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  WRITINGS OF HANNAH MORE
  by Hannah More
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A collection of theological writings, sermons, and essays by Hannah More,
compiled for study and devotional reading.

  Chapters: 39

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS
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    1. 00.00. More, Hannah - Library
    2. 01.00. Essays on Various Subjects, Principally Designed for Young Ladies
    3. 01.01.     introduction
    4. 01.02.     on dissipation
    5. 01.03.     on conversation
    6. 01.04.     on envy
    7. 01.05.     on sentimental connexions
    8. 01.06.     on true and false meekness
    9. 01.07.     on education
   10. 01.08.     on religion
   11. 01.09.     miscellaneous thoughts on wit
   12. 02.00. Practical Piety
   13. 02.01.     Christianity an Internal Principle
   14. 02.02.     Christianity a Practical Principle
   15. 02.03.     Mistakes in Religion
   16. 02.04.     Periodical Religion
   17. 02.05.     Prayer
   18. 02.06.     Cultivation of a Devotional Spirit
   19. 02.07.     The Love of God
   20. 02.08.     The Hand of God to be acknowledged
   21. 02.09.     Christianity Universal in its Requisitions
   22. 02.10.     Christian Holiness
   23. 02.11.     On the comparatively small Faults and Virtues
   24. 02.12.     Self-Examination
   25. 02.13.     Self-Love
   26. 02.14.     On the Conduct of Christians inTheir Relationships With the Irreligious
   27. 02.15.     Christian Watchfulness
   28. 02.16.     True and False Zeal
   29. 02.17.     Insensibility to Eternal Things
   30. 02.18.     On the Sufferings of Good Men
   31. 02.19.     The Temper and Conduct of the
   32. S.     All For The Best!
   33. S.     Secret Prayer!
   34. S.     Self-Examination
   35. S.     Short pithy quotes from Hannah More
   36. S.     The Pilgrims (an allegory)
   37. S.     The Servant Man Turned Soldier
   38. S.     The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain
   39. S.     The Valley of Tears!

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  CHAPTER 1: 00.00. MORE, HANNAH - LIBRARY
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More, Hannah - Library More, Hannah - Essays on Various Subjects Designed for
Young Ladies More, Hannah - Practical Piety S. All for the Best S. Secret
Prayer!

S. Self Examination S. Short Pithy Quotes

S. The Pilgrims S. The Servant Man Turned Soldier S. The Shepherd of Salisbury
Plain S. The Valley of Tears!


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  CHAPTER 2: 01.00. ESSAYS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS, PRINCIPALLY DESIGNED FOR YOUNG LADIES
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ESSAYS on VARIOUS SUBJECTS, Principally designed for

YOUNG LADIES.

CONTENTS.

01 introduction 02 on dissipation 03 on conversation

04 on envy 05 on sentimental connexions 06 on true and false meekness

07 on education

08 on religion 09 miscellaneous thoughts on wit As for you, I shall advise you
in a few words: aspire only to those virtues that are peculiar to your sex;
follow your natural modesty, and think it your greatest commendation not to be
talked of one way or the other.

Oration of Pericles to the Athenian Women.

LONDON:

Printed for J. Wilkie, in St. Paul’s Church-Yard; and T. Cadell, in the Strand.

MDCCLXXVII. to

Mrs. MONTAGU.

MADAM,

If you were only one of the finest writers of your time, you would probably have
escaped the trouble of this address, which is drawn on you, less by the lustre
of your understanding, than by the amiable qualities of your heart. As the
following pages are written with an humble but earnest wish, to promote the
interests of virtue, as far as the very limited abilities of the author allow;
there is, I flatter myself, a peculiar propriety in inscribing them to you,
Madam, who, while your works convey instruction and delight to the best-informed
of the other sex, furnish, by your conduct, an admirable pattern of life and
manners to your own. And I can with truth remark, that those graces of
conversation, which would be the first praise of almost any other character,
constitute but an inferior part of yours.

I am, Madam, With the highest esteem, Your most obedient

Humble Servant, Bristol, Hannah More. May 20, 1777.


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  CHAPTER 3: 01.01.     INTRODUCTION
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INTRODUCTION.

It is with the utmost diffidence that the following pages are submitted to the
inspection of the Public: yet, however the limited abilities of the author may
have prevented her from succeeding to her wish in the execution of her present
attempt, she humbly trusts that the uprightness of her intention will procure it
a candid and favourable reception. The following little Essays are chiefly
calculated for the younger part of her own sex, who, she flatters herself, will
not esteem them the less, because they were written immediately for their
service. She by no means pretends to have composed a regular system of morals,
or a finished plan of conduct: she has only endeavoured to make a few remarks on
such circumstances as seemed to her susceptible of some improvement, and on such
subjects as she imagined were particularly interesting to young ladies, on their
first introduction into the world. She hopes they will not be offended if she
has occasionally pointed out certain qualities, and suggested certain tempers,
and dispositions, as peculiarly feminine, and hazarded some observations which
naturally arose from the subject, on the different characters which mark the
sexes. And here again she takes the liberty to repeat that these distinctions
cannot be too nicely maintained; for besides those important qualities common to
both, each sex has its respective, appropriated qualifications, which would
cease to be meritorious, the instant they ceased to be appropriated. Nature,
propriety, and custom have prescribed certain bounds to each; bounds which the
prudent and the candid will never attempt to break down; and indeed it would be
highly impolitic to annihilate distinctions from which each acquires excellence,
and to attempt innovations, by which both would be losers.

Women therefore never understand their own interests so little, as when they
affect those qualities and accomplishments, from the want of which they derive
their highest merit. "The porcelain clay of human kind," says an admired writer,
speaking of the sex. Greater delicacy evidently implies greater fragility; and
this weakness, natural and moral, clearly points out the necessity of a superior
degree of caution, retirement, and reserve.

If the author may be allowed to keep up the allusion of the poet, just quoted,
she would ask if we do not put the finest vases, and the costliest images in
places of the greatest security, and most remote from any probability of
accident, or destruction? By being so situated, they find their protection in
their weakness, and their safety in their delicacy. This metaphor is far from
being used with a design of placing young ladies in a trivial, unimportant
light; it is only introduced to insinuate, that where there is more beauty, and
more weakness, there should be greater circumspection, and superior prudence.

Men, on the contrary, are formed for the more public exhibitions on the great
theatre of human life. Like the stronger and more substantial wares, they derive
no injury, and lose no polish by being always exposed, and engaged in the
constant commerce of the world. It is their proper element, where they respire
their natural air, and exert their noblest powers, in situations which call them
into action. They were intended by Providence for the bustling scenes of life;
to appear terrible in arms, useful in commerce, shining in counsels. The Author
fears it will be hazarding a very bold remark, in the opinion of many ladies,
when she adds, that the female mind, in general, does not appear capable of
attaining so high a degree of perfection in science as the male. Yet she hopes
to be forgiven when she observes also, that as it does not seem to derive the
chief portion of its excellence from extraordinary abilities of this kind, it is
not at all lessened by the imputation of not possessing them. It is readily
allowed, that the sex have lively imaginations, and those exquisite perceptions
of the beautiful and defective, which come under the denomination of Taste. But
pretensions to that strength of intellect, which is requisite to penetrate into
the abstruser walks of literature, it is presumed they will readily relinquish.
There are green pastures, and pleasant vallies, where they may wander with
safety to themselves, and delight to others. They may cultivate the roses of
imagination, and the valuable fruits of morals and criticism; but the steeps of
Parnassus few, comparatively, have attempted to scale with success. And when it
is considered, that many languages, and many sciences, must contribute to the
perfection of poetical composition, it will appear less strange. The lofty Epic,
the pointed Satire, and the more daring and successful flights of the Tragic
Muse, seem reserved for the bold adventurers of the other sex. Nor does this
assertion, it is apprehended, at all injure the interests of the women; they
have other pretensions, on which to value themselves, and other qualities much
better calculated to answer their particular purposes. We are enamoured of the
soft strains of the Sicilian and the Mantuan Muse, while, to the sweet notes of
the pastoral reed, they sing the Contentions of the Shepherds, the Blessings of
Love, or the innocent Delights of rural Life. Has it ever been ascribed to them
as a defect, that their Eclogues do not treat of active scenes, of busy cities,
and of wasting war? No: their simplicity is their perfection, and they are only
blamed when they have too little of it. On the other hand, the lofty bards who
strung their bolder harps to higher measures, and sung the Wrath of Peleus’ Son,
and Man’s first Disobedience, have never been censured for want of sweetness and
refinement. The sublime, the nervous, and the masculine, characterise their
compositions; as the beautiful, the soft, and the delicate, mark those of the
others. Grandeur, dignity, and force, distinguish the one species; ease,
simplicity, and purity, the other. Both shine from their native, distinct,
unborrowed merits, not from those which are foreign, adventitious, and
unnatural. Yet those excellencies, which make up the essential and constituent
parts of poetry, they have in common.

Women have generally quicker perceptions; men have juster sentiments.—Women
consider how things may be prettily said; men how they may be properly said.—In
women, (young ones at least) speaking accompanies, and sometimes precedes
reflection; in men, reflection is the antecedent.—Women speak to shine or to
please; men, to convince or confute.—Women admire what is brilliant; men what is
solid.—Women prefer an extemporaneous sally of wit, or a sparkling effusion of
fancy, before the most accurate reasoning, or the most laborious investigation
of facts. In literary composition, women are pleased with point, turn, and
antithesis; men with observation, and a just deduction of effects from their
causes.—Women are fond of incident, men of argument.—Women admire passionately,
men approve cautiously.—One sex will think it betrays a want of feeling to be
moderate in their applause, the other will be afraid of exposing a want of
judgment by being in raptures with any thing.—Men refuse to give way to the
emotions they actually feel, while women sometimes affect to be transported
beyond what the occasion will justify. As a farther confirmation of what has
been advanced on the different bent of the understanding in the sexes, it may be
observed, that we have heard of many female wits, but never of one female
logician—of many admirable writers of memoirs, but never of one chronologer.—In
the boundless and aërial regions of romance, and in that fashionable species of
composition which succeeded it, and which carries a nearer approximation to the
manners of the world, the women cannot be excelled: this imaginary soil they
have a peculiar talent for cultivating, because here, Invention labours more,
and judgment less. The merit of this kind of writing consists in the
vraisemblance to real life as to the events themselves, with a certain elevation
in the narrative, which places them, if not above what is natural, yet above
what is common. It farther consists in the art of interesting the tender
feelings by a pathetic representation of those minute, endearing, domestic
circumstances, which take captive the soul before it has time to shield itself
with the armour of reflection. To amuse, rather than to instruct, or to instruct
indirectly by short inferences, drawn from a long concatenation of
circumstances, is at once the business of this sort of composition, and one of
the characteristics of female genius[1]. In short, it appears that the mind in
each sex has some natural kind of bias, which constitutes a distinction of
character, and that the happiness of both depends, in a great measure, on the
preservation and observance of this distinction. For where would be the superior
pleasure and satisfaction resulting from mixed conversation, if this difference
were abolished? If the qualities of both were invariably and exactly the same,
no benefit or entertainment would arise from the tedious and insipid uniformity
of such an intercourse; whereas considerable advantages are reaped from a select
society of both sexes. The rough angles and asperities of male manners are
imperceptibly filed, and gradually worn smooth, by the polishing of female
conversation, and the refining of female taste; while the ideas of women acquire
strength and solidity, by their associating with sensible, intelligent, and
judicious men. On the whole, (even if fame be the object of pursuit) is it not
better to succeed as women, than to fail as men? To shine, by walking honourably
in the road which nature, custom, and education seem to have marked out, rather
than to counteract them all, by moving awkwardly in a path diametrically
opposite? To be good originals, rather than bad imitators? In a word, to be
excellent women, rather than indifferent men?

[1] The author does not apprehend it makes against her general position, that
this nation can boast a female critic, poet, historian, linguist, philosopher,
and moralist, equal to most of the other sex. To these particular instances
others might be adduced; but it is presumed, that they only stand as exceptions
against the rule, without tending to invalidate the rule itself.


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  CHAPTER 4: 01.02.     ON DISSIPATION
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ON DISSIPATION.

DOGLIE CERTE, ALLEGREZZE INCERTE!

PETRARCA. As an argument in favour of modern manners, it has been pleaded, that
the softer vices of Luxury and Dissipation, belong rather to gentle and yielding
tempers, than to such as are rugged and ferocious: that they are vices which
increase civilization, and tend to promote refinement, and the cultivation of
humanity. But this is an assertion, the truth of which the experience of all
ages contradicts. Nero was not less a tyrant for being a fiddler: He[2] who
wished the whole Roman people had but one neck, that he might dispatch them at a
blow, was himself the most debauched man in Rome; and Sydney and Russel were
condemned to bleed under the most barbarous, though most dissipated and
voluptuous, reign that ever disgraced the annals of Britain. The love of
dissipation is, I believe, allowed to be the reigning evil of the present day.
It is an evil which many content themselves with regretting, without seeking to
redress. A dissipated life is censured in the very act of dissipation, and
prodigality of time is as gravely declaimed against at the card table, as in the
pulpit. The lover of dancing censures the amusements of the theatre for their
dulness, and the gamester blames them both for their levity. She, whose whole
soul is swallowed up in "opera extacies" is astonished, that her acquaintance
can spend whole nights in preying, like harpies, on the fortunes of their
fellow-creatures; while the grave sober sinner, who passes her pale and anxious
vigils, in this fashionable sort of pillaging, is no less surprised how the
other can waste her precious time in hearing sounds for which she has no taste,
in a language she does not understand. In short, every one seems convinced, that
the evil so much complained of does really exist somewhere, though all are
inwardly persuaded that it is not with themselves. All desire a general
reformation, but few will listen to proposals of particular amendment; the body
must be restored, but each limb begs to remain as it is; and accusations which
concern all, will be likely to affect none. They think that sin, like matter, is
divisible, and that what is scattered among so many, cannot materially affect
any one; and thus individuals contribute separately to that evil which they in
general lament. The prevailing manners of an age depend more than we are aware,
or are willing to allow, on the conduct of the women; this is one of the
principal hinges on which the great machine of human society turns. Those who
allow the influence which female graces have, in contributing to polish the
manners of men, would do well to reflect how great an influence female morals
must also have on their conduct. How much then is it to be regretted, that the
British ladies should ever sit down contented to polish, when they are able to
reform, to entertain, when they might instruct, and to dazzle for an hour, when
they are candidates for eternity!

Under the dispensation of Mahomet’s law, indeed, these mental excellencies
cannot be expected, because the women are shut out from all opportunities of
instruction, and excluded from the endearing pleasures of a delightful and equal
society; and, as a charming poet sings, are taught to believe, that For their
inferior natures Form’d to delight, and happy by delighting, Heav’n has reserv’d
no future paradise, But bids them rove the paths of bliss, secure Of total
death, and careless of hereafter.

Irene.

These act consistently in studying none but exterior graces, in cultivating only
personal attractions, and in trying to lighten the intolerable burden of time,
by the most frivolous and vain amusements. They act in consequence of their own
blind belief, and the tyranny of their despotic masters; for they have neither
the freedom of a present choice, nor the prospect of a future being. But in this
land of civil and religious liberty, where there is as little despotism
exercised over the minds, as over the persons of women, they have every liberty
of choice, and every opportunity of improvement; and how greatly does this
increase their obligation to be exemplary in their general conduct, attentive to
the government of their families, and instrumental to the good order of society!

She who is at a loss to find amusements at home, can no longer apologize for her
dissipation abroad, by saying she is deprived of the benefit and the pleasure of
books; and she who regrets being doomed to a state of dark and gloomy ignorance,
by the injustice, or tyranny of the men, complains of an evil which does not
exist.

It is a question frequently in the mouths of illiterate and dissipated
females—"What good is there in reading? To what end does it conduce?" It is,
however, too obvious to need insisting on, that unless perverted, as the best
things may be, reading answers many excellent purposes beside the great leading
one, and is perhaps the safest remedy for dissipation. She who dedicates a
portion of her leisure to useful reading, feels her mind in a constant
progressive state of improvement, whilst the mind of a dissipated woman is
continually losing ground. An active spirit rejoiceth, like the sun, to run his
daily course, while indolence, like the dial of Ahaz, goes backwards. The
advantages which the understanding receives from polite literature, it is not
here necessary to enumerate; its effects on the moral temper is the present
object of consideration. The remark may perhaps be thought too strong, but I
believe it is true, that next to religious influences, an habit of study is the
most probable preservative of the virtue of young persons. Those who cultivate
letters have rarely a strong passion for promiscuous visiting, or dissipated
society; study therefore induces a relish for domestic life, the most desirable
temper in the world for women. Study, as it rescues the mind from an inordinate
fondness for gaming, dress, and public amusements, is an [oe]conomical
propensity; for a lady may read at much less expence than she can play at cards;
as it requires some application, it gives the mind an habit of industry; as it
is a relief against that mental disease, which the French emphatically call
ennui, it cannot fail of being beneficial to the temper and spirits, I mean in
the moderate degree in which ladies are supposed to use it; as an enemy to
indolence, it becomes a social virtue; as it demands the full exertion of our
talents, it grows a rational duty; and when directed to the knowledge of the
Supreme Being, and his laws, it rises into an act of religion. The rage for
reformation commonly shews itself in a violent zeal for suppressing what is
wrong, rather than in a prudent attention to establish what is right; but we
shall never obtain a fair garden merely by rooting up weeds, we must also plant
flowers; for the natural richness of the soil we have been clearing will not
suffer it to lie barren, but whether it shall be vainly or beneficially
prolific, depends on the culture. What the present age has gained on one side,
by a more enlarged and liberal way of thinking, seems to be lost on the other,
by excessive freedom and unbounded indulgence. Knowledge is not, as heretofore,
confined to the dull cloyster, or the gloomy college, but disseminated, to a
certain degree, among both sexes and almost all ranks. The only misfortune is,
that these opportunities do not seem to be so wisely improved, or turned to so
good an account as might be wished. Books of a pernicious, idle, and frivolous
sort, are too much multiplied, and it is from the very redundancy of them that
true knowledge is so scarce, and the habit of dissipation so much increased.

It has been remarked, that the prevailing character of the present age is not
that of gross immorality: but if this is meant of those in the higher walks of
life, it is easy to discern, that there can be but little merit in abstaining
from crimes which there is but little temptation to commit. It is however to be
feared, that a gradual defection from piety, will in time draw after it all the
bad consequences of more active vice; for whether mounds and fences are suddenly
destroyed by a sweeping torrent, or worn away through gradual neglect, the
effect is equally destructive. As a rapid fever and a consuming hectic are alike
fatal to our natural health, so are flagrant immorality and torpid indolence to
our moral well-being. The philosophical doctrine of the slow recession of bodies
from the sun, is a lively image of the reluctance with which we first abandon
the light of virtue. The beginning of folly, and the first entrance on a
dissipated life cost some pangs to a well-disposed heart; but it is surprising
to see how soon the progress ceases to be impeded by reflection, or slackened by
remorse. For it is in moral as in natural things, the motion in minds as well as
bodies is accelerated by a nearer approach to the centre to which they are
tending. If we recede slowly at first setting out, we advance rapidly in our
future course; and to have begun to be wrong, is already to have made a great
progress. A constant habit of amusement relaxes the tone of the mind, and
renders it totally incapable of application, study, or virtue. Dissipation not
only indisposes its votaries to every thing useful and excellent, but
disqualifies them for the enjoyment of pleasure itself. It softens the soul so
much, that the most superficial employment becomes a labour, and the slightest
inconvenience an agony. The luxurious Sybarite must have lost all sense of real
enjoyment, and all relish for true gratification, before he complained that he
could not sleep, because the rose leaves lay double under him.

Luxury and dissipation, soft and gentle as their approaches are, and silently as
they throw their silken chains about the heart, enslave it more than the most
active and turbulent vices. The mightiest conquerors have been conquered by
these unarmed foes: the flowery setters are fastened, before they are felt. The
blandishments of Circe were more fatal to the mariners of Ulysses, than the
strength of Polypheme, or the brutality of the Læstrigons. Hercules, after he
had cleansed the Augean stable, and performed all the other labours enjoined him
by Euristheus, found himself a slave to the softnesses of the heart; and he, who
wore a club and a lion’s skin in the cause of virtue, condescended to the most
effeminate employments to gratify a criminal weakness. Hannibal, who vanquished
mighty nations, was himself overcome by the love of pleasure; and he who
despised cold, and want, and danger, and death on the Alps, was conquered and
undone by the dissolute indulgences of Capua.

Before the hero of the most beautiful and virtuous romance that ever was
written, I mean Telemachus, landed on the island of Cyprus, he unfortunately
lost his prudent companion, Mentor, in whom wisdom is so finely personified. At
first he beheld with horror the wanton and dissolute manners of the voluptuous
inhabitants; the ill effects of their example were not immediate: he did not
fall into the commission of glaring enormities; but his virtue was secretly and
imperceptibly undermined, his heart was softened by their pernicious society;
and the nerve of resolution was slackened: he every day beheld with diminished
indignation the worship which was offered to Venus; the disorders of luxury and
prophaneness became less and less terrible, and the infectious air of the
country enfeebled his courage, and relaxed his principles. In short, he had
ceased to love virtue long before he thought of committing actual vice; and the
duties of a manly piety were burdensome to him, before he was so debased as to
offer perfumes, and burn incense on the altar of the licentious goddess[3].

"Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds before they be withered," said Solomon’s
libertine. Alas! he did not reflect that they withered in the very gathering.
The roses of pleasure seldom last long enough to adorn the brow of him who
plucks them; for they are the only roses which do not retain their sweetness
after they have lost their beauty. The heathen poets often pressed on their
readers the necessity of considering the shortness of life, as an incentive to
pleasure and voluptuousness; lest the season for indulging in them should pass
unimproved. The dark and uncertain notions, not to say the absolute disbelief,
which they entertained of a future state, is the only apology that can be
offered for this reasoning. But while we censure their tenets, let us not adopt
their errors; errors which would be infinitely more inexcusable in us, who, from
the clearer views which revelation has given us, shall not have their ignorance
or their doubts to plead. It were well if we availed ourselves of that portion
of their precept, which inculcates the improvement of every moment of our time,
but not like them to dedicate the moments so redeemed to the pursuit of sensual
and perishable pleasures, but to the securing of those which are spiritual in
their nature, and eternal in their duration.

If, indeed, like the miserable[4] beings imagined by Swift, with a view to cure
us of the irrational desire after immoderate length of days, we were condemned
to a wretched earthly immortality, we should have an excuse for spending some
portion of our time in dissipation, as we might then pretend, with some colour
of reason, that we proposed, at a distant period, to enter on a better course of
action. Or if we never formed any such resolution, it would make no material
difference to beings, whose state was already unalterably fixed. But of the
scanty portion of days assigned to our lot, not one should be lost in weak and
irresolute procrastination.

Those who have not yet determined on the side of vanity, who, like Hercules,
(before he knew the queen of Lydia, and had learnt to spin) have not resolved on
their choice between virtue and pleasure, may reflect, that it is still in their
power to imitate that hero in his noble choice, and in his virtuous rejection.
They may also reflect with grateful triumph, that Christianity furnishes them
with a better guide than the tutor of Alcides, and with a surer light than the
doctrines of pagan philosophy.

It is far from my design severely to condemn the innocent pleasures of life: I
would only beg leave to observe, that those which are criminal should never be
allowed; and that even the most innocent will, by immoderate use, soon cease to
be so. The women of this country were not sent into the world to shun society,
but to embellish it; they were not designed for wilds and solitudes, but for the
amiable and endearing offices of social life. They have useful stations to fill,
and important characters to sustain. They are of a religion which does not
impose penances, but enjoins duties; a religion of perfect purity, but of
perfect benevolence also. A religion which does not condemn its followers to
indolent seclusion from the world, but assigns them the more dangerous, though
more honourable province, of living uncorrupted in it. In fine, a religion,
which does not direct them to fly from the multitude, that they may do nothing,
but which positively forbids them to follow a multitude to do evil.

[2] The Emperor Caligula.

[3] Nothing can be more admirable than the manner in which this allegory is
conducted; and the whole work, not to mention its images, machinery, and other
poetical beauties, is written in the very finest strain of morality. In this
latter respect it is evidently superior to the works of the ancients, the moral
of which is frequently tainted by the grossness of their mythology. Something of
the purity of the Christian religion may be discovered even in Fenelon’s
heathens, and they catch a tincture of piety in passing through the hands of
that amiable prelate.

[4] The Struldbrugs. See Voyage to Laputa.


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  CHAPTER 5: 01.03.     ON CONVERSATION
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THOUGHTS ON CONVERSATION.

It has been advised, and by very respectable authorities too, that in
conversation women should carefully conceal any knowledge or learning they may
happen to possess. I own, with submission, that I do not see either the
necessity or propriety of this advice. For if a young lady has that discretion
and modesty, without which all knowledge is little worth, she will never make an
ostentatious parade of it, because she will rather be intent on acquiring more,
than on displaying what she has.

I am at a loss to know why a young female is instructed to exhibit, in the most
advantageous point of view, her skill in music, her singing, dancing, taste in
dress, and her acquaintance with the most fashionable games and amusements,
while her piety is to be anxiously concealed, and her knowledge affectedly
disavowed, lest the former should draw on her the appellation of an enthusiast,
or the latter that of a pedant. In regard to knowledge, why should she for ever
affect to be on her guard, lest she should be found guilty of a small portion of
it? She need be the less solicitous about it, as it seldom proves to be so very
considerable as to excite astonishment or admiration: for, after all the
acquisitions which her talents and her studies have enabled her to make, she
will, generally speaking, be found to have less of what is called learning, than
a common school-boy.

It would be to the last degree presumptuous and absurd, for a young woman to
pretend to give the ton to the company; to interrupt the pleasure of others, and
her own opportunity of improvement, by talking when she ought to listen; or to
introduce subjects out of the common road, in order to shew her own wit, or
expose the want of it in others: but were the sex to be totally silent when any
topic of literature happens to be discussed in their presence, conversation
would lose much of its vivacity, and society would be robbed of one of its most
interesting charms.

How easily and effectually may a well-bred woman promote the most useful and
elegant conversation, almost without speaking a word! for the modes of speech
are scarcely more variable than the modes of silence. The silence of listless
ignorance, and the silence of sparkling intelligence, are perhaps as separately
marked, and as distinctly expressed, as the same feelings could have been by the
most unequivocal language. A woman, in a company where she has the least
influence, may promote any subject by a profound and invariable attention, which
shews that she is pleased with it, and by an illuminated countenance, which
proves she understands it. This obliging attention is the most flattering
encouragement in the world to men of sense and letters, to continue any topic of
instruction or entertainment they happen to be engaged in: it owed its
introduction perhaps to accident, the best introduction in the world for a
subject of ingenuity, which, though it could not have been formally proposed
without pedantry, may be continued with ease and good humour; but which will be
frequently and effectually stopped by the listlessness, inattention, or
whispering of silly girls, whose weariness betrays their ignorance, and whose
impatience exposes their ill-breeding. A polite man, however deeply interested
in the subject on which he is conversing, catches at the slightest hint to have
done: a look is a sufficient intimation, and if a pretty simpleton, who sits
near him, seems distraite, he puts an end to his remarks, to the great regret of
the reasonable part of the company, who perhaps might have gained more
improvement by the continuance of such a conversation, than a week’s reading
would have yielded them; for it is such company as this, that give an edge to
each other’s wit, "as iron sharpeneth iron." That silence is one of the great
arts of conversation is allowed by Cicero himself, who says, there is not only
an art but even an eloquence in it. And this opinion is confirmed by a great
modern[5], in the following little anecdote from one of the ancients. When many
Grecian philosophers had a solemn meeting before the ambassador of a foreign
prince, each endeavoured to shew his parts by the brilliancy of his
conversation, that the ambassador might have something to relate of the Grecian
wisdom. One of them, offended, no doubt, at the loquacity of his companions,
observed a profound silence; when the ambassador, turning to him, asked, "But
what have you to say, that I may report it?" He made this laconic, but very
pointed reply: "Tell your king, that you have found one among the Greeks who
knew how to be silent."

There is a quality infinitely more intoxicating to the female mind than
knowledge—this is Wit, the most captivating, but the most dreaded of all
talents: the most dangerous to those who have it, and the most feared by those
who have it not. Though it is against all the rules, yet I cannot find in my
heart to abuse this charming quality. He who is grown rich without it, in safe
and sober dulness, shuns it as a disease, and looks upon poverty as its
invariable concomitant. The moralist declaims against it as the source of
irregularity, and the frugal citizen dreads it more than bankruptcy itself, for
he considers it as the parent of extravagance and beggary. The Cynic will ask of
what use it is? Of very little perhaps: no more is a flower garden, and yet it
is allowed as an object of innocent amusement and delightful recreation. A
woman, who possesses this quality, has received a most dangerous present,
perhaps not less so than beauty itself: especially if it be not sheathed in a
temper peculiarly inoffensive, chastised by a most correct judgment, and
restrained by more prudence than falls to the common lot. This talent is more
likely to make a woman vain than knowledge; for as Wit is the immediate property
of its possessor, and learning is only an acquaintance with the knowledge of
other people, there is much more danger, that we should be vain of what is our
own, than of what we borrow. But Wit, like learning, is not near so common a
thing as is imagined. Let not therefore a young lady be alarmed at the acuteness
of her own wit, any more than at the abundance of her own knowledge. The great
danger is, lest she should mistake pertness, flippancy, or imprudence, for this
brilliant quality, or imagine she is witty, only because she is indiscreet. This
is very frequently the case, and this makes the name of wit so cheap, while its
real existence is so rare.

Lest the flattery of her acquaintance, or an over-weening opinion of her own
qualifications, should lead some vain and petulant girl into a false notion that
she has a great deal of wit, when she has only a redundancy of animal spirits,
she may not find it useless to attend to the definition of this quality, by one
who had as large a portion of it, as most individuals could ever boast:

’Tis not a tale, ’tis not a jest, Admir’d with laughter at a feast, Nor florid
talk, which can that title gain, The proofs of wit for ever must remain.

Neither can that have any place, At which a virgin hides her face;

Such dross the fire must purge away; ’tis just, The author blush there, where
the reader must.

Cowley. But those who actually possess this rare talent, cannot be too abstinent
in the use of it. It often makes admirers, but it never makes friends; I mean,
where it is the predominant feature; and the unprotected and defenceless state
of womanhood calls for friendship more than for admiration. She who does not
desire friends has a sordid and insensible soul; but she who is ambitious of
making every man her admirer, has an invincible vanity and a cold heart. But to
dwell only on the side of policy, a prudent woman, who has established the
reputation of some genius will sufficiently maintain it, without keeping her
faculties always on the stretch to say good things. Nay, if reputation alone be
her object, she will gain a more solid one by her forbearance, as the wiser part
of her acquaintance will ascribe it to the right motive, which is, not that she
has less wit, but that she has more judgment. The fatal fondness for indulging a
spirit of ridicule, and the injurious and irreparable consequences which
sometimes attend the too prompt reply, can never be too seriously or too
severely condemned. Not to offend, is the first step towards pleasing. To give
pain is as much an offence against humanity, as against good breeding; and
surely it is as well to abstain from an action because it is sinful, as because
it is impolite. In company, young ladies would do well before they speak, to
reflect, if what they are going to say may not distress some worthy person
present, by wounding them in their persons, families, connexions, or religious
opinions. If they find it will touch them in either of these, I should advise
them to suspect, that what they were going to say is not so very good a thing as
they at first imagined. Nay, if even it was one of those bright ideas, which
Venus has imbued with a fifth part of her nectar, so much greater will be their
merit in suppressing it, if there was a probability it might offend. Indeed, if
they have the temper and prudence to make such a previous reflection, they will
be more richly rewarded by their own inward triumph, at having suppressed a
lively but severe remark, than they could have been with the dissembled
applauses of the whole company, who, with that complaisant deceit, which good
breeding too much authorises, affect openly to admire what they secretly resolve
never to forgive.

I have always been delighted with the story of the little girl’s eloquence, in
one of the Children’s Tales, who received from a friendly fairy the gift, that
at every word she uttered, pinks, roses, diamonds, and pearls, should drop from
her mouth. The hidden moral appears to be this, that it was the sweetness of her
temper which produced this pretty fanciful effect: for when her malicious sister
desired the same gift from the good-natured tiny Intelligence, the venom of her
own heart converted it into poisonous and loathsome reptiles. A man of sense and
breeding will sometimes join in the laugh, which has been raised at his expence
by an ill-natured repartee; but if it was very cutting, and one of those
shocking sort of truths, which as they can scarcely be pardoned even in private,
ought never to be uttered in public, he does not laugh because he is pleased,
but because he wishes to conceal how much he is hurt. As the sarcasm was uttered
by a lady, so far from seeming to resent it, he will be the first to commend it;
but notwithstanding that, he will remember it as a trait of malice, when the
whole company shall have forgotten it as a stroke of wit. Women are so far from
being privileged by their sex to say unhandsome or cruel things, that it is this
very circumstance which renders them more intolerable. When the arrow is lodged
in the heart, it is no relief to him who is wounded to reflect, that the hand
which shot it was a fair one.

Many women, when they have a favourite point to gain, or an earnest wish to
bring any one over to their opinion, often use a very disingenuous method: they
will state a case ambiguously, and then avail themselves of it, in whatever
manner shall best answer their purpose; leaving your mind in a state of
indecision as to their real meaning, while they triumph in the perplexity they
have given you by the unfair conclusions they draw, from premises equivocally
stated. They will also frequently argue from exceptions instead of rules, and
are astonished when you are not willing to be contented with a prejudice,
instead of a reason. In a sensible company of both sexes, where women are not
restrained by any other reserve than what their natural modesty imposes; and
where the intimacy of all parties authorises the utmost freedom of
communication; should any one inquire what were the general sentiments on some
particular subject, it will, I believe, commonly happen, that the ladies, whose
imaginations have kept pace with the narration, have anticipated its end, and
are ready to deliver their sentiments on it as soon as it is finished. While
some of the male hearers, whose minds were busied in settling the propriety,
comparing the circumstances, and examining the consistencies of what was said,
are obliged to pause and discriminate, before they think of answering. Nothing
is so embarrassing as a variety of matter, and the conversation of women is
often more perspicuous, because it is less laboured. A man of deep reflection,
if he does not keep up an intimate commerce with the world, will be sometimes so
entangled in the intricacies of intense thought, that he will have the
appearance of a confused and perplexed expression; while a sprightly woman will
extricate herself with that lively and "rash dexterity," which will almost
always please, though it is very far from being always right. It is easier to
confound than to convince an opponent; the former may be effected by a turn that
has more happiness than truth in it. Many an excellent reasoner, well skilled in
the theory of the schools, has felt himself discomfited by a reply, which,
though as wide of the mark, and as foreign to the question as can be conceived,
has disconcerted him more than the most startling proposition, or the most
accurate chain of reasoning could have done; and he has borne the laugh of his
fair antagonist, as well as of the whole company, though he could not but feel,
that his own argument was attended with the fullest demonstration: so true is
it, that it is not always necessary to be right, in order to be applauded. But
let not a young lady’s vanity be too much elated with this false applause, which
is given, not to her merit, but to her sex: she has not perhaps gained a
victory, though she may be allowed a triumph; and it should humble her to
reflect, that the tribute is paid, not to her strength but her weakness. It is
worth while to discriminate between that applause, which is given from the
complaisance of others, and that which is paid to our own merit. Where great
sprightliness is the natural bent of the temper, girls should endeavour to
habituate themselves to a custom of observing, thinking, and reasoning. I do not
mean, that they should devote themselves to abstruse speculation, or the study
of logic; but she who is accustomed to give a due arrangement to her thoughts,
to reason justly and pertinently on common affairs, and judiciously to deduce
effects from their causes, will be a better logician than some of those who
claim the name, because they have studied the art: this is being "learned
without the rules;" the best definition, perhaps, of that sort of literature
which is properest for the sex. That species of knowledge, which appears to be
the result of reflection rather than of science, sits peculiarly well on women.
It is not uncommon to find a lady, who, though she does not know a rule of
Syntax, scarcely ever violates one; and who constructs every sentence she
utters, with more propriety than many a learned dunce, who has every rule of
Aristotle by heart, and who can lace his own thread-bare discourse with the
golden shreds of Cicero and Virgil.

It has been objected, and I fear with some reason, that female conversation is
too frequently tinctured with a censorious spirit, and that ladies are seldom
apt to discover much tenderness for the errors of a fallen sister.

If it be so, it is a grievous fault. No arguments can justify, no pleas can
extenuate it. To insult over the miseries of an unhappy creature is inhuman, not
to compassionate them is unchristian. The worthy part of the sex always express
themselves humanely on the failings of others, in proportion to their own
undeviating goodness. And here I cannot help remarking, that young women do not
always carefully distinguish between running into the error of detraction, and
its opposite extreme of indiscriminate applause. This proceeds from the false
idea they entertain, that the direct contrary to what is wrong must be right.
Thus the dread of being only suspected of one fault makes them actually guilty
of another. The desire of avoiding the imputation of envy, impels them to be
insincere; and to establish a reputation for sweetness of temper and generosity,
they affect sometimes to speak of very indifferent characters with the most
extravagant applause. With such, the hyperbole is a favourite figure; and every
degree of comparison but the superlative is rejected, as cold and inexpressive.
But this habit of exaggeration greatly weakens their credit, and destroys the
weight of their opinion on other occasions; for people very soon discover what
degree of faith is to be given both to their judgment and veracity. And those of
real merit will no more be flattered by that approbation, which cannot
distinguish the value of what it praises, than the celebrated painter must have
been at the judgment passed on his works by an ignorant spectator, who, being
asked what he thought of such and such very capital but very different pieces,
cried out in an affected rapture, "All alike! all alike!"

It has been proposed to the young, as a maxim of supreme wisdom, to manage so
dexterously in conversation, as to appear to be well acquainted with subjects,
of which they are totally ignorant; and this, by affecting silence in regard to
those, on which they are known to excel.—But why counsel this disingenuous
fraud? Why add to the numberless arts of deceit, this practice of deceiving, as
it were, on a settled principle? If to disavow the knowledge they really have be
a culpable affectation, then certainly to insinuate an idea of their skill,
where they are actually ignorant, is a most unworthy artifice. But of all the
qualifications for conversation, humility, if not the most brilliant, is the
safest, the most amiable, and the most feminine. The affectation of introducing
subjects, with which others are unacquainted, and of displaying talents superior
to the rest of the company, is as dangerous as it is foolish.

There are many, who never can forgive another for being more agreeable and more
accomplished than themselves, and who can pardon any offence rather than an
eclipsing merit. Had the nightingale in the fable conquered his vanity, and
resisted the temptation of shewing a fine voice, he might have escaped the
talons of the hawk. The melody of his singing was the cause of his destruction;
his merit brought him into danger, and his vanity cost him his life.

[5] Lord Bacon.


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  CHAPTER 6: 01.04.     ON ENVY
========================================================================

ON ENVY.

Envy came next, Envy with squinting eyes, Sick of a strange disease, his
neighbour’s health;

Best then he lives when any better dies, Is never poor but in another’s wealth:
On best mens harms and griefs he feeds his fill, Else his own maw doth eat with
spiteful will, Ill must the temper be, where diet is so ill.

Fletcher’s Purple Island.

"Envy, (says Lord Bacon) has no holidays." There cannot perhaps be a more lively
and striking description of the miserable state of mind those endure, who are
tormented with this vice. A spirit of emulation has been supposed to be the
source of the greatest improvements; and there is no doubt but the warmest
rivalship will produce the most excellent effects; but it is to be feared, that
a perpetual state of contest will injure the temper so essentially, that the
mischief will hardly be counterbalanced by any other advantages. Those, whose
progress is the most rapid, will be apt to despise their less successful
competitors, who, in return, will feel the bitterest resentment against their
more fortunate rivals. Among persons of real goodness, this jealousy and
contempt can never be equally felt, because every advancement in piety will be
attended with a proportionable increase of humility, which will lead them to
contemplate their own improvements with modesty, and to view with charity the
miscarriages of others. When an envious man is melancholy, one may ask him, in
the words of Bion, what evil has befallen himself, or what good has happened to
another? This last is the scale by which he principally measures his felicity,
and the very smiles of his friends are so many deductions from his own
happiness. The wants of others are the standard by which he rates his own
wealth, and he estimates his riches, not so much by his own possessions, as by
the necessities of his neighbours. When the malevolent intend to strike a very
deep and dangerous stroke of malice, they generally begin the most remotely in
the world from the subject nearest their hearts. They set out with commending
the object of their envy for some trifling quality or advantage, which it is
scarcely worth while to possess: they next proceed to make a general profession
of their own good-will and regard for him: thus artfully removing any suspicion
of their design, and clearing all obstructions for the insidious stab they are
about to give; for who will suspect them of an intention to injure the object of
their peculiar and professed esteem? The hearer’s belief of the fact grows in
proportion to the seeming reluctance with which it is told, and to the
conviction he has, that the relater is not influenced by any private pique, or
personal resentment; but that the confession is extorted from him sorely against
his inclination, and purely on account of his zeal for truth.

Anger is less reasonable and more sincere than envy.—Anger breaks out abruptly;
envy is a great prefacer—anger wishes to be understood at once: envy is fond of
remote hints and ambiguities; but, obscure as its oracles are, it never ceases
to deliver them till they are perfectly comprehended:—anger repeats the same
circumstances over again; envy invents new ones at every fresh recital—anger
gives a broken, vehement, and interrupted narrative; envy tells a more
consistent and more probable, though a falser tale—anger is excessively
imprudent, for it is impatient to disclose every thing it knows; envy is
discreet, for it has a great deal to hide—anger never consults times or seasons;
envy waits for the lucky moment, when the wound it meditates may be made the
most exquisitely painful, and the most incurably deep—anger uses more invective;
envy does more mischief—simple anger soon runs itself out of breath, and is
exhausted at the end of its tale; but it is for that chosen period that envy has
treasured up the most barbed arrow in its whole quiver—anger puts a man out of
himself: but the truly malicious generally preserve the appearance of
self-possession, or they could not so effectually injure.—The angry man sets out
by destroying his whole credit with you at once, for he very frankly confesses
his abhorrence and detestation of the object of his abuse; while the envious man
carefully suppresses all his own share in the affair.—The angry man defeats the
end of his resentment, by keeping himself continually before your eyes, instead
of his enemy; while the envious man artfully brings forward the object of his
malice, and keeps himself out of sight.—The angry man talks loudly of his own
wrongs; the envious of his adversary’s injustice.—A passionate person, if his
resentments are not complicated with malice, divides his time between sinning
and sorrowing; and, as the irascible passions cannot constantly be at work, his
heart may sometimes get a holiday.—Anger is a violent act, envy a constant
habit—no one can be always angry, but he may be always envious:—an angry man’s
enmity (if he be generous) will subside when the object of his resentment
becomes unfortunate; but the envious man can extract food from his malice out of
calamity itself, if he finds his adversary bears it with dignity, or is pitied
or assisted in it. The rage of the passionate man is totally extinguished by the
death of his enemy; but the hatred of the malicious is not buried even in the
grave of his rival: he will envy the good name he has left behind him; he will
envy him the tears of his widow, the prosperity of his children, the esteem of
his friends, the praises of his epitaph—nay the very magnificence of his
funeral.

"The ear of jealousy heareth all things," (says the wise man) frequently I
believe more than is uttered, which makes the company of persons infected with
it still more dangerous. When you tell those of a malicious turn, any
circumstance that has happened to another, though they perfectly know of whom
you are speaking, they often affect to be at a loss, to forget his name, or to
misapprehend you in some respect or other; and this merely to have an
opportunity of slily gratifying their malice by mentioning some unhappy defect
or personal infirmity he labours under; and not contented "to tack his every
error to his name," they will, by way of farther explanation, have recourse to
the faults of his father, or the misfortunes of his family; and this with all
the seeming simplicity and candor in the world, merely for the sake of
preventing mistakes, and to clear up every doubt of his identity.—If you are
speaking of a lady, for instance, they will perhaps embellish their inquiries,
by asking if you mean her, whose great grandfather was a bankrupt, though she
has the vanity to keep a chariot, while others who are much better born walk on
foot; or they will afterwards recollect, that you may possibly mean her cousin,
of the same name, whose mother was suspected of such or such an indiscretion,
though the daughter had the luck to make her fortune by marrying, while her
betters are overlooked. To hint at a fault, does more mischief than speaking
out; for whatever is left for the imagination to finish, will not fail to be
overdone: every hiatus will be more then filled up, and every pause more than
supplied. There is less malice, and less mischief too, in telling a man’s name
than the initials of it; as a worthier person may be involved in the most
disgraceful suspicions by such a dangerous ambiguity.

It is not uncommon for the envious, after having attempted to deface the fairest
character so industriously, that they are afraid you will begin to detect their
malice, to endeavour to remove your suspicions effectually, by assuring you,
that what they have just related is only the popular opinion; they themselves
can never believe things are so bad as they are said to be; for their part, it
is a rule with them always to hope the best. It is their way never to believe or
report ill of any one. They will, however, mention the story in all companies,
that they may do their friend the service of protesting their disbelief of it.
More reputations are thus hinted away by false friends, than are openly
destroyed by public enemies. An if, or a but, or a mortified look, or a languid
defence, or an ambiguous shake of the head, or a hasty word affectedly recalled,
will demolish a character more effectually, than the whole artillery of malice
when openly levelled against it.

It is not that envy never praises—No, that would be making a public profession
of itself, and advertising its own malignity; whereas the greatest success of
its efforts depends on the concealment of their end. When envy intends to strike
a stroke of Machiavelian policy, it sometimes affects the language of the most
exaggerated applause; though it generally takes care, that the subject of its
panegyric shall be a very indifferent and common character, so that it is well
aware none of its praises will stick.

It is the unhappy nature of envy not to be contented with positive misery, but
to be continually aggravating its own torments, by comparing them with the
felicities of others. The eyes of envy are perpetually fixed on the object which
disturbs it, nor can it avert them from it, though to procure itself the relief
of a temporary forgetfulness. On seeing the innocence of the first pair, Aside
the devil turn’d, For Envy, yet with jealous leer malign, Eyed them askance. As
this enormous sin chiefly instigated the revolt, and brought on the ruin of the
angelic spirits, so it is not improbable, that it will be a principal instrument
of misery in a future world, for the envious to compare their desperate
condition with the happiness of the children of God; and to heighten their
actual wretchedness by reflecting on what they have lost.

Perhaps envy, like lying and ingratitude, is practised with more frequency,
because it is practised with impunity; but there being no human laws against
these crimes, is so far from an inducement to commit them, that this very
consideration would be sufficient to deter the wise and good, if all others were
ineffectual; for of how heinous a nature must those sins be, which are judged
above the reach of human punishment, and are reserved for the final justice of
God himself!


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  CHAPTER 7: 01.05.     ON SENTIMENTAL CONNEXIONS
========================================================================

ON THE DANGER OF SENTIMENTAL OR ROMANTIC CONNEXIONS.

Among the many evils which prevail under the sun, the abuse of words is not the
least considerable. By the influence of time, and the perversion of fashion, the
plainest and most unequivocal may be so altered, as to have a meaning assigned
them almost diametrically opposite to their original signification. The present
age may be termed, by way of distinction, the age of sentiment, a word which, in
the implication it now bears, was unknown to our plain ancestors. Sentiment is
the varnish of virtue to conceal the deformity of vice; and it is not uncommon
for the same persons to make a jest of religion, to break through the most
solemn ties and engagements, to practise every art of latent fraud and open
seduction, and yet to value themselves on speaking and writing sentimentally.
But this refined jargon, which has infested letters and tainted morals, is
chiefly admired and adopted by young ladies of a certain turn, who read
sentimental books, write sentimental letters, and contract sentimental
friendships.

Error is never likely to do so much mischief as when it disguises its real
tendency, and puts on an engaging and attractive appearance. Many a young woman,
who would be shocked at the imputation of an intrigue, is extremely flattered at
the idea of a sentimental connexion, though perhaps with a dangerous and
designing man, who, by putting on this mask of plausibility and virtue, disarms
her of her prudence, lays her apprehensions asleep, and involves her in misery;
misery the more inevitable because unsuspected. For she who apprehends no
danger, will not think it necessary to be always upon her guard; but will rather
invite than avoid the ruin which comes under so specious and so fair a form.

Such an engagement will be infinitely dearer to her vanity than an avowed and
authorised attachment; for one of these sentimental lovers will not scruple very
seriously to assure a credulous girl, that her unparalleled merit entitles her
to the adoration of the whole world, and that the universal homage of mankind is
nothing more than the unavoidable tribute extorted by her charms. No wonder then
she should be easily prevailed on to believe, that an individual is captivated
by perfections which might enslave a million. But she should remember, that he
who endeavours to intoxicate her with adulation, intends one day most
effectually to humble her. For an artful man has always a secret design to pay
himself in future for every present sacrifice. And this prodigality of praise,
which he now appears to lavish with such thoughtless profusion, is, in fact, a
sum [oe]conomically laid out to supply his future necessities: of this sum he
keeps an exact estimate, and at some distant day promises himself the most
exorbitant interest for it. If he has address and conduct, and, the object of
his pursuit much vanity, and some sensibility, he seldom fails of success; for
so powerful will be his ascendancy over her mind, that she will soon adopt his
notions and opinions. Indeed, it is more than probable she possessed most of
them before, having gradually acquired them in her initiation into the
sentimental character. To maintain that character with dignity and propriety, it
is necessary she should entertain the most elevated ideas of disproportionate
alliances, and disinterested love; and consider fortune, rank, and reputation,
as mere chimerical distinctions and vulgar prejudices. The lover, deeply versed
in all the obliquities of fraud, and skilled to wind himself into every avenue
of the heart which indiscretion has left unguarded, soon discovers on which side
it is most accessible. He avails himself of this weakness by addressing her in a
language exactly consonant to her own ideas. He attacks her with her own
weapons, and opposes rhapsody to sentiment—He professes so sovereign a contempt
for the paltry concerns of money, that she thinks it her duty to reward him for
so generous a renunciation. Every plea he artfully advances of his own
unworthiness, is considered by her as a fresh demand which her gratitude must
answer. And she makes it a point of honour to sacrifice to him that fortune
which he is too noble to regard. These professions of humility are the common
artifice of the vain, and these protestations of generosity the refuge of the
rapacious. And among its many smooth mischiefs, it is one of the sure and
successful frauds of sentiment, to affect the most frigid indifference to those
external and pecuniary advantages, which it is its great and real object to
obtain. A sentimental girl very rarely entertains any doubt of her personal
beauty; for she has been daily accustomed to contemplate it herself, and to hear
of it from others. She will not, therefore, be very solicitous for the
confirmation of a truth so self-evident; but she suspects, that her pretensions
to understanding are more likely to be disputed, and, for that reason, greedily
devours every compliment offered to those perfections, which are less obvious
and more refined. She is persuaded, that men need only open their eyes to decide
on her beauty, while it will be the most convincing proof of the taste, sense,
and elegance of her admirer, that he can discern and flatter those qualities in
her. A man of the character here supposed, will easily insinuate himself into
her affections, by means of this latent but leading foible, which may be called
the guiding clue to a sentimental heart. He will affect to overlook that beauty
which attracts common eyes, and ensnares common hearts, while he will bestow the
most delicate praises on the beauties of her mind, and finish the climax of
adulation, by hinting that she is superior to it. And when he tells her she
hates flattery, She says she does, being then most flatter’d. But nothing, in
general, can end less delightfully than these sublime attachments, even where no
acts of seduction were ever practised, but they are suffered, like mere
sublunary connexions, to terminate in the vulgar catastrophe of marriage. That
wealth, which lately seemed to be looked on with ineffable contempt by the
lover, now appears to be the principal attraction in the eyes of the husband;
and he, who but a few short weeks before, in a transport of sentimental
generosity, wished her to have been a village maid, with no portion but her
crook and her beauty, and that they might spend their days in pastoral love and
innocence, has now lost all relish for the Arcadian life, or any other life in
which she must be his companion. On the other hand, she who was lately An angel
call’d, and angel-like ador’d, is shocked to find herself at once stripped of
all her celestial attributes. This late divinity, who scarcely yielded to her
sisters of the sky, now finds herself of less importance in the esteem of the
man she has chosen, than any other mere mortal woman. No longer is she gratified
with the tear of counterfeited passion, the sigh of dissembled rapture, or the
language of premeditated adoration. No longer is the altar of her vanity loaded
with the oblations of fictitious fondness, the incense of falsehood, or the
sacrifice of flattery.—Her apotheosis is ended!—She feels herself degraded from
the dignities and privileges of a goddess, to all the imperfections, vanities,
and weaknesses of a slighted woman, and a neglected wife. Her faults, which were
so lately overlooked, or mistaken for virtues, are now, as Cassius says, set in
a note-book. The passion, which was vowed eternal, lasted only a few short
weeks; and the indifference, which was so far from being included in the
bargain, that it was not so much as suspected, follows them through the whole
tiresome journey of their insipid, vacant, joyless existence.

Thus much for the completion of the sentimental history. If we trace it back to
its beginning, we shall find that a damsel of this cast had her head originally
turned by pernicious reading, and her insanity confirmed by imprudent
friendships. She never fails to select a beloved confidante of her own turn and
humour, though, if she can help it, not quite so handsome as herself. A violent
intimacy ensues, or, to speak the language of sentiment, an intimate union of
souls immediately takes place, which is wrought to the highest pitch by a secret
and voluminous correspondence, though they live in the same street, or perhaps
in the same house. This is the fuel which principally feeds and supplies the
dangerous flame of sentiment. In this correspondence the two friends encourage
each other in the falsest notions imaginable. They represent romantic love as
the great important business of human life, and describe all the other concerns
of it as too low and paltry to merit the attention of such elevated beings, and
fit only to employ the daughters of the plodding vulgar. In these letters,
family affairs are misrepresented, family secrets divulged, and family
misfortunes aggravated. They are filled with vows of eternal amity, and
protestations of never-ending love. But interjections and quotations are the
principal embellishments of these very sublime epistles. Every panegyric
contained in them is extravagant and hyperbolical, and every censure exaggerated
and excessive. In a favourite, every frailty is heightened into a perfection,
and in a foe degraded into a crime. The dramatic poets, especially the most
tender and romantic, are quoted in almost every line, and every pompous or
pathetic thought is forced to give up its natural and obvious meaning, and with
all the violence of misapplication, is compelled to suit some circumstance of
imaginary woe of the fair transcriber. Alicia is not too mad for her heroics,
nor Monimia too mild for her soft emotions.

Fathers have flinty hearts is an expression worth an empire, and is always used
with peculiar emphasis and enthusiasm. For a favourite topic of these epistles
is the groveling spirit and sordid temper of the parents, who will be sure to
find no quarter at the hands of their daughters, should they presume to be so
unreasonable as to direct their course of reading, interfere in their choice of
friends, or interrupt their very important correspondence. But as these young
ladies are fertile in expedients, and as their genius is never more agreeably
exercised than in finding resources, they are not without their secret
exultation, in case either of the above interesting events should happen, as
they carry with them a certain air of tyranny and persecution which is very
delightful. For a prohibited correspondence is one of the great incidents of a
sentimental life, and a letter clandestinely received, the supreme felicity of a
sentimental lady.

Nothing can equal the astonishment of these soaring spirits, when their plain
friends or prudent relations presume to remonstrate with them on any impropriety
in their conduct. But if these worthy people happen to be somewhat advanced in
life, their contempt is then a little softened by pity, at the reflection that
such very antiquated poor creatures should pretend to judge what is fit or unfit
for ladies of their great refinement, sense, and reading. They consider them as
wretches utterly ignorant of the sublime pleasures of a delicate and exalted
passion; as tyrants whose authority is to be contemned, and as spies whose
vigilance is to be eluded. The prudence of these worthy friends they term
suspicion, and their experience dotage. For they are persuaded, that the face of
things has so totally changed since their parents were young, that though they
might then judge tolerably for themselves, yet they are now (with all their
advantages of knowledge and observation) by no means qualified to direct their
more enlightened daughters; who, if they have made a great progress in the
sentimental walk, will no more be influenced by the advice of their mother, than
they would go abroad in her laced pinner or her brocade suit. But young people
never shew their folly and ignorance more conspicuously, than by this
over-confidence in their own judgment, and this haughty disdain of the opinion
of those who have known more days. Youth has a quickness of apprehension, which
it is very apt to mistake for an acuteness of penetration. But youth, like
cunning, though very conceited, is very short-sighted, and never more so than
when it disregards the instructions of the wife, and the admonitions of the
aged. The same vices and follies influenced the human heart in their day, which
influence it now, and nearly in the same manner. One who well knew the world and
its various vanities, has said, "The thing which hath been, it is that which
shall be, and that which is done is that which shall be done, and there is no
new thing under the sun."

It is also a part of the sentimental character, to imagine that none but the
young and the beautiful have any right to the pleasures of society, of even to
the common benefits and blessings of life. Ladies of this turn also affect the
most lofty disregard for useful qualities and domestic virtues; and this is a
natural consequence: for as this sort of sentiment is only a weed of idleness,
she who is constantly and usefully employed, has neither leisure nor propensity
to cultivate it. A sentimental lady principally values herself on the
enlargement of her notions, and her liberal way of thinking. This superiority of
soul chiefly manifests itself in the contempt of those minute delicacies and
little decorums, which, trifling as they may be thought, tend at once to dignify
the character, and to restrain the levity of the younger part of the sex.

Perhaps the error here complained of, originates in mistaking sentiment and
principle for each other. Now I conceive them to be extremely different.
Sentiment is the virtue of ideas, and principle the virtue of action. Sentiment
has its seat in the head, principle in the heart. Sentiment suggests fine
harangues and subtile distinctions; principle conceives just notions, and
performs good actions in consequence of them. Sentiment refines away the
simplicity of truth and the plainness of piety; and, as a celebrated wit[6] has
remarked of his no less celebrated contemporary, gives us virtue in words and
vice in deeds. Sentiment may be called the Athenian, who knew what was right,
and principle the Lacedemonian who practised it. But these qualities will be
better exemplified by an attentive consideration of two admirably drawn
characters of Milton, which are beautifully, delicately, and distinctly marked.
These are, Belial, who may not improperly be called the Demon of Sentiment; and
Abdiel, who may be termed the Angel of Principle.

Survey the picture of Belial, drawn by the sublimest hand that ever held the
poetic pencil. A fairer person lost not heav’n; he seem’d For dignity compos’d,
and high exploit, But all was false and hollow, tho’ his tongue Dropt manna, and
could make the worse appear The better reason, to perplex and dash Maturest
counsels, for his thoughts were low, To vice industrious, but to nobler deeds
Tim’rous and slothful; yet he pleas’d the ear.

Paradise Lost, B. II.

Here is a lively and exquisite representation of art, subtilty, wit, fine
breeding and polished manners: on the whole, of a very accomplished and
sentimental spirit.

Now turn to the artless, upright, and unsophisticated Abdiel,

Faithful found Among the faithless, faithful only he Among innumerable false,
unmov’d, Unshaken, unseduc’d, unterrified; His loyalty he kept, his love, his
zeal. Nor number, nor example with him wrought To swerve from truth, or change
his constant mind,

Though single.

Book V. But it is not from these descriptions, just and striking as they are,
that their characters are so perfectly known, as from an examination of their
conduct through the remainder of this divine work: in which it is well worth
while to remark the consonancy of their actions, with what the above pictures
seem to promise. It will also be observed, that the contrast between them is
kept up throughout, with the utmost exactness of delineation, and the most
animated strength of colouring. On a review it will be found, that Belial talked
all, and Abdiel did all. The former, With words still cloath’d in reason’s
guise, Counsel’d ignoble ease, and peaceful sloth, Not peace.

Book II. In Abdiel you will constantly find the eloquence of action. When
tempted by the rebellious angels, with what retorted scorn, with what honest
indignation he deserts their multitudes, and retreats from their contagious
society!

All night the dreadless angel unpursued Through heaven’s wide champain held his
way.

Book VI. No wonder he was received with such acclamations of joy by the
celestial powers, when there was But one, Yes, of so many myriads fall’n, but
one Return’d not lost.

Ibid. And afterwards, in a close contest with the arch fiend, A noble stroke he
lifted high On the proud crest of Satan.

Ibid.

What was the effect of this courage of the vigilant and active seraph?

Amazement seiz’d The rebel throne, but greater rage to see Thus foil’d their
mightiest.

Abdiel had the superiority of Belial as much in the warlike combat, as in the
peaceful counsels. Nor was it ought but just, That he who in debate of truth had
won, Shou’d win in arms, in both disputes alike

Victor. But notwithstanding I have spoken with some asperity against sentiment
as opposed to principle, yet I am convinced, that true genuine sentiment, (not
the sort I have been describing) may be so connected with principle, as to
bestow on it its brightest lustre, and its most captivating graces. And
enthusiasm is so far from being disagreeable, that a portion of it is perhaps
indispensably necessary in an engaging woman. But it must be the enthusiasm of
the heart, not of the senses. It must be the enthusiasm which grows up with a
feeling mind, and is cherished by a virtuous education; not that which is
compounded of irregular passions, and artificially refined by books of unnatural
fiction and improbable adventure. I will even go so far as to assert, that a
young woman cannot have any real greatness of soul, or true elevation of
principle, if she has not a tincture of what the vulgar would call Romance, but
which persons of a certain way of thinking will discern to proceed from those
fine feelings, and that charming sensibility, without which, though a woman may
be worthy, yet she can never be amiable. But this dangerous merit cannot be too
rigidly watched, as it is very apt to lead those who possess it into
inconveniencies from which less interesting characters are happily exempt. Young
women of strong sensibility may be carried by the very amiableness of this
temper into the most alarming extremes. Their tastes are passions. They love and
hate with all their hearts, and scarcely suffer themselves to feel a reasonable
preference before it strengthens into a violent attachment. When an innocent
girl of this open, trusting, tender heart, happens to meet with one of her own
sex and age, whose address and manners are engaging, she is instantly seized
with an ardent desire to commence a friendship with her. She feels the most
lively impatience at the restraints of company, and the decorums of ceremony.
She longs to be alone with her, longs to assure her of the warmth of her
tenderness, and generously ascribes to the fair stranger all the good qualities
she feels in her own heart, or rather all those which she has met with in her
reading, dispersed in a variety of heroines. She is persuaded, that her new
friend unites them all in herself, because she carries in her prepossessing
countenance the promise of them all. How cruel and how censorious would this
inexperienced girl think her mother was, who should venture to hint, that the
agreeable unknown had defects in her temper, or exceptions in her character. She
would mistake these hints of discretion for the insinuations of an uncharitable
disposition. At first she would perhaps listen to them with a generous
impatience, and afterwards with a cold and silent disdain. She would despise
them as the effect of prejudice, misrepresentation, or ignorance. The more
aggravated the censure, the more vehemently would she protest in secret, that
her friendship for this dear injured creature (who is raised much higher in her
esteem by such injurious suspicions) shall know no bounds, as she is assured it
can know no end.

Yet this trusting confidence, this honest indiscretion, is, at this early period
of life as amiable as it is natural; and will, if wisely cultivated, produce, at
its proper season, fruits infinitely more valuable than all the guarded
circumspection of premature, and therefore artificial, prudence. Men, I believe,
are seldom struck with these sudden prepossessions in favour of each other. They
are not so unsuspecting, nor so easily led away by the predominance of fancy.
They engage more warily, and pass through the several stages of acquaintance,
intimacy, and confidence, by slower gradations; but women, if they are sometimes
deceived in the choice of a friend, enjoy even then an higher degree of
satisfaction than if they never trusted. For to be always clad in the
burthensome armour of suspicion is more painful and inconvenient, than to run
the hazard of suffering now and then a transient injury. But the above
observations only extend to the young and the inexperienced; for I am very
certain, that women are capable of as faithful and as durable friendship as any
of the other sex. They can enter not only into all the enthusiastic tenderness,
but into all the solid fidelity of attachment. And if we cannot oppose instances
of equal weight with those of Nysus and Euryalus, Theseus and Pirithous, Pylades
and Orestes, let it be remembered, that it is because the recorders of those
characters were men, and that the very existence of them is merely poetical.

[6] See Voltaire’s Prophecy concerning Rousseau.


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  CHAPTER 8: 01.06.     ON TRUE AND FALSE MEEKNESS
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ON TRUE AND FALSE MEEKNESS. A low voice and soft address are the common
indications of a well-bred woman, and should seem to be the natural effects of a
meek and quiet spirit; but they are only the outward and visible signs of it:
for they are no more meekness itself, than a red coat is courage, or a black one
devotion.

Yet nothing is more common than to mistake the sign for the thing itself; nor is
any practice more frequent than that of endeavouring to acquire the exterior
mark, without once thinking to labour after the interior grace. Surely this is
beginning at the wrong end, like attacking the symptom and neglecting the
disease. To regulate the features, while the soul is in tumults, or to command
the voice while the passions are without restraint, is as idle as throwing
odours into a stream when the source is polluted. The sapient king, who knew
better than any man the nature and the power of beauty, has assured us, that the
temper of the mind has a strong influence upon the features: "Wisdom maketh the
face to shine," says that exquisite judge; and surely no part of wisdom is more
likely to produce this amiable effect, than a placid serenity of soul.

It will not be difficult to distinguish the true from the artificial meekness.
The former is universal and habitual, the latter, local and temporary. Every
young female may keep this rule by her, to enable her to form a just judgment of
her own temper: if she is not as gentle to her chambermaid as she is to her
visitor, she may rest satisfied that the spirit of gentleness is not in her. Who
would not be shocked and disappointed to behold a well-bred young lady, soft and
engaging as the doves of Venus, displaying a thousand graces and attractions to
win the hearts of a large company, and the instant they are gone, to see her
look mad as the Pythian maid, and all the frightened graces driven from her
furious countenance, only because her gown was brought home a quarter of an hour
later than she expected, or her ribbon sent half a shade lighter or darker than
she ordered?

All men’s characters are said to proceed from their servants; and this is more
particularly true of ladies: for as their situations are more domestic, they lie
more open to the inspection of their families, to whom their real characters are
easily and perfectly known; for they seldom think it worth while to practise any
disguise before those, whose good opinion they do not value, and who are obliged
to submit to their most insupportable humours, because they are paid for it.

Amongst women of breeding, the exterior of gentleness is so uniformly assumed,
and the whole manner is so perfectly level and uni, that it is next to
impossible for a stranger to know any thing of their true dispositions by
conversing with them, and even the very features are so exactly regulated, that
physiognomy, which may sometimes be trusted among the vulgar, is, with the
polite, a most lying science. A very termagant woman, if she happens also to be
a very artful one, will be conscious she has so much to conceal, that the dread
of betraying her real temper will make her put on an over-acted softness, which,
from its very excess, may be distinguished from the natural, by a penetrating
eye. That gentleness is ever liable to be suspected for the counterfeited, which
is so excessive as to deprive people of the proper use of speech and motion, or
which, as Hamlet says, makes them lisp and amble, and nick-name God’s creatures.
The countenance and manners of some very fashionable persons may be compared to
the inscriptions on their monuments, which speak nothing but good of what is
within; but he who knows any thing of the world, or of the human heart, will no
more trust to the courtesy, than he will depend on the epitaph.

Among the various artifices of factitious meekness, one of the most frequent and
most plausible, is that of affecting to be always equally delighted with all
persons and all characters. The society of these languid beings is without
confidence, their friendship without attachment, and their love without
affection, or even preference. This insipid mode of conduct may be safe, but I
cannot think it has either taste, sense, or principle in it.

These uniformly smiling and approving ladies, who have neither the noble courage
to reprehend vice, nor the generous warmth to bear their honest testimony in the
cause of virtue, conclude every one to be ill-natured who has any penetration,
and look upon a distinguishing judgment as want of tenderness. But they should
learn, that this discernment does not always proceed from an uncharitable
temper, but from that long experience and thorough knowledge of the world, which
lead those who have it to scrutinize into the conduct and disposition of men,
before they trust entirely to those fair appearances, which sometimes veil the
most insidious purposes.

We are perpetually mistaking the qualities and dispositions of our own hearts.
We elevate our failings into virtues, and qualify our vices into weaknesses: and
hence arise so many false judgments respecting meekness. Self-ignorance is at
the root of all this mischief. Many ladies complain that, for their part, their
spirit is so meek they can bear nothing; whereas, if they spoke truth, they
would say, their spirit is so high and unbroken that they can bear nothing.
Strange! to plead their meekness as a reason why they cannot endure to be
crossed, and to produce their impatience of contradiction as a proof of their
gentleness!

Meekness, like most other virtues, has certain limits, which it no sooner
exceeds than it becomes criminal. Servility of spirit is not gentleness but
weakness, and if allowed, under the specious appearances it sometimes puts on,
will lead to the most dangerous compliances. She who hears innocence maligned
without vindicating it, falsehood asserted without contradicting it, or religion
prophaned without resenting it, is not gentle but wicked. To give up the cause
of an innocent, injured friend, if the popular cry happens to be against him, is
the most disgraceful weakness. This was the case of Madame de Maintenon. She
loved the character and admired the talents of Racine; she caressed him while he
had no enemies, but wanted the greatness of mind, or rather the common justice,
to protect him against their resentment when he had; and her favourite was
abandoned to the suspicious jealousy of the king, when a prudent remonstrance
might have preserved him.—But her tameness, if not absolute connivance in the
great massacre of the protestants, in whose church she had been bred, is a far
more guilty instance of her weakness; an instance which, in spite of all her
devotional zeal and incomparable prudence, will disqualify her from shining in
the annals of good women, however she may be entitled to figure among the great
and the fortunate. Compare her conduct with that of her undaunted and pious
countryman and contemporary, Bougi, who, when Louis would have prevailed on him
to renounce his religion for a commission or a government, nobly replied, "If I
could be persuaded to betray my God for a marshal’s staff, I might betray my
king for a bribe of much less consequence."

Meekness is imperfect, if it be not both active and passive; if it will not
enable us to subdue our own passions and resentments, as well as qualify us to
bear patiently the passions and resentments of others.

Before we give way to any violent emotion of anger, it would perhaps be worth
while to consider the value of the object which excites it, and to reflect for a
moment, whether the thing we so ardently desire, or so vehemently resent, be
really of as much importance to us, as that delightful tranquillity of soul,
which we renounce in pursuit of it. If, on a fair calculation, we find we are
not likely to get as much as we are sure to lose, then, putting all religious
considerations out of the question, common sense and human policy will tell us,
we have made a foolish and unprofitable exchange. Inward quiet is a part of
one’s self; the object of our resentment may be only a matter of opinion; and,
certainly, what makes a portion of our actual happiness ought to be too dear to
us, to be sacrificed for a trifling, foreign, perhaps imaginary good. The most
pointed satire I remember to have read, on a mind enslaved by anger, is an
observation of Seneca’s. "Alexander (said he) had two friends, Clitus and
Lysimachus; the one he exposed to a lion, the other to himself: he who was
turned loose to the beast escaped, but Clitus was murdered, for he was turned
loose to an angry man." A passionate woman’s happiness is never in her own
keeping: it is the sport of accident, and the slave of events. It is in the
power of her acquaintance, her servants, but chiefly of her enemies, and all her
comforts lie at the mercy of others. So far from being willing to learn of him
who was meek and lowly, she considers meekness as the want of a becoming spirit,
and lowliness as a despicable and vulgar meanness. And an imperious woman will
so little covet the ornament of a meek and quiet spirit, that it is almost the
only ornament she will not be solicitous to wear. But resentment is a very
expensive vice. How dearly has it cost its votaries, even from the sin of Cain,
the first offender in this kind! "It is cheaper (says a pious writer) to
forgive, and save the charges."

If it were only for mere human reasons, it would turn to a better account to be
patient; nothing defeats the malice of an enemy like a spirit of forbearance;
the return of rage for rage cannot be so effectually provoking. True gentleness,
like an impenetrable armour, repels the most pointed shafts of malice: they
cannot pierce through this invulnerable shield, but either fall hurtless to the
ground, or return to wound the hand that shot them. A meek spirit will not look
out of itself for happiness, because it finds a constant banquet at home; yet,
by a sort of divine alchymy, it will convert all external events to its own
profit, and be able to deduce some good, even from the most unpromising: it will
extract comfort and satisfaction from the most barren circumstances: "It will
suck honey out of the rock, and oil out of the flinty rock." But the supreme
excellence of this complacent quality is, that it naturally disposes the mind
where it resides, to the practice of every other that is amiable. Meekness may
be called the pioneer of all the other virtues, which levels every obstruction,
and smooths every difficulty that might impede their entrance, or retard their
progress. The peculiar importance and value of this amiable virtue may be
farther seen in its permanency. Honours and dignities are transient, beauty and
riches frail and fugacious, to a proverb. Would not the truly wise, therefore,
wish to have some one possession, which they might call their own in the
severest exigencies? But this wish can only be accomplished by acquiring and
maintaining that calm and absolute self-possession, which, as the world had no
hand in giving, so it cannot, by the most malicious exertion of its power, take
away.


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  CHAPTER 9: 01.07.     ON EDUCATION
========================================================================

THOUGHTS on the CULTIVATION of the HEART and TEMPER in the EDUCATION of
DAUGHTERS.

I have not the foolish presumption to imagine, that I can offer any thing new on
a subject, which has been so successfully treated by many learned and able
writers. I would only, with all possible deference, beg leave to hazard a few
short remarks on that part of the subject of education, which I would call the
education of the heart. I am well aware, that this part also has not been less
skilfully and forcibly discussed than the rest, though I cannot, at the same
time, help remarking, that it does not appear to have been so much adopted into
common practice.

It appears then, that notwithstanding the great and real improvements, which
have been made in the affair of female education, and notwithstanding the more
enlarged and generous views of it, which prevail in the present day, that there
is still a very material defect, which it is not, in general, enough the object
of attention to remove. This defect seems to consist in this, that too little
regard is paid to the dispositions of the mind, that the indications of the
temper are not properly cherished, nor the affections of the heart sufficiently
regulated. In the first education of girls, as far as the customs which fashion
establishes are right, they should undoubtedly be followed. Let the exterior be
made a considerable object of attention, but let it not be the principal, let it
not be the only one.—Let the graces be industriously cultivated, but let them
not be cultivated at the expence of the virtues.—Let the arms, the head, the
whole person be carefully polished, but let not the heart be the only portion of
the human anatomy, which shall be totally overlooked. The neglect of this
cultivation seems to proceed as much from a bad taste, as from a false
principle. The generality of people form their judgment of education by slight
and sudden appearances, which is certainly a wrong way of determining. Music,
dancing, and languages, gratify those who teach them, by perceptible and almost
immediate effects; and when there happens to be no imbecillity in the pupil, nor
deficiency in the matter, every superficial observer can, in some measure, judge
of the progress.—The effects of most of these accomplishments address themselves
to the senses; and there are more who can see and hear, than there are who can
judge and reflect.

Personal perfection is not only more obvious, it is also more rapid; and even in
very accomplished characters, elegance usually precedes principle. But the
heart, that natural seat of evil propensities, that little troublesome empire of
the passions, is led to what is right by slow motions and imperceptible degrees.
It must be admonished by reproof, and allured by kindness. Its liveliest
advances are frequently impeded by the obstinacy of prejudice, and its brightest
promises often obscured by the tempests of passion. It is slow in its
acquisition of virtue, and reluctant in its approaches to piety.

There is another reason, which proves this mental cultivation to be more
important, as well as more difficult, than any other part of education. In the
usual fashionable accomplishments, the business of acquiring them is almost
always getting forwards, and one difficulty is conquered before another is
suffered to shew itself; for a prudent teacher will level the road his pupil is
to pass, and smooth the inequalities which might retard her progress. But in
morals, (which should be the great object constantly kept in view) the talk is
far more difficult. The unruly and turbulent desires of the heart are not so
obedient; one passion will start up before another is suppressed. The subduing
Hercules cannot cut off the heads so often as the prolific Hydra can produce
them, nor fell the stubborn Antæus so fast as he can recruit his strength, and
rise in vigorous and repeated opposition.

If all the accomplishments could be bought at the price of a single virtue, the
purchase would be infinitely dear! And, however startling it may sound, I think
it is, notwithstanding, true, that the labours of a good and wise mother, who is
anxious for her daughter’s most important interests, will seem to be at variance
with those of her instructors. She will doubtless rejoice at her progress in any
polite art, but she will rejoice with trembling:—humility and piety form the
solid and durable basis, on which she wishes to raise the superstructure of the
accomplishments, while the accomplishments themselves are frequently of that
unsteady nature, that if the foundation is not secured, in proportion as the
building is enlarged, it will be overloaded and destroyed by those very
ornaments, which were intended to embellish, what they have contributed to ruin.
The more ostensible qualifications should be carefully regulated, or they will
be in danger of putting to flight the modest train of retreating virtues, which
cannot safely subsist before the bold eye of public observation, or bear the
bolder tongue of impudent and audacious flattery. A tender mother cannot but
feel an honest triumph, in contemplating those excellencies in her daughter
which deserve applause, but she will also shudder at the vanity which that
applause may excite, and at those hitherto unknown ideas which it may awaken.
The master, it is his interest, and perhaps his duty, will naturally teach a
girl to set her improvements in the most conspicuous point of light. Se faire
valoir is the great principle industriously inculcated into her young heart, and
seems to be considered as a kind of fundamental maxim in education. It is
however the certain and effectual seed, from which a thousand yet unborn
vanities will spring. This dangerous doctrine (which yet is not without its
uses) will be counteracted by the prudent mother, not in so many words, but by a
watchful and scarcely perceptible dexterity. Such an one will be more careful to
have the talents of her daughter cultivated than exhibited.

One would be led to imagine, by the common mode of female education, that life
consisted of one universal holiday, and that the only contest was, who should be
best enabled to excel in the sports and games that were to be celebrated on it.
Merely ornamental accomplishments will but indifferently qualify a woman to
perform the duties of life, though it is highly proper she should possess them,
in order to furnish the amusements of it. But is it right to spend so large a
portion of life without some preparation for the business of living? A lady may
speak a little French and Italian, repeat a few passages in a theatrical tone,
play and sing, have her dressing-room hung with her own drawings, and her person
covered with her own tambour work, and may, notwithstanding, have been very
badly educated. Yet I am far from attempting to depreciate the value of these
qualifications: they are most of them not only highly becoming, but often
indispensably necessary, and a polite education cannot be perfected without
them. But as the world seems to be very well apprised of their importance, there
is the less occasion to insist on their utility. Yet, though well-bred young
women should learn to dance, sing, recite and draw, the end of a good education
is not that they may become dancers, singers, players or painters: its real
object is to make them good daughters, good wives, good mistresses, good members
of society, and good christians. The above qualifications therefore are intended
to adorn their leisure, not to employ their lives; for an amiable and wise woman
will always have something better to value herself on, than these advantages,
which, however captivating, are still but subordinate parts of a truly excellent
character. But I am afraid parents themselves sometimes contribute to the error
of which I am complaining. Do they not often set a higher value on those
acquisitions which are calculated to attract observation, and catch the eye of
the multitude, than on those which are valuable, permanent, and internal? Are
they not sometimes more solicitous about the opinion of others, respecting their
children, than about the real advantage and happiness of the children
themselves? To an injudicious and superficial eye, the best educated girl may
make the least brilliant figure, as she will probably have less flippancy in her
manner, and less repartee in her expression; and her acquirements, to borrow
bishop Sprat’s idea, will be rather enamelled than embossed. But her merit will
be known, and acknowledged by all who come near enough to discern, and have
taste enough to distinguish. It will be understood and admired by the man, whose
happiness she is one day to make, whose family she is to govern, and whose
children she is to educate. He will not seek for her in the haunts of
dissipation, for he knows he shall not find her there; but he will seek for her
in the bosom of retirement, in the practice of every domestic virtue, in the
exertion of every amiable accomplishment, exerted in the shade, to enliven
retirement, to heighten the endearing pleasures of social intercourse, and to
embellish the narrow but charming circle of family delights. To this amiable
purpose, a truly good and well educated young lady will dedicate her more
elegant accomplishments, instead of exhibiting them to attract admiration, or
depress inferiority.

