happiness of all Christians. And as the wisest bishop in the world, is he, who lives in the greatest heights of holiness, who is most exemplary in all the exercises of a divine life, so the wisest youth, the wisest woman, whether married or unmarried, is she, that lives in the highest degrees of Christian holiness, and all the exercises of a divine and heavenly life.

CHAP. XI.

Shewing how great devotion fills our lives with the greatest peace and happiness that can be enjoyed in this world.

SOME people will perhaps object, that all these rules of holy living unto God in all that we do, are too great a restraint upon human life; that it will be made too anxious a state, by thus introducing a regard to God in all our actions. And that by depriving ourselves of so many seemingly innocent pleasures, we shall render our lives dull, uneasy, and melancholy.

To which it may be answered:

First, That these rules are prescribed for, and will certainly procure a quite contrary end. That instead of making our lives dull and melancholy, they will render them full of content and strong satisfactions. That by these rules we only change the childish satisfactions of our vain and sickly passions, for the solid enjoyments, and real happiness of a sound mind.

Secondly, That as there is no foundation for comfort in the enjoyments of this life, but in the assurance that a wise and good God governeth the world, so the more we find out God in every thing, the more we apply to him in every place, the more we look up to him in all our actions, the more we conform to his will, the more we act according to his wisdom, and imitate his goodness; by so much the more do we enjoy God, partake of the divine nature, and heighten and increase all that is happy and comfortable in human life.

Thirdly, He that is endeavoring to subdue and root

out of his mind all those passions of pride, envy and ambition, which religion opposes, is doing more to make himself happy, even in this life, than he that is contriving means to indulge them.

For these passions are the causes of all the disquiets and vexations of human life: they are the dropsies and fevers of our mind, vexing them with false appetites, and restless cravings after such things as we do not want, and spoiling our taste for those things which are our proper good.

Do but imagine that you somewhere or other saw a man that proposed reason as the rule of all his actions, that had no desires but after such things as nature wants, and religion approves, that was as pure from all the motions of pride, envy, and covetousness, as from thoughts of murder; that in this freedom from worldly passions, he had a soul full of divine love, wishing and praying that all men may have what they want of worldly things, and be partakers of eternal glory in the life to

come.

Do but fancy a man living in this manner, and your own conscience will immediately tell you, that he is the hap piest man in the world, and that it is not in the power of the richest fancy to invent any higher happiness in the present state of life.

And on the other hand, if you suppose him to be in any degree less perfect; if you suppose him but subject to one foolish fondness, or vain passion, your own conscience will again tell you, that he so far lessens his own happiness, and robs himself of the true enjoyment of his other virtues. So true is it, that the more we live by the rules of religion, the more peaceful and happy do we render our lives.

Again, as it thus appears, that real happiness is only to be had from the greatest degrees of piety, the greatest denials of our passions, and the strictest rules of religion, so the same truth will appear from a consideration of human misery. If we look into the world, and view the disquiets and troubles of human life, we shall find that they are all owing to our violent and irreligious passions.

Now all trouble and uneasiness is founded in the want of something or other; would we therefore know the

true cause of our troubles and disquiets, we must find out the cause of our wants; because that which creates and increaseth our wants, does in the same degree create and increase our trouble and disquiets.

God Almighty has sent us into the world with very few wants; meat, and drink, and clothing, are the only things necessary in life; and as these are only our present needs, so the present world is well furnished to supply these needs.

If a man has half the world in his power, he can make no more of it than this; as he wants it only to support an animal life, so it is unable to do any thing else for him, or to afford him any other happiness.

This is the state of man, born with few wants, and into a large world, very capable of supplying them. So that one would reasonably suppose, that men should pass their lives in content and thankfulness to God, at least that they should be free from violent disquiets and vexations, as being placed in a world, that has more than enough to relieve all their wants.

But if to all this we add, that this short life, thus furnished with all that we want in it, is only a short passage to eternal glory, where we shall be clothed with the brightness of angels, and enter into the joys of God, we might still more reasonably expect, that human life should be a state of peace, and joy, and delight in God. Thus it would certainly be, if reason had its full power

over us..

