that in him we have eternal life. It would make my relation too long if I should transcribe that Treatise, which is also come to my hands; and therefore I shall only acquaint you with the conclusion of their discourse on this argument, which was to this purpose. And now, said the Father, if you call in question the credit of this Story concerning Jesus because you never saw him; I would wish you to take heed lest you be a teacher of Rebellion and learn men to justify Sedition against their lawful Sovereign. For if we must entertain nothing but what we ourselves see; then the Rabble may do well to say; they have no King because they never saw his face; nor hath he yet gone his Progress among them: and that there are no Laws that oblige them, because they were not present when they were enacted, nor heard his Majesty say, The King Will, or that he consented to them. For my part I cannot see less reason to believe, that our Lord was miraculously conceived, ushered into the World by a Star and the shouts of the Heavenly hosts, anointed with the Holy Ghost at his Baptism, transfigured on the holy Mount, confessed by Devils, acknowledged by Angels, justified by Miracles, raised from the Dead, and taken up to Glory; then our children will have to believe that our present Sovereign after a long banishment was suddenly restored to his Throne, that he entered his Royal City on such a day with the joyful acclamations of all his people; that he road in Triumph and was solemnly Crowned the year following; and that the Book containing a description of the Magnificent Ceremonies of that day, gives a true and just account of them. They that would persuade you to doubt of the truth of the holy Writings which convey the notice of those great things to you, and whereby you hold all the hopes you have of happiness at Jerusalem; may in time think their wits so fine as to go about to prove that the Great Charter of England is but a forged Deed, that all the Liberties you think you have are but the Idols of your own brain, or that the whole Writing by factious spirits hath been corrupted and altered at their pleasure. And if you should say, that there are so many Arguments to stop their mouths that they will be ashamed of such foolish talk; for Kings have sealed it, and Parliaments confirmed it, and all English men have a long time asserted it; you will find yourself much mistaken and see that these allegations are not considerable with such disputes. For so have these holy books (as I esteem them) been ever received for the Apostolical Writings; none could ever prove them guilty of any imposture; nor do their greatest enemies charge them with the crime of reporting false Miracles; yea the Jews acknowledge them to have been wrought, and Heathen writers have set their hands to some things of no mean account; and yet these are not sufficient with such men to prove them true because they did not stand at the Apostles elbows when they were penned and sent abroad into the World. And therefore what is the confession of all England worth to prove your Liberties; since the confession of the whole Christian World for so many ages is not worth a straw with them to prove these Writings? If they will not let you have a Jesus because they did not see him; why should they suffer you to enjoy any other things which they can take away upon the same pretence? But if they will permit you to enjoy the benefit of any ancient Deeds, when nothing can be justly excepted against them; then we hope that it is lawful to call the Gospel (as one of the Ancients doth) our new Conveyance whereby Jesus hath settled upon us an everlasting inheritance in the Heavenly Country, of far greater value than that which the Israelites by Virtue of the old writings possessed in the earthly.  
Here the young Traveller plucked him by the sleeve beseeching him to make no longer stay in that place, for, said he, you have dissipated all my clouds already and I am fully persuaded that there is such a City as Jerusalem. Though I doubted a little of it, yet let me not be suspected of Infidelity. I protest to you that I bear such a reverend regard to these Writings which you have laid before me, that I would rather lose all the goods I have in the World then part with them. I have a long time held them so Sacred that they have been my comforters in all my troubles, and the songs of my Pilgrimage. At this very moment I carry them about me and shall hereafter set a greater value on them; for what I have held by Custom I shall now hold by Reason, and be able to render an account to those that ask of the Hope that is in me. Let us go on Sir I entreat you without any further dispute, and howsoever negligent I have been in former times I am resolved hereafter to read this Holy Book with more attention of Mind: and to procure thereby that this short stay may not make me come a whit the later to my journey's end.  
It is very well done, said the Father, that you have provided yourself with so necessary a companion as that Book is: which might serve to direct you without me, but that I see you are not sufficiently acquainted with the language of it. When you read of the Witness of the Spirit, its like you waited for some immediate assurance of the truth of these writings. And when you heard them speak of our being sealed with the holy Spirit of promise, you looked for an inspiration, and expected to be stamped and impressed with a certain persuasion of their Authority. Which is as much as to say, that you desired to be endued with a confidence, which as it stood upon no ground, so might be shaken without any cause at all. But I pray you hereafter to be as good as your word, applying your mind more vigorously to comprehend the sense of what you read; and where you doubt of any thing, repair to me, that I may assist your Understanding. And above all things let me once for all advise you to use all means to strengthen your faith concerning the other Life, and to assure yourself upon such evidence as I have given you, that Jesus is gone to Jerusalem, and there expects your coming to him. Do but firmly persuade your heart of this, and keep it in your mind, and then I shall think it as impossible for you to grow weary, as for the Sun to stand still; and as impossible you should miscarry, as that the Sun should fall from his Orb.  
After he had received a promise from him, that he would do his endeavour to make his Soul more sensible of this weighty thing: they buckled themselves afresh to their march. And never did the young man travel so lustily as now; for he had gathered much strength by his doubting; and thought he felt himself attracted and haled towards Heaven by the glory of it which now shone upon him; just as the Loadstone draws Iron to it, and makes it skip into its Bosom. If I should say that he ran now rather than went, I should misreport the fervours wherein he felt himself; which indeed furnished him with Wings, and made him not so much to run, as fly towards the Holy City of God. He was all airy, and seemed not to touch the Earth with his feet: and as for his own Flesh, he had so many Spirits, that it was no more a Burden to him then the Feathers are to a Bird, which rather help then hinder it in its flight. But yet (so mutable is this Body of ours) he had not flown very long, being assisted by every thing that he saw, or heard, or met withal, before he was made sensible that he was clothed with a greater weight of Flesh than he imagined; and that this Globe Earth had a greater power over him then he was willing to believe. For he was seized with such a violent sickness, and felt his blood in such a boiling heat; that he thought now he was not in the Air, but at the best in a thick cloud of stinking vapours which almost choked his Vital spirits. He had not mounted up to so high a pitch before, but he fancied now that he was sunk as low; and that the Terrestrial parts prevailed, if not far more, yet as much as the Aerial had lately done. Very often he laboured to heave up himself; and left no means unattempted to soar aloft as he was wont; but all in vain, for he was so oppressed and overloaded with that sluggish matter which now flowed through his whole Body, that he could scarce fetch his breath, unless it were in sighs and groans at the alteration which he suffered. Just as a vessel of good Wine which now being sweet and pleasant, is rendered ere long acid and ungrateful to our palate, by the ascent and flowing of those saline particles which before were thrust down or put aside: So was his Spirit soured and rendered unacceptable to himself, by the floating again of those ill humours, which he hoped had been buried in their graves, never to rise and disturb him any more.  
It would be both too tedious and too sad, to relate all the affliction which he endured from his dejected thoughts; And I shall rather choose to tell you how his companion addressed himself to his Cure, whereby you will understand sufficiently the nature of his disease. I am sorry to see you thus ill (said his kind Physician when he first came to him) but it is no more than I expected; and it would not much trouble me, if I did not find your mind more disordered than your body. I will not add so much to your pain, as to bid you tell me what it is that troubles you; for I am not so unacquainted with these distempers, but that I perceive the symptoms of a mind much grieved, because it cannot think of Jesus and Jerusalem with the same freedom and pleasure, that it did not long ago. This I easily see is the sickness you labour under; and setting aside the anguish which this creates, I do not believe you have any reason to complain. But I pray you, my Dear Brother, do you not think of our Lord very much, when you are Patiented and quietly resigned to his Will in every thing? Are you not much in his company when you take up your Cross with a meek Spirit, saying, Not my will, but thine be done? For what was Jesus, but a great Example of Patience and humble submission to the pleasure of God throughout the whole course of his Life? Why do you then place the contentment of your heart in being able to pray with your wont intention, and to contemplate Divine things with such a clearness as when you were in the pure sky; and not rather in accomplishing the Will of our Lord, who knows what place is best for us and what condition will most certainly conduce to our Good? Let me ask you; is not this sickness now come upon you by his appointment, and sent by the direction of his wise providence? Do you not think it to be his will, that the time which not long ago was spent in praying, should now be spent in vomiting? Let it be so then (as a good man was wont to say) and let us not mutter at it: but see you take more pleasure in this that he is pleased, then if you possessed Heaven and Earth. And suppose this be a punishment for some offence, and that now he chastises some inordinate desire; for I discern, me thinks, an indication of some such scruple that molests your thoughts: what have you more to do in that case but to be thankful, and to cast yourself at his feet, desiring both correction and forgiveness. To be thankful I say, because we are much beholden to him, that he will put himself to the trouble of finding out means of our amendment. Nay, some pious men have thought, that to be corrected by the hand of such a Father, and with so much love, doth put us rather into a need of Humility for the moderating our joy which we shall be apt to conceive in his Charity towards us; than of the Virtue of Patience whereby to endure the Punishment that he lays upon us. For is it not a great favour that he will look after us? Is it not a mark of his esteem that he thinks it worth his pains to use his Rod to reclaim us? And would you have him be so fond as to let you proceed to commit those faults, which he knows will utterly spoil you? Should he love you if he did forbear his stripes, when he sees there is great need of such sharp instruments to reform you? Or do you think he delights to afflict, and takes a greater pleasure to hear you cry and roar under his hand, than to hear you sing and rejoice in his arms? It is unchristian to impute unto him such Cruelty. You cannot without impiety imagine, either that he will not chastise his children in order to make them cease to offend; or that he will not grant a pardon when they humbly bow their wills to his, and ask it of him. No question he will do both when cause requires; and though sometimes he gives a pardon without any correction, yet never the correction without an intent to pardon. Lie still therefore under his Fatherly hand, and then I assure you there is greater reason both to be thankful, and also to expect a pardon; because you are much amended when your own will is so broken, that you can submit to any of his Rods.  
But here I must not forget to admonish you of one thing, which I have somewhere read in the advices of a grave Person, which is; To take great heed that your flesh do not deceive and cheat you with its dissimulations while you are in this state; endeavouring to slubber over negligence under the pretext of, I cannot do any more. It is true, we are not tied to that which we cannot do; but yet the flesh will sometimes juggle and complain of impotence, when there is nothing hinders us but only Sloth. Here you must look upon yourself with a great many eyes; you must become your own spy, and narrowly watch the most secret motions of your heart. For this Eve that is within us, is so desirous to be cherished and pleased, to be walking up and down the Garden, and to be eating of the forbidden fruit; that she wants not a thousand inventions to make us believe that her demands do not extend to superfluities, but only to things necessary for us; that she doth not desire ease and pleasure so much as rest from hard labours; and she is in a mighty chafe if we will not give a perfect credit to her. She persuades us sometime that we are much weaker than in truth we can affirm ourselves to be: She tells us that we cannot with safety think of any thing else but her, and is not willing to let us make a trial: She bids us attend only to her quiet and satisfaction, and not suffer the mind to disturb her repose at all: And the more we humour and gratify her desires, the more still she bemoans herself to move our pity towards her. It concerns us therefore to be careful in observing what good it is that we can then perform without a manifest prejudice to our health, and to make provision that it be not neglected by means of the heavy complaints of laziness and sloth. Look up unto Jesus as often as you can. Tell him in the secrets of your soul that you hearty love him. Open your very bosom to him, and show how desirous you are to be more conformed unto him by this affliction. Pray him to come and ransack your heart, and to throw out of doors, whatsoever is offensive to him. Let him know that you had rather (not only be sick, but) die a thousand times than not be friends with him. And so entreat him to take pity upon you. Promise him to do whatsoever he would have you. And exhort all others of your acquaintance, that they would love and serve him more than you can do. And this let me add for your comfort, that sometimes he bestows more favours upon sick men in their Beds, who can pray in no other manner, but by the humiliations and prostrate submissions of their Wills to him; than he doth upon some others who spend many hours on their bended knees in that holy exercise. And do not despair, I beseech you, of receiving this mercy, though you think yourself never so unworthy of it, since it costs him no more, but only his Will to bestow it.  
With these, and such like Discourses, the Good man entertained his friend in this sickness for many days; which put the time into a speedier pace than otherwise it would have passed away. Though he kept his Bed for some weeks, yet the hours did not seem at all tedious to him, but rather fled away as fast, as he used before to do himself. So happy a thing it is to have a partner in our troubles, and the assistance of another shoulder beside our own to bear our griefs. Good Discourses are like the breath of Heaven, which when the burdened Vessel feels, she cuts her way through all the waves, and never complains of the greatness of her burden. Nay, they proved to him like the cool Air which refreshes the gasping Traveller in a hot day; making his very body feel its legs the sooner, by the delicate touches which they gave unto his Spirit. All the Art of his Doctors, and an whole Apothecary's shop had not been able to restore his consumed flesh so easily, and in such a little space of time; as these Sovereign Cordials which distilled from the Good man's lips, and were drawn, he felt, from the very bottom of his heart. I have wondered sometimes when I considered the suddenness of his recovery; for though he lay some weeks in a feeble condition, it was because he did not at first receive these Medicines; which so soon as he tasted, he became another man, and seemed to have a New Essence infused into him. It is no new piece of Philosophy, but an Axiom older than Hypocrates, and which calls Solomon (that great Physician) its Father; Heaviness in the heart of man maketh it stoop: 
Pro. 12.25  but a good word maketh it glad. And in another place of his Aphorisms we read, that, A merry heart doth good to a Medicine: 
Pro. 17.22  but a broken spirit drieth the bones.   

CAP. XXIX.  
Of the trouble which the Pilgrim was in about some business which had lain neglected during his sickness. Of his desires after a contemplative Life. Of Solitude. The Profit of it: especially at the beginning of our Christian course. And how they that enjoy it, do not find all the satisfaction which they expected in it.  
BEing able therefore by the good inspirations of his friend (whose mouth he acknowledged was a Well of Life) to go about the house; 
Pro. 10.11  He spent as much time as he was able in praising God, instructing the servants, and doing good to all his neighbours, not neglecting any duty which God or man required of him. But so it was, that having been long sick, there were some necessary businesses in which both he and his friend were concerned, that had lain as long as himself without any regard. These called very importunately upon him for his attendance, and being very weighty, and requiring quick dispatch, would not cease to solicit more of his thoughts than he was willing to allow them. It will be of no use to tell you what they were, but it may be sufficient to let you know that they were of such moment that without a manifest wrong both to himself and others, he could by no means put them off, nor make them rest contented with a cold and slow management of them. And yet from hence his mind took occasion to spring a new doubt, which he had not power to remove himself, till he had made it known to his Friend; though his affairs were not so urgent but that they left him a little leisure to consider of that which might have given him some satisfaction. For whensoever a crowd of little occasions thronged in upon him and would not be denied his company; then he began to frown upon himself because he did not find so much vacancy as his heart desired for private Prayer and Recollection.  
To this the Father said (as soon as he had eased himself of the scruple by telling of it) that for his part he was very glad to find he had such a vehement love for retired thoughts and secret converse with God; and that he sighed so much after it, as far more delightful to him then the open World and all the bravery which it hangs out to us. But he told him also that he was to be blamed for thinking himself less pleasing to God in what he was a doing, because he was less pleasing to himself. For, do you not know, said he, that God hath bidden us serve our neighbour as much as we can? and that it is an idle pretence to say we love God whom we never saw, if we love not our Brother whom we see continually? And hath he not placed us in a Body which must be fed, and that cannot be nourished with Thoughts and live upon Meditations; nor be supported without the labour of its own hands? Why then do you complain that it cannot be filled with a Prayer, and have its hunger satisfied with an Hymn? Perhaps it may so fall out, that a great many things shall require our service at one and the same time; and though we call not for them all together, yet they call on us and bid us mind them; or else they say that they will be gone and not wait upon our leisure. Is there any reason now to turn those things away that will not come again? or shall we trouble ourselves that we have not the disposal of other men's wills, and cannot make them come to us only when we please to call them? why may we not be contented to let all necessary affairs take as much of our time as they ask, seeing God will have us so employed? Contented, I say, for I did never yet forbid you to desire more time wherein to recollect yourself and retire unto God; but would rather have you to wish for that, while you are forced to serve other things. He is not to be commended that is glad of a multitude of businesses, and loves (as we say) to have his hands full of the World; but yet he is no ways deserving of our praise neither, who when his Calling thrusts it upon him and he is got into the midst of it, is still bewailing himself and troubled at his portion. The true way to peace is, to set our hands with all diligence to the necessary works of our calling, but to set our hearts upon the more immediate service of our Lord. To do our business, whatsoever multiplicity there happen to be in it; but to long to do something else, if that would permit us. Yet still I say we must so long after the Higher life, that our desires do not breed in us any disgust or impatience in the Lower; which will both make our business longer and unfit us for our spiritual employments.  
You remember I make no doubt the story of Jacob, how much he was enamoured of fair Rachel; but that though he served several years for her, yet he was put off with the embraces of Leah and forced to endure another apprenticeship for his most beloved. And the reason of it you know is there rendered, because it was not the fashion of that Country to dispose of the Younger before the Elder Sister. I have sometimes thought that this may not unfitly be accommodated to represent unto us the estate and condition of Pious souls while they are like Jacob in this Pilgrimage far from their Father's house. They are extremely desirous to be wholly wedded to the fair and amiable life of Contemplation, Prayer and constant passions of love of God. This they court and woe above all other things, hoping in a little time to obtain their suit and spend their days in such happy enjoyments. But so it is, that they must be employed a long while other ways, before they can reasonably expect to arrive at the felicity of being wholly sequestered unto that Life. And such is the necessity of this World that when we imagine we shall now be at perfect leisure for it; some thing or other still thrusts us into a different way of living. Nay the manner of this Country is such, that we must be contented to serve first in these base employments, before we can be permitted to come to those nobler retirements. With this Worldly life we all begin and it is the Elder of the two. Nay, most of us are forced by many years labour in providing for the lower man, to procure to ourselves a liberty of being more vacant to the service of our souls. And it it is very well, I assure you, if after more years than Jacob served, God shall be pleased to bless us with such a proportion of these Worldly goods, that we may repose ourselves with greater quietness in the bosom of a more contemplative life. Then we may be allowed in compare with this beautiful Rachel, to hate Leah and all her earthly business: yea it will be expected at our hands when we are furnished as Jacob was with flocks and herds and can say, We have enough; that we quit the world and retreat from our secular affairs and betake ourselves more entirely to the Higher life. And this favour perhaps our Lord may indulge us, when we are grown a little older and shall be more ripe for it; but till that time let us be patiented as the Patriarch was; and in hope at last to enjoy this sweet, this beloved life, not suffer the other to seem at all a tedious state unto us.  
This discourse did not a little gratify our young Traveller, who now fancied himself another Jacob; wishing for nothing so much as to have the fair Damsel we spoke of given him to be his wife. And so much he had impressed his mind with the Idea of that more excellent conversation, that had it not been for the last words his Friend spoke and that he considered also it is wont to remain like Rachel a great while, more barren than the other; he had fallen into reproaches of this Blear-eyed life, which makes us such strangers to Diviner objects, that when we behold them our eyes smart and grow sore by reason of their splendour. It is too little to say that he loved it; for he burnt with desire after it. When he was employed about the affairs of this life, the time seemed like the cold frosty nights wherein Jacob kept the flocks of Laban in the field. Then were his Sunshine days, and his Heart all in an ardour of Love and Joy, when he was within doors secluded from the herd of the World and shut up with God in his Soul. If there was any heat and eagerness in the dispatch of his ordinary business, it was by a reflection from these greater flames; which excited him to pursue that with the more agility, that he might the sooner quit his hands of it, and be free for God.  
And thus having placed his affections, I need not tell you how oft he used to steal a glance of those Heavenly objects, even when he was in the midst of some of his worldly occasions. This I always observed, that when it was left to his own choice what part he would take to manage; he would ever lay hold on that which would give most liberty for his thoughts, to withdraw themselves sometimes to better things. And having good Jacob so much in his mind, he used to say that he wondered the Shepherds of all other men were not most envied (whose name God hath assumed into his Titles) because their life is so like to His who rules the whole World and yet enjoys himself. For his part as he passed along in his journey and saw those Swains with their Sheephooks in their hands, he could not for his life but fancy them to be Sceptres, and the men to be so many petty Kings, whose obedient people left them nothing else to do but to please themselves. O happy Sovereigns, was he wont to say, who have such peaceable subjects! O Princely Souls whose Royalty is attended with none of those enemies of Liberty, which make the Thrones of others uneasy! There is none privy to what you do, but only yourselves. None of those Ceremonies trouble you, which encumber all the actions of Kings. You live in the Kingdom of Wisdom. Your minds are free for the noblest contemplations. Your Court is frequented with no flatterers. And it is not hard for you to know those that love your persons from those that love your fortune. You are not enforced either to be loaded with Cares, or else with the reproach of being negligent. Your leisure is far better than all the employments which others seek. It it is better to want with you, then to abound with all the World beside. Your deserts are far in my esteem before the Glory of Princely Palaces. And there are no chains so well made or so fairly guilded over, that could tempt me out of your Liberty.  
When he had recovered himself out of these pleasant transports, he oftentimes fell into a very sober commendation of Solitude: which he used to call the Gate that lets into the inward World, the suburbs of Heaven, and the Mistress of such noble satisfactions as the Courts of Kings cannot equal. The profit of this hidden and unknown life, said he, is not to be expressed; when obscuring ourselves in our own Souls we have the greater light within; and communicating solely with our Lord, in that one object we enjoy more than all the World. So Necessary it is, that I find he cannot be wise that is not retired. He must be a Fool that shuns his own company. He thinks all things better than himself, who forsakes himself to be with them. If the World had not lost their wits they would not thus slight and pass by their own Souls, If their taste were not spoiled, they would find more Delight as well as more profit at home, than can be enjoyed abroad. Though peace and innocence make no great noise, yet their undisturbed pleasures yield the highest contentment. Their pleasures are such that it is hard for great persons and those who are much in the World to take their share in them. And as for all others, since we must divide them with those men whom by no means we would be like, they cannot import very much to our satisfaction.  
A great number of other things he heaped up in praise of this private life, till at last he endeavoured to derive honour upon it from the example of our Lord who he thought was much delighted in it. For he observed that it was thirty years before he would frequent the World; and that after he did appear, he was wont very often to retire himself even from the company of his own family. And I think he had added a great deal more in this Argument, had not his Companion here interposed this sudden question. What then? are you so affected to this life as to wish you may be left alone? You mean belike to quit me too, and turn an Hermit to enjoy yourself the better, when no body shares in your affections. By no means, replied the Filgrim as hastily: for though he is never alone who is accompanied with noble thoughts; yet I should think myself too much alone without your company. This Solitude doth not exclude our Friends but rather make room for them. We cannot enjoy whom we would, unless we retire and separate ourselves from the multitude. There we may pick and choose, but in the crowd men will thrust themselves upon us. And therefore I would be alone that I may have more of you. I would go aside from the World, that I may not be drawn so much from you. And indeed whatsoever profit or pleasure there is that I fancy in this private life, they must needs be multiplied by the company of a friend to whom I may impart the benefits that I receive. The most plentiful feast without a companion, is the Life of a Lion or of a Wolk. Let my fullness be never so great, I shall suffer hunger, as long as I want one of your goodness to taste my happiness with me. We were taught, I remember, at School, that Rest in ancient times was styled The Food of the gods; and therefore I have since thought that a retreat from business cannot but be very necessary for man. But as their leisure was thought to be sweetest when they enjoyed it together; so I conceive will my Solitude be, if you think good also to live alone with me. I do not fancy there are any Anchorets in the the other World. There are no Deserts in those spacious Plains which we see above. The Heavenly Nature's love Society, and therefore I will not labour to be unlike them. And indeed, if I were perfectly shut up in my own soul, I could not make it such an Hermitage, but that the Image of you would still dwell with me.  
Well, said the Father, I am very much beholden to you, that you will make me the Companion of your most secret pleasures: and it lays a great obligation on me to be good, if it were but for this only; that there may be no Image imprinted on such a soul as yours, but what is fair and lovely. It must be confessed also, that there is very great use of Solitariness, especially in the beginnings of a New Life. Then if one should ask me, What shall I fly? I would answer, as one of the Philosophers did, Fly the multitude. For while a man is weak in Virtue, he is like to one that hath been long sick; if you stir him from the place where he is, he grows worse. Such a man can scarce return back from the world with the manners he carried out with him. Something that he had composed, is put into disorder: Some evil that he had chased away, comes back to him unawares: some good resolution which he had form, is lost in a great crowd of temptations: and the bad customs which he had shaken off, will endeavour again to renew their acquaintance. All places being full of ill examples, there is the greater danger of infection. There is none but either commends a vice, or impresses it on us, or secretly rubs us with it. And it is very hard to beat off the assaults of enemies, when they come in so great troops upon us. It is good counsel therefore at such a time: Retire into yourself. Shut up your soul within doors, and let it not stir abroad. And truly he hath very honourable thoughts of us, who thinks us fit to bear ourselves company. He reposes a great confidence in us who dares trust us to ourselves. For there is no worse society for a man than his own, if he do not design to become good. Fools and mad men ought not to be left in their own hands. For as the wise employ their Solitude in pious counsels, and sober advices for the good government of themselves: so the wicked then meditate bad designs, and plot the fulfilling of naughty desires. They whet their anger, or irritate their lust, or brazen their foreheads to commit all villainy: and what fear and shame concealed from the world, they bring forth then before themselves, and prepare it to come abroad. See then what a good opinion I have conceived of you, in that I bid you not to fly yourself. I must needs take you for a man of worthy thoughts, or else I should not permit you to be alone. And let me tell you, that I promise myself you will improve your own company so well, as to be worthy at last to be trusted in the open World. When your mind is well fortified, and your resolution confirmed; the World will need such a good example, to reform the evil wherewith it abounds. We are not born for ourselves alone; but others must feel there is a good man still remaining among them. It is fit indeed that at certain times you should all your life sequester yourself from men; so it be without affectation of singularity, or making any noise: but there you must not bury yourself; nor make your Closet a Tomb, wherein to converse with no body but the dead. Your Light must so shine before men, that seeing your good works, they may glorify your Father which is in Heaven. And you must show forth the praises of him, who hath called you out of darkness into his marvellous Light. But having given you an example of both these in the Blessed Jesus, I will not suspect your memory of so much unfaithfulness, as to think you stand in need to have those instructions repeated. I will rather pray you to let me know how you find yourself in those retirements, and whether you meet with so great satisfaction in them as now you expect to reap.  
And truly afterward he confessed, that making his retreat very frequently into this Sovereign Privacy, he could not always be Master of those brave thoughts which he imagined he should have enjoyed. That Life he saw had its imperfections, and he looked to enjoy there those delightful spectacles, which too often withdrew themselves from his sight, and could not be wooed to favour him with their continual presence. He found that we do not yet live in the Country of Idaea's and the Land of Perfections: but that we dwell in lower Regions, andare forced to travel among Chimeras ', and to fight many times with monstrous Imaginations. At the best we do but see the shadows of things; or if we gain a true Image of them, yet we must be content to sit down a great way on this side of that excellent life, the Image of which we have conceived in our mind. The Pattern is too big for us while we are shut up in these Prisons. And to be so free in our thoughts and affections; it is necessary that we obtain a release from these bodies. Only thus much benefit he reaped from this dear Solitude wherein he sometimes reigned; that he was verily persuaded he should one day arrive at the Freedom and Peace of Jerusalem. He could not think that his Soul should always dwell so far short of that happy Country, of which he had such a lovely picture in his mind. It seemed unreasonable to imagine, that when all other things are suffered to grow to their height and utmost perfection; the spirit of man only should ever remain a dwarf, or rather continue a child, and never be unloosed from its swadling-bands. No, no; would he frequently say, I feel my Soul untying these Bands. It grows too great for these clothes, and cannot suffer itself to be thus confined. It aspires to that happy State which admits of no defects, and will make me call myself a Man. It longs and groans to be above itself. It stretches its hands to reach the Perfection of Purity, and to lay hold on Eternal Life. It would fain remove from these shadows and hopes to converse with the very things themselves. Oh how it sighs to do what it now designs! How it breathes after the enjoyment of that which it hath in desire! The day will come sure that shall cast no cloud about my mind, nor stir the least breath of inordinate passion in my soul. It will not be long before I be always serene, and have the happiness to live in a constant tranquillity and untroubled repose. The time I believe hastens when my knowledge shall be so clear, that Faith shall find no employment, and Hope shall receive a discharge; and Charity shall be left alone in its full strength.  
