  Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the former book—Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow—Prodigies enumerated—Sicilian earthquakes—Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin—God the agent in them—The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved—Our own late miscarriages accounted for—Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontainbleau—But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation—The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons—Petit-maÎtre parson—The good preacher—Picture of a theatrical clerical coxcomb—Story-tellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved—Apostrophe to popular applause—Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with—Sum of the whole matter—Effects of sacerdotal mismanagement on the laity—Their folly and extravagance—The mischiefs of profusion—Profusion itself, with all its consequent evils, ascribed, as to its principal cause, to the want of discipline in the universities. Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumour of oppression and deceit, Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more! My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick, with every day's report Of wrong and outrage with which earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart, It does not feel for man; the natural bond Of brotherhood is sever'd as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colour'd like his own; and, having power To enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interposed Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplored, As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy, with a bleeding heart, Weeps when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep, And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation prized above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home:—then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loosed. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through every vein Of all your empire; that where Britain's power Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too. Sure there is need of social intercourse, Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid, Between the nations in a world that seems To toll the death-bell of its own decease, And by the voice of all its elements To preach the general doom. Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? Fires from beneath, and meteors Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd, Have kindled beacons in the skies; and the old And crazy earth has had her shaking fits More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. Is it a time to wrangle, when the props And pillars of our planet seem to fail, And Nature To wait the close of all? But grant her end More distant, and that prophecy demands A longer respite, unaccomplished yet; Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak Displeasure in his breast who smites the earth Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve And stand exposed by common peccancy To what no few have felt, there should be peace, And brethren in calamity should love. Lie scatter'd where the shapely column stood. Her palaces are dust. In all her streets The voice of singing and the sprightly chord Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; While God performs upon the trembling stage Of his own works the dreadful part alone. How does the earth receive him?—with what signs Of gratulation and delight her King? Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads? She quakes at his approach. Her hollow womb Conceiving thunders, through a thousand deeps And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot. The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke, For he has touch'd them. From the extremest point Of elevation down into the abyss His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, The rivers die into offensive pools, And, charged with putrid verdure, breathe a gross And mortal nuisance into all the air, What solid was, by transformation strange, Grows fluid; and the fix'd and rooted earth, Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, Or with a vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense The tumult and the overthrow, the pangs And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on every side, And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted; and with all its soil Alighting in far distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought To an enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that Voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Resistless. Never such a sudden flood, Upridged so high, and sent on such a charge, Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the throng That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart, Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep— A prince with half his people! Ancient towers, And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume Life in the unproductive shades of death, Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, And, happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigours of restraint, enjoy The terrors of the day that sets them free. Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee fast, Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, That e'en a judgment, making way for thee, Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake. Such evil sin hath wrought; and such a flame Kindled in heaven, that it burns down to earth, And, in the furious inquest that it makes On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works. The very elements, though each be meant The minister of man, to serve his wants, Conspire against him. With his breath he draws A plague into his blood; and cannot use Life's necessary means, but he must die. Storms rise to o'erwhelm him: or if stormy winds Rise not, the waters of the deep shall rise, And, needing none assistance of the storm, Shall roll themselves ashore, and reach him there. The earth shall shake him out of all his holds, Or make his house his grave: nor so content, Shall counterfeit the motions of the flood, And drown him in her dry and dusty gulfs. What then!