This story is taken from Chapter III
Adapted to the State and Condition of
All Orders of Christians
By WILLIAM LAW, A.M.
He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.
St. LUKE viii. 8.
And behold, I come quickly, and my reward is with me.
REV. xxii. 12.
Penitens [6] was a busy, notable tradesman, and very prosperous in his
dealings, but died in the thirty-fifth year of his age.
A little before his death, when the doctors had given him over, some of
his neighbours came one evening to see him, at which time he spake thus
to them:--
I see, my friends, the tender concern you have for me, by the grief
that appears in your countenances, and I know the thoughts that you
have now about me. You think how melancholy a case it is, to see so
young a man, and in such flourishing business, delivered up to death.
And perhaps, had I visited any of you in my condition, I should have
had the same thoughts of you.
But now, my friends, my thoughts are no more like your thoughts than my
condition is like yours.
It is no trouble to me now to think, that I am to die young, or before
I have raised an estate.
These things are now sunk into such mere nothings, that I have no name
little enough to call them by. For if in a few days or hours, I am to
leave this carcass to be buried in the earth, and to find myself either
forever happy in the favour of God, or eternally separated from all
light and peace, can any words sufficiently express the littleness of
everything else?
Is there any dream like the dream of life, which amuses [7] us with the
neglect and disregard of these things? Is there any folly like the
folly of our manly state, which is too wise and busy, to be at leisure
for these reflections?
When we consider death as a misery, we only think of it as a miserable
separation from the enjoyments of this life. We seldom mourn over an
old man that dies rich, but we lament the young, that are taken away in
the progress of their fortune. You yourselves look upon me with pity,
not that I am going unprepared to meet the Judge of quick and dead, but
that I am to leave a prosperous trade in the flower of my life.
This is the wisdom of our manly thoughts. And yet what folly of the
silliest children is so great as this?
For what is there miserable, or dreadful in death, but the consequences
of it? When a man is dead, what does anything signify to him, but the
state he is then in?
Our poor friend Lepidus [8] died, you know, as he was dressing himself
for a feast: do you think it is now part of his trouble, that he did
not live till that entertainment was over? Feasts, and business, and
pleasures, and enjoyments, seem great things to us, whilst we think of
nothing else; but as soon as we add death to them, they all sink into
an equal littleness; and the soul that is separated from the body no
more laments the loss of business, than the losing of a feast.
If I am now going into the joys of God, could there be any reason to
grieve, that this happened to me before I was forty years of age? Could
it be a sad thing to go to Heaven, before I had made a few more
bargains, or stood a little longer behind a counter?
And if I am to go amongst lost spirits, could there be any reason to be
content, that this did not happen to me till I was old, and full of
riches?
If good Angels were ready to receive my soul, could it be any grief to
me, that I was dying upon a poor bed in a garret?
And if God has delivered me up to evil spirits, to be dragged by them
to places of torments, could it be any comfort to me, that they found
me upon a bed of state?
When you are as near death as I am, you will know that all the
different states of life, whether of youth or age, riches or poverty,
greatness or meanness, signify no more to you, than whether you die in
a poor or stately apartment.
The greatness of those things which follow death makes all that goes
before it sink into nothing.
Now that judgment is the next thing that I look for, and everlasting
happiness or misery is come so near me, all the enjoyments and
prosperities of life seem as vain and insignificant, and to have no
more to do with my happiness, than the clothes that I wore before I
could speak.
But, my friends, how am I surprised that I have not always had these
thoughts? for what is there in the terrors of death, in the vanities of
life, or the necessities of piety, but what I might have as easily and
fully seen in any part of my life?
What a strange thing is it, that a little health, or the poor business
of a shop, should keep us so senseless of these great things, that are
coming so fast upon us!
Just as you came in my chamber, I was thinking with myself, what
numbers of souls there are now in the world, in my condition at this
very time, surprised with a summons to the other world; some taken from
their shops and farms, others from their sports and pleasures, these at
suits of law, those at gaming tables, some on the road, others at their
own firesides, and all seized at an hour when they thought nothing of
it; frightened at the approach of death, confounded at the vanity of
all their labours, designs, and projects, astonished at the folly of
their past lives, and not knowing which way to turn their thoughts, to
find any comfort. Their consciences flying in their faces, bringing all
their sins to their remembrance, tormenting them with deepest
convictions of their own folly, presenting them with the sight of the
angry Judge, the worm that never dies, the fire that is never quenched,
the gates of hell, the powers of darkness, and the bitter pains of
eternal death.
Oh, my friends! bless God that you are not of this number, that you
have time and strength to employ yourselves in such works of piety, as
may bring you peace at the last.
