Consider then our ignorance, the imperfection of our nature, our virtue,
and our condition in this world, with respect to aim infinitely good and
just Being, our Creator and Governor, and you will see what religious
affections of mind are most particularly suitable to this mortal state we
are passing through.
Though we are not affected with anything so strongly as what we discern
with our senses, and though our nature and condition require that we be
much taken up about sensible things, yet our reason convinces us that God
is present with us, and we see and feel the effects of His goodness: He
is therefore the object of some regards. The imperfection of our virtue,
joined with the consideration of His absolute rectitude or holiness, will
scarce permit that perfection of love which entirely casts out all fear:
yet goodness is the object of love to all creatures who have any degree
of it themselves; and consciousness of a real endeavour to approve
ourselves to Him, joined with the consideration of His goodness, as it
quite excludes servile dread and horror, so it is plainly a reasonable
ground for hope of His favour. Neither fear nor hope nor love then are
excluded, and one or another of these will prevail, according to the
different views we have of God, and ought to prevail, according to the
changes we find in our own character. There is a temper of mind made up
of, or which follows from all three, fear, hope, love--namely,
resignation to the Divine will, which is the general temper belonging to
this state; which ought to be the habitual frame of our mind and heart,
and to be exercised at proper seasons more distinctly, in acts of
devotion.
Resignation to the will of God is the whole of piety. It includes in it
all that is good, and is a source of the most settled quiet and composure
of mind. There is the general principle of submission in our nature. Man
is not so constituted as to desire things, and be uneasy in the want of
them, in proportion to their known value: many other considerations come
in to determine the degrees of desire; particularly whether the advantage
we take a view of be within the sphere of our rank. Whoever felt
uneasiness upon observing any of the advantages brute creatures have over
us? And yet it is plain they have several. It is the same with respect
to advantages belonging to creatures of a superior order. Thus, though
we see a thing to be highly valuable, yet that it does not belong to our
condition of being is sufficient to suspend our desires after it, to make
us rest satisfied without such advantage. Now there is just the same
reason for quiet resignation in the want of everything equally
unattainable and out of our reach in particular, though others of our
species be possessed of it. All this may be applied to the whole of
life; to positive inconveniences as well as wants, not indeed to the
sensations of pain and sorrow, but to all the uneasinesses of reflection,
murmuring, and discontent. Thus is human nature formed to compliance,
yielding, submission of temper. We find the principles of it within us;
and every one exercises it towards some objects or other, _i.e._ feels it
with regard to some persons and some circumstances. Now this is an
excellent foundation of a reasonable and religious resignation. Nature
teaches and inclines as to take up with our lot; the consideration that
the course of things is unalterable hath a tendency to quiet the mind
under it, to beget a submission of temper to it. But when we can add
that this unalterable course is appointed and continued by infinite
wisdom and goodness, how absolute should be our submission, how entire
our trust and dependence!
This would reconcile us to our condition, prevent all the supernumerary
troubles arising from imagination, distant fears, impatience--all
uneasiness, except that which necessarily arises from the calamities
themselves we may be under. How many of our cares should we by this
means be disburdened of! Cares not properly our own, how apt soever they
may be to intrude upon us, and we to admit them; the anxieties of
expectation, solicitude about success and disappointment, which in truth
are none of our concern. How open to every gratification would that mind
be which was clear of these encumbrances!
Our resignation to the will of God may be said to be perfect when our
will is lost and resolved up into His: when we rest in His will as our
end, as being itself most just and right and good. And where is the
impossibility of such an affection to what is just, and right, and good,
such a loyalty of heart to the Governor of the universe as shall prevail
over all sinister indirect desires of our own? Neither is this at bottom
anything more than faith and honesty and fairness of mind--in a more
enlarged sense indeed than those words are commonly used. And as, in
common cases, fear and hope and other passions are raised in us by their
respective objects, so this submission of heart and soul and mind, this
religious resignation, would be as naturally produced by our having just
conceptions of Almighty God, and a real sense of His presence with us. In
how low a degree soever this temper usually prevails amongst men, yet it
is a temper right in itself: it is what we owe to our Creator: it is
particularly suitable to our mortal condition, and what we should
endeavour after for our own sakes in our passage through such a world as
this, where is nothing upon which we can rest or depend, nothing but what
we are liable to be deceived and disappointed in. Thus we might
_acquaint ourselves with God_, _and be at peace_. This is piety an
religion in the strictest sense, considered as a habit of mind: an
habitual sense of God's presence with us; being affected towards Him, as
present, in the manner His superior nature requires from such a creature
as man: this is to _walk with God_.
