peace. For if the cross light in that which it made his refuge (as, if the covetous man be crossed in his riches,) what earthly thing can stay him from a desperate frenzy.? Or, if the cross fall in a degree above the height of his stay (as, if the rich man be sick or dying, wherein all wealth is either contemned or remembered with anguish,) how do all his comforts, like vermin from a house on fire, run away from him, and leave him over to his ruin! while the soul, that hath placed his refuge above, is sure that the ground of his comfort cannot be matched with an earthly sorrow, cannot be made variable by the change of any event; but is infinitely above all casualties, and without all uncertainties.

What state is there, wherein this heavenly stay shall not afford me not only peace, but joy?

Am I in prison, or in the hell of prisons, in some dark, low, and desolate dungeon? Lo, there, Algerius, that sweet martyr, finds more light than above; and pities the darkness of our liberty. We have but a sun to enlighten our world, which every cloud dimmeth, and hideth from our eyes: but the Father of lights, in respect of whom all the bright stars of heaven are but as the snuff of a dim candle, shines into his pit; and the presence of his glorious angels makes that a heaven to him, which the world purposed as a hell of discomfort. What walls can keep out that Infinite Spirit that fills all things? What darkness can be, where the God of this sun dwelleth? What sorrow, where he comforteth?

Am I wandering in banishment? Can I go whither God is not? What sea can divide betwixt

Fox, Martyr.

him and me? Then would I fear exile, if I could be driven away, as well from God as my country. Now he is as much in all earths. His title is alike to all places; and mine in him. His sun shines to me; his sea, or earth, bears me up; his presence cheereth me, whithersoever I go. He cannot be said to flit that never changeth his host. He alone is a thousand companions: he alone is a world of friends. That man never knew what it was to be familiar with God, that complains of the want of home, of friends, of companions, while God is with him.

Am I contemned of the world? It is enough for me that I am honoured of God: of both, I cannot. The world would love me more, if I were less friends with God. It cannot hate me so much as God hates it. What care I to be hated of them whom God hateth? He is unworthy of God's favour, that cannot think it happiness enough without the world's. How easy is it for such a man, while the world disgraces him, at once to scorn and pity it, that it cannot think nothing more contemptible than itself!

I am impoverished with losses: that was never thoroughly good that may be lost. My riches will not lose me; yea, though I forego all, to my skin, yet have I not lost any part of my wealth: for if he be rich that hath something, how rich is he that hath the Maker and owner of all things!

I am weak and diseased in body: he cannot miscarry that hath his Maker for his physician. Yet my soul, the better part, is sound; for that cannot be weak whose strength God is. How many are sick in that, and complain not! I can be content to be let blood in the arm or foot, for the curing of the

head or heart. The health of the principal part is more joy to me, than it is trouble to be distempered in the inferior.

Let me know that God favours me; then I have liberty in prison, home in banishment, honour in contempt, in losses wealth, health in infirmity, life in death, and in all these, happiness.

1

And surely if our perfect fruition of God be our complete heaven, it must needs be that our inchoate conversing with him is our heaven imperfectly, and the entrance into the other: which, methinks, differs from this not in the kind of it, but in the degree.

For the continuation of which happy society, since strangeness looseth acquaintance and breedeth neglect, on our part must be a daily renewing of heavenly familiarity, by seeking him up, even with the contempt of all inferior distraction; by talking with him in our secret invocations; by hearing his conference with us, and by mutual entertainment of each other in the sweet discourses of our daily meditations. He is a sullen and unsociable friend that wants words. God shall take no pleasure in us, if we be silent. The heart that is full of love cannot but have a busy tongue. All our talk with God is either suits or thanks: in them the Christian heart pours out itself to his Maker; and would not change this privilege for a world. All his annoyances, all his wants, all his dislikes are poured into the bosom of his invisible friend; who likes us still so much more as we ask more, as we complain

more.

Oh the easy and happy recourse that the poor

! Begun.

soul hath to the high throne of heaven! We stay not for the holding out of a golden sceptre to warn our admission, before which our presence should be presumption and death. No hour is unseasonable, no person too base, no words too homely, no fact too hard, no importunity too great. We speak familiarly; we are heard, answered, comforted. Another while, God interchangeably speaks unto us, by the secret voice of his Spirit, or by the audible sound of his word: we hear, adore, answer him; by both which the mind so communicates itself to God, and hath God so plentifully communicated unto it, that hereby it grows to such a habit of heavenliness as that now it wants nothing, but dissolution, of full glory.

SECTION XXIII.

The subordinate rules of Tranquillity. 1. For Actions: to refrain from all sin, and to perform all duty.

Out of this main ground once settled in the heart, like as so many rivers from one common sea, flow those subordinate resolutions, which we require as necessary to our peace, whether in respect of our actions or our estate.

For our actions, there must be a secret vow passed in the soul, both of constant refraining from whatsoever may offend that Majesty we rest upon; and, above this, of true and canonical obedience to God, without all care of difficulty, and in spite of all contradictions of nature. Not out of the confidence of our own power: impotent men, who are

we, that we should either vow or perform? but, as he said, "Give what thou biddest, and bid what thou wilt." Hence the courage of Moses durst venture his hand to take up the crawling and hissing serpent. Hence Peter durst walk upon the pavement of the waves. Hence that heroical spirit of Luther, a man made of metal fit for so great a work, durst resolve and profess to enter into that forewarned city, though there had been as many devils in their streets as tiles on their houses.'

Both these vows, as we once solemnly made by others, so, for our peace, we must renew in ourselves. Thus the experienced mind, both knowing that it hath met with a good friend, and withal what the price of a friend is, cannot but be careful to retain him, and wary of displeasing; and therefore, to cut off all dangers of variance, voluntarily takes a double oath of allegiance of itself to God, which neither benefit shall induce us to break, if we might gain a world, nor fear urge us thereto, though we must lose ourselves.

The wavering heart, that finds continual combats in itself betwixt pleasure and conscience, so equally matched that neither gets the day, is not yet capable of peace; and, whether ever overcometh, is troubled both with resistance and victory. Barren Rebekah found more ease, than when her twins struggled in her womb. If Jacob had been there alone, she had not complained of that painful contention. One while, pleasure holds the fort, and conscience assaults it; which when it hath entered at last by some strong hand, after many batteries

The intrepid speech of Luther before his appearance at the Diet of Worms, is well known. See Mosheim, Eccl. Hist. vol. iv. p. 58. London, 1782.-ED.