Chapter I: WHOEVER hath read the foregoing chapters with attention, is, I hope, (5)

And it is plain, he that is endeavouring to subdue 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 of human life: they are the _dropsies_ and _fevers_ of our minds, 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.

2. *Do but imagine that you some where 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.

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

3. Again, as it thus appears that real happiness is only to be had from religion; so the same truth will appear from a consideration of _human misery_. If we look into the world, and view the troubles of human life, we shall find that they are all owing to our 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 increases our wants, does in the same degree create and increase our troubles and disquiets.

God Almighty has sent us into the world with very few wants: _meat_, and _drink_, and _cloathing_, 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 had 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 is it unable to do any thing else for him, or to afford him any other happiness.

4. 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, 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 cloathed 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; 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.

5. *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 the most tormenting disquiets of life, you will find them all thus absurd. 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 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 a one was only disquieted at his _own folly_?

If you ask, what it signifies to suppose such silly creatures 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_.

6. *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 a one was not only the author of 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 an _hundred horses_.

7. *_Cælia_ is always telling you how _provoked_ she is, what _intolerable 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 well since she was born, and that she envies every beggar that she sees in health.

This is the unquiet life of _Cælia_, who has nothing to torment her but her own _spirit_.

If you could inspire her with _Christian humility_, you need do no more to make her happy. This virtue would make her thankful to God for half so much health as she has had, and help her to enjoy more for the time to come. This would keep off _tremblings_ and _loss_ of appetite, and her blood would need nothing else to sweeten it.

8. I have just touched upon these absurd characters, to convince you in the plainest manner, that religion is so far from rendering a life _dull_, _anxious_, and _uncomfortable_, that on the contrary, all the miseries, vexations, and complaints that are in the world, are owing to the want of religion; being directly caused by those absurd passions, which religion teaches us to deny.

9. Most people indeed confess, that religion preserves us from many evils, and helps us in many respects to a more happy enjoyment of ourselves; but then, they imagine, this is only true of such a _moderate share_ of religion, as restrains us from the excesses of our passions. They suppose that the _strict rules_ of piety must make our lives _dull_ and _uncomfortable_.

This objection supposes, that religion, _moderately_ practised, adds to our happiness; but that heights of religion have a contrary effect.

*It supposes therefore, that it is happy to be kept from the _excesses_ of envy, but unhappy to be kept from _other_ degrees of _envy_; that it is happy to be delivered from a _boundless_ ambition, but unhappy to be without a _moderate_ ambition. It supposes also, that the happiness of life consists in a _mixture_ of virtue and vice, of ambition and humility, charity and envy, heavenly affection and covetousness. All which is as absurd, as to suppose that it is happy to be free from excessive pains, but unhappy to be without moderate pains; or that the happiness of _health_ consisted in being partly sick, and partly well.

But if humility be the peace and rest of the soul, then no one has so much happiness from humility, as he that is the most humble. If excessive envy is a torment of the soul, he is most happy who extinguishes every spark of envy.

Thus it is in every virtue: the more you act up to every degree of it, the more happiness you have from it. And so of every vice: if you only abate its excesses, you do but little for yourself; but if you reject it in all degrees, then you feel the true ease of a _reformed_ mind.

10. And, as to those enjoyments which piety requireth us to deny ourselves, this deprives us of no real comfort.

For, 1_st_, Piety requires us to renounce no ways of life, where we can act _reasonably_, and offer what we do to God. All ways of life, all enjoyments that are within these bounds, are no way denied us by the strictest rules of piety. Whatever you can do, or enjoy, as in the presence of God, as his servant, as his rational creature; all that you can perform conformably to a rational nature, is allowed by the laws of piety. And will you think that your life will be uncomfortable, unless you may displease God, 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 render us incapable of the divine favour either here or hereafter, surely it can be no uncomfortable thing to be rescued by religion from such self-murder, and to be rendered capable of eternal happiness.

11. *Let us suppose a _person_ placed somewhere alone, in the midst of a variety of things which he did not know how to use; that he has by him _bread_, _wine_, _water_, _golden dust_, _iron chains_, _gravel_, _garments_, _fire_. Let it be supposed, that he has no knowledge, nor any directions 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 _golden 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 _iron chains_; that feeling cold, he puts his feet in the water; that being frighted at the fire, he runs away from it; that being weary, he makes a _seat_ of his _bread_. Let it be supposed, that thro’ 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.

