DEO REIPUBLICA ET AMICIS.
"Gronze Duffield A.M
In tali nunquam lassat venatio sylva.
A.D.1884.
PYYTYYYY Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y
Tappan Presbyterian Association
LIBRARY.
Presented by HON. D. BETHUNE DUFFIELD.
From Library of Rev. Geo. Duffieid, D.D.
828
M835
1835

Mrr Isabella G. Driffield.
"
with the affectionate seque
Ser
Regards
Time: Carkee
New God May 1835
THE
WORK S
OF
HANNA H MORE.
=
FIRST COMPLETE AMERICAN EDITION.
I.
NEW-YORK:
PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS,
No. 82 CLIFF-STREET,
AND SOLD BY THE PRINCIPAL BOOKSELLERS THROUGHOUT THE
UNITED STATES.
1835.
011-6-3/9vO
A
детс
Toppon Pert Ass
11-4-
PUBLISHERS' ADDRESS.
WHEN the veil of mortality descends upon splendid genius, that has been long de-
voted to the instruction and best interests of mankind, the noblest monument that
can be erected to commemorate its worth and perpetuate its usefulness, is the col-
lection of those productions which, when separately published, delighted and edified
the world.
No writer of the past or present age has equalled HANNAH MORE in the appli-
cation of great talents to the improvement of society, through all its distinctions,
from the humblest to the most exalted station in life. Her works have, indeed, in
a very striking manner, and to an extraordinary extent, given a new and most im-
portant feature to the moral character of the nation she adorned. They have dif-
fused vital religion, in faith and practice, over districts where its mere external
form was before scarcely to be seen; and, what is still more deserving of admiration,
this accomplished lady, by the power of her reasoning, and the elegance of her
compositions, has succeeded, if the phrase may be permitted, in rendering piety
fashionable and popular, where even the name of religion was, and that at no very
distant period, treated with indifference, if not with absolute contempt.
After establishing her claim to the highest station in the temple of poetical fame,
HANNAH MORE resolved to consecrate her talents wholly to His service from
whom she had received them. This determination she carried into effect; and
inconceivably great and extensive were the benefits it produced. When licentious
principles began to be promulgated with industrious zeal, and to threaten the foun-
dations of all moral and social order, then did this Christian heroine, armed in the
panoply of truth, appear foremost to oppose the inroads of the enemies of righte-
ousness. The success was unexampled. The tracts which, with uncommon
celerity and admirable judgment, came from her fertile pen, operated like a charm,
in confirming the wavering, and appalling the evil mind.
The venerable Bishop PORTEUS, in a charge delivered to the clergy of his
diocess in 1798, having noticed the exertions made by different pious writers to ex-
cite the spirit of religion, says, "To these it would now be injustice not to add the
name of another highly approved author, Mrs. HANNAH MORE; whose extraordi-
nary and versatile talents can equally accommodate themselves to the cottage and
the palace; who, while she is diffusing among the lower orders of the people an
infinity of little religious tracts, calculated to reform and comfort them in this world,
and to save them in the next, is at the same time applying all the powers of a vigorous
and highly cultivated mind to the instruction, improvement, and high delight of the
most exalted of her own sex. I allude more particularly to her last work, on female
education, which presents to the reader such a fund of good sense, of wholesome
counsel, of sagacious observation, of knowledge of the world and of the female
heart, of high-toned morality, and genuine Christian piety; and all this enlivened
with such brilliancy of wit, such richness of imagery, such variety and felicity of
vi
PUBLISHERS' ADDRESS.
allusion, such neatness and elegance of diction, as are not, I conceive, easily to be
found so combined and blended together in any other work in the English language.
Of the above-mentioned little tracts, no less than two millions were sold in the first
year; and they contributed, I am persuaded, very essentially to counteract the
poison of those impious and immoral pamphlets, which were dispersed over the
kingdom in such numbers by societies of infidels and disaffected persons."
The popularity of Mrs. More's writings, never sensibly diminished, even by the
vast increase of excellent and highly esteemed works in every department of liter-
ature by which the last twenty years have been distinguished, has been revived to
an extent, perhaps, even greater than they achieved in the early period of their ex-
istence, by the recent publication of the admirable memoirs of her life and corre-
spondence, prepared with so much skill and judgment by her chosen biographer and
literary executor, Mr. Roberts; a work upon which the strongest language of ap-
proving criticism has been and still is bestowed by the highest authorities, both in
this country and in England. The general acceptation with which those volumes
were received, would have encouraged the publishers to follow them with an edition
of Mrs. More's writings, even had they not been repeatedly advised and urged to
the undertaking, not only by friends and in private, but by the almost united voice
of the press throughout the Union. Had they not assumed it, with these induce-
ments, they would have considered themselves as in some measure neglecting a duty,
standing as they do in the light of caterers for the literary gratification of the public,
whose wishes and opinions they are bound to respect, at least, if not implicitly
to follow.
It is hoped and believed that the present collection, which contains all the wri-
tings of that eminent lady, in a convenient as well as handsome form, and is published
at a very moderate price, will be received with a degree of favour not less cordial and
extensive than that which was and still is accorded to the memoirs. To adopt the
words of a religious periodical of high character, used in speaking of those vol-
umes, it may be asserted that "it will please the superficial, improve the intelli-
gent, and receive the hearty commendation of the serious reader. The young and
the old, the lively and the sedate, will derive from it pleasure and profit."
The publishers cannot refrain from quoting the following just and happy expres-
sions, from another publication devoted to the interests of religion. "But the view
of her influence upon mankind will be exceedingly imperfect, unless we take into the
estimate the whole number of individuals who have derived already, and will here-
after derive from her writings, the purest principles of religion, philosophy, and virtue.
These can never be numbered, but they may safely be put down at millions. Now
if all these readers gain but a single important suggestion, are incited to practise a
single virtue, or to refrain from a single vice—if but one in ten is made wiser or
better by her publications, how immeasurable is the good effected by her mind!"
“A soul thus active, spread out upon so wide a range of objects, impressing its
own beauties and breathing its own spirit upon such myriads of kindred beings,
demonstrates its own immortality, and proclaims in the history of the world the ex-
hilarating truth, that the united acquisitions of piety, intellect, and virtue, centring
their operations on that which is immortal, possess a grandeur which renders the con-
quests of pride and power insignificant as empty bubbles, and is more substantially
glorious than the gorgeous enchantments of imperial magnificence."
PREFACE.
WHATEVER objections may be urged against the literary character of the present day, it must
however be allowed to exhibit an evident improvement in some material points. It is for in-
stance, no new observation, that vanity and flattery are now less generally ostensible even in the
most indifferent authors than they were formerly in some of the best. The most self-sufficient
writer is at length driven, by the prevailing sense of propriety, to be contented with thinking
himself the prime genius of the age; but he seldom ventures to tell you that he thinks so.
Va-
nity is compelled to acquire or to assume a better taste.
That spirit of independence also, which has in many respects impressed so mischievous a
stamp on the public character, has perhaps helped to correct the style of prefaces and dedications.
Literary patronage is so much shorn of its beams, that it can no longer enlighten bodies which
are in themselves opake; so much abridged of its power that it cannot force into notice a work
which is not able to recommend itself. The favour of an individual no longer boasts that buoyant
quality which enables that to swim which by its own nature is disposed to sink. The influence
of an Augustus, or a Louis Quatorze, of a Mæcenas, a Dorset, a Halifax, could not now pro-
cure readers, much less could it compel admirers for the panegyrist, if the panegyrist himself,
could command admiration on no better ground than the authority of the patron. The once di-
lated preface is shrunk into plain apology or simple exposition. The long and lofty dedication
(generally speaking) dwindled into a sober expression of respect for public virtue, a concise tri-
bute of affection to private friendship, or an acknowledgment for personal obligation. It is no
longer necessary for the dependant to be profane in order to be grateful. No more are all the
divine attributes snatched from their rightful possessor, and impiously appropriated by the needy
writer to the opulent patron. He still makes indeed the eulogium of his protector, but not his
apotheosis. The vainest poet of our days dare not venture, like him who has however so glo-
riously accomplished his own prediction, to say, in so many words, that his own work is more
sublime than the royal heights of pyramids. Nor whatever secret compact he may make for his
duration, does he openly undertake to promise for his verse, that it shall flow coequal with the
rivers and survive the established forms of the religion of his country. The most venal poetic pa-
rasite no longer assures his protector, with unhappy Dryden,' that mankind can no more sub-
sist without his poetry (the earl of Middlesex's poetry!) than the world can subsist without the
daily course of Divine Providence. And it is but justice to the more sober spirit of living litera-
ture to observe, that our modesty would revolt (putting our sense and our religion out of the
question) were a modern poet to offer even an imperial patron to pick and choose his lodging
among the constellations; or, as some author has expressed it on a similar occasion, 'to ask what
apartment of the zodiack he would be pleased to occupy.'
So far at least our taste is reformed. And may we not venture to hope, from the affinity which
should subsist between correct judgment and unadulterated principle, that our ideas of truth and
manly integrity are improved also?
But it is time that I confine myself to the more immediate objects of the present address, in
which, in avoiding the exploded evil I have been reprobating, I would not affectedly run into the
opposite, and perhaps prevailing extreme.
It may not, it is presumed, be thought necessary to apologise for the publication of this collec-
tion, by enumerating all the reasons which produced it. 'Desire of friends,' is now become a
proverbial satire; the poet is driven from that once creditable refuge, behind which an unfounded
eagerness to appear in print used to shelter itself; and is obliged to abandon the untenable forts
and fastnesses of this last citadel of affectation. Dr. Johnson's sarcasm upon one plea will apply
to all, and put to flight the whole hackneyed train of false excuses-'If the book were not writ-
ten to be printed, I presume it was printed to be read.'
These scattered pieces, besides that they had been suffered to pass through successive editions,
with little or no correction, were in their original appearance, of all shapes and sizes, and utterly
unreducable to any companionable form. Several new pieces are here added, and most of the old
ones considerably altered and enlarged.
I should blush to produce so many slight productions of my early youth, did I not find reason
to be still more ashamed, that after a period of so many years the progress will be found to have
been so inconsiderable, and the difference so little apparent.
VOL. I.
PREFACE,
If I should presume to suggest as an apology for having still persisted to publish, that of the
latter productions, usefulness has been more invariably the object; whereas in many of the
earlier, amusement was more obviously proposed; if I were inclined to palliate my presumption
by pleading
That not in Fancy's maze I wander'd long;
it might be retorted that the implied plea, in favour of the latter publications, exhibits no sure
proof of humility in this instance than in the other. That, if in the first it was no evidence of
the modesty of the writer to fancy she could amuse, in the last it furnishes little proof of the
modesty of the woman to fancy that she can instruct. Now to amuse, or to instruct, or both, is
so undeniably the intention of all who obtrude their works on the public, that no preliminary
apology, no prefatory humiliation can quite do away the charge of a certain consciousnes of talents
which is implied in the very undertaking. The author professes his inability but he produces
his book; and by the publication itself controverts his own avowal of alleged incapacity. It is
to little purpose that the words are disparaging while the deed is assuming. Nor will that pro-
fession of self-abasement be much regarded, which is contradicted by an act that supposes self-
confidence.
If however there is too seldom found in the writer of the book, all the humility which the pre-
face announces, he may be allowed to plead on humility, which is at least comparative. On this
ground may I be permitted to declare, that at no period of my life did I ever feel such unfeigned
diffidence at the individual appearance of even the slightest pamphlet (the slenderness of whose
dimensions might carry some excuse for the small proportion of profit or pleasure it conveyed)
as I now feel at sending this, perhaps too voluminous, collection into the world. This self-distrust
may naturally be accounted for, by reflecting that this publication is deliberately made, not only
at a time of life when I ought best to know my own faults, and the faults of my writings; but
is made also at such a distance from the moment in which the several pieces were first struck
out, that the mind has had time to cool from the hurry and heat of composition; the judgment
has had leisure to operate, and it is the effect of that operation to rectify false notions and to cor-
rect rash conclusions. The critic, even of his own works, grows honest, if not acute at the end
of twenty years. The image, which he had fancied glowed so brightly when it came fresh from
the furnace, time has quuenched; the spirits which he thought fixed and essential, have evapo-
rated; many of the ideas which he imposed not only on his reader, but on himself, for originals,
more reading and more observation compel him to restore to their owners. And having detected,
from the perusal of abler works, either plagiarisms in his own, of which he was not aware, or
coincidences which will pass for plagiarisms; and blending with the new judgment of the critic,
the old indignation of the poet, who of us in this case is not angry with those who have said our
good things before us? We not only discover that what we thought we had invented we have
only remembered; but we find also that what we had believed to be perfect is full of defects; in
that which we had conceived to be pure gold, we discover much tinsel. For the revision, as was
observed above, is made at a period when the eye is brought by a due remoteness into that just
position which gives a clear and distinct view of things; a remoteness which disperses the illu-
sions of vision,' scatters the mists of vanity, reduces objects to their natural size, restores them
to their exact shape, makes them appear to the sight, such as they are in themselves, and such
as perhaps they have long appeared to all except the author,
That I have added to the mass of general knowledge by one original idea, or to the stock of
virtue by one original sentiment, I do not presume to hope. But that I have laboured assidu-
ously to make that kind of knowledge which is most indispensable to common life, familiar to
the unlearned, and acceptable to the young; that I have laboured to inculcate into both, the love
and practice of that virtue of which they had before derived the principles from higher sources,
I will not deny to have attempted.
To what is called learning I have never had any pretension. Life and manners have been the
objects of my unwearied observation, and every kind of study and habit has more or less recom,
mended itself to my mind, as it had more or less reference to these objects. Considering this
world as a scene of much action, and of little comparative knowledge; not as a stage for exhibi-
tion, or a retreat for speculation, but as a field on which the business which is to determine the
concerns of eternity is to be transacted; as a place of low regard as an end; but of unspeakable
importance as a means; a scene of short experiment, but lasting responsibility; I have been con-
tented to pursue myself, and to present to others (to my own sex chiefly) those truths, which, if
obvious and familiar, are yet practical, and of general application: things which if of little show,
are yet of some use; and which, if their separate value be not great, yet their aggregate im-
portance is not inconsiderable. I have pursued, not that which demands skill, and ensures re.
nown, but
That which before us lies in daily life.
If I have been favoured with a measure of success, which has as much exceeded my expecta
tion as my desert, I ascribe it partly to a disposition in the public mind to encourage, in these
days of alarm, attack, and agitation, any productions of which the tendency is favourable to good
order and Christian morals, even though the merit of the execution by no means keeps pace with
that of the principle. In some instances I trust I have written seasonably when I have not been
able to write well. Several pieces perhaps of small value in themselves have helped to supply in
PREFACE.
some inferior degree the exigence of the moment; and have had the advantage, not of supersed-
ing the necessity, or the appearance, of abler writings, but of exciting abler writers; who, seeing
how little I had been able to say on topics upon which much might be said, have more than sup.
plied my deficiencies by filling up what I had only superficially sketched out. On that which had
only a temporary use, I do not aspire to build a lasting reputation.
In the progress of ages, and after the gradual accumulation of literary productions, the humar
mind-I speak not of the scholar, or the philosopher, but of the multitude-the human mind
Athenian in this one propensity, the desire to hear and to tell some new thing, will reject, or over
look, or grow weary even of the standard works of the most established authors; while it wil
peruse with interest the current volume or popular pamphlet of the day. This hunger after no-
velty, by the way, is an instrument of inconceivable importance placed by Providence the
hands of every writer; and should strike him forcibly with the duty of turning this sha:p appe
tite to good account, by appeasing it with sound and wholesome aliment. It is not perhaps
that the work in actual circulation is comparable to many works which are neglected; but it is
new. And let the fortunate author militant, of moderate abilities, who is banquetting on hit
transient, and perhaps accidental popularity, use that popularity wisely; and, bearing in minċ
that he himself must expect to be neglected in his turn, let him thankfully seize his little season of
fugitive renown; let him devote his ephemeral importance, conscientiously to throw into the com
mon stock his quota of harmless pleasure or of moral profit. Let him unaffectedly rate his humble
but not unuseful labours, at their just price, nor despondingly conclude that he has written al
together in vain, though he do not see a public revolution of manners succeed, as he had perhaps
too fondly flattered himself, to the publication of his book. Let him not despair, if, though ho
have had many readers, he has had but few converts. Nor let him on the other hand be elated
by a celebrity which he may owe more to his novelty than to his genius, more to a happy combi-
nation in the circumstances of the times, than to his own skill or care;-and most of all, to his
having diligently observed, that
There is a tide in the affairs of men;
and to his having, accordingly, launched his bark at the favourable flow.
The well intentioned and well principled author, who has uniformly thrown all his weight,
though that weight be but small, into the right scale, may have contributed his fair proportion
to that great work of reformation, which will, I trust, unless a total subversion of manners should
take place, be always carrying on in the world; but which the joint concurrence of the wisdom
of ages will find it hard to accomplish. Such an author may have been in his season and degree,
the accepted agent of that Providence who works by many and different instruments, by various
and successive means; in the same manner as in the manual labour of the mechanic, it is not by
a few ponderous strokes that great operations are effected, but by a patient and incessant follow-
ing up of the blow-by reiterated and unwearied returns to the same object; in the same manner
as in the division of labour, many hands of moderate strength and ability may, by co-operation,
do that which a very powerful individual might have failed to accomplish. It is the privilege of
few authors to contribute largely to the general good, but almost every one may contribute some-
thing. No book perhaps is perfectly neutral; nor are the effects of any altogether indifferent.
From all our reading there will be a bias on the actings of the mind, though with a greater or
less degree of inclination, according to the degree of impression made, by the nature of the sub-
ject, the ability of the writer, and the disposition of the reader. And though, as was above ob-
served, the whole may produce no general effect, proportionate to the hopes of the author; yet
some truth may be picked out from among many that are neglected; some single sentiment may be
seized on for present use; some detached principle may be treasured up for future practice.
If in the records of classic story we are told, that 'the most superb and lasting monument that
was ever consecrated to beauty, was that to which every lover carried a tribute;' then among the
accumulated production of successive volumes, those which though they convey no new informa-
tion, yet illustrate on the whole some old truth; those which though they add nothing to the stores
of genius or of science, yet if they help to establish and enforce a single principle of virtue, they
may be accepted as an additional mite cast by the willing hand of affectionate indigence into the
treasury of Christian morals.
The great father of Roman eloquence has asserted, that though every man should propose to
himself the highest degrees in the scale of excellence; yet he may stop with honour at the second
or the third. Indeed the utility of some books to some persons would be defeated by their very
superiority. The writer may be above the reach of his reader; he may be too lofty to be pursu-
ed; he may be too profound to be fathomed; he may be too abstruse to be investigated; for to
produce delight there must be intelligence; there must be something of concert and congruity.
There must be not merely that intelligibility which arises from the perspicuousness of the au-
thor: but that also which depends on the capacity and perception of the reader. Between him
who writes and him who reads, there must be a kind of coalition of interests, something of a
partnership (however unequal the capital) in mental property; a sort of joint stock of tastes and
ideas. The student must have been initiated into the same intellectual commerce with him whom
he studies; for large bills are only negotiable among the mutually opulent.
There are perhaps other reasons why popularity is no infallible test of excellence. Many readers
even of good faculties if those faculties have been kept inert by a disuse of exertion, feel often most
PREFACE.
sympathy with writers of a middle class; and find more repose in a mediocrity which lulls and amuses
the mind, than with a loftiness and extent which exalts and expands it. To enjoy works of su-
perlative ability, as was before suggested, the reader must have been accustomed to drink at the
same spring from which the writer draws; he must be at the expense of furnishing part of his
own entertainment, by bringing with him a share of the science or of the spirit with which the
author writes.
These are some of the considerations, which, while my gratitude has been excited by the fa-
vourable reception of my various attempts, have helped to correct that vanity which is so easily
kindled where merit and success are evidently disproportionate.
For fair criticism I have ever been truly thankful. For candid correction, from whatever quar-
ter it came, I have always exhibited the most unquestionable proof of my regard, by adopting it.
Nor can I call to mind any instance of improvement which has been suggested to me by which
I have neglected to profit.* I am not insensible to human estimation. To the approbation of
the wise and good I have been perhaps but two sensible. But I check myself in the indul-
gence of the dangerous pleasure, by recollecting that the hour is fast approaching to all, to me it
is very fast approaching, when no human verdict, of whatever authority in itself, and however
favourable to its object, will avail any thing, but inasmuch as it is crowned with the acquittal of
that Judge whose favour is eternal life. Every emotion of vanity dies away, every swelling of
ambition subsides before the consideration of this solemn responsibility. And though I have
just avowed my deference for the opinion of private critics, and of public censors; yet my anxiety
with respect to the sentence of both is considerably diminished, by the reflection, that not the
writings but the writer will very soon be called to another tribunal, to be judged on far other
grounds than those on which the decisions of literary statutes are framed: a tribunal, at which the
sentence passed will depend on far other causes than the observation or neglect of the rules of
composition; than the violation of any precepts, or the adherence to any decrees of critic legisla-
tion.
With abundant cause to be humbled at the mixed motives of even my least exceptionable wri-
tings, I am willing to hope that in those of later date, at least, vanity, has not been the govern-
ing principle. And if in sending abroad the present collection, some sparks of this inextinguish-
able fire should struggle to break out, let it be at once quenched by the reflection, that of those
persons whose kindness stimulated, and whose partiality rewarded, my early efforts; of those
who would have dwelt on these pages with most pleasure, the eyes of the greater part are closed,
to open no more in this world. Even while the pen is in my hand framing this remark, more
than one affecting corroboration of its truth occurs. May this reflection, at once painful and
salutary, be ever at hand to curb the insolence of success, or to countervail the mortification of
defeat! May it serve to purify the motives of action, while it inspires resignation to its event!
And may it affect both without diminishing the energies of duty-without abating the activity
of labour.
Bath, 1801.
*If it be objected that this has not been the case with respect to one single passage which has excited some
controversy, it has arisen not from any want of openness to conviction in me, but from my conceiving myself to
have been misunderstood, and, for that reason only, misrepresented.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.
Page
Page
The Puppet Show,
The Bas Bleu,
Bonner's Ghost,
Florio,
13
SACRED DRAMAS.
14
The Introduction,
76
18
Moses,
77
19
David and Goliath,
82
The Slave Trade,
27
Belshazzar,
92
Dan and Jane, or Faith and Works,
30
Daniel,
101
An Heroic Epistle to Miss Sally Horne,
Sensibility: an Epistle to the Hon. Mrs. Bos-
31
Reflections of Hezekiah,
109
32
cawen,
Sir Eldred of the Bower, a Legendary Tale,
The Bleeding Rock,
Search after Happiness,
110
•
36
40
Ode to Charity,
119
Ode to Dragon,
42
·
EPITAPHS.
On the Rev. Mr. Penrose-On Mrs. Blandford
On Mrs. Little-On General Lawrence
-On Mrs. Elizabeth Ives-On the Rev.
Mr. Hunter-On C. Dicey, Esq.-On a
young Lady-Inscription on a Cenotaph-
Epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Love-On the
Rev. Sir James Stonhouse, Bart.—On Mrs.
Stonhouse,
BALLADS AND TALES.
STORIES FOR PERSONS OF THE
MIDDLE RANK.
Mr. Fantom: or, the History of the New Fash-
ioned Philosopher and his man William,
The History of Mr. Bragwell; or, the Two
Wealthy Farmers,
"Tis All for the Best,
A Cure for Melancholy,
The Sunday School,
120
129
•
162
•
167
•
172
43, 44
ALLEGORIES.
The Foolish Traveller: or, a good Inn is a
bad Home,
The Pilgrims,
176
•
The Valley of Tears,
180
•
44
The Impossibility Conquered: or,
Love your
The Strait Gate and the Broad Way,
Parley the Porter,
182
•
186
neighbour as yourself,
45
Inscription in Fairy Bower,
46
TALES.
The Bad Bargain: or, the World set up to
Sale,
46
Robert' and Richard: or, the Ghost of Poor
Molly,
The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain, in two parts, 190
The Two Shoemakers, in six parts,
201
47
The Carpenter: or, the Danger of Evil Com-
The History of Tom White, the Postboy, in
two parts,
224
·
48
pany,
The Riot : or, Half a Loaf is better than no
Bread,
49
Patient Joe: or, the Newcastle Collier,
50
The History of Hester Wilmot, in two parts,
being the sequel to the Sunday School,
The Grand Assizes, or General Jail Delivery;
an allegory,
233
241
•
The Gin Shop: or, a Peep into Prison,
The Two Gardeners,
50
51
The Lady and the Pie,
52
The Plum-Cakes,
52
•
The Servant Man turned Soldier; an allegory, 243
The History of Betty Brown, the St. Giles's
Orange Girl, with some account of Mrs.
Sponge, the Money-lender,
247
•
Turn the Carpet,
HYMNS.
•
A Christmas Hymn,
The True Heroes or, the Noble Army of
Martyrs,
Hymn of Praise for the abundant Harvest af-
54
54
53 Black Giles the Poacher, in two parts; con-
taining some account of a Family who had
rather live by their Wits than their Work, 251
Tawney Rachel, or the Fortune teller; with
some account of Dreams, Omens, and Con-
jurers,
258
Thoughts on the Manners of the Great,
262
ter the scarcity of 1795,
•
Here and There,
BALLADS
55
•
56
An estimate of the Religion of the Fashiona-
ble World,
275
·
The Honest Miller of Gloucestershire,
King Dionysius, and Squire Damocles,
The Hackney Coachman: or, the Way to
get a good Fare,
Village Politics,
BIBLE RHYMES.
56
Chap. I-Decline of Christianity shown by a
Comparative View of the Religion of the
Great in preceding ages,
278
57
57
Chap. II-Benevolence allowed to be the
reigning Virtue, but not exclusively the Vir-
tue of the present age,
280
58
Chap. III-The neglect of Religious Educa-
tion both a cause and consequence of the
decline of Christianity, &c.
282
The Old Testament,
The New Testament,
69
63 Chap. IV-Other symptoms of the decline of
Christianity, &c.
288
i
·
viii
CONTENTS.
Page
313
Chap. V-The negligent conduct of Christians
no real objection against Christianity, 291
Chap. VI-A stranger, from observing the
fashionable mode of life, would not take
this to be a Christian country,
Chap. VII-View of those who acknowledge
Christianity as a perfect system of morals,
but deny its Divine authority-Morality not
the whole of Religion,
•
296
300
Remarks on the Speech of Mr. Dupont, made
in the National Convention of France in 1793, 301
STRICTURES ON THE MODERN SYS-
TEM OF FEMALE EDUCATION.
Introduction,
•
Chap. I-Address to women of rank and for-
women'
tune, on the effects of their influence in
Society-Suggestions for the exertion of it
in various instances,
311
Chap. XV-Conversation,
Chap. XVI-On the danger of ill-directed
sensibility,
Chap. XVII-On Dissipation, and the Modern
Habits of Fashionable Life,
Page
369
378
385
Chap. XVIII-On public Amusements,
Chap. XIX-A worldly spirit incompatible
with the spirit of Christianity,
Chap. XX-On the leading doctrines of Chris-
tianity, &c. with a sketch of the Christian
character,
392
397
403
•
Chap. XXI-On the duty and efficacy of prayer, 410
PRACTICAL PIETY.
Chap. I-Christianity an Internal Principle, 417
Chap. II-Christianity a Practical Principle, 421
Chap. III-Mistakes in Religion,
Chap. IV-Periodical Religion,
425
•
429
Chap. V-Prayer,
432
Chap. II-On the Education of Women,
Chap. III-External Improvement--Chil-
dren's Balls-French Governesses,
Chap. IV-Comparison of the mode of Fe-
male Education in the last age with the
present,
322
Chap. VI-Cultivation of a Devotional Spirit, 437
Chap. VII—The Love of God,
440
326
Chap. VIII-The hand of God to be acknowl-
edged in the daily Circumstances of Life, 443
Chap. IX-Christianity universal in its requi-
sitions,
446
•
Chap. V-On the Religious Employment of
Time,
•
329
Chap. X-Christian Holiness,
448
331
•
Chap. XI-On the comparatively small faults
and virtues,
451
Chap. VI-On the early forming of habits-
On the necessity of forming the judgment
to direct those habits,
Chap. VII-Filial obedience not the character
Chap. XII—Self Examination,
455
Chap. XIII--Self-Love,
460
·
335
of the age,
Chap. VIII-On Female Study, and initiation
into Knowledge-Error of cultivating the
imagination to the neglect of the judgment
-Books of reasoning recommended,
Chap. IX-On the religious and Moral use of
History and Geography,
Chap. X-On the use of Definitions, and the
moral benefits of Accuracy in Language,.
Chap. XI-On Religion-The Necessity and
Duty of Early Instruction, shown by anal-
ogy with human learning,
Chap. XII-On the manner of Instructing
young persons in Religion-General Re-
marks on the genius of Christianity,
Chap. XIII-Hints suggested for furnishing
young persons with a scheme of Prayer,
Chap. XIV-The practical use of female
knowledge, with a sketch of the female
character, and a comparative view of the
338
Chap. XIV-The Conduct of Christians in
their Intercourse with the Irreligious,
Chap. XV-On the Propriety of Introducing
Religion into general Conversation,
Chap. XVI-Christian Watchfulness,
Chap. XVII-True and false Zeal,
464
469
472
•
476
•
342
Chap. XVIII-Insensibility to Eternal things, 480
Chap. XIX-Happy Deaths,
485
346
349
Chap. XX-The Sufferings of Good Men, 491
Chap. XXI--The Temper and Conduct of
Christians in Sickness and in Death,
496
•
TRAGEDIES.
351
Preface to the Tragedies,
The. Inflexible Captive,
355
Percy,
The Fatal Falsehood,
•
502
511
530
545
360
POEMS
Morning Soliloquy,
563
sexes,
•
363
On Mr. Shapland,
563
THE PUPPET-SHOW:
A NOBLE earl!-the name I spare,
From reverence to the living heir-
Lov'd pleasure; but to speak the truth,
Not much refinement grac'd the youth.
The path of pleasure which he trod
Was somewhat new, and rather odd;
For, that he haunted park or play,
His house's archives do not say;
Or that more modish joys he felt,
And would in opera transports melt;
Or that he spent his morning's prime
In Bond-street bliss till dinner-time:
No treasur'd anecdotes record
Such pastimes pleas'd the youthful lord.
One single taste historians mention,
A fact unmingled with invention;
It was a taste you'll think, I fear,
Somewhat peculiar for a peer,
Though the rude democratic pen
Pretends that peers are only men.
Whatever town or country fair
Was advertised, my lord was there.
'Twas not to purchase or to sell-
Why went he then? The Muse shall tell.
At fairs he never fail'd to find
The joy congenial to his mind.
This dear diversion would you know?
What was it? 'twas a puppet-show!
Transported with the mimic art,
The wit of Punch enthrall'd his heart,
He went, each evening, just at six,
When Punch exhibited his tricks;
And, not contented every night
To view this object of delight,
He gravely made the matter known
He must and would have Punch his own;
For if, exclaims the noble lord,
Such joys these transient views afford
If I receive such keen delight
From a short visit every night,
"Tis fair to calculate what pleasure
Will spring from owning such a treasure.
I need not for amusement roam,
I shall have always Punch at home.
He rav'd with this new fancy bit,
Of Punch's sense and Punch's wit.
Not more Narcissus long'd to embrace
The watery mirror's shadowy face;
Not more Pygmalion long'd to claim
Th' unconscious object of his flame;
Than long'd the enamour'd legislator
To purchase this delightful creature.
Each night he regularly sought him,
Nor did he rest till he had bought him.
Soon he accomplishes the measure,
And pays profusely for the treasure:
He bids them pack the precious thing
So careful not to break a spring;
So anxious not to bruise a feature,
A TALE.
His own new coach must fetch the creature!
He safely brought the idol home,
And lodg'd beneath his splendid dome,
All obstacles at length surmounted,
My lord on perfect pleasure counted.
VOL. I.
If you have feelings, guess you may,
How glad he passed the live long day.
His eating room he makes the station
Of his new favourite's habitation.
'Convivial Punch!' he cried, 'to-day,
Thy genius shall have full display!
How shall I laugh to hear thy wit
At supper nightly as I sit!
And how delightful as I dine,
To hear some sallies, Punch, of thine!"
Next day, at table, as he sat,
Impatient to begin the chat,
Punch was produc'd; but Punch, I trow,
Divested of his puppet-show,
Was nothing, was a thing of wires,
Whose sameness disappoints and tires.
Depriv'd of all eccentric aid,
The empty idol was betray'd.
No artful hand to pull the springs,
And Punch no longer squeaks or sings.
Ah me! what horror seiz'd my lord,
'Twas paint, 'twas show, 'twas pasted-board!
He marvell'd why the pleasant thing
Which could such crowds together bring;
Which charm'd him when the show was full'
At home should be so very dull.
He ne'er suspected 'twas the scenery,
He never dreamt 'twas the machinery;
The lights, the noise, the tricks, the distance,
Gave the dumb idol this assistance.
Preposterous peer! far better go
To thy congenial puppet-show;
Than buy, divested of its glare,
The empty thing which charm'd thee there.
Be still content abroad to roam,
For Punch exhibits not at home.
The moral of the tale I sing
To modern matches home I bring
Ye youths, in quest of wives who go
To every crowded puppet-show;
If, from these scenes, you choose for life
A dancing, singing, dressing wife;
O marvel not at home to find
An empty figure, void of mind;
Stript of her scenery and garnish,
A thing of paint, and paste, and varnish.
Ye candidates for earth's best prize,
Domestic life's sweet charities!
If long you've stray'd from Reason's way,
Enslav'd by fashion's wizard sway;
If by her witcheries still betray'd,
You wed some vain fantastic maid:
Snatch'd, not selected, as you go,
The heroine of the puppet-show;
In every outward grace refin'd,
And destitute of nought but mind;
If skill'd in ev'ry polish'd art,
She wants simplicity of heart;
On her for bliss if you depend,
Without the means you seek the end;
You seek, o'erturning nature's laws,
A consequence without a cause;
A downward pyramid you place,
The point inverted for the base.
14
THE WORKS OF HANNAII MORE.
Blame your own work, not fate; nor rail
If bliss so ill secur'd should fail.
'Tis bringing Punch to live at home.
'Tis after fancied good to roam,
As the soft powers of oil assuage
Of ocean's waves the furious rage;
Lull to repose the boiling tide,
And the rough billows bid subside;
And you, bright nymphs! who bless our eyes, Till every angry motion sleep,
With all that art, that taste supplies;
Learn that accomplishments, at best,
Are but the garnish of life's feast;
And tho' your transient guests may praise
Your showy board on gala days:
Yet, while you treat each frippery sinner
With mere deserts, and call 'em dinner,
Your lord who lives at home, still feels
The want of more substantial meals;
Of sense and worth, which every hour
Enlarge Affection's growing power;
Of worth, not emulous to praise,
Of sense, not kept for gala days.
O! in the highest, happiest lot,
By woman be it ne'er forgot,
That human life's no Isthmian game,
Where sports and shows must purchase fame.
Tho' at the puppet-show he shone,
Punch was poor company alone.
Life is no round of jocund hours,
Of garlands gay, and festive bowers;
Even to the young, to whom I sing,
Its serious business life will bring.
Tho' bright the suns which now appear
To gild your cloudless atmosphere,
Oft, unawares, some direful storm,
Serenest skies may soon deform;
In dim Affliction's dreary hour
The flash of mirth must lose its power;
Whilst faith a constant light supplies,
And virtue cheers the darkest skies.
To bless the matrimonial hours
Must three joint leaders club their powers,
GOOD-NATURE, PIETY, and Sense,
Must their confederate aids dispense.
And softest tremblings hush the deep:
Good-nature! thus thy charms controul
The tumults of the troubled soul:
By labour worn, by care opprest,
On thee the wearied head shall rest;
From business and distraction free,
Delighted, shall return to thee;
To thee the aching heart shall cling,
And find that peace it does not bring.
And while the light and empty fair,
Form'd for the ball-room's dazzling glare
Abroad, of speech, so prompt and rapid,
At home, so vacant and so vapid;
Of every puppet-show the life,
At home, a dull and tasteless wife;-
The mind with sense and knowledge stor'd
Can counsel, or can soothe its lord;
His varied joys or sorrows feel,
And share the pains it cannot heal.
But, Piety! without thy aid,
Love's fairest prospects soon must fade.
Blest architect! rear'd by thy hands,
Connubial Concord's temple stands.
Tho' Wit, tho' Genius, raise the pile,
Tho' Taste assist, tho' Talents smile,
Tho' Fashion, while her wreaths she twine,
Her light Corinthian columns join ;
Still the frail structure Fancy rears,
A tottering house of cards appears;
Some sudden gust, nor rare the case,
May shake the building to its base,
Unless, bless'd Piety! thou join
Thy keystone to ensure the shrine;
Unless, to guard against surprises,
On thy broad arch the temple rises.
THE BAS BLEU; OR, CONVERSATION.
ADDRESSED TO MRS. VESEY
ADVERTISEMENT.
The following trifle owes it birth and name to the mistake of a foreigner of distinction who
gave the literal appellation of the Bas-bleu to a small party of friends, who had been often called,
by way of pleasantry, the Blue Stockings. These little societies have been sometimes misrepre-
sented. They were composed of persons distinguished, in general for their rank, talents, or re-
spectable character, who met frequently at Mrs. Vesey's, and at a few other houses, for the sole
purpose of conversation, and were different in no respect from other parties, but that the company
did not play at cards.
May the author be permitted to bear her grateful testimony (which will not be suspected of
flattery, now that most of the persons named in this poem are gone down to the grave) to the
many pleasant and instructive hours she had the honour to pass in this company; in which learn
ing was as little disfigured by pedantry, good taste as little tinctured by affectation, and general
conversation as little disgraced by calumny, levity, and the other censurable errors with which it
is too commonly tainted, as has perhaps been known in any society.
VESEY! of verse the judge and friend!
Awhile my idle strain attend:
Not with the days of early Greece,
I mean to ope my slender piece;
The rare Symposium to proclaim
Which crown'd th' Athenian's social name;
Or how ASPASIA's parties shone,
The first Bas-bleu at Athens known;
Where SOCRATES unbending 'sat,
With ALCIBIADES in chat;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
15
And PERICLES vouchsafed to mix
Taste, wit, and mirth, with politics.
Nor need I stop my tale to show,
At least to readers such as you,
How all that Rome esteem'd polite,
Supp'd with LUCULLUS every night;
LUCULLUS, who, from Pontus come,
Where point, and turn, and equivoque
Distorted every word they spoke!
All so intolerably bright,
Plain Common Sense was put to flight;
Each speaker, so ingenious ever,
'Twas tiresome to be quite so clever;
There twisted Wit forgot to please,
Brought conquests, and brought cherries home. And Mood and Figure banish'd ease;
Name but the suppers in th' Apollo,
What classics images will follow!
How wit flew round, while each might take
Conchylia from the Lucrine lake;
And Attic salt; and Garum sauce,
And lettuce from the isle of Cos;
The first and last from Greece transplanted,
Us'd here-because the rhyme I wanted:
How pheasant's heads, with cost collected,
And phennicopters stood neglected.
To laugh at SCIPIO's lucky hit,
POMPEY'S bon-mot, or CÆSAR's wit!
Intemperance, list'ning to the tale,
Forgot the mullet growing* stale;
And Admiration balanc'd, hung
"Twixt PEACOCKS' brains, and TULLY's tongue.
I shall not stop to dwell on these,
But be as epic as I please,
And plunge at once in medias res
To prove the privilege I plead,
I'll quote from Greek I cannot read;
Stunn'd by Authority, you yield,
And I, not Reason, keep the field.
Long was Society o'er-run
By Whist, that desolating Hun;
Long did Quadrille despotic sit,
That vandal of colloquial Wit:
And conversation's setting light
Lay half-obscur'd in Gothic night;
At length the mental shades decline,
Colloquial Wit begins to shine;
Genius prevails, and Conversation
Emerges into Reformation.
The vanquish'd triple crown to you,
BOSCAWEN sage, bright MONTAgu,
Divided, fell;-your cares in haste
Rescued the ravag'd realms of Taste;
And LYTTLETON's accomplished name,
And witty PULTNEY shar'd the fame;
The men, not bound by pedant rules,
Nor ladiest Precieuses ridicules;
For polish'd WALPOLE show'd the way,
How wits may be both learn'd and gay;
And CARTER taught the female train,
The deeply wise are never vain;
And she whom SHAKSPEARE'S wrongs redrest,
Prov'd that the brightest are the best.
This just deduction still they drew,
And well they practis'd what they knew;
Nor taste, nor wit, deserves applause,
Uuless still true to critic laws;
Good sense, of faculties the best,
Inspire and regulate the rest,
O! how unlike the wit that fell,
RAMBOUILLET !‡ at thy quaint hotel;
No votive altar smok'd to thee,
Chaste queen, divine Simplicity!
But forc'd Conceit, which ever fails,
And stiff Antithesis prevails.
Uneasy Rivalry destroys
Society's unlaboured joys:
NATURE, of stilts and fetters tir'd,
Impatient from the wits retir'd,
Long time the exile, houseless stray'd
'Till SEVIGNE receiv'd the maid.
Though here she comes to bless our isle,
Not universal is her smile.
Muse! snatch the lyre which CAMBRIDGE Strung,
When he the empty ball-room sung;
'Tis tun'd above thy pitch, I doubt,
And thou no music would'st draw out;
Yet, in a lower note, presume
To sing the full dull drawing room.t
Where the dire circle keeps its station,
Each common phrase is an oration;
And cracking fans, and whisp'ring misses,
Compose their conversation blisses.
The matron marks the goodly show,
While the tall daughter eyes the beau-
The frigid beau! ah! luckless fair,
'Tis not for you that studied air;
Ah! not for you that sidelong glance,
And all that charming nonchalance;
Ah; not for you the three long hours
He worship'd the cosmetic powers;'
That finish'd head which breathes perfume,
And kills the nerves of half the room ;
And all the murders meant to lie
In that large, languishing, gray eye;
Desist ;-less wild th' attempt would be,
To warm the snows of Rhodope:
Too cold to feel, too proud to feign,
For him you're wise and fair in vain ;
In vain to charm him you intend,
Self is his object, aim, and end.
Chill shade of that affected peer,
Who dreaded mirth, come safely here!
For here no vulgar joy effaces
Thy rage for polish, ton, and graces.
Cold Ceremony's leaden hand,
Waves o'er the room her poppy wand;
Arrives the stranger; every guest
Conspires to torture the distrest:
At once they rise-so have I seen-
You guess the similie I mean,
Take what comparison you please,
The crowded streets, the swarming bees,
The pebbles on the shore that lie,
The late earl of Mansfield told the author that when
he was ambassador at Paris, he was assured that it had
not been unusual for those persons of a purer taste who
frequented these assemblies, to come out from their so-
* Seneca says, that in his time the Romans were ar-
rived at such a pitch of luxury, that the mullet was rec-ciety so weary of wit and laboured ingenuity, that they
koned stale which did not die in the hands of the guest.
† See Moliere's comedy.
The society at the hotel de Rambouillet, though
composed of the most polite and ingenious persons in
France, was much tainted with affectation and false
taste. See Voiture, Menage, &c,
used to express the comfort they felt in their emancipa-
tion, by saying, “ Allons! faisons des so lecismes!”
* These grave and formal parties now scarcely exist.
having been swallowed up in the reigning multitudi
nous assemblies.
16
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
The stars which form the galaxy;
These serve t' embellish what is said,
And show, besides, that one has read ;-
At once they rise-th' astonish'd guest
Back in a corner slinks, distrest;
Scar'd at the many bowing round,
And shock'd at her own voice's sound,
Forgot the thing she meant to say,
Her words, half-uttered die away;
In sweet oblivion down she sinks,
And of her next appointment thinks.
While her loud neighbour on the right,
Boasts what she has to do to-night,
So very much, you'd swear her pride is
To match the labours of ALCIDES;
'Tis true, in hyperbolic measure,
She nobly calls her labours Pleasure;
In this unlike ALCMENA's son,
She never means they should be done;
Her fancy of no limits dreams,
No ne plus ultra stops her schemes;
Twelve! she'd have scorn'd the paltry round,
No pillars would have mark'd her bound;
CALPE and ABYLA, in vain
Had nodded cross th' opposing main;
A circumnavigator she
On Ton's illimitable sea.
We pass the pleasures vast and various,
Of routs, not social, but gregarious;
Where high heroic self-denial
Sustains her self-inflicted trial.
Day lab'rers! what an easy life,
To feed ten children and a wife!
No-I may juster pity spare
To the night lab'rer's keener care;
And, pleas'd, to gentler scenes retreat,
Where Conversation holds her seat.
Small were that art which would ensure
The circle's boasted quadrature!
See VESEY'S* plastic genius make
A circle every figure take;
Nay, shapes and forms, which would defy
All science of Geometry;
Isosceles, and parallel,
Names, hard to speak, and hard to spell!
The enchantress wav'd her hand, and spoke!
Her potent wand the circle broke;
The social spirits hover round,
And bless the liberated ground.
;
Here, rigid CATO, awful sage!
Bold censor of a thoughtless age,
Once dealt his pointed moral round,
And, not unheeded, fell the sound
The Muse his honour'd memory weeps,
For CATO now with Roscius sleeps!
Here once HORTENSIUS† lov'd to sit,
Apostate now from social wit:
Ah! why in wrangling senates waste
The noblest parts, the happiest taste?
Why democratic thunders wield,
And quit the Muses' calmer field?
Ask you what charms this gift dispense?
'Tis the strong spell of COMMON SENSE.
Away dull Ceremony flew,
And with her bore Detraction too.
* This amiable lady was remarkable for her talent in
breaking the formality of a circle, by inviting her par.
ties to form themselves into little separate groups.
This was written in the year 1787, when Mr. Ed.
mund Burke had joined the then opposition.
Nor only geometric art,
Does this presiding power impart ;
But chymists too, who want the essence
Which makes or mars all coalescence,
Of her the secret rare might get,
How different kinds amalgamate:
And he, who wilder studies chose,
Finds here a new metempsychose;
How forms can other forms assume,
Within her Pythagoric room;
Or be, and stranger is th' event,
The very things which Nature meant;
Nor strive by art and affectation.
To cross their genuine destination.
Here sober duchesses are seen,
Chaste wits, and critics void of spleen;
Physicians, fraught with real science,
And whigs and tories in alliance;
Poets, fulfilling Christian duties,
Just lawyers, reasonable beauties;
Bishops who preach, and peers who pay :
And countesses who seldom play ;
Learn'd antiquaries, who from College,
Reject the rust, and bring the knowledge;
And, hear it, Age, believe it, Youth,-
Polemics, really seeking truth;
And travellers of that rare tribe,
Who've seen the countries they describe;
Who study'd there, so strange their plan,
Not plants, nor herbs alone, but man;
While travellers, of other notions,
Scale mountain tops, and traverse oceans;
As if so much these themes engross,
The study of mankind, was moss.
Ladies who point, nor think me partial,
An epigram as well as MARSHALL;
Yet in all female worth succeed,
As well as those who cannot read.
Right pleasant were the task, I ween,
To name the groups which fill the scene;
But rhymes of such fastidious nature,
She proudly scorns all nomenclature,
Nor grace our northern names her lips,
Like HOMER's catalogue of ships.
Once-faithful Memory! heave a sigh,
Here Roscius gladdened every eye.
Why comes not Maro? Far from town,
He rears the urn to Taste, and BROWN,
Plants cypress round the tomb of GRAY,
Or decks his English garden gay;
Whose mingled sweets exhale perfume,
And promise a perennial bloom.
Taste thou the gentler joys they give,
With HORACE and with LELIUS live.
Hail, CONVERSATION, soothing power,
Sweet goddess of the social hour!
Not with more heartfelt warmth, at least,
Does LELIUS bend, thy true high priest;
Than I the lowest of thy train,
These field-flowers bring to deck thy fane;
Who to thy shrine like him can haste,
With warmer zeal, or purer taste?
O may thy worship long prevail,
And thy true votaries never fail!
Long may thy polish'd altars blaze
With wax-lights' undiminish'd rays!
Still be thy nightly offering paid,
Libations large of lemonade!
On silver vases, loaded, rise
The biscuits' ample sacrifice!
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Nor be the milk white streams forgot
Of thirst-assuaging, cool orgeat;
Rise, incense pure from fragrant tea,
Delicious incense, worthy thee!
Hail, Conversation, heav'nly fair,
Thou bliss of life, and balm of care!
Still may thy gentle reign extend,
And Taste with Wit and Science blend.
Soft polisher of rugged man!
Refiner of the social plan!
For thee, best solace of his toil!
The sage consumes his midnight oil!
And keeps late vigils, to produce
Materials for thy future use.
Calls forth the else neglected knowledge,
Of school, of travel, and of college.
If none behold, ah! wherefore fair?
Ah wherefore wise, if none must hear?
Our intellectual ore must shine,
Not slumber, idly, in the mine.
Let Education's moral mint
The noblest images imprint;
Let Taste her curious touchstone hold,
To try if standard be the gold;
But 'tis thy commerce Conversation,
Must give it use by circulation;
That noblest commerce of mankind,
Whose precious merchandise is MIND!
What stoic traveller would try
A sterile soil, and parching sky,
Or bear th' intemp'rate northern zone,
If what he saw must ne'er be known?
For this he bids his home farewell;
The joy of seeing is to tell.
Trust me, he never would have stirr'd,
Were he forbid to speak a word;
And Curiosity would sleep,
If her own secrets she must keep
The bliss of telling what is past
Becomes her rich reward at last.
Who mock'd at death, and danger smile,
To steal one peep at father Nile;
Who, at Palmyra risk his neck,
Or search the ruins of Balbeck;
If these must hide old Nilus' fount,
Nor Lybian tales at home recount;
If those must sink their learned labour,
Nor with their ruins treat a neighbour?
Range-study-think-do all we can,
Colloquial pleasures are for man.
Yet not from low desire to shine
Does Genius toil in Learħing's mine;
Not to indulge in idle vision,
But strike new light by strong collision.
Of CONVERSATION, Wisdom's friend,
This is the object and the end,
Of moral truth man's proper science,
With sense and learning in alliance,
To search the depths, and thence produce
What tends to practice and to use.
And next in value we shall find
What mends the taste and forms the mind;
If high those truths in estimation,
Whose search is crown'd with demonstration;
To these assign no scanty praise,
Our taste which clears, our views which raise.
For grant the mathematic truth
Best balances the mind of youth;
Yet scarce the truth of Taste is found
To grow from principles less sound.
O'er books the mind inactive lies,
Books, the mind's food, not exercise!
Her vigorous wings she scarcely feels,
'Till use the latent strength reveals;
Her slumbering energies call'd forth,
She rises, conscious of her worth;
And, at her new-found powers clated,
Thinks them not rous'd, but new created.
Enlighten'd spirits! you, who know
What charms from polish'd converse flow,
Speak, for you can, the pure delight
When kindling sympathies unite;
When correspondent tastes impart
Communion sweet from heart to heart,
You ne'er the cold gradations need
Which vulgar souls to union lead;
No dry discussion to unfold
The meaning caught ere well 'tis told :
In taste, in learning, wit, or science,
Still kindled souls demand alliance:
Each in the other joys to find
The image answering to his mind.
But sparks electric only strike
On souls electrical alike;
The flash of intellect expires,
Unless it meet congenial fires:
The language to th' elect alone
Is, like the mason's mystery known
In vain th' unerring sign is made
To him who is not of the trade.
What lively pleasure to divine,
The thought implied, the hinted line,
To feel Allusion's artful force,
And trace the image to it's source!
Quick Memory blends her scatter'd rays,
'Till Fancy kindles at the blaze;
The works of ages start to view,
And ancient Wit elicits new.
But wit and parts if thus we praise,
What noble altars should we raise,
Those sacrifices could we see
Which Wit, O Virtue! makes to thee:
At once the rising thought to dash,
To quench at once the bursting flash!
The shining Mischief to subdue,
And lose the praise, and pleasure too!
Tho' Venus' self, could you detect her,
Imbuing with her richest nectar,
The thought unchaste-to check that thought,
To spurn a fame so dearly bought;
This is high Principle's controul !
This is true continence of soul !
Blush, heroes, at your cheap renown,
A vanquish'd realm, a plunder'd town!
Your conquests were to gain a name,
This conquest triumphs over fame;
So pure its essence, 'twere destroy'd
If known, and if commended, void.
Amidst the brightest truths believ'd
Amidst the fairest deeds achiev'd,
Shall stand recorded and admir'd,
That Virtue sunk what Wit inspir'd!
But let the letter'd and the fair,
And, chiefly, let the wit beware;
You, whose warm spirits never fail,
Forgive the hint which ends my tale.
O shun the perils which attend
On wit, on warmth, and heed your friends;
Tho' Science nurs'd you in her bowers,
Tho' Fancy crown your brow with flowers,
B
18
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Each thought, tho' bright Invention fill,
Tho' Attic bees each word distil;
Yet, if one gracious power refuse
Her gentle influence to infuse;
If she withhold her magic spell,
Nor in the social circle dwell;
In vain shall listening crowds approve,
They'll praise you, but they will not love.
What is this power, you're loth to mention,
This charm, this witchcraft? 'tis ATTENTION:
Mute angel, yes; thy look dispense
The silence of intelligence;
Thy graceful form I well discern,
In act to listen and to learn,
"Tis thou for talents shalt obtain
That pardon Wit would hope in vain;
Thy wond'rous power, thy secret charm,
Shall Envy of her sting disarm;
Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit,
And we forgive eclipsing merit;
Our jealous souls no longer burn,
Nor hate thee, tho' thou shine in turn ;
The sweet atonement screens the fault,
And love and praise are cheaply bought.
With mild complacency to hear,
Tho' somewhat long the tale appear,-
The dull relation to attend,
Which mars the story you could mend;
'Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty,
'Tis pleasure rising out of duty.
Nor vainly think, the time you waste,
When temper triumphs over taste.
BISHOP BONNER'S GHOST.
THIS little poem was never before published. A few copies were printed by the late earl of
Orford at his press at Strawberry-hill, and given to a few particular friends.
THE ARGUMENT.
In the gardens of the palace of Fulham is a dark recess; at the end of this stands a chair,
which once belonged to bishop BONNER.-A certain bishop of London, more than two hundred
years after the death of the aforesaid BONNER. one morning just as the clock of the Gothic chapel
had struck six, undertook to cut with his own hand a narrow walk through this thicket, which
is since called the Monk's-walk. He had no sooner begun to clear the way, than lo! suddenly
up-started from the chair the ghost of bishop BONNER, who, in a tone of just and bitter indigna-
tion, uttered the following verses.
REFORMER, hold! ah, spare my shade,
Respect the hallow'd dead!
Vain pray'r! I see the op'ning glade,
See utter darkness fled.
Just so your innovating hand
Let in the moral light;
So, chas'd from this bewilder'd land,
Fled intellectual night.
Where now that holy gloom which hid
Fair Truth from vulgar ken?
Where now that wisdom which forbid
To think that monks were men?
The tangled mazes of the schools,
Which spread so thick before;
Which knaves entwin'd to puzzle fools,
Shall catch mankind no more.
Those charming intricacies where?
Those venerable lies?
Those legends, once the church's care?
Those sweet perplexities?
Ah! fatal age, whose sons combin'd
Of credit to exhaust us:
Ah! fatal age, which gave mankind
A LUTHER and a FAUSTUS!*
Had only JACK and MARTIN† liv'd,
Our pow'r had slowly fled;
Our influence longer had surviv'd
Had layman never read.
*The same age which brought heresy into the church,
unhappily introduced printing among the arts, by which
means the Scriptures were unluckily disseminated
among the vulgar.
† How bishop Bonner came to have read Swift's Tale
of a Tub it may now be in vain to inquire.
For knowledge flew, like magic spell,
By typographic art;
Oh, shame! a peasant now can tell
If priests the truth impart.
Ye councils, pilgrimages, creeds
Synods, decrees, and rules!
Ye warrants of unholy deeds,
Indulgences and bulls !
Where are ye now? and where, alas?
The pardons we dispense!
And penances, the sponge of sins;
And Peter's holy pence?
Where now the beads that used to swell
Lean Virtue's spare amount?
Here only faith and goodness fill
A heretic's account.
But soft-what gracious form appears
Is this a convent's life!
Atrocious sight! by all my fears,
A prelate with a wife!
Ah! sainted MARY,* not for this
Our pious labour's join'd;
The witcheries of domestic bliss
Had shook ev'n GARDNER's mind,
Hence all the sinful, human ties,
Which mar the cloister's plan ;
Hence all the weak fond charities,
Which makes man feel for man.
But tortur'd Memory vainly speaks
The projects we design'd ;
* An orthodox queen of the sixteenth century, who
laboured with might and main, conjointly with these
two venerable bishops to extinguish a dangerous heresy
ycleped the Reformation.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE
19
While this apostate bishop seeks
The freedom of mankind.
Oh, born in ev'ry thing to shake
The systems plann'd by me!
So heterodox, that he would make
Both soul and body free.
Nor clime nor colour stay his hand;
With charity deprav'd,
He would from Thames to Gambia's strand,
Have all be free and sav'd.
And who shall change his wayward heart
His wilful spirit turn?
For those his labours can't convert,
His weakness will not burn.
A GOOD OLD PAPIST.
Ann. Dom. 1900.
*** By the lapse of time the three last stanzas are be-
come unintelligible. Old chronicles say, that towards
the latter end of the 18th century, a bill was brought in-
to the British parliament, by an active young reformer,
for the abolition of a pretended traffic of the human spe-
cies. But this only shows how little faith is to be given
to the exaggerations of history; for as no vestige of
this incredible trade now remains, we look upon the
whole story to have been one of those fictions, not un
common among authors, to blacken the memory of for
mer ages.
FLORIO.
A TALE FOR FINE GENTLEMEN AND FINE LADIES,
IN TWO PARTS.
TO THE HON. HORACE WALPOLE.*
MY DEAR SIR,—It would be very flattering to me, if I might hope that the little tale, which
I now take the liberty of presenting to you, could amuse a few moments of your tedious indispo-
sition. It is, I confess, but a paltry return for the many hours of agreeable information and
elegant amusement which I have received from your spirited and very entertaining writings:
yet I am persuaded, that you will receive it with favour, as a small offering of esteem and grati-
tude; as an offering of which the intention alone makes all the little value.
The slight verses, sir, which I place under your protection, will not, I fear, impress the world
with a very favourable idea of my poetical powers; But I shall, at least, be suspected of having
some taste, and of keeping good company, when I confess that some of the pleasantest hours of
my life have been passed in your conversation. I should be unjust to your very engaging and
well-bred turn of wit, if I did not declare that, among all the lively and brilliant things I have
heard from you, I do not remember ever to have heard an unkind or an ungenerous one.
Let me
be allowed to bear my feeble testimony to your temperate use of this charming faculty, so de-
lightful in itself, but which can only be safely trusted in such hands as yours, where it is guard-
ed by politeness, and directed by humanity.
I have the honour to be, sir, your much obliged,
and most obedient, humble servant,
January, 27, 1786.
* Afterwards Earl of Orford.
THE AUTHOR.
FLORIO, a youth of gay renown,
Who figur'd much about the town,
Had pass'd, with general approbation,
The modish forms of education;
Knew what was proper to be known,
Th' establish'd jargon of bon-ton;
Had learnt, with very moderate reading,
The whole new system of good breeding:
He studied to be bold and rude.
Tho' native feeling would intrude:
Unlucky sense and sympathy,
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be.
For FLORIO was not meant by nature,
A silly or a worthless creature:
He had a heart dispos'd to feel,
Had life and spirit taste and zeal;
Was handsome, generous; but by fate,
Predestin'd to a large estate!
Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days,
Was marr'd by pleasure, spoilt by praise.
PART I.
The Destiny, who wove the thread
Of FLORIO's being, sigh'd, and said,
Poor youth this cumbrous twist of gold,
More than my shuttle well can hold,
For which thy anxious father toil'd,
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd:
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth
From sense, simplicity and truth,
Thy erring fire, by wealth mislead,
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head,
When wholesome discipline's controul,
Should brace the sinews of thy soul
Coldly thou'lt toil for Learning's prize,
For why should he that's rich be wise?
The gracious Master of mankind,
Who knew us vain, corrupt and blind,
In mercy, tho' in anger said,
That man should earn his daily bread
His lot, inaction renders worse,
While labour mitigates the curse.
:
20
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
The idle, life's worst burthens bear,
And meet, what toil escapes, despair!
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,
This mixture of mythology;
The muse of Paradise has deign'd
With truth to mingle fables feign'd;
And tho' the bard, who would attain
The glories, MILTON, of thy strain,
Will never reach thy style or thoughts,
He may be like thee in thy faults!
Exhausted FLORIO, at the age,
When youth should rush on glory's stage;
When life should open fresh and knew,
And ardent Hope her schemes pursue;
Of youthful gaiety bereft,
Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left;
He found already to his cost,
The shining gloss of life was lost;
And Pleasure was so coy a prude,
She fled the more, the more pursu’d;
Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd,
He loath'd and left her when possess'd.
But FLORIO knew the world that science
Sets sense and learning at defiance;
He thought the world to him was known,
Whereas he only knew the town;
In men this blunder still you find,
All think their little set-mankind.
Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd,
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd,
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion,
But spoilt by CUSTOM, and the FASHION.
Tho' known among a certain set,
He did not like to be in debt;
He shudder'd at the dicer's box,
Nor thought it very heterodox,
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid,
And bargains kept as well as made.
His growing credit as a sinner,
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner;
Made pleasure and made business wait,
And still, by system, came too late;
Yet, 'twas a hopeful indication,
On which to found a reputation;
Small habits well pursu'd betimes,
May reach the dignity of crimes.
And who a juster claim preferr'd,
Than one who always broke his word!
His mornings were not spent in vice,
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice:
Walk up and down St. James's-street,
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet:
He hated cards, detested drinking,
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking;
'Twas doing nothing was his curse,
Is there a vice can plague us worse?
The wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs, that others may be fed,
Feels less fatigued than that decreed
To him who cannot think, or read.
Not all the peril of temptations,
Not all the conflict of the passions,
Can quench the spark of glory's flame,
Or quite extinguish virtue's name;
Like the true taste for genuine saunter,
Like sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter.
The active fires that stir the breast,
Her poppies charm to fatal rest,
They rule in short and quick succession,
But SLOTH keeps one long, fast possession;
Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd,
Th' usurper rage is soon depos'd;
Intemperance, where there's no temptation,
Makes voluntary abdication;
Of other tyrants short the strife,
But INDOLENCE is king for life.
The despot twists with soft control,
Eternal fetters round the soul.
Yet tho' so polish'd FLORIO's breeding,
Think him not ignorant of reading;
For he to keep him from the vapours,
Subscrib'd at HOOKHAM's, saw the papers;
Was deep in poet's corner wit;
Knew what was in italics writ;
Explain'd fictitious names at will,
Each gutted syllable could fill;
There oft, in paragraphs, his name
Gave symptom sweet of growing fame;
Tho' yet they only serv'd to hint
That FLORIO lov'd to see in print,
His ample buckles' alter'd shape,
His buttons chang'd, his varying cape.
And many a standard phrase was his
Might rival bore, or banish quiz ;
The man who grasps this young renown,
And early starts for Fashion's crown;
In time that glorious prize may wield,
Which clubs, and ev'n Newmarket yield.
He studied while he dress'd, for true 'tis,
He read compendiums, extracts, beauties,
Abreges, dictionaries, recueils,
Mercures, journaux, extracts, and feuilles ;
No work in substance now is follow'd,
The chemic extract only's swallow'd.
He lik'd those literary cooks
Who skim the cream of other's books;
And ruin half an author's graces,
By plucking bon-mots from their places;
He wonders any writing sells,
But these spic'd mushrooms and morells
His palate these alone can touch,
Where every mouthful is bonne bouche.
Some phrase, that with the public took,
Was all he read of any book;
For plan, detail, arrangement, system,
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em.
Of each new play he saw a part,
And all the anas had by heart;
He found whatever they produce
Is fit for conversation-use;
Learning so ready for display,
A page would prime him for a day;
They cram not with a mass of knowledge,
With smacks of toil, and smells of college,
Which in the memory useless lies,
Or only makes men-good and wise.
This might have merit once indeed,
But now for other ends we read.
A friend he had, BELLARIO hight,
A reasoning, reading, learned wight;
At least, with men of FLORIO's breeding,
He was a prodigy of reading.
He knew each stale and vapid lie
In tomes of French philosophy;
And then, we fairly may presume,
From PYRRHO down to DAVID HUME,
'Twere difficult to single out
A man more full of shallow doubt;
He knew the little sceptic prattle,
The sophist's paltry arts of battle;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
21
Talk'd gravely of th' Atomic dance,
Of moral fitness, fate, and chance;
Admir'd the system of Lucretius,
But what from that prime source they drew;
Pleas'd, to the opera they repair,
To get recruits of knowledge there;
Whose matchless verse makes nonsense spe- Mythology gain at a glance,
cious!
To this his doctrine owes its merits,
Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits.
Tho' sceptics dull his scheme rehearse,
Who have not souls to taste his verse.
BELLARIO founds his reputation
On dry stale jokes, about creation;
Would prove, by argument circuitous,
The combination was fortuitous.
Swore priests' whole trade was to deceive,
And prey on bigots who believe;
With bitter ridicule could jeer,
And had the true free-thinking sneer.
Grave arguments he had in store,
Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er;
And us'd, with wond'rous penetration
The trite, old trick of false citation;
From ancient authors fond to quote
A phrase or thought they never wrote.
Upon his highest shelf there stood
The classics neatly cut in wood;
And in a more commodious station,
You found them in a French translation:
He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes,
But keeps the French-just for the notes.
He worshipp'd certain modern names
Who history write in epigrams,
In pointed periods, shining phrases,
And all the small poetic daisies,
Which crowd the pert and florid style,
Where fact is dropt to raise a smile;
Where notes indecent or profane
Serve to raise doubts, but not explain:
Where all is spangle, glitter, show,
And truth is overlaid below:
Arts scorn'd by History's sober muse,
Arts CLARENDON disdain'd to use.
Whate'er the subject of debate,
'Twas larded still with sceptic prate;
Begin whatever theme you will,
In unbelief he lands you still;
The good, with shame I speak it, feel
Not half this proselyting zeal:
While cold their master's cause to own
Content to go to heaven alone;
The infidel in liberal trim,
Would carry all the world with him:
Would treat his wife, friend, kindred, nation,
Mankind-with what! Annihilation.
Tho' FLORIO did not quite believe him,
He thought, why should a friend deceive him?
Much as he priz'd BELLARIO's wit,
He liked not all his notions yet;
He thought him charming, pleasant, odd,
But hop'd one might believe in God;
Yet such the charms that grac'd his tongue,
He knew not how to think him wrong.
Tho' FLORIO tried a thousand ways,
Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze;
Where once her flame has burnt, I doubt
If ever it go fairly out.
Yet, under great BELLARIO's care,
He gain'd each day a better air;
With many a leader of renown,
Deep in the learning of the town,
Who never other science knew,
And learn the classics from a dance:
In OVID they ne'er car'd a groat,
How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut;
Yet charm'd they see MEDEA rise
On fiery dragons to the skies.
For DIDO,* tho' they never knew her
AS MARO's magic pencil drew her,
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted,
Her pious vagabond departed;
Yet, for DIDONE how they roar
And Cara! Cara! loud encore.
One taste, BELLARIO's soul possess'd
The master passion of his breast;
It was not one of those frail joys,
Which, by possession, quickly cloys
This bliss was solid, constant, true,
'Twas action, and 'twas passion too
For tho' the business might be finish'd;
The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd;
Did he ride out, or sit, or walk,
He liv'd it o'er again in talk;
Prolong'd the fugitive delight,
In words by day, in dreams by night,
'Twas eating did his soul allure,
A deep, keen, modish epicure;
Tho' once this name, as I opine,
Meant not such men as live to dine;
Yet all our modern wits assure us,
That's all they know of EPICURUS :
They fondly fancy, that repletion
Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian.
To live in gardens full of flowers,
And talk Philosophy in bowers,
Or, in the covert of a wood,
To descant on the sovereign good,
Might be the notion of their founder,
But they have notions vastly sounder;
Their bolder standards they erect,
To form a more substantial sect;
Old EPICURUS would not own 'em,
A dinner is their summum bonum.
More like you'll find such sparks as these,
To EPICURUS' deities;
Like them they mix not with affairs,
But loll and laugh at human cares.
To beaux this difference is allow'd,
They choose a sofa for a cloud;
BELLARIO had embrac'd with glee,
This practical philosophy.
Young FLORIO's father had a friend,
And ne'er did heaven a worthier send
;
A cheerful knight of good estate,
Whose heart was warm, whose bounty great
Where'er his wide protection spread,
The sick were cheer'd, the hungry fed;
Resentment vanish'd where he came;
And lawsuits fled before his name;
The old esteem'd, the young caress'd him,
And all the smiling village bless'd him,
Within his castle's Gothic gate,
Sat Plenty, and old-fashioned state :
Scarce Prudence could his bounties stint ;-
Such characters are out of print;
O! would kind heav'n, the age to mend,
*Medea and Dido were the two reigning operas at
this time
22
THE WORKS OF HANNAÍI MORE.
A new edition of them send,
Before our tottering castles fall,
And swarming nabobs seize on all!
Some little whims he had, 'tis true,
But they were harmless, and were few;
He dreaded nought like alteration,
Improvement still was innovation;
He said, when any change was brewing,
Reform was a fine name for ruin ;'*
This maxim firmly he would hold,
'That always must be good that's old.'
The acts which dignify the day
He thought portended its decay:
And fear'd twould show a falling state,
If STERNHOLD should give way to TATE.
The church's downfall he predicted,
Were modern tunes not interdicted;
He scorn'd them all, but crown'd with palm
The man who set the hundredth psalm.
Of moderate parts, of moderate wit,
But parts for life and business fit:
Whate'er the theme; he did not fail,
At popery and the French to rail;
And started wide, with fond digression
To praise the protestant succession.
Of BLACKSTONE he had read a part,
And all BURN'S JUSTICE knew by heart.
He thought man's life too short to waste
On idle things call'd wit and taste.
In books that he might lose no minute,
His very verse had business in it.
He ne'er had heard of bards of GREECE,
But had read half of DYER'S FLEECE.
His sphere of knowledge still was wider,
His Georgics, PHILIPS upon cider :'
He could produce in proper place,
Three apt quotations from the 'Chase,'t
And in the hall, from day to day,
Old ISAAC WALTON's Angler lay.
·
This good and venerable knight
One daughter had, his soul's delight:
For face no mortal could resist her,
She smil'd like HEBE's youngest sister;
Her life, as lovely as her face,
Each duty mark'd with every grace;
Her native sense improv'd by reading,
Her native sweetness by good-breeding :
She had perus'd each choicer sage
Of ancient date, or later age;
But her best knowledge still she found
On sacred, not on classic ground;
'Twas thence her noblest stores she drew,
And well she practis'd what she knew.
Led by Simplicity divine,
She pleas'd, and never tried to shine;
She gave to chance each unschool'd feature,
And left her canse to sense and nature.
The sire of FLORIO, ere he died,
Decreed fair CELIA FLORIO's bride
Bade him his latest wish attend,
And win the daughter of his friend:
When the last rites to him were paid,
He charg'd him to address the maid:
Sir GILBERT's heart the wish approv'd
For much his ancient friend he lov'd.
Six rapid months like lightning fly,
* These lines were written many years before the
French revolution had in a manner realized Sir Gil-
bert's idea of reform.
† A poem by Mr. Somerville.
And the last gray was now thrown by;
FLORIO reluctant, calls to mind
The orders of a sire too kind:
Yet go
he must; he must fulfil
The hard conditions of the will:
Go, at that precious hour of prime,
Go, at that swarming, bustling time,
When the full town to joy invites,
Distracted with its own delights;
When Pleasure pours from her full urn,
Each tiresome transport in its turn;
When Dissipation's altars blaze,
And men run mad a thousand ways;
When, on his tablets, there were found
Engagements for full six weeks round;
Must leave, with grief and desperation,
Three packs of cards of invitation,
And all the ravishing delights
Of slavish days, and sleepless nights.
Ye nymphs, whom tyrant Power drags down,
With hand despotic from the town,
When ALMACK's doors wide open stand,
And the gay partner's offer'd hand
Courts to the dance; when steaming rooms,
Fetid with ungents and perfumes,
Invite you to the mobs polite
Of three sure balls in one short night
You may conceive what FLORIO felt,
And sympathetically melt;
You may conceive the hardship dire
To lawns and woodlands to retire,
When, freed from Winter's icy chain,
Glad Nature revels on the plain ;
When blushing Spring leads on the Hours,
And May is prodigal of flow'rs;
When Fashion warbles thro' the grove,
And all is song, and all is love;
When new-born breezes sweep the vale,
And Health adds fragrance to the gale.
PART II.
;
Six bays unconscious of their weight,
Soon lodg'd him at Sir GILBERT'S gate:
His trusty Swiss, who flew still faster,
Announc'd th' arrival of his master:
So loud the rap which shook the door,
The hall re-echo'd to the roar ;
Since first the castle walls were rear'd
So dread a sound had ne'er been heard;
The din alarm'd the frighten'd deer,
Who in a corner slunk for fear
The butler thought 'twas beat of drum,
The steward swore the French were come;
It ting'd with red poor FLORIO's face,
He thought himself in Portland-place.
Short joy! he enter'd, and the gate
Clos'd on him with its ponderous weight.
Who, like Sir GILBERT, now was blest?
With rapture he embrac'd his guest.
Fair CELIA blush'd, and FLORIO utter'd
Half sentences, or rather mutter'd
Disjointed words—as, 'honour! pleasure!
Kind!-vastly good, ma'am !-beyond mea-
sure:
Tame expletives, with which dull fashion
Fills vacancies of sense and passion.
Yet, tho' disciple of cold art,
FLORIO SOON found he had a heart;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
23
He saw; and but that admiration
Had been too active, too like passion;
Or had he been to Ton less true,
Cupid had shot him thro' and thro';
But, vainly speeds the surest dart,
Where FASHION's mail defends the heart;
The shaft her cold repulsion found,
And fell without the pow'r to wound:
For FASHION, with a mother's joy,
Dipp'd in her lake the darling boy;
That lake, whose chilling waves impart
The gift to freeze the warmest heart:
Yet guarded as he was with phlegm,
With such delight he ey'd the dame,
Found his cold heart to melt before her,
And felt so ready to adore her;
That FASHION fear'd her son would yield,
And flew to snatch him from the field;
O'er his touch'd heart her ægis threw,
The goddess mother straight he knew;
Her power he own'd, she saw and smil'd,
And claim'd the triumph of her child.
CELIA a table still supplied,
Which modish luxury might deride:
A modest feast the hope conveys,
The master eats on other days;
While gorgeous banquets oft bespeak
A hungry household all the week.
A decent elegance was there,
And Plenty with her liberal air.
But vulgar Plenty gave offence,
And shock'd poor FLORIO's nicer sense;
Patient he yielded to his fate,
When good Sir GILBERT pil'd his plate;
He bow'd submissive, made no question,
But that 'twas sovereign for digestion;
But, such was his unlucky whim,
Plain meats would ne'er agree with him;
Yet feign'd to praise the Gothic treat,
And, if he ate not, seem'd to eat.
In sleep sad FLORIO hop'd to find,
The pleasures he had left behind.
He dreamt, and lo! to charm his eyes,
The form of WELTJE✶ seem'd to rise;
The gracious vision wav'd his wand,
And banquets sprung to FLORIO's hand;
Th' imaginary savours rose
In tempting odours to his nose.
A bell, not Fancy's false creation,
Gives joyful 'note of preparation :'
He starts, he wakes, the bell he hears;
Alas! it rings for morning pray'rs.
But how to spend next tedious morning,
Was past his possible discerning;
Uuable to amuse himself,
He tumbled every well-ranged shelf;
This book was dull, and that was wise,
And this was monstrous as to size,
With eager joy he gobbled down
Whate'er related to the town;
Whate'er look'd small, whate'er look'd new
Half-bound, or stitch'd in pink or blue;
Old play-bills, ASTLEY'S last year's feats,
And Opera disputes in sheets.
As these dear records meet his eyes,
Ghosts of departed pleasures rise;
He lays the book upon the shelf,
And leaves the day to spend itself.
To cheat the tedious hours, whene'er
* A celebrated cook and confectioner.
He sallied forth to take the air,
His sympathetic ponies knew
Which way their lord's affections drew,
And, every time he went abroad,
Sought of themselves the London road;
He ask'd each mile of every clown,
How far they reckon'd it to town?
And still his nimble spirits rise,
Whilst thither he directs his eyes;
But when his coursers back he guides
The sinking mercury quick subsides.
A week he had resolv'd to stay
But found a week in every day;
Yet if the gentle maid was by,
Faint pleasure glisten'd in his eye;
Whene'er she spoke, attention hung
On the mild accents of her tongue;
But when no more the room she grac'd,
The slight impression was effac'd.
Whene'er Sir GILBERT's sporting guests
Retail'd old news, or older jests,
FLORIO, quite calm, and debonair,
Still humm'd a new Italian air ;
He did not even feign to hear 'em,
But plainly show'd he could not bear 'em.
CELIA perceived his secret thoughts,
But like the youth with all his faults;
Yet 'twas unlike, she softly said,
The tales ot love which she had read,
Where heroes vow'd, and sigh'd, and knelt;
Nay, 'twas unlike the love she felt;
Tho' when her sire the youth would blame,
She clear'd his but suspected fame,
Ventur'd to hope, with fault'ring tongue,
He would reform-he was but young;'
Confess'd his manners wrong in part,
But then-he had so good a heart!'
She sunk each fault, each virtue rais'd,
And still where truth permitted, prais'd;
His interest farther to secure,
She prais'd his bounty to the poor
For, votary as he was of art,
He had a kind and melting heart;
Tho', with a smile, he us'd to own
He had no time to feel in town;
Not that he blush'd to show compassion;-
It chanc'd that year to be the fashion,
And equally the modish tribe,
To clubs or hospitals subscribe.
At length, to wake ambition's flame,
A letter from BELLARIO came;
Announcing the supreme delight,"
Preparing for a certain night,
By FLAVIA fair, return'd from France,
Who took him captive at a glance :
The invitations all were given!
Five hundred cards!-a little heaven!
A dinner first-he would present him,
And nothing, nothing must prevent him,
Whoever wish'd a noble air,
Must gain it by an entree there;
Of all the glories of the town,
'Twas the first passport to renown,
Then ridicul'd his rural schemes,
His pastoral shades, and purling streams;
Sneer'd at his present brilliant life,
His polish'd sire, and high-bred wife
Thus, doubly to inflame, he tried,
His curiosity and pride.
The youth, with agitated heart,
24
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Prepar'd directly to depart;
But, bound in honour to obey
His father at no distant day;
He promis'd soon to hasten down,
Tho' business call'd him now to town;
Then faintly hints a cold proposal-
But leaves it to the knight's disposal-
Stammer'd half words of love and duty,
And mutter'd much of-worth and beauty;"
Something of passion then he dropt,
'And hop'd his ardour'-Here he stopt;
For some remains of native truth
Flush'd in his face, and check'd the youth;
Yet still th' ambiguous suffusion,
Might pass for artless love's confusion.
The doating father thought 'twas strange,
But fancied men like times might change;
Yet own'd, nor could he check his tongue,
It was not so when he was young.
That was the reign of love he swore,
Whose halcyon days are now no more.
In that blest age, for honour fam'd,
Love paid the homage Virtue claim'd;
Not that insipid, daudling Cupid,
With heart so hard, and air so stupid,
Who coldly courts the charms which lie
In Affectation's half-clos'd eye.
Love then was honest, genuine passion,
And manly gallantry the fashion;
Yet pure as ardent was the flame
Excited by the beauteous dame;
Hope could subsist on slender bounties,
And suitors gallop'd o'er two counties,
The ball's fair partner to behold,
Or humbly hope-she caught no cold.
But mark how much Love's annals mend!
Should beauty's goddess now descend;
On some adventure should she come,
To grace a modish drawing-room;
Spite of her form and heavenly air,
What beau would hand her to a chair?
Vain were that grace, which to her son,
Disclos'd what Beauty had not done:
Vain were that motion which betray'd,
The goddess was no earth-born maid;
If noxious FARO's baleful spright,
With rites infernal rul'd the night,
The group absorb'd in play and pelf,
VENUS might call her doves herself.
AS FLORIO pass'd the castle-gate,
His spirits seem to lose their weight;
He feasts his lately vacant mind
With all the joys he hopes to find;
Yet on whate'er his fancy broods,
The form of CELIA Still intrudes;
Whatever other sound he hears,
The voice of CELIA fills his ears;
Howe'er his random thoughts might fly,
Her graces dance before his eye;
Nor was the obtrusive vision o'er,
E'en when he reach'd BELLARIO's door.
The friends embrac'd with warm delight,
And FLAVIA's praises crown'd the night.
Soon dawn'd the day which was to show,
Glad FLORIO what was heaven below.
FLAVIA, admir'd wherever known,
Th' acknowledg'd empress of bon-ton;
O'er FASHION's wayward kingdom reigns,
And holds BELLARIO in her chains;
Various her powers; a wit by day,
By night unmatch'd for lucky play.
The flattering, fashionable tribe,
Each stray bon-mot to her ascribe;
And all her little senate' own
She made the best charade in town;
Her midnight suppers always drew
Whate'er was fine, whate'er was new;
There oft the brightest fame you'd see
The victim of a repartee;
For Slander's priestess still supplies
The SPOTLESS for the sacrifice.
None at her polish'd table sit,
But who aspire to modish wit,
The persiflage, th' unfeeling jeer,
The civil, grave, ironic sneer;
The laugh which more than censure wounds
Which, more than argument, confounds.
There the fair deed, which would engage
The wonder of a nobler age,
With unbelieving scorn is heard,
Or still to selfish ends refer'd;
If in the deed no flaw they find,
To some base motive 'tis assign'd
When Malice longs to throw her dart,
But finds no vulnerable part,
Because the Virtues all defend,
At every pass, their guarded friend;
Then by one slight insinuation,
One scarce perceiv'd exaggeration;
Sly Ridicule, with half a word,
Can fix her stigma of absurd;
Nor care, nor skill, extracts the dart,
With which she stabs the feeling heart;
Her cruel caustics inly pain,
And scars indelible remain.
Supreme in wit, supreme in play,
Despotic Flavia all obey;
Small were her natural charms of face,
Till heighten'd with each foreign grace;
But what subdued Bellario's soul
Beyond Philosophy's control,
Her constant table was as fine
;
As if ten rajahs were to dine
She every day produc'd such fish as
Would gratify the nice APICIUS,
Or realize what we think fabulous
I' th' bill of fare of HELIOGABALUS.
Yet still the natural taste was cheated,
'Twas delug'd in some sauce one hated.
'Twas sauce! 'twas sweetmeat! 'twas confection!
All poignancy! and all perfection!
Rich entremets, whose name none knows,
Ragouts, tourtes, tendrons, fricandeux,
O' th' hogs of EPICURUS' Sty;
Yet all so foreign and so fine,
'Twas easier to admire, than dine.
O! if the muse had power to tell
Each dish, no muse has power to spell
Great goddess of the French Cuisine!
Not with unhallow'd hands I mean
To violate thy secret shade,
Which eyes profane shall ne'er invade;
No! of thy dignity supreme,
I, with mysterious reverence,' deem!
Or, should I venture with rash hand,
The vulgar would not understand;
None but th' initiated know
The raptures keen thy rights bestow.
Thus much to tell I lawful deem,
Thy works are never what they seem;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
25
Thy will this general law has past,
That nothing of itself shall taste.
Thy word this high decree enacted,
'In all be nature counteracted!'
Conceive, who can, the perfect bliss,
For 'tis not given to all who guess,
The rapturous joy BELLARIO found,
When thus his ev'ry wish was crown'd.
TO FLORIO, as the best of friends,
One dish he secretly commends
Then hinted, as a special favour,
What gave it that delicious flavour;
A mystery he so much reveres,
He never to unhallow'd ears
Would trust it, but to him would show
How far true friendship's power would
FLORIO, tho' dazzled by the fete,
go.
With far inferior transport eat;
A little warp his taste had gain'd,
Which, unperceived, till now remain'd;
For, from himself he would conceal
The change he did not choose to feel;
He almost wish'd he could be picking
An unsophisticated chicken;
And when he cast his eyes around,
And not one simple morsel found,
O give me, was his secret wish,
My charming CELIA's plainest dish!
Thus Nature, struggling for her rights,
Lets in some little, casual lights:
And Love combines to war with Fashion,
Tho' yet 'twas but an infant passion;
The practis'd FLAVIA tried each art
Of sly attack to steal his heart;
Her forc'd civilities oppress,
Fatiguing thro' mere graciousness:
While many a gay intrepid dame,
By bold assault essay'd the same.
Fill'd with disgust, he strove to fly
The artful glance and fearless eye;
Their jargon now no more he praises,
Nor echoes back their flimsy phrases.
He felt not CELIA's powers of face,
Till weigh'd against bon-ton grimace;
Nor half her genuine beauties tasted,
'Till with factitious charms contrasted;
Th' industrious carpies hover'd round,
Nor peace nor liberty he found!
By force and flattery circumvented,
To play, reluctant, he consented;
Each dame her power of pleasing tried,
To fix the novice by her side,
Of pigeons he the very best,
Who wealth with ignorance possest.
But FLAVIA's rhetoric best persuades,
That sybil leads him to the shades;
The fatal leaves around the room,
Prophetic tell the approaching doom!
Yet, different from the tale of old,
It was the fair one pluck'd the gold;
Her arts the pond'rous purse exhaust;
A thousand borrow'd, stak'd, and lost,
Wakes him to sense and shame again,
Nor force, nor fraud could more obtain.
He rose, indignant, to attend
The summons of a ruin'd friend,
Whom keen BELLARIO'S arts betray
To all the depths of desperate play;
A thoughtless youth who near him sat,
Was plunder'd of his whole estate;
Too late he call'd for FLORIO's aid,
A beggar in a moment made.
And now, with horror, FLORIO views
The wild confusion which ensues;
Marks how the dames, of late so fair,
Assume a fierce demoniac air;
Marks where the infernal furies hold
Their orgies foul o'er heaps of gold ;
And spirits dire appear to rise,
Guarding the horrid mysteries;
Marks how deforming passions tear
The bosoms of the losing fair;
How looks convuls'd, and haggard faces,
Chase the scar'd Loves, and frighten'd Graces!
Touch'd with disdain, with horror fir'd,
CELIA! he murmur'd, and retir’d.
That night no sleep his eyelids prest,
He thought; and thought's a foe to rest:
Or if, by chance, he clos'd his eyes,
What hideous spectres round him rise!
Distemper'd Fancy wildly brings
The broken images of things;
His ruin'd friend, with eye-ball fixt,
Swallowing the draught Despair had mixt;
The frantic wife beside him stands,
With bursting heart, and wringing hands;
And every horror dreams bestow,
Of pining want or raving wo.
Next morn, to check, or cherish thought,
His library's retreat he sought;
He view'd each book, with cold regard,
Of serious sage, or lighter bard;
At length, among the motley band,
The IDLER fell into his hand;
Th' alluring title caught his eye,
It promis'd cold inanity :
He read with rapture and surprise,
And found 'twas pleasant, tho' 'twas wise:
His tea grew cold, whilst he, unheeding,
Pursu'd this reasonable reading.
He wonder'a at the change he found,
Th' elastic spirits nimbly bound;
Time slipt, without disgust, away,
While many a card unanswer'd lay :
Three papers, reeking from the press,
Three pamphlets thin, in azure dress,
Ephemeral literature well known,
The lie and scandal of the town;
Poison of letters, morals, time!
Assassin of our day's fresh prime !
These, on his table, half the day,
Unthought of, and neglected lay.
FLORIO had now full three hours read,
Hours which he us'd to waste in bed;
His pulse beat virtue's vigorous tone,
The reason to himself unknown;
And if he stopped to seek the cause,
Fair CELIA's image filled the pause.
And now, announc'd BELLARIO's name
Had almost quench'd the new-born flame:
'Admit him,' was the ready word
Which first escap'd him, not unheard
When sudden, to his mental sight,
Uprose the horrors of last night;
His plunder'd friend before him stands,
And-' not at home,' his firm commands.
He felt the conquest as a joy
The first temptation would destroy.
He knew next day that Hymen's hand,
Would tack the slight and slippery band,
26
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Which, in loose bondage, would ensnare
BELLARIO bright and FLAVIA fair.
Oft had he promis'd to attend
The nuptials of his happy friend :
To go-to stay-alike he fears;
At length a bolder flight he dares :
TO CELIA he resolves to fly,
And catch fresh virtue from her eye,
Though three full weeks did yet remain,
Ere he engag'd to come again.
This plan he tremblingly embrac'd,
With doubtful zeal, and fluttering haste;
Nor ventur'd he one card to read,
Which might his virtuous scheme impede ;
Each note, he dreaded might betray him,
And shudder'd lest each rap should stay him.
Behold him seated in his chaise;
With face that self distrust betrays;
He hazards not a single glance,
Nor through the glasses peeps by chance,
Lest some old friend, or haunt well known,
Should melt his resolution down.
Fast as his foaming coursers fly,
Hyde-park attracts his half-rais'd eye;
He steals one fearful, conscious look,
Then drops his eye upon his book.
Triumphant he persists to go;
But gives one sigh to Rotten-row.
Long as he view'd AUGUSTA's tow'rs,
The sight relax'd his thinking pow'rs;
In vain he better plans revolves,
While the soft scene his soul dissolves;
The tow'rs once lost, his view he bends,
Where the receding smoke ascends;
But when nor smoke, nor tow'rs arise,
To charm his heart or cheat his eyes;
When once he got entirely clear
From this enfeebling atmosphere;
His mind was brac'd, his spirits light,
His heart was gay, his humour bright.
Thus feeling, at his inmost soul,
The sweet reward of self-controul,
Impatient now, and all alive,
He thought he never should arrive;
At last he spies Sir Gilbert's trees;
Now the near battlements he sees;
The gates he enter'd with delight,
And, self-announc'd, embrac'd the knight:
The youth his joy unfeign'd exprest,
The knight with joy receiv'd his guest,
And own'd, with no unwilling tongue,
"Twas done like men when he was young.
Three weeks subducted, went to prove,
A feeling like old-fashion'd love.
For Celia, not a word she said,
But blush'd,' celestial, rosy red !'
Her modest charms transport the youth,
Who promis'd everlasting truth.
Celia, in honour of the day,
Unusual splendour would display :
Such was the charm her sweetness gave,
He thought her wedgwood had been séve,
Her taste diffused a gracious air,
And chaste Simplicity was there,
Whose secret power, though silent, great is,
The loveliest of the sweet Penates.
Florio, now present to the scene,
With spirits light, and gracious mien,
Sir Gilbert's port politely praises,
And carefully avoids French phrases;
Endures the daily dissertation
On land-tax, and a ruin'd nation;
Listens to many a tedious tale
Of poachers, who deserv'd a jail;
Heard all the business of the quorum,
Each cause and crime produc'd before 'em:
Heard them abuse with complaisance
The language, wines, and wits of France;
Nor did he hum a single air,
While good Sir Gilbert fill'd his chair.
Abroad, with joy and grateful pride,
He walks, with Celia by his side:
A thousand cheerful thoughts arise,
Each rural scene enchants his eyes;
With transports he begins to look
On Nature's all instructive book;
No objects now seem mean, or low,
Which point to Him from whom they flow.
A berry or a bud excites
A chain of reasoning which delights,
Which spite of sceptic ebulitions,
Proves atheists not the best logicians.
A tree, a brook, a blade of grass,
Suggests reflections as they pass,
Till Florio, with a sigh, confest
The simplest pleasures are the best
Bellario's systems sink in air,
He feels the perfect, good, and fair.
As pious Celia rais'd the theme
To holy faith and love supreme;
Enlighten'd Florio learn'd to trace
In Nature's God the God of grace.
In wisdom as the convert grew
The hours on rapid pinions flew,
When call'd to dress, that Titus wore
A wig the alter'd Florio swore;
Or else, in estimating time,
He ne'er had mark'd it as a crime,
That he had lost but one day's blessing,
When we so many lose, by dressing.
The rest, suffice it now to say,
Was finish'd in the usual way.
Cupid, impatient for his hour,
Revil'd slow Themis' tedious power,
Whose parchment legends, singing, sealing,
Are cruel forms for Love to deal in.
At length to Florio's eager eyes,
Behold the day of bliss arise!
The golden sun illumes the globe,
The burning torch, the saffron robe.
Just as of old, glad Hymen wears,
And Cupid, as of old, appears
In Hymen's train; so strange the case
They hardly knew each other's face;
Yet both confess'd with glowing heart
They never were design'd to part;
Quoth Hymen, sure you're strangely slighted
At weddings not to be invited;
The reason's clear enough, quoth Cupid,
My company is thought but stupid,
Where Plutus is the favourite guest,
For he and I scarce speak at best.
The self-same sun which joins the twain
Sees Flavia sever'd from her swain;
Bellario sues for a divorce,
And both pursue their sep'rate course.
Oh wedded love! thy bliss how rare!
And yet the ill-assorted pair;
The pair who choose at Fashion's voice,
Or drag the chain of venal choice;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
27
Have little cause to curse the state,
Who make, should never blame their fate,
Such flimsy ties, say where's the wonder,
If Doctors Commons snap asunder.
In either case, 'tis still the wife,
Gives cast and colour to the life.
Florio escap'd from Fashion's school
His heart and conduct learns to rule;
Conscience his useful life approves;
He serves his God, his country loves;
Reveres her laws, protects her rights,
And, for her interests, pleads or fights
Reviews with scorn his former life,
And, for his rescue, thanks his wife.
THE SLAVE TRADE:
A POEM.
O great design!
Ye sons sf mercy! O complete your work;
Wrench from Oppression's hand the iron rod,
And bid the cruel feel the pains they give.
If Heaven has into being deign'd to call
Thy light, O liberty! to shine on all;
Bright intellectual sun! why does thy ray
To earth distribute only partial day?
Since no resisting cause from spirit flows
Thy universal presence to oppose;
No obstacles by nature's hand imprest,
Thy subtle and ethereal beams arrest;
Not sway'd by Matter is thy course benign,
Or more direct or more oblique to shine;
Nor Motion's laws can speed thy active course,
Nor strong Repulsion's pow'rs obstruct thy
force;
Since there is no convexity in mind,
Why are thy genial beams to parts confin'd?
While the chill north with thy bright ray is
blest,
Why should fell darkness half the south invest?
Was it decreed, fair Freedom! at thy birth,
That thou should'd ne'er irradiate all the earth?
While Britain basks in thy full blaze of light,
Why lies sad Afric quench'd in total night?
Thee only, sober goddess! I attest,
In smiles chastis'd, and decent graces drest,
To thee alone pure daughter of the skies,
The hallow'd incense of the bard should rise?
Not that mad liberty, in whose wild praise
Too oft he trims his prostituted bays;
Not that unlicens'd monster of the crowd,
Whose roar terrific bursts in peals so loud,
Deaf'ning the ear of Peace; fierce Faction's tool,
Of rash Sedition born, and mad Misrule;
Whose stubborn mouth, rejecting Reason's
reign,
No strength can govern, and no skill restrain ;
Whose magic cries the frantic vulgar draw
To spurn at Order, and to outrage Law;
To tread on grave Authority and Pow'r,
And shake the work of ages in an hour:
Convuls'd her voice, and pestilent her breath,
She raves of mercy, while she deals out death;
Each blast is fate; she darts from either hand
Red conflagration o'er the astonish'd land;
Clamouring for peace, she rends the air with
noise,
And to reform a part, the whole destroys.
Reviles oppression only to oppress,
And in the act of murder, breathes redress.
Such have we seen on Freedom's genuine coast,
|
Thompson's "Liberty.”
Bellowing for blessings which were never lost.
'Tis past, and Reason rules the lucid hour,
And beauteous ORDER reassumes his power:
Lord of the bright ascendant may he reign,
Till perfect Peace eternal sway maintain !*
O, plaintive Southernet whose impassion'd
page
Can melt the soul to grief, or rouse to rage!
Now, when congenial themes engage the
Muse,
She burns to emulate thy generous views;
Her failing efforts mock her fond desires,
She shares thy feelings, not partakes thy fires.
Strange pow'r of song the strain that warms the
heart
Seems the same inspiration to impart;
Touch'd by th' extrinsic energy alone,
We think the flame which melts us is our own:
Deceiv'd, for genius we mistake delight,
Charm'd as we read, we fancy we can write.
Though not to me, sweet bard, thy pow'rs
belong,
The cause I plead shall sanctify my song.
The Muse awakes no artificial fire,
For Truth rejects what Fancy would inspire:
Here Art would weave her gayest flow'rs in vain,
The bright invention Nature would disdain.
For no fictitious ills these numbers flow,
But living anguish, and substantial wo;
No individual griefs my bosom melt,
For millions feel what Oronoko felt:
Fir'd by no single wrongs, the countless host
I mourn, by rapine dragg'd from Afric's coast.
Perish th' illiberal thought which would de-
base
The native genius of the sable race!
Perish the proud philosophy, which sought
To rob them of the pow'rs of equal thought!
Does then th' immortal principle within
Change with the casual colour of the skin?
Does Matter govern Spirit? or is mind
Degraded by the form to which 'tis join'd?
No: they have heads to think, and hearts to
feel,
And souls to act, with firm, though erring zeal :
For they have keen affections, kind desires,
Love strong as death, and active patriot fires;
* Alluding to the riots of London in the year 1780.
† Author of the tragedy of Oronoko.
28
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
All the rude energy, the fervid flame,
Of high-soul'd passion, and ingenuous shame :
Strong, but luxuriant virtues boldly shoot
From the wild vigour of a savage root.
Nor weak their sense of honour's proud con-
trol,
For Pride is virtue in a Pagan soul;
A sense of worth, a conscience of desert,
A high, unbroken haughtiness of heart;
That self-same stuff which erst proud empires
sway'd,
[made.
Of which the conquerors of the world were
Capricious fate of men! that very pride
In Afric scourg'd, in Rome was deify'd.
No muse, O Quashi!* shall thy deeds relate,
No statue snatch thee from oblivious fate!
For thou wast born where never gentle Muse
On valour's grave the flow'rs of Genius strews;
And thou wast born where no recording page
Plucks the fair deed from Time's devouring rage:
Had Fortune plac'd thee on some happier coast,
Where polis'd Pagans souls heroic boast,
To thee who sought'st a voluntary grave,
Th' injur'd honours of thy name to save,
Whose generous arm thy barbarous master
spar'd,
Altars had smok'd, and temples had been rear'd.
Whene'er to Afric's shores I turn my eyes,
Horrors of deepest, deadliest guilt arise;
I see, by more than Fancy's mirror shown,
The burning village and the blazing town :
See the dire victim torn from social life,
The shrieking babe, the agonizing wife!
She, wretch forlorn! is dragg'd by hostile hands,
To distant tyrants sold, in distant lands!
Transmitted miseries, and successive chains,
The sole sad heritage her child obtains!
E'en this last wretched boon their foes deny,
To weep together, or together die.
By felon hands, by one relentless stroke,
See the fond links of feeling Nature broke!
The fibres twisting round a parent's heart,
Torn from their grasp, and bleeding as they part.
Hold! murderer's, hold! nor aggravate distress;
Respect the passions you yourselves possess,
Ev'n you of ruffian heart, and ruthless hand,
Love your own offspring, love your native land:
Ev'n you, with fond impatient feelings burn,
Though free as air, though certain of return,
Then, if to you who voluntarily roam,
So dear the memory of your distant home,
O think how absence the lov'd scene endears
To him whose food is groans, whose drink is
tears;
* It is a point of honour among negroes of a high spi-
rit to die rather than to suffer their glossy skin to bear
the mark of the whip. Quashi had somehow offended
his master, a young planter with whom he had been
bred up in the endearing intimacy of a play-fellow. His
services had been faithful; his attachment affectionate.
The master resolved to punish him, and pursued him for
that purpose. In trying to escape Quashi stumbled and
fell; the master fell upon him: they wrestled long with
doubtful victory; at length Quashi got uppermost, and
being firmly seated on his master's breast, he secured his
legs with one hand, and with the other drew a sharp
knife, then said, 'master, I have been bred up with you
from a child; I loved you as myself; in return, you have
condemned me to a punishment of which I must ever
have borne the marks-thus only can I avoid them;' so
saying, he drew the knife with all his strength across
his own throat, and fell down dead, without a groan, on
his master's body.--Ramsay's Essay on the Treatment
of African Slaves.
Think on the wretch whose aggravated pains
To exile misery adds, to misery chains.
If warm your heart, to British feelings true,
As dear his land to him as yours to you;
And Liberty, in you a hallow'd flame,
Burns, unextinguish'd in his breast the same.
Then leave him holy Freedom's cheering smile,
The heav'n-taught fondness for the parent soil;
Revere affections mingled with our frame,
In every nature, every clime the same;
In all, these feelings equal sway maintain :
In all the love of Home and Freedom reign;
And Tempe's vale, and parch'd Angola's sand,
One equal fondness of their son's command.
Th' unconquer'd savage laughs at pain and toil,
Basking in Freedom's beams which gild his na-
tive soil.
Does thirst of empire, does desire of fame,
(For these are specious crimes) our rage in-
flame?
No: sordid lust of gold their fate controls,
The basest appetite of basest souls ;
Gold, better gain'd by what their ripening sky,
Their fertile fields, their arts,* and mines supply.
What wrongs, what injuries does Oppression
plead,
To smooth the crime and sanctify the deed?
What strange offence, what aggravated sin?
They stand convicted-of a darker skin!
Barbarians, hold! th' opprobrious commerce
spare,
Respect His sacred image which they bear.
Though dark and savage, ignorant and blind,
They claim the common privilege of kind;
Let malice strip them of each other plea,
They still are men, and men should still be free.
Insulted Reason loaths the inverted trade-
Loathes, as she views the human purchase made;
The outrag'd goddess, with abhorrent eyes,
Sees MAN the traffic, SOULS the merchandise!
Man, whom fair Commerce taught with judging
eye,
And liberal hand, to barter or to buy,
Indignant Nature blushes to behold,
Degraded man himself, truck'd, barter'd, sold:
Of ev'ry native privilege bereft,
Yet curs'd with ev'ry wounded feeling left.
Hard lot! each brutal suff'ring to sustain,
Yet keep the sense acute of human pain.
Plead not, in reason's palpable abuse,
Their sense of feelingt callous and obtuse:
From heads to hearts lies Nature's plain appeal,
Though few can reason, all mankind can feel.
Though wit may boast a livelier dread of shame,
A loftier sense of long refinement claim;
Though polish'd manners may fresh wants in-
vent,
And nice distinctions nicer souls torment;
Though these on finer spirits heavier fall,
Yet natural evils are the same to all.
Tho' wounds there are which reason's force
heal,
There needs no logic sure to make us feel.
The nerve, howe'er untutor'd, can sustain
A sharp unutterable sense of pain;
may
* Besides many valuable productions of the soil, cloths
and carpets of exquisite manufacture are brought from
the coast of Guinea.
Nothing is more frequent than this cruel and stupid
argument, that they do not feel the miseries inflicted on
them as Europeans would do.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
29
As exquisitely fashion'd in a slave,
As where unequal fate a sceptre gave.
Sense is as keen where Gambia's waters glide,
As where proud Tiber rolls his classic tide.
Though verse or rhetoric point the feeling line,
They do not whet sensation, but define.
Did ever wretch less feel the galling chain,
When Zeno prov'd there was no ill in pain?
In vain the sage to smooth its horror tries;
Spartans and Helots see with different eyes;
Their miseries philosophic quirks deride,
Slaves groan in pangs disown'd by stoic pride.
When the fierce sun darts vertical his beams,
And thirst and hunger mix their wild extremes;
When the sharp iron* wounds his inmost soul,
And his strain'd eyes in burning anguish roll;
Will the parch'd negro own, ere he expire,
No pain in hunger, and no heat in fire?
For him, when agony his frame destroys,
What hope of present fame or future joys?
For that have heroes shorten'd nature's date,
For this have martyrs gladly met their fate;
But him forlorn, no heroes pride sustains,
No martyr's blissful vision soothe his pains;
Sullen, he mingles with his kindred dust,
For he has learn'd to dread the Christian's trust;
To him what mercy can that God display,
Whose servants murder, and whose sons betray?
Savage! thy venial error I deplore,
They are not Christians who infest thy shore.
O thou sad spirit, whose preposterous yoke
The great deliverer Death, at length has broke,
Releas'd from misery, and escap'd from care,
Go, meet that mercy man deny'd thee here.
In thy dark home, sure refuge of th' oppress'd,
The wicked vex not, and the weary rest.
And, if some notions, vague and undefin'd,
Of future terrors have assail'd thy mind ;
If such thy masters have presum'd to teach,
As terrors only they are prone to preach;
(For should they paint eternal Mercy's reign,
Where were the oppressor's rod, the captive's
chain ?)
If, then, thy troubled soul has learn'd to dread
The dark unknown thy trembling footsteps tread;
On HIM, who made thee what thou art, depend;
HE, who withholds the means, accepts the end.
Thy metal night thy Saviour will not blame;
He died for those who never heard his name.
Not thine the reckoning dire of LIGHT abus'd,
KNOWLEDGE disgrac'd, and LIBERTY misus'd;
On thee no awful judge incens'd shall sit
For parts perverted, and dishonour'd wit.
Where ignorance may be found the safest plea,
How many learn'd and wise shall envy thee!
And thou, WHITE SAVAGE! whether lust of gold
Or lust of conquest rule thee uncontroll'd!
Hero, or robber!-by whatever name!-
Thou plead thy impious claim to wealth or fame;
Whether inferior mischief be thy boast,
A tyrant trader rifling Congo's coast;
Or bolder carnage track thy crimson way,
Kings dispossess'd, and provinces thy prey;
Whether thou pant to tame earth's distant
bound;
* This is not said figuratively. The writer of these
lines has seen a complete set of chains, fitted to every
separate limb of these unhappy, innocent men; together
with instruments for wrenching open the jaws, contri-
ved with such ingenious cruelty as would gratify the
tender mercies of an inquisitor.
All Cortez murder'd, all Columbus found;
O'er plunder'd realms to reign, detested lord,
Make millions wretched, and thyself abhorr'd:-
Whether Cartouche in forests break the law.
Or bolder Cæsar keep the world in awe;
In Reason's eye, in Wisdom's fair account,
Your sum of glory boasts a like amount;
The means may differ, but the end's the same,
Conquest is pillage with a nobler name,
Who makes the sum of human blessings less,
Or sinks the stock of general happiness,
Tho' erring fame may grace, tho' false renown
His life may blazon or his memory crown;
Yet the last audit shall reverse the cause;
And God shall vindicate his broken laws.
Had those advent'rous spirits who explore
Thro' ocean's trackless wastes, the far-sought
shore ;
Whether of wealth insatiate, or of pow'r,
Conquerors who waste, or ruffian's who devour:
Had these possess'd, O Cook! thy gentle mind,
Thy love of arts, thy love of human kind;
Had these pursued thy mild and liberal plan,
DISCOVERIES had not been a curse to man!
Then, bless'd Philanthropy! thy social hands,
Had link'd dissever'd worlds in brothers' bands;
Careless, if colour, or if clime divide;
Then lov'd and loving, man had liv'd and died.
Then with pernicious skill we had not known
To bring their vices back and leave our own.
The purest wreaths which hang on Glory's
shrine,
For empires founded, peaceful Penn! are thine;
No blood-stain'd laurels crown'd thy virtuous
toil,
[soil,
No slaughter'd natives drench'd thy fair-earn'd
Still thy meek spirit in thy flock* survives,
Consistent still, their doctrines rule their lives;
Thy followers only have effac'd the shame,
Inscrib'd by SLAVERY on the Christian name.
Shall Britain, where the soul of freedom
reigns,
Forge chains for others she herself disdains?
Forbid it, Heaven! O let the nations know
The liberty she loves, she will bestow;
Not to herself the glorious gift confin'd,
She spreads the blessing wide as human kind
And, scorning narrow views of time and place,
Bids all be free in earth's extended space.
What page of human annals can record
A deed so bright as human rights restor❜d?
O may that god-like deed, that shining page,
Redeem OUR fame, and consecrate our age!
And let this glory mark our favour'd shore,
To curb False Freedom and the True restore.
And see the cherub Mercy from above,
Descending softly, quits the sphere of love!
On Britain's isle she sheds her heavenly dew;
And breathes her spirit o'er th' enlighten'd few.
From soul to soul the spreading influence steals,
Till every breast the soft contagion feels.
She speeds, exulting, to the burning shore,
With the best message angel ever bore;
Hark! 'tis the note which spoke a Saviour's
birth!
Glory to God on high, and peace on earth !
She vindicates the pow'r in Heaven ador'd,
*The Quakers have emancipated all their slaves
throughout America,
30
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
She stills the clank of chains, and sheathes the | And LIBERTY! thy shining standard rears!
sword;
She cheers the mourner, and with soothing hands
From bursting hearts unbinds th' oppressor's
bands;
Restores the lustre of the Christian name,
And clears the foulest blot that dimm'd its fame.
As the mild spirit hovers o'er the coast,
A fresher hue their wither'd landscapes boast;
Her healing smiles the ruin'd scenes repair,
And blasted Nature wears a joyous air;
While she proclaims thro' all their spicy groves,
'Henceforth your fruits, your labours, and your
loves,
'All that your sires possess'd, or you have sown,
'Sacred from plunder-all is now YOUR OWN.'
And now, her high commission from above,
Stamp'd with the holy characters of love,
The meek-ey'd spirit waving in her hand,
Breathes manumission o'er the rescu'd land;
She tears the banner stain'd with blood
tears,
and
As the bright ensign's glory she displays,
See pale OPPRESSION faints beneath the blaze!
The giant dies! no more his frown appals,
The chain, untouch'd drops off; the fetter falls.
Astonish'd Echo tells the vocal shore,
Oppression's fall'n, and Slavery is no more!
The dusky myriads erowd the sultry plain,
All hail that MERCY, long invok'd in vain.
Victorious Powr! she bursts their two-fold
bands,
And Faith and Freedom spring from Britain's
hands.
And Thou! great source of Nature and of
Grace,
Who of one blood didst form the human race
Look down in mercy in thy chosen time,
With equal eye on Afric's suff'ring clime:
Disperse her shades of intellectual night,
Repeat thy high behest-Let there be Light
Bring each benighted soul, great God, to Thee,
And with thy wide salvation make them free!
DAN AND JANE:
OR FAITH AND WORKS.—A TALE.
GOOD, Dan and Jane were man and wife,
And liv'd a loving kind of life;
One point, however, they disputed,
And each by turns his mate confuted,
"Twas Faith and Works-this knotty question
They found not easy of digestion.
While Dan alone for faith contended,
Jane equally good works defended.
They are not Christians sure, but Turks
Who build on faith and scoff at works,'
Quoth Jane-while eager Dan reply'd,
By none but heathens faith's deny'd.'
'I'll tell you wife,' at length quoth Dan,
'A story of a right good man.
A patriarch sage, of ancient days,
A man of faith, whom all must praise
In his own country he possess'd,
Whate'er can make a wise man blest;
His was the flock, the field, the spring,
In short, a little rural king.
Yet, pleas'd, he quits his native land,
By faith in the divine command.
God bade him go; and he, content,
Went forth, not knowing where he went.
He trusted in the promise made,
And, undisputing strait obey'd.
The heavenly word he did not doubt,
But prov'd his faith by going out.
Jane answer'd, with some little prido-
'I've an example on my side;
And tho' my tale be somewhat longer,
I trust you'll find it vastly stronger.
I'll tell you, Daniel, of a man,
The holiest since the world began:
Who now God's favour is receiving
For prompt obeying, not believing.
One only son this man possest,
In whom his righteous age was blest;
And more to mark the grace of heaven,
This son by miracle was given.
And from this child the word divine
Had promis'd an illustrious line.
When lo! at once a voice he hears,
Which sounds like thunder in his ears.
God says-Go sacrifice thy son!
This moment, Lord, it shall be done.
He goes, and instantly prepares,
To slay the child of many prayers.
Now here you see the grand expedience,
Of works, of actual sound obedience.
This was not faith, but act and deed,
The Lord commands-the child shalt bleed.
Thus Abraham acted,' Jenny cried;
6
Thus Abraham trusted,' Dan replied
Abraham,' quoth Jane, 'why that's my man.
No, Abraham's him I mean,' says Dan.
'He stands a monument of faith ;'-
'No, 'tis for works the Scripture saith.
'Tis for his faith that I defend him ;'
"Tis for obedience I commend him.'
Thus he thus she-both warmly feel,
And lose their temper in their zeal;
Too quick each other's choice to blame,
They did not see each meant the same.
'At length, good wife,' said honest Dan,
'We're talking of the self-same man,
The works you praise I own indeed,
Grow from that faith for which I plead;
And Abraham, whom for faith I quote,
For works deserves especial note:
'Tis not enough of faith to talk,
A man of God with God must walk
Our doctrines are at last the same,
They only differ in the name:
The faith I fight for, is the root;
The works you value are the fruit
How shall you know my creed's sincere,
Unless in works my faith appear?
How shall I know a tree's alive,
Unless I see it bear and thrive?
Your works not growing on my root,
Would prove they were not genuine fruit.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
31
着
​If faith produce no works, I see,
That faith is not a living tree.
Thus faith and works together grow,
No separate life they e'er can know:
They're soul and body, hand and heart,
What God hath join'd let no man part.'
AN HEROIC EPISTLE.
TO MISS SALLY HORNE,-AGED THREE YEARS,
YOUNGEST DAUGHTER OF DR. HORNE, LATE BISHOP OF NORWICH.
Written on the blank leaves of “ Mother Bunch's Tales ;" and showing their superiority of these
To thee, fair creature, SALLY HORNE,
And sure a fairer ne'er was born;
A grave biographer I send,
histories to most others.
By NEWBERRY in the church-yard penn'd ;
(Or if to truth my phrase I stinted,
By NEWBERRY in the church-yard printed ;)
Might Mother Bunch-a worthier sage,
Ne'er fill'd, I ween th' historic page;
For she, of kings and queens can prate,
As fast as patriotic KATE ;*
Nor vents like her, her idle spleen,
Merely because 'tis king or queen.
KATE, who each subject makes a slave,
Would make each potentate a knave;
Though Britons can the converse prove,
A king who reigns and rules by love.
While Mother Bunch's honest story,
Unaw'd by WHIG, unwarp'd by TORY;
Paints sovereigns with impartial pen,
Some good, some bad, like other men.
Oh, there are few such books as these,
Which only mean to teach or please;
Read Mother Bunch, then charming SALLY,
Her writings, with your taste will tally.
No pride of learning she displays,
Nor reads one word an hundred ways;
To please the young she lays before 'em
A simple tale, sans variorum;
With notes and margins unperplext,
And comments which confuse the text.
No double senses interfere
To puzzle what before was clear.
Here no mistaken dates deceive ye,
Which oft occur from HUME to LIVY.
Her dates, more safe and more sublime,
Seize the broad phrase-' Once on a time.'
Then Mother Bunch is no misleader
In citing authors who precede her;
Unlike our modern wits of note,
Who purposely and oft misquote;
Who injure history, or intend it,
As much as KENNICOT to mend it;
And seek no less the truth to mangle,
Than he to clear and disentangle.
These short digressions we apply
Our author's fame to magnify:
She seeks not to bewilder youth,
But all is true she gives for truth:
And still, to analyze you're able,
Fable is safe while given as fable;
As mere invention you receive it,
You know 'tis false, and disbelieve it;
While that bad chemistry which brings
And mixes up incongruous things,
See Mrs. Macaulay's History of England.
With genuine fact invention blending
As if true history wanted mending ;
Or flav'ring, to mislead our youth,
Mere fable with a dash of truth ;
In all these heterogeneous tales
The injudicious project fails;
Of truth you do not get your measure,
And of pure fiction lose the pleasure.
But Mother Bunch rejects such arts,
A sounder taste her work imparts.
Then if for prosperous turns you look,
There's no such other history book.
Old authors show, nor do I wrong 'em,
How tyrants shar'd the world among 'em
And all we learn of ancient times,
Are human woes and human crimes.
They tell us naught but dismal tales,
How virtue sinks, and vice prevails;
And all their labours but declare
The miseries of the good and fair;
How one brave captive in a quarrel
Was tumbled down hill in a barrel!
In fiery flames how some did fry,
Only because they dar'd not lie!
How female victims meet their doom,
At Aulis one, and more at Rome!
How ease the hero's laurels stain'd
HOW CAPUA lost what CANNE gain'd!
How he, whom long success attends,
Is kill'd at home among his friends!
How ATHENS, him who serv'd so well,
Rewarded with an oyster-shell!
How NERO stabb'd a mother's breast
Ah, barbarous CLIO, spare the rest;
Conceal these horrors, if thou'rt able,
If these be truth, oh give me fable!
Till real deed are fit to mention,
Regale my feelings with invention.
But Mother Bunch's morals tell
How blest all were who acted well!
How the good little girl's regarded,
And boy who learns his book rewarded.
How loss of favour follows rudeness,
While sugar-plumbs repay all goodness;
How she who learns to read or write,
Will get a coach or chariot by't;
And not a faggot-maker's daughter
But has it at her christening taught her,
By some invited fairy guest,
That she shall wed a prince at least ;
And thro' the whole this truth's pursu'd
That to be happy 's to be good.
If these to life be contradictions,
Mark the morality of fictions;
Axioms more popular they teach,
32
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
That to be good is to be rich!
For all the misses marry kings,
And diamonds are but common things;
While dames in history hardly get 'em,
Our heroines ope their mouths and spit 'em.
Oh, this is profitable learning,
Past cold historians' dull discerning,
Who, while their annals they impart,
Expose, but seldom mend the heart.
I grant, they teach to know mankind,
To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind:
But till the heart from vice is clear,
Who wants to know what passes there?
Till Hercules to cleanse was able,
No doubt they shut th' Augean stable.
Here too in high emphatic tone
The power of female worth is shown;
Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc
Falls short of true heroic mark:
THALESTRIS was a mere home-keeper,
And swift CAMILLA but a creeper.
Here deeds of valour are as common
As song or dance to real woman ;
And meekest damsels find it facile
To storm a giant's moated castle;
Where drawbridges do open fly
If virgin foot approaches nigh;
And brazen-gates with twenty locks,
At which an army vainly knocks,
Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger,
At touch of virgin's little finger.
Then slow attacks, and tiresome sieges,
Which history makes the work of ages,
Are here, by means of fairy power,
Achiev'd with ease in half an hour.
Tactics! they prove, there's nothing in it,
Who conquer kingdoms in a minute :
They never hear of ten years jars,
(For TROY's the average length of wars.)
And diplomatic form and rule
Might learn from Mother Bunch's school,
How rapidly are state intrigues
Convey'd with boots of seven long leagues.
Here farther too, our great commanders,
Who conquer'd France, and rescued Flanders,
From Mother Bunch's Tales might he
Some secrets worth a general's ear;
How armies need not stop to bait,
And heroes never drink or eat;
Wrapt in sublimer occupation
They scorn such vulgar renovation.
Your British generals cannot keep
Themselves and fellows half so cheap;
For men and horses, out of books,
Call, one for corn, and one for cooks;
And dull historic nags must stay
For provender of oats and hay;
While these bold heroes wing their flight
Through twenty kingdoms in a night;
Of silvery dews they snatch a cup,
Or on a slice of moonshine sup;
And while they fly to meet their queen,
With half the convex world between,
Their milk-white palfreys, scorning grass,
Just crop a rose-leaf as they pass.
Then Mother Bunch's morals strike,
By praising friend and foe alike.
What virtue to the world is lost,
Because on thy ill-fated coast,
O Carthage! sung alone by foes,
The sun of history never rose !
Fertile in heroes, didst thou own
The muse that makes those heroes known;
Then had the bright reverse appear'd
And Carthaginian truth been clear'd:
On Punic faith, so long revil'd,
The wily African had smil'd;
And, possibly, not much had err'd,
If we of Roman fraud had heard.
Then leave your Robertson's and Bryants,
For John, the murderer of giants;
Since all mythology profane
Is quite as doubtful, quite as vain.
Though Bryant, learned friend of youth
His fable consecrates to truth:
And Robertson with just applause
His finish'd portraits fairly draws.
Yet history, great Raleigh knew,
And knowing, griev'd, may not be true:
For how the facts are we to know
Which pass'd a thousand years ago
When he no just account could get
Of quarrel in the adjacent street;
Though from his chair the noise he heard,
The tale of each relater err'd.
But if the fact's recorded right,
The motive seldom comes in sight;
Hence, while the fairest deed we blame,
We often crown the worst with fame.
Then read, if genuine truth you'd glean,
Those who were actors in the scene;
Hear, with delight, the modest Greek,
Of his renown'd ten thousand speak :
His commentaries* read again
Who led the troops and held the pen;
The way to conquest best he show'd,
Who trod ere he prescrib'd the road.
Read him, for lofty periods fam'd,
Who Charles's age adorn'd and sham'd;
Read Clarendon; unaw'd, unbrib'd,
Who rul'd th' events his pen describ'd;
Who law and courts, and senates knew,
And saw the sources whence he drew.
Yet, lovely SALLY, be not frighten'd,
Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd;
Admire with me the fair alliance
Which mirth, at Maudlin,† makes with science:
How humour may with learning dwell,
Go ask papa-for he can tell.
* Cesar:
MARGERY TWO-SHOES.
Dr. Horne was at this time president of Magdalen
College, Oxford, where this little poem was written.
SENSIBILITY:
AN EPISTLE TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BOSCAWEN.
ACCEPT, BOSCAWEN! these unpolished lays,
Nor blame too much the verse you cannot praise.
For you, far other bards have wak'd the string,
Far other bards for you were wont to sing;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
33
Yet on the gale their parting music steals,
Yet your charm'd ear the lov'd impression feels:
You heard the lyres of Littleton and Young,
And this a grace, and that a seraph strung.
These are no more! but not with these decline
The attic chasteness or the vig'rous line.
Still sad Elfrida's poet* shall complain,
Still, either Warton breathe his classic strain:
While for the wonders of the Gothic page,
Otranto's fame shall vindicate the age,
Nor tremble lest the tuneful art expire,
While Beattie strikes anew old Spencer's lyre;
He best to paint the genuine minstrel knew,
Who from himself, the living portrait drew.
Though Latian bards had gloried in his name,
When in full brightness burnt the Latian flame;
Yet fir'd with loftier hopes than transient bays,
See Lowth† despise the meed of mortal praise;
Spurn the cheap wreath by human science won,
Borne on the wing sublime of Amos' son!
He seiz'd the mantle as the prophet flew,
And with his mantle caught his spirit too.
To snatch bright beauty from devouring fate,
And lengthen nature's transitory date;
At once the critic's and the painter's art,
With Fresnoy's skill and Guido's grace impart :
To form with code correct the graphic school,
And lawless fancy curb by sober rule;
To show how genius fires, how taste restrains,
While, what both are, his pencil best explains ;
Have we not REYNOLDS ?‡ lives not JENYNS yet,
To prove his lowest title was a wit?§
Though purer flames thy hallow'd zeal in-
spire
Than e'er were kindled at the Muse's fire,
Thee, mitred Chester !|| all the Nine shall boast;
And is not Johnson ours? himself a host!
Yes, still for you your gentle stars dispense:
The charm of friendship and the feast of sense:
Yours is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer sends,
To call the wisest, brightest, best, your friends.
And while to these I raise the votive line,
O! let me grateful own these friends are mine;
With Carter trace the wit to Athens known,
Or view in Montague that wit our own:
Or mark, well pleas'd, Chapone's instructive
page,
Intent to raise the morals of the age:
Or boast, in Walsingham, the various power,
To cheer the lonely, grace the letter'd hour;
Delany too is ours, serenely bright,
Wisdom's strong ray, and virtue's milder light:
And she who bless'd the friend, and grac'd the
lays
Of poignant Swift, still gilds our social days;
Long, long protract thy light, O star benign!
Whose setting beams with milder lustre shine.
Nor, Barbauld, shall my glowing heart refuse
* Milton calls Euripides sad Electra's poet.
†Then bishop of London.
See Sir Joshua Reynold's very able notes to Du Fres-
noy's poem on the art of painting, translated by Mr.
Mason. Also, his series of Discourses to the academy.
which, though written professedly on the subject of
painting, contain the principles of general art, and are
delivered with so much perspicuous good sense, as to be
admirably calculated to assist in forming the taste of
the general reader.
§ Mr. Soame Jenyns had just published his work On
the internal Evidence of the Christian Religion.
Now bishop of London-See his admirable poem on
death.
VOL. I.
Its tribute to thy virtues, or thy muse;
This humble merit shall at least be mine,
The poet's chaplet for thy brow to twine;
My verse thy talents to the world shall teach,
And praise the genius it despairs to reach.
Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art?
Can genius shield the vulnerable heart?
Ah no! where bright imagination reigns,
The fine wrought spirit feels acuter pains;
Where glow exalted sense and taste refin'd,
There keener anguish rankles in the mind;
There, feeling is diffus'd through ev'ry part,
Thrills iu each nerve, and lives in all the heart;
And those whose gen'rous souls each tear would
keep
From other's eyes, are born themselves to weep.
Can all the boasted pow'rs of wit and song,
Of life one pang remove, one hour prolong?
Fallacious hope! which daily truths deride;
For you, alas! have wept, and Garrick dy'd!
O shades of Hampton ! witness, as I mourn,
Could wit or song elude your fav'rite's urn?
Though living virtue still your haunt endears,
Yet buried worth shall justify my tears.
Who now with spirit keen, yet judgment cool,
The errors of my orphan muse shall rule?
With keen acumen how his piercing eye,
The fault conceal'd from vulgar view would
While with a generous warmth he strove to
hide,
Nay vindicate the fault his taste had spy'd.
So pleas'd could he detect a happy line
That he would fancy merit ev'n in mine.
spy
His wit so pointed it ne'er miss'd its end,
And so well temper'd it ne'er lost a friend;
How his keen eye, quick mind, and ardent heart,
Impov'rish'd nature, and exhausted art,
A muse of fire has sung,* if muse could trace,
Or verse retrieve the evanescent grace!
How rival bards with rival statesmen strove,
Who most should gain his praise or win his
love!
Opposing parties to one point he drew,
Thus Tully's Atticus was Cæsar's too.
Tho' time his mellowing hand across has
stole,
Soft'ning the tints of sorrow on the soul;
The deep impression long my heart shall fill,
And ev'ry fainter trace be perfect still.
Forgive, my friend, if wounded memory melt,
You best can pardon who have deepest felt,
You, who for Britain's hero† and your own,
The deadliest pang which rend the soul have
known;
You, who have found how much the feeling
heart
Shapes its own wound, and points itself the dart ;
You, who are call'd the varied loss to mourn;
You, who have clasp'd a son's untimely urn;
You, who from frequent fond experience feel
The wounds such minds receive can never heal;
That grief a thousand entrances can find,
Where parts superior dignify the mind;
Yet would you change that sense acute to gain
A dear bought absence from the poignant pain;
Commuting ev'ry grief whose feelings give
In loveless, joyless apathy to live?
* See Mr. Sheridan's beautiful monody.
† Admiral Boscawen.
!
34
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
For though in souls where energies abound,
Pain through its numerous avenues can wound;
Yet the same avenues are open still,
To casual blessings as to casual ill.
Nor is the trembling temper more awake
To every wound calamity can make,
Than is the finely fashion'd nerve alive
To ev'ry transport pleasure has to give.
Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain,
Their jests the tender anguish would profane.
Yet these some deem the happiest of their kind,
Whose low enjoyments never reach the mind;
Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have
known,
Who ne'er have felt a sorrow but their own:
Who deem romantic ev'ry finer thought
Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought;
Whose insulated souls ne'er feel the pow'r
Of gen'rous sympathy's extatic hour;
Whose disconnected hearts ne'er taste the bliss
Extracted from another's happiness;
Who ne'er the high heroic duty know,
For public good the private to forego.
Then wherefore happy? where's the kindred
mind?
Where the large soul which takes in human kind?
Yes-'tis the untold sorrow to explain,
To mitigate the unsuspected pain;
The rule of holy sympathy to keep,
Joy for the Joyful, tears for them that weep:
To these the virtuous half their pleasures owe,
Pleasures, the selfish are not born to know;
They never know in all their coarser bliss,
The sacred rapture of a pain like this.
Then take ye happy vulgar take your part
Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart.
Benevolence, which seldom stays to choose,
Lest pausing Prudence tempt her to refuse;
Friendship, which once determin'd,
determin'd, never
swerves,
Weighs ere it trusts, but weighs not ere it
serves.
And soft-ey'd Pity, and Forgiveness bland,
And melting Charity with open hand;
And artless love, believing and believ'd,
And honest Confidence which ne'er deceiv'd;
And mercy, stretching out ere Want can speak,
To wipe the tear which stains Affliction's
cheek;
These ye have never known-then take your
part
Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart.
You who have melted in bright glory's flame,
Or felt the grateful breath of well-earn'd fame;
Or you, the chosen agents from above,
Whose bounty vindicates Almighty love;
You, who subdue the vain desire of show,
Not to accumulate but to bestow;
You who the dreary haunts of sorrow seek,
Raise the sunk heart, and flush the fading cheek;
You, who divide the joys and share the pains,
When merit triumphs, or oppress'd complains;
You, who with pensive Petrarch, love to mourn,
Or weave the garland for Tibullus' urn;
You, whose touch'd hearts with real sorrows
swell,
Or feel, when genius paints those sorrows well,
Would you renounce such energies as these
For vulgar pleasures or for selfish ease?
Would you to 'scape the pain, the joy forego,
|
And miss the transport to avoid the wo?
Would you the sense of actual pity lose,
Or cease to share the mournings of the muse?
No, Greville,* no!-thy song, tho' steep'd in
tears,
Though all thy soul in all thy strain appears;
Yet would'st thou all thy well sung anguish
choose,
And all th' inglorious peace thou begg'st re
fuse:
And while discretion all our views should
guide,
Beware, lest secret aims and ends she hide;
Though 'midst the crowd of virtues, 'tis her
part,
Like a firm sentinel-to guard the heart;
Beware, lest Prudence 'self become unjust,
Who never was deceiv'd, I would not trust;
Prudence must never be suspicion's slave,
The World's wise man is more than half a
knave.
And you, Boscawen, while you fondly melt,
In raptures none but mothers ever felt;
And as you view, prophetic, in your race,
All Levison's sweetness, and all Beaufort's
grace;
Yet dread what dangers each lov'd child may
share,
;
The youth, if valiant, or the maid, if fair;
You who have felt, so frail is mortal joy!
That, while we clasp the phantom, we destroy;
That perils multiply as blessings flow,
That sorrows grafted on enjoyments grow;
That clouds impending dim our brightest views,
That who have most to love have most to lose
Yet from these fair possessions would you part,
To shelter from contingent ills your heart?
Would you forego the objects of your prayer
To save the dangers of a distant care?
Renounce the brightness op'ning to your view
For all the safety dulness ever knew?
Would you consent, to shun the fears you prove
That they should merit less, or you less love.
Yet while we claim the sympathy divine,
Which makes, O man, the woes of others thine;
While her fair triumphs swell the modish page,
She drives the sterner virtues from the stage:
While Feeling boasts her ever tearful eye,
Fair Truth, firm Faith, and manly Justice fly:
Justice, prime good! from whose prolific law,
All worth, all virtue, their strong essence draw;
Justice, à grace quite obsolete we hold,
The feign'd Astrea of an age of gold :
The sterling attribute we scarcely own,
While spurious Candour fills the vacant throne.
Sweet Sensibility! Thou secret pow'r
Who shed'st thy gifts upon the natal hour,
Like fairy favours; Art can never seize,
Nor Affectation catch thy power to please;
Thy subtle essence still eludes the chains
Of Definition, and defeats her pains.
Sweet Sensibility! thou keen delight!
Unprompted moral ! sudden sense of right!
Perception exquisite ! fair Virtue's seed!
Thou quick precursor of the lib'ral deed!
Thou hasty conscience! reason's blushing morn!
Instinctive kindness e'er reflection 's born!
Prompt sense of equity! to thee belongs
The swift redress of unexamin'd wrongs
* See her beautiful Ode to Indifference.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
35
Eager to serve, the cause perhaps untried,
But always apt to chuse the suff'ring side!
To those who know thee not, no word can paint,
And those who know thee, know all words are
faint!
She does not feel thy pow'r who boasts thy
flame,
And rounds her every period with thy name;
Nor she who vents her disproportion'd sighs
With pining Lesbia when her sparrow dies:
Nor she who melts when hapless Shore expires,
While real mis'ry unreliev'd retires!
Who thinks feign'd sorrow all her tears deserve,
And weeps o'er Werter while her children
starve,
As words are but th' external marks to tell
The fair ideas in the mind that dwell;
And only are of things the outward sign,
And not the things themselves they but define;
So exclamations, tender tones, fond tears,
And all the graceful drapery Feeling wears;
These are her garb, not her, they but express
Her form, her semblance, her appropriate dress;
And these fair marks, reluctant I relate,
These lovely symbols may be counterfeit.
There are, who fill with brilliant plaints the
page,
If a poor linnet meet the gunner's rage ;
There are, who for a dying fawn deplore,
As if friend, parent, country, were no more;
Who boast quick rapture trembling in their eye,
If from the spider's snare they snatch a fly;
There are, whose well sung plaints each breast
inflame,
And break all hearts-but his from whom they
came !
He, scorning life's low duties to attend,
Writes odes on friendship, while he cheats his
friend,
Of jails and punishments he grieves to hear,
And pensions 'prison'd virtue with a tear;
While unpaid bills his creditor presents,
And ruin'd innocence his crime laments.
Not so the tender moralist of Tweed,
His gen'rous man of feeling feels indeed.
O Love divine! sole source of charity!
More dear one genuine deed perform'd for thee,
Than all the periods Feeling e'er could turn,
Than all thy touching page, perverted Sterne!
Not that by deeds alone this love 's express'd,
If so the affluent only were the bless'd;
One silent wish, one prayer, one soothing word,
The page of mercy shall, well-pleas'd record;
One soul-felt sigh by pow'rless pity given,
Accepted incense! shall ascend to heav'n!
Since trifles make the sum of human things,
And half our misery from our foibles springs,
Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease,
And though but few can serve, yet all may
please;
O let th' ungentle-spirit learn from hence,
A small unkindness is a great offence.
Nor let us murmur at our stinted pow'rs,
When kindness, love, and concord, may be ours,
The gift of minist'ring to other's ease,
To all her sons impartial she decrees;
The gentle offices of patient love,
Beyond all flattery, and all price above;
The mild forbearance at a brother's fault,
The angry word suppress'd the taunting
thought;
Subduing and subdu'd, the petty strife,
Which clouds the colour of domestic life;
The sober comfort, all the peace which springs,
From the large aggregate of little things;
On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend,
The almost sacred joys of home depend:
There Sensibility, thou best may'st reign,
Home is thy true legitimate domain.
A solitary bliss thou ne'er could'st find,
Thy joys with those thou lov'st are intertwin'd;
And he whose helpless tenderness removes
The rankling thorn which wounds the breast he
loves,
Smooths not another's rugged path alone,
But clears th' obstruction which impedes his
own.
The hint malevolent, the look oblique,
The obvious satire, or implied dislike;
The sneer equivocal, the harsh reply,
And all the cruel language of the eye;
The artful injury, whose venom'd dart,
Scarce wounds the hearing, while it stabs the
heart;
The guarded phrase, whose meaning kills, yet
told
The list'ner wonders, how you thought it cold;
Small slights, neglect, unmix'd perhaps with
hate,
Make up in number what they want in weight.
These and a thousand griefs minute as these,
Corrode our comfort and destroy our ease.
As Feeling tends to good or leans to ill,
It gives fresh force to vice or principle;
'Tis not a gift peculiar to the good,
'Tis often but the virtue of the blood :
And what would seem compassion's moral flow,
Is but a circulation swift or slow:
But to divert it to its proper course,
There wisdom's pow'r appears, there reason's
force:
If ill-directed it pursue the wrong,
It adds new strength to what before was strong;
Breaks out in wild irregular desires,
Disorder'd passions, and illicit fires;
Without, deforms the man, depraves within,
And makes the work of God the slave of sin.
But if Religion's bias rule the soul,
Then Sensibility exalts the whole;
Sheds its sweet sunshine on the moral part,
Nor wastes on fancy what should warm the
heart.
Cold and inert the mental powers would lie,
Without this quick'ning spark of Deity.
To spread large bounties, though we wish in | To melt the rich materials from the mine,
vain,
Yet all may shun the guilt of giving pain:
To bless mankind with tides of flowing wealth,
With rank to grace them, or to crown with
health,
Our little lot denies; yet lib'ral still,
Heav'n gives its counterpoise to every ill,
To bid the mass of intellect refine,
To bend the firm, to animate the cold,
And heav'ns own image stamp on Nature's gold;
To give immortal mind its finest tone,
Oh, Sensibility! is all thy own.
This is th' eternal flame which lights and warms,
In song enchants us, and in action charms.
36
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
"Tis this that makes the pensive strains of Gray*
Win to the open heart their easy way;
Makes the touch'd spirit glow with kindred fire,
When sweet Serena's poet wakes the lyre:
Makes Portland's face its brightest rapture wear,
When her large bounty smooths the bed of care:
"Tis this that breathes through Sevigne's fair
page,
That nameless grace which sooths a second age;
'Tis this, whose charm the soul resistless seize,
And gives Boscawen half her power to please.
Yet why those terrors? Why that anxious care?
Since your last hopet the deathful war will dare?
|
Why dread that energy of soul which leads
To dang'rous glory by heroic deeds?
Why mourn to view his ardent soul aspire?
You fear the son because you knew the sire.
Hereditary valour you deplore,
And dread, yet wish to find one hero more.
* This is meant of the Elegy in a Country Church
yard, of which exquisite poem Sensibility is perhaps the
characteristic beauty.
† Viscount Falmouth, admiral Boscawen's only re-
maining son was then in America, and at the battle of
Lexington,
SIR ELDRED OF THE BOWER.
A LEGENDARY TALE.
IN TWO PARTS.
Of them who, wrapt in earth so cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,
For many a tender thought is due.-Langhorne.
PART I.
O nostra Vita, ch'e si bella in vista!
Com' perde agevolmente in un momento,
Quel, ch'en molt' anni a grand pena s'acquista.-Petrarca.
THERE was a young and valiant knight,
Sir ELDRED was his name,
And never did a worthier wight
The rank of knighthood claim.
Where gliding Tay, her stream sends forth,
To feed the neighbouring wood,
The ancient glory of the north,
Sir Eldred's castle stood.
The knight was rich as knight might be
In patrimonial wealth;
And rich in nature's gift was he,
In youth, and strength, and health.
He did not think, as some have thought,
Whom honour never crown'd.
The fame a father dearly bought,
Could make the son renown'd,
He better thought, a noble sire,
Who gallant deeds had done,
To deeds of hardihood should fire
A brave and gallant son.
The fairest ancestry on earth
Without desert is poor;
And ev'ry deed of former worth
Is but a claim for more.
Sir Eldred's heart was ever kind,
Alive to pity's call ;
A crowd of virtues grac'd his mind,
He lov'd and felt for all.
When merit rais'd the sufferer's name,
He show❜rd his bounty then ;
And those who could not prove that claim,
He succour'd still as men.
But sacred truth the muse compels
His errors to impart ;
And yet the muse reluctant tells
The faults of Eldred's heart.
Though mild and soft as infant love
His fond affections melt;
Though all that kindest spirits prove
Sir Eldred keenly felt:
Yet if the passions storm'd his soul,
By jealousy led on;
The fierce resentment scorn'd controul,
And bore his virtues down,
Not Thule's waves so widely break
To drown the northern shore;
Not Etna's entrails fiercer shake,
Or Scythia's tempest roar.
As when in summer's sweetest day
To fan the fragrant morn,
The sighing breezes softly stray
O'er fields of ripen'd corn;
Sudden the lightning's blast descends,
Deforms the ravag'd fields;
At once the various ruin blends,
And all resistless yields.
But when, to clear his stormy breast,
The sun of reason shone,
And ebbing passions sunk to rest,
And show'd what rage had done:
O then what anguish he betray'd!
His shame how deep, how true!
He view'd the waste his rage had made,
And shudder'd at the view.
The meek-ey'd dawn, in saffron robe,
Proclaim'd the op'ning day,
Up rose the sun to gild the globe,
And hail the new-born May ;
The birds their vernal notes repeat,
And glad the thick'ning grove;
And feather'd partners fondly greet
With many a song of love :
When pious Eldred early rose
The Lord of all to hail;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
37
Who life with all its gifts bestows,
Whose mercies never fail!
That done-he left his woodland glade,
And journey'd far away;
He lov'd to court the distant shade,
And through the lone vale stray.
Within the bosom of a wood,
By circling hills embrac'd,
A little, modest mansion stood,
Built by the hand of taste;
While many a prouder castle fell,
This safely did endure;
The house where guardian virtues dwell
Is sacred and secure.
Of eglantine an humble fence
Around the mansion stood,
Which serv'd at once to charm the sense,
And screen an infant wood.
The wood receiv'd an added grace,
As pleas'd it bent to look,
And view'd its ever verdant face
Reflected in a brook :
The smallness of the stream did well
The master's fortunes show;
But little streams may serve to tell
The source from whence they flow.
This mansion own'd an aged knight,
And such a man was he,
As heaven just shows to human sight,
To tell what man should be.
His youth in many a well-fought field
Was train'd betimes to war:
His bosom, like a well-worn shield,
Was grac'd with many a scar.
The vigour of a green old age
His reverend form did bear;
And yet, alas! the warrior-sage
Had drain'd the dregs of care:
And sorrow more than age can break,
And wound its hapless prey,
'Twas sorrow furrow'd his firm cheek,
And turn'd his bright locks gray.
One darling daughter sooth'd his cares,
A young and beauteous dame,
Sole comfort of his failing years,
And Birtha was her name.
Her heart a little sacred shrine,
Where all the Virtues meet,
And holy Hope and Faith divine
Had claim'd it for their seat.
She lov'd to raise her fragrant bower
Of wild and rustic taste,
And there she screen'd each fav'rite flower
From ev'ry ruder blast;
And not a shrub or plant was there
But did some moral yield;
For wisdom, by a father's care,
Was found in ev'ry field.
The trees, whose foliage fell away,
And with the summer died,
He thought an image of decay
Might lecture human pride:
While fair perennial greens that stood,
And brav'd the wintry blast,
As types of the fair mind be view'd,
Which shall for ever last.
He taught her that the gaudiest flowers
Were seldom fragrant found,
But wasted soon their little powers,
Dropt useless on the ground:
While the sweet-scented rose shall last,
And still retain its power,
When life's imperfect day is past
And beauty's shorter hour.
And here the virgin lov'd to lead
Her inoffensive day,
And here she oft retir'd to read,
And oft retir'd to pray.
Embower'd, she grac'd the woodland shades,
From courts and cities far,
The pride of Caledonian maids,
The peerless northern star.
As shines that bright and lucid star,
The glory of the night,
When beaming through the cloudless air
She sheds her silver light:
So Birtha shone!-But when she spoke
The muse herself was heard,
As on the ravish'd air she broke,
And thus her prayer preferr'd:
'O bless thy Birtha, Power Supreme
In whom I live and move,
And bless me most by blessing him,
Whom more than life I love.'
She starts to hear a stranger's voice,
And with a modest grace,
She lifts her meek eye in surprise,
And see's a stranger's face:
The stranger lost in transport stood,
Bereft of voice and power,
While she with equal wonder view'd
Sir Eldred of the bower.
The virgin blush which spreads her cheek
With nature's purest dye,
And all those dazzling beams which break
Like morning from her eye-
He view'd them all, and as he view'd
Drank deeply of delight;
And still his raptur'd eye pursued
And feasted on the sight.
With silent wonder long they gaz'd,
And neither silence broke;
At length the smother'd passion blaz'd,
Enamour'd Eldred spoke :
'O sacred virtue, heav'nly power!
Thy wond'rous force I feel:
I
gaze, I tremble, I adore,
Yet die my love to tell.
My scorn has oft the dart repell'd
Which guileful beauty threw;
But goodness heard, and grace beheld,
Must every heart subdue.'
Quick on the ground her eyes were cast,
And now as quickly rais'd :—
Just then her father hap'ly past,
On whom she trembling gaz'd.
Good Ardolph's eye his Bertha meets
With glances of delight;
And thus with courteous speech he greets
The young and graceful knight;
O gallant youth, whoe'er thou art,
Right welcome to this place!
There's something rises at my heart
Which says I've seen that face.'
'Thou gen'rous knight,' the youth rejoin'd,
'Though little known to fame,
I trust I bear a grateful mind-
Sir Eldred is my name.'
'Sir Eldred ?'—Ardolph loud exclaim'd
'Renown'd for worth and power?
38
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
For valour and for virtue fam'd,
Sir Eldred of the bower?
Now make me grateful, righteous heaven,
As thou art good to me,
Since to my aged eyes 'tis given
Sir Eldred's son to see!'
Then Ardolph caught him by the hand,
And gaz'd upon his face,
And to his aged bosom strain'd,
With many a kind embrace.
Again he view'd him o'er and o'er,
And doubted still the truth,
And ask'd what he had ask'd before,
Then thus addresst the youth :
'Come now beneath my roof, I pray,
Some needful rest to take,
And with us many a cheerful day,
Thy friendly sojourn make!
He enter'd at the gate straightway,
Some needful rest to take;
And with them many a cheerful day
Did friendly sojourn make.
PART II.
ONCE-in a social summer's walk,
The gaudy day was fled;
They cheated time with cheerful talk,
When thus Sir Ardolph said:
"Thy father was the firmest friend
That e'er my being blest;
And every virtue heaven could send,
Fast bound him to my breast.
Together did we learn to bear
The casque and ample shield;
Together learn in many a war
The deathful spear to wield.
To make our union still more dear,
We both were doom'd to prove,
What is most sweet and most severe
In heart dissolving love.
The daughter of a neighbouring knight
Did my fond heart engage;
And ne'er did heaven the virtues write
Upon a fairer page.
His bosom felt an equal wound,
Nor sigh'd we long in vain;
One summer's sun beheld us bound
In Hymen's holy chain.
Thou wast Sir ELDRED's only child,
Thy father's darling joy ;
On me a lovely daughter smil'd,
On me a blooming boy;
But man has woes, has clouds of care
That dim his star of life-
My arms receiv'd the little pair,
The earth's cold breast, my wife.
Forgive, thou gentle knight, forgive,
Fond foolish tears will flow;
One day like mine thy heart may heave,
And mourn its lot of wo.
But grant, kind heaven! thou ne'er may'st know
The pangs I now impart;
Nor even feel the parting blow
That rives a husband's heart.
Beside the blooming banks of Tay,
My angel's ashes sleep;
And wherefore should her Ardolph stay,
Except to watch and weep?
I bore my beauteous babes away
With many a gushing tear;
I left the blooming banks of Tay,
And brought my darlings here.
I watch'd my little household cares,
And formed their growing youth;
And fondly train'd their infant years
To piety and truth.'
'Thy blooming Birtha here I see,'
Sir Eldred straight rejoin'd;
'But why thy son is not with thee,
Resolve my doubting mind.'
When Birtha did the question hear,
She sigh'd, but could not speak;
And many a soft and silent tear
Stray'd down her damask cheek.
Then pass'd o'er good Sir Ardolph's face,
A cast of deadly pale;
But soon compos'd, with manly grace,
He thus renew'd his tale:
'For him my heart too much has bled;
For him, my darling son,
Has sorrow press'd my hoary head;
But heav'n's high will be done!'
Scarce eighteen winter's had revolv'd,
To crown the circling year,
Before my valiant boy resolv'd
The warrior's lance to bear.
Too high I priz'd my native land,
Too dear his fame I held,
T'oppose a parent's stern command,
And keep him from the field.
He left me-left his sister too,
Yet tears bedew'd his face-
What could a feeble old man do?
He burst from my embrace.
O thirst of glory, fatal flame !
O laurels dearly bought!
Yet sweet is death when earn'd with fame-
So virtuous Edwy thought.
Full manfully the brave boy strove,
Though pressing ranks oppose;
But weak the strongest arm must prove
Against an host of foes.
A deadly wound my son receives,
A spear assails his side:
Grief does not kill-for Ardolph lives
To tell that Edwy died.
His long-lov'd mother died again
In Edwy's parting groan;
I wept for her, yet wept in vain—
I wept for both in one.
I would have died-I sought to die,
But heaven restrain'd the thought,
And to my passion-clouded eye
My helpless Birtha brought.
When lo! array'd in robes of light,
A nymph celestial came.
She clear'd the mists that dimm'd my sight-
Religion was her name.
She prov'd the chastisement divine,
And bade me kiss the rod;
She taught this rebel heart of mine
Submission to its God.
Religion taught me to sustain
What nature bade me feel;
And piety reliev'd the pain
Which time can never heal.'
He ceas'd—with sorrow and delight
The tale Sir Eldred hears:
Then weeping cries-' Thou noble knight,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
39
For thanks accept my tears.
O Ardolph, might I dare aspire
To claim so bright a boon !—
Good old Sir Eldred was my sire-
And thou hast lost a son.
And though I want a worthier plea
To urge so dear a cause;
Yet, let me to thy bosom be
What once thy Edwy was.
My trembling tongue its aid denies;
For thou may'st disapprove;
Then read it in my ardent eyes,
Oh! read the tale of love.
Thy beauteous Birtha !'-'Gracious power!
How could I e'er repine,'
Cries Ardolph, 'since I see this hour?
Yes-Birtha shall be thine.'
A little transient gleam of red
Shot faintly o'er her face,
And ev'ry trembling feature spread
With sweet disorder'd grace.
The tender father kindly smil'd
With fulness of content;
And fondly ey'd his darling child,
Who, bashful, blush'd consent.
O then to paint the vast delight
That fill'd Sir Eldred's heart,
To tell the transports of the knight,
Would mock the Muse's art.
But ev'ry kind and gracious soul,
Where gentle passions dwell,
Will better far conceive the whole,
Than any muse can tell.
The more the knight his Birtha knew,
The more he priz'd the maid;
Some worth each day produc'd to view
Some grace each hour betray'd.
The virgin too was fond to charm
The dear accomplish'd youth;
His single breast she strove to warm,
And crown'd with love, his truth.
Unlike the dames of modern days,
Who general homage claim;
Who court the universal gaze,
And pant for public fame.
