Letter III.

Madam,

I shall begin with the latter part of your letter, where you write thus: 'You seem, Sir, to think, that I love my brother too well. It is very true, that I love him extremely; and I think my affection for him must continue, so long as I do in this world. I do not pretend any virtue in it; it seems to be rather necessity. I do not know that it is in my power to love him less; and I think it would be barbarous in me to desire it, only because he stands in greater need of it. He was not mine by choice: had he been so, and I had voluntarily fixed my affections to such a degree upon him, I should have thought, that I had sufficiently read my crime or my folly in my punishment. But God and nature gave him a right and share in my affections, without my own seeking; and if it should now, by accident or my fault, exceed a common share, it may surely be the more excusable.' Again, 'Since then my too well-grounded fear and apprehensions tell me, that it is more than probable, that the so much dreaded hour may overtake me; I think I ought to endeavour to expect that, which I truly think far worse than death; that which will render me a trouble to my Friends, and a useless burthen to the world. I cannot see how it is possible, humanly speaking (and miracles I am sure I have no reason to expect) for me to keep my senses, if it should please God to take him hence before me: I should be very apt to suspect my own sincerity, and to believe there must be some hidden reserves of infidelity in my heart, if I could. Distraction, surely, Sir, cannot be called a sin; nor are we, I suppose, to look upon those many dismal spectacles of that kind, which the world presents us with, as so many criminals; at least, not peculiarly such; not so, upon that very account. If, therefore, I make this greatest of afflictions my ready choice, rather than harbour the least thought of wilfully departing from my God; and endeavour to make the best use I can of the present time allowed me; I think that is all that is in my power to do.'

In your first papers, you seemed to want to be of the church of Rome, that you might be delivered from the anxiety and danger of thinking and reasoning for yourself in matters of religion; and that you might have a sufficient authority, to which you might absolutely resign up yourself. Now, Madam, if it was in your power to give up the anxiety and private suggestions of your own judgment, as soon as you were in a church that claimed such an authority over you; why do you indulge yourself in such expostulations, as the present? You will, perhaps, say, that you have as yet found no such authority; and, therefore, are left to the reflections of your own mind. But I must take leave to tell you, that your present expostulations are not for want of a proper authority to resign yourself unto; they are determined by an authority much greater in itself, and more certainly made known to you, than any church authority can possibly be: for is there anything more certain, or more undisputed in religion, than this, that an humble submission and constant resignation of yourself, in every circumstance of your life, is a duty expressly required and determined by God's Providence and Authority over you? Can any church make any article of faith, or rule of practice, more known to you than this is? If, therefore, you can lay aside all reasoning and disputing in a church, that required your submission to her authority; if you could so submissively and dutifully resign up yourself to an implicit faith in her determinations; if you wanted such a church, that you might be delivered from the uncertainty and weakness of your own reasonings; pray be so consistent with and kind to yourself, as to acquiesce in a determination made for you by the Greatest of all Authorities. You have all the infallibility in the present case, that can possibly be imagined: if angels were sent from heaven to assure you, that you ought always to be in a state of humility, of resignation and gratitude to God, in everything that happens to you; you could not be more assured than you are at present, that God demands this resignation from you. Is it not, therefore, a great mistake in you, to be so anxious in search of a church, to which you might resign up all your reasonings and reflections; and yet stand by your own reason, indulge yourself in all kinds of anxious reflections, where you know that the authority of God is so full and express for your submission and resignation to him? You somewhere mention your apprehension of the Bishop of Rome's claim to your obedience; and seem frightened at the very possibility of his claim being just. But pray, Madam, why is not this same tenderness of mind awakened in the present case? You have no doubt about God's claim to your resignation and gratitude to him; there is nothing to make this doubtful to you; reason, scripture, all churches, how contrary to one another in other matters, agree in determining this matter for you. And shall the suspicion of a duty to the Pope, have more effect upon your mind, than the certainty of one of the greatest duties that you owe to God? Deal faith

fully, therefore, with your own heart; try it to the truth; make it show itself plainly and openly to you: if it has this tenderness about the Divine Pleasure; if it would so fain be right in matters of church obedience, and is so fearful of falling short of its duty in that respect; ask it, why it is so taken up only with one sort of duties? why it is so tender and fearful of offending in matters where it has only suspicion to proceed upon, and yet so unaffected with the greatest of all duties to God, and in a case that admits of no doubt? why it is so desirous of finding some new means of pleasing God, that it only suspects to be wanting; and yet so regardless of that means of pleasing God, which is always at hand, always required, and needs no inquiring after? Offer to God an humble resignation, a constant gratitude of heart, at all times, and on all occasions; commit yourself to his Providence by an implicit faith, loving and adoring him in all things, and for all things; and then you are performing a certain duty; you are resigning yourself up to a certain and undeniably just authority; you are offering an acceptable sacrifice unto God, and you are worshipping him on earth as he is worshipped in heaven. Whilst you are in this state of heart, empty of all self-seeking and self-reflection; full of an implicit faith in God, and of resignation and gratitude to him, in all things, and for all things; making everything, however dark and inexplicable to your own reason, a fresh occasion of adoring his Goodness, and resigning yourself unto it; whilst you are in this state of heart, you are in the best of churches; and by thus giving all to God, you will receive all from him. All the uneasiness and imperfection of your past and present state of life, seems to be owing to your want of this turn of mind. A restless, inquisitive, self-seeking temper, by which you have been prompted to seek for your own ease and happiness, by accounting to yourself, from your own reason, for everything in your own state, the state of religion, and the state of other people; seems to me to have been plainly the rock on which you have constantly split. Religion was a comfort to you, so long as it offered no difficulties to your mind, or brought nothing to your view, but what you could account for from your own way of thinking: but as soon as anything appeared in your own state, or your reflections upon religion in general, that you could not explain or account for from yourself, or by reasons of your own, immediately you resigned yourself up to discontent, and melancholy views of the Providence and Goodness of God.