—were they the wicked above all, And we the righteous, whose fast-anchor'd isle Moved not, while theirs was rock'd, like a light skiff, The sport of every wave? No: none are clear, And none than we more guilty. But, where all Stand chargeable with guilt, and to the shafts Of wrath obnoxious, God may choose his mark: May punish, if he please, the less, to warn The more malignant. If he spared not them, Tremble and be amazed at thine escape, Far guiltier England, lest he spare not thee! Happy the man who sees a God employ'd In all the good and ill that chequer life! Resolving all events, with their effects And manifold results, into the will And arbitration wise of the Supreme. Did not his eye rule all things, and intend The least of our concerns (since from the least The greatest oft originate;) could chance Find place in his dominion, or dispose One lawless particle to thwart his plan; Then God might be surprised, and unforeseen Contingence might alarm him, and disturb The smooth and equal course of his affairs. This truth Philosophy, though eagle-eyed In nature's tendencies, oft overlooks; And, having found his instrument, forgets, Or disregards, or, more presumptuous still, Denies the power that wields it. God proclaims His hot displeasure against foolish men, That live an atheist life: involves the heaven In tempests; quits his grasp upon the winds, And gives them all their fury; bids a plague Kindle a fiery boil upon the skin, And putrefy the breath of blooming Health. He calls for Famine, and the meagre fiend Blows mildew from between his shrivell'd lips, And taints the golden ear. He springs his mines, And desolates a nation at a blast. Forth steps the spruce philosopher, and tells Of homogeneal and discordant springs And principles; of causes, how they work By necessary laws their sure effects; Of action and re-action. He has found The source of the disease that nature feels, And bids the world take heart and banish fear. Thou fool! will thy discovery of the cause Suspend the effect, or heal it? Has not God Still wrought by means since first he made the world? And did he not of old employ his means To drown it? What is his creation less Than a capacious reservoir of means Form'd for his use, and ready at his will? Go, dress thine eyes with eye-salve; ask of him, Or ask of whomsoever he has taught; And learn, though late, the genuine cause of all. England, with all thy faults, I love thee still— My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrain'd to love thee. Though thy clime Be fickle, and thy year most part deform'd I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies, And fields without a flower, for warmer France With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves Of golden fruitage, and her myrtle bowers. To shake thy senate, and from heights sublime Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire Upon thy foes, was never meant my task: But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake Thy joys and sorrows, with as true a heart As any thunderer there. And I can feel Thy follies too; and with a just disdain Frown at effeminates, whose very looks Reflect dishonour on the land I love. How, in the name of soldiership and sense, Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er With odours, and as profligate as sweet; Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath, And love when they should fight; when such as these Presume to lay their hand upon the ark Of her magnificent and awful cause? Time was when it was praise and boast enough In every clime, and travel where we might, That we were born her children. Praise enough To fill the ambition of a private man, That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own. Farewell those honours, and farewell with them The hope of such hereafter! They have fallen Each in his field of glory; one in arms, And one in council—Wolfe upon the lap Of smiling Victory that moment won, And Chatham heart-sick of his country's shame! They made us many soldiers. Chatham, still Consulting England's happiness at home, Secured it by an unforgiving frown, If any wrong'd her. Wolfe, where'er he fought, Put so much of his heart into his act, That his example had a magnet's force, And all were swift to follow whom all loved. Those suns are set. Oh rise some other such! Or all that we have left is empty talk Of old achievements and despair of new. Now hoist the sail, and let the streamers float Upon the wanton breezes. Strew the deck With lavender, and sprinkle liquid sweets, That no rude savour maritime invade The nose of nice nobility! Breathe soft, Ye clarionets; and softer still, ye flutes; That winds and waters, lull'd by magic sounds, May bear us smoothly to the Gallic shore! True, we have lost an empire—let it pass. True; we may thank the perfidy of France, That pick'd the jewel out of England's crown, With all the cunning of an envious shrew. And let that pass—'twas but a trick of state! A brave man knows no malice, but at once Forgets in peace the injuries of war, And gives his direst foe a friend's embrace. And, shamed as we have been, to the very beard Braved and defied, and in our own sea proved Too weak for those decisive blows that once Ensured us mastery there, we yet retain Some small pre-eminence; we justly boast At least superior jockeyship, and claim The honours of the turf as all our own! Go then, well worthy of the praise ye seek, And show the shame ye might conceal at home In foreign eyes!