“If the testimony of past centuries in this matter is not
sufficient,—consider at this instant, how the votaries of that religion
are every day thinking to do service and honour to God, by actions
which are a dishonour and scandal to themselves.
“To be convinced of this, go with me for a moment into the prisons of
the Inquisition.”—[God help my poor brother _Tom._]—“Behold _Religion_,
with _Mercy_ and _Justice_ chained down under her feet,——there sitting
ghastly upon a black tribunal, propped up with racks and instruments of
torment. Hark!—hark! what a piteous groan!”—[Here _Trim_’s face turned
as pale as ashes.]——“See the melancholy wretch who uttered it”—[Here
the tears began to trickle down]——“just brought forth to undergo the
anguish of a mock trial, and endure the utmost pains that a studied
system of cruelty has been able to invent.”—[D—n them all, quoth
_Trim_, his colour returning into his face as red as blood.]—“Behold
this helpless victim delivered up to his tormentors,—his body so wasted
with sorrow and confinement.”—[Oh! ’tis my brother, cried poor _Trim_
in a most passionate exclamation, dropping the sermon upon the ground,
and clapping his hands together—I fear ’tis poor _Tom._ My father’s and
my uncle _Toby_’s heart yearned with sympathy for the poor fellow’s
distress; even _Slop_ himself acknowledged pity for him.——Why, _Trim_,
said my father, this is not a history,——’tis a sermon thou art reading;
prithee begin the sentence again.]——“Behold this helpless victim
delivered up to his tormentors,—his body so wasted with sorrow and
confinement, you will see every nerve and muscle as it suffers.
“Observe the last movement of that horrid engine!”—[I would rather face
a cannon, quoth _Trim_, stamping.)—“See what convulsions it has thrown
him into!——Consider the nature of the posture in which he how lies
stretched,—what exquisite tortures he endures by it!”—[I hope ’tis not
in _Portugal._]—“’Tis all nature can bear! Good God! see how it keeps
his weary soul hanging upon his trembling lips!” [I would not read
another line of it, quoth _Trim_ for all this _world_;—I fear, an’
please your Honours, all this is in _Portugal_, where my poor brother
_Tom_ is. I tell thee, _Trim_, again, quoth my father, ’tis not an
historical account,—’tis a description.—’Tis only a description, honest
man, quoth _Slop_, there’s not a word of truth in it.——That’s another
story, replied my father.—However, as _Trim_ reads it with so much
concern,—’tis cruelty to force him to go on with it.—Give me hold of
the sermon, _Trim_,—I’ll finish it for thee, and thou may’st go. I must
stay and hear it too, replied _Trim_, if your Honour will allow
me;—tho’ I would not read it myself for a Colonel’s pay.——Poor Trim!
quoth my uncle _Toby._ My father went on.]
“——Consider the nature of the posture in which he now lies
stretched,—what exquisite torture he endures by it!—’Tis all nature can
bear! Good God! See how it keeps his weary soul hanging upon his
trembling lips,—willing to take its leave,——but not suffered to
depart!—Behold the unhappy wretch led back to his cell!”——[Then, thank
God, however, quoth _Trim_, they have not killed him.]—“See him dragged
out of it again to meet the flames, and the insults in his last
agonies, which this principle,—this principle, that there can be
religion without mercy, has prepared for him.”——[Then, thank God,——he
is dead, quoth _Trim_,—he is out of his pain,—and they have done their
worst at him.—O Sirs!—Hold your peace, _Trim_, said my father, going on
with the sermon, lest _Trim_ should incense Dr. _Slop_,—we shall never
have done at this rate.]
“The surest way to try the merit of “any disputed notion is, to trace
down the consequences such a notion has produced, and compare them with
the spirit of Christianity;——’tis the short and decisive rule which our
Saviour hath left us, for these and such like cases, and it is worth a
thousand arguments——_By their fruits ye shall know them._
“I will add no farther to the length of this sermon, than by two or
three short and independent rules deducible from it.
“_First_, Whenever a man talks loudly against religion, always suspect
that it is not his reason, but his passions, which have got the better
of his CREED. A bad life and a good belief are disagreeable and
troublesome neighbours, and where they separate, depend upon it, ’tis
for no other cause but quietness sake.
“_Secondly_, When a man, thus represented, tells you in any particular
instance,——That such a thing goes “against his conscience,——always
believe he means exactly the same thing, as when he tells you such a
thing goes _against_ his stomach;—a present want of appetite being
generally the true cause of both.
“In a word,—trust that man in nothing, who has not a CONSCIENCE in
every thing.