'Fourteen or fifteen years ago, at the reading of certain 'books,' you say of yourself, 'I was in the greatest confusion; a 'deep and fixed melancholy seized me. I thought I saw the amp;gt; 'greatest necessity and impossibility together, in what they recommended: I began to believe every the most innocent thought and word, and the most necessary trifling action, to be a crime, which kept me in continual terror night and day.'

Here it is, that this restless, inquisitive, self-seeking temper, betrayed you into error. Those books had their right effect upon your mind; they filled you with a true light; they showed you the true extent of your duty, and your want of strength to fulfil it; they awakened you into a lively sense of the misery and danger of your condition. Thus far all was right; and God had mercifully done that for you by means of those books, which he did for Job, when he said thus of himself: 'God maketh my heart soft, and the Almighty troubleth me; therefore am I troubled at his presence: when I consider, I am afraid of him.' And again, 'When I say my bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint; then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me with visions.' Now, as Job was carried to greater heights of piety by these impressions, so might you have had the same effect from the impressions you received from those books. But it was that restless, inquisitive, self-seeking temper, that drew contrary effects from these impressions; by this temper, you were driven to seek for satisfaction from yourself, from your own reasoning and reflections about your own state. If you could have seen and fully comprehended, with your own reason and senses, how you could have had all that perfection in every part of your life, which those books pointed at, then you could have been easy; that is, if you could have had satisfaction from yourself, then you would have been satisfied. This is the reason why I call this inquisitive, a self-seeking temper. But because you were not to have this matter satisfied, by what you could see with your own eyes, or comprehend with your own reason; because you were to see the extent of your duty, without seeing how you could in every respect perform it; and there was nothing left for you, but a total, implicit, absolute resignation of yourself to the incomprehensible depths of Divine Mercy and Power over you; because you were thus to come out of yourself, lose all self-support, have nothing of your own to rest upon, and be wholly left to what God, in ways above your comprehension, would please to do for you; therefore, you gave up yourself to melancholy: that is, you grew displeased and impatient against God, because you were not sufficient for yourself. But if, when those books had brought you to this point, and shown you such perfection in your duty, and such imperfection in yourself, you had then absolutely resigned yourself up to God, by an humble, implicit, unlimited faith in his incompre- hensible Power and Goodness over you; if you had then broken forth into the love and adoration of him for those incomprehensible depths of Mercy in Christ Jesus, which direct us to perfection, and yet save us though imperfect; which propose to our imitation the love and obedience of angels, and yet accept of the poor endeavours of fallen men; if you had thus taken hold of faith, you would then no more have felt the want of your own poor reason to support you, than Peter felt the want of his own strength when he ventured to walk upon the water to his Lord and Master. A true implicit faith, and an unlimited resignation of yourself to God, will make you rejoice in books that carry your duty to the greatest height; you will be glad to see, that all is due to God, that everything is to be done for him from a principle of love and devotion to him; and yet, at the same time, make you content to be without any security from yourself, entirely dependent upon a dispensation of Divine Mercy, not to be measured by our poor conceptions, but embraced and adored by an humble and implicit faith. The best state of heart that you can be put into, is to have the highest sense of the perfection of your duty to God; to believe that all your thoughts, words, and actions, are to be consecrated to his honour and glory; to look upon it as your duty, to do his will on earth, as angels do it in heaven; and, at the same time, to look upon yourself as so far sunk into the depths of corruption and impurity, that everything you can think, or say, or do, of yourself, is full of weakness and imperfection, unworthy of his acceptance, and far short of that duty which you owe to him. Now this state of mind, so just and good in itself, and so desirable for the effects that might justly be expected from it, this state of mind cast you into melancholy and discontent; and yet nothing more was required of you to make it a state of peace and consolation in God, than a hearty resignation of yourself to God, to be saved by him in a way of mercy above your own sight and comprehension. And if, after all, you could not have prevented that melancholy which then seized you; had you then kept close to resignation, and humbly committed yourself to God, in some form of words like the following, all had been safe and well in the midst of melancholy:

O my God! if it be thy good pleasure to leave me thus to myself, to want the light of thy countenance, to be devoured by dark and gloomy thoughts, I submit; "Thy will, not mine, be done!" I adore thy Providence; I heartily resign myself up to it, to be everything, to do everything, to suffer everything, that can make me most acceptable unto thee. Let my vain reason and restless imagination torment me as long as thou permittest; I humbly accept of amp;gt; this cross from thy hands, as a just punishment of my sins. I am unworthy to choose anything for myself; I submit to thy choice, whether in light or darkness, in sickness or health, in desolation of spirit or joy of heart: I desire and resolve, by thy grace, equally to adore thy infinite goodness; I ask nothing of thee, but that, in this, and all other states of my life, I may conform to thy Holy Will; and humbly resign myself up, by a boundless faith, to thy Adorable Providence over me.

This spirit of resignation to God, which is the truest Spirit of Religion, would then, will now, and at all times, be your sufficient support on all occasions; it will certainly either remove your evil, or make it no evil to you to be under it. This spirit of resignation will secure you from being frightened at any heights of piety, that any books lay before you; and the higher you see your duty raised, the more you will be incited to adore the wonderful Goodness of God, who has appointed a means of redeeming such imperfect creatures, and receiving us, with so many defects in our duty, to a state of perfection and glory in another life.

