Part 15

Among other _woes_ denounced in this chapter by our Saviour against different sorts of men, we have one in the text against _those, of whom all men speak well_.

The reason of this severe sentence may not appear at first sight: first, because it may not immediately occur to us, what hurt or inconvenience there can be in every man’s good word; and, secondly, because every man’s good word is not likely to be had.

As to this last particular, it is true, the praise of _all men_, in the full extent of the words, is not to be obtained. But the sense of the text requires, only, that we understand a very general praise; and this we see many men obtain: And if we only want to know, in what respects, the possession of this praise can be deemed a misfortune, we shall find them, I suppose, (without looking further) in the following considerations.

The WOE, of being _well spoken of by all men_, may be apprehended, if we reflect, That (taking the world as it is) its good word, so largely bestowed on any man, implies _a mediocrity of virtue, at the best_;—that it frequently implies, _a considerable degree of positive ill-desert_;—that it sometimes implies, _a thorough depravity and prostitution of the moral character_.

From these THREE considerations, I propose to illustrate the _woe_ of the text.—In moral discourses, it is scarce possible to avoid very general assertions. These may sometimes want to be restrained: but ye will do it for yourselves, as ye see cause; for the appeal lies, all along, to your own bosoms and experience.

I. I say then, _first_; that to be _well spoken of by all men_, implies A MEDIOCRITY OF VIRTUE AT THE BEST.

And the assertion is founded on many reasons. An eminent degree of virtue excites envy; is not generally understood; is unapt to accommodate itself to men’s views and expectations; and, lastly, is liable to some excesses, and connected with some infirmities, which are either peculiar to itself, or would less disgrace a virtue of the common stamp.

Let us weigh these several reasons.

1. The chapter of _envy_ is a common one, and has been exhausted by every moralist. When a man’s worth lifts him above the generality of his species, he is thought to depress those who feel themselves beneath him. Their pride is hurt, their self-love is mortified, by the acknowledged preference. And in this state of things, no wonder that much industry is employed to obscure a virtue, whose unclouded splendour would give pain.

2. But men sometimes detract from a superior character, with perfect good faith. It is not envy, but _inapprehension_, which sets them on work. For it is with some virtues, as with those sublimer graces in a work of art of genius: few, but such as could have set the example, have any idea or conception of them.

Thus, a disinterested goodness, when carried to a certain length; a generosity of mind, when stretched beyond certain bounds; a sense of honour, operating to a certain degree; in a word, temperance, justice, piety, humanity, any or all of these virtues, exalted to a certain pitch, are either not comprehended, or are perhaps traduced, as marks of folly and extravagance, by those who are not capable of ascending to these heights themselves. Of which, the instances are so frequent in all history, and even in common life, that no man wants to be reminded of them.

3. Still, if superior virtue were only envied, or ill-understood, the misfortune would not be so great. It is, besides, _active, enterprising, constant, and inflexible_. It contents not itself with being merely passive, innoxious, blameless: it would oblige, befriend, and merit of mankind. It would be distinguished by actual services, or at least by glorious attempts. And in prosecuting these, it consults no man’s occasions; bends to no man’s prejudices; leans to no partial interests or considerations; is simple, uniform, invariable, and holds on its course, steadily and directly, towards its main end and scope. There is a magnanimity in true worth and goodness, which scorns and rejects all disguises, and would appear and be itself.

A character of this stamp is too awful to be popular. There is something of terror in so sublime a virtue; and those who are distinguished by it, may be esteemed, perhaps, and revered, but are rarely applauded by the world. What difference between the divine integrity of Cato, and the specious temporizing virtues of Cæsar! Yet, if history had been silent, we should easily have known which of these men was destined to be the idol of the Roman people.

4. Nor is even this the worst. Virtue, in this exalted state, is not easily restrained from running, at times, into certain EXCESSES: _excesses_, which spring, as it were, from its very essence, and which the truly wise allow for, excuse, and almost admire; but which hurt the reputation more, with base and ordinary minds, than the virtue itself, under a due exertion, serves and promotes it.

When the virtuous Brutus, in the crisis of the Roman state, struggling for its last breath of liberty, chose rather to put everything to hazard, than _violate the strict forms of law and justice_[142]:—And again, when our virtuous Falkland was kept, by his nice sense of honour, from _taking some liberties_[143], which the duty of his place, the public service, and the practice of all times, might seem to authorize; when these great men, I say, erred from an excess of virtue, a thousand tongues were ready to blaspheme, and even ridicule their mistakes, while one or two only revered the honesty of mind, which gave birth to them.