Little more need be said of devotion or religious worship than that it is
this temper exerted into act. The nature of it consists in the actual
exercise of those affections towards God which are supposed habitual in
good men. He is always equally present with us: but we are so much taken
up with sensible things that, _Lo_, _He goeth by us_, _and we see Him
not_: _He passeth on also_, _but we perceive Him not_. {31} Devotion is
retirement from the world He has made to Him alone: it is to withdraw
from the avocations of sense, to employ our attention wholly upon Him as
upon an object actually present, to yield ourselves up to the influence
of the Divine presence, and to give full scope to the affections of
gratitude, love, reverence, trust, and dependence; of which infinite
power, wisdom, and goodness is the natural and only adequate object. We
may apply to the whole of devotion those words of the Son of Sirach,
_When you glorify the Lord_, _exalt Him as much as you can_; _for even
yet will He far exceed_: _and when you exalt Him_, _put forth all your
strength_, _and be not weary_; _for you can never go far enough_. {32}
Our most raised affections of every kind cannot but fall short and be
disproportionate when an infinite being is the object of them. This is
the highest exercise and employment of mind that a creature is capable
of. As this divine service and worship is itself absolutely due to God,
so also is it necessary in order to a further end, to keep alive upon our
minds a sense of His authority, a sense that in our ordinary behaviour
amongst men we act under him as our Governor and Judge.
Thus you see the temper of mind respecting God which is particularly
suitable to a state of imperfection, to creatures in a progress of being
towards somewhat further.
Suppose now this something further attained, that we were arrived at it,
what a perception will it be to see and know and feel that our trust was
not vain, our dependence not groundless? That the issue, event, and
consummation came out such as fully to justify and answer that
resignation? If the obscure view of the divine perfection which we have
in this world ought in just consequence to beget an entire resignation,
what will this resignation be exalted into when _we shall see face to
face_, _and know as we are known_? If we cannot form any distinct notion
of that perfection of the love of God which _casts out all fear_, of that
enjoyment of Him which will be the happiness of good men hereafter, the
consideration of our wants and capacities of happiness, and that He will
be adequate supply to them, must serve us instead of such distinct
conception of the particular happiness itself.
Let us then suppose a man entirely disengaged from business and pleasure,
sitting down alone and at leisure, to reflect upon himself and his own
condition of being. He would immediately feel that he was by no means
complete of himself, but totally insufficient for his own happiness. One
may venture to affirm that every man hath felt this, whether he hath
again reflected upon it or not. It is feeling this deficiency, that they
are unsatisfied with themselves, which makes men look out for assistance
from abroad, and which has given rise to various kinds of amusements,
altogether needless any otherwise than as they serve to fill up the blank
spaces of time, and so hinder their feeling this deficiency, and being
uneasy with themselves. Now, if these external things we take up with
were really an adequate supply to this deficiency of human nature, if by
their means our capacities and desires were all satisfied and filled up,
then it might be truly said that we had found out the proper happiness of
man, and so might sit down satisfied, and be at rest in the enjoyment of
it. But if it appears that the amusements which men usually pass their
time in are so far from coming up to or answering our notions and desires
of happiness or good that they are really no more than what they are
commonly called, somewhat to pass away the time, _i.e._ somewhat which
serves to turn us aside from, and prevent our attending to, this our
internal poverty and want; if they serve only, or chiefly, to suspend
instead of satisfying our conceptions and desires of happiness; if the
want remains, and we have found out little more than barely the means of
making it less sensible; then are we still to seek for somewhat to be an
adequate supply to it. It is plain that there is a capacity in the
nature of man which neither riches nor honours nor sensual
gratifications, nor anything in this world, can perfectly fill up or
satisfy: there is a deeper and more essential want than any of these
things can be the supply of. Yet surely there is a possibility of
somewhat which may fill up all our capacities of happiness, somewhat in
which our souls may find rest, somewhat which may be to us that
satisfactory good we are inquiring after. But it cannot be anything
which is valuable only as it tends to some further end. Those therefore
who have got this world so much into their hearts as not to be able to
consider happiness as consisting in anything but property and
possessions--which are only valuable as the means to somewhat else--cannot
have the least glimpse of the subject before us, which is the end, not
the means; the thing itself, not somewhat in order to it. But if you can
lay aside that general, confused, undeterminate notion of happiness, as
consisting in such possessions, and fix in your thoughts that it really
can consist in nothing but in a faculty's having its proper object, you
will clearly see that in the coolest way of consideration, without either
the heat of fanciful enthusiasm or the warmth of real devotion, nothing
is more certain than that an infinite Being may Himself be, if He
pleases, the supply to all the capacities of our nature. All the common
enjoyments of life are from the faculties He hath endued us with and the
objects He hath made suitable to them. He may Himself be to us
infinitely more than all these; He may be to us all that we want. As our
understanding can contemplate itself, and our affections be exercised
upon themselves by reflection, so may each be employed in the same manner
upon any other mind; and since the Supreme Mind, the Author and Cause of
all things, is the highest possible object to Himself, He may be an
adequate supply to all the faculties of our souls, a subject to our
understanding, and an object to our affections.
