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           Title: Sermons Preached Upon Several Occasions. Vol. I.
      Creator(s): South, Robert, (1634-1716)
     Print Basis: Oxford: Clarendon Press (1823)
   CCEL Subjects: All;Sermons;
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SERMONS

PREACHED UPON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS,

BY

ROBERT SOUTH, D.D.

PREBENDARY OF WESTMINSTER,

AND CANON OF CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD,
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A NEW EDITION, IN SEVEN VOLUMES.
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VOL. I.
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OXFORD,

AT THE CLARENDON PRESS.

  MDCCCXXIII.
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ADVERTISEMENT.

   THE present edition of Dr. South's Sermons consists of three distinct
   parts. The first four volumes, containing seventy-two discourses,
   correspond with the first six volumes of the preceding editions, each
   of which volumes contains twelve discourses. The last three volumes,
   with the exception of the appendix to the seventh volume, contain the
   posthumous discourses, some account of which is given in the
   advertisement to the fifth volume. The appendix to the seventh volume
   contains the three sermons published by Edmund Curll, with the Life of
   the author, in the year 1717. The Life is prefixed to the first volume
   of the present edition.
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MEMOIRS

    OF THE

LIFE AND WRITINGS

    OF

DR. ROBERT SOUTH,

    LATE PREBENDARY OF WESTMINSTER, CANON OF CHRIST
    CHURCH, AND RECTOR OF ISLIP IN THE COUNTY
    OF OXFORD.

   WHEN men crowned with age and honour, and worn out with the exercise of
   the most adorable virtues, go down to the grave; when learning, piety,
   sincerity, and courage, with them, seem to be gathered to their
   fathers, and almost every one of them, without a due recognition of
   their bright examples who gave us their survey, must cease to be any
   more; it would be an act of the highest injustice not to set them in
   their fairest light, that posterity may look upon them with the same
   eyes of admiration which the present age has paid their regards with;
   and that it may not be in the power of the teeth of time to wear out
   the impressions that shall pass undefaced from one generation to
   another.

   It is with this view, and only with this, that the author of these
   memoirs, who has long known the value of the subject he is writing
   upon, and from thence must be apprised of the difficulty of doing it as
   he ought, takes them in hand; being not without hopes, that he may in
   some measure prevent the many common biographers, who gather about a
   dead corpse, like ravens about their prey, and croak out insults
   against their memory, whilst they either praise them for actions they
   have not done, or load them with disgrace and infamy for what they
   never committed: insomuch that, in Procopius of Caesarea's words,
   "their relations are nothing else but their interests, delivering down,
   not what they know, but what they are inclined to."

   The same author likewise very justly observes, "that as eloquence
   becomes an orator, and fables are proper for poets, so truth is that
   which an historian ought chiefly to follow, and have in regard;"
   therefore my readers are neither to expect embellishments of art, nor
   flourishes of rhetoric.

     Non tali auxilio, nec defensoribus istis
     Tempus eget----

   There is no need of such assistances to support me, while I go through
   with the character of a man that was arrived at the highest pitch of
   knowledge in the studies of all manner of divine and human literature:
   a man who, in the words of the Son of Sirach,

   gave his mind to the law of the most High, and was occupied in the
   meditation thereof

   : who

   sought out the wisdom of all the ancients, and who kept the sayings of
   the renowned men, and where subtle parables were, there was he also

   . A man,

   who sought out the secrets of grave sentences, who served among great
   men, and appeared before princes: who travelled throughout strange
   countries, for he had tried the good and the evil among men

   . In a word, a man that

   gave his heart to resort early to the Lord that made him, and prayed
   before the most High. Who was filled with the spirit of understanding,
   and poured out wise sentences

   :

   so that many shall commend his understanding: and so long as the world
   endureth, it shall not be blotted out

   .

   May it suffice then that I account for the birth of this great man in
   the year 1633, when the artifices of wicked and designing sectarists
   against the established government in church and state, that broke out
   at last into the grand rebellion, made it necessary that so bright an
   assertor of both, as he proved afterwards, should arise. He was the son
   of Mr. South, an eminent merchant in London, and born at Hackney, of a
   mother whose maiden name was Berry, descended from the family of the
   Berrys in Kent: so that by his extraction on the one side, which we
   trace down from the Souths of Kelstone, and Keilby in Lincolnshire,
   (whereof we find one sir Francis of that name to be the head,) and his
   origin on the other, much celebrated for the productions of many
   eminent men, (among whom sir John Berry, the late admiral in king
   Charles the IId's reign, that commanded the Gloucester, wherein king
   James the IId, then duke of York, had like to have been ship wrecked,
   deserves a place,) he was sufficiently entitled to the name and quality
   of a gentleman.

   In the year 1647, after he had gone through the first rudiments of
   learning previous thereunto with uncommon success, we find him entered
   one of the king's scholars in the college at Westminster, where he made
   himself remarkable the following year, by reading the Latin prayers in
   the school, on the day of king Charles the first's martyrdom, and
   praying for his majesty by name: so that he was under the care of Dr.
   Richard Busby, who cultivated and improved so promising a genius with
   such industry and encouragement for four years, that, after the
   expiration of that time, he was admitted, an. 1651, student of Christ
   Church in Oxford.

   He was elected with the great Mr. John Locke, an equal ornament of
   polite and abstruse learning. His studentship, with an allowance of
   30l. per ann. from his mother, and the countenance of his relation, Dr.
   John South, of New college, regius professor of the Greek tongue,
   chanter of Salisbury, and vicar of Writtle in Essex, enabled him to
   obtain those acquirements that made him the admiration and esteem of
   the whole university, and drew upon him the eyes of the best masters of
   humanity and other studies, by the quick progress he made through them.

   He took the degree of bachelor of arts, which he completed by his
   determination, in Lent 1654-5. The same year he wrote a Latin copy of
   verses, published in the university book, set forth to congratulate the
   protector Oliver Cromwell upon the peace then concluded with the Dutch;
   upon which some people have made invidious reflections, as if contrary
   to the sentiments he afterwards espoused; but these are to be told,
   that such exercises are usually imposed by the governors of colleges
   upon bachelors of arts and undergraduates: I shall forbear to be
   particular in his, as being a forced compliment to the usurper.

   Not but even those discover a certain unwillingness to act in favour of
   that monster, whom even the inimitable earl of Clarendon, in his
   History of the grand Rebellion, distinguishes by the name and title of
   a GLORIOUS VILLAIN.

   After he had thus gained the applause of all his superiors, and by many
   lengths outstripped most of his contemporaries, by his well digested
   and well approved exercises preparatory thereunto, he proceeded to the
   degree of master of arts in June 1657, not without some opposition from
   Dr. John Owen, who supplied the place of dean of Christ Church, and
   officiated as head of that, royal foundation, with other sectaries
   called canons, during the deprivation and ejection of the legal and
   orthodox members of the said chapter. This man (if he deserves the name
   of one, that was guilty of a voluntary defection from the church
   established, after he had regularly received ordination at the hands of
   a protestant bishop, contrary to the oaths he had taken to his rightful
   and lawful prince, and his obedience that was due to the canons of the
   church) was one of the earliest of the clergy who joined with the
   rebels in parliament assembled, that dethroned their natural liege lord
   and king, and altered the form of government in matters ecclesiastical
   and civil, and in recompence of his zeal for that end, after the
   martyrdom of his royal sovereign, had been gifted with this undeserved
   promotion. In gratitude for which, if that word may be applied to
   creatures divested of all qualities that point towards the least
   symptoms of humanity, he thought himself obliged to bestir himself
   heartily for what was then called the good old cause, against all those
   who should swerve or deviate from it, especially such as should be
   found peccant against the orders of the Directory, and should be
   unwarrantably, according to pretended laws then in being, found in
   episcopal meetings, making use of the Common Prayer.

   Among these was this our candidate for the degree of master of arts,
   being excited thereunto by the example of Mr. John Fell, of the same
   college with him, but of much longer standing, and ejected by the
   commissioners authorized thereunto from the council of state; and was
   caught in the very act of worshipping God after the manner and form of
   the church of England; whereupon Dr. Owen, who was then
   vice-chancellor, and had been invested with that character some years
   before, was pleased to express himself very severely, and after
   threatening him with expulsion, if he should be guilty of the like
   practices again, to tell him, that "He could do no less in gratitude to
   his highness the protector, and his other great friends who had thought
   him worthy of the dignities he then stood possessed of." To which Mr.
   South made this grave, but very smart reply: "Gratitude among friends
   is like credit amongst tradesmen; it keeps business up, and maintains
   the correspondence: and we pay not so much out of a principle that we
   ought to discharge our debts, as to secure ourselves a place to be
   trusted another time:" and in answer to the doctor's making use of the
   protector's and his other great friends names, said, "Commonwealths put
   a value upon men, as well as money; and we are forced to take them
   both, not by weight, but according as they are pleased to stamp them,
   and at the current rate of the coin:" by which he exasperated him two
   different ways, and made him his enemy ever after; as he verified his
   own sayings, which were frequently applied by him to his fellow
   students, viz. "That few people have the wisdom to like reproofs that
   would do them good, better than praises that do them hurt."

   But though the doctor did what he could to shew his resentment by
   virtue of his office, the majority of those in whose power it was to
   give him the degree he had regularly waited the usual terms for, was an
   overmatch to all opposition; and he had it conferred on him. This
   enabled him some time after to pay the doctor in his own coin, and to
   let him know, that he likewise was not without a will to use means,
   when they were put into his hands, for requiting an injury; and
   notwithstanding he could readily forgive, could not forget an ill turn.
   For when this vice-chancellor took upon him to stand as candidate to
   serve in parliament for the university, and in order thereunto had
   renounced his holy orders, that he might the more easily gain his
   purpose, Mr. South so managed matters with the doctors, bachelors of
   divinity, and masters of arts, the electors, that he was very
   difficultly returned, and, after a few days sitting in the house, had
   his election declared null and void, because his renunciation was not
   reputed valid.

   This puts me in mind of another story, which Dr. South told a friend of
   mine, concerning the said Owen; who, at his being soon after removed
   from his place of vice-chancellor by the chancellor Richard, son of
   Oliver Cromwell, and from the pulpit of St. Mary's, which was cleansed
   of him and the rebel Goodwin, president of St. Mary Magdalen's college,
   at one and the same time, cried out, "I have built seats at Mary's; let
   the doctors find auditors, for I will preach at Peter's:" thereby
   insinuating, that none but he could have full congregations. Though,
   whatever were his thoughts of the affections of those who were misled
   by his doctrines, the very selfsame opiniative man found himself very
   much out in his conjectures of abiding at Christ Church, or of
   preaching at St. Peter's long; for he was ejected from his deanery at
   the latter end of the year 1659 by the government, that was then paving
   the way for the restoration of the king and royal family; and soon
   after succeeded by Dr. John Fell, who first was installed canon of
   Christ Church, in the room of Ralph Button, M. A. and formerly of
   Merton college, by the commissioners appointed by the king; Mr. South
   having the orator's place of the university of Oxford, vacant by the
   dismission of the said Button.

   This brings me to a second digression, which the reader's patience, it
   is hoped, will forgive, for its brevity. Mr. Antony a Wood, the famous
   antiquary, in his Athenae Oxonienses, gives us to understand, that this
   Ralph Button, at his election into his fellowship of Merton college,
   which he gained solely by his merit, while others that were chosen with
   him obtained theirs by favour and the custom of seniority, gave
   occasion for a notable pun made by Dr. Prideaux, then rector of Exeter
   college, who said, "That all that were elected besides him were not
   worth a Button." The said gentleman afterwards succeeded to a canonry
   of Christ Church, in the room of the learned and pious Dr. Henry
   Hammond, who was removed by the iniquity of the times; and at his own
   ejection afterwards by the commissioners appointed by the king, upon
   his majesty's most happy restoration, while his goods were carrying out
   of possession, upon hearing the two bells ringing for canonical prayers
   in Christ Church, cried, "There now go the mass bells; and let those
   that are affected that way go to the church; for be sure I shall not."
   He went from Oxford to Islington, near London, where he continued a
   dissenting teacher and a schoolmaster till the year 1680, when he died,
   and was buried with his son (who departed this life at the same time)
   in Islington church.

   In 1659 Mr. South, after having been admitted into holy orders the year
   before, according to the rites and ceremonies of the church of England,
   (then abolished,) by a regular, though deprived bishop, was pitched
   upon to preach the assize sermon before the judges. For which end, he
   took his text from the tenth chapter of St. Matthew's gospel, ver. 33.
   Whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my
   Father which is in heaven. This sermon was called by him, Interest
   deposed, and Truth restored, &c. and had this remarkable paragraph in
   it concerning the teachers of those days, viz. "When such men preach of
   self-denial and humility, I cannot but think of Seneca, who praised
   poverty, and that very safely, in the midst of his great riches and
   gardens, and even exhorted the world to throw away their gold, perhaps
   (as one well conjectures) that he might gather it up: so these desire
   men to be humble, that they may domineer without opposition. But it is
   an easy matter to commend patience, when there is no danger of any
   trials, to extol humility in the midst of honours, to begin a fast
   after dinner." [1]

   In the close of the said sermon, after having applied himself to the
   judges with proper exhortations, that bespoke his intrepidity of soul,
   he addressed himself to the audience in these words; "If ever it was
   seasonable to preach courage in the despised, abused cause of Christ,
   it is now, when his truths are reformed into nothing, when the hands
   and hearts of his faithful ministers are weakened, and even broke, and
   his worship extirpated in a mockery, that his honour may be advanced.
   Well, to establish our hearts in duty, let us beforehand propose to
   ourselves the worst "that can happen. Should God in his judgment suffer
   England to be transformed into a Munster; should the faithful be
   everywhere massacred; should the places of learning be demolished, and
   our colleges reduced not only (as one in his zeal would have it [2] )
   to three, but to none; yet, assuredly, hell is worse than all this, and
   is the portion of such as deny Christ: therefore let our
   discouragements be what they will, loss of places, loss of estates,
   loss of life and relations, yet still this sentence stands ratified in
   the decrees of Heaven, Cursed be that man that for any "of these shall
   desert the truth, and deny his Lord."

   To return to Mr. South: He was not made university orator till the
   tenth of August 1660, after he had preached a most excellent sermon to
   the king's commissioners, on the 29th of July in the same year, called,
   The Scribe instructed, from Matth. xiii. ver. 52. Therefore every
   scribe which is instructed unto the kingdom of heaven is like unto a
   man that is an householder, which bringeth forth out of his treasure
   things new and old: for which he was highly applauded for many
   excellent and sarcastical expressions against the sectarists, late in
   power. Among other expressions, nothing can be more beautiful and to
   the purpose, than when he speaks of the qualification of a scribe in
   these words:

   "Qualification," says he, "which is an habitual preparation by study,
   exercise, and due improvement of the same. Powers act but weakly and
   irregularly, till they are heightened and perfected by their habits. A
   well radicated habit, in a lively, vegete faculty, is like an apple of
   gold in a picture of silver; it is perfection upon perfection; it is a
   coat of mail upon our armour; and, in a word, it is the raising of the
   soul at least one story higher; for take off but the wheels, and the
   powers in all their operations will drive but heavily. Now it is not
   enough to have books, or for a man to have his divinity in his pocket,
   or upon the shelf, but he must have mastered his notions, till they
   even incorporate into his mind so as to be able to produce and wield
   them upon all occasions; and not, when a difficulty is proposed, and a
   performance enjoined, to say, that he will consult such and such
   authors. For this is not to be a divine, who is rather to be a walking
   library than a walking index. As, to go no farther than the similitude
   in the text, we should not account him a good and generous housekeeper,
   who should not have always something of standing provision by him, so
   as never to be surprised, but that he should still be found able to
   treat his friend at least, though perhaps not always presently to feast
   him. So the scribe here spoken of should "have an inward, lasting
   fulness and sufficiency, to support and bear him up, especially when
   present performance urges, and actual preparation can be but short.
   Thus it is not the oil in the wick, but in the vessel, which must feed
   the lamp. The former indeed may cause a present blaze, but it is the
   latter which must give a lasting light. It is not the spending-money a
   man has in his pocket, but his hoards in the chest or in the bank,
   which must make him rich. A dying man has his breath in his "nostrils,
   but to have it in the lungs is that which must preserve life. Nor will
   it suffice to have raked up a few notions here and there, or to rally
   all one's little utmost into one discourse, which can constitute a
   divine, or give a man stock enough to set up with; any more than a
   soldier who had filled his snapsack should thereupon set up for keeping
   house. No, a man would then quickly be drained, his short stock would
   serve but for one meeting in ordinary converse, and he would be in
   danger of meeting with the same company twice. And therefore there must
   be store, plenty, and a treasure, lest he turn broker in divinity, and
   having run the round of a beaten, exhausted common-place, be forced to
   stand still, or go the same round over again; pretending to his
   auditors, that it is profitable for them to hear the same truths often
   inculcated to them; though I humbly conceive, that to inculcate the
   same truths is not of necessity to repeat the same words. And
   therefore, to avoid such beggarly pretences, there must be habitual
   preparation to the work we are now speaking of."

   Again, speaking of the malignants in the times of the same unnatural
   rebellion, he says, "There was no saving of life with those men,
   without purging away the estate."

   Then, describing the teachers of those days, he declares, that "first
   of all they seize upon some text; from whence they draw something,
   (which they call doctrine;) and well may it be said to be drawn from
   the words, forasmuch as it seldom naturally flows or results from them.
   In the next place, being thus provided, they branch it into several
   heads, perhaps twenty, or thirty, or upwards. Whereupon, for the
   prosecution of these, they repair to some trusty concordance, which
   never fails them, and, by the help of that, they range six or seven
   scriptures under each head: which scriptures they prosecute one by one;
   first amplifying and enlarging upon one for some considerable time,
   till they have spoiled it; and then, that being done, they pass to
   another, which in its turn suffers accordingly. And these impertinent
   and unpremeditated enlargements they look upon as the motions, effects,
   and breathings of the Spirit, and therefore much beyond those carnal
   ordinances of sense and reason, supported by industry and study; and
   this they call a saving way of preaching, as it must be confessed to be
   a way to save much labour, and nothing else, that I know of." Ibid.

   Some time after this, Edward earl of Clarendon, lord high chancellor of
   England, and chancellor of the university of Oxford, in consideration
   of a speech spoken by him, which you will find in the posthumous works
   hereunto annexed, at his investiture into the last high dignity , did
   him the honour of taking him for his domestic chaplain, whereby he was
   in the road to church preferments, and was installed prebendary of St.
   Peter's, Westminster, March 30, 1663. He likewise, by virtue of a
   letter from, and the desire of the said earl, his patron, stood
   candidate for the degree of doctor in divinity, on the first of October
   in the same year; and obtained it by a majority of the convocation
   house, though strenuous opposition was made against the grant of that
   favour by the bachelors of divinity and masters of arts, who were
   against such a concession, by reason that he was a master of arts but
   of six years standing; after a scrutiny, it being accordingly
   pronounced granted by the senior proctor, Nathaniel Crew, M. A. fellow
   of Lincoln college, and now lord bishop of Durham: in consequence of
   which, by the double presentation of Dr. John Wallis, Savilian
   professor of geometry, he was instantly first admitted bachelor, then
   doctor in divinity.

   Much about the same time, the doctor was made choice of to preach a
   sermon at the consecration of a chapel; in the preface to which are
   these remarkable expressions: "After the happy expiration of those
   times which had reformed so many churches to the ground, and in which
   men used to express their honour to God and their allegiance to their
   prince the same way, demolishing the palaces of the one, and the
   temples of the other; it is now our glory and felicity, that God has
   changed men's tempers with the times, and made a spirit of building
   succeed a spirit of pulling down, by a miraculous revolution; reducing
   many from the head of a triumphant rebellion to their old condition of
   masons, smiths, and carpenters, that in this capacity they might repair
   what, as colonels and captains, they had ruined and defaced.

   "But still it is strange to see any ecclesiastical pile, not by
   ecclesiastical cost and influence rising above ground, especially in an
   age in which men's mouths are open against the church, but their hands
   are shut towards it; an age in which, respecting the generality of men,
   we might as soon expect stones to be made bread, as to be made
   churches. But the more epidemical and prevailing this evil is, the more
   honourable are those who stand and shine as exceptions from the common
   practice: and may such places, built for the divine worship, derive an
   honour and a blessing upon the head of the builders, as great and
   lasting as the curse and infamy that never fails to rest upon the
   sacrilegious violators of them; and a greater, I am sure, I need not, I
   cannot wish."

   On the 29th of the month of December, 1670, the doctor was installed a
   canon of Christ Church in Oxford, being the fifth rightful incumbent of
   the third stall ever since the foundation in 1549, vacant by the death
   of Dr. Richard Gardiner, at the request of whose executors he wrote the
   following epitaph, which is to be seen in the dormitory on the north
   side of that cathedral church.

   H. S. I.
   Venerabilis Vir
   Richardus Gardiner, S. T. P.
   Ecclesiae hujus primum Alumnus,
   Dein Canonicus;
   Quo in munere,
   Cum diu se magna cum laude exercuisset,
   Majore eodem cessit:
   Fanaticorum furoribus, fortunis omnibus exutus
   Ut fidem quam Deo et Principi obligaverat,
   Illibatam retineret.
   Postliminio tandem restitutus,
   Eadem Coustantia qua ereptas spreverat opes,
   Contemnebat affluentes
   Munificentia siquidem perenni,
   Et Aquaeductus quem hic loci struxerat aemula,
   Ecclesiam hauc,
   Patriam suain Herefordiam,
   Cognates,
   Amicos,
   Pauperes
   Cumulatissime perfudit.
   Demum
   Meritis juxta atque annis plenus,
   Viridi senecta, sensibusque integris,
   Piam animam Deo reddidit;
   Decembr. xx.
   A. Salut. CI? I?CLXX.
   Ætat. suae LXXIX.

   I should have observed, before this period of time, that the doctor
   caused a poem of his (entitled Musica Incantans, sive Poema exprimens
   Musicae Vires, Juvenem in Insaniam adigentis, et Musici inde Periculum)
   to be printed at the request of his very good friend Dr. John Fell, in
   the year 1667, though written in 1655, when he was bachelor of arts,
   and that this was highly applauded; as the work of an extraordinary
   genius and a very ready wit, for the beauty of its language, and the
   quickness of its turns; but the taste of the present age being contrary
   to what it was in those days, and less given to flourishes of that
   nature, I make it my choice not to be particular as to any quotations
   from it, since the doctor, to his dying day, has regretted the
   publication of it, as a juvenile and unmomentary performance. I should
   also have acquainted the reader, that the doctor was before this
   possessed of 75l. per ann. lands of inheritance, as of a copyhold
   estate of inheritance in the manor of Candors alias Cantlow, in Kentish
   Town, Middlesex, by the death of his father; but not being able to
   account for the year in which he died, must ask leave to insert it in
   this place.

   John Sobieski, grand marshal of Poland, having been elected to fill the
   throne of that kingdom on account of his great merits, and notable
   achievements in war against the infidels and other enemies, on the
   death of king Michael Wiesnowiski, who was supposed to have been
   poisoned by a Frenchman at Zamoisk, his Britannic majesty, two years
   after the said choice, which was made in 1674, gave credentials to the
   honourable Lawrence Hyde, esq. son to the late lord chancellor
   Clarendon, to act as ambassador extraordinary to compliment that king
   thereupon, and to make presents to his new-born daughter the princess
   Teresa Cunegunda, (now electress of Bavaria,) to whom his majesty had
   some time before stood godfather by proxy. Accordingly Mr. Hyde, in
   pursuance of his commission, provided himself with a most sumptuous
   equipage; and out of his very great respect to Dr. South, who had
   endeared himself to that noble person by being his tutor, would needs
   take him with him in the quality of his chaplain; which the doctor very
   readily agreed to, being of a very curious and inquisitive temper, and
   desirous of being an eyewitness of the posture of affairs in other
   countries, as well as his own. What improvements he made by these
   inquiries may be best seen by an account of his, directed to Dr. Edward
   Pococke, then regius professor of Hebrew in Oxford, and one of the
   canons of Christ Church; who, though of much longer standing than the
   doctor, by his first entrance upon that dignity in the year 1648, took
   such a liking to his conversation, as to hold a most intimate
   friendship with him. The said narrative runs thus, and is copied from
   Dr. South's original manuscript.

   My best Friend, and most honoured Instructor,

   TO keep my word with you, which I gave at Cornbury, when we last
   parted, I send herein some account of my voyage and travels, with a few
   observations on the country, inhabitants, manners, and customs of the
   kingdom, whereof I have been a cursory, and, I fear, but too curious an
   investigator; though I do it with hope, that you, who have so perfect a
   knowledge of the eastern world, by what you have communicated to me
   concerning the affairs of the Turkish court, Palestine, Sec. will
   pardon my falling infinitely short of you in my description of one of
   the northern kingdoms, whereof your avocations elsewhere may not have
   allowed you the attainment of so just a description.

   My lord ambassador set sail from Portsmouth, on board the Tyger man of
   war, with the Swallow in company, and some merchant ships under convoy,
   on the 11th of June last; and after having stayed some few days in the
   Sound, to despatch messages with compliments to the courts of Sweden
   and Denmark, cast anchor before Dantzick on the 11th of August, where
   he was received under a discharge of the artillery on the ramparts, and
   was the next day conducted to an audience of the queen of Poland, (who
   had made a journey thither, while the king her husband was in the
   field,) wherein he paid her majesty the usual devoirs in the name of
   his royal master, and presented the young princess her daughter with a
   very rich jewel, and a cross of diamonds of great value.

   He afterwards, with a very magnificent retinue, set for ward for
   Poland, and was received by the king in his camp near Leopol in Russia,
   with demonstrations of respect and kindness suitable to his character
   and person, where his majesty did him the honour of sending some of his
   chief officers to shew him the army, and their way of encamping. Having
   mentioned Leopol, which is the metropolis of the palatinate of Russia,
   it may not be improper to tell you, that this city is large and well
   fortified, having two castles, one within the walls, and one without,
   on a rising ground, which commands the town; both which, together with
   the city, were founded by Leo duke of Russia, about the year 1289. The
   archbishop of this see is both spiritual and temporal lord of his
   diocese. Here also reside an Armenian archbishop, and a Russian bishop,
   depending on the patriarch of Constantinople, with several churches
   belonging to each bishopric. The Armenian Roman Catholics have in
   habited here time out of mind, and are governed wholly by their own
   prelate, enjoying very great privileges on account of the considerable
   commerce they maintain with the Persians and other eastern people. This
   city likewise gives great encouragement to learned men, who are very
   civilly received by their academy, which is supplied with professors
   from that of Cracow; though, from what I could find from those
   professors themselves, and the very bishops too, they had as little
   furniture that way in their own persons (except an insight into the
   Latin tongue) as some of the meanest of our Welsh clergy. The churches
   here are generally fair and well built, and abound with all kinds of
   costly ornaments.

   The peace being happily concluded, to the advantage of Poland, between
   his majesty and the Turks and Tartars, whereof his excellency Mr. Hyde
   had no small share of the management, the king returned in November to
   Zolkiew, his own patrimony, which is a town in Russia, adorned and
   defended by a castle, and intermixed with several delightful gardens,
   with a fair church in the middle of it, built with various sorts of
   marble, and whither the ambassador waiting upon him, had his public
   audience there in a most solemn manner. He was first carried in the
   king's coach, attended by six of his own, twenty-four pages and footmen
   in rich liveries, and sixty odd coaches of the chief nobility. When
   arrived at the court, he was received by the chief marshal (who is in
   the nature of a lord chamberlain) at the stairs' foot of the palace,
   and conducted to his majesty, who received him standing under a canopy.
   Whereupon his excellency delivered his master's compliments in a Latin
   speech, [3] in which he gave assurances of the king of Great Britain's
   inviolable attachment to that prince's interests, congratulated him
   upon the last treaty of peace brought to a happy conclusion with the
   infidels, and made overtures to enter into such alliances with the
   crown and republic of Poland, as should be judged most conducive to the
   honour and safety of both nations.

   To this his Polish majesty gave a very agreeable and satisfactory
   answer in the same language, which he had readily ad unguem, and caused
   the ambassador afterwards to sit down at the same table with him, where
   he was attended by the chief officers of state standing; it being a
   custom in Poland to admit none to that honour but the princes of the
   blood.

   This king is a very well spoken prince, very easy of access, and
   extreme civil, having most of the qualities requisite to form a
   complete gentleman. He is not only well versed in all military affairs,
   but likewise, through the means of a French education, very opulently
   stored with all polite and scholastical learning. Besides his own
   tongue, the Sclavonian, he understands the Latin, French, Italian,
   German, and Turkish languages: he delights much in natural history, and
   in all the parts of physic; he is wont to reprimand the clergy for not
   admitting the modern philosophy, such as Le Grand's and Cartesius's,
   into the universities and schools, and loves to hear people discourse
   of those matters, and has a particular talent to set people about him
   very artfully by the ears, that by their disputes he might be directed,
   as it happened once or twice during this embassy, where he shewed a
   poignancy of wit on the subject of a dispute held between the bishop of
   Posen and father de la Motte, a Jesuit and his Majesty's confessor,
   that gave me an extraordinary opinion of his parts.

   As for what relates to his majesty's person, he is a tall and corpulent
   prince, large faced, and full eyes, and goes always in the same dress
   with his subjects, with his hair cut round about his ears like a monk,
   and wears a fur cap, but extraordinary rich with diamonds and jewels,
   large whiskers, and no neckcloth. A long robe hangs down to his heels,
   in the fashion of a coat, and a waistcoat under that, of the same
   length, tied close about the waist with a girdle. He never wears any
   gloves; and this long coat is of strong scar let cloth, lined in the
   winter with rich fur, but in summer only with silk. Instead of shoes,
   he always wears, both abroad and at home, Turkey-leather boots, with
   very thin soles, and hollow deep heels, made of a blade of silver bent
   hoop-wise into the form of a half-moon. He carries always a large
   scimetar by his side, the sheath equally flat and broad from the handle
   to the bottom, and curiously set with diamonds.

   His majesty married Mary de la Grange, daughter to the Marquis of
   Arquien, some time after his accession to the throne, made cardinal in
   complaisance to his majesty. This lady, who was but ten or twelve years
   old when she came from France into this kingdom with Ladislaus king of
   Poland's queen, was at first made maid of honour to her majesty, being
   very ingenious and beautiful, and married to prince Zamoiski, who soon
   left her a widow with a jointure of about 2000l. per annum. She was
   afterwards married, in Casimir's reign, to this John Sobieski, then
   captain of the guards, who was not willing to take her in wedlock,
   until the king had promised that he would give him considerable places:
   which he accordingly, by the persuasion of his queen, did; for he made
   him great marshal and great general of Poland, which gave him authority
   and interest enough to make himself king, and her queen; so that this
   marriage was the occasion of his rise in the world; which he was so
   sensible of, that he refused to be divorced from her, as the diet would
   have persuaded him to do, soon after his election.

   The queen is now about thirty-three years of age, though she appears
   not to be much above twenty: she is always attired after the French
   mode, as all the Polish ladies are, and speaks the Polish language full
   as well as her own natural tongue; which, with her sweet temper,
   refined sense, and majestic air, has, since her accession to the
   throne, gained her such affection with the Poles, such influence over
   the king, and such interest lately among the senators, that she manages
   all with a great deal of prudence, and that to the advantage of her
   native country France, who is very much indebted to her for the
   backwardness of the Poles in taking part with the emperor, and their
   forwardness in striking up the late peace with Turkey and its
   dependents.

   Thus far by way of remark on the persons and accomplishments of their
   majesties, and the manner of our reception at court. I am in the next
   place to take a view of the most principal places in this kingdom,
   which my lord ambassador gave me an opportunity of surveying, by
   leaving me behind (at my own request) after his return into Eng land
   through Silesia, Austria, and the empire, and to give a succinct and
   faithful account of their economy in ecclesiastical as well as civil
   affairs.

   I shall not enter upon a division of this great and wealthy kingdom,
   which is branched out into eight distinct provinces, and these into
   various palatinates; neither shall I extend my observations further
   than to such cities and towns whither my curiosity led me, as they are
   places of note, and resorted to as such by the most knowing and
   intelligent travellers. These are, Cracow, in Upper or Lesser Poland,
   its chief metropolis and university; and Vilna, in Lithuania, its
   sister university, (like our Oxford and Cambridge,) and also Posen,
   Gnesna, Lowitz, Warsaw, Thorn, Marienburgh, and Dantzick.

   To begin with the first. Cracow is a famous city, seated in a spacious
   plain near the Weissel, by which merchandises are transported to
   Dantzick. It takes its name from Cracus, one of the first dukes of
   Poland; and considering the stateliness both of its public and private
   edifices, and the great plenty of all manner of necessaries, it is said
   to be equal to most towns of either Germany or Italy. It is encompassed
   with a very high wall, and flanked round with high towers, with a broad
   deep ditch walled round likewise, and a stately castle, about a mile in
   circumference, founded on a rock, near the banks of the river Vistula.
   It is a large stone building, consisting of two wings magnificently
   raised about a square court, having galleries supported with pillars,
   and paved with black and white marble. The king's apartments, with some
   others, are adorned with divers curious paintings and statues; and the
   country round about affords one of the most delightful prospects in
   Europe. Here is a cathedral of St. Stanislaus, protector of Poland; in
   which a late bishop of Cracow, Martin Szyscovius, repaired and
   beautified his tomb, which before had been all of silver. This,
   Sigismund III. and his son Uladislaus VII. (as pompous inscriptions
   tell us) greatly augmented, bestowing on it many offerings of gold and
   silver vessels. Sigismund I. also, in honour of this saint, built a
   silver altar near his tomb, be stowing on it several golden crucifixes,
   and as many vestments richly bedecked with gems of all sorts. His
   daughter Anne, likewise wife to king Stephen, built another silver
   altar in the chapel of the Annunciation, whose roof is all gilded, and
   wherein the kings of Poland are wont to be interred.

   This cathedral is principally to be noted for its chapter and treasury;
   and the bishop of it is lord over thirteen cities, and prince, that is,
   commander in chief, of the duchy of Severia. His chapter, which
   consists of about thirty canons, with several other inferior priests,
   having a proportional provision to his revenue, which is between 11 and
   12,000l. sterling per annum; the very lowest salary of the meanest
   ecclesiastic there being 100l. yearly of our money. It was first
   erected into a metropolitan see, upon the first planting of the
   Christian religion in Poland, by Miecislaus I. but within an hundred
   years after degenerated into a bishopric under the archbishop of
   Gnesna, in regard that Lambert Pula could not be persuaded to receive
   his pall from the see of Rome; yet upon submission he was afterwards
   restored to that dignity, but which lasted only for his life, his
   successors having been ever since only bishops.

   There are about fifty other churches, as well in the castle as the
   town; whereof the most celebrated is that of the Virgin Mary in the
   circle of Cracow, which is governed by an archpresbyter, and fronts ten
   large streets; having moreover on all sides four rows of magnificent
   structures.

   A university was first begun here by Casimir the Great, who came to the
   throne in the year 1333, and reigned to the year 1370, and finished by
   Uladislaus Jagello, having its privileges confirmed soon after by pope
   Urban VI. However, as the rector, Mr. Siniawiski, brother to the
   palatine of that name, told me, the scholars forsook it in 1549, by
   reason that the magistrates would not do them justice on some persons
   that had murdered great numbers of them, and afterwards dispersed
   themselves into several parts of Germany, and be coming Protestants,
   spread the Lutheran religion through Poland, and gained a great number
   of proselytes; yet, not withstanding all this, they returned to the
   obedience of the see of Rome.

   In this university are taught all sorts of learning, (though, as I take
   it, superficially,) and the Poles (but I dissent from them) hold it to
   be as great an ornament to their country as Athens was formerly to
   Greece. It contains in all eleven colleges. Fourteen grammar schools
   are also scattered throughout the city, in which also sometimes
   university learning is taught.

   All these colleges and schools are governed by a rector, or
   vice-chancellor, who takes care that orders may be duly observed, and
   functions rightly administered; which is so great an encouragement,
   that there is scarce any ecclesiastical or political dignity in the
   kingdom but is filled by persons that have received their education in
   this university.

   In the monasteries also are taught both philosophy and divinity; but
   more especially in that of the Dominicans of the Trinity, where there
   are daily lectures kept, and several kinds of moral learning also
   promoted.

   There are likewise several sorts of mendicant friars in this city, who,
   upon solemn feasts, according to the ancient custom, go in procession,
   clothed in divers colours, and are very merry devotionalists on those
   occasions; such as the mendicants of the Rosary, of the Mercy, of the
   Mantle, of the Passion, of the body of Christ, saint Sophia, saint
   Anne, saint Monica; names not very agreeable to their unmortified
   paunches.

   2. Vilna, whose palatine is chief governor, is situated near the
   conflux of the rivers Wilia and Wiln, from whence it has its name, and
   is a large and populous city, capital of the great duchy of Lithuania,
   and well fortified with two castles; whereof one is built in a plain,
   and the other on a hill. Of these two castles, that on a hill is very
   ancient, and almost ruined; but the other is a pile of beautiful modern
   architecture. The churches here are all of stone, both those belonging
   to the Roman and Russian persuasions. The cathedral lies in the lower
   castle, wherein is deposited the body of St. Casimir, canonized by pope
   Leo X. in a large silver tomb of great value. Here also is a very large
   bell, like to one of the same bigness at Cracow, which requires above
   four and twenty strong men to ring it; and within this castle also the
   metropolitan of Russia holds his archiepiscopal see.

   Among other public edifices, (most of the private being very mean ones,
   and built of wood, except some few belonging to the gentry and foreign
   merchants,) is the great duke's palace, in which is a very celebrated
   guard chamber, furnished with all sorts of arms: and about two English
   miles from this city stands another ducal palace, named from its
   situation Rudnick, that is, near the water. This palace is entirely
   built of wood, but most deliciously beautified and set off with a
   pleasant park, agreeable gardens, and fruitful orchards.

   As for the academy of this city, it was founded by king Stephen in the
   year 1579, and erected into an university by Pope Gregory XIII. at the
   request of Valerian, bishop of Vilna. In this university are six
   professors of divinity, five of philosophy, four of laws, and seven of
   humanity; which have each of them much greater salaries, besides other
   preferments in the church and state, than such bunglers in their
   respective arts and sciences deserve; since many of our servitors at
   Oxford are better read, and abler to fill those chairs, than any of
   them but the sieur Sfroski, who had acquired some knowledge in natural
   philosophy and the mathematics by his travels into foreign parts.
   However, I found myself under a necessity of extolling them for their
   profound knowledge, and of closing in with every opinion they at random
   gave vent to, for the sake of my own quiet: since their pride, if any
   ways mortified by contradictions from strangers, pushes them upon
   unforeseen extremities; and it is the best and surest way to be of the
   same mind with them, if any one takes a good liking for the security of
   his body.

   As for other remarkable buildings and observations here, though there
   are several fair edifices, I find none more worthy of notice than a
   large beautiful storehouse, all of brick, erected by the Muscovite
   company for the repository of their furs, ermines, and other rich
   merchandises brought from Moscow; so that when I have said that it is
   famous for having guns of all sorts cast, and likewise divers other
   warlike instruments of excellent workmanship made in it, and the
   tribunal of all Lithuania is kept there, I have done it more honour
   than all the scholars I have conversed with here, barring one or two
   exceptions from the general rule, can do it by their excellence in any
   one sort of academical erudition.

   Having just parted with their two universities, that may, without
   impropriety of expression, be called sisters, from their affinity in
   ignorance, it is but natural to particularize in their studies, the
   chief of which is to speak good Latin; for as to all parts of polite
   learning, the Poles are not so curious as in other countries, yet have
   they a great many that will write tolerably good verses, for their
   genius is mightily bent that way; and besides, they are very apt to
   quote classic authors in their discourse; and this particularly when
   they get drunk, (a vice they are too frequently addicted to,) and are
   elevated up to a conceited pitch. Their poet Sarbievus Casimir is no
   small ornament to his country, who in his Odes has endeavoured to
   imitate Ho race; and the purity of his language is not contemptible.

   I learned that Latin came so much in vogue with them from this
   accident. King Casimir the second and the king of Sweden had an
   interview at Dantzick, wherein the latter, with all his court, spoke
   that language fluently, but neither Casimir nor any of his attendants
   could do any thing like it, but were forced to make use of a poor monk,
   whom for that service his Polish majesty advanced to a bishopric, to
   explain their sentiments. Of which being heartily ashamed, the king
   caused great encouragement to be given to such as would make Latin
   their study, which began thenceforward to be much in practice: so that
   when king Sigismund sent the bishop of Varmia his ambassador to Vienna,
   his imperial majesty was surprised to hear the very Polish coachmen and
   postillions very dexterously and fluently explain themselves in that
   tongue, which was mightily encouraged also by king Stephen Bathori, who
   is reported often to have said to the sons of his attendants, Discite
   Latine, nam unum ex vobis aliquando faciam Moschi Pan, (a great lord;)
   which contributed very much to the increase of arts and sciences.

   As for learned men, though the Poles have mightily degenerated in this
   present age, they have had several Latin historians among them, such as
   Cromerus, Sturavolsius, &c. who have all written the annals and
   constitutions of their country. They have likewise been furnished with
   some historians who have written in their own language. They also have
   not wanted learned divines, great philosophers, famous astronomers,
   logicians, &c. And it is to be remembered to the honour of Poland, that
   the great astronomer Nicolaus Copernicus was a native of Thorn in Regal
   Prussia. And the reason why those learned men have not transmitted more
   of their works to posterity is, that while they lived, there was but
   little or no printing in this kingdom, that art having been but lately
   received here.

   Yet though the Poles are so extremely expert in making and writing
   Latin, they are not curious in any of the oriental tongues. As to other
   languages, as the inhabitants of this country have the same origin with
   the Muscovites, Bohemians, Croatians, Moravians, Silesians, Cassabians,
   Bulgarians, Rascians, Servians, Illyrians, &c. so they have likewise
   the same language with them, notwithstanding they differ in dialects,
   and are scarce to be understood by each other. Their terms of mechanic
   arts are chiefly borrowed from the ancient Germans, who formerly had,
   as they still have, frequent intercourses with this country. Nay, there
   are at present whole towns and villages that make use of the German
   tongue; that nation having formerly planted several colonies in this
   kingdom. There are also several of the noble families here purely
   German, as may appear both by their names and their coats of arms.

   The Polish language, as their chief historian Cromerus allows, is
   neither so copious nor so easy to pronounce, as those of other nations;
   but as the French, Italian, &c. consists chiefly of vowels, that of
   Poland is made up in great mea sure with consonants; insomuch that you
   shall sometimes meet with Polish words that have seven or eight
   consonants together, without any vowel, or at most but one or two
   interposed; an example of which, sir, you may have in the word
   Chrzeszes, (scaraibaeus, a gadfly:) this, with others in the Polish
   tongue, scarce the natives themselves are able to pronounce; yet they
   have always a sort of lisping sound of vowels in their pronunciation,
   though they do not write them.

   To return to the Latin tongue; it must not be under stood, how
   universally soever it is spoken here, that the Poles have it from their
   mothers, as the common people have in some parts of Hungary; for they
   take pains to learn it from masters, as other nations do. The chief
   reason why they generally affect it is, first, from their natural
   dispositions to learn it. Secondly, by reason of the syntax of their
   mother tongue, the Sclavonian, which has great affinity with that
   language; for they both decline their nouns, and conjugate their verbs,
   as the Romans did. Thirdly, because in all the villages throughout the
   nation they have school masters for that purpose, who are either
   rectors of parishes, or some other qualified persons appointed by them
   or by the bishop of the diocese. And fourthly, because in all towns of
   note the Jesuits have colleges set apart to instruct youth in that
   language.

   As to the study of divinity in Poland, those of that profession make
   all their learning consist in adapting Aristotle's logic and
   metaphysics to their school divinity; so that you may everywhere hear
   them talk much of entities, modes, quiddities, essences of things, and
   the like; for they value themselves more in the signification of
   logical terms than in the nature of things themselves which they reason
   about. Albertus Magnus is in great esteem here, and is perpetually
   quoted to attest the truth of any assertion, with as much vehemence as
   Aristotle by the Italians and Spaniards; though, as it has been said
   before, the natives of this kingdom have not less respect for this last
   philosopher than other nations have. Yet notwithstanding, they seldom
   take his meaning right, more especially in matters that are ambiguous;
   for they have published several large commentaries upon him, which
   besides contradicting each other, like our Dutch annotators, stand in
   need of explanations themselves. The Polish divines likewise are seldom
   well versed in practical divinity. They look very little into the Old
   and New Testament, and make few inquiries into the practice of
   primitive Christianity, having but a small insight into church history.
   In a word, they trouble their heads but seldom about convincing their
   reason of the sublimity and goodness of the Christian doctrine;
   implicit faith, and passive obedience to council and church decisions
   being entirely their guides. So that they will allow of nobody's search
   into the reasonableness of things, as if they should imagine, that a
   law or a doctrine given by God should not be consistent with reason.
   They have also a more than ordinary respect for Thomas Aquinas and Duns
   Scotus; their principal erudition consisting in being well read in the
   school points controverted by those two great men, how ill soever they
   are understood.

   I could instance in other arts and sciences; but those not being of so
   near a concern to your own studies, as that of divinity, I make it my
   choice to return to the description of the towns I have undertaken to
   give an account of. The next of which, in the third place, is Posen,
   situated on the river Varta. It lies in the midst of several hills,
   environed with a strong double wall and a very deep ditch. The city
   itself, it must be confessed, is but small, yet nevertheless exceeding
   beautiful, and well built, its edifices for the most part being of
   stone. Among the public structures, the most considerable is the
   castle, raised upon a small eminence between the rivers Varta and
   Prosna. It is generally provided with all sorts of ammunition, and
   wants for neither strength nor beauty. The rest of the public buildings
   may justly claim the like character, though the most stately lie on the
   other side of the river Varta in the suburbs, which are very large. The
   cathedral church, with a college of prebendaries, and the bishop's
   palace, are situated among the marshes, and form a pile of buildings
   that is called Valilovia, and built so strong, that, like the town, it
   is able to withstand a siege. John Lubransius, a bishop of this see,
   founded a college here, to be visited by that of Cracow, and which was
   after wards very much augmented and beautified by Adam Conarius, his
   successor, and farther enriched by one Rosrasevius with several noble
   gifts. So that though the Jesuits have a college in the city, where
   several sorts of literature are taught with great encouragement, this
   also in the suburbs does not want for noble youth, who daily flock
   thither to be instructed by the lectures of mathematics and law. These
   suburbs are all surrounded by a morass and a great lake. They are
   frequently laid under water by the over flowing of the Varta, insomuch
   that sometimes, with the neighbouring villages for several miles
   together, the tops of the houses are only to be seen. This inundation
   likewise often extends to the town itself, notwithstanding its high
   walls, in such a manner that boats have been known to swim about the
   streets. But this lasts not long, for the waters commonly retire in two
   or three days at farthest.

   The inhabitants of this city are generally Roman Catholics, though vast
   numbers of Jews live also among them, government is executed by a
   starost, chosen yearly out of the schipens, or aldermen, who, as long
   as this office lasts, enjoys also the title of general of Great Poland.

   Seven miles from hence lies Gnesna, from the Sclavonian word gniazdo,
   which signifies a nest; which, in the fourth place, has its situation
   (as most of the towns in these parts have) amongst bogs and hills. It
   is an archbishop's see, and gives title to the primate of all Poland.
   This was formerly the metropolis of the whole kingdom, having been
   built by Lechus, the first founder thereof. In the cathedral is
   reposited a great quantity of inestimable treasure, most of which is
   owing to the tomb of St. Adelbert, raised in the middle of the church,
   cased about with silver, by Sigismund III. and the gifts of Henry
   Firlesus, late archbishop of that diocese, who, among other rarities,
   gave his mitre, valued at 2000l. sterling. The gates opening to this
   church are all of Corinthian brass curiously wrought, which were first
   taken from the monastery of Corsuna in Taurica Chersonesus, afterwards
   removed to Kiow, and this brought hither by order of king Boleslaus II.

   Amongst other things worthy of remark, I observed here, for I never
   thought it a damnable sin (like our sectarists in England, who call
   themselves by the soft name of Protestant dissenters) to be acquainted
   with their ceremonies at saying mass, that, while any part of the
   gospel was reading, every man drew his sword half way out of its
   scabbard, to testify his forwardness to defend the Christian faith;
   which has been a custom put in practice throughout all Poland ever
   since the reign of king Miecislaus, who was the first of that character
   in this kingdom who embraced Christianity, in the year of our Lord 964,
   and was the first sovereign prince of it that renounced paganism.

   The next city I promised you an account of is Lowitz, much more
   populous than the very capital of the palatinate of Rava. And this, in
   the fifth place, is famous for being the wonted residence of the
   archbishop of Gnesna and primate of Poland. His palace there is built
   among the marshes, yet nevertheless consists of several fair piles of
   building. The church also is a very beautiful structure, and enriched
   with several noble gifts. It has likewise a great many considerable
   monasteries, abbeys, &c. but nothing more worthy of notice than a very
   fair library, replete with books of all kinds, but very rarely turned
   over, (as I could perceive by the covers,) they being placed there
   rather for shew and ostentation than any real use or instruction. The
   keeper of this library is monsieur de St. Piere, a Frenchman, who was
   likewise cross-bearer to his eminence the cardinal primate, and a
   person every way qualified for that office. He shewed me several
   valuable books in all languages, that might have excited the curiosity
   of one that had not seen that magazine of all useful knowledge, the
   Bodleian library; but nothing pleased me more than a sight of an
   inscription on the monument of the last king of Poland but one, who
   voluntarily, in 1668, left his kingdom, and retiring into France, died
   afterwards at Nevers in 1671. It was written by the librarian's
   correspondent, father Francis Delfault: which, for the excellency in
   its kind, I took a transcript of, after the following manner:

   Æternae Memoriae
   REGIS ORTHODOXI
   HEIC
   Post emensos Virtutis
   Ac Gloriae Gradus omnes,
   Quiescit nobili sui Parte,
   Johannes Casimirus,
   Poloniae,
   Ac Sueciae Rex;
   Alto e Jagellonidum
   Sanguine
   Familiâ Vasatensi
   POSTREMUS,
   Quia summus
   LITERIS, ARMIS, PIETATE.
   Multarum Gentium Linguas
   Addidicit, quo illas propensius
   Sibi devinciret.
   Septendecim Praeliis collatis
   Cum Hoste Signis,
   Totidem Uno minus vicit,
   SEMPER INVICTUS
   Moscovitas, Suecos, Brandeburgenses,
   Tartaros, Germauos,
   ARMIS;
   Cosacos, aliosque Rebelles
   Gratiâ, ac Beneficiis
   EXPUGNAVIT.
   Victoriâ Regem eis se praebens,
   Clementiâ Patrem.
   Denique totis Viginti Imperil Annis
   Fortunam Virtute vincens,
   Aulam habuit in Castris,
   Palatia in Tentoriis,
   Spectacula in
   Triumphis.
   Liberos ex legitimo Connubio
   Suscepit, queis postea orbatus est,
   Ne si Se majorem reliquisset,
   Non esset Ipse maximus,
   Sin minorem, Stirps degeneraret.
   Par ei ad Fortitudinem
   Religio fuit,
   Nec segnius Caelo militavit,
   QUAM SOLO.
   Hinc extructa Monasteria, et
   Nosocomia Varsaviae,
   Calvinianorum Fana in
   Lithuania excisa:
   Sociniani Regno pulsi
   Ne Casimirum haberent Regem,
   Qui Christum Deum non
   Haberent.
   Senatus a variis Sectis ad
   Catholicae Fidei Communionem
   Adductus,
   Ut Ecclesiae Legibus
   Continerentur
   Qui Jura Populis dicerent.
   Unde illi praeclarum
   ORTHODOXI NOMEN
   Ab Alexandro Septimo
   Inditum.
   Humanae denique Gloriae
   Fastigium praetergressus,
   Cum nihil praeclarius agere
   Posset,
   Imperium Sponte abdicavit
   ANNO M.D.C.LXVIII.
   Tum porro Lachrymae, quas
   Nulli regnans excusserat,
   Omnium Oculis manarunt,
   Qui abeuntem Regem, non secus
   Atque obeuntem Patrem
   LUXERE.
   Vitae Reliquum in Pietatis
   Officiis cum exegisset,
   Tandem auditâ Kameciae
   Expugnatione, ne tantae Cladi
   Superesset,
   CHARITATE PATRIÆ
   VULNERATUS OCCUBUIT
   XVII. Cal. Jan. M. D. C. LXXII.
   Regium Cor Monachis hujus
   Coenobii, cui Abbas praefuerat,
   Amoris Pignus reliquit;
   Quod illi istoc Tumulo
   Moerentes condiderunt.

   4. Warsaw is the metropolis of the province of Masovia, defended with a
   castle, wall, and ditch, seated in a plain in the very centre of the
   kingdom, and therefore pitched upon for convening of the diet. It is
   divided into four parts, viz. the old and new town, the suburbs of
   Cracow and Praag, and adorned with divers stately piles of buildings,
   particularly a stately palace, built in four squares by king Sigismund
   III. and much improved by his successor; whereof the present king John,
   by some foundations of apartments which he has caused to be laid, is
   not to be the last mentioned in history. Opposite to this, on the other
   side of the river, stands an other royal palace in the middle of
   delightful groves and gardens, erected by Uladislaus VII. and called by
   the name of Viasdow, where the states or diet of Poland formerly used
   to sit and debate the most important affairs of the kingdom. Here is
   moreover the palace of king John Casimir, a most exquisite piece of
   architecture; as likewise another, of the same beauty and magnitude,
   built by count Morstin, great treasurer of Poland: also, within a
   league of this city, king John Sobieski is now laying the foundations
   of a neat country palace, which is to be called Villa Nova. The other
   public edifices are no less remarkable; being the church of St. John
   Baptist, where secular canons officiate, the arsenal, castle,
   market-place. And divers kinds of merchandises are conveyed hither
   along a river from the neighbouring provinces, and from hence carried
   to Dantzick, to be transported into foreign countries. In the suburbs
   of Cracow is a small chapel, built on purpose for the burial of John
   Demetrius Suski, grand duke of Muscovy, who died prisoner in the castle
   of Gostinin, together with his two brothers. This city was taken by the
   Swedes in 1655, but recovered, with other acquisitions in war, by the
   Poles some time after.

   5. Thorn, the second city of the second palatinate of Regal Prussia, is
   seated upon the banks of the Vistula, by which it is divided into two
   parts. It lies four Polish miles from Culm, the metropolis, (though of
   little note, because ruined in a manner by the Swedes) to the south,
   thirteen from Marienburgh, twenty-two from Dantzick, and twenty-nine
   from Warsaw. It was heretofore an imperial and free city, but
   afterwards exempted from the jurisdiction of the empire, and as yet
   enjoys many privileges. Its name seems to have been taken from the
   German word thor, signifying a gate, because built by the Teutonick
   order, as it were for a gate to let forces into Prussia whenever
   occasion served. Whence its arms are supposed to have been taken, being
   a castle and gate half open. This city does not stand in the same place
   where the old one did; that having been seated a mile westward from
   hence, where are now to be seen the ruins of an ancient castle, and
   some other monuments that have received great injury from time.
   However, it is at present the fairest and best built of any town in
   Royal Prussia; the streets being much broader, and houses more stately,
   than at Dantzick. It was very much beautified by one of its
   burgo-masters, Henry Stowband, in the year 1609, who founded a small
   university here, and endowed it with a considerable revenue. He
   likewise built an hospital, with a public library, wherein two of
   Cicero's epistles are preserved, written upon tables of wax, (the
   greatest rarity that I saw in all this kingdom,) and a townhouse
   erected in the middle of the market-place. The inhabitants revolted
   from the knights of the Teutonick order in the year 1454, and put
   themselves under the protection of Poland. But this city is for nothing
   more famous than the birth of that great astronomer Nicolaus
   Copernicus, whose name, without any other recommendation, would be
   sufficient to transmit it to posterity. John Albert, king of Poland,
   died here in 1501. It was taken by the Swedes in the year 1655, and
   regained by the Poles in 1658. Then the Swedes possessed themselves of
   it again, and the Poles retook it by surprise in the year 1665.

   6. Marienburgh, built in the year 1310, as a place of residence for the
   master and knights of the Teutonick order, as may yet be seen by the
   several stalls in the chapel of the castle erected for them. It lies
   seated upon the river Nogat, a branch of the Vistula, about six miles
   from Dantzick, and is defended by strong walls and high towers,
   together with a very large castle, wherein the better sort of prisoners
   are kept in time of war.

   Having mentioned the Teutonick order, it may not be unacceptable to
   give you its origin, and to trace it down, from its first settlement in
   this kingdom, to its expulsion out of it. It was first founded to
   reward and encourage great actions, and those particularly of the
   German nation, whence it came to have the title of Teutonick. For when
   the emperor Frederick Barbarossa had engaged in the crusade for the
   recovery of the Holy Land, a great number of German nobility and gentry
   joined his army as volunteers. Of this crusade were several other
   princes of Austria and Bavaria, Philip earl of Flanders, Plorant earl
   of Holland, &c. After this emperor's death, the Germans, being before
   Aeon, or Ptolemais, which they then besieged, chose for their leaders
   Frederick duke of Suabia, second son to the aforesaid emperor, and
   Henry duke of Brabant. Under these generals they behaved themselves so
   well, both at the taking of Aeon, Jerusalem, and other places of the
   Holy Land, that Henry king of Jerusalem, the patriarch, and several
   other princes, thought themselves obliged to do some thing
   extraordinary in honour of the German nation. Here upon they
   immediately resolved to erect an order of knights of that nation, under
   the protection of St. George, but after wards they changed that saint
   for the Virgin Mary, by reason that she had an hospital already founded
   on mount Zion at Jerusalem, for the relief of German pilgrims; of the
   manner of building which, I am here told, that, in the time of the holy
   war, a wealthy gentleman of Germany, who dwelt at Jerusalem,
   commiserating the condition of his countrymen coming thither on
   devotion, and neither understanding the language of that place, nor
   knowing where to lodge, received them hospitably into his house, and
   gave them all manner of suitable entertainment. Afterwards obtaining
   leave of the patriarch, he erected a chapel for them, and dedicated it
   to the Virgin Mary; whence the knights that were established there
   afterwards came to have the title of equites Mariam. Other German
   gentlemen contributed largely to the maintaining and increasing this
   charitable work; insomuch that in a short time these knights became
   very numerous and wealthy, and gave themselves to military employments,
   and acts of piety and charity.

   In the year 1190, they elected their first great master, Henry Walpot,
   and in the year following had their order confirmed, upon the request
   of the emperor Henry VI. by the bull of Pope Celestine III. under the
   title of Teutonick or High-German knights of the hospital of St. Mary
   the Virgin: vowing poverty, obedience, and chastity, and obliging
   themselves to receive none but Germans into their order.

   After they had thus received confirmation from the papal see, some rich
   citizens of Bremen and Lubeck joining with them, and making large
   contributions, another hospital was erected for them in the city of
   Ancon, or Ptolemais, in Syria. But after that city, together with
   Jerusalem and all the Holy Land, had been taken by the Saracens under
   the command of Saladin, having been in possession of the Christians for
   more than eighty-seven years, one Hermannus, then great master, with
   the remaining knights, removed into Germany, on whom the emperor
   Frederick XL and pope Honorius III. (or, as some will have it, Conradus
   duke of Masovia, in 1220,) in the year 1229, bestowed the province of
   Prussia; where, having conquered that nation, and reduced it from
   paganism to Christianity, they built the city of Marienburgh, or
   Mary-town, and in the year 1340 fixed the residence of their great
   masters there.

   This country they enjoyed till about the year 1525, when Albert marquis
   of Brandenburgh, the last great master of this order in those parts, by
   a solemn renunciation, became feudatory to king Sigismund of Poland,
   who raised Prussia to a dukedom, and made this marquis first duke
   thereof. But however, some of the knights, disliking this action,
   proceeded to elect another great master, which was Walter de
   Cronenburgh: and forthwith leaving Prussia, took their residence up in
   Germany, where they continue at this day, though in no great
   reputation, except that the younger sons of the German princes are
   commonly admitted into their order.

   Their statutes were composed after the model of those of the knights
   Hospitallers and knights Templars, at this day the knights of Malta;
   but nevertheless, to distinguish them from these orders, their habit
   was ordained to be a white mantle, with a plain black cross on the
   breast. This cross they were also to have upon white banners, as
   likewise upon their shields in their coat of arms. They were moreover
   enjoined to live conformable to the orders and rules of St. Austin.
   Their first number was twenty-four lay brothers, and as many priests,
   though they are since increased to several hundreds. They both were
   allowed to wear armour and swords, and might celebrate mass in that
   habit. None of them shaved their beards, but by their order were
   obliged to let them grow, and to sleep upon sacks of straw. But
   however, this, with other mortifying injunctions, were soon of no
   manner of force.

   This order being established after the manner which I have shewn
   before, all Christian princes endeavoured to give them encouragement;
   and among the rest, his holiness (as the people of this side of the
   world call the pope) and the emperor gave them particular proofs of
   their favour and liberality. Philip king of France also, being willing
   to do the like on his part, made them great presents, and more over
   granted their grand master a liberty to wear the fleur de lis on the
   four extremities of their mantles or robes.

   Their power and force in war will appear by the efforts which Albert
   marquis of Brandenburgh, and their thirty-fourth and last great master,
   there made to keep his footing in Poland. He was nephew to Sigismund I.
   and elected in the time of Maximilian the emperor and pope Julius. The
   chapter of this order chose him, in hopes that, being so near a
   kinsman, he might prevail upon his uncle to restore to them what had
   been taken from them by the Poles. But this great master was so far
   from answering their expectation, that, having refused to swear
   allegiance to the king of Poland, he fortified all his towns for his
   defence, and gave occasion to a war to break out between him and his
   uncle in the year 1519? whereupon some few places were taken and lost
   on both sides. But in 1529, Wolfang duke of Schonenburgh, general of
   the Teutonick army, which consisted of about twenty thousand foot and
   eight thousand horse, sat down before Dantzick, and from the bishop's
   hill (vulgarly so called) threw away near four thousand bombs into the
   town, to little or no purpose, while the besiegers were very much
   incommoded by the cannon from the town; for a man durst scarce shew his
   head, but he had forty shot at him. This so discouraged the besiegers,
   that the major part of them soon discovered their inclinations to be
   gone, and for that purpose began to mutiny against their officers.
   Whilst they were thus wavering in their resolutions, and scarce doing
   any duty but by compulsion, the Polish army appeared, being twenty
   thousand horse, sent by the king to raise the siege. It was now high
   time for the besiegers to scamper; which they immediately set about
   with such precipitation, that the Poles found it no difficult matter to
   overtake them, and to kill and make prisoners great numbers of them.

   After this, the king's army took in Dirschow, Stargardie, and the
   strong castle of Choinicz, and proceeded in their conquests with such
   vigour and diligence, that most of the cities and castles of the order
   surrendered themselves. By these means the Teutonick knights were
   totally expelled Prussia; which their great master Albert perceiving,
   as likewise that he was no longer able to contend with so powerful a
   monarch as his Polish majesty, (though his predecessors had formerly
   done it for many years, when they were in a better condition than he
   was,) resolved to submit himself and his order to his uncle's mercy;
   which he not long after did in the public market-place of Cracow.

   A throne being erected for the king, much after the same nature of that
   wherein he is wont to take the oaths and homage of his subjects after
   his coronation, the marquis delivered up the ensigns of his order to
   the king, and swore all manner of allegiance to him. In consideration
   of which, his majesty returned him the ensigns of Prussia, quartered
   with the Polish, and at the same time created him duke of that part of
   the country which from thenceforward has had the name of Ducal Prussia,
   and continued all along in his family to this day.

   The Teutonick order being thus expelled Prussia, they transferred their
   chapter to Marienthal, where they continued to choose masters as the
   vacancies happened; he that is the chief of that order now being the
   forty-fifth master, and duke of Newburgh. The ceremony of creating one
   of these knights is after this manner. The person that is to be in
   vested with that dignity is to be conducted by the great master and
   knights, out of which three commissioners, who have been to inspect the
   titles of honour, are to make their report upon oath, that they have
   examined, and found his honour to be unquestionable. After which, he is
   to be sworn to chastity, poverty, and to go to the wars against the
   infidels, whenever occasion shall require. When they give him the white
   mantle with the black cross, which are the ensigns of this order, they
   pronounce these words according to custom: "We promise to give you, as
   long as you live, water, bread, and a habit of our order."

   The Teutonick order at present consists of twelve provinces, which are
   Alsace and Burgundy for one, Coblentz, Austria, and Etsch: these four
   still retain the name of provinces of the jurisdiction of Prussia, as
   the eight following do that of Germany, being the provinces of
   Franconia, Hesse, Bressen, Westphalia, Lorrain, Thuringen, Saxony, and
   Utrecht; although this last is now altogether under the dominion of the
   Hollanders. Every one of these provinces has its peculiar commanderies
   of the commendadors, of which the provincial is chief. These
   commendadors compose the chapter of the electors; amongst whom the
   great master has two voices, and a decisive one in case the numbers are
   equal. This great master's place of residence is to be at Mariendal in
   Franconia, where these assemblies are held.

   Having carried you out of Poland into the heart of Germany, and led you
   out of your way many leagues, give me leave to put you into the road
   again, and to bring you back to Dantzick, which is the last place I
   undertook the description of, and which I shall be the more particular
   in, on account of my longer stay there than in any other place.

   Dantzick (in Latin Dantiscum, or Gedanum) is the largest, strongest,
   and most wealthy city in all Royal Prussia, and is situated in one of
   the three islands (of which Regal Prussia consists) called by the
   Germans der Dantzicher Werder; this der Werder implying properly so
   many pieces of solid ground encompassed by fens and bogs.

   By whom this city was first built, it remains as yet undetermined.
   Becanus will have the Danes to have been the founders of it, and from
   them to have been called Daneswick, i. e. Danes-town. But this
   derivation seems to have too much Dutch in it, and to be drawn in
   favour of a people that are not content with engrossing the trade of
   the world, but its very towns too; therefore it is more probable, that
   to the word Dan, Cdan, or Gdan, was added the Sclavonian term Scke,
   (signifying a town,) which made it Danscke, Cdanscke, or Gdanske, and
   which might very reasonably be supposed afterwards, for better
   pronunciation sake, to be changed into Dantzig, or Dantzick.

   The town itself is watered by the rivers Rodawn and Motlaw, and divided
   by the former into two parts, the old and the new: on the southern and
   western side, it is surrounded by high mountains, and has been well
   fortified against the incursions of the Swedes and others, ever since
   the year 1656. It has a large and high wall, so broad, that coaches may
   easily go round the ramparts; and so large in compass, that it is three
   hours' journey round, which I may very well compute at six English
   miles. At the entrance of the Rodawn, on the other side it, is a strong
   fort, wherein there is commonly a garrison of a thousand men; nor is it
   possible that this city should be bombarded from the sea, by reason of
   its distance from it; but from the neighbouring hills it may; and
   therefore some works are raised there, and always a certain number of
   soldiers, with store of can non and ammunition, placed in them for its
   greater security.

   It is also at present a very famous mart, and one of the principal of
   the Hans towns, scarce inferior to Hamburgh, being altogether governed
   by its own laws, though under the protection of the crown of Poland,
   from which it has a castellan appointed over it: half of the suburbs
   belong to that crown, and the other half to the city; for in some parts
   the crown lands reach to the suburbs, but in others the city lands go
   several miles together into the country.

   There are twenty parishes in the city and suburbs. The houses are
   generally of brick, and the streets most commonly very wide, and well
   paved, though somewhat dirty in winter, as most of the streets in
   Poland are. The chief part of the city is called by the inhabitants Die
   rechte Stadt, and was built by Conrad Wallenrodt, master of the
   Teutonick order, about the year 1388. There are no gardens in the city,
   but several very fine and large ones in the suburbs.

   The inhabitants are for the most part Germans, and computed to be
   upwards of two hundred thousand souls; whereof the greatest part have
   adhered to the Ausburgh Confession ever since the year 1525; and the
   Lutherans alone are admitted to a share in the government: yet all
   other sects are tolerated, and allowed a free exercise of their
   religion.

   The public buildings here are, first, the churches; whereof there are
   two very famous, viz. St. Mary's and St. Peter's: the former of which
   is by much the stateliest and most exquisite fabric in all Prussia,
   being very high-roofed, and having in it a most melodious and well
   wrought organ. Besides it has forty-eight altars, three thousand seven
   hundred and twenty-two windows, and a font, made at Antwerp, which cost
   twenty-four thousand rixdollars, i. e. five thousand four hundred
   pounds of English money.

   In the second place, the townhouse, where the magistrates sit for the
   despatch of public business, is a most magnificent structure, with an
   exceeding high spire. It has abundance of noble inscriptions in several
   rooms, into which it is divided; and the court of judicature surpasses
   any that I ever yet saw, being built all with freestone, and curiously
   adorned on the outside with embellishments of fretwork, &c. as it is
   inwardly with original pictures and hieroglyphics by the best masters.

   Three large magazines of warlike stores, ammunition, and provision are
   likewise kept in this city, capable of equipping more than forty
   thousand men at few hours warning; and a prodigious amassment of naval
   stores to fit out shipping.

   But though there is no university, the professors of all faculties
   reside here in a very noble college, which is endowed with most
   academical privileges but that of giving the degree of a doctor. The
   exchange for merchants may likewise pass for a famous pile of building,
   if compared to any other but ours in London, or the stadthouse at
   Amsterdam: nor are the palace of St. Dominick or the college of Jesuits
   here any ways inferior to many beautiful edifices.

   The jurisdiction of Dantzick extends to above forty miles
   circumference, and it sends two deputies to the diet of Poland.

   The absolute government of it is in the hands of thirty senators,
   elders, or magistrates; whereof the greatest part are persons of
   learning, though some few are merchants, but of no other trade. None of
   the clergy can be of this magistracy, though any foreigners may; yet
   none of any other religion but the Lutheran, except the Calvinist,
   whereof there must be always four in the whole senate.

   The senators, when once created, continue for life; and the first and
   chief of them are the four burgomasters, or, as they call them,
   proconsuls; out of which a president is chosen every year. Under these
   there are thirteen consuls, who choose the aforesaid burgomasters out
   of their body, as often as vacancies happen by death, &c. They likewise
   have the election of all other officers belonging as well to the city
   as the suburbs.

   There are twelve scabins or judges for all manner of processes; from
   whom there lies an appeal to the thirteen consuls and four
   burgomasters, and from thence to the court of Poland. The thirtieth
   senator is their syndic or orator, who is like a master of the
   ceremonies, to receive and compliment any foreign ministers or agents:
   he takes place of all the scabins, as the consuls and four
   burgomasters.

   The king nominates every year, out of the consuls or burgomasters, a
   burgrave, to represent his person in the senate: and all sentences of
   death must be signed by him in the king's name; for nobody can be
   executed here without such signing: and there is a very out of the way
   distinction in those executions; for natives must be always executed
   before Arlus-house, or the townhouse, and foreigners near one of the
   gates of the city, where the prison lies: all those that are executed
   in the city are beheaded; but all thieves and robbers (the others'
   crimes being offences against the state) are to be hanged about two
   miles out of town, at a famous gallows supported by four pillars of
   brick.

   To represent the grievances of the people, and to maintain their
   privileges, there are an hundred burghers chosen, for inspecting the
   conduct of the senate. They have likewise a vote in electing the
   clergy, in conjunction with the senate. Within this city and its
   jurisdiction there are no bishops, but only a college of the clergy,
   who have no power, except to examine such as are designed to be elected
   priests by the senate and the centum viri; the manner of whose election
   is this.

   The candidate first makes his application to the clergy to examine him;
   which done, they give him a certificate, setting forth that they think
   him capable, and allow him a liberty to preach. After which, the people
   or congregation of some parish present him to the senate and centum
   viri, desiring he may be elected for their minister; when, by plurality
   of voices, he is elected accordingly, and thereupon sent back to the
   college of the clergy to be ordained, which is performed by imposition
   of hands, reading of prayers, and some other ceremonies.

   In this city also there are four Roman Catholic churches; whereof one
   is the king's chapel, and the rest are for monks. There are also two
   for Calvinists, where the senate has no power to nominate the clergy. I
   may here likewise observe a particular custom relating to marriage;
   which is, that there is a Roman Catholic official, a priest, who by his
   power can oblige any person to marry a woman that he has but promised,
   or given any present to whatsoever, though the party never meant any
   such thing as courtship for such a contract; which occasions a great
   deal of confusion and disorder.

   As for the king's power in the city; he can save any body's life that
   he pleases, though condemned to die by the magistrates. To him half the
   customs of the port come: and one mill brings him in every hour of the
   day and night twenty-four gold ducats. This mill is moved by the
   Rodawn, which runs through the city. It grinds such a great quantity of
   corn all the year round, that its revenue amounts to 4320l. sterling to
   the state and the king, besides the profit arising to the proprietors:
   and they are obliged to put the king's effigies on one side of their
   coin, though they commonly have their own arms on the other; and also
   to treat his Polish majesty and his whole court for three days, when he
   comes thither: but, however, he can bring but a few of his guards into
   the city. They are likewise to have a secretary always at the court of
   Poland.

   In relation to the city privileges; they can coin their own money
   without the king's leave, choose their magistrates, make their own
   laws, and determine absolutely in matters of debt to the value of five
   hundred gilders; but where the action exceeds that sum, an appeal lies
   to the tribunal of Po land. Yet in such case the appellant is obliged
   to lay down a hundred gilders in the townhouse before he can proceed:
   and this is to deter people from making such appeals; for the
   Dantzickers do not much care that any of their money should get into
   Poland, but where they cannot help it.

   This city has always above two thousand soldiers in service, and can
   easily maintain twenty thousand; but in cases of necessity has been
   known to have raised sixty thousand. As for ships, they have none that
   they call men of war, but abundance of merchantmen of three or four
   hundred tons each, and thirty or forty guns apiece, which never trade
   so far as the East or West Indies, but into the Straits, and all the
   other parts of Europe.

   It was taken from the Danes by Sabislaus, grandson to Swentorohus,
   about the year 1186, and seized by the Poles some short time after. The
   knights of the Teutonick order made themselves masters of it in 1305,
   and walled it round in 1314. Casimir III. king of Poland, surnamed the
   Great, regained it in 1454, and granted very great privileges to the
   citizens, who afterwards declaring for the Ausburgh Confession, sided
   with Maximilian of Austria against king Stephen Bathori: insomuch that
   the latter proscribed, and even besieged them in 1577. But however, by
   the mediation of other princes, they were restored to their religion
   and liberties in 1 597.

   In 1656, they vigorously repulsed the Swedes, and adhered to the
   interest of John Casimir, king of Poland; and at present they make one
   of the members of that state, having been admitted to a suffrage in the
   election of the Polish monarchs in the year 1632.

   Having mentioned king Stephen Bathori just before, I cannot omit an
   elogy which I found in an ancient manuscript in the college of the
   clergy's library here, relating to that prince. It runs thus:

   In templo plusquam sacerdos.
   In republica plusquam rex.
   In sententia dicenda plusquam senator.
   In judicio plusquam jurisconsultus.
   In exercitu plusquam imperator.
   In acie plusquam miles.
   In adversis perferendis, injuriisque condonandis, plusquam vir.
   In publica libertate tuenda plusquam civis.
   In amicitia colenda plusquam amicus.
   In convictu plusquam familiaris.
   In venatione ferisque domandis, plusquam leo.
   In tota reliqua vita plusquam philosophus.

   Thus much concerning the description of the places in and about this
   ancient and renowned kingdom: I shall in the next place make good my
   word in relation to other particulars concerning their religion,
   customs, and manners.

   Besides the Lutherans and Calvinists, which abound chiefly in Regal
   Prussia, there are many other religions tolerated in this kingdom, such
   as the Armenians, Jews, and Tartars put in practice, who all enjoy
   their different persuasions without molestation, though the national
   church is entirely after the mode of the Roman. As for the Armenians,
   they inhabit chiefly in certain towns of Prussia and Podolia, and have
   their peculiar prelates, abbots, and priests. Their service is
   exercised in their own language. These, as in other countries,
   acknowledge the supremacy of the see of Rome, but differ from it in
   worship. The Jews are every where to be found in Poland, and enjoy
   their religion and privileges without interruption, only they are
   restrained from trading within twelve miles of Warsaw, by the
   constitutions. Their number is so great, that it is accounted to amount
   to two millions; and they are so privileged, that all this vast body
   pays not above one hundred and twenty thousand florins a year to the
   state, which amounts to no more than twenty thousand dollars. In the
   great duchy of Lithuania, there are above thirty thousand Tartars, with
   liberty of the Turkish religion. They have been there more than six
   hundred years; and, for the continuance of their privileges, they are
   obliged to send twelve hundred men yearly to the wars against the Turks
   and Tartars. There are likewise, as I am told, a great many idolaters
   on the frontiers of this kingdom, who still retain their ancient
   superstitions, whereof one is, that when any one dies, and though it be
   a year afterwards another dies likewise, they presently dig up the
   first body, and cut off its head, thereby to prevent, as they say, the
   death of any more of their family.

   Yet, notwithstanding Poland admits of all these religions, the national
   churchmen, which are Roman Catholics, are so bigoted to their own
   persuasion, that they will admit of none into their senate, diet, or
   courts of judicature, (except in those of Prussia,) that hold not the
   same religious tenets. Also bishops always preside in the assembly of
   the states, that nothing may be transacted there in prejudice of that
   faith. The inferior clergy likewise, selected out of the several
   colleges and chapters of the kingdom, are appointed to have seats in
   the tribunals, and other courts of justice, for the same reason. In
   like manner, the great officers of the crown are very frequently
   bishops; and the chief secretary of the whole kingdom has always been
   an ecclesiastic.

   Here are sixteen ecclesiastical, and one hundred and twenty-eight lay
   senators. The first are either archbishops or bishops, and are the
   chief members of the senate, of which the archbishop of Gnesna is
   chief. He is primate of the kingdom, a title given him by the council
   of Constance, and moreover styles himself the pope's legate born, by a
   grant of the council of Lateran. All ecclesiastical affairs that have
   been determined in the archbishop of Leopolds, or any of the other
   bishops court, may be reversed or confirmed by an appeal to him; and
   his power and authority is so exceeding great, it being next to the
   king's, that it is death to draw a sword in his presence, or to quarrel
   in any manner whatsoever before him. When he goes to the king or the
   diet, there is always a golden cross carried before him; and when he
   sits, his chaplain holds it behind his chair. He has his marshal, who
   is a castellan, and senator of the kingdom. This person on horseback
   carries a golden batoon before his coach, but salutes none with it,
   except the king, when the archbishop and his majesty happen to meet.
   This marshal has likewise the honour to carry a staff of the same
   nature before the king, when the other marshals are absent. When the
   archbishop comes to wait on the king, the great chamberlain, or some
   other great officer, always receives him at the stairs, and the king
   comes afterwards out of his chamber, to meet him in the antechamber. He
   never pays any visits out of duty, but to the pope's nuncio, and to him
   only but once; neither does he pay that compliment to the ambassadors
   of crowned heads, though they visit him first.

   After the king's death, he is the supreme regent of the kingdom till a
   new one is chosen; during which time, he may coin money in his own
   name; a privilege granted him by Boleslaus the Chaste, but which,
   nevertheless, has not been practised, no money having as yet been seen
   of any one of the primates coining. The revenues also of the crown
   belong to him in the interregnum; he convenes the diet, and dissolves
   it at pleasure; and in case there happens any thing extraordinary, the
   government assigns him several senators for his assistance. In short,
   he is tantum non rex; and he alone can proclaim the king, when elected,
   and crown him afterwards; which is so very considerable, that he is
   looked upon by the ambassadors and envoys of the candidates, as the
   only person upon whom the success of their negotiations depend; and
   therefore all of them do their utmost to make him their friend.

   The reason why the republic intrusts this great authority to a
   clergyman is, lest, if it should devolve upon a secular senator, he
   might make use of it to advance himself to the throne.

   These senators' office is to serve faithfully the king and republic
   with their advice, to administer justice, by commission or otherwise,
   at home; and, with consent of the diet, to exercise foreign ministry
   abroad: and they value themselves for their dignities so highly, that
   they despise almost all other titles whatsoever. Therefore when
   Sigismund I. went, as has been before related, to Vienna, and his
   imperial majesty offered the title of prince of the empire to the
   several senators that came along with him, they absolutely refused
   them; giving for reason, "that being born gentlemen of Poland, and
   thereby having a right to treat either of peace or war with their king,
   they believed it an injury to their dignity to have a prince of the
   empire thought their superior."

   The regular clergy in Poland are generally more esteemed than the
   secular; for they can perform all the offices of parish priests,
   without having permission from the bishops; and friars mendicant are
   allowed to enter the most private part of any house, without so much as
   knocking at the door. All religious orders are likewise to be seen in
   this kingdom, but Carthusians and Minims.

   Those regular clergy are generally very rich, but not less dissolute
   and immodest; for they frequently go into the cellars to drink, those
   being the tippling places in this country; and sometimes you shall see
   many of them so drunk in the streets, that they are scarce able to
   stand or go; and this, without either their superiors or the people
   taking notice of them.

   On fast days, these religious persons, and all others of the Poles,
   abstain from milk, eggs, flesh, and boiled fish, at nights only: for
   provided they keep to these rules at that time, they may eat and drink
   what they please all the day; only Fridays and Saturdays they forbear
   butter, cheese, milk, and eggs, all the day long. Nor can they be
   inclined to eat butter or cheese on fast days, though they have
   permission from the church; for when the present archbishop of Gnesna
   obtained them that liberty from the see of Rome, they absolutely
   refused it, saying, "that his holiness the pope was an heretic." This
   rigid custom they have observed ever since one of those Roman pontiffs
   enjoined them to fast for a hundred years together for some enormous
   crime; and which it may be they do not yet think sufficiently expiated.
   They also are so obstinate in their abstaining from flesh, that they
   will not eat any, notwithstanding they are sick, and advised thereunto
   by their doctors, and permitted by their priests.

   As for the secular inferior clergy, they are either collegiate or
   parochial; and both are much after the same nature as with us. The
   canons are never almost present at the office; for they give the poor
   scholars to the value of two pence of our money per diem, to say their
   hours for them in the choir. And the parsons generally neglect their
   cures, by leaving most of their duty to the monks, or vicars, or
   curates. They also sing part of the service in the Polish language, and
   that especially in the parish churches at high mass.

   The rosary is also repeated in the Dominican's chapels, in which the
   men are seated, and join in the repetition on one side, and the women
   on the other; the former alone singing the Ave Maria, and the latter
   the Sancta Maria.

   Plurality of benefices is here tolerated; for there are some of these
   secular clergy who have not only rights to canonships, but also two or
   more parsonages. But there are none that take any care to perform the
   duties of their function; the bishops themselves being so careless of
   the episcopal charge, that they neglect correcting the inferior clergy
   when they do amiss.

   At divine service the Poles seem always very devout, and bestow
   considerable gifts upon their churches; but they are neither liberal to
   the poor, nor careful of sick necessitous persons. They pray always
   aloud in the church, and at the elevation of the host at mass, they
   cuff themselves, and knock their heads against the pavement or the
   bench whereon they sit, that it commonly makes a great noise, and may
   be heard at a considerable distance.

   Their ecclesiastical courts, as in other nations, are altogether in the
   hands of the bishops, who have each their chancellor, register, &c.
   from whom appeals may be made to the two archbishops, and even from the
   archbishop of Leopol to the archbishop of Gnesna. Nevertheless, from
   him appeals lie to the see of Rome. These judge according to the canons
   of the church; and the civil magistrates are obliged to be assisting to
   them in the execution of their sentences, as often as they shall be so
   required.

   To the ecclesiastical courts belongs the court of nunciature, held by
   the pope's nuncio, for that purpose always residing in Poland. However,
   before he can have any jurisdiction, he must have presented the king
   and the principal ministers of state with the apostolic brief of his
   nunciature.

   The civil jurisdiction is divided among diverse sorts of judges, and
   belongs to the commonalty as well as gentry. Some of these determine
   causes exempt from appeals, and others cannot.

   Those from whom there lies no appeal are the three high tribunals
   instituted by king Stephen Bathori, the judges whereof are all gentry.
   Two of these tribunals are for the kingdom, and one for the great duchy
   of Lithuania; and all of them consists of fixed numbers to be judges,
   both ecclesiastical and civil, chosen out of every palatinate; the
   former once in four years, and the latter once in two. These pronounce
   judgment by plurality of voices; but where matters are purely
   ecclesiastical, there ought to be as many of the clergy as the laity.
   The causes here are heard in order; for three days are allowed to enter
   all that come, and whatsoever are not booked in that time cannot be
   adjudged that session. So that a man who has a trial in these courts
   may be said to have all the nation for his judges, deputies both
   spiritual and temporal being sent thither for that end from all parts
   of the kingdom.

   There is also a board of green cloth to determine affairs relating to
   the king's household, (as with us,) two courts of exchequer, and
   likewise courts of the gentry and commonalty in every palatinate, which
   are neither exempt from appeals, nor by any means to have so much as
   one of the clergy among their judges, and determine in disputes about
   the limits of land, or in criminal cases.

   The immediate appeal from these courts is to the vice-chamberlain of
   the palatinate, who, either by himself or his deputy, the chamberlain
   of that district, restores all to persons illegally dispossessed, and
   ascertains all bounds and limits of land. This is in a manner the
   sphere of his whole jurisdiction. But where there is any contest
   between the king and any of the gentry in this kind, then, at their
   request, commissioners are appointed out of the senate, to inspect the
   matter of the controversy, and to do justice therein. Likewise when a
   difference arises between the king and a clergy man, commissioners are
   ordered; but there the bishop of the diocese claims the nomination of
   one or more of them; and when any of the courts of land-judicature die,
   the king cannot name others, till the district to which they belonged
   have chosen four out of the housekeepers; but then he may pitch upon
   one for each election.

   The other courts for the gentry are those that take cognizance of
   criminal cases; whereof there is only one in every starostaship, where
   the starosta himself, or his lieutenant, administers justice in his
   castle, or some other public place, at least every six weeks. He
   likewise determines in civil causes between such as have no lands, and
   such foreigners as come to trade here, and is to cause process to be
   served in criminal cases a fornight, and in civil, a week before the
   court sits.

   He is also the executive minister of all sentences pronounced, and
   likewise the sole conservator of the peace within his territories,
   being obliged, by himself or his officers, like our high sheriffs, to
   see all public executions performed.

   As to the courts of commonalty, they are either held in cities or
   villages. In cities, justice is administered by the scabins, {officers
   belonging to the king,) the magistracy, or judge advocate. The scabins
   have cognizance of all capital offences and criminal matters; the
   magistracy, of all civil cases, to which likewise the gentry are
   subject; and the judge advocate, of offences committed by the soldiery.
   Civil matters of small moment are determined solely by the governor of
   the city; but from him there lies an appeal to the townhall or
   magistracy, and thence to the king.

   In villages, the commonalty are subject to scabins, and to scultets, or
   peculiar lords; from which last there is no appeal. Here justice is
   almost arbitrary, except in criminal cases; the scultets being
   hereditary judges, and not to be dispossessed of their offices, but by
   death, and forfeiture of life by high treason, &c.

   The officers and magistrates of the plebeian courts are some named by
   their peculiar lords, and some elected by their fellow citizens, except
   in Cracow only, where the palatine has a right of choosing the
   magistrates, though he has not the same power to displace them after
   they are once chosen; they being also to continue their offices for
   life, unless forfeited by infamy and inability, as aforesaid.

   The profits of all offices in any of these courts are but very small,
   and uncertain; the Poles esteeming the honour of enjoying them
   sufficient recompence. Nevertheless, they have all salaries and
   perquisites, howsoever inconsiderable.

   The military jurisdiction of Poland is altogether in the hands of the
   king or his generals, although the palatines and castellans, who
   generally accompany his majesty in the wars, retain their authority
   over their respective inferiors, which is very despotical, (and like
   the chiefs over their vassals in Scotland;) but where those are
   refractory, a court-martial adjusts the difference.

   As for the laws of Poland, it is on all hands agreed, that t had none
   till the time of Casimir the Great, and then but very few made by him:
   although it is certain, that the Poles had embraced Christianity long
   before, and were well enough versed in human learning; yet was there
   never any law or statute of any prince committed to writing, but the
   pie were contented to be governed by the customs and manners of their
   ancestors, handed down to them from father to son. Casimir III.
   therefore, (called the Great from his prudent administration,)
   observing the disadvantages his kingdom laboured under by the Germans,
   who then frequently came into Poland on account of trade, received the
   Saxon laws, (now called Magdeburg laws, from the city whence they were
   taken,) by which Poland is at this day principally governed; although
   the gentry have many peculiar customs, and some statutes which have
   been since made; and which, in the time of Sigismundus Augustus, being
   compiled into one volume by learned men, were entitled, The Statutes of
   the Kingdom; and since (some having been approved and augmented, and
   others changed and altered in several diets) have obtained the name of
   Constitutions of Poland; to which, nevertheless, all that kingdom is
   not subject, Lithuania and Volhinia observing its own laws. Prussia
   also, both Regal and Ducal, has a municipal law of its own, commonly
   styled, the law of Culm; from which, notwithstanding, three cities are
   exempt, viz. Elbing, Bransberg, and Fraumberg, all which make use of
   the laws of Lansberg.

   The punishments in Poland are various, and differ only according to the
   quality of the crimes, and not of persons offending; for a thief is to
   be hanged, of what degree soever he be, and capital offenders, of all
   other kinds and qualities, are to be beheaded, (as has been observed in
   the description of Dantzick,) except in cases of the most flagrant and
   notorious villainies, when the criminal is commonly broken upon the
   wheel, or else tortured by cutting off two thongs or long pieces out of
   the skin of his back. A nobleman is sometimes punished by forfeiting
   half his estate to the king, and the rest to an informer, and sometimes
   by imprisonment only.

   Masters also have a power of chastising their servants; which they do
   after this manner: If the servant they are about to punish be a Polish
   gentleman, then they make him lie down on his belly on a carpet spread
   on the ground, or upon a stool, when another gentleman servant lays him
   on unmercifully upon the back with a rope or stick, giving him as many
   blows or lashes, as the master, who is always present, orders. After
   which, he that is beaten embraces the knees of him that has commanded
   him to be beat, and salutes him with the goodnatured title of
   benefactor. Which discipline seems a little too severe, but, however,
   is necessary from the temper of these people. The servants of vulgar
   extraction are likewise punished after the same manner, only with this
   difference, that they have no carpet spread under them. Some of the
   former think it an honour to be so thrashed; which honour they always
   bestow liberally, as often as they deserve it.

   Nor is this custom among the Poles, of punishing their gentlemen
   servants so rigorously, much to be wondered at, if it be considered
   that they may serve in the meanest offices, without derogating from the
   nobility of their birth, or incapacitating themselves for the highest
   preferments. For, says Hauteville, one of their most celebrated
   historians, "I have known some who, from being footmen to great lords,
   and drummers in a troop of dragoons, have been advanced to the dignity
   of senators;" there being nothing that debases nobility in this
   country, but a handicraft or mechanic employment.

   I should here bestow some time on the manner of choosing their diet,
   and its session, for the promulgation of the laws just now spoken of;
   but the several particulars and customs observed therein requiring more
   time than the compass of a letter will allow of, and a writer better
   versed than myself in the nature of constitutions, whereinto I have had
   but an imperfect insight; I shall say little more, than that the grand
   diet or parliament of Poland is an assembly of the king, senators, and
   nuncios, or deputies of every province, met together in any city or
   town of Poland or Lithuania, in order to deliberate upon state affairs,
   and the means to secure and preserve the kingdom, both in times of
   peace or war.

   It is the king, or, during an interregnum, the primate, who has the
   sole power of convening them, as likewise to appoint the place where
   they shall sit; and by the constitutions of the kingdom, the king, as
   head of the republic, is obliged to call a diet every third year; and
   of every three successively, two are held in Poland most commonly, and
   the third in Lithuania, in the city of Grodno, in the palatinate of
   Troki, twenty leagues from Vilna, capital of that great duchy; so that
   every ninth year, the king, with all the senators and deputies of the
   kingdom, goes into Lithuania; and every third, the senators and
   deputies of Lithuania come into Poland. The reason of the diet's being
   held thus in Lithuania, proceeds from the inhabitants of that duchy's
   complaint, that it was very inconvenient for them to come so far as
   Poland, without having it in their turn to make themselves
   compensation, by enriching their country also by the presence of his
   majesty and the estates of the kingdom.

   When the king is pleased to give out summons for this general meeting,
   he is, by the constitution in the year 1613, to issue forth circular
   letters six weeks before the time be appointed for its session, to all
   the palatines of the provinces, acquainting them with his design,
   together with the time he intends it shall meet at. He sends them
   likewise a list of all the affairs and articles which are to be treated
   of in that diet: whereupon every palatine, or his deputy, in his own
   respective government, forthwith despatches notice to all the
   castellans, starostas, and other gentry, to meet together at a certain
   time, in order to deliberate upon the articles and affairs proposed in
   the king's letters, as also to choose a nuncio, or deputy, to represent
   their intentions in the great diet. These letters are proclaimed by a
   herald at arms, and afterwards posted upon all the town gates and
   church doors; and the assemblies in the provinces, preparatory to this
   general meeting of the states, are termed by them comitiola, or little
   diets. Though, in cases of extremity, six weeks notice need not be
   given, as appears by the constitutions of the year 1638.

   The qualification for voting in these little diets is, that all sorts
   of gentlemen, both rich and poor, provided they have but three acres of
   land in their possession, which must be worth at least eight crowns
   sterling a year, (like our freeholders in the country,) have a right to
   come thither, where they have all equal authority and votes, none being
   suffered to be present there in that capacity, but who is well
   descended. But what is more particular, the electors must be unanimous
   here, or the choice is invalid; for I am informed, it has lain in the
   power of one of these diminutive gentry to hinder a person from being
   chosen chairman of one of these petty sessions, till the candidate had
   given him a Polish pair of boots, for he was before almost barefooted;
   after which he came in, and consented to the election.

   Not but at these little diets the poorer sort of gentry for the most
   part accord with their seignior, and generally approve of what he says,
   without knowing sometime what the matter in hand is: an example
   whereof, Hauteville says, happened in his time at one of these
   assemblies in the province of Masovia, where some affairs of the
   province being in debate, and one of the gentry declaring against them,
   his party or mob, not knowing what the business was, cried out like
   madmen, "that such a proposal should not pass." Whereupon, a witty
   fellow, observing their senseless rage, started up, and cried,
   "Brethren, you are fools to oppose this affair; for the question is
   only to abate the price of wheat and aqua vitae:" whereat they
   immediately consented to and approved of the matter, and said, that
   "their "seignior was a rogue that had betrayed them;" and moreover
   threatened him with their sabres.

   Yet, notwithstanding every gentleman-freeholder can vote for whom he
   pleases, the election always falls upon some rich nobleman, who can
   treat high, and make a figure suitable to this honourable charge. Most
   commonly they choose two or three deputies for every palatinate; one of
   which is always an understanding man, and the rest young noblemen, who
   are sent up to the grand diet for honour's sake, and that they may be
   trained up betimes in the service of their country.

   When the deputies are chosen, they receive full instructions from the
   gentry of their province, of what they are to agree to, and dissent
   from, in the general diet; and when once they are intrusted with these
   instructions, they dare not for their lives transgress them; so that if
   but one deputy has orders contrary to the rest, it lies in his single
   power to break all their measures.

   The number of all these nuncios amounts commonly to one hundred and
   seventy-four, excluding those of Prussia, which are uncertain, and
   which are sometimes seventy of themselves; and they cannot be chosen
   senators, being for the most part elected out of the common
   magistrates, excepting the judges of the high tribunals, assessors,
   collectors of the revenue, &c. Furthermore it is to be observed, that
   they have certain salaries assigned them by the constitutions in the
   year 1540.

   When all the deputies of the provinces are assembled at the place
   appointed for the grand diet, they divide themselves into three
   nations, viz. the deputies of High and Low Poland, and Lithuania. Out
   of these three, they next proceed to the choice of a great mareschal,
   or speaker, who is the first time chosen out of the deputies of High
   Poland; the second, out of the deputies of Low Poland; and at the third
   diet, out of Lithuania; and they often spend several days in bloody
   contests, before they can agree about an election. Nay, it happens
   sometimes that they cannot agree at all; and that the senators and
   deputies, who make great preparations to appear in the utmost pomp and
   grandeur, (whereof some come above three hundred miles from their
   respective homes,) are forced to return back again, for want of harmony
   among themselves in the choice of a mareschal, who, if he designs to
   get his election, must treat the gentry all the while, otherwise he
   would have few or no votes; it being their custom to prolong the
   election, that they may live the longer at the candidate's charge.

   The cause of this great stickling is, that the dignity of this
   mareschal is not only honourable, but exceeding beneficial; which
   occasions several noblemen among the deputies to raise cabals and
   intrigues to secure it to themselves. He has likewise a very great
   extent of authority, and can, by his eloquent and subtle speeches, turn
   affairs to what side al most he pleases; which is the reason that he is
   often bribed, either by the king, or foreign princes, or some great men
   of the kingdom.

   When the mareschal or speaker is elected, he, with all the deputies of
   the provinces, goes to kiss the king's hand in the diet chamber, where
   his majesty sits on a throne, with his chief officers of state about
   him, all standing. Then the chancellor proposes all the points to be
   debated in the diet, and desires the senators and the nobility to take
   them into consideration; which being done, the king immediately leaves
   them, lest his presence might be an awe upon them; and then the
   senators retiring into their apartments by themselves, and the nuncios
   into theirs, they forth with set about deliberating on the articles
   proposed.

   Not that I can here pass by unremarked a pleasant reflection of
   Hauteville, whom I am obliged to consult more than once, to enable me
   to go through with my under taking. That historian, in his account of
   Poland, says, that the Poles employ more time in drinking and feasting,
   than in debating matters of state; for they never think of that work,
   till they begin to want money to buy Hungarian wine with.

   After the chancellor has thus proposed to the diet, in the king's name,
   all the articles they are to go upon, the mareschal of the nuncios
   likewise, on the part of the deputies, presents to the king what they
   desire of his majesty; which is, first, to make void all intrenchments
   upon the state or the people; and secondly, to bestow all vacant
   offices upon persons of worth and merit.

   The manner of proceeding in the nuncios house is, that nobody offers
   his opinion there, till leave for so doing is asked of the mareschal,
   who alone introduces all messengers from the king, senators, army, or
   foreign princes, and answers them all in the name of the house: if any
   differences also arise among the nuncios, or other tumults occasioned
   by the spectators, he causes silence immediately, by striking his staff
   against the ground.

   The two bodies being thus separated, there are nevertheless frequent
   intercourses between them, as are between our two most honourable
   houses of parliament; and the nuncios have the same power as the
   commons are invested with in England, of impeaching all magistrates and
   officers in high stations for corrupt practices, and put the king in
   mind, as often as they think fit, of his coronation oath. Moreover, the
   nuncios' power and authority appears the greater, in that no
   constitution or law is of any validity or force, that was not first
   begun in their house. Nay, their mareschal is to make the first motion
   for all laws; and when concluded upon, it is his office only to read
   them before the senate. For this reason, about nine years ago, in the
   year 1668, the mareschal protested against a certain law, because it
   was first concerted in the senate.

   To confirm this authority, and for the further security of the nuncios,
   Sigismund I. in the year 1510, ordained that it should be high treason
   to injure any member of the diet, though he afterwards, in the year
   1530, restrained this law to the royal person; but which,
   notwithstanding, John Casimir in some measure renewed in the year 1640.

   As to their further privileges, if one of these nuncios commits any
   crime whatsoever, he is to be tried by his fellow members; which custom
   is in force a month before, and lasts as long after the breaking up of
   the diet.

   Nor, whilst they are thus providing for the public good in their house,
   does the king and senate pass their time idly in theirs; for he,
   together with the senators, tries criminal causes for a while, and
   employs himself upon several other matters set apart for certain days,
   until the lower house brings up bills to be debated.

   Near the conclusion of the diet, and before the senators and nuncios
   are joined, the mareschal of the lower house, in a set speech, gives
   thanks to the deputies for the honour and favour they have conferred
   upon him, and is answered by one of the nuncios in the name of the
   rest, who returns him their acknowledgments for the faithful execution
   of his office.

   To establish a law or constitution in the diet, is for the deputies
   first to propose it by their mareschal, and then the king and senate
   are to approve of it. But however, before it can have any force, it
   must be reviewed by the great mareschal and two deputies, or by three
   senators and six deputies. Having been thus reviewed, it is read out in
   the diet by the nuncio mareschal; after which the chancellor demands
   with a low voice, if the king, senate, and deputies consent to apply
   the seal to it; which being answered in the affirmative, it is
   presently sealed and enrolled among the acts in the registry of Warsaw;
   and this by the care of the deputies' mareschal, who is to see it done
   soon after the conclusion of the session. After this, one of the king's
   secretaries is to get it printed and dispersed among the several little
   diets and tribunals all over the kingdom.

   By the constitution of the kingdom, the diet ought never to sit above
   six weeks; and the gentry are so very exact in observing this
   privilege, that as soon as that time is expired, they send their
   mareschal to take leave of the king in their name, and to acquaint him,
   that they intend to wait on him and kiss his hand; and they are so
   obstinately bent upon abiding by this custom, that though the urgencies
   of state require never so short a continuance of the diet after the
   time prescribed, yet they always vigorously oppose it, as they did in
   the year 1649, when the Tartars and Cossacks had almost overrun the
   kingdom.

   The reason, it is to be presumed, why the members of the diet are so
   punctual in observing this constitution above any other is, because by
   that period of time their money is generally exhausted, and the
   provisions, which they bring in wagons from home, as beer, wine, meat,
   fowl, &c. are consumed by the great train of guards and other
   domestics, which they have with them. Besides, though no other person
   but the king, senate, and nuncios, can have any vote in the diet, vast
   numbers of other people every session flock thither; and most commonly
   foreign princes choose then to send their ambassadors with large
   retinues, according to the interest they have to support in the diet.
   At this time also the greatest part of the nobility, that have
   wherewithal to appear in any sort of grandeur, meet here, together with
   their wives and children, though they have no other business than to
   see and be seen. It is then their sons get acquainted with others of
   the young gentry, and often are married to some of the young ladies,
   that come in like manner to be observed, and to get husbands. In a
   word, the diet is a kind of general rendezvous of all the people of
   quality in the kingdom, as well men and women as children; so that what
   city soever the diet sits in, there are always forty thousand, and
   sometimes fifty thousand persons more than its wonted inhabitants.

   At this time likewise there is always such a crowd of soldiers,
   heydukes, and footmen in the streets, that it is not safe to be abroad
   in the night, for fear of being robbed or stripped naked, as it happens
   very often: for the Polish gentry give so very short allowance to their
   guards and servants, (a dragoon having but fifteen pence of our money
   per week to maintain his horse and himself,) that they must be forced
   to rob, and be otherwise very industrious, to live.

   Every member of the diet, after having obtained leave of the marshal,
   who can only stop their mouths, has a right to speak and harangue there
   as long as he pleases; nay, can say what he will; for they often abuse
   one another, and affront their king to his face, branding him with the
   infamous titles of "perjured, unjust," &c. They very often likewise
   threaten both him and his children, upon the least grounds of
   complaint. The occasion of this generally is, that they come drunk into
   the diet, and consequently talk only, like our quakers, as the spirit
   moves, either good or bad. Nay, you shall have some of these
   fuddle-caps talk nonsense for two or three hours together, trespassing
   on the patience of the more sober sort, by a railing, carping,
   injurious, and ill-digested discourse, without any one's ever daring to
   interrupt them, though they spin it out never so long; for if the
   marshal himself should then presume to bid them hold their tongues,
   they would infallibly dissolve the diet, by protesting against the
   proceedings thereof: so that the most prudent way is always to hear
   them out, and to shew no dislike to the impertinent speeches they make.

   Hereupon there is nobody but sees the unhappy state of the government
   of Poland; that their constitutions and privileges are most pernicious;
   and that the unlimited and absolute liberty of each member makes all
   the republic slaves to the whimsy or factious obstinacy of one
   particular man. For can there be any thing more unreasonable, than,
   after the senators and deputies have come from most remote provinces
   with excessive expense to the diet, and laboured jointly with their
   sovereign to conclude matters for the common interest of the nation, it
   should be in the power of one disaffected or corrupted person, without
   giving any further reason than his own pleasure, to annul the
   proceedings of the rest, and to dissolve the diet, at a juncture
   especially, when there is the greatest necessity for their concurrence?

   Thus, Sir, you may perceive that affairs of the greatest consequence
   depend not only on the prudent deliberations of sober men, but also on
   the capricious humours of the senseless and depraved; which excessive
   liberty of every private man shews, that both the nation and the diet
   have none at all.

   Yet there is a policy in concluding matters by unanimous consent; since
   this constitution was established to deprive their kings of all means
   and opportunities of ever becoming absolute: for they imagined it to be
   morally impossible, (as it really is,) that whatever interest or
   authority the king might get in the country, he should ever prevail so
   far as to bring all the members of the diet (though he might have the
   majority) to consent to any clause or bill, which might any ways be
   injurious to the nation.

   From what has been said, you may have just reason to admire how the
   Polish kingdom could subsist for above a thousand years with such bad
   constitutions, and still possess not only vast tracts of land, but also
   hitherto enjoy their freedom and liberties in their utmost force and
   extent. It is wonderful also, that far from losing or limiting any of
   their privileges, they rather enlarge and increase them, as often as
   they elect their kings. Nay, considering the power of their sovereign,
   the absolute prerogative every gentleman has in his own lands, in a
   manner above the laws, the turbulency of their diets, and the small
   obligation the officers think they lie under to perform their several
   duties, the Poles themselves have owned it to be no less than a
   miracle, that they should have subsisted as a kingdom and republic so
   long; I having heard them to say, "that their preservation was to be
   attributed to God alone, that protected them to be the invincible
   bulwark of Europe against the progress of the common enemies of
   Christendom, the Turks and Tartars."

   But here we have no need to have recourse to any peculiar providence
   bestowed by God upon the Poles, since, by our own ordinary recourse to
   all natural causes, we may easily infer that the Polish nation could
   not but subsist hitherto only, but likewise must, in all probability,
   last as long as any kingdom in Europe; and this for the following
   reasons.

   First, Because, though the king's power is limited by the law, his
   credit and authority nevertheless is so great, that he can dispose the
   affairs of the diet as he pleases, especially where they tend to the
   public good of the kingdom; for few, if any one at all, will venture to
   protest against any proceedings there, that are for the interest of the
   nation, unless they are supported by a good party of senators and
   deputies; and this, because it is not only infamous and scandalous to
   his person, but also prejudicial to his posterity, that breaks up a
   diet; and not a little dangerous to his life, by irritating and
   disobeying so powerful a body. For they are commonly very liberal, in
   their passion, of slashes and cuts with their scimitars on any
   ill-natured, corrupted member that opposes the interest of his country,
   though, in reality, he has the law on his side. It is certain,
   therefore, that when any person withstands the rest in the diet, it is
   either because the king has not sufficiently employed his authority to
   pacify him, or his policy to win him with some small present; or else,
   because he does not care they should agree; or lastly, in regard to a
   considerable number of senators and deputies, that support, or rather
   employ him to protest against an act which they do not think it for
   their interest to let pass.

   Secondly, The order of the government, and their courage and
   resolution, does not so much contribute towards their preservation, as
   the envy and jealousies of their neighbours among themselves; for when
   the king of Sweden and the elector of Brandenburgh made war with
   Poland, the Tartars came to assist the Poles, and at the same time the
   king of Denmark made a diversion in Sweden: when the Tartars likewise
   declared war against Poland, most commonly either the emperor of
   Germany or the czar of Muscovy comes to its relief, or else make great
   diversions on their sides. For as it is the interest of the princes
   their neighbours not to let them grow to an exorbitance of power, so it
   is not at all for their benefit to let them perish; for whosoever could
   be able to conquer Poland, and unite it to his dominions, would quickly
   be too powerful to be put in balance with the rest.