As to the books you cast aside, I have no intention to recommend any of them to your perusal again, but Kempis, [12] of the Imitation of Christ. Next to the Scriptures, it is, I think, the best devotional book that I know of. If you had a mind to confine yourself to Scripture, I have no objection to it; for no books are of any value, but so far as they are of the same spirit with the Holy Scriptures. Our Blessed Saviour's discourses are a fund of instruction, never to be exhausted; and when they once get possession of the heart, it will not want much other instruction. But as John the Baptist was "the voice of one crying in the wilderness, preparing disciples for Christ, and by his water-baptism fitting them to be baptized by the Holy Ghost," so many human writers are still in some degree in John the Baptist's place, crying in the wilderness, exhorting and preparing mankind to become the true disciples of Jesus Christ. With this spirit of faith and resignation, which I have here recommended, a little reading will do; or if more is delighted in and sought after, it is no ill temper. You seem to be affected with my Serious Call to a Devout and Holy Life: I pray God you may have benefit by it; and desire you will think the chapter upon resignation to the Will of God, deserves most of your attention. For this implicit faith and total resignation of ourselves to the adorable Providence of God, willing nothing but what he wills, and because he wills it; it is a state of mind, whose excellency I cannot represent to you; it covers all our imperfections, sanctifies all our endeavours, makes us holy without any holiness of our own, makes our weakness as serviceable to us as our strength, and renders us acceptable to God at the same time that we do nothing worthy of him. Let me, therefore, intreat you to put on this temper; to lay hold of it with all your might; to make everything you hear, or see, or find, in yourself, the world, religion, or Providence, so many fresh occasions, of committing yourself to God by a faith without any bounds, a resignation without any reserve.

You will, perhaps, say, that 'you see the piety and excellency of this temper; but as you cannot remove or prevent your doubts and discontents, so you cannot practise this faith and resignation.' It is answered, either these doubts or discontents are voluntary, or they are not; if they are voluntary, such as you strive to raise and support in your mind by your own reasoning and reflections; then, indeed, they are inconsistent with the faith and resignation here recommended: but if, through the weakness of your nature, they only obtrude themselves upon your mind, as any other involuntary thoughts; if you are sorry to find them, turn from them with dislike, and do all you can to suppress them, by not suffering your mind to attend to them, or hear their reasons; then, these involuntary doubts and discontents are so far from being a hindrance of your faith and resignation, that they become certain occasions of giving them a greater perfection. Who can suppose, that Abraham had no inward struggles, no suggestions offered to his mind from reason, nature, instinct, and paternal affection, when he was preparing Isaac for sacrifice? but his faith and resignation were great and exalted; not because he could prevent or entirely silence the objections of reason, nature, and instinct; but because, in the midst of all these objections, he acted as if there had been none; and by faith and resignation conformed to the Divine Command with the same exactness, as if there had been no contradiction to reason, nature, and instinct in it. In a word, do but love and desire this faith, and then you are in the right way to have it; dislike every thing that opposes it, and then you live in the exercise of it; for no one wants this faith, but he that wants the love and desire of it, and deliberately sets himself against it. To return to your case.

As the above-mentioned restless, inquisitive, self-seeking temper (for so it must be called) plunged you then into melancholy, so the effects and workings of the same temper have shown themselves in the succeeding parts of your life. The papers I have received from you, sufficiently show me, into how many fruitless searches, and uneasy reflections, this temper has led you. At last, it filled you with scruples about the means of salvation in that church of which you were a member. You thought it was the piety of your heart, and a desire of pleasing God, that raised and encouraged this scruple; and so it was; but then it was a piety governed by an inquisitive, self-seeking temper. As this temper had before led you into melancholy, through the apprehension of the impossibility of doing your duty; and as that melancholy proceeded from hence, because you could not see with your own eyes, and comprehend with your own reason, how such duty could be performed; so, under the conduct of the same temper, your uneasiness about church communion seized upon you, because, in the divisions of Christianity, there is not a plain visible evidence and security sufficient to satisfy the demands of this temper, and because the church of which you are a member, does not claim that infallibility, in which it could so contentedly repose itself. And as there was much talk of authority, infallibility, certainty and security of salvation, in the church of Rome; so your desire after that church was much awakened; and this desire, no doubt, was strengthened by the piety of your own mind, disposing you to be of a church so certainly acceptable to God. But then this self-seeking temper had a great share in it. You wanted this security, that this temper might have its self-satisfaction; that your reason and senses might be satisfied in their own way; that, instead of being left to an implicit faith, hope, and confidence in the Goodness of God, you might be, as it were, in possession of visible deeds, bonds, and securities, of your being in a right way. There are, without all doubt, great differences in churches considered as a means of arriving at Christian holiness; some of them are so merely human and of man's contrivance, as to make it necessary to come out of them. The inquiry, therefore, after a true Christian church, is a rational inquiry; and, without all doubt, good people, by the Spirit of God, have been led out of one communion into another. But the case in which you and I are concerned, relates to the contest between us and the church of Rome; and the way for us to find the true church in this dispute, is, I think, by such humility and resignation of heart to God, as is expressed in the following words: "My adorable God and Creator! thy Holy Church, which should be one pious society united in the love and adoration of thee, is, by the wickedness of mankind, divided into various communions, hating, condemning, and endeavouring to destroy one another. I made none of these divisions, nor am I a defender of them. I wish everything removed out

of every communion, that hinders the Common Unity. As I made no division, so I have made no choice of any divided part, upon my own persuasion that it alone is thy True Church: but as thy Good Providence, which I will always adore, has without my choice educated me in one communion, which according to my best judgment seems to be agreeable in its fundamental doctrines and institutions to the Holy Scriptures; so, I humbly and thankfully continue in it without condemning or hating others, till by thy Good Providence thou shalt afford me some light, that I yet have not. The wranglings and disputings, not only of private men, but of whole churches and nations, and their mutual accusations, condemnations, and misrepresentations of one another, have so confounded all things, that I have no ability to make a true and just judgment of the matters between them. If I knew that any of these communions was alone acceptable to thee, I would do or suffer anything to make myself a member of it: for, my Good God, I desire nothing so much as to know and love thee, and to worship thee in the most acceptable manner. And as I humbly presume thou wouldst not suffer thy Church to be thus universally divided, if no divided part could offer any worship acceptable unto thee; as I have no knowledge of what is absolutely the best in these divided parts, nor any ability to put an end to them; so I fully trust in thy goodness, that thou wilt not suffer these divisions to separate me from thy Mercy in Christ Jesus; and that, if there be any better means of serving thee than those I already enjoy, thou wilt, according to thine Infinite Mercy, lead me to them.'