Now, could you with any reason affirm, that those strict rules of using those things that were about him, had rendered that poor man’s life _dull_ and _uncomfortable_?

12. This is, in some measure, a representation of the _strict_ rules of religion; they only relieve our ignorance, save us from tormenting ourselves, and teach us to use _every thing_ about us to our advantage.

Man is placed in a world full of variety of things; his ignorance makes him use many of them as absurdly, as the man that put _dust_ in his _eyes_ to relieve his _thirst_, or put on chains to remove pain.

Religion therefore here comes in to his relief, and gives him _strict rules_ of using every thing that is about him; that by so using them suitably to his own nature and the nature of the things, he may have always the pleasure of receiving benefit from them. It shews him what is strictly right in meat, and drink, and cloaths; and that he has nothing else to expect from the things of this world, but to satisfy such wants of his own; and then to extend his assistance to all his brethren, that, as far as he is able, he may help all his fellow-creatures to the same benefit from the world that he hath.

13. *It tells him, that this world is incapable of giving him any other happiness; and that all endeavours to be happy in _heaps_ of _money_, or _acres_ of _land_, in fine _cloaths_, rich _beds_, stately _equipage_, and _shew_ and _splendour_, are only vain endeavours, ignorant attempts after impossibilities; these things be no more able to give the least degree of happiness, than _dust_ in the eyes can cure thirst, or _gravel_ in the mouth satisfy hunger; but, like dust and gravel misapplied, will only serve to render him more unhappy by such an ignorant misuse of them.

It tells him, altho’ this world can do no more for him, than satisfy these wants of the body; yet there is a much greater good prepared for man, than eating, drinking, and dressing; that it is yet invisible to his eyes, being too glorious for the apprehension of flesh and blood; but reserved for him to enter upon, as soon as this short life is over; where, in a new body, formed to an angelic likeness, he shall dwell in the light and glory of God to all eternity.

*It tells him, that this state of glory will be given to all those that make a _right use_ of the things of this present world; who do not blind themselves with _golden dust_, or eat _gravel_, or groan under loads of _iron_ of their own putting on; but use _bread_, _water_, _wine_, and _garments_ for such ends as are according to _nature_ and _reason_; and who with faith and thankfulness worship the kind giver of all that they enjoy here, and hope for hereafter.

14. Now can any one say, that the strictest rules of such a religion as this, debar us of any of the comforts of life? Might it not as justly be said of those rules, that only ♦hindered a man from _choaking_ himself with _gravel_? For the strictness of these rules only consists in the exactness of their rectitude.

♦ ‘hindred’ replaced with ‘hindered’

*Who would complain of the severe strictness of a law, that without any exception forbad the putting of dust into our eyes? Who could think it too rigid, that there were no abatements? Now this is the _strictness_ of religion; it requires nothing of us strictly, or without abatements, but where every degree of the thing is wrong, where every indulgence does us hurt.

*If religion forbids all instances of _revenge_ without exception, ’tis because all revenge is of the nature of _poison_; and though we don’t take so much as to put an end to life, yet if we take any at all, it corrupts the mass of blood, and makes it difficult to be restored to our former health.

If religion commands an _universal charity_, to love our neighbour as ourselves, to forgive and pray for all our enemies without any _reserve_, ’tis because all degrees of love are degrees of happiness, that strengthen and support the divine life of the soul, and are as necessary to its health and happiness, as proper food is necessary to the health and happiness of the body.

*If religion has laws against _laying up treasures upon earth_, and commands us to be content with food and raiment; ’tis because every other use of the world is abusing it to our own vexation, and turning its conveniences into snares and traps to destroy us. ’Tis because this _plainness_ and _simplicity_ of life, secure us from the cares and pains of restless pride and envy, and make it easier to keep that strait road that will carry us to eternal life.