Young girls, who have more vivacity than understanding, will often make a
sprightly figure in conversation. But this agreeable talent for entertaining
others, is frequently dangerous to themselves, nor is it by any means to be
desired or encouraged very early in life. This immaturity of wit is helped on by
frivolous reading, which will produce its effect in much less time than books of
solid instruction; for the imagination is touched sooner than the understanding;
and effects are more rapid as they are more pernicious. Conversation should be
the result of education, not the precursor of it. It is a golden fruit, when
suffered to grow gradually on the tree of knowledge; but if precipitated by
forced and unnatural means, it will in the end become vapid, in proportion as it
is artificial. The best effects of a careful and religious education are often
very remote: they are to be discovered in future scenes, and exhibited in
untried connexions. Every event of life will be putting the heart into fresh
situations, and making demands on its prudence, its firmness, its integrity, or
its piety. Those whose business it is to form it, can foresee none of these
situations; yet, as far as human wisdom will allow, they must enable it to
provide for them all, with an humble dependence on the divine assistance. A
well-disciplined soldier must learn and practise all his evolutions, though he
does not know on what service his leader may command him, by what foe he shall
be attacked, nor what mode of combat the enemy may use.

One great art of education consists in not suffering the feelings to become too
acute by unnecessary awakening, nor too obtuse by the want of exertion. The
former renders them the source of calamity, and totally ruins the temper; while
the latter blunts and debases them, and produces a dull, cold, and selfish
spirit. For the mind is an instrument, which, if wound too high, will lose its
sweetness, and if not enough strained, will abate of its vigour.

How cruel is it to extinguish by neglect or unkindness, the precious sensibility
of an open temper, to chill the amiable glow of an ingenuous soul, and to quench
the bright flame of a noble and generous spirit! These are of higher worth than
all the documents of learning, of dearer price than all the advantages, which
can be derived from the most refined and artificial mode of education. But
sensibility and delicacy, and an ingenuous temper, make no part of education,
exclaims the pedagogue—they are reducible to no class—they come under no article
of instruction—they belong neither to languages nor to music.—What an error!
They are a part of education, and of infinitely more value, Than all their
pedant discipline e’er knew.

It is true, they are ranged under no class, but they are superior to all; they
are of more esteem than languages or music, for they are the language of the
heart, and the music of the according passions. Yet this sensibility is, in many
instances, so far from being cultivated, that it is not uncommon to see those
who affect more than usual sagacity, cast a smile of supercilious pity, at any
indication of a warm, generous, or enthusiastic temper in the lively and the
young; as much as to say, "they will know better, and will have more discretion
when they are older." But every appearance of amiable simplicity, or of honest
shame, Nature’s hasty conscience, will be dear to sensible hearts; they will
carefully cherish every such indication in a young female; for they will
perceive that it is this temper, wisely cultivated, which will one day make her
enamoured of the loveliness of virtue, and the beauty of holiness: from which
she will acquire a taste for the doctrines of religion, and a spirit to perform
the duties of it. And those who wish to make her ashamed of this charming
temper, and seek to dispossess her of it, will, it is to be feared, give her
nothing better in exchange. But whoever reflects at all, will easily discern how
carefully this enthusiasm is to be directed, and how judiciously its redundances
are to be lopped away.

Prudence is not natural to children; they can, however, substitute art in its
stead. But is it not much better that a girl should discover the faults incident
to her age, than conceal them under this dark and impenetrable veil? I could
almost venture to assert, that there is something more becoming in the very
errors of nature, where they are undisguised, than in the affectation of virtue
itself, where the reality is wanting. And I am so far from being an admirer of
prodigies, that I am extremely apt to suspect them; and am always infinitely
better pleased with Nature in her more common modes of operation. The precise
and premature wisdom, which some girls have cunning enough to assume, is of a
more dangerous tendency than any of their natural failings can be, as it
effectually covers those secret bad dispositions, which, if they displayed
themselves, might be rectified. The hypocrisy of assuming virtues which are not
inherent in the heart, prevents the growth and disclosure of those real ones,
which it is the great end of education to cultivate. But if the natural
indications of the temper are to be suppressed and stifled, where are the
diagnostics, by which the state of the mind is to be known? The wise Author of
all things, who did nothing in vain, doubtless intended them as symptoms, by
which to judge of the diseases of the heart; and it is impossible diseases
should be cured before they are known. If the stream be so cut off as to prevent
communication, or so choked up as to defeat discovery, how shall we ever reach
the source, out of which are the issues of life? This cunning, which, of all the
different dispositions girls discover, is most to be dreaded, is increased by
nothing so much as by fear. If those about them express violent and unreasonable
anger at every trivial offence, it will always promote this temper, and will
very frequently create it, where there was a natural tendency to frankness. The
indiscreet transports of rage, which many betray on every slight occasion, and
the little distinction they make between venial errors and premeditated crimes,
naturally dispose a child to conceal, what she does not however care to
suppress. Anger in one will not remedy the faults of another; for how can an
instrument of sin cure sin? If a girl is kept in a state of perpetual and
slavish terror, she will perhaps have artifice enough to conceal those
propensities which she knows are wrong, or those actions which she thinks are
most obnoxious to punishment. But, nevertheless, she will not cease to indulge
those propensities, and to commit those actions, when she can do it with
impunity.

Good dispositions, of themselves, will go but a very little way, unless they are
confirmed into good principles. And this cannot be effected but by a careful
course of religious instruction, and a patient and laborious cultivation of the
moral temper.

But, notwithstanding girls should not be treated with unkindness, nor the first
openings of the passions blighted by cold severity; yet I am of opinion, that
young females should be accustomed very early in life to a certain degree of
restraint. The natural cast of character, and the moral distinctions between the
sexes, should not be disregarded, even in childhood. That bold, independent,
enterprising spirit, which is so much admired in boys, should not, when it
happens to discover itself in the other sex, be encouraged, but suppressed.
Girls should be taught to give up their opinions betimes, and not pertinaciously
to carry on a dispute, even if they should know themselves to be in the right. I
do not mean, that they should be robbed of the liberty of private judgment, but
that they should by no means be encouraged to contract a contentious or
contradictory turn. It is of the greatest importance to their future happiness,
that they should acquire a submissive temper, and a forbearing spirit: for it is
a lesson which the world will not fail to make them frequently practise, when
they come abroad into it, and they will not practise it the worse for having
learnt it the sooner. These early restraints, in the limitation here meant, are
so far from being an effect of cruelty, that they are the most indubitable marks
of affection, and are the more meritorious, as they are severe trials of
tenderness. But all the beneficial effects, which a mother can expect from this
watchfulness, will be entirely defeated, if it is practised occasionally, and
not habitually, and if it ever appears to be used to gratify caprice,
ill-humour, or resentment.

Those who have children to educate ought to be extremely patient: it is indeed a
labour of love. They should reflect, that extraordinary talents are neither
essential to the well-being of society, nor to the happiness of individuals. If
that had been the case, the beneficent Father of the universe would not have
made them so rare. For it is as easy for an Almighty Creator to produce a
Newton, as an ordinary man; and he could have made those powers common which we
now consider as wonderful, without any miraculous exertion of his omnipotence,
if the existence of many Newtons had been necessary to the perfection of his
wise and gracious plan.

Surely, therefore, there is more piety, as well as more sense, in labouring to
improve the talents which children actually have, than in lamenting that they do
not possess supernatural endowments or angelic perfections. A passage of Lord
Bacon’s furnishes an admirable incitement for endeavouring to carry the amiable
and christian grace of charity to its farthest extent, instead of indulging an
over-anxious care for more brilliant but less important acquisitions. "The
desire of power in excess (says he) caused the angels to fall; the desire of
knowledge in excess caused man to fall; but in charity is no excess, neither can
men nor angels come into danger by it." A girl who has docility will seldom be
found to want understanding enough for all the purposes of a social, a happy,
and an useful life. And when we behold the tender hope of fond and anxious love,
blasted by disappointment, the defect will as often be discovered to proceed
from the neglect or the error of cultivation, as from the natural temper; and
those who lament the evil, will sometimes be found to have occasioned it.

It is as injudicious for parents to set out with too sanguine a dependence on
the merit of their children, as it is for them to be discouraged at every
repulse. When their wishes are defeated in this or that particular instance,
where they had treasured up some darling expectation, this is so far from being
a reason for relaxing their attention, that it ought to be an additional motive
for redoubling it. Those who hope to do a great deal, must not expect to do
every thing. If they know any thing of the malignity of sin, the blindness of
prejudice, or the corruption of the human heart, they will also know, that that
heart will always remain, after the very best possible education, full of
infirmity and imperfection. Extraordinary allowances, therefore, must be made
for the weakness of nature in this its weakest state. After much is done, much
will remain to do, and much, very much, will still be left undone. For this
regulation of the passions and affections cannot be the work of education alone,
without the concurrence of divine grace operating on the heart. Why then should
parents repine, if their efforts are not always crowned with immediate success?
They should consider, that they are not educating cherubims and seraphims, but
men and women; creatures, who at their best estate are altogether vanity: how
little then can be expected from them in the weakness and imbecillity of
infancy! I have dwelt on this part of the subject the longer, because I am
certain that many, who have set out with a warm and active zeal, have cooled on
the very first discouragement, and have afterwards almost totally remitted their
vigilance, through a criminal kind of despair.

Great allowances must be made for a profusion of gaiety, loquacity, and even
indiscretion in children, that there may be animation enough left to supply an
active and useful character, when the first fermentation of the youthful
passions is over, and the redundant spirits shall come to subside.

If it be true, as a consummate judge of human nature has observed, That not a
vanity is given in vain, it is also true, that there is scarcely a single
passion, which may not be turned to some good account, if prudently rectified,
and skilfully turned into the road of some neighbouring virtue. It cannot be
violently bent, or unnaturally forced towards an object of a totally opposite
nature, but may be gradually inclined towards a correspondent but superior
affection. Anger, hatred, resentment, and ambition, the most restless and
turbulent passions which shake and distract the human soul, may be led to become
the most active opposers of sin, after having been its most successful
instruments. Our anger, for instance, which can never be totally subdued, may be
made to turn against ourselves, for our weak and imperfect obedience—our hatred,
against every species of vice—our ambition, which will not be discarded, may be
ennobled: it will not change its name, but its object: it will despise what it
lately valued, nor be contented to grasp at less than immortality.

Thus the joys, fears, hopes, desires, all the passions and affections, which
separate in various currents from the soul, will, if directed into their proper
channels, after having fertilised wherever they have flowed, return again to
swell and enrich the parent source. That the very passions which appear the most
uncontroulable and unpromising, may be intended, in the great scheme of
Providence, to answer some important purpose, is remarkably evidenced in the
character and history of Saint Paul. A remark on this subject by an ingenious
old Spanish writer, which I will here take the liberty to translate, will better
illustrate my meaning.

"To convert the bitterest enemy into the most zealous advocate, is the work of
God for the instruction of man. Plutarch has observed, that the medical science
would be brought to the utmost perfection, when poison should be converted into
physic. Thus, in the mortal disease of Judaism and idolatry, our blessed Lord
converted the adder’s venom of Saul the persecutor, into that cement which made
Paul the chosen vessel. That manly activity, that restless ardor, that burning
zeal for the law of his fathers, that ardent thirst for the blood of Christians,
did the Son of God find necessary in the man who was one day to become the
defender of his suffering people.[7]" To win the passions, therefore, over to
the cause of virtue, answers a much nobler end than their extinction would
possibly do, even if that could be effected. But it is their nature never to
observe a neutrality; they are either rebels or auxiliaries, and an enemy
subdued is an ally obtained. If I may be allowed to change the allusion so soon,
I would say, that the passions also resemble fires, which are friendly and
beneficial when under proper direction, but if suffered to blaze without
restraint, they carry devastation along with them, and, if totally extinguished,
leave the benighted mind in a state of cold and comfortless inanity. But in
speaking of the usefulness of the passions, as instruments of virtue, envy and
lying must always be excepted: these, I am persuaded, must either go on in still
progressive mischief, or else be radically cured, before any good can be
expected from the heart which has been infected with them. For I never will
believe that envy, though passed through all the moral strainers, can be refined
into a virtuous emulation, or lying improved into an agreeable turn for innocent
invention. Almost all the other passions may be made to take an amiable hue; but
these two must either be totally extirpated, or be always contented to preserve
their original deformity, and to wear their native black.

[7] Obras de Quevedo, vida de San Pablo Apostol.


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  CHAPTER 10: 01.08.     ON RELIGION
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on the IMPORTANCE of RELIGION to the FEMALE CHARACTER.

Various are the reasons why the greater part of mankind cannot apply themselves
to arts or letters. Particular studies are only suited to the capacities of
particular persons. Some are incapable of applying to them from the delicacy of
their sex, some from the unsteadiness of youth, and others from the imbecillity
of age. Many are precluded by the narrowness of their education, and many by the
straitness of their fortune. The wisdom of God is wonderfully manifested in this
happy and well-ordered diversity, in the powers and properties of his creatures;
since by thus admirably suiting the agent to the action, the whole scheme of
human affairs is carried on with the most agreeing and consistent [oe]conomy,
and no chasm is left for want of an object to fill it, exactly suited to its
nature. But in the great and universal concern of religion, both sexes, and all
ranks, are equally interested. The truly catholic spirit of christianity
accommodates itself, with an astonishing condescension, to the circumstances of
the whole human race. It rejects none on account of their pecuniary wants, their
personal infirmities, or their intellectual deficiencies. No superiority of
parts is the least recommendation, nor is any depression of fortune the smallest
objection. None are too wise to be excused from performing the duties of
religion, nor are any too poor to be excluded from the consolations of its
promises.

If we admire the wisdom of God, in having furnished different degrees of
intelligence, so exactly adapted to their different destinations, and in having
fitted every part of his stupendous work, not only to serve its own immediate
purpose, but also to contribute to the beauty and perfection of the whole: how
much more ought we to adore that goodness, which has perfected the divine plan,
by appointing one wide, comprehensive, and universal means of salvation: a
salvation, which all are invited to partake; by a means which all are capable of
using; which nothing but voluntary blindness can prevent our comprehending, and
nothing but wilful error can hinder us from embracing. The Muses are coy, and
will only be wooed and won by some highly-favoured suitors. The Sciences are
lofty, and will not stoop to the reach of ordinary capacities. But "Wisdom (by
which the royal preacher means piety) is a loving spirit: she is easily seen of
them that love her, and found of all such as seek her." Nay, she is so
accessible and condescending, "that she preventeth them that desire her, making
herself first known unto them."

We are told by the same animated writer, "that Wisdom is the breath of the power
of God." How infinitely superior, in grandeur and sublimity, is this description
to the origin of the wisdom of the heathens, as described by their poets and
mythologists! In the exalted strains of the Hebrew poetry we read, that "Wisdom
is the brightness of the everlasting light, the unspotted mirror of the power of
God, and the image of his goodness." The philosophical author of The Defence of
Learning observes, that knowledge has something of venom and malignity in it,
when taken without its proper corrective, and what that is, the inspired Saint
Paul teaches us, by placing it as the immediate antidote: Knowledge puffeth up,
but charity edifieth. Perhaps, it is the vanity of human wisdom, unchastised by
this correcting principle, which has made so many infidels. It may proceed from
the arrogance of a self-sufficient pride, that some philosophers disdain to
acknowledge their belief in a being, who has judged proper to conceal from them
the infinite wisdom of his counsels; who, (to borrow the lofty language of the
man of Uz) refused to consult them when he laid the foundations of the earth,
when he shut up the sea with doors, and made the clouds the garment thereof. A
man must be an infidel either from pride, prejudice, or bad education: he cannot
be one unawares or by surprise; for infidelity is not occasioned by sudden
impulse or violent temptation. He may be hurried by some vehement desire into an
immoral action, at which he will blush in his cooler moments, and which he will
lament as the sad effect of a spirit unsubdued by religion; but infidelity is a
calm, considerate act, which cannot plead the weakness of the heart, or the
seduction of the senses. Even good men frequently fail in their duty through the
infirmities of nature, and the allurements of the world; but the infidel errs on
a plan, on a settled and deliberate principle. But though the minds of men are
sometimes fatally infected with this disease, either through unhappy
prepossession, or some of the other causes above mentioned; yet I am unwilling
to believe, that there is in nature so monstrously incongruous a being, as a
female infidel. The least reflexion on the temper, the character, and the
education of women, makes the mind revolt with horror from an idea so
improbable, and so unnatural. May I be allowed to observe, that, in general, the
minds of girls seem more aptly prepared in their early youth for the reception
of serious impressions than those of the other sex, and that their less exposed
situations in more advanced life qualify them better for the preservation of
them? The daughters (of good parents I mean) are often more carefully instructed
in their religious duties, than the sons, and this from a variety of causes.
They are not so soon sent from under the paternal eye into the bustle of the
world, and so early exposed to the contagion of bad example: their hearts are
naturally more flexible, soft, and liable to any kind of impression the forming
hand may stamp on them; and, lastly, as they do not receive the same classical
education with boys, their feeble minds are not obliged at once to receive and
separate the precepts of christianity, and the documents of pagan philosophy.
The necessity of doing this perhaps somewhat weakens the serious impressions of
young men, at least till the understanding is formed, and confuses their ideas
of piety, by mixing them with so much heterogeneous matter. They only casually
read, or hear read, the scriptures of truth, while they are obliged to learn by
heart, construe and repeat the poetical fables of the less than human gods of
the ancients. And as the excellent author of The Internal Evidence of the
Christian Religion observes, "Nothing has so much contributed to corrupt the
true spirit of the christian institution, as that partiality which we contract,
in our earliest education, for the manners of pagan antiquity."

Girls, therefore, who do not contract this early partiality, ought to have a
clearer notion of their religious duties: they are not obliged, at an age when
the judgment is so weak, to distinguish between the doctrines of Zeno, of
Epicurus, and of Christ; and to embarrass their minds with the various morals
which were taught in the Porch, in the Academy, and on the Mount.

It is presumed, that these remarks cannot possibly be so misunderstood, as to be
construed into the least disrespect to literature, or a want of the highest
reverence for a learned education, the basis of all elegant knowledge: they are
only intended, with all proper deference, to point out to young women, that
however inferior their advantages of acquiring a knowledge of the belles-lettres
are to those of the other sex; yet it depends on themselves not to be surpassed
in this most important of all studies, for which their abilities are equal, and
their opportunities, perhaps, greater. But the mere exemption from infidelity is
so small a part of the religious character, that I hope no one will attempt to
claim any merit from this negative sort of goodness, or value herself merely for
not being the very worst thing she possibly can be. Let no mistaken girl fancy
she gives a proof of her wit by her want of piety, or that a contempt of things
serious and sacred will exalt her understanding, or raise her character even in
the opinion of the most avowed male infidels. For one may venture to affirm,
that with all their profligate ideas, both of women and of religion, neither
Bolingbroke, Wharton, Buckingham, nor even Lord Chesterfield himself, would have
esteemed a woman the more for her being irreligious. With whatever ridicule a
polite freethinker may affect to treat religion himself, he will think it
necessary his wife should entertain different notions of it. He may pretend to
despise it as a matter of opinion, depending on creeds and systems; but, if he
is a man of sense, he will know the value of it, as a governing principle, which
is to influence her conduct and direct her actions. If he sees her unaffectedly
sincere in the practice of her religious duties, it will be a secret pledge to
him, that she will be equally exact in fulfilling the conjugal; for he can have
no reasonable dependance on her attachment to him, if he has no opinion of her
fidelity to God; for she who neglects first duties, gives but an indifferent
proof of her disposition to fill up inferior ones; and how can a man of any
understanding (whatever his own religious professions may be) trust that woman
with the care of his family, and the education of his children, who wants
herself the best incentive to a virtuous life, the belief that she is an
accountable creature, and the reflection that she has an immortal soul?

Cicero spoke it as the highest commendation of Cato’s character, that he
embraced philosophy, not for the sake of disputing like a philosopher, but of
living like one. The chief purpose of christian knowledge is to promote the
great end of a christian life. Every rational woman should, no doubt, be able to
give a reason of the hope that is in her; but this knowledge is best acquired,
and the duties consequent on it best performed, by reading books of plain piety
and practical devotion, and not by entering into the endless feuds, and engaging
in the unprofitable contentions of partial controversialists. Nothing is more
unamiable than the narrow spirit of party zeal, nor more disgusting than to hear
a woman deal out judgments, and denounce vengeance against any one, who happens
to differ from her in some opinion, perhaps of no real importance, and which, it
is probable, she may be just as wrong in rejecting, as the object of her censure
is in embracing. A furious and unmerciful female bigot wanders as far beyond the
limits prescribed to her sex, as a Thalestris or a Joan d’Arc. Violent debate
has made as few converts as the sword, and both these instruments are
particularly unbecoming when wielded by a female hand.

But, though no one will be frightened out of their opinions, yet they may be
persuaded out of them: they may be touched by the affecting earnestness of
serious conversation, and allured by the attractive beauty of a consistently
serious life. And while a young woman ought to dread the name of a wrangling
polemic, it is her duty to aspire after the honourable character of a sincere
Christian. But this dignified character she can by no means deserve, if she is
ever afraid to avow her principles, or ashamed to defend them. A profligate, who
makes it a point to ridicule every thing which comes under the appearance of
formal instruction, will be disconcerted at the spirited yet modest rebuke of a
pious young woman. But there is as much efficacy in the manner of reproving
prophaneness, as in the words. If she corrects it with moroseness, she defeats
the effect of her remedy, by her unskilful manner of administring it. If, on the
other hand, she affects to defend the insulted cause of God, in a faint tone of
voice, and studied ambiguity of phrase, or with an air of levity, and a certain
expression of pleasure in her eyes, which proves she is secretly delighted with
what she pretends to censure, she injures religion much more than he did who
publickly prophaned it; for she plainly indicates, either that she does not
believe, or respect what she professes. The other attacked it as an open foe;
she betrays it as a false friend. No one pays any regard to the opinion of an
avowed enemy; but the desertion or treachery of a professed friend, is dangerous
indeed!

It is a strange notion which prevails in the world, that religion only belongs
to the old and the melancholy, and that it is not worth while to pay the least
attention to it, while we are capable of attending to any thing else. They allow
it to be proper enough for the clergy, whose business it is, and for the aged,
who have not spirits for any business at all. But till they can prove, that none
except the clergy and the aged die, it must be confessed, that this is most
wretched reasoning.

Great injury is done to the interests of religion, by placing it in a gloomy and
unamiable light. It is sometimes spoken of, as if it would actually make a
handsome woman ugly, or a young one wrinkled. But can any thing be more absurd
than to represent the beauty of holiness as the source of deformity?

There are few, perhaps, so entirely plunged in business, or absorbed in
pleasure, as not to intend, at some future time, to set about a religious life
in good earnest. But then they consider it as a kind of dernier ressort, and
think it prudent to defer flying to this disagreeable refuge, till they have no
relish left for any thing else. Do they forget, that to perform this great
business well requires all the strength of their youth, and all the vigour of
their unimpaired capacities? To confirm this assertion, they may observe how
much the slightest indisposition, even in the most active season of life,
disorders every faculty, and disqualifies them for attending to the most
ordinary affairs: and then let them reflect how little able they will be to
transact the most important of all business, in the moment of excruciating pain,
or in the day of universal debility. When the senses are palled with excessive
gratification; when the eye is tired with seeing, and the ear with hearing; when
the spirits are so sunk, that the grasshopper is become a burthen, how shall the
blunted apprehension be capable of understanding a new science, or the worn-out
heart be able to relish a new pleasure? To put off religion till we have lost
all taste for amusement; to refuse listening to the "voice of the charmer," till
our enfeebled organs can no longer listen to the voice of "singing men and
singing women," and not to devote our days to heaven till we have "no pleasure
in them" ourselves, is but an ungracious offering. And it is a wretched
sacrifice to the God of heaven, to present him with the remnants of decayed
appetites, and the leavings of extinguished passions.


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  CHAPTER 11: 01.09.     MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS ON WIT
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MISCELLANEOUS OBSERVATIONS on GENIUS, TASTE, GOOD SENSE, &c. [8]

Good sense is as different from genius as perception is from invention; yet,
though distinct qualities, they frequently subsist together. It is altogether
opposite to wit, but by no means inconsistent with it. It is not science, for
there is such a thing as unlettered good sense; yet, though it is neither wit,
learning, nor genius, it is a substitute for each, where they do not exist, and
the perfection of all where they do.

Good sense is so far from deserving the appellation of common sense, by which it
is frequently called, that it is perhaps one of the rarest qualities of the
human mind. If, indeed, this name is given it in respect to its peculiar
suitableness to the purposes of common life, there is great propriety in it.
Good sense appears to differ from taste in this, that taste is an instantaneous
decision of the mind, a sudden relish of what is beautiful, or disgust at what
is defective, in an object, without waiting for the slower confirmation of the
judgment. Good sense is perhaps that confirmation, which establishes a suddenly
conceived idea, or feeling, by the powers of comparing and reflecting. They
differ also in this, that taste seems to have a more immediate reference to
arts, to literature, and to almost every object of the senses; while good sense
rises to moral excellence, and exerts its influence on life and manners. Taste
is fitted to the perception and enjoyment of whatever is beautiful in art or
nature: Good sense, to the improvement of the conduct, and the regulation of the
heart.

Yet the term good sense, is used indiscriminately to express either a finished
taste for letters, or an invariable prudence in the affairs of life. It is
sometimes applied to the most moderate abilities, in which case, the expression
is certainly too strong; and at others to the most shining, when it is as much
too weak and inadequate. A sensible man is the usual, but unappropriated phrase,
for every degree in the scale of understanding, from the sober mortal, who
obtains it by his decent demeanor and solid dullness, to him whose talents
qualify him to rank with a Bacon, a Harris, or a Johnson.

Genius is the power of invention and imitation. It is an incommunicable faculty:
no art or skill of the possessor can bestow the smallest portion of it on
another: no pains or labour can reach the summit of perfection, where the seeds
of it are wanting in the mind; yet it is capable of infinite improvement where
it actually exists, and is attended with the highest capacity of communicating
instruction, as well as delight to others.

It is the peculiar property of genius to strike out great or beautiful things:
it is the felicity of good sense not to do absurd ones. Genius breaks out in
splendid sentiments and elevated ideas; good sense confines its more
circumscribed, but perhaps more useful walk, within the limits of prudence and
propriety. The poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to
earth, from earth to heaven;

And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.
This is perhaps the finest picture of human genius that ever was drawn by a
human pencil. It presents a living image of a creative imagination, or a power
of inventing things which have no actual existence. With superficial judges,
who, it must be confessed, make up the greater part of the mass of mankind,
talents are only liked or understood to a certain degree. Lofty ideas are above
the reach of ordinary apprehensions: the vulgar allow those who possess them to
be in a somewhat higher state of mind than themselves; but of the vast gulf
which separates them, they have not the least conception. They acknowledge a
superiority, but of its extent they neither know the value, nor can conceive the
reality. It is true, the mind, as well as the eye, can take in objects larger
than itself; but this is only true of great minds: for a man of low capacity,
who considers a consummate genius, resembles one, who seeing a column for the
first time, and standing at too great a distance to take in the whole of it,
concludes it to be flat. Or, like one unacquainted with the first principles of
philosophy, who, finding the sensible horizon appear a plain surface, can form
no idea of the spherical form of the whole, which he does not see, and laughs at
the account of antipodes, which he cannot comprehend.

Whatever is excellent is also rare; what is useful is more common. How many
thousands are born qualified for the coarse employments of life, for one who is
capable of excelling in the fine arts! yet so it ought to be, because our
natural wants are more numerous, and more importunate, than the intellectual.

Whenever it happens that a man of distinguished talents has been drawn by
mistake, or precipitated by passion, into any dangerous indiscretion; it is
common for those whose coldness of temper has supplied the place, and usurped
the name of prudence, to boast of their own steadier virtue, and triumph in
their own superior caution; only because they have never been assailed by a
temptation strong enough to surprise them into error. And with what a visible
appropriation of the character to themselves, do they constantly conclude, with
a cordial compliment to common sense! They point out the beauty and usefulness
of this quality so forcibly and explicitly, that you cannot possibly mistake
whose picture they are drawing with so flattering a pencil. The unhappy man
whose conduct has been so feelingly arraigned, perhaps acted from good, though
mistaken motives; at least, from motives of which his censurer has not capacity
to judge: but the event was unfavourable, nay the action might be really wrong,
and the vulgar maliciously take the opportunity of this single indiscretion, to
lift themselves nearer on a level with a character, which, except in this
instance, has always thrown them at the most disgraceful and mortifying
distance. The elegant Biographer of Collins, in his affecting apology for that
unfortunate genius, remarks, "That the gifts of imagination bring the heaviest
task on the vigilance of reason; and to bear those faculties with unerring
rectitude, or invariable propriety, requires a degree of firmness, and of cool
attention, which does not always attend the higher gifts of the mind; yet
difficult as Nature herself seems to have rendered the task of regularity to
genius, it is the supreme consolation of dullness, and of folly to point with
gothic triumph to those excesses which are the overflowing of faculties they
never enjoyed."

What the greater part of the world mean by common sense, will be generally
found, on a closer enquiry, to be art, fraud, or selfishness! That sort of
saving prudence which makes men extremely attentive to their own safety, or
profit; diligent in the pursuit of their own pleasures or interests; and
perfectly at their ease as to what becomes of the rest of mankind. Furies, where
their own property is concerned, philosophers when nothing but the good of
others is at stake, and perfectly resigned under all calamities but their own.
When we see so many accomplished wits of the present age, as remarkable for the
decorum of their lives, as for the brilliancy of their writings, we may believe,
that, next to principle, it is owing to their good sense, which regulates and
chastises their imaginations. The vast conceptions which enable a true genius to
ascend the sublimest heights, may be so connected with the stronger passions, as
to give it a natural tendency to fly off from the strait line of regularity;
till good sense, acting on the fancy, makes it gravitate powerfully towards that
virtue which is its proper centre.

Add to this, when it is considered with what imperfection the Divine Wisdom has
thought fit to stamp every thing human, it will be found, that excellence and
infirmity are so inseparably wound up in each other, that a man derives the
soreness of temper, and irritability of nerve, which make him uneasy to others,
and unhappy in himself, from those exquisite feelings, and that elevated pitch
of thought, by which, as the apostle expresses it on a more serious occasion, he
is, as it were, out of the body.

It is not astonishing, therefore, when the spirit is carried away by the
magnificence of its own ideas, Not touch’d but rapt, not waken’d but inspir’d,
that the frail body, which is the natural victim of pain, disease, and death,
should not always be able to follow the mind in its aspiring flights, but should
be as imperfect as if it belonged only to an ordinary soul.

Besides, might not Providence intend to humble human pride, by presenting to our
eyes so mortifying a view of the weakness and infirmity of even his best work?
Perhaps man, who is already but a little lower than the angels, might, like the
revolted spirits, totally have shaken off obedience and submission to his
Creator, had not God wisely tempered human excellence with a certain
consciousness of its own imperfection. But though this inevitable alloy of
weakness may frequently be found in the best characters, yet how can that be the
source of triumph and exaltation to any, which, if properly weighed, must be the
deepest motive of humiliation to all? A good-natured man will be so far from
rejoicing, that he will be secretly troubled, whenever he reads that the
greatest Roman moralist was tainted with avarice, and the greatest British
philosopher with venality.

It is remarked by Pope, in his Essay on Criticism, that, Ten censure wrong for
one who writes amiss. But I apprehend it does not therefore follow that to
judge, is more difficult than to write. If this were the case, the critic would
be superior to the poet, whereas it appears to be directly the contrary. "The
critic, (says the great champion of Shakespeare,) but fashions the body of a
work, the poet must add the soul, which gives force and direction to its actions
and gestures." It should seem that the reason why so many more judge wrong, than
write ill, is because the number of readers is beyond all proportion greater
than the number of writers. Every man who reads, is in some measure a critic,
and, with very common abilities, may point out real faults and material errors
in a very well written book; but it by no means follows that he is able to write
any thing comparable to the work which he is capable of censuring. And unless
the numbers of those who write, and of those who judge, were more equal, the
calculation seems not to be quite fair. A capacity for relishing works of genius
is the indubitable sign of a good taste. But if a proper disposition and ability
to enjoy the compositions of others, entitle a man to the claim of reputation,
it is still a far inferior degree of merit to his who can invent and produce
those compositions, the bare disquisition of which gives the critic no small
share of fame. The president of the royal academy in his admirable Discourse on
imitation, has set the folly of depending on unassisted genius, in the clearest
light; and has shewn the necessity of adding the knowledge of others, to our own
native powers, in his usual striking and masterly manner. "The mind, says he, is
a barren soil, is a soil soon exhausted, and will produce no crop, or only one,
unless it be continually fertilized, and enriched with foreign matter."

Yet it has been objected that study is a great enemy to originality; but even if
this were true, it would perhaps be as well that an author should give us the
ideas of still better writers, mixed and assimilated with the matter in his own
mind, as those crude and undigested thoughts which he values under the notion
that they are original. The sweetest honey neither tastes of the rose, the
honeysuckle, nor the carnation, yet it is compounded of the very essence of them
all.

If in the other fine arts this accumulation of knowledge is necessary, it is
indispensably so in poetry. It is a fatal rashness for any one to trust too much
to their own stock of ideas. He must invigorate them by exercise, polish them by
conversation, and increase them by every species of elegant and virtuous
knowledge, and the mind will not fail to reproduce with interest those seeds,
which are sown in it by study and observation. Above all, let every one guard
against the dangerous opinion that he knows enough: an opinion that will weaken
the energy and reduce the powers of the mind, which, though once perhaps
vigorous and effectual, will be sunk to a state of literary imbecility, by
cherishing vain and presumptuous ideas of its own independence. For instance, it
may not be necessary that a poet should be deeply skilled in the Linnæan system;
but it must be allowed that a general acquaintance with plants and flowers will
furnish him with a delightful and profitable species of instruction. He is not
obliged to trace Nature in all her nice and varied operations, with the minute
accuracy of a Boyle, or the laborious investigation of a Newton; but his good
sense will point out to him that no inconsiderable portion of philosophical
knowledge is requisite to the completion of his literary character. The sciences
are more independent, and require little or no assistance from the graces of
poetry; but poetry, if she would charm and instruct, must not be so haughty; she
must be contented to borrow of the sciences, many of her choicest allusions, and
many of her most graceful embellishments; and does it not magnify the character
of true poesy, that she includes within herself all the scattered graces of
every separate art? The rules of the great masters in criticism may not be so
necessary to the forming a good taste, as the examination of those original
mines from whence they drew their treasures of knowledge. The three celebrated
Essays on the Art of Poetry do not teach so much by their laws as by their
examples; the dead letter of their rules is less instructive than the living
spirit of their verse. Yet these rules are to a young poet, what the study of
logarithms is to a young mathematician; they do not so much contribute to form
his judgment, as afford him the satisfaction of convincing him that he is right.
They do not preclude the difficulty of the operation; but at the conclusion of
it, furnish him with a fuller demonstration that he has proceeded on proper
principles. When he has well studied the masters in whose schools the first
critics formed themselves, and fancies he has caught a spark of their divine
Flame, it may be a good method to try his own compositions by the test of the
critic rules, so far indeed as the mechanism of poetry goes. If the examination
be fair and candid, this trial, like the touch of Ithuriel’s spear, will detect
every latent error, and bring to light every favourite failing.

Good taste always suits the measure of its admiration to the merit of the
composition it examines. It accommodates its praises, or its censure, to the
excellence of a work, and appropriates it to the nature of it. General applause,
or indiscriminate abuse, is the sign of a vulgar understanding. There are
certain blemishes which the judicious and good-natured reader will candidly
overlook. But the false sublime, the tumour which is intended for greatness, the
distorted figure, the puerile conceit, and the incongruous metaphor, these are
defects for which scarcely any other kind of merit can atone. And yet there may
be more hope of a writer (especially if he be a a young one), who is now and
then guilty of some of these faults, than of one who avoids them all, not
through judgment, but feebleness, and who, instead of deviating into error is
continually falling short of excellence. The meer absence of error implies that
moderate and inferior degree of merit with which a cold heart and a phlegmatic
taste will be better satisfied than with the magnificent irregularities of
exalted spirits. It stretches some minds to an uneasy extension to be obliged to
attend to compositions superlatively excellent; and it contracts liberal souls
to a painful narrowness to descend to books of inferior merit. A work of capital
genius, to a man of an ordinary mind, is the bed of Procrustes to one of a short
stature, the man is too little to fill up the space assigned him, and undergoes
the torture in attempting it: and a moderate, or low production to a man of
bright talents, is the punishment inflicted by Mezentius; the living spirit has
too much animation to endure patiently to be in contact with a dead body.

Taste sesms to be a sentiment of the soul which gives the bias to opinion, for
we feel before we reflect. Without this sentiment, all knowledge, learning and
opinion, would be cold, inert materials, whereas they become active principles
when stirred, kindled, and inflamed by this animating quality.

There is another feeling which is called Enthusiasm. The enthusiasm of sensible
hearts is so strong, that it not only yields to the impulse with which striking
objects act on it, but such hearts help on the effect by their own sensibility.
In a scene where Shakespeare and Garrick give perfection to each other, the
feeling heart does not merely accede to the delirium they occasion: it does
more, it is enamoured of it, it solicits the delusion, it sues to be deceived,
and grudgingly cherishes the sacred treasure of its feelings. The poet and
performer concur in carrying us Beyond this visible diurnal sphere, they bear us
aloft in their airy course with unresisted rapidity, if they meet not with any
obstruction from the coldness of our own feelings. Perhaps, only a few fine
spirits can enter into the detail of their writing and acting; but the multitude
do not enjoy less acutely, because they are not able philosophically to analyse
the sources of their joy or sorrow. If the others have the advantage of judging,
these have at least the privilege of feeling: and it is not from complaisance to
a few leading judges, that they burst into peals of laughter, or melt into
delightful agony; their hearts decide, and that is a decision from which there
lies no appeal. It must however be confessed, that the nicer separations of
character, and the lighter and almost imperceptible shades which sometimes
distinguish them, will not be intimately relished, unless there be a consonancy
of taste as well as feeling in the spectator; though where the passions are
principally concerned, the profane vulgar come in for a larger portion of the
universal delight, than critics and connoisseurs are willing to allow them.

Yet enthusiasm, though the natural concomitant of genius, is no more genius
itself, than drunkenness is cheerfulness; and that enthusiasm which discovers
itself on occasions not worthy to excite it, is the mark of a wretched judgment
and a false taste.

Nature produces innumerable objects: to imitate them, is the province of Genius;
to direct those imitations, is the property of Judgment; to decide on their
effects, is the business of Taste. For Taste, who sits as supreme judge on the
productions of Genius, is not satisfied when she merely imitates Nature: she
must also, says an ingenious French writer, imitate beautiful Nature. It
requires no less judgment to reject than to choose, and Genius might imitate
what is vulgar, under pretence that it was natural, if Taste did not carefully
point out those objects which are most proper for imitation. It also requires a
very nice discernment to distinguish verisimilitude from truth; for there is a
truth in Taste nearly as conclusive as demonstration in mathematics.

Genius, when in the full impetuosity of its career, often touches on the very
brink of error; and is, perhaps, never so near the verge of the precipice, as
when indulging its sublimest flights. It is in those great, but dangerous
moments, that the curb of vigilant judgment is most wanting: while safe and
sober Dulness observes one tedious and insipid round of tiresome uniformity, and
steers equally clear of eccentricity and of beauty. Dulness has few redundancies
to retrench, few luxuriancies to prune, and few irregularities to smooth. These,
though errors, are the errors of Genius, for there is rarely redundancy without
plenitude, or irregularity without greatness. The excesses of Genius may easily
be retrenched, but the deficiencies of Dulness can never be supplied.

Those who copy from others will doubtless be less excellent than those who copy
from Nature. To imitate imitators, is the way to depart too far from the great
original herself. The latter copies of an engraving retain fainter and fainter
traces of the subject, to which the earlier impressions bore so strong a
resemblance.

It seems very extraordinary, that it should be the most difficult thing in the
world to be natural, and that it should be harder to hit off the manners of real
life, and to delineate such characters as we converse with every day, than to
imagine such as do not exist. But caricature is much easier than an exact
outline, and the colouring of fancy less difficult than that of truth.

People do not always know what taste they have, till it is awakened by some
corresponding object; nay, genius itself is a fire, which in many minds would
never blaze, if not kindled by some external cause.

Nature, that munificent mother, when she bestows the power of judging,
accompanies it with the capacity of enjoying. The judgment, which is clear
sighted, points out such objects as are calculated to inspire love, and the
heart instantaneously attaches itself to whatever is lovely. In regard to
literary reputation, a great deal depends on the state of learning in the
particular age or nation, in which an author lives. In a dark and ignorant
period, moderate knowledge will entitle its possessor to a considerable share of
fame; whereas, to be distinguished in a polite and lettered age, requires
striking parts and deep erudition. When a nation begins to emerge from a state
of mental darkness, and to strike out the first rudiments of improvement, it
chalks out a few strong but incorrect sketches, gives the rude out-lines of
general art, and leaves the filling up to the leisure of happier days, and the
refinement of more enlightened times. Their drawing is a rude Sbozzo, and their
poetry wild minstrelsy.

Perfection of taste is a point which a nation no sooner reaches, than it
overshoots; and it is more difficult to return to it, after having passed it,
than it was to attain when they fell short of it. Where the arts begin to
languish after having flourished, they seldom indeed fall back to their original
barbarism, but a certain feebleness of exertion takes place, and it is more
difficult to recover them from this dying languor to their proper strength, than
it was to polish them from their former rudeness; for it is a less formidable
undertaking to refine barbarity, than to stop decay: the first may be laboured
into elegance, but the latter will rarely be strengthened into vigour.

Taste exerts itself at first but feebly and imperfectly: it is repressed and
kept back by a crowd of the most discouraging prejudices: like an infant prince,
who, though born to reign, yet holds an idle sceptre, which he has not power to
use, but is obliged to see with the eyes, and hear through the ears of other
men. A writer of correct taste will hardly ever go out of his way, even in
search of embellishment: he will study to attain the best end by the most
natural means; for he knows that what is not natural cannot be beautiful, and
that nothing can be beautiful out of its own place; for an improper situation
will convert the most striking beauty into a glaring defect. When by a
well-connected chain of ideas, or a judicious succession of events, the reader
is snatched to "Thebes or Athens," what can be more impertinent than for the
poet to obstruct the operation of the passion he has just been kindling, by
introducing a conceit which contradicts his purpose, and interrupts his
business? Indeed, we cannot be transported, even in idea, to those places, if
the poet does not manage so adroitly as not to make us sensible of the journey:
the instant we feel we are travelling, the writer’s art fails, and the delirium
is at an end.

Proserpine, says Ovid, would have been restored to her mother Ceres, had not
Ascalaphus seen her stop to gather a golden apple, when the terms of her
restoration were, that she should taste nothing. A story pregnant with
instruction for lively writers, who by neglecting the main business, and going
out of the way for false gratifications, lose sight of the end they should
principally keep in view. It was this false taste that introduced the numberless
concetti, which disgrace the brightest of the Italian poets; and this is the
reason, why the reader only feels short and interrupted snatches of delight in
perusing the brilliant but unequal compositions of Ariosto, instead of that
unbroken and undiminished pleasure, which he constantly receives from Virgil,
from Milton, and generally from Tasso. The first-mentioned Italian is the
Atalanta, who will interrupt the most eager career, to pick up the glittering
mischief, while the Mantuan and the British bards, like Hippomenes, press on
warm in the pursuit, and unseduced by temptation. A writer of real taste will
take great pains in the perfection of his style, to make the reader believe that
he took none at all. The writing which appears to be most easy, will be
generally found to be least imitable. The most elegant verses are the most
easily retained, they fasten themselves on the memory, without its making any
effort to preserve them, and we are apt to imagine, that what is remembered with
ease, was written without difficulty. To conclude; Genius is a rare and precious
gem, of which few know the worth; it is fitter for the cabinet of the
connoisseur, than for the commerce of mankind. Good sense is a bank-bill,
convenient for change, negotiable at all times, and current in all places. It
knows the value of small things, and considers that an aggregate of them makes
up the sum of human affairs. It elevates common concerns into matters of
importance, by performing them in the best manner, and at the most suitable
season. Good sense carries with it the idea of equality, while Genius is always
suspected of a design to impose the burden of superiority; and respect is paid
to it with that reluctance which always attends other imposts, the lower orders
of mankind generally repining most at demands, by which they are least liable to
be affected. As it is the character of Genius to penetrate with a lynx’s beam
into unfathomable abysses and uncreated worlds, and to see what is not, so it is
the property of good sense to distinguish perfectly, and judge accurately what
really is. Good sense has not so piercing an eye, but it has as clear a sight:
it does not penetrate so deeply, but as far as it does see, it discerns
distinctly. Good sense is a judicious mechanic, who can produce beauty and
convenience out of suitable means; but Genius (I speak with reverence of the
immeasurable distance) bears some remote resemblance to the divine architect,
who produced perfection of beauty without any visible materials, who spake, and
it was created; who said, Let it be, and it was.

[8] The Author begs leave to offer an apology for introducing this Essay, which,
she fears, may be thought foreign to her purpose. But she hopes that her earnest
desire of exciting a taste for literature in young ladies, (which encouraged her
to hazard the following remarks) will not obstruct her general design, even if
it does not actually promote it. THE END.


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  CHAPTER 12: 02.00. PRACTICAL PIETY
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PRACTICAL PIETY The influence of the religion of the heart, on the conduct of
the life 1. Christianity an Internal Principle 2. Christianity a Practical
Principle 3. Mistakes in Religion 4. Periodical Religion

5. Prayer 6. Cultivation of a Devotional Spirit 7. The Love of God 8. The Hand
of God to be acknowledged in the Daily Circumstances of Life 9. Christianity
Universal in its Requisitions 10. Christian Holiness 11. On the comparatively
small Faults and Virtues 12. Self-Examination

13. Self-Love 14. On the Conduct of Christians in their Dealings with the
Irreligious 15. Christian Watchfulness 16. True and False Zeal 17. Insensibility
to Eternal Things 18. On the Sufferings of Good Men 19. The Temper and Conduct
of the Christian in Sickness and in Death

"The fear of God begins with the heart, and purifies and rectifies it; and from
the heart, thus rectified, grows a conformity in the life, the words and the
actions." Matthew Hale’s Contemplations


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  CHAPTER 13: 02.01.     CHRISTIANITY AN INTERNAL PRINCIPLE
========================================================================

Christianity an Internal Principle

Christianity bears all the marks of a divine original. It came down from heaven,
and its gracious purpose is to carry us up there. Its author is God. It was
foretold from the beginning by prophecies, which grew clearer and brighter as
they approached the period of their accomplishment. It was confirmed by
miracles, which continued until the religion they illustrated was established.
It was ratified by the blood of its Author. Its doctrines are pure, sublime,
consistent. Its precepts just and holy. Its worship is spiritual. Its service
reasonable, and rendered practical by the offers of Divine aid to human
weakness. It is sanctioned by the promise of eternal happiness to the faithful,
and the threat of everlasting misery to the disobedient. It had no collusion
with power, for power sought to crush it. It could not be in any league with the
world, for it set out by declaring itself the enemy of the world; it reprobated
its maxims, it showed the vanity of its glories, the danger of its riches, the
emptiness of its pleasures.

Christianity, though the most perfect rule of life that ever was devised, is far
from being barely a rule of life. A religion consisting of a mere code of laws
might have sufficed for man in a state of innocence. But man who has broken
these laws cannot be saved by a rule which he has violated. What consolation
could he find in the perusal of statutes, every one of which, bringing a fresh
conviction of his guilt, brings a fresh assurance of his condemnation? The chief
object of the Gospel is not to furnish rules for the preservation of innocence,
but to hold out the means of salvation to the guilty. It does not proceed upon a
supposition, but a fact; not upon what might have suited man in a state of
purity, but upon what is suitable to him in the exigencies of his fallen state.

This religion does not consist in an external conformity to practices which,
though right in themselves, may be adopted from human motives, and to answer
secular purposes. It is not a religion of forms, and modes, and decencies. It is
being transformed into the image of God. It is being like-minded with Christ. It
is considering him as our sanctification, as well as our redemption. It is
endeavoring to live to him here, that we may live with him hereafter. It is
desiring earnestly to surrender our will to his, our heart to the conduct of his
Spirit, our life to the guidance of his Word.

The change in the human heart, which the Scriptures declare to be necessary,
they represent to do not be so much an old principle improved, as a new one
created; not educed out of the former character, but implanted in the new one.
This change is there expressed in great varieties of language, and under
different figures of speech. Its being so frequently described, or figuratively
intimated, in almost every part of the volume of inspiration, entitles the
doctrine itself to our reverence, and ought to shield from obloquy the obnoxious
terms in which it is sometimes conveyed.

The sacred writings frequently point out the analogy between natural and
spiritual things. The same Spirit, which in the creation of the world moved upon
the face of the waters, operates on the human character to produce a new heart
and a new life. By this operation the affections and faculties of the man
receive a new impulse -- his dark understanding is illuminated, his rebellious
will is subdued, his irregular desires are rectified; his judgment is informed,
his imagination is chastised, his inclinations are sanctified; his hopes and
fears are directed to their true and adequate end. Heaven becomes the object of
his hopes, and eternal separation from God the object of his fears. His love of
the world is transformed into the love of God. The lower faculties are pressed
into the new service. The senses have a higher direction. The whole internal
frame and constitution receive a nobler bent; the intents and purposes of the
mind, a sublimer aim; his aspirations, a loftier flight; his vacillating desires
find a fixed object; his vagrant purposes a settled home; his disappointed heart
a certain refuge. That heart, no longer the worshiper of the world, is
struggling to become its conqueror. Our blessed Redeemer, in overcoming the
world, bequeathed us his command to overcome it also; but as he did not give the
command without the example, so he did not give the example without the offer of
a power to obey the command.

Genuine religion demands not merely an external profession of our allegiance to
God, but an inward devotedness of ourselves to his service. It is not a
recognition, but a dedication. It puts the Christian into a new state of things,
a new condition of being. It raises him above the world, while he lives in it.
It disperses the illusions of sense, by opening his eyes to realities, in the
place of those shadows which he has been pursuing. It presents this world as a
scene whose original beauty sin has darkened and disordered; man as a helpless
and dependent creature; Jesus Christ as the repairer of all the evils which sin
has caused, and as our restorer to holiness and happiness. Any religion short of
this, any at least which has not this for its end and object, is not that
religion which the Gospel has presented to us, which our Redeemer came down on
earth to teach us by his precepts, to illustrate by his example, to confirm by
his death, and to consummate by his resurrection.

If Christianity does not always produce these happy effects to the extent here
represented, it has always a tendency to produce them. If we do not see the
progress to be such as the Gospel annexes to the transforming power of true
religion, it is not owing to any defect in the principle, but to the remains of
sin in the heart: to the imperfectly subdued corruptions of the Christian. Those
who are very sincere are still very imperfect. They evidence their sincerity by
acknowledging the lowness of their attainments, by lamenting the remainder of
their corruptions. Many an humble Christian whom the world reproaches with being
extravagant in his zeal, whom it ridicules for being enthusiastic in his aims,
and rigid in his practice, is inwardly mourning on the very contrary ground. He
would bear their censure more cheerfully, but that he feels his danger lies in
the opposite direction. He is secretly abasing himself before his Maker for not
carrying far enough that principle which he is accused of carrying too far. The
fault which others find in him is excess. The fault he finds in himself is
deficiency. He is, alas! too commonly right. His enemies speak of him as they
hear. He judges of himself as he feels. But, though humbled to the dust by the
deep sense of his own unworthiness, he is "strong in the Lord and in the power
of his might." He has, says the venerable Hooker, a Shepherd full of kindness,
full of care, and full of power. His prayer is not for reward, but pardon. His
plea is not merit, but mercy; but then it is mercy made sure to him by the
promise of the Almighty to penitent believers.

The mistake of many in religion appears to be, that they do not begin with the
beginning. They do not lay their foundation in the persuasion that man is by
nature in a state of alienation from God. They consider him rather as an
imperfect than as a fallen creature. They allow that he requires to be improved,
but deny that he requires a thorough renovation of heart.

But genuine Christianity can never be grafted on any other stock than the
apostasy of man. The design to reinstate beings who have not fallen, to propose
a restoration without a previous loss, a cure where there was no radical
disease, is altogether an incongruity which would seem too palpable to require
confutation, did we not so frequently see the doctrine of redemption maintained
by those who deny that man was in a state to require such redemption. But would
Christ have been sent "to preach deliverance to the captive," if there had been
no captivity? and "the opening of the prison to those who were bound," had men
been in no prison, had men been in no bondage.

We are aware that many consider the doctrine in question as a bold charge
against our Creator; but may we not venture to ask, Is it not a bolder charge
against God’s goodness to presume that he had made beings originally wicked, and
against God’s veracity to believe, that having made such beings, he pronounced
them "good?" Is not that doctrine more reasonable which is expressed or implied
in every part of Scripture, that the moral corruption of our first parent has
been entailed on his whole posterity? that from this corruption they are no more
exempt than from natural death?

We must not, however, think falsely of our nature: we must humble, but not
degrade it. Our original brightness is obscured, but not extinguished. If we
consider ourselves in our natural state, our estimation cannot be too low; when
we reflect at what a price we have been bought, we can hardly over-rate
ourselves in the view of immortality.

If, indeed, the Almighty had left us to the consequences of our natural state,
we might, with more color of reason, have mutinied against his justice. But when
we see how graciously he has turned our very lapse into an occasion of improving
our condition; how from this evil he was pleased to advance us to a greater good
than we had lost; how that life which was forfeited may be restored; how, by
grafting the redemption of man on the very circumstance of his fall, he has
raised him to the capacity of a higher condition than that which he has
forfeited, and to a happiness superior to that from which he fell: what an
impression does this give us of the immeasurable wisdom and goodness of God, of
the unsearchable riches of Christ!

The religion which it is the object of these pages to recommend, has been
sometimes misunderstood, and not seldom misrepresented. It has been described as
an unproductive theory, and ridiculed as a fanciful extravagance. For the sake
of distinction it is here called the ’religion of the heart’. There it subsists
as the fountain of spiritual life; thence it sends forth, as from the central
seat of its existence, supplies of life and warmth through the whole frame;
there is the soul of virtue, there is the vital principle which animates the
whole being of a Christian.

This religion has been the support and consolation of the pious believer in all
ages of the church. That it has been perverted both by the cloistered and the
uncloistered mystic, not merely to promote abstraction of mind, but inactivity
of life, makes nothing against the principle itself. What doctrine of the New
Testament has not been made to speak the language of its injudicious advocate,
and turned into arms against some other doctrine which it was never meant to
oppose?

But if it has been carried to a blameable excess by the pious error of holy men,
it has also been adopted by the less innocent fanatic, and abused to the most
pernicious purposes. His extravagance has furnished to the enemies of internal
religion, arguments, or rather invectives, against the sound and sober exercises
of genuine piety. They seize every occasion to represent it as if it were
criminal, as the foe of morality; ridiculous, as the infallible test of an
unsound mind; mischievous, as hostile to active virtue; and destructive, as the
bane of public utility.

But if these charges be really well founded, then were the brightest luminaries
of the Christian church -- then were Horne, and Porteus, and Beveridge; then
were Hooker, and Taylor, and Herbert; Hopkins, Leighton, and Usher; Howe,
Doddridge, and Baxter; Ridley, Jewel, and Hooper; then were Chrysostom and
Augustine, the reformers and the fathers; then were the goodly fellowship of the
prophets, then were the noble army of martyrs, then were the glorious company of
the apostles, then was the disciple whom Jesus loved, then was Jesus himself --
I shudder at the implication -- dry speculatists, frantic enthusiasts, enemies
to virtue, and subverters of the public welfare.

Those who disbelieve, or deride, or reject this inward religion, are much to be
compassionated. Their belief that no such principle exists will, it is to be
feared, effectually prevent its existing in themselves, at least while they make
their own state the measure of their general judgment. Not being sensible of the
required dispositions in their own hearts, they establish this as a proof of its
impossibility in all cases. This persuasion, as long as they maintain it, will
assuredly exclude the reception of divine truth. What they assert can be true in
no case, cannot be true in their own. Their hearts will be barred against any
influence in the power of which they do not believe. They will not desire it,
they will not pray for it, except in the Liturgy, where it is the decided
language. They will not addict themselves to those pious exercises to which it
invites them, exercises which it ever loves and cherishes. Thus they expect the
end, but avoid the way which leads to it: they indulge the hope of glory, while
they neglect or pervert the means of grace.

But let not the formal religionist, who has, probably, never sought, and,
therefore, never obtained any sense of the spiritual mercies of God, conclude
that there is, therefore, no such state. His having no conception of it is no
more proof that no such state exists, than it is a proof that the cheering beams
of a genial climate have no existence, because the inhabitants of the frozen
zone have never felt them.

Where our own heart and experience do not illustrate these truths practically,
so as to afford us some evidence of their reality, let us examine our minds, and
faithfully follow up our convictions; let us inquire whether God has really been
lacking in the accomplishment of his promises, or whether we have not been sadly
deficient in yielding to those suggestions of conscience which are the motions
of his Spirit? Whether we have not neglected to implore the aids of that Spirit?
whether we have not, in various instances, resisted them? Let us ask ourselves
-- Have we looked up to our heavenly Father with humble dependence for the
supplies of his grace? or have we prayed for these blessings only as a form;
and, having acquitted ourselves of the form, do we continue to live as if we had
not so prayed? Having repeatedly implored his direction, do we endeavor to
submit ourselves to his guidance? Having prayed that his will may be done, do we
never stoutly set up our own will in contradiction to his?

If, then, we receive not the promised support and comfort, the failure must rest
somewhere. It lies between him who has promised and him to whom the promise is
made. There is no alternative: would it not be blasphemy to transfer the failure
to God? Let us not then rest until we have cleared up the difficulty. The
spirits sink, and the faith fails, if, after a continued round of reading and
prayer, after having for years conformed to the letter of the command, after
having scrupulously brought in our tale of outward duties, we find ourselves
just where we were at setting out.

We complain justly of our own weakness and inability to serve God as we ought.
This weakness, its nature, and its measure, God knows far more exactly than we
know it: yet he lays on us the obligation both to love and obey him, and will
call us to account for the performance of these duties. He never would have
said, "Give me your heart " -- "seek you my face " -- "add to your faith virtue"
-- "you will not come to me that you might have life" -- had not all these
precepts a definite meaning, had not all these been, with the help which he
offers us, practicable duties.

Can we suppose that the omniscient God would have given these unqualified
commands to powerless, incapable, unimpressible beings? Can we suppose that he
would command paralyzed creatures to walk, and then condemn them for not being
able to move? He knows, it is true, our natural impotence, but he knows, because
he confers, our superinduced strength. There is scarcely a command in the whole
Scripture which has not, either immediately, or in some other part, a
corresponding prayer, and a corresponding promise. If it says in one place, "Get
a new heart," -- it says in another, "a new heart will I give you;" and in a
third, "make me a clean heart." For it is worth observing that a diligent
inquiry may trace every where this threefold union. If God commands by Paul,
"Let not sin reign in your mortal body," he promises by the same apostle, "Sin
shall not have dominion over you;" - while, to complete the tripartite
agreement, he makes David pray that his "sins may not have dominion over him."

The saints of old, so far from setting up on the stock of their own independent
virtue, seemed to have had no idea of any light but what was imparted, of any
strength but what was communicated to them from above. Hear their importunate
petitions! -- "O send forth your light and your truth." -- Mark their grateful
declarations! -- "The Lord is my strength and my salvation!" -- Observe their
cordial acknowledgments! -- "Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within
me, bless his holy name."

Though we must be careful not to mistake for the Divine agency those impulses
which pretend to operate independently of external revelation; which have little
reference to it; which set themselves above it; it is, however, that powerful
agency which sanctifies all means, renders all external revelation effectual.
Notwithstanding that all the truths of religion, all the doctrines of salvation,
are contained in the Holy Scriptures, these very Scriptures require the
influence of that Spirit which dictated them to produce an influential faith.
This Spirit, by enlightening the mind, converts the rational persuasion, brings
the intellectual conviction of divine truth, conveyed in the New Testament, into
an operative principle.

A man, from reading, examining, and inquiring, may attain to such a reasonable
assurance of the truth of revelation as will remove all doubts from his own
mind, and even enable him to refute the objections of others; but this bare
intellectual faith alone will not operate against his corrupt affections, will
not cure his besetting sin, will not conquer his rebellious will, and may not,
therefore, be an efficacious principle. A mere historical faith, the mere
evidence of facts, with the soundest reasonings and deductions from them, may
not be that faith which will fill him with all joy and peace in believing.

A habitual reference to that spirit which animates the real Christian, is so far
from excluding, that it strengthens the truth of revelation, but never
contradicts it. The Word of God is always in unison with his Spirit. His Spirit
is never in opposition to his Word. Indeed, that this influence is not an
imaginary thing is confirmed by the whole tenor of Scripture. We are aware that
we are treading on dangerous, because disputed ground; for among the fashionable
curtailments of Scripture doctrines, there is not one truth which has been
lopped from the modern creed with a most unsparing hand; not one, the defense of
which excites more suspicion against its advocates. But if it had been a mere
phantom, should we with such jealous repetition have been cautioned against
neglecting or opposing it? If the Holy Spirit could not be grieved, might not be
quenched, were not likely to be "resisted;" that very Spirit which proclaimed
the prohibitions would never have said "Grieve not," "quench not," "resist not."
The Bible never warns us against imaginary evil, nor courts us to imaginary
good. If, then, we refuse to yield to its guidance, if we reject its directions,
if we submit not to its gentle persuasions, for such they are, and not arbitrary
compulsions, we shall never attain to that peace and liberty which are the
privilege, the promised reward of sincere Christians.

In speaking of that peace which passes understanding, we allude not to those
illuminations and raptures, which, if God has in some instances bestowed them,
he has nowhere pledged himself to bestow; but of that rational yet elevated hope
which flows from an assured persuasion of the paternal love of our Heavenly
Father, of that "secret of the Lord," which he himself has assured us "is with
those who fear him;" of that life and power of religion which are the privilege
of those "who abide under the shadow of the Almighty;" of those who "know in
whom they have believed;" of those "who walk not after the flesh, but after the
Spirit;" of those "who endure as seeing him who is invisible."

Many faults may be committed where there is nevertheless a sincere desire to
please God. Many infirmities are consistent with a cordial love of our Redeemer.
Faith may be sincere where it is not strong. But he who can conscientiously say
that he seeks the favor of God above every earthly good; that he delights in his
service incomparably more than in any other gratification; that to obey him here
and to enjoy his presence hereafter is the prevailing desire of his heart; that
his chief sorrow is that he loves him no more and serves him no better; such a
man requires no evidence that his heart is changed and his sins forgiven.

For the happiness of a Christian does not consist in mere feelings which may
deceive, nor in frames which can only be occasional; but in a settled, calm
conviction that God and eternal things have the predominance in his heart; in a
clear perception that they have, though with much alloy of infirmity, the
supreme, if not undisturbed, possession of his mind; in an experimental
persuasion that his chief remaining sorrow is, that he does not surrender
himself, with so complete an acquiescence as he ought, to his convictions. These
abatements, though sufficient to keep us humble, are not powerful enough to make
us unhappy.

The true measure, then, to be taken of our state, is from a perceptible change
in our desires, tastes, and pleasures; from a sense of progress, however small,
in holiness of heart and life. This seems to be the safest rule of judging; for
if mere feelings were allowed to be the criterion, the presumptuous would be
inflated with spiritual pride, from the persuasion of enjoying them; while the
humble, from their very humility, might be as unreasonably depressed at lacking
such evidences.

The recognition of this Divine aid, then, involves no presumption, raises no
illusion, causes no inflation; it is sober in its principle, and rational in its
exercise. In establishing the law of God, it does not reverse the law of nature;
for it leaves us in full possession of those natural faculties which it improves
and sanctifies; and so far from inflaming the imagination, its proper tendency
is to subdue and regulate it.

A security which outruns our attainments is a most dangerous state, yet it is a
state most unwisely coveted. The probable way to be safe hereafter is not to be
presumptuous now. If God graciously vouchsafe us inward consolation, it is only
to animate us to further progress. It is given us for support in our way, and
not for a settled maintenance in our present condition. If the promises are our
nourishment, the commandments are our work; and a temperate Christian ought to
desire nourishment only in order to carry him through his business. If he so
supinely rests on the one as to grow sensual and indolent, he might become not
only unwilling, but incapacitated for the performance of the other. We must not
expect to live upon cordials, which only serve to inflame without strengthening.
Even without these supports, which we are more ready to desire than to put
ourselves in the way to obtain, there is an inward peace in a humble trust in
God, and in a simple reliance on his word; there is a repose of spirit, a
freedom from solicitude, in a lowly confidence in him, for which the world has
nothing to give in exchange.

On the whole, then, the state which we have been describing is not the dream of
the enthusiast; it is not the reverie of the visionary, who renounces prescribed
duties for fanciful speculations, and embraces shadows for realities; but it is
that sober earnest of heaven, that reasonable anticipation of eternal felicity,
which God is graciously pleased to grant, not partially, nor arbitrarily, but to
all who diligently seek his face, to all to whom his service is freedom, his
will a law, his word a delight, his Spirit a guide; to all who love him
unfeignedly, to all who devote themselves to him unreservedly, and to all who,
with deep self-abasement, yet with filial confidence, prostrate themselves at
the foot of his throne, saying, "Lord, lift up the light of your countenance
upon us, and we shall be safe."


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  CHAPTER 14: 02.02.     CHRISTIANITY A PRACTICAL PRINCIPLE
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CHRISTIANITY A PRACTICAL PRINCIPLE

If God be the author of our spiritual life, the root from which we derive the
vital principle, with daily supplies to maintain this vitality, then the best
evidence we can give that we have received something of this principle, is an
unreserved dedication of ourselves to the actual promotion of his glory.

No man ought to flatter himself that he is in the favor of God whose life is not
consecrated to the service of God. Will it not be the only unequivocal proof of
such a consecration, that he be more zealous of good works than those who,
disallowing the principle on which he performs them, do not even pretend to be
actuated by any such motive?

The finest theory never yet carried any man to heaven. A religion of notions
which occupies the mind without filling the heart, may obstruct, but cannot
advance the salvation of men. If these notions are false they are most
pernicious; if true and not operative, they aggravate guilt; if unimportant,
though not unjust, they occupy the place which belongs to nobler objects, and
sink the mind below its proper level; substituting the things which only ought
not to be left undone in the place of those which ought to be done; and causing
the grand essentials not to be done at all.

Such a religion is not that which Christ came to teach mankind. All the
doctrines of the Gospel are practical principles. The word of God was not
written, the Son of God was not incarnate, the Spirit of God was not given, only
that Christians might obtain right views and possess just notions. Religion is
something more than mere correctness of intellect, justness of conception, and
exactness of judgment. It is a life-giving principle. It must be infused into
the habit as well as govern in the understanding; it must regulate the will as
well as direct the creed. It must not only cast the opinions into a right frame,
but the heart into a new mold. It is a transforming as well as a penetrating
principle. It changes the tastes, gives activity to the inclinations, and,
together with a new heart, produces a new life.

Christianity enjoins the same temper, the same spirit, the same dispositions, on
all its real professors. The act, the performance, must depend on circumstances
which do not depend on us. The power of doing good is withheld from many, from
whom, however, the reward will not be withheld. If the external act constituted
the whole value of Christian virtue, then must the Author of all good be himself
the Author of injustice, by putting it out of the power of multitudes to fulfill
his own commands.

In principles, in tempers, in fervent desires, in holy endeavors, consists the
very essence of Christian duty. Nor must we fondly attach ourselves to the
practice of some particular virtue, or value ourselves exclusively on some
favorite quality; nor must we wrap ourselves up in the performance of some
individual actions, as if they formed the sum of Christian duty. But we must
embrace the whole law of God in all its aspects, bearings, and relations. We
must bring no fancies, no partialities, no prejudices, no exclusive choice or
rejection into our religion, but take it as we find it, and obey it as we
receive it, as it is exhibited in the Bible, without addition, curtailment, or
adulteration.

Nor must we pronounce on a character by a single action really bad, or
apparently good: if so, Peter’s denial would render him the object of our
execration, while we would have judged favorably of the prudent economy of
Judas. The catastrophe of the latter who does not know? while the other became a
glorious martyr to that Master whom, in a moment of infirmity, he had denied.

A piety altogether spiritual, disconnected with all outward circumstances -- a
religion of pure meditation and abstracted devotion, was not made for so
compound, so imperfect a creature as man. There have, indeed, been a few sublime
spirits, not "touched, but rapt," who, totally cut off from the world, seem
almost to have literally soared above this earthly region; who almost appear to
have stolen the fire of the seraphim, and to have had no business on earth but
to keep alive the celestial flame.

They would, however, have approximated more nearly to the example of their
Divine Master, the great standard and only perfect model, had they combined a
more diligent discharge of the active duties and beneficences of life with their
high devotional attainments. But while we are in little danger of imitating, let
us not too harshly censure the pious error of these sublimated spirits. Their
number is small. Their example is not catching. Their ethereal fire is not
likely, by spreading, to inflame the world. The world will take due care not to
come in contact with it, while its distant light and warmth may cast,
accidentally, a useful ray on the cold-hearted and the worldly.

But from this small number of refined but inoperative beings we do not intend to
draw our notions of practical piety. God did not make a religion for these few
exceptions to the general state of the world, but for the world at large; for
beings active, busy, restless; whose activity he, by his Word, diverts into its
proper channels; whose busy spirit is there directed to the common good; whose
restlessness, indicating the unsatisfactoriness of all they find on earth, he
points to a higher destination.

Were total seclusion and abstraction designed to have been the general state of
the world, God would have given men other laws, other rules, other faculties,
and other employments. There is a class of visionary but pious writers who seem
to shoot as far beyond the mark as mere naturalists fall short of it. Men of low
views and gross minds may be said to be wise below what is written, while those
of too subtle refinement are wise above it. The one grovel in the dust from the
inertness of their intellectual faculties; while the others are lost in the
clouds by stretching themselves beyond their appointed limits. The one build
spiritual castles in the air instead of erecting them on the holy ground of
Scripture; the other lay their foundation in the sand instead of resting it on
the Rock of ages. Thus the superstructure of both is equally unsound.

God is the fountain from which all the streams of goodness flow; the center from
which all the rays of blessedness diverge. All our actions are only good as they
have a reference to him; the streams must revert back to their fountain, the
rays must converge again to their center. If love of God be the governing
principle, this powerful spring will actuate all the movements of the rational
machine. The essence of religion does not so much consist in actions as
affections. Though right actions, therefore, as from an excess of courtesy they
are commonly termed, may be performed where there are no right affections; yet
are they a mere carcass, utterly destitute of the soul, and therefore, of the
substance of virtue.

But neither can right affections substantially and truly subsist without
producing right actions; for never let it be forgotten that a pious inclination
which has not life and vigor sufficient to ripen into act when the occasion
presents itself, and a right action which does not grow out of a sound
principle, will neither of them have any place in the account of real goodness.
A good inclination will be contrary to sin, but a mere inclination will not
subdue sin.

The love of God, as it is the source of every right action and feeling, so is it
the only principle which necessarily involves the love of our fellow-creatures.
As man, we do not love man. There is a love of partiality, but not of
benevolence; of sensibility, but not of philanthropy; of friends and favorites,
of parties and societies, but not of man collectively. It is true we may, and
do, without this principle, relieve his distresses, but we do not bear with his
faults. We may promote his fortune, but we do not forgive his offences; above
all, we are not anxious for his immortal interests. We could not see him lack
without pain, but we can see him sin without emotion. We cannot hear of a beggar
perishing at our door without horror; but we can without concern witness an
acquaintance dying without repentance.

Is it not strange that we must participate something of the Divine nature before
we can really love the human? It seems, indeed, to be an insensibility to sin,
rather than lack of benevolence to mankind, that makes us naturally pity their
temporal, and be careless of their spiritual needs; but does not this very
insensibility proceed from the lack of love to God?

As it is the habitual frame and predominating disposition which are the true
measure of virtue, incidental good actions are no certain criterion of the state
of the heart; for who is there who does not occasionally do them? Having made
some progress in attaining this disposition, we must not sit down satisfied with
propensities and inclinations to virtuous actions while we rest short of their
actual exercise. If the principle be that of sound Christianity, it will never
be inert. While we shall never do good with any great effect until we labor to
be conformed in some measure to the image of God, we shall best evince our
having obtained something of that conformity by a course of steady and active
obedience to God.

Every individual should bear in mind that he is sent into this world to act a
part in it. And though one may have a more splendid, and another a more obscure
part assigned him, yet the actor of each is equally, is awfully accountable.
Though God is not a hard, he is an exact Master. His service, though not a
severe, is a reasonable service. He accurately proportions his requisitions to
his gifts. If he does not expect that one talent should be as productive as
five, yet to even a single talent a proportional responsibility is annexed. He
who has said, "Give me your heart," will not be satisfied with less; he will not
accept the praying lips, nor the mere hand of charity as substitutes.

A real Christian will be more just, sober, and charitable than other men, though
he will not rest for salvation on his justice, sobriety, or charity. He will
perform the duties they enjoin in the spirit of Christianity, as instances of
devout obedience, as evidences of a heart devoted to God. All virtues, it cannot
be too often repeated, are sanctified or unhallowed according to the principle
which dictates them, and will be accepted or rejected accordingly. This
principle kept in due exercise becomes a habit, and every act strengthens the
inclination, adding vigor to the principle and pleasure to the performance.

We cannot be said to be real Christians until Christianity becomes our animating
motive, our predominating principle and pursuit, as much as worldly things are
the predominating motive, principle, and pursuit of worldly men.

New converts, it is said, are most zealous, but they are not always the most
persevering. If their tempers are warm, and they have only been touched on the
side of their passions, they start eagerly, march rapidly, and are full of
confidence in their own strength. They too often judge others with little
charity, and themselves with little humility. While they accuse those who move
steadily of standing still, they fancy their own course will never be slackened.
If their conversion is not solid, religion in losing its novelty, loses its
power. Their speed declines. No, it will be happy if their motion become not
retrograde.

Those who are truly sincere will commonly be persevering. If their speed is less
eager, it is more steady. As they know their own heart more, they discover its
deceitfulness, and learn to distrust themselves. As they become more humble in
spirit, they become more charitable in judging. As they grow more firm in
principle, they grow more exact in conduct. The rooted habits of a religious
life may indeed lose their prominence, because they are become more indented. If
they are not embossed, it is because they are burned in.

Where there is uniformity and consistency in the whole character, there will be
little relief in an individual action. A good deed will be less striking in an
established Christian than a deed less good in one who had been previously
careless; good actions being his expected duty and his ordinary practice. Such a
Christian, indeed, when his right habits cease to be new and striking, may fear
that he is declining; but his quiet and confirmed course is a surer evidence
than the more early starts of charity, or fits of piety, which may have drawn
more attention, and obtained more applause.

Again: we should cultivate most assiduously, because the work is most difficult,
those graces which are most opposite to our natural temper; the value of our
good qualities depending much on their being produced by the victory over some
natural wrong propensity. The implantation of a virtue is the eradication of a
vice. It will cost one man more to keep down a rising passion than to do a
brilliant deed. It will try another more to keep back a sparkling but corrupt
thought which his wit had suggested, but which his religion checks, than it
would to give a large sum in charity.

A real Christian, being deeply sensible of the worthlessness of any actions
which do not spring from the genuine fountain, will aim at such an habitual
conformity to the Divine image, that to perform all acts of justice, charity,
kindness, temperance, and every kindred virtue, may become the temper, the
habitual, the abiding state of his heart, that, like natural streams, they may
flow spontaneously from the living source. Practical Christianity, then, is the
actual operation of Christian principles. It is lying on the watch for occasions
to exemplify them. It is exercising ourselves unto godliness.

A Christian cannot tell in the morning what opportunities he may have of doing
good during the day, but if he be a real Christian he can tell that he will try
to keep his heart open, his mind prepared, his affections alive, to do whatever
may occur in the way of duty. He will, as it were, stand in the way to receive
the orders of Providence.

Doing good is his vocation. Nor does the young artisan bind himself by firmer
articles to the rigid performance of his master’s work, than the indentured
Christian to the active service of that Divine Master who himself "went about
doing good." He rejects no duty which comes within the sphere of his calling,
nor does he think the work he is employed in a good one if he might be doing a
better. His having well acquitted himself of a good action is so far from
furnishing him with an excuse for avoiding the next, that it is a new reason for
his embarking in it. He looks not at the work which he has accomplished, but on
that which he has to do. His views are always prospective. His charities are
scarcely limited by his power. His will knows no limits. His fortune may have
bounds; his benevolence has none. He is, in mind and desire, the benefactor of
every miserable man. His heart is open to all the distressed; to the household
of faith it overflows. Where the heart is large, however small the ability, a
thousand ways of doing good will be invented.

Christian charity is a great enlarger of means. Christian self-denial negatively
accomplishes the purpose of the favorite of Fortune in the fables of the nursery
-- if it cannot fill the purse by a wish, it will not empty it by a vanity.

It provides for others by abridging from itself. Having carefully defined what
is necessary and becoming, it allows of no encroachment on its definition.
Superfluities it will lop, vanities it will cut off. The deviser of liberal
things will find means of effecting them, which to the indolent appear
incredible, to the covetous impossible. Christian beneficence takes a large
sweep. That circumference cannot be small of which God is the center.

Nor does religious charity in a Christian stand still because not kept in motion
by the main-spring of the world. Money may fail, but benevolence will be going
on. If he cannot relieve need, he may mitigate sorrow. He may warn the
inexperienced, he may instruct the ignorant, he may confirm the doubting. The
Christian will find out the cheapest way of being good, as well as of doing
good.

If he cannot give money, he may exercise a more difficult virtue; he may forgive
injuries. Forgiveness is the economy of the heart. A Christian will find it
cheaper to pardon than to resent. Forgiveness saves the expense of anger, the
cost of hatred, the waste of tempers. It also puts the soul into a frame which
makes the practice of other virtues easy.

The achievement of a hard duty is a great abolisher of difficulties. If great
occasions do not arise he will thankfully seize on small ones. If he cannot
glorify God by serving others, he knows that he has always something to do in
himself; some evil temper to correct, some wrong propensity to reform, some
crooked practice to straighten. He will never be at a loss for employment while
there is a sin or a misery in the world; he will never be idle while there is a
distress to be relieved in another, or a corruption to be cured in his own
heart.

We have employments assigned to us for every circumstance in life. When we are
alone, we have our thoughts to watch; in the family, our tempers in company, our
tongues. It will be a test of our sincerity to our own hearts, and for such
tests we should anxiously watch, if we are as assiduous in following up our duty
when only the favor of God is to be obtained by it, as in cases where
subordinate considerations are taken into the account and bring their portion of
influence. We must, therefore, conscientiously examine in what spirit we fulfill
those parts of our duty which lie more exclusively between our Creator and our
conscience. Whether we are as solicitous about our inward disposition as about
the act of which that disposition should be the principle.

If our piety be internal and sincere, we shall lament an evil temper no less
than an evil action, conscious that though in its indulgence we may escape human
censure, yet to the eye of Omniscience, as both lie equally open, both are
equally offensive. Without making any fallible human being our infallible guide
and established standard, let us make use of the examples of eminently pious men
as incentives to our own growth in every Christian grace.

A generous emulation of the excellences of another is not envy. It is a
sanctification of that noble excitement which stirred the soul of Themistocles
when he declared that the trophies of Miltiades prevented him from sleeping. The
Christian must not stop here. He must imitate the pagan hero in the use to which
he converted his restless admiration, which gave him no repose until he himself
became equally illustrious by services equally distinguished with those of his
rival.

But to the Christian is held out in the sacred volume, not only models of human
excellence but of Divine perfection. What an example of disinterested goodness
and unbounded kindness have we in our heavenly Father, who is merciful over all
his works, who distributes common blessings without distinction, who bestows the
necessary refreshments of life, the shining sun and the refreshing shower,
without waiting, as we are apt to do, for personal merit, or attachment, or
gratitude: who does not look out for desert, but need, as a qualification for
his favors; who does not afflict willingly; who delights in the happiness, and
desires the salvation of all his children; who dispenses his daily munificence,
and bears with our daily offences; who, in return for our violation of his laws,
supplies our necessities; who waits patiently for our repentance, and even
solicits us to have mercy on our own souls!

