The Parable of the Pilgrim, Parable · Chapter 31
CAP. XXXI.
How the Pilgrim was falling into the contrary Extreme, and was prevented by his Director. Of the Neceſſity of Diſcretion. And the aſſiſtance which one Vertue gives another. How he was troubled that he ſhould have any paſſions. Of the uſe of them. That it is fit for us for us to love our friends paſſionately: and to take great delight in their company.
IN ſuch ardent effuſions as theſe they a long time 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 alwayes to accompany him, and when they took their leave, it was with ſo many freſh tears and vows of never forgotting his inſtructions, that he thought his ſtay with them promoted him more in his way to Jeruſalem; than many other long dayes Journeyes. Nor was our young Pilgrim without his ſhare in the benefit of this diſcourſe, being hereby excited to beſtir himſelf with more earneſtneſs and greater Zeal in the Service of God. He never thought that he was vigilant enough; He lookt about him as if he had ſeen with an hundred Eyes; and he was as buſie as if he had been Maſter of as many Hands. And to be ſhort, he was in danger to throw himſelf into the other extreme, by an unbridled and headlong kind of fervour; which carried him to attempt and undertake more than he was able to perform. Which the Good man eſpying and conſidering that it would ſoon tire him, and ſo bring him into a new trouble; he told him that to make their way ſeem leſs tedious, he would entertain him a little with a ſtory of one of the Pilgrims in former dayes. You have heard, ſaid he, I believe of a famous perſon in Egypt called St. Anthony, who lead a life ſo holy that there were few places into which his name did not come, & from whence ſome or other did not go to behold ſo rare an example of perfect Vertue. Among others there were certain Monks on a time went to him to confer about divine matters; & they were ſo earneſt in a diſpute which aroſe among them that it laſted from the beginning of the night, to the next day morning. The thing under debate was this as John Caſſian tells us. What Vertue or what obſervance is it, that may be thought of greateſt efficacy to 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 Faſtings and Watchings; alledging 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 ſtript of all thoſe impediments, becomes more light and enlarged and may ſpeedily mount to the heavenly enjoyments. But there were a third ſort who gave the Palm to the love of Solitude, and commended the Deſarts 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 denyed, my Reverend Brethren, but that the propoſitions by you now made, are of ſingular force to keep a mans heart with God and to bring him to a moſt excellent degree of Vertue. But yet to rely principally on their ſufficiency, innumerable reaſons and events alſo, occurring to divers perſons, will not permit me. I have been a man of ſome obſervation, and many have I ſeen in my time that were given to wondrous abſtinence from meat and ſleep; that were retired from all humane Society; addicted in ſuch ſort to Poverty as not to reſerve a penny for themſelves, or a loaf of bread for the future; ſome alwayes at their devotion, others imployed 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 ruine and perdition of thoſe unhappy ones. Moſt certain it is they had been gathering together a notable treaſure of good and holy works, what was it then which made it waſt away and come to nothing? Surely the only lack of Diſcretion. They had not ſufficiently learned the rules and conditions of this Vertue which ſhunning either extremes, maintains us continually upon the high-way: neither letting us be carried away with the right hand of ſpiritual conſolations, to ſuperfluous and unmeaſurable fervours; nor yet with the left of dryneſs and want of ſpiritual guſt, under colour of care of the Body to fall into ſloth and ſenſuality. This Diſcretion is that which our Lord calls the Eye and Lamp of the body, which being clear and ſimple, the whole body will be repleniſhed with light; but being dimme, there will be nothing but darkneſs. To this faculty it belongs to weigh, ballance and diſcern all that is to be done by man and; therefore if this be faulty, and true judgment and knowledge be wanting, the Soul muſt needs be folded up in a night of 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 alwayes giving. And to ſuccour 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 our ſelves the Pattern whereby we are to love our neighbours; and we ſhall not be good to them long, if we mind not firſt our own concerns. It is the Vertue which hinders us from ſpoiling a good deſign through raſhneſs and haſt. It keeps us from tripping up our own heels by running too faſt. It keeps us from being tired, while it keeps us from taking too long, though continued Journeys. It keeps us alwayes at our work, by keeping us from over-working our ſelves. It makes Religion eaſie and pleaſant by making it free and unconſtrain'd. It brings Religion ſo much into our love, that it will never fall into our hatred. It preſerves us from deſtroying the body while we are labouring to ſave the ſoul. It feeds the ſoul without any gluttony; and ſaves it from nauſeating ſpiritual things by providing that it take no ſurfeit of them. It conducts our affairs with more temper, and leſs rumour; with more effects, and leſs ſhow. It makes us zealous without raſhneſs; and excites us to do good to our ſelves, without prejudicing the good of others. It quenches the furious heat which affrights the wicked, and diſcourages the weak, and upbraids the ſoberneſs of thoſe who are ſtrong. It ſhews that it is poſſible at once to be Religious and yet Wiſe. It adorns the Goſpel, and is a great grace and ornament to him that wears it. It commends Piety to the World, and doth not impair it in our ſelves. It gives a luſtre to all the Vertues, and they borrow their beauty from it. And in one word, it is at leaſt their Handmaid which muſt ever wait upon them, or elſe they will diſhonour themſelves.