This disposition of heart, which resolves itself into an humble resignation and confidence in the Goodness of God, is, I think, a better preparation and a more secure guide to the True Church, than the laborious perusal of all the volumes of controversy in the world. And if a person, who is truly of this disposition living wholly unto God with all his heart and spirit, worshipping and adoring him according to his best light, humbly trusting and praying for the continual guidance of his Holy Spirit, without that animosity, strife, pride, hatred, and self-confidence, which divides Christians one from another; if such a person should be in any want of any external means of salvation, it seems not improbable, that he would be favoured by God, as good Cornelius was, who had an angel sent to him to direct him to St. Peter. But to proceed.

The next trouble that you fell into, was occasioned by your brother's unhappy state. Here that same inquisition, self-seeking temper, got greater power over you, and tormented you in a greater degree, than it had done before; and it is visible enough to me, that your greatest distress proceeded from the workings of this temper. As soon as this case falls before you, you begin to be distressed with it, chiefly because you cannot account for it. You look backwards and forwards, into the nature of Providence, the nature of Religion, the state of our church, the corruption of the world, the temper and constitution of your brother, and the manner of his education; you give yourself up to a restless inquiry into all these things; and because you cannot, by wandering into these labyrinths, account for your brother's state, therefore you return home wearied and fatigued, a burden to yourself, displeased with Providence, with the state of our church, and without any comfort in religion, and ready to wish there were none. This may show you, even to demonstration, that your distress proceeded from your being under the conduct of this temper, which had given you so much trouble on former occasions. Had you been dead to this temper, had you been at that time practised in an humble implicit faith, an unreasoning resignation of yourself to God, when this case happened to you, you would then have received it with a true Christian concern; it would have pierced your heart, without hurting it; you would have mourned for it with such a spirit, as our Saviour mourned over Jerusalem; and your own piety would rather have been quickened into greater vigour, than abated by it. It may be justly supposed, that when the apostles found their Divine Master betrayed by one of their own family, a brother apostle, that their love, and zeal, and devotion to their Lord and Master, was quickened and inflamed by it; that they wanted to show some new tokens of their love, and to be more devoted to him, who had been so ungratefully betrayed by a brother of theirs. And your piety would certainly have taken this turn, you would have felt some new zeal towards God, you would have wanted to be devoted to him in some higher manner than you ever thought of before; and the shame and sorrow for such an instance of ingratitude to God in your own family, would have awakened in you this new zeal: this would have happened to you, had you not been interrupted by the specious pretences of this inquisitive temper; and, as it never could be indulged at any time, without prejudicing the best state of your heart, and taking it out of its true place or position in God, so it is not to be wondered at, that it should have its worst effects upon you, when you gave yourself up to it at a time of such affliction. For as your case wanted its proper relief; as it could be relieved by nothing, but an application and conversion of your whole heart and spirit unto God, by new repeated acts of zeal, devotion, faith and resignation, by new vows of love and duty, new oblations of your whole body and soul and spirit unto him; as this conversion and application of your heart to God, was the one sole relief that could possibly be found for you in the whole nature of things; so, your departure from it, to seek for relief in reflections upon providence, religion, predestination, the state of the church, the constitution and education of your brother, the foundation of his prejudices, the difficulties peculiar to his state, and the probability of others being as bad as he, had the same difficulties fallen in their way; your giving yourself up to these speculations, was not only departing from your proper relief, but creating to yourself as great a variety of torments as you could well do. For all these topics were only so many topics of disappointment and fatigue to your mind; and as it had left its proper resting-place in God, to wander in these labyrinths, so it was left, by God to prey upon itself, and feel all that tormenting emptiness which every soul must feel in such a wilderness of its own imaginations. But, Madam, God, though thus left, is still at hand: he 'stands at the door of your heart, and knocks for 'entrance;' and as soon as you open your heart for so blessed a guest, by an humble resignation to and faith in him, by new vows and oblations of love and obedience to him, with an infant simplicity embracing and resigning yourself up to his Adorable Providence; you will find yourself in the Arms of his Love, restored to that light, and peace, and support in him, which you have lately so much wanted.