What a model for our humble imitation is that Divine person who was clothed with
our humanity; who dwelt among us, that the pattern, being brought near, might be
rendered more engaging, the conformity be made more practicable; whose whole
life was one unbroken series of universal charity; who, in his complicated
bounties, never forgot that man is compounded both of soul and body; who, after
teaching the multitude, fed them; who repulsed none for being ignorant; was
impatient with none for being dull; despised none for being outcast by the
world; rejected none for being sinners; who encouraged those whose importunity
others censured; who, in healing sickness, converted souls, who gave bread, and
forgave injuries.

It will be the endeavor of the sincere Christian to illustrate his devotions in
the morning by his actions during the day. He will try to make his conduct a
practical exposition of the Divine prayer which made a part of them. He will
desire to "hallow the name of God," to promote the enlargement and "the coming"
of the "kingdom of Christ." He will endeavor to do and to suffer his whole will;
"to forgive," as he himself trusts that he is forgiven. He will resolve to avoid
that "temptation" into which he had been praying "not to be led;" and he will
labor to shun the "evil" from which he had been begging to be "delivered."

He thus makes his prayers as practical as the other parts of his religion, and
labors to render his conduct as spiritual as his prayers. The commentary and the
text are of reciprocal application. If this gracious Savior has left us a
perfect model for our devotion in his prayer, he has left a model no less
perfect for our practice in his sermon. This divine exposition has been
sometimes misunderstood. It was not so much a supplement to a defective law, as
the restoration of the purity of a perfect law from the corrupt interpretations
of its blind expounders.

These people had ceased to consider it as forbidding the principle of sin, and
as only forbidding the act. Christ restores it to its original meaning, spreads
it out in its due extent, shows the largeness of its dimensions and the spirit
of its institution. He unfolds all its motions, tendencies and relations. Not
concerning himself as human legislators are obliged to do, to prohibit a man the
act merely which is injurious to others, but the inward temper which is
prejudicial to himself.

There cannot be a more striking instance, how emphatically every doctrine of the
Gospel has a reference to practical goodness, than is exhibited by Paul in that
magnificent picture of the resurrection, in his Epistle to the Corinthians,
which has been so happily selected for the consolation of survivors at the last
closing scene of mortality. After an inference as triumphant as it is logical,
that because "Christ has risen, we shall rise also;" after the most
philosophical illustration of the raising of the body from the dust, by the
process of grain sown in the earth, and springing up into a new mode of
existence; after describing the subjugation of all things to the Redeemer, and
his laying down the mediatorial kingdom; after sketching with a seraph’s pencil
the relative glories of the celestial and terrestrial bodies; after exhausting
the grandest images of created nature, and the dissolution of nature itself;
after such a display of the solemnities of the great day as makes this world and
all its concerns shrink into nothing; in such a moment, when, if ever, the rapt
spirit might be supposed too highly wrought for precept and admonition; the
apostle, wound up as he was, by the energies of inspiration, to the immediate
view of the glorified state, the last trumpet sounding, the change from mortal
to immortality effected in the twinkling of an eye, the sting of death drawn
out, victory snatched from the grave; then, by a turn as surprising as it is
beautiful, he draws a conclusion as unexpectedly practical as his premises were
grand and awful: "Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, unmovable,
always abounding in the work of the Lord." Then at once, by another quick
transition, resorting from the duty to the reward, and winding up the whole with
an argument as powerful as his rhetoric had been sublime, he adds, "Forasmuch as
you know that your labor is not in vain in the Lord."


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  CHAPTER 15: 02.03.     MISTAKES IN RELIGION
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MISTAKES IN RELIGION

To point out with precision all the mistakes which exist in the present day on
the awful subject of religion, would far exceed the limits of this small work.
No mention, therefore, is intended to be made of the opinions or the practice of
any particular body of people; nor will any notice be taken of any of the
peculiarities of the numerous sects and parties which have risen up among us. It
will be sufficient for the present purpose to hazard some slight remarks on a
few of those common classes of characters which belong, more or less, to most
general bodies.

There are, among many others, THREE DIFFERENT SORTS OF RELIGIOUS PROFESSORS.

1. The religion of one consists in a sturdy defense of what they themselves call
orthodoxy, an attendance on public worship, and a general decency of behavior.
In their views of religion they are not a little apprehensive of excess, not
perceiving that their danger lies on the other side. They are far from rejecting
faith or morals, but are somewhat afraid of believing too much, and a little
scrupulous about doing too much, lest the former he suspected of fanaticism, and
the latter of singularity. These Christians consider religion as a point which
they by their regular observances having attained, there is nothing further
required but to maintain the point they have reached, by a repetition of the
same observances. They are therefore satisfied to remain stationary, considering
that whoever has obtained his end is of course saved the labor of pursuit; he is
to keep his ground without troubling himself in searching after an imaginary
perfection.

These frugal Christians are afraid of nothing so much as excessiveness in their
love, and overabundance in their obedience. This kind of fear, however, is
always superfluous, but most especially in those who are troubled with the
apprehension. They are apt to weigh, in the nicely-poised scales of scrupulous
exactness, the duties which must of hard necessity be done, and those which
without much risk may be left undone; compounding for a larger indulgence by the
relinquishment of a smaller; giving up, through fear, a trivial gratification to
which they are less inclined, and snatching doubtingly, as an equivalent, at one
they like better. The gratification in both cases being perhaps such as a manly
mind would hardly think worth contending for, even were religion out of the
question. Nothing but love to God can conquer love of the world. One grain of
that Divine principle would make the scale of self indulgence kick the beam.

These people dread nothing so much as enthusiasm. Yet, if to look for effects
without their predisposing causes, to depend for heaven on that to which heaven
was never promised, be features of enthusiasm, then are they themselves
enthusiasts.

2. The religion of a second class we have already described in the two preceding
chapters. It consists in a heart devoted to its Maker; inwardly changed in its
temper and disposition, yet deeply sensible of its remaining infirmities:
continually aspiring, however, to higher improvements in faith, hope and
charity, and thinking that "the greatest of these is charity." These, by the
former class, are reckoned enthusiasts; but they are in fact, if Christianity be
true, acting on the only rational principles. If the doctrines of the Gospel
have any solidity, if its promises have any meaning, these Christians are
building on no false ground. They hope that submission to the power of God,
obedience to his laws, compliance, with his will, trust in his word, are,
through the efficacy of the Eternal Spirit, real evidences, because they are
vital acts of genuine faith in Jesus Christ. If they profess not to place their
reliance on works, they are, however, more zealous in performing them than the
others; who, professing to depend on their good deeds for salvation, are not
always diligent in securing it by the very means which they themselves establish
to be alone effectual.

3. There is a third class -- the high-flown professor, who looks down from the
giddy heights of antinomian delusion on the other two, abhors the one and
despises the other; concludes that the one is lost, and the other in a fair way
to be so. Though perhaps not living himself in any course of immorality which
requires the sanction of such doctrines, he does not hesitate to imply in his
discourse that virtue is heathenish, and good works superfluous, if not
dangerous. He does not consider that though the Gospel is an act of oblivion to
penitent sinners, yet it no where promises pardon to those who continue to live
in a state of rebellion against God and of disobedience to his laws. He forgets
to insist to others that it is of little importance even to believe that sin is
an evil, (which however they do not always believe,) while they persist to live
in it, that to know every thing of duty except the doing it, is to offend God
with an aggravation from which ignorance itself is exempt.

It is not giving ourselves up to Christ, in a nameless inexplicable way, which
will avail us. God loves a humble, not an audacious faith. To suppose that the
blood of Christ redeems us from sin, while sin continues to reign in the soul,
is to suppose an impossibility; to maintain that it is effectual for the
salvation, and not for the sanctification of the sinner, is to suppose that it
acts like an amulet, an incantation, a charm, which is to produce its effect by
operating on the imagination, and not on the disease.

The religion which mixes with human passions, and is set on fire by them, will
make a stronger blaze than that light which is from above, which sheds a steady
and lasting brightness on the path, and communicates a sober but durable warmth
to the heart. It is equable and constant; while the other, like culinary fire
fed by gross materials, is extinguished the sooner from the fierceness of the
flame.

That religion which is merely seated in the passions, is not only liable to wear
itself out by its own impetuosity, but to be driven out by some other passion.
The dominion of violent passions is short. They dispossess each other. When
religion has had its day, it gives way to the next usurper. Its empire is no
more solid than it is lasting, when principle and reason do not fix it on the
throne.

The first of the above classes consider prudence as the paramount virtue in
religion. Their antipodes, the flaming professors, believe a burning zeal to be
the exclusive grace. They reverse Paul’s collocation of the three Christian
graces, and think that the greatest of these is faith. Though even in respect of
this grace, their conduct and conversation too often give us reason to lament
that they do not bear in mind its genuine and distinctive properties. Their
faith, instead of working by love, seems to be adopted, from a notion that it
leaves the Christian nothing to do, rather than because it is its nature to lead
him to do more and better than other men.

In this case, as in many others, that which is directly contrary to what is
wrong is wrong also. If each opponent would only barter half his favorite
quality with the favorite quality of the other, both parties would approach
nearer to the truth. They might even furnish a complete Christian between them:
that is, provided the zeal of the one was sincere, and the prudence of the other
honest. But the misfortune is, each is as proud of not possessing the quality he
needs, because his adversary has it, as he is proud of possessing that of which
the other is destitute and because he is destitute of it.

Among the many mistakes in religion, it is commonly thought that there is
something so unintelligible, absurd, and fanatical in the term conversion, that
those who employ it run no small hazard of being involved in the ridicule it
excites. It is seldom used but ludicrously, or in contempt. This arises partly
from the levity and ignorance of the censurer, but perhaps as much from the
imprudence and enthusiasm of those who have absurdly confined it to real or
supposed instances of sudden or miraculous changes from profligacy to piety.

But surely, with reasonable people, we run no risk in asserting that he, who
being awakened by any of those various methods which the Almighty uses to bring
his creatures to the knowledge of himself, who, seeing the corruptions that are
in the world, and feeling those with which his own heart abounds, is brought,
whether gradually or more rapidly, from an evil heart of unbelief to a lively
faith in the Redeemer, from a life not only of gross vice, but of worldliness
and vanity, to a life of progressive piety; whose humility keeps pace with his
progress; who, though his attainments are advancing, is so far from counting
himself to have attained, that he presses onward with unabated zeal, and
evidences; by the change in his conduct, the change that has taken place in his
heart: such a one is surely as sincerely converted, and the effect is as much
produced by the same divine energy, as if some instantaneous revolution in his
character had given it a miraculous appearance.

The doctrines of Scripture are the same now as when David called them "a law
converting the soul, and giving light to the eyes." This is perhaps the most
accurate and comprehensive definition of the change for which we are contending,
for it includes both the illumination of the understanding and the alteration in
the disposition.

If, then, this obnoxious expression signify nothing more nor less than that
change of character which consists in turning from the world to God, however the
term may offend, there is nothing ridiculous in the thing. Now, as it is not for
the term which we contend, but for the principle conveyed by it; so it is the
principle, and not the term, which is the real ground of objection; though it is
a little inconsistent that many who would sneer at the idea of conversion would
yet take it extremely ill if it were suspected that their hearts were not turned
to God.

Reformation, a term against which no objection is ever made, would, if words
continued to retain their primitive signification, conveys the same idea. For it
is plain that to re-form means to make anew. In the present use, however, it
does not convey the same meaning in the same extent, nor indeed does it imply
the operation of the same principle. Many are reformed on human motives, many
are partially reformed; but only those who, as our great poet says, are
"reformed altogether," are converted. There is no complete reformation in the
conduct effected without a revolution in the heart.

Ceasing from some sins; retaining others in a less degree; or adopting such as
are merely creditable; or flying from one sin to another; or ceasing from the
external act without any internal change of disposition, is not Christian
reformation. The new principle must abolish the old habit; the rooted
inclination must be subdued by the substitution of an opposite one. The natural
bias must be changed. The actual offence will no more be pardoned than cured, if
the inward corruption do not be eradicated. To be "alive unto God through Jesus
Christ," must follow "the death unto sin." There cannot be new aims and ends
where there is not a new principle to produce them. We shall not choose a new
path until a light from heaven direct our choice and "guide our feet." We shall
not "run the way of God’s commandments" until God himself enlarge our heart.

We do not, however, insist that the change required is such as precludes the
possibility of falling into sin; but it is a change which fixes in the soul such
a disposition as shall make sin a burden; as shall make the desire of pleasing
God the governing desire of a man’s heart; as shall make him hate the evil which
he does; as shall make the lowness of his attainments the subject of his deepest
sorrow. A Christian has hopes and fears, cares and temptations, inclinations and
desires, as well as other men. God, in changing the heart, does not extinguish
the passions. Were that the case the Christian life would cease to be a warfare.

We are often deceived by that partial improvement which appears in the victory
over some one bad quality. But we must not mistake the removal of a symptom for
a radical cure of the disease. An occasional remedy might remove an accidental
sickness, but it requires a general regimen to renovate the diseased
constitution. It is the natural but melancholy history of the unchanged heart,
that, from youth to advanced years, there is no other revolution in the
character but such as increases both the number and quality of its defects: that
the levity, vanity, and self-sufficiency of the young man are carried into
advanced life, and only meet and mix with the defects of a mature period; that
instead of crying out with the royal prophet, "O remember not my old sins," he
is inflaming his reckoning by new ones: that age, protracting all the faults of
youth, furnishes its own contingent of vices; that sloth, suspicion, and
covetousness swell the account which religion has not been called in to cancel:
that the world, though it has lost the power to delight, has yet lost nothing of
its power to enslave. Instead of improving in candor by the inward sense of his
own defects, that very consciousness makes him less tolerant of the defects of
others, and more suspicious of their apparent virtues.

His charity in a warmer season having failed to bring him in that return of
gratitude for which it was partly performed, and having never flowed from the
genuine spring, is dried up. His friendships, having been formed on worldly
principles, or interest, or ambition, or convivial hilarity, fail him. "One must
make some sacrifices to the world," is the prevailing language of the nominal
Christian. "What will the world pay you for your sacrifices?" replies the real
Christian.

Though he finds that the world is insolvent, that it pays nothing of what it
promised, for it cannot bestow what it does not possess -- happiness -- yet he
continues to cling to it almost as confidently as if it had never disappointed
him.

Were we called upon to name the object under the sun which excites the deepest
commiseration in the heart of Christian sensibility, which includes in itself
the most affecting incongruities, which contains the sum and substance of real
human misery, we should not hesitate to say, an irreligious old age. The mere
debility of declining years, even the hopelessness of decrepitude in the pious,
though they excite sympathy, yet it is the sympathy of tenderness unmixed with
distress. We take and give comfort, from the cheering persuasion that the
exhausted body will soon cease to clog its immortal companion; that the dim and
failing eyes will soon open on a world of glory.

Dare we paint the reverse of the picture? Dare we suffer the imagination to
dwell on the opening prospects of hoary impiety? Dare we figure to ourselves
that the weakness, the miseries, the terrors we are now commiserating, are ease,
are peace, are happiness, compared with the unutterable perspective?

There is a fatal way of lulling the conscience by entertaining diminishing
thoughts of sins long since committed. We persuade ourselves to forget them, and
we therefore persuade ourselves that they are not remembered by God. But though
distance diminishes objects to the eye of the beholder, it does not actually
lessen them. Their real magnitude remains the same. Deliver us, merciful God,
from the delusion of believing that secret sins, of which the world has no
cognizance; early sins, which the world has forgotten, but which are known to
"Him with whom we have to do," become by secrecy and distance as if they had
never been! "Are not these things noted in YOUR book? If we remember them, God
may forget them; especially if our remembrance be such as to induce a sound
repentance. If we remember them not, he assuredly will. The holy contrition
which should accompany this remembrance, while it will not abate our humble
trust in our compassionate Redeemer, will keep our conscience tender, and our
heart watchful.

We do not deny that there is frequently much kindness and polish, much
benevolence and generosity, in men who do not even pretend to be religious.
These qualities often flow from constitutional feeling, natural softness of
temper, and warm affections; often from an elegant education– that best human
sweetener and polisher of social life. We feel a tender regret as we exclaim,
"What a fine soil would such dispositions afford to plant religion in!"
Well-bred people are accustomed to respect all the decorums of society, to
connect inseparably the ideas of personal comfort with public esteem, of
generosity with reputation, of order with respectability. They have a keen sense
of dishonor, and are careful to avoid everything that may bring the shadow of
discredit on their name. Public opinion is the breath by which they live, the
standard by which they act; of course they would not lower, by gross misconduct,
that standard on which their happiness depends. They have been taught to respect
themselves; this they can do with more security while they can retain, on this
half-way principle, the respect of others.

In some who make further advances towards religion, we continue to see it in
that same low degree which we have always observed. It is dwarfish and stunted;
it makes no shoots. Though it gives some signs of life, it does not grow. By a
tame and spiritless round, or rather by this fixed and immoveable position, we
rob ourselves of that fair reward of peace and joy which attends on a humble
consciousness of progress, on the feeling of difficulties conquered, on a sense
of Divine favor. That religion which is profitable is commonly perceptible.
Nothing supports a traveler in his Christian course like the conviction that he
is getting on, like looking back on the country he has passed, and, above all,
like the sense of that protection which has hitherto carried him on, and of that
grace which has promised to support him to the end.

The proper motion of the renewed heart is still directed upward. True religion
is of an aspiring nature, continually tending towards that Heaven from where it
was transplanted. Its top is high, because its root is deep. It is watered by a
perennial fountain; in its most flourishing state it is always capable of
further growth. Real goodness proves itself to be such by a continual desire to
be better. No virtue on earth is ever in a complete state. Whatever stage of
religion any man has attained, if he is satisfied to rest in that stage, we
would not call that man religious. The Gospel seems to consider the highest
degree of goodness as the lowest with which a Christian ought to sit down
satisfied. We cannot be said to be finished in any Christian grace because there
is not one which may not be carried further than we have carried it. This
promotes the double purpose of keeping us humble as to our present stage, and of
stimulating us to something higher, which we may hope to attain.

That superficial thing which by mere people of the world is dignified by the
appellation of religion, though it brings just that degree of credit which makes
part of the system of worldly Christians, neither brings comfort for this world,
nor security for the next. Outward observances, indispensable as they are, are
not religion. They are the accessory, but not the principal; they are important
aids and adjuncts, but not the thing itself; they are its aliment, but not its
life; the fuel, but not the flame; the scaffolding, but not the edifice.
Religion can no more subsist merely by them, than it can subsist without them.
They are divinely appointed, and must be conscientiously observed; but observed
as a means to promote an end, and not as an end in themselves.

The heartless homage of formal worship, where the vital power does not give life
to the form, the cold compliment of ceremonial attendance, without the animating
principle, as it will not bring peace to our own mind, so neither will it
satisfy a jealous God. That God whose eye is on the heart, who tries the
thoughts and searches the imaginations, will not be satisfied that we make him
little more than a nominal deity, while the world is the real object of our
worship. Such people seem to have almost the whole body of performance; all they
lack is the soul. They are constant in their devotions; but the heart, which
even the heathen esteem the best part of the sacrifice, they keep away. They
read the Scriptures, but rest in the letter, instead of trying themselves by its
spirit. They consider it as an enjoined task, but not as the quick and powerful
instrument put into their hands of the critical dissection of "piercing and
dividing asunder the soul and spirit;" not as the penetrating discerner of the
thoughts and intents of the heart. These well-intentioned people seem to spend,
no inconsiderable portion of time in religious exercise, and yet complain that
they make little progress. They almost seem to insinuate that the Almighty does
not keep his word with them, and manifest that religion to them is not
pleasantness, nor her "paths peace."

Of such may we not ask, would you not do better to examine than to complain? to
inquire whether you do indeed possess a heart which, notwithstanding its
imperfections, is sincerely devoted to God? He who does not desire to be perfect
is not sincere. Would you not do well to convince yourselves that God is not
unfaithful, that his promises do not fail, that his goodness is not slackened?
May you not be entertaining some secret infidelity, practicing some latent
disobedience, withholding some part of your heart, neglecting to exercise that
faith, subtracting something from that devotedness to which a Christian should
engage himself, and to which the promises of God are annexed? Do you indulge no
propensities contrary to his will? Do you never resist the dictates of his
Spirit, never shut your eyes to its illumination, nor your heart to its
influences? Do you not indulge some cherished sin which obscures the light of
grace, some practice which obstructs the growth of virtue, some distrust which
chills the warmth of love? The discovery will repay the search, and if you
succeed in this scrutiny, let not the detection discourage, but stimulate.

If then you resolve to take up religion in earnest, especially if you have
actually adopted its customary forms, rest not in such low attainments as will
afford neither present peace nor future happiness. To know Christianity only in
its external forms, and its internal dissatisfactions, its superficial
appearances without, and its disquieting apprehensions within; to be desirous of
standing well with the world as a Christian, yet to be unsupported by a
well-founded Christian hope; to depend for happiness on the opinion of men,
instead of the favor of God; to go on dragging through the mere exercises of
piety, without deriving from them real strength or solid peace; to live in the
dread of being called an enthusiast, by outwardly exceeding in religion and in
secret consciousness of falling short of it; to be conformed to the world’s view
of Christianity, rather than to aspire to be transformed by the renewing of your
mind -- is a state not of pleasure but of penalty, not of conquest but of
hopeless conflict, not of ingenuous love, but of tormenting fear.

It is knowing religion only as the captive in a foreign land knows the country
in which he is a prisoner. He hears from the cheerful natives of its beauties,
but is himself ignorant of every thing beyond his own gloomy limits. He hears of
others as free and happy, but feels nothing himself but the rigors of
incarceration.

The Christian character is not understood by the votaries of the world; if it
were, they would be struck with its grandeur. It is the very reverse of that
lowliness and pusillanimity, that abject spirit, and those narrow views, which
they who know it not ascribe to it.

A Christian lives at the height of his being; not only at the top of his
spiritual but of his intellectual life. He alone lives in the full exercise of
his rational powers. Religion ennobles his reason while it enlarges it.

Let then your soul act up to its high destination; let not that which was made
to soar to heaven grovel in the dust. Let it not live so much below itself. You
wonder it is not more fixed, when it is perpetually resting on things which are
not fixed themselves. In the rest of a Christian there is stability. Nothing can
shake his confidence but sin. Outward attacks and troubles rather fix than
unsettle him, as tempests from without only serve to root the oak faster, while
an inward canker will gradually rot and decay it.

That religion which sinks Christianity into a mere conformity to religious
practices, must always fail of substantial effects. If sin be seated in the
heart, if that be its home, that is the place in which it must be combated. It
is in vain to attack it in the suburbs when it is lodged in the center. Mere
forms can never expel that enemy which they can never reach. By a religion of
decencies, our corruptions may perhaps be driven out of sight, but they will
never be driven out of possession. If they are expelled from their outworks,
they will retreat to their citadel. If they do not appear in the grosser forms
prohibited by the Decalogue, still they will exist; the shape may be altered,
but the principle will remain; -- they will exist in the spiritual modification
of the same sins, equally forbidden by the Divine expositor. He who dares not be
revengeful will be unforgiving. He who ventures not to break the letter of the
seventh commandment in act, will violate it in the spirit. He who has not
courage to renounce heaven by profligacy, will scale it by pride, or forfeit it
by unprofitableness.

It is not any vain hope built on some external privilege or performance, on the
one hand, nor a presumptuous confidence that our names are written in the book
of life, on the other, which can afford a reasonable ground of safety; but it is
endeavoring to keep all the commandments of God, it is living to him who died
for us, it is being conformed to his image as well as redeemed by his blood.
This is Christian virtue, this is the holiness of a believer. A lower motive
will produce a lower morality, but such an unsanctified morality God will not
accept.

For it will little avail us that Christ has died for us, that he has conquered
sin, triumphed over the powers of darkness, and overcome the world, while any
sin retains its unresisted dominion in our hearts, while the world is our idol,
while our fostered corruptions cause us to prefer darkness to light. We must not
persuade ourselves that we are reconciled to God, while our rebellious hearts
are not reconciled to holiness.

It is not casting a set of opinions into a mold, and a set of duties into a
system, which constitutes the Christian religion. The circumference must have a
center, the body must have a soul, the performances must have a principle.
Outward observances were wisely constituted to rouse our forgetfulness, to awake
our secular spirits, to call back our negligent hearts: but it was never
intended that we should stop short in the use of them. They were designed to
excite holy thoughts, to quicken us to holy deeds, but not to be used as
equivalents for either. But we find it cheaper to serve God in a multitude of
exterior acts, than to starve one interior corruption.

Nothing short of that uniform stable principle, that fixedness in religion which
directs a man in all his actions, aims, and pursuits, to God as his ultimate
end, can give consistency to his conduct, or tranquility to his soul. This state
once attained, he will not waste all his thoughts and designs upon the world; he
will not lavish all his affections on so poor a thing as his own advancement. He
will desire to devote all to the only object worthy of them -- to God. Our
Savior has taken care to provide that our ideas of glorifying him may not run
out into fanciful chimeras or subtle inventions, by simply stating -- "herein is
my father glorified, that you bear much fruit." This he goes on to inform us is
the true evidence of our being of the number of his people, by adding "So shall
you be my disciples."


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  CHAPTER 16: 02.04.     PERIODICAL RELIGION
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PERIODICAL RELIGION

We deceive ourselves when we fancy that what is emphatically called "the world"
is only to be found in this or that situation. The world is everywhere. It is a
nature as well as a place; a principle as well as "a local habitation and a
name." Though the principle and the nature flourish most in those haunts which
are their congenial soil, yet we are too ready, when we withdraw from the world
abroad, to bring it home, to lodge it in our own bosom. The natural heart is
both its temple and its worshiper.

But the most devoted idolater of the world, with all the capacity and industry
which he may have applied to the subject, has never yet been able to accomplish
the grand design of uniting the interests of heaven and earth. This experiment,
which has been more assiduously and more frequently tried than that of the
philosopher for the grand hermetic secret, has been tried with about the same
degree of success. The most laborious process of the spiritual chemist to
reconcile religion with the world has never yet been competent to make the
contending principles coalesce.

But to drop metaphor. Religion was never yet thoroughly relished by a heart full
of the world. The world in return cannot be completely enjoyed where there is
just religion enough to disturb its false peace. In such minds heaven and earth
ruin each other’s enjoyments.

Yet life passes in the hopeless project of combining both. It is the object of
the worldly system to flatter our passions, of the religious principle to subdue
them; we adopt the one practically, while we maintain the other speculatively;
we grasp at the gratifications of the one, we will not relinquish the promises
of the other. What makes life so little productive of real happiness is, that we
are thus driving at opposite interests at the same time, though not with the
same zeal.

It is no wonder that the more abstract doctrines of religion can make little
impression on minds supremely engrossed by the objects of sense, when its most
obvious and practical truths can but superficially impress them; when all the
present objects which absorb their thoughts and affections are of a cast and
character which furnish a perpetual hindrance and a powerful counteraction.

There is a religion which is too sincere for hypocrisy, but too transient to be
profitable; too superficial to reach the heart, too unproductive to proceed from
it. It is rather slight than false. It has discernment enough to distinguish
sin, but not firmness enough to oppose it; compunction sufficient to soften the
heart, but not vigor sufficient to reform it. It laments when it does wrong, and
performs all the functions of repentance of sin except forsaking it. It has
everything of devotion except the stability, and gives everything to religion
except the heart. This is a religion of times, events, and circumstances; it is
brought into play by accidents, and dwindles away with the occasion which called
it out. Festivals and fasts, which occur but seldom, are much observed, and it
is to be feared because they occur but seldom; while the great festival which
comes every week comes too often to be so respectfully treated. The piety of
these people comes out much in sickness, but is apt to retreat again as recovery
approaches. If they die they are placed by their admirers in the Saint’s
Calendar; if they recover, they go back into the world they had renounced, and
again suspend their amendment as often as death suspends his blow.

There is another class whose views are still lower, who yet cannot so far shake
off religion as to be easy without retaining its brief and stated forms, and who
contrive to mix up these forms with a faith of a piece with their practice. They
blend their inconsistent works with a vague and unwarranted reliance on what the
Savior has done for them, and thus patch up a merit and a propitiation of their
own, running the hazard of incurring the danger of punishment by their lives,
and inventing a scheme to avert it by their creed. Religion never interferes
with their pleasures except by the compliment of a short and occasional
suspension. Having got through these periodical acts of devotion, they return to
the same scenes of vanity and idleness which they had left for the temporary
duty; forgetting that it was the very end of those acts of devotion to cure the
vanity and to correct the idleness. Had the periodical observance answered its
true design, it would have disinclined them to the pleasure instead of giving
them a dispensation for its indulgence. Had they used the devout exercise in a
right spirit, and improved it to its true end, it would have set the heart and
life at work on all those pursuits which it was calculated to promote. But their
project has more ingenuity. By the stated minutes they give to religion, they
think cheaply to purchase a protection for the misemployment of the rest of
their time. They make these periodical devotions a kind of spiritual Insurance
Office, which is to make up to the adventurers in pleasure any loss or damage
which they may sustain in its voyage.

It is of these shallow devotions, these presumed equivalents for a new heart and
a new life, that God declares by the prophet that he is "weary." Though, of his
own express appointment, they become "an abomination" to him, as soon as the
sign comes to be rested in for the thing signified. We Christians have "our new
moons and our sacrifices" under other names and other shapes; of which
sacrifices, that is, of the spirit in which they are offered, the Almighty has
said, "I cannot put up with them: they are iniquity."

Now is this superficial devotion that "giving up ourselves not with our lips
only, but with our lives," to our Maker, to which so many solemnly pledge
themselves, at least once a week? Is consecrating an hour or two to public
worship on the Sunday morning, making the Sabbath "a delight?" Is desecrating
the rest of the day by "doing our own ways, finding our own pleasure, speaking
our own words," making it "honorable?"

Sometimes in an awakening sermon, these periodical religionists hear, with awe
and terror, of the hour of death and the day of judgment. Their hearts are
penetrated with the solemn sounds. They confess the awful realities by the
impression they make on their own feelings. The sermon ends, and with it the
serious reflections it excited. While they listen to these things, especially if
the preacher be alarming, they are all in all to them. They return to the world
-- and these things are as if they were not, as if they had never been; as if
their reality lasted only while they were preached; as if their existence
depended only on their being heard; as if truth were no longer truth than while
it solicited their notice; as if there were as little stability in religion
itself as in their attention to it. As soon as their minds are disengaged from
the question, one would think that death and judgment were a mere invention,
that heaven and hell were blotted from existence, that eternity ceased to be
eternity, in the long intervals in which they ceased to be the object of their
consideration.

This is the natural effect of what we venture to denominate periodical religion.
It is a transient homage, kept totally distinct and separate from the rest of
our lives, instead of its being made the prelude and the principle of a course
of pious practice; instead of our weaving our devotions and our actions into one
uniform tissue, by doing all in one spirit, and to one end. When worshipers of
this description pray for "a clean heart and a right spirit," when they beg of
God to "turn away their eyes from beholding vanity," is it not to be feared that
they pray to be made what they resolve never to become, that they would be very
unwilling to become as good as they pray to be made, and would be sorry to be as
penitent as they profess to desire? But, alas! they are in little danger of
being taken at their word; there is too much reason to fear their petitions will
not be heard or answered; for prayer for the pardon of sin will obtain no
pardon, while we retain the sin, in hope that the prayer will be accepted
without the renunciation.

The most solemn office of our religion, the sacred memorial of the death of its
Author, the blessed injunction and tender testimony of his dying love, the
consolation of the humble believer, the gracious appointment for strengthening
his faith, quickening his repentance, awakening his gratitude, and kindling his
charity, is too often resorted to on the same erroneous principle. He who
ventures to live without the use of this holy institution, lives in a state of
disobedience to the last appointment of his Redeemer. He who rests in it as a
means for supplying the place of habitual piety, totally mistakes its design,
and is fatally deceiving his own soul.

This awful solemnity is, it is to be hoped, rarely approached even by this class
of Christians without a desire of approaching it with the pious feelings above
described. But, if they carry them to the altar, are they equally anxious to
carry them away from it? are they anxious to maintain them after it? Does the
rite, so seriously approached, commonly leave any vestige of seriousness behind
it? Are they careful to perpetuate the feelings they were so desirous to excite?
Do they strive to make them produce solid and substantial effects? Would that
this inconstancy of mind were to be found only in the class of characters under
consideration! Let the reader, however sincere in his desires, let the writer,
however ready to lament the levity of others, seriously ask their own hearts if
they can entirely acquit themselves of the inconsistency they are so forward to
blame? -- if they do not find the charge brought against others but too
applicable to themselves?

Irreverence antecedent to, or during this sacred solemnity, is far less rare
than durable improvement after it. If there are, as we are willing to believe,
none so profane as to violate the act, except those who impiously use it only as
"a pick-lock to a place," there are too few who make it lastingly beneficial;
few so thoughtless as not to approach it with resolutions of amendment; few
comparatively who carry these resolutions into effect. Fear operates in the
previous instance. Why should not love operate in that which is subsequent?

A periodical religion is accompanied with a periodical repentance. This species
of repentance is adopted with no small mental reservation. It is partial and
disconnected. These fragments of contrition, these broken parcels of penitence,
while a succession of worldly pursuits is not only resorted to, but is intended
to be resorted to during the whole of the intervening spaces, are not that
sorrow which the Almighty has promised to accept. To render them pleasing to God
and efficacious to ourselves, there must be an agreement in the parts, an
entireness in the whole web of life. There must be an entire repentance. A
periodical contrition preceding the sacred seasons will not wipe out the daily
offences, the hourly negligences of a sinful life. Sins half forsaken through
fear, and half retained through partially resisted temptation, and partially
adopted resolutions, make up but an unprofitable piety.

In the bosom of these professors there is a perpetual conflict between fear and
inclination. In conversation you will generally find them very warm in the cause
of religion; but it is religion as opposed to infidelity, not as opposed to
worldly-mindedness. They defend the worship of God, but desire to be excused
from his service. Their heart is the slave of the world, but their blindness
hides from them the turpitude of that world. They commend piety, but dread its
requisitions. They allow that repentance is necessary, but then how easy is it
to find reasons for deferring a necessary evil? Who will hastily adopt a painful
measure which he can find a creditable pretense for evading? They censure
whatever is ostensibly wrong, but avoiding only part of it, the part they retain
robs them of the benefit of their partial renunciation.

Our inherent character, and our necessary commerce with the world, naturally
fill our hearts and minds with thoughts and ideas, over which we have unhappily
too little control. We find this to be the case when, in our better hours, we
attempt to give ourselves up to serious reflection. How many intrusions of
worldly thoughts, how many impertinent imaginations, not only irrelevant, but
uncalled and unwelcome, crowd in upon the mind so forcibly as scarcely to be
repelled by our sincerest efforts! How impotent then, to repel such images, must
that mind be which is devoted to worldly pursuits, which yields itself up to
them; whose opinions, habits, and conduct are under their allowed influence!

We should fairly adjust the claims of both worlds, and having equitably
determined their value, act upon that determination. We shall then fix the
proportions and the limits of that attention which each deserves. A just
estimate of their respective worth would cool our ardor and tame our immoderate
desires after things so really little in themselves, and so short in their
duration. Providence has set narrow bounds to life; piety should proportionally
narrow our anxieties respecting it; for to be inordinately enamored with any
object, the worth of which will not justify the attachment, argues an
ill-regulated mind and a defective judgment.

All the strong remarks of devout writers on the littleness of those things which
the world calls great, might be looked upon as mere rhetorical flourishes, or as
the envious ebullitions of retired men, who could not attain to the things they
condemn, did not their brief duration justify the description. Let the censurer
only image to himself the world passing away, and the earth vanishing, before
long, to all, and to every man at his death, which to him is the end of the
world, and he whom he now despises as a passionate declaimer will then appear a
sober reasoner.

Let us not, then, consider a spirit of worldliness as a little infirmity, as a
natural, and therefore a pardonable weakness; as a trifling error, which will be
overlooked for the sake of our many good qualities. It is, in fact, the essence
of our other faults, the temper that stands between us and our salvation, the
spirit which is in direct opposition to the Spirit of God. Individual sins may
more easily be cured, but this is the principle of all spiritual disease. A
worldly spirit, where it is rooted and cherished, runs through the whole
character, insinuates itself in all we say, and think, and do. It is this which
makes us so dead in religion, so averse to spiritual things, so forgetful of
God, so unmindful of eternity, so satisfied with ourselves, so impatient of
serious discourse, and so alive to that vain and frivolous communion which
excludes intellect almost as much as it excludes piety from our general
conversation.

It is not, therefore, our more considerable actions alone which require
watching, for they seldom occur. They do not form the habit of life in
ourselves, nor the chief importance of our example to others. It is our ordinary
behavior, it is our deportment in common life, it is our prevailing turn of mind
in general communion, by which we shall profit or corrupt those with whom we
associate. It is our conduct in social life which will help to diffuse a spirit
of piety or a distaste to it. If we have much influence, this is the place in
which particularly to exert it. If we have little, we have still enough to
infect the temper and lower the tone of our narrow society.

If we really believe that it is the design of Christianity to raise us to a
participation of the Divine nature, the slightest reflection on this elevation
of our character would lead us to maintain its dignity in the ordinary communion
of life. We should not so much inquire whether we are transgressing any actual
prohibition, whether any standing law is pointed against us, as whether we are
supporting the dignity of the Christian character; whether we are acting
suitably to our profession; whether more exactness in the common occurrences of
the day, more correctness in our conversation, would not be such evidences of
our religion as, by being obvious and intelligible, might almost insensibly
produce important effects.

The most insignificant people must not, through indolence and selfishness,
undervalue their own influence. Most people have a little circle, of which they
are a sort of center. Its smallness may lessen their quantity of good, but does
not diminish the duty of using that little influence wisely. Where is the human
being so inconsiderable but that he may in some shape benefit others, either by
calling their virtues into exercise, or by setting them an example of virtue
himself? But we are humble just in the wrong place. When the exhibition of our
talents or splendid qualities is in question, we are not backward in the
display. When a little self-denial is to be exercised; when a little good might
be effected by our example, by our discreet management in company, by giving a
better turn to conversation, then at once we grow wickedly modest- "Such an
insignificant creature as I am can do no good. Had I a higher rank or brighter
talents, then, indeed, my influence might be exerted to some purpose." Thus,
under the mask of diffidence we justify our indolence, and let slip those lesser
occasions of promoting religion, which, if we all improved, how much might the
condition of society be raised!

The hackneyed interrogation, "What! must we always be talking about religion?"
must have the hackneyed answer -- Far from it. Talking about religion is not
being religious. But we may bring the spirit of religion into company, and keep
it in perpetual operation, when we do not professedly make it our subject. We
may be constantly advancing its interests; we may, without effort or
affectation, be giving an example of candor, of moderation, of humility, of
forbearance. We may employ our influence by correcting falsehood, by checking
levity, by discouraging calumny, by vindicating misrepresented merit, by
countenancing every thing which has a good tendency -- in short, by throwing our
whole weight, be it great or small, into a right scale.


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  CHAPTER 17: 02.05.     PRAYER
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PRAYER

Prayer is . . . the application of need, to Him who alone can relieve it; the
voice of sin, to Him who alone can pardon it; the urgency of spiritual poverty;
the prostration of pride; the fervency of penitence; the confidence of trust.

Prayer is . . . not eloquence, but earnestness; not the confession of
helplessness, but the feeling of it; not figures of speech, but compunction of
soul.

Prayer is the "Lord, save me! I am perishing!" of drowning Peter.

Prayer is the cry of faith to the ear of mercy.

Adoration is the noblest employment of created beings. Confession is the natural
language of guilty creatures. Gratitude is the spontaneous expression of
pardoned sinners.

Prayer is the earnest desire of the soul. It is not mere conception of the mind,
nor a mere effort of the intellect, nor an act of the memory; but an elevation
of the soul towards its Maker; a pressing sense of our own ignorance and
infirmity. Prayer is a consciousness . . . of the majesty of God, of His
readiness to hear, of His power to help, of His willingness to save.

Prayer is the pouring out of the heart unto our loving heavenly Father.

Prayer is the guide to self-knowledge, by prompting us to look after our sins in
order to pray against them; a motive to vigilance, by teaching us to guard
against those sins which, through self-examination, we have been enabled to
detect.

Prayer is an act both of the understanding and of the heart. The understanding
must apply itself to the knowledge of the Divine perfections, or the heart will
not be led to the adoration of them. It would not be a reasonable service, if
the mind was excluded. It must be rational worship, or the human worshiper would
not bring to the service the distinguishing faculty of his nature, which is
reason. It must be spiritual worship, or it would lack the distinctive quality
to make it acceptable to him who is a Spirit, and who has declared that he will
be worshiped "in spirit and in truth."

Prayer is right in itself as the most powerful means of resisting sin and
advancing in holiness. It is above all right, as everything is, in which has the
authority of Scripture, the command of God, and the example of Christ.

There is a perfect consistency in all the ordinations of God; a perfect
congruity in the whole scheme of his dispensations. If man were not a corrupt
creature, such prayer as the Gospel enjoins would not have been necessary. Had
not prayer been an important means for curing those corruptions, a God of
perfect wisdom would not have ordered it. He would not have prohibited every
thing which tends to inflame and promote them, had they not existed; nor would
he have commanded every thing that has a tendency to diminish and remove them,
had not their existence been fatal. Prayer, therefore, is an indispensable part
of his economy, and of our obedience.

It is a hackneyed objection to the use of prayer, that it is offending the
omniscience of God to suppose he requires information of our needs. But no
objection can be more futile. We do not pray to inform God of our needs, but to
express our sense of the needs which he already knows. As he has not so much
made his promises to our necessities as to our requests, it is reasonable that
our requests should be made before we can hope that our necessities will be
relieved. God does not promise to those who "lack", that they shall have, but to
those who "ask;" nor to those who need, that they shall "find," but to those who
"seek." So far, therefore, from his previous knowledge of our needs being a
ground of objection to prayer, it is in fact the true ground for our
application. Were he not knowledge itself, our information would be of as little
use as our application would be were he not goodness itself.

We cannot attain to a just notion of prayer while we remain ignorant of our own
nature, of the nature of God as revealed in Scripture, of our relation to him,
and dependence on him. If, therefore, we do not live in the daily study of the
Holy Scriptures, we shall lack the highest motives to this duty and the best
helps for performing it; if we do, the cogency of these motives, and the
inestimable value of these helps, will render argument unnecessary, and
exhortations superfluous.

One cause, therefore, of the dullness of many Christians in prayer, is their
slight acquaintance with the sacred volume. They hear it periodically, they read
it occasionally, they are contented to know it historically, to consider it
superficially; but they do not endeavor to get their minds imbued with its
spirit. If they store their memory with its facts, they do not impress their
hearts with its truths. They do not regard it as the nutriment on which their
spiritual life and growth depend. They do not pray over it; they do not consider
all its doctrines as of practical application; they do not cultivate that
spiritual discernment which alone can enable them judiciously to appropriate its
promises and its denunciations to their own actual case. They do not apply it as
an unerring line to ascertain their own rectitude or obligations.

In our retirements we too often fritter away our precious moments -- moments
rescued from the world -- in trivial, sometimes, it is to be feared, in corrupt
thoughts. But if we must give the reins to our imagination, let us send this
excursive faculty to range among great and noble objects. Let it stretch
forward, under the sanction of faith and the anticipation of prophecy, to the
accomplishment of those glorious promises and tremendous threatenings which will
soon he realized in the eternal world. These are topics which, under the safe
and sober guidance of Scripture, will fix its largest speculations and sustain
its loftiest flights. The same Scripture, while it expands and elevates the
mind, will keep it subject to the dominion of truth; while, at the same time, it
will teach it that its boldest excursions must fall infinitely short of the
astonishing realities of a future state.

Though we cannot pray with a too deep sense of sin, we may make our sins too
exclusively the object of our prayers. While we keep, with a self-abasing eye,
our own corruptions in view, let us look with equal intentness on that mercy
which cleanses from all sin. Let our prayers be all humiliation, but let them
not be all complaint. When men indulge no other thought but that they are
rebels, the hopelessness of pardon hardens them into disloyalty. Let them look
to the mercy of the King, as well as to the rebellion of the subject. If we
contemplate his grace as displayed in the Gospel, then, though our humility will
increase, our despair will vanish. Gratitude in this, as in human instances,
will create affection. "We love him, because he first loved us."

Let us, therefore, always keep our unworthiness in view as a reason why we stand
in need of the mercy of God in Christ; but never plead it as a reason why we
should not draw near to him to implore that mercy. The best men are unworthy for
their own sakes; the worst, on repentance, will be accepted for his sake and
through his merits.

In prayer, then, the perfections of God, and especially his mercies in our
redemption, should occupy our thoughts as much as our sins; our obligations to
him as much as our departures from him. We should keep up in our hearts a
constant sense of our own weakness, not with a design to discourage the mind and
depress the spirits, but with a view to drive us out of ourselves in search of
the Divine assistance. We should contemplate our infirmity in order to draw us
to look for his strength, and to seek that power from God which we vainly look
for in ourselves: we do not tell a sick friend of his danger in order to grieve
or terrify him, but to induce him to apply to his physician, and to have
recourse to his remedy.

Among the charges which have been brought against serious piety, one is, that it
teaches men to despair. The charge is just in one sense as to the fact, but
false in the sense intended. It teaches us to despair, indeed, of ourselves,
while it inculcates that faith in a Redeemer which is the true antidote to
despair. Faith quickens the doubting spirit, while it humbles the presumptuous.
The lowly Christian takes comfort in the blessed promise that God will never
forsake those who are his. The presumptuous man is equally right in the
doctrine, but wrong in applying it. He takes that comfort to himself which was
meant for another class of characters. The mal-appropriation of Scripture
promises and threatenings is the cause of much error and delusion.

Some have fallen into error by advocating an unnatural and impracticable
disinterestedness, asserting that God is to be loved exclusively for himself,
with an absolute renunciation of any view of advantage to ourselves; but that
prayer cannot be mercenary, which involves God’s glory with our own happiness,
and makes his will the law of our requests. Though we are to desire the glory of
God supremely; though this ought to be our grand actuating principle, yet he has
graciously permitted, commanded, invited us to attach our own happiness to this
primary object.

The Bible exhibits not only a beautiful, but an inseparable combination of both,
which delivers us from the danger of unnaturally renouncing our own happiness
for the promotion of God’s glory on the one hand; and, on the other, from
seeking any happiness independent of him, and underived from him. In enjoining
us to love him supremely, he has connected an unspeakable blessing with a
paramount duty, the highest privilege with the most positive command.

What a triumph for the humble Christian, to be assured that "the high and lofty
One who inhabits eternity," condescends at the same time to dwell in the heart
of the contrite– in his heart! to know that God is the God of his life; to know
that he is even invited to take the Lord for his God. To close with God’s
offers, to accept his invitations, to receive God as our portion, must surely be
more pleasing to our heavenly Father than separating our happiness from his
glory. To disconnect our interests from his goodness, is at once to detract from
his perfections, and to obscure the brightness of our own hopes. The
declarations of the inspired writers are confirmed by the authority of the
heavenly hosts. They proclaim that the glory of God and the happiness of his
creatures, so far from interfering, are connected with each other. We know but
of one anthem composed and sung by angels, and this most harmoniously combines
"the glory of God in the highest with peace on earth and good will to men."

"The beauty of Scripture," says the great Saxon reformer, "consists in
pronouns." This God is our God -- God, even our own God shall bless us. How
delightful the appropriation! to glorify him as being in himself consummate
excellence, and to love him from the feeling that this excellence is directed to
our felicity! Here modesty would be ingratitude -- disinterestedness, rebellion.
It would be severing ourselves from Him in whom we live, and move, and are; it
would be dissolving the connection which he has condescended to establish
between himself and his creatures.

It has been justly observed, that the Scripture-saints make this union the chief
ground of their grateful exultation: "My strength," "my rock," "my fortress,"
"my deliverer!" Again, "let the God of my salvation be exalted!" Now, take away
the pronoun, and substitute the article the, how comparatively cold is the
impression! The consummation of the joy arises from the peculiarity, the
intimacy, the endearment of the relation.

Nor to the liberal Christian is the grateful joy diminished, when he blesses his
God as "the God of all those who trust in him." All general blessings, will he
say, all providential mercies, are mine individually, are mine as completely as
if no other shared in the enjoyment; life, light, the earth and heavens, the sun
and stars, whatever sustains the body and recreates the spirits! My obligation
is as great as if the mercy had been made purely for me! as great! no, it is
greater -- it is augmented by a sense of the millions who participate in the
blessing. The same enlargement of personal obligation holds good, no, rises
higher in the mercies of redemption. The Lord is my Savior as completely as if
he had redeemed only me. That he has redeemed a great multitude, which no man
can number, of all nations, and kindreds, and people, and tongues, is diffusion
without abatement; it is general participation without individual diminution.
Each has all.

In adoring the providence of God, we are apt to be struck with what is new and
out of course, while we too much overlook long, habitual, and uninterrupted
mercies. But common mercies, if less striking, are more valuable, both because
we have them always, and for the reason above assigned, because others share
them. The ordinary blessings of life are overlooked for the very reason for
which they ought to be most prized because they are most uniformly bestowed.
They are most essential to our support; and when once they are withdrawn, we
begin to find that they are also most essential to our comfort. Nothing raises
the price of a blessing like its removal, whereas it was its continuance which
should have taught us its value. We require novelties to awaken our gratitude,
not considering that it is the duration of mercies which enhances their value.
We want fresh excitements. We consider mercies long enjoyed as things of course,
as things to which we have a sort of presumptive claim; as if God had no right
to withdraw what he has once bestowed, as if he were obliged to continue what he
has once been pleased to confer.

But that the sun has shone unremittingly from the day that God created it, is
not a less stupendous exertion of power than that the hand which fixed in the
heavens, and marked out its progress through them, once said by his servant,
"Sun, stand you still upon Gibeon." That it has gone on in his strength, driving
its uninterrupted career, and "rejoicing as a giant to run his course," for six
thousand years, is a more astonishing exhibition of omnipotence than that he
should have been once suspended by the hand which set it in motion. That the
ordinances of heaven, that the established laws of nature should have been for
one day interrupted to serve a particular occasion, is a less real wonder, and
certainly a less substantial blessing, than that in such a multitude of ages
they should have pursued their appointed course, for the comfort of the whole
system; Forever singing, as they shine, The hand that made us is divine.

As the affections of the Christian ought to be set on things above, so it is for
those who his prayers will be chiefly addressed. God, in promising to "give to
those who delight in him the desire of their heart," could never mean temporal
things; for these they might desire improperly as to the object, and
inordinately as to the degree. The promise relates principally to spiritual
blessings. He not only gives us these mercies, but the very desire to obtain
them is also his gift. Here our prayer requires no qualifying, no conditioning,
no limitation. We cannot err in our choice, for God himself is the object of it;
we cannot exceed in the degree, unless it were possible to love him too well, or
to please him too much.

We should pray for worldly comforts, and for a blessing on our earthly plans,
though lawful in themselves, conditionally, and with a reservation; because,
after having been earnest in our requests for them, it may happen that when we
come to the petition, "your will be done," we may in these very words be praying
that our previous petitions may not be granted. In this brief request consists
the vital principle, the essential spirit of prayer. God shows his munificence
in encouraging us to ask most earnestly for the greatest things, by promising
that the smaller "shall be added unto us." We therefore acknowledge his
liberality most when we request the highest favors. He manifests his infinite
superiority to earthly fathers by chiefly delighting to confer those spiritual
gifts which they less solicitously desire for their children than those worldly
advantages on which God sets so little value.

Nothing short of a sincere devotedness to God can enable us to maintain an
equality of mind under unequal circumstances. We murmur that we have not the
things we ask amiss, not knowing that they are withheld by the same mercy by
which the things that are good for us are granted. Things good in themselves may
not be good for us. A resigned spirit is the proper disposition to prepare us
for receiving mercies, or for having them denied. Resignation of soul, like the
allegiance of a good subject, is always in readiness, though not in action;
whereas an impatient mind is a spirit of disaffection, always prepared to revolt
when the will of the sovereign is in opposition to that of the subject. This
seditious principle is the infallible characteristic of an unrenewed mind.

A sincere love of God will make us thankful when our prayers are granted, and
patient and cheerful when they are denied. He who feels his heart rise against
any Divine dispensation, ought not to rest until by serious meditation and
earnest prayer it be molded into submission. A habit of acquiescence in the will
of God will so operate on the faculties of his mind, that even his judgment will
embrace the conviction that what he once so ardently desired would not have been
that good thing which his blindness had conspired with his wishes to make him
believe it to be. He will recollect the many instances in which, if his
importunity had prevailed, the thing which ignorance requested, and wisdom
denied, would have insured his misery. Every fresh disappointment will teach him
to distrust himself and to confide in God. Experience will instruct him that
there may be a better way of hearing our requests than that of granting them.
Happy for us, that He to whom they are addressed knows which is best, and acts
upon that knowledge: "Still lift for good the supplicating voice, But leave to
Heaven the measure and the choice; Implore his aid, in his decisions rest;
Secure whatever he gives, he gives the best."

We should endeavor to render our private devotions effectual remedies for our
own particular sins. Prayer against sin in general is too indefinite to reach
the individual case. We must bring it home to our own heart, else we may be
confessing another man’s sins and overlooking our own. If we have any
predominant fault, we should pray more especially against that fault. If we pray
for any virtue of which we particularly stand in need, we should dwell on our
own deficiencies in that virtue, until our souls become deeply affected with our
need of it. Our prayers should be circumstantial, not, as was before observed,
for the information of Infinite Wisdom, but for the stirring up of our own dull
affections. And as the recapitulation of our needs tends to keep up a sense of
our dependence, the enlarging on our special mercies will tend to keep alive a
sense of gratitude; while indiscriminate petitions, confessions, and
thanksgivings leave the mind to wander in indefinite devotion and unaffecting
generalities without personality and without appropriation. It must be obvious
that we except those grand universal points in which all have an equal interest,
and which must always form the essence of public prayer.

On the blessing attending importunity in prayer the Gospel is abundantly
explicit. God perhaps delays to give, that we may persevere in asking. He may
require importunity for our own sakes, that the frequency and urgency of the
petition may bring our hearts into that frame to which he will be favorable.

As we ought to live in a spirit of obedience to his commands, so we should live
in a frame of waiting for his blessing on our prayers, and in a spirit of
gratitude when we have obtained it. This is that "preparation of the heart"
which would always keep us in a posture for duty. If we desert the duty because
an immediate blessing does not visibly attend it, it shows that we do not serve
God out of conscience, but selfishness; that we grudge expending on him that
service which brings us in no immediate interest. Though he grant not our
petition, let us never be tempted to withdraw our application.

Our reluctant devotions may remind us of the remark of a certain great political
wit, who apologized for his late attendance in parliament by his being detained
while a party of soldiers were dragging a volunteer to his duty. How many
excuses do we find for not being in time! How many apologies for brevity! How
many evasions for neglect! How unwilling, too often, are we to come into the
Divine presence; how reluctant to remain in it! Those hours which are least
valuable for business, which are least seasonable for pleasure, we commonly give
to religion. Our energies, which were exerted in the society we have just left,
are sunk as we approach the Divine presence. Our hearts, which were all alacrity
in some frivolous conversation, become cold and inanimate, as if it were the
natural property of devotion to freeze the affections. Our animal spirits, which
so readily performed their functions before, now slacken their vigor and lose
their vivacity. The sluggish body sympathizes with the unwilling mind, and each
promotes the deadness of the other: both are slow in listening to the call of
duty; both are soon weary in performing it. How do our fancies rove back to the
pleasures we have been enjoying! How apt are the diversified images of those
pleasures to mix themselves with our better thoughts, to pull down our higher
aspirations! As prayer requires all the energies of the compound being of man,
so we too often feel as if there were a conspiracy of body, soul, and spirit to
disincline and disqualify us for it.

When the heart is once sincerely turned to religion, we need not, every time we
pray, examine into every truth, and seek for conviction over and over again; but
may assume that those doctrines are true, the truth of which we have already
proved. From a general and fixed impression of these principles will result a
taste, a disposedness, a love, so intimate, that the convictions of the
understanding will become the affections of the heart. To be deeply impressed
with a few fundamental truths, to digest them thoroughly, to meditate on them
seriously, to pray over them fervently, to get them deeply rooted in the heart,
will be more productive of faith and holiness, than to labor after variety,
ingenuity, or elegance. The indulgence of imagination will rather distract than
edify. Searching after ingenious thoughts will rather divert the attention from
God to ourselves, than promote fixedness of thought, singleness of intention,
and devotedness of spirit. Whatever is subtle and refined is in danger of being
unscriptural. If we do not guard the mind, it will learn to wander in quest of
novelties. It will learn to set more value on original thoughts than devout
affections. It is the business of prayer to cast down imaginations which gratify
the natural activity of the mind, while they leave the heart unhumbled.

We should confine ourselves to the present business of the present moment; we
should keep the mind in a state of perpetual dependence. "Now is the accepted
time." "Today we must hear his voice." "Give us this day our daily bread." The
manna will not keep until tomorrow: tomorrow will have its own needs, and must
have its own petitions. Tomorrow we must seek afresh the bread of heaven.

We should, however, avoid coming to our devotions with unfurnished minds. We
should be always laying in materials for prayer, by a diligent course of serious
reading, by treasuring up in our minds the most important truths. If we rush
into the Divine presence with a vacant, or ignorant and unprepared mind, with a
heart full of the world; as we shall feel no disposition or qualification for
the work we are about to engage in, so we cannot expect that our petitions will
be heard or granted. There must be some congruity between the heart and the
object, some affinity between the state of our minds and the business in which
they are employed, if we would expect success in the work.

We are often deceived both as to the principle and the effect of our prayers.
When from some external cause the heart is glad, the spirits light, the thoughts
ready, the tongue voluble, a kind of spontaneous eloquence is the result; with
this we are pleased, and this ready flow we are willing to impose on ourselves
for piety.

On the other hand, when the mind is dejected, the animal spirits low, the
thoughts confused, when apposite words do not readily present themselves, we are
apt to accuse our hearts of lack of fervor, to lament our weakness, and to mourn
that because we have had no pleasure in praying, our prayers have, therefore,
not ascended to the throne of mercy. In both cases we perhaps judge ourselves
unfairly. These unready accents, these faltering praises, these ill-expressed
petitions, may find more acceptance than the florid talk with which we were so
well satisfied: the latter consisted, it may be, of shining thoughts floating on
the fancy, eloquent words dwelling only on the lips; the former was the sighing
of a contrite heart, abased by the feeling of its own unworthiness and awed by
the perfections of a holy and heart-searching God. The heart is dissatisfied
with its own dull and tasteless repetitions, which, with all their
imperfections, Infinite Goodness may perhaps hear with favor. We may not only be
elated with the fluency, but even with the fervency of our prayers. Vanity may
grow out of the very act of renouncing it; and we may begin to feel proud at
having humbled ourselves so eloquently.

There is, however, a strain and spirit of prayer equally distinct from that
facility and copiousness for which we certainly are never the better in the
sight of God, and from that constraint and dryness for which we may be never the
worse. There is a simple, solid, pious strain of prayer in which the supplicant
is so filled and occupied with a sense of his own dependence, and of the
importance of the things for which he asks, and so persuaded of the power and
grace of God, through Christ, to give him those things, that while he is engaged
in it he does not merely imagine, but feels assured that God is near to him as a
reconciled father, so that every burden and doubt are taken off from his mind.
"He knows," as John expresses it, "that he has the petitions he desired of God,"
and feels the truth of that promise, "While they are yet speaking I will hear."
This is the perfection of prayer.


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  CHAPTER 18: 02.06.     CULTIVATION OF A DEVOTIONAL SPIRIT
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CULTIVATION OF A DEVOTIONAL SPIRIT

To maintain a devotional spirit two things are especially necessary; habitually
to cultivate the disposition, and habitually to avoid whatever is unfavorable to
it. Frequent retirement and recollection are indispensable together with such a
general course of reading, as, if it does not actually promote the spirit we are
endeavoring to maintain, shall never be hostile to it. We should avoid as much
as in us lies all such society, all such amusements as excite tempers which it
is the daily business of a Christian to subdue, and all those feelings which it
is his constant duty to suppress.

And here may we venture to observe, that if some things which are apparently
innocent, and do not assume an alarming aspect, or bear a dangerous character;
things which the generality of decorous people affirm (how truly we know not) to
be safe for them; yet if we find that these things stir up in us improper
propensities; if they awaken thoughts which ought not to be excited; if they
abate our love for religious exercises, or infringe on our time for performing
them; if they make spiritual concerns appear insipid; if they wind our hearts a
little more about the world; in short, if we have formerly found them injurious
to our own souls, then let no example or persuasion, no belief of their alleged
innocence, no plea of their perfect safety, tempt us to indulge in them. It
matters little to our security what they are to others. Our business is with
ourselves. Our responsibility is on our own heads. Others cannot know the side
on which we are assailable. Let our own unbiased judgment determine our opinion;
let our own experience decide for our own conduct.

In speaking of books, we cannot forbear noticing that very prevalent sort of
reading which is little less productive of evil, little less prejudicial to
moral and mental improvement, than that which carries a more formidable
appearance. We cannot confine our censure to those more corrupt writings which
deprave the heart, debauch the imagination, and poison the principles. Of these
the turpitude is so obvious that no caution on this head, it is presumed, can be
necessary. But if justice forbids us to confound the insipid with the
mischievous, the idle, with the vicious, and the frivolous with the profligate,
still we can only admit of shades -- deep shades, we allow -- of difference.

These works, if comparatively harmless, yet debase the taste, slacken the
intellectual nerve, let down the understanding, set the imagination loose, and
send it gadding among low and worthless objects. They not only run away with the
time which should be given to better things, but gradually destroy all taste for
better things. They sink the mind to their own standard, and give it a sluggish
reluctance, we had almost said a moral incapacity, for every thing above their
level. The mind, by long habit of stooping, loses its erectness, and yields to
its degradation. It becomes so low and narrow by the littleness of the things
which engage it, that it requires a painful effort to lift itself high enough,
or to open itself wide enough, to embrace great and noble objects. The appetite
is vitiated. Excess, instead of producing a surfeit by weakening the digestion,
only induces a loathing for stronger nourishment. The faculties which might have
been expanding in works of science, or soaring in the contemplation of genius,
become satisfied with the impertinences of the most ordinary fiction, lose their
relish for the severity of truth, the elegance of taste, and the soberness of
religion. Lulled in the torpor of repose, the intellect dozes, and enjoys, in
its waking dream,

"All the wild trash of sleep without its rest."

In avoiding books which excite the passions, it would seem strange to include
even some devotional works. Yet such as merely kindle warm feelings are not
always the safest. Let us rather prefer those which, while they tend to raise a
devotional spirit, awaken the affections without disordering them; which, while
they elevate the desires, purify them; which show us our own nature, and lay
open its corruptions. Such as show us the malignity of sin, the deceitfulness of
our hearts, the feebleness of our best resolutions; such as teach us to pull off
the mask from the fairest appearances, and discover every hiding place where
some lurking evil would conceal itself; such as show us not what we appear to
others, but what we really are; such as, cooperating with our interior feelings,
and showing us our natural state, point out our absolute need of a Redeemer,
lead us to seek to him for pardon, from a conviction that there is no other
refuge, no other salvation. Let us be conversant with such writings as teach us
that, while we long to obtain the remission of our transgressions, we must not
desire the remission of our duties. Let us seek for such a Savior as will not
only deliver us from the punishment of sin, but from its dominion also.

And let us ever bear in mind that the end of prayer is not answered when the
prayer is finished. We should regard prayer as a means to a farther end. The act
of prayer is not sufficient, we must cultivate a spirit of prayer. And though,
when the actual devotion is over, we cannot amid the distractions of company and
business always be thinking of heavenly things, yet the desire, the frame, the
propensity, the willingness to return to them, we must, however difficult,
endeavor to maintain.

The proper temper for prayer should precede the act. The disposition should be
wrought in the mind before the exercise is begun. To bring a proud temper to an
humble prayer, a luxurious habit to a self-denying prayer, or a worldly
disposition to a spiritually-minded prayer, is a positive anomaly. A habit is
more powerful than an act, and a previously indulged temper during the day will
not, it is to be feared, be fully counteracted by the exercise of a few minutes
devotion at night.

Prayer is designed for a perpetual renovation of the motives to virtue; if,
therefore, the cause is not followed by its consequence -- a consequence
inevitable but for the impediments we bring to it, we rob our nature of its
highest privilege, and are in danger of incurring a penalty where we are looking
for a blessing.

That the habitual tendency of the life should be the preparation for the stated
prayer, is naturally suggested to us by our blessed Redeemer in his sermon on
the Mount. He announced the precepts of holiness and their corresponding
beatitudes; he gave the spiritual exposition of the law, the directions for
alms-giving, the exhortation to love our enemies, no, the essence and spirit of
the whole Decalogue, previous to his delivering his own Divine prayer as a
pattern for ours. Let us learn from this that the preparation of prayer is,
therefore, to live in all those pursuits which we may safely beg of God to
bless, and in a conflict with all those temptations into which we pray not to be
led.

If God be the center to which our hearts are tending, every line in our lives
must meet in him. With this point in view, there will be a harmony between our
prayers and our practice, a consistency between devotion and conduct which will
make every part turn to this one end, bear upon this one point. For the beauty
of the Christian scheme consists not in parts (however good in themselves) which
tend to separate views and lead to different ends; but it arises from its being
one entire, uniform, connected plan, "compacted of that which every joint
supplies," and of which all the parts terminate in this one grand ultimate
point. The design of prayer, therefore, as we before observed, is not merely to
make us devout while we are engaged in it, but that its odor may be diffused
through all the intermediate spaces of the day, enter into all its occupations,
duties, and tempers. Nor must its results be partial or limited to easy and
pleasant duties, but extend to such as are less alluring. When we pray, for
instance, for our enemies, the prayer must be rendered practical, must be made a
means of softening our spirit and cooling our resentment toward them. If we
deserve their enmity the true spirit of prayer will put us upon endeavoring to
cure the fault which has excited it. If we do not deserve it, it will put us on
striving for a peaceful temper, and we shall endeavor not to let slip so
favorable an occasion of cultivating it. There is no such softener of animosity,
no such soother of resentment, no such allayer of hatred, as sincere, cordial
prayer.

It is obvious that the precept to pray without ceasing can never mean to enjoin
a continual course of actual prayer. But while it more directly enjoins us to
embrace all proper occasions of performing this sacred duty, or rather of
claiming this valuable privilege, so it plainly implies that we should try to
keep up constantly that sense of the Divine presence which shall maintain the
disposition. In order to this, we should inure our minds to reflection; we
should encourage serious thoughts. A good thought barely passing through the
mind will make little impression on it. We must arrest it, constrain it to
remain with us, expand, amplify, and, as it were, take it to pieces. It must be
distinctly unfolded and carefully examined, or it will leave no precise idea; it
must be fixed and incorporated, or it will produce no practical effect. We must
not dismiss it until it has left some trace on the mind, until it has made some
impression on the heart.

On the other hand, if we give the reins to a loose ungoverned imagination, at
other times if we abandon our minds to frivolous thoughts, if we fill them with
corrupt images; if we cherish sensual ideas during the rest of the day, can we
expect that none of these images will intrude, that none of these impressions
will be revived, but that the temple, into which foul things have been invited,
will be cleansed at a given moment; that worldly thoughts will recede and give
place at once to pure and holy thoughts? Will that Spirit, grieved by impurity,
or resisted by levity, return with his warm beams and cheering influences to the
contaminated mansion from which he has been driven out? Is it amazing if,
finding no entrance into a heart filled with vanity, he should withdraw himself?

We cannot in retiring into our closets change our natures as we do our clothes.
The disposition we carry there will be likely to remain with us. We have no
right to expect that a new temper will meet us at the door. We can only hope
that the spirit we bring there will be cherished and improved. It is not easy,
rather it is not possible to graft genuine devotion on a life of an opposite
tendency; nor can we delight ourselves regularly for a few stated moments in
that God whom we have not been serving during the day. We may, indeed, to quiet
our conscience, take up the employment of prayer, but cannot take up the state
of mind which will make the employment beneficial to ourselves, or the payer
acceptable to God, if all the previous hours of the day we have been careless of
ourselves and unmindful of our Maker. They will not pray differently from the
rest of the world who do not live differently.

What a contradiction is it to lament the weakness, the misery, and the
corruption of our nature in our devotions, and then to rush into a life, though
not perhaps of vice, yet of indulgences calculated to increase that weakness, to
inflame those corruptions, and to lead to that misery! There is either no
meaning in our prayers, or no sense in our conduct. In the one we mock God, in
the other we deceive ourselves.

Will not he who keeps up an habitual communion with his Maker, who is vigilant
in thought, self-denying in action, who strives to keep his heart from wrong
desires, his mind from vain imaginations, and his lips from idle words, bring a
more prepared spirit, a more collected mind, be more engaged, more penetrated,
more present to the occasion? Will he not feel more delight in this devout
exercise, reap more benefit from it, than he who lives at random, prays from
custom, and who, though he dares not omit the form, is a stranger to its spirit?

We speak not here to the self-sufficient formalist, or the careless profligate.
Among those whom we now take the liberty to address, are to be found, especially
in the higher class of females, the amiable and the interesting, and, in many
respects, the virtuous and correct; characters so engaging, so evidently made
for better things, so capable of reaching high degrees of excellence, so formed
to give the tone to Christian practice as well as to fashion; so calculated to
give a beautiful impression of that religion which they profess without
sufficiently adorning, which they believe without fairly exemplifying; that we
cannot forbear taking a tender interest in their welfare, we cannot forbear
breathing a fervent prayer that they may yet reach the elevation for which they
were intended; that they may hold out a uniform and consistent pattern of
"whatever things are pure, honest, just, lovely, and of good report!" This the
apostle goes on to intimate can only be done by thinking on these things. Things
can only influence our practice as they engage our attention. Would not then a
confirmed habit of serious thought tend to correct that inconsideration which,
we are willing to hope, more than lack of principle, lies at the bottom of the
inconsistency we are lamenting?

If, as it is generally allowed, the great difficulty of our spiritual life is to
make the future predominate over the present, do we not, by the conduct we are
regretting, aggravate what it is in our power to diminish? Miscalculation of the
relative value of things is one of the greatest errors of our spiritual life. We
estimate them in an inverse proportion to their value, as well as to their
duration: we lavish earnest and durable thoughts on things so trifling that they
deserve little regard, so temporary that they "perish with the using," while we
bestow only slight attention on things of infinite worth; only transient
thoughts on things of eternal duration.

Those who are so far conscientious as not to omit a regular course of devotion,
and who yet allow themselves, at the same time, to go on in a course of
amusements which excite a directly opposite spirit, are inconceivably augmenting
their own difficulties. They are eagerly heaping up fuel in the day on the fire
which they intend to extinguish in the evening; they are voluntarily adding to
the temptations against which they mean to request grace to struggle. To
acknowledge, at the same time, that we find it hard to serve God as we ought,
and yet to be systematically indulging habits which must naturally increase the
difficulty, makes our character almost ridiculous, while it renders our duty
almost impracticable.

While we make our way more difficult by those very indulgences with which we
think to cheer and refresh it, the determined Christian becomes his own pioneer;
he makes his path easy by voluntarily clearing it of the obstacles which impede
his progress.

These habitual indulgences seem a contradiction to that obvious law, that one
virtue always involves another; for we cannot labor after any grace -- that of
prayer, for instance -- without resisting whatever is opposite to it. If, then,
we lament that it is so hard to serve God, let us not by our conduct furnish
arguments against ourselves; for, as if the difficulty were not great enough in
itself, we are continually heaping up mountains in our way, by indulging in such
pursuits and passions as make a small labor an insurmountable one.

We may often judge better of our state by the result than by the act of prayer;
our very defects, our coldness, deadness, wanderings, may leave more contrition
on the soul than the happiest turn of thought. The feeling of our needs, the
confession of our sins, the acknowledgment of our dependence, the renunciation
of ourselves, the supplication for mercy, the application to the "fountain
opened for sin," the cordial entreaty for the aid of the Spirit, the
relinquishment of our own will, resolutions of better obedience, petitions that
these resolutions may be directed and sanctified -- these are the subjects in
which the supplicant should be engaged, by which his thoughts should be
absorbed.

Can they be so absorbed, if many of the intervening hours are passed in pursuits
of a totally different complexion -- pursuits which raise the passions which we
are seeking to allay? Will the cherished vanities go at our bidding? Will the
required dispositions come at our calling? Do we find our tempers so obedient,
our passions so subservient, in the other concerns of life? If not, what reason
have we to expect their submission in this grand concern? We should, therefore,
endeavor to believe as we pray, to think as we pray, to feel as we pray, and to
act as we pray. Prayer must not be a solitary, independent exercise; but an
exercise interwoven with many, and inseparably connected with that golden chain
of Christian duties, of which, when so connected, it forms one of the most
important links.

Let us be careful that our cares, occupations, and amusements may be always such
that we may not be afraid to implore the Divine blessing on them; this is the
criterion of their safety, and of our duty. Let us endeavor that in each, in
all, one continually growing sentiment and feeling of loving, serving, and
pleasing God, maintain its predominant station in the heart.

An additional reason why we should live in the perpetual use of prayer, seems to
be, that our blessed Redeemer, after having given both the example and the
command while on earth, condescends still to be our unceasing intercessor in
heaven. Can we ever cease petitioning for ourselves, when we believe that he
never ceases interceding for us?

If we are so unhappy as now to find little pleasure in this holy exercise, that
however is so far from being a reason for discontinuing it, that it affords the
strongest argument for perseverance. That which was at first a form will become
a pleasure; that which was a burden will become a privilege; that which we
impose upon ourselves as a medicine will become necessary as nourishment, and
desirable as a gratification. That which is now short and superficial will
become copious and solid. The chariot-wheel is warmed by its own motion. Use
will make that easy which was at first painful. That which is once become easy
will soon be rendered pleasant. Instead of repining at the performance, we shall
be unhappy at the omission. When a man recovering from sickness attempts to
walk, he does not discontinue the exercise because he feels himself weak, nor
even because the effort is painful. He rather redoubles his exertion. It is from
his perseverance that he looks for strength. An additional turn every day
diminishes his repugnance, augments his vigor, improves his spirits. That effort
which was submitted to because it was salutary, is continued because the feeling
of renovated strength renders it delightful.


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  CHAPTER 19: 02.07.     THE LOVE OF GOD
========================================================================

THE LOVE OF GOD

Our love to God arises out of need; God’s love to us out of fullness. Our
indigence draws us to that power which can relieve, and to that goodness which
can bless us. His overflowing love delights to make us partakers of the bounties
he graciously imparts, not only in the gifts of his providence, but in the
richer communications of his grace. We can only be said to love God when we
endeavor to glorify him, when we desire a participation of his nature, when we
study to imitate his perfections.

We are sometimes inclined to suspect the love of God to us. We are too little
suspicious of our lack of love to him. Yet if we examine the case by evidence,
as we should examine any common question, what real instances can we produce of
our love to him? What imaginable instance can we not produce of his love to us?
If neglect, forgetfulness, ingratitude, disobedience, coldness in our
affections, deadness in our duty, be evidences of our love to him, such
evidences, but such only, we can abundantly allege. If life, and all the
countless catalogue of mercies that makes life pleasant, be proofs of his love
to us, these he has given us in hand; -- if life eternal, if blessedness that
knows no measure and no end, be proofs of love, these he has given us in promise
to the Christian, we had almost said, he has given them in possession.

When the adoring soul is gratefully expatiating on the inexhaustible instances
of the love of God to us, let it never forget to rise to its most exalted pitch,
to rest on its loftiest object, His inestimable love in the redemption of the
world by our Lord Jesus Christ. This is the crowning point; this is the gift
which imparts their highest value to all his other gifts. It combines whatever
can render Divine munificence complete -- pardon of sin, acceptance with God,
perfection and perpetuity of blessedness. Well may the Christian in the devout
contemplation of this sublime mystery which the highest of all created
intelligences "desire to look into," exclaim in grateful rapture, "You are the
God that do wonders!" A redeemed world is the triumph of infinity. Power and
goodness, truth and mercy, righteousness and peace incorporated and lost in each
other!

Love is a grace of such preeminent distinction, that the Redeemer is
emphatically designated by it as, "He who loved us." This is such a
characteristic style and title that no name is appended to it.

It must be an irksome thing to serve a master whom we do not love, a master whom
we are compelled to obey, though we think his requisitions hard, and his
commands unreasonable; under whose eye we know that we continually live, though
his presence is not only undelightful but formidable.

Now every creature must obey God, whether he loves him or not: he must act
always in his sight, whether he delights in him or not; and to a heart of any
feeling, to a spirit of any liberality, nothing is so grating as constrained
obedience. To love God, to serve him because we love him, is therefore no less
our highest happiness than our most bounden duty. Love makes all labor light. We
serve with alacrity, where we love with cordiality.

Where the heart is devoted to an object, we require not to be perpetually
reminded of our obligations to obey him; they present themselves spontaneously,
we fulfill them readily, I had almost said, involuntarily: we do not think so
much of the service as of the object. The principle which suggests the work
inspires the pleasure: to neglect it would be an injury to our feelings. The
performance is the gratification. The omission is not more a pain to the
conscience than a wound to the affections. The implantation of this vital root
perpetuates virtuous practice, and secures internal peace.

Though we cannot be always thinking of God, we may be always employed in his
service. There must be intervals of our communion with him, but there must be no
intermission of our attachment to him. The tender father who labors for his
children does not always employ his thoughts about them: he cannot be always
conversing with them or concerning them, yet he is always engaged in promoting
their interests. His affection for them is an inwoven principle, of which he
gives the most unequivocal evidence, by the assiduousness of his application in
their service.

"You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart," is the primary law of
our religion. But we are continually framing excuses, flying to false refuges ,
clinging to false holds, resting on false supports: as they are uncertain, they
disappoint us; as they are weak, they fail us; but as they are numerous, when
one fails another presents itself. Until they slip from under us, we never
suspect how much we rested upon them. Life glides away in a perpetual succession
of these false dependences and successive privations.

There is, as we have elsewhere observed, a striking analogy between the natural
and spiritual life; the weakness and helplessness of the Christian resemble
those of the infant; neither of them becomes strong, vigorous, and full grown at
once, but through a long and often painful course. This keeps up a sense of
dependence, and accustoms us to lean on the hand which fosters us. There is in
both conditions an imperceptible chain of depending circumstances, by which we
are carried on insensibly to the vigor of maturity. The operation which is not
always obvious is always progressive. By attempting to walk alone we discover
our weakness, the experience of that weakness humbles us, and every fall drives
us back to the sustaining hand whose assistance we vainly flattered ourselves we
no longer needed.

In some halcyon moments we are willing to persuade ourselves that religion has
made an entire conquest over our heart; that we have renounced the dominion of
the world, have conquered our attachment to earthly things. We flatter ourselves
that nothing can now again obstruct our entire submission. But we know not what
spirit we are of. We say this in the calm of repose and in the stillness of the
passions; when our path is smooth, our prospect smiling, danger distant,
temptation absent, when we have many comforts and no trials. Suddenly some loss,
some disappointment, some privation, tears off the mask, reveals us to
ourselves. We at once discover that though the smaller fibers and lesser roots
which fasten us down to earth may have been loosened by preceding storms, yet
our substantial hold on earth is not shaken, the sap root is not cut, we are yet
fast rooted to the soil, and still stronger tempests must be sent to make us let
go our hold.

It might be useful to adopt the habit of stating our own case as strongly to
ourselves as if it were the case of another; to express in so many words,
thoughts which are not apt to assume any specific or palpable form; thoughts
which we avoid shaping into language, but slur over, generalize, soften, and do
away. How indignant, for instance, should we feel (though we ourselves make the
complaint) to be told by others that we do not love our Maker and Preserver!

But let us put the question fairly to ourselves. Do we really love him? Do we
love him with a supreme, no, even with an equal affection? Is there no friend,
no child, no reputation, no pleasure, no society, no possession, which we do not
prefer to him? It is easy to affirm in a general way that there is none. But let
us particularize, individualize the question -- bring it home to our own hearts
in some actual instance, in some tangible shape. Let us commune with our own
consciences; with our own feelings, with our own experience; let us question
pointedly, and answer honestly. Let us not be more ashamed to detect the fault
than to have been guilty of it.

