Part 19

This is one of the complaints which Job makes in his expostulations with the Almighty. He thought it hard measure that he should suffer, now in his riper years, for the iniquities of his youth. He could charge himself with no other; and therefore he hoped that these had been forgotten.

Job is all along represented as an eminently virtuous person; so that the iniquities of his youth might not have been numerous or considerable: otherwise, he would not have thought it strange, that he was _made to possess_ his sins, long after they had been committed. Our experience is, in this respect, so constant and uniform, that there is no room for surprize or expostulation. All those who have passed their youth in sin and folly, may with reason express a very strong resentment against themselves; but have no ground of complaint against God, when they cry out, in the anguish of their souls: _Thou writest bitter things against me, and makest me to possess the iniquities of my youth_.

The words are peculiarly strong and energetic; and may be considered distinctly from the case of Job, as expressing this general proposition; “That, in the order of things, an ill-spent youth derives many lasting evils on the subsequent periods of life.” An alarming truth! which cannot be too much considered, and should especially be set before the young and unexperienced, in the strongest light.

The sins of _youth_, as distinguished from those of riper years, are chiefly such as are occasioned by an immoderate, or an irregular pursuit of pleasure; into which we are too easily carried in that careless part of life; and the ill effects of which are rarely apprehended by us, till they are severely felt.

Now, it may be said of us, that we are made to POSSESS these sins, “When _we continue under the constant sense and unrepented guilt of them_:” “When _we labour under tyrannous habits, which they have produced_:” And, “when _we groan under afflictions of various kinds, which they have entailed upon us_.”

In these three respects, I mean to shew how _bitter those things are, which God writeth_, that is, decreeth in his justice, _against the iniquities of our youth_.

I. The _first_, and bitterest effect of this indulgence in vicious pleasure, is the guilt and consequent remorse of conscience, we derive from it.

When the young mind has been tinctured in any degree with the principles of modesty and virtue, it is with reluctance and much apprehension, that it first ventures on the transgression of known duty. But the vivacity and thoughtless gaiety of that early season, encouraged by the hopes of new pleasure, and sollicited, as it commonly happens, by ill examples, is at length tempted to make the fatal experiment; by which guilt is contracted, and the sting of guilt first known. The ingenuous mind reflects with shame and compunction on this miscarriage but the passion revives; the temptation returns, and prevails a second time, and a third; still with growing guilt, but unhappily with something less horror; yet enough to admonish the offender of his fault, and to embitter his enjoyments.

As no instant mischief, perhaps, is felt from this indulgence, but the pain of remorse, he, by degrees, imputes this effect to an over-timorous apprehension, to his too delicate self-esteem, or to the prejudice of education. He next confirms himself in these sentiments, by observing the practice of the world, by listening to the libertine talk of his companions, and by forming, perhaps, a sort of system to himself, by which he pretends to vindicate his own conduct: till, at length, his shame and his fears subside; he grows intrepid in vice, and riots in all the intemperance to which youth invites, and high spirits transport him.

In this delirious state he continues for some time. But presently the scene changes. Although the habit continue, the enjoyment is not the same: the keenness of appetite abates, and the cares of life succeed to this run of pleasure.

But neither the cares nor the pleasures of life can now keep him from reflexion. He cannot help giving way, at times, to a serious turn of thought; and some unwelcome event or other will strike in to promote it. Either the loss of a friend makes him grave; or a fit of illness sinks his spirits; or it may be sufficient, that the companions of his idle hours are withdrawn, and that he is left to himself in longer intervals than he would chuse, of solitude and recollection.

By some or other of these means CONSCIENCE revives in him, and with a quick resentment of the outrage she has suffered. Attempts to suppress her indignant reproaches, are no longer effectual: she _will_ be heared; and her voice carries terror and consternation with it.

“She upbraids him, first, with his loss of virtue, and of that which died with it, her own favour and approbation. She then sets before him the indignity of having renounced all self-command, and of having served ingloriously under every idle, every sordid appetite. She next rises in her remonstrance; represents to him the baseness of having attempted unsuspecting innocence; the cruelty of having alarmed, perhaps destroyed, the honour of deserving families; the fraud, the perfidy, the perjury, he has possibly committed in carrying on his iniquitous purposes. The mischiefs he has done to others are perhaps not to be repaired; and his own personal crimes remain to be accounted for; and, if at all, can only be expiated by the bitterest repentance. And what then, concludes this severe monitor in the awful words of the Apostle, _What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed? for the end of those things is death_[179].”

