CHAPTER VII.

_Shewing, how true devotion fills our lives the greatest peace and happiness that can be enjoyed in this world._

SOME people perhaps may object, that by thus living wholly unto GOD, and introducing a regard to his glory in all that we do, too great a restraint will be put upon human nature; and that by thus depriving ourselves of so many seemingly innocent pleasures, as such a way of life would hinder us from pursuing, we shall render our lives dull, uneasy, and melancholy.

But this objection is entirely groundless. For christian devotion requires us to renounce no ways of life, wherein we can act reasonably, and offer what we do to the glory of GOD. All ways of life, all satisfactions and enjoyments that are within these bounds, are no ways denied by the strictest rules of real devotion. And will you think that your life must be _uncomfortable_, unless you may displease GOD, be fools and mad, and act contrary to that reason and wisdom which He has implanted in you?

As for those satisfactions which we dare not offer to a holy GOD, which are only invented by the folly and corruption of the world, which inflame our passions, and sink our souls into grossness and sensuality, and thereby render us unmeet for communion with GOD here, and the eternal enjoyment of Him hereafter, surely it can be no uncomfortable state of life, to be rescued by religion from such murderers both of our souls and bodies.

Let us suppose a person destitute of that knowledge which we have from our senses, placed somewhere alone by himself, in the midst of a variety of things which he did not know how to use; that he has by him bread, wine, gold-dust, iron chains, gravel, garments, and fire. Let it be supposed, that he had no knowledge of the right use of these things, nor any direction from his senses how to quench his thirst, or satisfy his hunger, or make any use of the things about him. Let it be supposed, that in his drought he puts gold dust into his eyes; when his eyes smart, he puts wine into his ears; that in his hunger, he puts gravel in his mouth: that in pain, he loads himself with the iron chains; that feeling cold, he puts his feet in the water; that being frighted at the fire, he runs away from it; and that being weary, he makes a seat of his bread. Let it be supposed, that through his ignorance of the right use of the things that are about him, he will vainly torment himself whilst he lives; and at last die, blinded with dust, choaked with gravel, and loaded with irons. Let it be supposed, that some good being came to him, and shewed him the nature and use of all the things that were about him, and gave him such strict rules of using them, as would certainly, if observed, make him the happier for all that he had, and deliver him from the pains of hunger, and thirst, and cold; could you with any reason affirm, that those strict rules of using the things that were about him, had rendered that poor man’s life dull and uncomfortable?

Now this is, in some measure, a representation of the _strict rules_ of religion; they relieve our ignorance, save us from tormenting ourselves, and teach us to use every thing about us, not only to the glory of GOD, but to our own proper advantage.

If religion commands us to live wholly unto GOD, and to do all to his glory, it is because every other way of life is living wholly against ourselves, and will end in our own shame and confusion.

Would you see how happy they are, who live according to their own wills, and who cannot submit to the dull and melancholy business of a life devoted unto GOD, look at _Flatus_; _Flatus_ is rich and in health, yet always uneasy, and always searching after happiness.

At his first setting out in life, _fine cloaths_ was his delight; his enquiry was only after the best taylors and peruke-makers, and he had no thoughts of excelling in any thing but dress. He spared no expence, but carried every nicety to its greatest height. But this happiness not answering his expectation, he left off his _brocades_, put on a plain coat, railed at fops and ♦beaux, and gave himself up to gaming with great eagerness.

♦ “beaus” replaced with “beaux”

This new pleasure satisfied him for some time: he envied no other way of life. But being by the fate of _play_ drawn into a _duel_, where he narrowly escaped his death, he left off the _dice_, and sought for happiness no longer amongst the gamesters.

The next thing that seized his wandering imagination, was the _diversions_ of the town; and for more than a twelvemonth, you heard him talk of nothing but ladies, drawing-rooms, birth-nights, plays, balls, and assemblies. But growing sick of these, he had recourse to hard drinking. Here he had many a merry night, and met with stronger joys than any he had felt before. Here he had thoughts of setting up his staff, and looking out no farther; but unluckily falling into a _fever_, he grew angry at all strong liquors, and took his leave of the happiness of being drunk.