15. If religion requires us sometimes to _fast_ and _deny_ our natural appetites, ’tis to lessen that struggle and war that is in our nature; ’tis to render our bodies fitter instruments of purity, and more obedient to the good motions of divine grace; ’tis to dry up the springs of our passions that war against the soul, to cool the flame of our blood, and render the mind more capable of divine meditations. So that altho’ these abstinences give some pain to the body, yet they so lessen the power of bodily appetites and passions, and so increase our taste of spiritual joys, that even these severities of religion, when practised with discretion, add much to the comfort of our lives.

If religion calleth us to a life of watching and prayer, ’tis because we live amongst a crowd of enemies, and are always in need of the assistance of God. If we are to confess and bewail our sins, ’tis because such confessions relieve the mind, and restore it to ease; as _burdens_ and _weights_ taken off the shoulders, relieve the body, and make it easier to itself. If we are to be frequent and fervent in holy petitions, ’tis to keep us steady in the sight of our true good, and that we may never want the happiness of a lively faith, a joyful hope, and well-grounded trust in God. If we are to pray often, ’tis that we may be often happy in such secret joys as only prayer can give; in such communications of the divine presence, as will fill our minds with all the happiness that beings not in heaven, are capable of.

If religion commands us to live _wholly_ unto God, and to _do all_ to his glory, ’tis because every other way is living _wholly_ against ourselves, and will end in our shame and confusion of face.

16. *As every thing is _dark_, that God does not enlighten; as every thing is _senseless_, that has not its share of knowledge from him; as nothing _lives_ but by partaking of life from him; as nothing _exists_, but because he commands it to be; so there is no _glory_ or _greatness_, but what is the glory or greatness of God.

We indeed may talk of _human glory_, as we may talk of _human life_ or _human knowledge_; but as we are sure that human life implies nothing of our _own_, but a dependent living in God, or enjoying so much life in God; so human glory, whenever we find it, must be only so much glory as we enjoy in the glory of God.

*This is the state of all creatures, whether men or angels; as they make not themselves, so if they are great, they are only great receivers of the gifts of God; their _power_ can only be so much of the divine power acting in them; their _wisdom_ can be only so much of the divine wisdom shining within them; and their _light_ and _glory_, only so much of the life and glory of God shining upon them.

17. *As they are not _men_ or _angels_, because they had a mind to be so, but because the will of God formed them to be what they are; so they cannot enjoy this or that happiness of men or angels, because they have a mind to it, but because it is the will of God, that such things be the happiness of men, and such things the happiness of angels. But now, if God be thus all in all; if his will is thus the measure of all things and all natures; if nothing can be done, but by his power; if nothing can be seen, but by a light from him; if we have nothing to fear, but from his justice; if we have nothing to hope for, but from his goodness; if this is the nature of man, thus helpless in himself; if this is the state of all creatures, as well those in _heaven_, as those on _earth_; if they are nothing, can do nothing, can suffer no pain, nor feel any happiness, but so far, and in such degrees, as the power of God does all this: if this be the state of things, then how can we have the least glimpse of joy or comfort? How can we have any peaceful enjoyment of ourselves, but by living wholly unto God, using and doing every thing conformably to his will? A life thus devoted unto God, looking wholly unto him in all our actions, and doing all things suitable to his glory, is so far from being dull, and uncomfortable, that it creates new comforts in every thing that we do.

18. On the contrary, would you see how _happy_ they are who live according to their own wills, who cannot submit to the _dull_ and _melancholy_ business of a life devoted to God? Look at the man in the _parable_, to whom his Lord had given one talent.

He could not bear the thoughts of using his talent according to the will of him from whom he had it, and therefore he chose to make himself happier in another way of his own. _Lord_, says he, _I knew thee, that thou art an hard man, reaping where thou hadst not sown, and gathering where thou hadst not strawed. And I was afraid, and went and hid thy talent in the earth. Lo there thou hast that is thine._ Matt. xxv. 24.

Here you see how happy this man made himself by not acting _wholly_ according to his Lord’s will. It was, according to his own account, an happiness of _murmuring_ and _discontent_; _I knew thee_, says he, _that thou wast an hard man_: it was an happiness of _fears_ and _apprehensions_; _I was_, says he, _afraid_: it was an happiness of _vain labours_ and _fruitless travels_: _I went_, says he, _and hid thy talent_; and after having been awhile the sport of foolish passion, tormenting fears, and fruitless labours, he is rewarded with darkness, eternal weeping and gnashing of teeth.

