I AM most heartily sorry, not for my own sake but your's, that any thing from you should create me a trouble of this nature. That a per­son honourably descended of noble and Christian Parents, solemnly de­dicated at his first appearance in the World to the service of our blessed Iesus, adorned richly with the most excellent natural indowments, wanting no help to nature, which an ingenuous and religi­ous education could administer, plentifully enjoy­ing all the opportunities of knowing, and all the incouragements to do whatever is truly vertuous and noble, things acceptable to God, and benefi­cial to the world; that a person so every way ac­complished [Page 2] as you are, should now begin to enter­tain with pleasure thoughts bordering upon Atheism, and give your self up to a course of life so far unworthy of him that bears the name of Christi­an, that it makes it a flattery to call you a Man: is, I must needs say, so great an astonishment to me, that I can hardly believe that this Letter which I am now writing to you, can any way con­cern you. Yet some ill-sounding words which with no small grief I heard from you, in the last discourse we had together, have been so great a disturbance to my mind ever since, that I could not possibly give my self any rest, till I set pen to paper, that I might contribute something, though it be but a very little, in respect of what others out of their greater stock of reason (I will not say of chari­ty) would have done, towards the shaking off your hasty and dangerous resolutions, and blunting the edge of that Scoffing wit, which incourageth you to hope for so easie a victory over the Faith of us despi­sed Christians; but will certainly at last, if not timely wrested from you by the charity of some of those whom you most hate, wound your self to the very heart. I will not beg your pardon, either for this my so confident assertion, or for presuming to interrupt your secure slumbers, and pleasing dreams, with this paper. You know my Faith, and that I think I have as good assurance of the truths I believe, as the most conceited Philosopher of you all thinks he hath of any conclusion grounded on the common principles of natural reason, or his so much magnified evidence of sense. And you ei­ther [Page 3] know as well, or I wish you did, that we poor silly Christians are taught to love most heartily even you who most despise us, and especially that part of you, which you seem least to know, and there­fore cannot love, your Soul. This invites us to re­pay your scorn with pity, and rather than not at­tempt to do you good, for the evil we receive at your hands, run the hazard of being yet more ha­ted by you. But yet far more than this, the zeal we have for those divine, and only beauties we ad­mire, I mean those sacred truths which you deride, but we believe, and own our selves obliged to vin­dicate with all the skill we have, constrains us to be thus importunate, though we should be sure thereby to lose not your favour only, but even whatsoever in this world we can think most dear unto us. With this resolution of contemning all your ready censures of bold, troublesome and unman­nerly, if not fool and knave to boot, wherewith you have learn'd to reward the charity of those who seek to do you good; I now lay before you my thoughts of what you were pleased to utter in my hearing.

This, Sir, as near as I remember it, was your language, Christians are fools, to deny themselves the pleasures of this world, in hopes of I know not what in a world to come. 'Tis good to make much of our selves here, for we know not what shall be hereafter. I could never yet meet with any man that could bring us any certain tidings from that other world you talk of. Who can tell us what shall become of us when we die? Why should man be so proud, as to hope for an Heaven more [Page 4] than other creatures? It is a mere madness to deny our selves the things which delight us, and which now we may injoy, for the sake of that which is uncertain and which we do not know that any man ever did or shall in­joy. For my own part I am resolved to live here as long as I can, and as merrily as I can, and let those fools that dance after the pipe of a company of cheating Priests please themselves with the fond hopes of a new life and a Heaven after they are dead.

These, Sir, as I well remember, and many others much a-kin to these, were your expressions; I willingly omit your many and various Oaths, the usual graces and ornaments, and indeed the only proofs you have of such wild discourses. I must confess I could not have believed it, if my own ears had not heard it, that such words as these could have been wrested from you; how great then was my wonder to hear them flow so freely from your mouth, as thereby to evidence themselves to come from the great abundance of your heart? Good God! Is it possible that a man, and one that pretends to be the master of all wit and reason, should so easily and with such complacency degrade himself into a beast, and even pride himself in being the Author of such conceits, as, if they have any real truth in them, must needs make him of no more worth than the horse he rides upon? If you can think so meanly of your self, I beseech you henceforward walk on foot, and make not the poor dumb creature, which by submitting himself so gently to a load, that he could as easily throw off, and trample under foot, seems to know you much better than you are wil­ling [Page 5] to know your self, to feel so oft your whip and spur. What right have you to rule him, more than he hath to govern you, if you must both pe­rish alike? If you should say that you have reason, and he hath none, I make no doubt but some of your companions will be ready enough to tell you, that you know that no more, than you do whether you have an immortal Soul, or he have none: In­deed you can speak and he cannot, and so have you one priviledge more than he hath, to abuse your tongue to your own ruine.

It is not my present purpose to shape an answer to all your questions, or resolve all your doubts: as these would cost me more pains than I am now at leisure to bestow upon them: so would it be a work of little use to you, till you be better prepared to receive it. Till that malignant and heaving hu­mour of pride and self-conceit be a little corrected, your stomach will be ever boiling with disdain, and beloh forth reproach and scorn on every thing that goes against it: your palate will remain too bitter, to taste the sweetness of the truths com­mended to you; and your brain too much intoxi­cated, and giddy, to fix on the study and meditati­on of things which call for seriousness. My present business is to try if I can possibly administer some­thing, whereby that humour may be made less pre­dominant, and your reason set a little more at liber­ty: then may you perhaps be content to think, that some body else besides your self may be able to speak sence, and say something that may deserve the consideration of him who calls himself a wit: [Page 6] This I shall hope in some measure to effect, if I can prevail with you to read over this Letter with pa­tience, and therein the weakness of your own rea­sonings, the folly and dangers of your ill grounded resolutions, and in both, the unreasonableness of your crowing over the simplicity of us Christians.

