’For when unrighteous Men thought to oppress the holy Nation; they being shut up in their Houses, the Prisoners of Darkness, and fetter’d with the Bonds of a long Night, lay here exiled from the eternal Providence.  For while they supposed to lye hid in their secret Sins, they were scattered under a dark Veil of Forgetfulness, being horribly astonished and troubled with strange Apparitions—­For Wickedness, condemned by her own Witness, is very timorous, and being oppressed with Conscience, always forecasteth grievous things.  For Fear is nothing else but a betraying of the Succours which Reason offereth—­For the whole World shined with clear Light, and none were hindered in their Labour.  Over them only was spread a heavy Night, an Image of that Darkness which should afterwards receive them; but yet were they unto themselves more grievous than the Darkness.’ [1]

To Fear, so justly grounded, no Remedy can be proposed; but a Man (who hath no great Guilt hanging upon his Mind, who walks in the plain Path of Justice and Integrity, and yet either by natural Complection, or confirmed Prejudices, or Neglect of serious Reflection, suffers himself to be moved by this abject and unmanly Passion) would do well to consider, That there is nothing which deserves his Fear, but that beneficent Being who is his Friend, his Protector, his Father.  Were this one Thought strongly fixed in the Mind, what Calamity would be dreadful?  What Load can Infamy lay upon us when we are sure of the Approbation of him, who will repay the Disgrace of a Moment with the Glory of Eternity?  What Sharpness is there in Pain and Diseases, when they only hasten us on to the Pleasures that will never fade?  What sting is in Death, when we are assured that it is only the Beginning of Life?  A Man who lives so, as not to fear to die, is inconsistent with himself, if he delivers himself up to any incidental Anxiety.

The Intrepidity of a just good Man is so nobly set forth by Horace, that it cannot be too often repeated.

  ’The Man resolved and steady to his Trust,
  Inflexible to Ill, and obstinately just,
  May the rude Rabble’s Insolence despise,
  Their senseless Clamours and tumultuous Cries;
  The Tyrant’s Fierceness he beguiles,
  And the stern Brow, and the harsh Voice defies,
  And with superior Greatness smiles.

  Not the rough Whirlwind, that deforms_
  Adria’s black Gulf, and vexes it with Storms,
  The stubborn Virtue of his Soul can move;
  Not the Red Arm of angry Jove,
  That flings the Thunder from the Sky,
  And gives it Rage to roar, and Strength to fly.

  Should the whole Frame of Nature round him break,
  In Ruin and Confusion hurl’d,
  He, unconcerned, would hear the mighty Crack,
  And Stand secure amidst a falling World.’ [2]

The Vanity of Fear may be yet farther illustrated, if we reflect,

First, What we fear may not come to pass.  No human Scheme can be so accurately projected, but some little Circumstance intervening may spoil it.  He, who directs the Heart of Man at his Pleasure, and understands the Thoughts long before, may by ten thousand Accidents, or an immediate Change in the Inclinations of Men, disconcert the most subtle Project, and turn it to the Benefit of his own Servants.