the vulgar place all their religion in crowding up close to the altar, in listening to the words of the priest, and in being very circumspect at the observance of each trifling ceremony. Nor is it in such cases only as we have here given for instances, but through his whole course of life, that the pious man, without any regard to the baser materials of the body, spends himself wholly in a fixed intentness upon spiritual, invisible, and eternal objects.
Now since these persons stand off, and keep at so wide a distance between themselves, it is customary for them both to think each other mad: and were I to give my opinion to which of the two the name does most properly belong, I should, I confess, adjudge it to the religious; of the reasonableness whereof you may be farther convinced if I proceed to demonstrate what I formerly hinted at, namely, that that ultimate happiness which religion proposes is no other than some sort of madness.
First, therefore, Plato dreamed somewhat of this nature when he tells us that the madness of lovers was of all other dispositions of the body most desirable; for he who is once thoroughly smitten with this passion, lives no longer within himself, but has removed his soul to the same place where he has settled his affections, and loses himself to find the object he so much dotes upon: this straying now, and wandering of a soul from its own mansion, what is it better than a plain transport of madness? What else can be the meaning of those proverbial phrases, _non est apua se_, he is not himself; _ad te redi_, recover yourself; and _sibi redditus est_, he is come again to himself? And accordingly as love is more hot and eager, so is the madness thence ensuing more incurable, and yet more happy. Now what shall be that future happiness of glorified saints, which pious souls here on earth so earnestly groan for, but only that the spirit, as the more potent and prevalent victor, shall over-master and swallow up the body; and that the more easily, because while here below, the several members, by being mortified, and kept in subjection, were the better prepared for this separating change; and afterward the spirit itself shall be lost, and drowned in the abyss of beatific vision, so as the whole man will be then perfectly beyond all its own bounds, and be no otherwise happy than as transported into ecstasy and wonder, it feels some unspeakable influence from that omnipotent Being, which makes all things completely blessed, by assimilating them to his own likeness. Now although this happiness be then only consummated, when souls at the general resurrection shall be re-united to their bodies, and both be clothed with immortality; yet because a religious life is but a continued meditation upon, and as it were a transcript of the joys of heaven, therefore to such persons there is allowed some relish and foretaste of that pleasure here, which is to be their reward hereafter. And although this indeed be but a small pittance of satisfaction compared with that future inexhaustible fountain of blessedness, yet does it abundantly over-balance all worldly delights, were they all in conjunction set off to their best advantage; so great is the precedency of spiritual things before corporeal, of invisible before material and visible. This is what the apostle gives an eloquent description of, where he says by way of encouragement, that _eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive those things which God hath prepared for them that love him_.
This likewise is that better part which Mary chose, which shall not be taken from her, but perfected and completed by her mortal putting on immortality.
Now those who are thus devoutly affected (though few there are so), undergo somewhat of strange alteration, which very nearly approaches to madness; they speak many things at an abrupt and incoherent rate, as if they were actuated by some possessing demon; they make an inarticulate noise, without any distinguishable sense or meaning; they sometimes screw and distort their faces to uncouth and antic looks; at one time beyond measure cheerful, then as immoderately sullen; now sobbing, then laughing, and soon after sighing, as if they were perfectly distracted, and out of their senses. If they have any sober intervals of coming to themselves again, like St. Paul they then confess, that _they were caught up they know not where, whether in the body, or out of the body, they cannot tell_; as if they had been in a dead sleep or trance, they remember nothing of what they have heard, seen, said, or done: this they only know, that their past delusion was a most desirable happiness; that therefore they bewail nothing more than the loss of it, nor wish for any greater joy than the quick return of it, and more durable abode for ever. And this (as I have said) is the foretaste or anticipation of future blessedness.
But I doubt I have forgot myself, and have already transgressed the bounds of modesty. However, if I have said anything too confidently or impertinently, be pleased to consider that it was spoke by Folly, and that under the person of a woman; yet at the same time remember the applicableness of that Greek proverb:-- A fool oft speaks a seasonable truth.
Unless you will be so witty as to object that this makes no apology for me, because the word _aunp_ signifies a man, not a woman, and consequently my sex debars me from the benefit of that observation.
I perceive now, that, for a concluding treat, you expect a formal epilogue, and the summing up of all in a brief recitation; but I will assure you, you are grossly mistaken if you suppose that after such a hodge-podge medley of speech I should be able to recollect anything I have delivered. Beside, as it is an old proverb, _I hate a pot-companion with a good memory_; so indeed I may as truly say, _I hate a hearer that will carry any thing away with him_. Wherefore, in short:-- Farewell! live long, drink deep, be jolly, Ye most illustrious votaries of folly!
A POEM ON THE FOREGOING WORK.
THERE'S ne'er a blade of honour in the town, But if you chance to term him _fool_ and _clown_, Straight _satisfaction_ cries, and then with speed The time, the place, and rapier's length's decreed.
Prodigious fops, I'll swear, which can't agree To be call'd what's their happiness to be: Blest _Idiots!_ That in an humble sphere securely move, And there the sweets of a safe _dulness_ prove, Nor envy the proud heights of those who range above.
_Folly_, sure friend of a misguided will, Affords a kind excuse for doing ill; And _Socrates_, that prudent, thinking tool, Had the gods lik'd him would have prov'd a _fool_.
Methinks our author, when without a flaw, The graces of his mistress he does draw, Wishes (if _Metempsychosis_ be true, And souls do change their case, and act anew), In his next life he only might aspire To the few brains of some soft country squire, Whose head with such like rudiments is fraught, As in his youth his careful grannum taught.
And now (dear friend) how shall we to thy brow Pay all those laurels which we justly owe?
For thou fresh honours to the work dost bring, And to the theme: nor seems that pleasing thing, Which he so well in _Latin_ has express'd, Less comical in _English_ garments dress'd; Thy sentences are all so clearly wrought, And so exactly plac'd in every thought, That, which is more oblig'd we scarce can see The subject by thine author, or himself by thee.
FINIS