That you may be better able to discover the piti­ful weakness of your reasonings, and how whilest you labour to make us Christians seem fools you un­awares argue your selves into mere brutes; have but as much patience to read your own words from my pen, as you expressed delight and pleasure in ut­tering them with your own tongue, and it may be, that the same things which you then thought witty when they proceeded immediately from your own dear self; you may now think very foolish and ridi­culous when they are, though most faithfully repre­sented to you by another. Your words I have alrea­dy set down, but to make them look a little more with the faces of arguments, and to let you see with what art and strength you reason, I will once more give you them, as, had we been in dispute, when you spake them, I suppose I should have heard them from your self.

Christians deny themselves the pleasures of this world, (you mean they dare not commit all sin with greediness) in hopes of an uncertain happiness in a world to come: therefore, Christians are very fools.

We know not what shall be hereafter; therefore, It is good to make much of our selves (that is, to live as we list, and pamper up our lusts) whilest we are here.

[Page 7] We could never yet receive any certain tidings out of that other world which Christians talk of; therefore, they are fools for believing there is any such thing.

None can tell what shall become of us when we die; therefore, it is folly to live as if we expected a life to come.

Man hath no more assurance of an Heaven than other creatures; therefore, it is pride only that makes him hope for Heaven.

All these things which Christians hope to enjoy after death are ancertain; therefore, it is prudence to live as long and as merrily (that is, loosely and lascivi­ously) as we can in this world.

Now, Sir, do you not think you have cause enough to clap your wings and crow over us poor vanquished Christians? Who is able to stand before all this mighty strength? How can we chuse but confess we have been fools all this while, and mise­rably bewitched into vain hopes, by the charming voices of a company of crafty Priests, and fall down and embrace the feet of you our deliverers out of this slavery? But alas, we must yet be fools still for all this, so blind are we that we cannot see the way that you have made us to escape; and what's more than all, we are so much in love with our present thraldome, that we prize it above that noble freedom which you would make us.

In good earnest, Sir, If we be certain, as we think we are, of all those things whereof you would make us to doubt, I dare say you will pronounce us in a much better condition than your selves can ever hope to be, till you become such fools as we are: [Page 8] And if we can have no certainty of them as you say, and I am willing at this time for your sake to sup­pose, then both you and we must remain uncertain still, and who hath made the wisest choice can then only, if you say true, be determined, when this life is at an end.

Wit changeth fashions, almost as oft as cloaths; and one main strain of that wit which is now most modish, is with shameless impudence, and in bluntest terms, to declaim against those things as idle dreams and lying fables, which all the world hath hitherto received as the most undoubted truths: Men can­not now seem witty to themselves, till they have pronounced all fools that were before them. To say, as much without all proof, as patience of being contradicted, tha the Prophet is a fool, and the Spiritual man is mad, and none so great a fool as he who told us so long ago, that, the fool hath said in his heart there is no God, this is wit. I do not envy the men who think it so, and use it, that great ap­plause they hereby gain amongst such as had rather lose an Heaven, than live soberly: but I much pity the weakness of the men of this age, who rather chuse to venture their whole happiness in imitation of their vices, than provide for their own safety by examining their dictates.

The bravery of such men is to set their faces against the Heavens, and bid defiance to him that made them: and lest the world become so wise as to taunt them with the Proverb,—None so bold as blind Bayard; they are resolved to teach it if they can to believe blindly what themselves cannot [Page 9] believe, that there is no God, no Heaven, no Hell, no life after death, no Soul to be saved or damned, nei­ther punishment nor reward to be expected in a future world. Now if any man may be so unmannerly as to require some proof of all this, some probable rea­sons at least why he should believe things so repug­nant to the common opinions of the world; they will swear it stoutly, swagger it out bravely, call all men fools, talk all, hear nothing, scrible some­thing, ask questions, propound some possibilities; and when this is done, and some Satyrical strains of wit, to close all, lavished out on those, who dare believe the things which these men are most afraid of; if we will calmly stand like tame fools to their verdict, we must all turn Atheists and Epi­cures: but if any of us poor credulous fools, have yet so much courage left us, as not to be jeared and Hector'd, not to be scar'd out of all our wits at once with this uncouth noise, nor affrighted out of our old Faith with some dazling flashes of this new-fashi­oned wit, and a thunder-clap of oaths in the rear thereof; if we shall yet be so stubborn and impu­dently refractory as to persist in disputation, and so unreasonable as once more to call for any farther satisfaction in a thing so heterodoxly yet so magisteri­ally asserted; we shall usually see these tall gentle­men, if they can find no fair opportunity of quit­ting the company, and running away, begin to stoop by little and little, even so long till the bravado dwindle into a bare—It may be so, and yet possibly it may be thus, and no man can tell us whether it be thus or so. So that whatever conquest they obtain [Page 10] (if ever they prove masters of the field) must be wholly attributed to the weakness of their adversa­ries, nothing to their own valour and prowesse. To deal clearly with you, after all that I have had to this day the opportunity to hear or read from any of these great wits, who are so greedy of the ho­nour to trample upon the Faith of Christians, yet as impatient, as the Devil himself would be, though they deserve it much more, to be called Atheists; I could never see any thing offered as a conclusion, which would amount to any more than one of your Sceptical premises: and were these all (with a thousand more as good as they) laid together with all the art and confidence whereof you and your part­ners have good store, how little strength they would have to secure you from as much folly as you charge upon others, or defend the most tolerable of your desperate resolutions from the just imputation of madness, requires no great skill in another to teach you, nor sagacity in you to learn (would you be at leisure from your vanities, and have patience to consider) without a teacher.