Consider then: when we shall have put off this mortal body, when we shall
be divested of sensual appetites, and those possessions which are now the
means of gratification shall be of no avail, when this restless scene of
business and vain pleasures, which now diverts us from ourselves, shall
be all over, we, our proper self, shall still remain: we shall still
continue the same creatures we are, with wants to be supplied and
capacities of happiness. We must have faculties of perception, though
not sensitive ones; and pleasure or uneasiness from our perceptions, as
now we have.
There are certain ideas which we express by the words order, harmony,
proportion, beauty, the furthest removed from anything sensual. Now what
is there in those intellectual images, forms, or ideas, which begets that
approbation, love, delight, and even rapture, which is seen in some
persons' faces upon having those objects present to their minds?--"Mere
enthusiasm!"--Be it what it will: there are objects, works of nature and
of art, which all mankind have delight from quite distinct from their
affording gratification to sensual appetites, and from quite another view
of them than as being for their interest and further advantage. The
faculties from which we are capable of these pleasures, and the pleasures
themselves, are as natural, and as much to be accounted for, as any
sensual appetite whatever, and the pleasure from its gratification. Words
to be sure are wanting upon this subject; to say that everything of grace
and beauty throughout the whole of nature, everything excellent and
amiable shared in differently lower degrees by the whole creation, meet
in the Author and Cause of all things, this is an inadequate and perhaps
improper way of speaking of the Divine nature; but it is manifest that
absolute rectitude, the perfection of being, must be in all senses, and
in every respect, the highest object to the mind.
In this world it is only the effects of wisdom and power and greatness
which we discern; it is not impossible that hereafter the qualities
themselves in the supreme Being may be the immediate object of
contemplation. What amazing wonders are opened to view by late
improvements! What an object is the universe to a creature, if there be
a creature who can comprehend its system! But it must be an infinitely
higher exercise of the understanding to view the scheme of it in that
mind which projected it before its foundations were laid. And surely we
have meaning to the words when we speak of going further, and viewing,
not only this system in His mind, but the wisdom and intelligence itself
from whence it proceeded. The same may be said of power. But since
wisdom and power are not God, He is a wise, a powerful Being; the divine
nature may therefore be a further object to the understanding. It is
nothing to observe that our senses give us but an imperfect knowledge of
things: effects themselves, if we knew them thoroughly, would give us but
imperfect notions of wisdom and power; much less of His being in whom
they reside. I am not speaking of any fanciful notion of seeing all
things in God, but only representing to you how much a higher object to
the understanding an infinite Being Himself is than the things which He
has made; and this is no more than saying that the Creator is superior to
the works of His hands.
This may be illustrated by a low example. Suppose a machine, the sight
of which would raise, and discoveries in its contrivance gratify, our
curiosity: the real delight in this case would arise from its being the
effect of skill and contrivance. This skill in the mind of the artificer
would be a higher object, if we had any senses or ways to discern it.
For, observe, the contemplation of that principle, faculty, or power
which produced any effect must be a higher exercise of the understanding
than the contemplation of the effect itself. The cause must be a higher
object to the mind than the effect.