With these and other such like pleasant thoughts they entertained themselves as they traveled over many fair Plains; deceiving the length of the Miles by the variety of Discourse, and the prettiness of sundry contemplations. For the truth is, His Good Angel (as I may call him) never failed to put him in mind of such things as might be worthy of observation in their Journey, or might administer a profitable or innocent delight to sweeten their way. And among other things I remember that one day as they went through a certain place, which was more like a Garden than an Highway; He asked him if he was not afraid of those strange Beasts in green skins, and those armed men with weapons of the same colour in their hands. At which he smiling said; though you have been conscious to much of my weakness, yet I have so much courage, as not to be affrighted at the Images of things which I see cut in hedges. You shall see how confidently I will walk naked by that Lion, and that the Bear in the other thicket shall strike no terror into me. And it pleases me very much to think that the trouble which my often-infirmities have given you is not so great, but that you can make yourself merry with them: and I am willing to recreate you a little more by bragging thus of my present boldness. Indeed, said the Father, you could not have well gratified me more than you do, insporting with that which others more morose would have taken for a reproach. But let us seriously I pray you consider; Is there much more harm in many of those things at which the world is wont to tremble? Do they not fly from terrible nothings, wherewith they see the ways of Piety are beset. The Reproaches which tear our names in pieces like a Lion; the bitter words which men's tongues shoot like arrows in our faces; nay that great Bear, Poverty which turns so many out of the way; What are they? If you view them and all their fellows well, you will find they are as innocent, nay as profitable too as those peaceable creatures which you here behold. They are but like those Bows which are made of Bays, and can do no hurt. Or like those Guns which you see wrought in Rosemary and Sweet-Brier, and such like things, which shoot flowers, and dart forth Musk. Or like those Beasts of Hyssop and Thyme which are very Medicinal to those who know how to use them.  
From hence he fell into a very grave advice (which he said could not be too often repeated) that he should not fail to give God thanks for those things which went cross unto him, as much as he was wont to do for those which were most conformable to his desires. He showed him how we stand indebted to Divine Providence not only for our Food, but for our Physic also. He made him understand how the contempt we meet with from men, doth purge out Pride; how Poverty cures our Luxury and wanton desires; and how nothing is so powerful as Sickness to deliver us from the great evil of Ingratitude: it being seldom known that men consider the vast benefits of health till they be without it. In short, he convinced him plainly that a great fullness of all things, is very apt to choke the sense of God. That when men are in constant prosperity, as they want not abilities and instruments to sin, so they want the strong restraints of fear, of modesty, and of good counsel to keep them from it. And though, said he, if they wanted the last only, their condition would be sad enough; yet it is seldom known that they have the benefit of it, because there is either none to give it, or they are not apt to receive it. But adversity will flatter no man, itself supplying the place of an hundred Monitors; and being the only sober and trusty Counsellor, which great men have in their retinue. And if there were no other advantage that it brings, we should have great reason to thank God, that he would not let us die without the company of a faithful friend.   

CAP. XXX.  
How the Pilgrim grew very dull and lazy. By what means he was quickened to greater diligence. How the Guide awakened some sluggish Pilgrims which they met withal: moving them to a great care of their Souls; and to prove their Sincerity in Religion, by their being zealous of good works.  
BUt as I may not be permitted to relate all the delightful discourse of this nature which passed between them in their travels; so you must not think that our Pilgrim had now lest all trouble behind him, never to overtake him more. For having thus spent his time for some weeks, he felt himself exceeding dull; and through some indisposition (the cause of which he could not discover) he began to be so lazy & listless to any good action, which had formerly been his delight; that it endangered to overwhelm him in a new affliction of mind. But yet it pleased God so to order it, that this cloud was cast about him without any shower; and he cured himself of this restiffness of spirit by some common observations which he made as he went along. For they had not traveled far, before they found a great number of men digging in a Mine, who were all bathed in their own Sweat; and in stead of the fresh air to cool them, were in perpetual danger of Suffocation by infernal vapours. And being asked, For what they took such excessive pains, they gave them to understand that the best of their wages was very small, and that some were such slaves as laboured merely for corpse food; not so much as a grain of all the Silver Oar which they raked out of the earth's bowels coming into their possession. At the sight of which he was strangely awakened, and falling into a mighty passion began to reproach himself, to accuse his great folly, and to condemn his sloth; who was less concerned for a Soul, than these men for a bellyful of meat, or a few single-pennies. What do we, O my Soul? (said the good Pilgrim), Why do we lie still, and suffer ourselves to perish? Are there any pains like those to which these wretches are condemned? Or are there any treasures that can equal those which we are seeking after? O how disproportionable are their labours unto their gains! And how much will our gains exceed the greatest of our pains! Blush, O my Soul, at thy own neglects: and be astonished either at their diligence, or thy own sloth. Or rather, let the strageness of the one, make thee marvel at the other. And for very shame, let it rouse thee to do that for thyself which they do for their bodies; or to be but at half the labour to attain eternal Treasures, which they take, not for perishing Riches, but for a morsel of meat which only prepares them to renew their labours. In such Meditations as these, he spent some time to the no small quickening of his Soul in well doing. Which were also happily revived the next day by the fight of some ships, which from a mountain that they passed over, he espied riding on the Sea: whose waves did then so work and boil that the face of it was all yesty, and it foamed with rage at the winds which spent their fury upon it. From hence he took occasion to consider the hazard which they run, who trusted themselves to that treacherous Element: how they were carried sometimes to unseen regions, of which they had no knowledge but by the uncertain reports of others. How uncertain their Returns were: and how the poor Mariners had no interest at all in the goods which they ventured their lives to bring home to other Owners. This inspired his Soul and swelled it with new resolutions, more than a strong gale of wind doth the sails of a ship when she runs before it. He despised all dangers. He defied the lazy disposition wherein he lately found himself. He applauded the reasonableness of Christian Piety which was carried by Faith to unknown Countries. And he vowed never to quit the design wherein he was embarked; Especially since he had so good assurance at last to come to an happy Port. From whence he also knew that he should never lose any more, to be thus tossed in doubts and fears; to be exposed to the storms of an angry World, and (which was most troublesome) to conflict with the great uncertainties of his own temper, whereby he was sometimes lifted up as high as Heaven, and then again depressed as low as Hell.  
And truly after this I heard that he continued very fervent in Spirit, serving the Lord. In so much that meeting a good while after with some Pilgrims who were remiss and negligent, a great zeal was kindled in him and he called upon his Guide very earnestly to use his spurs and prick them up to a greater diligence. Which motion you will easily think the Good Father was not backward to embrace; but drawing a little nearer to them and well observing their careless postures, he asked them what the reason might be of that lazy and wretchless life which men of their profession lead. Are you not convinced, said he, of the truth of that Religion which is taught by Christ? Do you take Jesus for an impostor, and think that he lies in his grave and never shall come to Judge the World by his Laws? Or do you think that he hath commanded impossible things, and made a Law which cannot be put in use and practice? How then shall he Judge the World in Righteousness? Or how came it to pass that you undertook his service if you thought that none can come in his ways to the happiness of Jerusalem? For my part I can see nothing that should make it seem impossible to be so good as Christ hath required, but only the lives of a number of such wretches as yourselves. And lest I should seem to reproach you, or my words should not meet with due regard from you; harken I beseech you to the language of one, who indeed commands your attention, if it be but for the reverence which you bear to his years, and the place which he held in the Church of God. It is the famous Patriarch of Constantinople which I mean, who thus awakens some such drowsy souls as yours. Suppose a Gentile, saith he, should come to thee and say, If thou lookest for a Kingdom in Heaven, why dost thou mind this World so much? Sure thou dost but talk; they are but words which thou tellest to us. If thou expectest the dreadful tribunal of Christ hereafter, why dost thou not despise the most terrible things that threaten thee in this life? If thou expectest immortality, why do we not see thee laugh at death? What answer now wilt thou return to this Objector? What wilt thou say for thyself who tremblest at the loss of a little Riches for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake, and rejoycest at the gain of a farthing as if it were a great prize? This is that which scandalises the Gentiles, and makes them mock both at thee and thy Religion too. Do not therefore study so much to apologise for it by thy Words, as by thy Deeds. Let him see such a one as Christ describes, not only in thy Books but in thyself. Make it manifest to him that there is such a Religion in being, alive in the World; and that it lies not dead in Parchments. Suffer it not to be the work of the Scribe, or (as we now speak) of the Printer only, but let him read it in thy life. Make him confess that the Gospel commands things that may be done, and doth not draw a Platonical Commonwealth, or describe (as we say in these days) an Eutopian Polity. Suppose again, that a Gentile should say to thee, Good Sir, how shall I know that your God requires possible things? They look like things which cannot be done; and I never saw any Christian such a man. Behold, thou wast brought up in thy Religion from thy childhood and yet dost no such things; with what face then dost thou require them of me who have been long accustomed otherways? What wilt thou now reply in the behalf of Christianity? Perhaps thou wilt point him to others and desire him not to look on thyself. Thou wilt bid him cast his eyes upon the Monks and those who live in Wildernesses, where he may behold what holy lives they lead. O most shameful Apology! For he will say; what then, must I turn a Monk? must I live in Mountains and dwell in the Deserts? Must I forsake all company but only that of the Beasts? This is a strange Religion of which a man cannot be, unless he leave the Society of men. A Religion that cannot dwell in Towns and Cities. A Religion that flies the light, and seeks for Dens and Caves of the Earth. That is an enemy to the best of pleasures; that banishes good neighbourhood, and renders a man an hater of the rest of Mankind. I will none of this Religion: keep it to yourself and do not invite me to your melancholy Piety.  
This truly is a very great disgrace to the Christian profession, to make as though it could not inhabit any place and be performed by any men. There is no excuse to be made for it: If it cannot stay with us in Towns and keep us company in business, and be the employment of common men; away with it; it is not for our turn; let it be banished the World. Show to me a man that hath a wife and children and servants and yet is a Christian. Let me see a man that keeps his shop and buys and sells, and yet lives well and keeps the Laws of Christ. Doth not our Saviour say, Let your light shine before men? but where do we read that it is to illustrate Deserts, and make the Mountains glorious? Which is not spoken (saith he) to reproach those persons who choose to dwell in such places; but only to bemoan our Cities that have driven Virtue from among them, and thrust it out of their gates into the Wilderness. Let us endeavour I beseech you to call it back again. Let us bring it to dwell within the Walls of Cities as well as those of Monasteries. Let us reduce it into our Families, and our shops and our Markets, nay into our Taverns and Victualling-houses. Let us render it Sociable and fit for Conversation that all men may be the better for it. Suffer no place to be void of Religion; but make it extend itself like the Divine Presence, which is ready to assist men every where. Do not say any longer that you cannot be good. He never took the business seriously into his thoughts; he never gave all diligence, who speaks that wicked word. And do not say to me neither that you cannot understand the Religion of Christ, and know not what to do. For see how skilful the most simple people are in their worldly affairs; see what exactness they use; how accurate and circumspect they are wont to be in some of their outward concerns. Let them employ the same in spiritual things and I'll warrant they shall not be overlookt by the Divine grace, nor miss of being wise to Salvation. The Sun shines not so clear as the Truth of God. Where men have a mind they may easily come to the knowledge of him. If they would but attend and not make a By-work of it, they would neither be so ignorant, nor so impotent as they are. For the Gospel was not shut up in Palestine, nor confined to some corner of the World, but all shall know me (saith the Lord) from the greatest to the least; and every place may become an Holy-Land. But will you extend this thing: may some say: to the Barbarous Nations, and the rustic understandings? Yes that I will; and if there can be any still more Barbarous than those that we yet know, I affirm that they may have the benefit of it. For tell me I pray you, since one of those men can in things belonging to this present life argue for himself if he be wronged, resist when he suffers violence, and do all things not to be endamaged in the least; why may he not use the same understanding in better matters? When he is to worship a stone, to observe the numerous ceremonies of a foolish Feast; to do reverence to a false God, he can show wit enough; and therefore why do you tell me that he is simple and silly and capable of Nothing when I would have him seek after the Will of the true God? Fie upon you! I wonder you have the face to speak these things. There is no such matter: It cannot be as you say. Let me never hear you talk thus vainly any more, nor excuse yourselves and others in this fashion. Their simpleness is not in fault, but their Idleness and sloth ought to bear the blame. For I pray you once more consider, who were more Rustic, plain and simple? those that lived in Abraham's time, or the men of our days? It is plain that they. And when was it easier to be godly; then, or now? It is manifest that now. For now God is more clearly revealed; now the Gospel is preached; now we are taught by the Son of God himself; but then men learned as one may say without any teacher. There was an universal corruption; no Law give, no Prophets sent, no Miracles wrought: but they saw as it were in a profound darkness; in a Winter Moonless night. Well then, why shouldst not thou be Religious as well or rather more, than Abraham? He was of that Noble and generous Spirit which is recorded in the Holy Books, when he had not so much as that which we call the Wisdom of them without, and there were no Philosophers in the world. Then I say he knew God, he wrought righteousness, he exercised Virtue, he drew on others to be godly. Nay, his Father was an Idolater, his Friends and kindred were immersed in the evil customs of the World, and yet all this could not hinder him from becoming good, and obeying the call of God. It cannot then be impossible for us who live in the clear day light, both to know, and do his will: But it is impossible, utterly impossible that he should leave them without his Almighty grace, who are vigilant and watchful to attend to the illuminations which he bestows upon them. Never think hereafter to make Apologies for yourselves before God, seeing you are not able to answer for your sluggishness before men. They condemn you, and he will never acquit you. It is visible you may be better, and therefore he will admit of no excuse for your continuing bad.  
This is the effect of the Sermon which that Excellent man made to Drones and Sluggards: and let me again beseech you to lay his words to heart. Do not content yourselves with wishes and desires, no nor with ardent prayers that you may be amended; but apply yourselves to the work, stir up the Grace that is in you, and do what your hands find to do with all your might. They are the Souls whose Prayers God hears, who employ their hands as soon as they have unbent their knees. The diligent and the stirring men are those whom he comes to assist. A man may work wonders, but not if he lie in a Bed. Heaven will pour down abundance of Grace, but not if we gape for it at home, and will not go out of doors to receive it. You have heard its like of the Thundering Legion for whom God fought, but yet they did not obtain the Victory with their arms a cross: they were fain to give blows, as well as believe, and to second their Prayers with their Swords. We may praise the fertile soil, and pray for seasonable showers; but let me tell you, no rain fructifies more than the dew of Sweat. Though the Ship waits for a favourable gale, and cannot stir without it; yet it is still becalmed without that breath wherewith they hoist the sails, and spread them to receive it.  
It would be too long to tell you what commotions the poor men felt in their breasts all the time that he was speaking: but thus much you may know that they began to be so awakened, and seemed so much ashamed; that he thought it best to strike again while the Iron was hot, and his words had such fair hopes to make a deeper impression. To this discourse therefore he added another, which he conceived might give a greater force unto it, and was of this import. But lest, said he, you should imagine this Eminent person whose sense of things I have conveyed to you to have measured the strength of other men by his own great abilities; I will read a lecture out of a a Philosopher to you, who is able to say enough to make you shake off your sloth, and cannot be suspected of more knowledge, then may be the portion of Christ's disciples. And I persuade myself that you cannot for shame despise his words, lest he having nobler thoughts than yourselves should serve to condemn you of the grossest stupidity.  
You have all I am sure a very strong desire of something that is good, and not contented with any inferior degree; you all long for that which is Supreme, and hath nothing above it. Now God, saith he, and Goodness are so near of kin that they are convertible, and you cannot find the one, but you must have the other also. Wheresoever you can meet with the Essence of God (he means a participation of him) there is the essence of Good. What then is the Essence of God, where shall we find his Nature? Is this Flesh the thing we inquire after? Far be such a thought from us. Is that field, or those manors? away with such an absurd conceit. Is fame, is glory? No such matter. What then? Is mind and understanding, knowledge and wisdom, right reason and sound apprehensions? Yes, this is the thing we look for: here we find God, and therefore here let us seek for the Nature of Good. He is not where else to be met withal, and therefore let us go no farther to be happy. For else why dost not thou seek for this Good in a plant? why dost thou not expect to find it in a Brute? These and all other creatures are indeed the Works of God, but they are not the Principal and chief; they are not a part of him; they are not the things wherein he hath engraven himself, and wrought his own Image. It is thou that art the prime of his creatures; that art his Masterpiece: nay thou art (as I may say) a piece of God; thou hast in thyself a portion of Divinity. Why then art thou so Ignorant of thy Nobility? why dost thou forget so shamefully from whence thou art derived? Is it fit for thee to seek thy happiness in meat and drink, in money and lands, in honour and applause? Why dost thou disparage thy soul so much as to go for thy Good any farther than thyself? There is God, and there thou must enjoy thy Good: It is not any thing in the World thou art to mind, so much as thy soul; for in that is to be found the satisfaction of thy desires. Why dost thou not remember then, when thou catest, who thou art that catest, and whom thou feedest? When thou usest any thing in the World who thou art that usest it? And when thou dost any thing, who it is that doth it? Art thou altogether insensible of the excellence of the person whom thou feedest, and who is here sent into the world to be trained up by thee? O wretch that thou art, how comes it about that thou art so ignorant of this, that thou carriest God about with thee? Or dost thou think that I speak of a God without thee? A god of Gold or Silver to be born on thy shoulders? Thou carriest him in thyself, man; and yet regardest not, though thou dost pollute him with filthy thoughts, and besmear him with sordid and nasty actions. If there be a Statue, a liveless Image of God before thine eyes, a picture of him in stone, thou darest not to do any undecent thing before it. But God himself being present within, seeing all things, and hearing all things, thou blushest not, O thou hated of God, to think and do most unworthily, being altogether insensible of thy own Nature. If one could suppose thee to be a Statue made by Phidias (Minerva for instance, or Jupiter) wouldst thou not, if we could also suppose thee to have any sense, be very mindful of thyself, and of the workman, and do nothing either unbecoming his Art, or thy own Excellence? And now that thou art made even by Heaven itself, now that thou art the Workmanship of God, what is the reason that thou carest not after what manner thou behavest thyself? Is not that Image which is made by man, of Stone or Brass, or of Gold and Ivory at the best? And where it is set up first, there it stands for ever, without stirring one foot of itself from the place. But who can tell me of what that Image of God is made which he fashioned with his own hands? What the price of it is, itself cannot understand. And yet it stirs and moves; it hath a spirit, and can go whither it will; it ranges about the world, and cannot be limited by all that it sees; it hath a knowledge of good and evil, a reason and judgement whereby to estimate things. And therefore since thou art the Fabric of such an Artist, since thou art such an excellent piece; why dost thou disgrace, why dost chou undervalue thyself? Why I say? Seeing thou art not only form by him, but he hath given thee credit above all other creatures; he hath deposited many rare gifts in thy hands, and entrusted thee alone with a great deal of his wealth? Wilt thou not be mindful of this neither, but betray thy trust, and abuse and embezzle his goods which he hath committed to thy charge? If one should commit an Orphan a poor Fatherless and Motherless child to thy care,— wouldst thou be so negligent of him? Bethink thyself then; He hath committed to thee thyself; He hath judged none so faithful none so fit to be trusted as thee. Keep me this, saith he, just as it is. See that this be preserved in safety and delivered back again unto me, modest and bashful, honest and just, sober and temperate, heavenly and sublime, strong and courageous, peaceful and undisturbed, contented and well pleased; in one word, such as I made it. What a piece of infidelity then, what dishonesty and falseness is it, that thou wilt not at all guard and secure it? What will he say unto thee when he sees it so horribly abused as we now behold the souls of men? What canst thou expect to be the reward of such treachery, which of all other is the greatest?  
But I should tyre you I doubt if I should proceed to the end of this man's Lecture; and I have repeated enough of it to make all your souls blush at that gross and supine negligence, which makes them obnoxious to the lash of Heathens. And if you would deal freely and clearly, can you say that you never heard your Souls complain that they are thus slighted? Did they never quarrel with you for your forgetfulness and contempt of them? Are they not apt to murmur and repine that they can receive no higher satisfaction than the Brutes enjoy? And do they not remember you that they are of an heavenly descent, of the kindred of Angels, made after the likeness of God himself? O that you would but listen to them; They will fill your ears I am sure with such sad lamentations, as will make them tingle. They will tell you it is unsufferable that they should be thus neglected and disregarded. They will chide you for bestowing the care that is due to them upon other inconsiderable things. They will reproach to you most bitterly this sleepiness and carnal security wherein I find you. And can you be so cruel to them as after so many complaints to let them have no redress? must they still suffer these wrongs and abuses which have been long offered to them? Will you harden your hearts against the cries and clamours of your own Souls? If there be any spark of good nature remaining in them, they are mollified to the piteous whinings and the mournful accents of a poor Dog, that is accidentally shut up and almost starved in a lonesome place, and begs for a release. How can they refuse then to relent at their own doleful cries and miserable complaints? How can they hear without some tenderness their own sad sighs and deep groans after a better good than this World affords? Will you not suffer them to be set at liberty after so long restraint? Will you not permit them to go to their own kindred, to return to their native Country when they are so desirous of it? Will you deny them the freedom to think continually of their own proper happiness, and contrive a sure way wherein to attain it? Be not so unnatural; do not so forget yourselves; but let your Souls have free leave to pursue their desires. Yea give them opportunity every day to look abroad beyond the Body and this present World. Or rather invite them to take the freedom to go to God as oft as they please. And when you find them so unmindful of themselves as now they seemed to be; when they are so heavy that they begin to fall asleep; awake them and stir them up again: rouse them from their slumber and bid them remember their Dignity and take great heed that they be not gulled with the flatteries and enchantments of the World and of the Flesh.  
And truly there is very great need of this watchfulness; for the Flesh will be soliciting your attendance, and desire you to make provision for it. It will complain of your neglects too; and be angry that it is not more kindly used. It will grudge at all the time and care that is bestowed on your Soul, and say it is too much. You must expect that it will murmur at the commands of Christ, and think itself very much in jured by them. But as you must not regard these complaints, so I will tell you a way whereby you shall cease them, and make it better satisfied. Let it know that if it will not be content with what you do, it shall have worse usage than hitherto. Tell it that you will not have so much kindness for it, unless it will be quiet. Persuade it that it is better to consent to obedience sooner, for else it shall far more hardly, and you will take a severer course to bring it under. For so I have read that Hilarion an ancient Pilgrim, was wont to do. When he found his flesh to be much displeased that it was denied any thing; He insulted over it on this fashion. Thou Ass! canst thou not tell when thou art well and haste but a light burden upon thy back? I will make thee that thou shalt not kick again in haste. I will lay such loads upon thee that thou shalt stand quietly and have no power to Wince. And I will not feed thee with Corn, but with straw. I will punish thee with hunger and thirst. I will afflict thee with fasting and bring thee low with harder labours. I will make thee think more of thy meat then of gluttony and riot. Thou shalt be glad of a drop of drink, and rest well content without compotations and excess of Wine. Thou hadst better have been more moderate in thy desires, for I will teach thee to be well pleased with a sparer diet. It had been more for thine ease if thou hadst been more diligent; for I will cure thee of thy Sloth, by exacting of thee more grievous tasks.  
In this manner he quieted and stilled all its grumble, and affrighted away its reluctance and idle disposition. And in the same way may you bring it to some reason, and make it capable of good advice; lest by craving too much it have the less; and by encroaching upon the better part, it lose the freedom that it doth enjoy. Terrify yourselves with the thoughts of severer Discipline, which you must be forced to use: and represent to yourselves effectually, that if there be no other way, this sluggish temper must be banished by a rigorous and sharp penance, which you can less endure than this easy service of our Lord. By this means sure you will procure liberty for your souls to follow their nobler propensions, and to provide for their return to their own Country, and their Father's House. Which if you mean to effect, than you must take more time, whatsoever the Flesh or the World shall object, to consider more seriously the worth and price of your Souls, than which I know not what can be more powerful to drive away your sleep, and to make you attend with all earnestness to the securing of their happiness. Remember I again beseech you, that it is too long that you have remained in ignorance of yourselves. That it is high time now to look about you, lest your Souls quite forget themselves, and never recover the memory of what and whence they are. Let my counsel therefore be acceptable to you, and revolve very often in your mind the words of that Heathen whom I have brought hither to make you ashamed. Retire much into yourselves, and there demand of your Souls, that they declare their quality and condition to you. They are able to make you an answer, and therefore bid them tell you what is their parentage and kindred, of what house they are descended, what is their nature, their portion, their inheritance, and do not cease till you have received satisfaction. Ask them if they are not the Daughters of God, Sisters to Angels, Images of Divinity. Harken if they will not tell you that they are spirits of a vast understanding, purer than the Light, swifter than the Lightning; whose portion and dowry is immortality, whose place is the Universe, whose capacity is a picture of Infinity, and who are born to be heirs of the other world, to have the honour of being Kings, and to reign with God for ever. And when your souls have dealt faithfully with you, and let you know such things as these, you must be as faithful and just to them, and assure them that you will have a great care of them, and attend upon them according to their birth and quality. Think what a madness it is to throw away this nobler Moiety of man, for that which no discreet person would purchase with the loss of his health, or the price of the pains of the far inferior part. Let every one of you say within himself, O my Soul, I will never be persuaded to lose thee; nothing shall tempt me to be false unto thee. This Body shall be hungry and starved, nay and die too if it were possible a thousand deaths, rather than I will famish thee, and suffer thee to perish. I have resolved thou shalt have thy true liberty, & pursue thy true end for which thou wast made. Look about thee, and see what thou wouldst have, and by the Grace of God it shall not be denied to thy desires. And what is, I beseech you, O you Sons of men, or rather, you Sons of God, you children of the Most High; what is it that you are most desirous to enjoy? Is it not the Knowledge of God, to be acquainted with your Father, to recover his Image, to be impressed with his Likeness, to live in his Love, to have the Light of his Countenance, to be full of good hopes of receiving his Blessing, and to be restored at last to his presence after this long banishment from him? O gratify your souls then so far, as to give all diligence to fulfil these reasonable long. Be not sparing of your pains in so great a business. Let them not be put off with frivolous excuses, that you are not at leisure, that you have other things to mind for the convenience of your Bodies, or any the like pretences; but instantly apply yourselves more vigorously than ever to see that they have right done them, and that they receive their true and full satisfaction. Do not think it is such a small matter that will content them as the whole World. Nay, do not imagine that it will suffice them to talk of the other World; to send some messages to it, and receive some from it. It is not enough that they speak now and then with the Father of their Being, and that they have his Word, and hear him speaking to them. But they must have a greater communication with them both, than this amounts unto. They must set their affections on things above: they must have their conversation in Heaven: they must be like to God, and made partakers of a Divine Nature. They must be renewed after the Image of him that created them, in Wisdom, in Righteousness, in Purity, in Charity and Love; so that God may dwell in them and they in him. No less Good than this must you design for your Souls. You do not act like reasonable Being's, till you seek by all means this conformity with your Original from whence you spring. Do you doubt at all of what I say? Let me send you then to that Philosopher again, that you may blush once more to see yourselves in greater Ignorance than those whom you reproach with the name of Infidels.  
Diogenes, saith he, hearing a Sophister once making a vainglorious declamation, 
L. 3. c. 2.  put forth his middle finger, and pointed at him saying; See, there is the man: behold him, for that is He: now you may look upon him, and know him if you will. At which words there being a great stir and tumult excited, he proceeded thus in his speech unto them. Do you think that I show you a man as we do a stone or a log, only with the indicatian of my finger? No, I have no such meaning: it is a folly to think of distinguishing a man from his neighbour by such an Instrument. But when one hath shown you his opinions that he hath of things, when he hath demonstrated to you what are his great concerns; then he hath shown him to you as he is a man. And from thence now you may take this man's Character whom you have heard speaking to you. He hath told you what he thinks, and what he most desires: I only bid you to mark and observe him. Let us see thy opinions and notions also (saith the Philosopher who makes application of this story) Let us behold thy sentiments that we may be acquainted with thee. Discover to us what thou lovest and choosest above all other things. Dost thou place thy happiness without thyself? Dost thou value all things more than thyself? Thou readest the best Philosophers, thou studiest Chrysippus, and such good Authors; and this is all. Why, then we see very well who thou art. Hast thou not discovered to us in what esteem we are to hold thee? A poor-spirited Creature, angry and furious, fearful and distrustful, querulous and complaining of every thing, proud and conceited of thyself, covetous and voluptuous, desirous of glory and popular applause, accusing all things, and never quiet nor at rest. These things thou showest us; and by these we are to esteem thee. It is not thy Books, nor thy Masters and Tutors, nor any thing else, but such as these that show the man.  