Suppose now this remonstrance to take effect, and that the sinner is at length (for what I have here represented in few words, takes much time in doing; but suppose, I say, that the sinner is at length) wrought upon by this remonstrance to entertain some serious thoughts of amendment, still the consciousness of his ill desert will attend him through every stage of life, and corrupt the sincerity of all his enjoyments; while he knows not what will be the issue of his crimes, or whether, indeed, he shall ever be able truly and effectually to repent of them. For we cannot get quit of our sins, the moment we resolve to do so: But, as I proposed to shew,

II. _In the second place_, we are still made to possess the iniquities of our youth, _while we labour under any remains of those tyrannous habits, which they have produced in us_.

There is scarce an object of greater compassion, than the man who is duly sensible of his past misconduct, earnestly repents of it, and strives to reform it, but yet is continually drawn back into his former miscarriages, by the very habit of having so frequently fallen into them. Such a man’s life is a perpetual scene of contradiction; a discordant mixture of good resolutions, and weak performances; of virtuous purposes, and shameful relapses; in a word, of sin and sorrow. And, were he only to consult his present ease, an uninterrupted course of vice might almost seem preferable to this intermitting state of virtue. But the misery of this condition comes from himself, and must be endured, for the sake of avoiding, if it may be, one that is much worse. In the mean time, he feels most sensibly what it is to _possess_ the iniquities of his youth. The temptation, perhaps, to persevere in them, is not great; he condemns, and laments his own weakness. Still the habit prevails, and his repentance, though constantly renewed, is unable to disengage him from the power of it.

Thus he struggles with himself, perhaps for many years, perhaps for a great part of his life; and in all that time is distracted by the very inconsistency of his own conduct, and tortured by the bitterest pains of compunction and self-abhorrence.

But let it be supposed, that the grace of God at length prevails over the tyranny of his inveterate habits; that his repentance is efficacious, and his virtue established. Yet the memory of his former weakness fills him with fears and apprehensions: he finds his mind weakened, as well as polluted, by his past sins; he has to strive against the returning influence of them; and thus, when penitence and tears have washed away his guilt, he still thinks himself insecure, and trembles at the possible danger of being involved again in it.

Add to all this, the compunction which such a man feels, when he is obliged to discountenance in others, perhaps, by his station, to punish those crimes in which he had so long and so freely indulged himself: and how uneasy the very discharge of his duty is thus rendered to him.

To say all upon this head: his acquired habits, if not corrected in due time, may push him into crimes the most atrocious and shocking; and, if subdued at length, will agitate his mind with long dissatisfaction and disquiet. Repentance, if it comes at all, will come late; and will never reinstate him fully in the serenity and composure of his lost innocence. But,

III. Lastly, when all this is done (and more to do is not in our power) we may still possess the iniquities of our youth, in another sense, I mean, _when we groan under the temporal afflictions of many kinds, which they entail upon us_.

So close do these sad _possessions_ cleave to us, and so difficult it is, contrary to what we observe of all other possessions, to divest ourselves of them!

When PLEASURE first spreads its share for the young voluptuary, how little did he suspect the malignity of its nature; and that under so enchanting an appearance, it was preparing for him pains and diseases, declining health, an early old-age, perhaps poverty, infamy, and irreparable ruin? Yet some, or all of these calamities may oppress him, when the pleasure is renounced, and the sin forsaken.

Youth and health are with difficulty made to comprehend how frail a machine the human body is, and how easily impaired by excesses. But effects will follow their causes; and intemperate pleasure is sure to be succeeded by long pains, for which there is no prevention, and for the most part, no remedy. Hence it is that life is shortened; and, while it lasts, is full of languor, disease, and suffering. If by living _fast_, as men call it, they only abridged the duration of their pleasures, their folly might seem tolerable. But the case is much worse: they treasure up to themselves actual sufferings, from disorders which have no cure, as well as no name. And not unfrequently it happens, according to the strong expression in the book of Job, that _a man’s bones are full of the sin of his youth, till they lie down with him in the grave_[180].

Or, if health continue, his _fortune_ suffers; it being an observation as old as Solomon, and confirmed by constant experience ever since, that _he who loveth pleasure, shall not be rich_[181]. His paternal inheritance is perhaps wasted, or much reduced. And his careless youth has lost the opportunity of those improvements which should enable him to repair it. Or, if the abundant provision of wiser ancestors secure him from this mischance; or, if he has had the discretion to mix some industry and œconomy with his vices, still his good name is blasted, and so tender a plant as this is not easily restored to health and vigour. For it is a mistake to think that intemperance leaves no lasting disgrace behind it. The contrary is seen every day; and the crimes which we commit in the mad pursuit of pleasure, bring a dishonour with them, which no age can wholly outlive, and no virtue can repair[182]. It stuck close to Cæsar himself in his highest fortune: All his laurels could neither hide his _baldness_ from the observation of men, nor the infamy of that commerce by which it had been occasioned[183].