   Thirdly, The Poles, besides this, can the more easily conserve their
   dominions, by reason that they have very few strong forts or castles to
   shelter their enemies in, where they happen to make any progress in
   their country; yet I verily believe that an army of fifty thousand men
   well disciplined would at present conquer the whole kingdom of Poland,
   though at the same time I am of opinion that an hundred thousand could
   not be able to keep it. Carolus Gustavus, king of Sweden, with about
   forty thousand men, entirely subdued Poland in less than two years
   time; yet when he began to encroach too much upon their constitutions
   and liberties, the Polish gentry joined unanimously together, and soon
   drove the Swedes out of the kingdom. The Tartars, in numerous bodies,
   make frequent incursions into this open country; but still, as soon as
   they have loaded themselves with their booty, they make all possible
   haste away. The loss of Caminiec makes the Poles admire at their own
   policy in having no strong towns; for they say, had not that been so
   well fortified, it had not served for shelter to a strong garrison of
   Turks and Tartars at their doors. Insomuch that it may be observed,
   that forts and castles, which other nations account their greatest
   security, would inevitably be the ruin of Poland; they being neither
   well skilled in besieging towns, nor plentifully stored with good
   artillery, engineers, ammunition, or other necessaries, since they
   never were nor will be able to retake Caminiec, though it is a place of
   no extraordinary strength.

   I come now to my last particular; which is a short view of their
   customs and manners, such as I have already given no account of; and
   must assure you, that both men and women are extravagant to the last
   degree, insomuch that some among them will have fifty suits of clothes
   at once, all as rich as possible. But what shews their prodigality much
   more is, that they will have their servants go almost as well clad as
   themselves; whereby they generally waste away their estates in a short
   time, and are reduced to great poverty and want. As to their
   dwellingplaces, they never live above stairs, and their houses are not
   united: the kitchen is on one side, the stable on another, the house on
   another, and the gate in the front; all which make a court, either
   square or round.

   The inside of these houses is generally hung with tapestry or arras;
   and all the rest of their householdstuff proportionably suitable. Yet
   towards Tartary they have little or no rich furniture; and the gentry
   content themselves with a few small beds with taffeta curtains, just
   enough to lodge their families; for if any go to lie at their houses,
   they for the most part carry their beds along with them. Though it be
   extreme cold in Poland, yet will almost every one of these gentry have
   a bagnio in his house, in which the women have their separate
   apartments. There are likewise public baths in every city and town for
   the use of the common people, which they frequent not only in summer,
   but also in winter; from the use of which, in all probability, it
   happens that the Polish children seldom break out in their head or
   face, and that not one of a thousand is distorted, crooked, or
   ill-shaped, as in other countries.

   The Poles are generally so great admirers of splendour and shew, that
   their ladies scarce stir out of doors, though little further than cross
   the way, without a coach and six horses, either to church, or to visit
   a neighbour; but the men for the greatest part go on horseback, and
   rarely on foot, which they look upon as ignoble. When the gentry of
   either sex go abroad at night, they have twenty-four or more white wax
   flambeaux carried before their coach. Wo men of quality for the
   generality have their trains borne up by he or she dwarfs: they have
   also an old woman with them, which they call their governante, and an
   old gentleman usher, whose office it is to follow their coach on foot,
   and to help them out of it when they alight; though the reason of these
   two old peopled waiting on them does not proceed from any jealousy in
   their husbands, as in most of the eastern countries, since the Polish
   ladies are generally very modest, and do not at all abuse the great
   liberty that is allowed them.

   As the Poles bear their own losses, and suffer all disasters, with a
   great deal of temper, so likewise they regard the miseries and
   misfortunes of others with the same indifference; for they will often
   stand and see a house burn, without offering in the least to lend a
   helping hand to quench the fire. Neither are they more indulgent to
   their children, or, on the contrary, the children to their parents;
   both of whom are reciprocally suffered to continue slaves to the
   Tartars, when but a small sum of money would purchase their redemption.

   As to their marriages, it must first be observed, that the feasts of
   those gentry always last three days, be they that make them either poor
   or rich; wherefore they are necessarily exceeding expensive; since, if
   a lady give in matrimony any one of her waiting maids, she generally
   expends as much as for one of her daughters: an instance of which I saw
   at court, during my lord ambassador Hyde's stay at Zolkiew, when the
   queen celebrated the nuptials of one of her maids of honour after this
   manner. The first and second day she gave a very magnificent feast; for
   which purpose a large hall was pitched upon, where three tables were
   placed. At the first sat the king and queen, in a manner that both
   faced the entrance into the hall. Next the queen sat the couple that
   were to be married; and next to the king, the pope's nuncio and
   archbishop of Gnesna, with the foreign ambassadors. At the two other
   tables, extending the whole length of the hall, were placed all the
   ladies, senators, and officers, except only such as attended upon the
   king and queen, all ranked according to their respective precedence.

   This feast began both days precisely at four in the after noon, and
   lasted to the same hour of the next morning; and it was observable that
   the senators eat very little, but drank Hungarian wine to an immoderate
   degree; nor did the bi shops themselves shew any great tokens of
   continence, they leaving their seats very often, to go up to the king's
   table, and drink his majesty's health on their knees. The ladies, out
   of modesty, only touched the tops of the glasses with their lips, and
   so sat them down before them, or poured them into their plates, in such
   a manner that abundance more wine was spilt than drank by them.

   When they had sitten about five or six hours at table, the violins and
   a little sort of portable organ began to strike up, and then they spent
   the rest of the time in dancing. In this exercise every body joined;
   and even I myself, who have no manner of relish for such unedifying
   vagaries, had a Madonna put into my hand by the bishop of Plosko, whom
   I had the honour, as domestic chaplain to the ambassador from the king
   of Great Britain, to sit next to. Those that began this whimsical way
   of shaking the feet, were the most ancient senators and old ladies, who
   moved slowly about, like so many friars and nuns in procession; yet
   though the dance began with such gravity and formality, it was ended
   with a great deal of hurry and confusion.

   On the second day, all the guests presented the bride with something
   new; and none gave less than a piece of plate: which presents were all
   made in the presence of the queen, it being the custom to perform this
   ceremony just before they sit down to table. These made a good part of
   the bride's portion.

   On the third day, the espousals were solemnized after this manner. All
   the guests accompanied the bridegroom and bride on horseback to church,
   as likewise in their return home. During all the time of their going
   and coming, the trumpets sounded from the balconies on each side of the
   way. When the bride had been conducted to her husband's house, where a
   noble entertainment had been prepared, she, at the departure of the
   company after dinner was ended, fell a crying; it being the custom, it
   seems, in Poland, for maids to weep at that time, and to seem
   concerned, for fear they should be thought impudent and immodest.

   The men and women that stand godfathers and god mothers together at
   christenings, are thenceforward deemed to be cousins and relations,
   though they were not so before, and consequently cannot be married to
   each other, without a dispensation from the bishop of the diocese.

   The ceremonies of burial also in Poland are usually celebrated with so
   great pomp and magnificence, that one would rather take them for
   triumphs than interments. At these, the corpse having been put into a
   velvet coffin with large thick silver plates at each corner, is placed
   in a hearse or chariot with six horses all covered with black housings.
   The coffin has a large black velvet pall thrown over it, with a cross
   of red satin in the middle, and six long black silk tassels hanging
   down from it, which are borne by as many of the deceased's domestics,
   all in close mourning. Before the chariot march several priests, monks,
   and a great number of people, each of them carrying a white wax torch
   lighted in his hand; next to whom, and immediately before the corpse,
   come three men on horse back, who carry the arms of the deceased, viz.
   his sword, his lance, and his dart. The procession thus set out moves
   very slowly, so that they always come late to church. After the
   burial-service is over, those that carried the arms enter the church on
   horseback, and furiously riding up to the coffin, break them thereupon;
   after which, the body is interred. Then they return to the house, where
   there is always a very sumptuous supper prepared; at which not only the
   lay guests drive away sorrow by swilling to excess, but force the
   clergy to do the like, by the same acts of intemperance.

   I shall close all with the customs and manners of travel ling in
   Poland. As an introduction to which, you are to understand, that there
   are scarce any inns in that country, except those the natives call
   karczmas, where travellers are obliged to lodge with the cattle. These
   inns, or rather long stables, are all built up with boards, and covered
   with straw: within there is no furniture; neither are there any
   windows, but all the light comes in either at holes made by the
   weather, or the crevices of ill-joined boards. It is true, at the
   further end they have a little chamber with a fire-hearth; but to make
   an abatement for that, there is no lodging in it, because of the gnats,
   fleas, bugs, and especially the noisome smell that incommodes it. For
   if they happen to have a little window there, (which is a rarity if
   they do,) yet they never open it, though the weather be at its
   extremity of heat: so that strangers choose to lie in the aforesaid
   stable, where the gospodarz or innkeeper lodges himself and his family,
   than to be suffocated by the stink and smell of so close and small a
   room. In the long room there is also an intolerable smell, occasioned
   by a parcel of rotten cabbages, which those people always keep by them.
   And this, though it may be agreeable enough to the natives, who are
   used to it, yet to strangers it must be very offensive.

   In the inns or stables there are no tables or beds, except one of the
   last in the little room just mentioned, which no body cares to lie in,
   because they can have no sheets but what are as coarse as sackcloth,
   and have been often lain in before. Neither is the straw in the stable
   much better, be cause (even of that) every company cannot have fresh:
   for the gospodarz, after his guests are gone, generally gathers it up,
   and preserves it for new comers. Yet is it, in this condition,
   preferable to the bed, by reason that he most commonly airs it after it
   has been used.

   By reason of this ill entertainment on the roads, all travellers in
   this country are obliged to have a calash with two horses, wherein they
   carry all their necessaries and provisions. Their beds, quilts,
   bolsters, sheets, and the like, are generally packed up in a large
   serge bag, which afterwards serves them instead of a seat in their
   leathern convenience. They must provide also for the belly, by a case
   of bottles, wherein to put the drink they make use of on the road, and
   a basket for their meat, bread, &c. Moreover, they must furnish
   themselves with every individual thing that they may have occasion for,
   and take care to renew what they have exhausted, whenever an
   opportunity shall offer: for he that expects any thing but the
   indifferent lodging which I have before spoken of, will be in a fair
   way of laying down in it supperless.

   Thus you may perceive, sir, that one that travels in Po land must, as
   it were tortoise or Tartar like, carry his whole house with him, and
   besides undergo not a few incommodities to boot. However, when a man is
   provided as above, he may travel at a very inconsiderable expense; for
   lodging, as indeed it ought, costs but very little; and there is
   nothing to pay for any thing else, because it cannot be got: the
   reason, I suppose, being, that the gentry of the country never offer to
   pay for what they call for, since there is no way to force them to it;
   so that when they ask for any thing, the gospodarz always puts them off
   with a Nie musz, i. e. I have nothing. Yet nevertheless, when they have
   any thing to spare, they will freely give part of it to strangers;
   though generally, there being but few travellers in that country, they
   provide only for their own families. Therefore when travellers happen
   to be in want of provisions, they are used to apply themselves to the
   devour, or lord of the village, who forthwith supplies them gratis.

   Poland being for the most part a flat and champaign country, a calash
   and two horses will rid a great deal of ground there in a day. Some of
   the gentry are so provident as to drive their own calashes themselves;
   but of these there are but few, stateliness being more in vogue with
   them, than to suffer them to stoop to an employ fit for their meanest
   servants. When they come to the inn, they generally put their horses to
   grass, because the gospodarz will not be easily induced to trust them
   for hay. There are some likewise that travel on horseback, with a quilt
   for their bed, about a foot and half broad, laid under their saddle.
   They commonly employ the gospodarz to fetch them in beer, bread, and
   whatever else they have occasion for; and which service he is not to
   refuse at his peril.

   He that travels in winter will find it a very hard thing to rest
   anights, especially on holydays, because then all the peasants of the
   village are gathered together to carouse and make merry in that long
   room where you are obliged to lodge for want of a fire elsewhere; for
   at that time there is no sleeping without; nay, as I said before,
   scarce with it, (though men are commonly weary when they come off a
   journey,) these men making such a continued din in your ears with their
   excessive singing and dancing about the room, which none perform more
   awkwardly, there being a custom of rewarding a hard drinker here in
   Poland, by presenting him with a shirt, frock, handkerchief, and the
   like.

   Yet notwithstanding this vice, to which they are most unmercifully
   addicted, I may affirm, that, as to the character of the Poles in
   general, they exceed all the nations of Europe in vivacity of spirit,
   strength of body, and length of life; which cannot be occasioned by
   their climate, because the Swedes, Muscovites, and Germans live all
   under the same parallel, and yet enjoy not the like vigour and health;
   and therefore must proceed,

   First, from their diet; which, as to meat, is generally fresh roasted
   flesh (for they scarce ever eat any boiled, or salt, which causes the
   scurvy) and fowl; which increases the volatile and hard salts, and
   gives being to their vigour of body and soul.

   Secondly, from their drink, which is spirituous and strong; being
   chiefly Hungarian wine burnt, or anise seed water, both which they
   guzzle down in great quantities almost all day long; the poorer sort
   having a liquor distilled from wheat, oats, or barley, which the gentry
   rectify with anise seeds or aromatics.

   Thirdly, from their living hardly, for they hate effeminacy; and a poor
   country cottage pleases them as well as a palace; and they frequently
   weave tapestry and arras as they travel along the road. Nay, many of
   them will sleep in time of frost and snow without any bed or other
   conveniency; and the little children, two months after they have been
   born, have been carried about stark naked in that season.

   Fourthly, from hunting, which is very much in use with them; they being
   expert in horsemanship to the greatest perfection.

   Fifthly, from other exercises; as dancing, leaping, vaulting, jumping.
   They are likewise exceedingly given to talking, wherewith they agree
   with the French.

   Sixthly, their hard beds, fasting, and temperance in eating, very much
   contribute towards their long lives; for hard beds knit their joints,
   and temperance at meals revives their spirits. Their slaves among them
   have no beds, and the masters seldom use any thing but quilts.

   Seventhly, their health, vigour, and long lives may reasonably receive
   an addition from their great freedom and privileges; for where a
   slavish dependance hebetates and blunts the mind, and consequently
   enervates the body, liberty exhilarates the one, and by that means
   strengthens the other.

   Thus having acquitted myself of every particular I gave the promise of,
   I must, in discharge of the friendship you honour me with, put the last
   hand to this long tiresome let ter; which I cannot better do, than by
   my addresses to the great Preserver of mankind, to keep you in the same
   state of health which I left you in at my departure from Oxford shire;
   that I may at my return (which I more and more wish for, through the
   consideration of the great advantages I shall receive from it) be
   restored to the happiness of your conversation; than which nothing can
   be more improving to or desired by,

   My best friend and most honoured instructor,

   Your most faithful

   and most obliged servant,

   ROBERT SOUTH.

   Dantzick,
   Dec. 16, 1677.

   Soon after the doctor's return from Poland, he was, by the dean and
   chapter of the collegiate church of Westminster, in consideration of
   his great abilities to discharge the pastoral office, made choice of to
   succeed Dr. Edward Hinton as rector of Islip in Oxfordshire, a living
   of 200l. per annum; 100l. of which, out of his generous temper, he
   allowed to the Rev. Mr. Penny, (student of Christ Church,) his curate;
   and the other he expended in the educating and apprenticing the poorer
   children of that place. After having been two years incumbent there, he
   caused the chancel, that had been suffered miserably to run to ruin by
   his predecessor, to be rebuilt, as appears from the following
   inscription over the entrance into the chancel:

   ROBERTUS SOUTH, S. T. P.
   In Ecclesiam hanc Parochialem
   Inductus Anno 1678,
   Propriis Sumptibus hanc
   Cancellariam a Fundamentis
   Instauravit extruxitque Anno Domini 1680.

   He likewise having found the mansion-house belonging to the rector much
   too mean for the largeness of the stipend, and having heard of the
   honour done to that village by the birth of Edward the Confessor, (as
   that king himself declares in his charter, whereby he gives that
   village, and other lands thereunto adjacent, to St. Peter's church in
   Westminster,) caused the shattered remains of it to be to tally pulled
   down, and an edifice erected in a more convenient part of the town. The
   land upon which he built it, with a handsome garden, he purchased as a
   perpetual mansion for himself and successors; which may now vie with
   most parsonage houses in England, as may be seen in Dr. White Kennet's
   Parochial Antiquities, wherein he gives a view of it in a plate
   inscribed to Dr. South, whose coat of arms is engraved over it, with
   this inscription, Viro reverendo Roberto South, S. T. P. rectori
   ecclesiae de Islip, tabulam hanc, quae amplum et elegantem rectoriae
   mansum suis impensis constructum representat, D. D. White Kennet. Nos
   admiremur, imitentur posteri. Though in what year this house was built,
   I am not hitherto informed.

   In the year 1681, the doctor, who was then one of his majesty's
   chaplains in ordinary, being in waiting, preached before the king upon
   these words, The lot is cast into the lap, but the disposing of it is
   of the Lord. Wherein, having spoken of the various changes and
   dispensations of Providence, and the unaccountable accidents and
   particulars of life, he introduces these three examples of unexpected
   advancements after this manner:

   "Who that had looked upon Agathocles first handling the clay, and
   making pots under his father, and afterwards turning robber, could have
   thought, that from such a condition he should come to be king of
   Sicily?

   "Who that had seen Masinello, a poor fisherman, with his red cap and
   his angle, would have reckoned it possible to see such a pitiful thing,
   within a week after, shining in his cloth of gold, and with a word or a
   nod absolutely commanding the whole city of Naples?

   "And who, that had beheld such a bankrupt, beggarly fellow as Cromwell,
   first entering the parliament house with a threadbare torn cloak,
   greasy hat, (perhaps neither of them paid for,) could have suspected,
   that in the space of so few years, he should, by the murder of one
   king, and the banishment of another, ascend the throne?" At which the
   king fell into a violent fit of laughter, and turning to the lord
   Rochester, said, "Ods fish, Lory, your chaplain must be a bishop;
   therefore put me in mind of him at the next death!"

   During the remaining part of king Charles the second's reign, wherein
   he continued a strenuous assertor of the prerogatives of the crown
   against such as were industrious towards their diminution, what by the
   interest of his patron, who, at his return from his embassy, was made
   lord Hyde and viscount Wootton Basset, and what by his own merits, he
   had several offers of advancement into the hierarchy, which he modestly
   declined, as having wherewithal to sup port himself according to the
   dignities of the church he stood possessed of, and the distribution of
   charities he had already settled, and intended to lay schemes for.

   In order to this, he made some purchases of houses on Ludgate-hill and
   Token-house Yard; which puts me in mind of a tenant of his, one Mr.
   Taylor, then living upon Ludgate-hill, a rigid Presbyterian, who,
   during the time of Oates's sham plot, had nothing but the whore of
   Babylon before his eyes, and dreamt of nothing but evidences, forty
   thousand Spanish pilgrims with long bills, butchers knives, gags,
   gridirons, and what not. This man, upon his coming to the doctor in
   order to pay his rent, could not but discover his fears of the
   introduction of popery, and the dismal circumstances of fire and fagot,
   with many other terrible ideas of persecution and enslavement. At which
   the doctor smiling, bid him be of good cheer, and very briskly told
   him, that "churchmen indeed might have some grounds for such
   apprehensions, but that persons of his persuasion had nothing to fear
   on the account of religion, since they were too great hypocrites to die
   martyrs."

   On the accession of king James the second to the throne,
   notwithstanding his patron was then earl of Rochester, and advanced to
   the dignity of lord high treasurer of England, and his lordship's
   brother, the earl of Clarendon, was lord lieutenant of Ireland, made
   him an offer of an archbishopric of that kingdom, he continued fixed in
   his resolves of living privately; which even those two noble peers
   themselves were forced to do soon after, by their dismission from
   court: for that unhappy prince being fully bent upon a general
   toleration of all Christian dissenters from the church established, and
   pushed forwards upon extremities to obtain liberty for the exercise of
   the Romish religion, by taking off the test and penal laws, took upon
   him to closet the chief men about him, and either to bring them over to
   his will by persuasions or threats.

   Among others, the earl of Rochester, who was his majesty's
   brother-in-law, and therefore very dear to him, was examined concerning
   his opinion and sentiments relating to the king's will and pleasure,
   which his majesty was fully bent to have obedience paid to by all about
   him on pain of removal. Hereupon the good earl, after having, like a
   faithful counsellor, pointed out the fatal consequences of his
   majesty's impolitic resolves, and begged him to desist from an
   enterprise that would be found impracticable, very submissively and
   prudently made answer, that he had been bred up in the principles of a
   religion which taught him that obedience to his prince which he had
   hitherto never failed in; and that his duty to God, who was the King of
   kings, obliged him to continue in the practice of them. However, if his
   majesty should be so pleased, (so certain was he of the truth of the
   doctrines he had received from the primitive church,) he was willing to
   abide by the result of a dispute between two church of England divines
   and two of the church of Rome; being not fearful of venturing to say,
   that, to which side soever the victory should incline, his lordship
   would from that time abide by that which conquered. Hereunto the king
   very readily agreed, and immediately nominated the fathers Giffard and
   Tilden for his two champions, and appointed the rule of faith to be the
   subject-matter of the controversy. The persons at first proposed by the
   earl were Dr. Jane and Dr. South; but the latter was so unacceptable to
   his majesty by the bitter invectives he was said to make use of in the
   pulpit against the Papists and Presbyterians, who then joined in their
   endeavours for liberty of conscience, that he told his lordship he
   could not agree to the choice of Dr. South, who, instead of arguments,
   would bring railing accusations, and had not temperament of mind enough
   to go through a dispute that required the greatest attention and
   calmness. Hereupon the earl chose Dr. Patrick, then dean of
   Peterborough, and minister of St. Paul's, Covent Garden, a very able
   divine, in his room, but would needs have the assistance of Dr. South
   .in a consultation held the night before the conference was to
   commence; wherein were such irrefragable arguments, drawn up by him on
   the subject they were to discourse upon, as totally obtained a conquest
   over their two opponents, and made the king dismiss his two pretended
   advocates with this rebuke, "that he could say more in the behalf of
   his religion than they could; and that he never heard a good cause
   managed so ill, nor a bad one so well." So that if Dr. South could not
   be said to be in the battle, he was a very great instrument of
   obtaining the victory: and Dr. Jane has often owned, (though a most
   excellent casuist himself,) that the auxiliary arguments contributed by
   Dr. South did more towards flinging their antagonists on their backs,
   than his or his colleague's.

   The residue of king James's reign being taken up in acts of bigotry and
   violence, after he had quelled Monmouth's rebellion, (towards the
   suppression of which the doctor openly professed, that if there should
   be occasion, he would change his black gown for a buff coat,) gives us
   no farther particulars of Dr. South, than that he spent the greatest
   part of his time at Islip and Oxford, and sometimes at his paternal
   estate at Caversham in Oxfordshire, near Reading, where he was busied
   in preparing most of those excellent sermons for the press, which have
   since seen the light, and exercised himself in devotions to deprecate
   the judgments that seemed to hang over the national church. Though I
   must not forget one passage relating to him at the latter end of these
   times, which, notwithstanding it was too light for serious thoughts,
   gave occasion for mirth, and may serve to shew the spirit and vivacity
   of the man whom it owes its being to. Mr. Lob, a dissenting teacher,
   who was so much in favour at court, as to be admitted into that king's
   most honourable privy council, being to preach one day while the doctor
   was obliged to be resident at Westminster, the latter had the
   curiosity, since fame had spoke so much of him, to be one of his
   auditors incognito. Accordingly he disguised himself, and took a seat
   in his conventicle, where the preacher being mounted up in the pulpit,
   and naming his text, made no thing of .splitting it into twenty-six
   divisions; upon which, separately, he very gravely undertook to
   expatiate in their order. Hereupon the doctor rose up, and jogging a
   friend who bore him company, said, "Let us go home and fetch our gowns
   and slippers, for I find this man will make night work of it."

   Yet, how ludicrous soever such expressions as these may seem, when
   applied to a man of his character, so inexhaustible and flowing was his
   wit, that it even broke through him in his most serious meditations;
   and it ought to be imputed to his zeal for the honour of the true
   religion, if he, in many of his discourses, is found harsh and
   acrimonious. Lukewarmness in devotion was what his soul abhorred, and
   he looked upon sectarists of all sorts as enemies, who, though
   different in persuasion, joined together in attempts for the
   destruction of the holy catholic church; and to thwart their measures,
   he was unwearied in his persuasions, wheresoever he went, and
   wheresoever he preached, to excite his audience to the most ardent and
   holy affections for the cause of God and his church. Not that he, as
   many others did, levelled his satires against the court, or would speak
   evil of those powers whom God in his wise dispensation had set over us;
   not that he uttered grievances from the pulpit, or sought the
   alteration of the government by bringing in texts of scripture in
   justification of resistance and taking arms against the prince, to
   whose pernicious and traitorous ministers they were wholly to be
   imputed. But when the archbishop of Canterbury, and bishops that signed
   the invitation to the prince of Orange to come over and rescue our laws
   and liberties, would have had him to do the same, he very handsomely
   refused it, by telling them, "his religion had taught him to bear all
   things; and howsoever it should please God that he should suffer, he
   would, by the divine assistance, continue to abide by his allegiance,
   and use no other weapons but his prayers and tears for the recovery of
   his sovereign from the wicked and unadvised counsels wherewith he was
   entangled."

   However, when the revolution was happily brought about, and the king
   thought fit to abdicate his kingdom by flying into France; when the
   convention had settled the crown upon the prince and princess of
   Orange, and he saw himself deserted by that sovereign who should have
   continued to protect him; he, after many struggles with himself, and
   many conflicts with others, was convinced that obedience and protection
   were reciprocal terms; and that when the latter ceased to be of any use
   to him, the former was void also; though as to the time of his closing
   in with the government newly settled, I cannot be particular;
   notwithstanding I am perfectly well assured that he stood out for some
   time, and at last did not come in upon any temporal considerations: it
   having always been known to be his practice rather to slight riches,
   than to have an overweening desire after them; and to keep his
   conscience void of offence towards God and towards man, than to indulge
   any earthly appetite.

   Yet though Dr. South complied so far with the necessity of the times,
   as to acknowledge the settlement to be legal, upon the foot of the
   revolution, when offers were made him by some great men at the helm,
   who had then the benefit of the royal ear, of procuring him a very
   great dignity in the church, upon the vacating several of the episcopal
   sees, for refusing the oaths of allegiance to their majesties king
   William and queen Mary, in the year 1691, he very handsomely excused
   himself, by declaring, "that notwithstanding he himself saw nothing
   that was contrary to the laws of God and the common practice of all
   nations, to submit to princes in possession of the throne, yet others
   might have their reasons for a contrary opinion; and he blessed God
   that he was neither so ambitious, nor in want of preferment, as, for
   the sake of it, to build his rise upon the "ruins of any one father of
   the church, who for piety, good morals, and strictness of life, which
   every one of the deprived bishops were famed for, might be said not to
   have left their equal:" being afterwards followed in this by the great
   Dr. Beveridge, late bishop of St. Asaph, who likewise refused the
   bishopric of Bath and Wells, while the last incumbent, Dr. Kenn, was
   living. "These," (speaking of the deprived bishops, says the author of
   the History of Faction,) "were the meek, pious, and learned Dr.
   Sancroft, lord archbishop of Canterbury; the seraphic Dr. Kenn, bishop
   of Bath and Wells; the evangelical Dr. Turner, bishop of Ely; the
   vigilant Dr. Lake, bishop of Chichester; the resolute and undaunted Dr.
   White, bishop of Peter" borough; the unchangeable Dr. Lloyd, bishop of
   Norwich; and the irreproachable Dr. Frampton, bishop of Gloucester."

   To return to Dr. South, who by no means liked the act of toleration for
   all Protestant dissenters, nor could well relish some proceedings at
   court, whereby he suspected (how justly I will not take upon me to
   determine) some persons to be countenanced, and in great power, who
   were enemies to the church established; he laid hold of all occasions
   to decry their measures, and baffle their designs. And as he had
   vigorously exerted himself with the commissioners appointed by the king
   in 1689, for an union with dissenting Protest ants, in behalf of our
   Liturgy and forms of prayer, and entreated them by no means to part
   with any of its ceremonies that might have endangered the loss of the
   whole; so he scarce ever preached, but he set before his auditors the
   mischiefs that would arise by admitting such vipers into the revenues
   of the church, that would eat their way through their adopted (not
   natural) mother's bowels. This he chiefly undertook to do, by exposing
   their insufficiency for the great work of the ministry; by ridiculing
   their want of fit knowledge; and by setting them forth in such colours,
   as might at once give his audience ideas of pleasure and horror, in
   reflections upon their deliverance from the usurpations of such
   pretended gospel-mongers, and the unhappy circumstances they would be
   involved in, should the like wolves in sheeps' clothing be again in
   power. And this he never did better or more effectually than in a
   sermon preached at the abbey church of Westminster, in the year 1692,
   upon 1 Cor. xii. 4. Now there are diversities of gifts, but the same
   Spirit: wherein among other acute and biting sarcasms relating to the
   practices of dissenting teachers in the times of usurpation and
   rebellion, he thus speaks of them: "Amongst those of the late reforming
   age, all learning was utterly cried down; so that with them the best
   preachers were such as could not read, and the ablest divines such as
   could hardly spell the letter. To be blind was with them the proper
   qualification of a spiritual guide; and to be book-learned, as they
   called it, and to be irreligious, were convertible terms. None were
   thought fit for the ministry but tradesmen and mechanics, because none
   else were allowed to have the Spirit. Those only were accounted like
   St. Paul, who could work with their hands, and in a literal sense drive
   the nail home, and be able to make a pulpit before they preached in
   it." In another place, branching out these gifts into various heads,
   and particularizing upon the gift of divers tongues; "It is certain,"
   says he, "that they scarce speak the same things for two days together.
   Though otherwise it must be confessed that they were none of the
   greatest linguists, their own mother tongue serving all their
   occasions, without ever so much as looking into the fathers, who always
   spoke the language of the beast, to such as could not understand them.
   Latin was with them a mortal crime; and Greek, instead of being owned
   for the language of the Holy Ghost, (as in the New Testament it is,)
   was looked upon as the sin against it: so that, in a word, "hey had all
   the confusions of Babel amongst them, without the diversity of
   tongues."

   In the year 1693, the pestilent sect of the Socinians, by the
   countenance of the act of toleration, and the loose sentiments of some
   of our own divines, had gotten considerable ground in England since the
   revolution, and being favoured by the licentiousness of the press, they
   published many of their pamphlets, enough to provoke any Christian
   government. Hereupon, either to check their insolence, or aggrandize
   himself in the opinion of the world, Dr. Sherlock, then dean of St.
   Paul's by his new conversion, undertook the vindication of that
   orthodox doctrine concerning the Trinity. But because mysteries of
   faith, being above reason, are not to be explained by reason, since
   they would thereby cease to be mysteries; it fared with the doctor,
   that while he made it his endeavour to prove three distinct Persons, he
   was very justly charged with proving three distinct Gods; having
   asserted that there were in the Godhead three minds, three beings, and
   three intelligences; which gave the Unitarians occasion to triumph, and
   made it necessary that one well-skilled champion should arise for the
   defence of the truth delivered down to us by the holy gospel.

   Hereupon Dr. South, one whom his very antagonists al lowed to be a
   person every way qualified, engaged the bold Tritheist, and so handled
   him, that he had little else to have recourse to than superficial and
   trifling evasions; and the charge of Tritheism upon him was no supposed
   crime, but a most real, and, what is more, a premeditated offence. But
   it must be confessed, that it had been much more for the honour of them
   both, had they not been so severe upon the characters of each other,
   and had entered less into searches after those unfathomable depths
   which are imperceptible, and by the divine will are likewise ever to
   remain so, and therefore ought by all Christians to be revered as
   mysteries that surpass human understanding.

   Dr. Sherlock entitled his book, A Vindication of the holy and ever
   blessed Trinity. And Dr. South published his reply (without his name)
   under the following title: Animadversions upon Dr. Sherlock's Book,
   entitled, A Vindication of the holy and ever blessed Trinity, &c.
   Together with a more necessary Vindication of that sacred and prime
   Article of the Christian Faith from his new Notions and false
   Explications of it; humbly offered to his Admirers, and to himself the
   chief of them. By a Divine of the Church of England. The preface to
   which he begins thus, viz.

   "To be impugned from without, and betrayed from within, is certainly
   the worst condition that either church or state can fall into; and the
   best of churches, the "church of England, has had experience of both.
   It had been to be wished, and (one would think) might very reasonably
   have been expected, that when Providence had took the work of
   destroying the church of England out of the Papists' hands, some would
   have been contented with her preferments, without either attempting to
   give up her rights and liturgy, or deserting her doctrine. But it has
   proved much otherwise. And amongst those who are justly chargeable with
   the latter, I know none who has faced, the world and defied the church
   with so bold a front, as the author of two very heterodox books; the
   first entitled, A Discourse concerning the Knowledge of Jesus Christ,
   &c. published in the year 1674: and the other, A Vindication of the
   Doctrine of the holy and ever blessed Trinity, &c. and (as one would
   think) wrote purposely to let the world see, that the truth cannot be
   so much shaken by a direct opposition, as by a treacherous and false
   defence."

   "Really our author has shewn himself very communicative to the world:
   for as in the beginning of his book he has vouchsafed to instruct us
   how to judge of contradictions, so in the progress of his work he has
   condescended to teach us (if we will but learn) how to speak and write
   contradictions too. There remains therefore only one favour more, viz.
   that he would vouchsafe to teach us how to reconcile them also." Page
   26, book i. (alluding to a book written by Dr. Sherlock, in the year
   1685, called, An Answer to the Protestant Reconciler.)

   "It is indeed an amazing thing to consider, that any one man should
   presume to browbeat all the world at such a rate; and we may well
   wonder at the force of his confidence and self-conceit, that it should
   be able to raise any one to such a pitch. But naturalists have
   observed, that blindness in some animals is a very great help and
   instigation to boldness. And amongst men, as Ignorance is commonly said
   to be the mother of devotion, so, in account for the birth and descent
   of Confidence too, (whatsoever cause some may derive it from,) yet
   certainly he who makes Ignorance the mother of this also, reckons its
   pedigree by the surer side." Chap. ii. p. 67.

   "Our author not being satisfied with the account given of the mystery
   of the blessed Trinity by the schools, nor with those notions about it
   which have hitherto obtained in the world till he carne into it; (no
   doubt as a person peculiarly sent and qualified to rectify all those
   imperfect and improper notions which had been formerly received by
   divines;) he, I say, with a lofty, undertaking mind, and a reach beyond
   all before, and indeed beside him, and (as the issue is like to prove)
   as much above him too, undertakes to give the world a much better and
   more satisfactory explication of this great mystery; and that, by two
   new terms or notions (purely and solely) of his own invention, called
   self consciousness and mutual consciousness; which, though still joined
   together by our author, in his explication of the blessed Trinity, have
   yet very different effects." Chap. iii. in princip.

   "He exposes a poor, senseless, infant hypothesis to the wide world, and
   then very unmercifully leaves it to shift for itself." In eodem cap.
   versus finem.

   "I dismiss his two so much admired terms, (by himself, I mean,) as in
   no degree answering the expectation he raised of them. For I cannot
   find, that they have either heightened or strengthened men's
   intellectual faculties, or cast a greater light and clearness upon that
   object which has so long exercised them; but that a Trinity in Unity is
   as mysterious as ever; and the mind of man as unable to grasp and
   comprehend it, as it hath been from the beginning to this day. In a
   word, self consciousness and mutual consciousness have rendered nothing
   about the Divine Nature and Persons plainer, easier, and more
   intelligible; nor indeed, after such a mighty stress so irrationally
   laid upon two slight, empty words, have they made any thing (but the
   author himself) better understood than it was before." Chap. iv. page
   115.

   "And indeed I cannot but here further declare, that to me it seems one
   of the most preposterous and unreasonable things in nature, for any one
   first to assert three Gods, and, when he has so well furnished the
   world with deities, to expect that all mankind should fall down and
   worship them." Chap. v. page 143.

   "Certainly one would think, that the very shame of the world, and that
   common awe and regard of truth, which nature has imprinted on the minds
   of men, should keep any one from offering to impose upon men in so
   gross and shameless a manner, as to venture to call a notion or opinion
   the constant doctrine both of the fathers and schools; nay, and to
   profess to make it out, and shew it to be so; and while he is so doing,
   not to produce one father or schoolman; I say again, not so much as one
   of either, in behalf of that which he so confidently and expressly
   avows to be the joint sentiments of both. This surely is a way of
   proving, or rather of imposing, peculiar to himself. But we have seen
   how extremely fond he is of this new term and notion: and therefore,
   since he will needs have the reputation of being the sole father and
   begetter of the hopeful issue, there is no reason in the world that
   antiquity should find other fathers to maintain it." Chap. vi. p. 168.

   "The book called by him A Vindication of the Trinity, is certainly like
   a kind of pot or vessel with handles quite round it; turn it which way
   you will, you are sure to find something to take hold of it by." Page
   358.

   "I cannot see any new advantage he has got over the Socinians, unless
   it be that he thinks his three Gods will be too hard for their one. And
   perhaps it is upon presumption of this, that he discharges that clap of
   thunder at them in his preface, where he tells us, that having dipped
   his pen in the vindication of so glorious a cause, by the grace of God
   he will never desert it, while he can hold pen in hand. In which words
   methinks I see him ready armed and mounted, (with his face towards the
   west,) and brandishing his sword aloft, all reeking with Socinian
   blood, and with the very darts of his eyes looking his poor forgotten
   friends through and through. For in good earnest the words sound very
   terribly to these men; but most terribly of all to the article itself,
   (which is like to suffer most by his Vindication;) for thus to threaten
   that he will never leave off vexing it, as long as he can hold pen in
   hand, (which I dare say will be as long as he can tell money with it,)
   this, I say again, sounds very dreadfully." P. 359.

   In 1695, Dr. Sherlock published a Defence of himself against the
   animadverter; to which Dr. South replied (incog, as before) in a
   treatise, entitled, Tritheism charged upon Dr. Sherlock's new Notion of
   the Trinity. And the Charge made good, in Answer to the Defence of the
   said Notion against the Animadversions, &c. This piece he thus
   addressed, To all Professors of Divinity in the two Universities of
   this Kingdom. "Our church's enemies of late," says he, "seem to have
   diverted their main attacks from her outworks in matters of discipline
   and ceremony; and now it is no less than her very capitol which they
   invade; her palladium (if I may allude to such expressions) which they
   would rob her of; even the prime, the grand, and distinguishing article
   of our Christianity, the article of the blessed Trinity itself; without
   the belief of which, I dare aver that a man can no more be a Christian,
   than he can, without a rational soul, be a man. And this is now the
   point so fiercely laid at and assaulted, both by Socinianism on the one
   hand, and by Tritheism, or rather Paganism, on the other. For as the
   former would run it down by stripping the Godhead of a ternary of
   Persons, so the other would as effectually, but more scandalously
   overthrow it, by introducing a trinity of Gods; as they inevitably do,
   who assert the three Divine Persons to be three distinct infinite
   minds, or spirits; which, I positively affirm, is equivalent to the
   asserting the said three Persons to be three Gods. And I doubt not of
   your learned concurrence with me, and abetment of me in this
   affirmation.

   If it must be the lot of the church of England to sit down, and see her
   most holy religion practised upon by such wretched innovations as can
   tend only to ridicule and expose the chief articles of it to the scorn
   of Arians and Socinians, and all this under pretence of explaining
   them; I can but say, God deliver our poor church from such explainers,
   and our creed from such explications. And as I heartily commiserate the
   unhappy state of that, so I really pity this bold man himself, that he
   should be thus suffered to go on venting his scandalous heterodoxies,
   without finding either friends to counsel, or superiors to control
   him." Page 71.

   "That the Holy Ghost is called probole`, not by emanation, but by
   procession, is just as if one should say of Peter, that he is not a
   living creature, but a man. From all which it follows, that this author
   is grossly ignorant of the true philosophical sense of the term
   emanation; sometimes applying it to one thing, and sometimes denying it
   of another; but both at a venture, and just as people use to do at
   blindman's buff." Page 76.

   "The soul of Socrates, vitally joined with a female body, would
   certainly make a woman; and yet, according to this author's principle,
   (affirming that it is the soul, and the soul only, which makes the
   person,) Socrates, with such a change of body, would continue the same
   person, and consequently the same Socrates still. And in like manner
   for Xantippe; the conjunction of her soul with another sex would
   certainly make the whole compound a man; and yet, nevertheless,
   Xantippe would continue the same person, and the same Xantippe still;
   save only, I confess, that, upon such an exchange of bodies with her
   husband Socrates, she would have more right to wear the breeches than
   she had before." P. 129.

   "If he proves, that three absolute entire beings can be three relative
   subsistences or modifications of one and the same infinite mind or
   being, then I will grant, that he has defended his assertion against
   the animadverter; and not only so, but that he has full power also (by
   a theological use of his own making) to alter the sense and
   signification of all words, in spite of the world, and by virtue of the
   same, (if he pleases,) may call the deanery of St. Paul's the
   archbishopric of Canterbury, and behave himself accordingly."" Pages
   243, 244.

   "He excepts against Bellarmine's orthodoxy, (because forsooth he was a
   Papist,) like that profound dotard who reproved a young student for
   reading Clavius upon Euclid, telling him that he ought to read none but
   Protestant mathematics: surely the Romish writers are as orthodox about
   the article of the Trinity, as any Protestant writers whatsoever!" P.
   256.

   "When I look back upon that shrewd remark of his, with which he begins
   the said answer, viz. That logic is a very troublesome thing when men
   want sense, (p. 93. l. 7,) I must confess, that he here speaks like a
   man who understands himself; and that having so often shewn, how
   troublesome a thing logic is to him, by his being so angry with it, he
   now gives a very satisfactory reason why it is so: and therefore, in
   requital of it, I cannot but tell him, that if logic without sense be
   so troublesome, confidence, without either logic, or sense, or truth,
   or shame, or so much as conscience of what one says or denies, is
   intolerable." P. 274.

   "And so I take my leave of the dean's three distinct, infinite minds,
   spirits, or substances, that is to say, of his three Gods; and having
   done this, methinks I see him go whimpering away, with his finger in
   his eye, and that complaint of Micah in his mouth, Judges xviii. 24. Ye
   have taken away my gods which I made; and what have I more? Though I
   must confess I cannot tell why he should be so fond of them, since I
   dare undertake, that he will never be able to bring the Christian world
   either to believe in, or to worship a trinity of Gods. Nor do I see
   what use they are likely to be of, even to himself, unless peradventure
   to swear by." Page 281.

   The result of this paper war gave the victory to Dr. South, and decided
   after a most extraordinary manner in his favour: for Mr. Bingham,
   fellow of University college in Oxford, having some time after taken
   upon him to fall in with Dr. Sherlock's notions, and asserted, in a
   sermon before the university, "that there were three infinite distinct
   minds and substances in the Trinity; and also that the three Persons in
   the Trinity are three distinct minds or spirits, and three individual
   substances;" was censured by a solemn decree there in convocation:
   wherein, "they judge, declare, and determine the aforesaid words,
   lately delivered in the said sermon, to be false, impious, and
   heretical, disagreeing with, and contrary to the doctrine of the church
   of England publicly received."

   But this decree rather irritated the parties than composed the
   differences: whereupon the king interposed his royal authority, by
   directions to the archbishops and bishops, that no preacher whatsoever,
   in his sermon or lecture, should presume to deliver any other doctrine
   concerning the blessed Trinity, than what was contained in the holy
   scriptures, and was agreeable to the three Creeds and the Thirty-nine
   Articles of Religion; which put an end to the controversy, though not
   till after both the disputants (with Dr. Burnet, master of the
   Charter-house, who about the same time published his Archaeologia,
   whereby he impugned and weakened, as much as in him lay, the divine
   truths of the Old Testament) had received a reprimand from a witty
   ballad, called, The Battle Royal; to the tune of A Soldier and a
   Sailor:


   A dean and prebendary

   Had once a new vagary,

   And were at doubtful strife, sir,

   Who led the better life, sir,

   And was the better man,

   And was the better man.


   The dean he said, that truly,

   Since Bluff was so unruly,

   He'd prove it to his face, sir,

   That he had the most grace, sir,

   And so the fight began, &c.


   When Preb replied like thunder,

   And roar'd out, 'Twas no wonder,

   Since Gods the dean had three, sir,

   And more by two than he, sir,

   For he had got but one, &c.


   Now whilst these two were raging,

   And in disputes engaging,

   The master of the Charter

   Said both had caught a Tartar,

   For Gods, sir, there were none, &c.


   That all the books of Moses

   Were nothing but supposes;

   That he deserv'd rebuke, sir,

   Who wrote the Pentateuch, sir;

   'Twas nothing but a sham, &c.


   That as for father Adam,

   With Mrs. Eve his madam,

   And what the serpent spoke, sir,

   'Twas nothing but a joke, sir,

   And well-invented flam, &c.


   Thus in this battle-royal,

   As none would take denial,

   The dame for which they strove, sir,

   Could neither of them love, sir,

   Since all had giv'n offence, &c.


   She therefore slyly waiting,

   Left all three fools a prating,

   And being in a fright, sir,

   Religion took her flight, sir,

   And ne'er was heard of since,

   And ne'er was heard of since.

   Whether this ballad is worded with that decency that the subject of the
   dispute, or the very eminent and learned persons concerned in it,
   required, it is not in my sphere to decide; but the reception it met
   with in being translated into several languages, (particularly Latin,
   by a curious hand at the university of Cambridge,) and the presents
   made to the author by the nobility and gentry, made it evident that
   their sentiments were against having the mysteries of our holy religion
   discussed and canvassed after so ludicrous a manner. Not but that Dr.
   South's zeal for the cause of God and the defence of the blessed
   Trinity may atone for those loose and unguarded expressions that fell
   from his pen; and it is of great use to his justification to say, that
   it had been a crime in him to have been lukewarm and indolent, when the
   presumption of man should dare to push him forward upon explanations of
   those sacred arcana, (which God, who alone is omniscient, had reserved
   to himself,) contrary to the dictates of the holy Spirit, and the
   received opinion of the councils and fathers.

   Nor can I account for the manifest partiality of some great men in
   favour of Dr. Sherlock; especially of Dr. Stillingfleet, then bishop of
   Worcester, a person every way qualified for the high dignity he was
   invested with, and of a most excelling judgment in all points of human
   and divine literature; who though, in his preface to his Vindication of
   the Trinity, quotes this sentence against the manner of the treatment
   the two antagonists gave each other; viz. Oderit rixas et jurgia,
   praesertimque inter eruditos, ac turpe esse dicebat, viros indubitate
   doctos canina rabie famam vicissim suam rodere ac lacerare scriptis
   trucibus, tanquam vilissimos de plebe cerdones in angiportis sese luto
   ac stercore conspurcantes. Nic. Rigalt. Vit. P. Puteani, p. 48. i. e.
   "He ever hated broils and opprobrious language, especially among the
   learned; and said, it was a very odious and unseemly thing, for men,
   who were undoubtedly renowned for knowledge and understanding, to
   insult and tear to pieces each other's reputations, in their inhuman
   writings, with a canine fury, not unfitly compared to cobblers sprung
   from the vilest dregs of the people, bespattering each other in lanes
   and narrow passages with dirt and dung." This inclines very much to the
   part of that author, (viz. Dr. Sherlock,) who, in Dr. South's words,
   was not only the aggressor, but the transgressor too, as may be seen
   from a view of that book itself, who, howsoever learned, and seemingly
   intended against the Socinians, will appear to be a mere brutum fulmen
   in that respect, and to fall heaviest upon their very enemies.

   This Dr. South was very accurately apprised of; and not withstanding
   his great deference for his lordship's unquestionable skill in
   polemical and casuistical divinity, joined to his obedience to the
   royal mandate and the episcopal order, held his hands from entering the
   lists with him in a controversial way, he could not but have a fling at
   them both, in a dedication to Narcissus Boyle, archbishop of Dublin;
   [4] where, amongst other remarkable passages, are to be found what
   follow: "Surely," says he, "it would be thought a very odd way of
   ridding a man of the plague by running him through with a sword; or of
   curing him of a lethargy by casting him into a calenture; a disease of
   a contrary nature indeed, but no less fatal to the patient; who equally
   dies, whether his sickness or his physic, the malignity of his
   distemper or the method of his cure, despatches him. And in like manner
   must it fare with a church, which, feeling itself struck with the
   poison of Socinianism, flies to Tritheism for an antidote.

   "But at length happily steps in the royal authority to the church's
   relief, with several healing injunctions in its hands, for the
   composing and ending the disputes about the Trinity then on foot; and
   those indeed so wisely framed, so seasonably timed, and (by the king,
   at least,) so graciously intended, that they must, in all likelihood,
   (without any other Irenicon,) have restored peace to the church, had it
   not been for the importunity and partiality of some, who having by the
   awe of these injunctions endeavoured to silence the opposite party,
   (which by their arguments they could not do,) and withal looking upon
   themselves as privileged persons, and so above those ordinances which
   others were to be subject to, resolved not to be silent themselves; but
   renewing the contest, partly by throwing Muggleton and Rigaltius, with
   some other foul stuff, in their adversaries' faces; and partly by a
   shameless reprinting (without the least reinforcing) the same exploded
   tritheistic notions again and again, they quite broke through the royal
   prohibitions, and soon after began to take as great a liberty in
   venting their innovations and invectives, as ever they had done before;
   so that he, who shall impartially consider the course taken by these
   men with reference to those engaged on the other side of this
   controversy about the Trinity, will find that their whole proceeding in
   it resembles nothing so much, as a thief's binding the hands of an
   honest man with a cord, much fitter for his own neck.

   "But, blessed be God, matters stand not so with you in Ireland; the
   climate there being not more impatient of poisonous animals, than the
   church of poisonous opinions: an universal concurrent orthodoxy shining
   all over it, from the superior clergy who preside, to the inferior
   placed under them: so that we never hear from thence of any presbyter,
   and much less of any dean, who dares innovate upon the faith received:
   and least of all (should such a wretch chance to start up among you)
   can I hear of any bishop likely to debase his style and character so
   low, as either to defend the man, or colour over his opinions. Nor,
   lastly, do we find that in the judgment of the clergy there, a man's
   having wrote against one sort of heresy or heterodoxy, ought to justify
   or excuse him in writing for another, and much less for a worse."

   His character likewise of high and low churchmen, in the same
   dedication, highly deserve a place in these Memoirs; not only because
   they speak the sense and opinion of the author, but impress upon the
   minds of disinterested and impartial readers the same ideas which his
   was filled with: "Those of the ancienter members of her (viz. the
   church of England's) communion, who have all along owned and contended
   for a strict conformity to her rules and sanctions, as the surest
   course to establish her, have been of late represented, or rather
   reprobated, under the inodiating character of high churchmen, and
   thereby stand marked out for all the discouragement that spite and
   power together can pass upon them; while those of the contrary way and
   principle are distinguished, or rather sanctified, by the fashionable
   endearing name of low churchmen, not from their affecting, we may be
   sure, a lower condition in the church than others, (since none lie so
   low but they can look as high,) but from the low condition which the
   authors of this distinction would fain bring the church itself into, a
   work in which they have made no small progress already. And thus by
   these ungenerous, as well as unconscionable practices, a fatal rent and
   division is made amongst us: and, being so, I think those of the
   concision who made it, would do well to consider, whether that, which
   our Saviour assures us will destroy a kingdom, be the likeliest way to
   settle and support a church. But I question not but these dividers will
   very shortly receive thanks from the Papists for the good services they
   have done them; and in the mean time they may be sure of their scoffs."

   Much about this time, the doctor's unwearied application to his studies
   brought upon him the bloody flux, which was followed by the strangury,
   that scarce left him, but for some transitory releases from it, to his
   last moments; yet, notwithstanding the uneasiness this must needs give
   him, he still kept up his sprightliness and vivacity of temper with the
   few friends he conversed with, which were always well chosen; and so
   far was he from deserving the character of a morose and reserved person
   by a certain author, (who said, that the sourness of his disposition,
   which made him unfit for conversation, made him a scholar,) that
   whosoever was once in his company, went off with such a relish of his
   wit and good humour, as to covet the coming into it, though at the
   expense of bearing a part in the subject of his raillery. So that what
   was said of Horace, might on as just grounds be worked into his
   character:

     --------ridentem Flaccus amicum
     Tangit, et admissus circum praecordia ludit.

   During the greatest part of the reign of queen Anne, he was in a state
   of inactivity; and the infirmities of old age growing fast upon him, he
   performed very little of the duties of the ministerial function,
   otherwise than, when his health would allow of his going to the abbey
   church at Westminster, to be present at divine service; though he would
   take a journey sometimes to his seat near Reading, having always two
   chairmen attending his coach to take him out, when he was uneasy
   through the means of his indisposition before mentioned, and carry him
   in the chair; for which service he was so bountiful, as constantly to
   allow them ten pounds for the journey.

   Notwithstanding his ill state of health, he continued his wonted
   recourse to books, and the improvement of his mind, (which had a
   sufficient magazine of learning before,) almost to the day of his
   death; and it was with great difficulty that his surgeon, who had the
   cure of a sore leg two or three years since under hand, prevailed on
   him not to creep into his study too often; which yet he could not
   refrain.

   Yet, notwithstanding all these impediments to activity and motion, none
   shewed a greater concern for the church, when he judged it to be in
   danger: he was unwearied in his application to many of the lords
   spiritual and temporal, to be mild and gentle in their sentence against
   Dr. Sacheverell, whose trial came on in 1710, and who is highly
   indebted to him for a very successful advocate.

   Upon the change of the ministry, when Mr. Bromley, an illustrious and
   truly honest patriot, came to preside at helm, in the post of one of
   her late majesty's principal secretaries of state, the Dr. was again
   solicited and courted to accept of higher dignities of the church, and
   to become one of the fathers of it, that had been so very dutiful a
   son; more especially when the see of Rochester and deanery of
   Westminster was vacant by the death of the learned and pious Dr. Sprat;
   but he returned for answer, "that such a chair would be too uneasy for
   an old, infirm man to sit in, and he held himself much better satisfied
   with living upon the eaves-droppings of the church, than to fare
   sumptuously, by being placed at the pinnacle of it:" (alluding to his
   house, that was adjoining to the abbey.) So that very worthy and hearty
   lover and assertor of the doctrines of the church of England, Dr.
   Francis Atterbury, then dean of Christ Church in Oxford, was pitched
   upon by her late most sacred majesty to fill those two stalls, as
   bishop and dean. In the month of June, 1713, which gave occasion to the
   doctor, though he had a great esteem for the new dean's parts and
   person, when a gentleman asked him concerning the state of his health,
   to say, "Within an inch of the grave, no doubt; since I have lived to
   see a gentleman who was born the very year in which I was made one of
   the prebendaries of this church, appointed to be the dean of it." This
   gave occasion to several persons, who were not acquainted with the
   doctor's way of talk, to suggest, that Dr. South took the gift of
   preferments away from those views in disgust; but the truth is on the
   contrary side; for the doctor received visits from the bishop to his
   dying day, and made it amongst other requests, that at his burial my
   lord of Rochester might perform the last office.

   On the death of queen Anne, of immortal and ever blessed memory, the
   doctor told a friend of his, that was wont to visit him once or twice a
   week, "that it was time for him to prepare for his journey to a blessed
   immortality; since all that was good and gracious, and the very breath
   of his nostrils, had made its departure to the regions of bliss and
   eternal happiness."

   Accordingly, he began thenceforward to set his house in order, and to
   provide for the further good of posterity, as will be seen by his
   generous benefactions.

   In the year 1715, he published a fourth volume of excellent sermons,
   which he inscribed to Mr. Bromley in the following remarkable manner:
   "To the right honourable William Bromley, esquire, some time speaker of
   the honourable house of commons, and after that, principal secretary of
   state to her majesty queen Anne, of ever blessed memory; in both
   stations great and eminent; but in nothing greater than in and from
   himself; Robert South, his most devoted servant, humbly offers and
   presents this fourth volume of his sermons, as the last and best
   testimony he can give of the high esteem and sincere affection which
   he, the author of them, bears, and ever must and shall bear, to that
   excellent person."

   The next thing he had to do, was to shew his zeal and gratitude for and
   to the family of the late duke of Ormond, (who had unhappily forfeited
   his title by a bill of attainder in parliament,) in causing himself to
   be brought in a chair to the election of a new high steward, vacant
   upon the forfeiture of his said late grace. The candidates were the
   duke of Newcastle and the earl of Arran, the late duke's only brother,
   who had lost his election, had not Dr. South (who was in a manner
   bedridden) made the voices of the prebendaries equal, by saying very
   briskly, when he was asked whom he would vote for,

   "Heart and hand for my lord Arran."

   So that the dean, who had the casting vote, determined the choice in
   his lordship's favour.

   This being the last time he went abroad, it is easy to imagine, that
   weakness, the attendant upon old age, made very quick advances towards
   his dissolution, which happened on Sunday the 8th day of July, 1716.

   Four days after his decease, the corpse having for some time lain in a
   decent manner in the Jerusalem chamber, was brought into the college
   hall, where a Latin oration was spoken by Mr. John Barber, captain of
   the king's scholars. Thence it was attended by the bishop of Rochester,
   with the prebendaries who were in town, the masters, the scholars, the
   whole choir, and all the servants belonging to that royal foundation,
   with many worthy members of the university and college of Christ Church
   in Oxford. Upon their entry into the abbey, the choir performed the
   part of the funeral service till the body was placed in the area of the
   church; after which followed evening prayers, and an anthem suitable to
   the occasion, the same which was sung at the interment of her majesty,
   composed by Dr. William Croft. Prayers being ended, the corpse was
   attended in the same manner to the grave, near the steps of the altar,
   adjoining to the late Dr. Busby's: where the choir performed the last
   part of the service; the right reverend the dean reading the Burial
   Office with such affection and devotion, as shewed his concern for the
   inestimable loss that church had sustained by the death of so valuable
   a person.

   Having brought the remains of this great and good man with peace to the
   grave, we shall conclude these memoirs with giving his character, as
   drawn up by an eminent hand: [5] "This learned gentleman," says he,
   speaking of Dr. South, "had a talent of making all his faculties bear
   to the great end of his hallowed profession. His charming discourses
   have in them whatever wit and wisdom can put together. Happy genius! He
   was the better man for being a wit." His judgment (says another) was
   penetrating, and his knowledge extensive; he did honour to his age and
   country; I could almost say, to human nature it self. He possessed at
   once all those extraordinary talents that were divided amongst the
   greatest authors of antiquity; he had the sound, distinct,
   comprehensive knowledge of Aristotle, with all the beautiful lights,
   graces, and embellishments of Cicero. One does not know which to admire
   most in his writings, the strength of reason, force of style, or
   brightness of imagination. As to the latter part of his character, his
   actions: he was not only a son, but a father to the church of England;
   sincere and hearty to her friends, and ever bold and undaunted in the
   defence of truth and loyalty; wherein his arguments were so solid and
   nervous, that as few have come near him, so none have excelled him;
   insomuch, that while he was possessed of Tertullian's oratory and force
   of persuasion, he was invested and clothed with St. Cyprian's devotion
   and humility. He was a true friend to monarchy, even when rebellion was
   successful, and faction meritorious. His charity to the poor was very
   liberal, and the greatest part of it industriously concealed; having
   our Saviour's prohibition, of letting not his light shine before men,
   always in remembrance; whereby we may be assured, that he found greater
   satisfaction in the duty, than he could propose from the title of a
   generous benefactor. To describe him fully ought only to be attempted
   by a person that is blessed with such a share of wit and devotion as he
   enjoyed. A writer [6] above mentioned says, "that the best way to
   praise him, is to quote him." In all his writings will be found the
   divine, the orator, the casuist, and the Christian: the latter shines
   nowhere more conspicuous than in that excellent description which he
   has given us in one of his sermons; wherein, having shewn the virtue of
   a good conscience in supporting a man under the greatest trials and
   difficulties of life, he concludes with representing its force and
   efficacy in the hour of death.

   "The last instance," says he, "in which, above all others, this
   confidence towards God does most eminently shew and exert itself, is at
   the time of death; which surely gives the grand opportunity of trying
   both the strength and worth of every principle. When a man shall be
   just about to quit the stage of this world, to put off his mortality,
   and to deliver up his last accounts to God; at which sad time, his
   memory shall serve him for little else, but to terrify him with a
   frightful review of his past life, and his former extravagances
   stripped of all their pleasure, but retaining their guilt: what is it
   then, that can promise him a fair passage into the other world, or a
   comfortable appearance before his dreadful Judge, when he is there? Not
   all the friends and interests, all the riches and honours under heaven,
   can speak so much as a word for him, or one word of comfort to him in
   that condition: they may possibly reproach, but they cannot relieve
   him.

   "No; at this disconsolate time, when the busy tempter shall be more
   than usually apt to vex and trouble him, and the pains of a dying body
   to hinder and discompose him, and the settlement of worldly affairs to
   disturb and confound him; and, in a word, all things conspire to make
   his sick bed grievous and uneasy: nothing can then stand up against all
   these ruins, and speak life in the midst of death, but a clear
   conscience.

   "And the testimony of that shall make the comforts of heaven descend
   upon his weary head, like a refreshing dew or shower upon a parched
   ground. It shall give him some lively earnests and secret anticipations
   of his approaching joy. It shall bid his soul go out of the body
   undauntedly, and lift up its head with confidence before saints and
   angels. Surely the comfort which it conveys at this season is something
   bigger than the capacities of mortality, mighty and unspeakable, and
   not to be understood, till it comes to be felt.

   "And now, who would not quit all the pleasures, and trash, and trifles,
   which are apt to captivate the heart of man, and pursue the greatest
   rigours of piety, and austerities of a good life, to purchase to
   himself such a con" science, as, at the hour of death, when all the
   friendships of the world shall bid him adieu, and the whole creation
   turn its back upon him, shall dismiss the soul, and close his eyes with
   that blessed sentence, Well done, thou good and faithful servant; enter
   thou into the joy of thy Lord? [7]

   In the south aisle of Westminster-abbey, joining to Dr. Busby's, is
   erected a very noble marble monument to the memory of Dr. South, with
   his effigies in a cumbent posture, containing the following
   inscription:

   Ab hoc hand procul marmore,
   Juxta Praeceptoris BUSBEII cineres, suos conquiescere voluit
   ROBERTUS SOUTH, S. T. P.
   Vir Eruditione, Pietate, Moribus antiquis,
   Scholae Westmonasteriensis, deinde Ædis Christi Alumnus.
   Et post restauratum CAROLUM, magno favente CLARENDONO,
   Utriusque in quo sensim adoleverat Collegii Prebendarius,
   Ecclesiae Anglicanae et florentis et afflictae Propugnator assiduus,
   Fidei Christianae Vindex acerrimus.
   In Concionibus novo quodam et plane suo,
   Sed illustri, sed admirabili dicendi genere excellens;
   Ut harum rerum peritis dubitandi sit locus,
   Utrum ingenii acumine an argumentorum vi,
   Utrum doctrinae ubertate, an splendore verborum et pondere praestaret:
   Hisce certe omnibus simul instructus adjumentis
   Animos audientium non tenuit tantum, sed percelluit, iuflammavit.

   Erat ille humaniorum Literarum et primaevae Theologiae, cum paucis,
   sciens;
   In Scholasticorum interim Scriptis idem versatissimus,
   E quibus quod sanum est et succulentum expressit,
   Idque a rerum futilium disquisitione et Vocabulorum involucris
   liberatum,
   Luculenta oratione illustravit.
   Si quando vel in rerum, vel in hominum, vitia acerbius est invectus,
   Ne hoc aut partium studio, aut Naturae cuidam asperitati tribuatur,
   Eam quippe is de rebus omnibus sententiam aperte protulit,
   Quam ex maturo Animi sui Judicio amplexus est:
   Et cum esset Ipse suae Integritatis conscius,
   Quicquid in Vita turpe, quicquid in Religione fucatum fictumque
   viderat,
   Illud omne liberrima indignatione commotus profligavit.

   His intentus Studiis, haec animo semper agitans,
   Hominum a consortio cum esset remotior, auxilio tamen non defuit.
   Quam enim benignum, quam misericordem in calamitosos animum gesserit,
   Largis Muneribus vivens moriensque testatus est.

   Upon the Pedestal.

   Apud ISLIPAM Ecclesiae Sacrarium et Rectoris Domum de integro extruxit,
   Ibidem Scholam erudiendis pauperum liberis instituit et dotavit.
   Literis et
   hic loci, et apud Ædem Christi promovendis, Ædificiis istius Collegii
   instaurandis, libras millenas in numeratis pecuniis, ter centenas
   circiter Annul reditus, ex Testamento reliquit. Pietatis erga Deum,
   benevolentiae erga homines Monumenta in aeternum mansura.

   Obiit Jul. 8. An. Dom. MDCCXVI. Æt. lxxxii.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [1] Very credibly reported to have been done in an independent
   congregation at Oxon.

   [2] Unton Croke, a colonel in the army, the perfidious cause of
   Penruddock's death, and some time after high sheriff of Oxfordshire.

   [3] This speech was written in English by Mr. Hyde, and turned into
   elegant Latin by Dr. South.

   [4] See vol. ii. p. 226.

   [5] Tatler, No. 205.

   [6] Tatler, No. 205.

   [7] Vol. ii. p. 222, 223.
     __________________________________________________________________

  A TRUE COPY

    OF THE

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT

    OF

THE REV. DR. SOUTH.

  DRAWN UP BY HIMSELF.

   IN the name of God, Amen. I Robert South, prebendary of the collegiate
   church of St. Peter in Westminster, and doctor in divinity, being well
   in health, and of good and perfect memory; God be thanked for the same;
   do make this my last will and testament in manner and form following.

   First, I recommend my soul to my most merciful God; my body to the
   earth, there to be buried in such decent manner, neither sumptuous nor
   sordid, as my executrix, hereafter to be named, shall think fit. And as
   touching such worldly estate as God hath blessed me with, I give and
   dispose of the same as followeth.

   Imprimis, I give and bequeath to Robert South, gent. my nephew by the
   half blood, all my messuages, lands, tenements, and hereditaments,
   descended to me by and from my father, and now rented by Elizabeth
   Brookes, widow of John Brookes, husbandman, lately deceased, at
   seventy-five pounds per annum, situate and being in Whittley, commonly
   called the hamlets of Whittley, in the parish of St. Giles in Reading,
   in the county of Berks, to have and to hold the same to him and his
   heirs for ever.

   Provided always, and upon condition nevertheless, that the said Robert
   South my nephew, and his heirs, do and shall, within two years next
   after my decease, pay or cause to be paid unto Mrs. Elizabeth Kirkland,
   and to Mrs. Rachael Partridge, my nieces by the half blood, and sisters
   to the said Robert South, the sum of three hundred pounds apiece of
   lawful money of Great Britain, together with interest for the same from
   my decease, at the rate of five pounds per centum per annum. And also
   to pay or cause to be paid to Mrs. Rachael Taylor, only daughter of
   Mrs. Jane Taylor, one of my three nieces by the half blood, and sister
   to the said Robert South, my nephew, the further sum of three hundred
   pounds of like lawful money, together with interest for the same from
   my decease, at the rate of five pounds per cent, per annum. Upon this
   further condition nevertheless, that he the said Robert South my
   nephew, or his heirs, do or shall, within two years, or three at most,
   next after my decease, pay, or cause to be paid, to Mrs. Elizabeth
   Morris, and to Mrs. Elizabeth Terry, now or late in Antigua in the West
   Indies, and both of them daughters or granddaughters to Mrs. Joan Hall,
   several years since deceased, and one of my sisters by the half blood,
   or to the children of the said Elizabeth Morris and Elizabeth Terry
   respectively, in case those their mothers should not be living at the
   time of my decease, the sum of four hundred pounds of like lawful
   money, together with interest for the same from the time of my decease,
   at the rate of five pounds per cent, per annum, in manner following:
   that is to say, unto the said Elizabeth Morris, if at that time living,
   or if then dead, to such of her children as shall be then living; or in
   default of such children, to her executors or administrators; the sum
   of three hundred pounds, together with the yearly interest thereof at
   five pounds per cent, per annum, as before expressed: and likewise the
   remaining sum of one hundred pounds, with the like interest for the
   same, to the said Elizabeth Terry, though she never yet took the least
   notice of me by letter or otherwise, if she shall be living at the time
   of my decease; or if then dead, to such of her children as shall be
   then living at the time of it; or in default of such children, to her
   executors or administrators. And I do hereby charge all my said lands,
   messuages, tenements, and hereditaments in Whittley aforesaid,
   descended to me from my father, with the payment of the said several
   sums of three hundred pounds, and three hundred pounds, and three
   hundred pounds, and four hundred pounds, and the interest thereof, as
   aforesaid declared: and these are the conditions on which I give my
   said estate in Whittley in Berks, &c. to my nephew Robert South above
   mentioned, and upon no other conditions or terms whatsoever.

   Item, I give and bequeath to Mrs. Margaret Hammond, my housekeeper, and
   widow or relict of Mr. Edward Hammond, clerk, deceased, all my
   messuages or tenements situate and being in and near Holyday-yard in
   London, which I hold by lease from the dean and chapter of St. Paul's
   in London aforesaid, to hold the same unto the said Mrs. Margaret
   Hammond, her executors, administrators, and assigns, for and during the
   residue of the term of years which I shall have to come therein at the
   time of my death; though I could and do most heartily wish, that at or
   before her death she would give and settle the same to some charitable
   use for ever: and this to the great honour of Almighty God, the benefit
   of the public, to my own great satisfaction, the good of her own soul,
   and the just reputation of us to all posterity.

   Item, I give and bequeath to the said Mrs. Margaret Hammond all my
   lands, messuages, tenements, or hereditaments, in or bordering upon the
   parish of Cavesham, alias Caversham, in the county of Oxon; and also
   all my messuages, lands, tenements, and hereditaments, being copyhold
   estate of inheritance in the manor of Candors, alias Cantlow, in
   Kentish-town in the county of Middlesex, to have and to hold the said
   messuages, lands, tenements, and hereditaments, both in Cavesham, alias
   Caversham, and in Kentishtown aforesaid, unto the said Mrs. Margaret
   Hammond, and her assigns, during her natural life, without impeachment
   of or for any manner of waste whatsoever, done or committed during her
   time of widowhood or single life only, which from my heart I desire she
   would continue in to her life's end; and that for her own sake and
   interest, as well as my satisfaction, for that otherwise neither she
   nor I can tell what havock an husband will make upon the premises, nor
   what, if there be no such check upon him, can prevent his making it:
   and since my chief design here is charity, immediately after the death
   of Mrs. Margaret Hammond afore said, my housekeeper, I give and
   bequeath my two forementioned estates, viz. one in Kentish-town in the
   county of Middlesex, and the other in Cavesham, alias Caversham, in the
   county of Oxford aforesaid, to the reverend the dean and chapter of the
   cathedral and collegiate church of Christ in Oxon, and to their
   successors after them for ever; nevertheless in trust only, and for the
   uses following; namely, that out of the revenue of the said two
   estates, all repairs, taxes, and other necessary duties and expenses
   chargeable upon or incident to the same, shall by the said dean and
   chapter of Christ Church in Oxon, and their successors for ever, be
   still from time to time paid off and discharged. And further upon trust
   also, that after a due performance of this, the said dean and chapter
   of Christ Church, and their successors for ever, shall likewise from
   time to time pay out of the rents, issues, and profits of the premises,
   to and amongst certain vicars, curates, and incumbents for the time
   being, of the several vicarages and places herein aftermentioned, ten
   pounds apiece yearly for ever.

   Viz. Ten pounds yearly to the vicar of Southstoke cum capellis in the
   county of Oxon, for the time being.

   Item, The like sum of ten pounds yearly to the vicar of Norton Broyn,
   alias Brise Norton, in the county of Oxon, for the time being.

   Item, To the vicar of East Garsdon in the county of Berks for the time
   being, the like yearly sum of ten pounds for ever,

   Item, To the vicar of Nethersoll in the county of Gloucester for the
   time being, the like yearly sum of ten pounds for ever.

   Item, To the vicar of Ardington in the county of Berks for the time
   being, the like yearly sum of ten pounds for ever.

   Item, To the vicar of Cerleton in the county of Wilts for the time
   being, the like yearly sum of ten pounds for ever.

   Item, To the vicar of Little Compton in the county of Oxon for the time
   being, the like sum of ten pounds yearly for ever.

   Item, To the curate of Drayton in the same county of Oxon for the time
   being, the like sum of ten pounds yearly for ever.

   Item, To the curate of South Littleton in the county of Worcester for
   the time being, the like yearly sum of ten pounds for ever.

   And to the curate of Offenham in the same county of Worcester for the
   time being, the like sum of ten pounds yearly for ever.

   And to the curate of Stratton Audley in the county of Oxon for the time
   being, ten pounds yearly for ever.

   And lastly, to the vicar or curate of Dorchester in the said county of
   Oxon, and seven miles from the city of Oxon, for the time being, the
   like sum of ten pounds yearly for ever. To all and every one of which
   the said persons I give and bequeath the forementioned yearly sum of
   ten pounds, free from all deductions and abatements for or by reason of
   taxes, or any other duties chargeable upon the premises whatsoever, to
   be paid them by the dean and chapter of Christ Church, and their
   successors for ever, at or upon the two most usual feasts; that is to
   say, on the feast of the Annunciation of the blessed Virgin Mary, and
   of St. Michael the archangel, by even and equal portions; and the first
   payment thereof to be accordingly made on the first of the said
   festivals which shall next and immediately follow the decease of my
   executrix. And my will also is, that in case the yearly rents and
   profits arising out of the premises so given to the dean and chapter of
   Christ Church, and their successors, should in any year happen to fall
   short of satisfying the said sum of ten pounds to each of the said
   vicars, curates, and incumbents aforesaid for the time being; then, and
   so often as this shall happen, there shall be an equal and
   proportionable abatement or deduction made out of every one of the said
   salaries or allowances. But if again, on the other side, it should in
   any following year or years so fall out, (as no doubt it will,) that
   there shall be more arising out of the yearly rents, incomes, and
   profits of the said premises so given to the dean and chapter of Christ
   Church, Oxon, and their successors, than what is sufficient to answer
   and satisfy the said yearly stipends and annuities, then my will is,
   that all deficiencies so happening in any former year or years shall be
   made up and supplied to the said vicars and incumbents out of such
   overplus. And further my will by all means is, that if any of the
   vicars, curates, or incumbents receiving this my charitable
   benefaction, shall be convicted of, at the mouth of two or more
   witnesses, or generally noted for, though not formally convicted
   thereof by witnesses, any thing grossly immoral, as whoredom,
   fornication, drunkenness, or common swearing, or any thing scandalous,
   or against the Act of Uniformity or rule of the church of Eng land,
   such as are preaching in or going to any conventicle, or meeting of
   dissenters from the church of England, for religious worship; that
   then, and in every such and the like case, the stipend, annuity, or
   pension allotted or given to such vicar, curate, or incumbent, shall
   forthwith cease, and the person or persons so guilty be utterly
   deprived of the same for ever: and that it be from time to time paid to
   such vicars, curates, or incumbents, as shall be so qualified as in the
   premises has been expressed, and shall be personally known to the dean
   himself, or to any one or more of the prebendaries of Christ Church,
   Oxon, aforesaid, for the time being, to be of a sober, unblameable
   life, and of strict conformity to the church of England, as now by law
   established. Finally, my positive will is, that the said dean and
   chapter of Christ Church, Oxon, and their successors, do and shall,
   after the yearly payments made to the twelve vicars, curates, or
   incumbents before mentioned, pay all the overplus of the money
   remaining of the yearly rents and profits of those my two estates
   bequeathed to the dean and chapter of Christ Church, Oxon, and their
   successors, to six poor scholars for ever, twenty nobles apiece, by
   even and equal portions, on the two forementioned festivals; and that
   the said poor scholars be all of them of Christ Church in Oxon, but
   bred and brought up in Westminster school, commonly called the king's
   or queen's school there. And those likewise to be of the sole choice
   and nomination of the dean and chapter of Christ Church, and their
   successors for ever. And my will and mind is, that when the said
   pensions or annuities shall have been paid, both to the ministers and
   poor scholars before mentioned, and all taxes and duties chargeable
   upon the premises cleared off, whatsoever money shall remain out of the
   rents and profits of my said two estates shall be wholly applied
   towards the finishing of the new buildings now carried on in Christ
   church and college in Oxon aforesaid. And now whereas I have bestowed a
   consider able part of my estate in erecting and endowing, at my sole
   charge and expense, a school in the parish of Islip in the county of
   Oxon, and by a particular deed vested the same in the dean and chapter
   of St. Peter's church in Westminster, but yet nevertheless for the sole
   support, maintenance, and benefit of the said school; I do by these
   presents fully ratify and confirm the said deed of settlement in the
   said dean and chapter of St. Peter in Westminster, and their successors
   for ever, to and for all the trusts, uses, and conditions therein
   mentioned and contained. But to proceed. And I do herein, in the first
   place, give and bequeath to the dean and chapter of Christ Church in
   Oxon, and to their successors for ever, the full sum of five hundred
   pounds of good and lawful money of Great Britain, but so that the same
   be laid out by them in purchasing the perpetual advowson of a good
   living for one of the students of that college successively, who shall
   profess the study of divinity. And my will is, that the said sum be
   paid them by my executrix within five years after my decease. In the
   next place, I give also to the dean and chapter of the church of St.
   Asaph, &c. in North Wales, the sum of one hundred pounds of like lawful
   money of Great Britain, but still in trust, and upon condition only
   that the said sum be laid out by them for the apprenticing out twenty
   poor youths, born in the parish of Llanchaiadar in Mochnant aforesaid,
   to good honest trades, by five pounds apiece. And my will is, that the
   said sum of one hundred pounds be paid them by my executrix, when she
   shall have received of Mr. Robert Lloyd, of Aston in Salop, my tenant,
   for the tithes of Llanchaiadar, all that shall be due to me from him on
   that account; and not otherwise, nor before the full receipt thereof.

   Item, I give and bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds of the like
   lawful money of Great Britain to the chancellor, doctors, and masters
   of arts of the university of Oxon, for the use and benefit of the
   public library of that place, and the buying into it such modern
   authors of principal note, as the vice-chancellor and head
   library-keeper for the time being shall judge both most useful and most
   wanting there. Likewise I give the sum of two hundred pounds of the
   like lawful current money of Great Britain to twenty poor ejected
   clergymen, non-jurors; and those at the sole choice and nomination of
   Mrs. Margaret Hammond, my executrix, to be distributed to them by ten
   pounds apiece.

   Item, I give the like sum of two hundred pounds of the like current
   money as aforesaid to forty poor ministers' widows, and those also of
   the sole choice and nomination of my aforementioned executrix, to be
   distributed to them by five pounds apiece; willing withal, and hereby
   requiring, that both the said clergymen and clergymen's widows now
   mentioned be respectively paid the several sums here allotted them,
   within the term of two years at the utmost after my decease. Also I
   give and bequeath to the governors of the grey coat hospital here in
   Tuthill-fields, Westminster, the sum of one hundred pounds of the like
   lawful money as beforesaid, for and towards the maintenance of the poor
   children taught and bred up there. And here to look a little back again
   upon my affairs in Christ Church: whereas I have for several years last
   past, at a constant yearly salary, employed one Mr. Thomas Rookes,
   verger of Christ Church in Oxon, in managing my accounts, and some
   other of my concerns in and about Oxon, I give him the sum of twenty
   guineas, to be delivered to him by my executrix, after he has paid into
   her hands all monies which shall have been owing from him to me, and
   given back all papers and keys belonging to me, and cleared all
   accounts between him and me, to the full satisfaction of my said
   executrix, and not before, nor otherwise. And as for some other
   charities to the poor, I give as followeth:

   Imprimis, I give and bequeath one hundred pounds of good and lawful
   money of Great Britain to fifty poor house keepers or widows, those of
   clergymen only excepted, as having been before in this my will provided
   for, within the city of Westminster, to be distributed to them by Mrs.
   Margaret Hammond, my housekeeper and executrix, by forty shillings
   apiece; and the said housekeepers and widows to be all of them at the
   sole choice and nomination of the said Mrs. Margaret Hammond; but still
   such as shall be truly conformable to our church, as now by law
   established, and diligent attenders upon the service and worship
   thereof, either at Westminster-abbey, which I most like, or in some
   parish church thereabouts: and this I would have done as speedily as it
   can with any tolerable convenience be after my funeral. Also to the
   poor of the parish of Cavesham, alias Caversham, in Oxfordshire, where
   I have dwelt for many years last past, I give ten pounds, having been
   all along very liberal to that place, and the poor thereof, during all
   the time I spent there. And to the poor of the town and parish of I
   slip in the county of Oxford also; to which I have been a constant and
   (as they themselves very well know) no ordinary benefactor. I give five
   pounds to the poor of the parish of Hackney in the county of Middlesex,
   near Lon don, where I was born and baptized. I give five pounds
   likewise to the poor of the place where I shall happen to be buried;
   (in case it proves to be none of those three places just now mentioned,
   I also give five pounds, but not other wise.) And all these sums I will
   to be distributed by my executrix accordingly, and as soon as with what
   possible expedition it can. And I give moreover to my servant, Clement
   Apthorp of Bedfordshire, the sum of fifty pounds, provided he be
   actually in my service at the time of my decease. And I give also to
   him and the rest of my domestic servants continuing to serve me to that
   time, to each of them a suit of mourning, but so that the said mourning
   be bought and provided for them only by my executrix Mrs. Anne Hammond,
   and not otherwise. And not to forget here one who had lived in my
   service formerly, I give to Mrs. Grace Day, and to her son John Day, an
   apprentice in London, the sum of five pounds apiece, in remembrance of
   me. And now after all, for the better and surer performance of all
   these foregoing particulars, I do hereby constitute and appoint my
   housekeeper, Mrs. Margaret Hammond, sole executrix of this my last will
   and testament; she having served me for now above these five and thirty
   years, and that most faithfully and discreetly, having all along taken
   the greatest care of my health that could be, and, under God, more than
   once preserved my life, and rescued me from imminent and certain death;
   for which considerations, as greater could not possibly be, having made
   her, as here I do, my sole executrix, I do most heartily by these
   presents give and bequeath to her as such, my whole and remaining
   estate in money, plate, rings, jewels, and all my householdstuff,
   books, leases, and writings of all sorts, with an assignment from Mr.
   Gilbert Whitehall, citizen of London, to me upon the Exchequer; and in
   a word, all my goods and chattels whatsoever, not otherwise disposed
   of, or to be disposed of and given away by this my will and testament,
   or by any codicil annexed, or to be annexed to the same hereafter. In
   witness whereof, and of all the premises in this my last will and
   testament contained, and by which I utterly disannul and make void all
   former wills at any time before made by me, I do here set my hand and
   seal to the same, on this thirtieth day of March, in the year of our
   Lord one thousand seven hundred and fourteen, and of her present
   majesty's reign the thirteenth, Robert South. Signed, sealed,
   published, and declared by the said doctor Robert South, as and for his
   last will and testament, in the presence of us who have subscribed our
   names in the presence of him the said doctor South; the following
   words, viz. the word what, in page the third, line the thirteenth; the
   words should be, in page the fifth, line the sixteenth; the word back,
   in page the eighth, line the last; the words those of clergymen, in
   page the ninth, line the fifth; the word particulars, in page the
   tenth, line the eighth: all of them in the places noted being first
   interlined; James Bales, Richard Nurse, John Waiworth.

   A Codicil to be annexed to my last will, and accounted as part of it.

   WHEREAS I Robert South, doctor in divinity, have at several times past
   paid unto Mr. William Vernon, of Westminster, gentleman, the sum of six
   hundred and seventeen pounds thirteen shillings and ten pence, or
   thereabouts; for securing the repayment whereof with interest, the said
   William Vernon, by one or more deeds of assignment, did assign unto
   Mrs. Margaret Hammond, of Westminster, widow, in trust for me, a
   judgment obtained by him against dame Frances Atkins, widow, deceased,
   for the sum of nine hundred and seventy-seven pounds debt, or some such
   sum, besides cost of suit. Now I do give and bequeath all the monies
   which now are or shall become due to me upon the said judgment and
   security, unto Mrs. Margaret Hammond, my executrix, to her sole only
   and proper use and behoof for ever. But nevertheless upon this
   condition, that the said Mrs. Margaret Hammond, my executrix, do and
   shall, within three, or at most five years after she shall have
   received the same, pay unto the dean and chapter of Christ Church in
   Oxford for the time being, the sum of five hundred pounds for and
   towards their carrying on the buildings of that church and college. And
   whereas moreover I Robert South, doctor in divinity, on the seventh day
   of April, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and
   fourteen, purchased of one Henry Clements, bookseller in St. Paul's
   churchyard in London, three volumes of doctor Robert South's sermons,,
   each of them containing twelve sermons apiece, and entitled severally
   the first, second, and third volumes of the same, for one hundred and
   seven pounds ten shillings of lawful money of Great Britain, paid down
   to the said Henry Clements for that real or pretended right to the said
   volumes or copies, as having bought them, as he said, of one sir Thomas
   Gery, knight, and dame Elizabeth, his wife, widow of Thomas Bennet,
   bookseller, her first husband, and accordingly claiming them as his
   sole executrix, the said Bennet himself having likewise formerly
   pleaded a right to the same by virtue of a purchase of them from doctor
   Robert South, the author of them; which yet he the said doctor very
   much questions; I do hereby by these presents give and bequeath the
   aforesaid volumes and copies of my sermons so purchased by me, as has
   been expressed, to Mrs. Margaret Hammond, my housekeeper and executrix,
   to have and to hold, and in full right to dispose of the same according
   to her own will and pleasure for ever. And here, to leave also some
   small pledge at least of my respects to some of my particular friends;
   to wit, the honourable William Bromley, esquire, now principal
   secretary of state; and to the right reverend Dr. Francis Gastrell,
   lord bishop of Chester; and likewise to the reverend Dr. John Hammond,
   and doctor William Stratford, both of them canons of Christ Church in
   Oxon; I give and bequeath to every one of them severally five broad
   Carolus pieces of gold, to buy each of them a ring, to remember me
   their poor friend and servant by. To ah 1 which the foregoing
   particulars, contained in this codicil annexed to my last will and
   testament, as part of the same, I do here set my hand and seal this
   second day of June, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred
   and fourteen, and of her present majesty queen Anne's reign the
   thirteenth, Robert South. Signed, sealed, published, and declared by
   the said doctor Robert South, as and for part of his last will and
   testament, in the presence of us who have subscribed our names in the
   presence of the said doctor Robert South; James Eales, John Walworth,
   Richard Jones.

   A second codicil, to be annexed to my will bearing date on the
   thirtieth of March, one thousand seven hundred and fourteen, and to be
   accounted as part of the same.

   WHEREAS I Robert South, doctor in divinity, and canon of the collegiate
   church of Christ in Oxon, of king Henry the eighth's foundation, &c.
   have by my last testament, bearing date as aforesaid, already disposed
   of all or most of my real, and a great part of my personal estate after
   my decease, I do nevertheless by this codicil (which I do hereby annex
   to my said will, as part thereof) bestow upon the persons hereafter
   mentioned these following legacies.

   Imprimis, I give to Mr. Robert South, of Northampton, attorney by
   profession, and son to my half-brother, Mr. James South, deceased, my
   father's picture, drawn by the excellent hand of Vanzoest, and now
   hanging in my lodgings at Christ Church in Oxon; as also a gold ring
   set with a blue stone called an amethyst, with my father's arms
   curiously engraved upon it; likewise a pebble-stone artificially set in
   a gold ring, (to be used as a seal,) with the same coat of arms cast or
   engraved in it; moreover, an agate of a pretty large size, and handle
   tipped with silver, and bearing my father's arms also upon it, intended
   chiefly for the smoothing of written papers; and together with this, a
   small silver seal with the same engravement upon it, and commonly made
   use of by me in the sealing of my letters: which said legacies, whether
   he shall pass a due value upon them or no, (for I have heard of his
   character,) I have thought fit to leave him, as the properest things to
   remind him of the worthy father whom he is descended from, and the
   family which he belongs to, and deserves with the utmost respect to be
   remembered by him.

   Item, I give to Mrs. Elizabeth Kirkland, the eldest sister of the said
   Robert South, &c. my wrought bed, (the work of my own dear sister
   Elizabeth, long since deceased,) together with the table, stands,
   stools, chairs, carpets, and covers respectively belonging to them; as
   likewise a walnut tree cabinet or scrutoire; first emptied of all
   things that were in it, and standing in the back chamber in my house at
   Westminster. Also I give her a pair of silver candlesticks, with
   snuffing-pan, snuffers, and extinguisher belonging to them; all
   legacies I am sure (whatsoever else I had once in tended her) are a
   great deal more than either she or most of her other relations (so like
   one another for their constant disregard of me) do or can pretend to
   deserve of me.

   Item, I give to the second sister of the said Robert South, named
   Rachael Partridge, (as I remember,) one of my silver tankards, at the
   choice of my executrix, and a silver cup with a snake on the cover of
   it, and two silver tumblers; also a set of damask linen, reckoning to a
   set, one table cloth, one sideboard cloth, and twelve napkins, and no
   more; and all at the choice of my executrix, Mrs. Margaret Hammond. And
   as for a third sister which he once had, named Jane, (she having been
   some years since dead, and having left behind her one only daughter,
   named Jane Taylor,) I give to the said Jane Taylor my pearl cabinet,
   and a black ebony dressing box, (all things being first taken out of
   both of them,) together with a curiously-wrought silver and crystal
   candlestick, with the black leathern case be longing to it; and
   likewise a suit of diaper linen belonging to me, and containing one
   table-cloth, one sideboard cloth, twelve napkins, and no more; but
   still all these, as well as those aforementioned, to be chosen only by
   my executrix; from whom also this Mrs. Jane Taylor is to receive five
   broad Carolus pieces of gold, with one silver coronation medal of queen
   Anne, as a further testimony of my good will towards her.

   Item, To Mrs. Elizabeth Morris, of Antigua in the West Indies, and wife
   to captain Valentine Morris, and granddaughter to my sister by the
   half-blood, Mrs. Joan Hall, formerly living in the same place, I give
   as follows, viz. two silver porringers, six silver forks and salts; and
   with all those, two very fine pieces of wrought and gilt plate, bought
   by me at Dantzick, in my travels into Poland, with the two reddish
   leathern cases at first made for them, and fittest to preserve them in.
   These, I say, I bequeath to her after my death, in case they should not
   be given or delivered to her before. Lastly, To my near kinswoman and
   cousin-german by the mother's side, dame Phebe Hardress, of Kent, I
   bequeath her grandfather's and grandmother Berry's pictures at large,
   and with gilt frames, together with one of her uncle captain John
   Berry, and another of Mr. Jeffery Berry, drawn in his minority, both of
   them of a less size and proportion; and likewise a gold seal ring with
   her grandfather's arms neatly engraven upon it; things very proper (if
   as friendly accepted, as they are offered) to remember her worthy
   family and relations by. To all which the foregoing particulars
   contained in this second codicil, annexed to my last will and testament
   as part thereof, I do here set my hand and seal, on this second day of
   June, in the year of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and fourteen,
   and of her present majesty queen Anne's reign the thirteenth. Robert
   South. Signed, sealed, published, and declared by the said Dr. Robert
   South, as and for part of his last will and testament, in the presence
   of us who have here subscribed our names in the presence of the said
   doctor Robert South; the word pictures being first interlined towards
   the bottom of the leaf next and immediately before this; James Eales,
   John Walworth, Richard Jones.

   A third codicil, to be annexed to my last will and testament, and
   reckoned as part of the same.

   WHEREAS I Robert South, doctor in divinity, and prebendary of the
   collegiate church of St. Peter in Westminster, have made my last will
   and testament, bearing date on the thirtieth day of March in the year
   of our Lord one thousand seven hundred and fourteen, and duly signed
   and sealed the same, and got it attested and subscribed by three
   sufficient witnesses. And whereas after that, I likewise made and
   annexed two codicils to the said will, as part thereof, both of them
   bearing date the second day of June in the year of our Lord one
   thousand seven hundred and fourteen; and the same being then also
   signed and sealed by myself, and duly attested by three sufficient
   witnesses; these are to certify and make known to all men, that I do by
   these presents ratify and confirm my said will, and the two codicils
   annexed to it, so signed and subscribed, as before expressed, as my
   true and lawful acts and deeds, and fully containing my whole mind and
   last will in all the particulars therein expressed; and that to all
   intents and purposes whatsoever. And accordingly I do here set my hand
   and seal to this my third codicil, and annex it in like manner to my
   last will, adding it to the two other codicils, as equally part of my
   will with them. And this I do on the

   day of in the year of our Lord

   and of her present majesty's reign the
     __________________________________________________________________

   The 24th day of July, 1716.

   APPEARED personally Jonah Bowyer, of the parish of St. Bridget, London,
   bookseller; and being sworn upon the holy evangelists to depose the
   truth, did depose as follows: viz. That he was very well acquainted
   with the reverend doctor Robert South, and his manner and character of
   hand-writing, having often seen him write, and having viewed the
   codicil or paper, number three, hereunto annexed, beginning thus, "A
   third codicil, to be annexed to my last will and testament, and
   reckoned as part of the same. Whereas I Robert South, doctor in
   divinity, and prebendary of the collegiate church of St. Peter's in
   Westminster," &c. and ending thus, "And accordingly I do here set my
   hand and seal to this my third codicil, and annex it in like manner to
   my last will, adding it to the two other codicils, as equally part of
   my will with them. And this I do on the    day of    in the year of our
   Lord and of her present majesty's reign the    does, as he verily
   believes, and has been credibly informed, think the same to be all
   wrote with the proper hand of the said doctor Robert South. Jonah
   Bowyer. Die praedict. dictus Jonah Bowyer juratus fuit super veritate
   premissorum coram me Gulielmo Strahan, snrrog. &c.
     __________________________________________________________________

ORATIO FUNEBRIS [8]

IN OBITUM

REVERENDISSIMI ET CLARISSIMI VIRI

ROBERTI SOUTH, S. T. P.

   QUOD populis humanitatis et literarum laude florentibus solenne olim
   fuit, ut celeberrimi cujusque viri exequiis orationem publice habendam
   instituerent, quae defuncti merita et virtutes commemoraret; ita nobis,
   alias si unquam, in praeclarissimi hujus viri funere celebrando aequum
   est fieri. Neque dubito quin vos, auditores, quotquot adestis, honores
   omnes, qui ad mortuum deferri possunt, quibus pompa funebris decorari
   potest et cohonestari, venerando viro, cujus reliquias ante vos positas
   intuemini, facile concedatis. Vereor autem ne inter vos sint, qui
   indignentur munus hoc mihi potissimum demandatum, et inique ferant,
   viri doctissimi et celeberrimi oratoris praedicationem a puero, qui
   literas labris primoribus vix gustaverit, susceptam. At reputent illi,
   quod Romae, quod Athenis, ubi praestantissimi vigebant oratores, non
   semper usitatum erat homines doctos et disertos ad hoc munus evocari;
   sed ii, qui forte fuerint viro defuncto vel affinitate vel beneficiis
   devincti, hanc provinciam libenter susceperunt, non eloquentiae confisi
   suae, sed volentes aliquod grati animi exhibere testimonium.

   Liceat itaque nobis pro beneficiis acceptis, sine invidia, gratiam
   referre. Liceat insigni huic viro supremum munus persolvere, qui qualis
   quantusque fuit, nobis tamen aliquo affmitatis jure conjunctus est.
   Superbius quidem hoc a me et arrogantius diceretur, nisi vir ille
   venerandus, quamdiu in vivis esset, idem hoc soleret laetus
   commemorare: nihil illi frequentius, nihil libentius in ore erat, quam
   se in nostro bonarum literarum seminario pueritiam posuisse, adeoque
   illum non pudebat ex his olim umbraculis prodiise, ut inter plurimos
   illos quos meruit et adeptus est honores, hoc quotidie jactitaret:
   eoque dulciorem hujus loci memoriam foveret, quia semina hie feliciter
   jacta in messem uberiorem indies accreverunt: et sane ita accreverunt,
   ut schola nostra, doctissimorum virorum foecunda mater, a nullo unquam
   alumno ampliorem duxerit gloriandi materiam. Cum enim ex hoc ludo
   literario in aedem amplissimam praestantissimis hominum ingeniis semper
   affluentem cooptaretur, primo inter suos inclaruit, mox etiam extra
   domesticos parietes notus est, et tandem ita percrebuit doctrinae
   illius et eloquentiae fama, ut ex plurimis, qui tum ibi floruerunt,
   summi ingenii hominibus, unus ille deligeretur, qui celeberrimae
   Academiae sensus explicaret, et dicendo adornaret.

   Insigni huic muneri sustinendo quam par fuerit, si taceret hominum
   memoria, satis testantur quae in ecclesiae emolumentum et subsidium
   reliquit scripta immortalia. Notum est vobis, auditores eruditissimi,
   quanta sit in illis, quam varia et multiplex doctrina, quae in
   disserendo subtilitas, qui in refutando nervi, quod ingenii acumen,
   quae dicendi copia et majestas.

   His armis instructus in aciem prodiit, ecclesiae et monarchiae
   acerrimus propugnator; haec tela in homines nefarios utrisque perniciem
   molientes strenuus contorsit, neque signa prius deseruit, quam graves
   illas tempestates restituto rege sedatas, et restinctos malevolorum
   impetus videret.

   Jam tandem optimo cuique patebat ad honores via; et inter multos, qui
   aequissima ceperunt meritorum praemia, insignis hic vir ad summam
   dignitatem feliciter coactus est; iis scilicet in aedibus quibus
   eductus alitusque fuerat, sedes amplissimas obtinuit.

   Dici sane vix potest, utrum huic an aedibus illis hoc evenerit
   optatius. Hic certe gaudebat, quod iis potissimum in locis, quos ex
   omnibus dilexit plurimum, fortunarum suarum sedem collocaret; nec minus
   gaudebant illae, eximium hunc virum, quem altera puerum fovisset,
   altera aluisset adolescentem, utrisque dehinc ornamento fore et
   praesidio. Neque quidem eas haec spes frustrata est. Siquidem immensa
   quam egregius hic vir per totum vitae cursum meritissimo reportavit
   gloria, ad illas etiam aliqua ex parte redundavit.

   Non enim quieti se dedit, neque vitam, quam in publicum commodum
   protraxit Deus, in otio consumpsit. Quos subiret labores, quas vigilias
   pertulerit, ex praeclaris iis quas frequenter habuit concionibus, ex
   doctissimis quos diligenter confecit libris, nemini ignotum est. Neque
   vestrum plerosque latere arbitror, quot et quantae in illo extiterint
   virtutes, quae vitam privatam ornant, neque tam celebrem quam bonum
   virum indicant.

   Quali animo in egenos fuerit, satis testantur quas intra unam parochiam
   munificentissime erogarit opes; quali erga Deum pietate (quanquam hoc
   in scriptis omnibus et vitae quotidianae usu videre erat) maxime
   declaravit sacrorum frequentatio: quamdiu enim per valetudinem licuit,
   horas sacris celebrandis institutas ita observabat, ut sol vices
   diurnas et nocturnas vix obiret constantior. At ingravescente paulatim
   senectute, et morte appropinquante, quam neque animi dotes egregiae,
   neque pietas eximia potest propulsare, vir optimus, qui huic saeculo
   abunde profuisset, venturis etiam saeculis prospexit; et ut doctrinam
   immensam libris mandatam posteris reliquit, sic opes quae ex effusa
   largitione tandem superfuerant, ita legavit, ut literarum studio et
   pietati promovendae per omne aevum inservirent.

   His rebus confectis, quasi in aliorum commoda omnino natus fuisset, e
   vita excessit vir praestantissimus; cujus dum inter illustrissimorum
   virorum tumulos conquiescent reliquiae, nemini secundus, literatorum et
   bonorum omnium sempiterna vigebit memoria.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [8] Reprinted from the same volume which contains the Life and Will.
   Sec Advertisement to the Appendix, vol. vii. of the present edition.
     __________________________________________________________________

  A

FUNERAL ORATION

    UPON

  THE REVEREND AND LEARNED

DR. SOUTH.

   THAT solemnity, of celebrating in public orations the extraordinary
   merits of great men at their funerals, which was established of old by
   those people who were eminent for having humanity and learning flourish
   among them, can certainly never be more justly observed, than in our
   performance of the obsequies of this illustrious person before us. Nor
   do I in the least doubt but all you, who are present, perfectly agree,
   that all the honours that can possibly be paid to the venerable person
   whose remains lie before you, by which his funeral rites may be made
   conspicuous and deservedly eminent, should be performed. And yet I must
   confess I am very apprehensive, that some among you may be offended
   that I should be singled out particularly to execute so awful and
   solemn a duty, and bear it with some indignation, that the praise of so
   learned and celebrated an orator should be undertaken by a boy, who is
   scarce yet arrived to be master of the very first principles of
   letters. But I would have these gentlemen consider, that at Rome and at
   Athens, which were full of great and excellent orators, men of learning
   and consummate eloquence were not always deputed to this office, but
   such as were either related to the deceased, or bound to him by some
   signal obligations; who freely and voluntarily undertook this province,
   not at all confiding in their own eloquence to do him justice, but
   willing to lay hold of that opportunity to give some testimony of their
   gratitude.

   Give me therefore leave, without envy, to make some small return for
   the benefits I have received; give me leave to perform this last office
   to the excellent person here deceased; who as great and eminent as he
   was, yet to him I must boast some alliance. This indeed might be looked
   on as a more proud and arrogant assertion, had not this reverend
   gentleman, as long as he lived, seemed, in all his discourse, with a
   particular satisfaction, freely and voluntarily to tell his friends the
   same thing; that he had his early days instructed in our seminary of
   noble and wholesome arts; and he was so far from being ashamed of
   taking his rise in learning from this school, that in the midst of
   those distinguishing merits of which he was master, and those dignities
   which he obtained, this only seemed to give him satisfaction in that
   good fortune which had attended him; and that which made the memory of
   this place the more dear to him was, that here the seeds were happily
   sown, which after wards produced so noble and so daily increasing a
   harvest. And this harvest so increased, that our school, the fertile
   mother of learned men, never received from any of her children more
   ample matter of glory. For when this excellent man was elected into
   that college's which has always been eminent for men of extraordinary
   parts, he first grew considerable among his fellow-collegians, and soon
   extended the knowledge of his admirable talents beyond those narrow
   bounds; and soon after, the fame of his learning and eloquence
   increased so far, that out of many persons of consummate learning, who
   then flourished in the same house, he alone was chosen to explain, and
   by his eloquence to adorn, the sense of that most celebrated
   university.

   And how fit for and how equal he was to this great work, if the
   treachery of our memory should leave the fact in silence, yet we have
   sufficient testimony from those admirable and immortal works which he
   has left written for the benefit and support of the church. [9] You
   must know, my most learned auditors, how great learning, how various
   and how manifold, shines in them; you must know the penetration, or if
   you will have the word, the subtilty of his arguments, the force of his
   refutations, the poignancy of his wit, and the copiousness and majesty
   of his style. With these arms this strenuous defender of the church and
   the monarchy entered the lists; these weapons he with vigour darted
   against those abandoned wretches who designed the destruction of both;
   nor did he quit the field till he saw those terrible conflicts
   appeased, and the efforts of the malignants restrained, by the
   restoration of the king.

   Now at last the way lay open and easy to all men of worth for honours;
   and among many who received the most just rewards of their merits, this
   most excellent person was happily compelled to accept of the highest
   dignity; that is, he obtained a chief seat in those places where he was
   educated.

   It is a difficult matter to determine, whether this was a happier and
   more desired event to him or to those houses. It is certain he was
   infinitely satisfied that he should settle his fortunes particularly in
   those places which he loved above all others; and those perfectly
   rejoiced, that this worthy person, who had his childhood instructed in
   one, and his youth accomplished in the other, should thus be an
   ornament and defence to both. Nor did these hopes in the least deceive
   them; for that immense glory which this great man justly acquired
   through the whole course of his life, they in some measure had their
   share of.

   For he gave not himself up to sloth and inactivity, nor squandered away
   that life, which God, for the public benefit, made long, in a mere idle
   retreat. There is no man surely can be ignorant of this, since it is
   evident from the many excellent sermons he has given the world, and the
   other accurate books which he writ. Nor can I suppose it possible, that
   most of you should be ignorant of those numerous and sublime virtues
   which were conspicuous in him, and which are an ornament to a private
   station, and prove not so much a popular as a good man. There is no
   greater proof of his charitable nature, and compassion for the poor,
   than his uncommon and large donations in one only h parish; and of his
   piety to God, (although this was sufficiently evident in all his
   writings and the whole conduct of his life,) his constant frequenting
   the offices of the church is a sufficient testimonial. For as long as
   his health would any way suffer him, he so religiously observed the
   hours set apart for the divine worship of the church, that the sun was
   not more constant to its diurnal and nocturnal revolutions. But old age
   growing sensibly upon him, and death approaching, which neither the
   most admirable endowments of mind, nor the most eminent piety can put
   off, this excellent man, who had been so great a benefactor to the
   present age, had also a generous regard to posterity. And as he left
   his immense learning in his books to the ages to come, so he disposed
   of that fortune which his extensive liberality had left him, in such a
   manner, that it should for ever contribute to the study of learning and
   the promotion of piety.

   All this being done, as if he had been born entirely for the benefit of
   others, this most excellent person departed this life; and while his
   sacred relics are deposited among the tombs of the most illustrious,
   his name will ever live and flourish in the memory of the learned and
   the virtuous. [10]
     __________________________________________________________________

   [9] Christ Church, Oxon.

   [10] Islip, in Oxfordshire.
     __________________________________________________________________

  THE

CHIEF HEADS OF THE SERMONS,
     __________________________________________________________________

VOL. I.
     __________________________________________________________________

SERMON I.

  THE WAYS OF WISDOM ARE WAYS OF PLEASANTNESS.

   Prov. iii. 17.

   Her ways are ways of pleasantness. Page 3.

   Some objections against this truth are removed, 3. and the duty of
   repentance represented under a mixture of sweetness, 11.

   The excellencies of the pleasure of wisdom are enumerated:

   I. As it is the pleasure of the mind, 13. in reference, 1. to
   speculation, 13. on the account of the greatness, 14. and newness of
   the objects, 16. 2. To practice, 17.

   II. As it never satiates and wearies, 18. The comparison of other
   pleasures with it; such as that of an epicure, 19. that of ambition,
   21. that of friendship and conversation, 22.

   III. As it is in nobody's power, but only in his that has it, 23. which
   property and perpetuity is not to be found in worldly enjoyments, 24.

   A consequence is drawn against the absurd austerities of the Romish
   profession, 25.

   A short description of the religious pleasure, 27.

SERMON II.

  OF THE CREATION OF MAN IN THE IMAGE OF GOD.

   Genesis i. 27.

   So God created man in Ms own image, in the image of God created he him.
   P. 28.

   The several false opinions of the heathen philosophers concerning the
   original of the world, 31.

   The image of God in man considered, 32.

   I. Wherein it does not consist, adequately and formally; not in power
   and dominion, as the Socinians erroneously assert, 33.

   II. Wherein it does consist: 1. In the universal rectitude of all the
   faculties of the soul, 35. viz. of his understanding, 35. both
   speculative, 36. and practical, 38. Of his will, 40. Concerning the
   freedom of it, 41. Of his passions, 42: love, 43. hatred, 44. anger,
   45. joy, 45. sorrow, 46. hope, 46. fear, 47. 2. In those characters of
   majesty that God imprinted upon his body, 48.

   The consideration of the irreparable loss sustained in the fall of our
   first parents, 50. and of the excellency of Christian religion,
   designed by God to repair the breaches of our humanity, 52.

SERMON III.

  INTEREST DEPOSED, AND TRUTH RESTORED.

   Matthew x. 33.

   But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my
   Father which is in heaven. P. 56.

   The occasion of those words inquired into, 56. and their explication,
   by being compared with other parallel scriptures, 58. and some
   observations deduced from them, 59.

   The explication of them, by shewing,

   I. How many ways Christ and his truths may be denied, 60. 1. By an
   heretical judgment, 61. 2. By oral expressions, 63. 3. By our actions,
   64.

   What denial is intended by these words, 66.

   II. The causes inducing men to deny Christ in his truths, 67. 1. The
   seeming absurdity of many truths, 67. 2. Their unprofitableness, 69. 3.
   Their apparent danger, 71.

   III. How far a man may consult his safety in time of persecution,
   without denying Christ, 73. 1. By withdrawing his person, 73. 2. By
   concealing his judgment, 73.

   When those ways of securing ourselves are not lawful, 74.

   IV. What is meant by Christ's denial of us, 76. with reference, 1. To
   the action itself, 76. 2. To its circumstances, 78.

   V. How many uses may be drawn from the words, 80. 1. An exhortation
   chiefly to persons in authority, to defend Christ in his truth, 80. and
   in his members, 81. 2. An in formation, to shew us the danger as well
   as baseness of denying Christ, 83.