And what I beseech you can be more proper to be spoken in the ears of most Christian Auditories? You read the Bible; you have the Books of Christian Learning in your hands. Do these denominate you Christian men and women? Must we call you the Disciples of our Saviour, because you sit before us, and hear our Sermons. No such matter: Show us, O man, thy thoughts, show us thy decrees and opinions of things. Let us see thy understanding, thy will, thy choice, thy affections; that we may know whether thou art a Christian or no. And where shall we see these but in the actions of thy life? Covetousness & love of pleasure tell us plainly what thou art. Pride and study to be admired in the World proclaim thee to us more than all that we see beside. If thou wilt give a proof thy Humanity and of thy Christianity too; if thou wilt have us believe that thou art not yet turned an unreasonable creature; live according to thy reason; practise thy Religion; prefer thy Soul before thy Body, the concernments of an immortal Being before the trivial enjoyments of a few moments. Do not tell us of thy professions, nor of thy belief, when we see with our eyes that which better declares thee to us. Let thy Soul recover its command again; let it be restored to its Empire and Dominion; let it rule all the passions and affections of the lower part, that we may know thou art a Man, and not degenerated into a Beast.  
And now by this time you may well think these Pilgrims were awakened, unless they meant to snort eternally. And indeed the poor men were so warmed, or rather inflamed with this discourse, that they could refrain themselves no longer, but burst forth into a passionate weeping; first for their fault, and then for joy, that God had sent them so faithful a Monitor. They gave him most hearty thanks for his excellent Sermon (as they could not choose but call it) and promised most solemnly to think more of the value of their Souls, and thereby excite themselves to use their best diligence to save them. We will go, said they, to the Father of our Spirits: we will make it our constant endeavour to reconcile ourselves to him. We will say, Father, we have sinned against Heaven and against thee; we have sinned against ourselves. We have wronged our own Souls; we are no more worthy to be called thy Sons: no not worthy of so much as to be called the Sons of men. We have lived like Brutes; we have spoiled thy Workmanship; and miserably effaced and mangled thine Image. But we repent, and remember from whence we are fallen. We are desirous now of nothing so much, as to be conformed to thyself. O let us be thy servants, if we are not worthy to be called thy children. Admit us but into the lowest place in thy family, to the meanest degree of thy Love. And if that be too good a name for us, to be styled thy servants; we are willing to be thy Vassals, thy Bonds-men, any thing that thou wilt have us. For we are the Captives of thy Mighty and All-conquering Love, and we shall think ourselves happy, if we may sit in the most inferior rank of those, that shall eternally sing thy Praises.   

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 Virtue 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 unloadned themselves of the passions which they felt in their hearts. Which being all vented, there still remained 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 always 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 day's Journeys. Nor was our young Pilgrim without his share in the benefit of this discourse, being hereby excited to bestir himself with more earnestness and greater Zeal in the Service of God. He never thought that he was vigilant enough; He looked about him as if he had seen with an hundred Eyes; and he was as busy 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 undertake more than he was able to perform. Which the Good man espying and considering that it would soon tyre 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 days. 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 perfect Virtue. 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 Virtue or what observance is it, that may be thought of greatest efficacy to preserve 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 available. Some there were who placed all in Fast and Watch; alleging for proof hereof, that a man being 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 only security of man; in regard the mind being naked and quite stripped 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 commended the Deserts as the only places wherein to come to familiarity with God, and to hold a perpetual communication 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. Anthony's turn to speak; who delivered himself in manner following.  
It cannot be denied, my Reverend Brethren, but that the propositions by you now made, are of singular force to keep a man's heart with God and to bring him to a most excellent degree of Virtue. 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 themselves, or a loaf of bread for the future; some always at their devotion, others employed in acts of Hospitality and succouring of their Neighbours; who nevertheless 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 ruin 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 waste away and come to nothing? Surely the only lack of Discretion. They had not sufficiently learned the rules and conditions of this Virtue which shunning either extremes, maintains us continually upon the highway: 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 dim, there will be nothing but darkness. To this faculty it belongs to weigh, balance and discern all that is to be done by man and; therefore if this be faulty, and true judgement and knowledge be wanting, the Soul must needs be folded up in a night of inordinate and blind passions.  
To this, as there was reason, they all gave their applause, there being many other things added to confirm 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 obedience 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 without becoming Beggars: And fervent in devotion without blazing away in the fierceness of our own flames. It will direct us so to give away our goods, that we may be always giving. And to secure our neighbours, so that we may not be wearing of well doing. To communicate common benefits with all, and peculiar 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 ourselves 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 Virtue which hinders us from spoiling a good design through rashness and haste. 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 always at our work, by keeping us from over-working ourselves. It makes Religion easy and pleasant by making it free and unconstrained. 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 ourselves, 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 shows 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 ourselves. It gives a lustre to all the Virtues, 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 design of this story, and think that it had an aim at himself. And being very much cooled and refreshed by this charitable breath which the Father had spent upon him; he instantly apprehended that he had contrived to give him a divertisement, and an instruction both together. For sometime he could do nothing else but commend this Virtue, till at last he remembered there was some praise due to the Father who had given him now such an instance of it. And having rendered him his thanks both for the lesson and the seasonableness 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 Virtues, yet in truth she seems to be a Mistress among them, and to dispose them to their several duties. For one Virtue, 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 Phlegm. Seriousness must be beholden to Cheerfulness; and cheerfulness must call to be repaid by it, or else we shall be either all earth, or nothing but Air. Humility wants a little confidence; an holy Faith must be joined 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 itself, 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; unless it be the Discretion and Judgement 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 degree of Virtue. This makes a sweet mixture of Faith in God with fear of ourselves; of Godly Sorrow with Spiritual Joy; of innocence with prudence; of lowliness with greatness of mind; of heavenly-mindedness 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 talkative; to be silent, but not melancholy; to be content 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 ourselves by undue severity towards them.  
Enough, said the Pilgrim; I see such need of this Virtue, 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 myself 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 asked him with a greater quickness than he was wont to use. Would you then be well pleased if I should bring a Sith and mow off your legs? Had you rather be carried than go upon your feet? The poor man was amazed at this question, and asked him what he meant. My meaning, said the Father, is plain enough. Your passions are nothing 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 desire to have no feet, or to have a dead-palsy smite your loins, and disable you to move; as wish to have no passions, or to have them so benumbed and stupefied, 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 always stay at home because the weather may prove rainy. Nay, When did you see any excellent Virtue which was not accompanied with a plentiful portion of these? Or, When was there any love or courage or any such like thing in a noble degree, but you might discern it edged with no small passionateness 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 fortify and conserve us in this disposition, and make us to persist in our inclinations 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 itself 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 remembered.  
All your business then is (and in that you must bestow some pains) to get better eyes to guide you in your go, 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 unblamable 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 Service. And if you should chance to be surprised with a fancy of some evil or good before you can have liberty to discourse the true nature of it; and your passions 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 quelled without some scuffle within. If you can conquer, you have well acquitted yourself. And that will be attended with those triumphs, which will more than recompense 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 than 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 yourself, by labouring to be free from all passion. For they that undertake 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 hug him when they were ended. And his passions having found such a defender to take their part were ready to serve themselves 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 Music can be so charming to me as your words. They can both appease my raging humours, and excite me out of my dull and phlegmatic inclinations. You are my Intelligence, 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 rooted 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 intent 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 impossible, but that there should be such motions as you feel, and know yourself to be of such a complexion that if you will love at all it must be with a passionateness and fervency of affection; yet upon the next ebullition (as I may call it) in your soul you are ready to condemn yourself 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 rather 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 Conclusions. 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 ourselves 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 ourselves to love any person 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 blossom and bring forth fruit, and produce it in abundance.  
And a little the more to confirm your mind, let me faith something to you of that tenderness of affection which I observe in you towards a virtuous 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 yourself. But I beseech you, did you ever observe any great virtue 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 than others, because they say Nothing? must we let them wear the title of virtue above their neighbours, merely because they are more grave and solemn? Do they live in a greater sense of God because they look more sourly? Must we think there is no piety but what is pale-faced? no mortification of ourselves, but when our thorns prick other folks? Truly I must needs profess that I have seen both men and women of this rigid humour, whose very looks condemn all that is named pleasure, and will not afford 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 cheerful conversation with their friends. Some of these I have observed are so parsimonious and niggardly, that they are sordid rather then saving. Others are so cursed and peevish that they will snarl on the least occasion that crosses their humour. And you will find few of them who have not these two qualities: That they love good cheer 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 innocent actions. Nay, which is most villainous, there are some of them who will condemn you for that good cheer 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 body's secrets. They would know what is done in all their neighbour's houses: and if it were possible they would look into their very Closets. And whatsoever 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 together.  
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 sour; 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 than their neighbours, but were born with a worse disposition. They are so leavened 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 Virtue, 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 palate. And therefore they ought not to think better of themselves, nor be thought so by others, merely because they taste no joy in that which pleases you; for it may proceed from the lumpishness of their body, 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 licence in those which are Worse. For many debarr themselves of innocent mirth, and grant an indulgence to their froward and peevish humours. Provided they be grave, they think they may be discourteous. And as long as they do not laugh, they will take the liberty to by't.  
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 cheerful disposition are more innocent in thought, more free from design, more simple and plain hearted, more kind and affectionate, more free from superstition, and far removed from hypocrisy: 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 oftentimes but in the brow and exterior part. But I think, it is time to dismiss these lowering Countenances whom I intent not to reproach, but only to bereave of the opinion and reputation of being owners of more goodness than other men. They are to be pitied me thinks who use their reason to make themselves 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 myself 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 than their stoutness and strength, and to be sick of this disease, then to have their kind of health.   

CAP. XXXII.  
How they light upon a company of select Friends who were met at a frugal, but handsome Dinner. The commendation of Temperance. Of the pleasure that Friends enjoy in eating together. The benefit of Friendship. With the Character of a true friend.  
IN such discourse as this they passed with much pleasure a long stage of their journey. At the end of which, being thirsty, they called at a place where one would think that Heaven designed to give the Pilgrim an example of innocent pleasure. For here they found a knot of loving neighbours at a frugal dinner; who seemed to feast one another more with their mutual good conversation, then with any other cheer that was provided. Their eyes told that they were very merry: and that there was a true love in their hearts, their countenance and free converse did plainly declare. There was nothing superfluous, but all very handsome; no looseness but great great freedom; no noise but much innocent pleasure. They were disposed to Mirth rather than joy; to chearfulfulness rather than jollity; and to entertain themselves with a grateful variety rather than abundance of meat and drink. This fight did very much affect the young man's heart, and when they were gone, he began to speak in the praise of Temperance, and to commend their happiness who could contain themselves within the limits of Sobriety. For this said he is the Mistress of health, and also of wise and pure thoughts. It refreshes the Body and doth not burden the mind. It casts down neither of them to the ground, but raises both to their just pitch of pleasure. It continues us free and fit for any employment, but especially that of thanking God for all his blessings, which is the Noblest of all. It leaves us capable to enjoy the things of the other world when we have enjoyed as much as we please of this. It suffers reason to retain its throne, or rather exalts and advances its Supremacy every day to a greater height. Nay, it preserves our taste, and renders our palate more exact than other men's are: for all the senses I persuade myself when ruled by reason, must needs be more upright Judges, then when that is absent and set aside. And therefore me thinks, there is nothing more preserves the honour and reverence that is due to our natures, than this Virtue. It maintains the Majesty of our countenance, the lustre of our eyes, the graceful deportment of our whole Man. Whereas all the world confesses, and it is their common speech that a man in drink, is Nothing else but a man disguised. He looks basely; he is the 〈◊〉 of children and fools; he is pointed & laughed at, as if he were some monster; he is the sport and 〈◊〉 ●●ven of those who have thus disrobed him of himself. And as for them whose brains are so strong that they have overcome him, and think it an honour to be able to hold more than the rest of their fellows; this glory is their shame. They are the Vermin of the Earth who live to consume the goods of others, and to waste the patrimony of the Poor. And when they brag of their Victories they are so silly as not to remember what one of the Philosophers saith, that they are overcome by the Hogshead which is far more capacious than themselves. Nay, I cannot but think those people who know no pleasure but high fare, the joy of whose life depends upon full Tables, and as full Bellies, who love nothing like Feasts, and would have them as sumptuous as Sacrifices; to be a sort of creatures much inferior to some Beasts; who though they are not capable to govern themselves, yet are ruled by us, and rendered serviceable and profitable to the world. But these are good for nothing but only to devour; and commonly they follow this trade so long that they devour themselves and all that belongs unto them.  
No doubt, said the good Father, (who here thought fit to interrupt him) the praises which you bestow upon Temperance are very just, and you can never commend it to excess. Which procures me therefore the greater grief when I see so few in the World who live according to the rules of this Virtue. Their number is very small who are not corrupted with the love of these sensual pleasures. Though they do not fall into such high debauches as you speak of, not drinking as if they were in a perpetual fever, nor eating as if they were laying in provision for a long Siege: (which me thinks is a good description which I have heard some give of their excess) yet they are not many who measure their meals by their needs; and they are not to be told who are Bibbers of Wine, and love to sit long at compotations, and design to make provision for the flesh, that they may fulfil the lusts thereof. Nay, which is saddest of all, there are too many of those who profess to be Religious, whose God is their belly. They love Feasts, and hunt after good cheer. And if it be but sanctified with a Sermon, Gourmandise is innocent in their account. Like some naughty Christians in the Elder times whom I mentioned before, who thought they might carouse and drink as long as they would, so they did but sit with a mortified face upon the Martyr's Tombs. And it were some comfort if their sin ended here; but their Intemperance is the Mother and fruitful Parent of many other Vices. A long train of sins as well as diseases waits upon this, and follows it just at the heels. It both brings in and it uncovers every other evil inclination. It removes that Modesty, which stands more in the way than any thing else of most men's bad endeavours. It banishes all shame, so that there is nothing left to oppose any wickedness. Who hath woe, who hath sorrow, who hath contention, who hath babbling, who hath wounds without cause? They that tarry long at Wine, they that go to seek mixed Wine; as the Wise man tells us. Whatsoever evil dispositions are in the mind, than they take opportunity to show themselves. Malice is brought into open view, and spits its venom. The proud spirit is laid bare, and seeks no pretence for its insolence. The furious man is left naked of all his guards, and cares not whom he mischiefs. The lustful man uncovers himself, and scarce waits for secrecy to fulfil his desires. And truly I wish I could not say that this Folly which is the most filthy of all, was not the common issue of that of which we speak. There is more of this uncleanness in the World than you imagine. They that wear the countenance of Religious people are led, I assure you, by their Cups to the Brothel-houses, and pass from the Taverns to the Stews. So it was of Old, and the same Villainy continues still; that many turn the Grace of God into laseiviousness. And if you would know who they are, the same Apostle tells you, that they were such as feasting with others, did feed themselves without fear. 
Judas 4.12  And so St. Peter also lets us know, that they who accounted it pleasure to riot in the daytime (in the clear light of the Gospel) had eyes full of adultery, 
2 Pet. 2.13, 14  and could not cease from sin. But I will leave these men who are gone in the way of the false Prophet Balaam, who taught the Children of Israel to commit fornication. Only let me leave those words of the Apostle with them; 
2 Pet. 2.14  They are Wells without water, Clouds that are carried with a tempest, to whom the mist of darkness is reserved for ever. Nor will I say any more of the rest of those sins which attend upon an intemperate life, which makes a man's Soul like a piece of low ground, which by reason of abundance of wet, brings forth nothing but Frogs, and Worms, and Adders, all manner of wickedness which either dishonours God, or hurts ourselves and our neighbours. I will rather turn my eyes to a more pleasant sight, and comfort them with the remembrance of those Good men whom we saw just now so happily met together. And me thinks it is a very great felicity in this false World, to find but one face among so many Vizors; and to be able to lay hold on something that hath truth and substance in it among so many shadows. Having found therefore a little number of seriously sober persons, it cannot but make me rejoice the more that Temperance hath some Clients, and that she is not forsaken of all her followers.  
But though this be very true, that we do deservedly praise this Virtue and all her Servants; yet methinks you should have observed something else at that meeting which is worthy of your commendation. Did not the very meeting itself seem a very comely sight? And was you not glad to behold so many kind neighbours assembled at that decent entertainment? To me there is not a more agreeable spectacle than a company of select friends, vacant of business, and full of cheerfulness, met together at one table. And I cannot imagine that a man who understands pleasure, can wish any equal to this, that he might make one in such an happy society. You may think indeed that it is sufficient to our delight, if we can meet our friends any where: But I am of the mind that the pleasure is redoubled when they refresh their bodies and their minds both together. I hate indeed your great Feasts; where persons that never saw one the other before, nor ever shall perhaps again, are mixed together; where there is much talk, and little or no discourse: But these Love-feasts methinks do call to my mind the days of Innocence, and make me wish for nothing when I enjoy them, but only such another pleasure. Here we know that we pledge an hearty Love, when a man presents his kindness to us. Our mind is entertained with a greater variety, than the body enjoys. The very taste of our meat is exalted by the inward delight which we feel in our hearts. And whatsoever satisfaction we then receive, we impart as much to those that give it. The weak and languishing appetite is excited by the sight of friends, and the pleasure of their discourse: and the discourse flows more freely by the moderate satisfaction of our appetite. Our dull spirits are raised by communication with our friends: and that Communication grows more lively by the exaltation of our spirits. Or if you please so to consider it; Friends never talk with greater wit, and more freedom, than when they take an innocent repast together; and their meat never doth their bodies more good, than when this sweet conversation is the sauce for it.  
Indeed, said the Pilgrim, I had forgot to reflect upon that part of those good men's satisfaction: which I take to be so great and yet so harmless withal, that I shall ever be a friend of such pleasures, and permit myself to be merry in such worthy company. They have convinced me that I ought not to affect a sad brow and an heavy countenance. They have reconciled me to smiles and mirth. And provided they will keep within such bounds, I will never quarrel with my passions any more. But there is none that I have a greater kindness for, than that of Love: the pleasures of which, as itself acquaints me withal, so the usefulness of it those excellent men have also taught me.  
And, not to part so soon from so good a meeting, I must let you know that they understood afterward, a great part of the discourse at that Table was about friendship, and the happiness of him that had found a faithful friend. Which when it was repeated to him by one that was there, it was a great means of confirming this affection in our Pilgrim, and making him rejoice in his advantageous choice. My memory is not so good as to carry away all that I heard was said on this argument, but it begun with a commendation of that saying of the Son of Sirach, A faithful friend is a strong defence: and he that hath found such an one, 
Ecclus. 6 14, 15, 16  hath found a Treasure. Nothing doth countervail a faithful friend, and his excellency is unvaluable. A faithful friend is the Medicine of Life, and they that fear the Lordshall find him. He speaks like an Oracle, said one of the company, for a friend methinks is the only universal Medicine against all the evils of this present life. And with your permission I will make a Comment upon this Aphorism; or rather I will recite you the words of a good Author, who, though I believe he never saw him, hath glossed methinks most excellently on the Text of that wise Hebrew. To which when they had all most willingly accorded, he thus proceeded.  
There is no Remedy in the World, saith he, 
Dion. Prus. 1.  equal to that of a friend; for other Medicines are profitable to the sick, and superfluous to those who are in health; but He is necessary to both. He supplies the wants of Poverty. He adds a brightness to our glory; and he obscures and hides our Ignominy. This one things lessens the difficulty of those that are troublesome to us; and increases the happiness which all our enjoyments bring us. It makes evil things little, and good things great. By this sweet society our griefs are divided, and all our joys are doubled. What calamity is not intolerable without a friend? and what felicity is not ungrateful if we have none to share with us in it? We suffer not so much when we have some to condole and suffer with us: And we rejoice the more when our felicity gives a pleasure not only to ourselves, but to others also. If Solitude and want of company be so horrid, so dreadful a thing; it is not to be understood of the want of men, but of the want of friends. For it is a good Solitude, not to dwell with those that do not love us: and a man would choose such an Hermitage where he might not be troubled with them who bear no benevolous affection to him. But for my part I cannot think it to be an happiness which hath no friend to participate in its pleasures. A man may more easily bear the hardest Calamity with his Friend, than the greatest felicity alone. So that I judge him the most miserable who in his calamity hath many to insult over him; and in his felicity none to taste of his joys, and rejoice with him. Who is there more speedy in his succours than a Friend? Whose praise is sweeter to us than his? And by whom is Truth spoken with less grief than by such a mouth? What Castle, what Bulwark, what Arms and Weapons, are more potent to secure us, than the custody of those who are well-affected to us? For in truth, so many Friends as a man hath gained, with so many eyes doth he see, and with so many ears doth he hear, and with so many understandings doth he think of that which is profitable for him. It is all one as if God had given to a man in one body, a great many Souls; every one of which do tenderly consult and care for his good. Nay, if our eyes, and our tongue, and our hands are much to be prized, not only for the delights of Life, but that we may live; Friends are not only as profitable, but more necessary than these. For your eyes can scarce see those things which are under your feet; but by our Friends we may see those things which are in the furthermost parts of the earth. By our ears we hear only the things that are very near us; but by our Friends we hear them which are most remote. The tongue signifies only to those who are present, and with the hands, the strongest man can do more than two or three are able: but by Friends we may talk with all, and be able to effect innumerable things; for they will be sure to speak and do for us all that which is conducible to our good. But that which is most incredible is, that when a man hath friends, he may do many things at the same time, and consult about divers affairs at once; and see and hear; nay more than that, he may be in many places at the same moment. His pleasures are multiplied, as he multiplies his friends; for all that delights them, touches him with a sense of joy as much as what concerns himself. If he give any thing to them, it rejoices him as much as if he had gained a great deal of Wealth. If he receive any thing, it rejoices him too, because his friends are pleased. Though he be very fond of his kindred, yet he thinks friendship a greater good, than Consanguinity; for without any kindred between men this is a strict and profitable relation; but without this there is no comfort at all in the greatest nearness of blood.  
And therefore we may well conclude with our Wise man, that this is the greatest treasure, the strongest defence, an invaluable Jewel, the very Balsam, and comfort and only preserver of our life. A man is scarce himself till he have found a friend, or at least he is but half a man. For as another wise man saith, Nuptial love produces men, but it is friendly love which gives them perfection. It may well be called the salt and seasoning of our Pilgrimage. Without this, life itself would be unsavoury, and all the pleasures of it insipid. It is the most agreeable pleasure that a person of Virtue can enjoy. It is an holy, chaste and innocent pleasure: a Voluptuousness which riseth higher than sense, and seeks the superior part. It acts on the mind without causing it to suffer a change. It moves it with so much sweetness, that it stirs not out of its seat. Or it ravishes it from itself, only to remove it to a better place.  
When he had done, they all agreed he did illustrate his Author as much as he had done the Son of Sirach. For said they, we have read now this Writer by the benefit of your eyes; and you have so happily transported us out of ourselves, that we find indeed we are better than where we were before. But yet, added another, that Wise man you spoke of, gives us this advice in the same place, If thou wouldst get a friend, prove him first, and be not hasty to credit him. For some man is a friend for his own occasion, and will not abide in the day of trouble. Some friends will be thy companions at thy table, but in the time of affliction they will not continue. In thy prosperity they will be as thyself, and will be bold over thy servants. But if thou be brought low, they will be against thee, or hid themselves from thee. Separate thyself from thine enemies, and take heed of thy friends. How therefore shall we know the faithful friend whom he so much praises; or by what Marks shall we distinguish him from these pretenders? I would be loath to stay till the day of trouble before I know these counterfeit Lovers, and would be glad to impart my joys to one that deserves them. It is a very necessary Question said a Third, and therefore with your consent I will undertake his Character, or at least his description. You shall not only have our leave, said a fourth in the name of the rest, but our thanks; which we give you beforehand for so good an offer. The world is full of false hearted friends. Towns and Kingdoms are made up of these honest kind of Cheats, as one whom you know is wont to call them. Into whatsoever place you come, you will find very little of that which you have brought hither: I mean affection without interest; fidelity without stain; with all the goodness and freedom of the Age of Innocence. There are many, saith he, that had rather lose an hundred Friends, than so many Crowns. They value them no more, than they do men in Turkey that are to be sold. And I know some that would easily forgo their most dear and faithful Intimates at the rate of ten or twenty pound a piece. Men they are (if we honour them not too much, with that name) who as the Wise Man you spoke of suggests to us, come but to drink, and return back again when the Bottles are empty. And therefore it will oblige us very much if you will be at the pains to let us know the qualities of a man, that is fit to be admitted into our Society.  
A Friend then, replied he, that is worthy of our bosom love, is a person that is equally good and intelligent: That can neither deceive, nor easily be deceived: that can seldom do ill out of weakness, and never out of design. He is one that will serve you without Vanity, but with all imaginable zeal: without any interest, but with the exactest care and diligence. That will engage himself most passionately in your defence when you are absent, or unfortunate, or dead. That will follow you with his love to the other World; and serve those when you are dead, whom you would have served if you had been alive. He is one that never conceals his own secret from you, nor reveals yours to others. That will freely reprove you, and never backbite other men. That can see your faults, and yet easily pardon them. And that as readily acknowledges merit, as he espies and pardons faults. That cannot tell how to do any thing without your knowledge, unless it be a good turn. That would have you see all he doth, except the friendly offices which he is every where rendering to you. That loves to entertain you with pleasant discourse, but howsoever with wholesome and profitable. That will follow you to all dangers, though to no sins. That can vary perhaps with your humour, but not with your fortune. That can make you a feast where there is no good cheer besides himself. That can serve as sauce to excite your appetite, and save you the charge of Wine to exhilarate your spirits. That will divert you, without the prejudice or offence of any body else. That will make you more sensible of his tenderness by small things, than others can do by greater services.  
He is one that thinks all the praises of others importune if you complain. To whom even his own merit seems odious, if it receive not your approbation. One that loves no pleasure so much as complacence to you. To whom all places are alike, so you be not absent. He can deny himself any thing and his friend nothing. He can bear himself company in Solitude, but is never weary of the company of those he loves. He hath a sense of honour, equal to his sense of love. He hath no vulgar thoughts, but yet stoops to the most vulgar actions for the service of his friend. He hath a great and generous mind, but omits not the trifles which will please him. He will neglect his own business to do his. He will receive a kindness as well as do it: and is not more willing to oblige than to be obliged. He is thankful and acknowledging for the smallest offices of love; and studies to repay it with the greatest. He is possessed of all the Virtues, but makes a show of none. He loves decency without affectation, generosity without pride, courtesy without ceremony, and strictness without severity. His morality is void of all rudeness; his seriousness gives no disgust; his silence is without sullenness; and his humility without baseness and meanness of spirit. He hath a World of good qualities, and modesty is Superior to them all. For he is shamefaced without ignorance, and blushes because you see he knows so much. He delights not to praise that in others wherein he excels himself. Nor is he sparing there of his commendations, where his own defects will leave him no title to the application. He can hid any thing better than his love. He can do any thing better than deny your requests. He can endure any thing with more ease then to be separated from your Society. When you are with him, you are still alone. When you advise with him it is with yourself. He hath all things in common with you, but chief adversity. He and his friend have but one will; though they may have different understandings. And indeed this one quality is it which I like in a friend above all the rest, viz. A sweet and innocent compliance, which is the cement of love and the secret charm of Society. This rare disposition makes him to please us without flattery: and to tie himself to us without the loss of liberty. If accords to our desires without opposing reason: gives way to our weakness without increasing and cherishing of it: accommodates itself to our humour under the generous profession of freedom; serves us in all things it can, without being captivated to any. There is nothing base indeed then compliance when it is separated from other Virtues. Nothing more offensive to those on whom it is bestowed if they have any noble resentments in them; then when it is so servile as to subject the understanding and enthrall the reason to their desires. But being to attend upon those other good qualities which I have required in my friend, and serving always with a liberty of mind; as there is nothing less offends any body else, so nothing more sweetens a man's own disposition, or more delights and gratifies that of his friends. It bends itself to profit others and not only to please. It studies to advantage them with the greatest civility. It subdues their passions with the greatest quietness. It reduces them to themselves without violence. It stoops unto them that it may lift them up. It condescends that they may be recovered. It fashions itself to what they are, that they may be what they ought. It yields to their anger that it may disarm them of it. It grants their desires that it may take them away. It makes a man agree to others not that they may comply with him again, but comply with reason.  