To speak now to the affection which you plead for to your brother. The affections which are founded in nearness of blood, are very useful, helping infants, and young and old people, to that assistance from their kindred, which all stand in need of. But if these affections are not made as subordinate to the rules of Piety, as all other temporal things; if they are not considered as mere nothings, when they come into competition with our Duty to God; they become matter of as great sins, as any other unlawful affections; and the love of a relation may be as great an idolatry as the love of money. Speaking of your love to your brother, you say, 'I do not pretend to any virtue in it; it seems to be rather necessity.' But, Madam, if virtue is not at the bottom of this affection, if you cannot find it either caused or demanded by virtue, it demands your government of it. And your recourse to a necessity, is only the same plea that any one may make for any affection of any kind, as soon as he perceives its strength in him. Again, you say, 'I do not know that it is in my power to love him less; and I think it would be barbarous in me to desire to do it, only because he seems to stand in 'greater need of it.' Here, again, you look upon yourself as having no power over this passion; as being something that is what it is, without your assistance; and yet, in the same breath, show that you do what you can to support it, are unwilling to part with it, and seek for reasons for its continuance: for you say, 'You think it would be barbarous in you to desire to do it;' that is, to abate this passion. Does not this show plainly, that this degree of passion is your choice and judgment; that it is supported by your reasoning and reflection; and that you avoid its abatement, as an instance of barbarity? How can you appeal to your want of power to do that, which you avoid out of choice? How can you know your power in any matter, unless it is made the subject of your prayer to God? or how can you be supposed to have prayed to God for that, which you take to be barbarous and inhuman? But what is this degree of love, that you are possessed of, and plead for? It is a degree of passion, that robs you of all peace and comfort in God, that hurries you from one precipice to another, and leaves you without any choice of anything, 'but either infidelity or distraction; and the latter you choose as the lesser evil, and to avoid the necessity of recurring to the other.' And is this a degree of love, Madam, that it would be barbarous in you to desire to lessen? Would it be barbarous in you, to find God your support between these two precipices? would it be barbarous in you to desire, that the Knowledge and Love of God might have the full government of your heart, and give laws and rules to your love and regard for every fellow-creature? Is the Scripture defective in the doctrine of brotherly love, or that regard we ought to have for the salvation of one another? or is there anything in Scripture, either in doctrine or practice, that gives the least hint of, or makes the smallest approach to this degree of passion which you plead for? Is Adam to be condemned of barbarity, because he seems to have been in none of your straits, either of infidelity or distraction, when his two first sons, who were the only men in the world besides himself, were so taken from him, one murdered, and the other cursed and driven away as a vagabond from the presence of God? You appeal, indeed, to 'St. Paul's wishing himself accursed for his brethren,' as an instance of a particular affection to his relations: but it is a flaming instance of a quite different affection. He calls them, 'His brethren according to the flesh,' only to show who they were of whom he was speaking: but the reason of his being so concerned for their conversion, is given in the next words, where he says, 'Who are Israelites; to whom pertaineth the adoption, and the glory, and the covenants, and the giving of the law, 'and the service of God, and the promises, amp;c.' It was under this view of them, as a people thus related to God, and as thinking the honour of all God's former dispensations, and the credit of Christianity, depended much upon this people's receiving the Gospel; it was in this view of the sole glory of God, that he wished that this people, 'whose were the fathers,' who had thus been the Channels of all God's mercies and blessings to the world, might receive the Gospel, though it was to be granted on the condition of 'himself being made a curse for them.' St. Paul was in the very reverse of that state, in which you suppose him to be: he was so full of the honour and glory of God; God was so All in All to him; he was so out of himself, and all selfish reflections, so above the common instincts and tempers of flesh and blood, that he could look upon his own destruction as desirable, if the glory of God and the honour of his Providence, could be more raised and increased by it. Could a Seraph give you a higher proof of his being all Divine Love, and empty of all partial selfish affection? And yet you appeal to this seraphic instance of Divine Love, as a plea for a gross blind passion, that leads you out of God, destroys the piety of your heart, renders it dead and unaffected with the honour and glory of God, sinks you into flesh and blood and self-seeking reflections, and leaves you a prey either to infidelity or distraction. You argue for the continuance of your love, because your brother 'seems to stand in more need of it': but, Madam, has he any need of this kind of love? or does this kind of love answer or assist any of his needs? Would he be left in a more helpless state, if you had the piety of an apostle, the devotion of a saint, and was all wrapt up in love and adoration of the Divine Being? Would he be deserted, unkindly treated, if his sister, and all his kindred, were thus attached to God, had such interest in heaven, and could send up such prayers for him as they can whose hearts are thus inflamed with Divine Love? 'Love God with your whole heart,' make him yours by an unlimited devotion and oblation of yourself to him, and then your brother will at least have one friend and advocate for him with God. Remember, that you owe him no love, but in God, and for God: and that you can do him no good, but by your example, and the total application of yourself to God; and then your love of him, thus expressed, will be a benefit both to him and yourself.

You say, 'You are satisfied, that, in the next life, all these 'partial regards will be perfectly done away, and that God will 'be All in All.' But, Madam, if it is barbarous to desire, that the Love of God should now moderate and govern the love of your brother; and that you should have no love for him, but such as the Love of God requires of you; must not this be barbarity in the other life? And if this state of heart must take place, where 'God is All in All;' must it be barbarous in you, to endeavour to imitate this great perfection; to endeavour, as far as you can, by your prayers and desires, that 'God may be All in All' to you now; and that, to the utmost of your power, you may do his will on earth, with such a spirit as it is done in heaven? We are commanded to 'love God, in this life, with all our heart, with all our soul, with all our mind, and with all our strength;' it is thus, that God is to be 'All in All to us' in this life: and he that is careful to bring his heart under the direction of this first and greatest commandment now, will find himself in the state of those, to whom God is to be 'All in All' for ever. Were you now in the same state of mind as when you put away those books, you might here again be cast into melancholy, at the sight of impossibilities; but I hope you now know how to avoid this rock, and to be contented to be all devoted and resigned to God, without seeing how you are to perform all that is expected of you. 'Love,' in the Scripture phrase, 'is as strong as death;' it is omnipotent, it is armed with the whole power of God; and as nothing is impossible with God, so nothing is impossible to those, that truly love, or truly desire to love him. To proceed.