These glorious excesses, which are frequent in a virtuous character, hardly deserve the name of infirmities: yet _infirmities_, in the common sense of the word, are the lot of human nature, in whatever state of perfection. That heat of mind, which nourishes heroic virtue, is apt to produce these; and, as the noblest genius sometimes lets fall inaccuracies, which moderate talents would correct; so the best man sometimes commits extravagancies, which a moderate virtue would avoid: and when this mischance happens, the infirmity is sure to be observed, and never pardoned. Or, let the weakness be such, as is incident to our common nature; still its effects are very different; it shall eclipse half the virtues of an excellent man, and, in a common character, be either not seen, or not regarded.

So true it is, that, to be _well spoken of by all men_, implies but an ordinary share of virtue, at best! For, consider these several circumstances, and see what a shade they cast on the reputation of extraordinary men. To shine out in the full lustre of a general flame, is reserved for those, _whose virtue is not of a size to give umbrage; whose merits are to the level of all eyes; who adapt themselves with dexterity to all occasions; and who are kept, by their very mediocrity, from any infirmity, or excess_.

And it would be well, if the _woe_ ended here; if the misfortune of these applauded men were negative only, and amounted to no more than the absence of vice, or the possession of virtue in the common degrees. But, I doubt, it amounts to much more: it frequently implies

II. A CONSIDERABLE DEGREE OF POSITIVE ILL-DESERT.

When the Jews, in a fit of ignorant zeal, were taking up stones to cast at our blessed Lord, he said to them: _Many_ GOOD WORKS _have I shewed you from my Father; for which of_ THESE _works do ye stone me_[144]? Intimating, that the resentment of a misjudging multitude is generally occasioned by praise-worthy actions. On the same principle, when shouts of popular applause are sounding in a man’s ears, he may reasonably ask, _For which of my_ EVIL DEEDS _is this praise wasted upon me_? For it is just as much to be expected that a clamorous praise should attend a bad action, as that a clamorous rage should be excited by a good one.

And if we look abroad into the world, we shall find, that it is not virtue, in whatever degree, but some popular vice, that too oft engages its warmest approbation. In fact, even a moderate share of virtue, joined to an inoffensive character, shall more frequently secure a man from the censure, than procure him the applause of mankind. To be generally _well spoken of_, he must do more than not offend: he must merit his reward, before it is conferred upon him. And, though illustrious services may sometimes extort this reward, yet the surer and easier way to obtain it, is to please. And when I am to please _all men_, in order to obtain the suffrage of all, tell me what way there is of executing this project, without dishonouring myself. Men are not pleased, unless I humour their foibles, sooth their vices, serve their ill ends, or unjustifiable passions; and _woe_ unto me, if I acquire their good opinion by these means.

But suppose I am restrained by some sense of decency and of duty, and not disposed to run all lengths in my endeavours to please. Still it is not nothing, to be silent where virtue bids me speak; it is something, to give a man leave to think he is honoured by me for that which deserves blame; it is base, to flatter and extoll immoderately even his good qualities; and it is flagitious to countenance and inflame his bad ones.

Yet one or other of these ways must he take, who is ambitious of every man’s good word. And is there no _woe_, think ye, in such a conduct as this? Suppose I but sacrifice one virtue to my reputation, but one generous quality to my passion for fame; still am I innocent in making this sacrifice? Can I applaud myself for making thus free with my moral character? Or, rather, have I not cause to humble myself under a sense of my ill-desert?

Yes, _woe_ to that man, who, to be well with the world, or with any part of it, deserts any one virtuous principle, transgresses any one known duty, corrupts his conscience with any one deliberate vice. Let the world’s applause be what it will; he is a loser who gains it on such terms.

But I am still putting matters at the best; For,

III. Lastly, this general acceptation, this mighty privilege of being _well spoken of by all men_, sometimes, and not unfrequently, demands a sacrifice, not of one, but all the virtues: it implies A THOROUGH DEPRAVITY AND PROSTITUTION OF THE MORAL CHARACTER.

Our delicacy will not bear to have this matter pushed home, and brought directly to ourselves. Our self-love revolts against the imputation; and no man applies so severe a censure to his own case, or that of his acquaintance. Let us look abroad, then, for what we are willing to shift off so far from us.

Let us look for this opprobrious character in ancient times, and distant regions, with which we may take greater liberties, and concerning which we may discourse without offence. And when we have found it, let us only remember that the character is no ideal one; that it is fairly taken from the annals of human nature, and may therefore, in part at least, concern ourselves.

A noble Roman is described by ONE who knew him well, in the following manner[145]: “He possessed, in a wonderful degree, the faculty of engaging all men to himself, by every art of address, and the most obsequious application to their humours, purposes, and designs. His fortune, his interest, nay his person, was wholly their’s; and he was ready to shew his attachment to them by every service, and, if occasion required it, by every crime. He had the most perfect dexterity in moulding his own nature, and shaping it into all forms. The men of austere morals he could gain to himself, by a well-dissembled severity; the more free and libertine sort, by an unrestrained gaiety. He could equally adapt himself to the vivacity of youth, and to the gravity of old age: with men of bold spirits and factious designs, he was prompt, enterprizing, audacious; with the men of pleasure, he could be licentious, luxurious, dissolute.”

