Part 4

XX. For the more clear understanding this matter, and to enforce the argument we are using, it will be necessary to premise, that in this life, there is a heavy and mortal affliction, which is common to all men; but with respect to sinners, it is peculiarly and most severely felt by those who seem the most happy. This affliction, consists in the reflection, that we must one day die. There is no doubt, but every living creature feels horror, upon arriving at that fatal pass, and is naturally sad, whenever it occurs to him, that he must unavoidably go through it; but he will be more affected beyond comparison, who after having culled all the regales of fortune, has placed his whole happiness in the enjoyment of them. Let us contemplate a man, rich, powerful, respected, and obeyed, and to whom nothing is wanting, either for convenience or pleasure, and to whom, let his appetites be ever so vague, fortune has denied nothing that may enable him to gratify them. Such a man, whenever he thinks that he must die, which is a thought that will sometimes occur to him, without his being able to prevent it, cannot fail to be exceedingly afflicted. The thought of death, to whoever does not employ it for the amendment of his life, becomes a torturer. Let us admit, that he is a determined Atheist, so blinded, as not to entertain the least idea of the immortality of the soul, and consequently, has not the least apprehension of what will befall him in the world to come; yet he will at least consider death, as a merciless, and a savage tyrant, who will despoil him of all that is most dear to him; of the property which he possesses, of the banquet he regales himself at, of the chace which diverts him, of the music which delights him, and of the concubine whom he adores; all which will be lost at a stroke, never to be recovered any more. The greater the pleasures are which he enjoys, the more miserable this consideration will make him. The unhappy man, who is the outcast of fortune, and even he who is placed in a middle station of life, feels the light consolation, that death will relieve him from many vexations; but what comfort can he receive, whom it will only rob of enjoyments? Death strikes terror into all men, but to such a one, it is terrible in extreme. Every man is intensely fond of his own particular happiness, and in proportion to the ardour with which he loves it, will be his grief at losing it. Such a man, when he thinks himself arrived at the summit of felicity, and knows no other than that which he possesses, with what anguish must he reflect, that the whole, without the least reserve, will be one day lost!

XXI. This inevitable melancholy, as they advance in years, is much augmented in all the favourites of fortune. Life, after a man is arrived at his prime, may be from thenceforward, truly and properly, compared to a chronic disease, which proceeds leading a man to death by slow paces; or to speak more properly, it is death implanted in our nature. Upon arriving at the period we have just mentioned, that is, the prime of life, the powerful man, from thenceforward, in the strength which he continues to lose, and in the diseases he proceeds to gain, finds constant information, that by little and little, the cottage of life goes on crushing and crumbling to nothing, by the weight of the temple of fortune. At this stage, he revolves in his mind, one by one, all the pleasures he enjoys, and all the objects of his love, and each thought tears from his heart a sigh, especially when he reflects, that the time approaches, when he must bid them all a melancholy farewell. He proceeds to cast another glance at death, and almost in the words of the unhappy King David oppressed with grief, exclaims against her in a sentimental complaint, not so much for having cut the thread of his life, as for having separated him by an eternal absence from all he esteemed and adored. _Siccine separat amara mors._ O sinners! whom the world call happy, is this living? But let the world be undeceived; for ye are the people, who burden yourselves with whatever is most heavy, and hard to be borne, that is contained in the stores of mortality; all your relaxation is fatigue, all your pleasure is anxiety, all your nectar is poison.

XXII. For your comfort and advantage, although you cannot be a stranger to it, listen at present, to that sweet and sonorous voice, which, by the divine organ, was conveyed and dispersed over the whole face of the earth. Attend, for to you it is addressed; hear and profit by it: _Venite ad me omnes, qui laboratis, & onerati estis, & ego reficiam vos._ Come unto me, all ye who labour, and are heavy laden with cares, for I will lighten your burdens, and give you relaxation and ease. These words, it is certain, are designed to reclaim sinners, and are addressed as a call to those who are distant from Christ. These then are they, who lead a wearisome life. Christ invites them to come nearer him, that is, to embrace virtue; the virtuous then are those, who enjoy relaxation and ease. Thus, you see, both the points I am attempting to prove are supported by evangelical authority.

SECT. V.

