But let us not lose sight of the argument in pursuit of the simile.
Let us remember various as our excursions are, — that we have still set our faces towards Jerusalem — that we have a place of rest and happiness, towards which we hasten, and that the way to get there is not so much to please our hearts, as to improve them in virtue; — that mirth and feasting are usually no friends to atchievements of this kind — but that a season of affliction is in some sort a season of piety — not only because our sufferings are apt to put us in mind of our sins, but that by the check and interruption which they give to our pursuits, they allow us what the hurry and bustle of the world too often deny us, — and that is a little time for reflection, which is all that most of us want to make us wiser and better men; — that at certain times it is so necessary a man’s mind should be turned towards itself, that rather than want occasions, he had better purchase them at the expence of his present happiness. — He had better, as the text expresses it, go to the house of mourning, where he will meet with something to subdue his passions, than to the house of feasting, where the joy and gaity of the place is likely to excite them — That whereas the entertainments and caresses of the one place, expose his heart and lay it open to temptations — the sorrows of the other defend it, and as naturally shut them from it. So strange and unaccountable a creature is man! he is so framed, that he cannot but pursue happiness — and yet unless he is made sometimes miserable, how apt is he to mistake the way which can only lead him to the accomplishment of his own wishes!
This is the full force of the wise man’s declaration. — But to do further justice to his words, I would endeavour to bring the subject still nearer. — For which purpose, it will be necessary to stop here, and take a transient view of the two places here referred to, — the house of mourning, and the house of feasting. Give me leave therefore, I beseech you, to recall both of them for a moment, to your imaginations, that from thence I may appeal to your hearts, how faithfully, and upon what good grounds, the effects and natural operations of each upon our minds are intimated in the text.
And first, let us look into the house of feasting.
And here, to be as fair and candid as possible in the description of this, we will not take it from the worst originals, such as are opened merely for the sale of virtue, and so calculated for the end, that the disguise each is under not only gives power safely to drive on the bargain, but safely to carry it into execution too.
This, we will not suppose to be the case — nor let us even imagine, the house of feasting, to be such a scene of intemperance and excess, as the house of feasting does often exhibit; — but let us take it from one, as little exceptionable as we can — where there is, or at least appears nothing really criminal, — but where every thing seems to be kept within the visible bounds of moderation and sobriety.
Imagine then, such a house of feasting, where either by consent or invitation a number of each sex is drawn together for no other purpose but the enjoyment and mutual entertainment of each other, which we will suppose shall arise from no other pleasures but what custom authorises, and religion does not absolutely forbid.
Before we enter — let us examine, what must be the sentiments of each individual previous to his arrival, and we shall find that however they may differ from one another in tempers and opinions, that every one seems to agree in this — that as he is going to a house dedicated to joy and mirth, it was fit he should divest himself of whatever was likely to contradict that intention, or be inconsistent with it. — That for this purpose, he had left his cares — his serious thoughts — and his moral reflections behind him, and was come forth from home with only such dispositions and gaiety of heart as suited the occasion, and promoted the intended mirth and jollity of the place. With this preparation of mind, which is as little as can be supposed, since it will amount to no more than a desire in each to render himself an acceptable guest, — let us conceive them entering into the house of feasting, with hearts set loose from grave restraints, and open to the expectations of receiving pleasure. It is not necessary, as I premised, to bring intemperance into this scene — or to suppose such an excess in the gratification of the appetites as shall ferment the blood and set the desires in a flame: — Let us admit no more of it therefore, than will gently stir them, and fit them for the impressions which so benevolent a commerce will naturally excite. In this disposition thus wrought upon beforehand and already improved to this purpose, — take notice, how mechanically the thoughts and spirits rise — how soon, and insensibly, they are got above the pitch and first bounds which cooler hours would have marked.