—be grooms and win the plate, Where once your nobler fathers won a crown!— 'Tis generous to communicate your skill To those that need it! Folly is soon learn'd: And under such preceptors who can fail! There is a pleasure in poetic pains Which only poets know. The shifts and turns, The expedients and inventions multiform, To which the mind resorts, in chase of terms Though apt, yet coy, and difficult to win— To arrest the fleeting images that fill The mirror of the mind, and hold them fast, And force them sit till he has pencil'd off A faithful likeness of the forms he views: Then to dispose his copies with such art, That each may find its most propitious light, And shine by situation, hardly less Than by the labour and the skill it cost; Are occupations of the poet's mind So pleasing, and that steal away the thought With such address from themes of sad import, That, lost in his own musings, happy man! He feels the anxieties of life, denied Their wonted entertainment, all retire. Such joys has he that sings. But ah! not such, Or seldom such, the hearers of his song. Fastidious, or else listless, or perhaps Aware of nothing arduous in a task They never undertook, they little note His dangers or escapes, and haply find Their least amusement where he found the most. But is amusement all? Studious of song, And yet ambitious not to sing in vain, I would not trifle merely, though the world Be loudest in their praise who do no more. Yet what can satire, whether grave or gay? It may correct a foible, may chastise The freaks of fashion, regulate the dress, Retrench a sword-blade, or displace a patch; But where are its sublimer trophies found? What vice has it subdued? whose heart reclaim'd By rigour? or whom laugh'd into reform? Alas! Leviathan is not so tamed: Laugh'd at, he laughs again; and, stricken hard, Turns to the stroke his adamantine scales, That fear no discipline of human hands. The pulpit, therefore (and I name it fill'd With solemn awe, that bids me well beware With what intent I touch that holy thing)— The pulpit (when the satirist has at last, Strutting and vapouring in an empty school, Spent all his force, and made no proselyte)— I say the pulpit (in the sober use Of its legitimate, peculiar powers) Must stand acknowledged, while the world shall stand, The most important and effectual guard, Support, and ornament of Virtue's cause. There stands the messenger of truth: there stands The legate of the skies!—His theme divine, His office sacred, his credentials clear. By him the violated law speaks out Its thunders; and by him, in strains as sweet As angels use, the Gospel whispers peace. He 'stablishes the strong, restores the weak, Reclaims the wanderer, binds the broken heart, Of heavenly temper, furnishes with arms Bright as his own, and trains, by every rule Of holy discipline, to glorious war, The sacramental host of God's elect! Are all such teachers?—would to heaven all were! But hark—the doctor's voice!—fast wedged between Two empirics he stands, and with swoll'n cheeks Inspires the news, his trumpet. Keener far Than all invective is his bold harangue, While through that public organ of report He hails the clergy; and, defying shame, Announces to the world his own and theirs! He teaches those to read, whom schools dismiss'd, And colleges, untaught; sells accent, tone, And emphasis in score, and gives to prayer The adagio and andante it demands. He grinds divinity of other days Down into modern use; transforms old print To zigzag manuscript, and cheats the eyes Of gallery critics by a thousand arts. Are there who purchase of the doctor's ware? Oh, name it not in Gath!—it cannot be, That grave and learned clerks should need such aid. He doubtless is in sport, and does but droll, Assuming thus a rank unknown before— Grand caterer and drynurse of the church! I venerate the man whose heart is warm, Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life, Coincident, exhibit lucid proof That he is honest in the sacred cause, To such I render more than mere respect, Whose actions say that they respect themselves, But loose in morals, and in manners vain, In conversation frivolous, in dress Extreme, at once rapacious and profuse; Frequent in park with lady at his side, Ambling and prattling scandal as he goes; But rare at home, and never at his books, Or with his pen, save when he scrawls a card; Constant at routs, familiar with a round Of ladyships—a stranger to the poor; Ambitious of preferment for its gold, And well prepared, by ignorance and sloth, By infidelity and love of world, To make God's work a sinecure; a slave To his own pleasures and his patron's pride: From such apostles, O ye mitred heads, Preserve the church! and lay not careless hands On skulls that cannot teach, and will not learn. Would I describe a preacher, such as Paul, Were he on earth, would hear, approve, and own— Paul should himself direct me. I would trace His master strokes, and draw from his design. I would express him simple, grave, sincere; In doctrine uncorrupt; in language plain, And plain in manner; decent, solemn, chaste, And natural in gesture; much impress'd Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men. Behold the picture! Is it like?—Like whom? The things that mount the rostrum with a skip, And then skip down again; pronounce a text; Cry—hem; and reading what they never wrote, Just fifteen minutes, huddle up their work, And with a well-bred whisper close the scene! In man or woman, but far most in man, And most of all in man that ministers And serves the altar, in my soul I loathe All affectation. 