SERMONS

by

LAURENCE STERNE, A.M. Prebendary of York, and Vicar of Sutton on the Forest, and of Stillington near York.

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SERMON VII.

Vindication of Human Nature.

SERMON VII.

THERE is not a sentence in scripture, which strikes a narrow soul with greater astonishment—and one might as easily engage to clear up the darkest problem in geometry to an ignorant mind, as make a sordid one comprehend the truth and reasonableness of this plain proposition.—No man liveth to himself! Why—Does any man live to any thing else?—In the whole compass of human life can a prudent man steer to a safer point?—Not live to himself?—To whom then?—Can any interests or concerns which are foreign to a man’s self have such a claim over him, that he must serve under them—suspend his own pursuits—step out of his right course, till others have pass’d by him, and attain’d the several ends and purposes of living before him?

If, with a selfish heart, such an enquirer should happen to have a speculating head too, he will proceed, and ask you whether this same principle which the apostle here throws out of the life of man, is not in fact the grand bias of his nature?—That however we may flatter ourselves with fine-spun notions of disinterestedness and heroism in what we do; that were the most popular of our actions strip’d naked; and the true motives and intentions of them search’d to the bottom; we should find little reason for triumph upon that score.—

In a word, he will say, that a man is altogether a bubble to himself in this matter, and that after all that can be said in his behalf, the truest definition that can be given of him is this, that he is a selfish animal; and that all his actions have so strong a tincture of that character, as to shew (to whomever else he was intended to live) that in fact, he lives only to himself.

Before I reply directly to this accusation, I cannot help observing by the way, that there is scarce any thing which has done more disservice to social virtue, than the frequent representations of human nature, under this hideous picture of deformity, which by leaving out all that is generous and friendly in the heart of man, has sunk him below the level of a brute, as if he was a composition of all that was mean-spirited and selfish. Surely, ’tis one step towards acting well, to think worthily of our nature; and as in common life, the way to make a man honest, is, to suppose him so, and treat him as such;—so here, to set some value upon ourselves, enables us to support the character, and even inspires and adds sentiments of generosity and virtue to those which we have already preconceived. The scripture tells, That God made man in his own image,—not surely in the sensitive and corporeal part of him, that could bear no resemblance with a pure and infinite spirit,—but what resemblance he bore was undoubtedly in the moral rectitude, and the kind and benevolent affections of his nature. And tho’ the brightness of this image has been sullied greatly by the fall of man, in our first parents, and the characters of it rendered still less legible, by the many super-inductions of his own depraved appetites since—’yet tis a laudable pride and a true greatness of mind to cherish a belief, that there is so much of that glorious image still left upon it, as shall restrain him from base and disgraceful actions; to answer which end, what thought can be more conducive than that, of our being made in the likeness of the greatest and best of beings? This is a plain consequence. And the consideration of it should have in some measure been a protection to human nature, from the rough usage she has met with from the satirical pens of so many of the French writers, as well as of our own country, who with more wit than well-meaning have desperately fallen foul upon the whole species, as a set of creatures incapable either of private friendship or public spirit, but just as the case suited their own interest and advantage.

That there is selfishness, and meanness enough in the souls of one part of the world, to hurt the credit of the other part of it, is what I shall not dispute against; but to judge of the whole, from this bad sample, and because one man is plotting and artful in his nature—or, a second openly makes his pleasure or his profit the sole centre of all his designs—or because a third strait-hearted wretch sits confined within himself,—feels no misfortunes, but those which touch himself; to involve the whole race without mercy under such detested characters, is a conclusion as false, as it is pernicious; and was it in general to gain credit, could serve no end, but the rooting out of our nature all that is generous, and planting in the stead of it such an aversion to each other, as must untie the bands of society, and rob us of one of the greatest pleasures of it, the mutual communications of kind offices; and by poisoning the fountain, rendering every thing suspected that flows through it.

