SERMON I.

THE great purſuit of man is after happineſs: it is the firſt and ſtrongeſt deſire of his na⯑ture — in every ſtage of his life, he ſearches for it, as for hid treaſure — courts it under a thouſand different ſhapes — and though perpetually diſappointed, — ſtill perſiſts — runs after and enquires for it afreſh — aſks every paſſenger who comes in his way — Who will ſhew him any good? — who will aſſiſt him in the attainment of it, or direct him to the [2] diſcovery of this great end of all his wiſhes?

He is told by one, to ſearch for it amongſt the more gay and youthful plea⯑ſures of life, in ſcenes of mirth and ſprightlineſs where happineſs ever pre⯑ſides, and is ever to be known by the joy and laughter which he will ſee, at once painted in her looks.

A ſecond, with a graver aſpect, points out to the coſtly dwellings which pride and extravagance have erected — tells the enquirer that the object he is in ſearch of inhabits there — that happineſs lives only in company with the great in the midſt of much pomp and outward ſtate. That he will eaſily find her out by the coat of many colours ſhe has on, and the great luxury and expence of equipage [3] and furniture with which ſhe always ſits ſurrounded.

The miſer bleſſes GOD! — wonders how any one would miſlead, and wilfully put him upon ſo wrong a ſcent — con⯑vinces him that happineſs and extrava⯑gance never inhabited under the ſame roof — that if he would not be diſap⯑pointed in his ſearch, he muſt look into the plain and thrifty dwelling of the pru⯑dent man, who knows and underſtands the worth of money, and cautiouſly lays it up againſt an evil hour: that it is not the proſtitution of wealth upon the paſ⯑ſions, or the parting with it at all, that conſtitutes happineſs — but that it is the keeping it together, and the having and holding it faſt to their heirs for ever which are the chief attributes that form this [4] great idol of human worſhip to which ſo much incenſe is offered up every day.

The epicure, though he eaſily rectifies ſo groſs a miſtake, yet at the ſame time he plunges him, if poſſible, into a greater; for, hearing the object of his purſuit to be happineſs, and knowing of no other happineſs than what is ſeated immedi⯑ately in the ſenſes — He ſends the enqui⯑rer there — tells him 'tis in vain to ſearch elſewhere for it, than where nature her⯑ſelf has placed it — in the indulgence and gratification of the appetites which are given us for that end: and in a word — if he will not take his opinion in the matter — he may truſt the word of a much wiſer man who has aſſured us — that there is nothing better in this world, than that a man ſhould eat and drink and rejoice in his works, and make his ſoul [5] enjoy good in his labour — for that is his portion.

To reſcue him from this brutal expe⯑riment — ambition takes him by the hand and carries him into the world — ſhews him all the kingdoms of the earth and the glory of them — points out the many ways of advancing his fortune and rai⯑ſing himſelf to honour — lays before his eyes all the charms and bewitching temptations of power, and aſks if there can be any happineſs in this world like that of being careſſed, courted, flattered and followed?

To cloſe all, the philoſopher meets him buſtling in the full career of this purſuit — ſtops him — tells him, if he is in ſearch of happineſs, he is far gone out of his way.

[6]That this deity has long been baniſhed from noiſe and tumults, where there was no reſt found for her, and was fled into ſolitude far from all commerce of the world; and in a word, if he would find her, he muſt leave this buſy and intri⯑guing ſcene, and go back to that peaceful ſcene of retirement and books, from which he at firſt ſet out.

In this circle too often does man run, tries all experiments, and generally ſits down weary and diſſatisfied with them all at laſt — in utter deſpair of ever ac⯑compliſhing what he wants — nor know⯑ing what to truſt to after ſo many diſ⯑appointments; or where to lay the fault, whether in the incapacity of his own nature, or the inſufficiency of the enjoy⯑ments themſelves.

[7]In this uncertain and perplexed ſtate — without knowledge which way to turn or where to betake ourſelves for refuge — ſo often abuſed and deceived by the many who pretend thus to ſhew us any good — LORD! ſays the pſalmiſt, Lift up the light of thy countenance upon us. Send us, ſome rays of thy grace and heavenly wiſdom in this benighted ſearch after happineſs to direct us ſafely to it. O GOD! let us not wander for ever without a guide in this dark region in endleſs purſuit of our miſtaken good, but lighten our eyes that we ſleep not in death — but open to them the comforts of thy holy word and religion — lift up the light of thy countenance upon us, — and make us know the joy and ſatis⯑faction [8] of living in the true faith and fear of thee, which only can carry us to this haven of reſt where we would be — that ſure haven, where true joys are to be found, which will at length not only an⯑ſwer all our expectations — but ſatisfy the moſt unbounded of our wiſhes for ever and ever.

The words thus opened, naturally re⯑duce the remaining part of the diſcourſe under two heads — The firſt part of the verſe — there be many that ſay, who will ſhew us any good — To make ſome reflections upon the inſufficiency of moſt of our enjoyments towards the attain⯑ment of happineſs, upon ſome of the moſt received plans on which 'tis gene⯑rally ſought.

[9]The examination of which will lead us up to the ſource, and true ſecret of all happineſs, ſuggeſted to us in the latter part of the verſe — LORD! lift thou up the light of thy countenance upon us — that there can be no real happineſs with⯑out religion and virtue, and the aſſiſtance of GOD's grace and Holy Spirit to direct our lives in the true purſuit of it.

Let us enquire into the Diſappoint⯑ments of human happineſs, on ſome of the moſt received plans on which 'tis generally ſought for and expected, by the bulk of mankind.

There is hardly any ſubject more ex⯑hauſted, or which at one time or other has afforded more matter for argument [10] and declamation, than this one, of the inſufficiency of our enjoyments. Scarce a reformed ſenſualiſt from Solomon down to our own days, who has not in ſome fits of repentance or diſappointment ut⯑tered ſome ſharp reflection upon the emp⯑tineſs of human pleaſure, and of the vanity of vanities which diſcovers itſelf in all the purſuits of mortal man. — But the miſchief has been, that though ſo many good things have been ſaid, they have generally had the fate to be conſi⯑dered either as the overflowings of diſ⯑guſt from ſated appetites which could no longer reliſh the pleaſures of life, or as the declamatory opinions of recluſe and ſplenetic men who had never taſted them at all, and conſequently were thought no judges of the matter. So that 'tis no great wonder, if the greateſt part of ſuch reflections, however juſt in themſelves [11] and founded on truth and a knowledge of the world, are found to leave little impreſſion where the imagination was already heated with great expectations of future happineſs; and that the beſt lec⯑tures that have been read upon the vanity of the world, ſo ſeldom ſtop a man in the purſuit of the object of his deſire, or give him half the conviction, that the poſſeſſion of it will, and what the expe⯑rience of his own life, or a careful ob⯑ſervation upon the life of others, do at length generally confirm to us all.

Let us endeavour then to try the cauſe upon this iſſue; and inſtead of recurring to the common arguments or taking any one's word in the caſe, let us truſt to matter of fact; and if upon enquiry, it appears that the actions of mankind are not to be accounted for upon any other [12] principle, but this of the inſufficiency of our enjoyments, 'twill go further to⯑wards the eſtabliſhment of the truth of this part of the diſcourſe, than a thou⯑ſand ſpeculative arguments which might be offered upon the occaſion.

Now if we take a ſurvey of the life of man from the time he is come to rea⯑ſon, to the lateſt decline of it in old age. — we ſhall find him engaged, and gene⯑rally hurried on in ſuch a ſucceſſion of different purſuits, and different opinions of things, through the different ſtages of his life — as will admit of no expli⯑cation, but this, that he finds no reſt for the ſole of his foot, on any of the plans where he has been led to expect it.

The moment he is got looſe from tu⯑tors and governors, and is left to judge [13] for himſelf, and purſue this ſcheme his own way — his firſt thoughts are gene⯑rally full of the mighty happineſs which he is going to enter upon, from the free enjoyment of the pleaſures in which he ſees others of his age and fortune en⯑gaged.

In conſequence of this — take notice, how his imagination is caught by every glittering appearance that flatters this expectation. — Obſerve what impreſſions are made upon his ſenſes, by diverſions, muſic, dreſs and beauty — and how his ſpirits are upon the wing, flying in pur⯑ſuit of them; that you would think he could never have enough.

Leave him to himſelf a few years, till the edge of appetite is wore down — and you will ſcarce know him again. You [14] will find him entered into engagements, and ſetting up for a man of buſineſs and conduct, talking of no other happineſs but what centers in projects of making the moſt of this world, and providing for his children, and children's children after them. Examine his notions, he will tell you, that the gayer pleaſures of youth, are fit only for thoſe who know not how to diſpoſe of themſelves and time to better advantage. That however fair and promiſing they might appear to a man unpracticed in them — they were no better than a life of folly and impertinence, and ſo far from an⯑ſwering your expectations of happineſs, 'twas well if you eſcaped without pain. — That in every experiment he had tried, he had found more bitter than ſweet, and for the little pleaſure one could ſnatch — it too often left a terrible ſting behind it: [15] Beſides, did the ballance lay on the other ſide, he would tell you, there could be no true ſatisfaction where a life runs on in ſo giddy a circle, out of which a wiſe man ſhould extricate himſelf as ſoon as he can, that he may begin to look forwards. — That it becomes a man of character and conſequence to lay aſide childiſh things, to take care of his intereſts, to eſtabliſh the fortune of his family, and place it out of want and dependance: and in a word, if there is ſuch a thing as happineſs upon earth, it muſt conſiſt in the accompliſhment of this; — and for his own part, if GOD ſhould proſper his endeavours ſo as to be worth ſuch a ſum, or to be able to bring ſuch a point to bear — he ſhall be one of the happieſt of the ſons of men. — In full aſſurance of this, on he drudges — plots — contrives — riſes early — late takes reſt, [16] and eats the bread of carefulneſs, till at length, by hard labour and perſeverance, he has reached, if not outgone the object he had firſt in view. — When he has got thus far — if he is a plain and ſincere man, he will make no ſcruple to acknowledge truly, what alteration he has found in himſelf — if you aſk him — he will tell you, that his imagination painted ſomething before his eyes, the reality of which he has not yet attained to: that with all the accumulation of his wealth, he neither lives the merrier, ſleeps the ſounder, or has leſs care and anxiety upon his ſpi⯑rits, than at his firſt ſetting out.

Perhaps, you'll ſay, ſome dignity, ho⯑nour, or title is only wanting — Oh! could I accompliſh that, as there would be nothing left then for me to wiſh, good GOD! how happy ſhould I be? — [17] 'tis ſtill the ſame — the dignity or title — though they crown his head with honor — add not one cubit to his happineſs. Upon ſumming up the account, all is found to be ſeated merely in the imagi⯑nation — The faſter he has purſued, the faſter the phantom fled before him, and to uſe the Satyriſt's compariſon of the chariot wheels, — haſte as they will, they muſt for ever keep the ſame diſtance.

But what? though I have been thus far diſappointed in my expectations of happineſs from the poſſeſſion of riches — ‘"Let me try, whether I ſhall not meet with it, in the ſpending and faſhion⯑able enjoyment of them."’

Behold! I will get me down, and make me great works, and build me [18] houſes, and plant me vineyards, and make me gardens and pools of water. And I will get me ſervants and maidens, and whatſoever my eyes deſire, I will not keep from them.

In proſecution of this — he drops all gainful purſuits — withdraws himſelf from the buſy part of the world — rea⯑lizes — pulls down — builds up again. — Buys ſtatues, pictures — plants — and plucks up by the roots — levels moun⯑tains — and fills up vallies — turns rivers into dry ground, and dry ground into rivers. — Says unto this man, go, and he goeth, and unto another, do this, and he doeth it, — and whatſoever his ſoul luſteth after of this kind, he withholds not from it. When every thing is thus planned by himſelf, and executed accord⯑ing to his wiſh and direction, ſurely he [19] is arrived to the accompliſhment of his wiſhes, and has got to the ſummit of all human happineſs? — Let the moſt fortu⯑nate adventurers in this way, anſwer the queſtion for him, and ſay — how often, it riſes higher than a bare and ſimple amuſement — and well, if you can com⯑pound for that — ſince 'tis often purchaſed at ſo high a price, and ſoured by a mixture of other incidental vexations, as to become too often a work of repen⯑tance, which in the end will extort the ſame ſorrowful confeſſion from him, which it did from Solomon, in the like caſe. — Lo! I looked on all the Works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that I had laboured to do — and behold all was vanity and vexation of ſpirit — and there was no profit to me under the ſun.