When the gay and smiling aspect of things has begun to leave the passages to a man’s heart thus thoughtlessly unguarded — when kind and caressing looks of every object without that can flatter his senses, have conspired with the enemy within to betray him, and put him off his defence — when music likewise has lent her aid, and tried her power upon his passions — when the voice of singing men, and the voice of singing women with the sound of the viol and the lute have broke in upon his soul, and in some tender notes have touched the secret springs of rapture — that moment let us dissect and look into his heart — see how vain! how weak! how empty a thing it is! Look through its several recesses, — those pure mansions formed for the reception of innocence and virtue — sad spectacle! Behold those fair inhabitants now dispossessed — turned out of their sacred dwellings to make room — for what? — at the best for levity and indiscretion — perhaps for folly — it may be for more impure guests, which possibly in so general a riot of the mind and senses may take occasion to enter unsuspected at the same time.
In a scene and disposition thus described — can the most cautious say — thus far shall my desires go — and no farther? or will the coolest and most circumspect say, when pleasure has taken full possession of his heart, that no thought nor purpose shall arise there, which he would have concealed? — In those loose and unguarded moments the imagination is not always at command — in spite of reason and reflection, it will forceably carry him sometimes whither he would not — like the unclean spirit, in the parent’s sad description of his child’s case, which took him, and oft times cast him into the fire to destroy him, and wheresoever it taketh him, it teareth him, and hardly departeth from him.
But this, you’ll say, is the worst account of what the mind may suffer here.
Why may we not make more favourable suppositions? — that numbers by exercise and custom to such encounters, learn gradually to despise and triumph over them; — that the minds of many are not so susceptible of warm impressions, or so badly fortified against them, that pleasure should easily corrupt or soften them; — that it would be hard to suppose, of the great multitudes which daily throng and press into this house of feasting, but that numbers come out of it again, with all the innocence with which they entered; — and that if both sexes are included in the computation, what fair examples shall we see of many of so pure and chaste a turn of mind — that the house of feasting, with all its charms and temptations, was never able to excite a thought, or awaken an inclination which virtue need to blush at — or which the most scrupulous conscience might not support. God forbid we should say otherwise: — no doubt, numbers of all ages escape unhurt, and get off this dangerous sea without shipwreck. Yet, are they not to be reckoned amongst the more fortunate adventurers? — and though one would absolutely prohibit the attempt, or be so cynical as to condemn every one who tries it, since there are so many I suppose who cannot well do otherwise, and whose condition and situation in life unavoidably force them upon it — yet we may be allowed to describe this fair and flattering coast — we may point out the unsuspected dangers of it, and warn the unwary passenger, where they lay. We may shew him what hazards his youth and inexperience will run, how little he can gain by the venture, and how much wiser and better it would be [as is implied in the text] to seek occasions rather to improve his little stock of virtue than incautiously expose it to so unequal a
chance, where the best he can hope is to return safe with what treasure he carried out — but where probably, he may be so unfortunate as to lose it all — be lost himself, and undone for ever.
Thus much for the house of feasting; which, by the way, though generally open at other times of the year throughout the world, is supposed in christian countries, now every where to be universally shut up. And, in truth, I have been more full in my cautions against it, not only as reason requires, — but in reverence to this season wherein our church exacts a more particular forbearance and self-denial in this point, and thereby adds to the restraints upon pleasure and entertainments which this representation of things has suggested against them already.
Here then, let us turn aside, from this gay scene; and suffer me to take you with me for a moment to one much fitter for your meditation. Let us go into the house of mourning, made so, by such afflictions as have been brought in, merely by the common cross accidents and disasters to which our condition is exposed, — where perhaps, the aged parents sit broken hearted, pierced to their souls with the folly and indiscretion of a thankless child — the child of their prayers, in whom all their hopes and expectations centred: — perhaps a more affecting scene — a virtuous family lying pinched with want, where the unfortunate support of it, having long struggled with a train of misfortunes, and bravely fought up against them — is now piteously borne down at the last — overwhelmed with a cruel blow which no forecast or frugality could have prevented. — O GOD! look upon his afflictions. — Behold him distracted with many sorrows, surrounded with the tender pledges of his love, and the partner of his cares — without bread to give them, — unable, from the remembrance of better days, to dig; — to beg, ashamed.