This, then, will commonly be the result. Let the friend, child, reputation,
possession, pleasure, be endangered, but especially let it be taken away by some
stroke of Providence. The scales fall from our eyes; we see, we feel, we
acknowledge, with brokenness of heart, not only for our loss, but for our sin,
that though we did love God, yet we loved him not superlatively; that we loved
the blessing, threatened or taken back, still more. But this is one of the cases
in which the goodness of God brings us to repentance. By the operation of his
grace, the taking back of the gift brings back the heart to the Giver. The
Almighty by his Spirit takes possession of the temple from which the idol is
driven out: God is reinstated in his rights, and becomes the supreme and
undisputed Lord of our reverential affections.

There are three requirements to our proper enjoyment of every earthly blessing
which God bestows on us -- a thankful reflection on the goodness of the giver, a
deep sense of the unworthiness of the receiver, and a sober recollection of the
precarious tenure by which we hold it. The first would make us grateful, the
second humble, the last moderate.

But how seldom do we receive his favors in this spirit! As if religious
gratitude were to be confined to the appointed days of public thanksgiving, how
rarely in common society do we hear any recognition of Omnipotence even on those
striking and heart-rejoicing occasions, when "with his own right hand, and with
his holy arm, he has gotten himself the victory!" Let us never detract from the
merit of our valiant leaders, but rather honor them the more for this
manifestation of Divine power in their favor; but let us never lose sight of Him
"who teaches their hands to war and their fingers to fight." Let us never forget
that "He is the rock, that his work is perfect, and all his ways are judgment."

How many seem to show not only their lack of trust in God, but that he is not in
all their thoughts, by their appearing to leave them entirely out of their
concerns, by projecting their affairs without any reference to him, by setting
out on the stock of their own unassisted wisdom, contriving and acting
independently of God; expecting prosperity in the event, without seeking his
direction in the outset, and taking to themselves the whole honor of the
success, without any recognition of his hand! Do they not thus virtually imitate
what Sophocles makes his blustering atheist boast: "Let other men expect to
conquer with the assistance of the gods, I intend to gain honor without them"?

The Christian will rather rejoice to ascribe the glory of his prosperity to the
same hand to which our own manly queen gladly ascribed her signal victory. When,
after the defeat of the Armada, impiously termed invincible, her enemies, in
order to lower the value of her agency, alleged that the victory was not owing
to her, but to God, who raised the storm; she heroically declared that the
visible interference of God in her favor was that part of the success from which
she derived the truest honor.

Incidents and occasions every day arise which not only call on us to trust in
God, but which furnish us with suitable occasions of vindicating, if I may
presume to use the expression, the character and conduct of the Almighty in the
government of human affairs; yet there is no duty which we perform with less
alacrity. Strange, that we should treat the Lord of heaven and earth with less
confidence than we exercise towards each other! that we should vindicate the
honor of a common acquaintance with more zeal than that of our insulted Maker
and Preserver!

If we hear a friend accused of any act of injustice, though we cannot bring any
positive proof why he should be acquitted of this specific charge, yet we resent
the injury offered to his character; we clear him of the individual allegation
on the ground of his general conduct, inferring that from the numerous instances
we can produce of his rectitude on other occasions, he cannot be guilty of the
alleged injustice. We reason from analogy, and in general we reason fairly.

But when we presume to judge of the Most High, instead of vindicating his
rectitude on the same grounds, under a Providence seemingly severe; instead of
reverting, as in the case of our friend, to the thousand instances we have
formerly tasted of his kindness; instead of giving God the same credit we give
to his erring creature, and inferring, from his past goodness, that the present
inexplicable dispensation must be consistent, though we cannot explain how, with
his general character, we mutinously accuse him of inconsistency, no, of
injustice. We admit, virtually, the most monstrous anomaly in the character of
the perfect God.

But what a clue has revelation furnished to the intricate labyrinth which seems
to involve the conduct which we impiously question! It unrolls the volume of
Divine Providence, lays open the mysterious map of Infinite Wisdom, throws a
bright light on the darkest dispensations, vindicates the inequality of
appearances, and points to that blessed region, where, to all who have truly
loved and served God, every apparent wrong shall be proved to have been
unimpeachably right, every affliction a mercy, and the severest trials the
choicest blessings.

So blind has sin made us, that the glory of God is concealed from us by the very
means which, could we discern aright, would display it. That train of second
causes, which he has so marvelously disposed, obstructs our view of himself. We
are so filled with wonder at the immediate effect, that our short sight
penetrates not to the first cause; to see Him as he is, is reserved to be the
happiness of a better world. We shall then indeed admire him in his saints, and
in all those who believe; we shall see how necessary it was for those, whose
bliss is now so perfect, to have been poor, and despised, and oppressed. We
shall see why the "ungodly were in such prosperity." Let us give God credit here
for what we shall then fully know; let us adore now what we shall understand
hereafter.

Those who take up Christianity on a false ground will never adhere to it. If
they adopt it merely for the peace and pleasantness it brings, they will abandon
it as soon as they find their adherence to it will bring them into difficulty,
distress, or discredit. It seldom answers, therefore, to attempt making
proselytes by hanging out false colors. The Christian "endures as seeing him who
is invisible." He who adopts Christianity for the sake of immediate enjoyment
will not do a virtuous action that is disagreeable to himself, nor resist a
temptation that is alluring; present pleasure being his motive. There is no sure
basis for virtue but the love of God in Christ Jesus, and the bright hope for
which that love is pledged. Without this, as soon as the paths of piety become
rough and thorny, we shall stray into pleasanter pastures.

Christianity, however, has her own peculiar advantages. In the transaction of
all worldly affairs there are many and great difficulties. There may be several
ways out of which to choose. Men of the first understanding are not always
certain which of these ways is the best. People of the deepest penetration are
full of doubt and perplexity; their minds are undecided how to act, lest, while
they pursue one road, they may be neglecting another which might better have
conducted them to their proposed end.

In Christianity the case is different, and in this respect easy. As a Christian
can have but one object in view, he is also certain there is but one way of
attaining it. Where there is but one end, it prevents all possibility of
choosing wrong; where there is but one road, it takes away all perplexity as to
the course of pursuit. That we so often wander wide of the mark, is not from any
lack of plainness in the path, but from the perverseness of our will in not
choosing it, from the indolence of our minds in not following it up. In our
attachment to earthly things, even the most innocent, there is always a danger
of excess; but from this danger we are here perfectly exempt, for there is no
possibility of excess in our love to that Being who has demanded the whole
heart. This peremptory requisition cuts off all debate. Had God required only a
portion, even were it a large portion, we might be puzzled in settling the
quantum. We might be plotting how large a part we might venture to keep back,
without absolutely forfeiting our safety! we might be haggling for deductions,
bargaining for abatements, and be perpetually compromising with our Maker. But
the injunction is entire, the command is definite, the portion is unequivocal.
Though it is so compressed in the expression, yet it is so expansive and ample
in the measure; it is so distinct a claim, so imperative a requisition of all
the faculties of the mind and strength, all the affections of the heart and
soul, that there is not the least opening left for litigation; no place for
anything but absolute, unreserved compliance.

Everything which relates to God is infinite. We must, therefore, while we keep
our hearts humble, keep our aims high. Our highest services, indeed, are but
finite, imperfect. But as God is unlimited in goodness, he should have our
unlimited love. The best we can offer is poor, but let us not withhold that
best. He deserves incomparably more than we have to give; let us not give him
less than all. If he has ennobled our corrupt nature with spiritual affections,
let us not refuse their noblest aspirations to their noblest object. Let him not
behold us so prodigally lavishing our affections on the lowest of his bounties,
as to have nothing left for himself. As the standard of everything in
Christianity is high, let us endeavor to act in it with the highest intention of
mind, with the largest use of our faculties. Let us obey him with the most
intense love, adore him with the most fervent gratitude. Let us praise him
according to his excellent greatness. Let us serve him with all the strength of
our capacity, with all the devotion of our will.

Grace being a new principle added to our natural powers, as it determines the
desires to a higher object, so it adds vigor to their activity. We shall best
prove its dominion over us by desiring to exert ourselves in the cause of heaven
with the same energy with which we once exerted ourselves in the cause of the
world. The world was too little to fill our whole capacity. Scaliger lamented
how much was lost because so fine a poet as Claudian, in his choice of a
subject, wanted matter worthy of his talents; but it is the felicity of the
Christian to have chosen a theme to which all the powers of his heart and of his
understanding will be found inadequate. It is the glory of Christianity to
supply an object worthy the entire consecration of every power, faculty, and
affection of an immaterial immortal being.


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  CHAPTER 20: 02.08.     THE HAND OF GOD TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED
========================================================================

THE HAND OF GOD TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED IN THE DAILY CIRCUMSTANCES OF LIFE

If we would indeed love God, let us acquaint ourselves with Him. God has assured
us in His Scriptures that there is no other way to be at peace. As we cannot
love an unknown God, so neither can we know him, or even approach a knowledge of
Him, except on the terms which He Himself holds out to us. Neither will He save
us except by the method which He has Himself prescribed. His very perfections,
those just objects of our adoration, all stand in the way of guilty creatures.
His justice is the flaming sword which excludes us from the Paradise we have
forfeited. His purity is so opposed to our corruptions, His wisdom to our
follies, that were it not for His atoning sacrifice, those very attributes which
are now our trust, would be our terror. The most opposite images of human
conception are required to show us who God is to us in our natural state, and
who He is to us after we become regenerate. The "consuming fire" is transformed
into essential love.

As we cannot know the Almighty perfectly, so we cannot love Him with that pure
flame which animates glorified spirits. But there is a preliminary acquaintance
with Him, an initial love of Him, for which He has equipped us by His works, by
His word, and by His Spirit. Even in this weak and barren soil some germs will
shoot up, some blossoms will open. That celestial plant, when watered by the
dews of heaven, and ripened by the Sun of Righteousness will, in a more friendly
environment, expand into the fullness of perfection, and bear immortal fruits in
the Paradise of God.

A cold and unemotional person, who longs after the fervent love of the supreme
Being he sees in others, may take comfort if he finds a similar indifference in
his worldly attachments. But if his affections are intense towards the
perishable things of earth, while they are dead toward spiritual things, it is
not because he is destitute of passions, but only that they are directed toward
the wrong object. If however, he loves God with that measure of feeling with
which God has endowed him, he will neither be punished nor rewarded for the fact
that his stock is greater or smaller than that of his fellow creatures.

In those times when our sense of spiritual things is weak and low, we must not
give way to distrust, but warm our hearts with the recollection of our better
moments. Our motives to love are not now diminished, but when our spiritual
frame is lower, our natural spirits are weaker. Where there is languor there
will be discouragements. But we must press on. "Faint yet pursuing," must
sometimes be the Christian’s motto.

There is more merit (if ever we dare apply so arrogant a word to our worthless
efforts), in persevering under depression and discomfort, than in the happiest
flow of devotion when the tide of health and spirits runs high. Where there is
less gratification there is less interest. Our love may be equally pure though
not equally fervent when we persist in serving our heavenly Father with the same
constancy, though it may seem that He has withdrawn from us our familiar
consolations. Perseverance may bring us to the very qualities the absence for
which we have longing, "O tarry the Lord’s leisure, be strong and He shall
comfort your heart."

We are too ready to imagine that we are spiritual because we know something of
religion. We appropriate to ourselves the pious sentiments we read, and we talk
as if the thoughts of other men’s heads were really the feeling of our own
hearts. But piety is not rooted in the memory, but in the affections. The memory
provides assistance in this, though it is a bad substitute. Instead of being
elated when we meditate on some of the Psalmist’s more beautiful passages, we
should feel a deep self-abasement on the reflection, that even though our
situation may sometimes resemble his, yet how unsuited to our hearts seem the
ardent expressions of his repentance, the overflowing of his gratitude, the
depth of his submission, the entireness of his self-dedication and the fervor of
his love. But one who indeed can once say with him, "You are my portion," will,
like him, surrender himself unreservedly to His service.

It is important that we never allow our faith, any more than our love, to be
depressed or elevated by mistaking for its operations the ramblings of a busy
imagination. Faith must not look for its character to erratic flights of
fantasy. Once faith has fixed her foot on the immutable Rock of Ages, fastened
her firm eye on the cross, and stretched out her triumphant hand to seize the
promised crown, she will not allow her stability to depend on imagination’s
constant shiftings. She will not be driven to despair by the blackest shades of
anxiety, nor be betrayed into a careless security by its most flattering and
vivid allurements.

One cause for the fluctuations in our faith is that we are too ready to judge
the Almighty as if He were one of us. We judge Him not by His own declarations
of what He is and what He will do, but by our own low standards. Because we are
too little disposed to forgive those who have offended us, therefore we conclude
that God is not ready to pardon our offenses. We suspect Him of being
implacable, because we are apt to be so. When we do forgive, it is usually
grudgingly and superficially, therefore we infer that God will not forgive
freely and fully. We make a hypocritical distinction between forgiving and
forgetting injuries. But God cleans the slate when He grants the pardon. He not
only says, "your sins and your iniquities will I forgive," but "I will remember
them no more."

We are disposed to emphasize the smallness of our offenses, as a plea for their
forgiveness; whereas God, to exhibit the boundlessness of His own mercy, has
taught us to enter a plea directly contrary to that: "Lord, pardon my guilt, for
it is great." To natural reason this argument of David is most extraordinary.
But while he felt that the greatness of his own iniquity left him no human
resource, he felt that God’s mercy was greater even than his sin. What a large,
what a magnificent picture this gives us of God’s power and goodness, that,
instead of pleading the smallness of our own offenses as a motive for pardon, we
plead only the abundance of the divine compassion!

We are told that it is the duty of the Christian to "seek God." Yet it would be
less repulsive to our corrupt nature to go on a pilgrimage to distant lands than
to seek Him within our own hearts. Our own heart is truly an unknown territory,
a land more foreign to us than the regions of the polar circle. Yet that heart
is the place in which we must seek an acquaintance with God. It is there we must
worship Him, if we would worship Him in spirit and in truth.

But alas, the heart is not a home for a worldly man; it is scarcely a home for a
Christian. If business and pleasure are our natural inclinations, the resulting
emptiness, sloth and insensibility—too often worse than the inclinations
themselves, disqualify too many Christians and make them unwilling to pursue
spiritual things.

I have observed that a common beggar if overtaken by a shower of rain, would
rather find shelter under the wall of a churchyard, than to enter through the
open church door while divine services are going on. It is less annoying to him
to be drenched with the storm, than to enjoy the convenience of a shelter and a
seat, if he must enjoy them at the heavy price of listening to the sermon.

While we condemn the beggar, let us look into our own hearts; can we not detect
some of the same indolence, reticence, and distaste for serious things? Do we
not find that we sometimes prefer our very pains, vexations and inconveniences
to communing with our Maker? Happy are we if we would not rather be absorbed in
our petty cares and little disturbances. We too often make them the means of
occupying our minds and of drawing them away from that devout fellowship with
God which demands the liveliest exercise of our rational powers, and the highest
elevation of our spiritual affections. It should be easily understood that the
dread of being driven to this sacred fellowship is a chief cause of that
activity and restlessness which sets the world in such perpetual motion.

Though we are ready to express our general confidence in God’s goodness, what
practical evidences can we produce to prove that we really do trust Him? Does
this trust deliver us from worldly anxiety? Does it free us from the same
agitation of spirits which those who make no such profession endure? Does it
relieve the mind of doubt and distrust? Does it fortify us against temptations?
Does it produce in us "that work of righteousness which is peace," that effect
of righteousness which is "quietness and assurance forever"? Do we commit
ourselves and our concerns to God in word merely, or in reality? Does this
implicit reliance simplify our desires? Does it induce us to credit the
testimony of His word and the promises of His Gospel? Do we not entertain some
secret suspicions of His faithfulness and truth in our hearts when we persuade
others in an attempt to persuade ourselves that we unreservedly trust Him?

In the preceding chapter we endeavored to illustrate how our lack of love for
God is exposed when we are slower to vindicate the divine conduct than to
justify the action of a mere human acquaintance. The same illustration may
express our reluctance to trust in God. If a trusted friend does us a kindness,
though he may not think it necessary to explain the particular manner in which
he intends to do it, we take him at his word. Assured of the result, we are
neither inquisitive about the mode nor the details. But do we treat our Almighty
Friend with the same liberal confidence? Do we not murmur because we do not know
where He is leading us and cannot follow His movements step by step? Do we wait
for the development of His plan in full assurance that the results will be
ultimately good? Do we trust that He is abundantly able to do more for us than
we can ask or think, if by our suspicions we do not offend Him, and if by our
infidelity we do not provoke Him? In short, do we not think ourselves utterly
undone, when we have only Providence to trust in?

We are ready to acknowledge God in His mercies—no, we confess Him in the daily
enjoyments of life. In some of these common mercies, such as a bright day, a
refreshing shower, or delightful scene, we discover that an excitement of
spirits, a sort of carnal enjoyment, though of a refined nature, mixes itself
with our devotional feelings; and though we confess and adore the bountiful
Giver, we do it with a little mixture of self-complacency and human
gratification. Fortunately He pardons and accepts us for this mixture.

But we must also look for Him in scenes less animating; we must acknowledge Him
on occasions less exhilarating, less gratifying to our senses. It is not only in
His promises that God manifests His mercy. His threatenings are proofs of the
same compassionate love. His warnings are intended to snatch us from punishment.

We may also trace His hand not only in the wonderful visitations of life, not
only in the severer dispensations of His providence, but in vexations so trivial
that we should hesitate to recognize that they are providential appointments, if
we did not know that our daily life is made up of unimportant circumstances
rather than of great events. As they are of sufficient importance to exercise
the Christian desires and affections, we may trace the hand of our Heavenly
Father in those daily little disappointments, the hourly vexations which occur
even in the most prosperous circumstances, and which are inseparable from the
condition of humanity. We must trace that same beneficent hand, secretly at work
for our purification and our correction, in the imperfections and unpleasantness
of those around us, in the perverseness of those with whom we transact business,
and in those interruptions which break in upon our favorite engagements.

We are perhaps too much addicted to our innocent delights, or we are too fond of
our leisure, our learning or even of our religious devotion. But while we say
with Peter, "It is good for us to he here," the divine vision is withdrawn, and
we are compelled to come down from the mount. Or perhaps we do not use our time
of prayer for the purposes for which it was granted, and to which we had
resolved to devote it, and our time is broken in upon to make us more sensible
of its value. Or we feel a self-satisfaction in our leisure, a pride in our
books or of the good things we are intending to say or do. A check then becomes
necessary, but it is given in a most imperceptible way. The hand that gives it
is unseen, is unsuspected, yet it is the same gracious hand which directs the
more important events of life. Some annoying interruption breaks in on our
projected privacy and calls us to a sacrifice of our inclination, to a
renunciation of our own will. These incessant tests of our temper, if well
received, may be more salutary to the mind than the finest passage we had
intended to read, or the most sublime sentiment we had fancied to write.

Instead of searching for great mortifications, as a certain class of pious
writers recommends, let us cheerfully bear and diligently receive these smaller
trials which God prepares for us. Submission to a cross which He inflicts, to a
disappointment which He sends, to a contradiction of our self-love which He
appoints, is a far better exercise than great penances of our own choosing.
Perpetual conquests over impatience, ill temper and self-will, indicate a better
spirit than any self-imposed mortifications. We may traverse oceans and scale
mountains on uncommanded pilgrimages without pleasing God. We may please Him
without any other exertion than by crossing our own will.

Perhaps you had been busying your imagination with some projected scheme, not
only lawful, but laudable. The design was basically good, but the involvement of
your own will might interfere and even taint the purity of your best intentions.
Your motives were so mixed that it was difficult to separate them. Sudden
sickness obstructed the design. You naturally lament the failure, not perceiving
that however good the work might be for others, the sickness was better for
yourself. An act of charity was in your intention, but God saw that you should
have required the exercise of a more difficult virtue; that the humility and
resignation, the patience and contrition of a sick bed were more necessary for
you.

He accepts your plan as far as it was designed for His glory, but then He calls
you to other duties, which were more honoring for Him, and of which the Master
was the better judge. He sets aside your work and orders you to wait, which may
be the more difficult part of your task. To the extent that your motive was
pure, you will receive the reward of your unperformed charity, though not the
gratification of the performance. If it was not pure, you are rescued from the
danger attending a right action performed on a worldly principle. You may be the
better Christian, though one good deed is subtracted from your catalogue.

By a life of activity and usefulness, you would have, perhaps, attracted the
public esteem. The love of prestige begins to mix itself with your better
motives. You do not, it is presumed, act entirely, or chiefly for human
applause; but you are too concerned about it. It is a delicious poison which
begins to infuse itself into your purest cup. You acknowledge indeed the
sublimity of higher motives, but you begin to feel that the human incentive is
necessary, and your spirits would flag if it were withdrawn. This yearning for
praise would gradually tarnish the purity of your best actions. He who sees your
heart as well as your works, mercifully snatches you from the perils of
prosperity.

Malice in others may be awakened. Your most meritorious actions are ascribed to
the most corrupt motives. You are attacked just where your character is most
vulnerable. The enemies whom your success raised up, are raised up by God, not
to punish you but to save you. We are far from suggesting that He can ever be
the author of evil; He does not excite or approve the attack, but He uses your
accusers as instruments of your purification. Your fame was too dear to you. It
is a costly sacrifice, but God requires it. It must be offered up. You would
gladly embrace another offering, but this is the offering He chooses. And while
He graciously continues to employ you for His glory, He thus teaches you to
renounce your own. He sends this trial as a test, by which you are to try
yourself. He thus instructs you not to abandon your Christian exertions, but to
elevate the principle which inspired them, to rid it from all impure mixtures.

By thus stripping away the most engaging duties of this dangerous delight, by
infusing some drops of bitterness into our sweetest drink, He graciously compels
us to return to Himself. By taking away the buttresses by which we are
perpetually propping up our sagging self-images, they fall to the ground. We
are, as it were, driven back to Him, who condescends to receive us, though He
knows we would not have returned to Him if everything else had not failed us. He
makes us feel our weakness, that we may resort to His strength. He makes us
sensible of our hitherto unperceived sins, that we may take refuge in His
everlasting compassion.


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  CHAPTER 21: 02.09.     CHRISTIANITY UNIVERSAL IN ITS REQUISITIONS
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CHRISTIANITY UNIVERSAL IN ITS REQUIREMENTS

It is not unusual to see people ignore some of the most solemn demands of
Scripture by acting as if they do not apply to them. They consider these demands
as belonging to the first age of the Gospel and to the individuals to whom they
were immediately addressed. Consequently, they say, the need to observe them
does not apply to "contemporary Christians."

These exceptions are particularly made for some of the most important teachings
so forcibly and repeatedly expressed in the Epistles. Such reasoners persuade
themselves that it was only the Ephesians who were "dead in trespasses and sin."
"It was only the Galatians," they say, who were told "not to fulfill the lusts
of the flesh." It was only the Philippians who were "enemies of the cross of
Christ." Since they know neither the Ephesians, Galatians or Philippians, they
have little or nothing to do with the reproofs or threatenings which were
originally directed to the converts among those people. They console themselves
with the belief that it was only these pagans who "walked according to the
course of this world," who were "strangers from the covenants of promise" and
were "without God in the world."

But these self-satisfied critics would do well to learn that not only
"circumcision nor uncircumcision avails nothing," but neither does "baptism or
no baptism" (I mean as a mere form). The need in both cases is "a new creature."
An irreligious person who professes to be a Christian is as much "a stranger and
foreigner" as is an unbeliever. He is no more "a fellow citizen of the saints
and of the household of God" than a Colossian or Galatian was before the Gospel
came to him.

Before their conversion, the people to whom the apostles preached had no vices
to which we are not also susceptible, but they certainly had difficulties
afterwards from which we are happily exempt. There were indeed differences
between them and us in external situations and local circumstances, and we
should take these into account. We can recognize that the epistles were
addressed to specific situations, but not exclusively so. The purpose of the
Scriptures—the conversion and instruction of the whole world—were far beyond
limitation to any one period. Yes, these first-century converts were called
miraculously "out of darkness into the marvelous light of the Gospel." Yes, they
were changed from gross blindness to illumination. Yes, by embracing the new
faith they were exposed to persecution, reproach and dishonor. They were a few
who had to struggle against the world. The laws, principalities and powers which
support our faith oppose theirs. We cannot lose sight of these distinctions. We
have inherited advantages they never knew.

But however the condition of the external state of the Church might differ,
there can be no difference in the interior state of the individual Christian. On
whatever high principles of devotedness to God and love to man they were called
to act, we are called to act in precisely the same. It may be that their faith
was called to more painful exertions, their self-denial to harder sacrifices and
their renunciation of earthly things to severer trials. But this would naturally
be the case. The first introduction of Christianity had to combat the pride,
prejudices and enmity of corrupt human nature invested with worldly power. Those
in power could not fail to perceive how much this new faith opposed itself to
their corruptions and that it was introducing a spirit in direct and avowed
hostility to the spirit of the world.

We can be deeply thankful that we experience the diminished difficulties of an
established faith, but let us never forget that Christianity allows no
diminishment of the quality or abatement in the spirit which constituted a
Christian in the first ages of the Church.

Christianity is precisely the same religion now as it was when our Savior was on
earth. The spirit of the world is exactly the same now as it was then. And if
the most eminent of the apostles, under the guidance of inspiration, was given
to lament their conflicts with their own corrupt nature (the power of temptation
combining with their natural inclinations to evil), how can we expect that a
weaker faith and slackened zeal will be accepted in us? Believers then were not
called to a more elevated devotion, a higher degree of purity, deeper humility
or greater virtue, patience and sincerity than we are called today. The promises
are not limited to the period in which they were made, and the aid of the Spirit
is not confined to those on whom He was first poured out. Peter expressly
declared that the Holy Spirit was promised not only to them and94 their
children, "but to all who are afar off, even to as many as the Lord our God
shall call."

If the same salvation is now offered as was offered at first, is it not obvious
that it must be worked out in the same way? The Gospel retains the same
authority in all ages. It maintains the same universality among all ranks.
Christianity has no bylaws, no individual exemptions, no individual immunities.
That there is no appropriate way for a prince or a philosopher to achieve his
own salvation is probably one reason why greatness and wisdom have so often
rejected it. But if rank cannot plead its privileges neither can genius claim
its distinctions. Christianity does not owe its success to the arts of rhetoric
or the reason of schools, because God intended by it to make "foolish the wisdom
of the world." This actually explains why the disputers of this world have
always been its enemies.

It would have been unworthy of the infinite God to have imparted a partial
religion. There is but one gate and that a "strait one." There is but one way
and that a "narrow one." The Gospel enjoins the same principles of love and
obedience on all of every condition. It offers the same aids under the same
difficulties, the same supports under all trials, the same pardon to all
penitents, the same Savior to all believers and the same rewards to all who
"endure to the end." The temptations of one condition and the trials of another
may call for the exercise of different qualities for the performance of
different duties, but the same personal holiness is commanded for all. External
acts of virtue may be promoted by some circumstances and impeded by others, but
the graces of inward godliness are of universal force and eternal obligation.

The universality of its requirements is one of Christianity’s most
distinguishing characteristics. In the pagan world it seemed sufficient that a
few exalted people, a few fine geniuses should soar above the mass. But it was
never expected that the mob of Rome or Athens should aspire to any religious
feelings in common with Socrates.

The most incontrovertible proof that "the world did not know God through wisdom"
is furnished by ancient Greece. At the very time and in the very country in
which knowledge and taste had attained their utmost perfection, when education
had given laws to human intellect, atheism first assumed a shape and established
itself into a school of philosophy. It was at the moment when the intellectual
powers of Greece were carried to their highest pitch that it was settled as an
infallible truth in this philosophy that the senses were the highest natural
light of mankind. And it was in the most enlightened age of Rome that this
atheistic philosophy was transplanted there.

It seems as if the most accomplished nations stood in the most pressing need of
the light of revelation; for it was not to the dark corners of the earth that
the apostles had their earliest missions. One of Paul’s first and noblest
expositions of Christian truth was made before the most august assembly in the
world, on the Areopagus in Athens—although it appears that only one person was
converted. In Rome some of the apostle’s earliest converts belonged to the
Imperial Palace. It was to the metropolis of cultivated Italy, to the "regions
of Achaia," to the opulent and luxurious city of Corinth, in preference to the
barbarous countries of the uncivilized world that some of his first epistles are
addressed.

Even natural religion was little understood by those who professed it. It was
full of obscurity until viewed by the clear light of the Gospel. Not only did
natural religion need to be clearly comprehended, but reason itself remained to
be carried to its highest pitch in countries where revelation was professed.
Natural religion could not see itself by its own light, reason could not
extricate itself from the labyrinth of error and ignorance in which false
religion had involved the world. Grace has raised nature. Revelation has given a
lift to reason and taught her to despise the follies and corruptions which
obscured her brightness. If nature is now delivered from darkness, it was the
helping hand of revelation which raised her from the rubbish in which she lay
buried.

Christianity has not only given us right conceptions of God, of His holiness, of
the way in which He would be worshiped, it has really taught us the right use of
reason. It has given us those principles of examining and appraising by which we
are enabled to judge the absurdity of false religions. "For to what else can be
ascribed," says Sherlock, "that in every nation that names the name of Christ,
even reason and nature see and condemn the follies to which others are still,
for want of the same help, held in subjection?"

Suppose, however, that Plato and others seem to have been taught of heaven, yet
the point is that their philosophy made no provision for the common people. The
millions were left to live without knowledge and to die without hope. For what
knowledge or what hope could he acquired from their preposterous though amusing
and elegant mythology? But they provided no common principle of hope or fear, of
faith or practice, no source of consolation, no bond of charity, no communion of
everlasting interests, no equality between the wise and the ignorant, the master
and the slave, the Greek and the barbarian.

A religion was needed which would apply to everyone. Christianity happily filled
the common urgent need. It furnished an adequate answer to the universal
distress. Instead of perpetual but unexpiating sacrifices to appease imaginary
deities, it presents "one oblation once offered, a full, perfect and sufficient
sacrifice, oblation and satisfaction for the sins of the whole world." It
presents one consistent scheme of morals growing out of one uniform system of
doctrines; one perfect rule of practice depending on one principle of faith. It
offers grace for both. It encircles the whole sphere of duty with the broad and
golden zone of charity, stamped with the inscription, "A new commandment I give
unto you, that you love one another."

Were this command uniformly observed, the whole frame of society would be
cemented and consolidated into one indissoluble bond of universal brotherhood.
This divinely enacted law is the seminal principle of justice, charity,
patience, forbearance—in short, of all social virtue. That it does not produce
these excellent effects is not owing to any defect in the principle, but in our
corrupt nature which so reluctantly and imperfectly obeys it. If it were
conscientiously adopted and substantially acted upon, if it were received in its
true spirit and obeyed from the heart, human laws might he rescinded, courts of
justice abolished and treatises of morality burned. War would no longer be an
art, nor military tactics a science. We should be patient and kind, and so far
from "seeking that which is another’s," we would not even seek our own.

But let not the soldier or the lawyer be alarmed. Their expertise is not in
danger! The world does not intend to act upon the divine principle which would
injure their professions, and until this revolution actually takes place, our
fortunes will not be secure without the exertions of the law, nor our lives
without the protection of the military.

All the virtues have their appropriate place and rank in Scripture. They are
introduced as individually beautiful, and as organically connected. But perhaps
no Christian grace was ever more beautifully described than charity. Her
incomparable painter, Paul, has drawn her at full length in all her fair
proportions. Every attitude is full of grace, every feature full of beauty. The
whole portrayal is perfect and entire, lacking nothing.

Who can look at this finished piece without blushing at our own lack of likeness
to it? Perhaps a more frequent contemplation of this exquisite figure,
accompanied with earnest endeavor to become more like it, would gradually lead
us, not simply to admire the picture, but would at length incorporate us into
the divine original.


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  CHAPTER 22: 02.10.     CHRISTIAN HOLINESS
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CHRISTIAN HOLINESS

Christianity, as we have attempted to show, calls for the same standards of
goodness in different stations and in every person. No one can be allowed to
rest in moral laxity and plead his exemption for aiming higher. Those who keep
its standards in their eye, though they may not reach the highest attainments,
will not be satisfied with such as are unworthy. The obvious inferiority will
produce compunction; compunction will stimulate them to press on. Those who lose
sight of their standard, however, will be satisfied with the height they have
already reached. They are not likely to be the object of God’s favor who take
their determined stand on the very lowest step in the scale of perfection, who
do not even aspire above it, whose aim seems to do not be so much to please God
as to escape punishment. Many people will doubtless be accepted, though their
progress has been small. Their difficulties may have been great, their natural
capacity weak; their temptations were strong, and their instruction may have
been defective.

Revelation has furnished injunctions as well as motives to holiness; not only
motives, but examples. "Be therefore perfect" (according to your measure and
degree) "as your Father who is in heaven is perfect." And what says the Old
Testament? It accords with the New: "Be holy, for I the Lord your God am holy."
This was the injunction of God himself, not given exclusively to Moses, the
leader and legislator, or to a few distinguished officers, but to an immense
body of people, even to the whole assembled host of Israel; to men of all ranks,
professions, capacities, and characters, to the ministers of religion and the
uninstructed, to enlightened rulers, and to feeble women. "God," says an
excellent writer, "had already given to his people particular laws suited to
their different needs and various conditions, but the command to be holy was a
general (or universal) law."

"Who is like unto You, O Lord, among the gods? Who is like unto You, glorious in
holiness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?" This is perhaps the most sublime
praise addressed to God which the Scriptures have recorded. The word "holy" is
more frequently affixed to the name of God than to any other. It has been
remarked that the great blasphemy of the Assyrian monarch, Sennacherib, is not
focused on his hostility against the Almighty God, but his crime is aggravated
because he had committed it against the Holy One of Israel.

When God condescended to give a pledge for the performance of His promise, He
swears by His holiness, as if it was the distinguishing quality which was more
especially binding. It seems connected and interwoven with all the divine
perfections. Which of His excellences can we contemplate as separated from this?
Is not His justice stamped with sanctity? It is free from any tincture of
vindictiveness, and is therefore a holy justice. His mercy has none of the
partiality or favoritism, or capricious fondness of human kindness, but is a
holy mercy. His holiness is not more the source of His mercies than of His
punishments. If His holiness in His severities to us needed a justification,
there cannot be a more substantial illustration of it than the passage already
quoted. For God is called "glorious in holiness" immediately after He had
vindicated the honor of His name by the miraculous destruction of the army of
Pharaoh.

Does it not follow "That a righteous Lord loves righteousness," and that He will
require in His creatures a desire to imitate as well as to adore that attribute
by which He Himself wills to be distinguished? We cannot indeed, like God, be
essentially holy. God is the essence of holiness, and we can have no holiness
nor any other good thing unless we derive it from Him. It is His by nature, but
our privilege.

If God loves holiness because it is His image, He must consequently hate sin
because it defaces His image. If He glorifies His own mercy and goodness in
rewarding virtue, He no less vindicates the honor of His holiness in the
punishment of vice. A perfect God can no more approve of sin in His creatures
than He can commit it Himself. He may forgive sin on His own conditions, but
there are no conditions on which He can be reconciled to it. The infinite
goodness of God may delight in the beneficial purposes to which His infinite
wisdom has made the sins of His creatures to serve, but sin itself will always
be abhorrent to His nature. His wisdom may turn it to a merciful end, but His
indignation at the offence cannot be diminished. He loves humankind, for He
cannot but love His own work. He hates sin; for that was man’s own invention,
and no part of the work which God had made. Even in the imperfect administration
of human laws, impunity of crimes would be construed into approval of theirs.

The law of holiness then, is a law binding in all people without distinction,
not limited to the period nor to the people to whom it was given. It reached
through the whole Old Testament period, and extends with wider demands and
higher sanctions, to every Christian of every denomination, of every age and
every country.

A more sublime motive cannot be found as to why we should be holy than because
"the Lord our God is holy." Men of the world have no objection to the terms
virtue, morality, integrity, rectitude, but they associate something
hypocritical with the term "holiness," and neither use it in a good sense when
applied to others, nor would wish to have it applied to themselves, but apply it
with a little suspicion, and not a little derision, to Puritans and
"enthusiasts." This epithet however is surely rescued from every injurious
association if we consider it as the chosen attribute of the Most High. We do
not presume to apply the terms virtue, honesty and morality to God, but we
ascribe holiness to Him because He first ascribed it to Himself, as the
consummation of all His perfections.

Shall so imperfect a being as man then, ridicule the application of this term to
others, or be ashamed of it himself? There is a reason indeed which should make
him ashamed of the appropriation: that of not deserving it. This comprehensive
appellation includes all the Christian graces, all the virtues in their just
proportion, order, and harmony. And as in God, glory and holiness are united, so
the Apostle combines "sanctification and honor" as the glory of man.

Traces of the holiness of God may be found in His works, to those who view them
with the eye of faith. They are more plainly visible in His providences; but it
is in His Word that we must chiefly look for the manifestations of His holiness.
He is everywhere described as perfectly holy in Himself, as a Model to be
imitated by His creatures.

The doctrine of redemption is inseparably connected with the doctrine of
sanctification. As one writer has observed, "If the blood of Christ reconciles
us to the justice of God, the Spirit of Christ is to reconcile us to the
holiness of God." When we are told therefore that Christ is made unto us
"righteousness," we are in the same place taught that He is made unto us
"sanctification"; that is, He is both Justifier and Sanctifier. In vain shall we
deceive ourselves by resting on His sacrifice, while we neglect to imitate His
example.

The glorious spirits which surround the throne of God are not represented as
singing Hallelujahs to His omnipotence, nor even to His mercy, but they
perpetually cry "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts." It is significant, too,
that the angels who adore Him for His holiness are the ministers of His justice.

This infinitely blessed Being then, to whom angels and archangels, and all the
hosts of heaven are continually ascribing holiness, has commanded us to be holy.
To be holy because God is holy, is both an argument and a command: an argument
founded on the perfections of God, and a command to imitate Him. This command is
given to creatures, fallen indeed, but to whom God graciously promises strength
for the imitation. If in God holiness implies an aggregate of perfection, in
humanity, even in our low degree, it is an incorporation of the Christian
graces.

The holiness of God indeed is not limited; ours is bounded, finite, imperfect.
Yet let us dare to extend our little sphere. Let our desires be large, though
our capacities are small. Let our aims be lofty, though our attainments are low.
Let us be careful to see that no day pass without some increase in our holiness,
some added height in our aspiration, some wider expansion in the compass of our
virtues. Let us strive every day for some superiority to the preceding day,
something that shall distinctly mark the passing scene with progress; something
that shall inspire a humble hope that we are less unfit for heaven today than we
were yesterday.

The celebrated artist who has recorded that he passed no day without drawing a
line, drew it not for repetition, but for progress; not to produce a given
number of strokes, but to forward his work, to complete his design. The
Christian, like the painter, does not draw his lines at random. We have a Model
to imitate as well as an outline to fill. Every touch conforms us more and more
to the great Original. He who has transfused most of the life of God into his
soul has copied it most successfully.

"To seek happiness," says one of the Fathers, "is to desire God, and to find Him
in that happiness." Our very happiness therefore is not our independent
possession. It flows from that eternal Mind which is the Source and Sum of
happiness. In vain we look for felicity in all around us. It can only be found
in that original fountain, where we and all we are and have, are derived. Where
then is the imaginary wise man of the school of Zeno? What is the perfection of
virtue supposed by Aristotle? They have no existence but in the romance of
philosophy.

Happiness must be imperfect in an imperfect state. Our Christian faith is
introductory happiness, and points to its perfection; but as the best people
possess it but imperfectly, they cannot be perfectly happy. Nothing can confer
completeness which is itself incomplete. "With You, O Lord, is the fountain of
life, and in Your light only we shall see light."

Whatever shall still remain lacking in our attainments, and much will still
remain, let this last, greatest, highest consideration stimulate our faint
exertions—that God has negatively promised the beatific vision, the enjoyment of
His presence to this attainment—by specifically proclaiming that without
holiness no man shall see His face. To know God is the foundation of that
eternal life which will hereafter be perfected by seeing Him. As there is no
stronger reason why we must not look for perfect happiness in this life than
because there is no perfect holiness, so the nearer we advance toward holiness,
the greater progress we shall make towards perfect happiness. We must cultivate
those tendencies and tempers here which must be carried to perfection in a
happier place.

But since holiness is the essential ingredient of happiness, so must it be its
precursor. As sin has destroyed our happiness, so sin must be destroyed before
our happiness can be restored. Our nature must be renovated before our felicity
can be established. This is according to the nature of things as well as
agreeable to the law and will of God. Let us then carefully look to the subduing
in our inmost hearts all those dispositions that are unlike God, all those
actions, thoughts and tendencies that are contrary to God.

Independently therefore of all the other motives to holiness which our faith
suggests; independently of the fear of punishment, independently even of the
hope of glory, let us be holy from this ennobling, elevating motive, because the
Lord our God is holy. And when our virtue flags, let it be renewed by this
imperative motive, backed by this irresistible argument. The motive for
imitation, and the Being to be imitated seem almost to identify us with
infinity. It is a connection which endears, an assimilation which dignifies, a
resemblance which elevates. The apostle has added to the prophet an assurance
which makes the crown and consummation of the promise, that though we know not
yet what we shall be, "we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is."

In what a beautiful variety of glowing expressions, and admiring strains, do the
Scripture worthies delight to represent God! They speak not only in relation to
what He is to them, but to the supreme excellence of His own transcendent
perfections. Those who dwell with unwearied repetition on the adorable theme
ransack language; they exhaust all the expressions of praise and wonder and
admiration, all the images of astonishment and delight to laud and magnify His
glorious name. They praise him, they bless Him, they worship Him, they glorify
Him, they give thanks to Him for His great glory, saying, "Holy, holy, holy,
Lord God of hosts, Heaven and earth are full of the majesty of Your glory."

They glorify Him in relation to themselves. "I will magnify You, O Lord my
strength. My help comes of God. The Lord Himself is the portion of my
inheritance." At another time soaring with a noble unselfishness and quite
losing sight of self and all created glories, they adore Him for His
excellencies. "Oh the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of
God!" Then bursting to a rapture of adoration, and burning with a more intense
flame, they assemble His attributes: "To the King eternal, immortal, invisible,
be honor and glory forever and ever." One is lost in admiration of His wisdom.
His ascription is "to the only wise God." Another in triumphant strains
overflows with transport at the consideration of the attribute of His holiness:
"Lord, who is like unto You, there is none holy as the Lord. Sing praises unto
the Lord, oh you saints of His, and give thanks unto Him for a remembrance of
His holiness."

The prophets and apostles were not deterred from pouring out the overflowings of
their fervent spirits, they were not restrained from celebrating the perfections
of their Creator through the fear of being called "enthusiasts." The saints of
old were not prevented from breathing out their rapturous Hosannas to the King
of saints, through the cowardly dread of being branded as fanatics. The
conceptions of their minds expanded with the view of the glorious constellation
of the Divine attributes; and the affections of their hearts warmed with the
thought that those attributes were all concentrated in mercy. They display a
sublime oblivion of themselves, forgetting everything but God. Their own needs
dwindle to a point. Their own concerns and the universe itself shrink into
nothing. They seem absorbed in the dazzling brilliance of Deity, lost in the
radiant beams of His infinite glory.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 23: 02.11.     ON THE COMPARATIVELY SMALL FAULTS AND VIRTUES
========================================================================

ON THE COMPARATIVELY SMALL FAULTS AND VIRTUES

The "Fishers of Men," as if exclusively bent on catching the greater sinners,
often make the openings of the moral net so wide that it cannot retain sinners
of more ordinary size which everywhere abound. Their catch might be more
abundant, if the net were woven tighter so the smaller, slipperier sinner could
not slide through. Such souls, having happily escaped entanglement, plunge back
again into their native element, enjoy their escape, and hope for time to grow
bigger before they are in danger of being caught.

It is important to practice the smaller virtues, to avoid scrupulously the
lesser sins, and to bear patiently with minor trials. The sin of always yielding
tends to produce debility of mind which brings defeat, while the grace of always
resisting in comparatively small points tends to produce that vigor of mind on
which hangs victory.

Conscience is moral discernment. It quickly perceives good and evil and prompts
the mind to adopt the one or avoid the other. God has furnished the body with
senses, and the soul with conscience, an instinct to avoid the approach of
danger and a spontaneous reaction to any attack whose suddenness and surprise
allows no time for thoughtful consideration. If kept tenderly alive by paying
continual attention to its admonitions, an enlightened conscience would
especially preserve us from those smaller sins, and stimulate us to those lesser
duties which we are falsely apt to overlook. We are prone to think they are too
insignificant to be judged in the court of faith or too trivial to be weighed by
the standard of Scripture.

By cherishing this quick sense of rectitude—this sudden flash from heaven, which
is in fact the motion of the Spirit—we intuitively reject what is wrong before
we have time to examine why it is wrong, and seize on what is right before we
have time to examine why it is right. Should we not then be careful how we
extinguish this sacred spark? Will anything be more likely to extinguish it than
to neglect its hourly reminders to perform the smaller duties? Will anything
more effectively smother it than to ignore the lesser faults, which make up a
large part of human life, and will naturally fix and determine our character?
Will not our neglect or observance of the voice of conscience incline or
indispose us for those more important duties, of which these smaller ones are
connecting links?

Vices derive their existence from wildness, confusion and disorganization. The
discord of the passions is owing to their having different views, conflicting
aims, and opposite ends. The rebellious vices have no common head. Each is all
to itself. They promote their own operations by disturbing those of others, but
in disturbing, they do not destroy them. Though they are all of one family, they
live on no friendly terms. Extravagance hates covetousness as much as if it were
a virtue. The life of every sin is a life of conflict which causes the torment,
but not the death of its opposite sin.

On the other hand, without being united the Christian graces could not be
perfected. The smaller virtues are the threads and filaments which gently but
firmly tie them together. There is an attractive power in goodness which draws
each part to the other. This harmony of the virtues is derived from their having
one common center in which all meet. In vice there is a strong repulsion. Though
bad men seek each other, they do not love each other. Each seeks the other in
order to promote his own purposes, but at the same time he hates him.

Perhaps the beauty of the lesser virtues may be illustrated by gazing into the
heavens at that long and luminous track of minute and almost imperceptible
stars. Though separately they are too inconsiderable to attract attention, yet
from their number and confluence they form that soft and shining stream of light
which is everywhere discernible.

Every Christian should consider religion as a fort which he is called to defend.
The lowest soldier in the army, if he add patriotism to valor, will fight as
earnestly as if the glory of the whole contest depended on his single arm. But
he brings his watchfulness as well as his courage into action. He strenuously
defends every pass he is appointed to guard, without inquiring whether it be
great or small. There is not any defect in religion or morals so little as to be
of no consequence. Worldly things may be little because their aim and end may be
little. Things are great or small, not according to their apparent importance,
but according to the magnitude of their purpose and the importance of their
consequences.

The acquisition of even the smallest virtue is actually a conquest over the
opposite vice and doubles our moral strength. The spiritual enemy has one
subject less, and the conqueror one virtue more. By being negligent in small
things, we are not aware how much we injure Christianity in the eyes of the
world. How can we expect people to believe that we are in earnest in great
points when they see that we cannot withstand a trivial temptation? At a
distance they may respect of our general characters. Then they get to know us
and discover the same failings, littleness, and bad tempers as they have been
accustomed to encounter in the most ordinary people. Shall not the Christian be
anxious to support the credit of his holy profession by not betraying in
everyday life any temperament that is inconsistent with his faith?

It is not difficult to attract respect on great occasions, where we are kept
faithful by knowing that the public eye is fixed upon us. Then it is easy to
maintain our dignity, but to labor to maintain it in the seclusion of domestic
privacy requires more watchfulness, and is no less a duty for the consistent
Christian.

Our neglect of minor duties and virtues is particularly injurious to the minds
of our families. If they see us "weak and infirm of purpose," peevish,
irresolute, capricious, passionate or inconsistent in our daily conduct, they
will not give us credit for those higher qualities which we may possess and
those superior duties which we may be more careful to fulfill. They may not see
evidence by which to judge whether our thinking is true; but there will be
obvious and decisive proofs of the state and temper of our hearts. Our greater
qualities will do them little good, while our lesser but incessant faults do
them much injury. Seeing us so defective in the daily course of our behavior at
home, though our children may obey us because they are obliged to it, they will
neither love nor esteem us enough to be influenced by our instruction or advice.

In all that relates to God and to himself, the Christian knows of no small
faults. He considers sins, whatever their magnitude, as an offence against his
Maker. Nothing that offends Him can be insignificant. Nothing can be trifling
that makes a bad habit fasten itself to us. Faults which we are accustomed to
consider as small are apt to be repeated without reservation. The habit of
committing them is strengthened by the repetition. Frequency renders us at first
indifferent, and then insensible. The hopelessness attending a long-indulged
custom generates carelessness, until for lack of exercise, the power of
resistance is first weakened, then destroyed.

But there is a still more serious point of view to consider. Do small faults,
continually repeated, always retain their original weakness? Is a bad temper
which is never repressed not worse after years of indulgence than when we first
gave the reins to it? Does that which we first allowed ourselves under the name
of harmless levity on serious subjects, never proceed to profaneness? Does what
was once admired as proper spirit, never grow into pride, never swell into
insolence? Does the habit of loose talking or allowed exaggeration never lead to
falsehood, never move into deceit? Before we positively determine that small
faults are innocent, we must try to prove that they shall never outgrow their
primitive dimensions. We must make certain that the infant shall never become a
giant.

For example, procrastination is reckoned among the most excusable of our faults,
and weighs so lightly on our minds that we scarcely apologize for it. But, what
if, from mere sloth and indolence, we had put off giving assistance to one
friend under distress, or advice to another under temptation. Can we be sure
that had we not delayed we might have preserved the well-being of the one, or
saved the soul of the other?

It is not enough that we perform duties; we must perform them at the right time.
We must do the duty of every day in its own season. Every day has it own
demanding duties; we must not depend upon today for fulfilling those which we
neglected yesterday, for today might not have been granted to us. Tomorrow will
be equally demanding with its own duties; and the succeeding day, if we live to
see it, will be ready with its proper claims.

Indecision, though it is not so often caused by reflection as by the lack of it,
may be just as mischievous, for if we spend too much time in balancing
probabilities, the period for action is lost. While we are busily considering
difficulties which may never occur, reconciling differences which perhaps do not
exist, and trying to balance things of nearly the same weight, the opportunity
is lost for producing that good which a firm and bold decision would have
effected.

Idleness, though itself the most inactive of all the vices, is however the path
by which they all enter, the stage on which they all act. Though supremely
passive itself, it lends a willing hand to all evil. It aids and encourages
every sin. If it does nothing itself, it connives all the mischief that is done
by others.

Vanity is exceedingly misplaced when ranked with small faults. It is under the
guise of harmlessness that it does all its mischief. Vanity is often found in
the company of great virtues, and by mixing itself in it, mars the whole
collection. The use our spiritual enemy makes of it is a master stroke. When he
cannot prevent us from doing right actions he can accomplish his purpose almost
as well by making us vain about them. When he cannot deprive others of our good
works he can defeat the effect in us by poisoning our motive. When he cannot rob
others of the good effect of the deed, he can gain his point by robbing the doer
of his reward.

Irritability is another of the minor miseries. Life itself, though sufficiently
unhappy, cannot devise misfortunes as often as the irritable person can supply
impatience. Violence and belligerence are the common resource of those whose
knowledge is small, and whose arguments are weak. Anger is the common refuge of
insignificance. People who feel their character to be slight, hope to give it
weight by inflation. But the blown balloon at its fullest distension is still
empty.

Trifling is ranked among the venial faults. But, consider that time is one grand
gift given to us in order that we may secure eternal life. If we trifle away
that time so as to lose that eternal life, then it will serve to fulfill the
very aim of sin. A life devoted to trifles not only takes away the inclination,
but the capacity for higher pursuits. The truths of Christianity scarcely have
more influence on a frivolous than on a depraved character. If the mind is so
absorbed not merely with what is vicious, but with what is useless, it loses all
interest in a life of piety. It matters little what causes this lack of
interest. If such a fault cannot be accused of being a great moral evil, it at
least reveals a low state of mind that a being who has eternity at stake can
abandon itself to trivial pursuits. If the great concern of life cannot be
secured without habitual watchfulness, how is it to be secured by habitual
carelessness? It will afford little comfort to the trifler when at the last
reckoning he accuses the more ostensible offender of worse behavior. The trifler
will not be weighed in the scale with the profligate, but in the balance of the
sanctuary.

Some will rationalize and excuse their lesser faults. They may even determine at
what period of their lives such vices may be adopted without discredit, at what
age one bad habit may give way to another more in character. Having accepted it
as a matter of course that to a certain age certain faults are neutral, they
proceed to act as if they even thought them inevitable.

But let us not believe that any failing, much less any vice, is necessarily a
part of any particular state or age, or that it is irresistible at any time. We
may accustom ourselves to talk of vanity and extravagance as belonging to the
young, and avarice and cantankerousness to old, until the next step will be that
we shall think ourselves justified in adopting them. Whoever is eager to find
excuses for vice and folly will feel less able to resist them.

We make a final excuse for ourselves when we ask whether or not the evil is of a
greater or lesser magnitude. If the fault is great, we lament our inability to
resist it, and if small, we deny the importance of doing so. We plead that we
cannot withstand a great temptation, and that a small one is not worth
withstanding. We rationalize that if the temptation or the fault is great, we
should resist it because of its very magnitude, and if it is small, giving it up
can cost but little. The conscientious habit of conquering the lesser sin,
however, will give considerable strength towards subduing the greater.

Then there is the person who, winding himself up occasionally to certain
’shining actions’, thinks himself fully justified in breaking loose from the
shackles of restraint in smaller things. He is not ashamed to gain favor through
good deeds, at the same time permitting himself indulgences which, though
allowed, are far from innocent. He thus secures to himself praise and popularity
by means that are sure to gain it, and immunity from rebuke as he indulges
himself in his favorite fault, practically exclaiming, "Is it not a little one?"

Vanity is at the bottom of almost all, may we not say, of all our sins. We think
more of distinguishing than of saving ourselves. We overlook the hourly
occasions which occur for serving, aiding and comforting those around us, while
we perform an act of well-known generosity. The habit in the former case,
however, better shows the disposition and bent of the mind, than the solitary
act of splendor. The apostle does not say whatever great things you do, but
"whatever things you do, do all to the glory of God." Actions are less weighed
by their bulk than their motive. The racer proceeds in his course more
effectively by a steady unslackened pace, than by starts of violent but unequal
effort.

That great moral law, that rule of the highest court of appeal, to which every
man can always resort is this: "So in everything, do to others what you would
have them do to you." This law, if faithfully obeyed, would be an infallible
remedy for all the disorders of self-love, and would establish the exercise of
all the smaller virtues. Its strict observance would not only put a stop to all
injustice, but to all unkindness; not only to oppressive acts, but to cruel
speech. Even haughty looks and arrogant gestures would be banished from the face
of society if we asked ourselves how we should like to receive what we are not
ashamed to give.

Until we thus morally trade place, person, and circumstance with those of our
brother, we shall never treat him with the tenderness this gracious law enjoins.
To treat a fellow creature with harsh language is not indeed a crime like
robbing him of his estate or destroying his reputation. They are, however, all
the offspring of the same family. They are the same in quality, though not in
degree. All flow from the same fountain, though in streams of different
magnitude. All are indications of a departure from that principle which is
included in the law of love.

The reason those called "religious people" often differ so little from others in
small trials is that instead of bringing religion to their aid in their lesser
vexations, they either allow the disturbances to prey upon their minds, or they
look to the wrong things for their removal. Those who are rendered unhappy by
frivolous troubles, seek comfort in frivolous enjoyments. But we should apply
the same remedy to ordinary trials as to great ones. For just as small anxieties
spring from the same cause as great trials namely, the uncertain and imperfect
condition of human life—so they require the same remedy. Meeting common cares
with a right spirit would impart a smoothness to the temper, a spirit of
cheerfulness to the heart which would mightily break the force of heavier
trials.

You seek help in your faith in dealing with great evils. Why does it not occur
to you to seek it in the less? Is it that you think the instrument greater than
the occasion demands? You would exercise your faith at the loss of your child,
so exercise it at the loss of your temper. As no calamity is too great for the
power of Christianity to mitigate, so none is too small to experience its
beneficial results.

Our behavior under the ordinary accidents of life forms a characteristic
distinction between different classes of Christians. Those least advanced resort
to religion on great occasions. What makes it appear of so little comparative
value is that the medicine prepared by the great Physician is discarded instead
of being taken. The patient does not use it except in extreme cases. A remedy,
however potent, if not applied, can bring no healing. But he who has adopted one
fixed rule for the government of his life, will try to keep the remedy in
perpetual use.

Mundane duties are not great in themselves, but they become important by being
constantly demanded. They make up in frequency what they lack in magnitude. How
few of us are called to carry the doctrines of Christianity into distant lands,
but which of us is not called every day to adorn those doctrines by gentleness
in our own bearing, by kindness and patience to all about us?

Vanity provides no motive for performing unseen duties. No love of fame inspires
that virtue of which fame will never hear. There can be but one motive, and that
the purest, for the exercise of virtues when the report of them will never reach
beyond the little circle whose happiness they promote. They do not fill the
world with our renown, but they fill our own family with comfort. And if they
have the love of God for their motive, they will have His favor for their
reward.

What we refer to here are habitual and unresisted faults: habitual, because they
go by unresisted, and allowed because they are considered to be too
insignificant to call for resistance. Faults into which we fall inadvertently,
though that is no reason for committing them, may not be without their uses.
When we see them for what they are, they renew the conviction of our own sinful
nature, make us little in our own eyes, increase our sense of dependence on God,
promote watchfulness, deepen humility, and quicken repentance.

We must, however, be careful not to entangle our consciences with groundless
apprehensions. We have a merciful Father, not a hard master to deal with. We
must not harass our minds with a suspicious dread, as if the Almighty were
laying snares to entrap us. Nor should we be terrified with imaginary fears, as
if He were on the watch to punish every casual error. Being immutable and
impeccable is not part of human nature. He who made us best knows of what we are
made. Our compassionate High Priest will bear with much infirmity and will
pardon much involuntary weakness.

But every man who looks into his own heart must know the difficulties he has in
serving God faithfully. Yet, though he earnestly desires to serve Him, it is
lamentable that he is not more attentive to remove all that hinders him by
trying to avoid the inferior sins, resisting the lesser temptations, and by
practicing the smaller virtues. The neglect of these obstructs his way, and
keeps him back in the performance of higher duties. Instead of little
renunciations being grievous, and slight self-denials being hardship, they in
reality soften grievances and diminish hardship. They are the private drill
which trains us for public service.

We are hourly furnished with occasions for showing our piety by the spirit in
which the quiet, unobserved actions of life are performed. The sacrifices may be
too little to be observed except by him to whom they are offered. But small
services, scarcely perceptible to any eye but his for whom they are made, bear
the true character of love to God, as they are the infallible marks of charity
to our fellow creatures.

By enjoining small duties, the spirit of which is everywhere implied in the
Gospel, God’s intention seems to be to make the great ones easier for us. He
makes the light yoke of Christ still lighter, not by lessening duty, but by
increasing its ease through its familiarity. These little habits at once
indicate the sentiment of the soul and improve it.

It is an awesome consideration, and one which every Christian should bring home
to our own bosoms, whether or not small faults willfully persisted in, may in
time not only dim the light of conscience, but extinguish the spirit of grace.
Will indulgence in small faults ultimately dissolve all power of resistance
against great evils? We should earnestly seek to remember that perhaps among the
first objects which may meet our eyes when we open them on the eternal world,
may be a tremendous book. In that book, together with our great and actual sins,
may be recorded in no less prominent characters, an ample page of omissions and
of neglected opportunities. There we may read a list of those good intentions,
which indolence, indecision, thoughtlessness, vanity, trifling, and
procrastination served to frustrate and to prevent.


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  CHAPTER 24: 02.12.     SELF-EXAMINATION
========================================================================

SELF-EXAMINATION

In this age of exploration every kind of ignorance is regarded as dishonorable.
In almost every sort of knowledge there is a competition for superiority. It is
true that intellectual attainments are never to be undervalued. All knowledge is
excellent as far as it goes, and as long as it lasts. But how short the period
is before "knowledge will pass away!" Shall we then regard it as dishonorable to
be ignorant in anything which relates to life and literature, to taste and
science, and not feel ashamed to live in ignorance of our own hearts?

To have a flourishing estate, but a mind in disorder; to keep exact accounts
with others, but no reckoning with our Maker; to have an accurate knowledge of
profit or loss in our business, but to remain utterly ignorant as to whether our
spiritual state is improving or declining; to calculate at the end of every year
how much we have increased or diminished our fortune, but to be careless whether
we have gained or lost in faith and holiness—this is a grievous miscalculation
of the comparative value of things. To pay attention to things in an inverse
proportion to their importance is surely proof that our learning has not
improved our judgment.

The distinguishing faculty of self-inspection would not have been given us if it
had not been intended that we should use it regularly. It is surely just as
sensible to look well to our spiritual as to our worldly possessions. We have
appetites to control, imaginations to restrain, tempers to regulate, passions to
subdue, and how can this internal work be done, how can our thoughts be kept
within proper bounds, how can appropriate direction be given to our affections,
how can our inward state be preserved from continual insurrection if we do not
exercise this capacity to inspect ourselves? Without constant discipline,
imagination will become an outlaw and conscience a rebel.

This inward eye is given to us for a continual watch upon the soul. Both the
formation and the growth of our moral and religious character depends upon a
constant vigilance over the soul’s interior movements. A sporadic glance is not
enough for a thing so deep. An unsteady view will not suffice for a thing so
wavering, nor a casual look for a thing so deceitful as the human heart. Such an
object must be observed under a variety of aspects, because it is always
shifting its position, always changing its appearances.

We should examine not only our conduct but our opinions. Our actions themselves
will be obvious enough. It is our inward motivations which require the scrutiny.
These we should follow to their remotest springs, scrutinize to their deepest
recesses, trace through their most perplexing windings. And lest we should in
our pursuit wander in uncertainty and blindness, let us make use of that guiding
clue which the Almighty has furnished by His Word and by His Spirit. He will
conduct us through the intricacies of this labyrinth. "What I know not, teach
me" should be our constant petition in all our researches.

If we would turn our thoughts inward we would abate much of the self-complacency
with which we swallow the flattery of others. If we would examine our motives
keenly, we would frequently blush at the praises our actions receive. Let us
then conscientiously enquire not only what we do, but why we do it.

Self-inspection is the only means to preserve us from self-conceit.
Self-acquaintance will give us a far more deep and intimate knowledge of our own
errors than we can possibly have by curiously inquiring into the errors of
others. We are eager enough to blame them without knowing their motives. We are
just as eager to vindicate ourselves, though we cannot be entirely ignorant of
our own. Thus two virtues will be acquired by the same act of self-examination:
humility and candor. An impartial review of our own infirmities is the likeliest
way to make us tender and compassionate to those of others.

We shall not be liable to overrate our own judgment when we perceive that it
often forms such false estimates. It is so captivated with trifles, so elated
with petty successes, so dejected with little disappointments, that when others
commend our charity, which we know is so cold; when others extol our piety,
which we feel to be so dead; when they applaud the strength of our faith, which
we know to be so faint and feeble, we cannot possibly be intoxicated with the
applause which never would have been given, had the applauder known us as we
know, or ought to know ourselves.

If we contradict him, it may only be to have a further virtue attributed to
us—humility, which perhaps we deserve to have ascribed to us as little as those
which we have been renouncing. If we kept a sharp lookout we would not be proud
of praises which cannot apply to us, but would rather grieve at the fraud we
commit by tacitly accepting a character to which we have so little real
pretension. To be delighted at finding that people think so much better of us
than we are conscious of deserving is in effect to rejoice in the success of our
own deceit.

We shall also become more patient and forgiving, and shall better endure the
harsh judgment of others when we perceive that their opinion of us nearly
coincides with our own real, though unacknowledged, sentiments. There is much
less injury incurred by others thinking too badly of us than in our thinking too
well of ourselves.

It is evident then, that to live at random, without any self-examination, is not
the life of a rational, much less an immortal, least of all an accountable
being. To pray occasionally, without a deliberate course of prayer, to be
liberal without a plan, and charitable without a motive, to let the mind float
on the current of public opinion, to be every hour liable to death without any
habitual preparation for it, to carry within us a soul which we believe will
exist through all the countless ages of eternity, and yet to make little enquiry
whether that eternity is likely to be happy or miserable—all this is totally
thoughtless. If adopted in the ordinary concerns of life, such a way to live
would ruin a man’s reputation for common sense. Yet he who lives without
self-examination is absolutely guilty of this folly.

Nothing more plainly shows us what weak, vacillating creatures we are than the
difficulty we find in holding ourselves to the very self-scrutiny we had
deliberately resolved on. Some trifle which we should be ashamed to dwell upon
at any time intrudes itself on the moments dedicated to serious thought.
Recollection is interrupted. The whole chain of reflection is broken so that the
scattered links cannot again be united. And so inconsistent are we that we are
sometimes not sorry to have a plausible pretense for interrupting the very
employment to which we had just committed ourselves. For lack of this inward
acquaintance, we remain in utter ignorance of our inability to meet even the
ordinary trials of life with cheerfulness.

Nursed in the lap of luxury, we have no notion that we have but a loose hold on
the things of this world, and of the world itself. But let some accident take
away not the world, but some trifle on which we thought we set no value while we
possessed it, we find to our astonishment that we hold, not the world only, but
even this trivial possession with a pretty tight grasp. Such detections of our
self-ignorance ought at least to humble us.

There is a spurious sort of self-examination which does not serve to enlighten
but to blind. People who have given up some notorious vice, who have softened
some shades of a glaring sin, or substituted some outward forms in the place of
open irreligion, may look on their change of character with pleasure. They
compare themselves with what they were and view the alteration with
self-complacency. They deceive themselves by taking their standard from their
former conduct, or from the character of others who are worse, instead of taking
it from the unerring rule of Scripture. He looks more at the discredit than the
sinfulness of his former life. Being more ashamed of what is disreputable than
grieved at what is vicious, he is, in this state of shallow reformation, more in
danger in proportion as he gives himself more credit. He is not aware that
having a fault or two less will not carry him to heaven while his heart is still
glued to the world and estranged from God.

If we ever look into our hearts at all, we are naturally most inclined to it
when we think we have been acting right. In this case, self-inspection gratifies
self-love. We have no great difficulty in directing our attention to an object
when that object presents us with pleasing images.

But it is a painful effort to compel the mind to turn in on itself when the view
only presents subjects for regret and remorse. This painful duty however must be
performed, and will bring more healing in proportion as it is less pleasant. Let
us establish it into a habit to ponder our faults. We need not feed our vanity
with the recollection of our virtues. They will, if that vanity does not
obliterate them, be recorded elsewhere.

We are also most disposed to look at those parts of our character which will
best bear it, and which consequently least need it; at those parts which afford
most self-gratification. If a covetous man, for instance, examines himself,
instead of turning his attention to the guilty part, he applies the probe where
he knows it will not go very deep; he turns from his greed to that abstention of
which his very avarice is perhaps the source. Another, who is the slave of
passion, fondly rests upon some act of generosity, which he considers as a fair
exchange for some favorite vice that would cost him more to renounce than he is
willing to part with.

We are all too much disposed to dwell on that smiling side of the view which
pleases and deceives us, and to shut our eyes upon that part which we do not
choose to see, because we are resolved not to stop that particular sin.
Self-love always holds a screen between the superficial self-examiner and his
faults. The nominal Christian wraps himself up in forms which he makes himself
believe are religion. He exults in what he does, overlooks what he ought to do
and never suspects that what is done at all can be done amiss.

We are usually so indolent that we seldom examine a truth on more than one side,
so we generally take care that it shall be that side which shall confirm some
old prejudices. We will not take pains to correct those prejudices and to
rectify our judgment, lest it should oblige us to discard a favorite opinion. We
are still as eager to judge and as presumptuous to decide as if we fully
possessed the grounds on which a sound judgment may be made, and a just decision
formed.

We should watch ourselves whether we observe a simple rule of truth and justice
in our conversations as well as in our ordinary transactions. Are we exact in
our measures of commendation and censure? Do we not bestow extravagant praise
where simple approval alone is due? Do we not withhold commendation, where if
given, it would support modesty and encourage merit? Do we reprimand as immoral
what deserves only a slight censure as imprudent? Do we not sometimes pretend to
overrate ordinary merit in the hope of securing to ourselves the reputation of
candor, so that we may on other occasions, with less suspicion, depreciate
established excellence? We may be extolling ordinary merit because we think that
it can come into no competition with us, and we denigrate excellence because it
obviously eclipses us.

It is only by scrutinizing the heart that we can know it. Any careless observer
may see that his watch has stopped by casting an eye on its face, but it is only
the expert who takes it to pieces and examines every spring and every wheel
separately. By ascertaining the precise cause of the problem he sets the watch
right and restores the hidden movements.

The illusions of intellectual vision would be corrected by a close habit of
cultivating an acquaintance with our hearts. We fill much too large a space in
our own imaginations and fancy that we take more room in the world than
Providence assigns to an individual who has to divide his allotment with so many
millions who are all of equal importance in their own eyes. The conscientious
practice we have been recommending would greatly assist in reducing us to our
proper dimensions and limiting us to our proper place. We would be astonished if
we could see our real smallness and the speck we actually occupy. When shall we
learn from our own feelings how much consequence every person is to himself or
herself?

Self-examination must not be occasional, but regular. Let us settle our accounts
frequently. Little articles will run up to a large amount if they are not
cleared off. Even our innocent days, as we may choose to call them, will not
have passed without furnishing their measure of faults. Our deadness in
devotion, our eagerness for human applause, our care to conceal our faults
rather than to correct them, our negligent performance of some relative duty,
our imprudence in conversation, especially at table, our inconsideration,
driving to the very edge of permitted indulgences—let us keep all our numerous
items in small sums. We can examine them while the particulars are fresh in our
memory. Otherwise, we may find when we come to settle the grand account, (the
final judgement), that these faults have not been forgotten.

And let one subject of our frequent inquiry be to ask whether, since we last
examined our hearts, our secular affairs or our eternal concerns have had the
predominance. We do not mean which of them occupied most of our time. Naturally,
the larger portion must necessarily be absorbed in the cares of the present
life. What we need to ask is how have we conducted ourselves when a competition
arose between the interests of both.

That general burst of sins which so frequently rushes in on the consciences of
the dying would be much moderated by previous habitual self-examination. The
sorrow must be as precise as the sin. Indefinite repentance is no repentance.
And it is one helpful use of self-enquiry to remind us that all unforsaken sins
are unrepented sins.

To a Christian there is this substantial comfort which follows minute
self-inspection: when we find fewer sins to be noted and more victories over
temptations obtained, we have solid evidence of our advancement which well
repays our trouble.

The faithful searcher into his own heart feels himself in the situation of
Ezekiel, who being conducted in vision from one idol to another, the spirit at
sight of each repeatedly exclaims, "Here is another abomination!" The prophet
was commanded to dig deeper, and the further he penetrated, the more evils he
found, while the spirit continued to cry out, "I will show you yet more
abominations."

Self-examination, by detecting self-love, self-denial by weakening its powers
and self-government by reducing its tyranny, turns the disposition of the soul
from its natural bias, controls the disorderly appetite, and under the influence
of divine grace restores to the person the dominion over himself that God first
gave us over the lower creatures. Desires, passions and appetites are brought to
move somewhat more in their appointed order—as subjects, not tyrants. In the
end, self-examination restores us to dominion over our own will, and in good
measure enthrones us in that empire which we forfeited by sin.

We now begin to survey our interior, the awful world within, not with
complacency but with the control of a sovereign, and we still find too much
rebellion to feel ourselves secure. Therefore we continue our inspection with
vigilance but without agitation. We continue to experience a remainder of
insubordination and disorder, but this calls forth a stricter supervision rather
than driving us to relax our discipline.

This self-inspection somewhat resembles the correction of a literary effort.
After many careful revisions, though some grosser faults may be removed, though
the errors are neither quite so numerous nor so glaring as at first, yet the
critic perpetually perceives faults which he had not perceived before.
Negligences appear which he had overlooked and even defects show up which had
passed as benefits before. He finds much to amend and even to erase in what he
had previously admired. When by rigorous reprimands the most acknowledged faults
are corrected, his critical discernment, improved by exercise and a greater
familiarity with his subject, still detects and will forever detect new
imperfections. But he neither throws aside his work nor leaves off his
criticism. If it does not make the work more perfect, it will at least make the
author more humble. Conscious that if it is not quite so bad as it was, it is
still an immeasurable distance from the desired excellence.

Is it not astonishing that we should go on repeating periodically, "Search me, O
God, and know my faults," yet neglect to examine ourselves? Is there not
something more like defiance than devotion to invite the inspection of
Omniscience to that heart which we ourselves neglect to inspect? How can any of
us as Christians solemnly cry out to God, "Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my thoughts. Point out anything in me that offends you, and
lead me along the path of everlasting life," while we neglect to examine our
hearts and are afraid of testing our thoughts, dreading to ask if there be any
way of wickedness in us, knowing that the inquiry ought to lead to the expulsion
of sin?

In our self-inquisition let us fortify our virtue by calling things by their
proper names. Self-love is particularly ingenious in inventing disguises of this
kind. Let us lay them open, strip them bare, face them and give them as little
quarter as if they were the faults of another. Let us not call wounded pride,
sensitivity. Self-love is made up of soft and sickly sensibilities. Not that
sensibility which melts at the sorrows of others, but that which cannot endure
the least suffering itself. It is alive in every pore where self is concerned. A
touch is a wound. It is careless in inflicting pain, but exquisitely awake in
feeling it. It defends itself before it is attacked, revenges affronts before
they are offered, and resents as an insult the very suspicion of an
imperfection.

In order then to unmask our heart, let us not be content to examine our vices,
let us examine our virtues also, those smaller faults. Let us scrutinize to the
bottom those qualities and actions which have more particularly obtained public
estimation. Let us inquire if they were genuine in the motivation, singular in
the intention, and honest in the prosecution. Let us ask ourselves if in some
admired instances our generosity had any trace of vanity, our charity any taint
of ostentation. We must question whether when we did such a right action which
brought us credit, would we have persisted in doing it if we had foreseen that
it would incur censure?

Do we never deceive ourselves by mistaking a natural slothfulness, for Christian
moderation? Do we never transform our love of ease, into deadness of the world?
Do we make our carnal activity, into Christian zeal? Do we mistake our obstinacy
for firmness, our pride for fortitude, our selfishness for feeling, our love of
controversy for the love of God, and our indolence of temper for deadness to
human applause? When we have stripped our good qualities bare, when we have made
all due deductions for natural temperament, easiness of disposition,
self-interest, desire of admiration, of every nonessential attachment, every
illegitimate motive, let us fairly add up the account; and we shall be mortified
to see how little there will remain.

Pride may impose itself upon us even in the guise of repentance. The humble
Christian is grieved at his faults; the proud man is angry at them. He is
indignant when he discovers he has done wrong, not so much because his sin
offends God, but because it has let him see that he is not quite so good as he
had tried to make himself believe. It is more necessary to stimulate us to the
humbling of our pride than to the performance of certain good actions. The
former is more difficult and it is less pleasant.

That very pride will of itself stimulate to the performance of many things that
are laudable. These performances will reproduce pride since they were produced
by it, whereas humility has no outward stimulus. Divine grace alone produces it.
It is so far from being energized by the love of fame, that it is not humility
until it has laid the desire of fame in the dust.

As we have said, if an actual virtue consists in the dominion over the contrary
vice, then humility is the conquest over pride; charity over selfishness. It is
not only a victory over the natural disposition, but a substitution of the
opposite quality. This proves that all virtue is founded in self-denial and
self-denial in self-knowledge, and self-knowledge in self-examination.

Pride so insinuates itself in all we do and say and think, that our apparent
humility often has its origin in pride. That very impatience which we feel at
the perception of our faults is produced by the astonishment at finding that we
are not perfect. This sense of our sins should make us humble, but not
desperate. It should teach us to distrust everything in ourselves, and to hope
for everything from God. The more we lay open the wounds which sin has made, the
more earnestly shall we seek the remedy which Christ has provided.

But instead of seeking for self-knowledge, we are glancing about us for grounds
for self-exaltation. We almost resemble the Pharisee who with so much
self-complacency delivered the catalogue of his own virtues and other men’s
sins. Or like the Tartars, who thought they possessed the qualities of those
they murdered, the Pharisee fancied that the sins of which he accused the
publican would swell the amount of his own good deeds. Like him we take a few
items from memory, and a few more from imagination.

Instead of pulling down the edifice which pride has raised, we look around on
our good works for buttresses to prop it up. We excuse ourselves from the
accusation of many faults by alleging that they are common, and certainly not
unique to ourselves. This is one of the weakest of our deceits. Faults are not
less personally ours because others commit them. The responsibility for sin can
be divided just as matter can. Is there any lessening of our responsibility for
our sin just because others are guilty of the same?

Self-love is a very diligent motivation, and generally has two concerns in hand
at the same time. It is as busy in concealing our own defects, as in detecting
those of others, especially those of the wise and good. We might indeed direct
its activity in the latter instance to our own advantage, for if the faults of
good men are injurious to themselves, they might be rendered profitable to us,
if we were careful to convert them to their true use. But instead of turning
them into a means of promoting our own watchfulness, we employ them
mischievously in two ways. We lessen our respect for pious characters when we
see the infirmities which are blended with their fine qualities, and we turn
their failings into a justification of our own, which are not like theirs since
ours are overshadowed with virtues. To admire the excellences of others without
imitating them is fruitless admiration. And to condemn their errors without
avoiding them is unprofitable judgment. When we are compelled by our conscience
to acknowledge and regret any fault we have recently committed, this fault so
presses upon our recollection that we seem to forget that we have any other.
This single error fills our mind and we look at it as through a microscope,
which confines sight to that one object exclusively. Other sins indeed are more
effectually shut out because we are examining this one. Thus, while the object
in question is magnified, the others seem as if they did not exist.

It seems to be established into a kind of system not to profit by anything
outside us, and not to cultivate a knowledge of anything within us. Though we
are perpetually remarking on the defects of others, when does the remark lead us
to study and to root out the same defects in our own hearts? Almost every day we
hear of the death of others, but does it induce us to reflect on death as a
thing in which we have an individual concern? We consider the death of a friend
as a loss, but seldom apply it as a warning. The death of others we lament, and
the faults of others we censure, but how seldom do we make use of the one for
our own change, or the other for our own preparation for death?

It is the fashion of the times to try experiments in the arts, in agriculture
and philosophy. In every science the diligent professor is always afraid there
may be some secret which he has not yet attained, some hidden principle which
would reward the labor of discovery, something even which the diligent and
intelligent person has actually found out, but which has before this eluded his
pursuit. Shall the Christian stop short in his scrutiny? Shall he not examine
and inquire until he lays hold on the very heart and core of the faith?

Why should experimental philosophy be the prevailing study while experimental
religion be branded as the badge of enthusiasm, and the jargon of a hollow
profession? Shall we never labor to establish the distinction between appearance
and reality, between studying religion critically and embracing it practically;
between having our conduct creditable and our heart sanctified? Shall we not
aspire to do the best things from the highest motives, and elevate our aims by
our attainments? Why should we remain in the vestibule when the sanctuary is
open? Why should we be content to dwell in the outer courts when we are invited
to enter into the holiest by the blood of Jesus?

Natural reason is not likely to furnish arguments sufficiently convincing, nor
motives sufficiently powerful to drive us to a close self-inspection. Our
corruptions foster this ignorance. To this they owe their undisputed possession
of our hearts. No principle short of Christianity is strong enough to impel us
to a study so disagreeable as that of a study of our faults. Humility is the
prime grace of Christianity, and this grace can never take root and flourish in
a heart that lives in ignorance of itself. If we do not know the magnitude and
extent of our sins, if we do not know the imperfection of our virtues, the
failure of our best resolutions, the sickness of our purest purposes, we cannot
be humble. If we are not humble, we cannot be Christians.