Who knows (say you) whether there be an Hea­ven and a life to come or no? Suppose now that this your question were altogether unanswerable, and be it as true as you would have it, that no man knows this: Yet are you far from having gain'd all that which you catch at, such a victory over the poor Christian, that you may without the just censure of vanity crow upon your beloved dunghill of unclean­ness: For if none know this, then none knows whether you or he hold the truer, though it will be [Page 11] easily seen anon which of you holds the safer opini­on. If the Christian think there is a life to come, and yet there shall be no such thing, then indeed he is in an error, and his hopes are vain; and yet I dare not say foolish, because an eternal happy life af­ter death is a thing so desirable of all, that every man would be willing to lay hold on any grounds whereon he might build any though but the weak­est hope and expectation of it. It you think there is no life to come, and yet there be one, then are you in an error, by so much the more dangerous, by how much your loss will prove greater, he losing only some temporal joys, but you eternal; and yet much more foolish, inasmuch as you both despised what confessedly was in it self above all things desi­rable, and rashly exposed your self to those torments which are of all things most formidable. If then no man yet know whether there shall be any such thing or not, then as no man can yet say which of you is in the error, so certainly the folly must fall to your lot, who make him the But of your scorn, who, for ought that either you, or any man else upon your supposition can yet tell▪ may be as wise, yea, and is probably even in his choice, certainly in his modest behaviour, much wiser than your self. But yet, good Sir, if you and your confederates have authority to play the fools part, and yet be thought the wisest on the Stage, shew us whence you have it, and we have done.

Again, you say, Who knows it? This is your way, you are ready at posing, but as slow as others in answering: and indeed this is your master-piece, [Page 12] and you know whose character the Proverbial say­ing hath made it, One fool can ask more questions than twenty wise men can answer. But suppose that in answer to your question we should affirm that we know it, or at least that it may be known: what we should thus affirm whether truly or no, you could never be able to disprove: if you say and swear we know it not, that is only to contradict not confute us; and the world hath seen no more for it as yet, but only your word and ours. If neither of us as yet have so much command over men's Faith, as to be credited in a matter of so great consequence, upon our bare assirmation or negation, then are we yet on even ground, and you have no more cause of triumph over us, then we have over you. If either may be credited on his word, why one and not both? If both, much good may it do you: It cannot be in the contradiction, but with respect to the divided parties: We say, we know it, and are believed; you say, you know it not, and are believed. Say we both true? then are we knowing and you igno­rant. Say we both falsey? then are you alike guilty with us in cousening the world by a lie: and your lie is the more pernicious, by how much greater the good is out of which you cousen it. Say we truly, and you falsly? I need not tell you what follows: But if we say falsly and you truly, you have only this advantage, that you are ignorant, and we are de­ceived: both equally to be pitied by others, but neither have cause of glorying over the other. Yet without doubt, you must be the only men who have searched into Nature's mysteries, and have been [Page 13] fitted by the advantages of Education to discover the knaveries of jugling Priests, and the follies of a deluded people: If your word may be taken for it, thus you shall be esteemed: but if your great boast­ings of your selves, will amount to no more but a piece of arrogance too well known to be essential to men of your complexion, you must still go a begging as well as we fools for Faith to believe you.

Suppose it yet once more to be as you say, that no man knows any thing of all this, yet as this will afford you no ground of glorying over others simpli­city; so neither will the unreasonable inferences you fetch thence, when throughly examined, prove either acceptable to the considering part of the world, or so much as safe or honourable to your selves: I shall shew you the former of these now, and the later in the close of this Letter.

You tell us, that seeing these things cannot be known, It is most reasonable that men should please themselves in a free enjoyment of all things they esteem good in this world, and so make to themselves as much happiness as they can here, seeing that happiness which men expect after death in another world is, for ought we know, no better than a dream. I dare not doubt, but whilest you talk at this rate, you think you say that for which the world is bound to return you many thanks, and our Churches will now be soon emptied to fill the Tavern and the Alehouse, and the jugling Priests be forced either to starve, or stand to your courtesie whether they shall be entertain'd at your doors with a hard crust or a harder cudgel. But be not angry, I beseech you, if I be bold to tell [Page 14] you, that if these be your thoughts, you flatter your self too much, and may possibly stay as long for thanks from men that can consider what they do, as you would make the poor Priests you so freely abuse, stand for an alms at your gates.

They who rightly understand the meaning of your words, and have so much wit as to think on any thing beyond their present lusts, would hardly be perswaded to think any thing, save that Hell which you deny more dreadful, than that other Hell which this your wild inference, if once generally assented to, would make upon Earth. Nay, I dare say, that could you win all men to be of the same mind, of which you at present seem to be, your self would be the first that would begin to con­tradict your self, and be ready to cut your own throat, to be revenged on your rashness in teaching men this mad lesson. Suppose that every Prince should bring his Subjects, every Lord his Tenants, every Father his Children, and every Master his Servants, first to be of this opinion, that nothing re­mains either to be feared or hoped for after death; and that they should next from this opinion take up the same resolution, to live as they list, and enjoy their pleasure without all check of conscience: I am very confident, that if the Subjects should take arms to redeem their liberty, the Tenant keep back his rent, and not own his Landlord, Children deny obedience to their Parents, and Servants refuse to labour for their Masters, those very same persons who first unadvisedly put this dangerous fancy into their heads, would rather work all means to have [Page 15] those heads taken off from their shoulders, than it should continue any longer there. How unreason­able a thing is it then in you, to triumph in derision over the Faith of Christians, which you cannot but confess is the main buttress that upholds your own best beloved interests: when, should this your darling humour, on which you now most blindly dote, as much bewitch your inferiors, as it hath done your selves, it would at once make havock of your estates and honours, and force you to do pe­nance for your follies in sackcloth and ashes?