19. Now this is the happiness of all those, who look upon _strict_ piety, that is, a right use of their talent, to be a dull and melancholy thing.

They may live awhile free from the restraints and directions of religion; but instead thereof, they must be under the absurd government of their passions: they must, like the man in the _parable_, live in _murmurings_ and _discontents_, in _fears_ and _apprehensions_. They may avoid the labour of doing good, of spending their time devoutly, of laying up treasures in heaven, of cloathing the naked, of visiting the sick; but then they must, like this man, have _labours_ and _pains_ in vain, that tend to no use or advantage, that do no good either to themselves, or others; they must _travel_, and _labour_, and _work_, and _dig_, to hide their talent in the earth. They must, like him, at their Lord’s coming, be convicted out of their own mouths, be accused by their own hearts, and have every thing that they have said and thought of religion, be made to shew the justice of their condemnation to eternal darkness, weeping and gnashing of teeth.

This is the purchase that they make, who avoid the strictness of religion, in order to live happily.

20. On the other hand, would you see a short description of the happiness of a life rightly employed, wholly devoted to God, you must look at the man in the _parable_, to whom his Lord had given five talents. _Lord_, says he, _thou deliveredst unto five talents: behold, I have gained besides them five talents more. His Lord said unto him, well done thou good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord._

Here you see a life that is wholly intent upon the improvement of the talents, that is devoted wholly unto God, is a state of happiness, prosperous labours, and glorious success. Here are not, as in the former case, any _uneasy passions_, _murmurings_, _vain fears_ and _fruitless labours_. The man is not toiling, and digging in the earth for no end or advantage; but his labours prosper in his hands, his happiness increases upon him, the blessing of five becomes the blessing of ten talents; and he is received with a _Well done good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord_.

21. Now, as the case of these men in the _parable_ left nothing else to their choice, but either to be happy in using their gifts to the _glory_ of their Lord, or miserable by using them according to their _own humours_ and _fancies_; so the state of Christianity leaves us no other choice.

*All that we have, all that we are, all that we enjoy, are only so many talents from God: if we use them to the end of a pious and holy life, our five talents will become ten, and our labours will carry us into the joy of our Lord; but if we abuse them to the gratification of our own passions, sacrificing the gifts of God to our own pride and vanity, we shall live here in vain labours and foolish anxieties, shunning religion as a melancholy thing, accusing our Lord as a hard master, and then fall into everlasting misery.

We may for awhile amuse ourselves with _names_, and _sounds_, and _shadows_ of happiness, we may talk of this or that greatness and dignity; but if we desire real happiness, we have no other possible way to it, but by improving our talents, by so holily and piously using the _powers_ and _faculties_ of _men_ in this present state, that we may be happy and glorious in the _powers_ and _faculties_ of _angels_ in the world to come.

How ignorant therefore are they of the nature of religion, of the nature of man, and the nature of God, who think a life of _strict piety_ to be a _dull_ and _uncomfortable_ state, when it is so plain and certain, that there is neither comfort nor joy to be found in any thing else?

CHAP. X.

_The happiness of a life wholly devoted unto God, farther
proved, from the |vanity|, and the |ridiculous|, |poor|
enjoyments which they are forced to take up with, who live
according to their own humours. This represented in various
characters._

1. WE may see yet more of the happiness of a life devoted to God, by considering the poor contrivances for happiness, and the contemptible ways of life, which they are thrown into, who are seeking after happiness by other methods.

If one looks at their lives, who live by no rule but their own humours and fancies; if one sees what it is, which they call _joy_, and _greatness_, and _happiness_; if one sees how they rejoice and repent, change and fly from one delusion to another, one shall find great reason to rejoice, that God hath appointed a _narrow_ way that leadeth unto life, and that we are not left to the folly of our own minds, or forced to take up with such shadows of happiness, as the folly of the world has invented. I say _invented_, because those things which make up the _joy and happiness_ of the world, are mere _inventions_, which have no foundation in nature, are no way the proper good or happiness of man, no way perfect either his body or his mind.