You thus further contend for this degree of passion that possesses you: you say, 'If you could bear your brother's death without distraction, you should suspect your sincerity; and believe there were some secret lurkings of infidelity in your heart.' This is strangely excessive. For supposing God was so far 'All in All to you,' that you could find a sufficient relief in the love and adoration of him; would this just and pious acquiescence in God, give you reason to suspect some lurkings of infidelity in you? Are patience, love, resignation, a holy peace, acquiescence and satisfaction in God, become signs of infidelity? Are you forced to come out of this peace in God, to hang hovering between infidelity and distraction, that you may have in you some visible signs of your being a sincere believer in God? Will you suspect the Saints of infidelity, because they have not gone distracted at the death of impenitent sinners? will you suppose their piety to be insincere, or their hearts not right, because God was their continual centre and place of rest, from which nothing could move them? and yet you are afraid of this, as a sign of infidelity. While you thus think of it as an ill state of mind, how can you pray to God for it? and if you do not hope, and desire, and pray for it, must not your want of it be imputed to your own voluntary choice? You say, indeed, 'You do not see how it is possible for you to avoid distraction, 'without a miracle from God.' But is this consistent with what is just now said, that you should suspect yourself of infidelity, if you could keep your senses? For can you be said to be doing all that is possible to procure this peace, when you declare, that if you had it, you should suspect yourself of infidelity? Can you look at it as a sign of infidelity, and yet be supposed doing all you possibly can to procure it to yourself? I hope I need say no more to show you the delusion of these reflections, and to persuade you to cast them from you with the utmost contempt and abhorrence. You cannot altogether prevent their sometimes presenting themselves to your mind: but you can turn your mind from them; you can despise them, refuse any attention to them, and make them an occasion of resigning yourself up to God; and then they are no hurt to you, and will by degrees be forced to leave you.

You say, 'You cannot have 'this possession of your senses, without a miracle of God.' If it were really so, I would exhort you, Madam, for that very reason, to be the more confident of having it: for if you want that which God alone can give you in a particular way, which no other means can help you to, it is happy for you that your relief is lodged in so good hands; for he is too much a God of Love, to deny that which can only be had from himself. 'All 'things are possible to him that believeth.' Remember him that said, 'If ye had but faith as a grain of mustard seed,' amp;c. If, therefore, your state really wants a miracle, draw near to God by faith, and then that Scripture will certainly be fulfilled in you, 'By faith ye are saved.' No one can ever be in distress, that will give himself up to God. This I say, upon supposition that a miracle was wanting, or absolutely necessary. But you do not enough consider what you say, in declaring 'that nothing 'less than a miracle can preserve you.' For do you know, what degree of God's Grace and Assistance, is to be reckoned a miracle, and what is not? But if you do not know this (as you certainly do not) you strangely deceive yourself in declaring, that nothing less than his Miraculous Grace can preserve you, when you do not at all know what degrees of it you are to esteem miraculous, and what ordinary or common. It is enough for us to know, without this distinction of miraculous and ordinary, that all necessary degrees of Divine Grace and Assistance, however great, are always given to those that truly pray for them, in right dispositions of heart. Have you no reason to think, that you have hitherto been frequently assisted by extraordinary degrees of Divine Favour? Will you say, that nothing but common instances of God's assistance, has happened to you?

Can you think of no part of your life that has been blessed by a Particular Providence, that you ought never to forget? And though your life may show you instances of this kind, which you cannot help confessing; yet those that you know nothing of, which are only known to that Goodness from whence they flowed, may be more numerous, for aught you know, than those that you look upon as the ordinary and common blessings of Divine Providence. But if God has preserved you, guided you by visible and invisible means, as well when you knew it not, as when you knew it; if he has saved you from dangers that you never apprehended, blessed you with assistances that you could not contrive, nor knew how to seek for yourself; is it not great ingratitude, to distrust his Goodness in those instances, in which you can see your need of it? Has he blessed you so often without your own care, in things where you could not ask his assistance, because you did not see your wants; and do you think such Goodness will forsake you in your known wants, and when you humbly apply to it for help? Trample upon every thought of this kind, with disdain; and never think yourself destitute or in distress, because you have nothing but faith in God to rely upon, nothing to support you but an humble confidence in his extraordinary Goodness; for you may, with infinitely greater security, trust to that, than to all the visible human means that your reason and senses could contrive for you. When you see your help, and depend upon what can be made visible to you, your dependence may easily be disappointed; and that which you take to be your support, may have no support in it; but, when destitute of all visible supports, by an unbounded faith you depend upon God, you are secure from all disappointment. Read the power of faith, Heb. xi. Though all worlds, and all beings in all worlds, should set against you; though your own strength, compared to that of your enemies, should be but as a drop of water compared to the ocean; yet faith in God would make you more than conqueror.' Though, therefore, all means of continuing in your senses, were visibly removed from you; though every creature threatened you with it; though you had no more appearance of preserving them, than Abraham had of seeing his seed blessed in Isaac, when he was about to offer him in sacrifice; yet do but you, as Abraham did, commit yourself to God with his faith, and then you will come off with his success.

To come now to the last particular. You say, Distraction, surely, cannot be called a sin; nor are we to look upon all the dismal spectacles of that kind, as so many criminals on that account: if, therefore, I make this greatest of afflictions my ready choice, rather than harbour the least thought of wilfully departing from God, and endeavour to make the best use I can of the present time allowed me, I think that is all that is in my power to do. Distraction may be considered as an unavoidable accident; and, as such, it has the nature of all other unavoidable evils, and is not to be looked upon as a state of sin, or that which renders a man a sinner, because he is in it. But when distraction is the effect of our disorderly passions, and owing to our indulgence of them; as distraction then finds us in a state of sin, and is the effect of it, so it may then be called a sinful state, because it continues us in that state of sin in which it found us, and from which it had its being. Though, therefore, distraction is a state that renders us not accountable for what we do in it, yet if we are accountable for those tempers that brought it upon us, our condition is not relieved by it; it is no refuge from evil, but only the sealing up our doom, and presents us before God in that state of sin and disorder in which it found us.