Then beauty but on merit smil'd,
Nor were her chaste smiles sold;
No venal father gave his child,
For grandeur, or for gold.
The ardour of young Eldred's flame
But ill could brook delay,
And oft he press'd the maid to name
A speedy nuptial day.
The fond impatience of his breast
'Twas all in vain to hide,
But she his eager suit represt
With modest maiden pride.
When oft Sir Eldred press'd the day
Which was to crown his truth,
The thoughtful sire would sigh and say,
'O happy state of youth!
It little recks the woes which wait
To scare it dreams of joy;
Nor thinks to-morrow's alter'd fate
May all those dreams destroy.
And though the flatterer Hope deceives,
And painted prospects shows;
Yet man, still cheated, still believes,
Till death the bright scene close.
So look'd my bride, so sweetly mild,
On me her beauty's slave;
But whilst she look'd, and whilst she smil'd
She sunk into the grave.
Yet, O forgive an old man's care,
Forgive a father's zeal;
Who fondly loves must greatly fear,
Who fears must greatly feel.
Once more in soft and sacred bands
Shall Love and Hymen meet;
To-morrow shall unite your hands,
And-be your bliss complete!'
The rising sun inflam'd the sky,
The golden orient blush'd;
But Birtha's cheeks a sweeter dye,
A brighter crimson flush'd.
The priest in milk-white vestments clad,
Perform'd the mystic rite;
Love lit the hallow'd torch that led
To Hymen's chaste delight.
How feeble language were to speak
Th' immeasurable joy,
That fir'd Sir Eldred's ardent cheek,
And triumph'd in his eye!
Sir Ardolph's pleasure stood confest,
A pleasure all his own;
The guarded pleasure of a breast
Which many a grief had known.
'Twas such a sober sense of joy
As angels well might keep
A joy chastis'd by piety,
A joy prepared to weep.
To recollect her scatter'd thought,
And shun the noon-tide hour,
The lovely bride in secret sought
The coolness of her bower.
Long she remain'd-th' enamour'd knight,
Impatient at her stay;
And all unfit to taste delight
When Birtha was away;
Betakes him to the secret bower;
His footsteps softly move;
Impell'd by ev'ry tender power,
He steals upon his love.
O, horror! horror! blasting sight!
He sees his Birtha's charms,
Reclin'd with melting, fond delight,
Within a stranger's arms.
Wild frenzy fires his frantic hand.
Distracted at the sight,
He flies to where the lovers stand;
And stabs the stranger knight.
'Die, traitor, die! thy guilty flames
Demand th' avenging steel!"
'It is my brother,' she exclaims!
"'Tis Edwy-Oh farewell!'
An aged peasant, Edwy's guide,
The good old Ardolph sought;
He told him that his bosom's pride,
His Edwy, he had brought.
O how the father's feelings melt!
How faint and how revive!
Just so the Hebrew patriarch felt,
To find his son alive.
'Let me behold my darling's face,
And bless him ere I die !'
Then with a swift and vigorous pace,
He to the bower did hie ;
O sad reverse!-Sunk on the ground
His slaughter'd son he view'd;
And dying Birtha, close he found,
40
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
In brother's blood imbru'd.
Cold, speechless, senseless, Eldred near,
Gaz'd on the deed he'd done;
Like the blank statue of Despair,
Or Madness grav'd in stone.
The father saw-so Jephthah stood,
So turn'd his wo-fraught eye,
When the dear, destin'd child he view'd
His zeal had doom'd to die.
He look'd the wo he could not speak,
And on the pale corse prest
His wan discolour'd, dying cheek,
And silent sunk to rest.
Then Birtha faintly rais'd her eye,
Which long had ceas'd to stream.
On Eldred fix'd, with many a sigh,
Its dim departing beam.
The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
Upon her pale face stand
And quick and short her failing breath,
And tremulous her hand.
The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
The dim departing eye,
The quiv'ring hand, the short quick breath,
He view'd-and did not die.
He saw her spirit mount in air,
Its kindred skies to seek!
His heart its anguish could not bear,
And yet it would not break.
The mournful muse forbears to tell
How wretched Eldred died;
She draws the Grecian* painter's veil,
The vast distress to hide.
Yet heaven's decrees are just and wise,
And man is born to bear :
Joy is the portion of the skies,
Beneath them all is care.
Yet blame not heav'n; 'tis erring man,
Who mars his own best joys;
Whose passions uncontroll'd, the plan
Of promis'd bliss destroys.
Had Eldred paus'd before the blow,
His hand had never err'd;
What guilt, what complicated wo,
His soul had then been spar'd!
The deadliest wound with which we bleed,
Our crimes inflict alone;
Man's mercies from God's hand proceed,
His miseries from his own.
* In the celebrated picture of the sacrifice of Iphige-
nia, Timanthes having exhausted every image of grief
in the bystanders, threw a veil over the face of the fa-
ther, whose sorrow he was utterly unable to express.
Plin. book xxxv.
THE BLEEDING ROCK :
OR
THE METAMORPHOSIS OF A NYMPH INTO STONE
The annual wound allur'd
The Syrian damsels to lament his fate,
In amorous ditties all a summer's day;
While smooth Adonis from his native rock
Ran purple to the sea, suppos'd with blood
Of Thammuz yearly wounded.-Milton.
WHERE beauteous Belmont rears her modest
brow
To view Sabrina's silver wave below,
Liv'd young Ianthe, fáir as beauty's queen;
She reign'd unrivall'd in the sylvan scene;
Hers every charm of symmetry and grace,
Which aids the triumph of the fairest face;
With all that softer elegance of mind,
By genius heighten'd, and by taste refin'd
Yet early was she doom'd the child of care,
For hapless love subdu'd th' ill-fated fair,
Ah! what avails each captivating grace,
The form enchanting, or the fairest face?
Or what each beauty of the heav'n-born mind,
The soul superior, or the taste refin❜d?
Beauty but serves destruction to insure,
And sense to feel the pang it cannot cure.
Each neighb'ring youth aspir'd to gain her
hand,
And many a suitor came from many a land :
But all in vain each neighb❜ring youth aspir'd,
And distant suitors all in vain admir'd.
Averse to hear, yet fearful to offend,
The lover she refus'd she made a friend:
Her meek rejection wore so mild a face,
More like acceptance seem'd it, than disgrace.
Young Polydore, the pride of rural swains,
Was wont to visit Belmont's blooming plains.
Who has not heard how Polydore could throw
Th' unerring dart to wound the flying doe?
How leave the swiftest at the race behind,
How mount the courser, and outstrip the wind?
With melting sweetness, or with magic fire,
Breathe the soft flute, or sweep the well-strung
lyre?
From that fam'd lyre no vulgar music sprung,
The Graces tun'd it, and Apollo strung.
Apollo too was once a shepherd swain,
And fed the flock, and grac'd the rustic plain :
He taught what charms to rural life belong,
The social sweetness, and the sylvan song;
He taught fair Wisdom in her grove to woo,
Her joys how precious, and her wants how few!
The savage herds in mute attention stood,
And ravish'd Echo fill'd the vocal wood;
The sacred sisters, stooping from their sphere,
Forgot their golden harps, intent to hear;
Till Heaven the scene survey'd with jealous
eyes,
And Jove, in envy, call'd him to the skies.
Young Polydore was rich in large domains,
In smiling pastures, and in flow'ry plains;
With these, he boasted each exterior charm,
To win the prudent, and the cold to warm;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
41
:
The fairest semblance of desert he bore,
And each fictitious mark of goodness wore;
Could act the tenderness he never felt,
In sorrow soften, and in anguish melt.
The sigh elaborate, the fraudful tear,
The joy dissembled, and the well feign'd fear,
All these were his; and his each treach'rous art,
That steals the guileless and unpractis'd heart.
Too soon he heard of fair Ianthe's fame,
'Twas each enamour'd shepherd's fav'rite
theme;
Return'd the rising, and the setting sun,
The shepherd's fav'rite theme was never done.
They prais'd her wit, her worth, her shape, her
air!
And even inferior beauties own'd her fair.
Such sweet perfection all his wonder moved:
He saw, admired, nay, fancied that he loved :
But Polydore no gen'rous passion knew,
Lost to all truth in feigning to be true.
No lasting tenderness could warm a heart,
Too vain to feel, too selfish to impart.
Cold as the snows of Rhodope descend,
And with the chilling wave of Hebrus blend;
So cold the breast where Vanity presides,
And the whole subject soul absorbs and guides.
Too well he knew to make his conquest sure,
Win her soft heart, yet keep his own secure.
So oft he told the well imagin'd tale,
So oft he swore-how should he not prevail?
The well-imagin'd tale the nymph believ'd;
Too unsuspecting not to be deceiv'd:
She lov'd the youth, she thought herself belov'd,
Nor blush'd to praise whom every maid ap-
prov'd. -
The conquest once achiev'd, the brightest fair,
When conquer'd, was no longer worth his care:
When to the world her passion he could prove,
Vain of his pow'r, he jested at her love.
The perjur'd youth, from sad Ianthe far
To win fresh triumphs, wages cruel war.
With other nymphs behold the wand'rer rove,
And tell the story of Ianthe's love;
He mocks her easy faith, insults her wo,
Nor pities tears himself had taught to flow.
To sad Ianthe soon the tale was borne,
How Polydore to treach'ry added scorn.
And now her eyes' soft radianee 'gan to fail,
And now the crimson of her cheek grew pale;
The lily there in faded beauty shows
Its sickly empire o'er the vanquish'd rose.
Devouring Sorrow marks her for his
prey,
And, slow and certain, mines his silent way.
Yet, as apace her ebbing life declin'd,
Increasing strength sustain'd her firmer mind.
'O had my heart been hard as his,' she cried,
'An hapless victim thus I had not died :
If there be gods, and gods there surely are,
Insulted virtue doubtless is their care.
Then hasten, righteous Powers; my tedious
fate,
Shorten my woes, and end my mortal date :
Quick let your power transform this failing
frame,
Let me be any thing but what I am !
And since the cruel woes I'm doom'd to feel,
Proceed, alas! from having lov'd too well:
Grant me some form where love can have no part,
No human weakness reach my guarded heart;
Where no soft touch of passion can be felt,
|
No fond affection this weak bosom melt.
If Pity has not left your blest abodes,
Change me to flinty adamant, ye gods!
To hardest rock, or monumental stone,
So may I know no more the pangs I've known;
So shall I thus no farther torments prove,
Nor taunting rivals say she died for love:
For sure, if aught can aggravate our wo,
'Tis the feign'd pity of a prosp'rous foe.'
Thus pray'd the nymph, and straight the Pow'rs
addrest,
Accord the weeping suppliant's sad request.
Then strange to tell! if rural folks say true,
To harden'd rock the stiff'ning damsel grew;
No more her shapeless features can be known,
Stone is her body, and her limbs are stone;
The growing rock invades her beauteous face,
And quickly petrifies each living grace;
The stone, her stature nor her shape retains,
The nymph is vanish'd, but the rock remains.
No vestige now of human shape appears.
No cheeks for blushes, and no eyes for tears:
Yet-strange the marvels poets can impart!
Unchang'd, unchill'd, remain'd the glowing
heart;
Its vital spirits destin'd still to keep,
It scorn'd to mingle with the marble heap.
When babbling Fame the wondrous tidings
bore,
Grief seiz❜d the soul of perjur'd Polydore ;
And now the falsehood of his soul appears,
And now his broken vows assail his ears.
Appall'd his smitten fancy seems to view
The nymph so lovely, and the friend so true.
For since her absence, all the virgin train,
His admiration sought to win in vain.
Though not to keep him ev'n Ianthe knew,
From vanity alone his falsehood grew:
O let the youthful heart, thus warn'd beware,
Of vanity, how deep, how wide the snare;
That half the mischiefs youth and beauty know,
From Vanity's exhaustless fountain flow.
Now deep remorse deprives his soul of rest:
And deep compunction wounds his guilty breast:
Then to the fatal spot in haste he flew,
Eager some vestige of the maid to view;
The shapeless rock he mark'd, but found no trace
Of lost Ïanthe's form, Ianthe's face.
He fix'd his streaming eyes upon the stone,
· And take sweet maid,' he cried, 'my parting
groan;
Since we are doom'd thus terribly to part,
No other nymph shall ever share my heart;
Thus only I'm absolv'd'—he rashly cried,
Then plung'd a deadly poinard in his side!
Fainting, the steel he grasp'd, and as he fell
The weapon pierc'd the rock he lov'd so well;
The guiltless steel assail'd the living part,
And stabb'd the vital, vulnerable heart.
And though the rocky mass was pale before,
Behold it ting'd with ruddy streams of gore!
The life-blood issuing from the wounded stone,
Blends with the crimson current of his own;
From Polydore's fresh wound it flow'd in part,
But chief emitted from Ianthe's heart.
And though revolving ages since have past,
The meeting torrents undiminish'd last;
Still gushes out the sanguine stream amain,
The standing wonder of the stranger swain.
Now once a year, so rustic records tell,
42
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
When o'er the heath resounds the midnight bell;
On eve of midsummer, that foe to sleep,
What time young maids their annual vigils
keep,
The tell-tale shrub,* fresh gather'd to declare
The swains who false, from those who constant
are;
When ghosts in clanking chains the church-
yard walk,
And to the wond'ring ear of fancy talk:
When the scar'd maid steals trembling thro'
the grove,
To kiss the grave of him who died for love;
When, with long watchings, Care at length op-
prest,
Steals broken pauses of uncertain rest;
Nay, Grief short snatches of repose can take,
And nothing but Despair is quite awake;
Then, at that hour, so still, so full of fear,
When all things horrible to thought appear,
Is perjur'd Polydore observ'd to rove
A ghastly spectre through the gloomy grove ;
Then to the rock, the Bleeding-rock repair,
Where, sadly sighing it dissolves to air.
* Midsummer-men, consulted as oracular by village
maids.
Still when the hours of solemn rites return,
The village train in sad procession mourn;
Pluck ev'ry weed which might the spot dis-
grace,
And plant the fairest field flowers in their place.
Around no noxious plant, or flow'ret grows,
But the first daffodil, and earliest rose ;
The snow-drop spreads its whitest blossom here,
And golden cowslips grace the vernal year:
Here the pale primrose takes a fairer hue,
And ev'ry violet boasts a brighter blue.
Here builds the wood-lark, here the faithful
dove
Laments his lost, or woos his living love.
Secure from harm is ev'ry hallow'd nest,
The spot is sacred where true lovers rest.
To guard the rock from each malignant sprite,
A troop of guardian spirits watch by night;
Aloft in air each takes his little stand,
The neighb'ring hill is hence call'd Fairy
Land.*
* By contraction, Failand, a hill well known in So-
mersetshire: not far from this is The Bleeding Rock,
from which constantly issues a crimson current. A de-
sire to account for this appearance, gave rise to a whim-
sical conversation, which produced these slight verses.
ODE.
FROM H. M. AT BRISTOL, TO DRAGON, MR. GARRICK'S HOUSE DOG, At hampton.
I. DRAGON! since lyrics are the mode,
To thee I dedicate my ode,
And reason good I plead :
Are those who cannot write, to blame
To draw their hopes of future fame,
From those who cannot read ?
II. O could I like that nameless wight,*
Find the choice minute when to write,
Tho mollia tempora fandi!
Like his, my muse should learn to whistle
A true heroical epistle,
In strains which ne'er can die.
III. Father of lyrics, tuneful Horace!
Can thy great shade do nothing for us
To mend the British lyre?
Our luckless bards have broke the strings,
Seiz'd the scar'd muses, pluck'd their wings,
And put out all their fire.†
IV. Dragon! thou tyrant of the yard,
Great namesake of that furious guard
That watch'd the fruits Hesperian!
Thy choicer treasures safely keep,
Nor snatch one moment's guilty sleep,
Fidelity's criterion.
V. O Dragon! change with me thy fate,
To give me up thy place and state,
And I will give thee mine:
I, left to think, and thou to feed!
My mind enlarg'd, thy body freed,
How blest my lot and thine!
VI. Then shalt thou scent the rich regale
Of turtle and diluting ale,
Nay, share the sav'ry bit;
* See the admirable epistle to sir William Chambers.
† A profusion of odes had appeared about this time,
which strikingly violated all the rules of lyrical compo-
sition.
And see, what thou hast never seen,
For thou hast but at Hampton been,
A feast devoid of wit.
VII. Oft shalt thou snuff the smoking venison,
Devour'd alone, by hungry denizen,
So fresh, thoul't long to tear it;
Though Flaccus* tells a diff'rent tale
Of social souls who chose it stale,
Because their friends should share it.
VIII. And then on me what joys would wait,
Were I the guardian of thy gate,
How useless bolt and latch!
How vain were locks, and bars how vain,
To shield from harm the household train
Whom I, from love, would watch!
IX. Not that 'twould crown with joy my life
That Bowden,† or that Bowden's wife,
Brought me my daily pickings:
Though she, accelerating fate,
Decrees the scanty moral date
Of turkeys and of chickens!
X. Though fir'd with innocent ambition,
Bowden, great Nature's rhetorician,
More flow'rs than Burke produces ;
And though he 's skill'd more roots to find,
Than ever stock'd an Hebrew's mind,
And knows their various uses.
XI. I'd get my master's ways by rote,
Ne'er would I bark at ragged coat,
Nor tear the tatter'd sinner;
Like him I'd love the dog of merit
Caress the cur of broken spirit,
And give them all a dinner.
XII. Nor let me pair his blue-ey'd dame
With Venus' or Minerva's name,
*Hor. lib. ii. Sat. 2.
† The gardener and poultry woman at Hampton.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
43
One warrior, one coquet;
No; Pallas and the queen of Beauty
Shunn'd, or betray'd that nuptial duty,
Which she so high has set.
XIII. Whene'er I heard the rattling coach
Proclaim their long-desir'd approach,
How would I haste to greet 'em!
Nor ever feel I wore a chain,
Till, starting, I perceiv'd with pain
I could not fly to meet 'em!
XIV. The master loves his sylvan shades,
Here, with the nine melodious maids,
His choicest hours are spent:
Yet shall I hear some wittling cry,
(Such wittling from my presence fly!)
'Garrick will soon repent:
XV. 'Again you'll see him, never fear;
Some half a dozen times a year
He still will charm the age;
Accustom'd long to be admir'd,
Of shades and streams he'll soon be tir'd,
And languish for the stage.'
XVI. Peace! To his solitude he bears
The full-blown fame of thirty years;
He bears a nation's praise;
He bears his lib'ral, polish'd mind,
His worth, his wit, his sense refin'd
He bears his well-earn'd bays.
XVII. When warm admirers drop a tear
Because this sun has left his sphere,
And set before his time ;
I who have felt and lov'd his rays,
What they condemn will loudly praise,
And call the deed sublime.
XVIII. How wise long-pamper'd with applause,
To make a voluntary pause
And lay his laurels down!
Boldly repelling each strong claim,
To dare assert to Wealth and Fame,
Enough of both I've known.'
XIX. How wise! a short retreat to steal,
The vanity of life to feel,
And from its cares to fly :
To act one calm, domestic scene,
Earth's bustle, and the grave between,
Retire, and learn to die!
EPITAPHS.
ON THE REVEREND MR. PENROSE,
Thirty-two years Vicar of St. Gluvias, Cornwall.
If social manners, if the gentlest mind,
If zeal for God, and love for human kind,
If all the charities which life endear,
May claim affection, or demand a tear,
Then o'er Penrose's venerable urn
Domestic love may weep, and friendship mourn.
The path of duty still, untir'd, he trod,
He walk'd in safety, for he walk'd with God!
When past the power of precept and of pray'r,
Yet still his flock remain'd the shepherd's care;
Their wants still kindly watchful to supply,
He taught his best, last lesson, how to die!
ON MRS. BLANFORD.
MEEK shade, farewell! go seek that quiet shore
Where sin shall vex, and sorrow wound no
more;
Thy lowly worth obtains that final bliss,
Which pride disdains to seek, and wit may miss.
That path thou'st found which science cannot
teach,
But faith and goodness never fail to reach :
Then share the joy the words of life impart,
The Vision promis'd to the pure in heart.
ON MRS. LITTLE,
In Redcliff Church, England.
O COULD this verse her fair example spread,
And teach the living while it prais'd the dead!
Then, reader! should it speak her hope divine,
Not to record her faith, but strengthen thine;
Then should her ev'ry virtue stand confest,
Till ev'ry virtue kindle in thy breast.
But, if thou slight the monitory strain,
And she has liv'd, to thee at least, in vain ;
Yet let her death, an awful lesson give,
The dying Christian speaks to all that live.¨
Enough for her that here her ashes rest,
Till God's own plaudit shall her worth attest.
ON GENERAL LAWRENCE,
Memorable for his conquests in India, and for his cle-
mency to the vanquished.
On a Monument erected by Sir Robert Palk.
BORN to command, to conquer, and to spare,
As mercy mild, yet terrible as war,
Here Lawrence rests in death; while living
fame
[name.
From Thames to Ganges wafts his honour'd
To him this frail memorial Friendship rears,
Whose noblest monument 's a nation's tears;
Whose deeds on fairer columns stand engrav'd,
In provinces preserv'd and cities sav'd..
TO THE MEMORY OF
MRS. ELIZABETH IVES,
Aged Ninety-one, of Northampton.
Her pious and useful Life,
was extended to an honourable old age,
and closed by an exemplary Death,
Her Charity had its source
In Religion:
Her love of her neighbour
was the genuine effect
of her love of God:
Her Resignation
was the Fruit of her Faith,
and she died in Hope
because she had lived
A CHRISTIAN.
ON THE REVEREND MR. HUNTER,
Who receiv'd a degree from the University of Oxford.
for his work against Lord Bolingbroke's Philosophy.
44
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Go, happy spirit, seek that blissful land
Where zealous Michael leads the glorious band
Of those who fought for truth; blest spirit, go
And perfect all the good begun below:
Go, hear applauding saints, delighted, tell
How vanquish'd Falsehood, at thy bidding fell!
Blest in that heav'n whose paths thy virtue
sought;
Blest in that God whose cause thou well hast
fought;
O let thy honour'd shade his care approve,
Who this memorial rears of filial love :
A son, whose father, living, was his pride;
A son who mourns that such a father died.
ON C. DICEY, Esq.
In Claybrook Church, Leicestershire.
O THOU, or friend or stranger, who shall tread
These solemn mansions of the silent dead!
Think, when this record to inquiring eyes,
No more shall tell the spot where Dicey lies;
When this frail marble, faithless to its trust,
Mould'ring itself, resigns its moulder'd dust;
When time shall fail, and Nature's self decay,
And earth, and sun, and skies dissolve away;
Thy soul, this consummation shall survive,
Defy the wreck, and but begin to live.
This truth, long slighted, let these ashes teach,
Though cold, instruct you, and though silent
preach :
O pause! reflect, repent, resolve, amend !
Life has no length, eternity no end!
ON A YOUNG LADY.
Go, peaceful shade! exchange for sin and care
The glorious palm which patient suff'rers wear!
Go, take the meed victorious meekness gains,
Go, wear the crown triumphant faith obtains.
Those silent graces which the good conceal,
The day of dread disclosure shall reveal;
Then shall thy mild, retiring virtues rise,
And God, both judge and witness, give the prize,
Approach-For you the mourner rears this
stone,
To sooth your sorrows, and record his own.
ON THE REVEREND MR. LOVE.
In the Cathedral, at Bristol.
WHEN worthless grandeur fills th' embellish'd
urn.
No poignant grief attends the sable bier :
But when distinguish'd excellence we mourn,
Deep is the sorrow, genuine is the tear.
Stranger! should'st thou approach this awful
shrine,
The merits of the honour'd dead to seek;
The friend, the son, the Christian, the divine,
Let those who knew him, those who lov'd
him speak.
Oh let them in some pause of anguish say,
What zeal inflam'd, what faith enlarg'd his
breast!
How glad the unfetter'd spirit wing'd its way
From earth to heav'n, from blessing to be
blest!
ON THE REVEREND
SIR JAMES STONHOUSE, BART. M. D.
In the Chapel at the Hot-Wells, Bristol.
HERE rest awhile, in happier climes to shine,
The orator, physician, and divine:
"Twas his, like Luke, the double task to fill,
To heal the natʼral and the moral ill.
You, whose awaken'd hearts his labours blest,
Where ev'ry truth, by ev'ry grace was drest;
Oh! let your lives evince that still you feel
Th' effective influence of his fervent zeal.
One spirit rescued from eternal wo
Were nobler fame than marble can bestow;
That lasting monument will mock decay
And stand, triumphant, at the final day.
ON SARAH STONHOUSE,
Second wife of the Rev. Sir James Stonhouse,
Bart.
INSCRIPTION ON A CENOTAPH IN A COME resignation! wipe the human tear,
GARDEN.
ERECTED TO A DECEASED FRIEND.
Ye lib'ral souls who rev'rence Friendship's
name,
Who boast her blessings, and who feel her
flame;
Oh! if from early youth one friend you've lov'd,
Whom warm affection chose, and taste approv'd;
If you have known what anguish rends the
heart,
When such, so known, so lov'd, for ever part;
Domestic anguish drops o'er Virtue's bier;
Bid selfish sorrow hush the fond complaint,
Nor, from the God she lov'd, detain the saint,
Truth, meekness, patience, honour'd shade
were thine;
And holy hope, and charity divine:
Though these thy forfeit being could not save,
Thy faith subdu'd the terrors of the grave.
Oh ! if thy living excellence could teach.
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech :
Let death thy strongest lesson then impart;
And write prepare to die, on ev'ry heart.
THE FOOLISH TRAVELLER :
OR, A GOOD INN IS A BAD HOME.
THERE was a prince of high degree,
As great and good as prince could be;
Much pow'r and wealth were in his hand,
With lands and lordships at command,
One son, a fav'rite son, he had,
An idle thoughtless kind of lad;
Whom, spite of all his follies past,
He meant to make his heir at last.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
45
The son escap'd to foreign lands,
And broke his gracious sire's commands;
Far, as he fancied, from his sight,
In each low joy he took delight.
The youth, detesting peace and quiet,
Indulg'd in vice, expense, and riot;
Of each wild pleasure rashly tasted,
Till health declined, and substance wasted
The tender sire, to pity prone,
Promis'd to pardon what was done;
And, would he certain terms fulfil
He should receive a kingdom still.
The youth the pardon little minded,
So much his sottish soul was blinded;
But though he mourn'd no past transgression,
He lik'd the future rich possession.
He lik'd the kingdom when obtain'd,
But not the terms on which 'twas gain'd;
He hated pain and self-denial,
Chose the reward, but shunn'd the trial.
He knew his father's power how great,
How glorious too the promis'd state!
At length resolves no more to roam
But straight to seek his father's home.
His sire had sent a friend to say,
He must be cautious on his way;
Told him what road he must pursue,
And always keep his home in view.
The thoughtless youth set out indeed,
But soon he slacken'd in his speed;
For ev'ry trifle by the way
Seduc'd his idle heart astray.
By ev'ry casual impulse sway'd,
On ev'ry slight pretence he stay'd;
To each, to all, his passions bend,
He quite forgets his journey's end.
For ev'ry sport, for ev'ry song,
He halted as he pass'd along;
Caught by each idle sight he saw,
He'd loiter e'en to pick a straw.
Whate'er was present seiz'd his soul,
A feast, a show, a brimming bowl;
Contented with this vulgar lot,
His father's house he quite forgot.
Those slight refreshments by the way,
Which were but meant his strength to stay,
So sunk his soul in sloth and sin,
He look'd no farther than his inn.
His father's friend would oft appear
And sound the promise in his ear;
Oft would he rouse him, 'Sluggard come!
This is thy inn, and not thy home.'
Displeas'd he answers, 'Come what will,
Of present bliss I'll take my fill;
In vain you plead, in vain I hear,
Those joys are distant, these are near.'
Thus perish'd, lost to worth and truth,
In sight of home this hapless youth;
While beggars, foreigners, and poor,
Enjoy'd the father's boundless store.
APPLICATION.
My fable, reader, speaks to thee,
In God this bounteous father see;
And in his thoughtless offspring trace,
The sinful, wayward, human race.
The friend, the generous father sent
To rouse, and to reclaim him, meant
The faithful minister you'll find,
Who calls the wand'ring, warns the blind.
Reader, awake! this youth you blame,
Are not you doing just the same?
Mindless your comforts are but given
To help you on your way to heav'n.
The pleasures which beguile the road,
The flow'rs with which your path is strew'd
To these your whole desires you bend
And quite forget your journey's end.
The meanest toys your soul entice,
A feast, a song, a game at dice;
Charm'd with your present paltry lot,
Eternity is quite forgot.
Then listen to a warning friend,
Who bids you mind your journey's end;
A wand'ring pilgrim here you roam;
This world's your inn, the next your home.
THE IMPOSSIBILITY CONQUERED:
OR, LOVE YOUR NEIGHBOUR AS YOURSELF.
IN THE MANNER OF SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
THE OBJECTOR,
I. EACH man who lives the Scriptures prove,
Must as himself his neighbour love;
But though the precept 's full of beauty,
'Tis an impracticable duty :
I'll prove how hard it is to find
A lover of this wond'rous kind.
II. Who loves himself to great excess,
You'll grant must love his neighbour less;
When self engrosses all the heart
How can another have a part?
Then if self-love most men enthral,
A neighbour's share is none at all.
III. Say, can the man who hoards up pelf
E'er love his neighbour as himself?
For if he did, would he not labour
To hoard a little for his neighbour?
Then tell me, friend, can hoarding elves
E'er love their neigbour as themselves?
IV. The man whose heart is bent on pleasure
Small love will to his neighbour measure:
Who solely studies his own good,
Can't love another if he would.
Then how ean pleasure-hunting elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves!
V. Can he whom sloth and loitering please
E'er love his neighbour like his ease?
Or he who feels ambition's flame
Loves he his neighbour like his fame?
Such lazy, or such soaring elves
Can't love their neighbour as themselves.
VI. He, whose gross appetites enslave him,
Who spends or feasts the wealth God gave him”,
Full, pamper'd, gorg'd at ev'ry meal,
He cannot for the empty feel.
How can such gormandizing elves
E'er love their neighbour as themselves?
A
46
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
VII. Then since the man who lusts for gold,
Since he who is to pleasure sold;
Who soars in pride, or sinks in ease,
His neighbour will not serve or please;
Where shall we hope the man to find
To fill this great command inclin'd?
VIII. I dare not blame God's holy word,
Nor censure Scripture as absurd;
But sure the rule 's of no avail
If plac'd so high that all must fail;
And 'tis impossible to prove
That any can his neighbour love.
THE ANSWERER.
IX. Yes, such there are of heav'nly mould,
Unwarp'd by pleasure, ease, or gold;
He who fulfils the nobler part
By loving God with all his heart,
He, only he, the Scriptures prove,
Can, as himself, his neighbour love,
X. Then join, to make a perfect plan,
The love of God to love of man;
Your heart in union both must bring,
This is the stream, and that the spring;
This done, no more in vain you'll labour,
A Christian can't but love his neighbour.
XI. If then the rule 's too hard to please ye,
Turn Christian, and you'll find it easy.
'Still, 'tis impossible.' you'll cry,
'In vain shall feeble nature try.'
'Tis true; but know a Christian is a creature
Who does things quite impossible to nature.
INSCRIPTION
IN A BEAUTIFUL RETREAT, CALLED FAIRY BOWER.
AIRY spirits, you who love
Cooling bow'r, or shady grove:
Streams that murmur as they flow,
Zephyrs bland that softly blow;
Babbling echo, or the tale
Of the love-lorn nightingale;
Hither airy spirits, come,
This is your peculiar home,
If you love a verdant glade,
If you love a noon-tide shade,
Hither, sylphs and fairies fly,
Unobserv'd of earthly eye.
Come, and wander ev'ry night,
By the moon-beam's glimm'ring light
And again at early day
Brush the silver dews away.
Mark where first the daisies blow,
Where the bluest violets grow;
Where the sweetest linnet sings,
Where the earliest cowslip springs;
Where the largest acorn lies.
Precious in a fairy's eyes;
Sylphs, though unconfin'd to place,
Love to fill an acorn's space.
Come, and mark within what bush
Builds the blackbird or the thrush;
Great his joy who first espies,
Greater his who spares the prize!
Come, and watch the hallow'd bow'r,
Chase the insect from the flow'r;
Little offices like these,
Gentle souls and fairies please.
Mortals! form'd of
grosser clay,
From our haunts keep far away;
Or, if you should dare appear,
See that you from vice are clear.
Folly's minion, Fashion's fool,
Mad Ambition's restless tool!
Slave of passion, slave of pow'r,
Fly, ah fly! this tranquil bow'r !
Son of Av'rice, soul of frost,
Wretch of Heav'n abhorred the most,
Learn to pity others' wants,
Or avoid these hallow'd haunts.
Eye unconscious of a tear,
When Afflictions train appear;
Heart that never heav'd a sigh,
For another, come not nigh.
But, ye darling sons of Heav'n,
Giving freely what was giv'n;
You, whose lib'ral hand dispense
The blessings of benevolence:
You, who wipe the tearful eye,
You, who stop the rising sigh;
You, whose souls have understood
The luxury of doing good-
Come, ye happy virtuous few,
Open is my bow'r to you;
You, these mossy banks may press;
You, each guardian fay shall bless.
THE BAD BARGAIN:
OR, THE WORLD SET UP TO SALE.
THE Devil, as the Scriptures show,
Tempts sinful mortals high and low;
And acting well his various part,
Suits every bribe to every heart:
See where the prince of darkness stands
With baits for souls in both his hands.
To one he offers empires whole,
And gives a sceptre for a soul;
To one, he freely gives in barter,
A peerage, or a star and garter;
To one he pays polite attention,
And begs him just to take a pension.
Some are so fir'd with love of fame,
He bribes them by an empty name;
For fame they toil, they preach, they write,
Give alms, build hospitals or fight;
For human praise renounce salvation,
And sell their souls for reputation.
But the great gift, the mighty bribe,
Which Satan pours amid the tribe,
Which millions seize with eager haste,
And all desire at least to taste,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
47
1
Is-plodding reader!-what d'ye think?
Alas!-tis money-money-chink!
Round the wide world the tempter flies,
Presents to view the glittering prize;
See how he hastes from shore to shore,
And how the nations all adore:
Souls flock by thousands to be sold,
Smit with the fond desire of gold.
See, at yon needy tradesman's shop,
The universal tempter stop;
Some beau presents a top-knot nice,
She grants her virtue as the price;
A slave to vanity's controul,
She, for a riband, sells her soul!
Thus Satan tries each different state:
With mighty bribes he tempts the great;
The poor, with equal force he plies,
But wins them with a humbler prize:
Has gentler arts for young beginners,
And fouler sins for older sinners.
'Would'st thou,' he cries, increase thy trea- Oft too he cheats our mortal eyes,
sures,
Use lighter weights and scantier measures,
Thus thou shalt thrive: the trader's willing,
And sells his soul to get a shilling.
Next Satan to a farmer hies,
'I scorn to cheat,' the farmer cries:
Yet still his heart on wealth is bent,
And so the Devil is content;
Now markets rise, and riches roll,
And Satan quite secures his soul.
Mark next yon cheerful youth so jolly.
So fond of laughter and of folly;
He hates a stingy griping fellow,
But gets each day a little mellow;
To Satan too he sells his soul
In barter for a flowing howl.
But mark again yon lass a spinning,
See how the tempter is beginning:
For Satan father is of lies;
A thousand swindling tricks he plays us,
And promises, but never pays us;
Thus we poor fools are strangely caught,
And find we've sold our souls for nought.
Nay, oft, with quite a juggler's art,
He bids the proffer'd gift depart;
Sets some gay joy before our face,
Then claps a trouble in its place ;
Turns up some loss for promis'd gain,
And conjures pleasure into pain.
Be wise then, oh! ye worldly tribe,
Nor sell your conscience for a bribe;
When Satan tempts you to begin,
Resist him, and refuse to sin :
Bad is the bargain on the whole,
To gain the world and lose the soul!
ROBERT AND RICHARD.
BALLADS.
Or, the GHOST OF POOR MOLLY,
Who was drowned in Richard's Mill-pond.
Tune-'Collin's Mulberry Tree.'
QUOTH Richard to Bob, 'Let things go as they
will,
Of pleasure and fun I will still have my fill;
In frolic and mirth I see nothing amiss,
And though I get tipsy, what harm is in this?
For e'en Solomon says, and I vow he says truth,
'Rejoice, O young man, in the days of thy
youth.'
$
Shall advance to dismiss me from life's merry
stage;
Repentance just then, boy, may not be amiss,
But while young I'll be jolly, what harm is in
this?'
They parted; and Richard his pastimes begun,
'Twas Richard the jovial, the soul of all fun;
Each dancing bout, drinking bout, Dick would
attend
And he sung and he swore, nor once thought of
the end.
Young Molly he courted, the pride of the plain,
He promis'd her marriage, but promis'd in vain ;
She trusted his vows, but she soon was undone,
And when she lamented, he thought it good fun.
Thus scorn'd by her Richard, sad Molly run
wild,
'I'm glad,' answered Bob, 'you're of Solomon's
creed,
[proceed;
But I beg, if you quote him, you'll please to
For GOD (as the wise man continues to sing)
Thy soul into judgment for all this will bring.
Thus a man may get plung'd in a woful abyss, Till Molly and Molly's poor baby were found,
By choosing to say, Pray what harm is in this?' | One evening, in Richard's own mill-pond both
Come, come,' says gay Richard, 'don't grudge
me a cup,
I'm resolv'd, while I'm able, I'll still keep it up;
Let old gray-beard's deny that in frolic there's
bliss,
And roam'd through the woods with her desti-
tute child;
drown'd.
Then his conscience grew troubled by night
and by day,
But its clamour he drown'd in more drink and
more play;
I'll game, love, and drink—and what harm is in | Still Robert exhorted, and like a true friend
this?'
Says Robert, I grant if you live for to-day,
You may game, love, and drink, and may frolic
away;
But then, my dear Dick, I again must contend,
That the Wise Man has bid us-Remember the
end!"
Says Richard, 'When sickness or peevish old
age
He warn'd him and pray'd him to think on the
end!
Now disturb'd in his dreams, poor Molly each
night
With her babe stood before him, how sad was
the sight!
O how ghastly she look'd as she bade him at-
tend,
And so awfully told him, 'Remember the end.
48
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
She talk'd of the woes and unquenchable fire
Which await the licentious, the drunkard, and
liar:
[beware,
How he ruin'd more maidens, she bade him
Then she wept, and she groan'd, and she va-
nish'd in air.
Now beggar'd by gaming, distemper'd by drink,
Death star'd in his face, yet he dar'd not to
think;
Desparing of mercy, despising all truth,
He dy'd of old age in the prime of his youth.
On his tomb-stone, good Robert, these verses
engrav'd,
[and be saved:
Which he hop'd some gay fellow might read
THE EPITAPH.
HERE lies a poor youth, who call'd drinking his
bliss.
[this?
And was ruin'd by saying, what harm is in
Let each passer by to his error attend,
And learn of poor Dick to remember the end!
THE CARPENTER :
Or, the Danger of Evil Company.
THERE was a young west countryman,
A carpenter by trade,
A skilful wheelright too was he,
And few such wagons made.
No man a tighter barn could build,
Throughout his native town;
Through many a village round was he
The best of workmen known,
His father left him what he had,
In sooth it was enough,
His shining pewter, pots of brass,
And all his household stuff.
A little cottage too he had,
For ease and comfort plann'd;
And that he might not lack for aught,
An acre of good land.
A pleasant orchard too there was
Before his cottage door;
Of cider and of corn likewise,
He had a little store.
Active and healthy, stout and young
No business wanted he;
Now tell me, reader, if you can ;
What man more blest could be ?
To make his comfort quite complete;
He had a faithful wife;
Frugal, and neat, and good was she,
The blessing of his life.
Where is the lord, or where the squire,
Had greater cause to praise
The goodness of that bounteous hand
Which blest his prosp'rous days?
Each night when he return'd from work,
His wife so meek and mild,
His little supper gladly dress'd,
While he caress'd his child,
One blooming babe was all he had,
His only darling dear,
The object of their equal love,
The solace of their care.
O what could ruin such a life,
And spoil so fair a lot?
O what could change so kind a heart,
And ev'ry virtue blot?
With grief the cause I must relate,
The dismal cause reveal;
'Twas EVIL COMPANY and DRINK,
The source of ev'ry ill.
A cooper came to live hard by,
Who did his fancy please;
An idle rambling man was he,
Who oft had cross'd the seas,
This man could tell a merry tale,
And sing a merry song;
And those who heard him sing or talk,
Ne'er thought the ev'ning long.
But vain and vicious was the song,
And wicked was the tale;
And ev'ry pause he always fill'd,
With cider, gin, or ale.
Our carpenter delighted much
To hear the cooper talk;
And with him to the alehouse oft,
Would take his evening walk.
At first he did not care to drink,
But only lik'd the fun ;
;
But soon he from the cooper learnt,
The same sad course to run,
He said the cooper's company
Was all for which he car'd;
But soon he drank as much as he,
To swear like him soon dar'd.
His hammer now neglected lay,
For work he little car'd;
Half finish'd wheels and broken tools,
Were strew'd about his yard.
To get him to attend his work,
No prayers could now prevail,'
His hatchet and his plane forgot,
He never drove a nail.
His cheerful ev'nings now no more
With peace and plenty smil'd;
No more he sought his pleasing wife,
Nor hugg'd his smiling child.
For not his drunken nights alone,
Were with the cooper past;
His days were at the Angel spent,
And still he stay'd the last.
No handsome Sunday suit was left,'
Nor decent Holland shirt:
No nose-gay mark'd the sabbath-morn";
But all was rags and dirt.
No more his church he did frequent,
A symptom ever sad:
Where once the Sunday is mispent,
The week days must be bad.
The cottage mortgag'd for its worth;
The fav'rite orchard sold;
He soon began to feel the effects
Of hunger and of cold.
The pewter dishes one by one
મું
Were pawn'd, till none were left';
A wife and babe at home remain'd
Of ev'ry help bereft.
By chance he call'd at home one night,
And in a surley mood,
He bade his weeping wife to get
Immediately some food.
His empty cupboard well he knew
Must needs be bare of bread;
No rasher on the rack he saw,
Whence could he then be fed!
His wife* a piteous sigh did heave,
* See Berquin's Gardener.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
49
And then before him laid,
A basket cover'd with a cloth,
But not a word she said.
Then to her husband gave a knife,
With many a silent tear,
In haste he tore the cover off,
And saw his child lie there.
'There lies thy babe,' the mother said,
Oppress'd with famine sore⚫
O kill us both-'twere kinder far
We could not suffer more.
The carpenter struck to the heart,
Fell on his knees straightway,
He wrung his hands-confess'd his sins,
And did both weep and pray.
From that same hour the cooper more
He never would behold;
Nor would he to the ale house go;
Had it been pav'd with gold.
His wife forgave him all the past;
And sooth'd his sorrowing mind,
And much he griev'd that e'er he wrong'd
The worthiest of her kind.
By lab'ring hard, and working late,
By industry and pains,
His cottage was at length redeem'd,
And sav'd were all his gains.
His Sundays now at church were spent,
His home was his delight;
'The following verse himself he made,
And read it ev'ry night.
The drunkard murders child and wife,
Nor matters it a pin,
Whether he stabs them with his knife,
Or starves them with his gin.
THE RIOT:
OR, HALF A LOAF IS BETTER THAN NO BREAD.
In a Dialogue between Jack Anvil and Tom Hod.
To the tune of 'A cobler there was.'
What a whimsey to think we shall mend our
spare diet,
By breeding disturbance, by murder and riot?
Derry Down.
Because I am dry, 'twould be foolish, I think,
To pull out my tap and to spill all my drink;
Because I am hungry, and want to be fed,
That is sure no wise reason for wasting my
bread;
And just such wise reasons for minding their
diet,
Are us'd by those blockheads who rush into riot.
Derry Down.
I would not take comfort from others' distresses,
But still I would mark how God our land blesses;
For though in old England the times are but sad,
Abroad I am told they are ten times as bad;
In the land of the Pope there is scarce any grain,
And 'tis worse still, they say, both in Holland
and Spain.
Derry Down.
Let us look to the harvest our wants to beguile,
See the lands with rich crops how they ev'ry
where smile!
Meantime to assist us, by each western breeze!
Some corn is brought daily across the salt seas!
Of tea we'll drink little, of gin none at all,
And we'll patiently wait, and the prices will
fall.
Derry Down.
But if we 're not quiet, then let us not wonder,
If things grow much worse by our riot and
plunder;
And let us remember, whenever we meet,
The more ale we drink, boys, the less we shall
eat,
On those days spent in riot no bread you brought
home,
Had you spent them in labour you must have
Derry Down.
had some.
A dinner of herbs, says the wise man, with quiet,
Is better than beef amid discord and riot.
If the thing could be help'd I'm a foe to all strife,
And I pray for a peace ev'ry night of my life;
But in matters of state not an inch will I budge,
Written in ninety-five, a year of scarcity and Because I conceive I'm no very good judge.
Alarm.
TOM.
Come neighbours, no longer be patient and quiet,
Come let us go kick up a bit of a riot;
I'm hungry, my lads, but I've little to eat,
So we'll pull down the mills, and we'll seize all
the meat:
I'll give you good sport, boys, as ever you saw,
So a fig for the justice, a fig for the law.
Derry Down.
Then his pitchfork Tom seiz'd-hold a moment,
says Jack,
I'll show thee thy blunder, brave boy, in a crack,
And if I don't prove we had better be still,
I'll assist thee straightway to pull down ev'ry
mill;
I'll show thee how passion thy reason doth cheat,
Or I'll join thee in plunder for bread and for
Derry Down.
What a whimsey to think thus our bellies to fill,
For we stop all the grinding by breaking the
mill!
meat.
What a whimsey to think we shall get more to
eat,
By abusing the butcher who gets us the meat!
Derry Down.
But though poor, I can work, my brave boy with
the best,
Let the king and the parliament manage the
rest;
I lament both the war and the taxes together,
Though I verily think they don't alter the
weather.
The king, as I take it, with very good reason,
May prevent a bad law, but can't help a bad
Derry Down.
season.
The parliament men, although great is their
power,
Yet they cannot contrive us a bit of a shower
And I never yet heard though our rulers are
wise,
That they know very well how to manage the
skies;
For the best of them all, as they found to their
cost,
Were not able to hinder last winter's hard frost.
Derry Down.
Besides, I must share in the wants of the times,
Because I have had my full share in its crimes;
And I'm apt to believe the distress which is sent,
Is to punish and cure us of all discontent.
D
50
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
!
But harvest is coming-potatoes are come
Our prospect clears up; ye complainers be
dumb!
Derry Down.
And though I've no money, and though I've no
lands,
I've a head on my shoulders, and a pair of good
hands.
So I'll work the whole day, and on Sundays I'll
seek
At church how to bear all the wants of the week.
The gentlefolks too will afford us supplies;
They'll subscribe-and they'll give up their
puddings and pies.
Derry Down.
Then before I'm induc'd to take part in a riot,
I'll ask this short question—what shall I get
by it?
So I'll e'en wait a little till cheaper the bread,
For a mittimus hangs o'er each rioter's head:
And when of two evils I 'm ask'd which is best,
I'd rather be hungry than hang'd, I protest.
Derry Down.
Quoth Tom, thou art right, If I rise I'm a Turk :
So he threw down his pitchfork, and went to his
work.
PATIENT JOE:
OR, THE NEW CASTLE COLLIER.
HAVE you heard of a collier of honest renown,
Who dwelt on the borders of Newcastle town?
His name it was Joseph-you better may know
If I tell you he always was call'd patient Joe.
Whatever betided he thought it was right,
And Providence still he kept ever in sight;
To those who love God, let things turn as they
would,
He was certain that all work'd together for good.
He prais'd his Creator whatever befel;
How thankful was Joseph when matters went
well!
How sincere were his carols of praise for good
health,
And how grateful for any increase in his wealth!
In trouble he bow'd him to God's holy will;
How contented was Joseph when matters went
ill!
When rich and when poor he alike understood,
That all things together were working for good.
If the land was afflicted with war he declar'd,
'Twas a needful correction for sins which he
shar'd,
And when merciful Heaven bade slaughter to
cease,
How thankful was Joe for the blessing of peace!
When taxes ran high, and provisions were dear,
Still Joseph declar'd he had nothing to fear ;
It was but a trial he well understood,
From Him who made all work together for good.
Though his wife was but sickly his gettings but
small,
bless.
Yet a mind so submissive prepar'd him for all;
He liv'd on his gains were they greater or less,
And the giver he ceas'd not each moment to
[ joy,
When another child came he received him with
And Providence bless'd who had sent him the
boy;
But when the child died-said poor Joe I'm con-
tent,
For God had a right to recall what he lent.
It was Joseph's ill fortune to work in a pit
With some who believ'd that profaneness was
wit;
}
When disasters befel him much pleasure they
show'd,
And laugh'd and said-Joseph, will this work
for good?
But ever when these would profanely advance
That this happen'd by luck, and that happen'd
by chance;
Still Joseph insisted no chance could be found,
Not a sparrow by accident falls to the ground.
Among his companions who work'd in the pit,
And made him the butt of their profligate wit,
Was idle Tim Jenkins, who drank and who
gam'd,
Who mock'd at his Bible, and was not asham'd.
One day at the pit his old comrades he found,
And they chatted, preparing to go under ground,
Tim Jenkins, as usual, was turning to jest,
Joe's notion--that all things which happen'd
were best.
As Joe on the ground had unthinkingly laid
His provision for dinner, of bacon and bread,
A dog on the watch, seiz'd the bread and the
meat,
And off with his prey ran with foot-steps so fleet.
Now to see the delight that Tim Jenkins ex-
press'd!
Is the loss of thy dinner too, Joe for the best?'
'No doubt on't,' said Joe; but as I must eat,
'Tis my duty to try to recover my meat.'
So saying, he follow'd the dog a long round,
While Tim, laughing and swearing, went down
under ground.
[lost,
Poor Joe soon return'd, though his bacon was
For the dog a good dinner had made at his cost.
When Joseph came back he expected a sneer,
But the face of each collier spoke horror and
fear;
[said,
What a narrow escape hast thou had, they all
The pit 's fall'n in, and Tim Jenkins is dead!
How sincere was the gratitude Joseph express'd!
How warm the compassion which glow'd in his
breast!
Thus events great and small, if aright under-
stood,
Will be found to be working together for good.
'When my meat,' Joseph cry'd was just now
stol'n away,
And I had no prospect of eating to-day,
How could it appear to a short-sighted sinner,
That my life would be sav'd by the loss of my
dinner.'
THE GIN SHOP:
OR A PEEP INTO PRISON.
Look through the land from north to south,
And look from east to west,
And see what is to Englishmen
Of life the deadliest pest.
It is not want, though that is bad,
Nor war, though that is worse
Britons brave endure, alas!
But
A self-inflicted curse.
Go
where you will, throughout the realm,
You'll find the reigning sin,
-The monster's name is Gin.
In cities, villages, and towns,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
51
The prince of darkness never sent
To man a deadlier foe,
'My name is Legion,' it may say,
The source of many a wo.
Nor does the fiend alone deprive
The labourer of his wealth:
That is not all, it murders too
His honest name and health.
We say the times are grievous hard,
And hard they are, 'tis true;
But, drunkards, to your wives and babes,
They're harder made by you.
The drunkard's tax is self-impos'd,
Like every other sin ;
The taxes altogether lay
No weight so great as Gin.
The state compels no man to drink,
Compels no man to game,
'Tis Gin and Gambling sink him down
To rags, and want, and shame.
The kindest husband, chang'd by Gin,
Is for a tyrant known;
The tenderest heart that nature made,
Becomes a heart of stone.
In many a house the harmless babes
Are poorly cloth'd and fed,
Because the craving Gin-shop takes
The children's daily bread.
Come, neighbour, take a walk with me,
Through many a London street,
And see the cause of penury
In hundreds we shall meet.
We shall not need to travel far-
Behold that great man's door;
He well discerns yon idle crew
From the deserving poor.
He will relieve with liberal hand,
The child of honest thrift;
But where long scores of Gin-shops stand
He will withhold his gift.
Behold that shiv'ring female there,
Who plies her woful trade!
'Tis ten to one you'll find that Gin
That hopeless wretch has made.
Look down those steps, and view below
Yon cellar under ground,
There ev'ry want and ev'ry wo
And ev'ry sin is found.
Those little wretches trembling there,
With hunger and with cold,
Were by their parents' love of Gin,
To sin and misery sold.
Blest be those friends* to human kind
Who take these wretches up,
E'er they have drunk the bitter dregs
The Philanthropic Society.
THE TWO GARDENERS.
Two gardeners once beneath an oak,
Lay down to rest, when Jack thus spoke:
•You must confess dear Will that Nature
Is but a blundering kind of creature ;
And I-nay, why that look of terror?
Could teach her how to mend her error.'
Of their sad parents' cup.
Look through that prison's iron bars,
Look through that dismal grate,
And learn what dire misfortune brought
So terrible a fate.
The debtor and the felon too,
Though differing much in sin,
Too oft you'll find were thither brought
By all-destroying Gin.
Yet Heav'n forbid I should confound
Calamity with guilt!
Or name the debtor's lesser fault
With blood of brother spilt.
To prison dire misfortune oft
The guiltless debtor brings;
Yet oft'ner far it will be found
From Gin the misery springs.
See the pale manufacturer there,
How lank and lean he lies!
How haggard is his sickly cheek!
How dim his hollow eyes!
He plied the loom with good success,
His wages still were high,
Twice what the village lab'rer gains,
His master did supply.
No book-debts kept him from his cash,
All paid as soon as due
His wages on the Saturday
To fail he never knew.
How amply had his gains suffic'd
On wife and children spent!
But all must for his pleasures go,
All to the Gin-shop went.
See that apprentice, young in years,
But hackney'd long in sin,
What made him rob his master's till ?
Alas! 'twas love of Gin.
That serving man-I knew him once,
So jaunty, spruce, and smart!
Why did he steal, then pawn the plate?
'Twas Gin ensnar'd his heart.
But hark! what dismal sound was that?
'Tis Saint Sepulchre's bell!
It tolls, alas, for human guilt,
Some malefactor's knell.
O! woful sound! O! what could cause
Such punishment and sin?
Hark! hear his words, he owns the cause-
Bad Company and Gin.
And when the future lot is fix'd
Of darkness, fire, and chains,
How can the drunkard hope to 'scape
Those everlasting pains!
For if the murd'rer 's doom'd to wo,
As Holy-Writ declares,
The drunkard with self-murderers,
That dreadful portion shares.
TALES.
'Your talk,' quoth Will, 'is bold and odd,
What you call Nature, I call God.'
Well, call him by what name you will,
Quoth Jack, he manages but ill;
Nay, from the very tree we 're under,
I'll prove that Providence can blunder.'
Quoth Will, Through thick and thin you dash,
I shudder Jack, at words so rash ·
.
52
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
I trust to what the Scriptures tell,
He hath done always all things well.'
Quoth Jack, 'I'm lately grown a wit,
And think all good a lucky hit.
To Prove that Providence can err,
Not words but facts the truth aver.
To this vast oak lift up thine eyes,
Then view that acorn's paltry size;
How foolish on a tree so tall,
To place that tiny cup and ball.
Now look again, yon pompion* see,
It weighs two pounds at least, nay three;
Yet this large fruit, where is it found?
Why, meanly trailing on the ground.
Had Providence ask'd my advice,
I would have chang'd it in a trice;
I would have said at Nature's birth,
Let Acorns creep upon the earth;
But let the pompion, vast and round,
On the oak's lofty boughs be found.'
He said—and as he rashly spoke,
Lo! from the branches of the oak,
A wind, which suddenly arose,
Beat showers of acorns on his nose;
• Oh! oh :' quoth Jack, 'I'm wrong I see,
And God is wiser far than me.
For did a show'r of pompions large,
Thus on my naked face discharge,
I had been brus'd and blinded quite,
What heav'n appoints I find is right;
Whene'er I'm tempted to rebel,
I'll think how light the acorns fell;
Whereas on oaks had pompions hung,
My broken skull had stopp'd my tongue.
THE LADY AND THE PIE:
OR KNOW THYSELF.
A WORTHY Squire of sober life
Had a conceited boasting wife:
Of him she daily made complaint,
Herself she thought a very saint.
She lov'd to load mankind with blame,
And on their errors build her fame.
Her fav'rite subject of dispute
Was Eve and the forbidden fruit.
'Had I been Eve,' she often cried,
• Man had not fall'n, nor woman died;
I still had kept the orders giv'n,
Nor for an apple lost my heav'n ;
To gratify my curious mind
I ne'er had ruin'd all mankind
Nor from a vain desire to know,
Entail'd on all my race such wo."
The squire reply'd; 'I fear 'tis true,
The same ill spirit lives in you;
Tempted alike, I dare believe,
You would have disobey'd like Eve.'
The lady storm'd, and still deny'd
Sin, curiosity, and pride.
The squire, some future day at dinner,
Resolv'd to try this boastful sinner;
He griev'd such vanity possest her,
And thus in serious terms address'd her:
'Madam, the usual splendid feast,
With which our wedding day is grac'd,
With you I must not share to-day
For business summons me away.
*A Gourd.
Of all the dainties I've prepar'd,
I beg not any may be spar'd;
Indulge in ev'ry costly dish,
Enjoy, 'tis what I really wish;
Only observe one prohibition,
Nor think it a severe condition;
On one small dish which cover'd stande,
You must not dare to lay your hands
Go-Disobey not on your life,
Or henceforth you're no more my wife.'
The treat was serv'd, the squire was gone,
The murm'ring lady din'd alone :
She saw whate'er could grace a feast,
Or charm the eye, or please the taste:
But while she rang'd from this to that,
From ven'son haunch to turtle fat;
On one small dish she chanc'd to light,
By a deep cover hid from sight:
O! here it is—yet not for me!
I must not taste, nay, dare not see;
Why place it there? or why forbid
That I so much as lift the lid?
Prohibited of this to eat,
I care not for the sumptuous treat
I wonder if 'tis fowl or fish,
To know what's there I merely wish.
I'll look-O no, I lose forever,
If I'm betray'd, my husband's favour.
I own I think it vastly hard,
Nay, tyranny, to be debarr'd.
John, you may go-the wine's decanted,
I'll ring or call you when you 're wanted.
Now left alone, she waits no longer;
Temptation presses more and stronger.
'I'll peep-the harm can ne'er be much,
For though I peep, I will not touch;
Why I'm forbid to lift this cover,
One glance will tell, and then 'tis over
My husband's absent; so is John,
My peeping never can be known,'
Trembling, she yielded to her wish,
And rais'd the cover from the dish:
She starts for lo! an open pie
From which six living sparrows fly.
She calls, she screams, with wild surprise,
'Haste, John, and catch these birds,' she cries
John hears not; but to crown her shame,
In at her call her husband came.
Sternly he frown'd as thus he spoke :
Thus is your vow'd allegiance broke!
Self-ign'rance led you to believe
You did not share the sin of Eve
Like hers, how blest was your condition!
Like heav'ns, how small my prohibition
Yet you, though fed with every dainty
Sat pining in the midst of plenty ;
This dish, thus singled from the rest,
Of your obedience was the test;
Your mind, unbroke by self-denial,
Could not sustain this tender trial.
Humility from this be taught,
Learn candour to another's fault;
Go know, like Eve, from this sad dinner
You're both a vain a curious sinner.'
THE PLUM-CAKES:
Or, the Farmer and his Three Sons.
A FARMER, who some wealth possest,
With three fine boys was also blest ;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
53
The lads were healthy, stout and young,
And neither wanted sense nor tongue.
Tom, Will, and Jack, like other boys,
Lov'd tops and marbles, sport and toys.
The father scouted that false plan,
That money only makes the man;
But, to the best of his discerning,
Was bent on giving them good learning;
He was a man of observation,
No scholar, yet had penetration;
So with due care, a school he sought,
Where his young sons might well be taught.
Quoth he, I know not which rehearses
Most properly his themes or verses;
Yet I can do a father's part,
And school the temper, mind, and heart;
The natural bent of each I'll know,
And trifles best that bent show.'
may
"Twas just before the closing year,
When Christmas holidays were near,
The farmer call'd to see his boys,
And ask how each his time employs.
Quoth Will, 'There's father, boys, without,
He's brought us something good, no doubt.'
The father sees their merry faces,
With joy beholds them, and embraces.
'Come, boys, of home 'll have your fill.'
you
Yes, Christmas now is near,' says Will;
"Tis just twelve days-these notches see,
My notches with the days agree.'
'Well,' said the sire, again I'll come,
And gladly fetch my brave boys home!
You two the dappled mare shall ride,
Jack mount the pony by my side;
Meantime, my lads, I've brought you here
No small provision of good cheer.'
Then from his pocket straight he takes,
A vast profusion of plum-cakes;
He counts them out, a plenteous store,
No boy shall have or less or more;
Twelve cakes he gives to each dear son,
When each expected only one;
And then, with many a kind expression,
He leaves them to their own discretion;
Resolv'd to mark the use each made
Of what he to their hands convey'd.
The twelve days past, he comes once more,
And brings the horses to the door
The boys with rapture see appear
The poney and the dappled mare;
Each moment now an hour they count,
And crack their whips and long to mount.
As with the boys his ride he takes,
He asks the history of the cakes.
Says Will, Dear father, life is short,
So I resolv'd to make quick sport;
The cakes were all so nice and sweet,
I thought I'd have one jolly treat;
Why should I balk, said I, my taste?
I'll make at once a hearty feast.
So snugly by myself I fed,
When every boy was gone to bed;
I gorg'd them all, both paste and plum,
And did not spare a single crumb;
Indeed they made me, to my sorrow,
As sick as death upon the morrow;
This made me mourn my rich repast,
And wish I had not fed so fast."
Quoth Jack, 'I was not such a dunce,
To eat my quantum up at once;
And though the boys all long'd to clutch 'em
I would not let a creature touch 'em ;
Nor though the whole were in my pow'r,
Would I one single cake devour;
Thanks to the use of keys and locks,
They 're all now snug within my box;
The mischief is, by hoarding long,
They 're grown so mouldy and so strong,
I find they won't be fit to eat,
And I have lost my father's treat.'
'Well, Tom,' the anxious parent cries,
'How did you manage? Tom replies,
I shun'd each wide extreme to take,
To glut my maw, or hoard my cake;
I thought each day its wants would have,
And appetite again might crave;
Twelve school-days still my notches counted
To twelve my father's cakes amounted ;
So ev'ry day I took out one,
But never ate my cake alone;
With ev'ry needy boy I shar'd,
And more than half I always spar'd.
One ev'ry day, 'twixt self and friend,
Has brought my dozen to an end:
My last remaining cake to-day
I would not touch, but gave away;
A boy was sick, and scarce could eat,
To him it prov'd a welcome treat:
Jack call'd me spendthrift not to save;
Will dubb'd me fool because I gave;
But when our last day came, I smil'd,
For Wiil's were gone, and Jack's were spoil'd;
Not hoarding much, nor eating fast,
I serv'd a needy friend at last.'
These tales the father's thoughts employ;
By these,' said he, 'I know each boy:
Yet Jack, who hoarded what he had,
The world will call a frugal lad;
And selfish gormandizing Will
Will meet with friends and fav'rers still:
While moderate Tom, so wise and cool,
The mad and vain will deem a fool:
But I, his sober plan approve,
And Tom has gain'd his father's love.'
APPLICATION.
So when our day of life is past,
And all are fairly judg'd at last;
The miser and the sensual find
How each misused the gifts assign'd:
While he, who wisely spends and gives,
To the true ends of living lives;
'Tis self-denying moderation
Gains the Great Father's approbation.
TURN THE CARPET:
OR, THE TWO WEAVERS.
IN A DIALOGUE BETWEEN DICK AND JOHN.
As at their work two weavers sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat;
They touch'd upon the price of meat,
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.
'What with my brats and sickly wife,'
Quoth Dick, 'I'm almost tir'd of life;
So hard my work, so poor my fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can bear
'How glorious is the rich man's state!
His house so fine! his wealth so great!
2
54
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Heav'n is unjust, you must agree;
Why all to him? why none to me?
'In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the parson preaches,
This world (indeed I've thought so long)
Is rul'd, methinks, extremely wrong.
'Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
'Tis all confus'd, and hard, and strange;
The good are troubled and oppress'd
And all the wicked are the bless'd.'
Quoth John: 'Our ign'rance is the cause
Why thus we blame our Maker's laws;
Parts of his ways alone we know,
'Tis all that man can see below,
'See'st thou that carpet, not half done,
Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun?
Behold the wild confusion there,
So rude the mass it makes one stare!
'A stranger, ign'rant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there convey'd ;
For where's the middle, where 's the border?
Thy carpet now is all disorder.'
Quoth Dick, 'My work is yet in bits,
But still in ev'ry part it fits;
Besides, you reason like a lout,
Why, man, that carpet 's inside out.'
THE TRUE HEROES :
Or, the Noble Army of Martyrs
You who love a tale of glory,
Listen to the song I sing;
Heroes of the Christian story,
Are the heroes I shall bring.
Warriors of the world, avaunt!
Other heroes me engage:
'Tis not such as you I want,
Saints and martyrs grace my page.
Warriors, who the world o'ercame
Were in brother's blood imbru'd ;
While the saints of purer fame,
Greater far, themselves subdu'd.
Fearful Christian! hear with wonder,
Of the saints of whom I tell;
Some were burnt, some sawn asunder,
Some by fire or torture fell;
Some to savage beasts were hurl'd,
One escap'd the lion's den;
Was a persecuting world
Worthy of these wond'rous men ?
Some in fiery furnace thrown,
Yet escap'd unsing'd their hair ;
There Almighty pow'r was shown:
For the Son of God was there.
Let us crown with deathless fame
Those who scorn'd and hated fell;
Martyrs met contempt and shame,
Fearing nought but sin and hell.
How the show'r of stones descended,
Holy Stephen, on thy head!
While his tongue the truth defended,
How the glorious martyr bled!
See his fierce reviler Saul,
How he rails with impious breath!
Then observe converted Paul,
Oft in perils, oft in death.
Says John, Thou say'st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soul with doubt,
Is but a carpet inside out.
'As when we view these shreds and ends,
We know not what the whole intends;
So when on earth things look but odd,
They 're working still some scheme of God.
'No plan, no pattern, can we trace,
All wants proportion, truth, and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.
'But when we reach that world of light,
And view those works of God aright,
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the workman is divine.
'What now seems random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;
Then shall we praise what here we spurn'd,
For then the carpet shall be turn'd.'
Thou 'rt right,' quoth Dick, no more I'll
grumble
That this sad world's so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right.'
HYMNS.
'Twas that God, whose sov'reign pow'r,
Did the lion's fury 'swage,
Could alone, in one short hour,
Still the persecutor's rage.
E'en a woman-women hear,
Read in Maccabees the story!
Conquer'd nature, love, and fear,
To obtain a crown of glory.
Seven stout sons she saw expire,
(How the mother's soul was pain'd!)
Some by sword, and some by fire,
(How the martyr was sustain’d!)
E'en in death's acutest anguish,
Each the tyrant still defy'd;
Each she saw in torture languish,
Last of all the mother dy'd.
Martyrs who were thus arrested,
In their short but bright career;
By their blood the truth attested,
Prov'd their faith and love sincere.
Though their lot was hard and lowly,
Though they perish'd at the stake,
Now they live with Christ in glory,
Since they suffer'd for his sake.
Fierce and unbelieving foes
But their bodies could destroy;
Short though bitter were their woes
Everlasting is their joy.
A CHRISTMAS HYMN.
O how wond'rous is the story
Of our blest Redeemer's birth!
See the mighty Lord of Glory
Leave his heav'n to visit earth!
Hear with transport, ev'ry creature,
Hear the Gospel's joyful sound;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
55
Christ appears in human nature,
In our sinful world is found;
Comes to pardon our transgression,
Like a cloud our sins to blot;
Comes to his own favour'd nation,
But his own receive him not.
If the angels who attended
To declare the Saviour's birth,
Who from heav'n with songs descended
To proclaim good will on earth:
If, in pity to our blindness,
They had brought the pardon needed,
Still Jehovah's wond'rous kindness
Had our warmest hopes exceeded:
If some prophet had been sent
With Salvation's joyful news,
Who that heard the blest event
Could their warmest love refuse?
But 'twas He to whom in Heav'n
Hallelujahs never cease:
He, the mighty God, was given,
Given to us a Prince of Peace.
None but He who did create us
Could redeem from sin and hell;
None but He could reinstate us
In the rank from which we fell.
Had he come, the glorious stranger,
Deck'd with all the world calls great;
Had he liv'd in pomp and grandeur,
Crown'd with more than royal state;
Still our tongues with praise o'erflowing,
On such boundless love would dwell;
Still our hearts, with rapture glowing,
Feel what words could never tell.
But what wonder should it raise
Thus our lowest state to borrow!
O the high mysterious ways,
God's own Son a child of sorrow!
'Twas to bring us endless pleasure,
He our suff'ring nature bore;
'Twas to give us heav'nly treasure,
He was willing to be poor.
Come, ye rich, survey the stable
Where your infant Saviour lies;
From your full o'erflowing table
Send the hungry good supplies.
Boast not your ennobled stations,
Boast not that you 're highly fed;
Jesus, hear it, all ye nations,
Had not where to lay his head.
Learn of me, thus cries the Saviour,
If my kingdom you 'd inherit;
Sinner, quit your proud behaviour,
Learn my meek and lowly spirit.
Come, ye servants, see your station,
Freed from all reproach and shame ;
He who purchas'd your salvation,
Bore a servant's humble name.
Come, ye poor, some comfort gather
Faint not in the race you run,
Hard the lot your gracious Father
Gave his dear, his only Son.
Think, that if your humbler stations,
Less of worldly good bestow,
You escape those strong temptations
Which from wealth and grandeur flow.
See your Saviour is ascended !
See he looks with pity down!
Trust him all will soon be mended,
Bear his cross, you'll share his crown.
A HYMN OF PRAISE,
FOR THE ABUNDANT HARVEST of 1796,
After a year of scarcity.
GREAT GOD! when famine threaten'd late
To scourge our guilty land,
O did we learn from that dark fate
To dread thy mighty hand?
Did then our sins to mem'ry rise?
Or own'd we God was just?
Or rais'd we penitential cries?
Or bow'd we in the dust?
Did we forsake one evil path?
Was any sin abhor'd?
Or did we deprecate thy wrath,
And turn us to the Lord?
'Tis true we fail'd not to repine,
But did we too repent?
Or own the chastisement divine,
In awful judgment sent?
Though the bright chain of Peace he broke
And War with ruthless sword,
Unpeoples nations at a stroke,
Yet who regards the Lord?
But God, who in his strict decrees,
Remembers mercy still,
Can, in a moment, if he please,
Our hearts with comfort fill.
He mark'd our angry spirits rise,
Domestic hate increase;
And for a time withheld supplies,
To teach us love and peace.
He, when he brings his children low,
Has blessings still in store;
And when he strikes the heaviest blow,
He loves us but the more.
Now Frost, and Flood, and Blight* no more
Our golden harvest spoil!
See what an unexampled store
Rewards the reaper's toil!
As when the promis'd harvest fail'd
In Canaan's fruitful land;
The envious Patriarchs were assail'd
By Famine's pressing hand!
The angry brothers then forgot
Each fierce and jarring feud;
United by their adverse lot,
They lov'd as brothers should.
So here, from Heav'n's correcting hand,
Though Famine fail'd to move;
Let Plenty now throughout the land,
Rekindle peace and love.
Like the rich fool, let us not say,
Soul! thou hast goods in store!
But shake the overplus away,
To feed the hungry poor.
Let rich and poor, on whom are now
Such bounteous crops bestow'd,
Raise many a pure and holy vow
Of gratitude to God!
And while his gracious name we praise,
For bread so kindly given;
Let us beseech him all our days,
To give the bread of heav'n.
In that blest pray'r our Lord did frame,
Of all our pray'rs the guide,
We ask that Hallow'd be his name,'
* These three visitations followed each other in quick
succession.
56
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
And then our wants supplied.
For grace he bids us first implore,
Next, that we may be fed;
We say, 'Thy will be done,' before
We ask our daily bread.'
HERE AND THERE
OR, THIS WORLD AND THE NEXT.
Being Suitable Thoughts for a New Year.
HERE bliss is short, imperfect, insincere,
But total, absolute, and perfect there.
Here time's a moment, short our happiest state,
There infinite duration is our date.
Here Satan tempts, and troubles e'en the best,
There Satan's pow'r extends not to the blest.
In a weak sinful body here I dwell,
But there I drop this frail and sickly shell.
Here my best thoughts are stain'd with guilt and
fear,
But love and pardon shall be perfect there.
Here my best duties are defil'd with sin,
There all is ease without and peace within.
Here feeble faith supplies my only light,
There faith and hope are swallow'd up in sight.
Here love of self my fairest works destroys,
There love of God shall perfect all my joys.
Here things, as in a glass, are darkly shown,
There I shall know as clearly as I'm known,
Frail are the fairest flow'rs which bloom below,
THE HONEST MILLER
OF GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
A True Ballad.
Of all the callings and the trades
Which in our land abound,
The miller's is as useful sure
As can on earth be found.
The lord or squire of high degree
Is needful to the state,
Because he lets the land he owns
In farms both small and great.
The farmer he manures the land,
Or else what corn could grow?
The ploughman cuts the furrow deep,
Ere he begins to sow.
And though no wealth he has, except
The labour of his hands ;
Yet honest Industry 's as good
As houses or as lands.
The thrasher he is useful too
To all who like to eat ;
Unless he winnow'd well the corn,
There freshest palms on roots immortal grow.
Here wants or cares perplex my anxious mind,
But spirits there a calm fruition find.
Here disappointments my best schemes destroy,
There those that sow'd in tears shall reap in joy.
Here vanity is stamp'd on all below,
Perfection there on ev'ry good shall grow.
Here my fond heart is fasten'd on some friend,
Whose kindness may, whose life must have an
end;
But there no failure can I ever prove,
God cannot disappoint, for God is love.
Here Christ for sinners suffer'd, groan'd, and
bled,
But there he reigns the great triumphant head:
Here, mock'd and scourg'd, he wore a crown of
thorns,
A crown of glory there his brow adorns.
Here error clouds the will, and dims the sight,
There all is knowledge, purity, and light.
Here so imperfect is this mortal state,
If blest myself I mourn some other's fate.
At ev'ry human wo I here repine,
The joy of ev'ry saint shall there be mine.
Here if I lean, the world shall pierce my heart,
But there that broken reed and I shall part.
Here on no promis'd good can I depend,
But there the rock of Ages is my friend.
Here if some sudden joy delight, inspire,
The dread to lose it damps the rising fire;
But there whatever good the soul employ,
The thought that 'tis eternal crowns the joy.
BALLADS.
The chaff would spoil the wheat.
But vain the squire's and farmer's care,
And vain the thrasher's toil;
And vain would be the ploughman's pains
Who harrows up the soil;
And vain, without the miller's aid,
The sowing and the dressing;
Then sure an honest miller he
i
Must be a public blessing.
And such a miller now I make
The subject of my song,
Which, though it shall be very true,
Shall not be very long.
This miller lives in Glo'stershire,
I shall not tell his name;
For those who seek the praise of God,
Desire no other fame.
In last hard winter-who forgets
The frost of ninety-five?
Then was all dismal scarce, and dear,
And no poor man could thrive.
Then husbandry long time stood still,
And work was at a stand;
To make the matter worse, the mills
Were froze throughout the land.
Our miller dwelt beside a stream,
All underneath the hill;
Which flow'd amain when others froze,
Nor ever stopp'd the mill.
The clam'rous people came from far
This favour'd mill to find,
Both rich and poor our miller sought,
For none but he could grind.
His neighbours cry'd, 'Now miller seize
The time to heap up store,
Since thou of young and helpless babes
Hast got full half a score.'
For folks, when tempted to grow rich,
By means not over nice,
Oft make their numerous babes a plea
To sanctify the vice.
Our miller scorn'd such counsel base,
And when he ground the grain,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
37
With steadfast hand refus'd to touch
Beyond his lawful gain.
'When God afflicts the land,' said he,
• Shall I afflict it more?
And watch for times of public wo
To wrong both rich and poor?
'Thankful to that Almighty Pow'r
Who makes my river flow,
I'll use the means he gives to sooth
A hungry neighbour's wo.
'My river flows when others freeze,
But 'tis at his command;
For rich and poor I'll grind alike,
No bribe shall stain my hand.'
So all the country who had corn
Here found their wants redrest;
May ev'ry village in the land
Be with such millers blest!
KING DIONYSIUS AND SQUIRE DAMO-
CLES;
A NEW SONG TO AN OLD STORY.
Proper to be sung at all feasts and merry meetings.
THERE was a heathen man, sir,
Belonging to a king;
And still it was his plan, sir,
To covet ev'ry thing.
And if you don't believe me,
I'll name him if you please,
For let me not deceive ye,
'Twas one squire Damocles,
He thought that jolly living
Must ev'ry joy afford;
His heart knew no misgiving,
While round the festive board.
He wanted to be great, sir,
And feed on fare delicious;
And have his feasts in state, sir,
Just like king Dionysius.
The king, to cure his longing,
Prepar'd a feast so fine,
That all the court were thronging
To see the courtier dine.
And there to tempt his eye, sir,
Was fish, and flesh, and fowl;
And when he was a-dry, sir,
There stood the brimming bowl.
Nor did the king forbid him
From drinking all he could,
The monarch never chid him,
But fill'd him with his food.
O then, to see the pleasure
Squire Damocles exprest!
'Twas joy beyond all measure,
Was ever man so blest?
With greedy eyes the squire
Devour'd each costly dainty;
You'd think he did aspire
To eat as much as twenty.
But just as he prepar'd, sir,
Of bliss to take his swing;
O, how the man was scar'd, sir,
By this so cruel king!
When he to eat intended,
Lo! just above his head,
He spied a sword suspended
All by a single thread.
How did it change the feasting
VOL. I.
To wormwood and to gall,
To think, while he was tasting,
The pointed sword might fall
Then in a moment's time, sir,
He loath'd the luscious feast';
And dreaded as a crime, sir,
The brimming bowl to taste.
Now, if you're for applying
The story I have told,
I think there's no denying
'Tis worth its weight in gold.
Ye gay, who view this stranger,
And pity his sad case;
And think there was great danger
In such a fearful place;
Come, let this awful truth, sir,
In all your minds be stor'd;
To each intemp'rate youth, sir,
Death is that pointed sword,
And though you see no reason
To check your mirth at all,
In some licentious season
The sword on you may fall.
So learn, while at your ease, sir
You drink down draughts delicious;
To think of Damocles, Sir,
And old king Dionysius.
THE HACKNEY COACHMAN:
OR, THE WAY TO GET A GOOD FARE.
To the tune of' I wish I was a fisherman.'
I AM a bold coachman, and drive a good hack,
With a coat of five capes that quite covers my
back;
And my wife keeps a sausage-shop, not many
miles
From the narrowest alley in all broad St. Giles.
Though poor, we are honest and very content;
We pay as we go, for meat, drink, and for rent;
To work all the week I am able and willing,
I never get drunk, and I waste not a shilling,
And while at a tavern my gentleman tarries,
The coachman grows richer than he whom he
carries,
[sin,
And I'd rather (said I) since it saves me from
Be the driver without, than the toper within.
Yet though dram-shops I hate, and the dram-
drinking friend,
I'm not quite so good, but I wish I may mend;
I repent of my sins, since we all are deprav'd,
For a coachman, I hold, has a soul to be sav'd,
When a riotous multitude fills up a street,
And the greater part know not, boys, wherefore
they meet;
If I see there is mischief, I never go there,
Let others get tipsy so I get my fare.
Now to church, if I take some good lady to pray,
It grieves me full sore to be kept quite away;
So I step within side, though the sermon's
begun,
For a slice of the service is better than none.
Then my glasses are whole, and my coach is so
neat,
I am always the first to be call'd in the street;
And I'm known by the name ('tis a name
rather rare)
Of the coachman that never asks more than his
fare.
58
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Though my beasts should be dull, yet I don't
use them ill;
Though they stumble I swear not, nor cut them
up hill,
For I firmly believe there's no charm in an oath
That can make a nag trot, when to walk he is
loth.
And though I'm a coachman, I'll freely confess,
I beg of my Maker my labours to bless;
|
I praise Him each morning, and pray ev'ry
night,
And 'tis this makes my heart feel so cheerful
and light.
When I drive to a fun'ral I care not for drink,
That is not the moment to guzzle, but think;
And I wish I could add, both of coachman and
master,
That both of us strove to amend a bit faster.
VILLAGE POLITICS.
ADDRESSED TO
ALL THE MECHANICS, JOURNEYMEN, AND LABOURERS, IN GREAT BRITAIN.
BY WILL CHIP, A COUNTRY CARPENTER.
[Written early in the French Revolution.]
It is a privilege to be prescribed to in things about which our minds would otherwise be tost
with various apprehensions. And for pleasure, I shall profess myself so far from doating on that
popular idol, Liberty, that I hardly think it possible for any kind of obedience to be more painful
than an unrestrained liberty. Were there not true bounds, of magistrates, of laws, of piety, of
reason in the heart, every man would have a fool, nay, a mad tyrant to his master, that would
multiply him more sorrows than the briars and thorns did to Adam, when he was freed from the
bliss at once, and the restraint of Paradise, and became a greater slave in the wilderness than in
the enclosure.-Dr. Hammond's Sermon.
A DIALOGUE
BETWEEN JACK ANVIL, the BlackSMITH, AND TOM HOD, THE MASON.
Jack. WHAT's the matter, Tom? Why dost
look so dismal!
Tom. Dismal, indeed! Well enough I may.
Jack. What! is the old mare dead? or work
scarce?
Tom. No, no, work's plenty enough, if a man
had but the heart to go to it.
Jack. What book art reading? Why dost
look so like a hang dog?
Tom. (Looking on his book.) Cause enough.
Why I find here that I'm very unhappy, and
very miserable; which I should never have
known if I had not had the good luck to meet
with this book. Oh 'tis a precious book!
Jack. A good sign though; that you can't
find out you're unhappy without looking into a
book for it! What is the matter?
Tom. Matter? Why I want liberty.
Jack. Liberty! That's bad indeed! What!
has any one fetched a warrant for thee? Come,
inan, cheer up, I'll be bound for thee. Thou
art an honest fellow in the main, though thou
dost tipple and prate a little too much at the
Rose and Crown.
Tom. No, no, I want a new constitution.
Jack. Indeed! Why I thought thou hadst
been a desperate healthy fellow. Send for the
doctor directly.
Tom. I'm not sick; I want
equality, and the rights of man.
liberty and
Jack. O, now I understand thee. What! thou
art a leveller and a republican, I warrant!
Tom. I'm a friend to the people. I want a
reform.
Jack. Then the shortest way is to mend thy-
self..
Tom. But I want a general reform.
Jack. Then let every one mend one.
Tom. Pooh! I want freedom and happiness,
the same as they have got in France.
Jack. What, Tom, we imitate them? We
follow the French! Why they only began all
this mischief at first in order to be just what we
are already; and what a blessed land must this
be, to be in actual possession of all they ever
hoped to gain by all their hurly-burly. Imi-
tate them indeed!-why I'd sooner go to the
negroes to get learning, or to the Turks to get
religion, than to the French for freedom and
happiness.
Tom. What do you mean by that? ar'n't the
French free ?
Jack. Free, Tom! ay free with a witness.
They are all so free that there's nobody safe.
They make free to rob whom they will, and
kill whom they will. If they don't like a man's
looks, they make free to hang him without judge
or jury, and the next lamp-post serves for the
gallows; so then they call themselves free, be-
cause you see they have no law left to condemn
THE WORKS OF HANNAII MORE.
59
them, and no king to take them up and hang
them for it.
Tom. Ah, but Jack, did'nt their king for-
merly hang people for nothing too? and besides,
were they not all papists before the revolution?
Jack. Why, true enough, they had but a poor
sort of religion; but bad is better than none,
Tom. And so was the government bad enough
too; for they could clap an innocent man into
prison, and keep him there too as long as they
would, and never say, with your leave or by
your leave, gentlemen of the jury. But what's
all that to us?
Tom. To us! Why don't many of our go-
vernors put many of our poor folks in prison
against their will? What are all the jails for?
Down with the jails, I say; all men should be
free.
Jack. Harkee, Tom, a few rogues in prison
keep the rest in order, and then honest men go
about their business in safety, afraid of nobody;
that's the way to be free.
to be free. And let me tell thee,
Tom, thou and I are tried by our peers as much
as a lord is. Why the king can't send me to
prison if I do no harm; and if I do, there's rea-
son good why I should go there. I may go to
law with sir John at the great castle yonder;
and he no more dares lift his little finger against
me than if I were his equal. A lord is hanged
for hanging matter, as thou or I should be;
and if it will be any comfort to thee, I myself
remember a peer of the realm being hanged for
killing his man, just the same as the man would
have been for killing him.*
Tom. A lord! Well, that is some comfort to
be sure. But have you read the Rights of Man?
Jack. No, not I: I had rather by half read
the Whole Duty of Man. I have but little time
for reading, and such as I should therefore only
read a bit of the best.
Tom. Don't tell me of those old-fashioned no-
tions. Why should not we have the same fine
things they have got in France? I'm for a
constitution, and organization, and equalization,
and fraternization.
Tom. But still I should have no one over my
head.
Jack. That's a mistake: I'm stronger than
thou; and Standish, the exciseman, is a better
scholar; so that we should not remain equal a
minute. I should out-fight thee, and he'd out-
wit thee. And if such a sturdy fellow as I am,
was to come and break down thy hedge for a
little firing, or take away the crop from thy
ground, I'm not so sure that these new-fangled
laws would see thee righted. I tell thee, Tom,
we have a fine constitution already, and our
forefathers thought so.
Tom. They were a pack of fools, and had
never read the Rights of Man.
Jack. I'll tell thee a story. When sir John
married, my lady, who is a little fantastical, and
likes to do every thing like the French, begged
him to pull down yonder fine old castle, and
build it up in her frippery way. No, says sir
John, what shall I pull down this noble build-
ing, raised by the wisdom of my brave ances-
tors; which outstood the civil wars, and only un-
derwent a little needful repair at the revolution;
a castle which all my neighbours come to take
a pattern by-shall I pull it all down, I say,
only because there may be a dark closet, or an
awkward passage, or an inconvenient room or
two in it? Our ancestors took time for what
they did. They understood foundation work;
no running up your little slight lath and plaster
buildings, which are up in a day, and down in a
night. My lady mumpt and grumbled; but the
castle was let stand, and a glorious building it
is; though there may be a trifling fault or two,
and though a few decays want stopping; so now
and then they mend a little thing, and they'll
go on mending, I dare say, as they have leisure,
to the end of the chapter, if they are let alone.
But no pull-me-down works.
What is it you
are crying out for, Tom?
Tom. Why for a perfect government.
Jack. You might as well cry for the moon.
There's nothing perfect in this world, take my
word for it though sir John says, we come
nearer to it than any country in the world ever
did.
Tom.. I don't see why we are to work like
slaves, while others roll about in their coaches,
feed on the fat of the land, and do nothing.
Jack. Do be quiet. Now, Tom, only suppose
this nonsensical equality was to take place;
why it would not last while one could Jack
say
Robinson; or suppose it could-suppose in the
general division, our new rulers were to give us
half an acre of ground a-piece; we could to be
Jack. My little maid brought home a story-
sure raise potatoes on it for the use of our fami- book from the charity school t'other day, in
lies; but as every other man would be equally which was a bit of a fable about the belly and
busy in raising potatoes for his family, why then the limbs. The hands said, I won't work any
you see if thou wast to break thy spade, I, longer to feed this lazy belly, who sits in state
whose trade it is, should no longer be able to like a lord and does nothing. Said the feet I
mend it. Neighbour Snip would have no time won't walk and tire myself to carry him about;
to make us a suit of clothes, nor the clothier to let him shift for himself; so said all the mem-
weave the cloth; for all the world would be gone bers; just as your levellers and republicans do
a digging. And as to boots and shoes, the want now. And what was the consequence? Why
of some one to make them for us, would be a
the belly was pinched to be sure, and grew thin
still greater grievance than the tax on leather. upon it; but the hands and the feet, and the rest
If we should be sick, there would be no doctor's of the members, suffered so much for want of their
stuff for us; for doctors would be digging too.
And if necessity did not compel, and if inequa-
lity subsisted, we could not get a chimney swept,
or a load of coal from pit, for love or money.
* Lord Ferrers was hang'd in 1760, for killing his
steward.
old nourishment, which the belly had been all
the time administering, while they accused him
of sitting in idle state, that they all fell sick,
pined away, and would have died, if they had
not come to their senses just in time to save
their lives, as I hope all you will do.
Tom. But the times-but the taxes, Jack.
60
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
!
Jack. Things are dear to be sure, but riot and
murder is not the way to make them cheap.
And taxes are high; but I'm told there's a
deal of old scores paying off, and paying off,
by them who did not contract the debt nei-
ther, Tom. Besides things are mending, I
hope; and what little is done is for us poor
people; our candles are somewhat cheaper, and
I dare say, if the honest gentleman who has the
management of things, is not disturbed by you
levellers, things will mend every day. But bear
one thing in mind: the more we riot, the more
we shall have to pay the more mischief is done,
the more will the repairs cost: the more time
we waste in meeting to redress public wrongs, |
the more we shall increase our private wants.
And mind too, that 'tis working, and not mur-
muring, which puts bread in our children's
mouths, and a new coat on our backs. Mind
another thing too, we have not the same ground
of complaint; in France the poor paid all the
taxes, as I have heard 'em say, and the quality |
paid nothing.
Tom. Well, I know what's what, as well as
another; and I'm as fit to govern-
Jack. No, Tom, no. You are indeed as good
as another man, seeing you have hands to work,
and a soul to be saved. But are all men fit for
all kind of things? Solomon says; How can
he be wise whose talk is of oxen? Every one
in his way. I am a better judge of a horse-shoe
than Sir John; but he has a deal better notion
of state affairs than I; and I can no more do
without his employ than he can do without my
farriery. Besides, few are so poor but they may
get a vote for a parliament-man; and so you
see the poor have as much share in the govern-
ment as they well know how to manage.
Tom. But I say all men are equal. Why
should one be above another?
Jack. If that's thy talk, Tom, thou dost quar-
rel with Providence, and not with government.
For the woman is below her husband, and the
children are below their mother, and the servant
is below his master.
Tom. But the subject is not below the king:
all kings are 'crown'd ruffians:' and all govern-
ments are wicked. For my part, I'm resolv'd
I'll pay no more taxes to any of them.
Jack. Tom, Tom, if thou didst go oft'ner to
church, thou wouldst know where it is said,
'Render unto Cæsar the things that are Cæsar's;'
and also, Fear God, honour the king.' Your
book tells you that we need obey no government
but that of the people; and that we may fashion
and alter the government according to our
whimsies but mine tells me,
:
Let every one
be subject to the higher powers, for all power is
of God, the powers that be are ordained of God;
whosoever therefore resisteth the power, resist-
eth the ordinance of God.' Thou say'st, thou
wilt pay no taxes to any of them.-Dost thou
know who it was that worked a miracle, that
he might have money to pay tribute with, rather
than set you and me an example of disobedience to
government? an example, let me tell thee, worth
an hundred precepts, and of which all the wit of
man can never lessen the value. Then there's
another thing worth minding, when St. Paul
was giving all those directions, in the epistle to
|
the Romans, for obedience and submission; what
sort of a king now dost think they had? Dost
think 'twas a saint which he ordered them to
obey?
Tom. Why it was a kind, merciful, charita-
ble king to be sure; one who put nobody to
death or to prison.
Jack. You was never more out in your life.
Our parson says he was a monster-that he
robbed the rich, and murdered the poor-set fire
to his own town, as fine a place as London-
fiddled to the flames, and then hanged and burnt
the Christians, who were all poor, as if they had
burnt the town. Yet there's not a word about
rising.-Duties are fixed, Tom.-Laws are set-
tled; a Christian can't pick and choose, whether
he will obey or let it alone. But we have no
such trials.--We have a king the very reverse.
Tom. I say we shall never be happy, till we
do as the French have done.
Jack. The French and we contending for
liberty, Tom, is just as if thou and I were to
pretend to run a race; thou to set out from the
starting-post when I am in already; thou to
have all the ground to travel when I have reach-
ed the end. Why we 've got it man! we've no
race to run! we 're there already! Our consti-
tution is no more like what the French one was,
than a mug of our Taunton beer is like a platter
of their soup-maigre.
Tom. I know we shall be undone, if we don't
get a new constitution-that's all.
Jack. And I know we shall be undone if we
do. I don't know much about politics, but I
can see by a little, what a great deal means.
Now only to show thee the state of public credit,
as I think Tim Standish calls it. There's farmer
Furrow, a few years ago he had an odd fifty
pounds by him; so to keep it out of harm's way,
he put it out to use, on government security, I
think he calls it; well, t'other day he married
one of his daughters, so he thought he'd give
her that fifty pounds for a bit of a portion. Tom,
as I'm a living man, when he went to take it
out, if his fifty pounds was not almost grown to
an hundred! and would have been a full hun-
dred, they say, by this time, if the gentlemen
had been let alone.*
Tom. Well, still as the old saying is—I should
like to do as they do in France.
Jack. What, shouldest like to be murdered
with as little ceremony as Hackabout, the
butcher, knocks down a calf? or shouldest like
to get rid of thy wife for every little bit of tiff?
And as for liberty of conscience, which they
brag so much about, why they have driven away
their parsons (ay, and murdered many of 'em)
because they would not swear as they would
have them. And then they talk of liberty of
the press; why, Tom, only t'other day they
hang'd a man for printing a book against this
pretty government of theirs.
Tom. But you said yourself it was sad times
in France, before they pull'd down the old go-
vernment.
Jack. Well, and suppose the French were as
much in the right as I know them to be in the
wrong; what does that argue for us?-Because
* This was written before the war, when the funds
were at the highest.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
61
my neighbour Furrow, t'other day pulled down a |
crazy old barn, is that a reason why I must set
fire to my tight cottage?
Tom. I don't see for all that why one man is
to ride in his coach and six, while another
mends the highway for him.
Jack. I don't see why the man in the coach
is to drive over the man on foot, or hurt a hair
of his head, any more than you. And as to our
great folks, that you levellers have such a spite
against, I don't pretend to say they are a bit
better than they should be; but that's no affair
of mine; let them look to that they 'll answer
for that in another place. To be sure, I wish
they'd set us a better example about going to
church, and those things; but still hoarding's
not the sin of the age; they don't lock up their
money—away it goes, and every body's the bet-
ter for it. They do spend too much, to be sure,
in feastings and fandangoes; and so far from
commending them for it, if I was a parson I'd
go to work with 'em, but it should be in another
kind of way; but as I am only a poor tradesman,
why 'tis but bringing more grist to my mill. It
all comes among the people. Their very extra-
vagance, for which, as I said before, their par-
sons should be at them, is a fault by which, as
poor men, we are benefitted; so you cry out just
in the wrong place. Their coaches and their
furniture, and their buildings, and their plant-
ing, employ a power of tradesmen and labourers.
Now in this village, what should we do without
the castle? Though my lady is too rantipolish,
and flies about all summer to hot water and cold
water, and fresh water and salt water, when she
ought to stay at home with sir John: yet when
she does come down, she brings such a deal of
gentry that I have more horses than I can shoe,
and my wife more linen than she can wash.
Then all our grown children are servants in the
family, and rare wages they have got. Our little
boys get something every day by weeding their
gardens, and the girls learn to sew and knit at
Sir John's expense, who sends them all to school
of a Sunday besides.
Tom. Ay, but there's not Sir Johns in every
village.
Jack. The more 's the pity. But there's other
help. 'Twas but last year you broke your leg,
and was nine weeks in the Bristol Infirmary,
where you was taken as much care of as a lord,
and your family was maintained all the while
by the parish. No poor-rates in France, Tom;
and here there's a matter of two million and a
half paid for the poor every year, if 'twas but a
little better managed.
Tom. Two million and a half!
Jack. Ay, indeed, Not translated into ten-
pences, as your French millions are, but twenty
good shillings to the pound. But when this
levelling comes about, there will be no infirma-
ries, no hospitals, no charity-schools, no Sunday-
schools, where so many hundred thousand poor
souls learn to read the word of God for nothing.
-For who is to pay for them? Equality can't
afford it; and those that may be willing won't
be able.
Tom. But we shall be one as good as another
for all that.
Jack. Ay, and bad will be the best. But we
|
must work as we do
must work as we do now, and with this differ
ence, that no one will be able to pay us. Tom!
I have got the use of my limbs, of my liberty,
of the laws, and of my Bible. The two first I
take to be my natural rights; the two last my
civil and religious rights: these, I take it, are
the true Rights of Man, and all the rest is no
thing but nonsense, and madness, and wicked
ness. My cottage is my castle; I sit down in
it at night in peace and thankfulness, and 'no
man maketh me afraid.' Instead of indulging
discontent, because another is richer than I in
this world (for envy is at the bottom of your
equality works) I read my Bible, go to church,
and look forward to a treasure in Heaven.
Tom. Ay, but the French have got it in this
world.
Jack. 'Tis all a lie, Tom. Sir John's butler
says his master gets letters which say 'tis all a
lie. 'Tis all murder, and nakedness, and hun-
ger, many of the poor soldiers fight without
victuals, and march without clothes. These are
your democrats! Tom.
Tom. What then, dost think all the men on
our side wicked?
Jack. No-not so neither-If some of the
leaders are knaves, more of the followers are
fools. Sir John, who is wiser than I, says the
whole system is the operation of fraud upon
folly. They've made fools of most of you, as I
believe. I judge no man Tom; I hate no man.
Even republicans and levellers, I hope, will al-
ways enjoy the protection of our laws; though
I hope they will never be our law makers. There
are many true dissenters, and there are some
hollow churchmen; and a good man is a good
man, whether his church has got a steeple to it
or not.-The new fashion'd way of proving one's
religion is to hate somebody. Now, though
some folk pretend that a man's hating a papist,
or a presbyterian, proves him to be a good
churchman, it don't prove him to be a good
Christian, Tom. As much as I hate republican
works, I'd scorn to live in a country where
there was not liberty of conscience; and where
every man might not worship God in his own
way. Now that liberty they had not in France:
the Bible was shut up in an unknown and hea-
thenish tongue.—While here, thou and I can
make as free use of ours as a bishop: can no
more be sent to prison unjustly than the judge
who tries us; and are as much taken care of by
the laws as the parliament-man who makes
them.-Then, as to your thinking that the new
scheme will make you happy, look among your
own set and see if any thing can be so dismal
and discontented as a leveller.-Look at France.
These poor French fellows used to be the mer-
riest dogs in the world; but since equality
came in, I don't believe a Frenchman has ever
laughed.
Tom. What then dost thou take French liberty
to be?
Jack. To murder more men in one night,
than ever their poor king did in his whole life.
Tom. And what dost thou take a democrat to
be?
Jack. One who lives to be governed by a thou-
sand tyrants, and yet can't bear a king.
Tom. What is equality?
62
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Jack. For every man to pull down every one
that is above him: while, instead of raising
those below him, to his own level, he only makes
use of them as steps to raise himself to the place
of those he has tumbled down.
Tom. What is the new Rights of Man?
Jack. Battle, murder, and sudden death.
Tom. What is it to be an enlightened people?
Jack. To put out the light of the Gospel, con-
found right and wrong, and grope about in pitch
darkness.
Tom. What is philosophy, that Tim Standish
talks so much about?
Jack. To believe that there's neither God, nor
devil, nor heaven, nor hell: to dig up a wicked
old fellow's* rotten bones, whose books, Sir John
says, have been the ruin of thousands; and
to set his figure up in a church and worship
him.
Tom. And what is a patriot according to the
new school?
Jack. A man who loves every other country
better then his own, and France best of all.
Tom. And what is Benevolence?
Jack. Why, in the new fangled language, it
means contempt of religion, aversion to justice,
overturning of law, doating on all mankind in
general, and hating every body in particular.
Tom. And what mean the other hard words
that Tim talks about-organization and func-
tion, and civism, and incivism, and equalization,
and inviolability, and imperscriptible, and frater-
nization?
Jack. Nonsense, gibberish, downright hocus-
pocus. I know 'tis not English; sir John says
'tis not Latin; and his valet de sham says 'tis
not French neither.
Tom. And yet Tim says he never shall be
happy till all these fine things are brought over
to England.
Tom. I begin to think we're better off as we
are.
Jack. I'm sure on't. This is only a scheme
to make us go back in every thing. 'Tis mak-
ing ourselves poor when we are getting rich,
and discontented when we are comfortable.
Tom. I begin to think I'm not so very un-
happy as I had got to fancy.
Jack. Tom, I don't care for drink myself,
but thou dost, and I'll argue with thee, not in
the way of principle, but in thy own way; when
there's all equality there will be no superfluity;
when there's no wages there'll be no drink :
and levelling will rob thee of thy ale more than
the malt tax does,
Tom. But Standish says, if we had a good
government, there'd be no want of any thing.
the
Jack. He is like many others, who take the
king's money and betray him: let him give up
profits of his place before he kicks at the hand
that feeds him.-Though I'm no scholar, I know
that a good government is a good thing. But
don't go to make me believe that any govern-
ment can make a bad man good, or a discon-
tented man happy.-What art musing upon,
man?
Tom. Let me sum up the evidence, as they
say at 'sizes-Hem! To cut every man's throat
who does not think as I do, or hang him up at
a lamp-post!-Pretend liberty of conscience, and
then banish the parsons only for being conscien-
tious!-Cry out liberty of the press, and hang
up
the first man who writes his mind!—Lose
our poor laws!-Lose one's wife perhaps upon
every little tiff!-March without clothes, and
fight without victuals!—No trade !—No Bible!
No Sabbath nor day of rest!-No safety, no
comfort, no peace in this world-and no world
to come!-Jack, I never knew thee tell a lie in
life.
my
Jack. Nor would I now, not even against the
French.
Tom. And thou art very sure we are not
ruined?
Jack. I'll tell thee how we are ruined. We
Jack. What! in this christian country, Tom?
Why dost know they have no Sabbath in
France? Their mob parliament meets on a
Sunday to do their wicked work, as naturally
as we do to go to church. They have re-
nounced God's word and God's day, and they have a king, so loving, that he would not hurt
don't even date in the year of our Lord. Why the people if he could: and so kept in, that he
dost turn pale, man? And the rogues are
are could not hurt the people if he would. We have
always making such a noise, Tom, in the midst as much liberty as can make us happy, and
of their parliament-house, that their speaker more trade and riches than allows us to be good.
rings a bell, like our penny-post man, because We have the best laws in the world, if they
he can't keep them in order.
were more strictly enforced; and the best reli-
gion in the world if it was but better followed.
While old England is safe, I'll glory in her, and
pray for her, and when she is in danger. I'll fight
for her, and die for her.
Tom. And dost thou believe they are as cruel
as some folks pretend?
Jack. I am sure they are, and I think I know
We christians set a high value on
the reason.
life, because we know that every fellow-creature
has an immortal soul: a soul to be saved or lost,
Tom-Whoever believes that, is a little cautious
how he sends a soul unprepared to his grand ac-
count. But he who believes a man is no better
than a dog, who make no more scruple of kill.
ing one than the other.
Tom. And dost thou think our Rights of Man
will lead to all this wickedness?
Jack. As sure as eggs are eggs.
* Voltaire.
† Since this they have crammed ten days into the
week, in order to throw Sunday out of it.
Tom. And so will I too, Jack, that's what I
will, (Sings)
O the roast beef of old Englond!'
Jack. Thou art an honest fellow, Tom.
Tom. This is Rose and Crown night, and Tim
Standish is now at his mischief; but we'll go
and put an end to that fellow's work, or he'll
corrupt the whole club.
Jack. Come along.
Tom. No; first I'll stay to burn my book, and
then I'll go and make a bonfire and-
Jack. Hold, Tom. There is but one thing
worse than a bitter enemy--and that is an im-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
63
prudent friend. If thou would'st show thy love | 'Study to be quiet, work with your own hands,
to thy king and country, let's have no drinking, and mind your own business.'
no riot, no bonfires: put in practice this text,
which our parson preach'd on last Sunday,
Tom. And so I will, Jack-Come on.
BIBLE RHYMES,
ON THE NAMES OF ALL THE BOOKS OF THE
OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT:
WITH ALLUSION TO SOME OF THE PRINCIPAL INCIDENTS AND CHARACTERS.
As a homely digger may show a man a rich mine, so whatever the Book may be which is pre-
sented to you, that which I recommend to you is a matchless one.
Hon. Robert Boyles's Preface to the Style of the Holy Scriptures.
THESE RHYMES
ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS, BY ONE, WHO HAVING LONG BEEN
ANXIOUS FOR THEIR HIGHEST INTERESTS, CANNOT CONSULT THEM BETTER, THAN BY
EARNESTLY RECOMMENDING TO THEIR SERIOUS AND DAILY PERUSAL,
THAT SACRED VOLUME, EMPHATICALLY CALLED
THE BOOK.
PREFACE.
THIS little piece requires some apology. It was written without the remotest intention of its
ever being published. Some friends, for whose opinion the author entertains great deference,
suggested that, at a time when such insidious attempts are making, by industry of impiety, to
corrupt the principles, and to alienate the mind altogether from the study and belief of the Holy
Scriptures, this slight publication might not be wholly useless or unseasonable.
Had health and other circumstances been favourable, many important characters, many strik.
ing facts, many engaging histories, might have been additionally introduced, and thus this slight
work had been rendered less imperfect. But the writer having in an early attempt to treat on
sacred subjects,* introduced many of the most interesting characters and incidents of the Old
Testament, they are here frequently omitted or more slightly touched on.
With a hope to excite an increasing interest in the Bible, by inducing the readers to search
it for themselves, the writer has generally forborne to make any particular reference to the speci-
fic chapter or verse to which the different passages allude. To increase their admiration of the
Word of God by such research, is her fervent desire; and this more especially at a period when,
by so many recent attacks, its truth is impugned, its authority denied, its doctrines vilified, and
the characters it exhibits viewed with abhorrence, or treated with ridicule.
The familiar measure here adopted is very unfavourable to the subject. The author never re-
members to have seen a serious poem written in it, except hymns; and even hymns, besides be-
ing short, are generally in the quatrain stanza; which, by making the rhyme alternate, gives
greater room for elevation in the diction, and expansion of the thought, both of which the mea.
sure here used is calculated to cramp and contract.
This trifle, which was intended for little more than a Catalogue Raisonne of the names of the
books of the Bible, admits of little poetical embellishment, even were the Author better qualified
to bestow it. Indeed, the dignity of the Sacred Volume is so commanding, its superiority to all
other compositions so decided, that it never gains any thing by human infusions; paraphrase di.
lutes it, amplification weakens, imitation debases, parody profanes.
Much more latitude is given in the Old than in the New Testament. The latter consists chiefly
of fact and doctrine. It has less imagery; it exhibits a more explicit rule of faith; a more spi-
ritualized code of morals; it is more specifically didactic. On this holy ground, therefore, we
must tread with peculiar caution; because here every article of faith is definite; every rule of
practice is established; the scheme of salvation is completed: so that all who enlarge on it must
carefully avoid the awful sentence denounced on those who add to, or take from, what is written
Barley Wood, April 2, 1821.
* See Sacred Dramas, and Reflections of King Hezekiah.
64
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
THE OLD TESTAMENT.
INTRODUCTION.
HERE the first history of mankind
From its first origin we find;
God is its author, truth its name,
Salvation all its end and aim:
Here we are shown "the good old way,"
First to believe, and then obey.
God's Spirit dictates; men proclaim
The doctrines as from him they came.
And not by miracles alone,
By prophecy the truth is shown.
Tho' 'tis no scheme for dry dispute,
No scene to wrangle and confute;
Not an arena for debate,
A field for harsh polemic hate;
Yet strict enquiry may be mov'd,
The more 'tis search'd the more 'tis prov'd,
It is a boon by mercy given,
That man may gain some taste of heaven;
Best medicine for the sin-sick soul,
For guilty passions best controul;
To all, its precepts are applied,
The rich man's guard, the poor man's guide;
To fill with gratitude the hearts
Where God his larger gifts imparts;
To cheer with higher hopes the poor,
To teach the suff'rer to endure;
The meek to raise, repress the bold,
To warn the young, to wean the old ;
The arms its lends are faith and prayer,
Its fruits, oblivion sweet of care.
Here are the only precepts given
For peace on earth, or rest in heaven.
Sole lesson since the world began,
For fear of God and love to man:
It came with blessings in its train,
Which to recount, the attempt were vain.
It came to hinder fell despair,
The ravages of sin repair;
It came to cheer the contrite heart,
Redemption's wonders to impart;
That he who sins should sin no more;
It came-a lost world to restore.
PART THE FIRST.
THE HISTORICAL BOOKS, PSALMS, PROVERBS, AND
ECCLESIASTES.
THE PENTATEUCH.
THE first five books for author claim
Moses, and Pentateuch their name.
In GENESIS, which first we call,
Is man's creation, and his fall.
But soon to Adam came the word
That rebel man should be restor❜d.
Yet, tho' the gracious promise came,
The first-born bore a murderer's name.
See the whole world by flood expire;
The cities of the plain by fire!
You ask, perhaps, "Who slew all these ?"
'Twas sin, the original disease!
From Adam the infection ran;
In downward course from man to man.
Tho' all who draw the vital breath
Must pay the penalty of death,
Yet one* immortal pair we see:
Pledge of our immortality!
Enoch, in a corrupted time,
Bequeath'd to us this truth sublime;
God's service is not merely talk,
The man of God with God must walk.
From general laws, immunity
He found, for Enoch did not die,
"God took him!" O emphatic word!
No more was needful to record.
The world grew worse as old it grew,
Sin gathering strength, grew bolder too,
Long-suffering patience now was past,
The appalling sentence comes at last;
My Spirit shall not always strive,
No further respite will I give."
God bids a refuge straight prepare
For those his goodness meant to spare.
Bless'd Noah, and his favoured race,
Alone obtain the special grace.
A picture of our world remark,
In those who labour'd in the ark ;
A stronger instance need we find
Of the hard heart of base mankind
Howe'er assiduously they wrought,
No builder his own safety sought;
A century was the task pursu❜d,
Not one his own destruction view'd:
Oh, blind, God's menaced blow to slight!
What! perish with the ark in sight?
See God his awful threat'ning keep,
Break up the fountains of the deep;
Remove the limits long assign'd
Th' encroaching waters fast to bind!
Heaven's windows open; lo, the sky
Pours down its deluge from on high!
The floods that rise, the floods that fall,
Meet at one point and cover all :
All cry, none aid; with anguish wild
The frantic mother grasps her child.
The weak their safety seek below,
The rapid waves above them flow;
The strong attempt the mountain's steep,
The mountains are become the deep.
Half dead with famine, half with fear,
Now few, and fewer now, appear!
All strive, all sink-sink beasts and men;
Perish'd each living substance then.
Existence is extinct!-The world
Itself to dire destruction hurl'd.
Good Noah's house alone remain'd;
The waves his floating ark sustain’d.
There is an ark that's open still,
Where all may shelter if they will.
Awful, indeed, if Christians too
Should perish with their ark in view!
But if the moral plague abound,
Yet still some righteous men were found;
Righteous, not perfect, you may see
Throughout mankind's long history
As stars in darkness seem more bright,
So these illume the moral night.
See Abraham full of faith and grace,
Sire of the patriarchal race:
To Isaac turn your wond'ring eyes,
Prefiguring the great Sacrifice!
What Abraham felt, fond parents, say,
Himself his only son must slay!
Though much he mourn'd, for much he lov'd,
* Elijah and Enoch.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
65
His faith, his prompt obedience prov'd;
What dauntless faith those words implied,
"God will himself a lamb provide !"
Joseph, the virtuous, next behold,
Like Christ by his own brethren sold:
The pit, the prison, all unite,
To make his character more bright:
Whence came that strength which could sustain
him,
From tempting pleasure's snares restrain him?
Could made the prison, pit, and court,
To him alike a safe resort?
What made him thus unyielding stand?
His God was still at his right hand!
Religion was to him a law;
He knew the Omnipresent saw :
No secrecy his soul can win,
No fancied safety tempt to sin:
Omniscience sees the skulking shame,
Darkness and light to God the same !
Now EXODUS records the story
Of Pharaoh's fall and Moses' glory.
By learning form'd, and form'd by nature,
For general, guide, and legislator;
At great Jehovah's high command,
By faith he left th' oppressor's land;
Escap'd the snares by Pharaoh spread,
The numerous phalanx forth he led.
Mark on the margin how they stand;
Behold they cross the sea by land!
God's mighty power is seen once more,
Oh, miracle! they reach the shore!
Egypt pursues, the ocean braves,
They rush between the parted waves!
Back to their course the waves retreat,
Again the refluent waters meet!
If Egypt's shrieks are mix'd with prayer,
They pray to gods who cannot hear!
See Egypt sink, ingulf'd their host,
The rider and his horse are lost!
Israel, unworthy of the boon,
Forgets the wond'rous rescue soon:
Sav'd, not converted ;-discontent
Defeats the mighty blessing sent.
By miracle they still were fed,
From heaven receiv'd their daily bread;
Yet murmur'd at the bounteous hand
Which fed them in that desert land:
Yet we, these pilgrims while we blame,
And cast reproach on Israel's name;
To murmur, too, we sometimes dare,
Though we have bread to eat and spare!
Moses! thy parting song sublime,
Shall outlive worlds and bury time.
No hallow'd bard, whate'er his worth,
E'er pour'd more warm effusions forth!
O'er Israel's sin how does he sigh,
His God, his Rock, how glorify!
• Attend the awful truth I sing,
Is no indifferent, no vain thing;
It is your life, your hope, your all;
God is the Lord; obey his call:
In vain for molten Gods you strive,
'Tis I that kill, that make alive!
Fountain of Jacob, just and true!
Thou wat'rest earth with heavenly dew!
From Thee descend the corn and wine,
All health, all gifts, all grace is thine!'
Then pouring the rich blessing round,
VOL. I.
E
He shows them where true rest is found.
'Oh, people sav'd, adore the Lord,
Shield of thy help, celestial sword!
Approach, abide, secure from harms,
Safe in the everlasting arms!
Beneath that panoply divine,
Oh! save us, Lord, for we are thine!'
LEVITICUS the law proclaims,
The Gospel truth this book must own,
And brands two* sacrilegious names.
Anticipating Christ unknown.
Such types thro' the Old Scriptures run,
And, like the shadow, prove the sun.
NUMBERS the Hebrews' names declare,
In due arrangement, just and fair :
The nomenclature so exact,
Not deists can disprove the fact.
While DEUTERONOMY repeats
That law of which the other treats;
Enlarges on th' important theme;
With Moses' death completes the scheme.
See JOSHUA, type of Jesus, stand,
Fighting for Canaan's promis'd land!
While JUDGES learn'd their wisdom bring,
Before the Jews demand a king.
God's tender care of pious youth
Is sweetly seen in past'ral RUTH :
Here filial piety is found,
And with its promis'd blessing crown'd.
Good SAMUEL, as the Lord appoints,
The king so loudly ask'd, anoints;
With sorrow deep th' historian brings
Succession sad of Israel's KINGS;
And CHRONICLES prolongs the story,
So little to the royal glory:
Though some were faithful, just, and true,
We grieve to say they were but few
No prophet on the rolls of fame
Eclipses great ELIJAH's name:
Impell'd by faith, disdaining fear,
To kings and priests alike sincere !
The altar once on Carmel built
To God, proclaims th' apostate's guilt.
'Twas there th' illustrious Tishbite, born
On Baal to pour indignant scorn,
With keenest irony maintains
His power divine, in heaven who reigns
Contemns, as round the trench he trod,
Their talking, sleeping, journeying god!
To heaven behold him still aspire,
Then reach it in a car of fire!
EZRA deserves immortal praise,
Who sought the temple's walls to raise.
How shall I NEHEMIAH paint,
At once the courtier and the saint?
In ESTHER, Providence displays,
To us inscrutable, his ways;
Here the fair queen with modest grace
Obtains protection for her race:
The oppress'd from hence a lesson draws
Of courage in a righteous cause;
And here, the snares for virtue spread,
Return to plague the inventor's head.
* Nadab and Abihu.
66
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
JOB, on his dunghill, far more great
Than when he dwelt in regal state!
He heard, before, Jehovah's grace,
But now he sees him face to face.
Meekly he bow'd before his God,
He felt the smart, but kiss'd the rod.
"In me, great God, complete thy will!
Slay me, and I will trust Thee still."
Is it a seraph strikes the strings?
Or is it royal DAVID Sings?
Thy PSALMS divinely bring to view
Jesus, thy root and offspring too.
Mark, how the author's hallowed lays
Begin with prayer, and end with praise!
Commerce how sure! which, while it gives
Due payment, rich returns receives;
As tides, which from the shore recede,
Return to fill the native bed,
So praise which we to God impart,
Comes back in blessings to the heart.
Gainful return, to man when given
Such interchange 'twixt earth and heaven!
As long as inborn sin is felt,
Or penitence in tears shall melt;
As long as Satan shall molest,
Or anguish rend the human breast;
As long as prayer its voice shall raise,
Or gratitude ascend in praise,
So long God's poet shall impart
A balm to every broken heart;
So long the fainting spirit cheer,
And save the contrite from despair.
To Sion's bard it shall be given
To join the immortal choir in heaven;
And when with their's his accents float,
He shall not need to change his note.
Tho' due this tributary praise,
One sin embittered all his days.
The prudent prophet chose the veil
Of fiction for the bloody tale;
The tale enrag'd the blinded king;
"The man shall die who did this thing!"
THOU art the man!—the appalling word
Cuts deeper than a two-edged sword;
All self-deceit is put to flight,
Scar'd conscience re-assumes its right.
Awak'd, the king, in wild surprise,
Prostrate in dust and ashes lies.
The monarch rous'd himself abhorr'd,
And own'd his guilt before the Lord:
Now agoniz'd in prayer he speaks,
The multitude of mercies seeks.
His prayer, his penitence, obtain
A respite from the threaten'd pain.
Tho' God decreed he should not die,
Nor perish everlastingly,
Yet justice sought not to prevent,
Tho' he delay'd the punishment.
The dire effect of sin we see
In his degenerate family.
To him no future peace was known,
One son rebell'd against his throne ;
Ungrateful friends, domestic jars,
Intestine tumults, foreign wars :
Contending brothers fiercely strive,
Dark enmity is kept alive;
Now murmurs loud, now famine great,
Now fierce convulsions shake the state;
Divided empire soon we see
Distract his near posterity.
Thus, tho' his pardon mercy seals,
Sin's temporal results he feels.
God with offence will have no part,
E'en in the man of his own heart.
All sadly serves to prove our fall
From purity original.
Taught by the wisdom from above,
See Proverbs full of truth and love.
To thee, O SOLOMON! belong
The graces of the mystic SONG.
ECCLESIASTES, or the Preacher,
Displays the powerful moral teacher.
How could'st thou, sapient king, combine
Thy faulty life, and verse divine?
Why were thy PROVERBS still at strife
With thy dishonoured close of life?
Thou rear'st the Temple-oh, the sin
To quit the God who dwelt within!
Of all, O king, thy books have taught,
With holy wisdom richly fraught;
Still more thy large experience brings
The emptiness of human things.
In all thy keen and wide pursuit
Of love, power, pleasure, what the fruit?
Satiety in all we see,
In each enjoyment vanity!
Youth might be spar'd a world of woe,
The truth without the trial know,
Would they with abler hands advise,
And trust king Solomon the wise,
That the vex'd heart and sated mind,
In God alone repose can find.
PART THE SECOND.
THE PROPHETS.
THEE, great ISAIAH, dare I paint,
Prophet, evangelist, and saint?
So just thy strong prospective view,
'Tis prophecy and history too.
Rapt in futurity, he saw,
The Gospel supersede the law.
Prophet! in thy immortal lines,
The fulness of perfection shines;
There, present things the Spirit seals,
There, things that shall be he reveals,
Doctrine and warning, prayer and praise
Alike our admiration raise.
Amaz'd, we see the hand divine
Each thought direct, inspire each line.
Still has the seraph's burning coal
Left its deep impress on the soul;
Still shall the sacred fire survive,
Warm all who read, touch all who live!
'Twere hopeless to attempt the song,
So vast, so deep, so sweet, so strong!
Fain would I tell how Sharon's rose,
In solitary deserts blows;
Fain would I speak of Carmel's hill,
Whose trees the barren waste shall fill;
Of Lebanon's transplanted shade,
To sandy valleys how convey'd ;
The noble metaphors we find
To loftiest objects there assign'd.
These splendid scenes before us bring
Th' invisible redeeming King.
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67
In every image, every line,
Messiah! we behold Thee shine.
But who shall dare these charms to tell,
One British bard has sung so well?
His Christian page shall never die,
O si sic omnia! all reply.
Blest Prophet! who a theme could'st find
Congenial to restore thy mind!
Here we behold together brought
Splendour of diction and of thought;
In these bold images we see
Grandeur without hyperbole.
Here all God's attributes unite;
The gracious and the infinite;
Beyond imagination's dream,
Thy true, august, and holy theme.
All that the loftiest mind conceives,
All that the strongest faith believes,
All were too feeble to express
God's love, his pow'r, his holiness!
His length, and breadth, and depth, and height,
In all their wide extremes unite;
No danger of excess is here;
To sink too low is all thy fear.
To His broad eye, all nations see
Are less than nought, are vanity.
To him all Lebanon could bring
Only a worthless offering;
The waters at his bidding, stand
Within the hollow of his hand;
The mountains in his scales are weigh'd.
The hills are in his balance laid;
Measur'd by his almighty hand,
The globe's a particle of sand!
Though with tremendous arm he come,
With power which strikes the nations dumb;
Centre and source of light and love,
In whom we are, and live, and move;
Though not confin'd to time or place,
Not to the vast extent of space;
Objects of his paternal care,
The meanest still his mercies share;
He who in highest heaven resides,
Yet in the contrite heart abides.
Now, shepherd-like, his flock he feeds,
The tender bears, the feeble leads;
Power to the weak, but trusting saints
He gives, and might to him that faints.
The young may fail, the strong be weak,
But all who his salvation seek,
Strong in the Lord, shall be renew'd;
With new-born vigour be endu'd;
On eagles' wings sublimely soar,
To fear, and faint, and sin no more.t
Hear JEREMIAH's plaintive song
Pour its full tide of grief along!
By predisposing grace ordain'd,
The prophet's functions he sustain❜d;
By his predicting voice reveal'd,
Thy doom, O Babylon, is seal'd!
On Judah 'twas his fate to see
Accomplish'd his own prophecy.
In what pathetic strains he show'd
Their miseries from their vices flow'd!
The form of goodness they defend,
But hate its power and miss its end,
For lying vanities abhorr'd,
* See Pope's exquisite poem of "the Messiah."
Isaiah chap. xl.
&
They plead the Temple of the Lord;'
The Temple of the Lord are these!'
Their varnish'd falsehoods more displease;
As if the edifice alone
Their practis'd evils could atone.
The Temple is beyond dispute:
A means, but not a substitute:
A fair profession may be found,
With lives unholy, hearts unsound.
No reigning vice he left untold,
Expostulation sad, yet bold,
Lays bare the sins they sought to hide,
Vain boasting, arrogance, and pride:
Reproves alike both age and youth;
Neither is valiant for the truth.
Wisdom, or wealth, or power, or might,
Alone, as rightly us'd, is right.
All glorying is by Heaven abhorr'd,
Save that which glories in the Lord.
Sublimely sad his woes impart
Their LAMENTATIONS to the heart.
Pity and woe his bosom share,
Anger and fondness, grief and prayer.
Fountains of tears could scarce express
His sorrows' and his love's excess.
EZEKIEL comes in awful state,
His vision mystically great!
The Prophet, see, his watch-tower keep,
The shepherd blame, console the sheep.
When Babylon's imperial lord
Crush'd Judah by his conqu'ring sword;
DANIEL, erect, of noble mind,
With three believing brothers join'd,
Captives among the Jews were brought,
And in the royal palace taught;
Chaldea's learning they acquir'd,
The king the ingenious youths admir'd ;
At dainty tables gave them meat,
Himself ordain'd the plenteous treat.
The tempting cates he bade provide,
The daily bounties he supplied;
The wines, the royal vintage find,
Seduce not Daniel's guarded mind,
Tempt not the self-denying three
All shun the snares of luxury.
• No food, but pulse, before us bring,
No drink but the translucent spring.
The king an image vast display'd,
Enormous was the statue made;
With impious zeal his laws ordain,
All should repair to Dura's plain.
Princes and counsellors appear
Rulers of provinces be there!
At sound of sackbut, psalt'ry, flute,
All must attend: who dares dispute
The high behest, who will not own
The idol's godhead, shall be thrown
Deep in the fiery cauldron's blaze,
And burn in that capacious vase.
See Dura's plain how crowded now!
All make the prostituted vow;
All praise, all honour, all adore;
The zealous king can ask no more.
What, all? Is no exception found,
In idol worship all abound?
The holy brotherhood behold
In God's almighty strength how bold.
68
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Nor flute nor sackbut's sound controuls
The firm, fix'd purpose of their souls.
Their eyes, their hearts are rais'd n high,
The burning cauldron they defy,
Now hear the valiant brothers speak,
See them magnanimously meek.
No arts to soothe the haughty king,
No charge against his idol bring,
No doubts, no fears, no hesitation;
They wait no slow deliberation.
Prepar'd they stand. They scorn to swerve
'Thy gods, O king, we will not serve;
We serve Jehovah; his command
Can save his servants from thy hand,
E'en from the flames his children save,
Snatch from the fearful fiery grave.
If not, obedience is his due,
In life, in death, resolv'd and true,
No image shall our worship see,
No idol, though set up by thee.'
The king with madd'ning fury turns;
With sevenfold heat the cauldron burns;
To such intensity it grew,
The men who cast them in, it slew.
The ardent blaze unaw'd they dare,
They burn not! God's own Son is there!
Sav'd by an all controlling hand,
Unhurt, amidst the flames they stand.
Triumphant Lord! sav'd by thy power,
Nor floods shall drown, nor flames devour.
The awe-struck king the scene surveys;
Hear him the cry of rapture raise :
They live! come forth! let my command
Be straight proclaim'd throughout the land;
Let Babylon's wide empire know
God reigns above, and rules below.
If any dare my law deny,
Or Azariah's God defy,
On dunghill heaps they shall be trod ;
No God delivers like this God.'
Let youthful readers not despise
The hints which from this tale arise;
If base intemperance had possess'd
Its empire o'er the yielding breast:
Or did excess in wine obtain
A conquest o'er the youthful brain,
By these joint enemies subdu'd,
Where might have been their fortitude ?
Who rules the appetite, shall find
An easier task to rule the mind.
DANIEL, the statesman, saint, and sage,
Brav'd, yet unhurt, the lion's rage.
How fervently the Prophet spoke!
Warm from his lips the rapture broke :
Our right'ousness we dare not plead,
For we have none in thought or deed:
Thy oracles neglected lie;
Abus'd, thy dreadful majesty!
Our sins are great, yet greater still
Thy power to pardon, and thy will;
Oh, Lord, forgive! Oh, hear us, Lord!
For thy own sake thy help afford.
So prompt to prayer to grant thine aid,
'Tis heard almost before 'tis made.
Soon may it come, the day all hail;
When God's free Spirit shall prevail :
In full effusion, large and wide,
In ev'ry heart be multiplied.
What must arrive, if God be true,
Why wait for in a distant view?
Why not at once besiege the throne,
Till Heaven the supplication own?
HOSEA, in each indignant line,
Denounc'd on sin the wrath divine.
JOEL directs to fast and pray,
And God's displeasure turn away;
The threat'nings of the Lord he brings,
And then his goodness sweetly sings ·
Why will ye perish! turn, O turn,
Before his indignation burn!
Bow down your heart, his kindness prove,
Not merely loving,-God is love;
Quick to forgive, slow to resent:
Approach his footstool and repent.
He will your contrite prayers receive,
Perhaps he may a blessing leave:
Corn, wine, and oil, again bestow,
Remove the plague, and heal the woe.
Aмos exhorts, and warns, and strives
That Judah should reform their lives.
His powerful precepts never cease
To warn the rich who live at ease.
You that on downy couches lie,
Or doze on beds of ivory;
You who voluptuously consume
Your wealth, whose meal's a hecatomb;
Who at a single feast exhaust
A vineyard of uncounted cost;
Whose perfumes, floating in the air,
A Sybarite might be proud to share ;
Whose festive luxuries must be crown'd
With the soft lute and viol's sound;
Are you the men of grief who melt
At tales of woe by brethren felt?
Ask Amos: he this truth imparts,
That pleasure hardens human hearts;
That selfish feelings most abound
Where ease and luxury are found.
How strange the paradox, yet true,
That what dissolves should harden too!
Brief OBADIAH, full of grace,
Says much, though in a little space.
JONAH! How high thy honours stand
Who by one sermon rous'd a land!
At the last day how will thy fame,
Oh Nineveh, my country shame!
Jonah! thy honours sunk how low
When wrath deform'd thy sullen brow,
Better a mighty empire fall,
Than Jonah's credit sink at all!
Oh human selfishness how great,
To mourn a gourd and not a state!
The prophet here the pastor teaches
To practice what so well he preaches.
MICAH, admir'd through ev'ry age,
The babe of Bethlehem crowns thy page!
With what precision dost thou trace
The then obscure, now honour'd place!
NAHUM, all hail thy muse of fire,
The glories of thy dying lyre!
"The still small voice" no more is heard,
As when of old the Lord appear’d.
The whirlwind, and the driving storm,
His fearful wonders now perform ;
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69
How terrible his thunders sound!
The awe-struck sinner how confound!
Where nought was seen but waste and woe,
There shall the living waters flow;
Destructions direful work be past,
And Christ the King be crown'd at last.
No horrors can the guilty move,
Like the fierce wrath of injur'd love.
Blest Prophet! had thy strains been heard
From the proud lyre of Theban bard,
How would the wrapt enthusiast turn,
Her courts, by those who long have fought
Against her, eagerly he sought:
One Lord, one God, shall reign alone,
"To thoughts that breathe, and words that His name, long prophesied, be ONE.
burn!"
But tho' not nurs'd on Pindus' mount,
Nor fed from Aganippe's fount;
Thou offerest at a loftier shrine
Than Delphi own'd, thy ode divine.
Thy muse with nobler claims shall rise:
Her inspirations from the skies;
This the chief glory of thy lays,
Thou hadst a living God to praise.
Though, HABAKKUK, thy name refuse
To bend obedient to the muse,
Yet thy sweet promises impart
Warm comfort to the drooping heart.
In thy fam'd prayer, sublimely sweet,
The saint and muse in concert meet.
God came from Teman; what array
Of confluent glories marks his way!
Brightness above, around was sent ;
The pestilence before him went.
The skies with unknown splendours blaze,
Heaven shows his power, and earth his praise;
The everlasting mountains fled,
The rivers trembled in their bed;
Bow'd the perpetual hills; the deep
Through its dark caves was heard to sweep.
His arrows fly! Lord, at thy will
Th' astonish'd sun and moon stand still!
The shining of thy glitt'ring spear,
Transfix the heathen bands with fear.
One glance of thy pervading eye
Measures the earth; the nations fly
Dissolv'd and scatter'd; Cushan's tents
Burst forth in deep and loud laments.
They tremble at the distant sound,
Sudden thy troops their tents surround.
Yet tho' Chaldea's hostile band
Pour in their hordes, despoil the land;
Yet though the fig tree may be found
With neither fruit nor blossom crown'd;
The olive and the vine decay,
And flocks and herds be torn away;
My song of praise my God shall hear,
More free, more fervent, more sincere.
"Revive thy work ;" tho' all should fail,
Let grace and godliness prevail.
Lord of my strength; my joy, my crown,
Thy boundless mercies let me own!
Thy great salvation sets me free,
I shall have all in having Thee.
Thou ZEPHANIAH, dost record
Boldly the terrors of the Lord!
HAGGAI the slothful Jews exhorts
To build the temple's hallow'd courts:
They, while their splendid mansions shine,
Neglect JEHOVAH's sacred shrine.
Thy visions, Zechariah, stand
As beacons to a guilty land;
Tho' awfully obscure, yet true,
They teach the Briton as the Jew.
Known to the Lord, the day will come
Reversing Salem's awful doom!
On every vessel, every breast,
One grand inscription be imprest;
And HOLINESS TO GOD be found
Within, without, above around!
Thou, MALACHI, though last not least,
Prepar'st for us the Gospel feast.
*
*
*
Yet e'er the ancient books you leave,
This truth in all your hearts receive,—
That all the saints unite with care
To prove the omnipotence of prayer.
Search thro' the annals of mankind,
One solitary instance find;
Prove that you know one prayer preferr'd
In faith by man, by God not heard;
Then boldly venture, if you dare,
No more to lift your heart in prayer.
Till then, pray on; 'twill clear your way:
Chiefly for God's own Spirit pray :
There we shall find, if there we seek,
Wealth for the poor, strength for the weak;
Soundness for sickness, life for death,
Deriv'd from this inspiring breath;
Till every nation, tongue and tribe,
The healing influence shall imbibe
Distil like genial drops of rain,
Or dews upon the tender grain :
This in the secret of the soul
Each strong temptation shall controul,
And some faint image, lost before,
Of its bright origin restore.
THE NEW TESTAMENT.
PART THE THIRD.
THE GOSPELS.
THIS dispensation, clear and bright,
Brings immortality to light;
Proclaims the rebel Man restor'd,
Th'Apostate brought to know the Lord.
Within this consecrated ground
Discrepancies are never found;
The writers vary just to prove
That not in concert do they move,
While Jesus' glory stands reveal'd,
The author's faults are not conceal'd;
No selfish arts, no private ends,
But all to one grand centre tends;
No fact disguis'd however wrong,
No truth kept back, however strong.
One sure criterion leaves no doubt,
Consistency prevails throughout:
The doctrine who shall dare disprove,
Of genuine faith which works by love?
MATTHEW and MARK divinely treat
Those truths which LUKE and JOHN repeat:
Tho' all concur in one grand scheme,
Each throws fresh light upon the theme.
MATTHEW by no vain hope entic'd,
70
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Left all he had to follow Christ;
Behold him faithfully record
'The matchless Sermon of his Lord.
Here, every want its refuge seeks,
Here, every grace its nature speaks;
Each in its own appropriate place,
The blessing suited to the case.
Each gift to its own want confin'd;
Mercy the merciful shall find.
How cheering to the poor in spirit,
Promis'd a kingdom to inherit!
Told e'en on earth the meek man knows
The best enjoyments Heaven bestows;
Lovers of peace shall peace possess,
Comfort the comfortless shall bless;
That he who feels the oppressor's rod
Feels more the mercies of his God;
Proclaims, the pure in heart shall see,
In God, Essential Purity.
MARK, next among the historic saints,
The Baptist of the desert paints.
Herod the prophet gladly heard,
In many things obey'd his word.
But mark the rapid race of sin!
They fast advance who once begin.
Long train'd in vice, the tempter now
Ensnares him to a sinful vow:
Her graceful movements with his heart,
He will with half his kingdom part:
Sudden he cries, by passion driven,
"Make thy demand it shall be given."
Fearless she ask'd the Baptist's head,
The king was griev'd, the king obey'd:
O fruitless sorrow, vainly spent,
To mourn the crime he might prevent;
If sinful such a vow to make,
More sin to keep it than to break,
To death he doom'd the saint he lov'd;
Condemn'd the preacher he approv'd;
And she, whose softness charm'd before,
Herself the bleeding victim bore.
What wonder if the king, amaz'd,
Should dread in Christ that John was rais'd.
See LUKE the glorious scene record,
The scene of his transfigur'd Lord!
'This sight of wonder and of love
Confirms the glorious state above:
How blest the three* to whom 'twas given
To view threet witnesses from heaven!
The representatives they saw
Of Gospel, Prophecy, and Law.
Luke more Christ's miracles records,
John more preserves his gracious words;
Records for Christian consolation,
His Saviour's heavenly conversation,
Though John for ever stands approv'd
The blest disciple Jesus lov'd ;
Yet all one path devoutly trod,
And follow'd their redeeming God.
In HIM the wond'rous union view,
Atonement and example too!
His death sole means lost man to save;
His life our lives a pattern gave.
Explore the mystery as we can,
The perfect God was perfect man:
As man he felt affliction's rod,
As man he suffer'd, rose as God.
This union all his actions prove,
* Peter, James, and John.
† Jesus, Moses, and Elias.
6
As God, as man, he show'd his love,
As man to man in every state
Something he left to imitate.
Divine Philanthropist! to Thee
We lift the heart, and bow the knee.
As man, man's sympathies he felt;
In tears of tenderness could melt;
Weep o'er the fated city's doom;
Weep, Lazarus, o'er thy honour'd tomb!
The hidden heart of man he knew;
Felt for his wants and weakness too.
The bruised reed he never broke,
His burden easy, light his yoke;
From heaven to earth his mercies reach,
Alike to save us, or to teach.
When call'd on, error to reprove,
Reproof was kindness, censure love:
A cure his ready hand applies
For blindness, or of heart, or eyes.
Tho' with a look, a touch, a word
The long-lost vision he restor❜d;
A casual hint may pastors seize
For those who yet see men as trees:
Jesus watch'd o'er th' imperfect sight,
And blest the blind with gradual light.
His saints no vain display relate,
No miracles for pomp or state;
No artful show for private ends,
But all to use and mercy tends.
His life a constant lecture reads
For minor as for greater deeds;
Not that his hunger might be fed,
He multiplies the scanty bread:
The famish'd troops in order plac'd,
He ne'er forgot to bless the feast:
Though endless stores he could produce,
He sav'd the fragments for their use.
We pass each suffering, glorious scene,
The manger and the Cross between ;
All 'he began to do, and teach'
We pass, till Calvary we reach.
The attempt almost too bold we deem,
And trembling touch the awful theme.
All eloquence, all power of speech,
Imagination's loftiest reach,
Fall short, and could but faintly prove
Th' incarnate God's last scene of love.
Abandon'd, none his woes partake;
One friend denies him, all forsake,
Yet tho' the sacred blood was shed,
Captivity was captive led.'
The annals of mankind explore,
Did ever conqueror before
Make palpable to human eyes,
Achieve, such glorious victories?
Besides the triumphs of his grace,
Which only faith's purg'd eye can trace;
Marvels applied to sight and sense,
Exhibit his omnipotence.
Shrouded Divinity confest,
What prodigies the Lord attest!
Things contrary, opposing creatures
Struck at the sight, forget their natures;
The human voice is mute; the dumb
And senseless eloquent become.
Things breathless, things inanimate
Renounce, nay contradict their fate.
Things never meant to sympathise
Astonish unbelieving eyes.
The firin earth trembled at the view;
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71
Th' indignant sun his light withdrew;
No natural cause eclips'd his face,
He would not witness man's disgrace.
Asunder torn, the rocks proclaim
Their sympathies with loud acclaim.
The yawning sepulchres unclose;
To life their sleeping tenants rose;
The Temple's vail is seen to rend,
And with it all distinctions end!
All various nature takes a part,
All, save the obdurate human heart.
The soldier, and th' expiring thief
Alone, proclaim their firm belief.
Lord, IT IS FINISHED:' here we meet
Promise and prophecy complete.
·
Then come the APOSTLES' wond'rous facts,
Their travels, miracles, and Acts.
The Holy Spirit from above,
Given as the Messenger of Love.
The various languages once sent,
To Babel as its punishment,
Here take a diff'rent nature quite,
Not meant to scatter but unite;
That every nation here below,
In its own tongue God's word might know.
Ye, who to idols long confin'd,
Are blind in heart, and dark in mind;
Half quench'd the intellectual ray,
While man withheld the moral day ;
To the strong hold, ye prisoners, turn,
Prisoners of hope! no longer mourn.
See Christ extended empire gains,
See mountains sinking into plains!
The Builders on the CORNER-STONE,
Cease not like Babel's-they work on,
Till Saba and Arabia bring
Due tribute to th' Eternal King;
The living WORD shall life impart
Unseal the eye, and change the heart;
Till Jew and Gentile truth shall see,
Greek and Barbarian, bond and free;
Not by man's might, nor deed, nor word,
But by the Spirit of the Lord.
Hear martyr'd Stephen, as he dies,
Pray for his murd'rous enemies!
Then bring from Greek or Roman story
So pure an instance of true glory!
And is the furious bigot Saul
Become, indeed, the humble Paul?
Strange pow'r of all-transforming grace,
The lamb assumes the lion's place!
So blind, when persecution's rod
He held he thought 'twas serving God:
But now so meek, himself he paints
'Less than the least of all the saints!'
Stephen! thy prayer in death preferr'd
To save thy enemies, is heard;
And Paul perhaps the earliest fruit
Of the first martyr's dying suit.
Forgive the Muse if she recall
So oft to mind the sainted Paul;
We pass the awful truths he tells,
His labours, woes, and miracles;
We pass the pow'rs his cause who heard;
How Felix trembled, Festus fear'd;
Pass, how the Jewish king receiv'd
The truth, half doubted, half believ'd ;
We pass the different works of
grace
In Lydia, and the jailor's case;
We pass the perils Paul endur'd
From stripes; in prison how immur'd;
In nakedness and hunger groan'd;
Betray'd, thrice beaten, shipwreck'd, ston'd!
In every varying state we see
Only a change in misery.
How oft has admiration hung
On the great lyric bard, who sung
The warrior fam'd in Punic story,
Who swell'd the tide of Roman glory!
With magnanimity heroic,
He dignifies the noble Stoic,
See the illustrious captive stand,
Resolv'd unshaken, on the strand.
Imploring friends around him weep;
All mourn the hero all would keep.
E'en the stern senators in vain
The patriot would at last detain.
No blessings of domestic life,
No darling child, nor tender wife
He heeds; repels his wife's embrace,
Th' endearments of his infant race.
No sigh he heaves, he drops no tear,
Naught but his oath and country dear.
He knows the tortures which await,
Knows all the horrors of his fate;
By death in direst shapes unmov'd,
He coolly quitted all he lov'd.
Compos'd, as if hard law-suits past,
He sought a calm retreat at last;
Such calm as crowns Venafrian fields,
Such charms as cool Tarentum yields.
The great Apostle now behold,
A hero cast in Christian mould;
Though learn'd, he will not take his rule
From Doctors of the Stoic school.
Religion stops not nature's course,
But turns to other streams its force.
Forewarn'd, he knew where'er he went
'Twas prison, death, or banishment.
'Twas not a vague, uncertain fear;
God's Spirit show'd him what was near,
Show'd him the woes which must befall,
Not in one country, but in all.
Behold him now encircled stand,
Like the brave Roman on the strand:
A lovelier scene* adorns no page
Than that which now our thoughts engage.
Weeping, his Christian friends surround,
Their tender anguish knows no bound;
Their tears to him their grief impart,
•
Mean you to weep and break my heart?'
Hear him with modest grace record
His toils for his forgiving Lord :
Pour out the tender love he feels,
Then to their justice he appeals.
Still to your highest interests true,
Witness, I sought not yours, but you.
This heart for you my daily care,
Is lifted up in ceaseless prayer;
These hands have oft procur'd my bread,
And labour'd that the poor be fed.
O treasure close in every breast,
Your Saviour's posthumous bequest,
If 'tis a blessing to receive,
Far more a blessing 'tis to give,
Then warns to feed the church of God,
Purchas'd by his redeeming blood.
*Acts, Chap. xx.
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THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Thrice bless'd the Pastor who, like Paul,
The past with comfort can recall;
His life and doctrine both review
To auditors who feel both true;
Fears not his conduct to declare
Holy, unblameable, sincere.
His preaching catholic; he speaks
Impartially to Jews and Greeks.
No words of doubtful disputation
Allure from his grand end-salvation;
Faith and repentance form his theme,
Compendium of the Christian scheme!
No searching truth he e'er conceal'd,
But God's whole counsel still reveal'd.
Methinks I see the mould'ring clay
Start into life, wake into day!
Dread sound! 'tis the last trumpet's voice!
Reviv'd, transported, all rejoice.
Hark! heard I not that rapturous cry,
Death's swallow'd up in victory?
Jesus the ransom'd join to sing,
Jesus, oh, Death! extracts thy sting.
Can Paul, absorb'd in scenes so bright,
Again on earth vouchsafe to light?
To drop from his exhaustless store,
One parting, pointed moral more?
One added precept deign to press
He can-awake to righteousness:
He speaks: The woes which must befall In God's great work still more abound,
My trusting soul shall ne'er appal.
If I for God my span employ;
If He my course may crown with joy;
If I may spend my painful race,
To testify redeeming grace;
No dread of death my soul shall move,
Secure in him I serve and love.'
His friends, lamenting, crowd the shore,
They part, they see his face no more:
Their sorrows and his own to cheer,
He consecrates the scene with prayer.
PART THE FOURTH.
THE EPISTLES.
NEXT Come the ROMANS, here we trace
The flagrant manners of their race.
Tho' Nero then Rome's sceptre sway'd,
Yet conscientious Paul obey'd;
Fearless he taught that all should bring
Allegiance to their rightful king.
In this epistle we may find
The depths and heights of his great mind:
Here rhetoric and logic meet
The cause of faith to vindicate.
Paul, when the rich CORINTHIANS came,
Found much to praise and much to blame :
Luxurious, negligent, and proud;
No error was by him allow'd.
As Christian truth should still be told,
The righteous Paul is meekly bold;
And yet such tenderness appears,
His very frowns are mix'd with tears!
One glorious truth he here defends,
That truth on which all truth depends:
Labours one doctrine to maintain,
Which if not true, he preach'd in vain;
Vain to their faith, which might not trust
The resurrection of the just.
Then mounting above space of time,
He soars with energy sublime;
Exhausts on this grand contemplation
High argument, bold illustration!
Created nature see he brings,
Attested to the truth he sings:
All grain, all flesh, their tribute lend;
The diff'ring stars the truth defend :
If these proclaim God's glory true,
When the material heavens we view,
His glory sun and moon declare,
When on this doctrine brought to bear.
In vain shall death his prey devour,
'Twas sown in weakness, rais'd in power!
Nor slow the process: Heaven is nigh:
Quick, in the twinkling of an eye.
Nor shall your labours vain be found.
The bold GALATIANS Paul reproves,
And much he blames, tho' much he loves;
Condemns the teachers whom he saw
Exchange the Gospel for the law.
To clear his doctrine from suspicion,
He vindicates his heavenly mission.
Th' EPHESIANS stand in glory bright,
On whom Paul shed the Gospel-light,
Where great Diana was ador'd,
They follow'd on to know the Lord:
This matchless letter you will find
A perfect model of its kind.
Where Anthony with Brutus fought,
There Christian Paul a refuge sought.
Yet e'en PHILIPPIANS could be found
The Saviour in his saint to wound:
A prison the reward they gave
The man who came their souls to save.
Did Paul the cruelty resent,
Or in reproach his anger vent ?
No;-if the saint exceeds in love,
Invokes more favours from above:
If e'er his full o'erflowing heart
Sought warmer blessings to impart ;
If more for any friends he pray'd,
For showers of mercies on their head;
It was for this distinguish'd place,
The scene of his most foul disgrace !
How does his fervent spirit burn
Their recent kindness to return!
What terms, what arguments employ,
To fill their hearts with holy joy!
What consolation from above;
What comfort from eternal love;
From God's blest Spirit drawing nigh;
Communion sweet, communion high!
Such strong persuasions must controul,
Convince the reason, melt the soul!
He urges motives as a law,
Which some would think deter not draw.
'Take as a gift reserv'd for you,
Power to believe and suffer too!"
The good COLOSSIANS now stand forth,
Excell'd by none in grace and worth,
Behold the saint his touchstone give,
To try with Christ if Christians live.
Oh, let your aspirations rise,
Nor stop at aught beneath the skies.
Your fruitless cares no more bestow
On perishable things below.
From sordid joys indignant fly;
Know, avarice is idolatry,
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73
False worship's not confin'd alone
To images of wood and stone;
Whate'er you grasp with eager hold,
Honours or pleasures, fame or gold;
These are your idols, these you'll find,
Possess your soul, engross your mind.
Heaven will with idols have no part:
That robs your God which steals your heart.
The THESSALONIANS next appear,
The bountiful and the sincere.
Here precept pure and doctrine sound,
In sweet accordance may be found.
Mark the triumphant Christian's voice,
Rejoice, again I say, rejoice!'
As he would echo back to heaven,
The holy transport grace had given.
Young TIMOTHY is on record,
Who sought betimes to know the Lord.
Here true maternal love we find,
Which form'd the heart, and taught the mind.
Here may the British mother learn,
Her child's best interests to discern;
Her faithfulness to God best prove,
And best evince her Christian love.
Paul, while his pupil's good he seeks,
Thro' him to unborn pastors speaks:
'Reprove, exhort, be earnest still
Your high commission to fulfil;
Watch, labour, pray; in these consist
The works of an Evangelist.'
As Bishop, he commands again,
'Commit the trust to faithful men ;'
Bids him observe, that those who preach
Need to remind as well as teach
To raise his soul to solemn thought,
God's judgment is before him brought;
When seated in tremendous state,
The blest and only Potentate,
The members of the living head
Shall meet the Judge of quick and dead,
Then Christ his faithful sons shall own,
Who bore his Cross, shall wear his Crown.
Next TITUS, youthful yet discreet,
First Bishop of the Isle of Crete.
Here prudent Paul, divines to show
They ought their people's faults to know,
Quotes their own poet, to declare
The Cretans sensual, insincere.
Such knowledge teaches to reprove
The erring, and the just to love.
Now in the gentle tone of friend
See him to private life descend;
The sober duties to impart,
Which grace the life, and mend the heart.
Shows on what consecrated ground
Domestic happiness is found;
Warns the fair convert not to roam:
The truest joys are found at home;
'Tis there the chaste obedient mind
Will life's best charm confer, and find.
Follows PHILEMON, who forgave,
Yea, honour'd, his converted slave.
Paul to the HEBREWS writes :-0, then,
What inspiration guides his pen!
Let wits revile, let Atheists rail,
Such evidence shall never fail,
VOL. 1.
As the first pages here supply
Of Christ's unclouded Deity.
As he proceeds, to faith 'tis given
To soar on loftier wing to heaven.
See here the doctrine prov'd by facts,
Belief exhibited in acts.
See conquering Faith's heroic hand
Church-militant in order stand!
The Red-Sea passengers we view,
Jephtha and Gideon, Barak too.