But having demonstrated the first point by natural reason and experience, I will proceed to do the same by the second. And first of all, I ought to acknowledge, that the beginnings of a virtuous life, are toilsome: _Ardua prima via est_; and more especially to those who have been a long time under the dominion of their passions. Vicious habits, are enemies, which in their first attacks, wage cruel war, but their force declines daily, and sometimes, by a miracle of grace, they are laid prostrate at the first onset. The flight of a vicious man from sin, is in all respects, like the escape of the Hebrews from the land of Egypt. How dejected were they, when, with the Red Sea in their front, they saw the Egyptian army at their backs! How haughty were the Egyptians! how desponding were the Hebrews! They are just on the point of treating to surrender, when Moses, exalting his voice, said to the people, “Now, Israel, advance boldly into the gulph, for the Lord hath undertaken to defend you.” They obey, and upon setting their feet in the water, the Sea divided. The troops of Pharaoh pursue them in crouds. What pride possessed the Egyptians! what fear the Hebrews! However, the last proceed with trembling pace, till they reach the opposite shore; upon arriving there, they turn round, and look at whence they came from, and they then perceive Pharaoh and all his host are buried in the Red Sea. Their grief is converted to happiness, and their groans to songs of joy.

XXIV. Exactly like this, is the flight of a sinner from vice. Egypt is the criminal station. The enemies who pursue the fugitive sinner are his vicious inclinations, of which, he was a long time the slave: these are strong, he is feeble. The first assault is furious. Moses is the virtue which animates him. The sinner at last, breaks through a sea of difficulties, and although it requires more perseverance in some to compleat the good work, than in others, he ultimately obtains the satisfaction, of seeing all his passions drowned. He gains footing on the opposite shore: and what follows? the same that happened to the Hebrews, he bursts forth in songs of joy. Afterwards, in pursuing his road to the Land of Promise, he is now and then upon the way, assaulted by enemies, that is, by some temptations; but they are overcome, as Moses overcame the Amalekites, by lifting the hands to Heaven, under which figure is implied the force and efficacy of prayer. Sometimes he also meets with bitter waters, that is to say tribulations, but a miraculous wood sweetens them; for the cross, or passion of our Saviour, makes them palatable. From Mara or Marath, a place whose name is used to express bitterness, on account of its nauseous waters, he makes the transition to Elim, a situation, which is both pleasant and delightsome.

XXV. Thus it succeeds with the sinner, who, fugitive from vice, puts himself under the divine protection, which never fails those who solicit it; but to be uniform to what I proposed, it will now be necessary, to consider virtue in its natural state, and abstracted from the extraordinary aids, with which it is assisted by grace.

SECT. VI.

XXVI. The superlative Mount of Virtue is formed the reverse of all other mountains. In the material mountains, the skirts are pleasant, and the tops all asperity; therefore, in ascending them, the pleasant part diminishes, and the dreary part augments. On the contrary, the skirts of the Mount of Virtue are disgusting, and the eminence grateful. He who would arrive at it, must expect at first setting out, to meet with nothing but rocks, thorns, and thickets, but as he advances in his course, the asperity diminishes, and he begins to discover the pleasant part; and at length, on arriving at the top, he sees nothing but beautiful flowers, regaling plants, and crystal fountains.

XXVII. The first passages, are excessively laborious and slippery: _per insidias iter est, formasque ferarum_; he is courted by the songs of the syrens, from the sea of the world; he is terrified in some parts of the mountain, by the roaring of lions. He casts a wishful look on the smooth surface of the valley, and he contemplates with dread the top of the mountain, to which he aspires. Freed from the prison of sin, still, in his passions he wears his fetters, the weight of which, together with the difficulty of the road, render his progress slow and toilsome. He hears just behind him, the soft murmurs of his criminal pleasures, which accost him as they did St. Austin, and say, is it possible that you can abandon us? _Dimittis de nos_: is it possible you can take your leave and absent yourself from us for ever? _Et a momento isto non erimus tecum ultra in æternum._ He however proceeds on, though a little dejected, and now and then meets a rub in the way, which causes him to stumble; but now he begins to find the path less difficult, and the clamours of earthly delights make less impression on him, because he hears them at a greater distance. Just so St. Austin experienced it: _Et audiebam eas jam longè minus quam dimidias, veluti a dorso musitantes._ Having gone a little further, he begins to discover the road plain and smooth, and although now and then the force of his antient habits causes him to think of the pleasures he has enjoyed, and the difficulty of forsaking them, the stroke is so feeble, that it makes no impression: _Cum diceret mihi consuetudo violenta, putasne sine istis poteris? sed jam tepidissimè hoc dicebat._

XXVIII. He arrives at last, at the superior part of the mountain, where he beholds a beautiful, and an agreeable plain. The sweat and tears with which he watered the skirts, he finds have fertilized the summit; for here he obtains an abundant harvest, far exceeding what is produced from cultivation and prolix labour. This is hid from the eyes of the world, who, instead of considering him as enjoying a happy retirement at the top of the mountain, conclude, he is placed in an almost inaccessible and arduous station. They think he cannot enjoy an instant of repose, imagining the situation he inhabits, to be a field, where the elements engage with the utmost fury, and where the tempests rage with the greatest force and rigour. But it fares with him, as with one who scales the height of Olympus, who afterwards enjoys a climate of uninterrupted serenity, where the air is not disturbed with the most slight agitation, and where the tranquillity is so transcendent, that characters written in ashes exposed to the open air will continue legible for years together. There you always look down upon the clouds, and the fulminations burst on the skirts, without ever incommoding the eminence. At the same time, those who dwell in the neighbouring vales, conclude, if information or experience has not undeceived them, that it is ever obscured by gatherings, and continually scorched by the rays of lightning.