[20]To inflame this account the more — 'twill be no miracle, if upon caſting up he has gone further lengths than he firſt intended, run into expences which have entangled his fortune, and brought him⯑ſelf into ſuch difficulties as to make way for the laſt experiment he can try — to turn miſer with no happineſs in view but what is to riſe out of the little deſigns of a ſordid mind, ſet upon ſaving and ſcraping up — all he has injudiciouſly ſpent. In this laſt ſtage — behold him a poor trembling wretch, ſhut up from all mankind — ſinking into utter con⯑tempt, ſpending careful days and ſleep⯑leſs nights in purſuit of what a narrow and contracted heart can never enjoy: — And here let us leave him to the con⯑viction he will one day find — That there is no end of his labour — That his eyes will never be ſatisfied with riches, or will [21] ſay — For whom do I labour and bereave myſelf of reſt? — This is alſo a ſore travel.

I believe this is no uncommon picture of the diſappointments of human life — and the manner our pleaſures and enjoy⯑ments ſlip from under us in every ſtage of our life. And though I would not be thought by it, as if I was denying the reality of pleaſures, diſputing the being of them, any more, than one would, the reality of pain — Yet I muſt obſerve on this head, that there is a plain diſtinction to be made betwixt pleaſure and happineſs. For tho' there can be no happineſs without pleaſure — yet the converſe of the propoſition will not hold true. — We are ſo made, that from the common gratifications of our appetites, and the impreſſions of a thouſand objects, we ſnatch the one, like a tranſient gleam, without being ſuffered to taſte the other, [22] and enjoy that perpetual ſun-ſhine and fair weather which conſtantly attend it. This, I contend, is only to be found in religion — in the conſciouſneſs of virtue — and the ſure and certain hopes of a better life, which brightens all our pro⯑ſpects, and leaves no room to dread diſ⯑appointments — becauſe the expectation of it is built upon a rock, whoſe founda⯑tions are as deep as thoſe of heaven and hell.

And tho' in our pilgrimage through this world — ſome of us may be ſo for⯑tunate as to meet with ſome clear foun⯑tains by the way, that may cool for a few moments, the heat of this great thirſt of happineſs — yet our Saviour, who knew the world, tho' he enjoyed but little of it, tells us, that whoſoever drinketh of this water will thirſt again: [23] — and we all find by experience it is ſo, and by reaſon that it always muſt be ſo.

I conclude with a ſhort obſervation upon Solomon's evidence in this caſe.

Never did the buſy brain of a lean and hectick chymiſt ſearch for the phi⯑loſopher's ſtone with more pains and ar⯑dour than this great man did after hap⯑pineſs. — He was one of the wiſeſt en⯑quirers into nature — had tried all her powers and capacities, and after a thou⯑ſand vain ſpeculations and vile experi⯑ments, he affirmed at length, it lay hid in no one thing he had tried — like the chymick's projections, all had ended in ſmoak, or what was worſe, in vanity and vexation of ſpirit: — the concluſion of the whole matter was this — that he ad⯑viſes every man who would be happy, to fear GOD and keep his commandments.

SERMON II.

THAT I deny — but let us hear the wiſe man's reaſoning upon it — for that is the end of all men, and the living will lay it to his heart: ſorrow is better than laughter — for a crack'd-brain'd order of Carthuſian monks, I grant, but not for men of the world: For what purpoſe do you imagine, has GOD made us? for the ſocial ſweets of the well watered vallies where he has planted us, or for the dry and diſmal deſerts of a Sierra Morena? are the ſad accidents of life, and the uncheery hours [25] which perpetually overtake us, are they not enough, but we muſt ſally forth in queſt of them, — belie our own hearts, and ſay, as your text would have us, that they are better than thoſe of joy? did the Beſt of Beings ſend us into the world for this end — to go weeping through it, — to vex and ſhorten a life ſhort and vexatious enough already? do you think my good preacher, that he who is infinitely happy, can envy us our enjoyments? or that a being ſo infinitely kind would grudge a mournful traveller, the ſhort reſt and refreſhments neceſſary to ſupport his ſpirits through the ſtages of a weary pilgrimage? or that he would call him to a ſevere reckoning, becauſe in his way he had haſtily ſnatch'd at ſome little fugacious pleaſures, merely to ſweeten this uneaſy journey of life, and reconcile him to the ruggedneſs of [26] the road, and the many hard juſtlings he is ſure to meet with? Conſider, I beſeech you, what proviſion and ac⯑commodation, the Author of our be⯑ing has prepared for us, that we might not go on our way ſorrowing — how many caravanſera's of reſt — what pow⯑ers and faculties he has given us for ta⯑king it — what apt objects he has placed in our way to entertain us; — ſome of which he has made ſo fair, ſo exquiſitely for this end, that they have power over us for a time to charm away the ſenſe of pain, to cheer up the dejected heart un⯑der poverty and ſickneſs, and make it go and remember its miſeries no more.

I will not contend at preſent againſt this rhetorick; I would chooſe rather for a moment to go on with the allegory, and ſay we are travellers, and, in the moſt [27] affecting ſenſe of that idea, that like travellers, though upon buſineſs of the laſt and neareſt concern to us, may ſurely be allowed to amuſe ourſelves with the natural or artificial beauties of the coun⯑try we are paſſing through, without re⯑proach of forgetting the main errand we are ſent upon; and if we can ſo order it, as not to be led out of the way, by the variety of proſpects, edifices, and ruins which ſollicit us, it would be a nonſenſical piece of ſaint errantry to ſhut our eyes.

But let us not loſe ſight of the argu⯑ment in purſuit of the ſimile.

Let us remember various as our ex⯑curſions are, — that we have ſtill ſet our faces towards Jeruſalem — that we have a place of reſt and happineſs, towards which [28] 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 at⯑chievements 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 in⯑terruption which they give to our pur⯑ſuits, 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 bet⯑ter 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 ſome⯑thing [29] 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 ca⯑reſſes of the one place, expoſe his heart and lay it open to temptations — the ſor⯑rows of the other defend it, and as na⯑turally 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 pur⯑poſe, it will be neceſſary to ſtop here, [30] 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 faith⯑fully, 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 [31] gives power ſafely to drive on the bar⯑gain, but ſafely to carry it into execu⯑tion 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 intempe⯑rance and exceſs, as the houſe of feaſt⯑ing 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 feaſt⯑ing, where either by conſent or invita⯑tion a number of each ſex is drawn toge⯑ther for no other purpoſe but the enjoy⯑ment and mutual entertainment of each other, which we will ſuppoſe ſhall ariſe [32] from no other pleaſures but what cuſtom authoriſes, and religion does not abſo⯑lutely forbid.

Before we enter — let us examine, what muſt be the ſentiments of each in⯑dividual previous to his arrival, and we ſhall find that however they may differ from one another in tempers and opini⯑ons, 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 ſe⯑rious thoughts — and his moral reflec⯑tions 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 [33] jollity of the place. With this prepara⯑tion 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 neceſ⯑ſary, 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 impreſ⯑ſions which ſo benevolent a commerce will naturally excite. In this diſpoſition thus wrought upon beforehand and al⯑ready improved to this purpoſe, — take notice, how mechanically the thoughts [34] and ſpirits riſe — how ſoon, and inſen⯑ſibly, 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 un⯑guarded — when kind and careſſing looks of every object without that can flatter his ſenſes, have conſpired with the ene⯑my 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 [35] vain! how weak! how empty a thing it is! Look through its ſeveral receſſes, — thoſe pure manſions formed for the re⯑ception 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 in⯑diſcretion — perhaps for folly — it may be for more impure gueſts, which poſſi⯑bly in ſo general a riot of the mind and ſenſes may take occaſion to enter unſu⯑ſpected at the ſame time.

In a ſcene and diſpoſition thus de⯑ſcribed — can the moſt cautious ſay — thus far ſhall my deſires go — and no farther? or will the cooleſt and moſt cir⯑cumſpect ſay, when pleaſure has taken full poſſeſſion of his heart, that no thought nor purpoſe ſhall ariſe there, which he [36] 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 pa⯑rent's ſad deſcription of his child's caſe, which took him, and oft times caſt him into the fire to deſtroy him, and where⯑ſoever it taketh him, it teareth him, and hardly departeth from him.

But this, you'll ſay, is the worſt ac⯑count of what the mind may ſuffer here.

Why may we not make more favour⯑able 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 impreſ⯑ſions, or ſo badly fortified againſt them, [37] 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 incli⯑nation which virtue need to bluſh at — or which the moſt ſcrupulous conſcience might not ſupport. God forbid we ſhould ſay otherwiſe: — no doubt, num⯑bers 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 [38] though one would abſolutely prohibit the attempt, or be ſo cynical as to con⯑demn 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 dan⯑gers of it, and warn the unwary paſſen⯑ger, 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 pro⯑bably, he may be ſo unfortunate as to [39] 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 through⯑out the world, is ſuppoſed in chriſtian countries, now every where to be uni⯑verſally 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 for⯑bearance 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 [40] with me for a moment to one much fitter for your meditation. Let us go into the houſe of mourning, made ſo, by ſuch afflic⯑tions 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, ha⯑ving long ſtruggled with a train of mis⯑fortunes, 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 [41] with many ſorrows, ſurrounded with the tender pledges of his love, and the part⯑ner 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 di⯑ſtreſs, 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 cala⯑mities to which the life of man is ſubject. [42] 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 [43] in which the wiſe man ſeems to confine it in the text, in which, by the houſe of mourning, I believe, he means that par⯑ticular ſcene of ſorrow where there is la⯑mentation 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 mo⯑ther, and ſhe a widow. Perhaps a more affecting ſpectacle — a kind and an in⯑dulgent 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 ga⯑thered together to mix their tears, with ſettled ſorrow in their looks, going hea⯑vily along to the houſe of mourning, to [44] 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 no⯑tice, to what a ſerious and devout frame of mind every man is reduced, the mo⯑ment he enters this gate of affliction. The buſy and fluttering ſpirits, which in the houſe of mirth were wont to tranſ⯑port 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 [45] 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 wiſ⯑dom and buſied with heavenly contem⯑plations — could we ſee it naked as it is — ſtripped of all its paſſions, unſpotted by the world, and regardleſs of its plea⯑ſures — we might then ſafely reſt our cauſe, upon this ſingle evidence, and appeal to the moſt ſenſual, whether So⯑lomon has not made a juſt determina⯑tion 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. With⯑out 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 [46] 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.

IN the foregoing verſes of this chap⯑ter, the Evangeliſt relates, that a certain lawyer ſtood up and tempted JE⯑SUS, ſaying, maſter, what ſhall I do to inherit eternal life? — To which en⯑quiry, our SAVIOUR, as his manner was, when any enſnaring queſtion was put to [50] 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 up⯑on the man who aſked it, and unavoid⯑ably puts him upon the neceſſity of an⯑ſwering himſelf; — and as in the preſent caſe, the particular profeſſion of the en⯑quirer, and his ſuppoſed general know⯑ledge of all other branches of learning, left no room to ſuſpect, he could be ig⯑norant of the true anſwer to his queſ⯑tion, 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 [51] law, how readeſt thou? — upon which the enquirer reciting the general heads of our duty to GOD and MAN as deli⯑vered 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 follow⯑ed 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 princi⯑ples, and juſtify ſome particular oppreſ⯑ſions [52] 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 rela⯑tion. — 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 refine⯑ment from the ſchools of the Rabbis, which might have ſooner ſilenced than convinced the man — but by a direct [53] 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 ge⯑nerouſly provided for his future ſafety.

