The Parable of the Pilgrim, Parable · Chapter 27
CAP. XXVII.
How the Pilgrim fell into a great ſadneſs; and how ſtrangely it was cured by an unexpected meeting with his Guide. Who diſcourſes of the nature of ſenſible joyes. And at laſt upon his deſire contracts a 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 dayes he remained in theſe pleaſant expectations, and went a good way onwards to his reſting place, without the leaſt wearineſs of any part about him. He ſeldome departed from meditation but either with his mind illuminated with new light from heaven, or his will inflamed with a new ardor, or his whole heart ſteeped in new ſweetneſs. And though ſundry new enemies alſo attempted him, yet ſuch a profound peace ſeemed to have taken poſſeſſion of his heart, that they could not move the leaſt diſturbance there. The joyes that he felt made him deſpiſe all baits of pleaſure which lay in his way. The Conqueſts which he had got, made him think himſelf above the ſcorn and laughter of the World. And though he was ſometimes bitterly 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 ingaged: 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 joyes were again abated, which added very much to the trouble of his mind: and indeed they fell in time to ſo low an ebb, that he feared they would never riſe again, but leave him at laſt quite dry and without one drop of comfort. And ſo truly in the iſſue of things it proved: for as they forſook him, ſo he was tempted again to forſake his way, which was now become but irkſome to him without thoſe refreſhments. The pleaſure and relliſh that he was wont to feel in holy duties was quite gone. In ſtead of clearneſs there ſucceeded darkneſs; dryneſs of ſpirit took the place of affection; and in the room of joy and gladneſs he was loaded with nothing but groans and heavineſs. He often 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 taſt, and gives him no pleaſure in the going down; he was tempted to throw it all away, and thought he had as good not do thoſe things at all as do them with no delight. And accordingly he gave up himſelf wholly to be tortured by his own thoughts, which imployed 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 then the body; the pains and anguiſh which ariſes in it, muſt needs be far more pungent and afflictive then thoſe which touch the outward man. He ſuffered a kind of Martyrdom every day: or rather he was continually crucified and had nothing but Gall and Vinegar given him to drink. He thought he had reaſon when he complained of greater pains then the Martyrs endured. For they 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 ardors of Love in their hearts which like a greater fire put the other out. But he poor Soul, though alwayes denying his own deſires, breaking of his will in pieces, lying upon a rack, and faſt nailed to the Croſs where the body of ſin was bleeding to death; yet found his Spirit in horrid torments and deprived of thoſe divine delights, which cheared the bright ſouls of the bleſſed Martyrs, and made them ſhine with a greater luſter then did their fires. But ſince I cannot expreſs the ſoreneſs of this Agony in which he a long time lay; I ſhall only add that it was ſo great, that one day being quite tired and ſpent; he fell into a kind of trance, and remained as immoveable for ſome ſpace, as if he had been dead. And a bleſſed occaſion this was; though all his 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 bad him get up, and go as faſt as he could to a certain Oratory that was not far off, and in his way; where he ſhould meet with ſome relief.
When he was come to himſelf; he thought this 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 imployed in looking up to Heaven, for its Balm to drop into them. And truly ſo lively were the colours wherein this was ſet before his eyes; that he was ready to burſt into tears and pour out his Soul there, before he ſtir'd from the bed whereon he lay. But remembring preſently the voyce (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 Chappel which had been built in the rode by ſome charitable perſon, for the uſe of devout paſſengers to Jeruſalem.