To the honor of human nature, the scripture teaches us, that God made man upright—and though he has since found out many inventions, which have much dishonoured this noble structure, yet the foundation of it stands as it was,—the whole frame and design of it carried on upon social virtue and public spirit, and every member of us so evidently supported by this strong cement, that we may say with the apostle, that no man liveth to himself. In whatsoever light we view him, we shall see evidently, that there is no station or condition of his life,—no office or relation, or circumstance, but there arises from it so many ties, so many indispensible claims upon him, as must perpetually carry him beyond any selfish consideration, and shew plainly, that was a man foolishly wicked enough to design to live to himself alone, he would either find it impracticable, or he would lose, at least, the very thing which made life itself desirable. We know that our creator, like an all-wise contriver in this, as in all other of his works has implanted in mankind such appetites and inclinations as were suitable for their state; that is, such as would naturally lead him to the love of society and friendship, without which he would have been found in a worse condition than the very beasts of the field. No one therefore who lives in society, can be said to live to himself,—he lives to his God,—to his king, and his country.—He lives to his family, to his friends, to all under his trust, and in a word, he lives to the whole race of mankind; whatsoever has the character of man, and wears the same image of God that he does, is truly his brother, and has a just claim to his kindness.—That this is the case in fact, as well as in theory, may be made plain to any one, who has made any observations upon human life.—When we have traced it through all its connections,—view’d it under the several obligations which succeed each other in a perpetual rotation through the different stages of a hasty pilgrimage, we shall find that these do operate so strongly upon it, and lay us justly under so many restraints, that we are every hour sacrificing something to society, in return for the benefits we receive from it.

To illustrate this, let us take a short survey of the life of any one man, (not liable to great exceptions, but such a life as is common to most) let us examine it merely to this point, and try how far it will answer such a representation.

If we begin with him in that early age, wherein the strongest marks of undisguised tenderness and disinterested compassion shew themselves,—I might previously observe, with what impressions he is come out of the hands of God,—with the very bias upon his nature, which prepares him for the character, which he was designed to fulfil.—But let us pass by the years which denote childhood, as no lawful evidence, you’ll say, in this dispute; let us follow him to the period, when he is just got loose from tutors and governors, when his actions may be argued upon with less exception. If you observe, you will find, that one of the first and leading propensities of his nature, is that, which discovers itself in the desire of society, and the spontaneous love towards those of his kind. And tho’ the natural wants and exigencies of his condition, are no doubt, one reason of this amiable impulse,—God having founded that in him, as a provisional security to make him social.—Yet tho’ it is a reason in nature,—’tis a reason, to him yet undiscover’d. Youth is not apt to philosophise so deeply—but follows,—as it feels itself prompted by the inward workings of benevolence—without view to itself, or previous calculation either of the loss or profit which may accrue. Agreeably to this, observe how warm, how heartily he enters into friendships,—how disinterested, and unsuspicious in the choice of them,—how generous and open in his professions!—how sincere and honest in making them good!—When his friend is in distress,—what lengths he will go,—what hazards he will bring upon himself,—what embarassment upon his affairs to extricate and serve him! If man is altogether a selfish creature (as these moralisers would make him) ’tis certain he does not arrive at the full maturity of it, in this time of his life.—No. If he deserves any accusation, ’tis in the other extream, “That in his youth he is generally more fool than knave,”—and so far from being suspected of living to himself, that he lives rather to every body else; the unconsciousness of art and design in his own intentions, rendering him so utterly void of a suspicion of it in others, as to leave him too oft a bubble to every one who will take the advantage.—But you will say, he soon abates of these transports of disinterested love; and as he grows older,—grows wiser, and learns to live more to himself.

Let us examine.——

That a longer knowledge of the world, and some experience of insincerity,—will teach him a lesson of more caution in the choice of friendships, and less forwardness in the undistinguished offers of his services, is what I grant. But if he cools of these, does he not grow warmer still in connections of a different kind? Follow him, I pray you, into the next stage of life, where he has enter’d into engagements and appears as the father of a family, and, you will see, the passion still remains,—the stream somewhat more confined,—but, runs the stronger for it,—the same benevolence of heart alter’d only in its course, and the difference of objects towards which it tends. Take a short view of him in this light, as acting under the many tender claims which that relation lays upon him,—spending many weary days, and sleepless nights—utterly forgetful of himself,—intent only upon his family, and with an anxious heart contriving and labouring to preserve it from distress, against that hour when he shall be taken from its protection. Does such a one live to himself?—He who rises early, late takes rest, and eats the bread of carefulness, to save others the sorrow of doing so after him. Does such a one live only to himself?—Ye who are parents answer this question for him. How oft have ye sacrified your health,—your ease,—your pleasures,—nay, the very comforts of your lives, for the sake of your children?—How many indulgencies have ye given up?—What self-denials and difficulties have ye chearfully undergone for them?—In their sickness, or reports of their misconduct? How have ye gone on your way sorrowing? What alarms within you, when fancy forebodes but imaginary misfortunes hanging over them?—but when real ones have overtaken them, and mischief befallen them in the way in whichthey have gone, how sharper than a sword have ye felt the workings of parental kindness? In whatever period of human life we look for proofs of selfishness,—let us not seek them in this relation of a parent, whose whole life, when truly known, is often little else but a succession of cares, heart-aches, and disquieting apprehensions,—enough to shew, that he is but an instrument in the hands of God to provide for the well-being of others, to serve their interest as well as his own.