On the cloſe of which engaging ac⯑count — 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 draw⯑ing 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 acknowledg⯑ing [54] the force of it, our bleſſed SAVIOUR concludes the debate with a ſhort admo⯑nition, 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 there⯑fore 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 exhor⯑tation 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 [55] nature which engages us to take part in every accident to which man is ſub⯑ject, from what cauſe ſoever it may have happened; but in ſuch calamities as a man has fallen into through mere mis⯑fortune, to be charged upon no fault or indiſcretion of himſelf, there is ſome⯑thing then ſo truly intereſting, that at the firſt ſight we generally make them our own, not altogether from a reflec⯑tion that they might have been or may be ſo, but oftener from a certain genero⯑ſity and tenderneſs of nature which diſ⯑poſes us for compaſſion, abſtracted from all conſiderations of ſelf. So that with⯑out 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 inſtan⯑ces of their diſtreſs. But where the ſpec⯑tacle is uncommonly tragical, and com⯑plicated [56] with many circumſtances of mi⯑ſery, 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 mi⯑ſery, 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 tem⯑pers — how ſhall I deſcribe them? — formed either of ſuch impenetrable mat⯑ter, or wrought up by habitual ſelfiſh⯑neſs 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 con⯑nection at all with the ſpecies.

[57]Of this character, our SAVIOUR pro⯑duces two diſgraceful inſtances in the be⯑haviour of a prieſt and a levite, whom in this account he repreſents as coming to the place where the unhappy man was — both paſſing by without either ſtretch⯑ing forth a hand to aſſiſt, or uttering a word to comfort him in his diſtreſs.

And by chance there came down a certain prieſt! — merciful GOD! that a teacher of thy religion ſhould ever want humanity — or that a man whoſe head might be thought full of the one, ſhould have a heart void of the other! — This however was the caſe before us — and though in theory one would ſcarce ſuſ⯑pect that the leaſt pretence to religion and an open diſregard to ſo main a part of it, could ever meet together in one [58] perſon — yet in fact it is no fictitious character.

Look into the world — how often do you behold a ſordid wretch, whoſe ſtraight heart is open to no man's affliction, ta⯑king ſhelter behind an appearance of piety, and putting on the garb of reli⯑gion, which none but the merciful and compaſſionate have a title to wear. Take notice with what ſanctity he goes to the end of his days, in the ſame ſelfiſh track in which he at firſt ſet out — turn⯑ing neither to the right hand nor to the left — but plods on — pores all his life long upon the ground, as if afraid to look up, leſt peradventure he ſhould ſee aught which might turn him one moment out of that ſtraight line where intereſt is carrying him — or if, by chance, he ſtumbles upon a hapleſs [59] object of diſtreſs, which threatens ſuch a diſaſter to him — like the man here repreſented, devoutly paſſing by on the other ſide, as if unwilling to truſt him⯑ſelf to the impreſſions of nature, or hazard the inconveniences which pity might lead him into upon the occaſion.

There is but one ſtroke wanting in this picture of an unmerciful man to ren⯑der the character utterly odious, and that our SAVIOUR gives it in the following inſtance he relates upon it. And like⯑wiſe, ſays he, a Levite, when he was at the place, came and looked at him. It was not a tranſient overſight, the haſty or ill adviſed neglect of an unconſidering hu⯑mour, with which the beſt diſpoſed are ſometimes overtaken, and led on beyond the point where otherwiſe they would have wiſhed to ſtop. — No! — on the [60] contrary, it had all the aggravation of a deliberate act of inſenſibility proceeding from a hard heart. When he was at the place, he came, and looked at him — conſidered his misfortunes, gave time for reaſon and nature to have awoke — ſaw the imminent danger he was in — and the preſſing neceſſity of immediate help, which ſo violent a caſe called aloud for — and after all — turned aſide and un⯑mercifully left him to all the diſtreſſes of his condition.

In all unmerciful actions, the worſt of men pay this compliment at leaſt to hu⯑manity, as to endeavour to wear as much of the appearance of it, as the caſe will well let them — ſo that in the hardeſt acts a man ſhall be guilty of, he has ſome motives true or falſe always ready to offer, either to ſatisfy himſelf or the [61] world, and, GOD knows, too often to impoſe both upon the one and the other. And therefore it would be no hard mat⯑ter here to give a probable gueſs at what paſſed in the Levite's mind in the pre⯑ſent caſe, and ſhew, was it neceſſary, by what kind of caſuiſtry he ſettled the matter with his conſcience as he paſſed by, and guarded all the paſſages to his heart againſt the inroads which pity might attempt to make upon the occa⯑ſion. — But it is painful to dwell long upon this diſagreeable part of the ſtory; I therefore haſten to the concluding inci⯑dent of it, which is ſo amiable that one cannot eaſily be too copious in reflections upon it. — And behold, ſays our SAVI⯑OUR, a certain Samaritan as he journeyed came where he was; and when he ſaw him he had compaſſion on him — and went to him — bound up his wounds, [62] pouring in oil and wine — ſet him upon his own beaſt, brought him to an inn and took care of him. I ſuppoſe, it will be ſcarce neceſſary here to remind you that the Jews had no dealings with the Samaritans — an old religious grudge — the worſt of all grudges, had wrought ſuch a diſlike between both people, that they held themſelves mutually diſcharged not only from all offices of friendſhip and kindneſs, but even from the moſt common acts of courteſy and good manners. This operated ſo ſtrongly in our SAVIOUR's time, that the woman of Samaria ſeemed aſtoniſhed that he, being a Jew, ſhould aſk water of her who was a Samaritan — ſo that with ſuch a prepoſſeſſion, however diſtreſsful the caſe of the unfortunate man was, and how reaſonably ſoever he might plead for pity from another man, there was [63] little aid or conſolation to be looked for from ſo unpromiſing a quarter. Alas! after I have been twice paſſed by, neglected by men of my own nation and religion bound by ſo many ties to aſſiſt me, left here friend⯑leſs and unpitied both by a Prieſt and Le⯑vite, men whoſe profeſſion and ſuperior ad⯑vantages of knowledge could not leave them in the dark in what manner they ſhould diſ⯑charge this debt which my condition claims — after this — what hopes? what expecta⯑tions from a paſſenger, not only a ſtranger, — but a Samaritan releaſed from all obli⯑gations to me, and by a national diſlike in⯑flamed by mutual ill offices, now made my enemy, and more likely to rejoice at the evils which have fallen upon me, than to ſtretch forth a hand to ſave me from them.

'Tis no unnatural ſoliloquy to ima⯑gine; but the actions of generous and [64] compaſſionate tempers baffle all little reaſonings about them. — True charity, in the apoſtle's deſcription, as it is kind, and is not eaſily provoked, ſo it manifeſted this character — for we find when he came where he was, and beheld his di⯑ſtreſs, — all the unfriendly paſſions, which at another time might have roſe within him, now utterly forſook him and fled: when he ſaw his misfortunes — he forgot his enmity towards the man, — dropped all the prejudices which education had planted againſt him, and in the room of them, all that was good and compaſſio⯑nate was ſuffered to ſpeak in his behalf.

In benevolent natures the impulſe to pity is ſo ſudden, that like inſtruments of muſic which only obey the touch — the objects which are fitted to excite ſuch impreſſions work ſo inſtantaneous an ef⯑fect, that you would think the will was [65] ſcarce concerned, and that the mind was altogether paſſive in the ſympathy which her own goodneſs has excited. The truth is, — the ſoul is generally in ſuch caſes ſo buſily taken up and wholly en⯑groſſed by the object of pity, that ſhe does not attend to her own ope⯑rations, or take leiſure to examine the principles upon which ſhe acts. So that the Samaritan, though the moment he ſaw him he had compaſſion on him, yet ſudden as the emotion is repreſented, you are not to imagine that it was mechani⯑cal, but that there was a ſettled principle of humanity and goodneſs which operated within him, and influenced not only the firſt impulſe of kindneſs, but the conti⯑nuation of it throughout the reſt, of ſo engaging a behaviour. And becauſe it is a pleaſure to look into a good mind, and trace out as far as one is able what [66] paſſes within it on ſuch occaſions, I ſhall beg leave for a moment, to ſtate an ac⯑count of what was likely to paſs in his, and in what manner ſo diſtreſsful a caſe would neceſſarily work upon ſuch a diſ⯑poſition.

As he approached the place where the unfortunate man lay, the inſtant he be⯑held him, no doubt ſome ſuch train of reflections as this would riſe in his mind. ‘"Good God! what a ſpectacle of mi⯑ſery do I behold — a man ſtripped of his raiment — wounded — lying lan⯑guiſhing before me upon the ground juſt ready to expire, — without the comfort of a friend to ſupport him in his laſt agonies, or the proſpect of a hand to cloſe his eyes when his pains are over. But perhaps my concern ſhould leſſen when I reflect on the re⯑lations [67] in which we ſtand to each other — that he is a Jew and I a Samaritan. — But are we not ſtill both men? partakers of the ſame nature — and ſubject to the ſame evils? — let me change conditions with him for a moment and conſider, had his lot befallen me as I journeyed in the way, what meaſure I ſhould have expected at his hands. — Should I wiſh when he beheld me wounded and half-dead, that he ſhould ſhut up his bowels of compaſſion from me, and double the weight of my miſeries by paſſing by and leaving them unpitied? — But I am a ſtranger to the man — be it ſo, — but I am no ſtranger to his condition — misfortunes are of no particular tribe or nation, but belong to us all, and have a general claim upon us, without diſtinction of climate, country [68] or religion. Beſides, though I am a ſtranger — 'tis no fault of his that I do not know him, and there⯑fore unequitable he ſhould ſuffer by it: — Had I known him, poſſibly I ſhould have had cauſe to love and pity him the more — for aught I know, he is ſome one of uncommon merit, whoſe life is rendered ſtill more precious, as the lives and happineſs of others may be involved in it: per⯑haps at this inſtant that he lies here forſaken, in all this miſery, a whole virtuous family is joyfully looking for his return, and affectionately coun⯑ting the hours of his delay. Oh! did they know what evil hath befallen him — how would they fly to ſuccour him. — Let me then haſten to ſupply thoſe tender offices of binding up his wounds, and carrying him to a place [69] of ſafety — or if that aſſiſtance comes too late, I ſhall comfort him at leaſt in his laſt hour — and, if I can do nothing elſe, — I ſhall ſoften his mis⯑fortunes by dropping a tear of pity over them."’

'Tis almoſt neceſſary to imagine the good Samaritan was influenced by ſome ſuch thoughts as theſe, from the uncom⯑mon generoſity of his behaviour, which is repreſented by our SAVIOUR operating like the warm zeal of a brother, mixed with the affectionate diſcretion and care of a parent, who was not ſatisfied with taking him under his protection, and ſupplying his preſent wants, but in look⯑ing forwards for him, and taking care that his wants ſhould be ſupplied when he ſhould be gone, and no longer near to befriend him.

[70]I think there needs no ſtronger argu⯑ment to prove how univerſally and deep⯑ly the ſeeds of this virtue of compaſſion are planted in the heart of man, than in the pleaſure we take in ſuch repreſenta⯑tions of it: and though ſome men have repreſented human nature in other co⯑lours, (though to what end I know not) that the matter of fact is ſo ſtrong againſt them, that from the general propenſity to pity the unfortunate, we expreſs that ſenſation by the word humanity, as if it was inſeparable from our nature. That it is not inſeparable, I have allowed in the former part of this diſcourſe, from ſome reproachful inſtances of ſelfiſh tem⯑pers, which ſeem to take part in nothing beyond themſelves; yet I am perſwaded and affirm 'tis ſtill ſo great and noble a part of our nature, that a man muſt do great violence to himſelf, and ſuffer many [71] a painful conflict, before he has brought himſelf to a different diſpoſition.

'Tis obſervable in the foregoing ac⯑count, that when the prieſt came to the place where he was, he paſſed by on the other ſide — he might have paſſed by, you'll ſay, without turning aſide. — No, there is a ſecret ſhame which attends every act of inhumanity not to be con⯑quered in the hardeſt natures, ſo that, as in other caſes, ſo eſpecially in this, many a man will do a cruel act, who at the ſame time would bluſh to look you in the face, and is forced to turn aſide be⯑fore he can have a heart to execute his purpoſe.

Inconſiſtent creature that man is! who at that inſtant that he does what is wrong, [72] is not able to withhold his teſtimony to what is good and praiſe worthy.