Our young Pilgrim you diſcern by this time was a man of ſo much wit, that he could not but ſee the 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 Vertue, till at laſt he remembred there was ſome praiſe due to the Father who had given him now ſuch an inſtance of it. And having rendred 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 Vertues, yet in truth ſhe ſeems to be a Miſtreſs among them, and to diſpoſe them to their ſeveral duties. For one Vertue, you muſt know, is in need of its neighbour, and cannot live alone. They muſt help one another continually, or elſe they will be very lame and defective. They muſt lend to each other a mutual ſupport, or elſe they will be in danger of falling to the ground. Meekneſs muſt lend its hand to Zeal, and Zeal muſt do as much for it again; or elſe the one will be but Fire, and the other will be but Phlegme. Seriouſneſs muſt be beholden to Chearfulneſs; and chearfulneſs muſt call to be repayed by it, or elſe we ſhall be either all earth, or nothing but Air. Humility wants a little confidence; an holy Faith muſt be joyned with ſome Fear; an high Generoſity and great courage is very imperfect without Modeſty; and a ſevere Juſtice muſt be acquainted with ſweetneſs and complacence: Or if the one ſhould refuſe the other this aſſiſtance, it will feel ſuch a want it ſelf, that it will be forced to beg that which it doth deny. But what is it I beſeech you, that pairs and links them thus together, and makes them do this mutual ſervice; unleſs it be the Diſcretion and Judgment which the Holy man recommended to you? This ſuperintends over all, and iſſues forth her directions and orders to them: which if they be not obeyed, they do moſt hurt where we intended the greateſt good; and they run to the borders of Vice, when we deſigned the higheſt degree of Vertue. This makes a ſweet mixture of Faith in God with fear of our ſelves; of Godly Sorrow with Spiritual Joy; of innocence with prudence; of 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 our ſelves by undue ſeverity towards them.
Enough, ſaid the Pilgrim; I ſee ſuch need of this Vertue, that you may be confident I ſhall never be willing to be without its company. But truly I think it muſt be your Diſcretion more than mine own that will be my ſecurity; for I have been, you ſee, afflicted with ſuch contrary paſſions, that I am ready to wiſh that I had none at all. There is not one of thoſe that I have about me, but it is ſometimes ſuch a trouble to me, that I ſhould think my ſelf more happy if I were wholly deprived of them. They are ſo ſtrong and violent, ſo boiſterous and turbulent, that if they do not overtop my reaſon, yet I cannot overcome them without ſuffering a great tumult and diſorder. What ſhould we do with things which it is ſo hard to rule? Were it not better to diſcharge them all, ſince there needs more diſcretion than I am Maſter of to keep them?
The Good man was a little troubled to hear him ſpeak after this ſort, and aſkt him with a greater quickneſs than he was wont to uſe. Would you then be well pleaſed if I ſhould bring a Sythe and mow off your leggs? Had you rather be carried than go upon your feet? The poor man was amazed at this queſtion, and aſkt 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-Palſie ſmite your loyns, and diſable you to move; as wiſh to have no paſſions, or to have them ſo benummed and ſtupified, that you ſhall not feel them. We muſt not pluck out our eyes for fear they be abuſed with unworthy ſpectacles, nor ſtand ſtock ſtill for fear of falling, nor alwayes ſtay at home becauſe the weather may prove rainy. Nay, When did you ſee any excellent Vertue 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 fortifie 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 it ſelf to your mind; and then they impreſs it there, and cauſe it to ſtay with your Soul. For you cannot but obſerve that thoſe things which move you with any paſſion when you ſee or think of them, do ſtick longeſt in your mind: and thoſe with which you are not affected, are but little remembred.
All your buſineſs then is (and in that you muſt beſtow ſome pains) to get better eyes to guide you in your goings, and not to endeavour that you may not ſtir at all. You muſt ſtudy I mean to underſtand the true difference between good and evil, to be able to judge what is fit for you, and what not; what good can certainly be attained, and what evil avoided; and what is quite without the limits of our power: and then how is it blameable if you be carried with a great paſſion to the one and from the other? Do not think all things to be evil which the World calls by that name: nor admire the goodneſs of any thing above its price; nor follow that zealouſly which you are in doubt whether or no it can be attained; and then your paſſions will be ſo far from being your Maſters, that in fear of that you will not refrain to uſe their 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 quell'd without ſome ſcuffle within. If you can conquer, you have well acquitted your ſelf. And that will be attended with thoſe triumphs, which will more than recompence the trouble of thoſe furious and rebellious commotions. You will not think thoſe things bad, without which there could not be ſuch a brave and noble thing as Victory is.