But we can ask, is there to be no end to this vigilance? Is there no assigned
period when this self-denial may become unnecessary? Is there no given point
when we may be freed from this annoying self-inspection? Is the matured
Christian to be a slave to the same drudgery as the novice? The true answer
is—we may cease to watch when our spiritual enemy ceases to assail. We may cease
to be on guard when there is no longer any temptation from without. We may cease
our self-denial when there is no more corruption within us. We may give the
reins to our imagination when we are sure its tendencies will be toward heaven.
We may dismiss repentance when sin is abolished. We may indulge selfishness when
we can do it without danger to our souls. We may neglect prayer when we no
longer need the favor of God. We may cease to praise Him when He ceases to be
gracious to us. To discontinue our vigilance at any time short of this will be
to defeat all the virtues we have practiced on earth and to put in danger all
our hopes of happiness in heaven.


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  CHAPTER 25: 02.13.     SELF-LOVE
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SELF-LOVE

"The idol Self," says an excellent old divine, "has made more desolation among
men than ever was made in those places where idols were served by human
sacrifices. It has preyed more fiercely on human lives than Molech." To worship
images is a more obvious idolatry, but scarcely more degrading than to set up
self in opposition to God. To devote ourselves to this service is as perfect
slavery, as the service of God is perfect freedom. If we cannot imitate the
sacrifice of Christ in His death, we are called to imitate the sacrifice of
Himself in doing His will. Even the Son of God declared, "I came not to do my
own will, but the will of Him who sent me." This was His grand lesson, this was
His distinguishing character.

Self-will is the ever flowing fountain of all the evil which deforms our hearts,
of all the boiling passions which inflame and disorder society; the root of
bitterness on which all its corrupt fruits grow. We set up our own understanding
against the wisdom of God, and our own passions against the will of God. If we
could ascertain the precise period when sensuality ceased to govern the animal
part of our nature, and pride ceased to govern the intellectual part, that
period would form the most memorable era of the Christian life; from that moment
on we begin a new date of liberty and happiness; from that stage we set out on a
new career of peace, liberty and virtue.

Self-love is a Proteus of all shapes, shades and complexions. It has the power
of expansions and contractions as best serves the occasion. There is no crevice
so small through which its subtle essence cannot stretch itself to fill. It is
of all degrees of refinement; so coarse and hungry as to gorge itself with the
grossest adulation, so fastidious as to require a homage as refined as itself;
so artful as to elude the detection of ordinary observers, so specious as to
escape the observation of the very heart in which it reigns paramount. Yet,
though so extravagant in its appetites, it can adopt a moderation which imposes,
a delicacy which veils its deformity, an artificial character which keeps its
real one out of sight.

We are apt to speak of self-love as if it were only a symptom, whereas it is the
disease itself. It is a malignant disease which has possession of the moral
constitution and leaves nothing uncorrupted by its touch. This corrupting
principle pollutes, by coming into contact with it, whatever is in itself great
and noble. The poet, Alexander Pope, erroneously called self-love "a little
pebble that stirred the lake, and made it the well—spring of human progress."
His lines are as follows: Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine, Gives you
to make your neighbor’s blessing thine. Self-love but serves the virtuous mind
to make As a small pebble stirs the peaceful lake.

The Apostle James appears to have been of a different opinion from Pope. James
speaks as if he suspected that the pebble stirred the lake a little too roughly.
He traces this mischievous principle from its birth to the largest extent of its
malign influence. The question, "where come wars and fightings among you?" he
answers by another question: "come they not hence, even of your lusts that war
in your members?"

The same pervading spirit which creates hostility between nations, creates
animosity among neighbors and discord in families. It is the same principle
which, having in the beginning made Cain a murderer in his father’s house, has
been ever since in perpetual operation. It has been transmitted in one unbroken
line of succession through that long chain of crimes of which history is
composed, to the present triumphant spoiler of Europe [Napoleon]. In cultivated
societies, laws repress the overt act in private individuals by punishment, but
the Christian religion is the only thing that has ever been devised to cleanse
the spring.

"The heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked, who can know
it?" This proposition, this interrogation, we read with complacency, and both
the statement and the question being a portion of Scripture, we think it would
not be decent to contradict it. We read it, however, with a secret reservation
that it is only the heart of all the rest of the world that is meant, and we
rarely make the application which the Scripture intended. Each hopes that there
is one heart that might escape the charge, and he makes the single exception in
favor of his own. But if the exception which everyone makes were true, there
would not be a deceitful or wicked heart in the world.

As a theory we are ready enough to admire self-knowledge, but when it comes to
practice, we are as blindfolded as if our happiness depended on our ignorance.
To lay hold on a religious truth, and to maintain our hold, is no easy matter.
We like to have an intellectual knowledge of divine things, but to cultivate a
spiritual acquaintance with them cannot be easily achieved. We can even force
ourselves to believe that which we do not understand more easily than we can
bring ourselves to choose that which crosses our will or our passions. One of
the first duties of a Christian is to endeavor to conquer this antipathy to the
self-denying doctrines against which the human heart so sturdily holds out.

The scholar takes incredible pains for the acquisition of knowledge. The
philosopher cheerfully consumes the midnight oil in his laborious pursuits; he
willingly sacrifices food and rest to conquer a difficulty in science. Here the
labor is pleasant, the fatigue is welcome, the very difficulty is not without
its charms. Why do we react so differently in our religious pursuits? Because in
the most laborious human studies, there is no opposition to the will, there is
no combat of the affections. If the passions are at all implicated, if self-love
is at all concerned, it is rather in the way of gratification than of
opposition.

There is such a thing as a mechanical Christianity. There are good imitations of
religion, so well executed and so resembling as not only to deceive the
spectator but the artist. If properly used, the careful reading of pious books
is one of the most beneficial means to preserve us from the influence of
self-love. These very books, however, in the hands of the lazy and
self-satisfied, produce an effect directly contrary to that which they were
intended to produce, and which they actually do produce on minds properly
prepared for them. They inflate where they were intended to humble. Some
hypochondriacs amuse their melancholy hours by consulting every available
medical book, and fancy they can find their own ailment in the ailment of every
patient, until they believe they actually feel every pain of which they read,
though they read a case diametrically opposite to their own.

So the religious soul, weakened by self-love, may be unreasonably elated when
reading books that describe a religious state far beyond their own. He feels his
spiritual pulse by a watch that has no rhythm in common with it, yet he fancies
that they go exactly alike. He dwells with delight on symptoms, not one of which
belongs to him, and flatters himself with their supposed agreement. He looks in
those books for signs of grace, and he observes them with complete
self-application; he traces the evidences of being in God’s favor, and those
evidences he finds in himself.

Self-ignorance appropriates truths faithfully stated but wholly inapplicable.
The presumption of the novice arrogates to itself the experience of the advanced
Christian. He is persuaded that it is his own case and seizes on the
consolations which belong only to the most elevated piety. Self-knowledge would
correct the judgment. It would teach us to use the pattern held out as an
original to copy, instead of leading us to fancy that we are already wrought
into the likeness. It would teach us when we read the history of an established
Christian, to labor after a conformity to it, instead of mistaking it for the
description of our own character.

Human prudence, daily experience, self-love, all teach us to distrust others,
but all motives combined do not teach us to distrust ourselves; we confide
unreservedly in our own heart, though as a guide it misleads, as a counselor it
betrays. It is both defendant and judge. Self-love blinds the defendant through
ignorance; and moves the judge to acquit through partiality.

Though we praise ourselves for our discretion in not confiding too implicitly in
others, yet it would be difficult to find any friend, neighbor, or even an enemy
who has deceived us so often as we have deceived ourselves. If an acquaintance
betray us, we take warning, are on the watch, and are careful not to trust him
again. But however frequently the bosom traitor deceives and misleads, no such
determined stand is made against his treachery: we lie as open to his next
treachery: we lie as open to his next assault as if he had never betrayed us! We
do not profit by the remembrance of the past delusion to guard against the
future.

Yet if another deceive us, it is only in matters respecting this world, but we
deceive ourselves in things of eternal importance. The treachery of others can
only affect our fortune or our fame, or at worst, our peace; but the eternal
traitor may mislead us to our everlasting destruction. We are too much disposed
to suspect others who probably have neither the inclination nor the power to
injure us, but we seldom suspect our own heart, though it possesses and uses
both.

We ought however fairly to distinguish between the simple VANITY and the
HYPOCRISY of self-love. Those who content themselves with talking as if the
praise of virtue implied the practice, and who expect to be thought good because
they commend goodness, only propagate the deceit which has misled them.
Hypocrisy, on the other hand, does not even believe herself. She has deeper
motives, she has designs to answer, competitions to promote, projects to effect.
But mere vanity can subsist on the thin air of the admiration she solicits,
without intending to get anything by it. She is gratuitous in her loquacity; for
she is ready to display her own merit to those who have nothing to give in
return, whose applause brings no profit, and whose censure no disgrace.
Self-love feels strengthened by the number of voices in its favor, and is less
anxious about the goodness of the work than the loudness of the acclamation.
Success is merit in the eyes of both.

But even though we may put more refinement into our self-love, it is self-love
still. No subtlety of reasoning, no elegance of taste, though it may disguise
the inmost motive, can destroy it. We are still too much in love with flattery
even though we may profess to despise that praise which depends on the
acclamations of the masses. But if we are over-anxious for the admiration of the
better-born and the better-bred, this by no means proves that we are not vain,
it only proves that our vanity has better taste. Our appetite is not coarse
enough perhaps to relish that popularity which ordinary ambition covets, but do
we never feed in secret on the applause of more distinguishing judges? Is not
their having extolled our merit a confirmation of their discernment, and the
chief ground of our high opinion of theirs?

But if any circumstances arise to induce them to change the too-favorable
opinion which they had formed of us, though their general character remain as
unimpeachable as when we most admired them, do we not begin to judge them
unfavorably? Do we not begin to question their claim to that discernment which
we ascribed to them, to suspect the soundness of their judgment on which we had
commented so loudly? We do well if we do not entertain some doubt of the
uprightness of their motive, as we probably question the reality of their
friendship. We do not candidly allow for the effect which prejudice, which
misinformation, which partiality may produce even on an upright mind. Still less
does it enter into our calculation that we may actually have deserved their
disapproval, that something in our conduct may have incurred the change in
theirs.

It is no low attainment to detect this lurking injustice in our hearts, to
strive against it, to pray against it, and especially to conquer it. We may
consider that we have acquired a sound principle of integrity when prejudice no
longer blinds our judgment, when resentment does not bias our justice and when
we do not make our opinion of others correspond to the opinion they entertain of
us. We must have no false estimate which shall incline us to condemnation of
others, or to partiality to ourselves. The principle of impartiality must be
kept sound or our determinations will not be accurate.

In order to strengthen this principle, we should make it a test of our sincerity
to search out and to commend the good qualities of those who do not like us. But
this must be done without affectation, and without insincerity. We must practice
no false candor. If we are not on our guard, we may be seeking praise for our
generosity, while we are only being just. These refinements of self-love are the
dangers only of spirits of the higher order, but to such they are dangers.

The INGENUITY of self-love is inexhaustible. If people extol us, we feel our
good opinion of ourselves confirmed. If they dislike us, we do not think the
worse of ourselves, but of them; it is not we who lack merit, but they who lack
true insight. We persuade ourselves that they are not so much insensible to our
worth, as jealous of it. There is no shift, stratagem, or device which we do not
employ to make us stand well with ourselves.

We are too apt to calculate unfairly in two ways: by referring to some one
signal act of generosity, as if such acts were the common habit of our lives;
and by treating our habitual faults, not as common habits, but occasional
failures. There is scarcely any fault in another, which offends us more than
vanity, though perhaps there is none that really injures us so little. We have
no patience that another should be as full of self-love as we allow ourselves to
be; so full of himself as to have little leisure to pay attention to us. We are
particularly quick-sighted to the smallest of his imperfections which interferes
with our self-esteem, while we are lenient to his more grave offenses which, by
not coming in contact with our vanity, do not shock our self-love.

Is it not strange that though we love ourselves so much better than we love any
other person, yet there is hardly one, however little we value him, that we had
not rather be alone with, that we had not rather converse with, that we had not
rather come to close quarters with, than ourselves? Scarcely one whose private
history, whose thoughts, feelings, actions and motives we had not rather pry
into than our own? Do we not use every art and contrivance to avoid getting at
the truth of our own character? Do we not endeavor to keep ourselves ignorant of
what everyone else knows respecting our faults, and do we not account that man
our enemy who takes on himself the best office of a friend—that of opening to us
our real state and condition?

The little satisfaction people find when they faithfully look within makes them
fly more eagerly to the things without. Early practice and long habit might
conquer the repugnance to look at home, and the fondness for looking abroad. We
might perhaps collect a reasonably just knowledge of our own character if we
could ascertain the real opinions of others concerning us. But that opinion
being, except in a moment of resentment, carefully kept from us by our own
precautions, profits us nothing. We do not choose to know their secret
sentiments because we do not choose to be cured of our error; because we "love
darkness rather than light;" because we conceive that in parting with our
vanity, we should part with the only comfort we have, that of being ignorant of
our own faults.

Self-knowledge would materially contribute to our happiness by curing us of that
self-sufficiency which is continually exposing us to mortifications. The hourly
irritations and vexations which pride undergoes are far more than equivalents
for the short intoxications of pleasure which they snatch.

The enemy within (our deceitful heart) is always in a confederacy with the enemy
without, whether that enemy be the world or the devil. The domestic foe (our
deceitful heart) accommodates itself to their allurements, flatters our
weaknesses, throws a veil over our vices, tarnishes our good deeds, guilds our
bad ones, hoodwinks our judgment, and works hard to conceal our internal springs
of action.

Self-love has the talent of imitating whatever the world admires, even though it
should happen to be Christian virtues. Because we regard our reputation,
self-love leads us to avoid all vices, not only to escape punishment, but
disgrace if we committed them. It can even assume the zeal and copy the activity
of Christian charity. It attributes to our conduct those proprieties and graces
which are manifested in the conduct of those who are actuated by a sounder
motive. The difference lies in the ends proposed. The object of the one is to
please God, of the other, to win the praises of people.

Self-love, judging the feelings of others by its own, is aware that nothing
excites so much odium as its own character would do, if nakedly exhibited. We
feel, by our own disgust at its exhibition in others, how much disgust we
ourselves should excite if we did not clothe it with gentle manners and a
polished address. Where therefore we would not condescend "to take the lowest
place, to think others better than ourselves, to be courteous and pitiful" on
the true Scripture ground, politeness steps in as the accredited substitute of
humility— and the counterfeit "gem" is willingly worn by those who will not go
to the expense of the real jewel.

There is a certain elegance of mind which will often restrain a well-bred man
from sordid pleasures and gross sensualism. He will be led by his good taste
perhaps not only to abhor the excesses of vice, but to admire the theory of
virtue. But it is only the excesses of vice which he will abhor. Exquisite
gratification, sober luxury, incessant but not unmeasured enjoyment form the
principle of his plan of life. If he observes a temperance in his pleasures, it
is only because excess would take off the edge, destroy the zest, and abridge
the gratification.

By resisting gross vice he flatters himself that he is a temperate man and that
he has made all the sacrifices which self-denial imposes. Inwardly satisfied, he
compares himself with those who have sunk into coarser indulgences, and he
enjoys his own superiority in health, credit and unimpaired faculties, and
exults in the dignity of his own character.

There is, if the expression may be allowed, a sort of religious self-deceit and
affectation of humility which is in reality full of self, which is entirely
occupied with self, and which only looks at things as they refer to self. This
religious vanity operates in two ways. First, we not only lash out at the
imputation by others, of the smallest individual fault to ourselves; while at
the same time we pretend to charge ourselves with more corruption than is
attributed to us. On the other hand, while we are lamenting our general lack of
all goodness, we fight for every particle that is questioned by others. The one
quality that is in question always happens to be the very one to which we must
lay claim, however deficient in others. Thus, while renouncing the pretension to
every virtue, "we depreciate ourselves into all." We had rather talk even of our
faults than not occupy the foreground of the canvas.

Humility does not consist in telling our faults, but in willing to be told of
them; in hearing them patiently and even thankfully; in correcting ourselves
when told; in not hating those who tell us of them. If we were little in our own
eyes, and felt our real insignificance, we would avoid false humility as much as
mere obvious vanity. But we seldom dwell on our faults except in a general way,
rarely on those of which we are really guilty. We do it in the hope of being
contradicted, and thus of being confirmed in the secret good opinion we hold of
ourselves. It is not enough that we inveigh against ourselves. We must in a
manner forget ourselves. This oblivion of self from a pure principle would go
further towards our advancement in Christian virtue than the most splendid
actions performed on the opposite ground.

That self-knowledge which teaches us humility teaches us compassion also. The
sick pity the sick. They sympathize with the disorder of which they feel the
symptoms in themselves. Self-knowledge also checks injustice by establishing the
equitable principle of showing the kindness we expect to receive. It represses
ambition by convincing us how little we are entitled to superiority. It renders
adversity profitable by letting us see how much we deserve it. It makes
prosperity safe, by directing our hearts to Him who confers it, instead of
receiving it as the consequence of our own deserving.

We even carry our self-importance to the foot of the throne of God. When
prostrate there we are not required, it is true, to forget ourselves, but we are
required to remember HIM. We have indeed much sin to lament, but we have also
much mercy to adore. We have much to ask, but we have likewise much to
acknowledge. Yet our infinite obligations to God do not fill our hearts half as
much as a petty uneasiness of our own, nor HIS infinite perfections as much as
our own smallest need! The great, the only effectual antidote to self-love is to
get the love of God and of our neighbor firmly rooted in the heart. Yet let us
ever bear in mind that dependence on our fellow creatures is as carefully to be
avoided as love of them is to be cultivated. There is none but God on whom the
principle of love and dependence form but a single duty.


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  CHAPTER 26: 02.14.     ON THE CONDUCT OF CHRISTIANS INTHEIR RELATIONSHIPS WITH THE IRRELIGIOUS
========================================================================

ON THE CONDUCT OF CHRISTIANS IN THEIR RELATIONSHIPS WITH THE IRRELIGIOUS

As serious Christians our relationships with unbelievers should exhibit a
combination of integrity and discretion. We must consider ourselves not only as
having our own reputation, but the honor of Christianity in our keeping. While
we must, on the one hand, set our face as a flint against anything that may be
construed as compromising, denying or concealing any Christian truth in order to
curry favor. We must, on the other hand, be very careful never to maintain a
Christian point of view with an unchristian disposition. When trying to convince
others we must be cautious not to irritate them needlessly. We must distinguish
between upholding God’s honor and vindicating our own pride, and we must be
careful never to stubbornly support the one under the guise of maintaining the
other. The resultant dislike of the messenger will be quickly transferred to his
God, and the adversary’s unfavorable opinion of religion will be magnified by
the faults of its advocate. At the same time the intemperate advocate
disqualifies himself from being of any future service to the person who had been
offended by his offensive manner.

As serious Christians we feel an honest indignation at hearing those truths
treated so lightly on which our everlasting hopes depend. We cannot but feel our
hearts rise at the affront offered to our Maker. But instead of calling down
fire from heaven on the reviler’s head, we should raise a secret supplication to
God, which, if it does not change the heart of the opponent, will not only
tranquilize our own, but soften it toward our adversary. We cannot easily hate
the person for whom we pray.

Those of us who advocate the sacred cause of Christianity should be keenly aware
that our being religious will never atone for our being disagreeable. Our
orthodoxy will not justify our uncharitableness, nor will our zeal make up for
our indiscretion. We must not persuade ourselves that we have been serving God
when we have only been indulging our own resentment. A fiery defense may
actually prejudice the cause we might perhaps have advanced by a more temperate
argument. Keeping a judicious silence when we are being provoked may be painful,
but the pain and grief borne in silence will show real forbearance.

Sometimes we hear unwise Christians boasting about the attacks which their own
indiscretion has invited. With more vanity than truth they apply the strong and
ill-chosen term "persecution" to the sneers and ridicule which some impropriety
on their part has occasioned. Now and then it is to be feared the censure may be
deserved, and the noble defender of the Christian faith may possibly be only
displaying his fallen nature. Even a good man may be blameable in some
instances, for which his censurers will naturally have to keep a keen eye. How
necessary it is on these occasions to remember that our Lord cautioned us to
distinguish for whose sake we are being scorned. Peter also warned us, "If you
are reproached for the name of Christ you are blessed.... But let none of you
suffer as a murderer, or a thief, or a wrongdoer, or a mischief-maker."

This close scrutiny by worldly men of those who profess to be Christians is not
without very important uses. It serves to promote circumspection in the real
Christian, and the detection of those who are insincere, forming a broad and
useful line of distinction between these two classes of characters that are
frequently but erroneously confused.

The world believes, or at least pretends to believe, that the correct and
elegant-minded Christian is oblivious to negative traits such as eccentricity,
bad taste, and a propensity to stray from the straight line of prudence, and his
adversaries delight to see this. But if the more mature Christians tolerate
those infirmities in others, it is not because they do not clearly perceive and
entirely condemn them. We bear with them only for the sake of their zeal,
sincerity and the general usefulness of these imperfect Christians. Their good
qualities are totally overlooked by the censurer, who is ever attempting to
exaggerate the failings which Christian charity laments without excusing.
Compassion bears with them, believing that impropriety is less harmful than
carelessness, bad judgment less harmful than a bad heart, and some little excess
of zeal better than gross immorality or total indifference.

We are not ignorant of how much truth itself offends. It is important therefore,
not to add to the unavoidable offense by mixing the faults of our own character
with the cause we support, because we may be certain that the enemy will take
care never to separate them. He will always maintain the fatal association in
his own mind. He will never think or speak of the Christian faith without
associating it with the real or imputed bad qualities of Christian people he
knows or has heard of.

Let not then the friends of truth unnecessarily increase the number of her
enemies. Let her not have to sustain the assaults which her divine character
inevitably subjects her to, with the infirmities and foibles of her unwise or
unworthy champions. But we sometimes justify our rash behavior under the pretext
that our superior spirituality cannot tolerate the faults of others. The
Pharisee overflowing with wickedness himself, made the exactness of his own
virtue a pretense for looking with horror on the publican, whom our Savior
regarded with compassionate tenderness, while He strongly condemned the
hypocritical attitude of his accuser. "Compassion," says an admirable French
writer, "is that law which Jesus Christ came down to bring to the world, to
repair the divisions which sin has introduced into it; to be the proof of the
reconciliation of man with God, by bringing him into obedience to the divine
law; to reconcile him to Himself by subjugating his passions to his reason; and
finally, to reconcile him to all mankind by curing him of the desire to domineer
over them."

But we disqualify ourselves from becoming the instruments of God in promoting
the spiritual good of anyone if we obstruct the avenue to his heart through our
imprudence. We not only disqualify ourselves from doing good to all whom we
disgust, but should we not take some responsibility for the failure of all the
good we might have done them if we had not forfeited our influence by our
indiscretion? If we do not assist others with their spiritual and bodily needs,
Christ will consider it as not having been done to Himself. Our own reputation
is so inseparably connected with that of Christianity that we should be careful
of one for the sake of the other.

The methods of doing good in society are various. We should sharpen our
discernment to discover them and our zeal to put them in practice. If we cannot
open a man’s eyes to the truth of our faith by our arguments, we may perhaps
open them to its beauty by our moderation. Though he may dislike Christianity in
itself, he may, admiring the forbearance of the Christian, he at last led to
admire the Christian’s God. If he has hitherto refused to listen to the written
evidences of faith, the temperament of her advocate may be evidence of such an
engaging kind that his heart may be opened by the sweetness of the one to the
truth of the other. He will at least allow that Christianity cannot be so bad
when its fruits are so agreeable. The conduct of the disciple may in time bring
him to the feet of the Master. A new combination may be formed in his mind. He
may begin to see what he had supposed as opposites are now being reconciled. He
may begin to couple honesty with Christianity.

But if the mild advocate fails to convince, he may attract. Even if he fails to
attract, he will at least leave on the mind of the adversary such favorable
impressions as may induce him to inquire further. He may be able to engage him
on some future occasion with better results, enlarging on the entrance his
restraint will have obtained for him.

But even if the temperate pleader should not be so fortunate as to produce any
considerable effect on the mind of his antagonist, he is still benefitting of
his own soul. He is at least imitating the faith and patience of the saints; he
is cultivating that meek and quiet spirit which his blessed Master commanded and
commended.

If all bitterness, malice and evil-speaking are expressly forbidden in ordinary
cases, surely the prohibition must more particularly apply in the case of
religious controversy. Suppose Voltaire and Hume had received their impression
of our faith (as one would really suppose they had) from the defenses of
Christianity by their able contemporary, Bishop Warburton. They saw this Goliath
of learning delivering his ponderous blows, attacking with the same powerful
weapons both the enemies of Christianity and also its friends who disagreed with
him on points of faith. He did not meet them as his opponents but pounced on
them as his prey, not seeking to defend himself but delighting in unprovoked
hostility. When Voltaire and Hume saw Warburton’s tactics, would they not
exclaim with pleasure, "See how these Christians hate one another"? On the other
hand, had Warburton’s vast powers of mind and knowledge been sanctified by the
angelic meekness of Leighton, they would have been compelled to acknowledge, if
Christianity is false, it is after all so amiable that it deserves to be true.

If we aspired to furnish the most complete triumph to infidels, contentious
theology would be our best device. They enjoy the wounds the combatants inflict
on each other, not so much from the personal injury which either might sustain
as from the conviction that every attack, however it may end, weakens the
Christian cause. In all engagements with a foreign foe, they know that
Christianity must come off triumphantly, therefore all their hopes are founded
on attacks within Christianity itself.

If a forbearing temper should be maintained towards unbelievers, how much more
towards those who share the same faith. As it is deplorable that there is so
much hostility carried on by good men who profess the same faith, so it is a
striking proof of the contentiousness of human nature that people can overlook
larger problems (slavery, e.g., difficulties that conscience ought not to
ignore) and fight over the smaller details, details so insignificant that the
world would not even know they existed if the disputants were not so impatient
to inform it by their ill-tempered arguments.

While we should never withhold a clear and honest confession of the great tenets
of our faith, let us discreetly avoid dwelling on minor distinctions, since they
do not affect the essentials either of faith or practice. In this way we may
allow others to maintain their opinions while we steadily hold fast our own.

It almost seems that the smaller the point being contested the greater the
hostility. We can remember when two great nations were on the point of war over
a small parcel of land in another hemisphere. It was so little known that the
very name had scarcely reached us, so inconsiderable that its possession would
have added nothing to the strength of either. So in theological disputes, more
stress is often laid on the most insignificant things.

Is this the catholic spirit which embraces with compassion all children of our
common Father without vindicating or approving their faults or opinions, and
like its gracious Author, "would not that any should perish"? A preference for
remote opinions over those close at hand is by no means confined to Christians.

It is a delicate point neither to vindicate the truth in so coarse a manner as
to excite a prejudice against it; nor to make any concessions for the hope of
obtaining popularity. "If it be possible, as much as lies in you, live peaceably
with all men" can no more mean that we should exhibit a false openness which
conciliates at the expense of sincerity, than that we should defend the truth
with such an intolerant spirit that we injure our cause by our own indiscretion.

As the apostle beautifully advises us, every Christian should adorn our
doctrine, not by power, but "by the meekness and gentleness of Christ." But we
must carefully avoid adopting the ornamental appearance of an amiable
temperament as a substitute for true piety. Condescending manners may be one of
the numberless modifications of self-love by which a reputation is often
obtained but which is not fairly earned. Carefully to examine whether we please
others for their edification or in order to gain praise and popularity, is the
bounden duty of a Christian.

We should not be angry with the blind for not seeing, nor with the proud for not
acknowledging their blindness. Perhaps we ourselves were once as blind and as
proud! We, under their circumstances, might have been more perversely wrong than
they are, if we had not been treated by our teachers with more patient
tenderness than we are disposed to exercise towards them. Tyre and Sidon, we are
assured by Jesus Himself, would have repented had they enjoyed the privileges
which Chorazin and Bethsaida threw away. Surely we may, for the love of God and
for the love of our opponent’s soul, do that which well-bred people do through a
concern for politeness. Why should a Christian be more ready to offend against
the rule of charity than a gentleman against the law of decorum? Candor in
judging is like lack of prejudice in acting; both are statutes of the royal law.

Men also feel that they have a right to their own opinions. It is often more
difficult to part with this right than with the opinion itself. If our object be
the good of our opponent, if it be to promote the cause of truth and not to
contend for victory, we shall remember this. We shall consider what value we put
upon our own opinion. Why should our opponent’s opinion, though a false one, be
less dear to him if he believes it true? This consideration will teach us not to
expect too much at first. It will teach us the prudence of seeking some general
point in which we cannot fail to agree. This will let him see that we do not
differ from him for the sake of differing, and our conciliating spirit may bring
him to a willingness to listen to arguments on topics where our disagreement is
wider.

In disputing, for instance, with those who wholly reject the divine authority of
the Scriptures, we gain nothing by quoting them and insisting vehemently on the
proof which is to be drawn from them, to support our point in the debate. Their
unquestionable truth avails nothing to those who will not allow it. But if we
take some common ground on which both parties can stand, and reason from the
analogies of natural religion and the recognized course of God’s providence, to
the ways in which He has declared He will deal with us as revealed in the Bible,
our opponent may be struck with the similarity. He then may be more disposed to
considerations which may end in the happiest manner. He may finally become less
averse to listening to us and accept beliefs which he might otherwise never have
seen as having any value.

Where a disputant cannot endure what he sneeringly calls the strictness of
evangelical religion, he will have no objection to acknowledging the momentous
truths of man’s responsibility to his Maker, of the omniscience, omnipresence,
majesty and purity of God. Strive then to meet him on these grounds and
respectfully ask him if he can sincerely affirm that he is acting upon the
truths he already acknowledges. Is he living and acting in all respects as an
accountable person ought to live and is he really conscious that he is
continually under the eye of a just and holy God? You will find he cannot stand
on these grounds. Either he must be contented to receive the truth as revealed
in the Gospel, or be convicted of inconsistency or self-deceit or hypocrisy. You
will at least make his own ground untenable, if you cannot, indeed, bring him
over to yours. But while the opponent is effecting his retreat, do not cut off
the means of his return.

Some Christians approve Christianity as knowledge rather than as truth. They
like it as it enlarges their view of things, opens to them a wider field of
inquiry, a fresh source of discovery and another topic of critical
investigation. They consider it as extending the limits of their research rather
than as a means of changing their lives. It furnishes their understanding with a
fund of riches on which they are eager to draw, not so much for the improvement
of the heart as of the intellect. They consider it a thesis on which to raise
interesting discussions rather than as promises from which to build a rule of
life.

There is something in the presentation of sacred subjects by these people which
according to our conception is not only mistaken but dangerous. We refer to
their treatment of faith as a mere science divested of its practical
application, taken as a code of philosophical speculation rather than of active
belief. After they have spent half a life upon proofs, which is a mere vestibule
to be passed through on the way into the temple of Christianity, we accompany
them into their edifice and find it composed of materials all too identical with
their former taste. Questions of criticism, grammar, history, metaphysics;
questions of mathematics and sciences meet us in what Paul calls the place where
"charity out of a pure heart and of a good conscience, and of faith unfeigned,
from which" he adds, "some having swerved, have turned aside to vain jangling."

We do not mean to apply this term "jangling" to all scientific discussions of
faith, for we would be the last to deny their use or question their necessity.
Our main objection lies in the supremacy given to such topics by our disputants
and to the spirit too often manifested in their discussions. It is a
preponderance which makes us fear that they consider these things as faith
itself, as substitutes rather than aids and allies of devotion. At the same
time, a cold and philosophical spirit studiously maintained seems to confirm the
suspicion that religion with them is not inadvertently, but essentially and
solely an exercise of the wits, a field for display of intellectual prowess as
if the salvation of souls were a thing of no importance.

These prize fighters in theology remind us of the philosophers of others
schools: we feel as if we were reading Newton against Descartes. The practical
part of religion in short is forgotten, and lost in its theories; and what is
worst of all, a temperament hostile to the spirit of Christianity is employed to
defend or illustrate its positions.

This latter effect might be traced further into another allied cause: the habit
of treating religion as a field of knowledge capable of demonstration. On a
subject supported only by moral evidence, we lament to see questions
dogmatically proved instead of being temperately argued. No, we could almost
smile at the sight of some intricate and barren novelty in religion demonstrated
to the satisfaction of some ingenious theorist who draws upon a hundred
confutations of every position he maintains. The concealed attitudes of the
debate are often such as might make angels weep. Such speculators who are more
anxious to make proselytes to their opinion than converts to a principle will
not be so likely to convince an opponent, as the Christian who is known to act
upon his convictions and whose genuine piety will put life and heart into his
reasonings. The opponent probably knows already all the ingenious arguments
which books supply. Ingenuity therefore will less likely touch them than godly
sincerity, which he cannot help but see that the heart of his antagonist is
dictating to his lips. There is a simple energy in pure Christian truth which a
false motive imitates in vain. The "knowledge which puffs up" will make few real
converts when unaccompanied by the "charity which builds up."

To remove prejudices is the bounden duty of a Christian, but we must take care
not to remove them by conceding our integrity. We must not wound our conscience
to save our credibility. If an ill-bred roughness disgusts another, a dishonest
concession undoes oneself. We must remove all obstructions to the reception of
truth, but truth itself we must not dilute. In clearing away the impediments, we
must secure the principle.

If our own reputation is attacked, we must defend it with every lawful means,
and we must not sacrifice that valuable possession to any demand but of
conscience, to any call but the imperative call of duty. If our good name is put
in competition with any other earthly good, we must preserve it, no matter how
dear the other good may be. But if the competition lies between our reputation
and our conscience, we have no hesitation in making the sacrifice, costly as it
is. Sensitive people feel that their fame is as dear as life itself, but as
Christians we know that it is not life to our souls.

For the same reason that we must not be over-anxious to vindicate our fame, we
must be careful to preserve it from any unjust allegation. Paul has set us an
admirable example in both respects, and we should never consider him in one
point of view without recollecting his conduct in the other. So profound is his
humility that he declares himself "less than the least of all saints." Not
content with his comparative depreciation, he proclaims his actual corruptions.
"In me, that is, in my flesh, there is no good thing." Yet this deep
self-abasement did not prevent him from asserting his own worth by declaring
that he was not behind the very chief of the apostles. Again, "As the truth of
Christ is in me, no man shall stop me of this boasting," he says. He then
enumerates with a manly dignity, tempered with a noble modesty, a multitude of
instances of his unparalleled sufferings and his unrivaled zeal. Where his own
personal feelings were in question, how self-abasing! But where the unjust
imputation involved honor of Christ and the credit of the Christian faith, what
carefulness it wrought in him, yes, what clearing of himself; yes what
indignation, yes, what zeal!

While we rejoice in the promises annexed to the beatitudes, we should be
cautious of applying to ourselves promises which do not belong to us,
particularly that which is attached to the last beatitude. When our fame is
attacked, let us carefully inquire if we are "suffering for righteousness’
sake," or for our own faults. Let us examine whether we may not deserve the
censures we have incurred. Even if we are suffering in the cause of God, may we
not have brought discredit on that holy cause by our imprudence, our obstinacy,
our vanity; by our zeal without knowledge and our earnestness without
moderation? Let us inquire whether our revilers have not some foundation for the
charge, whether we have not sought our own glory more than that of God, whether
we are not more disappointed at missing the praise which we thought our good
works were entitled to bring us, than the wound Christianity may have sustained.
Let us ask whether, though our views were right and pure on the whole, we
neglected to count the cost and expected unmixed approval, uninterrupted success
and a full tide of prosperity, totally forgetting the reproaches received and
the shame sustained by the Man of Sorrows.

If we can acquit ourselves as to the general purity of our motives, the general
integrity of our conduct and the sincerity of our efforts, then we may indeed,
though with deep humility, take to ourselves the comfort of this divine
beatitude. When we find that men only speak evil of us for His sake in whose
cause we have labored, however that labor may have been mingled with
imperfection, we may indeed "rejoice and be exceeding glad." Submission may be
elevated into gratitude and forgiveness into love.


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  CHAPTER 27: 02.15.     CHRISTIAN WATCHFULNESS
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CHRISTIAN WATCHFULNESS

Of all the motives to vigilance and self discipline which Christianity presents,
there is not one more powerful than the danger of a slackening in zeal and
declining devotion. Would that we could affirm that coldness in religion is
confined to the irreligious! If it is melancholy to observe an absence of
Christianity where no great profession of it was ever made, it is far more
grievous to mark its decline where it once appeared not only to exist but to
flourish. We feel the same distinct sort of compassion with which we view the
financial distresses of those who have been always indigent, and of those who
have fallen into poverty from a state of opulence. Our concern differs not only
in degree but in kind.

These changes are a call to awaken watchfulness, humility and self-inspection in
those who think that they stand but need to be vigilant lest they fall. There is
not any one circumstance which ought more to alarm and quicken the Christian
than that of finding oneself growing languid and indifferent after having made a
profession and found progress in the Christian walk. Such indifference gives the
irreligious person reason to suspect that either there never was any truth in
the profession of the person in question, or that there is no truth in religion
itself. Critics will be persuaded that religion is weak and soon exhausted, and
that a Christian’s faith is by no means sufficiently powerful to carry him on
his course. Religion’s detractor is assured that piety is only an outer garment,
put on for show or convenience, and that when it ceases to be needed for either,
it is laid aside. The evil spreads beyond the one indifferent believer, implying
that all religious people are equally unsound or equally deluded, although some
may be more prudent, or more fortunate or greater hypocrites than others. After
one promising believer falls away, the old suspicion recurs and is confirmed,
and the defection of others is thought to be inevitable.

The probability is that the one who fell away never was a sound and genuine
Christian. His religion was perhaps entered into accidentally, built on some
false ground, produced by some ephemeral cause. Although it cannot be fairly
judged that he intended by his profession and prominent zeal to deceive others,
it is probable that he himself was deceived. Perhaps he was too sure of himself;
his early profession was probably rather bold and ostentatious. He may have
imprudently fixed his stand on ground so high that it would not be easily
tenable, and from which a descent would be all too observable. Although at first
he thought he never could be too sure of his own strength, he allowed himself to
criticize the infirmities of others, especially those whom he had apparently
outstripped. Though they had started together, he had left them behind in the
race.

Might it not be a safer course at the outset of the Christian life if a modest
and self-distrusting humility were to impose a temporary restraint on the
bravado of outward profession. A little knowledge of the human heart, a little
suspicion of its deceitfulness, would not only moderate the intemperance of an
ill-understood zeal, but would save the credit of the Christian faith, which
receives a fresh wound from every desertion from her standard.

Some of the most distinguished Christians in this country began their religious
career with this graceful humility. They would not allow their change of
character and their adoption of new principles and a new course, to be blazoned
abroad until the principles they had adopted were established and worked into
their character. Their progress proved to be such as might have been inferred
from the modesty of their beginnings. They have gone on with a perseverance
which difficulties have only strengthened and experience confirmed, and will
through divine aid doubtless go on, shining more and more unto the perfect day.

Now let us return to the less-steady convert. Perhaps religion was only, as we
have hinted elsewhere, one pursuit among many which he had taken up when other
pursuits had failed, and which he now lays down because his faith, not being
rooted and grounded, fails also. It is also possible that the temptations coming
from the outside might coincide with the inner failure. If vanity is his
infirmity, he will recoil from the pointed disapproval of his superiors. If the
love of novelty is his besetting weakness, the very uniqueness and strictness of
religion, which first was attractive, now is repulsive. The flattering attention
which he received, when his life was so different from the manners of the world,
now disgusts him. The very opposition which once animated, now cools him. He is
discouraged by the reality of the required Christian self-denial, which in
anticipation had appeared so delightful. Perhaps his fancy had been fired by
some acts of Christian heroism, which he felt an ambition to imitate. The truth
is, religion had only taken hold of his imagination, his heart had been left out
of the question.

Perhaps religion was originally seen as something only to be believed, but now
he finds that it must be lived. Above all the one falling away did not take into
consideration the CONSISTENCY which the Christian life demands. Whereas warm
affections rendered the practice of some right actions easy at the beginning;
not included in the reckoning were the self-denial, the perseverance, and the
renouncing of one’s own will to which everyone pledges himself who is enlisted
under the banner of Christ. The cross which it was easy to venerate, is found
hard to bear.

On the other hand, a faltering Christian might have adopted religion when he was
in affliction, and he is now happy. It may have been when he was in bad
circumstances, and he is now grown affluent. Or it may have been taken on as
something he needed to add to his recommendation to some party or project with
which he wanted to associate. It may have been something that would enable him
to accomplish certain goals he had in view; or something that, with the new
acquaintance he wished to cultivate, might obliterate certain blemishes from his
former conduct, and whitewash a somewhat sullied reputation.

Now in his more independent situation, it may be that he is surrounded by
temptations, softened by blandishments, allured by pleasures which he never
expected would arise to weaken his resolutions. These new enchantments make it
not so easy to be pious as when he had little to lose and everything to desire,
as when the world wore a frowning, and religion an inviting aspect. Or he is
perhaps, by the "changes and chances" of life, transferred from a sober and
humble society, where to be religious was honorable, to a more fashionable set
of associates, where, as the disclosure of his piety would add nothing to his
credit, he began to take pains to conceal it until it has fallen into that
gradual oblivion which is the natural consequence of its being kept out of
sight.

But we proceed to a far more interesting and important character. While the one
whom we have been slightly sketching may by his inconstancy do much harm, this
person might by his consistency and perseverance achieve indispensable good.
Even the sincere and established Christian needs to keep a vigilant eye upon his
own heart, especially if his situation in life be easy, and his course smooth
and prosperous. If we do not keep our ground, we do not advance in it. Indeed,
it will be a sure proof that we have gone back, if we have not advanced.

In a world so beset with snares even sound Christians may experience a slow but
certain decline in devotion, a decline scarcely perceptible at first, but more
visible in its subsequent stages. Therefore, when we suspect our hearts of any
departure from faithfulness, we should compare ourselves with what we were at
the supposed height of our devotion, and not to any other time. The gradual
progress of decline is observable only when these two remote states are brought
into contrast.

Among other causes of our loss of interest in Christ is the indiscreet forming
of some worldly connection, especially that of marriage. In this union the
irreligious more frequently draw away the religious to their side, rather than
the contrary which is easily understood by those who are at all acquainted with
the human heart.

It is also possible for a sincere but incautious Christian to be led by a strong
affection to make some little sacrifices of principle for the advancement of a
loved one or for the pursual of a cherished cause. It may be observed in passing
that those with the most tender hearts are the most susceptible to these
disconcerting affections.

We must also take precautions against letting the wealth or position of another
believer influence our intent to be honest with them. We become easily deceived
because the film over our spiritual eyes grows gradually thicker, and the change
is imperceptible to us. So we rationalize our diminished opposition to the
faults of a friendly benefactor. We make slight, temporary concessions,
tempering measures which we view now as perhaps too severe, when in fact all we
have in mind is how that person or cause will benefit us. At the same time we
grow cold in the pursuit of the rest of our duties. We begin to lament that in
our present situation we can see only small effects of our labors, not
perceiving that God may have withdrawn his blessing.

Many Christian parents may be similarly shortsighted with their children. In our
plans for their lives we should neither entertain ambitious views, nor consider
methods inconsistent with the strictness of our Christian faith. We must "seek
first the Kingdom of God and his righteousness," avoiding the over-anxious
attitude of many who do not profess our faith. We can cheerfully confide in that
gracious and cheering promise, that God who is "both their sun and shield, who
will give grace and glory, no good thing will He withhold from those who walk
uprightly."

It is one of the trials of faith appended to the sacred office that its
ministers, like Father Abraham are liable to go out "not knowing where they go,"
and this not only at their first entrance into their profession but throughout
life, an inconvenience to which no other profession is necessarily liable, a
trial which is not perhaps fairly estimated.

This remark will naturally raise a laugh among those who at once hold the
ministry in contempt, deride its ministers, and think their well-earned pay
lavishly and even unnecessarily bestowed. They will probably exclaim in a
sarcastic manner, "It is surely a great cause of commiseration to be transferred
from a starving assistantship to a position of financial security, or from the
lower class of a country parish to the high society of an affluent church."

While there is the positive aspect of the change from a state of uncertainty to
a state of independence, from a life of poverty to comfort, or from a marginal
to an affluent provision, we cannot discount the feelings and affections of the
heart. While money may be that chief good of which ancient philosophy says so
much, there are feelings which a man of acute sensibility values more intimately
than silver or gold.

Is it absolutely nothing to resign his local comforts, to break up his local
attachments, to have new connections to form, and that frequently at an advanced
period of life? Connections perhaps less valuable than those he is leaving? Is
it nothing for a faithful Minister to be separated from an affectionate people,
a people not only whose friendship but whose progress has constituted his
happiness here, as it will make his joy and crown of rejoicing hereafter?

Men of delicate minds estimate things by their affections as well as by their
circumstances; to a man of a certain cast of character, a change however
advantageous may be rather an exile than a promotion. While he gratefully
accepts the good, he receives it with an edifying acknowledgment of the
imperfection of the best human things. These considerations we confess add the
additional feelings of kindness to their persons and of sympathy with their
vicissitudes, to our respect and veneration for their holy office.

To themselves, however, the precarious tenure of their situation presents an
instructive emblem of the uncertain condition of human life, of the transitory
nature of the world itself. Their liableness to a sudden removal gives them the
advantage of being more especially reminded of the necessity and duty of keeping
in a continual posture of preparation, having "their loins girded, their shoes
on their feet, and their staff in their hand." They have also the same promises
which supported the Israelites in the desert. The same assurance which cheered
Abraham may still cheer the true servants of God under all difficulties. "Fear
not—I am your shield and your exceeding great reward."

But there are perils on the right hand and on the left. It is not among the
least that though a pious Clergyman may at first have tasted with trembling
caution of the delicious cup of applause, he may gradually grow, as thirst is
increased by indulgence, to drink too deeply of the enchanted chalice. The
dangers arising from anything that is good are formidable, because unsuspected.
And such are the perils of popularity that we will venture to say that the
victorious general who had conquered a kingdom, or the sagacious statesman who
had preserved it, is almost in less danger of being spoilt by acclamation than
the popular preacher; because, although their danger is likely to happen but
once, his is perpetual. Theirs is only on a day of triumph, his day of triumph
occurs every week; we mean the admiration he excites. Every fresh success ought
to be a fresh motive to humiliation; he who feels this danger will vigilantly
guard against swallowing too greedily the indiscriminate and often
undistinguishing plaudits which either his doctrines or his manner, his talents
or his voice may procure for him.

If he is not prudent as well as pious, he may be brought to humour his audience,
and his audience to flatter him with a dangerous emulation, until they will
scarcely endure truth itself from any other lips. No, he may imperceptibly be
led not to be always satisfied with the attention and improvement of his
hearers, unless the attention be sweetened by flattery and the improvement
followed by exclusive attachment. The spirit of exclusive fondness generates a
spirit of controversy. Some of the followers will rather improve in faulty
reasoning to support their views. They will be more busied in opposing Paul to
Apollos than looking unto "Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith."
Religious gossip may substitute for religion itself. A party spirit is thus
generated, and Christianity may begin to be considered as a thing to be
discussed and disputed, to be heard and talked about, rather than as the
productive motivation for virtuous conduct.

We owe, indeed, lively gratitude and affectionate attachment to the Minister who
has faithfully labored for our edification; but the author has sometimes noticed
a manner adopted by some injudicious adherents, especially of her own sex, which
seems rather to erect their favorite into the head of a sect, than to reverence
him as the pastor of a flock. This mode of evincing an attachment, amiable in
itself, is doubtless as distressing to the delicacy of the Minister as it is
unfavorable to religion, to which it is apt to give an air of partisanship.

May we be allowed to remark on the cause of declension in piety in some
ministers who formerly exhibited evident marks of that seriousness in their
lives which they continue to urge from the pulpit. May it not be partly due to
an unhappy notion that the same exactness in his private devotion, the same
watchfulness in his daily conduct, is not equally necessary in the advanced
progress as in the first stages of a religious course? He does not desist from
warning his hearers of the continual necessity of these things, but is he not in
some danger of not applying the necessity to himself? May he not begin to rest
satisfied with the preaching without the practice? It is not probable indeed
that he goes so far as to establish himself as an exempt case, that he slides
from indolence into the exemption, as if its avoidance were not so necessary for
him as for others.

Even the very sacredness of his profession is not without a snare. He may repeat
the holy offices so often that he may be in danger on the one hand of sinking
into the notion that it is a mere profession, or on the other, of so resting in
it as to make it supersede the necessity of that strict personal religion with
which he set out. He may at least be satisfied with the occasional, without the
consistent practice. There is a danger—we advert only to its possibility—that
his very exactness in the public exercise of his function may lead him to little
justifications of his laxity in secret duties. His zealous exposition of the
Scriptures to others may satisfy him, though it does not always lead to a
practical application of them to himself.

But God, by requiring exemplary diligence in the devotion of his appointed
servants, would heap up in their minds a daily sense of their dependence on him.
If he does not continually teach by His Spirit those who teach others, they have
little reason to expect success, and that Spirit will not be given where it is
not sought; or, which is an awful consideration, may be withdrawn where it had
been given and not improved as it might.

Should this unhappily ever be the case, it would almost reduce the minister of
Christ to a mere engine, a vehicle through which knowledge was barely to pass,
like the ancient oracles who had nothing to do with the information but to
convey it. Perhaps the public success of the best men had been, under God,
principally owing to this; that their faithful ministration in the Temple has
been uniformly preceded and followed by petitions in the closet; that the truths
implanted in the one have chiefly flourished from having been watered by the
tears and nourished by the prayers of the other.

We will hazard but one more observation on this dangerous and delicate subject.
If the indefatigable laborer in his great Master’s vineyard, has, as must be the
case, produced the desired effect, where his warmest hopes had been excited—if
he feels that he has not benefited others as he had earnestly desired, this is
precisely the moment to benefit himself, and is perhaps permitted for that very
end. Where his usefulness has been obviously great, the true Christian will be
humbled by the recollection that he is only an instrument. Where it has been
less, the defeat of his hopes offers the best occasion, which he will not fail
to use, for improving his humility. Thus he may always be assured that good has
been done somewhere, so that in any case his labor will not have been in vain in
the Lord.


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  CHAPTER 28: 02.16.     TRUE AND FALSE ZEAL
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TRUE AND FALSE ZEAL

One of the most important ends of cultivating self-knowledge is to discover what
is the real bent of our mind and which are the strongest tendencies of our
character; to discover where our disposition requires restraint, and where we
may be safely trusted with some liberty of indulgence. Our religious fervor
needs the most consummate prudence to restrain its excesses without freezing its
energies.

If, on the contrary, timidity is our natural propensity, we shall be in danger
of falling into coldness and inactivity with regard to ourselves, and into
passive compliance with the request of others, or too easy a conformity with
their habits. It will therefore be an evident proof of Christian self-government
when a man restrains the outward expression of over-ardent zeal where it would
be unseasonable or unsafe; while he will practice the same Christian self-denial
if he has a fearful and diffident character, to burst the fetters of timidity
where duty requires a holy boldness and when he is called upon to lose all
lesser fears in the fear of God.

One of the first objects of a Christian is to get his understanding and his
conscience thoroughly enlightened; to take an exact survey, not only of the
whole comprehensive scheme of Christianity, but of his own nature; to discover,
in order to correct, the defects in his judgment; and to ascertain the
deficiencies even of his best qualities. Through ignorance in these respects,
though he may be following up some good tendency, though he is even persuaded
that he is not wrong in his motive or his purpose, he may yet be wrong in the
scope, the mode, or in the application, though right in the principle. He must
therefore watch over his better qualities with a suspicious eye and guard his
very virtues from deviation and excess.

Zeal is an indispensable ingredient in the composition of a great character.
Without it no great eminence, secular or religious, has ever been attained. It
is essential to the acquisition of excellence in arts and arms, in learning and
piety. Without it no man will be able to reach the perfection of his nature, or
to animate others to aim at that perfection. Yet it will surely mislead the
dedicated Christian if his knowledge of what is right and just does not keep
pace with the principle itself.

Zeal, indeed, is not so much a single virtue, as it is the principle which gives
life and coloring, grace and goodness, warmth and energy to every other virtue.
It is that feeling which exalts the relish of every duty and sheds a luster in
the practice of every virtue. It embellishes every image of the mind with its
glowing tints and animates every quality of the heart with its invigorating
motion. It may be said of zeal that though by itself it never made a great man,
yet no man has ever made himself conspicuously great where it has been lacking.

Many things, however, must concur before we can determine whether zeal is really
a virtue or a vice. Those who are contending for the one or for the other will
be in the situation of the two knights who, meeting on a crossroad, were on the
point of fighting about the composition of a cross that was between them. One
insisted it was gold; the other maintained it was silver. The duel was prevented
by the interference of a passenger who desired them to change their positions.
Both crossed over to the opposite side and found that the cross was gold on one
side and silver on the other. Each acknowledged his opponent to be right.

It may be disputed whether fire be a good or an evil. The man who feels himself
cheered by its kindly warmth is assured that it is a benefit, but he whose house
it has just burned down will give another verdict. Not only the cause,
therefore, in which zeal is exercised must be good, but the zeal itself must be
under proper regulation. If it is not, it will be like the rapidity of the
traveler who gets on the wrong road, carrying him so much the farther out of his
way, or if he be on the right road, will carry him involuntarily beyond his
destination. That degree of zeal is equally misleading which detains us short of
our goal, or which pushes us beyond it.

The Apostle suggests a useful precaution by expressly asserting that it is "in a
good cause" that we "must be zealously affected." This implies a further truth,
that where the cause is not good the mischief is proportionate with the zeal.
But the possibility of misdirected zeal should not totally discourage us from
being zealous.

If the injustice, the intolerance and persecution with which a misguided zeal
has so often afflicted the Church of Christ be lamented as a deplorable evil,
yet the overruling wisdom of Providence, fashioning good out of evil, made those
very calamities the instruments of producing that true and lively zeal to which
we owe the glorious band of martyrs and confessors, those brightest ornaments of
the best periods of the Church. This effect, though a clear vindication of that
divine goodness which allows evil, is no excuse for the one who perpetuates it.

It is curious to observe the contrary operations of true and false zeal, which
though apparently only different modifications of the same quality, are, when
brought into contact, repugnant and even destructive to each other. There is no
attribute of the human mind where the different effects of the same principle
have such a total opposition, for is it not obvious that the same principle
which actuates the tyrant in dragging the martyr to the stake, can under another
direction, enable the martyr to embrace it?

As a striking proof that the necessity for caution is not imaginary, it has been
observed that the Holy Scriptures record more instances of bad zeal than of good
zeal. This furnishes the most authoritative argument for regulating this
impetuous principle, and for governing it by all those restrictions demanded by
a feeling so calculated for good and so capable of evil.

It was zeal, but of a blind and furious character, which produced the massacre
on the day of St. Bartholomew, a day to which the mournful strains of job have
been so well applied: "Let that day perish. Let it not be joined to the days of
the year. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it." It was zeal most
bloody, combined with a perfidy the most detestable, which inflamed the
detestable Catherine de Medici, when she, under the alluring mask of a public
festivity, contrived a general mass of wholesale destruction of some twenty-five
to fifty thousand French Protestants. The royal and pontifical assassins, not
satisfied with the sin, converted it into a triumph. Medals were struck in honor
of a deed which has no parallel in the annals of pagan persecution.

Even glory did not satisfy the pernicious plotters of this direful tragedy.
Devotion was called in to be the crown and consummation of their crime. The
blackest hypocrisy was made use of to sanctify the foulest murder. The iniquity
could not be complete without solemnly thanking God for its success. The Pope
and Cardinals proceeded to St. Mark’s Church, where they praised the Almighty
for so great a blessing conferred on the Pope of Rome and the Catholic world. A
solemn jubilee completed the preposterous pretense. This zeal of devotion was
much worse than even the zeal of murder, as thanking God for enabling us to
commit a sin is worse than the commission itself. A wicked piety is still more
disgusting than a wicked act. God is less offended by the sin itself than by the
thank-offering of its perpetrators. It looks like a black attempt to involve the
Creator in the crime.

For a complete contrast to this pernicious zeal we need not, blessed be God,
travel back into remote history, nor abroad into distant realms. This happy land
of civil and religious liberty can furnish a countless catalog of instances of a
pure, a wise, and a well directed zeal. Not to swell the list, we will only
mention that it has in our own age produced the Society for Promoting Christian
Knowledge, the British and Foreign Bible Society, and the abolition of the
African slave trade. Three as noble and, we trust, as lasting monuments as ever
national virtue erected in true piety. These are institutions which bear the
authentic stamp of Christianity and embrace the best interests of almost the
whole of the habitable globe "without partiality and without hypocrisy."

Why we hear so much in praise of zeal from a certain class of religious
characters is partly owing to their having taken up a notion that zeal is
necessary for the care of other people’s salvation, rather than for their own.
Indeed the casual prying into a neighbor’s house, though much more entertaining,
is not nearly as troublesome as the constant inspection of one’s own. It is
observable that the outcry against zeal among the irreligious is raised on
nearly the same ground as the clamor in its favor by these professors of
religion. The former suspect that the zeal of the religionists is consumed in
censuring their impiety, and in eagerness for their conversion, instead of being
directed to themselves. This supposed anxiety they resent, and they give a
practical proof of their resentment by resolving not to profit by it.

Two very erroneous opinions exist respecting zeal. It is commonly supposed to
indicate a lack of charity; actually it is a firm friend rather than an enemy.
Indeed, charity is such a reliable criterion of its sincerity, that we should be
suspect of zeal which is unaccompanied by this fair ally.

Another opinion equally erroneous is prevalent—that where there is much zeal,
there is little or no prudence. Now a sound and sober zeal is not such an idiot
as to neglect to provide for its own success by taking every precaution which
prudence can suggest. True zeal therefore will be as discreet as it is fervent,
well knowing that its warmest efforts will be neither effectual, nor lasting,
without those provisions which discretion alone can make. No quality is ever
possessed in perfection where its opposite is lacking; zeal is not Christian
fervor, but animal heat, if not associated with charity and prudence.

That most valuable faculty of intellectual man, the judgment, the enlightened,
impartial, unbiased judgment must be kept in perpetual use, both to ascertain
that the cause be good, and to determine the degree of its importance in any
given case, so that we may not blindly assign an undue value to an inferior
good. Without the discrimination we may be fighting a windmill when we fancy we
are attacking a fort! We must prove not only whether the thing contended for be
right, but whether it be essential; whether in our eagerness to attain this
lesser good we may not be sacrificing or neglecting things of more real
consequence; whether the value we assign to it may not be even imaginary.

Above all we should examine if we contend for a cause chiefly because it happens
to fall in with our own feelings or our own party, more than for its intrinsic
worth. We should also consider whether we do not wish to distinguish ourselves
by our tenacity, rather than being committed to the principle itself.

This zeal, hotly exercised over mere circumstantial or ceremonial differences,
has unhappily helped in causing irreparable separations and dissensions in the
Christian world, even where the champions on both sides were great and good
people. Many of the points over which they have argued were not worth insisting
upon where the opponents agreed in the grand fundamentals of faith and practice.

But to consider zeal as a general question, as a thing of everyday experience,
we can say that he whose religious devotion is most sincere is likely to be the
most zealous. But though zeal is an indication, and even an essential part of
sincerity, a burning zeal is sometimes seen where the sincerity is somewhat
questionable.

For where zeal is generated by ignorance, it is commonly fostered by self-will.
That which we have embraced through false judgment we maintain through false
honor. Pride is generally called in to nurse the offspring of error. We
frequently see those who are perversely zealous for points which can add nothing
to the cause of Christian truth, while they are cold and indifferent about the
great things which involve the salvation of man.

Though all significant truths and all indispensable duties are made so obvious
in the Bible that those "may run who read it," people tend to argue over issues
that are unworthy of the heat they excite. Different systems are built on the
same texts, so that he who fights for them is not always sure whether he is
right or not, and if he wins his point, he can make no moral use of his victory.
The correctness of his argument indeed is not his concern. It is enough that he
has conquered. The importance of the object never depended on its worth, but on
the opinion of his right to maintain that worth.

The Gospel assigns very different degrees of importance to allowed practices and
commanded duties. It by no means censures those who were rigorous in their
payment of the most inconsiderable tithes; but since this duty was not only
competing with, but preferred before the most important duties, even justice,
mercy and faith, the flagrant hypocrisy was pointedly censured by Meekness
itself. This opposition of a scrupulous exactness in paying the petty demand on
three paltry herbs to the neglect of the three cardinal Christian virtues,
exhibits as complete and instructive a specimen as can be imagined of that
frivolous and false zeal which, vanishing in trifles, wholly overlooks those
grand points on which hangs eternal life. This passage serves to corroborate a
striking fact, that there is scarcely in Scripture any precept enforced which
has not some actual example attached to it. The historical parts of the Bible,
therefore, are of inestimable value, were it only on this single ground, that
the appended truths and principles so abundantly scattered throughout them are
in general so happily illustrated by them. They are not dry aphorisms and cold
propositions, which stand singly and disconnected, but precepts growing out of
the occasion. The recollection of the principles recalls to mind the instructive
story which they enrich, while the reminder of the circumstance impresses the
lesson upon the heart. Thus the doctrine like a precious gem is at once
preserved and embellished by the narrative being made a frame in which to
enshrine it.

True zeal will first exercise itself in the earnest desire to obtain greater
illumination in our own minds; in fervent prayer that the growing light may
operate to the improvement of our conduct; that the influences of divine grace
may become more outwardly perceptible by the increasing correctness of our
behavior; that every holy affection may be followed by its correspondent act,
whether of obedience or of resignation, of doing, or of suffering.

But the effects of a genuine and enlightened zeal will not stop here. It will be
visible in our discourse with those to whom we may possibly be of help. The
exercise of our zeal, when not done with a bustling kind of interference and
offensive forwardness, is proper and useful. Wherever zeal appears, it will be
clearly visible, in the same way that a fire will emit both light and heat. We
should labor principally to maintain in our own minds the attitudes which our
faith has initiated there. The brightest flame will decay if no means are used
to keep it alive. Pure zeal will cherish every holy affection, and by increasing
every pious disposition will move us to every duty. It will add new force to our
hatred of sin, fresh contrition to our repentance, additional vigor to our
resolutions, and will impart increased energy to every virtue. It will give life
to our devotions, and spirit to all our actions.

When a true zeal has fixed these right affections in our own hearts, the same
principle will, as we have already observed, make us earnest to excite them in
others. No good man wishes to go to heaven alone, and none ever wished others to
go there without earnestly endeavoring to awaken right affections in them. That
will be a false zeal which does not begin with the regulation of our own hearts.
That will be a narrow zeal which stops where it begins. A true zeal will extend
itself through the whole sphere of its possessor’s influence. Christian zeal,
like Christian charity, will begin at home, but neither the one nor the other
must end there.

But that we must not confine our zeal to mere conversation is not only implied
but expressed in Scripture. The apostle does not exhort us to be zealous only of
good words but or good works. True zeal ever produces true benevolence. It would
extend the blessings which we ourselves enjoy to the whole human race. It will
consequently stir us up to exert all our influence to the extension of religion,
to the advancement of every well conceived and well conducted plan, calculated
to enlarge the limits of human happiness, and more especially to promote the
eternal interests of humankind.

But if we do not first strenuously labor for our own illumination, how shall we
presume to enlighten others? It is a dangerous presumption to busy ourselves in
improving others before we have diligently sought our own improvement. Yet it is
a vanity not uncommon that the first feelings, be they true or false, which
resemble devotion, the first faint ray of knowledge which has imperfectly
dawned, excites in certain raw minds an eager impatience to communicate to
others what they themselves have not yet attained. Hence the novel swarms of
uninstructed instructors, of teachers who have had no time to learn. The act
previous to the imparting knowledge should seem to be that of acquiring it.
Nothing would so effectually check an irregular zeal for a temperate zeal, as
the personal discipline, the self-acquaintance which we have so repeatedly
recommended.

True Christian zeal will always be known by its distinguishing and inseparable
properties. It will be warm indeed, not from temperament but principle. It will
be humble, or it will not be Christian zeal. It will restrain its impetuosity
that it may the more effectually promote its object. It will be temperate,
softening what is strong in the act by gentleness in the manner. It will be
tolerating, willing to grant what it would itself desire. It will be forbearing,
in the hope that the offence it seeks to correct may be an occasional lapse
rather than a habit of the mind. It will be candid, making a tender allowance
for those imperfections which beings, fallible themselves, ought to expect from
human infirmity. It will be a friendly admonishment, instead of irritating by
the adoption of violence, instead of mortifying by the assumption of
superiority.

He, who in private society allows himself in violent anger or unhallowed
bitterness or acrimonious railing to reprehend the faults of another, might, did
his power keep pace with his inclination, have recourse to other weapons. He
would probably banish and burn, confiscate and imprison, and think then, as he
thinks now, that he is doing God service.

If there be any quality which demands clear sight, a tight rein and a strict
watchfulness, zeal is that quality. The heart where zeal is lacking has no true
life, where it is not guarded, no security. The prudence with which zeal is
exercised is the surest evidence of its integrity; for if intemperate, it raises
enemies not only to ourselves but to God. It augments the natural enmity to
religion instead of increasing her friends.

But if tempered by charity, if blended with benevolence, if sweetened by
kindness, if shown to be honest by its influence on your own conduct, and gentle
by its effect on your manners, zeal may lead your irreligious acquaintance to
inquire more closely to what distinguishes them from you. You will already by
this mildness have won their affections. Your next step may be to gain over
their judgment. They may be led to examine what solid grounds of difference
exist between us and them, what substantial reason you have for not going their
way, and what sound argument they can offer for not going yours.

But it may possibly be asked, after all, where do we perceive any symptoms of
this inflammatory distemper? Should not the prevalence, or at least the
existence of a disease be ascertained before applying the remedy? That an
illness exists is sufficiently obvious, though it must be confessed that among
the higher classes it has not hitherto spread very widely. Its progress is not
likely to be very alarming, nor its effects very malignant. It is to be lamented
that in every class indeed, coldness and indifference, carelessness and neglect,
are the reigning epidemics. These are diseases far more difficult to cure,
diseases as dangerous to the patient as they are distressing to the physician,
who generally finds it more difficult to raise a sluggish habit than to lower an
occasional heat. The imprudently zealous man, if he be sincere, may by a
discreet regimen, be brought to a state of complete sanity; but to rouse from a
state of morbid indifference, to brace from a total relaxation of the system,
must be the immediate work of the Great Physician of souls; of Him who can
effect even this, by His spirit accompanying this powerful word: "Awake, you
that sheep, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give you light."


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  CHAPTER 29: 02.17.     INSENSIBILITY TO ETERNAL THINGS
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INSENSIBILITY TO ETERNAL THINGS

Insensibility to eternal things in beings who are standing on the brink of
eternity is a madness which would be considered a wonder if it were not so
common. Suppose we had the prospect of inheriting a great estate and a splendid
mansion which we knew would be ours in a few days, and in the meantime we rented
a paltry cottage in bad repair, ready to fall, and from which we knew we must at
all events soon be turned out. Would it be wisdom or common sense to overlook
totally our near and noble inheritance and to be so fondly attached to our
falling tenement that we spent a great part of our time and thoughts in
supporting its ruins by props, and concealing its decay by decorations? To be so
absorbed in the little sordid pleasures of this frail abode so as not even to
cultivate a taste for the delights of the mansion where such treasures are laid
up for us—this is an excess of folly which must be seen to be believed.

It is a striking fact that the recognized uncertainty of life drives worldly
people to make sure of everything except their eternal concerns. It leads them
to be up-to-date in their accounts and exact in their transactions. They are
afraid of risking even a little property on so precarious a thing as life,
without insuring their inheritance. There are some who even speculate on the
uncertainty of life as a trade. It is strange that this accurate calculation of
the duration of life should not involve a serious attention to its end! Strange,
too, that in the prudent care not to risk a fraction of property, equal care
should not be taken not to risk eternal salvation!

We are not speaking here of grossly wicked people. We are not supposing that
their wealth has been obtained by injustice or increased by oppression. We are
only describing a soul drawn aside from God by the alluring baits of the world.
The shining bangles are obtained, but the race is lost!

To worldly people of a more serious nature, business may be as formidable an
enemy of the soul as pleasure is to those of a lighter character. Business has
so sober an air that it looks like virtue, and virtuous it certainly is when
carried on in a proper spirit with due moderation in the fear of God. To have a
lawful employment and to pursue it with diligence is not only right and
honorable in itself, but is one of the best safeguards against temptation.

We can point out the diligence that business demands, the self-denying practices
it imposes, the patience, regularity and industry indispensable to its success.
These are habits of virtue that are a daily discipline to a moral person in
business. The world, as a matter of fact, could not survive without business.
But attention paid to these realities often detracts us from interests in the
eternal world, when we can neglect to lay up a treasure in heaven in order to
lay up the treasure of earth—a supply which we perhaps do not need and do not
intend to use. In this case we are a bad judge of the relative value of things.

Business has an honorable aspect in that it is opposed to idleness, the most
hopeless offspring of the whole progeny of sin. People in business, comparing
themselves with those who squander their living, feel a fair and natural
consciousness of their own value and of the superiority of their own pursuits.
But it is by making comparisons with others that we deceive ourselves. Business,
whether professional, commercial or political, endangers the mind which looks
down on the pursuit of pleasure as beneath a thinking being. But if business
absorbs the heart’s affections, if it swallows up time to the neglect of
eternity, if it generates a worldly spirit or encourages covetousness and
engages the mind in ambitious pursuits, it may be as dangerous as its more
frivolous rival.

The grand evil of both lies in the alienation of the heart from God. Actually,
in one respect, the danger is greater to the one who is best employed. Those who
pursue pleasure, however thoughtless, can never make themselves believe they are
doing right. But those plunged in the work of serious business cannot easily
persuade themselves that they are doing wrong.

Compensation and trade are the devices which worldly religion incessantly keeps
in play. It is a life of barter—so much indulgence for so many good works. The
implied accusation is that "we have a rigorous Master," and that therefore it is
only fair to pay ourselves for the severity of His demands, just as an
overworked servant steals a holiday. They set bounds to God’s right to command,
lest it should encroach on their privilege to do as they please.

We have mentioned elsewhere that if we invite people to embrace the Christian
faith on the grounds that they will obtain present pleasure, they will desert it
as soon as they find themselves disappointed. People are too ready to clamor for
the pleasures of devotion before they have entitled themselves to them. We would
be angry at those employees who asked to receive their wages before they would
begin to work. This is not meant to establish the merit of works, but rather the
necessity of seeking that transforming and purifying change which marks the real
Christian. It is a matter of the heart and a genuine change in one’s attitude.

But if we consider this world on true scriptural grounds as a place of testing,
and see religion as a school for happiness, the consummation of which is only to
be enjoyed in heaven, then the Christian hope will support us and the Christian
faith will strengthen us. We can serve diligently, wait patiently, love
cordially, obey faithfully and be steadfast under all trials. We can be
sustained by the cheering promise held out to those "who endure to the end."

There are some who seem to have a graduated scale of vices. They keep clear of
the lowest degrees on this scale, but they are not diligent in avoiding the
"highest" vices on their scale. They forget that the same motive which operates
in the greater operates on the lesser as well. A life of incessant gratification
does not alarm the conscience, but it is surely unfavorable to faith,
destructive of its motivations, and opposed to its spirit, as are the more
obvious vices.

These are the habits that relax the mind and remove resolve from the heart,
thereby fostering indifference to our spiritual state and insensibility to the
things of eternity. A life of pleasure, if it leads into a life of actual sin,
disqualifies us for holiness, happiness and heaven. It not only alienates the
heart from God, but it lays it open to every temptation that natural temperament
may invite, or incidental circumstances allure. The worst passions lie dormant
in hearts that are given up to selfish indulgences, always ready to spring into
action as any occasion invites them.

Sensual pleasure and irreligion play into each other’s hands: each can cause the
other. The slackness of the inward motivation confirms the carelessness of the
conduct, while the negligent conduct protects itself under the supposed security
of unbelief. The instance of the rich man in the parable of Lazarus strikingly
illustrates this truth.

It is as essential that we inquire whether these unfeeling attitudes and selfish
habits offend society and discredit us with the world, as it is important that
we realize that they feed our corruptions and put us in a position unfavorable
to all interior improvement. Let us ask whether they offend God and endanger the
soul, whether the gratification of self is the life which the Redeemer taught or
lived. Let us ask whether sensuality is a suitable preparation for that state
where God Himself, who is Spirit, will constitute all the happiness of spiritual
beings. But these are not the only dangers. The intellectual vices, the
spiritual offenses may destroy the soul without much injury to one’s reputation.
Unlike sensuality, these do not have their seasons of change and repose. Here
the motive is in continual operation. Envy has no interruption. Ambition never
cools. Pride never sleeps. The inclination to these at least is always awake. An
intemperate person is sometimes sober, but a proud person is never humble. Where
vanity reigns, it reigns always. These interior sins are more difficult to
eradicate. They are harder to detect, harder to come at, and, as the citadel
sometimes holds out after the outer defenses of a castle are breached, these
sins of the heart are the last conquered in the moral warfare.

Here lies the distinction between the worldly and the religious person. It is
frightening enough for the Christian that we feel any propensity to vice.
Against these inclinations we must watch, strive and pray. Although we are
thankful for the victory when we have resisted the temptation, we feel no
elation of heart while conscious of our inward dispositions. Nothing but divine
grace enables us to keep them from breaking out into a flame. We feel the only
way to obtain the pardon of sin is to stop sinning, that although repentance
itself is not a savior, there still can be no salvation where there is no
repentance. Above all, we know that the promise of remission of sin by the death
of Christ is the only solid ground of comfort. However correct our present life
may be, the weight of past offenses would hang so heavy on our conscience that
without the atoning blood of our Redeemer, despair of pardon for the past would
leave us hopeless. We would continue to sin in the same way that a bankrupt
person may continue to be extravagant because no present frugality could redeem
their former debts.

It is sometimes pleaded that the work that busy and important people have leaves
them no time for their religious duties. These apologies are never offered for
the poor man, although to him every day brings the inevitable return of his many
hours of work without intermission or moderation.

But surely the more important and responsible the position a person holds, the
more demanding is the call for faith, not only in the way of example, but even
in the way of success. If it is indeed granted that there is such a thing as
divine interventions, if it is allowed that God has a blessing to bestow, then
the ordinary man who has only himself to govern requires aid, but how urgent is
the person’s necessity who has to govern millions? What an awful idea that the
weight of a nation might rest on the head of one whose heart does not look up
for higher support!

The politician, the warrior and the orator find it peculiarly hard to renounce
in themselves that wisdom and strength to which they believe the rest of the
world is looking up. The person of station or of genius, when invited to the
self-denying duties of Christianity often draws back, like the one who went away
sorrowing because he had great possessions.

To know that they must come to an end stamps vanity on all the glories of this
life. To know that they must come to an end soon stamps folly, not only on the
one who sacrifices his conscience for their acquisition, but also on the person
who, though upright in the discharge of his duties, discharges them without any
reference to God. If the conqueror or the orator would reflect when the laurel
crown is placed on his brow, how soon it will be followed by the shroud, the
delirium of ambition would be cooled and the intoxication of prosperity removed.

There is a general kind of belief in Christianity prevalent in the world which,
by soothing the conscience, prevents self-inquiry. That the holy Scriptures
contain the will of God they do not question. That they contain the best system
of morals, they frequently assert. But they do not feel the necessity of
acquiring a correct notion of the teachings those Scriptures contain. The
depravity of man, the atonement made by Christ, the work of the Holy
Spirit—these they consider as the theoretical part of religion which they can
easily neglect. By a kind of self-flattery, they satisfy themselves with the
idea that they are acceptable to their Maker, a state they mistakenly believe
they can attain without humility, faith and the rebirth of life.

People absorbed in a multitude of secular concerns, decent but unawakened,
listen with a kind of respectful insensibility to the overtures of spiritual
conviction. They consider the Church as venerable because of her antiquity and
important because of her connection to the state. No one is more alive to her
political, nor more dead to her spiritual importance. They are anxious for her
existence, but indifferent to her doctrines. These they consider as a general
matter in which they have no personal concern. They consider religious
observances as something attractive but unreal, a serious custom made
respectable by long and public usage. They admit that the poor who have little
to enjoy and the idle who have little to do, cannot do better than to give over
to God that time which cannot be turned to more profitable account. Religion,
they think, may properly make use of leisure and occupy old age. Yet when it
comes to themselves, they are at a loss to determine the precise period when the
leisure is sufficient or the age is enough advanced. Goals recede as the
destined season approaches. They continue to intend moving, but they continue to
stand still.

Compare their drowsy sabbaths with the animation of the days of business and you
would not think they were the same individual. The one is to be gotten over, the
others are enjoyed. They go from the dull decencies, the shadowy forms (as they
perceive them) of public worship, to the solid realities of their worldly
concerns. These they consider as their bounden, and exclusive duties. The others
indeed may not be wrong, but these, they are sure, are right. The world is their
element. Here they are substantially engaged. Here their whole mind is alive,
their understanding wide awake, all their energies in full play. Here they have
an object worthy of their widest expansions, and here their desires and
affections are absorbed.

The faint impression of the Sunday sermon fades away to be as faintly revived on
the following Sunday, again to fade in the succeeding week. To the sermon they
bring a formal ceremonious attendance. To the world they bring all their heart,
soul, mind and strength. To the one they resort in conformity to law and custom.
To induce them to resort to the other, they need no law, no sanction, no
invitation. Their will is enough. Their passions are volunteers. The invisible
things of heaven are clouded in shadow. The world is lord of the present.
Riches, honors, power fill their mind with brilliant images. They are certain,
tangible, and they assume form and bulk. In these, therefore, they cannot be
mistaken. The eagerness of competition and the struggle for superiority fill
their mind with an emotion, their soul with an agitation and their affections
with an interest which, though very unlike happiness, they deceive themselves
into thinking that it is the road to it. This artificial pleasure, this
tumultuous feeling, does at least produce that one negative satisfaction of
which worldly people are in search—it keeps them from themselves.

Even in circumstances where there is no success, the mere occupation, the crowd
of objectives, the succession of engagements and the very tumult and hurry have
their gratifications. The bustle gives false peace by leaving no leisure for
reflection. They put their consciences to sleep by asserting they have good
intentions. They comfort themselves with the believable pretense that they lack
time and the vague resolution of giving up to God the dregs of life, while
feeling the world deserves the better part of it. Thus dealing with their Maker,
life wears away, its end drawing ever nearer, and that delayed promise to give
God the last part is not fulfilled. The assigned hour of retreat either never
arrives, or if it does arrive, sloth and sensuality are resorted to as a fair
reward for a life of labor and anxiety. They die in the shackles of the world.

If we do not earnestly desire to be delivered from the dominion of these worldly
tendencies, it is because we do not believe in the condemnation attached to
their indulgence. We may indeed believe it as we believe any other general
proposition or inconsequential fact, but we do not believe it as a danger which
has any reference to us. We disclose this practical unbelief in the most
unequivocal way by thinking so much more about the most frivolous concern in
which we are sure we have an interest, than about this most important of all
concerns.

When we are indifferent to eternal things, we add to our peril. If shutting our
eyes to a danger would prevent it, to shut them would not only be a happiness
but a duty. But to trade eternal safety for momentary ease is a wretched
bargain. The reason why we do not value eternal things is because we do not
think of them. The mind is so full of what is present that it has no room to
admit a thought of what is to come. We are guilty of not giving the same
attention to an eternal soul which prudent souls give to a common business
transaction. We complain that life is short, and yet throw away the best part of
it, only giving over to religion that portion which is good for nothing else.
Life would be long enough if we assigned its best period to the best purpose.

Do not say that the requirements of religion are severe. Ask rather if they are
necessary. If a thing must absolutely be done and if eternal misery will be
incurred by not doing it, it is fruitless to enquire whether it be hard or easy.
Inquire only whether it is indispensable, whether it is commanded. The duty on
which our eternal state depends is not a thing to be debated, but done. The duty
which is too imperative to be evaded is not to be argued about, but performed.
To continue quietly in sin because you do not intend to sin is to live on an
expected inheritance which will probably never be yours.

