The Parable of the Pilgrim, Parable · Chapter 37
CAP. XXXVII.
How after this the Pilgrim fell into a conceit that he did not profit in Vertue: 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 withall. A beginning of a new diſcourſe about Faith.
AND now would you think after he had gone thus farr that he ſhould be troubled with ſuch an odd fancy as this, That he did not profit at all in Vertue? 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 journy? Was not the laſt Proſpect which you gained of that place, fairer then 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 my ſelf to look upon you no leſs then a Gardiner doth to behold the Trees which he planted when they bring forth fruit; or a Father rejoyces 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 your ſelf: and caſt a jealous eye on your own worth leſt you ſhould not be ſo good as your ſelf. Do but labour not to come behind nor fall ſhort of your own Vertue; 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 Inſtructer. But for the preſent, come along with me, and let us refreſh our ſelves 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 perſwaded him to conſent to this motion, and though thereby he received ſome relief, yet the ſame dejected humor 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 Phyſick; he thought good at ſeaſonable times more particularly to remember all that the Gratious 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 withall 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 it ſelf, would you not endanger the ſpoiling of its beauties, and deprive your ſelf 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 your ſelf 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 Vertue may prove inordinate. Though you may think that it can never be too paſſionately purſued; yet aſſure your ſelf, 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 wayes you might; nor obtain ſo much by your own eagerneſs as would come of it ſelf in a courſe of nature. I do not intend 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 your ſelf 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 our ſelves with the anguiſh of cares and fears, and ſuch like paſſions; but quietly put the iſſue of our labours into Gods hands, and patiently expect what he will bleſs them withall. Even ſo muſt you beſtir your ſelf 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 joyned with a great diſtruſt of God. By this means while you would avoid one fault, you run into another. And you keep your ſelf 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 indeavour 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 helpt.
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 your ſelf, 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 your ſelf, that you do not advance ſo faſt as you would. Do not follow your Saviour with a ſowre heart, dejected looks, and faln 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 Vertue, 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 your ſelf 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 withall 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 faln 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 my ſelf. Such a man hath gotten very much. He will never be alone, but alwayes 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 Vertue 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 alway 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 your ſelf. And therefore take heed I beſeech you of this ſowre loathing of your ſelf; 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 confirm'd, 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 jealouſie diſcovering it ſelf 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 pitty towards him. And beſeeched him earneſtly not to let every ſuſpition 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 your ſelf ſatisfaction; and laid ſuch a ſcene of new thoughts in your mind, that you ſhould have remembred 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 your ſelf; or was it ſome body elſe? If it was your ſelf, 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 travelled ſo many leagues, without any ſupport; upon your own leggs. But I perceive you ſo ill opinionated of your ſelf, 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 wonted 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 tryed 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, then there needs none to move him now to continue his Love. If there was any, then 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 ſtedfaſtneſs 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 your ſelf 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 repents, 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 intreated 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 boſome; 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 caſheere us his family? O abſurd ſuſpition! A jealouſie 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 your ſelf, 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 your ſelf 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 perſwaſion, 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 perſwaded you think that you cannot ceaſe to love me, to whom you profeſs your ſelf 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 alwayes the ſame Fulneſs, 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 recompence for it incomparably greater. Do not hold your ſelf then in ſuch ſuſpition, 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 wayes of Vertue 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 your ſelf, 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 chearfulneſs which I obſerve to return into your countenance. I ſee that you begin to believe that you ſhall perſevere; and that you recover your antient comfort; That ſtronger is he who dwelleth in you, then he who dwelleth in the world. The Devil begins 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 intreat 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 your ſelf and others. I'le ſay no more of this matter, after I have told you a ſtory of an antient 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 eaſie thing to do: and yet by the power of his Maſter was indued with ſuch a vertue 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. Untill the wind began to be loud, and the plain way upon the water was turned into Hills and Dales, we hear of no ſhrikes; but then he cryed 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, then the ſmooth and quiet ſurface of the Sea. It was as eaſie to walk upon a Billow, as upon the ſtill water. The bluſtering wind had no more power there, then the ſilent Aire. 