Can you yet hug your selves in your licentious thoughts, and dream that wise men will admire and magnifie your wit? Though most men do indeed express too great a fondness for their liberty, yet I dare say a very few would be content to enjoy it up­on those terms as you do promise it. Most men do dread the effects of libertinism and licentiousness, no less than they love the causes that produce them be­fore they understand the evils they are pregnant with; and therefore although too many ears be al­ready set too wide open to your Syren notes, yet is it a thing incredible, that they should be so unwise, when their eyes are opened too to see the rocks and whirlpools into the midst of which this ravishing musick would invite them, as wilfully to run upon their own destruction. Would it not, think you, be a very pleasing thing for men to live in perpetual feuds, tumults and confusions? What a gallant in­couragement would it be to the poor husbandman, when he durst not go to plough without his guard, lest the next that comes should take away his oxen; [Page 16] nor could cast the seed into the furrows, without very reasonable fears, that another should reap the crop: when he builds an house to think that his next neighbour will set it on fire, or thrust him out of his possession: and when he is laid down to rest, not to dare to shut his eyes, lest his wife or child should cut his throat? If all the fears of Hell and endless torments, which Religion possesseth men withall, are found weak enough to keep them with­in the bounds of honesty and good-neighbourhood; then I must be bold to tell you Sir, and all wise men will easily believe me, that the reins of religion once cut in pieces by your Sophistry, and nothing after this life left for men to fear or long for; all the laws of man will be as easily broken, as Sampson's Withs; the Magistrates authority will be set at nought, and the greatest power you can imagine in the civil sword will prove too weak to secure the publick peace; or restrain the libertine from those outrages and extravagances, which would render death a thousand times more eligible than life. This is a thing too apparently the consequence of your doctrine: for who are the men, I pray you, that dare despise the gibbet and the halter for any petty prey, but those whom you have taught, or else have been before-hand with you, in believing, that as well their misery as their happiness shall end there? But your selves know very well the truth of what I now say, and are too ready to make ill use of it, to our present disturbance and your own fu­ture misery. You can tell us when you list, that Re­ligion hath the greatest power to keep the World in [Page 17] awe and order; but then you would perswade us to believe withall, that it is no more but a politick in­vention, which necessity set the wit of man on work to find out for that purpose: I am not now to dis­prove any of your assertions, being resolved to re­present you to your own eyes with all the advanta­ges you can desire; you will find, when you can but once allow your selves the liberty to consider things, that you stand in need of more than all, to win you the approbation even of your own judg­ments. For supposing this, that you would have; are not you the only politick wise men of the world, and do not we all owe you abundant thanks, for thus opening a wide gap to all confusion and disorder, and your own ruine amongst the rest of mankind; whilest you endeavour to pull down that fence which you confess was wisely made, and not with­out great cause, to secure the peace and comfort of the world?

If all this be not yet enough to let you see how much you befool your selves whilest you deride our Faith, and call your selves wise for living as you list: consider but this one thing more; how you must needs hereby deprive your selves of that only thing, besides your wit, wherein you seem to glory; I mean, the honour of being Loyal to your Prince: It is most evident, that you thus betray your selves to be the worst of subjects, and the most dangerous of all that plead for Toleration in a State or Kingdom. I confess indeed, there is a sort of people that would be thought the only men to whom the name of Saints is due, and, under a pretence of zeal and [Page 18] conscience, have made bold to murder Kings and fire Kingdoms: And possibly I shall not much mistake, if I say, that the world is beholden to the notorious hypocrisie of these zelots, for very much of that Atheism under which it now groans. Men, apt to consider so little as you are, and not able or else un­willing to see their own faces in these men, hid un­der masks; on which something is drawn resembling ours; are ready enough to conclude that we shall not dare to disown them; aud that all who have a real zeal for the Christian Faith, are either as blind or hypocritical as they. But, good Sir, I beseech you, know, that we are bold enough to pro­nounce both them and you to be dangerous enemies no less to State than Church: as their zeal is only a disguise and trick, to pass on undiscovered to their designed villanies; so your open defiance to all religi­on, and profession to seek your own pleasure in all things, makes us more than suspect, that your inte­rest or lust shall at any time take place with you, be­fore your King or Countrey. What confidence can your Prince have of your Loyalty, farther than he shall be pleased to tolerate your vanities, or you please to do him the favour, to call him Soveraign? Whatever obedience you yield unto him, he must thank you for it as a courtesie, but must not claim it as a duty. It is clear as the noon-day's Sun, that so long as you fear nothing in another world, and thereupon resolve to gratifie your humour whilest you live in this, you need not run to the Pope's uni­versal power, nor the Sectarie's blind zeal; for a dispensation to turn rebel; your own pleasure, or [Page 19] your profit, or any thing else you can esteem a part of your earthly happiness, or which can court your humour, can make all despensations to do mischief needless.

Yet still are you angry, because we will not call our selves fools for believing that our Souls are some­thing, and that they shall not vanish into aire, or nothing when we die: and why? because forsooth we cannot know it, and all is still no more but Faith. 'Tis true the things we do believe, are things unseen, neither can sense or common reason assure us of the truth of those things which we be­lieve shall be hereafter. And yet it is no less true, that neither of these can enable you to prove our Faith absurd. Nay, were you but half so much the masters of reason as you would have us think, that very reason would assure you that our Faith is reasonable, and your opinions fanciful: and that we have much more cause to pity your folly, whilest we can truly say your wicked and dangerous courses are all built upon an unreasonable fancy; than you can have to laugh at us, because our honest and conscien­tious lives are grounded, as you suppose, upon an uncertain Faith.