But whoever considers distinctly what the delight of knowledge is will
see reason to be satisfied that it cannot be the chief good of man: all
this, as it is applicable, so it was mentioned with regard to the
attribute of goodness. I say goodness. Our being and all our enjoyments
are the effects of it: just men bear its resemblance; but how little do
we know of the original, of what it is in itself? Recall what was before
observed concerning the affection to moral characters--which, in how low
a degree soever, yet is plainly natural to man, and the most excellent
part of his nature. Suppose this improved, as it may be improved, to any
degree whatever, in the _spirits of just men made perfect_; and then
suppose that they had a real view of that _righteousness which is an
everlasting righteousness_, of the conformity of the Divine will to _the
law of truth_ in which the moral attributes of God consist, of that
goodness in the sovereign Mind which gave birth to the universe. Add,
what will be true of all good men hereafter, a consciousness of having an
interest in what they are contemplating--suppose them able to say, _This
God is our God for ever and ever_. Would they be any longer to seek for
what was their chief happiness, their final good? Could the utmost
stretch of their capacities look further? Would not infinite perfect
goodness be their very end, the last end and object of their affections,
beyond which they could neither have nor desire, beyond which they could
not form a wish or thought?
Consider wherein that presence of a friend consists which has often so
strong an effect as wholly to possess the mind, and entirely suspend all
other affections and regards, and which itself affords the highest
satisfaction and enjoyment. He is within reach of the senses. Now as
our capacities of perception improve we shall have, perhaps by some
faculty entirely new, a perception of God's presence with us in a nearer
and stricter way, since it is certain He is more intimately present with
us than anything else can be. Proof of the existence and presence of any
being is quite different from the immediate perception, the consciousness
of it. What then will be the joy of heart which His presence and _the
light of His countenance_, who is the life of the universe, will inspire
good men with when they shall have a sensation that He is the sustainer
of their being, that they exist in Him; when they shall feel His
influence to cheer and enliven and support their frame, in a manner of
which we have now no conception? He will be in a literal sense _their
strength and their portion for ever_.
When we speak of things so much above our comprehension as the employment
and happiness of a future state, doubtless it behoves us to speak with
all modesty and distrust of ourselves. But the Scripture represents the
happiness of that state under the notions of _seeing God_, _seeing Him as
He is_, _knowing as we are known_, _and seeing face to face_. These
words are not general or undetermined, but express a particular
determinate happiness. And I will be bold to say that nothing can
account for or come up to these expressions but only this, that God
Himself will be an object to our faculties, that He Himself will be our
happiness as distinguished from the enjoyments of the present state,
which seem to arise not immediately from Him but from the objects He has
adapted to give us delight.
To conclude: Let us suppose a person tired with care and sorrow and the
repetition of vain delights which fill up the round of life; sensible
that everything here below in its best estate is altogether vanity.
Suppose him to feel that deficiency of human nature before taken notice
of, and to be convinced that God alone was the adequate supply to it.
What could be more applicable to a good man in this state of mind, or
better express his present wants and distant hopes, his passage through
this world as a progress towards a state of perfection, than the
following passages in the devotions of the royal prophet? They are
plainly in a higher and more proper sense applicable to this than they
could be to anything else. _I have seen an end of all perfection_. _Whom
have I in heaven but Thee_? _And there is none upon earth that I desire
in comparison of Thee_. _My flesh and may heart faileth_: _but God is
the strength of my heart and my portion for ever_. _Like as the hart
desireth the water-brooks_, _so longeth my soul after Thee_, _O God_. _My
soul is athirst for God_, _yea_, _even for the living God_: _when shall I
come to appear before Him_? _How excellent is Thy loving-kindness_, _O
God_! _and the children of men shall put their trust under the shadow of
Thy wings_. _They shall be satisfied with the plenteousness of Thy
house_: _and Thou shalt give them drink of Thy pleasures_, _as out of the
river_. _For with Thee is the well of life_: _and in Thy light shall we
see light_. _Blessed is the man whom Thou choosest_, _and receivest unto
Thee_: _he shall dwell in Thy court_, _and shall be satisfied with the
pleasures of Thy house_, _even of Thy holy temple_. _Blessed is the
people_, _O Lord_, _that can rejoice in Thee_: _they shall walk in the
light of Thy countenance_. _Their delight shall be daily in Thy name_,
_and in Thy righteousness shall they make their boast_. _For Thou art
the glory of their strength_: _and in Thy lovingkindness they shall be
exalted_. _As for me_, _I will behold Thy presence in righteousness_:
_and when I awake up after Thy likeness_, _I shall be satisfied with it_.