XXIX. Just so the difficulties of life, and the storms of fortune, fall on those who inhabit the humble vallies of the world, but not upon him who has ascended the Mount of God; the fat mountain, as David calls it. But with all this, sickness, grief, loss of goods, persecution, ignominy, and other calamities, are they not common to the just, and to the unjust? and are they not in some degree acquired by the first, by silence, retirement, watching, prayer, discipline, fasting, and other penalties? It is all true, but these are clouds that are seen at a distance, and only appear on the sides of Olympus, but never rise to the top; that is, they never attain the power of inquieting the sublime part of the soul.

XXX. I do not mean to insinuate, that just men are insensible, for this would savour of the extravagance of the Stoics, who pretend, that in the workshops of virtue you may transform men to marble. The virtuous have their sufferings, but they don’t sit so heavy on them, as they do on the delinquents, and the inquietudes which they both experience are felt by the delinquents in their full vigour; by the virtuous only partially. You may distinguish the spirit of the just man and the sinner, as you would the elements of air and earth. The earth in all its regions, is exposed to the injuries of the other elements. The inferior portion of the air only is so exposed; which is the theatre of vapours and exhalations; but the sensible alterations, do not reach what is called the superior region of the air. There the temperature is observed to be always equal, there the Heavens are displayed in a constant serenity, and there is always enjoyed an atmosphere, crystalline and pure.

SECT. VII.

XXXI. But let us scrutinize with the greatest exactness, the temporal conveniences of virtue. Health, honour, and property, which essentially contribute to temporal felicity, are of great importance in this matter, if the whole of it does not consist in the enjoyment of them; and considered with respect to these contingents, the virtuous man has much the advantage of the vicious one. No one is ignorant, that honour is the legitimate offspring of virtue; for which reason the Romans, when they built them, joined the temples together, that were appropriated to the adoration of those endowments, which they worshipped as deities; so that the only way by which you could enter the Temple of Honour, was through the Temple of Virtue. The very people who shun the practice of virtue, esteem and reverence it; and the blessings of health and long life, on account of the regularity with which he lives, are more likely to be attained by the virtuous man, than by the vicious one, who, by his debaucheries, ruins his health, and curtails his existence. Property finds a good steward in the œconomy of virtue, who takes care of and preserves it, by avoiding superfluities. Solomon expressed the whole, when he said, that the obedient to the divine mandates held long life in one hand, and in the other honour and property: _Longitudo dierum in dextra ejus; & in sinistra illius, divitiæ & gloria._ (Prov. 3.) Now, even supposing the just man to enjoy no other advantages over the vicious one, is not his condition much to be preferred?

XXXII. But it has others. The tranquillity, and sweetness, which is administered to the soul by a good conscience, places in a very eminent degree, the fortune of the just, superior to that of the sinner. This is a blessing of little bulk, but of great value: a precious stone, which, within small dimensions, contains great and rich qualities. The conscience is the mirror of the soul, and it happens to the just man, and to the sinner, when they look in the glass, as it happens to the handsome, and the ugly woman, when they view themselves in the crystal; the handsome is pleased, because she sees perfections, the other is sad, because she observes nothing but blemishes. The condition of the sinner is even worse than that of the ugly woman, for she, if she pleases, may run from the glass, but the sinner cannot do this; for although he should not present himself before the mirror, the mirror will present itself before him, and the understanding cannot shut its eyes, when the memory presents to it the images of a man’s evil deeds. In that state, the sinner is filled with horror instead of delight, for his desire forsakes him, and the blemish remains by itself. In addition to this, the sinner at such a conjuncture, is made unhappy by the reflection, that his infamies may be laid open to the world; at this thought, the inevitable torture of shame, and the punishment of the law, terrify him by turns. The just man, on the contrary, has nothing to fear. If he hides his actions from the world, it is not from the dread of their being observed, but to avoid the hazard of their being applauded. He contemplates them alone, and if he is so happy as to find that they are all good, he receives that pure pleasure, which the sacred Chronologer, even in God himself, paints as an accidental glory: _Vidit Deus cuncta quæ fecerat, & erant valdè bona._

