not gnaw and fret us within. I am not, perhaps, afraid of losing my estate; but I am afraid of losing my value and reputation in the world. I am not afraid of a low condition, but I am afraid of contempt. I am not afraid of sickness and death, but I am afraid of scornful pity; I am not afraid of a plague, of war, or a famine; but I am afraid of an insulting enemy, and the tyranny of one that hates me. Upon this reason also it is true what David says; 'It is better to fall into the hands of God, than of men.' For we have no dispute whether we should humble ourselves before God or no; but the difficulty of doing this to men, creates us all our uneasiness. If persons are impoverished, or sick, or suffer from heaven, they seem to have no religion, if they are not capable of consolation; but if they groan under the yoke of an imperious man, and are chained to him as his slaves, they must have the highest top and perfection of religion to admit of comfort; since the last vice which religion has to dispossess and conquer is pride. Job felt all the blows of heaven with an unwounded soul; and the reason is, because the strokes of heaven drive us to humble ourselves before God, dethrone pride, and calm the soul. But the perpetual gratings of an ill-natured, insulting man, whom you must every day see, and yet with dread and boiling of heart; this stirs up our natural choler, foments and awakens pride, and renders our misery insupportable. It is the boiling of the choleric humours in our body, with which our soul is so tenderly touched, and so nearly sympathizes; that is the sting of all affliction, and this is pride. This is the fatal ferment, that no considera

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tion can allay. O Lord, my God, grant that I may purge out this old leaven, even the leaven of pride and malice; and then whatsoever afflictions, diseases, troubles, befal me, I shall find peace: peace with myself, peace with men, and peace with thee; for the yoke of my humble and meek Saviour, does indeed bring rest and peace to the soul. Amen."

In another place, he gives the following reason, why most people resent injuries at the rate they do.

"We stomach," says he, "injuries that we think are done to us; we fling and throw under them: but it is not the injustice done us, that we so much resent; as that the pride of our hearts makes us think ourselves so considerable, that nobody ought to disturb our repose. Alas! if we lay it aside, we shall see reason enough, why the just providence of God should give constant disturbance to our repose; and that we should not stomach, nor be angry at it; but meekly, composedly, and thankfully accept it."

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The same reason he assigns why so many are continually finding fault with the public management of affairs, as why they resent and stomach injuries done to themselves. To this purpose I find the following remark among his writings. Necessity seldom makes men mutiny so much as pride. Because they are not honoured by being admitted to the councils of others, therefore they dislike their measures, and endeavour to draw others after them. The meek and humble man is rarely a mutineer, he chooses rather to suffer with others, than be clamorous by himself."

And how constantly he endeavoured after a meek

F

and mortified spirit, will still farther appear from the following meditation.

"How happy is it to practise mortification of mind and will; but of all such mortifications, those of our own choosing, are nothing comparable to our meekly accepting those which God sends. For still the less of our own will in any thing, the better. Now what a mortification is it, to find ourselves slighted and disesteemed, for those very actions, behaviours, and speeches, which we thought fine, and valued ourselves upon? what a mortification is it to have some of our defects, infirmities, and weaknesses, discovered and made known to the world? what a mortification is it to be guilty of indiscretions and inadvertencies, which expose us to men? and shall we love and delight in these? I am sure we have great reason; for respect and esteem do but puff us up with an uneasy tympany, and fill us with bloated and undue fancies of ourselves; so that when we meet with any disrespect or affront, our breasts boil, and we are tortured with resentment, for want of having meek and sober thoughts of ourselves. In both these cases we make idols of ourselves, and our thoughts run incessantly on ourselves; in the first case, with pleasure; in the last, with disquiet. Ought not a pious soul to desire and pray earnestly to be freed from these assaults, and to love any thing that comes to it with a seasonable relief? St. Basil prayed to be freed from the head-ache, and then lust came; and then he prayed for the return of his head-ache again. Surely we ought to love those mortifications which keep us free from the assaults of pride and anger, as well as any

other temptation: assaults, which are continually dogging us, and upon every occasion starting up to molest us. We ought to love them, not only as they keep us sober-minded, and make us think duly and meekly of ourselves; but as they are more certain marks of God's favour, than those things that exalt us in the world, and procure us respect and esteem: for these things may do our minds a great deal of hurt, but the others do them certainly good. Let us then accept of such mortifications, embrace and love them, upon account both of God and our own souls. And may our gracious God fill all his faithful servants with true meekness; and such habitual humility, as may make us love disrespects from the world, when He sends them; and in all things render us like to our great Master."

His patience.

His

As few men had greater trials of patience, from frequent and violent returns of sickness; so none could bear it with a more composed spirit, and a more cheerful submission to the will of God. papers are full of pious meditations upon the advantages of sufferings; God's end, in afflicting us with pain; and the use we ought to make of it. Thus in one place he argues with himself:

"Should a man, lying under an indisposition of body, say to his physician, who was also his friend; O my friend, how sweet soever your love has been to me heretofore, I cannot now please myself in it; it gives me no savour or relish, as it used to do. I · hope you will excuse me, for I have the same respect. for you, but not the same love. Would not the other reply; alas! I know you cannot. I have given you

that which for the present indisposes you, and makes you unable to do it: but it was, because your health, or your life, was in danger. I have indisposed you to love me by this medicine, that I might not be entirely deprived of your love by your death. Have patience, and this will be over, and you will love me again better than ever.

"O my soul! this is no feigned case, but the real truth. Thy true Physician, who loves thee, and whom thou wouldest love, hath indisposed thee, by the physic which he hath given thee; that he might not lose thee for ever: this will soon be over, and thou shalt love him again; either here, or hereafter; for he knows that this is thy desire, as well as it is his: even his, who loved us so, that he despised glory and shame, life and death; that he might fill heaven with lovers, and make us love him as he hath loved us."

The following meditation, composed at another time, will shew what divine thoughts sickness excited in his mind; and how he improved it to the noblest purposes; even from thence to contemplate the bitter pains, which our Redeemer suffered.

"Never so well do we contemplate what our Saviour suffered for us, as when we ourselves are in pain; what his tender and delicate body felt, when it hung not only in unintermitting, but still encreasing torments, so many hours on the cross, as when our bodies are racked with some grievous distemper. Who can then but say to him, with the penitent thief; I indeed am justly in pain, for I receive the reward of my deeds; but this man hath done nothing amiss.' Nothing indeed amiss hast thou done, O my adorable