2. *As, for instance, when a man proposes to be happy in ways of _ambition_, by raising himself to some _imaginary heights_ above other people. This is an _invention_ of happiness which has no foundation in nature, but it is as mere a cheat of our own making, as if a man should intend to make himself happy by _climbing_ up a _ladder_.

*If a _woman_ seeks for happiness from _fine colours_ or _spots_ upon _her face_, from _jewels_ and _rich cloaths_, this is as merely an _invention_ of happiness, as contrary to _nature_ and _reason_, as if she should propose to make herself happy, by painting a _post_, and putting the same finery upon it. It is in this respect that I call these mere _inventions_ of happiness, because neither God, nor nature, nor reason, hath appointed them as such; but whatever appears joyful or happy in them, is entirely invented by the blindness and vanity of our own minds.

And it is on these inventions of happiness, that I desire you to cast your eye, that you may thence learn how _great a good_ religion is, which delivers you from such a multitude of follies, and vain pursuits, as are the torment of minds that wander from their true happiness in God.

3. *Look at _Flatus_, and learn how miserable they are, who are left to the folly of their own passions.

_Flatus_ is rich and in health, yet always uneasy, and always searching after happiness. Every time you visit him, you find some new project in his head; he is eager upon it as something that is more worth his while, and will do more for him, than any thing that is already past. Every new thing so seizes him, that if you was to take him from it, he would think himself quite undone. His sanguine temper, and strong passions, promise him so much happiness in every thing, that he is always cheated, and is satisfied with nothing.

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 expectations, he left off his _brocades_, put on a plain coat, railed at _fops_ and _beaux_, and gave himself up to _gaming_ with great eagerness.

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_.

4. 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_. He had now many a merry night, and met with stronger joys than any he had felt before. And 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 was so happy as _hunting_. He entered upon it with all his soul, and leaped over 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 blow the _horn_, and always spoke to his dogs in great propriety of language. If you meet 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 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_.

5. Now he invents new kinds of _dovecoats_, 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.

After 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_, and not be like those _unreasonable_ people, that are pleased with they don’t know what.

_Flatus_ is very ill-natured, or otherwise, just as his affairs happen to be when you visit him. If you find him when some project is almost wore out, you will find a peevish, ill-bred man; but if you had seen him just as he entered upon his _riding regimen_, or begun to excel in sounding the horn, you had been saluted with great civility.

_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 in as _good wind_ as any _running footman_ in the kingdom.

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

If I could lay before you a particular account of all the circumstances of terror and distress, that daily attend a life at _sea_, the more particular I was in the account, the more I should make you feel and rejoice in the happiness of living upon the _land_.

In like manner, the more I enumerate the _follies_, _anxieties_, _delusions_, and restless desires which go thro’ every part of a life devoted to worldly enjoyments, the more you must be affected with that peace, and rest, and solid content, which religion gives to the souls of men.

7. But you will perhaps say, that the ridiculous, restless life of _Flatus_, is not the common state of those who neglect the strict rules of religion; and that therefore it is not so great an argument of the happiness of a religious life.

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 that belongs to themselves. For where shall we find that wise and happy man, who has not been eagerly pursuing different appearances of happiness, sometimes thinking it was here, and sometimes there?

And if people were to divide their lives into particular stages, and ask themselves what they were pursuing, or what it was which they had chiefly in view, when they were _twenty_ years old, what at _twenty-five_, what at _thirty_, what at _forty_, what at _fifty_, and so on, till they were brought to their last bed, numbers of people would find, that they had pursued as many different appearances of happiness, as are to be seen in the life of _Flatus_.

And thus it must be, more or less, with all who propose any other happiness, than that which arises from a strict and regular piety.

8. But, _secondly_, 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 don’t leave _gaming_, and then fall to _hunting_, but follow one or the other all their life. Some have so much _steadiness_ in their tempers, that they seek after no other happiness, but that of _heaping_ up riches; others grow old in the sports of the _field_; 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 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, as a dull and melancholy state, for calling men from such _happiness_ as this, to labour after the perfection of their nature, and prepare themselves for an endless state of joy and glory in the presence of God?

9. *But turn your eyes now another way, and let the _trifling joys_, the _gewgaw_ happiness of _Feliciana_, teach you how wise they are, what delusion they escape, whose hearts and hopes are fixed upon happiness in 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 thro’ a littleness of mind, and want of thought.