SERMON IV.

RELIGION THE BEST REASON OF STATE.

   1 Kings xiii. 33, 34.

   After this thing king Jeroboam returned not from his evil way, but made
   again of the lowest of the people priests of the high places: whosoever
   would, he consecrated him, and he became one of the priests of the high
   places. And this thing became sin unto the house of Jeroboam, even to
   cut it off, and to destroy it from off the face of the earth. P. 85.

   Jeroboam's history and practice, 85. Some observations from it, 89. An
   explication of the words high places, 90. and consecration, 91.

   The sense of the words drawn into two propositions, 91.

   I. The means to strengthen or to ruin the civil power, is either to
   establish or destroy the right worship of God, 91. Of which proposition
   the truth is proved by all records of divine and profane history, 92.
   and the reason is drawn from the judicial proceeding of God; and from
   the dependence of the principles of government upon religion, 92.

   From which may be inferred, 1. The pestilential design of disjoining
   the civil and ecclesiastical interest, 99. 2. The danger of any thing
   that may make even the true religion suspected to be false, 101.

   II. The way to destroy religion is to embase the dispensers of it, 103.
   which is done, 1. By divesting them of all temporal privileges and
   advantages, 103. 2. By admitting unworthy persons to this function,
   108. By which means, 1st, ministers are brought under contempt, 111.
   2dly, Men of fit parts and abilities are discouraged from undertaking
   the ministry, 114.

   A brief recapitulation of the whole, 117.

SERMON V.

  THE DUTIES OF THE EPISCOPAL FUNCTION.

   Titus ii. 15.

   These things speak, and exhort, and rebuke with all authority. Let no
   man despise thee. P. 122.

   Titus supposed to be a bishop in all this epistle, 122. The duties of
   which place are,

   I. To teach, 124. either immediately by himself, 127. or mediately by
   the subordinate ministration of others, 128.

   II. To rule, 129. by an exaction of duty from persons under him, 130.
   by a protection of the persons under the discharge of their duty, 131.
   and by animadversion upon such as neglect it, 131.

   And the means better to execute those duties, is not to be despised,
   124-134. in the handling of which prescription these things may be
   observed:

   1. The ill effects that contempt has upon government, 134. 2. The
   causes upon which church-rulers are frequently despised, 137. And they
   are

   Either groundless; such as their very profession itself, 138. loss of
   their former grandeur and privilege, 139.

   Or just; such as ignorance, 140. viciousness, 141. fearfulness, 142.
   and a proneness to despise others, 143.

   The character of a clergyman, 144.

SERMON VI.

  WHY CHRIST'S DOCTRINE WAS REJECTED BY THE JEWS.

   John vii. 17.

   If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doc trine, whether it
   be of God, or whether I speak of myself. P. 146.

   An account of the Jewish and Christian economy, 146.

   The gospel must meet with a rightly disposed will, before it can gain
   the assent of the understanding, 148. which will appear from the
   following considerations:

   I. What Christ's doctrine is, with relation to matters of belief, 149.
   and to matters of practice, 149.

   II. That men's unbelief of that doctrine was from no defect in the
   arguments, 152. whose strength was sufficient, from the completion of
   all the predictions, 152. and the authority of miracles, 153. And whose
   insufficiency (if there could have been any) was not the cause of the
   unbelief of the Jews, 154. who assented to things less evident, 155.
   neither evident nor certain, but only probable, 156. neither evident,
   nor certain, nor probable, but false and fallacious, 156.

   III. That the Jewish unbelief proceeded from the pravity of the will
   influencing the understanding to a disbelief of Christianity, 157. the
   last being prepossessed with other notions, and the first being wholly
   governed by covetousness and ambition, 157.

   IV. That a well-disposed mind, with a readiness to obey the will of
   God, is the best means to enlighten the understanding to a belief of
   Christianity, 160. upon the account both of God's goodness, 160. and of
   a natural efficiency, 162. arising from a right disposition of the
   will, which will engage the understanding in the search of the truth
   through diligence, 163. and impartiality, 165.

   From which particulars may be learned, 1. The true cause of atheism and
   scepticism, 167. 2. The most effectual means of becoming good
   Christians, 169.

SERMON VII.

  GOD'S PECULIAR REGARD TO PLACES SET APART FOR DIVINE WORSHIP.

   Psalm lxxxvii. 2.

   God hath loved the gates of Sion more than all the dwellings of Jacob.
   P. 175.

   All comparisons import, in the superior part of them, difference and
   preeminence, 175. and so from the comparison of this text arise these
   propositions:

   I. That God bears a different respect to consecrated places, from what
   he bears to all others, 175. which difference he shews, 1. By the
   interposals of his providence for the erecting and preserving of them,
   176. 2. By his punishments upon the violators of them, 180. 3. Not upon
   the account of any inherent sanctity in the things themselves, but
   because he has the sole property of them, 186. by appropriating them to
   his peculiar use, 187. and by deed of gift made by surrender on man's
   part, 187. and by acceptance on his, 189.

   II. That God prefers the worship paid to him in such places above that
   in all others, 193. because, 1. Such places are naturally apt to excite
   a greater devotion, 193. 2. In them our worship is a more direct
   service and homage to him, 197.

   From all which we are taught to have these three ingredients in our
   devotion; desire, reverence, and confidence, 199.

SERMON VIII.

  ALL CONTINGENCIES UNDER THE DIRECTION OF GOD'S PROVIDENCE,

   Prov. xvi. 33.

   The lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposing of it is of the
   Lord. P. 201.

   God's providence has its influence upon all things, even the most
   fortuitous, such as the casting of lots, P. 201. Which things, implying
   in themselves somewhat future and some what contingent, are,

   I. In reference to men, out of the reach of their knowledge and of
   their power, 202.

   II. In reference to God, comprehended by a certain knowledge, 204. and
   governed by as certain a providence, 205. and by him directed to both
   certain, 205. and great ends, 208. in reference,

   1. To societies, or united bodies of men, 208. 2. To particular
   persons, whether public, as princes, 214. or private, touching their
   lives, 217. health, 218. reputation, 218. friendships, 221.
   employments, 222.

   Therefore we ought to rely on divine Providence; and be neither too
   confident in prosperity, 225. nor too despondent in adversity, 227. but
   carry a conscience clear towards God, who is the sole and absolute
   disposer of all things, 228.

SERMON IX.

  THE WISDOM OF THIS WORLD.

   1 Cor. iii. 19.

   For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. P. 229.

   Worldly wisdom, in scripture, is taken sometimes for philosophy, 229.
   sometimes, as here, for policy, 230. which,

   I. Governs its actions generally by these rules, 231. 1. By a constant
   dissimulation; not a bare concealment of one's mind; but a man's
   positive professing what he is not, and resolves not to be, 231. 2. By
   submitting conscience and religion to one's interest, 234. 3. By making
   one's self the sole end of all actions, 237. 4. By having no respect to
   friendship, gratitude, or sense of honour, 239.

   Which rules and principles are,

   II. Foolish and absurd in reference to God, 241. because in the pursuit
   of them man pitches, 1. Upon an end, unproportionable, 242. to the
   measure of his duration, 242. or to the vastness of his desires, 243.
   2. Upon means in themselves insufficient for, 244. and frequently
   contrary to the attaining of such ends, 247. which is proved to happen
   in the four foregoing rules of the worldly politician, 248.

   Therefore we ought to be sincere, 255. and commit our persons and
   concerns to the wise and good providence of God, 255.

SERMON X.

  GOOD INCLINATIONS NO EXCUSE FOR BAD ACTIONS.

   2 Cor. viii. 12.

   For if there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that
   a man hath, and not according" to that he hath not. P. 257.

   Men are apt to abuse the world and themselves in some general
   principles of action; and particularly in this, That God accepts the
   will for the deed, 257. The delusion of which is laid open in these
   words, 258. expressing, that where there is no power, God accepts the
   will; but implying, that where there is, he does not. So there is no
   thing of so fatal an import as the plea of a good intention, and of a
   good will, 258. for God requires the obedience of the whole man, and
   never accepts the will but as such, 262. Thence we may understand how
   far it holds good, that God accepts the will for the deed, 265. a rule
   whose

   I. Ground is founded upon that eternal truth, that God requires of man
   nothing impossible, 265. and consequently whose,

   II. Bounds are determined by what power man naturally hath, 265. but
   whose,

   III. Misapplication consists in these, 266. 1. That men often mistake
   for an act of the will what really is not so, 266. as a bare
   approbation, 266. wishing, 267. mere inclination, 269. 2. That men
   mistake for impossibilities things which are not truly so, 271. as in
   duties of very great labour, 271. danger, 273. cost, 278. in conquering
   an inveterate habit, 283.

   Therefore there is not a weightier case of conscience, than to know how
   far God accepts the will, and when men truly will a thing, and have
   really no power, 286.

SERMON XI.

  OF THE ODIOUS SIN OF INGRATITUDE.

   Judges viii. 34, 35.

   And the children of Israel remembered not the Lord their God, who had
   delivered them out of the hands of all their enemies on every side:
   neither shewed they kindness to the house of Jerubbaal, namely, Gideon,
   according to all the goodness which he had shewed unto Israel. P. 288.

   The history of Gideon, and the Israelites behaviour towards him, 288.
   are the subject and occasion of these words, which treat of their
   ingratitude both towards God and man, 290. This vice in this latter
   sense is described, 291. by shewing,

   I. What gratitude is, 291. what are its parts, 292. what grounds it
   hath in the law of nature, 293. Of God's word, 296. Of man, 296.

   II. The nature and baseness of ingratitude, 300.

   III. That ingratitude proceeds from a proneness to do ill turns with a
   complacency upon the sight of any mischief be falling another; and from
   an utter insensibility of all kindnesses, 302.

   IV. That it is always attended with many other ill qualities, 304.
   pride, 305. hard-heartedness, 307. and false hood, 310. Therefore,

   V. What consequences may be drawn from the premises, 310. 1. Never to
   enter into a league of friendship with an ungrateful person, 310.
   because, 2. he cannot be altered by any acts of kindness, 311. and, 3.
   he has no true sense of religion, 313. Exhortation to gratitude as a
   debt to God, 314.

SERMON XII.

  OF THE BASE SINS OF FALSEHOOD AND LYING.

   Prov. xii. 32.

   Lying lips are abomination to the Lord. P. 316.

   The universality of lying is described, 316. And this vice is further
   prosecuted, by shewing,

   I. The nature of it, 319. wherein it consists, 319. and the
   unlawfulness of all sorts of lies, whether pernicious, officious, or
   jocose, 320.

   II. The effects of it, 325. all sins that came into the world, 325. all
   miseries that befall mankind, 326. an utter dissolution of all society,
   330. an indisposition to the impressions of religion, 333.

   III. The punishments of it: the loss of all credit, 336. the hatred of
   all whom the liar has or would have deceived 337. and an eternal
   separation from God, 342, All which particulars are briefly summed up,
   343.

SERMON XIII.

  THE PRACTICE OF RELIGION ENFORCED BY REASON.

   Prov. x. 9.

   He that walketh uprightly walketh surely. P. 349

   The life of man is in scripture expressed by walking; which to do
   surely, great caution must be taken not to lay down false principles,
   or mistake in consequences from right ones, 349. but to walk uprightly,
   under the notion of an infinite mind governing the world, and an
   expectation of another state hereafter, 349. Which two principles will
   secure us in all our actions, whether they be considered,

   I. As true, 351. the folly of a sinner presuming upon God's mercy, 353.
   or relying upon a future repentance, 356. or whether supposed,

   II. As only probable, 357. No man, in most temporal concerns, acts upon
   surer grounds than of probability, 359. And self-preservation will
   oblige a man to undergo a lesser evil to secure himself from the
   probability of a greater, 361. Probability supposes that a thing may or
   may not be; both which are examined with relation to a future state,
   361.

   III. As false, 364. Under this supposition the virtuous walketh more
   surely than the wicked, with reference to temporal enjoyments:
   reputation, 364. quietness, 366. health, 369. Answer to an objection,
   that many sinners enjoy all these, 371.

   Thence we may perceive the folly of atheistical persons, 373. and learn
   to walk uprightly, as the best ground for our present and future
   happiness, 376.

SERMON XIV.

  OF THE LOVE OF CHRIST TO HIS DISCIPLES.

   John xv. 15.

   Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant knoweth not what
   his lord doeth; but I have called you friends; for all things that I
   have heard of my Father have I made known unto you. P. 378.

   The superlative love of Christ appears in the several degrees of his
   kindness to man, before he was created, 378. when created, 379. when
   fallen, 379. whom even he not only spared, but, from the number of
   subjects, took into the retinue of his servants, and further advanced
   to the privilege of a friend, 380. The difference between which two
   appellations is this:

   I. That a servant is for the most part, 1. unacquainted with his
   master's designs, 383. 2. restrained with a degenerous awe of mind,
   383. 3. endued with a mercenary disposition, 384.

   II. That a friend is blessed with many privileges; as, 1. Freedom of
   access, 385. 2. Favourable construction of all passages, 386. 3.
   Sympathy in joy and grief, 390. 4. Communication of secrets, 392. 5.
   Counsel and advice, 395. 6. Constancy and perpetuity, 396.

   In every one of which particulars, the excellency of Christ's
   friendship shining forth, 400. we may learn the high advantage of true
   piety, 401.

SERMONS XV. XVI.

  AGAINST LONG EXTEMPORE PRAYERS

   Eccles. v. 2.

   Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter
   any thing before God: for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth;
   therefore let thy words be few. P. 405.

   Solomon having been spoken to by God himself, and so the fittest to
   teach us how to speak to God, here observes to us, that when we are in
   God's house, we are more especially in his presence; that this ought to
   create a reverence in our addresses to him, and that this reverence
   consists in the preparation of our thoughts and the government of our
   expressions, 405. the two great joint ingredients of prayer, 415. Of
   which,

   The first is premeditation of thought, 406. 415. 417.

   The second is, ordering of our words by pertinence and brevity of
   expression, 406. 435.

   Because prayer prevails upon God,

   Not as it does with men, by way of information, 406. persuasion, 407.
   importunity, 408. An objection to this last is answered, 413.

   But as it is the fulfilling of that condition upon which God dispenseth
   his blessings to mankind, 409. An objection to this is removed, 409.

   As it is most properly an act of dependence upon God, 412. a dependence
   not natural, but moral; for else it would belong indifferently to the
   wicked as well as to the just, 412.

   I. Premeditation ought to respect, 1. The object of our prayers; God
   and his divine perfections, 416. 2. The matter of our prayers, 418.
   either things of absolute necessity, as the virtues of a pious life; or
   of unquestionable charity, as the innocent comforts of it, 419. 3. The
   order and disposition of our prayers, 421. by excluding every thing
   which may seem irreverent, incoherent, and impertinent; absurd and
   irrational; 421. rude, slight, and careless, 422.

   Therefore all Christian churches have governed their public worship by
   a liturgy, or set form of prayer, 423. Which way of praying is truly,

   To pray by the Spirit; that is, with the heart, not hypo critically;
   and according to the rules prescribed by God's holy Spirit, not
   unwarrantably, or by a pretence to immediate inspiration, 424.

   Not to stint, but help and enlarge the spirit of prayer, 427. for the
   soul being of a limited nature, cannot at the same time supply two
   distinct faculties to the same height of operation; words are the work
   of the brain; and devotion, properly the business of the heart,
   indispensably required in prayer, 428.

   Whereas, on the contrary,

   Extempore prayers stint the spirit, by calling off the faculties of the
   soul from dealing with the heart both in the minister and in the
   people, 427, 428. And besides,

   They are prone to encourage pride and ostentation, 429. faction and
   sedition, 431.

   II. Brevity of expression, the greatest perfection of speech, 435.
   authorized by both divine, 435. and human examples, 437. suited best to
   the modesty, 440. discretion, 440. and respect required in all
   suppliants, 441. is still further enforced in our addresses to God by
   these arguments, 441. 1. That all the reasons for prolixity of speech
   with men cease to be so, when we pray to God, 442. 2. That there are
   but few things necessary to be prayed for, 448. 3. That the person who
   prays cannot keep up the same fervour and attention in a long as in a
   short prayer, 450. 4. That shortness of speech is the most natural and
   lively way of expressing the utmost agonies of the soul, 451. 5. That
   we have examples in scripture, both of brevity and prolixity of speech
   in prayer, as of brevity in the Lord's Prayer, 453. the practice of it
   in our Saviour himself, 454. the success of it in several instances; as
   of the leper, of , the blind man, and of the publican, 455. Whereas the
   heathens and the pharisees, the grand instances of idolatry and
   hypocrisy, are noted for prolixity, 456.

   By these rules we may judge, 1. of our church's excellent liturgy; for
   its brevity and fulness, for the frequent opportunity of mentioning the
   name and some great attribute of God; for its alternate responses,
   which thing properly denominates it a Book of Common-Prayer, 457. for
   appointing even a form of prayer before sermons, 459. 2. Of the
   dissenters prayers, always notable for length and tautology,
   incoherence and confusion, 460.

   And, after this comparison, pronounce our liturgy the greatest treasure
   of rational devotion; and pray God would vouchsafe long to continue to
   us the use of it, 463.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

    PREACHED

  BEFORE THE COURT AT CHRIST CHURCH CHAPEL IN OXFORD.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

    TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

EDWARD EARL OF CLARENDON,

    LORD HIGH-CHANCELLOR OF ENGLAND, AND CHANCELLOR OF
    THE UNIVERSITY OF OXON, AND ONE OF HIS MAJESTY'S
    MOST HONOURABLE PRIVY COUNCIL.

   My Lord,

   THOUGH to prefix so great a name to so mean a piece seems like
   enlarging the entrance of an house that affords no reception; yet since
   there is nothing can warrant the publication of it, but what can also
   command it, the work must think of no other patronage than the same
   that adorns and protects its author. Some indeed vouch great names,
   because they think they deserve; but I, because I need such: and had I
   not more occasion than many others to see and converse with your
   lordship's candour and proneness to pardon, there is none had greater
   cause to dread your judgment; and thereby in some part I venture to
   commend my own. For all know, who know your lord ship, that in a nobler
   respect, than either that of government or patronage, you represent and
   head the best of universities; and have travelled over too many nations
   and authors to encourage any one that understands himself, to appear an
   author in your hands, who seldom read any books to inform yourself, but
   only to countenance and credit them. But, my lord, what is here
   published pretends no instruction, but only homage; while it teaches
   many of the world, it only describes your lordship, who have made the
   ways of labour and virtue, of doing, and doing good, your business and
   your recreation, your meat and your drink, and, I may add also, your
   sleep. My lord, the subject here treated of is of that nature, that it
   would seem but a chimera, and a bold paradox, did it not in the very
   front carry an instance to exemplify it; and so by the dedication
   convince the world, that the discourse itself was not impracticable.
   For such ever was, and is, and will be the temper of the generality of
   mankind, that, while I send men for pleasure, to religion, I cannot but
   expect, that they will look upon me, as only having a mind to be
   pleasant with them myself: nor are men to be worded into new tempers or
   constitutions: and he that thinks that any one can persuade, but He
   that made the world, will find that he does not well understand it.

   My lord, I have obeyed your command, for such must I account your
   desire; and thereby design, not so much the publication of my sermon,
   as of my obedience: for, next to the supreme pleasure described in the
   ensuing discourse, I enjoy none greater, than in having any opportunity
   to declare myself,

   Your lordship's very humble servant,

   and obliged chaplain,

   ROBERT SOUTH.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Prov. iii. 17.

   Her ways are ways of pleasantness.

   THE text relating to something going before, must carry our eye back to
   the thirteenth verse, where we shall find, that the thing, of which
   these words are affirmed, is wisdom: a name by which the Spirit of God
   was here pleased to express to us religion, and thereby to tell the
   world, what before it was not aware of, and perhaps will not yet
   believe, that those two great things that so engross the desires and
   designs of both the nobler and ignobler sort of mankind, are to be
   found in religion; namely, wisdom and pleasure; and that the former is
   the direct way to the latter, as religion is to both.

   That pleasure is man's chiefest good, (because in deed it is the
   perception of good that is properly pleasure,) is an assertion most
   certainly true, though under the common acceptance of it, not only
   false, but odious: for according to this, pleasure and sensuality pass
   for terms equivalent; and therefore he that takes it in this sense,
   alters the subject of the discourse. Sensuality is indeed a part, or
   rather one kind of pleasure, such an one as it is: for plea sure in
   general is the consequent apprehension of a suitable object, suitably
   applied to a rightly disposed faculty; and so must be conversant both
   about the faculties of the body and of the soul respectively; as being
   the result of the fruitions belonging to both.

   Now amongst those many arguments used to press upon men the exercise of
   religion, I know none that are like to be so successful, as those that
   answer and remove the prejudices that generally possess and bar up the
   hearts of men against it: amongst which, there is none so prevalent in
   truth, though so little owned in pretence, as that it is an enemy to
   men's pleasures, that it bereaves them of all the sweets of converse,
   dooms them to an absurd and perpetual melancholy, designing to make the
   world nothing else but a great monastery. With which notion of
   religion, nature and reason seems to have great -cause to be
   dissatisfied. For since God never created any faculty, either in soul
   or body, but withal prepared for it a suitable object, and that in
   order to its gratification; can we think that religion was designed
   only for a contradiction to nature? and with the greatest and most
   irrational tyranny in the world to tantalize and tie men up from
   enjoyment, in the midst of all the opportunities of enjoyment? To place
   men with the furious affections of hunger and thirst in the very bosom
   of plenty; and then to tell them, that the envy of providence has
   sealed up every thing that is suitable under the character of unlawful?
   For certainly, first to frame appetites fit to receive pleasure, and
   then to interdict them with a touch not, taste not, can be nothing
   else, than only to give them occasion to devour and prey upon
   themselves; and so to keep men under the perpetual torment of an
   unsatisfied desire: a thing hugely contrary to the natural felicity of
   the creature, and consequently to the wisdom and goodness of the great
   Creator.

   He therefore that would persuade men to religion, both with art and
   efficacy, must found the persuasion of it upon this, that it interferes
   not with any rational pleasure, that it bids nobody quit the enjoyment
   of any one thing that his reason can prove to him ought to be enjoyed.
   It is confessed, when, through the cross circumstances of a man's
   temper or condition, the enjoyment of a pleasure would certainly expose
   him to a greater inconvenience, then religion bids him quit it; that
   is, it bids him prefer the endurance of a lesser evil before a greater,
   and nature itself does no less. Religion therefore intrenches upon none
   of our privileges, invades none of our pleasures; it may indeed some
   times command us to change, but never totally to abjure them.

   But it is easily foreseen, that this discourse will in the very
   beginning of it be encountered by an argument from experience, and
   therefore not more obvious than strong; namely, that it cannot but be
   the greatest trouble in the world for a man thus (as it were) even to
   shake off himself, and to defy his nature, by a perpetual thwarting of
   his innate appetites and desires; which yet is absolutely necessary to
   a severe and impartial prosecution of a course of piety: nay, and we
   have this asserted also, by the verdict of Christ himself, who still
   makes the disciplines of self-denial and the cross, those terrible
   blows to flesh and blood, the indispensable requisites to the being of
   his disciples. All which being so, would not he that should be so hardy
   as to attempt to persuade men to piety from the pleasures of it, be
   liable to that invective taunt from all mankind, that the Israelites
   gave to Moses; Wilt thou put out the eyes of this people? Wilt thou
   persuade us out of our first notions? Wilt thou demonstrate, that there
   is any delight in a cross, any comfort in violent abridgments, and,
   which is the greatest paradox of all, that the highest pleasure is to
   abstain from it?

   For answer to which, it must be confessed, that all arguments
   whatsoever against experience are fallacious; and therefore, in order
   to the clearing of the assertion laid down, I shall premise these two
   considerations.

   1. That pleasure is in the nature of it a relative thing, and so
   imports a peculiar relation and correspondence to the state and
   condition of the person to whom it is a pleasure. For as those who
   discourse of atoms, affirm, that there are atoms of all forms, some
   round, some triangular, some square, and the like; all which are
   continually in motion, and never settle till they fall into a fit
   circumscription or place of the same figure: so there are the like
   great diversities of minds and objects. Whence it is, that this object
   striking upon a mind thus or thus disposed, flies off, and rebounds
   without making any impression; but the same luckily happening upon
   another, of a disposition as it were framed for it, is presently
   catched at, and greedily clasped into the nearest unions and embraces.

   2. The other thing to be considered is this: that the estate of all men
   by nature is more or less different from that estate, into which the
   same persons do or may pass, by the exercise of that which the
   philosophers called virtue, and into which men are much more
   effectually and sublimely translated by that which we call grace; that
   is, by the super natural, overpowering operation of God's Spirit. The
   difference of which two estates consists in this; that in the former
   the sensitive appetites rule and domineer; in the latter, the supreme
   faculty of the soul, called reason, sways the sceptre, and acts the
   whole man above the irregular demands of appetite and affection.

   That the distinction between these two is not a mere figment, framed
   only to serve an hypothesis in divinity; and that there is no man but
   is really under one, before he is under the other, I shall prove, by
   shewing a reason why it is so, or rather indeed why it cannot but be
   so. And it is this: because every man in the beginning of his life, for
   several years is capable only of exercising his sensitive faculties and
   desires, the use of reason not shewing itself till about the seventh
   year of his age; and then at length but (as it were) dawning in very
   imperfect essays and discoveries. Now it being most undeniably evident,
   that every faculty and power grows stronger and stronger by exercise;
   is it any wonder at all, when a man for the space of his first six
   years, and those the years of ductility and impression, has been wholly
   ruled by the propensions of sense, at that age very eager and
   impetuous; that then after all, his reason beginning to exert and put
   forth itself, finds the man prepossessed, and under another power? So
   that it has much ado, by many little steps and gradual conquests, to
   recover its prerogative from the usurpations of appetite, and so to
   subject the whole man to its dictates: the difficulty of which is not
   conquered by some men all their days. And this is one true ground of
   the difference between a state of nature and a state of grace, which
   some are pleased to scoff at in divinity, who think that they confute
   all that they laugh at, not knowing that it may be solidly evinced by
   mere reason and philosophy.

   These two considerations being premised, namely, that pleasure implies
   a proportion and agreement to the respective states and conditions of
   men; and that the state of men by nature is vastly different from the
   estate into which grace or virtue transplants them; all that objection
   levelled against the foregoing assertion is very easily resolvable.

   For there is no doubt, but a man, while he resigns himself up to the
   brutish guidance of sense and appetite, has no relish at all for the
   spiritual, refined delights of a soul clarified by grace and virtue.
   The pleasures of an angel can never be the pleasures of a hog. But this
   is the thing that we contend for; that a man having once advanced
   himself to a state of superiority over the control of his inferior
   appetites, finds an infinitely more solid and sublime pleasure in the
   delights proper to his reason, than the same person had ever conveyed
   to him by the bare ministry of his senses. His taste is absolutely
   changed, and therefore that which pleased him formerly, becomes flat
   and insipid to his appetite, now grown more masculine and severe. For
   as age and maturity passes a real and a marvellous change upon the diet
   and recreations of the same person; so that no man at the years and
   vigour of thirty is either fond of sugar-plumbs or rattles: in like
   manner, when reason, by the assistance of grace, has prevailed over,
   and outgrown the encroachments of sense, the delights of sensuality are
   to such an one but as an hobby-horse would be to a counsellor of state,
   or as tasteless as a bundle of hay to an hungry lion. Every alteration
   of a man's condition infallibly infers an alteration of his pleasures.

   The Athenians laughed the physiognomist to scorn, who, pretending to
   read men's minds in their foreheads, described Socrates for a crabbed,
   lustful, proud, ill-natured person; they knowing how directly contrary
   he was to that dirty character. But Socrates bid them forbear laughing
   at the man, for that he had given them a most exact account of his
   nature; but what they saw in him so contrary at the present, was from
   the conquest that he had got over his natural disposition by
   philosophy. And now let any one consider, whether that anger, that
   revenge, that wantonness and ambition, that were the proper pleasures
   of Socrates, under his natural temper of crabbed, lustful, and proud,
   could have at all affected or enamoured the mind of the same So crates,
   made gentle, chaste, and humble by philosophy.

   Aristotle says, that were it possible to put a young man's eye into an
   old man's head, he would see as plainly and clearly as the other: so
   could we infuse the inclinations and principles of a virtuous person
   into him that prosecutes his debauches with the greatest keenness of
   desire and sense of delight, he would loathe and reject them as
   heartily as he now pursues them. Diogenes, being asked at a feast, why
   he did not continue eating as the rest did, answered him that asked him
   with another question, Pray why do you eat? Why, says he, for my
   pleasure. Why so, says Diogenes, do I abstain for my pleasure. And
   therefore the vain, the vicious, and luxurious person argues at an high
   rate of inconsequence, when he makes his particular desires the general
   measure of other men's delights. But the case is so plain, that I shall
   not upbraid any man's understanding, by endeavouring to give it any
   farther illustration.

   But still, after all, I must not deny, that the change and passage from
   a state of nature to a state of virtue is laborious, and consequently
   irksome and unpleasant: and to this it is, that all the forementioned
   expressions of our Saviour do allude. But surely the baseness of one
   condition, and the generous excellency of the other, is a sufficient
   argument to induce any one to a change. For as no man would think it a
   desirable thing, to preserve the itch upon himself, only for the
   pleasure of scratching, that attends that loathsome distemper: so
   neither can any man, that would be faithful to his reason, yield his
   ear to be bored through by his domineering appetites, and so choose to
   serve them for ever, only for those poor, thin gratifications of
   sensuality that they are able to reward him with. The ascent up the
   hill is hard and tedious, but the serenity and fair prospect at the top
   is sufficient to in cite the labour of undertaking it, and to reward
   it, being undertook. But the difference of these two conditions of men,
   as the foundation of their different pleasures, being thus made out, to
   press men with arguments to pass from one to the other, is not directly
   in the way or design of this discourse.

   Yet before I come to declare positively the pleasures that are to be
   found in the ways of religion, one of the grand duties of which is
   stated upon repentance; a thing expressed to us by the grim names of
   mortification, crucifixion, and the like: and that I may not proceed
   only upon absolute negations, without some concessions; we will see,
   whether this so harsh, dismal, and affrighting duty of repentance is so
   entirely gall, as to admit of no mixture, no allay of sweetness, to
   reconcile it to the apprehensions of reason and nature.

   Now repentance consists properly of two things:

   1. Sorrow for sin.

   2. Change of life.

   A word briefly of them both.

   1. And first for sorrow for sin: usually, the sting of sorrow is this,
   that it neither removes nor alters the thing we sorrow for; and so is
   but a kind of reproach to our reason, which will be sure to accost us
   with this dilemma. Either the thing we sorrow for, is to be remedied,
   or it is not: if it is, why then do we spend the time in mourning,
   which should be spent in an active applying of remedies? But if it is
   not, then is our sorrow vain and superfluous, as tending to no real
   effect. For no man can weep his father or his friend out of the grave,
   or mourn himself out of a bankrupt condition. But this spiritual sorrow
   is effectual to one of the greatest and highest purposes, that mankind
   can be concerned in. It is a means to avert an impendent wrath, to
   disarm an offended omnipotence, and even to fetch a soul out of the
   very jaws of hell. So that the end and consequence of this sorrow
   sweetens the sorrow itself: and as Solomon says, In the midst of laugh
   ter, the heart is sorrowful; so in the midst of sorrow here, the heart
   may rejoice: for while it mourns, it reads, that those that mourn shall
   be comforted; and so while the penitent weeps with one eye, he views
   his deliverance with the other. But then for the external expressions,
   and vent of sorrow; we know that there is a certain pleasure in
   weeping; it is the discharge of a big and a swelling grief; of a full
   and a strangling discontent; and therefore, he that never had such a
   burden upon his heart, as to give him opportunity thus to ease it, has
   one plea sure in this world yet to come.

   2. As for the other part of repentance, which is change of life, this
   indeed may be troublesome in the entrance; but it is but the first bold
   onset, the first resolute violence and invasion upon a vicious habit,
   that is so sharp and afflicting. Every impression of the lancet cuts,
   but it is the first only that smarts. Besides, it is an argument hugely
   unreasonable, to plead the pain of passing from a vicious estate,
   unless it were proved, that there was none in the continuance under it:
   but surely, when we read of the service, the bondage, and the captivity
   of sinners, we are not entertained only with the air of words and
   metaphors, and, instead of truth, put off with similitudes. Let him
   that says it is a trouble to refrain from a debauch, convince us, that
   it is not a greater to undergo one; and that the confessor did not
   impose a shrewd penance upon the drunken man, by bidding him go and be
   drunk again; and that lisping, raging, redness of eyes, and what is not
   fit to be named in such an audience, is not more toil some, than to be
   clean, and quiet, and discreet, and respected for being so. All the
   trouble that is in it, is the trouble of being sound, being cured, and
   being recovered. But if there be great arguments for health, then
   certainly there are the same for the obtaining of it; and so keeping a
   due proportion between spirituals and temporals, we neither have, nor
   pretend to greater arguments for repentance.

   Having thus now cleared off all, that by way of objection can He
   against the truth asserted, by shewing the proper qualification of the
   subject, to whom only the ways of wisdom can be ways of pleasantness;
   for the further prosecution of the matter in hand, I shall shew what
   are those properties that so peculiarly set off and enhance the
   excellency of this pleasure.

   1. The first is, That it is the proper pleasure of that part of man,
   which is the largest and most comprehensive of pleasure, and that is
   his mind: a substance of a boundless comprehension. The mind of man is
   an image, not only of God's spirituality, but of his infinity. It is
   not like any of the senses, limited to this or that kind of object: as
   the sight intermeddles not with that which affects the smell; but with
   an universal superintendence, it arbitrates upon and takes them in all.
   It is (as I may so say) an ocean, into which all the little rivulets of
   sensation, both external and internal, discharge themselves. It is
   framed by God to receive all, and more than nature can afford it; and
   so to be its own motive to seek for something above nature. Now this is
   that part of man to which the pleasures of religion properly belong:
   and that in a double respect.

   1. In reference to speculation, as it sustains the name of
   understanding.

   2. In reference to practice, as it sustains the name of conscience.

   1. And first for speculation: the pleasures of which have been
   sometimes so great, so intense, so ingrossing of all the powers of the
   soul, that there has been no room left for any other pleasure. It has
   so called together all the spirits to that one work, that there has
   been no supply to carry on the inferior operations of nature.
   Contemplation feels no hunger, nor is sensible of any thirst, but of
   that after knowledge. How frequent and exalted a pleasure did David
   find from his meditation in the divine law! All the day long it was the
   theme of his thoughts. The affairs of state, the government of his
   kingdom, might indeed employ, but it was this only that refreshed his
   mind.

   How short of this are the delights of the epicure! How vastly
   disproportionate are the pleasures of the eating and of the thinking
   man! Indeed as different as the silence of an Archimedes in the study
   of a problem, and the stillness of a sow at her wash. Nothing is
   comparable to the pleasure of an active and a prevailing thought: a
   thought prevailing over the difficulty and obscurity of the object, and
   refreshing the soul with new discoveries and images of things; and
   thereby extending the bounds of apprehension, and (as it were)
   enlarging the territories of reason.

   Now this pleasure of the speculation of divine things is advanced upon
   a double account.

   (1.) The greatness.

   (2.) The newness of the object.

   (1.) And first for the greatness of it. It is no less than the great
   God himself, and that both in his nature and his works. For the eye of
   reason, like that of the eagle, directs itself chiefly to the sun, to a
   glory that neither admits of a superior nor an equal. Religion carries
   the soul to the study of every divine attribute.

   It poses it with the amazing thoughts of omnipotence; of a power able
   to fetch up such a glorious fabric, as this of the world, out of the
   abyss of vanity and nothing, and able to throw it back into the same
   original nothing again. It drowns us in the speculation of the divine
   omniscience; that can maintain a steady infallible comprehension of all
   events in themselves contingent and accidental; and certainly know
   that, which does not certainly exist. It confounds the greatest
   subtilties of speculation, with the riddles of God's omnipresence; that
   can spread a single individual substance through all spaces; and yet
   without any commensuration of parts to any, or circumscription within
   any, though totally in every one. And then for his eternity; which
   nonpluses the strongest and clearest conception, to comprehend how one
   single act of duration should measure all periods and portions of time,
   without any of the distinguishing parts of succession. Likewise for his
   justice; which shall prey upon the sinner for ever, satisfying itself
   by a perpetual miracle, rendering the creature immortal in the midst of
   the flames; always consuming, but never consumed. With the like wonders
   we may entertain our speculations from his mercy; his beloved, his
   triumphant attribute; an attribute, if it were possible, something more
   than infinite; for even his justice is so, and his mercy transcends
   that. Lastly, we may contemplate upon his supernatural, astonishing
   works: particularly in the resurrection, and reparation of the same
   numerical body, by a reunion of all the scattered parts, to be at
   length disposed of into an estate of eternal woe or bliss; as also the
   greatness and strangeness of the beatifick vision; how a created eye
   should be so fortified, as to bear all those glories that stream from
   the fountain of uncreated light, the meanest expression of which light
   is, that it is unexpressible. Now what great and high objects are
   these, for a rational contemplation to busy itself upon! Heights that
   scorn the reach of our prospect; and depths in which the tallest reason
   will never touch the bottom: yet surely the pleasure arising from
   thence is great and noble; forasmuch as they afford perpetual matter
   and employment to the inquisitiveness of human reason; and so are large
   enough for it to take its full scope and range in: which when it has
   sucked and drained the utmost of an object, naturally lays it aside,
   and neglects it as a dry and an empty thing.

   (2.) As the things belonging to religion entertain our speculation with
   great objects, so they entertain it also with new: and novelty, we
   know, is the great parent of pleasure; upon which account it is that
   men are so much pleased with variety, and variety is nothing else but a
   continued novelty. The Athenians, who were the professed and most
   diligent improvers of their reason, made it their whole business to
   hear or to tell some new thing: for the truth is, newness especially in
   great matters, was a worthy entertainment for a searching mind; it was
   (as I may so say) an high taste, fit for the relish of an Athenian
   reason. And thereupon the mere unheard of strangeness of Jesus and the
   resurrection, made them desirous to hear it discoursed of to them
   again, Acts xvii. 23. But how would it have employed their searching
   faculties, had the mystery of the Trinity, and the incarnation of the
   Son of God, and the whole economy of man's redemption been explained to
   them! For how could it ever enter into the thoughts of reason, that a
   satisfaction could be paid to an infinite justice? Or, that two natures
   so unconceivably different as the human and divine, could unite into
   one person? The knowledge of these things could derive from nothing
   else but pure revelation, and consequently must be purely new to the
   highest discourses of mere nature. Now that the newness of an object so
   exceedingly pleases and strikes the mind, appears from this one
   consideration; that every thing pleases more in expectation than
   fruition: and expectation supposes a thing as yet new, the hoped for
   discovery of which is the pleasure that entertains the expecting and
   inquiring mind: whereas actual discovery (as it were) rifles and
   deflowers the newness and freshness of the object, and so for the most
   part makes it cheap, familiar, and contemptible.

   It is clear therefore, that, if there be any pleasure to the mind from
   speculation, and if this pleasure of speculation be advanced by the
   greatness and newness of the things contemplated upon, all this is to
   be found in the ways of religion.

   2. In the next place, religion is a pleasure to the mind, as it
   respects practice, and so sustains the name of conscience. And
   conscience undoubtedly is the great repository and magazine of all
   those pleasures that can afford any solid refreshment to the soul. For
   when this is calm, and serene, and absolving, then properly a man
   enjoys all things, and what is more, himself; for that he must do,
   before he can enjoy any thing else. But it is only a pious life, led
   exactly by the rules of a severe religion, that can authorize a man's
   conscience to speak comfortably to him: it is this that must word the
   sentence, before the conscience can pronounce it, and then it will do
   it with majesty and authority: it will not whisper, but proclaim a
   jubilee to the mind; it will not drop, but pour in oil upon the wounded
   heart. And is there any pleasure comparable to that which springs from
   hence? The pleasure of conscience is not only greater than all other
   pleasures, but may also serve instead of them: for they only please and
   affect the mind in transitu, in the pitiful narrow compass of actual
   fruition; whereas that of conscience entertains and feeds it a long
   time after with durable, lasting reflections.

   And thus much for the first ennobling property of the pleasure
   belonging to religion; namely, That it is the pleasure of the mind, and
   that both as it relates to speculation, and is called the
   understanding, and as it relates to practice, and is called the
   conscience.

   II. The second ennobling property of it is, That it is such a pleasure
   as never satiates or wearies: for it properly affects the spirit, and a
   spirit feels no weariness, as being privileged from the causes of it.
   But can the epicure say so of any of the pleasures that he so much
   dotes upon? Do they not expire, while they satisfy? And after a few
   minutes refreshment, determine in loathing and unquietness? How short
   is the interval between a pleasure and a burden? How undiscernible the
   transition from one to the other? Pleasure dwells no longer upon the
   appetite, than the necessities of nature, which are quickly and easily
   provided for; and then all that follows is a load and an oppression.
   Every morsel to a satisfied hunger, is only a new labour to a tired
   digestion. Every draught to him that has quenched his thirst, is but a
   farther quenching of nature; a provision for rheum and diseases, a
   drowning of the quickness and activity of the spirits.

   He that prolongs his meals, and sacrifices his time, as well as his
   other conveniences, to his luxury, how quickly does he out-sit his
   pleasure! And then, how is all the following time bestowed upon
   ceremony and surfeit! till at length, after a long fatigue of eating,
   and drinking, and babbling, he concludes the great work of dining
   genteelly, and so makes a shift to rise from table, that he may He down
   upon his bed: where, after he has slept himself into some use of
   himself, by much ado he staggers to his table again, and there acts
   over the same brutish scene: so that he passes his whole life in a
   dozed condition between sleeping and waking, with a kind of drowsiness
   and confusion upon his senses; which, what pleasure it can be, is hard
   to conceive; all that is of it, dwells upon the tip of his tongue, and
   within the compass of his palate: a worthy prize for a man to purchase
   with the loss of his time, his reason, and himself.

   Nor is that man less deceived, that thinks to maintain a constant
   tenure of pleasure, by a continual pursuit of sports and recreations:
   for it is most certainly true of all these things, that as they refresh
   a man when he is weary, so they weary him when he is refreshed; which
   is an evident demonstration that God never designed the use of them to
   be continual; by putting such an emptiness in them, as should so
   quickly fail and lurch expectation.

   The most voluptuous and loose person breathing, were he but tied to
   follow his hawks and his hounds, his dice and his courtships every day,
   would find it the greatest torment and calamity that could befall him;
   he would fly to the mines and the gal leys for his recreation, and to
   the spade and the mattock for a diversion from the misery of a
   continual unintermitted pleasure.

   But on the contrary, the providence of God has so ordered the course of
   things, that there is no action, the usefulness of which has made it
   the matter of duty, and of a profession, but a man may bear the
   continual pursuit of it, without loathing or satiety. The same shop and
   trade that employs a man in his youth, employs him also in his age.
   Every morning he rises fresh to his hammer and his anvil; he passes the
   day singing: custom has naturalized his labour to him: his shop is his
   element, and he cannot with any enjoyment of himself live out of it.
   Whereas no custom can make the painfulness of a debauch easy or
   pleasing to a man; since nothing can be pleasant that is unnatural. But
   now, if God has interwoven such a pleasure with the works of our
   ordinary calling; how much superior and more refined must that be, that
   arises from the survey of a pious and well governed life! Surely, as
   much as Christianity is nobler than a trade.

   And then, for the constant freshness of it; it is such a pleasure as
   can never cloy or overwork the mind: for surely no man was ever weary
   of thinking, much less of thinking that he had done well or virtuously,
   that he had conquered such and such a temptation, or offered violence
   to any of his exorbitant desires. This is a delight that grows and
   improves under thought and reflection: and while it exercises, does
   also endear itself to the mind; at the same time employing and
   inflaming the meditations. All pleasures that affect the body, must
   needs weary, because they transport; and all transportation is a
   violence; and no violence can be lasting, but determines upon the
   falling of the spirits, which are not able to keep up that height of
   motion that the pleasure of the senses raises them to: and therefore
   how inevitably does an immoderate laughter end in a sigh! which is only
   nature's recovering itself after a force done to it. But the religious
   pleasure of a well disposed mind moves gently, and therefore
   constantly: it does not affect by rapture and ecstasy; but is like the
   pleasure of health, which is still and sober, yet greater and stronger
   than those that call up the senses with grosser and more affecting
   impressions. God has given no man a body as strong as his appetites;
   but has corrected the boundlesness of his voluptuous desires, by
   stinting his strengths, and contracting his capacities.

   But to look upon those pleasures also that have an higher object than
   the body; as those that spring from honour and grandeur of condition;
   yet we shall find, that even these are not so fresh and constant, but
   the mind can nauseate them, and quickly feel the thinness of a popular
   breath. Those that are so fond of applause while they pursue it, how
   little do they taste it when they have it! Like lightning, it only
   flashes upon the face, and is gone; and it is well if it does not hurt
   the man. But for greatness of place, though it is fit and necessary
   that some persons in the world should be in love with a splendid
   servitude; yet certainly they must be much beholding to their own
   fancy, that they can be pleased at it. For he that rises up early, and
   goes to bed late, only to receive addresses, to read and answer
   petitions, is really as much tied and abridged in his freedom, as he
   that waits all that time to present one. And what pleasure can it be to
   be incumbered with dependences, thronged and surrounded with
   petitioners? And those perhaps sometimes all suitors for the same
   thing: where upon all but one will be sure to depart grumbling, because
   they miss of what they think their due: and even that one scarce
   thankful, because he thinks he has no more than his due. In a word, if
   it is a pleasure to be envied and shot at, to be maligned standing, and
   to be despised falling, to endeavour that which is impossible, which is
   to please all, and to suffer for not doing it; then is it a pleasure to
   be great, and to be able to dispose of men's for tunes and preferments.

   But farther, to proceed from hence to yet an higher degree of pleasure,
   indeed the highest on this side that of religion; which is the pleasure
   of friendship and conversation. Friendship must confessedly be allowed
   the top, the flower, and crown of all temporal enjoyments. Yet has not
   this also its flaws and its dark side? For is not my friend a man; and
   is not friendship subject to the same mortality and change that men
   are? And in case a man loves, and is not loved again, does he not think
   that he has cause to hate as heartily, and ten times more eagerly than
   ever he loved? And then to be an enemy, and once to have been a friend,
   does it not embitter the rupture, and aggravate the calamity? But
   admitting that my friend continues so to the end; yet in the mean time,
   is he all perfection, all virtue and discretion? Has he not humours to
   be endured, as well as kindnesses to be enjoyed? And am I sure to smell
   the rose, without sometimes feeling the thorn?

   And then lastly for company; though it may reprieve a man from his
   melancholy, yet it cannot secure him from his conscience, nor from
   sometimes being alone. And what is all that a man enjoys, from a
   week's, a month's, or a year's converse, comparable to what he feels
   for one hour, when his conscience shall take him aside, and rate him by
   himself?

   In short, run over the whole circle of ah 1 earthly pleasures, and I
   dare affirm, that had not God secured a man a solid pleasure from his
   own actions, after he had rolled from one to another, and enjoyed them
   all, he would be forced to complain, that either they were not indeed
   pleasures, or that plea sure was not satisfaction.

   III. The third ennobling property of the pleasure that accrues to a man
   from religion, is, that it is such an one as is in nobody's power, but
   only in his that has it; so that he that has the property may be also
   sure of the perpetuity. And tell me so of any outward enjoyment that
   mortality is capable of. We are generally at the mercy of men's rapine,
   avarice, and violence, whether we shall be happy or no. For if I build
   my felicity upon my estate or reputation, I am happy as long as the
   tyrant or the railer will give me leave to be so. But when my
   concernment takes up no more room or compass than myself; then so long
   as I know where to breathe and to exist, I know also where to be happy:
   for I know I may be so in my own breast, in the court of my own
   conscience; where, if I can but prevail with myself to be innocent, I
   need bribe neither judge nor officer to be pronounced so. The plea sure
   of the religious man is an easy and a portable pleasure, such an one as
   he carries about in his bosom, without alarming either the eye or envy
   of the world. A man putting all his pleasures into this one, is like a
   traveller's putting all his goods into one jewel; the value is the
   same, and the convenience greater.

   There is nothing that can raise a man to that generous absoluteness of
   condition, as neither to cringe, to fawn, or to depend meanly; but that
   which gives him that happiness within himself, for which men depend
   upon others. For surely I need salute no great man's threshold, sneak
   to none of his friends or servants, to speak a good word for me to my
   conscience. It is a noble and a sure defiance of a great malice, backed
   with a great interest; which yet can have no advantage of a man, but
   from his own expectations of something that is without himself. But if
   I can make my duty my delight; if I can feast, and please, and caress
   my mind with the pleasures of worthy speculations or virtuous
   practices; let greatness and malice vex and abridge me if they can: my
   pleasures are as free as my will; no more to be controlled than my
   choice, or the unlimited range of my thoughts and my desires.

   Nor is this kind of pleasure only out of the reach of any outward
   violence, but even those things also that make a much closer impression
   upon us, which are the irresistible decays of nature, have yet no
   influence at all upon this. For when age itself, which of all things in
   the world will not be baffled or defied, shall begin to arrest, seize,
   and remind us of our mortality, by pains, aches, deadness of limbs, and
   dulness of senses; yet then the pleasure of the mind shall be in its
   full youth, vigour, and freshness. A palsy may as well shake an oak, or
   a fever dry up a fountain, as either of them shake, dry up, or impair
   the delight of conscience. For it lies within, it centers in the heart,
   it grows into the very substance of the soul, so that it accompanies a
   man to his grave; he never outlives it, and that for this cause only,
   because he cannot outlive himself.

   And thus I have endeavoured to describe the excellency of that pleasure
   that is to be found in the ways of a religious wisdom, by those
   excellent properties that do attend it; which, whether they reach the
   description that has been given them, or no, every man may convince
   himself, by the best of demonstrations, which is his own trial.

   Now from all this discourse, this I am sure is a most natural and
   direct consequence, that if the ways of religion are ways of
   pleasantness, then such as are not ways of pleasantness are not truly
   and properly ways of religion. Upon which ground, it is easy to see
   what judgment is to be passed upon all those affected, uncommanded,
   absurd austerities, so much prized and exercised by some of the Romish
   profession. Pilgrimages, going barefoot, hair-shirts, and whips, with
   other such gospel artillery, are their only helps to devotion: things
   never enjoined, either by the prophets under the Jewish, or by the
   apostles under the Christian economy; who yet surely understood the
   proper and the most efficacious instruments of piety, as well as any
   confessor or friar of all the order of St. Francis, or any casuist
   whatsoever.

   It seems, that with them a man sometimes can not be a penitent, unless
   he also turns vagabond, and foots it to Jerusalem; or wanders over this
   or that part of the world to visit the shrine of such or such a
   pretended saint; though perhaps, in his life, ten times more ridiculous
   than themselves: thus, that which was Cain's curse is become their
   religion. He that thinks to expiate a sin by going barefoot, does the
   penance of a goose, and only makes one folly the atonement of another.
   Paul in deed was scourged and beaten by the Jews, but we never read
   that he beat or scourged himself: and if they think that his keeping
   under of his body imports so much, they must first prove that the body
   cannot be kept under by a virtuous mind, and that the mind cannot be
   made virtuous but by a scourge; and consequently, that thongs and
   whipcord are means of grace, and things necessary to salvation. The
   truth is, if men's religion lies no deeper than their skin, it is
   possible that they may scourge themselves into very great improvements.

   But they will find that bodily exercise touches not the soul; and that
   neither pride, nor lust, nor covetousness, nor any other vice, was ever
   mortified by corporal disciplines: it is not the back, but the heart
   that must bleed for sin: and consequently, that in this whole course
   they are like men out of their way; let them lash on never so fast,
   they are not at all the nearer to their journey's end: and howsoever
   they deceive themselves and others, they may as well expect to bring a
   cart as a soul to heaven by such means. What arguments they have to
   beguile poor, simple, unstable souls with, I know not; but surely the
   practical, casuistical, that is, the principal, vital part of their
   religion savours very little of spirituality.

   And now upon the result of all, I suppose, that to exhort men to be
   religious, is only in other words to exhort them to take their
   pleasure. A pleasure, high, rational, and angelical; a pleasure embased
   with no appendant sting, no consequent loathing, no remorses or bitter
   farewells: but such an. one, as being honey in the mouth, never turns
   to gall or gravel in the belly. A pleasure made for the soul, and the
   soul for that; suitable to its spirituality, and equal to all its
   capacities. Such an one as grows fresher upon enjoyment, and though
   continually fed upon, yet is never devoured. A pleasure that a man may
   can as properly his own, as his soul and his conscience; neither liable
   to accident, nor exposed to injury. It is the foretaste of heaven, and
   the earnest of eternity. In a word, it is such an one, as being begun
   in grace, passes into glory, blessedness, and immortality, and those
   pleasures that neither eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor has it entered
   into the heart of man to conceive.

   To which God of his mercy vouchsafe to bring us to whom he rendered and
   ascribed, as is most due, all praise, might, majesty, and dominion,
   both, now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

    PREACHED AT

  THE CATHEDRAL CHURCH OF ST. PAUL'S,

    NOVEMBER THE 9th, 1662.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

    TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

The Lord Mayor and Aldermen of the City of London.

   Right honourable,

   WHEN I consider how impossible it is for a person of my condition to
   produce, and consequently how imprudent to attempt, any thing in
   proportion either to the ampleness of the body you represent, or of the
   places you bear, I should be kept from venturing so poor a piece,
   designed to live but an hour, in so lasting a publication; did not what
   your civility calls a request, your greatness render a command. The
   truth is, in things not unlawful, great persons cannot be properly said
   to request; because, all things considered, they must not be denied. To
   me it was honour enough to have your audience, enjoyment enough to
   behold your happy change, and to see the same city, the metropolis of
   loyalty and of the kingdom, to behold the glory of English churches
   reformed, that is, delivered from the reformers; and to find at least
   the service of the church repaired, though not the building; to see St.
   Paul's delivered from beasts here, as well as St. Paul at Ephesus; and
   to view the church thronged only with troops of auditors, not of horse.
   This I could fully have acquiesced in, and received a large personal
   reward in my particular share of the public joy; but since you are
   farther pleased, I will not say by your judgment to approve, but by
   your acceptance to encourage the raw endeavours of a young divine, I
   shall take it for an opportunity, not as others in their sage prudence
   use to do, to quote three or four texts of scripture, and to tell you
   how you are to rule the city out of a concordance; no, I bring not
   instructions, but what much bet ter befits both you and myself, your
   commendations. For I look upon your city as the great and magnificent
   stage of business, and by consequence the best place of improvement;
   for from the school we go to the university, but from the universities
   to London. And therefore as in your city meetings you must be esteemed
   the most considerable body of the nation; so, met in the church, I look
   upon you as an auditory fit to be waited on, as you are, by both
   universities. And when I remember how instrumental you have been to
   recover this universal settlement, and to retrieve the old spirit of
   loyalty to kings, (as an ancient testimony of which you bear not the
   sword in vain;) I seem in a manner deputed from Oxford, not so much a
   preacher to supply a course, as orator to present her thanks. As for
   the ensuing discourse, which (lest I chance to be traduced for a
   plagiary by him who has played the thief) I think fit to tell the world
   by the way, was one of those that by a worthy hand were stolen from me
   in the king's chapel, and are still detained; and to which now
   accidentally published by your honour's order, your patronage must give
   both value and protection. You will find me in it not to have pitched
   upon any subject, that men's guilt, and the consequent of guilt, their
   concernment might render liable to exception; nor to have rubbed up the
   memory of what some heretofore in the city did, which more and better
   now detest, and therefore expiate: but my subject is inoffensive,
   harmless, and innocent as the state of innocence itself, and (I hope)
   suitable to the present design and genius of this nation; which is, or
   should be, to return to that innocence, ich it lost long since the
   fall. Briefly, my business is, by describing what man was in his first
   estate, to upbraid him with what he is in his present: between whom,
   innocent and fallen, (that in a word I may suit the subject to the
   place of my discourse,) there is as great an unlikeness, as between St.
   Paul's a cathedral, and St. Paul's a stable. But I must not forestall
   myself, nor transcribe the work into the dedication. I shall now only
   desire you to accept the issue of your own requests; the gratification
   of which I have here consulted so much before my own reputation; while
   like the poor widow I endeavour to shew my officiousness by an
   offering, though I betray my poverty by the measure; not so much
   caring, though I appear neither preacher nor scholar, (which terms we
   have been taught upon good reason to distinguish,) so I may in this but
   shew myself

   Your honour's

   very humble servant,

   ROBERT SOUTH.

   Worcester-House,
   Nov. 24, 1662.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Genesis i. 27.

   So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he
   him.

   HOW hard it is for natural reason to discover a creation before
   revealed, or being revealed to believe it, the strange opinions of the
   old philosophers, and the infidelity of modern atheists, is too sad a
   demonstration. To run the world back to its first original and infancy,
   and (as it were) to view nature in its cradle, to trace the outgoings
   of the Ancient of days in the first instance and specimen of his
   creative power, is a research too great for any mortal inquiry: and we
   might continue our scrutiny to the end of the world, before natural
   reason would be able to find out when it begun.

   Epicurus's discourse concerning the original of the world is so
   fabulous and ridiculously merry, that we may well judge the design of
   his philosophy to have been pleasure, and not instruction.

   Aristotle held, that it streamed by connatural result and emanation
   from God, the infinite and eternal mind, as the light issues from the
   sun; so that there was no instant of duration assignable of God's
   eternal existence, in which the world did not also coexist.

   Others held a fortuitous concourse of atoms; but all seem jointly to
   explode a creation; still beating upon this ground, that to produce
   something out of nothing is impossible and incomprehensible:
   incomprehensible indeed I grant, but not therefore impossible. There is
   not the least transaction of sense and motion in the whole man, but
   philosophers are at a loss to comprehend, I am sure they are to explain
   it. Wherefore it is not always rational to measure the truth of an
   assertion by the standard of our apprehension.

   But to bring things even to the bare perceptions of reason, I appeal to
   any one, who shall impartially reflect upon the ideas and conceptions
   of his own mind, whether he doth not find it as easy and suit able to
   his natural notions, to conceive that an infinite almighty power might
   produce a thing out of nothing, and make that to exist de novo, which
   did not exist before; as to conceive the world to have had no
   beginning, but to have existed from eternity: which, were it so proper
   for this place and exercise, I could easily demonstrate to be attended
   with no small train of absurdities. But then, besides that the
   acknowledging of a creation is safe, and the denial of it dangerous and
   irreligious, and yet not more (perhaps much less) demonstrable than the
   affirmative; so, over and above, it gives me this advantage, that, let
   it seem never so strange, uncouth, and impossible, the nonplus of my
   reason will yield a fairer opportunity to my faith.

   In this chapter, we have God surveying the works of the creation, and
   leaving this general impress or character upon them, that they were
   exceeding good. What an omnipotence wrought, we have an omniscience to
   approve. But as it is reasonable to imagine that there is more of
   design, and consequently more of perfection, in the last work, we have
   God here giving his last stroke, and summing up all into man, the whole
   into a part, the universe into an individual: so that, whereas in other
   creatures we have but the trace of his footsteps, in man we have the
   draught of his hand. In him were united all the scattered perfections
   of the creature; all the graces and ornaments, all the airs and
   features of being, were abridged into this small, yet full system of
   nature and divinity: as we might well imagine that the great artificer
   would be more than ordinarily exact in drawing his own picture.

   The work that I shall undertake from these words, shall be to shew what
   this image of God in man is, and wherein it doth consist. Which I shall
   do these two ways: 1. Negatively, by shewing wherein it does not
   consist. 2. Positively, by shewing wherein it does.

   For the first of these, we are to remove the erroneous opinion of the
   Socinians. They deny that the image of God consisted in any habitual
   perfections that adorned the soul of Adam: but as to his understanding
   bring him in void of all notion, a rude unwritten blank; making him to
   be created as much an infant as others are born; sent into the world
   only to read and spell out a God in the works of creation, to learn by
   degrees, till at length his understanding grew up to the stature of his
   body. Also without any inherent habits of virtue in his will; thus
   divesting him of all, and stripping him to his bare essence; so that
   all the perfection they allowed his understanding was aptness and
   docility; and all that they attributed to his will was a possibility to
   be virtuous.

   But wherein then, according to their opinion, did this image of God
   consist? Why, in that power and dominion that God gave Adam over the
   creatures: in that he was vouched his immediate deputy upon earth, the
   viceroy of the creation, and lord-lieu tenant of the world. But that
   this power and dominion is not adequately and formally the image of
   God, but only a part of it, is clear from hence; be cause then he that
   had most of this, would have most of God's image: and consequently
   Nimrod had more of it than Noah, Saul than Samuel, the persecutors than
   the martyrs, and Caesar than Christ himself, which to assert is a
   blasphemous paradox. And if the image of God is only grandeur, power,
   and sovereignty, certainly we have been hitherto much mistaken in our
   duty: and hereafter are by all means to beware of making ourselves
   unlike God, by too much self-denial and humility. I am not ignorant
   that some may distinguish between exousi'a and du'namis, between a
   lawful authority and an actual power: and affirm, that God's image
   consists only in the former; which wicked princes, such as Saul and
   Nimrod, have not, though they possess the latter. But to this I answer,

   1. That the scripture neither makes nor owns such a distinction; nor
   any where asserts, that when princes begin to be wicked, they cease of
   right to be governors. Add to this, that when God renewed this charter
   of man's sovereignty over the creatures to Noah and his family, we find
   no exception at all, but that Cham stood as fully invested with this
   right as any of his brethren.

   2. But secondly; this savours of something ranker than Socinianism,
   even the tenents of the fifth monarchy, and of sovereignty founded only
   upon saintship; and therefore fitter to be answered by the judge, than
   by the divine; and to receive its confutation at the bar of justice,
   than from the pulpit.

   Having now made our way through this false opinion, we are in the next
   place to lay down positively what this image of God in man is. It is,
   in short, that universal rectitude of all the faculties of the soul, by
   which they stand apt and disposed to their respective offices and
   operations: which will be more fully set forth, by taking a distinct
   survey of it, in the several faculties belonging to the soul.

   I. In the understanding.

   II. In the will.

   III. In the passions or affections.

   I. And first for its noblest faculty, the understanding: it was then
   sublime, clear, and aspiring, and, as it were, the soul's upper region,
   lofty and serene, free from the vapours and disturbances of the
   inferior affections. It was the leading, control ling faculty; all the
   passions wore the colours of reason; it did not so much persuade, as
   command; it was not consul, but dictator. Discourse was then almost as
   quick as intuition; it was nimble in proposing, firm in concluding; it
   could sooner deter mine than now it can dispute. Like the sun, it had
   both light and agility; it knew no rest, but in motion; no quiet, but
   in activity. It did not so properly apprehend, as irradiate the object;
   not so much find, as make things intelligible. It did arbitrate upon
   the several reports of sense, and all the varieties of imagination; not
   like a drowsy judge, only hearing, but also directing their verdict. In
   sum, it was vegete, quick, and lively; open as the day, untainted as
   the morning, full of the innocence and sprightliness of youth; it gave
   the soul a bright and a full view into all things; and was not only a
   window, but itself the prospect. Briefly, there is as much difference
   between the clear representations of the understanding then, and the
   obscure discoveries that it makes now, as there is between the prospect
   of a casement and of a key-hole.

   Now as there are two great functions of the soul, contemplation and
   practice, according to that general division of objects, some of which
   only entertain our speculation, others also employ our actions; so the
   understanding with relation to these, not because of any distinction in
   the faculty itself, is accordingly divided into speculative and
   practick; in both of which the image of God was then apparent.

   1. For the understanding speculative. There are some general maxims and
   notions in the mind of man, which are the rules of discourse, and the
   basis of all philosophy. As, that the same thing can not at the same
   time be, and not be; that the whole is bigger than a part; that two
   proportions equal to a third, must also be equal to one an other.
   Aristotle, indeed, affirms the mind to be at first a mere rasa tabula;
   and that these notions are not ingenite, and imprinted by the finger of
   nature, but by the latter and more languid impressions of sense; being
   only the reports of observation, and the result of so many repeated
   experiments.

   But to this I answer two things.

   (1.) That these notions are universal; and what is universal must needs
   proceed from some universal, constant principle, the same in all
   particulars, which here can be nothing else but human nature.

   (2.) These cannot be infused by observation, be cause they are the
   rules by which men take their first apprehensions and observations of
   things, and therefore in order of nature must needs precede them: as
   the being of the rule must be before its application to the thing
   directed by it. From whence it follows, that these were notions, not
   descending from us, but born with us; not our offspring, but our
   brethren: and (as I may so say) such as we were taught without the help
   of a teacher.

   Now it was Adam's happiness in the state of innocence to have these
   clear and unsullied. He came into the world a philosopher, which
   sufficiently appeared by his writing the nature of things upon their
   names; he could view essences in themselves, and read forms without the
   comment of their respective properties: he could see consequents yet
   dormant in their principles, and effects yet unborn, and in the womb of
   their causes: his understanding could almost pierce into future
   contingents, his conjectures improving even to prophecy, or the
   certainties of prediction; till his fall, it was ignorant of nothing
   but of sin; or at least it rested in the notion, without the smart of
   the experiment. Could any difficulty have been proposed, the resolution
   would have been as early as the proposal; it could not have had time to
   settle into doubt. Like a bet ter Archimedes, the issue of all his
   inquiries was an eu'reka, an eu'reka the offspring of his brain without
   the sweat of his brow. Study was not then a duty, night-watchings were
   needless; the light of reason wanted not the assistance of a candle.
   This is the doom of fallen man, to labour in the fire, to seek truth in
   profundo, to exhaust his time and impair his health, and perhaps to
   spin out his days, and himself, into one pitiful, controverted
   conclusion. There was then no poring, no struggling with memory, no
   straining for invention: his faculties were quick and expedite; they
   answered without knocking, they were ready upon the first summons,
   there was freedom and firmness in all their operations. I confess, it
   is difficult for us, who date our ignorance from our first being, and
   were still bred up with the same infirmities about us with which we
   were born, to raise our thoughts and imagination to those intellectual
   perfections that attended our nature in the time of innocence; as it is
   for a peasant bred up in the obscurities of a cottage, to fancy in his
   mind the unseen splendors of a court. But by rating positives by their
   privatives, and other arts of reason, by which discourse supplies the
   want of the reports of sense, we may collect the excellency of the
   understanding then, by the glorious remainders of it now, and guess at
   the stateliness of the building, by the magnificence of its ruins. All
   those arts, rarities, and inventions, which vulgar minds gaze at, the
   ingenious pursue, and all admire, are but the reliques of an intellect
   defaced with sin and time. We admire it now, only as antiquaries do a
   piece of old coin, for the stamp it once bore, and not for those
   vanishing lineaments and disappearing draughts that remain upon it at
   present. And certainly that must needs have been very glorious, the
   decays of which are so admirable. He that is comely, when old and
   decrepid, surely was very beautiful when he was young. An Aristotle was
   but the rubbish of an Adam, and Athens but the rudiments of Paradise.

   2. The image of God was no less resplendent in that which we call man's
   practical understanding; namely, that storehouse of the soul, in which
   are treasured up the rules of action and the seeds of morality. Where,
   we must observe, that many who deny all connate notions in the
   speculative intellect, do yet admit them in this. Now of this sort are
   these maxims; that God is to be worshipped; that parents are to be
   honoured; that a man's word is to be kept, and the like: which, being
   of universal influence, as to the regulation of the behaviour and
   converse of mankind, are the ground of all virtue and civility, and the
   foundation of religion.

   It was the privilege of Adam innocent, to have these notions also firm
   and untainted, to carry his monitor in his bosom, his law in his heart,
   and to have such a conscience as might be its own casuist: and
   certainly those actions must needs be regular, where there is an
   identity between the rule and the faculty. His own mind taught him a
   due dependance upon God, and chalked out to him the just proportions
   and measures of behaviour to his fellow creatures. He had no catechism
   but the creation, needed no study but reflection, read no book, but the
   volume of the world, and that too, not for rules to work by, but for
   objects to work upon. Reason was his tutor, and first principles his
   magna moralia. The decalogue of Moses was but a transcript, not an
   original. All the laws of nations, and wise decrees of states, the
   statutes of Solon, and the twelve tables, were but a paraphrase upon
   this standing rectitude of nature, this fruitful principle of justice,
   that was ready to run out, and enlarge it self into suitable
   determinations, upon all emergent objects and occasions. Justice then
   was neither blind to discern, nor lame to execute. It was not subject
   to be imposed upon by a deluded fancy, nor yet to be bribed by a
   glozing appetite, for an utile or jucundum to turn the balance to a
   false and dishonest sentence. In all its directions of the inferior
   faculties, it conveyed its suggestions with clearness, and enjoined
   them with power; it had the passions in perfect subjection; and though
   its command over them was but suasive and political, yet it had the
   force of coaction, and despotical. It was not then, as it is now, where
   the conscience has only power to disapprove, and to protest against the
   exorbitances of the passions; and rather to wish, than make them
   otherwise. The voice of conscience now is low and weak, chastising the
   passions, as old Eli did his lustful, domineering sons; Not so, my
   sons, not so; but the voice of conscience then was not, This should, or
   This ought to be done; but, This must, This shall be done. It spoke
   like a legislator; the thing spoke was a law; and the manner of
   speaking it a new obligation. In short, there was as great a disparity
   between the practical dictates of the understanding then and now, as
   there is between empire and advice, counsel and command, between a
   companion and a governor.

   And thus much for the image of God, as it shone in man's understanding.

   II. Let us in the next place take a view of it, as it was stamped upon
   the will. It is much disputed by divines concerning the power of man's
   will to good and evil in the state of innocence; and upon very nice and
   dangerous precipices stand their determinations on either side. Some
   hold, that God invested him with a power to stand, so that in the
   strength of that power received, he might, without the auxiliaries of
   any farther influence, have deter mined his will to a full choice of
   good. Others hold, that notwithstanding this power, yet it was
   impossible for him to exert it in any good action, without a superadded
   assistance of grace, actually determining that power to the certain
   production of such an act. So that, whereas some distinguish between
   sufficient and effectual grace; they order the mat ter so as to
   acknowledge none sufficient, but what is indeed effectual, and actually
   productive of a good action. I shall not presume to interpose
   dogmatically in a controversy, which I look never to see decided. But
   concerning the latter of these opinions, I shall only give these two
   remarks.

   1. That it seems contrary to the common and natural conceptions of all
   mankind, who acknowledge themselves able and sufficient to do many
   things, which actually they never do.

   2. That to assert, that God looked upon Adam's fall as a sin, and
   punished it as such, when, without any antecedent sin of his, he
   withdrew that actual grace from him, upon the withdrawing of which, it
   was impossible for him not to fall, seems a thing that highly
   reproaches the essential equity and goodness of the divine nature.

   Wherefore, doubtless the will of man in the state of innocence had an
   entire freedom, a perfect equipendency and indifference to either part
   of the contradiction, to stand, or not to stand; to accept, or not
   accept the temptation. I will grant the will of man now to be as much a
   slave as any one will have it, and be only free to sin; that is,
   instead of a liberty, to have only a licentiousness; yet certainly this
   is not nature, but chance. We were not born crooked; we learnt these
   windings and turnings of the serpent: and therefore it cannot but be a
   blasphemous piece of ingratitude to ascribe them to God, and to make
   the plague of our nature the condition of our creation.

   The will was then ductile, and pliant to all the motions of right
   reason; it met the dictates of a clarified understanding half way. And
   the active in formations of the intellect, filling the passive
   reception of the will, like form closing with matter, grew actuate into
   a third, and distinct perfection of practice: the understanding and
   will never disagreed; for the proposals of the one never thwarted the
   inclinations of the other. Yet neither did the will servilely attend
   upon the understanding, but as a favourite does upon his prince, where
   the service is privilege and preferment; or as Solomon's servants
   waited upon him, it admired its wisdom, and heard its prudent dictates
   and counsels, both the direction and the reward of its obedience. It is
   indeed the nature of this faculty to follow a superior guide, to be
   drawn by the intellect; but then it was drawn as a triumphant chariot,
   which at the same time both follows and triumphs; while it obeyed this,
   it commanded the other faculties. It was subordinate, not enslaved to
   the understanding: not as a servant to a master, but as a queen to her
   king, who both acknowledges a subjection, and yet retains a majesty.

   Pass we now downward from man's intellect and will,

   III. To the passions, which have their residence and situation chiefly
   in the sensitive appetite. For we must know, that inasmuch as man is a
   compound, and mixture of flesh as well as spirit, the soul, during its
   abode in the body, does all things by the mediation of these passions
   and inferior affections. And here the opinion of the Stoics was famous
   and singular, who looked upon all these as sinful defects and
   irregularities, as so many deviations from right reason, making passion
   to be only another word for perturbation. Sorrow, in their esteem, was
   a sin, scarce to be expiated by another; to pity, was a fault; to
   rejoice, an extravagance; and the Apostle's advice, to be angry and sin
   not, was a contradiction in their philosophy. But in this, they were
   constantly outvoted by other sects of philosophers, neither for fame
   nor number less than themselves: so that all arguments brought against
   them from divinity would come in by way of overplus to their
   confutation. To us let this be sufficient, that our Saviour Christ, who
   took upon him all our natural infirmities, but none of our sinful, has
   been seen to weep, to be sorrowful, to pity, and to be angry: which
   shews that there might be gall in a dove, passion without sin, fire
   without smoke, and motion without disturbance. For it is not bare
   agitation, but the sediment at the bottom, that troubles and defiles
   the water: and when we see it windy and dusty, the wind does not (as we
   use to say) make, but only raise a dust.

   Now, though the schools reduce all the passions to these two heads, the
   concupiscible, and the irascible appetite; yet I shall not tie myself
   to an exact prosecution of them under this division; but at this time,
   leaving both their terms and their method to themselves, consider only
   the principal and most noted passions, from whence we may take an
   estimate of the rest.

   And first, for the grand leading affection of all, which is love. This
   is the great instrument and engine of nature, the bond and cement of
   society, the spring and spirit of the universe. Love is such an
   affection, as cannot so properly be said to be in the soul, as the soul
   to be in that. It is the whole man wrapt up into one desire; all the
   powers, vigour, and faculties of the soul abridged into one
   inclination. And it is of that active, restless nature, that it must of
   necessity exert itself; and like the fire, to which it is so often
   compared, it is not a free agent, to choose whether it will heat or no,
   but it streams forth by natural results and unavoidable emanations. So
   that it will fasten upon any inferior, unsuitable object, rather than
   none at all. The soul may sooner leave off to subsist, than to love;
   and, like the vine, it withers and dies, if it has nothing to embrace.
   Now this affection in the state of innocence was happily pitched upon
   its right object; it flamed up in direct fervours of devotion to God,
   and in collateral emissions of charity to its neighbour. It was not
   then only another and more cleanly name for lust. It had none of those
   impure heats, that both represent and deserve hell. It was a vestal,
   and a virgin-fire, and differed as much from that which usually passes
   by this name nowadays, as the vital heat from the burning of a fever.

   Then, for the contrary passion of hatred. This, we know, is the passion
   of defiance, and there is a kind of aversation and hostility included
   in its very essence and being. But then, (if there could have been
   hatred in the world, when there was scarce any thing odious,) it would
   have acted within the compass of its proper object. Like aloes, bitter
   in deed, but wholesome. There would have been no rancour, no hatred of
   our brother: an innocent nature could hate nothing that was innocent.
   In a word, so great is the commutation, that the soul then hated only
   that which now only it loves, that is, sin.

   And if we may bring anger under this head, as being, according to some,
   a transient hatred, or at least very like it: this also, as unruly as
   now it is, yet then it vented itself by the measures of reason. There
   was no such thing as the transports of malice, or the violences of
   revenge: no rendering evil for evil, when evil was truly a nonentity,
   and no where to be found. Anger then was like the sword of justice,
   keen, but innocent and righteous: it did not act like fury, and then
   call itself zeal. It always espoused God's honour, and never kindled
   upon any thing but in order to a sacrifice. It sparkled like the coal
   upon the altar, with the fervours of piety, the heats of devotion, the
   sallies and vibrations of an harmless activity. In the next place, for
   the lightsome passion of joy. It was not that, which now often usurps
   this name; that trivial, vanishing, superficial thing, that only gilds
   the apprehension, and plays upon the surface of the soul. It was not
   the mere crackling of thorns, a sudden blaze of the spirits, the
   exultation of a tickled fancy or a pleased appetite. Joy was then a
   masculine and a severe thing; the recreation of the judgment, the
   jubilee of reason. It was the result of a real good, suitably applied.
   It commenced upon the solidities of truth and the substance of
   fruition. It did not run out in voice, or undecent eruptions, but
   filled the soul, as God does the universe, silently and without noise.
   It was refreshing, but composed; like the pleasantness of youth
   tempered with the gravity of age; or the mirth of a festival managed
   with the silence of contemplation.

   And, on the other side, for sorrow. Had any loss or disaster made but
   room for grief, it would have moved according to the severe allowances
   of prudence, and the proportions of the provocation. It would not have
   sallied out into complaint or loudness, nor spread itself upon the
   face, and writ sad stories upon the forehead. No wringing of the hands,
   knocking the breast, or wishing one's self unborn; all which are but
   the ceremonies of sorrow, the pomp and ostentation of an effeminate
   grief: which speak, not so much the greatness of the misery, as the
   smallness of the mind. Tears may spoil the eyes, but not wash away the
   affliction. Sighs may exhaust the man, but not eject the burden. Sorrow
   then would have been as silent as thoughts, as severe as philosophy. It
   would have rested in inward senses, tacit dislikes; and the whole scene
   of it been transacted in sad and silent reflections.

   Then again for hope. Though indeed the fulness and affluence of man's
   enjoyments in the state of innocence, might seem to leave no place for
   hope, in respect of any farther addition, but only of the prorogation,
   and future continuance of what already he possessed: yet doubtless,
   God, who made no faculty, but also provided it with a proper object,
   upon which it might exercise and lay out itself, even in its greatest
   innocence, did then exercise man's hopes with the expectations of a
   better paradise, or a more intimate admission to himself. For it is not
   imaginable, that Adam could fix upon such poor, thin enjoyments, as
   riches, pleasure, and the gayeties of an animal life. Hope indeed was
   always the anchor of the soul, yet certainly it was not to catch or
   fasten upon such mud. And if, as the Apostle says, no man hopes for
   that which he sees, much less could Adam then hope for such things as
   he saw through.

   And lastly, for the affection of fear. It was then the instrument of
   caution, not of anxiety; a guard, and not a torment to the breast that
   had it. It is now indeed an unhappiness, the disease of the soul: it
   flies from a shadow, and makes more dangers than it avoids: it weakens
   the judgment, and be trays the succours of reason: so hard is it to
   tremble and not to err, and to hit the mark with a shaking hand. Then
   it fixed upon him who is only to be feared, God: and yet with a filial
   fear, which at the same time both fears and loves. It was awe with out
   amazement, dread without distraction. There was then a beauty even in
   this very paleness. It was the colour of devotion, giving a lustre to
   reverence, and a gloss to humility.

   Thus did the passions then act without any of their present jars,
   combats, or repugnances; all moving with the beauty of uniformity, and
   the stillness of composure. Like a well-governed army, not for
   fighting, but for rank and order. I confess the scripture does not
   expressly attribute these several endowments to Adam in his first
   estate. But all that I have said, and much more, may be drawn out of
   that short aphorism, God made man upright, Eccl. vii. 29. And since the
   opposite weaknesses now infest the nature of man fallen, if we will be
   true to the rule of contraries, we must conclude, that those
   perfections were the lot of man innocent.

   Now from this so exact and regular composure of the faculties, all
   moving in their due place, each striking in its proper time, there
   arose, by natural consequence, the crowning perfection of all, a good
   conscience. For, as in the body, when the principal parts, as the heart
   and liver, do their offices, and all the inferior, smaller vessels act
   orderly and duly, there arises a sweet enjoyment upon the whole, which
   we call health: so in the soul, when the supreme faculties of the will
   and understanding move regularly, the inferior passions and affections
   following, there arises a serenity and complacency upon the whole soul,
   infinitely beyond the greatest bodily pleasures, the highest
   quintessence and elixir of worldly delights. There is in this case a
   kind of fragrancy, and spiritual perfume upon the conscience; much like
   what Isaac spoke of his son's garments; that the scent of them was like
   the smell of a field which the Lord had blessed. Such a freshness and
   flavour is there upon the soul, when daily watered with the actions of
   a virtuous life. Whatsoever is pure is also pleasant.

   Having thus surveyed the image of God in the soul of man, we are not to
   omit now those characters of majesty that God imprinted upon the body.
   He drew some traces of his image upon this also; as much as a spiritual
   substance could be pictured upon a corporeal. As for the sect of the
   Anthropomorphites, who from hence ascribe to God the figure of a man,
   eyes, hands, feet, and the like, they are too ridiculous to deserve a
   confutation. They would seem to draw this impiety from the letter of
   the scripture sometimes speaking of God in this manner. Absurdly; as if
   the mercy of scripture expressions ought to warrant the blasphemy of
   our opinions. And not rather shew us, that God condescends to us, only
   to draw us to himself; and clothes himself in our likeness, only to win
   us to his own. The practice of the papists is much of the same nature,
   in their absurd and impious picturing of God Almighty: but the wonder
   in them is the less, since the image of a deity may be a proper object
   for that, which is but the image of a religion. But to the purpose:
   Adam was then no less glorious in his externals; he had a beautiful
   body, as well as an immortal soul. The whole compound was like a well
   built temple, stately without, and sacred within. The elements were at
   perfect union and agreement in his body; and their contrary qualities
   served not for the dissolution of the compound, but she variety of the
   composure. Galen, who had no more divinity than what his physic taught
   him, barely upon the consideration of this so exact frame of the body,
   challenges any one upon an hundred years study, to find how any the
   least fibre, or most minute particle, might be more commodiously
   placed, cither for the advantage of use or comeliness; his stature
   erect, and tending upwards to his centre; Ids countenance majestic and
   comely, with the lustre of a native beauty, that scorned the poor
   assistance of art, or the attempts of imitation; his body of so much
   quickness and agility, that it did not only contain, but also represent
   the soul: for we might well suppose, that where God did deposit so rich
   a jewel, he would suitably adorn the case. It was a fit workhouse for
   sprightly vivid faculties to exercise and exert themselves in. A fit
   tabernacle for an immortal soul, not only to dwell in, but to
   contemplate upon: where it might see the world without travel; it being
   a lesser scheme of the creation, nature contracted, a little
   cosmography, or map of the universe. Neither was the body then subject
   to distempers, to die by piecemeal, and languish under coughs,
   catarrhs, or consumptions. Adam knew no disease, so long as temperance
   from the forbidden fruit secured him. Nature was his physician; and
   innocence and abstinence would have kept him healthful to immortality.

   Now the use of this point might be various, but at present it shall be
   only this; to remind us of the irreparable loss that we sustained in
   our first parents, to shew us of how fair a portion Adam disinherited
   his whole posterity by one single prevarication. Take the picture of a
   man in the greenness and vivacity of his youth, and in the latter date
   and declensions of his drooping years, and you will scarce know it to
   belong to the same person: there would be more art to discern, than at
   first to draw it. The same and greater is the difference between man
   innocent and fallen. He is, as it were, a new kind or species; the
   plague of sin has even altered his nature, and eaten into his very
   essentials. The image of God is wiped out, the creatures have shook off
   his yoke, renounced his sovereignty, and revolted from his dominion.
   Distempers and diseases have shattered the excellent frame of his body;
   and, by a new dispensation, immortality is swallowed up of mortality.
   The same disaster and decay also has invaded his spirituals: the
   passions rebel, every faculty would usurp and rule; and there are so
   many governors, that there can be no government. The light within us is
   become darkness; and the understanding, that should be eyes to the
   blind faculty of the will, is blind itself, and so brings all the
   inconveniences that attend a blind follower under the conduct of a
   blind guide. He that would have a clear, ocular demonstration of this,
   let him reflect upon that numerous litter of strange, senseless, absurd
   opinions, that crawl about the world, to the disgrace of reason, and
   the unanswerable reproach of a broken intellect.

   The two great perfections, that both adorn and exercise man's
   understanding, are philosophy and religion: for the first of these;
   take it even amongst the professors of it, where it most flourished,
   and we shall find the very first notions of common sense debauched by
   them. For there have been such as have asserted, that there is no such
   thing in the world as motion; that contradictions may be true. There
   has not been wanting one, that has denied snow to be white. Such a
   stupidity or wantonness had seized upon the most raised wits, that it
   might be doubted, whether the philosophers or the owls of Athens were
   the quicker sighted. But then for religion; what prodigious, monstrous,
   misshapen births has the reason of fallen man produced! It is now
   almost six thousand years, that far the greatest part of the world has
   had no other religion but idolatry: and idolatry certainly is the
   first-born of folly, the great and leading paradox; nay, the very
   abridgment and sum total of all absurdities. For is it not strange,
   that a rational man should worship an ox, nay, the image of an ox? that
   he should fawn upon his dog? bow himself before a cat? adore leeks and
   garlic, and shed penitential tears at the smell of a deified onion? Yet
   so did the Egyptians, once the famed masters of all arts and learning,
   And to go a little farther; we have yet a stranger instance in Isa.
   xliv. 14. A man hews him down a tree in the wood, and part of it he
   burns, in ver. 16. and in ver. 17. with the residue thereof he maketh a
   god. With one part he furnishes his chimney, with the other his chapel.
   A strange thing, that the fire must consume this part, and then burn
   incense to that. As if there was more divinity in one end of the stick
   than in the other; or as if it could be graved and painted omnipotent,
   or the nails and the hammer could give it an apotheosis. Briefly, so
   great is the change, so deplorable the degradation of our nature, that,
   whereas before we bore the image of God, we now retain only the image
   of men.

   In the last place, we learn from hence the excellency of Christian
   religion, in that it is the great and only means that God has
   sanctified and designed to repair the breaches of humanity, to set
   fallen man upon his legs again, to clarify his reason, to rectify his
   will, and to compose and regulate his affections. The whole business of
   our redemption is, in short, only to rub over the defaced copy of the
   creation, to reprint God's image upon the soul, and (as it were) to set
   forth nature in a second and a fairer edition.

   The recovery of which lost image, as it is God's pleasure to command,
   and our duty to endeavour, so it is in his power only to effect.

   To whom be rendered and ascribed, as is most due, all praise, might,
   majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Interest deposed, and Truth restored:

    OR

  A WORD IN SEASON,

    DELIVERED IN

TWO SERMONS:

   The first at St. Mary's in Oxford, on the 24^th of July 1659, being the
   time of the Assizes: as also of the fears and groans of the nation, in
   the threatened and expected ruin of the laws, ministry, and
   universities.

   The other preached before the honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

    TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFUL

EDWARD ATKINS,

    SERGEANT AT LAW, AND FORMERLY ONE OF THE JUSTICES OF THE COMMON-PLEAS.

   Honoured Sir,

   THOUGH at first it was free, and in my choice, whether I should publish
   these discourses, yet the publication being once resolved, the
   dedication was not so indifferent; the nature of the subject, no less
   than the obligations of the author, styling them in a peculiar manner
   yours: for since their drift is to carry the most endangered and
   endangering truth, above the safest, when sinful, interest; as a
   practice upon grounds of reason the most generous, and of Christianity
   the most religious; to whom rather should this assertion repair as to a
   patron, than to him whom it has for an instance? Who, in a case of
   eminent competition, chose duty before interest; and when the judge
   grew inconsistent with the justice, preferred rather to be constant to
   sure principles, than to an unconstant government: and to retreat to an
   innocent and honourable privacy, than to sit and act iniquity by a law;
   and make your age and conscience (the one venerable, the other sacred)
   drudges to the tyranny of fanatick, perjured usurpers. The next attempt
   of this discourse is a defence of the ministry, and that, at such a
   time, when none owned them upon the bench, (for then you had quitted
   it;) but when, on the contrary, we lived to hear one in the very face
   of the university, (as it were in defiance of us and our profession,)
   openly in his charge to defend the Quakers and fanaticks, persons not
   fit to be named in such courts, but in an indictment. But, sir, in the
   instructions I here presumed to give to others, concerning what they
   should do, you may take a narrative of what you have done: what
   respected their actions as a rule or admonition, applied to yours is
   only a rehearsal, whose zeal in asserting the ministerial cause is so
   generally known, so gratefully acknowledged, that I dare affirm, that
   in what I deliver, you read the words indeed of one, but the thanks of
   all. Which affectionate concernment of yours for them, seems to argue a
   spiritual sense, and experimental taste of their works, and that you
   have reaped as much from their labours, as others have done from their
   lands: for to me it seemed always strange, and next to impossible, that
   a man, converted by the word preached, should ever hate and persecute a
   preacher. And since you have several times in discourse declared
   yourself for that government in the church, which is founded upon
   scripture, reason, apostolical practice, and antiquity, and (we are
   sure) the only one that can consist with the present government of
   state, I thought the latter discourse also might fitly address itself
   to you; in the which you may read your judgment, as in the other your
   practice. And now, since it has pleased Providence at length to turn
   our captivity, and answer persecuted patience with the unexpected
   returns of settlement; to remove our rulers, and restore our ruler; and
   not only to make our exactors righteousness, but, what is better, to
   give us righteousness instead of exaction, and hopes of religion to a
   church worried with reformation; I believe, upon a due and impartial
   reflection on what is past, you now find no cause to repent, that you
   never dipt your hands in the bloody high courts of justice, properly so
   called only by antiphrasis; nor ever prostituted the scarlet robe to
   those employments, in which you must have worn the colour of your sin
   in the badge of your office: but, notwithstanding all the enticements
   of a prosperous villany, abhorred the purchase, when the price was
   blood. So that now, being privileged by an happy unconcernment in those
   legal murders, you may take a sweeter relish of your own innocence, by
   beholding the misery of others guilt, who being guilty before God, and
   infamous before men, obnoxious to both, begin to find the first-fruits
   of their sin in the universal scorn of all, their apparent danger, and
   unlikely remedy: which beginnings being at length consummated by the
   hand of justice, the cry of blood and sacrilege will cease, men's
   doubts will be satisfied, and Providence absolved.

   And thus, sir, having presumed to honour my first essays in divinity,
   by prefixing to them a name, to which divines are so much obliged; I
   should here in the close of this address contribute a wish at least to
   your happiness: but since we desire it not yet in another world, and
   your enjoyments in this (according to the standard of a Christian
   desire) are so complete, that they require no addition; I shall turn my
   wishes into gratulations, and congratulating their fulness, only wish
   their continuance: praying that you may still possess what you possess,
   and do what you do; that is, reflect upon a clear, unblotted,
   acquitting conscience, and feed upon the ineffable comforts of the
   memorial of a conquered temptation, without the danger of returning to
   the trial. And this, sir, I account the greatest felicity that you can
   enjoy, and therefore the greatest that he can desire, who is

   Your's in all observance,

   ROBERT SOUTH.

   Ch. Ch. 25. of
   May 1660.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Matthew x. 33.

   But whosoever shall deny me before men, him will I also deny before my
   Father which is in heaven.

   AS the great comprehensive gospel duty is the denial of self, so the
   grand gospel sin that confronts it is the denial of Christ. These two
   are both the commanding and the dividing principles of all our actions:
   for whosoever acts in opposition to one, does it always in behalf of
   the other. None ever op posed Christ, but it was to gratify self: none
   ever renounced the interest of self, but from a prevailing love to the
   interest of Christ. The subject I have here pitched upon may seem
   improper in these times, and in this place, where the number of
   professors and of men is the same; where the cause and interest of
   Christ has been so cried up; and Christ's personal reign and kingdom so
   called for and expected. But since it has been still preached up, but
   acted down; and dealt with, as the eagle in the fable did with the
   oyster, carrying it up on high, that by letting it fall he might dash
   it in pieces: I say, since Christ must reign, but his truths be made to
   serve; I suppose it is but reason to distinguish between profession and
   pretence, and to conclude, that men's present crying, Hail king, and
   bending the knee to Christ, are only in order to his future
   crucifixion.

   For the discovery of the sense of the words, I shall inquire into their
   occasion. From the very beginning of the chapter we have Christ
   consulting the propagation of the gospel; and in order to it (being the
   only way that he knew to effect it) sending forth a ministry; and
   giving them a commission, together with instructions for the execution
   of it. He would have them fully acquainted with the nature and extent
   of their office; and so he joins commission with instruction; by one he
   conveys power, by the other knowledge. Supposing (I conceive) that upon
   such an undertaking, the more learned his ministers were, they would
   prove never the less faithful. [11] And thus having fitted them, and
   stript them of all manner of defence, ver. 9. he sends them forth
   amongst wolves: a hard expedition, you will say, to go amongst wolves;
   but yet much harder to convert them into sheep; and no less hard even
   to discern some of them, possibly being under sheep's clothing; and so
   by the advantage of that dress, sooner felt than discovered: probably
   also such, as had both the properties of wolves, that is, they could
   whine and howl, as well as bite and devour. But that they might not go
   altogether naked among their enemies, the only armour that Christ
   allows them is prudence and innocence; Be ye wise as serpents, but
   harmless as doves, ver. 16. Weapons not at all offensive, yet most
   suitable to their warfare, whose greatest encounters were to be
   exhortations, and whose only conquest, escape. Innocence is the best
   caution, and we may unite the expression, to be wise as a serpent is to
   be harmless as a dove. Innocence is like polished armour; it adorns,
   and it defends. In sum, he tells them, that the opposition they should
   meet with was the greatest imaginable, from ver. 16. to 26. But in the
   ensuing verses he promises them an equal proportion of assistance; and,
   as if it were not an argument of force enough to outweigh the
   forementioned discouragements, he casts into the balance the promise of
   a reward to such as should execute, and of punishment to such as should
   neglect their commission: the reward in the former verse, Whosoever
   shall confess me before men, &c. the punishment in this, But whosoever
   shall deny, &c. As if by way of pre-occupation he should have said,
   Well, here you see your commission; this is your duty, these are your
   discouragements: never seek for shifts and evasions from worldly
   afflictions; this is your reward, if you perform it; this is your doom,
   if you decline it.

   As for the explication of the words, they are clear and easy; and their
   originals in the Greek are of single signification, without any
   ambiguity; and therefore I shall not trouble you, by proposing how they
   run in this or that edition; or straining for an interpretation where
   there is no difficulty, or distinction where there is no difference.
   The only exposition that I shall give of them, will be to compare them
   to other parallel scriptures, and peculiarly to that in Mark viii. 38.
   Whosoever therefore shall be ashamed of me and of my words in this
   adulterous and sinful generation; of him also shall the Son of man be
   ashamed, when he cometh in the glory of his Father, with the holy
   angels. These words are a comment upon my text.

   1. What is here in the text called a denying of Christ, is there termed
   a being ashamed of him, that is, in those words the cause is expressed,
   and here the effect; for therefore we deny a thing, be cause we are
   ashamed of it. First, Peter is ashamed of Christ, then he denies him.

   2. What is here termed a denying of Christ, is there called a being
   ashamed of Christ and his words: Christ's truths are his second self.
   And he that offers a contempt to a king's letters or edicts, virtually
   affronts the king; it strikes his words, but it rebounds upon his
   person.

   3. What is here said, before men, is there phrased, in this adulterous
   and sinful generation. These words import the hinderance of the duty
   enjoined; which therefore is here purposely enforced with a non
   obstante to all opposition. The term adulterous, I conceive, may
   chiefly relate to the Jews, who being nationally espoused to God by
   covenant, every sin of theirs was in a peculiar manner spiritual
   adultery.

   4. What is here said, I will deny him before my Father, is there
   expressed, I will be ashamed of him before my Father and his holy
   angels; that is, when he shall come to judgment, when revenging justice
   shall come in pomp, attended with the glorious retinue of all the host
   of heaven. In short, the sentence pronounced declares the judgment, the
   solemnity of it the terror.

   From the words we may deduce these observations:

   I. We shall find strong motives and temptations from men, to draw us to
   a denial of Christ.

   II. No terrors or solicitations from men, though never so great, can
   warrant or excuse such a denial.

   III. To deny Christ's words, is to deny Christ.

   But since these observations are rather implied than expressed in the
   words, I shall wave them, and instead of deducing a doctrine distinct
   from the words, prosecute the words themselves under this doctrinal
   paraphrase:

   Whosoever shall deny, disown, or be ashamed of either the person or
   truths of Jesus Christ, for any fear or favour of man, shall with shame
   be disowned and eternally rejected by him at the dreadful judgment of
   the great day.

   The discussion of this shall lie in these things:

   I. To shew, how many ways Christ and his truths may be denied; and what
   is the denial here chiefly intended.

   II. To shew, what are the causes that induce men to a denial of Christ
   and his truths.

   III. To shew, how far a man may consult his safety in time of
   persecution, without denying Christ.

   IV To shew, what is imported in Christ's denying us before his Father
   in heaven.

   V. To apply all to the present occasion.

   But before I enter upon these, I must briefly premise this, that though
   the text and the doctrine run peremptory and absolute, Whosoever denies
   Christ, shall assuredly be denied by him; yet still there is a tacit
   condition in the words supposed, unless repentance intervene. For this
   and many other scriptures, though as to their formal terms they are
   absolute, yet as to their sense they are conditional. God in mercy has
   so framed and tempered his word, that we have, for the most part, a
   reserve of mercy wrapped up in a curse. And the very first judgment
   that was pronounced upon fallen man, was with the allay of a promise.
   Wheresoever we find a curse to the guilty expressed, in the same words
   mercy to the penitent is still understood. This premised, I come now to
   discuss the first thing, viz. how many ways Christ and his truths may
   be denied, &c. Here first in general I assert, that we may deny him in
   all those acts that are capable of being morally good or evil; those
   are the proper scene in which we act our confessions or denials of him.
   Accordingly therefore all ways of denying Christ I shall comprise under
   these three.

   1. We may deny him and his truths by an erroneous, heretical judgment.
   I know it is doubted whether a bare error in judgment can condemn: but
   since truths absolutely necessary to salvation are so clearly revealed,
   that we cannot err in them, unless we be notoriously wanting to
   ourselves; herein the fault of the judgment is resolved into a
   precedent default in the will; and so the case is put out of doubt. But
   here it may be replied, Are not truths of absolute and fundamental
   necessity very disputable; as the deity of Christ, the trinity of
   persons? If they are not in themselves disputable, why are they so much
   disputed? Indeed, I believe, if we trace these disputes to their
   original cause, we shall find, that they never sprung from a reluctancy
   in reason to embrace them. For this reason itself dictates, as most
   rational, to assent to any thing, though seemingly contrary to reason,
   if it is revealed by God, and we are certain of the revelation. These
   two supposed, these disputes must needs arise only from curiosity and
   singularity; and these are faults of a diseased will. But some will
   farther demand in behalf of these men, whether such as assent to every
   word in scripture, (for so will those that deny the natural deity of
   Christ and the Spirit,) can be yet said in doctrinals to deny Christ?
   To this I answer, Since words abstracted from their proper sense and
   signification lose the nature of words, and are only equivocally so
   called; inasmuch as the persons we speak of, take them thus, and derive
   the letter from Christ, but the signification from themselves, they
   cannot be said properly to assent so much as to the words of the
   scripture. And so their case also is clear. But yet more fully to state
   the matter, how far a denial of Christ in belief and judgment is
   damnable: we will propose the question, whether those who hold the
   fundamentals of faith may deny Christ damnably, in respect of those
   superstructures and consequences that arise from them? I answer in
   brief, By fundamental truths are understood, (1.) either such, without
   the belief of which we cannot be saved: or, (2.) such, the belief of
   which is sufficient to save: if the question be proposed of
   fundamentals in this latter sense, it contains its own answer; for
   where a man believes those truths, the belief of which is sufficient to
   save, there the disbelief or denial of their consequences cannot damn.
   But what and how many these fundamentals are, it will then be agreed
   upon, when all sects, opinions, and persuasions do unite and consent.
   2dly, If we speak of fundamentals in the former sense, as they are only
   truths, without which we cannot be saved: it is manifest that we may
   believe them, and yet be damned for denying their consequences: for
   that which is only a condition, without which we cannot be saved, is
   not therefore a cause sufficient to save: much more is required to the
   latter, than to the former. I conclude therefore, that to deny Christ
   in our judgment, will condemn, and this concerns the learned: Christ
   demands the homage of your understanding: he will have your reason bend
   to him; you must put your heads under his feet. And we know, that
   heretofore, he who had the leprosy in this part, was to be pronounced
   utterly unclean. A poisoned reason, an infected judgment, is Christ's
   greatest enemy. And an error in the judgment is like an imposthume in
   the head, which is always noisome, and frequently mortal.

   2. We may deny Christ verbally, and by oral expressions. Now our words
   are the interpreters of our hearts, the transcripts of the judgment,
   with some farther addition of good or evil. He that interprets, usually
   enlarges. What our judgment whispers in secret, these proclaim upon the
   house top. To deny Christ in the former, imports enmity r but in these,
   open defiance. Christ's passion is renewed in both: he that misjudges
   of him, condemns him; but he that blasphemes him, spits in his face.
   Thus the Jews and the Pharisees denied Christ. We know that this man is
   a sinner, John ix. 24. and a deceiver, Matt, xxvii. 63. And he casts
   out devils by the prince of devils, Matt. xii. 24. And thus Christ is
   daily denied, in many blasphemies printed and divulged, and many horrid
   opinions vented against the truth. The schools dispute whether in
   morals the external action superadds any thing of good or evil to the
   internal elicit act of the will: but certainly the enmity of our
   judgments is wrought up to an high pitch, before it rages in an open
   denial. And it is a sign that it is grown too big for the heart, when
   it seeks for vent in our words. Blasphemy uttered, is error heightened
   with impudence: it is sin scorning a concealment, not only committed,
   but defended. He that denies Christ in his judgment, sins; but he that
   speaks his denial, vouches and owns his sin: and so, by publishing it,
   does what in him lies to make it universal, and by writing it, to
   establish it eternal. There is another way of denying Christ with our
   mouths, which is negative; that is, when we do not acknowledge and
   confess him: but of this I shall have occasion to treat under the
   discussion of the third general head.

   3. We may deny Christ in our actions and practice; and these speak much
   louder than our tongues. To have an orthodox belief, and a true
   profession, concurring with a bad life, is only to deny Christ with a
   greater solemnity. Belief and profession will speak thee a Christian
   but very faintly, when thy conversation proclaims thee an infidel.
   Many, while they have preached Christ in their sermons, have read a
   lecture of atheism in their practice. We have many here who speak of
   godliness, mortification, and self-denial; but if these are so, what
   means the bleating of the sheep, and the lowing of the oxen, the noise
   of their ordinary sins, and the cry of their great ones? If godly, why
   do they wallow and steep in all the carnalities of the world, under
   pretence of Christian liberty? Why do they make religion ridiculous by
   pretending to prophecy; and when their prophecies prove delusions, why
   do they blaspheme? [12] If such are self-deniers, what means the
   griping, the prejudice, the covetousness, and the pluralities preached
   against, and retained, and the arbitrary government of many? When such
   men preach of self-denial and humility, I cannot but think of Seneca,
   who praised poverty, and that very safely, in the midst of his great
   riches and gardens; and even exhorted the world to throw away their
   gold, perhaps (as one well conjectures) that he might gather it up: so
   these desire men to be humble, that they may domineer without
   opposition. But it is an easy matter to commend patience, when there is
   no danger of any trial, to extol humility in the midst of honours, to
   begin a fast after dinner. [13] But, O how Christ will deal with such
   persons, when he shall draw forth all their actions bare, and stript
   from this deceiving veil of their heavenly speeches! He will then say,
   It was not your sad countenance, nor your hypocritical groaning, by
   which you did either confess or honour me: but your worldliness, your
   luxury, your sinister partial dealing: these have denied me, these have
   wounded me, these have gone to my heart; these have caused the weak to
   stumble, and the profane to blaspheme; these have offended the one, and
   hardened the other. You have indeed spoke me fair, you have saluted me
   with your lips, but even then you betrayed me. Depart from me
   therefore, you professors of holiness, but you workers of iniquity.

   And thus having shewn the three ways by which Christ may be denied, it
   may now be demanded, which is the denial here intended in the words.

   Answer. (1.) I conceive, if the words are taken as they were
   particularly and personally directed to the apostles, upon the occasion
   of their mission to preach the gospel, so the denial of him was the not
   acknowledgment of the deity or godhead of Christ; and the reason to
   prove that this was then principally in tended is this; because this
   was the truth in those days chiefly opposed, and most disbelieved; as
   appears, because Christ and the apostles did most earnestly inculcate
   the belief of this, and accepted men upon the bare acknowledgment of
   this, and baptism was administered to such as did but profess this,
   Acts viii. 37, 38. And indeed, as this one aphorism, Jesus Christ is
   the son of God, is virtually and eminently the whole gospel; so, to
   confess or deny it, is virtually to embrace or reject the whole round
   and series of gospel truths. For he that acknowledges Christ to be the
   son of God, by the same does consequentially acknowledge, that he is to
   be believed and obeyed, in whatsoever he does enjoin and deliver to the
   sons of men: and therefore that we are to repent, and believe, and rest
   upon him for salvation, and to deny ourselves: and within the compass
   of this is included whatsoever is called gospel.

   As for the manner of our denying the deity of Christ here prohibited, I
   conceive, it was by words and oral expressions verbally to deny and
   disacknowledge it. This I ground upon these reasons:

   1. Because it was such a denial as was before men, and therefore
   consisted in open profession; for a denial in judgment and practice, as
   such, is not always before men.

   2. Because it was such a denial or confession of him as would appear in
   preaching: but this is managed in words and verbal profession.

   But now, (2.) if we take the words as they are a general precept,
   equally relating to all times and to all persons, though delivered only
   upon a particular occasion to the apostles, (as I suppose they are to
   be understood;) so I think they comprehend all the three ways mentioned
   of confessing or denying Christ: but principally in respect of
   practice; and that, 1. Because by this he is most honoured or
   dishonoured. 2. Because without this the other two cannot save. 3.
   Because those who are ready enough to confess him both in judgment and
   profession, are for the most part very prone to deny him shamefully in
   their doings.

   Pass we now to a second thing, viz. to shew,

   II. What are the causes inducing men to deny Christ in his truths. I
   shall propose three.

   1. The seeming supposed absurdity of many truths: upon this foundation
   heresy always builds. The heathens derided the Christians, that still
   they required and pressed belief; and well they might, say they, since
   the articles of their religion are so absurd, that upon principles of
   science they can never win assent. It is easy to draw it forth and
   demonstrate, how upon this score the chief heresies, that now are said
   to trouble the church, do oppose and deny the most important truths in
   divinity. As first, hear the denier of the deity and satisfaction of
   Christ. What, says he, can the same person be God and man? the creature
   and the creator? Can we ascribe such attributes to the same thing,
   whereof one implies a negation and a contradiction of the other? Can he
   be also finite and infinite, when to be finite is not to be infinite,
   and to be infinite not to be finite? And when we distinguish between
   the person and the nature, was not that distinction an invention of the
   schools, savouring rather of metaphysics than divinity? If we say, that
   he must have been God, because he was to mediate between us and God, by
   the same reason, they will reply, we should need a mediator between us
   and Christ, who is equally God, equally offended. Then for his
   satisfaction, they will demand to whom this satisfaction is paid? If to
   God, then God pays a price to himself: and what is it else to require
   and need no satisfaction, than for one to satisfy himself? Next comes
   in the denier of the decrees and free grace of God. What, says he,
   shall we exhort, admonish, and entreat the saints to beware of falling
   away finally, and at the same time assert, that it is impossible for
   them so to fall? What, shall we erect two contradictory wills in God,
   or place two contradictories in the same will? and make the will of his
   purpose and intention run counter to the will of his approbation? Hear
   another concerning the scripture and justification. What, says the
   Romanist, rely in matters of faith upon a private spirit? How do you
   know this is the sense of such a scripture? Why, by the Spirit. But how
   will you try that Spirit to be of God? Why, by the scripture. This he
   explodes as a circle, and so derides it. Then for justification. How
   are you justified by an imputed righteousness? Is it yours before it is
   imputed, or not? If not, as we must say, is this to be justified to
   have that accounted yours, that is not yours? But again, did you ever
   hear of any man made rich or wise by imputation? Why then righteous or
   just? Now these seeming paradoxes, attending gospel truths, cause men
   of weak, prejudiced intellectuals to deny them, and in them, Christ;
   being ashamed to own faith so much, as they think, to the disparagement
   of their reason.