And take this along with you, that there is nothing but a life of great
piety, or a death of great stupidity, that can keep off these
apprehensions.
Had I now a thousand worlds, I would give them all for one year more,
that I might present unto God one year of such devotion and good works,
as I never before so much as intended.
You, perhaps, when you consider that I have lived free from scandal and
debauchery, and in the communion of the Church, wonder to see me so
full of remorse and self-condemnation at the approach of death.
But, alas! what a poor thing is it, to have lived only free from
murder, theft, and adultery, which is all that I can say of myself.
You know, indeed, that I have never been reckoned a sot, but you are,
at the same time, witnesses, and have been frequent companions of my
intemperance, sensuality, and great indulgence. And if I am now going
to a judgment, where nothing will be rewarded but good works, I may
well be concerned, that though I am no sot, yet I have no Christian
sobriety to plead for me.
It is true, I have lived in the communion of the Church, and generally
frequented its worship and service on Sundays, when I was neither too
idle, or not otherwise disposed of by my business and pleasures. But,
then, my conformity to the public worship has been rather a thing of
course, than any real intention of doing that which the service of the
Church supposes: had it not been so, I had been oftener at Church, more
devout when there, and more fearful of ever neglecting it.
But the thing that now surprises me above all wonders is this, that I
never had so much as a general intention of living up to the piety of
the Gospel. This never so much as entered into my head or my heart. I
never once in my life considered whether I was living as the laws of
religion direct, or whether my way of life was such, as would procure
me the mercy of God at this hour.
And can it be thought that I have kept the Gospel terms of salvation,
without ever so much as intending, in any serious and deliberate
manner, either to know them, or keep them? Can it be thought that I
have pleased God with such a life as He requires, though I have lived
without ever considering what He requires, or how much I have
performed? How easy a thing would salvation be, if it could fall into
my careless hands, who have never had so much serious thought about it,
as about any one common bargain that I have made?
In the business of life I have used prudence and reflection. I have
done everything by rules and methods. I have been glad to converse with
men of experience and judgment, to find out the reasons why some fail
and others succeed in any business. I have taken no step in trade but
with great care and caution, considering every advantage or danger that
attended it. I have always had my eye upon the main end of business,
and have studied all the ways and means of being a gainer by all that I
undertook.
But what is the reason that I have brought none of these tempers to
religion? What is the reason that I, who have so often talked of the
necessity of rules, and methods, and diligence, in worldly business,
have all this while never once thought of any rules, or methods, or
managements, to carry me on in a life of piety?
Do you think anything can astonish and confound a dying man like this?
What pain do you think a man must feel, when his conscience lays all
this folly to his charge, when it shall show him how regular, exact,
and wise he has been in small matters, that are passed away like a
dream, and how stupid and senseless he has lived, without any
reflection, without any rules, in things of such eternal moment, as no
heart can sufficiently conceive them?
Had I only my frailties and imperfections to lament at this time, I
should lie here humbly trusting in the mercies of God. But, alas! how
can I call a general disregard, and a thorough neglect of all religious
improvement, a frailty or imperfection, when it was as much in my power
to have been exact, and careful, and diligent in a course of piety, as
in the business of my trade?
I could have called in as many helps, have practised as many rules, and
been taught as many certain methods of holy living, as of thriving in
my shop, had I but so intended, and desired it.
Oh, my friends! a careless life, unconcerned and unattentive to the
duties of religion, is so without all excuse, so unworthy of the mercy
of God, such a shame to the sense and reason of our minds, that I can
hardly conceive a greater punishment, than for a man to be thrown into
the state that I am in, to reflect upon it.
Penitens was here going on, but had his mouth stopped by a convulsion,
which never suffered him to speak any more. He lay convulsed about
twelve hours, and then gave up the ghost.
Now if every reader would imagine this Penitens to have been some
particular acquaintance or relation of his, and fancy that he saw and
heard all that is here described; that he stood by his bedside when his
poor friend lay in such distress and agony, lamenting the folly of his
past life, it would, in all probability, teach him such wisdom as never
entered into his heart before. If to this he should consider how often
he himself might have been surprised in the same state of negligence,
and made an example to the rest of the world, this double reflection,
both upon the distress of his friend, and the goodness of that God, who
had preserved him from it, would in all likelihood soften his heart
into holy tempers, and make him turn the remainder of his life into a
regular course of piety.
This therefore being so useful a meditation, I shall here leave the
reader, as I hope, seriously engaged in it.
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[6] Penitens, penitent almost in the sense of remorseful.
[7] Amuses = occupies the attention (cf. Watts in 1789, We are so
amused and engrossed with the things of sense that we forget our
Maker).
[8] Lepidus = elegant.