For let our Faith be certain or uncertain, you must needs confess it very serviceable to the world: it doth much good, and hurt it can do none. But your opinions be they true or false, are so far from any possibility of producing the least good effect, that they cannot chuse but be the parents of innu­merable mischiefs. Some of you indeed have been so rash as to affirm, That religion hath been the [Page 20] cause of all the Wars which have disturbed the world: with so impotent an eagerness of mind are you wont to declaim against what you do not love, that you can regard neither truth nor modesty in those affected heats. I will again confess unto you, that some religions have been the cause of many wars, but the true Christian religion of none: and though it be most true that even the Christian Faith hath been the subject of very hot disputes, lamen­table divisions, and most bloudy wars; yet he that shall call it the cause of any of these, shall only there­by bewray his malice or his ignorance, in imputing that to the Christian Faith, which is imputable on­ly either to the hatred of its enemies, or the errors, imperfections and hypocrisies of its professors; and always either to the want or too weak measure of it, He that reads the Histories of all ages, he that hath any insight into the Cabals and mysteries of States, he that understands the rules that Christ hath left us, cannot chuse but see that most of these evils do clearly spring from the ambition, discontent and wan­tonness of men not truly Christian: that punctilio's of honour, priviledge and worldy interest kindle those fires which consume our peace and quiet: yea, he that is half blind may see that those very wars which have been managed with a pretence to Chri­stian zeal, have come from the same forementioned fountains; and that religion hath only been made a cloak shamefully abused to cover most irreligious de­signs and actions. For if the Faith we profess bind us to nothing more than peace and love; and so se­verely prohibit all self-seeking, malice and revenge, [Page 21] that it commands us upon penalty of losing, all we hope for, and suffering all we can fear in another world, to deny our selves, and love our enemies, and bear the cross with patience, to return blessing for cursing, and good for evil; who sees not, that the world is made miserable not by the multitude of those who sincerely profess the Christian Faith, but because so few do yet imbrace it, and so many of those who in shew only and for some secular advan­tage make profession of it, are indeed and truth such as you are. Shew me a rebel, shew me an oppressor, shew me a factious and seditious zelot, in a word, shew me the man that wittingly and willingly offers the least injury to his neighbour; let him preach and pray, yea, let him wear, for fashions-sake, all the faces and formalities of religion; I will be bold to return him to you again, for none of ours, and prove to his face and yours, that he had never any more to do, than you have, with the Christian Faith, that is, to dishonour and blaspheme it, and give occasion to unconsidering men to talk unreasonably of things they will not understand.

But yet our folly, say you, is most apparent, for we pretend unto a certainty of Faith, which you think, it is impossible for any man to have: But stay Sir, our folly is not yet so evident as you would have it. Such a certainty of Faith your selves I doubt not will be ready enough to grant in some cases, as may make it very reasonable for you to acquiesce therein, and not interrupt the satisfaction which you thence receive by any farther disputation or doubt. Should any of us be so unmannerly as to [Page 22] call you fool, because you do believe you are no bastard, nay, because you do not doubt but you were born of a woman; and give you this reason for it, that you rest content with a certainty of Faith, which none can have; would you not be angry? I have sometime heard a man of your own temper, when he was in his gibing mood, and had a mind to recreate himself and his companions with such wild friskings of his playsome wit, call all men fools that durst say they knew there is any such thing as that we call a world: thus when wit begins to rave it knows not when to make an end: and that you may seem wise, not only the Christian, but all men whatsoever must be content, sometimes at least, to be thought fools; and the certainty of sense no more regarded than that of Faith: but when this Gentle­man was asked, whether he knew he had an estate in this world, and if he did not believe that man should do him wrong, that should thrust him out of his possession; or pretend a right to share with him in his inheritance? he came a little to himself, and was content to be a fool for company; he swore it stoutly that he would not so tamely part with his estate here, as we Christians in some cases are wil­ling to do, and that he would send any such bold intruder to seek a portion in that other world which we expect: Yet was this Gentleman more beholden to the certainty of Faith than Sense for the know­ledge of his right; sense could only inform him that a House and Land, &c. was there visible, and now in his possession; but other evidences creating Faith, were the only things could make him a satisfactory [Page 23] assurance of his rightful title to them. It is so clear that a man may have so great an assurance of Faith as may free him from doubting, and beget a chearful acquiescence and confidence; that we have no other assurance of any thing done before we were brought forth, or in those parts of the world which we ne­ver saw: whereof yet we conclude our selves so certain, that we would hiss at the man that should deny them. It is not therefore yet apparent that we are fools, because we pretend to a certainty of Faith; or if it be, we shall be sure to find company amongst you.

We will yet grant you this your desired advan­tage also; suppose we then, that no such certainty as we pretend to, can be had: but suppose withall that your opinion have as little of probability, as our Faith hath of certainty; the advantage is not yet so great, but that if we must be thought foolishly cre­dulous, you must also be esteem'd as foolishly opinio­native. When you have set your wits on tenters, to prove the things that we believe to have no be­ing, you are still fain to come off with a mere possi­bility, that they may not be. We will not be so unreasonable as you are, to demand of you as you ridiculously do of us, any thing like Mathematical demonstrations for your opinion of no God, no Soul, no future life, and the like; but we think it rea­sonable that you should shew us some at least pro­bable reasons for your opinion, if you will have it pass for an opinion, that is, for something rational, and not rather for a mere dotage: and yet such rea­sons shew you none, nor ever can do: your opinion [Page 24] is therefore groundless and vain. Now on the other hand, we upon all occasions produce our motives of credibility, and such grounds of believing, as all men able to exercise their reason, do account suffi­cient, to build a Faith upon, because all that mat­ters of this nature are capable of: and he that de­mands more, only declares his ignorance, and is as [...]bsurd as he that will not own there be any colours because he hears them not, or sounds, because he sees them not. Yet do we offer you more than you can justly demand; for what we have reason enough upon the true motives of credibility only, to believe, we have undeniably so much assistance both from sense and reason, as to render them high­ly probable, even in the judgment of the considering unbeliever. Now if it be thus, as you will cer­tainly find, when you shall have patience to peruse seriously the many things which are written to this purpose; then certainly is the folly yet yours, who out of a vain and groundless opinion, of the truth whereof you can give no probable account, go on to deride our Faith of things, both credible and pro­bable; and on no other account but this, that still you suppose it possible that we may be deceived.