When we enter into the house of mourning such as this, — it is impossible to insult the unfortunate even with an improper look — under whatever levity and dissipation of heart. Such objects catch our eyes, — they catch likewise our attentions, collect and call home our scattered thoughts, and exercise them with wisdom. A transient scene of distress, such as is here sketch’d, how soon does it furnish materials to set the mind at work? how necessarily does it engage it to the consideration of the miseries and misfortunes, the dangers and calamities to which the life of man is subject. By holding up such a glass before it, it forces the mind to see and reflect upon the vanity, — the perishing condition and uncertain tenure of every thing in this world. From reflections of this serious cast, the thoughts insensibly carry us farther — and from considering, what we are — what kind of world we live in, and what evils befall us in it, they set us to look forwards at what possibly we shall be — for what kind of world we are intended — what evils may befall us there — and what provision we should make against them, here, whilst we have time and opportunity.
If these lessons are so inseparable from the house of mourning here supposed — we shall find it a still more instructive school of wisdom when we take a view of the place in that more affecting light in which the wise man seems to confine it in the text, in which, by the house of mourning, I believe, he means that particular scene of sorrow where there is lamentation and mourning for the dead.
Turn in hither, I beseech you, for a moment. Behold a dead man ready to be carried out, the only son of his mother, and she a widow. Perhaps a more affecting spectacle — a kind and an indulgent father of a numerous family, lies breathless — snatch’d away in the strength of his age — torn in an evil hour from his children and the bosom of a disconsolate wife.
Behold much people of the city gathered together to mix their tears, with settled sorrow in their looks, going heavily along to the house of mourning, to perform that last melancholy office, which when the debt of nature is payed, we are called upon to pay each other.
If this sad occasion which leads him there, has not done it already, take notice, to what a serious and devout frame of mind every man is reduced, the moment he enters this gate of affliction. The busy and fluttering spirits, which in the house of mirth were wont to transport him from one diverting object to another — see how they are fallen! how peaceably they are laid! in this gloomy mansion full of shades and uncomfortable damps to seize the soul — see, the light and easy heart, which never knew what it was to think before, how pensive it is now, how soft, how susceptible, how full of religious impressions, how deeply it is smitten with sense and with a love of virtue. Could we, in this crisis, whilst this empire of reason and religion lasts, and the heart is thus exercised with wisdom and busied with heavenly contemplations — could we see it naked as it is — stripped of all its passions, unspotted by the world, and regardless of its pleasures — we might then safely rest our cause, upon this single evidence, and appeal to the most sensual, whether Solomon has not made a just determination here, in favour of the house of mourning? — not for its own sake, but as it is fruitful in virtue, and becomes the occasion of so much good. Without this end, sorrow I own has no use, but to shorten a man’s days — nor can gravity, with all its studied solemnity of look and carriage, serve any end but to make one half of the world merry, and impose upon the other.
Consider what has been said, and may GOD of his mercy bless you. Amen.
SERMON III. PHILANTROPY RECOMMENDED.
LUKE x. 36, 37.
Which now of these three, thinkest thou, was neighbour unto him that fell amongst the thieves? — And he said, he that shewed mercy on him. Then said Jesus unto him — Go, and do thou likewise.