In short therefore, he must be a virtuous person, we all grant, whom we choose for our friend. For he is not capable to be a friend to us, who is not a friend to himself. He can never accord well with another, who feels an intestine war continually in his own breast. But yet all virtuous persons do not so resemble each the other, as to join together in that strict Union which bears the name of Friendship: And therefore he is fit to be received into this relation who besides the qualities common to all good men, doth Symbolise with us in his humours and inclinations. When you meet with such a man as answers this description, make much of him and place a great confidence in him. To distrust him is the highest sin you can commit against him. To be suspicious of the truth of what he saith is the most notorious breach of the bond of your friendship. And as soon as ever you begin to doubt, it is certain you begin less to love.  
To this effect was the discourse of him who took upon him to give the description of a worthy friend: which was highly applauded by the whole Table and served for an excellent close of their feast. And truly the repetition of it made a new feast for our Pilgrim who began upon this occasion to reflect on his own happiness who had met with a friend that answered in all points this great Character to the very life. O Sir, said he to the Father, what a loss am I at for words to express my felicity who have found the best of men and the best of friends! How gladly would they have admitted you into that loving Society from which we lately parted! They would have ravished you from me and stayed you there for ever if they had known your worth. They would have thought it too much that I should enclose so great a good, which is capable to serve a little World. For besides the rest of those virtuous qualities which they remembered, you are the most compassionate of all men living. You cannot be merry I see, if I be sad. The least grief which I suffer penetrates to the bottom of your heart. And if I mistake not I touch upon a truth of the greatest remark to distinguish a sleight from a substantial friend. For I have heard wiser men than myself note, that the World hath no great number of those people, who are deeply wounded with the sense of the misery that befalls their friends; or whose resentments of sorrow are of any long durance, though they be never so passionately moved with the first sight or report of them. Compassionate grief they observe, is wont soon to slide away; and make room for the entrance of any pleasure. Most men can divert themselves delightfully if occasion serve; though their friends sufferings be never so sad. They have not made their concernments so much their own, as that they should feel pain as long as their friends. But yet I find you to be one of that little number who are infinitely tender, and throughly touched with all the infirmities of those that they love. How often have you charged yourself with my cares and disquiets? How many thorns have you drawn out of my mind? How many expedients have you devised to secure and support me under all my burdens? You have often tempered the heat of my passions. You have sweetened the sharpness of my spirit. You have healed my wounds when you could not prevent the blow. You have brought me cordials, when I was capable of no consolations but those which your company administered to me. You have divided with me the labours which I am to undergo. And taken a part of that duty upon you which I am to perform. And have made yourself so inseparable to me, as if it was but one life which you and I lived. I ought to value you as much as myself; and for as much as my person is dearer to me then all my worldly goods; I ought to esteem the benefits you have done my mind, more than if you had given me a mass of treasure, and possessed me of the fairest estate which the eye of the World hath ever seen.   

CAP. XXXIII.  
How they chanced to see a very Poor man entertaining himself with much pleasure under a Tree. Whence arose a discourse of Contentment: and the means to attain it. Of Humility and Charity. That notwithstanding all our Charity, we must not think to have the World so good as we would wish it.  
I Know not to what length he meant to continue these acknowledgements, if a new accident had not put an end to his speech. For as he was going to extol the nobleness of his disposition, as well as the tenderness which he observed; and had just uttered these words, you scarce know how to keep a measure when there is occasion to be kind; your favours seem defective unless they exceed: they were on a sudden encountered with another delightful spectacle which quite diverted his thoughts from what he was about to say. For as they passed by a fair field they espied a poor man in very ragged clothes under a large Beach Tree who was listening to the Music which the Birds made in the neighbouring grove, and sometimes whistled himself to bear them company in their melodies. A long time they saw him thus entertain himself, and at last he pulled out a piece of bread and cheese, which with eyes lifted up to Heaven he seemed to acknowledge a liberal dinner. And at the end of it he went and pledged the Birds in a little stream that ran by him, giving God thanks again that had provided food for all his Creatures. They were much taken with the innocence of his looks and the contentment which they thought they read in his face, which bred a great desire in them to know him better and see something more of a Virtue hid under rags. And so approaching nearer to him and giving him the ordinary salutations which the time of the day required, they entered into discourse, and in conclusion enquired of his condition and how he came to lead so merry a life being in appearance so destitute and low in his Worldly fortunes. The poor man made no scruple to discover his heart to them; but being of a free and open disposition and not caring who was privy to his thoughts most readily accorded to answer their desires. And he plainly told them that the occasion of the present satisfaction which perhaps they saw him express, was to hear the Birds so merry; who neither sow, nor reap, nor have any barns wherein to lay up their food. I could not choose, said he, but bear a part with them in their Mirth, and think myself at least as rich and happy as those silly creatures. The World I see is as full for me as it is for them. All places are crowded with the blessings of God, and I know not where he should bestow more, they are so very full. A few of them also will serve my turn, for my wants are but a few. And a few things sure are easily obtained, and cannot be long in getting. We need not go far to seek enough; for there is no scarcity of a little, and a little will suffice. And thanks be to God I was never yet at any great trouble to procure this little number of necessary things. At present my wants are all supplied; and I have no reason to doubt but they will be so for the time to come. For sure there is a God; and he must needs take care of his Creatures: and I imagine it is no pride (which will not become me in this Poverty) to think myself one of the better sort; and therefore conclude that I shall not want. There is nothing so much comforts me as the thoughts of his Fullness, of his Wisdom, of his Goodness, Power and Presence to all places, which make me confident that at present I enjoy what is most convenient for me, and that I shall never fail to do the like through all my life. And if I doubted of any of these, that instance of his Love and Care in sending his own Son into the World would rid me of all my scruples. For if he spared not his Son, but delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him give us all things. For the comforts of this belief I continually render my thanks to God; and you cannot conceive any greater contentment than that which I find in admiring and praising his eternal Goodness. Nay, I can never methinks give him thanks enough for letting me enjoy the use of my eyes, my tongue, my hands and feet; for these are greater things than all that I want, and by these and his blessing I may make provision for my wants. There are many I see in the World are poorer by half than myself. I possess so much more than they, as all those things which I have now numbered. O how rich do I esteem myself in compare with the blind, and the dumb, and the lame! But I should be much ashamed if among all those who have less than I, there should be found men that have more contentment. And I consider with myself sometimes; should those poor Souls murmur, what is it that I should say to give them content; and that very thing I say to myself. I make the experiment first upon my own mind, and if it can do nothing there to comfort me who am in better condition, I think it unreasonable to propound it unto them. And sometimes on the other side I cast mine eyes on them that have more, and see that they are as far from content as those who have nothing at all: from whence I conclude that it is not to be found in all the World, but in ourselves, and there I may find it without the abundance that they enjoy. I perceive also that Poverty is not without its benefits, and that it is deservedly called the Mother of Sobriety, the Nurse of Arts, the Mistress of Wisdom, the Spur to Industry, and the School to which we are put to learn the Knowledge of ourselves, and the dependence we have on an higher Cause. Beside all which, I use to call it my Sanctuary which no body will presume to rifle. Here I am safe, for all men hate to hurt the poor. There is no Antidote of greater virtue, as I have heard men say against poison, than this condition wherein I am. They are the Vessels of Gold, and not of Earth and Wood, wherein such deadly potions are wont to be mingled. Nay, this Music which you saw me lissening to, this Music of Gods own creating gives me the greater ravishment, because I consider that none can rob me of it, and leave me my liberty and life. They that have taken away my goods, and have banished me into the Woods, cannot hinder the Earth from putting forth the Flowers, nor the Trees from yielding their fruit, nor the Birds from singing among the branches; no nor me from entertaining myself with all these pleasures, at least from being contented. And truly I ought methinks to rejoice that these satisfactions are remaining, rather than repine that those are gone which could never have given me full satisfaction. But I suppose I speak to those who are not unacquainted with some wants, and therefore I may forbear to say any more than this; that if you can tell what it is that keeps you from being miserable, that very thing is the comfort of my Poverty. For he that can rest contented in one condition, can satisfy himself in all: and he who is not pleased in his present state, will always find some matter of complaint.  
Our young Pilgrim would fain have had him to proceed in declaring the sense of his Soul to them, because he took him to be so happy. But yet he could not choose but yield to the equity of that which he had now said, and therefore after they had requited the Poor man's generous freedom with a long discourse, which both testified their sympathy with him, and added much to the contentment of his mind; He entered into a debate with the Father when they were alone about those things which will prepare the Soul to receive satisfaction in the meanest condition into which they might fall. For my part, said he, I cannot but look back upon the felicity of those who lead a temperate life in the midst of all the abundance of this World. Every thing lets me see the necessity and excellency of that Virtue, and gives me occasion to renew my commendations of it. The moderate use of all pleasant things doth most effectually teach contentment, because it shows us how little will serve our turn. It weans us also from the love of sensual delights, which is the only thing that makes the want or the loss of them so troublesome unto us. It makes room for wise and sober thoughts. And methinks is nothing else but a constant exercise of contentment in one particular, which must needs dispose our minds to the practice of all other parts of it. It is no great matter to be debarred of that, which we have oft forbidden to ourselves: There is nothing taken away but what we could spare. We want nothing, but what we could want, while we were possessed of it. We are not forced to be without these things, for we chose before to enjoy but a little of them. This is to praeoccupate and forestall the blows of fortune, as the Heathens I have heard were wont to say, when they spoke of the changes that we suffer in the World. We are beforehand by this means with any alteration. Nothing can give us any wound that shall make us smart, because we have felt the point of it already. We have made a trial of its power, and know what want can do upon us. We may cry out, as a generous Soul once did; I have got before thee, whatsoever Necessity thou art that intendest to come upon me. I have taken thee, and hold thee fast in my hands. I have intercepted all thy assaults, and thou canst not touch my heart. Nothing can arrive, but what is here before. I know the worst of all things, for I have enured myself to bear them.  
You are in the right, replied the Father, and I thank you for this good reflection. They do very ill sure, who desire to lead a contented life, and yet use themselves to far deliciously every day. They forget what is a coming who love to swim in pleasures, and to gulp down as much as they are able of these sensual delights. They are but preparing their own prisons, and twisting the whips that must scourge themselves. They do but make themselves more tender, and apt to shrink at the prick of a Pin. They will cry out most bitterly under those lashes, which sober men will scarce feel. And yet let me tell you, that you would have done well to have cast your eyes a little further back to some things of which we have not so lately spoken. You carry your contentment about you continually, and it lies in a little room; if you have not forgot the very first Lesson which I taught you at your setting out. These few words, I am nought, I have nought, I desire nought but Jesus and Jerusalem, I told you were like a little Bottle of Essences, which a Traveller must always have in his pocket, and of which if he do but take a sip, he will instantly find relief in any condition of life. Humility and Charity I mean are sufficient to carry us thorough this evil World with an equal and well-poised mind. For as for the first of them; what is it, but the submission of our wills entirely to God, which is the very secret of Contentment? It is a great sense of his Supreme Authority over us, with which it is a folly to dispute; and of his Supreme Wisdom and Goodness, out of whose hands it is a folly, if we might, to take ourselves. It makes us think that we deserve nothing at all, and so to be well-pleased that we have not less than we enjoy. It teaches us to renounce our own understandings, and to think that best, which is so in God's account. But I will not take a great deal of pains in an easy argument, and therefore let us only consider what the matter is, that no man is satisfied with the portion which Providence hath allotted to him: From the greatest to the meanest we see, that men are ever complaining of their fortune. It is in vain that Heaven bestows many blessings upon them, for they turn all into gall and bitterness, and have something within which destroys all their happiness. The taste of what they have is spoiled, by a perpetual thirst after something or other which they want. But might they not enjoy themselves well enough without it? There is no question to be made of it. For otherwise he that hath given them greater things, would not permit them to be without the less. The Life is more than meat, and the Body than raiment. What is the reason then that they desire that so passionately of which they have no real need, and never take any comfort in that which they cannot be without? Truly I can find none, save only this, that though they do not need many things to their happiness, yet in the opinion of the World they do, and it will not account them happy without them. The World thinks him no body who does not wear fine clothes, who hath not a great Estate, who is not able to leave his children very rich, who cannot revenge himself on his enemies, and have a large command over others, though he can command himself never so much: And so they sacrifice their own ease to the popular opinions. They vainly employ their time to satisfy other men, rather than themselves. They consider more what will be said of them if they be not in such or such an estate, than they do their own quiet and repose. And is it possible can we think that a man should be well-pleased, who refusing to comply with reason alone, desires to give content to that famous Chimaera called Opinion? It cannot be; especially since it is the Opinion of others, and not his own only which he follows; and this is a thing so infinite, and withal so mutable and uncertain, that it will never give him any rest who is led by it. But then after all this, let us consider what it is that makes men desirous to content the World, in order to content themselves. Is it not their Pride and desire to be esteemed? Is it not a vain study to be admired, and to have a great Name in the World? Let us be Humble then and we shall be contented. Let us have a mean esteem of ourselves, and we shall not be troubled that other men's thoughts are conformable to our own. Let us think we have more than we deserve, and we shall at the most but study to be worthy still to have it. Let us thus endeavour to make ourselves happy, and we shall not care whether other men think us happy or no.  
And then for Charity or the Love of God, it hath this particular Charm, that it renders all conditions alike agreeable unto us, because we never consider any thing therein, but only him alone. When we are so full of him as to love him with all our heart, and all our soul, and all our strength, there can be but little room for any thing else. Some troublesome thoughts may intrude themselves, but they cannot dwell in us, because the love of him will thrust them out. Besides the love of him is very powerful to beget in our souls a persuasion that he loveth us. Our Love is but the product of his; and there is nothing more comfortable then to think that we are beloved of so great a Good. And then again, Love is apt to make us well pleased with all that they do whom we entirely love. We can take nothing ill at their hands, but always persuade ourselves that they mean well. It pleases us much that they should please themselves. And therefore if we love God, it will produce the same satisfaction in all his Providences: we shall love them every one, because we are in love with him. Especially since we are satisfied by this love of his good affection to us; it will not let us suspect him of any unkindness. We shall always rest assured of his good will, and so have no more to say but only this, Thy will, O Love, be done. And I may add also that the Love of God being just opposite to our self-love which is the root of all our troubles, must needs be the foundation and root of all our contentment. For what is Contentment, but the stability, as it were, of the Soul whereby it stands in one unmoveable temper? It is a kind of indifferency, an unconcernedness in all things but only God. And how is that to be purchased, but only by such a strong affection to him as destroys the inordinate love of ourselves and all other things. As long as that love of ourselves reigns, it carries us headlong to every thing that pleases our carnal appetites. It make us range up and down the World after every trifle that we have a fancy unto. It makes us vex if we be crossed in the least of our desires. It sets us in a restless motion without any possibility of ever fixing ourselves. It makes us as passionately concern ourselves for a toy as if it touched our very life. And therefore till this be destroyed, we are not likely to find the contentment which we seek. Now the Love of God, that is just contrary to it and cannot stand together with it. That concenters and unites all our thoughts and affections in one Good which we may always have and in which we may always have satisfaction. That settles our souls in one place, out of which we need not stir to seek our happiness. That carries our hearts continually above and sets us out of the reach of these worldly things. It raises us beyond ourselves and makes us feel him who is infinitely better: who also we know rules and disposes all things in the world, according to that excellent goodness which we feel in him. Let us love him therefore now as much as we can, and in this let us place our happiness. So shall we never fail to be well pleased; because every thing will make us more to love him.  
I thank you most hearty, said the Pilgrim, for the seasonable remembrance you have given me of that excellent lesson. It hath done me so much good, that I cannot see how any thing should trouble me unless it be this; to see so little Love of God in the world, and that I can do no more good upon men whom I love for God's sake. It is very well, replied the Father, if you have no more to trouble you then this; for it is only the fruit of a great Love, which sometime is wont to make us sick, if it meet with unkind entertainment in those on whom it is bestowed. And besides let me tell you this for your better satisfaction; that you must content yourself to see the world so imperfect as it is. You will never have any quiet, if you vex yourself because you cannot bring mankind to that exact Idea of things which you have form in your mind. You desire, I perceive, above all things that there might be peace on earth, and that Christian people might live in a sweet agreement together. But be not Ignorant I pray you of this, that you do but trouble yourself, and the world too, if you think to attain this happiness by making all so perfect as yourself. As it is too commonly seen that Good men hinder peace by insisting over vehemently upon lesser truths, which might well stand aside to make way for unity in greater things: so an unseasonable and violent endeavour to correct some faults, and root out some abuses, and to take away some imperfect institutions hath too frequently driven peace away from the Church of God. All which proceeds from want of prudence and discreet consideration of things, with which an honest and well meaning zeal had need to be tempered. We must well weigh the nature and moment of things. When it is impossible to have all we honestly desire, we must take what we can, rather than want the chiefest thing that is in our desires. We do not live in a world that is composed of complete Christians. All is weak, all is sick and distempered in the Societies of men. They are in a state of great infirmity, not to say corruption and degeneracy. He that would go about presently to make all so healthy and pure, so free from all disorder as he desires; hath much piety perhaps, but little prudence. He considers not that a crazy state of things, cannot be so soon amended and restored to entire soundness. We shall sooner kill then work a Cure, if we apply such violent Medicines, and suddenly make use of the highest remedies. We must deal gently with Patients that are very sick and also labour of a Chronic disease. We must wait for favourable seasons; we must try what they can bear; we must go on by steps and degrees to extirpate a long settled and inveterate ill habit of mind. In plain words we must not expect and stay, as I told you, for peace in ourselves or the world either, till all men be as good as we would have them. We must not remain in Confusion, till we can establish such an exact platform and model of things as Piety teaches us to design. We must consider whether it can be attained in this state of affairs. We must observe what the condition of the world is able to endure. We must do as Workmen and Artificers are wont, who when they have not the choice of their Materials out of which they are to frame a piece, do content themselves to form such an one as their Stuff will yield. It is impossible out of bad matter to form a complete and excellent piece of Work. And this doth not argue the defect of the Artificer, but the incapacity of that upon which he exercises his skill. It is the knotty log and not he which renders the Statue so mean. Such defects and imperfections in the Body of mankind, nay and of Christians also, we must be forced to accommodate ourselves unto; or else we must break Society, and not be one Body. Neither God nor man will expect that we should make things perfect, where the state of men is capable of Nothing but imperfection. He himself was fain to comply with the obstinate hardness of the Carnal Jews. The Laws which he gave were not the best, but such as they could bear. And truly we must all be content to suffer that which we cannot mend. Patience must be the remedy of those things which cannot be corrected. Provided, that Christianity be not destroyed, nor Justice and Piety subverted, we must for peace sake tolerate many faults, till they can be taken away and leave it still remaining. There are some things that are absolutely necessary, and others only excellent and very desirable. Some that are indispensable and others that may be let alone. Some that must exercise our zeal, and others only our Patience. And we had need pray to God that all may be so happy as rightly to distinguish these. That they may have as much light as they have heat. That good affection may not be sparated from good understanding. That the the more piety any man hath, the more prudence and wisdom he may be adorned withal. So will he not only keep peace, but also make it. He will not be a Friend, but also a Father of it. And in all likelihood obtain that by soft and moderate courses; which the more Violent, though seemingly more Pious too, will certainly drive away.  
It is possible indeed the World may call this a lukewarm temper: but do not regard at all what they say. For as Charity teaches you to be thus moderate; So from Humility you learn not to matter their censures of you for it. You shall never be at any quiet, if you be troubled at all that men are pleased to talk of your do. Or if their good esteem be necessary to your content, it is a very easy matter to foretell that you shall always live without it. Those are excellent say methinks which our Forefathers have left behind them. He shall have enough to do who studies to please fools and them that have no skill. To please and to displease are the mere effects of chance and hazard; wisdom and sufficiency have no share therein. Two things deserve to have but little credit given to them; the esteem of great men, and the testimony of the people. Reputation is a thing that is often got without merit; and lost without any ill deservings. And therefore when we have won the greatest share of men's good Opinion, why should we think ourselves the better? And when we have lost it again, what cause is there to judge ourselves the worse? Are you the taller in the evening because your shadow is longer, or are you shorter at noon because it is then contracted? Do not think of yourself then according to the measure of the Honour you receive from others; for it is at the best but the shadow of Virtue. So you know it is vulgarly called; and if you allow the expression, there is more of instruction in it, than you may imagine. The shadow you know attends the body wheresoever it goes: It is its inseparable companion and will unto be parted from it. And so truly doth honour and glory wait upon all Virtuous actions. Though no body commend them, yet they commend themselves. A man cannot but think he hath done bravely, though there be none to applaud him but his own conscience of what he hath done. And therefore regard not so much what the World thinks of you, as what you think of yourself. Ask not whether it be satisfied, but whether you have rendered Justice to your own resolutions. Wait not to receive commendations from abroad, but think it sufficient if you meet with no reproaches at home. Not that I would have you refuse just praises when they are bestowed upon you, much less think it is the stile of Saints to be talking of your vileness. But I would only have you to do well though you hear ill; and only to learn to do better if you meet with good acceptance. For the truth is, the approbation of wise men though it should not puff us up, yet it ought to encourage us. And he that rejects all the testimony of others, doth not so much express the Vile opinion he hath of himself, as the contempt wherein he holds his Neighbours.   

CAP. XXXIV.  
How they fell into the company of two Travellers. One of which would have pulled out the Pilgrim's eyes: and the other pulled away his Guide.  
THese words were scarce cold upon his lips, when suddenly they heard the noise of an horses heels behind them. Which causing them to turn their eyes back, a proper man well mounted presented himself to them, issuing out of another road upon the left hand and falling then into that wherein they were. When he was come up and had joined himself to them; he asked presently the common Question, Whither travel you? They were not shy of making him a true answer, but told him that they were going to a place called Jerusalem. You are well overtaken then replied he, for that is the design of my journey also, and I shall be very glad of your company. But I must tell you, that if you have still held this road, you are very much out of your way or else all my knowledge fails me. For it lies a great deal more on this hand (pointing to the left) and here we must now turn again and leave this wherein I find you, unless we mean to miss of our aim and be lead to some other place. Let me be your Guide if you please, for I am so well acquainted with the way that it is impossible for me to mistake it. You may trust me; for I am confident though I should shut mine eyes or go hoodwinked thither I should not misled you.  
He spoke very gracefully and was witty in his conceits, excellent company also by reason of his pleasant humour, and withal of a carriage very civil and inviting. But they observed that he had a sword by his side and a pair of Pistols before him, together with another Instrument hanging at his Belt which was form for pulling out of eyes. This they thought was none of a Pilgrim's habit, and they viewed him so carefully that they concluded he was one of that Brood who if they cannot persuade Travellers into their way, will drive them into it, and then carry them blindfold for fear they should forsake it. Whereupon the Father said to him, Sir, do not think me rude if I be so plain with you, as to speak in the stile of our usual Proverb and let you know, that we had rather have your room then your company. We are strongly possessed against those who would make us believe we cannot see our way, unless we let them pull out our eyes. Nor will you ever be able to invent so many good words as to reconcile us to them; who when they find men in courses contrary to their own, are not content to labour by reason to bring them to their bent, but shoot them to death if they stiffly refuse, as if they were but rogues and thiefs. And you will have a great deal to do to persuade us that you are not one of that number. We see what weapons you are provided of, and we shall never be convinced that they are innocent. We dread you more than the Banditti and all the lawless men in the World. We had rather fall into the hands of Turks and Barbarians, then live under your Tyranny. For though they strip us of our clothes and spoil our goods; yet they will leave us our senses and our reasons of which you intent to bereave us. We may believe our eyes; and trust our feeling and our taste in their Country; but in yours they have lost their credit and are deprived of their use in matters of the greatest concernment. And therefore I wonder you are so confident of the way wherein you would guide us, since your eyes do not always report things truly to you. You shall not see for us, since you acknowledge your sight so deficient. We can be sure of nothing if such as you be our informers. Perhaps there is no such person as Jesus whom we seek, or he is a sleep in his grave and we shall never see him at Jerusalem. For though there are that have told us they saw him and handled him after he risen again, by what means will you assure us that it was not an illusion? Our hands and eyes may deceive us you say in other cases, and therefore what privilege had theirs from being cheated? But besides, as I was going to say at the first, if you are so certain of your way as you pretend, I beseech you why do you not make it good by better arguments, than those that are made of Steel? Why cannot you illuminate us without casting us into the midst of a fire? who more likely to be wrong, than they who are confident they are in the right, and cannot prove it? It is a great sign you intent to cozen us, because you will not let us examine your Ware. Since you vend it in a dark shop, where no body can see it, we hold it in great suspicion of being nought. But if we do not like it, why will you not suffer us to let it alone? Why must we be forced to buy, or else pay for our refusal with the price of our lives? Is this the way to make Christians, never to consider that they are men? Is this the mark of being filled with the Holy Ghost, to breathe forth nothing but threaten and slaughters? Methinks you transform the Heavenly Dove into the shape of a Vulture or a Raven. We have heard of her sweet nature, of her sighs and mournings, but we are strangers to her fierceness, and know nothing of her croaking for a prey. To give her claws, and arm her with talons and a bloody beak, what is it but to turn her into a Monster? I cannot conceive, saith one of your own neighbours, but more ingenious than the rest, that they should be the Christian Pastors who become Butchers of the Flock: and that the Church which was for so many Ages in great persecution, should now itself begin to persecute. Or if you reckon us for those creatures that are without the fold, than we are sure to be worried by you. Though the Church be never so loving a Mother to you, yet she hath no kindness at all for strangers. You tell us indeed that she opens her arms to us, but we doubt that it is to press us to death. Nay, Her breasts we see do feed you with Blood, and not with Milk. Her children are cruel and ravenous, and therefore what would you have us to judge of herself?  
The Gentleman who seemed all the time to be much troubled at this discourse, here interrupted it, and told him that he was too vehement; protesting that he had no design to do them any hurt. We are as innocent people, continued he, as any in all the World, and if you would let us travel together, I would bring you to more good company, who shall give you all the assurance imaginable of our harmless intentions. Do but tell what security you desire, and I will undertake it shall not be refused. I know them all so well, that I dare engage my Soul for their fidelity to their word. Undertake nothing, I beseech you, replied the Father for other folks. If you had engaged that pawn only for yourself it might be taken, because you seem a Gentleman, and a person of good nature: but as for the most of your company, they can never give me the assurance which I shall desire. There is but one security which I can confide in, and that is the same which the Lacedaemonian demanded of one who offered to seal him his faithful Friendship; viz. That if they have any will to do us any mischief, they shall never have any power. There is none but this that is worth a rush: The rest are all so vain and infirm, that none but fools will trust unto them.  
He had no sooner said this, but before there could be any room for a reply, they were all accosted by another man of a quite different shape and humour from this; more sad and melancholy, more rude, and of an heavier wit also; who crossed their way upon the right hand. He making a stop a while as they passed by him, and hearing them talk of Jerusalem; made no more ado but chopped into their company, and told them that if they were going thither, they held a very unsafe course; and should wander in by-paths for ever, unless they went along with him in the way that he would show them. To be short; He pressed them so earnestly, with so loud a voice and so much heat, that the sweat dropped down from his face. He did little less than thunder among them, and threatened them with eternal destruction if they did not hearken to him. And in fine he told them that he had cause to be thus vehement, for he was sure he was in the right, and could not misguide them. I like you the worse for that, said the young Pilgrim (who thought himself sufficient to deal with this Hotspur) and we should have believed you sooner if you had not pretended to Infallibility, and withal been so uncharitable. We met with your Elder Brother just now whom you see here, though perhaps you are not well acquainted with him. And if we could be moved at all with confidence, and the pretences of an unerring spirit, he had got the start of you, and you had come too late to beg our assent. You both set up an Oracle, but his is the ancienter of the two; and more resorted unto, and far better customed than yours. I wish that both your pretensions were more modest. For methinks there is nothing so hateful as a man that gives us nothing but words, and is angry that we will not believe him. It would put a wise man into a passion, to see one use threatening gestures instead of arguments. And provoke him to think the use of speech a mischief, when he hears poor and simple stuff uttered in terms that carry the stile of Edicts. But besides this I observe, that as this man would have pulled out mine eyes, so you would pull away from me my Guide. You would have me travel alone by my own fancy, and take myself to be as wise as the best. But for my part, I will always be of the Religion which reuerences the Conductors of Souls: and am glad with all mine heart that I have met with one both to teach and to watch over me. He would lead me as if I was a Beast, and had no understanding, and you would have me run like a Madman on my own head; but there is a middle between these and that is reason under the Guidance of the Wise. He would take away all Judgement from us: and you would have us take it all to ourselves. I like neither, but would take some, and leave the rest to others. Do not think, but that I will judge for myself; but yet I will take a Director with me as God hath appointed, that so I may see to judge the better. Give me my eyes, say I to him that lays his hands upon them: and yet I cry to my Guide when I see the clearest, Lend me yours, for they are like to be better than mine own. A great many eyes are safer than one: Others may see that which I cannot discover myself. Interest, Pride, Passion, and Prejudice have too great an hand in our own determinations; if I can find none that are quite void of them, yet I will consult with those that are like to have less than myself. And if I cannot judge according to their sense, yet I will never impose my own upon them. If I cannot follow, yet I will not presume to lead. If I cannot be so humble as to quit my reason, yet I will not be so arrogant as to take upon me to Guide them, or to become a confident Teacher of others. Modesty instructs me to think, that if they may mistake, much more may I: that if they whose work it is to inquire into Truth, are not secure from Error, than I cannot claim that privilege who have many other businesses to attend. I will neither therefore contradict their opinion, nor deny my own. I will neither for the present become their follower, nor yet forsake their guidance.  