Had we all time, the time would fail
Of heroes to record the tale,
Whose deeds their attestation bring
That faith is no ideal thing.
Say, could ideal faith aspire
To quench the violence of fire?
To stop the famish'd lion's rage!
With dread temptations to engage ;
All deaths despise, all dangers dare,
With no support, save God and prayer?
"Tis pride,' the sneering Sceptic cries,
'Rank pride, the martyr's strength supplies:
His fortitude by praise is fed,
Praise is Religion's daily bread.
The public show, the attendant crowd,
The admiration fond and loud;
The gaze, the noise his soul sustains,
Applause the opiate of his pains;
Withdraw the charm spectators bring,
And torture is no joyous thing.'
Thy triumphs, Faith, we need not take
Alone from the blest martyr's stake;
In scenes obscure, no less we see
That faith is a reality.
An evidence of things not seen,
A substance firm whereon to lean,
Go search the cottager's lone room,
The day scarce piercing thro' the gloom:
The Christian on his dying bed
Unknown, unletter'd, hardly fed;
No flatt'ring witnesses attend,
To tell how glorious was his end,
Save in the book of life, his name
Unheard, he never dreamt of fame.
No human consolation near,
No voice to soothe, no friend to cheer.
Of every earthly stay bereft,
And nothing but his SAVIOUR left.
Fast sinking to his kindred dust,
The Word of Life is still his trust.
The joy God's promises impart
Lies like a cordial at his heart;
Unshaken faith its strength supplies,
He loves, believes, adores, and dies.
The great Apostle ceases;-then
To holy JAMES resigns the pen ;
James, full of faith and love, no doubt,
The practical and the devout.
Ye rich, the saint indignant cried,
Curs'd are all riches misapplied!
Abhorr'd the wealth which useless lies,
When merit claims, or hunger cries!
The wise alike with scorn behold
The hoarded as the squander'd gold.
In man opposing passions meet
The liberal feelings to defeat:
PLEASURE and AVARICE both agree
To stop the tide of charity:
Tho' each detests the other's deeds,
74
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The same effect from both proceeds:
Curs'd is the gold, or sav'd, or spent,
Which God for mercy's portion meant:
Chemists in transmutation bold
Attempt to make base metals gold.
Let Christians then transmute their pelf
To something nobler than itself;
On heaven their rescued wealth bestow,
And send it home before they go:
He will the blest deposit own:
Who seals the pardon, gives the crown.
PETER the bold, who perils hail'd
Who promis'd much, and much he fail'd;
Peter, the generous rash, and warm,
Who lov'd his Lord, but shrunk from harm;
Peter the coward and the brave,
Denying him he wish'd to save;
O Peter, what reproachful word,
What dagger keen, what two-edg'd sword,
Could pierce thy bosom like the last,
Last look thy Saviour on thee cast?
That speechless eloquence divine,
No pen, no pencil can define.
Peter, how bitter were thy tears!
Remorse absorb'd thy guilty fears.
Still, Peter, did thy risen Lord,
Conqueror of death, his grace afford;
Not to the men of faith approv'd,
Not to the saint whom Jesus loved.
It was to heal thy broken heart,
Comfort to anguish to impart:
Yes-'twas to Peter that by name
Alone the glorious tidings came.
Now mark the wond'rous power of grace!
His character has chang'd its face;
'The noblest attitude assumes:
Who now on his own strength presumes?
Where now his fears? we only see
True Christian magnanimity.
Who now the foremost to declare
Their grand commission? who to dare
The standard of the cross to raise,
And his ador'd Redeemer praise?
Applause he scorn'd however true,
But gave the glory where 'twas due,
With what majestic grace he rose,
Fearless of all surrounding foes;
Brought the old Scriptures to apply
His argument from prophecy:
From miracles which well accord,
He prov'd that Jesus was the Lord.
When requisite in some hard case
To check deceit, unmask the base,
'Twas Peter's office: see him dare
Seize the prevaricating pair.*
One question stops the fraudful breath,
And blasts them both with instant death.
Ask you the truth he lov'd to teach,
The theme selected first to preach?
Repentance! What he felt he taught:
A mighty change his preaching wrought
The fruits were equal to the zeal,
They best can teach who deepest feel.
Crown'd were his labours: Peter died
A martyr to the CRUCIFIED.
With love his pure EPISTLES fraught,
JOHN teaches what his gospel taught;
* Ananias and Sapphira.
He needs no argument to prove,
Save his own heart, that God is love.
JUDE, what his letter wants in length,
Redeems by energy and strength.
Confirms the truth from revelation
Of Enoch's marvellous translation.
Hear him in awful terms declare,
The mis'ries which the ungodly share!
Clouds without water, dark yet dry,
Spots in the feasts of charity;
Trees withering, destitute of fruit,
Exterminated branch and root.
Now in its pomp and dread array,
He summons to the judgment-day.
O, what conflicting trains of thought,
Has this amazing image brought!
O, what a fire this spark has kindled,
Of terror and of transport mingled!
Spirits who lost their first estate
Retaining their immortal hate.
The bold impenitent shall hear
His doom; his sentence black despair.
The hypocrite detected lie,
Naked, laid bare to every eye.
To crown the horrors which await,
All feel the justice of their fate.
Their fears their punishment foretell,
And conscience does the work of Hell.
They as the achme of their pain,
Acquit their Judge themselves arraign.
No shelter now from rocks or caves,
No refuge from the fiery waves;
What wonder, wildly if they call
The mountains on their heads to fall.
Then see the Man of Sorrows found,
The Lord of life and glory crown'd.
Jesus appears, as Enoch paints,
Surrounded by ten thousand saints.
Lo! heaven and earth their tribute bring
Of glory to the eternal king!
Angels, archangels, each degree
Of heaven's celestial hierarchy!
The noble martyr's valiant band
Before their conq'ring Captain stand!
The goodly prophets here behold
Fulfill'd the scenes they once foretold :
Their Lord encircling, here we see
The Apostles' glorious company :
Heaven kindly vails from human sight
All that dread day will bring to light.
THE REVELATION.
THE saint of Patmos last we meet,
And revelation stands complete.
In this bright vision, tho' he brings
Scenes of unutterable things;
He tempers heaven's effulgent light,
Too powerful else for mortal sight.
Partly by negatives are shown
Joys which hereafter shall be known:
Suffering, and sin, and death, are o'er,
For former things are seen no more;
No sorrow felt, and heav'd no sigh,
And tears are wip'd from every eye.
Yet not by negative alone,
Consummate glory shall be known;
Not only shall be found no night,
The LAMB himself shall be the light,
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75
Sun, moon, and stars, shall fade away,
Lost in one cloudless, endless day;
Redemption finish'd, sin forgiven,
'Tis God's own presence makes it heaven.
Of future bliss, if such the sum,
Then come, Lord JESUS! quickly come!
SACRED DRAMAS:
CHIEFLY INTENDED FOR YOUNG PERSONS.
THE SUBJECTS TAKEN FROM THE BIBLE.
All the books of the Bible are either most admirable and exalted pieces of poetry, or the best
materials in the world for it.-Cowley.
TO HER GRACE
THE DUTCHESS OF BEAUFORT,
THESE SACRED DRAMAS ARE, WITH THE MOST PERFECT RESPECT, INSCRIBED:
As, among the many amiable and distinguished qualities which adorn her mind, and add lustre
to her rank, her excellence in the maternal character gives a peculiar propriety to her protection
of this little work; written with an humble wish to promote the love of piety and virtue in young
persons,
By her grace's most obedient, most obliged, and most humble servant,
HANNAH MORE.
ADVERTISEMENT.
I AM as ready as the most rigid critic to confess, that nothing can be more simple and inartifi-
cial than the plans of the following dramas. In the construction of them I have seldom ventured
to introduce any person* of my own creation: still less did I imagine myself at liberty to invent
circumstances. I reflected, with awe, that the place whereon I stood was holy ground. All the
latitude I permitted myself was, to make such persons as I selected act under such circumstances
as I found, and express such sentiments as, in my humble judgment, appeared not unnatural to
their characters and situations. Some of the speeches are so long as to retard the action; for I
rather aspired after moral instruction than the purity of dramatic composition. I am aware that
it may be brought as an objection, that I have now and then made my Jewish characters speak
too much like Christians, as it may be questioned whether I have not occasionally ascribed to
them a degree of light and knowledge greater than they probably had the means of possessing:
but I was more anxious in consulting the advantage of my youthful readers by leading them on
to higher religious views, than in securing to myself the reputation of critical exactness.
It will be thought that I have chosen, perhaps, the least important passage in the eventful life
of David, for the foundation of the drama which bears his name. Yet even in this his first ex-
ploit, the sacred historian represents him as exhibiting no mean lesson of modesty, humility,
courage, and piety. Many will think that the introduction of Saul's daughter would have added
to the effect of the piece: and I have no doubt but that it would have made the intrigue more
complicated and amusing had this drama been intended for the stage. There, all that is tender,
and all that is terrible in the passions, find a proper place. But I write for the young, in whom
it will be always time enough to have the passions awakened; I write for a class of readers, to
whom it is not easy to accommodate one's subject,† so as to be at once useful and interesting.
The amiable poet, from whom I have taken my motto, after showing the superiority of the
sacred over the profane histories, some instances of which I have noticed in my introduction,
concludes with the following remark, which I may apply to myself with far more propriety than
it was used by the author :-'I am far from assuming to myself to have fulfilled the duty of this
weighty undertaking; and I shall be ambitious of no other fruit from this weak and imperfect
attempt of mine, but the opening of a way to the courage and industry of some other persons,
who may be better able to perform it thoroughly and successfully.'
* Never indeed, except in Daniel, and that of necessity; as the Bible furnishes no more than two persons, Da-
niel and Darius, and these were not sufficient to carry on the business of the piece.
† It would not be easy, nor perhaps proper, to introduce sacred tragedies on the English stage. The pious
would think it profane, while the profane would think it dull. Yet the excellent Racine, in a profligate country
and a voluptuous court, ventured to adapt the story of Athalia to the French theatre; and it remains to us a
glorious monument of its author's courageous piety, while it exhibits the perfection of the dramatic art
↑ Cowley.
76
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
INTRODUCTION.
O FOR the sacred energy which struck
The harp of Jesse's son! or for a spark
Of that celestial flame which touch'd the lips
Of bless'd Isaiah :* when the Seraphim
With living fire descended, and his soul
From sin's pollution purg'd! or one faint ray,
If human things to heavenly I may join,
Of that pure spirit which inflam'd the breast
Of Milton, God's own poet! when retir'd
In fair enthusiastic vision wrapt,
The nightly visitant deign'd bless his couch
With inspiration, such as never flow'd
From Acidale or Aganippe's fount!
Then, when the sacred fire within him burnt,
He spake as man or angels might have spoke,
When man was pure, and angels were his
guests.
It will not be.-Nor prophet's burning zeal,
Nor muse of fire, nor yet to sweep the strings
With sacred energy, to me belongs;
Nor with Miltonic hand to touch the chords
That wake to ecstacy. From me, alas!
The secret source of harmony is hid;
The magic pow'rs which catch the ravish'd soul
In melody's sweet maze, and the clear streams
Which to pure fancy's yet untasted springs
Enchanted lead. Of these I little know!
Yet, all unknowing, dare thy aid invoke,
Spirit of truth! to bless these worthless lays:
Nor impious is the hope; for thou hast said,
That none who ask in faith should ask in vain.
You I invoke not now, ye fabled Nine!
I not invoke you though you well were sought
In Greece and Latium, sought by deathless
bards.
Whose syren song enchants; and shall enchant
Through time's wide circling round, tho' false
their faith,
And less than human were the gods they sung.
Though false their faith they taught the best
they knew;
And (blush, O Christians!) liv'd above their
faith.
They would have bless'd the beam and hail'd
the day
Which chas'd the moral darkness from their
souls.
O! had their minds receiv'd the clearer ray
Of Revelation, they had learn'd to scorn
Their rites impure, their less than human gods,
Their wild mythology's fantastic maze.
Pure Plato! how had thy chaste spirit hail'd
A faith so fitted to thy moral sense!
What hadst thou felt to see the fair romance
Of high imagination, the bright dream
Of thy pure fancy, more than realiz'd!
Sublime enthusiast! thou hadst blest a scheme
Fair, good, and perfect. How had thy wrapt
soul
Caught fire, and burnt with a diviner flame!
For e'en thy fair idea ne'er conceiv'd
Such plenitude of bliss, such boundless love,
As Deity made visible to sense.
Unhappy Brutus ! philosophic mind!
Great 'midst the errors of the Stoic school!
How had thy kindling spirit joy'd to find
That thy lov'd virtue was no empty name :
* Isaiah, chap. vi.
Nor hadst thou met the vision at Philippi;
Nor hadst thou sheath'd thy bloody dagger's
point
Or in the breast of Cæsar or thy own.
The pagan page how far more wise than ours!
They with the gods they worshipp'd grac'd their
song:
Our song we grace with gods we disbelieve :
Retain the manners but reject the creed.
Shall fiction only raise poetic flame,
And shall no altar blaze, O Truth, to thee?
Shall falsehood only please and fable charın ?
And shall eternal truth neglected lie?
Because immortal, slighted, or profan'd?
Truth has our rev'rence only, not our love;
Our praise, but not our hearts: a deity,
Confess'd, but shunn'd; acknowledged, not
ador'd;
Alarm'd we dread her penetrating beams :
She comes too near us, and too brightly shines.
Why shun to make our duty our delight?
Let pleasure be the motive, disallow
All high incentives drawn from God's command;
Where shall we trace, through all the page pro-
fane,
A livelier pleasure and a purer source
Of innocent delight, than the fair book
Of holy truth presents ? for ardent youth,
The sprightly narrative! for years mature,
The moral document, in sober robe
Of grave philosophy array'd: which all
Had heard with admiration, had embrac'd
With rapture, had the shades of Academe,
Or the learn'd Porch produc'd it :-Tomes had
then
Been multiplied on tomes, to draw the veil
Of graceful allegory, to unfold
Some hidden source of beauty now not felt!
Do not the pow'rs of soul-enchanting song,
Strong imagery, bold figure, every charm
Of eastern flight sublime, apt metaphor,
And all the graces in thy lovely train,
Divine simplicity! assemble all
In Sion's songs, and bold Isaiah's strain?
Why should the classic eye delight to trace
The tale corrupted from its prime pure source;
How Pyrrha and the fam'd Thessalian king
Restor'd the ruin'd race of lost mankind:
Yet turn, incurious, from the patriarch sav'd
The rescued remnant of a delug'd world?
Why are we taught, delighted to recount
Alcides' labours, yet neglect to note
Heroic Samson 'midst a life of toil
Herculean? Pain and peril marking both,
A life eventful and disasterous death.
Can all the tales which Grecian story yields;
Can all the names the Roman page records,
Of wond'rous friendship and surpassing love
Can gallant Theseus and his brave compeer;
Orestes and the partner of his toils;
Achates and his friend: Euryalus
And blooming Nisus, pleasant in their lives,
And undivided by the stroke of death;
Can each, can all, a lovelier picture yield
Of virtuous friendship: can they all present
A tenderness more touching than the love
Of Jonathan and David?-Speak, ye young!
Who, undebauched as yet by fashion's lore,
And unsophisticate, unbiass'd judge :
Say, is your quick attention more arous'd
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77
By the red plagues which wasted smitten
Thebes,
Than heav'n's avenging hand on Pharaoh's
host?
Or do the vagrant Trojans, driven by fate
On adverse shores successive, yield a theme
More grateful to the eager appetite
Of young impatience, than the wand'ring tribes
The Hebrew leader through the desert led?
The beauteous maid,* (though tender is the tale;)
Whose guiltless blood on Aulis' altar stream'd,
Smites not the bosom with a softer pang
Than her in fate how sadly similar,
The Gileaditish virgin-victims both
Of vows unsanctify'd.-
Such are the lorely themes which court the bard,
Scarce yet essay'd in verse-for verse how meet!
While heav'n-descended song, forgetting oft
Her sacred dignity and high descent,
Debases her fair origin; oft spreads
Corruption's deadly bane, pollutes the heart
Of innocence, and with unhallow'd hand
Presents the poison'd chalice, to the brim
Fill'd with delicious ruin, minist'ring
The unwholesome rapture to the fever'd taste,
While its fell venom, with malignant pow'r,
Strikes at the root of Virtue, with'ring all
Her vital energy. Oh! for some balm
Of sov'reign power, to raise the drooping Muse
To all the health of virtue ! to infuse
* Iphigenia.
A gen'rous warmth, to rouse an holy zeal
And give her high conceptions of herself,
Her dignity, her worth, her aim, her end!
For me, eternal Spirit, let thy word
My path illume! O thou compassionate God!
Thou know'st our frame, thou know'st we are
but dust;
From dust a Seraph's zeal thou wilt not seek,
Nor wilt thou ask an angel's purity.
But hear, and hearing pardon; as I strive,
Though with a feeble voice and flagging wing
A glowing heart, but pow'rless hand, to paint
The faith of favour'd man to heav'n; to sing
The ways inscrutable of heav'n to man;
May I, by thy celestial guidance led,
Fix deep in my own heart the truths I teach!
In my own life transcribe whate'er of good
To others I propose! and by thy rule
Correct th' irregular,* reform the wrong,
Exalt the low, and brighten the obscure!
Still may I note, how all th' agreeing parts
Of this consummate system join to frame
One fair, one finish'd, one harmonious whole!
Trace the close links which form the perfect
chain
In beautiful connexion; mark the scale
Whose nice gradations, with progression true,
For ever rising, end in Deity!
*
What in me is dark
Illumine! What is low, raise and support!
MOSES IN THE BULRUSHES.
A SACRED DRAMA.
PARADISE LOST,
Let me assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to man.-
-Paradise Lost.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
HEBREW WOMEN.
EGYPTIANS.
JOCHEBED, mother of Moses.
MIRIAM, his sister.
The PRINCESS, king Pharaoh's daughter.
MELITA; and other attendants.
Scene-On the banks of the Nile.
This subject is taken from the second chapter of the book of Exodus.
PART I.
JOCHEBED, MIRIAM.
Joch. WHY was my pray'r accepted? why did
heaven
In anger hear me, when I ask'd a son?
Ye dames of Egypt! ye triumphant mothers!
You no imperial tyrant marks for ruin;
You are not doom'd to see the babes you bore,
The babes you fondly nurture, bleed before you!
You taste the transport of a mother's love,
Without a mother's anguish! wretched Israel!
Can I forbear to mourn the different lot
Of thy sad daughters!-Why did God's own
hand
Rescue his chosen race by Joseph's care?
Joseph th' elected instrument of heaven,
Decreed to save illustrious Abraham's sons,
What time the famine rag'd in Canaan's land.
Israel, who then was spar'd, must perish now!
Thou great mysterious Pow'r, who hast in-
volv'd
Thy wise decrees in darkness, to perplex
The pride of human wisdom, to confound
The daring scrutiny, and prove, the faith
Of thy presuming creatures! hear me now:
O vindicate thy honour, clear this doubt,
Teach me to trace this maze of Providence:
Why save the fathers, if the sons must perish?
Mir. Ah me, my mother! whence these floods
of grief?
Joch. My son! my son! I cannot speak the
rest;
Ye who have sons can only know my fondness!
78
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Ye who have lost them, or who fear to lose,
Can only know my pangs! none else can guess
them.
A mother's sorrows cannot be conceiv'd
But by a mother-would I were not one!
Mir. With earnest pray'rs thou didst request
this son,
And heaven has granted him.
Joch.
O sad estate
Of human wretchedness; so weak is man,
So ignorant and blind, that did not God
Sometimes withhold in mercy what we ask,
We should be ruin'd at our own request.
Too well thou know'st, my child, the stern
decree
Of Egypt's cruel king, hard-hearted Pharaoh ;
That every male, of Hebrew mother born,
Must die! Oh! do I live to tell it thee!
Must die a bloody death! My child, my son,
My youngest born my darling must be slain!
Mir. The helpless innocent! and must he die?
Joch. No: if a mother's tears, a mother's
prayers,
A mother's fond precautions can prevail,
He shall not die. I have a thought my Miriam,
And sure the God of mercies who inspir'd,
Will bless the secret purpose of my soul,
To save his precious life.
Mir.
Hop'st thou that Pharaoh--
Joch. I have no hope in Pharaoh, much in
God;
Much in the Rock of Ages.
Mir.
Think, O think,
What perils thou already hast incurr'd,
And shun the greater which may yet remain,
Three months, three dangerous months thou
hast preserv'd
Thy infant's life, and in thy house conceal'd
him!
Should Pharaoh know!
Joch.
Oh! let the tyrant know,
And feel what he inflicts! Yes, hear me, heaven!
Send thy right aiming thunderbolts-but hush,
My impious murmurs! is it not thy will;
Thou, infinite in mercy? Thou permitt'st
The seeming evil for some latent good.
Yes, I will laud thy grace, and bless thy good-
ness
For what I have, and not arraign thy wisdom
For what I fear to lose. O, I will bless thee
That Aaron will be spar'd; that my first born.
Lives safe and undisturbed! that he was giv'n
me
Before this impious persecution rag'd!
Mir. And yet who knows, but the fell tyrant's
rage
May reach his precious life.
Joch.
I fear for him.
For thee, for all. A doating parent lives
In many lives; through many a nerve she feels;
From child to child the quick affections spread,
Forever wand'ring, yet forever fix'd.
Nor does division weaken, nor the force
Of constant operation e'er exhaust
Parental love. All other passions change
With changing circumstances; rise or fall,
Dependent on their object; claim returns;
Live on reciprocation, and expire
Unfed by hope. A mother's fondness reigns
Without a rival, and without an end,
Mir. But say what heav'n inspires to save thy
son ?
Joch. Since the dear fatal morn which gave
him birth,
I have revolv'd in my distracted mind
| Each means to save his life: and many a
thought
Which fondness prompted, prudence has op-
pos'd
As perilous and rash. With these poor hands
I've fram'd a little ark of slender reeds;
With pitch and slime I have secur'd the sides.
In this frail cradle I intend to lay
My little helpless infant, and expose him
Upon the banks of the Nile.
Mir.
'Tis full of danger.
Joch. 'Tis danger to expose, and death to keep
him.
Mir. Yet, oh! reflect. Should the fierce cro-
codile,
The native and the tyrant of the Nile,
Seize the defenceless infant!
Joch.
Oh forbear!
Spare my fond heart. Yet not the crocodile,
Nor all the deadly monsters of the deep,
To me are half so terrible as Pharaoh,
That heathen king, that royal murderer!
Mir. Should he escape, which yet I dare not
hope,
Each sea-born monster, yet the winds and waves
He cannot 'scape.
Joch. Know, God is every where;
Not to one narrow, partial spot confin'd:
No, not to chosen Israel: he extends
Through all the vast infinitude of space:
At his command the furious tempests rise-
The blasting of the breath of his displeasure.
He tells the world of waters when to roar ;
And, at his bidding, winds and seas are calm:
In him, not in an arm of flesh, I trust;
In him, whose promise never yet has fail'd,
I place my confidence.
Mir.
What must I do?
Command thy daughter; for thy words have
wak'd
An holy boldness in my youthful breast.
Joch. Go then, my Miriam, go, and take the
infant.
Buried in harmless slumbers there he lies:
Let me not see him-spare my heart that pang.
Yet sure, one little look may be indulg'd,
| And I may feast my fondness with his smiles,
And snatch one last, last kiss.-No more my
heart;
[him.
That rapture would be fatal-I should keep
I could not doom to death the babe I clasp'd
Did ever mother kill her sleeping boy?
I dare not hazard it-The task be thine.
Oh! do not wake my child; remove him softly;
And gently lay him on the river's brink.
Mir. Did those magicians, whom the sons of
Egypt
Consult and think all-potent, join their skill
And was it great as Egypt's sons believe;
Yet all their secret wizard arts combin'd,
To save this little ark of bulrushes,
Thus fearfully expos'd, could not effect it.
Their spells, their incantations, and dire charms
Could not preserve it.
Joch.
Know this ark is charm'd
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
79
With incantations Pharaoh ne'er employ'd ;
With spells, which impious Egypt never knew:
With invocations to the living God,
I twisted every slender reed together,
And with a pray'r did every ozier weave.
Mir. I go.
Joch. Yet e'er thou go'st, observe me well;
When thou hast laid him in his wat'ry bed,
O leave him not: but at a distance wait,
And mark what Heaven's high will determines
for him.
Lay him among the flags on yonder beach,
Just where the royal gardens meet the Nile.
I dare not follow him, Suspicion's eye
Would note my wild demeanor! Miriam, yes,
The mother's fondness would betray the child.
Farewell! God of my fathers. Oh, protect him!
PART II.
Enter MIRIAM after having deposited the child.
Mir. Yes, I have laid him in his wat'ry bed,
His wat'ry grave, I fear!-I tremble still;
It was a cruel task-still I must weep!
But ah, my mother! who shall sooth thy griefs!
The flags and sea-weeds will awhile sustain
Their precious load; but it must sink ere long!
Sweet babe, farewell! Yet think not I will leave
thee:
No, I will watch thee till the greedy waves
Devour thy little bark: I'll sit me down,
And sing to thee, sweet babe; thou can'st not
hear;
But 'twill amuse me, while I watch thy fate.
[She sits down on a bank, and sings.
SONG.
I.
THOU, who canst make the feeble strong,
O God of Israel, hear my song!
Not mine such notes as Egypt's daughter's
raise ;
'Tis thee, O God of Hosts, I strive to praise.
II.
Ye winds, the servants of the Lord,
Ye waves, obedient to his word,
Oh spare the babe committed to your trust;
And Israel shall confess the Lord is just!
III.
Though doom'd to find an early grave,
This infant, Lord, thy power can save,
And he, whose death's decreed by Pharaoh s
hand,
May rise a prophet to redeem the land.
[She rises and looks out.
What female form bends thitherward her
steps?
Of royal port she seems; perhaps some friend,
Rais'd by the guardian care of bounteous Hea-
ven,
To prop the falling house of Levi.-Soft!
I'll listen unperceiv'd; these trees will hide me.
[She stands behind.
Enter the PRINCESS OF EGYPT, attended by a train
of ladies.
Prin. No farther, virgins, here I mean to rest.
To taste the pleasant coolness of the breeze;
Perhaps to bathe in this translucent stream.
|
Did not our holy law* enjoin th' ablution
Frequent and regular, it still were needful
To mitigate the fervours of our clime.
Melita, stay-the rest at distance wait.
[They all go out, except one.
The PRINCESS looks out.
Sure, or I much mistake, or I perceive
A chest ; entangled in the reeds it seems :
Upon the sedgy margin of the Nile
Discern'st thou aught?
Mel. Something, but what I know not.
Prin. Go and examine what this sight may
[Exit maid.
mean.
MIRIAM behind.
O blest, beyond my hopes! he is discover'd;
My brother will be sav'd !-who is the stranger?
Ah! 'tis the princess, cruel Pharaoh's daughter.
If she resemble her inhuman sire,
She must be cruel too; yet fame reports her
Most merciful and mild.—Great Lord of all,
By whose good Spirit bounteous thoughts are
given
And deeds of love perform'd-be gracious now,
And touch her soul with mercy!
Prin.
Re-enter Melita.
Well, Melita!
Hast thou discover'd what the vessel is?
Mel. Oh, princess, I have seen the strangest
sight!
Within the vessel lies a sleeping babe,
A fairer infant have I never seen!
Prin. Who knows but some unhappy Hebrew
woman
Has thus expos'd her infant, to evade
The stern decree of my too cruel sire.
Unhappy mothers! oft my heart has bled
Powerless to save, yet hating to destroy.
In secret anguish o'er your slaughter'd sons;
Mel. Should this be so, my princess knows
the danger.
Prin. No danger should deter from acts of
mercy.
MIRIAM behind.
A thousand blessings on her princely head;
Prin. Too much the sons of Jacob have en-
dur'd
From Royal Pharaoh's unrelenting hate;
Too much our house has crush'd their alien
race.
Is 't not enough that cruel task-masters
Grind them by hard oppression? not enough
That iron bondage bows their spirits down?
Is 't not enough my sire his greatness owes,
His palaces, his fanes magnificent,
Those structures which the world with wonder
views,
To much insulted Israel's patient race?
To them his growing cities owe their splendour:
Their toils fair Rameses and Pythom built;
And shall we fill the measure of our crimes,
And crown our guilt with murder? and shall I
Sanction the sin I hate ? forbid it, Mercy!
* The ancient Egyptians used to wash their bodies
four times every twenty-four hours.
80
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Mel. I know thy royal father fears the Who stands a charm'd spectator of thy good.
strength
Of this still growing race, who flourish more
The more they are oppress'd: he dreads their
numbers.
Prin. Apis forbid! Pharaoh afraid of Israel!
Yet should this outcast race, this hapless people
Ere grow to such a formidable greatness,
(Which all the gods avert whom Egypt worship)
This infant's life can never serve their cause,
Nor can his single death prevent their greatness.
Mel. Trust not to that vain hope. By weakest
means
And most unlikely instrument, full oft
Are great events produc'd. This rescued child
Perhaps may live to serve his upstart race
More than an host.
Prin.
How ill it does beseem
Thy tender years and gentle womanhood,
To steel thy breast to Pity's sacred touch!
So weak, so unprotected is our sex,
So constantly expos'd, so very helpless,
That did not Heaven itself enjoin compassion,
Yet human policy should make us kind,
Lest in the rapid turn of Fortune's wheel,
We live to need the pity we refuse.
Yes, I will save him-Mercy, thou hast con-
quered!
Lead on-and from the rushes we'll remove
The feeble ark which cradles this poor babe.
[The PRINCESS and her maid go out.
MIRIAM comes forward.
How poor were words to speak my boundless
joy!
The princess will protect him; bless her,
Heaven!
[She looks out after the princess, and de-
scribes her action.
With what impatient steps she seeks the shore!
Now she approaches where the ark is laid!
With what compassion, with what angel sweet-
ness,
She bends to look upon the infant's face!
She takes his little hand in hers-he wakes-
She smiles upon him-hark, alas! he cries;
Weep on, sweet babe! weep on, till thou hast
touch'd
Each chord of pity, waken'd every sense
Of melting sympathy, and stolen her soul!
She takes him in her arms-O lovely princess!
How goodness heightens beauty! now she clasps
him
With fondness to her heart, she gives him now
With tender caution to her damnsel's arms:
She points her to the palace, and again
This way the princess bends her gracious steps;
The virgin train retire and bear the child.
Re-enter the PRINCESS.
Prin. Did ever innocence and infant beauty
Plead with such dumb but powerful eloquence?
If I, a stranger, feel these soft emotions,
What must the mother who expos'd him feel!
Go, fetch a woman of the Hebrew race,
That she may nurse the babe: and, by her garb,
Lo, such a one is here!
Mir.
Princess, all hail!
Forgive the bold intrusion of thy servant,
ness.
Prin. I have redeem'd an infant from the
waves,
Whom I intend to nurture as mine own.
Mir. My transports will betray me! [aside.
Gen'rous Princess !
Prin. Know'st thou a matron of the Hebrew
race
To whom I may confide him?
Mir.
Well I know
A prudent matron of the house of Levi ;
Her name Jochebed, is the wife of Amram;
Of gentle manners, fam'd throughout her tribe
For soft humanity; full well I know
That she will rear him with a mother's love.
[Aside.] Oh truly spoke a mother's love in-
deed!
To her despairing arms I mean to give
This precious trust: the nurse shall be the mo-
ther!
Prin. With speed conduct this matron to the
palace.
Yes, I will raise him up to princely greatness,
And he shall be my son; I'll have him train'd
By choicest sages, in the deepest lore
Of Egypt's sapient son ;-his name be Moses,
For I have drawn him from the perilous flood.
[They go out. She kneels.
Thou Great unseen! who causest gentle
deeds,
And smil'st on what thou causest; thus I bless
thee.
That thou did'st deign consult the tender make
Of yielding human hearts, when thou ordain'dst
Humanity a virtue! did'st not make it
A rigorous exercise to counteract
Some strong desire within ; to war and fight
Against the powers of Nature; but did'st bend
The natʼral bias of the soul to mercy :
Then mad'st that mercy duty! Gracious Power!
Mad'st the keen rapture exquisite as right;
Beyond the joys of sense; as pleasure sweet,
As reason vigorous, and as instinct strong!
PART III.
Enter JOCHEBED.
I've almost reach'd the place-with cautious
steps
I must approach the spot where he is laid,
Lest from the royal gardens any 'spy me:
-Poor babe! ere this the pressing calls of hun-
ger
Have broke thy short repose; the chilling waves,
Ere this have drench'd thy little shiv'ring limbs.
What must my babe have suffer'd!--No one
sees me !
But soft, does no one listen!--Ah! how hard,
How very hard for fondness to be prudent!
Now is the moment to embrace and feed him,
[She looks out.
Where's Miriam ? she has left her little charge,
Perhaps through fear; perhaps she was detected.
How wild is thought! how terrible is conjecture!
A mother's fondness frames a thousand fears,
With thrilling nerve feels every real ill,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
81
And shapes imagin'd miseries into being.
[She looks towards the river.
Ah me! where is he? soul-distracting sight!
He is not there-he's lost, he's gone, he 's
drown'd!
Toss'd by each beating surge my infant floats.
Cold, cold, and wat'ry is thy grave, my child !
O no-I see the ark-transporting sight!
[She goes towards it.
I have it here-Alas, the ark is empty!
The casket's left, the precious gem is gone!
You spar'd him, pitying spirits of the deep!
But vain your mercy; some insatiate beast,
Cruel as Pharaoh, took the life you spar'd-
And I shall never, never see my boy!
Enter MIRIAM.
Joch. Come and lament with me thy brother's
loss!
Mir. Come and adore with me the God of
Jacob!
Joch. Miriam-the child is dead!
Mir.
He lives! he lives!
Joch. Impossible--Oh, do not mock my grief!
See'st thou that empty vessel ?
Mir.
From that vessel
Th' Egyptian princess took him.
Joch.
Pharaoh's daughter?
Then still he will be slain: a bloodier death
Will terminate his woes.
Mir.
His life is safe;
For know, she means to rear him as her own.
Joch.
[Falls on her knees in rapture.
To God, the Lord, the glory be ascrib'd!
O magnify'd forever be thy might
Who mock'st all human forethought! who o'er-
rulest
The hearts of all sinners to perform thy work,
Defeating their own purpose! who canst plant
Unlook'd-for mercy in a heathen's heart,
And from the depth of evil bring forth good?
[She rises.
Mir. O blest event, beyond our warmest hopes!
Joch. What! shall my son be nurtur'd in a
court,
In princely grandeur bred? taught every art
And ev'ry wond'rous science Egypt knows?
Yet ah! I tremble Miriam; should he learn,
With Egypt's polish'd arts her baneful faith!
O worse exchange for death! yes, should he
learn
In yon proud palace to disown His hand
Who thus has sav'd him: should he e'er em-
brace
(As sure he will, if bred in Pharaoh's court)
The gross idolatries which Egypt owns,
Her graven images, her brutish gods,
Then shall I wish he had not been preserv'd
To shame his fathers and deny his faith.
Mir. Then to dispel thy fears and crown thy
joy,
Hear farther wonders-Know, the gen'rous
princess
To thine own care thy darling child commits.
Joch. Speak, while my joy will give me leave
[here,
Mir. By her commission'd, thou behold'st me
to listen!
To seek a matron of the Hebrew race
To nurse him: thou, my mother, art that matroni
I said I knew thee well; that thou would'st rear
him,
E'en with a mother's fondness; she who bare
him
(I told the princess) would not love him more.
Joch. Fountain of Mercy! whose pervading
eye
Can look within and read what passes there,
Accept my thoughts for thanks! I have no
words.
My soul, o'erfraught with gratitude, rejects
The aid of language-Lord! behold my heart.
Mir. Yes, thou shalt pour into his infant mind
The purest precepts of the purest faith.
Joch. O! I will fill his tender soul with virtue;
And warm his bosom with devotion's flame !
Aid me celestial Spirit! with thy grace,
And be my labours with thy influence crown'd!
Without it they were vain. Then, then, my
Miriam,
When he is furnish'd 'gainst the evil day,
With God's whole armour,* girt with sacred
truth,
And as a breastplate wearing righteousness,
Arm'd with the Spirit of God, the shield of faith,
And with the helinet of salvation crown'd,
Inur'd to watching and dispos'd to prayer;
Then may I send him to a dangerous court,
And safely trust him in a perilous world,
Too full of tempting snares and fond delusions!
Mir. May bounteous Heav'n thy pious cares
reward!
Joch. Ọ Amram! O my husband! when thou
com'st,
Wearied at night, to rest thee from the toils
Impos'd by haughty Pharaoh, what a tale
Have I to tell thee! Yes: thy darling son
Was lost, and is restor'd; was dead, and lives!
Mir. How joyful shall we spend the live-long
night
In praises to Jehovah; who thus mocks
All human foresight, and converts the means
Of seeming ruin into great deliverance !
Joch. Had not my child been doom'd to such
strange perils
As a fond mother trembles to recal,
He had not been preserv'd.
Mir.
And mark still farther;
Had he been sav'd by any other hand,
He had been still expos'd to equal ruin.
Joch. Then let us join to bless the hand of
Heaven,
That this poor outcast of the house of Israel,
Condemn'd to die by Pharaoh, kept in secret
By my advent'rous fondness; then expos'd
E'en by that very fondness which conceal'd
him,
Is now, to fill the wondrous round of mercy,
Preserv'd from perishing by Pharaoh's daughter,
Sav'd by the very hand which sought to crush
him.
Wise and unsearchable are all thy ways,
Thou God of Mercies-Lead me to my child.
* Thess. chap. 5. Ephes. chap. vi.
VOL. 1.
F
82
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
DAVID AND GOLIATH;
A SACRED DRAMA.
O bienheureux mille fois,
L'Enfant que le Seigneur aime,
Qui de bonne heure entend sa voix,
Et que ce Dieu diagne instruire lui-meme!
Loin du monde eleve; de tous les dons des Cieur,
Il est orne des sa naissance;
Et du mechant l'abord contagieux
N'altere point son innocence.-Athalie.
SAUL, king of Israel.
ABNER, his general.
JESSE.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
ELIAB,
ABINADAB,
David,
sons of Jesse.
GOLIATH, the Philistian giant.
Philistines, Israelites, &c. &c.
Chorus of Hebrew women.
The scene lies in the camp in the valley of Elah, and the adjacent plain.
The subject is taken from the seventh chapter of the First Book of Samuel.
PART I.
SCENE-A shepherd's tent on a plain.
DAVID, under a spreading tree, plays on his harp
and sings.
I.
pure;
With it, not undelightful is the haunt
Of wood, or lonely grove, or russet plain,
Made vocal by the Muse. With this lov'd harp,
This daily solace of my cares, I sooth'd
The melancholy monarch, when he lay
Smit by the chill and spirit-quenching hand
Of black despair. God of my fathers, hear me?
Here I devote my harp, my verse, myself,
To thy best service! gladly to proclaim
Glory to God on high, on earth good-will
To man; to pour my grateful soul before thee;
To sing thy pow'r, thy wisdom, and thy love,
And ev'ry gracious attribute; to paint
The charms of heaven-born Virtue! So shall I
(Though with long interval of worth) aspire
To imitate the work of saints above,
Of Cherub and of Seraphim. My heart,
My talents, all I am, and all I have,.
Is thine, O Father! Gracious Lord, accept
The humble dedication! Offer'd gifts
Of slaughter'd bulls and goats sacrificial
Thou hast refus'd: but lo, I come, O Lord!
To do thy will; the living sacrifice
Nor lead my heart astray; Of an obedient heart I lay before thee:
This humble off'ring more shall please thee,
Lord,
GREAT Lord of all things! Pow'r divine!
Breathe on this erring heart of mine
Thy grace serene and
Defend my frail, my erring youth,
And teach me this important truth,
The humble are secure!
II.
Teach me to bless my lowly lot,
Confin'd to this paternal cot,
Remote from regal state!
Content to court the cooling glade,
Inhale the breeze, enjoy the shade,
And love my humble fate.
III.
No anxious vigils here I keep,
No dreams of gold distract my sleep,
Nor blasting Envy's tainted gale
Pollutes the pleasures of the vale,
To vex my harmless day. Than horned bullocks, ceremonial rites,
IV.
Yon tow'r which rears its head so high,
And bids defiance to the sky,
Invites the hostile winds:
Yon branching oak extending wide,
Provokes destruction by its pride,
New moons, and Sabbaths, passovers, and fasts!
Yet those I too will keep; but not in lieu
Of holiness substantial, inward worth;
As commutation cheap for pious deeds
And purity of life, but as the types
And courts the fall it finds. Of inward holiness and secret truth.
Of better things; as fair external signs
V.
Then let me shun th' ambitious deed,
And all the dang'rous paths which lead
To honours falsely won;
Lord! in thy sure protection blest,
Submissive will I ever rest,
And may thy will be done!
[He lays down his harp and rises.
David. Methinks this shepherd's life were
dull and tasteless
Without the charm of soothing song or harp;
But see, my father, good old Jesse comes!
To cheer the setting evening of whose life,
Content, a simple shepherd here I dwell,
Though Israel is in arms; and royal Saul,
Encamp'd in yonder field, defies Philistia.
JESSE, DAVID.
Jesse. Blest be the gracious pow'r who gave
my age
To boast a son like thee! Thou art the staff
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
83
Which props my bending years, and makes me, Belov'd Jerusalem! O War! what art thou?
At once the proof and scourge of man's fall'n
state!
bear
The heavy burden of declining age
With fond complacence. How unlike thy fate, After the brightest conquest, what appears
O venerable Eli! But two sons,
But only two to gild the dim remains
Of life's departing day, and bless thy age,
And both were curses to thee! Witness, Heaven,
In all the cruel catalogue of pains
Humanity turns o'er, if there be one
So terrible to human tenderness
As an unnatural child!
David. O! my lov'd father!
Long may'st thou live, in years and honours
rich;
To taste and to communicate the joys,
The thousand fond endearing charities,
Of tenderness domestic; Nature's best
And loveliest gift, with which she well atones
The niggard boon of fortune.
Jesse.
O! my son!
Of all the graces which adorn thy youth,
I, with a father's fondness, must commend
Thy try'd humility. For though the seer
Pour'd on thy chosen head, the sacred oil
In sign of future greatness, in sure pledge
Of highest dignity, yet here thou dwell'st
Content with toil and careless of repose;
And (harder still for an ingenuous mind)
Content to be obscure; content to watch
With careful eye, thy humble father's flock!
O earthly emblem of celestial things!
So Israel's shepherd watches o'er his fold:
The weak ones in his fost'ring bosom bears:
And gently leads in his sustaining hand,
The feeble ones with young.
David.
Know'st thou, my father,
Aught from the field? for though so near the
camp,
Though war's proud ensigns stream on yonder
plain,
And all Philistia's swarming hosts encamp,
Oppos'd to royal Saul, beneath whose banners
My brothers lift the spear-I have not left
My fleecy charge, by thee committed to me,
To learn the various fortunes of the war.
Jesse. And wisely hast thou done. Thrice
happy realm,
Who shall submit one day to his command
Who can so well obey! Obedience leads
To certain honours. Not the tow'ring wing
Of eagle-plum'd ambition mounts so surely
To fortune's highest summit, as obedience.
{A distant sound of trumpets.
But why that sudden ardour, O my son?
That trumpet's sound (though so remote its
voice,
We
e hardly catch the echo as it dies)
Has rous'd the mantling crimson in thy cheek,
Kindled the martial spirit in thine eye;
And my young shepherd feels an hero's fire!
David. Thou hast not told the posture of the
war,
And much my beating bosom pants to hear.
Jesse. Uncertain is the fortune of the field.
I tremble for thy brothers, thus expos'd
To constant peril; nor for them alone
Does the quick feeling agonize my heart.
I feel for all!-I mourn, that ling'ring War
Still hangs his banner o'er my native land.
Of all thy glories? for the vanquish'd, chains!
For the proud victor, what? Alas! to reign
O'er desolated nations! a drear waste,
By one man's crime, by one man's lust of pow'r,
Unpeopled! Ravag'd fields assume the place
Of smiling harvests, and uncultur'd plains
Succeed the fertile vineyard; barren waste
Deforms the spot once rich with luscious fig
And the fat olive.-Devastation reigns.
Here, rifled temples are the cavern'd dens
Of savage beasts, or haunt of birds obscene;
There, pop'lous cities blacken in the sun,
And in the general wreck, proud palaces.
Lie undistinguish'd save by the dun smoke
Of recent conflagration. When the song
Of dear-bought joy, with many a triumph
swell'd,
Salutes the victor's ear, and soothes his pride,
How is the grateful harmony profan'd
With the sad dissonance of virgin's cries,
Who mourn their brothers slain! of matrons
hoar,
Who clasp their wither'd hands, and fondly ask,
With iteration shrill, their slaughter'd sons!
How is the laurel's verdure stain'd with blood,
And soil'd with widows' tears!
David.
Thrice mournful truth!
Yet when our country's sacred rights are
menac'd;
Her firm foundations shaken to their base;
When all we love, and all that we revere,
Our hearths and altars, children, parents, wives,
Our liberties and laws; the throne they guard,
Are scorn'd and trampl'd on-then, then, my
father!
'Tis then Religion's voice; then God himself
Commands us to defend his injur'd name,
And think the victory cheaply bought with life.
'Twere then inglorious weakness, mean self-
love :
To lie inactive, when the stirring voice
Of the shrill trumpet wakes the patriot youth,
| And, with heroic valour, bids them dare
The foul idolatrous bands, e'en to the death.
Jesse. God and thy country claim the life
they gave;
No other cause can sanctify resentment.
David. Sure virtuous friendship is a noble
cause!
O were the princely Jonathan in danger,
How would I die, well pleas'd, in his defence;
When, 'twas long since, then but a stripling boy
I made short sojourn in his father's palace,
(At first to soothe his troubled mind with song
His armour-bearer next) I well remember
The gracious bounties of the gallant prince.
How would he sit, attentive to my strain,
While to my harp I sung the harmless joys
Which crown a shepherd's life! How would he
cry,
Bless'd youth! far happier in thy native worth,
Far richer in the talent Heav'n has lent thee,
Than if a crown hung o'er thy anxious brow.
The jealous monarch mark'd our growing
friendship;
And as my favour grew with those about him,-
i
84
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
His royal bounty lessen'd, till at length,
For Bethl'hem's safer shades I left the court.
Nor would these alter'd features now be known,
Grown into manly strength; nor this chang'd
form,
Enlarg'd with age, and clad in russet weed.
Jesse. I have employment for thee, my lov'd
son!
Will please thy active spirit. Go, my boy!
Haste to the field of war, to yonder camp,
Where in the vale of Elah mighty Saul
Commands the hosts of Israel. Greet thy bro-
thers;
Observe their deeds, note their demeanour well,
And mark if on their actions Wisdom waits.
Bear to them too (for well the waste of war
Will make it needful) such plain healthful viands
As furnish out our frugal shepherd's meal.
And to the valiant captain of their host
Present such rural gifts as suit our fortune :
Heap'd on the board within my tent thou'lt find
them.
David. With joy I'll bear thy presents to my
brothers;
And to the valiant captain of their host
The rural gifts thy gratitude assigns him.
Delightful task for I shall view the camp!
What transport to behold the tented field,
The pointed spear, the blaze of shields and arms,
And all the proud accoutrements of war!
But, oh! far dearer transport would it yield me,
Could this right arm alone avenge the cause
Of injur'd Israel! could my single death
Preserve the guiltless thousands doom'd to bleed!
Jesse. Let not thy youth be dazzled, O my
son!
With deeds of bold emprize, as valour only
Were virtue, and the gentle arts of peace,
Of truth, and justice, were not worth thy care.
When thou shalt view the splendours of the war,
The gay caparison, the burnish'd shield,
The plume-crown'd helmet, and the glitt'ring
spear,
Scorn not the humble virtues of the shade,
Nor think that Heav'n views only with applause
The active merit and the busy toil
Of herces, statesmen, and the bustling sons
Of public care. These have their just reward,
In wealth, in honours, and the well-earned fame
Their high achievements bring. 'Tis in this
view
That virtue is her proper recompence:
Wealth, as its natural consequence, will flow
From industry: toil with success is crown'd:
From splendid actions high renown will spring.
Such is the usual course of human things;
For Wisdom Infinite permits, that thus
Effects to causes be proportionate,
And natʼral ends by nat'ral means achiev'd.
But in the future estimate which Heaven
Will make of things terrestrial, know, my son,
That no inferior blessing is reserv'd
For the mild passive virtues : meek content,
Heroic self-denial, nobler far
Eternal Justice keeps them for the bliss
Of final recompence, for the dread day
Of gen'ral retribution. O, my son!
The ostentatious virtues which still press
For notice and for praise; the brilliant deeds
Which live but in the eye of observation,
These have their meed at once. But there's a
joy
To the fond votaries of Fame unknown,
To hear the still small voice of Conscience speak
Its whispering plaudit to the silent soul.
Heaven notes the sigh afflicted Goodness heaves;
Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard,
And from the cheek of patient Sorrow wipes
The tear, by mortal eye unseen or scorn'd.
David. As Hermon's dews their grateful
freshness shed,
And cheer the herbage, and the flow'rs renew,
So do thy words a quickening balm infuse,
And grateful sink in my delighted soul.
Jesse. Go then, my child! and may the gra-
cious God
Who bless'd our fathers, bless my much lov'd
son!
David. Farewell, my father!--and of this be
sure,
That not one precept from thy honour'd lips
Shall fall by me unnotic'd; not one grace,
One venerable virtue which adorns
Thy daily life, but I, with watchful care
And due observance, will in mine transplant it.
[Exit DAVID.
Jesse. He's gone! and still my aching eyes
pursue
And strain their orbs still longer to behold him.
Oh! who can tell when next I may embrace
him?
Who can declare the counsels of the Lord?
Or when the moment preordain'd by Heav'n
To fill his great designs, may come? This son,
This blessing of my age, is set apart
For high exploits; the chosen instrument
Of all-disposing Heav'n for mighty deeds.
Still I recall the day, and to my mind
The scene is ever present, when the seer,
Illustrious Samuel, to the humble shades
Of Bethlehem came, pretending sacrifice,
To screen his errand from the jealous king.
He sanctify'd us first, me and my sons;
For sanctity increas'd should still precede
Increase of dignity. When he declar'd
He came commission'd from on high to find,
Among the sons of Jesse, Israel's king,
Astonishment entranc'd my wond'ring soul!
Yet was it not a wild, tumultuous bliss;
Such rash delight as promis'd honours yield
To light vain minds: no, 'twas a doubtful joy,
Chastis'd by tim'rous Virtue, lest a gift
So splendid and so dang'rous might destroy
Him it was meant to raise. My eldest born,
Eliab, tall of stature, I presented;
But God, who judges not by outward form,
But tries the heart, forbade the holy prophet
To choose my eldest born. For Saul, he said,
Gave proof, that fair proportion, and the grace
Than all th' achievements noisy Fame reports,
When her shrill trump proclaims the proud suc-Of limb and feature, ill repaid the want
cess
Which desolates the nations. But, on earth,
These are not always prosperous-mark the
cause :.
Of virtue. All my other sons alike
By Samuel were rejected; till, at last,
On my young boy, on David's chosen head,-
The prophet pour'd the consecrated oil.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
85
Yet ne'er did pride elate him, ne'er did scorn
For his rejected elders swell his heart.
Not in such gentle charity to him
His haughtier brothers live: but all he pardons.
To meditation, and to humble toil,
To pray'r, and praise devoted, here he dwells.
O may the Graces which adorn retreat
One day delight a court! record his name
With saints and prophets, dignify his race,
And may the sacred songs his leisure frames
Instruct mankind, and sanctify a world!
PART II.
Scene-The Camp.
ELIAB, ABINADAB, ABNER, ISRAELITES.
What dost thou here? Is it to sooth thy pride,
And gratify thy vain desire to roam
In quest of pleasures unallow'd? or com'st thou,
A willing spy, to note thy brothers' deeds?
Where hast thou left those few poor straggling
sheep?
More suited to thy ignorance and years
The care of those, than here to wander idly :
Why cam'st thou hither?
David.
Is there not a cause?
Why that displeasure kindling in thine eye,
My angry brother? why those taunts unkind?
Not idly bent on sport; not to delight
Mine eye with all this gay parade of war;
To gratify a roving appetite,
Or fondly to indulge a curious ear
With any tale of rumour, am I come;
But to approve myself a loving brother.
I bring the blessing of your aged sire,
Eliab. Still is the event of this long war un- With gifts of such plain cates and rural viands
certain :
Still do the adverse hosts, on either side,
Protract, with ling'ring caution, an encounter,
Which must to one be fatal.
Abinidab.
This descent,
Thus to the very confines of our land,
Proclaims the sanguine hope that fires the foe.
In Ephes-dammin boldly they encamp;
Th' uncircumcis'd Philistines pitch their tents
On Judah's hallow'd earth.
Eliab.
Full forty days
Has the insulting giant, proud Goliath,
The champion of Philistia, fiercely challeng'd
Some Israelitish foe. But who so vain
To dare such force unequal? who so bent
On sure destruction, to accept his terms,
And rush on death, beneath the giant force
Of his enormous bulk?
Abinadab.
'Tis near the time
When in the adjacent valley which divides
Th' opposing armies he is wont to make
His daily challenge.
Eliab.
Much I marvel, brother,
No greetings from our father reach our ears.
With ease and plenty bless'd, he little recks
The daily hardships which his sons endure.
But see! behold his darling boy approaches!
Abin. How, David here! whence this un-
look'd-for guest?
Eliab. A spy upon our actions; sent, no doubt,
To scan our deeds, with beardless gravity
Affecting wisdom; to observe each word,
To magnify the venial faults of youth,
And construe harmless mirth to foul offence.
Enter DAVID.
David. All hail, my dearest brothers!
Eliab.
Means thy greeting
True love, or arrogant scorn?
David.
O, most true love!
Sweet as the precious ointment which bedew'd
The sacred head of Aaron, and descended
Upon his hallow'd vest, so sweet, my brothers,
Is fond fraternal amity; such love
As my touch'd bosom feels at your approach.
Eliab. Still that fine glozing speech, those
holy saws,
And all that trick of studied sanctity,
Of smooth-turn'd periods and trim eloquence,
Which charms thy doating father! But confess,
As suit his frugal fortune. Tell me now,
Where the bold captain of your host encamps?
Eliab. Wherefore inquire? what boots it thee
to know?
Behold him there: great Abner, fam'd in arms.
David. I bring thee, mighty Abner from my
father,
(A simple shepherd swain in yonder vale)
Such humble gifts as shepherd swains bestow.
Abner. Thanks, gentle youth! with pleasure
I receive
Thus wander with unsatisfi'd delight?
The grateful off'ring. Why does thy quick eye
David. New as I am to all the trade of war,
Each sound has novelty; each thing I see
Attracts attention; every noise I hear
Awakes confus'd emotions; indistinct,
Yet full of charming tumult, sweet distraction.
'Tis all delightful hurry! Oh! the joy
Of young ideas painted on the mind,
In the warm glowing colours fancy spread
On objects not yet known, when all is new,
And all is lovely! Ah! what warlike sound
Salutes my ravish'd ear?
[Sound of trumpets.
Abner.
'Tis the Philistine
His near approach. Each morning he repeats
Proclaiming, by his herald, through the ranks,
His challenge to our bands.
David.
Who is he?·
Ha! what Philistine ?
Eliab. Wherefore ask? for thy raw youth
And rustic ignorance, 'twere fitter learn
Some rural art! some secret to prevent
Contagion in thy flocks; some better means
To save their fleece immaculate. These mean
arts
Of soft inglorious peace far better suit
Thy low obscurity, than thus to seek
High things pertaining to exploits of arms.
David. Urg'd as I am I will not answer thee
Who conquers his own spirit, O my brother!
He is the only conqueror.-Again
That shout mysterious! Pray you (to Abner) tell
me who
This proud Philistine is, who sends defiance
To Israel's hardy chieftians?
Abner.
Stranger youth!
So lovely and so mild is thy demeanor,
So gentle and so patient; such the air
-
86
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Of candour and of courage which adorns
Thy blooming features, thou hast won my love:
And I will tell thee.
David.
Mighty Abner, thanks!
Abner. Thrice, and no more, he sounds, his
daily rule!
This man of war, this champion of Philistia,
Is of the sons of Anak's giant-race:
Goliath is his name. His fearful stature,
Unparalell'd in Israel, measures more
Than twice three cubits. On his tow'ring head
A helm of burnish'd brass the giant wears,
So pond'rous, it would crush the stoutest man
In all our hosts. A coat of mailed armour
Guards his capacious trunk! compar'd with
which,
The amplest oak that spreads his rugged arms
In Bashan's groves, were small. About his
neck
A shining corslet hangs. On his vast thigh
The plaited cuiras, firmly jointed, stands.
But who shall tell the wonders of his spear,
And hope to gain belief! Of massive iron
Its temper'd frame, not less than the broad beam
To which the busy weayer hangs his loom :
Not to be wielded by a mortal hand,
Save by his own. An armour bearer walks
Before this mighty, champion, in his hand
Bearing the giant's shield. Thrice ev'ry morn
His herald sounds the trumpet of defiance!
Off'ring at once to end the long-drawn war
In single combat 'gainst that hardy foe
Who dares encounter him.
David.
Say, mighty Abner,
What are the haughty terms of his defiance?
Abner. Proudly he stalks around th' extre-
mest bounds
Of Elah's vale. His herald sounds the note
Of offer'd battle. Then the furious giant,
With such a voice as from the troubled sky
In vollied thunder breaks, thus sends his chal-
lenge:
Why do you set your battle in array,
Ye men of Israel? Wherefore waste the lives
Of needless thousands? Why protract a war
Which may at once be ended? Are not you
Servants to Saul your king? and am not I
With triumph let me speak it, a Philistine?
Choose out a man from all your armed hosts,
Of courage most approv'd, and I will meet him;
His single arm to mine. Th' event of this
Shall fix the fate of Israel and Philistia.
If victory favour him, then will we live
Your tributary slaves; but if my arm
Be crown'd with conquest, you shall then live
ours.
Give me a man, if your effeminate bands
A man can boast. Your armies I defy "'
David. What shall be done to him who shall
subdue
This vile idolater?
Abner.
He shall receive
Such ample bounties, such profuse rewards,
As might inflame the old, or warm the coward,
Were not the odds so desperate.
David.
Say, what are they?
Abner. The royal Saul has promis'd that
bold hero
Who should encounter and subdue Goliath,
All dignity and favour; that his house
Shall be set free from tribute, and ennobled
With the first honours Israel has to give.
As for the gallant conqueror himself,
No less a recompence than the fair princess,
Our monarch's peerless daughter.
Beauteous Michael!
David.
It is indeed a boon which kings might strive
for.
And has none answer'd yet this bold defiance?
What! all this goodly host of Israelites!
God's own peculiar people! all afraid,
T'assert God's injur'd honour and their own?
Where is the king, who in his early youth
Wrought deeds of fame! Where princely Jona-
than ?
Not so the gallant youth Philistia fear'd
At Bozez and at Seneh ;* when the earth
Shook from her deep foundations to behold
The wond'rous carnage of his single hand
On the uncircumcis'd. When he exclaim'd,
With glorious confidence-Shall numbers awe
me?
God will protect his own with him to save
It boots not, friends, by many or by few.'
This was an hero! Why does he delay
To meet this boaster? For thy courtesy,
Thrice noble Abner, I am bound to thank thee!
Wouldst thou complete thy gen'rous offices?
I dare not ask it.
Abner.
Speak thy wishes freely:
My soul inclines to serve thee.
David.
Then, O Abner,
Conduct me to the king! There is a cause
Will justify this boldness!
Eliab.
Braggard, hold!
Abner. F take thee at thy word; and will,
with speed,
Conduct thee to my royal master's presence.
In yonder tent the anxious monarch waits
Th' event of this day's challenge.
Noble Abner,
Accept my thanks. Now to thy private ear,
If so thy grace permit I will unfold
David.
My secret soul, and ease my lab'ring breast,
Which pants with high designs, and beats for
glory.
PART III.
Scene.-Saul's tent.
Saul. WHY was I made a king? what I have
gain'd
In envy'd greatness and uneasy pow'r,
I've lost in peace of mind, in virtue lost!
Why did deceitful transports fire my soul
When Samuel plac'd upon my youthful brow
The crown of Israel? I had known content,
Nay happiness, if happiness unmix'd
To mortal man were known, had I still liv'd
Among the humble tents of Benjamin.
A shepherd's occupation was my joy,
And every guiltless day was crown'd with peace,
But now, a sullen cloud forever hangs
O'er the faint sunshine of my brightest hours,
Dark'ning the golden promise of the morn.
I ne'er shall taste the dear domestic joys
* 1 Samuel, xiv,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
87
*
My meanest subjects know. True, I have sons,
Whose virtues would have charm'd a private
man,
And drawn down blessings on their humble sire.
I love their virtues too; but 'tis a love
Which jealousy has poison'd. Jonathan
Is all a father's fondness could conceive
Of amiable and good-Of that no more!
He is too popular; the people doat
Upon th' ingenuous graces of his youth.
Curs'd popularity! which makes a father
Detest the merit of a son he loves,
How did their fond idolatry, perforce,
Rescue his sentenc'd life, when doom'd by lot
To perish at Beth-aven,* for the breach
Of strict injunction, that of all my bands,
Not one that day should taste of food and live!
My subjects clamour at this tedious war,
Yet of my num'rous arm'd chiefs not one
Has courage to engage this man of Gath.
O for a champion bold enough to face
This giant-boaster, whose repeated threats
Strike through my inmost soul! There was a
inmost soul! There was a
time--
Of that no more! I am not what I was.
Should valiant Jonathan accept the challenge,
'Twould but increase his influence, raise his
fame,
And make the crown sit lightly on my brow.
Ill could my wounded spirit brook the voice
Of harsh comparison 'twixt sire and son.
SAUL, ABNER.
Abner. What meditation holds thee thus
engag'd,
O king! and keeps thine active spirit bound;
When busy war for other cares demands
Than ruminating thought and pale despair?
Saul. Abner draw near. My weary soul sinks
down
Beneath the heavy pressure of misfortune.
O for that spirit which inflam'd my breast
With sudden fervour, when, among the seers
And holy sages my prophetic voice
Was heard attentive, and th' astonish'd throng,
Wond'ring, exclaim'd,-' Is Saul among the
prophets?'
Where's that bold arm which quell'd the Amale-
kite,
And nobly spar'd fierce Agag and his flocks?
'Tis past! the light of Israel now is quench'd:
Shorn of his beams, my sun of glory sets!
Rise Moab, Edom, angry Ammon rise!
Come Gaza, Ashdod come! let Ekron boast,
And Askelon rejoice, for Saul is—nothing.
Abner. I bring thee news, O king!
Saul.
My valiant uncle!
What can avail thy news? A soul oppress'd
Refuses still to hear the charmer's voice,
Howe'er enticingly he charm. What news
Can soothe my sickly soul, while Gath's fell
giant
Repeats each morning to my frighten'd hosts
His daring challenge, none accepting it?
Abner. It is accepted.
Saul. Ha! By whom? how? when ?
What prince, what gen'ral, what illustrious
hero,
* 1 Samuel, xiv.
|
What vet'ran chief, what warrior of renown,
Will dare to meet the haughty foes defiance?
Speak, my brave gen'ral! noble Abner speak!
Abner. No prince, no warrior, no illustrious
chief,
No vet'ran hero dares accept the challenge;
But what will move thy wonder, mighty king,
One train❜d to peaceful deeds, and new to arms,
A simple shepherd swain !
Saul.
O mockery!
No more of this light tale, it suits but ill
Thy bearded gravity: or rather tell it
To credulous age, or weak believing women;
They love whate'er is marvellous, and doat
On deeds prodigious and incredible,
Which sober sense rejects. I laugh to think
Of thy extravagance. A shepherd's boy
Encounter him whom nations dread to meet!
Abner. Is valour then peculiar to high birth?
If Heav'n had so decreed, know, scornful king,
That Saul the Benjamite had never reign'd.
No!-Glory darts her soul-pervading ray
On thrones and cottages, regardless still
Of all the artificial, nice distinctions
Vain human customs make.
Saul.
Where is this youth?
Abner. Without thy tent he waits. Such
humble sweetness,
Fir'd with the secret conscience of desert;
Such manly bearing, temper'd with such soft-
ness,
And so adorn'd with ev'ry outward charm
Of graceful form and feature, saw I never.
Saul. Bring me the youth.
Abner.
He waits thy royal pleasure.
[Exit Abner.
Saul. What must I think? Abner himself is
brave,
And skill'd in human kind: nor does he judge
So lightly, to be caught by specious words
And Fraud's smooth artifice, were there not
marks
Of worth intrinsic. But behold he comes!
The youth too with him! Justly did he praise
The candour which adorns his open brow.
Re-enter Abner and David.
David. Hail mighty king!
Abner. Behold thy proffer'd champion!
Saul. Art thou the youth whose high heroic
zeal
Aspires to meet the giant son of Anak?
David. If so the king permit.
Saul.
Impossible!
Why, what experience has thy youth of arms?
Where, stripling, didst thou learn the trade of
war?
Beneath what hoary vet'ran hast thou serv'd?
What feats hast thou achiev'd, what daring
deeds?
What well-rang'd phalanx, say, what charging
hosts,
What hard campaigns, what sieges hast thou
seen?
Hast thou e'er scal'd the city's rampir'd wall
Or hurl'd the missile dart, or learn'd to poise
The warrior's deathful spear? The use of targe,
Of helm, and buckler, is to thee unknown.
David. Arms I have seldom seen. I little
know
88
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Abner. So the bold Nazarite* a lion slew:
Saul. Go, Abner; see the youth be well
equipp'd
Of war's proud discipline. The trumpet's clang,
The shock of charging hosts, the rampir'd wall, | An earnest of his victories o'er Philistia!
Th' embattled phalanx, and the warrior's spear,
The use of targe and helm to me is new.
My zeal for God, my patriot love of Israel,
My reverence for my king, behold my claims!
Saul. But gentle youth! thou hast no fame in
arins,
Renown, with her shrill clarion, never bore
Thy honour'd name to many a land remote ;
From the fair regions where Euphrates laves
Assyria's borders to the distant Nile.
David. True, mighty king! I am indeed alike
Unbless'd by Fortune and to Fame unknown;
A lowly shepherd-swain of Judah's tribe:
But greatness ever springs from low beginnings.
That very Nile thou mention'st, whose broad
stream
Bears fruitfulness and health through many a
clime,
From an unknown, penurious, scanty source
Took its first rise. The forest oak, which shades
The sultry troops in many a toilsome march
Once an unheeded acorn lay. O king!
Who ne'er begins can never aught achieve
Of glorious. Thou thyself wast once unknown,
Till fair occasion brought thy worth to light.
Far higher views inspire my youthful heart
Than human praise: I seek to vindicate
Th' insulted honour of the God I serve.
Abner. 'Tis nobly said.
Saul.
I love thy spirit, youth!
Eut dare not trust thy inexperienc'd arm
Against a giant's might. The sight of blood,
Though brave thou feel'st when peril is not nigh,
Will pale thy ardent cheek.
David.
Not so, O king!
This youthful arm has been imbru'd in blood
Though yet no blood of man has ever stain'd it.
Thy servant's occupation is a shepherd.
With jealous care I watch'd my father's flock :
A brindled lion and a furious bear
Forth from the thicket rush'd upon the fold,
Seiz'd a young lamb, and tore their bleating
spoil.
Urg'd by compassion for my helpless charge,
I felt a new-born vigour nerve my arm;
And, eager, on the foaming monsters rush'd.
The famish'd lion by his grisly beard,
Enrag'd, I caught, and smote him to the ground.
The panting monster struggling in my gripe,
Shook terribly his bristling mane, and lash'd
His own gaunt, gory sides; fiercely he ground
His gnashing teeth, and rolled his starting cyes,
Bloodshot with agony; then with a groan,
That wak'd the echoes of the mountain, died.
Nor did his grim associate 'scape my arm;
Thy servant slew the lion and the bear;
:
I kill'd them both, and bore their shaggy spoils
In triumph home and shall I fear to meet
Th' uncircumcis'd Philistine? No: that God
Who sav'd me from the bear's destructive fang
And hungry lion's jaw, will not he save me
From this idolater?
Saul.
He will, he will!
Go, noble youth! be valiant and be bless'd!
The God thou serv'st will shield thee in the
fight,
|
With shield and spear. Be it thy care to grace
him
With all the fit accoutrements of war.
The choicest mail from my rich armory take,
And gird upon his thigh my own try'd sword
Of noblest temper'd steel.
Abner.
David. Pardon, O king! the coat of plaited
mail
I shall obey.
These limbs have never known; it would not
shield,
"Twould but encumber one who never felt
The weight of armour.
Saul.
Take thy wish, my son !
Thy sword then, and the God of Jacob guard
thee!
PART IV.
Scene-Another part of the camp.
DAVID (kneeling.)
ETERNAL Justice! in whose awful scale
Th' event of battle hangs! Eternal Truth!
Whose beams illumines all! Eternal Mercy!
If, by thy attributes I may, unblam'd,
Address thee; Lord of glory! hear me now:
O teach these hands to war, these arms to fight!
Thou ever present help in time of need!
Let thy broad mercy, as a shield, defend,
And let thine everlasting arms support me!
Strong in thy strength, in thy protection safe
Then, though the heathen rage, I shall not fear.
Jehovah, be my buckler! Mighty Lord!
Thou who hast deign'd by humble instruments
To manifest the wonders of thy might,
Be present with me now! 'Tis thine own cause!
Thy wisdom sees events, thy goodness plans
Schemes baffling our conception-and, 'tis still
Omnipotence which executes the deed
Of high design, though by a feeble arm!
I feel a secret impulse drive me on;
And my soul springs impatient for the fight!
'Tis not the heated spirits, or warm blood
Of sanguine youth with which my bosom burns;
And, though I thirst to meet th' insulting foe,
And pant for glory, 'tis not, witness Heav'n!
'Tis not the sinful lust of fading fame,
The perishable praise of mortal man;
His praise I covet, whose applause is Life.
DAVID, ELIAB, ISRAELITES.
Eliab. What do I hear? thou truant! thou
hast dar'd
E'en to the awful presence of the king
Bear thy presumption !
David.
He who fears the Lord
Shall boldly stand before the face of kings,
And shall not be asham'd.
Eliab.
But what wild dream
Has urg'd thee to this deed of desp'rate rash-
ness?
Thou mean'st, so I have learn'd, to meet Goliath,
And nerve thy arm with more than mortal His single arm to thine.
strength.
* Samson. See Judges, chap. xiv.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
89
David.
'Tis what I purpose,
Ev'n on this spot. Each moment I expect
His wish'd approach.
Eliab.
Go home; return, for shame!
Nor madly draw destruction on thy head.
Thy doating father, when thy shepherd's coat,
Drench'd in thy blood, is brought him, will la-
ment,
And rend his furrow'd cheek and silver hair,
As if some mighty loss had touch'd his age;
And mourn, ev'n as the partial patriarch
mourn'd
When Joseph's bloody garment he receiv'd
From his less dear, nor less deserving, sons:
But whence that glitt'ring ornament which
hangs
Useless upon thy thigh?
David.
Tis the king's gift.
But thou art right; it suits not me, my brother!
Nor sword 1 mean to use, nor spear to poise,
Lest men should say I put my trust in arms,
Not in the Lord of Hosts.
Eliab.
Then thou indeed
Art bent to seek thy death?
David.
And what is death?
Is it so terrible to die, my brother?
Or grant it terrible, is it for that
The less inevitable? If, indeed
We could by stratagem elude the blow,
When some high duty calls us forth to die,
And thus for ever shun it, and escape
The universal lot,--then fond self-love,
Then cautious Prudence, boldly might produce
Their fine-spun arguments, their learn'd ha-
rangues,
Their cobweb arts, their phrase sophistical,
Their subtle doubts, and all the specious trick
Of selfish cunning lab'ring for its end.
But since, howe'er protracted, death will come,
Why fondly study, with ingenious pains,
To put it off! To breathe a little longer
Is to defer our fate, but not to shun it.
Small gain which Wisdom with indiff'rent eye
Beholds. Why wish to drink the bitter dregs
Of life's exhausted chalice, whose last runnings,
Ev'n at the best, are vapid! Why not die
(If Heav'n so will) in manhood's op'ning bloom,
When all the flush of life is gay about us!
When sprightly youth with many a new-born
joy,
Solicits every sense! So may we then
Present a sacrifice, unmect indeed,
(Ah, how unmeet!) but less unworthy far,
Than the world's leavings; than a worn out
heart,
By vice enfeebled, and by vain desires
Sunk and exhausted!
Eliab.
David.
Of multitudes approaching!
Hark! I hear a sound
"Tis the giant!
I see him not, but hear his measur'd pace.
Eliub. Look, where his pond'rous shield is
borne before him!
David. Like a broad moon its ample disk
portends.
But soft!--what unknown prodigy appears?
A moving mountain cas'd in polish'd brass!
Eliab (getting behind David) How's this?
Thou dost not tremble. Thy firm joints
Betray no fear; thy accents are not broken;
Thy cheek retains its red; thine eye its lustre,
He comes more near! Dost thou not fear him
now?
David.
No,
The vast colossal statue nor inspires
Respect nor fear. Mere magnitude of form,
| Without proportion'd intellect and valour,
Strikes not my soul with rev'rence or with awe.
Eliab. Near, and more near he comes! I hold
it rash
To stay so near him, and expose a life
Which may, hereafter serve the state.
Farewell.
[Exit.
The
[GOLIATH advances, clad in complete armour.
One bearing his shield precedes him.
opposing armies are seen at a distance, drawn
up on each side of the valley. GOLIATH begins
to speak before he comes on. DAVID stands in
the same place, with an air of indifference.]
Goliath. Where is this mighty man of war,
who dares
Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief?
What victor king, what gen'ral drench'd in
blood,
Claims this high privilege? What are his
rights ?
What proud credentials does the boaster bring
To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes?
What ruin'd provinces? What slaughter'd
realms ?
What heads of heroes, and what hearts of kings,
In battle kill'd, or at his altars slain,
Has he to boast? Is his bright armory
Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats
of mail
Of vanquish'd nations, by his single arm
Subdu'd? Where is the mortal man so bold,
So much a wretch, so out of love with life,
To dare the weight of this uplifted spear,
Which never fell innoxious? Yet I swear,
I grudge the glory to this parting soul
To fall by this right hand. 'Twill sweeten
death,
To know he had the honour to contend
With the dread son of Anak. Latest time
From blank oblivion shall retrieve his name
Who dar'd to perish in unequal fight
With Gath's triumphant champion. Come, ad-
vance.
Philistia's gods to Israel's. Sound, my herald--
Sound for the battle straight.
David.
[Herald sounds the trumpet.
Behold thy foe!
Goliath. I see him not.
David.
Goliath.
Behold him here!
Say, where!
Direct my sight. I do not war with boys.
David. I stand prepar'd: thy single arm to
mine.
Goliath. Why this is mockery, minion! it
may chance
To cost thee dear. Sport not with things above
thee!
But tell me who of all this num'rous host
Expects his death from me? Which is the man
Whom Israel sends to meet my bold defiance?
David. Th' election of my sov'reign falls on
me.
90
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Goliath. On thee! on thee! By Dagon, 'tis
too much!
Thou curled minion! thou a nation's champion!
'Twould move my mirth at any other time;
But trifling 's out of tune, begone, light boy!
And tempt me not too far.
David.
I do defy thee,
Thou foul idolator! Hast thou not scorn'd
The armies of the living God I serve?
By me he will avenge upon thy head
Thy nation's sins and thine. Arm'd with his
name,
Unshrinking, I dare meet the stoutest foe
That ever bath'd his hostile spear in blood.
Goliath. (ironically) Indeed! 'tis wond'rous
well,
Now, by my gods,
The stripling plays the orator! Vain boy!
Keep close to that same bloodless war of words,
And thou shalt still be safe. Tongue-valiant |
warrior!
Where is thy sylvan crook, with garlands hung,
Of idle field flowers? where thy wanton harp,
Thou dainty finger'd hero? better strike
Its notes lascivious, or the lulling lute
Touch softly, than provoke the trumpet's rage.
I will not stain the honour of my spear
With thy inglorious blood. Shall that fair cheek
Be scar'd with wounds unseemly? Rather go
And hold fond dalliance with the Syrian maids;
To wanton measures dance, and let them braid
The bright luxuriance of thy golden hair;
They, for their lost Adonis, may mistake
Thy dainty form.
David.
Peace, thou unhallow'd railer!
O tell it not in Gath, nor let the sound
Reach Askelon, how once your slaughter'd lords
By mighty Samson* found one common grave:
When his broad shoulder the firm-pillars heav'd,
And to its base the tott'ring fabric shook.
Goliath. Insulting boy! perhaps thou hast not
heard
The infamy of that glorious day,
When your weak host at Eben-ezert pitch'd
Their quick-abandon'd tent? Then when your
ark,
Your talisman, your charm, your boasted pledge
Of safety and success, was tamely lost!
And yet not tamely, since by me 'twas won.
When with this good right arm I thinn'd your
ranks,
And bravely crush'd, beneath a single blow
The chosen guardians of this vaunted shrine,
Hophnit and Phineas. The fam'd ark itself
I bore to Ashdod.
David.
I remember too,
Since thou provok'st th' unwelcome truth, how
all
Your blushing priests beheld their idol's shame ;
When prostrate Dagon fell before the ark,
And your frail god was shiver'd. Then Philistia,
Idolatrous Philistia, flew for succour
To Israel's help, and all her smitten nobles
Confess'd the Lord was God; and the bless'dark.
Gladly, with reverential awe restor❜d.
Goliath. By Ashod's fane thou ly'st.
* Judges, c. xvi.
† Samuel. c. v.
|
| Commentators say, that Chaldee paraphrase makes
Goliath boast that he had killed Hophai and Phineas,
and taken the ark prisoner.
Now will I meet thee,
Thou insect warrior, since thou dar'st me thus!
Already I behold thy mangled limbs,
Dissever'd each from each, ere long to feed
The fierce blood-snuffing vulture. Mark me
well.
Around my spear I'll twist thy shining locks,
And toss in air thy head all gash'd with wounds,
Thy lip yet quiv'ring with the dire convulsion
Of recent death!-Art thou not terrify'd?
David.
No:
True courage is not mov'd by breath of words:
While rash bravery of boiling blood,
Impetuous, knows no settled principle.
A fev'rish tide, it has its ebbs and flows,
As spirits raise or fall, as wine inflames,
Or circumstances change: but inborn Courage,
The gen'rous child of Fortitude and Faith,
Holds its firm empire in the constant soul;
And like the steadfast pole-star, never once
From the same fix'd and faithful point declines.
Goliath. The curses of Philistia's gods be on
thee !
This fine-drawn speech is meant to lengthen out
That little life thy words pretend to scorn.
David. Ha! say'st thou so? Come on then.
Mark us well.
Thou com'st to me with sword, and spear, and
shield;
In the dread name of Israel's God I come;
The living Lord of Hosts, whom thou defy'st!
Yet though no shield I bring, no arms except
These five smooth stones I gather'd from the
brook,
With such a simple sling as shepherd's use-
Yet all expos'd defenceless as I am,
The God I serve shall give thee up a prey
To my victorious arm. This day I mean
To make the uncircumcis'd tribes confess
There is a God in Israel. I will give thee,
Spite of thy vaunted strength and giant bulk,
To glut the carrion kites. Nor thec alone
The mangled carcases of your thick hosts
Shall spread the plains of Elah, till Philistia,
Through all her trembling tents and flying
bands,
Shall own that Judah's God is God indeed!
-I dare thee to the trial.
Goliath.
In this good spear I trust.
David.
Follow me-
I trust in Heav'n!
The God of battle stimulates my arm,
And fires my soul with ardour not its own.
PART V.
Scene-The tent of Saul.
Saul (rising from his couch.) On! that I knew
the black and midnight arts
Of wizard sorcery! that I could call
The slumb'ring spirit from the shades of hell!
Or, like the Chaldean sages, could foreknow
Th' event of things unacted! I might then
Anticipate my fortune. How I'm fall'n !
The sport of vain chimeras, the weak slave
Of fear and fancy; coveting to know
The arts obscene, which foul diviners use.
Thick blood and moping Melancholy lead
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
91
To baleful Superstition-that fell fiend,
Whose with'ring charms blast the fair bloom of
Virtue.
Why did my wounded pride with scorn reject
The wholesome truths which holy Samuel told
me?
Why drive him from my presence? he might
now
Raise my sunk soul, and my benighted mind
Enlighten'd with religion's cheering ray.
He dar'd to menace me with loss of empire;
And I, for that bold honesty, dismiss'd him.
'Another shall possess thy throne,' he cry'd:
A stranger!' This unwelcome prophecy
Has lined my crown and strew'd my couch with
thorns.
Each ray of op'ning merit I discern
In friend or foe, distracts my troubled soul,
Lest he should prove my rival. But this morn,
Ev'n my young champion lovely as he look'd
In blooming valour, struck me to the soul
With Jealousy's barb'd dart. O Jealousy!
Thou ugliest fiend of hell! thy deadly venom
Preys on my vitals, turns the healthful hue
Of my fresh cheek to haggard sallowness,
And drinks my spirit up.
{A flourish of trumpets, shouting, &c.
What sounds are those?
The combat is decided. Hark! again
Those shouts proclaim it! Now, O God of Jacob,
If yet thou hast not quite withdrawn from Saul
Thy light and favour, prosper me this once!
But Abner comes! I dread to hear his tale!
Fair hope, with smiling face but ling'ring foot,
Has long deceiv'd me.
Abner.
King of Israel, hail!
Now thou art king indeed. The youth has con-
quer'd:
Goliath's dead.
Saril.
Oh speak thy tale again,
Lest my fond ears deceive me!
Abner.
Has slain the giant.
Saul.
Thy young champion
Then God is gracious still,
In spite of my offences! But good Abner!
How was it? Tell me all. Where is my cham-
pion?
Quick let me press him to my grateful heart,
And pay him a
him a king's thanks. And yet, who
knows,
This forward friend may prove an active foe!
No more of that. Tell me the whole, brave
Abner!
And paint the glorious acts of my young hero!
Abner. Full in the centre of the camp he
stood!
Th' opposing armies rang'd on either side
In proud array. The haughty giant stalk'd
Stately across the valley. Next the youth
With modest confidence advanc'd. Nor pomp,
Nor gay parade, nor martial ornament,
His graceful form adorn'd. Goliath strait,
With solemn state began the busy work
Of dreadful preparation. In one place
His closely jointed mail an op'ning left
For air, and only one: the watchful youth
Mark'd that the beaver of his helm was up.
Meanwhile the giant such a blow devis'd
As would have crush'd him. This the youth
perceiv'd,
And from his well-directed sling quick hurl'd,
With dex'trous aim a stone, which sunk, deep
lodg'd,
In the capacious forehead of the foe.
Then with a cry, as loud and terrible
As Lybian lions roaring for their young,
Quite stunn'd, the furious giant stagger'd, reel'd,
And fell the mighty mass of man fell prone.
With its own weight his shatter'd bulk was
bruis'd.
His clattering arms rung dreadfully through the
field,
And the firm basis of the solid earth
Shook. Chok'd with blood and dust, he curs'd
his gods,
And died blaspheming! Straight the victor youth
Drew from his sheath the giant's pond'rous
sword,
And from the enormous trunk the gory head,
Furious in death, he sever'd. The grim visage
Look'd threat'ning still, and still frown'd hor-
ribly.
Saul. O glorious deed! O valiant conqueror !
Abner. The youth so calm appear'd, so nobly
firm,
So cool, yet so intrepid, that these eyes
Ne'er saw such temp'rate valour so chastis'd
By modesty.
Saul.
Thou dwell'st upon his praise
With needless circumstance. "Twas nobly done;
But others too have fought!
Abner.
None, none so bravely.
Saul. What follow'd next?
Abner.
The shouting Israelites
On the Philistians rush'd, and still pursue
Their routed remnants. In dismay, their bands,
| Disorder'd fly, while shouts of loud acclaim
Pursue their brave deliverer. Lo, he comes!
Bearing the giant's head and shining sword,
His well-earn'd trophies.
Saul.
SAUL, ABNER, DAVID.
[DAVID bearing GOLIATH's head and sword. He
kneels and lays both at Savi's feet.
Welcome to my heart,
My glorious champion! My deliverer welcome!
How shall I speak the swelling gratitude
Of my full heart! or give thee the high praise
Thy gallant deeds deserve!
David.
O mighty king!
Sweet is the breath of praise when given by
those
Whose own high merit claims the praise they
give.
But let not this one prosperous event,
By heav'n directed, be ascrib'd to me;
might have fought with equal skill and cou-
rage,
And not have gain'd this conquest; then had
shame
Harsh obloquy, and foul disgrace, befallen me:
But prosp'rous fortune gains the praise of valour
Saul. I like not this. In every thing superior.
He soars above me (aside.)-Modest youth,
thou 'rt right.
And fortune, as thou say'st, deserves the praise
We give to human valour.
David.
Rather say
The God of Hosts deserves it.
92
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Saul.
Tell me youth,
What is thy name, and what thy father's house ?
David. My name is David; Jesse is my sire:
An humble Bethle'mite of Judah's tribe.
Saul. David, the son of Jesse! Sure that name
Has been familiar to me. Nay thy voice.
Thy form and features, I remember too,
Though faint and indistinctly.
Abner.
In this hero
Behold thy sweet musician; he whose harp
Expell'd the melancholy fiend, whose pow'r
Enslav'd thy spirit.
Saul.
Whom for his skill and virtues I preferr'd
This the modest youth,
To bear my armour?
David.
I am he, O king!
Saul. Why this concealment? tell me valiant
David,
Why didst thou hide thy birth and name till
now?
David. O king! I would not aught from favour
claim,
Or on remember'd services presume;
But on the strength of my own actions stand
Ungrac'd and unsupported.
Abner.
Well he merits
The honours which await him. Why, O king,
Dost thou delay to bless his doubting heart
With his well-earn'd rewards! Thy lovely
daughter,
By right of conquest his !
Saul. (to David.) True: thou hast won her.
She shall be thine. Yes, a king's word is past.
David. O boundless blessing! What shall she
David. O boundless blessing! What shall she
be mine,
For whom contending monarchs might renounce
Their slighted crowns'!
[Sounds of musical instruments heard at a dis-
tance. Shouting and singing. A grand pro-
cession. Chorus of Hebrew women.]
Saul.
How's this! what sounds of joy
Salute my ears! What means this needless
pomp!
This merry sound of tabret and of harp!
What means these idle instruments of triumph?
These women, who in fair procession move,
Making sweet melody?
Abner.
To pay due honour
To David are they come.
Saul. (aside.)
A rival's praise
Is discord to my ear! They might have spar'd
This idle pageantry; it wounds my soul!
[Martial symphony: after which, chorus of wo-
men sing.]
I.
PREPARE! your festal rites prepare!
Idol gods shall reign no more:
Let your triumphs rend the air!
Let heathen hosts on human helps repose,
We the living Lord adore!
Since Israel's God has routed Israel's foes.
II.
Let remotest nations know
Proud Goliath's overthrow.
Fall'n Philistia, is thy trust,
Dagon mingles with the dust!
Who fears the Lord of Glory, need not fear
The brazen armour or the lifted spear.
III.
See, the routed squadron fly!
Hark the clamours rend the sky!
Blood and carnage stain the field!
See the vanquish'd nations yield!
Dismay and terror fill the frighten’d land,
While conq'ring David routs the trembling band.
IV.
Lo! upon the tented field
Royal Saul has thousands kill'd!
Lo! upon th' ensanguin'd plain
David has ten thousand slain !
Let mighty Saul his vanquish'd thousands tell,
While tenfold triumphs David's victories swell.
BELSHAZZAR :
A SACRED DRAMA.
How art thou fallen from Heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! How art thou cut down to
the ground, who didst weaken the nations!-Isaiah.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
BALSHAZZAR, king of Babylon.
NITOCRIS, the queen mother.
DANIEL, the Jewish Prophet.
Captive Jews, &c. &c.
Courtiers, Astrologers, Parasites.
Scene-Babylon.
Time-Night.
The subject is taken from the fifth chapter of the Prophet Daniel.
PART I.
Scene-Near the palace of Babylon.
Whose tender mercies through the tide of time,
In long successive order, have sustain'd,
And sav'd the sons of Israel! Thou whose power
Deliver'd righteous Noah from the flood,
The whelming flood, the grave of human kind!
Dan. PARENT of Life and Light! Sole Source Oh Thou, whose guardian care and outstretch'd
DANIEL AND CAPTIVE JEWS.
of Good!
hand
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
93
A
Rescued young Isaac from the lifted arm,
Rais'd, at thy bidding, to devote a son,
An only son, doom'd by his sire to die:
(O saving faith, by such obedience prov'd!
O blest obedience, hallow'd thus by faith!
Thou, who in mercy sav'dst the chosen race
In the wild desert, and didst there sustain them
By wonder-working love, though they rebell'd
And murmur'd at the miracles that sav'd them!
O hear thy servant Daniel! hear and help!
Thou, whose almighty power did after raise
Successive leaders to defend our race;
Who sentest valiant Joshua to the field,
The people's champion, to the conqu❜ring field,
Where the revolving planet of the night,
Suspended in her radiant round, was stay'd;
And the bright sun arrested in his course,
Stupendously stood still!
CHORUS OF JEWS.
I.
WHAT ail'd thee, that thou stood'st still,
O sun! nor did thy flaming orb decline!
And thou, O moon! in Ajalon's low vale,
Why didst thou long before thy period shine?
II.
Was it at Joshua's dread command,
The leader of the Israelitish band?
Yes-at a mortal bidding both stood still;
'Twas Joshua's word, but 'twas Jehovah's will.
III.
What all-controlling hand had force
To stop eternal Nature's constant course?
The wand'ring moon to one fix'd spot confine,
But His whose fiat gave them first to shine?
Dan. O Thou! who, when thy discontented
host,
Tir'd of Jehovah's rule, desir'd a king,
In anger gav'st them Saul; and then again
Did'st wrest the regal sceptre from his hand
To give it David-David, best belov'd!
Illustrious David! poet, prophet, king;
Thou who did'st suffer Solomon the wise
To build a glorious Temple to thy name,-
O hear thy servants, and forgive us too!
If by severe necessity compell'd,
We worship herc-we have no temple now:
Altar or sanctuary none is left.
CHORUS OF JEWS.
O JUDAH! let thy captive sons deplore
Thy far-fam'd temple's now no more!
Fall'n is thy sacred fane, thy glory gone!
Fall'n is thy temple, Solomon !
Ne'er did Barbaric kings behold,
Fill'd with an holy dread, a rev'rend fear,
Will God in very deed inhabit here?
The heaven of heavens beneath his feet,
Is for the bright inhabitant unmeet:
Archangels prostrate wait his high com.
mands,
And will he deign to dwell in temples made
with hands?
[preme.
Dan. Yes, Thou art ever present, Pow'r Su-
Not circumscrib'd by time, nor fix'd to space,
Confin'd to altars, nor to temples bound.
In wealth, in want, in freedom, or in chains,
In dungeons or on thrones, the faithful find thee!
E'en in the burning caldron thou wast near
To Shadrach and the holy brotherhood :
The unhurt martyrs bless'd Thee in the flames;
They sought, and found Thee; call'd, and Thou
wast there.
First Jew. How chang'd our state! Judah,
thy glory 's fallen !
Thy joys for hard captivity exchang'd:
And thy sad sons breathe the polluted air
Of Babylon, where deities obscene
Insult the living God; and to his servants,
The priests of wretched idols made with hands,
Show contumelious scorn.
Dan.
"Tis heaven's high will.
Second Jew. If I forget thee, O Jerusalem!
If I not fondly cherish thy lov'd image,
E'en in the giddy hour of thoughtless mirth;
If I not rather view thy prostrate walls
Than haughty Babylon's imperial tow'rs-
Then may my tongue refuse to frame the strains
Of sweetest harmony, my rude right hand
Forget, with sounds symphonius, to accord
The harp of Jesse's son to Sion's song.
First Jew. Oft on Euphrates' ever verdant
banks
Where drooping willows form a mournful shade
With all the pride which prosp'rous fortunes
give,
And all th' unfeeling mirth of happy men,
Th' insulting Babylonians ask a song;
Such songs as erst in better days were sung
By Korah's sons, or heav'n-taught. Asaph set
To loftiest measures; then our bursting hearts
Feel all their woes afresh; the galling chain
Of bondage crushes then the free-born soul
With wringing anguish from the trembling lip
Th' unfinish'd cadence falls; and the big tear,
While it relieves, betrays the wo-fraught soul.
For who can view Euphrates' pleasant stream,
Its drooping willows, and its verdant banks,
And not to wounded memory recall
The piny groves of fertile Palestine,
With all their shining gems, their burnish'd gold, The vales of Solyma, and Jordan's stream!
A fane so perfect, bright, and fair :
For God himself was wont t' inhabit there.
Between the cherubim his glory stood,
While the high-priest alone the dazzling splen-
dour view'd.
How fondly did the Tyrian artist strive,
His name to latest time should live!
Such wealth the stranger wonder'd to behold:
Gold were the tablets, and the vases gold.
Of cedar such an ample store,
Exhausted Lebanon could yield no more.
Bending before the Ruler of the sky,
Well might the royal founder cry,
Dan. Firm faith and deep submission to high
heaven
Will teach us to endure without a murmur
What seems so hard. Think what the holy host
Of patriarchs, saints, and prophets have sus-
tain'd,
In the blest cause of truth! And shall not we,
O men of Judah! dare what these have dar'd
And boldly pass through the refining fire
Of fierce afHiction? Yes, be witness, Heaven!
Old as I am, I will not shrink at death,
Come in what shape it may, if God so will,
By peril to confirm and prove my faith.
94
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Oh! I would dare yon den of hungry lions,
Rather than pause to fill the task assign'd
By wisdom Infinite. Nor think I boast,
Not in myself, but in thy strength I trust,
Spirit of God!
First Jew.
Prophet, thy words support,
And raise our sinking souls.
Dan.
Behold yon palace;
There proud Belshazzar keeps his wanton court!
I knew it once beneath another lord,
His grandsire,* who subdu'd Jehoiachin,
And hither brought sad Judah's captive tribes;
And with them brought the rich and precious
relics
Of our fam'd temple; all the holy treasure,
The golden vases, and the sacred cups,
Which grac'd, in happier times, the sanctuary.
Second Jew. May HE to whose blest use they
were devoted,
Preserve them from pollution; and once more,
In his own gracious time restore the temple!
Dan. I, with some favour'd youths of Jewish
race
Was lodg'd in the king's palace, and instructed
In all the various learning of the East;
But HE, on whose great name our fathers call'd,
Preserv'd us from the perils of a court,
Warn'd us to guard our youthful appetites,
And still with holy fortitude reject
The pamp❜ring viands Luxury presented;
Fell Luxury; more perilous to youth
Than storms or quicksands, poverty or chains:
Second Jew. He who can guard 'gainst the
low baits of sense,
Will find Temptations arrows hurtless strike
Against the brazen shield of Temperance.
For 'tis th' inferior appetites enthral
The man, and quench th' immortal light within
him;
The senses take the soul an easy prey,
And sink th' imprison'd spirit into brute.
Dan. Twice,t by the Spirit of God, did I ex-
pound
The visions of the king; his soul was touch'd,
And twice did he repent, and prostrate fall
Before the God of Daniel: yet again,
Pow'r, flattery, and prosperity, undid him.
When from the lofty ramparts of his palace
He view'd the splendours of the royal city,
That magazine of wealth, which proud Euphra-
tes
Wafts from each distant corner of the earth;
When he beheld the adamantine tow'rs,
The brazen gates, the bulwarks of his strength,
The pendant gardens, Art's stupendous work,
The wonder of the world! the proud Chaldean,
Mad with th' intoxicating fumes which rise
When uncontroll'd ambition grasps at once
Dominion absolute, and boundless wealth,
Forgot he was a man, forgot his god!
This mighty Babylon is mine,' he cry'd;
My wond'rous pow'r, my godlike arm achiev'd
it.
I scorn submission; own no Deity
Above my own.'-While the blasphemer spoke,
The wrath of Heav'n inflicted instant ven-
geance;
* Nebuchadnezzar.
† Daniel, chap. ii. and iv.
Stripp'd him of that bright reason he abus'd;
And drove him from the cheerful haunts of men,
A naked, wretched, helpless, senseless thing;
Companion of the brutes, his equals now.
First Jew. Nor does his impious grandson,
proud Belshazzar,
Fall short of his offences; nay, he wants
The valiant spirit and the active soul
Of his progenitor; for Pleasure's slave,
Though bound in silken chains, and only tied
In flowery fetters, seeming light and loose,
Is more subdu'd than the rash casual victim
Of anger or ambition; these indeed
Burn with a fiercer but a short-lived fire;
While pleasure with a constant flame consumes,
War slays her thousands, but destructive Plea-
sure,
More fell, more fatal, her ten thousands slays:
The young luxurious king she fondly woos
In ev'ry shape of am'rous blandishment;
With adulation smooth ensnares his soul;
With love betrays him, and with wine inflames.
She strews her magic poppies o'er his couch,
And with delicious opiates charms him down,
In fatal slumbers bound. Though Babylon
Is now, invested by the warlike troops
Of royal Cyrus, Persia's valiant prince;
Who, in conjunction with the Median king;
Darius, fam'd for conquest, now prepares
To storm the city: not the impending horrors
Which ever wait a siege have pow'r to wake
To thought or sense th' intoxicated king.
Dan. E'en in this night of universal dread,
A mighty army threat'ning at the gates;
This very night, as if in scorn of danger,
The dissolute Belshazzar holds a feast
Magnificently impious, meant to honour
Belus, the fav'rite Babylonish idol.
Lew'd parasites compose his wanton court,
Whose impious flatt'ries sooth his monstrous
crimes :
They justify his vices and extol
His boastful phrase, as if he were some god:
Whate'er he says, they say; what he commands,
Implicitly they do; they echo back
His blasphemies with shouts of loud acclaim;
And when he wounds the tortur'd ear of Virtue,
They cry "All hail! Belshazzar live for ever!"
To-night a thousand nobles fill his hall,
Princes, and all the dames who grace the court;
All but his virtuous mother, sage Nitocris:
Ah! how unlike the impious king her son!
She never mingles in the midnight fray,
Nor crowns the guilty banquet with her pre
sence.
The royal fair is rich in every virtue
Which can adorn the queen or grace the wo
man.
But for the wisdom of her prudent counsels
This wretched empire had been long undone.
Not fam'd Semiramis, Assyria's pride,
Could boast a brighter mind or firmer soul;
Beneath the gentle reign of Merodach,*
Her royal lord, our nation tasted peace.
Our captive monarch, sad Jehoiachin,
Grown gray in a close prison's horrid gloom,
He freed from bondage; brought the hoary
king
* 2 Kings, chap. xxiv.-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
95
335
To taste once more the long-forgotten sweets
Of liberty and light, sustain'd his age,
Pour'd in his wounds the lenient balm of kind.
ness,
And blest his setting hour of life with peace.
[Sound of trumpets is heard at a distance.
First Jew. That sound proclaims the banquet
is begun.
Second Jew. Hark! the licentious uproar
grows more loud,
The vaulted roof resounds with shouts of mirth,
And the firm palace shakes! Retire my friends;
This madness is not meet for sober ears.
If any of our race were found so near,
'Twould but expose us to the rude attack
Of ribaldry obscene and impious jests
From these mad sons of Belial, more inflam'd
To deeds of riot by the wanton feast.
Dan. Here part we then! but when again to
meet
Who knows, save heaven? Yet, O my friends!
I feel
An impulse more than human stir my breast.
Wrapt in prophetic vision,* I behold
Things hid as yet from mortal sight. I see
The dart of vengeance tremble in the air,
Ere long to pierce the impious king. E'en
now
The desolating angel stalks abroad,
And brandishes aloft the two-edg'd sword
Of retribution keen; he soon will strike,
And Babylon shall weep as Sion wept.
Pass but a little while, and you shall see
This queen of cities prostrate on the earth.
This haughty mistress of the kneeling world,
How shall she sit dishonour'd in the dust,
In tarnish'd pomp and solitary wo!
How shall she shroud her glories in the dark,
And in opprobrious silence hide her head!
Lament, O virgin daughter of Chaldea !
For thou shalt fall! imperial queen, shalt fall!
No more Sidonian robes shall grace thy
limbs.
To purple garments sackcloth shall succeed;
And sordid dust and ashes shall supply
I
The od❜rous nard and cassia. Thou, who said'st
AM, and there is none beside me thou,
E'en thou, imperial Babylon, shalt fall!
Thy glory quite eclips'd! The pleasant sound
Of viol and of harp shall charm no more;
of Syrian damsels shall be heard,
Responsive to the lute's luxurious note:
But the loud bittern's cry, the raven's croak,
The bat's fell scream, the lonely owl's dull
plaint,
Nor song
And ev'ry hideous bird, with ominous shriek,
Shall scare affrighted. Silence from thy walls :
While Desolation, snatching from the hand
Of Time the scythe of ruin, sits aloft,
Or stalks in dreadful majesty abroad.
I see th' exterminating fiend advance,
E'en now I see her glare with horrid joy,
See tower's imperial mould'ring at her touch;
She glances on the broken battlement,
She eyes the crumbling column, and enjoys
The work of ages prostrate in the dust-
Then, pointing to the mischiefs she has made,
Exulting cries, This once was Babylon !
* See the Prophecies of Isaiah, chap. xivii. and others.
|
PART II.
Scene-the court of Belshazzar. The king seat-
ed on a magnificent throne. Princes, nobles,
and attendants. Ladies of the court. Music
—A superb banquet.
1st cour. (rises and kneels.) HAIL mighty
king!
2d cour.
Belshazzar, live for ever!
3d cour. Sun of the world, and light of kings,
all hail!
4th cour. With lowly rev'rence, such as best
becomes
The humblest creatures of imperial power,
Behold a thousand nobles bend before thee!
Princes far fam'd, and dames of high descent:
Yet all this pride of wealth, this boast of beauty,
Shrinks into nought before thine awful eye!
And lives or dies as the king frowns or smiles!
Bel. This is such homage as becomes your
loves.
And suits the mighty monarch of mankind.
5th cour. The bending world should pros
trate thus before thee ;
And pay not only praise but adoration!-
Belshazzar (rises and comes forward.)
Let dull Philosophy preach self-denial;
Let envious Poverty and snarling Age
Proudly declaim against the joys they know
Fot.
Let the deluded Jews, who fondly hope
Some fancied heaven hereafter, mortify,
And lose the actual blessings of this world
To purchase others which may never come.
Our gods may promise less, but give us more
Ill could my ardent spirit be content
With meagre abstinence and hungry hope.
Let those misjudging Israelites, who want
The nimble spirits and the active soul,
Call their blunt feelings virtue : let them drudge,
In regular progression, through the round
Of formal duty and of daily toil;
And when they want the genius to be happy,
Believe their harsh austerity is goodness.
If there be gods, they meant we should enjoy:
Why give us else these tastes and appetites?
And why the means to crown them with indul-
gence?
To burst the feehle bonds which hold the vulgar,
Is noble daring,
1st cour.
And is therefore worthy
The high imperial spirit of Belshazzar.
2d cour. Behold a banquet which the gods
might share!
Bel. To-night, my friends, your monarch
shall be blest
With ev'ry various joy; to-night is ours;
Nor shall the envious gods, who view our bliss,
And sicken as they view, to-night disturb us.
Bring all the richest spices of the East;
The od❜rcus cassia and the dropping myrrh,
The liquid amber and the fragant gums,
Rob Gilead of its balms, Belshazzar bids,
And leave the Arabian groves without an odour.
Bring freshest flow'rs, exhaust the blooming
spring,
Twine the green myrtle with the short-liv'd
rose;
And ever, as the blushing garland fades,
We'll learn to snatch the fugitive delight,
96
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
And grasp the flying joy ere it escapes us.
Come-fill the smiling goblet for the king;
Belshazzar will not let a moment pass
Unmark'd by some enjoyment! The full bowl
Let every guest partake!
1st cour.
[Courtiers kneel and drink.
Here's to the king!
Light of the world, and glory of the earth,
Whose word is fate!
Bel.
Yes; we are likest gods
Darius leader of the Median line;
While fair Euphrates' stream our walls protects,
And great Belshazzar's self our fate directs.
War and famine threat in vain,
While this demi-god shall reign!
Let Persia's prostrate king confess his pow'r,
And Media's monarch dread his vengeful hour.
On Dura's* ample plain behold
Immortal Belus,† whom the nations own;
Sublime he stands in burnish'd gold,
When we have pow'r, and use it. What is And richest offerings his bright altars crown.
wealth
But the rich means to gratify desire?
I will not have a wish, a hope, a thought,
That shall not know fruition. What is empire?
The privilege to punish and enjoy :
To feel our pow'r in making others fear it;
To taste of Pleasure's cup till we grow giddy,
And think ourselves immortal! This is empire!
My ancestors scarce tasted of its joys:
Shut from the sprightly world, and all its
charms,
In cumbrous majesty, in sullen state
And dull unsocial dignity they liv'd;
Far from the sight of an admiring world,
That world, whose gaze makes half the charms
of greatness;
They nothing knew of empire but the name,
Or saw it in the looks of trembling slaves;
And all they felt of royalty was care.
But I will see, and know it of myself;
Youth, Wealth, and Greatness court me to be
blest,
And Pow'r and Pleasure draw with equal force
And sweet attraction: both I will embrace
In quick succession; this is Pleasure's day;
Ambition will have time to reign hereafter;
It is the proper appetite of age.
The lust of pow'r shall lord it uncontroll❜d,
When all the gen'rous feelings grow obtuse,
And stern Dominion holds, with rigid hand,
His iron rein, and sits and sways alone.
But youth is Pleasure's hour!
1st cour.
Perish the slave
Who, with official counsel would oppose
The king's desire, whose slightest wish is law!
Bel. Now strike the loud-ton'd lyre and softer
lute;
Let me have music, with the nobler aid
Of poesy. Where are those cunning men
Who boast, by chosen sounds, and measur'd
sweetness,
To set the busy spirits in a flame,
And cool them at their will? who know the art
To call the hidden powers of numbers forth,
And make that pliant instrument, the mind,
Yield to the pow'rful sympathy of sound,
Obedient to the master's artful hand,
Such magic is song! Then give me song;
Yet not at first such soul dissolving strains
As melt the soften'd sense; but such bold mea-
sures
As may inflame my spirit to despise
Th' ambitious Persian, that presumptuous boy,
Who rashly dares e'en now invest our city,
And menaces th' invincible Belshazzar.
[A grand concert of music, after which an ode.]
In vain shall Persian Cyrus dare
With great Belshazzar wage unequal war :
In vain Darius shall combine,
To-night his deity we here adore,
And due libations speak his mighty pow'r.
Yet Belus' self not more we own
Than great Belshazzar on Chaldea's throne.
Great Belshazzar like a God,
Rules the nations with a nod!
To great Belshazzar be the goblet crown'd!
Belshazzar's name the echoing roofs rebound!
Belsh. Enough! the kindling rapture fires my
brain,
And my heart dances to the flattering sounds,
I feel myself a god! Why not a god!
What were the deities our fathers worship'd?
What was great Nimrod our imperial founder?
What greater Belus, to whose pow'r divine
We raise to-night the banquet and the song
But youthful heroes, mortal, like myself,
Who by their daring earn'd divinity?
They were but men: nay some were less than
men,
Though now rever'd as gods. What was Anubis,
Whoin Egypt's sapient sons adore? A dog!
And shall not I, young, valiant, and a king,
Dare more? do more? exceed the boldest flights
Of my progenitors?-Fill me more wine,
To cherish and exalt the young idea. (he drinks )
Ne'er did Olympian Jupiter himself
Quaff such immortal draughts.
1st cour.
What could that Canaan,
That heaven in hope, that nothing in possession,
That air-built bliss of the deluded Jews,
That promis'd land of milk and flowing honey,
What could that fancy'd Paradise bestow
To match these generous juices?
Belsh.
Hold-enough!
Thou hast rous'd a thought. By Heav'n I will
enjoy it :
A glorious thought! which will exalt to rapture
The pleasure of the banquet, and bestow
A yet untasted relish of delight.
1st cour. What means the king?
Belsh. The Jews! said'st thou the Jews!
1st cour. I spoke of that undone, that outcast
people,
Those tributary creatures of thy pow'r,
The captives of thy will, whose very breath
Hangs on the sovereign pleasure of the king.
Belsh. When that abandoned race was hither
brought,
* Daniel, chap. iii.
† See a very fine description of the temple of this idol.
-The tow'ring fane
Of Bel, Chaldean Jove, surpassing far
That Doric temple, which the Elean chiefs
Rais'd to their thunderer from the spoils of war,
Or that Ionic, where th' Ephesian bow'd
To Dian, queen of heaven. Eight towers arise,
Each above each, immeasurable height,
A monument at once of castern pride,
And slavish superstition, &c.
Judah Restored, b. t.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
97
Were not the choicest treasures of their temple, | Roll horribly. Thrice he essay'd to speak,
(Devoted to their God, and held most precious) And thrice his tongue refus'd.
Among the spoils which grac'd Nebassar's*
triumphs,
And lodg'd in Babylon?
1st cour.
O king! they were.
2d cour. The Jews, with superstitious awe,
behold
These sacred symbols of their ancient faith:
Nor has captivity abated aught
The rev'rend love they bear these holy reliques.
Though we deride their law, and scorn their
persons,
Yet never have we yet to human use
Devoted these rich vessels set apart
To sacred purposes.
Belsh.
I joy to hear it!
Go-fetch them hither. They shall grace our
banquet.
Does no one stir? Belshazzar disobey'd?
And yet you live? Whence comes this strange
reluctance?
This new-born rev'rence for the helpless Jews?
This fear to injure those who can't revenge it?
Send to the sacred treasury in haste,
Let all be hither brought;-who answers dies.
[They go out.
The mantling wine a higher joy will yield,
Pour'd from the precious flaggons which adorn'd
Their far-fam'd temple, now in ashes laid.
Oh! 'twill exalt the pleasure into transport,
To gall those whining, praying Israelites!
I laugh to think what wild dismay will seize
them
When they shall learn the use that has been
made
Of all their holy trumpery!
[The vessels are brought in.
It comes;
2d cour.
A goodly show! how bright with gold and gems!
Far fitter for a youthful monarch's board
Than the cold shrine of an unheeding God.
Belsh. Fill me that massy goblet to the brim.
Now, Abraham! let thy wretched race expect
The fable of their faith to be fulfill'd;
Their second temple and their promis'd king!
Now will they see the god they vainly serve
Is impotent to help; for had he pow'r
To hear and grant their pray'r, he would pre-
vent
This profanation.
[As the king is going to drink, thunder is heard:
he starts from the throne, spies a hand, which
writes on the wall these words, MENE, MENE,
TEKEL, UPHARSIN. He lets fall the goblet, and
stands in an attitude of speechless horror. All
start and seem terrified.]
1st cour. (after a long pause. Oh, transcend-
ant horror!
2d cour. What may this mean? The king is
greatly mov'd!
3d cour. Nor is it strange-who unappall'd
can view it?
Those sacred cups! I doubt we've gone too far!
1st cour. Observe the fear-struck king.! his
starting eyes
*The name of Nebuchadnezzar not being reducible to
verse, I have adopted that of Nebassar, on the authority
of the ingenious and learned Author of Judah Re-
stored.'
VOL. I.
G
Belsh. (in a low trembling voice.) Ye mystic
words!
Thou semblance of an hand! illusive forms!
Ye wild fantastic images, what are ye?
Dread shadows, speak! Explain your dark in-
tent!
Ye will not answer me-Alas! I feel
I am a mortal now-My failing limbs
Refuse to bear me up. I am no god!
Gods do not tremble thus-Support me, hold me:
These loosen'd joints, these knees which smite
each other,
Betray I'm but a man-a weak one too!
1st cour. In truth, 'tis passing strange, and
full of horror!
Belsh. Send for the learn'd magicians, every
sage
Who deals in wizard spells and magic charms.
[Some go out:
Ist court. How fares my lord the king?
Besh.
Am I a king?
What pow'r have I? Ye lying slaves, I am not.
Oh, soul distracting sight! but is it real?
Perhaps 'tis fancy all, or the wild dream
Of mad distemperature, the fumes of wine!
I'll look on it no more!-So-now I'm well!
I am a king again, and know not fear.
And yet my eyes will seek that fatal spot,
And fondly dwell upon the sight that blast
them!
Again, 'tis there! it is not fancy's work,
I see it still! 'tis written on the wall!
I see the writing, but the viewless writer,
Who! what is he! Oh, horror! horror! horror!
It cannot be the God of these poor Jews;
For what is He, that he can thus afflict?
2d cour. Let not my Lord the king be thus
dismay'd.
3d cour. Let not a phantom, an illusive shade
Disturb the peace of him who rules the world.
Belsh. No more, ye wretched sycophants!
no more!
The sweetest note which flatt'ry now can strike,
Harsh and discordant grates upon my soul.
Talk not of pow'r to one so full of fear,
So weak, so impotent! Look on that wall;
If thou wouldst soothe my soul explain the
writing,
And thou shalt be my oracle, my God!
O tell me whence it came, and what it means,
And I'll believe I am again a king!
Friends! princes! ease my troubled breast, and
say
What do the mystic characters portend?
1st court. 'Tis not in us, O king, to ease thy
spirit;
We are not skill'd in those mysterious arts
Which wait the midnight studies of the sage:
But of the deep diviners thou shalt learn,
The wise astrologers, the sage magicians,
Who, of events unborn, take secret note,
And hold deep commerce with the unseen world.
Enter astologers, magicians, &c. &c.
Belsh. Approach, ye sages, 'tis the king com-
mands.
[They kneel.
Astrologers. Hail, mighty king of Babylon!
Belsh.
Nay, rise:
98
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
I do not need your homage, but your help;
The world may worship, you must counsel me.
He who declares the secret of the king,
No common honours shall await his skill;
Our empire shall be tax'd for his reward,
And he himself shall name the gift he wishes.
A splendid scarlet robe shall grace his limbs,
His neck a princely chain of gold adorn:
Meet honours for such wisdom: He shall rule
The third in rank throughout our Babylon.
2d Astr. Such recompence becomes Bel.
shazzar's bounty;
Let the king speak the secret of his soul;
Which heard, his humble creatures shall unfold.
Belsh. (points to the wall.) Be 't so-look there
-behold those characters!
Nay, do not start, for I will know their meaning!
Ha! answer; speak, or instant death awaits you!
What, dumb! all dumb! where is your boasted
skill?
[They confer together.
Keep them asunder-no confederacy.
No secret plots to make your tales agree,
Speak, slaves, and dare to let me know the
[They kneel.
1st Astr. O, let the king forgive his faithful
worst!
servants!
2d Astr. O mitigate our threatened doom of
death;
If we declare, with mingled grief and shame,
We cannot tell the secret of the king,
Nor what these mystic characters portend!
Belsh. Off with their heads! Ye shall not
live an hour!
Curse on your shallow arts, your lying science!
'Tis thus you practice on the credulous world,
Who think you wise because themselves are
weak!
But miscreants, ye shall die! the pow'r to
punish
Is all that I have left me of a king.
1st cour. Great sire, suspend their punish-
ment a while;
Behold Nitocris comes, thy royal mother!
Queen.
Enter QUEEN.
O my misguided son!
Well may'st thou wonder to behold me here:
For I have ever shunn'd this scene of riot,
Where wild intemperance and dishonour'd
inirth
Hold festival impure. Yet, O Belshazzar!
I could not hear the wonders which befel,
And leave thee to the workings of despair:
For, spite of all the anguish of my soul
At thy offences, I'm thy mother still!
Against the solemn purpose I had form'd
Never to mix in this unhallow'd crowd,
The wondrous story of the mystic writing,
Of strange and awful import, brings me here;
If hap❜ly I may show some likely means
To fathom this dark mystery.
Bel.
Speak, O queen!
My list'ning soul shall hang upon thy words,
And prompt obedience follow them!
Queen.
Then hear me.
Among thy captive tribes which hither came
To grace Nebassar's triumph, there was brought
A youth nam'd Daniel, favour'd by high Heav'n
With pow'r to look into the secret page
Of dim Futurity's mysterious volume.
The spirit of the holy gods is in him:
No vision so obscure, so deeply hid,
No sentence so perplex'd but he can solve it:
He can unfold the dark decrees of fate,
Can trace each crooked labyrinth of thought,
Each winding maze of doubt, and make it clear
And palpable to sense. He twice explain'd
The monarch's mystic dreams. The holy seer
Saw, with prophetic spirit, what befel
The king long after. For his wond'rous skili
He was rewarded, honour'd, and caress'd,
And with the rulers of Chaldea rank'd:
Though now, alas! thrown by, his services
Forgotten or neglected.
Bel.
Send with speed
A message to command the holy man
To meet us on the instant.
Nitocris.
I already
Have sent to ask his presence at the palace;
And lo! in happy season see he comes.
Enter Daniel.
Bel. Welcome, thrice venerable sage! ap-
proach.
Art thou that Daniel whom my great forefather
Brought hither with the captive tribes of Judah!
Daniel. I am, O king!
Bel. Then, pardon, holy prophet;
Nor let a just resentment of thy wrongs,
And long neglected merit, shut thy heart
Against a king's request, a suppliant king!
Daniel. The God I worship teaches to for-
give.
Bel. Then let thy words bring comfort to my
soul.
Daniel.
I've heard the spirit of the gods is in thee;
That thou can'st look into the fates of men,
With prescience more than human!
Hold, O king!
Wisdom is from above; 'tis God's own gift,
I of myself am nothing; but from Him
The little knowledge I possess, I hold:
To him be all the glory!
Bel.
Then, O Daniel!
If thou indeed dost boast that wond'rous gift,
That faculty divine; look there, and tell me!
O say, what mean those mystic characters?
Remove this load of terror from my soul,
And honours, such as kings can give, await
thee.
Thou shalt he great beyond thy soul's ambition,
And rich above thy wildest dream of wealth :
Clad in the scarlet robe our nobles wear,
And grac'd with princely ensigns thou shalt
stand
Near our own throne, and third within our em
pirc.
Daniel. O mighty king, thy gifts with thee
remain
And let thy high rewards on others fall.
The princely ensign, nor the scarlet robe,
Nor yet to be the third within thy realm,
Can touch the soul of Daniel. Honour, fame,
All that the world calls great, thy crown itself,
Could never satisfy the vast ambition
Of an immortal spirit; I aspire
Beyond thy pow'r of giving; my high hopes
Reach also to a crown-but 'tis a crown
Unfading and eternal.
1st cour.
Wond'rous man!
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
99
Our priests teach no such notions:
Daniel.
Yet, O king!
Though all unmov'd by grandeur or by gift,
I will unfold the high decree of Heaven,
And straight declare the mystery.
Bel.
Speak, O prophet!
Daniel. Prepare to hear what kings have sel-
dom heard;
Bel. Now let the mystic writing be explain'd,
Thrice venerable sage!
Daniel.
O mighty king!
Hear then its awful import: Heav'n has num-
ber'd
Thy days of royalty, and soon will end them.
Our God has weigh'd thee in the even balancé
Of his own holy law, and finds thee wanting:
And last thy kingdom shall be wrested from thee:
And know, the Mede and Persian shall possess it.
Bel. (starts up.) Prophet, when shall this be?
Daniel.
In God's own time;
Here my commission ends; I may not utter
More than thou'st heard; but oh! remember
king!
Thy days are number'd: hear, repent and live!
Bel. Say, prophet, what can penitence avail?
If Heaven's decrees immutably are fix'd,
Can pray'rs avert our fate?
Prepare to hear what courtiers seldom tell,
Prepare to hear the Truth. The mighty God,
Who rules the sceptres and the hearts of kings,
Gave thy renown'd forefather* here to reign,
With such extent of empire, weight of pow'r,
And greatness of dominion, the wide earth
Trembled beneath the terror of his name,
And kingdoms stood or fell as he decreed.
Oh! dangerous pinnacle of pow'r supreme!
Who can stand safe upon its treach'rous top,
Behold the gazing prostrate world below,
Whom depth and distance into pigmies shrink,
And not grow giddy! Babylon's great king
Forgot he was a man, a helpless man,
Subject to pain, and sin, and death, like others!
But who shall fight against Omnipotence?
Or who hath harden'd his obdurate heart
Against the Majesty of Heav'n, and prosper'd?
The God he hath insulted was aveng'd;
From empire, from the joys of social life,
He drove him forth; extinguish'd reason's lamp;
Quench'd that bright spark of deity within ;
Compell'd him with the forest brutes to roam
For scanty pasture; and the mountain dews The scarlet robe and princely chain are thine
Fell, cold and wet, on his defenceless head, And let my herald publish through the land
Till he confess'd,-Let men, let monarchs hear! That Daniel stands, in dignity and pow'r,
Till he confess'd, PRIDE WAS NOT MADE FOR MAN. The third in Babylon. These just rewards
Nicotris. O awful instance of divine displea-Thou well may'st claim, though sad thy pro
sure!
Bel. Proceed! my soul is wrapt in fix'd at-
tention!
Daniel. O king! thy grandsire not in vain
had sinn'd,
If, from his error thou hadst learnt the truth.
The story of his fall thou oft has heard,
But has taught thee wisdom? Thou like him,
Hast been elate with pow'r, and mad with pride,
Like him, thou hast defy'd the living God.
Nay, to bold thoughts hast added deeds more
bold.
Thou hast outwrought the pattern he bequeath'd
thee,
And quite outgone example; hast profan'd
With impious hand, the vessels of the temple:
Those vessels sanctify'd to holiest use,
Thou hast polluted with unhallow'd lips,
And made the instruments of foul debauch,
Thou hast ador'd the gods of wood and stone,
Vile, senseless deities, the work of hands:
But HE, THE KING OF KINGS, AND LORD OF LORDS,
In whom exists thy life, thy soul, thy breath,
On whom thy being hangs, thou hast deny'd.
1st cour. (aside to the others.) With what an
holy boldness he reproves him!
2d cour. Such is the fearless confidence of
virtue !
And such the righteous courage those maintain
Who plead the cause of truth. The smallest
word
He utters had been death to half the court.
* Nebuchadnezzar.
Daniel. They change our hearts;
And thus dispose Omnipotence to mercy.
'Tis man that alters; God is still the same.
Conditional are all Heav'n's covenants:
And when th' uplifted thunder is withheld,
'Tis pray'r that deprecates th' impending bolt:
Good Hezekiah's* days were number'd too;
But penitence and faith were mighty pleas :
At Mercy's throne they never plead in vain.
[He is going.
Bel. Stay, prophet, and receive thy promis'd
gift;
phecy !
Queen. Be not deceiv'd my son! nor let thy
soul
Snatch an uncertain moment's treach'rous rest,
On the dread brink of that tremendous gulf
Which yawns beneath thee.
Daniel.
O unhappy king,
Know what must happen once may happen soon.
Remember that 'tis terrible to meet
Great evils unprepar'd! and, O Belshazzar !
In the wild moment of dismay and death,
Remember thou wast warn'd! and, O remember;
Warnings despis'd are condemnations then.
[Exeunt Daniel and Queen:
Bel. Tis well-my soul shakes off its load
of care:
'Tis only the obscure is terrible.
Imagination frames events unknown,
In wild fantastic shapes of hideous ruin,
And what it fears creates !-I know the worst;
And awful is that worst as fear could feign:
But distant are the ills I have to dread!
What is remote may be uncertain too!-
Ha! princes! hope breaks in!-This may not
be.
1st cour. Perhaps this Daniel is in league
with Persia;
And brib'd by Cyrus to report these horrors,
To weaken and impede the mighty plans
Of thy imperial mind.
Bel.
'Tis very like.
2d cour. Return we to the banquet.
Bel.
Dare we venture?
* 2 Chron. chap. xxxiii. Isaiah, chap. xxxviif;
100
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
3d. cour. Let not this dreaming seer disturb
the king.
Against the pow'r of Cyrus and the Mede
Is Babylon secure.
Proud Eu-
Her brazen gates
Mock all attempts to force them.
phrates,
A wat'ry bulwark, guards our ample city
From all assailants. And within the walls
Of this stupendous capital are lodg'd
Such vast provisions, such exhaustless stores,
As a twice ten years siege could never waste.
Bel. (embraces him.) My better genius! Safe
in such resources,
I mock the prophet.-Turn me to the banquet!
[As they are going to resume their places at the
banquet, a dreadful uproar is heard, tumultu-
ous cries, and warlike sounds. All stand ter-
rified. Enter soldiers with their swords drawn
and wounded.]
Soldier. Oh, helpless Babylon! Oh, wretched
king!
Dan. Bel boweth down,* and haughty Nebo
stoops!
The idols fall; the god and worshipper
Together fall! together they bow down!
Each other, or themselves they cannot save.
O, Babylon, where is thy refuge now?
Thy wisdom and thy knowledge, meant to save,
Pervert thee; and thy blessing is thy bane!
Where are thy brutish deities, Chaldea?
Where are thy gods of gold ?-Oh, Lord of life!
Thou very God! so fall thy foes before thee!
1st Jew. So fell beneath the terrors of Thy
name
The idol Chemosh, Moab's empty trust;
So Ammonitish Moloch sunk before Thee;
So fell Philistine Dagon: so shall fall,
To time's remotest period, all thy foes,
Triumphant Lord of Hosts!
Daniel.
How chang'd our fate!
Not for myself, O Judah! but for thee
I shed these tears of joy. For I no more
Must view the cedars which adorn the brow
Of Syrian Lebanon ; no more shall see
Thy pleasant stream, O Jordan! nor the flocks
Which whiten all the mountains of Judea ;
No more these eyes delighted shall review
Or Carmel's heights, or Sharon's flow'ry vales.
Chaldea is no more, the Mede has conquer'd!
The victor Cyrus, like a mighty torrent
Comes rushing on, and marks his way with ruin!
Destruction is at hand; escape or perish.
Bel. Impossible! Villain and slave thou ly'st!
Euphrates and the brazen gates secure us.
While those remain, Belshazzar laughs at dan-I must remain in Babylon! So Heav'n,
ger.
Soldier. Euphrates is diverted from its course;
The brazen gates are burst, the city's taken;
Thyself a pris'ner, and thy empire lost.
Bel. Oh, prophet! I remember thee indeed!
[He runs out. They follow in the utmost confu-
sion.]
Enter several Jews, Medes, and Babylonians.
1st Jew. He comes, he comes! the long pre-
dicted prince,
Cyrus, the destin'd instrument of Heaven,
To free our captive nation, and restore
JEHOVAH's temple. Carnage marks his way,
And Conquest sits upon his plume crown'd helm.
2d Jew. What noise is that?
1st Jew. Hark! 'tis Belshazzar's voice!
Bel. (without.) O soldier, spare my life, and
aid my flight!
Such treasures shall reward the gentle deed
As Persia never saw. I'll be thy slave;
I'll yield my crown to Cyrus; I'll adore
His gods and thine-I'll kneel and kiss thy feet,
And worship thee.-It is not much I ask-
I'll live in bondage, beggary and pain,
So thou but let me live.
Soldier.
Die, tyrant, die!
Bel. O Daniel! Daniel! Daniel!
Soldier.
Enter Soldier.
Belshazzar's dead!
To whose awards I bow me, has decreed.
I ne'er shall see thee, Salem! I am old;
And few and toilsome are my days to come.
But we shall meet in those celestial climes,
Compar'd with which created glories sink;
Where sinners shall have pow'r to harm no
more,
And martyr'd Virtue rests her weary head.
Though ere my day of promis'd grace shall
come,
I shall be tried by perils strange and new;
Nor shall I taste of death, so have I learn'd,
Till I have seen the captive tribes restor❜d.
1st Jew. And shall we view, once more, thy
hallow'd towers,
Imperial Salem ?
Dan.
Yes, my youthful friends!
You shall behold the second temple rise,†
With grateful ecstacy; but we, your sires,
Now bent with hoary age; we, whose charm'd
eyes
Beheld the matchless glories of the first,
Should weep, rememb'ring that we once had
seen
That model of perfection!
2d Jew.
Never more
Shall such a wond'rous structure grace the
earth!
Dan. Well have you borne affliction, men of
Judah!
Well have sustain'd your portion of distress :
The wretched king breath'd out his furious soul And, unrepining, drank the bitter dregs
In that tremendous groan.
1st Jew.
Belshazzar's dead!
Of adverse fortune! Happier days await you.
O guard against the perils of success!
Then, Judah, art thou free! The tyrant's fallen! Prosperity dissolves the yielding soul,
Jerusalem, Jerusalem is free!
1
PART III.
Enter DANIEL and Jews.
And the bright sun of shining fortune melts
The firmest virtue down. Beware my friends,
Be greatly cautious of prosperity!
Defend your sliding hearts; and, trembling,
think
How those, who buffetted Affliction's waves
Isaiah, chap. xlvi.
↑ Ezra, chap. i.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
101
With vig'rous virtue, sunk in Pleasure's calm.
He,* who of special grace had been allow'd
To rear the hallow'd fane to Israel's God,
By wealth corrupted, and by ease debauch'd,
Forsook the God to whom he rais'd the fane ;
And, sunk in sensual sloth, consum'd his days
In vile idolatrous rites,-Nor think, my sons,
That virtue in sequester'd solitude
Is always found. Within the inmost soul
The hidden tempter lurks; nor less betrays
In the still seeming safety of retreat,
Than where the world her snares entangling
spreads,
More visible to sense. Guard every thought:
Who thinks himself secure is half undone;
For Sin, unwatch'd, may reach the sanctuary:
'Tis not the place preserves us. Righteous Lot
* Solomon.
Stem'd the strong current of Corruption's tide,
E'en in polluted Sodom; safe he liv'd,
While circumspective Virtue's watchful eye
Was anxiously awake: but in the shade,
Far from the obvious perils which alarm
With palpable temptation, secret sin
Ensnar'd his soul; he trusted in himself;
Security betray'd him, and he fell.
2d. Jew. Thy prudent counsels in our hearts
shall live,
As if a pen of adamant had grav'd them.
1st Jew. The dawn approaches; let us part,
my friend,
Secure of peace, since tyranny is fallen.
Dan. So perish all thine enemies, O Lord;
So mighty God, shall perish all who seek
Corrupted pleasures in the turbid waves
Of life's polluted stream, and madly quit
The living fountain of perennial grace!
DANIEL :
A SACRED DRAMA.
The righteous is delivered out of trouble, and the wicked cometh in his stead.
On peut des plus grands rois surprendre la justice.
Incapable de tromper,
Ils out peine a s'echapper
Des pieges de l'artifice.
Un cœur noble ne peut soupconner en autrui
La bassesse et la malice
Qu'il ne sent point en lui.
Proverbs of Solomon.
Esther. Tragedie de Racine.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
DARIUS, king of Media and Babylon.
PHARNACES,
courtiers, enemies to Daniel.
Soranus,
ARASPES, a young Median lord, friend and
convert to Daniel.
DANIEL.
Scene-The city of Babylon.
The subject is taken from the sixth chapter of the prophet Daniel.
PART I.
PHARNACES, SORANUS.
Phar. YES!-I have noted with a jealous eye,
The pow'r of this new fav'rite! Daniel reigns,
And not Darius! Daniel guides the springs
Which move this mighty empire. High he sits,
Supreme in favour with both prince and people.
Where is the spirit of our Median lords,
Tamely to crouch and bend the supple knee
To this new god! By Mithras, 'tis too much!
Shall great Arbaces' race to Daniel bow!
A foreigner, a captive, and a Jew?
Something must be devis'd, and that right soon,
To shake his credit.
Sor.
Rather hope to shake
The mountain pine, whose twisting fibres clasp
The earth, deep rooted! Rather hope to shake
The Scythian Taurus from his central base!
No-Daniel sits too absolute in pow'r,
Too firm in favour, for the keenest shaft
Of nicely-aiming jealousy to reach him.
Phar. Rather he sits too high to sit securely,
Yes! he has reach'd that pinnacle of pow'r
Which closely touches on depression's verge.
Hast thou then liv'd in courts? hast thou grown
gray
Beneath the mask a subtle statesman wears,
To hide his secret soul, and dost not know
That of all fickle Fortune's transient gifts,
Favour is most deceitful? 'Tis a beam,
Which darts uncertain brightness for a moment!
The faint precarious, fickly shine of pow'r;
Giv'n without merit, by caprice withdrawn.
No trifle is so small as what obtains,
Save that which loses favour, 'tis a breath,
Which hangs upon a smile! A look, a word,
102
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
A frown, the air-built tower of fortune shakes,
And down the unsubstantial fabric falls!
Darjus, just and clement as he is,
If I mistake not, may be wrought upon
By prudent wiles, by Flatt'ry's pleasant cup,
Administer'd with caution.
Sor.
But the means?
For Daniel's life (a foe must grant him that)
Is so replete with goodness, so adorn'd
With every virtue so exactly squar'd
By wisdom's nicest rules, 'twill be most hard
To charge him with the shadow of offence.
Pure is his fame as Scythia's mountain snows,
When not a breath pollutes them! O Pharnaces,
I've scann'd the actions of his daily life
With all th' industrious malice of a foe;
To Daniel and his God. He sits attent,
With ravish'd ears, to listen to his lore.
With rev'rence names Jerusalem, and reads
The volume of the law. No more he bows
To hail the golden Ruler of the Day,
But looks for some great Prophet, greater far,
So they pretend, than Mithras! From him
therefore,
Conceal whate'er of injury is devis'd
'Gainst Daniel. Be it to thy care to-day
To keep him from the council.
Sor.
"Tis well thought.
'Tis now about the hour of Daniel's prayer:
Araspes too is with him! and to day
They will not sit in council. Haste we then
Designs of high importance, once conceiv'd
And nothing meets mine eye but deeds of hon- Should be accomplish'd! Genius which dis-
our!
In office pure; for equitable acts
Renown'd: in justic and impartial truth,
The Grecian Themis is not more severe.
Phar. By yon bright sun, thou blazon'st forth
his praise
As if with rapture thou did'st read the page
Where these fair deeds are written!
Sor.
Thou mistak'st
I only meant to show what cause we have
To hate and fear him. I but meant to paint
His popular virtues and eclipsing merit
Then for devotion and religious zeal,
Who so renown'd as Daniel? Of his law
Observant in th' extreme. Thrice ev'ry day
With prostrate reverence, he adores his God:
With superstitious awe his face he turns
Tow'rds his beloy'd Jerusalem, as if
Some local, partial God, might there be found
To hear his supplication. No affair
Of state, no business so importunate,
No pleasure so alluring, no employ
Of such high import, to seduce his zeal
From this observance due!
Phar.
There, there he falls!
Enough my friend! His piety destroys him.
There, at the very footstool of his God,
Where he implores protection, there I'll crush
him.
Sor. What means Pharnaces?
Phar.
Ask not what I mean,
The new idea floating in my brain.
Has yet receiv'd no form. 'Tis yet too soon
To give it body, circumstance, or breath.
The seeds of mighty deeds are lab'ring here,
And struggling for a birth! 'Tis near the hour
The king is wont to summon us to council:
Ere that, this big conception of my mind
I'll shape to form and being. Thou, mean-
while,
Convene our chosen friends: for I shall need
The aid of all your councils, and the weight
of grave authority.
Sor.
Who shall be trusted?
Phar. With our immediate motive none,
except
A chosen band of friends, who most repine
At Daniel's exaltation.-But the scheme
I meditate must be disclos'd to all
Who bear high office; all our Median rulers,
Princes and captains, presidents and lords;
All must assemble. 'Tis a common cause:
All but the young Araspes: he inclines
cerns,
And courage which achieves, despise the aid
Of ling'ring Circumspection! The keen spirit
Seizes the prompt occasion, makes the thought
Start into instant action, and at once
Plans and performs, resolves and executes!
PART II.
Scene-Daniel's house.
DANIEL, ARASPES.
Araspes. PROCEED, proceed, thrice venerable
sage,
Enlighten my dark mind with this new ray,
This dawning of salvation! Tell me more
Of this expected King! this Comforter!
This Promise of the nations! this great Hope
Of anxious Israel! This unborn Prophet!
This wonderful, this mighty Counsellor !
This everlasting Lord! this Prince of Peace!
This balm of Gilead, which shall heal the
wounds
Of universal nature! this Messiah !
Redeemer, Saviour, Sufferer, Victim, God!
Dan. Enough to animate our faith, we know,
But not enough to soothe the curious pride
Of vain philosophy! Enough to cheer
Our path we see, the rest is hid in clouds;
And heaven's own shadows rest upon the view!
Aras. Go on blest sage! I could for ever hear,
Untir'd, thy admonition! tell me how
I shall obtain the favour of that God
I but begin to know, but fain would serve.
Dan. By deep humility, by faith unfeign'd,
By holy deeds, best proof of living faith!
O Faith,* thou wonder-working principle,
Eternal substance of our present hope,
Thou evidence of things invisible !
What cannot man sustain, sustain'd by thee!
The time would fail, and the bright star of day
Would quench his beams in ocean, and resign
His empire to the silver queen of night;
And she again descend the steep of heaven,
If I should tell what wonders Faith achiev'd
By Gideon, Barak, and the holy seer,
Elkanah's son; the pious Gileadite,
Ill-fated Jephthah! He of Zorah toot
In strength unequall'd; and the shepherd-king,
Who vanquish'd Gath's fell giant! Need I tell
Of holy prophets, who by conquʼring Faith,
* Hebrews, chap. xi. † Samson.
WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
103
Wrought deeds incredible to mortal sense;
Vanquish'd contending kingdoms, quell'd the
rage
Of furious pestilence, extinguish'd fire!
Victorious Faith! others by thee endur'd
Exile, disgrace, captivity, and death!
Some uncomplaining, bore (nor be it deem'd
The meanest exercise of well-try'd Faith)
The cruel mocking, and the bitter taunt,
Foul obloquy, and undeserv'd reproach:
Despising shame, that death to human pride!
Aras. How shall this faith be sought?
Dan.
By earnest prayer,
Solicit first the wisdom from above:
Wisdom, whose fruits are purity and peace!
Wisdom! that bright intelligence, which sat
Supreme, when with his golden compasses*
Th' Eternal plann'd the fabric of the world,
Produc'd his fair idea into light,
And said, that all was good! Wisdom, blest
beam!
The brightness of the everlasting light!
The spotless mirror of the power of God!
The reflex image of th' all perfect Mind!
A stream translucent, flowing from the source
Of glory infinite! a cloudless light!
Defilement cannot touch nor sin pollute
Her unstain'd purity! Not Ophir's gold,
Nor Ethiopia's gems can match her price!
The ruby of the mine is pale before her!
And, like the oil Elisha's bounty bless'd,
She is a treasure which doth grow by use,
And multiply by spending! She contains,
Within herself the sum of excellence.
If riches are desir'd, wisdom is wealth!
If prudence, where shall keen Invention find
Artificer more cunning? If renown,
In her right hand it comes! If piety,
Are not her labours virtues? If the lore
Which sage Experience teaches, lo! she scans
Antiquity's dark truths; the past she knows,
Anticipates the future; not by arts
Forbidden, of Chaldean sorcerer,
But from the piercing ken of deep Foreknow-
ledge.
From her sure science of the human heart
She weighs effects with causes, ends with
means;
Resolving all into the sovereign will.
For earthly blessings moderate be thy pray'r
And qualified; for light, for strength, for grace,
Unbounded thy petition.
Aras.
Now, O prophet!
Explain the secret doubts which rack my mind,
And my weak sense confound. Give me some
line
To sound the depths of Providence! O say,
Why the ungodly prosper? why their root
Shoots deep, and their thick branches flourish
fair,
Like the green bay tree? why the righteous
man,
Like tender plants to shiv'ring winds expos'd,
Is strip'd and torn, in naked Virtue bare,
And nipp'd by cruel Sorrow's biting blast?
Explain, O Daniel, these mysterious ways
To my faint apprehension! For as yet
I've much to learn. Fair Truth's immortal sun
* See Paradise Lost, book vii. line 225. Proverbs,
chap. viii. ver. 27.
Is sometimes hid in clouds; not that her light
Is in itself defective; but obscur'd
By my weak prejudice. imperfect Faith,
And all the thousand causes which obstruct
The growth of goodness.
Dan.
Follow me, Araspes.
Within thou shalt peruse the sacred page,
The book of life eternal! that will show thee
The end of the ungodly; thou wilt own
How short their longest period; wilt perceive
How black a night succeeds their brightest day!
Thy purged eye will see God is not slack,
As men count slackness, to fulfil his word.
Weigh well this book; and may the Spirit of
grace,
Who stamp'd the seal of truth on the bless'd
page,
Descend into thy soul, remove thy doubts,
Clear the perplex'd, and solve the intricate,
Till faith be lost in sight, and hope in joy!
PART III.
DARIUS on his throne-PHARNACES, SORANUS,
princes, presidents, and courtiers.
Pharn. Hail! king Darius, live for ever!
Darius.
Welcome!
Welcome my princes, presidents, and friends!
Now tell me, has your wisdom aught devis'd
To aid the commonwealth? In our new empire,
Subdu'd Chaldea, is there aught remains
Your prudence can suggest to serve the state,
To benefit the subject, to redress
And raise the injur'd, to assist the oppress'd,
And humble the oppressor? If you know,
Speak freely, princes! Why am I a king,
Except to poise the awful scale of justice
With even hand; to minister to want;
To bless the nations with a lib'ral rule,
Vicegerant of th' eternal Oromasdes?
Phar. So absolute thy wisdom, mighty king,
All counsel were superfluous.
Darius.
Hold, Pharnaces !
No adulation; 'tis the death of virtue;
Who flatters is of all mankind the lowest,
Save he who courts flattery. Kings are men,
As feeble and as frail as those they rule,
And born like them, to die. The Lydian mʊ-
narch,
Unhappy Croesus, lately sat aloft,
Almost above mortality; now see him!
Sunk to the vile condition of a slave,
He swells the train of Cyrus! I, like him,
To misery am obnoxious. See this throne;
This royal throne the great Nebassar fill'd;
Yet hence his pride expell'd him! Yonder wall,
The dread terrific writing to the eyes
Of proud Belshazzar show'd; sad monuments
Of Heav'n's tremendous vengeance! and shall I,
Unwarn'd by such examples, cherish pride?
Yet to their dire calamities I owe
The brightest gem that glistens in my crown,
Sage Daniel. If my speech have aught of worth,
Or if my life with aught of good be grac'd,
To him alone I owe it.
Soranus (aside to Pharnaces.) Now Phar-
naces,
Will he run o'er and dwell upon his praise,
104
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
As if we ne'er had heard it; nay, will swell
The nauseous catalogue with many a virtue
His own fond fancy coins.
Phar.
O, great Darius!
Let thine unworthy servant's words find grace,
And meet acceptance in his royal ear,
Who subjugates the east! Let not the king
With anger hear my pray'r.
Darius.
Pharnaces, speak ;
I know thou lov'st me; I but meant to chide
Thy flatt'ry, not reprove thee for thy zeal.
Speak boldly, friends, as man should speak to
man.
Perish the barb'rous maxims of the east,
Which basely would enslave the free-born mind,
And plunder man of the best gift of Heav'n,
His liberty of soul.
Phar.
Darius hear me.
Thy princes, and the captains of thy bands,
Thy presidents, the nobles who bear rule
O'er provinces, and I, thine humble creature.
Less than the least in merit, but in love,
In zeal, and duty, equal with the first,
We have devis'd a measure to confirm
Thy infant empire, to establish firmly
Thy pow'r and new dominion, and secure
Thy growing greatness past the pow'r of
change.
Darius. I am prepar'd to hear thee. Speak
Pharnaces.
Phar. The wretched Babylonians long have
groan'd
Beneath the rule of princes, weak or rash.
The rod of pow'r was sway'd alike amiss,
By feeble Merodach and fierce Belshazzar.
One let the slacken'd reins too loosely float
Upon the people's neck, and lost his pow'r
By nerveless relaxation. He, who follow'd,
Held with a tyrant's hand the cruel curb,
And check'd the groaning nation till it bled;
On different rocks they met one common ruin.
Their edicts were irresolute, their laws
Were feebly plann'd, their counsels ill advis'd;
Now so relax'd, and now so overstrain'd,
That the tir'd people, wearied with the weight
They long have borne, will soon disdain con-
troul,
Tread on all rule, and spurn the hand that
guides 'em.
Phar.
Darius. But say what remedy?
That too, O king!
Thy servants have provided. Hitherto
They bare the yoke submissive. But to fix
Thy pow'r and their obedience, to reduce
All hearts to thy dominion, yet avoid
Those deeds of cruelty thy nature starts at,
Thou should'st begin by some imperial act
Of absolute dominion, yet unstain'd
By aught of barbarous. For know, O king!
Wholesome severity, if wisely fram'd
With sober discipline, procures more reverence
Than all the lenient counsels and weak mea-
sures
Of frail irresolution.
Darius.
To thy request.
Now proceed
Phar. Not I, but all request it.
Be thy imperial edict issued straight,
And let a firm decree be this day pass'd,
Irrevocable as our Median laws,
Ordain, that for the space of thirty days
No subject in thy realm shall aught request
Of God or man, except of thee, O king!
Darius. Wherefore this strange decree?
Phar.
"Twill fix the crown
With lasting safety on thy royal brow,
And, by a bloodless means, preserve th' obe-
dience
Of this new empire. Think how much 'twill
raise
Thy high renown! "Twill make thy name re
ver'd,
And popular beyond example. What!
To be as Heav'n, dispensing good and ill
For thirty days! With thine own ears to hear
Thy people's wants, with thine own lib'ral hands
To bless thy suppliant subjects! O, Darius!
Thoul't seem as bounteous as a giving God!
And reign in ev'ry heart in Babylon
As well as Media! What a glorious state,
To be the sovereign arbiter of good!
The first efficient cause of happiness!
To scatter mercies with a plenteous hand,
And to be blest thyself in blessing others!
Darius. Is this the gen'ral wish?
[Princes and courtiers kneel.
Chief president.
Of one, of all.
Behold thy princes, presidents and lords,
Thy counsellors, and captains! See, O king!
[Presents the edict.
Behold the instrument our zeal has drawn ;
The edict is prepar'd. We only wait
The confirmation of thy gracious word,
And thy imperial signet.
Darius.
Say, Pharnaces,
What penalty awaits the man who dares
Transgress our mandate ?
Phar.
Instant death, O king!
This statute says; 'Should any subject dare
Petition, for the space of thirty days,
Of God or man, except of thee, O king!
He shall be thrown into yon dreadful den
Of hungry lions !'
Darius.
Hold! Methinks a deed
Of such importance should be wisely weigh'd.
Phar. We have resolv'd it, mighty king!
with care,
With closest scrutiny. On us devolve
Whatever blame occurs!
Darius.
I'm satisfy'd.
Then to your wisdom I commit me, princes.
Behold the royal signet: see 'tis done.
Phar. (aside) There Daniel fell! That signet
seal'd his doom.
Darius (after a pause.) Let me reflect-Sure
I have been too rash!
Why such intemp'rate haste? But you are
wise;
And would not counsel this severe decree
But for the wisest purpose. Yet, methinks,
I might have weigh'd, and in my mind resolv'd
This statute, ere, the royal signet stamp'd,
It had been past repeal. Sage Daniel, too!
My counsellor, my guide, my well-try'd friend,
He should have been consulted; he, whose wis.
dom
I still have found oracular!
Phar.
Mighty king!
"Tis as it should be. The decree is past
Irrevocable, as the steadfast law
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
105
Of Mede and Persian, which can never change., To vindicate the honour of his God,
Those who observe it live, as is most meet,
High in thy grace;—who violate it, die.
PART IV.
Scene-DANIEL's house.
DANIEL, ARASPES.
Araspes. Он, holy Daniel! prophet, father,
friend,
I come the wretched messenger of ill!
Of him the living Lord shall be asham'd
When he shall judge the tribes!
Aras.
Yet, O remember,
Oft have I heard thee say, the secret heart
Is fair devotion's temple; there the saint,
E'en on that living altar, lights the flame
Of purest sacrifice, which burns unseen,
Not unaccepted.-I remember too,
When Syrian Naaman* by Elisha's hand,
Was cleans'd from foul pollution, and his mind
Enlighten'd by the miracle, confess'd
The Almighty God of Jacob: that he deem'd it
No flagrant violation of his faith
Thy foes complot thy death. For what can To bend at Rimmon's shrine; nor did the seer
mean
This new-made law, extorted from the king
Almost by force? What can it mean, O Daniel,
But to involve thee in the toils they spread
To snare thy precious life?
Daniel.
How! was the king
Consenting to this edict?
Araspes.
They surpris'd
His easy nature; took him when his heart
Was soften'd by their blandishments. They
wore
The mask of public virtue to deceive him.
Beneath the specious name of general good,
They wrought him to their purposes: no time
Allow'd him to deliberate. One short hour,
Another moment, and his soul had gain'd
Her natural tone of virtue.
Daniel.
That great Power
Who suffers evil only to produce
Some unseen good, permits that this should be:
And He permitting, I, well pleas'd resign.
Retire, my friend: this is my second hour
Of daily pray❜r. Anon we'll meet again.
Here in the open face of that bright sun
Thy fathers worshipp'd, will I offer up,
As is my rule, petitions to my God,
For thee, for me, for Solyma, for all!
Araspes. Oh, stay! what mean'st thou ! sure
thou hast not heard
The edict of the king? I thought but now,
Thou knew'st its purport. It expressly says,
That no petition henceforth shall be made,
For thirty days save only to the king;
Nor pray'r nor intercession shall be heard
Of any God or man, but of Darius.
Dan. And think'st thou then my reverence
for the king,
Good as he is, shall tempt me to renounce
My sworn allegiance to the King of kings?
Hast thou commanded legions? strove in battle,
Defy'd the face of danger, mock'd at death
In all its frightful forms, and tremblest now?
Come learn of me; I'll teach thee to be bold,
Though sword I never drew! Fear not, Araspes,
The feeble vengeance of a mortal man,
Whose breath is in his nostrils: for wherein
Is he to be accounted of? but fear
The awaken'd vengeance of the living Lord
He who can plunge the everlasting soul
In infinite perdition!
Aras.
Then, O Daniel!
If thou persist to disobey the edict,
Retire and hide thee from the prying eyes
Of busy malice!
Dan.
VOL. I.
He who is asham'd
Forbid the rite external.
Dan.