What think ye, now, of this character? With so various and pliable a disposition, could he fail of being popular? And with so total a want of principle, can we doubt of his being abandoned? He was, in truth, both the one and the other. He was the favourite[146], and the pest of his country: in a word, this man was, CATILINE.

But let us turn our thoughts from such a prodigy, and conclude only from the instance here given, that a character may be much applauded and very worthless; and that, to be _well spoken of by all_, in a certain extent of those words, one must be, if not a Catiline, yet an unquestionably vicious and corrupt man.

I have now gone through the several topics, I proposed to illustrate in this discourse.

My more _immediate_ design was, to explain and justify the text; to shew that it spake not without reason when it spake, perhaps, somewhat differently from our expectations; and that our divine master had abundant cause to pronounce a _woe_ on those, of whom the world is so ready to speak well.

But in doing this, I persuade myself, I have done more; and, in shewing the reasons of this _woe_, have said enough to repress and mortify that lust of general praise, which is so fatal to our virtue, as well as happiness. For what can be more likely to restrain men from this folly, than to let them see, that the prize, they so ambitiously contend for, would be a misfortune to them, if it could be obtained; since a very general praise is rarely conferred, at best, but upon a feeble imperfect state of virtue; is, frequently, the reward of positive ill-desert; and is, sometimes, the pay, that men receive for the greatest _crimes_.

These considerations shew the only true praise to be that which a well informed mind gives to itself. This praise is pure and unmixed; is only bestowed on real merit; and is nicely proportioned to the several degrees of it. It is the earnest too of every other praise, which ought to be precious to us. For, when conscience approves, good men and angels are ready to applaud: nay, when _a man’s heart condemns him not, then has he confidence towards God_[147].

To conclude: it is in this contention of human life, as in those games of which the ancient world was so fond: the success consists not in the acclamations of the attending multitude, but in the crown which the victor receives at the hands of the appointed judge. If he obtains that great prize, it is of little moment whether the rest follow or not. The applause of the by-standers may add to the noise and pageantry of the day; but the triumph is sincere and complete without it.

As then it would be arrogance and inhumanity to reject universally the good opinion of the world, so it would be folly, or something worse, to dote upon it. If it may be honestly obtained, it is well: if not, let the friend of virtue; above all, let the follower of Jesus, console himself, under the loss of it, with this reflection, “That it is no certain argument of true honour and true happiness, nay, that it is a presumption to the contrary, to be found in the class of those, _of whom all men speak well_.”

SERMON XXII.

PREACHED FEBRUARY 6, 1774.

St. JOHN viii. 9.

_Jesus said to her, Neither do I condemn thee; Go, and sin no more._

Every one understands the occasion of these words: _The absolution of the woman taken in adultery_, says an ancient writer, _has been always famous in the church_[148]: Indeed _so_ famous, that some, who know but little of the other parts of the Gospel history, pretend to be well acquainted with this; from which they draw conclusions so favourable to their own loose practices, that others of stricter morals have been disposed to question its authenticity, and to expunge this obnoxious passage from the sacred books.

The attempt, indeed, has not succeeded. The obnoxious passage is unquestionably authentic. But what then shall we say to the narrative itself? How are we to expound it consistently with the known character of Jesus? and how are we to obviate the ill consequences which seem so naturally to flow from it?

These questions will be answered by considering attentively the nature and circumstances of the case: from which it will appear, that this decision of our Lord is founded on the highest wisdom; and, when seen in its true light, affords no countenance to the licentious glosses of one party, and needs give no alarm to the scrupulous fears and apprehensions of another.

The fact is related by the sacred historian in these words: “The Scribes and Pharisees brought to him a woman taken in adultery; and when they had set her in the midst, they say to him, Master, this woman was taken in adultery in the very act. Now, Moses in the law commanded, that such should be stoned; but what sayest thou?”

Thus far we see there was no difficulty. A crime had been committed, and might be proved; and their law had appointed the punishment. Why then do the Scribes and Pharisees apply to Jesus, for his judgment in the case? The text tells us; for it follows immediately—“This they said, tempting him, that they might have to accuse him.” They came to him then, not for any information about the nature of the crime, or of the punishment due to it; the crime had been distinctly specified in their law (the authority of which Jesus admitted, as well as they) and the sort of punishment had been distinctly specified, too: But they came with the insidious design of _tempting him_; that is, of drawing some answer from him, which might give them an occasion to accuse him, either to the people, or to the rulers of the Jewish state.