   The second thing causing men to deny the truths of Christ is their
   unprofitableness. And no wonder, if here men forsake the truth, and
   assert interest. To be pious is the way to be poor. Truth still gives
   its followers its own badge and livery, a despised nakedness. It is
   hard to maintain the truth, but much harder to be maintained by it.
   Could it ever yet feed, clothe, or defend its assertors? Did ever any
   man quench his thirst or satisfy his hunger with a notion? Did ever any
   one live upon propositions? The testimony of Brutus concerning virtue
   is the apprehension of most concerning truth: at it is a name, but
   lives and estates are things, d therefore not to be thrown away upon
   words. That we are neither to worship or cringe to any thing under the
   Deity, is a truth too strict for a Naaman: he can be content to worship
   the true God, but then it must be in the house of Rimmon: the reason
   was implied in his condition; he was captain of the host, and therefore
   he thought it reason good to bow to Rimmon, rather than endanger his
   place: better bow than break. Indeed sometimes Providence casts things
   so, that truth and interest lie the same way: and, when it is wrapt up
   in this covering, men can be content to follow it, to press hard after
   it, but it is, as we pursue some beasts, only for their skins: take off
   the covering, and though men obtain the truth, they would lament the
   loss of that: as Jacob wept and mourned over the torn coat, when Joseph
   was alive. It is incredible to consider how interest outweighs truth.
   If a thing in itself be doubtful, let it make for interest, and it
   shall be raised at least into a probable; and if a truth be certain,
   and thwart interest, it will quickly fetch it down to but a
   probability: nay, if it does not carry with it an impregnable evidence,
   it will go near to debase it to a downright falsity. How much interest
   casts the balance in cases dubious, I could give sundry instances: let
   one suffice: and that concerning the unlawfulness of usury. Most of the
   learned men in the world successively, both heathen and Christian, do
   assert the taking of use to be utterly unlawful; yet the divines of the
   reformed church beyond the seas, though most severe and rigid in other
   things, do generally affirm it to be lawful. That the case is doubtful,
   and may be disputed with plausible arguments on either side, we may
   well grant: but what then is the reason, that makes these divines so
   unanimously concur in this opinion? Indeed I shall not affirm this to
   be the reason, but it may seem so to many: that they receive their
   salaries by way of pension, in present ready money, and so have no
   other way to improve them; so that it may be suspected, that the change
   of their salary would be the strongest argument to change their
   opinion. The truth is, interest is the grand wheel and spring that
   moves the whole universe. Let Christ and truth say what they will, if
   interest will have it, gain must be godliness: if enthusiasm is in
   request, learning must be inconsistent with grace. If pay grows short,
   the university maintenance must be too great. Rather than Pilate will
   be counted Caesar's enemy, he will pronounce Christ innocent one hour,
   and condemn him the next. How Christ is made to truckle under the
   world, and how his truths are denied and shuffled with for profit and
   pelf, the clearest proof would be by induction and example. But as it
   is the most clear, so here it would be the most unpleasing: wherefore I
   shall pass this over, since the world is now so peccant upon this
   account, that I am afraid instances would be mistaken for invectives.

   3. The third cause inducing men to deny Christ in his truths is their
   apparent danger. To confess Christ is the ready way to be cast out of
   the synagogue. The church is a place of graves, as well as of worship
   and profession. To be resolute in a good cause is to bring upon
   ourselves the punishments due to a bad. Truth indeed is a possession of
   the highest value, and therefore it must needs expose the owner to much
   danger. Christ is sometimes pleased to make the profession of himself
   costly, and a man cannot buy the truth, but he must pay down his life
   and his dearest blood for it. Christianity marks a man out for
   destruction; and Christ some times chalks out such a way to salvation
   as shall verify his own saying, He that will save his life shall lose
   it. The first ages of the church had a more abundant experience of
   this: what Paul and the rest planted by their preaching, they watered
   with their blood. We know their usage was such, as Christ foretold; he
   sent them to wolves, and the common course then was, Christianos ad
   leones. For a man to give his name to Christianity in those days was to
   list himself a martyr, and to bid farewell, not only to the pleasures,
   but also to the hopes of this life. Neither was it a single death only
   that then attended this profession, but the terror and sharpness of it
   was redoubled in the manner and circumstance. They had persecutors,
   whose invention was as great as their cruelty. Wit and malice conspired
   to find out such tortures, such deaths, and those of such in credible
   anguish, that only the manner of dying was the punishment, death itself
   the deliverance. To be a martyr signifies only to witness the truth of
   Christ, but the witnessing of the truth was then so generally attended
   with this event, that martyrdom now signifies, not only to witness, but
   to witness by death: the word, besides its own signification, importing
   their practice. And since Christians have been freed from heathens,
   Christians themselves have turned persecutors. Since Rome from heathen
   was. turned Christian, it has improved its persecution into an
   inquisition. Now, when Christ and truth are upon these terms, that men
   cannot confess him, but upon pain of death, the reason of their
   apostasy and denial is clear; men will be wise, and leave truth and
   misery to such as love it; they are resolved to be cunning, let others
   run the hazard of being sincere. If they must be good at so high a
   rate, they know they may be safe at a cheaper. Si negare sufficiat,
   quis erit nocens? If to deny Christ will save them, the truth shall
   never make them guilty. Let Christ and his flock lie open, and exposed
   to all weather of persecution, foxes will be sure to have holes. And if
   it comes to this, that they must either renounce their religion, deny
   and blaspheme Christ, or forfeit their lives to the fire or the sword,
   it is but inverting Job's wife's advice, Curse God, and live.

   III. We proceed now to the third thing, which is to shew, how far a man
   may consult his safety, &c.

   This he may do two ways.

   1. By withdrawing his person. Martyrdom is an heroic act of faith: an
   achievement beyond an ordinary pitch of it; To you, says the Spirit, it
   is given to suffer, Phil. i. 29. It is a peculiar additional gift: it
   is a distinguishing excellency of degree, not an essential consequent
   of its nature. Be ye harmless as doves, says Christ; and it is as
   natural to them to take flight upon danger, as to be innocent: let
   every man throughly consult the temper of his faith, and weigh his
   courage with his fears, his weakness and his resolution together, and
   take the measure of both, and see which preponderates; and if his
   spirit faints, if his heart misgives and melts at the very thoughts of
   the fire, let him fly, and secure his own soul, and Christ's honour.
   Non negat Christum fugiendo, qui ideo fugit ne neget: he does not deny
   Christ by flying, who therefore flies that he may not deny him. Nay, he
   does not so much decline, as rather change his martyrdom: he flies from
   the flame, but repairs to a desert; to poverty and hunger in a
   wilderness. Whereas, if he would dispense with his conscience, and deny
   his Lord, or swallow down two or three contradictory oaths, he should
   neither fear the one, nor be forced to the other.

   2. By concealing his judgment. A man some times is no more bound to
   speak, than to destroy himself: and as nature abhors this, so religion
   does not command that. In the times of the primitive church, when the
   Christians dwelt amongst heathens, it is reported of a certain maid,
   how she came from her father's house to one of the tribunals of the
   gentiles, and declared herself a Christian, spit in the judge's face,
   and so provoked him to cause her to be executed. But will any say, that
   this was to confess Christ, to die a martyr? He that, uncalled for,
   uncompelled, comes and proclaims a persecuted truth, for which he is
   sure to die, only dies a confessor of his own folly, and a sacrifice to
   his own rashness. Martyrdom is stamped such only by God's command; and
   he that ventures upon it without a call, must endure it without a
   reward: Christ will say, Who required this at your hands? His gospel
   does not dictate imprudence; no evangelical precept justles out that of
   a lawful self-preservation. He therefore that thus throws himself upon
   the sword, runs to heaven before he is sent for; where, though perhaps
   Christ may in mercy receive the man, yet he will be sure to disown the
   martyr.

   And thus much concerning those lawful ways of securing ourselves in
   time of persecution: not as if these were always lawful: for sometimes
   a man is bound to confess Christ openly, though he dies for it; and to
   conceal a truth is to deny it. But now, to shew when it is our duty,
   and when unlawful to take these courses, by some general rule of a
   perpetual, never-failing truth, none ever would yet presume: for, as
   Aristotle says, we are not to expect demonstrations in ethics or
   politics, nor to build certain rules upon the contingency of human
   actions: so, inasmuch as our flying from persecution, our confessing or
   concealing persecuted truths, vary and change their very nature,
   according to different circumstances of time, place, and persons, we
   cannot limit their directions within any one universal precept. You
   will say then, how shall we know when to confess, when to conceal a
   truth? when to wait for, when to decline persecution? Indeed, the only
   way that I think can be prescribed in this case, is to be earnest and
   importunate with God in prayer for special direction: and it is not to
   be imagined, that he, who is both faithful and merciful, will leave a
   sincere soul in the dark upon such an occasion. But this I shall add,
   that the ministers of God are not to evade, or take refuge in any of
   these two forementioned ways. They are public persons; and good
   shepherds must then chiefly stand close to the flock, when the wolf
   comes. For them to be silent in the cause of Christ, is to renounce it;
   and to fly, is to desert it. As for that place urged in favour of the
   contrary, in ver. 23. When they persecute you in this city, flee into
   another, it proves nothing; for the precept was particular, and
   concerned only the apostles; and that, but for that time in which they
   were then sent to the Jews, at which time Christ kept them as a reserve
   for the future: for when after his death they were indifferently sent
   both to Jews and gentiles, we find not this clause in their commission,
   but they were to sign the truths they preached with their blood; as we
   know they actually did. And moreover, when Christ bids them, being
   persecuted in one city, fly into another, it was not (as Grotius
   acutely observes) that they might lie hid, or be secure in that city,
   but that there they might preach the gospel: so that their flight here
   was not to secure their persons, but to continue their business. I
   conclude therefore, that faithful ministers are to stand and endure the
   brunt. A common soldier may fly, when it is the duty of him that holds
   the standard to die upon the place. And we have abundant encouragement
   so to do. Christ has seconded and sweetened his command with his
   promise: yea, the thing itself is not only our duty, but our glory. And
   he who has done this work, has in the very work partly received his
   wages. And were it put to my choice, I think I should choose rather
   with spitting and scorn to be tumbled into the dust in blood, bearing
   witness to any known truth of our dear Lord, now opposed by the
   enthusiasts of the present age, than by a denial of those truths
   through blood and perjury wade to a sceptre, and lord it in a throne.
   And we need not doubt, but truth, however oppressed, will have some
   followers, and at length prevail. A Christ, though crucified, will
   arise: and as it is in Rev. xi. 3. the witnesses will prophesy, though
   it be in sackcloth.

   IV. Having thus despatched the third thing, I proceed to the fourth,
   which is to shew, what it is for Christ to deny us before his Father in
   heaven. Hitherto we have treated of men's carriage to Christ in this
   world; now we will describe his carriage to them in the other. These
   words clearly relate to the last judgment, and they are a summary
   description of his proceeding with men at that day.

   And here we will consider,

   1. The action itself, He will deny them.

   2. The circumstance of the action, He will deny them before his Father
   and the holy angels.

   1. Concerning the first: Christ's denying us is otherwise expressed in
   Luke xiii. 27. I know you not. To know, in scripture language, is to
   approve; and so, not to know, is to reject and condemn. Now who knows
   how may woes are crowded into this one sentence, I will deny him? It is
   (to say no more) a compendious expression of hell, an eternity of
   torments comprised in a word: it is condemnation itself, and, what is
   most of all, it is condemnation from the mouth of a Saviour. O the
   inexpressible horror that will seize upon a poor sinner, when he stands
   arraigned at the bar of divine justice! When he shall look about, and
   see his accuser, his judge, the witnesses, all of them his remorseless
   adversaries; the law impleading, mercy and the gospel up braiding him,
   the devil, his grand accuser, drawing his indictment; numbering his
   sins with the greatest exactness, and aggravating them with the
   cruelest bitterness; and conscience, like a thousand witnesses,
   attesting every article, flying in his face, and rending his very
   heart: and then after all, Christ, from whom only mercy could be
   expected, owning the accusation. It will be hell enough to hear the
   sentence; the very promulgation of the punishment will be part of the
   punishment, and anticipate the execution. If Peter was so abashed when
   Christ gave him a look after his denial; if there was so much dread in
   his looks when he stood as prisoner, how much greater will it be when
   he sits as a judge! If it was so fearful when he looked his denier into
   repentance, what will it be when he shall look him into destruction!
   Believe it, when we shall hear an accusation from an advocate, our
   eternal doom from our intercessor, it will convince us that a denial of
   Christ is something more than a few transitory words: what trembling,
   what outcries, what astonishment will there be upon the pronouncing
   this sentence! Every word will come upon the sinner like an arrow
   striking through his reins; like thunder, that is heard, and consumes
   at the same instant. Yea, it will be a denial with scorn, with taunting
   exprobrations: and to be miserable without commiseration is the height
   of misery He that falls below pity, can fall no lower. Could I give you
   a lively representation of guilt and horror on this hand, and paint out
   eternal wrath, and decipher eternal vengeance on the other, then might
   I shew you the condition of a sinner hearing himself denied by Christ:
   and for those whom Christ has denied, it will be in vain to appeal to
   the Father, unless we can imagine that those whom mercy has condemned,
   justice will absolve.

   2. For the circumstance, He will deny us before his Father and the holy
   angels. As much as God is more glorious than man, so much is it more
   glorious to be confessed before him, than before men: and so much glory
   as there is in being confessed, so much dishonour there is in being
   denied. If there could be any room for comfort after the sentence of
   damnation, it would be this, to be executed in secret, to perish
   unobserved: as it is some allay to the infamy of him who died
   ignominiously, to be buried privately. But when a man's folly must be
   spread open before the angels, and all his baseness ript up before
   those pure spirits, this will be a double hell: to be thrust into utter
   darkness, only to be punished by it, without the benefit of being
   concealed. When Christ shall compare himself, who was denied, and the
   thing for which he was denied, together, and parallel his merits with a
   lust, and lay eternity in the balance with a trifle, then the folly of
   the sinner's choice shall be the greatest sting of his destruction. For
   a man shall not have the advantage of his former ignorances and error
   to approve his sin: things that appeared amiable by the light of this
   world, will appear of a different odious hue in the clear discoveries
   of the next: as that which appears to be of this colour by a dim
   candle, will be found to be of another, looked upon in the day. So when
   Christ shall have cleared up men's apprehensions about the value of
   things, he will propose that worthy prize for which he was denied; he
   will hold it up to open view, and call upon men and angels: Be hold,
   look, here's the thing, here's that piece of dirt, that windy applause,
   that poor transitory pleasure, that contemptible danger, for which I
   was dishonoured, my truths disowned, and for which, life, eternity, and
   God himself was scorned and trampled upon by this sinner: judge, all
   the world, whether what he so despised in the other life, he deserves
   to enjoy in this. How will the condemned sinner then crawl forth, and
   appear in his filth and shame, before that undefiled tribunal, like a
   toad or a snake in a king's presence-chamber! Nothing so irksome, as to
   have one's folly displayed before the prudent; one's impurity before
   the pure. And all this before that company surrounding him, from which
   he is neither able to look off, nor yet to look upon. A disgrace put
   upon a man in company is unsupportable: it is heightened according to
   the greatness, and multiplied according to the number of the persons
   that hear it. And now as this circumstance [before his Father] fully
   speaks the shame, so likewise it speaks the danger of Christ's then
   denying us. For when the accusation is heard, and the person stands
   convict, God is immediately lifting up his hand to inflict the eternal
   blow; and when Christ denies to exhibit a ransom, to step between the
   stroke then coming and the sinner, it must inevitably fall upon him,
   and sink his guilty soul into that deep and bottomless gulph of endless
   perdition. This therefore is the sum of Christ's denying us before his
   Father, viz. unsupportable shame, unavoidable destruction.

   V. I proceed now to the uses which may be drawn from the truths
   delivered. And here,

   1. (Right honourable) not only the present occasion, but even the words
   themselves, seem eminently to address an exhortation to your honours.
   As for others not to deny Christ, is openly to profess him; so for you
   who are invested with authority, not to deny him, is to defend him.
   Know therefore, that Christ does not only desire, but demand your
   defence, and that in a double respect.

   (1.) In respect of his truth. (2.) Of his members.

   (1.) He requires that you should defend and confess him in his truth.
   Heresy is a tare sometimes not to be pulled up but by the civil
   magistrate. The word liberty of conscience is much abused for the
   defence of it, because not well understood. Every man may have liberty
   of conscience to think and judge as he pleases, but not to vent what he
   pleases. The reason is, because conscience bounding itself within the
   thoughts is of private concernment, and the cognizance of these belong
   only to God: but when an opinion is published, it concerns all that
   hear it; and the public is endamaged, and therefore becomes punishable
   by the magistrate, to whom the care or the public is intrusted. But
   there is one truth that concerns both ministry and magistracy, and all;
   which is opposed by those who affirm, that none ought to govern upon
   the earth, but Christ in person: absurdly; as if the powers that are,
   destroyed his; as if a deputy were not consistent with a king; as if
   there were any opposition in subordination. They affirm also, that the
   wicked have no right to their estates; but only the faithful, that is,
   themselves, ought to possess the earth. And it is not to be questioned,
   but when they come to explain this principle, by putting it into
   execution, there will be but few that have estates at present, but will
   be either found, or made wicked. I shall not be so urgent, to press you
   to confess Christ, by asserting and owning the truth, contrary to this,
   since it does not only oppose truth, but property; and here to deny
   Christ, would be to deny yourselves, in a sense which none is like to
   do.

   (2.) Christ requires you to own and defend him in his members; and
   amongst these, the chief of them, and such as most fall in your way,
   the ministers; I say, that despised, abject, oppressed sort of men, the
   ministers, whom the world would make antichristian, and so deprive them
   of heaven; and also strip them of that poor remainder of their
   maintenance, and so allow them no portion upon the earth. You may now
   spare that distinction of scandalous ministers, when it is even made
   scandalous to be a minister. And as for their discouragement in the
   courts of the law, I shall only note this, that for these many years
   last past, it has been the constant observation of all, that if a
   minister had a cause depending in the court, it was ten to one but it
   went against him. I cannot believe your law justles out the gospel; but
   if it be thus used to undermine Christ in his servants, beware that
   such judgments passed upon them, do not fetch down God's judgments upon
   the land; and that for such abuse of law, Christ does not in anger
   deprive both you and us of its use. (My lords) I make no doubt, but you
   will meet with many suits in your course, in which the persons we speak
   of are concerned, as it is easy to prognosticate from those many worthy
   petitions preferred against them, for which the well-affected
   petitioners [14] will one day receive but small thanks from the court
   of heaven. But however their causes speed in your tribunals, know that
   Christ himself will recognize them at a greater. And then, what a
   different face will be put upon things! When the usurping, devouring
   Nimrods of the world shall be cast with scorn on the left hand; and
   Christ himself in that great consistory shall deign to step down from
   his throne, and single out a poor despised minister, and (as it were
   taking him by the hand) present him to, and openly thus confess him
   before his Father: Father, here is a poor servant of mine, who, for
   doing his duty impartially, for keeping a good conscience, and
   testifying my truths in an hypocritical pretending age, was wronged,
   trod upon, stripped of all: Father, I will that there be now a
   distinction made, between such as have owned and confessed me with the
   loss of the world, and those that have denied, persecuted, and insulted
   over me. It will be in vain then to come and creep for mercy; and say,
   Lord, when did we insult over thee? when did we see thee in our courts,
   and despised or oppressed thee? Christ's reply will be then quick and
   sharp: Verily, inasmuch as you did it to one of these little, poor
   despised ones, ye did it unto me.

   2. Use is of information, to shew us the danger as well as the baseness
   of a dastardly spirit, in asserting the interest and truth of Christ.
   Since Christ has made a Christian course a warfare, of all men living a
   coward is the most unfit to make a Christian: whose infamy is not so
   great, but it is sometimes less than his peril. A coward does not
   always scape with disgrace, but sometimes also he loses his life:
   wherefore, let all such know, as can enlarge their consciences like
   hell, and call any sinful compliance submission, and style a cowardly
   silence in Christ's cause, discretion and prudence; I say, let them
   know, that Christ will one day scorn them, and spit them, with their
   policy and prudence, into hell; and then let them consult, how politic
   they were, for a temporal emolument, to throw away eternity. The things
   which generally cause men to deny Christ are, either the enjoyments or
   the miseries of this life: but alas! at the day of judgment all these
   will expire; and, as one well observes, what are we the better for
   pleasure, or the worse for sorrow, when it is past? But then sin and
   guilt will be still fresh, and heaven and hell will be then yet to
   begin. If ever it was seasonable to preach courage in the despised,
   abused cause of Christ, it is now, when his truths are reformed into
   nothing, when the hands and hearts of his faithful ministers are
   weakened, and even broke, and his worship extirpated in a mockery, that
   his honour may be advanced. Well, to establish our hearts in duty, let
   us beforehand propose to ourselves the worst that can happen. Should
   God in his judgment suffer England to be transformed into a Munster:
   should the faithful be every where massacred: should the places of
   learning be demolished, and our colleges reduced (not only as one [15]
   in his zeal would have it) to three, but to none; yet, assuredly, hell
   is worse than all this, and is the portion of such as deny Christ:
   wherefore, let our discouragements be what they will, loss of places,
   loss of estates, loss of life and relations, yet still this sentence
   stands ratified in the decrees of Heaven, Cursed be that man, that for
   any of these shall desert the truth, and deny his Lord.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [11] In the parliament 1653, it being put to the vote, whether they
   should support and encourage a godly and learned ministry, the latter
   word was rejected, and the vote passed for a godly and faithful
   ministry.

   [12] A noted independent divine, when Oliver Cromwell was sick, of
   which sickness he died, declared that God had revealed to him that he
   should recover, and live thirty years longer, for that God had raised
   him up for a work which could not be done in less time. But Oliver's
   death being published two days after, the said divine publicly in
   prayer expostulated with God the defeat of his prophecy, in these
   words: Lord, thou hast lied unto us; yea, thou hast lied unto us.

   [13] Very credibly reported to have been done in an independent
   congregation at Oxon.

   [14] Whensoever any petition was put up to the parliament in the year
   1653, for the taking away of tithes, the thanks of the house were still
   returned to them, and that by the name and elogy of the well-affected
   petitioners.

   [15] A colonel of the army, the perfidious cause of Penruddock's death,
   and some time after high-sheriff of Oxfordshire, openly and frequently
   affirmed the uselessness of the universities, and that three colleges
   were sufficient to answer the occasions of the nation, for the breeding
   of men up to learning, so far as it was either necessary or useful.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Ecclesiastical Policy the best Policy:

    OR

  RELIGION THE BEST REASON OF STATE:

    IN A

SERMON

    PREACHED

  BEFORE THE HONOURABLE SOCIETY OF LINCOLN'S INN.
     __________________________________________________________________

   1 Kings xiii. 33, 34.

   After this thing Jeroboam returned not from his evil way, but made
   again of the lowest of the people priests of the high places: whosoever
   would, he consecrated him, and he became one of the priests of the high
   places. And this thing became sin unto the house of Jeroboam, even to
   cut it off, and to destroy it from off the face of the earth.

   JEROBOAM (from the name of a person become the character of impiety) is
   reported to posterity eminent, or rather infamous, for two things;
   usurpation of government, and innovation of religion. It is confessed,
   the former is expressly said to have been from God; but since God may
   order and dispose what he does not approve, and use the wickedness of
   men while he forbids it, the design of the first cause does not excuse
   the malignity of the second: and therefore, the advancement and sceptre
   of Jeroboam was in that sense only the work of God, in which it is
   said, Amos iii. 6. that there is no evil in the city which the Lord
   hath not done. But from his attempts upon the civil power, he proceeds
   to innovate God's worship; and from the subjection of men's bodies and
   estates, to enslave their consciences, as knowing that true religion is
   no friend to an unjust title. Such was afterwards the way of Mahomet,
   to the tyrant to join the impostor, and what he had got by the sword to
   confirm by the Alcoran; raising his empire upon two pillars, conquest
   and inspiration. Jeroboam being thus advanced, and thinking policy the
   best piety, though indeed in nothing ever more befooled, the nature of
   sin being not only to defile, but to infatuate; in the xiith chapter,
   and the 27th verse, he thus argues; If this people go up to do
   sacrifice in the house of the Lord at Jerusalem, then shall the heart
   of this people turn again unto their lord, even unto Rehoboam king of
   Judah, and they shall kill me, and go again unto Rehoboam king of
   Judah. As if he should have said; The true worship of God, and the
   converse of those that use it, dispose men to a considerate lawful
   subjection. And therefore I must take another course: my practice must
   not be better than my title; what was won by force, must be continued
   by delusion. Thus sin is usually seconded with sin; and a man seldom
   commits one sin to please, but he commits another to defend himself: as
   it is frequent for the adulterer to commit murder, to conceal the shame
   of his adultery. But let us see Jeroboam's politic procedure in the
   next verse. Whereupon the king took counsel, and made two calves of
   gold, and said unto them, It is too much for you to go up to Jerusalem:
   behold thy gods, O Israel. As if he had made such an edict: I Jeroboam,
   by the advice of my council, considering the great distance of the
   temple, and the great charges that poor people are put to in going
   thither; as also the intolerable burden of paying the first-fruits and
   tithes to the priest, have considered of a way that may be more easy,
   and less burdensome to the people, as also more comfortable to the
   priests themselves; and therefore strictly enjoin, that none henceforth
   presume to repair to the temple at Jerusalem, especially since God is
   not tied to any place or form of worship; as also because the devotion
   of men is apt to be clogged by such ceremonies; therefore, both for the
   ease of the people, as well as for the advancement of religion, we
   require and command, that all henceforth forbear going up to Jerusalem.
   Questionless these and such other reasons the impostor used, to
   insinuate his devout idolatry. And thus the calves were set up, to
   which oxen must be sacrificed; the god and the sacrifice out of the
   same herd. And because Israel was not to return to Egypt, Egypt was
   brought back to them: that is, the Egyptian way of worship, the Apis,
   or Serapis, which was nothing but the image of a calf or ox, as is
   clear from most historians. Thus Jeroboam having procured his people
   gods, the next thing was to provide priests. Hereupon to the calves he
   adds a commission for the approving, trying, and admitting the
   rascality and lowest of the people to minister in that service: such as
   kept cattle, with a little change of their office, were admitted to
   make oblations to them. And doubtless, besides the approbation of
   these, there was a commission also to eject such of the priests and
   Levites of God, as being too ceremoniously addicted to the temple,
   would not serve Jeroboam before God, nor worship his calves for their
   gold, nor approve those two glittering sins for any reason of state
   whatsoever. Having now perfected divine worship, and prepared both gods
   and priests; in the next place, that he might the better teach his
   false priests the way of their new worship, he begins the service
   himself, and so countenances by his example what he had enjoined by his
   command, in the 11th verse of this chapter;

   and Jeroboam stood by the altar to burn incense

   . Burning of in cense was then the ministerial office amongst them, as
   preaching is now amongst us. So that to represent to you the nature of
   Jeroboam's action; it was, as if in a Christian nation the chief
   governor should authorize and encourage all the scum and refuse of the
   people to preach, and call them to the ministry by using to preach,
   [16] and invade the ministerial function himself. But Jeroboam rested
   not here, but while he was busy in his work, and a prophet immediately
   sent by God declares against his idolatry, he endeavours to seize upon
   and commit him; in ver. 4. he held forth his hand from the altar, and
   said, Lay hold of him. Thus we have him completing his sin, and by a
   strange imposition of hands persecuting the true prophets, as well as
   ordaining false. But it was a natural transition, and no ways wonderful
   to see him, who stood affronting God with false incense in the right
   hand, persecuting with the left, and abetting the idolatry of one arm
   with the violence of the other. Now if we lay all these things
   together, and consider the parts, rise, and degrees of his sin, we
   shall find, that it was not for nothing that the Spirit of God so
   frequently and bitterly in scripture stigmatizes this person; for it
   represents him first encroaching upon the civil government, thence
   changing that of the church, debasing the office that God had made
   sacred, introducing a false way of worship, and destroying the true.
   And in this we have a full and fair description of a foul thing, that
   is, of an usurper and an impostor: or, to use one word more
   comprehensive than both, of Jeroboam the son of Nebat, who made Israel
   to sin.

   From the story and practice of Jeroboam, we might gather these
   observations.

   1. That God sometimes punishes a notorious sin, by suffering the sinner
   to fall into a worse.

   Thus God punished the rebellion of the Israelites, by permitting them
   to fall into idolatry.

   2. There is nothing so absurd, but may be obtruded upon the vulgar
   under pretence of religion.

   Certainly, otherwise a golden calf could never have been made either
   the object or the means of divine worship.

   3. Sin, especially that of perverting God's worship, as it leaves a
   guilt upon the soul, so it perpetuates a blot upon the name.

   Hence nothing so frequent, as for the Spirit of God to express wicked,
   irreligious kings, by comparing them to Ahab or Jeroboam. It being
   usual to make the first and most eminent in any kind, not only the
   standard for comparison, but also the rule of expression.

   But I shall insist only upon the words of the text, and what shall be
   drawn from thence. There are two things in the words that may seem to
   require explication.

   1. What is meant by the high places.

   2. What by the consecration of the priests.

   1. Concerning the high places. The use of these in the divine worship
   was general and ancient; and as Dionysius Vossius observes in his notes
   upon Moses Maimonides, the first way that was used, long before temples
   were either built or thought lawful. The reason of this seems to be,
   because those places could not be thought to shut up or confine the
   immensity of God, as they supposed an house did; and withal gave his
   worshippers a nearer approach to heaven by their height. Hence we read
   that the Samaritans worshipped upon mount Gerizim, John iv. 20. and
   Samuel went up to the high place to sacrifice, 1 Sam. ix. 14. and
   Solomon sacrificed at the high place in Gibeon, 1 Kings iii. 4. Yea,
   the temple itself was at length built upon a mount or high place, 2
   Chron. iii. 1. You will say then, why are these places condemned? I
   answer, that the use of them was not condemned, as absolutely and al
   ways unlawful in itself, but only after the temple was built, and that
   God had professed to put his name in that place and no other:
   therefore, what was lawful in the practice of Samuel and Solomon before
   the temple was in being, was now detestable in Jeroboam, since that was
   constituted by God the only place for his worship. To bring this
   consideration to the times of Christianity. Because the apostles and
   primitive Christians preached in houses, and had only private meetings,
   in regard they were under persecution, and had no churches; this can
   not warrant the practice of those nowadays, nor a toleration of them,
   that prefer houses before churches, and a conventicle before the
   congregation.

   2. For the second thing, which is the consecration of the priests; it
   seems to have been correspondent to ordination in the Christian church.
   Idolaters themselves were not so far gone, as to venture upon the
   priesthood without consecration and a call. To shew all the solemnities
   of this would be tedious, and here unnecessary: the Hebrew word which
   we render to consecrate, signifies to fill the hand, which indeed
   imports the manner of consecration, which was done by filling the hand:
   for the priest cut a piece of the sacrifice, and put it into the hands
   of him that was to be consecrated; by which ceremony he received right
   to sacrifice, and so became a priest. As our ordination in the
   Christian church is said to have been heretofore transacted by the
   bishop's delivering of the Bible into the hands of him that was to be
   ordained, whereby he received power ministerially to dispense the
   mysteries contained in it, and so was made a presbyter. Thus much
   briefly concerning consecration.

   There remains nothing else to be explained in the words: I shall
   therefore now draw forth the sense of them into these two propositions.

   I. The surest means to strengthen, or the readiest to ruin the civil
   power, is either to establish or destroy the worship of God in the
   right exercise of religion.

   II. The next and most effectual way to destroy religion, is to embase
   the teachers and dispensers of it.

   Of both these in their order.

   For the prosecution of the former we are to shew,

   1. The truth of the assertion, that it is so.

   2. The reason of the assertion, why and whence it is so.

   1. For the truth of it: it is abundantly evinced from all records both
   of divine and profane history, in which he that runs may read the ruin
   of the state in the destruction of the church; and that not only
   portended by it, as its sign, but also inferred from it, as its cause.

   2. For the reason of the point; it may be drawn

   (1.) From the judicial proceeding of God, the great king of kings, and
   supreme ruler of the universe; who for his commands is indeed careful,
   but for his worship jealous: and therefore in states notoriously
   irreligious, by a secret and irresistible power, countermands their
   deepest project, splits their counsels, and smites their most refined
   policies with frustration and a curse; being resolved that the kingdoms
   of the world shall fall down before him, either in his adoration, or
   their own confusion.

   (2.) The reason of the doctrine may be drawn from the necessary
   dependance of the very principles of government upon religion. And this
   I shall pursue more fully. The great business of government is to
   procure obedience, and keep off disobedience: the great springs upon
   which those two move are rewards and punishments, answering the two
   ruling affections of man's mind, hope and fear. For since there is a
   natural opposition between the judgment and the appetite, the former
   respecting what is honest, the latter what is pleasing; which two
   qualifications seldom concur in the same thing, and since withal man's
   design in every action is delight; therefore to render things honest
   also practicable, they must be first represented desirable, which can
   not be, but by proposing honesty clothed with plea sure; and since it
   presents no pleasure to the sense, it must be fetched from the
   apprehension of a future reward: for questionless duty moves not so
   much upon command as promise. Now therefore, that which proposes the
   greatest and most suitable rewards to obedience, and the greatest
   terrors and punishments to disobedience, doubtless is the most likely
   to enforce one, and prevent the other. But it is religion that does
   this, which to happiness and misery joins eternity. And these,
   supposing the immortality of the soul, which philosophy indeed
   conjectures, but only religion proves, or (which is as good) persuades;
   I say these two things, eternal happiness and eternal misery, meeting
   with a persuasion that the soul is immortal, are, without controversy,
   of all others, the first the most desirable, and the latter the most
   horrible to human apprehension. Were it not for these, civil government
   were not able to stand before the prevailing swing of corrupt nature,
   which would know no honesty but advantage, no duty but in pleasure, nor
   any law but its own will. Were not these frequently thundered into the
   understandings of men, the magistrate might enact, order, and proclaim;
   proclamations might be hung upon walls and posts, and there they might
   hang, seen and despised, more like malefactors than laws: but when
   religion binds them upon the conscience, conscience will either
   persuade or terrify men into their practice. For put the case, a man
   knew, and that upon sure grounds, that he might do an advantageous
   murder or robbery, and not be discovered; what human laws could hinder
   him, which, he knows, cannot inflict any penalty, where they can make
   no discovery? But religion assures him, that no sin, though concealed
   from human eyes, can either escape God's sight in this world, or his
   vengeance in the other. Put the case also, that men looked upon death
   without fear, in which sense it is nothing, or at most very little;
   ceasing, while it is endured, and probably without pain, for it seizes
   upon the vitals, and benumbs the senses, and where there is no sense,
   there can be no pain: I say, if while a man is acting his will towards
   sin, he should also thus act his reason to despise death, where would
   be the terror of the magistrate, who can neither threaten or inflict
   any more? Hence an old malefactor in his execution at the gallows made
   no other confession but this; that he had very jocundly passed over his
   life in such courses; and he that would not for fifty years pleasure
   endure half an hour's pain, deserved to die a worse death than himself.
   Questionless this man was not ignorant before, that there were such
   things as laws, assizes, and gallows; but had he considered and
   believed the terrors of another world, he might probably have found a
   fairer passage out of this. If there was not a minister in every
   parish, you would quickly find cause to increase the number of
   constables: and if the churches were not employed to be places to hear
   God's law, there would be need of them to be prisons for the breakers
   of the laws of men. Hence it is observable, that the tribe of Levi had
   not one place or portion together, like the rest of the tribes: but,
   because it was their office to dispense religion, they were diffused
   over all the tribes, that they might be continually preaching to the
   rest their duty to God; which is the most effectual way to dispose them
   to obedience to man: for he that truly fears God cannot despise the
   magistrate. Yea, so near is the connection between the civil state and
   religious, that heretofore, if you look upon well regulated, civilized
   heathen nations, you will find the government and the priesthood united
   in the same person; Anius rex idem hominum, Phoebique sacerdos, Virg.
   3. Æn. if under the true worship of God; Melchisedech, king of Salem,
   and priest of the most high God, Hebrews vii. 1. And afterwards Moses,
   (whom as we acknowledge a pious, so atheists themselves will confess to
   have been a wise prince,) he, when he took the kingly government upon
   himself, by his own choice, seconded by divine institution, vested the
   priesthood in his brother Aaron, both whose concernments were so
   coupled, that if nature had not, yet their religious, nay, their civil
   interests, would have made them brothers. And it was once the design of
   the emperor of Germany, Maximilian the first, to have joined the
   popedom and the empire together, and to have got himself chosen pope,
   and by that means derived the papacy to succeeding emperors. Had he
   effected it, doubt less there would not have been such scuffles between
   them and the bishop of Rome; the civil interest of the state would not
   have been undermined by an adverse interest, managed by the specious
   and potent pretences of religion. And to see, even amongst us, how
   these two are united, how the former is up held by the latter: the
   magistrate sometimes cannot do his own office dexterously, but by
   acting the minister: hence it is, that judges of assizes find it
   necessary in their charges to use pathetical discourses of conscience;
   and if it were not for the sway of this, they would often lose the best
   evidence in the world against malefactors, which is confession: for no
   man would confess and be hanged here, but to avoid being damned
   hereafter. Thus I have in general shewn the utter inability of the
   magistrate to attain the ends of government, without the aid of
   religion. But it may be here replied, that many are not at all moved
   with arguments drawn from hence, or with the happy or miserable state
   of the soul after death; and therefore this avails little to procure
   obedience, and consequently to advance government. I answer by
   concession: that this is true of epicures, atheists, and some pretended
   philosophers, who have stifled the notions of a Deity and the soul's
   immortality; but the unprepossessed on the one hand, and the
   well-disposed on the other, who both together make much the major part
   of the world, are very apt to be affected with a due fear of these
   things: and religion, accommodating itself to the generality, though
   not to every particular temper, sufficiently secures government;
   inasmuch as that stands or falls according to the behaviour of the
   multitude. And whatsoever conscience makes the generality obey, to that
   prudence will make the rest conform. Wherefore, having proved the
   dependence of government upon religion, I shall now demonstrate, that
   the safety of government depends upon the truth of religion. False
   religion is, in its nature, the greatest bane and destruction to
   government in the world. The reason is, because whatsoever is false, is
   also weak. Ens and verum in philosophy are the same: and so much as any
   religion has of falsity, it loses of strength and existence. Falsity
   gains authority only from ignorance, and therefore is in danger to be
   known; for from being false, the next immediate step is to be known to
   be such. And what prejudice this would be to the civil government, is
   apparent, if men should be awed into obedience, and affrighted from sin
   by rewards and punishments, proposed to them in such a religion, which
   afterwards should be detected, and found a mere falsity and cheat; for
   if one part be but found to be false, it will make the whole
   suspicious. And men will then not only cast off obedience to the civil
   magistrate, but they will do it with disdain and rage, that they have
   been deceived so long, and brought to do that out of conscience, which
   was imposed upon them out of design: for though men are often willingly
   deceived, yet still it must be under an opinion of being instructed;
   though they love the deception, yet they mortally hate it under that
   appearance: therefore it is no ways safe for a magistrate, who is to
   build his dominion upon the fears of men, to build those fears upon a
   false religion. It is not to be doubted, but the absurdity of
   Jeroboam's calves made many Israelites turn subjects to Rehoboam's
   government, that they might be proselytes to his religion. Herein the
   weakness of the Turkish religion appears, that it urges obedience upon
   the promise of such absurd rewards, as, that after death they should
   have palaces, gardens, beautiful women, with all the luxury that could
   be: as if those things, that were the occasions and incentives of sin
   in this world, could be the rewards of holiness in the other: besides
   many other inventions, false and absurd, that are like so many chinks
   and holes to discover the rottenness of the whole fabric, when God
   shall be pleased to give light to discover and open their reasons to
   discern them. But you will say, what government more sure and absolute
   than the Turkish, and yet what religion more false? Therefore,
   certainly government may stand sure and strong, be the religion
   professed never so absurd. I answer, that it may do so indeed by
   accident, through the strange peculiar temper and gross ignorance of a
   people; as we see it happens in the Turks, the best part of whose
   policy, supposing the absurdity of their religion, is this, that they
   prohibit schools of learning; for this hinders knowledge and disputes,
   which such a religion would not bear. But suppose we, that the learning
   of these western nations were as great there as here, and the Alcoran
   as common to them as the Bible to us, that they might have free
   recourse to search and examine the flaws and follies of it; and withal,
   that they were of as inquisitive a temper as we: and who knows, but as
   there are vicissitudes in the government, so there may happen the same
   also in the temper of a nation? If this should come to pass, where
   would be their religion? And then let every one judge, whether the
   arcana imperii and religionis would not fall together. They have begun
   to totter already; for Mahomet having promised to come and visit his
   followers, and translate them to paradise after a thousand years, this
   being expired, many of the Persians began to doubt and smell the cheat,
   till the Mufti or chief priest told them that it was a mistake in the
   figure, and assured them, that upon more diligent survey of the
   records, he found it two thousand instead of one. When this is expired,
   perhaps they will not be able to renew the fallacy. I say therefore,
   that though this government continues firm in the exercise of a false
   religion, yet this is by accident, through the present genius of the
   people, which may change; but this does not prove, but that the nature
   of such a religion (of which we only now speak) tends to subvert and
   betray the civil power. Hence Machiavel himself, in his animadversions
   upon Livy, makes it appear, that the weakness of Italy, which was once
   so strong, was caused by the corrupt practices of the papacy, in
   depraving and misusing religion to that purpose, which he, though
   himself a papist, says, could not have happened, had the Christian
   religion been kept in its first and native simplicity. Thus much may
   suffice for the clearing of the first proposition.

   The inferences from hence are two.

   1. If government depends upon religion, then this shows the
   pestilential design of those, that attempt to disjoin the civil and
   ecclesiastical interest, setting the latter wholly out of the tuition
   of the former. But it is clear that the fanaticks know no other step to
   the magistracy, but through the ruin of the ministry. There is a great
   analogy between the body natural and politic; in which the
   ecclesiastical or spiritual part justly supplies the part of the soul;
   and the violent separation of this from the other does as certainly
   infer death and dissolution, as the disjunction of the body and the
   soul in the natural; for when this once departs, it leaves the body of
   the commonwealth a carcass, noisome, and exposed to be devoured by
   birds of prey. The ministry will be one day found, according to
   Christ's word, the salt of the earth, the only thing that keeps
   societies of ten from stench and corruption. These two interests are of
   that nature, that it is to be feared they cannot be divided, but they
   will also prove opposite; and not resting in a bare diversity, quickly
   rise into a contrariety: these two are to the state, what the elements
   of fire and water to the body, which united compose, separated destroy
   it. I am not of the papist's opinion, who would make the spiritual
   above the civil state in power as well as dignity, but rather subject
   it to the civil; yet thus much I dare affirm, that the civil, which is
   superior, is upheld and kept in being by the ecclesiastical and
   inferior; as it is in a building, where the upper part is supported by
   the lower; the church resembling the foundation, which indeed is the
   lowest part, but the most considerable. The magistracy cannot so much
   protect the ministry, but the ministers may do more in serving the
   magistrate. A taste of which truth you may take from the holy war, to
   which how fast and eagerly did men go, when the priest persuaded them,
   that who soever died in that expedition was a martyr? Those that will
   not be convinced what a help this is to the magistracy, would find how
   considerable it is, if they should chance to clash; this would
   certainly eat out the other. For the magistrate cannot urge obedience
   upon such potent grounds, as the minister, if so disposed, can urge
   disobedience. As for instance, if my governor should command me to do a
   thing, or I must die, or forfeit my estate; and the minister steps in,
   and tells me, that I offend God, and ruin my soul, if I obey that
   command, it is easy to see a greater force in this persuasion from the
   advantage of its ground. And if divines once begin to curse Meroz, we
   shall see that Levi can use the sword as well as Simeon; and although
   ministers do not handle, yet they can employ it. This shews the
   imprudence, as well as the danger of the civil magistrate's
   exasperating those that can fire men's consciences against him, and arm
   his enemies with religion. For I have read heretofore of some, that
   having conceived an irreconcileable hatred of the civil magistrate,
   prevailed with men so far, that they went to resist him even out of
   conscience, and a full persuasion and dread upon their spirits, that,
   not to do it, were to desert God, [17] and consequently to incur dam
   nation. Now when men's rage is both heightened and sanctified by
   conscience, the war will be fierce; for what is done out of conscience,
   is done with the utmost activity. And then Campanella's speech to the
   king of Spain will be found true, Religio sem per vicit, praesertim
   armata: which sentence deserves seriously to be considered by all
   governors, and timely to be understood, lest it comes to be felt.

   2. If the safety of government is founded upon the truth of religion,
   then this shews the danger of any thing that may make even the true
   religion suspected to be false. To be false, and to be thought false,
   is all one in respect of men, who act not according to truth, but
   apprehension. As on the contrary, a false religion, while apprehended
   true, has the force and efficacy of truth. Now there is nothing more
   apt to induce men to a suspicion of any religion, than frequent
   innovation and change: for since the object of religion, God, the
   subject of it, the soul of man, and the business of it, truth, is
   always one and the same; variety and novelty is a just presumption of
   falsity. It argues sickness and distemper in the mind, as well as in
   the body, when a man is continually turning and tossing from one side
   to the other. The wise Romans ever dreaded the least innovation in
   religion: hence we find the advice of Maecenas to Augustus Caesar, in
   Dion Cassius, in the 52d book, where he counsels him to detest and
   persecute all innovators of divine worship, not only as contemners of
   the gods, but as the most pernicious disturbers of the state: for when
   men venture to make changes in things sacred, it argues great boldness
   with God, and this naturally imports little belief of him: which if the
   people once perceive, they will take their creed also, not from the
   magistrate's laws, but his example. Hence in England, where religion
   has been still purifying, and hereupon almost always in the fire and
   the furnace; atheists and irreligious persons have took no small
   advantage from our changes. For in king Edward the sixth's time, the
   divine worship was twice altered in two new liturgies. In the first of
   queen Mary, the protestant religion was persecuted with fire and fagot,
   by law and public counsel of the same persons, who had so lately
   established it. Upon the coming in of queen Elizabeth, religion was
   changed again, and within a few days the public council of the nation
   made it death for a priest to convert any man to that religion, which
   before with so much eagerness of zeal had been restored. So that it is
   observed by an author, that in the space of twelve years there were
   four changes about religion made in England, and that by the public
   council and authority of the realm, which were more than were made by
   any Christian state throughout the world, so soon one after another, in
   the space of fifteen hundred years before. Hence it is, that the
   enemies of God take occasion to blaspheme, and call our religion
   statism. And now adding to the former, those many changes that have
   happened since, I am afraid we shall not so easily claw off that name:
   nor, though we may satisfy our own consciences in what we profess, be
   able to repel and clear off the objections of the rational world about
   us, which, not being interested in our changes as we are, will not
   judge of them as we judge; but debate them by impartial reason, by the
   nature of the thing, the general practice of the church; against which,
   new lights, sudden impulses of the Spirit, extraordinary calls, will be
   but weak arguments to prove any thing but the madness of those that use
   them, and that the church must needs wither, being blasted with such
   inspirations. We see therefore how fatal and ridiculous innovations in
   the church are: and indeed when changes are so frequent, it is not
   properly religion, but fashion. This, I think, we may build upon as a
   sure ground, that where there is continual change, there is great shew
   of uncertainty; and uncertainty in religion is a shrewd motive, if not
   to deny, yet to doubt of its truth.

   Thus much for the first doctrine. I proceed now to the second, viz.
   That the next, and most effectual way to destroy religion, is to embase
   the teachers and dispensers of it. In the handling of this I shall
   shew,

   1. How the dispensers of religion, the ministers of the word, are
   embased or rendered vile.

   2. How the embasing or vilifying them is a means to destroy religion.

   1. For the first of these, the ministers and dispensers of the word are
   rendered base or vile two ways:

   (1.) By divesting them of all temporal privileges and advantages, as
   inconsistent with their calling. It is strange, since the priest's
   office heretofore was always splendid, and almost regal, that it is now
   looked upon as a piece of religion, to make it low and sordid. So that
   the use of the word minister is brought down to the literal
   signification of it, a servant: for now to serve and to minister,
   servile and ministerial, are terms equivalent. But in the Old Testament
   the same word signifies a priest, and a prince, or chief ruler; hence,
   though we translate it priest of On, (Gen. xli. 45.) and priest of
   Midian, (Exod. iii. 1.) and as it is with the people so with the
   priest, Isa. xxiv. 2. Junius and Tremellius render all these places,
   not by sacerdos, priest, but by praeses, that is, a prince, or at least
   a chief counsellor, or minister of state. And it is strange, that the
   name should be the same, when the nature of the thing is so exceeding
   different. The like also may be observed in other languages, that the
   most illustrious titles are derived from things sacred, and be longing
   to the worship of God. Sebasto`s was the title of the Christian Caesars
   correspondent to the Latin Augustus, and it is derived from the same
   word that se'basma, cultus, res sacra, or sacrificium. And it is usual
   in our language to make sacred an epithet to majesty; there was a
   certain royalty in things sacred. Hence the Apostle, who, I think, was
   no enemy to the simplicity of the gospel, speaks of a royal priesthood,
   1 Pet. ii. 9. which shews at least, that there is no contradiction or
   impiety in those terms. In old time, before the placing this office
   only in the line of Aaron, the head of the family and the first-born
   offered sacrifice for the rest; that is, was their priest. And we know,
   that such rule and dignity belonged at first to the masters of
   families, that they had jus vitae et necis, jurisdiction and power of
   life and death in their own family; and from hence was derived the
   beginning of kingly government: a king being only a civil head, or
   master of a politic family, the whole people; so that we see the same
   was the foundation of the royal and sacerdotal dignity. As for the
   dignity of this office among the Jews, it is so pregnantly set forth in
   holy writ, that it is unquestionable. Kings and priests are still
   mentioned together: Lam. ii. 6. The Lord hath despised in the
   indignation of his anger the king and the priest. Hos. v. 2. Hear, O
   priests, and give ear, O house of the king. Deut. xvii. 12. And the man
   that doth presumptuously, and will not hearken unto the priest that
   standeth there to minister before the Lord thy God, or unto the judge,
   even that man shall die. Hence Paul, together with a blow, received
   this reprehension, Acts xxiii. 4. Revilest thou God's high-priest? And
   Paul in the next verse does not defend himself, by pleading an
   extraordinary motion of the Spirit, or that he was sent to reform the
   church, and might therefore lawfully vilify the priesthood and all
   sacred orders; but in the 5th verse he makes an excuse, and that from
   ignorance, the only thing that could take away the fault; namely, that
   he knew not that he was the high-priest, and subjoins a reason which
   farther advances the truth here defended: for it is written, Thou shalt
   not speak evil of the ruler of thy people. To holy writ we might add
   the testimony of Josephus, of next authority to it in things concerning
   the Jews, who in sundry places of his history sets forth the dignity of
   the priests; and in his second book against Apion the grammarian has
   these words, pa'nton ton amphisbetoume'non dikastai` oi iereis
   eta'chthesan, the priests were constituted judges of all doubtful
   causes. Hence Justin also in his 36th book has this; Semper apud
   Judaeos mos fuit, ut eosdem reges et sacerdotes haberent: though this
   is false, that they were always so, yet it argues, that they were so
   frequently, and that the distance between them was not great. To the
   Jews we may join the Egyptians, the first masters of learning and
   philosophy. Synesius in his 57th epist. having shewn the general
   practice of antiquity, o pa'lai chro'nos e'nenke tou`s autou`s iere'as
   te kai` krita`s, gives an instance in the Jews and Egyptians, who for
   many ages upo` ton iere'on ebasileu'thesan, had no other kings but
   priests. Next, we may take a view of the practice of the Romans: Numa
   Pompilius, that civilized the fierce Romans, is reported in the first
   book of Livy sometimes to have performed the priest's office himself.
   Tum sacerdotibus creandis animum adjecit, quanquam ipse plurima sacra
   obibat; but when he made priests, he gave them a dignity al most the
   same with himself. And this honour continued together with the valour
   and prudence of that nation: for the success of the Romans did not
   extirpate their religion; the college of the priests being in many
   things exempted even from the jurisdiction of the senate, afterwards
   the supreme power. Hence Juvenal in his 2d Sat. mentions the priesthood
   of Mars, as one of the most honourable places in Rome. And Jul. Caesar,
   who was chosen priest in his private condition, thought it not below
   him to continue the same office when he was created absolute governor
   of Rome, under the name of perpetual dictator. Add to these the
   practice of the Gauls mentioned by Caesar in his 6th book de Bello
   Gallico, where he says of the Druids, who were their priests, that they
   did judge de omnibus fere controversiis publicis privatisque. See also
   Homer in the 1st book of his Iliad representing Chryses priest of
   Apollo, with his golden sceptre, as well as his golden censer. But why
   have I produced all these examples of the heathens? Is it to make these
   a ground of our imitation? No, but to shew that the giving honour to
   the priesthood was a custom universal amongst all civilized nations.
   And whatsoever is universal is also natural, as not being founded upon
   compact, or the particular humours of men, but flowing from the native
   results of reason: and that which is natural neither does nor can
   oppose religion. But you will say, this concerns not us, who have an
   express rule and word revealed. Christ was himself poor and despised,
   and withal has instituted such a ministry. To the first part of this
   plea I answer, that Christ came to suffer, yet the sufferings and
   miseries of Christ do not oblige all Christians to undertake the like.
   For the second, that the ministry of Christ was low and despised by his
   institution, I utterly deny. It was so, indeed, by the malice and
   persecution of the heathen princes; but what does this argue or infer
   for a low, dejected ministry in a flourishing state, which professes to
   encourage Christianity? But to dash this cavil, read but the practice
   of Christian emperors and kings all along, down from the time of
   Constantine, in what respect, what honour and splendor they treated the
   ministers; and then let our adversaries produce their puny, pitiful
   arguments for the contrary, against the general, clear, undoubted vogue
   and current of all antiquity. As for two or three little countries
   about us, the learned and impartial will not value their practice; in
   one of which places the minister has been seen, for mere want, to mend
   shoes on the Saturday, and been heard to preach on the Sunday. In the
   other place, stating the several orders of the citizens, they place
   their ministers after their apothecaries; that is, the physician of the
   soul after the drugster of the body: a fit practice for those, who, if
   they were to rank things as well as persons, would place their religion
   after their trade.

   And thus much concerning the first way of debasing the ministers and
   ministry.

   (2.) The second way is by admitting ignorant, sordid, illiterate
   persons to this function. This is to give the royal stamp to a piece of
   lead. I confess, God has no need of any man's parts or learning; but
   certainly then, he has much less need of his ignorance and ill
   behaviour. It is a sad thing, when all other employments shall empty
   themselves into the ministry: when men shall repair to it, not for
   preferment, but refuge; like malefactors flying to the altar, only to
   save their lives; or like those of Eli's race, (1 Sam. ii. 36.) that
   should come crouching, and seek to be put into the priest's office that
   they might eat a piece of bread. Heretofore there was required splendor
   of parentage to recommend any one to the priesthood, as Josephus
   witnesses in a treatise which he wrote of his own life; where he says,
   to have right to deal in things sacred, was, amongst them, accounted an
   argument of a noble and illustrious descent. God would not accept the
   offals of other professions. Doubtless many rejected Christ upon this
   thought, that he was the carpenter's son, who would have embraced him,
   had they known him to have been the son of David. The preferring
   undeserving persons to this great service was eminently Jeroboam's sin,
   and how Jeroboam's practice and offence has been continued amongst us
   in another guise, is not unknown: for has not learning unqualified men
   for approbation to the ministry? have not parts and abilities been
   reputed enemies to grace, and qualities no ways ministerial? while
   friends, faction, well-meaning, and little understanding have been
   accomplishments beyond study and the university; and to falsify a story
   of conversion, beyond pertinent answers and clear resolutions to the
   hardest and most concerning questions. So that matters have been
   brought to this pass, that if a man amongst his sons had any blind, or
   disfigured, he laid him aside for the ministry; and such an one was
   presently approved, as having a mortified countenance. In short, it was
   a fiery furnace, which often approved dross, and rejected gold. But
   thanks be to God, those spiritual wickednesses are now discharged from
   their high places. Hence it was, that many rushed into the ministry, as
   being the only calling that they could profess without serving an
   apprenticeship. Hence also we had those that could preach sermons, but
   not defend them. The reason of which is clear, because the works and
   writings of learned men might be borrowed, but not the abilities. Had
   indeed the old Levitical hierarchy still continued, in which it was
   part of the ministerial office to flay the sacrifices, to cleanse the
   vessels, to scour the flesh-forks, to sweep the temple, and carry the
   filth and rubbish to the brook Kidron, no persons living had been
   fitter for the ministry, and to serve in this nature at the altar. But
   since it is made a labour of the mind; as to inform men's judgments,
   and move their affections, to resolve difficult places of scripture, to
   decide and clear off controversies; I cannot see how to be a butcher,
   scavenger, or any other such trade, does at all qualify or prepare men
   for this work. But as unfit as they were, yet to clear a way for such
   into the ministry, we have had almost all sermons full of gibes and
   scoffs at human learning. Away with vain philosophy, with the disputer
   of this world, and the enticing words of man's wisdom, and set up the
   foolishness of preaching, the simplicity of the gospel: thus divinity
   has been brought in upon the ruins of humanity; by forcing the words of
   the scripture from the sense, and then haling them to the worst of
   drudgeries, to set a jus divinum upon ignorance and imperfection, and
   recommend natural weakness for supernatural grace. Hereupon the
   ignorant have took heart to venture upon this great calling, and
   instead of cutting their way to it, according to the usual course,
   through the knowledge of the tongues, the study of philosophy, school
   divinity, the fathers and councils, they have taken another and a
   shorter cut; and having read perhaps a treatise or two upon the Heart,
   the bruised Reed, the Crumbs of Comfort, Wollebius in English, and some
   other little authors, the usual furniture of old women's closets, they
   have set forth as accomplished divines, and forthwith they present
   themselves to the service; and there have not been wanting Jeroboams as
   willing to consecrate and receive them, as they to offer themselves.
   And this has been one of the most fatal and almost irrecoverable blows
   that has been given to the ministry.

   And this may suffice concerning the second way of embasing God's
   ministers; namely, by intrusting the ministry with raw, unlearned,
   ill-bred persons; so that what Solomon speaks of a proverb in the mouth
   of a fool, the same may be said of the minis try vested in them, that
   it is like a pearl in a swine's snout.

   2. I proceed now to the second thing proposed in the discussion of this
   doctrine, which is, to shew how the embasing of the ministers tends to
   the destruction of religion.

   This it does two ways.

   (1.) Because it brings them under exceeding scorn and contempt; and
   then, let none think religion itself secure: for the vulgar have not
   such logical heads, as to be able to abstract such subtile conceptions
   as to separate the man from the minister, or to consider the same
   person under a double capacity, and so honour him as a divine, while
   they despise him as poor. But suppose they could, yet actions cannot
   distinguish, as conceptions do; and therefore every act of contempt
   strikes at both, and unavoidably wounds the ministry through the sides
   of the minister. And we must know, that the least degree of contempt
   weakens religion, because it is absolutely contrary to the nature of
   it; religion properly consisting in a reverential esteem of things
   sacred. Now that which in any measure weakens religion, will at length
   destroy it: for the weakening of a thing is only a partial destruction
   of it. Poverty and meanness of condition expose the wisest to scorn, it
   being natural for men to place their esteem rather upon things great
   than good; and the poet observes, that this infelix paupertas has no
   thing in it more intolerable than this, that it renders men ridiculous.
   And then, how easy and natural it is for contempt to pass from the
   person to the office, from him that speaks, to the thing that he speaks
   of, experience proves: counsel being seldom valued so much for the
   truth of the thing, as the credit of him that gives it. Observe an
   excellent passage to this purpose in Eccles. ix. 14, 15. We have an
   account of a little city, with few men in it, besieged by a great and
   potent king, and in the 15th verse, we read, that there was found in it
   a poor wise man, and he by his wisdom delivered the city. A worthy
   service indeed, and certainly we may expect that some honourable
   recompence should follow it; a deliverer of his country, and that in
   such distress, could not but be advanced: but we find a contrary event
   in the next words of the same verse, yet none remembered that same poor
   man. Why, what should be the reason? Was he not a man of parts and
   wisdom? and is not wisdom honourable? Yes, but he was poor. But was he
   not also successful, as well as wise? True; but still he was poor: and
   once grant this, and you cannot keep off that unavoidable sequel in the
   next verse, the poor man's wisdom is despised, and his words are not
   heard. We may believe it upon Solomon's word, who was rich as well as
   wise, and therefore knew the force of both: and probably, had it not
   been for his riches, the queen of Sheba would never have come so far
   only to have heard his wisdom. Observe her behaviour when she came:
   though upon the hearing of Solomon's wisdom, and the resolution of her
   hard questions, she expressed a just admiration; yet when Solomon
   afterwards shewed her his palace, his treasures, and the temple which
   he had built, 1 Kings x. 5. it is said, there was no more spirit in
   her. What was the cause of this? Certainly, the magnificence, the pomp
   and splendor of such a structure: it struck her into an ecstasy beyond
   his wise answers. She esteemed this as much above his wisdom, as
   astonishment is beyond bare admiration: she admired his wisdom, but she
   adored his magnificence. So apt is the mind, even of wise persons, to
   be surprised with the superficies, or circumstance of things, and value
   or undervalue spirituals, according to the manner of their external
   appearance. When circumstances fail, the substance seldom long
   survives: clothes are no part of the body; yet take away clothes, and
   the body will die. Livy observes of Romulus, that being to give laws to
   his new Romans, he found no better way to procure an esteem and
   reverence to them, than by first procuring it to himself by splendor of
   habit and retinue, and other signs of royalty. And the wise Numa, his
   successor, took the same course to enforce his religious laws, namely,
   by giving the same pomp to the priest, who was to dispense them.
   Sacerdotem creavit, insignique eum veste, et curuli regia sella
   adornavit. That is, he adorned him with a rich robe, and a royal chair
   of state. And in our judicatures, take away the trumpet, the scarlet,
   the attendance, and the lordship, which would be to make justice naked
   as well as blind, and the law would lose much of its terror, and
   consequently of its authority. Let the minister be abject and low, his
   interest inconsiderable, the word will suffer for his sake: the message
   will still find reception according to the dignity of the messenger.
   Imagine an ambassador presenting himself in a poor frieze jerkin and
   tattered clothes, certainly he would have but small audience, his
   embassy would speed rather according to the weakness of him that
   brought, than the majesty of him that sent it. It will fare alike with
   the ambassadors of Christ, the people will give them audience according
   to their presence. A notable example of which we have in the behaviour
   of some to Paul himself, 1 Cor. x. 10. Hence in the Jewish church it
   was cautiously provided in the law, that none that was blind or lame,
   or had any remarkable defect in his body, was capable of the priestly
   office; because these things naturally make a person contemned, and
   this presently reflects upon the function. This therefore is the first
   way by which the low despised condition of the ministers tends to the
   destruction of the ministry and religion; namely, because it subjects
   their persons to scorn, and consequently their calling; and it is not
   imaginable that men will be brought to obey what they cannot esteem.

   (2.) The second way by which it tends to the ruin of the ministry is,
   because it discourages men of fit parts and abilities from undertaking
   it. And certain it is, that as the calling dignifies the man, so the
   man much more advances his calling: as a garment, though it warms the
   body, has a return with an advantage, being much more warmed by it. And
   how often a good cause may miscarry without a wise manager, and the
   faith for want of a defender, is, or at least may be known. It is not
   the truth of an assertion, but the skill of the disputant, that keeps
   off a baffle; not the justness of a cause, but the valour of the
   soldiers, that must win the field: when a learned Paul was converted,
   and undertook the ministry, it stopped the mouths of those that said,
   None but poor weak fishermen preached Christianity; and so his learning
   silenced the scandal, as well as strengthened the church. Religion,
   placed in a soul of exquisite knowledge and abilities, as in a castle,
   finds not only habitation, but defence. And what a learned foreign
   divine [18] said of the English preaching, may be said of all, Plus est
   in artifice quam in arte. So much of moment is there in the professors
   of any thing, to depress or raise the profession. What is it that kept
   the church of Rome strong, athletic, and flourishing for so many
   centuries, but the happy succession of the choicest wits engaged to her
   service by suitable preferments? And what strength, do we think, would
   that give to the true religion, that is able thus to establish a false?
   Religion in a great measure stands or falls according to the abilities
   of those that assert it. And if, as some observe, men's desires are
   usually as large as their abilities, what course have we took to allure
   the former, that we might engage the latter to our assistance? But we
   have took all ways to affright and discourage scholars from looking
   towards this sacred calling: for will men lay out their wit and
   judgment upon that employment, for the undertaking of which both will
   be questioned? Would men, not long since, have spent toilsome days and
   watchful nights, in the laborious quest of knowledge preparative to
   this work, at length to come and dance attendance for approbation, upon
   a junto of petty tyrants, acted by party and prejudice, who denied
   fitness from learning, and grace from morality? grill a man exhaust his
   livelihood upon books, and his health, the best part of his life, upon
   study, to be at length thrust into a poor village, where he shall have
   his due precariously, and entreat for his own; and when he has it, live
   poorly and contemptibly upon it, while the same or less labour,
   bestowed upon any other calling, would bring not only comfort but
   splendor, not only maintenance but abundance? It is, I confess, the
   duty of ministers to endure this condition; but neither religion nor
   reason does oblige either them to approve, or others to choose it.
   Doubtless, parents not throw away the towardness of a child, and the
   expense of education, upon a profession, the labour of which is
   increased, and the rewards of which are vanished to condemn promising,
   lively parts to contempt and penury in a despised calling, what is it
   else but the casting of a Moses into the mud, or offering a son upon
   the altar; and instead of a priest, to make him a sacrifice? Neither
   let any here reply, that it becomes not a ministerial spirit to
   undertake such a calling for reward; for they must know, that it is one
   thing to undertake it for a reward, and not to he willing to undertake
   it without one. It is one thing to perform good works only that we may
   receive the recompence of them in heaven, and another thing not to be
   willing to follow Christ and forsake the world, if there were no such
   recompence. But besides, suppose it were the duty of scholars to choose
   this calling in the midst of all its discouragements; yet a prudent
   governor, who knows it to be his wisdom as well as his duty, to take
   the best course to advance religion, will not consider men's duty, but
   their practice; not what they ought to do, but what they use to do: and
   therefore draw over the best qualified to his service, by such ways as
   are most apt to persuade and induce men. Solomon built his temple with
   the tallest cedars: and surely, when God refused the defective and the
   maimed for sacrifice, we cannot think that he requires them for the
   priesthood. When learning, abilities, and what is excellent in the
   world, forsake the church, we may easily foretell its ruin, without the
   gift of prophecy. And when ignorance succeeds in the place of learning,
   weakness in the room of judgment, we may be sure heresy and confusion
   will quickly come in the room of religion: for undoubtedly there is no
   way so effectual to betray the truth, as to procure it a weak defender.

   Well now, instead of raising any particular uses from the point that
   has been delivered, let us make a brief recapitulation of the whole.
   Government, we see, depends upon religion, and religion upon the
   encouragement of those that are to dispense and assert it. For the
   further evidence of which truths, we need not travel beyond our own
   borders; but leave it to every one impartially to judge, whether from
   the very first day that our religion was unsettled, and church
   government flung out of doors, the civil government has ever been able
   to fix upon a sure foundation. We have been changing even to a proverb.
   The indignation of heaven has been rolling and turning us from one form
   to another, till at length such a giddiness seized upon government,
   that it fell into the very dregs of sectaries, who threatened an equal
   ruin both to minister and magistrate; and how the state has sympathized
   with the church is apparent. For have not our princes as well as our
   priests been of the lowest of the people? Have not cobblers, draymen,
   mechanics, governed, as well as preached? Nay, have not they by
   preaching come to govern? Was ever that of Solomon more verified, that
   servants have rid, while princes and nobles have gone on foot? But God
   has been pleased by a miracle of mercy to dissipate this confusion and
   chaos, and to give us some openings, some dawnings of liberty and
   settlement. But now, let not those who are to rebuild our Jerusalem
   think that the temple must be built last: for if there be such a thing
   as a God, and religion, as whether men believe it or no, they will one
   day find and feel, assuredly he will stop our liberty, till we restore
   him his worship. Besides, it is a senseless thing in reason, to think
   that one of these interests can stand without the other, when in the
   very order of natural causes, government is preserved by religion. But
   to return to Jeroboam with whom we first began. He laid the foundation
   of his government in destroying, though doubtless he coloured it with
   the name of reforming God's worship; but see the issue. Consider him
   cursed by God, maintaining his usurped title by continual vexatious
   wars against the kings of Judah: smote in his posterity, which was made
   like the dung upon the face of the earth, as low and vile as those
   priests whom he had employed: consider him branded, and made odious to
   all after-ages: and now, when his kingdom and glory was at an end, and
   he and his posterity rotting under ground, and his name stinking above
   it, judge what a worthy prize he made in getting of a kingdom, by
   destroying the church. Wherefore the sum of all is this; to advise and
   desire those whom it may concern, to consider Jeroboam's punishment,
   and then they will have little heart to Jeroboam's sin.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [16] Cromwell (a lively copy of Jeroboam) did so.

   [17] See Serm. on Prov. xii. 22.

   [18] Caspar Streso.
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     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

  PREACHED AT LAMBETH CHAPEL

    ON THE 25th OF NOVEMBER, 1666.

    Upon the Consecration of the Right Reverend Father in God

  DR. JOHN DOLBEN,

  LORD BISHOP OF ROCHESTER.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

    TO THE RIGHT REVEREND FATHER IN GOD

JOHN, LORD BISHOP OF ROCHESTER,

    DEAN OF THE CATHEDRAL CHURCH OF WESTMINSTER, AND CLERK OF THE CLOSET TO HIS
    MAJESTY.

   My Lord,

   THOUGH the interposal of my Lord of Canterbury's command for the
   publication of this mean discourse, may seem so far to determine, as
   even to take away my choice; yet I must own it to the world, that it is
   solely and entirely my own inclination, seconded by my obligations to
   your Lord ship, that makes this, that was so lately an humble attendant
   upon your Lordship's consecration, now ambitious to consecrate itself
   with your Lordship's name. It was my honour to have lived in the same
   college with your Lordship, and now to belong to the same cathedral,
   where at present you credit the church as much by your government, as
   you did the school formerly by your wit. Your Lordship even then grew
   up into a constant superiority above others; and all your
   after-greatness seems but a paraphrase upon those promising beginnings:
   for whatsoever you are, or shall be, has been but an easy prognostic
   from what you were. It is your Lordship's unhappiness to be cast upon
   an age in which the church is in its wane; and if you do not those
   glorious things that our English prelates did two or three hundred
   years since, it is not because your Lordship is at all less than they,
   but because the times are worse. Witness those magnificent buildings in
   Christ Church in Oxford, be gun and carried on by your Lordship; when
   by your place you governed, and by your wisdom increased the treasure
   of that college: and, which must eternally set your fame above the
   reach of envy and detraction, these great structures you attempted at a
   time when you returned poor and bare, to a college as bare, after a
   long persecution, and before you had laid so much as one stone in the
   repairs of your own fortunes: by which incomparably high and generous
   undertaking, you have shewn the world how fit a person you were to
   build upon Wolsey's foundation: a prelate whose great designs you
   imitate, and whose mind you equal. Briefly, that Christ Church stands
   so high above ground, and that the church of Westminster lies not flat
   upon it, is your Lordship's commendation. And therefore your Lord ship
   is not behindhand with the church, paying it as much credit and
   support, as you receive from it; for you owe your promotion to your
   merit, and, I am sure, your merit to yourself. All men court you, not
   so much because a great person, as a public good. For, as a friend,
   there is none so hearty, so nobly warm and active to make good all the
   offices of that endearing relation; as a patron, none more able to
   oblige and reward your dependents, and, which is the crowning ornament
   of power, none more willing. And lastly, as a diocesan, you are like
   even to outdo yourself in all other capacities; and, in a word, to
   exemplify and realize every word of the following discourse: which is
   here most humbly and gratefully presented to your Lordship, by

   Your Lordship's

   most obliged servant,

   ROBERT SOUTH.

   From St. James's,
   Dec. 3, 1666.
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   Titus ii. 15.

   These things speak and exhort, and rebuke with all authority. Let no
   man despise thee.

   IT may possibly be expected, that the very taking of my text out of
   this epistle to Titus, may engage me in a discourse about the nature,
   original, and divine right of episcopacy; and if it should, it were no
   more than what some of the greatest and the learnedest persons in the
   world (when men served truth instead of design) had done before: for I
   must profess, that I cannot look upon Titus as so far unbishoped yet,
   but that he still exhibits to us all the essentials of that
   jurisdiction, which to this day is claimed for episcopal. We are told
   in the fifth verse of the first chapter, that he was left in Crete to
   set things in order, and to ordain elders in every city; which text one
   would think were sufficiently clear and full, and too big with evidence
   to be perverted: but when we have seen rebellion commented out of the
   thirteenth of the Romans; and since there are few things but admit of
   gloss and probability, and consequently may be expounded as well as
   disputed on both sides; it is no such wonder, that some would bear the
   world in hand, that the apostle's design and meaning is for presbytery,
   though his words are all the time for episcopacy: no wonder, I say, to
   us at least, who have conversed with too many strange unparalleled
   actions, occurrences, and events, now to wonder at any thing: wonder is
   from surprise; and surprise ceases upon experience.

   I am not so much a friend to the stale starched formality of preambles,
   as to detain so great an audience with any previous discourse
   extrinsick to the subject matter and design of the text; and therefore
   I shall fall directly upon the words, which run in the form of an
   exhortation, though in appearance a very strange one; for the matter of
   an exhortation should be something naturally in the power of him to
   whom the exhortation is directed. For no man exhorts another to be
   strong, beautiful, witty, or the like; these are the felicities of some
   conditions, the object of more wishes, but the effects of no man's
   choice. Nor seems there any greater reason for the apostle's exhorting
   Titus, that no man should despise him; for how could another man's
   action be his duty? Was it in his power that men should not be wicked
   and injurious; and if such persons would despise him, could any thing
   pass an obligation upon him not to be despised? No, this cannot be the
   meaning; and therefore it is clear that the exhortation lies not
   against the action itself, which is only in the despiser's power, but
   against the just occasion of it, which is in the will and power of him
   that is despised: it was not in Titus's power that men should not
   despise him, but it was in his power to bereave them of all just cause
   of doing so; it was not in his power not to be derided, but it was in
   his power not to be ridiculous.

   In all this epistle it is evident that St. Paul looks upon Titus as
   advanced to the dignity of a prime ruler of the church, and intrusted
   with a large diocese, containing many particular churches under the
   immediate government of their respective elders; and those deriving
   authority from his ordination, as was specified in the fifth verse of
   the first chapter. And now looking upon Titus under this qualification,
   he addresses a long advice and instruction to him, for the discharge of
   so important a function, all along the first and second chapters; but
   sums up all in the last verse, which is the subject of the ensuing
   discourse, and contains in it these two things.

   I. An account of the duties of his place or office.

   II. Of the means to facilitate and make effectual their execution.

   I. The duties of his place were two. 1. To teach. 2. To rule. Both
   comprised in these words; These things speak and exhort, and rebuke
   with all authority.

   And then the means, the only means to make him successful, bright, and
   victorious in the performance of these great works, was to be above
   contempt, to shine like the Baptist, with a clear and a triumphant
   light. In a word, it is every bishop's duty to teach and to govern; and
   his way to do it is not to be despised.

   We will discourse of each respectively in their order.

   1. And first, for the first branch of the great work incumbent upon a
   church ruler, which is to teach. A work that none is too great or too
   high for; it is a work of charity, and charity is the work of heaven,
   which is always laying itself out upon the needy and the impotent: nay,
   and it is a work of the highest and the noblest charity; for he that
   teacheth an other, gives an alms to his soul; he clothes the nakedness
   of his understanding, and relieves the wants of his impoverished
   reason: he indeed that governs well, leads the blind; but he that
   teaches, gives him eyes: and it is a glorious thing to have been the
   repairer of a decayed intellect, and a sub-worker to grace, in freeing
   it from some of the inconveniences of original sin. It is a benefaction
   that gives a man a kind of prerogative; for even in the common dialect
   of the world every teacher is called a master: it is the property of
   instruction to descend, and upon that very account, it supposes him
   that instructs, the superior, or at least makes him so.

   To say a man is advanced too high to condescend to teach the ignorant,
   is as much as to say, that the sun is in too high a place to shine upon
   what is be low it. The sun is said to rule the day, and the moon to
   rule the night: but do they not rule them only by enlightening them?
   Doctrine is that, that must prepare men for discipline; and men never
   go on so cheerfully, as when they see where they go.

   Nor is the dulness of the scholar to extinguish, but rather to inflame
   the charity of the teacher: for since it is not in men as in vessels,
   that the smallest capacity is the soonest filled; where the labour is
   doubled, the value of the work is enhanced; for it is a sowing where a
   man never expects to reap any thing but the comfort and conscience of
   having done virtuously. And yet we know moreover, that God sometimes
   converts even the dull and the slow, turning very stones into sons of
   Abraham; where besides that the difficulty of the conquest advances the
   trophy of the conqueror; it often falls out, that the backward learner
   makes amends another way, recompensing sure for sudden, expiating his
   want of docility with a deeper and a more rooted retention: which alone
   were argument sufficient to enforce the apostle's injunction of being
   instant in season and out of season, even upon the highest and most
   exalted ruler in the church. He that sits in Moses's chair, sits there
   to instruct, as well as to rule: and a general's office engages him to
   lead, as well as to command his army. In the first of Ecclesiastes,
   Solomon represents himself both as preacher and king of Israel: and
   every soul that a bishop gains is a new accession to the extent of his
   power; he preaches his jurisdiction wider, and enlarges his spiritual
   diocese, as he enlarges men's apprehensions.

   The teaching part indeed of a Romish bishop is easy enough, whose grand
   business is only to teach men to be ignorant, to instruct them how to
   know nothing, or, which is all one, to know upon trust, to believe
   implicitly, and in a word, to see with other men's eyes, till they come
   to be lost in their own souls. But our religion is a religion that
   dares to be understood; that offers itself to the search of the
   inquisitive, to the inspection of the severest and the most awakened
   reason: for being secure of her substantial truth and purity, she
   knows, that for her to be seen and looked into, is to be embraced and
   admired: as there needs no greater argument for men to love the light,
   than to see it. It needs no legends, no service in an unknown tongue,
   no inquisition against scripture, no purging out the heart and sense of
   authors, no altering or bribing the voice of antiquity to speak for it;
   it needs none of all these laborious artifices of ignorance; none of
   all these cloaks and coverings. The Romish faith indeed must be
   covered, or it cannot be kept warm, and their clergy deal with their
   religion as with a great crime; if it is discovered, they are undone.
   But there is no bishop of the church of England, but accounts it his
   interest, as well as his duty, to comply with this precept of the
   apostle Paul to Titus, These things teach and exhort.

   Now this teaching may be effected two ways:

   (1.) Immediately by himself.

   (2.) Mediately by others.

   And first, immediately by himself. Where God gives a talent, the
   episcopal robe can be no napkin to hide it in. Change of condition
   changes not the abilities of nature, but makes them more illustrious in
   their exercise; and the episcopal dignity added to a good preaching
   faculty, is like the erecting of a stately fountain upon a spring,
   which still, for all that, remains as much a spring as it was before,
   and flows as plentifully, only it flows with the circumstance of
   greater state and magnificence. Height of place is intended only to
   stamp the endowments of a private condition with lustre and authority:
   and, thanks be to God, neither the church's professed enemies, nor her
   pretended friends, have any cause to asperse her in this respect, as
   having over her such bishops as are able to silence the factious, no
   less by their preaching than by their authority.

   But then, on the other hand, let me add also, that this is not so
   absolutely necessary, as to be of the vital constitution of this
   function. He may teach his diocese, who ceases to be able to preach to
   it: for he may do it by appointing teachers, and by a vigilant exacting
   from them the care and the instruction of their respective flocks. He
   is the spiritual father of his diocese; and a father may see his
   children taught, though he himself does not turn schoolmaster. It is
   not the gift of every person nor of every age, to harangue the
   multitude, to voice it high and loud, et dominari in concionibus. And
   since experience fits for government, and age usually brings
   experience, perhaps the most governing years are the least preaching
   years.

   (2.) In the second place therefore, there is a teaching mediately, by
   the subordinate ministration of others; in which, since the action of
   the instrumental agent is, upon all grounds of reason, to be ascribed
   to the principal, he, who ordains and furnishes all his churches with
   able preachers, is an universal teacher; he instructs where he cannot
   be present; he speaks in every mouth of his diocese; and every
   congregation of it every Sunday feels his influence, though it hears
   not his voice. That master deprives not his family of their food, who
   orders a faithful steward to dispense it. Teaching is not a flow of
   words, nor the draining of an hour glass, but an effectual procuring,
   that a man comes to know something which he knew not before, or to know
   it better. And therefore eloquence and ability of speech is to a church
   governor, as Tully said it was to a philosopher; Si afferatur, non
   repudianda; si absit, non magnopere desideranda: and to find fault with
   such an one for not being a popular speaker, is to blame a painter for
   not being a good musician.

   To teach indeed must be confessed his duty, but then there is a
   teaching by example, by authority, by restraining seducers, and so
   removing the hinderances of knowledge. And a bishop does his church,
   his prince and country, more service by ruling other men's tongues,
   than he can by employing his own. And thus much for the first branch of
   the great work belonging to a pastor of the church, which was to teach
   and to exhort.

   2. The second is to rule, expressed in these words; rebuke with all
   authority. By which I doubt not but the apostle principally intends
   church censures; and so the words are a metonymy of the part for the
   whole, giving an instance in ecclesiastical censures, instead of all
   other ecclesiastical jurisdiction. A jurisdiction, which in the
   essentials of it is as old as Christianity, and even in those
   circumstantial additions of secular encouragement, with which the piety
   and wisdom of Christian princes always thought necessary to support it
   against the encroachments of the injurious world, much older and more
   venerable than any constitution that has divested the church of it.

   But to speak directly to the thing before us; we see here the great
   apostle employing the utmost of his authority in commanding Titus to
   use his: and what he said to him, he says to every Christian bi shop
   after him, rebuke with all authority. This authority is a spiritual
   sword put into the hands of every church ruler; and God put not this
   sword into his hands, with an intent that he should keep it there for
   no other purpose, but only for fashion sake, as men use to wear one by
   their sides. Government is an art above the attainment of an ordinary
   genius, and requires a wider, a larger, and a more comprehending soul
   than God has put into every body. The spirit which animates and acts
   the universe, is a spirit of government; and that ruler that is
   possessed of it, is the substitute and vicegerent of Providence,
   whether in church or state: every bishop is God's curate. Now the
   nature of government contains in it these three parts:

   (1.) An exaction of duty from the persons placed under it.

   (2.) A protection of them in the performance of their duty.

   (3.) Coercion and animadversion upon such as neglect it. All which are,
   in their proportion, ingredients of that government which we call
   ecclesiastical.

   (1.) And first, it implies exaction of duty from the persons placed
   under it: for it is both to be confessed and lamented, that men are not
   so ready to offer it, where it is not exacted: otherwise, what means
   the service of the church so imperfectly and by halves read over, and
   that by many who profess a conformity to the rules of the church? What
   makes them mince and mangle that in their practice, which they could
   swallow whole in their subscriptions? Why are the public prayers
   curtailed and left out, prayers composed with sobriety, and enjoined
   with authority, only to make the more room for a long, crude,
   impertinent, upstart harangue before the sermon?

   Such persons seem to conform (the signification of which word they
   never make good) only that they may despise the church's injunctions
   under the church's wing, and contemn authority within the protection of
   the laws. Duty is but another English word for debt; and God knows,
   that it is well if men pay their debts when they are called upon. But
   if governors do not remind men of, and call them to obedience, they
   will find, that it will never come as a free-will offering, no not from
   many who even serve at the altar.

   (2.) Government imports a protection and encouragement of the persons
   under it, in the discharge of their duty. It is not for a magistrate to
   frown upon, and browbeat those who are hearty and exact in the
   management of their ministry; and with a grave insignificant nod, to
   call a well regulated and resolved zeal, want of prudence and
   moderation. Such discouraging of men in the ways of an active
   conformity to the church's rules is that, which will crack the sinews
   of government; for it weakens the hands and damps the spirits of the
   obedient. And if only scorn and rebuke shall attend men for asserting
   the church's dignity, and taxing the murder of kings, and the like;
   many will choose rather to neglect their duty safely and creditably,
   than to get a broken pate in the church's service, only to be rewarded
   with that which shall break their hearts too.

   (3.) The third thing implied in government is coercion, and
   animadversion upon such as neglect their duty: without which coercive
   power all government is but toothless and precarious, and does not so
   much command as beg obedience. Nothing, I confess, is more becoming a
   Christian, of what degree soever, than meekness, candour, and
   condescension; but they are virtues that have their proper sphere and
   season to act and shew themselves in, and consequently not to interfere
   with others, different indeed in their nature, but altogether as
   necessary in their use. And when an insolent despiser of discipline,
   nurtured into impudence and contempt of all order by a long risk of
   licence and rebellion, shall appear before a church governor, severity
   and resolution are that governor's virtues, and justice itself is his
   mercy; for by making such an one an example, (as much as in him lies,)
   he will either cure him, or at least preserve others.

   Were indeed the consciences of men as they should be, the censures of
   the church might be a sufficient coercion upon them; but being, as most
   of them nowadays are, hell and damnation proof, her bare anathemas fall
   but like so many bruta fulmina upon the obstinate and schismatical; who
   are like to think themselves shrewdly hurt (forsooth) by being cut off
   from that body, which they choose not to be of; and so being punished
   into a quiet enjoyment of their beloved separation. Some will by no
   means allow the church any further power than only to exhort and to
   advise; and this but with a proviso too, that it extends not to such as
   think themselves too wise and too great to be advised; according to the
   hypothesis of which persons, the authority of the church, and the
   obliging force of all church sanctions, can bespeak men only thus;
   These and these things it is your duty to do, and if you will not do
   them, you may as well let them alone. A strict and efficacious
   constitution indeed, which invests the church with no power at all, but
   where men will be so very civil as to obey it, and so at the same time
   pay it a duty, and do it a courtesy too.

   But when in the judgment of some men the spiritual function, as such,
   must render a churchman, though otherwise never so discreet and
   qualified, yet merely because he is a churchman, unfit to be intrusted
   by his prince with a share of that power and jurisdiction, which in
   many circumstances his prince has judged but too necessary to secure
   the affairs and dignity of the church; and which, every thriving
   grazier can think himself but ill dealt with, if within his own country
   he is not mounted to: it is a sign, that such discontented persons
   intend not that religion shall advise them upon any other terms, than
   that they may ride and govern their religion.

   But surely, all our kings and our parliaments understood well enough
   what they did, when they thought fit to prop and fortify the spiritual
   order with some power that was temporal; and such is the present state
   of the world, in the judgment of any observing eye, that if the bishop
   has no other defensatives but excommunication, no other power but that
   of the keys, he may, for any notable effect that he is like to do upon
   the factious and contumacious, surrender up his pastoral staff, shut up
   the church, and put those keys under the door.

   And thus I have endeavoured to shew the three things included in the
   general nature of government; but to prescribe the manner of it in
   particular is neither in my power nor inclination: only, I suppose, the
   common theory and speculation of things is free and open to any one
   whom God has sent into the world with some ability to contemplate, and
   by continuing him in the world, gives him also opportunity. In all that
   has been said, I do not in the least pretend to advise, or chalk out
   rules to my superiors; for some men cannot be fools with so good
   acceptance as others. But whosoever is called to speak upon a certain
   occasion, may, I conceive, without offence, take any text suitable to
   that occasion, and having taken it, may, or at least ought, to speak
   suitably to that text.

   II. I proceed now to the second thing proposed from the words, which is
   the means assigned for the discharge of the duties mentioned, and
   exhibited under this one short prescription, Let no man despise thee:
   in the handling of which I shall shew,

   1. The ill effects and destructive influence that contempt has upon
   government.

   2. The groundless causes upon which church rulers are frequently
   despised.

   3. And lastly, the just causes that would render them, or indeed any
   other rulers, worthy to be despised. All which being clearly made out,
   and impartially laid before our eyes, it will be easy and obvious for
   every one, by avoiding the evil so marked out, to answer and come up to
   the apostle's exhortation. And,

   1. We will discourse of contempt, and the malign hostile influence it
   has upon government. As for the thing itself, every man's experience
   will inform him, that there is no action in the behaviour of one man
   towards another, of which human nature is more impatient than of
   contempt, it being a thing made up of these two ingredients, an
   undervaluing of a man upon a belief of his utter uselessness and
   inability, and a spiteful endeavour to engage the rest of the world in
   the same belief and slight esteem of him. So that the immediate design
   of contempt is the shame of the person contemned; and shame is a
   banishment of him from the good opinion of the world, which every man
   most earnestly desires, both upon a principle of nature and of
   interest. For it is natural to all men to affect a good name; and he
   that despises a man, libels him in his thoughts, reviles and traduces
   him in his judgment. And there is also interest in the case; for a
   desire to be well thought of, directly resolves itself into that owned
   and mighty principle of self-preservation: forasmuch as thoughts are
   the first wheels and motives of action, and there is no long passage
   from one to the other. He that thinks a man to the ground, will quickly
   endeavour to lay him there; for while he despises him, he arraigns and
   condemns him in his heart; and the after-bitterness and cruelties of
   his practices, are but the executioners of the sentence passed before
   upon him by his judgment. Contempt, like the planet Saturn, has first
   an ill aspect, and then a destroying influence.

   By all which, I suppose, it is sufficiently proved how noxious it must
   needs be to every governor: for, can a man respect the person whom he
   despises? and can there be obedience, where there is not so much as
   respect? Will the knee bend, while the heart insults? and the actions
   submit, while the apprehensions rebel? And therefore the most
   experienced disturbers and underminers of government have always laid
   their first train in contempt, endeavouring to blow it up in the
   judgment and esteem of the subject. And was not this method observed in
   the late most flourishing and successful rebellion? For, how studiously
   did they lay about them, both from the pulpit and the press, to cast a
   slur upon the king's person, and to bring his governing abilities under
   a disrepute? And then after they had sufficiently blasted him in his
   personal capacity, they found it easy work to dash and over throw him
   in his political.

   Reputation is power, and consequently to despise is to weaken. For
   where there is contempt, there can be no awe; and where there is no
   awe, there will be no subjection; and if there is no subjection, it is
   impossible, without the help of the former distinction of a politic
   capacity, to imagine how a prince can be a governor. He that makes his
   prince despised and undervalued, blows a trumpet against him in men's
   breasts, beats him out of his subjects hearts, and fights him out of
   their affections; and after this, he may easily strip him of his other
   garrisons, having already dispossessed him of his strong est, by
   dismantling him of his honour, and seizing his reputation.

   Nor is what has been said of princes less true of all other governors,
   from highest to lowest, from him that heads an army, to him that is
   master of a family, or of one single servant; the formal reason of a
   thing equally extending itself to every particular of the same kind. It
   is a proposition of eternal verity, that none can govern while he is
   despised. We may as well imagine that there may be a king without
   majesty, a supreme without sovereignty. It is a paradox, and a direct
   contradiction in practice; for where contempt takes place, the very
   causes and capacities of government cease.

   Men are so far from being governed by a despised person, that they will
   not so much as be taught by him. Truth itself shall lose its credit, if
   delivered by a person that has none. As on the contrary, be but a
   person in vogue and credit with the multitude, he shall be able to
   commend and set off whatsoever he says, to authorize any nonsense, and
   to make popular, rambling, incoherent stuff (seasoned with twang and
   tautology) pass for high rhetoric and moving preaching; such indeed as
   a zealous tradesman would even live and die under. And now, I suppose,
   it is no ill topic of argumentation, to shew the prevalence of
   contempt, by the contrary influences of respect; which thus (as it
   were) dubs every little, petit, admired person, lord and commander of
   all his admirers. And certain it is, that the ecclesiastical, as well
   as the civil governor, has cause to pursue the same methods of securing
   and confirming himself; the grounds and means of government being
   founded upon the same bottom of nature in both, though the
   circumstances and relative considerations of the persons may differ.
   And I have nothing to say more upon this head, but that if churchmen
   are called upon to discharge the parts of governors, they may with the
   highest reason expect those supports and helps that are indispensably
   requisite thereunto; and that those men are but trepanned, who are
   called to govern, being invested with authority, but bereaved of power;
   which, according to a true and plain estimate of things, is nothing
   else but to mock and betray them into a splendid and magisterial way of
   being ridiculous. And thus much for the ill effects and destructive
   influence that contempt has upon government.

   2. I pass now to the second thing, which is to shew the groundless
   causes, upon which church rulers are frequently despised.

   Concerning which, I shall premise this; that no thing can be a
   reasonable ground of despising a man, but some fault or other
   chargeable upon him; and nothing can be a fault that is not naturally
   in a man's power to prevent; otherwise, it is a man's unhappiness, his
   mischance, or calamity, but not his fault. Nothing can justly be
   despised, that cannot justly be blamed: and it is a most certain rule
   in reason and moral philosophy, that where there is no choice, there
   can be no blame.

   This premised, we may take notice of two usual grounds of the contempt
   men cast upon the clergy, and yet for which no man ought to think
   himself at all the more worthy to be contemned.

   (1.) The first is their very profession itself; concerning which it is
   a sad, but an experimented truth, that the names derived from it, in
   the refined language of the present age, are made but the appellatives
   of scorn. This is not charged universally upon all, but experience will
   affirm, or rather proclaim it of much the greater part of the world;
   and men must persuade us that we have lost our hearing and our common
   sense, before we can believe the contrary. But surely, the bottom and
   foundation of this behaviour towards persons set apart for the service
   of God, that this very relation should entitle them to such a peculiar
   scorn, can be nothing else but atheism, the growing rampant sin of the
   times.

   For call a man oppressor, griping, covetous, or over-reaching person,
   and the word indeed, being ill befriended by custom, perhaps sounds not
   well, but generally, in the apprehension of the hearer, it signifies no
   more, than that such an one is a wise and a thriving, or, in the common
   phrase, a notable man; which will certainly procure him a respect: and
   say of another, that he is an epicure, a loose, or a vicious man; and
   it leaves in men no other opinion of him, than that he is a merry,
   pleasant, and a genteel person: and that he that taxes him, is but a
   pedant, an unexperienced and a morose fellow; one that does not know
   men, nor understand what it is to eat and drink well: but call a man
   priest or parson, and you set him, in some men's esteem, ten degrees
   below his own servant.

   But let us not be discouraged or displeased, either with ourselves or
   our profession, upon this account. Let the virtuosos mock, insult, and
   despise on: yet after all, they shall never be able to droll away the
   nature of things; to trample a pearl into a pebble, nor to make sacred
   things contemptible, any more than themselves, by such speeches,
   honourable.

   (2.) Another groundless cause of some men's despising the governors of
   our church, is their loss of that former grandeur and privilege that
   they enjoyed. But it is no real disgrace to the church merely to lose
   her privileges, but to forfeit them by her fault or misdemeanor, of
   which she is not conscious. Whatsoever she enjoyed in this kind, she
   readily acknowledges to have streamed from the royal munificence, and
   the favours of the civil power shining upon the spiritual; which
   favours the same power may retract and gather back into itself, when it
   pleases. And we envy not the greatness and lustre of the Romish clergy;
   neither their scarlet gowns nor their scarlet sins. If our church
   cannot be great; which is better, she can be humble, and content to be
   reformed into as low a condition as men for their own private advantage
   would have her; who wisely tell her, that it is best and safest for her
   to be without any power or temporal advantage; like the good physician,
   who out of tenderness to his patient, lest he should hurt himself by
   drinking, was so kind as to rob him of his silver cup. The church of
   England glories in nothing more, than that she is the truest friend to
   kings and to kingly government, of any other church in the world; that
   they were the same hands and principles that took the crown from the
   king's head, and the mitre from the bishops. It is indeed the happiness
   of some professions and callings, that they can equally square
   themselves to, and thrive under all revolutions of government: but the
   clergy of England neither know nor affect that happiness, and are
   willing to be despised for not doing so. And so far is our church from
   encroaching upon the civil power, as some, who are back-friends to
   both, would maliciously insinuate, that, were it stripped of the very
   remainder of its privileges, and made as like the primitive church for
   its bareness, as it is al ready for its purity, it could cheerfully,
   and, what is more, loyally, want all such privileges; and in the want
   of them pray heartily that the civil power may flourish as much, and
   stand as secure from the assaults of fanatic, antimonarchical
   principles, (grown to such a dreadful height during the church's late
   confusions,) as it stood while the church enjoyed those privileges. And
   thus much for the two groundless causes, upon which church-rulers are
   frequently despised. I descend now to the

   3. And last thing, which is to shew those just causes, that would
   render them, or indeed any other rulers, worthy to be despised. Many
   might be as signed, but I shall pitch only upon four; in discoursing of
   which, rather the time than the subject will force me to be very brief.

   (1.) And the first is ignorance. We know how great an absurdity our
   Saviour accounted it, for the blind to lead the blind; and to put him
   that cannot much as see, to discharge the office of a watch. Nothing
   more exposes to contempt than ignorance. When Sampson's eyes were out,
   of a public magistrate he was made a public sport. And when Eli was
   blind, we know how well he governed his sons, and how well they
   governed the church under him. But now the blindness of the
   understanding is greater and more scandalous; especially in such a
   seeing age as ours; in which the very knowledge of former times passes
   but for ignorance in a better dress: an age that flies at all learning,
   and inquires into every thing, but especially into faults and defects.
   Ignorance indeed, so far as it may be resolved into natural inability,
   is, as to men, at least, inculpable; and consequently, not the object
   of scorn, but pity; but in a governor, it cannot be without the
   conjunction of the highest impudence: for who bid such an one aspire to
   teach and to govern? A blind man sitting in the chimney corner is
   pardonable enough, but sitting at the helm he is intolerable. If men
   will be ignorant and illiterate, let them be so in private, and to
   themselves, and not set their defects in an high place, to make them
   visible and conspicuous. If owls will not be hooted at, let them keep
   close within the tree, and not perch upon the upper boughs.

   (2.) A second thing, that makes a governor justly despised, is
   viciousness and ill morals. Virtue is that which must tip the
   preacher's tongue and the ruler's sceptre with authority. And therefore
   with what a controlling overpowering force did our Saviour tax the sins
   of the Jews, when he ushered in his rebukes of them with that high
   assertion of himself, Who is there amongst you, that convinces me of
   sin? Otherwise we may easily guess with what impatience the world would
   have heard an incestuous Herod discoursing of chastity, a Judas
   condemning covetousness, or a Pharisee preaching against hypocrisy:
   every word must have recoiled upon the speaker. Guilt is that which
   quells the courage of the bold, ties the tongue of the eloquent, and
   makes greatness itself sneak and lurk, and behave itself poorly. For,
   let a vicious person be in never so high command, yet still he will be
   looked upon but as one great vice, empowered to correct and chastise
   others. A corrupt governor is nothing else but a reigning sin: and a
   sin in office may command any thing but respect. No man can be credited
   by his place or power, who by his virtue does not first credit that.

   3. A third thing that makes a governor justly despised, is fearfulness
   of, and mean compliances with bold, popular offenders. Some indeed
   account it the very spirit of policy and prudence, where men refuse to
   come up to a law, to make the law come down to them. And for their so
   doing, have this infallible recompence, that they are not at all the
   more loved, but much the less feared; and, which is a sure consequent
   of it, accordingly respected. But believe it, it is a resolute,
   tenacious adherence to well chosen principles, that adds glory to
   greatness, and makes the face of a governor shine in the eyes of those
   that see and examine his actions. Disobedience, if complied with, is
   infinitely encroaching, and having gained one degree of liberty upon
   indulgence, will demand another upon claim. Every vice interprets a
   connivance and approbation.

   Which being so, is it not an enormous indecency, as well as a gross
   impiety, that any one who owns the name of a divine, hearing a great
   sinner brave it against Heaven, talk atheistically, and scoff profanely
   at that religion, by which he owns an expectation to be saved, if he
   cares to be saved at all, should, instead of vindicating the truth to
   the blasphemer's teeth, think it discretion and moderation (forsooth)
   with a complying silence, and perhaps a smile to boot, tacitly to
   approve, and strike in with the scoffer, and so go sharer both in the
   mirth and guilt of his profane jests?

   But let such an one be assured, that even that blasphemer himself would
   inwardly reverence him, if rebuked by him; as, on the contrary, he in
   his heart really despises him for his cowardly, base silence. If any
   one should reply here, that the times and manners of men will not bear
   such a practice, I confess that it is an answer, from the mouth of a
   professed time-server, very rational: but as for that man that is not
   so, let him satisfy himself of the reason, justice, and duty of an
   action, and leave the event of it to God, who will never fail those who
   do not think themselves too wise to trust him. For, let the worst come
   to the worst, a man in so doing would be ruined more honourably than
   otherwise preferred.

   4. And lastly. A fourth thing that makes a governor justly despised, is
   a proneness to despise others. There is a kind of respect due to the
   mean est person, even from the greatest; for it is the mere favour of
   Providence, that he, who is actually the greatest, was not the meanest.
   A man cannot cast his respects so low, but they will rebound and return
   upon him. What Heaven bestows upon the earth in kind influences and
   benign aspects, is paid it back again in sacrifice, incense, and
   adoration. And surely, a great person gets more by obliging his
   inferior, than he can by disdaining him; as a man has a greater
   advantage by sowing and dressing his ground, than he can have by
   trampling upon it. It is not to insult and domineer, to look
   disdainfully, and revile imperiously, that procures an esteem from any
   one; it will indeed make men keep their distance sufficiently, but it
   will be distance without reverence.

   And thus I have shewn four several causes that may justly render any
   ruler despised; and by the same work, I hope, have made it evident, how
   little cause men have to despise the rulers of our church.

   God is the fountain of honour; and the conduit by which he conveys it
   to the sons of men, are virtuous and generous practices. But as for us,
   who have more immediately and nearly devoted, both our persons and
   concerns to his service, it were infinitely vain to expect it upon any
   other terms. Some in deed may please and promise themselves high
   matters, from full revenues, stately palaces, court-interests, and
   great dependences: but that which makes the clergy glorious, is to be
   knowing in their profession, unspotted in their lives, active and
   laborious in their charges, bold and resolute in opposing seducers, and
   daring to look vice in the face, though never so potent and
   illustrious; and lastly, to be gentle, courteous, and compassionate to
   all.

   These are our robes and our maces, our escutcheons, and highest titles
   of honour: for by all these things God is honoured, who has declared
   this the eternal rule and standard of all honour derivable upon men,
   that those who honour him, shall be honoured by him.

   To which God, fearful in praises, and working wonders, be rendered and
   ascribed as is most due, all praise, might, majesty, and dominion, both
   now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

    UPON

  JOHN VII. 17.

   If any man will do his wilt, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it
   be of God, or whether I speak of myself.

   WHEN God was pleased to new-model the world by the introduction of a
   new religion, and that in the room of one set up by himself, it was
   requisite that he should recommend it to the reasons of men with the
   same authority and evidence that enforced the former; and that a
   religion established by God himself should not be displaced by any
   thing under a demonstration of that divine power that first introduced
   it. And the whole Jewish economy, we know, was brought in with
   miracles; the law was writ and confirmed by the same almighty hand: the
   whole universe was subservient to its promulgation: the signs of Egypt
   and the Red sea; fire and a voice from heaven; the heights of the one,
   and the depths of the other; so that (as it were) from the top to the
   bottom of nature, there issued forth one universal united testimony of
   the divinity of the Mosaic law and religion. And this stood in the
   world for the space of two thousand years; till at length, in the
   fulness of time, the reason of men ripening to such a pitch, as to be
   above the pedagogy of Moses's rod, and the discipline of types, God
   thought fit to display the substance without the shadow, and to read
   the world a lecture of an higher and more sublime religion in
   Christianity. But the Jewish was yet in possession, and therefore that
   this might so enter, as not to intrude, it was to bring its warrant
   from the same hand of omnipotence. And for this cause, Christ, that he
   might not make either a suspected or precarious address to men's
   understandings, outdoes Moses, before he displaces him; shews an
   ascendant spirit above him, raises the dead, and cures more plagues
   than he brought upon Egypt, casts out devils, and heals the deaf,
   speaking such words, as even gave ears to hear them; cures the blind
   and the lame, and makes the very dumb to speak for the truth of his
   doctrine. But what was the result of all this? Why, some look upon him
   as an impostor and a conjurer, as an agent for Beelzebub, and therefore
   reject his gospel, hold fast their law, and will not let Moses give
   place to the magician.

   Now the cause that Christ's doctrine was rejected, must of necessity be
   one of these two. 1. An insufficiency in the arguments brought by
   Christ to enforce it. Or, 2. An indisposition in the persons, to whom
   this doctrine was addressed, to receive it.

   And for this, Christ, who had not only an infinite power to work
   miracles, but also an equal wisdom both to know the just force and
   measure of every argument or motive to persuade or cause assent; and
   withal, to look through and through all the dark corners of the soul of
   man, all the windings and turnings, and various workings of his
   faculties; and to discern how and by what means they are to be wrought
   upon; and what prevails upon them, and what does not: he, I say, states
   the whole matter upon this issue; that the arguments by which his
   doctrine addressed itself to the minds of men, were proper, adequate,
   and sufficient to compass their respective ends in persuading or
   convincing the persons to whom they were proposed: and more over, that
   there was no such defect in the natural light of man's understanding,
   or knowing faculty; but that, considered in itself, it would be apt
   enough to close with, and yield its assent to, the evidence of those
   arguments duly offered to, and laid before it. And yet, that after all
   this, the event proved other wise; and that, notwithstanding both the
   weight and fitness of the arguments to persuade, and the light of man's
   intellect to meet this persuasive evidence with a suitable assent, no
   assent followed, nor were men thereby actually persuaded; he charges it
   wholly upon the corruption, the perverseness, and vitiosity of man's
   will, as the only cause that rendered all the arguments, his doctrine
   came clothed with, unsuccessful. And consequently, he affirms here in
   the text, that men must love the truth before they throughly believe
   it; and that the gospel has then only a free admission into the assent
   of the understanding, when it brings a passport from a rightly disposed
   will, as being the great faculty of dominion, that commands all, that
   shuts out and lets in what objects it pleases, and, in a word, keeps
   the keys of the whole soul.

   This is the design and purport of the words, which I shall draw forth
   and handle in the prosecution of these four following heads.

   I. I shall shew, what the doctrine of Christ was, that the world so
   much stuck at, and was so averse from believing.

   II. I shall shew, that men's unbelief of it was from no defect or
   insufficiency in the arguments brought by Christ to enforce it.

   III. I shall shew, what was the true and proper cause, into which this
   unbelief was resolved.

   IV. And lastly, I shall shew, that a pious and well disposed mind,
   attended with a readiness to obey the known will of God, is the surest
   and best means to enlighten the understanding to a belief of
   Christianity.

   Of these in their order: and,

   First for the doctrine of Christ. We must take it in the known and
   common division of it, into matters of belief, and matters of practice.

   The matters of belief related chiefly to his person and offices. As,
   That he was the Messias that should come into the world: the eternal
   son of God, begotten of him before all worlds: that in time he was made
   man, and born of a pure virgin: that he should die and satisfy for the
   sins of the world; and that he should rise again from the dead, and
   ascend into heaven; and there sitting at the right hand of God, hold
   the government of the whole world, till the great and last day; in
   which he should judge both the quick and the dead, raised to life again
   with the very same bodies; and then deliver up all rule and government
   into the hands of his Father. These were the great articles and
   credenda of Christianity, that so much startled the world, and seemed
   to be such, as not only brought in a new religion amongst men, but also
   required new reason to embrace it.

   The other part of his doctrine lay in matters of practice; which we
   find contained in his several sermons, but principally in that
   glorious, full, and admirable discourse upon the mount, recorded in the
   5th, 6th, and 7th chapters of St. Matthew. All which particulars, if we
   would reduce to one general comprehensive head, they are all wrapt up
   in the doctrine of self-denial, [19] prescribing to the world the most
   inward purity of heart, and a constant conflict with all our sensual
   appetites and worldly interests, even to the quitting of all that is
   dear to us, and the sacrificing of life itself, rather than knowingly
   to omit the least duty, or commit the least sin. And this was that
   which grated harder upon, and raised greater tumults and boilings in
   the hearts of men, than the strangeness and seeming unreasonableness of
   all the former articles, that took up chiefly in speculation and
   belief.