If you try the truth of this reasoning upon every other part or situation of the same life, you will find it holds good in one degree or other; take a view of it out of these closer connections both of a friend and parent.—Consider him for a moment, under that natural alliance, in which even a heathen poet has placed him; namely that of a man:—and as such, to his honor, as one capable of standing unconcern’d, in whatever concerns his fellow creatures.—Compassion has so great a share in our nature, and the miseries of this world are so constant an exercise of it, as to leave it in no one’s power (who deserves the name of man) in this respect, to live to himself.

He cannot stop his ears against the cries of the unfortunate.—The sad story of the fatherless and him that has no helper must be heard.—The sorrowful sighing of the prisoners will come before him; and a thousand other untold cases of distress to which the life of man is subject, find a way to his heart.—Let interest guard the passage as it will, if he has this world’s goods, and seeth his brother have need, he will not be able to shut up his bowels of compassion from him.

Let any man of common humanity, look back upon his own life as subjected to these strong claims, and recollect the influence they have had upon him. How oft the mere impulses of generosity and compassion have led him out of his way?—In how many acts of charity and kindness, his fellow-feeling for others has made him forget himself?—In neighbourly offices, how oft he has acted against all considerations of profit, convenience, nay sometimes even of justice itself?—Let him add to this account, how much, in the progress of his life, has been given up even to the lesser obligations of civility and good manners?—What restraints they have laid him under? How large a portion of his time,—how much of his inclination and the plan of life he could most chuse, has from time to time been made a sacrifice, to his good nature and disinclination to give pain or disgust to others?

Whoever takes a view of the life of man, in this glass wherein I have shewn it, will find it so beset and hemm’d in with obligations of one kind or other, as to leave little room to suspect, that man can live to himself: and so closely has our creator link’d us together, (as well as all other parts of his works) for the preservation of that harmony in the frame and system of things which his wisdom has at first established,—That we find this bond of mutual dependence, however relax’d, is too strong to be broke, and I believe, that the most selfish men find it is so, and that they cannot, in fact, live so much to themselves, as the narrowness of their own hearts incline them. If these reflections are just upon the moral relations in which we stand to each other, let us close the examination with a short reflection upon the great relation in which we stand to God.

The first and most natural thought on this subject, which at one time or other will thrust itself upon every man’s mind, is this,—That there is a God who made me,—to whose gift I owe all the powers and faculties of my soul, to whose providence I owe all the blessings of my life, and by whose permission it is that I exercise and enjoy them; that I am placed in this world as a creature but of a day, hastening to the place from whence I shall not return.—That I am accountable for my conduct and behavior to this great and wisest of beings, before whose judgment seat I must finally appear and receive the things done in my body,—whether it is good, or whether it is bad.

Can any one doubt but the most inconsiderate of men sometimes sit down coolly, and make some such plain reflections as these upon their state and condition,—or, that after they have made them, can one imagine, they lose all effect.—As little appearance as there is of religion in the world, there is a great deal of its influence felt, in its affairs,—nor can one so root out the principles of it, but like nature they will return again and give checks and interruptions to guilty pursuits. There are seasons, when the thought of a just God overlooking, and the terror of an after reckoning has made the most determined tremble, and stop short in the execution of a wicked purpose; and if we conceive that the worst of men lay some restraints upon themselves from the weight of this principle, what shall we think of the good and virtuous part of the world, who live under the perpetual influence of it,—who sacrifice their appetites and passions from confidence of their duty to God; and consider him as the object to whom they have dedicated their service, and make that the first principle, and ultimate end of all their actions.—How many real and unaffected instances there are in this world, of men, thus govern’d, will not so much concern us to enquire, as to take care that we are of the number, which may God grant for the sake of Jesus Christ, Amen.

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SERMON VIII.

TIME and CHANCE.

SERMON VIII.

WHEN a man casts a look upon this melancholy description of the world, and sees contrary to all his guesses and expectations, what different fates attend the lives of men,—how oft it happens in the world, that there is not even bread to the wise, nor riches to men of understanding, &c.—he is apt to conclude with a sigh upon it,—in the words,—tho’ not in the sense of the wise man,—that time and chance happeneth to them all.—That time and chance,—apt seasons and fit conjunctures have the greatest sway, in the turns and disposals of men’s fortunes. And that, as these lucky hits, (as they are called) happen to be for, or against a man,—they either open the way to his advancement against all obstacles,—or block it up against all helps and attempts. That as the text intimates, neither wisdom, nor understanding, nor skill shall be able to surmount them.