_Thou shalt shew me the path of life_; _in Thy presence is the fulness of
joy_, _and at Thy right hand there is pleasure for evermore_.
Footnotes:
{1} 1 Cor. xii
{2} Suppose a man of learning to be writing a grave book upon _human
nature_, and to show in several parts of it that he had an insight into
the subject he was considering, amongst other things, the following one
would require to be accounted for--the appearance of benevolence or good-
will in men towards each other in the instances of natural relation, and
in others. {2a} Cautions of being deceived with outward show, he retires
within himself to see exactly what that is in the mind of man from whence
this appearance proceeds; and, upon deep reflection, asserts the
principle in the mind to be only the love of power, and delight in the
exercise of it. Would not everybody think here was a mistake of one word
for another--that the philosopher was contemplating and accounting for
some other _human actions_, some other behaviour of man to man? And
could any one be thoroughly satisfied that what is commonly called
benevolence or good-will was really the affection meant, but only by
being made to understand that this learned person had a general
hypothesis, to which the appearance of good-will could no otherwise be
reconciled? That what has this appearance is often nothing but ambition;
that delight in superiority often (suppose always) mixes itself with
benevolence, only makes it more specious to call it ambition than hunger,
of the two: but in reality that passion does no more account for the
whole appearances of good-will than this appetite does. Is there not
often the appearance of one man's wishing that good to another, which he
knows himself unable to procure him; and rejoicing in it, though bestowed
by a third person? And can love of power any way possibly come in to
account for this desire or delight? Is there not often the appearance of
men's distinguishing between two or more persons, preferring one before
another, to do good to, in cases where love of power cannot in the least
account for the distinction and preference? For this principle can no
otherwise distinguish between objects than as it is a greater instance
and exertion of power to do good to one rather than to another. Again,
suppose good-will in the mind of man to be nothing but delight in the
exercise of power: men might indeed be restrained by distant and
accidental consideration; but these restraints being removed, they would
have a disposition to, and delight in, mischief as an exercise and proof
of power: and this disposition and delight would arise from, or be the
same principle in the mind, as a disposition to and delight in charity.
Thus cruelty, as distinct from envy and resentment, would be exactly the
same in the mind of man as good-will: that one tends to the happiness,
the other to the misery, of our fellow-creatures, is, it seems, merely an
accidental circumstance, which the mind has not the least regard to.
These are the absurdities which even men of capacity run into when they
have occasion to belie their nature, and will perversely disclaim that
image of God which was originally stamped upon it, the traces of which,
however faint, are plainly discernible upon the mind of man.
If any person can in earnest doubt whether there be such a thing as good-
will in one man towards another (for the question is not concerning
either the degree or extensiveness of it, but concerning the affection
itself), let it be observed that _whether man be thus_, _or otherwise
constituted_, _what is the inward frame in this particular_ is a mere
question of fact of natural history not provable immediately by reason.
It is therefore to be judged of and determined in the same way other
facts or matters of natural history are--by appealing to the external
senses, or inward perceptions respectively, as the matter under
consideration is cognisable by one or the other: by arguing from
acknowledged facts and actions for a great number of actions in the same
kind, in different circumstances, and respecting different objects, will
prove to a certainty what principles they do not, and to the greatest
probability what principles they do, proceed from: and, lastly, by the
testimony of mankind. Now that there is some degree of benevolence
amongst men may be as strongly and plainly proved in all these ways, as
it could possibly be proved, supposing there was this affection in our
nature. And should any one think fit to assert that resentment in the
mind of man was absolutely nothing but reasonable concern for our own
safety, the falsity of this, and what is the real nature of that passion,
could be shown in no other ways than those in which it may be shown that
there is such a thing in _some degree_ as real good-will in man towards
man. It is sufficient that the seeds of it be implanted in our nature by
God. There is, it is owned, much left for us to do upon our own heart
and temper; to cultivate, to improve, to call it forth, to exercise it in
a steady, uniform manner. This is our work: this is virtue and religion.
{2a} Hobbes, "Of Human Nature," c. ix. 7.