The stranger did not expect to be encountered with such an opposition as this, and so betrayed a little amazement at it. And besides he was the more confounded when the Pilgrim espying a Dagger by his side, and a Pistol peeping out of his pocket, thus proceeded to discourse to him. But though you two are so different in your opinions, yet methinks you conspire too much in your cruel practices. That young weapon of yours which I see at your Girdle doth make me start. Your Dagger I doubt when it is a little fleshed, will in a short time grow to be a Sword. You are of the same persecuting spirit with your neighbour, and will suffer no body to be of a contrary mind to yourself. And it is the worse in you, because you have often pretended to liberty, and will give none. It is yourself, I see, that you love, and no body else. You cry out of those burdens, which you are ready to lay on other men's backs. You do that, of which you complain; and desire only to change places with those against whom you perpetually murmur. If you could but agree in other things, it would be best for you to go together, and leave us to ourselves. Though we would willingly come to a fair accord (being I hope the children of peace) yet I doubt you are of the humour of those men who are so obstinate that they will not stoop a jot, nor bow their heads, though it be to take up such a Blessed thing as Peace. It is very sad indeed that there should be such natures found in the world, but it is so apparent that there are; that you will have a difficult task of it, to clear yourself from the imputation of being of that wilful party. Though Peace lie at their feet and entreat them to condescend a little for its sake, they do not love it so well as to purchase it with the least abatement of their own desires. There is no way to divert their imagination from the object on which it is pitched: and if they be once resolved a thing must be done, all the world cannot change them from their aim. They are enemies to all accommodation, and so tied to the forms they prescribe themselves; that it is impossible to reduce them to any equity, or to render them capable to remit of their rigour. Nay so far do some men forget themselves, that as many who observe it have complained, they would rather fall, than descend and come down. They desire all or nothing: they seek Death or else Victory. As for Peace which lies between both, and which ought always to be fought for by the vanquished, and desired by the victorious, they nothing care; unless they may have it on their own terms and conditions. If you intent then to have our company, you must throw away this stubborn, stiff, and resolute disposition which makes men lose Peace for little or nothing. A yielding, compliant and gentle nature is the great friend of Peace, and the only soil wherein it will grow. For the preparing of which soil, there is nothing so necessary as Humility. It is Pride generally that makes men so obstinate and pertinacious. A conceit of themselves makes them fond imagine that every body must submit to them, and they to none. This therefore is as great an enemy to our happy agreement, as any the world hath. It obstructs all passages to it: it makes a man stand upon punctilios and formalities, as if they were of equal consideration to Peace and Unity. It prefers the least trifle which supports its Grandeur before the greatest Blessings that Heaven can bestow. It makes men endlessly wrangle, when all that they can say signifies nothing, but that they have no mind to yield. You are better skilled than I it is to be presumed in the History of ancient times: And you cannot well choose but remember something of a contest between the Athenians and King Philip about an Isle that he had taken from them, and had a mind to restore. But than you cannot also but call to mind, how learnedly one of their proud Orators advised them, that if the words of the Treaty did import that he gave it to them, they should refuse it. He would rather have them lose that which they could not get, than not have it by way of surrender, & restitution to them. Was not this a strange foolery? What was it else but to prise the vanity of a word, before the solidity of the thing, as one hath observed on that Story? To stand upon a fancy and shadow of Honour, when a real interest was concerned? But such is the nature of Pride, which thinks itself disgraced if you pluck an hair out of its head; and takes itself to be undone, if it lose but a word. Pride would have it so; and that will be obeyed, though men suffer sound for it. And are not most of the Controversies that divide the world about matters of the like high moment? Are they not in great part a scuffling about syllables, and a fight with shadows and Idols of our own Imagination? Is there not very hot bicker about hard phrases? And is it not thought enough to make a man be killed, if he do not believe a barbarous word? Consider whether your weapons are not like to be engaged in these doughty quarrels. Whether you have not sharpened them to serve in the cause of words. I doubt those that I see you armed withal are provided to protect Cobwebs, and to defend the idle dreams and phantasms of Sophisters. But is not the World in a sad case in the mean time? Is it not very strange that it should be so much at leisure? They know very well sure how to live and how to die, or else they would find themselves something else to do. It seems God hath not told them enough to employ them, and so they invent words out of their own brain about which to fight eternally. Away for shame with this Vanity and Pride. Away with this conceitedness which hath thus embroiled the whole Earth, and seeks to draw Heaven into the Contention too. If you would have us join with you in any thing, it must be in our prayers, that God would give men such a right sense of themselves, that they may become humble and lowly in heart. To this we will say Amen, both for ourselves and all others. We will beg this day and night that he would incline men's hearts to peace, by inclining them to yield one to another. That he would bestow upon them a soft and gentle disposition of mind. That he would mollify their hardness, and smooth the roughness and severity of their spirits. That all may be willing to quit their particular desires for the General Good. That Self-denial may have as great a place in all men's hearts as it hath in our Religion. And that all who call themselves after the name of Christ, may learn of their Master, who was meek and lowly in heart; who did not cry, neither was his voice heard in the street: who did not quench the smoking Flax, nor break the bruised Reed. Who did bear with the infirmities of those that followed him, and is now such an High Priest as can have compassion on the ignorant and them that are out of the way. Of these things we can be infallibly assured, and if you have mind to be as confident of other matters which we think either doubtful or false; trouble not the World with it, and we will not trouble you nor envy to you the height of your illumination.   

CAP. XXXV.  
A Discourse with some Pilgrims that were going to Loretto, the Holy Land, or such like places. How much such persons are abused and cheated. The judgement of St. Gregory Nyssen of these Pilgrimages. The Privileges which Rome boasts of above all other places. And what a Market is there held continually for Pardons. Of which a Lease may be bought of many thousand years, for a small matter.  
WHen the two Champions (for so they esteemed themselves) saw that there was no ground to be won of these men, they thought it best to quit the field, especially since the night was coming on a pace to part them. They made therefore but a short return to what had been objected to them, and then both sides expressing all the kindness that might be towards each other and promising to live in Charity, they took their several courses. And as for our two friends, they did but rid themselves of this company, to make room for a new. For having bequeathed their wearied bones to rest in such a bed as they could get, betimes the next morning they met with a cluster of Pilgrims (as they called themselves) in a very poor habit and much weatherbeaten; who were got together under a tree, relating their several Pilgrimages which either they intended, or had already performed. To this company they were very desirous to join themselves a while; and it being admitted, they found one of them telling how holy a place Mount Sinai was which he was going to visit with great devotion. And I, said another, shall go your way; for there is a Vow upon me to go and see the Oak of Mamre under which Abraham entertained the Angels. But first, said a third, let us go to Jerusalem whither I am bound, to see the sanctified places which our Saviour's feet have trod. The place where he made the Pater noster, and where the Apostles made the Creed. The Olive tree also still standing hard by the house of Annas, to which Christ was tied when they brought him to be examined by him. For you must know, by the way, that Anna's being fast asleep when he was taken and they being loath to awake him, they got a cord and bound our Saviour to this tree lest he should slip away before the High Priest arose. But especially I intent to visit the Holy Sepulchre, and to behold the place where he lay, which I have heard is an action very meritorious. And I, said a fourth, am engaged to go to our Lady of Loretto to see the very Chamber where she was born, and where she was educated by Joachim her Father and Ann her Mother; and where the Angels came to her and she conceived our Lord. This I hope is as meritorious if not more, as to travel to his grave (and besides it is a shorter journey) for I have heard one say of this place as I believe you never heard any say of the other, that the words of Jacob do well befit it, This place is dreadful, it is no other than the House of God, and the gate of Heaven. You speak so highly of these holy places, said a fifth, that I should have a great mind to accompany you to some of them, were I not now returning turning home from a Pilgrimage which I have made to St. James of Compostella, wherein I have spent more time than I could well spare from my necessary affairs. O than said the Father (who had listened attentively all this while to them without speaking a word) you have brought home I presume to your family one Feather at least of the Holy Cock or Hen which are kept in a certain Church of an ancient City not far from that place. I hope you will favour us with a sight of it, for here is no air stirring to blow it away if it should chance to fall; and this company I believe would be glad if you would bless their lips with a kiss of it. I do not know well what you mean said the man, for I never so much as heard of any such thing. That is very strange replied the Father, that they should either suffer so sacred a breed to perish, or that the fame of them should not come to your ears. There is scarce any Pilgrim who passes that way who doth not go to see them, and therefore I may well marvel that you should hear no news of them: though I shall sooner believe that; than that they should be so careless as to let those Holy Chickens die, whose great Grandfather and Grandmother were so miraculous an instance of the Virtue of St. James of Compostella! I pray Sir said another of them be pleased to let us hear the story of these Sacred Creatures, for we are all I believe very ignorant of it. I will tell it you then said he just as I received it from a person of no mean account that lived in Sicily but was well acquainted with all these Countries. 
Luc. Marinaeus de Reliq.  There was on a time a certain man, a great friend of God (whose name he was pleased to conceal) who undertook a Pilgrimage, together with his wife and son to the Saint forenamed. It was their fortune being in their journey thither to take up their Quarters one night in an old City not many miles from it, they being not able that day to reach as far as Compostella. Now in the house that entertained them you must know there was a maid not so good as she was pretty, who beholding the beauty of their son fell in love with him: and made such undecent expressions of it, that he was forced to be more uncivil to her then otherwise he should have been. This turned her love into a great hatred, and made her study a revenge, which she took in this manner. There being a little silver cup which they used in their Chamber, she neatly conveyed it into his Capouch, and when they were gone out of the City caused them to be pursued by the Alcalde or Justice of the place and accused them of theft. When the Father and Mother had been searched and nothing was found they were some thing troubled at the molestation which they had given them; but as soon as ever they came to the son, they happened to feel it there, where they little expected to have found it; and so carried them back again. The young man being brought before the Justice could only deny the fact, but was no way able to purge himself, and therefore was condemned to be hanged. On the Gallows then his Father and Mother were fain to leave him, and as the story goes there he hung by the neck till they had been at Compostella, and performed all their vows to the Saint. And his Mother going to visit the Gibbet at her return, and to spend a few tears at the place of execution, found him in the very same posture wherein they left him. But she had not poured out many complaints, nor looked upon him long with her eyes full of tears, before he called out to her and said; Dear Mother, weep no more I beseech you for me, for I am not dead as you imagine but alive; being preserved by the Mother of God and the intercession of St. James whom you went to honour, from suffering the death which my enemies intended me. Go to the Judge therefore and make no longer stay here: Let him know how it is, that I was accused out of mere malice, unjustly condemned, and thus miraculously saved by them that protect the innocent and are grateful to their Worshippers. She did so, without examining him any further about the matter; and the Judge was just sat down to dinner when she came running in saying, Sir, I beseech you cause my son to be taken down and let him hang yonder no longer, for though I must confess that he is still alive, yet it is by the power of God and his Saints. At which news he smiling said, Good woman be content; thy Son is as much alive, as these two Birds; pointing to a Cock and Hen which were ready roasted upon the Table before him. He had no sooner said the word, but they both leapt out of the dish and walked about the Table, being as ready for a dinner as himself. And as for the Cock, he moreover clapped his wings and fell a Crowing for joy to find them unpinioned, and to feel that he did not carry his giscern thereabouts any longer. Which when the Judge beheld, he was the most astonished man that ever was seen, and could not of a good while recover himself to speak a word. But as soon as ever the passion was over, away he went without so much as thinking of his dinner, and called the Priest with the Principal men of the City, who all went together to the place where the Youth was hanged; and found it to their no small wonderment, just as the good Woman had said. Whereupon he was cut down and restored to his Parents; but the Cock and Hen as more Sacred things were carried in much solemnity to the great Church; and there a Coop was made for them, that they might be preserved as a monument of the great power of God. Of what colour they were before, my Author said, he did not know; but after their resurrection they were of a pure white snowlike colour. It is uncertain also what they did while the Judge was gone to the place of Execution, but afterward it is not to be doubted they lived very purely. For seven years being prefixed by God for the term of this new life which they had received, they left no more than two Chickens behind them when they died; nor had they ever any more issue. These two also lived just the same number of years, and had the like posterity; and so it hath continued in that order to this day. Now all knowing men judge it no less than a Miracle, that the Cock should never tread the Hen above once in his life. And then that he begets just two Eggs. And that one of these always brings forth a Cock, and the other an Hen. And that at the punctual time of seven years' end, which you know is a perfect number, they leave the World, and rest in peace. For though the reporter of this did not tell me what became of their bodies, yet you may be sure, that they never came upon the Spit more. And as for their Feathers, the mention of which occasioned the telling of this story, you must know that they are preserved as an holy Relic, and all people that pass to S. James through this City, use to visit this Church and obtain one of them. And here now is another wonder, that though there are innumerable persons which pass through it, yet they never want feathers; as he tells me who was at the place, and himself wore one of them continually about him.  
O Sir, said he that had been at Compostella, how happy a man should I have thought myself if it had been my fortune to meet with you before I took this long journey. I had then been a great deal richer than I am; and brought a treasure home with me which now alas! I want. I could be tempted if my occasions would yield to it to return back, if it were but to see the faces of this chaste Pair, who never come together, but only to beget such another blessed couple as themselves. Who knows what virtue it might infuse into ones mind? Or of what power so holy a relic is against all the assaults of the enemy? Well, I shall never see a roasted Pullet more, but I shall sigh at my loss: And yet I believe I shall see one very often, for it is a dish I love very well. But I pray Sir, did you ever meet with any body that had one of those precious Feathers?  
The good man was sorely grieved to see the simplicity and innocence of such persons as they seemed to be so easily abused; and therefore he thought good to undisguise himself and answered him in plain manner to this effect. No truly, nor do I care one straw whether I ever do or no. For though I have heard this Story very confidently related, yet I would be sorry if you should think me so credulous as to receive it for a truth. Nay I should hold myself worthy to be Chronicled for a fool, should I value one of those feathers any more, than such an one as a Fool wears in his Cap. And I cannot but wonder that men with such Reverend Beards as yours, should surrender your belief to such sottish tales. You seem otherwise sagacious enough, and therefore whence is it that your heads are fraught with such that they cannot discern the grossness of these cheats? If you can swallow a lie so great as this; sure the story of Gargantua will not stick with you, but go down easily. Who cutting up a miraculously great Colewort in his Garden, within the leaves of which six Pilgrims like yourselves lay asleep; eat it and them one morning for his Breakfast in a Salad. Nay you will be able to digest what follows, how that one of these got into an hollow tooth that was in his Mouth, and so saved himself. For wondering into what Gulf it was that he was fallen, he tried if it were possible to feel any bottom; and at last gave his tooth such a prick with the pike-end of his Staff, that the Giant immediately spit him out. At least I may well think that if you had lived an Age or two ago, you would have gone to do your devotion to Thomas à Becket; reverently kissing his Breeches, and laying your lips with much affection to the Handkerchief wherewith he was wont to wipe his snotty Nose. Nay, be not offended I beseech you at the expression, nor think that I speak with too much rudeness; 
Erasm. Colloq. peregr. Rell. ergò.  for they thought it none I'll assure you heretofore, to offer to the people's salutation, such an holy relic, as had the very prints and footsteps of the Snot still remaining upon it.  
I cannot but be offended said one of the company at these reflections of yours upon the Story you have told us, and me thinks you do very ill to laugh at such serious things; which are also attested by so many and so good Authors, that if your heart was not very stony and hard to entertain any thing, you could not but admit them for truth. If they were worthy of a serious confutation replied the Father, I should but render myself ridiculous by laughing at them. But since they appear to all unprejudiced men to be mere fopperies, it is I think our duty to smile at them. For the Holy Scripture itself doth plainly mock at the folly and absurdness of some men's opinions and do. 
1 King 18.27. & v. Isa. 44.1 52 16, 17.  You remember sure how Elijah flouted at Baal and his Worshippers, when he said, perhaps their God was a talking with some body, and could not hear them both together; or he might not be at home and so could give no answer; or else so fast asleep (having eaten perhaps too much the night before of the Sacrifices which they brought him) except they called still louder he would not awake. And so the Mount of Olives is called by way of contempt, not Har Mischeh the Mount of Unction, 
2 Kings 23.13.  but Har Mashchith the Mount of Corruption. And the place which Jacob had called Bethel the house of God, is called by the Prophet in scorn by the name of Beth-aven the house of Iniquity. 
Hos. 4.15.  And thus a wise man hath long ago taught us whom you reverence as well as I, that many things are thus to be refelled, 
Tertul. adv. Valent.  lest by our seriousness they should be at all honoured. They ought to be laughed out of countenance, lest we do them too much respect by our grave handling of them. And yet I have not done so much, because I think these things are so grossly ridiculous, that they laugh themselves to scorn. I have only told the plain story of them, and that confutes itself sufficiently. To expose things of this nature to the world is abundantly to disprove them. To bring them into view is to put them to shame, and make them hid their face. To make mention of them, is enough to silence them. We need not be at the trouble to abuse them, for they make Invectives against themselves, and carry their own Satyrs in their bosom. Not to speak of them is the only Civility we can do them. It is necessary to shut our eyes if you would not have us smile at the folly which they reveal to us. We do not first strip them and then lay the lash upon them; for as soon as they appear, they discover their own nakedness, and carry a whip at their own backs. But suppose any of them be more neatly contrived and cunningly painted the better to deceive; would you not have us pull off the Mask or wash off the paint, that we may show things in their proper colours? That is all that we intent; and therefore be not angry at it. If we should throw never so much salt in your face, you would receive no harm, unless you be raw and ulcerous. But I beseech you what are the Authors you speak of, upon whose credit we are to receive these things; are they not such as need some body of more credit to be their Vouchers? To cite the authority of such men, is as if you should bring those for your sureties; for whose honesty not only Certificates, but also pawns and engagements of Bodies would be required from other men that are better known then themselves. Not only we, but some that believe as you do in other things, have the honesty to accuse the fraud of the first beginners of these stories, and the folly of them that follow their Sotteries. They do not stick to say that they are very dull people and such as never are wont to blow their Noses, who do not smell the forgery of them that first stuff their Sermons, and then their Writings with suchlike tales. Nay, in plain words they tell us, that all Histories within seven or eight hundred years last passed, are so hydropically swollen with lying Legends, that a man would think the Authors of them had made it their main strife, who should advance the greatest number.  
Then, said one of the Pilgrims, you do not believe I warrant, the story of St. John the Evangelist appearing to St. Edward the Confessor in such an habit as you now see us wear, and craving an Alms of him: who gave him his Ring off from his finger, knowing nothing but that he was a poor man that stood in need of a great Charity. Did not God do a great honour herein to Pilgrimages and the holy Relics which they went to visit? Indeed, said the Father again, I have not faith enough to believe it; and I wonder much how you came to know that St. John went a begging to that pious Prince. O, said the other, that is a thing not hard to know, for as a certain Abbot hath told us, St. John himself revealed it to two English men as they were going to visit the Holy Sepulchre. For they being in danger to lose themselves in an unknown Country, were directed in their way by that blessed Apostle. Who told them they should have a prosperous Voyage, and that God and he would be propitious to them for their good King's sake; whom I loved (said he) very tenderly for the excellency of his Chastity. I am John the Apostle, and you shall carry back this Ring to him which he gave me some days since; and let him know that the day of his death approaches, and that six months shall not pass over his head, ere I put him into the company of those Virgins which follow the Lamb wheresoever he goes. Truly, replied the Father with a smile, I am no more satisfied than I was before; and cannot possibly resign up my belief to any such relations of the dronish Monks of those days. This story seems to me to be just as true as another which the same Abbot reports; how that St. Edward one day saw Jesus Christ himself upon the Altar, stretching forth his hand to bless him with the sign of the Cross, as he was worshipping of the Host and adoring the Divine presence there. A thing that was never talked of till he was dead as the Author of it acknowledges: and then it was pretended, that he had given it in charge to the Earl that saw this apparition with him, and conjured him most sacredly that he should say nothing of it while he lived. Which is as much as to say, that it should not be told while it could be confuted by that Good King, who would have made this lie to have stuck in the Author's throat.  
I perceive, said another of the Pilgrims, that you have obstinately bolted your heart against all these pious Stories; but yet I hope you do not disallow of all Pilgrimages; nor think it unprofitable for the souls health to go to Jerusalem to worship at the Sepulchre of our Lord. To tell you the truth, replied he, all is alike to me. I do not imagine there is any holiness in that Land more than in any other; nor can I have an opinion of any Sanctity that I shall bring away with me if I should go thither. And therefore it is far better to employ ourselves well at home, then to take so long a journey to do that which may as well be done in any other place. That's strange, answered the other, I see now you matter not though you disbelieve the Scriptures themselves, which give us many examples of Holy Pilgrimages. As the Lame you know and the blind went up to Jerusalem to be healed in the Pool of Bethesda. 
v. Rhem. Test.  And the Eunuch came out of Ethiopia to Worship in that City; and at certain times all the people of Jerusalem went up to their Feasts, which I have been told, were all so many Pilgrimages. But howsoever that be, you may see if you will that they are as old as Christ himself, and were conceived as Wise men judge at the very same time with him. For he went a Pilgrimage in the Womb of his Mother to see Elizabeth in the Hill Country. And after that he went from Nazareth in Galilee to Bethlehem Judah when she was near the time of her travel. 
Pits. l. 3. cap. 2. de peregr.  And as he honoured Pilgrimages thus in his Mother's belly, so afterward when he hung on her breast he traveled into Egypt, and after that returned into Judaea, and every year went up to the Temple of Jerusalem.  
I have waited a great while, said the Father, who here interrupted him, for some word or other that should drop from your mouth to the purpose; but I have no hopes to meet with it. Sure you have forgot what you were speaking about, and some holy Feather or Toy hath taken you in the head, which you dreamt you should find at last in some of these places. Do you think that we go a pilgrimage every time we take a journey, or go to the next Church, or make a friend a Visit, or are carried to the Bath in a Litter for our health? Or was there something sacred in Augustus his Officers, or any holy relics in Egypt, which the Blessed Virgin, and our Saviour went to do some adoration unto? Yes, said the other, who was glad to catch hold of this last word, there were the Bones of Jeremiah the Prophet to which perhaps they paid a respect, for be lay buried in the Royal City and was always honoured by the Egyptians for the singular benefits which they received from him. You are ignorant perhaps that the Crocodiles, and many hurtful Serpents were banished their coasts by his intercession; and that in the days of our forefathers the faithful were wont to go to his Tomb and say their prayers; and bringing away some of the dust of that place, it was a certain cure for those who were hurt by any venomous beast. Indeed, replied He, we are much indebted to the Author of this Legend, who hath acquainted us with some other things which the Holy Writers forgot to tell us. As that the Prophet Jeremiah foretold to the Egyptians that all their Images should fall to the ground when a Virgin and her Son should come into that Land. Which was the cause, saith he, that even in those days they placed a Virgin in her Bed, and an Infant in a Manger, and gave adoration to them. Of which when the reason was demanded by King Ptolemy (you must not inquire which of them) the Priests answered that it was a Mystery delivered by their Elders, which they received from the Holy Prophet. Perhaps than you think that the Blessed Virgin went to let her Son see these sine Pictures of himself and her. Or that they took this Journey to provide themselves with a Boxfull of that holy dust against a time of need. Sure if the Jews had but known any thing of that knack, it would have served them very much; and they would have maintained that he did many of his Miracles in the Virtue of their great Prophet. Was this the reason think you that they said Jeremiah was risen from the dead? What do you think of us that you should imagine it possible to captivate our belief to such lubberly lies as these? Certainly you take us for very thick-skulled people; or else they are so themselves, who bestowing their time rather in gleaning what is scattered up and down in every place, than in weighing the authority of the men from whom they borrow their Notes; have filled their Books and the World with whole Cart-loads of these Chimerical Stories.  
Here the man having continued mute a while, at last burst out into these words not without some passion, well, I will produce an unanswerable place; Where the Body is, there will the Eagles be gathered together. What say you now? 
V P●ts. p. 105.  is this also to no purpose? must we not all go thither where the body of our Saviour is? Alas! replied the Father, what an ignorance have I lived in ever since I was born? Is the Body of Christ then in the possession of the Turks? Have those Infidels got our Lord into their hands? Was that the end of the Holy War to redeem him from Captivity, and rescue him out of the power of his enemies? I poor Soul verily believed all this while that he had been in the Heavens, in the Jerusalem which is above: whither I and my Companion are travelling as fast as we can. Thither if you have a mind to go, come along with us. We will fly if you please like so many Eagles. We will run and not be weary, we will walk and not faint; we will stretch our wings to their utmost extent and not be tired. In this Pilgrimage we are content to spend our whole lives, but shall think that we are very much out of our way, should we enter with you upon any other. Here he gave them a short description of the manner of their life, and shown them how and where they sought for Jesus. He discoursed of Humility, of Charity, and the rest of the Virtues which are so eminent in our Saviour's Example: The imitation of whom, said he, was ever held the highest honour and worship that could be given him. By this he continues still in the World. He is every where to be seen in his faithful followers. They bring his living, walking Image into every place. They expose him to open view at home and abroad. They endeavour to have their houses, and their shops in such good order, that you need not go to Jerusalem to find an holy place. They would save men the labour of taking a long Pilgrimage to visit the Shrines of the Saints. For they become such themselves, and are the best relics of them which the World affords. And lest you should think, added he, that we adhere too much to our own opinions, and put too great a sleight upon the Pilgrimages in which you are engaged, let me entreat you patiently to hear what a person of great authority with you speaks of them, in an Age when they had but newly begun to gain a reputation among men.  
A man may think perhaps, saith St. Gregory Nyssen, 
Orat. 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  that he doth a thing of great note, and much to be valued, when he takes a Journey to the place where our Lord was buried. But he himself, when he speaks of those that shall inherit the Kingdom of Heaven, doth not mention the Pilgrimages to Jerusalem as a worthy undertaking. Nor when he pronounces his Beatitudes, doth he at all commend this labour and diligence. Why should any man therefore trouble himself about that which will not make him Blessed, nor dispose him at all for his Celestial Inheritance? And if there were no dangers (as there are too many) of being defiled and corrupted in the passage thither by sundry vices, yet what shall a man be the better when he arrives in safety there? Is our Lord to be found there, more than in the place where at present we are? Or is there a greater measure of the Holy Spirit at Jerusalem, which will not vouchsafe to come hither? Must we go so far to fetch its comforts, and will it not be entreated to impart them nearer at hand? Truly I must needs say that I see more devotion, more piety, more of all divine Virtues in this very place, than there is to be found. I myself went thither once upon my occasions, yet I did not feel myself a whit the wiser, or the better by it. What I believed then, I believed before; what I did there, I could do before I went thither; and I reaped no greater benefit by my Journey, than to find that the places where we live are more holy, than those that we so much admire. You therefore that fear God, praise him there where you have your present abode, and trouble not yourselves to seek any other place wherein to do him honour. The change of place will never bring you nearer to him. But be you where you will, there God will be too, if your souls be fit to give him lodging, and receive so Holy a Guest. If you have your inward man full of perverse and evil thoughts, though you were in Golgotha, though you stood upon Mount Olivet, though you lay even under the Monument of the Resurrection; you are as far from entertaining Christ as the Stones that enclosed him. I advise therefore all the Brethren, that they travel out of the Body to the Lord, and not go out of Cappadocia to Palestine.  