I have now done with the parable, which was the firſt part propoſed to be conſidered in this diſcourſe; and ſhould proceed to the ſecond, which ſo naturally falls from it, of exhorting you, as our SAVIOUR did the lawyer upon it, to go and do ſo likewiſe: but I have been ſo copious in my reflections upon the ſtory itſelf, that I find I have inſenſibly incor⯑porated into them almoſt all that I ſhould have ſaid here in recommending ſo ami⯑able an example; by which means I have unawares anticipated the taſk I propoſed. I ſhall therefore detain you no longer than with a ſingle remark upon the ſub⯑ject in general, which is this, 'Tis ob⯑ſervable in many places of ſcripture, that our bleſſed SAVIOUR in deſcribing the [73] day of judgment does it in ſuch a man⯑ner, as if the great enquiry then, was to relate principally to this one virtue of compaſſion — and as if our final ſen⯑tence at that ſolemnity was to be pro⯑nounced exactly according to the degrees of it. I was a hungred and ye gave me meat — thirſty and ye gave me drink — naked and ye cloathed me — I was ſick and ye viſited me — in priſon and ye came unto me. Not that we are to imagine from thence, as if any other good or evil action ſhould then be over⯑looked by the eye of the All-ſeeing Judge, but barely to intimate to us, that a cha⯑ritable and benevolent diſpoſition is ſo principal and ruling a part of a man's character, as to be a conſiderable teſt by itſelf of the whole frame and temper of his mind, with which all other virtues [74] and vices reſpectively riſe and fall, and will almoſt neceſſarily be connected. — Tell me therefore of a compaſſionate man, you repreſent to me a man of a thouſand other good qualities — on whom I can depend — whom I may ſafely truſt with my wife — my chil⯑dren, my fortune and reputation. 'Tis for this, as the apoſtle argues from the ſame principle — that he will not com⯑mit adultery — that he will not kill — that he will not ſteal — that he will not bear falſe witneſs. That is, the ſorrows which are ſtirred up in mens hearts by ſuch treſpaſſes are ſo tenderly felt by a compaſſionate man, that it is not in his power or his nature to commit them.

So that well might he conclude, that charity, by which he means, the love [75] to your neighbour, was the end of the commandment, and that whoſoever ful⯑filled it, had fulfilled the law.

Now to GOD, &c. Amen.

SERMON IV.

THERE is no hiſtorical paſſage in ſcripture, which gives a more remarkable inſtance of the deceitfulneſs of the heart of man to itſelf, and of how little we truly know of ourſelves, than this, wherein David is convicted out of his own mouth, and is led by the pro⯑phet to condemn and pronounce a ſevere judgment upon another, for an act of injuſtice, which he had paſſed over in himſelf, and poſſibly reconciled to his own conſcience. To know one's ſelf, one would think could be no very diffi⯑cult [80] leſſon; — for who, you'll ſay, can well be truly ignorant of himſelf and the true diſpoſition of his own heart. If a man thinks at all, he cannot be a ſtran⯑ger to what paſſes there — he muſt be conſcious of his own thoughts and de⯑ſires, he muſt remember his paſt pur⯑ſuits, and the true ſprings and motives which in general have directed the ac⯑tions of his life: he may hang out falſe colours and deceive the world, but how can a man deceive himſelf? That a man can — is evident, becauſe he daily does ſo. — Scripture tells us, and gives us many hiſtorical proofs of it, beſides this to which the text refers — that the heart of man is treacherous to itſelf and de⯑ceitful above all things; and experience and every hour's commerce with the world confirms the truth of this ſeeming paradox, ‘"That though man is the [81] only creature endowed with reflection, and conſequently qualified to know the moſt of himſelf — yet ſo it hap⯑pens, that he generally knows the leaſt — and with all the power which GOD has given him of turning his eyes inwards upon himſelf, and taking notice of the chain of his own thoughts and deſires — yet in fact, is generally ſo inattentive, but always ſo partial an obſerver of what paſſes, that he is as much, nay often, a much greater ſtranger to his own diſpoſition and true character than all the world be⯑ſides."’

By what means he is brought under ſo manifeſt a deluſion, and how he ſuffers himſelf to be ſo groſly impoſed upon in a point which he is capable of knowing ſo much better than others, is not hard [82] to give an account of, nor need we ſeek further for it, than amongſt the cauſes which are every day perverting his rea⯑ſon and miſleading him. We are de⯑ceived in judging of ourſelves, juſt as we are in judging of other things, when our paſſions and inclinations are called in as counſellors, and we ſuffer ourſelves to ſee and reaſon juſt ſo far and no far⯑ther than they give us leave. How hard do we find it to paſs an equitable and ſound judgment in a matter where our intereſt is deeply concerned? — and even where there is the remoteſt conſiderations of ſelf, connected with the point before us, what a ſtrange bias does it hang up⯑on our minds, and how difficult is it to diſengage our judgments entirely from it? with what reluctance are we brought to think evil of a friend whom we have long loved and eſteemed, and though [83] there happens to be ſtrong appearances againſt him, how apt are we to overlook or put favourable conſtructions upon them, and even ſometimes, when our zeal and friendſhip tranſport us, to aſſign the beſt and kindeſt motives for the worſt and moſt unjuſtifiable parts of his conduct.

We are ſtill worſe caſuiſts, and the deceit is proportionably ſtronger with a man, when he is going to judge of him⯑ſelf — that deareſt of all parties, — ſo cloſely connected with him — ſo much and ſo long beloved — of whom he has ſo early conceived the higheſt opinion and eſteem, and with whoſe merit he has all-along, no doubt, found ſo much reaſon to be contented. It is not an eaſy matter to be ſevere, where there is ſuch an impulſe to be kind, or to efface at [84] once all the tender impreſſions in favour of ſo old a friend, which diſable us from thinking of him, as he is, and ſeeing him in the light, may be, in which every one elſe ſees him.

So that however eaſy this knowledge of one's-ſelf may appear at firſt ſight, it is otherwiſe when we come to examine; ſince not only in practice but even in ſpeculation and theory, we find it one of the hardeſt and moſt painful leſſons. Some of the earlieſt inſtructors of man⯑kind, no doubt, found it ſo too, and for that reaſon, ſoon ſaw the neceſſity of laying ſuch a ſtreſs upon this great pre⯑cept of ſelf knowledge, which for its excellent wiſdom and uſefulneſs, many of them ſuppoſed to be a divine direc⯑tion; that it came down from Heaven, and comprehended the whole circle both [85] of knowledge and the duty of man. And indeed their zeal might eaſily be allowed in ſo high an encomium upon the attain⯑ment of a virtue, the want of which ſo often baffled their inſtructions, and ren⯑dered their endeavours of reforming the heart vain and uſeleſs. For who could think of a reformation of the faults within him, who knew not where they lay, or could ſet about correcting, till he had firſt come to a ſenſe of the defects which required it.

But this was a point always much ea⯑ſier recommended by public inſtructors than ſhewn how to be put in practice, and therefore others, who equally ſought the reformation of mankind, obſerving that this direct road which led to it was guarded on all ſides by ſelf-love, and conſequently very difficult of open ac⯑ceſs, [86] ſoon found out that a different and more artful courſe was requiſite; as they had not ſtrength to remove this flatter⯑ing paſſion which ſtood in their way and blocked up all the paſſages to the heart, they endeavoured by ſtratagem to get beyond it, and by a ſkilful addreſs, if poſſible, to deceive it. This gave riſe to the early manner of conveying their inſtructions in parables, fables, and ſuch ſort of indirect applications, which, tho' they could not conquer this principle of ſelf-love, yet often laid it aſleep, or at leaſt over-reached it for a few moments, till a juſt judgment could be procured.

The prophet Nathan ſeems to have been a great maſter in this way of ad⯑dreſs. David had greatly diſpleaſed GOD by two grievous ſins which he had com⯑mitted, and the prophet's commiſſion [87] was to go and bring him to a convic⯑tion of them, and touch his heart with a ſenſe of guilt for what he had done againſt the honour and life of Uriah.

The holy man knew, that was it any one's caſe but David's own, no man would have been ſo quick-ſighted in diſ⯑cerning the nature of the injury, — more ready to have redreſſed it, or who would have felt more compaſſion for the party who had ſuffered it, than he him⯑ſelf.

Inſtead therefore of declaring the real intention of his errand, by a direct ac⯑cuſation and reproof for the crimes he had committed; he comes to him with a fictitious complaint of a cruel act of injuſtice done by another, and accord⯑ingly he frames a caſe, not ſo parallel [88] to David's as he ſuppoſed would awaken his ſuſpicion, and prevent a patient and candid hearing, and yet not ſo void of reſemblance in the main circumſtances, as to fail of ſtriking him, when ſhewn in a proper light.

And Nathan came and ſaid unto him, ‘"There were two men in one city, the one rich and the other poor — the rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds, but the poor man had nothing, ſave one little ewe lamb which he had bought and nouriſhed up — and it grew up together with him and with his children — it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his own cup, and lay in his boſom, and was unto him as a daughter — and there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he ſpared to take of his own flock and of his own [89] herd to dreſs for the wayfaring man that was come unto him, but took the poor man's lamb and dreſſed it for the man that was come unto him."’

The caſe was drawn up with great judgment and beauty — the ſeveral mi⯑nute circumſtances which heightened the injury truly affecting — and ſo ſtrongly urged, that it would have been impoſ⯑ſible for any man with a previous ſenſe of guilt upon his mind, to have de⯑fended himſelf from ſome degree of re⯑morſe, which it muſt naturally have ex⯑cited.

The ſtory, though it ſpoke only of the injuſtice and oppreſſive act of an⯑other man — yet it pointed to what he had lately done himſelf, with all the circumſtances of its aggravation — and [90] withal, the whole was ſo tenderly ad⯑dreſſed to the heart and paſſions, as to kindle at once the utmoſt horror and in⯑dignation. And ſo it did, — but not againſt the proper perſon. In his tranſ⯑port he forgot himſelf — his anger greatly kindled againſt the man — and he ſaid unto Nathan, ‘"As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing, ſhall ſurely die, and he ſhall reſtore the lamb fourfold, becauſe he did this thing and becauſe he had no pity."’

It can ſcarce be doubted here, but that David's anger was real, and that he was what he appeared to be, greatly provoked and exaſperated againſt the offender: and, indeed, his ſentence againſt him proves he was ſo above meaſure. For to puniſh the man with death, and [91] oblige him to reſtore fourfold beſides, was highly unequitable, and not only diſproportioned to the offence, but far above the utmoſt rigour and ſeverity of the law, which allowed a much ſofter attonement, requiring in ſuch a caſe, no more than an ample reſtitution and re⯑compence in kind. The judgment how⯑ever, ſeems to have been truly ſincere and well meant, and beſpoke rather the honeſt raſhneſs of an unſuſpicious judge, than the cool determination of a con⯑ſcious and guilty man, who knew he was going to paſs ſentence upon himſelf.

I take notice of this particular, be⯑cauſe it places this inſtance of ſelf deceit, which is the ſubject of the diſcourſe, in the ſtrongeſt light, and fully demonſtrates the truth of a fact in this great man, which happens every day amongſt our⯑ſelves, [92] namely, that a man may be guilty of very bad and diſhoneſt actions, and yet reflect ſo little, or ſo partially, upon what he has done, as to keep his con⯑ſcience free, not only from guilt, but even the remoteſt ſuſpicions, that he is the man which in truth he is, and what the tenor and evidence of his life demonſtrate. If we look into the world — David's is no uncommon caſe — we ſee ſome one or other perpetually copy⯑ing this bad original, ſitting in judg⯑ment upon himſelf — hearing his own cauſe, and not knowing what he is do⯑ing; haſty in paſſing ſentence, and even executing it too with wrath upon the perſon of another, when in the language of the phophet, one might ſay to him with juſtice, ‘"thou art the man."’

[93]Of the many revengeful, covetous, falſe and ill-natured perſons which we complain of in the world, though we all join in the cry againſt them, what man amongſt us ſingles out himſelf as a criminal, or ever once takes it into his head that he adds to the number? — or where is there a man ſo bad, who would not think it the hardeſt and moſt unfair imputation to have any of thoſe parti⯑cular vices laid to his charge?

If he has the ſymptoms never ſo ſtrong upon him, which he would pronounce infallible in another, they are indications of no ſuch malady in himſelf. — He ſees what no one elſe ſees, ſome ſecret and flattering circumſtances in his favour, which no doubt make a wide difference betwixt his caſe and the parties which he condemns.

[94]What other man ſpeaks ſo often and vehemently againſt the vice of pride, ſets the weakneſs of it in a more odious light, or is more hurt with it in another, than the proud man himſelf? It is the ſame with the paſſionate, the deſigning, the ambitious, and ſome other common cha⯑racters in life; and being a conſequence of the nature of ſuch vices, and almoſt in⯑ſeparable from them, the effects of it are generally ſo groſs and abſurd, that where pity does not forbid, 'tis pleaſant to ob⯑ſerve and trace the cheat through the ſe⯑veral turns and windings of the heart, and detect it through all the ſhapes and appearances which it puts on.

