Jocelin's Chronicle, and indeed in Eadmer's _Anselm,_ and other
old monastic Books, written evidently by pious men, is this, That
there is almost no mention whatever of 'personal religion' in
them; that the whole gist of their thinking and speculation
seems to be the 'privileges of our order,' 'strict exaction of
our dues,' 'God's honour' (meaning the honour of our Saint), and
so forth. Is not this singular? A body of men, set apart for
perfecting and purifying their own souls, do not seem disturbed
about that in any measure: the 'Ideal' says nothing about its
idea; says much about finding bed and board for itself! How
is this?

Why, for one thing, bed and board are a matter very apt to come
to speech: it is much easier to _speak_ of them than of ideas;
and they are sometimes much more pressing with some! Nay, for
another thing, may not this religious reticence, in these devout
good souls, be perhaps a merit, and sign of health in them?
Jocelin, Eadmer, and such religious men, have as yet nothing of
'Methodism;' no Doubt or even root of Doubt. Religion is not a
diseased self-introspection, an agonising inquiry: their duties
are clear to them, the way of supreme good plain, indisputable,
and they are traveling on it. Religion lies over them like an
all-embracing heavenly canopy, like an atmosphere and life-
element, which is not spoken of, which in all things is
presupposed without speech. Is not serene or complete Religion
the highest aspect of human nature; as serene Cant, or complete
No-religion, is the lowest and miserablest? Between which two,
all manner of earnest Methodisms, introspections, agonising
inquiries, never so morbid, shall play their respective parts,
not without approbation.