{3} Everybody makes a distinction between self-love and the several
particular passions, appetites, and affections; and yet they are often
confounded again. That they are totally different, will be seen by any
one who will distinguish between the passions and appetites _themselves_,
and _endeavouring_ after the means of their gratification. Consider the
appetite of hunger, and the desire of esteem: these being the occasion
both of pleasure and pain, the coolest self-love, as well as the
appetites and passions themselves, may put us upon making use of the
_proper methods of obtaining_ that pleasure, and avoiding that pain; but
the _feelings_ themselves, the pain of hunger and shame, and the delight
from esteem, are no more self-love than they are anything in the world.
Though a man hated himself, he would as much feel the pain of hunger as
he would that of the gout; and it is plainly supposable there may be
creatures with self-love in them to the highest degree, who may be quite
insensible and indifferent (as men in some cases are) to the contempt and
esteem of those upon whom their happiness does not in some further
respects depend. And as self-love and the several particular passions
and appetites are in themselves totally different, so that some actions
proceed from one and some from the other will be manifest to any who will
observe the two following very supposable cases. One man rushes upon
certain ruin for the gratification of a present desire: nobody will call
the principle of this action self-love. Suppose another man to go
through some laborious work upon promise of a great reward, without any
distinct knowledge what the reward will be: this course of action cannot
be ascribed to any particular passion. The former of these actions is
plainly to be imputed to some particular passion or affection; the latter
as plainly to the general affection or principle of self-love. That
there are some particular pursuits or actions concerning which we cannot
determine how far they are owing to one, and how far to the other,
proceeds from this, that the two principles are frequently mixed
together, and run up into each other. This distinction is further
explained in the Eleventh Sermon.
{4} If any desire to see this distinction and comparison made in a
particular instance, the appetite and passion now mentioned may serve for
one. Hunger is to be considered as a private appetite, because the end
for which it was given us is the preservation of the individual. Desire
of esteem is a public passion; because the end for which it was given us
is to regulate our behaviour towards society. The respect which this has
to private good is as remote as the respect that has to public good; and
the appetite is no more self-love than the passion is benevolence. The
object and end of the former is merely food; the object and end of the
latter is merely esteem; but the latter can no more be gratified without
contributing to the good of society, than the former can be gratified
without contributing to the preservation of the individual.
{5} Emulation is merely the desire and hope of equality with or
superiority over others with whom we compare ourselves. There does not
appear to be any other _grief_ in the natural passion, but only _that
want_ which is implied in desire. However, this may be so strong as to
be the occasion of great _grief_. To desire the attainment of this
equality or superiority by the _particular means_ of others being brought
down to our own level, or below it, is, I think, the distinct notion of
envy. From whence it is easy to see that the real end, which the natural
passion emulation, and which the unlawful one envy aims at, is exactly
the same; namely, that equality or superiority: and consequently, that to
do mischief is not the end of envy, but merely the means it makes use of
to attain its end. As to resentment, see the Eighth Sermon.
{6} Ephes. ii. 3.
{7} Every man in his physical nature is one individual single agent. He
has likewise properties and principles, each of which may be considered
separately, and without regard to the respects which they have to each
other. Neither of these is the nature we are taking a view of. But it
is the inward frame of man considered as a _system_ or _constitution_:
whose several parts are united, not by a physical principle of
individuation, but by the respects they have to each other; the chief of
which is the subjection which the appetites, passions, and particular
affections have to the one supreme principle of reflection or conscience.
The system or constitution is formed by and consists in these respects
and this subjection. Thus the body is a _system_ or _constitution_: so
is a tree: so is every machine. Consider all the several parts of a tree
without the natural reselects they have to each other, and you have not
at all the idea of a tree; but add these respects, and this gives you the
idea. This body may be impaired by sickness, a tree may decay, a machine
be out of order, and yet the system and constitution of them not totally
dissolved. There is plainly somewhat which answers to all this in the
moral constitution of man. Whoever will consider his own nature will see
that the several appetites, passions, and particular affections have
different respects amongst themselves. They are restraints upon, and are
in a proportion to, each other. This proportion is just and perfect,
when all those under principles are perfectly coincident with conscience,
so far as their nature permits, and in all cases under its absolute and
entire direction. The least excess or defect, the least alteration of
the due proportions amongst themselves, or of their coincidence with
conscience, though not proceeding into action, is some degree of disorder
in the moral constitution. But perfection, though plainly intelligible
and unsupportable, was never attained by any man. If the higher
principle of reflection maintains its place, and as much as it can
corrects that disorder, and hinders it from breaking out into action,
this is all that can be expected in such a creature as man. And though
the appetites and passions have not their exact due proportion to each
other, though they often strive for mastery with judgment or reflection,
yet, since the superiority of this principle to all others is the chief
respect which forms the constitution, so far as this superiority is
maintained, the character, the man, is good, worthy, virtuous.