And no ſooner had he entred within the doors but he fell upon his knees; and there ſent out his Soul in ſuch ſtrong and paſſionate deſires, as left all words 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 my ſelf I dare ſcarce be ſo bold as to lift up mine eyes unto thee. When I think in what condition I am and what I have done, it ſo confounds me; that I can hardly think of any thing elſe. It is the greatneſs of my miſery alone that conſtrains me to this preſumption of proſtrating my ſelf at thy feet. The weight of which oppreſſes me ſo much, that it hath left me little more power, then to expoſe my ſelf before thee, as an object of thy wondrous Charity. O what a Wilderneſs am I faln into where I can find no water! What Deſarts are theſe, in which all comfort forſakes my Soul! Into what strange regions am I wandred, where there is nothing but darkneſs, and the vallies of the ſhaddow of death! O the terrors that ſurround me! how dreadful are they? O the affliction and torment which I indure! what tongue can expreſs it? my Soul is parcht and dryed up. My ſpirits are conſumed by the heat of thy diſpleaſure. May I not now beg one drop of comfort from thee?— O my God, my ſoul thirsteth for thee, my fleſh longeth for thee in a dry and barren land. I remember thy loving kindneſs in former times: I call to mind the dayes of old: And I cannot but wiſh at leaſt, to ſee thy power and thy glory ſo as I have ſeen thee in the Sanctuary. There is none in Heaven that I deſire but thee, nor on earth beſides thee. My Soul followeth hard after thee: O when wilt thou come unto me? O hide not thy face from thy 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 pitty me. O my God, be not thou far from me: draw nigh unto my ſoul and redeem it. I am poor and ſorrowful: let thy Salvation ſet me up on high. For thou who ſearchest the hearts knoweſt, that I am travelling 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 meerly in obedience to thy Will. Yea thus far I acknowledge thou hast most graciouſly conducted me. Hitherto I have been highly favoured and wonderfully helped by thee. And wilt thou now at last abandon me, who have ahandon'd all things elſe for the ſake of thee? Haſt thou called me from mine own Country and Fathers houſe, that I may periſh by famine here; and only for want of thee? O my Lord, give me leave to plead for a Soul which once I thought was dear unto thee. Pitty, O pitty an Heart, which thou haſt made too great for all the World and cannot be ſatisfied with leſs than thee. Canſt thou ſee it dye for lack of one ſmile from thee? yea, canſt thou let it dye of love to thee? for that hath brought me thus far to ſeek thee. And wilt thou ſuffer it to dye at thy feet? Canst thou endure to behold it periſh in thy arms, into which it now throws it ſelf with all the force it hath? Shall it miſcarry full of prayers and longing after thee? Shall it expire in cryes and tears which it pours out for thy mercy? O where are thy Bowels? what are become of thine antient loving-kindneſſes? Are they all forfeited by one offence againſt thee? O my God I cannot think ſo hardly of thee. I begin to live me thinks, becauſe thou permitteſt theſe adreſſes to thee. It inſpires me with ſome hopes to find theſe holy breathings in me. It rejoyces me much that I feel thee drawing my very heart after thee. O take it, I beſeech thee, take it quite away from me unto thy ſelf. Shape it after thine own heart; and make it ſuch as thou canſt imbrace. Create in me a clean heart O God, and renew in me a right ſpirit. Cast me not away from thy preſence and take not thy holy Spirit from me. Reſtore unto me the joy of thy Salvation; and uphold me with thy free Spirit.
He was proceeding in the words of that Penitential Pſalm, being once got into it; but that a flood of tears ſtopt the paſſage of his words, and ſighs and groans ſupplyed their place. In which having vented himſelf a while; it fell out that the tyde of his paſſion being a little faln and his ſighs growing ſomething ſilent; he ſhould hear the voyce of another perſon that was drowned before in his lowder cryes; which invited him firſt to liſten and then to caſt his eyes, as wet as they were, that way from whence it came to his ears. And ſo turning his head a little aſide, who ſhould he eſpy in this Oratory but the Good man from whom he had taken his firſt Directions; who being himſelf alſo a Traveller to Jeruſalem called in at this place to 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 ſtrugling in him at the ſame point of time; the one tranſported him to the Father, with whom he already fancied himſelf; and the other held him where he was that he might make an end of his prayers to God. But finding at laſt that his ſpirits began to fail him, and that he knew not well what to add at preſent to his former Devotions; withall hoping that God had ſent his 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 ſurprized with the ſtrangeneſs of this accident as the Pilgrim could be. But when all other paſſions had ſpent themſelves which uſe to be moved on ſuch unexpected occaſions, they left Joy in the ſole poſſeſſion of his heart, which could not but ſtay there a great while, having ſo many cauſes to excite it. It was no ſmall pleaſure to ſee his ſon (as he could not but eſteem him) after ſo long 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 Joyes and pleaſing Raptures into which he was caſt at this interview were not ſo bright, but that there remained ſome clouds upon his face which could not be diſpelled by them. This made the Good man very abruptly to break off his ſpeech as ſoon as he had entred into it; and it abated alſo a little of his ſatisfaction, when he ſaw by the paleneſs of his cheeks, and the dulneſs of his eyes, that all was not well with him.
Yet there was no need to ask what he ailed, for he had no ſooner told the Father what Joy he conceived in his preſence, but he was ready to unboſome the grief of his heart to him; thinking to find ſome eaſe, both by diſcharging his ſoul into that breaſt, and …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 Joyes 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 lookt 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 ſhowre.