Next to theſe inſtances of ſelf deceit and utter ignorance of our true diſpoſi⯑tion and character, which appears in not ſeeing that in ourſelves which ſhocks us [95] in another man, there is another ſpe⯑cies ſtill more dangerous and deluſive, and which the more guarded perpetually fall into from the judgments they make of different vices, according to their age and complexion, and the various ebbs and flows of their paſſions and deſires.

To conceive this, let any man look into his own heart, and obſerve in how different a degree of deteſtation, num⯑bers of actions ſtand there, though equal⯑ly bad and vicious in themſelves: he will ſoon find that ſuch of them, as ſtrong inclination or cuſtom has promp⯑ted him to commit, are generally dreſſed out, and painted with all the falſe beau⯑ties which a ſoft and flattering hand can give them; and that the others, to which he feels no propenſity, appear at once naked and deformed, ſurrounded with [96] all the true circumſtances of their folly and diſhonour.

When David ſurprized Saul ſleeping in the cave, and cut off the ſkirt of his robe, we read, his heart ſmote him for what he had done — ſtrange! it ſmote him not in the matter of Uriah, where it had ſo much ſtronger reaſon to take the alarm. — A whole year had almoſt paſſed from the firſt commiſſion of that injuſtice, to the time the prophet was ſent to reprove him — and we read not once of any remorſe or compunction of heart for what he had done: and it is not to be doubted, had the ſame pro⯑phet met him when he was returning up out of the cave — and told him, that ſcrupulous and conſcientious as he then ſeemed and thought himſelf to be, that he was deceiving himſelf, and was [97] capable of committing the fouleſt and moſt diſhonourable actions; — that he ſhould one day murder a faithful and a valiant ſervant, whom he ought in juſtice to have loved and honoured, — that he ſhould without pity firſt wound him in the tendereſt part, by taking away his deareſt poſſeſſion, — and then unmerciful⯑ly and treacherouſly rob him of his life. — Had Nathan in a prophetic ſpirit foretold to David, that he was capable of this, and that he ſhould one day actually do it, and from no other motive but the momentary gratification of a baſe and unworthy paſſion, he would have received the pre⯑diction with horror, and ſaid poſſibly with Hazael upon juſt ſuch another occaſion, and with the ſame ignorance of himſelf — What? is thy ſervant a dog that he ſhould do this great thing. And yet in all likelihood, at that very time there [98] wanted nothing but the ſame degree of temptation, and the ſame opportunity, to induce him to the ſin which afterwards overcame him.

Thus the caſe ſtands with us ſtill. When the paſſions are warmed, and the ſin which preſents itſelf exactly tallies to the deſire, obſerve how impetuouſly a man will ruſh into it, and act againſt all prin⯑ciples of honour, juſtice and mercy. — Talk to him the moment after upon the nature of another vice to which he is not addicted, and from which perhaps his age, his temper, or rank in life ſecure him — take notice, how well he reaſons — with what equity he determines — what an honeſt indignation and ſharp⯑neſs he expreſſes againſt it, and how in⯑ſenſibly his anger kindles againſt the man who hath done this thing.

[99]Thus are we nice in grains and ſcruples — but knaves in matters of a pound weight — every day ſtraining at gnats, yet ſwallowing camels — miſera⯑bly cheating ourſelves, and torturing our reaſon to bring us in ſuch a report of the ſin as ſuits the preſent appetite and inclination.

Moſt of us are aware of and pretend to deteſt the barefaced inſtances of that hypocriſy by which men deceive others, but few of us are upon our guard or ſee that more fatal hypocriſy by which we deceive and over-reach our own hearts. It is a flattering and dangerous diſtem⯑per, which has undone thouſands — we bring the ſeeds of it along with us into the world — they inſenſibly grow up with us from our childhood — they lye long concealed and undiſturbed, and have [100] generally got ſuch deep root in our na⯑tures by the time we are come to years of underſtanding and reflection, that it requires all we have got to defend our⯑ſelves from their effects.

To make the caſe ſtill worſe on our ſides, 'tis with this as with every grie⯑vous diſtemper of the body — the reme⯑dies are dangerous and doubtful, in pro⯑portion to our miſtakes and ignorance of the cauſe: for in the inſtances of ſelf-deceit, though the head is ſick, and the whole heart faint, the patient ſeldom knows what he ails: — of all the things we know and learn, this neceſſary know⯑ledge comes to us the laſt.

Upon what principles it happens thus, I have endeavoured to lay open in the firſt part of this diſcourſe; which I con⯑clude [101] with a ſerious exhortation to ſtrug⯑gle againſt them; which we can only hope to do, by converſing more and oftener with ourſelves, than the buſineſs and diverſions of the world generally give us leave.

We have a chain of thoughts, deſires, engagements and idleneſſes, which perpe⯑tually return upon us in their proper time and order, — let us, I beſeech you, aſſign and ſet apart ſome ſmall portion of the day for this purpoſe — of retiring into ourſelves, and ſearching into the dark corners and receſſes of the heart, and taking notice of what is paſſing there. If a man can bring himſelf to do this taſk with a curious and impartial eye, he will quickly find the fruits of it will more than recompenſe his time and la⯑bour. [102] He will ſee ſeveral irregularities and unſuſpected paſſions within him which he never was aware of, — he will diſcover in his progreſs many ſecret turns and windings in his heart to which he was a ſtranger, which now gradually open and diſcloſe themſelves to him up⯑on a nearer view; in theſe labyrinths he will trace out ſuch hidden ſprings and motives for many of his moſt applau⯑ded actions, as will make him rather ſorry, and aſhamed of himſelf, than proud.

In a word, he will underſtand his errors, and then ſee the neceſſity, with David, of imploring GOD to cleanſe him from his ſecret faults — and with ſome hope and confidence to ſay, with this great man after his conviction — ‘[103]"Try me, O GOD! and ſeek the ground of my heart, — prove me and examine my thoughts, — look well if there be any way of wickedneſs in me, and lead me in the way everlaſting."’

Now to GOD the Father, &c. &c.

SERMON V.

THE words of the text are the re⯑cord of a miracle wrought in be⯑half of the widow of Zerephath, who had charitably taken Elijah under her roof, and adminiſtered unto him in a time of great ſcarcity and diſtreſs. There is ſomething very intereſting and affec⯑tionate in the manner this ſtory is re⯑lated in holy writ; and as it concludes with a ſecond ſtill more remarkable [114] proof of GOD's favour to the ſame per⯑ſon, in the reſtoration of her dead ſon to life, one cannot but conſider both mi⯑racles as rewards of that act of piety, wrought by infinite power, and left upon record in ſcripture, not merely as teſti⯑monies of the prophet's divine miſſion, but likewiſe as two encouraging inſtances of GOD Almighty's bleſſing upon works of charity and benevolence.

In this view I have made choice of this piece of ſacred ſtory, which I ſhall beg leave to make uſe of as the ground⯑work for an exhortation to charity in general: and that it may better anſwer the particular purpoſe of this ſolemnity, I will endeavour to enlarge upon it with ſuch reflections, as, I truſt in GOD, will excite ſome ſentiments of compaſſion [115] which may be profitable to ſo pious a deſign.

Elijah had fled from two dreadful evils, the approach of a famine, and the perſecution of Ahab an enraged enemy: and in obedience to the command of GOD had hid himſelf by the brook Che⯑rith, that is before Jordan. In this ſafe and peaceful ſolitude, bleſſed with daily marks of GOD's providence, the holy man dwelt free both from the cares and glories of the world: by miraculous im⯑pulſe the ravens brought him bread and fleſh in the morning, and bread and fleſh in the evening, and he drank of the brook; till by continuance of drought, (the windows of heaven being ſhut up in thoſe days for three years and ſix months, which was the natural cauſe likewiſe of the famine,) it came to paſs after a while [116] that the brook, the great fountain of his ſupport, dried up; and he is again di⯑rected by the word of the Lord where to betake himſelf for ſhelter. He is com⯑manded to ariſe and go to Zerephath, which belongeth to Zidon, with an aſ⯑ſurance that he had diſpoſed the heart of a widow-woman there to ſuſtain him.

The prophet follows the call of his GOD: — the ſame hand which brought him to the gate of the city, had led alſo the poor widow out of her doors, op⯑preſſed with ſorrow. She had come forth upon a melancholy errand, to make pre⯑peration to eat her laſt meal, and ſhare it with her child.

No doubt, ſhe had long fenced againſt this tragical, event with all the thrifty management which ſelf-preſervation and [117] parental love could inſpire; full, no doubt, of cares and many tender appre⯑henſions leſt her ſlender ſtock ſhould fail them before the return of plenty.

But as ſhe was a widow, having loſt the only faithful friend who would beſt have aſſiſted her in this virtuous ſtruggle, the preſſing neceſſity of the times at length overcame her; and ſhe was juſt falling down an eaſy prey to it, when Elijah came to the place where ſhe was. And he called unto her her, and ſaid, fetch me, I pray thee, a little water in a veſſel that I may drink. And as ſhe was going to fetch it, he called unto her and ſaid, bring me, I pray thee, a morſel of bread in thine hand. And ſhe ſaid, as the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but a handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruſe, and behold I am gathering two ſticks, that [118] I may go in and dreſs it for me and my ſon, that we may eat it and die. And Elijah ſaid unto her, fear not, but go, and do as thou haſt ſaid; but make me thereof a little cake firſt, and bring it unto me, and after make for thee and for thy ſon. For thus ſays the Lord God of Iſrael, the bar⯑rel of meal ſhall not waſte, neither ſhall the cruſe of oil fail, until the day that the Lord ſendeth rain upon the earth.

True charity is always unwilling to find excuſes — elſe here was a fair op⯑portunity of pleading many: ſhe might have inſiſted over again upon her ſitua⯑tion, which neceſſarily tied up her hands; — ſhe might have urged the unreaſon⯑ableneſs of the requeſt; — that ſhe was reduced to the loweſt extremity already; — and that it was contrary to juſtice and the firſt law of nature, to rob herſelf and [119] child of their laſt morſel, and give it to a ſtranger.

But, in generous ſpirits, compaſſion is ſometimes more than a ballance for ſelf-preſervation. For, as GOD certainly in⯑terwove that friendly ſoftneſs in our na⯑ture to be a check upon too great a pro⯑penſity towards ſelf-love — ſo it ſeemed to operate here. — For it is obſervable, that though the prophet backed his re⯑queſt with the promiſe or an immediate recompence in multiplying her ſtock; yet it is not evident, ſhe was influenced at all by that temptation. For if ſhe had, doubtleſs it muſt have wrought ſuch a mixture of ſelf-intereſt into the motive of her compliance, as muſt great⯑ly have allayed the merit of the action. But this I ſay, does not appear, but rather the contrary, from the reflection [120] ſhe makes upon the whole in the laſt verſe of the chapter. Now by this I know that thou art a man of God, and that the word of the Lord in thy mouth is truth.

Beſides as ſhe was an inhabitant of Zerephath, (or, as it is called by St. Luke, Sarepta, ſubject to Sidon the me⯑tropolis of Phoenicia, without the bounds of GOD's people,) ſhe had been brought up in groſs darkneſs and idolatry, in utter ignorance of the Lord GOD of Iſrael: or, if ſhe had heard of his name, which is all that ſeems probable, ſhe had been taught to diſbelieve the mighty wonders of his hand, and was ſtill leſs likely to believe his prophet.

Moreover ſhe might argue, if this man by ſome ſecret myſtery of his own, [121] or through the power of his GOD, is able to procure ſo preternatural a ſupply for me, whence comes it to paſs, that he now ſtands in want himſelf, oppreſſed both with hunger and thirſt?