   And that this was so, will appear from a consideration of the state and
   condition the world was in, as to religion, when Christ promulged his
   doctrine. Nothing further than the outward action was then looked
   after, and when that failed, there was an expiation ready in the opus
   operatum of a sacrifice. So that all their virtue and religion lay in
   their folds and their stalls, and what was wanting in the innocence,
   the blood of lambs was to supply. The Scribes and Pharisees, who were
   the great doctors of the Jewish church, expounded the law no further.
   They accounted no man a murderer, but he that struck a knife into his
   brother's heart: no man an adulterer, but he that actually defiled his
   neighbour's bed. They thought it no injustice nor irreligion to
   prosecute the severest retaliation or revenge; so that at the same time
   their outward man might be a saint, and their inward man a devil. No
   care at all was had to curb the unruliness of anger, or the exorbitance
   of desire. Amongst all their sacrifices, they never sacrificed so much
   as one lust. Bulls and goats bled apace, but neither the violence of
   the one, nor the wantonness of the other, ever died a victim at any of
   their altars. So that no wonder, that a doctrine that arraigned the
   irregularities of the most inward motions and affections of the soul,
   and told men, that anger and harsh words were murder, and looks and
   desires, adultery; that a man might stab with his tongue, and
   assassinate with his mind, pollute himself with a glance, and forfeit
   eternity by a cast of his eye: no wonder, I say, that such a doctrine
   made a strange bustle and disturbance in the world, which then sat warm
   and easy in a free enjoyment of their lusts; ordering matters so, that
   they put a trick upon the great rule of virtue, the law, and made a
   shift to think themselves guiltless, in spite of all their sins; to
   break the precept, and at the same time to baffle the curse. Contriving
   to themselves such a sort of holiness, as should please God and
   themselves too; justify and save them harmless, but never sanctify nor
   make them better.

   But the severe notions of Christianity turned all this upside down,
   filling all with surprise and amazement: they came upon the world, like
   light darting full upon the face of a man asleep, who had a mind to
   sleep on, and not to be disturbed: they were terrible astonishing
   alarms to persons grown fat and wealthy by a long and successful
   imposture; by suppressing the true sense of the law, by putting another
   veil upon Moses; and, in a word, persuading the world, that men might
   be honest and religious, happy and blessed, though they never denied
   nor mortified one of their corrupt appetites.

   And thus much for the first thing proposed; which was to give you a
   brief draught of the doc trine of Christ, that met with so little
   assent from the world in general, and from the Jews in particular. I
   come now to the

   Second thing proposed: which was to shew, That men's unbelief of
   Christ's doctrine was from no defect or insufficiency in the arguments
   brought by Christ to enforce it. This I shall make appear two ways.

   1. By shewing, that the arguments spoken of were in themselves
   convincing and sufficient.

   2. By shewing, that upon supposition they were not so, yet their
   insufficiency was not the cause of their rejection.

   And first for the first of these: That the arguments brought by Christ
   for the confirmation of his doctrine were in themselves convincing and
   sufficient. I shall insist only upon the convincing power of the two
   principal. One from the prophecies recorded concerning him; the other
   from the miracles done by him. Of both very briefly. And for the
   former. There was a full entire harmony and consent of all the divine
   predictions receiving their completion in Christ. The strength of which
   argument lies in this, that it evinces the divine mission of Christ's
   person, and thereby proves him to be the Messias; which by consequence
   proves and asserts the truth of his doctrine. For he that was so sent
   by God, could declare nothing but the will of God. And so evidently do
   all the prophecies agree to Christ, that I dare with great confidence
   affirm, that if the prophecies recorded of the Messiah are not
   fulfilled in Jesus of Nazareth, it is impossible to know or distinguish
   when a prophecy is fulfilled, and when not, in any thing or person
   whatsoever; which would utterly evacuate the use of them. But in Christ
   they all meet with such an invincible lustre and evidence, as if they
   were not predictions, but after-relations; and the penmen of them not
   prophets, but evangelists. And now, can any kind of ratiocination allow
   Christ all the marks of the Messiah, and yet deny him to be the
   Messiah? Could he have all the signs, and yet not be the thing
   signified? Could the shadows that followed him, and were cast from him,
   belong to any other body? All these things are absurd and unnatural;
   and therefore the force of this argument was undeniable.

   Nor was that other from the miracles done by him at all inferior. The
   strength and force of which, to prove the things they are alleged for,
   consists in this, that a miracle being a work exceeding the power of
   any created agent, and consequently being an effect of the divine
   omnipotence, when it is done to give credit and authority to any word
   or doctrine declared to proceed from God, either that doctrine must
   really proceed from God, as it is declared; or God by that work of his
   almighty power must bear witness to a falsehood; and so bring the
   creature under the greatest obligation, that can possibly engage the
   assent of a rational nature, to believe and assent to a lie. For surely
   a greater reason than this cannot be produced for the belief of any
   thing, than for a man to stand up and say, This and this I tell you as
   the mind and word of God; and to prove that it is so, I will do that
   before your eyes, that you yourselves shall confess can be done by
   nothing, but the almighty power of that God that can neither deceive
   nor be deceived. Now if this be an irrefragable way to convince, as the
   reason of all man kind must confess it to be, then Christ's doctrine
   came attended and enforced with the greatest means of conviction
   imaginable. Thus much for the argument in thesi; and then for the
   assumption that Christ did such miraculous and supernatural works to
   confirm what he said, we need only repeat the message sent by him to
   John the Baptist; that the dumb spake, the blind saw, the lame walked,
   and the dead were raised. Which particulars none of his bitterest
   enemies ever pretended to deny, they being conveyed to them by an
   evidence past all exception, even the evidence of sense; nay of the
   quickest, the surest, and most authentic of all the senses, the sight:
   which if it be not certain in the reports and representations it makes
   of things to the mind, there neither is, nor can be naturally, any such
   thing as certainty or knowledge in the world. And thus much for the
   first part of the second general thing proposed; namely, That the
   arguments brought by Christ for the proof of his doctrine, were in
   themselves convincing and sufficient.

   I come now to the other part of it, which is to shew, That admitting or
   supposing that they were not sufficient, yet their insufficiency was
   not the cause of their actual rejection. Which will appear from these
   following reasons.

   (1.) Because those who rejected Christ's doctrine, and the arguments by
   which he confirmed it, fully believed and assented to other things
   conveyed to them with less evidence. Such as were even the miracles of
   Moses himself, upon the credit and authority of which stood the whole
   economy of the Jewish constitution. For though I grant that they
   believed his miracles upon the credit of constant unerring tradition,
   both written and unwritten, and grant also that such tradition was of
   as great certainty as the reports of sense; yet still I affirm, that it
   was not of the same evidence, which yet is the greatest and most
   immediate ground of all assent.

   The evidence of sense (as I have noted) is the clearest that naturally
   the mind of man can receive, and is indeed the foundation both of all
   the evidence and certainty too, that tradition is capable of; which
   pretends to no other credibility from the testimony and word of some
   men, but because their word is at length traced up to, and originally
   terminates in, the sense and experience of some others, which could not
   be known beyond that compass of time in which it was exercised, but by
   being told and reported to such, as, not living at that time, saw it
   not, and by them to others, and so down from one age to another. For we
   therefore believe the report of some men concerning a thing, because it
   implies that there were some others who actually saw that thing. It is
   clear therefore, that want of evidence could not be the cause that the
   Jews rejected and disbelieved the gospel, since they embraced and
   believed the law, upon the credit of those miracles that were less
   evident. For those of Christ they knew by sight and sense, those of
   Moses only by tradition; which, though equally certain, yet were by no
   means equally evident with the other.

   (2.) They believed and assented to things that were neither evident nor
   certain, but only probable; for they conversed, they traded, they
   merchandized, and, by so doing, frequently ventured their whole estates
   and fortunes upon a probable belief or persuasion of the honesty and
   truth of those whom they dealt and corresponded with. And interest,
   especially in worldly matters, and yet more especially with a Jew,
   never proceeds but upon supposal, at least, of a firm and sufficient
   bottom: from whence it is manifest, that since they could believe and
   practically rely upon, and that even in their dearest concerns, bare
   probabilities; they could not with any colour of reason pretend want of
   evidence for their disbelief of Christ's doctrine, which came enforced
   with arguments far surpassing all such probabilities.

   (3.) They believed and assented to things neither evident nor certain,
   nor yet so much as probable, but actually false and fallacious. Such as
   were the absurd doctrines and stories of their rabbins: which, though
   since Christ's time they have grown much more numerous and fabulous
   than before, yet even then did so much pester the church, and so
   grossly abuse and delude the minds of that people, that contradictions
   themselves asserted by rabbies were equally received and revered by
   them as the sacred and infallible word of God. And whereas they
   rejected Christ and his doctrine, though every tittle of it came
   enforced with miracle, and the best arguments that heaven and earth
   could back it with; yet Christ then foretold, and after-times confirmed
   that prediction of his in John v. 43. that they should receive many
   cheats and deceivers coming to them in their own name: fellows that set
   up for Messias's, only upon their own heads, without pretending to any
   thing singular or miraculous, but impudence and imposture.

   From all which it follows, that the Jews could not allege so much as a
   pretence of the want of evidence in the argument brought by Christ to
   prove the divinity and authority of his doctrine, as a reason of their
   rejection and disbelief of it; since they embraced and believed many
   things, for some of which they had no evidence, and for others of which
   they had no certainty, and for most of which they had not so much as
   probability. Which being so, from whence then could such an obstinate
   infidelity, in matters of so great clearness and credibility, take its
   rise? Why, this will be made out to us in the

   Third thing proposed, which was to shew, What was the true and proper
   cause into which this unbelief of the Pharisees was resolved. And that
   was, in a word, the captivity of their wills and affections to lusts
   directly opposite to the design and spirit of Christianity. They were
   extremely ambitious and insatiably covetous, and therefore no
   impression from argument or miracle could reach them; but they stood
   proof against all conviction. Now, to shew how the pravity of the will
   could influence the understanding to a disbelief of Christianity, I
   shall premise these two considerations.

   1. That the understanding in its assent to any religion, is very
   differently wrought upon in persons bred up in it, and in persons at
   length converted to it. For in the first, it finds the mind naked and
   unprepossessed with any former notions, and so easily and insensibly
   gains upon the assent, grows up with it, and incorporates into it. But
   in persons adult, and already possessed with other notions of religion,
   the understanding cannot be brought to quit these, and to change them
   for new, but by great consideration and examination of the truth and
   firmness of the one, and comparing them with the flaws and weakness of
   the other. Which cannot be done without some labour and intention of
   the mind, and the thoughts dwelling a considerable time upon the survey
   and discussion of each particular.

   2. The other thing to be considered is, that in this great work, the
   understanding is chiefly at the disposal of the will. For though it is
   not in the power of the will, directly either to cause or hinder the
   assent of the understanding to a thing proposed and duly set before it;
   yet it is antecedently in the power of the will, to apply the
   understanding faculty to, or to take it off from the consideration of
   those objects, to which, without such a previous consideration, it
   cannot yield its assent. For all assent presupposes a simple
   apprehension or knowledge of the terms of the proposition to be
   assented to. But unless the understanding employ and exercise its
   cognitive or apprehensive power about these terms, there can be no
   actual apprehension of them. And the understanding, as to the exercise
   of this power, is subject to the command of the will, though as to the
   specific nature of its acts, it is determined by the object. As for
   instance; my understanding cannot assent to this proposition, That
   Jesus Christ is the Son of God; but it must first consider, and so
   apprehend, what the terms and parts of it are, and what they signify.
   And this cannot be done, if my will be so slothful, worldly, or
   voluptuously disposed, as never to suffer me at all to think of them;
   but perpetually to carry away and apply my mind to other things. Thus
   far is the understanding at the disposal of the will.

   Now these two considerations being premised, namely, that persons grown
   up in the belief of any religion cannot change that for another,
   without applying their understanding duly to consider and compare both;
   and then, that it is in the power of the will, whether it will suffer
   the understanding thus to dwell upon such objects or no: from these
   two, I say, we have the true philosophy and reason of the Pharisees
   unbelief; for they could not relinquish their Judaism, and embrace
   Christianity, without considering, weighing, and collating both
   religions. And this their understanding could not apply to, if it were
   diverted and took off by their will; and their will would be sure to
   divert and take it off, being wholly possessed and governed by their
   covetousness and ambition, which perfectly abhorred the precepts of
   such a doctrine. And this is the very account that our Saviour himself
   gives of this matter in John v. 44. How can ye believe, says he, who
   receive honour one of another? He looked upon it as a thing morally
   impossible, for persons infinitely proud and ambitious, to frame their
   minds to an impartial unbiassed consideration of a religion that taught
   nothing but self-denial and the cross; that humility was honour, and
   that the higher men climbed, the further they were from heaven. They
   could not with patience so much as think of it; and therefore, you may
   be sure, would never assent to it. And again, when Christ discoursed to
   them of alms, and a pious distribution of the goods and riches of this
   world, in Luke xvi. it is said in the 14th verse, that the Pharisees,
   who were covetous, heard all those things, and derided him. Charity and
   liberality is a paradox to the covetous. The doctrine that teaches
   alms, and the persons that need them, are by such equally sent packing.
   Tell a miser of bounty to a friend, or mercy to the poor, and point him
   out his duty with an evidence as bright and piercing as the light, yet
   he will not understand it, but shuts his eyes as close as he does his
   hands, and resolves not to be convinced. In both these cases, there is
   an incurable blindness caused by a resolution not to see; and to all
   intents and purposes, he who will not open his eyes, is for the present
   as blind as he that cannot. And thus I have done with the third thing
   proposed, and shewn what was the true cause of the Pharisees disbelief
   of Christ's doctrine: it was the predominance of those two great vices
   over their will, their covetousness and ambition. Pass we now to the

   Fourth and last, which is to shew, That a pious and well disposed mind,
   attended with a readiness to obey the known will of God, is the surest
   and best means to enlighten the understanding to a belief of
   Christianity. That it is so, will appear upon a double account.

   First, upon the account of God's goodness, and the method of his
   dealing with the souls of men; which is, to reward every degree of
   sincere obedience to his will, with a further discovery of it. I
   understand more than the ancients, says David, Psalm cxix. 100. But how
   did he attain to such an excellency of understanding? Was it by longer
   study, or a greater quickness and felicity of parts, than was in those
   before him? No, he gives the reason in the next words, it was because I
   keep thy statutes. He got the start of them in point of obedience, and
   thereby outstript them at length in point of knowledge. And who in old
   time were the men of extraordinary revelations, but those who were also
   men of extraordinary piety? Who were made privy to the secrets of
   Heaven, and the hidden will of the Almighty, but such as performed his
   revealed will at an higher rate of strictness than the rest of the
   world? They were the Enochs, the Abrahams, the Elijahs, and the
   Daniels; such as the scripture remarkably testifies of, that they
   walked with God. And surely, he that walks with another, is in a
   likelier way to know and understand his mind, than he that follows him
   at a distance. Upon which account, the learned Jews still made this one
   of the ingredients that went to constitute a prophet, that he should be
   perfectus in moralibus, a person of exact morals, and unblameable in
   his life: the gift of prophecy being a ray of such a light, as never
   darts itself upon a dunghill. And what I here observe occasionally of
   extraordinary revelation and prophecy, will by analogy and due
   proportion extend even to those communications of God's will, that are
   requisite to men's salvation. An honest hearty simplicity and proneness
   to do all that a man knows of God's will, is the ready, certain, and in
   fallible way to know more of it. For I am sure it may be said of the
   practical knowledge of religion, that to him that hath shall be given,
   and he shall have more abundantly.

   I dare not, I confess, join in that bold assertion of some, that
   facienti quod in se est, Deus nec debet, nec potest denegare gratiam,
   which indeed is no less than a direct contradiction in the very terms;
   for if Deus debet, then id quod debetur non est gratia; there being a
   perfect inconsistency between that which is of debt, and that which is
   of free gift. And therefore leaving the non debet and the non potest to
   those that can bind and loose the Almighty at their pleasure: so much,
   I think, we may pronounce safely in this matter, that the goodness and
   mercy of God is such, that he never deserts a sincere person, nor
   suffers any one that shall live (even according to these measures of
   sincerity) up to what he knows, to perish for want of any knowledge
   necessary, and what is more, sufficient to save him.

   If any one should here say, Were there then none living up to these
   measures of sincerity amongst the heathen? and if there were, did the
   goodness of God afford such persons knowledge enough to save them? My
   answer is according to that of St. Paul, I judge not those that are
   without the church: they stand or fall to their own master: I have no
   thing to say of them. Secret things belong to God: it becomes us to be
   thankful to God, and charitable to men.

   2. A pious and well-disposed will is the readiest means to enlighten
   the understanding to a knowledge of the truth of Christianity, upon the
   account of a natural efficiency; forasmuch as a will so disposed will
   be sure to engage the mind in a severe search into the great and
   concerning truths of religion: nor will it only engage the mind in such
   a search; but it will also accompany that search with two dispositions,
   directly tending to, and principally productive of, the discoveries of
   truth; namely, diligence and impartiality. And,

   (1.) For the diligence of the search. Diligence is the great harbinger
   of truth; which rarely takes up in any mind till that has gone before,
   and made room for it. It is a steady, constant, and pertinacious study,
   that naturally leads the soul into the knowledge of that, which at
   first seemed locked up from it. For this keeps the understanding long
   in converse with an object: and long converse brings acquaintance.
   Frequent consideration of a thing wears off the strangeness of it; and
   shews it in its several lights, and various ways of appearance, to the
   view of the mind.

   Truth is a great strong hold, barred and fortified by God and nature;
   and diligence is properly the understanding's laying siege to it: so
   that, as in a kind of warfare, it must be perpetually upon the watch;
   observing all the avenues and passes to it, and accordingly makes its
   approaches. Sometimes it thinks it gains a point; and presently again,
   it finds itself baffled and beaten off: yet still it renews the onset;
   attacks the difficulty afresh; plants is reasoning, and that argument,
   this consequence, and that distinction, like so many intellectual
   batteries, till at length it forces a way and passage into the
   obstinate enclosed truth, that so long withstood and defied all its
   assaults.

   The Jesuits have a saying common amongst them, touching the institution
   of youth, (in which their chief strength and talent lies,) that vexatio
   dat intellectum. As when the mind casts and turns itself restlessly
   from one thing to another, strains this power of the soul to apprehend,
   that to judge, another to divide, a fourth to remember; thus tracing
   out the nice and scarce observable difference of some things, and the
   real agreement of others, till at length it brings all the ends of a
   long and various hypothesis together; sees how one part coheres with
   and depends upon another; and so clears off all the appearing
   contrarieties and contradictions that seemed to lie cross and uncouth,
   and to make the whole unintelligible. This is the laborious and
   vexatious inquest, that the soul must make after science. For truth,
   like a stately dame, will not be seen, nor shew herself at the first
   visit, nor match with the understanding upon an ordinary courtship or
   address. Long and tedious attendances must be given, and the hardest
   fatigues endured and digested; nor did ever the most pregnant wit in
   the world bring forth any thing great, lasting, and considerable,
   without some pain and travail, some pangs and throes before the
   delivery.

   Now all this, that I have said, is to shew the force of diligence in
   the investigation of truth, and particularly of the noblest of all
   truths, which is that of religion. But then, as diligence is the great
   discoverer of truth, so is the will the great spring of diligence. For
   no man can heartily search after that which he is not very desirous to
   find. Diligence is to the understanding, as the whetstone to the razor;
   but the will is the hand that must apply one to the other.

   What makes many men so strangely immerse themselves, some in chymical,
   and some in mathematical inquiries, but because they strangely love the
   things they labour in? Their intent study gives them skill and
   proficiency, and their particular affection to these kinds of knowledge
   puts them upon such study. Accordingly let there be but the same
   propensity and bent of will to religion, and there will be the same
   sedulity and indefatigable industry in men's inquiry into it. And then,
   in the natural course of things, the consequent of a sedulous seeking
   is finding, and the fruit of inquiry is information.

   (2.) A pious and well-disposed will gives not only diligence, but also
   impartiality to the understanding, in its search into religion, which
   is as absolutely necessary to give success to our inquiries into truth,
   as the former; it being scarce possible for that man to hit the mark,
   whose eye is still glancing upon something beside it. Partiality is
   properly the understanding's judging according to the inclination of
   the will and affections, and not according to the exact truth of
   things, or the merits of the cause before it. Affection is still a
   briber of the judgment; and it is hard for a man to admit a reason
   against the thing he loves, or to confess the force of an argument
   against an interest.

   In this case, he prevaricates with his own understanding, and cannot
   seriously and sincerely set his mind to consider the strength, to poise
   the weight, and to discern the evidence of the clearest and best
   argumentations, where they would conclude against the darling of his
   desires. For still that beloved thing possesses, and even engrosses
   him, and like a coloured glass before his eyes casts its own colour and
   tincture upon all the images and ideas of things that pass from the
   fancy to the understanding; and so absolutely does it sway that, that
   if a strange irresistible evidence of some unacceptable truth should
   chance to surprise and force reason to assent to the premises,
   affection would yet step in at last, and make it quit the conclusion.

   Upon which account, Socinus and his followers state the reason of a
   man's believing or embracing Christianity upon the natural goodness or
   virtuous disposition of his mind, which they sometimes call naturalis
   probitas, and sometimes animus in virtutem pronus. For, say they, the
   whole doctrine of Christianity teaches nothing but what is perfectly
   suitable to, and coincident with, the ruling principles, that a
   virtuous and well inclined man is acted by; and with the main interest
   that he proposes to himself. So that as soon as ever it is declared to
   such an one, he presently closes in, accepts, and complies with it: as
   a prepared soil eagerly takes in and firmly retains such seed or plants
   as particularly agree with it.

   With ordinary minds, such as much the greatest part of the world are,
   it is the suitableness, not the evidence of a truth, that makes it to
   be assented to. And it is seldom that any thing practically convinces a
   man, that does not please him first. If you would be sure of him, you
   must inform and gratify him too. But now, impartiality strips the mind
   of prejudice and passion, keeps it right and even from the bias of
   interest and desire, and so presents it like a rasa tabula, equally
   disposed to the reception of all truth. So that the soul lies prepared,
   and open to entertain it, and prepossessed with nothing that can oppose
   or thrust it out. For where diligence opens the door of the
   understanding, and impartiality keeps it, truth is sure to find both an
   entrance and a welcome too.

   And thus I have done with the fourth and last general thing proposed,
   and proved by argument, that a pious and well disposed mind, attended
   with a readiness to obey the known will of God, is the surest and best
   means to enlighten the understanding to a belief of Christianity.

   Now, from the foregoing particulars, by way of use, we may collect
   these two things.

   1. The true cause of that atheism, that scepticism and cavilling at
   religion, that we see and have cause to lament in too many in these
   days. It is not from any thing weak or wanting in our religion, to
   support, and enable it to look the strongest arguments, and the
   severest and most controlling reason in the face: but men are
   atheistical, because they are first vicious; and question the truth of
   Christianity, because they hate the practice. And therefore, that they
   may seem to have some pretence and colour to sin on freely, and to
   surrender up themselves wholly to their sensuality, without any
   imputation upon their judgment, and to quit their morals, without any
   discredit to their intellectuals; they fly to several stale, trite,
   pitiful objections and cavils, some against religion in general, and
   some against Christianity in particular, and some against the very
   first principles of morality, to give them some poor credit and
   countenance in the pursuit of their brutish courses.

   Few practical errors in the world are embraced upon the stock of
   conviction, but inclination: for though indeed the judgment may err
   upon the account of weakness, yet where there is one error that enters
   in at this door, ten are let into it through the will: that, for the
   most part, being set upon those things, which truth is a direct
   obstacle to the enjoyment of; and where both cannot be had, a man will
   be sure to buy his enjoyment, though he pays down truth for the
   purchase. For in this case, the further from truth, the further from
   trouble: since truth shews such an one what he is unwilling to see, and
   tells him what he hates to hear. They are the same beams that shine and
   enlighten, and are apt to scorch too: and it is impossible for a man
   engaged in any wicked way, to have a clear understanding of it, and a
   quiet mind in it together.

   But these sons of Epicurus, both for voluptuousness and irreligion
   also, (as it is hard to support the former without the latter,) these,
   I say, rest not here; but (if you will take them at their word) they
   must also pass for the only wits of the age: though greater arguments,
   I am sure, may be produced against this, than any they can allege
   against the most improbable article of Christianity. But heretofore the
   rate and standard of wit was very different from what it is nowadays.
   No man was then accounted a wit for speaking such things as deserved to
   have the tongue cut out that spake them: nor did any man pass for a
   philosopher, or a man of depth, for talking atheistically: or a man of
   parts, for employing them against that God that gave them. For then the
   world was generally better inclined; virtue was in so much reputation,
   as to be pretended to at least. And virtue, whether in a Christian or
   in an infidel, can have no interest to be served either by atheism or
   infidelity.

   For which cause, could we but prevail with the greatest debauchees
   amongst us to change their lives, we should find it no very hard matter
   to change their judgments. For notwithstanding all their talk of reason
   and philosophy, which (God knows) they are deplorably strangers to; and
   those unanswerable doubts and difficulties, which, over their cups or
   their coffee, they pretend to have against Christianity; persuade but
   the covetous man not to deify his money; the proud man not to adore
   himself; the lascivious man to throw off his lewd amours; the
   intemperate man to abandon his revels; and so for any other vice, that
   is apt to abuse and pervert the mind of man; and I dare undertake, that
   all their giant-like objections against Christian religion shall
   presently vanish and quit the field. For he that is a good man, is
   three quarters of his way towards the being a good Christian,
   wheresoever he lives, or whatsoever he is called.

   2. In the next place, we learn from hence the most effectual way and
   means of proficiency and growth in the knowledge of the great and
   profound truths of religion, and how to make us all not only good
   Christians, but also expert divines. It is a knowledge, that men are
   not so much to study, as to live themselves into: a knowledge that
   passes into the head through the heart. I have heard of some, that in
   their latter years, through the feebleness of their limbs, have been
   forced to study upon their knees: and I think it might well become the
   young est and the strongest to do so too. Let them daily and
   incessantly pray to God for his grace; and if God gives grace, they may
   be sure that knowledge will not stay long behind: since it is the same
   spirit and principle that purifies the heart, and clarifies the
   understanding. Let all their inquiries into the deep and mysterious
   points of theology be begun and carried on with fervent petitions to
   God; that he would dispose their minds to direct all their skill and
   knowledge to the promotion of a good life, both in themselves and
   others; that he would use all their noblest speculations, and most
   refined notions, only as instruments, to move and set a work the great
   principles of actions, the will and the affections; that he would
   convince them of the infinite vanity and uselessness of all that
   learning, that makes not the possessor of it a better man; that he
   would keep them from those sins that may grieve and provoke his holy
   Spirit (the fountain of all true light and knowledge,) to withdraw from
   them; and so seal them up under darkness, blindness, and stupidity of
   mind. For where the heart is bent upon, and held under the power of,
   any vicious course, though Christ himself should take the contrary
   virtue for his doc trine, and do a miracle before such an one's eyes,
   for its application; yet he would not practically gain his assent, but
   the result of all would end in a non persuadebis etiamsi persuaseris.
   Few consider what a degree of sottishness and confirmed ignorance men
   may sin themselves into.

   This was the case of the Pharisees. And no doubt but this very
   consideration also gives us the true reason and full explication of
   that notable and strange passage of scripture, in Luke xvi. and the
   last verse: That if men will not hear Moses and the prophets, neither
   will they be persuaded, though one rose from the dead. That is, where a
   strong inveterate love of sin has made any doctrine or proposition
   wholly unsuitable to the heart, no argument or demonstration, no nor
   miracle whatsoever, shall be able to bring the heart cordially to close
   with, and receive it. Whereas, on the contrary, if the heart be piously
   disposed, the natural goodness of any doctrine is enough to vouch for
   the truth of it: for the suitableness of it will endear it to the will,
   and by endearing it to the will, will naturally slide it into the
   assent also. For in morals, as well as in metaphysics, there is nothing
   really good, but has a truth commensurate to its goodness.

   The truths of Christ crucified are the Christian's philosophy, and a
   good life is the Christian's logic; that great instrumental
   introductive art that must guide the mind into the former. And where a
   long course of piety, and close communion with God, has purged the
   heart, and rectified the will, and made all things ready for the
   reception of God's Spirit; knowledge will break in upon such a soul,
   like the sun shining in his full might, with such a victorious light,
   that nothing shall be able to resist it.

   If now at length some should object here, that from what has been
   delivered, it will follow, that the most pious men are still the most
   knowing, which yet seems contrary to common experience and observation;
   I answer, that as to all things directly conducing, and necessary to
   salvation, there is no doubt but they are so; as the meanest common
   soldier, that has fought often in an army, has a truer and better
   knowledge of war, than he that has read and writ whole volumes of it,
   but never was in any battle.

   Practical sciences are not to be learnt but in the way of action. It is
   experience that must give knowledge in the Christian profession, as
   well as in all others. And the knowledge drawn from experience is quite
   of another kind from that which flows from speculation or discourse. It
   is not the opinion, but the path of the just, that the wisest of men
   tells us, shines more and more unto a perfect day. The obedient, and
   the men of practice, are those sons of light, that shall outgrow all
   their doubts and ignorances, that shall ride upon these clouds, and
   triumph over their present imperfections, till persuasion pass into
   knowledge, and knowledge advance into assurance, and all come at length
   to be completed in the beatific vision, and a full fruition of those
   joys, which God has in reserve for them, whom by his grace he shall
   prepare for glory.

   To which God, infinitely wise, holy, and just, be rendered and
   ascribed, as is most due, all praise, might, majesty, and dominion,
   both now and for evermore. Amen.
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   [19] See Sermon on Matth. x. 33. p. 56.
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A SERMON

    PREACHED

AT THE CONSECRATION OF A CHAPEL.

1667.
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PREFACE.

   AFTER the happy expiration of those times which had reformed so many
   churches to the ground, and in which men used to express their honour
   to God, and their allegiance to their prince the same way, demolishing
   the palaces of the one, and the temples of the other; it is now our
   glory and felicity, that God has changed men's tempers with the times,
   and made a spirit of building succeed a spirit of pulling down: by a
   miraculous revolution, reducing many from the head of a triumphant
   rebellion to their old condition of masons, smiths, and carpenters,
   that in this capacity they might repair what, as colonels and captains,
   they had ruined and defaced.

   But still it is strange to see any ecclesiastical pile, not by
   ecclesiastical cost and influence rising above ground; especially in an
   age, in which men's mouths are open against the church, but their hands
   shut towards it; an age in which, respecting the generality of men, we
   might as soon expect stones to be made bread, as to be made churches.

   But the more epidemical and prevailing this evil is, the more
   honourable are those who stand and shine as exceptions from the common
   practice; and may such places, built for the divine worship, derive an
   honour and a blessing upon the head of the builders, as great and
   lasting, as the curse and infamy that never fails to rest upon the
   sacrilegious violators of them; and a greater, I am sure I need not, I
   cannot wish.

   Now the foundation of what I shall discourse, upon the present subject
   and occasion, shall be laid in that place in
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   Psalm lxxxvii. 2.

   God hath loved the gates of Sion, more than all the dwellings of Jacob.

   THE comparison here exhibited between the love God bore to Sion, the
   great place of his solemn worship, and that which he bore to the other
   dwellings of Israel, imports, as all other comparisons do in the
   superior part of them, two things; difference and preeminence: and
   accordingly I cannot more commodiously and naturally contrive the
   prosecution of these words, than by casting the sense of them into
   these two propositions.

   I. That God bears a different respect to places set apart and
   consecrated to his worship, from what he bears to all other places
   designed to the uses of common life.

   II. That God prefers the worship paid him in such places, above that
   which is offered him in any other places whatsoever.

   I. As to the former of these, this difference of respect, borne by God
   to such places, from what he bears to others, may be evinced these
   three several ways.

   1. By those eminent interposals of Providence, for the erecting and
   preserving of such places.

   2. By those notable judgments shewn by God upon the violators of them.

   3. Lastly, by declaring the ground and reason, why God shews such a
   different respect to those places, from what he manifests to others. Of
   all which in their order.

   1. First of all then, those eminent interposals of the divine
   Providence for the erecting and preserving such places, will be one
   pregnant and strong argument to prove the difference of God's respect
   to them, and to others of common use.

   That Providence that universally casts its eye over all the parts of
   the creation, is yet pleased more particularly to fasten it upon some.
   God made all the world, that he might be worshipped in some parts of
   the world; and therefore in the first and most early times of the
   church, what care did he manifest to have such places erected to his
   honour! Jacob he admonished by a vision, as by a messenger from heaven,
   to build him an altar; and then, what awe did Jacob express to it! How
   dreadful, says he, is this place! for surely it is no other than the
   house of God. What particular inspirations were there upon Aholiab to
   fit him to work about the sanctuary! The Spirit of God was the
   surveyor, director, and manager of the whole business. But above all,
   how exact and (as we may say with reverence) how nice was God about the
   building of the temple! David, though a man of most intimate converse
   and acquaintance with God, and one who bore a kingly preeminence over
   others, no less in point of piety than of majesty, after he had made
   such rich, such vast, and almost incredible provision of materials for
   the building of the temple; yet because he had dipt his hands in blood,
   though but the blood of God's enemies, had the glory of that work took
   out of them, and was not permitted to lay a stone in that sacred pile;
   but the whole work was entirely reserved for Solomon, a prince adorned
   with those parts of mind, and exalted by such a concurrence of all
   prosperous events to make him glorious and magnificent, as if God had
   made it his business to build a Solomon, that Solomon might build him
   an house. To which, had not God bore a very different respect from what
   he bore to all other places, why might not David have been permitted to
   build God a temple, as well as to rear himself a palace? Why might not
   he, who was so pious as to design, be also so prosperous as to finish
   it? God must needs have set a more than ordinary esteem upon that which
   David, the man after his own heart, the darling of Heaven, and the most
   flaming example of a vigorous love to God that ever was, was not
   thought fit to have an hand in.

   And to proceed, when after a long tract of time, the sins of Israel had
   even unconsecrated and profaned that sacred edifice, and thereby robbed
   it of its only defence, the palladium of God's presence, so that the
   Assyrians laid it even with the ground; yet after that a long captivity
   and affliction had made the Jews fit again for so great a privilege, as
   a pubic place to worship God in, how did God put it into the heart,
   even of an heathen prince, to promote the building of a second temple!
   How was the work undertook and carried on amidst all the unlikelihoods
   and discouraging circumstances imaginable! The builders holding the
   sword in one hand, to defend the trowel working with the other; yet
   finished and completed it was, under the conduct and protection of a
   peculiar providence, that made the instruments of that great design
   prevalent and victorious, and all those mountains of opposition to
   become plains before Zorobabel.

   And lastly, when Herod the great, whose magnificence served him instead
   of piety to prompt him to an action, if not in him religious, yet
   heroic at least, thought fit to pull down that temple, and to build one
   much more glorious, and fit for the Saviour of the world to appear and
   preach in. Josephus, in his 15th book of the Jewish Antiquities, and
   the 14th chapter, says, that during all the time of its building, there
   fell not so much as a shower to interrupt the work, but the rain still
   fell by night, that it might not retard the business of the day. If
   this were so, I am not of the number of those who can ascribe such
   great and strange passages to chance, or satisfy my reason in assigning
   any other cause of this, but the kindness of God himself to the place
   of his worship; making the common influences of heaven to stop their
   course, and pay a kind of homage to the rearing of so sacred a
   structure. Though I must confess, that David's being prohibited, and
   Herod permitted to build God a temple might seem strange, did not the
   absoluteness of God's good plea sure satisfy all sober minds of the
   reasonableness of God's proceedings, though never so strange and
   unaccountable.

   Add to all this, that the extraordinary manifestations of God's
   presence were still in the sanctuary: the cloud, the Urim and Thummim,
   and the oracular answers of God, were graces and prerogatives proper
   and peculiar to the sacredness of this place. These were the dignities
   that made it (as it were) the presence-chamber of the Almighty, the
   room of audience, where he declared that he would receive and answer
   petitions from all places under heaven, and where he displayed his
   royalty and glory. There was no parlour or dining-room in all the
   dwellings of Jacob, that he vouchsafed the like privileges to. And
   moreover, how full are God's expressions to this purpose! Here have I
   placed my name, and here will I dwell, for I have a delight therein.

   But to evidence, how different a respect God bears to things
   consecrated to his own worship, from what he bears to all other things,
   let that one eminent passage of Corah, Dathan, and Abiram, be proof
   beyond all exception; in which, the censers of those wretches, who, I
   am sure, could derive no sanctity to them from their own persons; yet
   upon this account, that they had been consecrated by the offering
   incense in them, were, by God's special command, sequestered from all
   common use, and appointed to be beaten into broad plates, and fastened
   as a covering upon the altar, Numb. xvi. 38. The censers of these
   sinners against their own souls, let them make broad plates for a
   covering of the altar: for they offered them before the Lord, therefore
   they are hallowed. It seems this one single use left such an indelible
   sacredness upon them, that neither the villainy of the persons, nor the
   impiety of the design, could be a sufficient reason to unhallow and
   degrade them to the same common use that other vessels may be applied
   to. And the argument holds equally good for the consecration of places.
   The apostle would have no revelling, or junketting upon the altar,
   which had been used, and by that use consecrated to the celebration of
   a more spiritual and divine repast. Have ye not houses to eat and to
   drink in? or despise ye the church of God? says St. Paul, 1 Cor. xi.
   22. It would have been no answer to have told the apostle, What! is not
   the church stone and wood as well as other buildings? And is there any
   such peculiar sanctity in this parcel of brick and mortar? And must
   God, who has declared himself no respecter of persons, be now made a
   respecter of places? No, this is the language of a more spiritualized
   and refined piety than the apostles and primitive Christians were
   acquainted with. And thus much for the first argument, brought to prove
   the different respect that God bears to things and places consecrated
   and set apart to his own worship, from what he bears to others.

   2. The second argument for the proof of the same assertion, shall be
   taken from those remarkable judgments shewn by God, upon the violators
   of things consecrated and set apart to holy uses.

   A coal, we know, snatched from the altar once fired the nest of the
   eagle, the royal and commanding bird; and so has sacrilege consumed the
   families of princes, broke sceptres, and destroyed kingdoms. We read
   how the victorious Philistines were worsted by the captivated ark,
   which foraged their country more than a conquering army; they were not
   able to cohabit with that holy thing; it was like a plague in their
   bowels, and a curse in the midst of them; so that they were forced to
   restore their prey, and to turn their triumphs into supplications. Poor
   Uzzah for but touching the ark, though out of care and zeal for its
   preservation, was struck dead with a blow from heaven. He had no right
   to touch it, and therefore his very zeal was a sin, and his care an
   usurpation; nor could the purpose of his heart excuse the error of his
   hand. Nay, in the promulgation of the Mosaic law, if so much as a brute
   beast touched the mountain, the bow of vengeance was ready, and it was
   to be struck through with a dart, and to die a sacrifice for a fault it
   could not understand.

   But to give some higher and clearer instances of the divine judgments
   upon sacrilegious persons. In 1 Kings xiv. 26. we find Shishak king of
   Egypt spoiling and robbing Solomon's temple, and that we may know what
   became of him, we must take notice that Josephus calls him Susac, and
   tells us that Herodotus calls him Sesostris; and withal reports, that
   immediately after his return from this very expedition, such disastrous
   calamities befell his family, that he burnt two of his children
   himself; that his brother conspired against him; and lastly, that his
   son, who succeeded him, was struck blind, yet not so blind (in his
   understanding at least) but that he saw the cause of all these
   mischiefs; and therefore, to redeem his father's sacrilege, gave more
   and richer things to temples, than his father had stolen from them:
   though (by the way) it may seem to be a strange method of repairing an
   injury done to the true God, by adorning the temples of the false. See
   the same sad effect of sacrilege in the great Nebuchadnezzar: he
   plunders the temple of God, and we find the fatal doom that afterwards
   befell him; he lost his kingdom, and by a new unheard of judgment, was
   driven from the society and converse of men, to table with the beasts,
   and to graze with oxen; the impiety and inhumanity of his sin making
   him a fitter companion for them, than for those to whom religion is
   more natural, than reason itself. And since it was his unhappiness to
   transmit his sin, together with his kingdom, to his son, while
   Belshazzar was quaffing in the sacred vessels of the temple, which in
   his pride he sent for to abuse with his impious sensuality, he sees his
   fatal sentence writ by the finger of God in the very midst of his
   profane mirth. And he stays not long for the execution of it, that very
   night losing his kingdom and his life too. And that which makes the
   story direct for our purpose is, that all this comes upon him for
   profaning those sacred vessels. God himself tells us so much by the
   mouth of his prophet in Dan. v. 23. where this only sin is charged upon
   him, and particularly made the cause of his sudden and utter ruin.

   These were violators of the first temple, and those that profaned and
   abused the second sped no better. And for this, take for instance that
   first-born of sin and sacrilege, Antiochus; the story of whose
   profaning God's house you may read in the first book of Maccabees,
   chap. i. And you may read also at large what success he found after it,
   in the sixth chapter, where the author tells us, that he never
   prospered afterwards in any thing, but all his designs were frustrated,
   his captains slain, his armies defeated; and lastly, himself falls
   sick, and dies a miserable death. And (which is most considerable as to
   the present business) when all these evils befell him, his own
   conscience tells him, that it was even for this, that he had most
   sacrilegiously pillaged and invaded God's house, 1 Maccab. vi. 12, 13.
   Now I remember, says he, the evils I did at Jerusalem, how I took the
   vessels of gold and silver: I perceive therefore, that for this cause
   these evils are come upon me, and, behold, I perish for grief in a
   strange land. The sinner's conscience is for the most part the best
   expositor of the mind of God, under any judgment or affliction.

   Take another notable instance in Nicanor, who purposed and threatened
   to burn the temple, 1 Maccab. vii. 35. And a curse lights upon him
   presently after: his great army is utterly ruined, he himself slain in
   it, and his head and right hand cut off, and hung up before Jerusalem.
   Where two things are remarkable in the text. 1. That he himself was
   first slain, a thing that does not usually be fall a general of an
   army. 2. That the Jews prayed against him to God, and desired God to
   destroy Nicanor, for the injury done to his sanctuary only, naming no
   sin else. And God ratified their prayers by the judgment they brought
   down upon the head of him, whom they prayed against. God stopped his
   blasphemous mouth, and cut off his sacrilegious hand, and made them
   teach the world, what it was for the most potent sinner under heaven to
   threaten the almighty God, especially in his own house; for so was the
   temple.

   But now, lest some should puff at these instances, as being such as
   were under a different economy of religion, in which God was more
   tender of the shell and ceremonious part of his worship, and
   consequently not directly pertinent to ours; therefore to shew that all
   profanation, and invasion of things sacred, is an offence against the
   eternal law of nature, and not against any positive institution after a
   time to expire, we need not go many nations off, nor many ages back, to
   see the vengeance of God upon some families, raised upon the ruins of
   churches, and enriched with the spoils of sacrilege, gilded with the
   name of reformation. And for the most part, so unhappy have been the
   purchasers of church lands, that the world is not now to seek for an
   argument from a long experience to convince it, that though in such
   purchases men have usually the cheapest penny-worths, yet they have not
   always the best bargains. For the holy thing has stuck fast to their
   sides like a fatal shaft, and the stone has cryed out of the
   consecrated walls they have lived within, for a judgment upon the head
   of the sacrilegious intruder; and Heaven has heard the cry, and made
   good the curse. So that when the heir of a blasted family has rose up
   and promised fair, and perhaps flourished for some time upon the stock
   of excellent parts and great favour; yet at length a cross event has
   certainly met and stopped him in the career of his fortunes; so that he
   has ever after withered and declined, and in the end come to nothing,
   or to that which is worse. So certainly does that, which some call
   blind superstition, take aim when it shoots a curse at the sacrilegious
   person. But I shall not engage in the odious task of recounting the
   families which this sin has blasted with a curse. Only, I shall give
   one eminent instance in some persons who had sacrilegiously procured
   the demolishing of some places consecrated to holy uses.

   And for this (to shew the world that Papists can commit sacrilege as
   freely as they can object it to Protestants) it shall be in that great
   cardinal and minister of state, Wolsey, who obtained leave of pope
   Clement the seventh to demolish forty religious houses; which he did by
   the service of five men, to whose conduct he committed the effecting of
   that business; every one of which came to a sad and fatal end. For the
   pope himself was ever after an unfortunate prince, Rome being twice
   taken and sacked in his reign, himself taken prisoner, and at length
   dying a miserable death. Wolsey (as is known) incurred a premunire,
   forfeited his honour, estate, and life, which he ended, some say, by
   poison; but certainly in great calamity.

   And for the five men employed by him, two of them quarrelled, one of
   which was slain, and the other hanged for it; the third drowned himself
   in a well; the fourth (though rich) came at length to beg his bread;
   and the fifth was miserably stabbed to death at Dublin in Ireland.

   This was the tragical end of a knot of sacrilegious persons from
   highest to lowest. The consideration of which and the like passages,
   one would think, should make men keep their fingers off from the
   church's patrimony, though not out of love to the church, (which few
   men have,) yet at least out of love to themselves, which, I suppose,
   few want.

   Nor is that instance in one of another religion to be passed over, (so
   near it is to the former passage of Nicanor,) of a commander in the
   parliament's rebel army, who, coming to rifle and deface the cathedral
   at Litchfield, solemnly at the head of his troops begged of God to shew
   some remarkable token of his approbation or dislike of the work they
   were going about. Immediately after which, looking out at a window, he
   was shot in the forehead by a deaf and dumb man. And this was on St.
   Chadd's day, the name of which saint that church bore, being dedicated
   to God in memory of the same. Where we see, that as he asked of God a
   sign, so God gave him one, signing him in the forehead, and that with
   such a mark, as he is like to be known by to all posterity.

   There is nothing that the united voice of all history proclaims so
   loud, as the certain unfailing curse that has pursued and overtook
   sacrilege. Make a catalogue of all the prosperous sacrilegious persons
   that have been from the beginning of the world to this day, and I
   believe they will come within a very narrow compass, and be repeated
   much sooner than the alphabet.

   Religion claims a great interest in the world, even as great as its
   object, God, and the souls of men. And since God has resolved not to
   alter the course of nature, and upon principles of nature, religion
   will scarce be supported without the encouragement of the ministers of
   it; Providence, where it loves a nation, concerns itself to own and
   assert the interest of religion, by blasting the spoilers of religious
   persons and places. Many have gaped at the church revenues, but, before
   they could swallow them, have had their mouths stopt in the churchyard.

   And thus much for the second argument, to prove the different respect
   that God bears to things consecrated to holy uses; namely, his signal
   judgments upon the sacrilegious violators of them.

   3. I descend now to the third and last thing proposed for the proof of
   the first proposition, which is, to assign the ground and reason, why
   God shews such a concern for these things. Touching which we are to
   observe, (1.) Negatively, that it is no worth or sanctity naturally
   inherent in the things themselves, that either does or can procure them
   this esteem from God; for by nature all things have an equally common
   use. Nature freely and indifferently opens the bosom of the universe to
   all mankind; and the very sanctum sanctorum had originally no more
   sacredness in it, than the valley of the son of Hinnom, or any other
   place in Judea. (2.) Positively therefore, the sole ground and reason
   of this different esteem vouchsafed by God to consecrated things and
   places, is this, that he has the sole property of them.

   It is a known maxim, that in Deo sunt jura omnia; and consequently,
   that he is the proprietor of all things, by that grand and transcendent
   right founded upon creation. Yet notwithstanding he may be said to have
   a greater, because a sole property in some things, for that he permits
   not the use of them to men, to whom yet he has granted the free use of
   all other things. Now this property may be founded upon a double
   ground.

   First, God's own fixing upon, and institution of, a place or thing to
   his peculiar use. When he shall say to the sons of men, as he spoke to
   Adam concerning the forbidden fruit, Of all things and places that I
   have enriched the universe with, you may freely make use for your own
   occasions; but as for this spot of ground, this person, this thing, I
   have selected and appropriated, I have enclosed it to myself and my own
   use; and I will endure no sharer, no rival, or companion in it: he that
   invades them, usurps, and shall bear the guilt of his usurpation. Now,
   upon this account, the gates of Sion, and the tribe of Levi, became
   God's property. He laid his hand upon them, and said, These are mine.

   Secondly, The other ground of God's sole property in any thing or
   place, is the gift, or rather the return of it made by man to God; by
   which act he relinquishes and delivers back to God all his right to the
   use of that thing, which before had been freely granted him by God.
   After which donation, there is an absolute change and alienation made
   of the property of the thing given, and that as to the use of it too;
   which being so alienated, a man has no more to do with it, than with a
   thing bought with another's money, or got with the sweat of another's
   brow.

   And this is the ground of God's sole property in things, persons, and
   places, now under the gospel. Men by free gift consign over a place to
   the divine worship, and thereby have no more right to apply it to
   another use, than they have to make use of another man's goods. He that
   has devoted himself to the service of God in the Christian priesthood,
   has given himself to God, and so can no more dispose of himself to
   another employment, than he can dispose of a thing that he has sold or
   freely given away. Now in passing a thing away to another by deed of
   gift, two things are required:

   1. A surrender on the giver's part, of all the property and right he
   has in the thing given. And to the making of a thing or place sacred,
   this surrender of it, by its right owner, is so necessary, that all the
   rites of consecration used upon a place against the owner's will, and
   without his giving up his property, make not that place sacred,
   forasmuch as the property of it is not hereby altered; and therefore
   says the canonist, Qui sine voluntate Domini consecrat, revera
   desecrat. The like judgment passed that learned Bishop Synesius upon a
   place so consecrated. Oud' iero`n oude` me`n o'sion egoumai. I account
   it not, says he, for any holy thing.

   For we must know, that consecration makes not a place sacred, any more
   than coronation makes a king, but only solemnly declares it so. It is
   the gift of the owner of it to God, which makes it to be solely God's,
   and consequently sacred; after which, every violation of it is as
   really sacrilege, as to conspire against the king is treason before the
   solemnity of his coronation. And moreover, as consecration makes not a
   thing sacred without the owner's gift, so the owner's gift of itself
   alone makes a thing sacred, without the ceremonies of consecration; for
   we know that tythes and lands given to God are never, and plate,
   vestments, and other sacred utensils are seldom consecrated: yet
   certain it is, that after the donation of them to the church, it is as
   really sacrilege to steal or alienate them from those sacred uses, to
   which they were dedicated by the donors, as it is to pull down a
   church, or turn it into a stable.

   2. As in order to the passing away a thing by gift, there is required a
   surrender of all right to it on his part that gives, so there is
   required also an acceptation of it on his part to whom it is given. For
   giving being a relative action; (and so requiring a correlative to
   answer it;) giving on one part transfers no property, unless there be
   an accepting on the other; for as volenti non fit injuria, so in this
   case nolenti non fit beneficium.

   And if it be now asked, how God can be said to accept what we give,
   since we are not able to transact with him in person? To this I answer,
   1. That we may and do converse with God in person really, and to all
   the purposes of giving and receiving, though not visibly: for natural
   reason will evince, that God will receive testimonies of honour from
   his creatures; amongst which, the homage of offerings, and the parting
   with a right, is a very great one. And where a gift is suitable to the
   person to whom it is offered, and no refusal of it testified; silence
   in that case (even amongst those who transact visibly and corporally
   with one another) is, by the general voice of reason, reputed an
   acceptance. And therefore much more ought we to conclude that God
   accepts of a thing suitable for him to receive, and for us to give,
   where he does not declare his refusal and disallowance of it. But, 2. I
   add further, that we may transact with God in the person of his and
   Christ's substitute, the bishop, to whom the deed of gift ought, and
   uses to be delivered by the owner of the thing given, in a formal
   instrument signed, sealed, and legally attested by witnesses, wherein
   he resigns up all his right and property in the thing to be
   consecrated. And the bishop is as really vicarius Christi to receive
   this from us in Christ's behalf, as the Levitical priest was vicarius
   Dei to the Jews, to manage all transactions between God and them.

   These two things therefore concurring, the gift of the owner, and God's
   acceptance of it, either immediately by himself, which we rationally
   presume, or mediately by the hands of the bishop, which is visibly done
   before us, is that which vests the sole property of a thing or place in
   God. If it be now asked, Of what use then is consecration, if a thing
   were sacred before it? I answer, Of very much; even as much as
   coronation to a king, which confers no royal authority upon him, but by
   so solemn a declaration of it, imprints a deeper awe and reverence of
   it in the people's minds, a thing surely of no small moment. And, 2.
   The bishop's solemn benediction and prayers to God for a blessing upon
   those who shall seek him in such sacred places, cannot but be supposed
   a direct and most effectual means to procure a blessing from God upon
   those persons who shall address themselves to him there, as they ought
   to do. And surely, this also vouches the great reason of the episcopal
   consecration. Add to this in the third place, that all who ever had any
   awful sense of religion and religious matters (whether Jews or
   Christians, or even heathens themselves) have ever used solemn
   dedications and consecrations of things set apart, and designed for
   divine worship; which surely could never have been so universally
   practised, had not right reason dictated the high expediency and great
   use of such practices.

   Eusebius, (the earliest church-historian,) in the tenth book of his
   Ecclesiastical History, as also in the Life of Constantine, speaks of
   these consecrations of churches, as of things generally in use, and
   withal sets down those actions particularly, of which they consisted,
   styling them Theoprepeis ekklesi'as thesmou`s, laws or customs of the
   church becoming God. What the Greek and Latin churches used to do, may
   be seen in their pontificals, containing the set forms for these
   consecrations; though indeed (for these six or seven last centuries)
   full of many tedious, superfluous, and ridiculous fopperies; setting
   aside all which, if also our liturgy had a set form for the
   consecration of places, as it has of persons, perhaps it would be
   nevertheless perfect. Now from what has been above discoursed of the
   ground of God's sole property in things set apart for his service, we
   come at length to see how all things given to the church, whether
   houses, or lands, or tythes, belong to church men. They are but
   usufructuarii, and have only the use of these things, the property and
   fee remaining wholly in God; and consequently the alienating of them is
   a robbing of God, Mal. iii. 8, 9. Ye are cursed with a curse, for ye
   have robbed me, even this whole nation, in tythes and offerings. If it
   was God that was robbed, it was God also that was the owner of what was
   took away in the robbery: even our own common law speaks as much; for
   so says our Magna Charta, in the first chapter, Concessimus Deo--quod
   ecclesia .Anglicana libera erit, &c. Upon which words, that great
   lawyer in his Institutes comments thus: When any thing is granted for
   God, it is deemed in law to be granted to God; and whatsoever is
   granted to the church for his honour, and the maintenance of his
   service, is granted for and to God.

   The same also appears from those forms of expression, in which the
   donation of sacred things usually ran. As Deo omnipotenti hac praesente
   charta donavimus, with the like. But most undeniably is this proved by
   this one argument: That in case a bishop should commit treason or
   felony, and thereby forfeit his estate with his life, yet the lands of
   his bishopric become not forfeit, but remain still in the church, and
   pass entire to his successor; which sufficiently shews that they were
   none of his.

   It being therefore thus proved, that God is the sole proprietor of all
   sacred things or places; I suppose his peculiar property in them is an
   abundantly pregnant reason of that different respect that he bears to
   them. For is not the meum, and the separate property of a thing, the
   great cause of its endearment amongst all mankind? Does any one respect
   a common, as much as he does his garden? or the gold that lies in the
   bowels of a mine, as much as that which he has in his purse?

   I have now finished the first proposition drawn from the words; namely,
   that God bears a different respect to places set apart and consecrated
   to his worship, from what he bears to all other places designed to the
   uses of common life: and also shewn the reason why he does so. I
   proceed now to the other proposition, which is, That God prefers the
   worship paid him in such places, above that which is offered him in any
   other places whatsoever. And at for these reasons:

   1. Because such places are naturally apt to excite greater reverence
   and devotion in the discharge of divine service, than places of common
   use. The place properly reminds a man of the business of the lace, and
   strikes a kind of awe into the thoughts, when they reflect upon that
   great and sacred Majesty they use to treat and converse with there.
   They find the same holy consternation upon themselves that Jacob did at
   his consecrated Bethel, which he called the gate of heaven; and if such
   places are so, then surely a daily expectation at the gate is the
   readiest way to gain admittance into the house.

   It has been the advice of some spiritual persons, that such as were
   able should set apart some certain place in their dwellings for private
   devotions only, which if they constantly performed there, and nothing
   else, their very entrance into it would tell them what they were to do
   in it, and quickly make their chamber-thoughts, their table-thoughts,
   and their jolly, worldly, but much more their sinful thoughts and
   purposes, fly out of their hearts.

   For is there any man (whose heart has not shook off all sense of what
   is sacred) who finds himself no otherwise affected, when he enters into
   a church, than when he enters into his parlour or chamber? If he does,
   for ought I know, he is fitter to be there always than in a church.

   The mind of man, even in spirituals, acts with a corporeal dependence,
   and so is helped or hindered in its operations, according to the
   different quality of external objects that incur into the senses. And
   perhaps sometimes the sight of the altar, and those decent preparations
   for the work of devotion, may compose and recover the wandering mind
   much more effectually than a sermon, or a rational discourse. For these
   things in a manner preach to the eye, when the ear is dull, and will
   not hear, and the eye dictates to the imagination, and that at last
   moves the affections. And if these little impulses set the great wheels
   of devotion on work, the largeness and height of that shall not at all
   be prejudiced by the smallness of its occasion. If the fire burns
   bright and vigorously, it is no matter by what means it was at first
   kindled; there is the same force, and the same refreshing virtue in it,
   kindled by a spark from a flint, as if it were kindled by a beam from
   the sun.

   I am far from thinking that these external things are either parts of
   our devotion, or by any strength in themselves direct causes of it; but
   the grace of God is pleased to move us by ways suitable to our nature,
   and to sanctify these sensible inferior helps to greater and higher
   purposes. And since God has placed the soul in a body, where it
   receives all things by the ministry of the outward senses, he would
   have us secure these cinque ports (as I may so call them) against the
   invasion of vain thoughts, by suggesting to them such objects as may
   prepossess them with the contrary. For God knows, how hard a lesson
   devotion is, if the senses prompt one thing, when the heart is to utter
   another. And therefore let no man presume to think that he may present
   God with as acceptable a prayer in his shop, and much less in an
   alehouse or a tavern, as he may in a church or in his closet: unless he
   can rationally promise himself (which is impossible) that he shall find
   the same devout motions and impresses upon his spirit there, that he
   may here.

   What says David, in Psalm lxxvii. 13. Thy way, O God, is in the
   sanctuary. It is no doubt, but that holy person continued a strict and
   most pious communion with God, during his wanderings upon the mountains
   and in the wilderness; but still he found in himself, that he had not
   those kindly, warm meltings upon his heart, those raptures and
   ravishing transports of affection, that he used to have in the fixed
   and solemn place of God's worship. See the two first verses of the 63rd
   Psalm, entitled, A psalm of David, when he was in the wilderness of
   Judah. How emphatically and divinely does every word proclaim the truth
   that I have been speaking of! O God, says he, thou art my God; early
   will I seek thee: my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee
   in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is; to see thy power and thy
   glory, so as I have seen thee in the sanctuary. Much different was his
   wish from that of our nonconforming zealots nowadays, which expresses
   itself in an other kind of dialect; as, When shall I enjoy God as I
   used to do at a conventicle? When shall I meet with those blessed
   breathings, those heavenly hummings and hawings, that I used to hear at
   a private meeting, and at the end of a table?

   In all our worshippings of God, we return him but what he first gives
   us; and therefore he prefers the service offered him in the sanctuary,
   because there he usually vouchsafes more helps to the piously disposed
   person, for the discharge of it. As we value the same kind of fruit
   growing under one climate more than under another; because under one it
   has a directer and a warmer influence from the sun, than under the
   other, which gives it both a bet ter savour and a greater worth.

   And perhaps I should not want a further argument for the confirmation
   of the truth discoursed of, if I should appeal to the experience of
   many in this nation, who, having been long bred to the decent way of
   divine service in the cathedrals of the church of England, were
   afterwards driven into foreign countries, where, though they brought
   with them the same sincerity to church, yet perhaps they could not find
   the same enlargements and flowings out of spirit which they were wont
   to find here. Especially in some countries, where their very religion
   smelt of the shop; and their ruder and coarser methods of divine
   service seemed only adapted to the genius of trade and the designs of
   parsimony; though one would think, that parsimony in God's worship were
   the worst husbandry in the world, for fear God should proportion his
   blessings to such devotions.

   2. The other reason, why God prefers a worship paid him in places
   solemnly dedicated and set apart for that purpose, is, because in such
   places it is a more direct service and testification of our homage to
   him. For surely, if I should have something to ask of a great person,
   it were greater respect to wait upon him with my petition at his own
   house, than to desire him to come and receive it at mine.

   Set places and set hours for divine worship, as much as the laws of
   necessity and charity permit us to observe them, are but parts of that
   due reverence that we owe it: for he that is strict in observing these,
   declares to the world, that he accounts his attendance upon God his
   greatest and most important business: and surely, it is infinitely more
   reasonable that we should wait upon God, than God upon us.

   We shall still find, that when God was pleased to vouchsafe his people
   a meeting, he himself would prescribe the place. When he commanded
   Abraham to sacrifice his only and beloved Isaac, the place of the
   offering was not left undetermined, and to the offerer's discretion:
   but in Gen. xxii. 2. Get thee into the land of Moriah, (says God;) and
   offer him for a burnt offering upon one of the mountains that I shall
   tell thee of.

   It was part of his sacrifice, not only what he should offer, but where.
   When we serve God in his own house, his service (as I may so say) leads
   all our other secular affairs in triumph after it. They are all made to
   stoop and bend the knee to prayer, as that does to the throne of grace.

   Thrice a year were the Israelites from all, even the remotest parts of
   Palestine, to go up to Jerusalem, there to worship, and pay their
   offerings at the temple. The great distance of some places from thence
   could not excuse the inhabitants from making their appearance there,
   which the Mosaic law exacted as indispensable.

   Whether or no they had coaches, to the temple they must go: nor could
   it excuse them to plead God's omniscience, that he could equally see
   and hear them in any place: nor yet their own good will and intentions;
   as if the readiness of their mind to go, might, forsooth, warrant their
   bodies to stay at home. Nor, lastly, could the real danger of leaving
   their dwellings to go up to the temple excuse their journey: for they
   might very plausibly and very rationally have alleged, that during
   their absence their enemies round about them might take that advantage
   to invade their land. And therefore, to obviate this fear and
   exception, which indeed was built upon so good ground, God makes them a
   promise, which certainly is as remarkable as any in the whole book of
   God, Exod. xxxiv. 24. I will cast out the nations before thee; neither
   shall any man desire thy land, when thou shalt go up to appear before
   the Lord thy God thrice in a year. While they were appearing in God's
   house, God himself engages to keep and defend theirs, and that by
   little less than a miracle, putting forth an overpowering work and
   influence upon the very hearts and wills of men, that when their
   opportunities should induce, their hearts should not serve them to
   annoy their neighbours.

   For surely, a rich land, guardless and undefended, must needs have been
   a double incitement, and such an one as might not only admit, but even
   invite the enemy. It was like a fruitful garden or a fair vine yard
   without an hedge, that quickens the appetite to enjoy so tempting, and
   withal so easy a prize. But the great God, by ruling men's hearts,
   could by consequence hold their hands, and turn the very desires of
   interest and nature out of their common channel, to comply with the
   designs of his worship.

   But now, had not God set a very peculiar value upon the service paid
   him in his temple, surely he would not have thus (as it were) made
   himself his people's convoy, and exerted a supernatural work to secure
   them in their passage to it. And therefore that eminent hero in
   religion, Daniel, when in the land of his captivity he used to pay his
   daily devotions to God, not being able to go to the temple, would at
   least look towards it, advance to it in wish and desire; and so, in a
   manner, bring the temple to his prayers, when he could not bring his
   prayers to that.

   And now, what have I to do more, but to wish that all this discourse
   may have that blessed effect upon us, as to send us both to this and to
   all other solemn places of divine worship, with those three excellent
   ingredients of devotion, desire, reverence, and confidence?

   1. And first, for desire. We should come hither, as to meet God in a
   place where he loves to meet us: and where (as Isaac did to his sons)
   he gives us blessings with embraces. Many frequent the gates of Sion,
   but is it because they love them; and not rather because their interest
   forces them, much against their inclination, to endure them?

   Do they hasten to their devotions with that ardour and quickness of
   mind that they would to a lewd play or a masquerade?

   Or do they not rather come hither slowly, sit here uneasily, and depart
   desirously? All which is but too evident a sign, that men repair to the
   house of God, not as to a place of fruition, but of task and trouble,
   not to enjoy, but to afflict themselves.

   2. We should come full of reverence to such sacred places; and where
   there are affections of reverence, there will be postures of reverence
   too. With in consecrated walls, we are more directly under God's eye,
   who looks through and through every one that appears before him, and is
   too jealous a God to be affronted to his face,

   3. And lastly; God's peculiar property in such places should give us a
   confidence in our addresses to him here. Reverence and confidence are
   so far from being inconsistent, that they are the most direct and
   proper qualifications of a devout and filial approach to God.

   For where should we be so confident of a blessing, as in the place and
   element of blessings; the place where God both promises and delights to
   dispense larger proportions of his favour, even for this purpose, that
   he may fix a mark of honour upon his sanctuary; and so recommend and
   endear it to the sons of men, upon the stock of their own interest as
   well as his glory; who has declared himself the high and the lofty One
   that inhabits eternity, and dwells not in houses made with men's hands,
   yet is pleased to be present in the assemblies of his saints.

   To whom be rendered and ascribed, as is most due, all praise, might,
   majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

  PREACHED AT WESTMINSTER-ABBEY,

    FEBRUARY 22, 1684-5.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Prov. xvi. 33.

   The lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposing of it is of the
   Lord.

   I CANNOT think myself engaged from these words to discourse of lots, as
   to their nature, use, and allowableness; and that not only in matters
   of moment and business, but also of recreation; which latter is indeed
   impugned by some, though better defended by others; but I shall fix
   only upon the design of the words, which seems to be a declaration of a
   divine perfection by a signal instance; a proof of the exactness and
   universality of God's providence from its influence upon a thing, of
   all others, the most casual and fortuitous, such as is the casting of
   lots.

   A lot is properly a casual event, purposely applied to the
   determination of some doubtful thing.

   Some there are, who utterly proscribe the name of chance, as a word of
   impious and profane signification; and indeed, if it be taken by us in
   that sense in which it was used by the heathen, so as to make any thing
   casual in respect of God himself, their exception ought justly to be
   admitted. But to say a thing is a chance, or casualty, as it relates to
   second causes, is not profaneness, but a great truth; as signifying no
   more, than that there are some events, besides the knowledge, purpose,
   expectation, and power of second agents. And for this very reason,
   because they are so, it is the royal prerogative of God himself, to
   have all these loose, uneven, fickle uncertainties under his disposal.

   The subject therefore, that from hence we are naturally carried to the
   consideration of, is, the admirable extent of the divine Providence, in
   managing the most contingent passages of human affairs; which that we
   may the better treat of, we will consider the result of a lot:

   I. In reference to men.

   II. In reference to God.

   I. For the first of these, if we consider it as relating to men, who
   suspend the decision of some dubious case upon it, so we shall find,
   that it naturally implies in it these two things:

   1. Something future. 2. Something contingent.

   From which two qualifications these two things also follow:

   1. That it is absolutely out of the reach of man's knowledge.

   2. That it is equally out of his power.

   This is most clear; for otherwise, why are men in such cases doubtful,
   and concerned, what the issue and result should be? for no man doubts
   of what he sees and knows; nor is solicitous about the event of that
   which he has in his power to dispose of to what event he pleases.

   The light of man's understanding is but a short, diminutive, contracted
   light, and looks not beyond the present: he knows nothing future, but
   as it has some kind of presence in the stable, constant manner of
   operation belonging to its cause; by virtue of which, we know, that if
   the fire continues for twenty years, it will certainly burn so long;
   and that there will be summer, winter, and harvest, in their respective
   seasons: but whether God will continue the world till to-morrow or no,
   we cannot know by any certain argument, either from the nature of God
   or of the world.

   But when we look upon such things as relate to their immediate causes
   with a perfect indifference, so that in respect of them they equally
   may or may not be; human reason can then, at the best, but conjecture
   what will be. And in some things, as here in the casting of lots, a man
   cannot, upon any ground of reason, bring the event of them so much as
   under conjecture.

   The choice of man's will is indeed uncertain, be cause in many things
   free; but yet there are certain habits and principles in the soul, that
   have some kind of sway upon it, apt to bias it more one way than
   another; so that, upon the proposal of an agree able object, it may
   rationally be conjectured, that a man's choice will rather incline him
   to accept than to refuse it. But when lots are shuffled together in a
   lap, urn, or pitcher, or a man blindfold casts a die, what reason in
   the world can he have to presume that he shall draw a white stone
   rather than a black, or throw an ace rather than a size? Now, if these
   things are thus out of the compass of a man's knowledge, it will
   unavoidably follow, that they are also out of his power. For no man can
   govern or command that which he cannot possibly know; since to dispose
   of a thing implies both a knowledge of the thing to be disposed of, and
   of the end that it is to be disposed of to.

   And thus we have seen how a contingent event baffles man's knowledge,
   and evades his power. Let us now consider the same in respect of God;
   and so we shall find that it falls under,

   1. A certain knowledge. And

   2. A determining providence.

   1. First of all then, the most casual event of things, as it stands
   related to God, is comprehended by a certain knowledge. God, by reason
   of his eternal, infinite, and indivisible nature, is, by one single act
   of duration, present to all the successive portions of time; and
   consequently to all things successively existing in them: which
   eternal, indivisible act of his existence, makes all futures actually
   present to him; and it is the presentiality of the object which founds
   the unerring certainty of his knowledge. For whatsoever is known, is
   some way or other present; and that which is present, cannot but be
   known by him who is omniscient.

   But I shall not insist upon these speculations; which when they are
   most refined serve only to shew, how impossible it is for us to have a
   clear and explicit notion of that which is infinite. Let it suffice us
   in general to acknowledge and adore the vast compass of God's
   omniscience. That it is a light shining into every dark corner, ripping
   up all secrets, and steadfastly grasping the greatest and most slippery
   uncertainties. As when we see the sun shine upon a river, though the
   waves of it move and roll this way and that way by the wind; yet for
   all their unsettledness, the sun strikes them with a direct and a
   certain beam. Look upon things of the most accidental and mutable
   nature, accidental in their production, and mutable in their
   continuance; yet God's prescience of them is as certain in him, as the
   memory of them is or can be in us. He knows which way the lot and the
   die shall fall, as perfectly as if they were already cast. All
   futurities are naked before that all-seeing eye, the sight of which is
   no more hindered by distance of time, than the sight of an angel can be
   determined by distance of place.

   2. As all contingencies are comprehended by a certain divine knowledge,
   so they are governed by as certain and steady a providence.

   There is no wandering out of the reach of this, no slipping through the
   hands of omnipotence. God's hand is as steady as his eye; and certainly
   thus to reduce contingency to method, instability and chance itself to
   an unfailing rule and order, argues such a mind as is fit to govern the
   world; and I am sure nothing less than such an one can.

   Now God may be said to bring the greatest casualties under his
   providence upon a twofold account.

   (1.) That he directs them to a certain end.

   (2.) Oftentimes to very weighty and great ends.

   (1.) And first of all, he directs them to a certain end.

   Providence never shoots at rovers. There is an arrow that flies by
   night as well as by day, and God is the person that shoots it, who can
   aim then as well as in the day. Things are not left to an aequilibrium,
   to hover under an indifference whether they shall come to pass or not
   come to pass; but the whole train of events is laid beforehand, and all
   proceed by the rule and limit of an antecedent decree: for otherwise,
   who could manage the affairs of the world, and govern the dependance of
   one event upon another, if that event happened at random, and was not
   cast into a certain method and relation to some foregoing purpose to
   direct it?

   The reason why men are so short and weak in governing is, because most
   things fall out to them accidentally, and come not into any compliance
   with their preconceived ends, but they are forced to comply
   subsequently, and to strike in with things as they fall out, by
   postliminious after-applications of them to their purposes, or by
   framing their purposes to them.

   But now there is not the least thing that falls within the cognizance
   of man, but is directed by the counsel of God. Not an hair can fall
   from our head, nor a sparrow to the ground, without the will of our
   heavenly Father. Such an universal superintendency has the eye and hand
   of Providence over all, even the most minute and inconsiderable things.

   Nay, and sinful actions too are overruled to a certain issue; even that
   horrid villainy of the crucifixion of our Saviour was not a thing left
   to the disposal of chance and uncertainty; but in Acts ii. 23. it is
   said of him, that he was delivered to the wicked hands of his
   murderers, by the determinate counsel and foreknowledge of God: for
   surely the Son of God could not die by chance, nor the greatest thing
   that ever came to pass in nature be left to an undeterminate event. Is
   it imaginable, that the great means of the world's redemption should
   rest only in the number of possibilities, and hang so loose in respect
   of its futurition, as to leave the event in an equal poise, whether
   ever there should be such a thing or no? Certainly the actions and
   proceedings of wise men run in a much greater closeness and coherence
   with one another, than thus to derive at a casual issue, brought under
   no forecast or design. The pilot must intend some port before he steers
   his course, or he had as good leave his vessel to the direction of the
   winds and the government of the waves.

   Those that suspend the purposes of God, and the resolves of an eternal
   mind upon the actions of the creature, and make God first wait and
   expect what the creature will do, (and then frame his decrees and
   counsels accordingly,) forget that he is the first cause of all things,
   and discourse most unphilosophically, absurdly, and unsuitably to the
   nature of an infinite being; whose influence in every motion must set
   the first wheel a going. He must still be the first agent, and what he
   does he must will and intend to do before he does it, and what he wills
   and intends once, he willed and intended from all eternity; it being
   grossly contrary to the very first notions we have of the infinite
   perfection of the divine nature, to state or suppose any new immanent
   act in God.

   The Stoics indeed held a fatality, and a fixed unalterable course of
   events; but then they held also, that they fell out by a necessity
   emergent from and inherent in the things themselves, which God himself
   could not alter: so that they subjected God to the fatal chain of
   causes, whereas they should have resolved the necessity of all inferior
   events into the free determination of God himself; who executes
   necessarily that which he first purposed freely.

   In a word, if we allow God to be the governor of the world, we cannot
   but grant, that he orders and disposes of all inferior events; and if
   we allow him to be a wise and a rational governor, he cannot but direct
   them to a certain end.

   (2.) In the next place, he directs all these appearing casualties, not
   only to certain, but also to very great ends.

   He that created something out of nothing, surely can raise great things
   out of small; and bring all the scattered and disordered passages of
   affairs into a great, beautiful, and exact frame. Now this over ruling,
   directing power of God may be considered,

   First, In reference to societies, or united bodies of men.

   Secondly, In reference to particular persons.

   First. And first for societies. God and nature do not principally
   concern themselves in the preservation of particulars, but of kinds and
   companies. Accordingly, we must allow Providence to be more intent and
   solicitous about nations and governments than about any private
   interest whatsoever. Upon which account it must needs have a peculiar
   influence upon the erection, continuance, and dissolution of every
   society. Which great effects it is strange to consider, by what small,
   inconsiderable means they are oftentimes brought about, and those so
   wholly undesigned by such as are the immediate visible actors in them.
   Examples of this we have both in holy writ, and also in other stories.

   And first for those of the former sort.

   Let us reflect upon that strange and unparalleled story of Joseph and
   his brethren; a story that seems to be made up of nothing else but
   chances and little contingencies, all directed to mighty ends. For was
   it not a mere chance that his father Jacob should send him to visit his
   brethren, just at that time that the Ishmaelites were to pass by that
   way, and so his unnatural brethren take occasion to sell him to them,
   and they to carry him into Egypt? and then that he should be cast into
   prison, and thereby brought at length to the knowledge of Pharaoh in
   that unlikely manner that he was? Yet by a joint connection of every
   one of these casual events, Providence served itself in the
   preservation of a kingdom from famine, and of the church, then
   circumscribed within the family of Jacob. Likewise by their sojourning
   in Egypt, he made way for their bondage there, and their bondage for. a
   glorious deliverance through those prodigious manifestations of the
   divine power, in the several plagues inflicted upon the Egyptians. It
   was hugely accidental, that Joash king of Israel, being commanded by
   the prophet to strike upon the ground, 2 Kings xiii. should strike no
   oftener than just three times; and yet we find there, that the fate of
   a kingdom depended upon it, and that his victories over Syria were
   concluded by that number. It was very casual, that the Levite and his
   concubine should linger so long, as to be forced to . take up their
   lodging at Gibeah, as we read in Judges xix. and yet we know what a
   villainy was occasioned by it, and what a civil war that drew after it,
   almost to the destruction of a whole tribe.

   And then for examples out of other histories, to hint a few of them.

   Perhaps there is none more remarkable, than that passage about
   Alexander the great, in his famed expedition against Darius.

   When in his march towards him, chancing to bathe himself in the river
   Cydnus, through the excessive coldness of those waters, he fell sick
   near unto death for three days; during which short space the Persian
   army had advanced itself into the strait passages of Cilicia: by which
   means Alexander with his small army was able to equal them under those
   disadvantages, and to fight and conquer them. Whereas had not this stop
   been given him by that accidental sickness, his great courage and
   promptness of mind would, beyond all doubt, have carried him directly
   forward to the enemy, till he had met him in the vast open plains of
   Persia, where his paucity and small numbers would have been
   contemptible, and the Persian multitudes formidable; and, in all
   likelihood of reason, victorious. So that this one little accident of
   that prince's taking a fancy to bathe himself at that time, caused the
   interruption of his march, and that interruption gave occasion to that
   great victory that founded the third monarchy of the world. In like
   manner, how much of casualty was there in the preservation of Romulus,
   as soon as born exposed by his uncle, and took up and nourished by a
   shepherd! (for the story of the she-wolf is a fable.) And yet in that
   one accident was laid the foundation of the fourth universal monarchy.

   How doubtful a case was it, whether Hannibal, after the battle of
   Cannae, should march directly to Rome, or divert into Campania! Certain
   it is, that there was more reason for the former; and he was a person
   that had sometimes the command of reason, as well as regiments: yet his
   reason deserted his conduct at that time; and by not going to Rome, he
   gave occasion to those recruits of the Roman strength that prevailed to
   the conquest of his country, and at length to the destruction of
   Carthage itself, one of the most puissant cities in the world.

   And to descend to occurrences within our own nation. How many strange
   accidents concurred in the whole business of king Henry the eighth's
   divorce! yet we see Providence directed it and them to an entire change
   of the affairs and state of the whole kingdom. And surely, there could
   not be a greater chance than that which brought to light the powder
   treason, when Providence (as it were) snatched a king and kingdom out
   of the very jaws of death, only by the mistake of a word in the
   direction of a letter.

   But of all cases, in which little casualties produce great and strange
   effects, the chief is in war; upon the issues of which hangs the
   fortune of states and kingdoms.

   Caesar, I am sure, whose great sagacity and conduct put his success as
   much out of the power of chance, as human reason could well do; yet
   upon occasion of a notable experiment that had like to have lost him
   his whole army at Dyrrachium, tells us the power of it in the third
   book of his Commentaries, De Bello Civili: "Fortuna quae plurimum
   potest, cum in aliis rebus, tum praecipue in bello, in parvis momentis
   magnas rerum mutationes efficit." Nay, and a greater than Caesar, even
   the Spirit of God himself, in Eccles. vi. 11, expressly declares, that
   the battle is not always to the strong. So that upon this account every
   warrior may in some sense be said to be a soldier of fortune; and the
   best commanders to have a kind of lottery for their work, as, amongst
   us, they have for their reward. For how often have whole armies been
   routed by a little mistake, or a sudden fear raised in the soldiers
   minds, upon some trivial ground or occasion!

   Sometimes the misunderstanding of a word has scattered and destroyed
   those who have been even in possession of victory, and wholly turned
   the fortune of the day. A spark of fire or an unexpected gust of wind
   may ruin a navy. And sometimes a false, senseless report has spread so
   far, and sunk so deep into the people's minds, as to cause a tumult,
   and that tumult a rebellion, and that rebellion has ended in the
   subversion of a government.

   And in the late war between the king and some of his rebel subjects,
   has it not sometimes been at an even cast, whether his army should
   march this way or that way? Whereas had it took that way, which
   actually it did not, things afterwards so fell out, that in very high
   probability of reason, it must have met with such success, as would
   have put an happy issue to that wretched war, and thereby have
   continued the crown upon that blessed prince's head, and his head upon
   his shoulders. Upon supposal of which event, most of those sad and
   strange alterations that have since happened would have been prevented;
   the ruin of many honest men hindered, the punishment of many great
   villains hastened, and the preferment of greater spoiled.

   Many passages happen in the world, much like that little cloud in 1
   Kings xviii. that appeared at first to Elijah's servant, no bigger than
   a man's hand, but presently after grew and spread, and blackened the
   face of the whole heaven, and then discharged itself in thunder and
   rain, and a mighty tempest. So these accidents, when they first happen,
   seem but small and contemptible; but by degrees they branch out, and
   widen themselves into such a numerous train of mischievous
   consequences, one drawing after it another, by a continued dependence
   and multiplication., that the plague becomes victorious and universal,
   and personal miscarriage determines in a national calamity.

   For who, that should view the small, despicable beginnings of some
   things and persons at first, could imagine or prognosticate those vast
   and stupendous increases of fortune that have afterwards followed them?

   Who, that had looked upon Agathocles first hand ling the clay, and
   making pots under his father, and afterwards turning robber, could have
   thought, that from such a condition, he should come to be king of
   Sicily?

   Who, that had seen Masianello, a poor fisherman, with his red cap and
   his angle, could have reckoned it possible to see such a pitiful thing,
   within a week after, shining in his cloth of gold, and with a word or a
   nod absolutely commanding the whole city of Naples?

   And who, that had beheld such a bankrupt, beggarly fellow as Cromwell,
   first entering the parliament house with a threadbare torn cloak, and a
   greasy hat, (and perhaps neither of them paid for,) could have
   suspected that in the space of so few years, he should, by the murder
   of one king, and the banishment of another, ascend the throne, be
   invested in the royal robes, and want nothing of the state of a king,
   but the changing of his hat into a crown?

   It is (as it were) the sport of the Almighty, thus to baffle and
   confound the sons of men by such events, as both cross the methods of
   their actings, and surpass the measure of their expectations. For
   according to both these, men still suppose a gradual natural progress
   of things; as that from great, things and persons should grow greater,
   till at length, by many steps and ascents, they come to be at greatest;
   not considering, that when Providence designs strange and mighty
   changes, it gives men wings instead of legs; and instead of climbing
   lei surely, makes them at once fly to the top and height of greatness
   and power. So that the world about them (looking up to those
   illustrious upstarts) scarce knows who or whence they were, nor they
   themselves where they are.

   It were infinite to insist upon particular instances; histories are
   full of them, and experience seals to the truth of history.

   In the next place, let us consider to what great purposes God directs
   these little casualties, with reference to particular persons; and
   those either public or private.

   1. And first for public persons, as princes. Was it not a mere
   accident, that Pharaoh's daughter met with Moses? Yet it was a means to
   bring him up in the Egyptian court, then the school of all arts and
   policy, and so to fit him for that great and arduous employment that
   God designed him to. For see upon what little hinges that great affair
   turned; for had either the child been cast out, or Pharaoh's daughter
   come down to the river but an hour sooner or later; or had that little
   vessel not been cast by the parents, or carried by the water, into that
   very place where it was, in all likelihood the child must have
   undergone the common lot of the other Hebrew children, and been either
   starved or drowned; or, however, not advanced to such a peculiar height
   and happiness of condition. That Octavius Caesar should shift his tent
   (which he had never used to do before) just that very night that it
   happened to be took by the enemy, was a mere casualty; yet such an one
   as preserved a person who lived to establish a total alteration of
   government in the imperial city of the world.

   But we need not go far for a prime preserved by as strange a series of
   little contingencies, as ever were managed by the art of Providence to
   so great a purpose.

   There was but an hair's breadth between him and certain destruction for
   the space of many days. For had the rebel forces pone one way rather
   than another, or come but a little sooner to his hiding-place, or but
   mistrusted something which they passed over, (all which things might
   very easily have happened;) we had not seen this face of things at this
   day; but rebellion had been still enthroned, perjury and cruelty had
   reigned, majesty had been proscribed, religion extinguished, and both
   church and state throughly reformed and ruined with confusions,
   massacres, and a total desolation.

   On the contrary, when Providence designs judgment or destruction to a
   prince, nobody knows by what little, unusual, unregarded means the
   fatal blow shall reach him. If Ahab be designed for death, though a
   soldier in the enemy's army draws a bow at a venture; yet the sure,
   unerring directions of Providence shall carry it in a direct course to
   his heart, and there lodge the revenge of Heaven.

   An old woman shall cast down a stone from a wall, and God shall send it
   to the head of Abimelech, and so sacrifice a king in the very head of
   his army.

   How many warnings had Julius Caesar of the fatal ides of March!
   Whereupon sometimes he resolved not to go to the senate, and sometimes
   again he would go; and when at length he did go, in his very passage
   thither, one put into his hand a note of the whole conspiracy against
   him, together with all the names of the conspirators, desiring him to
   read it forthwith, and to remember the giver of it as long as he lived.
   But continual salutes and addresses entertaining him all the way, kept
   him from saving so great a life, but with one glance of his eye upon
   the paper; till he came to the fatal place where he was stabbed, and
   died with the very means of preventing death in his hand.

   Henry the second of France, by a splinter, unhappily thrust into his
   eye at a solemn justing, was despatched and sent out of the world, by a
   sad, but very accidental death.

   In a word, God has many ways to reap down the grandees of the earth; an
   arrow, a bullet, a tile, a stone from an house, is enough to do it: and
   besides all these ways, sometimes, when he intends to bereave the world
   of a prince or an illustrious person, he may cast him upon a bold,
   self-opinioned physician, worse than his distemper, who shall dose and
   bleed, and kill him secundum artem, and make a shift to cure him into
   his grave.

   In the last place we will consider this directing influence of God,
   with reference to private persons; and that, as touching things of
   nearest concernment to them. As,

   1. Their lives.

   2. Their health. .

   3. Their reputation.

   4. Their friendships. And,

   5. And lastly, their employments or preferments. And first for men's
   lives. Though these are things for which nature knows no price or
   ransom; yet I appeal to universal experience, whether they have not, in
   many men, hung oftentimes upon a very slender thread, and the distance
   between them and death been very nice, and the escape wonderful. There
   have been some, who upon a slight, and perhaps groundless occasion,
   have gone out of a ship, or house, and the ship has sunk, and the house
   has fell immediately after their departure.

   He that, in a great wind, suspecting the strength of his house, betook
   himself to his orchard, and walking there, was knocked on the head by a
   tree, falling through the fury of a sudden gust, wanted but the advance
   of one or two steps, to have put him out of the way of that mortal
   blow.

   He that being subject to an apoplexy, used still to carry his remedy
   about him; but, upon a time, shifting his clothes, and not taking that
   with him, chanced, upon that very day, to be surprised with a fit, and
   to die in it, certainly owed his death to a mere accident, to a little
   inadvertency and failure of memory. But not to recount too many
   particulars: may not every soldier, that comes alive out of the battle,
   pass for a living monument of a benign chance, and a happy providence?
   For was he not in the nearest neighbourhood to death? And might not the
   bullet, that perhaps razed his cheek, have as easily gone into his
   head? And the sword that glanced upon his arm, with a little diversion
   have found the way to his heart? But the workings of Providence are
   marvellous, and the methods secret and untraceable, by which it
   disposes of the lives of men.

   In like manner, for men's health, it is no less wonderful to consider
   to what strange casualties many sick persons oftentimes owe their
   recovery. Perhaps an unusual draught or morsel, or some accidental
   violence of motion, has removed that malady, that for many years has
   baffled the skill of all physicians. So that, in effect,, he is the
   best physician that has the best luck; he prescribes, but it is chance
   that cures.

   That person that (being provoked by excessive pain) thrust his dagger
   into his body, and thereby, instead of reaching his vitals, opened an
   imposthume, the unknown cause of all his pain, and so stabbed himself
   into perfect health and ease, surely had great reason to acknowledge
   Chance for his chirurgeon, and Providence for the guider of his hand.

   And then also for men's reputation; and that either in point of wisdom
   or of wit. There is hardly any thing, which (for the most part) falls
   under a greater chance. If a man succeeds in any attempt, though
   undertook with never so much folly and rashness, his success shall
   vouch him a politician; and good luck shall pass for deep contrivance:
   for give any one fortune, and he shall be thought a wise man, in spite
   of his heart; nay, and of his head too. On the contrary, be a design
   never so artificially laid, and spun in the finest thread of policy, if
   it chances to be defeated by some cross accident, the man is then run
   down by an universal vogue; his counsels are derided, his prudence
   questioned, and his person despised.

   Ahithophel was as great an oracle, and gave as good counsel to Absalom,
   as ever he had given to David; but not having the good luck to be
   believed, and thereupon losing his former repute, he thought it high
   time to hang himself. And, on the other side, there have been some, who
   for several years have been fools with tolerable good reputation, and
   never discovered themselves to be so, till at length they attempted to
   be knaves also, but wanted art and dexterity.

   And as the repute of wisdom, so that of wit also, is very casual.
   Sometimes a lucky saying, or a pertinent reply, has procured an esteem
   of wit, to persons otherwise very shallow, and no ways accustomed to
   utter such things by any standing ability of mind; so that if such an
   one should have the ill hap at any time to strike a man dead with a
   smart saying, it ought, in all reason and conscience, to be judged but
   a chance-medley: the poor man (God knows) being no way guilty of any
   design of wit.

   Nay, even where there is a real stock of wit, yet the wittiest sayings
   and sentences will be found in a great measure the issues of chance,
   and nothing else but so many lucky hits of a roving fancy.

   For consult the acutest poets and speakers, and they will confess that
   their quickest and most admired conceptions were such as darted into
   their minds like sudden flashes of lightning, they knew not how, nor
   whence; and not by any certain consequence or dependence of one thought
   upon another, as it is in matters of ratiocination.

   Moreover, sometimes a man's reputation rises or falls as his memory
   serves him in a performance; and yet there is nothing more fickle,
   slippery, and less under command, than this faculty. So that many,
   having used their utmost diligence to secure a faithful retention of
   the things or words committed to it, yet after all cannot certainly
   know where it will trip, and fail them. Any sudden diversion of the
   spirits, or the justling in of a transient thought, is able to deface
   those little images of things; and so breaking the train that was laid
   in the mind, to leave a man in the lurch. And for the other part of
   memory, called reminiscence, which is the retrieving of a thing, at
   present forgot, or but confusedly remembered, by setting the mind to
   hunt over all its notions, and to ransack every little cell of the
   brain. While it is thus busied, how accidentally oftentimes does the
   thing sought for offer itself to the mind! And by what small, petit
   hints, does the mind catch hold of, and recover a vanishing notion!

   In short, though wit and learning are certain and habitual perfections
   of the mind, yet the declaration of them (which alone brings the
   repute) is subject to a thousand hazards. So that every wit runs
   something the same risk with the astrologer, who, if his predictions
   come to pass, is cried up to the stars from whence he pretends to draw
   them; but if not, the astrologer himself grows more out of date than
   his almanack.

   And then, in the fourth place, for the friendships or enmities that a
   man contracts in the world; than which surely there is nothing that has
   a more direct and potent influence upon the whole course of a man's
   life, whether as to happiness or misery; yet chance has the ruling
   stroke in them all.

   A man by mere peradventure lights into company, possibly is driven into
   an house by a shower of rain for present shelter, and there begins an
   acquaintance with a person; which acquaintance and endearment grows and
   continues, even when relations fail, and perhaps proves the support of
   his mind and of his fortunes to his dying day.

   And the like holds in enmities, which come much more easily than the
   other. A word unadvisedly spoken on the one side, or misunderstood on
   the other; any the least surmise of neglect; sometimes a bare gesture;
   nay, the very unsuitableness of one man's aspect to another man's
   fancy, has raised such an aversion to him, as in time has produced a
   perfect hatred of him; and that so strong and so tenacious, that it has
   never left vexing and troubling him, till perhaps at length it has
   worried him to his grave; yea, and after death too, has pursued him in
   his surviving shadow, exercising the same tyranny upon his very name
   and memory.

   It is hard to please men of some tempers, who in deed hardly know what
   will please themselves; and yet if a man does not please them, which it
   is ten thousand to one if he does, if they can but have power equal to
   their malice, (as sometimes, to plague the world, God lets them have,)
   such an one must expect all the mischief that power and spite, lighting
   upon a base mind, can possibly do him.

   In the last place. As for men's employments and preferments, every man
   that sets forth into the world, comes into a great lottery, and draws
   some one certain profession to act, and live by, but knows not the
   fortune that will attend him in it.

   One man perhaps proves miserable in the study of the law, who might
   have flourished in that of physic or divinity. Another runs his head
   against the pulpit, who might have been very serviceable to his country
   at the plough. And a third proves a very dull and heavy philosopher,
   who possibly would have made a good mechanic, and have done well enough
   at the useful philosophy of the spade or the anvil.

   Now let this man reflect upon the time when all these several callings
   and professions were equally offered to his choice, and consider how
   indifferent it was once for him to have fixed upon any one of them, and
   what little accidents and considerations cast the balance of his
   choice, rather one way than the other; and he will find how easily
   chance may throw a man upon a profession, which all his diligence
   cannot make him fit for.

   And then for the preferments of the world, he that would reckon up all
   the accidents that they depend upon, may as well undertake to count the
   sands, or to sum up infinity; so that greatness, as well as an estate,
   may, upon this account, be properly called a man's fortune, forasmuch
   as no man can state either the acquisition or preservation of it upon
   any certain rules: every man, as well as the merchant, being here truly
   an adventurer. For the ways by which it is obtained are various, and
   frequently contrary: one man, by sneaking and flattering, comes to
   riches and honour, (where it is in the power of fools to bestow them,)
   upon observation whereof, an other presently thinks to arrive to the
   same greatness by the very same means; but striving like the ass, to
   court his master, just as the spaniel had done before him, instead of
   being stroked and made much of, he is only rated off and cudgelled for
   all his courtship.

   The source of men's preferments is most commonly the will, humour, and
   fancy of persons in power; whereupon, when a prince or grandee
   manifests a liking to such a thing, such an art, or such a pleasure,
   men generally set about to make themselves considerable for such
   things, and thereby, through his favour, to advance themselves; and at
   length, when they have spent their whole time in them, and so are
   become fit for nothing else, that prince or grandee perhaps dies, and
   another succeeds him, quite of a different disposition, and inclining
   him to be pleased with quite different things. Whereupon these men's
   hopes, studies, and expectations, are wholly at an end. And besides,
   though the grandee whom they build upon should not die, or quit the
   stage, yet the same person does not always like the same things. For
   age may alter his constitution, humour, or appetite; or the
   circumstances of his affairs may put him upon different courses and
   counsels; every one of which accidents wholly alters the road to
   preferment. So that those who travel that road must be (like
   highwaymen) very dexterous in shifting the way upon every turn; and yet
   their very doing so sometimes proves the means of their being found
   out, understood, and abhorred; and for this very cause, that they are
   ready to do any thing, are justly thought fit to be preferred to
   nothing.

   Caesar Borgia (base son to pope Alexander VI.) used to boast to his
   friend Machiavel, that he had contrived his affairs and greatness into
   such a posture of firmness, that whether his holy father lived or died,
   they could not but be secure. If he lived, there could be no doubt of
   them; and if he died,, he laid his interest so as to overrule the next
   election as he pleased. But all this while, the politician never
   thought, or considered, that he might in the mean time fall dangerously
   sick, and that sickness necessitate his removal from the court, and
   during that his absence, his father die, and so his interest decay, and
   his mortal enemy be chosen to the papacy, as indeed it fell out. So
   that for all his exact plot, down was he cast from all his greatness,
   and forced to end his days in a mean condition: as it is pity but all
   such politic opiniators should.

   Upon much the like account, we find it once said of an eminent
   cardinal, by reason of his great and apparent likelihood to step into
   St. Peter's chair, that in two conclaves he went in pope, and came out
   again cardinal.

   So much has chance the casting voice in the disposal of all the great
   things of the world. That which men call merit, is a mere nothing. For
   even when persons of the greatest worth and merit are preferred, it is
   not their merit, but their fortune that prefers them. And then, for
   that other so much admired thing called policy, it is but little
   better. For when men have busied themselves, and beat their brains
   never so much, the whole result both of their counsels and their
   fortunes is still at the mercy of an accident. And therefore, whosoever
   that man was, that said, that he had rather have a grain of fortune
   than a pound of wisdom, as to the things of this life, spoke nothing
   but the voice of wisdom and great experience.

   And now I am far from affirming, that I have recounted all, or indeed
   the hundredth part of those casualties of human life, that may display
   the full compass of divine Providence; but surely, I have reckoned up
   so many, as sufficiently enforce the necessity of our reliance upon it,
   and that in opposition to two extremes, that men are usually apt to
   fall into.

   1. Too much confidence and presumption in a prosperous estate. David,
   after his deliverances from Saul, and his victories over all his
   enemies round about him, in Psalm xxx. ver. 7, 8, confesses, that this
   his prosperity had raised him to such a pitch of confidence, as to make
   him say, that lie should never be moved, God of his favour had made his
   hill so strong: but presently he adds, almost in the very same breath,
   Thou didst hide thy face, and I was troubled.

   The sun shines in his full brightness but the very moment before he
   passes under a cloud. Who knows what a day, what an hour, nay, what a
   minute may bring forth! He who builds upon the present, builds upon the
   narrow compass of a point; and where the foundation is so narrow, the
   superstructure cannot be high, and strong too.

   Is a man confident of his present health and strength? Why, an
   unwholesome blast of air, a cold, or a surfeit took by chance, may
   shake in pieces his hardy fabric; and (in spite of all his youth and
   vigour) send him, in the very flower of his years, pining and drooping,
   to his long home. Nay, he can not with any assurance, so much as step
   out of his doors, but (unless God commissions his protecting angel to
   bear him up in his hands) he may dash his foot against a stone, and
   fall, and in that fall breathe his last.

   Or is a man confident of his estate, wealth, and power? Why, let him
   read of those strange, unexpected dissolutions of the great monarchies
   and governments of the world. Governments that once made such a noise,
   and looked so big in the eyes of mankind, as being founded upon the
   deepest counsels and the strongest force; and yet, by some slight
   miscarriage or cross accident, (which let in ruin and desolation upon
   them at first,) are now so utterly extinct, that nothing remains of
   them but a name, nor are there the least signs or traces of them to be
   found, but only in story. When, I say, he shall have well reflected
   upon all this, let him see what security he can promise himself, in his
   own little personal domestic concerns, which at the best have but the
   protection of the laws, to guard and defend them, which, God knows, are
   far from being able to defend themselves.

   No man can rationally account himself secure, unless he could command
   all the chances of the world: but how should he command them, when he
   cannot so much as number them? Possibilities are as infinite as God's
   power; and whatsoever may come to pass, no man can certainly conclude
   shall not come to pass.

   People forget how little it is that they know, and how much less it is
   that they can do, when they grow confident upon any present state of
   things.

   There is no one enjoyment that a man pleases himself in, but is liable
   to be lost by ten thousand accidents, wholly out of all mortal power
   either to foresee or to prevent. Reason allows none to be confident,
   but Him only who governs the world, who knows all things, and can do
   all things, and therefore can neither be surprised nor overpowered.

   2. The other extreme, which these considerations should arm the heart
   of man against, is, utter despondency of mind in a time of pressing
   adversity.

   As he who presumes, steps into the throne of God; so he that despairs,
   limits an infinite power to a finite apprehension, and measures
   Providence by his own little, contracted model. But the contrivances of
   Heaven are as much above our politics, as beyond our arithmetic.

   Of those many millions of casualties, which we are not aware of, there
   is hardly one, but God can make an instrument of our deliverance. And
   most men, who are at length delivered from any great distress indeed,
   find that they are so, by ways that they never thought of; ways above
   or beside their imagination.

   And therefore let no man, who owns the belief of a providence, grow
   desperate or forlorn under any calamity or strait whatsoever; but
   compose the anguish of his thoughts, and rest his amazed spirits upon
   this one consideration, that he knows not which way the lot may fall,
   or what may happen to him; he comprehends not those strange
   unaccountable methods, by which Providence may dispose of him.

   In a word. To sum up all the foregoing discourse: since the interest of
   governments and nations, of princes and private persons, and that, both
   as to life and health, reputation and honour, friendships and enmities,
   employments and preferments, (notwithstanding all the contrivance and
   power that human nature can exert about them,) remain so wholly
   contingent, as to us; surely all the reason of mankind cannot suggest
   any solid ground of satisfaction, but in making that God our friend,
   who is the sole and absolute disposer of all these things: and in
   carrying a conscience so clear towards him, as may encourage us with
   confidence to cast ourselves upon him: and in all casualties still to
   promise ourselves the best events from his providence, to whom no thing
   is casual: who constantly wills the truest happiness to those that
   trust in him, and works all things according to the counsel of that
   blessed will.

   To whom be rendered and ascribed, as is most due, all praise, might,
   majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

  PREACHED AT WESTMINSTER-ABBEY,

  APRIL 30, 1676.
     __________________________________________________________________

   1 Cor. iii. 19.

   For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.

   THE wisdom of the world, so called by an Hebraism, frequent in the
   writings of this apostle, for worldly wisdom, is taken in scripture in
   a double sense.

   1. For that sort of wisdom that consists in speculation, called (both
   by St. Paul and the professors of it) philosophy; the great idol of the
   learned part of the heathen world, and which divided it into so many
   sects and denominations, as Stoics, Peripatetics, Epicureans, and the
   like; it was professed and owned by them for the grand rule of life,
   and certain guide to man's chief happiness. But for its utter
   insufficiency to make good so high an undertaking, we find it termed by
   the same apostle, Col. ii. 8. vain philosophy; and 1 Tim. vi. 20.
   science falsely so called; and a full account of its uselessness we
   have in this, 1 Cor. i. 21. where the apostle speaking of it, says,
   that the world by wisdom knew not God. Such a worthy kind of wisdom is
   it: only making men accurately and laboriously ignorant of what they
   were most concerned to know.

   2. The wisdom of this world is sometimes taken in scripture for such a
   wisdom as lies in practice, and goes commonly by the name of policy;
   and consists in a certain dexterity or art of managing business for a
   man's secular advantage: and so being in deed that ruling engine that
   governs the world, it both claims and finds as great a preeminence
   above all other kinds of knowledge, as government is above
   contemplation, or the leading of an army above the making of
   syllogisms, or managing the little issues of a dispute.

   And so much is the very name and reputation of it affected and valued
   by most men, that they can much rather brook their being reputed
   knaves, than for their honesty be accounted fools; as they easily may:
   knave, in the mean time, passing for a name of credit, where it is only
   another word for politician.

   Now this is the wisdom here intended in the text; namely, that
   practical cunning that shews itself in political matters, and has in it
   really the mystery of a trade, or craft. So that in this latter part of
   verse 19. God is said to take the wise in their own craftiness.

   In short, it is a kind of trick or sleight, got not by study, but
   converse, learned not from books, but men; and those also, for the most
   part, the very worst of men of all sorts, ways, and professions. So
   that if it be in truth such a precious jewel as the world takes it for,
   yet, as precious as it is, we see that they are forced to rake it out
   of dunghills; and accordingly, the apostle gives it a value suitable to
   its extract, branding it with the most degrading and ignominious
   imputation of foolishness. Which character running so cross to the
   general sense and vogue of mankind concerning it, who are still
   admiring, and even adoring it, as the mistress and queen regent of all
   other arts whatsoever, our business, in the following discourse, shall
   be to inquire into the reason of the apostle's passing so severe a
   remark upon it: and here, indeed, since we must allow it for an art,
   and since every art is properly an habitual knowledge of certain rules
   and maxims, by which a man is governed and directed in his actions, the
   prosecution of the words will most naturally lie in these two things.

   I. To shew what are those rules or principles of action, upon which the
   policy or wisdom here condemned by the apostle does proceed.

   II. To shew and demonstrate the folly and absurdity of them, in
   relation to God, in whose account they receive a very different
   estimate, from what they have in the world's.

   And first, for the first of these; I shall set down four several rules
   or principles, which that policy or wisdom, which carries so great a
   vogue and value in the world, governs its actions by.

   1. The first is, That a man must maintain a constant continued course
   of dissimulation, in the whole tenor of his behaviour. Where yet, we
   must observe, that dissimulation admits of a twofold acception. (1.) It
   may be taken for a bare concealment of one's mind: in which sense we
   commonly say, that it is prudence to dissemble injuries; that is, not
   always to declare our resentments of them; and this must be allowed not
   only lawful, but, in most of the affairs of human life, absolutely
   necessary: for certainly it can be no man's duty, to write his heart
   upon his forehead, and to give all the inquisitive and malicious world
   round about him a survey of those thoughts, which it is the prerogative
   of God only to know, and his own great interest to conceal. Nature
   gives every one a right to defend himself, and silence surely is a very
   innocent defence.

   (2.) Dissimulation is taken for a man's positive professing himself to
   be what indeed he is not, and what he resolves not to be; and
   consequently, it employs all the art and industry imaginable, to make
   good the disguise; and by false appearances to render its designs the
   less visible, that so they may prove the more effectual: and this is
   the dissimulation here meant, which is the very groundwork of all
   worldly policy. The superstructure of which being folly, it is but
   reason that the foundation of it should be falsity.

   In the language of the scripture it is damnable hypocrisy; but of those
   who neither believe scripture nor damnation, it is voted wisdom; nay,
   the very primum mobile, or great wheel, upon which all the various arts
   of policy move and turn: the soul, or spirit, which, as it were,
   animates and runs through all the particular designs and contrivances,
   by which the great masters of this mysterious wisdom turn about the
   world. So that he who hates his neighbour mortally, and wisely too,
   must profess all the dearness and friendship, all the readiness to
   serve him, (as the phrase now is,) that words and superficial actions
   can express.

   When he purposes one thing, he must swear and lie, and damn himself
   with ten thousand protestations, that he designs the clean contrary. If
   he really intends to ruin and murder his prince, (as Cromwell, an
   experienced artist in that perfidious and bloody faculty, once did,) he
   must weep and call upon God, use all the oaths and imprecations, all
   the sanctified perjuries, to persuade him that he resolves nothing but
   his safety, honour, and establishment, as the same grand exemplar of
   hypocrisy did before.

   If such persons project the ruin of church and state, they must appeal
   to God, the searcher of all hearts, that they are ready to sacrifice
   their dearest blood for the peace of the one, and the purity of the
   other.

   And now, if men will be prevailed upon so far, as to renounce the sure
   and impartial judgments of sense and experience, and to believe that
   black is white, provided there be somebody to swear that it is so; they
   shall not want arguments of this sort, good store, to convince them:
   there being knights of the post, and holy cheats enough in the world,
   to swear the truth of the broadest contradictions, and the highest
   impossibilities, where interest and pious frauds shall give them an
   extraordinary call to it.

   It is looked upon as a great piece of weakness and unfitness for
   business, forsooth, for a man to be so clear and open, as really to
   think, not only what he says, but what he swears; and when he makes any
   promise, to have the least intent of performing it, but when his
   interest serves instead of veracity, and engages him rather to be true
   to another, than false to himself. He only nowadays speaks like an
   oracle, who speaks tricks and ambiguities. Nothing is thought beautiful
   that is not painted: so that, what between French fashions and Italian
   dissimulations, the old, generous English spirit, which heretofore made
   this nation so great in the eyes of all the world round about it, seems
   utterly lost and extinct; and we are degenerated into a mean, sharking,
   fallacious, undermining way of converse; there being a snare and a
   trepan almost in every word we hear, and every action we see. Men speak
   with designs of mischief, and therefore they speak in the dark. In
   short, this seems to be the true, inward judgment of all our politic
   sages, that speech was given to the ordinary sort of men, whereby to
   communicate their mind; but to wise men, whereby to conceal it.

   2. The second rule or principle, upon which this policy, or wisdom of
   the world, does proceed, is, That conscience and religion ought to lay
   no restraint upon men at all, when it lies opposite to the prosecution
   of their interest.

   The great patron and coryphaeus of this tribe, Nicolas Machiavel, laid
   down this for a master rule in his political scheme, That the shew of
   religion was helpful to the politician, but the reality of it hurtful
   and pernicious. Accordingly, having shewn how the former part of his
   maxim has been followed by these men in that first and fundamental
   principle of dissimulation already spoken to by us; we come now to shew
   further, that they cannot with more art dissemble the appearance of
   religion, than they can with ease lay aside the substance.