Yea, but this is our folly, that we believe things incredible: and so you say we do; because we do believe such things to be, as far exceed the compre­hension of any mans understanding: when you have said this, you have said all; and we must either now be fools or never. But say, I pray', Is it a thing so incredible, that there should be something that we poor mortals are not able by our reason to [Page 25] comprehend? You say, indeed it is only pride which makes men hope for Heaven; the vanity of which expression it were as easie for me to shew, as you would find it hard to prove, that it is only pride which makes men humble: but I am not now to disprove your bold sayings, but reprove your un­reasonable arrogance: I shall only therefore return you this, which I think no man will say stands in need of a proof; that it is pride alone can make men think, that what their reason doth not comprehend, is not. I shall need to do no more, but wish you seriously to advise with your own Philosophy, to discover this piece of your folly to you. There you will easily learn, without my help, that incompre­hensibility by our sense and reason, is so far from ma­king any colourable proof that the thing to which it is supposed to belong is not; that even the minu­test things considerable in nature have depths un­searchable by either. Nay, it hath been often shewn you (and let me now beg this favour of you, when you next take our books into your hands, not to resolve before-hand to laugh at what should make you wise and modest) that whilest you are studying how to charge our Faith with soul absurdities; you plunge your selves, sometimes into the very same, and oft into those which confessedly on all hands are much fouler. I shall therefore leave with you this reasonable request, that you will only so long forbear to censure our Faith as absurd, till you can free your selves from those absurdities which you are forced inevitably to run into by contradict­ing it.

[Page 26] All that I have hitherto said, tends only to per­swade you, to be so just to mankind, as to think it possible some of them may be wiser and know more than your selves: or if this will not down with your proud stomachs, to imagine, (at least for a time) that you may possibly be as foolish as the wisest of those who are not of your opinion; till you have weighed well what they can plead for themselves. If we all erre, pity the frailty of our common huma­nity, and deride us not for those infirmities which are incident, or may be, to your selves. Give us leave whilest we erre both so innocently and so bene­ficially to you, to erre also peaceably. If there be no life after this to be expected; yet give us leave at least to make to our selves the same benefit of this now present, as you desire to do: that is, to please our selves as much in the comfort of our innocent hopes, as you delight your selves in your wicked en­joyments. Certainly, when you consider it well, our error (if it be one) will appear to be your no inconsiderable advantage; that Faith of ours which you make your sport, makes you a quiet and peace­able fruition of your desires. 'Tis this that keeps us from envying your honours, from breaking in up­on your inclosures, from disturbing your pleasures any other way, than by our charitable admoniti­ons; wherein our design is, not to abridge you in any part of this worlds happiness, but to invite you to share with us (if it be possible) in the glories of the next. If I mistake not now; howsoever igno­rant and foolish we may seem to be for our selves; yet this our folly, on this one account, that it seeks [Page 27] your good no less than our own, deserves your thanks, not your censure and derision; our present madness more befriending you than your own wisdom; and surely our good wishes for your future happiness, can do you as little hurt, as you imagine our hopes can do good unto our selves.

You have already, in part, seen how much you are your own enemies, in abusing your well-wishers; and yet how much more disadvantagious to your selves, are both your opinions and your practices; how little either of honour or real satisfaction you shall ever be able to reap from them, if true; and what horrid miseries they will certainly bring upon you, if false; I am now to tell you.

Doth it become a Philosopher, so great a master of reason as you are, to profess a willingness to sit down and take up your rest in the midst of your doubts; and settle in your self a firm resolution of ad­hering to that opinion which is so generally explo­ded, without any farther search or examination? Were the matters, of which we now speak, trivi­al and light; such as those unprofitable niceties, which are the sole business of too many curious wits; and which, be they true or false, known or unknown, are of equal concernment, that is, of none at all to mankind; I should not blame but com­mend your indifferency: but then the vain curiosity and indefatigable pains of these men in their inqui­sition into mere trifles and things of little or no use, doth condemn your sloth and negligence in searching no farther into these things, which you must needs grant of be of universal and eternal concernment. [Page 28] This then is all the honour that you are like to gain hereby; that the considering world looks upon you, not as upon great wits; but rather as on a company of poor baffled fools; men of low, soft and effeminate spirits; who, rather than indure to be at any more pains, have chosen to sit down and lan­guish in prepetual despair.

These, Sir, are the honourable thoughts which wise men have of you; and now see if you can re­compence this loss of reputation, by any real sa­tisfaction you can find to your selves in this your desperate course. You know not, you say, what shall be hereafter, and yet your choice is to live wick­edly now. What interpretation can this admit of; but that you are resolved to do violence to your rea­son, and strive with the variety of your vanities to confound your consciences, and stifle your fears? This is right childrens play; you shut your eyes, lest you should see what you are afraid of; and would perswade your selves that so long as you see no body, no body sees you. As they, when they are terrified by their nurses with stories of Spirits, wrap themselves over head and ears in their bed-clothes, and then fancy themselves safe enough: or as I have heard of some condemned malefactors, who drank themselves drunk when they went toward the gallows, that they might not be sensible of their sufferings; thus wisely do you sooth your selves up in your ungrounded conceits, and swill your selves in all carnal jollities, to free your selves from the terrors of a future Hell.