It is folly to say that religion drives people to despair when it only teaches
them by a healthy fear to avoid destruction. The fear of God differs from all
other fear, for it is accompanied with trust, confidence and love. "Blessed is
the one who fears always," is no paradox to one who entertains this holy fear.
It sets us above the fear of ordinary troubles. It fills our heart. We are not
distraught by those inferior apprehensions which unsettle the soul and unhinge
the peace of worldly people. Our mind is occupied with one grand concern and is
therefore less liable to be shaken than little minds which are filled with
little things. Can that principle lead to despair which proclaims the mercy of
God in Jesus Christ to be greater than all the sins in the world?

If despair prevents your returning to God, do not add to your list of offenses
that of doubting the forgiveness which He sincerely offers. You have already
wronged God in His holiness. Do not wrong Him in His mercy. You may offend Him
more by despairing of His pardon than by all the sins which have made that
pardon necessary. Repentance, if one may venture the bold remark, almost disarms
God of the power to punish. Here are His style and title as proclaimed by
Himself: "The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, patience and abundant
in goodness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands, forgiving iniquity,
transgression and sin, and who will by no means clear the guilty;" that is,
those who by unrepented guilt exclude themselves from the offered mercy.

If unfaithfulness or indifference, which is practical unfaithfulness, keeps you
back, then as reasonable beings, ask yourselves a few short questions: For what
purpose was I sent into the world? Is my soul immortal? Am I really placed here
in a state of trial, or is this span my all? Is there an eternal state? If there
is, will the use I make of this life decide my condition in that state? I know
there is death, but is there a judgment?

Do not rest until you have cleared up, not your own proofs for heaven (it will
be some time before you arrive at that stage) but whether there is any heaven.
Is not Christianity important enough for you diligently to explore? Is not
eternal life too valuable to be entirely overlooked, and eternal destruction, if
a reality, worth avoiding? If you make these interrogations sincerely, you will
make them practically. They will lead you to examine your own personal interest
in these things. Evils which are ruining us for lack of attention lessen from
the moment our attention to them begins. True or false, the question is worth
settling. Do not waver then between doubt and certainty. If the evidence is
inadmissible, reject it. But if you can once ascertain these cardinal points,
then throw away your time if you can, and trifle with eternity if you dare!

It is one of the striking characteristics of the Almighty that "He is strong and
patient." It is a standing evidence of His patience that "He is provoked every
day." How beautifully do these characteristics complement each other. If He were
not strong, His patience would lack its distinguishing perfection. If He were
not patient, His strength would instantly crush those who provoke Him every day.

Oh you, who have a long space given you for repentance, confess that the
forbearance of God, when seen as coupled with His strength, is His most
astonishing attribute. Think of those whom you knew who have since passed
away—companions of your early life, your associates in actual vice, or your
confederates in guilty pleasures. They are the sharers of your thoughtless
meetings, your jovial revelry, your worldly schemes, your ambitious projects.
Think how many of those companions have been cut off, perhaps without warning,
possibly without repentance. They have been presented to their judge. Their
doom, whatever it is, is now fixed. Yours is mercifully suspended. Adore the
mercy; embrace the suspension.

Only suppose if they could be permitted to come back to this world, if they were
allowed another period of trial, how they would spend their restored life! How
earnest would be their penitence, how intense their devotion, how profound their
humility, how holy their actions! Think then that you still have in your power
that for which they would give millions of worlds. "Hell," says one writer, "is
truth seen too late."In almost every mind there sometimes float indefinite and
general purposes of repentance. The operation of these purposes is often
repelled by a real, though denied, skepticism. Because the sentence is not
executed speedily, they suspect it has never been pronounced. They, therefore,
think they may safely continue to defer their intended, but unshaped, purpose.
Though they sometimes visit the sickbeds of others and see how much disease
disqualifies one from performing all duties, yet it is to this period of
incapacity that they continue to defer this vital need to repent.

What an image of the divine condescension does it convey that "the goodness of
God leads to repentance"! It does not barely invite, but it conducts. Every
warning is more or less an invitation. Every visitation is a lighter stroke to
avert a heavier blow. This was the way in which the heathen world understood
signs and wonders, and on this interpretation of them they acted. Any alarming
warning, whether rational or superstitious, drove them to their temples, their
sacrifices. Does our clearer light always carry us farther? Does it, in these
instances, always carry us as far as natural conscience carried them?

The final period of the worldly person at length arrives, but they will not
believe their danger. Even if they fearfully glance around to every surrounding
face, looking for an intimation of it, every face, it is too probable, is in
league to deceive them. What a noble opportunity is now offered to the Christian
physician to show a kindness far superior to any they have ever shown, just as
the concerns of the soul are superior to those of the body! Let them not fear
prudently to reveal a truth for which the patient may bless them in eternity! Is
it sometimes to be feared that in the hope of prolonging for a little while the
existence of the perishing body, they rob the never-dying soul of its last
chance of pardon? Does not the concern for the immortal part united with their
care of the afflicted body bring the Christian physician to a nearer imitation
of that divine Physician who never healed the one without manifesting a tender
concern for the other?

But the deceit is short and fruitless. The amazed spirit is about to dislodge.
Who shall speak of its terror and dismay? Then the person cries out in the
bitterness of their soul, "What ability have I, now that I am dying, to acquire
a good heart, to unlearn false beliefs, to renounce bad practices and establish
right habits, to begin to love God and hate sin?" How is the stupendous concern
of salvation to be worked out by a mind incompetent to do it in the most
favorable conditions?

The infinite importance of what a person has to do, the goading conviction that
it must be done, and the impossibility of beginning a repentance which should
have been completed—all these complicated concerns together add to the
sufferings of a body which stands in little need of these additional burdens.

It would be well if we were now and then to call to our minds, while in sound
health, the solemn certainties of a dying bed. It would be well if we accustomed
ourselves to see things now as we shall wish we had seen them. Surely the most
sluggish insensibility can be roused by seeing for itself the rapid approach of
death, the nearness of our unalterable doom and our instant transition to that
state of unutterable blessing or unimaginable woe to which death will in a
moment consign us. Such a mental image would assist us in dissipating all other
illusions. It would help us realize what is invisible, and to bring near what we
think of as remote. It would disenchant us from the world, tear off its painted
mask, shrink its pleasures into their proper dimensions, its concerns into their
real value, and its promises into nothingness.

Terrible as the evil is, if it must be met, do not hesitate to present it to
your imagination. Do this, not to lacerate your feelings, but to arm your
resolution, not to arouse more distress, but to strengthen your faith. If it
terrifies you at first, draw a little nearer more gradually, and familiarity
will lessen the terror. If you cannot face the image, how will you encounter the
reality?

Let us then picture for ourselves the moment when all we cling to shall elude
our grasp, when every earthly good shall be to us as if it had never been, when
our eyes open on the eternal spiritual world. Then there shall be no relief for
the fainting body, no refuge for the parting soul except that single refuge to
which perhaps we have never thought of resorting—the everlasting mercies of God
in Christ Jesus.

Reader! whoever you are who have neglected to remember that to die is the end
for which you were born, know that you have a personal interest in this scene.
Do not turn away from it in disdain, however feebly it may have been
represented. You may escape any other evil of life, but its end you cannot
escape. Do not defer then life’s weightiest concern to its weakest period. Do
not begin the preparation when you should be completing the work. Do not delay
the business which demands your best faculties to the period of their greatest
weakness and near extinction. Do not leave the work which requires an age to do,
to be done in a moment, a moment which may not be granted. The alternative is
tremendous. The difference is that of being saved or lost. It is no light thing
to eternally perish.


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  CHAPTER 30: 02.18.     ON THE SUFFERINGS OF GOOD MEN
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ON THE SUFFERINGS OF GOOD MEN

Affliction is the school in which great virtues are acquired and in which great
characters are formed. It is like a spiritual gymnasium in which the disciples
of Christ are trained in robust exercise, hardy exertion and severe conflict.

We do not hear of military heroes in peacetime, nor of the most distinguished
saints in the quiet and unmolested periods of church history. The courage in the
warrior and the devotion in the saint continue to survive, ready to be brought
into action when perils beset the country or trials assail the Church, but it
must be admitted that in long periods of inaction both are susceptible to decay.

The Christian in our comparatively tranquil day is happily exempt from the
trials and terrors which the annals of persecution record. Thanks to the
establishment of the church, and thanks to the of our laws and to the mild and
tolerating spirit of both, one is far from being liable to pains and penalties
for his attachment to his religion.

The Christian is still not exempt from his individual trials. We can include
those cruel mockings which Paul appropriately ranked in the same list with
bonds, imprisonments, exiles and martyrdom itself. We can also add those
misrepresentations and attacks to which the zealous Christian is particularly
liable. The true Christian is not only called to struggle with trials of large
dimensions, but with the daily demands and difficulties of this earthly life.

The pampered Christian, thus continually gravitating to the earth, would have
his heart solely bent toward the trials of daily life, unmindful of the crown
God gives to His true servants when this mortal life is over.

It is an unspeakable blessing that no events are left to the choice of beings
who in their blindness would constantly choose wrongly. Were circumstances at
our own disposal, we would choose for ourselves nothing but ease and success,
nothing but riches and fame, nothing but perpetual youth, health and unmitigated
happiness. We are placed on earth temporarily, and our situation in eternity
depends on the use we make of this present time. Therefore nothing would be more
dangerous than such a power to choose for ourselves.

If a surgeon were to put into the hand of a wounded patient the probe or the
scalpel, how tenderly would he treat himself! How skin-deep would be the
examination, how slight the incision! The patient would escape the pain, but the
wound might prove fatal. The surgeon therefore wisely uses his instruments
himself. He goes deep perhaps, but not deeper than the case demands. The pain
may be acute, but the life is preserved. Thus He in whose hand we are, is too
good and loves us too well to trust us with our own surgery. He knows that we
will not contradict our own inclinations, that we will not impose on ourselves
any voluntary pain, however necessary the infliction, however healthful the
effect. God graciously does this for us Himself because otherwise He knows it
would never be done.

A Christian is liable to the same sorrows and sufferings as others. Nowhere do
we have a promise of immunity from the troubles of life, but we do have a
merciful promise of support when we go through them. Therefore we consider them
from another view. We bear them with another spirit, utilize them to other
purposes than those whose view is limited to this world. Whatever may be the
instruments of our suffering, whether sickness, losses, vilification,
persecutions, we know that they all proceed from God. All methods are HIS
instruments. All secondary causes operate by HIS directing hand.

We said that a Christian is liable to the same sufferings as other men. Might we
not repeat what we have said before, that our very Christian profession is often
the cause of our sufferings? They are the badge of our discipleship, the
evidences of our Father’s love. They are at once the marks of God’s favor and
the preparations for our own future happiness.

What were the arguments held out through the whole New Testament to encourage
the world to embrace the faith it taught? What was the condition of Paul’s
introduction to Christianity? It was not, "I will crown him with honor and
prosperity, with dignity and pleasure," but "I will show him how great things he
must suffer for my name’s sake."

What were the chief virtues which Christ taught? What were the graces He most
recommended by His example? Were they not self-denial, mortification, patience,
renouncing ease and pleasure? These are the marks which have always
distinguished Christianity from all the other religions of the world, and
therefore prove its divine origin. Ease, splendor, external prosperity, conquest
had no part in its establishment. Other empires have been founded in the blood
of the vanquished. The dominion of Christ was founded in His own blood. Most of
the beatitudes which He pronounced in His infinite compassion have the sorrows
of the earth for their subject but the joys of heaven for their completion.

To establish this religion in the world the Almighty, as His own Word assures
us, subverted kingdoms and altered the face of nations. "For thus says the Lord
of Hosts," says Haggai, "yet once, it is a little while, and I will shake the
heavens and the earth, and the sea and the dry land; and I will shake all
nations and the Desire of all nations shall come." Could a religion, the kingdom
of which was to be founded by such awful means, be established and perpetuated
without involving the sufferings of its subjects?

If the Christian life had been meant to be a path of roses, would the life of
the Author of Christianity have been a path strewn with thorns? "He made for
us," says Jeremy Taylor, "a covenant of sufferings; His very promises were
sufferings, His rewards were sufferings, and His arguments to invite men to
follow Him were only taken from sufferings in this life and the reward for these
sufferings hereafter."

No prince but the Prince of Peace ever set out with a proclamation of the future
nature of his empire. No other king desiring to allay avarice and check ambition
ever invited his subjects by the unattractive declaration that his "kingdom was
not of this world." No other sovereign ever declared that it was not dignity or
honors, valor or talents that made them worthy of him, but it is their "taking
up the cross" that brings them close to Him. If no other lord ever made the
sorrows which would attend his followers a motive for their allegiance, we must
remember that no other ever had the goodness to promise or the power to make
good His promise that He would give rest to "the heavy laden." Other kings have
overcome the world for their own ambition, but none other ever made the
suffering involved in achieving that conquest a ground for motivating his
followers to faithfulness.

In his letter to the Philippians, Paul enumerates the honors and distinctions
prepared for his most favored converts, that they should not only believe in
Christ, but that they should also suffer for him. Any other religion would use
such a promise to deter, not to attract potential converts. That a religion
should flourish under such discouraging invitations, with the threat of
degrading circumstances and absolute losses, is unanswerable evidence that our
faith was not of human origin.

It is among the mercies of God that he strengthens servants by hardening them
through adverse circumstances, instead of leaving them to languish under the
shining but withering sun of unclouded prosperity. When they cannot be attracted
to Him by gentler influences, He sends these storms and tempests which purify
while they alarm. Our gracious Father knows how long the happiness of eternity
will be for His children.

The character of Christianity may be seen by how often the Scriptures use the
image of military conflict to illustrate it. Suffering is the initiation into a
Christian’s calling. It is our education for heaven. Shall the scholar rebel at
the discipline which is to fit him for his profession, or the soldier at the
exercise which is to qualify him for victory?

But our trials do not all spring from outside ourselves. We would think them
comparatively easy if we had only the opposition of men to struggle against, or
even the severer measures of God to sustain. If we have a conflict with the
world, we have a harder conflict within ourselves. Our bosom foe is our most
unyielding enemy. This is what makes our other trials heavy, which makes our
power for enduring them weak, which renders our conquest over them slow and
inconclusive.

This world is the stage on which worldly men act. The things of the world and
the applause of the world are the rewards which they propose for themselves.
These they often attain, and are thereby satisfied. They aim at no higher end.
But let us not long for the success of those whose motives we reject, whose
practices we dare not adopt, whose end we deplore. If we feel any inclination to
murmur when we see the worldly in great prosperity, let us ask ourselves if we
would tread their path to attain their end, if we would do their work to obtain
their wages. We know that we would not. Let us then cheerfully leave them to
scramble for the prizes and jostle for the places which the world temptingly
holds out, but which we will not purchase at the world’s price.

Good causes are not always conducted by good men. A good cause may be connected
with something that is not good. The right cause is promoted and effected by
some lesser, or even unworthy one. Whereas worldly people may be suspicious of a
cause espoused by Christians, the support of influential people outside the
Church can well erase their suspicions. The character of the lofty cause may
perhaps have to be lowered to suit the general taste, even to obtain the
acceptance of the people for whose benefit it is intended.

We still fall into the error of which the prophet so long ago complained: "We
call the proud happy" (Malachi 3:15) and the wicked fortunate. We may find
ourselves envious of the powerful and influential. We feel this way, even when
we remember that after the person has finished the work, the divine Employer
throws that person aside, cut off and left to perish.

But you ENVY the powerful in the meantime, even though they have sacrificed
every principle of justice, truth and mercy. Is this a man to be envied? Is this
a prosperity to be coveted? Would you incur the penalties of that happiness?

But is it happiness to commit sin, to be abhorred by the upright in character,
to offend God, and to ruin one’s own soul? Do you really consider a temporary
success compensation enough for deeds which will insure eternal misery to the
doer? Is the successful bad person happy? Of what materials then is happiness
made? Is it composed of a disturbed mind and an unquiet conscience? Are doubt
and difficulty, are terror and apprehension, are distrust and suspicion, the
gratification for which Christians would renounce their peace, displease their
Maker, and would risk their soul? Think of the hidden vulture that feeds on the
hearts of successful wickedness, and your longings and envy will cease. Your
indignation will be changed into compassion, your denunciations into prayer.

But if such a person feels neither the scourge of conscience nor the sting of
remorse, pity that individual the more. Pity them for the very want of that
addition to their unhappiness, for if they added to their miseries the
anticipation of their punishment, they might be led by repentance to avoid it.
Can you reckon the blinding of their eyes and the hardening of their heart any
part of their happiness? This opinion, however, is being expressed whenever we
grudge the prosperity of the wicked. God, by delaying the punishment of bad
people may have designs of mercy of which we know nothing—mercy perhaps to them,
or if not to them, yet mercy to those who are suffering because of their
actions, whom He intends through these bad instruments, to punish, and by
punishing, eventually to save.

There is a sentiment even more bizarre than envy which prosperous wickedness
excites in certain minds, and that is RESPECT; but this feeling is never raised
unless both the wickedness and the prosperity be on a grand scale. This
sentiment exposes the belief that God does not govern human affairs, or that our
motives do not concern Him, or that prosperity is a certain proof of His favor.

But though God may be patient with triumphant wickedness, He does not wink at or
connive with it. The difference between being permitted and being supported,
between being employed and approved, is greater than we are ready to
acknowledge. Perhaps "the iniquity of the Amorites is not yet full." God has
always the means of punishment as well as of pardon in His own hands. However,
for God to punish at the exact moment when we demand it, might abort His greater
plan and diminish the larger consequences. "They have drunk their hemlock," says
a fine writer, "but the poison does not yet work." Let us not be impatient to
administer a sentence which infinite justice sees right to defer. Let us think
more of restraining our own vindictive tempers than of precipitating their
destruction. They may yet repent of the crimes they are perpetrating. By some
scheme, intricate and unintelligible to us, God may still pardon the sin which
we think exceeds the limits even of His mercy.

We contrive to make revenge itself look like religion. We call down thunder on
many a head under the pretense that those on whom we invoke it are God’s
enemies, when perhaps we invoke it because they are ours. Though they should go
on fully prosperous to the end, will it not cure our impatience to know that
their end must come? Will it not satisfy us that they must die, that they must
come to judgment? Which is to be envied, the Christian who dies ending their
brief sorrows, or the one who closes a prosperous life and enters on a miserable
eternity? The first has nothing to fear if the promises of the Gospel be true,
the other has nothing to hope for, if they are factual. The Word of God must be
a lie, heaven a fable, hell an invention, before the impenitent sinner can be
safe. Is that person to be envied whose security depends on their falsehood? Is
the other to be pitied whose hope is founded on their reality?

In estimating the comparative happiness of good and bad people, we should ever
bear in mind that of all the calamities which can be inflicted or suffered, sin
is the greatest; and of all punishments, insensibility to sin is the heaviest
which the wrath of God inflicts in this world. God lets the wicked continue
their smooth and prosperous course to the awful destiny in store for them, which
will only be revealed when there is no longer any room for mercy.

We can see this same truth without looking to the hereafter and consulting only
the present suffering. If we put the inward consolation derived from communion
with God, the humble confidence of prayer, the devout trust in divine protection
on the scale opposite to all the unjust power ever bestowed or guilty wealth
ever possessed, we shall have no hesitation in deciding on which side even
present happiness lies.

With a mind thus fixed, with a faith thus firm, one great object so absorbs the
Christian that our peace is not tossed about by the things which confuse
ordinary people. The Christian afflicted in the world may say, "My fortune is
shattered; but since I made not gold my confidence while I possessed it, in
losing it I have not lost myself. I leaned not on power, for I knew its
instability. Had prosperity been my dependence, I would have fallen when it was
removed."

Many lament the Christian who suffers while innocent. Surely believers should
not try to avoid suffering by sinful conformity to worldly standards! Think how
ease would be destroyed by the price paid for it! How short a time he would
enjoy it, even if it were not bought at the expense of his soul!

Because of the BENEFITS that suffering brings to the Christian’s character, we
can say that suffering itself is the reward of virtue. It becomes not only the
instrument of promoting virtue, but the instrument of rewarding it. Besides, God
promises a future reward to his children who suffer. To suppose that He cannot
ultimately compensate His virtuous afflicted children is to believe Him less
powerful than an earthly father—to suppose that He will not, is to believe Him
less merciful.

Great trials are more often proofs of God’s favor than of displeasure. An
inferior officer will suffice for inferior expeditions, but the Sovereign
selects the ablest general for the most difficult service. And not only does the
King evidence his favor by the selection, but the soldier proves his attachment
by rejoicing in the preference. One victory gained is no reason for his being
set aside. One conquest only qualifies him for new attacks, suggests a reason
for his being again employed.

The sufferings of good men by no means contradict the promise "that the meek
shall inherit the earth." They "possess" it in such a way that they are willing
to give it up when called to do so.

The belief that trials will facilitate salvation is another source of
consolation. Sufferings also diminish the dread of death by cheapening the price
of life. The affections even of the devout Christian are too much drawn
downwards. Our heart too fondly cleaves to the dust, though we know that only
trouble can spring from it. How would it be if we invariably possessed present
enjoyments, and if a long panorama of delights lay always open before us? We
have a far greater comfort in our own honest consciousness. Our Christian
feelings under trials are a cheering evidence that our devotion is sincere. The
gold has been melted down, and its purity is ascertained.

Among our other advantages, the afflicted Christian can apply to the mercy of
God, but not as a new and uncertain resource. We do not come as an alien before
a strange master, but as a child into the well-known presence of a tender
father. We did not use prayer as a final resort to be used only in the great
water floods. We had long and diligently sought God in the calm; we had clung to
him, before we were driven to Him. We had sought God’s favor while we still
enjoyed the favor of the world. We did not defer our meditations on heavenly
things to the disconsolate hour when earth had nothing for us. We can cheerfully
associate our faith with those former days of felicity, when, with everything
before us out of which to choose, we chose God. We not only feel the support
derived from our present prayers, but the benefit of all those which we offered
up in the day of joy and gladness. We will especially derive comfort from the
supplications we had made for the anticipated though unknown trial of the
present hour, and which in such a world of change it was reasonable to expect.

Let us confess then, that in all the trying circumstances of this changeful
scene there is something infinitely soothing to the feelings of a Christian and
inexpressibly tranquillizing to our mind– to know that we have nothing to do
with events but to submit to them. We have nothing to do with the revolutions of
life but to acquiesce in them as the offerings of eternal wisdom. We do not need
to take the management out of the hands of Providence, but submissively to
follow the divine leading. We do not have to scheme for tomorrow, but to live in
the present with cheerful resignation. Let us be thankful that as we can not by
foreseeing prevent them, we can be thankful for ignorance where knowledge would
only prolong and not prevent our suffering. We have grace which has promised
that our strength shall be proportioned to our day.

By the goodness of God these trials may be used for the noblest purposes. The
quiet acquiescence of the heart and the submission of the will under actual
trials, great or small, are more acceptable to God and more indicative of true
faith, than the strongest general resolutions of firm action and deep submission
under the most trying of imagined events. In the latter case it is the
imagination which submits: in the former case it is the will.

We are too ready to imagine that there is no other way to serve God but by
active exertions; exertions which only indulge our natural appetite, and gratify
our own inclinations. It is an error to imagine that God who puts us into
different situations, puts it out of our power to glorify him. Every
circumstance may be turned to some good, either for ourselves or for others.
Joseph in his prison under the strongest restrictions, loss of liberty, and a
shattered reputation, made way for both his own high advancement and for the
deliverance of Israel. Daniel in his dungeon, not only the destined prey, but in
the very jaws of furious beasts, converted the king of Babylon and brought him
to the knowledge of the true God. Could prosperity have achieved the former?
Would not prosperity have prevented the latter?

We may often wonder why many of God’s servants who are eminently fitted to
instruct and reform the people of the land are disqualified by disease and
thereby set aside from their public duty of which the necessity is so obvious
and the fruits so remarkable. It may also cause us concern that many others
possess uninterrupted health and strength, who are little gifted and at that,
not even motivated to assist the welfare of the world in which they live.

But God’s ways are not as our ways. He is not accountable to His creatures. The
questioner needs to know why it is right. The suffering Christian believes and
feels it to be right, humbly acknowledging the necessity of the affliction which
friends are lamenting. This believer feels the mercy of what others are seeing
as injustice. With deep humility this one is persuaded that if the affliction is
not yet withdrawn, it is because it has not yet accomplished the purpose for
which it was sent. The deprivation is probably intended both for the individual
interests of the sufferer and for the reproof of those who have neglected to
profit by this believer’s labors. Perhaps God especially draws still nearer to
Himself the one who had drawn so many others.

We are too ready to consider suffering as an indication of God’s displeasure,
not so much against sin in general as against the individual sufferer. Were this
the case then those saints and martyrs who have pined in exile and groaned in
dungeons and expired on scaffolds would have been the objects of God’s peculiar
wrath instead of His favor. But the truth is that our unbelief enters into
almost all our reasoning on these topics. We do not constantly take into account
a future state. We want God, if I may hazard the expression, to justify Himself
as He goes. We cannot give Him even such long credit as the length of a human
life. He must every moment be vindicating His character against every skeptical
critic. He must unravel His plans to every shallow judge, revealing the
knowledge of His design before its operations are completed. If we may adopt a
phrase from a more common use, we will trust Him no farther than we can see Him.
Though He has said, "Judge nothing before the time," we judge instantly, and
therefore rashly, and in a word falsely. We would have more patience with God if
we kept the brevity of earthly prosperity and suffering, the certainty of God’s
justice, and the eternity of future blessedness perpetually in view.

Even in judging fiction we are more just. During the reading of a tragedy,
though we feel for the distresses of those involved, yet we do not form an
ultimate judgment of the propriety or injustice of their sufferings until the
end. We give the poet credit either that they will extricate them from their
distresses, or eventually explain the justice of them. We do not condemn them at
the end of every scene for the trials which the sufferers do not appear to have
deserved, nor for the sufferings which do not always seem to have arisen from
their own misconduct. We behold the trials of the virtuous with sympathy and the
successes of the wicked with indignation, but we do not pass our final sentence
until the poet has passed his. We reserve our decisive judgment until the last
scene closes and until the curtain drops. Shall we not treat the schemes of
infinite Wisdom with as much respect as the plot of a drama?

If we might borrow an illustration from the legal profession, in a court of
justice the bystanders do not give their sentence in the midst of a trial. We
wait patiently until all the evidence is collected, carefully detailed and
finally summed up. We then commonly applaud the justice of the jury and the
equity of the judge, even though human decisions are imperfect and fallible. The
felon they condemn, we rarely acquit; where they release the accused, we rarely
denounce it. It is only infinite Wisdom on whose purposes we cannot rely; it is
only infinite Mercy whose operations we cannot trust. It is only "the judge of
all the earth" who cannot do right. We reverse the order of God by summoning Him
to our bar, at whose awful bar we shall soon be judged.

But to return to our more immediate point: the apparently unfair distribution of
prosperity between good and bad people. While the good constantly derive their
happiness from a sense of God’s omniscience, the other finds it frightful. The
eye of God is a pillar of light to the one, and a cloud of darkness to the
other. The awful thought, "You, God, see all!"is as much a terror to people who
dread His justice as it is a joy to those who derive all their support from it.

The one who may feel sad, is safe, while the other, though confident, is
insecure. He is as far from peace as he is from God. Every day brings Christians
nearer to their crown; sinners are every day working their way nearer to their
ruin. The hour of death, which the one dreads as something worse than
extinction, is to the other the hour of nativity, the birthday of immortality.
At the height of his sufferings the good person knows that he will soon die. At
the zenith of his success the sinner has a similar assurance, but how different
is the result of the same conviction! An invincible faith sustains the one in
the severest straits, while an unavoidable dread gives the lie to the proudest
triumphs of the other.

The only happy person, after all, is not the one whom worldly prosperity renders
apparently happy, but the one who no change of worldly circumstances can make
essentially miserable. The latter’s peace does not depend on external events,
but on an internal support; not on that success which is common to all, but on
that hope which is his peculiar privilege. It rests on that promise which is the
sole prerogative of the Christian.


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  CHAPTER 31: 02.19.     THE TEMPER AND CONDUCT OF THE
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THE TEMPER AND CONDUCT OF THE CHRISTIAN IN SICKNESS AND IN DEATH

The pagan philosophers have given many admirable precepts for enduring
misfortunes; but lacking the motives and supports of the Christian faith, though
they excite much intellectual admiration, they produce little practical results.
The stars which glittered in their moral night, though bright, imparted no
warmth. Their dissertations on death had no charm to extract death’s sting. We
receive no support from their elaborate treatises on immortality because they
did not know Him who "brought life and immortality to light." Their consolations
could not strip the grave of its terrors, for to them it was not "swallowed up
in victory." To conceive of the soul as an immortal principle, without the
pardon of its sins, was but cold comfort. Their future state was but a happy
guess; their heaven but a conjecture. When we read their compositions, we admire
the manner in which the medicine is administered, but we do not find it
effectual for the cure. The beauty of the sentiment we applaud, but our heart
continues to ache. There is no healing balm in their elegant prescription.

These four little words, "Your will be done, "contain a remedy of more powerful
efficacy than all the discipline of the Stoic school. What sufferer ever derived
any ease from the observation, that "pain is very troublesome, but I am resolved
never to acknowledge it to be an evil"? He does not directly say that pain is
not an evil, but by a sophistical turn professes that philosophy will never
confess it to be an evil. But what consolation does the sufferer draw from the
quibbling nicety? "What difference is there," as Tillotson well inquires,
"between things being troublesome and being evil, when all the evil of an
affliction lies in the trouble it creates to us?"

Christianity knows none of these fanciful distinctions. She never pretends to
insist that pain is not an evil, but she does more; she converts it into a good.
Christianity therefore teaches a fortitude more noble than philosophy; just as
meeting pain with resignation to the hand that inflicts it, is more heroic than
denying it to be an evil.

To submit on the mere human ground that there is no alternative, is not
resignation but hopelessness. To bear affliction solely because impatience will
not remove it may be a just reason for bearing it, but it is an inferior one. It
savors rather of despair than submission when not sanctioned by a higher
principle. "It is the Lord, let Him do what seems to Him good," is at once a
motive of more powerful obligation than all the documents which philosophy ever
suggested; a firmer ground of support than all the energies that natural
strength ever supplied.

Under any painful visitation, sickness for instance, God permits us to think the
affliction "not joyous but grievous." But though He allows us to feel dejected,
we must not allow ourselves to be so. There is again a sort of heroism in
bearing up against affliction, which some adopt on the ground that it raises
their character and confers dignity on their suffering. This philosophic
firmness is far from being the attitude which Christianity inspires.

When we are compelled by the Hand of God to endure sufferings, we must not
endure them on the poor principle that they are inevitable. We must not, with a
sullen courage, collect ourselves into a center of our own; into a cold apathy
to everything else and a proud praise of all within. We must not concentrate our
scattered faults into a sort of dignified selfishness nor adopt an independent
correctness. A gloomy Stoicism is not Christian heroism. A melancholy passivity
is not Christian resignation.

Nor must we compensate ourselves for our outward self-control by secret
murmurings. It is inward discontent that we must endeavor to repress. It is the
discontent of the heart, the unexpressed but not unfelt murmur, against which we
must pray for grace and struggle for resistance. We must not suppress our
discontents before others, and feed on them in private. It is the hidden
rebellion of the will we must subdue, if we would submit as Christians. Nor must
we justify our impatience by saying that if our affliction did not disqualify us
from being useful to our families and active in the service of God, we could
bear it more cheerfully. Let us rather be assured that our suffering does not
disqualify us for that duty which we most need, and to which God calls us by
that very suffering.

A constant posture of defense against the attacks of our great spiritual enemy
is a better security than an occasional blow or victory. It is also a better
preparation for all the occurrences of life. It is not some notable act of
mortification, but a habitual state of discipline which will prepare us for
great trials. A soul ever on the watch, fervent in prayer, diligent in
self-inspection, frequent in meditation, fortified against the vanities of time
by repeated views of eternity will be better able to resist temptation. "Strong
in the Lord and in the power of His might," the heart will be enabled to resist
temptation and expel the tempter. To a mind so prepared, the thoughts of
sickness will not be new, for it knows it is the "condition of the battle." The
prospect of death will not be surprising, for he knows it is its termination.

When we face serious illness and the prospect of death, we must summon all the
fortitude and all the resignation of the Christian. The principles we have been
learning must now be made practical. The speculations we have admired must now
become reality. All that we have been studying was in order to furnish materials
for this great need. All the strength we have been collecting must now be
brought into action. We must now draw to a point all the scattered arguments,
all the different motives, and all the cheering promises of faith. We must
exemplify all the rules we have given to others. We must embody all the
resolutions we have formed for ourselves. We must reduce our precepts to
experience. We must pass from discourses on submission to its exercise; from
dissertations on suffering to enduring it. We must heroically call up the
determinations of our better days. We must recollect what we have said about the
support of faith and hope when our strength was in full vigor, when our heart
was at ease, and our mind undisturbed. Let us collect all that remains to us of
mental strength. Let us implore the aid of holy hope and fervent faith, to show
that Christian commitment is not a beautiful theory but a soul-sustaining truth.

The strongest faith is needed in the hardest trials. To the confirmed Christian
the highest degree of grace is commonly imparted during those trials. Do not
injure that faith on which you rested when your mind was strong by suspecting
its validity now that it is weak. That which had your full assent in perfect
health, which was then firmly rooted in your spirit and grounded in your
understanding, must not be damaged by the doubts of a weakened reason and the
misgivings of an impaired judgment. You may not now be able to reason clearly,
but you may derive strong consolation from conclusions which were once fully
established in your mind.

The reflecting Christian will consider the natural evil of sickness as the
consequence and punishment of moral evil. We will mourn, not only that we suffer
pain, but because that pain is the effect of sin. If our race had not sinned we
would not have suffered. The heaviest aggravation of our pain is to know that we
have deserved it. But it is a counterbalance to this trial to know that our
merciful Father has no pleasure in the sufferings of His children; that He
chastens them in love; that He never inflicts a stroke which He could safely
spare; that He inflicts it to purify as well as to punish, to caution as well as
to cure.

What a support in the dreary season of sickness it is to reflect that the
Captain of our salvation was made perfect through sufferings! What a comfort to
remember that if we suffer with Him we shall also reign with Him! This implies
also the reverse, that if we do not suffer with Him—that is, if we suffer merely
because we cannot help it, without reference to Him, without suffering for His
sake and in His Spirit, we shall not reign with Him. If it is not sanctified,
suffering it will avail but little. We shall not be paid for having suffered, as
too many people believe, but our fitness for the kingdom of glory will be
increased if we suffer according to His will and after His example.

Those who are brought to serious reflection by the salutary affliction of a sick
bed, will look back with astonishment on their former false estimate of worldly
things. Riches! Beauty! Pleasure! Genius! Fame! What are they in the eyes of the
sick and dying?

Riches! These are so far from affording them a moment’s ease, that it will be
well if no remembrance of their misuse aggravate their present pains. They feel
as if they only wished to live that they might henceforth dedicate their riches
to the purposes for which they were given.

Beauty! What is beauty? they cry, as they consider their own sunken eyes, hollow
cheeks, and pallid countenance. They acknowledge with the Psalmist that, "You
make his beauty to consume away like a moth: surely every man is vanity." Psalms
39:11

Genius! What is it? Without faith, genius is only a lamp on the gate of a
palace. It may serve to cast a gleam of light on those outside, but the
inhabitant sits in darkness.

Pleasure! That has not left a trace behind it. It died in the birth, and is not
therefore worthy to come into this bill of mortality.

Fame! Of this their very soul acknowledges the emptiness. They are astonished
that they could ever have been so infatuated as to run after a sound, to pursue
a shadow, to embrace a cloud. Augustus asked his friends as they surrounded his
dying bed, if he had acted his part well. When they answered in the affirmative,
he cried, "Applaud!" But the acclamations of the whole universe would mock
rather than soothe the dying Christian if unsupported by the hope of God’s
approval. They now rate at its true value the fame which was so often eclipsed
by envy, and which will be so soon forgotten in death. They have no ambition
left but for heaven, where there will be neither envy, death, nor forgetfulness.

When capable of reflection, the sick Christian will go over the sins and errors
of his past life, humbling himself for them as sincerely as if he had never
repented of them before, imploring forgiveness as fervently as if he did not
believe they were long since forgiven. The remembrance of our former offenses
will grieve us, but the humble hope that they are pardoned will fill us "with
joy unspeakable and full of glory."

Even in this state of helplessness we may improve our self-acquaintance. We may
detect new deficiencies in our character, fresh imperfections in our virtues.
Omissions will now strike us with the force of actual sins. Resignation, which
we fancied was so easy when only the sufferings of others required it, we now
find to be difficult when called on to practice it ourselves. We may have
sometimes wondered at their impatience; we are now humbled at our own. We will
not only try to bear patiently the pains we actually suffer, but will recollect
gratefully those from which we have been delivered, and which we may have
formerly found less bearable than our present sufferings.

In the extremity of pain we feel there is no consolation but in humble
acquiescence in God’s will. It may be that we can pray but little, but that
little will be fervent. We can articulate perhaps not at all, but our prayer is
addressed to One who sees the heart, who can interpret its language, who
requires not words, but love. A pang endured without a murmur, or only such an
involuntary groan as nature compels and faith regrets, is itself a prayer.

If surrounded with all the accommodations of affluence, let us compare our own
situation with that of thousands, who probably with greater merit and under more
severe trials have not one of our means of relief. When invited to take a
distasteful remedy, let us reflect how many perishing fellow creatures may be
pining for that remedy, suffering additional distress from their inability to
procure it.

In the lulls between bouts of severe pain we can turn our few advantages to the
best account. We can make the most of every short respite, patiently bearing
with little disappointments, little delays, with the awkwardness or accidental
neglect of our attendants. Thankful for general kindness, we can accept good
will instead of perfection. The suffering Christian will be grateful for small
reliefs, little alleviations, short snatches of rest. Abated pain will be
positive pleasure. The freer use of limbs which had nearly lost their activity,
will be enjoyments.

The sufferer has perhaps often regretted that one of the worst effects of
sickness is the selfishness it too naturally induces. We can resist the
temptation to this by not being exacting and unreasonable in our requirements.
Through our tenderness to the feelings of others, we can be careful not to add
to their distress by any appearance of discontent.

What a lesson against selfishness have we in the conduct of our dying Redeemer!
It was while bearing His cross to the place of execution that He said to the
sorrowing multitude, "Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for your
children." While enduring the agonies of crucifixion He endeavored to mitigate
the sorrows of His mother and of His friend by tenderly committing them to each
other’s care. While sustaining the pangs of death, He gave the immediate promise
of heaven to the expiring criminal.

Christians should review, if able, not only the sins, but the mercies of our
past life. If we were previously accustomed to unbroken health, we can bless God
for the long period in which we have enjoyed it. If continued infirmity has been
our portion, we will feel grateful that we have had such a long and gradual
weaning from the world. From either state we can derive consolation. If the pain
is new, what a mercy to have hitherto escaped it! If habitual, we bear more
easily what we have borne long.

We can also review our temporal blessings and deliverances, our domestic
comforts, our Christian friendships. Among other mercies, our now "purged eyes"
will add up our difficulties, our sorrows and trials and find a new and heavenly
light thrown on that passage "It is good for me that I have been afflicted." It
seems to us as if hitherto, we had only heard it with the hearing of our ears,
but now our eyes see it.

If we are real Christians, and have had enemies, we will always have prayed for
them, but now we will be thankful for them. We will the more earnestly implore
mercy for them as instruments which have helped to fit us for our present state.
He will look up with holy gratitude to the great Physician, who by a kind of
"divine chemistry" in making up events, has made that one unpalatable
ingredient, at the bitterness of which we once revolted, the very means by which
all other things have worked together for good; had they worked separately they
would not have worked efficaciously.

Under the most severe visitation, let us compare our own sufferings with the cup
which our Redeemer drank for our sakes. Let us compare our condition with that
of the Son of God. He was deserted in His most trying hour; deserted probably by
those whose limbs, sight and life He had restored, whose souls He had come to
save. We are surrounded by unwearied friends; every pain is mitigated by
sympathy, every need not only relieved but prevented. When our souls are
"exceeding sorrowful," our friends participate in our sorrow; when desired "to
watch" with us, they watch not "one hour" but many, not falling asleep, not
forsaking us in our "agony" but sympathizing where they cannot relieve.

Besides this, we must acknowledge with the penitent malefactor, "We indeed
suffer justly but this man has done nothing amiss." We suffer for our offenses
the inevitable penalty of our fallen nature. He bore our sins and those of the
whole human race. How cheering in this forlorn state to reflect that He not only
suffered for us then, but is sympathizing with us now; that "in all our
afflictions He is afflicted." (Isaiah 63:9) The tenderness of His sympathy seems
to add a value to our sacrifice, while the severity of our suffering makes His
sympathy more dear to us.

If our intellectual powers be mercifully preserved, how many virtues may now be
brought into exercise which had either lain dormant or been considered as of
inferior worth in the prosperous day of activity. The Christian disposition
indeed seems to be more evident and to be exercised more vigorously on a sick
bed. The passive virtues, the least brilliant but the most difficult, are then
particularly called into action. To suffer the whole will of God on the tedious
bed of suffering is often more trying than to perform the most shining exploit
on the stage of the world. The hero in the field of battle has the love of fame
as well as patriotism to support him. He knows that the witnesses of his valor
will be the heralds of his renown. The martyr at the stake is divinely
strengthened. Extraordinary grace is imparted for extraordinary trials. The
martyr’s pangs are exquisite but they are short. The crown is in sight; it is
almost in possession. By faith, Stephen said, "I see the heavens opened, and the
Son of man standing on the right hand of God." But to be strong in faith and
patient in hope in a long and lingering sickness is an example of more general
use and ordinary application, than the sublime heroism of the martyr. We read of
the martyr with astonishment. Our faith is strengthened, and our admiration
kindled. But we read it without that peculiar reference to our own circumstances
which we feel in cases that are likely to apply to ourselves. With a dying
friend we have not only a feeling of tenderness, but there is also a community
of interests. The certain conviction that his case must soon be our own, makes
it our own now. To the martyr’s stake we feel that we are not likely to be
brought. To the dying bed we must inevitably come.

Accommodating our state of mind to the nature of our disease, the dying
Christian will derive consolation in any case, either from thinking how forcibly
a sudden sickness breaks the chain which binds us to the world, or how gently a
gradual decay unties it. We will feel and acknowledge the necessity of all we
suffer to wean us from life. We admire the divine goodness which commissions the
infirmities of sickness to divest the world of its enchantments and to strip
death of some of its most formidable terrors. We feel much less reluctant to
leave a body exhausted by suffering rather than one in the vigor of health.

Sickness, instead of narrowing the heart in self-centeredness, which is its
worst effect on a carnal mind, enlarges the Christian’s heart. We earnestly
exhort those around us to defer no act of repentance, no labor of love, no deed
of justice, no work of mercy, because of the sickness in which we now lie.

How many motives has the Christian to restrain his murmurs! MURMURING offends
God because it injures His goodness and because it perverts the occasion which
God has now afforded for giving an opportunity to display an example of
patience. Let us not complain that we have nothing to do in sickness when we are
furnished with the opportunity and called to the duty of resignation. The duty
indeed is always ours, but the occasion is now more prominently given. Let us
not say even in this depressed state that we have nothing to be thankful for. If
sleep be afforded, let us acknowledge the blessing. If wearisome nights be our
portion, let us remember they are "appointed to us." Let us mitigate the
grievance of watchfulness by considering it as a sort of prolongation of life;
as the gift of more minutes granted for meditation and prayer. If we are not
able to employ it to either of these purposes, there is a fresh occasion for
exercising that resignation which will be accepted for both.

If reason is continued, yet with sufferings too intense for any spiritual duty,
the sick Christian may take comfort that the business of life was accomplished
before the sickness began. We will not be terrified if duties are superseded,
for we have nothing to do but to die. This is the act for which all other acts,
all other duties, and all other means, have been preparing us. They who have
long been accustomed to look death in the face, and who have often anticipated
the agonies of their deteriorating nature, and who have accustomed themselves to
pray for support under them, will now feel the blessed effect of those petitions
which have long been treasured in heaven. To those very anticipatory prayers we
may now owe the humble confidence of hope in this inevitable hour. Accustomed to
contemplation, we will not, at least, have the dreadful addition of surprise and
novelty to aggravate the trying situation. It has long been familiar to our
mind, though beforehand it could only exist as a faint picture compared to a
reality. Faith will not so much dwell on the open grave, as look forward to the
glories to which it leads. The hope of heaven will soften the pangs which lie in
the way to it. On heaven we can fix our eyes rather than on the fearful
intervening circumstances. We will not dwell on the struggle which is for a
moment, but on the crown which is forever. We will endeavor to think less of
death than of its Conqueror, less of the grave than its Spoiler, less of the
body in ruins than of the spirit in glory, less of the darkness of our closing
day than of the opening dawn of immortality. In some brighter moments, when
viewing our eternal redemption drawing near, we may exclaim, "Our soul is
escaped as a bird out of the snare of the fowlers: the snare is broken, and we
are escaped."

If we ever wish for recovery, it is in order to glorify God by our future life
more than we have done in the past. But as we know the deceitfulness of our
heart, we are not certain that this would be the case. Yet should we be
restored, we humbly resolve in a better strength than our own, to dedicate our
life to the Restorer.

When death nears, our prospects as to this world are at an end also. We commit
ourselves unreservedly to our heavenly Father. But though secure in our
destination, we may still dread the passage. The Christian will rejoice that our
rest is at hand, though we may shudder at the unknown transit. Though faith is
strong, nature may be weak. No in this awful crisis strong faith is sometimes
rendered faint through the weakness of nature.

At the moment when our faith is looking round for every additional confirmation,
we may rejoice in those blessed certainties, those glorious realizations which
Scripture affords. We may take comfort that the strongest witnesses given by the
apostles to the reality of the heavenly state were not mere speculation. They
spoke what they knew and testified what they had seen. "I reckon," says Paul,
"that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the
glory which shall be revealed in us." He said this after he had been caught up
into the third heaven, and after he had beheld the glories to which he alludes.
The author of the Book of Revelation, having described the indescribable glories
of the new Jerusalem, thus puts new life and power into his description: "I John
saw these things, and heard them."

The power to distinguish objects increases as they grow nearer. Christians feel
that they are entering a state where every care will cease, every fear vanish,
every desire be fulfilled, every sin be done away, and every grace perfected.
There will be no more temptations to resist, no more passions to subdue, no more
insensibility to mercies, no more deadness in service, no more wandering in
prayer, no more sorrows to be felt for themselves, nor tears to be shed for
others. They are going where their devotion will be without apathy, their love
without alloy; their doubts will turn to certainty, their expectation to
enjoyment, and their hope to fruition. All will be perfect, for God will be all
in all.

We know that we shall derive all our happiness immediately from God. It will no
longer pass through any of those channels which now sully its purity. It will be
offered us through no second cause which may fail, no intermediate agent which
may deceive, no uncertain medium which may disappoint. The bliss is not only
certain, but perfect—not only perfect, but eternal.

As we approach the land of realities, the shadows of this earth cease to
interest or mislead us. The films are removed from our eyes. Objects are
stripped of their false luster. Nothing that is really little any longer looks
great. The mists of vanity are dispersed. Everything which is to have an end
appears small, appears nothing. Eternal things assume their proper magnitude—for
we behold them with a true vision. We have ceased to lean on the world for we
have found it both a reed and a spear. It has failed and it has pierced us. We
lean not on ourselves, for we have long known our own weakness. We lean not on
our virtues, for they can do nothing for us. If we had no better refuge in
death, we feel that our sun would set in darkness and our love close in despair.

But we know in whom we have trusted. We look upward with holy but humble
confidence to that Great Shepherd, who having long since led us into green
pastures, having corrected us by His rod, and by His staff supported us, will,
we humbly trust, guide us through the dark valley of the shadow of death, and
safely land us on the peaceful shores of everlasting rest.


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  CHAPTER 32: S.     ALL FOR THE BEST!
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All For The Best!

Hannah More

"It is all for the best," said Mrs. Simpson, whenever any misfortune befell her.
She had got such a habit of vindicating God’s Providence, that instead of
weeping and wailing under the most trying dispensations, her chief care was to
convince herself and others, that however great might be her sufferings, and
however little they could be accounted for at present — yet that the Judge of
all the earth could not but do right. Instead of trying to clear herself from
any possible blame that might attach to her under those misfortunes which, to
speak after the manner of men, she might seem not to have deserved — she was
always the first to justify Him who had inflicted it.

It was not that she superstitiously converted every afflictive visitation into a
punishment; she entertained more correct ideas of that God who overrules all
events. She knew that some calamities were sent to exercise her faith, others to
purify her heart; some to chastise her rebellious will, and all to remind her
that this world was not her rest — that this world was not the scene for the
full and final display of retributive justice. The honor of God was dearer to
her than her own credit, and her chief desire was to turn all events to his
glory.

Though Mrs. Simpson was the daughter of a clergyman, and the widow of a genteel
tradesman, she had been reduced by a succession of misfortunes, to accept of a
room in an almshouse. Instead of repining at the change; instead of dwelling on
her former gentility, and saying, "how handsomely she had lived once; and how
hard it was to be reduced; and she little thought ever to end her days in an
alms-house" — which is the common language of those who were ever so well off
before — she was thankful that such an asylum was provided for poverty and old
age; and blessed God that it was to the Christian dispensation alone that such
pious institutions owed their birth.

One fine evening, as she was sitting reading her Bible on the little bench
shaded with honey-suckles, just before her door — who should come and sit down
by her but Betty, who had formerly been a maid at the nobleman’s house in the
village of which Mrs. Simpson’s father had been minister. Betty, after a life of
vanity, was, by a train of misfortunes, brought to this very alms-house; and
though she had taken no care by frugality and prudence to avoid it — she thought
it a hardship and disgrace, instead of being thankful, as she ought to have
been, for such a retreat. At first she did not know Mrs. Simpson — her large
bonnet, cloak, and plain brown gown (for she always made her appearance conform
to her circumstances) being very different from the dress she had been used to
wear when Betty had seen her dining at the great house — and time and sorrow had
much altered her countenance. But when Mrs. Simpson kindly addressed her as an
old acquaintance, she screamed with surprise, "What! you, madam?" cried she;
"you in an alms-house, living on charity; you, who used to be so charitable
yourself, that you never allowed any distress in the parish which you could
prevent?"

"That may be one reason, Betty," replied Mrs. Simpson, "why Providence has
provided this refuge for my old age. And my heart overflows with gratitude when
I look back on his goodness."

"No such great goodness, methinks," said Betty; "why, you were born and bred a
lady — and are now reduced to live in an alms-house!"

"Betty, I was born and bred a sinner, undeserving of the mercies I have
received."

"No such great mercies," said Betty. "Why, I heard you had been turned out of
doors; that your husband became broke; and that you had been in danger of
starving."

"It is all true, Betty, glory be to God! it is all true."

"Well," said Betty, "you are an odd sort of a gentlewoman. If from a prosperous
condition I had been made a bankrupt, a widow, and a beggar — I would have
thought it no such mighty matter to be thankful for — but there is no accounting
for taste. The neighbors used to say that all your troubles must needs be a
judgment upon you; but I who knew how good you were, thought it very hard that
you should suffer so much. And now that I see you reduced to an alms-house, I
beg your pardon, madam — but I am afraid the neighbors were in the right, and
that so many misfortunes could never have happened to you without you had
committed a great many sins to deserve them. For I always thought that God is so
just that he punishes us for all our bad actions, and rewards us for all our
good ones."

"So he does, Betty — but he does it in his own way, and at his own time, and not
according to our notions of good and evil — for his ways are not as our ways.
God, indeed, punishes the wicked, and rewards the godly — but he does not do it
fully and finally in this world. Indeed he does not set such a value on external
things as to make riches, and rank, and beauty, and health, the reward of piety
— that would be acting like weak and erring men, and not like a just and holy
God. Our belief in a future state of rewards and punishments is not always so
strong as it ought to be, even now — but how totally would our faith fail, if
God mad everything right in this world. We shall lose nothing by having pay-day
put off until the final accounting. The longest voyages make the best returns.
So far am I from thinking that God is less just, and future happiness less
certain, because I see the wicked sometimes prosper, and the righteous suffer in
this world — that I am rather led to believe that God is more just and Heaven
more certain. For, in the first place, God will not put off his favorite
children with so poor a lot as the good things of this world. And next, seeing
that the holiest men here below do not often attain to the best things — why it
only serves to strengthen my belief that worldly things are not the best things
in His eye. He has most assuredly reserved for those who love Him such ’good
things as eye has not seen nor ear heard.’ God, by keeping man in Paradise while
he was innocent, and turning him into this world as soon as he had sinned — gave
a plain proof that he never intended the world, even in its happiest state, as a
place of reward. My father gave me good principles and useful knowledge; and
while he taught me by a habit of constant employment to be, if I may so say,
independent of the world — yet he led me to a constant sense of dependence on
God."

"I do not see, however," interrupted Betty, "that your religion has been of any
use to you. It has been so far from preserving you from trouble, that I think
you have had more than the usual share!"

Mrs. Simpson answered, "Christianity never pretended to exempt its followers
from trouble — this is no part of the promise. Nay, the contrary is rather
stipulated: ’Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows.’ But if it has
not taught me to escape sorrow, I humbly hope it has taught me how to bear it —
and not to murmur. I will tell you a little of my story: As my father could save
little or nothing for me, he was desirous of seeing me married to a young
gentleman in the neighborhood, who expressed a regard for me. But while he was
anxiously engaged in bringing this about, my good father died."

"How very unlucky!" interrupted Betty.

"No, Betty," replied Mrs. Simpson, "it was very providential. This man, though
he maintained a decent character, had a good fortune, and lived soberly — yet he
would not have made me happy."

"Why, what more could you want of a man?" said Betty.

"True religion," returned Mrs. Simpson. "As my father made a creditable
appearance, and was very charitable; and as I was an only child, this gentleman
concluded that he could give me a considerable fortune — for he did not know
that all the poor in his parish are the children of every pious clergyman.
Finding I had little or nothing left me, he withdrew his attentions from me."

"What a sad thing!" cried Betty.

"No, it was all for the best! Providence overruled his covetousness, for my
good. I could not have been happy with a man whose soul was set on the
perishable things of this world — nor did I esteem him, though I labored to
submit my own inclinations to those of my kind father.

"I finally did marry a Mr. Simpson. The very circumstance of being left
penniless, produced the direct contrary effect on him — he was a sensible young
man, engaged in a prosperous business. We had long highly valued each other; but
while my father lived, he thought me above his hopes. We were married; I found
him an amiable, industrious, good-tempered man. He respected religion and
religious people — but with all his excellent dispositions, I had the grief to
find him less pious than I had hoped. He was ambitious, and a little too much
immersed in worldly schemes. And though I knew it was all done for my sake, yet
that did not blind me so far as to make me think it right. He attached himself
so eagerly to business, that he thought every hour lost in which he was not
doing something that would tend to raise me to what he called my proper rank.
The more prosperous he grew — the less pious he became. And I began to find that
one might be unhappy with a husband whom one tenderly loved. One day as he was
standing on some steps to reach down a parcel of goods, he fell from the top and
broke his leg in two places."

"What a dreadful misfortune!" said Betty.

"What a signal blessing!" said Mrs. Simpson. "Here I am sure I had reason to say
that all was for the best. From the very hour in which my outward troubles began
— I date the beginning of my happiness. Severe suffering, a near prospect of
death, absence from the world, silence, reflection, and above all, the divine
blessing on the prayers and Scriptures I read to him — were the means used by
our merciful Father to turn my husband’s heart. During his confinement he was
awakened to a deep sense of his own sinfulness, of the vanity of all this world
has to bestow, and of his great need of a Savior. It was many months before he
could leave his bed; during this time his business was neglected. His principal
clerk took advantage of his absence to receive large sums of money in his name,
and absconded with them. On hearing of this great loss, our creditors came
faster upon us than we could answer their demands — they grew more impatient as
we were less able to satisfy them. One misfortune followed another, until at
length my husband became a bankrupt."

"What an evil!" exclaimed Betty.

"Yet it led in the end to much good," resumed Mrs. Simpson. "We were forced to
leave the town in which we had lived with so much credit and comfort, and to
betake ourselves to a poor lodging in a neighboring village, until my husband’s
strength should be recruited, and until we could have time to look about us and
see what was to be done. The first night we got to this poor dwelling, my
husband felt very sorrowful, not for his own sake, but that he had brought so
much poverty on me, whom he had so dearly loved. I, on the contrary, was
unusually cheerful, for the blessed change in his mind had more than reconciled
me to the sad change in his circumstances. I was contented to live with him in a
poor cottage for a few years on earth — if it might contribute to our spending a
blessed eternity together in Heaven! I said to him, ’Instead of lamenting that
we are now reduced to lack all the comforts of life — I have sometimes been
almost ashamed to live in the full enjoyments of them, when I have reflected
that my Savior not only chose to deny himself all these enjoyments, but even to
live a life of hardship for my sake. Not one of his numerous miracles tended to
his own comfort. And though we read at different times that he both hungered and
thirsted — yet it was not for his own gratification that he once changed water
into wine. I have often been struck with the near position of that chapter in
which this miracle is recorded, to that in which he thirsted for a draught of
water at the well in Samaria. It was for others, not himself, that even the
humble sustenance of barley-bread was multiplied. See here, we have a bed left
us (I had, indeed, nothing but straw to stuff it with), but the Savior of the
world had nowhere to lay his head.’

"My husband smiled through his tears, and we sat down to supper. It consisted of
a roll and a bit of cheese which I had brought with me, and we ate it
thankfully. Seeing my husband beginning to relapse into distrust, the following
conversation, as nearly as I can remember, took place between us. He began by
remarking, that it was a mysterious Providence that he had been less prosperous
since he had been less attached to the world, and that his endeavors had not
been followed by that success which usually attends honest industry. I took the
liberty to reply: ’Your heavenly Father sees on which side your danger lies, and
is mercifully bringing you, by these disappointments, to trust less in the world
and more in himself. My dear husband,’ added I, ’we trust everybody but God. As
children, we obey our parents implicitly, because we are taught to believe all
is for our good which they command or forbid. If we undertake a voyage, we trust
entirely to the skill and conduct of the pilot — we never torment ourselves in
thinking he will carry us east, when he has promised to carry us west. If a dear
and tried friend makes us a promise, we depend on him for the performance, and
do not wound his feelings by our anxious suspicions. When you used to go your
annual journey to London, you confided yourself to the care of the coachman,
that he would carry you where he had engaged to do so. You were not anxiously
watching him, and distrusting and inquiring at every turning. When the doctor
sends home your medicine, don’t you so fully trust in his ability and goodwill,
that you swallow it down in full confidence? You never think of inquiring — what
are the ingredients, why they are mixed in that particular way, why there is
more of one and less of another, and why they are bitter instead of sweet! If
one dose does not cure you, he orders another, and changes the medicine when he
sees the first does you no good, or that by long use the same medicine has lost
its effect. If the weaker medicine fails, he prescribes you a stronger — you
swallow all, you submit to all, never questioning the skill or kindness of the
physician. God is the only being whom we do not trust — though He is the only
one who is fully competent, both in will and power, to fulfill all his promises
— and who has solemnly and repeatedly pledged himself to fulfill them in those
Scriptures which we receive as his revealed will.’

"My husband thanked me for my little sermon, as he called it; but said, at the
same time, that what made my exhortations produce a powerful effect on his mind
was, the patient cheerfulness with which he was pleased to say I bore my share
in our misfortunes. A submissive behavior, he said, was the best practical
illustration of a real faith. When we had thanked God for our supper, we prayed
together; after which we read the eleventh chapter of the epistle to the
Hebrews. When my husband had finished it, he said, ’Surely, if God’s chief
favorites have been martyrs — is not that a sufficient proof that this world is
not a place of happiness, no earthly prosperity the reward of virtue? Shall we,
after reading this chapter, complain of our petty trials? Shall we not rather be
thankful that our affliction is so light?’

"Next day my husband walked out in search of some employment, by which we might
be supported. He got a recommendation to Mr. Thomas, an opulent farmer who had
large concerns, and needed a skillful person to assist him in keeping his
accounts. This we thought a fortunate circumstance, for we found that the salary
would serve to procure us at least all the necessities of life. Mr. Thomas was
so pleased with my husband’s quickness, regularity, and good sense, that he
offered us, of his own accord, a neat little cottage of his own, which then
happened to be vacant, and told us we should live rent free, and promised to be
a friend to us."

"All does seem for the best now, indeed," interrupted Betty.

"We shall see," said Mrs. Simpson, and thus went on: "I now became very easy and
very happy; and was cheerfully employed in putting our few things in order, and
making everything look to the best advantage. My husband, who wrote all day for
his employer, in the evening assisted me in doing up our little garden. This was
a source of much pleasure to us — we both loved a garden, and we were not only
contented, but cheerful.

"Our employer had been absent some weeks on his annual journey. He came home on
a Saturday night, and the next morning sent for my husband to come and settle
his accounts, which were got behind-hand by his long absence. We were just going
to church, and my husband sent back word that he would call and speak to him on
his way home. A second message followed, ordering him to come to the farmer’s
directly.

"Mr. Thomas, more ignorant and worse educated than his plowman, with all that
pride and haughtiness which the possession of wealth, without knowledge of
religion is apt to give — rudely asked my husband what he meant by sending him
word that he would not come to him until the next day; and insisted that he
should stay and settle the accounts right then.

’Sir,’ said my husband, in a very respectful manner, ’I am on my way to church,
and I am afraid shall be too late.’

’Is that so?’ said Mr. Thomas. ’Do you know who sent for you? You may, however,
go to church, if you will, so long as you make haste back to me. You may leave
your accounts with me, as I conclude you have brought them with you. I will look
them over by the time you return, and then you and I can do all I want to have
done today in about a couple of hours. And I will give you some letters to take
home to copy for me in the evening.’

’Sir,’ answered my husband, ’I dare not obey you — it is Sunday.’

’And so you refuse to settle my accounts only because it is Sunday.’

’Sir,’ replied my husband, ’if you would give me a handful of silver and gold, I
dare not break the commandment of my God.’

’Well,’ said the farmer, ’but this is not breaking the commandment; I don’t
order you to drive my cattle, or to work in my garden, or to do anything which
you might imagine would be a bad example.’

’Sir,’ replied my husband, ’the example indeed goes a great way, but it is not
the first object. The deed is wrong in itself.’

’Well, but I shall not keep you from church; and when you have been there, there
is no harm in doing a little business, or taking a little pleasure the rest of
the day.’

’Sir,’ answered my husband, ’the commandment does not say, you shall keep holy
the Sabbath morning, but the Sabbath day.’

’Get out of my house, you puritanical rascal, and out of my cottage too!’ said
the farmer. ’For if you refuse to do my work, I am not bound to keep my
engagement with you. As you will not obey me as a master, I shall not pay you as
a servant.’

’Sir,’ said my husband, ’I would gladly obey you, but I have a Master in Heaven
whom I dare not disobey.’

’Then let him find employment for you,’ said the enraged farmer; ’for I imagine
you will get but poor employment on earth with these scrupulous notions. Send my
papers to me directly, and pack off out of the town.’

’Out of your cottage,’ said my husband, ’I certainly will; but as to the town, I
hope I may remain in that, if I can find employment.’

’I will make it too hot to hold you,’ replied the farmer, ’so you had better
troop off bag and baggage; for I am constable, and it is my duty not to let any
vagabonds stay in the town.’

"By the time my husband returned home, for he found it too late to go to church,
I had got our little dinner ready; it was a better one than we had for a long
while been accustomed to, and I was unusually cheerful at this improvement in
our circumstances. I saw his eyes full of tears, and oh! with what pain did he
bring himself to tell me that it was the last dinner we must ever eat in this
house. I took his hand with a smile, and only said, ’the Lord gave and the Lord
takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.’

’Notwithstanding this sudden stroke of injustice,’ said my husband, ’this is
still a free country. Our employer, it is true, may turn us out of home at a
moment’s notice, because it is his own — but he has no further power over us; he
cannot confine or punish us. His riches, it is true, give him power to insult
us, but not to oppress us. The same laws to which the affluent resort, protect
us also. And as to our being driven out from a cottage, how many people of the
highest rank have lately been driven out from their palaces and castles — people
too, born in a station which he never enjoyed, and used to all the indulgences
of that rank and wealth we never knew, are at this moment wandering over the
face of the earth, without a house or without bread, exiles and beggars — while
we, blessed be God, are in our own native land; we have still our liberty, our
limbs, the protection of just and equal laws, our churches, our Bibles, and our
Sabbaths.’

"This happy state of my husband’s mind hushed my sorrows, and I never once
murmured; nay, I sat down to dinner with a degree of cheerfulness, endeavoring
to cast all our care on ’Him who cares for us.’ We had begged to stay until the
next morning, as Sunday was not the day on which we liked to remove; but we were
ordered not to sleep another night in Mr. Thomas’ house. As we had little to
carry, we marched off in the evening to the poor lodging we had before occupied.
The thought that my husband had cheerfully renounced his little all for
conscience sake, gave an unspeakable serenity to my mind; and I felt thankful
that though cast down we were not forsaken. Nay I felt a lively gratitude to
God, that while I doubted not he would accept this little sacrifice, as it was
heartily made for his sake, he had graciously forborne to call us to greater
trials."

"And so you were turned adrift once more? Well, ma’am, I hope you won’t be such
a fool as to say all was for the best now."

"Yes, Betty, He who does all things well, now made his kind Providence more
manifest than ever. That very night, while we were sweetly sleeping in our poor
lodging — Mr. Thomas’ pretty cottage, out of which we were so unkindly driven,
was burned to the ground by a flash of lightning which caught the thatch, and so
completely consumed the whole little building, that had it not been for the
merciful Providence who thus overruled the cruelty of the farmer for the
preservation of our lives — we must have been burned to ashes with the house.
’It was the Lord’s doing, and it was marvelous in our eyes.’ ’O that men would
therefore praise the Lord for his goodness, and for all the wonders that he does
for the children of men!’

"I will not tell you all the trials and afflictions which befell us afterward. I
would also spare my heart the sad story of my husband’s death."

"Well, that was another blessing too, I suppose," said Betty.

"Oh, it was the severest trial ever sent to me!" replied Mrs. Simpson, a few
tears quietly stealing down her face. "I almost sank under it. Nothing but the
abundant grace of God could have carried me through such a painful visitation —
and yet I now feel it to be the greatest mercy I ever experienced. My husband
was my idol — no trouble ever came near my heart while he was with me. I got
more credit than I deserved for my patience under trials, which were easily
borne while he who shared and lightened them was spared to me. I had indeed
prayed and struggled to be weaned from this world, but still my affection for
him tied me down to the earth with a strong cord. And though I earnestly tried
to keep my eyes fixed on the eternal world, yet I viewed it with too feeble a
faith — I viewed it at too great a distance. I found it difficult to realize it
— I had deceived myself. I had imagined that I bore my troubles so well out of
pure love of God, but I have since found that my love for my husband had too
great a share in reconciling me to every difficulty which I underwent for him.
When I lost him — the charm was broken, the cord which tied me down to earth was
cut, this world had nothing left to engage me. Heaven had now no rival in my
heart. Though my love of God had always been sincere, yet I found I needed this
blow to make it perfect. But though all that had made life pleasant to me was
gone, I did not sink as those who have no hope. I prayed that I might still, in
this trying conflict, be enabled to adorn the doctrine of God my Savior.

"After many more hardships, I was at length so happy as to get an asylum in this
alms-house. Here my cares are at an end, but not my duties."

"Now you are wrong again," interrupted Betty; "your duty is now to take care of
yourself — for I am sure you have nothing to spare."

"There you are mistaken again," said Mrs. Simpson. "People are so apt to imagine
that money is all in all — that all the other gifts of Providence are overlooked
as things of no value. I have here a great deal of leisure; a good part of this
I devote to the needs of those who are more distressed than myself. I work a
little for the aged people, and I instruct the young. My eyes are good — this
enables me to read the Bible either to those whose sight is decayed, or who were
never taught to read. I have tolerable health; so that I am able occasionally to
sit up with the sick — in the intervals of nursing I can pray with them. In my
younger days I thought it not much to sit up late for my pleasure — shall I now
think much of sitting up now and then to watch by a dying bed? My Savior waked
and watched for me in the garden and on the mount — and shall I do nothing for
his suffering members? It is only by keeping his sufferings in view, that we can
truly practice charity to others, or exercise self-denial to ourselves."

"Well," said Betty, "I think if I had lived in such genteel life as you have
done, I could never be reconciled to an alms-house; and I am afraid I would
never forgive any of those who were the cause of sending me there, particularly
that farmer Thomas who turned you out of doors."

"Betty," said Mrs. Simpson, "I not only forgive him heartily, but I remember him
in my prayers, as one of those instruments with which it has pleased God to work
for my good. Oh! never put off forgiveness to a dying bed! When people come to
die, we often see how the conscience is troubled with sins, of which before they
hardly felt the existence. How ready are they to make restitution of ill-gotten
gain; and this perhaps for two reasons; from a feeling conviction that it can be
of no use to them where they are going, as well as from a near view of their own
responsibility. We also hear from the most hardened, of death-bed forgiveness of
enemies. Even malefactors at prisons forgive. But why must we wait for a dying
bed to do what ought to be done now? Believe me, that scene will be so full of
terror and amazement to the soul, that we had not need load it with unnecessary
business."

Just as Mrs. Simpson was saying these words, a letter was brought her from the
minister of the parish where the farmer lived, by whom Mrs. Simpson had been
turned out of the cottage. The letter was as follows:

"MADAM — I write to tell you that your old oppressor, Mr. Thomas, is dead. I
attended him in his last moments. O, may my latter end never be like his! I
shall not soon forget his despair at the approach of death. His riches, which
had been his sole joy, now doubled his sorrows; for he was going where they
could be of no use to him; and he found too late that he had laid up no treasure
in Heaven. He felt great concern at his past life, but for nothing more than his
unkindness to my husband. He charged me to find you out, and let you know that
by his will, he bequeathed you five hundred pounds as some compensation. He died
in great agonies, declaring with his last breath, that if he could live his life
over again, he would serve God, and strictly observe the Sabbath." Yours, etc.
J. JOHNSON.

Betty, who had listened attentively to the letter, jumped up, clapped her hands,
and cried out, "Now all is for the best, and I shall see you a lady once more."

"I am, indeed, thankful for this money," said Mrs. Simpson, "and am glad that
riches were not sent me until I had learned, as I humbly hope, to make a right
use of them. But come, let us go in, for I am very cold, and find I have sat too
long in the night air."

Betty was now ready enough to acknowledge the hand of Providence in this
prosperous event, though she was blind to it when the dispensation was more
dark. Next morning she went early to visit Mrs. Simpson, but not seeing her
below, she went upstairs, where, to her great sorrow, she found her confined to
her bed by a fever, caught the night before, by sitting so late on the bench,
reading the letter and talking it over. Betty was now more ready to cry out
against Providence than ever.

"What! to catch a fever while you were reading that very letter which told you
about your good fortune; which would have enabled you to live like a lady as you
are. I never will believe that this is for the best — to be deprived of life
just as you were beginning to enjoy it!"

"Betty," said Mrs. Simpson, "we must learn not to rate health nor life itself
too highly. There is little in life, for its own sake, to be so fond of. As a
good minister used to say, ’It is but the same thing over again, or probably
worse: so many more nights and days, summers and winters, a repetition of the
same pleasures, but with less relish for them; a return of the same or greater
pains, but with less strength, and perhaps less patience to bear them.’"

"Well," replied Betty, "I did think that Providence was at last giving you your
reward."

"Reward!" cried Mrs. Simpson. "O, no! my merciful Father will not put me off
with so poor a portion as wealth. I feel I shall die."

"It is very hard, indeed," said Betty, "so good as you are, to die just as your
prosperity was beginning."

"You think I am good just now," said Mrs. Simpson, "because I am prosperous.
Success is no sure mark of God’s favor. At this rate, you, who judge by outward
things, would have thought Herod a better man than John the Baptist. And if I
may be allowed to say so, you, on your principles, that the sufferer is the
sinner, would have believed Pontius Pilate higher in God’s favor than the Savior
whom he condemned to die for sinners." In a few days Betty found that her new
friend was dying, and though she was struck at her resignation, she could not
forbear murmuring that so good a woman should be taken away at the very instant
which she came into possession of so much money.

"Betty," said Mrs. Simpson in a feeble voice, "I believe you love me dearly, you
would do anything to cure me. Yet you do not love me so well as God loves me,
though you would raise me up, and He is putting an end to my life. He has never
sent me a single stroke which was not absolutely necessary for me. You, if you
could restore me, might be laying me open to some temptation from which God, by
removing me, will deliver me. Your kindness in making this world so smooth for
me, I might forever have deplored in a world of misery. God’s grace in
afflicting me, will hereafter be the subject of my praises in a world of
blessedness. Betty," added the dying woman, "do you really think that I am going
to a place of rest and joy eternal?"

"To be sure I do," said Betty.

"Do you firmly believe that I am going to the assembly of the first-born; to the
spirits of just men made perfect, to God the judge of all; and to Jesus the
Mediator of the new Covenant?"

"I am sure you are," said Betty.

"And yet," resumed she, "you would detain me from all this happiness; and you
think my merciful Father is treating me unkindly by removing me from a world of
sin, and sorrow, and temptation — and bringing me to such joys as have not
entered into the heart of man to conceive; while it would have better suited
your notions of reward to defer my entrance into the blessedness of Heaven, that
I might have enjoyed a legacy of a few hundred pounds! Believe my dying words —
ALL IS FOR THE BEST!"

Mrs. Simpson expired soon after, in a frame of mind which convinced her new
friend, that "God’s ways are not as our ways."

"We know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love
God, to those who are called according to His purpose!" Romans 8:28


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  CHAPTER 33: S.     SECRET PRAYER!
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Secret Prayer! by Hannah More, 1745-1833 "Lord, teach us to pray." Luke 11:1 "He
who has learned to pray as he ought, has learned the secret of a holy life!"
Wilson

"When you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who
is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you."
Matthew 6:6

Prayer is . . . the application of need to Him who alone can relieve it, the
confession of sin to Him who alone can pardon it, the urgency of poverty, the
prostration of humility, the fervency of penitence, the confidence of trust.

Prayer is . . . not eloquence, but earnestness, not the definition of
helplessness, but the feeling of it, the "Lord, save us — or we perish!" of
drowning Peter, the cry of faith to the ear of mercy.

Adoration is the noblest employment of created beings. Confession is the natural
language of guilty creatures. Gratitude is the spontaneous expression of
pardoned sinners.

Prayer is desire — it is . . . not a mere conception of the mind, not an effort
of the intellect, not an act of the memory.

Prayer is . . . an elevation of the soul towards its Maker, a pressing sense of
our own ignorance and infirmity, a consciousness . . . of the perfections of
God, of his readiness to hear, of his power to help, of his willingness to save.

Prayer is not an emotion produced in the senses, nor an effect wrought by the
imagination — but a determination of the will, an effusion of the heart.

Prayer is an act both of the understanding and of the heart. The understanding
must apply itself to the knowledge of the Divine perfections, or the heart will
not be led to the adoration of them. It would not be a reasonable service, if
the mind were excluded. It must be rational worship, or the human worshiper will
not bring to the service the distinguishing faculty of his nature, which is
reason. It must be spiritual worship, or it will lack the distinctive quality to
make it acceptable to Him who is a spirit, and who has declared that he will be
worshiped "in spirit and in truth."

Man is not only a sinful being but also a helpless being, and therefore a
dependant being. This offers new and powerful motives to prayer, and shows the
necessity of looking continually to a higher power, to a better strength than
our own. If God sustains us not, we fall; if He directs us not, we wander. His
guidance is not only perfect freedom, but perfect safety. Our greatest danger
begins from the moment we imagine we are able to go alone. He who does not
believe this fundamental truth, "the helplessness of man," on which the other
doctrines of the Bible are built — or he who nominally professes to assent to it
as a doctrine of Scripture, yet if he does not experimentally acknowledge it —
if he does not feel it in the convictions of his own awakened conscience, in his
discovery of the evil workings of his own heart, and the wrong propensities of
his own nature, all bearing their testimony to its truth — such a one will not
pray earnestly for its cure — will not pray with that feeling of his own
helplessness, with that sense of dependence on Divine assistance — which alone
makes prayer efficacious.

Nothing will make us truly humble, nothing will make us constantly vigilant,
nothing will entirely lead us to have recourse to prayer, so fervently or so
frequently as this ever-abiding sense of our corrupt and helpless nature, as our
not being able to ascribe any disposition in ourselves to anything that is good;
or any power to avoid, by our own strength, anything that is evil.

Prayer is right in itself, as the most powerful means of resisting sin and
advancing in holiness. It is above all right, as everything is which has the
authority of Scripture, the command of God, and the example of Christ. There is
perfect consistency in all the ordinances of God — a perfect congruity in the
whole scheme of his dispensations.

If man were not a corrupt creature — such prayer as the gospel enjoins would not
have been necessary. Had not prayer been an important means for curing those
corruptions — a God of perfect wisdom would not have ordered it. He would not
have prohibited everything which tends to inflame and promote our corruptions,
had they not existed; nor would he have commanded everything that has a tendency
to diminish and remove them, had not their existence been fatal. Prayer,
therefore, is an indispensable part of his economy, and of our obedience. We
cannot attain to a just notion of prayer, while we remain ignorant . . . of our
own nature, of the nature of God as revealed in Scripture, of our relations to
him, and of our dependence on him.

If, therefore, we do not live in the daily study of the holy Scriptures — we
shall lack the highest motive to this duty, and the best helps for performing
it. If we do live in the daily study of the holy Scriptures — the cogency of
these motives, and the inestimable value of these helps, will render argument
unnecessary, and exhortation superfluous.

One cause, therefore, of the dullness of many Christians in prayer, is their
slight acquaintance with the sacred volume. They hear it periodically, they read
it occasionally, they are contented to know it historically, to consider it
superficially; but they do not endeavor to get their minds imbued with its
spirit. If they store their memory with its facts — they do not impress their
hearts with its truth. They do not regard it as the nutriment on which their
spiritual life and growth depend. They do not pray over it; they do not consider
all its doctrines as of practical application; they do not cultivate that
spiritual discernment which alone can enable them judiciously to appropriate its
promises, and apply its denunciations, to their own actual case. They do not use
it as an unerring line to ascertain their own rectitude, or detect their own
crookedness.

Though we cannot pray with a too deep sense of sin — we may make our sins too
exclusively the object of our prayers. While we keep, with a self-debasing eye,
our own corruptions in view — let us look with equal intentness on that divine
mercy which cleanses from all sin. Let our prayers be all humiliation — but let
them not be all simply a pondering over our sinfulness. When men indulge no
other thought but that they are rebels, the hopelessness of pardon hardens them
into disloyalty. Let us look to the mercy of the King — as well as to the
rebellion of the subject. If we contemplate his grace as displayed in the
gospel, then, though our humility will increase — our despair will vanish.

Gratitude in this, as in human instances, will create affection: "We love him,
because he first loved us." Let us, therefore, always keep our unworthiness in
view, to remind us that we stand in need of the mercy of God in Christ, but
never plead it as a reason why we should not draw near to him to implore that
mercy. The best men are unworthy for their own sakes; the worst, on repentance —
will be accepted for His sake and through his merits. In prayer, then, the
perfections of God, and especially his mercies in our redemption, should occupy
our thoughts as much as our sins; our obligations to him as much as our
departures from him. We should keep up in our hearts a constant sense of our own
weakness, not with a design to discourage the mind and depress the spirits — but
with a view to drive us out of ourselves in search of the Divine assistance. We
should contemplate our infirmity — in order to draw us to look for his strength,
and to seek that power from God which we vainly look for in ourselves. We do not
tell a sick friend of his danger in order to grieve and terrify him, but to
induce him to apply to his physician, and to have recourse to his remedy. The
success of prayer, though promised to all who offer it in perfect sincerity, is
not so frequently promised to the cry of distress, to the impulse of fear, or
the emergency of the moment — as to humble perseverance in devotion. It is to
patient waiting, to assiduous solicitation, to unwearied importunity — that God
has declared that He will lend His ear, that He will give the communication of
His Spirit, that He will grant the return of our requests. Nothing but this holy
perseverance can keep up in our minds a humble sense of our dependence upon God.
It is not by a mere casual petition, however passionate — but by habitual
application, that devout affections are excited and maintained, that our
converse with Heaven is carried on. It is by no other means that we can be
assured, with Paul, that "we are risen with Christ" — but this obvious one: that
we thus seek the things which are above; that the heart is renovated; that the
mind is lifted above this low scene of things; that the spirit breathes in a
purer atmosphere; that the whole man is enlightened, and strengthened, and
purified; and that the more frequently so — the more nearly we approach to the
throne of God.