   The politician, whose very essence lies in this, that he be a person
   ready to do any thing that he apprehends for his advantage, must first
   of all be sure to put himself into a state of liberty, as free and
   large as his principles: and so to provide elbowroom enough for his
   conscience to lay about, and have its full play in. And for that
   purpose, he must resolve to shake off all inward awe of religion, and
   by no means to suffer the liberty of his conscience to be enslaved, and
   brought under the. bondage of observing oaths, or the narrowness of
   men's opinions, about turpe et honestum, which ought to vanish, when
   they stand in competition with any solid, real good; that is, (in their
   judgment,) such as concerns eating, or drinking, or taking money.

   Upon which account, these children of darkness seem excellently well to
   imitate the wisdom of those children of light, the great illuminati of
   the late times, who professedly laid clown this as the basis of all
   their proceedings; That whatsoever they said or did for the present,
   under such a measure of light, should oblige them no longer, when a
   greater measure of light should give them other discoveries.

   And this principle, they professed, was of great use to them; as how
   could it be otherwise, if it fell into skilful hands? For since this
   light was to rest within them, and the judgment of it to remain wholly
   in themselves, they might safely and uncontrollably pretend it greater
   or less, as their occasions should enlighten them.

   If a man has a prospect of a fair estate, and sees way open to it, but
   it must be through fraud, violence, and oppression; if he see large
   preferments tendered him, but conditionally upon his doing base and
   wicked offices; if he sees he may crush his enemy, but that it must be
   by slandering, belying, and giving him a secret blow; and conscience
   shall here, according to its office, interpose, and protest the
   illegality and injustice of such actions, and the damnation that is
   expressly threatened to them by the word of God; the thorough-paced
   politician must presently laugh at the squeamishness of his conscience,
   and read it another lecture, and tell it, that just and unjust are but
   names grounded only upon opinion, and authorized by custom, by which
   the wise and the knowing part of the world serve themselves upon the
   ignorant and easy; and that, whatsoever fond priests may talk, there is
   no devil like an enemy in power, no damnation like being poor, and no
   hell like an empty purse; and therefore, that those courses, by which a
   man comes to rid himself of these plagues, are ipso facto prudent, and
   consequently pious: the former being, with such wise men, the only
   measure of the latter. And the truth is, the late times of confusion,
   in which the heights and refinements of religion were professed in
   conjunction with the practice of the most execrable villainies that
   were ever acted upon the earth; and the weakness of our church
   discipline since its restauration, whereby it has been scarce able to
   get any hold on men's consciences, and much less able to keep it; and
   the great prevalence of that atheistical doctrine of the Leviathan, and
   the unhappy propagation of Erastianism; these things, I say, with some
   others, have been the sad and fatal causes that have loosed the bands
   of conscience, and eaten out the very heart and sense of Christianity
   amongst us, to that degree, that there is now scarce any religious tie
   or restraint upon persons, but merely from those faint remainders of
   natural conscience, which God will be sure to keep alive upon the
   hearts of men, as long as they are men, for the great ends of his own
   providence, whether they will or no. So that, were it not for this sole
   obstacle, religion is not now so much in danger of being divided, and
   torn piecemeal by sects and factions, as of being at once devoured by
   atheism. Which being so, let none wonder, that irreligion is accounted
   policy, when it is grown even to a fashion; and passes for wit with
   some, as well as for wisdom with others. For certain it is, that
   advantage now sits in the room of conscience, and steers all: and no
   man is esteemed any ways considerable for policy, who wears religion
   otherwise than as a cloak; that is, as such a garment as may both cover
   and keep him warm, and yet hang loose upon him too.

   3. The third rule or principle, upon which this policy, or wisdom of
   the world, proceeds, is, That a man ought to make himself, and not the
   public, the chief, if not the sole end of all his actions. He is to be
   his own centre and circumference too: that is, to draw all things to
   himself, and to extend nothing beyond himself: he is to make the
   greater world serve the less; and not only, not to love his neighbour
   as himself, but indeed to account none for his neighbour but himself.

   And therefore, to die or suffer for his country, is not only exploded
   by him as a great paradox in politics, and fitter for poets to sing of,
   than for wise men to practise; but also, to make himself so much as one
   penny the poorer, or to forbear one base gain to serve his prince, to
   secure a whole nation, or to credit a church, is judged by him a great
   want of experience, and a piece of romantic melancholy, unbecoming a
   politician; who is still to look upon himself as his prince, his
   country, his church; nay, and his God too.

   The general interest of the nation is nothing to him, but only that
   portion of it, that he either does or would possess. It is not the rain
   that waters the whole earth, but that which falls into his own cistern,
   that must relieve him: not the common, but the enclosure, that must
   make him rich.

   Let the public sink or swim, so long as he can hold up his head above
   water: let the ship be cast away, if he may but have the benefit of the
   wreck: let the government be ruined by his avarice, if by the same
   avarice he can scrape together so much as to make his peace, and
   maintain him as well under another: let foreigners invade and spoil the
   land, so long as he has a good estate in bank elsewhere. Peradventure,
   for all this, men may curse him as a covetous wretch, a traitor, and a
   villain: but such words are to be looked upon only as the splendid
   declaimings of novices, and men of heat, who, while they rail at his
   person, perhaps envy his fortune: or possibly of losers and
   malecontents, whose portion and inheritance is a freedom to speak. But
   a politician must be above words. Wealth, he knows, answers all, and if
   it brings a storm upon him, will provide him also a coat to weather it
   out.

   That such thoughts and principles as these lie at the bottom of most
   men's actions; at the bottom, do I say? nay, sit at the top, and
   visibly hold the helm in the management of the weightiest affairs of
   most nations, we need not much history, nor curiosity of observation,
   to convince us: for though there have not been wanting such heretofore,
   as have practised these unworthy arts, (forasmuch as there have been
   villains in all places and all ages,) yet nowadays they are owned
   above-board; and whereas men formerly had them in design, amongst us
   they are openly vouched, argued, and asserted in common discourse.

   But this, I confess, being a new, unexemplified kind of policy, scarce
   comes up to that which the apostle here condemns for the wisdom of the
   world, but must pass rather for the wisdom of this particular age,
   which, as in most other things it stands alone, scorning the examples
   of all former ages, so it has a way of policy and wisdom also peculiar
   to itself.

   4. The fourth and last principle that I shall mention, upon which this
   wisdom of the world proceeds, is this:

   That in shewing kindness, or doing favours, no respect at all is to be
   had to friendship, gratitude, or sense of honour; but that such favours
   are to be done only to the rich or potent, from whom a man may receive
   a further advantage, or to his enemies, from whom he may otherwise fear
   a mischief.

   I have here mentioned gratitude, and sense of honour, being (as I may
   so speak) a man's civil conscience, prompting him to many things, upon
   the accounts of common decency, which religion would otherwise bind him
   to, upon the score of duty. And it is sometimes found, that some, who
   have little or no reverence for religion, have yet those innate seeds
   and sparks of generosity, as make them scorn to do such things as would
   render them mean in the opinion of sober and worthy men; and with such
   persons, shame is instead of piety, to restrain them from many base and
   degenerous practices.

   But now our politician having baffled his greater conscience, must not
   be nonplused with inferior obligations; and having leaped over such
   mountains, at length poorly lie down before a mole-hill: but he must
   add perfection to perfection; and being past grace, endeavour, if need
   be, to be past shame too. And accordingly, he looks upon friendship,
   gratitude, and sense of honour, as terms of art to amuse and impose
   upon weak, undesigning minds. For an enemy's money, he thinks, may be
   made as good a friend as any; and gratitude looks backward, but policy
   forward: and for sense of honour, if it impoverisheth a man, it is, in
   his esteem, neither honour nor sense.

   Whence it is, that nowadays, only rich men or enemies are accounted the
   rational objects of benefaction. For to be kind to the former is
   traffic; and in these times men present, just as they soil their
   ground, not that they love the dirt, but that they expect a crop: and
   for the latter, the politician well approves of the Indian's religion,
   in worshipping the devil, that he may do him no hurt; how much soever
   he hates him, and is hated by him.

   But if a poor, old, decayed friend or relation, whose purse, whose
   house and heart had been formerly free, and open to such an one, shall
   at length upon change of fortune come to him with hunger and rags,
   pleading his past services and his present wants, and so crave some
   relief of one, for the merit and memory of the other; the politician,
   who imitates the serpent's wisdom, must turn his deaf ear too, to all
   the insignificant charms of gratitude and honour, in behalf of such a
   bankrupt, undone friend, who having been already used, and now squeezed
   dry, is fit only to be cast aside. He must abhor gratitude as a worse
   kind of witchcraft, which only serves to conjure up the pale, meager
   ghosts of dead, forgotten kindnesses, to haunt and trouble him; still
   respecting what is past; whereas such wise men as himself, in such
   cases, account all that is past, to be also gone; and know, that there
   can be no gain in refunding, nor any profit in paying debts. The sole
   measure of all his courtesies is, what return they will make him, and
   what revenue they will bring him in. His expectations govern his
   charity. And we must not vouch any man for an exact master in the rules
   of our modern policy, but such an one as hath brought himself so far to
   hate and despise the absurdity of being kind upon free cost, as (to use
   a known expression) not so much as to tell a friend what it is a clock
   for nothing.

   And thus I have finished the first general head proposed from the text,
   and shewn some of those rules, principles, and maxims, that this wisdom
   of the world acts by: I say some of them, for I neither pretend nor
   desire to know them all.

   II. I come now to the other general head, which is, to shew the folly
   and absurdity of these principles in relation to God. In order to which
   we must observe that foolishness, being properly a man's deviation from
   right reason in point of practice, must needs consist in one of these
   two things:

   1. In his pitching upon such an end as is unsuitable to his condition;
   or,

   2. In his pitching upon means unsuitable to the compassing of his end.

   There is folly enough in either of these; and my business shall be to
   shew, that such as act by the forementioned rules of worldly wisdom,
   are eminently foolish upon both accounts.

   1. And first, for that first sort of foolishness imputable to them;
   namely, that a man, by following such principles, pitches upon that for
   his end which no ways suits his condition.

   Certain it is, and indeed self-evident, that the wisdom of this world
   looks no further than this world. All its designs and efficacy
   terminate on this side heaven, nor does policy so much as pretend to
   any more than to be the great art of raising a man to the plenties,
   glories, and grandeurs of the world. And if it arrives so far as to
   make a man rich, potent, and honourable, it has its end, and has done
   its utmost. But now that a man cannot rationally make these things his
   end, will appear from these two considerations.

   (1.) That they reach not the measure of his duration or being; the
   perpetuity of which surviving this mortal state, and shooting forth
   into the end less eternities of another world, must needs render a man
   infinitely miserable and forlorn, if he has no other comforts, but what
   he must leave behind him in this. For nothing can make a man happy, but
   that which shall last as long as he lasts. And all these enjoyments are
   much too short for an immortal soul to stretch itself upon, which shall
   persist in being, not only when profit, pleasure, and honour, but when
   time itself shall cease, and be no more.

   No man can transport his large retinue, his sumptuous fare, and his
   rich furniture into another world. Nothing of all these things can
   continue with him then, but the memory of them. And surely the bare
   remembrance that a man was formerly rich or great, cannot make him at
   all happier there, where an infinite happiness or an infinite misery
   shall equally swallow up the sense of these poor felicities. It may
   indeed contribute to his misery, heighten the anguish, and sharpen the
   sting of conscience, and so add fury to the everlasting flames, when he
   shall reflect upon the abuse of all that wealth and greatness that the
   good providence of God had put as a price into his hand for worthier
   purposes, than to damn his nobler and better part, only to please and
   gratify his worse. But the politician has an answer ready for all these
   melancholy considerations; that he, for his part, believes none of
   these things: as that there is either an heaven, or an hell, or an
   immortal soul. No, he is too great a friend to real knowledge, to take
   such troublesome assertions as these upon trust. Which if it be his
   belief, as no doubt it is, let him for me continue in it still, and
   stay for its confutation in another world; which if he can destroy by
   disbelieving, his infidelity will do him better service, than as yet he
   has any cause to presume that it can. But,

   (2.) Admitting, that either these enjoyments were eternal, or the soul
   mortal; and so, that one way or other they were commensurate to its
   duration; yet still they cannot be an end suitable to a rational
   nature, forasmuch as they fill not the measure of its desires. The
   foundation of all man's unhappiness here on earth, is the great
   disproportion between his enjoyments and his appetites; which appears
   evidently in this, that let a man have never so much, he is still
   desiring something or other more. Alexander, we know, was much troubled
   at the scantiness of nature itself, that there were no more worlds for
   him to disturb: and in this respect, every man living has a soul as
   great as Alexander, and put under the same circumstances, would own the
   very same dissatisfactions.

   Now this is most certain, that in spiritual natures, so much as there
   is of desire, so much there is also of capacity to receive. I do not
   say, there is always a capacity to receive the very thing they desire,
   for that may be impossible: but for the degree of happiness that they
   propose to themselves from that thing, this I say they are capable of.
   And as God is said to have made man after his own image, so upon this
   quality he seems peculiarly to have stampt the resemblance of his
   infinity. For man seems as boundless in his desires, as God is in his
   being; and therefore, nothing but God himself can satisfy him. But the
   great inequality of all things else to the appetites of a rational soul
   appears yet farther from this; that in all these worldly things, that a
   man pursues with the greatest eagerness and intention of mind
   imaginable, he finds not half the plea sure in the actual possession of
   them, that he proposed to himself in the expectation. Which shews, that
   there is a great cheat or lie which overspreads the world, while all
   things here below beguile men's expectations, and their expectations
   cheat their experience.

   Let this therefore be the first thing, in which the foolishness of this
   worldly wisdom is manifest. Namely, that by it a man proposes to
   himself an end wholly unsuitable to his condition; as bearing no
   proportion to the measure of his duration, or the vastness of his
   desires.

   2. The other thing, in which foolishness is seen, is a man's pitching
   upon means unsuitable to that which he has made his end.

   And here we will, for the present, suppose the things of the world to
   have neither that shortness nor emptiness in them, that we have indeed
   proved them to have. But that they are so adequate to all the concerns
   of an intelligent nature, that they may be rationally fixed upon by men
   as the ultimate

   I end of all their designs; yet the folly of this wisdom appears in
   this, that it suggests those means for the acquisition of these
   enjoyments, that are no ways fit to compass or acquire them, and that
   upon a double account.

   (1.) That they are in themselves unable and insufficient for, and,

   (2.) That they are frequently opposite to a successful attainment of
   them.

   (1.) And first for their insufficiency. Let politicians contrive as
   accurately, project as deeply, and pursue what they have thus contrived
   and projected, as diligently as it is possible for human wit and
   industry to do; yet still the success of all depends upon the favour of
   an overruling hand. For God expressly claims it as a special part of
   his prerogative, to have the entire disposal of riches, honours, and
   whatsoever else is apt to command the desires of mankind here below,
   Deut. viii. 18. If is Lord thy God that giveth thee power to get
   wealth. And in 1 Sam. ii. 30. God peremptorily declares himself the
   sole fountain of honour, telling is, that those that honour him shall
   be honoured, and that those that despise him shall be lightly esteemed.

   And then for dignities and preferments, we have the word of one, that
   could dispose of these things much as kings could do, Prov. xxix. 26.
   where he tells us, that many seek the ruler's favour: that is, apply
   themselves both to his interest and humour, with all the arts of
   flattery and obsequiousness, the surest and the readiest ways (one
   would think) to advance a man; and yet, after all, it follows in the
   next words, that every man's judgment cometh of the Lord. And that,
   whatsoever may be expected here, it is resolved only in the court of
   heaven, whether the man shall proceed favourite in the courts of
   princes, and after all his artificial attendance come to sit at the
   right hand, or be made a foot stool. So that upon full trial of all the
   courses that policy could either devise or practise, the most
   experienced masters of it have been often forced to sit down with that
   complaint of the disciples, We have toiled all night, and have caught
   nothing. For do we not sometimes see that traitors can be out of
   favour, and knaves be beggars, and lose their estates, and be stript of
   their offices, as well as honester men?

   And why all this? Surely not always for want of craft to spy out where
   their game lay, nor yet for want of irreligion to give them all the
   scope of ways lawful and unlawful, to prosecute their intentions; but,
   because the providence of God strikes not in with them, but dashes, and
   even dispirits all their endeavours, and makes their designs heartless
   and ineffectual. So that it is not their seeing this man, their belying
   another, nor their sneaking to a third, that shall be able to do their
   business, when the designs of Heaven will be served by their
   disappointment. And this is the true cause why so many politic
   conceptions, so elaborately formed and wrought, and grown at length
   ripe for delivery, do yet, in the issue, miscarry and prove abortive;
   for, being come to the birth, the all-disposing providence of God
   denies them strength to bring forth. And thus the authors of them,
   having missed of their mighty aims, are fain to retreat with
   frustration and a baffle; and having played the knaves unsuccessfully,
   to have the ill luck to pass for fools too.

   (2!.) The means suggested by policy and worldly wisdom, for the
   attainment of these earthly enjoyments, are unfit for that purpose, not
   only upon the account of their insufficiency for, but also of their
   frequent opposition and contrariety to, the accomplishment of such
   ends; nothing being more usual, than for these unchristian fishers of
   men to be fatally caught in their own nets: for does not the text
   expressly say, that God taketh the wise in their own craftiness? And
   has not our own experience sufficiently commented upon the text, when
   we have seen some by the very same ways, by which they had designed to
   rise uncontrollably, and to clear off all obstructions before their
   ambition, to have directly procured their utter downfall, and to have
   broke their necks from that very ladder, by which they had thought to
   have climbed as high as their father Lucifer; and there from the top of
   all their greatness to have looked down with scorn upon all below them?

   Such persons are the proper and lawful objects of derision, forasmuch
   as God himself laughs at them.

   Haman wanted nothing to complete his greatness but a gallows upon which
   to hang Mordecai; but it mattered not for whom he provided the gallows,
   when Providence designed the rope for him.

   With what contempt does the apostle here, in the 20th verse of this
   third chapter of the first epistle to the Corinthians, repeat those
   words of the psalmist, concerning all the fine artifices of worldly
   wisdom; The Lord, says he, knoweth the thoughts of the wise that they
   are vain. All their contrivances are but thin, slight, despicable
   things, and, for the most part, destructive of themselves; nothing
   being more equal in justice, and indeed more natural in the direct
   consequence and connection of effects and causes, than for men wickedly
   wise to outwit themselves, and for such as wrestle with Providence, to
   trip up their own heels.

   It is clear therefore, that the charge of this second sort of
   foolishness is made good upon worldly wisdom; for that having made men
   pitch upon an end unfit for their condition, it also makes them pitch
   upon means unfit to attain that end. And that both by reason of their
   inability for, and frequent contrariety to, the bringing about such
   designs.

   This, I say, has been made good in the general; but since particulars
   convince with greater life and evidence, we will resume the
   forementioned principles of the politician, and shew severally in each
   of them, how little efficacy they have to advance the practisers of
   them, to the things they aspire to by them.

   1. And first, for his first principle, That the politician must
   maintain a constant, habitual dissimulation. Concerning which I shall
   lay down this as certain; that dissimulation can be no further useful,
   than it is concealed; forasmuch as no man will trust a known cheat: and
   it is also as certain, that as some men use dissimulation for their
   interest, so others have an interest as strongly engaging them, to use
   all the art and industry they can to find it out; and to assure
   themselves of the truth or false hood of those with whom they deal,
   which renders it infinitely hard, if not morally impossible, for a man
   to carry on a constant course of dissimulation without discovery. And
   being once discovered, it is not only no help, but the greatest
   impediment of action in the world. For since man is but of a very
   limited, narrow power in his own person, and consequently can effect no
   great matter merely by his own personal strength, but as he acts in
   society and conjunction with others, without first engaging their
   trust; and moreover, since men will trust no further than they judge a
   person for his sincerity fit to be trusted, it follows that a
   discovered dissembler can achieve nothing great or considerable; for
   not being able to gain men's trust, he cannot gain their concurrence,
   and so is left alone to act singly, and upon his own bottom; and while
   that is the sphere of his activity, all that he can do must needs be
   contemptible. We know how successful the late usurper [20] was, while
   his army believed him real in his zeal against kingship. But when they
   found out the imposture, upon his aspiring to the same himself, he was
   presently deserted, and opposed by them, and never able to crown his
   usurped greatness with the addition of that title which he so
   passionately thirsted after. Add to this the judgment of as great an
   English author as ever wrote, with great confidence affirming, "that
   the ablest men that ever were, had all an openness and frankness of
   dealing; and that, if at any time such did dissemble, their
   dissimulation took effect, merely in the strength of that reputation
   they had gained by their veracity and clear dealing in the main." From
   all which it follows, that dissimulation can be of no further use to a
   man, than just to guard him within the compass of his own personal
   concerns; which yet may be more easily, and not less effectually done,
   by that silence and reservedness that every man may innocently
   practise, without the putting on of any contrary disguise.

   2. The politician's second principle was, That conscience, or religion,
   ought never to stand between any man and his temporal advantage. Which
   in deed is properly atheism; and, so far as it is practised, tends to
   the dissolution of society, the bond of which is religion. Forasmuch as
   a man's happiness or misery in his converse with other men depends
   chiefly upon their doing or not doing those things which human laws can
   take no cognizance of: such as are all actions capable of being done in
   secret, and out of the view of mankind, which yet have the greatest
   influence upon our neighbour, even in his nearest and dearest concerns.
   And if there be no inward sense of religion to awe men from the doing
   unjust actions, provided they can do them without discovery; it is
   impossible for any man to sit secure or happy in the possession of any
   thing that he enjoys. And this inconvenience the politician must expect
   from others, as well as they have felt from him, unless he thinks that
   he can engross this principle to his own practice, and that -others
   cannot be as false and atheistical as himself, especially having had
   the advantage of his copy to write after.

   3. The third principle was, That the politician ought to make himself,
   and not the public, the chief, if not the sole end of all that he does.

   But here we shall quickly find that the private spirit will prove as
   pernicious in temporals, as ever it did in spirituals. For while every
   particular member of the public provides singly and solely for itself,
   the several joints of the body politic do thereby separate and
   disunite, and so become unable to sup port the whole; and when the
   public interest once fails, let private interests subsist if they can,
   and prevent an universal ruin from involving in it particulars. It is
   not a man's wealth that can be sure to save him, if the enemy be wise
   enough to refuse part of it tendered as a ransom, when it is as easy
   for him to destroy the owner, and to take the whole. When the hand
   finds itself well warmed and covered, let it refuse the trouble. of
   feeding the mouth or guarding the head, till the body be starved or
   killed, and then we shall see how it will fare with the hand. The
   Athenians, the Romans, and all other nations that grew great out of
   little or nothing, did so merely by the public-mindedness of particular
   persons; and the same courses that first raised nations and governments
   must support them. So that, were there no such thing as religion,
   prudence were enough to enforce this upon all.

   For our own parts, let us reflect upon our glorious and renowned
   English ancestors, men eminent in church and state, and we shall find,
   that this was the method by which they preserved both.

   We have succeeded into their labours, and the fruits of them: and it
   will both concern and become us to succeed also into their principles.
   For it is no man's duty to be safe or to be rich; but I am sure, it is
   the duty of every one to make good his trust. And it is a calamity to a
   whole nation, that any man should have a place or an employment more
   large and public than his spirit.

   4. The fourth and last principle mentioned was, That the politician
   must not, in doing kindnesses, consider his friends, but only gratify
   rich men or enemies. Which principle (as to that branch of it relating
   to enemies) was certainly first borrowed and fetched up from the very
   bottom of hell; and uttered (no doubt) by particular and immediate
   inspiration of the devil. And yet (as much of the devil as it carries
   in it) it neither is nor can be more villainous and detestable, than it
   is really silly, senseless, and impolitic.

   But to go over the several parts of this principle; and to begin with
   the supposed policy of gratifying only the rich and opulent. Does our
   wise man think, that the grandee, whom he so courts, does not see
   through all the little plots of his courtship, as well as he himself?
   And so, at the same time, while he accepts the gift, laugh in his
   sleeve at the design, and despise the giver?

   But, for the neglect of friends, as it is the height of baseness, so it
   can never be proved rational, till we prove the person using it
   omnipotent and self-sufficient, and such as can never need any mortal
   assistance. But if he be a man, that is, a poor, weak creature, subject
   to change and misery, let him know, that it is the friend only that God
   has made for the day of adversity, as the most suitable and sovereign
   help that humanity is capable of. And those (though in highest place)
   who slight and disoblige their friends, shall infallibly come to know
   the value of them, by having none, when they shall most need them.

   That prince that maintains the reputation of a true, fast, generous
   friend, has an army always ready to fight for him, maintained to his
   hand without pay.

   As for the other part of this principle, that concerns the gratifying
   of enemies; it is (to say no more) an absurdity parallel to the former.
   For when a man shall have done all he can, given all he has, to oblige
   an enemy, he shall find, that he has armed him indeed, but not at all
   altered him.

   The scripture bids us pray for our enemies, and love our enemies, but
   no where does it bid us trust our enemies; nay, it strictly cautions us
   against it, Prov. xxvi. 25. When he speaketh thee fair, (says the
   text,) believe him not; for there are yet seven abominations in his
   heart: and, in good earnest, it would be a rarity worth the seeing,
   could any one shew us such a thing as a perfectly reconciled enemy. Men
   are generally credulous at first, and will not take up this great and
   safe truth at the cost of other men's experience, till they come to be
   bitten into a sense of it by their own; but are apt to take fair
   professions, fawning looks, treats, entertainments, visits, and such
   like pitiful stuff, for friendship and reconcilement, and so to admit
   the serpent into their bosom: but let them come once to depend upon
   this new made friend, or reconciled enemy, in any great or real concern
   of life, and they shall find him false as hell, and cruel as the grave.
   And I know nothing more to be wondered at, than that those
   reconcilements that are so difficult, and even next to impossible in
   the effect, should yet be so frequent in the attempt; especially since
   the reason of this difficulty lies as deep as nature itself; which,
   after it has done an injury, will for ever be suspicious; and I would
   fain see the man that can perfectly love the person whom he suspects.

   There is a noted story of Hector and Ajax, who having combated one
   another, ended that combat in a reconcilement, and testified that
   reconcilement by mutual presents: Hector giving Ajax a sword, and Ajax
   presenting Hector with a belt. The consequence of which was, that Ajax
   slew himself with the sword given him by Hector, and Hector was dragged
   about the walls of Troy by the belt given him by Ajax. Such are the
   gifts, such are the killing kindnesses of reconciled enemies.

   Confident men may try what conclusions they please, at their own peril;
   but let history be consulted, reason heard, and experience called in to
   speak impartially what it has found, and I believe they will all with
   one voice declare, that whatsoever the grace of God may do in the
   miraculous change of men's hearts; yet, according to the common methods
   of the world, a man may as well expect to make the devil himself his
   friend, as an enemy that has given him the first blow.

   And thus I have gone over the two general heads proposed from the
   words, and shewn both what those principles are, upon which this wisdom
   of the world does proceed; and also wherein the folly and absurdity of
   them does consist.

   And now into what can we more naturally improve the whole foregoing
   discourse, than into that practical inference of our apostle, in the
   verse before the text? that if any man desires the reputation of
   wisdom, lie should become a fool, that he may be wise; that is, a fool
   to the world, that he may be wise to God.

   Let us not be ashamed of the folly of being sincere, and without guile;
   without traps and snares in our converse; of being fearful to build our
   estates upon the ruin of our consciences; of preferring the public good
   before our own private emolument; and lastly, of being true to all the
   offices of friendship, the obligations of which are sacred, and will
   certainly be exacted of us by the great judge of all our actions. I
   say, let us not blush to be found guilty of all these follies, (as some
   account them,) rather than to be expert in that kind of wisdom, that
   God himself, the great fountain of wisdom, has pronounced to be
   earthly, sensual, devilish; and of the wretched absurdity of which, all
   histories, both ecclesiastical and civil, have given us such pregnant
   and convincing examples.

   Reflect upon Ahithophel, Haman, Sejanus, Caesar Borgia, and other such
   masters of the arts of policy, who thought they had fixed themselves
   upon so sure a bottom, that they might even defy and dare Providence to
   the face; and yet how did God bring an absolute disappointment, like
   one great blot, over all their fine, artificial contrivances!

   Every one of those mighty and profound sages coming to a miserable and
   disastrous end.

   The consideration of which, and the like passages, one would think,
   should make men grow weary of dodging and shewing tricks with God in
   their own crooked ways: and even force them to acknowledge it for the
   surest and most unfailing prudence, wholly to commit their persons and
   concerns to the wise and good providence of God, in the strait and open
   ways of his own commands.

   Who, we may be confident, is more tenderly concerned for the good of
   those that truly fear and serve him, than it is possible for the most
   selfish of men to be concerned for themselves: and who, in all the
   troubles and disturbances, all the cross, difficult, and perplexing
   passages that can fall out, will be sure to guide all to this happy
   issue; that all things shall work together for good to those that love
   God.

   To which God, infinitely wise, holy, and just, be rendered and
   ascribed, as is most due, all praise, might, majesty, and dominion,
   both now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [20] Cromwell.
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

  PREACHED AT CHRIST-CHURCH, OXON,

BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY,

  MAY 3, 1685.
     __________________________________________________________________

   2 Cor. viii. 12.

   For if there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that
   a man hath, and not according to that he hath not.

   IN dealing with men's consciences, for the taking them off from sin, I
   know nothing of so direct and efficacious an influence, as the right
   stating of those general rules and principles of action, that men are
   apt to guide their lives and consciences by: for if these be true, and
   withal rightly applied, men must needs proceed upon firm and safe
   grounds; but if either false in themselves, or not right in their
   particular application, the whole course that men are thereby engaged
   in, being founded in sin and error, must needs lead to, and at length
   end in, death and confusion: there being (as the wise man tells us) a
   way that may seem right in a man's own eyes, when, nevertheless, the
   end of that way is death.

   Now as amongst these principles or rules of action, the pretences of
   the Spirit, and of tenderness of conscience, and the like, have been
   the late grand artifices, by which crafty and designing hypocrites have
   so much abused the world; so I shall now instance in another of no less
   note, by which the generality of men are as apt to abuse themselves;
   and that is a certain rule or sentence got almost into every man's
   mouth, that God accepts the will for the deed. A principle (as usually
   applied) of less malice, I confess; but, considering the easiness, and
   withal the fatality of the delusion, of more mischief than the other.

   And this I shall endeavour to search into, and lay open, in the
   following discourse.

   The words hold forth a general rule or proposition delivered upon a
   particular occasion: which was the apostle's exhorting the Corinthians
   to an holy and generous emulation of the charity of the Macedonians, in
   contributing freely to the relief of the poor saints at Jerusalem: upon
   this great encouragement, that in all such works of charity, it is the
   will that gives worth to the oblation, and, as to God's acceptance,
   sets the poorest giver upon the same level with the richest. Nor is
   this all; but so perfectly does the value of all charitable acts take
   its measure and proportion from the will, and from the fulness of the
   heart, rather than that of the hand, that a lesser supply may be
   oftentimes a greater charity; and the widow's mite, in the balance of
   the sanctuary, outweigh the shekels, and perhaps the talents of the
   most opulent and wealthy: the all and utmost of the one, being
   certainly a nobler alms, than the superfluities of the other: and all
   this upon the account of the great rule here set down in the text:
   That, in all transactions between God and man, wheresoever there is a
   full resolution, drift, and purpose of will to please God, there, what
   a man can do, shall, by virtue thereof, be accepted, and what he cannot
   do, shall not be required. From whence these two propositions, in sense
   and design much the same, do naturally result.

   I. The first of them expressed in the words; to wit, that God accepts
   the will, where there is no power to perform.

   II. The other of them implied; namely, that where there is a power to
   perform, God does not accept the will.

   Of all the spiritual tricks and legerdemain, by which men are apt to
   shift off their duty, and to impose upon their own souls, there is none
   so common, and of so fatal an import, as these two; the plea of a good
   intention, and the plea of a good will.

   One or both of them being used by men, almost at every turn, to elude
   the precept, to put God off with something instead of obedience, and
   so, in effect, to outwit him whom they are called to obey. They are
   certainly two of the most effectual instruments and engines in the
   devil's hands, to wind and turn the souls of men by, to whatsoever he
   pleases. For,

   1. The plea of a good intention will serve to sanctify and authorize
   the very worst of actions. The proof of which is but too full and
   manifest, from that lewd and scandalous doctrine of the Jesuits
   concerning the direction of the intention, and likewise from the whole
   manage of the late accursed rebellion. In which, it was this insolent
   and impudent pretence, that emboldened the worst of men to wade through
   the blood of the best of kings, and the loyalest of subjects; namely,
   that in all that risk of villainy, their hearts, forsooth, were right
   towards God; and that all their plunder and rapine was for nothing
   else, but to place Christ on his throne, and to establish amongst us
   the power of godliness, and the purity of the gospel; by a further
   reformation (as the cant goes) of a church, which had but too much felt
   the meaning of that word before.

   But such persons consider not, that though an ill intention is
   certainly sufficient to spoil and corrupt an act in itself materially
   good; yet no good intention whatsoever can rectify or infuse a moral
   goodness into an act otherwise evil. To come to church, is, no doubt,
   an act in itself materially good; yet he who does it with an ill
   intention, comes to God's house upon the devil's errand; and the whole
   act is thereby rendered absolutely evil and detestable before God. But
   on the other side; if it were possible for a man to intend well, while
   he does ill; yet no such intention, though never so good, can make that
   man steal, lie, or murder with a good conscience; or convert a wicked
   action into a good.

   For these things are against the nature of morality; in which, nothing
   is or can be really good, with out an universal concurrence of all the
   principles and ingredients requisite to a moral action; though the
   failure of any one of them will imprint a malignity upon that act,
   which, in spite of all the other requisite ingredients, shall stamp it
   absolutely evil, and corrupt it past the cure of a good intention.

   And thus, as I have shewn, that the plea of a good intention is used by
   men to warrant and patronize the most villainous and wicked actions;
   so, in the next place, the plea of a good will will be found equally
   efficacious to supersede and take off the necessity of all holy and
   good actions. For still (as I have observed) the great art of the
   devil, and the principal deceit of the heart, is, to put a trick upon
   the command, and to keep fair with God himself, while men fall foul
   upon his laws. For both law and gospel call aloud for active obedience,
   and such a piety as takes not up either with faint notions, or idle,
   insignificant inclinations, but such an one as shews itself in the
   solid instances of practice and performance. For, Do this and live,
   saith the law, Luke x. 28. and, If ye know these things, happy are ye
   if ye do them, says the gospel, John xiii. 17. and, Not every one that
   saith, Lord, Lord, shall enter into the kingdom of heaven, but he that
   doeth the will of my Father which is in heaven, Matt. vii. 21. and, Let
   no man deceive you; he that doeth righteousness is righteous, 1 John
   iii. 7. with innumerable more such places. All of them terrible and
   severe injunctions of practice, and equally severe obligations to it.

   But then in comes the benign latitude of the doc trine of good will,
   and cuts asunder all these hard, pinching cords; and tells you, that if
   this be but piously and well inclined, if the bent of the spirit (as
   some call it) be towards God and goodness, God accepts of this above,
   nay, instead of all external works; those being but the shell, or husk,
   this the kernel, the quintessence, and the very soul of duty. But for
   all this, these bents and propensities and inclinations will not do the
   business: the bare bending of the bow will not hit the mark without
   shooting the arrow; and men are not called to will, but to work out
   their salvation.

   But what then? Is it not as certain from the text, that God sometimes
   accepts the will, as it is from those foremen turned scriptures, that
   God commands the deed? Yes, no doubt: since it is impossible for the
   Holy Ghost to contradict that in one place of scripture, which he had
   affirmed in another. In all the foregoing places, doing is expressly
   commanded, and no happiness allowed to any thing short of it; and yet
   here God is said to accept of the will; and can both these stand
   together without manifest contradiction? That which enjoins the deed is
   certainly God's law; and it is also as certain, that the scripture that
   allows of the will is neither the abrogation, nor derogation, nor
   dispensation, nor relaxation of that law.

   In order to the clearing of which, I shall lay down these two
   assertions.

   (1.) That every law of God commands the obedience of the whole man.

   (2.) That the will is never accepted by God, but as it is the obedience
   of the whole man.

   So that the allowance or acceptance of the will, mentioned in the text,
   takes off nothing from the obligation of those laws, in which the deed
   is so plainly and positively enjoined; but is only an interpretation or
   declaration of the true sense of those laws, shewing the equity of
   them: which is as really essential to every law, and gives it its
   obliging force as much as the justice of it; and indeed, is not an
   other, or a distinct thing from the justice of it, any more than a
   particular case is from an universal rule.

   But you will say, how can the obedience of the will ever be proved to
   be the obedience of the whole man?

   For answer to which, we are first to consider every man as a moral, and
   consequently as a rational agent; and then to consider, what is the
   office and influence of the will in every moral action. Now the
   morality of an action is founded in the freedom of that principle, by
   virtue of which, it is in the agent's power, having all things ready
   and requisite to the performance of an action, either to perform or not
   to perform it. And as the will is endued with this freedom, so is it
   also endued with a power to command all the other faculties, both of
   soul and body, to execute what it has so willed or decreed, and that
   without resistance; so that upon the last dictate of the will for the
   doing of such or such a thing, all the other faculties proceed
   immediately to act according to their respective offices. By which it
   is manifest, that in point of action, the will is virtually the whole
   man; as containing in it all that, which by virtue of his other
   faculties he is able to do: just as the spring of a watch is virtually
   the whole motion of the watch; forasmuch as it imparts a motion to all
   the wheels of it.

   Thus as to the soul. If the will bids the understanding think, study,
   and consider; it will accordingly apply itself to thought, study, and
   consideration. If it bids the affections love, rejoice, or be angry; an
   act of love, joy, or anger will follow. And then for the body; if the
   will bids the leg go, it goes; if it bids the hand do this, it does it.
   So that a man is a moral agent only, as he is endued with, and acts by
   a free and commanding principle of will.

   And therefore, when God says, My son, give me thy heart, (which there
   signifies the will,) it is as much as if he had commanded the service
   of the whole man; for whatsoever the will commands, the whole man must
   do: the empire or dominion of the will over all the faculties of soul
   and body (as to most of the operations of each of them) being
   absolutely overruling and despotical. From whence it follows, that when
   the will has exerted an act of command upon any faculty of the soul, or
   member of the body, it has, by so doing, done all that the whole man,
   as a moral agent, can do, for the actual exercise or employment of such
   a faculty or member. And if so, then what is not done in such a case,
   is certainly not in a man's power to do; and consequently, is no part
   of the obedience required of him: no man being commanded or obliged to
   obey beyond his power. And therefore, the obedience of the will to
   God's commands, is the obedience of the whole man, (forasmuch as it
   includes and infers it,) which was the assertion that we undertook to
   prove.

   But you will say, if the prerogative of the will be such, that where it
   commands the hand to give an alms, the leg to kneel, or to go to
   church, or the tongue to utter a prayer, all these things will in
   fallibly be done; suppose we now, a man be bound hand and foot by some
   outward violence, or be laid up with the gout, or disabled for any of
   these functions by a palsy; can the will, by its command, make a man in
   such a condition utter a prayer, or kneel, or go to church? No, it is
   manifest it cannot: but then you are to know also, that neither is
   vocal prayer, or bodily kneeling, or going to church, in such a case,
   any part of the obedience required of such a person: but that act of
   his will hitherto spoken of, that would have put his body upon all
   these actions, had there been no impediment, is that man's whole
   obedience; and for that very cause that it is so, and for no other, it
   stands here accepted by God.

   From all which discourse, this must naturally and directly be inferred,
   as a certain truth, and the chief foundation of all that can be said
   upon this subject: namely, that whosoever wills the doing of a thing,
   if the doing of it be in his power, he will certainly do it; and
   whosoever does not do that thing, which he has in his power to do, does
   not really and properly will it. For though the act of the will
   commanding, and the act of any other faculty of the soul or body
   executing that which is so commanded, be physically, and in the precise
   nature of things, distinct and several; yet morally, as they proceed in
   subordination, from one entire, free, moral agent, both in divinity and
   morality, they pass but for one and the same action.

   Now, that from the foregoing particulars we may come to understand how
   far this rule of God's accepting the will for the deed holds good in
   the sense of the apostle, we must consider in it these three things:

   1. The original ground and reason of it.

   2. The just measure and bounds of it: and,

   3. The abuse or misapplication of it.

   And first for the original ground and reason of this rule; it is
   founded upon that great, self-evident, and eternal truth, that the
   just, the wise, and good God neither does nor can require of man any
   thing that is impossible, or naturally beyond his power to do: and
   therefore, in the second place, the measure of this rule, by which the
   just extent and bounds of it are to be determined, must be that power
   or ability that man naturally has to do, or perform the things willed
   by him. So that where soever such a power is found, there this rule of
   God's accepting the will has no place; and wheresoever such a power is
   not found, there this rule presently becomes in force. And accordingly,
   in the third and last place, the abuse or misapplication of this rule
   will consist in these two things:

   1. That men do very often take that to be an act of the will, that
   really and truly is not so.

   2. That they reckon many things impossible that indeed are not
   impossible.

   And first, to begin with men's mistakes about the will, and the acts of
   it; I shall note these three, by which men are extremely apt to impose
   upon themselves.

   (1.) As first, the bare approbation of the worth and goodness of a
   thing, is not properly the willing of that thing; and yet men do very
   commonly account it so. But this is properly an act of the
   understanding or judgment; a faculty wholly distinct from the will; and
   which makes a principal part of that which in divinity we call natural
   conscience; and in the strength of which a man may approve of things
   good and excellent, without ever willing or intending the practice of
   them. And accordingly, the apostle, Rom. ii. 18. gives us an account of
   some who approved of things excellent, and yet practised, and
   consequently willed, things clean contrary; since no man can commit a
   sin, but he must will it first. Whosoever observes and looks into the
   workings of his own heart, will find that noted sentence, Video meliora
   proboque, deteriora sequor, too frequently and fatally verified upon
   himself. The viith of the Romans (which has been made the unhappy scene
   of so much controversy about these matters) has several passages to
   this purpose. In a word, to judge what ought to be done is one thing,
   and to will the doing of it is quite another.

   No doubt, virtue is a beautiful and a glorious thing in the eyes of the
   most vicious person breathing; and all that he does or can hate in it,
   is the difficulty of its practice: for it is practice alone that
   divides the world into virtuous and vicious; but otherwise, as to the
   theory and speculation of virtue and vice, honest and dishonest, the
   generality of mankind are much the same; for men do not approve of
   virtue by choice and free election; but it is an homage which nature
   commands all understandings to pay to it, by necessary determination;
   and yet after all, it is but a faint, unactive thing; for in defiance
   of the judgment, the will may still remain as perverse, and as much a
   stranger to virtue, as it was before. In fine, there is as much
   difference between the approbation of the judgment, and the actual
   volitions of the will, with relation to the same object, as there is
   between a man's viewing a desirable thing with his eye, and his
   reaching after it with his hand.

   (2.) The wishing of a thing is not properly the willing of it; though
   too often mistaken by men for such: but it is that which is called by
   the schools an imperfect velleity, and imports no more than an idle
   unoperative complacency in, and desire of the end, without any
   consideration of, nay, for the most part, with a direct abhorrence of
   the means; of which nature I account that wish of Balaam, in Numbers
   xxiii. 10. Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end
   be like his.

   The thing itself appeared desirable to him, and accordingly he could
   not but like and desire it; but then it was after a very irrational,
   absurd way, and contrary to all the methods and principles of a
   rational agent; which never wills a thing really and properly, but it
   applies to the means, by which it is to be acquired. But at that very
   time that Balaam desired to die the death of the righteous, he was
   actually following the wages of unrighteousness, and so thereby engaged
   in a course quite contrary to what he desired; and consequently such as
   could not possibly bring him to such an end. Much like the sot that
   cried, Utinam hoc esset laborare, while he lay lazing and lolling upon
   his couch.

   But every true act of volition imports a respect to the end, by and
   through the means; and wills a thing only in that way, in which it is
   to be compassed or effected; which is the foundation of that most true
   aphorism, That he who wills the end, wills also the means. The truth of
   which is founded in such a necessary connection of the terms, that I
   look upon the proposition, not only as true, but as convertible; and
   that, as a man cannot truly and properly will the end, but he must also
   will the means; so neither can he will the means, but he must
   virtually, and by interpretation at least, will the end. Which is so
   true, that in the account of the divine law, a man is reckoned to will
   even those things that naturally are not the object of desire; such as
   death itself, Ezek. xviii. 31. only be cause he wills those ways and
   courses, that naturally tend to and end in it. And even our own common
   law looks upon a man's raising arms against, or imprisoning his prince,
   as an imagining or compassing of his death: forasmuch as these actions
   are the means directly leading to it, and, for the most part, actually
   concluding in it: and consequently, that the willing of the one is the
   willing of the other also.

   To will a thing therefore, is certainly much another thing from what
   the generality of men, especially in their spiritual concerns, take it
   to be. I say, in their spiritual concerns; for in their temporal, it is
   manifest that they think and judge much otherwise; and in the things of
   this world, no man is allowed or believed to will any thing heartily,
   which he does not endeavour after proportionably. A wish is properly a
   man of desire, sitting, or lying still; but an act of the will, is a
   man of business vigorously going about his work: and certainly there is
   a great deal of difference between a man's stretching out his arms to
   work, and his stretching them out only to yawn.

   (3.) And lastly, a mere inclination to a thing is not properly a
   willing of that thing; and yet in matters of duty, no doubt, men
   frequently reckon it for such. For otherwise, why should they so often
   plead and rest in the goodness of their hearts, and the honest and well
   inclined disposition of their minds, when they are justly charged with
   an actual non-performance of what the law requires of them?

   But that an inclination to a thing is not a willing of that thing, is
   irrefragably proved by this one argument, that a man may act virtuously
   against his inclination, but not against his will. He may be inclined
   to one thing, and yet will another; and therefore, inclination and will
   are not the same.

   For a man may be naturally inclined to pride, lust, anger, and strongly
   inclined so too, (forasmuch as these inclinations are founded in a
   peculiar crasis and constitution of the blood and spirits,) and yet by
   a steady, frequent repetition of the contrary acts of humility,
   chastity, and meekness, carried thereto by his will, (a principle not
   to be controlled by the blood or spirits,) he may at length plant in
   his soul all those contrary habits of virtue: and therefore it is
   certain, that while inclination bends the soul one way, a well-disposed
   and resolved will may effectually draw it another. A sufficient
   demonstration, doubtless, that they are two very different things; for
   where there may be a contrariety, there is certainly a diversity. A
   good inclination is but the first rude draught of virtue; but the
   finishing strokes are from the will; which, if well-disposed, will by
   degrees perfect; if ill-disposed, will, by the super-induction of ill
   habits, quickly deface it.

   God never accepts a good inclination, instead of a good action, where
   that action may be done; nay, so much the contrary, that if a good
   inclination be not seconded by a good action, the want of that action
   is thereby made so much the more criminal and in excusable.

   A man may be naturally well and virtuously inclined, and yet never do
   one good or virtuous action all his life. A bowl may lie still for all
   its bias; but it is impossible for a man to will virtue and virtuous
   actions heartily, but he must in the same degree offer at the practice
   of them: forasmuch as the dictates of the will are (as we have shewn)
   despotical, and command the whole man. It being a contradiction in
   morality, for the will to go one way, and the man another.

   And thus as to the first abuse or misapplication of the great rule
   mentioned in the text, about God's accepting the will, I have shewn
   three notable mistakes, which men are apt to entertain concerning the ;
   and proved that neither a bare approbation of, nor a mere wishing, or
   unactive complacency in, nor lastly, a natural inclination things
   virtuous and good, can pass before God for a man's willing of such
   things; and consequently, if men upon this account will needs take up
   and acquiesce in an airy, ungrounded persuasion, that they will those
   things which really they do not will, they fall thereby into a gross
   and fatal delusion: a delusion that must and will shut the door of
   salvation against them. They catch at heaven, but embrace a cloud; they
   mock God, who will not be mocked; and deceive their own souls, which,
   God knows, may too easily be both deceived and destroyed too.

   2. Come we now in the next place to consider the other way, by which
   men are prone to abuse and pervert this important rule of God's
   accounting the will for the deed ; and that is, by reckoning many
   things impossible, which in truth are not impossible.

   And this I shall make appear by shewing some of the principal instances
   of duty, for the performance of which, men commonly plead want of
   power; and thereupon persuade themselves, that God and the law rest
   satisfied with their will.

   Now these instances are four.

   (1.) In duties of very great and hard labour. Labour is confessedly a
   great part of the curse; and therefore, no wonder, if men fly from it:
   which they do with so great an aversion, that few men know their own
   strength for want of trying it; and, upon that account, think
   themselves really unable to do many things, which experience would
   convince them, they have more ability to effect, than they have will to
   attempt.

   It is idleness that creates impossibilities; and, where men care not to
   do a thing, they shelter themselves under a persuasion, that it cannot
   be done. The shortest and the surest way to prove a work possible, is
   strenuously to set about it; and no wonder, if that proves it possible,
   that, for the most part, makes it so.

   Dig, says the unjust steward, I cannot. But why? Did either his legs or
   his arms fail him? No; but day-labour was but an hard and a dry kind of
   livelihood to a man that could get an estate with two or three strokes
   of his pen; and find so great a treasure as he did, without digging for
   it.

   But such excuses will not pass muster with God, who will allow no man's
   humour or idleness to be the measure of possible or impossible. And to
   manifest the wretched hypocrisy of such pretences, those very things,
   which upon the bare obligation of duty are declined by men as
   impossible, presently become not only possible, but readily practicable
   too, in a case of extreme necessity. As no doubt that forementioned
   instance of fraud and laziness, the unjust steward, who pleaded that he
   could neither dig nor beg, would quickly have been brought both to dig
   and to beg too, rather than starve. And if so, what reason could such
   an one produce before God, why he could not submit to the same
   hardships, rather than cheat and lie? The former being but destructive
   of the body, this latter of the soul: and certainly the highest and
   dearest concerns of a temporal life are infinitely less valuable than
   those of an eternal; and consequently ought, without any demur at all,
   to be sacrificed to them, whensoever they come in competition with
   them. He who can digest any labour, rather than die, must refuse no
   labour, rather than sin.

   (2.) The second instance shall be in duties of great and apparent
   danger. Danger (as the world goes) generally absolves from duty: this
   being a case in which most men, according to a very ill sense, will
   needs be a law to themselves. And where it is not safe for them to be
   religious, their religion shall be to be safe. But Christianity teaches
   us a very different lesson: for if fear of suffering could take off the
   necessity of obeying, the doctrine of the cross would certainly be a
   very idle and a senseless thing; and Christ would never have prayed,
   Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me, had the
   bitterness of the draught made it impossible to be drunk of. If death
   and danger are things that really cannot be endured, no man could ever
   be obliged to suffer for his conscience, or to die for his religion; it
   being altogether as absurd, to imagine a man obliged to suffer, as to
   do impossibilities.

   But those primitive heroes of the Christian church could not so easily
   blow off the doctrine of passive obedience, as to make the fear of
   being passive a discharge from being obedient. No, they found martyrdom
   not only possible, but in many cases a duty also; a duty dressed up
   indeed with all that was terrible and afflictive to human nature, yet
   not at all the less a duty for being so. And such an height of
   Christianity possessed those noble souls, that every martyr could keep
   one eye steadily fixed upon his duty, and look death and danger out of
   countenance with the other: nor did they flinch from duty for fear of
   martyrdom, when one of the most quickening motives to duty was their
   desire of it.

   But to prove the possibility of a thing, there is no argument like to
   that which looks backwards; for what has been done or suffered, may
   certainly be done or suffered again. And to prove that men may be
   martyrs, there needs no other demonstration, than to shew that many
   have been so. Besides that the grace of God has not so far abandoned
   the Christian world, but that those high primitive in stances of
   passive fortitude in the case of duty and danger rivalling one another,
   have been exemplified and (as it were) revived by several glorious
   copies of them in the succeeding ages of the church.

   And (thanks be to God) we need not look very far backward for some of
   them, even amongst our selves. For when a violent, victorious faction
   and rebellion had overrun all, and made loyalty to the king and
   conformity to the church crimes unpardonable, and of a guilt not to be
   expiated, but at the price of life or estate; when men were put to
   swear away all interest in the next world, to secure a very poor one in
   this; (for they had then oaths to murder souls, as well as sword and
   pistol for the body; nay,) when the persecution ran so high, that that
   execrable monster Cromwell made and published that barbarous,
   heathenish, or rather inhuman edict against the poor suffering
   episcopal clergy, That they should neither preach nor pray in public,
   nor baptize, nor marry, nor bury, nor teach school, no, nor so much as
   live in any gentleman's house, who in mere charity and compassion might
   be inclined to take them in from perishing in the streets; that is, in
   other words, that they must starve and die ex officio, and being turned
   out of their churches, take possession only of the church yard, as so
   many victims to the remorseless rage of a foul, ill bred tyrant,
   professing piety without so much as common humanity: I say, when rage
   and persecution, cruelty and Cromwellism were at that diabolical pitch,
   tyrannizing over every thing that looked like loyalty, conscience, and
   conformity; so that he, who took not their engagement, could not take
   any thing else, though it were given him; being thereby debarred from
   the very common benefit of the law, in suing for or recovering of his
   right in any of their courts of justice, (all of them still following
   the motion of the high one;) yet even then, and under that black and
   dismal state of things, there were many thousands who never bowed the
   knee to Baal-Cromwell, Baal-covenant, or Baal-engagement; but with a
   steady, fixed, unshaken resolution, and in a glorious imitation of
   those heroic Christians in the tenth and eleventh chapters of the
   epistle to the Hebrews, endured a great fight of afflictions, were made
   a gazing-stock by reproaches, took joyfully the spoiling of their
   goods, had trial of cruel mockings; moreover of bonds and
   imprisonments; sometimes were tempted, sometimes were slain with the
   sword, wandered about in hunger and nakedness, being destitute,
   afflicted, tormented. All which sufferings surely ought to entitle them
   to that concluding character in the next words, of whom the world was
   not worthy. And I wish I could say of England, that it. were worthy of
   those men now. For I look upon the old church of Eng land royalists
   (which I take to be only another name for a man who prefers his
   conscience before his interest) to be the best Christians and the most
   meritorious subjects in the world; as having passed all those terrible
   tests and trials, which conquering, domineering malice could put them
   to, and carried their credit and their conscience clear and triumphant
   through, and above them all, constantly firm and immoveable, by all
   that they felt either from their professed enemies or their false
   friends. And what these men did and suffered, others might have done
   and suffered too.

   But they, good men, had another and more artificial sort of conscience,
   and a way to interpret off a command, where they found it dangerous or
   unprofitable to do it.

   "God knows my heart, (says one,) I love the king cordially: and I wish
   well to the church, (says another,) but you see the state of things is
   altered; and we cannot do what we would do. Our will is good, and the
   king gracious, and we hope he "will accept of this, and dispense with
   the rest." A goodly present, doubtless, as they meant it; and such as
   they might freely give, and yet part with nothing; and the king, on the
   other hand, receive, and gain just as much.

   But now, had the whole nation mocked God and their king at this
   shuffling, hypocritical rate, what an odious, infamous people must that
   rebellion have represented the English to all posterity? Where had been
   the honour of the reformed religion, that could not afford a man
   Christian enough to suffer for his God and his prince? But the old
   royalists did both, and thereby demonstrated to the world, that no
   danger could make duty impossible.

   And, upon my conscience, if we may assign any other reason or motive of
   the late mercies of God to these poor kingdoms, besides his own
   proneness to shew mercy, it was for the sake of the old, suffering
   cavaliers, and for the sake of none else whatsoever, that God delivered
   us from the two late accursed conspiracies. For they were the brats and
   off spring of two contrary factions, both of them equally mortal and
   inveterate enemies of our church; which they have been, and still are,
   perpetually pecking and striking at, with the same malice, though with
   different methods.

   In a word: the old, tried church of England royalists were the men,
   who, in the darkest and foulest day of persecution that ever befell
   England, never pleaded the will in excuse of the deed, but proved the
   integrity and loyalty of their wills, both by their deeds and their
   sufferings too.

   But, on the contrary, when duty and danger stand confronting one
   another, and when the law of God says, Obey and assist your king; and
   the faction says, Do if you dare: for men, in such a case, to think to
   divide themselves, and to pretend that their will obeys that law, while
   all besides their will obeys and serves the faction; what is this but a
   gross fulsome juggling with their duty, and a kind of trimming it
   between God and the devil?

   These things I thought fit to remark to you, not out of any intemperate
   humour of reflecting upon the late times of confusion, (as the guilt or
   spite of some may suggest,) but because I am satisfied in my heart and
   conscience, that it is vastly the concern of his majesty, and of the
   peace of his government, both in church and state, that the youth of
   the nation (of which such auditories as this chiefly consist) should be
   principled and possessed with a full, fixed, and thorough persuasion of
   the justness and goodness of the blessed old king's cause; and of the
   excellent piety and Christianity of those principles, upon which the
   loyal part of the nation adhered to him, and that against the most
   horrid and inexcusable rebellion that was ever set on foot, and acted
   upon the stage of the world: of all which, whosoever is not persuaded,
   is a rebel in his heart, and deserves not the protection which he
   enjoys.

   And the rather do I think such remarks as these necessary of late
   years, because of the vile arts and restless endeavours used by some
   sly and venomous factors for the old republican cause, to poison and
   debauch men from their allegiance; sometimes creeping into houses, and
   sometimes creeping into studies; but in both equally pimping for the
   faction, and stealing away as many hearts from the son, as they had
   formerly employed hands against the father. And this with such success,
   that it cannot but be matter of very sad and melancholy reflection to
   all sober and loyal minds, to consider, that several who had stood it
   out, and persevered firm and unalterable royalists in the late storm,
   have since (I know not by what unhappy fate) turned trimmers in the
   calm.

   (3.) The third instance, in which men use to plead the will instead of
   the deed, shall be in duties of cost and expense.

   Let a business of expensive charity be proposed; and then, as I shewed
   before, that, in matters of labour, the lazy person could find no hands
   where with to work; so neither, in this case, can the religious miser
   find any hands wherewith to give. It is wonderful to consider, how a
   command, or call to be liberal, either upon a civil or religious
   account, all of a sudden impoverishes the rich, breaks the merchant,
   shuts up every private man's exchequer, and makes those men in a minute
   have nothing at all to give, who, at the very same instant, want
   nothing to spend. So that instead of relieving the poor, such a command
   strangely increases their number, and transforms rich men into beggars
   presently. For, let the danger of their prince and country knock at
   their purses, and call upon them to contribute against a public enemy
   or calamity; then immediately they have nothing, and their riches upon
   such occasions (as Solomon expresses it) never fail to make themselves
   wings, and to fly away. ,

   Thus, at the siege of Constantinople, then the wealthiest city in the
   world, the citizens had nothing to give their emperor for the defence
   of the place, though he begged a supply of them with tears; but, when
   by that means the Turks took and sacked it, then those who before had
   nothing to give, had more than enough to lose. And in like manner,
   those who would not support the necessities of the old blessed king,
   against his villainous enemies, found that plunder could take, where
   disloyalty would not give; and rapine open those chests, that avarice
   had shut.

   But to descend to matters of daily and common occurrence; what is more
   usual in conversation, than for men to express their unwillingness to
   do a thing, by saying they cannot do it; and for a covetous man, being
   asked a little money in charity, to answer that he has none? Which, as
   it is, if true, a sufficient answer to God and man; so, if false, it is
   intolerable hypocrisy towards both.

   But do men in good earnest think that God will be put off so? or can
   they imagine, that the law of God will be baffled with a lie clothed in
   a scoff?

   For such pretences are no better, as appears from that notable account
   given us by the apostle of this windy, insignificant charity of the
   will, and of the worthlessness of it, not enlivened by deeds, James ii.
   15, 16. If a brother or sister be naked, and destitute of daily food,
   and one of you say unto them. Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled;
   notwithstanding ye give them not those things which are needful to the
   body; what doth it profit? Profit, does he say? Why, it profits just as
   much as fair words command the market, as good wishes buy food and
   raiment, and pass for current payment in the shops. Come to an old,
   rich, professing vulpony, and tell him, that there is a church to be
   built, beautified, or endowed in such a place, and that he cannot lay
   out his money more to God's honour, the public good, and the comfort of
   his own conscience, than to bestow it liberally upon such an occasion;
   and in answer to this, it is ten to one but you shall be told, "how
   much God is for the inward, spiritual worship of the heart; and, that
   the Almighty neither dwells nor delights in temples made with hands;
   but hears and accepts the prayers of his people in dens and caves,
   barns and stables; and in the homeliest and meanest cottages, as well
   as in the stateliest and most magnificent churches." Thus, I say, you
   are like to be answered. In reply to which, I would have all such sly,
   sanctified cheats (who are so often harping upon this string) know,
   once for all, that that God, who accepts the prayers of his people in
   dens and caves, barns and stables, when, by his afflicting providence,
   he has driven them from the appointed places of his solemn worship, so
   that they cannot have the use of them, will not, for all this, endure
   to be served or prayed to by them in such places, nor accept of their
   barn-worship, nor their hogsty-worship; no, nor yet of their parlour or
   their chamber-worship, where he has given them both wealth and power to
   build him churches. For he that commands us to worship him in the
   spirit, commands us also to honour him with our substance. And, never
   pretend that thou hast an heart to pray, while thou hast no heart to
   give; since he that serves mammon with his estate, cannot possibly
   serve God with his heart. For as in the heathen worship of God, a
   sacrifice without an heart was accounted ominous; so in the Christian
   worship of him, an heart without a sacrifice is worthless and
   impertinent.

   And thus much for men's pretences of the will, when they are called
   upon to give upon a religious account; according to which, a man may be
   well enough said (as the common word is) to be all heart, and yet the
   arrantest miser in the world.

   But come we now to this old rich pretender to godliness, in another
   case, and tell him, that there is such an one, a man of a good family,
   good education, and who has lost all his estate for the king, now ready
   to rot in prison for debt; come, what will you give towards his
   release? Why, then answers the will instead of the deed, as much the
   readier speaker of the two, "the truth is, I always had a respect for
   such men; I love them with all my heart; and it is a thousand pities
   that any that have served the king so faithfully should be in such
   want." So say I too, and the more shame is it for the whole nation,
   that they should be so. But still, what will you give? Why, then
   answers the man of mouth-charity again, and tells you, that "you could
   not come in a worse time; that money is nowadays very scarce with him;
   and, that therefore he can give nothing; but he will be sure to pray
   for the poor gentleman."

   Ah thou hypocrite! when thy brother has lost all that ever he had, and
   lies languishing, and even gasping under the utmost extremities of
   poverty and distress, dost thou think thus to lick him whole again,
   only with thy tongue? Just like that old formal hocus, who denied a
   beggar a farthing, and put him off with his blessing.

   Why, what are the prayers of a covetous wretch worth? What will thy
   blessing go for? What will it buy? Is this the charity that the apostle
   here, in the text, presses upon the Corinthians? This the case, in
   which God accepts the willingness of the mind, instead of the
   liberality of the purse? No assuredly, but the measures that God marks
   out to thy charity are these: thy superfluities must give place to thy
   neighbour's great convenience: thy convenience must veil to thy
   neighbour's necessity: and lastly, thy very necessities must yield to
   thy neighbour's extremity.

   This is the gradual process that must be thy rule; and he that pretends
   a disability to give short of this, prevaricates with his duty, and
   evacuates the precept. God sometimes calls upon thee to relieve the
   needs of thy poor brother, sometimes the necessities of thy country,
   and sometimes the urgent wants of thy prince: now, before thou fliest
   to the old, stale, usual pretence, that thou canst do none of all these
   things, consider with thyself, that there is a God, who is not to be
   flammed off with lies, who knows exactly what thou canst do, and what
   thou canst not; and consider in the next place, that it is not the best
   husbandry in the world, to be damned to save charges.

   (4.) The fourth and last duty that I shall mention, in which men use to
   plead want of power to do the thing they have a will to, is the
   conquering of a long, inveterate, ill habit or custom.

   And the truth is, there is nothing that leaves a man less power to good
   than this does. Nevertheless, that which weakens the hand, does not
   therefore cut it off. Some power to good, no doubt, a man has left him
   for all this. And therefore, God will not take the drunkard's excuse,
   that he has so long accustomed himself to intemperate drinking, that
   now he cannot leave it off; nor admit of the passionate man's apology,
   that he has so long given his unruly passions their head, that he
   cannot now govern or control them. For these things are not so: since
   no man is guilty of an act of intemperance of any sort, but he might
   have forborn it; not without some trouble, I confess, from the
   strugglings of the contrary habit: but still the thing was possible to
   be done; and he might, after all, have forborn it. And, as he forbore
   one act, so he might have for born another, and after that another, and
   so on, till he had, by degrees, weakened, and, at length, mortified and
   extinguished the habit itself. That these things, indeed, are not
   quickly or easily to be effected, is manifest, and nothing will be more
   readily granted; and therefore, the scripture itself owns so much, by
   expressing and representing these mortifying courses, by acts of the
   greatest toil and labour; such as are, warfare, and taking up the
   cross: and by acts of the most terrible violence and contrariety to
   nature; such as are, cutting off the right hand, and plucking out the
   right eye; things infinitely grievous and afflictive, yet still, for
   all that, feasible in themselves; or else, to be sure, the eternal
   wisdom of God would never have advised, and much less have commanded
   them. For, what God has commanded must be done; and what must be done,
   assuredly may be done; and therefore, all pleas of impotence, or
   inability, in such cases, are utterly false and impertinent; and will
   infallibly be thrown back in the face of such as make them.

   But you will say, Does not the scripture itself acknowledge it as a
   thing impossible for a man, brought under a custom of sin, to forbear
   sinning? In Jer. xiii. 23. Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the
   leopard his spots? then may ye also do good, that are accustomed to do
   evil. Now, if this can be no more done than the former, is it not a
   demonstration, that it cannot be done at all?

   To this I answer, that the words mentioned are tropical or figurative,
   and import an hyperbole, which is a way of expressing things beyond
   what really and naturally they are in themselves; and consequently the
   design of this scripture, in saying that this cannot be done, is no
   more than to shew, that it is very hardly and very rarely done; but
   not, in strict truth, utterly impossible to be done.

   In vain therefore do men take sanctuary in such misunderstood
   expressions as these; and from a false persuasion, that they cannot
   reform their lives, break off their ill customs, and root out their
   old, vicious habits, never so much as attempt, endeavour, or go about
   it. For, admit that such an habit, seated in the soul, be, as our
   Saviour calls it, a strong man armed, got into possession; yet still he
   may be dispossessed, and thrown out by a stronger, Luke xi. 21, 22. Or
   be it, as St. Paul calls it, a law in our members, Rom. vii. 23. yet
   certainly, ill laws may be broken and disobeyed, as well as good. But,
   if men will suffer themselves to be enslaved, and carried away by their
   lusts, without resistance, and wear the devil's yoke quietly, rather
   than be at the trouble of throwing it off; and thereupon, some times
   feel their consciences galled and grieved by wearing it, they must not
   from these secret stings and remorses, felt by them in the prosecution
   of their sins, presently conclude, that therefore their will is good,
   and well disposed; and consequently, such as God will accept, though
   their lives remain all the while unchanged, and as much under the
   dominion of sin as ever.

   These reasonings, I know, He deep in the minds of most men, and relieve
   and support their hearts, in spite, and in the midst of their sins; but
   they are all but sophistry and delusion, and false propositions
   contrived by the devil, to hold men fast in their sins by final
   impenitence. For though possibly the grace of God may, in some cases,
   be irresistible; yet it would be an infinite reproach to his
   providence, to affirm, that sin either is or can be so. And thus I have
   given you four principal instances, in which men use to plead the will
   instead of the deed, upon a pretended impotence, or disability for the
   deed: namely, in duties of great labour; in duties of much danger; in
   duties of cost and expense; and lastly, in duties requiring a
   resistance and an extirpation of inveterate, sinful habits.

   In the neglect of all which, men relieve their consciences by this one
   great fallacy running through them all, that they mistake difficulties
   for impossibilities. A pernicious mistake certainly; and the more
   pernicious, for that men are seldom convinced of it, till their
   conviction can do them no good. There cannot be a weightier or more
   important case of conscience for men to be resolved in, than to know
   certainly how far God accepts the will for the deed, and how far he
   does not: and withal, to be informed truly when men do really will a
   thing, and when they have really no power to do what they have willed.

   For surely, it cannot but be matter of very dreadful and terrifying
   consideration to any one sober, and in his wits, to think seriously
   with himself, what horror and confusion must needs surprise that man,
   at the last and great day of account, who had led his whole life and
   governed all his actions by one rule, when God intends to judge him by
   an other.

   To which God, the great searcher and judge of hearts, and rewarder of
   men according to their deeds, be rendered and ascribed, as is most due,
   all praise, might, majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore.
   Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

  PREACHED AT CHRIST-CHURCH, OXON,

BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY,

    OCTOBER 17, 1675.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Judges viii. 34, 35.

   And the children of Israel remembered not the Lord their God, who had
   delivered them out of the hands of all their enemies on every side:
   neither shewed they kindness to the house of Jerubbaal, namely, Gideon,
   according to all the goodness which he had shewed unto Israel.

   THESE words, being a result or judgment given upon matter of fact,
   naturally direct us to the fore going story, to inform us of their
   occasion. The subject of which story was that heroic and victorious
   judge of Israel, Gideon; who, by the greatness of his achievments, had
   merited the offer of a crown and kingdom, and, by the greatness of his
   mind, refused it. The whole narrative is contained and set before us in
   the 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th chapters of this book. Where we read, that
   when the children of Israel, according to their usual method of sinning
   after mercies and deliverances, and there upon returning to a fresh
   enslavement to their enemies, had now passed seven years in cruel
   subjection to the Midianites, a potent and insulting enemy; and who
   oppressed them to that degree, that they had scarce bread to fill their
   mouths, or houses to cover their heads: for in the 2d verse of the 6th
   chapter we find them housing themselves under ground,, in dens and
   caves; and in ver. 3, 4. no sooner had they sown their corn, but we
   have the enemy coming up in armies, and destroying it. In this sad and
   calamitous condition, I say, in which one would have thought that a
   deliverance from such an oppressor would have even revived them, and
   the deliverer eternally obliged them, God raised up the spirit of this
   great person, and ennobled his courage and conduct with the entire
   overthrow of this mighty and numerous, or rather innumerable host of
   the Midianites; and that in such a manner, and with such strange and
   unparalleled circumstances, that, in the whole action, the mercy and
   the miracle seemed to strive for the preeminence. And so quick a sense
   did the Israelites, immediately after it, seem to entertain of the
   merits of Gideon, and the obligation he had laid upon them, that they
   all, as one man, tender him the regal and hereditary government of that
   people, in the 22d verse of this 8th chapter: Then said the men of
   Israel to Gideon, Rule thou over us, both thou, and thy son and thy
   son's son also: for thou hast delivered us from the hand of Midian. To
   which he answered as magnanimously, and by that answer redoubled the
   obligation, in the next verse, I will not rule over you, neither shall
   my son rule over you: the Lord shall rule over you.

   Thus far then we see the workings of a just gratitude in the
   Israelites; and goodness on the one side nobly answered with greatness
   on the other. And now, after so vast an obligation, owned by so free an
   acknowledgment, could any thing be expected, but a continual
   interchange of kindnesses, at least on their part, who had been so
   infinitely obliged, and so gloriously delivered? Yet in the 9th chapter
   we find these very men turning the sword of Gideon into his own bowels;
   cutting off the very race and posterity of their deliverer, by the
   slaughter of three score and ten of his sons, and setting up the son of
   his concubine, the blot of his family, and the monument of his shame,
   to reign over them; and all this without the least provocation or
   offence given them, either by Gideon himself, or by any of his house.
   After which horrid fact, I suppose we can no longer wonder at this
   unlooked-for account given of the Israelites in the text: That they
   remembered not the Lord their God, who had delivered them out of the
   hands of all their enemies on every side: neither shewed they kindness
   to the house of Gideon, according to all the goodness which he had
   shelved unto Israel.

   The truth is, they were all along a cross, odd, untoward sort of
   people, and such as God seems to have chosen, and (as the prophets
   sometimes phrase it) to have espoused to himself, upon the very same
   account that Socrates espoused Xantippe, only for her extreme ill
   conditions, above all that he could possibly find or pick out of that
   sex; and so the fittest argument both to exercise and declare his
   admirable patience to the world.

   The words of the text are a charge given in against the Israelites; a
   charge of that foul and odious sin of ingratitude; and that both
   towards God and towards man: towards God in the 34th verse, and towards
   man in the 35th. Such being ever the growing contagion of this ill
   quality, that if it begins at God, it naturally descends to men; and if
   it first exerts itself upon men, it infallibly ascends to God. If we
   consider it as directed against God, it is a breach of religion; if as
   to men, it is an offence against morality. The passage from one to the
   other is very easy; breach of duty towards our neighbour still
   involving in it a breach of duty towards God too; and no man's religion
   ever survives his morals.

   My purpose is, from this remarkable subject and occasion, to treat of
   ingratitude, and that chiefly in this latter sense; and from the case
   of the Israelites towards Gideon, to traverse the nature, principles,
   and properties of this detestable vice; and so drawing before your eyes
   the several lineaments and parts of it, from the ugly aspect of the
   picture, to leave it to your own hearts to judge of the original. For
   the effecting of which, I shall do these following things:

   I. I shall shew what gratitude is, and upon what the obligation to it
   is grounded.

   II. I shall give some account of the nature and baseness of
   ingratitude.

   III. I shall shew the principle from which ingratitude proceeds.

   IV. I shall shew those ill qualities that inseparably attend it, and
   are never disjoined from it. And,

   V. and lastly, I shall draw some useful inferences, by way of
   application, from the premises.

   And first for the first of these: What gratitude is, and upon what the
   obligation to it is grounded.

   "Gratitude is properly a virtue, disposing the mind to an inward sense
   and an outward acknowledgment of a benefit received, together with a
   readiness to return the same, or the like, as the occasions of the doer
   of it shall require, and the abilities of the receiver extend to."

   This, to me, seems to contain a full description, or rather definition,
   of this virtue; from which it appears, that gratitude includes in it
   these three parts.

   1. A particular observation, or taking notice of a kindness received,
   and consequently of the good will and affection of the person who did
   that kindness. For still, in this case, the mind of the giver is more
   to be attended to, than the matter of the gift; it being this that
   stamps it properly a favour, and gives it the noble and endearing
   denomination of a kindness.

   2. The second part of gratitude is that which brings it from the heart
   into the mouth, and makes a man express the sense he has of the benefit
   done him, by thanks, acknowledgments, and gratulations; and where the
   heart is full of the one, it will certainly overflow, and run over in
   the other.

   3. The third and last is, an endeavour to recompense our benefactor,
   and to do something that may redound to his advantage, in consideration
   of what he has done towards ours. I state it upon endeavour, and not
   upon effect; for this latter may be often impossible. But it is in the
   power of every one to do as much as he can; to make some essay at
   least, some offer and attempt this way; so as to shew, that there is a
   spring of motion within, and that the heart is not idle or insensible,
   but that it is full and big, and knows itself to be so, though it wants
   strength to bring forth. Having thus shewn at gratitude is, the next
   thing is to shew the obligation that it brings upon a man, and the
   ground and reason of that obligation.

   As for the obligation, I know no moralists or casuists, that treat
   scholastically of justice, but treat of gratitude under that general
   head, as a part or species of it. And the nature and office of justice
   being to dispose the mind to a constant and perpetual readiness to
   render to every man his due, suum cuique tribuere, it is evident, that
   if gratitude be a part of justice, it must be conversant about some
   thing that is due to another. And whatsoever is so, must be so by the
   force of some law. Now, all law that a man is capable of being obliged
   by, is reducible to one of these three:

   1. The law of nature. 2. The positive law of God revealed in his word.
   3. The law of man, enacted by the civil power, for the preservation and
   good of society.

   1 . And first for the law of nature, which I take to be nothing else
   but the mind of God signified to a rational agent, by the bare
   discourse of his reason, and dictating to him, that he ought to act
   suitably to the principles of his nature; and to those relations that
   he stands under. For every thing sustains both an absolute and a
   relative capacity. An absolute, as it is such a thing endued with such
   a nature; and a relative, as it is a part of the universe, and so
   stands in such an order and relation both to the whole and to the rest
   of the parts.

   After which, the next consideration immediately subsequent to the being
   of a thing, is what agrees or disagrees with that thing; what is
   suitable or unsuitable to it; and from this springs the notion of
   decency or indecency; that which becomes or misbecomes, and is the same
   with honestum et turpe. Which decency, or to` pre'pon, (as the Greeks
   term it,) imports a certain measure or proportion of one thing to
   another; which to transgress, is to do contrary to the natural order of
   things; the preservation of which is properly that rule or law by which
   every thing ought to act; and consequently, the violation of it implies
   a turpitude or indecency. Now those actions that are suitable to a
   rational nature, and to that pre'pon, that decency or honestum,
   belonging to it, are contained and expressed in certain maxims or
   propositions, which, upon the repeated exercise of a man's reason about
   such objects as come before him, do naturally result, and are collected
   from thence; and so remaining upon his mind, become both a rule to
   direct and a law to oblige him in the whole course of his actions. Such
   as are these maxims: That the supreme being, cause, and governor of all
   things, ought to be worshipped and depended upon. That parents are to
   be honoured. That a man should do as he would be done by. From which
   last alone may sufficiently be deduced all those rules of charity and
   justice that are to govern the offices of common life; and which alone
   is enough to found an obligation to gratitude: forasmuch as no man,
   having done a kindness to another, would acquiesce or think himself
   justly dealt with, in a total neglect and unconcernedness of the person
   who had received that kindness from him; and consequently, neither
   ought he to be unconcerned in the same case himself.

   But I shall, from other and nearer principles, and those the
   unquestionable documents and dictates of the law of nature, evince the
   obligation and debt lying upon every man to shew gratitude where he has
   received a benefit. Such as are these propositions:

   (1.) That according to the rule of natural justice, one man may merit
   and deserve of another. (2.) That whosoever deserves of another, makes
   some thing due to him from the person of whom he deserves. (3.) That
   one man's deserving of another is founded upon his conferring on him
   some good, to which that other had no right or claim. (4.) That no man
   has any antecedent right or claim to that which comes to him by
   free-gift. (5.) And lastly, that all desert imports an equality between
   the good conferred, and the good deserved, or made due. From whence it
   follows, that he who confers a good upon another, deserves, and
   consequently has a claim to an equal good from the person upon whom it
   was conferred. So that from hence, by the law of nature, springs a
   debt; the acknowledging and repaying of which debt (as a man shall be
   able) is the proper office and work of gratitude.

   As certain therefore as by the law of nature there may be, and often
   is, such a thing as merit and desert from one man to another; and as
   desert gives the person deserving a right or claim to some good from
   the person of whom he deserves; and as a right in one to claim this
   good, infers a debt and obligation in the other to pay it; so certain
   it is, by a direct gradation of consequences from this principle of
   merit, that the obligation to gratitude flows from, and is enjoined by,
   the first dictates of nature. And the truth is, the greatest and most
   sacred ties of duty, that man is capable of, are founded upon
   gratitude. Such as are the duties of a child to his parent, and of a
   subject to his sovereign. From the former of which, there is required
   love and honour, in recompence of being; and from the latter, obedience
   and subjection, in recompence of protection and well-being. And in
   general, if the conferring of a kindness did not bind the person upon
   whom it was conferred, to the returns of gratitude; why, in the
   universal dialect of the world, are kindnesses still called
   obligations?

   And thus much for the first ground, enforcing the obligations of
   gratitude; namely, the law of nature. In the next place,

   2. As for the positive law of God revealed in his word, it is evident,
   that gratitude must needs be enjoined, and made necessary by all those
   scriptures that upbraid or forbid ingratitude; as in 2 Tim. iii. 2. the
   unthankful stand reckoned among the highest and most enormous sinners;
   which sufficiently evinces the virtue opposite to unthankfulness to
   bear the same place in the rank of duties, that its contrary does in
   the catalogue of sins. And the like, by consequence, is inferred from
   all those places, in which we are commanded to love our enemies, and to
   do good to those that hate us: and therefore certainly much more are we
   by the same commanded to do good to those that have prevented us with
   good, and actually obliged us. So that it is manifest, that by the
   positive written law of God, no less than by the law of nature,
   gratitude is a debt.

   3. In the third and last place; as for the laws of men, enacted by the
   civil power, it must be confessed, that gratitude is not enforced by
   them; I say, not enforced; that is, not enjoined by the sanction of
   penalties, to be inflicted upon the person that shall not be found
   grateful. I grant indeed, that many actions are punished by law that
   are acts of ingratitude; but this is merely accidental to them, as they
   are such acts; for if they were punished properly under that notion,
   and upon that account, the punishment would equally reach all actions
   of the same kind; but they are punished and provided against by law, as
   they are gross and dangerous violations of societies, and that common
   good, that it is the business of the civil laws of all nations to
   protect and to take care of: which good not being violated or
   endangered by every omission of gratitude between man and man, the laws
   make no peculiar provision to secure the exercise of this virtue, but
   leave it as they found it, sufficiently enjoined, and made a duty by
   the law of God and nature.

   Though in the Roman law indeed there is this particular provision
   against the breach of this duty in case of slaves; that if a lord
   manumits, and makes free his slave, gross ingratitude in the person so
   made free, forfeits his freedom, and re-asserts him to his former
   condition of slavery; though perhaps even this also, upon an accurate
   consideration, will be found not a provision against ingratitude,
   properly and formally as such, but as it is the ingratitude of slaves,
   which, if left unpunished in a commonwealth, where it was the custom
   for men to be served by slaves, as in Rome it was, would quickly have
   been a public nuisance and disturbance; for such is the peculiar
   insolence of this sort of men, such the incorrigible vileness of all
   slavish spirits, that though freedom may rid them of the baseness of
   their condition, yet it never takes off the baseness of their minds.

   And now, having shewn both what gratitude is, and the ground and reason
   of men's obligation to it, we have a full account of the proper and
   particular nature of this virtue, as consisting adequately in these two
   things: first, that it is a debt; and secondly, that it is such a debt
   as is left to every man's ingenuity, (in respect of any legal
   coaction,) whether he will pay or no; for there lies no action of debt
   against him, if he will not. He is in danger of no arrest, bound over
   to no assize, nor forced to hold up his unworthy hand (the instrument
   of his ingratitude) at any bar.

   And this it is, that shews the rare and distinguishing excellency of
   gratitude, and sets it as a crown upon the head of all other virtues,
   that it should plant such an overruling generosity in the heart of man,
   as shall more effectually incline him to what is brave and becoming,
   than the terror of any penal law whatsoever. So that he shall feel a
   greater force upon himself from within, and from the control of his own
   principles, to engage him to do worthily, than all threatenings and
   punishments, racks and tortures can have upon a low and servile mind,
   that never acts virtuously, but as it is acted; that knows no principle
   of doing well, but fear; no conscience, but constraint. On the
   contrary, the grateful person fears no court or judge, no sentence or
   executioner, but what he carries about him in his own breast: and being
   still the most severe exactor of himself, not only confesses, but
   proclaims his debts; his ingenuity is his bond, and his conscience a
   thousand witnesses: so that the debt must needs be sure, yet he scorns
   to be led for it; nay, rather, he is always suing, importuning, and
   even reproaching himself, till he can clear accounts with his
   benefactor. His heart is, as it were, in continual labour: it even
   travails with the obligation, and is in pangs till it be delivered: and
   (as David) in the overflowing sense of God's goodness to him, cries out
   in the 116th Psalm, ver. 12. What shall I render unto the Lord for all
   his benefits towards me? so the grateful person, pressed down under the
   apprehension of any great kindness done him, eases his burdened mind a
   little by such expostulations with himself as these: "What shall I do
   for such a friend, for such a patron, who has so frankly, so
   generously, so unconstrainedly relieved me in such a distress;
   supported me against such an enemy; supplied, cherished, and upheld me,
   when relations would not know me, or at least could not help me; and,
   in a word, has prevented my desires, and outdone my necessities? I can
   never do enough for him; my own conscience would spit in my face,
   should I ever slight or forget such favours." These are the
   expostulating dialogues and contests that every grateful, every truly
   noble and magnanimous person has with himself. It was, in part, a brave
   speech of Luc. Cornelius Sylla, the Roman dictator, who said, that he
   found no sweetness in being great or powerful, but only that it enabled
   him to crush his enemies, and to gratify his friends."

   I cannot warrant or defend the first part of this saying; but surely he
   that employs his greatness in the latter, be he never so great, it must
   and will make him still greater.

   And thus much for the first general thing proposed, which was to shew,
   what gratitude is, and upon what the obligation to it is grounded. I
   proceed now to the second,

   Which is to give some account of the nature and baseness of
   ingratitude.

   There is not any one vice or ill quality incident to the mind of man,
   against which the world has raised such a loud and universal outcry, as
   against ingratitude: a vice never mentioned by any heathen writer, but
   with a particular height of detestation; and of such a malignity, that
   human nature must be stripped of humanity itself, before it can be
   guilty of it. It is instead of all other vices; and, in the balance of
   morality, a counterpoise to them all. In the charge of ingratitude,
   omnia dixeris: it is one great blot upon all morality: it is all in a
   word: it says Amen to the black roll of sins: it gives completion and
   confirmation to them all.

   If we would state the nature of it, recourse must be had to what has
   been already said of its contrary; and so it is properly an
   insensibility of kindnesses received, without any endeavour either to
   acknowledge or repay them.

   To repay them, indeed, by a return equivalent, is not in every one's
   power, and consequently cannot be his duty; but thanks are a tribute
   payable by the poorest; the most forlorn widow has her two mites; and
   there is none so indigent, but has an heart to be sensible of, and a
   tongue to express its sense of a benefit received.

   For surely, nature gives no man a mouth to be always eating, and never
   saying grace; nor an hand only to grasp and to receive: but as it is
   furnished with teeth for the one, so it should have a tongue also for
   the other; and the hands that are so often reached out to take and to
   accept, should be sometimes lifted up also to bless. The world is
   maintained by intercourse; and the whole course of nature is a great
   exchange, in which one good turn is and ought to be the stated price of
   another.

   If you consider the universe as one body, you shall find society and
   conversation to supply the office of the blood and spirits; and it is
   gratitude that makes them circulate: look over the whole creation, and
   you shall see, that the band or cement that holds together all the
   parts of this great and glorious fabric is gratitude, or something like
   it: you may observe it in all the elements; for does not the air feed
   the flame? and does not the flame at the same time warm and enlighten
   the air? Is not the sea always sending forth as well as taking in? And
   does not the earth quit scores with all the elements, in the noble
   fruits and productions that issue from it? And in all the light and
   influence that the heavens bestow upon this lower world, though the
   lower world cannot equal their benefaction, yet, with a kind of
   grateful return, it reflects those rays, that it cannot recompense: so
   that there is some return however, though there can be no requital. He
   who has a soul wholly void of gratitude, should do well to set his soul
   to learn of his body; for all the parts of that minister to one
   another. The hands, and all the other limbs, labour to bring in food
   and provision to the stomach, and the stomach returns what it has
   received from them in strength and nutriment, diffused into all the
   parts and members of the body. It would be endless to pursue the like
   allusions: in short, gratitude is the great spring that sets all the
   wheels of nature a-going; and the whole universe is supported by giving
   and returning, by commerce and commutation.

   And now, thou ungrateful brute, thou blemish to mankind, and reproach
   to thy creation; what shall we say of thee, or to what shall we compare
   thee? For thou art an exception from all the visible world; neither the
   heavens above, nor the earth beneath, afford any thing like thee: and
   therefore, if thou wouldest find thy parallel, go to hell, which is
   both the region and the emblem of ingratitude; for, besides thyself,
   there is nothing but hell that is always receiving and never restoring.

   And thus much for the nature and baseness of in gratitude, as it has
   been represented in the description given of it. Come we now to the

   Third thing proposed, which is to shew the principle from which it
   proceeds. And to give you this in one word, it proceeds from that which
   we call ill-nature. Which being a word that occurs frequently in
   discourse, and in the characters given of persons, it will not be amiss
   to inquire into the proper sense and signification of this expression.
   In order to which we must observe, that according to the doctrine of
   the philosopher, man being a creature designed and framed by nature for
   society and conversation; such a temper or disposition of mind, as
   inclines him to those actions that promote society and mutual
   fellowship, is properly called good-nature: which actions, though
   almost innumerable in their particulars, yet seem reducible in general
   to these two principles of action.

   1. A proneness to do good to others.

   2. A ready sense of any good done by others.

   And where these two meet together, as they are scarce ever found
   asunder, it is impossible for that person not to be kind, beneficial,
   and obliging to all whom he converses with. On the contrary, ill-nature
   is such a disposition, as inclines a man to those actions that thwart,
   and sour, and disturb conversation between man and man; and accordingly
   consists of two qualities directly contrary to the former.

   1. A proneness to do ill turns, attended with a complacency, or secret
   joy of mind, upon the sight of any mischief that befalls another. And,

   2. An utter insensibility of any good or kindness done him by others. I
   mean not that he is insensible of the good itself; but that, although
   he finds, feels, and enjoys the good that is done him, yet he is wholly
   insensible, and unconcerned to value, or take notice of the benignity
   of him that does it.

   Now either of these ill qualities, and much more both of them together,
   denominate a person ill-natured; they being such as make him grievous
   and uneasy to all whom he deals and associates himself with. For from
   the former of these proceed envy, an aptness to slander and revile, to
   cross and hinder a man in his lawful advantages. For these and such
   like actions feed and gratify that base humour of mind, which gives a
   man a delight in making, at least in seeing, his neighbour miserable:
   and from the latter issues that vile thing which we have been hitherto
   speaking of, to wit, ingratitude: into which all kindnesses and good
   turns fall, as into a kind of dead sea. It being a quality that
   confines and, as it were, shuts up a man wholly within himself, leaving
   him void of that principle, which alone should dispose him to
   communicate and impart those redundancies of good that he is possessed
   of. No man ever goes sharer with the ungrateful person; be he never so
   full, he never runs over. But (like Gideon's fleece) though filled and
   replenished with the dew of heaven himself, yet he leaves all dry and
   empty about him.

   Now this surely, if any thing, is an effect of ill-nature. And what is
   ill-nature, but a pitch beyond original corruption? It is corruptio
   pessimi. A further depravation of that, which was stark naught before.
   But, so certainly does it shoot forth and shew itself in this vice,
   that wheresoever you see in gratitude, you may as infallibly conclude,
   that there is a growing stock of ill-nature in that breast, as you may
   know that man to have the plague, upon whom you see the tokens.

   Having thus shewn you from whence this ill quality proceeds, pass we
   now to the

   Fourth thing proposed, which is to shew, those other ill qualities that
   inseparably attend ingratitude, and are never disjoined from it.

   It is a saying common in use, and true in observation, that the
   disposition and temper of a man may be gathered as well from his
   companion or associate as from himself. And it holds in qualities as it
   does in persons: it being seldom or never known, that any great virtue
   or vice went alone; for greatness in every thing will still be attended
   on.

   How black and base a vice ingratitude is, we have seen by considering
   it both in its own nature, and in the principle from which it springs;
   and we may see the same yet more fully in those vices which it is
   always in combination with. Two of which I shall mention, as being of
   near cognation to it, and constant coherence with it. The first of
   which is pride. And the second, hard-heartedness, or want of
   compassion.

   1. And first for pride. This is of such intimate, and even essential
   connection with ingratitude, that the actings of ingratitude seem
   directly resolvable into pride, as the principal reason and cause of
   them. The original ground of man's obligation to gratitude was, as I
   have hinted, from this, that each man has but a limited right to the
   good things of the world; and, that the natural allowed way, by which
   he is to compass the possession of these things, is, by his own
   industrious acquisition of them; and consequently, when any good is
   dealt forth to him any other way than by his own labour, he is
   accountable to the person who dealt it to him, as for a thing to which
   he had no right or claim, by any action of his own entitling him to it.

   But now, pride shuts a man's eyes against all this, and so fills him
   with an opinion of his own transcendent worth, that he imagines himself
   to have a right to all things, as well those that are the effects and
   fruits of other men's labours, as of his own. So that, if any advantage
   accrues to him, by the liberality and donation of his neighbour, he
   looks not upon it as matter of free undeserved gift, but rather as a
   just homage to that worth and merit which he conceives to be in
   himself, and to which all the world ought to become tributary. Upon
   which thought, no wonder, if he reckons himself wholly unconcerned to
   acknowledge or repay any good that he receives. For while the courteous
   person thinks that he is obliging and doing such an one a kindness, the
   proud person, on the other side, accounts him to be only paying a debt.
   His pride makes him even worship and idolize himself; and indeed, every
   proud, ungrateful man has this property of an idol, that though he is
   plied with never so many and so great offerings, yet he takes no notice
   of the offerer at all.

   Now this is the true account of the most inward movings and reasonings
   of the very heart and soul of an ungrateful person. So that you may
   rest upon this as a proposition of an eternal, unfailing truth; that
   there neither is nor ever was any person remarkably ungrateful, who was
   not also insufferably proud; nor, convertibly, any one proud, who was
   not equally ungrateful. For, as snakes breed in dunghills not singly,
   but in knots, so in such base, noisome hearts, you shall ever see pride
   and in gratitude indivisibly wreathed and twisted together. Ingratitude
   overlooks all kindnesses, but it is be cause pride makes it carry its
   head so high.

   See the greatest examples of ingratitude equally notorious for their
   pride and ambition. And to begin with the top and father of them all,
   the devil himself. That excellent and glorious nature which God had
   obliged him with, could not prevent his in gratitude and apostasy, when
   his pride bid him aspire to an equality with his maker, and say, I will
   ascend, and be like the Most High. And did not our first parents write
   exactly after his copy? in gratitude making them to trample upon the
   command, because pride made them desire to be as gods, and to brave
   omniscience itself in the knowledge of good and evil. What made that
   ungrateful wretch, Absalom, kick at all the kindnesses of his indulgent
   father, but because his ambition would needs be fingering the sceptre,
   and hoisting him into his father's throne? And in the courts of princes
   is there any thing more usual, than to see those that have been raised
   by the favour and interest of some great minister, to trample upon the
   steps by which they rose, to rival him in his greatness, and at length
   (if possible) to step into his place?

   In a word, ingratitude is too base to return a kindness, and too proud
   to regard it; much like the tops of mountains, barren indeed, but yet
   lofty; they produce nothing, they feed nobody, they clothe no body, yet
   are high and stately, and look down upon all the world about them.

   2. The other concomitant of ingratitude is hardheartedness, or want of
   compassion. This, at first, may seem to have no great cognation with
   ingratitude; but upon a due inspection into the nature of that ill
   quality, it will be found directly to follow it, if not also to result
   from it.

   For the nature of ingratitude being founded in such a disposition, as
   incloses all a man's concerns within himself, and consequently gives
   him a perfect unconcernedness in all things not judged by him
   immediately to relate to his own interest; it is no wonder if the same
   temper of mind, which makes a man unapprehensive of any good done him
   by others, makes him equally unapprehensive and insensible of any evil
   or misery suffered by others. No such thought ever strikes his marble,
   obdurate heart, but it presently flies off and rebounds from it. And
   the truth is, it is impossible for a man to be perfect and
   thoroughpaced in ingratitude, till he has shook off all fetters of pity
   and compassion. For all relenting and tenderness of heart makes a man
   but a puny in this sin; it spoils the growth, and cramps the last and
   crowning exploits of this vice.

   Ingratitude, indeed, put the poniard into Brutus's hand; but it was
   want of compassion which thrust it into Caesar's heart. When some fond,
   easy fathers think fit to strip themselves before they lie down to
   their long sleep, and to settle their whole estates upon their sons,
   has it not been too frequently seen, that the father has been requited
   with want and beggary, scorn and contempt? But now, could bare
   ingratitude, think we, ever have made any one so unnatural and
   diabolical, had not cruelty and want of pity come in as a second to its
   assistance, and cleared the villain's breast of all remainders of
   humanity? Is it not this which has made so many miserable parents even
   curse their own bowels, for bringing forth children that seem to have
   none? Did not this make Agrippina, Nero's mother, cry out to the
   assassinate sent by her son to murder her, to direct his sword to her
   belly, as being the only criminal for having brought forth such a
   monster of in gratitude into the world? And to give you yet an higher
   instance of the conjunction of these two vices; since nothing could
   transcend the ingratitude and cruelty of Nero, but the ingratitude and
   cruelty of an imperious woman; when Tullia, daughter of Servius
   Tullius, sixth king of Rome, having married Tarquinius Superbus, and
   put him first upon killing her father, and then invading his throne,
   came through the street where the body of her father lay newly murdered
   and wallowing in his blood, she commanded her trembling coachman to
   drive her cha riot and horses over the body of her king and father
   triumphantly, in the face of all Rome looking upon her with
   astonishment and detestation. Such was the tenderness, gratitude,
   filial affection, and good nature of this weaker vessel.

   And then for instances out of sacred story; to go no further than this
   of Gideon; did not ingratitude first make the Israelites forget the
   kindness of the father, and then cruelty make them imbrue their hands
   in the blood of his sons? Could Pharaoh's butler so quickly have forgot
   Joseph, had not want of gratitude to him as his friend, met with an
   equal want of compassion to him as his fellow-prisoner? A poor,
   innocent, forlorn stranger languishing in durance, upon the false
   accusations of a lying, insolent, whorish woman!

   I might even weary you with examples of the like nature, both sacred
   and civil, all of them representing ingratitude, as it were, sitting in
   its throne, with pride at its right hand, and cruelty at its left;
   worthy supporters of such a stately quality, such a reigning impiety.

   And it has been sometimes observed, that persons signally and eminently
   obliged, yet missing of the utmost of their greedy designs in
   swallowing both gifts and giver too, instead of thanks for received
   kindnesses, have betook themselves to barbarous threatenings for defeat
   of their insatiable expectations.

   Upon the whole matter we may firmly conclude, that ingratitude and
   compassion never cohabit in the same breast. Which remark I do here so
   much insist upon, to shew the superlative malignity of this vice, and
   the baseness of the mind in which it dwells; for we may with great
   confidence and equal truth affirm, that since there was such a thing as
   mankind in the world, there never was any heart truly great and
   generous, that was not also tender and compassionate. It is this noble
   quality that makes all men to be of one kind; for every man would be,
   as it were, a distinct species to himself, were there no sympathy
   amongst individuals.

   And thus I have done with the fourth thing proposed, and shewn the two
   vices that inseparably at tend ingratitude; and now, if falsehood also
   should chance to strike in as the third, and make up the triumvirate of
   its attendants, so that ingratitude, pride, cruelty, and falsehood
   should all meet together, and join forces in the same person; as not
   only very often, but for the most part they do; in this case, if the
   devils themselves should take bodies, and come and live amongst us,
   they could not be greater plagues and grievances to society, than such
   persons.

   From what has been said, let no man ever think to meet ingratitude
   single and alone. It is one of those grapes of gall mentioned by Moses,
   Deut. xxxii. 32. and therefore expect always to find it one of a
   cluster. I proceed now to the

   Fifth and last thing proposed, which is, to draw some useful
   consequences, by way of application, from the premises. As,

   1. Never enter into a league of friendship with an ungrateful person.
   That is, plant not thy friend ship upon a dunghill. It is too noble a
   plant for so base a soil.

   Friendship consists properly in mutual offices, and a generous strife
   in alternate acts of kindness. But lie, who does a kindness to an
   ungrateful person, sets his seal to a flint, and sows his seed upon the
   sand: upon the former he makes no impression, and from the latter he
   finds no production.

   The only voice of ingratitude is, Give, give; but when the gift is once
   received, then, like the swine at his trough, it is silent and
   insatiable. In a word, the ungrateful person is a monster, which is all
   throat and belly; a kind of thoroughfare, or common-shore, for the good
   things of the world to pass into; and of whom, in respect of all
   kindnesses conferred on him, may be verified that observation of the
   lion's den; before which appeared the footsteps of many that had gone
   in thither, but no prints of any that ever came out thence. The
   ungrateful person is the only thing in nature, for which nobody living
   is the better. He lives to himself, and subsists by the good-nature of
   others, of which he himself has not the least grain. He is a mere
   encroachment upon society, and, consequently, ought to be thrust out of
   the world as a pest, and a prodigy, and a creature of the devil's
   making, and not of God's.

   2. As a man tolerably discreet ought by no means to attempt the making
   of such an one his friend; so neither is he, in the next place, to
   presume to think that he shall be able, so much as to alter or
   meliorate the humour of an ungrateful person, by any acts of kindness,
   though never so frequent, never so obliging.

   Philosophy will teach the learned, and experience may teach all, that
   it is a thing hardly feasible. For love such an one, and he shall
   depise you: commend him, and, as occasion serves, he shall revile you:
   give to him, and he shall but laugh at your easiness: save his life;
   but when you have done, look to your own.

   The greatest favours to such an one are but like the motion of a ship
   upon the waves; they leave no trace, no sign behind them; they neither
   soften nor win upon him; they neither melt nor endear him, but leave
   him as hard, as rugged, and as unconcerned as ever. All kindnesses
   descend upon such a temper, as showers of rain or rivers of fresh water
   falling into the main sea: the sea swallows them all, but is not at all
   changed or sweetened by them. I may truly say of the mind of an
   ungrateful person, that it is kindness-proof. It is impenetrable,
   unconquerable; unconquerable by that which conquers all things else,
   even by love itself. Flints may be melted, (we see it daily,) but an
   ungrateful heart cannot; no, not by the strongest and the noblest
   flame. After all your attempts, all your experiments, for any thing
   that man can do, he that is ungrateful, will be ungrateful still. And
   the reason is manifest; for you may remember, that I told you, that
   ingratitude sprang from a principle of ill-nature; which being a thing
   founded in such a certain constitution of blood and spirit, as being
   born with a man into the world, and upon that account called nature,
   shall prevent all remedies that can be applied by education, and leaves
   such a bias upon the mind, as is beforehand with all instruction.

   So that you shall seldom or never meet with an ungrateful person, but
   if you look backward, and trace him up to his original, you will find
   that he was born so; and if you could look forward enough, it is a
   thousand to one, but you will find, that he also dies so; for you shall
   never light upon an ill-natured man, who was not also an ill-natured
   child; and gave several testimonies of his being so, to discerning
   persons, long before the use of his reason.

   The thread that nature spins, is seldom broken off by any thing but
   death. I do not by this limit the operation of God's grace; for that
   may do wonders: but humanly speaking, and according to the method of
   the world, and the little correctives supplied by art and discipline,
   it seldom fails; but an ill principle has its course, and nature makes
   good its blow. And therefore, where ingratitude begins remarkably to
   shew itself, he surely judges most wisely, who takes the alarm betimes;
   and arguing the fountain from the stream, concludes that there is
   ill-nature at the bottom; and so reducing his judgment into practice,
   timely withdraws his frustraneous, baffled kindnesses, and sees the
   folly of endeavouring to stroke a tiger into a lamb, or to court an
   Ethiopian out of his colour.

   3. In the third and last place. Wheresoever you see a man notoriously
   ungrateful, rest assured, that there is no true sense of religion in
   that person. You know the apostle's argument, in 1 John iv. 20. He who
   loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he
   hath not seen? So, by an exact parity of reason, we may argue: If a man
   has no sense of those kindnesses that pass upon him, from one like
   himself, whom he sees, and knows, and converses with sensibly; how much
   less shall his heart be affected with the grateful sense of his
   favours, whom he converses with only by imperfect speculations, by the
   discourses of reason, or the discoveries of faith; neither of which
   equal the quick and lively impressions of sense? If the apostle's
   reasoning was good and concluding, I am sure this must be unavoidable.

   But the thing is too evident to need any proof. For shall that man pass
   for a proficient in Christ's school, who would have been exploded in
   the school of Zeno or Epictetus? Or shall he pretend to religious
   attainments, who is defective and short in moral? which yet are but the
   rudiments, the beginnings, and first draught of religion, as religion
   is the perfection, the refinement, and the sublimation of morality; so
   that it still presupposes it, it builds upon it, and grace never adds
   the superstructure, where virtue has not laid the foundation. There may
   be virtue indeed, and yet no grace; but grace is never without virtue:
   and therefore, though gratitude does not infer grace, it is certain
   that ingratitude does exclude it.

   Think not to put God off by frequenting prayers, and sermons, and
   sacraments, while thy brother has an action against thee in the court
   of heaven; an action of debt, of that clamorous and great debt of
   gratitude. Rather, as our Saviour commands, leave thy gift upon the
   altar, and first go and clear accounts with thy brother. God scorns a
   gift from him who has not paid his debts. Every ungrateful person, in
   the sight of God and man, is a thief, and let him not make the altar
   his receiver. Where there is no charity, it is certain there can be no
   religion; and can that man be charitable, who is not so much as just?

   In every benefaction between man and man, man is only the dispenser,
   but God the benefactor; and therefore let all ungrateful ones know,
   that where gratitude is the debt, God himself is the chief creditor:
   who, though he causes his sun to shine, and his rain to fall upon the
   evil and unthankful in this world, has another kind of reward for their
   unthankfulness in the next.

   To which God, the great searcher and judge of hearts, and rewarder of
   men according to their deeds, he rendered and ascribed, as is most due,
   all praise, might, majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore.
   Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

  PREACHED AT CHRIST-CHURCH, OXON,

BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY,

    OCTOBER 14, 1688.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Prov. xii. 22.

   Lying lips are abomination to the Lord.

   I AM very sensible, that by discoursing of lies and falsehood, which I
   have pitched upon for my present subject, I must needs fall into a very
   large common place; though yet, not by half so large and common as the
   practice: nothing in nature being so universally decried, and withal so
   universally practised, as falsehood. So that most of those things, that
   have the mightiest and most controlling influence upon the affairs and
   course of the world, are neither bet ter nor worse than downright lies.
   For what is common fame, which sounds from all quarters of the world,
   and resounds back to them again, but generally a loud, rattling,
   impudent, overbearing lie? What are most of the histories of the world,
   but lies? lies immortalized, and consigned over as a perpetual abuse
   and flam upon posterity? What are most of the promises of the world,
   but lies? of which we need no other proof, but our own experience. And
   what are most of the oaths in the world, but lies? and such as need
   rather a pardon for being took, than a dispensation from being kept?
   And lastly, what are all the religions of the world, except Judaism and
   Christianity, but lies? And even in Christianity itself, are there not
   those who teach, warrant, and defend lying? and scarce use the Bible
   for any other purpose, but to swear upon it, and to lie against it?

   Thus a mighty, governing lie goes round the world, and has almost
   banished truth out of it; and so reigning triumphantly in its stead, is
   the true source of most of those confusions and dire calamities that
   infest and plague the universe. For look over them all, and you shall
   find, that the greatest annoyance and disturbance of mankind has been
   from one of these two things, force or fraud. Of which, as boisterous
   and violent a thing as force is, yet it rarely achieves any thing
   considerable, but under the conduct of fraud. Slight of hand has done
   that, which force of hand could never do.

   But why do we speak of hands? It is the tongue that drives the world
   before it. The tongue, and the lying lip, which there is no fence
   against: for when that is the weapon, a man may strike where he cannot
   reach; and a word shall do execution, both further and deeper, than the
   mightiest blow. For the hand can hardly lift up itself high enough to
   strike, but it must be seen; so that it warns, while it threatens; but
   a false, insidious tongue may whisper a He so close and low, that
   though you have ears to hear, yet you shall not hear; and indeed we
   generally come to know it, not by hearing, but by feeling what it says.

   A man, perhaps, casts his eye this way and that way, and looks round
   about him, to spy out his enemy, and to defend himself; but alas! the
   fatal mischief, that would trip up his heels, is all the while under
   them. It works invisibly, and beneath: and the shocks of an earthquake,
   we know, are much more dreadful, than the highest and loudest blusters
   of a storm. For there may be some shelter against the violence of the
   one, but no security against the hollowness of the other; which never
   opens its bosom, but for a killing embrace. The bowels of the earth in
   such cases, and the mercies of the false in all, being equally without
   compassion.

   Upon the whole matter, it is hard to assign any one thing, but lying,
   which God and man so unanimously join in the hatred of; and it is as
   hard to tell, whether it does a greater dishonour to God, or mischief
   to man: it is certainly an abomination to both; and I hope to make it
   appear such in the following discourse. Though I must confess myself
   very unable to speak to the utmost latitude of this subject; and I
   thank God that I am so.