It appears therefore, that ſhe muſt have been wrought upon by an unmixed principle of humanity. — She look'd upon him as a fellow-partner almoſt in the ſame affliction with herſelf. — She conſidered he had come a weary pilgri⯑mage, in a ſultry climate, through an exhauſted country; where neither bread or water were to be had, but by acts of liberality. — That he had come an un⯑known traveller, and as a hard heart never wants a pretence, that this circum⯑ſtance, which ſhould rather have be⯑friended, might have helped to oppreſs him. — She conſidered, for charity is [122] ever fruitful in kind reaſons, that he was now far from his own country, and had ſtrayed out of the reach of the ten⯑der offices of ſome one who affectionately mourned his abſence — her heart was touched with pity. — She turned in ſi⯑lence and went and did according as he had ſaid. And behold, both ſhe and he and her houſe did eat many days; or, as in the margin, one whole year. And the barrel of meal waſted not, neither did the cruſe of oil fail, until the day that God ſent rain upon the earth.

Though it may not ſeem neceſſary to raiſe conjectures here upon this event, yet it is natural to ſuppoſe, the danger of the famine being thus unexpectedly got over, that the mother began to look hopefully forwards upon the reſt of her days. There were many widows in Iſ⯑rael [123] at that time, when the heavens were ſhut up for three years and ſix months, yet, as St. Luke obſerves, to none of them was the prophet ſent, ſave to this widow of Sarepta: in all likelihood, ſhe would not be the laſt in making the ſame obſervation, and drawing from it ſome flattering concluſion in favour of her ſon. — Many a parent would build high, upon a worſe foundation. — ‘"Since the GOD of Iſrael has thus ſent his own meſſenger to us in our diſtreſs, to paſs by ſo many houſes of his own people, and ſtop at mine, to ſave it in ſo miraculous a manner from de⯑ſtruction; doubtleſs, this is but an earneſt of his future kind intentions to us: at leaſt, his goodneſs has de⯑creed to comfort my old age by the long life and health of my ſon: — but perhaps, he has ſomething greater [124] ſtill in ſtore for him, and I ſhall live to ſee the ſame hand hereafter crown his head with glory and honour?"’ We may naturally ſuppoſe her innocent⯑ly carried away with ſuch thoughts, when ſhe is called back by an unexpected di⯑ſtemper which ſurpriſes her ſon, and in one moment brings down all her hopes — for his ſickneſs was ſo ſore that there was no breath left in him. —

The expoſtulations of immoderate grief are ſeldom juſt — For, though Elijah had already preſerved her ſon, as well as herſelf from immediate death, and was the laſt cauſe to be ſuſpected of ſo ſad an accident; yet the paſſionate mother in the firſt tranſport challenges him as the author of her misfortune; — as if he had brought down ſorrow upon a houſe, which had ſo hoſpitably [125] ſheltered him. The prophet was too full of compaſſion, to make reply to ſo unkind an accuſation. He takes the dead child out of his mother's boſom, and laid him upon his own bed; and he cried unto the Lord and ſaid, O Lord my God! haſt thou brought evil upon the widow with whom I ſojourn, by ſlaying her ſon? ‘"Is this the reward of all her charity and goodneſs? thou haſt before this robbed her of the dear partner of all her joys and all her cares; and now that ſhe is a widow, and has moſt rea⯑ſon to expect thy protection; behold thou haſt withdrawn her laſt prop: thou haſt taken away her child, the only ſtay ſhe had to reſt on."’ — And Elijah cried unto God, and ſaid, O Lord my God, I pray thee, let this child's ſoul come into him again.

[126]The prayer was urgent, and beſpoke the diſtreſs of a humane mind deeply ſuffering in the misfortunes of another; — moreover his heart was rent with other paſſions. — He was zealous for the name and honour of his GOD, and thought not only his omnipotence, but his glori⯑ous attribute of mercy concern'd in the event: for, oh! with what triumph would the prophets of Baal retort his own bitter taunt, and ſay, his God was either talking, or he was purſuing, or was in a journey; or peradventure he ſlept and ſhould have been awaked. — He was more⯑over involved in the ſucceſs of his prayer himſelf; — honeſt minds are moſt hurt by ſcandal. — And he was afraid, leſt ſo foul a one, ſo unworthy of his cha⯑racter, might ariſe amongſt the heathen, who would report with pleaſure, ‘"Lo! the widow of Zerephath took the meſ⯑ſenger [127] of the GOD of Iſrael under her roof, and kindly entertained him, and ſee how ſhe is rewarded; ſurely [...] prophet was ungrateful, he wanted power, or what is worſe, he wanted pity!"’

Beſides all this, he pleaded not only the cauſe of the widow; it was the cauſe of charity itſelf, which had received a deep wound already, and would ſuffer ſtill more ſhould GOD deny it this teſti⯑mony of his favour. So the Lord hearkned unto the voice of Elijah, and the ſoul of the child came into him again, and he re⯑vived. And Elijah took the child and brought him down out of the chamber into the houſe, and delivered him unto his mo⯑ther; and Elijah ſaid, ſee thy ſon liveth.

[128]It would be a pleaſure to a good mind to ſtop here a moment, and figure to it⯑ſelf the picture of ſo joyful an event. — To behold on one hand the raptures of the parent, overcome with ſurprize and gratitude, and imagine how a ſudden ſtroke of ſuch impetuous joy muſt ope⯑rate on a deſpairing countenance, long accuſtomed to ſadneſs, — To conceive on the other ſide of the piece, the holy man approaching with the child in his arms — full of honeſt triumph in his looks, but ſweetened with all the kind ſympathy which a gentle nature could overflow with upon ſo happy an event. It is a ſubject one might recommend to the pencil of a great genius, and would even afford matter for deſcription here; but that it would lead us too far from the particular purpoſe, for which I have enlarged upon thus much of the ſtory [129] already; the chief deſign of which is to illuſtrate by a fact, what is evident both in reaſon and ſcripture, that a cha⯑ritable and good action is ſeldom caſt away, but that even in this life it is more than probable, that what is ſo ſcattered ſhall be gathered again with increaſe. Caſt thy bread upon the waters, and thou ſhalt find it after many days. Be as a father unto the fatherleſs and in⯑ſtead of a huſband unto their mother, ſo ſhalt thou be as the ſon of the Moſt High, and he will love thee more than thy mother doth. Be mindful of good turns, for thou knoweſt not what evil ſhall come upon the earth; and when thou falleſt thou ſhalt find a ſtay. It ſhall preſerve thee from all affliction, and fight for thee againſt thy enemies better than a mighty ſhield and a ſtrong ſpear.

[130]The great inſtability of temporal af⯑fairs, and conſtant fluctuation of every thing in this world, afford perpetual occaſions of taking refuge in ſuch a ſe⯑curity.

What by ſucceſſive misfortunes; by failings and croſs accidents in trade; by miſcarriage of projects: — what by un⯑ſuitable expences of parents, extrava⯑gance of children, and the many other ſecret ways whereby riches make them⯑ſelves wings and fly away; ſo many ſur⯑priſing revolutions do every day happen in families, that it may not ſeem ſtrange to ſay, that the poſterity of ſome of the moſt liberal contributors here, in the changes which one century may produce, may poſſibly find ſhelter under this very plant which they now ſo kindly water. Nay, ſo quickly ſometimes has the wheel [131] turned round, that many a man has lived to enjoy the benefit of that charity which his own piety projected.

But beſides this, and excluſive of the right which GOD's promiſe gives it to protection hereafter, charity and benevo⯑lence, in the ordinary chain of effects, have a natural and more immediate ten⯑dency in themſelves to reſcue a man from the accidents of the world, by ſof⯑tening the hearts, and winning every man's wiſhes to its intereſt. When a compaſſionate man falls, who would not pity him? who, that had power to do it, would not befriend and raiſe him up? or could the moſt barbarous tem⯑per offer an inſult to his diſtreſs without pain and reluctance? ſo that it is almoſt a wonder that covetouſneſs, even in ſpite of itſelf, does not ſometimes argue a man [132] into charity, by its own principle of looking forwards, and the firm expecta⯑tion it would delight in of receiving its own again with uſury. — So evident is it in the courſe of GOD's providence and the natural ſtream of things, that a good office one time or other generally meets with a reward. — Generally, did I ſay — how can it ever fail? — when beſides all this, ſo large a ſhare of the recom⯑pence is ſo inſeparable even from the action itſelf. Aſk the man who has a tear of tenderneſs always ready to ſhed over the unfortunate; who, withal, is ready to diſtribute and willing to commu⯑nicate: aſk him if the beſt things, which wits have ſaid of pleaſure, have ex⯑preſſed what he has felt, when by a ſea⯑ſonable kindneſs, he has made the heart of the widow ſing for joy. Mark then the expreſſions of unutterable pleaſure [133] and harmony in his looks; and ſay, whether Solomon has not fixed the point of true enjoyment in the right place, when he declares, ‘"that he knew no good there was in any of the riches or honours of this world, but for a man to do good with them in his life."’ Nor was it without reaſon he made this judgment. — Doubtleſs he had found and ſeen the inſufficiency of all ſenſual pleaſures; how unable to furniſh either a rational or a laſting ſcheme of happineſs: how ſoon the beſt of them vaniſhed; the leſs exceptionable in vanity, but the guilty both in vanity and vexation of ſpi⯑rit. But that this was of ſo pure and refined a nature it burned without con⯑ſuming: it was figuratively the widow's barrel of meal which waſted not, and cruſe of oil which never failed.

[134]It is not an eaſy matter to add weight to the teſtimony of the wiſeſt man, upon the pleaſure of doing good; or elſe the evidence of the philoſopher Epicurus is very remarkable, whoſe word in this matter is the more to be truſted, becauſe a profeſſed ſenſualiſt; who amidſt all the the delicacies and improvements of plea⯑ſure which a luxuriant fancy might ſtrike out, ſtill maintained, that the beſt way of enlarging human happineſs was, by a communication of it to others.

And if it was neceſſary here, or there was time to refine upon this doctrine, one might further maintain, excluſive of the happineſs which the mind itſelf feels in the exerciſe of this virtue, that the very body of man is never in a better ſtate than when he is moſt inclined to do good offices: — that as nothing more [135] contributes to health than a benevolence of temper, ſo nothing generally was a ſtronger indication of it.

And what ſeems to confirm this opi⯑nion, is an obſervation, the truth of which muſt be ſubmitted to every one's reflection — namely — that a diſinclina⯑tion and backwardneſs to do good, is often attended, if not produced, by an indiſpoſition of the animal as well as ra⯑tional part of us: — So naturally do the ſoul and body, as in other caſes ſo in this, mutually befriend, or prey upon each other. And indeed, ſetting aſide all abſtruſer reaſoning upon the point, I cannot conceive, but that the very mechanical motions which maintain life, muſt be performed with more equal vi⯑gour and freedom in that man whom a great and good ſoul perpetually inclines [136] to ſhew mercy to the miſerable, than they can be in a poor, ſordid, ſelfiſh wretch, whoſe little, contracted heart, melts at no man's affliction; but ſits brooding ſo intently over its own plots and concerns, as to ſee and feel nothing; and in truth, enjoy nothing beyond him⯑ſelf: and of whom one may ſay what that great maſter of nature has, ſpeak⯑ing of a natural ſenſe of harmony, which I think, with more juſtice may be ſaid of compaſſion, that the man who had it not, — ‘" — Was fit for treaſons, ſtratagems and ſpoils:’ ‘" The MOTIONS of his ſpirits are dull as night;’ ‘" And his affections dark as EREBUS:’ ‘" — Let no ſuch man be truſted. — ’ [137] What divines ſay of the mind, natura⯑liſts have obſerved of the body; that there is no paſſion ſo natural to it as love, which is the principle of doing good; — and though inſtances like this juſt mentioned ſeem far from being proofs of it, yet it is not to be doubted, but that every hard-hearted man has felt much inward oppoſition before he could prevail upon himſelf to do aught to fix and de⯑ſerve the character: and that what we ſay of long habits of vice, that they are hard to be ſubdued, may with equal truth be ſaid concerning the natural im⯑preſſions of benevolence, that a man muſt do much violence to himſelf, and ſuffer many a painful ſtruggle, before he can tear away ſo great and noble a part of his nature. — Of this antiquity has preſerved a beautiful inſtance in an anecdote of Alexander, the tyrant of Phe⯑res, [138] who though he had ſo induſtriouſly hardned his heart, as to ſeem to take delight in cruelty, inſomuch as to mur⯑der many of his ſubjects every day, with⯑out cauſe and without pity; yet, at the bare repreſentation of a tragedy which related the misfortunes of Hecuba and Andromache, he was ſo touched with the fictitious diſtreſs which the poet had wrought up in it, that he burſt out into a flood of tears. The explication of which inconſiſtency is eaſy, and caſts as great a luſtre upon human nature, as the man himſelf was a diſgrace to it. The caſe ſeems to have been this: in real life he had been blinded with paſ⯑ſions, and thoughtleſsly hurried on by intereſt or reſentment: — but here, there was no room for motives of that kind; ſo that his attention being firſt caught hold of, and all his vices laid aſleep; — [139] then NATURE awoke in triumph, and ſhewed how deeply ſhe had ſown the ſeeds of compaſſion in every man's breaſt; when tyrants, with vices the moſt at en⯑mity with it, were not able entirely to root it out.