The next attempt after happiness, carried him into the field. For two or three years nothing made him so happy as _hunting_; he entered upon it with all his soul, and leaped more hedges and ditches than had ever been known in so short a time. You never saw him but in a _green coat_; he was the envy of all that blew the _horn_, and always spoke to his dogs in great propriety of language. If you met him at home in a bad day, you would hear him blow his horn, and be entertained with the surprizing accidents of the last _noble chace_. No sooner had _Flatus_ outdone all the world in the breed and education of his dogs, built new kennels, new stables, and bought a new _hunting-seat_, but he immediately got sight of another happiness, hated the senseless noise and hurry of hunting, gave away his dogs, and was for some time after deep in the _pleasures of building_.

Now he invents new kinds of _dove-cotes_, and has such contrivances in his barns and stables, as were never seen before: he wonders at the dulness of the old builders, is wholly bent upon the improvement of _architecture_, and will hardly hang a door in the ordinary way. He tells his friends, that he never was so delighted in any thing in his life; that he has more happiness amongst his _brick_ and _mortar_, than ever he had at _court_; and that he is contriving how to have some little matter to do that way as long as he lives.

The next year he leaves his house unfinished, complains to every body of _masons_ and _carpenters_, and devotes himself wholly to the happiness of _riding about_. After this, you can never see him but on horseback, and so highly delighted with this new way of life, that he would tell you, give him but his _horse_ and a _clean country_ to ride in, and you might take all the rest to yourself. A variety of new saddles and bridles, and a great change of horses, added much to the pleasure of this new way of life. But however, after some time having tired both himself and his horses, the happiest thing he could think of next, was to go abroad and _visit foreign countries_; and there, indeed, the happiness exceeded his imagination, and he was only uneasy that he had begun so fine a life no sooner. The next month he returned home, unable to bear any longer the impertinence of _foreigners_.

Alter this, he was a great _student_ for one whole year; he was up early and late at his _Italian grammar_, that he might have the happiness of understanding the _opera_, whenever he should hear one, and not be like those unreasonable people, that are pleased with they don’t know what.

FLATUS is now at a full stand, and is doing what he never did in his life before, he is _reasoning_ and reflecting with himself. He loses several days, in considering which of his cast-off ways of life he should try again.

But here a new project comes in to his relief. He is now living upon herbs, and running about the country, to get himself into as _good wind_ as any _running footman_ in the kingdom.

I have been thus circumstantial in so many foolish particulars of this kind of life, because I hope, that every particular folly that you here see and read of, will naturally turn itself into an argument for the wisdom and happiness of a religious life.

But you will perhaps say, that the ridiculous, restless life of _Flatus_, is not the common state of those, who resign themselves up to live by their own humour, and neglect the strict rules of religion; and that therefore it is not so great an argument of the happiness of a religious life, as I would make it.

I answer, that I am afraid it is one of the most _general characters_ in life; and that few people can read it, without seeing something in it which belongs to them. But let it be granted, that the _generality_ of people are not of such restless, fickle tempers as _Flatus_; the difference is only this, _Flatus_ is continually changing and trying something new, but others are content with some one state; they do not leave _gaming_, and then fall to _hunting_; but they have so much steadiness in their tempers, that some seek after no other happiness, but that of heaping up riches; others grow old in the sports of the field; and others are content to drink themselves to death, without the least enquiry after any other happiness.

Now is there any thing more happy or reasonable in such a life as this, than in the life of _Flatus_? Is it not as great and desirable, as wise and happy, to be constantly changing from one thing to another, as to be nothing else but a gatherer of money, a hunter, a gamester, or a drunkard all your life? Shall religion be looked upon as a burden, or as a dull and melancholy state, for calling men from such a happiness as this?

But turn your eyes now another way, and let the glorious joys, the exquisite happiness of _Feliciana_, teach you how miserable, and how dull they must needs be, and what a delusion they are in, whole hearts are not wholly devoted unto GOD.