All this, it may be thought, is very hard. But such is the fact, and such the order of God’s providence. We have not the making of this system: it is made to our hands by him who ordereth all things for the best, how grievous soever his dispensations may sometimes appear to us. Our duty, and our wisdom is to reflect what that system is, and to conform ourselves to it.

If a young man, on his entrance into life, could be made duly sensible of the dreadful evils, which, in the very constitution of things, flow from vice, there is scarcely any temptation that could prevail over his virtue. But his levity and inexperience expose him to these evils: he thinks nothing of them till they arrive, and then there is no escape from them.

To conclude: if any thing can rescue unwary youth out of the hands of their own folly, it must be such a train of reflection as the text offers to us. Let it sink deep into their minds, that there are indeed _bitter things_ decreed against the iniquities of that early age; that a thousand temporal evils spring from that source; that vicious habits are in themselves vexatious and tormenting; and, that, uncorrected, and unrepented of, they fill the mind with inutterable remorse and horror.

When the sins of youth are seen in this light, it is not by giving them the soft name of infirmities, or by cloathing them with ideas of pleasure, that we shall be able to reconcile the mind to them. Such thin disguises will not conceal their true forms and natures from us. We shall still take them for what indeed they are, for sorcerers and assassins, the enchanters of our reason and the murderers of our peace.

The sum of all is comprised in that memorable advice of the Psalmist, so often quoted in this place (and, for once, let it have its effect upon us): _Keep innocency, and take heed to the thing that is right, for that shall bring a man peace at the last_[184].

Or, if the scorner will not listen to this advice, it only remains to leave him to his own sad experience; but not till we have made one charitable effort more to provoke his attention by the caustic apostrophe of the wise man: _Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thy heart, and in the sight of thine eyes: but_ KNOW THOU, _that, for all these things, God will bring thee into judgement_[185].

SERMON XXVIII.

PREACHED MAY 28, 1769.

ECCLESIASTES vii. 21, 22.

_Take no heed unto all words that are spoken, lest thou hear thy servant curse thee. For oftentimes, also, thine own heart knoweth, that thou thyself, likewise, hast cursed others._

The royal author of this book has been much and justly celebrated for his wise aphorisms and precepts on the conduct of human life. Among others of this sort, the text may deserve to be had in reverence; which, though simply and familiarly expressed, could only be the reflexion of a man who had great experience of the world, and had studied with care the secret workings of his own mind.

The purpose of it is, to disgrace and discountenance that ANXIOUS CURIOSITY (the result of our vanity, and a misguided self-love) which prompts us to inquire into the sentiments and opinions of other persons concerning us, and to give ourselves no rest till we understand what, in their private and casual conversations, they say of us.

“This curious disposition, says the preacher, is by all means to be repressed, as the indulgence of it is both FOOLISH and UNJUST; as it not only serves to embitter your own lives by the unwelcome discoveries ye are most likely to make; but at the same time to convict your own consciences of much iniquity; since, upon reflexion, ye will find that ye have, yourselves, been guilty at some unguarded hour or other, of the same malignity or flippancy towards other men.”

In these two considerations is comprised whatever can be said to discredit this vice: the _one_, you see, taken from the preacher’s knowledge of human life; the _other_, from his intimate acquaintance with the secret depravity and corruption of the human heart.

Permit me, then, to enlarge on these two topics; and, by that means, to open to you more distinctly the WISDOM, and the EQUITY of that conduct, which is here recommended to us, of _not giving a sollicitous attention to the frivolous and unweighed censures of other men_.

I. _Take no heed_, says the preacher, _to all words that are spoken_, LEST THOU HEAR THY SERVANT CURSE THEE. This is the FIRST reason which he assigns for his advice.

The force of it will be clearly apprehended, if we reflect (as the observing author of the text had certainly done) that nothing is more flippant, nothing more unreasonably and unaccountably petulant, than the tongue of man.

It is so little under the controul, I do not say of candour, or of good-nature, but of common prudence, and of common justice, that it moves, as it were, with the slightest breath of rumour; nay, as if a tendency to speak ill of others were instinctive to it, it waits many times for no cause from without, but is prompted as we may say, by its own restlessness and volubility to attack the characters of those who chance to be the subject of discourse. Without provocation, without malice, without so much as intentional ill-will, it echoes the voice of the present company; vibrates with the prevailing tone of conversation; or takes occasion from the slightest occurrence, from some idle conceit that strikes the fancy, from the impulse of a sudden and half-formed suggestion, that stirs within us, to exercise its activity in a careless censure of other men.