In what then did their temptation consist? Or, what crime was it, of which, by thus tempting him, they supposed they _might have to accuse him_ to the Jews? The answer to this question will lead us into a proper view of our Lord’s conduct on this occasion, and will enable us to form a right judgment of the manner in which he disappointed the malice of his insidious tempters.

We find in the preceding chapter of St. John’s Gospel, that _the Jews sought to kill him_, ver. 1.; and that, being alarmed at the progress of his doctrine among the people, _the Pharisees and chief priests had even sent their officers to take him by force_, ver. 32. But this project failing in the execution, by the growing favour of the people towards him, and by the strange impression which the doctrine of Jesus had made on those officers themselves, they found it expedient to try other and more indirect methods.

For this purpose, having taken a woman in adultery, they supposed they had now obtained a certain method of accomplishing their designs against him. They therefore bring her to him, and say, _Master, this woman was taken in adultery, in the very act. Now, Moses in the law commanded us, that such should be stoned: but what sayest thou?_

They concluded, that his answer to this question must be such as would give them a sure hold of him. For either it would be, that the law of Moses was too severe; and then, they doubted not but he would fall a sacrifice to the zeal of the people themselves, from whose favour to him they had now the most dreadful apprehensions: or, if he justified this law of Moses, and encouraged the execution of it (and this conduct they had most reason to expect, from the known strictness of his life and doctrine, and from his professed reverence for the law), in that case, they would _have to accuse him_ to the Jewish rulers, as taking to himself a civil and judicial character; or, rather to their Roman masters, as presuming to condemn to death an offender by his own proper authority; whereas _it was not lawful_ for the Sanhedrim itself, but by express leave of the Roman governour, _to put any man to death_[149].

In short, either the people themselves would kill him on the spot, as a disparager and blasphemer of the law; or, he would be convicted of that capital crime, which their rulers wanted to fasten upon him, of making himself _a king_, and so incur the punishment of rebellion to the state.

Such being the profound artifice, as well as malice, of this _plot_, the situation of our Lord was very critical; and nothing but that divine wisdom, by which he spake, and which attended him in all conjunctures, could deliver him from it.

Let us see, then, what that wisdom suggested to him in his present perilous condition.

Instead of replying directly to their ensnaring question, “He stooped down, and with his finger wrote on the ground, as though he heared them not.” His enemies, no doubt, considered this affected inattention as a poor subterfuge; or, rather, as an evident proof of his confusion, and inability to avoid the snare they had laid for him; and were ready to exult over him, as their certain prey, now fallen into their hands. They therefore repeat and press upon him their insulting question, urging him with much clamour to give them an immediate reply. “So when they continued asking him, as the historian proceeds, he lift up himself, and said to them, He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her. And, again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.”

The divinity of this answer can never be enough admired. He eluded by it, at once, the two opposite snares they had laid for him: he disconcerted all their hopes and triumphant expectations; and carried, at the same time, by the weight of this remonstrance, and the power which he gave to it, trouble, confusion and dismay into their affrighted consciences. Without speaking a word against the law, or taking to himself an authority which he had never claimed, and which did not belong to him, he turned their _temptation_ on themselves; and instead of falling a victim to it, astonished them with the moral use he had made of it, and sent them away overwhelmed with shame, conviction, and self-contempt. For it follows, “They which heared [this reply] being convicted by their own conscience, went out one by one, beginning at the eldest, even to the last; and Jesus was left alone, and the woman standing in the midst.”

This was no time, we see, for declaring his sense of the law of Moses, or giving his assent to the execution of it; which, upon the least signification of his mind, had certainly followed from the people (such was their united zeal for the law, and reverence for his opinion). His present purpose and duty was to preserve himself from a captious and malicious question; but in such a manner as might consist with truth and innocence, and even with a tender concern for the moral state and condition of those questioners themselves.

No man will then expect, that, in such circumstances, he should expatiate, to the by-standers, on the heinous crime of adultery, objected to this unhappy woman: a point, concerning which they deserved not, from any virtuous indignation they had conceived against it, which they wanted not, from any ignorance they were under of its general nature, to be further satisfied or informed. They deserved, and they wanted to be made sensible of their own guilt and wickedness; and of this they derived from Jesus the fullest conviction. This was the sole purport of our Lord’s reply to them: any other had been unseasonable and improper; and therefore no man will now be surprized to find the issue of this remarkable conference in the mild dismission which he gives to the unhappy person, who had furnished the occasion of it.

“When Jesus had lift up himself, and saw none but the woman, he said to her, Woman, where are those thine accusers? Hath no man condemned thee? She said, No man, Lord: Jesus said to her, Neither do I condemn thee; go, and sin no more.”