Give me leave to plead with you a little: You [Page 29] confess you do not certainly know, that there is no Heaven, no Hell, no future life of retribution. If you do not certainly know that these things are not, then must you needs admit of some doubts, whether they be or no; and grant that, for ought you know to the contrary, they may be. Now doth not com­mon reason instruct all men in matters doubtful, and yet very weighty, to be cantious, to study their own safety all they can, and to make choice of that wherein appeareth least of danger? Fears and doubts may indeed make some fools desperate, but they al­ways make wise men wary; and he that knows not what will be, will yet in common prudence, first diligently use all means of informing himself, and where he cannot remove his ignorance, he will wise­ly labour to improve his doubts into a provident fore­cast against all evils which he can imagine possible. Where the event is dubious, it ill becomes a wise man to rush forward at all adventures, or resolutely to pitch upon that course which (if there be a bet­ter and a worse) will undoubtedly lead him into that he hath most cause to fear. Where then, I beseech you, is that great wisdom you boast of? For if it shall so fall out, that these things at length appear to be as the Christian believes, and you know no­thing to the contrary, but so they shall be; then must you needs confess you have foolishly chosen your own destruction; and he whom you now call fool, will be found at last the only wise and happy man. How, think you, will you then curse your. own folly, and wish ten thousand times to no pur­pose, you had been so wise in time as to consider your [Page 30] latter end; and that you had embraced this warn­ing, which now I give you, to provide against that evil day, which as yet you suppose only pos­sible? But if it so fall out, that we at length appear to be deceived, and none of these things follow which we expect; when the end shall come, we are assured, that our condition can be no worse than your's. If after death be nothing, and death it self (be it what it will be) be common to us all, and make no difference of persons; if we that believe, and you that believe not, must die alike, and rot to dirt like beasts that perish; then, as you shall neither feel the loss of your pleasures past, nor retain any longer relish of them: so, neither shall we be sen­sible of the frustration of our hopes, nor be troubled with remorse for our past follies and sufferings: where all sense ceases, neither joy nor sorrow can find place.

Yet still, say you, why should we so patiently dismiss the comforts of this present life, which is all we can be sure of, in uncertain hopes of those future good things, whereof we have no assurance?

Here indeed you point out unto us the very source and spring of all your Atheism: for, were your hearts laid open, I doubt not, but we should soon find, that it was not any strength of reason that prevailed upon you to dislike our Faith; but that opposition which it now makes against your darling lusts. 'Tis only your unwillingness to forsake the present sweets of sin, that makes you set so light by the future joys of Heaven. These have gain'd so complete a conquest over your affections, that they [Page 31] will not afford you leave to think upon ought else. And because you now and then, whether you will or no, feel your selves surprized, and your pleasures interrupted, by the stealing in of some or other of those unwelcome thoughts, which you strive all you can to keep out; you set your wits on work to stu­dy all the arts of stupifying conscience, and blinding reason, that it may not see so far off, as Heaven or Hell.

That self-denial, that height of temperance and sobriety, that chearful bearing of the Gross, and constant diligence and unweariedness in holy du­ties, that unconcernedness for the world, and patient suffering of all evil, which Christ calls for in all his followers, and which we Christians believe the di­rect way to eternal happiness, are the great bug-bears that affright your poor dastardly and childish Souls from that Faith, we glory in. You can now be­hold nothing in Christianity but grim and grisly fa­ces, melancholy and dejected countenances; and we Christians appear in your eyes as so many walking things in Church-yards, and who can expect you towards should dare to come near us?

Where, all this while, are those brave spirits, that noble courage and greatness of Soul, you are wont to boast of? Have we despised Christians rob'd you of them all? Or meant you rather no more by all your brags, but only to set off that fool-hardiness and desperate height of all madness, in daring so boldly to venture on the foulest vices, to rank your selves with Beasts and Devils, and now and then to shed a little of your rank bloud in a duel, to adde a [Page 32] farther grace yet to the borrowed beauties of those whorish faces which you so much Idolize? How would an old Heathen, were he now alive, laugh you out of this new Philosophy, and that goodly title of Virtuosi, which you shamefully abuse to commend your follies to the world.

I am a little angry, I confess, when I call to mind your abominable wickedness; but yet, I will assure you, no pity is wanting in me to your persons, nor charity to lend you what assistance I am able to help you out of those foul ditches into which your wretched mistakes have thrown you.

Know then, I beseech you, that though the se­verites of a Christian life were a thousand times more than indeed they are, yet are they just nothing, when compared with those comforts, which that hope you deride, doth abundantly administer unto us. Experience shews us, how that many real and very great difficulties, which men unaccustomed to such encounters, or not animated with the like de­sires and hopes, are apt to look upon as insuperable, and esteem him mad that would expose himself unto them; seem yet easie unto those men, whose eyes and affections are all the while they struggle through them, fixed upon some thing beyond them, which they prize above all things, and have conceived some hope of attaining to, even though their assu­rance of success be as little as you now suppose ours to be. It is no news to hear of a Merchant, whose either love to wealth, or more honest desires of sup­plying his countreys needs, makes him freely venture his life and livelihood at once in a weak Vessel to [Page 33] the merciless winds and waves, all in hope of an un­certain booty: and not to trouble you with more instances in a matter so obvious to the eyes of all men; you know, how some amongst your selves, in the courtship of an uncertain honour, or what's worse, a proud unconstant woman, wade with much foolish patience through those slavish and deba­sing drudgeries, which are no less destructive to your reputation, than repugnant to your humours; 'tis visible enough, that for the uncertain hope of en­joying your beloved vanities, you are willing to want your present ease and quiet; and so far to deny your selves, as to make it a courtesie in him that will call you men. Shall it now be thought a rea­sonable thing in you thus poorly to degrade your selves, through ambition, avarice and luxury: and must it be esteem'd a folly in men, whose aims are no lower than Heaven and Eternal glory, with a chearful valour to encounter a few more tolerable hardships; which are so far from having any thing of baseness in them, that they have ever been justly accounted (even by men of meaner hopes the most renowned Heathen) the best trials and exercises of brave and generous spirits?