If you was to live with _Feliciana_ but one half year, you would see all the happiness that she is to have as long as she lives. She has no more to come, but the poor repetition of that which could never have pleased once, but through a wrong turn of mind, and want of thought.

She is to be again dressed fine, and keep her visiting days. She is again to change the colours of her cloaths, again to have a new head, and again put patches on her face. She is again to see who acts best at the play-house, and who sings finest at the opera. She is again to make ten visits in a day, and be ten times in a day trying to talk artfully, easily, and politely about nothing.

She is to be again delighted with some new fashion; and again angry at the change of some old one. She is to be again at cards and gaming at midnight, and again in bed at noon. She is to be again pleased with hypocritical compliments, and again disturbed with imaginary affronts. She is to be again pleased with her good luck at gaming, and again tormented with the loss of her money.

She is again to prepare herself for a birth night, and again see the town full of good company. She is again to hear the cabals and intrigues of the town, again to have secret intelligence of private amours, and early notice of marriages, quarrels, and partings.

If you see her come out of her chariot more briskly than usual, converse with more spirit, and seem fuller of joy than she was last week, it is because there is some surprizing new dress, or new diversion just come to town.

These are all the substantial and regular parts of _Feliciana_’s happiness; and she never knew a pleasant day in her life, but it was owing to some one or more of these things.

It is for this happiness, that she has been always deaf to the reasonings of religion; and if you look into the world, and observe the lives of those women, whom no arguments can prevail on to live wholly unto GOD; you will find most of them to be such, as lose all the comforts of religion, without gaining the tenth part of _Feliciana_’s happiness. They are such as spend their time and fortunes only in mimicking the pleasures of richer people; and rather look and long after, than enjoy those delusions, which are only to be purchased by considerable fortunes.

Nor does a life only of such vanity and sensuality as that of _Flatus_ or _Feliciana_’s, but even the most regular kind of life, that is not governed by _great_ devotion, sufficiently shews how dull and uncomfortable their lives must needs be, who are not wholly devoted unto GOD.

_Octavius_ is a learned, ingenious man, well versed in most parts of literature, and no stranger to any kingdom in _Europe_. The other day, being just recovered from a lingering fever, he thus addressed his friends.

“My glass, says he, is almost run out; and your eyes see how many marks of age and death I bear about me: But I plainly feel myself sinking away faster than any standers by do imagine. I fully believe, that one year more will conclude my reckoning.”

The attention of his friends was much raised by such a declaration, expecting to hear something truly excellent from so learned a man, who had but a year longer to live; when _Octavius_ proceeded in this manner: “For these reasons, my friends, I have left off all taverns, the wine of those places is not good enough for me in this decay of nature. I must now be nice in what I drink; I cannot pretend to do as I have done; and therefore am resolved to furnish my own cellar with a little of the very best, though it cost me ever so much.

I must also tell you, my friends, that age forces a man to be wise in many other respects, and makes us change many of our opinions and practices.

You know how much I have liked a large acquaintance; I now condemn it as an error. Three or four chearful, diverting companions, is all that I now desire; because I find, that in my present infirmities, if I am left alone, or to grave company, I am not so easy to myself.”

A few days after _Octavius_ had made this declaration to his friends, he relapsed into his former illness, and was committed to a nurse, who closed his eyes before his fresh parcel of wine came in.

Young _Eugenius_, who was present at this discourse, went home a new man, with full resolutions of devoting himself to GOD. “I never, says _Eugenius_, was so deeply affected with the wisdom and importance of religion, as when I saw how poorly and meanly the learned _Octavius_ was to leave the world, through the want of it.

How often had I envied his great learning, his skill in languages, his knowledge of antiquity, his address, and fine manner of expressing himself upon all subjects! But when I saw how poorly it all ended, what was to be the last year of such a life, and how foolishly the master of all these accomplishments was then forced to talk, I was then convinced that there must be nothing so happy and comfortable as a life of true devotion; nor any thing so poor and comfortless, as death without it.”