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 your ſelf? Then you may wipe your eyes, and look more chearfully, for you are not ſo ill as I ſee you imagine. You are more affraid than hurt; and unleſs you will be your own 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 alwayes the ſame joyes 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, &c. and did you not find this a moſt effectual ſpell to drive away all theſe black and diſmal thoughts? Why then did you think your ſelf worthy at all times to enjoy theſe pleaſures? Why did you not abaſe your ſelf at the feet of your Saviour, and confeſs to him that theſe are too great favours to be indulged conſtantly to us, on this ſide of our reſting-place? If there be any way to have them, it is this; not to expect them, and acknowledge that we do not deſerve them. Nay, in thoſe ſubmiſſions and devolutions of our ſelves 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 miſ becoming your condition, to take it ill that you were not treated ever ſince I left you, according to your own deſires. Might it not have ſatisfied your mind to find your ſelf in the direct way to abiding and neverfading Joyes? Could 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 remembred of it? But that which ſeems more ſtrange to me than any thing elſe, is; that after you had reſigned your ſelf to your Saviours Will in this particular, you ſhould fall into the ſame trouble, if not fault again. You have tought me this by it, that I muſt expect to find my 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 travelled thorow a ſandy and barren deſart 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 Joyes, the want of which hath been ſo grievous to you. I remember once that I met with a man that thought he wanted not above two or three ſteps of the Gate of Jeruſalem (though afterward I much queſtioned whether he knew any thing of the place) yea that imagined himſelf now and then to be caught up into Paradiſe. He was Angelical in his diſcourſe, and more than Angelical in his own conceit; for he ſpoke of nothing but Extaſies and Raptures, and ſuch like things, that are by ſome men much exalted above the trifles (as they eſteem them) of Obedience. I endeavoured to learn of him what might be the ground of ſuch an high confidence of his nearneſs to God, and all that he was able to tell me amounted to no more but this, that he was ſo full of Joy, that his ſoul was ready to burſt its priſon, and eſcape to Heaven. Now, though you are not of this Enthuſiaſtical temper, yet perhaps you think there are no finer or more deſirable things than theſe Joyes for Heaven to beſtow upon you; judging of their worth, and the divineneſs of them by the delight wherewith they entertain you. But I muſt teach you another Leſſon, and inſtruct you to ſet a price upon them by another meaſure, and that is, The good they make you do. If theſe Joyes do not ſpur you to Obedience, and make you fruitful in 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 it ſelf, muſt be nouriſhed with Milk; ſo the Soul, till it be able to underſtand the Goſpel, and feed upon the ſolid Truths thereof, muſt be entertained a while with this thinner dyet, which is moſt agreeable to its affectionate part. And withall he provides hereby that the heart which hath left the pleaſures of the world, may not be diſcouraged at the firſt entrance into his wayes for want of ſome other pleaſures: which it cannot well be without, becauſe it hath been ſo long uſed to them; and which it cannot yet find in Religion it ſelf, becauſe that is a thing of which it hath but a very childiſh underſtanding.
And can you think now that God is not good to ſuch a perſon as you, who have been ſo long a ſervant to him? You ſee he is ſo far from letting grown ſouls be without comfort, that it is a thing he doth not deny to the moſt puling creatures, and thoſe who are but 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 Gardner which I paſſed by the other day in my Travels, loved the young Plants beſt which brought him no profit, becauſe I obſerved him to water and fence, and 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 powres theſe things upon imperfect ſouls, when others have none of them, not becauſe he loves them more, but becauſe they have more need. So you remember your Mother uſed to deal with your little Infant Siſter, to ſwaddle her, and dandle her, and kiſs her, and ſing to her, and find out a thouſand little toyes to pleaſe her; when you were left to dreſs your ſelf, and ſtudy better ſatisfactions, which yielded you the more pleaſure, becauſe you contributed 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 paſt theſe things, and want nothing but this underſtanding, to make you a grown man in Chriſt Jeſus.