Be content then I beſeech you to be of the race of Adam, and do not affect ſome higher Original. Go not about to deſtroy one half of your ſelf, by 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 hugg him when they were ended. And his paſſions having found ſuch a defendor 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 Muſick can be ſo charming to me as your words. They can both appeaſe my raging humours, and excite me out of my dull and phlegmatick inclinations. You are my 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 intend to queſtion the greatneſs of your love, but by what I have obſerved I believe you may be afraid that it ought not to be ſo great. I have long taken notice that you are ſo ſcrupulous as not to dare to truſt your own ſoul, nor rely upon the credit of your ſevereſt reaſon. Though you think it is impoſſible, but that there ſhould be ſuch motions as you feel, and know your ſelf to be of ſuch a complexion that if you will love at all it muſt be with a paſſionateneſs and fervency of affection; yet upon the next ebullition (as I may call it) in your ſoul you are ready to condemn your ſelf and to quit thoſe Maxims of reaſon which you took to be infallible. I know, my friend, that there is in this a pardonable, or 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 our ſelves ſo ſtrongly in our reaſons, which are the ballaſt of our ſouls, that we ſhall never deſert them upon the pretence of any pious fears, leſt we ſhould diſpleaſe God. To ſuffer our ſelves to love any 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 bloſſome and bring forth fruit, and produce it in abundance.
And a little the more to confirm your mind, let me fay ſomething to you of that tenderneſs of affection which I obſerve in you towards a vertuous friend; that inclination which you have to be with him, and eſpecially of that pleaſantneſs and mirth you are apt to yield unto in the company of thoſe you love. You think perhaps that this is too much, and that you take too great a liberty of pleaſing your ſelf. But I beſeech you, did you ever obſerve any great vertue in thoſe cold creatures; or rather in thoſe moroſe and auſtere natures who judge it a crime to love their friends with any paſſion; to feel a joy in their approach; to talk pleaſantly in their company, and to uſe with them a freedom of diſcourſe? Are they more innocent then others, becauſe they ſay Nothing? muſt we let them wear the title of vertue above their neighbours, meerly becauſe they are more grave and ſolemn? Do they live in a greater ſenſe of God becauſe they look more ſowrely? Muſt we think there is no piety but what is pale-faced? no mortification of our ſelves, but when our thorns prick other folks? Truly I muſt needs profeſs that I have ſeen both men and women of this rigid humor, whoſe very looks condemn all that is named pleaſure, and will not 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 chearful 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 curſt and peeviſh that they will ſnarl on the leaſt occaſion that croſſes their humor. And you will find few of them who have not theſe two qualities: That they love good chear dearly, and are glad to meet with a Feaſt. Let a man eat exceſſively, ſo he do it gravely, it is no offence. And ſecondly, that they love to cenſure others, and to paſs harſh judgement upon very innocent actions. Nay, which is moſt villanous, there are ſome of them who will condemn you for that good chear which you beſtowed upon them, and which they themſelves commended in the eating. They will ſay afterward, that you love oſtentation, and that half of it might have been ſpared. They will reprehend this and that as ſuperfluous, and ſay they doubt you are too much affected to the Vanities of the World. Beſides they love to pry into every bodies ſecrets. They would know what is done in all their neighbours houſes: and if it were poſſible they would look into their very Cloſets. And 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 ſowre; not mortified, but moroſe. It is the ſalvageneſs of their Natures which makes them hate all the pleaſantneſs and mirth which others uſe in ſociety. They have not made themſelves of a better habit then their neighbours, but were born with a worſe diſpoſition. They are ſo leaven'd with a ſour humour, that they have no room to entertain any of the ſweet and delightſome paſſions. You think they hate all pleaſures out of Vertue, but it is rather from their temper. It is not their power, but their inability. They diſtaſte them not becauſe they have a perfection of Judgement, but becauſe they want a palate. And therefore they ought not to think better of themſelves, nor be thought ſo by others, meerly becauſe they taſte no joy in that which pleaſes you; for it may proceed from the lumpiſhneſs of their 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 licenſe 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 bite.
I am not you ſee by my complexion inclined much to mirth, and therefore not likely out of any natural humour to be their enemy. But for my part I muſt tell you plainly that I both diſlike and ſuſpect theſe ſullen gravities. The people of a chearful 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 hypocriſie: Nay if I had added that they are more modeſt too, I had not been miſtaken; for their Modeſty is in the heart, and the others oftentimes but in the brow and exteriour part. But I think, it is time to diſmiſs theſe lowring Countenances whom I intend not to reproach, but only to bereave of the opinion and reputation of being owners of more goodneſs then other men. They are to be pittied 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 my ſelf to have a Spirit more tender. I am not aſhamed to be thought a man of ſenſe, and that have ſome feeling both of pain and of pleaſure. Let them call if they liſt all our paſſions infirmities, yet (as a wiſe man once ſaid) I rather chooſe to enjoy this weakneſs then their ſtoutneſs and ſtrength, and to be ſick of this diſeaſe, then to have their kind of health.