_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_.
*So that if you don’t think it hard to be deprived of the pleasures of
_gluttony_, for the sake of religion, you have no reason to think it
hard to be restrained from any worldly pleasure. For search as deep,
and look as far as you will, there is nothing here to be found, that
is _nobler_, or _greater_, than _high eating_ and _drinking_, unless
you look for it in the wisdom of religion.
And if all that is in the world, are only so many _empty cups_, what
does it signify which you take, or how many?
17. If you would but use yourself to such meditations as these, to
reflect upon the vanity of _all orders_ of life without piety, to
consider how all the ways of the world, are only so many different
ways of error, blindness, and mistake; these meditations would awaken
your soul into a zealous desire of that solid happiness which is only
to be found in recourse to God.
18. To meditate upon the perfection of the divine attributes, to
contemplate the glories of heaven, to consider 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 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
_blindness_ of our passions, the _uncertainty_ of our lives, and the
_shortness_ of all worldly projects; these are meditations that are
suited to all capacities. They require no depth of thought, or sublime
speculation; but are forced upon us by all our senses, and taught by
almost every thing that we see and hear.
This is that _Wisdom that crieth, and putteth forth her voice in
the streets_, Prov. viii. 1. 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 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 in religion.
♦ duplicate word removed ‘and’