Know, Araspes,
Heav'n designs to suit our trials to our strength;
A recent convert, feeble in his faith:
Naaman, perhaps, had sunk beneath the weight
Of so severe a duty. Gracious Heav'n
Forbears to bruise the reed, or quench the flax
When feeble and expiring. But shall I,
Shall Daniel, shall the servant of the Lord,
A vet'ran in his cause-long train'd to know
And do his will-long exercis'd in wo,
Bred in captivity and born to suffer;
Shall I, from known, from certain duty shrink
To shun a threaten'd danger? O, Araspes!
Shall I, advanc'd in age, in zeal decline?
Grow careless as I reach my journey's end
And slacken in my pace, the goal in view?
Perish discretion, when it interferes
With duty! Perish the false policy
Of human wit, which would commute our safety
With God's eternal honour ! Shall His law
Be set at nought, that I may live at ease?
How would the Heathen triumph, should I fall
Through coward fear! How would God's
enemies
Insultingly blaspheme!
Aras.
Dan.
Yet think a moment.
No!-
Where evil may be done, 'tis right to ponder ;
Where only suffer'd know the shortest pause
Is much too long. Had great Darius paus'd,
This ill had been prevented. But for me,
Araspes, to deliberate is to sin.
Aras. Think of thy pow'r, thy favour with
Darius:
Think of thy life's importance to the tribes,
Scarce yet return'd in safety. Live! O, live!
To serve the cause of God!
God will himself
Dan.
He knows to raise
Sustain his righteous cause.
Fit instruments to serve him. Know, Araspes,
He does not need our crimes to help his cause,
Nor does his equitable law permit
A sinful act, from the prepost'rous plea
That good may follow it. For me, my friend,
The spacious earth holds not a bait to tempt me.
What would it profit me, if I should gain
Imperial Ecbatan, th' extended land
Of fruitful Media, nay, the world's wide empire,
If mine eternal soul must be the price?
Farewell, my friend! time presses. I have
stol'n
Some moments from my duty to confirm
*Kings. chap v.
106
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
And strengthen thy young faith! Let us fulfil
What Heav'n enjoins, and leave to Heav'n th'
event!
PART V.
Scene-The Palace.
PHARNACES, SORANUS.
Something that touch'd you nearer than your
love,
Your well-feign'd zeal for me.-I should have
known
When selfish politicians, hackney'd long
In fraud and artifice, affect a glow
Of patriot fervour, or fond loyalty,
Which scorns all show of interest, that's the
moment
To watch their crooked projects.-Well thou
know'st
Phar. 'Tis done-success has crown'd our How dear I held him; how I priz'd his truth
scheme, Soranus;
And Daniel falls into the deep-laid toils
Our prudence spread.
Sor.
That he should fall so soon,
Astonishes e'en me! what! not a day!
What! not a single moment to defer
His rash devotions? Madly thus to rush
On certain peril quite transcends belief!
When happen'd it, Pharnaces?
Phar.
On the instant :
Scarce is the deed accomplish'd. As he made
His ostentatious pray'r, e'en in the face
Of the bright God of day, all Babylon
Beheld the insult offer'd to Darius.
For, as in bold defiance of the law,
His windows were not clos'd. Our chosen bands,
Whom we had plac'd to note him, straight
rush'd in,
And seiz'd him in the warmth of his blind zeal,
Ere half his pray'r was finish'd. Young Araspes,
With all the wild extravagance of grief,
Prays, weeps, and threatens. Daniel silent
stands,
With patient resignation, and prepares
To follow them.-But see, the king approaches!
Sor. How's this? deep sorrow sits upon his
brow,
And stern resentment fires his angry eye!
Enter DARIUS.
Dar. O, deep-laid stratagem! O, artful wile!
To take me unprepar'd, to wound my heart,
E'en where it feels most tenderly, in friendship!
To stab my fame! to hold me up a mark
To future ages, for the perjur'd prince
Who slew the friend he lov'd! O Daniel, Daniel,
Who now shall trust Darius? Not a slave
In my wide empire, from the Indian main
To the cold Caspian, but is more at ease
Than I, his monarch! Yes! I've done a deed
Will blot my honour with eternal stain!
Pharnaces! O, thou hoary sycophant!
Thou wily politician! thou hast snar'd
Thy unsuspecting master!
Phar.
Great Darius,
Let not resentment blind thy royal eyes.
In what am I to blame? who could suspect
This obstinate resistance to the law?
Who could foresee that Daniel would perforce
Oppose the king's decree?
Dar.
Thou, thou foresaw'st it!
Thou know'st his righteous soul would ne'er
endure
So long an interval of pray'r. But I,
Deluded king! 'twas I should have foreseen
His steadfast piety. I should have thought
Your earnest warmth had some more secret
source,
Did I not choose him from a subject world,
Unbless'd by fortune, and by birth ungrac'd,
A captive and a Jew? Did I not love him?
Was he not rich in independent worth?
And great in native goodness? That undid him!
There, there he fell! If he had been less great,
He had been safe. Thou could'st not bear his
brightness;
The lustre of his virtues quite obscur'd,
And dimm'd thy fainter merit. Rash old man!
Go, and devise some means to set me free
From this dread load of guilt! Go set at work
Thy plotting genius to redeem the life
Of venerable Daniel!
Phar.
'Tis too late.
He has offended 'gainst the new decree;
Has dar'd to make petition to his God,
Although the dreadful sentence of the act
Full well he knew. And by th' established law
Of Media, by that irrevocable,
Which he has dar'd to violate, he dies!
Dar. Impiety! presumption! monstrous law!
Irrevocable? Is there aught on earth
Deserves that name? Th' eternal laws alone
Of Oromasdes are unchangeable!
All human projects are so faintly fram'd,
So feebly plann'd, so liable to change,
So mix'd with error in their very form,
That mutable and mortal are the same.
But where is Daniel! Wherefore comes he not
To load me with reproaches? to upbraid me
With all the wrongs my barbarous haste has
done him!
Where is he?
Phar. He prepares to meet his fate.
This hour he dies, for the act so decrees.
Dar. Suspend the bloody sentence. Bring
him hither.
Or rather let me seek him and implore
His dying pardon, and his parting pray'r.
PART VI.
Scene-Daniel's house.
DANIEL, ARASPES.
Ara. STILL let me follow thee; still let me
hear
The voice of Wisdom, ere the silver cord
| By_death's cold hand be loosen'd.
Dan.
Now I'm ready!
No grief, no woman's weakness, good Araspes !
Thou should'st rejoice my pilgrimage is o'er,
And the blest heaven of repose in view.
Ara. And must I loose thee, Daniel? must
thou die !
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
107
Dan. And what is death, my friend, that I Myself will recompense with even hand,
should fear it?
To die! why 'tis to triumph; 'tis to join
The great assembly of the good and just;
Immortal worthies, heroes, prophets, saints!
Oh! 'tis to join the band of holy men,
Made perfect by their sufferings! 'Tis to meet
My great progenitors! 'Tis to behold
Th' illustrious patriarchs; they with whom the
Lord
Deign'd hold familiar converse. 'Tis to see
Bless'd Noah and his children, once a world!
'Tis to behold, oh, rapture to conceive!
The sinner for the sin. The wrath of man
Works not the righteousness of God!
Dar.
I had hop'd
We should have trod this busy stage together
A little longer, then have sunk to rest
In honourable age! Who now shall guide
My shatter'd bark in safety? who shall now
Direct me? O, unhappy state of kings!
'Tis well the robe of majesty is gay,
Or who would put it on? A crown! what is it?
It is to bear the miseries of a people!
To hear their murmurs, feel their discontents,
Those we have known, and lov'd, and lost be- And sink beneath a load of splendid care!
low!
Bold Azariah, and the band of brothers,
Who sought, in bloom of youth, the scorching
flames!
Nor shall we see heroic men alone,
To have your best success ascrib'd to Fortune,
And Fortune's failures all ascrib'd to you!
It is to sit upon a joyless height,
To every blast of changing fate expos'd!
Too high for hope! too great for happiness!
Champions who fought the fight of faith on For friendship too much fear'd! To all the joys
earth;
But heavenly conquerors, angelic hosts,
Michael and his bright legions, who subdu'd
The foes of truth! To join their blest employ
Of love and praise! to the high melodies
Of choirs celestial to attune my voice,
Accordant to the golden harps of saints!
To join in blest hosannahs to their king!
Whose face to see, whose glory to behold,
Alone were heaven, though saint or seraph none
Should meet our sight, and only God were there!
This is to die! Who would not die for this?
Who would not die, that he might live for ever?
DARIUS, DANIEL, ARASPES.
Of social freedom, and th' endearing charm
Of lib'ral interchange of soul unknown !
Fate meant me an exception to the rest,
And though a monarch, bless'd me with a friend;
And I have murder'd him!
Dan.
My hour approaches
Hate not my mem'ry, king: protect Araspes:
Encourage Cyrus in the holy work
Of building ruin'd Solyma. Farewell!
Dar. With most religious strictness I'll fulfil
Thy last request. Araspes shall be next
My throne and heart. Farewell!
[They embrace.
Hear, future kings!
Ye unborn rulers of the nation, hear!
Dar. Where is he? where is Daniel ?-Let Learn from my crime, from my misfortune
me see him!
Let me embrace that venerable form,
Which I have doom'd to glut the greedy maw
Of furious lions!
Dan.
King Darius, hail !
Dar. O, injur'd Daniel, can I see thee thus !
Thus uncomplaining! can I bear to hear
That when the ruffian ministers of death
Stopp'd thy unfinish'd pray'r, thy pious lips
Had just invok'd a blessing on Darius,
On him who sought thy life? Thy murd'rers
drop
Tears of strange pity. Look not on me thus
With mild benignity! Oh! I could bear
The voice of keen reproach, or the strong flash
Of fierce resentment; but I cannot stand
That touching silence, nor that patient eye
Of meek respect.
Dan.
Thou art my master still.
Dar. I am thy murderer! I have sign'd thy
death!
Dan. I know thy bent of soul is honourable:
Thou hast been gracious still! Were it not so,
I would have met the appointment of high
Heaven
With humble acquiescence; but to know
Thy will concurr'd not with thy servant's fate,
Adds joy to resignation.
Dar.
Here I swear
By him who sits enthron'd in yon bright sun,
Thy blood shall be aton'd! On these thy foes,
Thou shalt have ample vengeance.
Dan.
Hold, O king!
Vengeance is mine, th' eternal Lord hath said;
|
learn,
Never to trust to weak or wicked hands,
That delegated pow'r which Oromasdes
Invests in monarchs for the public good.
PART VII.
Scene-The court of the palace.-The sun rising
DARIUS, ARASPES.
Dar. Oh, good Araspes! what a night of hor-
ror !
To me the dawning day brings no return
Of cheerfulness or peace! No balmy sleep
Has seal'd these eyes, no nourishment has past
These loathing lips, since Daniel's fate was
sign'd!
Hear what my fruitless penitence resolves-
That thirty days my rashness had decreed
The edict's force should last, I will devote
To mourning and repentance, fasting, pray'r
And all due rites of grief. For thirty days
No pleasant sound of dulcimer or harp,
Sackbut or flute, or psaltery, shall charm
My ear, now dead to ev'ry note of joy!
Aras. My grief can know no period!
Dar.
See that den;
There Daniel met the furious lion's rage
There were the patient martyr's mangled limbs
Torn piece-meal! Never hide thy tears, Araspes;
'Tis virtuous sorrow, unalloy'd, like mine,
By guilt and fell remorse! Let us approach;
108
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Who knows but that dread Pow'r to whom he Where sin is not, to punish were unjust;
pray'd
So often and so fervently, has heard him!
[He goes to the mouth of the den.
O Daniel, servant of the living God!
He whom thou hast serv'd so long, and lov'd so
well,
From the devouring lions' famish'd jaws,
Can he deliver thee?
Dan. (from the bottom of the den.) He can-
he has !
Dar. Methought I heard him speak!
Aras.
O, wond'rous force
Of strong imagination! were thy voice
And where sin is, O king, there fell remorse
Supplies the place of punishment!
Dar.
No more!
My word is past! Not one request, save this,
Shalt thou e'er make in vain. Approach, my
friends;
Araspes has already spread the talc,
And see what crowds advance!
Peo.
Long live Darius !
Long live great Daniel too, the people's friend!
Dar. Draw near, my subjects. See this holy
[band
Death had no pow'r to harm him. Yon fell
man!
Loud as the trumpet's blast, it could not wake Of famish'd lions, soften'd at his sight,
him
From that eternal sleep!
Dan. (in the den.) Hail, king Darius!
The God I serve has shut the lions' mouths,
To vindicate my innocence.
Dar.
He lives!
He speaks!
Aras. 'Tis no illusion: 'tis the sound
Of his known voice.
Dar. Where are my servants? Haste,
Fly, swift as lightning, free him from the den;
Release him, bring him hither! break the seal
Which keeps him from me! See, Araspes! look!
See the charm'd lions!-Mark their mild de-
meanor:
Araspes, mark!-they have no pow'r to hurt
him!
See how they hang their heads and smooth their
fierceness
At his mild aspect!
Aras.
Who that sees this sight,
Who that in after times shall hear this told,
Can doubt if Daniel's God be God indeed?
Dar. None, none, Araspes!
Aras.
Ah, he comes, he comes!
Enter DANIEL, followed by multitudes.
Dan. Hail, great Darius !
Dost thou live indeed!
Dar.
And live unhurt?
Áras.
O, miracle of joy!
Dar. I scarce can trust my eyes! How didst
thou 'scape?
Dan. That bright and glorious Being, who
vouchsaf'd
Presence divine, when the three martyr'd bro-
thers
Essay'd the caldron's flame, supported me!
E'en in the furious lions' dreadful den,
The prisoner of hope, even there I turn'd
To the strong hold, the bulwark of my strength,
Ready to hear, and mighty to redeem !
Dar. (to Aras.) Where is Pharnaces? Take
the hoary traitor!
Take too Soranus, and the chief abettors
Of this dire edict: let not one escape.
The punishment their deep-laid hate devis'd
For holy Daniel, on their heads shall fall
With tenfold vengeance. To the lion's den
I doom his vile accusers! All their wives,
Their children too, shall share one common fate!
Take care that none escape-Go, good Araspes.
[Araspes goes out.
Not
So, Darius !
O spare the guiltless; spare the guilty too!
Dan.
|
|
Forgot their nature, and grew tame before him.
The mighty God protects his servants thus !
The righteous thus he rescues from the snare,
While Fraud's artificer himself shall fall
In the deep gulf his wily arts devise
To snare the innocent!
A courtier.
To the same den
Araspes bears Pharnaces and his friends:
Fallen is their insolence! With prayers and
tears
And all the meanness of high-crested pride,
When adverse fortune frowns, they beg for life.
Araspes will not hear. You heard not me,'
He cries, When I for Daniel's life implor'd;
His God protected him! see now if your's
Will listen to your cries!'
Dar.
Now hear,
People and nations, languages and realms,
O'er whom I rule! Peace be within your walls!
That I may banish from the minds of men
The rash decree gone out; hear me resolve
To counteract its force by one more just.
In ev'ry kingdom of my wide-stretch'd realm
From fair Chaldea to the extremest bound
Of northern Media, be my edict sent,
And this my statute known. My heralds haste,
And spread my royal mandate through the land,
That all my subjects bow the ready knee
To Daniel's GOD-for HE alone is LORD.
Let all adore, and tremble at His name,
Who sits in glory unapproachable
Above the heavens--above the heaven of hea-
vens !
His pow'r is everlasting; and HIs throne,
Founded in equity and truth, shall last
Beyond the bounded reign of time and space
Through wide eternity! With HIS right arm
He saves, and who opposes? He defends,
And who shall injure? In the perilous den
HE rescu'd Daniel from the lions' mouths;
His common deeds are wonders; all His works
One ever-during chain of miracles!
Enter ARASpes.
Aras. All hail, O king! Darius, live for ever!
May all thy foes be as Pharnaces is !
Dar. Araspes, speak!
Aras.
O, let me spare the tale!-
'Tis full of horror! Dreadful was the sight!
The hungry lions, greedy for their prey,
Devour'd the wretched princes ere they reach'd
The bottom of the den.
Dar.
Now, now confess
'Twas some superior hand restrain'd their rage,
And tam'd their furious appetites.
People.
'Tis true.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
109
The God of Daniel is a mighty God!
He saves and He destroys.
Aras.
O, friend! O, Daniel!
No wav'ring doubts can ever more disturb
My settled faith.
Dan. To God be all the glory!
REFLECTIONS OF KING HEZEKIAH
IN HIS SICKNESS.
'Set thine house in order, for thou shalt die.'-Isaiah, xxxviii.
WHAT, and no more?-Is this my soul, said I,
My whole of being! Must I surely die?
Be robb'd at once of health, of strength, of time,
Of youth's fair promise, and of pleasure's prime?
Shall I no more behold the face of morn,
The cheerful daylight, and the spring's return?
Must I the festive pow'r the banquet leave,
For the dull chambers of the darksome grave!
Have I consider'd what it is to die?
In native dust with kindred worms to lie ;
To sleep in cheerless, cold neglect! to rot!
My body loath'd, my very name forgot!
Not one of all those parasites, who bend
The supple knee, their monarch to attend!
What, not one friend! No, not an hireling slave
Shall hail great Hezekiah in the grave.
Where's he who falsely claim'd the name of
great?
Whose eye was terror, and whose frown was
fate?
Who aw'd an hundred nations from the throne?
See where he lies, dumb, friendless, and alone!
Which grain of dust proclaims the noble birth?
Which is the royal particle of earth?
Where are the marks, the princely ensigns
where ?
Which is the slave, and which great David's
heir ?
Alas! the beggar's ashes are not known
From his who lately sat on Israel's throne!
How stands my great account? My soul sur-
vey
The debt Eternal Justice bids thee pay!
Should I frail Memory's records strive to blot,
Will Heaven's tremendous reck'ning be forgot?
Can I, alas! the awful volume tear?
Or raze one page of the dread register?
Prepare thy house, thy heart in order set ;
Prepare the Judge of Heaven and earth to meet.'
So spake the warning prophet.-Awful words!
Which fearfully my troubled soul record.
Am I prepar'd? and can I meet my doom,
Nor shudder at the dreaded wrath to come?
Is all in order set, my house, my heart?
Does not besetting sin still claim a part?
No cherish'd error, loth to quit its place,
Obstruct within my soul the work of grace?
Did I each day for this great day prepare,
By righteous deeds, by sin-subduing pray'r?
Did I each night, each day's offence repent,
And each unholy thought and word lament?
Still have these ready hands th' afflicted fed,
And minister'd to Want her daily bread?
The cause I knew not, did I well explore?
Friend, advocate, and parent of the poor?
Did I to gratify some sudden gust
Of thoughtless appetite, some impious lust
1
|
|
Of pleasure or of pow'r, such sums employ
As would have flush'd pale penury with joy?
Did I in groves forbidden altars raise,
Or molten gods adore, or idols praise
Did my firm faith to Heaven still point the way?
Did charity to man my actions sway ?
Did meek-ey'd Patience all my steps attend?
Did gen'rous Candour mark me for her friend?
Did I unjustly seek to build my name
On the pil'd ruins of another's fame?
Did I abhor, as hell, the insidious lie,
The low deceit, the unmanly calumny?
Did my fix'd soul the impious wit detest?
Did my firm virtue scorn th' unhallow'd jest?
The sneer profane, and the good ridicule
Of shallow Infidelity's dull school?
Did I still live as born one day to die,
And view th eternal world with constant eyo?
If so I liv'd, if so I kept thy word,
In mercy view, in mercy hear me, Lord!
For oh! how strict soe'er I kept thy law,
From mercy only all my hopes I draw!
My holiest deeds indulgence will require;
The best but to forgiveness will aspire ;
If thou my purest services regard,
"Twill be with pardon only, not reward!
How imperfection 's stamp'd on all below!
How sin intrudes in all we say or do!
How late in all the insolence of health,
I charm'd th' Assyrian* by my boast of wealth!
How fondly with elab'rate pomp display'd
My glitt'ring treasures! with what triumph laid
My gold and gems before his dazzled eyes,
And found a rich reward in his surprise?
O, mean of soul! can wealth elate the heart,
Which of the man himself is not a part!
O, poverty of pride! O, foul disgrace!
Disgusted Reason, blushing hides her face
Mortal and proud! strange contradicting terms!
Pride for death's victim, for the prey of worms!
Of all the wonders which th' eventful life
Of man presents! of all the mental strife
Of warring passions; all the raging fires
Of furious appetites and mad desires,
Not one so strange appears as this alone,
That man is proud of what is not his own!
How short is human life! the very breath!
Which frames my words, accelerates my death.
Of this short life how large a portion 's fled!
To what is gone I am already dead;
As dead to all my years and minutes past,
As I, to what remains, shall be at last.
Can I past miseries so far forget,
To view my vanish'd years with fond regret?
*This is an anachronism. Hezekiah did not show
his treasures to the Assyrian till after his recovery from-
his sickness.
110
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Can I again my worn-out fancy cheat?
Indulge fresh hope? solicit new deceit ?
Of all the vanities weak man admires,
Which greatness gives, youth hopes, or pride
desires,
Of these, my soul, which hast thou not enjoy'd?
With each, with all, thy sated pow'rs are cloy'd.
What can I then expect from length of days?
More wealth, more wisdom, pleasure, health,
or praise?
More pleasure! hope not that, deluded king!
For when did age increase of pleasure bring?
Is health, of years prolong'd the common boast?
And dear-earn'd Fame, is it not cheaply lost?
More wisdom! that indeed were happiness;
That were a wish a king might well confess;
But when did Wisdom covet length of days?
Or seek its bliss in pleasures, wealth, or praise?
No:-Wisdom views with an indifferent eye
All finite joys, all blessings born to die.
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compell'd to starve at an unreal feast;
A spark, which upward tends by nature's force;
A stream diverted from its parent source;
A drop, dissever'd from the boundless sea;
A moment parted from eternity:
A pilgrim panting for the rest to come;
An exile, anxious for his native home.
Why should I ask my forfeit life to save?
Is heaven unjust, which dooms me to the grave?
Was I with hope of endless days deceiv'd?
Or of lov'd life am I alone bereav'd?
Let all the great, the rich, the learn'd, the wise,
Let all the shades of Judah's monarchs rise,
And say, if genius, learning, empire, wealth,
Youth, beauty, virtue, strength, renown or health,
Has once revers'd th' immutable decree
On Adam pass'd of man's mortality?
What have these eyes ne'er seen the felon worm
The damask cheek devour, the finish'd form?
On the pale rose of blasted beauty feed,
And riot on the lip so lately red?
Where are our fathers? Where th' illustrious line
Of holy prophets, and of seers divine?
Live they for ever? Do they shun the grave?
Or when did Wisdom its professor save?
When did the brave escape? When did the
breath
Of Eloquence charm the dull ear of Death?
When did the cunning argument avail,
The polish'd period, or the varnish'd tale ;
The eye of lightning, or the soul of fire,
Which thronging thousands crowded to admire?
E'en while we praise the verse the poet dies
And silent as his lyre great David lies.
Thou, blest Isaiah! who at God's command,
Now speak'st repentance to a guilty land,
Must die! as wise and good thou hadst not
been,
;
As Nebat's son, who taught the land to sin!
And shall I then be spar'd? O monstrous
pride!
Shall I escape when Solomon has died?
If all the worth of all the saints were vain—
Peace, peace, my troubled soul, nor dare com-
plain!
Lord, I submit. Complete thy gracious will!
For if thou slay me, I will trust Thee still.
O be my will so swallow'd up in thine,
That I may do THY will in doing mine.
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS:
A PASTORAL DRAMA FOR YOUNG LADIES.
To rear the tender thought,
To teach the young idea how to shoot,
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind,
To breathe th' enliv'ning spirit, and to fix
The gen'rous purpose of the female breast.-Thomson:
TO MRS. GWATKIN.
DEAR MADAM,-As the following poem turns chiefly on the danger of delay or error in the
important article of education, I know not to whom I can, with more propriety, dedicate it than
to you, as the subject it inculcates has been one of the principal objects of your attention in your
own family.
Let not the name of dedication alarm you: I am not going to offend you by making your eulo-
gium. Panegyric is only necessary to suspicious characters: Virtue will not accept it; Delicacy
will not offer it.
The friendship with which you have honoured me from my childhood, will, I flatter myself,
induce you to pardon me for venturing to lay before you this public testimony of my esteem, and
to assure you how much I am, dear madam,
Your obedient, and obliged humble servant,
PREFACE.
THE AUTHOR.
THE object of the following poem, which was written in very early youth, was an earnest wish
to furnish a substitute for the improper custom, which then prevailed, of allowing plays, and
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
111
those not always of the purest kind, to be acted by young ladies in boarding schools. And it has
afforded a serious satisfaction to the author to learn that this little poem, and the preceding sa-
cred dramas, have very frequently been adopted to supply the place of those more dangerous
amusements. If it may be still happily instrumental in promoting a regard to Religion and Vir-
tue in the minds of young persons, and afford them an innocent, and perhaps not altogether un-
useful, amusement, in the exercise of recitation, the end for which it was originally composed,
and the author's utmost wish in its republication, will be fully answered.
PROLOGUE.
SPOKEN BY A YOUNG LADY.
In these grave scenes, and unembellish'd
strains,
Where neither sly intrigue nor passion reigns;
How dare we hope an audience will approve
A drama void of wit and free from love?
Where no soft Juliet sighs, and weeps, and
starts,
No fierce Roxana takes by storm your hearts;
No comic ridicule, no tragic swagger,
Not one elopement, not one bowl or dagger!
No husband wrong'd, who trusted and believ'd,
No father cheated, and no friend deceiv'd;
No libertine in glowing strains describ'd,
No lying chambermaid that rake had brib'd :
Nor give we, to reward the rover's life,
The ample portion and the beauteous wife;
Behold, to raise the manners of the age,
The frequent moral of the scenic page!
And shall we then transplant these noxious
scenes
To private life? to misses in their teens?
The pompous tone, the masculine attire,
The stilts, the buskin, the dramatic fire,
Corrupt the softness of the gentler kind,
And taint the sweetness of the youthful mind.
Ungovern'd passions, jealousy and rage,
But ill become our sex, still less our age;
Whether we learn too well what we describe,
| Or fail the poet's meaning to imbibe;
In either case your blame we justly raise,
In either lose, or ought to lose, your praise.
How dull, if tamely flows th' impassion'd strain!
If well-how bad to be the thing we feign;
To fix the mimic scene upon the heart,
And keep the passion when we quit the part!
Such are the perils the dramatic muse,
In youthful bosoms, threatens to infuse!
Our timid author labours to impart
A less pernicious lesson to the heart;
What though no charm of melody divine,
Smooth her round period, or adorn her line;
Though her unpolish'd page in vain aspires
To emulate the graces she admires :
Though destitute of skill, her sole pretence
But aims at simple truth and common sense;
Yet shall her honest unassuming page
Tell that its author, in a modish age,
Preferr'd plain virtue to the boast of art,
Nor fix'd one dangerous maxim on the heart.
O if, to crown the efforts, she could find
They rooted but one error from one mind:
If in the bosom of ingenuous youth
They stamp'd one useful thought, one lasting
truth ;
'Twould be a fairer tribute to her name,
Than loud applauses, or an empty fame.
EUPHELIA,
CLEORA,
PASTORELLA,
LAURINDA,
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
four young ladies of distinction,
in search of Happiness.
Scene-A Grove.
EUPHELIA, CLEORA, PASTORELLA, LAURINDA.
Cle. WELCOME, ye humble vales, ye flow'ry
shades,
Ye crystal fountains, and ye silent glades!
From the gay misery of the thoughtless great,
The walks of folly, the disease of state;
From scenes where daring Guilt triumphant
reigns,
Its dark suspicions and its hoard of pains;
Where Pleasure never comes without alloy,
And Art but thinly paints fallacious joy;
Where Laughter loads the day, Excess the
night,
And dull Satiety succeeds Delight;
Where midnight Vices their fell orgies keep,
URANIA, an ancient shepherdess.
SYLVIA,
her daughters.
ELIZA, S
FLORELLA, a young shepherdess.
And guilty revels scare the phantom Sleep;
Where Dissipation wears the name of Bliss ;
From these we fly in search of Happiness.
Euph. Not the tir'd pilgrim all his dangers
past,
When he descries the long sought shrine at last,
E'er felt a joy so pure as this fair field,
These peaceful shades, and smiling vallies yield!
For, sure, these oaks, which old as Time appear,
Proclaim Urania's lonely dwelling near.
Past. How the description with the scene
agrees!
Here lowly thickets, there aspiring trees;
The hazel copse excluding noon-day's beam,
The tufted arbor, the pellucid stream;
The blooming sweet-briar, and the hawthorn
shade,
112
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
The springing cowslips, and the daisy'd mead, |
The wild luxuriance of the full blown fields,
Which Spring prepares, and laughing Summer
yields.
Euph. Here simple Nature strikes th' enrap-
tur'd eye
With charms, which wealth and art but ill sup-
ply;
The genuine graces, which without we find,
Display the beauty of the owner's mind.
Lau. These embow'ring shades conceal the
cell,
Where sage Urania and her daughters dwell:
Florella too, if right we've heard the tale,
With them resides-the lily of the vale.
Cle. But soft! what gentle female form ap-
pears,
Which smiles of more than mortal beauty
wears?
Is it the guardian Genius of the grove?
Or some fair angel of the choirs above?
Enter FLORELLA, who speaks.
Whom do I see? ye beauteous virgins say
What chance conducts your steps this lonely
way?
Do you pursue some favourite lambkin stray'd?
Or do yon alders court you to their shade?
Declare, fair strangers! if aright I deem,
No rustic nymphs of vulgar rank you seem.
Cle. No cooling shades allure our eager sight,
Nor lambkins lost, our searching steps invite.
Flo. Or is it, hap'ly, yonder branching vine,
Whose tendrils round our low roof cottage
twine;
Whose spreading height, with purple clusters
crown'd,
Attracts the gaze of ev'ry nymph around?
Have these lone regions aught that charms be-
side?
Yours are my shades, my flow'rs, my fleecy
pride.
Euph. Florella! our united thanks receive,
Sole proof of gratitude we have to give :
And since you deign to ask, O courteous fair!
The motive of our unremitting care :
Know then, kind maid, our joint researches tend
To find that sovereign good of life, a friend;
From whom the wholesome counsel we may
gain,
How our young hearts may happiness obtain.
By Fancy's mimic pencil oft portray'd,
Still have we woo'd the visionary maid:
The lovely phantom mocks our eager eyes;
And still we chase, and still we miss the prize!
Cle. Long have we search'd throughout this
bounteous isle,
With constant ardour and with ceaseless toil;
The various ways of various life we've try'd;
But still the bliss we seek has been deny'd.
We've sought in vain through ev'ry diff'rent
state;
The murm'ring poor, the discontented great.
If Peace and Joy in palaces reside,
Or in obscurer haunts delight to hide ;
If Happiness with worldly pleasures dwell,
Or shrouds her graces in the hermit's cell:
If Wit, if Science, teach the road to bliss,
Or torpid Dulness find the joys they miss ;
To learn this truth, we 've bid a long adieu
|
To all the shadows blinded men pursue.
-We seek Urania; whose sagacious mind
May lead our steps this latent good to find:
Her worth we emulate; her virtues fire
Our ardent hearts to be what we admire :
For though with care she shuns the public eye,
Yet worth like hers, unknown can never lie.
Lau. On such a fair and faultless model
form'd,
By Prudence guided, and by Virtue warm'd,
Perhaps Florella can direct our youth,
And point our footsteps to the paths of Truth.
Flor. Ill would it suit my unexperienc'd age,
In such important questions to engage.
Young as I am, unskilful to discern,
Nor fit to teach, who yet have much to learn,
But would you with maturer years advise,
And reap the counsel of the truly wise,
The dame in whom such worth and wisdom
meet,
Dwells in the covert of yon green retreat:
All that the world calls great she once possess'd,
With wealth, with rank, her prosp'rous youth
was bless'd.
In adverse fortune, now serene and gay,
'Who gave,' she said, 'had right to take away.'
Two lovely daughters bless her growing years,
And by their virtues, well repay her cares.
With them, beneath her shelt'ring wing I live,
And share the bounties she has still to give ;
For Heav'n, who in its dispensations join'd
A narrow fortune to a noble mind,
Has bless'd the sage Urania with a heart
Which Wisdom's noblest treasures can impart;
In Duty's active round each day is past,
As if she thought each day might prove her
last:
Her labours for devotion best prepare,
And meek Devotion smooths the brow of care.
Past. Then lead, Florella, to that humble shed,
Where Peace resides from court and cities fled!
SONG.
I.
O Happiness, celestial fair,
Our earliest hope, our latest care,
O hear our fond request!
Vouchsafe, reluctant Nymph to tell
On what sweet spot thou lov'st to dwell,
And make us truly blest.
II.
Amidst the walks of public life,
The toils of wealth, ambition's strife,
We long have sought in vain ;
The crowded city's noisy din,
And all the busy haunts of men,
Afford but care and pain.
III.
Pleas'd with the soft, the soothing pow'r
Of calm Reflection's silent hour,
Sequester'd dost thou dwell!
Where Care and Tumult ne'er intrude,
Dost thou reside with Solitude,
Thy humble vot'ries tell!
IV.
O Happiness, celestial fair,
Our earliest hope, our latest care!
Let us not sue in vain!
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
113
O deign to hear our fond request,
Come take possession of our breast,
And there for ever reign.
[They retire.
Scene-The Grove:
URANIA, SYLVIA, ELIZA.
SYLVIA (singing.)
I.
SWEET Sotitude, thou placid queen
Of modest air and brow serene!
"Tis thou inspir'st the sage's themes;
The poet's visionary dreams.
II.
Parent of Virtue, nurse of Thought!
By thee were saints and patriarchs taught;
Wisdom from thee her treasure drew,
And in thy lap fair Science grew!
III.
Whate'er exalts, refines, and charms,
Invites to thought, to virtue warms;
Whate'er is perfect, fair, and good,
We owe to thee, sweet Solitude!
IV.
In these blest shades, O still maintain
Thy peaceful, unmolested reign!
Let no disorder'd thoughts intrude
On thy repose, sweet Solitude!
V.
With thee the charm of life shall last,
Although its rosy bloom be past;
Shall still endure when Time shall spread
His silver blossoms o'er my head.
VI.
No more with this vain world perplex'd,
Thou shalt prepare me for the next;
The springs of life shall gently cease,
And angels point the way to peace.
Ura. Ye tender objects of maternal love
Ye dearest joys my widow'd heart can prove;
Come taste the glories of the new-born day,
Aud grateful homage to its Author pay!
O! ever may this animating sight
Convey instruction while it sheds delight!
Does not that sun, whose cheering beams impart
Joy's glad emotions to the pure in heart;
Does not that vivid pow'r teach ev'ry mind
To be as warm, benevolent, and kind;
To burn with unremitted ardour still,
Like him to execute their Maker's will?
Then let us, Pow'r Supreme! thy will adore,
Invoke thy mercies, and proclaim thy pow'r.
Shalt thou these benefits in vain bestow?
Shall we forget the fountain whence they flow?
Teach us through these to lift our hearts to
Thee,
And in the gift the bounteous giver see.
To view Thee as thou art, all good and wise,
Nor let thy blessings hide Thee from our eyes.
From all obstructions clear our mental sight;
Pour on our souls thy beatific light!
Teach us thy wond'rous goodness to revere,
With love to worship, and with rev'rence fear!
In the mild works of thy benignant hand,
As in the thunder of thy dread command. !
In common objects we neglect thy pow'r,
While wonders shine in every plant and flow'r.
-Tell me, my first, my last, my darling care,
H
If you this morn have rais'd your hearts in
pray'r?
Say did you rise from the sweet bed of rest,
Your God unprais'd, his holy name unblest?
Syl. Our hearts with gratitude and reverence
fraught,
By those pure precepts you have ever taught;
By your example more than precept strong
Of pray'r and praise have tun'd their matin song.
Eliz. With ever new delight, we now attend
The counsels of our fond maternal friend.
Enter FLORELLA, with EUPHELIA, CLEORA, PAS-
TORELLA, LAURINDA.
Flo. (aside to the ladies) See how the goodly
dame, with pious art,
Makes each event a lesson to the heart!
Observe the duteous list'ners how they stand:
Improvement and delight go hand in hand.
Ura. But where's Florella?
Flor. Here's the happy she,
Whom Heav'n most favour'd when it gave her
thee.
Ura. But who are these, in whose attractive
mien,
?
So sweetly blended, ev'ry grace is seen
Speak, my Florella! say the cause why here
These beauteous damsels on our plains appear
Flor. Invited hither by Urania's fame,
To seek her friendship, to these shades they
came.
Straying alone at morning's earliest dawn,
I met them wand'ring on the distant lawn.
Their courteous manners soon engag'd my love:
I've brought them here your sage advice to
prove.
Ura. Tell me, ye gentle nymphs! the reason
tell,
Which brings such guests to grace my lowly
cell?
My pow'r of serving, though indeed but small,
Such as it is, you may command it all.
Cle. Your counsel, your advice, is all we ask;
And for Urania that 's no irksome task.
'Tis Happiness we seek : O deign to tell
Where the coy fugitive delights to dwell!
Ura. Ah, rather say where you have sought
this guest,
This lovely inmate of the virtuous breast?
Declare the various methods you've essay'd
To court and win the bright celestial maid.
But first, though harsh the task, each beauteous
fair
Her ruling passion must with truth declare,
From evil habits own'd, from faults confess'd,
Alone we trace the secrets of the breast.
Euph. Bred in the regal splendours of a court,
Where pleasures, dress'd in every shape, resort,
I try'd the pow'r of pomp and costly glare,
Nor e'er found room for thought, or time for
pray'r:
In diff'rent follies ev'ry hour I spent ;
I shunn'd Reflection, yet I sought Content.
My hours were shar'd betwixt the park and play;
And music serv'd to waste the tedious day;
Yet softest airs no more with joy I heard,
If any sweeter warbler was preferr'd;
The dance succeeded, and, succeeding, tir'd,
If some more graceful dancer were admir'd.
No sounds but flatt'ry ever sooth'd my ear :
114
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Ungentle truths I knew not how to bear.
The anxious day induc'd the sleepless night,
And my vex'd spirit never knew delight:
Coy Pleasure mock'd me with delusive charms,
Still the thin shadow filed my clasping arms:
Or if some actual joy I seem'd to taste,
Another's pleasure laid my blessings waste:
One truth I prov'd, that lurking Envy hides
In ev'ry heart where Vanity presides,
A fairer face would rob my soul of rest,
And fix a scorpion in my wounded breast.
Or, if my elegance of form prevail'd
And haply her inferior graces fail'd:
Yet still some cause of wretchedness I found,
Some barbed shaft my shatter'd peace to wound.
Perhaps her gay attire exceeded mine—
When she was finer, how could I be fine?
Syl. Pardon my interruption, beauteous maid!
Can truth have prompted what you just have
said?
What! can the poor pre-eminence of dress
Ease the pain'd heart, or give it happiness?
Or can you think your robes, though rich and
fine,
Possess intrinsic value more than mine?
Ura. So close our nature is to vice allied,
Our very comforts are the source of pride;
And dress, so much corruption reigns within,
Is both the consequence and cause of sin.
Cle. Of Happiness unfound I too complain,
Sought in a diff'rent path, but sought in vain!
I sigh'd for fame, I languish'd for renown,
I would be flatter'd, prais'd, admir'd and known,
On daring wing my mountain spirit soar'd,
And Science through her boundless fields ex-
plor'd:
I scorn'd the salique laws of pedant schools,
Which chain our genius down by tasteless rules,
I long'd to burst these female bonds, which
held
My sex in awe, by vanity impell'd :
To boast each various faculty of mind,
Thy graces, Pope! with Johnson's learning
join'd:
Like Swift with strongly pointed ridicule,
To brand the villain, and abash the fooi:
To judge with taste, with spirit to compose,
Now mount in epic, now descend to prose;
To join, like Burke, the beauteous and sublime,
Or build, with Milton's art, 'the lofty rhyme :'
Through Fancy's fields I rang'd; I strove to
hit
Melmoth's chaste style, and Prior's easy wit:
T'hy classic graces, Mason, to display,
And court the Muse of Elegy with Gray :
I rav'd of Shakspeare's flame and Dryden's rage,
And ev'ry charm of Otway's melting page.
I talk'd by rote the jargon of the schools,
Of critic laws, and Aristotle's rules;
Of passion, sentiment, and style, and grace,
And unities of action, time, and place.
The daily duties of my life forgot,
To study fiction, incident, and plot :
Howe'er the conduct of my life might err,
Still my dramatic plans were regular.
Ura. Who aims at ev'ry science, soon will
find
The field how vast, how limited the mind!
Cle. Abstruser studies soon my fancy caught,
The poet in th' astronomer forgot :
The schoolmen's systems now my mind era-
ploy'd,
[Void.
Their crystal Spheres, their Atoms and their
Newton and Halley all my soul inspir'd,
And numbers less than calculations fir'd;
Descartes and Euclid, shar'd my varying breast,
And plans and problems all my soul possess'd.
Less pleas'd to sing inspiring Phoebus' ray
Than mark the flaming comet's devious way.
The pale moon dancing on the silver stream,
And the mild lustre of her trembling beam,
No more could charm my philosophic pride,
Which sought her influence on the flowing tide.
No more ideal beauties fir'd my thought,
Which only facts and demonstrations sought.
Let common eyes, I said, with transport view
The earth's bright verdure, or the heav'n's soft
blue,
False is the pleasure, the delight is vain,
Colours exist but in the vulgar brain.
I now with Locke trod metaphysic soil,
Now chas'd coy Nature through the tracts of
Boyle;
To win the wreath of Fame, by Science twin'd,
More than the love of science fir'd my mind.
I seized on Learning's superficial part,
And title page and index got by heart;
Some learn'd authority I still would bring
To grace my talk and prove-the plainest thing:
This the chief transport I from science drew,
That all might know how much Cleora knew.
Not love, but wonder, I aspir'd to raise,
And miss'd affection, while I grasp'd at praise.
Past. To me, no joys could pomp or fame
impart,
Far softer thoughts possess'd my virgin heart.
No prudent parent form'd my ductile youth,
Nor led my footsteps in the paths of truth.
Left to myself to cultivate my mind,
Pernicious novels their soft entrance find;
Their pois'nous influence led my mind astray;
I sigh'd for something, what, I could not say.
I fancy'd virtues which were never seen,
And dy'd for heroes who have never been ·
I sicken'd with disgust at sober sense,
And loath'd the pleasures worth and truth dis-
pense;
I scorn'd the manners of the world I saw ;
My guide was fiction, and romance my law.
Distemper'd thoughts my wand'ring fancy fill,
Each wind a zephyr, and each brook a rill;
I found adventures in each common tale,
And talk'd and sigh'd to ev'ry passing gale;
Convers'd with echoes, woods, and shades, and
bow'rs,
Cascades and grottos, fields and streams and
flow'rs.
Retirement, more than crowds, had learn'd to
please;
For treach'rous Leisure feeds the soft disease.
There, plastic Fancy ever moulds at will
Th' obedient image with a dangʼrous skill;
The charming fiction with alluring art,
Awakes the passions, and infects the heart.
A fancy'd heroine, an ideal wife;
I loath'd the offices of real life.
These all were dull and tame, I long'd to prove
The gen'rous ardours of unequal love;
Some marvel still my wayward heart must
strike,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
115
28
Or prince, or peasant, each had charms alike:
Whate'er inverted nature, custom, law,
With joy I courted, and with transport saw.
In the dull walk of Virtue's quiet round,
No aliment my fever'd fancy found;
Each duty to perform observant still
But those which God and Nature bade me fill.
Eliza (To Urania.) O save me from the er-
rors of deceit,
And all the dangers wealth and beauty meet.
Past. Reason perverted, Fancy on her throne,
My soul to all my sex's softness prone;
I neither spoke nor look'd as mortal ought;
To sense abandon'd, and by Folly taught:
A victim to Imagination's sway,
Which stole my health, and rest, and peace
away;
Professions, void of meaning, I receiv'd,
And still I found them false-and still believ'd:
Imagin'd all who courted me, approv'd;
Who prais'd, esteem'd me; and who flatter'd,
lov'd;
Fondly I hop'd (now vain those hopes appear)
Each man was faithful, and each maid sincere.
Still Disappointment mock'd the lingʼring day;
Still new-born wishes led my soul astray.
When in the rolling year no joy I find,
I trust the next, the next will sure be kind.
The next fallacious as the last appears,
And sends me on to still remoter years.
They come, they promise--but forget to give
I live not, but I still intend to live.
At length, deceiv'd in all my schemes of bliss.
I join'd these three in search of Happiness.
Eliza. Is this the world of which we want a
sight?
Are these the beings who are call'd polite ?
Sylvia. If so, oh gracious Heav'n, hear Syl-
via's prayer:
Preserve me still in humble virtue here!
Far from such baneful pleasures may I live,
And keep, O keep me, from the taint they give!
Lau. No love of fame my torpid bosom warms,
No Fancy soothes me, and no pleasure charms!
Yet still remote from happiness I stray,
No guiding star illumes my trackless way,
My mind, nor wit misleads nor passion goads,
But the dire rust of indolence corrodes;
This eating canker, with malignant stealth,
Destroys the vital pow'rs of moral health.
Till now, I've slept on Life's tumultuous tide,
No principle of action for my guide.
From ignorance my chief misfortunes flow;
I never wish'd to learn, or car'd to know.
With ev'ry folly slow-pac'd Time beguil'd:
In size a woman, but in soul a child.
In slothful ease my moments crept away,
And busy trifles fill'd the tedious day;
I liv'd extempore, as Fancy fir'd,
As chance directed, or caprice inspir'd:
Too indolent to think, too weak to choose,
Too soft to blame, too gentle to refuse;
My character was stamp'd from those around :
The figures they, my mind the simple ground.
Fashion, with monstrous forms, the canvass
stain'd,
Till nothing of my genuine self remain'd;
My pliant soul from chance receiv'd its bent,
And neither good perform'd, nor evil meant.
From right to wrong, from vice to virtue thrown,
No character possessing of its own.
To shun fatigue I made my only law;
Yet ev'ry night my wasted spirits saw.
No plan e'er mark'd the duties of the day;
Which stole in tasteless apathy away:
No energy inform'd my languid mind
No joy the idle e'er must hope to find.
Weak indecision all my actions sway'd;
The day was lost before the choice was made:
Though more to folly than to guilt inclin'd;
A drear vacuity possess'd my mind;
Too old with infant sports to be amus'd;
Unfit for converse, and to books unus'd,
The wise avoided me, they could not hear
My senseless prattle with a patient ear.
I sought retreat, but found, with strange sur:
prise,
Retreat is pleasant only to the wise;
The crowded world by vacant minds is sought,
Because it saves th' expense and pain of thought:
Disgusted, restless, ev'ry plan amiss,
I come with these in search of Happiness.
Urania. O happy they for whom, in early age,
Enlight'ning Knowledge spreads her letter'd
page!
Teaches each headstrong passion to control.
And pours her lib'ral lesson on the soul!
Ideas grow from books their natʼral food,
As aliment is chang'd to vital blood.
Though faithless Fortune strip her vot'ry bare;
Though Malice haunt him, and though Envy
tear,
Nor Time, nor Chance, nor Want, can e'er dê-
stroy
This soul-felt solace, and this bosom joy!
Cleora. We thus united by one common fate;
Each discontented with her present state,
One common scheme pursue; resolv'd to know
If Happiness can e'er be found below.
Urania. Your candour, beauteous damsels, I
approve,
Your foibles pity, and your merits love.
But ere I say the methods you must try
To gain the glorious prize for which you sigh,
Your fainting strength and spirits must be
cheer'd
With a plain meal, by Temperance prepar'd.
Florella. No luxury our humble board attends,
But Love and Concord are its smiling friends.
SONG.
I.
HAIL artless Simplicity beautiful maid,
In the genuine attractions of Nature array'd
Let the rich and the proud, and the gay and the
vain,
Still laugh at the graces that move in thy train.
II.
No charm in thy modest allurements they
find;
The pleasures they follow a sting leave behind
Can criminal passion enrapture the breast
Like Virtue, with Peace and Serenity blest?
III.
O would you Simplicity's precepts attend,
Like us, with delight at her altar you'd bend;
The pleasures she yields would with joy be em
brac'd,
You'd practise from virtue and love them from
taste.
116
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
IV.
The linnet enchants us the bushes among;
Though cheap the musician, yet sweet is the
song;
We catch the soft warbling in air as it floats,
And with ecstacy hang on the ravishing notes.
V.
Our water is drawn from the clearest of springs,
And our food, nor disease nor satiety brings;
Our mornings are cheerful, our labours are blest,
Our ev'nings are pleasant, our nights crown'd
with rest.
VI.
From our culture yon garden its ornament
finds,
And we catch at the hint for improving our
minds;
To live to some purpose we constantly try,
And we mark by our actions the days as they
fly.
VII.
Since such are the joys that Simplicity yields,
We may well be content with our woods and
our fields:
How useless to us then, ye great, were your
wealth,
When without it we purchase both pleasure and
health!
[They retire into the cottage.
Scene-A rural entertainment.
|
VI.
That peace I'll preserve then, as pure as was
giv❜n,
And taste in my bosom an earnest of Heav'n;
Thus virtue and wisdom can warm the cold
scene,
And sixty may flourish as gay as sixteen.
VII.
And when long I the burden of life shall have
borne,
[corn,
And Death with his sickle shall cut the ripe
Resign'd to my fate, without murmur or sigh,
I'll bless the kind summons, and lie down and
die.
Euphe. Thus sweetly pass the hours of rural
ease!
Here life is bliss, and pleasures truly please!
Past. With joy we view the dangers we have
past,
Assur'd we've found felicity at last.
Flor. Esteem none happy by their outward
air;
All have their portion of allotted care.
Though wisdom wears the semblance of content,
When the full heart with agony is rent,
Secludes its anguish from the public view,
And by secluding learns to conquer too :
Denied the fond indulgence to complain,
The aching heart its peace may best regain.
By love directed, and in mercy meant,
Are trials suffer'd and afflictions sent ;
FLORELLA, EUPHELIA, CLEORA, LAURINDA, PAS- To stem impetuous Passion's furious tide,
TORELLA.
FLORELLA (sings.)
I.
While Beauty and Pleasure are now in their
prime,
And Folly and Fashion expect our whole time,
Ah! let not those phantoms our wishes engage;
Let us live so in youth, that we blush not in age.
II.
Though the vain and the gay may allure us
awhile,
To curb the insolence of prosp'rous Pride,
To wean from earth, and bid our wishes soar
To that blest clime where pain shall be no more;
Where wearied Virtue shall for refuge fly,
And ev'ry tear be wip'd from ev'ry eye.
Cleora. List'ning to you, my heart can never
cease
To rev'rence Virtue, and to sigh for peace.
Flor. Know, e'en Urania, that accomplish'd
fair
[care,
Whose goodness makes her Heaven's peculiar
Though born to all that affluence can bestow,
Has felt the deep reverse of human wo:
de-Yet meek in grief, and patient in distress,
She knew the hand that wounds has pow'r to
bless..
Yet let not their flatt'ry our prudence beguile;
Let us covet those charms that will never
cay,
Nor listen to all that deceivers can say.
III.
'How the tints of the rose and the jasmine's
perfume!
The eglantine's fragrance, the lilac's gay bloom,
Though fair and though fragrant, unheeded
may lie,
For that neither is sweet when Florella is by.'
IV.
I sigh not for beauty, nor languish for wealth,
But grant me, kind Providence, virtue and
health;
Then, richer than kings and as happy as they,
My days shall pass sweetly and swiftly away.
V.
When age shall steal on me, and youth is no
more,
And the moralist Time shakes his glass at my
door,
What charm in lost beauty or wealth should I
find?
[mind.
My treasure, my wealth, is a sweet peace of
Grateful she bows, for what is left her still,
To HIM whose love dispenses good and ill;
TO HIM who, while his bounty thousands fed,
Had not himself a place to lay his head;
To HIM who that he might our wealth insure,
Though rich himself consented to be poor.
Taught by his precepts, by his practice taught,
Her will submitted, and resigned her thought,
Through faith, she looks beyond this dark abode,
To scenes of glory near the throne of God.
Enter URANIA, SYLVIA, ELIZA.
Ura. Since gentle nymphs! my friendship to
obtain,
You've sought with eager step this peaceful
plain,
My honest counsel with attention hear,
Though plain, well meant, imperfect, yet sin-
cere;
What from maturer years alone I've known,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
117
What time has taught me, and experience, By thee instructed still my views shall rise,
shown,
No polish'd phrase my artless speech will grace,
But unaffected Candour fill its place:
My lips shall flatt'ry's smooth deceit refuse,
And truth be all the eloquence I'll use.
Know then, that life's chief happiness and wo,
From good or evil education flow;
And hence our future dispositions rise;
The vice we practice, or the good we prize.
When pliant Nature any form receives,
That precept teaches or example gives,
The yielding mind with virtue should be grac'd,
For first impressions seldom are effac'd.
Then holy habits, then chastis'd desires,
Should regulate disorder'd Nature's fires.
If Ignorance then, her iron sway maintain,
If prejudice preside, or Passion reign,
If Vanity preserve her native sway,
If selfish tempers cloud the op'ning day,
If no kind hand impetuous Pride restrain,
But for the wholesome curb we give the rein;
The erring principle is rooted fast,
And fix'd the habit that through life may last.
Past. With heartfelt penitence we now de-
plore
Those squander'd hours, that time can ne'er re-
store.
Ura. Euphelia sighs for flatt'ry, dress, and
show:
The common sources these of female wo!
In Beauty's sphere pre-eminence to find,
She slights the culture of th' immortal mind:
I would not rail at Beauty's charming pow'r,
I would but have her aim at something more;
The fairest symmetry of form or face,
From intellect receives its highest grace;
The brightest eyes ne'er dart such piercing
fires,
As when a soul irradiates and inspires :
Beauty with reason needs not quite dispense,
And coral lips may sure speak common sense :
Beauty makes Virtue lovelier still appear;
Virtue makes Beauty more divinely fair!
Confirms its conquests o'er the willing mind,
And those your beauties gain, your virtues bind.
Yet would ambition's fire your bosom fill,
Its flame repress not-be ambitious still;
Let nobler views your best attention claim,
The object chang'd, the energy the same:
Those very passions which our heart invade,
If rightly pointed, blessings may be made.
Indulge the true ambition to excel
In that best art-the art of living well.
But first extirpate from your youthful breast
That rankling torment which destroys your
rest:
All other faults may take a higher aim,
But hopeless Envy must be still the same.
Some other passions may be turn'd to good,
But Envy must subdue, or be subdu'd.
This fatal gangrene to our moral life,
Rejects all palliatives, and asks the knife;
Excision spar'd, it taints the vital part,
And spreads its deadly venom to the heart.
Uph. Unhappy those to bliss who seek the
way,
In pow'r superior, or in splendour gay!
Inform'd by thee, no more vain man shall find
The charm of flatt'ry taint Euphelia's mind:
Nor stop at any mark beneath the skies.
Urania. In fair Laurinda's uninstructed mind,
The want of culture, not of sense, we find;
Whene'er you sought the good, or shunn'd the
ill,
'Twas more from temper than from principle:
Your random life to no just rules reduc'd,
"Twas chance the virtue or the vice produc'd:
The casual goodness Impulse has to boast,
Like morning dews, or transient show'rs is lost;
While Heav'n-taught Virtue pours her constant
tide,
Like streams by living fountains still supply'd.
Be wisdom still, though late, your earnest care,
Nor waste the precious hours in vain despair :
Associate with the good, attend the sage,
And meekly listen to experienc'd age.
What, if acquirements you have fail'd to gain,
Such as the wise may want the bad attain
Yet still religion's sacred treasures lie
Inviting, open, plain to ev'ry eye;
For ev'ry age, for ev'ry genius fit,
Nor limited to science nor to wit;
Not bound by taste, to genius not confin'd,
But all may learn the truth for all design'd.
Though low the talents, and th' acquirements
small,
The gift of grace divine is free to all;
She calls, solicits, courts you to be blest,
And points to mansions of eternal rest.
And when, advanc'd in years, matur'd in
sense,
Think not with farther care you may dispense,
"Tis fatal to the int'rests of the soul
To stop the race before we've reach'd the goal;
For nought our higher progress can preclude
So much as thinking we're already good.
The human heart ne'er knows a state of rest:
Bad leads to worse, and better tends to best.
We either gain or lose, we sink or rise,
Nor rests our struggling Nature till she dies:
Then place the standard of perfection high;
Pursue and grasp it, e'en beyond the sky.
turn
Lau. O that important Time could back re-
[mourn!
Those misspent hours whose loss I deeply
Accept, just Heav'n, my penitence sincere,
My heartfelt anguish, and my fervent pray'r!
Ura. I pity Pastorella's hapless fate,
By nature gentle, gen'rous, mild, and great;
One false propension all her pow'rs confin'd,
And chain'd her finer faculties of mind;
Yet ev'ry virtue might have flourish'd there,
With early culture and maternal care.
If good we plant not, vice will fill the place,
And rankest weeds the richest soils deface.
Learn, how ungovern'd thoughts the mind per-
vert,
And to disease all nourishment convert.
Ah! happy she, whose wisdom learns to find
A healthful fancy and a well train'd mind!
A sick man's wildest dreams less wild are found,
Than the day-visions of a mind unsound.
Disorder'd phantasies indulg'd too much,
Like harpies, always taint whate'er they touch.
Fly soothing Solitude! fly vain Desire!
Fly such soft verse as fans the dang'rous fire!
Seek action; 'tis the scene which Virtue loves;
The vig'rous sun not only shines, but moves.
118
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
From sickly thoughts with quick abhorrence | From thee I'll learn to judge and act aright,
start,
And rule the fancy if you'd rule the heart:
By active goodness, by laborious schemes,
Subdue wild visions, and delusive dreams.
No earthly good a Christian's views should
bound,
For ever rising should his aims be found.
Leave that fictitious good your fancy feigns
For scenes where real bliss eternal reigns:
Look to that region of immortal joys,
Where fear disturbs not, nor possession cloys;
Beyond what Fancy forms of rosy bow'rs,
Or blooming chaplets of unfading flow'rs;
Fairer than e'er imagination drew,
Or poet's warmest visions ever knew.
Press eager onward to those blissful plains
Where life eternal, joy perpetual reigns.
Past. I mourn the errors of my thoughtless
youth,
And long, with thee, to tread the paths of truth.
Ura. Learning is all the bright Cleora's aim;
She seeks the loftiest pinnacle of fame;
On interdicted ground presumes to stand,
And grasps at Science with a vent'rous hand:
The privilege of man she dares invade,
And tears the chaplet from his laurell'd head.
Why found her merit on a foreign claim?
Why lose a substance to acquire a name?
Let the proud sex possess their vaunted pow'rs:
Be other triumphs, other glories ours!
The gentler charms which wait on female life,
Which grace the daughter and adorn the wife,
Be these our boast; yet these may well admit
Of various knowledge, and of blameless wit:
Of sense, resulting from a nurtur'd mind,
Of polish'd converse, and of taste refin’d :
Of that quick intuition of the best,
Which feels the graceful, and rejects the rest:
Which finds the right by shorter ways than
rules
An art which Nature teaches-not the schools.
Thus conq'ring Sevigne the heart obtains,
While Dacier only admiration gains.
Know, fair aspirer, could you even hope,
To speak like Stonehouse, or to write like Pope,
To all the wonders of the poet's lyre,
Join all that taste can add, or wit inspire.
With every various pow'r of learning fraught;
The flow of style and the sublime of thought;
Yet, if the milder graces of the mind,
Graces peculiar to the sex design'd,
Good nature, patience, sweetness void of art;
If these embellished not your virgin heart,
You might be dazzling, but not truly bright;
Might glare, but not emit an useful light;
A meteor, not a star, you would appear;
For woman shines but in her proper sphere.
Accomplishments by Heav'n were sure de-
sign'd
Less to adorn than to amend the mind:
Each should contribute to this gen'ral end,
And all to virtue, as their centre, tend.
Th' acquirements, which our best esteem invite,
Should not project, but soften, mix, unite:
In glaring light not strongly be display'd,
But sweetly lost, and melted into shade.
Cleora. Confus'd with shame, to thy reproofs
I bend,
Thou best adviser, and thou truest friend!
Humility with Knowledge to unite :
The finish'd character must both combine,
The perfect woman must in either shine.
Ura. Florella shines adorn'd with every grace,
Her heart all virtue, as all charms her face;
Above the wretched, and below the great,
Kind Heav'n has fix'd her in a middle state;
The dæmon Fashion never warped her soul,
Her passions move at Piety's control;
Her eyes the movements of her heart declare,
For what she dares to be, she dares appear;
Unlectur'd in Dissimulation's school,
To smile by precept, and to blush by rule:
Her thoughts ingenuous, ever open lie,
Nor shrink fromc lose Inspection's keenest eye;
No dark disguise about her heart is thrown;
'Tis Virtue's int'rest fully to be known;
Her nat'ral sweetness ev'ry heart obtains ;
What Art and Affectation miss, she gains.
She smooths the path of my declining years,
Augments my comforts, and divides my cares.
Past. O sacred Friendship! O exalted state!
The choicest bounty of indulgent fate!
Ura. Let woman then her real good discern,
And her true int'rests of Urania learn:
As some fair violet, loveliest of the glade,
Sheds its mild fragrance on the lonely shade,
Withdraws its modest head from public sight,
Nor courts the sun, nor seeks the glare of light;
Should some rude hand profanely dare intrude,
And bear its beauties from its native wood,
Expos'd abroad its languid colours fly,
Its form decays, and all its odours die
So woman, born to dignify retreat,
Unknown to flourish, and unseen be great,
To give domestic life its sweetest charm,
With softness polish, and with virtue warm,
Fearful of Fame, unwilling to be known,
Should seek but Heaven's applauses and her
own;
Hers be the task to seek the lonely cell
Where modest Want and silent Anguish dwell;
Raise the weak head, sustain the feeble knees,
Cheer the cold heart, and chase the dire disease.
The splendid deeds, which only seek a name,
Are paid their just reward in present fame;
But know, the awful all-disclosing day,
The long arrear of secret worth shall pay;
Applauding saints shall hear with fond regard.
And He, who witness'd here, shall there reward.
Euph. With added grace she pleads Reli-
gion's cause,
Who from her life her virtuous lesson draws.
Ura. In vain, ye fair! from place to place you
roam,
For that true peace which must be found at
home:
No change of fortune, nor of scene can give
The bliss you seek, which in the soul must live.
Then look no more abroad; in your own breast
Seek the true seat of happiness and rest.
Nor small, my friends! the vigilance I ask,
Watch well yourselves, this is the Christian's
task.
The cherish'd sin by each must be assail'd,
New efforts added, where the past have fail'd:
The darling error check'd, the will subdu'd,
The heart by penitence and pray'r renew'd
Nor hope for perfect happiness below;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
119
Celestial plants on earth reluctant grow.
He who our frail mortality did bear,
Though free from sin, was not exempt from
care.
Cleora. Let's join to bless that Pow'r who
brought us here,
Adore his goodness, and his will revere;
Assur'd, that Peace exists but in the mind,
And Piety alone that Peace can find.
Ura. In its true light this transient life re-
gard:
This is a state of trial, not reward.
Though rough the passage, peaceful is the port,
The bliss is perfect, the probation short.
Of human wit beware the fatal pride;
An useful follower, but a dang'rous guide:
On holy Faith's aspiring pinions rise;
Assert your birth-right, and assume the skies.
Fountain of Being! teach us to devote
To Thee each purpose, action, word and thought!
Thy grace our hope, thy love our only boast,
Be all distinctions in the Christian lost!
Be this in ev'ry state our wish alone,
Almighty, Wise and Good, Thy will be done!
ODE TO CHARITY.
TO BE PERFORMED BY THE CHARACTERS OF THE
PIECE.
འ..
O CHARITY, divinely wise,
Thou meek-ey'd daughter of the skies!
From the pure fountain of eternal light,
Where fair, immutable, and ever bright,
The beatific vision shines,
Where angel with archangel joins
In choral songs to sing His praise,
Parent of Life, Ancient of Days,
Who was ere Time existed, and shall be
Through the wide round of vast Eternity;
Oh come, thy warm celestial beams impart,
Enlarge my feelings, and expand my heart!
II.
Descend from radiant realms above,
Thou effluence of that boundless love
Whence joy and peace in streams unsully'd
flow,
Oh deign to make thy lov'd abode below!
Though sweeter strains adorn'd my tongue
Than saint conceiv'd or seraph sung,
And though my glowing fancy caught
Whatever Art or Nature taught,
Yet if this hard unfeeling heart of mine
Ne'er felt thy force, O Charity divine!
An empty shadow Science would be found
My knowledge ignorance, my wit a sound!
III.
Though my prophetic spirit knew
To bring futurity to view,
Without thy aid e'en this would not avail,
For tongues shall cease and prophecies shall fail.
Come then, thou sweet immortal guest,
Shed thy soft influence o'er my breast,
Bring with thee Faith, divinely bright,
And Hope, fair Harbinger of light,
To clear each mist with their pervading ray,
To fit my soul for Heav'n, and point the way;
There Perfect Happiness her sway maintains,
For there the God of Peace for ever reigns,
!
·
STORIES
FOR PERSONS OF THE MIDDLE RANKS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
THESE Stories, which were first published, among a great number of others, in the Cheap Re
pository, under the signature Z, are here presented to the reader, much enlarged and improved.
Such of them as are comprised in this volume being adapted to persons in a superior station to
those which are contained in a former edition, and it was thought better to separate and class
them accordingly. A brief account of the institution here referred to, will be given in a sub-
sequent place.
THE HISTORY OF MR. FANTOM.
THE NEW FASHIONED PHILOSOPHER,
AND HIS MAN WILLIAM.
MR. FANTOM was a retail trader in the city 1 and vain, ambitious and dissatisfied. As almost
of London. As he had no turn to any expensive every book was new to him, he fell into the com-
vices, he was reckoned a sober decent man, but mon error of those who begin to read late in life
he was covetous and proud, selfish and conceit--that of thinking that what he did not know
ed. As soon as he got forward in the world, his himself, was equally new to others; and he
vanity began to display itself, though not in the was apt to fancy that he and the author he was
ordinary method, that of making a figure and reading were the only two people in the world
living away; but still he was tormented with a who knew any thing. This book led to the
longing desire to draw public notice, and to dis- grand discovery; he had now found what his
tinguish himself. He felt a general sense of heart panted after-a way to distinguish himself.
discontent at what he was, with a general am- To start out a full grown philosopher at once,
bition to be something which he was not; but to be wise without education, to dispute without
this desire had not yet turned itself to any par- learning, and to make proselytes without argu-
ticular object. It was not by his money he ment, was a short cut to fame, which well suit-
could hope to be distinguished, for half his ed his vanity and his ignorance. He rejoiced
acquaintance had more, and a man must be rich that he had been so clever as to examine for
indeed to be noted for his riches in London. himself, pitied his friends who took things upon
Mr. Fantom's mind was a prey to his vain ima- trust, and was resolved to assert the freedom of
ginations. He despised all those little acts of his own mind. To a man fond of bold novel-
kindness and charity which every man is called ties and daring paradoxes, solid argument would
to perform every day; and while he was contriv-be flat, and truth would be dull, merely because
ing grand schemes, which lay quite out of his
reach, he neglected the ordinary duties of life,
which lay directly before him. Selfishness was
his governing principle. He fancied he was lost
in the mass of general society and the usual
means of attaching importance to insignificance
occurred to him; that of getting into clubs and
societies. To be connected with a party would
at least make him known to that party, be it
ever so low and contemptible; and this local
importance it is which draws off vain minds
from those scenes of general usefulness, in
whcih, though they are of more value, they are
of less distinction.
About this time he got hold of a famous little
book written by the NEW PHILOSOPHER, whose
pestilent doctrines have gone about seeking
whom they may destroy; these doctrines found
a ready entrance into Mr. Fantom's mind; a
mind at once shallow and inquisitive, speculative
|
it is not new. Mr. Fantom believed, not in pro-
portion to the strength of the evidence, but to
the impudence of the assertion. The tramp-
pling on holy ground with dirty shoes, the
smearing the sanctuary with filth and mire,
the calling prophets and apostles by the most
scurrilous names was new, and dashing, and
dazzling. Mr. Fantom, now being set free
from the chains of slavery and superstition, was
resolved to show his zeal in the usual way, by
trying to free others; but it would have hurt his
vanity had he known that he was the convert
of a man who had written only for the vulgar,
who had invented nothing, no, not even one idea
of original wickedness; but who had stooped to
rake up out of the kennel of infidelity, all the
loathsome dregs and offal dirt, which politer un-
believers had thrown away as too gross and of
fensive for the better bred readers.
Mr. Fantom, who considered that a philoso
120
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
121
without disputing, and read his Bible without
doubting.
pher must set up with a little sort of stock in
trade, now picked up all the common-place no-
tions against Christianity, which have been an- Mr. Fantom now began to be tired of every
swered a hundred times over: these he kept by thing in trade except the profits of it for the
him ready cut and dried, and brought out in more the word benevolence was in his mouth,
all companies with a zeal which would have the more did selfishness gain dominion in his
done honour to a better cause, but which the heart. He, however, resolved to retire for a
friends to a better cause are not so apt to dis- while into the country, and devote his time to
cover. He soon got all the cant of the new his new plans, schemes, theories, and projects
school. He prated about narrowness, and igno- for the public good. A life of talking, and read-
|
rance, and bigotry, and prejudice, and priest-ing and writing, and disputing, and teaching,
craft on the one hand; and on the other, of and proselyting, now struck him as the only
public good, the love of mankind, and liberality, life; so he soon set out for the country with his
and candour, and toleration, and above all, bene- family; for unhappily Mr. Fantom had been the
volence. Benevolence, he said, made up the husband of a very worthy woman many years
whole of religion, and all the other parts of it before the new philosophy had discovered that
were nothing but cant, and jargon, and hypo- marriage was a shameful infringement on hu-
crisy. By benevolence he understood a gloomy man liberty, and an abridgement of the rights
and indefinite anxiety about the happiness of of man. To this family was now added his new
people with whom he was utterly disconnected, | footman, William Wilson, whom he had taken
and whom Providence had put it out of his reach with a good character out of a sober family.
either to serve or injure. And by the happi- Mr. Fantom was no sooner settled than he wrote
ness this benevolence was so anxious to pro- to invite Mr. Trueman to come and pay him a
mote, he meant an exemption from the power visit, for he would have burst if he could not
of the laws, and an emancipation from the re- have got some one to whom he might display
straints of religion, conscience, and moral ob- his new knowledge; he knew that if on the one
ligation.
hand Trueman was no scholar, yet on the other
he was no fool; and though he despised his pre-
judices, yet he thought he might be made a
good decoy duck; for if he could once bring
Trueman over, the whole club at the Cat and
Bagpipes might be brought to follow his exam-
ple; and thus he might see himself at the head
of a society of his own proselytes; the supreme
object of a philosopher's ambition. Trueman
came accordingly. He soon found that how-
ever he might be shocked at the impious doc.
trines his friend maintained, yet that an impor-
tant lesson might be learned even from the
worst enemies of truth; namely, an ever wake-
ful attention to their grand object. If they set
out with talking of trade or politics, of private
news or public affairs, still Mr. Fantom was
ever on the watch to hitch in his darling doc.
trines; whatever he began with, he was sure to
end with a pert squib at the Bible, a vapid jest
on the clergy, the miseries of superstition, and
the blessings of philosophy. Oh said True-
man to himself, when shall I see Christians
half so much in earnest? Why is it that almost
all zeal is on the wrong side ?'
Finding, however, that he made little impres-
sion on his old club at the Cat and Bagpipes,
he grew tired of their company. This club
consisted of a few sober citizens, who met of an
evening for a little harmless recreation after
business; their object was, not to reform parlia-
ment, but their own shops; not to correct the
abuses of government, but of parish officers; not
to cure the excesses of administration, but of
their own porters and apprentices; to talk over
the news of the day without aspiring to direct
the events of it. They read the papers with
that anxiety which every honest man feels
in the daily history of his country. But as
trade, which they did understand, flourished,
they were careful not to reprobate those public
measures by which it was protected, and which
they did not understand. In such turbulent |
times it was a comfort to each to feel he was
a tradesman, and not a statesman; that he was
not called to responsibility for a trust for which
he found he had no talents, while he was at full
liberty to employ the talents he really possessed,
in fairly amassing a fortune, of which the laws
would be the best guardian, and government
the best security. Thus a legitimate self-love,
regulated by prudence, and restrained by prin-
ciple, produced peaceable subjects and good
citizens; while in Fantom, a boundless selfish-
ness and inordinate vanity converted a discon-
tented trader into a turbulent politician.
There was, however, one member of the Cat
and Bagpipes whose society he could not re-
solve to give up, though they seldom agreed, as
indeed no two men in the same class and habits
of life could less resemble each other. Mr.
Trueman was an honest, plain, simple-hearted
tradesman of the good old cut, who feared God
and followed his business; he went to church
twice on Sundays, and minded his shop all the
week, spent frugally, gave liberally, and saved
moderately. He lost, however, some ground in
Mr. Fantom's esteem, because he paid his taxes,
VOL. I,
·
Well, Mr. Fantom,' said Trueman one day
at breakfast, I am afraid you are leading but
an idle sort of life here.'-'Idle, sir!' said Fan-
tom; 'I now first begin to live to some purpose;
I have indeed lost too much time, and wasted
my talents on a little retail trade, in which one
is of no note; one can't distinguish one's self.'
So much the better,' said Trueman;' 'I had
rather not distinguish myself, unless it was by
leading a better life than my neighbours. There
is nothing I should dread more than being talk'd
about. I dare say now heaven is in a good mea-
sure filled with people whose names were never
heard out of their own street and village. So I
beg leave not to distinguish myself!' 'Yes, but
one may, if it is only by signing one's name to
an essay or paragraph in a newspaper,' said
Fantom.- Heaven keep John Trueman's name
out of a newspaper,' interrupted he in a fright;
122
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
I look upon it that the country jaunt of the mas-
ter on Sundays exposes his servants to more
danger than their whole week's temptation in
trade put together.'
Fantom. I once had the same vulgar preju-
dices about the church and the Sabbath, and
all that antiquated stuff. But even on your own
narrow principles, how can a thinking being
spend his Sunday better (if he must lose one day
in seven by having any Sunday at all) than by
going into the country to admire the works of
nature.
for if it be there, it must either be found in the | jaunting about in a gig all day on Sundays; for
Old Bailey or the bankrupt list, unless, indeed,
I were to remove shop, or sell off my old stock.
Well, but Mr. Fantum, you, I suppose, are now
as happy as the day is long?' 'O yes,' replied
Fantom, with a gloomy sigh, which gave the
lie to his words, 'perfectly happy! I wonder you
do not give up all your sordid employments, and
turn philosopher!" "Sordid indeed!' said True-
man, 'do not call names, Mr. Fantom; I shall
never be ashamed of my trade. What is it has
made this country so great? a country whose
merchants are princes? It is trade, Mr. Fantom,
trade. I cannot say indeed, as well as I love Trueman. I suppose you mean the works of
business, but now and then, when I am over- God: for I never read in the Bible that Nature
worked, I wish I had a little more time to look | made any thing. I should rather think that she
after my soul; but the fear that I should not herself was made by Him, who, when he said,
devote the time, if I had it, to the best purpose, thou shalt not murder,' said also, thou shalt
makes me work on; though often, when I am keep holy the Sabbath day.' But now do you
balancing my accounts, I tremble, lest I should really think that all that multitude of coaches,
neglect to balance the grand account. But still, chariots, chaises, vis-a-vis, booby-hutches, sul-
since, like you, I am a man of no education, I kies, sociables, phaetons, gigs, curricles, cabri-
am more afraid of the temptations of leisure, oles, chairs, stages, pleasure carts, and horses,
than of those of business, I never was bred to which crowd our roads; all those country houses
read more than a chapter in the Bible, or some within reach, to which the London friends pour
other good book, or the magazine and newspa- in to the gorgeous Sunday feast, which the ser-
per; and all that I can do now, after shop is vants are kept from church to dress; all those
shut, is to take a walk with my children in the public houses under the signs of which you
field besides. But if I had nothing to do from read these alluring words, an ordinary on Sun-
morning to night, I might be in danger of turn-days; I say, do you really believe that all those
ing politician or philosopher. No, neighbour
Fantom, depend upon it, that where there is no
learning, next to God's grace, the best preserva-
tive of human virtue is business. As to our po-
litical societies, like the armies in the cave of
Adullam, 'every man that is in distress, and
every man that is in debt, and every man that
is discontented, will always join themselves unto
them.'
houses and carriages are crammed with philoso-
phers, who go on Sunday into the country to
admire the works of nature, as you call it! In-
deed, from the reeling gate of some of them
when they go back at night, one might take
them for a certain sect called the tippling phi-
losophers. Then in answer to your charge,
that a little tradesman can do no good, it is not
true; I must tell you that I belong to the Sick
Man's Friend, and to the Society for relieving
prisoners for small debts.
Fantom. I have no attention to spare to that
business, though I would pledge myself to pro-
duce a plan by which the national debt might
be paid off in six months; but all yours are
Trueman. Then they are better suited to petty
men of petty fortune. I had rather have an
ounce of real good done with my own hands,
and seen with my own eyes, than speculate
about doing a ton in a wild way, which I know
can never be brought about.
Fantom. I despise a narrow field. O for the
reign of universal benevolence! I want to make
all mankind good and happy.
Fantom. You have narrow views, Trueman.
What can be more delightful than to see a paper
of one's own in print against tyranny and su-
perstition, contrived with so much ingenuity,
that, though the law is on the look-out for trea-
son and blasphemy, a little change of name de-
feats its scrutiny. For instance; you may stig-pretty occupations.
matize England under the name of Rome, and
Christianity under that of Popery. The true
way is to attack whatever you have a mind to
injure, under another name, and the best means
to destroy the use of a thing, is to produce a
few incontrovertible facts against the abuses of
it. Our late travellers have inconceivably helped
on the cause of the new philosophy, in their lu-
dicrous narratives of credulity, miracles, indul-
gences, and processions, in popish countries, all Trueman. Dear me sure that must be a
which they ridicule under the broad and gene-wholesale sort of a job; had you not better try
ral name of Religion, Christianity, and the your hand at a town or a parish first!
Church.' 'And are not you ashamed to defend Fantom. Sir, I have a plan in my head for
such knavery?' said Mr. Trueman. Those relieving the miseries of the whole world. Every
who have a great object to accomplish,' re-thing is bad as it now stands. I would alter all
plied Mr. Fantom, 'must not be nice about the
means. But to return to yourself Trueman; in
your little confined situation you can be of no
use.' 'That I deny,' interrupted Trueman; 'I
have filled all the parish offices with some credit.
I never took a bribe at an election, no not so
much as a treat; I take care of my apprentices,
and do not set them a bad example by running
to plays and Sadler's Wells, in the week, or
the laws; and do away all the religions, and
put an end to all the wars in the world. I would
every where redress the injustice of fortune, or
what the vulgar call Providence. I would put
an end to all punishments; I would not leave a
single prisoner on the face of the globe. This
is what I call doing things on a gaand scale.
A scale with a vengeance,' said Trueman.
'As to releasing the prisoners, however, I do
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
123
and you have nothing to do but give me the
fifth. And so for a single guinea, without any
of the trouble, the meetings, and the looking into
his affairs, which we have had; which, let me
tell you, is the best, and to a man of business,
the dearest part of charity, you will at once
have the pleasure (and it is no small one) of
helping to save a worthy family from starving,
of redeeming an old friend from gaol, and of
putting a little of your boasted benevolence into
action. Realize! master Fantom: there is no-
thing like realizing. Why, hark ye, Mr. True-
man,' said Fantom, stammering, and looking
very black, 'do not think I value a guinea; no
sir, I despise money; it is trash; it is dirt, and
beneath the regard of a wise man. It is one of
the unfeeling inventions of artificial society.
Sir, I could talk to you for half a day on the
abuse of riches, and on my own contempt of
money.'
not so much like that, as it would be liberating, except five guineas I am already promised four,
a few rogues at the expense of all honest men;
but as to the rest of your plans, if all Christian
countries would be so good as to turn Christians,
it might be helped on a good deal. There would
be still misery enough left indeed; because God
intended this world should be earth and not
heaven. But, sir, among all your oblations, you
must abolish human corruption before you can
make the world quite as perfect as you pretend.
You philosophers seem to me to be ignorant of
the very first seed and principle of misery-sin,
sir, sin your system of reform is radically de-
fective; for it does not comprehend that sinful
nature from which all misery proceeds. You
accuse government of defects which belong to
man, to individual man, and of course to man
collectively. Among all your reforms you must
reform the human heart; you are only hacking
at the branches, without striking at the root.
Banishing impiety out of the world, would be
like striking off all the pounds from an over-
charged bill; and all the troubles which would
be left, would be reduced to mere shillings,
pence, and farthings, as one may say.'
Fantom. Your project would rivet the chains
which mine is design'd to break.
Trueman. Sir, I have no projects. Projects
are in general the offspring of restlessness,
vanity, and idleness. I am too busy for pro-
jects, too contented for theories, and, I hope,
have too much honesty and humility for a phi-
losopher. The utmost extent of my ambition at
present is, to redress the wrongs of a parish ap-
prentice who has been cruelly used by his mas-
ter: Indeed I have another little scheme, which
is to prosecute a fellow in our street who has
suffered a poor wretch in a workhouse, of which
he had the care, to perish through neglect, and
you must assist me.
Fantom. The parish must do that. You must
not apply to me for the redress of such petty
grievances. I own that the wrongs of the Poles
and South Americans so fill my mind, as to
leave me no time to attend to the petty sorrows
of workhouses and parish apprentices. It is
provinces, empires, continents, that the benevo-
lence of the philosopher embraces; every one
can do a little paltry good to his next neighbour.
Trueman. Every one can, but I do not see
that every one does. If they would, indeed,
your business would be ready done at your
hands, and your grand ocean of benevolence
would be filled with the drops which private
charity would throw into it. I am glad, how-
ever, you are such a friend to the prisoners, be-
cause I am just now getting a little subscription
from our club, to set free our poor old friend
Tom Saunders, a very honest brother tradesman,
who got first into debt, and then into jail,
through no fault of his own, but merely through
the pressure of the times. We have each of us
allowed a trifle every week towards maintain-
ing Tom's young family since he has been in
prison; but we think we shall do much more
service to Saunders, and indeed in the end
lighten our own expense, by paying down at
once a little sum to restore him to the comforts
of life, and put him in a way of maintaining his
family again. We have made up the money all
Trueman. O pray do not give yourself the
trouble; it will be an easier way by half of vin-
dicating yourself from one, and of proving the
other, just to put your hand in your pocket and
give me a guinea, without saying a word about
it and then to you who value time so much,
and money so little, it will cut the matter short.
But come now, (for I see you will give nothing)
I should be mighty glad to know what is the
sort of good you do yourselves, since you always
object to what is done by others. Sir,' said
Mr. Fantom, 'the object of a true philosopher is
to diffuse light and knowledge. I wish to see
the whole world enlightened.'
C
Trueman. Amen! if you mean with the
light of the Gospel. But if you mean that one
religion is as good as another, and that no reli-
gion is best of all; and that we shall become
wiser and better by setting aside the very means
which Providence bestowed to make us wise
and good: in short, if you want to make the
whole world philosophers, why they had better
stay as they are. But as to the true light, I
wish it to reach the very lowest, and I therefore
bless God for charity-schools, as instruments of
diffusing it among the poor.
Fantom, who had no reason to expect that
his friend was going to call upon him for a sub-
scription on this account, ventured to praise
them: saying, 'I am no enemy to these insti
tutions. I would indeed change the object of
instruction, but I would have the whole world
instructed.'
Here Mrs. Fantom, who, with her daughter,
had quietly sat by at their work, ventured to
put in a word, a liberty she seldom took with
her husband; who in his zeal to make the whole
world free and happy, was too prudent to in-
clude his wife among the objects on whom he
wished to confer freedom and happiness. Then,
my dear,' said she, 'I wonder you do not let
your own servants be taught a little. The maids
can scarcely tell a letter, or say the Lord's
prayer, and you know you will not allow them
time to learn. William, too, has never been at
He was
church since we came out of town.
at first very orderly and obedient, but now he
is seldom sober of an evening; and in the morn.
ing when he should be rubbing the tables in
124
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
the parlour, he is generally lolling upon them,
and reading your little manuel of the new philo-
sophy.'' Mrs. Fantom, said her husband an-
grily, you know that my labours for the public
good leave me little time to think of my own
family. I must have a great field, I like to do
good to hundreds at once.'
'I am very glad of that papa,' said miss Polly;
for then I hope you will not refuse to subscribe
to all those pretty children at the Sunday-school,
as you did yesterday, when the gentleman came
a begging, because that is the very thing you
were wishing for; there are two or three hun-
dred to be done good at once.'
Just at this moment miss Polly Fantom
(whose mother had gone out some time before)
started up, let fall her work, and cried out, ‘O
papa, do but look what a monstrous great fire
there is yonder on the common! If it were the
fifth of November I should think it were a bon-
fire.. Look how it blazes !'-'I see plain enough
what it is,' said Mr. Fantom, sitting down again
without the least emotion. It is Jenkins's cot-
tage on fire.'-'What, poor John Jenking, who
works in our garden, papa?' said the poor girl
in great terror. 'Do not be frightened, child,'
answered Fantom, we are safe enough; the
wind blows the other way. Why did you dis-
turb us for such a trifle, as it was so distant?
Come, Mr. Trueman, sit down.'—'Sit down,'
said Mr. Trueman, 'I am not a stock, sir, nor a
stone, but a man; made of the same common
nature with Jenkins, whose house is burning.
Come along-let us fly and help him,' con-
tinued he running to the door in such haste
that he forgot to take his hat, though it hung
just before him-Come Mr. Fantom-come, my
little dear-I wish your mamma was here-I
am sorry she went out just now we may all
do some good; every body may be of some use
at a fire. Even you, miss Polly, may save some
of these poor people's things in your apron,
while your papa and I hand the buckets.' All
this he said as he run along with the young
Fantom. Sir my mind is so engrossed with lady in his hand; not doubting but Fantom and
the partition of Poland, that I cannot bring it his whole family were following close behind
down to an object of such insignificance. I him.
I him. But the present distress was neither
despise the man whose benevolence is swallow-grand enough nor far enough from home to
ed up in the narrow concerns of his own family,
or parish, or country.
Trueman. Well, Mr. Fantom, you are a won-
derful man to keep up such a stock of benevo-
lence at so small an expense. To love man-
kind so dearly, and yet avoid all opportunities
of doing them good; to have such a noble zeal
for the millions, and to feel so little compassion
for the units; to long to free empires and en-
lighten kingdoms; and yet deny instruction to
your own village, and comfort to your own
family. Surely none but a philosopher could
indulge so much philanthropy, and so much fru-
gality at the same time. But come, do assist me
in a petition I am making in our poorhouse; be-
tween the old, whom I want to have better fed,
and the young, whom I want to have more
worked.
Trueman. Well, now I have a notion that it
is as well to do one's own duty, as the duty of
another man; and that to do good at home, is
as well as to do good abroad. For my part, I
had as lieve help Tom Saunders to freedom as
a Pole or a South American, though I should
be very glad to help them too. But one must
begin to love somewhere, and to do good some-
where; and I think it is as natural to love one's
own family, and to do good in one's own neigh-
bourhood, as to any body else. And if every
And if every
man in every family, parish, and county, did the
same, why then all the schemes would meet,
and the end of one parish, where I was doing
good, would be the beginning of another parish
where somebody else was doing good; so my
schemes would jut into my neighbour's; his pro-
jects would unite with those of some other local
reformer; and all would fit with a sort of dove-
tail exactness. And what is better, all would
join in furnishing a living comment on that
practical precept: Thou shalt love the Lord
thy God with all thy heart, and thy neighbour
as thyself.'
Fantom. Sir, a man of large views will be
on the watch for great occasions to prove his
benevolence.
Trueman. Yes, sir; but if they are so distant
that he cannot reach them, or so vast that he can-
not grasp them, he may let a thousand little,
snug, kind, good actions slip through his fingers
in the meanwhile: and so between the great
things that he cannot do, and the little ones that
he will not do, life passes and nothing will be done.
satisfy the wide-stretched benevolence of the phi-
losopher, who sat down within sight of the flames
to work at a new pamphlet, which now swallow-
ed up his whole soul, on universal benevolence.
His daughter, indeed, who happily was not
yet a philosopher, with Mr. Trueman, followed
by the maids, reached the scene of distress.
William Wilson, the footman, refused to assist,
glad of such an opportunity of being revenged
on Jenkins, whom he called a surly fellow, for
presuming to complain, because William always
purloined the best fruit for himself before he set
it on his master's table. Jenkins also, whose
duty it was to be out of doors, had refused to
leave his own work in the garden, to do Will's
work in the house while he got drunk, or read
the Rights of Man.
The little dwelling of Jenkins burnt very
furiously. Mr. Trueman's exertions were of
the greatest service. He directed the willing,
and gave an example to the slothful. By living
in London, he had been more used to the cala-
mity of fire than the country people, and knew
better what was to be done. In the midst of
the bustle he saw one woman only who never
attempted to be of the least use. She ran back-
wards and forward, wringing her hands, and
crying out in a tone of piercing agony, 'Oh,
my child! my little Tommy! will no one save
my Tommy ?'-Any woman might have uttered
the same words, but the look which explained
them could only come from a mother. True-
man did not stay to ask if she were owner of
the house, and mother of the child. It was his
way to do all the good which could be done first,
and then to ask questions. All he said was,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
125
'Tell me which is the room?" The poor woman,
now speechless through terror, could only point
up to a little window in the thatch, and then
sunk on the ground.
Mr. Trueman made his way through a thick
smoke, and ran up the narrow staircase which
the fire had not reached. He got safely to the
loft, snatched up the little creature, who was
sweetly sleeping in its poor hammock, and
brought him down naked in his arms: and as
he gave him to the half-distracted mother, he
felt that her joy and gratitude would have been
no bad pay for the danger he had run, even if
no higher motive had set him to work. Poor
Jenkins, half stupified by his misfortune, had
never thought of his child; and his wife, who
expected every hour to make him father to a
second, had not been able to do any thing to-
wards saving little Tommy.
Mr. Trueman now put the child into miss
Fantom's apron, saying, 'Did not I tell you,
my dear, that every body could be of use at a
fire?' He then desired her to carry the child
home, and ordered the poor woman to follow
her; saying, he would return himself as soon
as he had seen all safe in the cottage.
of Jenkins's wife. She had a wide common to
walk over before she could reach either the
workhouse or the nearest cottage. She had
crawled along with her baby as far as she was
able; but having met with no refreshment at
Mr. Fantom's, and her strength quite failing
her, she had sunk down on the middle of the
common. Happily, Mr. Trueman and Mrs.
Fantom came up at this very time. The for-
mer had had the precaution to bring a cordial
and the latter had gone back and stuffed her
pockets with old baby linen. Mr. Trueman
soon procured the assistance of a labourer, who
happened to pass by, to help him to carry the
mother, and Mrs. Fantom carried the little shiv-
ering baby.
As soon as they were safely lodged, Mr.
Trueman set off in search of poor Jenkins, who
was distressed to know what was become of his
wife and child; for having heard that they were
seen going towards Mr. Fantom's, he despaired
of any assistance from that quarter. Mr. True-
man felt no small satisfaction in uniting this
poor man to his little family. There was some-
thing very moving in this meeting, and in the
pious gratitude they expressed for their deliver-
When the fire was quite out, and Mr. True- ance. They seemed to forget they had lost their
man could be of no further use, he went back all, in the joy they felt that they had not lost
to Mr. Fantom's. The instant he opened the each other. And some disdainful great ones
parlour door he eagerly cried out, 'Where is might have smiled to see so much rapture ex-
the poor woman, Mr, Fantom?" Not in my pressed at the safety of a child born to no in-
house, I assure you,' answered the philosopher. | heritance but poverty. These are among the
Give me leave to tell you, it was a very ro- feelings with which Providence sometimes over-
mantic thing to send her and her child to me: pays the want of wealth. The good people also
you should have provided for them at once, like poured out prayers and blessings on their de-
a prudent man.'-I thought I had done so,' liverer, who, not being a philosopher, was no
replied Trueman, by sending them to the more ashamed of praying with them than he
nearest and best house in the parish, as the had been of working for them. Mr. Trueman,
poor woman seemed to stand in need of imme- while assisting at the fire, had heard that Jen-
diate assistance.' So immediate,' said Fantom, kins and his wife were both very honest, and
' that I would not let her come into my house, very pious people; so he told them he would
for fear of what might happen. So I packed not only pay for their new lodgings, but under-
her off, with her child in her arms, to the work- took to raise a little subscription among his
house; with orders to the overseers not to let friends at the Cat and Bagpipes towards re-
her want for any thing.'
building their cottage; and farther engaged, that
if they would promise to bring up the child in
the fear of God, he would stand godfather.
6
And what right have you, Mr. Fantom,'
cried Trueman in a high tone, to expect that
the overseers will be more humane than your-
self! But is it possible you can have sent that
helpless creature, not only to walk, but to carry
a naked child at such a time of night, to a place
so distant, so ill provided, and in such a con-
dition? I hope at least you have furnished them
with clothes; for all their own little stores were
burnt.' 'Not I, indeed;' said Fantom. 'What
is the use of parish officers, but to look after
these petty things?'
It was Mr. Trueman's way, when he began
to feel very angry, not to allow himself to speak;
because, he used to say, ' if I give vent to my
feelings, I am sure, by some hasty word, to cut
myself out work for repentance.' So without
making any answer, or even changing his
clothes, which were very wet and dirty from
having worked so hard at the fire, he walked
out again, having first inquired the road the
woman had taken. At the door he met Mrs.
Fantom returning from her visit. He told her
his tale; which she had no sooner heard, than
she kindly resolved to accompany him in search
This exercise of Christian charity had given
such a cheerful flow to Mr. Trueman's spirits,
that long before he got home he had lost every
trace of ill-humour.- Well, Mr. Fantom,' said
he gayly, as he opened the door, 'now do tell
me how you could possibly refuse going to help
me to put out the fire at poor Jenkins's?'' Be-
cause, said Fantom, 'I was engaged, sir, in a
far nobler project than putting out a fire in a
little thatched cottage. Sir, I was contriving to
put out a fire too; a conflagration of a far more
dreadful kind—a fire, sir, in the extinction of
which universal man is concerned-I was con-
triving a scheme to extinguish the fires of the
inquisition.'-'Why, man, they don't blaze that
I know of,' retorted Trueman. I own, that of
all the abominable engines which the devil ever
invented to disgrace religion and plague man-
But
kind, that inquisition was the very worst.
I do not believe popery has ventured at these
diabolical tricks since the earthquake at Lisbon.
so that a bucket of real water, carried to the
real fire at Jenkins's cottage, would have done
126
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
too.
save.
more good than a wild plan to put out an ima-
ginary flame which no longer burns. And let
me tell you, sir, dreadful as that evil was, God
can send his judgments on other sins besides su-
perstition; so it behoves us to take heed of the
other extreme, or we may have our earthquakes
'The hand of God is not shortened,' sir,
'that it cannot destroy, any more than it cannot
In the meantime, I must repeat it; you
and I are rather called upon to serve a neigh
bour from perishing in the flames of his house,
just under our own window, than to write about
the fires of the inquisition; which, if fear, or
shame, or the restoration of common sense had
not already put out, would have hardly received
a check from such poor hands as you and I.'
'Sir,' said Fantom, Jenkins is an imperti-
nent fellow; and I owe him a grudge, because
he says he had rather forfeit the favour of the
best master in England than work in my gar-
den on a Sunday. And when I ordered him to
read the Age of Reason, instead of going to
church, he refused to work for me at all, with
some impertinent hint about God and Mammon.'
'Oh, did he so?' said Mr. Trueman. Now I
will stand godfather to his child, and make him
a handsome present into the bargain. Indeed,
Mr. Fantom, a man must be a philosopher with
a vengeance, if when he sees a house on fire, he
stays to consider whether the owner has offend-
ed him. Oh, Mr. Fantom, I will forgive you
still, if you will produce me, out of all your phi-
losophy, such a sentence as Love your enemy
-do good to them that hate you-if thine ene-
my hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him
drink;' I will give up the blessed Gospel for the
Age of Reason, if you will only bring me one
sentiment equivalent to this.'
C
Next day Mr. Trueman was obliged to go to
London on business; but returned soon; as the
time he had allotted to spend with Mr. Fantom
was not yet elapsed. He came down the sooner
indeed, that he might bring a small sum of money
which the gentlemen at the Cat and Bagpipes
had cheerfully subscribed for Jenkins. True-
man did not forget to desire his wife to make
up also a quantity of clothing for this poor fami-
ly, to which he did not neglect to add a parcel
of good books, which indeed always made a
part of his charities; as he used to say, there
was something cruel in the kindness which was
anxious to relieve the bodies of men, but was
negligent of their souls. He stood in person to
the new born child, and observed with much
pleasure, that Jenkins and his wife thought a
christening, not a season for merry-making, but
á solemn act of religion. And they dedicated
their infant to his Maker with becoming seri-
ousness.
Trueman left the cottage and got back to Mr.
Fantom's, just as the family were going to sit
down to dinner, as he had promised.
When they sat down, Mr. Fantom was not a
little out of humour to see his table in some dis-
order. William was also rather more negligent
than usual. If the company called for bread, he
gave them beer, and he took away the clean
plates, and gave them dirty ones. Mr. Fantom
soon discovered that his servant was very drunk;
he flew into a violent passion, and ordered him
|
¡
out of the room, charging that he should not ap',
pear in his presence in that condition. William
obeyed; but having slept an hour or two, and
got about half sober, he again made his appear-
ance, His master gave him a most severe re-
primand, and called him an idle, drunken, vi-
cious fellow. Sir,' said William, very pertly,
If I do get drunk now and then, I only do it
for the good of my country, and in obedience to
your wishes.' Mr. Fantom, thoroughly pro-
voked, now began to scold him in words not fit
to be repeated; and asked him what he meant,
'Why, sir,' said William, 'you are a philoso-
pher you know; and I have often overheard you
say to your company, that private vices are pub-
lic benefits; and so I thought that getting drunk
was as pleasant a way of doing good to the pub-
lic as any, especially when I could oblige my
master at the same time.'
'Get out of my house,' said Mr. Fantom, in a
great rage. I do not desire to stay a moment
longer,' said William, 'so pay me my wages.'-
'Not I indeed,' replied the master; nor will I
give you a character; so never let me see your
face again.' William took his master at his
word, and not only got out of the house, but
went out of the country too as fast as possible.
When they found he was really gone, they made
a hue-and-cry, in order to detain him till they
examined if he had left every thing in the house
as he had found it. But William had got out of
reach, knowing he could not stand such a scru-
tiny. On examination, Mr. Fantom found that
all his old port was gone, and Mrs. Fantom
missed three of her best new spoons. William
was pursued, but without success; and Mr.
Fantom was so much discomposed that he could
not for the rest of the day, talk on any subject
but his wine and his spoons, nor harangue on
any project but that of recovering both by bring-
ing William to justice.
Some days passed away, in which Mr. Fan-
tom, having had time to cool, began to be
ashamed that he had been betrayed into such
ungoverned passion. He made the best excuse
he could; said no man was perfect, and though
he owned he had been too violent, yet still he
hoped William would be brought to the punish-
ment he deserved. In the meantime,' said Mr.
Trueman, 'seeing how ill philosophy has agreed
with your man, suppose you were to set about
teaching your maids a little religion?' Mr.
Fantom coolly replied, that the impertinent re-
tort of a drunken footman could not spoil a sys-
tem.'-' Your system, however, and your own
behaviour,' said Trueman, 'have made that foot-
man a scoundrel: and you are answerable for
his offences.'-' Not I truly,' said Fantom; ‘he
has seen me do no harm; he has neither seen
me cheat, gamble, nor get drunk; and I defy
you to say I corrupt my servants. I am a mo-
ral man, sir.'
'Mr. Fantom,' said Trueman, "if you were
to get drunk every day, and game every night,
you would, indeed, endanger your own soul, and
give a dreadful example to your family; but
great as those sins are, and God forbid that I
should attempt to lessen them! still they are
not worse, nay, they are not so bad, as the pes
tilent doctrines with which you infect your
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
127
1
house and your neighbourhood. A bad action | statesmen, and the power of kings to accom.
is like a single murder. The consequence may plish. I cannot free whole countries, nor reform
end with the crime, to all but the perpetrator; the evils of society at large, but I can free an
but a wicked principle is throwing lighted gun-aggrieved wretch in a workhouse; I can relieve
powder into a town; it is poisoning a river; the distresses of one of iny journeymen; and I
there are no bounds, no certainty, no ends to its can labour to reform myself and my own fa-
mischief. The ill effects of the worst action mily.'
may cease in time, and the consequences of
your bad example may end with your life; but
souls may be brought to perdition by a wicked
principle after the author of it has been dead
for ages.'
Fantom. You talk like an ignoramus, who
has never read the new philosophy. All this
nonsense of future punishment is now done
away. It is our benevolence which makes us
reject your creed; we can no more believe in a
deity who permits so much evil in the present
world, than one who threatens eternal punish-
ment in the next.
Trueman. What! shall mortal man be more
merciful than God? Do you pretend to be more
compassionate than that gracious Father who
sent his own Son into the world to die for sin-
ners?
Fantom. You take all your notions of the
Deity from the vulgar views your Bible gives
you of him. To be sure I do,' said Trueman:
can you tell me any way of getting a better
notion of him? I do not want any of your
farthing-candle philosophy in the broad sun-
shine of the Gospel, Mr. Fantom. My Bible
tells me that God is love;' not merely loving,
but LOVE. Now do you think a Being, whose
very essence is love, would permit any misery
among his children here, if it was not to be,
some way or other, or some where or other, for
their good? You forget, too, that in a world
where there is sin, there must be misery. Then,
too, I suppose, God permits this very misery
partly to exercise the sufferers and partly to try
the prosperous; for by trouble God corrects
some and tries others. Suppose now, Tom
Saunders had not been put in prison, you and I
|
'
Some weeks after this a letter was brought to
Mr. Fantom from his late servant William, who
had been turned away for drunkenness, as re-
lated above, and who had also robbed his mas-
ter of some wine and some spoons. Mr. Fantom,
glancing his eye over the letter, said, 'It is
dated from Chelmsford jail; that rascal has got
into prison. I am glad of it with all my heart,
it is the fittest place for such scoundrels. I hope
he will be sent to Botany Bay, if not hanged.'-
O, ho! my good friend,' said Trueman, then
I find that in abolishing all prisons you would
just let one stand for the accommodation of those
who would happen to rob you. General benevo-
lence, I see, is compatible with particular re-
sentments, though individual kindness is not
consistent with universal philanthropy.' Mr.
Fantom drily observed, that he was not fond of
jokes, and proceeded to read the letter. It ex-
pressed an earnest wish that his late master
would condescend to pay him one visit in his
dark and doleful abode; as he wished to say a
few words to him before the dreadful sentence
of the law, which had already been pronounced,
should be executed.
'Let us go and see the poor fellow,' said True-
man; it is but a morning's ride. If he is really
so near his end it would be cruel to refuse him.'
Not I, truly ;' said Fantom; he deserves no-
be,Not
thing at my hands but the halter he is likely to
meet with. Such port is not to be had for mo-
ney! and the spoons, part of my new dozen!"
I
As to the wine, said Trueman, I am afraid
you must give that up, but the only way to get
any tidings of the spoons is to go and hear what
he has to say; I have no doubt but he will make
such a confession as may be very useful to
others, which, you know, is one grand advan-
tage of punishments; and, besides, we may af
ford him some little comfort.' 'As to comfort
he deserves none from me,' said Fantom; 'and
as to his confessions, they can be of no use to
me, but as they give me a chance of getting my
spoons; so I do not much care if I do take a
—no, I beg pardon, you saved your gui-
nea; well then, our club and I could not have
shown our kindness in getting him out; nor
would poor Saunders himself have had an op-
portunity of exercising his own patience and
submission under want and imprisonment. So
you see one reason why God permits misery, is
that good men may have an opportunity of les-ride with you."
sening it.' Mr. Fantom replied, 'There is no
object which I have more at heart; I have, as I
told you, a plan in my head of such universal
benevolence as to include the happiness of all
mankind.'' Mr. Fantom, said Trueman,
feel that I have a general good will to all my
brethren of mankind; and if I had as much
money in my purse as I have love in my heart,
I trust I should prove it: all I say is, that, in a
station of life where I cannot do much, I am
more called upon to procure the happiness of a
poor neighbour, who has no one else to look to,
than to form wild plans for the good of mankind,
too extensive to be accomplished, and too chi-
merical to be put in practice. It is the height
of folly for a little ignorant tradesman to dis-
tract himself with projecting schemes which re-
quire the wisdom of scholars, the experience of
When they came to the prison, Mr. True-
man's tender heart sunk within him. He de-
plored the corrupt nature of man, which makes
such rigorous confinement indispensably need-
ful, not merely for the punishment of the of
fender, but for the safety of society. Fantom,
from mere trick and habit, was just preparing
a speech on benevolence, and the cruelty of im-
prisonment; for he had a set of sentiments col-
lected from the new philosophy which he always
kept by him. The naming a man in power
brought out the ready cut and dried phrase
against oppression. The idea of rank included
every vice, that of poverty every virtue; and he
was furnished with all the invectives against the
cruelty of laws, punishments, and prisons, which
the new lexicon has produced. But his mechani-
cal benevolence was suddenly checked; the re-
128
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
collection of his old port and his new spoons, said to his friend, well, sir, we will go, if you
cooled his ardour, and he went on without say-
ing a word.
When they reached the cell where the un-
happy William was confined, they stopped at the
door. The poor wretch had thrown himself on
the ground, as well as his chains would permit.
He groaned piteously; and was so swallowed up
with a sense of his own miseries, that he neither
heard the door open, nor saw the gentlemen.
He was attempting to pray, but in an agony
which made his words hardly intelligible. Thus
much they could make out God be merciful
to me a sinner, the chief of sinners!' then, sud-
denly attempting to start up, but prevented by
his irons, he roared out, 'O God! thou canst not
be merciful to me, for I have denied thee; I
have ridiculed my Saviour who died for me; I
have broken his laws; I have derided his word;
I have resisted his Spirit; I have laughed at
that heaven which is shut against me; I have
denied the truth of those torments which await
To-morrow! to-morrow! O for a longer
space for repentance! O for a short reprieve
from hell!"
me.
'
C
please, for you see there is nothing to be done."
'Sir,' replied Mr. Trueman, mournfully, you
may go if you please, but I shall stay, for I see
there is a great deal to be done.'-'What!' re-
joined the other, 'do you think it possible his
lfe can be saved.' 'No, indeed,' said Trueman;
but I hope it possible his soul may be saved.'
'I do not understand these things,' said Fantom,
making toward the door. Nor I neither,' said
Trueman; but as a fellow-sinner, I am bound
to do what I can for this poor man. Do you go
home, Mr. Fantom, and finish your treatise on
universal benevolence, and the blessed effects of
philosophy; and hark ye, be sure you let the
frontispiece of your book represent William on
the gibbet; that will be what our minister calls
a PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATION. You know I hate
theories: this is realizing; this is PHILOSOPHY
made easy to the meanest capacity. This is the
precious fruit which grows on that darling tree,
so many slips of which have been transplanted
from that land of liberty of which it is the na-
tive, but which, with all your digging, planting,
watering, dunging, and dressing, will, I trust,
never thrive in this blessed land of ours.'
The last words, confession, and dying speech of
WILLIAM WILSON,who was executed at Chelms-
ford for murder.
Mr. Trueman wept so loud that it drew the
attention of the criminal, who now lifted up his
Mr. Fantom sneaked off to finish his work at
eyes, and cast on his late master a look so dread- home; and Mr. Trueman staid to finish his in
ful that Fantom wished for a moment that he the prison. He passed the night with the wretch-
had given up all hope of the spoons, rather than ed convict; he prayed with him and for him,
have exposed himself to such a scene. At length and read to him the penitential psalms, and
the poor wretch said, in a low voice that would some portions of the Gospel.-But he was too
ds
have melted a heart of stone, 'O, sir, are you humble and too prudent a man to venture out
there? I did indeed wish to see you before my of his depth by arguments and consolations
dreadful sentence is put in execution. Oh, sir! which he was not warranted to use this he left
to-morrow! to-morrow! But I have a confession for the clergyman-but he pressed on William
to make to you. This revived Mr. Fantom, who the great duty of making the only amends now
again ventured to glance a hope at the spoons. in his power to those whom he had led astray.—
'Sir,' said William, I could not die without They then drew up the following paper, which
making my confession.' 'Ay, and restitution Mr. Trueman got printed, and gave away at the
too, I hope,' replied Fantom: where are my place of execution.
spoons?' 'Sir, they are gone with the rest of
my wretched booty. But oh, sir! those spoons
make so petty an article in my black account,
that I hardly think of them. Murder! sir, mur-
der is the crime for which I am justly doomed
to die. Oh, sir, who can abide the anger of an
offended God? Who can dwell with everlasting
burnings? As this was a question which even
a philosopher could not answer, Mr. Fantom was
going to steal off, especially as he now gave up
all hope of the spoons; but William called him
back: Stay, sir, stay, I conjure you, as you
will answer it at the bar of God. You must
hear the sins of which you have been the occa-
sion. You are the cause of my being about to
suffer a shameful death.-Yes, sir, you made
me a drunkard, a thief, and a murderer.' How
dare you, William,' cried Mr. Fantom, with
great emotion,' accuse me with being the cause
of such horrid crimes?' 'Sir,' answered the cri-
minal, 'from you I learned the principles which
lead to those crimes. By the grace of God I
should never have fallen into sins deserving of
the gallows, if I had not overheard you say
there was no hereafter, no judgment, no future
reckoning. O, sir! there is a hell, dreadful, in-
conceivable, eternal!' Here, through the excess
of anguish, the poor fellow fainted away. Mr.
Fantom, who did not at all relish this scene,
'I was bred up in the fear of God, and lived
with credit in many sober families, in which I
was a faithful servant; but being tempted by a
little higher wages, I left a good place to
go and
live with Mr. Fantom, who, however made good
none of his fine promises, but proved a hard
master. Full of fine words and charitable
speeches in favour of the poor; but apt to oppress,
overwork, and underpay them. In his service
I was not allowed time to go to church. This
troubled me at first, till I overheard my master
say, that going to church was a superstitious
prejudice, and only meant for the vulgar. Upon
this I resolved to go no more; for I thought
there could not be two religions, one for the
master, and one for the servant. Finding my
master never prayed, I too left off praying: this
gave Satan great power over me, so that I from
that time fell into almost every sin. I was very
uneasy at first, and my conscience gave me no
rest; but I was soon reconciled by overhearing
my master and another gentleman say, that
death was only an eternal sleep, and hell and
judgment were but an invention of priests to
keep the poor in order. I mention this as a
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
129
warning to all masters and mistresses to take
care what they converse about while servants
are waiting at table. They cannot tell how
many souls they have sent to perdition by such
loose talk. The crime for which I die is the
natural consequence of the principles I learnt
of my master. A rich
A rich man, indeed, who throws
off religion, may escape the gallows, because
want does not drive him to commit those crimes
which lead to it; but what shall restrain a needy
man, who has been taught that there is no dread-
ful reckoning? Honesty is but a dream without
the awful sanctions of heaven and hell. Virtue
is but a shadow, if it be stripped of the terrors
and the promises of the Gospel. Morality is but
an empty name, if it be destitute of the principle
and power of Christianity. Oh, my dear fellow-
servants! take warning by my sad fate; never
be tempted away from a sober service for the
sake of a little more wages: never venture your
immortal souls in houses where God is not fear-
ed. And now hear me, O, my God, though I
have blasphemed thee! forgive me, O my Sa-
viour, though I have denied thee! O Lord most
holy, O God most mighty, deliver me from the
bitter pains of eternal death, and receive my
soul for His sake who died for sinners.
• WILLIAM WILSON.'
Mr. Trueman would never leave this poor
penitent till he was launched into eternity, but
attended him with the minister in the cart. This
pious clergyman never cared to say what he
thought of Williams state.-When Mr. Truc-
man ventured to mention his hope, that though
his penitence was late, yet it was sincere, and
spoke of the dying thief on the cross as a ground
of encouragement, the minister with a very se-
rious look, made this answer: 'Sir, that in-
stance is too often brought forward on occasions
to which it does not apply: I do not choose to
say any thing to your application of it in the
present case, but I will answer you in the words
of a good man speaking of the penitent thief:
'There is one such instance given that nobody
might despair, and there is but one, that nobody
might presume.'
Poor William was turned off just a quarter
before eleven; and may the Lord have mercy or
his soul!
THE TWO WEALTHY FARMERS;
OR, THE HISTORY OF MR. BRAGWELL.
PART I. THE VISIT.
IN SEVEN PARTS
MR. BRAGWELL and Mr. Worthy happened to
meet last year at Weyhill fair. They were
glad to see each other, as they had but seldom
met of late; Mr. Bragwell having removed some
years before from Mr. Worthy's neighbourhood,
to a distant village, where he had bought an
estate.
Mr. Bragwell was a substantial farmer and
grazier. He had risen in the world by what
worldly men call a run of good fortune. He had
also been a man of great industry; that is, he
had paid a diligent and constant attention to his
own interest. He understood business, and had
a knack of turning almost every thing to his
own advantage. He had that sort of sense
which good men call cunning, and knaves call
wisdom. He was too prudent ever to do any
thing so wrong that the law could take hold of
him; yet he was not over scrupulous about the
morality of an action, when the prospect of en-
riching himself by it was very great, and the
chance of hurting his character was small. The
corn he sent home to his customers was not al-
ways quite so good as the samples he had pro-
duced at market; and he now and then forgot
to name some capital blemish in the horses he
sold at fair. He scorned to be guilty of the
petty frauds of cheating in weights and mea-
sures, for he thought that was a beggarly sin;
but he valued himself on his skill in making a
bargain, and fancied it showed his superior
knowledge of the world to take advantage of the
ignorance of a dealer.
It was his constant rule to undervalue every
VOL. I.
thing he was about to buy, and to overvalue
every thing he was about to sell; but as he sel-
dom lost sight of his discretion, he avoided every
thing that was very shameful; so that he was
considered merely as a hard dealer, and a keen
hand at a bargain. Now and then when he had
been caught in pushing his own advantage too
far, he contrived to get out of the scrape by
turning the whole into a jest, saying it was a
good take in, a rare joke, and he had only a
mind to divert himself with the folly of his
neighbour, who could be so easily imposed on:
Mr. Bragwell, however, in his way, set a
high value on character: not indeed that he
had a right sense of its worth; he did not con-
sider reputation as desirable because it increases
influence, and for that reason strengthens the
hands of a good man, and enlarges his sphere
of usefulness: but he made the advantage of
reputation, as well as of every other good, centre
in himself. Had he observed a strict attention
to principle, he feared he should not have got on
so fast in the world as those do who consult ex-
pediency rather than probity, while, without a
certain degree of character, he knew also, that
he should forfeit that confidence which put other
men in his power, and would set them as much
on their guard against him, as he, who thought
all mankind pretty much alike, was on his
guard against them.
Mr. Bragwell had one favourite maxim ;
namely, that a man's success in life was a sure
proof of his wisdom: and that all failure and
misfortune was the consequence of a man's own
folly. As this opinion was first taken up by
him from vanity and ignorance, so it was more
130
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
and more confirmed by his own prosperity. He
saw that he himself had succeeded greatly with-
out either money or education to begin with;
and he therefore now despised every man, how-
ever excellent his character or talents might be,
who had not the same success in life. His na-
tural disposition was not particularly bad, but
prosperity had hardened his heart. He made
his own progress in life the rule by which the
conduct of all other men was to be judged, with-
out any allowance for their peculiar disadvan-
tages, or the visitations of Providence. He
thought, for his part, that every man of sense
could command success on his undertakings,
and control and dispose the events of his own
life.
But though he considered those who had had
less success than himself as no better than fools,
yet he did not extend this opinion to Mr. Wor-
thy, whom he looked upon not only as a good
but a wise man. They had been bred up when
children in the same house; but with this dif-
ference, that Worthy was the nephew of the
master, and Bragwell the son of the servant.
Bragwell's father had been ploughman in the
family of Mr. Worthy's uncle, a sensible man,
who farmed a small estate of his own, and who
having no children, bred up young Worthy as
his son, instructed him in the business of hus-
bandry, and at his death left him his estate. The
father of Worthy was a pious clergyman, who
lived with his brother the farmer, in order to
help out a narrow income. He had bestowed
much pains on the instruction of his son, and
used frequently to repeat to him a saying, which
he had picked up in a book written by one of
the greatest men this country ever produced-
That there were two things with which every
man ought to be acquainted, RELIGION AND HIS
OWN BUSINESS.-While he therefore took care
that his son should be made an excellent farmer,
he filled up his leisure hours in improving his
mind: so that young Worthy had read more
good books, and understood them better, than
most men in his station. His reading however
had been chiefly confined to husbandry and di-
vinity, the two subjects which were of the most
immediate importance to him.
The reader will see by this time that Mr.
Bragwell and Mr. Worthy were as likely to be
as opposite to each other as two men could well
be, who were nearly of the same age and condi-
tion, and who were neither of them without cre-
dit in the world. Bragwell indeed made far
the greater figure; for he liked to cut a dash, as
he called it. It was his delight to make the
ancient gentry of the neighbourhood stare, at
seeing a grazier vie with them in show, and
exceed them in expense.
And while it was
the study of Worthy to conform to his station,
and to set a good example to those about him, it
was the delight of Bragwell to eclipse, in his
way of life, men of larger fortune. He did not
see how much his vanity raised the envy of his
inferiors, the ill-will of his equals, and the con-
tempt of his betters.
His wife was a notable stirring woman, but
vain, violent, and ambitious; very ignorant, and
very high-minded. She had married Bragwell
before he was worth a shilling, and as she had
brought him a good deal of money, she thought
herself the grand cause of his rising in the
world; and thence took occasion to govern him
most completely. Whenever he ventured to op-
pose her, she took care to put him in mind that
he owed every thing to her; that had it not been
for her, he might still have been stumping after
a plough-tail, or serving hogs in old Worthy's
farm-yard; but that it was she who had made a
gentleman of him. In order to set about making
him a gentleman, she had begun by teazing him
till he had turned away all his poor relations who
worked in the farm: she next drew him off from
keeping company with his old acquaintance;
and at last persuaded him to remove from the
place where he had got his money. Poor wo-
man! she had not sense and virtue enough to
see how honourable it is for a man to raise.
himself in the world by fair means, and then to
help forward his poor relations and friends; en-
gaging their services by his kindness, and en-
deavouring to turn his own advancement in life
to the best account, that of making it the in-
strument of assisting those who had a natural
claim to his protection.
Mrs. Bragwell was an excellent mistress,
according to her own notions of excellence; for
no one could say she ever lost an opportunity of
scolding a servant, or was ever guilty of the
weakness of overlooking a fault. Towards her
two daughters her behaviour was far otherwise.
In them she could see nothing but perfections;
but her extravagant fondness for these girls was
full as much owing to pride as to affectation.
She was bent on making a family, and having
found out that she was too ignorant, and too
much trained to the habits of getting money,
ever to hope to make a figure herself, she looked
to her daughters as the persons who were to
raise the family of the Bragwells; and to this
hope she foolishly submitted to any drudgery
for their sakes, and bore every kind of imper-
tinence from them.
The first wish of her heart was to set them
above their neighbours; for she used to say,
what was the use of having substance, if her
daughters might not carry themselves above
girls who had nothing? To do her justice, she
herself would be about early and late to see that
the business of the house was not neglected.
She had been bred to great industry, and con-
tinued to work when it was no longer necessary,
both from early habit, and the desire of heaping
up money for her daughters. Yet her whole no-
tion of gentility was, that it consisted in being
rich and idle; and, though she was willing to
be a drudge herself, she resolved to make her
daughters gentlewomen on this principle. To be
well dressed, to eat elegantly, and to do no-
thing, or nothing of which is of any use, was
what she fancied distinguished people in gen-
teel life. And this is too common a notion of a
fine education among a certain class; they do
not esteem things by their use, but by their
show. They estimate the value of their chil-
dren's education by the money it costs, and not
by the knowledge and goodness it bestows.
People of this stamp often take a pride in the
expense of learning, instead of taking pleasure
in the advantages of it. And the silly vanity
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
131
of letting others sce that they can afford any When they came home, however, he had the
thing, often sets parents cn letting their daugh-mortification to find, that though he had two
ters learn not only things of no use, but things
which may be really hurtful in their situation;
either by setting them above their proper duties,
or by taking up their time in a way inconsis-
tent with them.
Mrs. Bragwell sent her daughters to a board-
ing-school, where she instructed them to hold
up their heads as high as any body; to have
more spirit than to be put upon by any one;
never to be pitiful about money, but rather to
show that they could afford to spend with the
best; to keep company with the richest and
most fashionable girls, in the school, and to make
no acquaintance with farmers' daughters.
They came home at the usual age of leaving
school, with a large portion of vanity grafted on
their native ignorance. The vanity was added,
but the ignorance was not taken away.
Of re-
ligion they could not possibly learn any thing,
since none was taught, for at that place Chris-
tianity was considered as a part of education
which belonged only to charity schools. They
went to church indeed once a Sunday, yet ef-
fectually to counteract any benefit such an at-
tendance might produce, it was the rule of the
school that they should use only French prayer-
books; of course, such superficial scholars as the
Miss Bragwells would always be literally pray-
ing in an unknown tongue; while girls of bet-
ter capacity and more industry would infallibly
be picking out the nominative case, the verb,
and participle of a foreign language, in the solemn
act of kneeling before the Father of Spirits,
' who searcheth the heart and tryeth the reins.'
During the remainder of the Sunday they learnt
their worldly tasks, all except actual needle-
work, which omssion alone mark'd the distinc-
tion of Sunday from other days; and the go-
verness being a French Roman Catholic, it be-
came a doubtful point with some people, whether
her zeal or her negligence in the article of re-
ligion would be most to the advantage of her
pupils. Of knowledge the Miss Bragwells had
got just enough to laugh at their fond pa-
rents' rustic manners and vulgar language, and
just enough taste to despise and ridicule every
girl who was not as vainly dressed as themselves.
The mother had been comforting herself for
the heavy expense of their bringing up, by look-
ing forward to the pleasure of seeing them be-
come fine ladies, and the pride of marrying
them above their station; and to this hope she
constantly referred in all her conversations with
them; assuring them that all her happiness de-
pended on their future elevation.
Their father hoped, with far more judgment,
that they would be a comfort to him both in
sickness and in health. He had had no learn-
ing himself, and could write but poorly, and
owed what skill he had in figures to his na-
tural turn of business. He reasonably hoped
that his daughters, after all the money he had
spent on them, would now write his letters and
keep his accounts. And as he was now and
then laid up with a fit of the gout, he was en-
joying the prospect of having two affectionate
children to nurse him, as well as two skilful as
sistants to relieve him.
smart showy ladies to visit him, he had neither
dutiful daughters to nurse him, nor faithful
stewards to keep his books, nor prudcnt chil
dren to manage his house. They neither sooth-
ed him by their kindness when he was sick, nor
helped him by their industry when he was busy.
They thought the maid might take care of him
in the gout as she did before; for they fancied
that nursing was a coarse and scrvile employ
ment: and as to their skill in cyphering he soon
found, to his cost, that though they knew how
to spend both pounds, shillings, and pence, yet
they did not know how so well to cast them up.
Indeed it is to be regretted that women in general,
especially in the middle class, are so little ground-
ed in so indispensable, solid, and valuable an ac-
quirement as arithmetic.
Mrs. Bragwell being one day very busy in
preparing a great dinner for the neighbours,
ventured to request her daughters to assist in
making the pastry. They asked her with a
scornful smile, whether she had sent them to a
boarding school to learn to cook; and added, that
they supposed she would expect them next to
make hasty-puddings for the hay-makers. So
saying, they coolly marched off to their music.
When the mother found her girls were too polite
to be of any use, she would take comfort in ob-
serving how her parlour was set out with their
fillagree and flowers, their embroidery and cut
paper. They spent the morning in bed, the
noon in dressing, the evening at the harpsi-
chord, and the night in reading novels.
With all these fine qualifications it is easy to
suppose, that as they despised their sober duties,
they no less despised their plain neighbours.
When they could not get to a horse-race, a petty-
ball, or a strolling play, with some company as
idle and as smart as themselves, they were
driven for amusement to the circulating library.
Jack, the ploughboy, on whom they had now
put a livery jacket, was employed half his time
in trotting backwards and forwards with the
most wretched trash the little neighbouring
bookshop could furnish. The choice was often
left to Jack, who could not read, but who had
general orders to bring all the new things, and a
great many of them.
It was a misfortune, that at the school at
which they had been bred, and at some others,
there was no system of education which had
any immediate reference to the station of life
to which the girls chiefly belonged. As per-
sons in the middle line, for want of that ac-
quaintance with books, and with life and man-
ners, which the great possess, do not always see
the connexion between remote consequences
and their causes, the evils of a corrupt and in-
appropriate system of education do not strike
them so forcibly; and provided they can pay for
it, which is made the grand criterion between
the fit and the unfit, they are too little disposed
to consider the value, or rather the worthless-
ness, of the thing which is paid for but liter-
ally go on to give their money for that which is
not bread.
:
Their subsequent course of reading serves to
establish all the errors of their education. I
132
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
he saw
often as he came near them: his daughters
watching his motions with the same anxiety as
they would have watched the motions of a cat
in a china shop. Instead of this, I say,
some neat shelves of good books for the service
of the family, and a small medicine chest for the
benefit of the poor.
stead of such books as might help to confirm
and strengthen them in all the virtues of their
station, in humility, economy, meekness, con-
tentment, self-denial, and industry; the studies
now adopted are, by a graft on the old stock,
made to grow on the habits acquired at school.
Of those novels and plays which are so eagerly
devoured by persons of this discription, there Mrs. Worthy and her daughters had prepar
is perhaps scarce one which is not founded upon ed a plain but neat and good dinner.-The tarts
principles which would lead young women of were so excellent, that Bragwell felt a secret
the middle ranks to be discontented with their kind of regret that his own daughters were too
station. It is rank—it is elegance-it is beauty genteel to do any thing so very useful. Indeed
-it is sentimental feelings-it is sensibility—he had been always unwilling to believe that
it is some needless, or some superficial, or some
quality hurtful, even in that fashionable person
to whom the author ascribes it, which is the
ruling principle. This quality transferred into
the heart and the conduct of an illiterate woman
in an inferior station, becomes absurdity, be-
comes sinfulness.
Things were in this state in the family we
are describing, or rather growing worse; for
idleness and vanity are never at a stand; when
these two wealthy farmers, Bragwell and Wor-
thy, met at Weyhill fair, as was said before.
After many hearty salutations had passed be-
tween them, it was agreed that Mr. Bragwell
should spend the next day with his old friend,
whose house was
was not
not many miles distant.
Bragwell invited himself in the following man-
ner: 'We have not had a comfortable day's chat
for years,' said he, and as I am to look at a
drove of lean beasts in your neighbourhood, I
will take a bed at your house, and we will pass
the evening in debating as we used to do. You
know I always loved a bit of an argument, and
am not reckoned to make the worst figure
at our club: I had not, to be sure, such good
learning as you had, because your father was a
parson, and you got it for nothing: but I can
bear my part pretty well for all that. When any
man talks to me about his learning, I ask if it
has helped him to get a good estate; if he says
no, then I would not give him a rush for it; for
of what use is all the learning in the world, if
it does not make a man rich? But, as I was
saying, I will come and see you to-morrow; but
now don't let your wife put herself in a fuss for
me: don't alter your own plain way; for I am
not proud, I assure you, nor above my old
friends; though, I thank God, I am pretty well
in the world.'
To all this flourishing speech Mr. Worthy
coolly answered, that certainly worldly pros-
perity ought never to make any man proud,
since it is God who giveth strength to get riches,
and without his blessing, 'tis in vain to rise up
early, and to eat the bread of carefulness.
About the middle of the next day Mr. Brag-
well reached Mr. Worthy's neat and pleasant
dwelling. He found every thing in it the re-
verse of his own. It had not so many orna-
ments, but it had more comforts. And when
he saw his friend's good old-fashioned arm chair
in a warm corner, he gave a sigh to think how
his own had been banished to make room for
his daughter's piano forte. Instead of made
flowers in glass cases, and tea-chests and screens
too fine to be used, which he saw at home, and
about which he was cautioned, and scolded as
|
|
any thing which was very proper and very ne-
cessary, could be so extremely vulgar and un-
becoming as his daughters were always declar-
ing it to be. And his late experience of the
little comfort he found at home, inclined him
now still more strongly to suspect that things
were not so right there as he had been made to
suppose. But it was in vain to speak; for his
daughters constantly stopped his mouth by a
favourite saying of theirs, which equally indica-
ted affectation and vulgarity, that it was better
to be out of the world than out of the fashion.
Soon after dinner the women went out to
their several employments; and Mr. Worthy
being left alone with his guest, the following
discourse took place :
Bragwell. You have a couple of sober, pretty
looking girls, Worthy; but I wonder they don't
tiff off a little more. Why, my girls have as
much fat and flour on their heads as would half
maintain my reapers in suet pudding.
Worthy. Mr. Bragwell, in the management of
my family, I don't consider what I might afford
only, though that is one great point; but I con-
sider also what is needful and becoming in a
man of my station; for there are so many use-
ful ways of laying out money, that I feel as if
it were a sin to spend one unnecessary shilling.
-Having had the blessing of a good education
myself, I have been able to give the like advan-
tage to my daughters. One of the best lessons
I have taught them is, to know themselves; and
one proof that they have learnt this lesson is,
that they are not above any of the duties of
their station. They read and write well, and
when my eyes are bad, they keep my accounts
in a very pretty manner. If I had put them to
learn what you call genteel things, these might
either have been of no use to them, and so both
time and money thrown away; or they might
proved worse than nothing to them by leading
them into wrong notions, and wrong company.
Though we do not wish them to do the laborious
parts of the dairy work, yet they always assist
their mother in the management of it. As to
their appearance, they are every day nearly as
you see them now, and on Sunday they are
very neatly dressed, but it is always in a decent
and modest way. There are no lappets, fringes,
furbelows, and tawdry ornaments; no trains,
my
turbans, and flounces, fluttering about cheese
and butter. And I should feel no vanity, but
much mortification, if a stranger seeing farmer
Worthy's daughters at church should ask who
those fine ladies were.
Bragwell. Now I own I should like to have
such a question asked concerning my daugh
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
133
ters. I like to make people stare and envy. It | pocket-books, they have them in a twinkling,
makes one feel oneself somebody. I never feel
the pleasure of having handsome things so much
as when I see they raise curiosity; and enjoy
the envy of others as a fresh evidence of my
own prosperity. But as to yourself, to be sure,
you best know what you can afford; and indeed
there is some difference between your daughters
and the Miss Bragwells.
and out-do their patterns all to nothing. I used
to take in the Country Journal, because it was
useful enough to see how oats went, the time of
high water, and the price of stocks. But when
my ladies came home, forsooth, I was soon
whedled out of that, and forced to take a Lon-
don paper, that tells a deal about the caps and
feathers, and all the trumpery of the quality,
and the French dress, and the French undress.
When I want to know what hops are a bag,
they are snatching the paper to see what violet
soap is a pound. And as to the dairy, they never
Bragwell. Do you so? Now I own I ask my-care how cow's milk goes, as long as they can
self but one; for if I find I can afford it, I take
care to make it proper for me. If I can pay
for a thing, no one has a right to hinder me
from having it.
Worthy. For my part, before I engage in any
expense, I always ask myself these two short
questions; First, can I afford it?-Secondly, is
proper for me?
it
Worthy. Certainly. But a man's own pru-
dence, his love of propriety and sense of duty,
ought to prevent him from doing an improper
thing, as effectually as if there were somebody
to hinder him.
Bragwell. Now, I think a man is a fool who
is hindered from having any thing he has a
mind to; unless indeed, he is in want of money
pay for it. I am no friend to debt. A poor
to
man must want on.
Worthy. But I hope my children have not
learnt to want any thing which is not proper
for them. They are very industrious; they at-
tend to business all day, and in the evening
they sit down to their work and a good book.
I take care that neither their reading nor con-
versation shall excite any desires or tastes un-
suitable to their condition. They have little
vanity, because the kind of knowledge they have
is of too sober a sort to raise admiration; and
from that vanity which attends a little smatter-
ing of frivolous accomplishments, I have se-
cured them, by keeping them in total ignorance
of all such. I think they live in the fear of God.
I trust they are humble and pious, and I am
sure they seem cheerful and happy. If I am
sick, it is pleasant to see them dispute which
shall wait upon me; for they say the maid can-
not do it so tenderly as themselves.
This part of the discourse staggered Brag-
well. An involuntary tear rushed into his eye.
Vain as he was, he could not help feeling what
a difference a religious and a worldly education
made on the heart, and how much the former
regulated even the natural temper. Another
thing which surprised him was, that these girls
living a life of domestic piety, without any pub.
lic diversions, should be so very cheerful and
happy; while his own daughters, who were
never contradicted, and were indulged with
continual amusements, were always sullen and
ill-tempered. That they who were more hu-
moured should be less grateful, and they who
were more amused less happy, disturbed him
much. He envied Worthy the tenderness of his
children, though he would not own it, but turn-
ed it off thus:
Bragwell. But my girls are too smart to make
mops of, that is the truth. Though ours is a
lonely village, it is wonderful to see how soon
they get the fashions. What with the discrip-
tions in the magazines, and the pictures in the
|
get some stuff which they call milk of roses.
Seeing them disputing violently the other day
about cream and butter, I thought it a sign they
were beginning to care for the farm, till I found
it was cold cream for the hands, and jessamine
butter for the hair.
Worthy. But do your daughters never read?
Bragwell. Read! I believe they do too. Why
our Jack, the plough-boy, spends half his time
in going to a shop in our market town, where
they let out books to read with marble covers.
And they sell paper with all manner of colours
on the edges, and gim-cracks, and powder-puffs,
and wash-balls, and cards without any pips, and
every thing in the world that's genteel and of
no use. 'Twas but the other day I met Jack
with a basket full of these books; so having
some time to spare, I sat down to see a little
what they were about.
Worthy. Well, I hope you there found what
was likely to improve your daughters, and teach
them the true use of time.
Bragwell. O, as to that, you are pretty much
out. I could make neither head nor tail of it;
it was neither fish, flesh, nor good red-herring :
it was all about my lord, and sir Harry, and the
captain. But I never met with such nonsensi-
cal fellows in my life. Their talk was no more
like that of my old landlord, who was a lord you
know, nor the captain of our fensibles, than
chalk is like cheese. I was fairly taken in at
first, and began to think I had got hold of a
godly book; for there was a deal about hope and
despair, and death, and heaven, and angels, and
torments, and everlasting happiness. But when
I got a little on, I found there was no meaning
in all these words, or if any, it was a bad mean-
ing. Eternal misery, perhaps, only meant a
moment's disappointment about a bit of a letter;
and everlasting happiness meant two people
talking nonsense together for five minutes. In
short, I never met with such a pack of lies. The
people talk such wild gibberish as no folks in
their sober senses ever did talk; and the things
that happen to them are not like the things that
ever happen to me or any of my acquaintance.
They are at home one minute, and beyond sea
the next: beggars to-day, and lords to-morrow;
waiting maids in the morning, and dutchesses
at night. Nothing happens in a natural gradual
way, as it does at home; they grow rich by the
stroke of a wand, and poor by the magic of a
word; the disinherited orphan of this hour is
the overgrown heir of the next: now a bride
and bridegroom turn out to be brother and sis
ter, and the brother and sister prove to be no
134
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
mean.
relations at all. You and I, master Worthy, | are safe enough, if I do not know and lament
have worked hard many years, and think it that this corrupt reading is now got down even
very well to have scraped a trifle of money to- among some of the lowest class. And it is an
gether; you, a few hundreds I suppose, and I a evil which is spreading every day. Poor indus-
few thousands. But one would think every man trious girls, who get their bread by the needle
in these books had the bank of England in his or the loom, spend half the night in listening to
'scrutoire. Then there is another thing which these books. Thus the labour of one girl is lost,
I never met with in true life. We think it pretty and the minds of the rest are corrupted; for
well, you know, if one has got one thing, and though their hands are employed in honest in-
another has got another. I will tell you how Idustry, which might help to preserve them
You are reckoned sensible, our parson
is learned, the squire is rich, I am rather gene-
rous, one of your daughters is pretty, and both
mine are genteel. But in these books (except
here and there one, whom they make worse than
Satan himself) every man and woman's child of
them, are all wise, and witty, and generous, and
rich, and handsome, and genteel; and all to the
last degree. Nobody is middling, or good in
one thing, and bad in another, like my live ac-
quaintance; but it is all up to the skies, or down
to the dirt. I had rather read Tom Hickathrift,
or Jack the giant Killer, a thousand times.
from a life of sin, yet their hearts are at the
very time polluted by scenes and descriptions
which are too likely to plunge them into it: and
when their vain weak heads compare the soft
and delicious lives of the heroines in the book,
with their own mean garb and hard labour, the
effect is obvious; and I think I do not go too
far when I say, that the vain and showy man-
ner in which young women, who have to work
for their bread, have taken to dress themselves,
added to the poison they draw from these books,
contribute together to bring them to destruction,
Now tell
more than almost any other cause.
me, do not you think these wild books will hurt
your daughters?
Bragwell. Why I do think they are grown
full of schemes, and contrivances and whispers,
that's the truth on't. Every thing is a secret.
They always seem to be on the look-out for
something, and when nothing comes on't, then
they are sulky and disappointed. They will
keep company with their equals: they despise
trade and farming; and I own I'm for the stuff,
I should not like them to marry any but a man
of substance, if he was ever so smart. Now they
will hardly sit down with a substantial country
dealer. But if they hear of a recruiting party
in our market-town, on goes the finery-off they
Some flimsy excuse is patched up. They
are.
want something at the book-shop or the milli-
ner's; because I suppose there is a chance for
some Jack-a-napes of an ensign may be there
buying sticking-plaster. In short, I do grow a
little uneasy; for I should not like to see all I
have saved thrown away on a knapsack.
Worthy. You have found out, Mr. Bragwell,
that many of these books are ridiculous; I will
go farther, and say, that to me they appear
wicked also: and I should account the reading
of them a great mischief, especially to people
in middling and low life, if I only took into the
account the great loss of time such reading
causes, and the aversion it leaves behind for
what is more serious and solid. But this, though
a bad part, is not the worst. These books give
false views of human life. They teach a con-
tempt for humble and domestic duties; for in-
dustry, frugality, and retirement. Want of
youth and beauty is considered in them as ri-
diculous. Plain people, like you and me, are
objects of contempt. Parental authority is set
at naught. Nay, plots and contrivances against
parents and guardians, fill half the volumes.
They consider love as the great business of hu-
man life, and even teach that it is impossible
for this love to be regulated or restrained; and
to the indulgence of this passion every duty is
therefore sacrificed. A country life, with a kind So saying, they both rose and walked out to
mother or a sober aunt, is described as a state view the farm. Mr. Bragwell affected greatly
of intolerable misery and one would be apt to to admire the good order of every thing he saw;
fancy from their painting, that a good country but never forgot to compare it with something
house is a prison, and a worthy father the jailor. larger, and handsomer, or better of his own. It
Vice is set off with every ornament which can was easy to see that self was his standard of
make it pleasing and amiable; while virtue and perfection in every thing. All he himself pos-
piety are made ridiculous, by tacking to them sessed gained some increased value in his eyes
something that is silly or absurd. Crimes which from being his; and in surveying the property
would be considered as hanging matter at our of his friend, he derived food for his vanity, from
county assizes at least if I were a juryman, I things which seemed least likely to raise it.
should bring in the whole train of heroes, Every appearance of comfort, of success of me-
Guilty-Death--are here made to the appear-rit, in any thing which belonged to Mr. Worthy
ance of virtue, by being mixed with some wild
flight of unnatural generosity. Those crying
sins, adultery, GAMING, DUELS, and SELF-MUR-
DER, are made so familiar, and the wickedness
of them is so disguised by fine words and soft
descriptions, that even innocent girls get loose
to their abhorrence, and talk with complacency,
of things which should not be so much as named
by them.
I should not have said so much on this mis-
chief (continued Mr. Worthy) from which I
dare say, great folks fancy people in our station
+
led him to speak of some superior advantage
of his own of the same kind: and it was clear
that the chief part of the satisfaction he felt in
walking over the farm of his friend, was caused
by thinking how much larger his own was.
Mr. Worthy, who felt a kindness for him,
which all his vanity could not cure, was always
on the watch how to turn their talk on some
useful point. And whenever people resolve to
go into company with this view, it is commonly
their own fault, if some opportunity of turning
it to account does not offer.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
135
I
proceed, when Bragwell interrupted him for a
moment, by saying-' But stop, friend, before
we begin I wish you would remember that we
have had a long walk, and I want a little re-
freshment; have you no liquor that is stronger
than this cider? I am afraid it will give me a
Mr. Worthy immediately produced a bottle
He saw Bragwell was intoxicated with pride,
and undone by success; and that his family was
in the high road to ruin through mere prosperi-
ty. He thought that if some means could be
found to open his eyes on his own character, to
which he was now totally blind, it might be of
the utmost service to him. The more Mr. Wor-fit of the gout.'
thy reflected, the more he wished to undertake
this kind office. He was not sure that Mr. Brag-of wine, and another of spirits; saying, that
well would bear it, but he was very sure it was
his duty to attempt it. As Mr. Worthy was
very humble himself, he had great patience and
forbearance with the faults of others. He felt Farmer Bragwell preferred the brandy, and
no pride at having escaped the errors into which began to taste it. Why,' said he, 'this is no
they had fallen, for he knew who it was had better than English; I always use foreign my.
made him to differ. He remembered that God self.'-'I bought this for foreign,' said Mr.
had given him many advantages; a pious father | Worthy.-'No, no, it is English spirits I assure
and a religious education: this made him hum-you; but I can put you into a way to get foreign
ble under a sense of his own sins, and charita- nearly as cheap as English.' Mr. Worthy repli-
ble towards the sins of others, who had not the ed that he thought that was impossible.
same privileges.
Just as he was going to try to enter into a
very serious conversation with his guest, he was
stopped by the appearance of his daughter, who
told them supper was ready.—This interruption
obliges me to break off also, and I shall reserve
what follows to the next month, when I pro-
mise to give my readers the second part of this
history.
PART II.
A CONVERSATION.
SOON after supper Mrs. Worthy left the room
with her daughters, at her husband's desire; for
it was his intention to speak more plainly to
Bragwell than was likely to be agreeable to him
to hear before others. The two farmers being
seated at their little table, each in a handsome
old-fashioned great chair, Bragwell began.
'It is a great comfort neighbour Worthy, at
a certain time of life to be got above the world:
my notion is, that a man should labour hard the
first part of his days, that he may then sit down
and enjoy himself the remainder. Now, though
I hate boasting, yet as you are my oldest friend,
I am about to open my heart to you. Let me
tell you then I reckon I have worked as hard
as any man in my time, and that I now begin
to think I have a right to indulge a little. I
have got my money with character, and I mean
to spend it with credit. I pay every one his own,
I set a good example, I keep to my church, I
serve God, 1 honour the king, and I obey the
laws of the land.'
'This is doing a great deal indeed,' replied
Mr. Worthy: but,' added he, 'I doubt that
more goes to the making up all these duties than
men are commonly aware of. Suppose then that
you and I talk the matter over coolly; we have
the evening before us.- What if we sit down
together as two friends and examine one ano-
ther.'
though he drank neither spirits nor even wine
himself, yet his wife always kept a little of each
as a provision in case of sickness or accidents.
Bragwell. O no; there are ways and means-
a word to the wise-there is an acquaintance
of mine that lives upon the south coast-you are
a particular friend and I will get you half-a-do-
zen gallons for a trifle.
Worthy. Not if it be smuggled, Mr. Brag-
well, though I should get it for sixpence a bot-
tle.-'Ask no questions,' said the other, I
never say any thing to any one, and who is the
wiser? And so this is your way of obeying
the laws of the land,' said Mr. Worthy-' here
is a fine specimen of your morality.'
Bragwell. Come, come, don't make a fuss
about trifles. If every one did it indeed it would
be another thing; but as to my getting a little
good brandy cheap, why that can't hurt the re-
venue much.
Worthy. Pray Mr. Bragwell what should you
think of a man who would dip his hand into a
bag and take out a few guineas?
Bragwell. Think? why I think that he should
be hanged to be sure.
Worthy. But suppose that bag stood in the
king's treasury?
Bragwell. In the king's treasury! worse and
worse! What, rob the king's treasury! Well,
I hope if any one has done it, the robber will be
taken up and executed; for I suppose we shall
all be taxed to pay the damage.
Worthy. Very true. If one man takes money
out of the treasury, others must be obliged to
pay the more into it. But what think you if the
fellow should be found to have stopped some
money in its way to the treasury, instead of
taking it out of the bag after it got there
Bragwell. Guilty, Mr. Worthy; it is all the
same, in my opinion. If I were judge I would
hang him without benefit of clergy.
Worthy. Hark ye, Mr. Bragwell, he that deals
in smuggled brandy is the man who takes to
himself the king's money in its way to the trea-
sury, and he as much robs the government as
if he dipt his hands into a bag of guineas in the
treasury chamber. It comes to the same thing
exactly. Here Bragwell seemed a little offend-
Bragwell, who loved argument, and who was ed, and exclaimed-What, Mr. Worthy! do
not a little vain both of his sense and his mo- you pretend to say I am not an honest man be-
rality, accepted the challenge, and gave his word cause I like to get my brandy as cheap as I can?
that he would take in good part any thing that and because I like to save a shilling to my fa-
should be said to him.-Worthy was about tomily? Sir, I repeat it; I do my duty to God
136
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
and my neighbour. I say the Lord's prayer
most days, I go to church on Sundays, I repeat
my creed, and keep the ten commandments;
and though I now and then get a little brandy
cheap, yet upon the whole, I will venture to say,
I do as much as can be expected of any man,
and more than the generality.'
Bragwell. That is about swearing, is it
not?
Mr. Worthy, who had observed Bragwell
guilty of much profaneness in using the name
of his Maker, (though all such offensive words
have been avoided in writing this history) now
told him that he had been waiting the whole
day for an opportunity to reprove him for his
frequent breach of the third commandment.
Worthy. Come then since you say you keep
the commandments, you cannot be offended if
I ask you whether you understand them.
'Good L-d! I break the third command-
Bragwell. To be sure I do. I dare say I do: ment!' said Bragwell; 'no indeed, hardly ever,
look'ye, Mr. Worthy, I don't pretend, to much I once used to swear a little to be sure, but I
reading, I was not bred to it as you were. If vow I never do it now, except now and then
my father had been a parson, I fancy I should when I happen to be in a passion: aud in such
have made as good a figure as some other folks, a case, why, good G―d, you know the sin is
but I hope good sense and a good heart may with those who provoke me, and not with me
teach a man his duty without much scholarship. but, upon my soul, I don't think I have sworn
Worthy. To come to the point; let us now go an oath these three months, no not I, faith, as I
through the ten commandments, and let us take hope to be saved.'
along with us those explanations of them which
pur Saviour gaye us in his sermon on the mount.
Bragwell. Sermon on the mount! why the
ten commandments are in the 20th chapter of
Exodus. Come, come, Mr. Worthy, I know
where to find the commandments as well as you
do; for it happens that I am church-warden,
and I can see from the altar-piece where the
ten commandments are, without your telling
me, for my pew directly faces it.
Worthy. But I advise you to read the sermon
on the mount, that you may see the full mean-
ing of them.
Bragwell. What! do you want to make me
believe there are two ways of keeping the com-
mandments?
Worthy. No; but there may be two ways of
understanding them.
Bragwell. Well, I am not afraid to be put to
the proof; I defy any man to say I do not keep
at least all the four first that are on the left side
of the altar-piece.
Worthy. If you can prove that, I shall be
more ready to believe you observe those of the
other table; for he who does his duty to God,
will be likely to do his duty to his neighbour also.
Bragwell. What! do you think that I serve
two Gods? Do you think then that I make
graven images, and worship stocks or stones?
Do you take me for a papist or an idolater?
Worthy. Don't triumph quite so soon, master
Bragwell. Pray is there nothing in the world
you prefer to God, and thus make an idol of?
Do
you not love your money, or your lands, or
your crops, or your cattle, or your own will, or
your own way, rather better than you love God?
Do you never think of these with more pleasure
than you think of him, and follow them more
eagerly than your religious duty?
Bragwell. O! there's nothing about that in
the 20th chapter of Exodus.
Worthy. But Jesus Christ has said, 'He that
loveth father or mother more than me is not
worthy of me.' Now it is certainly a man's
duty to love his father and his mother; nay, it
would be wicked not to love them, and yet we
must not love even these more than our Creator
and our Saviour. Well, I think on this princi-
ple, your heart pleads guilty to the breach of
the first and second commandments; let us pro-
ceed to the third.
|
Worthy. And yet you have broken this holy
law not less than five or six times in the last
speech you have made.
Bragwell. Lord bless me ! Sure you mistake.
Good heavens, Mr. Worthy, I call G-d to wit
ness, I have neither cursed nor swore since I
have been in the house.
Worthy. Mr. Bragwell, this is the way in
which many who call themselves very good sort
of people deceive themselves. What! is it no
profanation of the name of your Maker to use
it lightly, irreverently and familiarly as you
have done? Our Saviour has not only told us
not to swear by the immediate name of God,
but he has said,
but he has said, 'swear not at all, neither by
heaven nor by the earth,' and in order to hinder
our inventing any other irreligious exclamations
or expressions, he has even added, "but let your
communications be yea, yea, and nay, nay; for
whatsoever is more than this simple affirmation
and denial cometh of evil.' Nay more, so great-
ly do I reverence that high and holy name, that
I think even some good people have it too fre-
quently in their mouths; and that they might
convey the idea without the word.
Bragwell. Well, well, I must take a little
more care, I believe. I vow to heaven I did not
know there had been so much harm in it; but
my daughters seldom speak without using some
of these words, and yet they wanted to make
me believe the other day that it was monstrous
vulgar to swear.