We shall find also, that prayer not only expresses but elicits the Divine grace.
Prayer draws all the Christian graces into its focus. It draws LOVE, followed by
her lovely train: her forbearance with faults, her forgiveness of injuries, her
pity for errors, her compassion for neediness.

Prayer draws . . . repentance, with her holy sorrows, her pious resolutions, her
self-distrust; faith, with her elevated eye; hope, with her grasped anchor;
beneficence, with her open hand; zeal, looking far and wide to serve; humility,
with introverted eye, looking at Jesus.

Prayer, by quickening these graces in the heart . . . warms them into life, fits
them for service, and dismisses each to its appropriate practice.

Holy prayer is mental virtue; Christian virtue is spiritual action. The mold
into which genuine prayer casts the soul, is not effaced by the suspension of
the act — but retains some touches of the impression until the act is repeated.

He to whom the duty of prayer is unknown, and by whom the privilege of prayer is
unfelt; or he by whom it is neglected; or he who uses it for form and not from
feeling, may probably say, "Will there be no period when God will dispense with
the regular exercise of prayer? Will there never be such an attainment of the
end proposed, as that we may be allowed to discontinue the means? To these
interrogatories, there is but one answer — an answer which shall be also made by
an appeal to the inquirer himself. If there is any day in which we are quite
certain that we shall meet with no trial from Providence, no temptation from the
world; any day in which we shall be sure to have no wrong tempers excited in
ourselves, no call to bear with those of others, no misfortune to encounter, and
no need of Divine assistance to endure it — on that morning we may safely omit
prayer.

If there is an evening in which we have received no protection from God, and
experienced no mercy at his hands; if we have not neglected a single opportunity
of doing or receiving good; if we are quite certain that we have not once spoken
unadvisedly with our lips, nor entertained one vain or idle thought in our heart
— on that night we may safely omit to praise God, and to confess our own
sinfulness — on that night we may safely omit humiliation and thanksgiving.

Sincere prayer gives . . . a tone to our conduct, a law to our actions, a rule
to our thoughts, a bridle to our speech, a restraint to wrong passions, a check
to ill tempers.

How many excuses do we find for not spending time in prayer! How many apologies
for brevity in prayer! How many evasions for neglect of prayer! How unwilling,
too often, are we to come into the divine presence, and how reluctant to remain
in it? Those hours which are least valuable for business, which are least
seasonable for pleasure — we commonly give to religion. Our energies which were
so exerted in the society we have just left, are gone as we approach the divine
presence. Our hearts, which were all alacrity in some frivolous conversation —
become cold and inanimate, as if it were the natural property of devotion to
freeze the affections. Our animal spirits, which so readily performed their
functions before, now slacken their vigor and lose their vivacity. The sluggish
body sympathizes with the unwilling mind, and each promotes the deadness of the
other — both are slow in listening to the call of duty — both are soon weary in
performing it. As prayer requires all the energies of the compound being of man
— so we too often feel as if there were a conspiracy of body, soul, and spirit,
to decline and disqualify us for it. To be deeply impressed with a few
fundamental Scripture truths, to digest them thoroughly, to meditate on them
seriously, to pray over them fervently, to get them deeply rooted in the heart —
will be more productive of faith and holiness than to labor after variety,
ingenuity, or elegance. The indulgence of imagination will rather distract, than
edify. Searching after ingenious thoughts will rather divert the attention from
God to ourselves, than promote . . . fixedness of thought, singleness of
intention, and devotedness of spirit.

If we do not guard the mind, it will learn to wander in quest of novelties. It
will set more value on original thoughts than devout affections. It is the
business of prayer to cast down imaginations which gratify the natural activity
of the mind, while they leave the heart unhumbled.

We should confine ourselves to the present business of the present moment. We
should keep the mind in a state of perpetual dependence. "Now is the accepted
time." "Today, we must hear his voice." "Give us this day, our daily bread." The
manna will not keep until tomorrow. Tomorrow will have its own needs, and must
have its own petitions. Tomorrow we must seek the bread of Heaven afresh.

We should however avoid coming to our devotions with unfurnished minds. We
should be always laying in materials for prayer . . . by a diligent course of
serious reading, by treasuring up in our minds the most important truths, and by
a careful and solemn self-examination.

If we rush into the divine presence with a vacant, or ignorant, or unprepared
mind, with a heart filled with the world — we shall feel no disposition for the
work we are about to engage in, nor can we expect that our petitions will be
heard or granted. There must be some congruity between the heart — and the
object; some affinity between the state of our minds — and the business in which
they are employed, if we would expect success in prayer.

We are often deceived both as to the principle and the effect of our prayers.
When from some external cause the heart is glad, the spirits light, the thoughts
reasonable, the tongue voluble — a kind of spontaneous eloquence is the result.
With this we are pleased, and this ready flow we are ready to impose on
ourselves as genuine piety. On the other hand, when the mind is dejected, the
physical strength low, the thoughts confused, when appropriate words do not
readily present themselves — we are apt to accuse our hearts of lack of fervor,
to lament our weakness, and to mourn that, because we have no pleasure in
praying, our prayers have, therefore, not ascended to the throne of mercy. In
both cases we perhaps judge ourselves unfairly. These unready accents, these
faltering praises, these ill-expressed petitions — may find more acceptance,
than the ornate talk with which we were so self-satisfied. The latter consisted,
it may be, of shining thoughts floating on the imagination, eloquent words
dwelling only on the lips. The former, it may be, was the sighing of a contrite
heart, abased by the feeling of its own unworthiness, and awed by the
perfections of a holy and heart-searching God. The heart is dissatisfied with
its own dull and tasteless repetitions, which, with all their imperfections —
infinite goodness may perhaps hear with favor.

We may not only be elated with the fluency, but even with the fervency of our
prayers. Vanity may grow out of the very prayers, and we may begin to feel proud
at having humbled ourselves so eloquently.

There is, however, a strain and spirit of prayer equally distinct from that
facility and copiousness for which we certainly are never the better in the
sight of God — and from that constraint and dryness for which we may be never
the worse. There is a simple, solid, pious strain of prayer, in which the
supplicant is so filled and occupied with a sense of his own dependence, and of
the importance of the things for which he asks, and so persuaded of the power
and grace of God through Christ to give him those things — that while he is
engaged in it, he does not merely imagine, but feels assured that God is near to
him as a reconciled Father, so that every burden and doubt are taken off from
his mind. "He knows," as John expresses it, "that he has the petition he desired
of God," and he feels the truth of that promise, "while they speak — I will
hear." This is the perfection of prayer.

Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, unuttered or expressed; The motion of a
hidden fire, that trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear; The upward glancing of an
eye, When none but God is nigh.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech, The infant lips can try; Prayer the
sublimest strains that reach The majesty on high.

Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath, The Christian’s native air, His
watchwords at the gates of death; He enters Heaven by prayer.

Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voice, Returning from his ways, While angels in
their songs rejoice, And say, Behold he prays! The saints in prayer appear as
one, In word, and deed, and mind, When with the Father and the Son, Their
fellowship they find. Nor prayer is made on earth alone: The Holy Spirit pleads;
And Jesus on the eternal throne, For sinners intercedes.

O You, by whom we come to God; The Life, the Truth, the Way; The path of prayer
yourself have trod Lord, teach us how to pray. — James Montgomery Chapter 1. The
ADVANTAGES of Private Prayer.

INTRODUCTION. It is the indispensable duty of every Christian to pray in
private. Our Savior has enjoined it on all his followers, by precept, by
promise, and by his own blessed example, "When you pray, enter into your closet,
and when you have shut your door, pray to your Father who is in secret, and your
Father which sees in secret shall reward you openly." Matthew 6:6 The precept is
positive — the promise is certain. Christ here says to each of his followers,
"Enter into your closet." "Pray to your Father." Your Father shall reward you.
As obedience to the divine precepts is generally attended with a present
blessing, so is it here. For private prayer sweetly inclines and disposes a
person to a cheerful performance of every other religious duty and service; and
the power of godliness in the soul flourishes or decays as the private duties of
the closet are attended to or neglected.

This, in conjunction with the precept, promise, and example of the Savior,
furnishes the true Christian with powerful motives for continuing instant in
private prayer even unto the end — when his heavenly Father, who sees in secret,
will, in an especial manner, openly reward him. The Savior’s example of private
prayer arrested the attention of all the evangelists. How often do we read of
his sending the multitude away, and going up into a mountain apart to play!
(Matthew 14:24. Mark 6:46.) Mark mentions his rising up a great while before day
for that purpose. And Luke records one instance (doubtless it was not the only
one) of his going "out into a mountain to pray, and continuing all night in
prayer to God." (Luke 6:12.) For the sake of private prayer, he would forego the
pleasure of conversation with His disciples on the most interesting subjects.
When his heart was full of heaviness, and is soul exceeding sorrowful, instead
of telling the particulars of the sad tale in the ears of his disciples, who
loved him, he said unto them, "Sit here, while I go and pray yonder." (Matthew
26:36.) There he unbosomed his soul to his Father, offering up "prayers and
supplications, with strong crying and tears, unto him who was able to save him
friom death, and was heard in that he feared." (Hebrews 5:7)

"Night is the time to pray; Our Savior oft withdrew To desert mountains far
away, So will his followers do; Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, And hold
communion there with God." — James Montgomery

What an illustrious example. Did He spend whole nights in private prayer on a
cold mountain, for our sakes — and shall we think it too much to spend a portion
of the day in our closets, for the furtherance of our own spiritual and eternal
welfare? Oh, that we were daily imitating more that noble pattern which his holy
life exhibits, by being much alone with God!

What is Christianity, but an imitation of all the matchless perfections of the
Saviour? A Christian’s whole life should be a visible representation of Christ.
The example of patriarchs, prophets, apostles, and saints, as recorded in the
Old and New Testaments, plainly show, that, to be "followers of those who
through faith and patience inherit the promises," we should be much in private
prayer. But, to the spiritually-minded Christian, the example of Christ vastly
transcends all others. The examples of the best of men are defective. His alone
is the perfect pattern. To be an imitator of him in all his moral virtues is the
duty and privilege of a Christian. And, of all others, they are the happiest who
come the nearest to his bright example.

Private prayer has many advantages. In secret we may more freely, fully, and
safely unbosom our souls to God, than we can do in the presence of others. In
public, confessions of sin are made in general terms. In private, we may descend
to particulars. "The heart knows his own bitterness." (Proverbs 14:10.) Every
Christian has his secret faults, from which he desires to be cleansed. (Psalms
19:12). He has not the grosser vices of the ungodly to confess. But, becoming
daily more acquainted with the spirituality of God’s law, and the deep depravity
of his own heart — he feels himself continually prone to err, and discovers
within him a variety of things of a sinful nature, which he desires heartily and
sincerely to confess at the throne of grace: the thought of foolishness, a proud
look, a vain imagination, a sinful inclination, a secret murmur, a repining
thought, the slightest indication of an unforgiving temper, the remains of
unbelief, secret distrust, carnal reasonings, a lack of watchfulness, formality
in holy duties, the comparative coldness of his affections towards heavenly
things, the smallest degree of worldly-mindedness, the risings of envy,
vainglory, or spiritual pride, the lack of love towards God or man, a hasty
expression or an unguarded word, though perhaps unobserved by others.

These, and a variety of similar things, which at times disturb a pious mind, and
grieve his heart, will furnish him with abundant matter for confession before
God, in whose word it is written, "He that covers his sins shall not prosper;
but whoever confesses and forsakes them shall have mercy." (Proverbs 28:13.) As
a patient, afflicted with a loathsome disease, speaks not publicly of all the
symptoms of his case, but takes a convenient opportunity of mentioning them to
his physician — so the Christian will not publish to the world all the corrupt
workings of his heart, which he feels and laments; but, availing himself of the
fit opportunity which private prayer affords, will freely confess them to his
heavenly Physician, Christ Jesus, who alone can forgive all his sins, and heal
all the spiritual diseases of the soul.

Confession of sin, however, is but one part of a Christian’s duty in his closet.
While passing through this valley of tears, he has his peculiar trials, his
peculiar needs, and his peculiar mercies. Another will scarcely be found whose
experience in all points, will accord with his own. In all his trials, needs,
and mercies, he alone seems to be deeply interested. No one else can so
feelingly express what . . . his sufferings under trials are, the urgency of his
needs, or the gratitude he feels for mercies he has received.

Hence arises the insufficiency of public and family prayer for every purpose,
and the necessity of the Christian’s retiring to his closet — where, through our
great "High Priest, who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities," he may
in secret "come boldly to a throne of (race, and obtain mercy, and find grace to
help in every time of need." (Hebrews 4:15-16.)

Private Prayer is a privilege of which a Christian may at all times avail
himself. Ill health, affliction in his family, unfavorable weather, the
distance, and a variety of other circumstances, may detain him from the public
means of grace — but none of these can prevent his praying in secret. However
desirous he may be of enjoying the benefits of a family altar, a lack of piety
in some, or a determined opposition to domestic worship in others, may deprive
him of this means also. But neither friends nor enemies have power to prevent
his holding communion with his God in secret. No time is unseasonable for such a
purpose — and no place is unfit for such devotions. There is no corner so dark —
no place so secret, but God is there. He never lacks an eye to see, an ear to
hear the cries and groans, nor a heart to grant the request, of him who
sincerely prays to Him in secret. There are no desires so confused — no requests
so broken — no effort so feeble — as to escape His notice. The eye that God has
upon His people in secret, is such a special tender eye of love as opens His
ear, His heart, and His hand, for their good. "The eyes of the Lord are over the
righteous, and His ears are open to their prayers." Psalms 34:15. Should their
petitions be feeble and faint, and seem to them scarcely to reach the heavens,
He will graciously bow down His ear, and attend to the prayer from sincere lips.
He knows the intentions of the heart. He perceives the motions of the soul. He
records them all in the book of His remembrance, and will one day openly reward
all these secret transactions! Did Christians more fully believe this, and more
seriously consider it — they would . . . live more thankfully, labor more
cheerfully, suffer more patiently, fight against the world, the flesh, and the
devil, more manfully, and lay themselves out for God, his interests, and glory,
more freely.

Private Prayer is a scriptural means of obtaining a clearer knowledge of the
revealed will of God. It has been compared to a golden key unlocking the
mysteries of the divine word. "If any man lacks wisdom, let him ask of God."
(James 1:5.) The knowledge of many choice and blessed truths is but the returns
of private prayer.

We have a remarkable instance of this in the history of Cornelius. "At the ninth
hour (says he) I prayed in my house, and behold a man stood by me in bright
clothing, and said, Cornelius, your prayer is heard. (Acts 10:30-31.) Send men
to Joppa and call for Simon, whose name is Peter, who shall tell you words
whereby you and all your house shall be saved." (Acts 11:13-14.) His prayer was
not only heard and accepted, but graciously answered, in the knowledge he
obtained of salvation by Jesus Christ.

Another instance may be adduced from the book of Daniel. He was a man who
studied the sacred Scriptures, (Daniel 9:2,) and in answer to prayer, obtained a
clearer knowledge of their contents. "While I was speaking and praying,
confessing my sin and the sin of my people Israel and making my request to the
LORD my God for his holy hill — while I was still in prayer, Gabriel, the man I
had seen in the earlier vision, came to me in swift flight about the time of the
evening sacrifice. He instructed me and said to me, "Daniel, I have now come to
give you insight and understanding. As soon as you began to pray, an answer was
given, which I have come to tell you, for you are highly esteemed. Therefore,
consider the message and understand the vision." Daniel 9:20-23 To have clearer
views of the revealed will of God, was a great blessing; but, not a greater than
that gracious assurance with which the communication of that knowledge was
accompanied, namely, that he was in the favor of God, a "man greatly beloved."
Happy is he who in sincerity seeks instruction at the fountain-head of all
spiritual wisdom! The Holy Spirit is promised to teach us all things. (John
14:20.) The promises of God should be pleaded in prayer. He delights to lade the
wings of secret prayer with his sweetest, choicest, richest blessings. Hence it
is that the word of Christ dwells most richly in those who are most diligent and
fervent in pouring out their hearts to him in secret.

Those who piously and conscientiously discharge the duties of the closet,
generally prosper both in temporals and spirituals. "Godliness is profitable
unto all things, having promise of the life that now is, and of that which is to
come." (1 Timothy 4:8.) To enter into our duties in the fear of God, and to do
all with a view to his glory, is the surest way to obtain the blessing of
Heaven.

Temporal affairs are best expedited when they are made the subjects of secret
prayer. Generally speaking, he who prays fervently in his closet, will speed
well in his shop, at the plough, or in whatever he may turn his hand unto.
"Those who honor me (says the Lord,) I will honor; and those who despise me
shall be lightly esteemed." (1 Samuel 2:30.) All the worthies, who are mentioned
in Scripture as men of private prayer, prospered in the world. God blessed to
them their blessings, and eventually made their cup of temporal mercies to
overflow. And in the last great day, when God shall judge the secrets of men by
Jesus Christ, and shall openly reward those who have prayed to him secretly — it
will be manifest to assembled worlds, that no families have been so prospered,
protected and blessed, as those who have been most diligent in maintaining
secret communion with him. As to spiritual things, it is most certain that
private devotion prepares the heart, and fits the soul, so to speak, for the
public duties of religion. He who willingly neglects one — has seldom much
enjoyment in the other. But he who in secret waits upon God sincerely, will, in
the public means, frequently find his spiritual strength renewed, his
languishing graces revived, his fellowship with Heaven more pure, his hopes more
elevated, and his enjoyments more spiritual.

Lack of private prayer may be one great reason why many are so heavy and dull,
so formal and careless, so unfruitful and lifeless, under the public means of
grace. Oh, that Christians would seriously lay this to heart! He who would have
. . . his soul athirst for God, public ordinances delightful to his soul, his
drooping spirits refreshed, his weak faith strengthened, his strong corruptions
subdued, and his affections set on heavenly things — should be frequent and
fervent in secret prayer.

How strong in grace, how victorious over sin, how dead to the world, how alive
to Christ, how fit to live, how prepared to die, might many a Christian have
been, had he more diligently, seriously, and conscientiously discharged the
duties of the closet!

Diligence and perseverance in secret prayer may be regarded as a certain
evidence of sincerity.

Private prayer is not the hypocrite’s delight. He can find no solid satisfaction
in such exercises. He loves to pray where others may notice his devotions, and
commend him — and he has his reward. (Matthew 6:5.) The Scriptures record
nothing of Saul and Judas, Demas and Simon Magus, that affords the slightest
evidence of their having addicted themselves to secret prayer. The Scribes and
Pharisees assumed the garb of exterior sanctity, but we never read of their
retiring to a solitary place to pray. A good name among men is more valued by a
hypocrite, than a good life or a good conscience.

Under some temporary alarm, he may cry aloud upon his bed, or seek relief on his
knees in retirement. But, "Will he delight himself in the Almighty? Will he
always call upon God?" (Job 27:10.) If the cause is removed, the effect will
cease. When his fears have subsided, and his spirits are calmed, he will
discontinue the practice, laying aside his private prayers as an irksome task.
Secret duties are not his ordinary work. Self is the oil of his lamp — worldly
interests and the plaudits of men, nourish its flame. If these are lacking, its
brilliancy declines; and, as his hope of these fail, its light gradually or
instantly expires. "Can papyrus grow tall where there is no marsh? Can reeds
thrive without water? So are the paths of all who forget God. The hope of the
hypocrite shall perish." (Job 8:11; Job 8:13.)

He does not forget God, who perseveres in the duties of the closet. God is the
object, and his glory the end, of his secret devotions. He retires from the
observation of men, to "give unto the Lord the glory due unto his name, and to
worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness." (Psalms 29:2.) He is not satisfied
with a mere external performance of the duty. He examines his motives,
scrutinizes the workings of his heart, and afterwards reviews the whole
transaction. "I call to remembrance my song in the night; I meditate within my
heart, and my spirit makes diligent search." (Psalms 77:6.) Not so the
hypocrite. "Praying always, with all prayer and supplication in the spirit, and
watching thereunto, with all perseverance," (Ephesians 6:18) is not his
practice. He has ever at hand some excuse for the neglect of private prayer.
Though he squanders perhaps every day more than an hour of his time in frivolous
conversation or unnecessary amusements — he can persuade himself that his
engagements are so many and so urgent, that he has no time for retiring to his
closet without neglecting his worldly business, in which he must be diligent
from a regard to the divine precept (Romans 12:11.) and for his family’s sake.

Or, should his conscience testify that he has time sufficient, another
circumstance will furnish him with an excuse — the lack of a convenient place.
Oh, let it ever be remembered, that the most illustrious example we have of
diligence and perseverance in this sacred duty, Jesus, was pressed for time more
than any man, through a multiplicity of other engagements; so much so, that at
times he "had no time so much as to eat." (Mark 6:31.) And as to place, "The
foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man had
nowhere to lay his head." (Matthew 8:20.) Yet, by rising early, and by late
retiring to rest (compare Mark 1:35, with Luke 6:12,) he found sufficient time —
and in the open air, on a mountain, or in a garden, a convenient place for
pouring out his soul to God. The hypocrite needs a heart for it, more than he
needs sufficient time or a convenient place. However regular he may be in his
attendance on public prayer, he does not love private devotion, and, therefore,
does not habituate himself to the practice of it. The true Christian loves to
pray secretly, and values such exercises for the effect they have on him in . .
. humbling the soul, mortifying pride, debasing self, weaning the heart from the
world, embittering sin, rendering the mind more spiritual, and exalting the
Savior in the affections.

He habituates himself to, and perseveres in the practice of, secret prayer. And
a diligent and conscientious continuing in such well-doing, most assuredly
affords a decisive evidence of sincerity.

There is no means of grace more enriching to the soul than private prayer.

It is a golden pipe, through which the Lord is graciously pleased to convey
spiritual blessings to the soul. He knows all our needs, and, without our asking
him, could supply them all in the best manner, and at the best possible time.
But he will be inquired of by the house of Israel, to do for them according to
the exceeding great and precious promises he has given. (Ezekiel 36:37.)

How often has the believer found the Lord’s promises of grace here verified, and
been enabled to look forward, with joyful hope, to the fulfillment of those
which relate to glory hereafter — while he has been engaged in his private
devotions! When he has entered his closet, he has been, perhaps, like the
Hannah, "of a sorrowful spirit," and, like her, has poured out his heart before
the Lord in "bitterness of soul" — and the God of Israel has granted his
petition, and he has gone on his way no longer sad. (1 Samuel 1:15; 1 Samuel
1:18.) How often in these private exercises, particularly when the believer has
felt himself "in heaviness through manifold temptations," (1 Peter 1:6.)
"encompassed with infirmities," (Hebrews 5:2.) and has "groaned being burdened,"
(2 Corinthians 5:4.) not knowing "what he should pray for as he ought," (Romans
8:26) — has the Holy Spirit helped his infirmities — "making him to know his
transgression and his sin," (Job 13:23.) and causing him to "abhor himself and
repent as in dust and ashes." (Job 42:6.)

Then, in the language of the psalmist, he has prayed, "The troubles of my heart
are multiplied; bring me out of my distresses!" (Psalms 25:17.) God has heard
this prayer, and fulfilled his own most gracious word, "Before they call I will
answer, and while they are yet speaking I will hear." (Isaiah 65:24) The
Savior’s promise also has been verified, "Whoever has my commands and obeys
them, he is the one who loves me. He who loves me will be loved by my Father,
and I too will love him and manifest myself to him," (John 14:21.) The Holy
Spirit has taken of the things of Jesus, and has shown them unto his servant,
(John 16:14,) and the believer has been enabled with lively gratitude and joy,
to adopt the language of the prophet, "I will praise you, O LORD. Although you
were angry with me, your anger has turned away and you have comforted me. Surely
God is my salvation; I will trust and not be afraid. The LORD, the LORD, is my
strength and my song; he has become my salvation." (Isaiah 12:1-3.)

Thus the Christian, withdrawn for a season from the world, and realizing the
immediate presence of God, the solemness of eternity, and the vast importance of
heavenly things — prays to his Father, who sees in secret. He gets more humbling
views of himself, and makes fresh discoveries . . . of the exceeding sinfulness
of sin, of the super-aboundings of Divine grace, of the long-suffering patience
of the Lord, of the grace he has bestowed on him, of the deliverances he has
wrought for him, and of the abundant mercy which is treasured up in Christ Jesus
for all true believers. Thus he, who began his secret prayers "with groanings
that cannot be uttered" . . . finds spiritual enlargement; is "strengthened with
might in the inner man;" is enriched with the light of God’s reconciled
countenance; and comes forth from his closet in a more humble, more watchful,
more spiritual, more holy, more heavenly frame. And, consequently, is more fit
for the public duties of religion, or the particular duties of his calling — the
Lord having put into his heart more gladness than an increase of corn and wine
could give, (Psalms 5:7,) and caused his holy comforts to delight his soul.
(Psalms 44:19.) Chapter 2. On the NEGLECT of Private Prayer

How lamentable it is, that a duty so obvious, a privilege so great, a means of
grace so enriching to the soul — should ever be neglected! What are the causes
to be assigned for it?

If the neglect is total and permanent — then impenitency of heart may be
suspected as the cause. To perceive no necessity for secret prayer — to have no
mind, no will, no heart to such a duty — to make no effort to discharge it, and
to feel no remorse of conscience for neglecting it — are fearful signs of an
unhumbled, unrenewed, impenitent heart! While the cause remains, the effect will
continue; therefore, let such beseech God to grant them true repentance, and his
Holy Spirit, that their indisposition to call upon him in private may be
removed, that their secret prayers may be accepted, and openly rewarded, by him,
and that the rest of their life may be pure and holy, so that at the last they
may come to his eternal joy, through Jesus Christ our Lord.

If the neglect is temporary and voluntary — then some sin, or sins, committed
against light and knowledge may be the cause. Such sins . . . load the
conscience with guilt, weaken the spiritual strength of the Christian, becloud
his evidences of grace, make him a terror to himself, and afraid of drawing near
to God in secret. Just as our first parents, from conscious guilt, would have
"hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God, among the trees of the
garden" — so he, by neglecting the positive and known duty of secret prayer,
flies, as it were, from the Lord’s presence, to forget his transgression — by
occupying his time and thoughts with the affairs of this world. But this is
folly. To add sin to sin — the sin of omission to the sin of commission — gives
the enemy of souls a powerful advantage over him. It invariably . . . increases
his guilt, benumbs his conscience, strengthens his inbred corruptions, and
renders his return to spiritual duties increasingly difficult.

However painful it may be to draw near to God in secret, with a solemn
consciousness of guilt on the soul — it should not be shunned. It is vastly
better, while the conscience is feelingly alive to the wound it has received —
to hasten to the throne of grace, and sincerely to confess the sin, looking to
the cross of Christ, and imploring the pardon of it for his sake, and grace to
be more watchful in future. It must be done, or the consequences will be most
awful; and the sooner it is done the better, "For with the Lord there is mercy,
and with him is plenteous redemption, and he shall redeem Israel from all his
iniquities." (Psalms 130:7-8.)

If the neglect is partial — then spiritual declension is probably the cause.
While the believer, with deep humiliation, reviews the evils of his past life —
reflects upon the awful consequences of sin, and contemplates, with adoring
gratitude, the astonishing love of God the Father, the amazing condescension of
God the Son, and the stupendous work of God the Holy Spirit, as exhibited in the
economy of redemption, and feels "the love of God shed abroad in his heart,"
(Romans 5:5) — he does not neglect the private duties of the closet, but
anticipates with delight the return of those seasons of private prayer in which
he has frequently enjoyed sweet communion with the Lord, and found his service
perfect freedom.

Having "escaped the pollutions of the world," and being watchful lest he be
"again entangled therein and overcome," (2 Peter 2:20) — a temptation from that
quarter excites his alarm, leads him to his closet, and makes him more earnest
in prayer — thus the purposes of the enemy in presenting the temptation, are
defeated. But he is liable to an attack in a more vulnerable part. Religion is
his delight. He does not suspect an evil in a religious garb. Ignorant in some
measure of the devices of his spiritual adversary, he has little or no
apprehension of meeting him transformed into an angel of light. He is not aware
of the paralyzing effects which an inordinate zeal for the non-essentials of
religion has upon the inner man, nor of the intoxicating nature of that busy,
prying curiosity, which intrudes too far into those mysterious and deep things
of God and religion, which are most remote from the understanding of the best
and wisest of men.

Having tasted much of the pleasantness of religion, and being anxious in the
pursuit of more — he eagerly grasps at anything that may be urged by those whom
he highly esteems and regards as fathers in Christ, as absolutely necessary to
render his Christianity more pure and primitive, or to increase his measure of
religious knowledge. This is an important crisis — a time of much spiritual
danger — the enemy of souls is ever watchful to hinder the Christian in his
course — whatever diverts his attention from the weightier matters of religion
to those which are comparatively unimportant, does this. Hence it is, that such
as have their thoughts more occupied with the non-essentials of religion than
with the power of godliness in the soul — seldom make much progress in humility
or heavenly-mindedness, and are often lamentably deficient in the duties of the
closet. The temptations of the enemy which have the semblance of religion are
the most artful. What is called a religious controversy — a dispute about the
government and discipline of Christian Churches — the modes of public worship
and administering the ordinances of baptism and the Lord’s supper — or on some
abstruse theological subject — often follows. Perplexed with the discordant
opinions of the controversionists, the pious Christian laudably resolves to
examine and weigh for himself the arguments on both sides; on the outcome of his
inquiry, much depends.

If, happily, he discovers that the disputation does not relate to matters
affecting religion itself, but to non-essentials, concerning which good men may
decidedly differ, without the smallest diminution of liberality, or Christian
forbearance, towards those of a contrary opinion — then it is well. His
perplexity ceases, and his heart is enlarged in Christian love towards all who
love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity; and he finds additional pleasure in his
secret prayers, when, in giving vent to the pious feelings of his soul, he
copiously intercedes for the universal Church of Christ. But if, unhappily, he
conceives the disputable articles to be very important, and imbibes a
controversial spirit, he receives a wound materially affecting his spiritual
health — his mental appetite becomes vitiated — he cannot feed on the most
important truths, unless the mode of serving them up precisely fit his humor.
His zeal is soon diverted to a new channel, and his thoughts are wholly occupied
with arguments in support of his favorite position. He begins to feed, as it
were, on the very husks of religion. A vast declension in spiritual things then
takes place in him, and he perceives it not. He frequently neglects private
prayer, (not voluntarily indeed, but) having his mind fully occupied with things
that have the semblance of religion, he forgets to retire. When he recollects
himself, he hastens to his closet — and should the work of his favorite author
in the controversy, be near his Bible, he cannot resist the temptation to read
just a page or two in that. He reads — he finds his time almost gone — the
reading of the Scriptures is postponed to a more convenient opportunity, that he
may spend his few remaining moments in prayer. With his lips he goes over, as it
were, mechanically, a few important petitions, while a multitude of thoughts are
rushing into his mind. This corroborates his own arguments; that refutes the
argument of an opponent. He rises from his knees with a mind, as he conceives,
stored with wisdom — he feels himself qualified, had he the power, to reorganize
the church, to introduce such a mode of worship and discipline, and so to define
the most abstruse points of doctrine, as would, unquestionably, meet the views
and wishes of all, and effectually put his opponents to the blush. But where is
. . . that humility, that Christian love, that hatred of sin, that watchfulness
against pride, self-conceit, and vain-glory, which the Christian ought ever to
seek diligently and earnestly in private prayer? Alas, the crown is fallen from
his head!

Non-essentials have no place in Heaven — doubtful disputations never enter
there. Controversial knowledge is no qualification or fitness for the saints in
light. Happy is he who avoids disputes about things indifferent, and learns to
admire, in the Scriptures, the depths he cannot reach, and to adore the
mysteries he cannot comprehend.

If the Christian conceives in his heart an excessive desire of some temporal
good, however lawful the possession of the thing may be in itself — the effect
will be very similar: spiritual declension will follow, and private prayer will
be neglected — though less in the form, probably, than in the spirit of it. An
inordinate desire of anything, not inseparably connected with piety — engrosses
the attention, and pre-occupies the thoughts to the exclusion of meditation, the
handmaid of private devotion. And like "the cares of this world" in general, and
"the deceitfulness of riches" in particular — chokes the precious seed, and
renders it unfruitful. With his affections thus obstructed, the Christian may
retire to his closet — but the object which he is pursuing with impassionate
ardor will follow him thither. He may bend his knees — but the ardently desired
good will present itself, in its most engaging forms, to his imagination, and
possess his thoughts. He may draw near unto God with his lips, "but his heart
will be far from him;" for "where his treasure is — there will his heart be
also." Should an apparently favorable opportunity present itself for pursuing
the object of his inordinate desire, at the very period of time he has been
accustomed to retire for private prayer — a barter of time succeeds. His prayers
are deferred to another opportunity — and the present fortunate moment, as he
conceives, is eagerly seized as most fit for prosecuting his favorite schemes.
But no time is found for his secret devotions, until the accustomed period again
returns. Thus in the form, as well as the spirit of it, is secret prayer
neglected, through an inordinate desire of some temporal good. He who has left
his first love, should remember from whence he has fallen, and repent, and do
his first works. (Revelation 2:4-5.) Whatever is the cause — the neglect of
secret prayer is culpable and dangerous.

It gives the enemy an advantage against the soul, and, by damping the ardor of
spiritual affections, strengthens inbred corruptions. It . . . fosters spiritual
sloth, engenders earthly mindedness, blunts the edge of conscience, induces a
laxity of Christian morals, and eventually, if persevered in, induces an
indisposition to the public duties of religion. It should be dreaded as an
alarming indication of indifference to the promised help of the Holy Spirit, and
an awful slighting of the rich mercies offered to us in the gospel.

How very different is every instance of real neglect of secret prayer, in its
character and consequences — to that imaginary kind over which the pious
Christian sometimes mourns. Incapacitated for retiring to his closet, by some
bodily disease, which renders the constant attendance of another person upon him
necessary — he is deprived of the opportunities of private devotion, for which
he thirsts, and is frequently interrupted when mentally calling on his God.
Being thus prevented from pouring out his heart before the Lord, with all that
copiousness and enlargement he could desire (though he prays sincerely and very
earnestly in the way of short ejaculatory prayers,) he feels a deficiency; and,
without considering the circumstances under which he is placed, suspects himself
of neglect, and is much grieved. This is his infirmity — it is not neglect,
though it seems to him to be such. If the cause were removed — then the effect
would immediately cease. He does not voluntarily absent himself from his closet
— his heart is still there — and thither would he resort, if restored to health.
In the meantime, the secret aspirations of his soul will be favorably regarded,
and will ultimately be openly rewarded by his heavenly Father, as prayers
offered to him in secret. In like manner the Christian may suspect himself
guilty of some neglect of secret prayer, when his mind is affected, and he is
dismayed with some physical malady which does not confine him to his bed, but
unfits his mind for exertion, and disqualifies him for bending his knees in
prayer, or prevents his continuing long in that position. Under such an
affliction he may feel . . . much lassitude, his thoughts confused, his desires
languid, his affections cold, his petitions faint, his praises inanimate, and be
much grieved — ascribing to it an indisposition to private prayer, bordering on
a neglect of the duty. But, can this be neglect? Does it border upon it? He has
a mind, a will, a heart, to pray in secret — and, notwithstanding his bodily
indisposition, makes an effort to do so. "The spirit is willing, but the flesh
is weak." The lamented deficiencies of his prayers will be graciously pardoned,
and his imperfect petitions mercifully accepted and answered — for his heavenly
Father, who sees in secret, "searches the heart, and knows what the mind of the
spirit is" (Romans 8:27;) and will register the sorrowful sighings of his
contrite ones, to be openly rewarded, in the Last Great Day.

It will, doubtless, be evident to those who are disposed to practice it . . .
that secret prayer is the duty of all; that its advantages are many and great;
and that the neglect of it is sinful and dangerous. For the benefit of such,
shall be added a few directions for a devout discharge of so important and
necessary a duty.

Chapter 3. A Few DIRECTIVES for a Devout Discharge of this Important and
Necessary Duty.

Private Prayer, as a means, tends to counteract the corrupt workings of the
heart, and to give a proper bias to the faculties of the soul. It should
therefore be performed frequently.

It is far better to pray often, than to make long prayers. As in our taking
frequently a temperate supply of fresh nourishment — the Lord providentially
repairs the continual wastes of our bodies, and keeps the fluids in a healthy
state; so, in our frequent use of private prayer, he graciously restores the
soul (Psalms 23:3.) and causes it to prosper and be in health. (3 John 1:2.) The
Christian, therefore, cannot too frequently contemplate and desire heavenly
treasures. He cannot too frequently approach his blessed Savior, and hold
communion with his God in secret prayer. The fittest season should be taken for
this sacred duty. Some, who are subject to drowsiness in the later part of the
day, prefer the morning, before their minds have been occupied, and their
spirits damped, with temporal concerns. And it is doubtless most fit that God
should be worshiped by everyone, before he enters on the business of the day.
Others, who are constitutionally heavy and dull in the morning, and almost unfit
for anything — are quite alert in the evening, and exempt from that heaviness,
of which so many complain, as peculiarly unfitting them for prayer.

Everyone, therefore, must be left to determine, which, in his case, are the
fittest parts of the day to be the stated periods of his private devotions. But
the Christian’s experience varies. There are seasons when he feels his mind more
than usually solemnized, and everything connected with religion appears to him
of the utmost importance. His conscience at one time is peculiarly tender, his
soul within him deeply humbled under a sense of sin, his heart broken and
contrite, and he is very sorrowful. At another time, his faith in the promise of
God is vigorous, his hope animated, his love to the Savior ardent, and he is
very thankful. Seasons like these should be embraced, as especially fit to be
extraordinary times of secret devotion. The Christian should be constant in the
discharge of his duty. It is not very probable that the incalculable benefits of
secret prayer should be experimentally known by those who retire to their
closets by fits and starts only. If it is necessary for a man to pray in secret,
when he is suffering from the upbraidings of his conscience, or smarting under
the rod of affliction — it is equally so in the time of prosperity, when it is
probable, his danger is greater, and fresh trials may await him. The Christian
should "pray without ceasing." Not actually, indeed, for private prayer, like
every other kind, must have its intermissions; but the heart should be in a
disposition for it, at all times, in all places, and under all circumstances —
and in the actual practice of it, at fit times, he should persevere. It is not
he who begins in the spirit and ends in the flesh — but he who endures to the
end, that will be saved.

Important as secret prayer is, and necessary to his soul’s health, it must not
be trusted in. Christ alone is the foundation of our hope. If we are not
savingly interested in him, we may perish with the words of prayer on our lips!
(Matthew 25:11-12.) It is the Savior’s free grace, infinite mercy, everlasting
love — his full, perfect, and sufficient atoning sacrifice — his pure, spotless,
perfect, and glorious righteousness — which form the proper basis of the
Christian’s trust and confidence. He must not therefore trust in his prayers —
but in his Savior. And doubtless the enemy of his soul will tremble to see him
go, and leave his closet — trusting and glorying alone in Jesus. Thrice happy is
he, whose secret prayers lead him, as the star led the eastern Magi, to the feet
of the Savior! — and who, like them, when there, is disposed willingly to offer
the choicest and best things he has, not indeed "gold and frankincense and
myrrh," but himself, his soul and body — to be a reasonable, holy, living
sacrifice unto God. The Christian, in all his prayers, should look well to his
heart. The eye of God is then, in an especial manner, upon it. He does not look
at the eloquence, the length, the number of the prayers — but at the sincerity
of the heart. He approves, accepts, and rewards no prayer — but that in which
the heart is engaged. It is not . . . the lifting up of the voice, the wringing
of the hands, or the smiting on the breast — that he regards, but the motions of
the heart. He hears with approbation, no more than the heart speaks in
sincerity.

Every prayer should be offered in the name of Jesus. Through him alone, we have
access with boldness to the throne of grace. He is our advocate with the Father.
When the believer appears before God in secret, the Savior appears also — for
"He ever lives to make intercession for us." He has not only directed us to call
upon his Father as "Our Father," and to ask him to supply our daily needs, and
to forgive us our trespasses — but has graciously assured us that "whatever we
shall ask in his name, he will do it, that the Father may be glorified in the
Son." (John 14:13.) And says, "if you shall ask anything in my name, I will do
it." And again (John 16:23-24.) "Truly, truly, I say unto you, whatever you
shall ask the Father in my name, he will give it to you. Hitherto have you asked
nothing in my name; ask, and you shall receive, that your joy may be full." That
is, all needful blessings suited to our various situations and circumstances in
this mortal life — all that will be necessary for us in the hour of death, and
all that can minister to our felicity in the world of glory — has he graciously
promised, and given us a command to ask for, in his name. And what is this but
to plead, when praying to our heavenly Father, that Jesus has sent us — and to
ask and expect the blessings for his sake alone?

Expect therefore an answer to prayer. "I will make an altar (said the venerable
patriarch Jacob) unto God, who answered me in the day of my distress, and was
with me in the way which I went." (Genesis 35:3.) He expected the blessing which
he asked of the Lord, and in the dispensations of Providence towards him, he
received the answer to his prayer.

"God is faithful, who has promised." He says, concerning every one who "has set
his love upon him," "He shall call upon me and I will answer him, I will be with
him in trouble; I will deliver him and honor him." (Psalms 91:14-15.) His
promises are evidently designed to direct us in our supplications, and to excite
in us an expectation of their fulfillment. And what is prayer, but the offering
up of the desires of the heart for some good thing, which the Lord has directly
or indirectly promised in his holy word to bestow? The very act itself implies
that a blessing may be given, in answer to our petitions; and his promises
assure us they will — though the time and manner of conferring it, are reserved
to himself. He best knows what will suit us, and the best possible time of
bestowing it. Therefore he who . . . obeys the divine precepts heartily, pleads
the promises in prayer perseveringly, waits their fulfillment patiently, and is
content if God be glorified, though he himself is not gratified — may
confidently expect seasonable and suitable answers to all the prayers he offers
in sincerity at the throne of grace, in the name of Jesus.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 34: S.     SELF-EXAMINATION
========================================================================

Self-Examination

Hannah More "Examine yourselves to see whether you are in the faith; test
yourselves." 2 Corinthians 13:5

It is only by scrutinizing the heart, that we can know it. It is only by knowing
the heart, that we can reform the life. Any careless observer indeed, when his
watch goes wrong, may see that it does so by casting an eye on the dial plate;
but it is only the jeweler who takes it to pieces and examines every spring and
every wheel separately, and who, by ascertaining the precise causes of the
irregularity, can set the machine right, and restore the obstructed movements.
Dr. Barrow has remarked, that "it is a peculiar excellency of human nature, and
which distinguishes man from the inferior creatures more than bare reason
itself, that he can reflect upon all that is done within him, can discern the
tendencies of his soul, and is acquainted with his own purposes."

Nothing more plainly shows us what weak, vacillating creatures we are — than the
difficulty we find in fixing ourselves down to the very self-scrutiny we had
deliberately resolved on. Like the worthless Roman Emperor, we retire to our
closet under the appearance of serious occupation, but might now and then be
surprised, if not in catching flies — yet in pursuits nearly as contemptible.
Some trifle which we should be ashamed to dwell upon at any time, intrudes
itself on the moments dedicated to serious thought; recollection is interrupted;
the whole chain of reflection broken, so that the scattered links cannot again
be united. And so inconsistent are we, that we are sometimes not sorry to have a
plausible pretense for interrupting the very employment in which we had just
before made it a duty to engage. For lack of this heart acquaintance, we remain
in utter ignorance of our inability to meet even the ordinary trials of life
with cheerfulness; indeed, by this neglect, we confirm that inability.

We have appetites to control, imaginations to restrain, tempers to regulate,
passions to subdue; and how can this internal work be effected, how can our
thoughts be kept within due bounds, how can a proper balance be given to the
affections, how can the heart of man be preserved from continual insurrection,
how can this restraining power be maintained — if this capacity of discerning,
if this faculty of inspecting — is not kept in regular exercise? Without
constant discipline, imagination will become lawless, conscience an disgraced
rebel. This inward eye, this power of inspection, is given us for a continual
watch upon the soul. On an unremitted vigilance over its interior motions, those
fruitful seeds of action, those prolific principles of vice and virtue — well
depend both the formation and the growth of our moral and religious character. A
superficial glance is not enough for a thing so deep — an unsteady view will not
suffice for a thing so wavering, nor a casual look for a thing so deceitful as
the human heart. A partial inspection on any side, will not be enough for an
object which must be observed under a variety of aspects, because it is always
shifting its positions, always changing its appearances. "The human heart is the
most deceitful of all things, and desperately wicked. Who really knows how bad
it is?" Jeremiah 17:9

We should examine . . . not only our conduct, but our opinions; not only our
faults, but our prejudices; not only our propensities, but our judgments. Our
actions themselves will be obvious enough — it is our intentions which require
the scrutiny. These we should . . . follow up to their remotest springs,
scrutinize to their deepest recesses, and trace through their most perplexing
windings. And lest we should in our pursuit wander in uncertainty and blindness,
let us make use of that guiding clue, as furnished by his word and by his
Spirit, for conducting us through the intricacies of this labyrinth. "What I do
not know — teach me," should be our constant petition in all our researches. Nor
must the examination be occasional, but regular. Let us not run into long
arrears, but settle our accounts frequently. Little articles will run up to a
large amount, if they are not cleared off. Even our best days, as we may choose
to call them, will not have passed without furnishing their faults and sins . .
. our deadness in devotion, our eagerness for human applause, our care to
conceal our faults, rather than to correct them, our negligent performance of
some relative duty, our imprudence in conversation, our inconsideration and
selfishness, our driving to the very edge of permitted indulgences, let us keep
these — let us keep all our numerous items in small sums. Let us examine them
while the particulars are fresh in our memory; otherwise however we may flatter
ourselves that lesser evils will be swallowed up by the greater ones — we may
find when we come to settle the grand account, that they will not be the less
remembered for not having been recorded. In the discharge of this necessary and
important duty, the Christian should remember that every day he lives, he has .
. . a God to glorify, a soul to save, repentance to perform, a Savior to believe
and imitate, a body to mortify through the Spirit, graces and virtues to nurture
by earnest prayer, sins to weep over and forsake, mercies and deliverances to be
thankful for, a Hell to avoid, a Paradise to gain, an eternity to meditate upon,
time to redeem, a neighbor to edify, works of charity to perform, a world to
fear, and yet to conquer, demons to combat, passions to subdue, perhaps, death
to suffer, and judgment to undergo! And all these must be met and performed in
the grace of Christ, and not in your own strength, which is perfect weakness.

There is a spurious sort of self-examination, which does not serve to enlighten,
but to blind. A person who has left off some notorious vice, who has softened
some shades of a glaring sin, or substituted some outward religious forms in the
place of open sin — looks on his change of character with pleasure. He compares
himself with what he was, and views the alteration with self-delight. He
deceives himself by taking his standard from his former conduct, or from the
character of still worse men — instead of taking it from the unerring rule of
scripture. He looks rather at the dishonor than the sinfulness of his former
life — and being more ashamed of what is disreputable, than grieved at what is
wicked — he is, in this state of shallow reformation, more in danger in
proportion as he is more respectable. He is not aware that it is not having a
fault or two less, that will carry him to Heaven — while his heart is still
glued to the world and estranged from God.

How necessary then it is that the Christian should minutely examine his motives
and actions — that he should constantly say, with the Royal Psalmist, "Search
me, O God, and know my heart; test me and know my thoughts. See if there is any
wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting." Psalms 139:23-24 In
discharging this duty, the Christian will be greatly assisted, by attending to
the following simple guidelines:

1. Let a fixed time be set apart every morning and evening for this purpose. It
is impossible to give any rule as to the length of time that should be given.
The obligations of persons vary with their situations and circumstances; but let
us give as much time, as, consistently with our other duties, we can spare — and
let the time in every case be so employed, not as a task — but as a blessing;
not merely as a requirement — but as a privilege and advantage. For the more
close, faithful, and diligent you are in self-examination — the more comfort and
benefit you are likely to receive in the end.

2. Consider the Holy Scriptures, as the great test by which you are to try
yourself. They are the only true standard of self-examination — the touchstone
which discovers at once the character of the metal. By comparing your state with
the most practical and spiritual parts of God’s word, and varying those parts
from time to time — you try yourself by a perfect and infallible standard.

3. Conduct this examination in the spirit of Prayer. Prayer is the guide to
self-knowledge, by prompting us to look after our sins, in order to pray against
them. Prayer is a motive to vigilance, by teaching us to guard against those
sins which, through self-examination, we have been enabled to detect.

4. Beware of formality and self-righteousness. Although it is our bounden duty
to guard against the commission of sin, and to keep ourselves unspotted from the
world — yet it is not our watchfulness against sin, or our performance of any
religious duty, however good in itself, which constitutes us as genuine
Christians. For after all we have done or can do, we are but unprofitable
servants. We should hate sin, because it is hateful in the sight of God. We
should seek to be delivered from sin’s dominion by earnest prayer, and depend
alone for salvation on the merits and righteousness of the Lord Jesus Christ,
who is emphatically styled the Lord our Righteousness — for all dependence upon
our own good works will only prove a means of delusion and danger to our souls.
A PRAYER BEFORE SELF-EXAMINATION. Holy, holy, Lord God Almighty, who is of purer
eyes than to behold iniquity, who searches the heart and tries the innermost
thoughts — I beseech you now to assist me in looking into my own heart, and my
own life. Feeling and acknowledging that my heart is deceitful above all things,
and desperately wicked, I beseech you to show me to myself. Enable me to try
myself by the standard of your holy word, and discover the true state of my
soul. Grant me . . . repentance for all my past sins, lively faith in Jesus
Christ the only Savior from sin, deep humility before you, and such tempers and
dispositions as are fit for those who assemble around the table of our gracious
Redeemer. These things I ask for his name’s sake.

QUESTIONS FOR SELF-EXAMINATION.

MORNING.

1. Have I this morning sought of the Lord his special grace and protection for
the day?

2. Am I going forth in my own strength — or simply looking to God alone to help
and deliver?

3. Am I so sensible of my own weakness, as ever to watch and pray?

4. Am I living by faith in a daily and simple dependence upon God?

5. Do I constantly remember that I am accountable to God for a right improvement
of the talents entrusted to me?

6. Have I determined to devote myself this day for the glory of God?

7. Are all the faculties of my soul engaged to render affectionate, intelligent,
sincere, and resolute service?

8. Have I resolved, in the strength of God, to forsake all sins, however dear to
me — particularly my besetting sin, whether it be pride, envy, malice,
covetousness, impurity, fear of man, or any other sin?

9. Is it my constant desire to abstain from the very appearance of evil, and to
keep myself unspotted from the world?

EVENING.

1. Did I this morning make my resolutions to walk closely with God, in
dependence on his gracious assistance?

2. Have I this day put up petitions against my besetting sins?

3. What sins have I committed, and what duties have I omitted, today?

4. What mercies have I received this day — Answers to prayer — Deliverance from
evil — Common or remarkable blessings?

5. What have I done this day for the glory of God or the good of my
fellow-creatures? What opportunities have I neglected of promoting them?

6. Have I been enabled this day willingly to take up my cross?

7. Have I been watching today against the first risings of pride and
worldly-mindedness? Have I guarded against the appearance of evil?

8. Have I kept up a lively and humble dependence upon the Divine influence, in
the duty and emergencies of the day?

9. With what success have I encountered the sins to which my circumstances or
constitution most incline me?

10. Have I been looking to Jesus as my righteousness, my strength, and my
example?

11. How have I improved my time this day? Have I made any progress in religion?
Have I thought of Death and Judgment? Have I walked with God?

12. Have I this day tried to mortify sin?

13. Have I prayed, and how? Have I read I the Scriptures, and how?

GENERAL QUESTIONS.

1. Do I think much and frequently of God — and am I zealous for his glory?

2. Do I enjoy communion with God when I pray to him, or desire this?

3. Do I strive to become like him?

4. Am I actively desiring and seeking the good of all around me, even as I
desire my own?

5. Is my love to others, like that of Christ to me?

6. Have the miseries of others called forth compassion and efforts to relieve
them?

7. Am I seeking the salvation of my fellow-creatures?

8. Is sin hateful to me? Do I loathe it as the worst of all evils?

9. Have I a habitual mourning for sin?

10. Have I deeply felt my corruption and guilt before God?

11. Do I believe that the Gospel is the appointed and only complete way of
salvation?

12. Do I rest on the only hope of forgiveness — redemption through the blood of
Christ?

13. Am I so believing in Jesus, as to rely upon him as my Savior?

14. Am I truly grateful to God for his great salvation?

15. Am I evidencing this, by a care to please him in all things?

16. Am I humble and lowly in mind, affection, and conversation?

17. Do the sufferings of Christ for sin, affect my heart with godly sorrow?

18. Am I patient under crosses, trials, and injuries — and willing to suffer
reproach for Christ’s sake?

19. Do I quietly submit to God’s afflictive dispensations?

20. Do I hunger and thirst after righteousness?

21. Do I earnestly desire to obtain that righteousness which is through faith in
Christ?

22. Am I laboring to spread the Gospel of Peace?

23. Do I seek to know God more myself, and to diffuse his knowledge through the
world?

24. Have I resigned myself to the will of God — to do and suffer his pleasure?


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 35: S.     SHORT PITHY QUOTES FROM HANNAH MORE
========================================================================

Short pithy quotes from Hannah More

(1745 – 1833) ~ ~ ~ ~

Prayer is not eloquence, but earnestness.

~ ~ ~ ~

A corrupt practice may be abolished — but a soiled imagination is not easily
cleansed.

~ ~ ~ ~

Affliction is the school in which great virtues are acquired — and in which
great characters are formed.

~ ~ ~ ~

All men desire the gifts of God — but few desire God Himself.

~ ~ ~ ~

Eternity is a depth which . . . no geometry can measure, no arithmetic
calculate, no imagination conceive, and no rhetoric describe.

~ ~ ~ ~

Luxury and dissipation — as soft and gentle as their approaches are, and as
silently as they throw their silken chains about the heart — enslave it more
than the most active and turbulent vices!

~ ~ ~ ~

The ingenuity of self-deception is inexhaustible!

~ ~ ~ ~

If I wished to punish my enemy — I would make him hate somebody!

~ ~ ~ ~

There is one single fact that one may oppose to all the wit and argument of
infidelity — namely, that no man ever repented of being a Christian on his
deathbed.

~ ~ ~ ~

Pride never sleeps — it is always awake. An intemperate man is sometimes sober —
but a proud man is never humble.

~ ~ ~ ~

Anger is a violent act — while envy is a constant habit. No one can be always
angry — but he may be always envious.

~ ~ ~ ~

Those who lack nothing — are apt to forget how many there are who lack
everything.

~ ~ ~ ~

Expectation quickens desire. Possession deadens it.

~ ~ ~ ~

We live in an age which must be amused!

~ ~ ~ ~

After all that corrupt poets, and more corrupt philosophers, have told us of the
blandishments of pleasure, and of its tendency to soften the temper and humanize
the affections — it is certain, that nothing hardens the heart like excessive
and unbounded luxury.

~ ~ ~ ~

Going to the theater, like getting drunk — is a sin that carries its own
punishment with it.

~ ~ ~ ~

It is the large aggregate of small things perpetually occurring — which robs me
of all my time.

~ ~ ~ ~

Our merciful Father has no pleasure in the sufferings of His children. He
chastens them in love. He never inflicts a stroke He could safely spare. He
inflicts it to purify as well as to punish, to caution as well as to cure, to
improve as well as to chastise.

~ ~ ~ ~

When we read of Christian martyrs — we imagine that we could be one. When we
come to act — we cannot even bear a provoking word.

~ ~ ~ ~

Idleness among children, as among men — is the root of all evil, and leads to no
other evil more certain than ill temper.

~ ~ ~ ~

Indeed, I have, alas! outlived almost every one of my contemporaries. One pays
dear for living long.

~ ~ ~ ~

The present education of females is not very favorable to domestic happiness.
For my own part, I call education, not that which smothers a woman with academic
accomplishments — but that which tends to consolidate a firm and regular system
of character; that which tends to form a friend, a companion, a mother and a
wife.

~ ~ ~ ~

There is scarcely any fault in another which offends us more than vanity —
though perhaps there is none that really injures us so little.

~ ~ ~ ~

It is an excellent sign, that after the cares and labors of the day — you can
return to your pious exercises and meditations with undiminished attention.

~ ~ ~ ~

Nothing raises the price of a blessing like its removal; whereas its continuance
should have taught us its value.

~ ~ ~ ~

There are three requisitions to the proper enjoyment of earthly blessings: a
thankful reflection on the goodness of the Giver, a deep sense of our
unworthiness, a recollection of the uncertainty of long possessing them. The
first would make us grateful them. The second would make us humble them. The
third would make us moderate.

~ ~ ~ ~

He who has wasted money — may by diligence, hope to fetch it back again. But no
repentance or industry can ever bring back one wasted hour!

~ ~ ~ ~

What ascends up in prayer — descends to us again in blessings. It is like the
rain which just now fell, and which had been drawn up from the ground in vapors
to the clouds before it descended from them to the earth in that refreshing
shower.

~ ~ ~ ~

It is a sober truth that people who live only to amuse themselves, work harder
at the task than most people do in earning their daily bread.

~ ~ ~ ~

Commending a right thing — is a cheap substitute for doing it. We are too apt to
satisfy ourselves with simply commending good things.

~ ~ ~ ~

We do not really know how to forgive others — until we know what it is to be
forgiven by God.

~ ~ ~ ~

It is a part of Christianity to convert every natural talent to a holy use.

~ ~ ~ ~

Affliction is a sort of moral gymnasium in which the disciples of Christ are
trained to robust exercise, hardy exertion, and severe conflict.

~ ~ ~ ~

Troubles rather fix, than unsettle the Christian — just as tempests only serve
to root the oak faster; while an inward canker will gradually rot and decay it.

~ ~ ~ ~

A faint endeavor, ends in a sure defeat.

~ ~ ~ ~

The constant habit of perusing devout books is so indispensable, that it has
been termed the oil of the lamp of prayer. Too much reading, however, and too
little meditation — may produce the effect of a lamp inverted; which is
extinguished by the very excess of that oil, whose property is to feed it.

~ ~ ~ ~ My plan of instruction is extremely simple and limited. My object is to
train up the lower classes in habits of industry and piety.

~ ~ ~ ~

The artful insult, whose envenomed dart scarcely wounds the hearing — while it
stabs the heart.

~ ~ ~ ~

Silence is one of the great arts of conversation. There is an eloquence in
silence.

~ ~ ~ ~

Our infinite obligations to God do not fill our hearts, half as much as a petty
uneasiness of our own. Nor do His infinite perfections fill our hearts half as
much as our smallest wants.

~ ~ ~ ~

Proportion and propriety are among the best secrets of domestic wisdom.

~ ~ ~ ~

People talk as if the act of death made a complete change in the nature, as well
as in the condition of man. Death is the vehicle to another state of being — but
it possesses no power to qualify us for that state. In conveying us to a new
world — death does not give us a new heart.

~ ~ ~ ~

He who cannot find time to study his Bible — will one day find he has time to be
sick. He who has no time to pray — must find time to die. He who can find no
time to reflect — is most likely to find time to sin. He who cannot find time
for repentance — will find an eternity in which repentance will be of no avail.
He who cannot find time to work for others — may find an eternity in which to
suffer for himself.


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 36: S.     THE PILGRIMS (AN ALLEGORY)
========================================================================

THE PILGRIMS (an allegory) by Hannah More

"These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them
afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they
were strangers and pilgrims on the earth." Hebrews 11:13

"Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly
lusts, which war against the soul." 1 Peter 2:11

I thought I was once upon a time traveling through a certain land which was very
full of people; but what was rather odd, not one of all this multitude was at
home--they were all bound to a far distant country. Though it was permitted by
the Lord of the land that these pilgrims might associate together for their
present mutual comfort and convenience, and each was not only allowed, but
commanded to do the others all the services he could upon their journey, yet it
was decreed, that every individual traveler must enter the far country singly.

There was a great gulf at the end of the journey, which every one must pass
along and at his own risk, and the friendship of the whole united world could be
of no use in passing that gulf. The exact time when each was to pass was not
known to any; this the Lord always kept a close secret out of kindness; yet
still they were as sure that the time must come, and that at no very great
distance, as if they had been informed of the very moment. Now, as they knew
they were always liable to be called away at an moment’s notice, one would have
thought they would have been chiefly employed in packing up, and preparing, and
getting everything in order. But this was so far from being the case, that it
was almost the only thing they did not think about.

Now I only appeal to you, my readers, if any of you are setting out upon a
little common journey, if it is only to London or York, is not all your leisure
time employed in settling your business at home and packing up every little
necessity for your expedition? And does not the fear of neglecting anything you
ought to remember, or may have occasion for, haunt your mind, and sometimes even
intrude upon you unseasonably? And when you are actually on your journey,
especially if you have never been to that place before, or are likely to remain
there, don’t you begin to think a little about the pleasures and the employments
of the place, and to wish to know a little what sort of a city London or York
is?

Don’t you wonder what is going on there, and whether you are properly qualified
for the business or the company you expect to be engaged in? Do you never look
at the map? And don’t you try to pick up from your fellow-passengers in the
stage-coach any little information you can get? And though you may be obliged,
out of civility, to converse with them on common subjects, yet do not your
secret thoughts still run upon London or York, its business, or its pleasures?
And, above all, if you are likely to set out early, are you not afraid of
oversleeping, and does not that fear keep you upon the watch, so that you are
commonly up and ready before the porter comes to summon you? Reader, if this be
your case, how surprised will you be to hear, that the travelers to the far
country have not half your prudence, though bound on a journey of infinitely
more importance, to a land where nothing can be sent after them, and in which,
when they are once settled, all errors are not recoverable.

I observed that these pilgrims, instead of being upon the watch, lest they
should be ordered off unprepared--instead of laying up any provision, or even
making memorandums of what they would be likely to need, spend most of their
time in crowds, either in the way of business or diversions. At first, when I
saw them so much engaged in conversing with each other, I thought it a good
sign, and listened attentively to their talk, not doubting but the chief turn of
it would be about the climate, or treasures, or society they would probably meet
with in the far country. I supposed they might be also discussing about the best
and safest road to it, and that each was availing himself of the knowledge of
his neighbor, on a subject of equal importance to all. I listened to every
party, but in scarcely any did I hear one word about the land to which they were
going, though it was their home, the place where their whole interest,
expectation, and inheritance lay; to which also great part of their friends had
gone before, and where they were sure all the rest would follow.

Instead of this, their whole talk was about the business, or the pleasures, or
the fashions of the strange country which they now were merely passing through,
and in which they had not one foot of land which they were sure of calling their
own for the next quarter of an hour. What little estate they had was transitory
and not real, and that was a mortgaged life-hold dwelling of clay, not properly
their own, but only lent to them on a short, uncertain lease, of which seventy
years was considered as the longest period, and very few indeed lived in it to
the end of the term; for this was always at the will of the Lord, part of whose
choice it was, that He could take away the lease at pleasure, knock down the
stoutest inhabitant at a single blow, and turn out the poor, shivering, helpless
tenant naked, to that far country for which he had made no provision.

Sometimes, in order to quicken the pilgrim in his preparation, the Lord would
break down the dwelling by slow degrees--sometimes he would let it tumble by its
own natural decay; for as it was only built to last a certain term, it would
sometimes grow so uncomfortable by increasing wear, even before the ordinary
lease was out, that the lodging was hardly worth keeping, though the tenant
could seldom be persuaded to think so, but fondly clung to it to the last. First
the thatch on the top of the dwelling (the hair) changed color, then it fell
off, and left the roof bare; then "the grinders (the teeth) ceased because they
were few;" then the windows (the eyes) became so darkened that the owner could
scarcely see through them; then one prop fell away, then another, then the
supports became bent, and the whole fabric trembled and tottered, with every
other symptom of a falling house. On some occasions, the Lord ordered His
messengers (illnesses), of which he had a great variety, to batter, injure,
deface, and almost abolish the frail building, even while it seemed new and
strong; this was what the Landlord called giving warning; but many a tenant
would not take warning, and was so fond of staying where he was, even under all
these inconveniences, that at last he was cast out by ejection, not being
prevailed on to leave his dwelling in a proper manner, though one would have
thought the fear of being turned out would have whetted his diligence in
preparing for "a better and a more enduring inheritance." For though the people
were only temporary tenants in these crazy dwellings, yet, through the goodness
of the same Lord, they were assured that He never turned them out of these
habitations before He had on His part provided for them a better one, so that
there was not such another Landlord in the world; and though their present
dwelling was but frail, being only slightly equipped to serve the occasion, yet
they might hold their future possession by a most certain position, the Word of
the Lord Himself, which was entered in a covenant, or title-deed, consisting of
many pages; and because a great many good things were given away in this deed, a
Book was made of which every soul might get a copy. This indeed had not always
been the case, because, until a few ages back, there had been a sort of monopoly
in the case, and "the wise and prudent," that is, the deceitful and fraudful,
had hidden these things from the "babes and sucklings," that is, from the low
and ignorant, and many frauds had been practiced, and the poor had been cheated
of their right; so that not being allowed to read and judge for themselves, they
had been sadly deceived. But all these tricks had been put an end to, more than
two hundred years ago. When I passed through the country, and the lowest man who
could read might then have a copy, so that he might see himself what he had to
trust to; and even those who could not read might hear it read once or twice
every week at least, without pay, by learned men, whose business it was to teach
this Book to the people. But it surprised me to see how few comparatively made
use of these vast advantages. Of those who had a copy, many laid it carelessly
by, expressed a general belief in the truth of the title-deed, a general
satisfaction that they would come in for a share of the inheritance, a general
good opinion of the Lord whose Word it was, and a general disposition to take
His promise upon trust; always, however, intending, at a "convenient season," to
inquire further into the matter; but this convenient season seldom came, and
this neglect of theirs was translated by their Lord into the forfeiture of the
inheritance. At the end of this country lay the vast gulf mentioned before; it
was shadowed over by a broad and thick cloud, which prevented the pilgrims from
seeing in a distinct manner what was going on behind it, yet such beams of
brightness now and then darted through the cloud as enabled those who used a
telescope (faith) provided for that purpose, to see "the substance of things
hoped for;" but it was not every one who could make use of this telescope; no
eye indeed was naturally disposed to it; but an earnest desire of getting a
glimpse of the invisible realities, gave such a strength and steadiness to the
eye which used the telescope, as enabled it to see many things which could not
be seen by the natural sight. Above the cloud was this inscription: "The things
which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen are eternal." Of
these last things many glorious descriptions had been given; but as those
splendors were at a distance, and as the pilgrims in general did not care to use
the telescope, these distant glories made little impression. The glorious
inheritance which lay beyond the cloud, was called "the things above;" while a
multitude of insignificant objects, which appeared contemptibly small when
looked at through the telescope, were called "the things below." Now, as we know
it is nearness which gives size and bulk to any object, it was not surprising
that these ill-judging pilgrims were more struck with these trinkets and
trifles, which by lying close at hand were visible and tempting to the naked
eye, and which made up the sum of "the things below," than with the far-off
glories of "the things above;" but this was chiefly owing to their not making
use of the telescope, through which, if you examined thoroughly "the things
below," they seemed to shrink almost down to nothing, which was indeed their
real size; while "the things above" appeared the more beautiful and vast, the
more the telescope was used. But the surprising part of the story was this, not
that the pilgrims were captivated at first sight with "the things below," for
that was natural enough; but that, when they had tried them all over and over,
and found themselves deceived and disappointed in almost every one of them, it
did not at all lessen their fondness, and they grasped at them again with the
same eagerness as before. There were some cheerful fruits which looked alluring,
but on being opened, instead of wholesome fruit, they were found to contain
rottenness, and those which seemed the fullest often proved on opening, to be
quite hollow and empty. Those which were most tempting to the eye were often
found to be wormwood to the taste, or poison to the stomach; and many flowers
that seemed most bright and gay, had a worm gnawing at the root.

Among the chief attractions of "the things below," were certain little lumps of
yellow clay, on which almost every eye and every heart was fixed. When I saw the
variety of uses to which this clay could be converted, and the respect which was
shown to those who could scrape together the greatest number of yellow lumps, I
did not much wonder at the general desire to pick up some of them. But when I
beheld the anxiety, the wakefulness, the competitions, the tricks, the frauds,
the scuffling, the pushing, the turmoiling, the kicking, the shoving, the
cheating, the scheming, the envy, the malignity, which were excited by a desire
to possess this article; when I saw the general scramble among those who had
little to get much, and of those who had much to get more, then I could not help
applying to these people a proverb in use among us, that "gold may be bought too
dear."

Though I saw that there were various sorts of trinkets which engaged the hearts
of different travelers, such as a measure of red or blue ribbon, for which some
were content to forfeit their future inheritance, committing the sin of Esau
without his temptation of hunger; yet the yellow clay I found was the grand
object for which most hands were scrambling and most souls were risked. One
thing was extraordinary, that the nearer these people were to being turned out
of their dwelling, the fonder they grew of these pieces of clay; so that I
naturally concluded they meant to take the clay with them to the far country, to
assist them in their establishment in it; but I soon learned this clay was not
useful there, the Lord having declared to these pilgrims, that as they had
"brought nothing into this world, they could carry nothing out."

I inquired of the different people who were raising the various heaps of clay,
some of a larger, some of a smaller size, why they discovered such unceasing
anxiety, and for whom. Some, whose piles were immense, told me they were heaping
up for their children; this I thought very right, until on casting my eyes
round, I observed many of the children of those very people had large heaps of
their own. Others told me it was for their grandchildren; but on inquiry I found
these were not yet born, and in many cases there was little chance that they
ever would be. The truth, on a close examination, proved to be, that the true
genuine heapers really heaped for themselves--that it was in fact neither for
friend nor child, but to gratify an inordinate appetite of their own. Nor was I
much surprised after this to see these yellow hoards at length began to
"corrode, and their rust became a witness" against the hoarders, and would "eat
their flesh as it were fire." (Your gold and silver have become worthless. The
very wealth you were counting on will eat away your flesh in hell. This treasure
you have accumulated will stand as evidence against you on the day of judgment.
James 5:3)

Many, however, who had set out with a high heap of their father’s raising,
before they had got one-third of their journey, had scarcely a single piece
left. As I was wondering what had caused these enormous piles to vanish in so
short a time, I beheld scattered up and down the country all sorts of odd
inventions, for some or other of which the vain possessors of the great heaps of
clay had traded and bartered them away in fewer hours than their ancestors had
spent years in getting them together. O, what a strange unaccountable hodgepodge
it was; and what was ridiculous enough, I observed that the greatest quantity of
the clay was always exchanged for things that were of no use that I could
discover, owing, I suppose, to my ignorance of the manners of that country. In
one place I saw large heaps yellow clay spent in order to set two idle, pampered
horses to running; but the worst part of the joke was, the horses did not run to
fetch or carry anything, but merely to let the gazers see which could run
fastest. Now this gift of swiftness employed to no one useful purpose, was only
one out of many instances I observed of talent employed to no end. In another
place I saw whole piles of the yellow clay spent to maintain long ranges of
buildings full of dogs. These provisions could have supplied some thousands of
pilgrims who were sadly in need, and whose ragged dwellings were exhausted for
lack of a little help to repair them.

Others were spent in playing with white stiff bits of paper painted over with
red and black spots, in which I thought there must be some trickery, because the
very touch of these painted pasteboards made the heaps fly from one to another,
and back again to the same, in a way that natural causes could not account for.
There was another proof that there must be some magic in this business, which
was, that if a pasteboard with red spots fell into a hand which wanted a black
one, the person changed color, his eyes flashed fire, and he discovered other
symptoms of madness, which showed there was some witchcraft in the case. These
clean little pasteboards, as harmless as they looked, had the wonderful power of
pulling down the highest piles in less time than all the other causes put
together.

I observed that many small piles of yellow clay were given in exchange for an
enchanted liquor, which when the purchaser had drank to a little excess, he lost
all power of managing the rest of his heap, without losing the love of it.

Now I found it was the opinion of sober pilgrims, that either hoarding the clay,
or trading it for any such purposes as the above, was thought exactly the same
offense in the eyes of the Lord; and it was expected that when they would come
under His more immediate jurisdiction in "the far country," the penalty fixed to
hoarding and squandering would be nearly the same.

While I examined the countenances of the owners of the heaps, I observed that
those who I well knew never intended to make any use at all of their heap, were
far more terrified at the thought of losing it, or of being torn from it, than
those who were employing it in the most useful manner. Those who best knew what
to do with it, set their hearts least upon it, and were always most willing to
leave it. But such riddles were common in this odd country. It was indeed a very
land of paradox.

Now I wondered why these pilgrims, who were naturally made erect, with an eye
formed to look up to "the things above," yet had their eyes almost constantly
bent in the other direction, riveted to the earth, and fastened "on things
below," just like those animals who walk on all fours. I was told they had not
always been subject to this weakness of sight, and proneness to focus on
earth--that they had originally been upright and beautiful, having been created
after the image of the Lord, and that He had placed them in a superior
habitation, which He had given them years ago; but that their first ancestors
fell from it through pride and disobedience--that upon this, the inheritance was
taken away, they lost their original strength, brightness and beauty, became as
dead, and were driven into this strange country; where, however, the Lord showed
them mercy and restored life through His Son; and His likeness; for they had
become disfigured, and had grown so unlike Him, that you would hardly believe
they were His own children, though, in some, the resemblances had become again
visible. The Lord, however, was so merciful, that instead of giving them up to
the dreadful consequence of their own folly, as He might have done without any
impeachment of His justice, He gave them immediate comfort, and promised those
who in due time His own Son should come down and restore them to the future
inheritance which He should purchase for them. And now it was, that in order to
keep up their spirits, after they had lost their estate through the folly of
their ancestors, that He began to give them a part of their former title-deed.
He continued to send them portions of it from time to time by different faithful
servants, whom, however, these ungrateful people generally abused, and some of
whom they murdered. But for all this the Lord was so very forgiving, that He at
length sent these rebellious ones a proclamation of full and free pardon by His
Son, who, though they abused Him in a more cruel manner than they had done any
of His servants, yet after having "finished the work His Father had given Him to
do," went back into "the far country," to prepare a place for all those who
believe in Him; and there He still lives, pleading for those he still loves and
forgives, and will restore to the purchased inheritance on the terms of their
being heartily sorry for what they have done, thoroughly desirous of pardon, and
convinced that He is able and willing to "save to the uttermost all those who
come unto God by Him."

I saw, indeed, that many old offenders appeared to be sorry for what they had
done; that is, they did not like to be punished for it. They were willing enough
to be delivered from the penalty of their sin, but they did not heartily wish to
be delivered from the power of it. Many declared, in the most public manner,
once every week, that they were very sorry they had done amiss--that they had
"erred and strayed like lost sheep;" but it was not enough to declare their
sorrow ever so often, if they gave no other sign of their penitence. For there
was so little truth in them, that the Lord required other proofs of their
sincerity besides their own word, for they often lied with their lips and
deceived with their tongue. But those who professed to be penitents were neither
allowed to raise heaps of yellow clay, or to keep great piles lying by them
useless; nor must they barter them for any of those idle vanities which suddenly
reduced the heaps; for I found that among the grand articles of future
reckoning, the use they had made of the heaps would be a principal one.

I was sorry to observe many of the fairer part of these pilgrims spend too much
of their yellow heaps in adorning and beautifying their dwellings of clay, in
painting, whitewashing, and enameling them. All these tricks, however, did not
preserve them from decay, and when they grew old, they even looked worse for all
this cost and varnish. Some, however, acted a more sensible part, and spent no
more upon their decaying dwellings than just to keep them whole and clean, and
in good repair, which is what every tenant ought to do; and I observed that
those who were most moderate in their care of their own dwellings, were most
attentive to repair and warm the ragged dwellings of others. But none did this
with much zeal or acceptance but those who had acquired a habit of overlooking
"the things below," and who also, by the constant use of the telescope, had
gotten their natural weak and dim sight so strengthened as to be able to discern
pretty distinctly the nature of "the things above." The habit of fixing their
eyes on these glories made all the shining trifles which compose the mass of
"things below," at last appear in their own smallness. For it was in this case
particularly true, that things are only big or little by comparison; and there
was no other way of making "the things below" appear as small as they really
were, but by comparing them, by means of the telescope, with "the things above."
But I observed that the false judgment of the pilgrims ever kept pace with their
wrong practices; for those who kept their eyes fastened on "the things below,"
were reckoned wise in their generation, while the few who looked forward to the
future glories, were accounted by the heapers, to be either fools or mad.

Most of these pilgrims went on in adorning their dwellings, adding to their
heaps, grasping "the things below" as if they would never let them go, shutting
their eyes instead of using their telescope, and neglecting their title-deed as
if it was the parchment of another man’s estate, and not of their own, until,
one after another, each felt his dwelling tumbling about his ears.

Oh, then what a busy, bustling, anxious terrifying, distracting moment was that!
What a deal of business was to be done, and what a strange time was this to do
it in! Now to see the confusion and dismay, occasioned by having left everything
to the last minute. First someone was sent for to make over the yellow heaps to
another, which the heaper now found would be of no use to himself in crossing
the gulf--a transfer which ought to have been made while the dwelling was sound.

Then there was a consultation between two or three masons (physicians) at once,
perhaps to try to patch up the walls, and strengthen the props, and stop the
decay of the tumbling dwelling; but not until the masons were forced to declare
it was past repairing--a truth they were rather too willing to keep back--did
the tenant seriously think it was time to pack up, prepare, and be gone.

Then what sending for the ’wise men’ who professed to explain the title-deed;
and Oh, what remorse that they had neglected to examine it until their senses
were too confused for so weighty a business! What reproaches, or what
exhortations to others to look better after their own affairs than they had
done! Even to the wisest of the inhabitants, the falling of their dwelling was a
solemn thing--solemn, but nor surprising; they had long been packing up and
preparing; they praised their Lord’s goodness that they had been allowed to stay
so long; many acknowledged the mercy of their frequent warnings, and confessed
that those very dilapidations which had made the house uncomfortable had been a
blessing, as it had set them on diligent preparation for their future
inheritance, had made them more earnest in examining their title to it, and had
set them on such a frequent application to the telescope, that "the things
above" had seemed every day to approach nearer and nearer, and "the things
below" to recede and vanish in proportion. These desired not to be "unclothed,
but to be clothed with their heavenly dwelling;" for they knew if the earthly
tent they lived in was destroyed, they had a building from God, an eternal house
in heaven, not built by human hands.

"These all died in faith, not having received the promises, but having seen them
afar off, and were persuaded of them, and embraced them, and confessed that they
were strangers and pilgrims on the earth." Hebrews 11:13

"Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly
lusts, which war against the soul." 1 Peter 2:11


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 37: S.     THE SERVANT MAN TURNED SOLDIER
========================================================================

The Servant Man Turned Soldier; Or, The Fair-Weather Christian

Hannah More

William was a lively young servant, who worked and lived in a great, but very
irregular family. His place was on the whole agreeable to him, and suited to his
mirthful and thoughtless temper. He found a plentiful table and a good room in
the cellar. There was, indeed, a great deal of work to be done, though it was
performed with much disorder and confusion. The family in the main were not
unkind to him, though they often contradicted and crossed him, especially when
things went ill with themselves. This, William never much liked, for he was
always fond of having his own way. There was a merry, or rather a noisy and
riotous servants’ hall; for disorder and quarrels are indeed the usual effects
of plenty and unrestrained indulgence. The men were smart, but idle; the maids
were showy but undisciplined, and all did pretty much as they liked for a time,
but the time was commonly short. The wages were reckoned high, but they were
seldom paid, and it was even said by other people, that the family was
insolvent, and never fulfilled any of their flattering engagements, or their
most positive promises. But still, notwithstanding their real poverty, things
went on with just the same thoughtlessness and splendor, and neither master nor
servants looked beyond the jollity of the present hour. In this unruly family
there was little church-going, and still less praying at home. They pretended,
indeed, in a general way, to believe in the Bible, but it was only an outward
profession; few of them read it at all, and even of those who did read still
fewer were governed by it. There was indeed a Bible lying on the table in the
great hall, which was kept for the purpose of administering an oath.