If our heart had been in a right state towards God, full of those tempers which render us acceptable to him, when this accident came upon us; then, I conceive, we shall receive no harm from it. But if it was ill tempers, a disordered heart, a forgetfulness of God, a want of faith and trust in him, or an indulgence of irregular passions, that plunged us into it; it would be strange to suppose, that distraction, which is the effect of those sins, should free us from them. Distraction, when it is the effect of ill passions, and for want of right dispositions of heart towards God, differs only from those passions, as an imperfect state or habit differs from one that is more finished and complete of the same kind. Thus, would you know what that distraction is which arises from impatience and discontent; you need only consider what impatience and discontent are, in a more moderate and imperfect state: for if impatience and discontent, when they are short of distraction, are yet great sins; surely, when they proceed to and end in distraction, they are still greater: so that a distraction of that kind is only those disorderly sinful tempers run out to their greatest length. You, therefore, strangely deceive yourself, Madam, when you talk of making 'that greatest of afflictions your choice,' because you take it not to be a sin in itself. For though it may, as I have said, be considered barely as an unavoidable accident, and so only in the nature of an external evil; yet, in this respect, or thus considered, it cannot be an object of your choice; because, as soon as you choose it, it ceases to be an accident, and becomes your sin. If you were ignorantly to sit under a sword, that should drop upon your head, and kill you, you might then be said to die by an accident that brought no guilt upon you; but if it was your choice to sit under the sword, in expectation that it would certainly fall upon you and kill you, then you would not die by an accident, but by the sin of self-murder: so that a thing, in some supposed cases most innocent in itself, may, by being chosen, be made one of the greatest sins. How can you choose distraction, without choosing those tempers which must cause it? For as you cannot fall into this supposed distraction, so long as your mind is in a state of humility, meekness, and resignation to God, enjoying any comfort or satisfaction in him; so you cannot choose this distraction, without choosing the removal of those tempers that must necessarily prevent it. It is plain, therefore, that you did not at all apprehend what you said, when you talked of making this your choice,' and as a means of preserving you from sin; for you cannot choose it, without choosing those sinful tempers that must occasion it.

You have no more reason to fear distraction, than I have; your danger is my danger, and my security is yours. When I consider my own weakness, how often my mind is affected and discomposed with trifles, I might justly apprehend, that, if I was left to myself, very common misfortunes might put me beside myself; but when I consider, that I have the Goodness of God to rely upon, and his Preservation of me to trust to, then I can look upon myself as under the Protection and Security, not of human probable means, but of Divine Never-failing Omnipotent Goodness. You are, therefore, no more to prepare yourself for distraction, than for infidelity; nor to look upon one, with any more approbation than the other: it is a crime to fear it, and a much greater to approve of it. It is a strange deception in you, to fancy that you choose distraction, to avoid the danger of infidelity:' it is, as if you should choose to renounce your faith in God, for fear of falling into infidelity some time or other. For, what is infidelity, but a departing from that love, faith, acquiescence and satisfaction in God, which Religion supposes? And how can you choose this supposed distraction, without choosing to be thus departed from God, emptied of those tempers which religion supposes? A distraction, therefore, of this kind, does not avoid infidelity, but only lays hold of it in a different way. Though, therefore, there may be much difference between infidelity and distraction, considered in themselves, and in some supposed cases; yet this difference is destroyed, and they are made much the same, when they proceed from the same cause. If the same discontent drives me to distraction, which leads another into infidelity, the difference between us is but small; because we agree in that which is our common guilt, namely, that neither of us can find any comfort in God. And as we have both departed from God upon the same account, because his Providence is not enough according to our reason and senses, because he does not comfort us in a way that these demand; as we have both departed from God on these same motives, so it matters not much that we are gone different ways. Give the infidel that self-satisfaction in God, which his reason, his senses, his natural tempers and instincts demand, and then you save him from his infidelity: give the impatient, distrustful, unresigned man, that self-satisfaction in God, which his reason, his senses, his temper and natural instincts demand, and then he will have no design of hiding himself, in distraction, from his own thoughts. A distraction, therefore, of this kind, that is the effect of impatience, distrust, and dissatisfaction in God, can no more be innocently made the object of our choice, than we can innocently choose infidelity; because it is formed of, and proceeds from infidelity; it has the whole nature of infidelity; and we cannot choose it, without choosing those tempers which constitute infidelity. To make this supposed distraction look something innocent to you, you propose "to make the best use of the intermediate time." But, Madam, is not this as absurd, as to propose to be sober and virtuous only for a certain time? And if you set bounds to your piety, and limit it to a certain time, do you not thereby destroy it? Suppose you should fancy, that you cannot serve God in this intermediate time; would not such a fancy be owing to your own unreasonable imagination? would you have anything to impute it to, but your own distrust of God, and want of application to him? If you intend to make a right use of the present time, by a dependence upon your own strength, your intention would be in vain. And if you intend to live unto God all your life, by a continual dependence upon his continual assistance, is not such an intention as well grounded, and as much within your power, as if you extended it only to one day, or one hour? For is not "God every day the same," and full of the same Power and Goodness? And can you think, that, in a partial, poor intention, of a goodness limited to a certain time, God will have the goodness to enable you to perform it; and that, in a better intention of being always devoted to God in all events, God will fail to assist you? Do you think, if you give God only a part of your heart, upon certain terms, and in certain events, that you may expect God's Grace for your present assistance? but if you give him your whole heart, to be all his, at all times, without any regard to any trials that may come upon you, can you think that such