Look now at that condition of life, which draws the envy of all eyes.

_Negotius_ is a temperate honest man: he served his time under a master of great trade, but has by his own management made it a more considerable business than ever it was before. For thirty years past, he has written fifty or sixty letters in a week, and is busy in corresponding with all parts of _Europe_. The general good of trade seems to _Negotius_ to be the general good of life; whomsoever he admires, whatever he commends, or condemns, either in church or state, is admired, commended, or condemned, with some regard to trade.

As money is continually pouring in upon him, so he often lets it go in various kinds of expence and generosity, and sometimes in ways of charity.

_Negotius_ is always ready to join in any public contribution: If a purse is making at any place where he happens to be, whether it be to buy a plate for a horse-race, or to redeem a prisoner out of jail, you are always sure of having something from him.

He has given a fine ring of bells to a church in the country; and there is much expectation, that he will some time or other make a more beautiful front to the market-house, than has yet been seen in any place. For it is the generous spirit of _Negotius_ to do nothing in a mean way.

The generality of people, when they think of happiness, think upon _Negotius_, in whose life every instance of happiness is supposed to meet; sober, prudent, rich, prosperous, generous, and as the world thinks, charitable.

Let us now then look at this condition in another, but truer light.

Let it be supposed, that this same _Negotius_ was a painful, laborious man, every day deep in a variety of affairs; that he neither drank, nor was debauched; but was sober and regular in his business. Let it be supposed that he grew old in this course of trading; and that the end and design of all this labour, care, and application to business, was only that he might die possessed of more than a hundred thousand pair of boots and spurs, and as many great-coats. Now if this was really the case, I believe it would be readily granted, that a life of such business was as poor and ridiculous, as any that can be invented. But it would puzzle any one to shew, that a man that has spent all his time and thoughts in business and hurry, that he might die, as it is said, worth a hundred thousand pounds, is any whit wiser than he, who has taken the same pains to have as many pair of boots and spurs when he leaves the world.

For if when he has gotten his hundred thousand pounds, or all his boots, his soul is to go to his own place, as every soul needs must that has not closed with JESUS CHRIST, and is not born again of GOD; how can we say, that he who has worn out his life in raising an hundred thousand pounds, has acted a wiser part for himself, however his money may profit others, than he who has had the same care to provide a hundred thousand pair of boots and spurs, and as many great-coats?

It would be endless to multiply examples of this kind, to shew how little is lost, and how greatly they are mistaken, who imagine they should render themselves dull and comfortless by introducing a strict piety into every condition of human life.

Examples of great piety are not now common in the world; but the misery and folly of worldly men, and vain and trifling women, is what meets your eyes in every place; and you need not look far to see, how poorly, how vainly men dream away their lives for want of real devotion.

This is the reason that I have laid before you so many characters of the vanity of a worldly life, to teach you to make some benefit of the corruption of the age, and that you may be made wise, though not by the sight of what piety is, yet by seeing what misery and folly reign where piety is not.

To meditate upon the perfection of the divine attributes, to contemplate the love of GOD in CHRIST, the glories of heaven, the joys of saints and angels, living for ever in the brightness and glory of the divine presence; these are the meditations of souls advanced in piety, and not so suited to every capacity.

But to see and consider the emptiness and error of all worldly happiness; to see the grossness of sensuality, the poorness of pride, the stupidity of covetousness, the vanity of dress, the delusion of honour, the blindness of our passions, the uncertainty of our lives, and the shortness of all worldly projects; these are meditations which are suited to all capacities, and fitted to strike all minds: This is that “wisdom that crieth, and putteth forth her voice in the streets,” that standeth at all our doors, that appealeth to all our senses, teaching us in every thing, and every where, by all that we see, and all that we hear, by births and burials, by sickness and health, by life and death, by pains and poverty, by misery and vanity, and by all the changes and chances of life; that there is nothing else for man to look after, no other end in nature for him to drive at, but a happiness, which is only to be found in a _life devoted to GOD_.