of crooked courses. It were a vast labour to run over all the oppositions, which virtuous means, leading to a happy end, do always find in the several faculties of man; how the will itself is stubborn and froward; the passions rebellious, and impatient of suppression; the senses and sensitive appetite thwart and wayward, creeping always, like those under-celestial orbs, into another motion, quite contrary to that which the "primum mobile," illightened reason, should confer upon them. Sufficient it is, that there is a disproportion between the means of happiness, and the general nature of corrupt man. For all goodness is generally adjoined with rectitude and straightness, in that it is a rule to direct our life and therefore a good man is called an upright' man, one that is every where even and straight.' To which Aristotle perhaps had an eye, when he called his happy man "a foursquare man," which is every where smooth, stable, and like himself. But now on the other side, man's nature in this state of corruption, is a distorted and crooked nature; and therefore altogether unconformable to the goodness, which should, as a cannon, direct it to the true and principal end it aimeth at. And this is the reason, why so many men are impatient of the close and narrow passage of honesty. For crooked and reeling movers necessarily require more liberty of way, more broad courses to exercise themselves in: as we see in natural bodies, a crooked thing will not be held within so narrow bounds, as that which is straight.

CHAP. XLI.

Of the conscience; its offices of direction, conviction, comfort, watchfulness, memory, impartiality. Of conscience, ignorant, superstitious, licentious, sleeping, frightful, tempestuous.

THERE remains yet one higher and diviner act of the practical understanding, of most absolute power in man, and that is conscience; which is not any distinct faculty of the soul, but only a compounded act of reason, consisting in argumentation; or a practick syllogism, inferring always some applicative and personal conclusion, accusing or excusing.

The dignities whereof are to be gathered from the offices of it, and from the properties of it.

The main offices are three, direction, conviction, consolation; whereof the two last always presuppose the first, with a contrary qualification of breach and observance.

The direction of conscience consists in a simple discourse, or (as I may so speak) in a direct way of understanding, gathering moral or divine conclusions from a presupposed habit of principles, either from the relicks of our original knowledge naturally impressed, or by concurrence of religion and theological precepts, spiritually inspired into the practick judgement or hearts of men. The observance of which conclusions it imposeth upon all executive powers, which each particular conclusion doth most immediately concern, upon pain of hazarding our own inward peace, with that sweet repose and security of mind which follows it; and also (as the heathens themselves have observed) upon fear of incurring the displeasure of that God, concerning whom, the very light of Nature hath revealed thus much, that as his penetrating and searching eye is able to read our most retired thoughts; so his impartial and most unpreventable justice hath thunder and fire in store for the rebellious against this faculty, which he hath made to be, as it were, his officer and herald in all men's hearts.

The two latter of those offices consist in a reflection of that former discourse upon men's actions; and according as is discovered in them, either an observance or neglect of those imposed duties, the heat of that reflection is either comfortable or scorching. Now of these two, that of conviction is nothing else but a performance of that equivocal killing promise, made by the serpent unto our seduced parents; I mean, an opening of their eyes, to know with desperate sorrow the good they had irrecoverably foregone; and with fear, shame, and horror, the evil which they plunged themselves and their whole posterity into. This one act it is, which hath so often confuted that opinion of Aristotle, touching death, "That it is of all things most terrible,” in that it hath pursued many so far, as that it hath forced them to leap out of themselves, and to prefer the terror of death, and darkness of the grave, before the grisly face of a convicting conscience.

The chief dignity hereof consisteth in consolation, whereby

it diffuseth into the whole man, from a secret assurance of divine favour, (for nothing can thoroughly calm the conscience but that) a sweet tranquillity, silent peace, settled stayedness, and, which is highest of all, a ravishing con templation, and (as it were) pre-fruition of bliss and immortality.