Worthy. Women, even gentlewomen, who
ought to correct this evil habit in their fathers,
and husbands, and children, are too apt to en-
courage it by their own practice. And indeed
they betray the profaneness of their own minds
also by it; for none who venerate the holy name
of God, can either profane it in this manner
themselves, or hear others do so without being
exceedingly pained at it.
Bragwell. Well, since you are so hard upon
me, I believe I must e'en give up this point-so
let us pass on to the next, and here I tread upon
sure ground; for as sharp as you are upon me,
you can't accuse me of being a Sabbath breaker,
since I go to church every Sunday of my life,
unless on some very extraordinary occasion.
Worthy. For those occasions the Gospel al
lows, by saying, 'the Sabbath was made for
man, and not man for the Sabbath.' Our own
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
137
sickness. or attending on the sickness of others, I
are lawful impediments.
Bragwell. Yes, and I am now and then ob-
liged to look at a drove of beasts, or to go a
journey, or take some medicine, or perhaps
some friend may call upon me, or it may be
very cold, or very hot, or very rainy.
Worthy. Poor excuses! Mr. Bragwell. Do
you call these lawful impediments? I am afraid
they will not pass for such on the day of judg.
ment. But how is the rest of your Sunday
spent?
Bragwell. O why, I assure you I often go to
church in the afternoon also, and even if I am
ever so sleepy.
Worthy. And so you finish your nap at church,
I suppose.
Bragwell. Why as to that, to be sure we do
contrive to have something a little nicer than
common for dinner on a Sunday: in consequence
of which one eats, you know a little more than
ordinary; and having nothing to do on that day,
has more leisure to take a cheerful glass; and
all these things will make one a little heavy you
know.
Worthy. And don't you take a little ride in
the morning, and look at your sheep when the
weather is good; and so fill your mind just be-
fore you go to church with thoughts of them;
and when the weather is bad, don't you settle
an account? or write a few letters of business
after church?
Bragwell. I can't say but I do; but that is
nothing to any body, as long as I set a good
example by keeping to my church.
Worthy. And how do you pass your Sunday
evenings?
Bragwell. My wife and daughters go a visit-
ing Sunday afternoons. My daughters are glad
to get out at any rate; and as to my wife, she
says that being ready dressed, it is a pity to
lose the opportunity: besides, it saves her time
on a weak day; so then you see I have it all my
own way, and when I have got rid of the ladies,
who are ready to faint at the smell of tobacco,
I can venture to smoke a pipe, and drink a
sober glass of punch with half a dozen friends.
Worthy. Which punch being made of smug-
gled brandy, and drunk on the Lord's-day, and
very vain, as well as profane and worldly com-
pany, you are enabled to break both the law of
God, and that of your country at a stroke: and
I
suppose when you are got together, you speak
of your cattle, or of your crops, after which per-
haps you talk over a few of your neighbours'
faults, and then you brag a little of your own
wealth or your own achievements.
Bragwell. Why you seem to know us so well,
that any one would think you had been sitting
behind the curtain; and yet you are a little mis-
taken too; for I think we have hardly said a
word for several of our last Sundays on any
thing but politics.
Worthy. And do you find that you much im-
prove your Christian charity by that subject?
Bragwell. Why to be sure we do quarrel till
we are very near fighting, that is the worst on't.
Worthy. And then you call names, and swear
a little I suppose.
Bragwell. Why when one is contradicted and
put in a passion you know, and when people,
especially if they are one's inferiors, won't
adopt all one's opinions, flesh and blood can't
bear it.
Worthy. And when all your friends are gone
home, what becomes of the rest of the evening?
Bragwell. That is just as it happens, some-
times I read the newspaper; and as one is gene-
rally most tired on the days one does nothing,
I go to bed earlier on Sundays than on other
days, that I may be more fit to get up to my
business the next morning.
Worthy. So you shorten Sunday as much as
you can, by cutting off a bit at both ends, I
suppose; for I take it for granted, you lie a little
later in the morning.
Bragwell. Come, come, we shan't get through
the whole ten to-night, if you stand snubbing
one at this rate. You may pass over the fifth;
for my father and mother have been dead ever
since I was a boy, so I am clear of that scrape,
Worthy. There are, however, many relative
duties included in that commandment; unkind-
ness to all kindred is forbidden.
Bragwell. O, if you mean my turning off my
nephew Tom, the ploughboy, you must not
blame me for that, it was all my wife's fault.
He was as good a lad as ever lived to be sure,
and my own brother's son; but my wife could
not bear that a boy in a carter's frock should be
about the house, calling her aunt. We quarrel-
led like dog and cat about it; and when he was
turned away she and I did not speak for a week.
Worthy. Which was a fresh breach of the
commandment; a worthy nephew turned out of
doors, and a wife not spoken to for a week, are
no very convincing proofs of your observance
of the fifth commandment.
Bragwell. Well, I long to come to the sixth;
for you don't think I commit murder I hope.
Worthy. I am not sure of that.
Bragwell. Murder! what, I kill any body?
Worthy. Why, the laws of the land, indeed,
and the disgrace attending it, are almost enough
to keep any man from actual murder; let me
ask, however, do you never give way to unjust
anger, and passion, and revenge? as for in-
stance, do you never feel your resentment
kindle against some of the politicians who con-
tradict you on a Sunday night? and do you
never push your animosity against somebody
that has affronted you, further than the occasion
can justify?
Bragwell. Hark'ee, Mr. Worthy, I am a man
of substance, and no man shall offend me with-
out my being even with him. So as to injuring
a man, if he affronts me first, there's nothing
but good reason in that.
Worthy. Very well! only bear in mind that
you wilfully break this commandment, whether
you abuse your servant, are angry at your wife,
watch for a moment to revenge an injury on
your neighbour, or even wreak your passion on
a harmless beast; for you have then the seeds
of murder working in your breast; and if there
were no law, no gibbet, to check you, and no
fear of disgrace neither, I am not sure where
you would stop.
Bragwell. Why, Mr. Worthy, you have a
strange way of explaining the commandments;
138
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
so you set me down for a murderer, merely be-,
cause I bear hatred to a man who has done me
a hurt, and am glad to do him a like injury in
my turn.-I am sure I should want spirit if I
did not.
'
Worthy. I go by the Scripture rule, which
says, he that hateth his brother is a murderer;
and again,' pray for them that despitefully use
you and persecute you.' Besides, Mr. Bragwell,
you made it a part of your boast that you said
the Lord's prayer every day, wherein you pray
to God to forgive you your trespasses as you
forgive them that trespass against you. If
therefore you do not forgive them that trespass
against you, in that case you daily pray that
your own trespasses may never be forgiven.-
Now own the truth; did you last night lie down
in a spirit of forgiveness and charity with the
whole world!
Bragwell. Yes, I am in charity with the
whole world in general; because the greater
part of it has never done me any harm. But I
won't forgive old Giles, who broke down my
new hedge yesterday for firing.-Giles who
used to be so honest!
Worthy. And yet you expect that God will
forgive you who have broken down his sacred
laws, and have so often robbed him of his right
-you have robbed him of the honour due unto
his name-you have robbed him of his holy day
by doing your own work, and finding your own
pleasure in it-you have robbed his poor, par-
ticularly in the instance of Giles, by withhold-
ing from them, as overseer, such assistance as
should prevent their being driven to the sin of
stealing.
Bragwell. Why, you are now charging me
with other men's sins as well as my own.
Worthy. Perhaps the sins which we cause
other men to commit, through injustice, incon-
sideration, and evil example, may dreadfully
swell the sum of our responsibility in the great
day of account.
Bragwell. Well, come let us make haste and
get through these commandments. The next is,
Thou shalt not commit adultery.' Thank God,
neither I nor my family can be said to break
the seventh commandment.
Worthy. Here again, remember how Christ
himself hath said, whoso looketh on a woman
whoso looketh on a woman
to lust after her, hath already committed adul-
tery with her in his heart.' These are no far-
fetched expressions of mine, Mr. Bragwell, they
are the words of Jesus Christ. I hope you will
not charge him with having carried things too
far; for if you do, you charge him with being
mistaken in the religion he taught; and this can
only be accounted for, by supposing him an im-
postor.
Bragwell. Why, upon my word, Mr. Worthy,
I don't like these sayings of his which you quote
upon me so often, and that is the truth of it,
and I can't say I feel much disposed to believe
them.
Worthy. I hope you believe in Jesus Christ.
I hope you believe that creed of your's, which
you also boasted of repeating so regularly.
Bragwell. Well, well, I'll believe any thing
you say, rather than stand quarrelling with you.
Worthy. I hope then, you will allow, that
since it is adultery to look at a woman with
even an irregular thought, it follows from the
same rule, that all immodest dress in your
daughters, or indecent jests and double mean-
ings in yourself; all loose songs or novels; and
all diversions also which have a like dangerous
tendency, are forbidden by the seventh com-
mandment; for it is most plain from what Christ
has said, that it takes in not only the act, but
the inclination, the desire, the indulged imagi-
nation; the act is only the last and highest de-
gree of any sin; the topmost round, as it were,
of a ladder, to which all the lower rounds are
only as so many steps and stages.
Bragwell. Strict indeed! Mr. Worthy; but
let us go on to the next; you won't pretend to
say I steal; Mr. Bragwell, I trust, was never
known to rob on the highway, to break open his
neighbour's house, or to use false weights or
measures.
Worthy. No, nor have you ever been under
any temptation to do it, and yet there are a
thousand ways of breaking the eighth com-
mandment besides actual stealing. For instance
do you never hide the faults of the goods you
sell, and heighten the faults of those you buy?
Do you never take advantage of an ignorant
dealer, and ask more for a thing than it is
worth? Do you never turn the distressed cir-
cumstances of a man who has something to sell,
to your own unfair benefit; and thus act as un-
justly by him as if you had stolen? Do you
never cut off a shilling from a workman's wages,
under the pretence which your conscience can't
justify? Do you never pass off an unsound
horse for a sound one? Do you never conceal
the real rent of your estate from the overseers,
and thereby rob the poor-rates of their legal due?
Bragwell. Pooh! these things are done every
day. I shan't go to set up for being better than
my neighbours in these sort of things; these
little matters will pass muster-I don't set up
for a reformer--If I am as good as the rest of my
neighbours, no man can call me to account, I
am not worse, I trust, and don't pretend to be
better.
Worthy. You must be tried hereafter at the
bar of God, and not by a jury of your fellow-
creatures; and the Scriptures are given us, in
order to show by what rule we shall be judged.
How many or how few do as you do, is quite
aside from the question; Jesus Christ has even
told us to strive to enter in the strait gate;
so that we ought rather to take fright, from our
being like the common run of people, than to
take comfort from our being so.
Bragwell. Come, I don't like all this close
work-it makes a man feel I don't know how
-I don't find myself so happy as I did-I don't
like this fishing in troubled waters—I'm as
merry as the day is long when I let these things
alone. I'm glad we are got to the ninth. But
I suppose I shall be lugged in there too, head
and shoulders. Any one now who did not know
me, would really think I was a great sinner, by
your way of putting things: I don't bear false
witness however.
Worthy. You mean, I suppose, you would
not swear away any man's life falsely before a
magistrate, but do you take equal care not to
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
139
slander or backbite him? Do you never repre-
sent a good action of a man you have quarrelled
with, as if it were a bad one? or do you never
make a bad one worse than it is, by your man-
ner of telling it? Even when you invent no
false circumstances, do you never give such a
colour to those you relate, as to leave a false
impression on the mind of the hearers? Do you
never twist a story so as to make it tell a little
better for yourself, and a little worse for your
neighbour, than truth and justice warrant?
Bragwell. Why, as to that matter, all this is
only natural.
Worthy. Ay, much too natural to be right, I
doubt. Well, now we are got to the last of the
commandments.
Bragwell. Yes, I have run the gauntlet
finely through them all; you will bring me in
guilty here, I suppose, for the pleasure of going
through with it; for you condemn without judge
or jury, master Worthy.
Worthy. The culprit, I think has hitherto
pleaded guilty to the evidence brought against
him. The tenth commandment, however, goes
to the root and principle of evil, it dives to the
bottom of things; this command checks the
first rising of sin in the heart; teaches us to
strangle it in the birth, as it were, before it
breaks out in those acts which are forbidden:
as, for instance, every man covets before he pro-
ceeds to steal; nay, many covet, knowing they
can do it with impunity, who dare not steal, lest
they should suffer for it.
Bragwell. Why, look'ee, Mr. Worthy, I don't
understand these new fashioned explanations;
one should not have a grain of sheer goodness
left, if every thing one does is to be fritted away
at this rate. I am not, I own, quite so good as
I thought, but if what you say were true, I
should be so miserable, I should not know what
to do with myself. Why, I tell you, all the
world may be said to break the commandments
at this rate.
always puzzling and blundering, and should
never know for certain whether I was right or
not; whereas I am now quite satisfied with
self, and have no doubts to torment me.
my-
Worthy. One way of knowing whether we
really desire to obey the whole law of God is
this; when we find we have as great a regard
to that part of it, the breach of which does not
touch our own interest, as to that part which
does. For instance, a man robs me; I am in a
violent passion with him, and when it is said to
I do
me, doest thou well to be angry? I answer,
well. Thou shalt not steal is a law of God, and
this fellow has broken that law. Ay, but says
conscience, 'tis thy own property which is in
question. He has broken thy hedge, he has
stolen thy sheep, he has taken thy purse.-Art
thou therefore sure whether it is his violation
of thy property, or of God's law which provokes
thee? I will put a second case: I hear another
swear most grievously—or I meet him coming
drunk out of an ale-house; or I find him sing-
ing a loose, profane song. If I am not as much
grieved for this blasphemer, or this drunkard,
as I was for this robber; if I do not take the
same pains to bring him to a sense of his sin,
which I did to bring the robber to justice, 'how
dwelleth the love of God in me?' Is it not clear
that I value my own sheep more than God's
commandments? That I prize my purse more
than I love my Maker? In short, whenever I
find out that I am more jealous for my own pro-
perty than for God's law; more careful about
my own reputation than his honour, I always
suspect I am got upon wrong ground, and that
even my right actions are not proceeding from
a right principle.
Bragwell. Why, what in the world would you
have me do? It would distract me, if I must
run up every little action to its spring, in this
manner.
Worthy. You must confess that your sins are
sins. You must not merely call them sins,
while you see no guilt in them; but you must
confess them so as to hate and detest them; so
as to be habitually humbled under the sense of
them; so as to trust for salvation not in your
freedom from them, but in the mercy of a Sa-
viour; and so as to make it the chief business
Worthy. Very true. All the world, and I
myself also, are but too apt to break them, if
not in the letter, at least in the spirit of them.
Why then all the world are (as the Scripture
expresses it) 'guilty before God.' And if guilty,
they should own they are guilty, and not stand
up and justify themselves, as you do, Mr. Brag-of your life to contend against them, and in the
well.
Bragwell. Well, according to my notion, I
am a very honest man, and honesty is the sum
and substance of all religion, say I.
Worthy. All truth, honesty, justice, order,
and obedience grow out of the Christian reli-
gion. The true Christian acts, at all times,
and on all occasions, from the pure and spiri-
tual principle of love to God and Christ.-On
this principle, he is upright in his dealings,
true to his word, kind to the poor, helpful to
the oppressed. In short, if he truly loves God,
he must do justice, and can't help loving mercy.
Christianity is a uniform consistent thing. It
does not allow us to make up for the breach of
one part of God's law, by our strictness in
observing another. There is no sponge in
one duty, that can wipe out the spot of another
sin.
Bragwell. Well, but at this rate, I should be!
main to forsake them. And remember, that if
you seek for a deceitful gayety, rather than a
well grounded cheerfulness; if you prefer a
false security to final safety, and now go away
to your cattle and your farm, and dismiss the
subject from your thoughts, lest it should make
you uneasy, I am not sure that this simple dis-
course may not appear against you at the day
of account, as a fresh proof that you 'loved
darkness rather than light,' and so increase your
condemnation.
Mr. Bragwell was more affected than he
He went to bed with less spirits
cared to own.
and more humility than usual. He did not,
however, care to let Mr. Worthy see the impres-
sion which it had made upon him; but at part-
ing next morning, he shook him by the hand
more cordially than usual, and made him pro-
mise to return his visit in a short time.
What befel Mr. Bragwell and his family on
140
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
his going home inay, perhaps, make the subject | think of death-Eternity shall never come into
of a future part of this history.
PART III.
THE VISIT RETURNED.
MR. BRAGWELL, when he returned home from
his visit to Mr. Worthy, as recorded in the se-
cond part of this history, found that he was not
quite so happy as he had formerly been. The
discourses of Mr. Worthy had broken in not a
little on his comfort. And he began to suspect
that he was not so completely in the right as
his vanity had led him to believe. He seemed
also to feel less satisfaction in the idle gentility
of his own daughters, since he had been witness
to the simplicity, modesty, and usefulness of
those of Mr. Worthy. And he could not help
seeing that the vulgar violence of his wife did
not produce so much family happiness at home,
as the humble piety and quiet diligence of Mrs.
Worthy produced in the house of his friend.
my thoughts. The most that such a one pro-
bably ventures to say is, I need not repent yet;
I will continue such a sin a little longer; it will
be time enough to think on the next world when
I am no longer fit for the business or the plea-
sures of this.
Such was the case with Bragwell. He set
up in his mind a general distant sort of resolu-
tion, that some years hence, when he should be
a few years older, a few thousands richer; when
a few more of his present schemes should be
completed, he would then think of altering his
course of life. He would then certainly set
about spending a religious old age; he would
reform some practices in his dealings, or, per-
haps, quit business entirely; he would think
about reading good books, and when he had
completed such a purchase, he would even be-
gin to give something to the poor; but at pre-
sent he really had little to spare for charity.
The very reason why he should have given
more was just the cause he assigned for not
giving at all, namely the hardness of the times.
Happy would it have been for Mr. Bragwell, The true grand source of charity, self-denial,
if he had followed up those new convictions of never come into his head. Spend less that you
his own mind, which would have led him to may save more, he would have thought a shrewd
struggle against the power of evil principles in maxim enough. But spend less that you may
himself, and to have controlled the force of evil | spare more, never entered into his book of Pro-
habits in his family. But his convictions were verbs.
just strong enough to make him uneasy under
his errors, without driving him to reform them.
The slight impression soon wore off, and he fell
back into his old practices. Still his esteem for
Mr. Worthy was not at all abated by the plain
dealing of that honest friend. It is true, he
dreaded his piercing eye: he felt that his exam-
ple held out a constant reproof to himself. Yet
such is the force of early affection and rooted
reverence, that he longed to see him at his house.
This desire, indeed, as is commonly the case,
was made up of mixed motives.
of mixed motives. He wished for
the pleasure of his friend's company; he longed
for that favourite triumph of a vulgar mind, an
opportunity of showing him his riches; and he
thought it would raise his credit in the world to
have a man of Mr. Worthy's character at his
house.
Mr. Bragwell, it is true, still went on with the
same eagerness in gaining money, and the same
ostentation in spending it. But though he was
as covetous as ever, he was not quite so sure that
it was right to be so. While he was actually
engaged abroad indeed, in transactions with his
dealers, he was not very scrupulous about the
means by which he got his money; and while
he was indulging in festivity with his friends at
home, he was easy enough as to the manner in
which he spent it. But a man can neither be
making bargains, nor making feasts always;
there must be some intervals between these two
great objects for which worldly men may be
said to live; and in some of these intervals the
most worldly form, perhaps, some random plans
of amendment. And though many a one may
say in the fulness of enjoyment, 'soul take thine
ease, eat, drink, and be merry ;' yet hardly any
man, perhaps, allows himself to say, even in the
most secret moments, I will never retire from
business-I will never repent-I will never
At length the time came when Mr. Worthy
had promised to return his visit. It was indeed
a little hastened by notice that Mr. Bragwell
would have in the course of the week, a piece
of land to sell by auction; and though Mr. Wor-
thy believed the price was likely to be above his
pocket, yet he knew it was an occasion which
would be likely to bring the principal farmers
of that neighbourhood together, some of whom
he wanted to meet. And it was on this occasion
that Mr. Bragwell prided himself, that he should
show his neighbours so sensible a man as his
dear friend Mr. Worthy.
Worthy arrived at his friend's house on the
Saturday, time enough to see the house, and
garden, and grounds of Mr. Bragwell by day-
light. He saw with pleasure (for he had a warm
and generous heart) those evident signs of his
friend's prosperity; but as he was a man of so-
ber mind, and was a most exact dealer in truth,
he never allowed his tongue the license of im-
modest commendation, which he used to say
either savoured of flattery or envy. Indeed he
never rated mere worldly things so highly as to
bestow upon them undue praise. His calm ap-
probation somewhat disappointed the vanity of
Mr. Bragwell, who could not help secretly sus-
pecting that his friend, as good a man as he
was, was not quite free from envy. He felt,
however, very much inclined to forgive this
jealousy, which he feared the sight of his ample
property, and handsome habitation must natu-
rally awaken in the mind of a man whose own
possessions were so inferior. He practised the
usual trick of ordinary and vulgar minds, that
of pretending himself to find some fault with
those things which were particularly deserving
praise, when he found Worthy disposed to pass
them over in silence.
When they came in to supper, he affected to
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
141
talk of the comforts of Mr. Worthy's little par- | fine Bible with cuts, and subscribes to the Sun-
lour, by way of calling his attention to his own day-school, and makes a fuss about helping the
large one. He repeated the word snug, as ap- poor; and sets up soup-shops, and sells bacon at
plied to every thing at Mr. Worthy's, with the an underprice, and gives odd bits of ground to
plain design to make comparisons favourable to his labourers to help them in these dear times,
his own more ample domains. He contrived, as as they call them; but I think they are good
he passed by his chair, by a seeming accident, times for us, Mr. Worthy.
to push open the door of a large beaufet in the Well, for all this, Betsey only despised him,
parlour, in which all the finery was most osten- and laughed at him; but as he is both hand-
tatiously set out to view. He protested with a some, and rich, I thought she might come round
look of satisfaction which belied his words, that at last; and so I invited him to come and stay
for his part he did not care a farthing for all a day or two at Christmas, when we have al-
this trumpery and then smiling and rubbing ways a little sort of merry-making here. But
his hands, added, with an air of no small im- it would not do. He scorned to talk that pala-
portance, what a good thing it is though, for vering stuff which she has been used to in the
people of substance, that the tax on plate is marble-covered books I told you of. He told her,
taken off. You are a happy man, Mr. Worthy; indeed, that it would be the happiness of his
you do not feel these things; tax or no tax, it is heart to live with her; which I own I thought
all the same to you. He took care during this was as much as could be expected of any man
speech, by a cast of his eye to direct Mr. Wor- But Miss had no notion of marrying any one
thy's attention to a great profusion of the bright- who was only desirous of living with her. No,
est cups, salvers, and tankards, and other no, forsooth, her lover must declare himself
shining ornaments, which crowded the beaufet. ready to die for her, which honest Wilson was
Mr. Worthy gravely answered Mr. Bragwell, it not such a fool as to offer to do. In the after-
was indeed a tax which could not affect so plain noon, however, he got a little into her favour by
a man as myself: but as it fell on a mere luxury, making out a rebus or two in the Lady's Diary;
and therefore could not hurt the poor, I was al- and she condescended to say, she did not think
ways sorry that it could not be made produc- Mr. Wilson had been so good a scholar; but he
tive enough to be continued. A man in my mid-soon spoilt all again. We had a little dance in
dling situation, who is contented with a good the evening. The young man, though he had
glass of beer, poured from a handsome earthen not much taste for those sort of gambols, yet
mug, the glass, the mug, and the beer, all of thought he could foot it a little in the old fashion-
English manufacture, will be but little disturbed way. So he asked Betsey to be his partner.
ed at taxes on plate or on wine; but he will re-
gret, as I do, that many of these taxes are so
much evaded, that new taxes are continually
brought on to make up the deficiencies of the
old.
During supper the young ladies sat in dis-
dainful silence, not deigning to bestow the
smallest civility on so plain a man as Mr. Wor-
thy. They left the room with their mamma as
soon as possible, being impatient to get away to
ridicule their father's old-fashioned friend at full
liberty.
The Dance; or, the Christmas Merry-making;
exemplifying the effects of modern education
in a farm house.
As soon as they were gone, Mr. Worthy ask-
ed Bragwell how his family comforts stood, and
how his daughters, who, he said, were really
fine young women, went on. O, as to that, re-
O, as to that, re-
plied Bragwell, pretty much like other men's
handsome daughters, I suppose, that is, worse
and worse.
I really begin to apprehend that
their fantastical notions have gained such a
head, that after all the money I have scraped to-
gether, I shall never get them well married.
Betsey has just lost as good an offer as any
girl could desire; young Wilson, an honest sub-
stantial grazier as any in the country. He not
only knows every thing proper for his station,
but is pleasing in his behaviour, and a pretty
scholar into the bargain; he reads history-books
and voyages of a winter's evening, to his infirm
father, instead of going to the card-assembly in
our town; he neither likes drinking nor sport-
ing, and is a sort of a favourite with our parson;
because he takes in the weekly numbers of a
But when he asked what dance they should call,
Miss drew up her head, and in a strange gib-
berish, said she should dance nothing but a Me-
nuet de la Cour, and ordered him to call it.
Wilson stared, and honestly told her she must
call it herself; for he could neither spell nor
pronounce such outlandish words, nor assist in
such an outlandish performance. I burst out a
laughing, and told him, I supposed it something
like questions and commands; and if
So, that
was much merrier than dancing. Seeing her
partner standing stock still, and not knowing
how to get out of the scrape, the girl began by
herself, and fell to swimming, and sinking, and
capering, and flourishing, and posturing, for all
the world just like the man on the slack rope at
our fair. But seeing Wilson standing like a
stuck pig, and we all laughing at her, she re-
solved to wreak her malice upon him; so, with
a look of rage and disdain, she advised him to
go down country bumpkin, with the dairy maid,
who would make a much fitter partner, as well
as wife, for him, than she could do.
I
I a
am quite of your mind, Miss, said he, with
more spirit than I thought was in him; you
may make a good partner for a dance, but you
would make a sad one to go through life with.
I will take my leave of you, Miss, with this
short story. I had lately a pretty large concern
in hay-jobbing, which took me to London.
waited a good while in the Hay-Market for my
dealer, and, to pass away the time, I stepped
into a sort of foreign singing play-house there,
where I was grieved to the heart to see young
women painted and dizened out, and capering
away just as you have been doing. I thought
it bad enough in them, and wondered the qua-
142
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORÉ.
Some account of a Sunday in Mr. Bragwell's
family.
lity could be entertained with such indecent | help to quicken me to a keener diligence for the
mummery. But little did I think to meet with next week.
the same paint, finery, and posturing tricks in a
farm house. I will never marry a woman who
despises me, nor the station in which I should
place her, and so I take my leave.-Poor girl,
how she was provoked! to be publicly refused,
and turned off, as it were, by a grazier! But it
was of use to some of the other girls, who have
not held up their heads quite so high since, nor
painted quite so red, but have cordescended to
speak to their equals.
But how I run on! I forget it is Saturday
night, and that I ought to be paying my work-
men, who are all waiting for me without.
Saturday Night; or the Workmen's Wages.
As soon as Mr. Bragwell had done paying
nis men, Mr. Worthy, who was always ready
to extract something useful from accidental cir-
cumstances, said to him, I have made it a habit,
and I hope not an unprofitable one, of trying to
turn to some moral use, not only all the events
of daily life, but all the employments of it too.
And though it occurs so often, I hardly know
one that sets me thinking more seriously than
the ordinary business you have been discharg-
ing.-Ay, said Bragwell, it sets me thinking
too, and seriously, as you say, when I observe
how much the price of wages is increased.
Yes, yes, you are ready enough to think of that,
said Worthy, but you say not a word of how
much the value of your land is increased, and
that the more you pay, the more you can afford
to pay. But the thoughts I spoke of are quite
of another cast.
Mr. Worthy had been for so many years used
to the sober ways of his own well-ordered fa-
mily, that he greatly disliked to pass a Sunday
in any house of which Religion was not the
governing principle. Indeed, he commonly or-
dered his affairs, and regulated his journies with
an eye to this object. To pass a Sunday in an
irreligious family, said he, is always unpleasant,
often unsafe.-I seldom find I can do them any
good, and they may perhaps do me some harm.
At least, I am giving a sanction to their manner
of passing it, if I pass it in the same manner. If
I reprove them, I subject myself to the charge of
singularity, and of being righteous over-much;
if I do not reprove them, I confirm and strength-
en them in evil. And whether I reprove them
or not, I certainly partake of their guilt, if I
spend it as they do.
He had, however, so strong a desire to be
useful to Mr. Bragwell, that he at length de-
termined to break through his common practice,
and pass the Sunday at his house. Mr. Worthy
was surprised to find that though the church
bell was going, the breakfast was not ready, and
expressed his wonder how this could be the case
in so industrious a family. Bragwell made
some awkward excuses. He said his wife
worked her servants so hard all the week, that
even she, as notable as she was, a little relaxed
from the strictness of her demands on Sunday
mornings; and he owned that in a general way,
no one was up early enough for church. He
confessed that his wife commonly spent the
morning in making puddings, pies, syllabubs,
and cakes, to last through the week; as Sunday
was the only leisure time she and her maids
had. Mr. Worthy soon saw an uncommon
bustle in the house. All hands were busy. It
was nothing but baking, and boiling, and stew-
ing, and frying, and roasting, and running, and
scolding, and eating. The boy was kept from
church to clean the plate, the man to gather the
fruit, the mistress to make the cheesecakes, the
maids to dress the dinner, and the young ladies
to dress themselves.
When I call in my labourers, on a Saturday
night, to pay them, it often brings to my mind
the great and general day of account, when I,
and you, and all of us, shall be called to our
grand and awful reckoning, when we shall go
to receive our wages, master and servants, far-
mer and labourer. When I see that one of my
men has failed of the wages he should have re-
ceived, because he has been idling at a fair; an-
other has lost a day by a drinking-bout, a third
confesses that, though he had task-work, and
might have earned still more, yet he has been
careless, and has not his full pay to receive;
this, I say, sometimes sets me on thinking The truth was, Mrs. Bragwell, who had heard
whether I also have made the most of my time. much of the order and good management of
And when I come to pay even the more dili- Mr. Worthy's family, but who looked down with
gent, who have worked all the week, when I disdain upon them as far less rich than herself,
reflect that even these have done no more than was resolved to indulge her vanity on the pre-
it was their duty to do, I cannot help saying to sent occasion. She was determined to be even
myself, night is come, Saturday night is come. with Mrs. Worthy, in whose praises Bragwell
No repentance, or diligence on the part of these had been so loud, and felt no small pleasure in
poor men can now make a bad week's work the hope of making her guest uneasy, in com-
good. This week has gone into eternity. To- paring her with his own wife, when he should
morrow is the season of rest; working time is be struck dumb with the display both of her
over. 'There is no knowledge nor device in skill and her wealth. Mr. Worthy was indeed
the grave.' My life also will soon be swallow-struck to behold as large a dinner as he had
ed up in eternity; soon the space allotted me
for diligence, for labour, will be over. Soon
will the grand question be asked, 'What hast
thou done?-Give an account of thy steward-
ship. Didst thou use thy working days to the
end for which they were given? With some
such thoughts I commonly go to bed, and they
፡
been used to see at a justice's meeting. He,
whose frugal and pious wife had accustomed
him only to such a plain Sunday's dinner as
could be dressed without keeping any one from
church, when he surveyed the loaded table of
his friend, instead of feeling that envy which
the grand preparations were meant to raise,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
143
felt nothing but disgust at the vanity of his, that day to follow their own devices, that they
friend's wife, mixed with much thankfulness
for the piety and simplicity of his own.
After having made the dinner wait a long
time, the miss Bragwells marched in, dressed
as if they were going to the assize-ball; they
looked very scornfully at having been so hur-
ried; though they had been dressing ever since
they got up, and their fond father, when he saw
them so fine, forgave all their impertinence, and
cast an eye of triumph on Mr. Worthy, who felt
he had never loved his own humble daughters
so well as at that moment.
In the afterncon, the whole party went to
church. To do them justice, it was indeed
their common practice once a day, when the
weather was good, and the road was neither
dusty nor dirty, when the minister did not be-
gin too early, when the young ladies had not
been disappointed of their bonnets on the Sa-
turday night, and when they had no smart
company in the house, who rather wished to
stay at home. When this last was the case,
which, to say the truth, happened pretty often,
it was thought a piece of good manners to
conform to the humour of the guests. Mr.
Bragwell had this day forborne to ask any of his
usual company; well knowing that their vain and
worldly conversation would only serve to draw
on him some new reprimand from his friend.
Mrs. Bragwell and her daughters picked up,
as usual, a good deal of acquaintance at church.
Many compliments passed, and much of the
news of the week was retailed before the service
began. They waited with impatience for the
reading the lessons as a licensed season for
whispering, and the subject begun during the
lessons, was finished while they were singing
the psalms. The young ladies made an appoint-
ment for the afternoon with a friend in the next
pew, while their mamma took the opportunity
of inquiring aloud, the character of a dairy maid,
which she observed with a compliment to her
own good management, would save time on a
week-day.
Mr. Worthy, who found himself quite in a
new world, returned home with his friend alone.
In the evening he ventured to ask Bragwell, if
he did not, on a Sunday night, at least, make
it a custom to read and pray with his family.
Bragwell told him, he was sorry to say he had
no family at home, else he should like to do it
for the sake of example. But as his servants
worked hard all the week, his wife was of opin-
ion that they should then have a little holiday.
Mr. Worthy pressed it home upon him, whether
the utter neglect of his servants' principles was
not likely to make a heavy article in his final
account and asked him if he did not believe
that the too general liberty of meeting together,
jaunting, and diverting themselves, on Sunday
evenings, was not often found to produce the
worst effects on the morals of servants and the
good order of families? I put it to your con-
science, said he, Mr. Bragwell, whether Sunday,
which was meant as a blessing and a benefit, is
not, as it is commonly kept, turned into the
most mischievous part of the week, by the sel-
fish kindness of masters, who, not daring to set
their servants about any public work, allot them
|
themselves may with more rigour refuse them
a little indulgence, and a reasonable holiday, in
the working part of the week, which a good
servant has now and then a fair right to expect.
Those masters who will give them half, or all
the Lord's day, will not spare them a single
hour of a working day. Their work must be
done; God's work may be let alone.
Mr. Bragwell owned that Sunday had pro-
duced many mischiefs in his own family. That
the young men and maids, having no eye upon
them, frequently went to improper places with
other servants, turned adrift like themselves.
That in these parties the poor girls were too
frequently led astray, and the men got to public
houses and fives-playing. But it was none of
his business to watch them. His family only
did as others do; indeed it was his wife's con-
cern; and she was so good a manager on other
days, that she would not spare them an hour to
visit a sick father or mother, it would be hard,
she said, if they might not have Sunday after-
noon to themselves, and she could not blame
them for making the most of it. Indeed, she
was so indulgent in this particular, that she
often excused the men from going to church,
that they might serve the beasts, and the maids,
that they might get the milking done before the
holiday part of the evening came on.
She
would not indeed hear of any competition be-
tween doing her work and taking their pleasure;
but when the difference lay between their going
to church and taking their pleasure, he must
say that for his wife, she always inclined to the
good-natured side of the question. She is strict
enough in keeping them sober, because drunk-
enness is a costly sin; and to do her justice she
does not care how little they sin at her expense.
Well, said Mr. Worthy, I always like to ex-
amine both sides fairly. and to see the differ-
ent effects of opposite practices; now, which
plan produces the greatest share of comfort
to the master, and of profit to the servants
in the long run? Your servants, 'tis likely, are
very much attached to you; and very fond of
living where they get their own way in so great
a point.
O, as to that, replied Bragwell, you are
quite out. My house is a scene of discord, mu-
tiny, and discontent. And though there is not
a better manager in England than my wife, yet
she is always changing her servants; so that
every quarter-day is a sort of jail delivery at my
house; and when they go off, as they often do,
at a moment's warning, to own the truth, I
often give them money privately, that they may
not carry my wife before the justice to get
their wages.
I see, said Mr. Worthy, that all your worldly
compliances do not procure you even worldly
happiness. As to my own family, I take care
to let them see that their pleasure is bound up
with their duty, and that what they may call
my strictness, has nothing in view but their
safety and happiness. By this means I com-
monly gain their love, as well as secure their
obedience. I know, that with all my care, I am
liable to be disappointed, 'from the corruption
that is in the world through sin.' But when-
་
144
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
ever this happens, so far from encouraging me
in remissness, it only serves to quicken my zeal.
If by God's blessing, my servant turns out a
good Christian, I have been a humble instru-
ment in his hand of saving a soul committed to
my charge.
Mrs. Bragwell came home, but brought only
one of her daughters with her, the other, she
said, had given them the slip, and was gone
with a young friend, and would not return for
a day or two. Mr. Bragwell was greatly dis-
pleased; as he knew that young friend had but
a slight character, and kept bad acquaintances.
Mrs. Bragwell came in, all hurry and bustle,
saying, if her family did not go to bed with the
lamb on Sundays, when they had nothing to do,
how could they rise with the lark on Mondays,
when so much was to be done.
that he had a Maker to worship as well as a
family to maintain. Religion, however, never
made him neglect business, though it sometimes
led him to postpone it. He used to say, no man
had any reason to expect God's blessing through
the day, who did not ask it in the morning; nor
was he likely to spend the day in the fear of
God, who did not begin it with his worship.
But he had not the less sense, spirit, and ac-
tivity, when he was among men abroad, be-
cause he had first served God at home.
As these two farmers rode along, Mr. Wor-
thy took occasion, from the fineness of the day,
and the beauty of the country through which
they passed, to turn the discourse to the good-
ness of God, and our infinite obligations to him.
He knew that the transition from thanksgiving
to prayer would be natural and easy; and he
Mr. Worthy had this night much matter for therefore, sliding by degrees into that import-
reflection. We need not, said he, go into the ant subject, observed, that secret prayer was a
great world to look for dissipation and vanity. duty of universal obligation, which every man
We can find both in a farm house. As for me had it in his power to fulfil, and which he seri-
and my house,' continued he, we will serve the ously believed was the ground-work of all re-
Lord' every day, but especially on Sunday. It ligious practice, and of all devout affections.
is the day which the Lord hath made; hath
made for himself; we will rejoice in it,' and
consider the religious use of it, not only as a
duty, but as a privilege.
6
The next morning Mr. Bragwell and his
friend set out early for the Golden Lion. What
passed on this little journey, my readers shall
hear soon.
PART IV.
The subject of prayer discussed in a morning's
ride.
Mr. Bragwell felt conscious that he was very
negligent and irregular in the performance of
this duty; indeed, he considered it as a mere
ceremony, or at least, as a duty which might
give way to the slightest temptation of drow
siness at night, or business in the morning.
As he knew he did not live in the conscientious
performance of this practice, he tried to ward
off the subject, knowing what a home way his
friend had of putting things. After some eva-
sion, he at last said, he certainly thought pri-
vate prayer a good custom, especially for peo-
ple who have time; and that those who were
sick, or old, or out of business, could not do bet-
ter; but that for his part, he believed much of
these sort of things was not expected from men
in active life.
Worthy. I should think, Mr. Bragwell, that
those who are most exposed to temptations stand
most in need of prayer; now there are few, me-
thinks, who are more exposed to temptation
than men in business; for those must be in
most danger, at least from the world, who have
most to do with it. And if this be true, ought
we not to prepare ourselves in the closet for the
trials of the market, the field, and the shop? It
is but putting on our armour before we go out
to battle.
It was mentioned in the last part of this his-
tory, that the chief reason which had drawn Mr.
Worthy to visit his friend just at the present
time was, that Mr. Bragwell had a small estate
to sell by auction. Mr. Worthy, though he did not
think he should be a bidder, wished to be present,
as he had business to settle with one or two
persons who were expected at the Golden Lion,
on that day, and he had put off his visit till he
had seen the sale advertised in the county paper.
Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy set out early
on the Monday morning, on their way to the
Golden Lion, a small inn in a neighbouring
market town. As they had time before them,
they had agreed to ride slowly that they might
converse on some useful subject, but here, as
usual, they had two opinions about the same
thing. Mr. Bragwell's notion of an useful sub-
ject was, something by which money was to be
got, and a good bargain struck. Mr. Worthy
was no less a man of business than his friend.
His schemes were wise, and his calculations
just; his reputation for integrity and good sense
made him the common judge and umpire in his
neighbour's affairs, while no one paid a more
exact attention to every transaction of his own.
But the business of getting money was not with
him the first, much less was it the whole con-
cern of the day. He sought in the first place,
the kingdom of God and his righteousness.' Bragwell. You are talking, Mr. Worthy, as
Every morning when he rose, he remembered if I were an enemy to religion. Sir, I am no
|
Bragwell. For my part, I think example is
the whole of religion, and if the master of a
family is orderly, and regular, and goes to
church, he does every thing which can be re-
quired of him, and no one has a right to call
him to an account for any thing more.
Worthy. Give me leave to say, Mr. Bragwell,
that highly as I rate a good example, still I
must set a good principle above it. I know I
must keep good order indeed, for the sake of
others; but I must keep a good conscience for
my own sake. To God I owe secret piety, I
must therefore pray to him in private. To my
family I owe a Christian example, and for that,
among other reasons, I must not fail to go to
church.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
145
heathen. Sir, I am a Christian; I belong to the
church; I go to church; I always drink pros-
perity to the church. You yourself, as strict
as you are, in never missing it twice a day, are
not a warmer friend to the church than I am.
Worthy. That is to say, you know its inesti-
mable value as a political institution; but you
do not seem to know that a man may be very
irreligious under the best religious institutions;
and that even the most excellent only furnishes
the means of being religious, and is no more re-
ligion itself than brick and mortar are prayers
and thanksgivings. I shall never think, how
ever high their profession, and even however re-
gular their attendance, that those men truly re-
spect the church, who bring home little of that
religion which is taught in it into their own fa-
milies or their own hearts; or, who make the
whole of Christianity to consist in a mere for-
mal attendance there. Excuse me Mr. Brag-
well.
Bragwell. Mr. Worthy, I am persuaded that
religion is quite a proper thing for the poor;
and I don't think that the multitude can ever
be kept in order without it; and I am a sort of
a politician you know. We must have bits, and
bridles, and restraints for the vulgar.
Worthy. Your opinion is very just, as far as
it goes; but it does not go far enough, since, it
does not go to the root of the evil; for while you
value yourself on the soundness of this principle
as a politician, I wish you also to see the reason
of it as a Christian; depend upon it, if religion
be good for the community at large, it is equally
good for every family; and what is right for a
family is equally right for each individual in it.
You have therefore yourself brought the most
unanswerable argument why you ought to be
religious yourself, by asking how we shall keep
others in order without religion. For, believe
me, Mr. Bragwell, there is no particular clause
to except you in the Gospel. There are no ex-
ceptions there in favour of any one class of men.
The same restraints which are necessary for
the people at large, are equally necessary for
men of every order, high and low, rich and poor,
bond and free, learned and ignorant. If Jesus
Christ died for no one particular rank, class, or
community, then there is no one rank, class, or
community, exempt from the obedience to his
laws enjoined by the Gospel. May I ask you,
Mr. Bragwell, what is your reason for going to
church?
Bragwell. Sir, I am shocked at your question.
How can I avoid doing a thing so customary
and so creditable? Not go to church, indeed!
What do you take me for, Mr. Worthy? I am
afraid you suspect me to be a papist, or a hea-
then, or of some religion or other that is not
Christian.
Worthy. If a foreigner were to hear how vio-
lently one set of Christians in this country often
speak against another, how earnest would he
suppose us all to be in religious matters: and
how astonished to discover that many a inan
has perhaps little other proof to give of the sin-
cerity of his own religion, except the violence
with which he hates the religion of another
party. It is not irreligion which such men hate;
but the religion of the man, or the party, whom
VOL. I.
K
|
|
we are set against: now hatred is certainly no
part of the religion of the Gospel. Well, you
have told me why you go to church; now pray
tell me, why do you confess there on your bend-
ed knees, every Sunday, that you have erred
and strayed from God's ways?'' that there is
no health in you?-'that you have done what
you ought not to do?—and that you are a mise-
rable sinner?'
Bragwell. Because it is in the Common
Prayer Book, to be sure; a book which I have
heard you yourself say was written by wise and
good men ; the glory of Christianity, the pillars
of the protestant church.
Worthy. But have you no other reason?
Bragwell. No, I can't say I have.
Worthy. When you repeat that excellent form
of confession, do you really feel that you are
miserable sinner?
Bragwell. No, I can't say I do. But that is
no objection to my repeating it: because it may
suit the cause of many who are so. I suppose
the good doctors who drew it up, intended that
part for wicked people only, such as drunkards,
and thieves, and murderers; for I imagine they
could not well contrive to make the same prayer
quite suit an honest man and a rogue; and so I
suppose they thought it better to make a good
man repeat a prayer which suited a rogue, than
to make a rogue repeat a prayer which suited a
good man; and you know it is so customary for
every body to repeat the general confession, that
it can't hurt the credit of the most respectable
persons, though every respectable person must
know they have no particular concern in it; as
they are not sinners.
Worthy. Depend upon it, Mr. Bragwell, those
good doctors you speak of, were not quite of
your opinion; they really thought that what you
call honest men were grievous sinners in a cer-
tain sense, and that the best of us stand in need
of making that humble confession. Mr. Brag-
well do you believe in the fall of Adam?
Bragwell. To be sure I do, and a sad thing
for Adam it was; why, it is in the Bible, is it
not? It is one of the prettiest chapters in Gene-
sis. Don't you believe Mr. Worthy?
Worthy. Yes, truly I do. But I don't believe
it merely because I read it in Genesis; though
I know, indeed, that I am bound to believe
every part of the word of God. But I have still
an additional reason for believing in the fall of
the first man.
Bragwell. Have you, indeed? Now, I can't
guess what that can be.
Worthy. Why, my own observation of what
is within myself teaches me to believe it. It is
not only the third chapter of Genesis which con-
vinces me of the truth of the fall, but also the
sinful inclinations which I find in my own heart
corresponding with it. This is one of those
leading truths of Christianity of which I can
never doubt a moment: first because it is abun-
dantly expressed or implied in Scripture; and
next, because the consciousness of the evil na.
ture, I carry about with me confirms the doc.
trine beyond all doubt. Besides, is it not said
in Scripture, that by one man sin entered into
the world, and that all we, like lost sheep, have
gone astray ;'-' that by one man's disobedience
•
146
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
many were made sinners;'-and so again in
twenty more places that I could tell you of.
Bragwell. Well; I never thought of this. But
is not this a very melancholy sort of doctrine,
Mr. Worthy?
Worthy. It is melancholy, indeed, if we stop
here. But while we are deploring this sad
truth, let us take comfort from another, that 'as
in Adam all die, so in Christ shall all be made
alive.'
Bragwell. Yes; I remember I thought those
very fine words, when I heard them said over
my poor father's grave. But as it was in the
burial of the dead, I did not think of taking it
to myself; for I was then young and hearty, and
in little danger of dying, and I have been so busy
ever since, that I have hardly had time to think
of it.
Worthy. And yet the service pronounced at
the burial of all who die, is a solemn admonition
to all who live. It is there said, as indeed the
Scripture says also, I am the resurrection and
the life; whosoever believeth in me shall never
die, but I will raise him up at the last day.'
Now do you think you believe in Christ, Mr.
Bragwell?
Bragwell. To be sure I do; why you are al-
ways fancying me an atheist.
Worthy. In order to believe in Christ, we
must believe first in our own guilt and our own
unworthiness; and when we do this we shall see
the use of a Saviour, and not till then.
Bragwell. Why, ali this is a new way of talk-
ing. I can't say I ever meddled with such sub-
jects before in my life. But now, what do you
advise a man to do upon your plan of religion?
Worthy. Why all this leads me back to the
ground from which we set out, I mean the duty
of prayer; for if we believe that we have an
evil nature within us, and that we stand in need
of God's grace to help us, and a Saviour to re-
deem us, we shall be led of course to pray for
what we so much need; and without this con-
viction we shall not be led to pray.
Bragwell. Well, but don't you think, Mr.
Worthy, that you good folks who make so much
of prayer, have lower notions than we have of
the wisdom of the Almighty? You think he
wants to be informed of the thing you tell him;
whereas, I take it for granted that he knows
them already, and that, being so good as he is,
he will give me every thing he sees fit to give
me, without my asking it.
ence. But above all, it is the way to get the
good things we want. 'Ask,' says the Scrip-
ture, 'and ye shall receive.'
Bragwell. Now, that is the very thing which
I was going to deny for the truth is, men do
not always get what they ask; I believe if I
could get a good crop for asking it, I would pray
oftener than I do.
Worthy. Sometimes, Mr. Bragwell, men' ask
and receive not, because they ask amiss;-
they ask that they may consume it on their
lusts.'-They ask worldly blessings, perhaps,
when they should ask spiritual ones. Now, the
latter, which are the good things I spoke of, are
always granted to those who pray to God for
them, though the former are not. I have ob-
served in the case of some worldly things I
have sought for, that the grant of my prayer
would have caused the misery of my life; so
that God equally consults our good in what he
withholds, and in what he bestows.
Bragwell. And yet you continue to pray on
I suppose?
Worthy. Certainly; but then I try to mend
as to the object of my prayers. I pray for
God's blessing and favour, which is better than
riches.
Bragwell. You seem very earnest on this sub-
ject.
Worthy. To cut the matter short; I ask then,
whether prayer is not positively commanded in
the Gospel. When this is the case, we can never
dispute about the necessity or the duty of a
thing, as we may when there is no such com-
mand. Here, however, let me just add also, that
a man's prayers may be turned into no small
use in the way of discovering to him whatever
is amiss in his life.
Bragwell. How so, Mr. Worthy?
Worthy. Why, suppose now, you were to try
yourself by turning into the shape of a prayer
every practice in which you allow yourself. For
instance, let the prayer in the morning be a
sort of preparation for the deeds of the day, and
the prayer at night a sort of retrospection of
those deeds. You, Mr. Bragwell, I suspect, are
a little inclined to covetousness; excuse me, sir.
Now, suppose after you have been during a
whole day a little too eager to get rich; suppose,
I say, you were to try how it would sound to
beg of God at night on your knees, to give you
still more money, though you have already so
much that you know not what to do with it.
Worthy. God, indeed, who knows all things, Suppose you were to pray in the morning, 'O
knows what we want before we ask him; but Lord, give me more riches, though those I have
still has he not said that, 'with prayer and sup- are a snare and a temptation to me;' and ask
plication we must make known our requests un-him in the same solemn manner to bless all the
to him?' Prayer is the way in which God hath
said that his favour must be sought. It is the
channel through which he has declared it his
sovereign will and pleasure that his blessings
should be conveyed to us. What ascends up in Worthy. Yet to make such a covetous prayer
prayer descends to us again in blessings. It is as this is hardly more wicked, or more absurd,
like the rain which just now fell, and which than to lead the life of the covetous, by sinning
had been drawn up from the ground in vapours up to the spirit of that very prayer which you
to the clouds before it descended from them to would not have the courage to put into words,
the earth in that refreshing shower. Besides Still further observe how it would sound to con.
prayer has a good effect on our minds; it tends fess your sins, und pray against them all, ex-
to excite a right disposition towards God in us, cept one favourite sin. 'Lord, do thou enable
and to keep up a constant sense of our depend-me to forsake all my sins, except the love of
grasping means you intend to make use of in
the day, to add to your substance?
Bragwell, Mr. Worthy, I have no patience
with you for thinking I could be so wicked.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
147
money;'-'in this one thing pardon thy ser-
vant.'-Or, Do thou enable me to forgive all
who have injured me, except old Giles.' This
you will object against, as a wicked prayer; but
if wicked in prayer, it must be wicked in prac-
tice. It is even more shocking to make it the
language of the heart, or of the life, than of the
lips. And yet, because you have been used to
see people act thus, and have not been used to
hear them pray thus, you are shocked at the
one, and not shocked at the other.
Bragwell. Shocked, indeed! Why, at this
rate, you would teach one to hate one's self.
It was
every
the showing these people what a wise man his
most intimate friend, Mr. Worthy was.
his way to try to borrow a little credit from
person, and every thing he was connected with,
and by that credit to advance his interest and
increase his wealth.
The farmers met in a large room; and while
they were transacting their various concerns,
those whose pursuits were the same, naturally
herded together. The tanners were drawn to
one corner, by the common interest which they
took in bark and hides. A useful debate was
carrying on at another little table, whether the
practice of sowing wheat or of planting it were
most profitable. Another set were disputing
whether horses or oxen were best for ploughs.
Those who were concerned in canals, sought
the company of other canallers; while some,
who were interested in the new bill for inclo-
sures, wisely looked out for such as knew most
about waste lands.
Worthy. Hear me out, Mr. Bragwell; you
turned your good nephew, Tom Broad, out of
doors, you know; you owned to me it was an
act of injustice. Now, suppose on the morning
of your doing so you had begged of God, in a
solemn act of prayer, to prosper the deed of cru-
elty and oppression, which you intended to com-
mit that day. I see you are shocked at the
thought of such a prayer. Well, then, would Mr. Worthy was pleased with all these sub-
not hearty prayer have kept you from commit-jects, and picked up something useful on each.
ting that wicked action? In short, what a life
must that be, no act of which you dare beg God
to prosper and bless? If once you can bring
yourself to believe that it is your bounden duty
to pray for God's blessing on your day's work,
you will certainly grow careful about passing
such a day as you may safely ask his blessing
upon. The remark may be carried to sports,
diversions, company. A man, who once takes
up the serious use of prayer, will soon find him-
self obliged to abstain from such diversions, oc-
cupations, and societies, as he cannot reasona-
bly desire that God will bless to him; and thus
he will see himself compelled to leave off either
the practice or the prayer. Now, Mr. Bragwell,
I need not ask you which of the two he that is a
real Christian will give up, sinning or praying.
Mr. Bragwell began to feel that he had not
the best of the argument, and was afraid he was
making no great figure in the eyes of his friend.
Luckily, however, he was relieved from the dif-
ficulty into which the necessity of making some
answer must have brought him, by finding they
were come to the end of their little journey and
he never beheld the Bunch of Grapes, which
decorated the sign of the Golden Lion, with
more real satisfaction.
I refer my readers for the transactions at the
Golden Lion, and for the sad adventures which
afterwards befel Mr. Bragwell's family, to the
fifth part of the History of the Two Wealthy
Farmers.
PART V.
THE GOLDEN LION.
Mr. Bragwell and Mr. Worthy alighted at
BRAGWELL
the Golden Lion. It was market-day: the inn,
the yard, the town was all alive.-Bragwell was
quite in his element. Money, company, and
good cheer always set his spirits afloat. He felt
himself the principal man in the scene. He had
three great objects in view; the sale of his land;
the letting Mr. Worthy see how much he was
looked up to by so many substantial people, and
It was a saying of his, that most men under-
stood some one thing, and that he who was
wise would try to learn from every man some-
thing on the subject he best knew; but Mr.
Worthy made a further use of the whole. What
a pity is it, said he, that Christians are not so
desirous to turn their time to good account as
men of business are! When shall we see reli-
gious persons as anxious to derive profit from
the experience of others as these farmers? When
shall we see them as eager to turn their time to
good account? While I approve these men for
not being slothful in business, let me improve
the hint, by being also fervent in spirit.
Showing how much wiser the children of this
generation are than the children of Light.
When the hurry was a little over, Mr. Brag-
well took a turn on the bowling-green. Mr.
Worthy followed him, to ask why the sale of the
estate was not brought forward. Let the auc-
tioneer proceed to business, said he; the com-
pany will be glad to get home by daylight. I
speak mostly with a view to others; for I do not
think of being a purchaser myself. I know it,
said Bragwell, or I would not be such a fool as
to let the cat out of the bag. But is it really
possible (proceeded he, with a smile of contempt)
that you should think I will sell my estate
before dinner? Mr. Worthy, you are a clever
man at books, and such things; and perhaps
can make out an account on paper in a hand-
somer manner than I can. But I never found
much was to be got by fine writing. As to
figures, I can carry enough of them in my head
to add, divide, and multiply more money than
your learning will ever give you the fingering
of. You may beat me at a book, but you are a
very child at a bargain. Sell my land before
dinner indeed!
Mr. Worthy was puzzled to guess how a man
was to show more wisdom by selling a piece of
ground at one hour than another, and desired
an explanation. Bragwell felt rather more con-
tempt for his understanding than he had ever
done before. Look'ee, Mr. Worthy, said he, I
do not think that knowledge is of any use to a
148
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
man, unless he has sense enough to turn it to
account. Men are my books, Mr. Worthy; and
it is by reading, spelling, and putting them to-
gether to good purpose, that I have got up in
the world. I shall give you a proof of this to-
day. These farmers are most of them come to
the Lion with a view of purchasing this bit of
land of mine, if they should like the bargain.
Now, as you know a thing can't be any great
bargain both to the buyer and the seller too, to
them and to me, it becomes me as a man of
sense, who has the good of his family at heart,
to secure the bargain to myself. I would not
cheat any man, sir, but I think it fair enough to
turn his weakness to my own advantage; there
is no law against that, you know; and this is
the use of one man's having more sense than
another. So, whenever I have a piece of land to
sell, I always give a handsome dinner, with
plenty of punch and strong beer. We fill up
the morning with other business; and I care-
fully keep back my talk about the purchase till
we have dined. At dinner we have, of course,
a slice of politics. This puts most of us into a
passion, and you know anger is thirsty. Besides,
Church and King' naturally brings on a good
many other toasts. Now, as I am master of the
feast, you know it would be shabby in me to
save my liquor; so I push about the glass one
way, and the tankard the other, till all my com-
pany are as merry as kings. Every man is de-
lighted to see what a fine hearty fellow he has
to deal with, and Mr. Bragwell receives a thou-
sand compliments. By this time they have
gained as much in good humour as they have
lost in sober judgment, and this is the proper
moment for setting the auctioneer to work, and
this I commonly do to such good purpose, that
I go home with my purse a score or two pounds
heavier than if they had not been warmed by
their dinner. In the morning men are cool and
suspicious, and have all their wits about them;
but a cheerful glass cures all distrust. And,
what is lucky, I add to my credit as well as my
pocket, and get more praise for my dinner than
blame for my bargain.
a creditable and respectable business. In an.
cient times, farming was the employment of
princes and patriarchs; and, now-a-days, an
honest, humane, sensible, English yeoman, I
will be bold to say, is not only a very useful,
but an honourable character. But then, he must
not merely think of enjoying life as you call it,
but he must think of living up to the great ends
for which he was sent into the world. A wealthy
farmer not only has it in his power to live well,
but to do much good. He is not only the father
of his own family, but his workmen, his depen-
dants, and the poor at large, especially in these
hard times. He has it in his power to raise into
credit all the parish offices which have fallen
into disrepute by getting into bad hands; and
he can convert, what have been falsely thought
mean offices, into very important ones, by his
just and Christian like manner of filling them.
An upright juryman, a conscientious constable,
a humane overseer, an independent elector, an
active superintendent of a work-house, a just
arbitrator in public disputes, a kind counsellor
in private troubles; such an one, I say, fills up
a station in society no less necessary, and, as
far as it reaches, scarcely less important than
that of a magistrate, a sheriff of a county, or
even a member of parliament. That can never
be a slight or degrading office, on which the
happiness of a whole parish may depend.
Bragwell, who thought the good sense of his
friend reflected credit on himself, encouraged
Worthy to go on, but he did it in his own vain
way. Ay, very true, Mr. Worthy, said he, you
are right; a leading man in our class ought to
be looked up to as an example, as you say; in
order to which, he should do things handsomely
and liberally, and not grudge himself, or his
friends, any thing; casting an eye of compla-
cency on the good dinner he had provided.
True, replied Mr. Worthy, he should be an ex-
ample of simplicity, sobriety, and plainness of
manners. But he will do well, added he, not to
affect a frothy gentility, which will sit but
clumsily upon him. If he has money, let him
spend prudently, lay up moderately for his
children, and give liberally to the poor. But
let him rather seek to dignify his own station
If he acts thus, then, as long as his country
lasts, a farmer of England will be looked upon
as one of its most valuable members; nay more,
by this conduct, he may contribute to make
England last the longer. The riches of the
farmer, corn and cattle, are the true riches of a
nation; but let him remember, that though corn
and cattle enrich a country, nothing but justice,
integrity, and religion, can preserve it.
Mr. Worthy was struck with the absurd va-
nity which could tempt a man to own himself
guilty of an unfair action for the sake of show-by his virtues, than to get above it by his vanity.
ing his wisdom. He was beginning to express
his disapprobation, when they were told dinner
was on table. They went in, and were soon
seated. All was mirth and good cheer. Every
body agreed that no one gave such hearty din.
ners as Mr. Bragwell. Nothing was pitiful
where he was master of the feast. Bragwell,
who looked with pleasure on the excellent din-
ner before him, and enjoyed the good account
to which he should turn it, heard their praises
with delight, and cast an eye on Worthy, as
much as to say who is the wise man now.
Having a mind, for his own credit, to make his
friend talk, he turned to him, saying, Mr. Wor-
thy, I believe no people in the world enjoy life
more than men of our class. We have money
and power, we live on the fat of the land, and
have as good a right to gentility as the best.
As to gentility, Mr. Bragwell, replied Wor-
thy, I am not sure that this is among the wisest
of our pretensions. But I will say, that our's is
|
|
Here one of the company, who was known to
be a man of loose principles, and who seldom
went to public worship, said he had no objec-
tion to religion, and was always ready to testify
his regard to it by drinking church and king.
On this Mr. Worthy remarked, that he was
afraid that too many contented themselves with
making this toast include the whole of their re-
ligion, if not of their loyalty. It is with real
sorrow, continued he, that I am compelled to
observe, that though there are numberless
honourable instances to the contrary, yet I have
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
149
seen more contempt and neglect of Christianity
in men of our calling, than in almost any other.
They too frequently hate the rector on account
of his tithes, to which he has as good a right as
they have to their farms, and the curate on ac-
count of his poverty; but the truth is, religion
itself is often the concealed object of their dis-Worthy, I say, secing him able to bear reason,
like. I know too many, who, while they affect
a violent outward zeal for the church, merely
because they conceive its security to be somehow
connected with their own political advantages,
yet prove the hollowness of their attachment, by
showing little regard to its ministers, and less
to its ordinances.
Young Wilson, the worthy grazier, whom
Miss Bragwell turned off because he did not un-
derstand French dances, thanked Mr. Worthy
for what he had said, and hoped he should be
the better for it as long as he lived, and desired
his leave to be better acquainted. Most of the
others declared they had never heard a finer
speech, and then, as is usual, proceeded to show
the good effect it had on them, by loose conver-
sation, hard drinking, and whatever could coun-
teract all that Worthy had been saying.
Mr. Worthy was much concerned to hear
Mr. Bragwell, after dinner, whisper to the
waiter, to put less and less water into every
fresh bowl of punch. This was his old way;
if the time they had to sit was long, then the
punch was to be weaker, as he saw no good
in wasting money to make it stronger than the
time required. But if time pressed, then the
strength was to be increased in due proportion,
as a small quantity must then intoxicate them
as much in a short time as would be required
of a greater quantity had the time been longer.
This was one of Mr. Bragwell's nice calcula-
tions; and this was the sort of skill on which he
so much valued himself.
At length the guests were properly primed
for business; just in that convenient stage of
intoxication which makes men warm and rash,
yet keeps short of that absolute drunkenness,
which disqualifies for business, the auctioneer
set to work. All were bidders, and, if possible,
all would have been purchasers; so happily had
the feast and the punch operated. They bid on
with a still increasing spirit, till they got so
much above the value of the land, that Brag-
well with a wink and a whisper, said: Who
would sell his land fasting? Eh! Worthy? At
length the estate was knocked down, at a price
very far above its worth.
As soon as it was sold, Bragwell again said
softly to Worthy, Five from fifty and there re-
main forty-five. The dinner and drink won't
cost me five pounds, and I have got fifty more
than the land was worth. Spend a shilling to
gain a pound! This is what I call practical
arithmetic, Mr. Worthy.
Mr. Worthy was glad to get out of this scene;
and seeing that his friend was quite sober, he
resolved as they rode home, to deal plainly with
him. Bragwell had found out, among his cal-
culations, that there were some sins which could
only be committed, by a prudent man, one at a
time. For instance, he knew that a man could
not well get rich and get drunk at the same mo-
ment; so that he used to practice one first, and
the other after; but he had found out that some
vices made very good company together; thus,
while he had watched himself in drinking, lest
he should become as unfit to sell as his guests
were to buy, he had indulged, without mea-
sure, in the good dinner he had provided. Mr.
rubuked him for this day's proceedings with
some severity. Bragwell bore his reproofs with
that sort of patience which arises from an
opinion of one's own wisdom, accompanied by a
recent flush of prosperity. He behaved with
that gay good humour, which grows out of
united vanity and good fortune. You are too
squeamish, Mr. Worthy, said he, I have done
nothing discreditable. These men came with
their eyes open. There is no compulsion used.
They are free to bid or to let it alone. I make
them welcome, and I shall not be thought a
bit the worse of by them to-morrow, when they
are sober. Others do it besides me, and I shall
never be ashamed of any thing as long as I have
custom on my side.
6
Worthy. I am sorry, Mr. Bragwell, to hear
you support such practices by such arguments.
There is not, perhaps, a more dangerous snare
to the souls of men than is to be found in that
word CUSTOM. It is a word invented to reconcile
corruption with credit, and sin with safety.
But no custom, no fashion, no combination of
men, to set up a false standard can ever make
a wrong action right. That a thing is often
done, is so far from a proof of its being right, that
it is the very reason which will set a thinking
man to inquire if it be not really wrong, lest he
should be following, a multitude to do evil.'
Right is right, though only one man in a thou-
sand pursues it; and wrong will be forever
wrong, though it be the allowed practice of the
other nine hundred and ninety-nine. If this
shameful custom be really common, which I can
hardly believe, that is a fresh reason why a con-
scientions man should set his face against it.
And I must go so far as to say (you will excuse
me Mr. Bragwell) that I see no great difference,
in the eye of conscience, whatever there may be
in the eye of the law, between your making a
man first lose his reason, and then getting fifty
guineas out of his pocket, because he has lost it,
and your picking the fifty guineas out of his
pocket, if you had met him dead drunk in his
way home to-night. Nay, he who meets, a man
already drunk and robs him, commits but one
sin; while he who makes him drunk first that
he may rob him afterwards, commits two.
Bragwell gravely replied: Mr. Worthy, while
I have the practice of people of credit to sup-
port me, and the law of the land to protect me,
I see no reason to be ashamed of any thing I do.
Mr. Bragwell, answered Worthy, a truly honest
man is not always looking sharp about him, to
see how far custom and the law will bear him
out; if he be honest on principle, he will consult
the law of his conscience, and if he be a Chris-
tian, he will consult the written law of God.
We never deceive ourselves more than when
we overreach others. You would not allow that
you had robbed your neighbour for the world,
yet you are not ashamed to own you have out-
witted him. I have read this great truth in the
150
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
works of a heathen, Mr. Bragwell, that the chief
misery of man arises from his not knowing how
to make right calculations.
Bragwell. Sir, the remark does not belong to
me. I have not made an error of a farthing.
Look at the account, sir-right to the smallest
fraction.
Worthy. Sir, I am talking of final accounts;
spiritual calculations; arithmetic in the long
run. Now, in this, your real Christian is the
only true calculator: he has found out that we
shall be richer in the end, by denying, than by
indulging ourselves. He knows that when
the balance comes to be struck, when profit and
loss shall be summed up, and the final account
adjusted, that whatever ease, prosperity, and de-
light we had in this world, yet if we have lost
our souls in the end, we cannot reckon that we
have made a good bargain. We cannot pretend
that a few items of present pleasure make any
great figure, set over against the sum total of
eternal misery. So you see it is only for want
of a good head at calculation that men prefer
time to eternity, pleasure to holiness, earth to
heaven. You see if we get our neighbour's
money at the price of our own integrity; hurt
his good name, but destroy our own souls; raise
our outward character, but wound our inward
conscience; when we come to the last reckon-
ing, we shall find that we were only knaves in
the second instance, but fools in the first. In
short, we shall find that whatever other wisdom
we possessed, we were utterly ignorant of the
skill of true calculation.
ing him. It is all your fault, said she; you
were a fool for your pains.-If I had had my
way the girls would never have kept company
with any but men of substance, and then they
could not have been ruined. Mrs. Bragwell,
said Worthy, if she has chosen a bad man, it
would be still a misfortune, even though he had
been rich. O, that would alter the case, said
But
she, a fat sorrow is better than a lean one.
to marry a beggar! there is no sin like that.
Here Miss Betsey, who stood sullenly by, put
in a word, and said, her sister, however, had
not disgraced herself by having married a far-
mer or a tradesman; she had, at least, made
choice of a gentleman. What marriage! what
gentleman! cried the afflicted father. Tell me
the worst! He was now informed that his dar-
ling daughter was gone off with a strolling
player, who had been acting in the neighbouring
villages lately.-Miss Betsey again put in, say-
ing, he was no stroller, but a gentleman in dis-
guise, who only acted for his own diversion.
Does he so, said the now furious Brag well,
then he shall be transported for mine.
At this moment a letter was brought him
from his new son-in-law, who desired his leave
to wait upon him, and implore his forgive-
ness. He owned he had been shopman to a
haberdasher; but thinking his person and ta-
lents ought not to be thrown away upon trade,
and being also a little behind hand, he had taken
to the stage with a view of making his fortune:
that he had married Miss Bragwell entirely for
love, and was sorry to mention so paltry a
thing as money, which he despised, but that his
wants were pressing his landlord, to whom he
was in debt, having been so vulgar as to threaten
to send him to prison. He ended with saying:
There is to a worldly man something so irre-I have been obliged to shock your daughter's
sistible in the actual possession of present, and
visible, and palpable pleasure, that he considers
it as a proof of his wisdom to set them in de-
cided opposition to the invisible realities of
eternity.
Notwithstanding this rebuff, Mr. Bragwell
got home in high spirits, for no arguments
could hinder him from feeling that he had the
fifty guineas in his purse.
As soon as Bragwell came in, he gayly threw
the money he had received on the table, and
desired his wife to lock it up. Instead of re-
ceiving it with her usual satisfaction, she burst
into a violent fit of passion, and threw it back
to him. You may keep your cash yourself,
said she. It is all over-we want no more
money. You are a ruined man! A wicked
creature, scraping and working as we have
done for her!-Bragwell trembled, but durst
not ask what he dreaded to hear. His wife
spared him the trouble, by crying out as soon
as her rage permitted: The girl is ruined;
Polly is gone off! Poor Bragwell's heart sunk
within him; he grew sick and giddy, and as his
wife's rage swallowed up her grief, so, in his
grief, he almost forgot his anger. The purse
fell from his hand, and he cast a look of anguish
upon it, finding, for the first time that money
could not relieve his misery.
Mr. Worthy, who, though much concerned,
was less discomposed, now called to mind, that
the young lady had not returned with her mo-
ther and sister the night before: he begged
Mrs. Bragwell to explain this sad story. She,
instead of soothing her husband, fell to reproach-
:
delicacy, by confessing my unlucky real name;
I believe I owe part of my success with her, to
my having assumed that of Augustus Frederick
Theodosius. She is inconsolable at this con-
fession, which, as you are now my father, I
must also make to you, and subscribe myself,
with many blushes, by the vulgar name of your
dutiful son,
TIMOTHY INCLE.'
'O!' cried the afflicted father, as he tore the
letter in a rage, Miss Bragwell married to a
strolling actor! How shall I bear it?'-' Why,
I would not bear it at all,' cried the enraged mo-
ther; I would never see her; I would never
forgive her; I would let her starve at the cor-
ner of the barn, while that rascal, with all those
pagan, popish names, was ranting away at the
other.'-Nay,' said Miss Betsey, if he is only
a shopman, and if his name be really Timothy
Incle, I would never forgive her neither. But
who would have thought it by his looks, and by
his monstrous genteel behaviour? no, he never
can have so vulgar a name.'
'Come, come,' said Mr. Worthy, were he
really an honest haberdasher, I should think
there was no other harm done, except the dis-
obedience of the thing. Mr. Bragwell, this is
no time to blame you, or hardly to reason with
you. I feel for you sincerely. I ought not,
perhaps, just at present, to reproach you for the
mistaken manner in which you have bred up
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
151
Mr. Bragwell acknowledged that his friend's
rebuke was too just, and he looked so very con-
trite as to raise the pity of Mr. Worthy, who, in
a mild voice, thus went on: 'What I have said
is not so much to reproach you with the ruin of
one daughter, as from a desire to save the other.
Let Miss Betsey go home with me.
I do not
undertake to be her jailer, but I will be her
friend. She will find in my daughters kind
companions, and in my wife a prudent guide.
I know she will dislike us at first, but I do not
despair in time of convincing her that a sober,
humble, useful, pious life, is as necessary to
make us happy on earth, as it is to fit us for
heaven.'
Poor Miss Betsey, though she declared it
would be frightful dull and monstrous vulgar
and dismal melancholy, yet was she so terrified
at the discontent and grumbling which she
would have to endure at home, that she sullenly
consented. She had none of that filial tender-
ness which led her to wish to stay and sooth
and comfort her afflicted father. All she
thought about was to get out of the way of her
mother's ill humour, and to carry so much
finery with her as to fill the Miss Worthys with
envy and respect. Poor girl! she did not know
that envy was a feeling they never indulged;
and that fine clothes were the last thing to draw
their respect.
your daughters, as your error has brought its
punishment along with it. You now see, be-
cause you now feel, the evil of a false educa-
tion. It has ruined your daughter; your whole
plan unavoidably led to some such end. The
large sums you spent to qualify them, as you
thought, for a high station, only served to make
them despise their own, and could do them no-
thing but harm, while your habits of life pro-
perly confined them to company of a lower class.
While they were better drest than the daughters
of the first gentry, they were worse taught as to
real knowledge, than the daughters of your
ploughmen. Their vanity has been raised by
excessive finery, and kept alive by excessive
flattery. Every evil temper has been fostered
by indulgence. Their pride has never been
controlled; their self-will has never been sub-
dued; their idleness has laid them open to
every temptation, and their abundance has en-
abled them to gratify every desire; their time,
that precious talent, has been entirely wasted.
Every thing they have been taught to do is of
no use, while they are utterly unacquainted
with all which they ought to have known. I
deplore Miss Polly's false step. That she should
have married a runaway shopman, turned
stroller, I truly lament. But for what better
husband was she qualified? For the wife of a
farmer she was too idle: for the wife of a trades-
man she was too expensive: for the wife of a Mr. Worthy took her home next day. When
gentleman she was too ignorant. You, your- they reached his house they found there young
self, was most to blame. You expected her to Wilson, Miss Betsey's old admirer. She was
act wisely, though you never taught her that much pleased at this, and resolved to treat him
fear of God which is the beginning of wisdom. well. But her good or ill treatment now signi-
I owe it to you, as a friend, and to myself as fied but little. This young grazier reverenced
a Christian, to declare, that your practices in Mr. Worthy's character, and ever since he had
the common transactions of life, as well as your met him at the Lion, had been thinking what a
present misfortune, are almost the natural con- happiness it would be to marry a young woman
sequences of those false principles which I pro- bred up by such a father. He had heard much
tested against when you were at my house.* of the modesty and discretion of both the daugh-
Mrs. Bragwell attempted several times to in-ters, but his inclination now determined him in
terrupt Mr. Worthy, but her husband would not favour of the elder.
permit it. He felt the force of all his friend said,
Mr. Worthy, who knew him to be a young
and encouraged him to proceed. Mr. Worthy thus man of good sense and sound principles, allow-
went on: It grieves me to say how much youred him to become a visitor at his house, but de-
own indiscretion has contributed even to bring
on your present misfortune. You gave your
countenance to this very company of strollers,
though you knew they were acting in defiance to
the laws of the land, to say no worse. They go
from town to town, and from barn to barn, strip-
ping the poor of their money, the young of
their innocence, and all of their time. Do you
remember with how much pride you told me
that you had bespoke The Bold Stroke for a
Wife, for the benefit of this very Mr. Frederic
Theodosius? To this pernicious ribaldry you
not only carried your own family, but wasted I
know not how much money in treating your
workmen's wives and children, in these hard
times too when they have scarcely bread to eat,
or a shoe on their feet: and all this only that
you might have the absurd pleasure of seeing
those flattering words, By desire of Mr. Brag-
well, stuck up in print at the public house, on
the blacksmith's shed, at the turnpike-gate, and
on the barn-door.'
* See Part II.
ferred his consent to the marriage till he knew
him more thoroughly. Mr. Wilson, from what
he saw of the domestic piety of this family, im-
proved daily, both in the knowledge and practice
of religion; and Mr. Worthy soon formed him
into a most valuable character. During this time
Miss Bragwell's hopes had revived; but though
she appeared in a new dress almost every day,
she had the mortification of being beheld with
great indifference by one whom she had always
secretly liked. Mr. Wilson married before her
face a girl who was greatly her inferior in for-
tune, person, and appearance; but who was
humble, frugal, meek and pious. Miss Brag-
well now strongly felt the truth of what Mr.
Wilson had once told her, that a woman may
make an excellent partner for a dance who
would make a very bad companion for life.
Hitherto Mr. Bragwell and his daughters had
only learnt to regret their folly and vanity, as
it had produced them mortification in this life;
whether they were ever brought to a more se-
rious sense of their errors may be seen in a fu-
ture part of this history.
152
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
PART VI.
GOOD RESOLUTIONS.
quence; but when she disappointed his ambi-
tion by a disgraceful marriage, all his natural
affection only served to increase his resentment.
Yet, though he regretted her crime less than
his own mortification, he never ceased in secret
to lament her loss. She soon found out she was
undone; and wrote in a strain of bitter repent-
ance to ask him for forgiveness. She owned
that her husband, whom she had supposed to be
a man of fashion in disguise, was a low person
her father, though he refused to give her hus-
band that fortune for which alone it was now
too plain he had married her, would at least al-
low her some subsistence; for that Mr. Incle
was much in debt, and she feared in danger of
a jail.
MR. BRAGWELL was so much afflicted at the
disgraceful marriage of his daughter, who ran
off with Timothy Incle, the strolling player, that
he never fully recovered his spirits. His cheer-
fulness, which had arisen from an high opinion
of himself, had been confirmed by a constant
flow of uninterrupted success; and that is a sort
of cheerfulness which is very liable to be im-in distressed circumstances. She implored that
paired, because it lies at the mercy of every ac-
cident and cross event in life. But though his
pride was now disappointed, his misfortunes had
not taught him any humility, because he had
not discovered that they were caused by his own
fault; nor had he acquired any patience or sub-
mission because he had not learnt that all afflic-
tions come from the hand of God, to awaken us
to a deep sense of our sins, and to draw off our
hearts from the perishing vanities of this life.
Besides, Mr. Bragwell was one of those people,
who, even if they would be thought to bear with
tolerable submission such trials as appear to be
sent more immediately from Providence, yet
think they have a sort of right to rebel at every
misfortune which befals them through the fault
of a fellow-creature; as if our fellow-creatures
were not the agents and instruments by which
Providence often sees fit to try or to punish
us.
In answer to his heavy complaints, Mr. Wor-
thy wrote him a letter, in which he expatiated
on the injustice of our impatience, and on the
folly of our vindicating ourselves from guilt in
the distinctions we make between those trials
which seem to come more immediately from
God, and those which proceed directly from the
faults of our fellow-creatures. 'Sickness, losses,
and death, we think,' continued he, we dare
not openly rebel against; while we fancy we
are quite justified in giving a loose to our vio-
lence when we suffer by the hand of the oppres-
sor, the unkindness of the friend, or the disobe-
dience of the child. But this is one of the delu-
sions of our blinded hearts. Ingratitude, un-
kindness, calumny, are permitted to assail us by
the same power who cuts off the desire of our
eyes at a stroke.' The friend who betrays us,
and the daughter who deceives us, are instru-
ments for our chastisement, sent by the same
purifying hand who orders a fit of sickness to
weaken our bodies, or a storm to destroy our
crop, or a fire to burn down our house. And
we must look for the same remedy in the one
case as in the other; I mean prayer and a deep
submission to the will of God. We must leave
off looking at second causes, and look more at
Him who sets them in action. We must try to
find out the meaning of the Providence; and
hardly dare pray to be delivered from it till it
has accomplished in us the end for which it was
sent.'
His imprudent daughter, Bragwell would not
be brought to see or forgive, nor was the de-
grading name of Mrs. Incle ever allowed to be
pronounced in his hearing. He had loved her
with an excessive and undue affection; and
while she gratified his vanity by her beauty and
finery, he deemed her faults of little conse-
The father's heart was half melted at this ac-
count, and his affection was for a time awaken-
ed. But Mrs. Bragwell opposed his sending her
any assistance. She always made it a point of
duty never to forgive; for she said it only en-
couraged those who had done wrong once to do
worse next time. For her part she had never
yet been guilty of so mean and pitiful a weak-
ness as to forgive any one; for to pardon an in-
jury always showed either want of spirit to feel
it, or want of power to resent it. She was re-
solved she would never squander the money for
which she had worked early and late, on a bag-
gage who had thrown herself away on a beggar,
while she had a daughter single, who might yet
raise her family by a great match. I am sorry
to say that Mrs. Bragwell's anger was not owing
to the undutifulness of the daughter, or the
worthlessness of the husband; poverty was in
her eyes the grand crime. The doctrine of for-
giveness, as a religious principle, made no more
a part of Mr. Bragwell's system than of his
wife's; but in natural feeling, particularly for
this offending daughter, he much exceeded
her.
In a few months the youngest Miss Bragwell
desired leave to return home from Mr. Worthy's.
She had, indeed, only consented to go thither
as a less evil of the two, than staying in her
father's house after her sister's elopement. But
the sobriety and simplicity of Mr. Worthy's
family were irksome to her. Habits of vanity
and idleness were become so rooted in her mind,
that any degree of restraint was a burthen; and
though she was outwardly civil, it was easy to
see that she longed to get away. She resolved,
however, to profit by her sister's faults; and
made her parents easy by assuring them she
never would throw herself away on a man who
was worth nothing. Encouraged by these pro-
mises, which her parents thought included the
whole sum and substance of human wisdom,
and which was all they said they could in rea-
son expect, her father allowed her to come
home.
Mr. Worthy, who accompanied her, found
Mr. Bragwell gloomy and dejected. As his
house was no longer a scene of vanity and fes-
tivity, Mr. Bragwell tried to make himself and
his friend believe that he was grown religious;
whereas he was only become discontented. As
he had always fancied that piety was a melan-
choly, gloomy thing, and as he felt his own
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
153
'You have now,' said Mr. Worthy,' explain-
mind really gloomy, he was willing to think |
that he was growing pious. He had, indeed, ed undesignedly the reason why religion does
gone more constantly to church, and had taken so little good in the world. It is not a mounte.
less pleasure in feasting and cards, and now bank; it does not work by a charm; but it offers
and then read a chapter in the Bible; but all to cure your worst corruptions by wholesome,
this was because his spirits were low, and not though sometimes bitter prescriptions. But you
because his heart was changed. The outward will not take them; you will not apply to God
actions were more regular, but the inward man with the same earnest desire to be healed with
was the same. The forms of religion were re- which you apply to your doctor; you will not
sorted to as a painful duty: but this only added confess your sins to one as honestly as you tell
to his misery, while he was utterly ignorant of your symptoms to the other, nor read your Bible
its spirit and its power. He still, however, re- with the same faith and submission with which
served religion as a loathsome medicine, to you
a loathsome medicine, to you take your medicine. In reading it, however,
which he feared he must have recourse at last, you must take care not to apply to yourself the
and of which he even now considered every ab- comforts which are not suited to your case. You
stinence from pleasure, or every exercise of must, by the grace of God, be brought into a
piety, as a bitter dose. His health also was condition to be entitled to the promises, before
impaired, so that his friend found him in a pi- you can expect the comfort of them. Conviction
tiable state, neither able to receive pleasure is not conversion; that worldly discontent, which
from the world, which he so dearly loved, nor is the effect of worldly disappointinent, is not
from religion which he so greatly feared. He that godly sorrow which worketh repentance. Be-
expected to have been much commended by sides, while you have been pursuing all the gra-
Worthy for the change in his way of life; but tifications of the world, do not complain that you
Worthy, who saw that the alteration was only have not all the comforts of religion too. Could
owing to the loss of animal spirits, and to the you live in the full enjoyment of both, the Bible
casual absence of temptation, was cautious of would not be true.?
flattering him too much. I thought Mr. Wor-
thy,' said he, 'to have received more comfort
from you. I was told too, that religion was full
of comfort, but I do not much find it.'-' You
were told the truth,' replied Worthy; 'religion
is full of comfort, but you must first be brought
into a state fit to receive it before it can become
so; you must be brought to a deep and hum-
bling sense of sin. To give you comfort while
you are puffed up with high thoughts of your-
self, would be to give you a strong cordial in a
high fever. Religion keeps back her cordials
till the patient is lowered and emptied : emptied
of self, Mr. Bragwell. If you had a wound, it
must be examined and cleansed, ay, and probed
too, before it would be safe to put on a healing
plaster. Curing it to the outward eye, while it
was corrupt at bottom, would only bring on a
mortification, and you would be a dead man,
while you trusted that the plaster was curing
you. You must be, indeed, a Christian before
you can be entitled to the comforts of Chris-
tianity.'
-
I
Bragwell. Well, sir, but I do a good action
sometimes; and God, who knows he did not
make us perfect, will accept it, and for the sake
of my good actions will forgive my faults.
Worthy. Depend upon it God will never for
give your sins for the sake of your virtues
There is no commutation tax there. But he
will forgive them on your sincere repentance,
for the sake of Jesus Christ. Goodness is not
I
a single act to be done; so that a man can say,
have achieved it, and the thing is over; but it
is a habit that is to be constantly maintained;
it is a continual struggle with the opposite vice.
No man must reckon himself good for any thing
he has already done; though he may consider
it as an evidence that he is in the right way, if
he feels a constant disposition to resist every
evil temper. But every Christian grace will
always find work enough; and he must not
fancy that because he has conquered once, his
virtue may now sit down and take a holyday.
Bragwell. But I thought we Christians, need
not be watchful against sin; because Christ, as
you so often tell me, died for sinners.
Worthy. Do not deceive yourself: the evan-
Saviour do not diminish the heinousness of sin,
they rather magnify it. Do not comfort your-
self by extenuation or mitigation of sin; but by
repentance towards God, and faith in our Lord
Jesus Christ. It is not by diminishing or deny-
ing your debt; but by confessing it, by owning
you have nothing to pay, that forgiveness is to
be hoped.
'I am a Christian,' said Mr. Bragwell; many
of friends are Christians, but I do not see
my
it has done us much good.'-' Christianity it-gelical doctrines, while they so highly exalt a
self,' answered Worthy,' cannot make us good,
unless it be applied to our hearts. Christian
privileges will not make us Christians, unless
we make use of them. On that shelf I see stands
your medicine. The doctor orders you take it.
Have you taken it? Yes,' replied Bragwell.
• Are you the better for it?' said Worthy.
think I am,' he replied. But,' added Mr. Wor-
thy, ' are you the better because the doctor has
ordered it merely, or because you have also
taken it? What a foolish question,' cried
Bragwell; Why to be sure the doctor might
be the best doctor, and his physic the best phy-
sic in the world; but if it stood for ever on the
shelf, I could not expect to be cured by it. My
doctor is not a mountebank. He does not pretend
to cure by a charm. The physic is good, and as
it suits my case, though it is bitter, I take it.'
C
Bragwell. I don't understand you. You want
to have me as good as a saint, and as penitent
as a sinner at the same time.
Worthy. I expect of every real Christian, that
is, every real penitent, that he should labour to
get his heart and life impressed with the stamp
of the Gospel. I expect to see him aiming at a
conformity in spirit and in practice to the will
of God in Jesus Christ. I expect to see him
gradually attaining towards an entire change
VOL. I
154
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
from his natural self. When I see a man at,
constant war with those several pursuits and
tempers which are with peculiar propriety term-
ed worldly, it is a plain proof to me that the
change must have passed on him which the
gospel emphatically terms becoming a new
pent, and reform, were three things he was bent
upon. But when his daughter came home at
night so happy and so fine! and telling how she
had danced with squire Squeeze, the great corn
contractor, and how many fine things he had
said to her, Mr. Bragwell felt the old spirit of
the world return in its full force. A marriage
Bragwell. I hope then I am altered enough with Mr. Dashall Squeeze, the contractor, was
to please you. I am sure affliction has made beyond his hopes; for Mr. Squeeze was sup-
such a change in me, that my best friends hard- posed from a very low beginning to have got
hard-posed
ly know me to be the same man.
rich during the war.
man.'
Worthy. That is not the change I mean. 'Tis
true, from a merry man you are become a
gloomy man; but that is because you have been
disappointed in your schemes: the principle re-
mains unaltered. A great match for your single
daughter would at once restore all the spirits
you have lost by the imprudence of your mar-
ried one. The change the Gospel requires is of
quite another cast: it is having a new heart
and a right spirit;'-it is being 'God's work-
manship; it is being created anew in Christ
Jesus unto good works;'-it is becoming new
creatures ;'-it is 'old things being done away,
and all things made new ;'-it is by so learn-
ing the truth as it is in Jesus-to the putting
off the old man, and putting on the new, which
after God is created in righteousness and true
holiness;'-it is by 'partaking of the divine na-
ture.' Pray observe, Mr. Bragwell, these are
not my words, nor words picked out of any fa-
natical book; they are the words of that Gospel
you profess to believe; it is not a new doctrine,
it is as old as our religion itself. Though I can-
not but observe, that men are more reluctant in
believing, more averse to adopting this doctrine
than almost any other and indeed I do not
wonder at it; for there is perhaps no one which
so attacks corruption in its strong holds; no one
which so thoroughly prohibits a lazy Christian
from uniting a life of sinful indulgence with an
outward profession of piety.
:
Bragwell now seemed resolved to set about
the matter in earnest ; but he resolved in his own
strength: he never thought of applying for as-
sistance to the Fountain of Wisdom; to Him
who giveth might to them who have no strength.
Unluckily, the very day Mr. Worthy took leave,
there happened to be a grand ball at the next
town, on account of the assizes. An assize-ball,
courteous reader! is a scene to which gentle-
men and ladies periodically resort to celebrate
the crimes and calamities of their fellow-crea-
tures, by dancing and music, and to divert them-
selves with feasting and drinking, while un-
happy wretches are receiving sentence of death.
To this ball Miss Bragwell went, dressed out
with a double portion of finery, pouring out on
her head, in addition to her own ornaments, the
whole band-box of feathers, beads, and flowers,
her sister had left behind her. While she was
at the ball her father formed many plans of re-
ligious reformation; he talked of lessening his
business, that he might have more leisure for
devotion; though not just now, while the mar-
kets were so high; and then he began to think
of sending a handsome subscription to the In-
firmary; though, on second thoughts he con-
cluded he need not be in a hurry, but might as
well leave it in his will; though to give, and re-
As for Mr. Squeeze, he had picked up as much
of the history of his partner between the dances
as he desired; he was convinced there would
be no money wanting; for Miss Bragwell, who
was now looked on as an only child, must needs
be a great fortune, and Mr. Squeeze was too
much used to advantageous contracts to let this
slip. As he was gaudily dressed, and possessed
all the arts of vulgar flattery, Miss Bragwell
eagerly caught at his proposal to wait on her
father next day. Squeeze was quite a man after
Bragwell's own heart, a genius at getting mo-
ney, a fine dashing fellow at spending it. He
told his wife that this was the very sort of man
for his daughter; for he got money like a Jew
and spent it like a prince; but whether it was
fairly got, or wisely spent, he was too much a
man of the world to inquire. Mrs. Bragwell
was not so run away with by appearances, but
that she desired her husband to be careful, and
make himself quite sure it was the right Mr.
Squeeze, and no impostor. But being assured
by her husband that Betsey would certainly
keep her carriage, she never gave herself one
thought with what sort of a man she was to ride
in it. To have one of her daughters drive in
her own coach, filled up all her ideas of human
happiness, and drove the other daughter quite
out of her head. The marriage was celebrated
with great splendour, and Mr. and Mrs. Squeeze
set off for London, where they had taken a
house.
Mr. Bragwell now tried to forget that he had
any other daughter; and if some thoughts of
the resolutions he had made of entering on a
more religious course would sometimes force
themselves upon him, they were put off, like the
repentance of Felix, to a more convenient season;
and finding he was likely to have a grandchild,
he became more worldly and more ambitious
than ever; thinking this a just pretence for add-
ing house to house, and field to field. And there
is no stratagem by which men more fatally de-
ceive themselves, than when they make even
unborn children a pretence for that rapine, or
that hoarding, of which their own covetousness
is the true motive. Whenever he ventured to
write to Mr. Worthy about the wealth, the gay-
ety, and the grandeur of Mr. and Mrs. Squeeze,
that faithful friend honestly reminded him of
the vanity and uncertainty of worldly greatness,
and the error he had been guilty of in marrying
his daughter before he had taken time to in-
quire into the real character of the man, saying,
that he could not help foreboding that the hap-
piness of a match made at a ball might have an
untimely end.
Notwithstanding Mr. Bragwell had paid down
a larger fortune than was prudent, for fear Mr,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
155
Squeeze should fly off, yet he was surprised to
receive very soon a pressing letter from him, de-
siring him to advance a considerable sum, as he
had the offer of an advantageous purchase,
which he must lose for want of money. Brag-
well was staggered, and refused to comply; but
his wife told him he must not be shabby to such
a gentleman as squire Squeeze; for that she
heard on all sides such accounts of their grandeur,
their feasts, their carriages, and their liveries,
that she and her husband ought even to deny
themselves comforts to oblige such a generous
son, who did all this in honour of their daugh-
ter; besides, if he did not send the money soon,
they might be obliged to lay down their coach,
and then she should never be able to show her
face again. At length Mr. Bragwell lent him
the money on his bond; he knew Squeeze's in-
come was large; for he had carefully inquired
into this particular, and for the rest he took his
word. Mrs. Squeeze also got great presents
from her mother, by representing to her how
expensively they were forced to live to keep up
their credit, and what honour she was confer-
ring on the family of the Bragwells, by spend-
ing their money in such grand company.
old farmer and his rib, who were made of mo-
ney. This letter Mrs. Bragwell concealed from
her husband.
Among many other letters she wrote her the great surprise they
following:
'TO MRS. BRAGWELL.
'You can't imagine, dear mother, how charm-
ingly we live.-I lie a-bed almost all day, and
am up all night; but it is never dark for all
that, for we burn such numbers of candles all at
once, that the sun would be of no use at all in
London. Then I am so happy! for we are never
quiet a moment, Sundays or working-days; nay,
I should not know which was which, only that
we have most pleasure on a Sunday; because
it is the only day on which people have nothing
to do but to divert themselves. Then the great
folks are all so kind, and so good; they have not
a bit of pride, for they will come and eat and
drink, and win my money, just as if I was their
equal; and if I have got but a cold, they are so
very unhappy that they send to know how I do;
and though I suppose they cant rest till the foot-
man has told them, yet they are so polite, that
if I have been dying they seem to have forgot-
ten it the next time we meet, and not to know
but they have seen me the day before. Oh! they
are true friends; and for ever smiling, and so
fond of one another, that they like to meet and
enjoy one another's company by hundreds, and
always think the more the merrier. I shall ne-
ver be tired of such a delightful life.
• Your dutiful daughter,
'BETSEY SQUEEZE.'
The style of her letters, however, altered in a
few months. She owned that though things
went on gayer and grander than ever, yet she
hardly ever saw her husband, except her house
was full of company and cards, or dancing was
going on; that he was often so busy abroad he
could not come home all night; that he always
borrowed the money her mother sent her when
he was going out on this nightly business; and
that the last time she had asked him for money
he cursed and swore, and bid her apply to the
At length, on some change in public affairs,
Mr. Squeeze, who had made an overcharge of
some thousand pounds in one article, lost his
contract; he was found to owe a large debt to
government, and his accounts must be made up
immediately. This was impossible; he had not
only spent his large income, without making
any provision for his family, but had contracted
heavy debts by gaming and other vices. His
creditors poured in upon him. He wrote to
Bragwell to borrow another sum; but without
hinting at the loss of his contract. These re-
peated demands made Bragwell so uneasy, that
instead of sending him the money, he resolved
to go himself secretly to London, and judge by
his own eyes how things were going on, as his
mind strangely misgave him. He got to Mr.
Squeeze's house about eleven at night, and
knocked gently, concluding that they must
needs be gone to bed. But what was his asto-
nishment to find the hall was full of men; he
pushed through in spite of them, though to his
great surprise they insisted on knowing his
saying they must carry it to their lady.
This affronted him he refused, saying, 'It is
not because I am ashamed of my name, it will
pass for thousands in any market in the west of
England. Is this your London manners, not to
let a man of my credit in without knowing his
name indeed!" What was his amazement to
see every room as full of card-tables and of fine
gentlemen and ladies as it would hold. All was
so light, and so gay, and so festive, and so grand,
that he reproached himself for his suspicions,
thought nothing too good for them, and resolved
secretly to give Squeeze another five hundred
pounds to help to keep up so much grandeur
and happiness. At length seeing a footman he
knew, he asked him where were his master and
mistress, for he could not pick them out among
the company; or rather his ideas were so con-
fused with the splendour of the scene, that he
did not know whether they were there or not.
The man said, that his master had just sent for
his lady up stairs, and he believed that he was
not well. Mr. Bragwell said he would go up
himself and look for his daughter, as he could
not speak so freely to her before all that com-
pany.
He went up, knocked at the chamber door,
and its not being opened, made him push it with
some violence. He heard a bustling noise with-
in, and again made a fruitless attempt to open
the door. At this the noise increased, and Mr.
Bragwell was struck to the heart at the sound
of a pistol from within. He now kicked so vio-
lently against the door that it burst open, when
the first sight he saw was his daughter falling to
the ground in a fit, and Mr. Squeeze dying by a
shot from a pistol which was dropping out of
his hand. Mr. Bragwell was not the only per-
son whom the sound of the pistol had alarmed.
The servants, the company, all heard it, and all
ran up to this scene of horror. Those who had
the best of the game took care to bring up their
tricks in their hands, having had the prudence
to leave the very few who could be trusted, to
156
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
watch the stakes, while those who had a pros-
pect of losing profited by the confusion, and
threw up their cards. All was dismay and ter-
ror. Some ran for a surgeon, others examined
the dying man; some removed Mrs. Squeeze to
her bed, while poor Bragwell could neither see
nor hear, nor do any thing, One of the com-
pany took up a letter which lay open upon the
table, and was addressed to him; they read it,
hoping it might explain the horrid mystery. It
was as follows:
TO MR. BRAGWELL.
'Sir-Fetch home your daughter; I have
ruined her, myself, and the child to which she
every hour expects to be a mother. I have lost
my contract. My debts are immense. You refuse
me money; I must die then; but I will die like a
man of spirit. They wait to take me to prison; I
have two executions in my house; but I have ten
card-tables in it. I would die as I have lived.
I invited all this company, and have drunk hard
since dinner to get primed for the dreadful
deed. My wife refuses to write to you for an-
other thousand, and she must take the conse-
quences. Vanity has been my ruin; it has
caused all my crimes. Whoever is resolved to
live beyond his income is liable to every sin. He
can never say to himself, Thus far shalt thou
go and no farther. Vanity led me to commit
acts of rapine, that I might live in splendour;
vanity makes me commit self-murder, because
I will not live in poverty. The new philosophy
says, that death is an eternal sleep; but the
new philosophy lies. Do you take heed; it is
too late for me: the dreadful gulf yawns to
swallow me; I plunge into perdition: there is
no repentance in the grave, no hope in hell.
Your's, &c.
'DASHALL SQUEEZE.'
weak as she was, next morning to set out with
him to the country. His acquaintance with
polite life was short, but he had seen a great
deal in a little time. They had a slow and sad
journey. In about a week, Mrs. Squeeze lay-in
of a dead child; she herself languished a few
days, and then died; and the afflicted parents
saw the two darling objects of their ambition,
for whose sakes they had made too much haste
to be rich, carried to the land where all things
are forgotten. Mrs. Bragwell's grief, like her
other passions, was extravagant; and poor
Bragwell's sorrow was rendered so bitter by
self-reproach, that he would quite have sunk un-
der it, had he not thought of his old expedient
in distress, that of sending for Mr. Worthy to
comfort him.
It was Mr. Worthy's way, to warn people of
those misfortunes which he saw their faults
must needs bring on them; but not to reproach
or desert them when the misfortunes came.
He had never been near Bragwell, during the
short but flourishing reign of the Squeezes: for
he knew that prosperity made the ears deaf and
the heart hard to counsel; but as soon as he
heard his friend was in trouble, he set out to
go to him. Bragwell burst into a violent fit of
tears when he saw him, and when he could
speak, said, 'This trial is more than I can bear.'
Mr. Worthy kindly took him by the hand, and
when he was a little composed, said, I will tell
you a short story-There was in ancient times
a famous man who was a slave. His master,
who was very good to him, one day gave him a
bitter melon, and bade him eat it: he ate it up
without one word of complaint.-" How was it
possible," said the master," for you to eat so
very nauseous and disagreeable a fruit ?"-The
slave replied, "My good master, I have received
so many favours from your bounty, that it is no
wonder if I should once in my life eat one bit-
The dead body was removed, and Mr. Brag- ter melon from your hands."-This generous
well remaining almost without speech or motion, answer so struck the master, that the history
the company began to think of retiring, much says he gave him his liberty. With such sub-
out of humour at having their party so dis- missive sentiments, my friend, should man re-
agreeably broken up: they comforted them-ceive his portion of sufferings from God, from
selves, however, that it was so early (for it was
now scarcely twelve) they could finish their
evening at another party or two; so completely
do habits of pleasure, as it is called, harden the
heart, and steel it not only against virtuous im-
pressions, but against natural feelings! Now
it was, that those who had nightly rioted at the
expense of these wretched people, were the first
to abuse them. Not an offer of assistance was
made to this poor forlorn woman; not a word
of kindness or of pity; nothing but censure was
now heard.
'Why must these upstarts ape
people of quality?' though as long as these up-
starts could feast them, their vulgarity and their
bad character had never been produced against
them. As long as thou dost well unto thy-
self, men shall speak good of thee.' One guest
who, unluckily, had no other house to go to,
coolly said, as he walked off, 'Squeeze might as
well have put off shooting himself till the morn-
ing. It was monstrously provoking that he
could not wait an hour or two."
As every thing in the house was seized, Mr.
Bragwell prevailed on his miserable daughter,
whom he receives so many blessings. You in
particular have received "much good at the
hand of God, shall you not receive evil also?" "
'O! Mr. Worthy!' said Bragwell, this blow
is too heavy for me, I cannot survive this shock :
I do not desire it, I only wish to die.'-' We
are very apt to talk most of dying when we are
least fit for it,' said Worthy. This is not the
language of that submission which makes us
prepare for death; but of that despair which
makes us out of humour with life. O! Mr. Brag-
well! you are indeed disappointed of the grand
ends which made life so delightful to you; but
till your heart is humbled, till you are brought
to a serious conviction of sin, till you are brought
to see what is the true end of life, you can have
no hope in death. You think you have no busi-
ness on earth, because those for whose sake you
too eagerly heaped up riches are no more.
is there not under the canopy of heaven some
afflicted being whom you may yet relieve, some
modest merit which you may bring forward
some helpless creature you may save by your
advice, some perishing Christian you may sus.
But
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
157
tain by your wealth? When you have no sins
of your own to repent of, no mercies of God to
be thankful for, no miseries of others to relieve,
then, and not till then, I consent you should
sink down in despair, and call on death to re-
lieve you.'
Mr. Worthy attended his afflicted friend to
the funeral of his unhappy daughter and her
babe. The solemn service, the committing his
late gay and beautiful daughter to darkness, to
worms, and to corruption;-the sight of the
dead infant, for whose sake he had resumed all
his schemes of vanity and covetousness, when
he thought he had got the better of them ;-the
melancholy conviction that all human prosperity
ends in ashes to ashes, and dust to dust, has
brought down Mr. Bragwell's self-sufficient and
haughty soul into something of that humble
frame in which Mr. Worthy had wished to see
it. As soon as they returned home, he was be-
ginning to seize the favourable moment for fix-
ing these serious impressions, when they were
unseasonably interrupted by the parish officer,
who came to ask Mr. Bragwell what he was to
do with a poor dying woman who was travelling
the country with her child, and was taken in a
fit under the church-yard wall? At first they
thought she was dead,' said the man, but find-
ing she still breathed, they have carried her into
the workhouse till she could give some account
of herself."
|
|
Mr. Bragwell was impatient at the interrup-
tion, which was indeed unseasonable, and told
the man that he was at that time too much |
overcome by sorrow to attend to business, but
he would give him an answer to-morrow. But,
my friend,' said Mr. Worthy, 'the poor woman
may die to-night; your mind is indeed not in a
frame for worldly business; but there is no sor-
row too great to forbid our attending the calls
of duty. An act of Christian charity will not
disturb, but improve the seriousness of your
spirit; and though you cannot dry your own
tears, God may in great mercy permit you to
dry those of another. This may be one of those
occasions for which I told you life was worth
keeping. Do let us see this wornan.'-Brag-
well was not in a state either to consent or re-
fuse, and his friend drew him to the workhouse,
about the door of which stood a crowd of people.
'She is not dead,' said one, 'she moves her
head.'—'But she wants air,' said all of them,
while they all, according to custom, pushed so
close upon her that it was impossible she could
get any. A fine boy of two or three years old
stood by her, crying, Mammy is dead, mammy
is starved.' Mr. Worthy made up to the poor
woman, holding his friend by the arm in or-
der to give her air he untied a large black bon-
net which hid her face, when Mr. Bragwell, at
that moment casting his eyes on her saw in this
poor stranger the face of his own runaway
daughter, Mrs. Incle. He groaned, but could
not speak; and as he was turning away to con-
ceal his anguish, the little boy fondly caught
hold of his hand, lisping out,-"O stay and give
mammy some bread!' His heart yearned to-
wards the child; he grasped his little hand in
his, while he sorrowfully said to Mr. Worthy,
'It is too much, send away the people. It is
my dear naughty child; my punishment is
greater than I can bear." Mr. Worthy desired
the people to go and leave the stranger to them;
but by this time she was no stranger to any
of them. Pale and meagre as was her face.
and poor and shabby as was her dress, the proud
and flaunting Miss Polly Bragwell was easily
known by every one present. They went away,
but with the mean revenge of little minds, they
paid themselves by abuse, for all the airs and
insolence they had once endured from her.-
Pride must have a fall,' said one. 'I remem-
ber when she was too good to speak to a poor
body,' said another. 'Where are her flounces
and furbelows now? It is come home to her at
last: her child looks as if he would be glad of
the worst bit she formerly denied us.'
In the mean time Mr. Bragwell had sunk
into an old wicker chair which stood behind,
and groaned out, 'Lord, forgive my hard heart!
Lord, subdue my proud heart, create a clean
heart, O God! and renew a right spirit within
me.' This was perhaps the first words of genu-
ine prayer he had ever offered up in his whole
life. Worthy overheard it, and in his heart re-
joiced; but this was not a time for talking, but
doing. He asked Bragwell what was to be
done with the unfortunate woman, who now
seemed to recover fast, but she did not see them,
for they were behind. She embraced her boy,
and faintly said, 'My child what shall we do?
I will arise and go to my father, and say unto
him, father, I have sinned against heaven and
before thee.' This was a joyful sound to Mr.
Worthy, who was inclined to hope that her
heart might be as much changed for the bet-
ter as her circumstances were altered for the
worse; and he valued the goods of fortune so
little, and contrition of soul so much, that he
began to think the change on the whole might
be a happy one. The boy then sprung from his
mother, and ran to Bragwell, saying, 'Do be
good to mammy.' Mrs. Incle looking round,
now perceived her father; she fell at his feet,
saying, 'O forgive your guilty child, and save
your innocent one from starving!-Bragwell
sunk down by her, and prayed God to forgive
both her and himself in terms of genuine sor-
row. To hear words of real penitence and
heart-felt prayer from this once high-minded
father and vain daughter, was music to Wor-
thy's ears, who thought this moment of out-
ward misery was the only joyful one he had
ever spent in the Bragwell family.
He was resolved not to interfere, but to let
the father's own feelings work out the way into
which he was to act.
Bragwell said nothing, but slowly led to his
own house, holding the little boy by the hand,
and pointing to Worthy to assist the feeble
steps of his daughter, who once more entered
her father's doors; but the dread of seeing her
mother quite overpowered her.-Mrs. Bragwell's
heart was not changed, but sorrow had weak-
ened her powers of resistance; and she rather
suffered her daughter to come in, than gave her
a kind reception. She was more astonished
than pleased; and even in this trying moment,
was more disgusted with the little boy's mean
clothes, than delighted with his rosy face. As
158
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
soon as she was a little recovered, Mr. Brag-, then; and thought them sufficiently rewarded
well desired his daughter to tell him how she
happened to be at that place at that time.
In a weak voice she began; 'My tale, sir, is
short, but mournful.'-Now, I am very sorry
that my readers must wait for this short, but
mournful tale, a little longer.
PART VII.
MRS. INCLE'S STORY.
'I LEFT your house dear father,' said Mrs.
Incle, with a heart full of vain triumph. I had
no doubt but my husband was a great man, who
put on that disguise to obtain my hand. Judge
then what I felt to find that he was a needy im-
postor, who wanted my money, but did not care
for me.
This discovery, though it mortified,
did not humble me. I had neither affection to
bear with the man who had deceived me, nor
religion to improve by the disappointment. I
have found that change of circumstances does
not change the heart, till God is pleased to do
it. My misfortune only taught me to rebel
more against him. I thought God unjust; I
accused my father, I was envious of my sister,
I hated my husband; but never once did I blame
myself.
|
for their attentions by the rank and merit of
their daughter-in-law. When my father brought
me home any little dainty which he could pick
up, and my mother kindly dressed it for me,
I
would not condescend to eat it with them, but
devoured it sullenly in my little garret alone·
suffering them to fetch and carry every thing
I wanted. As my haughty behaviour was not
likely to gain their affection, it was plain they
did not love me: and as I had no notion that
there were any motives to good actions but
fondness, or self-interest, I was puzzled to know
what could make them so kind to me; for of
the powerful and constraining law of Christian
charity I was quite ignorant. To cheat the
weary hours, I looked about for some books, and
found, among a few others of the same cast,
Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in
the Soul." But all those sort of books were ad-
dressed to sinners; now as I knew I was not a
sinner, I threw them away in disgust. Indeed
they were ill suited to a taste formed by plays
and novels, to which reading I chiefly trace my
ruin; for, vain as I was, I should never have
been guilty of so wild a step as to run away,
had not my heart been tainted and my imagina-
tion inflamed by those pernicious books.
At length my little George was born. This
added to the burthen I had brought on this poor
My husband picked up a wretched subsis- family, but it did not diminish their kindness;
tence by joining himself to any low scheme of and we continued to share their scanty fare
idle pleasure that was going on. He would without any upbraiding on their part, or any
follow a mountebank, carry a dice-box, or fid-gratitude on mine.
gratitude on mine. Even this poor baby did
dle at a fair. He was always taunting me for not soften my heart; I wept over him, indeed,
that gentility on which I so much valued my- | day and night, but they were tears of despair;
self—' If I had married a poor working girl,' I was always idle, and wasted those hours in
said he, she could now have got her bread; sinful murmurs at his fate, which I should
but a fine lady without money is a disgrace to have employed in trying to maintain him.
herself, a burthen to her husband, and a plague Hardship, grief, and impatience, at length
to society.' Every trial which affection might brought on a fever. Death seemed now at
have made lighter, we doubled by animosity: hand, and I felt a gloomy satisfaction in the
at length my husband was detected in using thought of being rid of my miseries, to which
false dice; he fought with his accuser, both were I fear was added a sullen joy, to think that
scized by a press-gang, and sent to sea. I was you, sir, and my mother, would be plagued
now left to the wide world; and miserable as I to hear of my death when it would be too
had thought myself before, I soon found there late; and in this your grief I anticipated a
were higher degrees of misery. I was near gloomy sort of revenge. But it pleased my
my time, without bread for myself, or hope for merciful God not to let me thus perish in my
my child. I set out on foot in search of the sins. My poor mother-in-law sent for a good
village where I had heard my husband say his clergyman, who pointed out the danger of dying
friends lived. It was a severe trial to my proud in that hard and unconverted state so forcibly,
heart to stoop to those low people; but hunger is that I shuddered to find on what a dreadful
not delicate, and I was near perishing. My precipice I stood. He prayed with me, and
husband's parents received me kindly, saying, for me so earnestly, that at length God, who is
that though they had nothing but what they sometimes pleased to magnify his own glory
earned by their labour, yet I was welcome to in awakening those who are dead in trespasses
share their hard fare; for they trusted that God and sins, was pleased of his free grace, to open
who sent mouths would send meat also.-They my blind eyes, and soften my stony heart. I
gave me a small room in their cottage, and fur- saw myself a sinner, and prayed to be delivered
nished me with many necessaries, which they from the wrath of God, in comparison of which
denied themselves.'
the poverty and disgrace I now suffered appear-
ed as nothing. To a soul convinced of sin, the
news of a Redeemer was a joyful sound. In-
stead of reproaching Providence, or blaming
my parents, or abusing my husband, I now
learnt to condemn myself, to adore that God who
had not cut me off in my ignorance, to pray for
pardon for the past, and grace for the time to
come. I now desired to submit to penury and
'O! my child!' interrupted Bragwell, 'every
word cuts me to the heart. These poor people
gladly gave thee of their little, while thy rich
parents left thee to starve.'
'How shall I own,' continued Mrs. Incle,
'that all this goodness could not soften my
heart; for God had not yet touched it. I re-
ceived all their kindness as a favour done to
و
7
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
159
hunger, so that I might but live in the fear of
God in this world, and enjoy his favour in the
next. I now learnt to compare my present
light sufferings, the consequence of my own sin,
with those bitter sufferings of my Saviour, which
he endured for my sake, and I was ashamed of
murmuring. But self-ignorance, conceit, and
vanity were so rooted in me, that my progress
was very gradual, and I had the sorrow to feel
how much the power of long bad habits keeps
down the growth of religion in the heart, even
after the principle itself has begun to take root.
I was so ignorant of divine things, that I hardly
knew words to frame a prayer; but when I got
acquainted with the Psalms, I there learnt how
pour out the fulness of my heart, while in
the Gospel I rejoiced to see what great things
God had done for my soul.
to
|
own punishment. Timothy grew worse and
worse, till he was forced to abscond for a mis-
demeanour; after which we never saw him, but
have often heard of him changing from one
idle way of life to another; unstable as water,
he has been a footman, a soldier, a shopman, a
gambler, and a strolling actor. With deep sor-
row we trace back his vices to our ungoverned
fondness; that lively and sharp wit, by which
he has been able to carry on such a variety of
wild schemes, might, if we had used him to bear
reproof in his youth, have enabled him to have
done great service for God and his country.
But our flattery made him wise in his own con-
ceit; and there is more hope of a fool than of
him. We indulged our own vanity, and have
destroyed his soul.'
Here Mr. Worthy stopped Mrs. Incle, saying,
that whenever he heard it lamented that the
children of pious parents often turned out so ill,
he could not help thinking that there must be fre-
quently something of this sort of error in the
bringing them up: he knew, indeed, some in-
stances to the contrary, in which the best means
had failed; but he believed, that from Eli the
priest, to Incle the labourer, much more than
half the failures of this sort might be traced to
some mistake, or vanity, or bad judgment, or
sinful indulgence in the parents.
'I now took down once more from the shelf
'Doddridge's Rise and Progress ;' and oh! with
what new eyes did I read it! I now saw clearly,
that not only the thief and the drunkard, the
murderer and the adulterer are sinners, for that
I knew before; but I found that the unbeliever,
the selfish, the proud, the worldly-minded, all,
in short, who live without God in the world, are
sinners. I did not now apply the reproofs I
met with to my husband, or my father; or other
people, as I used to do; but brought them home |
to myself. In this book I traced, with strong 'I now looked about,' continued Mrs. Incle,
emotions and close self-application, the sinner'in order to see in what I could assist my poor
through all his course; his first awakening, his mother; regretting more heartily than she did,
convictions, repentance, joys, sorrows, back-that I knew no one thing that was of any use.
sliding, and recovery, despondency, and delight, I was so desirous of humbling myself before God
to a triumphant death-bed; and God was pleased and her, that I offered even to try to wash.'-
to make it a chief instrument in bringing me to 'You wash!' exclaimed Bragwell, starting up
himself. 'Here it is,' continued Mrs. Incle, with great emotion, Heaven forbid, that with
untying her little bundle, and taking out a book; such a fortune and education, Miss Bragwell
accept it, my dear father, and I will pray that should be seen at a washing-tub.' This vain
God may bless it to you, as He has done to me. father, who could bear to hear of her distresses
'When I was able to come down, I passed and her sins, could not bear to hear of her
my time with these good old people, and soon washing. Mr. Worthy stopped him, saying,
won their affection. I was surprised to find As to her fortune, you know you refused to
they had very good sense, which I never had give her any; and as to her education, you see
thought poor people could have; but, indeed, it had not taught her how to do any thing better.
worldly persons do not know how much religion, I am sorry you do not see in this instance, the
while it mends the heart, enlightens the un- beauty of Christian humility. For my own
derstanding also. I now regretted the even-part, I set a greater value on such an active
ings I had wasted in my solitary garret, when
I might have passed them in reading the Bible
with these good folks. This was their refresh-
ing cordial after a weary day, which sweetened
the pains of want and age. I one day express-
ed my surprise that my unfortunate husband,
the son of such pious parents, should have turn-
ed out so ill the poor old man said with tears,
I fear we have been guilty of the sin of Eli;
our love was of the wrong sort. Alas! like
him, we honoured our son more than God, and
God has smitten us for it. We showed him by
our example, what was right; but through a
false indulgence, we did not correct him for
what was wrong.
We were blind to his faults.
He was a handsome boy, with sprightly parts:
we took too much delight in these outward
things. He soon got above our management,
and became vain, idle, and extravagant; and
when we sought to restrain him, it was then
too late. We humbled ourselves before God;
but he was pleased to make our sin become its
proof of it, than on a whole volume of profes-
sions-'-Mr. Bragwell did not quite understand
this, and Mrs. Incle went on. What to do to
get a penny I knew not. Making of filagree,
or fringe, or card-purses, or cutting out paper,
or dancing and singing was of no use in our
village. The shopkeeper, indeed, would have
taken me, if I had known any thing of accounts;
and the clergyman could have got me a nursery-
maid's place, if I could have done good plain-
work. I made some awkward attempts to learn
to spin and knit, when my mother's wheel or
knitting lay by, but I spoiled both through my
ignorance. At last I luckily thought upon the
fine netting I used to make for my trimmings,
and it struck me that I might turn this to some
little account. I procured some twine, and
worked early and late to make nets for fisher-
men, and cabbage-nets. I was so plessed that
I had at last found an opportunity to show my
good will by this mean work, that I regretted my
little George was not big enough to contribute
160
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
his share to our support, by travelling about to
sell my nets.'
C
'Cabbage-nets!' exclaimed Bragwell; there
is no bearing this.-Cabbage-nets! My grand-
son hawk cabbage-nets! How could you think
of such a scandalous thing? 'Sir,' said Mrs.
Incle mildly, 'I am now convinced that nothing
is scandalous which is not wicked. Besides, we
were in want; and necessity, as well as piety,
would have reconciled me to this mean trade.'
Mr. Brag well groaned, and bade her go on.
'In the mean time my little George grew a
fine boy; and I adored the goodness of God,
who in the sweetness of maternal love, had given
me a reward for many sufferings. Instead of
indulging a gloomy distrust about the fate of this
child, I now resigned him to the will of God.
Instead of lamenting because he was not likely
to be rich, I was resolved to bring him up with
such notions as might make him contented to be
poor. I thought if I could subdue all vanity and
selfishness in him, I should make him a happier
man than if I had thousands to bestow on him;
and I trusted that I should be rewarded for
every painful act of self-denial, by the future
virtue and happiness of my child. Can you be- |
lieve it, my dear father, my days now passed
not unhappily; I worked hard all day, and that
alone is a source of happiness beyond what the
idle can guess.
After my child was asleep at
night, I read a chapter in the Bible to my pa-
rents, whose eyes now began to fail them. We
then thanked God over our frugal supper of po-
tatoes, and talked over the holy men of old, the
saints, and the martyrs, who would have thought
our homely fare a luxury. We compared our
peace, and liberty, and safety, with their bonds,
and imprisonment, and tortures; and should
have been ashamed of a murmur. We then
joined in prayer, in which my absent parents
and my husband were never forgotten, and went
to rest in charity with the whole world, and at
peace in our own souls.'
'Oh my forgiving child!' interrupted Mr.
Bragwell, sobbing; and didst thou really pray
for thy unnatural father? and didst thou lay
thee down in rest and peace? Then, let me tell
thee, thou wast better off than thy mother and
I were. But no more of this; go on.'
watched by these poor people the whole night,
I sat down to breakfast on my dry crust and
coarse dish of tea, without a murmur: my great-
est grief was, lest I should bring away the in-
fection to my dear boy; for the fever was now
become putrid. I prayed to know what it was
my duty to do between my dying parents and
my helpless child. To take care of the sick and
aged, seemed to be my first duty; so I offered
up my child to Him who is the father of the
fatherless, and he in mercy spared him to
me.
"The cheerful piety with which these good
people breathed their last, proved to me, that the
temper of mind with which the pious poor com-
monly meet death, is the grand compensation
made them by Providence for all the hardships
of their inferior condition. If they have had few
joys and comforts in life already, and have still
fewer hopes in store, is not all fully made up to
them by their being enabled to leave this world
with stronger desires of heaven, and without
those bitter regrets after the good things of this
life, which add to the dying tortures of the
worldly rich? To the forlorn and destitute,
death is not so terrible as it is to him who sits
at ease in his possessions, and who fears that
this night his soul shall be required of him.'
Mr. Bragwell felt this remark more deeply
than his daughter meant he should. He wept,
and bade her proceed.
'I followed my departed parents to the same
grave, and wept over them, but not as one who
had no hope. They had neither houses nor lands
to leave me, but they left me their Bible, their
blessing, and their example, of which I humbly
trust I shall feel the benefits when all the riches
of this world shall have an end. Their few
effects, consisting of some poor household goods,
and some working-tools, hardly sufficed to pay
their funeral expenses. I was soon attacked
with the same fever, and saw myself, as I
thought, dying the second time; my danger
was the same, but my views were changed. I
now saw eternity in a more awful light than I
had done before, when I wickedly thought death
might be gloomily called upon as a refuge from
every common trouble. Though I had still rea-
son to be humble on account of my sin, yet, by
the grace of God, I saw death stripped of his
sting and robbed of his terrors, through him who
loved me, and gave himself for me; and in the
extremity of pain, my soul rejoiced in God my
Saviour.
'Whether my father-in-law had worked be-
yond his strength, in order to support me and
my child, I know not, but he was taken dan-
gerously ill. While he lay in this state, he re-
ceived an account that my husband was dead
in the West-Indies of the yellow fever, which
has carried off such numbers of our countrymen:
we all wept together, and prayed that his awful
death might quicken us in preparing for our
own. This shock, joined to the fatigue of nursing
her sick husband, soon brought my poor mother
to death's door. I nursed them both, and felt a
satisfaction in giving them all I had to bestow,
my attendance, my tears, and my prayers. I,
who was once so nice and so proud, so disdain-
ful in the midst of plenty, and so impatient un-
der the smallest inconvenience, was now enabled
to glorify God by my activity and by my sub-self and child. Believe me, my dear mother, a
mission. Though the sorrows of my heart were
enlarged, I cast my burthen on Him who cares
for the weary and heavy laden. After having
'I recovered, however, and was chiefly sup
ported by the kind clergyman's charity. When
I felt myself nourished and cheered by a little
tea or broth, which he daily sent me from his
own slender provision, my heart smote me, to
think how I had daily sat down at home to a
plentiful dinner, without any sense of thankful-
ness for my own abundance, or without inquir-
ing whether my poor sick neighbours were
starving: and I sorrowfully remembered, that
what my poor sister and I used to waste through
daintiness, would now have comfortably fed my-
labouring man who has been brought low by a
fever, might often be restored to his work some
weeks sooner, if on his recovery he was nog.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
161
rished and strengthened by a good bit from a
farmer's table. Less than is often thrown to a
favourite spaniel would suffice; so that the ex-
pense would be almost nothing to the giver,
while to the receiver it would bring health, and
strength, and comfort, and recruited life. And
it is with regret I must observe, that young
women in our station are less attentive to the
comforts of the poor, less active in visiting the
cottages of the sick, less desirous of instructing
the young, and working for the aged, than many
ladies of higher rank. The multitude of oppor-
tunities of this sort which we neglect, among
the families of our father's distressed tenants
and workmen, will I fear, one day appear
against us.
|
till I found myself in the workhouse with my
father and Mr. Worthy.'
Here Mrs. Incle stopped. Grief, shame, pride,
and remorse, had quite overcome Mr. Bragwell.
He wept like a child, and said he hoped his
daughter would pray for him; for that he was
not in a condition to pray for himself, though he
found nothing else could give him
any comfort.
His deep dejection brought on a fit of sickness.
O! said he, I now begin to feel an expression
in the sacrament which I used to repeat without
thinking it had any meaning, the remembrance
of my sins is grievous, the burthen of them is in-
tolerable. O! it is awful to think what a sinner
a man may be, and yet retain a decent charac-
ter! How many thousands are in my condition,
taking to themselves all the credit of their pros-
perity, instead of giving God the glory! heaping
up riches to their hurt, instead of dealing their
bread to the hungry! O! let those who hear of
the Bragwell family, never say that vanity is a
little sin. In me it has been the fruitful parent
of a thousand sins-selfishness, hardness of
heart, forgetfulness of God. In one of my sons,
vanity was the cause of rapine, injustice extra-
vagance, ruin, self-murder. Both my daughters
were undone by vanity, though it only wore the
more harmless shape of dress, idleness, and dis-
sipation. The husband of my daughter Incle it
destroyed, by leading him to live above his sta-
tion, and to despise labour. Vanity ensnared
the souls even of his pious parents, for while it
led them to wish their son in a better condition,
it led them to allow such indulgences as were
unfit for his own. O! you who hear of us, hum-
ble yourselves under the mighty hand of God;
resist high thoughts; let every imagination be
brought into obedience to the Son of God. If
you set a value on finery look into that grave;
behold the mouldering body of my Betsey, who
now says to Corruption, thou art my father, and
to the worm, thou art my mother and my sister:
Look to the bloody and brainless head of her
husband. O, Mr. Worthy, how does Providence
mock at human foresight! I have been greedy
of gain, that the son of Mr. Squeeze might be a
great man; he is dead; while the child of Ti
mothy Incle, whom I had doomed to beggary,
will be my heir. Mr. Worthy, to you I commit
this boy's education; teach him to value his im-
mortal soul more, and the good things of this
life less than I have done. Bring him up in the
fear of God, and in the government of his pas
sions. Teach him that unbelief and pride are
at the root of all sin. I have found this to my
cost. I trusted in my riches; I said, “to-mor-
row shall be as this day and more abundant." I
did not remember that for all these things God
would bring me to judgment. I am not sure that
I believed in a judgment: I am not sure that I
believed in a God."
By the time I was tolerably recovered, I was
forced to leave the house. I had no human
prospect of subsistence. I humbly asked of God
to direct my steps, and to give me entire obe-
dience to his will. I then cast my eye mourn-
fully on my child; and though prayer had re-
lieved my heart of a load which without it would
have been intolerable, my tears flowed fast,
while I cried out in the bitterness of my soul,
How many hired servants of my father have
bread enough, and to spare, and I perish with
hunger. This text appeared a kind of answer
to my prayer, and gave me courage to make one
more attempt to soften you in my favour. I re-
solved to set out directly to find you, to confess
my disobedience, and to beg a scanty pittance,
with which I and my child might be meanly
supported in some distant country, where we
should not, by our presence, disgrace our more
happy relations. We set out and travelled as
fast as my weak health and poor George's little
feet and ragged shoes would permit. I brought
a little bundle of such work and necessaries as
I had left, by selling which we subsisted on the
road.'-'I hope, interrupted Bragwell, there
were no cabbage-nets in it ?'-'At least,' said
her mother, I hope you did not sell them near
home?'-'No; I had none left, said Mrs. Incle,
or I should have done it. I got many a lift in
a wagon for my child and my bundle, which
was a great relief to me, as I should have had
both to carry. And here I cannot help saying,
I wish drivers would not be too hard in their
demands, if they help a poor sick traveller on a
mile or two, it proves a great relief to weary
bodies and naked feet; and such little cheap
charities may be considered as the cup of cold
water, which, if given on right grounds, shall
not lose its reward.' Here Bragwell sighed to
think that when mounted on his fine bay mare,
or driving his neat chaise, it had never once
crossed his mind that the poor way-worn foot
traveller was not equally at his ease, nor had it
ever occurred to him that shoes were a neces-
sary accommodation. Those who want nothing
are apt to forget how many there are who want Bragwell at length grew better, but he never
every thing. Mrs. Incle went on: 'I got to this recovered his spirits. The conduct of Mrs. Incle
village about seven this evening; and while I through life was that of an humble Christian.
sat on the church yard wall to rest and meditate She sold all her sister's finery which her father
how I should make myself known at home, I had given her, and gave the money to the poor;
saw a funeral; I inquired whose it was, and saying, 'It did not become one who professed
learnt it was my sister's. This was too much penitence to return to the gayeties of life.' Mr.
for me, and I sank down in a fit, and knew no- | Bragwell did not oppose this; not that he had
thing that happened to me from that moment, I fully acquired a just notion of the self-denying
VOL. I.
L
162
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
spirit of religion, but having a head not very Mr. Bragwell's heart had been so buried in
clear at making distinctions, he was never able, the love of the world, and evil habits had be-
after the sight of Squeeze's mangled body, to come so rooted in him, that the progress he
think of gayety and grandeur, without think-made in religion was very slow; yet he earn.
ing at the same time of a pistol and bloody brains; estly prayed and struggled against sin and
for, at his first introduction into gay life had vanity; and when his unfeeling wife declared
presented him with all these objects at one view, she could not love the boy unless he was called
he never afterwards could separate them in his by their name instead of Incle, Mr. Bragwell
mind. He even kept his fine beaufet of plate would never consent, saying he stood in need
always shut; because it brought to his mind the of every help against pride. He also got the
grand unpaid-for sideboard that he had seen laid letter which Squeeze wrote just before he shot
out for Mr. Squeeze's supper, to the remem- himself, framed and glazed; this he hung up
go and
brance of which he could not help tacking the in his chamber, and made it a rule to
idea of debts, prisons, executions, and self- read it as often as he found his heart disposed to
murder.
VANITY.
*
TIS ALL FOR THE BEST.*
IT is all for the best,' said Mrs. Simpson, I
whenever any misfortune befel her. She had
got such a habit of vindicating Providence, that
instead of weeping and wailing under the most
trying dispensations, her chief care was to con-
vince herself and others, that however great
might be her sufferings, and however little they
could be accounted for at present, yet that the
Judge of all the earth could not but do right.
Instead of trying to clear herself from any pos-
sible blame that might attach to her under those
misfortunes which, to speak after the manner
of men, she might seem not to have deserved,
she was always the first to justify Him who had
inflicted it. It was not that she superstitiously
converted every visitation into a punishment;
she entertained more correct ideas of that God
who overrules all events. She knew that some
calamities were sent to exercise her faith, others |
to purify her heart; some to chastise her rebel-
lious will, and all to remind her that this was
not her rest;' that this world was not the scene,
for the full and final display of retributive jus-
tice. The honour of God was dearer to her than
her own credit, and her chief desire was to turn
all events to his glory.
formerly been lady's maid at the nobleman's
house in the village of which Mrs. Simpson's
father had been minister.-Betty, after a life of
vanity, was, by a train of misfortunes, brought
to this very alms-house; and though she had
taken no care by frugality and prudence to avoid
it, she thought it a hardship and disgrace, in
stead of being thankful, as she ought to have
At first she did not
been, for such a retreat.
know Mrs. Simpson; her large bonnet, cloak,
and brown stuff gown (for she always made her
appearance conform to her circumstances) being
very different from the dress she had been used
to wear when Mrs. Betty has seen her dining at
the great house; and time and sorrow had much
altered her countenance. But when Mrs. Simp-
son kindly addressed her as an old acquaintance,
she screamed with surprise-'What! you, ma-
dam?' cried she: 'you in an alms-house, living
on charity: 'you, who used to be so charitable
yourself, that you never suffered any distress in
· That
the parish which you could prevent?'
may be one reason, Betty,' replied Mrs. Simp-
son, why Providence has provided this refuge
for my old age.-And my heart overflows with
gratitude when I look back on his goodness.
Though Mrs. Simpson was the daughter of a No such great goodness, methinks,' said Betty;
clergyman, and the widow of a genteel trades-why you were born and bred a lady, and are
man, she had been reduced by a succession of
misfortunes, to accept of a room in an alms-
house. Instead of repining at the change; in-
stead of dwelling on her former gentility and
saying, 'how handsomely she had lived once;
and how hard it was to be reduced; and she
little thought ever to end her days in an alms-
house;' which is the common language of those
who were never so well off before; she was
thankful that such an asylum was provided for
want and age; and blessed God that it was to
the Christian dispensation alone that such pious
institutions owed their birth.
One fine evening, as she was sitting reading
her Bible on the little bench shaded with honey-
suckles, just before her door, who should come
and sit down by her but Mrs. Betty, who had
• Betty,
now reduced to live in an alms-house.
I was born and bred a sinner, undeserving of
the mercies I have received.' 'No such great
Why, I heard you had
mercies,' said Betty.
been turned out of doors; that your husband
had broke; and that you had been in danger of
starving, though I did not know what was be-
come of you. It is all true, Betty, glory be to
God! it is all true.
'Well,' said Betty, 'you are an odd sort of a
gentlewoman. If from a prosperous condition
I had been made a bankrupt, a widow, and a
beggar, I should have thought it no such mighty
matter to be thankful for: but there is no ac-
counting for taste. The neighbours used to say
that all your troubles must needs be a judginent
upon you; but I who knew how good you were,
* A profligate wit of a neighbouring country having attempted to turn this doctrine into ridicule, under the
same title here assumed, it occurred to the author that it might not be altogether useless to illustrate the same
doctrine on Christian principles.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
163
ז'
6
'No, Betty,' replied Mrs. Simpson, it was
very providential; this man, though he main-
tained a decent character, had a good fortune,
and lived soberly, yet he would not have made
me happy.' Why what could you want more
of a man?' said Betty. Religion,' returned
Mrs. Simpson. As my father made a credit-
able appearance, and was very charitable; and
as I was an only child, this gentleman conclud-
ed that he could give me a considerable fortune į
for he did not know that all the poor in his pa-
rish are the children of every pious clergyman.
Finding I had little or nothing left me, he with-
drew his attentions.' What a sad thing!
cried Betty. No, it was all for the best; Pro-
vidence overruled his covetousness for my good.
I could not have been happy with a man whose
soul was set on the perishable things of this
world; nor did I esteem him, though I laboured
to submit my own inclinations to those of my
kind father. The very circumstance of being
left pennyless produced the direct contrary ef-
fect on Mr. Simpson: he was a sensible young
man, engaged in a prosperous business: we had
long highly valued each other; but while my
father lived, he thought me above his hopes.
We were married; I found him an amiable, in-
dustrious, good-tempered man; he respected re-
ligion and religious people; but with excellent
dispositions, I had the grief to find him less
pious than I had hoped. He was ambitious, and
a little too much immersed in worldly schemes;
and though I knew it was all done for my sake,
yet that did not blind me so far as to make me
think it right. He attached himself so eagerly
to business, that he thought every hour lost in
which he was not doing something that would
tend to raise me to what he called my proper
rank. The more prosperous he grew the less
thought it very hard you should suffer so much;
but now I see you reduced to an alms-house, I
beg your perdon, madam, but I am afraid the
neighbours were in the right, and that so many
misfortunes could never have happened to you
without you had committed a great many sins
to deserve them; for I always thought that God |
is so just that he punishes us for all our bad ac-
tions, and rewards us for all our good ones.'
'So he does, Betty; but he does it in his own
wey, and at his own time, and not according
to our notions of good and evil; for his ways
are not as our ways.-God, indeed, punishes
the bad, and rewards the good; but he does not
do it fully and finally in this world. Indeed he
does not set such a value on outward things as
to make riches, and rank, and beauty, and
health, the reward of piety; that would be act-
ing like weak and erring men, and not like a
just and holy God. Our belief in a future state
of rewards and punishments is not always so
strong as it ought to be, even now; but how to
tally would our faith fail, if we regularly saw
every thing made even in this world. We shall
lose nothing by having pay-day put off. The
longest voyages make the best returns. So far
am I from thinking that God is less just, and
future happiness less certain, because I see the
wicked sometimes prosper, and the righteous
suffer in this world, that I am rather led to be-
lieve that God is more just and heaven more
certain for, in the first place, God will not put
off his favourite children with so poor a lot as
the good things of this world; and next, seeing
that the best men here below do not often attain
to the best things; why it only serves to strength-
en my belief that they are not the best things
in His eye; and He has most assuredly reserved
for those that love Him such good things as
eye has not seen nor ear heard.' God, by keep-religious he became; and I began to find that
ing man in Paradise while he was innocent, and
turning him into this world as soon as he had
sinned, gave a plain proof that he never intend-
ed the world, even in its happiest state, as a
place of reward. My father gave me good prin-
ciples and useful knowledge; and while he
taught me by a habit of constant employment,
to be, if I may so say, independent of the
world; yet he led me to a constant sense of
dependence on God.' 'I do not see, however,"
interrupted Mrs. Betty, that your religion has
been of any use to you. It has been so far
from preserving you from trouble, that I think
you have had more than the usual share.'
one might be unhappy with a husband one ten-
derly loved. One day as he was standing on
some steps to reach down a parcel of goods he
fell from the top and broke his leg in two places.'
'What a dreadful misfortune" said Mrs.
Betty.-'What a signal blessing!" said Mrs.
Simpson. "Here I am sure I had reason to say
all was for the best; from that very hour in
which my outward troubles began, I date the
beginning of my happiness. Severe suffering,
a near prospect of death, absence from the world,
silence, reflection, and above all, the divine
blessings on the prayers and scriptures I read
to him, were the means used by our merciful
'No,' said Mrs. Simpson; nor did Christi- Father to turn my husband's heart.-During
anity ever pretend to exempt its followers from this confinement he was awakened to a deep
trouble; this is no part of the promise. Nay, sense of his own sinfulness, of the vanity of all
the contrary is rather stipulated; ' in the world this world has to bestow, and of his great need
ye shall have tribulation.'-But if it has not of a Saviour.
But if it has not of a Saviour. It was many months before he
taught me to escape sorrow, I humbly hope it could leave his bed; during this time his busi-
has taught me how to bear it. If it has taught ness was neglected. His principal clerk took
me not to feel, it has taught me not to murmur. advantage of his absence to receive large sums
I will tell you a little of my story. As my fa- of money in his name, and absconded. On hear-
ther could save little or nothing for me, he was ing of this great loss, our creditors came faster
very desirous of seeing me married to a young upon us than we could answer their demands;
gentleman in the neighbourhood, who expressed they grew more impatient as we were less able
a regard for me. But while he was anxiously to satisfy them; one misfortune followed an-
engaged in bringing this about, my good father other; till at length Mr. Simpson became a
bankrupt.'
died.'
'How very unlucky!' interrupted Betty,
'What an evil!' exclaimed Mrs. Betty. Yet
}
164
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
.
|
and distrusting and inquiring at every turning.
When the doctor sends home your medicine,
don't you so fully trust in his ability and good
will, that you swallow it down in full confidence?
You never think of inquiring what are the
ingredients, why they are mixed in that par-
ticular way, why there is more of one and less
of another, and why they are bitter instead of
sweet! If one dose does not cure you, he orders
another, and changes the medicine when he sees
the first does you no good, or that by long use
the same medicine has lost its effect; if the
weaker fails he prescribes a stronger: you swal-
low all, you submit to all, never questioning the
skill or the kindness of the physician. God is
the only being whom we do not trust, though
He is the only one who is fully competent, both
in will and power, to fulfil all his promises; and
who has solemnly and repeatedly pledged him-
self to fulfil them in those Scriptures which we
receive as his revealed will.'
it led in the end to much good,' resumed Mrs., do so; you were not anxiously watching him,
Simpson. 'We were forced to leave the town
in which we had lived with so much credit
and comfort, and to betake ourselves to a mean
lodging in a neighbouring village, till my hus-
band's strength should be recruited, and till we
could have time to look about us and see what
was to be done. The first night we got to this
poor dwelling, my husband felt very sorrowful,
not for his own sake, but that he had brought
so much poverty on me, whom he had so dearly
loved: I on the contrary, was unusually cheer-
ful: for the blessed change in his mind had more
than reconciled me to the sad change in his
circumstances. I was contented to live with
him in a poor cottage for a few years on earth,
if it might contribute to our spending a blessed
eternity together in heaven. I said to him,
'Instead of lamenting that we are now reduced
to want all the comforts of life, I have some-
times been almost ashamed to live in the full
enjoyments of them, when I have reflected that
my Saviour not only chose to deny himself all 'Mr. Simpson thanked me for my little ser-
these enjoyments, but even to live a life of hard- mon, as he called it; but said at the same time,
ship for my sake; not one of his numerous mi- that what made my exhortations produce a
racles tended to his own comfort; and though powerful effect on his mind was, the patient
we read at different times that he both hunger- cheerfulness with which he was pleased to say
ed and thirsted, yet it was not for his own gra- bore my share in our misfortunes. A submis-
tification that he once changed water into wine; sive behaviour, he said, was the best practical
and I have often been struck with the near posi- illustration of a real faith. When he had thank-
tion of that chapter in which this miracle is ed God for our supper, we prayed together;
recorded, to that in which he thirsted for a after which we read the eleventh chapter of the
draught of water at the well in Samaria.* It epistle to the Hebrews. When my husband had
was for others, not himself, that even the hum- finished it, he said, 'Surely if God's chief fa-
ble sustenance of barley bread was multiplied. vourites have been martyrs, is not that a suffi-
See here, we have a bed left us; I had, indeed, | cient proof that this world is not a place of hap-
nothing but straw to stuff it with, but the Sa-piness, no earthly prosperity the reward of vir-
viour of the world, had not where to lay his tue. Shall we after reading this chapter, com-
head.' My husband smiled through his tears, plain of our petty trials? Shall we not rather be
and we sat down to supper; It consisted of a roll thankful that our affliction is so light?'
and a bit of cheese which I had brought with
me, and we ate it thankfully. Seeing Mr. Simp.
son beginning to relapse into distrust, the fol-
lowing conversation as nearly as I can remem-
ber, took place between us. He began by re-
marking, that it was a mysterious Providence
that he had been less prosperous since he had
been less attached to the world, and that his
endeavours had not been followed by that suc-
cess which usually attends industry. I took
the liberty to reply: Your heavenly Father
sees on which side your danger lies, and is
mercifully bringing you, by these disappoint-
ments, to trust less in the world and more
in himself. My dear Mr. Simpson,' added I,
'we trust every body but God. As children we
As children we
obey our parents implicitly, because we are
taught to believe all is for our good which they
command or forbid. If we undertake a voyage,
we trust entirely to the skill and conduct of the
pilot; we never torment ourselves in thinking
he will carry us east, when he has promised to
carry us west.
If a dear and tried friend makes
us a promise, we depend on him for the perform-
ance, and do not wound his feelings by our sus-
picions. When you used to go your annual
journey to London, in the mail coach, you con-
fided yourself to the care of the coachman, that
he would carry you where he had engaged to
C
* See John, chap. ii.--and John, chap. iv.
'Next day Mr. Simpson walked out in search
of some employment, by which we might be
supported. He got a recommendation to Mr.
Thomas, an opulent farmer and factor, who had
large concerns, and wanted a skilful person to
assist him in keeping his accounts. This we
thought a fortunate circumstance; for we found
that the salary would serve to procure us at
least all the necessaries of life. The farmer was
so pleased with Mr. Simpson's quickness, re-
gularity, and good sense, that he offered us, of
his own accord, a little neat cottage of his own,
which then happened to be vacant, and told us
we should live rent free, and promised to be a
friend to us.'-' All does seem for the best now,
indeed;' interrupted Mrs. Betty.-'We shall
see,' said Mrs. Simpson, and thus went on.
'I now became very easy and very happy;
and was cheerfully employed in putting our few
things in order, and making every thing look
to the best advantage. My husband, who wrote
all the day for his employer, in the evening as-
sisted me in doing up our little garden. This
was a source of much pleasure to us; we both
loved a garden, and we were not only contented
but cheerful. Our employer had been absent
some weeks on his annual journey.
home on a Saturday night, and the next morn-
ing sent for Mr. Simpson to come and settle his
accounts, which were got behind-hand by his.
He came
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
165
long absence. We were just going to church,
and Mr. Simpson sent back word, that he would
call and speak to him on his way home. A se-
cond message followed, ordering him to come
to the farmer's directly: he agreed that he
would walk round that way, and that my hus-
band should call and excuse his attendance.
•
•
got our little dinner ready; it was a better one
than we had for a long while been accustomed
to sec, and I was unusually cheerful at this im-
provement in our circumstances. I saw his
eyes full of tears, and oh with what pain did
he bring himself to tell me that it was the last
dinner we must ever eat in this house. I took
his hand with a smile, and only said, 'The Lord
gave and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the
name of the Lord.'-' Notwithstanding this sud-
den stroke of injustice,' said my husband, 'this
is still a happy country. Our employer, it is
true, may turn us out at a moment's notice, be-
cause it is his own, but he has no further power
over us; he cannot confine or punish us. His
riches, it is true, give him power to insult, but
not to oppress us. The same laws to which the
affluent resort, protect us also. And as to our
being driven out from a cottage, how many per-
sons of the highest rank have lately been driven
out from their palaces and castles; persons too,
born in a station which he never enjoyed, and
used to all the indulgences of that rank and
wealth we never knew, are at this moment
wandering over the face of the earth, without a
house or without bread; exiles and beggars;
while we, blessed be God, are in our own native
land; we have still our liberty, our limbs, the
protection of just and equal laws, our churches,
our Bibles, and our Sabbaths.'
'The farmer more ignorant and worse edu-
cated than his ploughman, with all that pride
and haughtiness which the possession of wealth,
without knowledge or religion is apt to give,
rudely asked my husband what he meant by
sending him word that he would not come to
him till the next day; and insisted that he
should stay and settle the accounts then.-'Sir,'
said my husband, in a very respectful manner,
I am on my road to church, and I am afraid
shall be too late.'- Are you so,' said the far-
mer! Do you know who sent for you? You
may, however, go to church, if you will, so you
make haste back; and, d'ye hear, you may leave
your accounts with me, as I conclude you have
brought them with you; I will look them over
by the time you return, and then you and I
can do all I want to have done to-day in about
a couple of hours, and I will give you home
some letters to copy for me in the evening.'
—'Sir,' answered my husband, 'I dare not
obey you; it is Sunday.'-' And so you refuse
to settle my accounts only because it is Sun-
day.' 'Sir,' replied Mr. Simpson, if you would
give me a handful of silver and gold I dare not
break the commandment of my God.'-' Well,'
said the farmer, but this is not breaking the
commandment; I don't order you to drive my
cattle, or to work in my garden, or to do any
thing which you might fancy would be a bad
example,' Sir,' replied my husband, 'the ex-
ample indeed goes a great way, but it is not the
first object. The deed is wrong in itself.'-
Well, but I shall not keep you from church;
and when you have been there, there is no harm
in doing a little business, or taking a little
pleasure the rest of the day.'-'Sir,' answered
my husband, the commandment does not say,
thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath morning, but
the Sabbath day.' Get out of my house, you
puritanical rascal, and out of my cottage too,'
said the farmer; for if you refuse to do my
work, I am not bound to keep my engagement
with you; as you will not obey me as a master,
I shall not pay you as a servant.'--' Sir,' said
Mr. Simpson, I would gladly obey you, but I
have a master in heaven whom I dare not dis-
obey.'' Then let him find employment for you,'
said the enraged farmer; for I fancy you will
get but poor employment on earth with these
scrupulous notions, and so send home my pa-
pers, directly, and pack off out the parish.'
--Out of your cottage,' said my husband,
'I certainly will; but as to the parish, I hope I
may remain in that, if I can find employment.
—I I will make it too hot to hold you,' replied
the farmer, so you had better troop off bag and
baggage for I am overseer, and as you are the house.
:
sickly, it is my duty not to let any vagabonds
stay in the parish who are likely to become
chargeable.'
.
By the time my husband returned home,
for he found it too late to go to church, I had
|
This happy state of my husband's mind
hushed my sorrows, and I never once murmur-
ed; nay, I sat down to dinner with a degree of
cheerfulness, endeavouring to cast all our care
on 'Him that careth for us.' We had begged
to stay till the next morning, as Sunday was
not the day on which we liked to remove; but
we were ordered not to sleep another night in
that house; so as we had little to carry, we
marched off in the evening to the poor lodging
we had before occupied. The thought that my
husband had cheerfully renounced his little all
for conscience sake, gave an unspeakable sere-
nity to my mind; and I felt thankful that though
cast down we were not forsaken: nay, I felt a
live y gratitude to God, that while I doubted
not he would accept this little sacrifice, as it
was heartily made for his sake, he had gracious
ly forborne to call us to greater trials.'
'And so you were turned adrift once more?
Well, ma'am, saving your presence, I hope
you won't be such a fool as to say all was for
the best now.'- Yes, Betty: He who does all
things well, now made his kind Providence
more manifest than ever. That very night,
while we were sweetly sleeping in our poor
lodging, the pretty cottage, out of which we
were so unkindly driven, was burned to the
ground by a flash of lightning which caught
the thatch, and so completely consumed the
whole little building that had it not been for the
merciful Providence who thus overruled the
cruelty of the farmer for the preservation of our
lives, we must have been burned to ashes with
'It was the Lord's doing, and it
was marvellous in our eyes.'-'O that men
would therefore praise the Lord for his good-
ness, and for all the wonders that he doeth for
the children of men!'