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 boſome 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 Gratious 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 cryed 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 ſtayes his ſuccours till he was in greater need of them. He ſtraightway lends him more power; and chuſes rather to incourage 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 our ſelves above the ſoft pleaſures of the fleſh into which we are apt to ſink. This ſeems no leſs a wonder, then 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 our ſelves above our natural propenſions to lead the life of God? Is it from our own Vertue? 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, then it was at the firſt; but when he ſtill ſaith, Follow 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 your ſelf and diſtruſt God; and that works a decay of the Vertue and ability that was in your heart. You regard more the winds and the waves, the difficulties and temptations that you are incompaſſed withall, then 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, untill you be drown'd: But if you look earneſtly upon him and call to him, and intreat him to take pitty 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 replyed 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 gratious 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 your ſelf; 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 then you are able to bear. I am you ſee very fooliſh, alwayes 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 your ſelf 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 your ſelf rid of ſuch an impediment; for I can ſcarce call my ſelf your Friend any longer, but your Trouble or your Burden. Tell me I ſay, is not this a fitter 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 your ſelf 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 my ſelf; nor have you given me cauſe to be leſs your Friend then heretofore; unleſs it be by this unfriendly jealouſie, 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 your ſelf, then 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 eaſie 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 encreaſes proportionably to the pains that we take in doing of it. You ſhall hear the Judgement of a Philoſpher in this caſe if you pleaſe; and of one that loved eaſe more then 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 vertue may not remain without uſe. He doth not chuſe a friend (ſaith Epicurus himſelf) to have ſome to aſſiſt him when he is ſick, or to ſuccour 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 knockt 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 inviron'd with a multitude of theſe followers; But where the diſtreſſed dwell, there is nothing but ſolitude. For ſuch manner of friends alwayes 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 it ſelf; may well be ſuborn'd 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 dye; whom I may accompany in baniſhment, and for whoſe life and preſervation I may expoſe my ſelf 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 Traffique 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 it ſelf 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 then it was in Pagans; you muſt not hold me any longer in ſuſpition. 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 your ſelf 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 Painters 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 it ſelf when he painted. Juſt as the youth of our children is more fruitful to us, but their infancy is more ſweet. But aſſure your ſelf 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 diſingaged; 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 ſatisfie you; let me intreat 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 perſwade you that I do. And therefore let not the Evil one who loves nothing leſs then our Friendſhip, ſow this jealouſie 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 armes 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 my ſelf, 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 then I lately thought my ſelf. 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 mans breath doth indanger to make me reel. And though I underſtand my ſelf very well in thoſe things wherein you have inſtructed me, yet the meer 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 my ſelf, 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 my ſelf, 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 perſwade 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 heartily perſwaded that Jeſus was the Son of God; and that he had taught us all his Will; and that he having dyed for our ſins, did by the ſame death confirm unto us great and precious promiſes; and that he lives and raigns 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 miſ-called my Perſwaſion by a word which I think he did not underſtand; ſaying that I was indued 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 thundring 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 miſ-lead 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 then you will ſee the difference. It is better a great deal that you ſhould doubt; than that you ſhould blindly reſign up your ſelf 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 priviledge 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 Complement, but in an inward Authority which they ſeek over mens 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 preheminence. They will be Lords over mens Faith; and overawe them into a belief of all that they preach. None may diſſent from their aſſertions; unleſs he be content to bear the brand of an Ʋnbeliever. 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 ſtifly 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 meer 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 intend to have nothing to do with theſe Lords and Maſters; ſo I would have you to withdraw your ſelf 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 your ſelf 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 out-face 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 perſwaded 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 relyes upon him, and truſts him more than any body elſe; who upon the meer 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 ſoveraign 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.