However widely we may differ in our reasonings upon this observation of Solomon’s, the authority of the observation is strong beyond doubt, and the evidence given of it in all ages so alternately confirmed by examples and complaints, as to leave the fact itself unquestionable.—That things are carried on in this world, sometimes so contrary to all our reasonings, and the seeming probabilities of success,—that even, the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong,—nay, what is stranger still,—nor yet bread to the wise, who should last stand in want of it,—nor yet riches to men of understanding, who you would think best qualified to acquire them,—nor yet favour to men of skill, whose merit and pretences bid the fairest for it,—but that there are some secret and unseen workings in human affairs, which baffle all our endeavours,—and turn aside the course of things in such a manner,—that the most likely causes disappoint and fail of producing for us the effects which we wished and naturally expected from them.—You will see a man, of whom, was you to form a conjecture from the appearances of things in his favor,—you would say was setting out in the world, with the fairest prospect of making his fortune in it;—with all the advantages of birth to recommend him,—of personal merit to speak for him,—and of friends to help and push him forwards: you will behold him, notwithstanding this, disappointed in every effect you might naturally have looked for, from them;—every step he takes towards his advancement, something invisible shall pull him back,—some unforeseen obstacle shall rise up perpetually in his way, and keep there.—In every application he makes,—some untoward circumstance shall blast it.—He shall rise early,—late take rest,—and eat the bread of carefulnesess,—yet some happier man shall still rise up, and ever step in before him, and leave him struggling to the end of his life, in the very same place, in which he first begun it.

The history of a second, shall in all respects be the contrast to this. He shall come into the world, with the most unpromising appearance,—shall set forwards without fortune,—without friends,—without talents to procure him either the one or the other. Nevertheless, you will see this clouded prospect brighten up insensibly, unaccountably before him; every thing presented in his way, shall turn out beyond his expectations,—in spight of that chain of unsurmountable difficulties which first threatened him,—time and chance shall open him a way,—a series of successful occurrences shall lead him by the hand to the summit of honor and fortune, and in a word, without giving him the pains of thinking, or the credit of projecting it, shall place him in safe possession of all that ambition could wish for.

The histories of the lives and fortunes of men are full of instances of this nature,—where favorable times and lucky accidents have done for them, what wisdom or skill could not: and there is scarce any one who has lived long in the world, who upon looking backwards will not discover such a mixture of these in the many successful turns which have happened in his life, as to leave him very little reason to dispute against the fact, and, I should hope, as little upon the conclusions to be drawn from it. Some, indeed, from a superficial view of this representation of things, have atheistically inferred,—that because there was so much of lottery in this life,—and mere casualty seemed to have such a share in the disposal of our affairs,—that the providence of God stood neuter and unconcerned in their several workings, leaving them to the mercy of time and chance, to be furthered or disappointed as such blind agents directed. Whereas in truth the very opposite conclusion follows. For consider,—if a superior intelligent power did not sometimes cross and overrule events in this world,—then our policies and designs in it, would always answer according to the wisdom and stratagem in which they were laid, and every cause, in the course of things, would produce its natural effect without variation. Now, as this is not the case, it necessarily follows from Solomon’s reasoning, that, if the race is not to the swift, if knowledge and learning do not always secure men from want,—nor care and industry always make men rich,—nor art and skill infallibly raise men high in the world;—that there is some other cause which mingles itself in human affairs, and governs and turns them as it pleases; which cause can be no other than the first cause of all things, and the secret and over-ruling providence of that Almighty God, who though his dwelling is so high, yet humbleth himself to behold the things that are done in earth, raising up the poor out the dust, and listing the beggar from the dunghill, and contrary to all hopes, setting him with princes, even with the princes of his people; which by the way, was the case of David, who makes the acknowledgment!—And no doubt—one reason, why God has selected to his own disposal, so many instances as this, where events have run counter to all probabilities,—was to give testimony to his providence in governing the world, and to engage us to a consideration and dependence upon it, for the event and success of all our undertakings * . For undoubtedly—as I said,—it should seem but suitable to nature’s law, that the race should ever be to the swift,—and the battle to the strong;—it is reasonable that the best contrivances and means should have best success,—and since it often falls out otherwise in the case of man, where the wiseest projects are overthrown,—and the most hopeful means are blasted, and time and chance happens to all;—You must call in the deity to untye this knot,—for for though at sundry times—sundry events fall out,—which we who look no further than the events themselves, call chance, because they fall out quite contrary both to our intentions and our hopes,—though at the same time, in respect of God’s providence over-ruling in these events; it were profane to call them chance, for they are pure designation, and though invisible, are still the regular dispensations of the superintending power of that Almighty being, from whom all the laws and powers of nature are derived,—who, as he has appointed,—so holds them as instruments in his hands: and without invading the liberty and free will of his creatures, can turn the passions and desires of their hearts to fulfill his own righteousness, and work such effects in human affairs, which to us seem merely casual,—but to him, certain and determined, and what his infinite wisdom sees necessary to be brought about for the government, and preservation of the world, over which providence perpetually presides.