'I will not tell you all the trials and afflic-
166
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
'Betty,' said Mrs. Simpson, 'I not only for
give him heartily, but I remember him in my
prayers, as one of those instruments with which
it has pleased God to work for my good. Oh!
never put off forgiveness to a dying bed! When
people come to die, we often see how the con-
science is troubled with sins, of which before
they hardly felt the existence. How ready are
they to make restitution of ill-gotten gain; and
this perhaps for two reasons; from a feeling con-
viction that it can be of no use to them where
they are going, as well as from a near view of
their own responsibility. We also hear from the
most hardened, of death-bed forgiveness of ene-
mies. Even malefactors at Tyburn forgive. But
why must we wait for a dying bed to do what
that scene
ought to be done now? Believe me,
will be so full of terror and amazement to the
soul, that we had not need load it with unneces-
sary business.'
tions which befel us afterwards. I would also | ticularly that farmer Thomas who turned you
spare my heart the sad story of my husband's out of doors.'
death.''Well, that was another blessing too, I
suppose,' said Betty.-'Oh, it was the severest
trial ever sent me !' replied Mrs. Simpson, a few
tears quietly stealing down her face. I almost
sunk under it. Nothing but the abundant grace
of God could have carried me through such a
visitation; and yet I now feel it to be the great-
est mercy I ever experienced; he was my idol;
no trouble ever came near my heart while he
was with me. I got more credit than I deserved
for my patience under trials, which were easily
borne while he who shared and lightened them
was spared to me. I had indeed prayed and
struggled to be weaned from this world, but still
my affection for him tied me down to the earth
with a strong cord: and though I did earnestly
try to keep my eyes fixed on the eternal world,
yet I viewed it with too feeble a faith; I viewed
it at too great a distance. I found it difficult to
realize it I had deceived myself. I had fancied
that I bore my troubles so well from the pure
love of God, but I have since found that my
love for my husband had too great a share in re-
conciling me to every difficulty which I under-
went for him. I lost him, the charm was broken,
the cord which tied me down to earth was cut,
this world had nothing left to engage me. Hea-
ven had now no rival in my heart. Though my
love of God had always been sincere, yet I found
there wanted this blow to make it perfect. But
though all that had made life pleasant to me
was gone, I did not sink as those who have no
hope. I prayed that I might still, in this trying
conflict, be enabled to adorn the doctrine of God
my Saviour.
After many more hardships, I was at length
so happy as to get an asylum in this alms-house.
Here my cares are at an end, but not my du-
ties. Now you are wrong again, interrupted
Mrs. Betty, your duty is now to take care of
yourself: for I am sure you have nothing to
spare.' There you are mistaken again,' said
Mrs. Simpson. 'People are so apt to fancy that
money is all in all, that all the other gifts of
providence are overlooked as things of no value.
I have here a great deal of leisure; a good part
of this I devote to the wants of those who are
more distressed than myself. I work a little for
the old, and I instruct the young. My eyes are
good; this enables me to read the Bible either
to those whose sight is decayed, or who were
never taught to read. I have tolerable health;
30 that I am able occasionally to sit up with the
sick; in the intervals of nursing, I can pray
with them. In my younger days I thought it
not much to sit up late for my pleasure; shall I
now think much of sitting up now and then to
watch by a dying bed? My Saviour waked and
watched for me in the garden and on the mount;
and shall I do nothing for his suffering mem-
bers? It is only by keeping his sufferings in
view that we can truly practise charity to others,
or exercise self-denial to ourselves.'
Well,' said Mrs. Betty, 'I think if I had
lived in such genteel life as you have done, I
could never be reconciled to an alms-house; and
I am afraid I should never forgive any of those
who were the cause of sending me there, par-
Just as Mrs. Simpson was saying these words,
a letter was brought her from the minister of
the parish where the farmer lived, by whom
Mr. Simpson had been turned out of his cottage,
The letter was as follows:-
'MADAM-I write to tell you that your old op-
pressor, Mr. Thomas, is dead. I attended him
in his last moments. O, may my latter end
never be like his! I shall not soon forget his de-
spair at the approach of death. His riches, which
had been his sole joy, now doubled his sorrows;
for he was going where they could be of no use
to him; and he found too late that he had laid
up no treasure in heaven. He felt great concern
at his past life, but for nothing more than his
unkindness to Mr. Simpson. He charged me
to find you out, and let you know that by his
will he bequeathed you five hundred pounds as
some compensation. He died in great agonies;
declaring with his last breath, that if he could
live his life over again, he would serve God, and
strictly observe the Sabbath.
Yours, &c.
'J. JOHNSON.'
Mrs. Betty, who had listened attentively to
the letter, jumped up, clapped her hands, and
cried out, Now all is for the best, and I shall
see you a lady once more.'-'I am, indeed,
thankful for this money,' said Mrs. Simpson,
and am glad that riches were not sent me till
I had learned, as I humbly hope, to make a
right use of them. But come, let us go in, for I
am very cold, and find I have sat too long in
the night air.'
Betty was now ready enough to acknowledge
the hand of Providence in this prosperous event,
though she was blind to it when the dispensa,
tion was more dark. Next morning she went
early to visit Mrs. Simpson, but not seeing her
below, she went up stairs, where, to her great
sorrow, she found her confined to her bed by a
fever, caught the night before by sitting so late
on the bench reading the letter and talking it
over. Betty was now more ready to cry out
against Providence than ever. What to catch
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
167
a fever while you were reading that very letter
which told you about your good fortune; which
would have enabled you to live like a lady as
you are. I never will believe this is for the best;
to be deprived of life just as you were beginning
to enjoy it!"
|
|
·
at the very instant which she came into posses-
sion of so much money. Betty,' said Mrs.
Simpson in a feeble voice, I believe you love
me dearly, you would do any thing to cure me;
yet you do not love me so well as God loves me,
though you would raise me up, and He is put-
Betty,' said Mrs. Simpson, we must learn ting a period to my life. He has never sent me a
not to rate health nor life itself too highly. single stroke which was not absolutely necessary
There is little in life, for its own sake, to be so for me. You, if you could restore me, might be
fond of. As a good archbishop used to say, 'tis laying me open to some temptation from which
but the same thing over again, or probably God, by removing, will deliver me. Your kind-
worse so many more nights and days, summers ness in making this world so smooth for me, I
and winters; a repetition of the same pleasures, might for ever have deplored in a world of mise-
but with less relish for them; a return of the | ry. God's grace in afflicting me, will hereafter
same or greater pains, but with less strength, be the subject of my praises in a world of bless-
and perhaps less patience to bear them.'-'Well,' edness. Betty,' added the dying woman, do
replied Betty, 'I did think that Providence was you really think that I am going to a place of
at last giving you your reward.'' Reward!' rest and joy eternal?' To be sure I do,' said
cried Mrs. Simpson. O, no! my merciful Fa- Betty. Do you firmly believe that I am going
ther will not put me off with so poor a portion to the assembly of the first-born; to the spirits
as wealth; I feel I shall die.'—'It is very hard, of just men made perfect, to God the judge of
indeed,' said Betty, 'so good as you are, to be all; and to Jesus the Mediator of the new Cove-
taken off just as your prosperity was begin- uant?'-'I am sure you are,' said Betty.' And
ning. You think I am good just now,' said yet,' resumed she, 'you would detain me from
Mrs. Simpson, because I am prosperous. Suc- all this happiness; and you think my merciful
cess is no sure mark of God's favour; at this Father is using me unkindly by removing me
rate, you, who judge by outward things, would from a world of sin, and sorrow, and temptation,
have thought Herod a better man than John the to such joys as have not entered into the heart
Baptist; and if I may be allowed to say so, you, of man to conceive; while it would have better
on your principles, that the sufferer is the sin-suited your notions of reward to defer my en-
ner, would have believed Pontius Pilate higher
in God's favour, than the Saviour whom he con-
demned to die, for your sins and mine.'
In a few days Mrs. Betty found that her new
friend was dying, and though she was struck at
her resignation, she could not forbear murmur-
ing that so good a woman should be taken away
trance into the blessedness of heaven, that I
might have enjoyed a legacy of a few hundred
pounds! Believe my dying words-ALL IS FOR
THE BEST.'
Mrs. Simpson expired soon after, in a frame
of mind which convinced her new friend, that
'God's ways are not as our ways.'
A CURE FOR MELANCHOLY.*
SHOWING THE WAY TO DO MUCH GOOD WITH LITTLE MONEY.
MRS. JONES was the widow of a great mer-
chant. She was liberal to the poor, as far as
giving them money went; but as she was too
much taken up with the world, she did not spare
so much of her time and thoughts about doing
good as she ought; so that her money was often
ill bestowed. In the late troubles, Mr. Jones,
who had lived in an expensive manner, failed;
and he took his misfortunes so much to heart,
that he fell sick and died. Mrs. Jones retired,
Mrs. Jones retired,
on a very narrow income, to the small village
of Weston, where she seldom went out, except
to church. Though a pious woman, she was
too apt to indulge her sorrow; and though she
did not neglect to read and pray, yet she gave
up a great part of her time to melancholy
thoughts, and grew quite inactive. She well
knew how sinful it would be for her to seek a
remedy for her grief in worldly pleasures, which
is a way many people take to cure afflictions;
but she was not aware how wrong it was to
weep away that time which might have been
better spent in drying the tears of others.
It was happy for her, that Mr. Simpson, the
vicar of Weston, was a pious man. One Sunday
he happened to preach on the good Samaritan.
It was a charity sermon, and there was a col-
lection at the door. He called on Mrs. Jones
She told
after church, and found her in tears.
him she had been much moved by his discourse,
and she wept because she had so little to give
to the plate, for though she felt very keenly for
the poor in these dear times, yet she could not
assist them.
assist them. Indeed, sir,' added she, I never
so much regretted the loss of my fortune as this
afternoon, when you bade us go and do likewise.'
'You do not,' replied Mr. Simpson, 'enter
into the spirit of our Saviour's parable, if you
think you cannot go and do likewise without be-
ing rich. In the case of the Samaritan, you
may observe, that charity was bestowed more
by kindness, and care, and medicine, than by
money. You, madam, were as much concerned
in the duties inculcated in my sermon as sir
John with his great estate; and, to speak plain.
ly, I have been sometimes surprised that you
should not put yourself in the way of being
more useful.'
* This was first printed under the title of THE COTTAGE COOK.
168
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
!
:
'Sir,' said Mrs. Jones, 'I am grown shy of
the poor since I have nothing to give them.'
Nothing! madam?' replied the clergyman:
'Do you call your time, your talents, your kind
offices, nothing? Doing good does not so much
depend on the riches as on the heart and the
will. The servant who improved his two talents
was equally commended by his Lord with him
who had ten and it was not poverty, but selfish
indolence, which drew down so severe a con-
demnation on him who had only one. It is by
our conformity to Christ, that we must prove
ourselves Christians. You, madam, are not
called upon to work miracles, nor to preach the
Gospel, yet you may in your measure and de-
gree, resemble your Saviour by going about and
doing good. A plain Christian, who has sense
and leisure, by his pious exertions and prudent
zeal, may, in a subordinate way, be helping on
the cause of religion, as well as of charity, and
greatly promote, by his exertions and example,
the labours of the parish minister. The gen-
erality, it is true, have but an under part to act;
but to all God assigns some part, and he will
require of all whose lot is not very laborious,
that they not only work out their own salvation,
but that they promote the cause of religion, and
the comfort and salvation of others.
Jones was much respected by all the rich per-
sons in Weston, who had known her in her
prosperity. Sir John was thoughtless, lavish,
and indolent. The Squire was over frugal, but
active, sober, and not ill-natured. Sir John
loved pleasure, the squire loved money. Sir
John was one of those popular sort of people who
get much praise, and yet do little good; who
subscribe with equal readiness to a cricket match
or a charity school; who take it for granted
that the poor are to be indulged with bell-ringing
and bonfires, and to be made drunk at Christmas;
this Sir John called being kind to them; but he
thought it was folly to teach them, and madness
to think of reforming them. He was, however,
always ready to give his guinea; but I question
whether he would have given up his hunting and
his gaming to have cured every grievance in the
land. He had that sort of constitutional good
nature which, if he had lived much within sight
of misery, would have led him to be liberal: but
he had that selfish love of ease, which prompted
him to give to undeserving objects, rather than
be at the pains to search out the deserving. He
neither discriminated between the degrees of
distress, nor the characters of the distressed.-
His idea of charity was, that a rich man should
occasionally give a little of his superfluous wealth
to the first object that occurred; but he had no
conception that it was his duty so to husband
his wealth, and limit his expenses, as to supply
a regular fund for established charity. And the
utmost stretch of his benevolence never led him
to suspect that he was called to abridge himself
in the most idle article of indulgence, for a pur-
pose foreign to his own personal enjoyment. On
the other hand, the squire would assist Mrs.
Jones in any of her plans if it cost him nothing;
so she showed her good sense by never asking
sir John for advice, or the squire for subscrip-
tions, and by this prudence gained the full sup-
port of both.
To those who would undervalue works of
mercy as evidences of piety, I would suggest a
serious attention to the solemn appeal which the
Saviour of the world makes, in that awful repre-
sentation of the day of judgment, contained in
the twenty-fifth chapter of Matthew, both to
those who have neglected, and to those who have
performed such works; performed them, I mean,
on right principles. With what a gracious con-
descension does he promise to accept the smallest
kindness done to his suffering members for his
sake. You, madam, I will venture to say, might
do more good than the richest man in the parish
could do by merely giving his money. Instead
of sitting here, brooding over your misfortunes, Mrs. Jones resolved to spend two or three
which are past remedy, bestir yourself to find days in a week in getting acquainted with the
out ways of doing much good with little money; state of the parish, and she took care never to
or even without any money at all. You have walk out without a few little good books in her
lately studied economy for yourself; instruct pocket to give away. This, though a cheap, is
your poor neighbours in that important art. a most important act of charity: it has its vari-
They want it almost as much as they want ous uses; it furnishes the poor with religious
money. You have influence with the few rich knowledge, which they have so few ways of ob-
persons in the parish; exert that influence. taining; it counteracts the wicked designs of
Betty, my house-keeper, shall assist you in any those who have taught us at least one lesson, by
thing in which she can be useful. Try this for their zeal in the dispersion of wicked books-I
one year, and if you then tell me that you should mean the lesson of vigilance and activity; and
have better shown your love to God and man, it is the best introduction for any useful conver-
and been a happier woman, had you continued sation which the giver of the book may wish to
gloomy and inactive, I shall be much surprised, introduce.
and shall consent to your resuming your present
way of life.'
|
She found that among the numerous wants
she met with, no small share was owing to bad
The sermon and this discourse together made management, or to imposition: she was struck
so deep an impression on Mrs. Jones, that she with the small size of the loaves.-Wheat was
formed a new plan of life, and set about it at now not very dear, and she was sure a good deal
once, as every hody does who is in earnest. Her of blame rested with the baker. She sent for a
chief aim was the happiness of her poor neigh-shilling loaf to the next great town, where the
bours in the next world; but she was also very mayor often sent to the bakers' shops to see that
desirous to promote their present comfort: and the bread was proper weight. She weighed her
indeed the kindness she showed to their bodily town loaf against her country loaf, and found
wants gave her such an access to their houses the latter two pounds lighter than it ought to be.
and hearts, as made them better disposed to This was not the sort of grievance to carry to
receive religious counsel and instruction, Mrs. sir John; but luckily the squire was also a ma-
THE WORKS OF HANNAÎ MORE.
169
gistrate, and it was quite in his way for though
he would not give, yet he would counsel, calcu-
late, contrive, reprimand, and punish. He told
her he could remedy the evil if some one would
lodge an information against the baker; but
that there was no act of justice which he found
it so difficult to accomplish.
The Informer.
She dropped in on the blacksmith. He was
at dinner. She inquired if his bread was good.
'Ay, good enough, mistress; for you see it is as
white as your cap, if we had but more of it.
Here's a sixpenny loaf; you might take it for a
penny roll!' He then heartily cursed Crib the
baker, and said he ought to be hanged. Mrs.
Jones fow told him what she had done; how
she had detected the fraud, and assured him the
evil should be redressed on the morrow, provi-
ded he would appear and inform. I inform,'
said he,with a shocking oath, 'hang an informer!
I scorn the office.'-'You are nice in the wrong
place,' replied Mrs. Jones; 'for you don't scorn
to abuse the baker, nor to be in a passion, nor
to swear, though you scorn to redress a public
injury, and to increase your children's bread. |
Let me tell you, there is nothing in which you
ignorant people mistake more than in your no-
tions about informers. Informing is a lawful
way of obtaining redress; and though it is a
mischievous and a hateful thing to go to a justice
about every trifling matter, yet laying an infor-
mation on important occasions, without malice,
or bitterness of any kind, is what no honest man
ought to be ashamed of. The shame is to com-
mit the offence, not to inform against it. I, for
my part, should perhaps do right, if I not only
informed against Crib, for making light bread,
but against you, for swearing at him."
fort of seeing how useful people may be without
expense; for if she could have given the poor
fifty pounds, she would not have done them so
great, or so lasting a benefit, as she did them
in seeing their loaves restored to their lawful
weight: and the true light in which she had
put the business of informing was of no small
use, in giving the neighbourhood right views on
that subject.
There were two shops in the parish; but Mrs.
Sparks, at the Cross, had not half so much cus-
tom as Wills, at the Sugarloaf, though she sold
her goods a penny in a shilling cheaper, and all
agreed that they were much better. Mrs. Jones
asked Mrs. Sparks the reason. ''Madam,' said
the shopkeeper, 'Mr. Wills will give longer trust.
Besides this, his wife keeps shop on a Sunday
morning while I am at church. Mrs. Jones
now reminded Mr. Simpson to read the king's
proclamation against vice and immorality next
Sunday at church; and prevailed on the squire
to fine any one who should keep open shop on a
Sunday. This he readily undertook: for while
sir John thought it good-natured to connive at
breaking the laws, the squire fell into the other
extreme, of thinking that the zealous enforcing
of penal statutes would stand in the stead of all
religious restraints. Mrs. Jones proceeded to
put the people in mind that a shopkeeper who
would sell on a Sunday, would be more likely
to cheat them all the week, than one who went
to church.
She also laboured hard to convince them how
much they would lessen their distress, if they
would contrive to deal with Mrs. Sparks for
ready money, rather than with Wills on long
credit; those who listened to her found their
circumstances far more comfortable at the year's
end, while the rest tempted, like some of their
betters, by the pleasure of putting off the evil
day of payment, like them; at last found them-
selves plunged in debt and distress. She took
care to make a good use of such instances in her
conversation with the poor, and, by perseverance,
she at length brought them so much to her way
of thinking, that Wills found it to be his interest
to alter his plan, and sell his goods on as good
terms, and as short credit, as Mrs. Sparks sold
hers. This completed Mrs. Jones's success ;
and she had the satisfaction of having put a stop
to three or four great evils in the parish of Wes-
'Well, but madam,' said the smith, a little
softened, 'don't you think it a sin and a shame
to turn informer?' 'So far from it, that when a
man's motives are good,' said Mrs. Jones, and
in clear cases as the present, I think it a duty
and a virtue. If it is right that there should be
laws, it must be right that they should be put in
execution; but how can this be, if people will
not inform the magistrates when they see the
laws broken! I hope I shall always be afraid
to be an offender against the laws, but not to be
an informer in support of them.-An informer
by trade is commonly a knave. A rash, mali-
cious, or passionate informer is a firebrand; button, without spending a shilling in doing it.
honest and prudent informers are almost as use-
ful members of society as the judges of the land.
If you continue in your present mind on this
subject, do not you think that you will be
answerable for the crimes you might have pre-
vented by informing, and thus become a sort of
accomplice of the villains who commit them.
Well, madam,' said the smith, 'I now see
plainly enough that there is no shame in turning
informer when my cause is good.'-' And your
motive right; always mind that, said Mrs. Jones.
Next day the smith attended, Crib was fined in
the usual penalty, his light bread was taken
from him and given to the poor. The justices
resolved henceforward to inspect the bakers in
their district; and all of them, except Crib, and
such as Crib, were glad of it; for honesty never
dreads a trial. Thus had Mrs. Jones the com-
Mrs. Jones the com-
Patty Smart and Jenny Rose were thought to
be the two best managers in the parish. They
both told Mrs. Jones, that the poor would get
the coarse pieces of meat cheaper, if the gentle
folks did not buy them for soups and gravy.
Mrs. Jones thought there was reason in this: so
away she went to sir John, the squire, the sur-
geon, the attorney, and the steward, the only
persons in the parish who could afford to buy
these costly things. She told them, that if they
would all be so good as to buy only prime pieces,
which they could very well afford, the coarse
and cheap joints would come more within the
reach of the poor. Most of the gentry readily
consented. Sir John cared not what his meat
cost him, but told Mrs. Jones, in his gay way,
that he would eat any thing, or give any thing,
so that she would not tease him with long stories
Voj. I
170
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
about the poor. The squire said he should pre- | get, that while the man is enjoying himself, as
fer vegetable soups, because they were cheaper, it is called, his wife and children are ragged
and the doctor preferred them because they and starving. True Christian good-nature
were wholesomer. The steward chose to imi- never indulges one at the cost of many, but is
tate the squire; and the attorney found it would kind to all. The squire, who was a friend to
be quite ungenteel to stand out. So gravy soups order, took up the matter. He consulted Mr.
became very unfashionable in the parish of Simpson. 'The Lion,' said he, is necessary.
Weston; and I am sure if rich people did but It stands by the road-side; travellers must have
think a little on this subject, they would be- a resting place. As to the Checquers and the
come as unfashionable in many other places., Bell, they do no good but much harm.' Mr.
When wheat grew cheaper, Mrs. Jones was Simpson had before made many attempts to get
earnest with the poor woman to bake large the Checquers put down; but, unluckily, it was
brown loaves at home, instead of buying small sir John's own house, and kept by his late but-
white ones at the shop. Mrs. Betty had told ler. Not that sir John valued the rent; but he
her, that baking at home would be one step to- had a false kindness, which made him support
wards restoring the good old management. Only the cause of an old servant, though he knew he
Betty Smart and Jenny Rose baked at home in was a bad man, and kept a disorderly house.
the whole parish; and who lived so well as they The squire, however, now took away the license
did? Yet the general objection seemed reason- from the Bell. And a fray happening soon
able. They could not bake without yeast, which after at the Chequers (which was near the
often could not be had, as no one brewed except church) in time of Divine service, sir John was
the great folks and the public houses. Mrs. obliged to suffer the house to be put down as a
Jones found, however, that Patty and Jenny nuisance. You would not believe how many
contrived to brew as well as to bake. She poor families were able to brew a little cask,
sent for these women; knowing that from them when the temptation of those ale-houses was
she could get truth and reason. 'How comes taken out of their way. Mrs. Jones, in her
it,' said she to them, that you two are the evening walks, had the pleasure to see many
only poor women in the parish who can afford an honest man drinking his wholesome cup of
to brew a small cask of beer? Your husbands beer by his own fire-side, his rosy children play-
have no better wages than other men.'-' True, ing about his knees, his clean cheerful wife
madam,' said Patty, but they never set foot in singing her youngest baby to sleep, rocking the
a public house. I will tell you the truth. cradle with her foot, while with her hands she
When I first married, our John went to the was making a dumpling for her kind husband's
Checquers every night, and I had my tea and supper. Some few, I am sorry to say, though
fresh butter twice a-day at home. This slop, I don't chuse to name names, still preferred
which consumed a deal of sugar, began to rake getting drunk once a week at the Lion, and
my stomach sadly, as I had neither meat nor drinking water at other times.-Thus Mrs.
milk at last (I am ashamed to own it) I began Jones, by a little exertion and perseverance,
to take a drop of gin to quiet the pain, till in added to the temporal comforts of a whole
time I looked for my gin as regularly as for my parish, and diminished its immorality and ex-
At last the gin, the ale-house, and the tea travagance in the same proportion.
began to make us both sick and poor, and I had
like to have died with my first child. Parson
Simpson then talked so finely to us on the sub-
ject of improper indulgences, that we resolved,
by the grace of God, to turn over a new leaf, and
I promised John, if he would give up the Chec-
quers, I would break the gin bottle, and never
drink tea in the afternoon, except on Sundays,
when he was at home to drink it with me. We
have kept our word, and both our eating and
drinking, our health and our consciences are
better for it. Though meat is sadly dear, we
can buy two pounds of fresh meat for less than
one pound of fresh butter, and it gives five times
the nourishment. And dear as malt is, I con-
trive to keep a drop of drink in the house for
John, and John will make me drink half a piut
with him every evening, and a pint a-day when
I am a nurse.
tea.
Public Houses.
As one good deed, as well as one bad one,
brings on another, this conversation set Mrs.
Jones on inquiring why so many ale-houses
were allowed. She did not choose to talk to sir
John on this subject, who would only have said,
'let them enjoy themselves, poor fellows: if
they get drunk now and then, they work hard.'
But those who have this false good-nature for-
The good women being now supplied with
yeast from each other's brewings, would have
baked; but two difficulties still remained. Many
of them had no ovens; for since the new bad
management had crept in, many cottages have
been built without this convenience. Fuel also
was scarce at Weston. Mrs. Jones advised the
building a large parish oven. Sir John sub-
scribed to be rid of her importunity, and the
squire, because he thought every improvement
It
in economy would reduce the poor's rate.
was soon accomplished: and to this oven, at
a certain hour, three times a week, the elder
children carried their loaves which their mo
thers had made at home, and paid a half-penny,
or a penny according to their size, for the baking.
Mrs. Jones found that no poor women in Wes-
ton could buy a little milk, as the farmers' wives
did not care to rob their dairies. This was a
great distress, especially when the children
were sick. So Mrs. Jones advised Mrs. Sparks,
at the Cross, to keep a couple of cows, and sell
out the milk by halfpennyworths. She did so,
and found, that though this plan gave her some
additional trouble, she got full as much by it as
if she had made cheese and butter. She also
sold rice at a cheap rate; so that, with the help
of the milk and the public oven, a fine rice pud.
ding was to be had for a trifle,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
171
t
6
Charity Schools for Servants.
|
schools, where they have been employed in
knitting, sewing, and reading, are not suffi-
ciently prepared for hard and laborious employ-
charity children to write for the same reason.
I confine within very strict limits my plan of
educating the poor. A thorough knowledge of
religion, and of some of those coarser arts of
life by which the community may be best be-
nefitted, includes the whole stock of instruction,
which, unless in very extraordinary cases, I
would wish to bestow."
'What have you got on the fire, madam?'
said the squire; for your pot really smells as
savoury as if Sir John's French cook had filled
it.' 'Sir,' replied Mrs. Jones, I have lately
'I
got acquainted with Mrs. White, who has given
us an account of her cheap dishes, and nice
cookery, in one of the cheap Repository little
books.* Mrs. Betty and I have made all her
dishes, and very good they are; and we have
got several others of our own. Every Friday we
come here and dress one. These good women
see how it is done, and learn to dress it at their
own houses. I take home part for my own
dinner, and what is left I give to each in turn.
I hope I have opened their eyes on a sad mis-
take they had got into, that we think any thing
is good enough for the poor. Now, I do not
think any thing good enough for the poor which
is not clean, wholesome, and palatable, and what
I myself would not cheerfully eat, if my cir-
cumstances required it.'
The girls' school, in the parish, was fallen
into neglect; for though many would be sub-ments. I do not in general approve of teaching
scribers, yet no one would look after it. I wish
this was the case at Weston only: many schools
have come to nothing, and many parishes are
quite destitute of schools, because too many
gentry neglect to make it a part of the duty of
their grown up daughters to inspect the instruc-
tion of the poor. It was not in Mr. Simpson's
way to see if girls were taught to work. The
best clergyman cannot do every thing. This
is ladies business. Mrs. Jones consulted her
counsellors, Mrs. Betty, and they went every
Friday to the school, where they invited mo-
thers, as well as daughters, to come, and learn
to cut out to the best advantage. Mrs. Jones
had not been bred to these things; but by means
of Mrs. Cowper's excellent cuttingout-book;
she soon became mistress of the whole art.
She not only had the girls taught to make and
mend, but to wash and iron too. She also al-
lowed the mother or eldest daughter of every
family to come once a week, and learn how to
dress one cheap dish. One Friday, which was
cooking day, who should pass by but the squire,
with his gun and dogs. He looked into the
school for the first time. Well, madam,' said
he, what good are you doing here? What are
your girls learning and earning? Where are
your manufactures? Where is your spinning
and your carding ?'-'Sir,' said she, this is a
small parish, and you know ours is not a manu-
facturing country; so that when these girls are
women, they will not be much employed in
spinning. We must, in the kind of good we
attempt to do, consult the local genius of the
place: I do not think it will answer to intro-
duce spinning, for instance, in a country where
it is quite new. However, we teach them a
little of it, and still more of knitting, that they
may be able to get up a small piece of house-
hold linen once a year, and provide the family
with the stockings, by employing the odds and
ends of their time in these ways. But there is
another manufacture, which I am carrying on,
and I know of none within my own reach
which is so valuable.'-' What can that be?'
said the squire. To make good wives for work- Well, madam,' said Mr. Simpson, who came
ing men,' said she. Is not mine an excellent in soon after, which is best, to sit down and
staple commodity? I am teaching these girls cry over our misfortunes, or to bestir ourselves
the arts of industry and good management. It to do our duty to the world?' 'Sir,' replied Mrs.
is little encouragement to an honest man to Jones, I thank you for the useful lesson you
work hard all the week, if his wages are wast-have given me. You have taught me that an
ed by a slattern at home. Most of these girls
will probably become wives to the poor, or ser-
vants to the rich; to such the common arts of
life are of great value; now, as there is little op-
portunity for learning these at the school house,
I intend to propose that such gentry as have
sober servants, shall allow one of these girls to
come and work in their families one day in a
week, when the house-keeper, the cook, the
house-maid, or the laundry-maid, shall be re-
quired to instruct them in their several depart
ments. This I conceive to be the best way of
training good servants. They should serve
this kind of regular apprenticeship to various
sorts of labour. Girls who come out of charity-
—
|
|
'Pray, Mrs. Betty,' said the squire, 'oblige
me with a basin of your soup.' The squire
found it so good after his walk, that he was al-
most sorry he had promised to buy no more legs
of beef, and declared, that not one sheep's head
should ever go to his kennel again. He begged
his cook might have the receipt, and Mrs. Jones
wrote it out for her. She has also been so ob-
liging as to favour me with a copy of all her
receipts. And as I hate all monopoly, and see
no reason why such cheap, nourishing, and sa-
voury dishes should be confined to the parish
of Weston, I print them, that all other parishes
may have the same advantage. Not only the
poor, but all persons with small incomes may be
glad of them.
"
C
'
You
excessive indulgence of sorrow, is not piety, but
selfishness; that the best remedy for our own
afflictions is to lessen the afflictions of others,
and thus evidence our submission to the will
of God, who, perhaps, sent these very trials
to abate our own self-love, and to stimulate
our exertions for the good of others.
have taught me that our time and talents are
to be employed with zeal in God's service,
if we wish for his favour here or hereafter ; and
that one great employment of those talents
which he requires, is the promotion of the pre-
sent, and much more the future happiness of
* See the Way to Plenty, for a number of cheap ra
ceipts.
.
172
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
|
all around us. -You have taught me that much feeling kind of beneficence. Above all, without
good may be done with little money; and that abating any thing of a just subordination, it has
the heart, the head, and the hands are of some brought the affluent to a nearer knowledge of
use, as well as the purse. I have also learned the persons and characters of their indigent
another lesson, which I hope not to forget, that neighbours; it has literally brought 'the rich
Providence, in sending these extraordinary sea- and poor to meet together;' and this I look upon
sons of scarcity and distress, which we have to be one of the essential advantages attending
lately twice experienced, has been pleased to Sunday schools also, where they are carried on
overrule these trying events to the general good; upon true principles, and are sanctioned by the
for it has not only excited the rich to an in-visits as well as supported by the contributions
creased liberality, as to actual contribution, but of the wealthy.'
it has led them to get more acquainted with the
local wants of their poorer brethren, and to in-
terest themselves in their comfort; it has led
to improved modes of economy, and to a more
May all who read this account of Mrs. Jones,
and who are under the same circumstances, go
and do likewise!
THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.
acquaintance had some one to offer me. Mrs.
Gibson sent me an old cook, whom she herself
had discharged for wasting her own provisions,
yet she had the conscience to recommend this
woman to take care of the provisions of a large
community. Mrs. Grey sent me a discarded
housekeeper, whose constitution had been ruined
by sitting up with Mrs. Grey's gouty husband;
but who she yet thought might do well enough
to undergo the fatigue of taking care of an hun-
dred poor sick people. A third friend sent me
a woman who had no merit but that of being
very poor, and it would be charity to provide for
her. The truth is, the lady was obliged to allow
her a small pension till she could get her off
her own hands, by turning her on those of
others.'
I PROMISED, in the Cure for Melancholy, to
give some account of the manner in which Mrs.
Jones set up her school. She did not much fear
being able to raise the money; but money is
of little use, unless some persons of sense and
piety can be found to direct these institutions.
Not that I would discourage those who set them
up, even in the most ordinary manner, and from
mere views of worldly policy. It is something
gained to rescue children from idling away their
Sabbath in the fields or the streets. It is no
small thing to keep them from those to which a
day of leisure tempts the idle and the ignorant. |
It is something for them to be taught to read;
it is much to be taught to read the Bible, and
much, indeed, to be carried regularly to church.
But all this is not enough. To bring these in-
stitutions to answer their highest end, can only It is very true, madam,' said Mr. Simpson,
be effected by God's blessing on the best direct-the right way is always to prefer the good of
ed means, the choice of able teachers, and a di-
ligent attention in some pious gentry to visit
and inspect the schools.
On Recommendations.
the many to the good of one; if, indeed, it can
be called doing good to any one to place them
in a station in which they must feel unhappy,
by not knowing how to discharge the duties of
it. I will tell you how I manage. If the per-
sons recommended are objects of charity, I pri-
vately subscribe to their wants; I pity and help
them, but I never promote them to a station for
which they are unfit, as I should by so doing
hurt a whole community to help a distressed in-
dividual.'
Mrs. Jones had one talent that eminently
qualified her to do good, namely, judgment;
this, even in the gay part of her life, had kept
her from many mistakes; but though she had
sometimes been deceived herself, she was very
careful not to deceive others, by recommending
people to fill any office for which they were un- Thus Mrs. Jones resolved that the first step
fit, either through selfishness or false kindness. towards setting up her school should be to pro-
She used to say there is always some one ap-vide a suitable mistress. The vestry were so
propriate quality which every person must pos-
sess, in order to fit them for any particular em-
ployment Even in this quality,' said she to
Mr. Simpson the clergyman, 'I do not expect
perfection; but if they are destitute of this, what-
ever good qualities they may possess besides,
though they may do for some other employment,
they will not do for this. If I want a pair of
shoes, I go to a shoemaker; I do not go to a
man of another trade, however ingenious he
may be, to ask him if he cannot contrive to
make me a pair of shoes. When I lived in Lon-
don, I learned to be much on my guard as to
recommendations. I found people often wanted
to impose on me some one who was a burthen
to themselves.-Once, I remember, when I un-
dertook to get a matron for an hospital, half my |
earnest in recommending one woman, that she
thought it worth looking into. On inquiry, she
found it was a scheme to take a large family off
the parish; they never considered that a very
ignorant woman, with a family of young chil
dreu, was, of all others, the most unfit for a
school; all they considered was, that the profits
of the school might enable her to live without
parish pay. Mrs. Jones refused another, though
she could read well, and was decent in her con-
duct, because she used to send her children to
the shop on Sundays. And she objected to a
third, a very sensible woman, because she was
suspected of making an outward profession of
religion a cloak for immoral conduct. Mrs.
Jones knew she must not be too nice neither;
she knew she must put up with many faults at
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
173
Mrs. Jones's Exhortaiion.
last. 'I knew,' said she to Mr. Simpson, 'the, the mothers as she could, and spoke to them as
As follows:
imperfection of every thing that is human. As
the mistress will have much to bear with from
the children, so I expect to have something to
bear with in the mistress; and she and I must
submit to our respective trials, by thinking how
much God has to bear with in us all. But there
are certain qualities which are indispensable in
certain situations. There are, in particular,
three things which a school-mistress must not
be without, good sense, activity, and piety.
Without the first she will mislead others; with-
out the second she will neglect them; and with-
out the third, though she may civilize, yet she
will never christianize them.'
:
My good women, on Sunday next I propose
to open a school for the instruction of your chil-
dren. Those among you, who know what it is
to be able to read your Bible, will, I doubt not,
rejoice that the same blessing is held out to your
children. You who are not able yourselves to
read what your Saviour has done and suffered
for you, ought to be doubly anxious that your
children should reap a blessing which you have
lost. Would not that mother be thought an un-
natural monster who should stand by and snatch
out of her child's mouth the bread which a kind
friend has just put into it? But such a mother
would be merciful, compared with her who
should rob her children of the opportunity of
learning to read the word of God when it is
held out to them. Remember, that if you slight
the present offer, or if, after having sent your
children a few times you should afterwards keep
them at home under vain pretences, you will
have to answer for it at the day of judgment.
Let not your poor children, then, have cause to
say, My fond mother was my worst enemy. I
might have been bred up in the fear of the Lord,
and she opposed it for the sake of giving me a
little paltry pleasure.-For an idle holiday, I am
now brought to the gates of hell!' My dear
women, which of you could bear to see your
darling child condemned to everlasting destruc-
tion ?-Which of you could bear to hear him ac-
Mr. Simpson said, he really knew but of one
person in the parish who was fully likely to an-
swer her purpose: this,' continued he, is no
other than my housekeeper, Mrs. Betty Crew.
It will indeed be a great loss to me to part from
her; and to her it will be a far more fatiguing
life than that which she at present leads. But
ought I to put my own personal comfort, or
ought Betty to put her own ease and quiet, in
competition with the good of above an hundred
children? This will appear still more important,
if we consider the good done by these institu-
tions, not as fruit, but seed; if we take into the
account how many yet unborn may become
Christians, in consequence of our making these
children Christians for how can we calculate
the number which may be hereafter trained for
Heaven, by those very children we are going to
teach, when they themselves shall become pa-
rents, and you and I are dead and forgotten?cuse you as the cause of it? Is there any mo-
To be sure, by parting from Betty, my peas-
soup will not be quite so well flavoured, nor my
linen so neatly got up; but the day is fast ap-
proaching, when all this will signify but little;
but it will not signify little whether one hundred
immortal souls were the better for my making
this petty sacrifice. Mrs. Crew is a real Chris-
tian, has excellent sense, and had a good educa-
tion from my mother. She has also had a little
sort of preparatory training for the business;
for when the poor children come to the parson-
age for broth on a Saturday evening, she is used
to appoint them all to come at the same time;
and after she has filled their pitchers, she ranges
them round her in the garden, and examines
them in their catechism. She is just and fair
in dealing out the broth and beef, not making
my favour to the parents depend on the skill of
their children: but her own old caps and
ribands, and cast-off clothes, are bestowed as
little rewards on the best scholars. So that taking
the time she spends in working for them, and
the things she gives them, there is many a lady
who does not exceed Mrs. Crew in acts of cha-
rity. This I mention to confirm your notion,
that it is not necessary to be rich in order to
do good; a religious upper servant has great op-
portunities of this sort, if the master is disposed
to encourage her.'
My readers, I trust, need not be informed,
that this is that very Mrs. Betty Crew who as-
sisted Mrs. Jones in teaching poor women to
cut out linen and dress cheap dishes, as related
in the Cure for Melancholy. Mrs. Jones, in
the following week, got together as many of
ther here present, who will venture to say-' I
will doom the child I bore to sin and hell, rather
than put them or myself to a little present pain,
by curtailing their evil inclinations! I will let
them spend the Sabbath in ignorance and idle-
ness, instead of rescuing them from vanity and
sin, by sending them to school!' If there are
any such here present, let that mother who va-
lues her child's pleasure more than his soul,
now walk away, while I set down in my list the
names of all those who wish to bring their young
ones up in the way that leads to eternal life, in-
stead of indulging them in the pleasures of sin,
which are but for a moment.'
When Mrs. Jones had done speaking, most
of the women thanked her for her good advice,
and hoped that God would give them grace to
follow it; promising to send their children con-
stantly. Others, who were not so well-disposed,
were yet afraid to refuse, after the sin of so do-
ing had been so plainly set before them. The
worst of the women had kept away from this
meeting, resolving to set their faces against the
school. Most of those also who were present,
as soon as they got home, set about providing
their children with what little decent apparel
they could raise. Many a willing mother lent
her tall daughter her hat, best cap, and white
handkerchief; and many a grateful father spared
his linen waistcoat and bettermost hat, to in-
duce his grown up son to attend; for it is a rule
with which Mrs. Jones began, that she would
not receive the younger children out of any fa-
mily who did not send their elder ones.
many made excuses that their shoes were old,
Too
174
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
or their hat worn out. But Mrs. Jones told
them not to bring any excuse to her which they
could not bring to the day of judgment; and
among those excuses she would hardly admit
any except accidents, sickness or attendance on
sick parents or young children.
Subscriptions.
Mrs. Jones, who had secured large subscrip.
tions from the gentry, was desirous of getting
the help and countenance of the farmers and
trades-people, whose duty and interest she
thought it was to support a plan calculated to
improve the virtue and happiness of the parish.
Most of them subscribed, and promised to see
that their workmen sent their children. She
met with little opposition till she called on far-
mer Hoskins. She told him, as he was the
richest farmer in the parish, she came to him
for a handsome subscription. 'Subscription!'
said he,' it is nothing but subscriptions, I think;'
a man, had need be made of money,'-' Farmer,'
said Mrs. Jones, 'God has blessed you with
abundant prosperity, and he expects you should
be liberal in proportion to your great ability.'-
'I do not know what you mean by blessing,'
said he 'I have been up early and late, lived
hard while I had little, and now when I thought
I had got forward in the world, what with
tithes taxes, and subscriptions, it all goes, I
think.'-'Mr. Hoskins,' said Mrs. Jones, as to
tithes and taxes, you well know that the richer
you are the more you pay; so that your mur.
murs are a proof of your wealth. This is but
an ungrateful return for all your blessings.'
You are again at your blessings,' said the
farmer; but let every one work as hard as I
have done, and I dare say he will do as well.
It is to my own industry I own what I have.
have.
My crops have been good, because I minded
my ploughing and sowing.' 'O, farmer!' cried
Mrs. Jones, you forget whose suns and showers
make your crops to grow, and who it is that
giveth strength to get riches. But I do not
come to preach, but to beg.'
:
.
'Well, madam, what is the subscription now?
Flannel or French? or weavers, or Swiss, or a
new church, or large bread, or cheap rice? or
what other new whim-wham for getting the
money out of one's pocket?'--'I am going to
establish a Sunday-school, farmer; and I come
to you as one of the principal inhabitants of the
parish, hoping your example will spur on the
rest to give.' Why, then, said the farmer, as
one of the principal inhabitants of the parish, I
will give nothing; hoping it will spur on the
rest to refuse. Of all the foolish inventions, and
new-fangled devices to ruin the country, that
of teaching the poor to read is the very worst."
And I, farmer, think that to teach good prin-
ciples to the lower classes, is the most likely
way to save the country. Now, in order to this,
we must teach them to read.''Not with my
consent, nor my money,' said the farmer; for
I know it always does more harm than good.'
So it may,' said Mrs. Jones, if you only
teach them to read, and then turn them adrift
to find out books for themselves.* There is a
*It was this consideration chiefly, which stimulated
the conductors of the Cheap Repository to send forth
|
proneness in the heart to evil, which it is our
duty to oppose, and which I see you are pro-
moting. Only look round your own kitchen; I
am ashamed to see it hung round with loose
songs and ballads. I grant, indeed, it would be
better for young men and maids, and even your
daughters, not to be able to read at all, than to
read such stuff as this. But if, when they ask
for bread, you will give them a stone, nay worse,
a serpent, your's is the blame.' Then taking
up a penny book which had a very loose title,
she went on. I do not wonder, if you, who
read such books as these, think it safer that
people should not read at all.' The farmer
grinned, and said, it is hard if a man of my
substance may not divert himself; when a bit
of fun costs only a penny, and a man can spare
that penny, there is no harm done. When it is
very hot, or very wet, and I come in to rest, and
have drunk my mug of cider, I like to take up
a bit of a jest-book, or a comical story, to make
me laugh.'
C
'O, Mr. Hoskins!' replied Mrs. Jones, 'when
you come in to rest from a burning sun or
shower, do you never think of Him whose sun
it is that is ripening your corn? or whose
shower is filling the ear, or causing the grass
to grow? I could tell you of some books which
would strengthen such thoughts, whereas such
as you read only serve to put them out of your
head.'
Mrs. Jones having taken pains to let Mr.
Hoskins know, that all the genteel and wealthy
people had subscribed, he at last said, 'why as
to the matter of that, I do not value a crown; only
I think it might be better bestowed; and I am
afraid my own workmen will fly in my face if
once they are made scholars; and that they
will think themselves too good to work.'-' Now
you talk soberly, and give your reasons,' said
Mrs. Jones; weak as they are, they deserve an
answer. Do you think that either man, woman,
or child, ever did his duty the worse, only be
cause he knew it the better?' 'No, perhaps not.'
Now, the whole extent of learning which
we intend to give the poor, is only to enable
them to read the Bible; a book which brings to
us the glad tidings of salvation, in which every
duty is explained, every doctrine brought into
practice, and the highest truths made level to
the meanest understanding. The knowledge
of that book, and its practical influence on the
heart, is the best security you can have, both
for the industry and obedience of your servants.
Now, can you think any man will be the worse
servant for being a good Christian? Perhaps
not.'-' Are not the duties of children, of ser-
vants, and the poor, individually and expressly
set forth in the Bible ?'-'Yes.'-' Do you think
any duties are likely to be well performed from
any human motives, such as fear or prudence,
as from those religious motives which are back-
ed with the sanction of rewards and punish-
www.com
that variety of little books so peculiarly suited to the
schools, multitudes were now taught to read, who would
young. They considered that by means of Sunday
be exposed to be corrupted by all the ribaldry and pro-
faneness of loose songs, vicious stories, and especially
by the new influx of corruption arising from Jacobini-
cal and atheistical pamphlets, and that it was a bounden
| duty to counteract such temptations.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
175
ments, of heaven or hell? Even upon your own
principles of worldly policy, do you think a poor
man is not less likely to steal a sheep or a horse,
who was taught when a boy that it was a sin,
that it was breaking a commandment, to rob a
hen-roost, or an orchard, than one who has been
bred in ignorance of God's law? Will your pro- |
perty be secured so effectually by the stocks on
the green, as by teaching the boys in the school,
that for all these things God will bring them
into judgment? Is a poor fellow who can read
his Bible, so likely to sleep or to drink away his
few hours of leisure, as one who cannot read?
He may, and he often does, make a bad use of
his reading; but I doubt he would have been as
bad without it: and the hours spent in learning
to read will always have been among the most
harmless ones of his life.'
•
6
"
C
do you think should be done to a person who
should be found carrying a box of poison round
the country, and leaving a little to every house?
The girls agreed that such a person ought to
be hanged. That he should,' said the farmer,
if I was upon the jury, and quartered too.'
The fiddler and his woman were of the same
opinion, declaring, they would do no such a
wicked thing for the world, for if they were
Mr. Simpson, turning
poor they were honest.
to the other girl, said, 'Which is of most value,
The soul, sir,' said the
the soul or the body?'-
girl. Why so?' said he.-' Because, sir, I
have heard you say in the pulpit, the soul is to
last for ever.'-' Then,' cried Mr. Simpson, in a
stern voice, turning to the fiddler's woman,
are you not ashamed to sell poison for that part
which is to last forever? poison for the soul?'
Poison ?' said the terrified girl, throwing down
the book, and shuddering as people do who are
afraid they have touched something infectious.
Poison !' echoed the farmer's daughters, recol-
lecting with horror the ratsbane which Lion,
the old house-dog, had got at the day before,
and after eating which she had seen him drop
down dead in convulsions. 'Yes,' said Mr.
Simpson to the woman, 'I do again repeat, the
souls of these innocent girls will be poisoned,
and may be eternally ruined by this vile trash
which you carry about.'
Well, madam,' said the farmer, if you do
not think that religion will spoil my young ser-
vants, I do not care if you do put me down for
half a guinea. What has farmer Dobson given?'
-'Half a guinea,' said Mrs. Jones. Well,'
cried the farmer, 'it shall never be said I do
not give more than he, who is only a renter.
Dobson half a guinea! Why he wears his coat
as threadbare as a labourer.'-' Perhaps,' re-
plied Mrs. Jones, that is one reason why he
gives so much.'—'Well, put me down a guinea,'
cried the farmer; as scarce as guineas are just
now, I'll never be put upon the same footing 'I now see,' said Mrs. Jones to the farmer,
with Dobson neither.' Yes, and you must ex-'the reason why you think learning to read does
ert yourself besides, in insisting that your work- more harm than good. It is indeed far better
men send their children, and often look into that they should never know how to tell a let-
the school yourself, to see if they are there, and ter, unless you keep such trash as this out of
reward or discourage them accordingly,' added their way, and provide them with what is good,
Mrs. Jones. The most zealous teachers will or at least what is harmless. Still this is not
flag in their exertions, if they are not animated the fault of reading, but the abuse of it. Wine
and supported by the wealthy; and your poor is still a good cordial, though it is too often
youth will soon despise religious instruction as abused to the purpose of drunkenness.'
a thing forced upon them, as a hardship added
to their other hardships, if it be not made plea-
sant by the encouraging presence, kind words,
and little gratuities, from their betters.'
The farmer said that neither of his maids
could read their horn-book, though he owned he
often heard them singing that song which the
parson thought so bad, but for his part it made
them as merry as a nightingale.
'Yes,' said Mrs. Jones, as a proof that it is
not merely being able to read which does the
mischief, I have often heard, as I have been
crossing a hay-field, young girls singing such
indecent ribaldry as has driven me out of the
field, though I well knew they could not read a
line of what they were singing, but had caught
it from others. So you see you may as well say
the memory is a wicked talent because some
people misapply it, as to say that reading is
dangerous because some folks abuse it.
Here Mrs. Jones took her leave; the farmer
insisted on waiting on her to the door. When
they got into the yard, they spied Mr. Simpson,
who was standing near a group of females, con-
sisting of the farmer's two young daughters,
and a couple of rosy dairy maids, an old blind
fiddler, and a woman who led him. The wo-
man had laid a basket on the ground, out of
which she was dealing some songs to the girls,
who were kneeling round it, and eagerly pick-
ing out such whose title suited their tastes. On
seeing the clergyman come up, the fiddler's
companion, (for I am sorry to say she was not While they were talking, the fiddler and his
his wife) pushed some of the songs to the bot-woman were trying to steal away unobserved,
tom of the basket, turned round to the company, but Mr. Simpson stopped them, and sternly
and, in a whining tone, asked if they would said, Woman, I shall have some farther talk
please to buy a godly book. Mr. Simpson saw with you. I am a magistrate, as well as a
through the hypocrisy at once, and instead of minister, and if I know it, I will no more allow
making any answer, took out of one of the girl's a wicked book to be sold in my parish than a
hands a song which the woman had not been dose of poison.' The girls threw away all their
able to snatch away. He was shocked and songs, thanked Mr. Simpson, begged Mrs. Jones
grieved to see that these young girls were about would take them into her school after they had
to read, to sing, and to learn by heart such ri-done milking in the evenings, that they might
baldry as he was ashamed even to cast his
He turned about to the girl, and
gravely, but mildly said, 'Young woman, what
eyes on.
'
learn to read only what was proper. They pro-
mised they would never more deal with any but
sober, honest hawkers, such as sell good little
176
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
books, Christmas carols, and harmless songs,
and desired the fiddler's woman never to call
there again.
This little incident afterwards confirmed Mrs.
Jones in a plan she had before some thoughts of
putting in practice. This was, after her school
had been established a few months, to invite all
the well-disposed grown-up youth of the parish
to meet her at the school an hour or two on a
Sunday evening, after the necessary business of
the dairy, and of serving the cattle was over.
Both Mrs. Jones and her agent had the talent of
making this time pass so agreeably, by their
manner of explaining Scripture, and of impress-
ing the heart by serious and affectionate dis-
course, that in a short time the evening school
was nearly filled with a second company, after
the younger ones were dismissed. In time, not
only the servants, but the sons and daughters of
the most substantial people in the parish attend-
ed. At length many of the parents, pleased
with the improvement so visible in the young
people, got a habit of dropping in, that they
might learn how to instruct their own families.
And it was observed that as the school filled,
not only the fives-court and public house were
thinned, but even Sunday gossipping and tea-
visiting declined. Even farmer Hoskins, who
was at first very angry with his maids for leaving
off those merry songs (as he called them) was so
pleased by the manner in which the psalms were
sung at the school, that he promised Mrs. Jones
to make her a present of half a sheep towards
her first May-day feast. Of this feast some ac-
count shall be given hereafter; and the reader
may expect some further account of the Sunday
school in the history of Hester Wilmot.*
*For a continuation of the Sunday School, see the
story of Hester Wilmot, in two parts, in this edition.
It was thought proper to separate them in this collec
tion: as the two preceding numbers rather tend to en-
force the duties of the higher and middle class, and the
two subsequent ones those of the poor.
THE PILGRIMS.
AN ALLEGORY.
wish to know a little what sort of a city London
or York is? Don't you wonder what is doing
there, and are you not anxious to know whether
you are properly qualified for the business, or
the company you expect to be engaged in? Do
METHOUGHT I was once upon a time travelling your journey, especially if you have never been
through a certain land which was very full of to that place before, or are likely to remain there,
people; but, what was rather odd, not one of all don't you begin to think a little about the plea-
this multitude was at home; they were all boundsures and the employments of the place, and to
to a far distant country. Though it was per-
mitted by the lord of the land that these pilgrims
might associate together for their present mu-
tual comfort and convenience; and each was
not only allowed, but commanded, to do the
others all the services he could upon their jour-you never look at the map, or consult Brooke's
ney, yet it was decreed, that every individual
traveller must enter the far country singly.
There was a great gulf at the end of the journey,
which every one must pass alone, and at his own
risk, and the friendship of the whole united
world could be of no use in shooting that gulf.
The exact time when each was to pass was not
known to any; this the lord always kept a close
secret out of kindness, yet still they were as sure
that the time must come, and that at no very
great distance, as if they had been informed of
the very moment. Now, as they know they
were always liable to be called away at an hour's
notice, one would have thought they would have
been chiefly employed in packing up, and pre-
paring, and getting every thing in order. But
this was so far from being the case, that it was
almost the only thing which they did not think
about.
Gazetteer? And don't you try to pick up from
your fellow-passengers in the stage coach any
little information you can get? And though
you may be obliged, out of civility, to converse
with them on common subjects, yet do not your
secret thoughts still run upon London or York,
its business, or its pleasures? And above all, if
you are likely to set out early, are you not afraid
of over-sleeping, and does not that fear keep you
upon the watch, so that you are commonly up
and ready before the porter comes to summon
you? Reader! if this be your case, how sur-
prised will you be to hear that the travellers to
the far country have not half your prudence,
though embarked on a journey of infinitely more
importance, bound to a land where nothing can
be sent after them, in which, when they are once
settled, all errors are irretrievable.
I observed that these pilgrims, instead of being
Now, I only appeal to you, my readers, if any upon the watch, lest they should be ordered off
of you are setting out upon a little common unprepared; instead of laying up any provision,
journey, if it is only to London or York, is not or even making memorandums of what they
all
your leisure time employed in settling your would be likely to want at the end of their jour-
business at home, and packing up every little ney, spent most of their time in crowds, either
necessary for your expedition? And does not in the way of traffic or diversion. At first, when
the fear of neglecting any thing you ought to I saw them so much engaged in conversing with
remember, or may have occasion for, haunt your each other, I thought it a good sign, and listened
mind, and sometimes even intrude upon you un-attentively to their talk, not doubting but the
seasonably? And when you are actually on chief turn of it would be about the climate, or
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
177
|
|
turned them out of these habitations before he
had on his part provided for them a better, so
that there was not such a landlord in the world;
and though their present dwelling was but frail,
being only slightly run up to serve the occasion,
yet they might hold their future possession by a
most certain tenure, the word of the lord himself.
This word was entered in a covenant, or title-
deed, consisting of many sheets, and because a
great many good things were given away in
this deed, a book was made of which every soul
might get a copy,
poor
treasures, or society, they should probably meet
with in the far country. I supposed they might
be also discussing about the best and safest road
to it, and that each was availing himself of the
knowledge of his neighbour, on a subject of
equal importance to all. I listened to every
party, but in scarcely any did I hear one word
about the land to which they were bound, though
it was their home, the place where their whole
interest, expectation, and inheritance lay; to
which also great part of their friends were gone
before, and whither they were sure all the rest
would follow.-Instead of this, their whole talk This indeed had not always been the case }
was about the business, or the pleasures, or the because, till a few ages back, there had been a
fashions of the strange but bewitching country sort of monopoly in the case, and 'the wise and
which they were merely passing through, and prudent;' that is, the cunning and fraudful, had
in which they had not one foot of land which hid these things from the babes and sucklings;'
they were sure of calling their own for the next that is, from the low and ignorant, and many
quarter of an hour. What little estate they had frauds had been practised, and the
was personal, and not real, and that was a mort- cheated of their right; so that not being allowed
had been
gaged, life-hold tenement of clay, not properly to read and judge for themselves, they had been
their own, but only lent to them on a short un- sadly imposed upon; but all these tricks had
certain lease, of which three-score years and been put an end to more than two hundred years
ten was considered as the longest period, and when I passed through the country, and the
very few indeed lived in it to the end of the meanest man who could read might then have a
term; for this was always at the will of the lord, copy; so that he might see himself what he had
part of whose prerogative it was, that he could to trust to; and even those who could not read,
take away the lease at pleasure, knock down might hear it read once or twice every week, at
the stoutest tenement at a single blow, and turn least, without pay, by learned and holy men,
out the poor shivering, helpless inhabitant naked, whose business it was. But it surprised me to
to that fur country for which he had made no see how few comparatively made use of these
provision. Sometimes, in order to quicken the vast advantages. Of those who had a copy,
pilgrim in his preparation, the lord would break many laid it carelessly by, expressed a general
down the tenement by slow degrees; sometimes belief in the truth of the title deed, a general
he would let it tumble by its own natural decay; satisfaction that they should come in for a share
for it was only built to last a certain term, it of the inheritance, a general good opinion of the
would often grow so uncomfortable by increasing lord whose word it was, and a general disposis
dilapidations even before the ordinary lease was tion to take his promise upon trust; always,
out, that the lodging was hardly worth keeping, however, intending, at a convenient season, to
though the tenant could seldom be persuaded to inquire farther into the matter; but this conve-
think so, but fondly clung to it to the last.-nient season seldom came; and this neglect of
First the thatch on the top of the tenement
changed colour, then it fell off and left the roof
bare; then the grinders ceased because they At the end of this country lay the vast gulf
were few; then the windows became so dark- mentioned before; it was shadowed over by a
ened that the owner could scarcely see through broad and thick cloud, which prevented the pil-
them; then one prop fell away, then another, grims from seeing in a distinct manner what
then the uprights became bent, and the whole was doing behind it, yet such beams of bright-
fabric trembled and tottered, with every other ness now and then darted through the cloud, as
symptom of a falling house. But what was re-enabled those who used a telescope, provided for
markable, the more uncomfortable the house
became, and the less prospect there was of stay-
ing in it, the more preposterously fond did the
tenant grow of his precarious habitation.
On some occasions the lord ordered his mes-
sengers, of which he has a great variety, to batter,
injure, deface, and almost demolish the frail
building, even while it seemed new and strong;
this was what the landlord called giving warn-
ing; but many a tenant would not take warning,
and so fond of staying where he was, even under
all these inconveniences, that at last he was cast
out by ejectment, not being prevailed on to leave
his dwelling in a proper manner, though one
would have thought the fear of being turned out
would have whetted his diligence in preparing
for a better and more enduring inheritance. For
though the people were only tenants at will in
these crazy tenements, yet, through the goodness
of the same lord, they were assured that he never
VOL. I.
M
theirs was construed by their lord into a for-
feiture of the inheritance.
that purpose, to see the substance of things hoped
for; but it was not every one who could make
use of this telescope; no eye indeed was natu-
rally disposed to it; but an earnest desire of
getting a glimpse of the invisible realities, gave
such a strength and steadiness to the eye which
used the telescope, as enabled it to discern many
things which could not be seen by the natural
sight.-Above the cloud was this inscription :
The things which are seen are temporal, but the
things which are not seen are eternal. Of these
last things many glorious descriptions had been
given; but as those splendors were at a distance,
and as the pilgrims in general did not care to
use the telescope, these distant glories made
little impression.
The glorious inheritance which lay beyond
the cloud, was called, The things above, while a
multitude of trifling objects, which appeared
conteinptibly small when looked at through the
178
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
telescope, were called the things below. Now,
as we know it is nearness which gives size and
bulk to any object, it was not wonderful that
these ill-judging pilgrims were more struck with
these baubles and trifles, which, by laying close
at hand, were visible and tempting to the naked
eye, and which made up the sum of the things
below, than with the remote glories of the things
above; but this was chiefly owing to their not
making use of the telescope, through which, if
you examined thoroughly the things below, they
seemed to shrink almost down to nothing, which
was indeed their real size; while the things above
appeared the more beautiful and vast, the more
the telescope was used. But the surprising part
of the story was this; not that the pilgrims were
captivated at first sight with the things below,
for that was natural enough; but that when they
had tried them all over and over, and found
themselves deceived and disappointed in almost
every one of them, it did not at all lessen their
fondness, and they grasped at them again with
the same eagerness as before. There were some
gay fruits which looked alluring, but on being
opened, instead of a kernel, they were found to
contain rottenness; and those which seemed the
fullest, often proved on trial to be quite hollow
and empty. Those which were most tempting
to the eye, were often found to be wormwood to
the taste, or poison to the stomach, and many
flowers that seemed most bright and gay had a
worm gnawing at the root; and it was observa-
ble that on the finest and brightest of them was
seen, when looked at through the telescope, the
word vanity inscribed in large characters.
Among the chief attractions of the things be-
low were certain little lumps of yellow clay, on
which almost every eye and every heart was
fixed. When I saw the variety of uses to which
this clay could be converted, and the respect
which was shown to those who could scrape
together the greatest number of pieces, I did not
much wonder at the general desire to pick up
some of them; but when I beheld the anxiety,
the wakefulness, the competitions, the contri-
vances, the tricks, the frauds, the scuffling, the
pushing, the turmoiling, the kicking, the shov-
ing, the cheating, the circumvention, the envy,
the malignity, which was excited by a desire to
possess this article; when I saw the general
scramble among those who had little to get
much, and of those who had much to get more,
then I could not help applying to these people a
proverb in use among us, that gold may be bought
too dear.
Though I saw that there were various sorts
of baubles which engaged the hearts of different
travellers, such as an ell of red or blue ribbon,
for which some were content to forfeit their
future inheritance, committing the sin of Esau,
without his temptation of hunger; yet the yellow
clay I found was the grand object for which
most hands were scrambling, and most souls
were risked. One thing was extraordinary, that
the nearer these people were to being turned out
of their tenement, the fonder they grew of these
pieces of clay; so that I naturally concluded
they meant to take the clay with them to the
far country, to assist them in their establishment
in it; but I soon learnt this clay was not current
I
there, the lord having farther declared to these
pilgrims that as they had brought nothing into
this world, they could carry nothing away.
I inquired of the different people who were
raising the various heaps of clay, some of a
larger, some of a smaller size, why they dis-
covered such unremitting anxiety, and for whom?
Some, whose piles were immense, told me they
were heaping up for their children; this I
thought very right, till, on casting my eyes
around, I observed many of the children of these
very people had large heaps of their own. Others
told me it was for their grand-children; but on
inquiry I found these were not yet born, and in
many cases there was little chance that they
ever would. The truth, on a close examination,
proved to be, that the true genuine heapers really
heaped for themselves; that it was in fact nei-
ther for friend nor child, but to gratify an inor-
Nor was I much
dinate appetite of their own.
surprised after this to see these yellow hoards
at length canker, and the rust of them become a
witness against the hoarders, and eat their flesh
as it were fire.
Many, however, who had set out with a high
heap of their father's raising, before they had
got one third of their journey, had scarcely a
As I was wondering what
single piece left.
had caused these enormous piles to vanish in so
short a time, I spied scattered up and down the
country all sorts of odd inventions, for some or
other of which the vain possessors of the great
heaps of clay had truckled and bartered them
away in fewer hours than their ancestors had
spent years in getting them together. O what
a strange unaccountable medley it was! and
what was ridiculous enough, I observed that the
greatest quantity of the clay was always ex-
changed for things that were of no use that I
could discover, owing I suppose to my ignorance
of the manners of the country.
In one place I saw large heaps exhausted, in
order to set two idle pampered horses a running ;
but the worst part of the joke was, the horses
did not run to fetch or carry any thing, of course
were of no kind of use, but merely to let the
gazers see which could run fastest. Now, this
gift of swiftness, exercised to no useful purpose,
was only one out of many instances, I observed,
of talents employed to no end. In another place
I saw whole piles of the clay spent to maintain
long ranges of buildings full of dogs, on provi-
sions which would have nicely fattened some
thousands of pilgrims, who sadly wanted fatten-
ing, and whose ragged tenements were out at
elbows, for want of a little help to repair them.
Some of the piles were regularly pulled down
once in seven years, in order to corrupt certain
needy pilgrims to belie their consciences, by
doing that for a bribe which they were bound to
do from principle. Others were spent in play-
ing with white stiff bits of paper, painted over
with red and black spots, in which I thought
there must be some conjuring, because the very
touch of these painted pasteboards made the
heaps fly from one to another, and back again
to the same, in a way that natural causes could
not account for. There was another proof that
there must be some magic in this business
which was that if a pasteboard with red spots
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
179
fell into a hand which wanted a black one, the
person changed colour, his eyes flashed fire, and
he discovered other symptoms of madness,
which showed there was some witchcraft in the
case. These clean little pasteboards as harm-
less as they looked, had the wonderful power of
pulling down the highest piles in less time than
all the other causes put together. I observed
that many small piles were given in exchange
for an enchanted liquor which when the pur-
chaser had drunk to a little excess, he lost power
of managing the rest of his heap without losing |
the love of it; and thus the excess of indulgence,
by making him a beggar, deprived himn of that
very gratification on which his heart was set.
Now I find it was the opinion of sober pil-
grims, that either hoarding the clay, or trucking
it for any such purposes as the above, was
thought exactly the same offence in the eyes of
the lord; and it was expected that when they
should come under his more immediate juris-
diction in the far country, the penalty annexed
to hoarding and squandering would be nearly
the same.- -While I examined the countenances
of the owners of the heaps, I observed that those
who I well knew never intended to make any
use at all of their heap, were far more terrified
at the thought of losing it, or of being torn from
it, than those were who were employing it in
the most useful manner. Those who best knew
what to do with it, set their hearts least upon
it, and were always most willing to leave it.
But such riddles were common in this odd
country. It was indeed a very land of para-
doxes.
:
Now I wondered why these pilgrims, who
were naturally made erect with an eye formed
to look up to the things above, yet had their eyes
almost constantly bent in the other direction,
riveted to the earth, and fastened on things be-
low, just like those animals who walk on all
four. I was told they had not always been sub-
ject to this weakness of sight, and proneness to
earth that they had originally been upright
and beautiful, having been created after the
image of the lord, who was himself the perfec-
tion of beauty; that he had, at first, placed them
in a far superior situation, which he had given
them in perpetuity; but that their first ances-
tors fell from it through pride and carelessness;
that upon this the freehold was taken away,
they lost their original strength, brightness, and
beauty, and were driven out into this strange
country, where, however, they had every oppor-
tunity given them of recovering their original
health, and the lord's favour and likeness; for
they were become so disfigured, and were grown
so unlike him, that you would hardly believe
they were his own children, though, in some,
the resemblance was become again visible.
The lord, however, was so merciful, that, in-
stead of giving them up to the dreadful conse-
quences of their own folly, as he might have
done without any impeachment of his justice,
he gave them immediate comfort, and promised
them that, in due time, his own son should come
down and restore them to the future inheritance
which he should purchase for them. And now
it was, that in order to keep up their spirits,
after they had lost their estate through the folly
|
of their ancestors, that he began to give them a
part of their former title deed. He continued
to send them portions of it from time to time
by different faithful servants, whom, however,
these ungrateful people generally used ill, and
some of whom they murdered. But for all this,
the lord was so very forgiving, that he at length
sent these mutineers a proclamation of full and
free pardon by his son. This son, though they
used him in a more cruel manner than they had
done any of his servants, yet after having finish-
ed the work his father gave him to do, went back
into the far country to prepare a place for all
them who believe in him; and there he still
lives; begging and pleading for those unkind
people, whom he still loves and forgives, and will
restore to the purchased inheritance on the easy
terms of their being heartily sorry for what they
have done, thoroughly desirous of pardon, and
convinced that he is able and willing to save to
the utmost all them that come unto him.
I saw, indeed, that many old offenders ap-
peared to be sorry for what they had done; that
is, they did not like to be punished for it. They
were willing enough to be delivered from the
penalty of their guilt, but they did not heartily
wish to be delivered from the power of it. Many
declared, in the most public manner, once every
week, that they were sorry they had done amiss
that they had erred and strayed like lost sheep,
but it was not enough to declare their sorrow,
ever so often, if they gave no other sign of their
penitence. For there was so little truth in them,
that the lord required other proofs of their sin.
cerity beside their own word, for they often lied
with their lips and dissembled with their tongue
But those who professed to be penitents must
give some outward proof of it. They were nei
ther allowed to raise heaps of clay, by circum
venting their neighbours, or to keep great piles
lying by them useless; nor must they barter
them for any of those idle vanities which re
duced the heaps on a sudden: for I found that
among the grand articles of future reckoning,
the use they had made of the heaps would be a
principal one.
I was sorry to observe many of the fairer part
of these pilgrims spend too much of their heaps
in adorning and beautifying their tenements of
clay, in painting, white-washing, and enamel-
ling them. All those tricks, however, did not
preserve them from decay; and when they grew
old, they even looked worse for all this cost and
varnish. Some, however, acted a more sensible
part, and spent no more upon their mouldering
tenements than just to keep them whole and
clean, and in good repair, which is what every
tenant ought to do; and I observed that those
who were most moderate in the care of their
own tenements, were most attentive to repair
and warm the ragged tenements of others. But
none did this with much zeal or acceptance, but
those who had acquired a habit of overlooking
the things below, and who also, by the constant
use of the telescope had got their natural weak
and dim sight so strengthened, as to be able to
discern pretty distinctly the nature of the things
above. The habit of fixing their eyes on these
glories made all the shining trifles, which com-
pose the mass of things below, at last appear in
180
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
their own diminutive littleness. For it was in
this case particularly true, that things are only
big or little by comparison; and there was no
other way of making the things below, appear as
small as they really were, but by comparing
them, by means of the telescope, with the things
above. But I observed that the false judgment
of the pilgrims ever kept pace with their wrong
practices; for those who kept their eyes fasten-
ed on the things below, were reckoned wise in
their generation, while the few who looked for-
ward to the future glories, were accounted by
the bustlers, or heapers, to be either fools or
mad.
Most of these pilgrims went on in adorning
their tenements, adding to their heaps, grasping
the things below as if they would never let them
go, shutting their eyes, instead of using their
telescope, and neglecting their title deed, as if
it was the parchment of another man's estate,
and not of their own; till one after another each
felt his tenement tumbling about his ears.-Oh!
then what a busy, bustling, anxious, terrifying,
distracting moment was that! What a deal of
business was to be done, and what a strange
time was this to do it in! Now, to see the con-
fusion and dismay occasioned by having left
every thing to the last minute. First, some one
was sent for to make over the yellow heaps, to
another, which the heaper now found would be
of no use to himself in shooting the gulf; a
transfer which ought to have been made while
the tenement was sound. Then there was a
consultation between two or three masons at
|
once perhaps, to try to patch up the walls, and
strengthen the props, and stop the decays of the
tumbling tenement; but not till the masons
were forced to declare it was past repairing (a
truth they were rather too apt to keep back) did
the tenant seriously think it was time to pack
up, prepare and begone. Then what sending for
the wise men who professed to explain the title
deed! And oh! what remorse that they had ne-
glected to examine it till their senses were too
confused for so weighty a business! What re-
proaches, or what exhortations to others, to look
better after their own affairs than they had done!
Even to the wisest of the inhabitants the falling
of their tenements was a solemn thing; solemn,
but not surprising; they had long been packing
up and preparing; they praised their lord's
goodness that they had been suffered to stay so
long; many acknowledged the mercy of their
frequent warnings, and confessed that those very
dilapidations which had made the house uncom-
fortable had been a blessing, as it had set them
on diligent preparation for their future inherit-
ance; had made them more earnest in examin-
ing their title to it, and had set them on such a
frequent application to the telescope, that the
things above had seemed every day to approach
nearer and nearer, and the things below to re-
cede and vanish in proportion. These desired
not to be unclothed but to be clothed upon, for
they knew that if their tabernacle was dissolved,
they had an house not made with hands, eternal
in the heavens.'
THE VALLEY OF TEARS
A VISION.
OR, BEAR YE ONE ANOTHER'S BURTHENS.
ONCE upon a time methought I set out upon af
long journey, and the place through which I
travelled appeared to be a dark valley, which
was called the Valley of Tears. It had obtained
this name, not only on account of the many sor-
rowful adventures which poor passengers com-
monly meet with in their journey through it;
but also because most of these travellers entered
it weeping and crying, and left it in very great
pain and anguish. This vast valley was full of
people of all colours, ages, sizes and descrip-
tions. But whether white, or black, or tawny,
all were travelling the same road; or rather
they were taking different little paths which all
led to the same common end.
Now it was remarkable, that notwithstanding
the different complexions, ages, and tempers of
this vast variety of people, yet all resembled each
other in this one respect, that each had a burthen
on his back which he was destined to carry
through the toil and heat of the day, until he
should arrive, by a longer or shorter course, at
his journey's end. These burthens would in
general have made the pilgrimage quite intolera-
ble, had not the lord of the valley, out of his
great compassion for these poor pilgrims, pro-
|
vided, among other things, the following means
for their relief:
In their full view over the entrance of the
valley, there were written, in great letters of
gold, the following words:
Bear ye one another's burthens.
Now I saw in my vision that many of the
travellers hurried on without stopping to read
this inscription, and others, though they had
once read it, yet paid little or no attention to it.
A third sort thought it very good advice for
other people, but very seldom applied it to them-
selves. They uniformly desired to avail them-
selves of the assistance which by this injunction
others were bound to offer them, but seldom con-
sidered that the obligation was mutual, and that
reciprocal wants and reciprocal services formed
the strong cord in the bond of charity. In short,
I saw that too many of these people were of opi-
nion that they had burthens enough of their own,
and that there was therefore no occasion to take
upon them those of others; so each tried to make
his own load as light, and his own journey as
pleasant as he could, without so much as once
casting a thought on a poor overloaded neigh
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
181
bour. Here, however, I have to make a rather other of those raw materials, out of which hu-
singular remark, by which I shall plainly show! man misery is worked up. She was so weak
showman
the folly of these selfish people. It was so or- that she could not have got on at all, had it not
dered and contrived by the lord of this valley, been for the kind assistance of another woman
that if any one stretched out his hand to lighten almost as poor as herself; who, though she had
a neighbour's burthen, in fact he never failed to no light burthen of her own, cheerfully lent an
find that he at that moment also lightened his helping hand to a fellow traveller who was still
own. Besides the benefit of helping each other, more heavily laden. This friend had indeed
was as mutual as the obligation. If a man help- little or nothing to give, but the very voice of
ed his neighbour, it commonly happened that kindness is soothing to the weary. And I re-
some other neighbour came by-and-by and help- marked in many other cases, that it was not so
ed him in his turn; for there was no such thing much the degree of the help afforded, as the
as what we called independence in the whole manner of helping that lightened the burthens.
valley. Not one of all these travellers, however Some had a coarse, rough, clumsy way
of as-
stout and strong, could move on comfortably sisting a neighbour, which, though in fact it
without assistance, for so the lord of the valley, might be of real use, yet seemed, by galling the
whose laws were all of them kind and good, had traveller, to add to the load it was intended to
expressly ordained.
lighten; while I observed in others that so
cheap a kindness as a mild word, or even an
affectionate look made a poor burthened wretch
move on cheerily. The bare feeling that some
human being cared for him, seemed to lighten
the load. But to return to this kind neighbour.
She had a little old book in her hand, the covers
of which were torn out by much use. When
she saw the blind woman ready to faint, she
would read her a few words out of this book,
such as the following- Blessed are the poor in
spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.'-
A sorrowful widow, oppressed with the bur-Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be
then of grief for the loss of an affectionate hus-comforted.'-' I will never leave thee nor for-
band, moved heavily on; and would have been
bowed down by her heavy load, had not the
surviving children with great alacrity stepped
forward and supported her. Their kindness
after a while, so much lightened the load which
threatened at first to be intolerable, that she
even went on her way with cheerfulness, and
more than repaid their help, by applying the
strength she derived from it to their future as-
sistance.
I stood still to watch the progress of these
poor way-faring people, who moved slowly on,
like so many ticket-porters, with burthens of
various kinds on their backs; of which some
were heavier, and some were lighter, but from
a burthen of one kind or other, not one traveller
was entirely free. There might be some dif-
ference in the degree, and some distinction in
the nature, but exemption there was none.
The Widow.
The Husband.
sake thee.'-For our light affliction, which is
but for a moment, worketh out for us a far more
exceeding and eternal weight of glory.' These
quickened the pace, and sustained the spirits
of the blind traveller: and the kind neighbour
by thus directing the attention of the poor suf-
ferer to the blessings of a better world, helped
to enable her to sustain the afflictions of this,
more effectually than if she had had gold and
silver to bestow on her.
The Clergyman.
I next saw a poor old man tottering under a A pious minister, sinking under the weight
burthen so heavy, that I expected him every of a distressed parish, whose worldly wants he
moment to sink under it. I peeped into his was totally unable to bear, was suddenly re-
pack, and saw it was made up of many sad ar- lieved by a charitable widow, who came up and
ticles; there were poverty, oppression, sickness, took all the sick and hungry on her own shoul-
debt, and, what made by far the heaviest part, ders as her part of the load. The burthen of
undutiful children. I was wondering how it the parish thus divided became tolerable. The
was that he got on even so well as he did, till minister being no longer bowed down by the
I spied his wife, a kind, meek, christian woman, temporal distresses of his people, applied him-
who was doing her utmost to assist him. She self cheerfully to his own part of the weight.
quietly got behind, gently laid her shoulder to And it was pleasant to see how those two per-
the burthen, and carried a much larger portion sons, neither of them very strong, or rich, or
of it than appeared to me when I was at a dis- healthy, by thus kindly uniting together, were
tance. It was not the smallest part of the be-enabled to bear the weight of a whole parish;
nefit that she was anxious to conceal it. She
not only sustained him by her strength, but
cheered him by her counsels. She told him,
that 'through much tribulation we must enter
into rest;' that he that overcometh shall in-
herit all things.' In short, she so supported
his fainting spirit, that he was enabled to run
with patience the race which was set before him.,
The Kind Neighbour.
An infirm blind woman was creeping forward
with a very heavy burthen, in which were
packed sickness and want, with numberless
though singly, either of them must have sunk
under the attempt. And I remember one great
grief I felt during my whole journey was, that
I did not see more of this union and concurring
kindness, more of this acting in concert, by
which all the burthens might have been so
easily divided. It troubled me to observe, that
of all the laws of the valley there was not one
more frequently broken than the law of kindness.
The Negroes.
I now spied a swarm of poor black men, wo-
men, and children, a multitude which no man
182
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
served that most of them took no small pains to
hide the writing; but I was surprised to see that
they did not try to get rid of the load but the
label. If any kind friend who assisted these
people in bearing their burthens, did but so
much as hint at the secret packet, or advise
them to get rid of it, they took fire at once, and
commonly denied they had any such article in
their portmanteau; and it was those whose se-
cret packet swelled to the most enormous size,
who most stoutly denied they had any.
grew fainter also; it was never quite obliterated
in any, though in some cases it seemed nearly
effaced.
could number; these groaned and toiled, and
sweated, and bled under far heavier loads than
I have yet seen.
But for a while no man help-
ed them; at length a few white travellers were
touched with the sorrowful sighing of those
millions, and very heartily did they put their
hands to the burthens; but their number was
not quite equal to the work they had undertaken.
I perceived, however, that they never lost sight
of those poor heavy-laden wretches; though
often repulsed, they returned again to the
charge; though discomfited, they renewed the I saw with pleasure, however, that some who
effort, and some even pledged themselves to an had long laboured heartily to get rid of this in-
annual attempt till the project was accomplish-ward packet, at length found it much diminish-
ed; and as the number of these generous help-ed, and the more this packet shrunk in size, the
ers increased every year, I felt a comfortable lighter was the other part of their burthen also.
hope, that before all the blacks got out of the I observed, moreover, that though the label, al-
valley, the whites would fairly divide the burthen, ways remained in some degree indelible, yet
and the loads would be effectually lightened. that those who were earnest to get rid of the
Among the travellers, I had occasion to re-load, found that the original traces of the label
mark, that those who most kicked and struggled
under their burthens, only made them so much
the heavier, for their shoulders became ex-
tremely galled by those vain and ineffectual Then methought, all at once, I heard a voice,
struggles. The load, if borne patiently, would in as it had been the voice of an angel, crying out
the end have turned even to the advantage of and saying, 'Ye unhappy pilgrims, why are
the bearers, for so the lord of the valley had ye troubled about the burthen which ye are
kindly decreed; but as to these grumblers, they doomed to bear through this valley of tears?
had all the smart, and none of the benefit; they Know ye not, that as soon as ye shall have es-
had the present suffering without the future re-caped out of this valley the whole burthen shall
ward. But the thing which made all these drop off, provided ye neglect not to remove that
burthens seem so very heavy was, that in every | inward weight, that secret load of SIN which
one without exception, there was a certain inner | principally oppresses you? Study then the whole
packet, which most of the travellers took pains will of the lord of this valley. Learn from him
to conceal, and kept carefully wrapped up; and how this heavy part of your burthens may now
while they were forward enough to complain be lessened, and how at last it shall be removed
of the other part of their burthens, few said a for ever. Be comforted. Faith and hope may
word about this, though in truth it was the cheer you even in this valley. The passage,
pressing weight of this secret packet which though it seems long to weary travellers, is com.
served to render the general burthen so intoler-paratively short; for beyond there is a land of
able. In spite of all their caution, I contrived
to get a peep at it. I found in each that this
packet had the same label; the word SIN was
written on all as a general title, and in ink so
black, that they could not wash it out. I ob-
everlasting rest, where ye shall hunger no more,
neither thirst any more, where ye shall be led
by living fountains of waters, and all tears shall
be wiped away from your eyes.'
THE STRAIT GATE AND THE BROAD WAY
AN ALLEGORY.
Now I had a second vision of what was pass- 'Ask and ye shall have,' was the universal rule
ing in the Valley of Tears. Methought I saw he had laid down for them. But though they
again the same kind of travellers whom I had knew the condition of the obligation, many
seen in the former part, and they were wander- were prevented from asking through pride and
ing at large through the same vast wilderness. vanity, for they thought they had light enough
At first setting out on his journey, each travel- already, preferring the feeble glimmerings of
ler had a small lamp so fixed in his bosom that their own lamp, to all the offered light from the
it seemed to make a part of himself; but as this king's treasury. Yet it was observed of those
natural light did not prove to be sufficient to who rejected it, as thinking they had enough,
direct them in the right way, the king of the that hardly any acted up to what even their own
country, in pity to their wanderings and blind- natural light showed them. Others were deter-
ness, out of his gracious condescension, pro- red from asking, because they were told that this
mised to give these poor wayfaring people an light not only pointed out the dangers and difficul-
additional supply of light from his own royalties of the road, but by a certain reflecting power,
treasury. But as he did not choose to lavish it turned inward on themselves, and revealed
his favours where there seemed no disposition to them ugly sights in their own hearts, to
to receive them, he would not bestow any of his which they rather chose to be blind; for those
oil on such as did not think it worth asking for. I travellers were of that preposterous number,
|
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
163
who 'chose darkness rather than light,' and for
the old obvious reason, because their deeds were
evil.' Now, it was remarkable that these two
properties were inseparable, and that the lamp
would be of little ontward use, except to those
who used it as an internal reflector. A threat
and a promise also never failed to accompany
the offer of this light from the king; a promise
that to those who improved what they had, more
should be given; and a threat, that from those
who did not use it wisely, should be taken away
even what they had.
I observed that when the road was very dan-
gerous; when terrors, and difficulties, and death
beset the fervent traveller; then, on their faithful
importunity, the king voluntarily gave large
and bountiful supplies of light, such as in com-
mon seasons never could have been expected:
always proportioning the quantity given to the
necessity of the case; as their day was, such
was their light and strength.'
out
!
ers, yet there was always poison at the bottom.
But what most surprised me was that though no
day past over their heads in which some of the
most merry-makers did not drop through, yet
their loss made little impression on those who
were left. Nay, instead of being awakened to
more circumspection, and self-denial by the con-
tinual dropping off of those about them, several
of them seemed to borrow from thence an argu-
ment of a direct contrary tendency, and the very
shortness of time was only urged as a reason to
use it more sedulously for the indulgence in
sensual delights. Let us eat and drink, for to-
morrow we die.' 'Let us crown ourselves with
rose-buds before they are withered.' With these
and a thousand other such little inscriptions, the
gay garlands of the wilderness were decorated.
Some admired poets were set to work to set the
most corrupt sentiments to the most harmonious
tunes; these were sung without scruple, chiefly
indeed by the looser sons of riot, but not seldom
also by the more orderly daughters of sobriety,
who were not ashamed to sing to the sound of
instruments, sentiments so corrupt and immoral,
that they would have blushed to speak or read
them: but the music seemed to sanctify the
corruption, especially such as was connected
with love or drinking.
men, though simple, could not err.' This map
also defined very correctly the boundaries of the
Happy Land from the Land of Misery, both of
which lay on the other side of the dark and sha-
dowy valley; but so many beacons and light-
Though many chose to depend entirely on
their own original lamp, yet it was observed
that this light was apt to go out if left to itself.
It was easily blown out by those violent gusts
which were perpetually howling through the
wilderness; and indeed it was the natural ten-
dency of that unwholesome atmosphere to extin-
Now I observed that all the travellers who
guish it, just as you have seen a candle go
when exposed to the vapours and foul air of a had so much as a spark of life left, seemed every
damp room. It was a melancholy sight to see now and then, as they moved onwards, to cast
multitudes of travellers heedlessly pacing on, an eye, though with very different degrees of
boasting they had light enough of their own, attention, towards the Happy Land, which they
and despising the offer of more. But what as- were told lay at the end of their journey; but as
tonished me most of all was, to see many, and they could not see very far forward, and as they
some of them too accounted men of first rate knew there was a dark and shadowy valley which
wit, actually busy in blowing out their own light, must needs be crossed before they could attain
because while any spark of it remained, it only to the Happy Land, they tried to turn their at-
served to torment them, and point out things tention from it as much as they could. The
which they did not wish to see. And having truth is, they were not sufficiently apt to consult
once blown out their own light, they were not a map and a road-book which the King had
easy till they had blown out that of their neigh-given them, and which pointed out the path to
bours also; so that a good part of the wilderness the Happy Land so clearly, that the wayfaring
seemed to exhibit a sort of universal blindman's
buff, each endeavoring to catch his neighbour,
while his own voluntary blindness exposed him
to be caught himself; so that each was actually
falling into the snare he was laying for another,
till at length, as selfishness is the natural con-houses were erected, so many clear and explicit
sequence of blindness, catch he that catch can,' directions furnished for avoiding the one coun-
became the general motto of the wilderness. try and attaining the other, that it was not the
Now I saw in my vision, that there were some king's fault, if even one single traveller got
others who were busy in strewing the most gaudy wrong. But I am inclined to think that, in
flowers over the numerous bogs, and precipices, spite of the map and the road-book, and the
and pitfalls with which the wilderness abounded; King's word, and his offers of assistance to get
and thus making danger and death look so gay, them thither, that the travellers in general did
that poor thoughtless creatures seemed to delight not heartily and truly believe, after all, that
in their own destruction. Those pitfalls did not there was any such country as the Happy Land;
appear deep or dangerous to the eye, because or at least the paltry and transient pleasures of
over them were raised gay edifices with alluring the wilderness so besotted them, the thoughts of
names. These were filled with singing men and the dark and shadowy valley so frightened them,
singing women, and with dancing, and feasting, that they thought they should be more com-
and gaming, and drinking, and jollity, and mad- fortable by banishing all thought and forecast,
ness. But though the scenery was gay, the and driving the subject quite out of their heads.
footing was unsound. The floors were full of Now, I also saw in my dream, that there were
holes, through which the unthinking merry-two roads through the wilderness, one of which
makers were continually sinking. Some tum-every traveller must needs take. The first was
bled through in the middle of a song; more at
the end of a feast; and though there was many
a cup of intoxication wreathed round with flow-
narrow, and difficult, and rough, but it was in-
fallibly safe. It did not admit the traveller to
stray either to the right hand or to the left, yet
184
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
it was far from being destitute of real comforts
or sober pleasures. The other was a broad and
tempting way, abounding with luxurious fruits
and gaudy flowers, to tempt the eye and please
the appetite. To forget this dark valley, through
which every traveller was well assured he must
one day pass, seemed the object of general de-
sire. To this grand end, all that human inge-
nuity could invent was industriously set to work.
The travellers read, and they wrote, and they
painted, and they sung, and they danced, and
they drank as they went along, not so much
because they all cared for these things, or had
any real joy in them, as because this restless
activity served to divert their attention from
ever being fixed on the dark and shadowy valley.
The king, who knew the thoughtless tempers
of the travellers, and how apt they were to forget
their journey's end, had thought of a thousand
little kind attentions to warn them of their dan-
gers: and as we sometimes see in our gardens
written on a board in great letters, BEWARE OF
SPRING GUNS-MAN TRAPS ARE SET HERE; so had
this king caused to be written and stuck up be-
fore the eyes of the travellers, several little
notices and cautions; such as, Broad is the
way that leadeth to destruction.-'Take heed,
lest ye also perish.'- Wo to them that rise up
early to drink wine.'-'The pleasures of sin are
but for a season,' &c. Such were the notices
directed to the broad-way travellers; but they
were so busily engaged in plucking the flowers,
sometimes before they were blown, and in de-
vouring the fruits often before they were ripe,
and in loading themselves with yellow clay, under
the weight of which millions perished, that they
had no time so much as to look at the king's
directions. Many went wrong because they
preferred a merry journey to a safe one, and
because they were terrified by certain notices
chiefly intended for the narrow-way travellers;
such as, ye shall weep and lament, but the
world shall rejoice :' but had these foolish people
allowed themselves time or patience to read to
the end, which they seldom would do, they would
have seen these comfortable words added, But
your sorrow shall be turned into joy; also,
your joy no man taketh from you; and, they
that sow in tears shall reap in joy.'
'
Now, I also saw in my dream, that many
travellers who had a strong dread of ending at
the Land of Misery walked up to the Strait
Gate, hoping that though the entrance was nar-
row, yet if they could once get in, the road would
widen; but what was their grief, when on look-
ing more closely they saw written on the inside,
Narrow is the way; this made them take
fright; they compared the inscriptions with
which the whole way was lined, such as, ' Be
ye not conformed to this world; deny yourselves,
take up your cross,' with all the tempting plea-
sures of the wilderness. Some indeed recollected
the fine descriptions they had read of the Happy
Land, the Golden City, and the Rivers of Plea-
sure, and they sighed : but then those joys were
distant, and from the faintness of their light,
they soon got to think that what was remote
might be uncertain, and while the present good
increased in bulk the distant good receded, di-
minished, disappeared. Their faith failed; they
|
would trust no farther than they could see; they
drew back and got into the Broad Way, taking
a common but sad refuge in the number, the
fashion, and the gayety of their companions.
When these faint-hearted people, who yet had
set out well, turned back, their light was quite
put out, and then they became worse than those
who had made no attempt to get in. For it is
impossible, that is, it is next to impossible, for
those who were once enlightened, and have tasted
of the heavenly gift, and the good word of God,
and the powers of the world to come, if they fall
away, to renew them again to repentance.'
A few honest humble travellers not naturally
stronger than the rest, but strengthened by their
trust in the king's word, came up, by the light
of their lamps, and meekly entered in at the
Strait Gate. As they advanced farther they
felt less heavy, and though the way did not in
reality grow wider, yet they grew reconciled to
the narrowness of it, especially when they saw the
walls here and there studded with certain jewels
called promises, such as: 'He that endureth to the
end shall be saved;' and 'my grace is sufficient for
you.' Some, when they were almost ready to
faint, were encouraged by seeing that many
niches in the Narrow Way were filled with sta-
tues and pictures of saints and martyrs, who
had borne their testimony at the stake, that the
Narrow Way was the safe way; and these tra-
vellers, instead of sinking at the sight of the
painted wheel and gibbet, the sword and furnace,
were animated with these words written under
them, Those that wear white robes, came out
of great tribulation,' and 'be ye followers of
those who through faith and patience inherit the
promises.'
In the mean time there came a great multi-
tude of travellers all from Laodicea; this was
the largest party I had yet seen; these were
neither hot nor cold; they would not give up
future hope, and they could not endure present
pain. So they contrived to deceive themselves,
by fancying that though they resolved to keep
the Happy Land in view, yet there must needs
be many different ways which lead to it, no doubt
all equally sure, without all being equally rough :
so they set on foot certain little contrivances to
attain the end without using the means, and
softened down the spirit of the king's directions
to fit them to their own practice. Sometimes
they would split a direction in two, and only use
that half which suited them. For instance when
they met with the following rule on the way.
post, Trust in the Lord and be doing good,'
they would take the first half, and make them-
selves easy with a general sort of trust, that
through the mercy of the king all would go well
with them, though they themselves did nothing.
And on the other hand, many made sure that a
few good works of their own would do their
business, and carry them safely to the Huppy
Land, though they did not trust in the Lord,
nor place any faith in his word. So they took
the second half of the spliced direction. Thus
some perished by a lazy faith, and others by a
working pride.
C
A large party of Pharisees now appeared, who
had so neglected their lamp that they did not
see their way at all, though they fancied them-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
185
selves to be full of light; they kept up appear-
ances so well as to delude others, and most effec-
tually to delude themselves, with a notion that
they might be found in the right way at last.
In this dreadful delusion they went on to the
end, and till they were finally plunged in the
dark valley, never discovered the horrors which
awaited them on the dismal shore. It was re-
markable that while these Pharisees were often
boasting how bright their light burnt, in order
to get the praise of men, the humble travellers,
whose steady light showed their good works to
others, refused all commendation, and the
brighter their light shined before men, so much
the more they insisted that they ought to glorify
not themselves, but their Father which is in
heaven.
I re-
|
pass the gate, he gave up all thoughts of it. Ho
scorned that humility and self-denial which
might have shrunk him down to the proper di-
mensions; the more he insisted on his own qua-
lifications for entrance, the more impossible it
became to enter, for the bigger he grew. Find-
ing that he must become quite another manner
of man before he could hope to get in, he gave
up the desire; and I now saw that though when
he set his face towards the Happy Land he could
not get an inch forward, yet the instant he made
a motion to turn back into the world, his speed
became rapid enough, and he got back into the
Broad Way much sooner than he got out of it.
|
Many, who for a time were brought down
from their usual bulk by some affliction, seemed
to get in with ease. They now thought all their
difficulties over, for having been surfeited with
the world during their late disappointment, they
turned their backs upon it willingly enough, and
fancied they were tired of it. A fit of sickness,
perhaps, which is very apt to reduce, had for a
time brought their bodies into subjection, so that
they were enabled just to get in at the gateway;
but as soon as health and spirits returned, the
way grew narrower and narrower to them; and
they could not get on, but turned short, and got
back into the world. I saw many attempt to
enter who were stopped short by a large burthen
of worldly cares; others by a load of idolatrous
attachments; but I observed that nothing proved
a more complete bar than that vast bundle of
prejudices with which multitudes were loaded.
Other were fatally obstructed by loads of bad
habits which they would not lay down, though
they knew it prevented their entrance.
I now set myself to observe what was the
particular let, molestation and hindrance which
obstructed particular travellers in their endea-
vours to enter in at the Strait Gate.
marked a huge portly man who seemed desirous
of getting in, but he carried about him such a
vast provision of bags full of gold, and had on
so many rich garments, which stuffed him out
so wide, that though he pushed and squeezed,
like one who had really a mind to get in, yet
he could not possibly do so. Then I heard a
voice crying, 'Wo to him who loadeth himself
with thick clay.' The poor man felt something
was wrong, and even went so far as to change
some of his more cumbersome vanities into
others which seemed less bulky, but still he
and his pack were much too wide for the gate.
He would not however give up the matter so
easily, but began to throw away a little of the
coarser part of his baggage, but still I remarked Some few, however, of most descriptions, who
that he threw away none of the vanities which had kept their light alive by craving constant
lay near his heart. He tried again, but it would supplies from the king's treasury, got through
not do; still his dimensions were too large. He at last by a strength which they felt not to be
now looked up and read these words, How their own. One poor man, who carried the
hardly shall those who have riches enter into largest bundle of bad habits I had seen, could
the kingdom of God.' The poor man sighed to not get on a step; he never ceased, however, to
find that it was impossible to enjoy his fill of implore for light enough to see where his mise-
both worlds, and went away sorrowing.' If hery lay; he threw down one of his bundles, then
ever afterwards cast a thought towards the
Happy Land, it was only to regret that the road
which led to it was too narrow to admit any but
the meagre children of want, who were not so
encumbered by wealth as to be too big for the
passage. Had he read on, he would have seen
that with God all things are possible.'
C
•
Another advanced with much confidence of
success, for having little worldly riches or ho-
nours, the gate did not seem so strait to him.
He got to the threshold triumphantly, and seem-
ed to look back with disdain on all that he was
quitting. He soon found, however, that he was
so bloated with pride, and stuffed out with self-
sufficiency, that he could not get in. Nay, he
was in a worse way than the rich man just
named; for he had been willing to throw away
some of his outward luggage, whereas this man
refused to part with a grain of that vanity and
self-applause which made him too large for the
way. The sense of his own worth so swelled
him out that he stuck fast in the gateway, and
could neither get in nor out. Finding now that
he must cut off all those big thoughts of himself,
if he wished to be reduced to such a size as to
•
another, but all to little purpose; still he could
not stir. At last striving as if in agony (which
is the true way of entering) he threw down the
the heaviest article in his pack; this was sel-
fishness: the poor fellow felt relieved at once,
his light burned brightly, and the rest of his
pack was as nothing.
Then I heard a great noise as of carpenters
at work. I looked what this might be, and saw
many sturdy travellers, who finding they were
too bulky to get through, took it into their heads
not to reduce themselves, but to widen the gate;
they hacked on this side, and hewed on that;
but ail their hacking and hewing, and hammer.
ing was to no purpose, they got their labour for
their pains. It would have been possible for
them to have reduced themselves, had they at-
tempted it, but to widen the narrow way was
impossible.
What grieved me most was to observe that
many who had got on successfully a good way,
now stopped to rest and to admire their own
progress. While they were thus valuing them-
selves on their attainments, their light diminish-
ed. While these were boasting how far they had
186
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
left others behind who had set out much earlier,
some slower travellers whose beginning had not
been so promising, but who had walked meekly
and circumspectly, now outstripped them.-
These last walked'not as though they had already
attained; but this one thing they did, forgetting
the things which were behind, they pushed for-
ward to the mark, for the prize of their high
calling. These, though naturally weak, yet by
laying aside every weight, finished the race that
was before them. Those who had kept their
'light burning,' who were not wise in their
own conceit,' who 'laid their help on one that is
mighty,' who had chosen to suffer affliction ra-
ther than to enjoy the pleasure of sin for a sea-
son,' came at length to the Happy Land.-They
had indeed the Dark and Shadowy Valley to
cross, but even there they found a rod and a
staff to comfort them. Their light instead of
being put out by the damps of the Valley and
of the Shadow of Death, often burnt with added
brightness. Some indeed suffered the terrors
of a short eclipse; but even then their light, like
that of a dark lantern, was not put out; it was
only turned for a while from him who carried
it, and even these often finished their course
with joy.-But be that as it might, the instant
they reached the Happy Land, all tears were
wiped from their eyes, and the king himself
came forth and welcomed them into his pre-
sence, and put a crown upon their heads, with
these words, Well done, good and faithful ser-
vant, enter thou into the joy of thy lord.'
PARLEY, THE PORTER.
AN ALLEGORY:
Showing how robbers without can never get into a house, unless there are traitors within.
THERE was once a certain nobleman who had
a house or castle situated in the midst of a great
wilderness, but inclosed in a garden. Now there
was a band of robbers in the wilderness who
had a great mind to plunder and destroy the
castle, but they had not succeeded in their en-
deavours, because the master had given strict
orders to watch without ceasing. To quicken
their vigilance he used to tell them that their
care would soon have an end; that though the
nights they had to watch were dark and stormy,
yet they were but few; the period of resistance
was short, that of rest would be eternal.
The robbers, however, attacked the castle in
various ways. They tried at every avenue,
watched to take advantage of every careless mo- |
ment; looked for an open door or a neglected
window. But though they often made the bolts
shake and the windows rattle, they could never
greatly hurt the house, much less get into it.
Do you know the reason? it was because the
servants were never off their guard. They
heard the noises plain enough, and used to be
not a little frightened, for they were aware both
of the strength and perseverance of their ene-
mies. But what seemed rather odd to some of
these servants, the lord used to tell them, that
while they continued to be afraid they would be
safe; and it passed into a sort of proverb in that
familyHappy is he that feareth always.' Some
of the servants, however, thought this a contra-
diction,
One day, when the master was going from
home, he called his servants all together, and
spoke to them as follows: 'I will not repeat to
you
the directions I have so often given you;
they are all written down in THE BOOK OF LAWS,
of which every one of you has a copy. Remem-
ber, it is a very short time that you are to re-
main in this castle; you will soon remove to my
more settled habitation, to a more durable house,
not made with hands. As that house is never
exposed to any attack, so it never stands in need
of any repair; for that country is never infested
by any sons of violence. Here you are servants;
there you will be princes. But mark my words,
and you will find the same in THE BOOK OF MY
LAWS, whether you will ever attain to that house,
will depend on the manner in which you defend
yourselves in this. A stout vigilance for a short
time will secure your certain happiness for ever.
But every thing depends on your present exer-
tions. Don't complain and take advantage of
my absence, and call me a hard master, and
grumble that you are placed in the midst of an
howling wilderness without peace or security.
Say not, that you are exposed to temptations
without any power to resist them. You have
some difficulties, it is true, but you have many
helps and many comforts to make this house
tolerable, even before you get to the other. Your's
is not a hard service; and if it were, 'the time
is short.' You have arms if you will use them,
and doors if you will bar them, and strength if
you will use it. I would defy all the attacks of
the robbers without, if I could depend on the
fidelity of the people within. If the thieves ever
get in and destroy the house, it must be by the
connivance of one of the family. For it is a
standing law of this castle, that mere outward
attack can never destroy it, if there be no con-
senting traitor within. You will stand or fall
as you will observe this rule. If you are finally
happy, it will be by my grace and favour; if you
are ruined, it will be your own fault.'
When the nobleman had done speaking, every
servant repeated his assurance of attachment
and firm allegiance to his master.
But among
them all, not one was so vehement and loud in
his professions as old Parley the porter. Parley,
indeed, it was well known, was always talking,
which exposed him to no small danger; for as
he was the foremost to promise, so he was the
slackest to perform: and, to speak the truth,
though he was a civil spoken fellow, his lord was
more afraid of him, with all his professions, than
he was of the rest who protested less. He knew
that Parley was vain, credulous, and self-suffi
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
187
cient; and he always apprehended more danger,
from Parley's impertinence, curiosity, and love
of novelty, than even from the stronger vices of
some of his other servants. The rest indeed,
seldom got into any scrape, of which Parley was
not the cause in some shape or other.
one of the robbers strolling as near as he could
be on the forbidden side. This man's name was
Mr. Flatterwell, a smooth civil man, 'whose
words were softer than butter, having war in his
heart.' He made several low bows to Parley.
Now, Parley knew so little of the world, that
he actually concluded all robbers must have an
ugly look which should frighten you at once,
and coarse brutal manners which would at first
sight show they were enemies. He thought,
like a poor ignorant fellow as he was, that this
mild specious person could never be one of the
band. Flatterwell accosted Parley with the
utmost civility, which put him quite off his
guard; for Parley had no notion that he could
be an enemy who was so soft and civil. For an
open foe he would have been prepared. Parley,
however, after a little discourse drew this con-
clusion, that either Mr. Flatterwell could not be
one of the gang, or that if he was, the robbers
themselves could not be such monsters as his
master had described, and therefore it was a
folly to be afraid of them.
I am sorry to be obliged to confess, that
though Parley was allowed every refreshment,
and all the needful rest which the nature of his
place permitted, yet he thought it very hard to
be forced to be so constantly on duty. Nothing
but watching,' said Parley. I have, to be sure,
many pleasures, and meat sufficient; and plenty |
of chat, in virtue of my office, and I pick up a
good deal of news of the comers and goers by
day, but it is hard that at night I must watch
as narrowly as a house-dog, and yet let in no
company without orders; only because there is
said to be a few straggling robbers here in the
wilderness, with whom my master does not care
to let us be acquainted. He pretends to make
us vigilant through fear of the robbers, but I
suspect it is only to make us mope alone. A
merry companion and a mug of beer would
make the night pass cheerily.' Parley, how-by lulling all Parley's suspicions asleep; and in-
ever, kept all these thoughts to himself, or ut-
tered them only when no one heard, for talk he
must. He began to listen to the nightly whist-
ling of the robbers under the windows with
rather less alarm than formerly, and was some-
times so tired of watching, that he thought it
was even better to run the risk of being robbed
once, than to live always in the fear of robbers.
Flatterwell began, like a true adept in his art,
stead of openly abusing his master, which would
have opened Parley's eyes at once, he pretended
rather to commend him in a general way, as a
person who meant well himself, but was too apt
to suspect others. To this Parley assented.
The other then ventured to hint by degrees, that
though the nobleman might be a good master in
the main, yet he must say he was a little strict,
There was certain bounds in which the lord and a little stingy, and not a little censorious.
allowed his servants to walk and divert them- That he was blamed by the gentlemen of the
selves at all proper seasons. A pleasant garden wilderness for shutting his house against good
surrounded the castle, and a thick hedge sepa- company, and his servants were laughed at by
rated this garden from the wilderness, which people of spirit for submitting to the gloomy
was infested by the robbers; in this gar-life of the castle, and the insipid pleasures of
den they were permitted to amuse themselves.
The master advised them always to keep within
these bounds. While you observe this rule,'
said be, you will be safe and well; and you
will consult your own safety and happiness, as
well as show your love to me, by not venturing
over to the extremity of your bounds; he who
goes as far as he dares, always shows a wish to
go farther than he ought, and commonly does
£0.'
•
It was remarkable, that the nearer these ser-
vants kept to the castle, and the farther from
the hedge, the more ugly the wilderness appear-
ed. And the nearer they approached the for-
bidden bounds, their own home appeared more
dull, and the wilderness more delightful. And
this the master knew when he gave his orders;
for he never either did or said any thing without
a good reason. And when his servants some-
times desired an explanation of the reason, he
used to tell them they would understand it when
they came to the other house; for it was one of
the pleasures of that house, that it would ex-
plain all the mysteries of this, and any little ob-
scurities in the master's conduct would be then
made quite plain.
Parley was the first who promised to keep
clear of the hedge, and yet was often seen look-
ing as near as he durst. One day he ventured
close up to the hedge, put two or three stones
one on another, and tried to peep over. He saw
the garden, instead of ranging in the wilderness
at large.
'It is true enough,' said Parley, who was
generally of the opinion of the person he was
talking with, My master is rather harsh and
close. But to own the truth, all the barring,
and locking, and bolting, is to keep out a set of
gentlemen, who he assures us are robbers, and
who are waiting for an opportunity to destroy
I hope no offence, sir, but by your livery
I suspect you, sir, are one of the gang he is so
much afraid of.'
us.
Flatterwell. Afraid of me? Impossible dear
Mr. Parley. You see, I do not look like an
enemy. I am unarmed; what harm can a plain
man like me do?
Parley. Why, that is true enough. Yet my
master says, if we were to let you into the house,
we should be ruined soul and body.
Flatterwell. I am sorry Mr. Parley to hear
so sensible a man as you are so deceived. This
is mere prejudice. He knows we are cheerful
entertaining people, foes to gloom and super-
stition, and therefore he is so morose he will not
let you get acquainted with us.
Parley. Well; he says you are a band of
thieves, gamblers, murderers, drunkards, and
atheists.
Flatterwell. Don't believe him; the worst
we should do, perhaps, is, we might drink a
friendly glass with you to your master's health
188
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1
or play an innocent game of cards just to keep
you awake, or sing a cheerful song with the
maids; now is there any harm in all this?
Parley. Not the least in the world. And
I begin to think there is not a word of truth in
all my master says.
in.'
it would make all the difference in the world.
So they parted with mutual protestations of re-
gard. Parley went home charmed with his
new friend. His eyes were now clearly opened
as to his master's prejudices against the rob-
bers, and he was convinced there was more in
Flatterwell. The more you know us, the more
the more the name than in the thing. But,' said he,
you will like us. But I wish there was not this though Mr. Flatter well is certainly an agree-
ugly hedge between us. I have a great deal to able companion, he may not be so safe an in-
say, and I am afraid of being overheard.
mate. There can, however, be no harm in talk-
Parley was now just going to give a springing at a distance, and I certainly won't let him
over the hedge, but checked himself, saying,
'I dare not come on your side, there are people
about, and every thing
every thing is carried to my master.'
Flatterwell saw by this that his new friend was
kept on his own side of the hedge by fear rather
than by principle, and from that moment he
made sure of him. 'Dear Mr. Parley,' said he,
if you will allow me the honour of a little con-
versation with you, I will call under the window
of your lodge this evening. I have something
to tell you greatly to your advantage. I ad-
mire you exceedingly. I long for your friend-
ship; our whole brotherhood is ambitious of be-
ing known to so amiable a person.'-' O dear,'
said Parley, 'I shall be afraid of talking to you
at night. It is so against my master's orders.
But did you say you had something to tell me
to my advantage?'
Parley, in the course of the day, did not for-
get his promise to thin the hedge of separation
a little. At first he only tore off a handful of
leaves, then a little sprig, then he broke away
a bough or two. It was observable, the larger
the breach became, the worse he began to think
of his master, and the better of himself. Every
peep he took through the broken hedge increas-
ed his desire to get out into the wilderness, and
made the thoughts of the castle more irksome
to him.
He was continually repeating to himself, 'I
wonder what Mr. Flatterwell can have to say
so much to my advantage? I see he does not
wish to hurt my master, he only wishes to serve
me.' As the hour of meeting, however, drew
near, the master's orders now and then came
Flatterwell. Yes, I can point out to you how across Parley's thoughts. So to divert them,
you may be a richer, a merrier, and a happier he took up THE BOOK. He happened to open it
man. If you will admit me to-night under the at these words: My son, if sinners entice thee,
window, I will convince you that it is prejudice consent thou not.'
that it is prejudice consent thou not.' For a moment his heart
and not wisdom, which makes your master bar failed him. 'If this admonition should be sent
his door against us; I will convince you that on purpose?' said he; but no, 'tis a bugbear.
the mischief of a robber, as your master scurri- My master told me that if I went to the bounds.
lously calls us, is only in the name; that we are I should get over the hedge. Now I went to
your true friends, and only mean to promote the utmost limits, and did not get over.' Here
your happiness.
conscience put in; 'Yes, but it was because you
were watched.'—'I am sure,' continued Parley,
one may always stop where one will, and this
is only a trick of my master's to spoil sport. So
I will even hear what Mr. Flatterwell has to say
so much to my advantage. I am not obliged
to follow his counsels, but there can be no harm
in hearing them.'
Don't say we,' said Parley, 'pray come
alone; I would not see the rest of the gang for
the world; but I think there can be no great
harm in talking to you through the bars, if you
come alone; but I am determined not to let you
in. Yet I can't say but I wish to know what
you can tell me so much to my advantage; in-
deed, if it is for my good I ought to know it.'
Flatterwell. (going out, turns back.) Dear
Mr. Parley, there is one thing I had forgotten.
I cannot get over the hedge at night without
assistance. You know there is a secret in the
nature of that hedge; you in the house may get
over it into the wilderness of your own accord,
but we cannot get to your side by our own
strength. You must look about to see where
the hedge is thinnest, and then set to work to
clear away here and there a little bough for me,
it won't be missed; and if there is but the
smallest hole made on your side, those on ours
can get through; otherwise we do but labour in
vain. To this Parley made some objection,
through the fear of being seen. Flatterwell re-
plied, that the smallest hole from within would
be sufficient, for he could then work his own
way. Well,' said Parley, 'I will consider of
it. To be sure I shall even then be equally safe
in the castle, as I shall have all the bolts, bars,
and locks between us, so it will make but little
difference.'
Certainly not,' said Flatterwell, who knew
Flatterwell prevailed on the rest of the rob-
bers to make no public attack on the castle that
night. My brethren,' said he, 'you now and
then fail in your schemes, because you are for
violent beginnings, while my smoothing in-
sinuating measures hardly ever miss. You
come blustering and roaring, and frighten peo-
ple, and set them on their guard. You inspire
them with terror of you, while my whole scheme
is to make them think well of themselves, and
ill of their master. If I once get them to enter-
tain hard thoughts of him, and high thoughts
of themselves, my business is done, and they
fall plump into my snares. So let this delicate
affair alone to me: Parley is a softly fellow;
he must not be frightened, but cajoled. He is
the very sort of a man to succeed with; and
worth a hundred of your sturdy sensible fellows.
With them we want strong arguments and
strong temptations; but with such fellows as
Parley, in whom vanity and sensuality are the
leading qualities (as, let me tell you, is the case
with far the greater part) flattery and a promise
of ease and pleasure, will do more than vour
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
189
whole battle
I will get you all into the castle before mid-
night.'
If
array. you will let me manage,, they could once be brought to sneer at the BOOK,
there was an end of submission to the lord.
Parley had not penetration enough to see his
drift. 'As to the BOOK, Mr. Flatter well,' said
he, 'I do not know whether it be true or false.
I rather neglect than disbelieve it. I am forced,
indeed, to hear it read once a week, but I never
look into it myself, if I can help it.'-' Excel-
lent,' said Flatterwell to himself, that is just
the same thing. This is safe ground for me.
For whether a man does not believe in the BOOK,
or does not attend to it, it comes pretty much to
the same, and I generally get him at last.'
At night the castle was barricadoed as usual,
and no one had observed the hole which Parley
had made in the hedge. This oversight arose
that night from the servants' neglecting one of
the master's standing orders-to make a nightly
examination of the state of things. The ne-
glect did not proceed so much from wilful dis-
obedience, as from having passed the evening in
sloth and diversion, which often amounts to
nearly the same in its consequences.
As all was very cheerful within, so all was
very quiet without. And before they went to
bed, some of the servants observed to the rest,
that as they heard no robbers that night, they
thought they might now begin to remit some-
thing of their diligence in bolting and barring:
that all this fastening and locking was very
troublesome, and they hoped the danger was now
pretty well over. It was rather remarkable,
that they never made these sort of observa-
tions, but after an evening of some excess, and
when they had neglected their private business
with their master. All, however, except Parley,
went quietly to bed, and seemed to feel uncom-
mon security.
•
Parley crept down to his lodge. He had half
a mind to go to bed too. Yet he was not will-
ing to disappoint Mr. Flatter well. So civil a
gentleman! To be sure he might have had bad
designs. Yet what right had he to suspect any
body who made such professions, and who was
so very civil? Besides, it is something for my
advantage,' added Parley. 'I will not open the
door, that is certain ; but as he is to come alone,
he can do me no harm through the bars of the
windows: and he will think I am a coward if I
don't keep my word. No, I will let him see
that I am not afraid of my own strength; I will
show him I can go what length I please, and
stop short when I please.' Had Flatter well
heard this boastful speech, he would have been
quite sure of his man.
About eleven, Parley heard the signal agreed
upon. It was so gentle as to cause little alarm.
So much the worse. Flatterwell never frighten-
ed any one, and therefore seldom failed of any
one. Parley stole softly down, planted himself
at his little window, opened the casement, and
spied his new friend. It was pale starlight.
Parley was a little frightened; for he thought he
perceived one or two persons behind Flatter-
well; but the other assured him it was only his
own shadow, which his fears had magnified into
a company. Though I assure you,' said he,
'I have not a friend but what is as harmless as
myself.'
C
They now entered into serious discourse, in
which Flatterwell showed himself a deep poli-
tician. He skilfully mixed up in his conver-
sation a proper proportion of praise on the plea-
sures of the wilderness, of compliments to Par-
ley, of ridicule on his master, and of abusive
sneers on the BOOK in which the master's laws
were written. Against this last he had always
a particular spite, for he considered it as the
grand instrument by which the lord maintain-
ed his servants in their allegiance; and when
Why cannot we be a little nearer, Mr. Par-
ley,' said Flatterwell; I am afraid of being
overheard by some of your master's spies. The
window from which you speak is so high; I
wish you would come down to the door.'-
'Well,' said Parley, 'I see no great harm in
that. There is a little wicket in the door
through which we may converse with more ease
and equal safety. The same fastenings will be
still between us.' So down he went, but not
without a degree of fear and trembling.
The little wicket being now opened, and
Flatterwell standing close on the outside of
the door, they conversed with great ease.
'Mr. Parley,' said Flatter well, 'I should not
have pressed you so much to admit me into
the castle, but out of pure disinterested regard
to your own happiness. I shall get nothing by
it, but I cannot bear to think that a person so
wise and amiable should be shut up in this
gloomy dungeon, under a hard master, and a
slave to the unreasonable tyranny of his BOOK
OF LAWS. If you admit me, you need have no
more waking, no more watching.' Here Par-
ley involuntarily slipped back the bolt of the door.
'To convince you of my true love,' continued
Flatter well, I have brought a bottle of the most
delicious wine that grows in the wilderness.
You shall taste it, but you must put a glass
through the wicket to receive it, for it is a
singular property in this wine, that we of the
wilderness cannot succeed in conveying it to
you of the castle, without you hold out a vessel
to receive it.'-'O here is a glass,' said Parley,
holding out a large goblet, which he always
kept ready to be filled by any chance-comer.
The other immediately poured into the capa-
cious goblet a large draught of that delicious in-
toxicating liquor, with which the family of the
Flatterwells have for near six thousand years
gained the hearts, and destroyed the souls of all
the inhabitants of the castle, whenever they
have been able to prevail on them to hold out a
hand to receive it. This the wise master of the
castle well knew would be the case, for he knew
what was in men; he knew their propensity to
receive the delicious poison of the Flatterwells;
and it was for this reason that he gave them
THE BOOK of his laws, and planted the hedge,
and invented the bolts, and doubled the locks.
As soon as poor Parley had swallowed the
fatal draught, it acted like enchantment. He
at once lost all power of resistance. He had
no sense of fear left. He despised his own safety,
forgot his master, lost all sight of the house in
the other country, and reached out for another
draught as eagerly as Flatterwell held out the
190
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
bottle to administer it. 'What a fool, have I
been,' said Parley, 'to deny myself so long-
Will you now let me in?' said Flatter well.
Ay, that I will,' said the deluded Parley.
Though the train was now increased to near a
hundred robbers, yet so intoxicated was Parley,
that he did not see one of them except his new
friend. Parley eagerly pulled down the bars,
drew back the bolts and forced open the locks;
thinking he could never let in his friend soon
enough. He had, however, just presence of
mind to say, 'My dear friend, I hope you are
alone.' Flatterwell swore he was-Parley open-
ed the door-in rushed, not Flatterwell only, but
the whole banditti, who always lurked behind
in his train. The moment they had got sure
possession, Flatterwell changed his soft tone, |
and cried in a voice of thunder, ' Down with the
castle-kill, burn, and destroy.'
Rapine, murder, and conflagration, by turns
took place. Parley was the very first whom they
attacked. He was overpowered with wounds.
As he fell he cried out, 'O my master, I die a
victim to my unbelief in thee, and to my own
vanity and imprudence. O that the guardians
of all other castles would hear me with my dying
breath repeat my master's admonition, that all
attacks from without will not destroy unless there
is some confederate within. O that the keepers
of all other castles would learn from my ruin,
that he who parleys with temptation is already
undone. That he who allows himself to go to
the very bounds will soon jump over the hedge;
that he who talks out of the window with the
enemy, will soon open the door to him; that he
who holds out his hand for the cup of sinful
flattery, loses all power of resisting; that when
he opens the door to one sin, all the rest fly in
upon him, and the man perishes as I now do.'
TALES
FOR THE COMMON PEOPLE.
RELIGION is for the man in humble life, and to raise his nature, and to put him in mind of a
state in which the privileges of opulence will cease, when he will be equal by nature, and may
be more than equal by virtue.-Burke on the French Revolution.
ADVERTISEMENT
TO THESE AND THE PRECEDING TALES.
To improve the habits, and raise the principles of the common people, at a time when their
dangers and temptations, moral and political, were multiplied beyond the example of any former
period, was the motive which impelled the author of these volumes to devise and prosecute the
institution of the Cheap Repository. This plan was established with an humble wish not only to
counteract vice and profligacy on the one hand, but error, discontent, and false religion on the
other. And as an appetite for reading had, from a variety of causes, been increased among the
inferior ranks in this country, it was judged expedient, at this critical period, to supply such
wholesome aliment as might give a new direction to their taste, and abate their relish for those
corrupt and inflammatory publications which the consequences of the French Revolution have
been so fatally pouring in upon us.
The success of the plan exceeded the most sanguine expectations of its projector. Above two
millions of the tracts were sold within the first year, besides very large numbers in Ireland; and
they continue to be very extensively circulated, in their original form of single tracts, by Evans,
in Long-lane, West Smithfield, Hatchard in Piccadilly, and Hazard in Bath, as well as in three
bound volumes, sold by Rivington, Hatchard, and all other booksellers.
As these stories, though principally, are not calculated exclusively for the middle and lower
classes of society, the author has, at the desire of her friends, selected those which were written
by herself, and presented them to the public in this collection of her works, in an enlarged and
improved form.
THE SHEPHERD OF SALISBURY PLAIN.
MR. JOHNSON, a very worthy charitable gentle- | this gentleman was of opinion, that a walk or a
man, was travelling some time ago across one
of those vast plains which are well known in
Wiltshire. It was a fine summer's evening, and
he rode slowly that he might have leisure to
admire God in the works of his creation. For
ride was as proper a time as any to think about
good things; for which reason, on such occa-
sions, he seldom thought so much about his
money, or his trade, or public news, as at other
times, that he might with more ease and satis
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
191
faction enjoy the pious thought which the
wonderful works of the great Maker of heaven
and earth are intended to raise in the mind.
As this serene contemplation of the visible
heavens insensibly lifted up his mind from the
works of God in nature, to the same God as he
is seen in Revelation, it occurred to him that
this very connexion was clearly intimated by
the Royal Prophet in the nineteenth Psalm.
That most beautiful description of the greatness
and power of God exhibited in the former part,
plainly seeming intended to introduce, illustrate,
and unfold the operations of the word and Spirit
of God on the heart in the latter. And he began
to run a parallel in his own mind between the
effects of that highly poetical and glowing pic-
ture of the material sun in searching and warm-
ing the earth, in the first six verses, and the
spiritual operation attributed to the law of God,'
which fills up the remaining part of the Psalm.
And he persuaded himself that the divine Spirit
which dictated this fine hymn, had left it as a
kind of general intimation to what use we were
to convert our admiration of created things;
namely, that we might be led by a sight of them
to raise our views from the kingdom of nature
to that of grace, and that the contemplation of
God in his works might draw us to contemplate
him in his word.
•
In the midst of these reflections, Mr. John-
son's attention was all of a sudden called off by
the barking of a shepherd's dog, and looking up
he spied one of those little huts, which are here
and there to be seen on those great downs; and
near it was the shepherd himself busily employ-
ed with his dog in collecting together his vast
flock of sheep. As he drew nearer, he perceived
him to be a clean, well-looking, poor man, near
fifty years of age. His coat, though at first it
had probably been of one dark colour, had been
in a long course of years so often patched with
different sorts of cloth, that it was now become
hard to say which had been the original colour.
But this, while it gave a plain proof of the shep-
herd's poverty, equally proved the exceeding
neatness, industry and good management of his
wife. His stockings no less proved her good
house-wifery, for they were entirely covered with
darns of different coloured worsted, but had not
a hole in them; and his shirt, though nearly as
coarse as the sails of a ship, was as white as the
drifted snow,
and was neatly mended where time
had either made a rent, or worn it thin. This
furnishes a rule of judging, by which one shall
seldom be deceived. If I meet with a labourer,
hedging, ditching, or mending the highways,
with his stockings and shirt tight and whole,
however mean and bad his other garments are,
I have seldom failed, on visiting his cottage, to
find that also clean and well ordered, and his
wife notable, and worthy of encouragement.
Whereas a poor woman, who will be lying a-bed,
or gossiping with her neighbours when she ought
to be fitting out her husband in a cleanly man-
ner, will seldom be found to be very good in other
respects.
This was not the case with our shepherd:
and Mr. Johnson was not more struck with the
decency of his mean and frugal dress, than with
|
his open honest countenance, which bore strong
marks of health, cheerfulness, and spirit.
Mr. Johnson, who was on a journey, and
somewhat fearful from the appearance of the
sky, that rain was at no great distance, accosted
the shepherd with asking what sort of weather
he thought it would be on the morrow.
• It will
be such weather as pleases me,' answered the
shepherd. Though the answer was delivered
in the mildest and most civil tone that could be
imagined, the gentleman thought the words
themselves rather rude and surly, and asked
him how that could be. 'Because,' replied the
shepherd, it will be such weather as shall please
God, and whatever pleases him always pleases
me.'
Mr. Johnson, who delighted in good men and
good things, was very well satisfied with his
reply. For he justly thought that though a
hypocrite may easily contrive to appear better
than he really is to a stranger; and that no one
should be too soon trusted, merely for having a
few good words in his mouth; yet as he knew
that out of the abundance of the heart the mouth
speaketh; he always accustomed himself to
judge favorably of those who had a serious de-
portment and solid manner of speaking. It
looks as if it proceeded from a good habit, said
he, and though I may now and then be deceived
by it, yet it has not often happened to me to be
so. Whereas if a man accosts me with an idle,
dissolute, vulgar, indecent, or profane expres-
sion, I have never been deceived in him, but
have generally on inquiry found his character
to be as bad as his language gave me room to
expect.
เ
He entered into conversation with the shep
herd in the following manner: Your's is a
troublesome life, honest friend,' said he. 'To be
sure, sir,' replied the shepherd, ''tis not a very
lazy life; but 'tis not near so toilsome as that
which my GREAT MASTER led for my sake; and
he had every state and condition of life at his
choice, and chose a hard one; while I only sub-
'You
mit to the lot that is appointed to me.'
are exposed to great cold and heat,' said the
gentleman: True, sir,' said the shepherd; ' but
then I am not exposed to great temptations; and
so throwing one thing against another, God is
pleased to contrive to make things more equal
than we poor, ignorant, short-sighted creatures,
are apt to think. David was happier when he
kept his father's sheep on such a plain as this,
and employed in singing some of his own Psalms
perhaps, than ever he was when he became king
of Israel and Judah. And I dare say we should
never have had some of the most beautiful texts
in all those fine Psalms, if he had not been a
shepherd, which enabled him to make so many
fine comparisons and similitudes, as one may
say, from country life, flocks of sheep, hills, and
vallies, fields of corn, and fountains of water.'
'You think then,' said the gentleman, ' that a
laborious life is a happy one. 'I do, sir; and
more so especially, as it exposes a man to fewer
sins. If king Saul had continued a poor labori-
ous man to the end of his days, he might have
lived happy and honest, and died a natural death
in his bed at last, which you know, sir was
1
192
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
more than he did. But I speak with reverence, without the loss of a moment's time, would
for it was divine Providence overruled all that, make a pretty stock, a little golden treasury, as
you know sir, and I do not presume to make one may say, from new-year's day to new-year's
comparisons. Besides, sir, my employment has day; and if children were brought up to it, they
been particularly honoured-Moses was a shep- would come to look for their text as naturally as
herd in the plains of Midian. It was to "shep- they do for their breakfast. No labouring man,
herds keeping their flocks by night," that the 'tis true, has so much leisure as a shepherd, for
angels appeared in Bethlehem, to tell the best while the flock is feeding I am obliged to be
news, the gladdest tidings, that ever were re-still, and at such times I can now and then tap
vealed to poor sinful men; often and often has a shoe for my children or myself, which is a
the thought warmed my poor heart in the cold- great saving to us, and while I am doing that I
est night, and filled me with more joy and thank-repeat a chapter or a psalm, which makes the
fulness than the best supper could have done.'
Here the shepherd stopped, for he began to
feel that he had made too free, and talked too
long. But Mr. Johnson was so well pleased with
what he said, and with the cheerful contented
manner in which he said it, that he desired him
to go on freely, for that it was a pleasure to him
to meet with a plain man, who, without any
kind of learning but what he had got from the
Bible, was able to talk so well on a subject in
which all men, high and low, rich and poor, are
equally concerned.
Indeed I am afraid I make too bold, sir, for
it better becomes me to listen to such a gentle-
man as you seem to be, than to talk in my poor
way but as I was saying, sir, I wonder all
working men do not derive as great joy and de-
light as I do from thinking how God has ho-
noured poverty! Oh! sir, what great, or rich,
or mighty men have had such honour put on
them, or their condition, as shepherds, tent-
makers, fishermen, and carpenters have had ?
Besides, it seems as if God honoured indus-
try also. The way of duty is not only the way
of safety, but it is remarkable how many in the
exercise of the common duties of their calling,
humbly and rightly performed, as we may sup-
pose, have found honours, preferment, and bless-
ing while it does not occur to me that the
whole sacred volume presents a single instance
of a like blessing conferred on idleness. Re-
bekah, Rachel, and Jethro's daughters, were
diligently employed in the lowest occupations of
a country life, when Providence, by means of
those very occupations, raised them up husbands
so famous in history, as Isaac, Jacob, and the
prophet Moses. The shepherds were neither
playing nor sleeping, but "watching their
flocks," when they received the news of a Sa-
viour's birth and the woman of Samaria, by
the laborious office of drawing water, was
brought to the knowledge of Him who gave her
to drink of "living water."
-
:
My honest friend,' said the gentleman, I
perceive you are well acquainted with scripture.'
Yes, sir, pretty well, blessed be God! through
his mercy I learned to read when I was a little
boy; though reading was not so common when
I was a child, as I am told, through the good-
ness of Providence and the generosity of the
rich, it is likely to become now-a-days. I be-
lieve there is no day for the last thirty years
that I have not peeped at my Bible. If we can't
find time to read a chapter, I defy any man to
say he can't find time to read a verse: and a
single text, sir, well followed, and put in prac-
tice every day, would make no bad figure at the
year's end; three hundred and sixty-five texts,
time pass pleasantly in this wild solitary place.
I can say the best part of the New Testament
by heart; I believe I should not say the best
part, for every part is good, but I mean the
greatest part. I have led but a lonely life, and
have often had but little to eat, but my Bible,
has been meat, drink, and company to me, as I
may say, and when want and trouble have come
upon me, I don't know what I should have done
indeed, sir, if I had not had the promises of this
book for my stay and support.'
'You have had great difficulties then?' said
Mr. Johnson. Why, as to that, sir, not more
than neighbours' fare; I have but little cause
to complain, and much to be thankful; but I
have had some little struggles, as I will leave
you to judge. I have a wife and eight children,
whom I bred up in that little cottage which you
see under the hill, about half a mile off.' What,
that with the smoke coming out of the chimney?"
said the gentleman. O no, sir,' replied the
shepherd, siniling, we have seldom smoke in
the evening, for we have little to cook, and firing
is very dear in these parts. 'Tis that cottage
which you see on the left hand of the church,
near that little tuft of hawthorns.'-' What, that
hovel with only one room above and below, with
scarcely any chimney? how is it possible that
you can live there with such a family?' O it
is very possible, and very certain too,' cried the
shepherd. How many better men have been
worse lodged! how many good Christians have
perished in prisons and dungeons, in compari-
son of which my cottage is a palace! The house
is very well, sir; and if the rain did not some-
times beat down upon us through the thatch
when we are a-bed, I should not desire a better;
for I have health, peace, and liberty, and no man
maketh me afraid.'
'Well, I will certainly call on you before it
be long; but how can you contrive to lodge so
many children?' 'We do the best we can, sir.
My poor wife is a very sickly woman; or we
should always have done tolerably well. There
are no gentry in the parish, so that she has not
met with any great assistance in her sickness.
The good curate of the parish, who lives in that
pretty parsonage in the valley, is very willing,
but not very able to assist us on these trying
occasions, for he has little enough for himself,
and a large family into the bargain. Yet he
does what he can, and more than many other
men do, and more than he can well afford. Be-
sides that, his prayers and good advice we are
always sure of, and we are truly thankful for
that, for a man must give, you know, sir, ac-
cording to what he hath, and not according to
what he hath not.'
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
193
'I am afraid,' said Mr. Johnson, 'that your
difficulties may sometimes lead you to repine.'
C
No, sir,' replied the shepherd, 'it pleases
God to give me two ways of bearing up under
them. I pray that they may be either removed
or sanctified to me. Besides, if my road be
right I am contented though it be rough and
uneven. I do not so much stagger at hardships
in the right way, as I dread a false security,
and a hollow peace, while I may be walking in
a more smoth, but less safe way. Besides, sir,
I strengthen my faith by recollecting what the
best men have suffered, and my hope, with the
view of the shortness of all suffering. It is a
good hint, sir, of the vanity of all earthly pos-
sessions, that though the whole Land of Pro-
mise was his, yet the first bit of ground which
Abraham, the father of the faithful, got posses-
sion of, in the land of Canaan, was a grave.
'Are you in any distress at present?" said Mr.
Johnson. No, sir, thank God,' replied the shep-
herd. I get my shilling a-day, and most of my
children will soon be able to earn something;
for we have only three under five years old.'
'Only!' said the gentleman, that is a heavy
burden.'-'Not
Not at all; God fits the back to it.
Though my wife is not able to do any out-of-
door work, yet she breeds up our children to
such habits of industry, that our little maids, be-
fore they are six years old, can first get a half.
penny, and then a penny a day by knitting. The
boys, who are too little to do hard work, get a
trifle by keeping the birds off the corn; for this
the farmers will give them a penny or two pence,
and now and then a bit of bread and cheese into
the bargain. When the season of crow-keeping
is over, then they glean or pick stones; any thing
is better than idleness, sir, and if they did not
get a farthing by it, I would make them do it
just the same, for the sake of giving them early
habits of labour.
'So you see, sir, I am not so badly off as
many are; nay, if it were not that it costs me
so much in 'pothecary's stuff for my poor wife,
I should reckon myself well off, nay I do reckon
myself well off; for blessed be God, he has
granted her life to my prayers, and I would
work myself to a 'natomy, and live on one meal
a day, to add any comfort to her valuable life;
indeed I have often done the last, and thought it
no great matter neither.'
While they were in this part of the discourse,
a fine plump cherry-cheek little girl ran up out
breath, with a smile on her young happy face,
and without taking any notice of the gentleman,
cried out with great joy-'Look here, father,
only see how much I have got!' Mr. Johnson
was much struck with her simplicity, but puz-
zled to know what was the occasion of this great
joy. On looking at her he perceived a small
quantity of coarse wool, some of which had
found its way through the holes of her clean,
but scanty and ragged woollen apron. The
father said, this has been a successful day in-
deed, Molly, but don't you see the gentleman?'
Molly now made a curtesy down to the very
ground; while Mr. Johnson inquired into the
cause of mutual satisfaction which both father
and daughter had expressed, at the unusual good
fortune of the day
VOL. I.
N
'Sir,' said the shepherd, 'poverty is a great
sharpener of the wits-My wife and I cannot
endure to see our children (poor as they are,)
without shoes and stockings, not only on ac-
count of the pinching cold which cramps their
poor little limbs, but because it degrades and
debases them; and poor people who have but
little regard to appearances, will seldom be
found to have any great regard for honesty and
goodness; I don't say this is always the case;
but I am sure it is so too often. Now shoes and
stockings being very dear, we could never afford
to get them without a little contrivance. I must
show you how I manage about the shoes when
you condescend to call at our cottage, sir; as to
stockings, this is one way we take to help to
get them. My young ones, who are too little to
do much work, sometimes wander at odd hours
over the hills for the chance of finding what
little wool the sheep may drop when they rub
themselves, as they are apt to do against the
bushes.* These scattered bits of wool the chil.
dren pick out of the brambles, which I see have
torn sad holes in Molly's apron to-day; they
carry this wool home, and when they have got
a pretty parcel together, their mother cards it;
for she can sit and card in the chimney corner,
when she is not able to wash or work about
house. The biggest girl then spins it; it does
very well for us without dying, for poor people
must not stand for the colour of their stockings.
After this our little boys knit it for themselves,
while they are employed in keeping cows in the
fields, and after they get home at night. As for
the knitting which the girls and their mother
do, that is chiefly for sale, which helps to pay
our rent.'
Mr. Johnson lifted up his eyes in silent asto-
nishment, at the shifts which honest poverty
can make rather than beg or steal; and was
surprised to think how many ways of subsisting
there are, which those who live at their ease
little suspect. He secretly resolved to be more
attentive to his own petty expenses than he had
hitherto been; and to be more watchful that no-
thing was wasted in his family.
But to return to the shepherd. Mr. Johnson
told him that as he must needs be at his friend's
house, who lived many miles off, that night, he
could not as he wished to do, make a visit to his
cottage at present. But I will certainly do it,'
said he, ' on my return, for I long to see your
wife and her nice little family, and to be an eye-
witness of her neatness and good management.
The poor man's tears started into his eyes on
hearing the commendation bestowed on his wife;
and wiping them off with the sleeve of his coat;
for he was not worth a handkerchief in the
world, he said-'Oh, sir, you just now, I am
afraid called me an humble man, but indeed I
am a very proud one.'- Proud!' exclaimed
Mr. Johnson, I hope not-Pride is a great sin,
and as the poor are liable to it as well as the
rich, so good a man as you seem to be, ought to
guard against it.'-'Sir,' said he,' you are right,
but I am not proud of myself, God knows I have
nothing to be proud of. I am a poor sinner, but
a real fact, as is the character of the shepherd, and his
* This piece of frugal industry is not imaginary, but
uncommon knowledge of the Scriptures.
194
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
sure.
indeed, sir, I am proud of my wife: she is not, of stuff, as I may say; while there is no sort of
only the most tidy, notable woman on the plain, | comparison between the longest portion of time
but she is the kindest wife and mother, and the and eternity. You know, sir, there is no way
most contented, thankful Christian that I know. of measuring two things, one of which has
Last year I thought I should have lost her in a length and breadth, which shows it must have
violent fit of the rheumatism, caught by going an end somewhere, and another thing, which
to work too soon after her lying-in, I fear; for being eternal, is without end and without mea-
'tis but a bleak coldish place, as you may see,
sir, in winter, and sometimes the snow lies so 'But,' said Mr. Johnson, is not the fear of
long under the hill, that I can hardly make my-death sometimes too strong for your faith?'
self a path to get out and buy a few necessaries
in the next village; and we are afraid to send
out the children, for fear they should be lost
when the snow is deep. So, as I was saying,
the poor soul was very bad indeed, and for
several weeks lost the use of all her limbs ex-
cept her hands; a merciful Providence spared
her the use of these, so that when she could not
turn in her bed, she could contrive to patch a
rag or two for her family. She was always
saying, had it not been for the great goodness
of God, she might have had her hands lame as
well as her feet, or the palsy instead of the
rheumatism, and then she could have done no-
thing-but, nobody had so many morcies as she
had.
'I will not tell you what we suffered during
that bitter weather, sir, but my wife's faith and
patience during that trying time, were as good
a lesson to me as any sermon I could hear, and
yet Mr. Jenkins gave us very comfortable ones
too, that helped to keep up my spirits.'
I fear, shepherd,' said Mr. Johnson, 'you
have found this to be but a bad world."
C
Yes, sir,' replied the shepherd, but it is
governed by a good God. And though my
trials have now and then been sharp, why then,
sir, as the saying is, if the pain be violent, it is
seldom lasting, and if it be but moderate, why
then we can bear it the longer, and when it is
quite taken away, ease is the more precious,
and gratitude is quickened by the remem-
brance; thus every way, and in every case, I
can always find out a reason for vindicating
Providence.'
'But,' said Mr. Johnson, 'how do you do to
support yourself under the pressure of actual
want. Is not hunger a great weakener of your
faith?'
|
Blessed be God, sir,' replied the shepherd,
the dark passage through the valley of the
shadow of death, is made safe by the power of
Him who conquered death. I know, indeed,
we shall go as naked out of this world as we
came into it, but an humble penitent will
not be found naked in the other world, sir. My
Bible tells me of garments of praise, and robes
of righteousness. And is it not a support, sir,
under any of the petty difficulties and distresses
here, to be assured by the word of Him who
cannot lie, that those who were in white robes
came out of tribulation? But, sir, I beg your
pardon for being so talkative.
Indeed you
great folks can hardly imagine how it raises
and cheers a poor man's heart, when such as
you condescend to talk familiarly to him on re-
ligious subjects. It seems to be a practical
comment on that text which says, the rich and
the poor meet together, the Lord is the maker of
them all. And so far from creating disrespect,
sir, and that nonsensical wicked notion about
equality, it rather prevents it. But to turn to
my wife. One Sunday afternoon when she
was at the worst, as I was coming out of
church, for I went one part of the day, and
my eldest daughter the other, so my poor wife
was never left alone; as I was coming out of
church, I say, Mr. Jenkins, the minister, called
out to me and asked me how my wife did, saying
he had been kept from coming to see her by the
deep fall of snow, and indeed from the parson-
age-house to my hovel it was quite impassable.
I gave him all the particulars he asked, and I
am afraid a good many more, for my heart was
quite full. He kindly gave me a shilling, and
said he would certainly try to pick out his way
and come and see her in a day or two.
'While he was talking to me a plain farmer-
looking gentleman in boots, who stood by, listen-
ed to all I said, but seemed to take no notice.
It was Mr. Jenkin's wife's father, who was come
to pass the Christmas-holidays at the parsonage.
house. I had always heard him spoken of as
a plain frugal man, who lived close himself,
but was remarked to give away more than any
of his show-away neighbours.
'Sir,' replied the shepherd, I endeavour to
live upon the promises. You who abound in
the good things of this world are apt to set too
high a value on them. Suppose, sir, the king,
seeing me at hard work, were to say to me, that,
if I would patiently work on till Christmas, a
fine palace and a great estate should be the re-
ward of my labours. Do you think, sir, that
a little hunger, or a little wet, would make me 'Well! I went home with great spirits at
flinch, when I was sure that a few months this seasonable and unexpected supply; for we
would put me in possession! Should I not say had tapped our last sixpence, and there was
to myself frequently-cheer up, shepherd, 'tis little work to be had on account of the weather.
but till Christmas! now is there not much less I told my wife I had not come back empty-
difference between this supposed day and Christ-handed. No, I dare say not,' says she, 'you
mas, when I should take possession of the es- have been serving a master who filleth the
tate and palace, than there is between time and hungry with good things, though he sendeth the
eternity, when I am sure of entering on a king-rich empty away.' True; Mary, says I, we
dom not made with hands? There is some com- seldom fail to get good spiritual food from Mr.
parison between a moment and a thousand years, Jenkins, but to-day he has kindly supplied our
because a thousand years are made up of mo- bodily wants. She was more thankful when 1
ments, all time being made up of the same sort showed her the shilling, than, I dare say, some
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
195
of your great people are when they get a hun- turn to Salisbury, with as much pleasure as I
dred pounds.'
am now going to the house of my friend.
Mr. Johnson's heart smote him when he
heard such a value set upon a shilling; surely,
said he to himself, I will never waste another;
but he said nothing to the shepherd, who thus
pursued his story:
If Mr. Johnson keeps his word in sending
me an account of his visit to the shepherd's
cottage, I shall be very glad to entertain my
readers with it.
PART II.
I AM willing to hope that my readers will not
be sorry to hear some farther particulars of
their old acquaintance, the Shepherd of Salis-
bury Plain. They will call to mind that at the
end of the first part, he was returning home full
of gratitude for the favours he had received
from Mr. Johnson, whom we left pursuing his
journey, after having promised to make a visit
to the shepherd's cottage.
Mr. Johnson, after having passed some time
with his friend, set out on his return to Salis-
bury, and on the Saturday evening reached a
very small inn, a mile or two distant from the
shepherd's village; for he never travelled on a
'Next morning before I went out, I sent part
of the money to buy a little ale and brown sugar
to put into her water-gruel; which you know,
sir, made it nice and nourishing. I went out
to cleave wood in a farm-yard, for there was no
standing out on the plain, after such snow as
had fallen in the night. I went with a lighter
heart than usual, because I had left my poor
wife a little better, and comfortably supplied for
this day, and I now resolved more than ever to
trust God for the supplies of the next. When
I came back at night, my wife fell a crying as
soon as she saw me. This, I own, I thought
but a bad return for the blessings she had so
lately received, and so I told her.- Oh,' said
she, it is too much, we are too rich; I am now
frightened, not lest we should have no portion
in this world, but for fear we should have our
whole portion in it. Look here, John!' So say-Sunday without such a reason as he might be
ing, she uncovered the bed whereon she lay,
and showed me two warm, thick, new blankets.
I could not believe my own eyes, sir, because
when I went out in the morning, I had left her
with no other covering than our little old, thin,
blue rug. I was still more amazed when she
put half a crown into my hand, telling me she
had had a visit from Mr. Jenkins, and Mr.
Jones, the latter of whom had bestowed all these
good things upon us. Thus, sir, have our lives
been crowned with mercies. My wife got
about again, and I do believe, under Providence,
it was owing to these comforts; for the rheu-
matism, sir, without blankets by night, and
flannel by day, is but a baddish job, especially
to people who have little or no fire. She will
always be a weakly body; but thank God her
soul prospers and is in health. But I beg your
pardon, sir, for talking on at this rate.'Not
at all, not at all,' said Mr. Johnson; 'I am much
pleased with your story, you shall certainly see
me in a few days. Good night.' So saying,
he slipped a crown into his hand and rode off.
Surely, said the shepherd, goodness and mercy
have followed me all the days of my life, as he
gave the money to his wife when he got home
at night.
able to produce at the day of judgment. He
went the next morning to the church nearest
the house where he had passed the night; and
after taking such refreshment as he could get
at that house, he walked on to find out the shep-
herd's cottage. His reason for visiting him on
a Sunday was chiefly because he supposed it to
be the only day which the shepherd's employ-
ment allowed him to pass at home with his fa-
mily; and as Mr. Johnson had been struck with
his talk, he thought it would be neither un-
pleasant or unprofitable to observe how a man
who carried such an appearance of piety spent
his Sunday for though he was so low in the
world, this gentleman was not above entering
very closely into his character, of which he
thought he should be able to form a better judg-
ment, by seeing whether his practice at home
kept pace with his professions abroad: for it is
not so much by observing how people talk, as
how they live, that we ought to judge of their
characters.
After a pleasant walk, Mr. Johnson got with-
in sight of the cottage, to which he was direct-
ed by the clump of hawthorns and the broken
chimney. He wished to take the family by
surprise; and walking gently up to the house
As to Mr. Johnson, he found abundant, mat- he stood awhile to listen. The door being half
ter for his thoughts during the rest of his jour-open he saw the shepherd who (looked so re-
ney. On the whole, he was more disposed to spectable in his Sunday coat that he should hard-
envy than to pity the shepherd. I have seldom ly have known him) his wife, and their nu-
seen, said he, so happy a man. It is a sort of merous young family, drawing round their little
happiness which the world could not give, and table, which was covered with a clean, though
which I plainly see, it has not been able to take very coarse cloth. There stood on it a large
away. This must be the true spirit of religion. dish of potatoes, a brown pitcher, and a piece of
I see more and more, that true goodness is not a coarse loaf. The wife and children stood in
merely a thing of words and opinions, but a silent attention, while the shepherd, with up-
living principle brought into every common ac-lifted hands and eyes, devoutly begged the bles
tion of a man's life. What else could have sup- sing of heaven on their homely fare.
ported this poor couple under every bitter trial Johnson could not help sighing to reflect, that
of want and sickness? No, my honest shepherd, he had sometimes seen better dinners eaten with
I do not pity, but I respect and even honour less appearance of thankfulness.
thee; and I will visit thy poor hovel on my re-
Mr.
The shepherd and his wife sat down with
196
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
great seeming cheerfulness, but the children |
stood; and while the mother was helping them,
little fresh-coloured Molly, who had picked the
wool from the bushes with so much delight,
cried out, Father I wish I was big enough to
say grace, I am sure I should say it very hearti
ly to-day, for I was thinking what must poor
people do who have no salt to their potatoes;
and do but look, our dish is quite full. That
is the true way of thinking, Molly,' said the
father; ' in whatever concerns bodily wants and
bodily comforts, it is our duty to compare our
own lot with the lot of those who are worse off,
and will keep us thankful: on the other hand,
whenever we are tempted to set up our own
wisdom or goodness, we must compare ourselves
with those who are wiser and better, and that
will keep us humble.' Molly was now so hun-
gry, and found the potatoes so good, that she
had no time to make any more remarks; but
was devouring her dinner very heartily, when
the barking of the great dog drew her attention |
from her trencher to the door, and spying the
stranger, she cried out, 'Look father, see here,
if yonder is not the good gentleman!' Mr. John-
son finding himself discovered, immediately
walked in, and was heartily welcomed by the
honest shepherd, who told his wife that this was
the gentleman to whom they were so much
obliged.