For tell me, what are those dreadful things unto which the Christian's love of God and Heaven doth expose him? Have not some old Heathens, who have thereby won unto themselves the Epithets of gallent, great and vertuous, even for a name writ upon a stone in golden letters, most chearfully un­dergone the same? Are not there books, yet in the hands of every School-boy, full of grave lessons of [Page 34] justice, temperance, sobriety and patience, and such other vertues as we are bound to practice, and they thought to be the only things fit to keep men up above the rank of bruits? Have not they taught us, that contempt of pleasures, and all the fading glories of the world, is the mark of a brave Soul? That poverty, and banishment, and death it self are nothing unto a truly noble spirit, whose character it is, to love vertue for it self, and admire it most, when stript of all those outward ornaments, which commend it only unto those that know not how to judge of things by their own native worth? Have not many of them left us examples of sacrificing our ease and life to the common good and honour of our Country? Shall we admire and praise these things when we read them from the pens, and see them in the lives and deaths of sober Heathens, and yet condemn them as absurd when commended to us by the Faith of Christians?

And yet, alas, all these things which so affright and trouble you, are far from being such as you ima­gine. Had you but the courage once to taste the sweetness of a Christian's life, you would presently confess your past fears as causeless, as now your censures are unreasonable, in condemning before all trial. This is that great injustice which we Christi­ans are wont to meet with at your hands; you are wedded to your lusts, and your sins have bribed you, and before a full hearing, you pass sentence, and condemn the things you most unreasonably hate, be­cause you do not know them, nor will have patience to examine and try them.

[Page 35] We do not, by our Faith, abridge our selves in any honest comfort or delight: our self-denial, when rightly understood, will appear to be the only true self-love. We abstain from that only which we think will do us hurt, and if we seem to part too freely with any thing is good, 'tis only when we are per­swaded that the keeping it would prove our loss, by hindring us from the enjoyment of a better. We think it prudence to take heed that we surfeit not on what is sweetest; and that we be not poison'd whilest we too freely indulge our palates. We are not taught to cast our goods into the Sea, save when so to do appears the only way to save our selves from being drowned. Our self-denial then is not that mo­rose thing you fancy it to be, but as sweet to us, as you can think it bitter: whilest our meanest fortunes are sweetned unto us with the pleasures of a contented mind; and the greatest loss that can now befall us, can never fall heavy on us, who live in continual expectation of a future recompence, and have learn'd to value things according to their worth.

In short, Sir, we are allowed whatsoever is agree­able to our nature, and most conducing to a healthful and a comfortable life. We have never been instruct­ed to expose our selves to unnecessary evils or suffer­ings, but with all honest and honourable caution, to prevent them: and when the Cross is laid in our way, not to baulk it through fear and cowardice, neither to step aside into the paths of wickedness to avoid it; but manfully to take it up, and bear it after our General, who as he hath encouraged us by his own example, and the glorious reward he hath set [Page 36] before us, so also doth he give us present strength enough for such a burden. Consider, I beseech you, how 'tis very possible, that all those things which you count certain comforts, and therefore think us fools in denying them unto our selves, may yet be no such comforts unto us, as they seem to you: and also that those things which you call certain evils; and we, in your opinion, do foolishly undergo; may yet appear no evils unto us, or far less than they do to you: we may possibly therefore much more freely part with the former, and with much more chear­fulness suffer the later, and be no such fools in either, as you suppose; seeing you have much different thoughts of these things from those which we have of them. Yea whilest we willingly let pass unre­garded many present pleasing and profitable things, and as chearfully undergo things unpleasant and hurtful, for uncertain things to come in a future un­certain life, as you suppose; you mightily mistake, if you think it so great a grievance to us, whose faith and hope are as strong and high, as your's are weak and low. Nay, had we no such height of confi­dence, yet the bare confideration of but a possible, though uncertain eternity of joy or sorrow, must needs be enough to make a wise man for his own safeties-sake, to chuse something less easie or comfor­table here, to secure himself for ever.

These things, I know, will not easily be driven into men of your complexion. You have already prejudiced your palate by a too greedy feeding on the things you love best, at first taste to relish the sweetness I now speak of. Neither is it possible you [Page 37] should ever be sensible of it, except you can perswade your self for some time to use abstinence, and set your self in good earnest to make some new experiments. Whether you will be at the cost and pains thus to do, I know not: but I hope I may however obtain this easie favour at your hand, not to think that all mens palates are alike, and just of the same temper with your own. You cannot but know the great variety of mens gusts, and how that some men take as much pleasure in chewing Aloes, as others do in Sugar. The Christians temper being so widely dif­ferent from yours, think it not unreasonable in him to delight in what you loath and hate: or if you will go on to laugh at him for so doing, you must grant that he hath the very same cause of deriding you, though his greater charity forbid it. Nay, think it not im­possible, that, if you should a-while examine his rea­sons, and make trial of his course of life, you might perceive a strange change in your own affections and desires.

And truly that one consideration which I have al­ready commended to you, of the safety of the Chri­stians course of life, and the hazards which attend your own, should (a man would think) prevail upon you, to try some farther experiments, before you die; and not run on so confidently in those ways, which, if there be an Hell, must certainly bring you to it. Think a little with your self, if this Letter should have found you ready to breath out your last, and going you know not whither; what fears and jealousies it would possibly have stirr'd up in you; and in the midst of what doubts and distractions your [Page 38] fearful Soul would then have expired; when you should have look'd upon your condition as then de­sperate, an eternity, for ought you know at hand; all the time already spent which should have fitted you for a comfortable entrance into it, and yet no provision at all made for it. I hope this paper will come more timely to your hand: wherein my design is only to startle you at present out of the Scorners chair, and from that couch of security whereon you now dream, and I am loth to see you sleep to death. If I may be so happy as to rouze you up a little, and perswade you to look about you, and consider the dangers which surround you, I shall yet hope that this very consideration will beget caution, and that an unwearied diligence, and a constant attendance on the means of better discoveries: even till at last you embrace that Faith which you have ignorantly Scoffed at, and by it arrive at that eternal happiness, for which you have, together with these poor en­deavours, the heartiest prayers of—