But conſider, I beſeech you, do you not feel him do far better things for you, than all the Joyes that ever you had amount unto? He feeds you, perhaps, with harder meat than Milk, but it gives you more nouriſhment, and greater ſtrength; with more ſpirit and vivacity alſo, if heartily imbraced. 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 withall; That it is no ſign God doth not love you, when you are not tranſported with ſenſible Joyes; and that your paſſions, which are otherwiſe quiet, ought not to be diſturbed for want of them. There is no cauſe, I 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 ſlackning 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 cloathed with the beſt Sute of Apparel that was in his Wardrobe; he made him a preſent of a Ring, to aſſure him of his affection; there was a great Feaſt prepared; there was nothing but muſick, and ſinging, and dancing to be heard; and we may very well think that He alſo gave him many imbraces now that he was at home, who had met him with ſo much paſſion when he was yet afar off. And yet at the ſame time he had another Son that was both elder and more dutiful; one that had never forſaken him, that had ſerved him many years, that had never offended him in word or deed; for whom there was no ſuch chear provided. But, Would you have joyned with this elder Brother in his complaints (if you had been preſent at ſuch a meeting) becauſe he was not treated after this faſhion? Would you hauehave 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 ſtayd and ſober a man as he that alwayes obeyed him? It is poſſible you might have run into this miſtake, till you had heard the Father ſay, My Son, thou art alwayes with me, and all that I have is thine; and then you would not have had a word to reply, unleſs it had been a great many thanks for the high eſteem that he had of him. You may eaſily apply all this to your ſelf, and conſidering that you are now grown up in the Love of God, and inriched with the knowledge of Chriſt, and poſſeſſed of ſo many heavenly vertues; not expect to be careſſed in the ſame manner as the younger children are, nor repine for the want of that comfort, of which you are able by the Grace of God to provide your ſelf otherwayes. Your eyes are enlightened to know what is the hope of Chriſtianity, and what the riches of the Glory of that Inheritance is to which you are called. You ſee the title alſo that you have to thoſe great treaſures. You know what that mighty Power is which wrought in Chriſt when God raiſed him from the dead, 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 powred upon the Apoſtles and Prophets, and is the earneſt of the Inheritance. You have had the grace alſo to be obedient to God, which qualifies you for thoſe divine enjoyments. And therefore what cauſe is there for your diſcontents who are ſo fairly endowed? All things are yours: there is nothing that is good for you, but it is at your command (if I may ſpeak after our manner) even thoſe ſenſible comforts too, if by reaſon of any great diſtreſs you ſhould ſtand again in need of them. But ſince they are moſt proper to Beginners; and the entertainment of thoſe who enter upon the Spiritual Race; do not murmure that you are without them, ſince it is an argument of your proficiency in the Knowledge and Grace of our Lord, and you have greater benefits granted you, which if they be regarded, will yield far more ſolid contentment.
And that you may ſee what ſatisfaction lyes 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 thorow diſcouragements; unleſs it be this, to know that God is well pleaſed with you? And that is a thing which he will ſoon ſatisfie you in, if you can but ſatisfie your ſelf in the former: for the Lord loveth the righteous, and he taketh pleaſure in them that fear him, in them that hope in his mercy. Nay, I cannot but perſwade my ſelf that you believe, God is more pleaſed to ſee us obey him in the weakeſt manner, than meerly to ſee us full of conſolations, which the moſt ſenſual man in the world would be very glad to enjoy. And as for me, I take it alſo to be more acceptable to him, if againſt the deſires of ſenſuality and ſelf-will, and yet without theſe Joyes, we do what he commands; than if we did the ſame without any oppoſition, and when we have the Wind and Tyde of theſe pleaſures to help us forward. Tell me therefore why we our ſelves ſhould not be (at leaſt) as well pleaſed with what we do in a ſtate of ſadneſs and dulneſs of ſoul, ſince we are ſure ſuch works are not infected with any ſelf-intereſs, but performed out of clear and pure obedience to God. It is pitty that pious and ſincere-hearted men ſhould be tormented in this ſort that you now are: And therefore as I prayed you before for the Love of God, ſo I intreat you now for the love of your ſelf, that at leaſt you would reſt contented (if you cannot be well pleaſed) with any ſtate whereinto you ſhall fall, as long as therein you may do well, and cannot be hindred from obeying God as far as he requires.
And beſides this; Ought it not to pleaſe us that God will take any courſe to cure us of our diſeaſes? That which you think is a ſickneſs, may be but a means to prevent ſome worſe diſtemper, which he diſcerns, though you cannot, to be a growing. He ſees that one man will grow vain, and boaſt himſelf of theſe Joyes, not having an heart able to bear the weight of Divine Favours. Another he ſees will proceed to over-much confidence of his good eſtate by reaſon of theſe conſolations, and lay a greater weight upon them than they can bear. And as for a third, he ſees 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 putrifie if they were alwayes fed with theſe ſweets, and therefore he thinks it beſt to give them ſome myrrhe, 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 tryal 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 our ſelves to others; whoſe friendſhip we value not if they court us only when we are beſtowing gifts and benefits upon them?