But alas though God, and nature, and reason, make human life thus free from wants, and so full of happiness, yet our passions, in rebellion against God, against nature and reason, create a new world of evils, and fill human life with imaginary wants, and vain disquiets.

The man of pride has a thousand wants, which only his own pride has created; and these render him as full of trouble, as if God had created him with a thousand appetites, without creating any thing that was proper to satisfy them. Envy and ambition have also their endless wants, which disquiet the souls of men, and by their contradictory motions, render them as foolishly miserable, as those that want to fly and creep at the same time.

Let but any complaining, disquieted man tell you the ground of his uneasiness, and you will plainly see, that he is the author of his own torment; that he is vexing himself at some imaginary evil, which will cease to torment him, as soon as he is content to be that which God, and nature, and reason require him to be.

If you should see a man passing his days in disquiet, because he could not walk upon the water, or catch birds as they fly by him, you would readily confess, that such an one might thank himself for such uneasiness. But now if you look into all the most tormenting disquiets of life, you will find them all thus absurd; where people are only tormented by their own folly, and vexing themselves at such things as no more concern them, nor are any more their proper good, than walking upon the water, or catching birds.

What can you conceive more silly and extravagant, than to suppose a man racking his brains, and studying night and day how to fly? wandering from his own house and home, wearying himself with climbing upon every ascent, cringing and courting every body he meets, to lift him up from the ground, bruising himself with continual falls, and at last breaking his neck? And all this, from an imagination that it would be glorious to have the eyes of people gazing up at him, and mighty happy to eat, and drink, and sleep, at the top of the highest trees in the kingdom. Would you not readily own, that such an one was only disquieted by his own folly?

If you ask, what it signifies to suppose such silly creatures as these, as are no where to be found in human life,

It may be answered, that wherever you see an ambitious man, there you see this vain and senseless flyer.

Again, if you should see a man that had a large pond of water, yet living in continual thirst, not suffering himself to drink half a draught, for fear of lessening his pond; if you should see him wasting his time and strength, in fetching more water to his pond, always thirsty, yet always carrying a bucket of water in his hand, watching early and late to catch the drops of rain, gaping after every cloud, and running greedily into every mire and mud, in hopes of water, and always studying

how to make every ditch empty itself into his pond. If you should see him grow grey and old in these anxious labours, and at last end a careful, thirsty life, by falling into his own pond, would you not say that such an one was not only the author of all his own disquiets, but was foolish enough to be reckoned amongst ideots and madmen? But yet foolish and absurd as this character is, it does not represent half the follies, and absurd disquiets, of the covetous man.

I could now easily proceed to shew the same effects of all our other passions; and make it plainly appear, that all our miseries, vexations, and complaints, are entirely of our own making, and that in the same absurd manner, as in these instances of the covetous and ambitious man. Look where you will, you will see all worldly vexations but like the vexation of him, that was always in mire and mud in search of water to drink, when he had more at home than was sufficient for a hundred horses.

Cælia is always telling you how provoked she is, what intolerably shocking things happen to her, what monstrous usage she suffers, and what vexations she meets with every where. She tells you that her patience is quite worn out, and there is no bearing the behaviour of people. Every assembly that she is at, sends her home provoked; something or other has been said or done, that no reasonable, well-bred person ought to bear. Poor people that want her charity, are sent away with hasty answers, not because she has not a heart to part with any money, but because she is too full of some trouble of her own, to attend to the complaints of others. Cælia has no business upon her hands, but to receive the income of a plentiful fortune; but yet by the doleful turn of her mind, you would be apt to think, that she had neither food nor lodging. If you see her look more pale than ordinary, if her lips tremble when she speaks to you, it is because she is just come from a visit, where Lupus took no notice at all of her, but talked all the time to Lucinda, who has not half her fortune. When cross accidents have so disordered her spirits, that she is forced to send for the doctor to make her able to eat ; she tells him, in great anger at Providence, that she never was