When the sons of Jacob had cast their brother Joseph into the pit for his destruction,—one would think, if ever any incident which concern’d the life of man deserved to be called chance, it was this.—That the company of Ishmaelites should happen to pass by, in that open country, at that very place, at that time too, when this barbarity was committed. After he was rescued by so favorable a contingency,—his life and future fortune still depended upon a series of contingencies equally improbable; for instance, had the business of the Ishmaelites who bought him, carried them from Gilead, to any other part of the world besides Egypt, or when they arrived there, had they sold their bond-slave to any other man but Potiphar, throughout the whole empire,—or, after that disposal, had the unjust accusations of his master’s wife cast the youth into any other dungeon, than that where the king’s prisoners were kept,—or had it fallen out at any other crisis, than when Pharoah’s chief butler was cast there too,—had this, or any other of these events fallen out otherwise than it did,—a series of unmerited misfortunes had overwhelmed him,—and in consequence the whole land of Egypt and Canaan. From the first opening, to the conclusion of this long and interesting transaction, the providence of God suffered every thing to take its course: the malice and cruelty of Joseph’s brethren, wrought their worst mischief against him;—banished him from his country and the protection of his parent.—The lust and baseness of a disappointed woman sunk him still deeper:—loaded his character with an unjust reproach,—and to compleat his ruin, doomed him, friendless, to the miseries of a hopeless prison where he lay neglected. Providence, though it did not cross these events,—yet providence bent them to the most merciful ends. When the whole Drama was opened, then the wisdom and contrivance of every part of it was displayed. Then it appeared, it was not they (as the patriarch inferred in consolation of his brethren,) it was not they who sold him, but God,—’twas he sent him thither before them,—his superintending power availed itself of their passions—directed the operations of them,—held the chain in his hand, and turned and wound it to his own purpose. “Ye verily thought evil against me,—but God meant it for good,—ye had the guilt of a bad intention,—his providence the glory of accomplishing a good one,—by preserving you a posterity upon the earth, and bring to pass as it is this day, to save much people alive.”

All history is full of such testimonies, which though they may convince those who look no deeper than the surface of things, that time and chance happen to all,—yet, to those who look deeper, they manifest at the same time, that there is a hand much busier in human affairs than what we vainly calculate; which though the projectors of this world overlook,—or at least make no allowance for in the formation of their plans, they generally find it in the execution of them. And though the fatalist may urge, that every event in this life, is brought about by the ministry and chain of natural causes,—yet, in answer,—let him go one step higher—and consider,—whose power it is, that enables these causes to work,—whose knowledge it is, that foresees what will be their effects,—whose goodness it is, that is invisibly conducting them forwards to the best and greatest ends for the happiness of his creatures.

So that as a great reasoner justly distinguishes, upon this point,—“It is not only religiously speaking, but with the strictest and most philosophical truth of expression, that the scripture tells us, that God commandeth the ravens,—that they are his directions, which the winds and the seas obey. If his servant hides himself by the brook, such an order, causes and effects shall be laid,—that the fowls of the air shall minister to his support.—When this resource fails, and his prophet is directed to go to Zerepha,—for that, he has commanded a widow woman there to sustain him,—the same hand which leads the prophet to the gate of the city,—shall lead forth the distress’d widow to the same place, to take him under her roof,—and tho’ upon the impulse of a different occasion, shall nevertheless be made to fulfill his promise and intention of their mutual preservation".

Thus much for the proof and illustration of this great and fundamental doctrine of a providence; the belief of which is of such consequence to us, as to be the great support and comfort of our lives.

Justly therefore might the Psalmist upon this declaration,—that the Lord is King,—conclude, that the earth may be glad thereof, yea the multitude of the isles may be glad thereof.

May God grant the persuasion may make us as virtuous, as it has reason to make us joyful, and that it may bring forth in us the fruits of good living to his praise and glory, to whom be all might, majesty and dominion, now and for evermore, Amen.

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SERMON IX.

The Character of HEROD.
Preached on Innocents Day.

SERMON IX.