{8} Chap. iii., ver. 6.
{9} Job xiii. 5.
{10} Eccles. x. 3.
{11} Prov. x. 19.
{12} Mark xii. 38, 40.
{13} There being manifestly this appearance of men's substituting others
for themselves, and being carried out and affected towards them as
towards themselves; some persons, who have a system which excludes every
affection of this sort, have taken a pleasant method to solve it; and
tell you it is _not another_ you are at all concerned about, but your
_self only_, when you feel the affection called compassion, _i.e._ Here
is a plain matter of fact, which men cannot reconcile with the general
account they think fit to give of things: they therefore, instead of that
manifest fact, substitute _another_, which is reconcilable to their own
scheme. For does not everybody by compassion mean an affection, the
object of which is another in distress? instead of this, but designing to
have it mistaken for this, they speak of an affection or passion, the
object of which is ourselves, or danger to ourselves. Hobbes defines
_pity_, _imagination_, _or fiction of future calamity to ourselves_,
_proceeding from the sense_ (he means sight or knowledge) _of another
man's calamity_. Thus fear and compassion would be the same idea, and a
fearful and a compassionate man the same character, which every one
immediately sees are totally different. Further, to those who give any
scope to their affections, there is no perception or inward feeling more
universal than this: that one who has been merciful and compassionate
throughout the course of his behaviour should himself be treated with
kindness, if he happens to fall into circumstances of distress. Is fear,
then, or cowardice, so great a recommendation to the favour of the bulk
of mankind? Or is it not plain that mere fearlessness (and therefore not
the contrary) is one of the most popular qualifications? This shows that
mankind are not affected towards compassion as fear, but as somewhat
totally different.
Nothing would more expose such accounts as these of the affections which
are favourable and friendly to our fellow-creatures than to substitute
the definitions, which this author, and others who follow his steps, give
of such affections, instead of the words by which they are commonly
expressed. Hobbes, after having laid down that pity or compassion is
only fear for ourselves, goes on to explain the reason why we pity our
friends in distress more than others. Now substitute the word
_definition_ instead of the word _pity_ in this place, and the inquiry
will be, why we fear our friends, &c., which words (since he really does
not mean why we are afraid of them) make no question or sentence at all.
So that common language, the words _to compassionate_, _to pity_, cannot
be accommodated to his account of compassion. The very joining of the
words to _pity our friends_ is a direct contradiction to his definition
of pity: because those words, so joined, necessarily express that our
friends are the objects of the passion; whereas his definition of it
asserts that ourselves (or danger to ourselves) are the only objects of
it. He might indeed have avoided this absurdity, by plainly saying what
he is going to account for; namely, why the sight of the innocent, or of
our friends in distress, raises greater fear for ourselves than the sight
of other persons in distress. But had he put the thing thus plainly, the
fact itself would have been doubted; that _the sight of our friends in
distress raises in us greater fear for ourselves than the sight of others
in distress_. And in the next place it would immediately have occurred
to every one that the fact now mentioned, which at least is doubtful
whether, true or false, was not the same with this fact, which nobody
ever doubted, that _the sight of our friends in distress raises in us
greater compassion than the sight of others in distress_: every one, I
say, would have seen that these are not the same, but _two different_
inquiries; and, consequently, that fear and compassion are not the same.
Suppose a person to be in real danger, and by some means or other to have
forgot it; any trifling accident, any sound might alarm him, recall the
danger to his remembrance, and renew his fear; but it is almost too
grossly ridiculous (though it is to show an absurdity) to speak of that
sound or accident as an object of compassion; and yet, according to Mr.
Hobbes, our greatest friend in distress is no more to us, no more the
object of compassion, or of any affection in our heart: neither the one
nor the other raises any emotion in one mind, but only the thoughts of
our liableness to calamity, and the fear of it; and both equally do this.
It is fit such sort of accounts of human nature should be shown to be
what they really are, because there is raised upon them a general scheme,
which undermines the whole foundation of common justice and honesty. See
_Hobbes of Human Nature_, c. 9. section 10.