And in another place writing to certain devout persons, he tells them that there is nothing more pleasant than to converse with pious Souls, and to behold what things the Grace of our Lord hath done for them. It is no less, saith he, than a Festival, and presents us with such goodly spectacles, that one cannot but think he sees in an heart full of God, both Bethlehem, and Golgotha, and the Mount of Olives, and the place of the Resurrection. Show me a man in whom Christ is form by a good Conscience, who by the fear of God is nailed to the Cross. Who hath rolled away the burdensome Stone of Worldly Vanity, and being got out of the Tomb of his Body, walks in newness of life. Who leaving the low and creeping life of the World in which he was buried, ascends by the force of lofty desires to the Celestial Conversation. Who setting his affections on things above, is not weighed down by the weight of his Body, but made so light and aetherial by a purer life, that his flesh becomes like a bright cloud which is willing to mount up with him to the things on high. This person in my judgement deserves to be numbered among those so much celebrated things, in which we may plainly see the Monuments of the kindness of our Lord towards us.  
Thus that great Man delivers his opinion to us, and we cannot but readily yield him our assent. These are the Holy Places which we desire to behold. A man dying unto sin, presents us with the fairest sight of Christ's Sepulchre. It sets us upon Mount Olivet when we meet with a Soul of a Celestial Conversation. And I thank our Lord very much that I see such manifest marks and footsteps of these things in this my friend, in whom the burying, the rising again, and the ascension of Christ is most lively pictured before mine eyes. As for those places in Palestine where you are going to adore, if they were so little worth in those days, I think their price is more fallen now: and if they that lived nearer to them thought good to stay at home, it will be a silly piece of superstition in us to travel so far in devotion to them.  
It is very true, said one of the company, I am convinced by what this person hath discoursed that we need not go to Jerusalem. There is a place nearer at hand of greater Sanctity and richer in all Spiritual treasures, and that is Rome. There as I have been informed you may see several Pilgrims (and in time may have that honour yourself) who dine every day in the presence of the Vicar of Christ, & that of meat from his own Table, & blessed by his own most holy hands. This methinks is a great deal better than to kiss a cold stone, or to take a mouth full of air on the top of a Mountain. And besides this which is the least part of their entertainment, there is more excellent provision made for their Souls; 
Fiscus Papalis. cap. 2.  the Church of St. John Lateran affording no less than forty eight years of pardon every day in the year, together with the pardon of the third part of all a man's sins. And if you would have some other kind of food for your souls which is more visible, there is in that Church to be beheld among other relics, some of the fragments of the five barley loaves and the two fishes wherewith Christ fed five thousand men. Some poor body I suppose on whom they might be bestowed after dinner brought them thither, being satisfied by the mere sight of them, and hoping that others might be so in after times. But the more probable opinion is (since the poor and rich were admitted to that feast) that the fragments falling to the share of those that waited at the Table, and there being just twelve Baskets full in all, each of the twelve Apostles had one for his portion; and that St. Peter saved his that he might bring it to Rome of which he foresaw that he should be made Bishop. But to return to what I began to say concerning the pardon of sin which I suppose you all most earnestly desire. The liberal grant already mentioned is but a mite to those vast treasures which two Popes endowed that Church withal, who gave thereto so many Indulgences as none can number save God alone. So my Author tells me, and if you doubt of it Pope Boniface witnesses to the truth of it in these words; If men, saith he, did but know the Indulgences belonging to the Church of St. John and how many they were, they would never go so far beyond the Sea as to the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, but would rather spare so great a labour. For grant that they are absolved there both from the guilt and also from the punishment of their sins, this is no more than they have nearer at hand in the Church of St. John. And do you not think it is a good bargain for a man to forsake totally his riches and lands and such like things, that he may purchase such an incredible mass of Spiritual and Divine riches? And yet you need not do so much; it is but going thither and leaving your goods for a time, and then besides all these blessings, you shall come loadned home with a great deal more precious commodities, such as Agnus Dei's, Holy Pictures, Blessed Bread, Sanctified Wood, and a great many other invaluable Jewels.  
To this discourse when one listened very devoutly and asked him if a man might have all this Wealth at no greater charges but only going for it; He was a little at a stand. And told him that his words were not so to be interpreted as if he might go fetch such great blessings and carry no money with him; for there is nothing to be had at Rome unless you buy it. It is not to be expected that they should make Holy things so cheap as to give them away for ask. It never was so since there were Pilgrimages: But the good men that undertook them carried their purses full of money, and exchanged it for holy Crosses, blessed Grains and such like things as I now mentioned. For else how could it be that one Monastery in Helvetia should be enriched so much by the offerings of Pilgrims who came thither, that it was able to take away the Tiles that covered it and instead thereof to lay on plates of Gold and Silver? But I hope then, replied the other, that I shall find all that true which you have said and obtain so many pardons as you promise which indeed I am willing to purchase at any rate. O Sir, said He again, you need not doubt at all of it. I have told you nothing yet of the Holiness of that place and the beauty of the Church. Which is not so much the Mistress of the World, as the Mother of the Faithful, the most indulgent Mother that ever was. There is none can tell the vastness of her Exchequer and the liberal sums which issue out thence unto her children: in compare with which all that she receives from them is not worth the naming. In a little Chapel of that Church of St. John forementioned, there is remission for all sins to be had every day. And not far from it, there is a place of that holiness that you may have no less than three and thirty thousand years of pardon, for once going up a pair of stairs. Is it possible said the other? Sure this is either not believed, or not known, for otherwise all the World would go thither to be delivered from their sins. There is none I assure you replied he, but Heretics who question the truth of it, and I cannot tell why men are so negligent of their Salvation as not to flock more than they do to that Holy City. The thing is plain enough, or was so not long ago (and I doubt not of the care of the Church to preserve things of such value) for there is an ascent of three and thirty steps, and how oft soever any man devoutly goes up to the top of it, for every step he hath a thousand years of pardon. And wonder not at the thing, for these steps you must know were brought from Jerusalem and are the very same which Christ ascended when he went up before Pontius Pilate to be judged by him. The women indeed may take it ill that they are not suffered to come into this Chapel (it being called the Holy of Holies); and to say the truth I was much grieved for them when I first heard this, because I know that they have Souls as well as we, and Sins too. But afterward having more diligently searched into the matter I found that they will be no great losers by being shut out of this very Sacred place. For though I do not know where they can get so many years of pardon at once, yet it is provided that they may have enough; and lest they should murmur, I can tell them this for their comfort, that they may obtain them without the labour of going up a pair of stairs. For let but any Pilgrim of either sex, and at any time of the year go to visit the Church of St. Paul and there are granted to all and every of them by three gracious Popes no less than nine thousand years of Pardon. 
Ib cap. 5.  But if any one be so great a sinner that he thinks all this is not sufficient, he may know that there are in the Church of St. Peter so m ny Indulgences that they are passed numbering. And yet in the Holy time of Lent, how many soever they be, 
Cap. 4.  they are all doubled. I suppose that you will think it needless to have any more than all these, but if you are afraid, and would be still furnished with some additional Indulgences; it is but going to the Church of St. Mary of the People, and to those of St. Vitus, Modestus, 
Cap. 14.  and a thousand Martyrs, and there you may have a great many thousand years of pardon more for every day, and besides as many fortieth parts if you think them of any worth, after so large a stock which sure you will never be able to spend.  
Perhaps, said the Father, it was intended that he should lend some to his poor neighbours if he have no use of all this treasure himself, for some of them may not be able to go thither. And therefore in my mind (if all this be true) a man ought not to refuse the least bit of the Charity of the Church, but go to all these places and bring away as many Ages of Pardon as ever he can; that so he may be charitable unto others. No such matter, answered the other, they will do no good to those that do not go to fetch them; being the reward of the labour and pains that a man takes in a tedious Pilgrimage. But then, said he again, me thinks the Church should be so charitable as to send greater store than it doth of these blessings to them that are not able to take a journey for them. And it hath made me wonder very much that Rome should be so holy a place, and that a pair of stairs there should be of so great virtue, as to procure greater favours than the blood of Jesus Christ himself in any other Country. For I have read that a little glass full of it was procured from the Patriarch of Jerusalem and the Master of the Templars and sent to Henry the third King of England, 
Math. Paris. & Math. West. An. 1247. ●●t. 1250.  and by him carried in great devotion on his bare feet and in a beggar's habit from the Church of St. Paul to that of St. Peter's at Westminster: and yet there were but six years of pardon and an hundred and sixteen (or at the most forty) days, granted to those that should come to worship that holy Relic. Doth it not seem to you very unreasonable that the steps on which he trod should exceed so much in efficacy the blood which he shed? Is there not a vast disproportion between three and thirty thousand years of pardon which the former procures, and six poor years which the later bestows? How comes it to pass that the Pope would do no greater honour to his blood, especially since they paid so dearly for it? For you must know that it was sent to comfort the people of England after he had miserably oppressed them, by levying huge sums of money and excommunicating all that refused to pay them. It seems to me as if the Blood of Christ itself could do little or nothing unless it be at Rome. And yet that is not the business neither, for smaller things can do greater matters when the Pope pleaseth. It is not many years ago since Clement 8. sent some bags full of little Crosses and blessed Grains to be distributed among the people of France, accompanied with this Indulgence; that whosoever had some of these grains in his Beads, should obtain an hundred years of pardon for every kiss that he should at any time bestow upon them. Here was a liberal grant indeed. You see what your holy Father can do if he list by little trifles of his own making. And therefore all that I am able to conclude is only this, that nothing can work any more than the Pope will let it, no not the blood of Jesus Christ. And that he was more stern in those days when the English were enslaved to him; and now he is grown better natured, and studies by his kindness to oblige his subjects; lest they should all shake off the yoke he lays upon them. Or if you had rather so conceive it, there is nothing that he can part withal unless you pay for it: only now and then he affords you a better pennyworth and lets you have more for your money then at other times, that he may gain your custom and induce you to trust him so much as to suffer him to use you as he pleases. And truly he used our forefathers so hardly, that I wonder they continued his chapmen so long. He put such base commodities, such counterfeit ware into their hands that I cannot tell what should keep them from discovering the cheat. I am ashamed when I think what fools he made of them: and how he used them like little infants, imposing what he thought good upon their belief. It makes me blush to reflect on all the toys wherewith he gulled them of their money. He seems to have had them in such servitude that he had scarce left them any Souls of their own, but rifled them of all their reason. For was it not a strange sottishness to believe that he had bottled up the blood of Christ, which we know was carried into the Heavens with Him, that He might appear therewith before God for us and perfect our expiation? And yet there were a thousand of these tales that passed for currant truth. Nay a Friar of Gaunt was wont to say that these godly frauds and cozenages were the Milk which St. Paul gave to Babes, as being unable to digest the harder meat. Since He intended therefore to keep the World always in its swaddling clouts, those Nurses to whom he committed his children fed them with little else but this Milk. Of which their Bottles were so full, that it was held by wise men as good an argument to say, 
Walsingh. Rich. 2.  He is a Friar, therefore he is a Liar; as to say, This is White, therefore it hath a colour. It would be only to deflower the time, or else I could give you a large catalogue of their forgeries. And if this little that hath been said will not serve to open your eyes to see the fraud, you may go on to traffic with Rome as those before you have done. But if it vend such Merchandise as this methinks you should judge it no more to your profit to go thither then into Turkey; and that City should be as little in your thoughts as the earthly Jerusalem.   

CAP. XXXVI.  
How the Pilgrim had a fair sight of the heavenly Jerusalem: and what ensued thereupon. How easy it is by a true and passion Friendship to learn the greatest Love to God. And that he is to be studied and admired in all his Creatures, as well as in his Son Christ.  
THE young man was glad to hear him speak these words because they looked like a conclusion. And therefore pulling him by the sleeve, he prayed him not to wait for their answer, but leave them to muse of what he had represented so plainly to their minds. And I wish said he (turning towards them) that if you regard not his discourse, there was some such person here as St. Gregory to whom you bear a reverence, that he might tell you what he thought of your intended Pilgrimages to Rome, Loretto, and such like places. No doubt he would inveigh more sharply against them, than those into Palestine. Think I beseech you upon his words, and if you be not pleased to go along with us; yet for bear at least these needless though expensive journeys, and reserve your money for some uses that will turn to a better account. And so having civilly taken their leaves of each other, He and his Guide held on their way to that Holy place where Jesus himself now resides. Several things they discoursed of, and many good things they did as they went along; till at last having gained the top of an high hill (which without some difficulty could not be climbed) they met with a knot of more excellent persons, who recompensed for the tediousness of that company into which they had lately fallen. The Spectacle which presented itself was no less wonderful than it was new. For there they beheld sundry Pilgrims like themselves who had placed their bodies, though in several postures, as if they never meant to stir from that place; unless it was to be carried directly up to Heaven. Some of them were fallen upon their knees; and with their hands upon their breasts, their eyes elevated toward the skies, and a very smiling countenance, they seemed not so much to ask as to possess something that they dearly loved, and for which they rendered thanks to God. Others of them stood gazing upon their tiptoes; with their mouths open and their eyes so fixed, as if their Souls were gone half way out of their bodies to fetch in something which they hungered to receive. And others also stretched out their arms to such a length, as if either they saw that thing coming to them; or else they thought them to be wings whereby they could fly to that which they looked so greedily upon. For this they observed after a careful view of them, that every one directed his eyes the same way; as if they waited for the very same good to descend into their embraces. And therefore these two persons being not so much startled as ravished at this strange sight, thought it was best for them to do so too; and to try if they could make any discovery of that which attracted all these eyes and hearts unto it. And they had not done so very long, but by the advantage of this Mountain, and the clearness of the air, and the steadiness of their eyes, and the quiet and silence wherein they all were; they had a very fair prospect of the Heavenly Jerusalem.  
Now (you may be sure) our Pilgrim's heart skipped for joy; and he began to bless the happy day which brought him hither, vowing that it should be marked in his Calendar for an Holiday as long as he lived. For he was not only assured hereby that there was such a place, but he discovered something of the felicities of it; which here met him with a delicious entertainment. It did not seem to be situate in a Region like to any that he had as yet beheld; but in one so clear and pure that the sky is but a smoky vapour in compare with it. There was no cloud that durst be so bold as to come within sight of it; nor was there any darkness that could approach to sully its beauty. But as there was a perpetual serenity about it, so an everlasting day was one of the principal ornaments of it. The rays of the Sun he perceived never hid themselves from it; if he judged aright when by the glittering of the place he thought it all guilded with his beams. But sometimes he conceited that the City was all built of such precious stones; that they supplied the place of the Sun, by those streams of light which issued forth from every one of them. Nay the very garments of the Inhabitants (which he could discern a little) were so glistering that they seemed able of themselves to create a continual day to those that wore them. He beheld also some winged people (for such are they that dwell there) come flying from one of the gates of the City very speedily towards him; who told him that they accompanied him in his journey though he did not see them: and that they had been at Jerusalem to carry news of his travels thither, and to relate the constancy and resolvedness of his mind in this purpose: and that they were sent back again not only to wait upon him, but to let him know that the Lord of the place did wait very passionately for his arrival, and would be exceeding glad in safety to receive him.  
Into what an ecstasy he was cast by this relation, especially when he heard a little whispering noise (for it was no more) of the Music and the melodious Airs which those Choristers of Heaven make; it is altogether needless to tell you. His Soul was almost alured out of his body by this sight; and was held in by so very small a thread, that two or three sharp thoughts more of that happy place, would have cut in two that slender tye. He verily thought that this was Pisgah, and that he was gone up to die there. And when he saw that he must still live yet he could not but say to his Guide, Let us build us a Tabernacle or two in this place; for it is good to be here, until those winged Ministers shall be at leisure to come and fetch us away to Heaven. Surely, said he, it cannot be long before they do us that favour. Let us sit still a while and see if our longing souls in the posture wherein they have been, cannot invite them to give us satisfaction and transport us thither. But his Director (to whom he ever used to hearken) told him that this was a thing which a man might rather fancy then desire. For it could not be permitted that they should sit always gazing there; neither was there any hopes of arriving at the desired place, unless by their own diligence in such things as God would have them employed, they still endeavoured to creep nearer and nearer unto it. And methinks, added he, it should be sufficient to content you that the rest of your way carries the face of such pleasure, and promises so much ease and facility to you in your passage; as you will discern if it please you but a little to turn your eyes from your Journeys end, to behold the path that leads you to it.  
With that the young man's eyes began to fall a little from those lofty places whereon they had been fixed; and to cast themselves upon the ground which lay below under his feet, in which he was at present to make his abode. But he did not lose his pleasure by taking his eyes off from Jerusalem; for the road which lay thither appeared now so plain, so fair and smooth, so free from briers and thorns, and all that had molested and galled him before, that it proved the beginning of Heaven to him. The Earth he saw was every where loadned with so much Plenty; that nothing troubled him but only that he could not see Travellers enough to gather it. On every side of him there were so many beautiful flowers; that he could scarce tell whose invitation to accept, when they seemed to desire to be plucked by his hands. The very stones had lost the hardness and roughness of their nature; and did soften and smooth themselves when the feet of Pilgrims came to oppress them. And all the way likewise was so quiet and still, that if a leaf wagged; it was by the sweet breath of those Musicians which sat among the Branches. One could not speak so much as a word, but an Echo from the Vault of Heaven would repeat it; as if she had a great desire to learn, or was much in love with that language. Yea all the Mountains which they were still to climb, seemed of so easy ascent; that they differed nothing from the plain ground. And the very Trees which grew upon them were so strait and tall; that they seemed to lift up themselves above the clouds to beg the Heavenly Bodies, that they would send their pure and unstained influences on them before they had lost any thing of their innocence, and were defiled by their passage thorough our unwholesome Air to the bosom of the Earth. Many a Mile one might pass thorough a Forest of nothing but Myrtles and Laurels; under the shade of which a Traveller might sweetly repose himself, and dream that he saw the Crowns and Garlands which were wreathing for him in Jerusalem. Every Wood also (of which some stages wholly consisted) appeared like a goodly Orchard; where an infinite Variety of lovely fruit saluted them that passed thorough it. And though the courteous Apples, with all the rest, seemed to bow themselves to kiss the Pilgrim's hands; yet by their fragrancy one would judge that they were not of a mere terrestrial growth; but fed by some invisible roots above, from which they derived the refined nourishment of celestial Juices. From the surplusage of which also it was (as one would be tempted to think) that the Balm and all other Aromatic Liquors dropped; which had no other use in that place but to anoint the heads of them whom those Trees overshadowed. In short, this way that he had now to pass, was called by some Poetical fancies the Laughter and Smile of Nature; by others a Monopoly of Pleasure; by others a World of Sweets that live in fair community together, neither envying nor contemning one the other, but contributing every one to the beauty and delight of the whole. But none of these names gave him any satisfaction, nor could it please him to hear it called any thing else; than the Entrance of the Paradise above. And indeed when he came to taste of the fruit, he could not but conclude that he eat of the Tree of Life in the midst of the Garden of God; and when he felt those distillations on his head, he could think of nothing else but the Unction from above. All the things in this description were but so many Pictures whereby his fancy represented to him the happiness of that life which hereafter he hoped to lead; wherein he thought to find every thing to his desire. The difficulties of his Journey seemed now to be overcome; and every step he saw would bring him to a new pleasure. There was nothing to be done, but what promised to gratify him with repeated joys, and to reward his labours with abundance of content in the doing of it. And there was nothing to be suffered which threatened any harm; but seemed to have lost it prickles and thorns, and to court men into its embraces. Now he thought he should be so happy as to live more above, and hold a constant communication with Heaven. He expected to surmount the clouds wherein he had been wrapped, and to live in a purer light, and enjoy a greater serenity of mind. Now he hoped to pass his time in sublimer Meditations; in a steadier Faith, in a more ardent Love; in more comfortable Expectations; in quicker tastes of the good things to come; and so in more perfect Peace and Joy in the Holy Ghost. In short, he discovered on all sides both present satisfactions, and future hopes; with larger Assurances also that they would not make him ashamed.  
Being thus then spurred by the admonitions of his Friend, and the invitations of the Way, on he went again (together with the happy Companion of his Travels) sometimes casting his eye upon Jerusalem, and sometimes upon his Way, which now became more easy and more delightful to him than ever before. But having descended a little from the Head of that lofty Hill where they had stayed thus long; the young Pilgrim observed that he had lost that fair sight of Jerusalem which he so much admired. At which he began to be surprised with a little quivering and coldness in his Body; till his Old Comforter told him that this aught to be the cause of no troublesome thoughts. For the whole way (said he) to that place consists much of Hills and Dales; and as now you are going down from the heights wherein you have been, so shall you advance again in due time, and be presented not only with a fresh, but with a fairer sight of it. He told him also how impossible it was for any Traveller to remain long upon those Mountains, where the Air is so quick and piercing that it would make them quit their earthly Mansions. And withal he discoursed of the advantage of those Valleys and shown him the Silver Brooks full of the Waters of Life which ran in those humble places; together with all the pretty flowers wherewith the verdant banks of those streams were crowned. In fine he represented to him that they were so far from descending now into any dismal shades; that they were but going to ease their minds with a little variety in these cool levels, which were almost spent and exhaled by so long a fight of Jerusalem in those superior Regions. Not omitting also to let him know that it was not so impossible as he imagined to meet with something of it, in those low Meadows into which they were now entering; which spread so goodly a Carpet for their feet to tread upon, that the Hill which they had left seemed to bow its Head to look upon the richness of it. And thereupon he shown him how those Crystal Waters, which he heard murmuring, and inviting his thirst to quench itself in their streams, came down from a Spring on the brow of that Mountain where they had lately been. And can you believe, said he, that any thing can flow from thence which brings no tidings with it from Jerusalem? Taste and see if their relish be not such as tells you from whence they come, and makes this place happy which flows with such contentment. Believe not me but yourself (if it be not too much for you to stoop down and drink) that these Valleys are watered from above, and receive at second hand what the more rising ground at the first enjoys.  
The Young man heard him very obediently and soon satisfied himself in the truth of what he said, by tasting of the Waters, which had a strong tincture of Jerusalem. For the Rays that come from it and beat continually upon that aspiring Hill, had endued the whole body of it with some of their Virtue, which might constantly be communicated to the neighbouring, though lower places. He was immediately inspired (I mean) with a great heat of Divine Love, in which he found not a little of Heaven. He saw that Meditation, Prayer, and such like holy employments do but dispose the will to acts of Charity, and doing good to all, according as God hath done to us. The clearer sight he perceived that any one hath of the Glory to come, the more powerfully is his heart touched with a fervent desire and endeavour to be thus employed. This is the natural issue of a right belief of what Christ hath promised. There is nothing so naturally flows from it when raised to its highest pitch, as and easiness and pleasure in doing good: than which nothing can come nearer to the life of them that dwell above. He saw now that Jerusalem might be found in the houses of the sick, in Hospitals, and the meanest places where Humility and Charity can find themselves any work. If he met with a poor Stranger that moved his compassion, it was as if he had met with an Angel. If any differences came in his way which he could compose, it was as if Jesus had spoken peace unto him. When the Orphans and Widows gave him their Blessing, it was as if he had received one from Heaven. And all this gave him the greater satisfaction, because he was afraid he should have met with it no where else, save only on such Mountains as they had newly left.  
But yet I must not forget to tell you that there was none for whom he felt such a particular kindness, as this person who had so charitably conducted him and made every condition so pleasing to him. He had no sooner drunk off one Cup of the waters named, and began some actions of Charity to others, but he felt himself all over in a flame of love to him. Whatsoever he did, the end of it still was to think how much he was beholden to his love which had directed him to this most happy life of doing good. One would have thought by the effects that it had been such a potion as they call a Philtrum which hath a power it's said to fascinate Souls; and draw them by a sweet enchantment to that party who administers it to them. And to tell you the very truth, had not the wisdom of his Friend again prevented it, this had proved one of the sorest temptations which he had hitherto encountered; notwithstanding all the good counsel wherewith with he had been armed. For as he was wont to report of himself, his heart was so much glued to this Friend of his; that sometimes he could not think of Jesus or Jerusalem merely for thinking of him. He thought it was very sad that any one should be too greedy of so innocent a pleasure; but yet he fancied sometimes that he was, and that nothing else pleased him but only the society of this person.  
Who now therefore thought himself concerned to have a more than ordinary care of his Patient, because he had made him sick; or at least been an occasion of his present disease. And so quick he was in his Applications, that it could scarce be called by that name; but by the Virtue of his remedies was rather turned into a cure of other distempers, which had some root within him. It is not strange (said the Old man) that I should creep so far into your heart, if you do but consider how wide we open our breasts to those things which are of great use and advantage to us. There was no other cause but this that made men Deify certain Creatures, which they found to be very high benefactors unto them. Have you never heard any body call the Sun a Visible God? And what was it I beseech you that procured him so many adorers, but the sense that men had of the benefit of his fires; which enamoured them of his beauty, and inflamed their love to the height of Devotion to him? Wonder not then at yourself that you perceive such a fervour in your soul to me your poor friend; whom you esteem (though alas unworthy of such a name) to be no less than your Treasure. This will justify an high degree of affection towards me. And there is no danger I'll warrant you, of proving an Idolatrous Lover, if you will but let me show you how easily you may make me become what you call me; and improve this Affection so, as to be a very great gainer by it. But first I must reveal to you this secret, which you have not hitherto discovered; that of this affection I myself have a larger share than yet hath appeared; yea, to your own person I have not been so cold as you may perhaps imagine. And yet I am so far from thinking myself, the worse for what I feel of it, that I take myself to be much the better; and would not for all the world have a less portion of it then I perceive you find in your own heart.  
Now that you may not think I make use of Rhetorical figures and launch out a great deal beyond the truth; let me beg so much of your patience (who as you confess have employed much of mine) till I relate what benefit I have found by loving you. For than I hope you will think it possible for yourself to reap the same: and not be troubled for the excess of love you bear to me; since thereby you receive no greater hurt, then to become capable of enjoying a more exceeding advantage. And God being the Chiefest Good, the highest object of our Understandings, the satisfaction of our Wills, the Centre of all rational desires; what greater commendation can there be of Friendship, than that it is apt to bring our Souls into a fuller possession of this Being, who is the cause of all other, and of all happiness? Will you not confess that it is a thing of great Use, and great Value; which shall endear him unto you, who is of more use and worth than the Sun or all the World? Now if you can give any credit to me, you may be assured that my Friendship with you hath taught me not only that God is Love, but what it is to love God, better than any thing else perhaps could have done. And what is this Love, but as you have often heard, the whole Duty of man; all that God requires of us that we may enjoy eternal felicity with him? This if I can demonstrate, I suppose you will no longer complain of an excess of this excellent affection, which may so easily be converted, without much Art or contrivance, into one so Divine, that that God himself will love it very much.  
And if you would know by what Chemistry it was that I turned this Base affection (as you are apt to call it) into that which is so noble and sublime; it will be a matter of no difficulty to make you understand it; for there was no longer operation in it then this. I used to observe what it was that my love caused me to do to you, and that I concluded was far more due to God. And so it taught me (1.) To think often of him and to keep him in Mind; for this I found a necessary effect of the Friendship I have with you. If there be something in your Idea that is grateful to me, which makes me to hug it so much and carry it about with me, than there must needs be a great deal more in that Idea I have of God, who ought therefore ever to bear me company, and to go along with me as my Joy where ever it be that my occasions lead me. And so (2.) I learned by loving you, to take a delight in conversing with him, and to embrace or rather seek all opportunities of frequenting his company. And then (3.) (For I must not stay to enlarge these things into long discourses, but leave that for your work) I was instructed hereby to desire his acquaintance more, to thirst after an intimate familiarity with him, and to be more perfectly united to him. (4.) To be highly pleased also in him was another fruit of this Amity; To rest so satisfied in his enjoyment, as to want nothing to complete my contentment. And (5.) To study withal how to be pleasing to him; or rather to be able without any study, by a mere likeness of Nature, to do all things agreeably to his mind. For I must take so much liberty by the way as to tell you, that there is no anxious labour in love, nor any carefulness to find what is grateful to our Beloved; but we have a natural inclination to do just as they would have us. From hence (6.) I proceeded to like well of whatsoever He doth; and to be pleased with all his Providences. For we always feel ourselves inclined to find no fault with our Friends, to interpret every thing to the best sense; and rather to excuse that which is ill, then think that they can do it. And (7.) To receive all his kindnesses with a singularly great gratitude, as proceeding only from the goodness of his own nature, and not from any desert of mine. (8.) To keep in Memory also his Benefits, and to think of them as I would of the tokens of your love; which I could not but look upon when I did not see you. And (9) as for his Holy word (which one of the Ancient Guides used to call the Epistle of God to man) I cannot but read it as I do your Letters, with a great deal of pleasure and transport. And (10.) Likewise I read it over and overagain, as I am wont to do your Letters; not being content with a single pleasure; not thinking that I can espy all your affection at once that breathes there. And (11.) Do you think that I can live and not long to hear from him, or that I can be so patiented as not to desire to see him? No, I am ever saying as the holy Psalmist, O when wilt thou come unto me? You have taught me to contrive all ways that I may enjoy him, and to think myself more happy in it, than all the world can make me. And (12.) then I cannot but contrive how I may most serve him, and be glad of any occasion which is offered of so doing. For you may be confident I should suspect my love, if it did not excite me to render you all the services that are in my power; and make me study to be able to do that, which is now out of the compass of it. And (13.) another thing for which I stand indebted to your love, is, that I am taught thereby to be very tender of his Honour, and to be troubled that any body should speak evil of him or do any thing against him. Nay (14.) Since you have given me leave to love you, I find that I am desirous every Body should love him that is so amiable in my eyes; just as I wish that you may be acceptable to all and never meet with any unkindness. (15.) I have learned also to consult and advise with him upon all occasions, and to open as it were my very Heart to him. (16.) And then to be confident of his help; and to expect undoubtedly to receive it, whensoever I have occasion for it. To which (17.) if I should not add that I have learned never to be weary of his Company, but still to take a fresh delight in it, I should much forget myself; for that is a most sensible effect of your Friendship. And (18.) so is this; To be loath to part with it, and to hold him so fast as not to be willing to let him go. As also (19) To be impatient of his absence, at least not to be so well any where else as I am with him. And (20.) in fine, To long ever to be with him; and to be put into such a condition that I may never have the trouble of parting with his company, which alas! in this world I am forced too oft to suffer. And you need not wonder that I have learned this last Lesson by our Friendship; for if you and I could now leave these pleasant Plains wherein we are, and strip ourselves of this flesh; I formy part would willingly consent unto it, if I had assurance but of this happiness; that I should take you by the hand, and we should wander up and down in the Air together.  