But if you think that this deprivation of Joy is a 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 our ſelves? 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 diſmaid 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, then the very fault it ſelf; becauſe it keeps us from mending what is amiſs, and makes us ſo feeble, that we are apt to offend in ſome kind or other again. To ſay nothing of the diſhonour it is to his Goodneſs, and the great ſcandal it gives to others, who will be loath to enter into the ſervice of that Maſter, whom they think it impoſſible to pleaſe. But then if under the pretence of humbling your ſelf, you ſhall make a ſin that is no bigger than a grain of 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 conne you any thanks for aggravating your offences to this heigth, or accuſing your ſelf when there is no guilt? Is there nothing for him to pardon unleſs you make ſome faults, or bring him a great mountain to cover and hide with his love? Let me tell you, my dear Brother, that this is a part of your miſtakes and a cauſe that you and Joy are no better acquainted. You imagine that you have done Nothing, and complain of ſuch dulneſs as if you had ſtood ſtill ever ſince I ſaw you; when as you have made a very fair progreſs, and in ſome things you ſee have overtaken my ſelf. And then on the contrary, you groan under the ſenſe of an heavy guilt; when as you did but neglect a Free-will offering, and was kept from a duty to which you had then no tye, but what you received from your own hands. You are apt I ſee to overwork your ſoul and to impoſe too great burdens upon its back. Which when you are not ſo well able to bear, as ſometimes you find your ſelf; you are apt to think it a great fault if you take ſome eaſe: when as in truth it is your duty then to omit thoſe tasks you have injoyn'd your ſelf, that you may not neglect thoſe duties which are required by our Saviour. Come, come, my friend, if theſe things be all that trouble you, my life for yours, you ſhall do well enough. Let but my advice be followed, though at firſt it ſhould be with unwillingneſs; and take my word you ſhall fare the better for it in your after-courſe. And firſt I muſt not have you lay more loads upon your ſelf then Chriſt hath done; nor oblige your ſelf without the liberty of a diſpenſation to ſo many hours of Prayer and Reading every day. Let it ſuffice, to do what you can, all other things being duly conſidered that require your attendance.
Next, I muſt forbid you to make ſo much haſte to perfection. A ſoft pace goes far. Do not tire your ſpirits by your ſpeed, but go on ſo fairly and leiſurely, that you may hold out. And then likewiſe let me not hear any more that you exhauſt your natural ſtrength and weary your very body with much Faſting, 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 your ſelf alwayes to one way of Prayer or Meditation, nor confine your ſoul to one exerciſe only at the hours of retirement; but chuſe 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 enjoyn, that you give your ſelf 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 Joyes that you complain, but becauſe you can neither underſtand nor taſt the goodneſs of Divine truths; this laſt advice is one of the moſt uſeful that I can give you for the remedying of that melancholly dulneſs. All that I ſhall add is only this, that you would have patience and you ſhall ſee the good temper wherein you were, return of it ſelf, as it went away without your conſent.
Indeed ſaid the Pilgrim (who all this time had been very ſilent) I am very ſenſible that I have loſt a great many of your good counſels, or elſe I ſhould not have been ſo bad as here you find me. And I take it for a ſingular favour that Jeſus hath done me in ſending you again thither, to rub up my memory and to faſten thoſe things in my mind which hung there too looſe before. I muſt not forget likewiſe to acknowledge my new obligations to you, from whom I have now 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 my ſelf, and that in their ſafety is my ſecurity.—
Here the good Father perceiving he had given him ſome ſatisfaction could not but interrupt his ſpeech, and being filled with pitty, and love and joy and wonderment altogether, burſt out into theſe expreſſions of them.