IN the foregoing verses of this chapter, the Evangelist relates, that a certain lawyer stood up and tempted JESUS, saying, master, what shall I do to inherit eternal life? — To which enquiry, our SAVIOUR, as his manner was, when any ensnaring question was put to him, which he saw proceeded more from a design to entangle him, than an honest view of getting information — instead of giving a direct answer which might afford a handle to malice, or at best serve only to gratify an impertinent humour — he immediately retorts the question upon the man who asked it, and unavoidably puts him upon the necessity of answering himself; — and as in the present case, the particular profession of the enquirer, and his supposed general knowledge of all other branches of learning, left no room to suspect, he could be ignorant of the true answer to his question, and especially of what every one knew was delivered upon that head by their great Legislator, our SAVIOUR therefore refers him to his own memory of what he had found there in the course of his studies — What is written in the law, how readest thou? — upon which the enquirer reciting the general heads of our duty to GOD and MAN as delivered in the 18th of Leviticus and the 6th of Deuteronomy, — namely — That we should worship the Lord our God with all our hearts, and love our neighbour as ourselves; our blessed SAVIOUR tells him, he had answered right, and if he followed that lesson, he could not fail of the blessing he seemed desirous to inherit. — This do and thou shalt live.
But he, as the context tell us, willing to justify himself — willing possibly to gain more credit in the conference, or hoping perhaps to hear such a partial and narrow definition of the word neighbour as would suit his own principles, and justify some particular oppressions of his own, or those of which his whole order lay under an accusation — says unto JESUS in the 29th verse, — And who is my neighbour? though the demand at first sight may seem utterly trifling, yet was it far from being so in fact. For according as you understood the term in a more or a less restrained sense — it produced many necessary variations in the duties you owed from that relation. — Our blessed SAVIOUR, to rectify any partial and pernicious mistake in this matter, and place at once this duty of the love of our neighbour upon its true bottom of philanthropy and universal kindness, makes answer to the proposed question, not by any far fetch’d refinement from the schools of the Rabbis, which might have sooner silenced than convinced the man — but by a direct appeal to human nature in an instance he relates of a man falling amongst thieves, left in the greatest distress imaginable, till by chance a Samaritan, an utter stranger, coming where he was, by an
act of great goodness and compassion, not only relieved him at present, but took him under his protection, and generously provided for his future safety.
On the close of which engaging account — our SAVIOUR appeals to the man’s own heart in the first verse of the text — Which now of these three thinkest thou was neighbour unto him that fell amongst the thieves? and instead of drawing the inference himself, leaves him to decide in favour of so noble a principle so evidently founded in mercy. — The lawyer, struck with the truth and justice of the doctrine, and frankly acknowledging the force of it, our blessed SAVIOUR concludes the debate with a short admonition, that he would practise what he had approved — and go, and imitate that fair example of universal benevolence which it had set before him.
In the remaining part of the discourse I shall follow the same plan; and therefore shall beg leave to enlarge first upon the story itself, with such reflections as will rise from it; and conclude, as our SAVIOUR has done, with the same exhortation to kindness and humanity which so naturally falls from it.
A certain man, says our SAVIOUR, went down from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves, who stripped him of his rayment and departed, leaving him half dead. There is something in our nature which engages us to take part in every accident to which man is subject, from what cause soever it may have happened; but in such calamities as a man has fallen into through mere misfortune, to be charged upon no fault or indiscretion of himself, there is something then so truly interesting, that at the first sight we generally make them our own, not altogether from a reflection that they might have been or may be so, but oftener from a certain generosity and tenderness of nature which disposes us for compassion, abstracted from all considerations of self. So that without any observable act of the will, we suffer with the unfortunate, and feel a weight upon our spirits we know not why, on seeing the most common instances of their distress. But where the spectacle is uncommonly tragical, and complicated with many circumstances of misery, the mind is then taken captive at once, and, were it inclined to it, has no power to make resistance, but surrenders itself to all the tender emotions of pity and deep concern. So that when one considers this friendly part of our nature without looking farther, one would think it impossible for man to look upon misery, without finding himself in some measure attached to the interest of him who suffers it. — I say, one would think it impossible — for there are some tempers — how shall I describe them? — formed either of such impenetrable matter, or wrought up by habitual selfishness to such an utter insensibility of what becomes of the fortunes of their fellow-creatures, as if they were not partakers of the same nature, or had no lot or connection at all with the species.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 77