XXXIII. The difference between the just and the unjust man, is not less, when fortune in disgust sheds its reverses, or heaven is severe by visiting him with tribulations. The sinner loses his property, his beloved woman dies, he receives an injury from somebody, which it is out of his power to revenge. What relief does he find? None: he raves, he storms, he burns; he neither eats, drinks, nor rests; his symptoms are worse than the disease, and sometimes so violent, as to oblige him to take to his bed, and deprive him of life; and his passions often rise to such a degree of ferocity, as to excite him to lay violent hands on himself. On the contrary, the first thing the just man does, under similar circumstances, is to lift his eyes to Heaven; and whether he considers the tribulation as a just punishment for some crime he has been guilty of, or as a visitation for the exercise of his patience, he trusts, it will all turn out for his benefit; he knows the stroke comes from a friendly hand, and he knows also, that for his own good he is wounded; he not only is reconciled, but kisses the rod. Thus you see, by an admirable metamorphose, his heaviness is converted to satisfaction; and that what is poison to a wicked man, becomes balsam to a just one: for, _Diligentibus Deum omnia co-operantur in bonum._

XXXIV. Who, upon a view of what we have enumerated and urged on this head, will not be convinced, that even in this life, the lot of the just man is incomparably better than that of the vicious one; that tranquillity and temporal convenience, are only to be met with in the paths of virtue, and that the field of vice, under the delusive appearance of flowers, produces nothing but thorns?

XXXV. There now remains but one argument for me to solve, and that is taken from the words of Christ in St. Matthew, where our great Master assures us, the road is broad, that is, easy, which leads to perdition; and that the path is narrow, that is, toilsome, which leads to life immortal.

XXXVI. I say then, that before we proceed further, it will be proper to reconcile this text with the one before quoted, where our Saviour invites sinners to pursue the paths of virtue, and propounds to them relief and ease, upon a supposition, that they are crippled and borne down by the weight of sin: _Venite ad me, omnes qui laboratis_, &c. and it is also necessary, to compound this with that sweet expression, used in another place, when he intimates to us, that his yoke is easy, and his burden light; and we should likewise harmonize with it, what David teaches us also, which is, that the road of the divine precepts is broad, and that the precepts themselves are so likewise: _Latum mandatum tuum nimis._ In fine, this text should be understood in a sense, that is not repugnant to reason, or experience.

XXXVII. The solution is easy, if we say, that grace reconciles and softens, that which is hard and difficult to nature; and the same yoke, which is heavy to be borne by mere natural powers, is made light, when the divine aid concurs and lends its assistance. And this is the manner, in which the fathers commonly reconcile those texts.

XXXVIII. It may also be said, by way of answer, that the Redeemer speaks only of the first passages or entrance into the one and the other path, so that the path of virtue, at its entrance, is toilsome and laborious, but afterwards becomes easy; on the contrary, the path of vice is easy at the beginning, and toilsome at the end. The context gives reason for this construction, for Christ, when he is exciting men to pursue the paths of virtue, describes all the difficulty as placed at the first passages: _Intrare per angustam portam_, says St. Matthew, which according to St. Luke, is, _Contendite intrare per angustam portam_; which amounts to the same thing, as if he had said, in the entrance lies all the difficulty; therefore take courage, press forward, fight, _contendite_: to conquer the obstruction, which you find in the narrowness of the door.

XXXIX. So it is, that this door is exceeding strait, and the newly converted is pressed by the power of its hinges, that the ill habits he has imbibed may be squeezed out, and not only the skin is grazed by the pressure, but sometimes pieces of flesh also are torn off, and left in the entrance. But the difficulty of this transit once conquered, the way by little and little grows wider, till at last, it is extended to a delightsome and a spacious valley;

_Largior hic campos æther, & lumine vestit,_ _Purpure, solemque suum sua sidera morunt._

XL. The path of vice is very differently formed, and may be compared to a passage or cave, which, according to the naturalists, is fabricated as a place of safe retreat by the Rat of India. This sagacious animal, knowing the enmity the dragon bears him, and knowing also the insufficiency of his own strength to resist him, not only defends himself, but conquers his enemy by the following stratagem. He makes two entrances to his cave, the one small and proportioned to the bulk of his own body, the other wider at the surface, but which he draws narrower by degrees, till towards the other end it is but just wide enough to admit of his passing through. The use of this place is as follows: When the little animal finds himself pursued by that voracious beast, he flies to his cave, which he enters at the wide mouth, not doubting but the dragon will follow him, who eager for his prey, the large aperture being sufficiently wide to admit his whole body, plunges in, but as it insensibly becomes narrower and narrower, the dragon, who presses violently on, finds himself in the end so straitened, as not to be able either to retreat, or advance; the rat, as soon as he perceives this, sallies out of the narrow passage, and in the rear of the dragon, entering the wide one, revenges himself upon him much at his leisure, converting him into a regale for his appetite, and food for his resentment.