THE words which St. Matthew cites here as fulfilled by the cruelty and ambition of Herod,—are in the 31st chapter of Jeremiah 15th verse. In the foregoing chapter, the prophet having declared God’s intention of turning the mourning of his people into joy, by the restoration of the tribes which had been led away captive into Babylon; he proceeds in the beginning of this chapter, which contains this prophecy, to give a more particular description of the great joy and festivity of that promised day, when they were to return once more to their own land, to enter upon their ancient possessions, and enjoy again all the privileges they had lost, and amongst others, and what was above them all,—the favour and protection of God, and the continuation of his mercies to them and their posterity.

To make therefore the impression of this change the stronger upon their minds—he gives a very pathetic representation of the preceeding sorrow on that day when they were first led away captive.

Thus saith the Lord, A voice was heard in Rama; lamentation and bitter weeping, Rachael weeping for her children, refused to be comforted, because they were not.

To enter into the full sense and beauty of this description, it is to be remembered that the tomb of Rachael, Jacob’s beloved wife, as we read in the 35th of Genesis, was situated near Rama, and betwixt that place and Bethlehem. Upon which circumstance, the prophet raises one of the most affecting scenes, that could be conceived; for as the tribes in their sorrowful journey betwixt Rama and Bethlehem in their way to Babylon, were supposed to pass by this monumental pillar of their ancestor Rachael Jacob’s wife, the prophet by a common liberty in rhetoric, introduces her as rising up out of her sepulchre, and as the common mother of two of their tribes, weeping for her children, bewailing the sad catastrophe of her posterity led away into a strange land—refusing to be comforted, because they were not,—lost and cut off from their country, and in all likelyhood, never to be restored back to her again.

The Jewish interpreters say upon this, that the patriarch Jacob buried Rachael in this very place, foreseeing by the spirit of prophecy, that his posterity should that way be led captive, that she might as they passed her, intercede for them.—

But this fanciful superstructure upon the passage, seems to be little else than a mere dream of some of the Jewish doctors; and indeed, had they not dream’t it when they did, ’tis great odds, but some of the Romish dreamers would have hit upon it before now. For as it favors the doctrine of intercessions—if there had not been undeniable vouchers for the real inventors of the conceit, one should much sooner have sought for it amongst the oral traditions of this church, than in the Talmud, where it is.—

But this by the bye. There is still another interpretation of the words here cited by St. Matthew, which altogether excludes this scenecal representation I have given of them.—By which ’tis thought, that the lamentation of Rachael, here described, has no immediate reference to Rachael, Jacob’s wife, but that it simply alludes to the sorrows of her descendents, the distressed mothers of the tribes of Benjamin and Ephraim who might accompany their children, led into captivity as far as Rama, in their way to Babylon, who wept and wailed upon this sad occasion, and as the prophet describes them in the person of Rachael, refusing to be comforted for the loss of her children, looking upon their departure without hope or prospect of ever beholding a return.

Which ever of the two senses you give the words of the prophet, the application of them by the evangelist is equally just and faithful. For as the former scene he relates, was transacted upon the very same stage—in the same district of Bethlehem near Rama—where so many mothers of the same tribe now suffered this second most affecting blow—the words of Jeremiah, as the evangelist observes, were literally accomplished, and no doubt, in that horrid day, a voice was heard again in Rama, lamentation and bitter weeping—Rachael weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted:—every Bethlemitish mother involved in this calamity, beholding it with hopeless sorrow—gave vent to it—each one, bewailing her children, and lamenting the hardness of their lot, with the anguish of a heart as incapable of consolation, as they were of redress. Monster!—could no consideration of all this tender sorrow, stay thy hands?—Could no reflection upon so much bitter lamentation throughout the coasts of Bethlehem, interpose and plead in behalf of so many wretched objects, as this tragedy would make?—Was there no way open to ambition but that thou must trample upon the affections of nature? Could no pity for the innocence of childhood—no sympathy for the yernings of parental love incline thee to some other measures for thy security—but thou must thus pitilessly rush in—take the victim by violence—tear it from the embraces of the mother—offer it up, before her eyes—leave her disconsolate for ever—broken-hearted with a loss—so affecting in itself—so circumstanced with horror, that no time, how friendly soever to the mournful—should ever be able to wear out the impressions.