devotion to God will leave you without any hopes of his future assistance? Now, Madam, if this be unreasonable and extravagant, as most certainly it is, then you may see reason to take up a better proposal, than that of acquiescing in the Love and Service of God only for a certain time. God gives his Grace and Assistance, only because we want it; and yet you strangely suppose, that, when your wants shall be greatest, you shall be most of all forsaken by God. Have you any proof of God's dealing thus with you hitherto? Have not all your common and uncommon wants, had an Assistance from God proportioned to them? And is it not strange ingratitude and a departure from every principle of Piety, distrustfully to surmise such a defect in the Goodness of God, and such a want of his Assistance, as is contrary to all that the Scripture teaches you of God, and contrary to all the experience of your whole life? You ought to fear everything without God's Assistance, and to fear nothing with it. Wants and dangers, the greater they are, are only so many greater reasons for an entire confidence and faith in God. In little things, we cannot be sure of God's particular direction of them; but, in fiery trials, where our own strength is as nothing, there it is, that we may look up to God with firm confidence, and have the utmost assurance that our application to him will not be in vain. If to distrust God's Providence for our ordinary sustenance, be a sin; surely, it is a greater, to distrust his preserving us in our senses. 'Ye are of more value,' saith our Blessed Saviour, 'than many sparrows;' and thence he concludes God's greater care for us. Our senses are of more value than food and raiment; may we not, thence, infer God's greater care to preserve them? and yet, forgetting this good Providence, you imagine, that you must inevitably lose your senses, because you do not know how you shall be able to keep them by your own strength, or without God's Extraordinary Assistance. Would a person, in any other case, be excusable for this despair, because he could see nothing but God's Extraordinary Goodness to depend upon? No, most surely! for the reason why despair is always so criminal, is because God's Extraordinary Goodness is always at hand, is the best and greatest of all supports, and the most to be depended upon. If, therefore, you had said, 'I shall then want God's Extraordinary Assistance to preserve my senses, and, therefore, by prayer to him, and faith in him, humbly and thankfully depend upon having all that I shall want; for, as he cannot give me a scorpion when I want a fish, nor a stone when I want bread; so, I have the utmost satisfaction and assurance in his Goodness, that he will not give me only his Ordinary Assistance, when my case wants that which is Extraordinary'--had you said thus, you had made a just and pious conclusion; and found a rock to build your peace upon, against which the gates of hell could not prevail. Bury, therefore, all your reasonings and speculations, all your doubts and distrusts, in such resignation, such faith and confidence in the Love and Goodness of God, as this is; and then all trials and temptations will but increase your safety, and give you a more confirmed Repose in God. I am, Madam, with hearty prayers to God for you and your relations,

Your sincere friend and servant,
WILLIAM LAW.
May 29, 1732.
FINIS.
Index of Pages of the Print Edition

[1]1 [2]2 [3]3 [4]4 [5]5 [6]6 [7]7 [8]8 [9]9 [10]10 [11]11
[12]12 [13]13 [14]14 [15]15 [16]16 [17]17 [18]18 [19]19 [20]20
[21]21 [22]22 [23]23 [24]24 [25]25 [26]26 [27]27 [28]28 [29]29
[30]30 [31]31 [32]32 [33]33 [34]34 [35]35 [36]36 [37]37 [38]38
[39]39 [40]40 [41]41 [42]42 [43]43 [44]44 [45]45 [46]46 [47]47
[48]48 [49]49 [50]50 [51]51 [52]52 [53]53 [54]54 [55]55 [56]56
[57]57 [58]58 [59]59 [60]60 [61]61 [62]62 [63]63 [64]64 [65]65
[66]66 [67]67 [68]68 [69]69 [70]70 [71]71 [72]72 [73]73 [74]74
[75]75 [76]76 [77]77 [78]78 [79]79 [80]80 [81]81 [82]82 [83]83
[84]84 [85]85 [86]86 [87]87 [88]88 [89]89 [90]90 [91]91 [92]92
[93]93 [94]94 [95]95 [96]96 [97]97 [98]98 [99]99 [100]100
[101]101 [102]102 [103]103 [104]104 [105]105 [106]106 [107]110
[108]111 [109]112 [110]113 [111]114 [112]115 [113]116 [114]117
[115]118 [116]119 [117]120 [118]121 [119]122 [120]123 [121]124
[122]125 [123]126 [124]127 [125]128 [126]129 [127]130 [128]131
[129]132 [130]133 [131]134 [132]135 [133]136 [134]137 [135]138
[136]139 [137]140 [138]141 [139]142 [140]143 [141]144 [142]145
[143]146 [144]147 [145]148 [146]149 [147]150 [148]151 [149]152
[150]153 [151]154 [152]155 [153]156 [154]157 [155]158 [156]159
[157]160 [158]161 [159]162 [160]163 [161]164 [162]165 [163]166
[164]167 [165]168 [166]169 [167]170 [168]171 [169]172 [170]173
[171]174 [172]175 [173]176 [174]177 [175]178 [176]179 [177]180
[178]181 [179]182 [180]183 [181]184 [182]185 [183]186 [184]187
[185]188 [186]189 [187]190 [188]191 [189]192 [190]193 [191]194
[192]195 [193]196 [194]197 [195]198 [196]199 [197]200 [198]201
[199]202 [200]203 [201]204 [202]205 [203]206 [204]207 [205]208
[206]209 [207]210 [208]211 [209]212 [210]213 [211]214 [212]215
[213]216 [214]218 [215]219 [216]220 [217]221 [218]222 [219]223
[220]224 [221]225 [222]226 [223]227 [224]228 [225]229 [226]230
[227]231 [228]232 [229]233 [230]234 [231]235 [232]236 [233]237
[234]238 [235]239 [236]240 [237]241 [238]242 [239]243 [240]244
[241]245 [242]246 [243]247 [244]248 [245]249 [246]250 [247]251
[248]252 [249]253 [250]254 [251]255 [252]256 [253]257 [254]258
[255]259 [256]260 [257]261 [258]262 [259]263 [260]264