There are often three distinct perceptions or inward feelings upon sight
of persons in distress: real sorrow and concern for the misery of our
fellow-creatures; some degree of satisfaction from a consciousness of our
freedom from that misery; and as the mind passes on from one thing to
another it is not unnatural from such an occasion to reflect upon our own
liableness to the same or other calamities. The two last frequently
accompany the first, but it is the first _only_ which is properly
compassion, of which the distressed are the objects, and which directly
carries us with calmness and thought to their assistance. Any one of
these, from various and complicated reasons, may in particular cases
prevail over the other two; and there are, I suppose, instances, where
the bare _sight_ of distress, without our feeling any compassion for it,
may be the occasion of either or both of the two latter perceptions. One
might add that if there be really any such thing as the fiction or
imagination of danger to ourselves from sight of the miseries of others,
which Hobbes specks of, and which he has absurdly mistaken for the whole
of compassion; if there be anything of this sort common to mankind,
distinct from the reflection of reason, it would be a most remarkable
instance of what was furthest from his thoughts--namely, of a mutual
sympathy between each particular of the species, a fellow-feeling common
to mankind. It would not indeed be an example of our substituting others
for ourselves, but it would be an example of user substituting ourselves
for others. And as it would not be an instance of benevolence, so
neither would it be any instance of self-love: for this phantom of danger
to ourselves, naturally rising to view upon sight of the distresses of
others, would be no more an instance of love to ourselves than the pain
of hunger is.
{14} Ecclus. xxxii. 28.
{15} Ecclus. xlii. 24.
{16} Ver. 4, 5.
{17} Ver. 6.
{18} Micah vi.
{19} Chap. xxii. 12.
{20} Ver. 21.
{21} Chap. iv.
{22} Chap. xxv.
{23} Chap. xxxi.
{24} Chap. ii.
{24a} In the Cassell edition the sermons jump from sermon VII to XI with
no explanation as to where VIII, IX and X are. I've left the numbering
as is in case there is a good reason for it.--DP.
{25} P. 137.
{26} Matt. v. 48.
{27} 1 Cor. xiii.
{28} For instance as we are not competent judges, what is upon the whole
for the good of the world, there _may_ be other immediate ends appointed
us to pursue, besides that one of doing good or producing happiness.
Though the good of the Creation be the only end of the Author of it, yet
he may have laid us under particular obligations, which we may discern
and feel ourselves under, quite distinct from a perception, that the
observance or violation of them it for the happiness or misery of our
fellow-creatures. And this is in fart the ease, for there are certain
dispositions of mind, and certain actions, which are in themselves
approved or disapproved by mankind, abstracted from the consideration of
their tendency to the happiness or misery of the world approved or
disapproved by reflection, by that principle within, whirls is the guile
of life, the judge of right and wrong. Numberless instances of this kind
might be mentioned. There are pieces of treachery, which in themselves
appear base and detestable to every one. There are actions, which
perhaps can scarce have any other general name given them than
indecencies, which yet are odious and shocking to human nature. There is
such a thing as meanness, a little mind, which as it is quite distinct
from incapacity, so it raises a dislike and disapprobation quite
different from that contempt, which men are too apt to have, of mere
folly. On the other hand, what we call greatness of mind is the object
of another most of approbation, than superior understanding. Fidelity,
honour, strict justice, are themselves approved in the highest degree,
abstracted from the consideration of their tendency. Now, whether it be
thought that each of these are connected with benevolence in our nature,
amid so may he considered as the same thing with it, or whether some of
them he thought an inferior kind of virtues and vices, somewhat like
natural beauties and deformities, or lastly, plain exceptions to the
general rule, thus such however is certain, that the things now instanced
in, and numberless others, are approved or disapproved by mankind in
general, in quite another view than as conducive to the happiness or
misery of the world.
{29} St. Austin observes, Amor ipse ordinate amandus est, quo bene
amatur quod amandum sit, ut sit in nobis virtue qua vivitur bene, _i.e._
_The affection which we rightly have for what is lovely must ordinate
justly_, _in due manner end proportion_, _become the object of a new
affection_, _or be itself beloved_, _in order to our being endued with
that virtue which is the principle of a good life_. Civ. Dei, 1. xv. c.
22.
{30} Job xxii.
{31} Job ix. 2.
{32} Eccius. xliii. 50.