But this is painting an amiable virtue, and ſetting her off, with ſhades which wickedneſs lends us, when one might ſafely truſt to the force of her own na⯑tural charms, and aſk, whether any thing under Heaven in its own nature, is more lovely and engaging? — To illu⯑ſtrate this the more, let us turn our thoughts within ourſelves; and for a mo⯑ment, let any number of us here ima⯑gine ourſelves at this inſtant engaged in drawing the moſt perfect and amiable character, ſuch, as according to our con⯑ceptions of the deity, we ſhould think [140] moſt acceptable to him, and moſt likely to be univerſally admired by all mankind. — I appeal to your own thoughts, whe⯑ther the firſt idea which offered itſelf to moſt of our imaginations, would not be that of a compaſſionate benefactor, ſtretching forth his hands to raiſe up the helpleſs orphan? whatever other virtues we ſhould give our hero, we ſhould all agree in making him a generous friend, who thought the opportunities of doing good to be the only charm of his proſpe⯑rity: we ſhould paint him like the pſal⯑miſt's river of God overflowing the thirſty parts of the earth, that he might enrich them, carrying plenty and gladneſs along with him. If this was not ſufficient, and we were ſtill deſirous of adding a farther degree of perfection to ſo great a character; we ſhould endeavour to think of ſome one, if human nature could [141] furniſh ſuch a pattern, who, if occaſion required, was willing to undergo all kinds of affliction, to ſacrifice himſelf, to forget his deareſt intereſts, and even lay down his life for the good of man⯑kind. — And here, — O merciful SA⯑VIOUR! how would the bright original of thy unbounded goodneſs break in upon our hearts? Thou who becameſt poor, that we might be rich — though Lord of all this world, yet hadſt not where to lay thy head. — And though equal in power and glory to the great GOD of NATURE, yet madeſt thyſelf of no repu⯑tation, tookeſt upon thee the form of a ſer⯑vant, — ſubmitting thyſelf, without opening thy mouth, to all the indigni⯑ties which a thankleſs and undiſcerning people could offer; and at length, to accompliſh our ſalvation, becameſt obedi⯑ent unto death, ſuffering thyſelf, as on [142] this day^*, to be led like a lamb to the ſlaughter!

The conſideration of this ſtupendous inſtance of compaſſion, in the Son of GOD, is the moſt unanſwerable appeal that can be made to the heart of man, for the reaſonableneſs of it in himſelf. — It is the great argument which the apoſtles uſe in almoſt all their exhorta⯑tions to good works. — Beloved, if Chriſt ſo loved us — the inference is unvoidable; and gives ſtrength and beauty to every thing elſe which can be urged upon the ſubject. And therefore I have reſerved it for my laſt and warmeſt appeal, with which I would gladly finiſh this diſ⯑courſe; that at leaſt for their ſakes for whom it is preached, we might be left to the full impreſſion of ſo exalted and [143] ſo ſeaſonable a motive. — That by re⯑flecting upon the infinite labour of this day's love, in the inſtance of CHRIST's death, we may conſider what an immenſe debt we owe each other: and by calling to mind the amiable pattern of his life, in doing good, we might learn in what manner we may beſt diſcharge it.

And indeed, of all the methods in which a good mind would be willing to do it, I believe there can be none more beneficial, or comprehenſive in its ef⯑fects, than that for which we are here met together. — The proper education of poor children being the ground-work of almoſt every other kind of charity, as that which makes every other ſubſequent act of it anſwer the pious expectation of the giver.

[144]Without this foundation firſt laid, how much kindneſs in the progreſs of a benevolent man's life is unavoidably caſt away? and ſometimes where it is as ſenſeleſs as the expoſing a tender plant to all the inclemencies of a cruel ſeaſon, and then going with ſorrow to take it in, when the root is already dead. I ſaid, therefore, this was the foundation of al⯑moſt every kind of charity, — and might not one have added, of all policy too? ſince the many ill conſequences which attend the want of it, though grievouſly felt by the parties themſelves, are no leſs ſo by the community of which they are members; and moreover, of all miſ⯑chiefs ſeem the hardeſt to be redreſſed. — Inſomuch, that when one conſiders the diſloyal ſeductions of popery on one hand, and on the other, that no bad [145] man, whatever he profeſſes, can be a good ſubject, one may venture to ſay, it had been cheaper and better for the na⯑tion to have bore the expence of inſtilling ſound principles and good morals, into the neglected children of the lower ſort, eſpecially in ſome parts of Great-Britain, than to be obliged, ſo often as we have been within this laſt century, to riſe up and arm ourſelves againſt the rebellious effects which the want of them have brought down even to our doors. And in fact, if we are to truſt antiquity, the truth of which in this caſe we have no reaſon to diſpute, this matter has been looked upon of ſuch vaſt importance to the civil happineſs and peace of a peo⯑ple, that ſome commonwealths, the moſt eminent for political wiſdom, have choſe to make a publick concern of it; think⯑ing [146] it much ſafer to be entruſted to the prudence of the magiſtrate, than to the miſtaken tenderneſs or natural partiality of the parent.

It was conſiſtent with this, and be⯑ſpoke a very refined ſenſe of policy in the Lacedaemonians, (though by the way, I believe, different from what more modern politics would have directed in like circumſtances) when Antipater de⯑manded of them fifty children, as ho⯑ſtages for the ſecurity of a diſtant en⯑gagement, they made this brave and wiſe anſwer, ‘"They would not, — they could not conſent: — they would ra⯑ther give him double the number of their beſt up-grown men"’ — Intima⯑ting, that however they were diſtreſſed, they would chuſe any inconvenience ra⯑ther [147] than ſuffer the loſs of their country's education; and the opportunity (which if once loſt can never be regained) of giving their youth an early tincture of religion, and bringing them up to a love of induſtry and a love of the laws and conſtitution of their country. — If this ſhews the great importance of a proper education to children of all ranks and conditions, what ſhall we ſay then of thoſe whom the providence of GOD has placed in the very loweſt lot of life, ut⯑terly caſt out of the way of knowledge, without a parent — ſometimes may be without a friend to guide and inſtruct them; but what common pity and the neceſſity of their ſad ſituation engages: — where the dangers which ſurround them on every ſide are ſo great and many, that for one fortunate paſſenger in life, [148] who makes his way well in the world with ſuch early diſadvantages and ſo diſ⯑mal a ſetting out, we may reckon thou⯑ſands who every day ſuffer ſhipwreck, and are loſt for ever.

If there is a caſe under Heaven which calls out aloud for the more immediate exerciſe of compaſſion, and which may be looked upon as the compendium of all charity, ſurely it is this: and I'm perſuaded there would want nothing more to convince the greateſt enemy to theſe kinds of charities that it is ſo, but a bare opportunity of taking a nearer view of ſome of the more diſtreſsful ob⯑jects of it.

Let him go into the dwellings of the unfortunate, into ſome mournful cot⯑tage, [149] where poverty and affliction reign together. There let him behold the diſconſolate widow — ſitting — ſteeped in tears; — thus ſorrowing over the in⯑fant, ſhe knows not how to ſuccour — ‘"O my child, thou art now left ex⯑poſed to a wide and a vicious world, too full of ſnares and temptations for thy tender and unpractiſed age. Per⯑haps a parent's love may magnify thoſe dangers. — But when I conſider thou art driven out naked into the midſt of them, without friends, with⯑out fortune, without inſtruction, my heart bleeds beforehand for the evils which may come upon thee. GOD, in whom we truſted, is witneſs, ſo low had his providence placed us, that we never indulged one wiſh to have made thee rich, — virtuous we [150] would have made thee; — for thy father, my huſband, was a good man and feared the Lord, — and though all the fruits of his care and induſtry were little enough for our ſupport, yet he honeſtly had determined to have ſpared ſome portion of it, ſcanty as it was, to have placed thee ſafely in the way of knowledge and inſtruc⯑tion — But alas! he is gone from us, never to return more, and with him are fled the means of doing it: — For, Behold the creditor is come upon us, to take all that we have."’ — Grief is eloquent, and will not eaſily be imitated. — But let the man, who is the leaſt friend to diſtreſſes of this nature, con⯑ceive ſome diſconſolate widow uttering her complaint even in this manner, and then let him conſider, if there is any ſor⯑row [151] like this ſorrow, wherewith the Lord has afflicted her? or, whether there can be any charity like that, of taking the child out of the mother's boſom, and reſcu⯑ing her from theſe apprehenſions. Should a heathen, a ſtranger to our holy religion and the love it teaches, ſhould he, as he journeyed, come to the place where ſhe lay, when he ſaw, would he not have compaſ⯑ſion on her? GOD forbid, a chriſtian ſhould this day want it; or at any time look upon ſuch a diſtreſs, and paſs by on the other ſide.

Rather, let him do, as his Saviour taught him, bind up the wounds, and pour comfort into the heart of one, whom the hand of GOD has ſo bruiſed. Let him practiſe what it is, with Elijah's tranſport, to ſay to the afflicted widow [152] — See, thy ſon liveth! — liveth by my charity, and the bounty of this hour, to all the purpoſes which make life deſira⯑ble, — to be made a good man, and a profitable ſubject: on one hand to be trained up to ſuch a ſenſe of his duty, as may ſecure him an intereſt in the world to come; and with regard to this world, to be ſo brought up in it, to a love of honeſt labour and induſtry, as all his life long to earn and eat his bread with joy and thankfulneſs.

‘"Much peace and happineſs reſt up⯑on the head and heart of every one who thus brings children to CHRIST — May the bleſſing of him that was ready to periſh come ſeaſonably upon him. — The Lord comfort him, when he moſt wants it, when he lays ſick [153] upon his bed; make thou, O GOD! all his bed in his ſickneſs; and for what he now ſcatters, give him, then, that peace of thine which paſſeth all underſtanding, and which nothing in this world can either give or take away."’ Amen.

SERMON VI.

THESE words are the judgment which our SAUIOUR has left upon the behaviour and different degrees of merit in the two men, the phariſee and publican, whom he repreſents in the foregoing parable as going up into the temple to pray; in what manner they diſcharged this great and ſolemn duty, will beſt be ſeen from a conſideration of the prayer, which each is ſaid to have addreſſed to GOD upon the occaſion.

[158]The phariſee, inſtead of an act of hu⯑miliation in that awful preſence before which he ſtood, — with an air of triumph and ſelf-ſufficiency, thanks GOD that he had not made him like others — extorti⯑oners, adulterers, unjuſt, or even as this publican. — The publican is repreſented as ſtanding afar off, and with a heart touch⯑ed with humility from a juſt ſenſe of his own unworthineſs, is ſaid only to have ſmote upon his breaſt, ſaying — GOD be merciful to me a ſinner. I tell you, adds our SAVIOUR, this man went down to his houſe juſtified rather than the other.

Though the juſtice of this determina⯑tion ſtrikes every one at firſt ſight, it may not be amiſs to enter into a more par⯑ticular examination of the evidence and reaſons upon which it might be founded, [159] not only becauſe it may place the equity of this deciſion in favour of the pub⯑lican in a ſtronger light, but that the ſubject ſeems likely to lead me to a train of reflections not unſuitable to the ſo⯑lemnity of the ſeaſon^*.