“And, in your own case, remember this plain distinction, a mistake in
which has ruined thousands,—that your conscience is not a law;—No, God
and reason made the law, and have placed conscience within you to
determine;——not, like an _Asiatic_ Cadi, according to the ebbs and
flows of his own passions,—but like a _British_ judge in this land of
liberty and good sense, who makes no new law, but faithfully declares
that law which he knows already written.”
_F I N I S._
Thou hast read the sermon extremely well, _Trim_, quoth my father.—If
he had spared his comments, replied Dr. _Slop_,——he would have read it
much better.
I should have read it ten times better, Sir, answered _Trim_, but that
my heart was so full.—That was the very reason, _Trim_, replied my
father, which has made thee read the sermon as well as thou hast done;
and if the clergy of our church, continued my father, addressing
himself to Dr. _Slop_, would take part in what they deliver as deeply
as this poor fellow has done,—as their compositions are fine;—[I deny
it, quoth Dr. _Slop_]—I maintain it,—that the eloquence of our pulpits,
with such subjects to enflame it, would be a model for the whole
world:——But alas! continued my father, and I own it, Sir, with sorrow,
that, like _French_ politicians in this respect, what they gain in the
cabinet they lose in the field.——’Twere a pity, quoth my uncle, that
this should be lost. I like the sermon well, replied my father,——’tis
dramatick,—and there is something in that way of writing, when
skilfully managed, which catches the attention.——We preach much in that
way with us, said Dr. _Slop._—I know that very well, said my
father,—but in a tone and manner which disgusted Dr. _Slop_, full as
much as his assent, simply, could have pleased him.——But in this, added
Dr. _Slop_, a little piqued,—our sermons have greatly the advantage,
that we never introduce any character into them below a patriarch or a
patriarch’s wife, or a martyr or a saint.—There are some very bad
characters in this, however, said my father, and I do not think the
sermon a jot the worse for ’em.——But pray, quoth my uncle _Toby_,—who’s
can this be?—How could it get into my _Stevinus_? A man must be as
great a conjurer as _Stevinus_, said my father, to resolve the second
question:—The first, I think, is not so difficult;—for unless my
judgment greatly deceives me,——I know the author, for ’tis wrote,
certainly, by the parson of the parish.
The similitude of the stile and manner of it, with those my father
constantly had heard preached in his parish-church, was the ground of
his conjecture,—proving it as strongly, as an argument _à priori_ could
prove such a thing to a philosophic mind, That it was _Yorick_’s and no
one’s else:—It was proved to be so, _à posteriori_, the day after, when
_Yorick_ sent a servant to my uncle _Toby_’s house to enquire after it.
It seems that _Yorick_, who was inquisitive after all kinds of
knowledge, had borrowed _Stevinus_ of my uncle _Toby_, and had
carelesly popped his sermon, as soon as he had made it, into the middle
of _Stevinus_; and by an act of forgetfulness, to which he was ever
subject, he had sent _Stevinus_ home, and his sermon to keep him
company.
Ill-fated sermon! Thou wast lost, after this recovery of thee, a second
time, dropped thru’ an unsuspected fissure in thy master’s pocket, down
into a treacherous and a tattered lining,—trod deep into the dirt by
the left hind-foot of his Rosinante inhumanly stepping upon thee as
thou falledst;—buried ten days in the mire,——raised up out of it by a
beggar,—sold for a halfpenny to a parish-clerk,——transferred to his
parson,——lost for ever to thy own, the remainder of his days,—nor
restored to his restless MANES till this very moment, that I tell the
world the story.
Can the reader believe, that this sermon of _Yorick_’s was preached at
an assize, in the cathedral of _York_, before a thousand witnesses,
ready to give oath of it, by a certain prebendary of that church, and
actually printed by him when he had done,——and within so short a space
as two years and three months after _Yorick_’s death?—_Yorick_ indeed,
was never better served in his life;——but it was a little hard to
maltreat him after, and plunder him after he was laid in his grave.
However, as the gentleman who did it was in perfect charity with
_Yorick_,—and, in conscious justice, printed but a few copies to give
away;—and that I am told he could moreover have made as good a one
himself, had he thought fit,—I declare I would not have published this
anecdote to the world;——nor do I publish it with an intent to hurt his
character and advancement in the church;—I leave that to others;——but I
find myself impelled by two reasons, which I cannot withstand.
The first is, That in doing justice, I may give rest to _Yorick_’s
ghost;——which—as the country-people, and some others believe,——_still
walks._
The second reason is, That, by laying open this story to the world, I
gain an opportunity of informing it,—That in case the character of
parson _Yorick_, and this sample of his sermons, is liked,——there are
now in the possession of the _Shandy_ family, as many as will make a
handsome volume, at the world’s service,——and much good may they do it.