Now bleſſed be Jeſus who hath brought me to you ſo opportunely. O magnifie the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name together. We can never admire thee enough O ſweet Jeſus, who art wont ſo ſeaſonably to interpoſe thy power to ſave us, when we have loſt our ſelves. Whither ſhould we ſtray, didſt not thou ſo gratiouſly ſeek us? What would become of us didſt not thou ſo lovingly hold us in thy hand, and reſolve that none ſhall pluck us from thee? We are aſtoniſht at the vaſtneſs of thy wiſdom. Thy Goodneſs is unfathomable, elſe we ſhould have ſunk long before this beyond the depth of it. When we wander, thou followeſt us and calleſt us back. When we fall, thou runneſt to us and lifteſt us up. When we are diſcouraged, thou art the strength of our fainting ſpirits and ſpeakeſt comfortably to our hearts. Tea by the rareneſs of thy heavenly arts thou turneſt our deepeſt ſorrows, into the greateſt occaſions of exceſſive joyes. And there where we thought to find nothing but trouble and heavineſs, thou makeſt gladneſs and light to ſpring up unto us. O how unſearchable are thy wayes, who meeteſt us when we are out of the Way! O how unmeaſurable is thy Mercy, which cureth us by that which we love, even when we are doing that which thou dost not love! We cannot but preſent thee with the best of our acknowledgements, who are ſo happily together here, not by our own, but thy Providence. We cannot do leſs then bind our ſelves together to thine Altar, and offer all we have as a ſacrifice of Praiſe unto thee. And have us still, O Lord, in thy care. Let thy good Spirit alway go along with us as our Guide. And let thy good Angels never fail to be our Guardians. Uphold our goings in thy paths, and ſuffer not our feet any more to ſlide. Hold thou us up and we ſhall be ſafe: and we will have reſpect continually unto thy Statutes. So will we bleſs thy name at all times; thy praiſe ſhall be continually in our mouths. In the Courts of thine Houſe will we praiſe thee; yea, in the midſt of thee, O Jeruſalem, will we ſing eternal praiſes. Hallelujah.
I thank you moſt heartily, ſaid the Pilgrim (when the other had ended this acknowledgment) for theſe good thoughts you have breathed into me. I feel my ſelf as if a new Soul did informe me: and my Spirit doth not ſo much return, as another more divine ſeems to enter into me and invigorate all my faculties with an higher degree of ſtrength and courage. Sure, if you would be alwayes with me, I ſhould never miſcarry, no nor grow dull and lumpiſh any more. May I not beg that favour of you to take me under your wings? Is it too great an happineſs for me to ask, that you would become ſo much my Friend, as to take a particular care of me, and let me travel in your company? I can never expect ſo much ſecurity and ſo much comfort both 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 dayes, as to know that while Hercules was cutting off the heads of Hydra, there was one Iolaus ready at hand to apply fire to them, to hinder their ſpringing up again. It ſeems this great perſon was not ſtrong enough without one to back him. He durſt not travel through the World, unleſs he took a companion with him. I never heard of any Worthy that had not ſome Genius or other to aſſiſt him, and the ſociety alſo of ſome friend to ſecond his undertakings. Do not expect then from me that I ſhould be more then a Miracle. Do not blame me that I cannot be ſo hardy, as to travel any further alone 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 your ſelf; or that profit, which will do you no hurt. Make me rich, ſince you will not thereby become the poorer. Impart an happineſs to me, which will not abate any thing of your own repoſe. And truly Sir, I do not know whether Heaven have not deſigned you for that end; and given you a frame of nature ſo fit for conjunction with mine, that both together will make one perfect man. You ſee how earneſt and 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 joyn 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 your ſelf to advance it unto a more noble ſignification. I have no cauſe at all to ſuſpect you of the vanity of Courtſhip and Complement; and therefore I will be ſo 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 mans goods. There are many perſons, I confeſs, to whom I am bound by other obligations to give my advice, and the welfare of whoſe ſouls I am to attend; which might make me unwilling to hearken to this deſire of yours, and engage my ſelf in ſo weighty a charge. But ſince I diſcern a more than ordinary Love in your breaſt 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 my ſelf, 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 Sun-beams; 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 it ſelf is more fond of ſome plants than it is of the reſt; ſo that we ſee one of his Favourites turns its face about according to his 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 hide it ſelf, 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 then I ſee he had ſome ſelect ſouls who were nearer to him than any other. And beſides the Seventy Two Diſciples who were particularly devoted to his ſervice; he made choice of Twelve Men to be intruſted more immediately with all the Myſteries of his Kingdom. And me-thinks theſe Twelve did not equall… ſtand in his favour, but there was ſome difference which he made in his eſteem of them. For I obſerve that there were Three who were cull'd out to be 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 boſome friend than either of the other two. And therefore ſince the Saviour of the World, that great Mirror of all Vertues, had his inclinations and 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 imbraces, and hereafter become your perpetual Companion, as well as your Director and Guide.