I had almost forgot to tell you another happy fruit of this passion, and that is, when I desire any thing of him, to leave it to his choice and disposition; knowing that his wise Love will do that for me, which is most requisite and conducing to my welfare. Nay, more than this I feel such an inclination to you, that I cannot but be ashamed if I am not carried with such a Natural affection unto God. I did not beg of my Will to love you, for I was surprised at first sight with that affection; and felt such a propension to you as the Iron doth to the Loadstone, which cannot choose but be ravished and attracted by it. From which you may be confident that now it is out of my Power to forbear to love you; and that it is not a business to be referred to choice, but which Nature commands, which will not be disobeyed or controlled. But then me thinks my Soul cannot be so dull (finding itself thus disposed to you) as to stay to ask itself a reason why it should love God; or whether it will love or no. I am forced to love him, and carried to him by such a strong inclination as hath no Cause but only Nature. At least, this state I am reaching after; and it seems very unhandsome, that I should be ever telling myself that there is this and that cause why I should love God: for I would be so impressed by him that out of an innate tendency of mind I might run to him; or rather might still be with him and have him continually before mine eyes. I have heard it, I remember, affirmed by some, that this Love of Inclination comes only from a Reminiscence, or calling to mind such things as have been before. Such souls, say they, have been acquainted in some other World; and they do not now commence a new love, but only continue an old. And truly if I might judge of the truth of what they say by the love I find to God, methinks they are not without the countenance of some reason. For my soul seems but to renew an ancient acquaintance with him. My love to him is so natural and easy, that it is just as if once we knew one another before. It doth not seem to be the birth of an affection which was not, but only the awakening of that which lay asleep. For there are no pangs, no difficulty in bringing forth this Love; but we open our eyes and see that glorious object which our Souls would have, and cannot but fasten themselves upon.  
And if I should add an heap of observations to these of another sort, and show you how hereby we come to be persuaded of God's Love to us; and to have such high thoughts of it as to believe he is ready to grant us any thing that we ask, to pass by our faults, to come and visit us, to send his servants the Angels to see us, and wait upon us, etc. and all because he is our Friend; you would see a further use of this divine affection and be convinced that we cannot but live uncomfortably without it. And indeed if any one should think that it is put into our Souls for so poor an End as to tickle us with a little pleasure in civil conversation, and to help us to pass away the time more merrily, without any regard to these Heavenly uses; it would be as absurd a conceit, as to imagine the Sun was made for no other purpose but to colour the cheeks of our Apples, and enlarge the Sphere of our Cabbages. No, nature will not let us depress so far this darling of hers, to which she is inclined above all other things. That must needs be implanted by the hand of God to which all men have a propensity; and since it is very strong, overweighing all other inclinations; we must needs think that it was planted in them to do them some great benefit, and to be the instrument above all other things of their happiness. Now what is there to which we have a more imbred inclination, then to love and to desire to be beloved? There is no man but hates to be alone, and can as little endure to be with those for whom he hath no love. For still he is alone, if that be not there. A crowd is not company; (as a Wise man says) and Faces are but a Gallery of Pictures; and Talk but a Tinkling Cymbal, where there is no love. Nay so natural is this to us (and withal so sweet) that I believe there is no man in the World who for all the wealth in it, would be bound to love no body and to be beloved of none.  
He was going on to some further discourses on this subject, when the other cried out, Hold, do not wholly impoverish this argument, but leave something for me to say, who am abundantly satisfied that there is nothing comparable to this which hath been the cause of my trouble. I will never blame myself more for exceeding too much in this sort of love. I plainly see that Mediocrity, which every where else is counted a Virtue, doth here become a Vice. I am more than converted by your excellent discourse. I must turn Proselyte to him who said, That he would have the Affection of Friends appear rather a Passion then a Virtue: That Friendship hath nothing more excellent in it then excess: and that it doth rather offend in the Moderation, then in its Violence and extremity. And here he began to invent all the Praises he could of Friendship, which he called, The top and perfection of Love; the Soul of the World; the Spirit of Nature; the bond of Society; the marriage and happy union of agreeing minds; the life and joy of mankind; the relief of our sorrows; the Physician of all our secret griefs; our Buckler in all assaults; our Oracle in our doubts; the Governor and Tutor of a prosperous condition; the Comforter of a declining fortune; without which the greatest happiness would be irksome to us; and in whose company the greatest affliction cannot make us miserable. He reflected also very happily on this; that it was one of the last things that Jesus himself did in this world, to make a Friendship between two great persons, his blessed Mother, and his beloved Disciple. These he remembered our Lord would have to live together like Mother and Son; which he thought imported such a dearness between them, as would justify the height of his affection. And then he cried out, Thou O Divine Love, art the nature of God, the life of Angels, the employment of Heaven! By knowing thee I know what it is that I own to God; and I now also know Jerusalem better, where they exercise the Noblest Friendships. I will never fear thee any more; for I see thou wilt secure my duty to God, and it will be strange if my Neighbours be not better for thee, who art always instigating me to do good. What though I be chained more to one person then another; you need not think, O sons of men, that I shall thereby become less charitable to you: For my love finding here a continual employment and constant exercise for itself; I am the more disposed and ready when occasion serves to express it to you all. My retirements cannot work its decay; but in the greatest privacy this friendship keeps any rust from growing over it, and preserves it pure and bright for the use of others too. I love you all wheresoever you dwell on the face of the whole earth. I stretch out my hands to you from one Pole to the other; wishing I could do you good. And though I cannot reach you every one; yet my love gives me the comfort of this assurance, that God is with you; who as he hath a greater love so a greater ability to help you all.  
But his Guide who was better acquainted with his duty then himself, thought it best to bring him out of this Rapture; because he saw that he would immerse himself too far in the pleasure of this contemplation; and likewise thought it was not safe to gratify themselves with too much of this Honey at once. He prayed him therefore to lay aside this discourse a while and to divert himself with the observation of some of those flowers and plants wherewith they saw the earth strewed as they went along. For sure, said he, these were not made for us to tread upon, nor only to feed our eyes with their grateful Variety, or to bring a sweet odor to our Noses; but there is a more internal beauty in them for our minds to prey upon; did we but let them penetrate beyond the surface of these things into their hidden properties. You are a Christian it is confessed, but doth that make you cease to be a Man? You read the Gospel of our Saviour, but must that give a discharge to all our rational inquiries into the Book of Nature? Doth the new Creation intent to destroy the old? Or because we behold God in the face of Christ must we look upon him not where else? No such matter; there is a more ancient obligation upon you to study the Works of God; of which you ought to quit yourself while you study his Word. It is an honour to the School of Christ, when his Disciples are skilled in all Wisdom. He is such a Master as would not have us know other things the less, but the more, by knowing him. And so they began to pry into many curiosities, which several of the Creatures they met withal presented to them; not without a great astonishment at that infinite understanding that was the Contriver of them. And having once tasted of this kind of Learning, he often wished that it was in his power to understand more of his own Body; of the motions of the Sun, Moon and other Stars; with many things besides in this great Fabric; wherein he knew God had hid great treasures of Wisdom, and engraven a fair Image of himself. Yea, he conceived the whole World sometimes a great Temple, and himself one of the Priests that God had placed therein to offer up the Praises of all the Creatures, and acknowledge his Wisdom, his Power, his Goodness; which are conspicuous in the frame of them. And though he could acquire but a very small knowledge of some of them; yet it was a great pleasure to see that there were many more intelligent Priests than himself and more acquainted with Nature's Mysteries; who rendered to God continually better Praises, and called upon all his works in all places of his Dominion to bless his Holy name.   

CAP. XXXVII.  
How after this the Pilgrim fell into a conceit that he did not profit in Virtue: 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 withal. A beginning of a new discourse about Faith.  
AND now would you think after he had gone thus far that he should be troubled with such an odd fancy as this, That he did not profit at all in Virtue? 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 journey? Was not the last Prospect which you gained of that place, fairer than 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 myself to look upon you no less than a Gardener doth to behold the Trees which he planted when they bring forth fruit; or a Father rejoices 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 yourself: and cast a jealous eye on your own worth lest you should not be so good as yourself. Do but labour not to come behind nor fall short of your own Virtue; 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 Instructor. But for the present, come along with me, and let us refresh ourselves a little in yonder fair Bowling-green; that we may excite those natural spirits which I see are heavily oppressed 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 persuaded him to consent to this motion, and though thereby he received some relief, yet the same dejected humour too much continued. For his mind being strongly impressed with those conceits, they could not so soon be discharged and blotted out. Besides the continuance therefore of that exercise and the use of some Physic; he thought good at seasonable times more particularly to remember all that the Gracious God had done for him. Bidding him to take great heed lest under the guise of this Humility (as it is esteemed) he proved unthankful for his favours; and by studying to depress himself, he withal 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, passionate 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 itself, would you not endanger the spoiling of its beauties, and deprive yourself 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 speedily arrive. You must not make so much haste as I have often told you. You must give yourself leave to ripen; and allow a fair time for your proceeding to perfection. 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 Virtue may prove inordinate. Though you may think that it can never be too passionately pursued; yet assure yourself, 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 ways you might; nor obtain so much by your own eagerness as would come of itself in a course of nature. I do not intent 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 yourself 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 ourselves with the anguish of cares and fears, and such like passions; but quietly put the issue of our labours into God's hands, and patiently expect what he will bless them withal. Even so must you bestir yourself 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, vexation, and fretting at your present estate; which must needs be joined with a great distrust of God. By this means while you would avoid one fault, you run into another. And you keep yourself 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 imperfections when we do our best endeavour to out-grow them; is as acceptable to God as the nobler Improvements 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 cannot be helped.  
I would have you, my Friend, not to cease to follow the bravest Examples; and when you cannot be Master of all you desire, yet still to continue your desire. But be not disgusted at yourself, I beseech you, that you are in a state of desire, and not of perfect 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 sorely afflicted within yourself, that you do not advance so fast as you would. Do not follow your Saviour with a sour heart, dejected looks, and fallen wings, as many 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 without 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 Virtue, 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 yourself 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 withal 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 fallen into such a dislike 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 myself. Such a man hath gotten very much. He will never be alone, but always 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 familiarity 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 increase in Virtue which is visible even in your complaints. 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 always 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 yourself. And therefore take heed I beseech you of this sour loathing of yourself; for in time it will breed a dislike 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 better state of health; and brought him to conceive a better opinion of himself. And yet his health was not so confirmed, 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 observation 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 Journey, 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 jealousy discovering itself by some means or other unto his friend (though he did what he could to conceal it) He was moved with a great deal of pity towards him. And beseeched him earnestly not to let every suspicion 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 yourself satisfaction; and laid such a scene of new thoughts in your mind, that you should have remembered 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 yourself; or was it some body else? If it was yourself, 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 imagine, if you have traveled so many leagues, without any support; upon your own legs. But I perceive you so ill opinionated of yourself, that you are inclined 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 wont 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 tried 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, than there needs none to move him now to continue his Love. If there was any, than there is a greater reason now; because he hath loved you so long, and you are also more worthy 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 steadfastness 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 yourself so gratefully as you ought: But is he of such a disposition, 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 reputes, 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 entreated 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 bosom; 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 cashier us his family? O absurd suspicion! A jealousy unworthy 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 yourself, 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 never 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 yourself 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 persuasion, 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 burden 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 persuaded you think that you cannot cease to love me, to whom you profess yourself 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 always the same Fullness, and the same Love; infinitely desirous of our Happiness. And as for any loss that we may possibly sustain for his sake; it cannot be so great, but he can make us a recompense for it incomparably greater. Do not hold yourself then in such suspicion, 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 ways of Virtue which you have to tread are so pleasant, 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 yourself, by abandoning a course which you have so highly commended: 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 cheerfulness which I observe to return into your countenance. I see that you begin to believe that you shall persevere; and that you recover your ancient comfort; That stronger is he who dwelleth in you, than he who dwelleth in the world. The Devil gins 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 entreat 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 yourself and others. I'll say no more of this matter, after I have told you a story of an ancient 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 easy thing to do: and yet by the power of his Master was endued with such a virtue as to tread safely upon that yielding element. He went a pretty way while the face of the water was smooth and even; and it seemed nothing different from the solid earth. Until the wind began to be loud, and the plain way upon the water was turned into Hills and Dales, we hear of no shrieks; but then he cried out and his heart and his feet began to sink together. But was there any reason to fear drowning after he had walked half a furlong? 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 subject to that power which upheld him, than the smooth and quiet surface of the Sea. It was as easy to walk upon a Billow, as upon the still water. The blustering wind had no more power there, than the silent Air. 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 bosom 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 Gracious 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 cried for relief 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 doubted; but neither lets him sink into the belly of the waters; nor stays his succours till he was in greater need of them. He straightway lends him more power; and chooses rather to encourage 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 besides have been. We have a great mind to go to Jesus 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 below, should be able to tread them under our feet; and keep ourselves above the soft pleasures of the flesh into which we are apt to sink. This seems no less a wonder, than 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 ourselves above our natural propensions to lead the life of God? Is it from our own Virtue? or rather must we not acknowledge 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, than it was at the first; but when he still saith, Fellow me, he gives a greater power and force unto us so to do. But how comes it about then that you and others begin sometimes 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 yourself and distrust God; and that works a decay of the Virtue and ability that was in your heart. You regard more the winds and the waves, the difficulties and temptations that you are encompassed withal, than 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, until you be drowned: But if you look earnestly upon him and call to him, and entreat him to take pity upon you and not to leave you; he gives you his hand presently and sets you in safety. Though now you have been very distrustful of his goodness; and have fainted in your mind as if he would not regard you; yet his tenderness 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 replied 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 gracious 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 yourself; that were it not upon that account, I should again be apt to stand in fear of creating not only you but him a greater trouble than you are able to bear. I am you see very foolish, always 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 yourself 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 yourself rid of such an impediment; for I can scarce call myself your Friend any longer, but your Trouble or your Burden. Tell me I say, is not this a fit 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 happy repose? I doubt if you could see my heart, and behold what a seed of new troubles and doubts lodges there; you would tell me plainly that you shall never enjoy yourself 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 question 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 myself; nor have you given me cause to be less your Friend then heretofore; unless it be by this unfriendly jealousy, which as I told you a little while ago I thought you would never have entertained. And since I see it proceeds rather from an ill opinion of yourself, than 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 reason of any heaviness of Spirit, prove the burden that he must sustain, He will not complain of it. It is their unhappiness 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 easy 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 increases proportionably to the pains that we take in doing of it. You shall hear the Judgement of a Philosopher in this case if you please; and of one that loved ease more than any of his fellows. Though a wise man he thought might be content with himself; yet notwithstanding he granted 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 virtue may not remain without use. He doth not choose a friend (saith Epicurus himself) to have some to assist him when he is sick, or to secure him if he be in prison, or such necessities. But contrary wise, that he may have one whom he may help and comfort in the like distresses. For he hath an evil intention 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 knocked off together, those of his prison and those of his friendship. These are the friendships 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 environed with a multitude of these followers; But where the distressed dwell, there is nothing but solitude. For such manner of friends always 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 itself; may well be suborned 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 die; whom I may accompany in banishment, and for whose life and preservation I may expose myself to any danger. For the other, which only regards profit and makes account of that which may turn to its own commodity; it is rather a Traffic then Friendship. Certain it is that Friendship hath in some sort a similitude and likeness to the affection of Lovers. Whose scope is neither gain, nor greatness, nor glory; but despising all other considerations, love itself 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 Summer friends which he speaks of; or think that friendship in me is feebler than it was in Pagans; you must not hold me any longer in suspicion. 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 upon me for advice, and thereby giving me an opportunity to serve you the best I can; you would presently 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 yourself 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 Painter's 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 itself when he painted. Just as the youth of our children is more fruitful to us, but their infancy is more sweet. But assure yourself 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 spirits are more disengaged; 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 satisfy you; let me entreat 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 persuade you that I do. And therefore let not the Evil one who loves nothing less than our Friendship, sow this jealousy 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 arms of these two can do any thing, you shall be carried safe to Jerusalem.  
And now since I have told you my very heart, let me know I pray what further doubt it is that troubles 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 become as you see one of my chief pleasures to ease you of your troubles. It must be so indeed said the Pilgrim if you have any pleasure at all: For I live as if I had nothing else to do but to find some new occasion to perplex myself, 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 further than I lately thought myself. But alas I am nothing 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 man's breath doth endanger to make me reel. And though I understand myself very well in those things wherein you have instructed me, yet the mere 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 myself, 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 myself, 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 persuade 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 hearty persuaded that Jesus was the Son of God; and that he had taught us all his Will; and that he having died for our sins, did by the same death confirm unto us great and precious promises; and that he lives and reigns 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 enjoyments, was willing to follow him to the death. And yet after all this he miscalled my Persuasion by a word which I think he did not understand; saying that I was endued 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 thundering 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 misled 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 body saith, for than you will see the difference. It is better a great deal that you should doubt; than that you should blindly resign up yourself 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 privilege 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. 
Lord Bacon.  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 Compliment, but in an inward Authority which they seek over men's 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 pre-eminence. They will be Lords over men's Faith; and overawe them into a belief of all that they preach. None may descent from their assertions; unless he be content to bear the brand of an unbeliever. 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 upon such natures who readily receive that which is confidently spoken; and stiffly maintain that which once they have embraced. Such are men of younger years, and superficial 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 mere 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 mistaken in what they know. This strong prejudice is rarely overcome: for the honourable names of Sincerity, singleness 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 intent to have nothing to do with these Lords and Masters; so I would have you to withdraw yourself 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 reason. Exempt yourself 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 commendable; if it do not betray you into the hands of those that are so impudent as to outface you. It will do you service if it only restrain you from their peremptoriness; (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 earnestness, 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 persuaded 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 relies upon him, and trusts him more than any body else; who upon the mere credit of his word is willing to relinquish 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 sovereign 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.   

CAP. XXXVIII.  
A Discourse with an Acquaintance of the Pilgrims about resting on Christ for Salvation. The wilfulness, and unskilfulness of some Guides in the way to Jerusalem. For what end Christ died: and so what it is that our Faith is principally to respect. That Christ is a means to our end: and therefore Faith must go further than his person.  
AS they were talking thus together, that very man who was the occasion of their discourse chanced to pass that way; and being of the Pilgrim's acquaintance, joined himself in company to them. Who perceiving what the argument of their present debate was, and being of a violent nature; began with greater eagerness than ever to assert his own prejudices, and was plainly impatient of any contradiction. He raised up his voice to a strange height, and told them both in flat terms that they adhered too much to their own righteousness; that they must deny it quite, and rest wholly upon Christ and his Merits; believing in him for pardon and Justification. And indeed his tongue ran at such a rate that the Father could not get leave to thrust in a word, till he had wearied himself with his own talk. And then he gravely asked him, Have you done Sir? Yes, replied he. Then, proceeded the Father, let me entreat you to remember the old counsel; Soft and fair. You run a little too fast, to make any good speed. And as you make too much haste in your discourse, so you do also in your confident resting upon Christ. I grant you that we must not depend upon our own righteousness. But what danger is there of that when men have none at all? Let them stay till they be righteous, and then let them deny it all as much as they can. But to what purpose is it to tell them this before they become good, unless it be to keep them from ever being so? To what end doth it serve to urge the wickedest man in the World to cast away that which he hath not? Whither doth it tend to bid them throw about them Another's righteousness to make them perfectly righteous, when they are endued with none of their own; but only to make them never seek for any else save that which is cast over them? The same I say concerning your resting upon Christ for Salvation. Is there a man that understands himself, who will trust to any thing else but the Merits, Mercy, and Power of Jesus, who is raised from the dead and is able to deliver us from the wrath to come? But how comes it about that all men get hither so very soon? Why must this be mentioned as the first thing that Faith hath to do, and as the only act that will justify a sinner? What is the reason of this Forwardness, that when men ask What shall we do to be saved, you answer presently; Cast yourself upon the Merits of Christ? For this is your interpretation of the word, Believe, by which the Apostle resolves that important Question. Of what use is this early confidence, but only to make men prove Hypocrites; and to slight the commands of Christ; without observing of which they may on this fashion be justified? I beseech you consider it well; and let me know by what art it is that men come to climb to the top-bough, without ever touching those that are beneath? Let it be granted if you please that Faith in the Mercy of God is that to which our Religion tends; that it is as it were the very uppermost Branch of the Tree. But doth not the tree put forth many under-branches, and must we not ascend by these to the highest? There are other acts of Faith then, that must lead the way, and whereby we go up to that lofty Confidence; or else it is mere witchcraft which sets us on so high a perch. Suppose we say that we are justified only by this Trust in the infinite pardoning mercy of a loving Father through his Son's blood. Let this, if you will have it so, be thought the only act that Justifies. Yet, Doth not every body see that no man can reasonably take the boldness to look for this pardoning mercy, unless he be made a new man and sincerley obey the will of God? Must not his Faith (for there is nothing else to do it) first produce such an entire and uniform holiness of heart and life as Christ requires, before he be so confident? No doubt of it, or else it is merely Presumption. It is impossible that a man's reliance should be stronger, with any reason; then the rest of the acts of his faith are. And therefore should we not speak of Faith in such words as will take in all that it hath to do: both that which respects our duty, as well as that which respects our benefit? Take heed I beseech you again of a double mischief which is very visible; one to others and the second to yourself. First, beware how you speak of Faith so loosely to your neighbours; in such terms as they may easily abuse. Do not say that justifying Faith is merely a reliance on Christ for Salvation. For though you mean well and live better; yet the wicked of the world never understand this aright: which is the cause (if you would know all) that makes me so zealously oppose you in this matter. They all lay hold on him, and his righteousness to cover all the filthiness wherein they live. Though you tell them that they ought to love him who hath died to procure righteousness for them, yet they love their sins better; and hope that he will love them never the worse for it. It is impossible to persuade an Adulterer, a Drunkard, or any such person (great numbers of which to my knowledge comfort themselves in their reliance on Christ) to become better; unless you give a better notion of Faith then this. And then for yourself I must warn you to take great heed that one piece of your Faith do not outgrow another. Do not suffer it to shoot more upward than it doth downward; and to grow in tallness more than in thickness and strength. I mean, let it not lift up itself to heaven in assurance of God's love, but proportionably to its rooting in love and obedience to him. Let it not perk up in persuasions of God's mercy, but as it increases in strength and power to do him service. It is a slender tree you know, very weak and easily broken; which springs up so much in length, but carries no body and hath not a thickness answerable to its height. Such is the Faith that mounts up in confidence without an answerable spreading and enlarging itself in the observance of all God's commands; and bringing forth all the fruits of a lively Faith. Nay it is the very way to despair, to be thus forward. For as those tall and slender Trees by some strong blasts are apt to hang down their heads and touch the ground from whence they come. So do these high confidences in a time of trial and when men come to see how ungrounded they were: they are ready to end in as low a despair and great distrust of all God's mercy. Upon every occasion you shall see such people cast into horrid fits if they be at all observant of their duty; which they think is some desertion by God, but indeed. proceeds from the too great forwardness of their Faith; which did rise too high and had not strength enough to bear it up. Nay, if they began in this confidence, and their Faith pitched thus high at the very first; they ought to despair of God's favour till their Faith hath purified their hearts. They must come down again from the top of the tree, and begin at the bottom, in obedience to all God's Command.  
These things with many others seemed so perspicuous to the man, who had a great deal of honesty in him, that his confidence was strangely abated. And the Father making a little pause; he altered the tone of his voice and modestly said, I must ingenuously confess that I have been too rash in opposing and censuring of you. I am not one of those that will resist clear convictions and contest merely that they may not seem to be overcome; but I acknowledge sincerely that I had too rude and confused notions of things; which precipitated me into this confidence of disputing with you. Be not troubled at it, replied the Father, but rather think yourself happy that you understand more than you did; and that you have not lost but found Truth in the midst of a dispute. And since you are so humble as to confess some of your faults; I presume you will be thankful if you are told the rest. Remember it then, that it is very misbecoming to speak loud; to accompany your discourse with too much action; and to affirm any thing with too great a confidence and peremptoriness. But know withal that I easily pardon them and pass them by; because they are not so much your own as the faults of your Teachers from whom you learned them, and many more besides. These are the least things that many of them are to be accused of; for there is a certain wilfulness (as it seems to me) that possesses their hearts; which will not let them exchange their unsafe & imperfect definitions of Faith, for those which are sounder and more complete. They are loath to acknowledge that they can err, or speak unproperly. They had rather defend that which is badly done or said, than study to make it better. And as men do in disorders of government, they abuse their wit, and study for reasons why it should be amiss; rather then how it should be amended. They will learn from none unless it be themselves. They will reject the clearest light unless it shine out of their own minds. They would have Truth confined to a party; the very phrases of which if you do not accept, it is enough to beget a quarrel. Be not offended I beseech you at this plainness, nor imagine that I intent to diminish your opinion of any men that are good; but only to give you Caution, that you do not think them to be better than are. You may conceive me indeed no competent Judge of other men's discourses: will you hear therefore what a very Wise man thought a good while ago of that manner of preaching which hath put you in that rude heat wherein we now saw you? 
L. ●ac. Advertis. of Controu.  His words are to this sense (for I will not tie myself to say only what he hath said before me) and they seem to be a very moderate Sentence upon some men then who have left many followers behind them. They give, saith he, many pious Exhortations, and they work of times compunction of mind; but they are not skilled how to work a cure when they have made a wound. They can make men sick of their sins; but are not provided of efficacious remedies to purge them out. They let them see their sores; but then they are palliated and seldom thoroughly healed. They know better how to bring Souls to that Question, Men and Brethren what shall we do? than how to give a good answer, and resolve the doubt which they have raised. They make men see they are very bad, but know not how to go about to make them good. They magnify Faith, and make all the world sound with the noise of it; but still men are to seek what this great thing should be. They awake men out of their sleep, and make them look and gaze about them; but let them see nothing of that which they have to take in hand. They bid them indeed Believe, but it is very hard to know when they do. They have entangled Faith in Disputes; when it should have been employed in good Works. They have obscured a plain thing, in many laborious definitions of it. They have made it so subtle, and to consist in so nice a point; that it is a difficult thing for any to see it. They handle matters of doubt weakly, and as before a people that will accept of any thing. In the Doctrine of Manners, there is little to be had, but Generality and Repetition. The bread of life they toss up and down, but break it not. They say in the gross, that men must live well, but they tell them not how to live. They bring not their Doctrines down to Cases of Conscience; that a man may be warranted in his perpetual Actions, whether they be lawful or not. Nor take they care to teach men their lawful liberty, as well as their restraints. To keep them from superstitious Observances, as well as Profane transgressions. Nay, I wish we could not say that it is the least of some men's care, to promote a godly life. Faith is made a thing that is quite distinct from it. Good Works and Faith are commonly opposed in the Justification of a sinner. The one is thought to exclude the other. And to be justified, it is said to be necessary that a man do Nothing for it. The most that Christ can get is by way of Gratitude, which you know is small or none in bad Natures. At the best they will put him off with desires, or purposes, or an endeavour of a new life; though still these things be ineffectual. All which is said for no other end, but that you may not have men's persons in admiration. That you may be at liberty to prove all things, and hold fast that which is good. That you may not bear a greater reverence to Masters than you do to Truth: which is ready to become the portion of those who are more in love with it, then with their party. And since you seem to me to be one of those, I shall spare no pains to bring you and Truth together. But if you think it needful I will give you further satisfaction in this which we have contested; and make you confess that there is nothing plainer than that which I have said of Faith in Christ.  