She is to be again dressed fine, and keep her visiting-day. She is again to change the colour of her _cloaths_, again to have a new _head_. She is again to see who acts best at the _playhouse_, 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 delighted 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 to 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 surprising new dress, or new diversion just come to town.

10. 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 always been deaf to the reasonings of religion, that her heart has been too gay and chearful to consider what is _right_ or _wrong_ in regard to eternity; or to listen to the sound of such dull words, as _wisdom_, _piety_, and _devotion_.

It is for fear of losing some of this happiness, that she dares not meditate on the immortality of her soul, consider her relation to God, or turn her thoughts towards those joys, which make saints and angels infinitely happy in the presence and glory of God.

But let it be observed, that as poor a round of happiness as this appears, yet most women that avoid the restraints of religion for a gay life, must be content with very small parts of it. As they have not _Feliciana_’s fortune; so they must give away the comforts of a pious life, for a very small part of her happiness.

11. And if you look into the world, and observe the lives of those women, whom no arguments can persuade to live wholly unto God, you will find most of them such, as lose all the comforts of religion without gaining the tenth part of _Feliciana_’s happiness. They are such as spend their times and fortunes only in mimicking the pleasures of richer people; and rather look and long after, than enjoy those delusions, which are not to be purchased but by considerable fortunes.

But if a woman of _high_ birth and _great_ fortune, having read the gospel, should rather wish to be an _under servant_ in some pious family, where wisdom, piety, and great devotion, directed all the actions of every day; if she should rather wish this, than to live at the top of _Feliciana_’s happiness, I should think her neither _mad_ nor _melancholy_; but that she judged as rightly of the spirit of the gospel, as if she had rather wished to be _poor Lazarus_ at the gate, than to be the rich man _cloathed in purple and fine linen, and faring sumptuously every day_.

*But to proceed, would you know what an happiness it is, to be governed by the wisdom of religion, look at the poor condition of _Succus_, whose greatest happiness is a _good night_’s rest in bed, and a _good meal_ when he is up. When he talks of happiness, it is always in such expressions as shews you, that he has only his bed and his dinner in his thoughts.

This regard to his _meals_ and _repose_, makes _Succus_ order all the rest of his time with relation to them. He will undertake no business that may hurry his spirits, or break in upon his hours of _eating_ and _rest_. If he reads, it shall be only for half an hour, because that is sufficient to amuse the spirits; and he will read something that may make him laugh, as rendering the body fitter for its _food_ and _rest_; or, if he has a mind at any time to indulge a grave thought, he has recourse to a useful treatise upon the _♦ancient cookery_. _Succus_ is an enemy to all _party matters_, having made it an observation, that there is as good eating amongst the _whigs_ as the _tories_.

♦ ‘antient’ replaced with ‘ancient’

He talks coolly and moderately upon all subjects, and is as fearful of falling into a passion, as of catching cold; being very positive they are both equally injurious to the _stomach_. If ever you see him more hot than ordinary, it is upon some provoking occasion, when the dispute about cookery runs high, or in the defence of some beloved dish, which has often made him happy. But he has been so long upon these subjects, is so well acquainted with all that can be said on both sides, and has so often answered all objections, that he generally decides the matter with great gravity.

_Succus_ is very loyal, and as soon as ever he likes any wine, he drinks the king’s health with all his heart. Nothing could put rebellious thoughts into his head, unless he should live to see a proclamation against eating of _pheasant_’s _eggs_.

♦13. All the hours that are not devoted either to _repose_ or _nourishment_, are looked upon by _Succus_ as _waste_ or _spare time_. For this reason he lodges near a _coffee-house_ and a _tavern_, that when he rises in the morning he may be near the _news_, and when he parts at night, he may not have far to go to bed. In the morning you always see him in the same place in the _coffee-room_; and if he seems more attentively engaged than ordinary, it is because some _criminal_ is broke out of _newgate_, or some _lady_ was robbed last night, but they can’t tell where. When he has learnt all that he can, he goes home to settle the matter with the barber’s boy that comes to shave him.

♦ Number 12 omitted in text.