There is nothing in which the mind of man is more divided than in the accounts of this horrid nature.—For when we consider man, as fashioned by his maker—innocent and upright—full of the tenderest dispositions—with a heart inclining him to kindness, and the love and protection of his species—this idea of him would almost shake the credit of such accounts;—so that to clear them—we are forced to take a second view of man—very different from this favorable one, in which we insensibly represent him to our imaginations—that is—we are obliged to consider him—not as he was made—but as he is—a creature by the violence and irregularity of his passions capable of being perverted from all these friendly and benevolent propensities, and sometimes hurried into excesses so opposite to them, as to render the most unnatural and horrid accounts of what he does but too probable.—The truth of this observation will be exemplifyed in the case before us. For next to the faith and character of the historian who reports such facts,—the particular character of the person who committed them is to be considered as a voucher for their truth and credibility;—and if upon enquiry, it appears, that the man acted but consistent with himself,—and just so as you would have expected from his principles,—the credit of the historian is restored,—and the fact related stands incontestable, from so strong and concurring an evidence on its side.—

With this view, it may not be an unacceptable application of the remaining part of a discourse upon this day, to give you a sketch of the character of Herod, not as drawn from scripture,—for in general it furnishes us with few materials for such descriptions:—the sacred scripture cuts off in few words the history of the ungodly, how great soever they were in the eyes of the world,—and on the other hand dwells largely upon the smallest actions of the righteous.—We find all the circumstances of the lives of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and Joseph, recorded in the minutest manner.—The wicked seem only mentioned with regret; just brought upon the stage, on purpose to be condemned. The use and advantage of which conduct—is, I suppose, the reason,—as in general it enlarges on no character, but what is worthy of imitation. ’Tis however undeniable, that the lives of bad men are not without use,—and whenever such a one is drawn, not with a corrupt view to be admired,—but on purpose to be detested,—it must excite such an horror against vice, as will strike indirectly the same good impression. And though it is painful to the last degree to paint a man in the shades which his vices have cast upon him,—yet when it serves this end, and at the same time illustrates a point in sacred history—it carries its own excuse with it.

This Herod, therefore, of whom the evangelist speaks, if you take a superficial view of his life, you would say was a compound of good and evil,—that though he was certainly a bad man,—yet you would think the mass was tempered at the same time with a mixture of good qualities. So that, in course, as is not uncommon, he would appear with two characters very different from each other. If you looked on the more favorable side, you would see a man of great address,—popular in his behaviour,—generous, prince-like in his entertainments and expences, and in a word set off with all such virtues and shewy properties, as bid high for the countenance and approbation of the world.

View him in another light, he was an ambitious, designing man,—suspicious of all the world,—rapacious,—implacable in his temper,—without sense of religion,—or feeling of humanity.—Now in all such complex characters as this,—the way the world usually judges, is—to sum up the good and the bad against each other,—deduct the lesser of these articles from the greater, and (as we do in passing other accounts) give credit to the man for what remains upon the ballance. Now, though this seems a fair,—yet I fear ’tis often a fallacious reckoning,—which though it may serve in many ordinary cases of private life, yet will not hold good in the more notorious instances of men’s lives, especially when so complicated with good and bad, as to exceed all common bounds and proportions. Not to be deceived in such cases we must work by a different rule, which though it may appear less candid,—yet to make amends, I am persuaded will bring us in general much nearer to the thing we want,—which is truth. The way to which is—in all judgments of this kind, to distinguish and carry in your eye, the principle and ruling passion which leads the character—and separate that, from the other parts of it,—and then take notice, how far his other qualities, good and bad, are brought to serve and support that. For want of this distinction,—we often think ourselves inconsistent creatures, when we are the furthest from it, and all the variety of shapes and contradictory appearances we put on, are in truth but so many different attempts to gratify the same governing appetite.—

With this clew, let us endeavour to unravel this character of Herod as here given.

The first thing which strikes one in it is ambition, an immoderate thirst, as well as jealousy of power;—how inconsistent soever in other parts, his character appears invariable in this, and every action of his life was true to it.—From hence we may venture to conclude, that this was his ruling passion,—and that most, if not all the other wheels were put in motion by this first spring. Now let us consider how far this was the case in fact.

To begin with the worst part of him,—I said he was a man of no sense of religion, or at least no other sense of it, but that which served his turn—for he is recorded to have built temples in Judea and erected images in them for idolatrous worship,—not from a persuasion of doing right, for he was bred a Jew, and consequently taught to abhor all idolatry,—but he was in truth sacrificing all this time, to a greater idol of his own, his ruling passion; for if we may trust Josephus, his sole view in so gross a compliance was to ingratiate himself with Augustus and the great men of Rome from whom he held his power.—With this he was greedy and rapacious—how could he be otherwise with so devouring an appetite as ambition to provide for?—He was jealous in his nature, and suspicious of all the world.—Shew me an ambitious man, that is not so; for as such a man’s hand, like Ishmael’s, is against every man, he concludes, that every man’s hand in course is against his.

