But if, with sound and good legs, you would not stir one step, till you had got _crutches_ to hop with; surely a man might shew you the folly of not walking with your own legs, without being thought an enemy to crutches, or the makers of them. Now a _manual_ is not so good an help, as _crutches_, and yet you see crutches are only proper, when our legs cannot do their office. It is, I say, not so good an help as crutches, because that which you do with the crutches, is that very same thing, that you should have done with your legs: you _really_ travel; but when the heart cannot take one step in prayer, and you therefore read your manual, you do not do that very same thing, which your heart should have done, that is, _really_ pray. A fine manual therefore is not to be considered as a means of praying, or as something that puts you in a state of prayer, as crutches help you to travel; but its chief use to a dead and hardened heart, that has no prayer of its own, is to shew it, what a _state_ and _spirit_ of prayer it _wants_, and at what a sad distance it is from feeling all that variety of humble, penitent, grateful, fervent, resigned, loving sentiments, which are described in the manual, that so, being touched with a view of its own miserable state, it may begin its own prayer to God for help. But I have done. _Theophilus_ may now answer your earnest request. _Theophilus._ Your earnest desire, _Academicus_, to live in the spirit of prayer, and be truly governed by it, is a most excellent desire; for to be a man of prayer is that which the apostle means by _living in the Spirit, and having our conversation in heaven_. It is to have done, not only with the confessed vices, but with the allowed follies and vanities of this world. To tell such a soul of the innocency of levity, that it need not run away from idle discourse, vain gaiety, and trifling mirth, as being the harmless relief of our heavy natures, is like telling the flame, that it need not ascend upwards. But here you are to observe, that this spirit of prayer is not to be taught you by a book, or brought into you by an art from without; but must arise from within, from the _painful_ sense and feeling of what you are. And its first prayer is nothing else but a sense of penitence, self-condemnation, confession, and humility. It feels nothing but its own misery, and so is all humility. This prayer of humility is met by the divine love, the mercifulness of God embraces it; and then its prayer is changed into hymns, and songs, and thanksgivings. When this state of fervour has done its work, has melted away all earthly passions and affections, and left no inclination in the soul, but to delight in God alone, then its prayer changes again. It is now come so near to God, has found such union with him, that it does not so much pray as live in God. Its prayer is not any particular faculty, not confined to times, or words, or place, but is the work of his whole