The next _waste time_ that lies upon his hands, is from dinner to supper; and if melancholy thoughts ever come into his head, it is at this time, when he is often left to himself for an hour or more, and that after the greatest pleasure he knows is just over. He is afraid to sleep, because he has heard it is not healthful at that time; so that he is forced to refuse so welcome a guest.

But here he is soon relieved by a settled method of playing at cards, till it is time to think of some little, nice matter for supper.

After this _Succus_ takes his glass, talks of the excellency of the _English constitution_, and praises that _minister_ the most, who keeps the best table.

On a _Sunday_ night you may sometimes hear him condemning the iniquity of _town rakes_; and the bitterest thing that he says against them is this, that he verily believes, some of them are so abandoned, as not to have a _regular meal_, or a _sound night_’s sleep, in a week.

At eleven _Succus_ bids all good night, and parts in great friendship. He is presently in bed, and sleeps till it is time to go to the _coffee-house_ next morning.

If you was to live with _Succus_ for a twelvemonth, this is all that you would see in his life, except a few _curses_ and _oaths_ that he uses as occasion offers.

And now I cannot help making this reflection:

14. That as I believe the most likely means in the world to inspire a person with true piety, was to have seen the example of some eminent professors of religion: so the next thing that is likely to fill us with the same zeal, is to see the _folly_, the _baseness_, and poor satisfactions of a life destitute of religion. As the one excites us to love and admire the wisdom and greatness of religion; so the other may make us fearful of living without it.

For who can help blessing God for the _means of grace_, and for the _hope of glory_, when he sees what variety of folly they sink into, who live without it? Who would not heartily engage in all the labours of a pious life, when he sees what _dull_ sensuality, what _gross_ enjoyments they are left to, who seek for happiness in other ways?

So that whether we consider the greatness of religion, or the littleness of all other things, and the meanness of all other enjoyments, there is nothing to be found in the whole nature of things for a thoughtful mind to rest upon, but a happiness in religion.

15. Consider now with yourself, how unreasonably, it is pretended that a life of strict piety must be a _dull_ and _anxious_ state? For, can it with any reason be said that the duties of religion render our lives heavy and melancholy, when they only deprive us of such happiness as has been here laid before you?

Must it be tedious to live in the continual exercise of charity and temperance, to act wisely and virtuously, to do good to the utmost of your power, to imitate the divine perfections, and prepare yourself for the enjoyment of God? Must it be dull and tiresome to improve in holiness, to feel the comforts of conscience in all your actions, to know that God is your friend, that all must work for your good; that neither life nor death, neither men nor devils can do you any harm; but that all your sufferings and doings, are in a short time to be rewarded with everlasting glory: must such a state be _dull_ and _tiresome_, for want of such happiness as _Flatus_ or _Feliciana_ enjoys?

Now, if this cannot be said, then there is no happiness lost, by being strictly pious; nor has the devout man any thing to envy in any other state of life. For all the art and contrivances in the world, without religion, cannot make more of human life, or carry its happiness to any greater height, than _Flatus_ or _Feliciana_ has done.

The finest _wit_, the greatest _genius_ upon earth, if not governed by religion, must be as _foolish_, and _low_, and _vain_, in his method of happiness, as the _poor Succus_.

16. *If you was to see a man dully endeavouring all his life to satisfy his thirst, by holding up one and the same _empty cup_ to his mouth, you would certainly despise his ignorance.

*But, if you should see others, of _brighter parts_, and _finer understandings_, ridiculing the dull satisfaction of _one cup_, and thinking to satisfy their own thirst by variety of gilt and _golden empty cups_; would you think that these were ever the _wiser_, or _happier_, or _better_ employed, for their _finer parts_?

*Now, this is all the difference that you can see in the happiness of this life.

The _dull_ and _heavy_ soul may be content with one _empty appearance_ of happiness, and be continually trying to hold the _same empty cup_ to his mouth all his life. But let the _wit_, the _deep scholar_, the _fine genius_, the great _statesman_, the polite _gentleman_, lay all their heads together, and they can only shew you _more_ and _various_, _empty appearances_ of happiness; give them all the world into their hands, let them cut and carve as they please, they can only make a greater variety of _empty cups_.