Few men were ever guilty of more astonishing acts of cruelty—and yet the particular instances of them in Herod were such as he was hurried into, by the alarms this waking passion perpetually gave him. He put the whole Sanadrim to the sword—sparing neither age, or wisdom, or merit—one cannot suppose, simply from an inclination to cruelty—no—they had opposed the establishment of his power at Jerusalem.

His own sons, two hopeful youths, he cut off by a public execution—The worst men have natural affection—and such a stroke as this would run so contrary to the natural workings of it, that you are forced to suppose the impulse of some more violent inclination to overrule and conquer it.—And so it was, for the Jewish historian tells us, ’twas jealousy of power,—his darling object—of which he feared they would one day or other dispossess him—sufficient inducement to transport a man of such a temper into the bloodiest excesses.

Thus far this one fatal and extravagant passion, accounts for the dark side of Herod’s character. This governing principle being first laid open—all his other bad actions follow in course, like so many symptomatic complaints from the same distemper.

Let us see, if this was not the case even of his virtues too.

At first sight it seems a mystery—how a man, so black as Herod has been thus far described—should be able to support himself, in the favor and friendship of so wise and penetrating a body of men, as the Roman senate, of whom he held his power. To counter-ballance the weight of so bad and detested a character—and be able to bear it up, as Herod did, one would think he must have been master of some great secret worth enquiring after—he was so. But that secret was no other than what appears on this reverse of his character. He was a person of great address—popular in his outward behavior.—He was generous, prince-like in his entertainments and expences. The world was then as corrupt at least, as now—and Herod understood it—knew at what price it was to be bought—and what qualities would bid the highest for its good word and approbation.

And in truth, he judged this matter so well—that notwithstanding the general odium and prepossession which arose against so hateful a character—in spite of all the ill impressions, from so many repeated complaints of his cruelties and oppressions—he yet stemmed the torrent—and by the specious display of these popular virtues bore himself up against it all his life. So that at length, when he was summoned to Rome to answer for his crimes—Josephus tells us,—that by the mere magnificence of his expences—and the apparent generosity of his behavior, he entirely confuted the whole charge—and so ingratiated himself with the Roman senate—and won the heart of Augustus—(as he had that of Anthony before) that he ever after had his favor and kindness; which I cannot mention without adding—that it is an eternal stain upon the character and memory of Augustus, that he sold his countenance and protection to so bad a man, for so mean and base a consideration.

From this point of view, if we look back upon Herod—his best qualities will shrink into little room, and how glittering soever in appearance, when brought to this ballance, are found wanting. And in truth, if we would not willingly be deceived in the value of any virtue or set of virtues in so complex a character—we must call them to this very account; examine whom they serve, what passion and what principle they have for their master. When this is understood, the whole clew is unravelled at once, and the character of Herod, as complicated as it is given us in history—when thus analysed, is summed up in three words—That he was a man of unbounded ambition, who stuck at nothing to gratify it,—so that not only his vices were ministerial to his ruling passion, but his virtues too (if they deserve the name) were drawn in, and listed into the same service.

Thus much for this character of Herod—the critical review of which has many obvious uses, to which I may trust you, having time but to mention that particular one which first led me into this examination, namely, that all objections against the evangelist’s account of this day’s slaughter of the Bethlemitish infants—from the incredibility of so horrid an account—are silenced by this account of the man; since in this, he acted but like himself, and just so as you would expect in the same circumstances, from every man of so ambitious a head—and so bad a heart.—Consider what havock ambition has made—how often the same tragedy has been acted upon larger theatres—where not only the innocence of childhood—or the grey hairs of the aged, have found no protection—but whole countries without distinction have been put to the sword, or what is as cruel, have been driven forth to nakedness and famine to make way for new comers under the guidance of this passion.—For a specimen of this, reflect upon the story related by Plutarch:—when by order of the Roman senate, seventy populous cities were unawares sacked and destroyed at one prefixed hour, by P. Aemilius—by whom one hundred and fifty thousand unhappy people were driven in one day into captivity—to be sold to the highest bidder to end their days in cruel labor and anguish. As astonishing as the account before us is, it vanishes into nothing from such views, since it is plain from all history, that there is no wickedness too great for so unbounded a cause, and that the most horrid accounts in history are, as I said above, but too probable effects of it.—

May God of his mercy defend mankind from future experiments of this kind—and grant we may make a proper use of them, for the sake of Jesus Christ, Amen.

☜

SERMON X.

JOB’s Account of the
Shortness and Troubles
of Life, considered.

SERMON X.

T