The good woman began, as some very neat
people are rather apt to do, with making many
apologies that her house was not cleaner, and
that things were not in a fitter order to receive
such a gentleman. Mr. Johnson, however, on
looking round, could discover nothing but the
most perfect neatness. The trenchers on which
they were eating, were almost as white as their
linen; and notwithstanding the number and
smallness of the children, there was not the least
appearance of dirt or litter. The furniture was
very simple and poor, hardly indeed amounting
to bare necessaries. It consisted of four brown
wooden chairs, which by constant rubbing, were
become as bright as a looking-glass; an iron
pot and kettle; a poor old grate, which scarcely
held a handful of coal, and out of which the little
fire that had been in it appeared to have been
taken, as soon as it had answered the end for
which it had been lighted-that of boiling their
potatoes. Over the chimney stood an old-fashion-
ed broad bright candlestick, and a still brighter
spit; it was pretty clear that this last was kept
rather for ornament than use. An old carved
elbow chair, and a chest of the same date, which
stood in the corner, were considered the most
valuable part of the shepherd's goods, having
been in his family for three generations. But
all these were lightly esteemed by him, in com-
parison of another possession, which, added to
the above, made up the whole of what he had
inherited from his father; and which last he
would not have parted with, if no other could
have been had, for the king's ransom: this was
a large old Bible, which lay on the window-seat,
neatly covered with brown cloth, variously
patched. This sacred book was most reverently
preserved from dog's ears, dirt, and every other
injury, but such as time and much use had
made it suffer in spite of care. On the clean
white walls was pasted, a hymn on the Cruci-
fixion of our Saviour, a print of the Prodigal
Son, the Shepherd's Hymn, a New History of a
True Book, and Patient Joe, or the Newcastle
Collier.*
After the first salutations were over, Mr.
Johnson said, that if they would go on with their
dinner he would sit down. Though a good deal
ashamed, they thought it more respectful to
obey the gentleman, who having cast his eye on
their slender provisions, gently rebuked the
shepherd for not having indulged himself, as it
was Sunday, with a morsel of bacon to relish
his potatoes. The shepherd said nothing, but
poor Mary coloured and hung down her head,
saying, ' Indeed, sir, it is not my fault, I did beg
my husband to allow himself a bit of meat to-
day out of your honour's bounty; but he was
too good to do it, and it is all for my sake.' The
shepherd seemed unwilling to come to an expla-
nation, but Mr. Johnson desired Mary to go on.
So she continued: You must know, sir, that
both of us, next to a sin, dread a debt, and in-
deed in some cases a debt is a sin; but with all
our care and pains, we have never been able
quite to pay off the doctor's bill for that bad fit
of rheumatism which I had last winter. Now
when you were pleased to give my husband that
kind present the other day, I heartily desired
him to buy a bit of meat for Sunday as I said
before, that he might have a little refreshment
for himself out of your kindness. But answer-
ed he, Mary, it is never out of my mind long
together that we still owe a few shillings to the
doctor (and thank God it is all we did owe in
the world.) Now if I carry him this money di-
rectly it will not only show him our honesty
and our good-will, but it will be an encourage-
ment to him to come to you another time in case
you should be taken once more in such a bad
fit; for I must own,' added my poor husband,
that the thought of your being so terribly ill
without any help, is the only misfortune that I
want courage to face.'
Here the grateful woman's tears ran down so
fast that she could not go on. She wiped them
with the corner of her apron, and humbly beg-
ged pardon for making so free. 'Indeed, sir,'
said the shepherd, though my wife is full as
unwilling to be in debt as myself, yet I could
hardly prevail on her to consent to my paying
this money just then, because she said it was
hard I should not have a taste of the gentle-
man's bounty myself.-But for once, sir, I would
have my own way. For you must know, as I
pass best part of my time alone, tending my
sheep, 'tis a great point with me, sir, to get
comfortable matter for my own thoughts; so
that 'tis rather self-interest in me to allow my-
self in no pleasures and no practices that won't
bear thinking on over and over. For when one
is a good deal alone, you know, sir, all one's bad
deeds do so rush in upon one, as I may say, and
so torment one, that there is no true comfort to
be had but in keeping clear of wrong doings
and false pleasures; and that I suppose may be
one reason why so many folks hate to stay a bit
by themselves. But as I was saying-when I
came to think the matter over on the hill yon-
* Printed for the Cheap Repository.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
197
that is impossible. In my poor notion I no more
understand how a man can be too cautious, than
how he can be too strong, or too healthy.'
•
der, said I to myself, a good dinner is a good,
thing I grant, and yet it will be but cold com-
fort to me a week after, to be able to say-to be
sure I had a nice shoulder of mutton last Sun- You are right indeed,' said Mr. Johnson,
day for dinner, thanks to the good gentleman! as a general principle, but this struck me as a
but then I am in debt. I had a rare dinner, very small thing.'-'Sir,' said the shepherd, 'I
that's certain, but the pleasure of that has long am afraid you will think me very bold, but you
been over, and the debt still remains. I have encourage me to speak out.'-'Tis what I
spent the crown; and now if my poor wife wish,' said the gentleman. Then, sir,' resumed
should be taken in one of those fits again, die the shepherd, I doubt if, where there is a fre-
she must, unless God work a miracle to prevent quent temptation to do wrong, any fault can be
it, for I can get no help for her. This thought called small; that is, in short, if there is any
settled all ; and I set off directly and paid the such thing as a small wilful sin. A poor man
crown to the doctor with as much cheerfulness like me is seldom called out to do great things,
as I should have felt on sitting down to the fat-so that it is not by a few striking deeds his
test shoulder of mutton that ever was roasted. character can be judged by his neighbours, but
And if I was contented at the time, think how by the little round of daily customs he allows
much more happy I have been at the remem- himself in.'
brance! O sir, there are no pleasures worth the
name but such as bring no plague or penitence
after them.'
Mr. Johnson was satisfied with the shepherd's
reasons; and agreed that though a good dinner
was not to be despised, yet it was not worthy
to be compared with a contented mind, which (as
the Bible truly says) is a continual feast. But
come,' said the good gentleman, what have we
got in this brown mug?'' As good water,' said
the shepherd, as any in the king's dominions.
I have heard of countries beyond sea, in which
there is no wholesome water; nay, I have been
myself in a great town not far off, where they
are obliged to buy all the water which they get,
while a good Providence sends to my very door
a spring as clear and fine as Jacob's well. When
I am tempted to repine that I have often no
other drink, I call to mind, that it was nothing
better than a cup of cold water which the wo-
man at the well of Sychar drew for the greatest
guest that ever visited this world.
Very well,' replied Mr. Johnson; but as
your honesty has made you prefer a poor meal
to being in debt, I will at least send and get
something for you to drink. I saw a little public
house just by the church, as I came along. Let
that little rosy-faced fellow fetch a mug of beer.'
So saying, he looked full at the boy, who did
not offer to stir; but cast an eye at his father
to know what he was to do. 'Sir,' said the
shepherd, 'I hope we shall not appear ungrate
ful, if we seem to refuse your favour; my little
body would, I am sure, fly to serve you on any
other occasion. But, good sir, it is Sunday;
and should any of my family be seen at a public
house on a Sabbath-day, it would be a much
greater grief to me than to drink water all my
life. I am often talking against these doings to
others; and if I should say one thing and do
another, you can't think what an advantage it
would give many of my neighbours over me,
who would be glad enough to report that they
had caught the shepherd's son at the alehouse
without explaining how it happened. Christians
you know, sir, must be doubly watchful; or they
will not only bring disgrace on themselves, but
what is much worse, on that holy name by
which they are called.'
'Are you not a little too cautious, my honest
friend?' said Mr. Johnson. 'I humbly ask your
pardon, sir,' replied the shepherd, if I think
'I should like,' said Mr. Johnson, 'to know
how you manage in this respect.'
'I am but a poor scholar, sir' replied the shep-
herd, but I have made myself a little sort of
rule. I always avoid, as I am an ignorant man,
picking out any one single difficult text to dis-
tress my mind about, or to go and build opinions
upon, because I know that puzzles and injures
poor unlearned Christians. But I endeavour to
collect what is the general spirit or meaning of
Scripture on any particular subject, by putting
a few texts together, which though I find them
dispersed up and down, yet all seem to look the
same way, to prove the same truth, or hold out
the same comfort. So when I am tried or tempt-
ed, or any thing happens in which I am at a
loss what to do, I apply to my rule-to the law
and the testimony. To be sure I can't always
find a particular direction as to the very case,
because then the Bible must have been bigger
than all those great books I once saw in the li-
brary at Salisbury palace, which the butler told
me were acts of parliament; and had that been
the case, a poor man would never have had mo-
ney to buy, nor a working man time to read the
Bible; and so Christianity could only have been
a religion for the rich, for those who had money
and leisure; which, blessed be God! is so far
from being the truth, that in all that fine dis-
course of our Saviour to John's disciples, it is
enough to reconcile any poor man in the world
to his low condition, to observe, when Christ
reckons up the things for which he came on
earth, to observe, I say, what he keeps for last.
Go tell John, says he, those things which ye do
hear and see; the blind receive their sight, and
the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the
deaf hear, and the dead are raised up. Now,
sir, all these are wonders to be sure, but they
are nothing to what follows. They are but like
the lower rounds of a ladder, as I may say, by
which you mount to the top--and the poor have
the Gospel preached to them. I dare say, if John
had any doubts before, this part of the message
must have cleared them up at once. For it must
have made him certain sure at once, that a reli-
gion which placed preaching salvation to the
poor above healing the sick, which ranked the
soul above the body, and set heaven above health,
must have come from God.'
'But,' said Mr. Johnson, 'you say you can
generally pick out your particular duty from
198
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
the Bible, though that immediate duty be not,
fully explained.'
'Indeed, sir,' replied the shepherd, I think
I can find out the principle at least, if I bring
but a willing mind. The want of that is the
great hindrance. Whoso doeth my will, he shall
know of the doctrine. You know that text, sir.
I believe a stubborn will makes the Bible harder
to be understood than any want of learning.
'Tis corrupt affections which blind the under-
standing, sir. The more a man hates sin, the
clearer he will see his way, and the more he
loves holiness, the better he will understand his
Bible-the more practical conviction will he get
of that pleasant truth, that the secret of the Lord |
is with them that fear him. Now, sir, suppose
I had time and learning, and possessed of all
the books I saw at the bishop's, where could I
find out a surer way to lay the axe to the root
of all covetousness, selfishness, and injustice,
than the plain and ready rule, to do unto all men
as I would they should do unto me. If my neigh-
bour does me an injury, can I be at any loss
how to proceed with him, when I recollect the
parable of the unforgiving steward, who refused
to pardon a debt of a hundred pence, when his
own ten thousand talents had been remitted to
him? I defy any man to retain habitual selfish-
ness, hardness of heart, or any other allowed
sin, who daily and conscientiously tries his own
heart by this touchstone. The straight rule
will show the crooked practice to every one who
honestly tries the one by the other.'
'Why you seem to make Scripture a thing of
general application,' said Mr. Johnston, 'in cases
in which many, I fear do not apply.'
It applies to every thing, sir,' replied the
shepherd. • When those men who are now dis-
turbing the peace of the world, and trying to
destroy the confidence of God's children in their
Maker and their Saviour; when those men, I
say, came to my poor hovel with their new doc-
trines and their new books, I would never look
into one of them; for I remember it was the
first sin of the first pair to lose their innocence
for the sake of a little wicked knowledge; be-
sides, my own book told me- -To fear God and
honour the king—To meddle not with them who
are given to change—Not to speak evil of digni-
ties-To render honour to whom honour is duc.
So that I was furnished with a little coat of mail,
as I
may say, which preserved me, while those
who had no such armour fell into the snare.'
While they were thus talking, the children
who had stood very quietly behind, and had not
stirred a foot, now began to scamper about all at
once, and in a moment ran to the window-seat
to pick up their little old hats. Mr. Johnson
looked surprised at this disturbance; the shep-
herd asked his pardon, telling him it was the
sound of the church bell which had been the
cause of their rudeness; for their mother had
brought them up with such a fear of being too
late for church, that it was but who could catch
the first stroke of the bell, and be first ready.
He had always taught them to think that no-
thing was more indecent than to get into church
after it was begun; for as the service opened
with an exhortation to repentance, and a con-
fession of sin, it looked very presumptuous not
|
|
to be ready to join it; it looked as if people did
not feel themselves to be sinners. And though
such as lived at a great distance might plead
difference of clocks as an excuse, yet those who
lived within the sound of the bell, could pretend
neither ignorance nor mistake.
Mary and her children set forward. Mr.
Johnson and the shepherd followed, taking care
to talk the whole way on such subjects as might
fit them for the solemn duties of the place to
which they were going. I have often been
sorry to observe, said Mr. Johnson, that many
who are reckoned decent, good kind of people,
and who would on no account neglect going to
church, yet seem to care but little in what frame
or temper of mind they go
or temper of mind they go thither. They will
talk of their worldly concerns till they get within
the door, and then take them up again the very
minute the sermon is over, which makes me
ready to fear they lay too much stress on the
mere form of going to a place of worship. Now,
for my part, I always find that it requires a little
time to bring my mind into a state fit to do any
common business well, much more this great and
most necessary business of all.'- Yes, sir,' re-
plied the shepherd; and then I think too how
busy I should be in preparing my mind, if I
were going into the presence of a great gentle-
man, or a lord, or the king; and shall the King
of kings be treated with less respect? Besides,
one likes to see people feel as if going to church
was a thing of choice and pleasure, as well as a
duty, and that they were as desirous not to be
the last there, as they would be if they were
going to a feast or a fair.'
After service, Mr. Jenkins the clergyman,
who was well acquainted with the character of
Mr. Johnson, and had a great respect for him,
accosted him with much civility; expressing
his concern that he could not enjoy just now so
much of his conversation as he wished, as he
was obliged to visit a sick person at a distance,
but hoped to have a little talk with him before
he left the village. As they walked along to-
gether, Mr. Johnson made such inquiries about
the shepherd, as served to confirm him in the
high opinion he entertained of his piety, good
sense, industry, and self-denial. They parted;
the clergyman promising to call in at the cottage
in his way home.
The shepherd, who took it for granted that
Mr. Johnson was gone to the parsonage, walked
home with his wife and children, and was be-
ginning in his usual way to catechise and instruct
his family, when Mr. Johnson came in, and in-
sisted that the shepherd should go on with his
instructions just as if he were not there. This
gentleman, who was very desirous of being useful
to his own servants and workmen in the
way of
religious instruction, was sometimes sorry to
find that though he took a good deal of pains,
they now and then did not quite understand
him; for though his meaning was very good,
his language was not always very plain; and
though the things he said were not hard to be
understood, yet the words were, especially to
such as were very ignorant. And he now began
to find out that if people were ever so wise and
good, yet if they had not a simple, agreeable,
and familiar way of expressing themselves, some
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
199
in another sense, true religion, which from sound
principles brings forth right practice, fills up the
whole time, and life too as one may say.'
'You are happy,' said Mr. Johnson, in this
of their plain hearers would not be much the
better for them. For this reason he was not
above listening to the plain, humble way in
which this honest man taught his family; for
though he knew that he himself had many ad-retired life, by which you escape the corruptions
vantages over the shepherd; had more learning,
and could teach him many things, yet he was
not too proud to learn even of so poor a man, in
any point where he thought the shepherd might
have the advantage of him.
This gentleman was much pleased with the
knowledge and piety which he discovered in the
answers of the children: and desired the shep-
herd to tell him how he contrived to keep up a
sense of divine things in his own mind, and in
that of his family, with so little leisure, and so
little reading. Oh! as to that, sir,' said the
shepherd,' we do not read much except in one
book, to be sure; but with my heart prayer for
God's blessing on the use of that book, what little
knowledge is needful seems to come of course,
as it were. And my chief study has been to
bring the fruits of the Sunday reading into the
week's business, and to keep up the same sense
of God in the heart, when the Bible is in the
cupboard as when it is in the hand. In short,
to apply what I read in the book to what I meet
with in the field."'
son.
of the world.' 'Sir,' replied the shepherd, 'I do
not escape the corruptions of my own evil na-
ture. Even there, on that wild solitary hill, I
can find out that my heart is prone to evil
thoughts. I suppose, sir, that different states
have different temptations. You great folks
that live in the world, perhaps, are exposed to
some, of which such a poor man as I am, knows
nothing. But to one who leads a lonely life like
me, evil thoughts are a chief besetting sin; and
I can no more withstand these without the
grace
of God, than a rich gentleman can withstand
the snares of evil company, without the same
grace. And I find that I stand in need of God's
help continually, and if he should give me up to
my own evil heart I should be lost.'
Mr. Johnson approved of the shepherd's sin-
cerity, for he had always observed, that where
there was no humility, and no watchfulness
against sin, there was no religion, and he said
that the man who did not feel himself to be a
sinner, in his opinion could not be a Christian.
Just as they were in this part of their dis-
course, Mr. Jenkins, the clergyman, came in.
After the usual salutations, he said, 'Well shep-
herd, I wish you joy; I know you will be sorry
to gain any advantage by the death of a neigh-
bour; but old Wilson, my clerk, was so infirm,
and I trust so well prepared, that there is no
reason to be sorry for his death. I have been to
pray by him, but he died while I staid. I have
always intended you should succeed to his place;
'tis no great matter of profit, but every little is
something.'
'No great matter, sir!' cried the shepherd;
'indeed it is a great thing to me; it will more
Blessed be God for all his
than pay my rent.
goodness!'-Mary said nothing, but lifted up her
eyes full of tears in silent gratitude.
'I don't quite understand you,' said Mr. John-
Sir, replied the shepherd, 'I have but a
poor gift at conveying these things to others,
though I have much comfort from them in my
own mind; but I am sure that the most igno-
rant and hard-working people,who are in earnest
about their salvation, may help to keep up de-
vout thoughts and good affections during the
week, though they have hardly any time to look
at a book; and it will help them to keep out
bad thoughts too; which is no small matter.
But then they must know the Bible; they must
have read the word of God diligently; that is a
kind of stock in trade for a Christian to set up
with; and it is this which makes me so careful
in teaching it to my children; and even in
storing their memories with psalms and chap-
ters. This is a great help to a poor hard-work-
ing man, who will scarcely meet with any thing
in them but what he may turn to some good
account. If one lives in the fear and love of
God, almost every thing one sees abroad will
teach one to adore his power and goodness, and
bring to mind some text of Scripture, which shall
fill his heart with thankfulness, and the mouth
with praise. When I look upwards the Heavens
declare the glory of God, and shall I be silent
and ungrateful? If I look round and see the
vallies standing thick with corn, how can I help Mr. Johnson now inquired of the clergyman
blessing that Power who giveth me all things whether there were many children in the parish.
richly to enjoy? I may learn gratitude from the 'More than you would expect,' replied he, from
beasts of the field, for the ox knoweth his owner, the seeming smallness of it; but there are some
and the ass his master's crib, and shall a Christian little hamlets which you do not see.'—' I think,'
not know, shall a Christian not consider what returned Mr. Johnson, I recollect that in the
great things God has done for him? I, who am conversation I had with the shepherd on the hill
a shepherd, endeavour to fill my soul with a con- yonder, he told me you had no Sunday school.'
stant remembrance of that good shepherd, who I am sorry to say we have none,' said the mi-
feedeth me in green pastures, and maketh me tonister. I do what I can to remedy this misfor-
lie down beside the still waters, and whose rod tune by public catechising; but having two or
and staff comfort me. A religion, sir, which three churches to serve, I cannot give so much
has its seat in the heart, and its fruits in the time as I wish to private instruction; and having
life, takes up little time in the study. And yet a large family of my own, and no assistance from
|
'I am glad of this little circumstance,' said
Mr. Jenkins, 'not only for your sake, but for the
sake of the office itself. I so heartily reverence
every religious institution, that I would never
have even the amen added to the excellent pray-
ers of our church, by vain or profane lips, and if
it depended on me, there should be no such thing
in the land as an idle, drunken, or irreligious
parish clerk. Sorry I am to say that this mat-
ter is not always sufficiently attended to, and
that I know some of a very indifferent cha-
racter.
C
ม
ܨܐ
200
THE WORKS OF HANNAII MORE.
others, I have never been able to establish a,
school.'
There is an excellent institution in London,'
said Mr. Johnson, 'called the Sunday-school
Society, which kindly gives books and other
helps, on the application of such pious clergy-
men as stand in need of their aid, and which I
am sure would have assisted you, but I think
we shall be able to do something ourselves.
'Shepherd,' continued he, ' if I were a king, and
had it in my power to make you a rich and a
great man, with a word speaking, I would not do
it. Those who are raised, by some sudden stroke,
much above the station in which Divine Pro-
vidence had placed them, seldom turn out very
good, or very happy. I have never had any
great things in my power, but as far as I have
been able, I have been always glad to assist the
worthy. I have, however, never attempted or
desired to set any poor man much above his na-
tural condition, but it is a pleasure to me to
lend him such assistance as may make that con-
dition more easy to himself, and put him in a
way which shall call him to the performance of
more duties than perhaps he could have per-
formed without my help, and of performing
them in a better manner to others, and with
more comfort to himself.-What rent do you
pay for this cottage?'
C
Fifty shillings a year, sir,'
'It is in a sad tattered condition; is there not
a better to be had in the village?'
your family, by doing, as I hope, a great deal
of good to the souls of others. The rest of the
week you will work as usual. The difference
of rent between this house and the clerk's I
shall pay myself, for to put you in a better
house at your own expense would be no great
act of kindness.-As for honest Mary, who is
|not fit for hard labour, or any other out-of-door,
work, I propose to endow a small weekly school,
of which she shall be the mistress, and employ
her notable turn to good account, by teaching
ten or a dozen girls to knit, sew, spin, card, or any
other useful way of getting their bread; for all
this I shall only pay her the usual price, for
I am not going to make you rich, but useful.?
'Not rich, sir?' cried the shepherd; 'How
can I ever be thankful enough for such bless-
ings? And will my poor Mary have a dry thatch
over her head? and shall I be able to send for
the doctor when I am like to lose her? Indeed
my cup runs over with blessings, I hope God
will give me humility.'-Here he and Mary
looked at each other and burst into tears. The
gentleman saw their distress, and kindly walk-
ed out upon the little green before the door,
that these honest people might give vent to
their feelings. As soon as they were alone
they crept into one corner of the room, where
they thought they could not be seen, and fell on
their knees, devoutly blessing and praising God
for his mercies. Never were
Never were more hearty
prayers presented, than this grateful couple
offered up for their benefactors. The warmth
of their gratitude could only be equalled by the
earnestness with which they besought the bless-
ing of God on the work in which they were
going to engage.
"That in which the poor clerk lived,' said the
clergyman, is not only more tight and whole,
but has two decent chambers, and a very large
light kitchen.'' That will be very convenient,'
replied Mr. Johnson, 'pray what is the rent?'
I think,' said the shepherd, 'poor neighbour The two gentlemen now left this happy fa-
Wilson gave somewhat about four pounds amily, and walked to the parsonage, where the
year, or it might be guineas.'- Very well,'
said Mr. Johnson, and what will the clerk's
place be worth, think you?' About three pounds,
was the answer.
'Now,' continued Mr. Johnson, 'my plan is
that the shepherd should take that house im-
mediately; for as the poor man is dead, there
will be no need of waiting till quarter-day, if
I make up the difference.' 'True, sir,' said
Mr. Jenkins, and I am sure my wife's father,
whom I expect to-morrow, will willingly assist
a little towards buying some of the clerk's old
goods. And the sooner they remove the better,
for poor Mary caught that bad rheumatism by
sleeping under a leaky thatch.' The shepherd
was too much moved to speak, and Mary could
hardly sob out, 'Oh, sir! you are too good; in-
deed this house will do very well.' 'It may do
very well for you and your children, Mary,'
said Mr. Johnson gravely, 'but it will not do for
a school; the kitchen is neither large nor light
enough. Shepherd,' continued he, with your
good minister's leave, and kind assistance, I
propose to set up in this parish a Sunday School,
and to make you the master. It will not at all
interfere with your weekly calling, and it is
the only lawful way in which you could turn
the Sabbath into a day of some little profit to
evening was spent in a manner very edifying to
Mr. Johnson, who the next day took all proper
measures for putting the shepherd in imme-
diate possession of his now comfortable habita-
tion. Mr. Jenkins's father-in-law, the worthy
gentleman who gave the shepherd's wife 'the
blankets, in the first part of this history, arrived
at the parsonage before Mr. Johnson left it, and
assisted in fitting up the clerk's cottage.
Mr. Johnson took his leave, promising to call
on the worthy minister and his new clerk once
a year, in his summer's journey over the plain,
as long as it should please God to spare his life.
He had every reason to be satisfied with the
objects of his bounty. The shepherd's zeal and
piety made him a blessing to the rising genera-
tion. The old resorted to his school for the
benefit of hearing the young instructed; and
the clergyman had the pleasure of seeing that
he was rewarded for the protection he gave the
school by the great increase in his congrega-
tion. The shepherd not only exhorted both pa-
rents and children to the indispensable duty of
a regular attendance at church, but by his pious
counsels he drew them thither, and by his plain
and prudent instructions enabled them to un-
derstand, and of course to delight in the public
worship of God.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
201
THE TWO SHOEMAKERS.
and she thought the former was the least tire-
some of the two. Indeed this foolish woman
had such an opinion of his genius, that she used
from a child, to think he was too wise for any
thing but a parson, and hoped she should live
to see him one. She did not wish to see her son a
minister, because she loved either learning or
piety, but because she thought it would make
Jack a gentleman, and set him above his brothers.
JACK BROWN and JAMES STOCK, were two lads enough to value, but to save her darling from
apprenticed at nearly the same time, to Mr. the fatigue of labour: for if he had not gone to
Williams, a shoemaker, in a small town in Ox-school, she knew he must have gone to work,
fordshire: they were pretty near the same age,
but of very different characters and dispositions.
Brown was eldest son to a farmer in good cir-
cumstances, who gave the usual apprentice fee
with him. Being a wild giddy boy, whom his
father could not well manage or instruct in far-
ming, he thought it better to send him out to
learn a trade at a distance, than to let him idle
about at home; for Jack always preferred bird's-
nesting and marbles to any other employment;
he would trifle away the day, when his father
thought he was at school, with any boys he
could meet with, who were as idle as himself;
and he could never be prevailed upon to do, or
to learn any thing, while a game at taw could
be had for love or money. All this time his
little brothers, much younger than himself, were
beginning to follow the plough, or to carry the
corn to the mill as soon as they were able to
mount a cart-horse.
Farmer Brown still hoped, that though Jack
was likely to make but an idle and ignorant
farmer, yet he might make no bad tradesman,
when he should be removed from the indul-
gences of a father's house, and from a silly
mother, whose fondness kept him back in every
thing. This woman was enraged when she
found that so fine a scholar, as she took Jack
to be, was to be put apprentice to a shoemaker.
The farmer, however, for the first time in his
life, would have his own way. But being a
Jack, however, who was a lively boy, and did worldly man, and too apt to mind only what is
not naturally want either sense or good-nature, falsely called the main chance; instead of being
might have turned out well enough, if he had careful to look out for a sober, prudent, and re-
not had the misfortune to be his mother's fa- ligious master for his son, he left all that to ac-
vourite. She concealed and forgave all his faults. cident, as if it had been a thing of little or no
To be sure he was a little wild, she would say, consequence. This is a very common fault;
but he would not make the worse man for that, and fathers who are guilty of it, are in a great
for Jack had a good spirit of his own, and she measure answerable for the future sins and
would not have it broke, and so make a mope of errors of their children, when they come out
the boy. The farmer, for a quiet life, as it is into the world, and set up for themselves. If a
called, gave up all these points to his wife, and, man gives his son a good education, a good ex-
with them, gave up the future virtue and hap-ample, and a good master, it is indeed possible
piness of his child. He was a laborious and in-that the son may not turn out well, but it does
dustrious man, but had no religion; he thought
only of the gains and advantages of the present
day, and never took the future into the account.
His wife managed him entirely, and as she was
really notable, he did not trouble his head about
any thing farther. If she had been careless in
her dairy, he would have stormed and sworn;
but as she only ruined one child by indulgence,
and almost broke the hearts of the rest by un-
kindness, he gave himself little concern about
the matter. The cheese, certainly was good,
and that indeed is a great point; but she was
neglectful of her children, and a tyrant to her
servants. Her husband's substance, indeed,
was not wasted, but his happiness was not con-
sulted. His house, it is true, was not dirty,
but it was the abode of fury, ill-temper, and cove-
tousness. And the farmer, though he did not
care for liquor, was too often driven to the public-
house in the evening, because his own was
neither quiet nor comfortable. The mother was
always scolding, and the children were always
crying.
Jack, however, notwithstanding his idleness,
picked up a little reading and writing, but never
would learn to cast an account: that was too
much labour. His mother was desirous he
should continue at school, not so much for the
sake of his learning, which she had not sense
VOL. I.
not often happen; and when it does, the father
has no blame resting on him; and it is a great
point towards a man's comfort to have his con-
science quiet in that respect, however God may
think fit to overrule events.
The farmer, however, took care to desire his
friends to inquire for a shoemaker who had
good business, and was a good workman; and
the mother did not forget to put in her word,
and desired that it might be one who was not
too strict; for Jack had been brought up tender-
ly, was a meek boy, and could not bear to be
contradicted in any thing. And this is the
common notion of meekness among people who
do not take up their notions on rational and
Christian grounds.
Mr. Williams was recommended to the far-
mer as being the best shoemaker in the town in
which he lived, and far from a strict master;
and, without farther inquiries, to Mr. Williams
he went.
James Stock, who was the son of an honest
labourer in the next village, was bound out by
the parish in consideration of his father having
so numerous a family, that he was not able to
put him out himself. James was in every thing
the very reverse of his new companion. He was
a modest, industrious, pious youth; and though
so poor, and the child of a labourer, was a much
202
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
proper man to have the care of youth; but Wil-
liams the shoemaker was already fixed on, by
those who were to put the boy out, who told him
if he wanted a master it must be him or none;
for the overseers had a better opinion of Wil-
liams than he deserved, and thought it would
be the making of the boy to go to him. The
father knew that beggars must not be choosers,
so he fitted out James for his new place, having
indeed little to give him besides his blessing.
better scholar than Jack, who was a wealthy | he would carefully have inquired if he was a
farmer's son.-His father had, it is true, been
able to give him but very little schooling, for he
was obliged to be put to work when quite a child.
When very young he used to run of errands for
Mr. Thomas, the curate of the parish; a very
kind-hearted young gentleman, who boarded
next door to his father's cottage. He used also
to rub down and saddle his horse, and do any
other little job for him, in the most civil oblig-
ing manner. All this so recommended him to
the clergyman, that he would often send for him
of an evening, after he had done his day's work
in the field, and condescended to teach him him-
self to write and cast accounts, as well as to in-
struct him in the principles of his religion. It
was not merely out of kindness for the little
good-natured services James did him, that he
showed him this favour, but also for his readi-
ness in the catechism, and his devout behaviour
at church.
The first thing that drew the minister's at-
tention to this boy, was the following; he had
frequently given him half-pence and pence for
holding his horse and carrying him to water
before he was big enough to be further useful
to him. On Christmas day he was surprised to
see James at church, reading out of a handsome
new prayer-book; he wondered how he came
by it, for he knew there was nobody in the pa-
rish likely to have given it to him, for at that
time there were no Sunday schools; and the fa-
ther could not afford it he was sure.
:
'Well James,' said he, as he saw him when
they came out, 'you made a good figure at
church to-day it made you look like a man and
a Christian, not only to have so handsome a
book, but to be so ready in all parts of the ser-
vice. How came you by that book?' James
owned modestly, that he had been a whole year
saving up the money by single half-pence, all
of which had been of the minister's own giving,
and that in all that time he had not spent a sin-
gle farthing on his own diversions. My dear
boy,' said the good Mr. Thomas, 'I am much
mistaken if thou dost not turn out well in the
world, for two reasons :-first, from thy saving
turn and self-denying temper; and next, be-
cause thou didst devote the first eighteen-pence
thou wast ever worth in the world to so good a
purpose.'
James bowed and blushed, and from that time
Mr. Thomas began to take more notice of him,
and to instruct him as I said above. As James
soon grew able to do him more considerable
service, he would now and then give him a six-
pence. This he constantly saved till it became
a little sum, with which he bought shoes and
stockings; well knowing that his poor father,
with a large family and low wages, could not
buy them for him. As to what little money
he earned himself by his daily labour in the
field, he constantly carried it to his mother every
Saturday night, to buy bread for the family,
which was a pretty help to them.
As James was not overstout in his make, his
father thankfully accepted the offer of the pa-
rish officers to bind out his son to a trade. This
good man, however, had not, like farmer Brown,
the liberty of choosing a master for his son; or
The worthy Mr. Thomas, however, kindly
gave him an old coat and waistcoat, which his
mother, who was a neat and notable woman,
contrived to make up for him herself without a
farthing expense, and when it was turned and
made fit for his size, it made him a very hand-
some suit for Sundays, and lasted him a couple
of years.
And here let me stop to remark what a pity.
it is, that poor women so seldom are able or wil-
ling to do these sort of little handy jobs them-
selves; and that they do not oftener bring up
their daughters to be more useful in family
work. They are great losers by it every way,
not only as they are disqualifying their girls
from making good wives hereafter, but they are
losers in point of present advantage; for gentry
could much oftener afford to give a poor boy a
jacket or a waistcoat, if it was not for the ex-
pense of making it, which adds very much to
the cost. To my certain knowledge, many poor
women would often get an old coat, or a bit of
coarse new cloth given to them to fit out a boy,
if the mothers or sisters were known to be able
to cut out to advantage, and to make it up de-
cently themselves. But half a crown for the
making a bit of kersey, which costs but a few
shillings, is more than many very charitable
gentry can afford to give-so they often give
nothing at all, when they see the mothers so
little able to turn it to advantage. It is hoped
they will take this hint kindly, as it is meant
for their good.
But to return to our two young shoe-makers.
They were both now settled at Mr. Williams's,
who, as he was known to be a good workman,
had plenty of business-He had sometimes two
or three journeymen, but no apprentices but
Jack and James.
Jack, who, with all his faults, was a keen,
smart boy, took to learn the trade quick enough,
but the difficulty was to make him stick two
hours together to his work. At every noise he
heard in the street down went the work-the
last one way, the upper leather another; the
sole dropped on the ground, and the thread
dragged after him, all the way up the street. If
a blind fiddler, a ballad singer, a mountebank,
a dancing bear, or a drum were heard at a dis-
tance-out ran Jack-nothing could stop him,
and not a stich more could he be prevailed on to
do that day. Every duty, every promise was
forgotten for the present pleasure he could not
resist the smallest temptation-he never stopped
for a moment to consider whether a thing was
right or wrong, but whether he liked or disliked
it. And as his ill-judging mother took care to
send him privately a good supply of pocket.
money, that deadly bane to all youthful virtue
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
203
'
he had generally a few pence ready to spend, I ful as they can in a family, and to be civil and
and to indulge in the present diversion whatever humble; yet on the other hand, it is the duty of
it was.
And what was still worse even than masters always to remember, that if they are
spending his money, he spent his time too, or paid for instructing them in their trade, they
rather his master's time. Of this he was con- ought conscientiously to instruct them in it, and
tinually reminded by James, to whom he always not to employ them the greater part of their
answered, what have you to complain about? time in such household or other drudgery, as to
It is nothing to you or any one else; I spend deprive them of the opportunity of acquiring
nobody's money but my own. 'That may be,' their trade. This practice is not the less unjust
replied the other, but you cannot say it is your because it is common.
own time that you spend.' He insisted upon it
that it was; but James fetched down their in-
dentures, and there showed him that he had so-
lemnly bound himself by that instrument, not to
waste his master's property. Now,' quoth
James, 'thy own time is a very valuable part of
thy master's property.' To this he replied,
every one's time was his own, and he should
not sit moping all day over his last-for his part,
he thanked God, he was no parish 'prentice.'
James did not resent this piece of foolish im-
pertinence, as some silly lads would have done;
nor fly out into a violent passion: for even at
this early age, he had begun to learn of Him
who was meek and lowly of heart; and therefore
when he was reviled, he reviled not again. On
the contrary he was so very kind and gentle,
that even Jack, vain and idle as he was, could
not help loving him, though he took care never
to follow his advice.
Jack's fondness for his boyish and silly diver-
sions in the street, soon produced the effects
which might naturally be expected; and the
same idleness which led him to fly out into the
town at the sound of a fiddle or the sight of a
puppet-show, soon led him to those places to
which all these fiddles and shows naturally lead;
I mean the alehouse. The acquaintance picked
up in the street was carried on at the Gray-
hound; and the idle pastimes of the boy soon
led to the destructive vices of the man.
Mr. Williams soon found out that his favourite
Jack would be of little use to him in the shop;
for though he worked well enough, he did not
care how little he did. Nor could he be of the least
use to his master in keeping an account, or
writing out a bill upon occasion, for, as he never
could be made to learn to cypher, he did not
know addition from multiplication.
One day one of the customers called at the
shop in a great hurry, and desired his bill might
be made out that minute. Mr. Williams, having
taken a cup too much, made several attempts to
put down a clear account, but the more he tried,
the less he found himself able to do it. James,
who was sitting at his last, rose up, and with
great modesty, asked his master if he would
please to give him leave to make out the bill,
saying, that though but a poor scholar, he would
do his best, rather than keep the gentleman wait-
ing. Williams gladly accepted his offer, and
confused as his head was with liquor, he yet
was able to observe with what neatness, despatch,
and exactness, the account was drawn out. From
that time he no longer considered James as a
drudge, but as one fitted for the high depart.
ments of the trade, and he was now regularly
employed to manage the accounts, with which
all the customers were so well pleased, that it
contributed greatly to raise him in his master's
esteem: for there were now never any of those
blunders or false charges for which the shop
had before been so famous.
As he was not an ill-tempered youth, nor na-
turally much given to drink, a sober and prudent James went on in a regular course of in-
master, who had been steady in his manage-dustry, and soon became the best workman Mr.
ment and regular in his own conduct, who would
have recommended good advice by a good ex-
ample, might have made something of Jack.
But I am sorry to say, that Mr. Williams, though
a good workman, and not a very hard or severe
master, was neither a sober nor a steady man-
so far from it that he spent much more time at
the Grayhound than at home. There was no
order either in his shop or family. He left the
chief care of his business to his two young ap-
prentices; and being but a worldly man, he was
at first disposed to show favour to Jack, much
more than to James, because he had more mo-
ney, and his father was better in the world than
the father of poor James.
Williams had; but there were many things in
the family which he greatly disapproved. Some
of the journeymen used to swear, drink, and
sing very licentious songs. All these things
were a great grief to his sober mind; he com-
plained to his master who only laughed at him;
and, indeed, as Williams did the same himself,
he put it out of his power to correct his servants,
if he had been so disposed. James however,
used always to reprove them with great mild-
ness indeed, but with great seriousness also.
This, but still more his own excellent example,
produced at length very good effects on such of
the men as were not quite hardened in sin.
What grieved him most, was the manner in
At first, therefore, he was disposed to consider which the Sunday was spent. The master lay
James as a sort of drudge; who was to do all in bed all the morning; nor did the mother or
the menial work of the family, and he did not her children ever go to church, except there was
care how little he taught him of his trade. With some new finery to be shown, or a christening
Mrs. Williams the matter was still worse; she to be attended. The town's people were coming
constantly called him away from the business of to the shop all the morning, for work which
his trade to wash the house, nurse the child, turn should have been sent home the night before,
And
the spit, or run of errands. And here I must re- had not the master been at the alehouse.
mark, that though parish apprentices are bound what wounded James to the very soul was, that
in duty to be submissive to both master and the master expected the two apprentices to carry
mistress, and always to make themselves as use-home shoes to the country customers on the
204
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
him.
Sunday morning; which he wickedly thought | a hypocrite, and as long as they could not call
was a saving of time, as it prevented their hin- him that, he did not care what else they called
dering their work on the Saturday. These
shameful practices greatly afflicted poor James;
he begged his master with tears in his eyes, to
excuse him, but he only laughed at his squeamish
conscience, as he called it.
Jack did not dislike this part of the business,
and generally after he had delivered his parcel,
wasted good part of the day in nutting, playing
at fives, or dropping in at the public house: any
thing was better to Jack than going to church.
James on the other hand, when he was com-
pelled, sorely against his conscience, to carry
home any goods on a Sunday morning, always
got up as soon as it was light, knelt down and
prayed heartily to God to forgive him a sin
which it was not in his power to avoid; he took
care not to lose a moment by the way, but as he
was taking his walk with the utmost speed, to
leave his shoes with the customers, he spent his
time in endeavouring to keep up good thoughts
in his mind, and praying that the day might
come when his conscience might be delivered
from this grievous burthen. He was now par-
ticularly thankful, that Mr. Thomas had for-
merly taught him so many psalms and chapters,
which he used to repeat in these walks with
great devotion.
He always got home before the rest of the
family were up, dressed himself very clean, and
went twice to church; as he greatly disliked the
company and practices of his master's house,
particularly on the Sabbath-day, he preferred
spending his evening alone, reading his Bible,
which I had forgot to say the worthy clergyman
had given him when he left his native village.
Sunday evening, which is to some people such
a burden, was to James the highest holiday. He
had formerly learnt a little how to sing a psalm
of the clerk of his own parish, and this was now
become a very delightful part of his evening ex.
ercise. And as Will Simpson, one of the jour-
neymen, by James's advice and example, was
now beginning to be of a more serious way of
thinking, he often asked him to sit an hour with
him, when they read the Bible, and talked it
over together in a manner very pleasant and
improving; and as Will was a famous singer, a
psalm or two sung together, was a very innocent
pleasure.
James's good manners and civility to the cus-
tomers drew much business to the shop; and
his skill as a workman was so great, that every
one desired that his shoes might be made by
James. Williams grew so very idle and negli-
gent, that he now totally neglected his affairs,
and to hard drinking added deep gaming. All
James's care, both of the shop and the accounts,
could not keep things in any tolerable order: he
represented to his master that they were grow-
ing worse and worse, and exhorted him, if he
valued his credit as a tradesman, his comfort as
a husband and father, his character as a master,
and his soul as a Christian to turn over a new
leaf. Williams swore a great oath, that he
would not be restrained in his pleasures to please
a canting parish 'prentice, nor to humour a par-
cel of squalling brats-that let people say what
they would of him, they should never say he was
|
In a violent passion he immediately went to
the Grayhound, where he now spent not only
every evening, which he had long done, but good
part of the day and night also.-His wife was
very dressy, extravagant, and fond of company,
and wasted at home as fast as her husband spent
abroad, so that all the neighbours said, if it had
not been for James, his master must have been
a bankrupt long ago, but they were sure he could
not hold it much longer.
As Jack Brown sung a good song, and played
many diverting tricks, Williams liked his com-
pany; and often allowed him to make one at
the Grayhound, where he would laugh heartily
at his stories; so that every one thought Jack
was much the greater favourite-se he was as a
companion in frolic, and foolery, and pleasure,
as it is called; but he would not trust him with
an inch of leather or sixpence in money: No,
no-when business was to be done, or trust was
to be reposed, James was the man: the idle and
the drunken never trust one another, if they
have common sense. They like to laugh, and
sing, and riot, and drink together, but when they
want a friend, a counsellor, a helper in business
or in trouble, they go farther afield; and Wil-
liams, while he would drink with Jack, would
trust James with untold gold; and even was
foolishly tempted to neglect his business the
more from knowing that he had one at home who
was taking care of it.
In spite of all James's care and diligence,
however, things were growing worse and worse;
the more James saved, the more his master and
mistress spent. One morning, just as the shop
was opened, and James had set every body to
their respective work, and he himself was set-
tling the business for the day, he found that his
master was not yet come from the Grayhound.
As this was now become a common case, he
only grieved but did not wonder at it. While
he was indulging sad thoughts on what would
be the end of all this, in ran the tapster from the
Grayhound out of breath, and with a look of
terror and dismay, desired James would step
over to the public house with him that moment,
for that his master wanted him.
James went immediately, surprised at this
unusual message. When he got into the kitchen
of the public house, which he now entered for
the first time in his life, though it was just op-
posite to the house in which he lived, he was
shocked at the beastly disgusting appearance of
every thing he beheld. There was a table cover-
ed with tankards, punch-bowls, broken glasses,
pipes, and dirty greasy packs of cards, and all
over wet with liquor; the floor was strewed with
broken earthen cups, odd cards, and an EO table
which had been shivered to pieces in a quarrel;
behind the table stood a crowd of dirty fellows,
with matted locks, hollow eyes, and faces smear-
ed with tobacco; James made his way after the
tapster, through this wretched looking crew, to
a settle which stood in the chimney corner. Not
a word was uttered, but the silent horror seemed
to denote something more than a mere common
drunken bout.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
205
What was the dismay of James, when he saw,
his miserable master stretched out on the settle,
in all the agonies of death! He had fallen into
a fit; after having drunk hard best part of the
night, and seemed to have but a few minutes to
live. In his frightful countenance, was dis-
played the dreadful picture of sin and death, for
he struggled at once under the guilt of intoxica-
tion, and the pangs of a dying man. He reco-
vered his senses for a few moments, and called
out to ask if his faithful servant was come.
James went up to him, took him by his cold
hand, but was too much moved to speak.—'Oh!
James, James,' cried he in a broken voice, 'pray
for me, comfort me.' James spoke kindly to
him, but was too honest to give him false com-
fort, as is too often done by mistaken friends in
these dreadful moments.
'James,' said he, 'I have been a bad master
to you-you would have saved me, soul and body, |
but I would not let you-I have ruined my wife,
my children, and my own soul. Take warning,
oh, take warning by my miserable end,' said he
to his stupified companions: but none were able
to attend to him but James, who bid him lift up
his heart to God, and prayed heartily for him
himself. Oh!' said the dying man, it is too
late, too late for me-but you have still time,'
said he to the half-drunken terrified crew around
him. 'Where is Jack? Jack Brown came
forward, but was too much frightened to speak.
'O wretched boy!' said he, 'I fear I shall have
the ruin of thy soul, as well as my own to answer
for. Stop short!-Take warning-now in the
days of thy youth. O James, James, thou dost
not pray for me. Death is dreadful to the wick-
ed-O the sting of death to a guilty conscience!'
Here he lifted up his ghastly eyes in speechless
horror, grasped hard at the hand of James; gave
a deep hollow groan, and closed his eyes, never
to open them but in an awful eternity.
This was death in all its horrors! the gay
companions of his sinful pleasures, could not
stand the sight; all slunk away like guilty
thieves from their late favourite friend-no one
was left to assist him, but his two apprentices.
Brown was not so hardened but that he shed
many tears for his unhappy master; and even
made some hasty resolutions of amendment,
which were too soon forgotten.
While Brown stepped home to call the work-
men to come and assist in removing their poor
master, James staid alone with the corpse, and
employed those awful moments in indulging the
most serious thoughts, and praying heartily to
God, that so terrible a lesson might not be thrown
away upon him; but that he might be enabled
to live in a constant state of preparation for
death. The resolutions he made at this moment,
as they were not made in his own strength, but
in an humble reliance on God's gracious help,
were of use to him as long as he lived; and if
ever he was for a moment tempted to say, or do
a wrong thing, the remembrance of his poor
dying master's last agonies, and the dreadful
words he uttered, always operated as an instant
check upon him.
When Williams was buried, and his affairs
came to be inquired into, they were found to be
in a sad condition. His wife, indeed, was the
less to be pitied, as she had contributed her full
share to the common ruin. James, however,
did pity her, and by his skill in accounts, his
known honesty, and the trust the creditors put
in his word, things caine to be settled rather
better than Mrs. Williams expected.
Both Brown and James were now within a
month or two of being out of their time. The
creditors, as was said before, employed James
to settle his late master's accounts, which he did
in a manner so creditable to his abilities, and
his honesty, that they proposed to him to take
the shop himself. He assured them it was ut-
terly out of his power for want of money. As
the creditors had not the least fear of being re-
paid, if it should please God to spare his life,
they generously agreed among themselves to
advance him a small sum of money without any
security but his bond; for this he was to pay a
very reasonable interest, and to return the whole
in a given number of years. James shed tears
of gratitude at this testimony to his character,
and could hardly be prevailed on to accept their
kindness, so great was his dread of being in
debt.
He took the remainder of the lease from his
mistress; and in settling affairs with her, took
care to make every thing as advantageous to her
as possible. He never once allowed himself to
think how unkind she had been to him; he only
saw in her the needy widow of his deceased
master, and the distressed mother of an infant
family; and was heartily sorry it was not in his
power to contribute to their support; it was not
only James's duty, but his delight, to return good
for evil-for he was a Christian.
In
James Stock was now, by the blessing of God
on his own earnest endeavours, master of a con-
siderable shop, and was respected by the whole
town for his prudence, honesty, and piety. How
he behaved in his new station, and also what
befel his comrade Brown, must be the subject
of another book; and I hope my readers will
look forward with some impatience for some
further account of this worthy young man.
the meantime, other apprentices will do well to
follow so praiseworthy an example, and to re-
member, that the respectable master of a large
shop, and of a profitable business, was raised to
that creditable situation, without money, friends,
or connexions, from the low beginning of a parish
apprentice, by sobriety, industry, the fear of
God, and, an obedience to the divine principles
of the Christian religion.
PART II.
The Apprentice turned Master.
THE first part of this history left off with the
dreadful sudden death of Williams the idle shoe-
maker, who died in a drunken fit at the Gray-
hound. It also showed how James Stock, his
faithful apprentice, by his honest and upright
behaviour, so gained the love and respect of his
late master's creditors, that they set him up in
business, though he was not worth a shilling of
his own--such is the power of a good character!
206
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
And when we last parted from him he had just,
got possession of his master's shop.
This sudden prosperity was a time of trial
for James; who, as he was now become a cre-
ditable tradesman, I shall hereafter think proper
to call Mr. James Stock. I say, this sudden
rise in life was a time of trial; for we hardly
know what we are ourselves till we become our
own masters. There is indeed always a rea-
sonable hope that a good servant will not make
a bad master, and that a faithful apprentice will
prove an honest tradesman. But the heart of
man is deceitful; and some folks who seem to
behave very well while they are under subjec-
tion, no sooner get a little power than their
heads are turned, and they grow prouder than
those who are gentlemen born. They forget at
once that they were lately poor and dependant
themselves, so that one would think that with
their poverty they had lost their memory too.
I have known some who had suffered most
hardships in their early days, become the most
hard and oppressive in their turn: so that they
seem to forget that fine considerate reason which
God gives to the children of Israel why they
should be merciful to their servants, remember-
ing, said he, that thou thyself was a bond-man.
Young Mr. Stock did not so forget himself.
He had indeed the only sure guard from falling
into this error. It was not from any uneasiness in
his natural disposition: for that only just serves
to make folks good-natured when they are
pleased, and patient when they have nothing
to vex them.-James went upon higher ground.
He brought his religion into all his actions;
he did not give way to abusive language, be
cause he knew it was a sin. He did not use
his apprentices ill, because he knew he had him-
self a Master in heaven.
He knew he owed his present happy situation
to the kindness of the creditors. But did he
grow easy and careless because he knew he had
such friends? No indeed. He worked with
double diligence in order to get out of debt, and
to let these friends see he did not abuse their
kindness. Such behaviour as this is the great-
est encouragement in the world to rich people
to lend a little money. It creates friends, and
it keeps them.
His shoes and boots were made in the best
manner; this got him business; he set out with
a rule to tell no lies, and deceive no customers;
this secured his business. He had two reasons
for not promising to send home goods when he
knew he should not be able to keep his word.
The first, because he knew a lie was a sin, the
next, because it was a folly. There is no credit
sooner worn out than that which is gained by
false pretences. After a little while no one is
deceived by them. Falsehood is so soon detect
ed, that I believe most tradesmen are the
for it in the long rung. Deceit is the worst
part of a shopkeeper's stock in trade.
poorer
James was now at the head of a family.
This is a serious situation, (said he to himself,
one fine summer's evening, as he stood leaning
over the half-door of his shop to enjoy a little
fresh air) I am now master of a family. My
cares are doubled, and so are my duties. I see
the higher one gets in life the more one has to
answer for. Let me now call to mind the sor-
row I used to feel when I was made to carry
work home on a Sunday by an ungodly master:
and let me now keep the resolution I then form-
ed.
So what his heart found right to do, he re-
solved to do quickly; and he set out at first as
he meant to go on. The Sunday was truly a
day of rest at Mr. Stock's. He would not allow
a pair of shoes to be given out on that day to
oblige the best customer he had. And what did
he lose by it? Why nothing. For when the peo-
ple were once used to it, they liked Saturday
night just as well. But had it been otherwise
he would have given up his gains to his con-
science.
Showing how Mr. Stock behaved to his appren-
tices.
When he got up in the world so far as to have
apprentices, he thought himself as accountable
for their behaviour as if they had been his chil-
dren. He was very kind to them, and had a
cheerful merry way of talking to them, so that
the lads who had seen too much of swearing, re-
probate masters, were fond of him. They were
never afraid of speaking to him; they told him
all their little troubles, and considered their mas-
ter as their best friend, for they said they would
do any thing for a good word and a kind look.
As he did not swear at them when they had
been guilty of a fault, they did not lie to him to
But though he was very kind, he was very
conceal it, and thereby make one fault two.
watchful also, for he did not think neglect any
part of kindness. He brought them to adopt one
very pretty method, which was, on a Sunday
evening to divert themselves with writing out
half a dozen texts of Scripture in a neat copy-
You have the same at
book with gilt covers.
any of the stationers; they do not cost above
four pence, and will last nearly a year.
When the boys carried him their books, he
justly commended him whose texts were writ-
'And now my boys,'
ten in the fairest hand.
said he, let us see which of you will learn your
texts best in the course of the week; he who
does this shall choose for next Sunday.' Thus
the boys soon got many psalms and chapters by
heart, almost without knowing how they came
by them. He taught them how to make a prac-
will answer little purposes to learn texts if we
tical use of what they learnt: 'for,' said he, it
do not try to live up to them. One of the boys
being apt to play in his absence, and to run
back again to his work when he heard his
master's step, he brought him to a sense of his
to be the sixth of Ephesians. He showed him
fault by the last Sunday's text, which happened
what was meant by being obedient to his master
in singleness of heart as unto Christ, and ex-
plained to him with so much kindness what it
was, not to work with eye-service as men pleasers,
the lad said he should never forget it, and it did
but doing the will of God from the heart, that
the lad said he should never forget it, and it did
more towards curing him of idleness than the
soundest horse-whipping would have done.
How Mr. Stock got out of debt.
Stock's behaviour was very regular, and he
was much beloved for his kind and peaceable
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
207
temper. He had also a good reputation for skill
in his trade, and his industry was talked of
through the whole town, so that he had soon
more work than he could possibly do. He paid
all his dealers to the very day, and took care to
carry his interest money to the creditors the
moment it became due. In two or three years
he was able to begin to pay off a small part of
the principal. His reason for being so eager to
pay money as soon as it became due, was this:
He had observed tradesmen, and especially
his old master, put off the day of payment as
long as they could, even though they had the
means of paying in their power. This deceived
them for having money in their pockets they
forgot it belonged to the creditor, and not to
themselves, and so got to fancy they were rich
when they were really poor. This false notion
led them to indulge in idle expenses, whereas,
if they had paid regularly, they would have had
this one temptation the less: a young trades-
man, when he is going to spend money, should
at least ask himself, Whether this money is
his own or his creditors?' This little question
might help to prevent many a bankruptcy.
A true Christian always goes heartily to work
to find out what is his besetting sin; and when
he has found it (which he easily may if he looks
sharp) against this sin he watches narrowly.
Now I know it is the fashion among some folks,
(and a bad fashion it is,) to faney that good
people have no sin; but this only shows their
ignorance. It is not true. That good man, St.
Paul, knew better.* And when men do not
own their sins, it is not because their is no sin
in their hearts, but because they are not anxi-
ous to search for it, nor humble to confess it,
nor penitent to mourn over it. But this was
not the case with James Stock. Examine
yourselves truly,' said he, 'is no bad part of
the catechism.' He began to be afraid that his
desire of living creditably, and without being a
burden to any one, might, under the mask of
honesty and independence, lead him into pride
and covetousness. He feared that the bias of
his heart lay that way. So instead of being
proud of his sobriety; instead of bragging that
he never spent his money idly, nor went to the
alehouse; instead of boasting how hard he work-
ed and how he denied himself, he strove in secret
that even these good qualities might not grow
out of a wrong root. The following event was
of use to him in the way of indulging any dis-
position to covetousness.
One evening as he was standing at the door
of his shop a poor dirty boy, without stockings
and shoes, came up and asked him for a bit of
broken victuals, for he had eaten nothing all
day. In spite of his dirt and rags he was a
very pretty, lively, civil spoken boy, and Mr.
Stock could not help thinking he knew some-
thing of his face. He fetched him out a good
piece of bread and cheese, and while the boy was
devouring it, asked him if he had no parents,
and why he went about in that vagabond man-
ner? Daddy has been dead some years,' said
the boy; he died in a fit over at the Grayhound.
Mammy says he used to live at this shop, and
* See Romans, vii.
then we did not want for clothes nor victuals
neither.' Stock was melted almost to tears on
finding that this dirty beggar-boy was Tommy
Williams, the son of his old master. He blessed
God on comparing his own happy condition
with that of this poor destitute child, but he was
not prouder at the comparison; and while he
was thankful for his own prosperity, he pitied
the helpless boy. Where have you been living
of late?' said he to him, 'for I understand you
all went home to your mother's friends.'' So
we did, sir,' said the boy, but they are grown
tired of maintaining us, because they said that
mammy spent all the money which should have
gone to buy victuals for us, on snuff and drams.
And so they have sent us back to this place,
which is daddy's parish.'
"
And where do you live here ?' said Mr. Stock.
O sir, we are all put into the parish poor-
house.'-' And does your mother do any thing
to help to maintain you?'-' No, sir, for mammy
says she was not brought up to work like poor
folks, and she would rather starve than spin or
knit ; so she lies a-bed all the morning, and sends
us about to pick up what we can, a bit of vic-
tuals or a few half-pence.'-' And have you any
money in your pocket now?'' Yes, sir, I
have got three half-pence which I have begged
to-day.' Then, as you were so very hungry,
how came you not to buy a roll at that baker's
over the way? Because, sir, I was going to
lay it out in tea for mammy, for I never lay out
a farthing for myself. Indeed mammy says
she will have her tea twice a-day if we beg or
starve for it.'-' Can you read my boy?' said
Mr. Stock : A little, sir, and say my prayers
too.'-' And can you say your catechism?'-'I
have almost forgotten it all, sir, though I re-
member something about honouring my father
and mother, and that makes me still carry the
halfpence home to mammy instead of buying
cakes. Who taught you these good things?'
-
'One Jemmy Stock, sir, who was a parish
'prentice to my daddy. He taught me one
question out of the catechism every night, and
always made me say my prayers to him before
I went to bed. He told me I should go to the
wicked place if I did not fear God, so I am still
afraid to tell lies like the other boys. Poor
Jemmy gave me a piece of ginger bread every
time I learnt well; but I have no friend now;
Jemmy was very good to me, though mammy
did nothing but beat him.'
Mr. Stock was too much moved to carry on
the discourse; he did not make himself known
to the boy, but took him over to the baker's
shop; as they walked along he could not help
repeating aloud a verse or two of that beautiful
hymn so deservedly the favourite of all children.
Not more than others I deserve,
Yet God hath given me more;
For I have food while others starve,
Or beg from door to door.'
The little boy looked up in his face, saying,
Why, sir, that's the very hymn which Jemmy
Stock gave me a penny for learning.' Stock
made no answer, but put a couple of threepenny
loaves into his hand to carry home, and told
him to call on him again at such a time in the
following week.
203
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
How Mr. Stock contrived to be charitable without, boy turns out well, I will never forsake him.
any expense.
STOCK had abundant subject for meditation
that night. He was puzzled what to do with
the boy. While he was carrying on his trade
upon borrowed money, he did not think it right
to give any part of that money to assist the
idle, or even to help the distressed. I must be
just,' said he,' before I am generous.' Still he
could not bear to see this fine boy given up to a
certain ruin. He did not think it safe to take
him into his shop in his present ignorant un-
principled state. At last he hit upon this
thought: I work for myself twelve hours in the
day. Why shall I not work one hour or two
for this boy in the evening? It will be but for
a year, and I shall then have more right to do
what I please. My money will then be my
own, I shall have paid my debts.
So he began to put his resolution in practice
that very night, sticking to his old notion of
not putting off till to-morrow what should be
done to-day; and it was thought he owed much
of his success in life, as well as his growth in
goodness, to this little saying: 'I am young and
healthy,' said he, one hour's work more will do
me no harm ; I will set aside all I get by these
over-hours, and put the boy to school. I have
not only no right to punish this child for the
sins of his father, but I consider that though
God hated those sins, he has made them to be
instrumental to my advancement.'
Tommy Williams called at the time appointed.
In the mean time Mr. Stock's maid had made
him a neat little suit of clothes out of an old
coat of her master's. She had also knit him a
pair of stockings, and Mr. Stock made him sit
down in the shop, while he fitted him with a
pair of new shoes. The maid having washed
and dressed him, Mr. Stock took him by the
hand, and walked along with him to the parish
poor-house to find his mother. They found her
dressed in ragged filthy finery, standing at the
door, where she passed most of her time, quar-
relling with half a dozen women as idle and dirty
as herself. When she saw Tommy so neat and
well-dressed, she fell a crying for joy. She
said 'it put her in mind of old times, for Tommy
always used to be dressed like a gentleman.' So
much the worse,' said Mr. Stock; if you had
not begun by making him look like a gentleman,
you needed not have ended by making him look
like a beggar.' 'Oh Jem!' said she, (for though
it was four years since she had seen him, she
soon recollected him) 'fine times for you! set a
beggar on horseback-you know the proverb.
I shall beat Tommy well for finding you out
and exposing me to you.'
|
I shall make but one bargain with you, which
is, that he must not come to this place to hear
all this railing and swearing, nor shall he keep,
company with these pilfering idle children.
You are welcome to go and see him when you
please, but here he must not come.'
The foolish woman burst out a crying, say.
ing, 'she should lose her poor dear Tommy for
ever. Mr. Stock might give her the money he
intended to pay at the school, for nobody could
do so well by him as his own mother.' The
truth was, she wanted to get these new clothes,
into her clutches, which would all have been
pawned at the dram-shop before the week was
out. This Mr. Stock well knew. From crying
she fell to scolding and swearing. She told him
he was an unnatural wretch, that wanted to
make a child despise his own mother because
she was poor. She even went so far as to say
she would not part from him; she said she hated
your godly people, they had no bowels of com-
passion, but tried to set men, women, and chil-
dren against their own flesh and blood.
Mr. Stock now almost lost his patience, and
for one moment a thought came across him, to
strip the boy, carry back the clothes, and leave
him to his unnatural mother. 'Why,' said he,
should I work over-hours, and wear out my
strength for this wicked woman?' But soon he
checked this thought, by reflecting on the pa-
tience and long-suffering of God with rebellious
sinners. This cured his anger in a moment,
and he mildly reasoned with her on the folly
and blindness in opposing the good of her child.
One of the neighbours who stood by said,
'What a fine thing it was for the boy! but some
people were born to be lucky. She wished Mr.
Stock would take a fancy to her child, he should
have him soon enough.' Mrs. Williams now
began to be frightened lest Mr. Stock should
take the woman at her word, and sullenly con-
sented to let the boy go, from envy and malice,
not from prudence and gratitude; and Tommy
was sent to school that very night, his mother
crying and roaring instead of thanking God for
such a blessing.
And here I cannot forbear telling a very good-
natured thing of Will Simpson, one of the work-
men. By the by it was that very young fellow
who was reformed by Stock's good example,
when he was an apprentice, and who used to
sing psalms with him on a Sunday evening,
when they got out of the way of Williams's
junketing. Will coming home early one even-
ing was surprised to find his master at work by
himself, long after the usual time. He begged
so heartily to know the reason, that Stock owned
the truth. Will was so struck with this piece
Instead of entering into any dispute with this of kindness, that he snatched up a last, crying
bad woman, or praising himself at her expense; out, Well, master, you shall not work by your-
instead of putting her in mind of her past ill self however; we will go snacks in maintaining
behaviour to him, or reproaching her with the Tommy: it shall never be said that Will Simp-
bad use she had made of her prosperity, he son was idling about when his master was work-
mildly said to her, Mrs. Williams I am sorrying for charity.' This made the hour pass
for your misfortunes; I am come to relieve you
of part of your burden. I will take Tommy off
your hands. I will give him a year's board and
schooling, and by that time I shall see what he
is fit for. I will promise nothing, but if the
cheerfully, and doubled the profits.
In a year or two Mr. Stock, by God's bless-
ing on his labours, became quite clear of the
world. He now paid off his creditors, but he
never forgot his obligation to them, and found
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
209
*
many opportunities of showing kindness to
them, and to their children after them. He now
cast about for a proper wife, and as he was
thought a prosperous man, and was very well
looking besides, most of the smart girls of the
place, with their tawdry finery, used to be often
parading before the shop, and would even go to
church in order to put themselves in his way.
But Mr. Stock when he went to church, had
other things in his head; and if ever he thought |
about these gay damsels at all, it was with con-
cern in seeing them so improperly tricked out,
so that the very means they took to please him
made him dislike them.
There was one Betsy West, a young woman
of excellent character, and very modest appear-
ance. He had seldom seen her out, as she was
employed night and day in waiting on an aged,
widowed mother, who was both lame and blind.
This good girl was indeed almost literally eyes
and feet to her helpless parent, and Mr. Stock
used to see her, through the little casement win-
dow, lifting her up, and feeding with a tender-
ness which greatly raised his esteem for her.
He used to tell Will Simpson, as they sat at
work, that such a dutiful daughter could hardly
help to make a faithful wife. He had not, how-
ever, the heart to try to draw her off from her
care of her sick mother. The poor woman de-
clined very fast. Betsy was much employed in
reading or praying by her, while she was awake,
and passed a good part of the night while she
slept, in doing some fine works to sell, in order
to supply her sick mother with little delicacies
which their poor pittance could not afford, while
she herself lived on a crust.
Mr. Stock knew that Betsy would have little
or nothing after her mother's death, as she had
only a life income. On the other hand, Mr.
Thompson, the tanner, had offered him two hun-
dred pounds with his daughter Nancy; but he
was almost sorry that he had not in this case an
opportunity of resisting his natural bias, which
rather lay on the side of loving money: 'For,'
said he, putting principle and putting affection
out of the question, I shall do a more prudent
thing by marrying Betsy West, who will con-
form to her station, and is a religious, humble,
industrious girl, without a shilling, than by
having an idle dressy lass, who will neglect my
family and fill my house with company, though
she should have twice the fortune which Nancy
Thompson would bring.'
At length poor old Mrs. West was released
from all her sufferings. At a proper time Mr.
Stock proposed marriage to Betsy, and was ac-
cepted. All the disappointed girls in the town
wondered what any body could like in such a
dowdy as that. Had the man no eyes? They
thought Mr. Stock had had more taste. Oh!
how did it provoke all the vain idle things to
find, that staying at home, dressing plainly,
serving God, and nursing a blind mother, should
do that for Betsy West, which all their con-
trivances, flaunting, and dancing, could not do
for them.
He was not disappointed in his hope of meet-
ing with a good wife in Betsy, as indeed those
who marry on right grounds seldom are. But
if religious persons will, for the sake of money,
VOL. I.
0
|
choose partners for life who have no religion, do
not let them complain that they are unhappy;
they might have known that beforehand
Tommy Williams was now taken home to
Stock's house and bound apprentice. He was
always kind and attentive to his mother; and
every penny which Will Simpson or his master,
gave him for learning a chapter, he would save
to buy a bit of tea and sugar for her. When the
other boys laughed at him for being so foolish
as to deny himself cakes and apples to give his
money to her who was so bad a woman, he
would answer, 'It may be so, but she is my
mother for all that.'
Mr. Stock was much moved at the change in
this boy, who turned out a very good youth. He
resolved, as God should prosper him, that he
would try to snatch other helpless creatures from
sin and ruin. For,' said he, it is owing to
God's blessing on the instructions of my good
minister when I was a child, that I have been
saved from the broad way of destruction.'-He
still gave God the glory of every thing he did
aright: and when Will Simpson one day said to
him, 'Master, I wish I were half as good as you
are.' 'Hold, William,' answered he gravely, I
once read in a book, that the devil is willing
enough we should appear to do good actions, if
he can but make us proud of them.'
But we must not forget our other old acquaint-
ance, Mr. Stock's fellow 'prentice. So next
month you may expect a full account of the
many tricks and frolics of idle Jack Brown.
PART III.
Some account of the frolics of idle Jack Brown.
You shall now hear what befel idle Jack
Brown, who, being a farmer's son, had many
advantages to begin life with. But he who
wants prudence may be said to want every
thing, because he turns all his advantages to no
account.
Jack Brown was just out of his time when
his master Williams died in that terrible drunken
fit at the Grayhound. You know already how
Stock succeeded to his master's business, and
prospered in it. Jack wished very much to en-
ter into partnership with him. His father and
mother too were desirous of it, and offered to
advance a hundred pounds with him. Here is
a fresh proof of the power of character! The old
farmer, with all his covetousness, was eager to
get his son into partnership with Stock, though
the latter was not worth a shilling; and even
Jack's mother, with all her pride, was eager for
it, for they had both sense enough to see it
would be the making of Jack. The father knew
that Stock would look to the main chance; and
the mother that he would take the labouring oar,
and so her darling would have little to do. The
ruling passion operated in both. One parent
wished to secure to the son a life of pleasure,
the other a profitable trade. Both were equally
indifferent to whatever related to his eternal
good.
Stock, however, young as he was, was too old
a bird to be caught with chaff. His wisdom
210
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
was an overmatch for their cunning. He had | comrade Stock. Indeed she always thought
a kindness for Brown, but would on no account with double satisfaction of Jack's prosperity,
enter into business with him.-'One of these because she always joined to it the hope that
three things,' said he, 'I am sure will happen his success would be the ruin of Stock, for she
if I do; he will either hurt my principles, my owned it would be the joy of her heart to bring
character, or my trade; perhaps all.' And here that proud upstart to a morsel of bread. She
by-the-by, let me drop a hint to other young did not understand, for her part, why such beg-
men who are about to enter into partnership.gars must become tradesmen; it was making a
Let them not do that in haste which they may velvet purse of a sow's ear.
repent at leisure. Next to marriage it is a tie Stock, however, set out on quite another set
the hardest to break; and next to that it is an of principles. He did not allow himself to square
engagement which ought to be entered into with his own behaviour to others by theirs to him.
the most caution. Many things go to the making He seldom asked himself what he should like to
such a connexion suitable, safe, and pleasant.-to do: but he had a mighty way of saying, I
There is many a rich merchant need not be
above taking a hint in this respect, from James
Stock the shoemaker.
Brown was still unwilling to part from him;
indeed he was too idle to look out for business,
so he offered Stock to work with him as a jour-
neyman, but this he also mildly refused. It hurt
his good-nature to do so; but he reflected that a
young man who has his way to make in the
world must not only be good-natured, he must
be prudent also. 'I
I am resolved,' said he, 'to
employ none but the most sober, regular young
men I can get. Evil communications corrupt
good manners, and I should be answerable for
all the disorders of my house, if I knowingly
took a wild drinking young fellow into it. That
which might be kindness to one, would be in-
justice to many, and therefore a sin in myself.'
Brown's mother was in a great rage when
she heard that her son had stooped so low as to
make this offer. She valued herself on being
proud, for she thought pride was a grand thing.
Poor woman! She did not know that it is the
meanest thing in the world. It was her igno-
rance which made her proud, as is apt to be the
case. You mean-spirited rascal,' said she to
Jack, I had rather follow you to your grave, as
well as I love you, than see you disgrace your
family by working under Jem Stock, the parish
apprentice.' She forgot already what pains she
had taken about the partnership, but pride and
passion have bad memories.
It is hard to say which was now uppermost
in her mind, her desire to be revenged on Stock,
or to see her son make a figure. She raised
every shilling she could get from her husband,
and all she could crib from the dairy to set up
Jack in a showy way. So the very next market
day she came herself, and took for him the new
white house, with the two little sash windows
painted blue, and blue posts before the door. It
It
is that house which has the old cross just before
it, as you turn down between the church and
the Grayhound. Its being so near the church
to be sure was no recommendation to Jack, but
its being so near the Grayhound was, and so
taking one thing with the other it was to be
sure no bad situation; but what weighed most
with the mother was, that it was a much more
showy shop than Stock's; and the house, though
not half so convenient, was far more smart.
In order to draw custom, his foolish mother
advised him to undersell his neighbours just at
first; to buy ordinary but showy goods, and to
employ cheap workmen. In short she charged
him to leave no stone unturned to ruin his old
wonder now what is my duty to do?—And when
he was once clear in that matter he generally
did it, always begging God's blessing and direc-
tion. So instead of setting Brown at defiance;
instead of all that vulgar selfishness, of catch
he that catch can-and two of a trade can never
agree-he, resolved to be friendly towards him.
Instead of joining in the laugh against Brown
for making his house so fine, he was sorry for
him, because he feared he would never be able
to pay such a rent. He very kindly called upon
him, told him there was business enough for
them both, and gave him many useful hints for
his going on. He warned him to go oftener to
church and seldomer to the Grayhound: put
him in mind how following the one and forsak-
ing the other had been the ruin of their poor
master, and added the following
ADVICE TO YOUNG TRADESMEN.
Buy the best goods; cut the work out yourself;
let the eye of the master be every where; employ
the soberest men; avoid all the low deceits of
trade; never lower the credit of another to raise
your own; make short payments; keep exact ac-
counts; avoid idle company, and be very strict
to your word.
For a short time things went on swimmingly.
Brown was merry and civil. The shop was
well situated for gossip; and every one who
had something to say, and nothing to do was
welcome. Every idle story was first spread, and
every idle song first sung, in Brown's shop.
Every customer who came to be measured was
promised that his shoes should be done first.
But the misfortune was, if twenty came in a day
the same promise was made to all; so that nine-
teen were disappointed, and of course affronted.
He never said no to any one. It is indeed a
word which it requires some honesty to pro-
nounce. By all these false promises he was
thought the most obliging fellow that ever made
a shoe.
a shoe. And as he set out on the principle of
underselling, people took a mighty fancy to the
cheap shop. And it was agreed among all the
young and giddy, that he would beat Stock hol-
low, and that the old shop would soon be knock-
ed up.
All is not gold that glistens.
After a few months, however, folks began to
be not quite so fond of the cheap shop; one
found out that the leather was bad, another that
the work was slight. Those who liked substan-
tial goods went all of them to Stock's, for they
said Brown's heel taps did not last a week; his
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
211
new boots let in water; and they believed he
made his soles of brown paper. Besides, it was
thought by most, that this promising all, and
keeping his word with none, hurt his business
as much as any thing. Indeed, I question, put-
ting religion out of the question, if lying ever
answers, even in a political view.
Brown had what is commonly called good
heart; that is, he had a thoughtless good nature,
and a sort of feeling for the moment which made
him very sorry when others were in trouble.
But he was not apt to put himself to any incon-
venience, nor go a step out of his way, nor give
up any pleasure to serve the best friend he had.
He loved fun; and those who do should always
see that it be harmless, and that they do not give
up more for it than it is worth. I am not going
to say a word against innocent merriment. I
like it myself. But what the proverb says of
gold, may be said of mirth; it may be bought
too dear. If a young man finds that what he
fancies is a good joke may possibly offend God,
hurt his neighbour, afflict his parent, or make a
modest girl blush, let him then be assured it is
not fun, but wickedness, and he had better let it
alone.
Jack Brown then, as good a heart as he had,
did not know what it was to deny himself any
thing. He was so good-natured indeed, that he
never in his life refused to make one of a
jolly set; but he was not good-natured enough
to consider that those men whom he kept up all
night roaring and laughing, had wives and chil-
dren at home, who had little to eat, and less to
wear, because they were keeping up the charac-
ter of merry fellows, and good hearts at the pub-
lic house.
The Mountebank.
One day he saw his father's plough-boy come
galloping up to the door in great haste. This
boy brought Brown word that his mother was
dangerously ill, and that his father had sent his
own best bay mare Smiler, that his son might
lose no time, but set out directly to see his mo-
ther before she died.-Jack burst into tears, la-
mented the danger of so fond a mother, and all
the people in the shop extolled his good heart.
He sent back the boy directly, with a message
that he would follow him in half an hour, as
soon as the mare had baited: for he well knew
that his father would not thank him for any
haste he might make if Smiler was hurt.
|
choice spirits with a bowl of punch. Just as
they were taking the last glass Jack happened
to say that he was the best fives player in the
country. That is lucky,' said the Andrew,
for there is a famous match now playing in the
court, and you may never again have such an
opportunity to show your skill.' Brown declared
he could not stay, for that he had left his horse
at the Star, and must set off on urgent business.'
They now all pretended to call his skill in ques-
tion. This roused his pride, and he thought
another half hour could break no squares. Smi-
ler had now had a good feed of corn, and he
would only have to push her on a little more;
so to it he went.
He won the first game. This spurred him
on; and he played till it was so dark they could
not see a ball. Another bowl was called for
from the winner. Wagers and bets now drained
Brown not only of all the money he had won,
but of all he had in his pocket, so that he was
obliged to ask leave to go to the house where
his horse was, to borrow enough to discharge
his reckoning at the Globe.
All these losses brought his poor dear mother
to his mind, and he marched off with rather a
heavy heart to borrow the money, and to order
Smiler out of the stable. The landlord express-
ed much surprise at seeing him, and the ostler
declared there was no Smiler there; that he had
been rode off above two hours ago by the merry
Andrew, who said he come by order of the owner,
Mr. Brown, to fetch him to the Globe, and to
pay for his feed. It was indeed one of the
neatest tricks the Andrew ever performed, for
he made such a clean conveyance of Smiler,
that neither Jack nor his father ever heard of
her again.
It was night: no one could tell what road the
Andrew took, and it was another hour or two
before an advertisement could be drawn up for
apprehending the horse-stealer. Jack had some
doubts whether he should go on or return back.
He knew that though his father might fear his
wife most, yet he loved Smiler best. At length
he took that courage from a glass of brandy
which he ought to have taken from a hearty re-
pentance, and he resolved to pursue his journey.
He was obliged to leave his watch and silver
buckles in pawn for a little old hack which was
nothing but skin and bone, and would hardly
trot three miles an hour.
He knocked at his father's door about five in
Jack accordingly set off, and rode with such the morning. The family were all up.-He
speed to the next town, that both himself and asked the boy who opened the door how his
Smiler had a mind to another bait. They stop- mother was?
stop-mother 'She is dead,' said the boy;' she
ped at the Star: unluckily it was fair-day, and died yesterday afternoon.' Here Jack's heart
as he was walking about while Smiler was eat-smote him, and he cried aloud, partly from grief,
ing her oats, a bill was put into his hand setting but more from the reproaches of his own con-
forth, that on a stage opposite the Globe a moun- science, for he found by computing the hours,
tebank was showing away, and his Andrew per- that had he come straight on, he should have
forming the finest tricks that ever were seen. been in time to receive his mother's blesing.
He read he stood still-he went on-'It will
not hinder me,' says he; 'Smiler must rest; and
I shall see my poor dear mother quite as soon
if I just take a peep, as if I sit moping at the
Star.'
C
The farmer now came from within, I hear
Smiler's step. Is Jack come?'-'Yes, father,'
said Jack, in a low voice. Then,' cried the
farmer, run every man and boy of you and
take care of the mare. Tom, do thou go and
The tricks were so merry that the time seem-rub her down; Jem, run and get her a good
ed short, and when they were over he could not
forbear going into the Globe and treating these
feed of corn. Be sure walk her about that she
may not catch cold.' Young Brown came in.
212
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
-
'Are you not an undutiful dog? said the father; | merry as ever, and run the same round of
you might have been here twelve hours ago. thoughtless gaiety. Whenever he was in trou-
Your mother could not die in peace without see-ble Stock did not shun him, because that was
ing you. She said it was cruel return for all the moment to throw in a little good advice. He
her fondness that you could not make a little one day asked him if he always intended to go
haste to see her; but it was always so, for she on in this course?' 'No, said he, 'I am re-
had wronged her other children to help you, and solved by and by to reform, grow sober, and go
this was her reward.' Brown sobbed out a few to church. Why I am but five and twenty,
words, but his father replied, 'Never cry Jack, man, I am stout and healthy, and likely to live
for the boy told me that it was out of regard for long; I can repent, and grow melancholy and
Smiler, that you were not here as soon as he good at any time.'
was; and if 'twas your over care of her, why
there's no great harm done. You could not
have saved your poor mother, and you might
have hurt the mare.' Here Jack's double guilt
flew into his face. He knew that his father was
very covetous, and had lived on bad terms with
his wife; and also that his own unkindness to
her had been forgiven by him out of love to the
horse; but to break to him how he had lost that
horse through his own folly and want of feeling,
was more than Jack had courage to do. The
old man, however, soon got at the truth, and no
words can describe his fury. Forgetting that
his wife lay dead above stairs, he abused his son
in a way not fit to be repeated; and though his
covetousness had just before found an excuse
for a favourite son neglecting to visit a dying
parent, yet he now vented his rage against Jack
as an unnatural brute, whom he would cut off
with a shilling, and bade him never see his face
again.
Jack was not allowed to attend his mother's
funeral, which was a real grief to him; nor
would his father advance even the little money
which was needful to redeem his things at the
Star. He had now no fond mother to assist
him, and he set out on his return home on his
borrowed hack, full of grief. He had the added
mortification of knowing, that he had also lost
by his folly a little hoard of money which his
mother had saved up for him.
Oh Jack' said Stock, 'don't cheat thyself
with that false hope. What thou dost intend to
do, do quickly. Did'st thou never read about
the heart growing hardened by long indulgence
in sin? Some folk, who pretend to mean well,
show that they mean nothing at all, by never
beginning to put their good resolutions into
practice; which made a wise man once say,
that hell is paved with good intentions. We
cannot repent when we please. It is the good-
ness of God which leadeth us to repentance.'
'I am sure,' replied Jack, 'I am no one's ene-
my but my own.'
It is as foolish,' said Stock, 'to say a bad
man is no one's enemy but his own, as that a
good man is no one's friend but his own. There
is no such neutral character. A bad man cor-
rupts or offends all within reach of his example,
just as a good man benefits or instructs all with-
in the sphere of his influence. And there is no
time when we can say that this transmitted good
and evil will end. A wicked man may be punish-
ed for sins he never committed himself, if he
has been the cause of sin in others, as surely as
a saint will be rewarded for more good deeds
that he himself has done, even for the virtues
and good actions of all those who are made
better by his instruction, his example, or his
writings.'
Michaelmas-day was at hand. The landlord
declared he would be put off no longer, but
would seize for rent if it was not paid him on
that day, as well as for a considerable sum due
to him for leather. Brown at last began to be
frightened. He applied to Stock to be bound
for him. This, Stock flatly refused. Brown
now began to dread the horrors of a jail, and
really seemed so very contrite, and made so ma-
ny vows and promises of amendment, that at
length Stock was prevailed on, together with
two or three of Brown's other friends, to advance
When Brown got back to his own town he
found that the story of Smiler and the Andrew
had got thither before him, and it was thought a
very good joke at the Grayhound. He soon re-
covered his spirits as far as related to the horse,
but as to his behaviour to his dying mother it
troubled him at times to the last day of his life,
though he did all he could to forget it. He did
not however go on at all better, nor did he en-
gage in one frolic the less for what had passed
at the Globe; his good heart continually betray-each a small sum of money to quiet the landlord,
ed him into acts of levity and vanity.
Jack began at length to feel the reverse of
that proverb, Keep your shop and your shop will
keep you. He had neglected his customers, and
they forsook him. Quarter-day came round;
there was much to pay and little to receive. He
owed two years' rent. He was in arrears to his
men for wages. He had a long account with
his currier. It was in vain to apply to his father.
He had now no mother. Stock was the only
true friend he had in the world, and had helped
him out of many petty scrapes, but he knew
Stock would advance no money in so hopeless a
case. Duns came fast about him. He named a
speedy day for payment; but as soon as they
were out of the house, and the danger put off to
a little distance, he forgot every promise, was as
Brown promising to make over to them every
part of his stock, and to be guided in future by
their advice, declaring that he would turn over
a new leaf, and follow Mr. Stock's example, as
well as his direction in every thing.
Stock's good nature was at length wrought
upon, and he raised the money. The truth is,
he did not know the worst, nor how deeply
Brown was involved. Brown joyfully set out on
the very quarter-day to a town at some distance,
to carry his landlord this money, raised by the
imprudent kindness of his friend. At his de-
parture Stock put him in mind of the old story
of Smiler and the Merry Andrew, and he pro-
mised of his own head that he would not even
call at a public house till he had paid the
money.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
213
He was as good as his word. He very tri-
umphantly passed by several. He stopped a
little under the window of one where the sounds
of merriment and loud laughter caught his ear.
At another he heard the enticing notes of a fiddle
and the light heels of the merry dancers. Here
his heart had well nigh failed him, but the dread
of a jail on the one hand, and what he feared
almost as much, Mr. Stock's anger on the other,
spurred him on; and he valued himself not a
little at having got the better of this temptation.
He felt quite happy when he found he had
reached the door of his landlord without having
yielded to one idle inclination.
settled. They ate, and Brown sung. They
pretended to be in raptures. Singing promoted
drinking, and every fresh glass produced a song
or a story still more merry than the former.
Before morning, the players, who were engaged
to act in another barn a dozen miles off, stole
away quietly. Brown having dropt asleep they
left him to finish his nap by himself. As to him
his dreams were gay and pleasant, and the
house being quite still, he slept comfortably till
morning.
As soon as he had breakfasted, the business
of the night before popped into his head. He
set off once more to his landlord's in high spirits,
He knocked at the door. The maid who open-gaily singing by the way, scraps of all the tunes
ed it said her master was not at home. 'I am
sorry for it,' said he, strutting about; and with
a boasting air he took out his money. 'I want
to pay him my rent: he needed not to have been
afraid of me.' The servant, who knew her mas-
ter was very much afraid of him, desired him to
walk in, for her master would be at home in half
an hour. I will call again,' said he; but no,
let him call on me, and the sooner the better: I
shall be at the Blue Posts.' While he had been
talking he took care to open his black leather
case, and to display the bank bills to the servant,
and then, in a swaggering way, he put up his
money and marched off to the Blue Posts.
He was by this time quite proud of his own
resolution, and having tendered the money, and
being clear in his own mind that it was the
landlord's own fault and not his that it was not
paid, he went to refresh himself at the Blue
Posts. In a barn belonging to this public house
a set of strollers were just going to perform some
of that sing-song ribaldry by which our villages
are corrupted, the laws broken, and that money
drawn from the poor for pleasure, which is
wanted by their families for bread. The name
of the last new song which made part of the en-
tertainment, made him think himself in high
luck, that he should have just that half hour to
spare. He went into the barn, but was too much
delighted with the actor, who sung his favourite
song, to remain a quiet hearer. He leaped out
of the pit, and got behind the two ragged blan-
kets which served for a curtain. He sung so
much better than the actors themselves, that
they praised and admired him to a degree which
awakened all his vanity. He was so intoxicated
with their flattery, that he could do no less than
invite them all to supper, an invitation which
they were too hungry not to accept.
he had picked up the night before from his new
friends. The landlord opened the door himself,
and reproached him with no small surliness for
not having kept his word with him the evening
before, adding, that he supposed he was come
now with some more of his shallow excuses.
Brown put on all that haughtiness which is com-
mon to people who being generally apt to be in
the wrong, happen to catch themselves doing a
right action; he looked big, as some sort of
people do when they have money to pay. You
need not have been so anxious about your mo-
ney,' said he, 'I was not going to break or run
away.' The landlord well knew this was the
common language of those who are ready to do
both. Brown haughtily added, 'You shall see
I am a man of my word; give me a receipt.'
The landlord had it ready and gave it him.
•
Brown put his hand in his pocket for his black
leathern case in which the bills were; he felt,
he searched, he examined, first one pocket, then
the other; then both waistcoat pockets, but no
leather case could he find. He looked terrified.
It was indeed the face of real terror, but the
landlord conceived it to be that of guilt, and
abused him heartily for putting his old tricks
upon him; he swore he would not be imposed
upon any longer; the money or a jail-there
lay his choice.
Brown protested for once with great truth,
that he had no intention to deceive; declared
that he had actually brought the money, and
knew not what was become of it; but the thing
was far too unlikely to gain credit. Brown now
called to mind that he had fallen asleep on the
settle in the room where they had supped. This
raised his spirits; for he had no doubt but the
case had fallen out of his pocket; he said he
would step to the public house and search for it,
and would be back directly. Not one word of
this did the landlord believe, so inconvenient is
it to have a bad character. He swore Brown
should not stir out of his house without a con-
stable, and made him wait while he sent for one.
Brown, guarded by the constable, went back to
the Blue Posts, the landlord charging the officer
not to lose sight of the culprit. The caution
was needless; Brown had not the least design
of running away, so firmly persuaded was he
By the time these firm resolutions were made, that he should find his leather case.
supper was ready. There never was a more But who can paint his dismay, when no tale
jolly evening. Ale and punch were as plenty or tidings of the leather case could be had!
as water. The actors saw what a vain fellow The master, the mistress, the boy, the maid of
was feasting them; and as they wanted victuals, the public house all protested they were inno-
and he wanted flattery, the business was soon cent. His suspicions soon fell on the strollers
He did not, however, quite forget his appoint-
ment with his landlord; but the half hour was
long since past by. And so,' says he, as I
know he is a mean curmudgeon, who goes to
bed by daylight to save candles, it will be too
late to speak with him to-night; besides, let
him call upon me; it is his business and not
mine. I left word where I was to be found; the
money is ready, and if I don't pay him to-night,
I can do it before breakfast.'
214
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
with whom he had passed the night; and he now
found out for the first time, that a merry even-
ing did not always produce a happy morning. He
obtained a warrant, and proper officers were sent
in pursuit of the strollers. No one, however,
believed he had really lost any thing; and as
he had not a shilling left to defray the expensive
treat he had given, the master of the inn agreed
with the other landlord in thinking this story
was a trick to defraud them both, and Brown
remained in close custody. At length the
officers returned, who said they had been ob-
liged to let the strollers go, as they could not
fix the charge on any one, and they had offered
to swear before a justice that they had seen no-
thing of the leasher case. It was at length
agreed that as he had passed the evening in a
crowded barn, he had probably been robbed
there, if at all; and among so many, who could
pretend to guess at the thief?
Brown raved like a madman; he cried, tore
his hair, and said he was ruined forever. The
abusive language of his old landlord, and his
new creditor at the Blue Posts, did not lighten
his sorrow.
His landlord would be put off no
longer. Brown declared he could neither find
bail nor raise another shilling; and as soon as
the forms of law were made out, he was sent to
the county jail.
Here it might have been expected that hard
living and much leisure would have brought
him to reflect a little on his past follies. But
his heart was not truly touched. The chief
The chief
thing which grieved him at first was, his hav-
ing abused the kindness of Stock, for to him he
should appear guilty of a real fraud, where he
had indeed been only vain, idle, and imprudent.
And it is worth while here to remark, that
vanity, idleness, and imprudence, often bring a
man to utter ruin both of soul and body, though
silly people do not put them in the catalogue of
heavy sins, and those who indulge in them are
often reckoned honest, merry fellows, with the
best hearts in the world.
I wish I had room to tell my readers what
befel Jack in his present doleful habitation, and
what became of him afterwards. I promise
them, however, that they shall certainly know
the first of next month, when I hope they will
not forget to inquire for the fourth part of the
Shoemakers, or Jack Brown in prison
PART IV.
Jack Brown in Prison.
He well knew that idleness, vanity, and the
love of pleasure, as it is falsely called, will bring
a man to a morsel of bread, as surely as those
things which are reckoned much greater sins;
and that they undermine his principles as cer-
tainly, though not quite so fast.
Stock was too angry with what had happened
to answer Brown's letter, or to seem to take the
least notice of him. However, he kindly and
secretly, undertook a journey to the hard-heart-
ed old farmer, Brown's father, to intercede with
him, and to see if he would do any thing for his
son. Stock did not pretend to excuse Jack, or
even to lessen his offences; for it was a rule of
his never to disguise truth or to palliate wicked-
ness. Sin was still sin in his eyes, though it were
committed
committed by his best friend; but though he
would not soften the sin, he felt tenderly for the
sinner. He pleaded with the old farmer on the
ground, that his son's idleness and other vices
would gather fresh strength in a jail. He told
him, that the loose and worthless company
which he would there keep, would harden him
in vice, and if he was now wicked, he might
there become irreclaimable.
But all his pleas were urged in vain. The far-
mer was not to be moved, indeed he argued with
some justice, that he ought not to make his in-
dustrious children beggars to save one rogue
from the gallows. Mr. Stock allowed the force
of his reasoning, though he saw the father was
less influenced by this principle of justice than
by resentment on account of the old story of
Smiler. People, indeed, should take care that
what appears in their conduct to proceed from
justice, does not really proceed from revenge.
Wiser men than farmer Brown often deceive
themselves, and fancy they act on better prin-
ciples than they really do, for want of looking
a little more closely into their own hearts, and
putting down every action to its true motive.
When we are praying against deceit we should
not forget to take self-deceit into the account.
Mr. Stock at length wrote to poor Jack; not
to offer him any help, that was quite out of the
question, but to exhort him to repent of his evil
ways; to lay before him the sins of his past
life, and to advise him to convert the present
punishment into a benefit, by humbling himself
before God. He offered his interest to get his
place of confinement exchanged for one of those
improved prisons, where solitude and labour
have been made the happy instruments of bring-
ing many to a better way of thinking, and end-
ed by saying, that if he ever gave any solid signs
of real amendment he would still be his friend,
in spite of all that was past.
If Mr. Stock had sent him a good sum of
money to procure his liberty, or even to make
merry with his wretched companions, Jack
would have thought him a friend indeed. But
to send him nothing but dry advice, and a few
words of empty comfort, was, he thought, but a
cheap shabby way of showing his kindness.
Unluckily the letter came just as he was going
to sit down to one of those direful merry-mak-
ings which are often carried on with brutal riot
within the doleful walls of a jail on the entrance
of a new prisoner, who is often expected to give
BROWN was no sooner lodged in his doleful
habitation, and a little recovered from his first
surprise, than he sat down and wrote his friend
Stock the whole history of the transaction. Mr.
Stock, who had long known the exceeding light-
ness and dissipation of his mind, did not so ut-
terly disbelieve the story as all the other credi-
tors did. To speak the truth, Stock was the
only one among them who had good sense
enough to know, that a man may be completely
ruined, both in what relates to his property and
his soul, without committing Old Bailev crimes. I a feast to the rest.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
215
When his companions were heated with gin;
"Now,' said Jack, 'I'll treat you with a sermon,
and a very pretty preachment it is.' So saying,
he took out Mr. Stock's kind and pious letter,
and was delighted at the bursts of laughter it
produced. What a canting dog" said one.
Repentance, indeed!' cried Tom Crew; No,
no, Jack, tell this hypocritical rogue that if we
have lost our liberty, it is only for having been
jolly, hearty fellows, and we have more spirit
than to repent of that I hope: all the harm we
have done is living a little too fast, like honest
bucks as we are.-' Ay, ay,' said jolly George,
' had we been such sneaking miserly fellows as
Stock, we need not have come hither. But if
the ill nature of the laws has been so cruel as to
clap up such fine hearty blades, we are no felons
however. We are afraid of no Jack Ketch; and
I see no cause to repent of any sin that's not
hanging matter. As to those who are thrust
into the condemned hole indeed, and have but a
few hours to live, they must see the parson, and
hear a sermon, and such stuff. But I do not
know what such stout young fellows as we are
have to do with repentance. And so, Jack, let
us have that rare new catch which you learnt
of the strollers that merry night when you lost
your pocket-book.'
This thoughtless youth soon gave a fresh
proof of the power of evil company, and of the
quick progress of the heart of a sinner from bad
to worse. Brown, who always wanted principle,
soon grew to want feeling also. He joined in
the laugh which was raised against Stock, and
told many good stories, as they were called, in
derision of the piety, sobriety, and self-denial of
his old friend. He lost every day somewhat of
those small remains of shame and decency
which he had brought with him to the prison.
He even grew reconciled to this wretched way
of life, and the want of money seemed to him
the heaviest evil in the life of a jail.
Mr. Stock finding from the jailer that his
letter had been treated with ridicule, would not
write to him any more. He did not come to
see him nor send him any assistance, thinking
it right to let him suffer that want which his
vices had brought upon him. But as he still
hoped that the time would come when he might
be brought to a sense of his evil courses, he
continued to have an eye upon him by means
of the jailer, who was an honest, kind-hearted
man.
Brown spent one part of his time in thought-
less riot, and the other in gloomy sadness. Com-
pany kept up his spirits; with his new friends
he contrived to drown thought; but when he
was alone he began to find that a merry fellow,
when deprived of his companions and his liquor,
is often a most forlorn wretch. Then 'it is that
even a merry fellow says, Of laughter, what is
it? and of mirth, it is madness.
As he contrived, however, to be as little alone
as possible his gaiety was commonly uppermost
till that loathsome distemper, called the jail
fever, broke out in the prison. Tom Crew, the
ringleader in all their evil practices, was first
seized with it. Jack staid a little while with
his comrade to assist and divert him, but of
assistance he could give little, and the very
thought of diversion was now turned into horror.
He soon caught the distemper, and that in so
dreadful a degree, that his life was in great
danger. Of those who remained in health not
a soul came near him, though he shared his last
farthing with them. He had just sense enough
left to feel this cruelty. Poor fellow! he did
not know before, that the friendship of the
worldly is at an end when there is no more drink
or diversion to be had. He lay in the most de-
plorable condition; his body tormented with a
dreadful disease, and his soul terrified and
amazed at the approach of death: that death
which he thought at so great a distance, and of
which his comrades had so often assured him
that a young fellow of five-and-twenty was is no
danger. Poor Jack! I cannot help feeling for
him. Without a shilling! without a friend! with-
out one comfort respecting this world, and, what
is far more terrible, without one hope respect-
ing the next.
Let not the young reader fancy that Brown's
misery arose entirely from his altered circum-
stances. It was not merely his being in want,
and sick, and in prison, which made his condi-
tion so desperate. Many an honest man un-
justly accused, many a persecuted saint, many
a holy martyr has enjoyed sometimes more
peace and content in a prison than wicked men
have ever tasted in the height of their pros-
perity. But to any such comforts, to any com-
fort at all, poor Jack was an utter stranger.
A christian friend generally comes forward
at the very time when worldly friends forsake
the wretched. The other prisoners would not
come near Brown, though he had often enter-
tained, and had never offended them; even his
own father was not moved with his sad condi-
tion. When Mr. Stock informed him of it, he
answered, "Tis no more than he deserves. As
he brews so he must bake. He has made his
own bed, and let him lie in it.' The hard old
man had ever at his tongue's end some proverb
of hardness, or frugality, which he contrived to
turn in such a way as to excuse himself.
We shall now see how Mr. Stock behav-
ed. He had his favourite sayings too; but
they were chiefly on the side of kindness,
'I must not,'
mercy, or some other virtue.
said he, 'pretend to call myself a Christian, if
I do not requite evil with good.' When he re-
ceived the jailer's letter with the account of
Brown's sad condition, Will Simpson and Tom-
my Williams began to compliment him on his
own wisdom and prudence, by which he had
escaped Brown's misfortunes. He only gravely
said, 'Blessed be God that I am not in the same
misery. It is He who has made us to differ.
But for his grace I might have been in no bet-
ter condition.-Now Brown is brought low by
the hand of God, it is my time to go to him.'
What, you!' said Will, whom he cheated of
your money?'-'This is not a time to remem-
'How can I ask
ber injuries,' said Mr. Stock.
forgiveness for my own sins, if I withhold for-
giveness from him? So saying, he ordered his
horse, and set off to see poor Brown; thus prov-
ing that his was a religion not of words but of
deeds.
6
Stock's heart nearly failed him as he passed
216
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
through the prison. The groans of the sick and
dying, and, what to such a heart as his was still
more moving, the brutal merriment of the
healthy in such a place, pierced his very soul.
Many a silent prayer did he put up as he passed
along, that God would yet be pleased to touch
their hearts, and that now (during this infec.
tious sickness) might be the accepted time. The
jailer observed him drop a tear, and asked the
cause. I cannot forget, said he, that the most
dissolute of these men is still my fellow creature.
The same God made them; the same Saviour
died for them; how then can I hate the worst
of them? With my advantages they might have
been much better than I am; without the bless-
ing of God on my good minister's instructions,
I might have been worse than the worst of these.
I have no cause for pride, much for thankful-
ness; 'Let us not be high-minded, but fear.'
C
It would have moved a heart of stone to have
seen poor miserable Jack Brown lying on his
wretched bed, his face so changed by pain, po-
verty, dirt, and sorrow, that he could hardly be
known for that merry soul of a jack-boot, as he
used to be proud to hear himself called. His
groans were so piteous that it made Mr. Stock's
heart ache. He kindly took him by the hand,
though he knew the distemper was catching.-
'How dost do, Jack?' said he, dost know me?'
Brown shook his head and said, faintly, Know
you? ay, that I do. I am sure I have but one
friend in the world who would come to see me
in this woeful condition. O James! what have
I brought myself to? What will become of my
poor soul? I dare not look back, for that is all
sin; nor forward, for that is all misery and woe.'
Mr. Stock spake kindly to him, but did not
attempt to cheer him with false comfort, as is
too often done. 'I am asham'd to see you in
this dirty place,' says Brown. As to the place,
Jack,' replied the other, if it has helped to
bring you to a sense of your past offences, it
will be no bad place for you. I am heartily sorry
for your distress and your sickness; but if it
should please God by them to open your eyes,
and to show you that sin is a greater evil than
the prison to which it has brought you, all may
yet be well. I had rather see you in this hum-
ble penitent state, lying on this dirty bed, in this
dismal prison, than roaring and rioting at the
Grayhound, the king of the company, with
handsome clothes on your back, and plenty of
money in your pocket.'
James,' replied Brown, 'do you pray for me.
God perhaps may hear you, but he will never
hear the prayer of such a sinner as I have been.'
Take care how you think so,' said Stock., 'To
believe that God cannot forgive you would be
still a greater sin than any you have yet com-
mitted against him.' He then explained to him
in a few words, as well as he was able, the na-
ture of repentance and forgiveness through a
Saviour, and warned him earnestly against un-
belief and hardness of heart.
Poor Jack grew much refreshed in body with
the comfortable things he had taken; and a little
cheered with Stock's kindness in coming so far
to see and to forgive such a forlorn outcast, sick
of an infectious distemper, and locked within
the walls of a prison.
Surely, said he to himself, there must be some
mighty power in a religion which can lead men
to do such things! things so much against the
grain as to forgive such an injury, and to risk
catching such a distemper; but he was so weak
he could not express this in words. He tried to
pray but he could not; at length, overpowered
with weariness, he fell asleep.
When Mr. Stock came back, he was surprised
to find him so much better in body; but his
agonies of mind were dreadful, and he had now
got strength to express part of the horrors which
he felt. James,' said he (looking wildly) ‘it
is all over with me. I am a lost creature. Even
your prayers cannot save me.'-' Dear Jack,'
replied Mr. Stock, 'I am no minister; it does
not become me to talk much to thee: but I know
I may venture to say whatever is in the Bible.
As ignorant as I am I shall be safe enough
while I stick to that.' 'Ay,' said the sick man,
'you used to be ready enough to read to me, and
I would not listen, or if I did it was only to
make fun of what I heard, and now you will not
so much as read a bit of a chapter to me.'
This was the very point to which Stock long-
ed to bring him.
ed to bring him. So he took a little Bible out
of his pocket, which he always carried with him
on a journey, and read slowly, verse by verse,
the fifty-fifth chapter of Isaiah. When he came
to the sixth and seventh verses, poor Jack cried
so much that Stock was forced to stop. The
words were, Let the wicked man forsake his way,
and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let
him return unto the Lord. Here Brown stopped
him, saying, 'Oh it is too late, too late for me.'
-'Let me finish the verse,' said Stock, and you
Brown wept bitterly, and squeezed his hand, will see your error; you will see that it is never
but was too weak to say much. Mr. Stock then too late.' So he read on-Let him return unto
desired the jailor to let him have such things as the Lord, and he will have mercy upon him, and
were needful, and he would pay for them. He to our God, and he will abundantly pardon. Here
would not leave the poor fellow till he had given Brown started up, snatched the book out of his
him, with his own hands, some broth which the hand, and cried out, 'Is that really there? No,
jailor had got ready for him, and some medi-no; that's of your own putting in, in order to
cines which the doctor had sent. All this kind-
ness cut Brown to the heart. He was just able
to sob out, 'My unnatural father leaves me to
perish, and my injured friend is more than a
father to me.' Stock told him that one proof he
must give of his repentance, was, that he must
forgive his father, whose provocation had been
very great. He then said he would leave him
for the present to take some rest, and desired
him to lift up his heart to God for mercy. 'Dear
comfort me; let me look at the words myself."
-'No, indeed,' said Stock, 'I would not for the
world give you unfounded comfort, or put off
any notion of my own for a Scripture doctrine."
But is it possible,' cried the sick man, 'that
God may really pardon me? Do'st think he can!
Do'st think he will?' I dare not give thee false
hopes, or indeed any hopes of my own.
these are God's own words, and the only diffi-
culty is to know when we are really brought
But
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
217
into such a state as that the words may be ap-
plied to us. For a text may be full of comfort,
and yet may not belong to us.'
Mr. Stock was afraid of saying more. He
would not venture out of his depth; nor indeed
was poor Brown able to bear more discourse
just now. So he made him a present of the Bi-
ble, folding down such places as he thought
might be best suited to his state, and took his
leave, being obliged to return home that night.
He left a little money with the jailor, to add a
few comforts to the allowance of the prison, and
promised to return in a short time.
When he got home, he described the suffer-
ings and misery of Brown in a very moving
manner; but Tommy Williams, instead of he-
ing properly affected by it, only said, 'Indeed,
master, I am not very sorry; he is rightly
served.'' How, Tommy,' said Mr. Stock (ra-
ther sternly) 'not sorry to see a fellow creature
brought to the lowest state of misery; one too
whom you have known so prosperous?' No,
master, I can't say I am; for Mr. Brown used
to make fun of you, and laugh at you for being
so godly, and reading your Bible.'
Let me say a few words to you Tommy,'
said Mr. Stock. In the first place you should
never watch for the time of a man's being
brought low by trouble to tell of his faults.
Next, you should never rejoice at his trouble,
but pity him, and pray for him. Lastly, as to
his ridiculing me for my religion, if I cannot
stand an idle jest, I am not worthy the name of
a Christian. He that is ashamed of me and my
word—do'st remember what follows Tommy?'
'Yes, master, it was last Sunday's text-of
him shall the Son of Man be ashamed when he
shall judge the world.'
Mr. Stock soon went back to the prison. But
he did not go alone. He took with him Mr.
Thomas, the worthy minister who had been the
guide and instructor of his youth, who was so
kind as to go at his request and visit this forlorn
prisoner. When they got to Brown's door, they
found him sitting up in his bed with the Bible
in his hand. This was a joyful sight to Mr.
Stock, who secretly thanked God for it. Brown
was reading aloud; they listened; it was the
fifteenth of Saint Luke. The circumstances of
this beautiful parable of the prodigal son were
so much like his own, that the story pierced
him to the soul; and he stopped every minute
to compare his own case with that of the prodi-
gal. He was just got to the eighteenth verse, I
will arise and go to my father at that moment
he spied his two friends; joy darted into his
eyes. O dear Jem,' said he, it is not too late,
I will arise, and go to my Father, my heavenly
Father, and you, sir, will show me the way,
won't you?' said he to Mr. Thomas, whom he
recollected. I am very glad to see you in so
hopeful a disposition,' said the good minister.
'O, sir,' said Brown, what a place is this to re-
ceive you in? O, see to what I have brought
myself!'
Your condition, as to this world, is indeed
very low,' replied the good divine. But what
are mines, dungeons, or gallies, to that eternal
hopeless prison to which your unrepented sins
must soon have consigned you. Even in the
gloomy prison, on this bed of straw, worn down
by pain, poverty, and want, forsaken by your
worldly friends, an object of scorn to those with
whom you used to carouse and riot; yet here, I
say, brought thus low, if you have at last found
out your own vileness, and your utterly undone
state by sin, you may still be more an object of fa-
vour in the sight of God, than when you thought
yourself prosperous and happy; when the world
smiled upon you, and you passed your days and
nights in envied gaiety and unchristian riot. If
you will but improve the present awful visita-
tion; if you do but heartily renounce and ab-
hor your present evil courses; if you even now
turn to the Lord your Saviour with lively faith,
deep repentance, and unfeigned obedience, I
shall still have more hope of you than of many
who are going on quite happy, because quite in-
sensible. The heavy laden sinner, who has dis-
covered the iniquity of his own heart, and his
utter inability to help himself, may be restored
to God's favour, and become happy, though in a
dungeon. And be assured, that he who from
deep and humble contrition dares not so much
as lift up his eyes to heaven, when with a hearty
faith he sighs out, Lord, be merciful to me a sin-
ner, shall in no wise be cast out. These are the
words of him who cannot lie.'
It is impossible to describe the self-abasement,
the grief, the joy, the shame, the hope, and the
fear which filled the mind of this poor man. A
dawn of comfort at length shone on his benight-
ed mind. His humility and fear of falling back
into his former sins, if he should ever recover,
Mr. Thomas thought were strong symptoms of a
sound repentance. He improved and cherished
every good disposition he saw arising in his
heart, and particularly warned him against self-
deceit, self-confidence, and hypocrisy
After Brown had deeply expressed his sorrow
for his offences, Mr. Thomas thus addressed
him. There are two ways of being sorry for
sin. Are you, Mr. Brown, afraid of the guilt of
sin because of the punishment annexed to it, or
are you afraid of sin itself? Do you wish to be
delivered from the power of sin? Do you hate
sin because you know it is offensive to a pure
and holy God? Or are you only ashamed of it
because it has brought you to a prison and ex-
It is
posed you to the contempt of the world?
not said that the wages of this or that particular
sin is death, but of sin in general; there is no
exception made because it is a more creditable
or a favourite sin, or because it is a little one.
There are, I repeat, two ways of being sorry
for sin. Cain was sorry-My punishment is
greater than I can bear, said he; but here you
see the punishment seemed to be the cause of
concern, not the sin. David seems to have had
a good notion of godly sorrow, when he says,
Wash me from mine iniquity, cleanse me from
my sin. And when Job repented in dust and
ashes, it is not said he excused himself, but he
abhorred himself. And the prophet Isaiah called
himself undone, because he was a man of un-
clean lips; for, said he "I have seen the King,
the Lord of hosts ;" that is, he could not take
the proper measure of his own iniquity till he
had considered the perfect holiness of God.'
One day, when Mr. Thomas and Mr. Stock
VOL. L
218
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
+
came to see him, they found him more than morsel of meat from his own dinner. Tommy
commonly affected. His face was more ghastly Williams begged that he might always be al-
pale than usual, and his eyes were red with cry-lowed to carry it, as some atonement for his
ing. 'Oh, sir,' said he, what a sight have I having for a moment so far forgotten his duty,
just seen! jolly George, as we used to call him, as rather to rejoice than sympathize in Brown's
the ringleader of all our mirth, who was at the misfortunes. He never thought of this fault
bottom of all the fun and tricks, and wickedness without sorrow, and often thanked his master for
that are carried on within these walls, jolly the wholesome lesson he then gave him, and he
George is just dead of the jail distemper! He was the better for it all his life.
taken, and I left! I would be carried into his
room to speak to him, to beg him to take warn-
ing by me, and that I might take warning by
him. But what did I see! what did I hear!
not one sign of repentance; not one dawn of
hope. Agony of body, blasphemies on his tongue,
despair in his soul; while I am spared and com-
forted with hopes of mercy and acceptance. Oh,
if all my old friends at the Grayhound could but
then have seen jolly George! A hundred ser-
mons about death, sir, don't speak so home, and
cut so deep, as the sight of one dying sinner.'
Brown grew gradually better in his health,
that is, the fever mended, but the distemper set-
tled in his limbs, so that he seemed likely to be
a poor, weakly cripple the rest of his life. But
as he spent much of his time in prayer, and in
reading such parts of the Bible as Mr. Thomas
directed, he improved every day in knowledge
and piety, and of course grew more resigned to
pain and infirmity.
Some months after this, his hard-hearted fa-
ther, who had never been prevailed upon to see
him, or offer him the least relief, was taken off
suddenly by a fit of apoplexy; and, after all his
threatenings, he died without a will.
He was
one of those silly, superstitious men, who fancy
they shall die the sooner for having made one ;
and who love the world and the things that are
in the world so dearly, that they dread to set
about any business which may put them in mind
that they are not always to live in it. As, by
this neglect, his father had not fulfilled his threat
of cutting him off with a shilling, Jack, of course,
went shares with his brothers in what their fa-
ther left. What fell to him proved to be just
enough to discharge him from prison, and to
pay all his debts, but he had nothing left. His
joy at being thus enabled to make restitution
was so great that he thought little of his own
wants. He did not desire to conceal the most
trifling debt, nor to keep a shilling for himself.
Mrs. Stock often carried poor Brown a dish
of tea or a basin of good broth herself. He was
quite a cripple, and never able to walk out as
long as he lived. Mr. Stock, Will Simpson and
Tommy Williams laid their heads together, and
contrived a sort of barrow on which he was often
carried to church by some of his poor neigh-
bours, of which Tommy was always one; and
he requited their kindness, by reading a good
book to them whenever they would call in; and
he spent his time in teaching their children to
sing psalms or say the catechism.
It was no small joy to him thus to be enabled
to go to church. Whenever he was carried by
the Grayhound, he was much moved, and used
to put up a prayer full of repentance for the
past, and praise for the present.
PART V.
A dialogue between James Stock and Will Simp-
son, the shoemakers, as they sat at work, on
the duty of carrying religion into our common
business.
JAMES STOCK, and his journeyman Will Simp-
son, as I informed my readers in the second part,
had resolved to work together one hour every
evening, in order to pay for Tommy Williams's
schooling. This circumstance brought them to
be a good deal together when the rest of the men
were gone home. Now it happened that Mr.
Stock had a pleasant way of endeavouring to
turn all common events to some use; and he
thought it right on the present occasion to make
the only return in his power to Will Simpson
for his great kindness. For, said he, if Will
gives up so much of his time to help to provide
for this poor boy, it is the least I can do to try
to turn part of that time to the purpose of pro-
moting Will's spiritual good. Now as the bent
of Stock's own mind was religious, it was easy
to him to lead their talk to something profitable.
He always took especial care, however, that the
subject should be introduced properly, cheer-
fully, and without constraint. As he well knew
that great good may be sometimes done by a
prudent attention in seizing proper opportunities,
so he knew that the cause of piety had been
sometimes hurt by forcing serious subjects
Mr. Stock would fain have taken him into his where there was clearly no disposition to re-
own house, at least for a time, so convinced was ceive them. I say he had found out that two
he of the sincere reformation both of heart and things were necessary to the promoting of re-
life; but Brown would not be prevailed on to be ligion among his friends; a warm zeal to be
further burthensome to this generous friend. He always on the watch for occasions, and a cool
insisted on being carried to the parish work-judgment to distinguish which was the right
house, which he said was a far better place than time and place to make use of them. To know
he deserved. In this house Mr. Stock furnished | how to do good is a great matter, but to know
a small room for him, and sent him every day a when to do it is no small one.
Mr. Stock undertook to settle all his affairs.
There did not remain money enough after every
creditor was satisfied, even to pay for his remo-
val home. Mr. Stock kindly sent his own cart
for him with a bed in it, made as comfortable as
possible, for he was too weak and lame to be re-
moved any other way, and Mrs. Stock gave the
driver particular charge to be tender and careful
of him, and not to drive hard, nor to leave the
cart a moment.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
219
Simpson was an honest good-natured young
man; he was now become sober, and rather re-
ligiously disposed. But he was ignorant, he did
not know much of the grounds of religion, or of
the corruption of his own nature. He was re-
gular at church, but was first drawn thither
rather by his skill in psalm-singing than by any
great devotion. He had left off going to the
Grayhound, and often read the Bible, or some
other good book on the Sunday evening. This
he thought was quite enough; he thought the
Bible was the prettiest history book in the world,
and that religion was a very good thing for Sun-
days. But he did not much understand what
business people had with it on working days.
He had left off drinking because it had brought
Williams to the grave, and his wife to dirt and
rags; but not because he himself had seen the
evil of sin. He now considered swearing and
Sabbath-breaking as scandalous and indecent,
but he had not found out that both were to be
left off because they are highly offensive to God,
and grieve his Holy Spirit. As Simpson was
less self-conceited than most ignorant people are,
Stock had always a good hope that when he
should come to be better acquainted with the
word of God, and with the evil of his own heart,
he would become one day a good Christian. The
great hindrance to this was, that he fancied him-
self so already.
One evening Simpson had been calling to
Stock's mind how disorderly the house and shop,
where they were now sitting quietly at work,
had formerly been and he went on thus:
I
Will. How comfortably we live now, master,
to what we used to do in Williams's time!
used then never to be happy but when we were
keeping it up all night, but now I am as merry
as the day is long. I find I am twice as happy
since I am grown good and sober.
Stock. I am glad you are happy, Will, and I
rejoice that you are sober; but I would not have
you take too much pride in your own goodness,
for fear it should become a sin, almost as great
as some of those you have left off. Besides, I
would not have you make quite so sure that you
are good.
Will. Not good, master! why don't you find
me regular and orderly at work?
Stock. Very much so; and accordingly I have
a great respect for you.
Will. I pay every one his own, seldom miss
church, have not been drunk since Williams
died, have handsome clothes for Sundays, and
save a trifle every week.
Stock. Very true, and very laudable it is; and
to all this you may add that you very generously
work an hour, for poor Tommy's education,
every evening without fee or reward.
Will. Well, master, what can a man do more?
If all this is not being good, I don't know what is.
Stock. All these things are very right as far
as they go, and you could not well be a Christian
without doing them. But I shall make you
stare, perhaps, when I tell you, you may do all
these things, and many more, and yet be no
Christian.
Will. No Christian ! surely, master, I do hope
that after all I have done, you will not be so un-
kind as to say I am no Christian.
|
Stock. God forbid that I should say so, Will.
I hope better things
But come now,
of you.
what do you think it is to be a Christian?
Will. What! why to be christened when one
is a child; to learn the catechism when one can
read; to be confirmed when one is a youth; and
to go to church when one is a man.
Štock. These are all very proper things, and
quite necessary. They make part of a Christi-
an's life. But for all that, a man may be exact
in them all, and yet not be a Christian.
Will. Not be a christian! ha! ha! ha! you
are very comical, master.
Stock. No, indeed, I am very serious, Will.
At this rate it would be a very easy thing to be
a Christian, and every man who went through
certain forms would be a good man; and one
man who observed those forms would be as good
as another. Whereas, if we come to examine
ourselves by the word of God, I am afraid there
are but few comparatively whom our Saviour
would allow to be real Christians. What is your
notion of a Christian's practice?
Will. Why, he must not rob, nor murder, nor
get drunk. He must avoid scandalous things,
and do as other decent orderly people do.
Stock. It is easy enough to be what the world
calls a Christian, but not to be what the Bible
calls so.
Will. Why, master, we working men are not
expected to be saints, and martyrs, and apostles,
and ministers.
Stock. We are not. And yet, Will, there are
not two sorts of Christianity; we are called to
practise the same religion which they practised,
and something of the same spirit is expected in
It was not
us which we reverence in them.
saints and martyrs only to whom our Saviour
said that they must crucify the world with its
affections and lusts. We are called to be holy
in our measure and degree, as he who hath call-
ed us is holy. It was not only saints and mar-
tyrs who were told that they must be like minded
with Christ. That they must do all to the glory
of God. That they must renounce the spirit of
the world, and deny themselves. It was not to
apostles only that Christ said, They must have
their conversation in heaven. It was not to a
few holy men, set apart for the altar, that he
said, They must set their affections on things
above. That they must not be conformed to the
world. No, it was to fishermen, to publicans, to
farmers, to day-labourers, to poor tradesmen,
that he spoke when he told them, they must love
not the world, nor the things of the world.-That
they must renounce the hidden things of disho-
nesty, grow in grace, lay up for themselves trea-
sures in Heaven.
Will. All this might be very proper for them
to be taught, because they had not been bred up
Christians, but Heathens or Jews and Christ,
wanted to make them his followers, that is,
Christians.
|
But thank God we do not want to
be taught all this, for we are Christians, born in
a Christian country, of Christian parents.
Stock. I suppose then you fancy that Christi-
anity comes to people in a Christian country by
nature?
Will. I think it comes by a good education
or a good example. When a fellow who has
220
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
got any sense, sees a man cut off in his prime
by drinking, like Williams, I think he will begin
to leave it off. When he sees another man re-
spected, like you, master, for honesty and so-
briety, and going to church, why he will grow
honest, and sober, and go to church: that is, he
will see it his advantage to be a Christian.
Stock. Will, what you say is the truth, but
'tis not the whole truth. You are right as far
as you go, but you do not go far enough. The
worldly advantages of piety, are, as you suppose,
in general great. Credit, prosperity, and health,
almost naturally attend on a religious life, both
because a religious life supposes a sober and in-
dustrious life, and because a man who lives in
a course of duty puts himself in the way of
God's blessing. But a true Christian has a
still higher aim in view, and will follow religion
even under circumstances, when it may hurt
his credit and ruin his prosperity, if it should
ever happen to be the will of God that he should
be brought into such a trying state.
Will. Well, master, to speak the truth, if I
go to church on Sundays, and follow my work
in the week, I must say I think that is being
good.
Stock. I agree with you, that he who does
both, gives the best outward signs that he is
good, as you call it. But our going to church,
and even reading the Bible, are no proofs that
we are as good as we need be, but rather that
we do both these in order to make us better than
we are. We do both on Sundays, as means, by
God's blessing, to make us better all the week.
We are to bring the fruits of that chapter or of
that sermon into our daily life, and try to get
our inmost heart and secret thoughts, as well
as our daily conduct, amended by them.
Will. Why sure, master, you won't be so un-
reasonable as to want a body to be religious al-
ways? I can't do that neither. I'm not such a
hypocrite as to pretend to it.
Stock. Yes, you can be so in every action of
your life.
Will. What, master, always to be thinking
about religion?
Stock. No, far from it, Will; much less to be
always talking about it. But you must be al-
ways under its power and spirit.
Will. But surely 'tis pretty well if I do this
when I go to church; or while I am saying my
prayers. Even you, master, as strict as you are,
would not have me always on my knees, nor
always at church, I suppose: for then how
would your work be carried on, and how would
our town be supplied with shoes?
Stock. Very true, Will. "Twould be no proof
of our religion to let our customers go barefoot;
but 'twould be a proof of our laziness, and
we should starve, as we ought to do. The
business of the world must not only be carried
on, but carried on with spirit and activity.
We have the same authority for not being
slothful in business, as we have for being
fervent in spirit. Religion has put godliness
and laziness, as wide asunder as any two things
in the world; and what God has separated let
no man pretend to join. Indeed, the spirit of
religion can have no fellowship with sloth, in-
dolence, and self-indulgence. But still, a Chris-
Į
tian does not carry on his common trade quite
like another man neither; for something of the
spirit which he labours to attain at church, he
carries with him into his worldly concerns.
While there are some who set up for Sunday
Christians, who have no notion that they are
bound to be week-day Christians too.
Will. Why, master, I do think, if God Al-
mighty is contented with one day in seven, he
won't thank you for throwing him the other six
into the bargain. I thought he gave us them
for our own use; and I am sure nobody works
harder all the week than you do.
Stock. God, it is true, sets apart one day in
seven for actual rest from labour, and for more
immediate devotion to his service.-But show
me that text wherein he says, thou shalt love
the Lord thy God on Sundays-Thou shalt
keep my commandments on the Sabbath day-
To be carnally minded on Sundays, is death—
Cease to do evil, and learn to do well one day in
seven--Grow in grace on the Lord's day-Is
there any such text?
Will. No, to be sure there is not; for that
would be encouraging sin on all the other days.
Stock. Yes, just as you do when you make
religion a thing for the church, and not for the
world. There is no one lawful calling, in pur-
suing which we may not serve God acceptably.
You and I may serve him while we are stitch-
ing this pair of boots. Farmer Furrow, while
he is ploughing yonder field. Betsy West, over
the way, whilst she is nursing her sick mother.
Neighbour Incle, in measuring out his tapes
and ribands. I say, all these may serve God
just as acceptably in those employments as at
church, I had almost said more so.
▼
Will. Ay, indeed; how can that be?-Now
you're too much on t'other side.
Stock. Because a man's trials in trade being
often greater, they give him fresh means of
glorifying God, and proving the sincerity of re-
ligion. A man who mixes in business, is na-
turally brought into continual temptations and
difficulties. These will lead him, if he be a good
man, to look more to God, than he perhaps
would otherwise do.-He sees temptations on
the right hand and on the left; he knows that
there are snares all around him; this makes
him watchful: he feels that the enemy within is
too ready to betray him; this makes him humble
himself; while a sense of his own difficulties
makes him tender to the failings of others.
Will. Then you would make one believe,
after all, that trade and business must be sinful
in itself, since it brings a man into all these
snares and scrapes.
But
Stock. No, no, Will; trade and business don't
create evil passions-they were in the heart be
fore-only now and then they seem to lie snug
a little-our concerns with the world bring them
out into action a little more, and thus show both
others and ourselves what we really are.
then, as the world offers more trials on the one
hand, so on the other it holds out more duties.
If we are called to battle oftener, we have more
opportunities of victory. Every temptation_re-
sisted, is an enemy subdued; and he that ruleth
his own spirit, is better than he that taketh a city.
Will. I don't quite understand vou, master
·
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
221
•
Stock. I will try to explain myself. There, of the Sunday's piety. "Tis trade and business
is no passion more called out by the transac- in the week which call us to put our Sunday
tions of trade than covetousness.-Now, 'tis im- | readings, praying, and church-going into prac-
possible to withstand such a master sin as that, tice.
without carrying a good deal of the spirit of re-
ligion into one's trade.
Will. Well, I own I don't yet see how I am
to be religious when I'm hard at work, or busy
settling an account. I can't do two things at
once; 'tis as if I were to pretend to make a
shoe and cut out a boot at the same moment.
Stock. I tell you both must subsist together.
Nay, the one must be the motive to the other.
God commands us to be industrious, and if we
love him, the desire of pleasing him should be
the main spring of our industry.
Will. I don't see how I can always be think-
ing about pleasing God.
Stock. Suppose, now, a man had a wife and
children whom he loved, and wished to serve;
would he not be often thinking about them
while he was at work? and though he would
not be always thinking nor always talking about
them, yet would not the very love he bore them
be a constant spur to his industry? He would
always be pursuing the same course from the
same motive, though his words and even his
thoughts must often be taken up in the common
transactions of life.
Will. I say first one, then the other; now for
labour, now for religion.
Stock. I will show that both must go together.
I will suppose you were going to buy so many
skins of our currier-that is quite a worldly
transaction-you can't see what a spirit of re-
ligion has to do with buying a few calves' skins.
Now, I tell you it has a great deal to do with
it. Covetousness, a desire to make a good bar-
gain, may rise up in your heart. Selfishness,
a spirit of monopoly, a wish to get all, in order
to distress others; these are evil desires, and
must be subdued. Some opportunity of unfair
gain offers, in which there may be much sin,
and yet little scandal. Here a Christian will
stop short; he will recollect, That he who maketh
haste to be rich shall hardly be innocent. Per-
haps the sin may be on the side of your dealer
-he may want to overreach you-this is pro-
voking-you are tempted to violent anger, per-
haps to swear;-here is a fresh demand on you
for a spirit of patience and moderation, as there
was before for a spirit of justice and self-denial.
If, by God's grace, you get the victory over
these temptations, you are the better man for
having been called out to them; always pro-
vided, that the temptations be not of your own
seeking. If you give way, and sink under
these temptations, don't go and say trade and
business have made you covetous, passionate,
and profane. No, no; depend upon it, you were
so before; you would have had all these evil
seeds lurking in your heart, if you had been
loitering about at home and doing nothing, with
the additional sin of idleness into the bargain.
When you are busy, the devil often tempts you;
when you are idle, you tempt the devil. If
business and the world call these evil tempers
into action, business and the world call that re-
ligion into action too which teaches us to resist
them. And in this you see the week-day fruit
Will. Well, master, you have a comical way,
somehow, of coming over one. I never should
have thought there would have been any reli-
gion wanted in buying and selling a few calves'
skins. But I begin to see there is a good deal
in what you say. And, whenever I am doing a
common action, I will try to remember that it
must be done after a godly sort.
Stock. I hear the clock strike nine-let us
leave off our work. I will only observe farther,
that one good end of our bringing religion into
our business is, to put us in mind not to under-
take more business than we can carry on con-
sistently with our religion. I shall never com-
mend that man's diligence, though it is often
commended by the world, who is not diligent
about the salvation of his soul. We are as much
forbidden to be overcharged with the cares of
life, as with its pleasures. I only wish to prove
to you, that a discreet Christian may be wise
for both worlds; that he may employ his hands
without entangling his soul, and labour for the
meat that perisheth, without neglecting that
which endureth unto eternal life; that he may
be prudent for time whilst he is wise for eter-
nity.
PART VI.
Dialogue the second. On the duty of carrying
Religion into our amusements.
The next evening Will Simpson being got
first to his work, Mr. Stock found him singing
very cheerfully over his last. His master's
entrance did not prevent his finishing his song,
which concluded with these words:
'Since life is no more than a passage at best,
Let us strew the way over with flowers.'
When Will had concluded his song, he turned
to Mr. Stock, and said, 'I thank you, master, for
first putting it into my head how wicked it is to
sing profane and indecent songs. I never sing
any now which have any wicked words in them.'
Stock. I am glad to hear it. So far you do
well. But there are other things as bad as
wicked words, nay worse perhaps, though they
do not so much shock the ear of decency.
Will. What is that, master? What can be so
bad as wicked words?
Stock. Wicked thoughts, Will. Which thoughts,
when they are covered over with smooth words,
and dressed out in pleasing rhymes, so as not to
shock modest young people by the sound, do
more harm to their principles, than those songs
of which the words are so gross and disgusting,
that no person of common decency can for a mo-
ment listen to them.
Will. Well, master, I am sure that was a
very pretty song I was singing when you came
in, and a song which very sober good people
sing.
Stock. Do they? Then I will be bold to say,
222
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
that singing such songs is no part of their good-
ness. I heard indeed but two lines of it, but
they were so heathenish that I desire to hear no
more.
Will. Now you are really too hard. What
harm could there be in it? there was not one
indecent word.
Stock. I own, indeed, that indecent words are
particularly offensive. But, as I said before,
though immodest expressions offend the ear
more, they do not corrupt the heart, perhaps,
much more than songs of which the words are
decent, and the principle vicious. In the latter
case, because there is nothing that shocks his
ear, a man listens till the sentiment has so cor-
rupted his heart, that his ears grow hardened
too, and by long custom he loses all sense of the
danger of profane diversions; and I must say I
have often heard young women of character
sing songs in company, which I should be
ashamed to read by myself. But come, as we
work, let us talk over this business a little; and
first let us stick to this sober song of yours, that
you boast so much about.
(repeats.)
'Since life is no more than a passage at best,
Let us strew the way over with flowers.
Now what do you learn by this?
Will. Why, master, I don't pretend to learn
much by it. But 'tis a pretty tune and pretty
words.
Stock. But what do these pretty words mean?
Will. That we must make ourselves merry
because life is short.
Stock. Will! Of what religion are you?
Will. You are always asking one such odd
questions, master; why a Christian to be sure.
Stock. If I often ask you, or others this ques-
tion, it is only because I like to know what
grounds I am to go upon when I am talking
with you or them. I conceive that there are in
this country two sorts of people, Christians and
no Christians. Now, if people profess to be of
this first description, I expect one kind of no-
tions, opinions, and behaviour from them; if
they say they are of the latter, then I look for
another set of notions and actions from them.
I compel no man to think with me. I take
every man at his word. I only expect him to
think and believe according to the character he
takes upon himself, and to act on the principles
of that character which he professes to maintain.
Will. That's fair enough; I can't say but it
is, to take a man at his own word, and on his
own grounds.
Stock. Well then. Of whom does the Scrip-
ture speak when it says, Let us eat and drink
for to-morrow we die?
Will. Why of heathens to be sure, not of
Christians.
Stock. And of whom when it says, Let us
crown ourselves with rosebuds before they are
withered?
Will. O that is Solomon's worldly fool.
Stock. You disapprove of both then.
Will. To be sure I do. I should not be a
Christian if I did not.
Stock. And yet, though a Christian, you are
admiring the very same thought in the song you
were singing. How do you reconcile this
|
Will. O there is no comparison between them.
These several texts are designed to describe
loose wicked heathens. Now I learn texts as
part of my religion. But religion you know has
nothing to do with a song. I sing a song for
my pleasure.
-
Stock. In our last night's talk, Will, I endea-
voured to prove to you that religion was to be
brought into our business. I wish now to let
you see that it is to be brought into our pleasure
also. And that he who is really a Christian,
must be a Christian in his very diversions.
Will. Now you are too strict again, master,
as you last night declared, that in our business
you would not have us always praying, so I
hope that in our pleasure you would not have
us always psalm-singing. I hope you would
not have all one's singing to be about good
things.
Stock. Not so, Will; but I would not have any
part either of our business or our pleasure to be
about evil things. It is one thing to be singing
about religion, it is another thing to be singing
against it. Saint Peter, I fancy, would not much
have approved your favourite song. He, at least,
seemed to have another view of the matter, when
he said, The end of all things is at hand. Now
this text teaches much the same awful truth
with the first line of your song. But let us see
to what different purposes the apostle and the
poet turn the very same thought. Your song
says, because life is so short, let us make it
merry. Let us divert ourselves so much on the
road, that we may forget the end. Now what
says the apostle, Because the end of all things is
at hand, be ye therefore sober and watch unto
prayer.
Will. Why master, I like to be sober too, and
have left off drinking. But still I never thought
that we were obliged to carry texts out of the
Bible to try the soundness of a song; and to
enable us to judge if we might be both merry
and wise in singing it.
Stock. Providence has not so stinted our en-
joyments, Will, but he has left us many subjects
of harmless merriment: but, for my own part,
I am never certain that any one is quite harm-
less till I have tried it by this rule that you
seem to think so strict. There is another fa-
vourite catch which I heard you and some of
the workmen humming yesterday.
Will. I will prove to you that there is not a
word of harm in that; pray listen now. (sings.)
'Which is the best day to drink-Sunday, Monday,
Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday?"
Stock. Now, Wit, do you really find your
unwillingness to drink is so great that you
stand in need of all these incentives to provoke
you to it? Do you not find temptation strong
enough without exciting your inclinations, and
whetting your appetites in this manner? Can
any thing be more unchristian than to persuade
youth by pleasant words, set to the most allur-
ing music, that the pleasures of drinking are so
great, that every day in the week, naming them
all successively, by way of fixing and enlarging
the idea, is equally fit, equally proper, and
equally delightful, for what?-for the low and
sensual purpose of getting drunk.
Will, are you so very averse to pleasure? Are
Tell me,
J
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
223
you naturally so cold and dead to all passion
and temptation, that you really find it necesaary
to inflame your imagination, and disorder your
senses, in order to excite a quicker relish for
the pleasures of sin?
Will. All this is true enough, indeed; but I
never saw it in this light before.
Stock. As I passed by the Grayhound last
night, in my way to my evening's walk in the
fields, I caught this one verse of a song which
the club were singing :
.
Bring the flask, the music bring,
Joy shall quickly find us;
Drink and dance, and laugh and sing,
And cast dull care behind us.'
When I got into the fields, I could not forbear
comparing this song with the second lesson last
Sunday evening at church; these were the
words: Take heed lest at any time your heart
be overcharged with drunkenness, and so that
day come upon you unawares, for as a snare
shall it come upon all them that are on the face
of the earth.
Will. Why, to be sure, if the second lesson
was right, the song must be wrong.
Stock. I ran over in my mind also a compari-
son between such songs as that which begins
with
'Drink and drive care away?
with those injunctions of holy writ, Watch and
pray therefore, that you enter not into temptation;
and again, Watch and pray that you may escape
all these things. I say I compared this with the
song I allude to,
•
Drink and drive care away,
Drink and be merry;
You'll ne'er go the faster
To the Stygian ferry.'
Will. Ay, master, and now you have opened
my eyes, I think I can make some of those
comparisons myself between the spirit of the Bi-
ble, and the spirit of these songs.
'Bring the flask, the goblet bring,'
won't stand very well in company with the
threat of the prophet: Wo unto them that rise
up early, that they may mingle strong drink.
Stock. Ay, Will; and these thoughtless peo-
ple who live up to their singing, seem to be the
very people described in another place as glory-
ing in their intemperance, and acting what their
songs describe -They look at the wine, and say
it is red, it moveth itself aright in the cup.
become more careful what songs I sing myself,
Will. I do hope I shall for the future not only
but also not to keep company with those who
sing nothing else but what in my sober judg-
ment, I now see to be wrong.
Stock. As we shall have no body in the world
to come, it is a pity not only to make our plea-
sures here consist entirely in the delights of
animal life, but to make our very songs consist
in extolling and exalting those delights which
tian. If, through temptation or weakness, we
are unworthy of the man as well as of the Chris-
fall into errors, let us not establish and confirm
them by picking up all the songs and scraps of
verses which excuse, justify, and commend sin.
That time is short, is a reason given by these
indulgences. That time is short, is a reason
song mongers why we should give into greater
given by the apostle why we should enjoy our
dearest comforts as if we enjoyed them not.
Now, Will, I hope you will see the impor-
tance of so managing, that our diversions (for
diversions of some kind we all require,) may be
as carefully chosen as our other employments.
For to make them such as effectually drive out
I compared this with that awful admonition of our minds all that the Bible and the minister
of Scripture how to pass the time. Not in riot-have been putting into them, seems to me as
ing and drunkenness, not in chambering and
wantonness, but put ye on the Lord Jesus Christ,
and make not provision for the flesh to fulfil the
lusts thereof.
Will. I am afraid then, master, you would
not much approve of what I used to think a very
pretty song, which begins with,
'A plague on those musty old lubbers,
Who teach us to fast and to think.'
Stock. Will, what would you think of any one
who should sit down and write a book or a song
to abuse the clergy?
Will. Why I should think he was a very
wicked fellow, and I hope no one would look
into such a book, or sing such a song.
Stock. And yet it must certainly be the cler-
gy, who are scoffed at in that verse, it being
their professed business to teach us to think and
be serious.
imprudent as it is unchristian. But this is not
all. Such sentiments as these songs contain, set
off by the prettiest music, heightened by liquor,
and all the noise and spirit of what is called jo-
vial company, all this, I say, not only puts every
thing that is right out of the mind, but puts
every thing that is wrong into it. Such songs.
therefore, as tend to promote levity, thought-
lessness, loose imaginations, false views of life,
forgetfulness of death, contempt of whatever is
serious, and neglect of whatever is sober, whe-
not, cannot be sung by any man or any woman
ther they be love songs, or drinking songs, will
who makes a serious profession of Christianity.*
* It is with regret I have lately observed, that the fa-
shionable author and singer of songs more loose, pro-
fane, and corrupt, than any of those here noticed, not
only received a prize as the reward of his important ser-
vices, but received also the public acknowledgments of
an illustrious society for having contributed to the hap-
piness of their country
224
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
THE HISTORY OF TOM WHITE, THE POST BOY.
PART I.
IN TWO PARTS.
TOM WHITE was one of the best drivers of a
post-chaise on the Bath road. Tom was the son
of an honest labourer at a little village in Wilt-
shire: he was an active industrious boy, and as
soon as he was old enough he left his father,
who was burdened with a numerous family, and
went to live with farmer Hodges, a sober worthy
man in the same village. He drove the wagon
all the week; and on Sundays, though he was
now grown up, the farmer required him to attend
the Sunday school, carried on under the inspec-
tion of Dr. Shepherd, the worthy vicar, and al-
ways made him read his Bible in the evening
after he had served his cattle; and would have
turned him out of his service if he had ever gone
to the ale-house for his own pleasure.
Tom by carrying some wagon loads of fagots
to the Bear inn, at Devizes, made many ac-
quaintances in the stable-yard. He soon learnt
to compare his own carter's frock, and shoes
thick set with nails, with the smart red jacket, and
tight boots of the post-boys, and grew ashamed
of his own homely dress; he was resolved to
drive a chaise, to get money, and to see the
world. Foolish fellow he never considered
that, though it is true, a wagoner works hard
all day, yet he gets a quiet evening at home, and
undisturbed rest at night. However, as there
must be chaise-boys as well as plough-boys, there
was no great harm in the change. The evil
company to which it exposed him, was the chief
mischief. He left farmer Hodges, though not
without sorrow at quitting so kind a master, and
got himself hired at the Black Bear.
Notwithstanding the temptations to which he
was now exposed, Tom's good education stood
by him for some time. At first he was frighten-
ed to hear the oaths and wicked words which
are too often uttered in a stable-yard. However,
though he thought it very wrong, he had not the
courage to reprove it, and the next step to being
easy at seeing others sin is to sin ourselves. By
degrees he began to think it manly, and a mark
of spirit in others to swear; though the force of
good habits was so strong, that at first when he
ventured to swear himself it was with fear, and
in a low voice. But he was soon laughed out of
his sheepishness, as they called it; and though
he never became so profane and blasphemous as
some of his companions (for he never swore in
cool blood, or in mirth, as so many do) yet he
would too often use a dreadful bad word when
he was in a passion with his horses. And here
I cannot but drop a hint on the deep folly as
well as wickedness, of being in a great rage
with poor beasts, who, not having the gift of
reason, cannot be moved like human creatures,
with all the wicked words that are said to them;
though these dumb creatures, unhappily, having
the gift of feeling, suffer as much as human
creatures can do, at the cruel and unnecessary
beatings given them. Tom had been bred up
to think that drunkenness was a great sin, for
+
|
he never saw farmer Hodges drunk in his life,
and where a farmer is sober himself his men are
less likely to drink, or if they do the master can
reprove them with the better grace.
Tom was not naturally fond of drink, yet for
the sake of being thought merry company, and
a hearty fellow, he often drank more than he
ought. As he had been used to go to church
twice on a Sunday, while he lived with the farm-
er (who seldom used his horses on that day, ex-
cept to carry his wife to church behind him)
Tom felt a little uneasy when he was sent the
very first Sunday a long journey with a great
family; for I cannot conceal the truth, that too
many gentlefolks will travel, when there is no
necessity for it, on a Sunday, and when Monday
would answer the end just as well. This is a
great grief to all good and sober people, both
rich and poor; and it is still more inexcusable
in the great, who have every day at their com-
mand. However, he kept his thoughts to him-
self, though he could not now and then help
thinking how quietly things were going on at
the farmer's, whose wagoner on a Sunday led
as easy life as if he had been a gentleman. But
he soon lost all thoughts of this kind, and in
time did not know a Sunday from a Monday.
Tom went on prosperously, as it is called, for
three or four years, got plenty of money, but
saved not a shilling. As soon as his horses were
once in the stable, whoever would might see
them fed for Tom. He had other fish to fry.-
Fives, cards, cudgel-playing, laying wagers, and
keeping loose company, each of which he at
first disliked, and each of which he soon learned
to practise, ran away with all his money, and
all his spare time; and though he was generally
in the way as soon as the horses were ready
(because if there was no driving there was no
pay) yet he did not care whether the carriage
was clean or dirty, if the horses looked well or
ill, if the harness was whole, or the horses were
shod. The certainty that the gains of to-morrow
would make up for the extravagance of to-day,
made him quite thoughtless and happy; for he
was young, active, and healthy, and never fore-
saw that a rainy day might come, when he would
want what he now squandered.
One day being a little flustered with liquor as
he was driving his return chaise through Brent-
ford, he saw just before him another empty car-
riage, driven by one of his acquaintance: he
whipped up his horses, resolving to outstrip the
other, and swearing dreadfully that he would
be at the Red Lion first-for a pint-Done,'
cried the other-a wager. Both cut and spurred
the poor beasts with the usual fury, as if their
credit had been really at stake, or their lives had
depended on this foolish contest. Tom's chaise
had now got up to that of his rival, and they
drove along side of each other with great fury
and many imprecations. But in a narrow part
Tom's chaise being in the middle, with his an-
tagonist on one side, and a cart driving against
him on the other, the horses reared, the carriages
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE
225
got entangled; Tom roared out a great oath to
the other to stop, which he either could not, or
would not do, but returned an horrid impreca-
tion that he would win the wager if he was
alive.-Tom's horses took fright, and he him-
self was thrown to the ground with great vio-
lence.--As soon as he could be got from under
the wheels, he was taken up senseless, his leg
was broken in two places, and his body much
bruised. Some people whom the noise had
brought together, put him in the post-chaise in
which the wagoner kindly assisted, but the other
driver seemed careless and indifferent, and drove
off, observing with a brutal coolness, I am sorry
I have lost my pint; I should have beat him
hollow, had it not been for this little accident.
Some gentlemen who came out of the inn, after
reprimanding this savage, inquired who he was,
wrote to inform his master, and got him dis-
charged resolving that neither they nor any of
their friends would ever employ him, and he
was long out of place, and nobody ever cared to
be driven by him.
Tom was taken to one of those excellent hos-
pitals with which London abounds. His agonies
were dreadful, his leg was set, and a high fever
came on. As soon as he was left alone to reflect
on his condition, his first thought was that he
should die, and his horror was inconceivable.
Alas! said he, what will become of my poor
soul? I am cut off in the very commission of
three great sins :-I was drunk, I was in a hor-
rible passion, and I had oaths and blasphemies
in my mouth. He tried to pray, but he could
not; his mind was all distraction, and he thought
he was so very wicked that God would not for-
give him; because, says he, I have sinned
against light and knowledge; I have had a sober
education, and good examples; I was bred in
the fear of God, and the knowledge of Christ,
and I deserve nothing but punishment. At
length he grew light-headed, and there was little
hope of his life. Whenever he came to his senses
for a few minutes, he cried out, O! that my old
companions could now see me, surely they would
take warning by my sad fate, and repent before
it is too late.
By the blessing of God on the skill of the sur-
geon, and the care of the nurses, he however,
grew better in a few days. And here let me
stop to remark, what a mercy it is that we live
in a christian country, where the poor, when
sick, or lame, or wounded, are taken as much
care of as any gentry; nay, in some respects
more, because in hospitals and infirmaries there
are more doctors and surgeons to attend, than
most private gentlefolks can afford to have at
their own houses, whereas there never was an
hospital in the whole heathen world. Blessed be
God for this, among the thousand other excellent
fruits of the christian religion ! A religion
which, like its Divine founder, while its grand
object is the salvation of men's souls, teaches us
also to relieve their bodily wants. It directs us
never to forget that He who forgave sins, healed
diseases, and while he preached the Gospel, fed
gave him time to reflect on his past life. He
began seriously to hate those darling sins which
had brought him to the brink of ruin. He could
now pray heartily; he confessed and lamented
his iniquities, with many tears, and began to
hope that the mercies of God, through the merits
of a Redeemer, might yet be extended to him on
his sincere repentance. He resolved never more
to return to the same evil courses, but he did
not trust in his own strength, but prayed that
God would give him grace for the future, as well
as pardon for the past. He remembered, and
he was humbled at the thought, that he used to
have short fits of repentance, and to form reso-
| lutions of amendment, in his wild and thought-
less days; and often when he had a bad head-ache
after a drinking bout, or had lost his money at
all-fours, he vowed never to drink or play again.
But as soon as his head was well and his pockets
recruited, he forgot all his resolutions. And
how should it be otherwise? for he trusted in
his own strength, he never prayed to God to
strengthen him, nor ever avoided the next
temptation. He thought that amendment was a
thing to be set about at any time; he did not
know that it is the grace of God which bringeth
us to repentance.
The case was now different. Tom began to
find that his strength was perfect weakness, and
that he could do nothing without the divine as-
sistance, for which he prayed heartily and con-
stantly. He sent home for his Bible and Prayer
book, which he had not opened for two years,
and which had been given him when he left the
Sunday school. He spent the chief part of his
time in reading them, and derived great com-
fort, as well as great knowledge, from this em-
ployment of his time. The study of the Bible
filled his heart with gratitude to God, who had
not cut him off in the midst of his sins; but had
given him space for repentance; and the agonies
he had lately suffered with his broken leg in-
creased his thankfulness, that he had escaped
the more dreadful pain of eternal misery. And
here let me remark what encouragement this is
for rich people to give away Bibles and good
books, and not to lose all hope, though, for a time,
they see little or no good effect from it. Ac-
cording to all appearance, Tom's books were
never likely to do him any good, and yet his
generous benefactor, who had cast his bread
upon the waters, found it after many days; for
this Bible, which had lain untouched for years,
was at last made the instrument of his reforma-
tion. God will work in his own good time, and
in his own way, but our zeal and our exertions
are the means by which he commonly chooses
to work.
As soon as he got well, and was discharged
from the hospital, Tom began to think he must
return to get his bread. At first he had some
scruples about going back to his old employ :
but, says he sensibly enough, gentlefolks must
travel, travellers must have chaises, and chaises
must have drivers: 'tis a very honest calling,
and I don't know that goodness belongs to one
sort of business more than another; and he who
It was eight weeks before Tom could be taken can be good in a state of great temptation, pro-
out of bed. This was a happy affliction; for by vided the calling be lawful, and the temptations
the grace of God, this long sickness and solitude I are not of his own seeking, and he be diligent
the multitude..
VOL. I.
Р
226
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
:
in prayer, may be better than another man for
aught I know and all that belongs to us is, to
do our duty in that state of life in which it shall
please God to call us; and to leave events in
God's hand. Tom had rubbed up his catechism
at the hospital, and 'tis a pity that people don't
look at their catechism sometimes when they
are grown up; for it is full as good for men and
women as it is for children; nay, better; for
though the answers contained in it are intended
for children to repeat, yet the duties enjoined
in it are intended for men and women to put in
practice. It is, if I may so speak, the very
grammar of Christianity and of our church, and
they who understand every part of their cate.
chism thoroughly, will not be ignorant of any
thing which a plain Christian need know.
driven by no other lad if careful Tom was to he
had. Being diligent, he got a great deal of
money; being frugal, he spent but little and
He soon
having no vices, he wasted none.
found out that there was some meaning in that
text which says, that Godliness hath the promise
of the life that now is, as well as that which is
to come: for the same principles which make a
man sober and honest, have also a natural ten-
dency to make him healthy and rich; while a
drunkard and a spendthrift can hardly escape
being sick and a beggar. Vice is the parent of
misery in both worlds.