William, who was fond of novelty and pleasure, was apt to be negligent of the
duties of the house. He used to stay out on his errands, and one of his favorite
amusements was going to the parade to see the soldiers exercise. He saw with
envy how smartly they were dressed, listened with rapture to the music, and
imagined that a soldier had nothing to do but to walk to and fro in a certain
regular order, to go through a little easy exercise, in short, to live without
fighting, fatigue, or danger.

O, said he, whenever he was affronted at home, what a fine thing it must be to
be a soldier! To be so well dressed, to have nothing to do but to move to the
pleasant sound of fife and drum, and to have so many people come to look at one,
and admire one. O it must be a fine thing to be a soldier!

Yet when the vexation of the moment was over, he found so much ease and
diversion in the great family, it was so suited to his base taste and sensual
appetites, that he thought no more of the matter. He forgot the glories of a
soldier, and eagerly returned to all the base gratifications of the kitchen. His
evil habits were but little attended to by those with whom he lived; his faults,
among which were lying and swearing, were not often corrected by the family, who
had little objections to those sins, which only offended God and did not much
affect their own interest or property. And except that William was obliged to
work rather more than he liked, he found little, while he was young and healthy,
that was very disagreeable in this service. So he went on, still thinking,
however, when things went a little cross, what a fine thing it was to be a
soldier! At last one day as he was waiting at dinner, he had the misfortune to
let fall a china dish, and broke it all to pieces. It was a intricate dish, much
valued by the family, as they pretended; this family were indeed apt to set a
false fantastic value on things--and not to estimate them by their real worth.
The heads of the family, who had generally been rather patient and good-humored
with William, as I said before, for those vices, which though offensive to God
did not touch their own pocket--now flew out into a violent passion with him,
called him a thousand hard names, and even threatened to horsewhip him for his
shameful negligence.

William in a great fright, for he was a sad coward at bottom, ran directly out
of the house to avoid the threatened punishment; and happening just at that very
time to pass by the parade where the soldiers chanced to be then exercising, his
resolution was taken in a moment. He instantly determined to be no more a slave,
as he called it; he would return no more to be subject to the humors of a
tyrannic family: no, he was resolved to be free; or at least, if he must serve,
he would serve no master but the king.

William, who had now and then happened to hear from the accidental talk of the
soldiers that those who served the great family he had lived with, were slaves
to their tyranny and vices, had also heard in the same casual manner, that the
service of the king was perfect freedom. Now he had taken it into his head to
hope that this might be a freedom to do evil, or at least to do nothing, so he
thought it was the only place in the world to suit him. A fine likely young man
as William was, had no great difficulty to get enlisted. The few forms were soon
settled, he received the bounty money as eagerly as it was offered, took the
oaths of allegiance, was joined to the regiment and heartily welcomed by his new
comrades. He was the happiest fellow alive. All was smooth and calm. The day
happened to be very fine--and therefore William always reckoned upon a fine day.
The scene was mirthful and lively, the music cheerful, he found the exercise
very easy--and he thought there was little more expected from him.

He soon began to flourish in his talk; and when he met with any of his old
servants, he fell a prating about marches and counter-marches, and blockades,
and battles, and sieges, and blood, and death, and triumphs, and victories, all
at random, for these were words and phrases he had picked up without at all
understanding what he said. He had no knowledge, and therefore he had no
modesty; he had no experience, and therefore he had no fears.

All seemed to go on smoothly, for he had as yet no trial. He began to think with
triumph what a mean life he had escaped from in the old quarrelsome family, and
what a happy, honorable life he should have in the army. O there was no life
like the life of a soldier! In a short time, however, war broke out; his
regiment was one of the first which was called out to actual and hard service.
As William was the most raw of all the recruits, he was the first to murmur at
the difficulties and hardships, the cold, the hunger, the fatigue and danger of
being a soldier. O what watchings, and perils, and trials, and hardships, and
difficulties, he now thought attended a military life! Surely, said he, I could
never have suspected all this misery when I used to see the men on the parade in
our town.

He now found, when it was too late, that all the field-days he used to attend,
all the exercises which he had observed the soldiers to go through in the calm
times of peace and safety, were only meant to fit, train and qualify them for
the actual service which they were now sent out to perform by the command of the
king. The truth is, William often complained when there was no real hardship to
complain of; for the common troubles of life fell out pretty much alike to the
great family which William had left, and also to the soldiers in the king’s
army. But the spirit of obedience, discipline, and self-denial of the latter
seemed hardships to one of William’s loose turn of mind. When he began to
murmur, some good old soldier clapped him on the back, saying, "Cheer up lad, it
is a kingdom you are to strive for, if we faint not, henceforth there is laid up
for us a great reward; we have the king’s word for it, man."

William observed, that to those who truly believed this, their labors were as
nothing, but he himself did not at the bottom believe it; and it was observed,
of all the soldiers who failed, the true cause was that they did not really
believe the king’s promise. He was surprised to see that those soldiers, who
used to bluster and boast, and deride the assaults of the enemy, now began to
fall away; while such as had faithfully obeyed the king’s orders, and believed
in his word, were sustained in the hour of trial. Those who had trusted in their
own strength all fainted on the slightest attack, while those who had put on the
armor of the king’s providing, the sword, and the shield, and the helmet, and
the breast-plate, and whose feet were shod according to order, now endured
hardship as good soldiers, and were enabled to fight the good fight. An
engagement was expected immediately. The men were ordered to prepare for battle.
While the rest of the corps were so preparing, William’s whole thoughts were
bent on contriving how he might desert. But alas! he was watched on all sides,
he could not possibly devise any means to escape. The danger increased every
moment, the battle came on.

William, who had been so sure and confident before he entered, flinched in the
moment of trial, while his more quiet and less boastful comrades prepared boldly
to do their duty. William looked about on all sides, and saw that there was no
eye upon him, for he did not know that the king’s eye was everywhere at once. He
at last thought he spied a chance of escaping, not from the enemy, but from his
own army. While he was endeavoring to escape, a cannon-ball from the opposite
camp took off his leg. As he fell, the first words which broke from him were,
"While I was in my duty I was preserved; in the very act of deserting I am
wounded." He lay expecting every moment to be trampled to death, but as the
confusion was a little over, he was taken off the field by some of his own
party, laid in a place of safety, and left to himself after his wound was
dressed. The skirmish, for it proved nothing more, was soon over. The greater
part of the regiment escaped in safety. William in the mean time suffered
cruelly both in mind and body. To the pains of a wounded soldier, he added the
disgrace of a coward, and the infamy of a deserter.

"O," cried he, "why was I such a fool as to leave the great family I lived in,
where there was food and drink enough and to spare, only on account of a little
quarrel? I might have made up that with them as we had done our former quarrels.
Why did I leave a life of ease and pleasure, where I had only a little rub now
and then, for a life of daily discipline and constant danger? Why did I turn
soldier? O what a miserable creature is a soldier!" As he was sitting in this
weak and disabled condition, uttering the above complaints, he observed a
venerable old officer, with thin gray locks on his head, and on his face, deep
wrinkles engraved by time, and many an honest scar inflicted by war. William had
heard this old officer highly commended for his extraordinary courage and
conduct in battle, and in peace he used to see him cool and collected, devoutly
employed in reading and praying in the interval of more active duties. He could
not help comparing this officer with himself.

"I," said he, "flinched and drew back, and would even have deserted in the
moment of peril, and now in return, I have no consolation in the hour of repose
and safety. I would not fight then, I cannot pray now. O why would I ever think
of being a soldier?"

He then began afresh to weep and lament, and he groaned so loud that he drew the
notice of the officer, who came up to him, kindly sat down by him, took him by
the hand, and inquired with as much affection as if he had been his brother,
what was the matter with him, and what particular distress, more than the common
fortune of war it was which drew from him such bitter groans?

"I know something of surgery," added he, "let me examine your wound, and assist
you with such little comfort as I can."

William at once saw the difference between the soldiers in the king’s army, and
the people in the great family; the latter commonly withdrew their kindness in
sickness and trouble, when most needed, which was just the very time when the
others came forward to assist. He told the officer his little history, the
manner of his living in the great family, the trifling cause of his quarreling
with it, the slight ground of his entering into the king’s service.

"Sir," said he, "I quarreled with the family and I thought I was at once fit for
the army. I did not know the qualifications it required. I had not reckoned on
discipline, and hardships, and self-denial. I liked well enough to sing a loyal
song, or drink to the king’s health, but I find I do not relish working and
fighting for him, though I rashly promised even to lay down my life for his
service if called upon, when I took the bounty money and the oath of allegiance.
In short, sir, I find that I long for the ease and sloth, the merriment and the
feasting of my old service; I find I cannot be a soldier, and, to speak truth, I
was in the very act of deserting when I was stopped short by the cannon-ball. So
that I feel the guilt of desertion, and the misery of having lost my leg into
the bargain." The officer thus replied: "Your state is that of every worldly
irreligious man. The great family you served is a just picture of the world. The
wages the world promises to those who are willing to do its work are high--but
the payment is attended with much disappointment. Nay, the world, like your
great family, is in itself insolvent, and in its very nature incapable of making
good the promises and of paying the high rewards which it holds out to tempt its
credulous followers. The ungodly world, like your family, cares little for
church, and still less for prayer; and considers the Bible rather as an
instrument to make an oath binding, than as containing in itself a perfect rule
of faith and practice, and as a title-deed to Heaven. The generality of men love
the world as you did your service, while it smiles upon them, and gives them
easy work and plenty of food and drink. But as soon as it begins to cross and
contradict them, they get out of humor with it, just as you did with your
service. They then think its drudgery hard, its rewards low. They find out that
it is high in its expectations from them, and slack in its payments to them. And
they begin to imagine (because they do not hear religious people murmur as they
do) that there must be some happiness in religion. The world, which takes no
account of their deeper sins, at length brings them into discredit for some act
of imprudence, just as your family overlooked your lying and swearing, but
threatened to whip you for breaking a china dish. Such is the judgment of the
world! It patiently bears with those who only break the laws of God, but
severely punishes the smallest negligence by which they themselves are injured.
The world sooner pardons the breaking ten commandments of God, than even a china
dish of its own.

"After some cross or opposition, worldly men, as I said before, begin to think
how much contentment and cheerfulness they remember to have seen in religious
people. They therefore begin to imagine that religion must be an easy and
delightful, as well as a good thing. They have heard that her ways are ways of
pleasantness, and all her paths are peace; and they persuade themselves, that by
this is meant worldly pleasantness and sensual peace. They resolve at length to
try it, to turn their back upon the world, to engage in the service of God and
turn Christians--just as you resolved to leave your old service, to enter into
the service of the king and turn soldier. But as you left your place in a
passion, so they leave the world in a huff. They do not count the cost. They do
not calculate upon the darling sin, the habitual pleasures, the ease, and
vanities, which they undertake by their new engagements to renounce, no more
than you counted what indulgences you were going to give up when you left the
luxuries and idleness of your place to enlist in the soldier’s warfare.

"They have, as I said, seen Christians cheerful, and they mistook the ground of
their cheerfulness; they imagined it arose, not because through grace they had
conquered difficulties, but because they had no difficulties in their passage.
They imagined that religion found the road smooth, whereas it only helps to bear
with a rough road without complaint. They do not know that these Christians are
of good cheer, not because the world is free from tribulation, but because
Christ, their captain, has overcome the world. But the irreligious man, who has
only seen the outside of a Christian, knows little of his secret conflicts, his
trials, his self-denials, his warfare with the world without; and with his own
corrupt desires within.

"The irreligious man quarrels with the world on some such occasion as you did
with your place. He now puts on the outward forms and ceremonies of religion,
and assumes the badge of Christianity, just as you were struck with the show of
a field-day; just as you were pleased with the music and the marching, and put
on the uniform and red coat. All seems smooth for a little while. He goes
through the outward exercise of a Christian, a degree of credit attends his new
profession, but he never suspects there is either difficulty or discipline
attending it. He imagines that religion is a thing for talking about, and not a
thing of the heart and the life. He never suspects that all the psalm-singing he
joins in, and the sermons he hears, and the other means he is using, are only as
the exercise and training of the soldiers--to fit and prepare him for actual
service; and that these means are no more religion itself, than the exercises
and training of the soldiers, to fit and prepare him for actual service; and
that these means are no more religion itself, than the exercises and training of
your parade were real warfare.

"At length some trial arises: this nominal Christian is called to differ from
the world in some great point; something happens which may strike at his
comfort, or his credit, or security. This cools his zeal for religion, just as
the view of a war cooled your courage as a soldier. He finds he was only angry
with the world--he was not tired of it. He was out of humor with the world, not
because he had seen through its vanity and emptiness--but because the world was
out of humor with him. He finds that it is an easy thing to be a fair-weather
Christian, bold where there is nothing to be done, and confident where there is
nothing to be feared. Difficulties unmask him to others; temptations unmask him
to himself; he discovers, that though he is a high professor, he is no
Christian; just as you found out that your red coat and your uniform, and your
musket, did not prevent you from being a coward.

"Your misery in the military life, like that of the nominal Christian, arose
from your love of ease, your cowardice, and your self-ignorance. You rushed into
a new way of life without counting the cost for it. A total change of heart and
temper were necessary for your new calling. With new views and principles, the
soldier’s life would have been not only easy, but delightful to you. But while
with a new profession you retained your old nature, it is no wonder if all
discipline seemed intolerable to you.

"The true Christian, like the brave soldier, is supported under dangers by a
strong faith--and the fruits of that victory for which he fights will be safety
and peace. The pleasures of this world are present and visible--the rewards for
which he strives are remote.

"The nominal Christian therefore fails, because nothing short of a living faith
can ever outweigh a strong present temptation, and lead a man to prefer the joys
of conquest to the pleasures of indulgence."


========================================================================
  CHAPTER 38: S.     THE SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN
========================================================================

The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain By Hannah More, 1795

Mr. Johnson, a very worthy charitable gentleman, was traveling some time ago
across one of those vast plains which are well known in Wiltshire. It was a fine
summer’s evening, and he rode slowly that he might have leisure to admire God in
the works of his creation. For this gentleman was of opinion, that a walk or a
ride was as proper a time as any to think about good things: for which reason,
on such occasions he seldom thought so much about his money or his trade, or
public news, as at other times, that he might with more ease and satisfaction
enjoy the pious thoughts which the wonderful works of the great Maker of Heaven
and earth are intended to raise in the mind. As this serene contemplation of the
visible heavens insensibly lifted up his mind from the works of God in nature,
to the same God as he is seen in Scripture revelation, it occurred to him that
this very connection was clearly intimated by the royal prophet in the
nineteenth Psalm — that most beautiful description of the greatness and power of
God exhibited in the former part, plainly seeming intended to introduce,
illustrate, and unfold the operations of the word and Spirit of God on the heart
in the latter. And he began to run a parallel in his own mind between the
effects of that highly poetical and glowing picture of the material sun in
searching and warming the earth, in the first six verses — and the spiritual
operation attributed to the "law of God," which fills up the remaining part of
the Psalm. And he persuaded himself that the divine Spirit which dictated this
fine hymn, had left it as a kind of general intimation to what use we were to
convert our admiration of created things; namely, that we might be led by a
sight of them, to raise our views from the kingdom of nature to that of grace,
and that the contemplation of God in his works might draw us to contemplate him
in his word. In the midst of these reflections, Mr. Johnson’s attention was all
of a sudden called off by the barking of a shepherd’s dog, and looking up, he
spied one of those little huts which are here and there to be seen on those
great downs; and near it was the shepherd himself busily employed with his dog
in collecting together his vast flock of sheep. As he drew nearer, he perceived
him to be a clean, well-looking, poor man, near fifty years of age. His coat,
though at first it had probably been of one dark color, had been in a long
course of years so often patched with different sorts of cloth, that it was now
become hard to say which had been the original color. But this, while it gave a
plain proof of the shepherd’s poverty, equally proved the exceeding neatness,
industry, and good management of his wife. His stockings no less proved her good
housewifery, for they were entirely covered with darns of different colored
worsteds, but had not a hole in them; and his shirt, though nearly as coarse as
the sails of a ship, was as white as the drifted snow, and was neatly mended
where time had either made a rent, or worn it thin. This furnishes a rule of
judging, by which one shall seldom be deceived. If I meet with a laborer,
hedging, ditching, or mending the highways, with his stockings and shirt tight
and whole, however mean and bad his other garments are, I have seldom failed, on
visiting his cottage, to find that also clean and well ordered, and his wife
notable, and worthy of encouragement. Whereas, a poor woman, who will be lying
a-bed, or gossiping with her neighbors when she ought to be fitting out her
husband in a cleanly manner, will seldom be found to be very good in other
respects. This was not the case with our shepherd — and Mr. Johnson was not more
struck with the decency of his poor and frugal dress, than with his open honest
countenance, which bore strong marks of health, cheerfulness, and spirit.

Mr. Johnson, who was on a journey, and somewhat fearful from the appearance of
the sky, that rain was at no great distance, accosted the shepherd with asking
what sort of weather he thought it would be on the morrow. "It will be such
weather as pleases me," answered the shepherd. Though the answer was delivered
in the mildest and most civil tone that could be imagined, the gentleman thought
the words themselves rather rude and surly, and asked him how that could be.
"Because," replied the shepherd, "it will be such weather as shall please God —
and whatever pleases him always pleases me."

Mr. Johnson, who delighted in good men and good things, was very well satisfied
with his reply. For he justly thought that though a hypocrite may easily
contrive to appear better than he really is to a stranger; and that no one
should be too soon trusted, merely for having a few good words in his mouth; yet
as he knew that out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks, he always
accustomed himself to judge favorably of those who had a serious deportment and
solid manner of speaking. It looks as if it proceeded from a good habit, said
he, and though I may now and then be deceived by it — yet it has not often
happened to me to be so. Whereas if a man accosts me with an idle, dissolute,
vulgar, indecent, or profane expression — I have never been deceived in him, but
have generally on inquiry, found his character to be as bad as his language gave
me room to expect.

He entered into conversation with the shepherd in the following manner: "Yours
is a troublesome life, honest friend," said he.

"To be sure, sir," replied the shepherd, "’tis not a very lazy life; but ’tis
not near so toilsome as that which my Great Master led for my sake; and he had
every state and condition of life at his choice, and chose a hard one; while I
only submit to the lot that is appointed to me."

"You are exposed to great cold and heat," said the gentleman.

"True, sir," said the shepherd; "but then I am not exposed to great temptations;
and so, throwing one thing against another, God is pleased to contrive to make
things more equal than we poor, ignorant, short-sighted creatures, are apt to
think. David was happier when he kept his father’s sheep on such a plain as
this, and employed in singing some of his own Psalms perhaps — than ever he was
when he became king of Israel and Judah. And I dare say we would never have had
some of the most beautiful texts in all those fine Psalms, if he had not been a
shepherd, which enabled him to make so many fine comparisons and similitudes, as
one may say, from country life, flocks of sheep, hills, and valleys, fields of
corn, and fountains of water."

"You think, then," said the gentleman, "that a laborious life is a happy one."
"I do, sir; and more so especially, as it exposes a man to fewer sins. If king
Saul had continued a poor laborious man to the end of his days, he might have
lived happy and honest, and died a natural death in his bed at last, which you
know, sir, was more than he did. But I speak with reverence, for it was divine
Providence overruled all that, you know, sir, and I do not presume to make
comparisons. Besides, sir, my employment has been particularly honored. Moses
was a shepherd on the plains of Midian. It was to ’shepherds keeping their
flocks by night,’ that the angels appeared in Bethlehem, to tell the best news,
the gladdest tidings, that ever were revealed to poor sinful men. Often has the
thought warmed my poor heart in the coldest night, and filled me with more joy
and thankfulness than the best supper could have done."

Here the shepherd stopped, for he began to feel that he had talked too free, and
too long. But Mr. Johnson was so well pleased with what he said, and with the
cheerful contented manner in which he said it, that he desired him to go on
freely, for it was a pleasure to him to meet with a plain man, who, without any
kind of learning but what he had got from the Bible, was able to talk so well on
a subject in which all men, high and low, rich and poor, are equally concerned.

"Indeed I am afraid I make too bold, sir, for it better befits me to listen to
such a gentleman as you seem to be, than to talk in my poor way. But as I was
saying, sir, I wonder that all working men do not derive as great joy and
delight as I do, from thinking how God has honored poverty! Oh! sir, what great,
or rich, or mighty men have had such honor put on them, or their condition — as
shepherds, tentmakers, fishermen, and carpenters have had! Besides, it seems as
if God honored industry also. The way of duty is not only the way of safety, but
it is remarkable how many, in the exercise of the common duties of their
calling, humbly and rightly performed, as we may suppose — have found honors,
preferment, and blessing — while it does not occur to me that the whole sacred
volume presents a single instance of a like blessing conferred on idleness.
Rebekah, Rachel, and Jethro’s daughters, were diligently employed in the lowest
occupations of a country life, when Providence, by means of those very
occupations, raised them up husbands so famous in history, as Isaac, Jacob, and
the prophet Moses. The shepherds were neither playing, nor sleeping, but
’watching their flocks,’ when they received the news of a Savior’s birth. And
the woman of Samaria, by the laborious office of drawing water, was brought to
the knowledge of him who gave her to drink of ’living water.’"

"My honest friend," said the gentleman, "I perceive you are well acquainted with
Scripture."

"Yes, sir, pretty well, blessed be God! Through his mercy I learned to read when
I was a little boy; though reading was not so common when I was a child, as, I
am told, through the goodness of Providence and the generosity of the rich, it
is likely to become now-a-days. I believe there is no day, for the last thirty
years, that I have not peeped at my Bible. If we can’t find time to read a
chapter, I defy any man to say he can’t find time to read a verse. A single
text, sir, well followed, and put in practice every day, would make no bad
figure at the year’s end: three hundred and sixty-five texts, without the loss
of a moment’s time, would make a pretty stock, a little golden treasury, as one
may say, from New Year’s day to new-year’s day. If children were brought up in
this method, they would come to look for their text as naturally as they do for
their breakfast. No laboring man, ’tis true, has so much leisure as a shepherd,
for while the flock is feeding I am obliged to be still, and at such times I can
now and then fix a shoe for my children or myself, which is a great saving to
us, and while I am doing that I repeat a chapter or a Psalm, which makes the
time pass pleasantly in this wild solitary place. I can say the best part of the
New Testament by heart. I believe I should not say the best part, for every part
is good, but I mean the greatest part. I have led but a lonely life, and have
often had but little to eat, but my Bible has been food, drink, and company to
me, as I may say. And when want and trouble have come upon me, I don’t know what
I should have done indeed, sir, if I had not had the promises of this book for
my stay and support."

"You have had great difficulties then?" said Mr. Johnson.

"Why, as to that, sir, not more than neighbors’ fare; I have but little cause to
complain, and much to be thankful; but I have had some little struggles, as I
will leave you to judge. I have a wife and eight children, whom I bred up in
that little cottage which you see under the hill, about half a mile off."

"What, that with the smoke coming out of the chimney?" said the gentleman.

"Oh no, sir," replied the shepherd, smiling, "we have seldom smoke in the
evening, for we have little to cook. ’Tis that cottage which you see on the left
hand of the church, near that little tuft of hawthorns."

"What, that hovel with only one room above and below, with scarcely any chimney?
How is it possible that you can live there with such a family?"

"Oh, it is very possible, and very certain too," cried the shepherd. "How many
better men have been worse lodged! How many good Christians have perished in
prisons and dungeons, in comparison of which my cottage is a palace! The house
is very well, sir; and if the rain did not sometimes beat down upon us through
the thatch when we are a-bed, I would not desire a better one; for I have
health, peace, and liberty, and no man makes me afraid."

"Well, I will certainly call on you before it be long; but how can you contrive
to lodge so many children?"

"We do the best we can, sir. My poor wife is a very sickly woman, or we would
always have done tolerably well. There are no rich folk in the parish, so that
she has not met with any great assistance in her sickness. The good curate of
the parish, who lives in that pretty parsonage in the valley, is very willing,
but not very able to assist us on these trying occasions, for he has little
enough for himself, and a large family into the bargain. Yet he does what he
can, and more than many other men do, and more than he can well afford. Besides
that, his prayers and good advice we are always sure of, and we are truly
thankful for that, for a man must give, you know, sir, according to what he has,
and not according to what he has not."

"I am afraid," said Mr. Johnson, "that your difficulties may sometimes lead you
to repine."

"No, sir," replied the shepherd, "it pleases God to give me two ways of bearing
up under my trials. I pray that they may be either removed or sanctified to me.
Besides, if my road is right, I am contented, though it be rough and uneven. I
do not so much stagger at hardships in the right way — as I dread a false
security, and a hollow peace, while I may be walking in a more smooth, but less
safe way. Besides, sir, I strengthen my faith by recollecting what the holiest
men have suffered — and my hope, with the view of the shortness of all
suffering. It is a good hint, sir, of the vanity of all earthly possessions,
that though the whole Land of Promise was his — yet the first bit of ground
which Abraham, the father of the faithful, got possession of, in the land of
Canaan, was a grave."

"Are you in any distress at present?" said Mr. Johnson. "No, sir, thank God,"
replied the shepherd, "I get my shilling a day, and most of my children will
soon be able to earn something; for we have only three under five years old."

"Only!" said the gentleman, "that is a heavy burden."

"Not at all; God fits the back to it. Though my wife is not able to do any
out-of-door work — yet she breeds up our children to such habits of industry,
that our little maids, before they are six years old, can first get a
half-penny, and then a penny a day by knitting. The boys, who are too little to
do hard work, get a trifle by keeping the birds off the corn — for this the
farmers will give them a penny or two, and now and then a bit of bread and
cheese into the bargain. When the season of crow-keeping is over, then they
glean or pick stones. Anything is better than idleness, sir, and if they did not
get a farthing by it, I would make them do it just the same, for the sake of
giving them early habits of labor.

"So you see, sir, I am not so badly off as many are. Nay, if it were not that it
costs me so much in medicines for my poor wife, I would reckon myself well off.
Nay I do reckon myself well off, for blessed be God, he has granted her life to
my prayers, and I would work myself to the bone, and live on one meal a day — to
add any comfort to her valuable life; indeed I have often done the last, and
thought it no great matter either."

While they were in this part of the discourse, a fine plump cherry-cheek little
girl ran up out of breath, with a smile on her young happy face, and without
taking any notice of the gentleman, cried out with great joy, "Look here,
father, only see how much I have got!"

Mr. Johnson was much struck with her simplicity, but puzzled to know what was
the occasion of this great joy. On looking at her, he perceived a small quantity
of coarse wool, some of which had found its way through the holes of her clean,
but scanty and ragged woolen apron. The father said, "This has been a successful
day indeed, Molly, but don’t you see the gentleman?"

Molly now made a courtesy down to the very ground, while Mr. Johnson inquired
into the cause of mutual satisfaction which both father and daughter had
expressed, at the unusual good fortune of the day.

"Sir," said the shepherd, "poverty is a great sharpener of the wits. My wife and
I can not endure to see our children (poor as they are) without shoes and
stockings, not only on account of the pinching cold which cramps their poor
little limbs, but because it degrades and debases them; and poor people who have
but little regard to appearances, will seldom be found to have any great regard
for honesty and goodness. I don’t say this is always the case; but I am sure it
is too often. Now shoes and stockings being very dear, we could never afford to
get them without a little contrivance. I must show you how I manage about the
shoes when you condescend to call at our cottage, sir. As to stockings, this is
one way we take to help to get them. My young ones, who are too little to do
much work, sometimes wander at odd hours over the hills for the chance of
finding what little wool the sheep may drop when they rub themselves, as they
are apt to do, against the bushes. These scattered bits of wool the children
pick out of the brambles, which I see have torn sad holes in Molly’s apron
today; they carry this wool home, and when they have got a pretty parcel
together, their mother cards it; for she can sit and card in the chimney corner,
when she is not able to wash or work about the house. The biggest girl then
spins it; it does very well for us without dyeing, for poor people must not be
particular about the color of their stockings. After this our little boys knit
it for themselves, while they are employed in keeping cows in the fields, and
after they get home at night. As for the knitting which the girls and their
mother do, that is chiefly for sale, which helps to pay our rent."

Mr. Johnson lifted up his eyes in silent astonishment at the shifts which honest
poverty can make rather than beg or steal; and was surprised to think how many
ways of existing there are, which those who live at their ease little suspect.
He secretly resolved to be more attentive to his own petty expenses than he had
hitherto been; and to be more watchful that nothing was wasted in his family.
But to return to the shepherd. Mr. Johnson told him that as he must needs be at
his friend’s house, who lived many miles off, that night, he could not, as he
wished to do, make a visit to his cottage at present. "But I will certainly do
it," said he, "on my return, for I long to see your wife and her nice little
family, and to be an eye-witness of her neatness and good management." The poor
man’s tears started into his eyes on hearing the commendation bestowed on his
wife; and wiping them off with the sleeve of his coat, for he had not a
handkerchief in the world, he said, "Oh, sir, you just now, I am afraid, called
me a humble man, but indeed I am a very proud one."

"Proud!" exclaimed Mr. Johnson, "I hope not. Pride is a great sin, and as the
poor are liable to it as well as the rich, so good a man as you seem to be ought
to guard against it."

"Sir," said he, "you’re right, but I am not proud of myself, God knows I have
nothing to be proud of. I am a poor sinner; but indeed, sir, I am proud of my
wife — she is not only the most tidy, notable woman on the plain, but she is the
kindest wife and mother, and the most contented, thankful Christian that I know.
Last year I thought I would have lost her in a violent fit of the rheumatism,
caught by going to work too soon after childbearing, I fear; for ’tis but a
bleak, coldish place, as you may see, sir, in winter, and sometimes the snow
lies so long under the hill, that I can hardly make myself a path to get out and
buy a few necessities in the village; and we are afraid to send out the
children, for fear they should be lost when the snow is deep. So, as I was
saying, the poor soul was very bad indeed, and for several weeks lost the use of
all her limbs except her hands; a merciful Providence spared her the use of
these, so that when she could not turn in her bed, she could contrive to patch a
rag or two for her family. She was always saying, had it not been for the great
goodness of God, she might have her hands lame as well as her feet, or the palsy
instead of the rheumatism, and then she could have done nothing — but, nobody
had so many mercies as she had.

"I will not tell you what we suffered during the bitter weather, sir, but my
wife’s faith and patience during that trying time, were as good a lesson to me
as any sermon I could hear, and yet Mr. Jenkins gave us very comfortable ones
too, that helped to keep up my spirits."

"I fear, shepherd," said Mr. Johnson, "you have found this to be but a bad
world."

"Yes, sir," replied the shepherd, "but it is governed by a good God. And though
my trials have now and then been sharp, why then, sir, as the saying is, if the
pain is violent, it is seldom lasting; and if is but moderate, why then we can
bear it the longer; and when it is quite taken away, ease is the more precious,
and gratitude is quickened by the remembrance. Thus every way, and in every
case, I can always find out a reason for vindicating Providence."

"But," said Mr: Johnson, "how do you do to support yourself under the pressure
of actual poverty. Is not hunger a great weakener of your faith?"

"Sir," replied the shepherd, "I endeavor to live upon the promises. You, who
abound in the good things of this world, are apt to set too high a value on
them. Suppose, sir, the king, seeing me at hard work, were to say to me, that if
I would patiently work on until Christmas, a fine palace and a great estate
would be the reward of my labors. Do you think, sir, that a little hunger, or a
little sweat, would make me flinch, when I was sure that a few months would put
me in possession! Would I not say to myself frequently — cheer up, shepherd,
’tis but until Christmas! Now is there not much less difference between this
supposed day and Christmas, when I should take possession of the estate and
palace — than there is between time and eternity, when I am sure of entering on
a kingdom not made with hands?

"There is some comparison between a moment and a thousand years, because a
thousand years are made up of moments, all time being made up of the same sort
of stuff, as I may say. While there is no sort of comparison between the longest
portion of time and eternity. You know, sir, there is no way of measuring two
things, one of which has length and breadth, which shows it must have an end
somewhere, and another thing, which being eternal, is without end and without
measure."

"But," said Mr. Johnson, "is not the fear of death sometimes too strong for your
faith?"

"Blessed be God, sir," replied the shepherd, "the dark passage through the
valley of the shadow of death is made safe by the power of him who conquered
death. I know, indeed, we shall go as naked out of this world as we came into it
— but a humble penitent will not be found naked in the other world, sir. My
Bible tells me of garments of praise and robes of righteousness. And is it not a
support, sir, under any of the petty difficulties and distresses here, to be
assured by the word of him who can not lie, that those who were in white robes,
came out of tribulation? But, sir, I beg your pardon for being so talkative.
Indeed you great folks can hardly imagine how it raises and cheers a poor man’s
heart when such as you condescend to talk familiarly to him on religious
subjects. It seems to be a practical comment on that text which says, the rich
and the poor meet together, the Lord is the maker of them all.

"But to return to my wife. One Sunday afternoon when she was at the worst, as I
was coming out of church, for I went one part of the day, and my eldest daughter
the other, so my poor wife was never left alone; as I was coming out of church,
Mr. Jenkins, the minister, called out to me and asked me how my wife did, saying
he had been kept from coming to see her by the deep fall of snow, and indeed
from the parsonage-house to my hovel it was quite impassable. I gave him all the
particulars he asked, and I am afraid a good many more, for my heart was quite
full. He kindly gave me a shilling, and said he would certainly try to pick out
his way and come and see her in a day or two.

"While he was talking to me a plain farmer-looking gentleman in boots, who stood
by listened to all I said, but seemed to take no notice. It was Mr. Jenkins’
wife’s father, who was come to pass the Christmas-holidays at the
parsonage-house. I had always heard him spoken of as a plain frugal man, but was
remarked to give away more than any of his showy neighbors.

"Well! I went home with great spirits at this seasonable and unexpected supply;
for we had tapped our last sixpence, and there was little work to be had on
account of the weather; I told my wife I had not come back empty-handed. ’No, I
dare say not,’ says she, ’you have been serving a master who fills the hungry
with good things, though he sends the rich empty away’ True, Mary, says I, we
seldom fail to get good spiritual food from Mr. Jenkins, but today he has kindly
supplied our bodily needs. She was more thankful when I showed her the shilling,
than, I dare say, some of your great people are when they get a hundred pounds."

Mr. Johnson’s heart smote him when he heard such a value set upon a shilling.
Surely, said he to himself, I will never waste another; but he said nothing to
the shepherd, who thus pursued his story:

"Next morning before I went out, I sent part of the money to buy a little brown
sugar to put into her water-gruel; which you know, sir, made it nice and
nourishing. I went out to cleave wood in a farm-yard, for there was no standing
out on the plain, after such snow as had fallen in the night. I went with a
lighter heart than usual, because I had left my poor wife a little better, and
comfortably supplied for this day, and I now resolved more than ever to trust
God for the supplies of the next day. When I came back at night, my wife fell a
crying as soon as she saw me. This, I own, I thought but a bad return for the
blessings she had so lately received, and so I told her. ’Oh,’ said she, ’it is
too much, we are too rich. I am now frightened, not lest we should have no
portion in this world, but for fear we should have our whole portion in it. Look
here, John.’ So saying, she uncovered the bed whereon she lay, and showed me two
warm, thick, new blankets. I could not believe my own eyes, sir, because when I
went out in the morning, I had left her with no other covering than our little
old thin blue rug. I was still more amazed when she put half a crown into my
hand, telling me, she had had a visit from Mr. Jenkins, and Mr. Jones, the
latter of whom had bestowed all these good things upon us.

"Thus, sir, have our lives been crowned with mercies. My wife got about again,
and I do believe, under Providence, it was owing to these comforts; for the
rheumatism, sir, without blankets by night, and flannel by day, is but a baddish
job, especially to people who have little or no fire. She will always be a
weakly body; but thank God her soul prospers and is in health. But I beg your
pardon, sir, for talking on at this rate."

"Not at all, not at all,"said Mr. Johnson; "I am much pleased with your story;
you shall certainly see me in a few days. Good night." So saying, he slipped a
crown into his hand and rode off. Surely, said the shepherd, "Goodness and mercy
have followed me all the days of my life," as he gave the money to his wife when
he got home at night. As to Mr. Johnson, he found abundant matter for his
thoughts during the rest of his journey. On the whole, he was more disposed to
envy than to pity the shepherd. I have seldom seen, said he, so happy a man. It
is a sort of happiness which the world could not give, and which, I plainly see,
it has not been able to take away. This must be the true spirit of religion. I
see more and more, that true goodness is not merely a thing of words and
opinions, but a living principle brought into every common action of a man’s
life. What else could have supported this poor couple under every bitter trial
of want and sickness? No, my honest shepherd, I do not pity, but I respect and
even honor you; and I will visit your poor hovel on my return to Salisbury, with
as much pleasure as I am now going to the house of my friend.

Mr. Johnson, after having passed some time with his friend, set out on his
return to Salisbury, and on the Saturday evening reached a very small inn, a
mile or two distant from the shepherd’s village; for he never traveled on a
Sunday without such a reason as he might be able to produce at the day of
judgment. He went the next morning to the church nearest the house where he had
passed the night, and after taking such refreshment as he could get at that
house, he walked on to find out the shepherd’s cottage. His reason for visiting
him on a Sunday was chiefly because he supposed it to be the only day which the
shepherd’s employment allowed him to pass at home with his family; and as Mr.
Johnson had been struck with his talk, he thought it would be neither unpleasant
nor unprofitable to observe how a man who carried such an appearance of piety,
spent his Sunday: for though he was so low in the world, this gentleman was not
above entering very closely into his character, of which he thought he should be
able to form a better judgment, by seeing whether his practice at home kept pace
with his professions abroad. For it is not so much by observing how people talk,
as how they live, that we ought to judge of their characters.

After a pleasant walk, Mr. Johnson got within sight of the cottage, to which he
was directed by the clump of hawthorns and the broken chimney. He wished to take
the family by surprise; and walking gently up to the house he stood awhile to
listen. The door being half open, he saw the shepherd (who looked so respectable
in his Sunday coat that he would hardly have known him), his wife, and their
numerous young family, drawing round their little table, which was covered with
a clean, though very coarse cloth.

There stood on it a large dish of potatoes, a brown pitcher, and a piece of a
coarse loaf of bread. The wife and children stood in silent attention, while the
shepherd, with uplifted hands and eyes, devoutly begged the blessing of God on
their homely fare. Mr. Johnson could not help sighing to reflect, that he had
sometimes seen better dinners eaten with less appearance of thankfulness. The
shepherd and his wife sat down with great seeming cheerfulness, but the children
stood; and while the mother was helping them, little fresh-colored Molly, who
had picked the wool from the bushes with so much delight, cried out, "Father, I
wish I was big enough to say grace, I am sure I would say it very heartily
today, for I was thinking what must poor people do who have no salt to their
potatoes; and do but look, our dish is quite full."

"That is the true way of thinking, Molly," said the father; "in whatever
concerns bodily wants and bodily comforts, it is our duty to compare our own lot
with the lot of those who are worse off — and it will keep us thankful. On the
other hand, whenever we are tempted to set up our own wisdom or goodness, we
must compare ourselves with those who are wiser and better — and that will keep
us humble."

Molly was now so hungry, and found the potatoes so good, that she had no time to
make any more remarks; but was devouring her dinner very heartily, when the
barking of the great dog drew her attention to the door, and spying the
stranger, she cried out, "Look, father, see here, if yonder is not the good
gentleman!" Mr. Johnson finding himself discovered, immediately walked in, and
was heartily welcomed by the honest shepherd, who told his wife that this was
the gentleman to whom they were so much obliged. The good woman began, as some
very neat people are rather apt to do, with making many apologies that her house
was not cleaner, and that things were not in a fitter order to receive such a
gentleman. Mr. Johnson, however, on looking round, could discover nothing but
the most perfect neatness. The trenchers on which they were eating were almost
as white as their linen; and notwithstanding the number and smallness of the
children, there was not the least appearance of dirt or litter. The furniture
was very simple and poor, hardly indeed amounting to bare necessities. It
consisted of four brown wooden chairs, which by constant rubbing, were become as
bright as a looking-glass; an iron pot and kettle; a poor old grate, which
scarcely held a handful of coal, and out of which the little fire that had been
in it appeared to have been taken, as soon as it had answered the end for which
it had been lighted — that of boiling their potatoes. Over the chimney stood an
old-fashioned broad bright candlestick, and a still brighter spit; it was pretty
clear that this last was kept rather for ornament than use. An old carved elbow
chair, and a chest of the same date, which stood in the corner, were considered
the most valuable part of the shepherd’s goods, having been in his family for
three generations. But all these were lightly esteemed by him in comparison of
another possession, which, added to the above, made up the whole of what he had
inherited from his father — and which last he would not have parted with, if no
other could have been had, for the king’s ransom: this was a large old Bible,
which lay on the window-seat, neatly covered with brown cloth, variously
patched. This sacred book was most reverently preserved from dog’s ears, dirt,
and every other injury but such as time and much use had made it suffer in spite
of care. On the clean white walls were pasted a hymn on the Crucifixion of our
Savior, a print of the Prodigal Son, and the Shepherd’s hymn.

After the first salutations were over, Mr. Johnson said that if they would go on
with their dinner he would sit down. Though a good deal ashamed, they thought it
more respectful to obey the gentleman, who having cast his eye on their slender
provisions, gently rebuked the shepherd for not having indulged himself, as it
was Sunday, with a morsel of bacon to relish his potatoes. The shepherd said
nothing, but poor Mary colored and hung down her head, saying, "Indeed, sir, it
is not my fault; I did beg my husband to allow himself a bit of meat today out
of your honor’s bounty; but he was too good to do it, and it is all for my
sake." The shepherd seemed unwilling to come to an explanation, but Mr. Johnson
desired Mary to go on. So she continued: "You must know, sir, that both of us,
next to a sin, dread a debt, and indeed in some cases a debt is a sin; but with
all our care and pains, we have never been able quite to pay off the doctor’s
bill for that bad fit of rheumatism which I had last winter. Now when you were
pleased to give my husband that kind present the other day, I heartily desired
him to buy a bit of meat for Sunday, as I said before, that he might have a
little refreshment for himself out of your kindness. ’But,’ answered he, ’Mary,
it is never out of my mind long together that we still owe a few shillings to
the doctor (and thank God it is all we did owe in the world). Now if I carry him
his money directly, it will not only show him our honesty and our good-will, but
it will be an encouragement to him to come to you another time in case you
should be taken once more in such a bad fit; for I must own,’ added my poor
husband, ’that the thought of your being so terribly ill without any help, is
the only misfortune that I need courage to face.’"

Here the grateful woman’s tears ran down so fast that she could not go on. She
wiped them with the corner of her apron, and humbly begged pardon for talking so
freely.

"Indeed, sir," said the shepherd, "though my wife is full as unwilling to be in
debt as myself — yet I could hardly prevail on her to consent to my paying this
money just then, because she said it was hard I should not have a taste of the
gentleman’s bounty myself. But for once, sir, I would have my own way. For you
must know, as I pass the best part of my time alone, tending my sheep, ’tis a
great point with me, sir, to get comfortable matter for my own thoughts; so that
’tis rather self-interest in me to allow myself in no pleasures and no practices
that won’t bear thinking on over and over. For when one is a good deal alone,
you know, sir, all one’s bad deeds do so rush in upon one, as I may say, and so
torment one, that there is no true comfort to be had but in keeping clear of
wrong doings and false pleasures; and that I suppose may be one reason why so
many folks hate to stay a bit by themselves.

"But as I was saying — when I came to think the matter over on the hill yonder,
said I to myself, a good dinner is a good thing, I grant, and yet it will be but
cold comfort to me a week after, to be able to say — to be sure I had a nice
shoulder of mutton last Sunday for dinner, thanks to the good gentleman! But
then I am in debt. I had a rare dinner, that’s certain, but the pleasure of that
has long been over — and the debt still remains. I have spent the crown; and now
if my poor wife should be taken in one of those fits again, die she must, unless
God work a miracle to prevent it, for I can get no help for her. This thought
settled all; and I set off directly and paid the crown to the doctor with as
much cheerfulness as I would have felt on sitting down to the fattest shoulder
of mutton that ever was roasted. And if I was contented at the time, think how
much more happy I have been at the remembrance! O, sir, there are no pleasures
worth the name, but such as bring no plague or penitence after them."

Mr. Johnson was satisfied with the shepherd’s reasons; and agreed that though a
good dinner was not to be despised — yet it was not worthy to be compared with a
contented mind, which (as the Bible truly says) is a continual feast.

"But come," said the good gentleman, "what have we got in this brown mug?"

"As good water," said the shepherd, "as any in the king’s dominions. I have
heard of countries beyond sea, in which there is no wholesome water; nay, I have
been myself in a great town not far off, where they are obliged to buy all the
water which they get, while a good Providence sends to my very door a spring as
clear and fine as Jacob’s well. When I am tempted to repine that I have often no
other drink, I call to mind that it was nothing better than a cup of cold water
which the woman at the well of Sychar drew for the greatest guest that ever
visited this world."

"Very well," replied Mr. Johnson; "but as your honesty has made you prefer a
poor meal to being in debt, I will at least send and get something for you to
drink. I saw a little public house just by the church, as I came along. Let that
little rosy-faced fellow fetch a mug of beer." So saying, he looked full at the
boy, who did not offer to stir; but cast an eye at his father to know what he
was to do.

"Sir," said the shepherd, "I hope we shall not appear ungrateful if we seem to
refuse your favor; my little boy would, I am sure, fly to serve you on any other
occasion. But, good sir, it is Sunday; and should any of my family be seen at a
public house on a Sabbath-day, it would be a much greater grief to me than to
drink water all my life. If I would say one thing and do another, you can’t
think what an advantage it would give many of my neighbors over me, who would be
glad enough to report that they had caught the shepherd’s son at the alehouse
without explaining how it happened. Christians, you know, sir, must be doubly
watchful; or they will not only bring disgrace on themselves, but what is much
worse, on that holy name by which they are called."

"Are you not a little too cautious, my honest friend?" said Mr. Johnson.

"I humbly ask your pardon, sir," replied the shepherd, "if I think that is
impossible. In my poor notion, I no more understand how a man can be too
cautious, than how he can be too strong, or too healthy."

"You are right indeed," said Mr. Johnson, "as a general principle, but this
struck me as a very small thing."

"Sir," said the shepherd, "I am afraid you will think me very bold, but you
encourage me to speak out."

"’Tis what I wish," said the gentleman.

"Then, sir," resumed the shepherd, "I doubt if, where, there is a frequent
temptation to do wrong, any fault can be called small; that is, in short, if
there is any such thing as a small willful sin. A poor man like me is seldom
called out to do great things, so that it is not by a few striking deeds his
character can be judged by his neighbors, but by the little round of daily
customs he allows himself in."

"I would like," said Mr. Johnson, "to know how you manage in this respect."

"I am but a poor scholar, sir," replied the shepherd, "but I have made myself a
little sort of rule. I always avoid, as I am an ignorant man, picking out any
one single difficult text to distress my mind about, or to go and build opinions
upon, because I know that puzzles and injures poor unlearned Christians. But I
endeavor to collect what is the general spirit or meaning of Scripture on any
particular subject, by putting a few texts together, which though I find them
dispersed up and down — yet all seem to look the same way, to prove the same
truth, or hold out the same comfort. So when I am tried or tempted, or anything
happens in which I am at a loss what to do, I apply to my rule — to the law and
the testimony. To be sure I can’t always find a particular direction as to the
very case, because then the Bible must have been bigger than all those great
books I once saw in the library at Salisbury palace, which the butler told me
were acts of Parliament. And had that been the case, a poor man would never have
had money to buy, nor a working man time to read the Bible. And so Christianity
could only have been a religion for the rich, for those who had money and
leisure; which, blessed be God! is so far from being the truth, that in all that
fine discourse of our Savior to John’s disciples, it is enough to reconcile any
poor man in the world to his low condition, to observe, when Christ reckons up
the things for which he came on earth, to observe, I say, what he keeps for
last. ’Go tell John,’ says he, ’those things which you hear and see: the blind
receive their sight, and the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the deaf
hear, and the dead are raised up.’ Now, sir, all these are wonders to be sure,
but they are nothing to what follows. They are but like the lower rounds of a
ladder, as I may say, by which you mount to the top — ’and the poor have the
Gospel preached to them.’ I dare say, if John had any doubts before, this part
of the message must have cleared them up at once. For it must have made him
certain sure at once, that a religion which placed preaching salvation to the
poor above healing the sick, which ranked the soul above the body, and set
Heaven above health, must have come from God."

"But," said Mr. Johnson, "you say you can generally pick out your particular
duty from the Bible, though that immediate duty is not fully explained."

"Indeed, sir," replied the shepherd, "I think I can find out the principle at
least, if I bring but a willing mind. The want of that is the great hindrance.
’Whoever does my will, he shall know of the doctrine.’ You know that text, sir.
I believe a stubborn will makes the Bible harder to be understood than any lack
of learning. ’Tis corrupt affections which blind the understanding, sir. The
more a man hates sin, the clearer he will see his way; and the more he loves
holiness, the better he will understand his Bible — the more practical
conviction will he get of that pleasant truth, that the secret of the Lord is
with those who fear him.

"Now, sir, suppose I had time and learning, and possessed of all the books I saw
at the bookstore — where could I find out a surer way to lay the axe to the root
of all covetousness, selfishness, and injustice, than the plain and ready rule,
to do unto all men as I would they should do unto me. If my neighbor does me an
injury, can I be at any loss how to proceed with him, when I recollect the
parable of the unforgiving steward, who refused to pardon a debt of a hundred
pence, when his own ten thousand talents had been forgiven? I defy any man to
retain habitual selfishness, hardness of heart, or any other allowed sin — who
daily and conscientiously tries his own heart by this touchstone. The straight
rule will show the crooked practice to everyone who honestly tries the one by
the other."

"Why you seem to make Scripture a thing of general application," said Mr.
Johnson, "in cases in which many, I fear, do not apply."

"It applies to everything, sir," replied the shepherd. "When those men who are
now disturbing the peace of the world, and trying to destroy the confidence of
God’s children in their Maker and their Savior; when those men, I say, came to
my poor hovel with their new doctrines and their new books, I would never look
into one of them; for I remember it was the first sin of the first pair to lose
their innocence for the sake of a little wicked knowledge. Besides, my own book
told me — To fear God and honor the king — To meddle not with them who are given
to change — Not to speak evil of dignities — To render honor to whom honor is
due. So that I was furnished with a little coat of armor, as I may say, which
preserved me, while those who had no such armor fell into the snare."

While they were thus talking, the children who had stood very quietly behind,
and had not stirred a foot, now began to scamper about all at once, and in a
moment ran to the window-seat to pick up their little old hats. Mr. Johnson
looked surprised at this disturbance; and the shepherd asked his pardon, telling
him it was the sound of the church-bell which had been the cause of their
rudeness; for their mother had brought them up with such a fear of being too
late for church, that it was but who could catch the first stroke of t the bell,
and be first ready. He had always taught them to think that nothing was more
indecent than to get into church after it was begun; for as the service opened
with an exhortation to repentance, and a confession of sin, it looked very
presumptuous not to feel ready to join it; it looked as if people did not feel
themselves to be sinners. And though such as lived at a great distance might
plead difference of clocks as an excuse — yet those who lived within the sound
of the bell, could pretend neither ignorance nor mistake.

Mary and her children set forward. Mr. Johnson and the shepherd followed, taking
care to talk the whole way on such subjects as might fit them for the solemn
duties of the place to which they were going.

"I have often been sorry to observe," said Mr. Johnson, "that many who are
reckoned decent, good kind of people, and who would on no account neglect going
to church — yet seem to care but little in what frame or temper of mind they go
thither. They will talk of their worldly concerns until they get within the
door, and then take them up again the very minute the sermon is over, which
makes me ready to fear they lay too much stress on the mere form of going to a
place of worship. Now, for my part, I always find that it requires a little time
to bring my mind into a state fit to do any common business well, much more this
great and most necessary business of all."

"Yes, sir," replied the shepherd; "and then I think too how busy I should be in
preparing my mind, if I were going into the presence of a great gentleman, or a
lord, or the king — and shall the King of kings be treated with less respect?
Besides, one likes to see people feel as if going to church was a thing of
choice and pleasure, as well as a duty — and that they were as desirous not to
be the last there, as they would be if they were going to a feast or a fair."

After service, Mr. Jenkins, the clergyman, who was well acquainted with the
character of Mr. Johnson, and had a great respect for him, greeted him with much
civility; expressing his concern that he could not enjoy just now so much of his
conversation as he wished, as he was obliged to visit a sick person at a
distance, but hoped to have a little talk with him before he left the village.
As they walked along together, Mr. Johnson made such inquiries about the
shepherd, as served to confirm him in the high opinion he entertained of his
piety, good sense, industry, and self-denial. They parted; the clergyman
promising to call in at the cottage in his way home. The shepherd, who took it
for granted that Mr. Johnson was gone to the parsonage, walked home with his
wife and children, and was beginning in his usual way to catechize and instruct
his family, when Mr. Johnson came in, and insisted that the shepherd should go
on with his instruction just as if he were not there. This gentleman, who was
very desirous of being useful to his own servants and workmen in the way of
instruction, was sometimes sorry to find that though he took a good deal of
pains, they now and then did not quite understand him; for though his meaning
was very good, his language was not always very plain; and though the things he
said were not hard to be understood — yet the words were, especially to such as
were very ignorant. And he now began to find out that if people were ever so
wise and good — yet if they had not a simple, agreeable, and familiar way of
expressing themselves, some of their plain hearers would not be much the better
for them. For this reason he was not above listening to the plain, humble way in
which this honest man taught his family; for though he knew that he himself had
many advantages over the shepherd, had more learning, and could teach him many
things — yet he was not too proud to learn even of so poor a man, in any point
where he thought the shepherd might have the advantage of him. This gentleman
was much pleased with the knowledge and piety which he discovered in the answers
of the children, and desired the shepherd to tell him how he contrived to keep
up a sense of divine things in his own mind, and in that of his family, with so
little leisure, and so little reading.

"Oh! as to that, sir," said the shepherd, "we do not read much except in one
book, to be sure; but with my hearty prayer for God’s blessing on the use of
that book, what little knowledge is needful seems to come of course, as it were.
And my chief study has been to bring the fruits of the Sunday reading into the
week’s business, and to keep up the same sense of God in the heart, when the
Bible is in the cupboard, as when it is in the hand. In short, to apply what I
read in the book — to what I meet with in the field."

"I don’t quite understand you," said Mr. Johnson.

"Sir," replied the shepherd, "I have but a poor gift at conveying these things
to others, though I have much comfort from them in my own mind. But I am sure
that the most ignorant and hard-working people, who are in earnest about their
salvation, may help to keep up devout thoughts and good affections during the
week, though they have had hardly any time to look at a book; and it will help
them to keep out bad thoughts too, which is no small matter. But then they must
know the Bible; they must have read the word of God diligently, that is a kind
of stock in trade for a Christian to set up with. It is this which makes me so
careful in teaching it to my children; and even in storing their memories with
Psalms and chapters. This is a great help to a poor hard-working man, who will
scarcely meet with anything in them but what he may turn to some good account.

"If one lives in the fear and love of God, almost everything one sees abroad,
will teach one to adore his power and goodness, and bring to mind some text of
Scripture, which shall fill his heart with thankfulness, and his mouth with
praise. When I look upward, the Heavens declare the glory of God — and shall I
be silent and ungrateful? If I look around and see the valleys standing thick
with corn — how can I help blessing that God who gives me all things richly to
enjoy?

"I may learn gratitude from the beasts of the field, for the ox knows his
master, and the donkey his master’s crib — and shall a Christian not know, shall
a Christian not consider what great things God has done for him? I, who am a
shepherd, endeavor to fill my soul with a constant remembrance of that good
shepherd, who feeds me in green pastures and makes me to lie down beside the
still waters, and whose rod and staff comfort me. A religion, sir, which has its
seat in the heart, and its fruits in the life, takes up little time in the study
— and yet in another sense, true religion, which from sound principles brings
forth right practice, fills up the whole time and life too."

"You are happy," asked Mr. Johnson, "in this retired life, by which you escape
the corruptions of the world?"

"Sir," replied the shepherd, "I do not escape the corruptions of my own evil
nature. Even there, on that wild solitary hill, I can find out that my heart is
prone to evil thoughts. I suppose, sir, that different states have different
temptations. You great folks that live in the world, perhaps, are exposed to
some temptations of which such a poor man as I am, knows nothing. But to one who
leads a lonely life like me, evil thoughts are a chief besetting sin; and I can
no more withstand these without the grace of God, than a rich gentleman can
withstand the snares of evil company, without the same grace. And I find that I
stand in need of God’s help continually, and if he would give me up to my own
evil heart, I should be lost."

Mr. Johnson approved of the shepherd’s sincerity, for he had always observed,
that where there was no humility, and no watchfulness against sin — there was no
true religion; and he said that the man who did not feel himself to be a sinner,
in his opinion could not be a Christian.

Just as they were in this part of their discourse, Mr. Jenkins, the clergyman,
came in. After the usual salutations, he said, "Well, shepherd, I wish you joy;
I know you will be sorry to gain any advantage by the death of a neighbor — but
old Wilson, my clerk, was so infirm, and I trust so well prepared, that there is
no reason to be sorry for his death. I have always intended you should follow in
his place — it is no great matter of profit, but every little is something."

"No great matter, sir," cried the shepherd; "indeed it is a great thing to me,
it will more than pay my rent! Blessed be God for all his goodness."

Mary said nothing, but lifted up her eyes full of tears in silent gratitude.

Mr. Johnson now inquired of the clergyman whether there were many children in
the parish.

"More than you would expect," replied he, "from the seeming smallness of it; but
there are some little hamlets which you do not see."

"I think," returned Mr. Johnson, "I recollect that in the conversation I had
with the shepherd on the hill yonder, he told me you had no Sunday School."

"I am sorry to say we have none," said the minister. "I do what I can to remedy
this misfortune by public catechizing; but having two or three churches to
serve, I can not give so much time as I wish to private instruction; and having
a large family of my own, and no assistance from others, I have never been able
to establish a school."

"There is an excellent institution in London," said Mr. Johnson, "called the
Sunday School Society, which kindly gives books and other helps, on the
application of such pious clergymen as stand in need of their aid, and which I
am sure would have assisted you, but I think we shall be able to do something
ourselves.

"Shepherd," continued Mr. Johnson, "if I were a king, and had it in my power to
make you a rich and a great man, with a word speaking, I would not do it. Those
who are raised by some sudden stroke, much above the station in which divine
Providence had placed them, seldom turn out very good, or very happy. I have
never had any great things in my power, but as far as I have been able, I have
been always glad to assist the worthy. I have however, never attempted or
desired to set any poor man much above his natural condition, but it is a
pleasure to me to lend him such assistance as may make that condition more easy
to himself, and put him in a way which shall call him to the performance of more
duties than perhaps he could have performed without my help, and of performing
them in a better manner to others, and with more comfort to himself. What rent
do you pay for this cottage?"

"Fifty shillings a year, sir."

"It is in a sad tattered condition; is there not a better to be had in the
village?"

"That in which the poor clerk lived," said the clergyman, "is not only more
tight and whole, but has two decent chambers, and a very large light kitchen."

"That will be very convenient," replied Mr. Johnson; "What is the rent?"

"I think," said the shepherd, "poor neighbor Wilson gave somewhat about four
pounds a year."

"Very well," said Mr. Johnson, "and what will the clerk’s place be worth, do you
think?"

"About three pounds," was the answer.

"Now," continued Mr. Johnson, "my plan is, that the shepherd should take that
house immediately; for as the poor man is dead, there will be no need of waiting
until quarter-day, if I make up the difference."

"True, sir," said Mr. Jenkins, "and the sooner they remove the better, for poor
Mary caught that bad rheumatism by sleeping under a leaky thatch." The shepherd
was too much moved to speak, and Mary could hardly sob out, "Oh, sir! you are
too good; indeed this house will do very well."

"It may do very well for you and your children, Mary," said Mr. Johnson,
gravely, "but it will not do for a school — the kitchen is neither large nor
light enough. Shepherd," continued he, "with your good minister’s permission and
kind assistance, I propose to set up in this parish a Sunday School, and to make
you the master. It will not at all interfere with your weekly calling, and it is
the only lawful way in which you could turn the Sabbath into a day of some
little profit to your family, by doing, as I hope, a great deal of good to the
souls of others. The rest of the week you will work as usual. The difference of
rent between this house and the clerk’s, I shall pay myself, for to put you in a
better house at your own expense would be no great act of kindness. As for
honest Mary, who is not fit for hard labor, or any other out-of-door work, I
propose to endow a small weekly school, of which she shall be the mistress, and
employ her notable abilities to good account, by teaching ten or a dozen girls
to knit, sew, spin, or any other useful way of getting their bread; for all this
I shall only pay her the usual price, for I am not going to make you rich, but
useful"

"Not rich, sir!" cried the shepherd; "How can I ever be thankful enough for such
blessings? And will my poor Mary have a dry thatch over her head? and shall I be
able to send for the doctor when I am like to lose her! Indeed my cup runs over
with blessings; I hope God will grant me humility."

Here he and Mary looked at each other and burst into tears. The gentlemen saw
their distress, and kindly walked out upon the little green in front of the
door, that these honest people might give vent to their feelings. As soon as
they were alone, they crept into one corner of the room, where they thought they
could not be seen, and fell on their knees, devoutly blessing and praising God
for his mercies. Never were more hearty prayers presented, than this grateful
couple offered up for their benefactors. The warmth of their gratitude could
only be equaled by the earnestness with which they besought the blessing of God
on the work in which they were going to engage. The two gentlemen now left this
happy family, and walked to the parsonage, where the evening was spent in a
manner very edifying to Mr. Johnson, who the next day took all proper measures
for putting the shepherd in immediate possession of his now comfortable
habitation. Mr. Jenkins’s father-in-law, the worthy gentleman who gave the
shepherd’s wife the blankets in the first part of this history, arrived at the
parsonage before Mr. Johnson left it, and assisted in fitting up the clerk’s
cottage.

Mr. Johnson took his leave, promising to call on the worthy minister and his new
clerk once a year, in his summer’s journey over the plain, as long as it should
please God to spare his life. He had every reason to be satisfied with the
objects of his bounty. The shepherd’s zeal and piety made him a blessing to the
rising generation. The old resorted to his school for the benefit of hearing the
young instructed; and the clergyman had the pleasure of seeing that he was
rewarded for the protection he gave the school by the great increase in his
congregation. The shepherd not only exhorted both parents and children to the
indispensable duty of a regular attendance at church, but by his pious counsels
he drew them thither, and by his plain and prudent instructions enabled them to
understand, and of course to delight in the public worship of God.


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  CHAPTER 39: S.     THE VALLEY OF TEARS!
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The Valley of Tears!

Hannah More

Once upon a time methought I set out upon a long journey, and the place through
which I traveled appeared to be a dark valley, which was called the Valley of
Tears. It had obtained this name, not only on account of the many sorrowful
adventures which poor passengers commonly meet with in their journey through it
— but also because most of these travelers entered it weeping and crying, and
left it in very great pain and anguish. This vast valley was full of people of
all colors, ages, sizes and descriptions. But all were traveling the same road;
or rather they were taking different little paths which all led to the same
common end. At first setting out on his journey, each traveler had a small lamp
so fixed in his bosom, that it seemed to make a part of himself; but as this
"natural light" did not prove to be sufficient to direct them in the right way,
the King of the country, in pity to their wanderings and their blindness, out of
his gracious condescension, promised to give these poor wayfaring people an
additional supply of light from his own royal treasury. But as he did not choose
to lavish his favors where there seemed no disposition to receive them — he
would not bestow any of his oil on such as did not think it worth asking for.
"Ask, and you shall receive," was the universal rule he laid down for them. Many
were prevented from asking through pride and vanity, for they thought they had
light enough already; preferring the feeble glimmerings of their own lamp, to
all the offered light from the King’s treasury.

Yet it was observed of those who rejected it as thinking they had enough, that
hardly any acted up to what even their own natural light showed them. Others
were deterred from asking, because they were told that this light not only
pointed out the dangers and difficulties of the road, but by a certain
reflecting power it turned inward on themselves, and revealed to them ugly
sights in their own hearts to which they rather chose to be blind; for those
travelers "chose darkness rather than light, because their deeds were evil."

Now it was remarkable that these two properties were inseparable, and that the
lamp would be of little outward use — except to those who used it as an internal
reflector. A threat and a promise also never failed to accompany the offer of
this light from the King: a promise, that to those who improved what they had,
more should be given; and a threat, that from those who did not use it wisely,
should be taken away even what they had.

I observed that when the road was very dangerous, when terrors and difficulties
and death beset the faithful travelers — then, on their fervent importunity, the
King voluntarily gave large and bountiful supplies of light, such as in common
seasons never could have been expected; always proportioning the quantity given
to the necessity of the case: "As their day was" — such was their light and
strength.

Though many chose to depend entirely on their own lamp, yet it was observed that
this light was apt to go out, if left to itself. It was easily blown out by
those violent gusts which were perpetually howling through the wilderness, and
indeed it was the natural tendency of that unwholesome atmosphere to extinguish
it; just as you have seen a candle go out when exposed to the vapors and foul
air of a damp room. It was a melancholy sight to see multitudes of travelers
heedlessly pacing on, boasting they had light enough, and despising the offer of
more. But what astonished me most of all, was to see many, and some of them,
too, accounted men of first-rate intelligence, actually busy in blowing out
their own light; because, while any spark of it remained, it only served to
torment them, and point out things which they did not wish to see. And having
once blown out their own light, they were not easy until they had blown out that
of their neighbor’s also; so that a good part of the wilderness seemed to
exhibit a sort of universal "blind-man’s-bluff", each endeavoring to catch his
neighbor, while his own voluntary blindness exposed him to be caught himself, so
that each was actually falling into the snare he was laying for another.

Now I saw in my vision, that there were some others who were busy in strewing
the most gaudy flowers over the numerous bogs, precipices, and pitfalls, with
which the wilderness abounded — thus making danger and death look so mirthful,
that the poor thoughtless creatures seemed to delight in their own destruction.
Those pitfalls did not appear deep or dangerous to the eye, because over them
were raised mirthful edifices with alluring names. These were filled with
singing men and singing women, and with dancing, and feasting, and gambling, and
drinking, and jollity, and madness. But though the scenery was mirthful, the
footing was unsound. The floors were full of holes, through which the unthinking
merrymakers were continually sinking. Some tumbled through in the middle of a
song, many at the end of a feast. And though there was many a cup of
intoxication wreathed with flowers — yet there was always poison at the bottom!
But what most surprised me, was that though no day passed over their heads in
which some of these merry-makers did not drop through — yet their loss made
little impression on those who were left. Nay, instead of being awakened to more
watchfulness and self-denial by the continual dropping off of those about them —
several of them seemed to borrow from thence an argument of a directly contrary
tendency, and the very shortness of the time was only urged as a reason to use
it more sedulously for the indulgence of sensual delights! "Let us eat and drink
— for tomorrow we die!" "Let us crown ourselves with rose-buds before they are
withered." With these, and a thousand other such little mottoes, the mirthful
garlands of the wilderness were decorated.

Some admired poets were working to set the most corrupt sentiments to the most
harmonious tunes — these were sung without scruple, chiefly, indeed, by the
looser sons of riot, but not seldom also by the more orderly daughters of
sobriety, who were not ashamed to sing, to the sound of instruments, sentiments
so corrupt and immoral, that they would have blushed to speak or read them. But
the music seemed to sanctify the corruption, especially such as was connected
with immorality or drinking.

Now I observed, that all the travelers who had so much as a spark of life left,
seemed every now and then, as they moved onwards, to cast an eye, though with
very different degrees of attention, towards the Happy land, which they were
told lay at the end of their journey. But as they could not see very far
forward, and as they knew there was a dark and shadowy valley, which must needs
be crossed before they could attain to the Happy land — they tried to turn their
attention from it as much as they could. The truth is, they were not
sufficiently apt to consult a map which the King had given them, and which
pointed out the road to the Happy land so clearly, that the "wayfaring man,
though simple, could not err." This map also very correctly defined the
boundaries of the Happy land from the land of Misery, both of which lay on the
other side of the dark and shadowy valley. But so many beacons and lighthouses
were erected, so many clear and explicit directions furnished for avoiding the
one country and attaining the other — that it was not the King’s fault, if even
one single traveler got wrong. But I am inclined to think, that in spite of the
map, and the King’s word, and his offers of assistance to get them thither — the
travelers in general did not heartily and truly believe, after all, that there
was any such country as the Happy land. Or at least, the paltry and transient
pleasures of the wilderness so besotted them, and the thoughts of the dark and
shadowy valley so frightened them — that they thought they should be more
comfortable by banishing all thought and concern.

Now I also saw in my dream, that there were two roads through the wilderness,
one of which every traveler must needs take. The first road was narrow, and
difficult, and rough — but it was infallibly safe. It did not admit the traveler
to stray either to the right hand or to the left — yet it was far from being
destitute of real comforts or sober pleasures. The other was a "broad and
tempting way", abounding with luxurious fruits and gaudy flowers to tempt the
eye and please the appetite. To forget the dark valley, through which every
traveler was well assured he must one day pass, seemed, indeed, the object of
general desire. To this great end, all that human ingenuity could invent was
industriously set to work. The travelers read, and they wrote, and they painted,
and they sung, and they danced, and they drank as they went along, not so much
because they all cared for these things, or had any real joy in them — as
because this restless activity served to divert their attention from ever being
fixed on the "dark and shadowy valley". The King, who knew the thoughtless
temper of the travelers, and how apt they were to forget their journey’s end,
had thought of a thousand little kind attentions to warn them of their dangers.
The King caused to be written and posted, before the eyes of the travelers,
several little notices and cautions, such as, "Broad is the way that leads to
destruction!" "Take heed, lest you also perish!" "Woe to them that rise up early
to drink wine!" "The pleasures of sin are but for a season!"

Such were the notices directed to the "Broad-way" travelers; but they were so
busily engaged in plucking the flowers, sometimes before they were full-blown,
and in devouring the fruits, often before they were ripe, and in loading
themselves with "yellow clay", under the weight of which millions perished —
that they had no time so much as to look at the King’s directions.

Many went wrong because they preferred a merry journey to a safe one, and
because they were terrified by certain notices chiefly intended for the
"Narrow-way" travelers, such as, "You shall weep and lament, but the world shall
rejoice." But had these foolish people allowed themselves time or patience to
read to the end, which they seldom would do, they would have seen these
comfortable words added: "But your sorrow shall be turned into joy;" also, "Your
joy no man takes from you;" and, "Those who sow in tears shall reap in joy."

Now I also saw in my dream, that many travelers who had a strong dread of ending
at the land of Misery, walked up to the Strait gate, hoping, that though the
entrance was narrow, yet if they could once get in, the road would widen; but
what was their grief, when on looking more closely they saw written on the
inside, "Narrow is the way!" this frightened them. They compared the
inscriptions with which the whole way was lined, such as, "Be not conformed to
this world!" "Deny yourselves, take up your cross" — with all the tempting
pleasures of the wilderness.

Some indeed recollected the fine descriptions they had read of the Happy land,
the Golden city, and the river of Pleasures. But then, those joys were distant,
and from the faintness of their light they soon got to think that what was
remote, might be uncertain; and while the present good increased in bulk by its
nearness — the distant good receded, diminished, disappeared. Their faith
failed; they would trust no farther than they could see — they drew back and got
into the Broad Way, taking a common but sad refuge in the number and gaiety of
their companions. When these faint-hearted people turned back, their light was
quite put out, and then they became worse than those who had made no attempt to
get in! A few honest, humble travelers, not naturally stronger than the rest,
but strengthened by their trust in the King’s word, came up by the light of
their lamps, and meekly entered in at the Strait gate. As they advanced farther
they felt less heavy, and though the way did not in reality grow wider — yet
they grew reconciled to the narrowness of it, especially when they saw the walls
here and there studded with certain jewels called "promises", such as, "He who
endures to the end shall be saved;" and, "My grace is sufficient for you."

Some, when they were almost ready to faint, were encouraged by seeing that many
niches in the Narrow-way were filled with statues and pictures of saints and
martyrs, who had borne their testimony at the stake, that the Narrow-way was the
safe way. And these travelers, instead of sinking at the sight of the gallows,
the sword and the furnace, were animated by these words written under them:
"Those who wear white robes came out of great tribulation!" and, "Be followers
of those who through faith and patience inherit the promises." In the meantime
there came a great multitude of travelers, all from Laodicea. This was the
largest party I had yet seen; these were neither cold nor hot. They would not
give up future hope — and they could not endure the difficult and narrow way. So
they contrived to deceive themselves by imagining, that though they resolved to
keep the Happy land in view — yet there must needs be many different ways which
led to it, no doubt all equally sure without being all equally difficult and
narrow. So they set on foot certain little contrivances to attain the end
without using the means, and softened down the spirit of the King’s directions,
to fit them to their own practice.

Sometimes they would split a direction in two, and only use that half which
suited them. For instance, when they met with the following rule, "Trust in the
Lord, and do good," they would take the first half, and make themselves easy
with a general sort of trust, that through the mercy of the King, all would go
well with them — though they themselves did nothing. And on the other hand, many
made sure that a few good works of their own would carry them safely to the
Happy land, though they did "not" trust in the Lord, nor place any faith in his
word — so they took the second half of the spliced direction. Thus some perished
by a lazy faith, and others by a working pride. A large party of Pharisees now
appeared, who had so neglected their lamp that they did not see their way at
all, though they imagined themselves to be full of light. They kept up
appearances so well as to delude others, and most effectually to delude
themselves with a notion that they might be found in the right way at last. In
this dreadful delusion they went on to the end, and until they were finally
plunged into the dark valley, never discovered the horrors which awaited them on
the dismal shore!

It was remarkable, that while these Pharisees were often boasting how bright
their light burned, in order to get the praise of men — the humble travelers,
whose steady light showed their good works to others, refused all commendation,
and the brighter their light shined before men, so much the more they insisted
that they ought to boast, not in themselves, but their Father who is in Heaven.

I now set myself to observe what was the particular hindrance which obstructed
particular travelers in their endeavors to enter in at the Strait gate. I
remarked a huge portly man, who seemed desirous of getting in, but he carried
about him such a vast provision of bags full of gold, and had on so many rich
garments which stuffed him out so wide, that though he pushed and squeezed like
one who had really a mind to get in — yet he could not possibly do so. Then I
heard a voice crying, "Woe to him that loads himself with thick clay." The poor
man felt something was wrong, and even went so far as to change some of his more
cumbersome vanities into others which seemed less bulky; but still he and his
pack were much too wide for the narrow gate.

He would not, however, give up the matter so easily, but began to throw away a
little of the coarser part of his baggage; but still I remarked, that he threw
away none of the vanities which lay near his heart. He tried again, but it would
not do; still his dimensions were too large. He now looked up and read these
words: "How hard it is for those who have riches enter into the kingdom of God!"
The poor man sighed to find that it was impossible to enjoy his fill of both
worlds, and "went away sorrowing."

If he ever afterwards cast a thought towards the Happy land, it was only to
regret that the road which led to it was too narrow to admit any but the meager
children of poverty, who were not so encumbered by wealth as to be too big for
the passage. Had he read on, he would have seen that "with God all things are
possible."

Another advanced with much confidence of success — for having little worldly
riches or honors, the gate did not seem so strait to him. He got to the
threshold triumphantly, and seemed to look back with disdain on all that he was
leaving. He soon found, however, that he was so bloated with pride, and stuffed
out with self-sufficiency, that he could not get in. Nay, he was in a worse way
than the rich man just named, for he was willing to throw away some of his
outward luggage — whereas this man refused to part with a grain of that vanity
and self-applause which made him too big for the way. The sense of his own worth
so swelled him out, that he stuck fast in the gateway, and could neither get in
nor out.

Finding now that he must cut off all those big thoughts of himself, if he wished
to be reduced to such a size as to pass the gate — he gave up all thoughts of
it. He scorned that humility and self-denial which might have shrunk him down to
the proper dimensions. The more he insisted on his own qualifications for
entrance — the more impossible it became to enter, for the bigger he grew!
Finding that he must become quite another manner of man before he could hope to
get in — he gave up the desire. And I now saw, that though when he set his face
towards the Happy land he could not get an inch forward — yet the instant he
made a motion to turn back into the world, his speed became rapid enough, and he
got back into the Broad Way much sooner than he had got out of it.

Many, who for a time were brought down from their usual bulk by some affliction,
seemed to get in with ease. They now thought all their difficulties over; for
having been surfeited with the world during their late disappointment, they
turned their backs upon it willingly enough. A fit of sickness perhaps, had for
a time brought their bodies into subjection, so that they were enabled just to
get in at the gateway; but as soon as health and spirits returned, the way grew
narrower and narrower to them — they could not get on, but turned quickly, and
got back into the world.

I saw many attempt to enter who were stopped short by a large burden of worldly
cares — others by a load of idolatrous attachments. But I observed that nothing
proved a more complete bar, than that vast bundle of prejudices with which
multitudes were loaded. Others were fatally obstructed by loads of bad habits
which they would not lay down, though they knew they prevented their entrance.

Some few, however, of most descriptions who had kept their light alive by
craving constant supplies from the King’s treasury — got through at last by a
strength which they felt not to be their own.

One poor man, who carried the largest bundle of bad habits I had seen, could not
get on a step. He never ceased, however, to implore for light enough to see
where his misery lay. He threw down one of his bundles, then another, but all to
little purpose, still he could not stir. At last, striving as if in agony —
which is the true way of entering — he threw down the heaviest article in his
pack — this was selfishness. The poor fellow felt relieved at once, his light
burned brightly, and the rest of his pack was as nothing.

Then I heard a great noise as of carpenters at work. I looked to see what this
might be, and saw many sturdy travelers, who, finding they were too bulky to get
through, took into their heads not to reduce themselves, but to widen the gate!
They hacked on this side, and hewed on that side — but all their hacking and
hewing and hammering was to no purpose, they got only their labor for their
pains. It would have been possible for them to have reduced themselves — but to
widen the Narrow Way was impossible.

What grieved me most was, to observe that many who had got on successfully a
good way, now stopped to rest, and to admire their own progress. While they were
thus valuing themselves on their attainment, their light diminished. While these
were boasting how far they had left others behind, who had set out much earlier,
some slower travelers, whose beginning had not been so promising but who had
walked circumspectly, now outstripped them.

These last walked, "not as though they had already attained," but "this one
thing they did, forgetting the things which were behind, they pressed forward
towards the mark for the prize of their high calling." These, though naturally
weak, yet by "laying aside every weight, finished the race that was before
them."

Those who had kept their "light burning," who were not "wise in their own
conceit," who "laid their help on One that is mighty," who had "chosen to suffer
affliction rather than to enjoy the pleasures of sin for a season" — came at
length to the Happy land. They had indeed the dark and shadowy valley to cross;
but even there they found "a rod and a staff" to comfort them. Their light,
instead of being put out by the damps of the valley of the Shadow of Death,
often burned with added brightness.

Some, indeed, suffered the terrors of a short eclipse; but even then their
light, like that of a dark lantern, was not put out, it was only hid for a while
— and even these often finished their course with joy. But be that as it might,
the instant they reached the Happy land, all tears were wiped from their eyes.
And the King himself came forth and welcomed them into his presence, and put a
crown upon their heads, with these words: "Well done, good and faithful servant;
enter into the joy of your Lord!"


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Source: https://sermonindex.net/books/writings-of-hannah-more/
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