   Now the words of the text are a plain, entire, categorical proposition;
   and therefore I shall not go about to darken them by any needless
   explication, but shall immediately cast the prosecution of them under
   these three following particulars. As,

   I. I shall inquire into the nature of a lie, and the proper essential
   malignity of all falsehood.

   II. I shall shew the pernicious effects of it. And,

   III. and lastly, I shall lay before you the rewards and punishments
   that will certainly attend, or at least follow it.

   Every one of which, I suppose, and much more all of them together, will
   afford arguments, more than sufficient, to prove, (though it were no
   part of holy scripture,) that lying lips are an abomination to the
   Lord.

   And first, for the first of these.

   I. What a lie is, and wherein the nature of it does consist. A lie is
   properly an outward signification of something contrary to, or, at
   least, beside the inward sense of the mind; so that when one thing is
   signified or expressed, and the same thing not meant or intended, that
   is properly a lie.

   And forasmuch as God has endued man with a power or faculty to
   institute or appoint signs of his thoughts; and that, by virtue hereof,
   he can appoint, not only words, but also things, actions, and gestures
   to be signs of the inward thoughts and conceptions of his mind, it is
   evident, that he may as really lie and deceive by actions and gestures,
   as he can by words; forasmuch as, in the nature of them, they are as
   capable of being made signs; and consequently of being as much abused
   and misapplied, as the other: though, for distinction sake, a deceiving
   by words is commonly called a lie, and a deceiving by actions,
   gestures, or behaviour, is called simulation, or hypocrisy.

   The nature of a lie, therefore, consists in this, that it is a false
   signification knowingly and voluntarily used; in which the sign
   expressing is no ways agreeing with the thought or conception of the
   mind pretended to be thereby expressed. For words signify not
   immediately and primely things themselves, but the conceptions of the
   mind concerning things; and therefore, if there be an agreement between
   our words and our thoughts, we do not speak falsely, though it
   sometimes so falls out, that our words agree not with the things
   themselves: upon which account, though in so speaking we of fend indeed
   against truth; yet we offend not properly by falsehood, which is a
   speaking against our thoughts; but by rashness, which is an affirming
   or denying, before we have sufficiently informed ourselves of the real
   and true estate of those things whereof we affirm or deny.

   And thus having shewn what a lie is, and where in it does consist, the
   next consideration is, of the lawfulness or unlawfulness of it. And in
   this, we have but too sad and scandalous an instance, both of the
   corruption and weakness of man's reason, and of the strange bias that
   it still receives from interest, that such a case as this, both with
   philosophers and divines, heathens and Christians, should be held
   disputable.

   Plato accounted it lawful for statesmen and governors; and so did
   Cicero and Plutarch; and the Stoics, as some say, reckoned it amongst
   the arts and perfections of a wise man, to lie dexterously, in due time
   and place. And for some of the ancient doctors of the Christian church;
   such as Origen, Clemens Alexandrinus, Tertullian, Lactantius, and
   Chrysostom; and generally, all before St. Austin, several passages have
   fallen from them, that speak but too favourably of this ill thing. So
   that Paul Layman, a Romish casuist, says, that it is a truth but lately
   known, and received in the world, that a lie is absolutely sinful and
   unlawful; I suppose he means, that part of the world, where the
   scriptures are not read, and where men care not to know what they are
   not willing to practise.

   But then, for the mitigation of what has proceeded from these great
   men, we must take in that known and celebrated division of a lie into
   those three several kinds of it. As,

   1. The pernicious lie, uttered for the hurt or disadvantage of our
   neighbour.

   2. The officious lie, uttered for our own or our neighbour's advantage:
   and

   3. And lastly, The ludicrous and jocose lie, uttered by way of jest,
   and only for mirth's sake, in common converse. Now for the first of
   these, which is the pernicious lie; it was and is universally condemned
   by all; but the other two have found some patronage from the writings
   of those forementioned authors. The reason of which seems to be, that
   those persons did not estimate the lawfulness or unlawfulness of a lie,
   from the intrinsic nature of the thing itself, but either from those
   external effects that it produced, or from those ends to which it was
   directed; which accordingly as they proved either helpful or hurtful,
   innocent or offensive, so the lie was reputed either lawful or
   unlawful. And therefore, since a man was helped by an officious lie,
   and not hurt by a jocose, both of these came to be esteemed lawful, and
   in some cases laudable.

   But the schoolmen and casuists having too much philosophy to go about
   to clear a lie from that intrinsic inordination and deviation from
   right reason inherent in the nature of it, and yet withal unwilling to
   rob the world, and themselves especially, of so sweet a morsel of
   liberty, held that a lie was indeed absolutely and universally sinful;
   but then they held also, that only the pernicious He was a mortal sin,
   and the other two were only venial. It can be no part of my business
   here to overthrow this distinction, and to shew the nullity of it:
   which has been solidly and sufficiently done by most of our polemic
   writers of the protestant church. But at present I shall only take this
   their concession, that every lie is sinful, and consequently unlawful;
   and if it be a sin, I shall suppose it already proved to my hands to
   be, what all sin essentially is and must be, mortal. So that thus far
   have we gone, and this point have we gained, that it is absolutely and
   universally unlawful to lie, or to falsify.

   Let us now, in the next place, inquire from whence this unlawfulness
   springs, and upon what it is grounded: to which I answer; that upon the
   principles of natural reason, the unlawfulness of lying is grounded
   upon this, that a He is properly a sort or species of injustice, and a
   violation of the right of that person to whom the false speech is
   directed: for all speaking, or signification of one's mind, implies, in
   the nature of it, an act or address of one man to another: it being
   evident, that no man, though he does speak false, can be said to lie to
   himself.

   Now to shew what this right is, we must know, that in the beginnings
   and first establishments of speech, there was an implicit compact
   amongst men, founded upon common use and consent, that such and such
   words or voices, actions or gestures, should be means or signs, whereby
   they would express or convey their thoughts one to another; and that
   men should be obliged to use them for that purpose; forasmuch as,
   without such an obligation, those signs could not be effectual for such
   an end. From which compact there arising an obligation upon every one
   so to convey his meaning, there accrues also a right to every one, by
   the same signs to judge of the sense or meaning of the person so
   obliged to express himself: and consequently, if these signs are
   applied and used by him so as not to signify his meaning, the right of
   the person, to whom he was obliged so to have done, is hereby violated,
   and the man, by being deceived, and kept ignorant of his neighbour's
   meaning, where he ought to have known it, is so far deprived of the
   benefit of any intercourse or converse with him.

   From hence therefore we see, that the original reason of the
   unlawfulness of lying or deceiving, is, that it carries with it an act
   of injustice, and a violation of the right of him, to whom we were
   obliged to signify or impart our minds, if we spoke to him at all.

   But then we must observe also, (which I noted at first,) that as it is
   in man's power to institute, not only words, but also things, actions,
   or gestures, to be the means whereby he would signify and express his
   mind; so, on the other side, those voices, actions, or gestures, which
   men have not by any compact agreed to make the instruments of conveying
   their thoughts one to another, are not the proper instruments of
   deceiving, so as to denominate the person using them a liar or
   deceiver, though the person, to whom they are addressed, takes occasion
   from thence to form in his mind a false apprehension or belief of the
   thoughts of those, who use such voices, actions, or gestures towards
   him. I say, in this case, the person using these things cannot be said
   to deceive; since all deception is a misapplying of those signs, which,
   by compact or institution, were made the means of men's signifying or
   conveying their thoughts; but here, a man only does those things, from
   which another takes occasion to deceive himself: which one
   consideration will solve most of those difficulties that are usually
   started on this subject.

   But yet this I do and must grant, that though it be not against strict
   justice or truth for a man to do those things which he might otherwise
   lawfully do, albeit his neighbour does take occasion from thence to
   conceive in his mind a false belief, and so to deceive himself; yet
   Christian charity will, in many cases, restrain a man here too, and
   prohibit him to use his own right and liberty, where it may turn
   considerably to his neighbour's prejudice. For here in is the
   excellency of charity seen, that the charitable man not only does no
   evil himself, but that, to the utmost of his power, he also hinders any
   evil from being done even by another.

   And as we have shewn and proved that lying and deceiving stand
   condemned, upon the principles of natural justice, and the eternal law
   of right reason; so are the same much more condemned, and that with the
   sanction of the highest penalties, by the law of Christianity, which is
   eminently and transcendently called the truth, and the word of truth;
   and in nothing more surpasses all the doctrines and religions in the
   world, than in this, that it enjoins the clearest, the openest, and the
   sincerest dealing, both in words and actions; and is the rigidest
   exacter of truth in all our behaviour, of any other doc trine or
   institution whatsoever.

   And thus much for the first general thing proposed, which was, to
   inquire into the nature of a lie, and the proper, essential malignity
   of all falsehood. I proceed now to the

   Second, which is to shew the pernicious effects of it. Some of the
   chief and most remarkable of which are these that follow: as,

   First of all, it was this that introduced sin into the world. For how
   came our first parents to sin, and to lose their primitive innocence?
   Why, they were deceived, and by the subtilty of the devil brought to
   believe a lie. And, indeed, deceit is of the very essence and nature of
   sin, there being no sinful action, but there is a lie wrapt up in the
   bowels of it. For sin prevails upon the soul by representing that as
   suitable and desirable, that really is not so. And no man is ever
   induced to sin, but by a persuasion, that he shall find some good and
   happiness in it, which he had not before. The wages that sin bargains
   with the sinner to serve it for, are life, pleasure, and profit; but
   the wages it pays him with, are death, torment, and destruction. He
   that would understand the falsehood and deceit of sin throughly, must
   compare its promises and its payments together.

   And as the devil first brought sin into the world by a lie, (being
   equally the base original of both,) so he still propagates and promotes
   it by the same. The devil reigns over none but those whom he first
   deceives. Geographers and historians dividing the habitable world into
   thirty parts, give us this account of them: that but five of those
   thirty are Christian; and for the rest, six of them are Jew and
   Mahometan, and the remaining nineteen perfectly heathen: all which he
   holds and governs by possessing them with a lie, and bewitching them
   with a false religion: like the moon and the stars, he rules by night;
   and his kingdom, even in this world, is perfectly a kingdom of
   darkness. And therefore our Saviour, who came to dethrone the devil and
   to destroy sin, did it by being the light of the world, and by bearing
   witness to the truth. For so far as truth gets ground in the world, so
   far sin loses it. Christ saves the world, by undeceiving it; and
   sanctifies the will, by first enlightening the understanding.

   2. A second effect of lying and falsehood is all that misery and
   calamity that befalls mankind. For the proof of which, we need go no
   further than the former consideration: for sorrow being the natural and
   direct effect of sin, that which first brought sin into the world must
   by necessary consequence bring in sorrow too. Shame and pain, poverty
   and sickness, yea, death and hell itself, are all of them but the
   trophies of those fatal conquests, got by that grand impostor, the
   devil, over the deluded sons of men. And hardly can any example be
   produced of a man in extreme misery, who was not one way or other first
   deceived into it. For have not the greatest slaughters of armies been
   effected by stratagem? And have not the fairest estates been destroyed
   by suretyship? In both of which there is a fallacy, and the man is
   overreached, before he is overthrown.

   What betrayed and delivered the poor old prophet into the lion's mouth,
   1 Kings xiii. but the mouth of a false prophet, much the crueller and
   more remorseless of the two? How came John Huss and Jerome of Prague to
   be so cruelly and basely used by the council of Constance, those
   ecclesiastical commissioners of the court of Rome? Why, they promised
   those innocent men a safe conduct, who there upon took them at their
   word, and accordingly were burnt alive, for trusting a pack of
   perfidious wretches, who regarded their own word as little as they did
   God's. [21]

   And how came so many bonfires to be made in Queen Mary's days? Why, she
   had abused and deceived her people with lies, promising them the free
   exercise of their religion before she got into the throne; and when she
   was once in, she performed her promise to them at the stake. And I know
   no security we had from seeing the same again in our days, but one or
   two proclamations forbidding bon fires. Some sort of promises are edged
   tools, and it is dangerous laying hold on them.

   But to pass from hence to fanatic treachery, that is, from one twin to
   the other; how came such multitudes of our own nation, at the beginning
   of that monstrous (but still surviving and successful) rebel lion, in
   the year 1641, to be spunged of their plate and money, their rings and
   jewels, for the carrying on of the schismatical, dissenting,
   king-killing cause? Why, next to their own love of being cheated, it
   was the public, or rather prostitute faith of a company of faithless
   miscreants that drew them in, and deceived them. And how came so many
   thousands to fight and die in the same rebellion? Why, they were
   deceived into it, by those spiritual trumpeters who followed them with
   continual alarms of damnation, if they did not venture life, fortune,
   and all, in that which wickedly and devilishly those impostors called,
   the cause of God. So that I myself have heard one say, [22] (whose
   quarters have since hung about that city where he had been first
   deceived,) that he, with many more, went to that execrable war with
   such a controlling horror upon their spirits, from those sermons, [23]
   that they verily believed they should have been accursed by God for
   ever, if they had not acted their part in that dismal tragedy, and
   heartily done the devil's work, being so effectually called and
   commanded to it in God's name.

   Infinite would it be to pursue all instances of this nature: but,
   consider those grand agents and lieu tenants of the devil, by whom he
   scourges and plagues the world under him, to wit, tyrants; and was
   there ever any tyrant since the creation, who was not also false and
   perfidious? Do not the bloody and the deceitful man still go hand in
   hand together, in the language of the scripture? Psalm lv. 23. Was ever
   any people more cruel, and withal more false, than the Carthaginians?
   And had not the hypocritical contrivers of the murder of that blessed
   martyr king Charles the first, their masks and vizards, as well as his
   executioners?

   No man that designs to rob another of his estate or life, will be so
   impudent or ignorant, as in plain terms to tell him so. But if it be
   his estate that he drives at, he will dazzle his eyes, and bait him in
   with the luscious proposal of some gainful purchase, some rich match,
   or advantageous project; till the easy man is caught and hampered; and
   so, partly by lies, and partly by law-suits together, comes at length
   to be stripped of all, and brought to a piece of bread, when he can get
   it. Or if it be a man's life, that the malice of his enemy seeks after,
   he will not presently clap his pistol to his breast, or his knife to
   his throat; but will rather take Absalom for his pattern, who invited
   his dear brother to a feast, hugged and embraced, courted and caressed
   him, till he had well dosed his weak head with wine, and his foolish
   heart with confidence and credulity; and then, in he brings him an old
   reckoning, and makes him pay it off with his blood. Or, perhaps, the
   cut throat may rather take his copy from the Parisian massacre; one of
   the horridest instances of barbarous inhumanity that ever the world
   saw, but ushered in with all the pretences of amity, and the festival
   treats of a reconciling marriage, a new and excellent way, no doubt, of
   proving matrimony a sacrament. But such butchers know what they have to
   do. They must sooth and allure, before they strike; and the ox must be
   fed, before he is brought to the slaughter; and the same course must be
   taken with some sort of asses too.

   In a word, I verily believe, that no sad disaster ever yet befell any
   person or people, nor any villainy or flagitious action was ever yet
   committed, but upon a due inquiry into the causes of it, it will be
   found, that a He was first or last the principal engine to effect it:
   and that, whether pride, lust, or cruelty brought it forth, it was
   falsehood that begot it; this gave it being, whatsoever other vice
   might give it birth.

   3. As we have seen how much lying and falsehood disturbs; so, in the
   next place, we shall see also how it tends utterly to dissolve society.
   There is no doubt, but all the safety, happiness, and convenience that
   men enjoy in this life, is from the combination of particular persons
   into societies or corporations: the cause of which is compact; and the
   band that knits together and supports all compacts, is truth and
   faithfulness. So that the soul and spirit that animates and keeps up
   society, is mutual trust, and the foundation of trust is truth, either
   known, or at leas t supposed in the persons so trusted.

   But now, where fraud and falsehood, like a plague or canker, comes once
   to invade society, the band, which held together the parts compounding
   it, presently breaks; and men are thereby put to a loss, where to
   league, and to fasten their dependences; and so are forced to scatter,
   and shift every one for himself. Upon which account, every notoriously
   false person ought to be looked upon and detested, as a public enemy,
   and to be pursued as a wolf or a mad dog, and a disturber of the common
   peace and welfare of mankind. There being no particular person
   whatsoever, but has his private interest concerned and endangered in
   the mischief that such a wretch does to the public.

   For look into great families, and you shall find some one false, paltry
   talebearer, who, by carrying stories from one to another, shall inflame
   the minds and discompose the quiet of the whole family. And from
   families pass to towns or cities; and two or three pragmatical,
   intriguing, meddling fellows, (men of business some call them,) by the
   venom of their false tongues, shall set the whole neighbourhood
   together by the ears. Where men practise falsehood, and shew tricks
   with one another, there will be perpetual suspicions, evil surmisings,
   doubts, and jealousies, which, by souring the minds of men, are the
   bane and pest of society. For still society is built upon trust, and
   trust upon the confidence that men have of one another's integrity.

   And this is so evident, that without trusting, there could not only be
   no happiness, but indeed no living in this world. For in those very
   things that minister to the daily necessities of common life, how can
   any one be assured, that the very meat and drink that he is to take
   into his body, and the clothes he is to put on, are not poisoned, and
   made unwholesome for him, before ever they are brought to him. Nay, in
   some places, (with horror be it spoke,) how can a man be secure in
   taking the very sacrament itself? For there have been those who have
   found something in this spiritual food, that has proved very fatal to
   their bodies, and more than prepared them for another world. I say, how
   can any one warrant himself in the use of these things against such
   suspicions, but in the trust he has in the common honesty and truth of
   men in general, which ought and uses to keep them from such villainies?
   Nevertheless, know this certainly before hand he cannot, forasmuch as
   such things have been done, and consequently may be done again. And
   therefore, as for any infallible assurance to the contrary, he can have
   none; but, in the great concerns of life and health, every man must be
   forced to proceed upon trust, there being no knowing the intention of
   the cook or baker, any more than of the priest himself. And yet, if a
   man should forbear his food, or raiment, or most of his business in the
   world, till he had science and certainty of the safeness of what he was
   going about, he must starve, and die disputing; for there is neither
   eating, nor drinking, nor living by demonstration.

   Now this shews the high malignity of fraud and falsehood, that, in the
   direct and natural course of it, tends to the destruction of common
   life, by destroying that trust and mutual confidence that men should
   have in one another; by which the common intercourse of the world must
   be carried on, and without which, men must first distrust, and then
   divide, separate, and stand upon their guard, with their hand against
   every one, and every one's hand against them.

   The felicity of societies and bodies politic consists in this, that all
   relations in them do regularly discharge their respective duties and
   offices. Such as are the relation between prince and subject, master
   and servant, a man and his friend, husband and wife, parent and child,
   buyer and seller, and the like. But now, where fraud and falsehood take
   place, there is not one of all these that is not perverted, and that
   does not, from an help of society, directly become an hinderance. For
   first, it turns all above us into tyranny and barbarity; and all of the
   same religion and level with us, into discord and confusion. It is this
   alone that poisons that sovereign and divine thing called friendship;
   so that when a man thinks that he leans upon a breast as loving and
   true to him as his own, he finds that he relies upon a broken reed,
   that not only basely fails, but also cruelly pierces the hand that
   rests upon it. It is from this, that when a man thinks he has a servant
   or dependent, an instrument of his affairs, and a defence of his
   person, he finds a traitor and a Judas, an enemy that eats his bread
   and lies under his roof; and perhaps readier to do him a mischief and a
   shrewd turn than an open and professed adversary. And lastly, from this
   deceit and falsehood it is, that when a man thinks himself matched to
   one, who, by the laws of God and nature, should be a comfort to him in
   all conditions, a consort of his cares, and a companion in all his
   concerns, instead thereof, he finds in his bosom a beast, a serpent,
   and a devil.

   In a word: he that has to do with a liar, knows not where he is, nor
   what he does, nor with whom he deals. He walks upon bogs and
   whirlpools; wheresoever he treads he sinks, and converses with a
   bottomless pit, where it is impossible for him to fix, or to be at any
   certainty. In fine, he catches at an apple of Sodom, which, though it
   may entertain his eye with a florid, jolly white and red, yet, upon the
   touch, it shall fill his hand only with stench and foulness; fair in
   look and rotten at heart; as the gayest and most taking things and
   persons in the world generally are.

   4. And lastly: deceit and falsehood do, of all other ill qualities,
   most peculiarly indispose the hearts of men to the impressions of
   religion. For these are sins perfectly spiritual, and so prepossess the
   proper seat and place of religion, which is the soul or spirit: and,
   when that is once filled and taken up with a lie, there will hardly be
   admission or room for truth. Christianity is known in scripture by no
   name so significantly, as by the simplicity of the gospel.

   And if so, does it not look like the greatest paradox and prodigy in
   nature, for any one to pretend it lawful to equivocate, or lie for it?
   To face God and outface man, with the sacrament and a lie in one's
   mouth together? Can a good intention, or rather a very wicked one, so
   miscalled, sanctify and transform perjury and hypocrisy into merit and
   perfection? Or can there be a greater blot cast upon any church or
   religion (whatsoever it be) than by such a practice? For will not the
   world be induced to look upon my religion as a lie, if I allow myself
   to lie for my religion?

   The very life and soul of all religion is sincerity. And therefore the
   good ground, in which alone the immortal seed of the word sprang up to
   perfection, is said, in St. Luke viii. 15. to have been those that
   received it into an honest heart, that is, a plain, clear, and well
   meaning heart; an heart not doubled, nor cast into the various folds
   and windings of a dodging, shifting hypocrisy. For the truth is, the
   more spiritual and refined any sin is, the more hardly is the soul
   cured of it; because the more difficultly convinced. And in all our
   spiritual maladies, conviction must still begin the cure.

   Such sins, indeed, as are acted by the body, do quickly shew and
   proclaim themselves; and it is no such hard matter to convince or run
   down a drunkard, or an unclean person, and to stop their mouths, and to
   answer any pretences that they can allege for their sin. But deceit is
   such a sin as a Pharisee may be guilty of, and yet stand fair for the
   reputation of zeal and strictness, and a more than ordinary exactness
   in religion. And though some have been apt to account none sinful, or
   vicious, but such as wallow in the mire and dirt of gross sensuality,
   yet, no doubt, deceit, falsehood, and hypocrisy, are more directly
   contrary to the very essence and design of religion, and carry in them
   more of the express image and superscription of the devil, than any
   bodily sins whatsoever. How did that false, fasting, imperious,
   self-admiring, or rather, self-adoring hypocrite, in St. Luke xviii.
   11. crow and insult over the poor publican! God, I thank thee, says he,
   that I am not like other men; and God forbid, say I, that there should
   be many others like him, for a glistering outside and a noisome inside,
   for tithing mint and cummin, and for devouring widows' houses; that is,
   for taking ten parts from his neighbour, and putting God off with one.
   After all which, had this man of merit and mortification been called to
   account for his ungodly swallow in gorging down the estates of helpless
   widows and orphans, it is odds, but he would have told you, that it was
   all for charitable uses, and to afford pensions for spies and
   proselytes. It being no ordinary piece of spiritual good husbandry, to
   be charitable at other men's cost.

   But such sons of Abraham, how highly soever they may have the luck to
   be thought of, are far from being Israelites indeed; for the character
   that our Saviour gives us of such, in the person of Nathanael, in John
   i. 47. is, that they are without guile. To be so, I confess, is
   generally reckoned (of late times especially) a poor, mean, sneaking
   thing, and the contrary, reputed wit and parts, and fitness for
   business, as the word is: though I doubt not, but it will be one day
   found, that only honesty and integrity can fit a man for the main
   business that he was sent into the world for; and that he certainly is
   the greatest wit, who is wise to salvation.

   And thus much for the second general thing proposed, which was, to shew
   the pernicious effects of lying and falsehood. Come we now to the

   Third and last, which is, to lay before you the rewards or punishments
   that will assuredly attend, or at least follow, this base practice.

   I shall mention three: as,

   1. An utter loss of all credit and belief with sober and discreet
   persons; and consequently, of all capacity of being useful in the prime
   and noblest concerns of life. For there cannot be imagined in nature a
   more forlorn, useless, and contemptible tool, or more unfit for any
   thing, than a discovered cheat. And let men rest assured of this, that
   there will be always some as able to discover and find out deceitful
   tricks, as others can be to contrive them. For God forbid, that all the
   wit and cunning of the world should still run on the deceiver's side;
   and when such little shifts and shuffling arts come once to be ripped
   up and laid open, how poorly and wretchedly must that man needs sneak,
   who finds himself both guilty and baffled too! a knave with out luck is
   certainly the worst trade in the world. But truth makes the face of
   that person shine who speaks and owns it: while a lie is like a vizard,
   that may cover the face indeed, but can never become it; nor yet does
   it cover it so but that it leaves it open enough for shame. It brands a
   man with a lasting, indelible character of ignominy and reproach, and
   that indeed so foul and odious, that those usurping hectors, who
   pretend to honour without religion, think the charge of a lie a blot
   upon them not to be washed out, but by the blood of him that gives it.

   For what place can that man fill in a common wealth, whom nobody will
   either believe or employ? And no man can be considerable in himself,
   who has not made himself useful to others: nor can any man be so, who
   is uncapable of a trust. He is neither fit for counsel or friendship,
   for service or command, to be in office or in honour, but, like salt
   that has lost its savour, fit only to rot and perish upon a dunghill.

   For no man can rely upon such an one, either with safety to his
   affairs, or without a slur to his reputation,; since he that trusts a
   knave has no other recompence, but to be accounted a fool for his
   pains. And if he trusts himself into ruin and beggary, he falls
   unpitied, a sacrifice to his own folly and credulity; for he that
   suffers himself to be imposed upon by a known deceiver, goes partner in
   the cheat, and deceives himself. He is despised, and laughed at as a
   soft and easy person, and as unfit to be relied upon for his weakness,
   as the other can be for his falseness.

   It is really a great misery not to know whom to trust, but a much
   greater to behave one's self so as not to be trusted. But this is the
   liar's lot; he is accounted a pest and a nuisance; a person marked out
   for infamy and scorn, and abandoned by all men of sense and worth, and
   such as will not abandon themselves.

   2. The second reward or punishment that attends the lying and deceitful
   person, is the hatred of all those whom he either has or would have
   deceived. I do not say, that a Christian can lawfully hate any one; and
   yet I affirm, that some may very worthily deserve to be hated; and of
   all men living, who may or do, the deceiver certainly deserves it most.
   To which I shall add this one remark further; that though men's persons
   ought not to be hated, yet without all peradventure their practices
   justly may, and particularly that detestable one which we are now
   speaking of.

   For whosoever deceives a man, does not only do all that he can to ruin
   him, but, which is yet worse, to make him ruin himself; and by causing
   an error in the great guide of all his actions, his judgment, to cause
   an error in his choice too; the misguidance of which must naturally
   engage him in those courses that directly tend to his destruction. Loss
   of sight is the misery of life, and usually the forerunner of death;
   when the malefactor comes once to be muffled, and the fatal cloth drawn
   over his eyes, we know that he is not far from his execution.

   And this is so true, that whosoever sees a man who would have beguiled
   and imposed upon him, by making him believe a lie, he may truly say of
   that person, That's the man who would have ruined me, who would have
   stripped me of the dignity of my nature, and put out the eyes of my
   reason, to make himself sport with my calamity, my folly, and my
   dishonour. For so the Philistines used Sampson, and every man in this
   sad case has enough of Sampson to be his own executioner. Accordingly,
   if ever it comes to this, that a man can say of his confident, he would
   have deceived me, he has said enough to annihilate and abolish all
   pretences of friendship. And it is really an intolerable impudence, for
   any one to offer at the name of friend, after such an attempt. For can
   there be any thing of friendship in snares, hooks, and trepans? And
   therefore, whosoever breaks with his friend upon such terms, has enough
   to warrant him in so doing, both before God and man; and that without
   incur ring either the guilt of unfaithfulness before the one, or the
   blemish of inconstancy before the other. For this is not properly to
   break with a friend, but to discover an enemy, and timely to shake the
   viper off from one's hand.

   What says the most wise author of that excellent book of
   Ecclesiasticus, Ecclus. xxii. 21, 22.? Though thou drewest a sword at
   thy friend, yet despair not: for there may be a returning to favour. If
   thou hast opened thy mouth against thy friend, fear not; for there may
   be a reconciliation. That is, an hasty word or an indiscreet action
   does not presently dissolve the bond, or root out a well-settled habit,
   but that friendship may be still sound at heart; and so outgrow and
   wear off these little distempers. But what follows? Except for
   upbraiding, or disclosing of secrets, or a treacherous wound, (mark
   that:) for for these things, says he, every friend will depart. And
   surely it is high time for him to go, when such a devil drives him
   away. Passion, anger, and unkindness may give a wound that shall bleed
   and smart, but it is treachery only that makes it fester.

   And the reason of the difference is manifest; for hasty words or blows
   may be only the effects of a sudden passion, during which a man is not
   perfectly himself: but no man goes about to deceive, or ensnare, or
   circumvent another in a passion; to lay trains, and set traps, and give
   secret blows in a present huff. No; this is always done with forecast
   and design with a steady aiming; and a long projecting malice, assisted
   with all the skill and art of an expert and well-managed hypocrisy;
   and, perhaps, not without the pharisaical feigned guise of some thing
   like self-denial and mortification; which are things, in which the
   whole man, and the whole devil too, are employed, and all the powers
   and faculties of the mind are exerted and made use of.

   But for all these masks and vizards, nothing certainly can be thought
   of or imagined more base, inhuman, or diabolical, than for one to abuse
   the generous confidence and hearty freedom of his friend, and to
   undermine and ruin him in those very concerns, which nothing but too
   great a respect to, and too good an opinion of the traitor, made the
   poor man deposit in his hollow and fallacious breast. Such an one,
   perhaps, thinks to find some support and shelter in my friendship, and
   I take that opportunity to betray him to his mortal enemies. He comes
   to me for counsel, and I shew him a trick. He opens his bosom to me,
   and I stab him to the heart.

   These are the practices of the world we live in; especially since the
   year sixty, the grand epoch of falsehood, as well as debauchery. But
   God, who is the great guarantee for the peace, order, and good
   behaviour of mankind, where laws cannot secure it, may, some time or
   other, think it the concern of his justice and providence too, to
   revenge the affronts put upon them, by such impudent defiers of both,
   as neither believe a God, nor ought to be believed by man.

   In the mean time, let such perfidious wretches know, that though they
   believe a devil no more than they do a God, yet in all this scene of
   refined treachery, they are really doing the devil's journeywork, who
   was a liar and a murderer from the beginning, and therefore a liar,
   that he might be a murderer: and the truth is, such an one does all
   towards his brother's ruin that the devil himself could do. For the
   devil can but tempt and deceive, and if he cannot destroy a man that
   way, his power is at an end.

   But I cannot dismiss this head without one further note, as very
   material in the case now before us. Namely, that since this false,
   wily, doubling disposition of mind is so intolerably mischievous to
   society, God is sometimes pleased, in mere pity and compassion to men,
   to give them warning of it, by setting some odd mark upon such Cains.
   So that, if a man will be but so true to himself, as to observe such
   persons exactly, he shall generally spy such false lines, and such a
   sly, treacherous fleer upon their face, that he shall be sure to have a
   cast of their eye to warn him, before they give him a cast of their
   nature to betray him. And in such cases, a man may see more and better
   by another's eye, than he can by his own.

   Let this, therefore, be the second reward of the lying and deceitful
   person, that he is the object of a just hatred and abhorrence. For as
   the devil is both a liar himself and the father of liars; so I think,
   that the same cause, that has drawn the hatred of God and man upon the
   father, may justly entail it upon his offspring too; and it is pity
   that such an entail should ever be cut off. But,

   3. And lastly, The last and utmost reward, that shall infallibly reach
   the fraudulent and deceitful, (as it will all other obstinate and
   impenitent sinners,) is a final and eternal separation from God, who is
   truth itself, and with whom no shadow of falsehood can dwell. He that
   telleth lies, says David, in Psalm ci. 7. shall not tarry in my sight;
   and if not in the sight of a poor mortal man, (who could sometimes lie
   himself,) how much less in the presence of the infinite and all-knowing
   God! A wise and good prince, or governor, will not vouchsafe a liar the
   countenance of his eye, and much less the privilege of his ear. The
   Spirit of God seems to write this upon the very gates of heaven, and to
   state the condition of men's entrance into glory chiefly upon their
   veracity. In Psalm xv. 1. Who shall ascend into thy holy hill? says the
   Psalmist. To which it is answered, in ver. 2. He that worketh
   righteousness, and that speaketh the truth from his heart.

   And, on the other side, how emphatically is hell described in the two
   last chapters of the Revelation; by being the great receptacle and
   mansion-house of liars, whom we shall find there ranged with the vilest
   and most detestable of all sinners, appointed to have their portion in
   that horrid place, Rev. xxi. 8. The unbelieving, and the abominable,
   and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and idolaters, and all
   liars, shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and
   brimstone: and in Rev. xxii. 15. Without are dogs and sorcerers, &c.
   and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.

   Now let those consider this, whose tongue and heart hold no
   correspondence: who look upon it as a piece of art and wisdom, and the
   masterpiece of conversation, to overreach and deceive, and make a prey
   of a credulous and well-meaning honesty. What do such persons think?
   Are dogs, whoremongers, and sorcerers, such desirable company to take
   up with for ever? Will the burning lake be found so tolerable? Or will
   there be any one to drop refreshment upon the false tongue, when it
   shall be tormented in those flames? Or do they think that God is a liar
   like themselves, and that no such things shall ever come to pass, but
   that all these fiery threatenings shall vanish into smoke, and this
   dreadful sentence blow off without execution? Few certainly can lie to
   their own hearts so far as to imagine this: but hell is, and must be
   granted to be, the deceiver's portion, not only by the judgment of God,
   but of his own conscience too. And, comparing the malignity of his sin
   with the nature of the punishment allotted for him, all that can be
   said of a liar lodged in the very nethermost hell, is this; that if the
   vengeance of God could prepare any place or condition worse than hell
   for sinners, hell itself would be too good for him.

   And now to sum up all in short; I have shewn what a lie is, and wherein
   the nature of falsehood does consist; that it is a thing absolutely and
   intrinsically evil; that it is an act of injustice, and a violation of
   our neighbour's right.

   And that the vileness of its nature is equalled by the malignity of its
   effects. It being this that first brought sin into the world, and is
   since the cause of all those miseries and calamities that disturb it;
   and further, that it tends utterly to dissolve and over throw society,
   which is the greatest temporal blessing and support of mankind: and,
   which is yet worst of all, that it has a strange and particular
   efficacy, above all other sins, to indispose the heart to religion.

   And lastly, that it is as dreadful in its punishments, as it has been
   pernicious in its effects. Forasmuch as it deprives a man of all credit
   and belief, and consequently, of all capacity of being useful in any
   station or condition of life whatsoever; and next, that it draws upon
   him the just and universal hatred and abhorrence of all men here; and
   finally, subjects him to the wrath of God and eternal dam nation
   hereafter.

   And now, if none of all these considerations can recommend and endear
   truth to the words and practices of men, and work upon their double
   hearts, so far as to convince and make them sensible of the baseness of
   the sin, and greatness of the guilt, that fraud and falsehood leaves
   upon the soul; let them lie and cheat on, till they receive a fuller
   and more effectual conviction of all these things, in that place of
   torment and confusion, prepared for the devil and his angels, and all
   his lying retinue, by the decree and sentence of that God, who, in his
   threatenings as well as in his promises, will be true to his word, and
   cannot lie.

   To whom be rendered and ascribed, as is most due, all praise, might,
   majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [21] Of which last, see an instance in the 13th session of this
   council, in which it decrees, with a non-obstante to Christ's express
   institution of the blessed eucharist in both kinds, that the contrary
   custom and practice of receiving it only in one kind ought to be
   accounted and observed as a law; and that, if the priest should
   administer it otherwise, he was to be excommunicated.

   [22] Colonel Axtell.

   [23] He particularly mentioned those of Brooks and Calamy.
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   The practice of religion enforced by reason:

    IN

A SERMON

  PREACHED AT WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 1667.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

    TO THE

UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD. [24]

   Reverend and learned Sirs,

   THESE discourses (most of them at least) having by the favour of your
   patience had the honour of your audience, and being now published in
   another and more lasting way, do here humbly cast themselves at your
   feet, imploring the yet greater favour and honour of your patronage, or
   at least the benevolence of your pardon.

   Amongst which, the chief design of some of them is, to assert the
   rights and constitutions of our excellently reformed church, which of
   late we so often hear reproached (in the modish dialect of the present
   times) by the name of little things; and that in order to their being
   laid aside, not only as little, but superfluous. But for my own part, I
   can account nothing little in any church, which has the stamp of
   undoubted authority, and the practice of primitive antiquity, as well
   as the reason and decency of the thing it self, to warrant and support
   it. Though, if the supposed littleness of these matters should be a
   sufficient reason for the laying them aside, I fear our church will be
   found to have more little men to spare, than little things.

   But I have observed all along, that while this innovating spirit has
   been striking at the constitutions of our church, the same has been
   giving several bold and scurvy strokes at some of her articles too: an
   evident demonstration to me, that whensoever her discipline shall be
   destroyed, her doctrine will not long survive it: and I doubt not but
   it is for the sake of this, that the former is so much maligned and
   shot at. Pelagianism and Socinianism, with several other heterodoxies
   cognate to and dependent upon them, which of late, with so much
   confidence and scandalous countenance, walk about daring the world, are
   certainly no doc trines of the church of England. And none are abler
   and fitter to make them appear what they are, and whither they tend,
   than our excellent and so well stocked universities; and if these will
   but bestir themselves against all innovators whatsoever, it will
   quickly be seen, that our church needs none, either to fill her places
   or to defend her doc trines, but the sons whom she herself has brought
   forth and bred up. Her charity is indeed great to others, and the
   greater, for that she is so well provided of all that can contribute
   either to her strength or ornament without them. The altar receives and
   protects such as fly to it, but needs them not.

   We are not so dull, but we perceive who are the prime designers, as
   well as the professed actors against our church, and from what quarter
   the blow chiefly threatens us. We know the spring as well as we observe
   the motion, and scent the foot which pursues, as well as see the hand
   which is lifted up against us. The pope is an experienced work man; he
   knows his tools, and knows them to be but tools, and knows withal how
   to use them, and that so, that they shall neither know who it is that
   uses them, or what he uses them for; and we cannot in reason presume
   his skill now in ninety-three, to be at all less than it was in
   forty-one. But God, who has even to a miracle protected the church of
   England hitherto, against all the power and spite both of her open and
   concealed enemies, will, we hope, continue to protect so pure and
   rational, so innocent and self-denying a constitution still. And next,
   under God, we must rely upon the old church of England clergy, together
   with the two universities, both to support and recover her declining
   state. For so long as the universities are sound and orthodox, the
   church has both her eyes open; and while she has so, it is to be hoped
   that she will look about her, and consider again and again, what she is
   to change from, and what she must change to, and where she shall make
   an end of changing, before she quits her present constitution.

   Innovations about religion are certainly the most efficacious, as well
   as the most plausible way of compassing a total abolition of it. One of
   the best and strongest arguments we have against popery is, that it is
   an innovation upon the Christian church; and if so, I cannot see why
   that, which we explode in the popish church, should pass for such a
   piece of perfection in a reformed one. The papists I am sure (our
   shrewdest and most designing enemies) desire and push on this to their
   utmost; and for that very reason one would think, that we (if we are
   not besotted) should oppose it to our utmost too. However, let us but
   have our liturgy continued to us as it is, till the persons are born
   who shall be able to mend it, or make a better, and we desire no
   greater security against either the altering this, or introducing
   another.

   The truth is, such as would new model the church of England ought not
   only to have a new religion, (which some have been so long driving at,)
   but a new reason likewise, to proceed by: since experience (which was
   ever yet accounted one of the surest and best improvements of reason)
   has been always for acquiescing in things settled with sober and mature
   advice, (and, in the present case also, with the very blood and
   martyrdom of the advisers themselves,) without running the risk of new
   experiments; which, though in philosophy they may be commendable, yet
   in religion and religious matters are generally fatal and pernicious.
   The church is a royal society for settling old things, and not for
   finding out new. In a word, we serve a wise and unchangeable God, and
   we desire to do it by a religion and in a church (as like him as may
   be) without changes or alterations.

   And now, as in so important a matter, I would interest both
   universities, so I do it with the same honour and deference to both; as
   abhorring from my heart the pedantic partiality of preferring one
   before the other: since (if my relation to one should never so much
   incline me so to do) I must sincerely declare, that I cannot see how to
   place a preference, where I can find no preeminence. And therefore, as
   they are both equal in fame, and learning, and all that is great and
   excellent, so I hope to see them always one in judgment and design,
   heart and affection; without any strife, emulation, or contest between
   them except this one, (which I wish may be perpetual,) viz. which of
   the two best universities in the world shall be most serviceable to the
   best church in the world, by their learning, constancy, and integrity.

   But to conclude, there remains no more for me to do, but to beg pardon
   of that august body to which I belong, if I have offended in assuming
   to myself the honour of mentioning my relation to a society, which I
   could never reflect the least honour upon, nor contribute the least
   advantage to.

   All that I can add is, that as it was my fortune to serve this noble
   seat of learning for many years, as her public, though unworthy orator;
   so upon that, and other innumerable accounts, I ought for ever to be,
   and to acknowledge myself,

   Her most faithful, obedient,

   and devoted servant,

   ROBERT SOUTH.

   Westminster Abbey,
   Novemb. 17, 1693.
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   [24] This dedication refers to the twelve sermons next following.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Prov. x. 9.

   He that walketh uprightly walketh surely.

   As it were easy to evince, both from reason and experience, that there
   is a strange, restless activity in the soul of man, continually
   disposing it to operate, and exert its faculties; so the phrase of
   scripture still expresses the life of man by walking; that is, it
   represents an active principle in an active posture. And because the
   nature of man carries him thus out to action, it is no wonder if the
   same nature equally renders him solicitous about the issue and event of
   his actions: for every one, by reflecting upon the way and method of
   his own workings, will find that he is still determined in them by a
   respect to the consequence of what he does; always proceeding upon this
   argumentation; If I do such a thing, such an advantage will follow from
   it, and therefore I will do it. And if I do this, such a mischief will
   ensue thereupon, and therefore I will for bear. Every one, I say, is
   concluded by this practical discourse; and for a man to bring his
   actions to the event proposed and designed by him, is to walk surely.
   But since the event of an action usually follows the nature or quality
   of it, and the quality follows the rule directing it, it concerns a
   man, by all means, in the framing of his actions, not to be deceived in
   the rule which he proposes for the mea sure of them; which, without
   great and exact caution, he may be these two ways:

   1. By laying false and deceitful principles.

   2. In case he lays right principles, yet by mistaking in the
   consequences which he draws from them.

   An error in either of which is equally dangerous; for if a man is to
   draw a line, it is all one whether he does it by a crooked rule, or by
   a straight one misapplied. He who fixes upon false principles treads
   upon infirm ground, and so sinks; and he who fails in his deductions
   from right principles, stumbles upon firm ground, and so falls; the
   disaster is not of the same kind, but of the same mischief in both.

   It must be confessed, that it is sometimes very hard to judge of the
   truth or goodness of principles, considered barely in themselves, and
   abstracted from their consequences. But certainly he acts upon the
   surest and most prudential grounds in the world, who, whether the
   principles which he acts upon prove true or false, yet secures an happy
   issue to his actions.

   Now he who guides his actions by the rules of piety and religion, lays
   these two principles as the great ground of all that he does:

   1. That there is an infinite, eternal, all-wise mind governing the
   affairs of the world, and taking such an account of the actions of men,
   as, according to the quality of them, to punish or reward them.

   2dly, That there is an estate of happiness or misery after this life,
   allotted to every man, according to the quality of his actions here.
   These, I say, are the principles which every religious man proposes to
   himself; and the deduction which he makes from them is this: That it is
   his grand interest and concern so to act and behave himself in this
   world, as to secure himself from an estate of misery in the other. And
   thus to act, is, in the phrase of scripture, to walk uprightly; and it
   is my business to prove, that he who acts in the strength of this
   conclusion, drawn from the two forementioned principles, walks surely,
   or secures an happy event to his actions, against all contingencies
   whatsoever.

   And to demonstrate this, I shall consider the said principles under a
   threefold supposition:

   1st, As certainly true;

   2dly, As probable; and,

   3dly, As false.

   And if the pious man brings his actions to an happy end, which soever
   of these suppositions his principles, fall under, then certainly, there
   is none who walks so surely, and upon such irrefragable grounds of
   prudence, as he who is religious.

   1. First of all therefore we will take these principles (as we may very
   well do) under the hypothesis of certainly true: where, though the
   method of the ratiocination which I have cast the present discourse
   into, does not naturally engage me to prove them so, but only to shew
   what directly and necessarily follows upon a supposal that they are so;
   yet to give the greater perspicuity and clearness to the prosecution of
   the subject in hand, I shall briefly demonstrate them thus.

   It is necessary, that there should be some first mover; and, if so, a
   first being; and the first being must infer an infinite, unlimited
   perfection in the said being: forasmuch as if it were finite or
   limited, that limitation must have been either from itself or from
   something else. But not from itself, since it is contrary to reason and
   nature, that any being should limit its own perfection; nor yet from
   something else, since then it should not have been the first, as
   supposing some other thing coevous to it; which is against the present
   supposition. So that it being clear, that there must be a first being,
   and that in finitely perfect, it will follow, that all other perfection
   that is, must be derived from it; and so we infer the creation of the
   world: and then supposing the world created by God, (since it is no
   ways reconcileable to God's wisdom, that he should not also govern it,)
   creation must needs infer providence: and then it being granted, that
   God governs the world, it will follow also, that he does it by means
   suitable to the natures of the things he governs, and to the attainment
   of the proper ends of government: and moreover, man being by nature a
   free, moral agent, and so, capable of deviating from his duty, as well
   as performing it, it is necessary that he should be governed by laws:
   and since laws require that they be enforced with the sanction of
   rewards and punishments, sufficient to sway and work upon the minds of
   such as are to be governed by them; and lastly, since experience shews
   that rewards and punishments, terminated only within this life, are not
   sufficient for that purpose, it fairly and rationally follows, that the
   rewards and punishments, which God governs mankind by, do and must look
   beyond it.

   And thus I have given a brief proof of the certainty of these
   principles; namely, that there is a supreme governor of the world; and
   that there is a future estate of happiness or misery for men after this
   life: which principles, while a man steers his course by, if he acts
   piously, soberly, and temperately, I suppose there needs no further
   arguments to evince, that he acts prudentially and safely. For he acts
   as under the eye of his just and severe Judge, who reaches to his
   creature a command with one hand, and a reward with the other. He
   spends as a person who knows that he must come to a reckoning. He sees
   an eternal happiness or misery suspended upon a few days behaviour; and
   therefore he lives every hour as for eternity. His future condition has
   such a powerful influence upon his present practice, because he
   entertains a continual apprehension and a firm persuasion of it. If a
   man walks over a narrow bridge when he is drunk, it is no wonder that
   he forgets his caution, while he over looks his danger. But he who is
   sober, and views that nice separation between himself and the devouring
   deep, so that if he should slip, he sees his grave gaping under him,
   surely must needs take every step with horror, and the utmost caution
   and solicitude.

   But for a man to believe it as the most undoubted certainty in the
   world, that he shall be judged according to the quality of his actions
   here, and after judgment receive an eternal recompence, and yet to take
   his full swing in all the pleasures of sin, is it not a greater
   phrensy, than for a man to take a purse at Tyburn, while he is actually
   seeing another hanged for the same fact? It is really to dare and defy
   the justice of Heaven, to laugh at right-aiming thunderbolts, to puff
   at damnation, and, in a word, to bid Omnipotence do its worst. He
   indeed who thus walks, walks surely; but it is because he is sure to be
   damned.

   I confess it is hard to reconcile such a stupid course to the natural
   way of the soul's acting; according to which, the will moves according
   to the proposals of good and evil, made by the understanding: and
   therefore for a man to run headlong into the bottomless pit, while the
   eye of a seeing conscience assures him that it is bottomless and open,
   and all return from it desperate and impossible; while his ruin stares
   him in the face, and the sword of vengeance points directly at his
   heart, still to press on to the embraces of his sin, is a problem
   unresolvable upon any other ground, but that sin infatuates before it
   destroys. For Judas to receive and swallow the sop, when his master
   gave it him seasoned with those terrible words, It had been good for
   that man that he had never been born; surely this argued a furious
   appetite and a strong stomach, that could thus catch at a morsel with
   the fire and brimstone all flaming about it, and, as it were, digest
   death itself, and make a meal upon perdition.

   I could wish that every bold sinner, when he is about to engage in the
   commission of any known sin, would arrest his confidence, and for a
   while stop the execution of his purpose, with this short question, Do I
   believe that it is really true, that God has denounced death to such a
   practice, or do I not? If he does not, let him renounce his
   Christianity, and surrender back his baptism, the water of which might
   better serve him to cool his tongue in hell, than only to consign him
   over to the capacity of so black an apostasy. But if he does believe
   it, how will he acquit himself upon the accounts of bare reason? For
   does he think, that if he pursues the means of death, they will not
   bring him to that fatal end? Or does he think that he can grapple with
   divine vengeance, and endure the everlasting burnings, or arm himself
   against the bites of the never-dying worm? No, surely, these are things
   not to be imagined; and therefore I cannot conceive what security the
   presuming sinner can promise himself, but upon these two following
   accounts.

   1. That God is merciful, and will not be so severe as his word; and
   that his threatenings of eternal torments are not so decretory and
   absolute, but that there is a very comfortable latitude left in them
   for men of skill to creep out at. And here it must in deed be
   confessed, that Origen, and some others, not long since, who have been
   so officious as to furbish up and reprint his old errors, hold, that
   the sufferings of the damned are not to be, in a strict sense, eternal;
   but that, after a certain revolution and period of time, there shall be
   a general gaol-delivery of the souls in prison, and that not for a
   further execution, but a final release. And it must be further
   acknowledged, that some of the ancients, like kind-hearted men, have
   talked much of annual refrigeriums, respites, or intervals of
   punishment to the damned, as particularly on the great festivals of the
   resurrection, ascension, pentecost, and the like. In which, as these
   good men are more to be commended for their kindness and compassion,
   than to be followed in their opinion; (which may be much better argued
   by wishes than demonstrations;) so, admitting that it were true, yet
   what a pitiful, slender comfort would this amount to! much like the
   Jews abating the punishment of malefactors from forty stripes to forty
   save one. A great indulgence indeed, even as great as the difference
   between forty and thirty-nine; and yet much less considerable would
   that indulgence be of a few holydays in the measures of eternity, of
   some hours' ease, compared with infinite ages of torment.

   Supposing therefore, that few sinners relieve themselves with such
   groundless, trifling considerations as these, yet may they not however
   fasten a rational hope upon the boundless mercy of God, that this may
   induce him to spare his poor creature, though by sin become obnoxious
   to his wrath? To this I answer, that the divine mercy is indeed large,
   and far surpassing all created measures, yet nevertheless it has its
   proper time; and after this life it is the time of justice; and to hope
   for the favours of mercy then, is to expect an harvest in the dead of
   winter. God has cast all his works into a certain, inviolable order;
   according to which, there is a time to pardon and a time to punish; and
   the time of one is not the time of the other. When corn has once felt
   the sickle, it has no more benefit from the sunshine. But,

   2dly, If the conscience be too apprehensive (as for the most part it
   is) to venture the final issue of things upon a fond persuasion, that
   the great Judge of the world will relent, and not execute the sentence
   pronounced by him; as if he had threatened men with hell rather to
   fright them from sin, than with an intent to punish them for it; I say,
   if the conscience cannot find any satisfaction or support from such
   reasonings as these, yet may it not, at least, relieve itself with the
   purposes of a future repentance, notwithstanding its present actual
   violations of the law? I answer, that this certainly is a confidence of
   all others the most ungrounded and irrational. For upon what ground can
   a man promise himself a future repentance, who cannot promise himself a
   futurity? whose life depends upon his breath, and is so restrained to
   the present, that it cannot secure to itself the reversion of the very
   next minute. Have not many died with the guilt of impenitence and the
   designs of repentance together? If a man dies to day, by the prevalence
   of some ill humours, will it avail him, that he intended to have bled
   and purged tomorrow?

   But how dares sinful dust and ashes invade the prerogative of
   Providence, and carve out to himself the seasons and issues of life and
   death, which the Father keeps wholly within his own power? How does
   that man, who thinks he sins securely under the shelter of some remote
   purposes of amendment, know, but that the decree above may be already
   passed against him, and his allowance of mercy spent; so that the bow
   in the clouds is now drawn, and the arrow levelled at his head: and not
   many days like to pass, but perhaps an apoplexy, or an imposthume, or
   some sudden, disaster, may stop his breath, and reap him down as a
   sinner ripe for destruction.

   I conclude therefore, that, upon supposition of the certain truth of
   the principles of religion, he who walks not uprightly has neither from
   the presumption of God's mercy reversing the decree of his justice, nor
   from his own purposes of future repentance, any sure ground to set his
   foot upon; but in this whole course acts as directly in contradiction
   to nature, as he does in defiance of grace. In a word, he is besotted,
   and has lost his reason; and what then can there be for religion to
   take hold of him by? Come we now to the

   2d supposition, under which we shew, That the principles of religion
   laid clown by us might be considered, and that is, as only probable.
   Where we must observe, that probability does not properly make any
   alteration, either in the truth or falsity of things; but only imports
   a different degree of their clearness or appearance to the
   understanding. So that that is to be accounted probable, which has more
   and better arguments producible for it, than can be brought against it;
   and surely such a thing at least is religion. For certain it is, that
   religion is universal, I mean the first rudiments and general notions
   of religion, called natural religion, and consisting in the
   acknowledgment of a Deity, and of the common principles of morality,
   and a future estate of souls after death, (in which also we have all
   that some reformers and refiners amongst us would reduce Christianity
   itself to.) This notion of religion, I say, has diffused itself in some
   degree or other, greater or less, as far as human nature extends. So
   that there is no nation in the world, though plunged into never such
   gross and absurd idolatry, but has some awful sense of a Deity, and a
   persuasion of a state of retribution to men after this life.

   But now, if there are really no such things, but all is a mere lie and
   a fable, contrived only to chain up the liberty of man's nature from a
   freer enjoyment of those things, which otherwise it would have as full
   a right to enjoy as to breathe, I demand whence this persuasion could
   thus come to be universal? For was it ever known, in any other
   instance, that the whole world was brought to conspire in the belief of
   a lie? Nay, and of such a lie, as should lay upon men such unpleasing
   abridgments, tying them up from a full gratification of those lusts and
   appetites which they so impatiently desire to satisfy, and
   consequently, by all means, to remove those impediments that might any
   way obstruct their satisfaction? Since therefore it cannot be made out
   upon any principle of reason, how all the nations in the world,
   otherwise so distant in situation, manners, interests, and
   inclinations, should, by design or combination, meet in one persuasion;
   and withal that men, who so mortally hate to be deceived and imposed
   upon, should yet suffer themselves to be deceived by such a persuasion
   as is false; and not only false, but also cross and contrary to their
   strongest desires; so that if it were false, they would set the utmost
   force of their reason on work to discover that falsity, and thereby
   disinthrall themselves; and further, since there is nothing false, but
   what may be proved to be so; and yet, lastly, since all the power and
   industry of man's mind has not been hitherto able to prove a falsity in
   the principles of religion, it irrefragably follows, (and that, I
   suppose, without gathering any more into the conclusion than has been
   made good in the premises,) that religion is at least a very high
   probability.

   And this is that which I here contend for, That it is not necessary to
   the obliging men to believe religion to be true, that this truth be
   made out to their reason by arguments demonstratively certain; but that
   it is sufficient to render their unbelief unexcusable, even upon the
   account of bare reason, if so be the truth of religion carry in it a
   much greater probability, than any of those ratiocinations that pretend
   the contrary: and this I prove in the strength of these two
   considerations.

   1st, That no man, in matters of this life, requires an assurance either
   of the good which he designs, or of the evil which he avoids, from
   arguments demonstratively certain; but judges himself to have
   sufficient ground to act upon, from a probable persuasion of the event
   of things. No man who first trafficks into a foreign country has any
   scientific evidence that there is such a country, but by report, which
   can produce no more than a moral certainty; that is, a very high
   probability, and such as there can be no reason to except against. He
   who has a probable belief, that he shall meet with thieves in such a
   road, thinks himself to have reason enough to decline it, albeit he is
   sure to sustain some less (though yet considerable) inconvenience by
   his so doing. But perhaps it may be replied, (and it is all that can be
   replied,) that a greater assurance and evidence is required of the
   things and concerns of the other world, than of the interests of this.
   To which I answer, that assurance and evidence (terms, by the way,
   extremely different; the first, respecting properly the ground of our
   assenting to a thing; and the other, the clearness of the thing or
   object assented to) have no place at all here, as being contrary to our
   present supposition; according to which, we are now treating of the
   practical principles of religion only as probable, and falling under a
   probable persuasion. And for this I affirm, that where the case is
   about the hazarding an eternal or a temporal concern, there a less
   degree of probability ought to engage our caution against the loss of
   the former, than is necessary to engage it about preventing the loss of
   the latter. Forasmuch as where things are least to be put to the
   venture, as the eternal interests of the other world ought to be; there
   every, even the least, probability or likelihood of danger, should be
   provided against; but where the loss can be but temporal, every small
   probability of it need not put us so anxiously to prevent it, since,
   though it should happen, the loss might be repaired again; or if not,
   could not however destroy us, by reaching us in our greatest and
   highest concern; which no temporal thing whatsoever is or can be. And
   this directly introduces the

   2d consideration or argument, viz. That bare reason, discoursing upon a
   principle of self-preservation, (which surely is the fundamental
   principle which nature proceeds by,) will oblige a man voluntarily and
   by choice to undergo any less evil to secure himself but from the
   probability of an evil incomparably greater, and that also such an one,
   as, if that probability passes into a certain event, admits of no
   reparation by any after-remedy that can be applied to it.

   Now, that religion, teaching a future estate of souls, is a
   probability, and that its contrary cannot with equal probability be
   proved, we have already evinced. This therefore being supposed, we will
   suppose yet further, that for a man to abridge himself in the full
   satisfaction of his appetites and inclinations, is an evil, because a
   present pain and trouble: but then it must likewise be granted, that
   nature must needs abhor a state of eternal pain and misery much more;
   and that if a man does not undergo the former less evil, it is highly
   probable that such an eternal estate of misery will be his portion; and
   if so, I would fain know whether that man takes a rational course to
   preserve himself, who refuses the endurance of these lesser troubles,
   to secure himself from a condition infinitely and inconceivably more
   miserable.

   But since probability, in the nature of it, supposes that a thing may
   or may not be so, for any thing that yet appears, or is certainly
   determined on either side, we will here consider both sides of this
   probability: as,

   1st, That it is one way possible, that there may be no such thing as a
   future estate of happiness or misery for those who have lived well or
   ill here; and then he who, upon the strength of a contrary belief,
   abridged himself in the gratification of his appetites, sustains only
   this evil; viz. That he did not please his senses and unbounded
   desires, so much as otherwise he might and would have done, had he not
   lived under the captivity and check of such a belief. This is the
   utmost which he suffers: but whether this be a real evil or no,
   (whatsoever vulgar minds may commonly think it,) shall be discoursed of
   afterwards.

   2. But then again, on the other side, it is probable that there will be
   such a future estate; and then how miserably is the voluptuous, sensual
   unbeliever left in the lurch! For there can be no retreat for him then,
   no mending of his choice in the other world, no after-game to be played
   in hell. It fares with men, in reference to their future estate, and
   the condition upon which they must pass to it, much as it does with a
   merchant having a vessel richly fraught at sea in a storm: the storm
   grows higher and higher, and threatens the utter loss of the ship: but
   there is one, and but one certain way to save it, which is, by throwing
   its rich lading overboard; yet still, for all this, the man knows not
   but possibly the storm may cease, and so all be preserved. However, in
   the mean time, there is little or no probability that it will do so;
   and in case it should not, he is then assured, that he must lay his
   life, as well as his rich commodities, in the cruel deep. Now in this
   case, would this man, think we, act rationally, should he, upon the
   slender possibility of escaping otherwise, neglect the sure, infallible
   preservation of his life, by casting away his rich goods? No certainly,
   it would be so far from it, that should the storm, by a strange hap,
   cease immediately after he had thus thrown away his riches, yet the
   throwing them away was infinitely more rational and eligible, than the
   retaining or keeping them could have been.

   For a man, while he lives here in the world, to doubt whether there be
   any hell or no; and there upon to live so, as if absolutely there were
   none; but when he dies, to find himself confuted in the flames; this,
   surely, must be the height of woe and disappointment, and a bitter
   conviction of an irrational venture and an absurd choice. In doubtful
   cases, reason still determines for the safer side; especially if the
   case be not only doubtful, but also highly concerning, and the venture
   be of a soul and an eternity.

   He who sat at a table, richly and deliciously furnished, but with a
   sword hanging over his head by one single thread or hair, surely had
   enough to check his appetite, even against all the ragings of hunger
   and temptations of sensuality. The only argument that could any way
   encourage his appetite was, that possibly the sword might not fall; but
   when his reason should encounter it with another question, What if it
   should fall? and moreover, that pitiful stay by which it hung should
   oppose the likelihood that it would, to a mere possibility that it
   might not; what could the man enjoy or taste of his rich banquet, with
   all this doubt and horror working in his mind?

   Though a man's condition should be really in itself never so safe, yet
   an apprehension and surmise that it is not safe, is enough to make a
   quick and a tender reason sufficiently miserable. Let the most acute
   and learned unbeliever demonstrate that there is no hell: and if he
   can, he sins so much the more rationally; otherwise, if he cannot, the
   case remains doubtful at least: but he who sins obstinately, does not
   act as if it were so much as doubtful; for if it were certain and
   evident to sense, he could do no more; but for a man to found a
   confident practice upon a disputable principle, is brutishly to outrun
   his reason, and to build ten times wider than his foundation. In a
   word, I look upon this one short consideration, were there no more, as
   a sufficient ground for any rational man to take up his religion upon,
   and which I defy the subtlest atheist in the world solidly to answer or
   confute; namely, That it is good to be sure. And so I proceed to the

   Third and last supposition, under which the principles of religion may,
   for argument sake, be considered; and that is, as false; which surely
   must reach the utmost thoughts of any atheist whatsoever. Nevertheless
   even upon this account also, I doubt not but to evince, that he who
   walks up rightly walks much more surely than the wicked and profane
   liver; and that with reference to the most valued temporal enjoyments,
   such as are reputation, quietness, health, and the like, which are the
   greatest which this life affords, or is desirable for. And,

   1st, For reputation or credit. Is any one had in greater esteem than
   the just person; who has given the world an assurance, by the constant
   tenor of his practice, that he makes a conscience of his ways; that he
   scorns to do an unworthy or a base thing; to lie, to defraud, to
   undermine another's interest, by any sinister and inferior arts? And is
   there any thing which reflects a greater lustre upon a man's person,
   than a severe temperance, and a restraint of himself from vicious and
   unlawful pleasures? Does any thing shine so bright as virtue, and that
   even in the eyes of those who are void of it? For hardly shall you find
   any one so bad, but he desires the credit of being thought what his
   vice will not let him be; so great a pleasure and convenience is it, to
   live with honour and a fair acceptance amongst those whom we converse
   with; and a being without it is not life, but rather the skeleton or
   caput mortuum of life; like time without day, or day itself with out
   the shining of the sun to enliven it.

   On the other side, is there any thing that more embitters all the
   enjoyments of this life than shame and reproach? Yet this is generally
   the lot and portion of the impious and irreligious; and of some of them
   more especially.

   For how infamous, in the first place, is the false, fraudulent, and
   unconscionable person! and how quickly is his character known! For
   hardly ever did any man of no conscience continue a man of any credit
   long. Likewise, how odious, as well as infamous, is such an one!
   Especially if he be arrived at that consummate and robust degree of
   falsehood, as to play in and out, and shew tricks with oaths, the
   sacredest bonds which the conscience of man can be bound with; how is
   such an one shunned and dreaded, like a walking pest! What volleys of
   scoffs, curses, and satires, are discharged at him! so that let never
   so much honour be placed upon him, it cleaves not to him, but forthwith
   ceases to be honour, by being so placed; no preferment can sweeten him,
   but the higher he stands, the farther and wider he stinks.

   In like manner for the drinker and debauched person: is any thing more
   the object of scorn and contempt than such an one? His company is
   justly looked upon as a disgrace: and nobody can own a friendship for
   him without being an enemy to himself. A drunkard is, as it were,
   outlawed from all worthy and creditable converse. Men abhor, loathe,
   and despise him, and would even spit at him as they meet him, were it
   not for fear that a stomach so charged should something more than spit
   at them.

   But not to go over all the several kinds of vice and wickedness, should
   we set aside the consideration of the glories of a better world, and
   allow this life for the only place and scene of man's happiness, yet
   surely Cato will be always more honourable than Clodius, and Cicero
   than Catiline. Fidelity, justice, and temperance will always draw their
   own reward after them, or rather carry it with them, in those marks of
   honour which they fix upon the persons who practise and pursue them. It
   is said of David in 1 Chron. xxix. 28. that he died full of days,
   riches, and honour: and there was no need of an heaven, to render him
   in all respects a much happier man than Saul. But in the

   2d place, The virtuous and religious person walks upon surer grounds
   than the vicious and irreligious, in respect of the ease, peace, and
   quietness which he enjoys in this world; and which certainly make no
   small part of human felicity. For anxiety and labour are great
   ingredients of that curse which sin has entailed upon fallen man. Care
   and toil came into the world with sin, and remain ever since
   inseparable from it, both as to its punishment and effect.

   The service of sin is perfect slavery; and he who will pay obedience to
   the commands of it shall find it an unreasonable taskmaster, and an
   unmeasurable exactor.

   And to represent the case in some particulars. The ambitious person
   must rise early and sit up late, and pursue his design with a constant,
   indefatigable attendance; he must be infinitely patient and servile,
   and obnoxious to all the cross humours of those whom he expects to rise
   by; he must endure and digest all sorts of affronts; adore the foot
   that kicks him, and kiss the hand that strikes him: while, in the mean
   time, the humble and contented man is virtuous at a much easier rate:
   his virtue bids him sleep, and take his rest, while the other's
   restless sin bids him sit up and watch. He pleases himself innocently
   and easily, while the ambitious man at tempts to please others sinfully
   and difficultly, and perhaps in the issue unsuccessfully too.

   The robber, and man of rapine, must run, and ride, and use all the
   dangerous and even desperate ways of escape; and probably, after all,
   his sin be trays him to a gaol, and from thence advances him to the
   gibbet: but let him carry off his booty with as much safety and success
   as he can wish, yet the innocent person, with never so little of his
   own, envies him not, and, if he has nothing, fears him not.

   Likewise the cheat and fraudulent person is put to a thousand shifts to
   palliate his fraud, and to be thought an honest man: but surely there
   can be no greater labour than to be always dissembling, and forced to
   maintain a constant disguise, there being so many ways by which a
   smothered truth is apt to blaze and break out; the very nature of
   things making it not more natural for them to be, than to appear as
   they be. But he who will be really honest, just, and sincere in his
   dealings, needs take no pains to be thought so; no more than the sun
   needs take any pains to shine, or, when he is up, to convince the world
   that it is day.

   And here again to bring in the man of luxury and intemperance for his
   share in the pain and trouble, as well as in the forementioned shame
   and infamy of his vice. Can any toil or day-labour equal the fatigue or
   drudgery which such an one under goes, while he is continually pouring
   in draught after draught, and cramming in morsel after morsel, and that
   in spite of appetite and nature, till he be comes a burden to the very
   earth that bears him; though not so great an one to that, but that (if
   possible) he is yet a greater to himself? [25]

   And now, in the last place, to mention one sinner more, and him a
   notable, leading sinner indeed, to wit, the rebel. Can any thing have
   more of trouble, hazard, and anxiety in it, than the course which he
   takes? For, in the first place, all the evils of war must unavoidably
   be endured, as the necessary means and instruments to compass and give
   success to his traitorous designs. In which, if it is his lot to be
   conquered, he must expect that vengeance that justly attends a
   conquered, disarmed villain; for when such an one is vanquished, his
   sins are always upon him. But if, on the contrary, he proves
   victorious, he will yet find misery enough in the distracting cares of
   settling an ungrounded, odious, detestable interest, so heartily, and
   so justly maligned, abhorred, and oftentimes plotted against; so that,
   in effect, he is still in war, though he has quitted the field. The
   torment of his suspicion is great, and the courses he must take to
   quiet his jealous, suspicious mind, infinitely troublesome and
   vexatious.

   But in the mean time, the labour of obedience, loyalty, and subjection,
   is no more, but for a man honestly and discreetly to sit still, and to
   enjoy what he has, under the protection of the laws. And when such an
   one is in his lowest condition, he is yet high and happy enough to
   despise and pity the most prosperous rebel in the world: even those
   famous ones of forty-one (with all due respect to their flourishing
   relations be it spoke) not excepted. In the

   Third and last place, the religious person walks upon surer grounds
   than the irreligious, in respect of the very health of his body. Virtue
   is a friend and an help to nature; but it is vice and luxury that
   destroys it, and the diseases of intemperance are the natural product
   of the sins of intemperance. Where as, on the other side, a temperate,
   innocent use of the creature, never casts any one into a fever or a
   surfeit. Chastity makes no work for a chirurgeon, nor ever ends in
   rottenness of bones. Sin is the fruitful parent of distempers, and ill
   lives occasion good physicians. Seldom shall one see in cities, courts,
   and rich families, (where men live plentifully, and eat and drink
   freely,) that perfect health, that athletic soundness and vigour of
   constitution, which is commonly seen in the country, in poor houses and
   cottages, where nature is their cook, and necessity their caterer, and
   where they have no other doctor, but the sun and the fresh air, and
   that such an one, as never sends them to the apothecary. It has been
   observed in the earlier ages of the church, that none lived such
   healthful and long lives, as monks and hermits, who had sequestered
   themselves from the pleasures and plenties of the world, to a constant
   ascetic course, of the severest abstinence and devotion.

   Nor is excess the only thing by which sin mauls and breaks men in their
   health, and the comfortable enjoyment of themselves thereby, but many
   are also brought to a very ill and languishing habit of body, by mere
   idleness; and idleness is both itself a great sin, and the cause of
   many more. The husband man returns from the field, and from manuring
   his ground, strong and healthy, because innocent and laborious; you
   will find no diet-drinks, no boxes of pills, nor galley-pots, amongst
   his provisions; no, he neither speaks nor lives French, he is not so
   much a gentleman, forsooth. His meals are coarse and short, his
   employment warrantable, his sleep certain and refreshing, neither
   interrupted with the lashes of a guilty mind, nor the aches of a crazy
   body. And when old age comes upon him, it comes alone, bringing no
   other evil with it but itself: but when it comes to wait upon a great
   and worshipful sinner, (who for many years together has had the
   reputation of eating well and doing ill,) it comes (as it ought to do,
   to a person of such quality) attended with a long train and retinue of
   rheums, coughs, catarrhs, and dropsies, together with many painful
   girds and achings, which are at least called the gout. How does such an
   one go about, or is carried rather, with his body bending inward, his
   head shaking, and his eyes always watering (instead of weeping) for the
   sins of his ill-spent youth. In a word, old age seizes upon such a
   person, like fire upon a rotten house; it was rotten before, and must
   have fallen of itself; so that it is no more but one ruin preventing
   another.

   And thus I have shewn the fruits and effects of sin upon men in this
   world. But peradventure it will be replied, that there are many sinners
   who escape all these calamities, and neither labour under any shame or
   disrepute, any unquietness of condition, or more than ordinary
   distemper of body, but pass their days with as great a portion of
   honour, ease, and health, as any other men whatsoever. But to this I
   answer,

   First, That those sinners who are in such a temporally happy condition,
   owe it not to their sins, but wholly to their luck, and a benign chance
   that they are so. Providence often disposes of things by a method
   beside and above the discourses of man's reason.

   Secondly, That the number of those sinners, who by their sins have been
   directly plunged into all the forementioned evils, is incomparably
   greater than the number of those, who, by the singular favour of
   providence, have escaped them. And,

   Thirdly and lastly, That notwithstanding all this, sin has yet in
   itself a natural tendency to bring men under all these evils; and, if
   persisted in, will infallibly end in them, unless hindered by some
   unusual accident or other, which no man, acting rationally, can
   steadily build upon. It is not impossible but a man may practise a sin
   secretly, to his dying day; but it is ten thousand to one, if the
   practice be constant, but that some time or other it will be
   discovered; and then the effect of sin discovered, must be shame and
   confusion to the sinner. It is possible also, that a man may be an old
   healthful epicure; but I affirm also, that it is next to a miracle, if
   he be so, and the like is to be said of the several instances of sin,
   hitherto produced by us. In short, nothing can step between them and
   misery in this world, but a very great, strange, and unusual chance,
   which none will presume of who walks surely.

   And so, I suppose, that religion cannot possibly be enforced (even in
   the judgment of its best friends and most professed enemies) by any
   further arguments than what have been produced, (how much better soever
   the said arguments may be managed by abler hands.) For I have shewn and
   proved, that whether the principles of it be certain, or but probable,
   nay, though supposed absolutely false; yet a man is sure of that
   happiness in the practice, which he cannot be in the neglect of it; and
   consequently, that though he were really a speculative atheist, (which
   there is great reason to believe that none perfectly are,) yet if he
   would but proceed rationally, that is, if (according to his own
   measures of reason) he would but love himself, he could not however be
   a practical atheist; nor live without God in this world, whether or no
   he expected to be rewarded by him in another.

   And now, to make some application of the foregoing discourse, we may,
   by an easy but sure deduction, conclude and gather from it these two
   things:

   First, That that profane, atheistical, epicurean rabble, whom the whole
   nation so rings of, and who have lived so much to the defiance of God,
   the dishonour of mankind, and the disgrace of the age which they are
   cast upon, are not indeed (what they are pleased to think and vote
   themselves) the wisest men in the world; for in matters of choice, no
   man can be wise in any course or practice, in which he is not safe too.
   But can these high assumers, and pretenders to reason, prove themselves
   so, amidst all those liberties and latitudes of practice which they
   take? Can they make it out against the common sense and opinion of all
   mankind, that there is no such thing as a future estate of misery for
   such as have lived ill here? Or can they persuade themselves, that
   their own particular reason, denying or doubting of it, ought to be
   relied upon as a surer argument of truth, than the universal, united
   reason of all the world besides affirming it? Every fool may believe
   and pronounce confidently; but wise men will, in matters of discourse,
   conclude firmly, and, in matters of practice, act surely: and if these
   will do so too in the case now before us, they must prove it, not only
   probable, (which yet they can never do,) but also certain, and past all
   doubt, that there is no hell, nor place of torment for the wicked; or
   at least, that they themselves, not withstanding all their villainous
   and licentious practices, are not to be reckoned of that number and
   character, but, that with a non obstante to all their revels, their
   profaneness, and scandalous debaucheries of all sorts, they continue
   virtuosoes still; and are that in truth, which the world in favour and
   fashion (or rather by an antiphrasis) is pleased to call them.

   In the meantime, it cannot but be matter of just indignation to all
   knowing and good men, to see a company of lewd, shallow-brained huffs,
   making atheism and contempt of religion, the sole badge and character
   of wit, gallantry, and true discretion; and then over their pots and
   pipes, claiming and engrossing all these wholly to themselves;
   magisterially censuring the wisdom of all antiquity, scoffing at all
   piety, and, as it were, new modelling the whole world. When yet, such
   as have had opportunity to sound these braggers throughly, by having
   some times endured the penance of their sottish company, have found
   them in converse so empty and insipid, in discourse so trifling and
   contemptible, that it is impossible but that they should give a credit
   and an honour to whatsoever and whomsoever they speak against: they are
   indeed such as seem wholly incapable of entertaining any design above
   the present gratification of their palates, and whose very souls and
   thoughts rise no higher than their throats; but yet withal, of such a
   clamorous and provoking impiety, that they are enough to make the
   nation like Sodom and Gomorrah in their punishment, as they have
   already made it too like them in their sins. Certain it is, that
   blasphemy and irreligion have grown to that daring height here of late
   years, that had men in any sober civilized heathen nation spoke or done
   half so much in contempt of their false gods and religion, as some in
   our days and nation, wearing the name of Christians, have spoke and
   done against God and Christ, they would have been infallibly burnt at a
   stake, as monsters and public enemies of society.

   The truth is, the persons here reflected upon are of such a peculiar
   stamp of impiety, that they seem to be a set of fellows got together,
   and formed into a kind of diabolical society, for the finding out new
   experiments in vice; and therefore they laugh at the dull,
   unexperienced, obsolete sinners of former times; and scorning to keep
   themselves within the common, beaten, broad way to hell, by being
   vicious only at the low rate of example and imitation, they are for
   searching out other ways and latitudes, and obliging posterity with
   unheard of inventions and discoveries in sin; resolving herein to admit
   of no other mea sure of good and evil, but the judgment of sensuality,
   as those who prepare matters to their hands, allow no other measure of
   the philosophy and truth of things, but the sole judgment of sense. And
   these, forsooth, are our great sages, and those who must pass for the
   only shrewd, thinking, and inquisitive men of the age; and such,, as by
   a long, severe, and profound speculation of nature, have redeemed
   themselves from the pedantry of being conscientious, and living
   virtuously, and from such old fashioned principles and creeds, as tie
   up the minds of some narrow-spirited, uncomprehensive zealots, who know
   not the world, nor understand that he only is the truly wise man, who,
   per fas et nefas, gets as much as he can.

   But, for all this, let atheists and sensualists satisfy themselves as
   they are able. The former of which will find, that as long as reason
   keeps her ground, religion neither can nor will lose hers. And for the
   sensual epicure, he also will find, that there is a certain living
   spark within him, which all the drink he can pour in will never be able
   to quench or put out; nor will his rotten abused body have it in its
   power to convey any putrefying, consuming, rotting quality to the soul:
   no, there is no drinking, or swearing, or ranting, or fluxing a soul
   out of its immortality. But that must and will survive and abide, in
   spite of death and the grave; and live for ever to convince such
   wretches to their eternal woe, that the so much repeated ornament and
   flourish of their former speeches, (God damn 'em,) was commonly the
   truest word they spoke, though least believed by them while they spoke
   it.

   2dly, The other thing deducible from the foregoing particulars, shall
   be to inform us of the way of attaining to that excellent privilege, so
   justly valued by those who have it, and so much talked of by those who
   have it not; which is assurance. Assurance is properly that persuasion
   or confidence, which a man takes up of the pardon of his sins, and his
   interest in God's favour, upon such grounds and terms as the scripture
   lays down. But now. since the scripture promises eternal happiness and
   pardon of sin, upon the sole condition of faith and sincere obedience,
   it is evident, that he only can plead a title to such a pardon, whose
   conscience impartially tells him, that he has performed the required
   condition. And this is the only rational assurance, which a man can
   with any safety rely or rest himself upon.

   He who in this case would believe surely, must first walk surely; and
   to do so, is to walk uprightly. And what that is, we have sufficiently
   marked out to us in those plain and legible lines of duty, requiring us
   to demean ourselves to God humbly and devoutly; to our governors
   obediently; and to our neighbours justly; and to ourselves soberly and
   temperately. All other pretences being infinitely vain in themselves,
   and fatal in their consequences.

   It was indeed the way of many in the late times, to bolster up their
   crazy, doating consciences, with (I know not what) odd confidences,
   founded upon inward whispers of the Spirit, stories of something which
   they called conversion and marks of predestination: all of them (as
   they understood them) mere delusions, trifles, and fig-leaves; and such
   as would be sure to fall off and leave them naked, before that fiery
   tribunal, which knows no other way of judging men, but according to
   their works.

   Obedience and upright walking are such substantial, vital parts of
   religion, as, if they be wanting, can never be made up, or commuted
   for, by any formalities of fantastic looks or language. And the great
   question when we come hereafter to be judged, will not be, How demurely
   have you looked? or. How boldly have you believed? With what length
   have you prayed? and, With what loudness and vehemence have you
   preached? But, How holily have you lived? and, How uprightly have you
   walked? For this, and this only (with the merits of Christ's
   righteousness) will come into account before that great Judge, who will
   pass sentence upon every man according to what he has done here in the
   flesh, whether it be good, or whether it be evil; and there is no
   respect of persons with him.

   To whom therefore be rendered and ascribed, as is most due, all praise,
   might, majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [25] See above, p. 19, 20.
     __________________________________________________________________
     __________________________________________________________________

A SERMON

  PREACHED BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY,

    AT CHRIST-CHURCH, OXON, 1664.
     __________________________________________________________________

   John xv. 15.

   Henceforth I call you not servants; for the servant knoweth not what
   his lord doeth: but I have called you friends; for all things that I
   have heard of my Father I have made known unto you.

   WE have here an account of Christ's friendship to his disciples; that
   is, we have the best of things represented, in the greatest of
   examples. In other men we see the excellency, but in Christ the
   divinity of friendship. By our baptism and church-communion we are made
   one body with Christ; but by this we become one soul.

   Love is the greatest of human affections, and friendship is the noblest
   and most refined improvement of love; a quality of the largest compass.
   And it is here admirable to observe the ascending gradation of the love
   which Christ bore to his disciples. The strange and superlative
   greatness of which will appear from those several degrees of kindness,
   that it has manifested to man, in the several periods of his condition.
   As,

   1st, If we consider him antecedently to his creation, while he yet lay
   in the barren womb of nothing, and only in the number of possibilities:
   and consequently could have nothing to recommend him to Christ's
   affection, nor shew any thing lovely, but what he should afterwards
   receive from the stamp of a preventing love. Yet even then did the love
   of Christ begin to work, and to commence in the first emanations and
   purposes of goodness towards man; designing to provide matter for
   itself to work upon, to create its own object, and, like the sun in the
   production of some animals, first to give a being, and then to shine
   upon it.

   2dly, Let us take the love of Christ as directing itself to man
   actually created and brought into the world; and so all those glorious
   endowments of human nature in its original state and innocence, were so
   many demonstrations of the munificent goodness of him, by whom God
   first made, as well as afterwards redeemed the world. There was a
   consult of the whole Trinity for the making of man, that so he might
   shine as a master-piece, not only of the art, but also of the kindness
   of his Creator; with a noble and a clear understanding, a rightly
   disposed will, and a train of affections regular and obsequious, and
   perfectly conformable to the dictates of that high and divine
   principle, right reason. So that, upon the whole matter, he stepped
   forth, not only the work of God's hands, but also the copy of his
   perfections; a kind of image or representation of the Deity in small.
   Infinity contracted into flesh and blood; and (as I may so speak) the
   preludium and first essay towards the incarnation of the divine nature.
   But,

   3dly and lastly, Let us look upon man, not only as created, and brought
   into the world, with all these great advantages superadded to his
   being; but also, as depraved, and fallen from them; as an outlaw and a
   rebel, and one that could plead a title to nothing, but to the highest
   severities of a sin-revenging justice. Yet even in this estate also,
   the boundless love of Christ began to have warm thoughts and actings
   towards so wretched a creature; at this time not only not amiable, but
   highly odious.

   While indeed man was yet uncreated and unborn, though he had no
   positive perfection to present and set him off to Christ's view; yet he
   was at least negatively clear: and, like unwritten paper, though it has
   no draughts to entertain, yet neither has it any blots to offend the
   eye; but is white, and innocent, and fair for an after-inscription. But
   man, once fallen, was nothing but a great blur; nothing but a total
   universal pollution, and not to be reformed by any thing under a new
   creation.

   Yet, see here the ascent and progress of Christ's love. For first, if
   we consider man, in such a loath some and provoking condition; was it
   not love enough, that he was spared and permitted to enjoy a being?
   since, not to put a traitor to death is a singular mercy. But then, not
   only to continue his being, but to adorn it with privilege, and from
   the number of subjects, to take him into the retinue of servants, this
   was yet a greater love. For every one that may be fit to be tolerated
   in a prince's dominions, is not therefore fit to be admitted into his
   family; nor is any prince's court to be commensurate to his kingdom.
   But then further, to advance him from a servant to a friend; from only
   living in his house, to lying in his bosom; this is an instance of
   favour above the rate of a created goodness, an act for none but the
   Son of God, who came to do every thing in miracle, to love
   supernaturally, and to pardon infinitely, and even to lay down the
   sovereign, while he assumed the saviour.

   The text speaks the winning behaviour and gracious condescension of
   Christ to his disciples, in owning them for his friends, who were more
   than sufficiently honoured by being his servants. For still these words
   of his must be understood, not according to the bare rigour of the
   letter, but according to the arts and allowances of expression: not as
   if the relation of friends had actually discharged them from that of
   servants; but that of the two relations, Christ was pleased to overlook
   the meaner, and with out any mention of that, to entitle and denominate
   them solely from the more honourable.

   For the further illustration of which, we must premise this, as a
   certain and fundamental truth, that so far as service imports duty and
   subjection, all created beings, whether men or angels, bear the
   necessary and essential relation of servants to God, and consequently
   to Christ, who is God blessed for ever: and this relation is so
   necessary, that God himself cannot dispense with it, nor discharge a
   rational creature from it: for although consequentially indeed he may
   do so, by the annihilation of such a creature, and the taking away his
   being, yet supposing the continuance of his being, God cannot effect,
   that a creature which has his being from, and his dependance upon, him,
   should not stand obliged to do him the utmost service that his nature
   enables him to do. For to suppose the contrary, would be irregular, and
   opposite to the law of nature, which, consisting in a fixed unalterable
   relation of one nature to another, is upon that account, even by God
   himself, indispensable. Forasmuch as having once made a creature, he
   cannot cause that that creature should not owe a natural relation to
   his Maker, both of subjection and dependance, (the very essence of a
   creature importing so much,) to which relation if he behaves himself
   unsuitably, he goes contrary to his nature, and the laws of it; which
   God, the author of nature, cannot warrant without being contrary to
   himself. From all which it follows, that even in our highest estate of
   sanctity and privilege, we yet retain the unavoidable obligation of
   Christ's servants; though still with an advantage as great as the
   obligation, where the service is perfect freedom: so that, with
   reference to such a Lord, to serve, and to be free, are terms not
   consistent only, but absolutely equivalent.

   Nevertheless, since the name of servants has of old been reckoned to
   imply a certain meanness of mind, as well as lowness of condition, and
   the ill qualities of many who served, have rendered the condition
   itself not very creditable; especially in those ages and places of the
   world, in which the condition of servants was extremely different from
   what it is now amongst us; they being generally slaves, and such as
   were bought and sold for money, and consequently reckoned but amongst
   the other goods and chattels of their lord or master: it was for this
   reason that Christ thought fit to wave the appellation of servant here,
   as, according to the common use of it amongst the Jews, (and at that
   time most nations besides,) importing these three qualifications,
   which, being directly contrary to the spirit of Christianity, were by
   no means to be al lowed in any of Christ's disciples.

   1st, The first whereof is that here mentioned in the text; viz. an
   utter unacquaintance with his master's designs, in these words; The
   servant knows not what his Lord doeth. For seldom does any man of sense
   make his servant his counsellor, for fear of making him his governor
   too. A master for the most part keeps his choicest goods locked up from
   his servant, but much more his mind. A servant is to know nothing but
   his master's commands; and in these also, not to know the reason of
   them.

   Neither is he to stand aloof off from his counsels only, but sometimes
   from his presence also; and so far as decency is duty, it is sometimes
   his duty to avoid him. But the voice of Christ in his gospel is, Come
   to me all ye that are heavy laden. The condition of a servant staves
   him off to a distance; but the gospel speaks nothing but allurement,
   attractives, and invitation. The magisterial law bids the person under
   it, Go, and he must go: but the gospel says to every believer, Come,
   and he cometh. A servant dwells remote from all knowledge of his lord's
   purposes. He lives as a kind of foreigner under the same roof; a
   domestic, and yet a stranger too.

   2dly, The name of servant imports a slavish and degenerous awe of mind;
   as it is in Rom. viii. 5. God has not given us the spirit of bondage
   again to fear. He who serves, has still the low and ignoble restraints
   of dread upon his spirit; which in business, and even in the midst of
   action, cramps and ties up his activity. He fears his master's anger,
   but designs not his favour. Quicken me, says David, with thy free
   spirit. It is the freedom of the spirit, that gives worth and life to
   the performance. But a servant commonly is less free in mind than in
   condition; his very will seems to be in bonds and shackles, and desire
   itself under a kind of durance and captivity. In all that a servant
   does, he is scarce a voluntary agent, but when he serves himself: all
   his services otherwise, not flowing naturally from propensity and
   inclination, but being drawn and forced from him by terror and
   coaction. In any work he is put to, let the master withdraw his eye,
   and he will quickly take off his hand.

   3dly, The appellation of servant imports a mercenary temper and
   disposition; and denotes such an one as makes his reward both the sole
   motive and measure of his obedience. He neither loves the thing
   commanded, nor the person who commands it, but is wholly and only
   intent upon his own emolument. All kindnesses done him, and all that is
   given him, over and above what is strictly just and his due, makes him
   rather worse than better. And this is an observation that never fails,
   where any one has so much bounty and so little wit, as to make the
   experiment. For a servant rarely or never ascribes what he receives to
   the mere liberality and generosity of the donor, but to his own worth
   and merit, and to the need which he supposes there is of him; which
   opinion alone will be sure to make any one of a mean servile spirit,
   insolent and intolerable.

   And thus I have shewn what the qualities of a servant usually are, (or
   at least were in that country where our Saviour lived and conversed,
   when he spake these words,) which, no doubt, were the cause why he
   would not treat his disciples (whom he designed to be of a quite
   contrary disposition) with this appellation.

   Come we therefore now, in the next place, to shew what is included in
   that great character and privilege which he was pleased to vouchsafe
   both to them, and to all believers, in calling and accounting them his
   friends. It includes in it, I conceive, these following things:

   1. Freedom of access. House, and heart, and all, are open for the
   reception of a friend. The entrance is not beset with solemn excuses
   and lingering delays; but the passage is easy, and free from all
   obstruction, and not only admits, but even invites the comer. How
   different, for the most part, is the same man from himself, as he
   sustains the person of a magistrate, and as he sustains that of a
   friend! As a magistrate or great officer, he locks himself up from all
   approaches by the multiplied formalities of attendance, by the distance
   of ceremony and grandeur; so many hungry officers to be passed through,
   so many thresholds to be saluted, so many days to be spent in waiting
   for an opportunity of, perhaps, but half an hour's converse.

   But when he is to be entertained, whose friend ship, not whose
   business, demands an entrance, those formalities presently disappear,
   all impediments vanish, and the rigours of the magistrate submit to the
   endearments of a friend. He opens and yields himself to the man of
   business with difficulty and reluctancy, but offers himself to the
   visits of a friend with facility, and all the meeting readiness of
   appetite and desire. The reception of one is as different from the
   admission of the other, as when the earth falls open under the
   incisions of the plough, and when it gapes and greedily opens itself to
   drink in the dew of heaven, or the refreshments of a shower: or there
   is as much difference between them, as when a man reaches out his arms
   to take up a burden, and when he reaches them out to embrace.

   It is confessed, that the vast distance that sin had put between the
   offending creature and the of fended Creator, required the help of some
   great umpire and intercessor, to open him a new way of access to God;
   and this Christ did for us as Mediator. But we read of no mediator to
   bring us to Christ; for though, being God by nature, he dwells in the
   height of majesty, and the inaccessible glories of a Deity; yet to keep
   off all strangeness between himself and the sons of men, he has
   condescended to a cognation and consanguinity with us, he has clothed
   himself with flesh and blood, that so he might subdue his glories to a
   possibility of human converse. And therefore he that denies himself an
   immediate access to Christ, affronts him in the great relation of a
   friend, and as opening himself both to our persons and to our wants,
   with the greatest tenderness and the freest invitation. There is none
   who acts a friend by a deputy, or can be familiar by proxy.

   2. The second privilege of friendship is a favourable construction of
   all passages between friends, that are not of so high and so malign a
   nature as to dissolve the relation. Love covers a multitude of sins,
   says the apostle, 1 Pet. iv. 8. When a scar cannot be taken away, the
   next kind office is to hide it. Love is never so blind, as when it is
   to spy faults. It is like the painter, who being to draw the picture of
   a friend having a blemish in one eye, would picture only the other side
   of his face. It is a noble and a great thing to cover the blemishes and
   to excuse the failings of a friend; to draw a curtain before his
   stains, and to display his perfections; to bury his weaknesses in
   silence, but to proclaim his virtues upon the house-top. It is an
   imitation of the charities of heaven, which, when the creature lies
   prostrate in the weakness of sleep and weariness, spreads the covering
   of night and darkness over it, to conceal it in that condition; but as
   soon as our spirits are refreshed, and nature returns to its morning
   vigour, God then bids the sun rise, and the day shine upon us, both to
   advance and to shew that activity.

   It is the ennobling office of the understanding, to correct the
   fallacious and mistaken reports of sense, and to assure us that the
   staff in the water is straight, though our eye would tell us it is
   crooked. So it is the excellency of friendship to rectify, or at least
   to qualify, the malignity of those surmises, that would misrepresent a
   friend, and traduce him in our thoughts. Am I told that my friend has
   done me an injury, or that he has committed any undecent action? Why,
   the first debt that I both owe to his friendship, and that he may
   challenge from mine, is rather to question the truth of the report,
   than presently to believe my friend unworthy. Or, if matter of fact
   breaks out and blazes with too great an evidence to be denied, or so
   much as doubted of, why still there are other lenitives that friendship
   will apply, before it will be brought to the decretory rigours of a
   condemning sentence. A friend will be sure to act the part of an
   advocate, before he will assume that of a judge. And there are few
   actions so ill (unless they are of a very deep and black tincture
   indeed) but will admit of some extenuation at least from those common
   topics of human frailty; such as are ignorance or inadvertency, passion
   or surprise, company or solicitation; with many other such things,
   which may go a great way towards an excusing of the agent, though they
   cannot absolutely justify the action. All which apologies for, and
   alleviations of, faults, though they are the heights of humanity, yet
   they are not the favours, but the duties of friendship. Charity itself
   commands us, where we know no ill, to think well of all. But
   friendship, that always goes a pitch higher, gives a man a peculiar
   right and claim to the good opinion of his friend. And if we justly
   look upon a proneness to find faults, as a very ill and a mean thing,
   we are to remember, that a proneness to believe them is next to it,

   We have seen here the demeanour of friendship between man and man: but
   how is it, think we now, between Christ and the soul that depends upon
   him? Is he any ways short in these offices of tenderness and
   mitigation? No, assuredly, but by infinite degrees superior. For where
   our heart does but relent, his melts; where our eye pities, his bowels
   yearn. How many frowardnesses of ours does he smother, how many
   indignities does he pass by, and how many affronts does he put up at
   our hands, because his love is invincible, and his friend ship
   unchangeable? He rates every action, every sinful infirmity, with the
   allowances of mercy; and never weighs the sin, but together with it he
   weighs the force of the inducement; how much of it is to be attributed
   to choice, how much to the violence of the temptation, to the stratagem
   of the occasion, and the yielding frailties of weak nature.

   Should we try men at that rate that we try Christ, we should quickly
   find, that the largest stock of human friendship would be too little
   for us to spend long upon. But his compassion follows us with an
   infinite supply. He is God in his friend ship, as well as in his
   nature, and therefore we sinful creatures are not took upon advantages,
   nor consumed in our provocations.

   See this exemplified in his behaviour to his disciples, while he was
   yet upon earth: how ready was he to excuse and cover their infirmities!
   At the last and bitterest scene of his life, when he was so full of
   agony and horror upon the approach of a dismal death, and so had most
   need of the refreshments of society, and the friendly assistances of
   his disciples; and when also he desired no more of them, but only for a
   while to sit up and pray with him: yet they, like persons wholly
   untouched with his agonies, and unmoved with his passionate entreaties,
   forget both his and their own cares, and securely sleep away all
   concern for him or themselves either. Now, what a fierce and sarcastic
   reprehension may we imagine this would have drawn from the friendships
   of the world, that act but to an human pitch! and yet what a gentle one
   did it receive from Christ! In Matt. xxvi. 40. no more than, What,
   could you not watch with me for one hour? And when from this admonition
   they took only occasion to redouble their fault, and to sleep again, so
   that upon a second and third admonition they had nothing to plead for
   their unseasonable drowsiness, yet then Christ, who was the only person
   concerned to have resented and aggravated this their unkindness, finds
   an extenuation for it, when they themselves could not. The spirit
   indeed is willing, says he, but the flesh is weak. As if he had said, I
   know your hearts, and am satisfied of your affection, and therefore
   accept your will, and compassionate your weakness. So benign, so
   gracious is the friendship of Christ, so answerable to our wants, so
   suitable to our frailties. Happy that man, who has a friend to point
   out to him the perfection of duty, and yet to pardon him in the lapses
   of his infirmity!

   3. The third privilege of friendship is a sympathy in joy and grief.
   When a man shall have diffused his life, his self, and his whole
   concernments so far, that he can weep his sorrows with another's eyes;
   when he has another heart besides his own, both to share and to support
   his griefs; and when, if his joys overflow, he can treasure up the
   overplus and redundancy of them in another breast; so that he can, as
   it were, shake off the solitude of a single nature, by dwelling in two
   bodies at once, and living by an other's breath; this surely is the
   height, the very spirit and perfection of all human felicities.

   It is a true and happy observation of that great philosopher the lord
   Verulam, that this is the benefit of communication of our minds to
   others, that sorrows by being communicated grow less, and joys greater.
   And indeed sorrow, like a stream, loses itself in many channels; and
   joy, like a ray of the sun, reflects with a greater ardour and
   quickness, when it rebounds upon a man from the breast of his friend.

   Now friendship is the only scene, upon which the glorious truth of this
   great proposition can be fully acted and drawn forth. Which indeed is a
   summary description of the sweets of friendship: and the whole life of
   a friend, in the several parts and in stances of it, is only a more
   diffuse comment upon, and a plainer explication of, this divine
   aphorism. Friendship never restrains a pleasure to a single fruition.
   But such is the royal nature of this quality, that it still expresses
   itself in the style of kings, as we do this or that; and this is our
   happiness; and such or such a thing belongs to us; when the immediate
   possession of it is vested only in one No thing certainly in nature can
   so peculiarly gratify the noble dispositions of humanity, as for one
   man to see another so much himself, as to sigh his griefs, and groan
   his pains, to sing his joys, and, as it were, to do and feel every
   thing by sympathy and secret inexpressible communications. Thus it is
   upon an human account.

   Let us now see how Christ sustains and makes good this generous quality
   of a friend. And this we shall find fully set forth to us in Heb. iv.
   15. where he is said to be a merciful high-priest, touched with the
   feeling of our infirmities; and that in all our afflictions he is
   afflicted, Isa. lxiii. 9. And, no doubt, with the same bowels and
   meltings of affection, with which any tender mother hears and be moans
   the groanings of her sick child, does Christ hear and sympathize with
   the spiritual agonies of a soul under desertion, or the pressures of
   some stinging affliction. It is enough that he understands the exact
   measures of our strengths and weaknesses; that he knows our frame; as
   it is in Psalm ciii. 14. and that he does not only know, but
   emphatically, that he remembers also, that we are but dust. Observe
   that signal passage of his loving commiseration; as soon as he had
   risen from the dead, and met Mary Magdalen, in Mark xvi. 7. he sends
   this message of his resurrection by her; Go, tell my disciples and
   Peter, that I am risen. What, was not Peter one of his disciples? Why
   then is he mentioned particularly and by himself, as if he were
   exempted out of then* number? Why, we know into what a plunge he had
   newly cast himself by denying his Master: upon occasion of which he was
   now struggling with all the perplexities and horrors of mind
   imaginable, lest Christ might in like manner deny and disown him before
   his Father, and so repay one denial with another. Hereupon Christ
   particularly applies the comforts of his resurrection to him, as if he
   had said, Tell all my disciples, but be sure especially to tell poor
   Peter, that I am risen from the dead; and that, notwithstanding his
   denial of me, the benefits of my resurrection belong to him, as much as
   to any of the rest. This is the privilege of the saints, to have a
   companion and a supporter in all their miseries, in all the doubtful
   turnings and doleful passages of their lives. In sum, this happiness
   does Christ vouchsafe to all his, that as a Saviour he once suffered
   for them, and that as a friend he always suffers with them.

   4. The fourth privilege of friendship is that which is here specified
   in the text, a communication of secrets. A bosom secret and a bosom
   friend are usually put together. And this from Christ to the soul, is
   not only kindness, but also honour and advancement; it is for him to
   vouch it one of his privy council. Nothing under a jewel is taken into
   the cabinet. A secret is the apple of our eye; it will bear no touch
   nor approach; we use to cover no thing but what we account a rarity.
   And therefore to communicate a secret to any one, is to exalt him to
   one of the royalties of heaven. For none knows the secrets of a man's
   mind, but his God, his conscience, and his friend. Neither would any
   prudent man let such a thing go out of his own heart, had he not
   another heart besides his own to receive it.

   Now it was of old a privilege, with which God was pleased to honour
   such as served him at the rate of an extraordinary obedience, thus to
   admit them to a knowledge of many of his great counsels locked up from
   the rest of the world. When God had designed the destruction of Sodom,
   the scripture represents him as unable to conceal that great purpose
   from Abraham, whom he always treated as his friend and acquaintance;
   that is, not only with love, but also with intimacy and familiarity, in
   Gen. xviii. 17. And the Lord said, Shall I hide from Abraham the thing
   that I go about to do? He thought it a violation of the rights of
   friendship to reserve his design wholly to himself. And St. James tells
   us in James ii. 23. that Abraham was called the friend of God; and
   therefore had a kind of claim to the knowledge of his secrets, and the
   participation of his counsels. Also in Exodus xxxiii. 11. it is said of
   God, that he spoke to Moses as a man speaketh to his friend. And that,
   not only for the familiarity and facility of address, but also for the
   peculiar communications of his mind. Moses was with him in the
   retirements of the mount, received there his dictates and his private
   instructions, as his deputy and viceroy; and when the multitude and
   congregation of Israel were thundered away, and kept off from any
   approach to it, he was honoured with an intimate and immediate
   admission. The priests indeed were taken into a near attendance upon
   God; but still there was a degree of a nearer converse, and the
   interest of a friend was above the privileges of the highest servant.
   In Exod. xix. 24. Thou shalt come up, says God, thou, and Aaron with
   thee: but let not the priests and the people break through to come up
   unto the Lord, lest the Lord break forth upon them. And if we proceed
   further, we shall still find a continuation of the same privilege,
   Psalm xxv. 14. The secret of the Lord is with them that fear him.
   Nothing is to be concealed from the other self. To be a friend, and to
   be conscious, are terms equivalent.

   Now if God maintained such intimacies with those whom he loved under
   the law, (which was a dispensation of greater distance,) we may be sure
   that under the gospel, (the very nature of which imports condescension
   and compliance,) there must needs be the same, with much greater
   advantage. And therefore when God had manifested himself in the flesh,
   how sacredly did he preserve this privilege! How freely did Christ
   unbosom himself to his disciples, in Luke viii. 10. Unto you, says he,
   it is given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of God: but unto
   others in parables; that seeing they might not see: such shall be
   permitted to cast an eye into the ark, and to look into the very holy
   of holies. And again in Matt. xiii. 17. Many prophets and righteous men
   have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them;
   and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them.
   Neither did he treat them with these peculiarities of favour in the
   extraordinary discoveries of the gospel only, but also of those
   incommunicable revelations of the divine love, in reference to their
   own personal interest in it. In Rev. ii. 17. To him that over cometh
   will I give to eat of the hidden manna, and will give him a white
   stone, and in the stone a new name written, which no man knoweth,
   saving he that receiveth it. Assurance is a rarity covered from the
   inspection of the world. A secret that none can know but God, and the
   person that is blessed with it. It is writ in .a private character, not
   to be read nor understood but by the conscience, to which the Spirit of
   God has vouchsafed to decipher it. Every believer lives upon an inward
   provision of comfort, that the world is a stranger to.

   5. The fifth advantage of friendship is counsel and advice. A man will
   sometimes need not only an other heart, but also another head besides
   his own. In solitude there is not only discomfort, but weakness also.
   And that saying of the wise man, Eccles. iv. 10. Woe to him that is
   alone, is verified upon none so much as upon the friendless person:
   when a man shall be perplexed with knots and problems of business and
   contrary affairs, where the determination is dubious, and both parts of
   the contrariety seem equally weighty, so that, which way soever the
   choice determines, a man is sure to venture a great concern: how happy
   then is it to fetch in aid from another person, whose judgment may be
   greater than my own, and whose concernment is sure not to be less!
   There are some passages of a man's affairs that would quite break a
   single understanding. So many intricacies, so many labyrinths, are
   there in them, that the succours of reason fail, the very force and
   spirit of it being lost in an actual intention scattered upon several
   clashing objects at once; in which case, the interposal of a friend is
   like the supply of a fresh party to a besieged yielding city.

   Now Christ is not failing in this office of a friend also. For in that
   illustrious prediction of Esay ix. 6. amongst the rest of his great
   titles, he is called mighty Counsellor. And his counsel is not only
   sure, but also free. It is not under the gospel of Christ, as under
   some laws of men, where you must be forced to buy your counsel, and
   oftentimes pay dear for bad advice. No, he is a light to those that sit
   in darkness. And no man fees the sun, no man purchases the light, nor
   errs, if he walks by it. The only price that Christ sets upon his
   counsel is, that we follow it, and that we do that which is best for us
   to do. He is not only light for us to see by, but also light for us to
   see with. He is understanding to the ignorant, and eyes to the blind:
   and whoso ever has both a faithful and a discreet friend, to guide him
   in the dark, slippery, and dangerous pas sages of his life, may carry
   his eyes in another man's head, and yet see never the worse. In 1 Cor.
   i. 30. the Apostle tells us, that Christ is made to us not only
   sanctification and redemption, but wisdom too: we are his members; and
   it is but natural, that all the members of the body should be guided by
   the wisdom of the head.

   And therefore let every believer comfort himself in this high
   privilege, that in the great things that concern his eternal peace, he
   is not left to stand or fall by the uncertain directions of his own
   judgment. No, sad were his condition, if he should be so; when he is to
   encounter an enemy made up of wiles and stratagems, an old serpent, and
   a long-experienced deceiver, and successful at the trade for some
   thousands of years.

   The inequality of the match between such an one and the subtilest of
   us, would quickly appear by a fatal circumvention: there must be a
   wisdom from above, to overreach and master this hellish wisdom from
   beneath. And this every sanctified person is sure of in his great
   friend, in whom all the treasures of wisdom dwell; treasures that flow
   out, and are imparted freely, both in direction and assistance, to all
   that belong to him. He never leaves any of his, perplexed, amazed, or
   bewildered, where the welfare of their souls requires a better judgment
   than their own, either to guide them in their duty, or to disentangle
   them from a temptation. Whosoever has Christ for his friend, shall be
   sure of counsel; and whosoever is his own friend, will be sure to obey
   it.

   6. The last and crowning privilege, or rather property, of friendship
   is constancy. He only is a friend, whose friendship lives as long as
   himself, and who ceases to love and to breathe at the same instant. Not
   that I yet state constancy in such an absurd, sense less, and
   irrational continuance in friendship, as no injuries or provocations
   whatsoever can break off. For there are some injuries that extinguish
   the very relation between friends. In which case, a man ceases to be a
   friend, not from any inconstancy in his friendship, but from defect of
   an object for his friendship to exert itself upon. It is one thing for
   a father to cease to be a father by casting off his son; and another
   for him to cease to be so, by the death of his son. In this, the
   relation is at an end for want of a correlate: so in friendship there
   are some passages of that high and hostile nature, that they really and
   properly constitute and denominate the person guilty of them, an enemy;
   and if so, how can the other person possibly continue a friend, since
   friendship essentially requires that it be between two at least; and
   there can be no friendship, where there are not two friends?

   Nobody is bound to look upon his backbiter or his underminer, his
   betrayer or his oppressor, as his friend. Nor indeed is it possible
   that he should do so, unless he could alter the constitution and order
   of things, and establish a new nature and a new morality in the world.
   For to remain unsensible of such provocations, is not constancy, but
   apathy. And therefore they discharge the person so treated from the
   proper obligations of a friend; though Christianity, I confess, binds
   him to the duties of a neighbour.