You will gratify me very much, replied the other, if you will be at the trouble to teach me this lesson better. And I am prepared already by what I have now learned, to consider and weigh not who, but what it is that I hear. Very good, said he again, let me Catechise you then a little, and be not offended at this common and easy Question? Do you not think that Christ came into the World for some end? Nay, was he not sent of God upon some high design? You cannot doubt of it, and therefore I will not stay for your answer. But tell me, what do you think that great end was? Wherefore, for instance, did he die and shed his blood? Was it only that our sins might be pardoned? Did he bear the Cross, that we might bear none? Did he deny his own Will, that we might have liberty to do ours? Is his Death to excuse us from holy living? Hypocrisy indeed thinks so: but true Religion teaches us that the intent of his death was, by keeping us from dying, to make us alive to God: By saving us from execution when we were condemned, to render us honest men: by denying of himself, to teach us to take up our Cross and follow him. Will you hear what they that knew the mind of Christ have taught us in this argument. He that committeth sin (saith St. John) is of the Devil, 
2 Joh. 3.8.  for the Devil sinneth from the beginning: For this purpose the Son of God was manifested that he might destroy the works of the Devil: which is as much as to say that he appeared in the world that men might cease to sin. And so St. Paul tells us, 
2 Cor. 5.15.  That he died for all that they which live should not henceforth live to themselves but to him which died for them and risen again: i.e. will come to judge them as a little before he had declared. This is the end for which he gave himself for his Church, That he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word, 
Ephes. 5.25, 26, 27.  that he might present it to himself a glorious Church, not having spot or wrinkle or any such thing, but that it should be holy and without blemish. Nor is it a slight and superficial Holiness that he intends; the cleansing only of the outside, or the washing away of some pollutions; but He gave himself for us that he might redeem us from all iniquity, 
Titus 2.14.  and purify to himself a peculiar people, zealous of good works. For, he hath reconciled us (as it is in another place) in the body of his flesh through death, 
coloss 1.21, 22.  to present us holy and unblameable and unreprovable in his sight. And to say no more St. Peter also teaches us, that He his own self bore our sins in his own body on the tree, 
1 Pet. 1.24.  that we being dead to sin, should live unto righteousness: by whose stripes we are healed. I know not what sense Hypocrisy may pick out of these words, which hopes the scourges on Christ's back will save sinners from the lash; and that his death shall preserve them from dying, though their sins still live: But it is evident to them that are sincere that the Apostles meaning is; our Saviour died not merely to save us from dying of our wounds, or to take away the anguish and torment of them; but that our Natures might be healed, and made sound and whole again. He is such a Physician as removes the pain and the smart by curing of the wound; that easeth the part affected by making it well; that doth not lend his Cripple patiented a Crutch to support him, but infuses strength into his feet and anckle-bones, and spirits into his sinews that he may walk in the ways of God's commandments. I wish there was nothing harder than this to understand in the Book of God. It is not a truth which men cannot but which they will not understand. It is against a corrupt interest or else they would not resist it. There is a strong party in their heart against this end of Christ's death, or else there would be no dispute about it. The bias that inclines their will is not on the side of this truth. It contradicts their pleasures, their unlawful gain, or some such thing which they are loath to leave, and therefore it shall be false though never so clear in itself, lest these beloved sins should suffer any harm. But if there were any honesty in men's hearts, if they were void of guile, they would be able to see this without the help of so many testimonies out of holy writ; that it was not a thing worthy of the Son of God to come and die for any less end then to make the World better and render it obedient to the Creator. For what do you mean I beseech you when you say that Jesus satisfied for your sins? What was it do you think that he gave satisfaction unto? Was it not all those Glorious Attributes of God; his Wisdom, his Truth, his Justice, his Holiness; saving the Honour of which, he might now pass by the offences of returning sinners? Was it not that the credit of all these might be maintained, and yet the rebels not perish? That the Sentence might not be executed and yet the Authority of the Laws be preserved? There is nothing plainer than that this death of Christ did do great honour to God in the face of the World; asserted his right; gave countenance to his Authority; proclaimed his righteousness and purity; was a not able testimony on his behalf against sinners; and so there could be nothing more powerful to move God to grant a pardon to those rebels that would submit to him, since now he should lose nothing by it, but that which he had a mind to give away, and not demand, viz. the penalties which they had incurred by the breach of his Laws. But is it not manifest then that God cannot love sin, nor be friends with sinners until they amend? Did not the death of Christ show that his nature is such that he cannot indulge men in their trespasses? Is it not apparent that it was not fit to pardon even penitent and returning offenders, unless he shown his displeasure at their offences? Did he not take care to secure his Authority when he issued out a pardon? There is nothing more visible. And if Hypocrisy had not overrun us, and thrust true Reason as well as Religion out of doors, men would easily see that Christ could not die merely to procure us a pardon; much less that men might sin with more security, and without any fear of punishment. No, natural reason tells us, that men must needs be hateful to God while they are unlike him; that all the Blood of Christ cannot wash them and make them lovely, as long as they continue in actual rebellion against him. His very nature is against such men; his Wisdom is an enemy to them. For how should he maintain any Government in the World if he himself should be the cherisher of Traitors? if he should take care for their protection, and set up a Sanctuary to which they may boldly fly; if he should make the Altar of the Cross a refuge where they may find Salvation and Safety, who are the opposers of his Authority? It cannot be that God should be so liberal as to give away all his own right. He cannot quit his title and claim unto our universal obedience. It is impossible that Christ by his death should repeal all the Laws of God, and absolve us from our duty. There is no question he intended to strengthen them, when he made a relaxation. And when he procured a dispensation, he did more establish and secure that which is not dispensed withal. It is a rule of Reason, that all exceptions do confirm the Law. They tell us that it is not to be extended to any further indulgence. And therefore Christ dying that the punishment might not be executed; this is all the remission that we are to expect, and not that God should remit all our duty to him.  
It is very easy if men were well disposed, to read at once in the death of Christ, the greatest Love of God to us; and the greatest Love to his Laws. His Love to us appears in that he would for our good, and that we might not be eternally undone, lay aside his own right which he hath to punish: forgive us a debt which we were not able to pay: altar his Law, and abate the strictness of it; dispense with the execution of the Old Law, and make a New one of Grace and Favour: and that he might do so, and save both us from dying, and his Law from contempt by our escape; that he would provide such a wise remedy as this of his Sons dying for us. Herein was his Love indeed manifested, and we can never sufficiently admire it, that he would have him die rather than us; that he would have him suffer that we might be delivered. But then this also plainly tells us the great Love that he bears to Holiness, to his Laws, and to our Duty; which he took care should not be injured by this favour and remission. Though he would not have all die out of love to us; yet he would have one, lest we should still continue in the love of sin. Though he would not have every one of us suffer for the breach of his Laws; yet he would have Christ suffer, that we might not take the boldness still to break them. This death of his Son reduced things to an excellent temper; providing that neither we nor God might be damnified. That we might not suffer for what we have done, and that he might not suffer by our doing still the same. That he might be what he is, and we become what we ought. That the old Original Laws which require our obedience might remain in force, and the rigour of them not be executed for our disobedience. That he might part with some of his right, and yet recover all the rest. In one word, that he might be moved to let go his right to punish us, and we not moved to be careless in yielding him the rest of his right which he hath to our hearty and constant obedience.  
I wish hearty that you and every body else would seriously consider this, and not expect that God should not require your service, and obedience: for it is so much his due, that for the sake of his Son, he cannot part with his right and claim unto it. Nay, I have a bolder thing to say than all this, and that is: That the Death of Christ is so far from intending our pardon only, that it is not the chiefest thing that he intends. Of the two, the purifying of our hearts and lives was more in his design than the forgiveness of sin, and this was but in order to the other. So much you may easily gather from many of those places of the Holy Writings which were mentioned before; for though he bore our sins in his own body on the Tree, yet it was for this end, this was the ultimate scope of it, that we being dead to sin, might live unto righteousness. And so another Apostle saith, He gave himself for our sins, 
Gal. 1.4.  that he might deliver us from this present evil World. By showing his willingness to pass by our faults, he would move us to acknowledge them, to repent of them, and become more dutiful. This must be done before we can actually receive his pardon and absolution; 
Titus 3.5, 6, 7.  according to that of the Apostle; He saved us according to his mercy by the washing of regeneration, and the renewing of the Holy Ghost; that being justified by his Grace we should be made Heirs of eternal life. Where it is visible to them that will not shut their eyes, that his Mercy cannot save us unless we become New Creatures, and that this must go before the Justification which we expect by the Grace of God: And indeed reason tells us that Christ must need have more regard to his Father's rights than to our accommodation: and intent more the reclaiming of his rebellious subjects, than the procuring of their pardon.  
Which is a thing so apparent, that I am ashamed to do more than mention it. And besides by this time I believe you will be ready to ask me a question who have asked you so many, and demand to what purpose have you made this long discourse? The Answer is ready, and the end of it is as clear as any thing that hath been said, viz. That since justifying Faith is to have respect to our Saviour and his Death just according to the intention of God in sending of him; it cannot be so little as the casting ourselves upon him for pardon of sin. The former part of this argument you will grant me; for we must look upon an object according as it is proposed. Faith cannot apprehend things otherways than God hath revealed them: it cannot receive the Son of God in any other manner than as the Father gave him. The consequent then, God himself demands your assent unto; for you see that he had another end, and a far greater also in giving his Son for us, than the forgiveness of our offences. He gave him, that he might cleanse and purge our Souls from all filthiness; that he might make us holy and unblameable in his sight? Why do you not then thus receive him? Or how comes it about that you will not only put this end behind the other, but also speak as if justifying Faith had nothing else to do, but to lay hold on the merits of Christ? This I am sure you make to comprehend the whole notion of it, for we hear of nothing besides in its definition. This is either all the business of Faith, or else you do very ill not to express the rest. I beseech you in the Name of Christ that died for us, reform this grand error. Let your Faith be as large as the Gospel itself. And let this be your principal care, that it may purify your heart. When you expect to be justified through Faith in his Blood; 
Heb 9.14.  remember that it was shed to purge your conscience from dead works to serve the Living God.  
And that I may resume the beginning of my discourse, and so make way for a speedy conclusion, let me ask you another Question or two, which seem to be very pertinent to my present design. If there was an end, and so great an one as you have confessed of Christ's coming into the World, than what is he but a means unto this end? He died, saith the Apostle, 
1 Pet. 3.18.  that he might bring us to God. And by him we believe in God who raised him from the dead, and gave him Glory that our Faith and Hope might be in God. 
Cap. 1.21.  Our belief in God then (which is no small thing, but comprehends all our duty to him) was the end of Christ's Appearing, and of all he did: and therefore must not he stand in the place of a means to it? It must be so, said the other. But what then, continued the Father, will become of your resting on Christ, and your staying or leaning on him for Salvation? Is it not manifest that this only is insufficient for your purpose? that it will let you fall to the ground, and leave you short of your happiness? Is it not plain that this Faith fixes itself where it should proceed; and rests in the means whereby it should advance to a noble end? There is nothing methinks more evident than that the Faith which justifies a sinner is not that which lastly terminates itself in the person of Christ; and which doth not clearly and in its own nature produce a cordial obedience to God. Means must be used and not rested in. From whence it unavoidably follows that Christ himself and his merits must not be rested in as the last end of our Faith; but it must go further and beget an holy life. Let us so speak of Faith then, that it may be visible whither it tends. Let it be seen at what it aims; and that it designs more than the casting ourselves into the arms of Christ, that he may protect us from the wrath to come. Learn I beseech you before it be too late, that Jesus cannot save a man by a naked confidence in him, i.e. in his person, or any thing that he hath done, or can do. All they that think so, reproach our Saviour, and make him the advocate of sin, and not of sinners; one that shall save their lusts, and not them from the power of them. They stay in the halfway to Heaven, and so shall never come thither. They rest when they should go forward. They lean upon that staff wherewith they should walk. They make Christ their support only, who should be also their strength. They cast themselves upon him, but would not have him carry them to God and a divine nature. They make him to stand in their way, and not to be the way unto obedience. They render him an enemy to God, who shall keep his subjects with him, and detain them from their duty. They content themselves with what they find in him, and care not for any righteousness of their own. They rest satisfied with what he hath done, and by virtue of that do nothing themselves. And so he that is made of God a means of life, they make to themselves a means of death: because they make him indeed the End of all, and not the means to our End.   

CAP. XXXIX.  
The joy which the Pilgrim conceived in this discourse: and how much he applauded his happiness in having such a Friend. The Serenity of his Condition after all these Clouds. And how nothing troubled him but only that he could do so little to testify his love to his Guide: who easily gave him satisfaction by showing the true grounds of Friendship.  
IT is not to be expressed what contentment the Man took in this discourse, for which he rendered him a thousand thanks: professing that he had learned a great deal in a little time; and that though he never intended less than to become a Good man by Faith in Christ, yet he did not so well understand till now how to go about the business. But the Joy of our Pilgrim was far greater both for this acquaintance of his, and for himself. He thought that all his life would be little enough wherein to thank him; that he had turned the mention of his weaknesses and frailties, into the occasion of so great a benefit unto them both. I was going to tell you (said he, when the Father had done) that I knew not whether I should begin to thank our Lord or you first for this great kindness to me. But I think I need not stand in doubt, for you are so like him, that if I commend your Charity, and render you thanks for it; I do a real honour thereby to him. You have been the Ease of mine heart; the Guide of my mind; the Pilot of my soul; the security and stay of my life; my second and better self; my Tutelar Angel whereby I have been defended from innumerable dangers. And when I say so, I acknowledge God to have been all this, who by your hands hath imparted these favours to me. I know that I stand indebted to his Fatherly Goodness for so many Blessings that I know not where to end the account. But for the beginning; I cannot but next to the favours his Son hath brought us, place the gift of your Friendship. You will suffer me now sure to please myself a little, and to glory in it; though heretofore you suppressed my thoughts as they were issuing forth. I know very well at what rate my neighbours esteem riches, and how proud they grow if they can show you Gold and Jewels. But if Heaven had asked me what Jewel it pleased me to be presented withal; I would have answered, Give me a Friend: Send me an honest Friend. This is my Riches, my Treasures, my most precious Jewel. It is not possible there should be any thing given me of equal value. I am so proud of it, that it tempts me to be vainglorious, and to proclaim to the World how wealthy I am. And if we may judge of the price of things by their scarcity, am I not in the right? What is there more rare than this pure Friendship? Where shall we find two men that have one heart; and love without any interest? Must we not go back to the Golden Times, and have recourse to the Age of Poetry, to find such an happy pair? What place is not filled with that old complaint, O Friends, no body is a Friend? There are few hearts that are not double; few tongues that are not cloven. They that are not treacherous are too weak; and they that are not weak, yet are too wise, to be tied in this Sacred Bond. How can you blame me then that I think myself somebody now that I am possessed of so great a Treasure; which besides its rarity, is to be highly esteemed for its stability and lasting nature. It is not subject to the change of fortune, nor the rust of time, nor the violence of men: nor can it be lost by my own negligence, for a small care will serve to keep a true friend. Let others go and beg of great Men their favour: let others glory in the preferment they already enjoy; I envy not their happiness, may heaven but please to preserve my Friend. It is the custom of many I see to fetch the causes of their felicity or unhappiness from the heavenly bodies; and to ascribe what they suffer or enjoy here below to some good or malignant influences from above. But as for me I do not think there is any Planet so lucky as a faithful friend; as on the contrary none so malicious as a falsehearted companion. Let them who list then observe the stars and their favourable aspects, I will seek upon earth for that which must make me happy. Let them observe how Jupiter and Mercury look upon them in all their affairs; it imports most to me to mark what men I converse withal. And you are the person Sir whom I six my eye upon and whose good aspect and charitable influence I still implore. Do you accompany me always in my travels; be you my Mercury in my journey; and in this conjunction I shall not fear any evil that may threaten me, nor despair any more of finishing that which is so happily begun. This is the sum of my desires that you would ever exercise your wont pity towards me and pardon my follies. For the whole stock of comfort that I am furnished withal can only serve for a meaner affliction than the loss of your love would prove unto me. And yet I hope that I shall not be altogether so troublesome to you in the rest of my journey; but rather become your joy. It shall be my daily petition that I may spend my days in that evenness and steadiness of mind wherein I find myself fixed by your means. That I may be humble, and wait patiently upon the Lord, and be of good courage; believing that he will strengthen mine heart, and that one day I shall in Zion appear before God.  
To which good prayer the Father instantly said, Amen, wishing that he might ever find him in this good temper, and that he would likewise remember the counsel of the Apostle who bids us Rejoice in the Lord always. For there is not a more evident token and apparent sign of true Wisdom and profiting in Virtue, than a constant serenity and unconstrained rejoicing. And truly, said he, I think I need not do so little as desire this for you, but may be bold to turn my wish into a confidence; for I am apt to prophesy that after so many conflicts you will go in more peace to Jerusalem. And so it proved as I have since heard, and after this he every day had a view of that blessed place. The sky indeed was sometimes a little cloudy, which rendered the sight of it more duskish and obscure; yet he kept a calm in his mind in his greatest dulness, and hoped for Sunshine days; which came a great deal sooner, by not raising a new and thicker cloud, through the storms of his own passions. But I cannot say for the present what the ensuing part of their travels were, my own observation here having an end. Only thus much I observed before I parted, that he who once was afraid that he loved his friend too much, fell into a suspicion of himself that he did not embrace him with such an affection as he deserved. And that after all these contrary humours, the temper of their friendship was so excellent, of such consistency and so well settled; that as nothing could disorder it, so nothing but death alone could divide it; and death itself they were confident could never put an end to it. And indeed this was the thing that I left them in expectation of, and which they were constantly endeavouring to prepare themselves for; as that which would not destroy, but perfect their love. This they often talked of; knowing that it would never come the sooner for their thinking and speaking of it. This they looked upon as a common friend to both; that would translate them to those happy regions where friendship is in its Kingdom and reigns over every heart. All the favour they would have begged, if it were wont to grant any petitions; was, that with one stroke it would arrest them both and carry them thither together. And if any body could have made good the Paracelsian promise of spinning out the life of man to a length equal with the clue of time, and making our vital oil of the same durable temper with that which feeds the Lamps of Heaven; All things were so in common between them, that I verily think one of them would not have accepted of such a courtesy, on condition to enjoy it alone without the other. No, they rather desired as I said that the one might not see the other expire; but that the same hand might cut off both their threads at once, and that one moment might put out those Lamps which were not willing to burn asunder.  
All the wishes that our Pilgrim made besides this, was only that they might live so long, till he could give some remarkable proof of his affection to his Guide. For though he knew that he loved him above all things, and could contradict even his former wishes by dying for him; yet it did sometimes a little discontent him that he was in no capacity to show his tenderness but only by words and protestations. Though the wisdom of his Conductor had stood him in so great stead, and he could not well spare any of it; yet he was so foolish now and then as to think that if he had been less wise he himself had been more happy: Because than he might have stood in need to receive those counsels, which now he only gave; and been requited for those courtesies, which now he made him a pure debtor for. Many other benefits also that are usually communicated between friends he found himself utterly destitute of all means to confer; they being either not in his power, or his Guide in no need of them. This sometimes raised a small disquiet in his mind; and one day I remember he could not contain himself, but he began a discourse to this purpose, which shall put an end to this present Relation.  
I should think myself, said he, the happiest man alive was I but able to correspond with you in the duties and offices of friendship; and were I not constrained to return you only a weak and fruitless passion, for that efficacious love which hath done me so many services. It troubles me a little to find that my passion is as useless as it is extreme: and as void of benefit to you as it is violent in itself. It is no less barren than I doubt it may be burdensome; and hath as little profit as I see it hath brought you much trouble. Though the honour be very great you have done me in bestowing such a place upon me in your heart; yet I know not sometimes whether I should not complain in the enjoyment of a favour, which as it was not in my hands to deserve, so I cannot possibly requite. True indeed it is that I have given myself to you; but that is no more than strict Justice exacts, since I have received yourself as a gift to me. Friendship they say is a commutation of hearts; and therefore it is but fit that you should have mine in room of your own. And yet alas! mine is of such small value, that I doubt you will be wholly a loser by the change. Is there no means for me to do you service, or to rest content with a will to serve you? Cannot you either show me how I may be useful to you; or show yourself a disposition to it in that heart which I have given you? I should be satisfied I think if you knew my will as well as myself. It remains in your power, not my own, to settle my mind in peace; if you will first believe I love you, and then set a value upon that Love, which you know is the cause of all well-doing; and ought not to be blamed for want of power.  
Very true, said his Guide, who laid hold of that word, I think that I have found a treasure in your Love; and I will have it pass for currant payment, though it cannot express itself in such sensible effects as you would have it. It is enough to me that you have such a passionate affection for me; though it could never find the means to do any thing, but only tell me how hearty it is. I am pleased with the intentions and desires which you have to do me any good. It is an extraordinary contentment to me to contemplate the imaginations which are in your mind of what you would do for me; could power be courted by your will to come and join itself unto it. They are the Vulgar who call nothing benefits, but what they can feel with their fingers. It is the portion of gross Souls to be insensible; unless your courtesies, to come at their hearts, pass through their hands. The purer and more refined Spirits touch the very Souls of their Friends, and feel the kindness which lies in their breasts. They are so subtle as to see a courtesy while it is so young, as to be but only in design. They touch it before it be clothed in matter, or have passed beyond the confines of thoughts. They meet it in the first rudiments, and embrace it while it is only in meaning and drawn in the imagination. They receive these inward acts of Love as most pure and spiritual; being separate from all the terrestrial part which affect the vulgar minds. And in one word there is not any thing dearer to them than those motions of the Soul, which finding nothing they can do correspondent to their own greatness and force; do terminate in themselves. They are pleased to see them stay there and go no further; because there is nothing fairer than themselves to be met withal, wherein to end and rest.  
Do not depretiate your affection therefore, nor vilify it in that manner you are wont; as though it were not worthy my acknowledgement. Do not tell me any more that it is no valuable Love which doth not serve our Friends: for this service depends upon occasions; and they depend on an higher Being, and are only in the dispose of Providence. All that I can be beholden to you for, I have received already from you; and for the rest, if it could be bestowed, I must make my acknowledgements to something else. Be contented then that you give all that is in your hands; and that if it were in them to make occasions, you would still let those be wanting, which most of all prove a friend. Nay let me tell you, I am so favourable in my opinion to your affection, and so apt to give it the best advantage; that I am not yet resolved, but there may be as much nobleness in the handsome acknowledgement of a kindness, as there is in the conferring of that which deserves such acknowledgement. But besides all this, let me ask you a Question (for I am resolved to ferret this scruple out of the bottom of your heart) should you not love me unless I had done you benefits? Tell me the truth; is there any great dearness think you created in people's hearts towards each other by this means? For my part I have often found the observation true; that the remembrance of benefits wears out of men's minds, as grief doth out of the heart of afflicted persons; from which every moment steals a part. Time hath power over the one as well as the other; and it diminishes the affection which is the fruit of favours, as it doth the sorrow which is produced by losses and calamities. Nay, so little power have benefits to make a friend, that they sometimes make a foe. There are some men, the more they own, the more they hate. A little debt makes a man a debtor, but a great one makes him an enemy. What is it then that produces a durable Friendship? Nothing sure but worth and desert; together with the agreeableness of a person to our humour, and his resemblance to our disposition. The impression which these make can never be blotted out. Time which wipes away the remembrance of benefits, can never efface the sense of worth and merit. We always carry in our minds the amiable perfections, and accomplished qualities of worthy persons. We always think of those who have touched our inclinations by their agreeable nature. And I appeal to you whether you could refuse me your Love, though you were not so much beholden to me as you now acknowledge. And whether all the kindnesses in the world would produce a Friendship with me, if you saw not something else to woe your affection. No, no, my Friend, it is Gratitude, not Friendship which is the proper effect of benefits. They ought to dispose us to suitable returns, and an hearty acknowledgement; but they cannot oblige us to entertain him for a Friend who is bountiful toward us. They may possibly make our Friendship grow, but they cannot beget it. They may give it some nourishment, but they cannot produce and bring it forth. It depends upon an higher cause, it owes its Original to some nobler thing; to that from whence all benefits and good offices ought to come, I mean a great love and a sincere affection; which if deserts be not wanting, is more powerful to move than all the gifts in the world; and is able without them all to tie us fast to a worthy person. Be so just then to yourself and to me, as to think that I am your Friend; though you do not bestow those benefits on me which you desire; since they can serve only (as I said) to make me thankful, but not your Friend. I esteem you very highly for yourself, and upon the account of your own proper worth, which I am sure doth put me into the next disposition to be your Friend. And since you have added to your own desert, a very great Love to me; that cannot but complete it, and make me perfectly yours. This Love alone hath been thought sufficient to make a Friend; and indeed is more powerful than any benefits. According to that of Hecaton; Wouldst thou know how to get a Friend? I will show thee, and thou shalt use neither Medicament, Herb, or Enchantment to produce the affection thou desirest. If thou wilt be beloved; Love. When Virtue then and it have made a league; and shows itself in a subject whose qualities also are worthy to be embraced; its force must needs be irresistible, and leave us no power to withstand its desires.  
The poor Pilgrim remained astonished a while at the kindness of this discourse: And finding himself overwhelmed with the weight of such Love, was fain to strive very much to recover a power of making this short reply unto it. I am utterly ignorant, said he, what worth it is that you ascribe to me, which hath brought me into your good esteem, and obtained me the noble title of your Friend. I see that I please you, but I know not what it is that should give you that pleasure. I find myself very happy; but what hath advanced me to this felicity I cannot define. And truly since it is your will to have me so, I will not be too busy and curious in examining the causes of my good fortune; nor will I seek to lessen my worth, lest in so doing I should upbraid you with a bad foundation of your Love. No, I will rather think I am worth something, than render your judgement nothing worth. I will think of myself as you would have me, that you may not seem to be mistaken. There is nothing else can make me of any value; unless it be that I had the wit to judge of the deservings of such a person as yourself. It is a mark they say of some sufficiency to be able to discern an able person from a flashy wit. It is a note I have heard of great wisdom to choose an excellent Friend. By this I am told a man is known to others, and I have little else whereby to know myself. This is the chiefest thing that makes me see I am not so unfortunate as I thought. I perceive I am worthy of some esteem, because I had the judgement to set such an esteem upon yourself. For I must needs confess that though your favours could have imposed a greater necessity upon me of loving than you will allow; yet I feel that I am not beholden to them for my Inclination to love you. That is something more ancient than any benefits you can bestow; and depends only on your own merits. And let it not be judged an amplification to say, that they are so great, that they will not leave it to my choice either whether I will love you or no, or how much I will love you; but they constrain me to love you as much as I can. It is a constraint indeed to which I am very willing, there being no violence offered but of what my own judgement is the cause: yet it is irresistible; and I can never be of any other mind, nor have a will to dispose of my affections otherways. Nay I cannot for my life but think that your favours are a part of your deserts; and that there is something peculiar in them to merit mine affection. They flow purely from your own goodness, and own not themselves so much as to my entreaties. You have not put me to the trouble of begging your kindnesses, but they ran to me of their own accord. I did but ask; and you were pleased to open your heart, and make me a liberal gift. I did but show my need; and you instantly enriched me with yourself. And ever since I have not had so great a care to conceal my griefs, as you have taken to find them out. Nor have you suffered my troubles to speak, before you saw them in my looks. All your favours likewise have flowed so freely from you, that there was no hope they should return again. They have brought me a great deal of happiness, but could not be thought to come to fetch any to him that sent them. This adds exceeding much to the esteem I have conceived for you. This will ever make me to propound you as the pattern of an excellent Friend. And if I were now to die, it would be one of the last words I should speak to those that love me. Remember that those will be your worst enemies; not to whom you have done evil, but who have done evil to you: and those will be your best Friends; not to whom you have done good, but who have done good to you.   
The End.