The properties of the conscience (whereby I understand the ministeries, which it never fails to execute in man) are, as I conceive, principally three, watchfulness, memory, impartiality. It keeps always sentinel in a man's soul; and, like a register, records all our good and ill actions. Though the darkness of the night may hide us from others, and the darkness of the mind seem to hide us from ourselves; yet still hath conscience an eye to look in secret on whatsoever we do, whether in regard of ignorance or hardness. Though in many men it sleep in regard of motion, yet it never sleeps in regard of observation and notice: it may be hard and seared, it can never be blind. That writing in it which seems invisible and illegible, like letters written with the juice of lemon, when it is brought to the fire of God's judgements, will be most clear. And for the next, (if we observe it) there is nothing so much fastened in the memory, as that which conscience writes: all her censures are written with indelible characters, never to be blotted out. All or most of our knowledge forsakes us in our death; wit, acuteness, variety of language, habits of sciences; our arts, policies, inventions, all have their period and fate: only those things which conscience imprinteth, shall be so far from finding any thing in death to obliterate and raze them out, that they shall be thereby much more manifest, whether they be impressions of peace or horror. The testimonies of comfort (if true) are fastened in the heart with such a hand, as will never suffer them finally to be taken out: and if they be accusatory and condemning, the heart is so hard, and they so deep, that there is no way to get them out, but by breaking or melting the table they are written in that only course can be taken to make conscience forget.

Then, thirdly, it is a most bribeless worker; it never knows how to make a false report of any of our ways. It is (if I may so speak) God's historian, that writes not annals, but journals; the words, deeds, cogitations of hours and mo

ments. Never was there so absolute a compiler of lives as conscience. It never comes with any prejudice or acceptation of persons, but dares speak true as well of a monarch, as of a slave, Nero the Emperor shall feel as great a fire burning in his breast, as he dare wrap the poor Christians in, to light him to his lust. There is scarce one part in man but may be seduced, save his conscience. Sense oftentimes conceives things which are not: appetite and imagination can transport the will, and themselves both may be drawn by persuasion contrary to their own propensions: this only deals faithfully with him, whose witness it is, though it be to the confusion of itself, and him in whom it lodgeth. It may, I know, err sometimes, and mistake; but it can never by any insinuation be bribed to contradict its own judgement, and register white for black.

The corruption of conscience arises principally from two extremes; the one occasioned by ignorance, the other by sin: for I oppose these two here, as concurring to the corruption of conscience after a different manner. The one is, when the want of due knowledge draws the conscience to sinister determinations, either in practice or forbearance: the other, when evil habits and actions defile the conscience. Now both these contain under them sundry degrees of corruption.

From ignorance, first comes a fettered and restrained conscience; fearfully binding itself to some particular acts, without sufficient grounds. Next, a licentious and indulging conscience; giving freedom to itself in such courses, as whereunto it hath no warrant upon unacquainting itself from either.

Then from the other root there comes, first, a dead, secure, and sleeping conscience, by common and accustomary sin. A pale, sweating, and affrighted conscience, by atheistical and unnatural sins.

"Tum frigida mens est

Criminibus; tacita sudant præcordia culpa."

The guilt, which from unseen pollution springs,
Cold sweating horror on their bosom brings.

A desperate, tempestuous, and ravening conscience, from blasphemous and open sins. Not but that any of these may

come from any sin; but that the quality of some sins doth, for the most part, carry with it some particular dispositions and kinds of a distempered conscience. But because all these, as also this whole discourse, pertains to a higher science, I shall here for bear to speak more of it.

CHAP. XLII.

Of the will; its appetite, with the proper and chief objects thereof, good. Of superstition and idolatry. Of its liberty in the electing of means to an end. Of its dominion coactive and persuasive. Of fate, astrology, satanical suggestions. Of the manner of the will's operation. Motives to it. Acts of it. The conclusion.

I PROCEED to the last faculty of man's soul, his will, which doth alone govern, moderate, and overrule all his actions. The dignity whereof consisteth in three peculiar perfections; appetite, liberty, domination. The former respecteth an

end; the two latter, the means thereunto conducing. The desires are fixed on some good ", thoroughly proportionate to the wideness of the heart: then the liberty of the will, grounded on the direction of the judgement, makes choice of such means as are most proper for the attaining of that good. And lastly, the dominion employs all inferior faculties for the speedy execution of those means.

Sundry ends there are, which may be desired upon particular and conditional occasions: but the true, ultimate, utAll other ends are minis

most, and absolute good is God. tering and subordinate; he only is κυριώτατον, and ἀρχιτεκτονι xò, as Aristotle calls his felicity, the supreme and overruling end, the fountain of all other goods; from the remote participation of whose perfections, all other receive that scantling of satisfaction and proportion, which they bear unto man's will. And therefore some philosophers have simply called him "Bonum," et "Bonum Superessentiale," the only selfsustaining and self-depending good, that is only able thoroughly to satiate and replenish the unlimited desires of the soul of man.

a Arist. Eth. 1. 1. c. 11.

b Lib. 8. c. 5.

Eth. 1. 1. c. 2.