'Tis my perfect scorn; Object of my implacable disgust. What! will a man play tricks? will he indulge A silly fond conceit of his fair form, And just proportion, fashionable mien, And pretty face, in presence of his God? Or will he seek to dazzle me with tropes, As with the diamond on his lily hand, And play his brilliant parts before my eyes, When I am hungry for the bread of life? He mocks his Maker, prostitutes and shames His noble office, and, instead of truth, Displaying his own beauty, starves his flock! Therefore, avaunt all attitude, and stare, I seek divine simplicity in him Who handles things divine; and all besides, Though learn'd with labour, and though much admired By curious eyes and judgments ill inform'd, To me is odious as the nasal twang Heard at conventicle, where worthy men, Misled by custom, strain celestial themes Through the press'd nostril, spectacle-bestrid. Some, decent in demeanour while they preach, That task perform'd, relapse into themselves; And, having spoken wisely, at the close Grow wanton, and give proof to every eye, Whoe'er was edified, themselves were not! Forth comes the pocket mirror.—First we stroke An eyebrow; next compose a straggling lock; Then with an air most gracefully perform'd Fall back into our seat, extend an arm, And lay it at its ease with gentle care, With handkerchief in hand depending low: The better hand more busy gives the nose Its bergamot, or aids the indebted eye With opera glass, to watch the moving scene, And recognise the slow-retiring fair.— Now this is fulsome; and offends me more Than in a churchman slovenly neglect And rustic coarseness would. A heavenly mind May be indifferent to her house of clay, And slight the hovel as beneath her care; But how a body so fantastic, trim, And quaint, in its deportment and attire, Can lodge a heavenly mind—demands a doubt. He that negotiates between God and man, As God's ambassador, the grand concerns Of judgment and of mercy, should beware Of lightness in his speech. 'Tis pitiful To court a grin, when you should woo a soul; To break a jest, when pity would inspire Pathetic exhortation; and to address The skittish fancy with facetious tales, When sent with God's commission to the heart! So did not Paul. Direct me to a quip Or merry turn in all he ever wrote, And I consent you take it for your text, Your only one, till sides and benches fail. No: he was serious in a serious cause, And understood too well the weighty terms That he had taken in charge. He would not stoop Whom truth and soberness assail'd in vain. O popular applause! what heart of man Is proof against thy sweet seducing charms? The wisest and the best feel urgent need Of all their caution in thy gentlest gales; But, swell'd into a gust—who then, alas! With all his canvas set, and inexpert, And therefore heedless, can withstand thy power? Praise, from the rivell'd lips of toothless, bald Decrepitude, and in the looks of lean And craving Poverty, and in the bow Respectful of the smutch'd artificer, Is oft too welcome, and may much disturb The bias of the purpose. How much more, Pour'd forth by beauty splendid and polite, In language soft as Adoration breathes? Ah, spare your idol! think him human still. Charms he may have, but he has frailties too! Dote not too much, nor spoil what ye admire. All truth is from the sempiternal source Of light divine. But Egypt, Greece, and Rome Drew from the stream below. More favour'd, we Drink, when we choose it, at the fountain-head. To them it flow'd much mingled and defiled With hurtful error, prejudice, and dreams Illusive of philosophy, so call'd, But falsely. Sages after sages strove In vain to filter off a crystal draught Pure from the lees, which often more enhanced The thirst than slaked it, and not seldom bred Intoxication and delirium wild. In vain they push'd inquiry to the birth And spring-time of the world; ask'd, Whence is man? Why form'd at all? and wherefore as he is? Where must he find his Maker? with what rites Adore him? Will he hear, accept, and bless? Or does he sit regardless of his works? Has man within him an immortal seed? Or does the tomb take all? If he survive His ashes, where? and in what weal or woe? Knots worthy of solution, which alone A Deity could solve. Their answers, vague And all at random, fabulous and dark, Left them as dark themselves. Their rules of life, Defective and unsanction'd, proved too weak To bind the roving appetite, and lead Blind nature to a God not yet reveal'd. 'Tis Revelation satisfies all doubts, Explains all mysteries, except her own, And so illuminates the path of life That fools discover it, and stray no more. Now tell me, dignified and sapient sir, My man of morals, nurtured in the shades Of Academus—is this false or true? Is Christ the abler teacher, or the schools? If Christ, then why resort at every turn To Athens or to Rome, for wisdom short Of man's occasions, when in him reside Grace, knowledge, comfort—an unfathom'd store? How oft, when Paul has served us with a text, Has Epictetus, Plato, Tully preach'd! Men that, if now alive, would sit content And humble learners of a Saviour's worth, Preach it who might. Such was their love of truth, Their thirst of knowledge, and their candour too! And thus it is.—The pastor, either vain By nature, or by flattery made so, taught To gaze at his own splendour, and to exalt Absurdly, not his office, but himself; Or unenlighten'd, and too proud to learn; Or vicious, and not therefore apt to teach; Perverting often, by the stress of lewd And loose example, whom he should instruct; Exposes, and holds up to broad disgrace The noblest function, and discredits much The brightest truths that man has ever seen. For ghostly counsel |
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