   But to give you the true nature and measures of constancy; it is such a
   stability and firmness of friendship, as overlooks and passes by all
   those lesser failures of kindness and respect, that, partly through
   passion, partly through indiscretion, and such other frailties incident
   to human nature, a man may be sometimes guilty of, and yet still retain
   the same habitual good-will and prevailing propensity of mind to his
   friend, that he had before. And whose friend ship soever is of that
   strength and duration as to stand its ground against, and remain
   unshaken by, such assaults, (which yet are strong enough to shake down
   and annihilate the friendship of little puny minds,) such an one, I
   say, has reached all the true measures of constancy: his friendship is
   of a noble make and a lasting consistency; it resembles marble, and
   deserves to be wrote upon it.

   But how few tempers in the world are of that magnanimous frame, as to
   reach the heights of so great a virtue: many offer at the effects of
   friend ship, but they do not last; they are promising in the beginning,
   but they fail, and jade, and tire in the prosecution. For most people
   in the world are acted by levity and humour, by strange and irrational
   changes. And how often may we meet with those who are one while
   courteous, civil, and obliging, (at least to their proportion,) but
   within a small time after are so supercilious, sharp, troublesome,
   fierce, and exceptions, that they are not only short of the true
   character of friendship, but become the very sores and burdens of
   society! Such low, such worth less dispositions, how easily are they
   discovered, how justly are they despised! But now, that we may pass
   from one contrary to another, Christ, who is the same yesterday,
   to-day, and for ever in his being, is so also in his affection. He is
   riot of the number or nature of those pitiful, mean pretenders to
   friend ship, who perhaps will love and smile upon you one day, and not
   so much as know you the next: many of which sort there are in the
   world, who are not so much courted outwardly, but that inwardly they
   are detested much more.

   Friendship is a kind of covenant; and most covenants run upon mutual
   terms and conditions. And therefore, so long as we are exact in
   fulfilling the condition on our parts, (I mean, exact according to the
   measures of sincerity, though not of perfection, we may be sure, that
   Christ will not fail in the least iota to fulfil every thing on his.
   The favour of relations, patrons, and princes, is uncertain, ticklish,
   and variable; and the friendship which they take up, upon the accounts
   of judgment and merit; they most times lay down out of humour. But the
   friend ship of Christ has none of these weaknesses, no such hollowness
   or unsoundness in it. For neither principalities nor powers, things
   present, nor things to come, no, nor all the rage and malice of hell,
   shall be able to pluck the meanest of Christ's friends out of his
   bosom: for, whom he loves, he loves to the end.

   Now, from the particulars hitherto discoursed of, we may infer and
   learn these two things: 1. The excellency and value of friendship.
   Christ the Son of the most high God, the second person in the glorious
   Trinity, took upon him our nature, that he might give a great instance
   and example of this virtue; and condescended to be a man, only that he
   might be a friend. Our Creator, our Lord and King, he was before; but
   he would needs come down from all this, and in a sort become our equal,
   that he might partake of that noble quality that is properly between
   equals. Christ took not upon him flesh and blood, that he might conquer
   and rule nations, lead armies, or possess palaces; but that he might
   have the relenting, the tenderness, and the compassions of human
   nature, which render it properly capable of friendship; and, in a word,
   that he might have our heart, and we have his. God himself sets
   friendship above all considerations of kindred or consanguinity, as the
   greatest ground and argument of mutual endearment, in Deut. xv. 6. If
   thy brother, the son of thy mother, or thy son, or thy daughter, or the
   wife of thy bosom, or thy friend, which is as thine own soul, entice
   thee to go and serve other gods, thou shalt not consent unto him. The
   emphasis of the expression is very remarkable; it being a gradation or
   ascent, by several degrees of dearness, to that which is the highest of
   all. Neither wife nor brother, son nor daughter, though the nearest in
   cognation, are allowed to stand in competition with a friend; who, if
   he fully answers the duties of that great relation, is indeed bet ter
   and more valuable than all of them put together, and may serve instead
   of them; so that he who has a firm, a worthy, and sincere friend, may
   want all the rest, without missing them. That which lies in a man's
   bosom should be dear to him, but that which lies within his heart ought
   to be much dearer.

   2. In the next place, we learn from hence the high advantage of
   becoming truly pious and religious. When we have said and done all, it
   is only the true Christian and the religious person, who is or can be
   sure of a friend; sure of obtaining, sure of keeping him. But as for
   the friendship of the world; when a man shall have done all that he can
   to make one his friend, employed the utmost of his wit and labour,
   beaten his brains, and emptied his purse, to create an endearment
   between him and the person whose friendship he desires, he may, in the
   end, upon all these endeavours and attempts, be forced to write vanity
   and frustration: for, by them all, he may at last be no more able to
   get into the other's heart, than he is to thrust his hand into a pillar
   of brass. The man's affection, amidst all these kindnesses done him,
   remaining wholly unconcerned and impregnable; just like a rock, which,
   being plied continually by the waves, still throws them back again into
   the bosom of the sea that sent them, but is not at all moved by any of
   them.

   People at first, while they are young and raw, and soft-natured, are
   apt to think it an easy thing to gain love, and reckon their own
   friendship a sure price of another man's. But when experience shall
   have once opened their eyes, and shewed them the hardness of most
   hearts, the hollowness of others, and the baseness and ingratitude of
   almost all, they will then find that a friend is the gift of God; and
   that he only, who made hearts, can unite them. For it is he who creates
   those sympathies and suitablenesses of nature, that are the foundation
   of all true friendship, and then by his providence brings persons so
   affected together.

   It is an expression frequent in scripture, but infinitely more
   significant than at first it is usually observed to be; namely, that
   God gave such or such a person grace or favour in another's eyes. As
   for instance, in Gen. xxxix. 21. it is said of Joseph, that the Lord
   was with him, and gave him favour in the sight of the keeper of the
   prison. Still it is an invisible hand from heaven that ties this knot,
   and mingles hearts and souls, by strange, secret, and unaccountable
   conjunctions.

   That heart shall surrender itself and its friendship to one man, at
   first view, which another has in vain been laying siege to for many
   years, by all the repeated acts of kindness imaginable.

   Nay, so far is friendship from being of any human production, that,
   unless nature be predisposed to it by its own propensity or
   inclination, no arts of obligation shall be able to abate the secret
   hatreds and hostilities of some persons towards others. No friendly
   offices, no addresses, no benefits whatsoever, shall ever alter or
   allay that diabolical rancour that frets and ferments in some hellish
   breasts, but that upon all occasions it will foam out at its foul mouth
   in slander and invective, and sometimes bite too in a shrewd turn or a
   secret blow. This is true and undeniable upon frequent experience; and
   happy those who can learn it at the cost of other men's.

   But now, on the contrary, he who will give up his name to Christ in
   faith unfeigned, and a sincere obedience to all his righteous laws,
   shall be sure to find love for love, and friendship for friendship. The
   success is certain and infallible; and none ever yet miscarried in the
   attempt. For Christ freely offers his friendship to all, and sets no
   other rate upon so vast a purchase, but only that we would suffer him
   to be our friend. Thou perhaps spendest thy precious time in waiting
   upon such a great one, and thy estate in presenting him, and probably,
   after all, hast no other reward, but sometimes to be smiled upon, and
   always to be smiled at; and when thy greatest and most pressing
   occasions shall call for succour and relief, then to be deserted and
   cast off, and not known.

   Now, I say, turn the stream of thy endeavours another way, and bestow
   but half that hearty, sedulous attendance upon thy Saviour in the
   duties of prayer and mortification, and be at half that expense in
   charitable works, by relieving Christ in his poor members; and, in a
   word, study as much to please him who died for thee, as thou dost to
   court and humour thy great patron, who cares not for thee, and thou
   shalt make him thy friend for ever; a friend who shall own thee in thy
   lowest condition, speak comfort to thee in all thy sorrows, counsel
   thee in all thy doubts, answer all thy wants, and, in a word, never
   leave thee, nor forsake thee. But when all the hopes that thou hast
   raised upon the promises or supposed kindnesses of the fastidious and
   fallacious great ones of the world, shall fail, and upbraid thee to thy
   face, he shall then take thee into his bosom, embrace, cherish, and
   support thee, and, as the Psalmist expresses it, he shall guide thee
   with his counsel here, and afterwards receive thee into glory.

   To which God of his mercy vouchsafe to bring us all; to whom be
   rendered and ascribed, &c. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

   A Discourse against long extemporary Prayers:

    IN

A SERMON

    ON

  ECCLESIASTES V. 2.

   Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter
   any thing before God: for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth:
   therefore let thy words be few.

   WE have here the wisest of men instructing us how to behave ourselves
   before God in his own house; and particularly when we address to him in
   the most important of all duties, which is prayer. Solomon had the
   honour to be spoken to by God himself, and therefore, in all
   likelihood, none more fit to teach us how to speak to God. A great
   privilege certainly for dust and ashes to be admitted to; and therefore
   it will concern us to manage it so, that in these our approaches to the
   King of heaven, his goodness may not cause us to forget his greatness,
   nor (as it is but too usual for subjects to use privilege against
   prerogative) his honour suffer by his condescension.

   In the words we have these three things observable.

   1st, That whosoever appears in the house of God, and particularly in
   the way of prayer, ought to reckon himself, in a more especial manner,
   placed in the sight and presence of God.

   2dly, That the vast and infinite distance between God and him, ought to
   create in him all imaginable awe and reverence in such his addresses to
   God.

   3dly and lastly, That this reverence required of him, is to consist in
   a serious preparation of his thoughts, and a sober government of his
   expressions: neither is his mouth to be rash, nor his heart to be
   hasty, in uttering any thing before God.

   These things are evidently contained in the words, and do as evidently
   contain the whole sense of them. But I shall gather them all into this
   one proposition; namely,

   That premeditation of thought, and brevity of expression, are the great
   ingredients of that reverence that is required to a pious, acceptable,
   and devout prayer.

   For the better handling of which, we will, in the first place, consider
   how, and by what way it is, that prayer works upon, or prevails with,
   God, for the obtaining of the things we pray for. Concerning which, I
   shall lay down this general rule, That the way, by which prayer
   prevails with God, is wholly different from that, by which it prevails
   with men. And to give you this more particularly.

   1. First of all, it prevails not with God by way of information or
   notification of the thing to him, which we desire of him. With men
   indeed this is the common, and with wise men the chief, and should be
   the only way of obtaining what we ask of them. We represent and lay
   before them our wants and indigences, and the misery of our condition.
   Which being made known to them, the quality and condition of the thing
   asked for, and of the persons who ask it, induces them to give that to
   us, and to do that for us, which we desire and petition for: but it is
   not so in our addresses to God; for he knows our wants and our
   conditions better than we our selves: he is beforehand with all our
   prayers, Matt, vi. 8. Your Father knoweth what things ye have need of
   before ye ask him: and in Psalm cxxxix. 2. Thou understandest my
   thought afar off. God knows our thoughts before the very heart that
   conceives them. And how then can he, who is but of yesterday, suggest
   any thing new to that eternal mind! how can ignorance inform
   omniscience!

   2dly, Neither does prayer prevail with God by way of persuasion, or
   working upon the affections, so as thereby to move him to pity or
   compassion. This indeed is the most usual and most effectual way to
   prevail with men; who, for the generality, are, one part reason, and
   nine parts affection. So that one of a voluble tongue, and a dexterous
   insinuation, may do what he will with vulgar minds, and with wise men
   too, at their weak times. But God, who is as void of passion or
   affection, as he is of quantity or corporeity, is not to be dealt with
   this way. He values not our rhetoric, nor our pathetical harangues. He
   who applies to God, applies to an infinite al mighty reason, a pure
   act, all intellect, the first mover, and therefore not to be moved or
   wrought upon himself. In all passion, the mind suffers, (as the very
   signification of the word imports,) but absolute, entire perfection
   cannot suffer; it is and must be immovable, and by consequence
   impassible. And therefore,

   In the third and last place, much less is God to be prevailed upon by
   importunity, and, as it were, wearying him into a concession of what we
   beg of him. Though with men we know this also is not unusual. A notable
   instance of which we have in Luke xviii. 4, 5. where the unjust judge
   being with a restless vehemence sued to for justice, says thus within
   himself: Though I fear not God, nor regard man, yet because this widow
   troubleth me, I will avenge her, lest by her continual coming she weary
   me.

   In like manner, how often are beggars relieved only for their eager and
   rude importunity; not that the person who relieves them is thereby
   informed or satisfied of their real want, nor yet moved to pity them by
   all their cry and cant, but to rid himself from their vexatious noise
   and din; so that to purchase his quiet by a little alms he gratifies
   the beggar, but indeed relieves himself. But now this way is further
   from prevailing with God than either of the former. For as omniscience
   is not to be in formed, so neither is omnipotence to be wearied. We may
   much more easily think to clamour the sun and stars out of their
   courses, than to word the great Creator of them out of the steady
   purposes of his own will, by all the vehemence and loudness of our
   petitions. Men may tire themselves with their own prayers, but God is
   not to be tired. The rapid motion and whirl of things here below,
   interrupts not the inviolable rest and calmness of the nobler beings
   above. While the winds roar and bluster here in the first and second
   regions of the air, there is a perfect serenity in the third. Men's
   desires cannot control God's decrees.

   And thus I have shewn, that the three ways by which men prevail with
   men in their prayers and applications to them, have no place at all in
   giving any efficacy to their addresses to God.

   But you will ask then, Upon what account is it that prayer becomes
   prevalent and efficacious with God, so as to procure us the good things
   we pray for? I answer, Upon this, that it is the fulfilling of that
   condition upon which God has freely promised to convey his blessings to
   men. God of his own absolute, unaccountable good-will and pleasure, has
   thought fit to appoint and fix upon this as the means by which he will
   supply and answer the wants of mankind. As for instance; suppose a
   prince should declare to any one of his subjects, that if he shall
   appear before him every morning in his bed-chamber, he shall receive of
   him a thousand talents. We must not here imagine, that the subject, by
   making this appearance, does either move or persuade his prince to give
   him such a sum of money: no, he only performs the condition of the
   promise, and thereby acquires a right to the thing promised. He does
   indeed hereby engage his prince to give him this sum, though he does by
   no means persuade him: or rather, to speak more strictly and properly,
   the prince's own justice and veracity is an engagement upon the prince
   himself, to make good his promise to him who fulfills the conditions of
   it.

   But you will say, that upon this ground it will follow, that when we
   obtain any thing of God by prayer, we have it upon claim of justice,
   and not by way of gift, as a free result of his bounty.

   I answer, that both these are very well consistent; for though he who
   makes a promise upon a certain condition, is bound in justice upon the
   fulfilling of that condition to perform his promise; yet it was
   perfectly grace and goodness, bounty and free mercy, that first induced
   him to make the promise, and particularly to state the tenor of it upon
   such a condition. If we confess our sins, says the apostle, 1 John i.
   9. God is faithful and just to forgive us our sins. Can any thing be
   freer and more the effect of mere grace, than the forgiveness of sins?
   And yet it is certain from this scripture and many more, that it is
   firmly promised us upon condition of a penitent hearty confession of
   them, and consequently as certain it is, that God stands obliged here
   even by his faithfulness and justice, to make good this his promise of
   forgiveness to those who come up to the terms of it by such a
   confession.

   In like manner, for prayer, in reference to the good things prayed for.
   He who prays for a thing as God has appointed him, gets thereby a right
   to the thing prayed for: but it is a right, not springing from any
   merit or condignity, either in the prayer itself, or the person who
   makes it, to the blessing which he prays for, but from God's veracity,
   truth, and justice, who, having appointed prayer as the condition of
   that blessing, cannot but stand to what he himself had appointed;
   though that he did appoint it, was the free result and determination of
   his own will.

   We have a full account of this whole matter from God's own mouth, in
   Psalm 1. Call upon me, says God, in the day of trouble, and I will
   deliver thee. These are evidently the terms upon which God answers
   prayers: in which case there is no doubt but the deliverance is still
   of more worth than the prayer; and there is as little doubt also, that
   with out such a previous declaration made on God's part, a person so in
   trouble or distress might pray his heart out, and yet God not be in the
   least obliged by all his prayers, either in justice or honour, or in
   deed so much as in mercy, to deliver him; for mercy is free, and misery
   cannot oblige it. In a word, prayer procures deliverance from trouble,
   just as Naaman's dipping himself seven times in Jordan procured him a
   deliverance from his leprosy; not by any virtue in itself adequate to
   so great an effect, you may be sure; but from this, that it was
   appointed by God as the condition of his recovery; and so obliged the
   power of him, who appointed it, to give force and virtue to his own
   institution, beyond what the nature of the thing itself could otherwise
   have raised it to.

   Let this therefore be fixed upon, as the ground work of what we are to
   say upon this subject: that prayer prevails with God for the blessing
   that we pray for, neither by way of information, nor yet of persuasion,
   and much less by the importunity of him who prays, and least of all by
   any worth in the prayer itself, equal to the thing prayed for; but it
   prevails solely and entirely upon this account, that it is freely
   appointed by God, as the stated, allowed condition, upon which he will
   dispense his blessings to mankind.

   But before I dismiss this consideration, it may be inquired, whence it
   is that prayer, rather than any other thing, comes to be appointed by
   God for this condition. In answer to which; Though God's sovereign will
   be a sufficient reason of its own counsels and determinations, and
   consequently a more than sufficient answer to all our inquiries; yet,
   since God in his infinite wisdom still adapts means to ends, and never
   appoints a thing to any use, but what it has a particular and a natural
   fitness for; I shall therefore presume to assign a reason why prayer,
   before all other things, should be appointed to this noble use of being
   the condition and glorious conduit, whereby to derive the bounties of
   heaven upon the sons of men: and it is this; because prayer, of all
   other acts of a rational nature, does most peculiarly qualify a man to
   be a fit object of the divine favour, by being most eminently and
   properly an act of dependance upon God; since to pray, or beg a thing
   of another, in the very nature and notion of it, imports these two
   things: 1. That the person praying stands in need of some good, which
   he is not able by any power of his own to procure for himself: and, 2.
   That he acknowledges it in the power and plea sure of the person whom
   he prays to, to confer it upon him. And this is properly that which men
   call to depend.

   But some may reply, There is an universal dependance of all things upon
   God; forasmuch as he, being the great fountain and source of being,
   first created, and since supports them by the word of his power; and
   consequently that this dependance be longs indifferently to the wicked
   as well as to the just, whose prayer nevertheless is declared an
   abomination to God.

   But to this the answer is obvious, That the dependance here spoken of
   is meant, not of a natural, but of a moral dependance. The first is
   necessary, the other voluntary. The first common to all, the other
   proper to the pious. The first respects God barely as a Creator, the
   other addresses to him as a Father. Now such a dependance upon God it
   is, that is properly seen in prayer. And being so, if we should in all
   humble reverence set ourselves to examine the wisdom of the divine
   proceeding in this matter, even by the measures of our own reason, what
   could be more rationally thought of for the properest instrument to
   bring down God's blessings upon the world, than such a temper of mind,
   as makes a man disown all ability in himself to supply his own wants,
   and at the same time own a transcendent fulness and sufficiency in God
   to do it for him? And what can be more agreeable to all principles both
   of reason and religion, than that a creature endued with understanding
   and will, should acknowledge that dependance upon his Maker, by a free
   act of choice, which other creatures have upon him, only by necessity
   of nature?

   But still, there is one objection more against our foregoing assertion,
   viz. That prayer obtains the things prayed for, only as a condition,
   and not by way of importunity or persuasion; for is not prayer said to
   prevail by frequency, Luke xviii. 7. and by fervency, or earnestness,
   in James v. 16. and is not this a fair proof that God is importuned and
   persuaded into a grant of our petitions?

   To this I answer two things; 1. That wheresoever God is said to answer
   prayers, either for their frequency or fervency, it is spoken of him
   only anthropopathos, according to the manner of men; and consequently
   ought to be understood only of the effect or issue of such prayers, in
   the success certainly attending them, and not of the manner of their
   efficiency, that it is by persuading or working upon the passions: as
   if we should say, frequent, fervent, and importunate prayers, are as
   certainly followed with God's grant of the thing prayed for, as men use
   to grant that, which, being overcome by excessive importunity and
   persuasion, they cannot find in their hearts to deny. 2. I answer
   farther, That frequency and fervency of prayer prove effectual to
   procure of God the things prayed for, upon no other account but as they
   are acts of dependance upon God: which dependance we have already
   proved to be that thing essentially included in prayer, for which God
   has been pleased to make prayer the condition, upon which he determines
   to grant men such things as they need and duly apply to him for. So
   that still there is nothing of persuasion in the case.

   And thus having shewn (and I hope fully and clearly) how prayer
   operates towards the obtaining of the divine blessings; namely, as a
   condition appointed by God for that purpose, and no otherwise: and
   withal, for what reason it is singled out of all other acts of a
   rational nature, to be this condition; namely, because it is the grand
   instance of such a nature's dependance upon God: we shall now from the
   same principle infer also, upon what account the highest reverence of
   God is so indispensably required of us in prayer, and all sort of
   irreverence so diametrically opposite to, and destructive of, the very
   nature of it. And it will appear to be upon this, that in what degree
   any one lays aside his reverence of God, in the same he also quits his
   dependance upon him: forasmuch as in every irreverent act, a man treats
   God as if he had indeed no need of him, and behaves himself as if he
   stood upon his own bottom, absolute and self-sufficient. This is the
   natural language, the true signification and import of all irreverence.

   Now in all addresses, either to God or man, by speech, our reverence to
   them must consist of, and shew itself in these two things.

   First, A careful regulation of our thoughts, that are to dictate and to
   govern our words; which is done by premeditation: and secondly, a due
   ordering of our words, that are to proceed from, and to express our
   thoughts; which is done by pertinence and brevity of expression.

   David, directing his prayer to God, joins these two together as the two
   great integral parts of it, in Psalm xix. 14. Let the words of my
   mouth, and the meditations of my heart, be acceptable in thy sight, O
   Lord. So that it seems his prayer adequately and entirely consisted of
   those two things, meditation and expression, as it were the matter and
   form of that noble composure. There being no mention at all of
   distortion of face, sanctified grimace, solemn wink, or foaming at the
   mouth, and the like; all which are circumstances of prayer of a later
   date, and brought into request by those fantastic zealots, who had a
   way of praying, as astonishing to the eyes, as to the ears of those
   that heard them. Well then, the first ingredient of a pious and
   reverential prayer, is a previous regulation of the thoughts, as the
   text expresses it most emphatically; Let not thy heart be hasty to
   utter any thing before God; that is, in other words, let it not venture
   to throw out its crude, extemporary, sudden, and misshapen conceptions
   in the face of infinite perfection. Let not thy heart conceive and
   bring forth together: this is monstrous and unnatural. All abortion is
   from infirmity and defect. And time is required to form the issue of
   the mind, as well as that of the body. The fitness or unfitness of the
   first thoughts, cannot be judged of but by reflection of the second:
   and be the invention never so fruitful, yet in the mind, as in the
   earth, that which is cast into it must lie hid and covered for a while,
   before it can be fit to shoot forth. These are the methods of nature,
   and it is seldom but the acts of religion conform to them.

   He who is to pray, would he seriously judge of the work that is before
   him, has more to consider of, than either his heart can hold, or his
   head well turn itself to. Prayer is one of the greatest and the hardest
   works that a man has to do in this world; and was ever any thing
   difficult or glorious achieved by a sudden cast of a thought? a flying
   stricture of the imagination? Presence of mind is indeed good, but
   haste is not so. And therefore, let this be concluded upon, that in the
   business of prayer, to pretend to reverence when there is no
   premeditation, is both impudence and contradiction.

   Now this premeditation ought to respect these three things: 1. The
   person whom we pray to: 2. The matter of our prayers: and 3. The order
   and disposition of them.

   1. And first, for the person whom we pray to. The same is to employ,
   who must needs also nonplus and astonish thy meditations, and be made
   the object of thy thoughts, who infinitely transcends them. For all the
   knowing and reasoning faculties of the soul are utterly baffled and at
   a loss, when they offer at any idea of the great God. Nevertheless,
   since it is hard, if not impossible, to imprint an awe upon the
   affections, without suitable notions first formed in the apprehensions;
   we must in our prayers endeavour at least to bring these as near to God
   as we can, by considering such of his divine perfections as have, by
   their effects, in a great measure, manifested themselves to our senses,
   and, in a much greater, to the discourses of our reason.

   As first; consider with thyself, how great and glorious a Being that
   must needs be, that raised so vast and beautiful a fabric as this of
   the world out of nothing with the breath of his mouth, and can and
   will, with the same, reduce it to nothing again; and then consider,
   that this is that high, amazing, in comprehensible Being, whom thou
   addressest thy pitiful self to in prayer.

   Consider next, his infinite, all-searching knowledge, which looks
   through and through the most secret of our thoughts, ransacks every
   corner of the heart, ponders the most inward designs and ends of the
   soul in all a man's actions. And then consider, that this is the God
   whom thou hast to deal with in prayer; the God who observes the
   postures, the frame and motion of thy mind in all thy approaches to
   him, and whose piercing eye it is impossible to elude or escape by all
   the tricks and arts of the subtilest and most refined hypocrisy. And
   lastly, consider the great, the fiery, and the implacable jealousy that
   he has for his honour; and that he has no other use of the whole
   creation, but to serve the ends of it: and, above all, that he will, in
   a most peculiar manner, be honoured of those who draw near to him; and
   will by no means suffer himself to be mocked and affronted, under a
   pretence of being worshipped; nor endure that a wretched, contemptible,
   sinful creature, who is but a piece of living dirt at best, should at
   the same time bend the knee to him, and spit in his face. And now
   consider, that this is the God whom thou prayest to, and whom thou
   usest with such intolerable indignity in every unworthy prayer thou
   puttest up to him; every bold, saucy, and familiar word that (upon
   confidence of being one of God's elect) thou presumest to debase so
   great a majesty with: and for an instance of the dreadful curse that
   attends such a daring irreverence, consider how God used Nadab and
   Abihu for venturing to offer strange fire before him; and then know,
   that every unhallowed, unfitting prayer is a strange fire; a fire that
   will be sure to destroy the offering, though mercy should spare the
   offerer. Consider these things seriously, deeply, and severely, till
   the consideration of them affects thy heart, and humbles thy spirit,
   with such awful apprehensions of thy Maker, and such abject reflections
   upon thyself, as may lay thee in the dust before him: and know, that
   the lower thou fallest, the higher will thy prayer rebound; and that
   thou art never so fit to pray to God, as when a sense of thy own
   unworthiness makes thee ashamed even to speak to him.

   2. The second object of our premeditation is, the matter of our
   prayers. For, as we are to consider whom we are to pray to; so are we
   to consider also, what we are to pray for; and this requires no
   ordinary application of thought to distinguish or judge of. Men's
   prayers are generally dictated by their desires, and their desires are
   the issues of their affections; and their affections are, for the most
   part, influenced by their corruptions. The first constituent principle
   of a well-conceived prayer is, to know what not to pray for: which the
   scripture assures us that some do not, while they pray for what they
   may spend upon their lusts, James iv. 3. asking such things as it is a
   contumely to God to hear, and dam nation to themselves to receive. No
   man is to pray for any thing either sinful, or directly tending to sin.
   No man is to pray for a temptation, and much less to desire God to be
   his tempter; which he would certainly be, should he, at the instance of
   any man's prayer, administer fuel to his sinful or absurd appetites.
   Nor is any one to ask of God things mean and trivial, and beneath the
   majesty of heaven to be concerned about, or solemnly addressed to for.
   Nor, lastly, is any one to admit into his petitions things superfluous
   or extravagant; such as wealth, greatness, and honour: which we are so
   far from being warranted to beg of God, that we are to beg his grace to
   despise and undervalue them: and it were much, if the same things
   should be the proper objects both of our self-denial and of our prayers
   too; and that we should be allowed to solicit the satisfaction, and
   enjoined to endeavour the mortification, of the same desires.

   The things that we are to pray for are either, 1st, Things of absolute
   necessity: or, 2dly, Things of unquestionable charity. Of the first
   sort are all spiritual graces required in us, as the indispensable
   conditions of our salvation; such as are, repentance, faith, hope,
   charity, temperance, and all other virtues that are either the parts or
   principles of a pious life. These are to be the prime subject-matter of
   our prayers; and we shall find, that nothing comes this way so easily
   from heaven, as those things that will assuredly bring us to it. The
   Spirit dictates all such petitions, and God himself is first the
   author, and then the fulfiller of them; owning and accepting them, both
   as our duty and his own production. The other sort of things that may
   allowably be prayed for, are things of manifest, unquestionable
   charity: such as are a competent measure of the innocent comforts of
   life, as health, peace, maintenance, and a success of our honest
   labours: and yet even these but conditionally, and with perfect
   resignation to the will and wisdom of the sovereign disposer of all
   that be longs to us; who (if he finds it more for his honour to have us
   serve him with sick, crazy, languishing bodies; with poverty, and
   extreme want of all things; and lastly, with our country all in a flame
   about our ears) ought, in all this, and much more, to overrule our
   prayers and desires into an absolute acquiescence in his all-wise
   disposal of things; and to convince us, that our prayers are sometimes
   best answered, when our desires are most opposed.

   In fine, to state the whole matter of our prayers in one word; Nothing
   can be fit for us to pray for, but what is fit and honourable for our
   great mediator and master of requests, Jesus Christ himself, to
   intercede for. This is to be the unchangeable rule and measure of all
   our petitions. And then, if Christ is to convey these our petitions to
   his Father, can any one dare to make him, who was holiness and purity
   itself, an advocate and solicitor for his lusts? Him, who was nothing
   but meekness, lowliness, and humility, his providetore for such things
   as can only feed his pride, and flush his ambition? No, certainly; when
   we come as suppliants to the throne of grace, where Christ sits as
   intercessor at God's right hand, nothing can be fit to proceed out of
   our mouth, but what is fit to pass through his.

   3dly, The third and last thing that calls for a previous meditation to
   our prayers is, the order and disposition of them; for though God does
   not command us to set off our prayers with dress and artifice, to
   flourish it in trope and metaphor, to beg our daily bread in blank
   verse, or to shew any thing of the poet in our devotions, but indigence
   and want; I say, though God is far from requiring such things of us in
   our prayers, yet he requires that we should manage them with sense and
   reason. Fineness is not expected, but decency is; and though we cannot
   declaim as orators, yet he will have us speak like men, and tender him
   the results of that understanding and judgment, that essentially
   constitute a rational nature.

   But I shall briefly cast what I have to say upon this particular into
   these following assertions:

   1st, That nothing can express our reverence to God in prayer, that
   would pass for irreverence towards a great man. Let any subject tender
   his prince a petition fraught with nonsense and incoherence, confusion
   and impertinence; and can he expect, that majesty should answer it with
   any thing but a deaf ear, a frowning eye, or, (at best,) vouchsafe it
   any other reward, but, by a gracious oblivion, to forgive the person,
   and forget the petition?

   2dly, Nothing absurd and irrational, and such as a wise man would
   despise, can be acceptable to God in prayer. Solomon expressly tells us
   in Ecclesiastes v. 4. that God has no pleasure in fools; nor is it
   possible that an infinite wisdom should. The scripture all along
   expresses sin and wickedness by the name of folly: and therefore
   certainly folly is too near of kin to it, to find any approbation from
   God in so great a duty: it is the simplicity of the heart, and not of
   the head, that is the best inditer of our petitions. That which
   proceeds from the latter is undoubtedly the sacrifice of fools; and God
   is never more weary of sacrifice, than when a fool is the priest, and
   folly the oblation.

   3dly and lastly, Nothing rude, slight, and care less, or indeed less
   than the very best that a man can offer, can be acceptable or pleasing
   to God in prayer: If ye offer the blind for sacrifice, is it not evil?
   If ye offer the lame and the sick, is it not evil? Offer it now to thy
   governor, and see whether he will be pleased with thee, or accept thy
   person, saith the Lord of hosts. Malachi i. 8. God rigidly expects a
   return of his own gifts; and where he has given ability, will be served
   by acts proportionable to it. And he who has parts to raise and
   propagate his own honour by, but none to employ in the worship of him
   that gave them, does (as I may so express it) refuse to wear God's
   livery in his own service, adds sacrilege to profaneness, strips and
   starves his devotions, and, in a word, falls directly under the dint of
   that curse denounced in the last verse of the first of Malachi, Cursed
   be the deceiver, that hath in his flock a male, and voweth, and
   sacrificeth to the Lord a corrupt thing. The same is here, both the
   deceiver and the deceived too; for God very well knows what he gives
   men, and why; and where he has bestowed judgment, learning, and
   utterance, will not endure that men should be accurate in their
   discourse, and loose in their devotions; or think that the great author
   of every good and perfect gift will be put off with ramble, and
   confused talk, babble, and tautology.

   And thus much for the order and disposition of our prayers, which
   certainly requires precedent thought and meditation. God has declared
   himself the God of order in all things; and will have it observed in
   what he commands others, as well as in what he does himself. Order is
   the great rule or art by which God made the world, and by which he
   still governs it: nay, the world itself is nothing else; and ah 1 this
   glorious system of things is but the chaos put into order: and how then
   can God, who has so eminently owned himself concerned for this
   excellent thing, brook such absurdity and confusion, as the slovenly
   and profane negligence of some treats him with in their most solemn
   addresses to him? All which is the natural, unavoidable consequent of
   unpreparedness and want of premeditation; without which, whosoever
   presumes to pray, cannot be so properly said to approach to, as to
   break in upon God. And surely he who is so hardy as to do so, has no
   reason in the earth to expect that the success which follows his
   prayers should be greater than the preparation that goes before them.

   Now from what has been hitherto discoursed of, this first and grand
   qualification of a pious and devout prayer, to wit, premeditation of
   thought, what can be so naturally and so usefully inferred, as the high
   expediency, or rather the absolute necessity of a set form of prayer to
   guide our devotions by? We have lived in an age that has despised,
   contradicted, and counteracted all the principles and practices of the
   primitive Christians, in taking the measures of their duty both to God
   and man, and of their behaviour both in matters civil and religious;
   but in nothing more scandalously, than in their vile abuse of the great
   duty of prayer; concerning which, though it may with the clearest truth
   be affirmed, that there has been no church yet of any account in the
   Christian world, but what has governed its public worship of God by a
   liturgy or set form of prayer; yet these enthusiastic innovators, the
   bold and blind reformers of all antiquity, and wiser than the whole
   catholic church besides, introduced into the room of it a saucy,
   senseless, extemporary way of speaking to God; affirming, that this was
   a praying by the Spirit; and that the use of all set forms was stinting
   of the Spirit. A pretence, I confess, popular and plausible enough with
   such idiots as take the sound of words for the sense of them. But for
   the full confutation of it, (which, I hope, shall be done both easily
   and briefly too,) I shall advance this one assertion in direct
   contradiction to that; namely,

   That the praying by a set form, is not a stinting of the Spirit; and
   the praying extempore truly and properly is so.

   For the proving and making out of which, we will first consider, what
   it is to pray by the Spirit: a thing much talked of, but not so
   convenient for the talkers of it, and pretenders to it, to have it
   rightly stated and understood, In short, it includes in it these two
   things;

   1st, A praying with the heart, which is sometimes called the spirit, or
   inward man; and so it is properly opposed to hypocritical
   lip-devotions, in which the heart or spirit does not go along with a
   man's words.

   2dly, It includes in it also a praying according to the rules
   prescribed by God's holy Spirit, and held forth to us in his revealed
   word, which word was both dictated and confirmed by this Spirit; and so
   it is opposed to the praying unlawfully, or unwarrantably; and that
   either in respect of the mat ter or manner of our prayers. As, when we
   desire of God such things, or in such a way, as the Spirit of God,
   speaking in his holy word, does by no means warrant or approve of. So
   that to pray by the Spirit, signifies neither more nor less but to pray
   knowingly, heartily, and affectionately for such things, and in such a
   manner, as the Holy Ghost in scripture either commands or allows of. As
   for any other kind of praying by the Spirit, upon the best inquiry that
   I can make into these matters, I can find none. And if some say (as I
   know they both impudently and blasphemously do) that, to pray by the
   Spirit is to have the Spirit immediately inspiring them, and by such
   inspiration speaking within them, and so dictating their prayers to
   them, let them either produce plain scripture, or do a miracle to prove
   this by. But till then, he who shall consider w T hat kind of prayers
   these pretenders to the Spirit have been notable for, will find that
   they have as little cause to father their prayers, as their practices,
   upon the Spirit of God.

   These two things are certain, and I do particularly recommend them to
   your observation. One, That this way of praying by the Spirit, as they
   call it, was begun and first brought into use here in England in queen
   Elizabeth's days, by a Popish priest and Dominican friar, one Faithful
   Commin by name; who counterfeiting himself a protestant, and a zealot
   of the highest form, set up this new spiritual way of praying, with a
   design to bring the people first to a contempt, and from thence to an
   utter hatred and disuse of our common prayer; which he still reviled as
   only a translation of the mass, thereby to distract men's minds, and to
   divide our church. And this he did with such success, that we have
   lived to see the effects of his labours in the utter subversion of
   church and state. Which hellish negotiation, when this malicious
   hypocrite came to Rome to give the pope an account of, he received of
   him, (as so notable a service well deserved,) besides a thousand
   thanks, two thousand ducats for his pains. So that now you see here the
   original of this extempore way of praying by the Spirit. The other
   thing that I would observe to you is, that in the neighbour nation of
   Scotland, one of the greatest [26] monsters of men that, I believe,
   ever lived, and actually in league with the devil, was yet, by the
   confession of all that heard him, the most excellent at this extempore
   way of praying by the Spirit of any man in his time; none was able to
   come near him, or to compare with him. But surely now, he who shall
   venture to ascribe the prayers of such a wretch, made up of adulteries,
   incest, witchcraft, and other villainies, not to be named, to the
   Spirit of God, may as well strike in with the Pharisees, and ascribe
   the miracles of Christ to the devil. And thus having shewn, both what
   ought to be meant by praying by the Spirit, and what ought not, cannot
   be meant by it; let us now see whether a set form, or this extemporary
   way, be the greater hinderer and stinter of it: in order to which, I
   shall lay down these three assertions.

   1st, That the soul or mind of man is but of a limited nature in all its
   workings, and consequently cannot supply two distinct faculties at the
   same time, to the same height of operation.

   2dly, That the finding words and expressions for prayer, is the proper
   business of the brain and the invention; and, that the finding devotion
   and affection to accompany and go along with those expressions, is
   properly the work and business of the heart.

   3dly, That this devotion and affection is indispensably required in
   prayer, as the principal and most essential part of it, and that in
   which the spirituality of it does most properly consist.

   Now from these three things put together, this must naturally and
   necessarily follow; that as spiritual prayer, or praying by the Spirit,
   taken in the right sense of the word, consists properly in that
   affection and devotion, that the heart exercises and employs in the
   work of prayer; so, whatsoever gives the soul scope and liberty to
   exercise and employ this affection and devotion, that does most
   effectually help and enlarge the spirit of prayer; and whatsoever
   diverts the soul from employing such affection and devotion, that does
   most directly stint and hinder it. Accordingly let this now be our rule
   whereby to judge of the efficacy of a set form, and of the extemporary
   way in the present business. As for a set form, in which the words are
   ready prepared to our hands, the soul has nothing to do but to attend
   to the work of raising the affections and devotions, to go along with
   those words; so that all the powers of the soul are took up in applying
   the heart to this great duty; and it is the exercise of the heart (as
   has been already shewn) that is truly and properly a praying by the
   Spirit. On the contrary, in all extempore prayer, the powers and
   faculties of the soul are called off from dealing with the heart and
   the affections; and that both in the speaker and in the hearer; both in
   him who makes, and in him who is to join in such prayers.

   And first, for the minister who makes and utters such extempore
   prayers. He is wholly employing his invention, both to conceive matter,
   and to find words and expressions to clothe it in: this is certainly
   the work which takes up his mind in this exercise: and since the nature
   of man's mind is such, that it cannot with the same vigour, at the same
   time, attend the work of invention, and that of raising the affections
   also; nor measure out the same supply of spirits and intention for the
   carrying on the operations of the head, and those of the heart too; it
   is certain, that while the head is so much employed, the heart must be
   idle and very little employed, and perhaps not at all: and
   consequently, if to pray by the Spirit, be to pray with the heart and
   the affections; it is also as certain, that while a man prays
   extempore, he does not pray by the Spirit: nay, the very truth of it
   is, that while he is so doing, he is not praying at all, but he is
   studying; he is beating his brain, while he should be drawing out his
   affections.

   And then for the people that are to hear and join with him in such
   prayers; it is manifest that they, not knowing beforehand what the
   minister will say, must, as soon as they do hear him, presently busy
   and bestir their minds both to apprehend and understand the meaning of
   what they hear; and withal, to judge whether it be of such a nature, as
   to be fit for them to join and concur with him in. So that the people
   also are, by this course, put to study, and to employ their
   apprehending and judging faculties, while they should be exerting their
   affections and devotions; and consequently, by this means, the spirit
   of prayer is stinted, as well in the congregation that follows, as in
   the minister who first conceives a prayer after their extempore way:
   which is a truth so clear, and indeed self-evident, that it is
   impossible that it should need any further arguments to demonstrate or
   make it out.

   The sum of all this is; That since a set form of prayer leaves the soul
   wholly free to employ its affections and devotions, in which the spirit
   of prayer does most properly consist; it follows, that the spirit of
   prayer is thereby, in a singular manner, helped, promoted, and
   enlarged: and since, on the other hand, the extempore way withdraws and
   takes off the soul from employing its affections, and engages it
   chiefly, if not wholly, about the use of its invention; it as plainly
   follows, that the spirit of prayer is by this means unavoidably cramped
   and hindered, and (to use their own word) stinted: which was the
   proposition that I undertook to prove. But there are two things, I
   confess, that are extremely hindered and stinted by a set form of
   prayer, and equally furthered and enlarged by the extempore way; which,
   without all doubt, is the true cause why the former is so much decried,
   and the latter so much extolled, by the men whom we are now pleading
   with. The first of which is pride and ostentation; the other, faction
   and sedition.

   1. And first for pride. I do not in the least question, but the chief
   design of such as use the extempore way, is to amuse the unthinking
   rabble with an admiration of their gifts; their whole devotion
   proceeding from no other principle, but only a love to hear themselves
   talk. And I believe it would put Lucifer himself hard to it, to outvie
   the pride of one of those fellows pouring out his extempore stuff
   amongst his ignorant, whining, factious followers, listening to, and
   applauding his copious flow and cant, with the ridiculous accents of
   their impertinent groans. And, the truth is, extempore prayer, even
   when best and most dexterously performed, is no thing else but a
   business of invention and wit, (such as it is,) and requires no more to
   it, but a teeming imagination, a bold front, and a ready expression;
   and deserves much the same commendation (were it not in a matter too
   serious to be sudden upon) which is due to extempore verses: only with
   this difference, that there is necessary to these latter a competent
   measure of wit and learning; whereas the former may be done with very
   little wit, and no learning at all.

   And now, can any sober person think it reason able, that the public
   devotions of a whole congregation should be under the conduct and at
   the mercy of a pert, empty, conceited holder-forth, whose chief (if not
   sole) intent is to vaunt his spiritual clack, and (as I may so speak)
   to pray prizes; whereas prayer is a duty that recommends itself to the
   acceptance of Almighty God, by no other qualification so much, as by
   the profoundest humility, and the lowest esteem that a man can possibly
   have of himself?

   Certainly the extemporizing faculty is never more out of its element,
   than in the pulpit; though even here it is much more excusable in a
   sermon than in a prayer; forasmuch as in that, a man addresses himself
   but to men; men like himself, whom he may therefore make bold with; as,
   no doubt, for so doing, they will also make bold with him. Besides the
   peculiar advantage attending all such sudden conceptions, that, as they
   are quickly born, so they quickly die: it being seldom known, where the
   speaker has so very fluent an invention, but the hearer also has the
   gift of as fluent a memory.

   2dly, The other thing that has been hitherto so little befriended by a
   set form of prayer, and so very much by the extempore way, is faction
   and sedition. It has been always found an excellent way of girding at
   the government in scripture phrase. And we all know the common dialect,
   in which the great masters of this art used to pray for the king, and
   which may justly pass for only a cleanlier and more refined kind of
   libelling him in the Lord. As, that God would turn his heart, and open
   his eyes: as if he were a pagan, yet to be converted to Christianity;
   with many other sly, virulent, and malicious insinuations, which we may
   every day hear of from (those mints of treason and rebellion) their
   conventicles; and for which, and a great deal less, some princes and
   governments would make them not only eat their words, but the tongue
   that spoke them too. In fine, let all their extempore harangues be
   considered and duly weighed, and you shall find a spirit of pride,
   faction, and sedition, predominant in them all; the only spirit which
   those impostors do really and indeed pray by.

   I have been so much the longer and the earnester against this
   intoxicating, bewitching cheat of extempore prayer, being fully
   satisfied in my conscience, that it has been all along the devil's
   masterpiece and prime engine to overthrow our church by. For I look
   upon this as a most unanswerable truth, that whatsoever renders the
   public worship of God contemptible amongst us, must, in the same
   degree, weaken and discredit our whole religion. And I hope I have also
   proved it to be a truth altogether as clear, that this extempore way
   naturally brings all the contempt upon the worship of God, that both
   the folly and faction of men can possibly expose it to: and therefore
   as a thing neither subservient to the true purposes of religion, nor
   grounded upon principles of reason, nor, lastly, suitable to the
   practice of antiquity, ought, by all means, to be exploded and cast out
   of every sober and well-ordered church; or that will be sure to throw
   the church itself out of doors.

   And thus I have at length finished what I had to say of the first
   ingredient of a pious and reverential prayer, which was premeditation
   of thought, prescribed to us in these words, Let not thy mouth be rash,
   nor thy heart be hasty to utter any thing before God. Which excellent
   words and most wise advice of Solomon, whosoever can reconcile to the
   expediency, decency, or usefulness of extempore prayer, I shall
   acknowledge him a man of greater ability and parts of mind than Solomon
   himself.

   The other ingredient of a reverential and duly qualified prayer is, a
   pertinent brevity of expression, mentioned and recommended in that part
   of the text, Therefore let thy words be few. But this I cannot despatch
   now, and therefore shall not enter upon at this time.

   Now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, three
   Persons and one God, be rendered and ascribed, as is most due, all
   praise, might, majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore. Amen.
     __________________________________________________________________

   [26] Major John Weyer. See Ravaillac Rediviv.
     __________________________________________________________________

   A Discourse against long and extempore Prayers:

    IN BEHALF OF THE

LITURGY OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.

  UPON THE SAME TEXT.
     __________________________________________________________________

   Eccles. v. 2.

   Be not rash with thy mouth, and let not thine heart be hasty to utter
   any thing before God: for God is in heaven, and thou upon earth:
   therefore let thy words be few.

   I FORMERLY began a discourse upon these words, and observed in them
   these three things:

   1st, That whosoever appears in the house of God, and particularly in
   the way of prayer, ought to reckon himself, in a more especial manner,
   placed in the sight and presence of God: and,

   2dly, That the vast and infinite distance between God and him, ought to
   create in him all imaginable awe and reverence in such his addresses to
   God.

   3dly and lastly, That this reverence required of him, is to consist in
   a serious preparation of his thoughts, and a sober government of his
   expressions: neither is his mouth to be rash, nor his heart to be hasty
   in uttering any thing before God.

   These three things I shew, were evidently contained in the words, and
   did as evidently contain the whole sense of them. But I gathered them
   all into this one proposition; namely,

   That premeditation of thought, and brevity of expression, are the great
   ingredients of that reverence that is required to a pious, acceptable,
   and devout prayer.

   The first of these, which is premeditation of thought, I then fully
   treated of, and despatched; and shall now proceed to the other, which
   is a pertinent brevity of expression; therefore let thy words be few.

   Concerning which we shall observe, first, in general, that to be able
   to express our minds briefly, and fully too, is absolutely the greatest
   perfection and commendation that speech is capable of; such a mutual
   communication of our thoughts being (as I may so speak) the next
   approach to intuition, and the nearest imitation of the converse of
   blessed spirits made perfect, that our condition in this world can
   possibly raise us to. Certainly the greatest and the wisest conceptions
   that ever issued from the mind of man, have been couched under, and
   delivered in, a few, close, home, and significant words.

   But, to derive the credit of this way of speaking much higher, and from
   an example infinitely greater, than the greatest human wisdom, was it
   not authorized and ennobled by God himself in his making of the world?
   Was not the work of all the six days transacted in so many words? There
   was no circumlocution or amplification in the case; which makes the
   rhetorician Longinus, in his book of the Loftiness of Speech, so much
   admire the height and grandeur of Moses's style in his first chapter of
   Genesis: Ho ton Ioudai'on thesmothe'tes ouch o tucho`n ane'r. "The
   lawgiver of the Jews," says he, (meaning Moses,) "was no ordinary man,"
   epeide` te`n tou Theou du'namin kata` te`n axi'an egno'rise
   kaxe'phenen; "because," says he, "he set forth the divine power
   suitably to the majesty and greatness of it." But how did he this? Why,
   euthu`s en te eisbole gra'psas ton no'mon, Eipen o Theo`s, phesi`, ti';
   Gene'stho phos, kai` ege'neto; gene'stho ge, kai` ege'neto, "for that,"
   says he, "in the very entrance of his laws he gives us this short and
   pleasant account of the whole creation: God said, Let there be light,
   and there was light: Let there be an earth, a sea, and a firmament; and
   there was so." So that all this high elogy and encomium, given by this
   heathen of Moses, sprang only from the majestic brevity of this one
   expression; an expression so suited to the greatness of a creator, and
   so expressive of his boundless, creative power, as a power infinitely
   above all control or possibility of finding the least obstacle or delay
   in achieving its mightiest and most stupendous works. Heaven and earth,
   and all the host of both, as it were, dropped from his mouth, and
   nature itself was but the product of a word; a word, not designed to
   express, but to constitute and give a being; and not so much the
   representation, as the cause, of what it signified.

   This was God's way of speaking in his first forming of the universe:
   and was it not so in the next grand instance of his power, his
   governing of it too? For are not the great instruments of government,
   his laws, drawn up and digested into a few sentences; the whole body of
   them containing but ten commandments, and some of those commandments
   not so many words? Nay, and have we not these also brought into yet a
   narrower compass by Him who best understood them? Thou shalt love the
   Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and thy
   neighbour as thyself: precepts no thing like the tedious, endless,
   confused trash of human laws; laws so numerous, that they not only
   exceed men's practice, but also surpass their arithmetic; and so
   voluminous, that no mortal head, nor shoulders neither, must ever
   pretend themselves able to bear them. In God's laws, the words are few,
   the sense vast and infinite. In human laws, you shall be sure to have
   words enough; but, for the most part, to discern the sense and reason
   of them, you had need read them with a microscope.

   And thus having shewn how the Almighty utters himself when he speaks,
   and that upon the greatest occasions; let us now descend from heaven to
   earth, from God to man, and shew, that it is no presumption for us to
   conform our words, as well as our actions, to the supreme pattern, and,
   according to our poor measures, to imitate the wisdom that we adore.
   And for this, has it not been noted by the best observers and the
   ablest judges both of things and persons, that the wisdom of any people
   or nation has been most seen in the proverbs and short sayings commonly
   received amongst them? And what is a proverb, but the experience and
   observation of several ages, gathered and summed up into one
   expression? The scripture vouches Solomon for the wisest of men: and
   they are his Proverbs that prove him so. The seven wise men of Greece,
   so famous for their wisdom all the world over, acquired all that fame
   each of them by a single sentence, consisting of two or three words:
   and gnothi seauto`n still lives and flourishes in the .mouths of all,
   while many vast volumes are extinct, and sunk into dust and utter
   oblivion. And then, for books; we shall generally find, that the most
   excellent, in any art or science, have been still the smallest and most
   compendious: and this not without ground; for it is an argument that
   the author was a master of what he wrote, and had a clear notion and a
   full comprehension of the subject before him. For the reason of things
   lies in a little compass, if the mind could at any time be so happy as
   to light upon it. Most of the writings and discourses in the world are
   but illustration and rhetoric, which signifies as much as nothing to a
   mind eager in pursuit after the causes and philosophical truth of
   things. It is the work of fancy to enlarge, but of judgment to shorten
   and contract; and therefore this must needs be as far above the other,
   as judgment is a greater and a nobler faculty than fancy or
   imagination. All philosophy is reduced to a few principles, and those
   principles comprised in a few propositions. And as the whole structure
   of speculation rests upon three or four axioms or maxims; so that of
   practice also bears upon a very small number of rules. And surely there
   was never yet any rule or maxim that filled a volume, or took up a
   week's time to be got by heart. No, these are the apices rerum, the
   tops and sums, the very spirit and life of things extracted and
   abridged; just as all the lines drawn from the vastest circumference do
   at length meet and unite in the smallest of things, a point: and it is
   but a very little piece of wood, with which a true artist will measure
   all the timber in the world. The truth is, there could be no such thing
   as art or science, could not the mind of man gather the general natures
   of things out of the numberless heap of particulars, and then bind them
   up into such short aphorisms or propositions; that so they may be made
   portable to the memory, and thereby become ready and at hand for the
   judgment to apply and make use of, as there shall be occasion.

   In fine, brevity and succinctness of speech is that, which, in
   philosophy or speculation, we call maxim, and first principle; in the
   counsels and resolves of practical wisdom, and the deep mysteries of
   religion, oracle; and lastly, in matters of wit, and the finenesses of
   imagination, epigram. All of them, severally and in their kinds, the
   greatest and the noblest things that the mind of man can shew the force
   and dexterity of its faculties in.

   And now, if this be the highest excellency and perfection of speech in
   all other things, can we as sign any true, solid reason why it should
   not be so likewise in prayer? Nay, is there not rather the clearest
   reason imaginable why it should be much more so; since most of the
   forementioned things are but addresses to an human understanding, which
   may need as many words as may fill a volume, to make it understand the
   truth of one line? whereas prayer is an address to that eternal mind,
   which, as we have shewn before, such as rationally invocate pretend not
   to inform. Nevertheless, since the nature of man is such, that, while
   we are yet in the body, our reverence and worship of God must of
   necessity proceed in some analogy to the reverence that we shew to the
   grandees of this world, we will here see what the judgment of all wise
   men is concerning fewness of words, when we appear as suppliants before
   our earthly superiors; and we shall find, that they generally allow it
   to import these three things: 1. Modesty; 2. Discretion; and 3dly,
   Height of respect to the person addressed to. And first, for modesty.
   Modesty is a kind of shame or bashfulness, proceeding from the sense a
   man has of his own defects, compared with the perfections of him whom
   he comes before. And that which is modesty towards men, is worship and
   devotion towards God. It is a virtue that makes a man unwilling to be
   seen, and fearful to be heard; and yet, for that very cause, never
   fails to make him both seen with favour, and heard with attention. It
   loves not many words, nor indeed needs them. For modesty, addressing to
   any one of a generous worth and honour, is sure to have that man's
   honour for its advocate, and his generosity for its intercessor. And
   how then is it possible for such a virtue to run out into words?
   Loquacity storms the ear, but modesty takes the heart; that is
   troublesome, this gentle, but irresistible. Much speaking is always the
   effect of confidence; and confidence still presupposes, and springs
   from, the persuasion that a man has of his own worth: both of them
   certainly very unfit qualifications for a petitioner.

   2dly, The second thing that naturally shews it self in paucity of words
   is, discretion; and particularly that prime and eminent part of it,
   that consists in a care of offending: which Solomon assures us, that in
   much speaking it is hardly possible for us to avoid; in Prov. x. 19. In
   the multitude of words, says he, there wanteth not sin. It requiring no
   ordinary skill for a man to make his tongue run by rule, and, at the
   same time, to give it both its lesson and its liberty too. For seldom
   or never is there much spoke, but something or other had better been
   not spoke; there being nothing that the mind of man is so apt to kindle
   and take distaste at, as at words: and therefore, whensoever any one
   comes to prefer a suit to another, no doubt the fewer of them the
   better; since, where so very little is said, it is sure to be either
   candidly accepted, or, which is next, easily excused: but at the same
   time to petition and to provoke too, is certainly very preposterous.

   3dly, The third thing that brevity of speech commends itself by in all
   petitionary addresses is, a peculiar respect to the person addressed
   to: for who soever petitions his superior in such a manner, does, by
   his very so doing, confess him better able to understand, than he
   himself can be to express his own case. He owns him as a patron of a
   preventing judgment and goodness, and, upon that account, able, not
   only to answer, but also to anticipate his requests. For, according to
   the most natural interpretation of things, this is to ascribe to him a
   sagacity so quick and piercing, that it were presumption to inform; and
   a benignity so great, that it were needless to importune him. And can
   there be a greater and more winning deference to a superior, than to
   treat him under such a character? Or can any thing be imagined so
   naturally fit and efficacious, both to enforce the petition, and to
   endear the petitioner? A short petition to a great man is not only a
   suit to him for his favour, but also a panegyric upon his parts.

   And thus I have given you the three commendatory qualifications of
   brevity of speech in our applications to the great ones of the world.
   Concerning which, as I shewed before, that it was impossible for us to
   form our addresses, even to God himself, but with some proportion and
   resemblance to those that we make to our fellow mortals in a condition
   much above us; so it is certain, that whatsoever the general judgment
   and consent of mankind al lows to be expressive and declarative of our
   honour to those, must (only with due allowance of the difference of the
   object) as really and properly declare and signify that honour and
   adoration that is due from us to the great God. And, consequently, what
   we have said for brevity of speech with respect to the former, ought
   equally to conclude for it with relation to him too.

   But to argue more immediately and directly to the point before us, I
   shall now produce five arguments, enforcing brevity, and cashiering all
   prolixity of speech, with peculiar reference to our addresses to God.

   1. And the first argument shall be taken from this consideration, That
   there is no reason allegeable for the use of length or prolixity of
   speech, that is at all applicable to prayer. For whosoever uses
   multiplicity of words, or length of discourse, must of necessity do it
   for one of these three purposes; either to inform, or persuade; or,
   lastly, to weary and overcome the person whom he directs his discourse
   to. But the very first foundation of what I had to say upon this
   subject was laid by me, in demonstrating, that prayer could not
   possibly prevail with God any of these three ways. For as much as,
   being omniscient, he could not be informed; and, being void of passion
   or affections, he could not be persuaded; and, lastly, being
   omnipotent, and infinitely great, he could not, by any importunity, be
   wearied or overcome. And if so, what use then can there be of rhetoric,
   harangue, or multitude of words in prayer? For, if they should be
   designed for information, must it not be infinitely sottish and
   unreasonable to go about to inform him, who can be ignorant of nothing?
   Or to persuade him, whose unchangeable nature makes it impossible for
   him to be moved or wrought upon? Or, lastly, by long and much speaking,
   to think to weary him out, whose infinite power all the strength of men
   and angels, and the whole world put together,, is not able to encounter
   or stand before? So that the truth is, by loquacity and prolixity of
   prayer, a man does really and indeed (whether he thinks so or no) rob
   God of the honour of those three great attributes, and neither treats
   him as a person omniscient, or unchangeable, or omnipotent: for, on the
   other side, all the usefulness of long speech, in human converse, is
   founded only upon the defects and imperfections of human nature. For
   he, whose knowledge is at best but limited, and whose intellect, both
   in apprehending and judging, proceeds by a small diminutive light,
   cannot but receive an additional light by the conceptions of another
   man, clearly and plainly expressed, and by such expression conveyed to
   his apprehension. And he again, whose nature subjects him to want and
   weakness, and consequently to hopes and fears, cannot but be moved this
   way or that way, according as objects suitable to those passions shall
   be dexterously represented and set before his imagination, by the arts
   of speaking; which is that that we call persuasion. And lastly, he
   whose soul and body receive their activity from, and perform all their
   functions by, the mediation of the spirits, which ebb and flow,
   consume, and are renewed again, cannot but find himself very uneasy
   upon any tedious, verbose application made to him; and that sometimes
   to such a degree, that, through mere fatigue, and even against judgment
   and interest both, a man shall surrender himself, as a conquered
   person, to the overbearing vehemence of such solicitations: for when
   they ply him so fast, and pour in upon him so thick, they cannot but
   wear and waste the spirits, as unequal to so pertinacious a charge; and
   this is properly to weary a man. But now all weariness, we know,
   presupposes weakness; and consequently, every long, importune,
   wearisome petition, is truly and properly a force upon him that is
   pursued with it; it is a following blow after blow upon the mind and
   affections, and may, for the time, pass for a real, though short
   persecution.

   This is the state and condition of human nature; and prolixity or
   importunity of speech is still the great engine to attack it by, either
   in its blind or weak side: and I think I may venture to affirm, that it
   is seldom that any man is prevailed upon by words; but, upon a true and
   philosophical estimate of the whole matter, he is either deceived or
   wearied before he is so, and parts with the thing desired of him upon
   the very same terms that either a child parts with a jewel for an
   apple, or a man parts with his sword, when it is forceably wrested or
   took from him. And that he who obtains what he has been rhetorically or
   importunately begging for, goes away really a conqueror, and
   triumphantly carrying off the spoils of his neighbour's understanding,
   or his will; baffling the former, or wearying the latter into a grant
   of his restless petitions.

   And now, if this be the case, when any one comes with a tedious,
   long-winded harangue to God, may not God properly answer him with those
   words in Psalm l. 21. Surely thou thinkest I am altogether such an one
   as thyself? And perhaps, upon a due and rational examination of all the
   follies and indecencies that men are apt to be guilty of in prayer,
   they will be all found resolvable into this one thing, as the true and
   sole cause of them; namely, That men, when they pray, take God to be
   such an one as themselves; and so treat him accordingly. The malignity
   and mischief of which gross mistake may reach farther than possibly at
   first they can well be aware of. For if it be idolatry to pray to God
   the Father, represented under the shape of a man, can it be at all
   better to pray to him, as represented under the weakness of a man? Nay,
   if the misrepresentation of the object makes the idolatry; certainly,
   by how much the worse and more scandalous the misrepresentation is, by
   so much the grosser and more in tolerable must be the idolatry. To
   confirm which, we may add this consideration, that Christ himself, even
   now in his glorified estate in heaven, wears the body, and consequently
   the shape, of a man, though he is far from any of his infirmities or
   imperfections: and therefore, no doubt, to represent God to ourselves
   under these latter, must needs be more absurd and irreligious, than to
   represent him under the former. But to one particular of the preceding
   discourse some may reply and object, that, if God's omniscience, by
   rendering it impossible for him to be in formed, be a sufficient reason
   against prolixity, or length of prayer; it will follow, that it is
   equally a reason against the using any words at all in prayer, since
   the proper use of words is to inform the person whom we speak to; and
   consequently, where information is impossible, words must needs be
   useless and superfluous.

   To which I answer, first by concession, That, if the sole use of words
   or speech were, to inform the person whom we speak to, the consequence
   would be firm and good, and equally conclude against the use of any
   words at all in prayer. But therefore, in the second place, I deny
   information to be the sole and adequate use of words or speech, or
   indeed any use of them at all, when either the person spoken to needs
   not to be informed, and withal is known not to need it, as sometimes it
   falls out with men; or, when he is uncapable of being informed, as it
   is always with God. But the proper use of words, whensoever we speak to
   God in prayer, is thereby to pay him honour and obedience. God having,
   by an express precept, enjoined us the use of words in prayer,
   commanding us in Psalm l. 15. and many other scriptures, to call upon
   him: and in Luke xi. 21. When we pray, to say, Our Father, &c. But no
   where has he commanded us to do this with prolixity, or multiplicity of
   words. And though it must be confessed, that we may sometimes answer
   this command of calling upon God, and saying, Our Father, &c. by mental
   or inward prayer; yet, since these words, in their first and most
   proper signification, import a vocal address, there is no doubt but the
   direct design of the command is to enjoin this also, wheresoever there
   is ability and power to perform it. So that we see here the necessity
   of vocal prayer, founded upon the authority of a divine precept;
   whereas, for long prolix prayer, no such precept can be produced; and
   consequently, the divine omniscience may be a sufficient reason against
   multiplicity of words in prayer, and yet conclude nothing simply or
   absolutely against the bare use of them. Nevertheless, that we may not
   seem to allege bare command, unseconded by reason, (which yet, in the
   divine commands, it is impossible to do,) there is this great reason
   for, and use of, words in prayer, without the least pretence of in
   forming the person whom we pray to; and that is, to acknowledge and own
   those wants before God, that we supplicate for a relief of. It being
   very proper and rational to own and acknowledge a thing, even to him
   who knew it before; forasmuch as this is so far from offering to
   communicate or make known to him the thing so acknowledged, that it
   rather presupposes in him an antecedent knowledge of it, and comes in
   only as a subsequent assent and subscription to the reality and truth
   of such a knowledge. For to acknowledge a thing, in the first sense of
   the word, does by no means signify a design of notifying that thing to
   another, but is truly and properly a man's passing sentence upon
   himself and his own condition: there being no reason in the world for a
   man to expect that God should relieve and supply those wants that he
   himself will not own nor take notice of; any more than for a man to
   hope for a pardon of those sins that he cannot find in his heart to
   confess. And yet, I suppose, no man in his right senses does or can
   imagine, that God is informed or brought to the knowledge of those sins
   by y such confession.

   And so much for the clearing of this objection; and, in the whole, for
   the first argument produced by us for brevity, and against prolixity of
   prayer; namely, That all the reasons that can be assigned for prolixity
   of speech in our converse with men cease, and become no reasons for it
   at all, when we are to speak or pray to God.

   2dly, The second argument for paucity of words in prayer, shall be
   taken from the paucity of those things that are necessary to be prayed
   for. And surely, where few things are necessary, few words should be
   sufficient. For where the matter is not commensurate to the words, all
   speaking is but tautology; that being truly and really tautology, where
   the same thing is repeated, though under never so much variety of
   expression; as it is but the same man still, though he appears every
   day or every hour in a new and different suit of clothes.

   The adequate subject of our prayers (I shewed at first) comprehended in
   it things of necessity and things of charity. As to the first of which,
   I know no thing absolutely necessary, but grace here, and glory
   hereafter. And for the other, we know what the Apostle says, 1 Tim. vi.
   8. Having food and raiment, let us be therewith content. Nature is
   satisfied with a little, and grace with less. And now, if the matter of
   our prayers lies within so narrow a compass, why should the dress and
   outside of them spread and diffuse itself into so wide and
   disproportioned a largeness? by reason of which, our words will be
   forced to hang loose and light, without any matter to sup port them;
   much after the same rate that it is said to be in transubstantiation,
   where accidents are left in the lurch by their proper subject, that
   gives them the slip, and so leaves those poor slender beings to uphold
   and shift for themselves.

   In brevity of speech, a man does not so much speak words, as things;
   things in their precise and naked truth, and stripped of their
   rhetorical mask and their fallacious gloss; and therefore in Athens
   they circumscribed the pleadings of their orators by a strict law,
   cutting off prologues and epilogues, and commanding them to an
   immediate representation of the case, by an impartial and succinct
   declaration of mere matter of fact. And this was, indeed, to speak
   things fit for a judge to hear, because it argued the pleader also a
   judge of what was fit for him to speak.

   And now, why should not this be both decency and devotion too, when we
   come to plead for our poor souls before the great tribunal of heaven?
   It was the saying of Solomon, A word to the wise; and if so, certainly
   there can be no necessity of many words to Him who is wisdom itself.
   For can any man think, that God delights to hear him make speeches, and
   to shew his parts, (as the word is,) or to jumble a multitude of
   misapplied scripture-sentences together, interlarded with a frequent,
   nauseous repetition of "Ah Lord!" which some call exercising their
   gifts, but with a greater exercise of their hearers patience? Nay, does
   not he present his Maker, not only with a more decent, but also a more
   free and liberal oblation, who tenders him much in a little, and brings
   him his whole heart and soul wrapt up in three or four words, than he
   who, with full mouth and loud lungs, sends up whole volleys of
   articulate breath to the throne of grace? For neither in the esteem of
   God or man ought multitude of words to pass for any more. In the
   present case, no doubt, God accounts and accepts of the former, as
   infinitely a more valuable offering than the latter. As that subject
   pays his prince a much nobler and more acceptable tribute, who tenders
   him a purse of gold, than he who brings him a whole cart-load of
   farthings, in which there is weight without worth, and number without
   account.

   3dly, The third argument for brevity, or contractedness of speech in
   prayer, shall be taken from the very nature and condition of the person
   who prays; which makes it impossible for him to keep up the same
   fervour and attention in a long prayer, that he may in a short. For as
   I first observed, that the mind of man cannot with the same force and
   vigour attend to several objects at the same time, so neither can it
   with the same force and earnestness exert itself upon one and the same
   object for any long time: great intention of mind spending the spirits
   too fast, to continue its first freshness and agility long. For while
   the soul is a retainer to the elements, and a sojourner in the body, it
   must be content to submit its own quickness and spirituality to the
   dulness of its vehicle, and to comply with the pace of its inferior
   companion. Just like a man shut up in a coach, who, while he is so,
   must be willing to go no faster than the motion of the coach will carry
   him. He who does all by the help of those subtile, refined parts of
   matter, called spirits, must not think to persevere at the same pitch
   of acting, while those principles of activity flag. No man begins and
   ends a long journey with the same pace.

   But now, when prayer has lost its due fervour and attention, (which
   indeed are the very vitals of it,) it is but the carcase of a prayer,
   and consequently must needs be loathsome and offensive to God: nay,
   though the greatest part of it should be enlivened and carried on with
   an actual attention, yet, if that attention fails to enliven any one
   part of it, the whole is but a joining of the living and the dead
   together; for which conjunction the dead is not at all the better, but
   the living very much the worse. It is not length, nor copiousness of
   language, that is devotion, any more than bulk and bigness is valour,
   or flesh the measure of the spirit. A short sentence may be oftentimes
   a large and a mighty prayer. Devotion so managed being like water in a
   well, where you have fulness in a little compass; which surely is much
   nobler than the same carried out into many petit, creeping rivulets,
   with length and shallowness together. Let him who prays bestow all that
   strength, fervour, and attention, upon shortness and significance, that
   would otherwise run out and lose itself in length and luxuriancy of
   speech to no purpose. Let not his tongue outstrip his heart, nor
   presume to carry a message to the throne of grace, while that stays
   behind. Let him not think to sup port so hard and weighty a duty with a
   tired, languishing, and bejaded devotion: to avoid which, let a man
   contract his expression, where he cannot enlarge his affection; still
   remembering, that nothing can be more absurd in itself, nor more
   unacceptable to God, than for one engaged in the great work of prayer
   to hold on speaking, after he has left off praying, and to keep the
   lips at work, when the spirit can do no more.

   4thly, The fourth argument for shortness or conciseness of speech in
   prayer shall be drawn from this, That it is the most natural and lively
   way of expressing the utmost agonies and outcries of the soul to God
   upon a quick, pungent sense, either of a pressing necessity, or an
   approaching calamity; which, we know, are generally the chief occasions
   of prayer, and the most effectual motives to bring men upon their
   knees, in a vigorous application of themselves to this great duty. A
   person ready to sink under his wants, has neither time nor heart to
   rhetoricate or make flourishes. No man begins a long grace, when he is
   ready to starve: such an one's prayers are like the relief he needs,
   quick and sudden, short and immediate: he is like a man in torture upon
   the rack; whose pains are too acute to let his words be many, and whose
   desires of deliverance too impatient, to delay the things he begs for
   by the manner of his begging it.

   It is a common saying, "If a man does not know how to pray, let him go
   to sea, and that will teach him." And we have a notable instance of
   what kind of prayers men are taught in that school, even in the
   disciples themselves, when a storm arose, and the sea raged, and the
   ship was ready to be cast away, in the eighth of Matthew. In which
   case, we do not find that they fell presently to harangue it about seas
   and winds, and that dismal face of things that must needs appear all
   over the devouring element at such a time: all which, and the like,
   might no doubt have been very plentiful topics of eloquence to a man
   who should have looked upon these things from the shore, or discoursed
   of wrecks and tempests safe and warm in his parlour. But these poor
   wretches, who were now entering, as they thought, into the very jaws of
   death, struggling with the last efforts of nature upon the sense of a
   departing life, and consequently could neither speak nor think any
   thing low or ordinary in such a condition, presently rallied up, and
   discharged the whole concern of their desponding souls, in that short
   prayer of but three words, though much fuller and more forcible than
   one of three thousand, in the 25th verse of the forementioned chapter;
   Save us, Lord, or we perish. Death makes short work when it comes, and
   will teach him, who would prevent it, to make shorter. For surely no
   man who thinks himself a perishing can be at leisure to be eloquent, or
   judge it either sense or devotion to begin a long prayer, when, in all
   likelihood, he shall conclude his life before it.

   5thly. The fifth and last argument that I shall produce for brevity of
   speech, or fewness of words in prayer, shall be taken from the examples
   which we find in scripture, of such as have been remark able for
   brevity, and of such as have been noted for prolixity of speech, in the
   discharge of this duty.

   1. And first for brevity. To omit all those notable examples which the
   Old Testament affords us of it, and to confine ourselves only to the
   New, in which we are undoubtedly most concerned; was not this way of
   praying, not only warranted, but sanctified, and set above all that the
   wit of man could possibly except against it, by that infinitely exact
   form of prayer, prescribed by the greatest, the holiest, and the wisest
   man that ever lived, even Christ himself, the Son of God, and Saviour
   of the world? Was it not an instance both of the truest devotion, and
   the fullest and most comprehensive reason, that ever proceeded from the
   mouth of man? and yet, withal, the shortest and most succinct model
   that ever grasped all the needs and occasions of man kind, both
   spiritual and temporal, into so small a compass? Doubtless, had our
   Saviour thought fit to amplify or be prolix, He, in whom were hid all
   the treasures of wisdom, could not want matter; nor he who was himself
   the Word, want variety of the fittest to have expressed his mind by.
   But he chose rather to contract the whole concern of both worlds into a
   few lines, and to unite both heaven and earth in his prayer, as he had
   done before in his person. And indeed one was a kind of copy or
   representation of the other.

   So then we see here brevity in the rule or pat tern; let us see it next
   in the practice; and, after that, in the success of prayer. And first,
   we have the practice, as well as the pattern of it, in our Saviour
   himself; and that in the most signal passage of his whole life, even
   his preparation for his approaching death. In which dolorous scene,
   when his whole soul was nothing but sorrow, (that great moving spring
   of invention and elocution,) and when nature was put to its last and
   utmost stretch, and so had no refuge or relief but in prayer; yet even
   then all this horror, agony, and distress of spirit, delivers itself
   but in two very short sentences, in Matt. xxvi. 39. O my Father, if it
   be possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will,
   but as thou wilt. And again, the second time, with the like brevity and
   the like words: O my Father, if this cup may not pass from me, except I
   drink it, thy will be done. And lastly, the third time also, he used
   the same short form again; and yet in all this he was (as we may say
   without a metaphor) even praying for life, so far as the great business
   he was then about, to wit, the redemption of the world, would suffer
   him to pray for it. All which prayers of our Saviour, and others of
   like brevity, are properly such as we call ejaculations; an elegant
   similitude from a dart or arrow, shot or thrown out; and such an one
   (we know) of a yard long, will fly farther, and strike deeper, than one
   of twenty.

   And then, in the last place, for the success of such brief prayers, I
   shall give you but three instances of this; but they shall be of
   persons praying under the pressure of as great miseries as human nature
   could well be afflicted with. And the first shall be of the leper,
   Matt. viii. 2. or, as St. Luke describes him, a man full of leprosy,
   who came to our Saviour, and worshipped him; and, as St. Luke again has
   it more particularly, fell on his face before him, (which is the lowest
   and most devout of all postures of worship,) saying, Lord, if thou
   wilt, thou canst make me clean. This was all his prayer: and the answer
   to it was, that he was immediately cleansed. The next instance shall be
   of the poor blind man, in Luke xviii. 38. following our Saviour with
   this earnest prayer: Jesus, thou son of David, have mercy upon me. His
   whole prayer was no more: for it is said in the next verse, that he
   went on repeating it again and again: Jesus, thou son of David, have
   mercy upon me. And the answer he received was, that his eyes were
   opened, and his sight restored.

   The third and last instance shall be of the publican, in the same
   chapter of St. Luke, praying under a lively sense of as great a leprosy
   and blindness of soul, as the other two could have of body: in the 13th
   verse, he smote upon his breast, saying, God be merciful to me a
   sinner. He spoke no more; though it is said in the 10th verse, that he
   went solemnly and purposely up to the temple to pray: the issue and
   success of which prayer was, that he went home justified, before one of
   those whom all the Jewish church revered as absolutely the highest and
   most heroic examples of piety, and most beloved favourites of Heaven,
   in the whole world. And now, if the force and virtue of these short
   prayers could rise so high as to cleanse a leper, to give sight to the
   blind, and to justify a publican; and if the worth of a prayer may at
   all be measured by the success of it, I suppose no prayers whatsoever
   can do more; and I never yet heard or read of any long prayer that did
   so much. Which brings on the other part of this our fifth and last
   argument, which was to be drawn from the examples of such as have been
   noted in scripture for prolixity or length of prayer. And of this there
   are only two mentioned, the heathens and the Pharisees. The first, the
   grand instance of idolatry; the other, of hypocrisy: but Christ forbids
   us the imitation of both; When ye pray, says our Saviour in the 6th of
   Matthew, be ye not like the heathens: but in what? Why in this, That
   they think they shall be heard for their much speaking; in the 7th
   verse. It is not the multitude that prevails in armies, and much less
   in words. And then for the Pharisees, whom our Saviour represents as
   the very vilest of men, and the greatest of cheats. We have them
   amusing the world with pretences of a more refined devotion, while
   their heart was all that time in their neighbour's coffers. For does
   not our Saviour expressly tell us in Luke xx. and the two last verses,
   that the great tools, the hooks or engines, by which they compassed
   their worst, their wickedest, and most rapacious designs, were long
   prayers? prayers made only for a shew or colour; and that to the basest
   and most degenerous sort of villainy, even the robbing the spittal, and
   devouring the houses of poor, helpless, forlorn widows. Their devotion
   served all along but as an instrument to their avarice, as a factor or
   under-agent to their extortion. A practice, which, duly seen into, and
   stripped of its hypocpitical blinds, could not but look very odiously
   and ill-favouredly; and therefore in come their long robes, and their
   long prayers together, and cover all. And the truth is, neither the
   length of one nor of the other is ever found so useful, as when there
   is something more than ordinary that would not be seen. This was the
   gainful godliness of the Pharisees; and, I believe, upon good
   observation, you will hardly find any like the Pharisees for their long
   prayers, who are not also extremely like them for something else. And
   thus having given you five arguments for brevity, and against prolixity
   of prayer, let us now make this our other great rule, whereby to judge
   of the prayers of our church, and the prayers of those who dissent and
   divide from it. And,

   First, for that excellent body of prayers contained in our liturgy, and
   both compiled and enjoined by public authority. Have we not here a
   great instance of brevity and fulness together, cast into several short
   significant collects, each containing a distinct, entire, and
   well-managed petition? the whole set of them being like a string of
   pearls, exceeding rich in conjunction; and therefore of no small price
   or value, even single and by themselves. Nothing could have been
   composed with greater judgment; every prayer being so short, that it is
   impossible it should weary; and withal so pertinent, that it is
   impossible it should cloy the devotion. And indeed so admirably fitted
   are they all to the common concerns of a Christian society, that when
   the rubric enjoins but the use of some of them, our worship is not
   imperfect; and when we use them all, there is none of them superfluous.

   And the reason assigned by some learned men for the preference of many
   short prayers before a continued long one, is unanswerable; namely,
   that by the former there is a more frequently repeated mention made of
   the name, and some great attribute of God, as the encouraging ground of
   our praying to him; and withal, of the merits and mediation of Christ,
   as the only thing that can promise us success in what we pray for:
   every distinct petition beginning with the former, and ending with the
   latter: by thus annexing of which to each particular thing that we ask
   for, we do manifestly confess and declare, that we cannot expect to
   obtain any one thing at the hands of God, but with a particular renewed
   respect to the merits of a Mediator; and withal, remind the
   congregation of the same, by making it their part to renew a distinct
   Amen to every distinct petition.

   Add to this the excellent contrivance of a great part of our liturgy,
   into alternate responses; by which means, the people are put to bear a
   consider able share in the whole service: which makes it al most
   impossible for them to be only idle hearers, or, which is worse, mere
   lookers on: as they are very often, and may be always, (if they can but
   keep their eyes open,) at the long tedious prayers of the non
   conformists. And this indeed is that which makes and denominates our
   liturgy truly and properly a book of common prayer. For I think I may
   truly avouch, (how strange soever it may seem at first,) tat there is
   no such .thing as common or joint prayer any where amongst the
   principal dissenters from the church of England: for in the Romish
   communion, the priest says over the appointed prayers only to himself;
   and the rest of the people, not hearing a word of what he says, repeat
   also their own particular prayers to themselves, and when they have
   done, go their way: not all at once, as neither do they come at once,
   but scatteringly, one after an other, according as they have finished
   their devotions. And then, for the nonconformists, their prayers being
   all extempore, it is, as we have shewn before, hardly possible for any,
   and utterly impossible for all, to join in them: for surely people
   cannot join in a prayer before they understand it; nor can it be
   imagined that all capacities should presently and immediately
   understand what they hear, when, possibly, Holder-forth himself
   understands not what he says. From all which we may venture to
   conclude, that that excellent thing, common prayer, which is the joint
   address of an whole congregation with united voice, as well as heart,
   sending up their devotions to Almighty God, is no where to be found in
   these kingdoms, but in that best and nearest copy of primitive
   Christian worship, the divine service, as it is performed according to
   the orders of our church.

   As for those long prayers so frequently used by some before their
   sermons; the constitution and canons of our church are not at all
   responsible for them, having provided us better things, and with great
   wisdom appointed a form of prayer to be used by all before their
   sermons. But as for this way of praying, now generally in use, as it
   was first took up upon an humour of novelty and popularity, and by the
   same carried on till it had passed into a custom, and so put the rule
   of the church first out of use, and then out of countenance also; so,
   if it be rightly considered, it will, in the very nature of the thing
   itself, be found a very senseless and absurd practice. For can there be
   any sense or propriety in beginning a new, tedious prayer in the
   pulpit, just after the church has, for near an hour together, with
   great variety of offices, suitable to all the needs of the
   congregation, been praying for all that can possibly be fit for
   Christians to pray for? Nothing certainly can be more irrational. For
   which cause, amongst many more, that old sober form of bidding prayer,
   which, both against law and reason, has been justled out of the church
   by this upstart, puritanical encroachment, ought, with great reason, to
   be restored by authority; and both the use and users of it, by a strict
   and solemn reinforcement of the canon upon all, without exception, be
   rescued from that unjust scorn of the factious and ignorant, which the
   tyranny of the contrary usurping custom will other wise expose them to.
   For surely it can neither be decency nor order for our clergy to
   conform to the fanatics, as many in their prayers before sermon
   nowadays do.

   And thus having accounted for the prayers of our church, according to
   the great rule prescribed in the text, Let thy words be few; let us
   now, according to the same, consider also the way of praying, so much
   used and applauded by such as have renounced the communion and liturgy
   of our church; and it is but reason that they should bring us some
   thing better, in the room of what they have so disdainfully cast off.
   But, on the contrary, are not all their prayers exactly after the
   heathenish and pharisaical copy? always notable for those two things,
   length and tautology? Two whole hours for one prayer, at a fast, used
   to be reckoned but a moderate dose; and that, for the most part,
   fraught with such irreverent, blasphemous expressions, that to repeat
   them would profane the place I am speaking in; and indeed they seldom
   "carried on the work of such a day," (as their phrase was,) but they
   left the church in need of a new consecration. Add to this, the
   incoherence and confusion, the endless repetitions, and the
   unsufferable nonsense that never failed to hold out, even with their
   utmost prolixity; so that in all their long fasts, from first to last,
   from seven in the morning to seven in the evening, (which was their
   measure,) the pulpit was always the emptiest thing in the church: and I
   never knew such a fast kept by them, but their hearers had cause to
   begin a thanksgiving as soon as they had done. And the truth is, when I
   consider the mat ter of their prayers, so full of ramble and
   inconsequence, and in every respect so very like the language of a
   dream; and compare it with their carriage of themselves in prayer, with
   their eyes for the most part shut, and their arms stretched out in
   yawning posture, a man that should hear any of them pray, might, by a
   very pardonable error, be induced to think that he was all the time
   hearing one talking in his sleep: besides the strange virtue which
   their prayers had to procure sleep in others too. So that he who should
   be present at all their long cant, would shew a greater ability in
   watching, than ever they could pretend to in praying, if he could
   forbear sleeping, having so strong a provocation to it, and so fair an
   excuse for it. In a word, such were their prayers, both for matter and
   expression, that, could any one truly and exactly write them out, it
   would be the shrewdest and most effectual way of writing against them,
   that could possibly be thought of.

   I should not have thus troubled either you or myself, by raking into
   the dirt and dunghill of these men's devotions, upon the account of any
   thing either done or said by them in the late times of confusion; for
   as they have the king's, so I wish them God's pardon also, whom, I am
   sure, they have offended much more than they have both kings put
   together. But that which has provoked me thus to rip up and expose to
   you their nauseous and ridiculous way of addressing to God, even upon
   the most solemn occasions, is, that intolerably rude and unprovoked
   insolence and scurrility, with which they are every day reproaching and
   scoffing at our liturgy, and the users of it, and thereby alienating
   the minds of the people from it, to such a degree, that many thousands
   are drawn by them into a fatal schism; a schism, that, unrepented of,
   and continued in, will as infallibly ruin their souls, as theft,
   whoredom, murder, or any other of the most crying, damning sins
   whatsoever. But leaving this to the justice of the government, to which
   it belongs to protect us in our spiritual as well as in our temporal
   concerns, I shall only say this, that nothing can be more for the
   honour of our liturgy, than to find it despised only by those who have
   made themselves remarkable to the world for despising the Lord's prayer
   as much.

   In the mean time, for ourselves of the church of England, who, without
   pretending to any new lights, think it equally a duty and commendation
   to be wise, and to be devout only to sobriety, and who judge it no
   dishonour to God himself to be worshipped according to law and rule. If
   the directions of Solomon, the precept and example of our Saviour, and
   lastly, the piety and experience of those excellent men and martyrs,
   who first composed, and afterwards owned our liturgy with their dearest
   blood, may be looked upon as safe and sufficient guides to us in our
   public worship of God; then, upon the joint authority of all these, we
   may pronounce our liturgy the greatest treasure of rational devotion in
   the Christian world. And I know no prayer necessary, that is not in the
   liturgy, but one, which is this; That God would vouchsafe to continue
   the liturgy itself in use, honour, and veneration in this church for
   ever. And I doubt not but all wise, sober, and good Christians, will,
   with equal judgment and affection, give it their Amen.

   Now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, three
   Persons and one God 9 be rendered and ascribed, as is most due, all
   praise, might, majesty, and dominion, both now and for evermore. Amen.

  END OF VOL. I.
     __________________________________________________________________

                                    Indexes
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of Scripture References

   Genesis

   [1]1:27   [2]1:27   [3]18:17   [4]22:2   [5]39:21   [6]41:45

   Exodus

   [7]3:1   [8]19:24   [9]33:11   [10]34:24

   Numbers

   [11]16:38   [12]23:10

   Deuteronomy

   [13]8:18   [14]15:6   [15]17:12   [16]32:32

   Judges

   [17]6:2   [18]8:3-4   [19]8:22   [20]8:23   [21]8:34   [22]8:34-35
   [23]8:35   [24]18:24   [25]18:34-35   [26]19

   1 Samuel

   [27]2:30   [28]2:36   [29]9:14

   1 Kings

   [30]3:4   [31]10:5   [32]12:27   [33]13   [34]13:4   [35]13:33-34
   [36]13:33-34   [37]14:26   [38]18

   2 Kings

   [39]13

   1 Chronicles

   [40]29:28

   2 Chronicles

   [41]3:1

   Psalms

   [42]15:1   [43]15:2   [44]19:14   [45]25:14   [46]30:7-8   [47]50:15
   [48]50:15   [49]50:21   [50]55:23   [51]63:1-2   [52]77:13   [53]87:2
   [54]87:2   [55]101:7   [56]103:14   [57]116:12   [58]119:100
   [59]139:2

   Proverbs

   [60]3:17   [61]3:17   [62]10:8   [63]10:9   [64]10:19   [65]12:22
   [66]12:22   [67]12:32   [68]16:33   [69]16:33   [70]26:25   [71]29:26

   Ecclesiastes

   [72]4:10   [73]5:2   [74]5:2   [75]5:2   [76]5:4   [77]6:11
   [78]7:29   [79]9:14   [80]9:15   [81]9:15

   Isaiah

   [82]9:6   [83]24:2   [84]44:14   [85]44:16   [86]44:17   [87]63:9

   Jeremiah

   [88]13:23

   Lamentations

   [89]2:6

   Ezekiel

   [90]18:31

   Daniel

   [91]5:23

   Hosea

   [92]5:2

   Amos

   [93]3:6

   Malachi

   [94]1:8   [95]3:8   [96]3:9

   Matthew

   [97]6:5   [98]6:7   [99]7:21   [100]8:2   [101]8:25   [102]8:52
   [103]10:16   [104]10:16   [105]10:16-26   [106]10:23   [107]10:33
   [108]10:33   [109]10:33   [110]10:33   [111]12:24   [112]13:17
   [113]26:39   [114]26:40

   Mark

   [115]8:38   [116]16:7

   Luke

   [117]8:10   [118]8:15   [119]10:28   [120]11:21   [121]11:21
   [122]11:22   [123]13:27   [124]16   [125]16:14   [126]16:31
   [127]18:4   [128]18:5   [129]18:7   [130]18:10   [131]18:11
   [132]18:13   [133]18:38   [134]20:46-47

   John

   [135]1:47   [136]4:20   [137]5:43   [138]5:44   [139]7:17   [140]7:17
   [141]9:24   [142]13:17   [143]15:15   [144]15:15

   Acts

   [145]2:23   [146]8:37   [147]8:38   [148]17:23   [149]23:4

   Romans

   [150]2:18   [151]7:1-25   [152]7:23   [153]8:5

   1 Corinthians

   [154]1:21   [155]1:30   [156]3:19   [157]3:19   [158]3:19   [159]3:20
   [160]10:10   [161]11:22   [162]12:4

   2 Corinthians

   [163]8:12   [164]8:12

   Philippians

   [165]1:29

   Colossians

   [166]2:8

   1 Timothy

   [167]6:8   [168]6:20

   2 Timothy

   [169]3:2

   Titus

   [170]2:15   [171]2:15

   Hebrews

   [172]4:15   [173]7:1

   James

   [174]2:15   [175]2:16   [176]2:23   [177]4:3   [178]5:16

   1 Peter

   [179]2:9   [180]4:8

   1 John

   [181]1:9   [182]3:7   [183]4:20

   Revelation

   [184]2:17   [185]11:3   [186]21:8   [187]22:15

   1 Maccabees

   [188]1:1-64   [189]6:12   [190]6:13   [191]7:35

   Sirach

   [192]22:21   [193]22:22
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of Scripture Commentary

   Genesis

   [194]1:27

   1 Kings

   [195]13:33-34

   Psalms

   [196]87:2

   Proverbs

   [197]3:17   [198]10:9   [199]16:33

   Matthew

   [200]10:33

   John

   [201]7:17   [202]15:15

   Titus

   [203]2:15
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of Greek Words and Phrases

     * Ho ton Ioudai'on thesmothe'tes ouch o tucho`n ane'r: [204]1
     * Theoprepeis ekklesi'as thesmou`s: [205]1
     * Oud' iero`n oude` me`n o'sion egoumai: [206]1
     * Sebasto`s: [207]1
     * anthropopathos: [208]1
     * gnothi seauto`n: [209]1
     * du'namis: [210]1
     * exousi'a: [211]1
     * epeide` te`n tou Theou du'namin kata` te`n axi'an egno'rise
       kaxe'phenen;: [212]1
     * euthu`s en te eisbole gra'psas ton no'mon, Eipen o Theo`s, phesi`,
       ti'; Gene'stho phos, kai` ege'neto; gene'stho ge, kai` ege'neto:
       [213]1
     * eu'reka: [214]1 [215]2
     * o pa'lai chro'nos e'nenke tou`s autou`s iere'as te kai` krita`s:
       [216]1
     * pa'nton ton amphisbetoume'non dikastai` oi iereis eta'chthesan:
       [217]1
     * pre'pon: [218]1
     * probole`: [219]1
     * se'basma: [220]1
     * to` pre'pon: [221]1
     * upo` ton iere'on ebasileu'thesan: [222]1
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of Latin Words and Phrases

     * --------ridentem Flaccus amicum Tangit, et admissus circum
       praecordia ludit.: [223]1
     * Non tali auxilio, nec defensoribus istis: [224]1
     * ORATIO FUNEBRISReprinted from the same volume which contains the
       Life and Will. Sec Advertisement to the Appendix, vol. vii. of the
       present edition.: [225]1
     * Æternae Memoriae REGIS ORTHODOXI HEIC Post emensos Virtutis Ac
       Gloriae Gradus omnes, Quiescit nobili sui Parte, Johannes
       Casimirus: [226]1
     * Ab hoc hand procul marmore, Juxta Praeceptoris BUSBEII cineres,
       suos conquiescere voluit ROBERTUS SOUTH, S. T. P.Vir Eruditione,
       Pietate, Moribus antiquis,Scholae Westmonasteriensis, deinde Ædis
       Christi Alumnus.Et post restauratum CAROLUM, magno favente
       CLARENDONO,Utriusque in quo sensim adoleverat Collegii
       Prebendarius,Ecclesiae Anglicanae et florentis et afflictae
       Propugnator assiduus,Fidei Christianae Vindex acerrimus. In
       Concionibus novo quodam et plane suo,Sed illustri, sed admirabili
       dicendi genere excellens;Ut harum rerum peritis dubitandi sit
       locus,Utrum ingenii acumine an argumentorum vi, Utrum doctrinae
       ubertate, an splendore verborum et pondere praestaret:Hisce certe
       omnibus simul instructus adjumentisAnimos audientium non tenuit
       tantum, sed percelluit, iuflammavit.: [227]1
     * Anius rex idem hominum, Phoebique sacerdos: [228]1
     * Apud ISLIPAM Ecclesiae Sacrarium et Rectoris Domum de integro
       extruxit,Ibidem Scholam erudiendis pauperum liberis instituit et
       dotavit. Literis et hic loci, et apud Ædem Christi promovendis,
       Ædificiis istius Collegii instaurandis, libras millenas in
       numeratis pecuniis, ter centenas circiter Annul reditus, ex
       Testamento reliquit. Pietatis erga Deum, benevolentiae erga homines
       Monumenta in aeternum mansura.: [229]1
     * Augustus: [230]1
     * Christianos ad leones: [231]1
     * Concessimus Deo--quod ecclesia .Anglicana libera erit: [232]1
     * Deo omnipotenti hac praesente charta donavimus: [233]1
     * Deo sunt jura omnia: [234]1
     * Deus debet: [235]1
     * Discite Latine, nam unum ex vobis aliquando faciam Moschi Pan:
       [236]1
     * Ens: [237]1
     * Erat ille humaniorum Literarum et primaevae Theologiae, cum paucis,
       sciens; In Scholasticorum interim Scriptis idem versatissimus,E
       quibus quod sanum est et succulentum expressit, Idque a rerum
       futilium disquisitione et Vocabulorum involucris
       liberatum,Luculenta oratione illustravit.Si quando vel in rerum,
       vel in hominum, vitia acerbius est invectus, Ne hoc aut partium
       studio, aut Naturae cuidam asperitati tribuatur, Eam quippe is de
       rebus omnibus sententiam aperte protulit, Quam ex maturo Animi sui
       Judicio amplexus est:Et cum esset Ipse suae Integritatis
       conscius,Quicquid in Vita turpe, quicquid in Religione fucatum
       fictumque viderat,Illud omne liberrima indignatione commotus
       profligavit.: [238]1
     * Fortuna quae plurimum potest, cum in aliis rebus, tum praecipue in
       bello, in parvis momentis magnas rerum mutationes efficit.: [239]1
     * H. S. I. Venerabilis Vir Richardus Gardiner, S. T. P. Ecclesiae
       hujus primum Alumnus, Dein Canonicus; Quo in munere, Cum diu se
       magna cum laude exercuisset, Majore eodem cessit: Fanaticorum
       furoribus, fortunis omnibus exutus Ut fidem quam Deo et Principi
       obligaverat, Illibatam retineret. Postliminio tandem restitutus,
       Eadem Coustantia qua ereptas spreverat opes, Contemnebat affluentes
       Munificentia siquidem perenni, Et Aquaeductus quem hic loci
       struxerat aemula, Ecclesiam hauc, Patriam suain Herefordiam,
       Cognates, Amicos, Pauperes Cumulatissime perfudit. Demum Meritis
       juxta atque annis plenus, Viridi senecta, sensibusque integris,
       Piam animam Deo reddidit; Decembr. xx. A. Salut. CI?: [240]1
     * His intentus Studiis, haec animo semper agitans,Hominum a consortio
       cum esset remotior, auxilio tamen non defuit.Quam enim benignum,
       quam misericordem in calamitosos animum gesserit,Largis Muneribus
       vivens moriensque testatus est.: [241]1
     * In eodem cap. versus finem: [242]1
     * In templo plusquam sacerdos. In republica plusquam rex. In
       sententia dicenda plusquam senator. In judicio plusquam
       jurisconsultus. In exercitu plusquam imperator. In acie plusquam
       miles. In adversis perferendis, injuriisque condonandis, plusquam
       vir. In publica libertate tuenda plusquam civis. In amicitia
       colenda plusquam amicus. In convictu plusquam familiaris. In
       venatione ferisque domandis, plusquam leo. In tota reliqua vita
       plusquam philosophus.: [243]1
     * Non negat Christum fugiendo, qui ideo fugit ne neget: [244]1
     * Obiit Jul. 8. An. Dom. MDCCXVI. Æt. lxxxii.: [245]1
     * Oderit rixas et jurgia, praesertimque inter eruditos, ac turpe esse
       dicebat, viros indubitate doctos canina rabie famam vicissim suam
       rodere ac lacerare scriptis trucibus, tanquam vilissimos de plebe
       cerdones in angiportis sese luto ac stercore conspurcantes.: [246]1
     * Plus est in artifice quam in arte.: [247]1
     * Qui sine voluntate Domini consecrat, revera desecrat.: [248]1
     * ROBERTUS SOUTH, S. T. P. In Ecclesiam hanc Parochialem Inductus
       Anno 1678, Propriis Sumptibus hanc Cancellariam a Fundamentis
       Instauravit extruxitque Anno Domini 1680.: [249]1
     * Religio sem per vicit, praesertim armata: [250]1
     * Sacerdotem creavit, insignique eum veste, et curuli regia sella
       adornavit.: [251]1
     * Semper apud Judaeos mos fuit, ut eosdem reges et sacerdotes
       haberent: [252]1
     * Si afferatur, non repudianda; si absit, non magnopere desideranda:
       [253]1
     * Si negare sufficiat, quis erit nocens?: [254]1
     * Tum sacerdotibus creandis animum adjecit, quanquam ipse plurima
       sacra obibat: [255]1
     * Upon the Pedestal: [256]1
     * Utinam hoc esset laborare: [257]1
     * Video meliora proboque, deteriora : [258]1
     * Viro reverendo Roberto South, S. T. P. rectori ecclesiae de Islip,
       tabulam hanc, quae amplum et elegantem rectoriae mansum suis
       impensis constructum representat, D. D. White Kennet. Nos
       admiremur, imitentur posteri.: [259]1
     * ad unguem: [260]1
     * aequilibrium: [261]1
     * animus in virtutem pronus: [262]1
     * apices rerum: [263]1
     * aqua vitae: [264]1
     * arcana: [265]1
     * arcana imperii: [266]1
     * bruta fulmina: [267]1
     * brutum fulmen: [268]1
     * caput mortuum: [269]1
     * centum viri: [270]1 [271]2
     * comitiola: [272]1
     * corruptio pessimi: [273]1
     * coryphaeus: [274]1
     * cultus, res sacra: [275]1
     * cum capellis: [276]1
     * de novo: [277]1
     * de omnibus fere controversiis publicis privatisque: [278]1
     * equites Mariam: [279]1
     * et dominari in concionibus: [280]1
     * ex officio: [281]1
     * facienti quod in se est, Deus nec debet, : [282]1
     * honestum: [283]1
     * honestum et turpe: [284]1
     * id quod debetur non est gratia: [285]1
     * illuminati: [286]1
     * in profundo: [287]1
     * in thesi: [288]1
     * in transitu: [289]1
     * infelix paupertas: [290]1
     * ipso facto: [291]1
     * jucundum: [292]1
     * jus divinum: [293]1
     * jus vitae et necis: [294]1
     * magna moralia: [295]1
     * meum: [296]1
     * naturalis probitas: [297]1
     * nolenti non fit beneficium: [298]1
     * non debet: [299]1
     * non obstante: [300]1 [301]2
     * non persuadebis etiamsi persuaseris: [302]1
     * non potest: [303]1
     * non-obstante: [304]1
     * omnia dixeris: [305]1
     * opus operatum: [306]1
     * per fas et nefas: [307]1
     * perfectus in moralibus: [308]1
     * praeses: [309]1
     * preludium: [310]1
     * premunire: [311]1
     * primum mobile: [312]1
     * rasa tabula: [313]1 [314]2
     * religionis: [315]1
     * sacerdos: [316]1
     * sacrificium: [317]1
     * sanctum sanctorum: [318]1
     * scaraibaeus: [319]1
     * secundum artem: [320]1
     * suum cuique tribuere: [321]1
     * tantum non rex: [322]1
     * turpe et honestum: [323]1
     * usufructuarii: [324]1
     * utile: [325]1
     * verum: [326]1
     * vexatio dat intellectum: [327]1
     * vicarius Christi: [328]1
     * vicarius Dei: [329]1
     * volenti non fit injuria: [330]1
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of German Words and Phrases

     * Die rechte Stadt: [331]1
     * der Dantzicher Werder: [332]1
     * der Werder: [333]1
     * thor: [334]1
     __________________________________________________________________

Index of Pages of the Print Edition

   [335]Ai  [336]Aii  [337]Aiii  [338]i  [339]ii  [340]iii  [341]iv
   [342]v  [343]vi  [344]vii  [345]viii  [346]ix  [347]x  [348]xi
   [349]xii  [350]xiii  [351]xiv  [352]xv  [353]xvi  [354]xvii
   [355]xviii  [356]xix  [357]xx  [358]xxi  [359]xxii  [360]xxiii
   [361]xxiv  [362]xxv  [363]xxvi  [364]xxvii  [365]xxviii  [366]xxix
   [367]xxx  [368]xxxi  [369]xxxii  [370]xxxiii  [371]xxxiv  [372]xxxv
   [373]xxxvi  [374]xxxvii  [375]xxxviii  [376]xxxix  [377]xl  [378]xli
   [379]xlii  [380]xliii  [381]xliv  [382]xlv  [383]xlvi  [384]xlvii
   [385]xlviii  [386]xlix  [387]l  [388]li  [389]lii  [390]liii  [391]liv
   [392]lv  [393]lvi  [394]lvii  [395]lviii  [396]lix  [397]lx  [398]lxi
   [399]lxii  [400]lxiii  [401]lxiv  [402]lxv  [403]lxvi  [404]lxvii
   [405]lxviii  [406]lxix  [407]lxx  [408]lxxi  [409]lxxii  [410]lxxiii
   [411]lxxiv  [412]lxxv  [413]lxxvi  [414]lxxvii  [415]lxxviii
   [416]lxxix  [417]lxxx  [418]lxxxi  [419]lxxxii  [420]lxxxiii
   [421]lxxxiv  [422]lxxxv  [423]lxxxvi  [424]lxxxvii  [425]lxxxviii
   [426]lxxxix  [427]xc  [428]xci  [429]xcii  [430]xciii  [431]xciv
   [432]xcv  [433]xcvi  [434]xcvii  [435]xcviii  [436]xcix  [437]c
   [438]ci  [439]cii  [440]ciii  [441]civ  [442]cv  [443]cvi  [444]cvii
   [445]cviii  [446]cix  [447]cx  [448]cxi  [449]cxii  [450]cxiii
   [451]cxiv  [452]cxv  [453]cxvi  [454]cxvii  [455]cxviii  [456]cxix
   [457]cxx  [458]cxxi  [459]cxxii  [460]cxxiii  [461]cxxiv  [462]cxxv
   [463]cxxvi  [464]cxxvii  [465]cxxviii  [466]cxxix  [467]cxxx
   [468]cxxxi  [469]cxxxii  [470]cxxxiii  [471]cxxxiv  [472]cxxxv
   [473]cxxxvi  [474]cxxxvii  [475]cxxxviii  [476]1  [477]2  [478]4
   [479]5  [480]6  [481]7  [482]8  [483]9  [484]10  [485]11  [486]12
   [487]13  [488]14  [489]15  [490]16  [491]17  [492]18  [493]19  [494]20
   [495]21  [496]22  [497]23  [498]24  [499]25  [500]26  [501]27  [502]28
   [503]29  [504]30  [505]30  [506]32  [507]33  [508]34  [509]35  [510]36
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   [527]53  [528]54  [529]55  [530]56  [531]57  [532]58  [533]59  [534]60
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   [595]121  [596]122  [597]123  [598]124  [599]125  [600]126  [601]127
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   [616]142  [617]143  [618]144  [619]145  [620]146  [621]147  [622]148
   [623]149  [624]150  [625]151  [626]152  [627]153  [628]154  [629]155
   [630]156  [631]157  [632]158  [633]159  [634]160  [635]161  [636]162
   [637]163  [638]164  [639]165  [640]166  [641]167  [642]168  [643]169
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   [658]184  [659]185  [660]186  [661]187  [662]188  [663]189  [664]190
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   [861]387  [862]388  [863]389  [864]390  [865]391  [866]392  [867]393
   [868]394  [869]395  [870]396  [871]397  [872]398  [873]399  [874]400
   [875]401  [876]402  [877]403  [878]404  [879]405  [880]406  [881]407
   [882]408  [883]409  [884]410  [885]411  [886]412  [887]413  [888]414
   [889]415  [890]416  [891]417  [892]418  [893]419  [894]420  [895]421
   [896]422  [897]423  [898]424  [899]425  [900]426  [901]427  [902]428
   [903]429  [904]430  [905]431  [906]432  [907]433  [908]434  [909]435
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   [917]443  [918]444  [919]445  [920]446  [921]447  [922]448  [923]449
   [924]450  [925]451  [926]452  [927]453  [928]454  [929]455  [930]456
   [931]457  [932]458  [933]459  [934]460  [935]461  [936]462  [937]463
     __________________________________________________________________

            This document is from the Christian Classics Ethereal
               Library at Calvin College, http://www.ccel.org,
                   generated on demand from ThML source.

References

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   5. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Gen&scrCh=39&scrV=21#xv-p46.1
   6. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Gen&scrCh=41&scrV=45#v.iii-p37.1
   7. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Exod&scrCh=3&scrV=1#v.iii-p37.2
   8. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Exod&scrCh=19&scrV=24#xv-p32.4
   9. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Exod&scrCh=33&scrV=11#xv-p32.3
  10. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Exod&scrCh=34&scrV=24#viii.ii-p56.1
  11. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Num&scrCh=16&scrV=38#viii.ii-p15.1
  12. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Num&scrCh=23&scrV=10#xi-p37.1
  13. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Deut&scrCh=8&scrV=18#x-p54.1
  14. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Deut&scrCh=15&scrV=6#xv-p43.1
  15. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Deut&scrCh=17&scrV=12#v.iii-p37.15
  16. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Deut&scrCh=32&scrV=32#xii-p67.1
  17. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=6&scrV=2#xii-p3.1
  18. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=8&scrV=3#xii-p3.2
  19. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=8&scrV=22#xii-p3.3
  20. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=8&scrV=23#xii-p3.4
  21. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=8&scrV=34#xii-p6.1
  22. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=8&scrV=34#ii.vi-p82.1
  23. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=8&scrV=35#xii-p6.2
  24. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=18&scrV=24#ii.ii-p239.1
  25. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=18&scrV=34#xii-p1.1
  26. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Judg&scrCh=19&scrV=0#ix-p42.2
  27. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=1Sam&scrCh=2&scrV=30#x-p54.2
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  30. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=1Kgs&scrCh=3&scrV=4#v.iii-p16.3
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  51. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Ps&scrCh=63&scrV=1#viii.ii-p48.2
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  53. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Ps&scrCh=87&scrV=2#ii.vi-p55.1
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  67. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Prov&scrCh=12&scrV=32#ii.vi-p90.1
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  72. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Eccl&scrCh=4&scrV=10#xv-p34.1
  73. file:///ccel/s/south_robert/sermons01/cache/sermons01.html3?scrBook=Eccl&scrCh=5&scrV=2#ii.vi-p109.1
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