Nay, what is more to be lamented, the sagacious observer of mankind will find reason to conclude, that no zeal for our interests, no kindness for our persons, shall at all times restrain this unruly member, the tongue, from taking unwelcome freedoms with us. The dearest friend we have, shall at some unlucky moment be seduced by an affectation of wit, by a start of humour, by a flow of spirits, by a sudden surmise, or indisposition, by any thing, in short, to let fall such things of us, as have some degree of sharpness in them, and would give us pain, if they were officiously reported to us.

This appears to have been the sentiment of the wise preacher in the text. Avoid, says he, this impertinent curiosity, _lest thou hear thy servant curse thee_; lest the very persons that live under thy roof and are most obliged to thee, who are reasonably presumed to have the warmest concern for thy honour and interest, and on whose fidelity and gratitude the security and comfort of thy whole life more immediately depends, lest even these be found to make free with thy character. For there is a time, when even _these_ may be carried to speak undutifully and disrespectfully of thee.

And would any man wish to make this discovery of those, who are esteemed to be, and, notwithstanding these occasional freedoms, perhaps _are_, his true servants and affectionate friends?

For think not, when this unlucky discovery is made, that the offended party will treat it with neglect, or be in a condition to consider it with those allowances, that, in reason and equity, may be required of him. No such thing: It will appear to him in the light of a heinous and unpardonable indignity; it will occasion warm resentments, and not only fill his mind with present disquiet, but most probably provoke him to severe expostulations; the usual fruit of which is, to make a deliberate and active enemy of him, who was, before, only an incautious and indiscreet friend: at the best, it will engender I know not what uneasy jealousies and black suspicions; which will mislead his judgment on many occasions; and inspire an anxious distrust, not of the faulty person himself only, but of others, who stand in the same relation to him, and, perhaps, of all mankind.

These several ill effects may be supposed, as I said, to flow from the discovery: and it will be useful to set the malignity of _each_ in its true and proper light.

1. _First_, then, consider that a likely, or rather infallible effect of this discovery, is, _to fire the mind with quick and passionate resentments_. And what is it to be in this state, but to lose the enjoyment of ourselves; to have the relish of every thing, we possess, embittered by pungent reflexions on the perfidy and baseness of those, with whom we live, and of whom it is our happiness to think well; to have the repose of our lives disturbed by the most painful of all sensations, that of supposed injury from our very friends? And for what is this wretchedness, this misery, encountered? For the idleness of an unweighed discourse; for something, which, if kept secret from us, had been perfectly insignificant; for a discourtesy, which meant nothing and tended to nothing; for a word, which came from the tongue, rather than the heart; or, if the heart had any share in producing it, was recalled perhaps, at least forgotten, in the moment it was spoken. And can it be worth while to indulge a curiosity which leads to such torment, when the object of our inquiry is itself so frivolous, as well as the concern we have in it?

2. _Another_ mischief attending the gratification of this impertinent curiosity, is, That the unwelcome discoveries we make, _naturally lead to peevish complaints and severe expostulations_; the effect of which is, not only to continue and inflame the sense of the injury already received, but to draw fresh and greater indignities on ourselves, to push the offending party on extremes, and compell him, almost, whether he will or no, to open acts of hostility against us. The former ill treatment of us, whatever it might be, was perhaps forgotten; at least it had hitherto gone no further than words, and, while it was, or was supposed to be, undiscovered, there was no thought of repeating the provocation, and there was time and opportunity left for repenting of it, and for recovering a just sense of violated duty. But when the offence is understood to be no longer a secret, the discovery provokes fresh offences. Either pride puts the aggressor on justifying what he has done; or the shame of conviction, and the despair of pardon, turns indifference into hate; ready to break out into all sorts of ill offices, and the readier, because the strong resentment of so slight a matter, as a careless expression, is itself, in turn, accounted an atrocious injury. And thus a small discourtesy, which, if unnoticed, had presently died away, shall grow and spread into a rooted _ill-will_, productive of gross reciprocal hostilities, and permanent as life itself.

It is on this account that wise men have always thought it better to connive at moderate injuries, than, by an open resentment of them, to provoke greater: and nothing is mentioned so much to the honour of a noble Roman[186], as that, when he had the papers of an enemy in his hands (which would certainly have discovered the disaffection of many persons towards the republic and himself) he destroyed them all, and prudently, as well as generously, resolved to know nothing of what they contained. And this conduct, which was thought so becoming a great man in public life, is unquestionably (on the same principle of prudence and magnanimity, to say nothing of higher motives) the duty and concern of every private man.

3. But, _lastly_, supposing the resentment conceived on the discovery of an ungrateful secret, should not break out into overt acts of hatred and revenge, still the matter would not be much mended. For, _it would surely breed a thousand uneasy suspicions_, which would prey on the hurt mind; and do irreparable injury to the moral character, as well as embitter the whole life of him who was unhappily conscious to them.