The phariſee was one of that ſect, who, in our SAVIOUR's time, what by the auſterity of their lives — their pub⯑lic alms-deeds, and greater pretences to piety than other men, had gradually wrought themſelves into much credit and reputation with the people: and indeed as the bulk of theſe are eaſily caught with appearances, their character ſeems to have been admirably well ſuited to ſuch a purpoſe — If you looked no farther than the outward part of it, you would think it made up of all goodneſs and perfection; an uncommon ſanctity [160] of life, guarded by great decorum and ſeverity of manners, — profuſe and fre⯑quent charities to the poor, — many acts of religion, much obſervance of the law — much, abſtinence — much prayer. —

It is painful to ſuſpect the appearance of ſo much good — and would have been ſo here, had not our bleſſed SA⯑VIOUR left us their real character upon record, and drawn up by himſelf in one word — that the ſect were like whitened ſepulchres, all fair and beautiful without, and enriched there with whatever could attract the eye of the beholder; but, when ſearched withinſide, were full of corruption and of whatever could ſhock and diſguſt the ſearcher. So that with all their affectation of piety, and more extraordinary ſtrictneſs and regularity in [161] their outward deportment, all was irre⯑gular and uncultivated within — and all theſe fair pretences, how promiſing ſo⯑ever, blaſted by the indulgence of the worſt of human paſſions; — pride — ſpiritual pride, the worſt of all pride — hypocriſy, ſelf-love, covetuouſneſs, ex⯑tortion, cruelty and revenge. What pity it is that the ſacred name of reli⯑gion ſhould ever have been borrowed, and employed in ſo bad a work, as in covering over ſuch a black catalogue of vices — or that the fair form of virtue ſhould have been thus diſgraced and for ever drawn into ſuſpicion, from the un⯑worthy uſes of this kind, to which the artful and abandoned have often put her. The phariſee ſeems to have had not many ſcruples of this kind, and the prayer he makes uſe of in the temple is a true picture of the man's heart, and [162] ſhews with what a diſpoſition and frame of mind he came to worſhip. —

GOD! I thank thee that thou haſt formed me of different materials from the reſt of my ſpecies, whom thou haſt created frail and vain by nature, but by choice and diſpoſition utterly corrupt and wicked.

Me, thou haſt faſhioned in a different mould, and haſt infuſed ſo large a por⯑tion of thy ſpirit into me, lo! I am raiſed above the temptations and deſires to which fleſh and blood are ſubject — I thank thee that thou haſt made me thus — not a frail veſſel of clay, like that of other men — or even this publican, but that I ſtand here a choſen and ſanctified veſſel unto thee.

[163]After this obvious paraphraſe upon the words, which ſpeaks no more than the true ſpirit of the phariſee's prayer, — you will naturally aſk what reaſon was there for all this triumph — or what foundation could he have to inſult in this manner over the infirmities of man⯑kind — or even thoſe of the humble publican who ſtood before him? — why, ſays he, I give tithes of all that I poſ⯑ſeſs. — Truly a very indifferent account of himſelf — and if that was all he had to offer in his own behalf, GOD knows, it was but a weak foundation to ſupport ſo much arrogance and ſelf-conceit; be⯑cauſe the obſervance of both the one and the other of theſe ordinances might be ſuppoſed well enough to be conſiſtent with the moſt profligate, of life and manners.

[164]The conduct and behaviour of the publican appears very different — and indeed as much the reverſe to this, as you could conceive. But before we en⯑ter upon that, as I have ſpoke largely to the character of the phariſee, 'twill be but juſtice to ſay a word or two in general to his. — The publican was one of that order of men employed by the Roman emperors in levying the taxes and contributions which were from time to time exacted from Judea as a con⯑quered nation. Whether, from the par⯑ticular fate of that employment, owing to the fixed averſion which men have to part with what is their own, or from whatever other cauſes it happened — ſo it was, that the whole ſet of men were odious, inſomuch that the name of a publican was a term of reproach and in⯑famy amongſt the Jews.

[165]Perhaps the many inſtances of rigour to which their office might direct them — heightened ſometimes by a mixture of cruelty and inſolence of their own — and poſſibly always made to appear worſe than they were by the loud clamours and miſrepreſentations of others — all might have contributed to form and [...]ix this odium. But it was here no doubt, as in all other claſſes of men, whoſe profeſſions expoſe them to more temp⯑tations than that of others — that there are numbers who ſtill behave well, and who, amidſt all the ſnares and opportu⯑nities which lye in their way, — paſs through them, not only with an un⯑blemiſhed character, but with the in⯑ward teſtimony of a good conſcience.

The publican in all likelihood was one of theſe — and the ſentiments of [166] candour and humility which the view of his condition inſpired, are ſuch as could come only from a heart and character thus deſcribed.

He goes up into the temple to pay his ſacrifice of prayer — in the diſcharge of which, he pleads no merit of his own — enters into no compariſon with others, — or juſtification of himſelf with GOD, but in reverence to that holier part of the temple where his preſence was ſup⯑poſed more immediately to be diſplayed — he keeps afar off — is afraid to lift up his eyes towards heaven — but ſmites upon his breaſt, and in a ſhort but fervent ejaculation — ſubmiſſively begs GOD to have mercy upon his ſins. O GOD! how precious! how amiable! is true hu⯑mility? what a difference in thy ſight does it make to conſiſt betwixt man and [167] man! Pride was not made for a crea⯑ture with ſuch manifold imperfections — religious pride is a dreſs which ſtill worſe becomes him — becauſe, of all others, 'tis that to which he has leaſt pretence — the beſt of us fall ſeven times a day, and thereby add ſome degree of unprofitableneſs to the character of thoſe who do all that is commanded them — was I perfect therefore, ſays Job, I would not know my ſoul, I would be ſilent, I would be ignorant of my own righteouſneſs, for ſhould I ſay I was per⯑fect, it would prove me to be perverſe. From this introduction I will take occa⯑ſion to recommend this virtue of religi⯑ous humility which ſo naturally falls from the ſubject, and which cannot more effectually be enforced, than by an en⯑quiry into the chief cauſes which pro⯑duce [168] the oppoſite vice to it — that of ſpiritual pride — for in this malady of the mind of man — the caſe is parallel with moſt others of his body, the dan⯑gers of which can never rightly be ap⯑prehended; or can remedies be applied either with judgment or ſucceſs, till they are traced back to their firſt principles, and the ſeeds of the diſorder are laid open and conſidered. And firſt, I believe, one of the moſt general cauſes of ſpiri⯑tual pride, is that which ſeems to have miſled the phariſee — a miſtaken notion of the true principles of his religion. He thought, no doubt, that the whole of it was comprehended in the two arti⯑cles of paying tythes and frequent faſt⯑ing, and that when he had diſcharged his conſcience of them — he had done all that was required at his hands, and might [169] with reaſon go, and thank GOD that he had not made him like others. — It is not to be queſtioned, but through force of this error, the phariſee might think himſelf to be, what he pretended, a re⯑ligious and upright man. — For how⯑ever he might be brought to act a double and inſincere part in the eyes of men upon worldly views — it is not to be ſuppoſed — that when he ſtood by him⯑ſelf, apart in the temple, and no wit⯑neſſes of what paſſed between him and his GOD — that he ſhould knowingly and wilfully have dared to act ſo open and barefaced a ſcene of mockery in the face of Heaven. This is ſcarce proba⯑ble — and therefore it muſt have been ow⯑ing to ſome deluſion in his education, which had early implanted in his mind falſe and wretched notions of the eſſen⯑tials of religion — which as he grew up [170] had proved the ſeeds of infinite error, both in practice and ſpeculation. —

With the reſt of his ſect, he had been ſo principled and inſtructed as to obſerve a ſcrupulous nicety and moſt religious exactneſs in the leſſer matters of his re⯑ligion — its frequent waſhings — its faſt⯑ings and other external rites of no merit in themſelves — but to be exempted, from the more troubleſome exactneſs in the weightier matters of the law, which were of eternal and unchangeable obli⯑gation. So that, they were in truth blind guides — who thus would ſtrain at a gnat and yet ſwallow a camel, and as our SAVIOUR reproves them from a familiar inſtance of domeſtic inconſiſtency — would make clean the outſide of the cup and platter — yet ſuffer the inſide — the moſt material part, to be full of cor⯑ruption [171] and exceſs. From this know⯑ledge of the character and principles of the phariſee, 'tis eaſy to account for his ſentiments and behaviour in the temple, which were juſt ſuch as they would have led one to have expected.

Thus it has always happened, by a fa⯑tality common to all ſuch abuſes of reli⯑gion as make it to conſiſt in external rites and ceremonies more than inward purity and integrity of heart. — As theſe outward things are eaſily put in practice — and capable of being attained to, without much capacity, or much oppo⯑ſition to fleſh and blood — it too naturally betrays the profeſſors of it, into a ground⯑leſs perſuaſion of their own godlineſs and a deſpicable one of that of others, in their religious capacities, and the relations in which they ſtand towards GOD: which is the very definition of ſpiritual pride.

[172]When the true heat and ſpirit of de⯑votion is thus loſt and extinguiſhed un⯑der a cloud of oſtentatious ceremonies and geſtures, as is remarkable in the Ro⯑man church — where the celebration of high maſs, when ſet off to the beſt ad⯑vantage with all its ſcenical decorations and finery, looks more like a theatrical performance, than that humble and ſo⯑lemn appeal which duſt and aſhes are offering up to the throne of GOD, — when religion I ſay, is thus clogged and bore down by ſuch a weight of ceremo⯑nies — it is much eaſier to put in pre⯑tentions to holineſs upon ſuch a mecha⯑nical ſyſtem as is left of it, than where the character is only to be got and main⯑tained by a painful conflict and perpe⯑tual war againſt the paſſions. 'Tis eaſier, for inſtance, for a zealous papiſt to croſs himſelf and tell his beads, than for an humble proteſtant to ſubdue the luſts of [173] anger, intemperance, cruelty and re⯑venge, to appear before his maker with that preparation of mind which becomes him. The operation of being ſprinkled with holy water, is not ſo difficult in it⯑ſelf, as that of being chaſte and ſpotleſs within — conſcious of no dirty thought or diſhoneſt action. 'Tis a much ſhorter way to kneel down at a confeſſional and receive abſolution — than to live ſo as to deſerve it — not at the hands of men — but at the hands of GOD — who ſees the heart and cannot be impoſed on. — The atchievement of keeping lent, or abſtaining from fleſh on certain days, is not ſo hard, as that of abſtaining from the works of it at all times — eſpecially, as the point is generally managed amongſt the richer ſort with ſuch art and epicu⯑riſm at their tables — and with ſuch in⯑dulgence to a poor mortified appetite — that an entertainment upon a faſt is much [174] more likely to produce a ſurfeit than a fit of ſorrow.

One might run the parallel much farther, but this may be ſufficient to ſhew how dangerous and deluſive theſe miſtakes are — how apt to miſlead and overſet weak minds, which are ever apt to be caught by the pomp of ſuch external parts of religion. — This is ſo evident, that even in our own church, where there is the greateſt chaſtity in things of this nature — and of which none are retained in our worſhip, but what I believe, tend to excite and aſſiſt it — yet ſo ſtrong a propenſity is there in our nature to ſenſe — and ſo unequal a match is the underſtanding of the bulk of man⯑kind, for the impreſſions of outward things — that we ſee thouſands who every day miſtake the ſhadow for the ſubſtance, and was it fairly put to the trial would exchange the reality for the appearance.

[175]You ſee, this was almoſt univerſally the caſe of the Jewiſh church — where, for want of proper guard and diſtinction betwixt the means of religion and religion itſelf, the ceremonial part in time eat away the moral part, and left nothing but a ſhadow behind. — 'Tis to be feared the buffooneries of the Romiſh church, bid fair to do it the ſame ill office, to the diſgrace and utter ruin of chriſtianity wherever popery is eſtabliſhed. What then remains, but that we rectify theſe groſs and pernicious notions of religion, and place it upon its true bottom, which we can only do, by bringing back reli⯑gion to that cool point of reaſon which firſt ſhewed us its obligation — by al⯑ways remembering that GOD is a ſpirit — and muſt be worſhipped ſuitable to his nature, i. e. in ſpirit and in truth — and that the moſt acceptable ſacrifice we can [176] offer him is a virtuous and an upright mind — and however neceſſary it is, not to leave the ceremonial and poſitive parts of religion undone — yet not like the phariſee to reſt there — and omit the weightier matters, but keep this in view perpetually, that though the inſtrumen⯑tal duties are duties of unqueſtionable obligation to us — yet they are ſtill but INSTRUMENTAL DUTIES, condu⯑cive to the great end of all religion — which is to purify our hearts — and conquer our paſſions — and in a word, to make us wiſer and better men — better neighbours — better citizens — and better ſervants to GOD. — To whom, &c.