After a few years Tom begged a holiday, and
made a visit to his native village; his good
character had got thither before him. He found
his father was dead, but during his long illness
Tom now felt grieved that he was obliged to Tom had supplied him with money, and by al-
drive on Sundays. But people who are in lowing him a trifle every week, had had the
earnest and have their hearts in a thing, can honest satisfaction of keeping him from the
find helps in all cases. As soon as he had set parish. Farmer Hodges was still living, but
down his company at their stage, and had seen being grown old and infirm, he was desirous to
his horses fed, says Tom, a man who takes care retire from business. He retained a great re-
of his horses, will generally think it right to let gard for his old servant, Tom; and finding he
them rest an hour or two at least. In every was worth money, and knowing he knew some-
town it is a chance but there may be a church thing of country business, he offered to let him
open during part of that time. If the prayers a small farm at an easy rate, and promised his
should be over, I'll try hard for the sermon; assistance in the management for the first year,
and if I dare not stay to the sermon it is a with the loan of a small sum of money, that he
chance but I may catch the prayers; it is worth might set out with a pretty stock. Tom thank-
trying for, however; and as I used to think no-ed him with tears in his eyes, went back and
thing of making a push, for the sake of getting
an hour to gamble, I need not grudge to take a
little pains extraordinary to serve God. By
this watchfulness he soon got to know the hours
of service at all the towns on the road he travel-
led; and while the horses fed, Tom went to
church; and it became a favourite proverb with
him, that prayers and provender hinder no man's
journey; and I beg leave to recommend Tom's
maxim to all travellers; whether master or
servant, carrier or coachman.
At first his companions wanted to laugh and
make sport of this-but when they saw that no
lad on the road was up so early or worked so
hard as Tom; when they saw no chaise so neat,
no glasses so bright, no harness so tight, no
driver so diligent, so clean, or so civil, they
found he was no subject to make sport at. Tom
indeed was very careful in looking after the
linch pins; in never giving his horses too much
water when they were hot; nor whatever was
his haste, would he ever gallop them up hill,
strike them across the head, or when tired, cut
and slash them, or gallop over the stones, as soon
as he got into town, as some foolish fellows do.
What helped to cure Tom of these bad practices,
was that remark he met with in the Bible, that
a good man is merciful to his beast. He was
much moved one day on reading the prophet
Jonah, to observe what compassion the great
God of Heaven and earth had for poor beasts:
for one of the reasons there given why the Al-
mighty was unwilling to destroy the great city
of Ninevah was, because there was much cattle
in it. After this, Tom never could bear to see
a wanton stroke inflicted. Doth God care for
horses, said he, and shall man be cruel to them?
Tom soon grew rich for one in his station:
for every gentleman on the road would be
|
|
took a handsome leave of his master, who made
him a present of a horse and cart, in acknow-
ledgment of his long and faithful services; for,
says he, I have saved many horses by Tom's
care and attention, and I could well afford to do
the same by every servant who did the same by
me; and should be a richer man at the end of
every year by the same generosity, provided I
could meet with just and faithful servants who
deserve the same rewards. Tom was soon set-
tled in his new farm, and in less than a year
had got every thing neat and decent about him.
Farmer Hodge's long experience and friendly
advice, joined to his own industry and hard la-
bour, soon brought the farm to great perfection.
The regularity, sobriety, peaceableness, and
piety of his daily life, his constant attendance
at church twice every Sunday, and his decent
and devout behaviour when there, soon recom-
mended him to the notice of Dr. Shepherd, who
was still living a pattern of zeal, activity, and
benevolence to all parish priests. The doctor
soon began to hold up Tom, or, as we must now
more properly term him, Mr. Thomas White,
to the imitation of the whole parish, and the
frequent and condescending conversation of this
worthy clergyman contributed no less than his
preaching to the improvement of his new parish-
ioner in piety.
Farmer White soon found out that a dairy
could not well be carried on without a mistress,
and began to think seriously of marrying; he
prayed to God to direct him in so important a
business. He knew that a tawdry, vain, dressy
girl was not likely to make good cheese and
butter, and that a worldly ungodly woman would
make a sad wife and mistress of a family. He
soon heard of a young woman of excellent
character, who had been bred up by the vicar's
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
227
:
lady, and still lived in the family as upper maid., continued the doctor, 'you have every reasonable
She was prudent, sober, industrious and reli- ground to hope for happiness; but as this world
gious. Her neat, modest, and plain appearance is a soil in which troubles and misfortunes will
at church (for she was seldom seen any where spring up; troubles from which you cannot save
else out of her master's family) was an example one another; misfortunes which no human pru-
to all persons in her station, and never failed to dence can avoid then remember, 'tis the best
recommend her to strangers, even before they wisdom to go to that friend who is always near,
had an opportunity of knowing the goodness of always willing, and always able to help you;
her character. It was her character, however, and that friend is God.'
which recommended her to farmer White. He
knew that favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain,
but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be
praised-ay, and not only praised, but chosen
too, says farmer White, as he took down his hat
from the nail on which it hung, in order to go
and wait on Dr. Shepherd, to break his mind
and ask his consent; for he thought it would
be a very unhandsome return for all the favours
he was receiving from his minister, to decoy
away his faithful servant from her place with-
out his consent.
This worthy gentleman, though sorry to lose
so valuable a member of his little family, did not
scruple a noment about parting with her, when
he found it would be so greatly to her advantage.
Tom was agreeably surprised to hear she had
saved fifty pounds by her frugality. The doc-
tor married them himself, farmer Hodges being
present.
'Sir,' said farmer White, 'I humbly thank
you for all your kind instructions, of which I
shall now stand more in need than ever, as 1
shall have more duties to fulfil. I hope the re-
membrance of my past offences will keep mo
humble, and the sense of my remaining sin will
keep ine watchful. I set out in the world, sir,
with what is called a good-natural disposition,
but I soon found to my cost, that without God's
grace that will carry a man but a little way.
A good temper is a good thing, but nothing but
the fear of God can enable one to bear up
against temptation, evil company, and evil pas-
sions. The misfortune of breaking my leg, as
I then thought it, has proved the greatest bless-
ing of my life.
ing of my life. It showed me my own weak-
ness, the value of the Bible, and the goodness
of God. How many of my brother drivers have
I seen, since that time, cut off in the prime of
life by drinking, or sudden accident, while I
In the afternoon of the wedding day, Dr. have not only been spared, but blessed and
Shepherd condescended to call on farmer and prospered. O sir it would be the joy of my
Mrs. White, to give a few words of advice on heart, if some of my old comrades, good-na-
the new duties they had entered into; a com- tured, civil fellows (whom I can't help loving)
mon custom with him on these occasions. He could see, as I have done, the danger of evil
often took an opportunity to drop, in the most courses before it is too late. Though they may
kind and tender way, a hint upon the great in- not hearken to you, sir, or any other minister
decency of making marriages, christenings, and they may believe me because I have been one
above all, funerals, days of riot and excess, as is of them: and I can speak from experience, of
too often the case in country villages. The ex- the great difference there is, even as to worldly
pectation that the vicar might possibly drop in, comfort, between a life of sobriety and a life of
in his walks, on these festivals, often restrained sin. I could tell them, sir, not as a thing I
excessive drinking, and improper conversation, have read in a book, but as a truth I feel in my
even among those who were not restrained by own heart, that to fear God and keep his com
higher motives, as farmer and Mrs. White were. mandments, will not only bring a man peace at
What the doctor said was always in such a last, but will make him happy now. And I will
cheerful, good-humoured way, that it was sure
that it was sure venture to say, sir, that all the stocks, pillories,
to increase the pleasure of the day, instead of prisons, and gibbets in the land, though so very
damping it. Well, farmer,' said he,' and you, needful to keep bad men in order, yet will never
my faithful Sarah, any other friend might re-restrain a good man from committing evil half
commend peace and agreement to you on your
marriage; but I, on the contrary, recommend
cares and strifes.'* The company stared-but
Sarah, who knew that her old master was a
facetious gentleman, and always had some mean-
ing behind, looked serious. Cares and strife,
sir, said the farmer, 'what do you mean?'-' I
mean,' said he, for the first, that your cares
shall be who shall please God most, and your
strifes, who shall serve him best, and do your
duty most faithfully. Thus, all your cares and
strifes being employed to the highest purposes,
all petty cares and worldly strifes shall be at an
end.'
Always remember, that you have, both of
you, a better friend than each other.' The com-
pany stared again, and thought no woman could
have so good a friend as her husband. 'As you
nave chosen each other from the best motives,'
* See Dodd's Sayings
so much as that single text, How shall I do this
great wickedness and sin against God?" Dr.
Shepherd condescended to approve of what the
farmer had said, kindly shook him by the hand,
and took leave.
PART II.
The Way to Plenty, or the second part of Tom
White. Written in 1795, the year of scarcity.
TOM WHITE, as we have shown in the first
part of this history, from an idle post boy was
become a respectable farmer. God had blessed
his industry, and he had prospered in the world.
He was sober and temperate, and, as was the
natural consequence, he was active and healthy.
He was industrious and frugal, and he became
prosperous in his circumstances. This is in the
228
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
|
The Roof-Raising."
ordinary course of Providence. But it is not a wrong, he was always sure that Providence was
certain and necessary rule. God maketh his in the right.
God maketh his in the right. And he used to say, that a man
sun to shine on the just and on the unjust. A with ever so small an income, if he had but fru-
man who uses every honest means of thrift and gality and temperance, and would cut off all vain
industry, will, in most cases, find success attend desires, and cast his care upon God, was richer
his labours. But still, the race is not always than a lord who was tormented by vanity and
to the swift nor the battle to the strong. God is covetousness. When he saw others in the wrong,
sometimes pleased, for wise ends, to disappoint he did not, however, abuse them for it, but took
care to avoid the same fault. He had sense and
all the worldly hopes of the most upright man.
His corn may be smitten by a blight; his spirit enough to break through many old, but
barns may be consumed by fire; his cattle very bad customs of his neighbours. If a thing
may be carried off by distemper. And to these, is wrong in itself (said he one day to farmer
and other misfortunes, the good man is as liable Hodges) a whole parish doing it can't make it
as the spendthrift or the knave. Success is the right. And as to its being an old custom, why,
common reward of industry, but if it were its if it be a good one, I like it the better for being
constant reward, the industrious would be old, because it has had the stamp of ages, and
tempted to look no further than the present the sanction of experience on its worth. But if
state. They would lose one strong ground of it be old as well as bad, that is another reason
their faith. It would set aside the scripture for my trying to put an end to it, that we may
scheme. This world would then be looked on not mislead our children as our fathers have
misled us.
as a state of reward, instead of trial, and we
should forget to look to a day of final retribution.
Farmer White never took it into his head,
that, because he paid his debts, worked early
and late, and ate the bread of carefulness, he
was therofore to come into no misfortune like
other folk, but was to be free from the common
trials and troubles of life. He knew that pros-
perity was far from being a sure mark of God's
favour, and had read in good books, and espe-
cially in the Bible, of the great poverty and af-
flictions of the best of men. Though he was no
great scholar, he had sense enough to observe,
that a time of public prosperity was not always
a time of public virtue; and he thought that
what was true of a whole nation might be true
of one man. So the more he prospered the more
he prayed that prosperity might not corrupt his
heart. And when he saw lately signs of public
distress coming on, he was not half so much
he was not half so much
frightened as some others were, because he
thought it might do us good in the long run;
and he was in hope that a little poverty might
bring on a little penitence. The great grace he
laboured after was that of a cheerful submission.
He used to say, that if the Lord's prayer had
only contained those four little words, Thy will
be done, it would be worth more than the biggest
book in the world without them.
Dr. Shepherd, the worthy vicar (with whom
the farmer's wife had formerly lived as house-
keeper) was very fond of taking a walk with
him about his grounds, and he used to say that
he learnt as much from the farmer as the farmer
did from him. If the doctor happened to observe,
I am afraid these long rains will spoil this fine
piece of oats, the farmer would answer, but then,
sir, think how good it is for the grass. If the
doctor feared the wheat would be but indifferent,
the farmer was sure the rye would turn out well.
When grass failed, he did not doubt but turnips
would be plenty. Even for floods and inunda-
tions he would find out some way to justify Pro-
vidence. 'Tis better, said he, to have our lands
a little overflowed, than that the springs should
be dried up, and our cattle faint for lack of wa-
ter. When the drought came, he thanked God
that the season would be healthy; and the high
winds, which frightened others, he said, served
to clear the air. Whoever, or whatever was
|
Some years after he was settled, he built a
large new barn. All the workmen were looking
forward to the usual holiday of roof-raising. On
this occasion it was a custom to give a dinner
to the workmen, with so much liquor after it,
that they got so drunk that they not only lost
the remaining half day's work, but they were
not always able to work the following day.
Mrs. White provided a plentiful dinner for
roof-raising, and gave each man his mug of beer.
After a hearty meal they began to grow clamor-
ous for more drink. The farmer said, ' My lads,
I don't grudge you a few gallons of ale merely
for the sake of saving my liquor, though that is
some consideration, especially in these dear
times; but I never will, knowingly, help any
man to make a beast of himself. I am resolved
to break through a bad custom. You are now
well refreshed. If you will go cheerfully to
your work, you will have half a day's pay to
take on Saturday night more than you would
have if this afternoon were wasted in drunken-
ness. For this your families will be the better;
whereas, were I to give you more liquor, when
you have already had enough, I should help to
rob them of their bread. But I wish to show
you, that I have your good at heart full as much
as my profit. If you will now go to work, I
will give you all another mug at night when you
leave off. Thus your time will be saved, your
families helped, and my ale will not go to make
reasonable creatures worse than brute beasts.'
Here he stopped. You are in right on't,
'you are a
master,' said Tom the thatcher;
hearty man, farmer,' said John Plane, the car-
penter 'Come along, boys,' said Tim Brick
the mason: so they all went merrily to work,
fortified with a good dinner. There was only
one drunken surly fellow that refused; this was
Dick Guzzle, the smith.-Dick never works
above two or three days in the week, and spends
the others at the Red Lion. He swore, that if
the farmer did not give him as much liquor as
he liked at roof-raising, he would not strike ano-
ther stroke, but would leave the job unfinished,
and he might get hands where he could. Far
mer White took him at his word, and paid hin
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
229
off directly: glad enough to get rid of such a
sot, whom he had only employed from pity to a
large and almost starving family. When the
men came for their mug in the evening, the
farmer brought out the remains of the cold gam-
mon; they made a hearty supper, and thanked
him for having broken through a foolish custom,
which was afterwards much left off in that pa-
rish, though Dick would not come into it, and
lost most of his work in consequence.
Farmer White's labourers were often com-
plaining, that things were so dear that they
could not buy a bit of meat. He knew it was
partly true, but not entirely; for it was before
these very hard times that their complaints be-
gan. One morning he stept out to see how an
outhouse which he was thatching went on. He
was surprised to find the work at a stand. He
walked over to the thatcher's house. Tom,'
said he, I desire that piece of work may be
finished directly. If a shower comes my grain |
will be spoiled.' 'Indeed, master, I shan't work
to-day, nor to-morrow neither,' said Tom.-
'You forget that 'tis Easter Monday, and to-
morrow is Easter Tuesday. And so on Wed-
nesday I shall thatch away, master.-But it is
hard if a poor man, who works all the seasons
round, may not enjoy these few holydays, which
come but once a year.'
•
for them.' 'Ay, but I have got no beer, master;
the times are so hard that a poor man can't af
ford to brew a drop of drink now as we used to
| do.'
Times are bad, and malt is very dear, Tom,
and yet both don't prevent you from spending
seven shillings in keeping holy day. Now send
for a quart of ale as it is to be a feast: and you
will even then be four shillings richer than if
you had gone to the public house. I would have
you put by these four shillings, till you can add
a couple to them; with this I would get a bushel
of malt, and my wife should brew it, and you
may take a pint of your own beer at home of a
night, which will do you more good than a gal-
lon at the Red Lion.' 'I have a great mind to
take your advice, master, but I shall be made
such fun of at the Lion! they will so laugh at
me if I don't go!' 'Let those laugh that win,
Tom.' 'But master, I have got a friend to meet
me there.' 'Then ask your friend to come and
eat a bit of your cold mutton at night, and here
is sixpence for another pot, if you will promise
Thank
to brew a small cask of your own.'
you, master, and so I will; and I won't go to
the Lion. Come boy, bring the helm, and fetch
the ladder.' And so Tom was upon the roof in
a twinkling. The barn was thatched, the mut-
ton bought, the beer brewed, the friend invited,
and the holyday enjoyed.
The Sheep Shearing
'Tom,' said the farmer, when these days
were first put into our prayer-book, the good
men who ordained them to be kept, little thought
that the time would come when holyday should Dr. Shepherd happened to say to farmer
mean drunken-day, and that the seasons which | White one day, that there was nothing that he
they meant to distinguish by superior piety, | disliked more than the manner in which sheep-
should be converted into seasons of more than shearing and harvest-home were kept by some
ordinary excess. How much dost think now I in his parish. What,' said the good doctor,
shall pay thee for this piece of thatch? Why, 'just when we are blest with a prosperous ga-
you know, master, you have let it to me by the thering in of these natural riches of our land,
great. I think between this and to-morrow the fleece of our flocks; when our barns are
night, as the weather is so fine, I could clear crowned with plenty, and we have, through the
about four shillings, after I have paid my boy; Divine blessing on our honest labour, reaped the
but thatching does not come often, and other fruits of the earth in due season; is that very
work is not so profitable.' Very well, Tom; time to be set apart for ribaldry, and riot, and
and how much now do you think you may spend drunkenness? Do we thank God for his mer-
in these two holy days? Why, master, if the cies, by making ourselves unworthy and unfit
ale is pleasant, and the company merry, I do to enjoy them? When he crowns the year with
not expect to get off for less than three shillings.' his goodness, shall we affront him by our im-
Tom, can you do pounds, shillings, and pence?' piety? It is more than a common insult to his
'I can make a little score, master, behind the providence; it is a worse than brutal return to
kitchen door, with a bit of chalk, which is as Him who openeth his hand and filleth all things
much as I want.' 'Well, Tom, add the four living with plenteousness.'
shillings you would have earned to the three
you intend to spend, what does that make?'
'Let me see! three and four make seven. Seven
shillings, master.' Tom, you often tell me the
times are so bad that you can never buy a bit
of meat. Now here is the cost of two joints at
once to say nothing of the sin of wasting time
and getting drunk.' 'I never once thought of
that,' said Tom. 'Now Tom,' said the farmer,
if I were you, I would step over to butcher
Jobbins's, buy a shoulder of mutton, which being
left from Saturday's market you will get a little
cheaper. This I would make my wife bake in
a deep dish full of potatoes. I would then go to
work, and when the dinner was ready I would
go and enjoy it with my wife and children; you
need not give the mutton to the brats, the pota-
toes will have all the gravy, and be very savoury
'I thank you for the hint, sir,' said the farmer.
'I am resolved to rejoice though, and others
shall rejoice with me: and we will have a merry
night on't.'
So Mrs. White dressed a very plentiful supper
of meat and pudding; and spread out two tables.
The farmer sat at the head of one, consisting
of some of his neighbours, and all his work-
people. At the other sat his wife, with two long
benches on each side of her. On these benches
sat all the old and infirm poor, especially those
who lived in the work-house, and had no day
of festivity to look forward to in the whole year
but this. On the grass, in the little court, sat
the children of his labourers, and of the other
poor, whose employment it had been to gather
flowers, and dress and adorn the horns of the
ram; for the farmer did not wish to put an end
230
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
to an old custom, if it was innocent.-His own
children stood by the table, and he gave them
plenty of pudding, which they carried to the
children of the poor, with a little draught of ci-
der to every one. The farmer who never sat
down without begging a blessing on his meal,
did it with suitable solemnity on the present joy-
ful occasion.
Dr. Shepherd practised one very useful me-
thod, which I dare say was not peculiar to him-
self; a method of which I doubt not other country
clergymen have found the advantage. He was
often on the watch to observe those seasons when
a number of his parishioners were assembled
together, not only at any season of festivity, but
at their work. He has been known to turn a
walk through a hay-field to good account; and
has been found to do as much good by a few
minutes discourse with a little knot of reapers,
as by a Sunday's sermon. He commonly in-
troduced his religious observations by some
questions relating to their employment; he first
gained their affections by his kindness, and then
converted his influence over them to their soul's
good. The interest he took in their worldly
affairs opened their hearts to the reception of
those divine truths which he was always carnest
to impress upon them. By these methods too
he got acquainted with their several characters,
their spiritual wants, their individual sins,
dangers, and temptations, which enabled him to
preach with more knowledge and successful ap-
plication, than those ministers can do who are
unacquainted with the state of their congrega-
tions. It was a remark of Dr. Shepherd, that a
thorough acquaintance with human nature was
one of the most important species of knowledge
a clergyman could possess.
|
The Hard Winter.
In the famous cold winter of the year 1795, it
was edifying to see how patiently farmer White
bore that long and severe frost. Many of his
sheep were frozen to death, but he thanked God
that he had still many left. He continued to
find in-door work that his men might not be out
of employ. The season being so bad, which
some others pleaded as an excuse for turning
off their workmen, he thought a fresh reason for
keeping them. Mrs. White was so considerate,
that just at that time she lessened the number
of her hogs, that she might have more whey and
skim-milk to assist poor families. Nay, I have
known her to live on boiled meat for a long
while together, in a sickly season, because the
pot liquor made such a supply of broth for the
sick poor. As the spring came on, and things
grew worse, she never had a cake, a pie, or a pud-
ding in her house; notwithstanding she used to
have plenty of these good things, and will again
I hope, when the present scarcity is over;
though she says she will never use such white
flour again, even if it should come down to five
shillings a bushel.
All the parish now began to murmur. Far-
mer Jones was sure the frost had killed the
wheat. Farmer Wilson said the rye would
never come up. Brown, the maltster, insisted
the barley was dead at the root. Butcher Job-
bins said beef would be a shilling a pound. All
declared there would not be a hop to brew with.
The orchards were all blighted; there would
not be apples enough to make a pie; and as to
hay there would be none to be had for love nor
money. 'I'll tell you what,' said farmer White,
'the season is dreadful; the crops unpromising
The sheep-shearing feast, though orderly and just now; but 'tis too early to judge. Don't let
decent, was yet hearty and cheerful. Dr. Shep- us make things worse than they are.
herd dropped in with a good deal of company ought to comfort the poor, and you are driving
he had at his house, and they were much pleased. them to despair. Don't you know how much
When the doctor saw how the aged and infirm God was displeased with the murmurs of his
poor were enjoying themselves, he was much | chosen people? And yet, when they were tired
moved; he shook the farmer by the hand and of manna he sent them quails; but all did not
said, ' But thou, when thou makest a feast, call do. Nothing satisfies grumblers.
|
We have a
the blind, and the lame, and the halt, they can- promise on our side, that there shall be seed-time
not recompense thee, but thou shalt be recomand harvest time to the end. Let us then hope
pensed at the resurrection of the just.'
Sir,' said the farmer, 'tis no great matter
of expense; I kill a sheep of my own; potatoes
are as plenty as blackberries, with people who
have a little forethought. I save much more
cider in the course of a year by never allowing
any carousing in my kitchen, or drunkenness
in my fields, than would supply many such
feasts as these, so that I shall be never the poorer
at Christmas. It is cheaper to make people
happy, sir, than to make them drunk. The
doctor and the ladies condescended to walk from
one table to the other, and heard many merry
stories, but not one profane word, or one inde-
cent song so that he was not forced to the pain-
ful necessity either of reproving them, or leaving
them in anger. When all was over, they sung
the sixty-fifth Psalm, and the ladies all joined in
it; and when they got home to the vicarage to
tea, they declared they liked it better than any
concert.
We
for a good day, but provide against an evil one.
Let us rather prevent the evil before it is come
upon us, than sink under it when it comes.
Grumbling cannot help us; activity can. Let
us set about planting potatoes in every nook and
corner, in case the corn should fail, which, how-
ever, I don't believe will be the case.
Let us
mend our management before we are driven to
it by actual want. And if we allow our honest
labourers to plant a few potatoes for their fa-
milies in the headlands of our ploughed fields,
or other waste bits of ground, it will do us
no harm, and be a great help to them. The
way to lighten the load of any public calamity
is not to murmur at it but put a hand to lessen it.
The farmer had many temptations to send his
corn at an extravagant price to a certain seaport
town, but as he knew that it was intended to
export it against law, he would not be tempted
to encourage unlawful gain; so he thrashed out
a small mow at a time, and sold it to the neigh-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
231
bouring poor far below the market-price. He
served his own workmen first. This was the
same to them as if he had raised their wages,
and even better, as it was a benefit of which
their families were sure to partake. If the poor
in the next parish were more distressed than
his own, he sold them at the same rate. For,
said he, there is no distinction of parishes in
heaven; and though charity begins at home,
yet it ought not to end there.
He had been used in good times now and
then to catch a hare or a partridge, as he was
qualified; but he now resolved to give up that
pleasure. So he parted from a couple of
spaniels he had: for he said he could not bear
that his dogs should be eating the meat, or the
milk, which so many men, women, and chil-
dren wanted.
The White Loaf.
One day, it was about the middle of last July,
when things seemed to be at the dearest, and
the rulers of the land had agreed to set the ex-
ample of eating nothing but coarse bread, Dr.
Shepherd read, before sermon in the church,
their public declaration, which the magistrates
of the county sent him, and which they had
also signed themselves. Mrs. White, of course,
was at church, and commended it mightily.
Next morning the doctor took a walk over to
the farmer's, in order to settle further plans for
the relief of the parish. He was much sur-
prised to meet Mrs. White's little maid Sally
with a very small white loaf, which she had been
buying at a shop. He said nothing to the girl,
as he never thought it right to expose the faults
of a mistress to her servants; but walked on,
resolving to give Mrs. White a severe lecture
for the first time in his life. He soon changed
his mind, for on going into the kitchen, the
first person he saw was Tom the thatcher, who
had had a sad fall from a ladder; his arm, which
was slipped out of his sleeve, was swelled in a
frightful manner. Mrs. White was standing
at the dresser making the little white loaf into
a poultice, which she laid upon the swelling in
a large clean old linen cloth.
'I ask your pardon, my good Sarah,' said the
doctor; I ought not, however appearances
were against you, to have suspected that so
humble and prudent a woman as you are, would
be led either to indulge any daintines of your
own, or to fly in the face of your betters, by
eating white bread while they are eating brown.
Whenever I come here, I see it is not needful
to be rich in order to be charitable. A bounti-
ful rich man would have sent Tom to a surgeon,
who would have done no more for him than you
have done; for in those inflammations the most
skilful surgeon could only apply a poultice.
Your kindness in dressing the wouud yourself,
will, I doubt not, perform the cure at the ex-
pense of that threepenny loaf and a little hog's
lard. And I will take care that Tom shall have
a good supply of rice from the subscription.'
'And he shan't want for skim-milk,' said Mrs.
White; ' and was he the best lord in the land
in the state he is in, a dish of good rice milk
would be better for him than the richest meat.'
The Parish Meeting.
On the tenth of August, the vestry held an-
other meeting, to consult on the best method of
further assisting the poor. The prospect of
abundant crops now cheered every heart. Far-
mer White, who had a mind to be a little jocular
with his desponding neighbours, said, 'Well,
neighbour Jones, all the wheat was killed, I sup-
pose! the barley is all dead at the root" Far-
mer Jones looked sheepish, and said, 'To be
sure the crops had turned out better than he
thought.' Then,' said Dr. Shepherd, 'let us
learn to trust Providence another time; let our
experience of his past goodness strengthen our
faith.'
Among other things, they agreed to subscribe
for a large quantity of rice, which was to be sold
out to the poor at a very low price, and Mrs.
White was so kind as to undertake the trouble
of selling it. After their day's work was over,
all who wished to buy at these reduced rates,
were ordered to come to the farm on the Tues-
day evening. Dr. Shepherd dropped in at the
same time, and when Mrs. White had done
weighing her rice, the doctor spoke as follows:
'My honest friend, it has pleased God, for
some wise end, to visit this land with a scarcity,
to which we have been but little accustomed.
There are some idle, evil-minded people, who
are on the watch for the public distresses; not
that they may humble themselves under the
mighty hand of God (which is the true use to
be made of all troubles) but that they may bene-
fit themselves by disturbing the public peace.
These people, by riot and drunkenness, double
Riot will
the evil which they pretend to cure.
complete our misfortunes; while peace, indus-
try, and good management, will go near to cure
them. Bread, to be sure, is uncommonly dear.
Among the various ways of making it cheaper,
one is to reduce the quality of it, another to les-
If we cannot
sen the quantity we consume.
get enough of coarse wheaten bread, let us make
it of other grain. Or let us mix one half of
potatoes, and one half of wheat. This last is
what I eat in my own family; it is pleasant and
wholesome. Our blessed Saviour ate barley
bread, you know, as we are told in the last
month's Sunday reading of the Cheap Reposi-
tory, which I hope you have all heard; as I
desired the master of the Sunday-school to read
it just after evening service, when I know many
of the parents are apt to call in at the school.
This is a good custom, and one of those little
books shall be often read at that time.
C
My good women, I truly feel for you at this
time of scarcity; and I am going to show my
good will, as much by my advice as my sub-
scription. It is my duty, as your friend and
minister, to tell you, that one half of your present
hardships is owing to bad management. I often
meet your children without shoes and stock-
ings, with great luncheons of the very whitest
bread, and that three times a day. Half that
quantity, and still less if it were coarse, put into
a dish of good onion or leek porridge, would
*See Cheap Repository, Tract on the Scarcity, print-
ed for T. Evans, Long-lane, West Smithfield, London.
232
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
make them an excellent breakfast. Many too, of,
the very poorest of you, eat your bread hot from
the oven; this makes the difference of one loaf in
five; I assure you 'tis what I cannot afford to
do. Come, Mrs. White, you must assist me a
little. I am not very knowing in these matters
myself; but I know that the rich would be twice
as charitable as they are, if the poor made a
better use of their bounty. Mrs. White, do give
these poor women a little advice how to make
their pittance go further than it now does. When
you lived with me you were famous for making
us nice cheap dishes, and I dare say you are not
less notable, now you manage for yourself."
'Indeed, neighbours,' said Mrs. White,' what
the good doctor says is very true. A halfpenny
worth of oatmeal, or groats, with a leek or onion,
out of your own garden, which costs nothing, a
bit of salt, and a little coarse bread, will break-
fast your whole family. It is a great mistake
at any time to think a bit of meat is so ruinous,
and a great load of bread so cheap. A poor man
gets seven or eight shillings a week; if he is
careful he brings it home. I dare not say how
much of this goes for tea in the afternoon, now
sugar and butter are so dear, because I should
have you all upon me; but I will say, that too
much of this little goes even for bread, from a
mistaken notion that it is the hardest fare.
This, at all times, but particularly just now, is
bad management. Dry peas, to be sure, have
been very dear lately; but now they are plenty
enough. I am certain then, that if a shilling or
two of the seven or eight was laid out for a bit
of coarse beef, a sheep's head, or any such thing,
it would be well bestowed. I would throw a
couple of pounds of this into the pot, with two
or three handsful of gray peas, an onion, and a
little pepper. Then I would throw in cabbage
or turnip, and carrot; or any garden stuff that
was most plenty; let it stew two or three hours,
and it will make a dish fit for his majesty. The
working men should have the meat; the chil-
dren don't want it; the soup will be thick and
substantial, and requires no bread.'
Rice Milk.
'You who can get skim-milk, as all our work-
men can, have a great advantage. A quart of
this, and a quarter of a pound of the rice you
have just bought, a little bit of alspice, and
brown sugar, will make a dainty and cheap
dish.'
'Bless your heart!' muttered Amy Grumble,
who looked as dirty as a cinder-wench, with her
face and fingers all daubed with snuff: 'rice
milk, indeed! it is very nice to be sure for those
who can dress it, but we have not a bit of coal;
rice is no use to us without firing;' and yet,'
said the doctor, 'I see your tea-kettle boiling
twice every day, as I pass by the poor-house,
and fresh butter at thirteen-pence a pound on
your shelf.' 'O dear sir,' cried Amy, a few
sticks serve to boil the tea-kettle.'-' And a few
more,' said the doctor, will boil the rice milk,
and give twice the nourishment at a quarter of
the expense.'
use to make that pudding my children were so
fond of? And I remember, when it was cold,
we used to have it in the parlour for supper.'
Nothing more easy,' said Mrs. White: 'I put
half a pound of rice, two quarts of skim-milk,
and two ounces of brown sugar. Well,' said
the doctor, and how many will this dine?"
'Seven or eight, sir.' 'Very well, and what
will it cost? Why, sir, it did not cost you so
much, because we baked it at home, and I used
our own milk; but it will not cost above seven
pence to those who pay for both. Here, too,
bread is saved.'
Pray, Sarah, let me put in a word,' said far-
mer White: I advise my men to raise each a
large bed of parsnips. They are very nourish-
ing, and very profitable. Sixpenny worth of
seed, well sowed and trod in, will produce more
meals than four sacks of potatoes; and what is
material to you who have so little ground, it will
not require more than an eighth part of the
ground which the four sacks will take. Provi-
dence having contrived by the very formation of
this root_that it shall occupy but a very small
space. Parsnips are very good the second day
warmed in the frying pan, and a little rasher of
pork, or bacon, will give them a nice flavour.'
Dr. Shepherd now said, 'as a proof of the
nourishing quality of parsnips, I was reading in
a history book this very day, that the American
Indians make a great part of their bread of pars-
nips, though Indian corn is so famous; it will
make a little variety too.'
A Cheap Stew.
'I remember,' said Mrs. White,' a cheap dish,
so nice that it makes my mouth water. I peel
some raw potatoes, slice them thin, put the slices
into a deep frying-pan, or pot with a little water,
an onion, and a bit of pepper. Then I got a
bone or two of a breast of mutton, or a little strip
of salt pork and put into it. Cover it down
close, keep in the steam, and let it stew for an
hour.'
་
'You really give me an appetite, Mrs. White,
I am
by your dainty receipts,' said the doctor.
resolved to have this dish at my own table.' 'I
could tell you another very good dish, and still
cheaper,' answered she. Come, let us have it,'
cried the doctor. 'I shall write all down as
soon as I get home, and I will favour any body
with a copy of these receipts who will call at
my house.'' And I will do more, sir,' said Mrs.
White, for I will put any of these women in
the way how to dress it the first time, if they
are at a loss. But this is my dish:
C
'Take two or three pickled herrings, put them
into a stone jar, fill it up with potatoes, and a
little water, and let it bake in the oven till it is
done. I would give one hint more,' added she;
I have taken to use nothing but potatoe starch;
and though I say it, that should not say it, no-
body's linen in a common way looks better than
ours.
The doctor now said, 'I am sorry for one
hardship which many poor people labour under
I mean the difficulty of getting a little milk. I
wish all farmer's wives were as considerate as
you are, Mrs. White. A little milk is a great
'Pray, Sarah,' said the doctor, how did you comfort to the poor, especially when their chil-
Rice Pudding.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
233
dren are sick; and I have known it answer to
the seller as well as to the buyer, to keep a cow
or two on purpose to sell it by the quart, instead
of making butter and cheese.
'Sir, said farmer White, I beg leave to say
a word to the men, if you please, for all your
advice goes to the women. If you will drink
less gin, you may get more meat. If you ab-
stain from the ale-house, you may, many of you,
get a little one-way beer at home.'-Ay, that
we can farmer,' said poor Tom, the thatcher,
who was now got well. Easter Monday for
that I say no more. A word to the wise.'
The farmer smiled and went on: The number
of public houses in many a parish, brings on
more hunger and rags, than all the taxes in it,
heavy as they are. All the other evils put to-
gether hardly make up the sum of that one.
We are now raising a fresh subscription for you.
This will be our rule of giving. We will not
give to sots, gamblers, and Sabbath-breakers.
Those who do not set their young children to
work on week-days, and send them to school and
church on Sundays, deserve little favour. No
man should keep a dog till he has more food
than his family wants. If he feeds them at
home, they rob his children; if he starves them,
they rob his neighbours. We have heard in a
neighbouring city, that some people carried
back the subscription loaves, because they were
too coarse; but we hope better things of you.'
Here Betty Plane begged, with all humility, to
put in a word. Certainly,' said the doctor, 'we
will listen to all modest complaints, and try to
redress them.' 'You are pleased to say, sir,'
said she, 'that we might find much comfort
from buying coarse bits of beef. And so we
might, but you do not know, sir, that we could
seldom get them, even when we had the money,
and times were so bad.' 'How so, Betty?' Sir,
when we go to butcher Jobbins, for a bit of shin,
or any other lean piece, his answer is, You
can't have it to-day. The cook at the great
house has bespoke it for gravy, or the doctor's
C
maid (begging your pardon, sir,) has just or-
dered it for soup.'-Now, if such kind gentlefolk
were aware that this gravy and soup not only
consume a great deal of meat, which, to be sure,
those have a right to do who can pay for it; but
that it takes away those coarse pieces which the
poor would buy, if they bought at all. For, in-
deed, the rich have been very kind, and I don't
know what we should have done without them.'
'I thank you for the hint, Betty,' said the
doctor, and I assure you I will have no more
gravy soup. My garden will supply me with
soups that are both wholesomer and better; and
I will answer for my lady at the great house,
that she will do the same. I hope this will be-
come a general rule, and then we shall expect
that butchers will favour you in the prices of
the coarse pieces, if we who are rich, buy no-
thing but the prime. In our gifts we shall pre-
fer, as the farmer has told you, those who keep
steadily to their work. Such as come to the
vestry for a loaf, and do not come to church for
the sermon, we shall mark; and prefer those
who come constantly, whether there are any
gifts or not. But there is one rule from which
we never will depart. Those who have been
seen aiding, or abetting any riot, any attack on
butchers, bakers, wheat-mows, mills, or millers,
we will not relieve; but with the quiet, con-
tented, hard-working man, I will share my last
morsel of bread. I shall only add, though it has
pleased God to send us this visitation as a pun-
ishment, yet we may convert this short trial into
a lasting blessing, if we all turn over a new leaf.
Prosperity had made most of us careless. The
thoughtless profusion of some of the rich could
only be exceeded by the idleness and bad manage-
ment of some of the poor. Let us now at last
adopt that good old maxim, every one mend one.
And may God add his blessing.'
The people now cheerfully departed with their
rice, resolving as many of them as could get
milk, to put one of Mrs. White's receipts in
practice, and an excellent supper they had.
THE HISTORY OF HESTER WILMOT.
BEING THE SECOND PART OF THE SUNDAY SCHOOL.
HESTER WILMOT was born in the parish of [oftener. They direct their ploughing and sow-
Weston, of parents who maintained themselves ing by the information of the Almanac, why
by their labour; they were both of them ungod- will they not consult the Bible for the direction
ly, it is no wonder therefore they were unhappy. of their hearts and lives? Rebecca was of a
They lived badly together, and how could they violent, ungovernable temper; and that very
do otherwise? for their tempers were very differ- neatness which is in itself so pleasing, in her
ent, and they had no religion to smooth down became a sin, for her affection to her husband
this difference, or to teach them that they ought and children was quite lost in an over-anxious
to bear with each other's faults. Rebecca Wil- desire to have her house reckoned the nicest in
mot was a proof that people may have some the parish. Rebecca was also a proof that a
right qualities, and yet be but bad characters, poor woman may be as vain as a rich one, for it
and utterly destitute of religion. She was clean, was not so much the comfort of neatness, as the
notable and industrious. Now I know some praise of neatness, which she coveted.
A spot
folks fancy that the poor who have these quali- on her hearth, or a bit of rust on a brass can.
ties need have no other, but this is a sad mistake,dlestick, would throw her into a violent passion.
as I am sure every page in the Bible would Now it is very right to keep the hearth clean
show; and it is a pity people do not consult it and the candlestick bright, but it is very wrong
VOL. I.
|
234
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
so to set one's affections on a hearth or a candle. I not to come home at all. He who has once
stick, as to make one's self unhappy if any tri-
fling accident happens to them; and if Rebecca
had been as careful to keep her heart without
spot, or her life without blemish, as she was to
keep her fire-irons free from either, she would
have been held up in this history, not as a warn-
ing, but as a pattern, and in that case her nicety
would have come in for a part of the praise. It
was no fault in Rebecca, but a merit, that her
oak table was so bright you could almost see to
put your cap on in it; but it was no merit but
a fault, that when John, her husband, laid down
his cup of beer upon it so as to leave a mark,
she would fly out into so terrible a passion that
all the children were forced to run to corners;
now poor
John having no corner to run to, ran
to the ale-house, till that which was at first a
refuge too soon became a pleasure.
Rebecca never wished her children to learn
to read, because she said it would only serve to
make them lazy, and she herself had done very
well without it. She would keep poor Hester
from church to stone the space under the stairs
in fine patterns and flowers. I don't pretend to
say there was any harm in this little decoration,
it looks pretty enough, and it is better to let the
children do that than nothing. But still these
are not things to set one's heart upon; and be-
sides Rebecca only did it as a trap for praise;
for she was sulky and disappointed if any ladies
happened to call in and did not seem delighted
with the flowers which she used to draw with a
burnt stick on the whitewash of the chimney
corners. Besides all this finery was often done
on a Sunday, and there is a great deal of harm
in doing right things at a wrong time, or in
wasting much time on things which are of no
real use, or in doing any thing at all out of va-
nity. Now I beg that no lazy slattern of a wife
will go and take any comfort in her dirt from
what is here said against Rebecca's nicety; for
I believe, that for one who makes her husband
unhappy through neatness, twenty do so by dirt
and laziness. All excuses are wrong, but the
excess of a good quality is not so common as the
excess of a bad one; and not being so obvious,
perhaps, for that very reason requires more ani-
madversion.
John Wilmot was not an ill-natured man, but
he had no fixed principle. Instead of setting
himself to cure his wife's faults by mild reproof
and good example, he was driven by them into
still greater faults himself. It is a common case
with people who have no religion when any cross
accident befals them, instead of trying to make
the best of a bad matter, instead of considering
their trouble as a trial sent from God to purify
them, or instead of considering the faults of
others as a punishment for their own sins, in-
stead of this I say, what do they do, but either
sink down at once into despair, or else run for
comfort into evil courses. Drinking is the com-
mon remedy for sorrow, if that can be called a
remedy, the end of which is to destroy soul and
body. John now began to spend all his leisure
hours at the Bell. He used to be fond of his chil-
dren: but when he could not come home in quiet,
and play with the little ones, while his wife
dressed him a bit of hot supper, he grew in time
|
taken to drink can seldom be said to be guilty
of one sin only; John's heart became hardened.
His affection for his family was lost in self-in-
dulgence. Patience and submission, on the part
of the wife, might have won much upon a man
of John's temper; but instead of trying to re-
claim him, his wife seemed rather to delight in
putting him as much in the wrong as she could,
that she might be justified in her constant abuse
of him. I doubt whether she would have been as
much pleased with his reformation as she was
with always talking of his faults, though I know
it was the opinion of the neighbours, that if she
had taken as much pains to reform her husband
by reforming her own temper, as she did to
abuse him and expose him, her endeavours
might have been blessed with success. Good
Christians, who are trying to subdue their own
faults, can hardly believe that the ungodly have
a sort of savage satisfaction in trying, by indul-
gence of their own evil tempers, to lessen the
happiness of those with whom they have to do.
Need we look any farther for a proof of our own
corrupt nature, when we see mankind delight in
sins which have neither the temptation of profit
or the allurement of pleasure, such as plaguing,
vexing, or abusing each other.
|
Hester was the eldest of their five children
she was a sharp sensible girl, but at fourteen
years old she could not tell a letter, nor had she
ever been taught to how her knee to Him who
made her, for John's or rather Rebecca's house,
had seldom the name of God pronounced in it,
except to be blasphemed.
It was just about this time, if I mistake not,
that Mrs. Jones set up her Sunday-school, of
which Mrs. Betty Crew was appointed mistress,
as has been before related. Mrs. Jones finding
that none of the Wilmots were sent to school,
took a walk to Rebecca's house, and civilly told
her, she called to let her know that a school was
opened, to which she desired her to send her
children on Sunday following, especially her
eldest daughter Hester. Well,' said Rebecca,
' and what will you give her if I do?' 'Give
her replied Mrs. Jones, 'that is rather a rude
question, and asked in a rude manner: how-
ever, as a soft answer turneth away wrath, I
assure you that I will give her the best of learn.
ing; I will teach her to fear God and keep his
commandments.' 'I would rather you would
teach her to fear me, and keep my house clean,'
said this wicked woman.
She shan't come,
however, unless you will pay her for it.' 'Pay
her for it!' said the lady, will it not be reward
enough that she will be taught to read the word
of God without any expense to you? For though
many gifts both of books and clothing will be
given the children, yet you are not to consider
these gifts so much in the light of payment as
an expression of good will in your benefactors.'
'I say,' interrupted Rebecca, 'that Hester shan't
go to school. Religion is of no use that I know
of but to make people hate their own flesh and
blood; and I see no good in learning but to
make folks proud, and lazy, and dirty. I cannot
tell a letter myself, and, though I say it, that
should not say it, there is not a notabler woman
in the parish.' Pray,' said Mrs. Jones mildly
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
235
6
do you think that young people will disobey | yourself with thinking how much worse they
their parents the more for being taught to fear would have been but for you; and what a bur-
God?" I don't think any thing about it,' said den they would become to society if these evil
Rebecca; I shan't let her come, and there's the tempers were to receive no check. The great
long and short of the matter. Hester has other thing which enabled Mrs. Crew to teach well,
fish to fry; but you may have some of these lit- was the deep insight she had got into the corrup-
tle ones if you will:' No,' said Mrs. Jones, tion of human nature. And I doubt if any one can
'I will not; I have not set up a nursery, but a make a thoroughly good teacher of religion and
school. I am not at all this expense to take cry- morals, who wants the master-key to the heart.
ing babes out of the mother's way, but to in- Others indeed may teach knowledge, decency,
struct reasonable beings in the road to eternal and good manners; but those, however valuable,
life; and it ought to be a rule in all schools not are not Christianity. Mrs. Crew, who knew
to take the troublesome young children unless that out of the heart proceed lying, theft, and
the mother will try to spare the elder ones, who all that train of evils which begin to break out
are capable of learning.' 'But,' said Rebecca, even in young children, applied her labours to
'I have a young child which Hester must nurse correct this root of evil. But though a diligent,
while I dress dinner. And she must iron the she was a humble teacher, well knowing that
rags, and scour the irons, and dig the potatoes, unless the grace of God blessed her labours, she
and fetch the water to boil them.' As to nurs- should but labour in vain.
ing the child, that is indeed a necessary duty,
Hestor Wilmot never failed to attend the
and Hester ought to stay at home part of the school, whenever her perverse mother would
day to enable you to go to church; and families give her leave, and her delight in learning was
should relieve each other in this way, but as to so great, that she would work early and late to
all the rest they are no reasons at all, for the gain a little time for her book. As she had a
irons need not be scoured so often, and the rags quick capacity, she learned soon to spell and
should be ironed, and the potatoes dug, and the read, and Mrs. Crew observing her diligence,
water fetched on the Saturday; and I can tell used to lend her a book to carry home, that she
you that neither your minister here, nor your might pick up a little at odd times. It would
Judge hereafter, will accept of any such ex-be well if teachers would make this distinction.
cuses.'
All this while Hester staid behind pale and
trembling, lest her unkind mother should carry
her point. She looked up at Mrs. Jones with so
much love and gratitude, as to win her affection,
and this good lady went on trying to soften this
harsh mother. At last Rebecca condescended
to say, 'Well I don't know but I may let her
come now and then when I can spare her, pro-
vided I find you make it worth her while.' All
this time she had never asked Mrs. Jones to
sit down, nor had once bid her young children
be quiet, though they were crying and squalling
the whole time. Rebecca fancied this rudeness
was the only way she had of showing she thought
herself to be as good as her guest, but Mrs.
Jones never lost her temper. The moment she
went out of the house, Rebecca called out loud
enough for her to hear, and ordered Hester to
get the stone and a bit of sand to scrub out the
prints of that dirty woman's shoes. Hester in
hign spirits cheerfully obeyed, and rubbed out
the stains so neatly, that her mother could not
help lamenting that so handy a girl was going
to be spoiled, by being taught godliness, and
learning any such nonsense.
Mrs. Jones who knew the world, told her
agent Mrs. Crew, that her grand difficulty would
arise not so much from the children as the pa-
rents. These, said she, are apt to fall into that
sad mistake, that because their children are
poor, and have a little of this world's goods, the
mothers must make it up to them in false indul-
gence. The children of the gentry are much
more reproved and corrected for their faults, and
bred up in far stricter discipline. He was a
king who said, Chasten thy son, and let not thy
rod spare for his crying. But do not lose your
patience; the more vicious the children are, you
must remember the more they stand in need of
your instruction. When they are bad, comfort
To give, or lend books to those who take no de-
light in them is an useless expense; while it is
kind and right to assist well-disposed young peo-
Those who
ple with every help of this sort.
love books seldom hurt them, while the slothful
who hate learning, will wear out a book more
in a week, than the diligent will do in a year.
Hester's way was to read over one question in
her catechism, or one verse in her hymn book,
by fire-light before she went to bed; this she
thought over in the night; and when she was
dressing herself in the morning, she was glad
to find she always knew a little more than she
had done the morning before. It is not to be
believed how much those people will be found
to have gained at the end of the year, who are
accustomed to work up all the little odd ends
and remnants of leisure; who value time even
more than money; and who are convinced that
minutes are no more to be wasted than pence.
Nay, he who finds he has wasted a shilling may
by diligence hope to fetch it up again; but no
repentance or industry can ever bring back one
wasted hour. My good young reader, if ever
you are tempted to waste an hour, go and ask a
dying man what he would give for that hour
which you are throwing away, and according as
he answers so do you act.
As her mother hated the sight of a book, Hes-
ter was forced to learn out of sight: it was no
disobedience to do this, as long as she wasted no
part of that time which it was her duty to spend
in useful labour. She would have thought it a
sin to have left her work for her book; but she
did not think it wrong to steal time from her
sleep, and to be learning an hour before the rest
of the family were awake. Hester would not
neglect the washing-tub, or the spinning-wheel,
even to get on with her catechism; but she
thought it fair to think over her questions, while
she was washing and spinning. In a few months
236
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
ture.
|
her she was a sinner, and her catechism said
the same. She was much distressed one day
on thinking over this promise which she had
just made (in answer to the question which fell
to her lot) To renounce the devil and all his
works, the pomps and vanities of this wicked
world, and all the sinful lusts of the flesh. I
say she was distressed on finding that these
were not merely certain words which she was
bound to repeat, but certain conditions which
she was bound to perform. She was sadly puz-
zled to know how this was to be done, till she
met with these words in her Bible: My grace
is sufficient for thee. But still she was at a loss
to know how this grace was to be obtained.
Happily Mr. Simpson preached on the next Sun-
day from this text, Ask and ye shall receive, &c.
In this sermon was explained to her the nature,
the duty, and the efficacy of prayer. After this
she opened her heart to Mrs. Crew, who taught
her the great doctrines of Scripture, in a serious
but plain way. Hester's own heart led her to
assent to that humbling doctrine of the catechism,
that We are by nature born in sin; and truly
glad was she to be relieved by hearing of That
she was able to read fluently in St. John's Gos-
pel, which is the easiest. But Mrs. Crew did
not think it enough that her children could read
a chapter, she would make them understand it
also. It is in a good degree owing to the want
of religious knowledge in teachers, that there is
so little religion in the world. Unless the Bible
is laid open to the understanding, children may
read from Genesis to the Revelation, without
any other improvement than barely learning
how to pronounce the words. Mrs. Crew found
there was but one way to compel their attention;
this was by obliging them to return back again
to her the sense of what she had read to them,
and this they might do in their own words, if
they could not remember the words of Scrip-
Those who had weak capacities would,
to be sure, do this but very imperfectly; but
even the weakest, if they were willing, would
retain something. She so managed that saying
the catechism was not merely an act of the me-
mory, but of the understanding for she had ob-
served formerly that those who had learned the
catechism in the common formal way, when
they were children, had never understood it
when they became men and women, and it re-spiritual grace by which we have a new birth
mained in the memory without having made
any impression on the mind. Thus this fine
summary of the Christian religion is considered
as little more than a form of words, the being
able to repeat which, is a qualification for being
confirmed by the bishop, instead of being con-
sidered as really containing those grounds of
Christian faith and practice, by which they are
to be confirmed Christians.
Mrs. Crew used to say to Mrs. Jones, those
who teach the poor must indeed give line upon
line, precept upon precept, here a little and there
a little, as they can receive it. So that teaching
must be a great grievance to those who do not
really make it a labour of love. I see so much
levity, obstinacy, and ignorance, that it keeps
my own forbearance in continual exercise, inso-
much that I trust I am getting good myself,
while I am doing good to others. No one, ma-
dam, can know till they try, that after they have
asked a poor untaught child the same question
nineteen times, they must not lose their temper,
but go on and ask it the twentieth. Now and
then, when I am tempted to be impatient, I cor-
rect myself by thinking over that active proof
which our blessed Saviour requires of our love
to him when he says, Feed my lambs.
Hester Wilmot had never been bred to
go
to
church, for her father and mother had never
thought of going themselves, unless at a chris-
tening in their own family, or at a funeral of
their neighbours, both of which they considered
merely as opportunities for good eating and
drinking, and not as offices of religion.
As poor Hester had no comfort at home, it
was the less wonder she delighted in her school,
her Bible, and her church; for so great is God's
goodness, that he is pleased to make religion a
peculiar comfort to those who have no other
comfort. The God whose name she had seldom
heard but when it was taken in vain, was now
revealed to her as a God of infinite power, jus-
tice, and holiness. What she read in her Bible,
and what she felt in her own heart, convinced
|
unto righteousness. Thus her mind was no
sooner humbled by one part than it gained com-
fort from another. On the other hand, while
she was rejoicing in a lively hope in God's mer-
cy through Christ, her mistress put her in mind
that that was only the true repentance by which
we forsake sin. Thus the catechism, explained
by a pious teacher, was found to contain all the
articles of the Christian faith.
Mrs. Jones greatly disapproved the practice
of turning away the scholars because they were
grown up. Young people, said she, want to be
warned at sixteen more than they did at six,
and they are commonly turned adrift at the very
age when they want most instruction; when
dangers and temptations most beset them. They
are exposed to more evil by the leisure of a Sun-
day evening than by the business of a whole
week: but then religion must be made pleasant,
and instruction must be carried on in a kind,
and agreeable, and familiar way. If they once
dislike the teacher they will soon get to dislike
what is taught, so that a master or mistress is
in some measure answerable for the future piety
of young persons, inasmuch as that piety de-
pends on their manner of making religion plea-
sant as well as profitable.
To attend Mrs. Jones's evening instructions
was soon thought not a task but a holiday. In
a few months it was reckoned a disadvantage
to the character of any young person in the pa-
rish to know that they did not attend the even-
ing school. At first, indeed, many of them came
only with a view to learn amusement; but, by
the blessing of God, they grew fond of instruc
tion, and some of them became truly pious.
Mrs. Jones spoke to them on Sunday evening
as follows: My dear young women, I rejoice
at your improvement; but I rejoice with trem-
bling. I have known young people set out well,
who afterwards fell off. The heart is deceitful.
Many like religious knowledge, who do not like
the strictness of a religious life. I must there-
fore watch whether those who are diligent at
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
237
church and school, are diligent in their daily | Hester, who would not follow her to a scene of
walk. Whether those who say they believe in dissolute mirth, attended her night and day, and
God, really obey him. Whether they who pro- denied herself necessaries that her sick mother
fess to love Christ keep his commandments. might have comforts: and though she secretly
Those who hear themselves commended for prayed to God that this sickness might change
early piety, may learn to rest satisfied with the her mother's heart, yet she never once reproach-
praise of man. People may get a knack at re-ed her, or put her in mind, that it was caught
ligious phrases without being religious; they by indulging in a sinful pleasure.
may even get to frequent places of worship as
an amusement, in order to meet their friends,
and may learn to delight in a sort of spiritual
gossip, while religion has no power in their
hearts. But I hope better things of you, and
things that accompany salvation, though I thus
speak.
What became of Hester Wilmot, with some
account of Mrs. Jones's May-day feast for her
school, my readers shall be told next month.
PART II.
The New Gown.
HESTER WILMOT, I am sorry to observe, had
been by nature peevish, and lazy; she would
when a child, now and then slight her work,
and when her mother was unreasonable she was
too apt to return a saucy answer; but when she
became acquainted with her own heart, and with
the Scriptures, these evil tempers were, in a good
measure, subdued, for she now learnt to imitate,
not her violent mother, but him who was meek
and lowly. When she was scolded for doing ill,
she prayed for grace to do better; and the only
answer she made to her mother's charge, that
religion only served to make people lazy,' was
to strive to do twice as much work, in order to
prove that really made them diligent. The only
thing in which she ventured to disobey her mo-
ther was, that when she ordered her to do week
day's work on a Sunday, Hester cried, and said,
she did not dare to disobey God; but to show
that she did not wish to save her own labour,
she would do a double portion of work on the
Saturday night, and rise two hours earlier on
Monday morning.
Once, when she had worked very hard, her
mother told her she would treat her with a holy-
day the following Sabbath, and take her a fine
walk to eat cakes and drink ale at Weston fair,
which, though it was professed to be kept on the
Monday, yet, to the disgrace of the village, al-
ways began on the Sunday evening.* Rebecca,
who would on no account have wasted the Mon-
day, which was a working day, in idleness and
pleasure, thought she had a very good right to
enjoy herself at the fair on the Sunday evening,
as well as to take her children. Hester earnest-
ly begged to be left at home, and her mother in
a rage went without her. A wet walk, and
more ale than she was used to drink, gave Re-
becca a dangerous fever.-During this illness
*This practice is too common. Those fairs which
profess to be kept on Monday, commonly begin on the
Sunday. It is much to be wished that magistrates would
put a stop to it, as Mr. Simpson did at Weston, at the
request of Mrs. Jones. There is another great evil worth
Another Sunday night her father told Hester,
he thought she had now been at school long
enough for him to have a little good of her learn-
ing, so he desired she would stay at home and
read to him. Hester cheerfully ran and fetched
But John fell a laughing, call-
her Testament.
ed her a fool, and said, it would be time enough
to read the Testament to him when he was go-
ing to die, but at present he must have some-
thing merry. So saying, he gave her a song
book which he had picked up at the Bell. Hester
having cast her eyes over it, refused to read it,
saying she did not dare offend God by reading
what would hurt her own soul.-John called
her a canting hypocrite; and said, he would
put the Testament into the fire for that there
was not a more merry girl than she was before
she became religious. Her mother for once took
her part, not because she thought her daughter
in the right, but because she was glad of any
pretence to show her husband was in the wrong;
though she herself would have abused Hester
for the same thing if John had taken her part.
John, with a shocking oath abused them both;
and went off in a violent passion.-Hester, in-
stead of saying one undutiful word against her
father, took up a Psalter in order to teach her
little sisters; but Rebecca was so provoked at
her for not joining her in her abuse of her hus-
band, that she changed her humour, said John
was in the right, and Hester a perverse hypo-
crite, who only made religion a pretence for
being undutiful to her parents. Hester bore all
in silence, and committed her cause to Him who
judgeth righteously. It would have been a great
comfort to her if she had dared to go to Mrs.
Crew, and to have joined in the religious exer-
cises of the evening at school. But her mother
refused to let her, saying it would only harden
her heart in mischief. Hester said not a word,
but after having put the little ones to bed, and
heard them say their prayers out of sight, she
went and sat down in her own little loft, and
said to herself, it would be pleasant to me to
have taught my little sisters to read, I thought
it was my duty, for David has said, Come ye
children hearken unto me, I will teach you the
fear of the Lord. It would have been still more
pleasant to have passed the evening at school,
because I am still ignorant, and fitter to learn
than to teach; but I cannot do either without
flying in the face of my mother; God sees fit
to-night to change my pleasant duties into a
painful trial. I give up my will, and I submit
to the will of my father; but when he orders
me to commit a known sin, then I dare not do
it, because, in so doing, I must disobey my Fa-
ther which is in heaven.
Now it so fell out, that this dispute happened
on the very Sunday next before Mrs. Jones's
the notice of justices. In many villages, during the fair, yearly feast. On May-day all the school at
ale is sold at private houses, which have no license, to
the great injury of sobriety and good morals.
tended her to church, each in a stuff gown of
238
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
their own earning, and a cap and white apron,
of her giving. After church there was an ex-
amination made into the learning and behaviour
of the scholars; those who were most perfect in
their chapters, and who brought the best cha-
racter for industry, humility, and sobriety, re-
ceived a Bible, or some other good book.
|
'
would not have done, but that if the gown was
not bought directly it would not be ready in timo
for the feast. John's conscience had troubled
him a little for what he had done, for when he
was not drunk he was not ill-natured, and he
stammered out a broken excuse, but owned ho
had lost the money, and had not a farthing left.
Now Hester had been a whole year hoarding The moment Hester saw him mild and kind
up her little savings, in order to be ready with her heart was softened, and she begged him not
a new gown on the May-day feast. She had to vex,
She had to vex, adding, that she would be contented
never got less than two shillings a week by her never to have a new gown as long as she lived,
spinning, besides working for the family, and if she could have the comfort of always seeing
earning a trifle by odd jobs.-This money she him come home sober as he was last night. For
faithfully carried to her mother every Saturday Hester did not know that he had refrained from
night, keeping back by consent, only twopence getting drunk, only that he might gamble with
a-week towards the gown. The sum was com- a better chance of success, and that when a
plete, the pattern had long been settled, and gamester keeps himself sober, it is not that he
Hester had only on the Monday morning to go may practice a virtue, but that he may commit
to the shop, pay her money, and bring home her a worse crime. I am indeed sorry for what I
gown to be made. Her mother happened to go have done,' said he; you cannot go to the feast,
out early that morning to iron in a gentleman's and what will madam Jones say? Yes, but I
family, where she usually staid a day or two, can, said Hester, ' for God looks not at the gown,
and Hester was busy putting the house in order but at the heart, and I am sure he sees mine full
before she went to the shop.
of gratitude at hearing you talk so kindly; and
On that very Monday there was to be a if I thought my dear father would change his
meeting at the Bell of all the idle fellows in the present evil courses, I should be the happiest
parish. John Wilmot of course was to be there. girl at the feast to-morrow.' John walked away
Indeed he had accepted a challenge of the black-mournfully, and said to himself, surely there
smith to a batch at all-fours. The blacksmith
was flush of money, John thought himself the
best player; and that he might make sure of
winning, he resolved to keep himself sober,
which he knew was more than the other would
do. John was so used to go upon tick for ale,
that he got to the door of the Bell before he re-
collected that he could not keep his word with
the gambler without money, and he had not a
penny in his pocket, so he sullenly turned home-
wards. He dared not apply to his wife, as he
knew he should be more likely to get a scratch-
ed face than a sixpence from her; but he knew
that Hester bad received two shillings for her
last week's spinning on Saturday, and perhaps
she might not yet have given it to her mother.
Of the hoarded sum he knew nothing. He ask-
ed her if she could lend him half a crown, and
he would pay her next day. Hester pleased to
see him in good humour after what had passed
the night before ran up and fetched down her
little box, and in the joy of her heart that he
now desired something she could comply with
without wounding her conscience, cheerfully
poured out her whole little stock upon the table.
John was in raptures at the sight of three half-
crowns and a sixpence, and eagerly seized it,
box and all, together with a few hoarded half-
pence at the bottom, though he had only asked
to borrow half-a-crown. None but one whose
heart was hardened by a long course of drunk-was said before, she knew nothing of the dis-
enness could have taken away the whole, and
for such a purpose. He told her she should
certainly have it again next morning, and, in-
deed intended to pay it, not doubting but he
should double the sum. But John overrated
his own skill, or luck, for he lost every farthing
to the blacksmith, and sneaked home before
midnight, and quietly walked up to bed. He
was quite sober, which Hester thought a good
sign. Next morning she asked him, in a very
humble way, for the money, which she said she
must be something in religion, since it can thus
change the heart. Hester was once a pert girl,
and now she is as mild as a lamb. She was once
an indolent girl, and now she is up with the
lark. She was a vain girl, and would do any
thing for a new riband; and now she is con-
tented to go in rags to a feast at which every
one else will have a new gown. She deprived
herself of her gown to give me the money; and
yet this very girl, so dutiful in some respects,
would submit to be turned out of doors rather
than read a loose book at my command, or
break the Sabbath. I do not understand this;
there must be some mystery in it. All this he
said as he was going to work. In the evening
he did not go to the Bell: whether it was owing
to his new thoughts, or to his not having a penny
in his pocket, I will not take upon me positively
to say, but I believe it was a little of one and a
little of the other.
As the pattern of the intended gown had long
been settled in the family, and as Hester had
the money by her, it was looked on as good as
bought, so that she was trusted to get it brought
home, and made in her mother's absence. In-
deed, so little did Rebecca care about the school,
that she would not have cared any thing about
the gown, if her vanity had not made her wish
that her daughter should be the best drest of
any girl at the feast. Being from home, as
appointment. On May-day morning, Hester,
instead of keeping from the feast, because she
had not a new gown, or meanly inventing any
excuse for wearing an old one, dressed herself
out as neatly as she could in her poor old things,
and went to join the school in order to go to
church. Whether Hester had formerly indulg-
ed a little pride of heart, and talked of this
gown rather too much, I am not quite sure;
certain it is, there was a great hue and cry
made at seeing Hester Wilmot, the neatest girl,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
239
the most industrious girl in the school, come to
the May-day feast in an old stuff gown, when
every other girl was so creditably drest. In-
deed, I am sorry to say, there were two or
three much too smart for their station, and who
had dizened themselves out in very improper
finery, which Mrs. Jones made then take off
before her. 'I mean this feast,' said she, 'as
a reward of industry and piety, and not as
a trial of skill who can be finest, and outvie the
rest in show. If I do not take care, my feast
will become an encouragement, not to virtue,
but to vanity. I am so great a friend to decency
of apparel, that I even like to see you deny your
appetites, that you may be able to come decently
dressed to the house of God. To encourage you
to do this. I like to set apart this one day of
innocent pleasure, against which you may be
preparing all the year, by laying aside some-
thing every week towards buying a gown out
of all your savings. But, let me tell you, that
meekness and an humble spirit is of more value
in the sight of God and good men, than the
gayest cotton gown, or the brightest pink riband
in the parish.'
Mrs. Jones for all this, was as much surprised
as the rest at Hester's mean garb: but such is
the power of a good character, that she gave
her credit for a right intention, especially as
she knew the unhappy state of her family. For
it was Mrs. Jones's way, (and it is not a bad
way,) always to wait, and inquire into the truth
before she condemned any person of good cha-
racter, though appearances were against them.
As we cannot judge of people's motives, said
she, we may, from ignorance, often condemn
their best actions, and approve of their worst.
It will be always time enough to judge unfa-
vourably, and let us give others credit as long
as we can, and then we in our turn, may expect
a favourable judgment from others, and remem-
ber who had said, Judge not, that ye be not
judged.
honour and obey her father and mother, even
though they are not such as she could wish.
Betty Stiles, though she could answer the ques-
tions so readily, went abroad last Sunday when
she should have been at school, and refused to
nurse her sick mother, when she could not help
herself. Is this having learnt those two com-
mandinents to any good purpose?'
Farmer Hoskins, who stood by, whispered
Mrs. Jones, 'Well, madam, now you have con-
vinced even me of the benefit of religious in-
struction; now I see there is a meaning to it.
I thought it was in at one ear and out at the
other, and that a song was as well as a psalm;
but now I have found the proof of the pudding
is in the eating. I see your scholars must do
what they hear, and obey what they learn. Why,
at this rate, they will all be better servants for
being really godly, and so I will add a pudding
to next year's feast.'
The pleasure Hester felt in receiving a new
Bible, made her forget that she had on an old
gown. She walked to church in a thankful
frame; but how great was her joy, when she
saw, among a number of working men, her own
father going into church. As she past by him,
she cast on him a look of so much joy and affec-
tion that it brought tears into his eyes, espe-
cially when he compared her mean dress with
that of the other girls, and thought who had
been the cause of it. John, who had not been at
church for some years, was deeply struck with
the service. The confession with which it
opens went to his heart. He felt, for the first
time, that he was a miserable sinner, and that
there was no health in him. He now felt com-
punction for sin in general, though it was only
his ill-behaviour to his daughter which had
brought him to church. The sermon was such
as to strengthen the impression which the
prayers had made; and when it was over, in-
stead of joining the ringers, (for the belfry was
the only part of the church John liked, because
Hester was no more proud of what she had it usually led to the ale-house,) he quietly walk-
done for her farther, than she was humbled by ed back to his work. It was, indeed, the best
the meanness of her garb; and notwithstanding day's work he ever made. He could not get
Betty Stiles, one of the girls whose finery had out of his head the whole day, the first words
been taken away, sneered at her, Hester never he heard at church; When the wicked man
offered to clear herself, by exposing her father, turneth away from his wickedness, and doeth
though she thought it right, secretly to inform that which is lawful and right, he shall save his
Mrs. Jones of what had past. When the exami- | soul alive. At night, instead of going to the
nation of the girls began, Betty Stiles was asked Bell, he went home, intending to ask Hester to
some questions on the fourth and fifth command- forgive him; but as soon as he got to the door,
ments, which she answered very well. Hester he heard Rebecca scolding his daughter for
was asked nearly the same questions, and, though
she answered them no better than Betty had
done, they were all surprised to see Mrs. Jones
rise up, and give a handsome Bible to Hester,
while she gave nothing to Betty. This girl
cried out rather pertly, Madam, it is very hard
that I have no book: I was as perfect as Hes-
ter.'' I have often told you,' said Mrs. Jones,
'that religion is not a thing of the tongue but
of the heart. That girl gives me the best proof
that she has learned the fourth commandment
to good purpose, who persists in keeping holy
the Sabbath day, though commanded to break
it by a parent whom she loves. And that girl
best proves that she keeps the fifth, who gives
up her own comfort, and clothing, and credit, to
I
having brought such a disgrace on the family
as to be seen in that old rag of a gown, and in-
sisted on knowing what she had done with the
money. Hester tried to keep the secret, but her
mother declared she would turn her out of
doors if she did not tell the truth. Hester was
at last forced to confess she had given it to her
father. Unfortunately for poor John, it was at
this very moment that he opened the door. The
mother now divided her fury between her guilty
husband and her innocent child, till from words
she fell to blows. John defended his daughter,
and received some of the strokes intended for
the poor girl. This turbulent scene partly put
John's good resolution to flight, though the pa-
tience of Hester did him almost as much good
240
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
:
up
to cheer his labour. He now went constantly
to church, and often dropped in at the school on
a Sunday evening to hear their prayers.
He
expressed so much pleasure at this, that one day
Hester ventured to ask him if they should set
up family prayer at home? John said he should
like it mightily, but as he could not yet read
quite well enough, he desired Hester to try to
get a proper book and begin next Sunday night.
Hester had bought of a pious hawker, for three
halfpence, the Book of prayers, printed for the
Cheap Repository, and knew she should there
find something suitable.
*
as the sermon he had heard. At length the | mowing or reaping, he could call to mind a text
poor girl escaped up stairs, not a little bruised,
and a scene of much violence passed between
John and Rebecca. She declared she would
not sit down to supper with such a brute, and
set off to a neighbour's house, that she might
have the pleasure of abusing him the longer.
John, whose mind was much disturbed, went
stairs without his supper. As he was pass-
ing by Hester's little room he heard her voice,
and as he concluded she was venting bitter com-
plaints against her unnatural parents, he stop-
ped to listen, resolved to go in and comfort her.
He stopped at the door, for, by the light of the
moon, he saw her kneeling by her bedside, and
praying so earnestly that she did not hear him.
As he made sure she could be praying for no-
thing but his death, what was her surprise to
hear these words: 'O Lord, have mercy upon
my dear father and mother, teach me to love
them, to pray for them, and do them good; make
me more dutiful and more patient, that, adorn-
ing the doctrine of God, my Saviour, I may re-
commend his holy religion, and my dear parents
may be brought to love and fear thee, through
Jesus Christ.'
་
Poor John, who would never have been hard-
hearted if he had not been a drunkard, could
not stand this, he fell down on his knees, em-
braced his child; and begged her to teach him
how to pray. He prayed himself as well as he
could, and though he did not know what words
to use, yet his heart was melted; he owned he
was a sinner, and begged Hester to fetch the
prayer-book, and read over the confession with
which he had been so struck at church. This
was the pleasantest order she had ever obeyed.
Seeing him deeply affected with a sense of sin
she pointed out to him the Saviour of sinners;
and in this manner she passed some hours with
her father, which were the happiest of her life;
such a night was worth a hundred cotton, or
even silk gowns. In the course of the week Hes-
ter read over the confession, and some other
prayers, to her father so often that he got them
by heart, and repeated them while he was at
work. She next taught him the fifty-first
psalm. At length he took courage to kneel
down and pray before he went to bed. From
that time he bore his wife's ill-humour much
better than he had ever done, and, as he knew
her to be neat, and notable, and saving, he be-
gan to think, that if her temper was not quite
so bad, his home might still become as pleasant
a place to him as ever the Bell had been; but
unless she became more tractable he did not
know what to do with his long evenings after
the little ones were in bed, for he began, once
more, to delight in playing with them. Hester
proposed that she herself should teach him to
read an hour every night, and he consented.
Rebecca began to storm, from the mere trick
she had got of storming; but finding that he
now brought home all his earnings, and that
she got both his money and his company, (for
she had once loved him,) she began to reconcile
herself to this new way of life. In a few months
John could read a psalm. In learning to read
it he also got it by heart, and this proved a little
store for private devotion, and while he was
When Hester read the exhortation at the be-
ginning of this little book, her mother, who sat
in the corner, and pretended to be asleep, was
so much struck that she could not find a word
to say against it. For a few nights, indeed, she
continued to sit still, or pretended to rock the
young child while her husband and daughter
were kneeling at their prayers. She expected
John would have scolded her for this, and so
perverse was her temper, that she was disap-
pointed at his finding no fault with her. Seeing
at last that he was very patient, and that though
he prayed fervently himself he suffered her to
do as she liked, she lost the spirit of opposition
for want of something to provoke it. As her
pride began to be subdued, some little disposi-
tion to piety was awakened in her heart.--By
degrees she slid down on her knees, though at
first it was behind the cradle, or the clock, or
in some corner where she thought they would
not see her. Hester rejoiced even in this out-
ward change in her mother, and prayed that
God would at last be pleased to touch her heart
as he had done that of her father.
As John now spent no idle money, he had
saved up a trifle by working over-hours; this he
kindly offered to Hester to make up for the loss
of her gown. Instead of accepting it, Hester
told him, that as she herself was young and
healthy, she should soon be able to clothe herself
out of her own savings, and begged him to
make her mother a present of this gown, which
he did. It had been a maxim of Rebecca, that
it was better not to go to church at all, than go
in an old gown. She had, however, so far con-
quered this evil notion, that she had lately gone
pretty often. This kindness of the gown touched
her not a little, and the first Sunday she put it
on Mr. Simpson happened to preach from this
text, God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace to
the humble. This sermon so affected Rebecca
that she never once thought she had her new
gown on, till she came to take it off when she
went to bed, and that very night, instead of
skulking behind, she knelt down by her hus-
band, and joined in prayer with much fervour.
There was one thing sunk deep in Rebecca's
mind; she had observed that since her husband
had grown religious he had been so careful not
to give her any offence, that he was become
scrupulously clean; took off his dirty shoes be-
fore he sat down, and was very cautious not to
spill a drop of beer on her shining table. Now
parts, one fit for private persons, the other for families
price one halfpenny.
*These prayers may be had also divided into two
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
241
the heart is once given up to God, such vanities
in a good degree die of themselves.
it was rather remarkable, that as John grew,
more neat, Rebecca grew more indifferent to
neatness. But both these changes arose from Hester continues to grow in grace, and in
the same cause, the growth of religion in their knowledge. Last Christmas-day she was ap-
hearts. John grew cleanly from the fear of pointed an under teacher in the school, and ma-
giving pain to his wife, while Rebecca grew in-ny people think that some years hence, if any
different from having discovered the sin and thing should happen to Mrs. Crew, Hester may
folly of an over-anxious care about trifles. When be promoted to be head mistress.
THE GRAND ASSIZES, &c.
OR GENERAL JAIL DELIVERY.
AN ALLEGORY.
THERE was in a certain country a great king, | since every one of the people had been in a cer-
who was also a judge. He was very merciful, tain sense criminals, the king did not think it
but he was also very just; for he used to say, fair to make them judges also. It would, indeed,
that justice was the foundation of all goodness, have been impossible to follow in all respects
and that indiscriminate and misapplied mercy the customs which prevail with us, for the crimes
was in fact injustice. His subjects were apt with which men are charged in our courts are
enough, in a general way, to extol his merciful mere overt acts, as the lawyers call them, that
temper, and especially those subjects who were is, acts which regard the outward behaviour;
always committing crimes which made them such as the acts of striking, maiming, stealing,
particularly liable to be punished by his justice. and so forth. But in this king's court it is not
This last quality they constantly kept out of merely outward sins, but sins of the heart also
sight, till they had cheated themselves into a which were to be punished. Many a crime,
notion that he was too good to punish at all. therefore, which was never heard of in the court
of King's Bench, or at the Old Bailey, and which
indeed could not be cognizable by these courts,
was here to be brought to light, and was reserv-
ed for this great day. Among these were pride,
and oppression, and envy, and malice, and re-
venge, and covetousness, and secret vanity of
mind, and evil thoughts of all sorts, and all sin-
ful wishes and desires. When covetousness, in-
deed, put men on committing robbery, or when
malice drove them to acts of murder, then the
common courts immediately judged the crimi-
nal, without waiting for these great assizes; ne-
vertheless, since even a thief and murderer
would now and then escape in the common
courts, for want of evidence, or through some
fault or other of the judge or jury, the escape
was of little moment to the poor criminal, for
he was sure to be tried again by this great king;
and even though the man should have been pu-
nished in some sense before, yet he had now a
farther and more lasting punishment to fear,
unless, indeed, he was one of those who had ob-
tained (by the means I before spoke of) this
great king's pardon. The sins of the heart, how-
ever, were by far the most numerous sort of
sins, which were to come before this great tri-
bunal; and these were to be judged by this great
king in person, and by none but himself; be-
cause he alone possessed a certain power of get-
ting at all secrets.
Now it had happened a long time before, that
this whole people had broken their allegiance,
and had forfeited the king's favour, and had also
fallen from a very prosperous state in which he
had originally placed them, having one and all
become bankrupts. But when they were over
head and ears in debt, and had nothing to pay,
the king's son most generously took the whole
burden of their debts on himself; and, in short,
it was proposed that all their affairs should be
settled, and their very crimes forgiven, (for they
were criminals as well as debtors) provided only
they would show themselves sincerely sorry for
what they had done themselves, and be thankful
for what had been done for them. I should how-
ever remark, that a book was also given them,
in which a true and faithful account of their
own rebellion was written; and of the manner
of obtaining the king's pardon, together with a
variety of directions for their conduct in time
to come; and in this book it was particularly
mentioned, that after having lived a certain
number of years in a remote part of the same
king's country, yet still under his eye and juris-
diction, there should be a grand assizes, when
every one was to be publicly tried for his past
behaviour; and after this trial was over, certain
heavy punishments were to be inflicted on those
who should have still persisted in their rebellion,
and certain high premiums were to be bestowed |
as a gracious reward upon the penitent and obe-
dient.
It may be proper here to notice, that this
king's court differed in some respect from our
courts of justice, being indeed a sort of court of
appeal, to which questions were carried after
they had been imperfectly decided in the com-
mon courts! And although with us all crimi-
nals are tried (and a most excellent mode of
trial it is) by a jury of their peers, yet in this
king's country the mode was very different; for
Q
I once heard of a certain king of Sicily, who
built a whispering gallery in the form of an ear,
through which he could hear every word his re-
bellious subjects uttered, though spoken ever so
low. But this secret of the king of Sicily was
nothing to what this great king possessed; for
he had the power of knowing every thought
which was conceived in the mind, though it
never broke out into words, or proceeded to ac-
tions.
Now you may be ready to think, perhaps,
242
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
that these people were worse off than any others,
because they were to be examined so closely,
and judged so strictly. Far from it; the king
was too just to expect bricks without giving
them straw; he gave them, therefore, every
help that they needed. He gave them a book
of directions, as I before observed; and because
they were naturally short-sighted, he supplied
them with a glass for reading it, and thus the
most dim-sighted might see, if they did not wil-
fully shut their eyes: but though the king in-
vited them to open their eyes he did not compel
them; and many remain stone blind all their
lives with the book in their hand, because they
would not use the glass, nor take the proper
means for reading and understanding all that
was written for them. The humble and sincere
learned in time to see even that part of the book
which was least plainly written; and it was
observed that the ability to understand it de-
pended more on the heart than the head; an
evil disposition blinded the sight, while humility |
operated like an eye-salve.
Now it happened that those who had been so
lucky as to escape the punishment of the lower
courts, took it into their heads that they were
all very good sort of people, and of course very
safe from any danger at this great assize. This
grand intended trial, indeed, had been talked of
so much, and put off so long (for it had seemed
long at least to these short-sighted people) that
many persuaded themselves it would never fake
place at all; and far the greater part were living
away therefore without ever thinking about it;
they went on just as if nothing at all had been
done for their benefit; and as if they had no
king to please, no king's son to be thankful to,
no book to guide themselves by, and as if the
assizes were never to come about.
But with this king a thousand years were as
a day, for he was not slack concerning his pro-
mises, as some men count slackness.-So at
length the solemn period approached. Still,
however, the people did not prepare for the so-
lemnity, or rather, they prepared for it much
as some of the people in our provincial towns
are apt to prepare for the annual assize times;
I mean by balls and feastings, and they saw
their own trial come on, with as little concern
as is felt by the people in our streets, when they
see the judge's procession enter the town; they
indeed comfort themselves that it is only those in
the prisons who are guilty.
But when at last the day came, and every
man found that he was to be judged for himself;
and that somehow or other, all his secrets were
brought out, and that there was now no escape,
not even a short reprieve, things began to take
a more serious turn. Some of the worst of the
criminals were got together debating in an outer
court of the grand hall; and there they passed
their time, not in compunction and tears, not in
comparing their lives with what was required in
that book which had been given them, but they
derived a fallacious hope by compåring them-
selves with such as had been still more notorious
offenders.
One who had grown wealthy by rapine and
oppression, but had contrived to keep within the
letter of the law, insulted a poor fellow as a
I
thief, because he had stolen a loaf of bread.
'You are far wickeder than I was,' said a citi.
zen to his apprentice, for you drank and swore
at the ale-house every Sunday night.' Yes,'
said the poor fellow, but it was your fault that
I did so, for you took no care of my soul, but
spent all your Sabbaths in jaunting abroad or in
rioting at home; I might have learnt, but there
was no one to teach me; I might have followed
a good example, but I saw only bad ones.
sinned against less light than you did.' A
drunken journeyman, who had spent all his
wages on gin, rejoiced that he had not spent a
great estate in bribery at elections, as the lord
of his manor had done, while a perjured elector
boasted that he was no drunkard like the jour-
neyman; and the member himself took comfort
that he had never received the bribes which he
had not been ashamed to offer.
I have not room to describe the awful pomp
of the court, nor the terrible sounding of the
trumpet which attended the judge's entrance,
nor the sitting of the judge, nor the opening of
the books, nor the crowding of the millions, who
stood before him. I shall pass over the multi-
tudes who were tried and condemned to dun-
geons and chains, and eternal fire, and to per-
petual banishment from the presence of the
king, which always seemed to be the saddest
part of the sentence. I shall only notice further,
a few who brought some plea of merit, and
claimed a right to be rewarded by the king, and
even deceived themselves so far as to think that
his own book of laws would be their justifica-
tion.
A thoughtless spendthrift advanced without
any contrition, and said, 'that he had lived hand-
somely, and had hated the covetous whom God
abhorreth; that he trusted in that passage of
the book which said, that covetouness was idola-
try; and that he therefore hoped for a favoura-
ble sentence.' Now it proved that this man had
not only avoided covetousness, but that he had
even left his wife and children in want through
his excessive prodigality. The judge therefore
immediately pointed to that place in the book
where it is written, he that provideth not for his
household is worse than an infidel. He that
liveth in pleasure is dead while he liveth; 'thou,'
said he, in thy life time, receivedst thy good
things, and now thou must be tormented.' Then
a miser, whom hunger and hoarding had worn
to skin and bone, crept forward, and praised the
sentence passed on this extravagant youth, and
surely,' said he, since he is condemned, I am
a man that may make some plea to favour-I
was never idle or drunk, I kept my body in sub-
jection. I have been so self-denying that I am
certainly a saint: I have loved neither father
nor mother, nor wife nor children, to excess, in
all this I have obeyed the book of the law.' Then
the judge said, 'But where are thy works of
mercy and thy labours of love, see that family
which perished in thy sight last hard winter,
while thy barns were overflowing; that poor
family were my representatives; yet they were
hungry, and thou gavest them no meat. Go to,
now thou rich man, weep and howl for the mise-
ries that are come upon you. Your gold and
your silver is cankered, and the rust of them
THE WORKS OF HANNAII MORE.
243
shall be a witness against you, and shall eat
your flesh as it were fire.'
Then came up one with a most self-sufficient
air. He walked up boldly, having in one hand
the plan of an hospital which he had built, and
in the other the drawing of a statue, which was
erecting for him in the country that he had just
left, and on his forehead appeared, in gold let-
ters, the list of all the public charities to which
he had subscribed. He seemed to take great
pleasure in the condemnation of the miser, and
said, 'Lord, when saw I thee hungry and fed
thee not, or in prison and visited thee not? I
have visited the fatherless and widow in their
affliction.' Here the judge cut him short, by
saying, 'True, thou didst visit the fatherless,
but didst thou fulfil equally that other part of
my command, to keep thyself unspotted from
the world.' No, thou wast conformed to the
world in many of its sinful customs, thou didst
follow a multitude to do evil; thou didst love
the world and the things of the world; and the
motive to all thy charities was not a regard to
me but to thy own credit with thy fellow men.
Thou hast done every thing for the sake of re-
putation, and now thou art vainly trusting in
thy deceitful works, instead of putting all thy
trust in my son, who has offered himself to be a
surety for thee. Where has been that humility
and gratitude to him which was required of thee.
No, thou wouldst be thine own surety: thou
hast trusted in thyself: thou hast made thy
boast of thine own goodness; thou hast sought
after and thou hast enjoyed the praise of men,
and verily I say unto thee, thou hast had thy
reward.'
A poor diseased blind cripple, who came from
the very hospital which this great man had
built, then fell prostrate on his face, crying out,
Lord be merciful to me a sinner!' on which
the judge, to the surprise of all, said, 'Well
done, good and faithful servant.' The poor man
replied, Lord, I have done nothing! But
thou hast 'suffered well,' said the judge; thou
hast been an example of patience and meekness,
and though thou hadst but few talents, yet thou
hast well improved those few; thou hadst time,
this thou didst spend in the humble duties of thy
station, and also in earnest prayer; thou didst
pray even for that proud founder of the hospital,
who never prayed for himself; thou wast indeed
blind and lame, but it is no where said, my son
give me thy feet, or thine eyes, but give me thy
heart; and even the few faculties I did grant
thee, were employed to my glory; with thine
ears thou didst listen to my word, with thy
tongue thou didst show forth my praise, 'enter
thou into the joy of thy Lord.'
There were several who came forward, and
boasted of some single and particular virtue, in
which they had been supposed to excel. One
talked of his generosity, another of his courage,
and a third of his fortitude; but it proved on a
close examination, that some of those supposed
virtues were merely the effect of a particular
constitution of body; that others proceeded from
a false motive, and that not a few of them were
actual vices, since they were carried to excess ;
and under the pretence of fulfilling one duty,
some other duty was lost sight of; in short, these
partial virtues were none of them practised in
obedience to the will of the king, but merely to
please the person's own humour, or to gain
praise, and they would not, therefore, stand this
day's trial, for he that had kept the whole law,
and yet had wilfully and habitually offended in
any one point, was declared guilty of breaking
the whole.'
At this moment a sort of thick scales fell from
the eyes of the multitude. They could now no
longer take comfort, as they had done for so
many years, by measuring their neighbours'
conduct against their own. Each at once saw
himself in his true light, and found, alas! when
it was too late, that he should have made the
book which had been given him his rule of prac-
tice before, since it now proved to be the rule
by which he was to be judged. Nay, every one
now thought himself even worse than his neigh-
bour, because, while he only saw and heard of
the guilt of others, he felt his own in all its ag-
gravated horror.
To complete their confusion, they were com-
pelled to acknowledge the justice of the judge
who condemned them; and also to approve the
favourable sentence by which thousands of other
criminals had not only their lives saved, but
were made happy and glorious beyond all ima-
gination; not for any great merits which they
had to produce, but in consequence of their sin-
cere repentance, and their humble acceptance
of the pardon offered to them by the king's son.
One thing was remarkable, that whilst most of
those who were condemned, never expected
condemnation, but even claimed a reward for
their supposed innocence or goodness, all who
were really rewarded and forgiven were sensible
that they owed their pardon to a mere act of
grace, and they cried out with one voice, 'Not
unto us, not unto us, but unto thy name be the
praise!"
THE SERVANT MAN TURNED SOLDIER.
OR THE FAIR-WEATHER CHRISTIAN.
AN ALLEGORY.
WILLIAM was a lively young servant, who lived indeed, a great deal of work to be done, though
in a great but very irregular family. His place
was on the whole, agreeable to him, and suited
to his gay thoughtless temper. He found a
plentiful table and a good cellar. There was,
it was performed with much disorder and con-
fusion. The family in the main were not un-
kind to him, though they often contradicted and
crossed him, especially when things went ill
244
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
|
gence.
with themselves. This, William never much curious dish, much valued by the family, as they
liked, for he was always fond of having his own pretended; this family were indeed apt to set a
way. There was a merry, or rather a noisy false fantastic value on things, and not to esti-
and riotous servant's hall; for disorder and mate them by their real worth. The heads of
quarrels are indeed the usual effects of plenty the family, who had generally been rather pa-
and unrestrained indulgence. The men were tient and good-humoured with William, as I
smart, but idle; the maids were showy but li- said before, for those vices, which though offen-
centious, and all did pretty much as they liked sive to God did not touch their own pocket, now
for a time, but the time was commonly short. flew out into a violent passion with him, called
The wages were reckoned high, but they were him a thousand hard names, and even threaten-
seldom paid, and it was even said by sober peo-ed to horsewhip him for his shameful negli
ple, that the family was insolvent, and never
fulfilled any of their flattering engagements, or William in a great fright, for he was a sad
their most positive promises; but still, notwith-coward at bottom, ran directly out of the house
standing their real poverty, things went on with to avoid the threatened punishment; and hap-
just the same thoughtlessness and splendour, pening just at that very time to pass by the pa-
and neither inaster nor servants looked beyond rade where the soldiers chanced to be then ex-
the jollity of the present hour.
ercising, his resolution was taken in a moment.
He instantly determined to be no more a slave,
as he called it; he would return no more to be
subject to the humours of a tyrannical family;
no, he was resolved to be free; or at least, if he
must serve, he would serve no master but the
king.
In this unruly family there was little church
going, and still less praying at home. They
pretended, indeed, in a general way, to believe
in the Bible, but it was only an outward pro-
fession, few of them read it at all, and even
of those who did read it still fewer were govern-
ed by it. There was indeed a Bible lying on
the table in the great hall, which was kept for
the purpose of administering an oath, but was
seldom used on any other occasion, and some
of the heads of the family were of opinion that
this was its only real use, as it might serve to
keep the lower parts of it in order.
William, who was fond of novelty and plea-
sure, was apt to be negligent of the duties of
the house. He used to stay out on his errands,
and one of his favourite amusements was going
to the parade to see the soldiers exercise. He
saw with envy how smartly they were dressed,
listened with rapture to the music, and fancied
that a soldier had nothing to do but to walk to
and fro in a certain regular order, to go through
a little easy exercise, in short, to live without
fighting, fatigue, or danger.
William, who had now and then happened to
hear from the accidental talk of the soldiers,
that those who served the great family he had
lived with, were slaves to their tyranny and
vices, had also heard in the same casual man-
ner, that the service of the king was perfect free-
dom. Now he had taken it into his head to hope
that this might be a freedom to do evil, or at
least to do nothing, so he thought it was the
only place in the world to suit him.
A fine likely young man as William was, had
no great difficulty to get enlisted. The few
forms were soon settled, he received the bounty
money as eagerly as it was offered, took the
oaths of allegiance, was joined to the regiment
and heartily welcomed by his new comrades.
He was the happiest fellow alive. All was
smooth and calm. The day happened to be
O, said he, whenever he was affronted at very fine, and therefore William always reckon-
home, what a fine thing it must be to be a sol-ed upon a fine day. The scene was gay and
dier! to be so well dressed, to have nothing to
do but to move to the pleasant sound of fife and
drum, and to have so many people come to look
at one, and admire one. O it must be a fine
thing to be a soldier !
Yet when the vexation of the moment was
over, he found so much ease and diversion in the
great family, it was so suited to his low taste
and sensual appetites, that he thought no more
of the matter. He forgot the glories of a soldier,
and eagerly returned to all the mean gratifica-
tions of the kitchen. His evil habits were but
little attended to by those with whom he lived;
his faults, among which were lying and swear-
ing, were not often corrected by the family, who
had little objection to those sins, which only
offended God and did not much affect their own
interest or property. And except that William
was obliged to work rather more than he liked,
he found little, while he was young and healthy,
that was very disagreeable in this service. So
he went on, still thinking, however, when things
went a little cross, what a fine thing it was to
be a soldier! At last one day as he was waiting
at dinner, he had the misfortune to let fall a
china dish, and broke it all to pieces. It was a
lively, the music cheerful, he found the exercise
very easy, and he thought there was little more
expected from him.
He soon began to flourish away in his talk;
and when he met with any one of his old fellow
servants, he fell a prating about marches and
counter-marches, and blockades, and battles, and
sieges, and blood, and death, and triumphs, and
victories, all at random, for these were words
and phrases he had picked up without at all un-
derstanding what he said. He had no know-
ledge, and therefore he had no modesty, he had
no experience and therefore he had no fears.
All seemed to go on swimmingly, for he had
as yet no trial. He began to think with triumph
what a mean life he had escaped from in the old
quarrelsome family, and what a happy, honoura-
ble life he should have in the army. O there was
no life like the life of a soldier!
In a short time, however, war broke out, his
regiment was one of the first which was called
out to actual and hard service. As William
was the most raw of all the recruits he was the
first to murmur at the difficulties and hardships,
the cold and hunger, the fatigue and danger of
being a soldier. O what watchings, and perils
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
245
and trials, and hardships, and difficulties he now
thought attended a military life! Surely, said
he, I could never have suspected all this misery
when I used to see the men on the parade in our
town.
He now found, when it was too late, that all
the field-days he used to attend, all the evolu-
tions and exercises which he had observed the
soldiers to go through in the calm times of peace
and safety, were only meant to fit, train and
qualify them, for the actual service which they
were now sent out to perform by the command
of the king.
|
laid in a place of safety, and left to himself,
after his wound was dressed.
The skirmish, for it proved nothing more,
was soon over. The greater part of the regi
ment escaped in safety.
William in the mean-
time suffered cruelly both in mind and body.
To the pains of a wounded soldier, he added the
disgrace of a coward, and the infamy of a de-
serter. O, cried he, why was I such a fool as
to leave the great family I lived in, where there
was meat and drink enough and to spare, only
on account of a little quarrel? I might have
made up that with them as we had done our
former quarrels. Why did I leave a life of ease
and pleasure, where I had only a little rub now
and then, for a life of daily discipline and con-
stant danger? Why did I turn soldier? 0,
what a miserable animal is a soldier!
As he was sitting in this weak and disabled
condition, uttering the above complaints, he ob-
served a venerable old officer, with thin gray
locks on his head, and on his face, deep wrinkles
engraved by time, and many an honest scar
inflicted by war. William had heard this old
officer highly commended for his extraordinary
courage and conduct in battle, and in peace he
used to see him cool and collected, devoutly em-
ployed in reading and praying in the interval
of inore active duties. He could not help com-
paring this officer with himself. I, said he,
flinched and drew back, and would even have
deserted in the moment of peril, and now in re-
turn, I have no consolation in the hour of repose
and safety. I would not fight then, I cannot
The truth is, William often complained when
there was no real hardship to complain of; for
the common troubles of life fell out pretty much
alike to the great family which William had
left, and to the soldiers in the king's army.
But the spirit of obedience, discipline, and self-
denial of the latter seemed hardships to one of
William's loose turn of mind. When he began
to murmur, some good old soldier clapped him
on the back, saying, cheer up lad, it is a king-
dom you are to strive for, if we faint not, hence-
forth there is laid up for us a great reward, we
have the king's word for it man. William ob-
served, that to those who truly believed this,
their labours were as nothing, but he himself
did not at the bottom believe it; and it was ob-
served, of all the soldiers who failed, the true
cause was that they did not really believe the
king's promise. He was surprised to see that
those soldiers, who used to bluster and boast,
and deride the assaults of the enemy, now began
to fall away; while such as had faithfully obey-pray now. O why would I ever think of being
ed the king's orders, and believed in his word,
were sustained in the hour of trial. Those who |
had trusted in their own strength all fainted on
the slightest attack, while those who had put on
the armour of the king's providing, the sword,
and the shield, and the helmet, and the breast-
plate, and whose feet were shod according to
order, now endured hardship as good soldiers,
and were enabled to fight the good fight.
An engagement was expected immediately.
The men were ordered to prepare for battle.
While the rest of the corps were so preparing,
William's whole thoughts were bent on con-
triving how he might desert. But alas! he was
watched on all sides, he could not possibly de-
vise any means to escape. The danger increas-
ed every moment, the battle came on. William,
who had been so sure and confident before he
entered, flinched in the moment of trial, while
his more quiet and less boastful comrades pre-
pared boldly to do their duty. William looked
about on all sides, and saw that there was no
eye upon him, for he did not know that the
king's eye was every where at once. He at
last thought he spied a chance of escaping, not
from the enemy, but from his own army. While
he was endeavouring to escape, a ball from the
opposite camp took off his leg. As he fell, the
first words which broke from him were, while
I was in my duty I was preserved; in the very
act of deserting I am wounded. He lay ex.
pecting every moment to be trampled to death,
but as the confusion was a little over, he was
taken off the field by some of his own party,
|
a soldier? He then began afresh to weep and
lament, and he groaned so loud that he drew
the notice of the officer, who came up to him,
kindly sat down by him, took him by the hand,
and inquired with as much affection as if he
had been his brother, what was the matter with
him, and what particular distress, more than
the common fortune of war it was which drew
from him such bitter groans? 'I know some-
thing of surgery,' added he, 'let me examine
your wound, and assist you with such little
comfort as I can.'
William at once saw the difference between
the soldiers in the king's army, and the people
in the great family; the latter commonly with-
drew their kindness in sickness and trouble,
when most wanted, which was just the very
time when the others came forward to assist.
He told the officer his little history, the manner
of his living in the great family, the trifling
cause of his quarrelling with it, the slight
ground of his entering into the king's service.
Sir,' said he, 'I quarrelled with the family
and I thought I was at once fit for the army: I
did not know the qualifications it required. I had
not reckoned on discipline, and hardships, and
self-denial. I liked well enough to sing a loyal
song, or drink the king's health, but I find I do
not relish working and fighting for him, though
I rashly promised even to lay down my life for
his service if called upon, when I took the
bounty money and the oath of allegiance. In
short, sir, I find that I long for the ease and
sloth, the merriment and the feasting of my old
246
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Service; I find I cannot be a soldier, and, to, ground of their cheerfulness; they fancied it
speak truth, I was in the very act of deserting arose, not because through grace they had con-
when I was stopped short by the cannon ball.quered difficulties, but because they had no
So that I feel the guilt of desertion, and the difficulties in their passage. They fancied that
misery of having lost my leg into the bargain.' religion found the road smooth, whereas it only
The officer thus replied: 'your state is that helps to bear with a rough road without com-
of every worldly irreligious man. The great plaint. They do not know that these Christians
family you served is a just picture of the world. are of good cheer, not because the world is
The wages the world promises to those who are free from tribulation, but because Christ, their
willing to do its work are high, but the payment captain, has overcome the world. But the irre-
is attended with much disappointment; nay, ligous man, who has only seen the outside of a
the world, like your great family, is in itself Christian in his worldly intercourse, knows
insolvent, and in its very nature incapable of little of his secret conflicts, his trials, his self-
making good the promises, and of paying the denials, his warefare with the world without;
high rewards which it holds out to tempt its and with his own corrupt desires within.
credulous followers. The ungodly world, like
your family, cares little for church, and still less
for prayer; and considers the Bible rather as an
instrument to make an oath binding, in order to
keep the vulgar in obedience, than in contain-
ing in itself a perfect rule of faith and practice,
and as a title deed to heaven. The generality
of men love the world as you did your service,
while it smiles upon them, and gives them easy
work and plenty of meat and drink; but as soon
as it begins to cross and contradict them, they
get out of humour with it, just as you did with
your service. They then think its drudgery
hard, its rewards low. They find out that it is
high in its expectations from them, and slack
in its payments to them. And they begin to
fancy, (because they do not hear religious peo-
ple murmur as they do,) that there must be
some happiness in religion. The world, which
takes no account of their deeper sins, at length
brings them into discredit for some act of im-
prudence, just as your family overlooked your
lying and swearing, but threatened to drub you
for breaking a china dish. Such is the judg-
ment of the world! it particularly bears with
those who only break the laws of God, but se-
verely punishes the smallest negligence by
which they themselves are injured. The world
sooner pardons the breaking ten commandments
of God, than even a china dish of its own.
|
|
The irreligious man quarrels with the world
on some such occasion
on some such occasion as you did with your
place. He now puts on the outward forms and
ceremonies of religion, and assumes the badge
of Christianity, just as you were struck with the
show of a field day; just as you were pleased
with the music and the marching, and put on
the cockade and red coat. All seems smooth
for a little while. He goes throngh the out-
ward exercises of a Christian, a degree of credit
attends his new profession, but he never sus-
pects there is either difficulty or discipline at-
tending it; he fancies religion is a thing for
talking about, and not a thing of the heart and
the life. He never suspects that all the psalm-
singing he joins in, and the sermons he hears,
and the other means he is using, are only as
the exercises and the evolutions of the soldiers,
to fit and prepare him for actual service; and
that these means are no more religion itself,
than the exercises and evolutions of your parade
were real warfare.
'At length some trial arises: this nominal
Christian is called to differ from the world in
some great point; something happens which
may strike at his comfort, or his credit, or se-
curity. This cools his zeal for religion, just as
the view of an engagement cooled your courage
as a soldier. He finds he was only angry with
the world, he was not tired of it. He was out
of humour with the world, not because he had
seen through its vanity and emptiness, but be-
cause the world was out of humour with him.
He finds that it is an easy thing to be a fair-
weather Christian, bold where there is nothing
to be done, and confident where there is nothing
to be feared. Difficulties unmask him to others;
temptations unmask him to himself; he dis-
covers, that though he is a high professor, he is
no Christian; just as you found out that your
red coat and your cockade, your shoulder-knot,
and your musket, did not prevent you from be
ing a coward.
'After some cross or opposition, worldly men,
as I said before, begin to think how much con-
tent and cheerfulness they remember to have
seen in religious people. They therefore begin
to fancy that religion must be an easy and de-
lightful, as well as a good thing. They have
heard that, her ways are ways of pleasantness,
and all her paths are peace; and they persuade
themselves, that by this is meant worldly
pleasantness and sensual peace. They resolve
at length to try it, to turn their back upon the
world, to engage in the service of God and turn
Christians; just as you resolved to leave your
old service, to enter into the service of the king Your misery in the military life, like that of
and turn soldier. But as you quitted your place the nominal Christian, arose from your love of
in a passion, so they leave the world in a huff. ease, your cowardice, and your self ignorance.
They do not count the cost. They do not cal- You rushed into a new way of life, without
culate upon the darling sin, the habitual plea- trying after one qualification for it. A total
sures, the ease and vanities which they under-change of heart and temper were necessary for
take by their new engagements to renounce, any
more than you counted what indulgences you
were going to give up when you quitted the
luxuries and idleness of your place to enlist in
the soldier's warfare. They have, as I said,
seen Christians cheerful, and they mistook the
your new calling. With new views and prin-
ciples the soldier's life would have been not only
easy, but delightful to you. But while with a new
profession you retained your old nature it is no
wonder if all discipline seemed intolerable to
you.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
247
The true Christian, like the brave soldier, |
is supported under dangers by a strong faith
that the fruits of that victory for which he fights
will be safety and peace. But, alas! the plea-
sures of this world are present and visible; the
rewards for which he strives are remote. He
therefore fails, because nothing short of a lively
faith can ever outweigh a strong present tempta-
tion, and lead a man to prefer the joys of con-
quest to the pleasures of indulgence.
BETTY BROWN,
THE ST. GILES'S ORANGE GIRL:
WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF MRS. SPONGE, THE MONEY.LENDER.
BETTY BROWN the orange girl, was born no-
body knows where, and bred nobody knows
how. No girl in all the streets of London could
drive a barrow more nimbly, avoid pushing
against passengers more dexterously, or cry her
'fine China oranges' in a shriller voice. But
then she could neither sew, nor spin, nor knit,
nor wash, nor iron, nor read, nor spell. Betty
had not been always in so good a situation as
that in which we now describe her. She came
into the world before so many good gentlemen
and ladies began to concern themselves so
kindly that the poor might have a little learning.
There was no charitable society then as there is
now, to pick up poor friendless children in the
streets,* and put them into a good house, and
give them meat, and drink, and lodging, and
learning, and teach them to get their bread in
an honest way, into the bargain. Whereas, this
now is often the case in London; blessed be God
who has ordered the bounds of our habitation,
and cast our lot in such a country!
of meat and cheese, the lumps of butter, or any
thing else she could crib from the house. These
were all carried to her friend, Mrs. Sponge, who
kept a little shop, and a kind of eating-house
for poor working people, not far from the Seven
Dials. She also bought as well as sold, many
kinds of second-hand things, and was not scru-
pulous to know whether what she bought was
honestly come by, provided she could get it for
a sixth part of what it was worth. But if the
owner presumed to ask for its real value, then
she had sudden qualms of conscience, instantly
suspected the things were stolen, and gave her-
self airs of honesty, which often took in poor
silly people, and gave her a sort of half reputa-
tion among the needy and ignorant, whose friend
she hypocritically pretended to be.
The longest thing that Betty can remember
is, that she used to crawl up out of a night cel-
lar, stroll about the streets, and pick cinders
from the scavengers' carts. Among the ashes
she sometimes found some ragged gauze and
dirty ribands; with these she used to dizen her-
self out, and join the merry bands on the first
of May. This was not, however, quite fair, as
she did not lawfully belong either to the female
dancers, who foot it gayly round the garland, or
to the sooty tribe, who, on this happy holyday,
forget their year's toil in Portman square, cheer-
ed by the tender bounty of her whose wit has
long enlivened the most learned, and whose
taste and talents long adorned the most polished
societies. Betty, however, often got a few scraps,
by appearing to belong to both parties. But as
she grew bigger and was not an idle girl, she
always put herself in the way of doing some-
thing. She would run of errands for the foot-
men, or sweep the door for the maid of any
house where she was known; she would run and
fetch some porter and never was once known
either to sip a drop by the way, or steal the pot.
Her quickness and fidelity in doing little jobs,
got her into favour with a lazy cook-maid, who
was too apt to give away her master's cold meat
and beer, not to those who were most in want,
but to those who waited upon her, and did the
little things for her which she ought to have
done herself.
The cook, who found Betty a dexterous girl,
soon employed her to sell ends of candles, pieces
The Philanthropic.
To this artful woman Betty carried the cook's
pilferings; and as Mrs. Sponge would give no
great price for these in money, the cook was
willing to receive payment for her eatables in
Mrs. Sponge's drinkables; for she dealt in all
kinds of spirits. I shall only just remark here,
that one receiver, like Mrs. Sponge, makes many
pilferers, who are tempted to commit these petty
thieveries, by knowing how easy it is to dispose
of them at such iniquitous houses.
•
Betty was faithful to both her employers,
which is extrrordinary, considering the great-
ness of the temptation and her utter ignorance
of good and evil. One day she ventured to ask
Mrs. Sponge, if she could not assist her to get
into a more settled way of life. She told her
that when she rose in the morning she never
knew where she should lie at night, nor was she
ever sure of a meal beforehand. Mrs. Sponge
asked her what she thought herself fit for
Betty, with fear and trembling, said there was
one trade for which she thought herself quali-
fied, but she had not the ambition to look so
high; it was far above her humble views; this
was, to have a barrow, and sell fruit, as several
other of Mrs. Sponge's customers did, whom she
had often looked up to with envy, little expect-
ing herself ever to attain so independent a sta-
tion.
Bad as
Mrs. Sponge was an artful woman.
she was, she was always aiming at something
of a character; this was a great help to her
trade. While she watched keenly to make every
thing turn to her own profit, she had a false
fawning way of seeming to do all she did out
of pity and kindness to the distressed; and she
seldom committed an extortion, but she tried to
make the persons she cheated believe them.
selves highly obliged to her kindness. By thus
248
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
pretending to be their friend, she gained their | You must also learn how to treat different sorts
confidence; and she grew rich herself, while of customers. To some you may put off, with
they thought she was only showing favour to safety, goods which would be quite unsaleable
them. Various were the arts she had of getting to others. Never offer bad fruit, Betty, to those
rich; and the money she got by grinding the who know better; never waste the good on those
poor, she spent in the most luxurious living; who may be put off with worse: put good
while she would haggle with her hungry cus-oranges at top to attract the eye, and the mouldy
tomers for a farthing, she would spend pounds ones under for sale.'
on the most costly delicacies for herself.
C
Poor Betty had not a nice conscience, for she
Mrs. Sponge, laying aside that haughty look had never learnt that grand, but simple rule of
and voice, well known to such as had the mis- all moral obligation, Never do that to another
fortune to be in her debt, put on the hypocritical which you would not have another do to you. She
smile and soft canting tone, which she always set off with her barrow, as proud and as happy
assumed, when she meant to flatter her supe- as if she had been set up in the first shop in
riors, or take in her dependents. Betty,' said Covent Garden. Betty had a sort of natural
she, I am resolved to stand your friend. These good temper, which made her unwilling to im-
are sad times to be sure. Money is money now. pose, but she had no principle which told her it
Yet I am resolved to put you in a handsome was a sin to do so. She had such good success,
way of living. You shall have a barrow, and that when night came, she had not an orange
well furnished too.' Betty could not have felt left. With a light heart she drove her empty
more joy or gratitude, if she had been told that barrow to Mrs. Sponge's door. She went in
she should have a coach. O, madam!' said with a merry face, and threw down on the coun-
Betty, it is impossible. I have not a penny in ter every farthing she had taken. Betty,' said
the world towards helping me to set up.' 'I will Mrs. Sponge, 'I have a right to it all, as it was
take care of that,' said Mrs. Sponge; only you got by my money. But I am too generous to
must do as I bid you. You must pay me in- take it. I will therefore only take sixpence for
terest for my money; and you will, of course, this day's use of my five shillings. This is a
be glad also to pay so much every night for a most reasonable interest, and I will lend you the
nice hot supper which I get ready quite out of same sum to trade with to-morrow, and so on;
kindness, for a number of poor working people. you only paying me sixpence for the use of it
This will be a great comfort for such a friend-every night, which will be a great bargain to
less girl as you, for my victuals and drink are
the best, and my company the merriest of any
in all St. Giles's.' Betty thought all this only so
many more favours, and curtseying to the
ground, said, To be sure, ma'am, and thank
you a thousand times into the bargain. I never
could hope for such a rise in life.'
C
Mrs. Sponge knew what she was about. Betty
was a lively girl, who had a knack at learning
any thing; and so well looking through all her
dirt and rags, that there was little doubt she
would get custom. A barrow was soon provided,
and five shillings put into Betty's hands. Mrs.
Sponge kindly condescended to go to show her
how to buy the fruit; for it was a rule with this
prudent gentlewoman, and one from which she
never departed, that no one should cheat but
herself; and suspecting from her own heart the
fraud of all other dealers, she was seldom guilty
of the weakness of being imposed upon.
Betty had never possessed such a sum before.
She grudged to lay it out all at once, and was
ready to fancy she could live upon the capital.
The crown, however, was laid out to the best
advantage. Betty was carefully taught in what
manner to cry her oranges; and received many
useful lessons how to get off the bad with the
good, and the stale with the fresh. Mrs. Sponge
also lent her a few bad sixpences, for which she
ordered her to bring home good ones at night.
Betty stared. Mrs. Sponge said, 'Betty, those
who would get money, must not be too nice
about trifles. Keep one of these sixpences in
your hand, and if an ignorant young customer
gives you a good sixpence, do you immediately
slip it into your other hand, and give him the
bad one, declaring that it is the very one you
have just received, and be ready to swear that
you have not another sixpence in the world.
you. You must also pay me my price every
night for your supper, and you shall have an ex-
cellent lodging above stairs; so you see every
thing will now be provided for you in a genteel
manner, through my generosity.'*
Poor Betty's gratitude blinded her so com-
pletely, that she had forgot to calculate the vast
proportion which this generous benefactress was
to receive out of her little gains. She thought
herself a happy creature, and went in to supper
with a number of others of her own class. For
this supper, and for more porter and gin than
she ought to have drunk, Betty was forced to
pay so high that it ate up all the profits of the
day, which, added to the daily interest, made
Mrs. Sponge a rich return for her five shillings.
Betty was reminded again of the gentility of
her new situation, as she crept up to bed in one
of Mrs. Sponge's garrets, five stories high. This
loft, to be sure, was small and had no window,
but what it wanted in light was made up in
company, as it had three beds and thrice as ma-
ny lodgers. Those gentry had one night, in a
drunken frolic, broken down the door, which
happily had never been replaced; for, since that
time, the lodgers had died much seldomer of in-
fectious distempers, than when they were close
shut in. For this lodging Betty paid twice as
much to her good friend as she would have done
to a stranger. Thus she continued with great
industry and a thriving trade, as poor as on the
first day, and not a bit nearer to saving money
enough to buy her even a pair of shoes, though
her feet were nearly on the ground.
One day, as Betty was driving her barrow
through a street near Holborn, a lady from a
this kind, see that very useful work of Mr. Colquhoun
on the Police of the Metropolis of London.'
*For an authentic account of numberless frauds of
(
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
249
window called out to her that she wanted some
oranges. While the servant went to fetch a
plate, the lady entered into some talk with Bet-
ty, having been struck with her honest counte-
nance and civil manner She questioned her as
to her way of life, and the profits of her trade;
and Betty, who had never been so kindly treated
before by so genteel a person, was very commu-
nicative. She told her little history as far as she
knew it, and dwelt much on the generosity of
Mrs. Sponge, in keeping her in her house, and
trusting her with so large a capital as five shil-
lings. At first it sounded like a very good-na.
tured thing; but the lady, whose husband was
one of the justices of the new police, happened
to know more of Mrs. Sponge than was good,
which led her to inquire still further. Betty
owned, that to be sure it was not all clear profit,
for that besides that the high price of the sup-
per and bed ran away with all she got, she paid
sixpence a-day for the use of the five shillings.'
'And how long have you done this?' said the
lady. About a year, madam.'
The lady's eyes were at once opened. ' My
poor girl,' said she, 'do you know that you have
already paid for that single five shillings the
enormous sum of 7l. 10s.? I believe it is the
most profitable five shillings Mrs. Sponge ever
laid out.' 'O no, madam,' said the girl, that
good gentlewoman does the same kindness to
ten or twelve other poor friendless creatures like
me.'-' Does she so?' said the lady; then I
never heard of a more lucrative trade than this
woman carries on, under the mask of charity,
at the expense of her poor deluded fellow crea-
tures.'
.
But, madam,' said Betty, who did not com-
prehend this lady's arithmetic,' what can I do?
I now contrive to pick up a morsel of bread
without begging or stealing. Mrs. Sponge has
been very good to me; and I don't see how I can
help myself.'
I will tell you,' said the lady: if you will
follow my advice, you may not only maintain
yourself honestly but independently. Only ob-
lige yourself to live hard for a little time, till
you have saved five shillings out of your own
earnings. Give up that expensive supper at
night, drink only one pint of porter, and no gin
at all. As soon as you have scraped together
the five shillings, carry it back to your false
friend; and if you are industrious, you will, at
the end of the year, have saved 71. 10s. If you
can make a shift to live now, when you have
this heavy interest to pay, judge how things will
mend when your capital becomes your own.
You will put some clothes on your back; and,
by leaving the use of spirits, and the company
in which you drink thern, your health, your mo-
rals, and your condition will mend.'
The lady did not talk thus to save her money.
She would willingly have given the girl the five
shillings; but she thought it was beginning at
the wrong end. She wanted to try her. Be-
sides, she knew there was more pleasure, as
well as honour, in possessing five shillings of
one's own saving, than of another's giving.
Betty promised to obey. She owned she had
got no good by the company or the liquor at
Mrs. Sponge's. She promised that very night
VOL. I.
to begin saving the expense of the supper: and
that she would not taste a drop of gin till she
had the five shillings beforehand. The lady,
who knew the power of good habits, was con-
tented with this, thinking, that if the girl could
abstain for a certain time, it would become easy
to her. She therefore, at present, said little
about the sin of drinking, and only insisted on
the expense of it.
In a very few weeks Betty had saved up the
five shillings. She went to carry back this
money with great gratitude to Mrs. Sponge.
This kind friend began to abuse her most un-
mercifully. She called her many hard names,
not fit to repeat, for having forsaken the supper,
by which she swore she herself got nothing at
all; but as she had the charity to dress it for
such beggarly wretches, she insisted they should
She also
pay for it, whether they eat it or not.
brought in a heavy score for lodging, though
Betty had paid for it every night, and had given
notice of her intending to quit her. By all these
false pretences, she got from her, not only her
own five shillings, but all the little capital with
which Betty was going to set up for herself.
All was not sufficient to answer her demands-
she declared she would send her to prison: but
while she went to call a constable, Betty con-
trived to make off.
With a light pocket and a heavy heart she
went back to the lady; and with many tears.
told her sad story. The lady's husband, the
justice, condescended to listen to Betty's tale.
He said Mrs. Sponge had long been upon his
books as a receiver of stolen goods. Betty's evi-
dence strengthened his bad opinion of her. "This
petty system of usury said the magistrate.
|
may be thought trifling; but it will no longer
appear so, when you reflect, that if one of these
female sharpers possesses a capital of seventy
shillings, or 31. 10s. with fourteen steady regu-
lar customers, she can realize a fixed income of
one hundred guineas a year. Add to this the
influence such a loan gives her over these friend-
less creatures, by compelling them to eat at her
house, or lodge, or buy liquors, or by taking
their pawns, and you will see the extent of the
evil. I pity these poor victims: you, Betty,
shall point out some of them to me, I will en-
deavour to open their eyes on their own bad
management. It is not by giving to the impor-
tunate shillings and half crowns, and turning
them adrift to wait for the next accidental re-
lief, that much good is done. It saves trouble,
indeed, but that trouble being the most valuable
part of charity, ought not to be spared; at least
by those who have leisure as well as affluence.
It is one of the greatest acts of kindness to the
poor to mend their economy, and to give them
right views of laying out their little money to
advantage. These poor blinded creatures look
no farther than to be able to pay this heavy in-
terest every night, and to obtain the same loan
on the same hard terms the next day. Thus
they are kept in poverty and bondage all their
lives; but I hope as many as hear of this will
go on a better plan, and I shall he ready to help
any who are willing to help themselves.' This
worthy magistrate went directly to Mrs. Sponge's
with proper officers; and he soon got to the bot-
250
THE WORKS OF HANNAII MORE.
tom of many iniquities. He not only made her,
refund poor Betty's money, but committed her
to prison for receiving stolen goods, and various
other offences, which may, perhaps, make the
subject of another history.
Betty was now set up in trade to her heart's
content. She had found the benefit of leaving
off spirits, and she resolved to drink them no
more. The first fruits of this resolution was,
that in a fortnight she bought her a pair of new
shoes; and as there was now no deduction for
interest, or for gin, her earnings became con-
siderable. The lady made her a present of a
gown and a hat, on the easy condition that she
should go to church.
to church. She accepted the terms,
at first rather as an act of obedience to the lady
than from a sense of higher duty. But she soon
began to go from a better motive. This constant
attendance at church, joined to the instructions
of the lady, opened a new world to Betty. She
now heard, for the first time, that she was a sin-
ner; that God had given a law which was holy,
just, and good; that she had broken this law,
had been a swearer, a Sabbath-breaker, and had
lived without God in the world. All this was
sad news to Betty; she knew, indeed, before,
that there were sinners, but she thought they
were only to be found in the prisons, or at Bo-
tany Bay, or in those mournful carts which she
had sometimes followed with her barrow, with
the unthinking crowd, to Tyburn. She was
deeply struck with the great truths revealed in
the Scripture, which were quite new to her;
her heart smote her, and she became anxious to
flee from the wrath to come. She was desirous
of improvement, and said, 'she would give up
all the profits of her barrow, and go into the
hardest service, rather than live in sin and ig-
norance.'
Betty,' said the lady, 'I am glad to see you
so well disposed, and will do what I can for you.
Your present way of life, to be sure, exposes
you to much danger; but the trade is not un-
lawful in itself, and we may please God in any
calling, provided it be not a dishonest one. In
this great town there must be barrow-women to
sell fruit. Do you, then, instead of forsaking
your business, set a good example to those in it,
and show them, that though a dangerous trade,
it need not be a wicked one. Till Providence
points out some safer way of getting your bread,
let your companions see, that it is possible to be
good even in this. Your trade being carried
on in the open street, and your fruit bought in
un open shop, you are not so much obliged to
keep sinful company as may be thought. Take
Take
a garret in an honest house, to which you may
go home in safety at night. I will give you a
bed, and a few necessaries to furnish your room;
and I will also give you a constant Sunday's
dinner. A barrow-woman, blessed be God and
|
|
our good laws, is as much her own mistress on
Sundays as a duchess; and the church and the
Bible are as much open to her. You may soon
learn as much of religion as you are expected
to know. A barrow-woman may pray as hearti-
ly morning and night, and serve God as accepta-
bly all day, while she is carrying on her little
trade, as if she had her whole time to spare.'
'To do this well, you must mind the following
C
'Rules for Retail Dealers.
'Resist every temptation to cheat.
Never impose bad goods on false pretences.
'Never put off bad money for good.
'Never use profane or uncivil language.-
'Never swear your goods cost so much, when
you know it is false. By so doing you are guilty
of two sins in one breath, a lie and an oath.
'To break these rules will be your chief
temptation. God will mark how you behave
under them, and will reward or punish you ac-
cordingly. These temptations will be as great
to you, as higher trials are to higher people;
but you have the same God to look to for strength
to resist them as they have.-You must pray to
him to give you this strength. You shall attend
a Sunday-school, where you will be taught these
good things; and I will promote you as you
shall be found to deserve.'
Poor Betty here burst into tears of joy and
gratitude, crying out, What! shall such a poor
friendless creature as I be treated so kindly, and
learn to read the word of God too? Oh, madam,
what a lucky chance brought me to your door!'
Betty,' said the lady, 'what you have just
said shows the need you have of being better
taught; there is no such thing as chance; and
we offend God when we call that luck or chance
which is brought about by his will and pleasure.
-None of the events of your life have happen-
ed by chance; but all have been under the di-
rection of a good and kind Providence. He has
permitted you to experience want and distress,
that you might acknowledge His hand in your
present comfort and prosperity. Above all, you
must bless his goodness in sending you to me,
not only because I have been of use to you in
your worldly affairs, but because he has enabled
me to show you the danger of your state from
sin and ignorance, and to put you in a way to
know his will and to keep his commandments,
which is eternal life.
How Betty, by industry and piety, rose in the
world, till at length she came to keep that hand-
some sausage shop near the Seven Dials, and
was married to that very hackney-coachman,
whose history and honest character
may
learned from that ballad of the Cheap Reposito-
ry which bears his name, may be shown here-
after
be
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
251
BLACK GILES THE POACHER:
CONTAINING SOME ACCOUNT OF A FAMILY WHO HAD RATHER LIVE BY THEIR WITS THAN THEIR
PART I.
WORK.
POACHING GILES lives on the borders of those
great moors in Somersetshire. Giles, to be sure,
has been a sad fellow in his time; and it is none
of his fault if his whole family do not end their
career, either at the gallows or Botany Bay. He
lives at that mud cottage with the broken win-
dows, stuffed with dirty rags, just beyond the
gate which divides the upper from the lower
moor. You may know the house at a good dis-
tance by the ragged tiles on the roof, and the
loose stones which are ready to drop out from
the chimney; though a short ladder, a hod of
mortar, and half an hour's leisure time, would
have prevented all this, and made the little
dwelling tight enough. But as Giles had never
learnt any thing that was good, so he did not
know the value of such useful sayings, as, that
a tile in time saves nine.'
learning to get their bread twenty honest ways,
are suffered to lie about all day, in the hope of
a few chance halfpence, which after all, they are
by no means sure of getting. Indeed, when the
neighbouring gentlemen found out that opening
the gate was a family trade, they soon left off
giving any thing. And I myself, though I used
to take out a penny ready to give, had there
been only one to receive it, when I see a whole
family established in so beggarly a trade, quietly
put it back again in my pocket, and give no-
thing at all. And so few travellers pass that
way, that sometimes after the whole family
have lost a day, their gains do not amount to
two-pence.
As Giles had a far greater taste for living by
his wits than his work, he was at one time in
hopes that his children might have got a pretty
penny by tumbling for the diversion of travel-
lers, and he set about training them in that in-
• Besides this, Giles fell into that common mis- decent practice; but unluckily the moors being
take, that a beggarly looking cottage, and filthy level, the carriage travelled faster than the chil
ragged children, raised most compassion, and of dren tumbled. He envied those parents who
course drew most charity. But as cunning as lived on the London road, over the Wiltshire
he was in other things, he was out in his reck-downs, which downs being very hilly, it enables
oning here; for it is neatness, housewifery, and the tumbler to keep pace with the traveller, till
a decent appearance, which draw the kindness he sometimes extorts from the light and unthink-
of the rich and charitable, while they turn awaying, a reward instead of a reproof. I beg leave,
disgusted from filth and laziness; not out of
pride, but because they see that it is next to im-
possible to mend the condition of those who de-
grade themselves by dirt and sloth; and few peo-
ple care to help those who will not help them-
selves.
:
The common on which Giles's hovel stands,
is quite a deep marsh in a wet winter: but in
summer it looks green and pretty enough. To
be sure it would be rather convenient when one
passes that way in a carriage, if one of the chil-
dren would run out and open the gate but in-
stead of any one of them running out as soon as
they heard the wheels, which would be quite
time enough, what does Giles do, but set all his
ragged brats, with dirty faces, matted locks, and
naked feet and legs, to lie all day upon a sand
bank hard by the gate, waiting for the slender
chance of what may be picked up from travellers.
At the sound of a carriage, a whole covey of these
little scare-crows start up, rush to the gate, and
all at once thrust out their hats and aprons; and
for fear this, together with the noise of their
clamorous begging, should not sufficiently
frighten the horses, they are very apt to let the
gate slap full against you, before you are half |
way through, in their eager scuffle to snatch
from each other the halfpence which you have
thrown out to them. I know two ladies who
were one day very near being killed by these
abominable tricks.
Thus five or six little idle creatures, who
might be earning a trifle by knitting at home,
who might be useful to the public by working in
the field, and who might assist their families by
however, to put all gentlemen and ladies in mind,
that such tricks are a kind of apprenticeship to
the trades of begging and thieving; and that
nothing is more injurious to good morals than,
to encourage the poor in any habits which
may lead them to live upon chance.
Giles, to be sure, as his children grew older,
began to train them to such other employments,
as the idle habits they had learned at the gate
very properly qualified them for. The right of
common, which some of the poor cottagers have
in that part of the country, and which is doubt-
less a considerable advantage to many, was
converted by Giles, into the means of corrupting
his whole family; for his children, as soon as
they grew too big for the trade of begging at the
gate, were promoted to the dignity of thieves on
the moor. Here he kept two or three asses,
miserable beings, which if they had the good
fortune to escape an untimely death by starving,
did not fail to meet with it by beating. Some
of the biggest boys were sent out with these
lean and galled animals to carry sand or coals
about the neighbouring towns. Both sand and
coals were often stolen before they got them to
sell; or if not, they always took care to cheat in
selling them. By long practice in this art, they
grew so dexterous, that they could give a pretty
good guess how large a coal they could crib out
of every bag before the buyer would be likely to
miss it.
All their odd time was taken up under the
pretence of watching their asses on the moor,
or running after five or six half-starved geese :
but the truth is these bovs were only watching
252
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
for an opportunity to steal an odd goose of their | might not bring on the dreaded subject. Now
neighbour's, while they pretended to look after it happened that Mr. Wilson was planting a
their own. They used also to pluck the quills little field of beans, so he thought this a good
or the down from these poor live creatures, or opportunity to employ Dick, and he told him he
half milk a cow before the farmer's maid came had got some pretty easy work for him. Dick
with her pail. They all knew how to calculate did as he was bid; he willingly went to work,
to a minute what time to be down in a morning and readily began to plant his beans with des-
to let out their lank hungry beasts, which they patch and regularity according to the directions
had turned over night into the farmer's field to given him.
steal a little good pasture. They contrived to While the boy was busily at work by himself,
get there just time enough to escape being | Giles happened to come by, having been skulk-
caught replacing the stakes they had pulled outing round the back way to look over the parson's
for the cattle to get over. For Giles was a pru- garden wall, to see if there was any thing worth
dent long-headed fellow; and whenever he stole climbing over for on the ensuing night. He
food for his colts, took care never to steal stakes spied Dick, and began to scold him for working
from the hedges at the same place. He had sense for the stingy old parson, for Giles had a natural
enough to know that the gain did not make up antipathy to whatever belonged to the church.
for the danger; he knew that a loose faggot, 'What has he promised thee a-day?' said he;
pulled from a neighbour's pile of wood after the little enough I dare say.' 'He is not to pay
family were gone to bed, answered the end me by the day,' said Dick,' but says he will
better, and was not half the trouble.
give me so much when I have planted this peck,
Among the many trades which Giles pro- and so much for the next.' 'Oh, oh ! that alters
fessed, he sometimes practised that of a rat- the case,' said Giles. One may, indeed, get a
catcher; but he was addicted to so many tricks, trifle by this sort of work. I hate your regular
that he never followed the same trade long; for day-jobs, where one can't well avoid doing one's
detection will, sooner or later, follow the best work for one's money. Come, give me a hand-
concerted villany. Whenever he was sent for ful of beans, I will teach thee how to plant when
to a farm house, his custom was to kill a few thou art paid for planting by the peck. All we
of the old rats, always taking care to leave a have to do in that case is to despatch the work as
little stock of young ones alive, sufficient to fast as we can, and get rid of the beans with all
keep up the breed; for,' said he, if I were to speed; and as to the seed coming up or not, that
be such a fool as to clear a house or a barn at is no business of our's; we are paid for planting
once, how would my trade be carried on?' not for growing. At the rate thou goest on thou
|
And where any barn was over-stocked, he used would'st not get sixpence to-night. Come along,
to borrow a few rats from thence, just to people bury away.' So saying he took his hatful of
a neighbouring granary which had none; and the seed, and where Dick had been ordered to
he might have gone on till now, had he not set one bean, Giles buried a dozen ; of course the
unluckily been caught one evening emptying beans were soon out. But though the peck was
his cage of rats under parson Wilson's barn emptied, the ground was unplanted. But cun-
ning Giles knew this could not be found out till
the time when the beans might be expected to
come up, and then Dick,' says he, 'the snails
and the mice may go shares in the blame, or
we can lay the fault on the rooks or the black-
birds.' So saying he sent the boy into the
sonage to receive his pay, taking care to secure
about a quarter of the peck of beans for his own
colt. He put both bag and beans into his own
pocket to carry home, bidding Dick tell Mr.
Wilson that he had planted the beans and lost
the bag.
door.
This worthy minister, Mr. Wilson, used to
pity the neglected children of Giles, as much as
he blamed the wicked parents. He one day
picked up Dick, who was far the best of Gile's
bad boys. Dick was loitering about in a field
behind the parson's garden in search of a hen's
nest, his mother having ordered him to bring
home a few eggs that night, by hook or by
crook, as Giles was resolved to have some pan-
cakes for supper, though he knew that eggs
were a penny a-piece. Mr. Wilson had long
been desirous of snatching some of this vagrant
family from ruin; and his chief hopes were
bent on Dick, as the least hackneyed in knavery.
He had once given him a new pair of shoes, on
his promising to go to school next Sunday; but
no sooner had Rachel, the boy's mother, got the
shoes into her clutches, than she pawned them
for a bottle of gin; and ordered the boy to keep
out of the parson's sight, and to be sure to play
his marbles on Sunday for the future, at the
other end of the parish, and not near the church-
yard. Mr. Wilson, however, picked up the boy
once more, for it was not his way to despair of
any body. Dick was just going to take to his
heels, as usual, for fear the old story of the shoes
should be brought forward; but finding he could
not get off, what does he do but run into a little
puddle of muddy water which lay between him
and the parson, that the sight of his naked feet
par-
In the meantime Giles's other boys were busy
in emptying the ponds and trout-streams in the
the neighbouring manor. They would steal
away the carp and tench when they were no
bigger than gudgeons. By this untimely de-
predation they plundered the owner of his pro-
perty, without enriching themselves. But the
pleasure of mischief was reward enough. These,
and a hundred other little thieveries, they com-
mitted with such dexterity, that old Tim Crib,
whose son was transported last assizes for sheep
stealing, used to be often reproaching his boys
that Giles's sons were worth a hundred of such
blockheads, as he had; for scarce a night pass-
ed but Giles had some little comfortable thing
for supper which his boys had pilfered in the
day, while his undutiful dogs never stole any
thing worth having. Giles, in the meantime,
was busy in his way, but as busy as he was
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
253
in laying his nets, starting coveys, and training One day poor Jack Weston, an honest fellow
dogs, he always took care that his depredations
should not be confined merely to game.
in the neighbourhood, whom Mr. Wilson had
kindly visited and relieved in a long sickness,
from which he was but just recovered, was
brought before him as he was sitting on the jus-
tice's bench; Jack was accused of having knock-
ed down a hare; and of all the birds in the air
who should the informer be but black Giles the
poacher? Mr. Wilson was grieved at the charge;
he had a great regard for Jack, but he had still
a greater regard for the law. The poor fellow
pleaded guilty. He did not deny the fact, but
said he did not consider it as a crime, for he did
not think game was private property, and he
owned he had a strong temptation for doing
what he had done, which he hoped would plead
his excuse. The justice desired to know what
this temptation was.' Sir,' said the poor fellow,
bad fever. I had no friend in the world but you,
sir. Under God you saved my life by your cha-
ritable relief; and I trust also you may have
helped to save my soul by your prayers and
your good advice; for, by the grace of God, I
have turned over a new leaf since that sickness.
Gile's boys had never seen the inside of a
church since they were christened, and the fa-
ther thought he knew his own interest better
than to force them to it; for church-time was
the season of their harvest. Then the hen's
nests were searched, a stray duck was clapped
under the smock frock, the tools which might
have been left by chance in a farm-yard were
picked up,and all the neighbouring pigeon-houses
were thinned, so that Giles used to boast to
tawny Rachel his wife, that Sunday was to
them the most profitable day in the week. With
her it was certainly the most laborious day, as
she always did her washing and ironing on the
Sunday morning, it being, as she said, the only
leisure day she had, for on the other days she' you know I was given over this spring in a
went about the country telling fortunes, and
selling dream-books and wicked songs. Neither
her husband's nor her children's clothes were
ever mended, and if Sunday, her idle day, had
not come about once in every week, it is likely
they would never have been washed neither.
You might however see her as you were going
to church smoothing her own rags on her best
red cloak, which she always used for her iron-
ing-cloth on Sundays, for her cloak when she
travelled, and for her blanket at night; such a
wretched manager was Rachel! Among her
other articles of trade, one was to make and sell
pepper-mint, and other distilled waters. These
she had the cheap art of making without trouble
and without expense, for she made them with-
out herbs and without a still. Her way was, to
fill so many quart bottles with plain water, put-
ting a spoonful of mint water in the mouth of
each; these she corked down with rosin, carry.
ing to each customer a phial of real distilled
water to taste by way of sample. This was so
good that her bottles were commonly bought up
without being opened; but if any suspicion
arose, and she was forced to uncork a bottle, by
the few drops of distilled water lying at top, she
even then escaped detection, and took care to
get out of reach before the bottle was opened a
second time. She was too prudent ever to go
twice to the same house.
The upright Magistrate.
There is hardly any petty mischief that is not
connected with the life of a poacher. Mr. Wil-
son was aware of this; he was not only a pious
clergyman, but an upright justice. He used to
say, that people who were truly conscientious,
must be so in small things as well as in great
ones, or they would destroy the effect of their
own precepts, and their example would not be
of general use. For this reason he never would
accept of a hare or a partridge from any unqua-
lified person in the parish: He did not content
himself with shuffling the thing off by asking
questions, and pretending to take it for granted
in a general way that the game was fairly come
at; but he used to say, that by receiving the
booty he connived at a crime, made himself a
sharer in it; and if he gave a present to the
man who brought it, he even tempted him to
repeat the fault.
'I know I can never make you amends for
all your goodness, but I thought it would be
some comfort to my full heart if I could but
once give you some little token of my gratitude.
So I had trained a pair of nice turtle doves for
madam Wilson, but they were stolen from me,
sir, and I do suspect black Giles stole them.
Yesterday morning, sir, as I was crawling out
to my work, for I am still but very weak, a fine
hare ran across my path. I did not stay to con-
sider whether it was wrong to kill a hare, but I
felt it was right to show my gratitude; so, sir,
without a moment's thought I did knock down
the hare, which I was going to carry to your
worship, because I knew madam was fond of
hare. I am truly sorry for my fault, and will
submit to whatever punishment your worship
may please to inflict.'
Mr. Wilson was much moved with this ho-
nest confession, and touched with the poor fel-
low's gratitude. What added to the effect of the
story, was the weak condition and pale sickly
looks of the offender. But this worthy magis-
trate never suffered his feeling to bias his inte-
grity; he knew that he did not sit on that bench
to indulge pity, but to administer justice; and
while he was sorry for the offender, he would
never justify the offence. John,' said he, 'I
am surprised that you could for a moment for-
get that I never accept any gift which causes
the giver to break a law. On Sunday I teach
you from the pulpit the laws of God, whose mi-
nister I am. At present I fill the chair of the
magistrate, to enforce and execute the laws of
the land. Between those and the others there
is more connexion than you are aware. I thank
you, John, for your affection to me, and I ad-
mire your gratitude; but I must not allow either
affection or gratitude to be brought as a plea
for a wrong action. It is not your business nor
mine, John, to settle whether the game laws are
good or bad. Till they are repealed we must
obey them. Many, I doubt not, break these laws
through ignorance, and many, I am certain,
who would not dare to steal a goose or a turkey,
254
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE:
rens.
make no scruple of knocking down a hare or a
partridge. You will hereafter think yourself
happy that this your first attempt has proved
unsuccessful, as I trust you are too honest a fel-
low ever to intend to turn poacher. With poach-
ing much moral evil is connected; a habit of
nightly depredation; a custom of prowling in
the dark for prey produces in time a disrelish
for honest labour. He whose first offence was
committed without much thought or evil inten-
tion, if he happens to succeed a few times in car-
rying off his booty undiscovered, grows bolder
and bolder: and when he fancies there is no
shame attending it, he very soon gets to per-
suade himself that there is also no sin. While
some people pretend a scruple about stealing a
sheep, they partly live by plundering of war-
But remember that the warrener pays a
high rent, and that therefore his rabbits are as
much his property as his sheep. Do not then
deceive yourselves with these false distinctions.
All property is sacred, and as the laws of the
land are intended to fence in that property, he
who brings up his children to break down any
of these fences, brings them up to certain sin
and ruin. He who begins with robbing orchards,
rabbit-warrens, and fish-ponds, will probably
end with horse-stealing or high-way robbery.
Poaching is a regular apprenticeship to bolder
crimes. He whom I may commit as a boy to
sit in the stocks for killing a partridge, may be
likely to end at the gallows for killing a man.
Observe, you who now hear me, the strict-
ness and impartiality of justice. I know Giles
to be a worthless fellow, yet it is my duty to
take his information; I know Jack Weston to
be an honest youth, yet I must be obliged to
make him pay the penalty. Giles is a bad man,
but he can prove this fact; Jack is a worthy
lad, but he has committed this fault. I am sorry
for you, Jack; but do not let it grieve you that
Giles has played worse tricks a hundred times,
and yet got off, while you were detected in the
very first offence, for that would be grieving be-
cause you are not as great a rogue as Giles. At
this moment you think your good luck is very
unequal; but all this will one day turn out in
your favour. Giles is not the more a favourite
of Heaven because he has hitherto escaped Bo-
tany Bay, or the hulks; nor is it any mark of
God's displeasure against you, John, that you
were found out in your very first attempt.'
•
seen that worldly prosperity is no sure sign of
goodness. Next month we may, perhaps, see
that the triumph of the wicked is short;' for I
then promise to give the second part of the
Poacher, together with the entertaining story
of the Widow Brown's Apple-tree.
PART II.
History of Widow Brown's Apple-tree.
I think my readers got so well acquainted
last month with black Giles the poacher, that
they will not expect this month to hear any
great good, either of Giles himself, his wife Ra-
chel, or any of their family. I am sorry to ex-
pose their tricks, but it is their fault, not mine.
If I pretend to speak about people at all, I must
tell the truth. I am sure, if folks would but turn
about and mend, it would be a thousand times
pleasanter to me to write their histories; for it
is no comfort to tell of any body's faults. If the
world would but grow good, I should be glad
enough to publish it; but till it really becomes
so, I must go on describing it as it is; other-
wise, I should only mislead my readers, instead
of instructing them. It is the duty of a faithful
historian to relate the evil with the good.
As to Giles and his boys, I am sure old widow
Brown has good reason to remember their dex-
terity. Poor woman! she had a fine little bed
of onions in her neat and well-kept garden; shie
was very fond of her onions, and many a rheu-
matism has she caught by kneeling down to
weed them in a damp day, notwithstanding the
little flannel cloak and the bit of an old mat
which madam Wilson gave her, because the old
woman would needs weed in wet weather. Her
onions she always carefully treasured up for her
winter's store; for an onion makes a little broth
very relishing, and is indeed the only savoury
thing poor people are used to get. She had also
a small orchard, containing about a dozen apple-
trees, with which in a good year she had been
known to make a couple of barrels of cider,
which she sold to her landlord towards paying
her rent, besides having a little keg which she
was able to keep back for her own drinking.
Well! would you believe it, Giles and his boys
marked both onions and apples for their own;
indeed, a man who stole so many rabbits from
the warrener, was likely enough to steal onions
for sauce. One day, when the widow was
abroad on a little business, Giles and his boys
made a clear riddance of the onion bed; and
when they had pulled up every single onion,
they then turned a couple of pigs into the gar-
den, who, allured by the smell, tore up the bed
Here the good justice left off speaking, and
no one could contradict the truth of what he had
said. Weston humbly submitted to his sentence,
but he was very poor, and knew not where to
raise the money to pay his fine. His character
had always been so fair, that several farmers
present kindly agreed to advance a trifle each
to prevent his being sent to prison, and he thank-in such a manner, that the widow, when she
fully promised to work out the debt. The jus-
tice himself, though he could not soften the law,
yet showed Weston so much kindness that he
was enabled before the year was out, to get out
of this difficulty. He began to think more se-
riously than he had ever yet done, and grew to
abhor poaching, not merely from fear, but from
principle.
We shall soon see whether poaching Giles al-
ways got off so successfully. Here we have
came home, had not the least doubt but the pigs
had been the thieves. To confirm this opinion,
they took care to leave the latch half open at
one end of the garden, and to break down a
slight fence at the other end.
I wonder how any body can find in his heart
not to pity and respect poor old widows. There
is something so forlorn and helpless in their
condition, that methinks it is a call on every
body, men, women, and children, to do them all
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
255
;
the kind services that fall in their way. Surely The neighbours on their return from church
their having no one to take their part, is an ad-stopped as usual, but it was not, alas ! to admire
ditional reason for kind-hearted people not to the apples, for apples there were none left, but
hurt and oppress them. But it was this very
But it was this very to lament the robbery, and console the widow
reason which led Giles to do this woman an in- meantime the red-streaks were safely lodged in
jury. With what a touching simplicity is it Giles's hovel under a few bundles of new hay
recorded in Scripture, of the youth whom our which he had contrived to pull from the farmer's
blessed Saviour raised from the dead, that he mow the night before, for the use of his jack-
was the only son of his mother, and she a widow! asses. Such a stir, however, began to be made
It happened unluckily for poor widow Brown about the widow's apple-tree, that Giles, who
that her cottage stood quite alone. On several knew how much his character had laid him open
mornings together, (for roguery gets up much to suspicion, as soon as he saw the people safe
earlier than industry,) Giles and his boys stole in church again in the afternoon, ordered his
regularly into her orchard, followed by their boys to carry each a hatful of the apples and
jack-asses. She was so deaf that she could not thrust them in a little casement window which
hear the asses if they had brayed ever so loud, happened to be open in the house of Samuel
and to this Giles trusted; for he was very cau- Price, a very honest carpenter in that parish.
tious in his rogueries; since he could not other- who was at church with his whole family.
wise have contrived so long to keep out of prison; Giles's plan, by this contrivance, was to lay the
for though he was almost always suspected, he theft on Price's sons in case the thing should
had seldom been taken up, and never convicted. come to be further inquired into. Here Dick
The boys used to fill their bags, load their asses, put in a word, and begged and prayed his father
and then march off; and if in their way to the not to force them to carry the apples to Price's.
town where the apples were to be sold they But all that he got by his begging was such a
chanced to pass by one of their neighbours who knock as had nearly laid him on the earth.
might be likely to suspect them, they then all 'What, you cowardly rascal,' said Giles, 'you
at once began to scream out, Buy my coal!- will go aud 'peach, I suppose, and get your
buy my sand!'
father sent to gaol.'
•
Besides the trees in her orchard, poor widow
Brown had in her small garden, one apple-tree
particularly fine; it was a red-streak, so tempt-
ing and so lovely, that Giles's family had watch-
ed it with longing eyes, till at last they resolved
on a plan for carrying off all this fine fruit in
their bags. But it was a nice point to manage.
The tree stood directly under her chamber win-
dow, so that there was some danger that she
might spy them at the work. They therefore
determined to wait till the next Sunday morn-
ing when they knew she would not fail to be at
church. Sunday came, and during service Giles
attended. It was a lone house, as I said before,
and the rest of the parish were safe at church.
In a trice the tree was cleared, the bags were
filled, the asses were whipped, the thieves were
off, the coast was clear, and all was safe and
quiet by the time the sermon was over.
Unluckily, however, it happened, that this
tree was so beautiful, and the fruit so fine, that
the people, as they used to pass to and from the
church, were very apt to stop and admire widow
Brown's red-streaks: and some of the farmers
rather envied her that in that scarce season,
when they hardly expected to make a pye out
of a large orchard, she was likely to make a
cask of cider from a single tree. I am afraid,
indeed, if I must speak out, she herself rather
set her heart too much upon this fruit, and had
felt as much pride in her tree as gratitude to a
good Providence for it; but this failing of hers
was no excuse for Giles. The covetousness of
The covetousness of
this thief had for once got the better of his cau-
tion; the tree was too completely stripped,
though the youngest boy Dick did beg hard that
his father would leave the poor old woman
enough for a few dumplings; and when Giles
ordered Dick in his turn to shake the tree, the
boy did it so gently that hardly any apples fell,
for which he got a good stroke of the stick with
which the old man was beating down the apples.
;
Poor widow Brown, though her trouble had
mode her still weaker than she was, went to
church again in the afternoon indeed she
rightly thought that her being in trouble was a
new reason why she ought to go. During the
service she tried with all her might not to think
of her red-streaks, and whenever they would
come into her head, she took up her prayer-book
directly, and so she forgot them a little; and in-
deed she found herself much easier when she
came out of the church than when she went in
an effect so commonly produced by prayer, that
methinks it is a pity people do not try it oftener.
Now it happened oddly enough, that on that
Sunday, of all the Sundays in the year, the wi-
dow should call in to rest a little at Samuel
Price's, to tell over again the lamentable story
of the apples, and to consult with him how the
thief might be brought to justice. But O, reader!
guess if you can, for I am sure I cannot tell you,
what was her surprise, when, on going into
Samuel Price's kitchen, she saw her own red·
streaks lying on the window! The apples were
of a sort too remarkable, for colour, shape, and
size, to be mistaken. There was not such an-
other tree in the parish. Widow Brown imme.
diately screamed out, Alas-a-day! as sure as
can be, here are my red-streakes; I could swear
to them in any court.' Samuel Price, who be-
lieved his sons to be as honest as himself, was
shocked and troubled at the sight. He knew he
had no red-streaks of his own, he knew there
were no apples in the window when he went to
church : he did verily believe these apples to be
the widow's. But how they came there he could
not possibly guess. He called for Tom, the only
one of his sons who now lived at home. Tom
was at the Sunday-school, which he had never
once missed since Mr. Wilson the minister had
set up one in the parish. Was such a boy likely
to do such a deed!
A crowd was by this time got about Price's
256
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
ני
saved his life when he was just sinking; the re-
membrance of all this made his heart heavy.
He said nothing; but as he trotted barefoot
after the asses, he heard his father and bro-
thers laugh at having outwitted the godly ones;
and he grieved to think how poor Tom would
suffer for his wickedness, yet fear kept him si-
lent; they called him a sulky dog, and lashed
the asses till they bled.
In the mean time Tom Price kept up his
spirits as well as he could. He worked hard
all day, and prayed heartily night and morning.
It is true, said he to himself, I am not guilty of
this sin; but let this accusation set me on ex-
amining myself, and truly repenting of all my
other sins; for I find enough to repent of, though
I thank God I did not steal the widow's ap
ples.
door, among which were Giles and his boys,
who had already taken care to spread the news
that Tom Price was the thief. Most people
were unwilling to believe it. His character
was very good, but appearances were strongly
against him. Mr. Wilson, who had staid to
christen a child, now came in. He was much
concerned that Tom Price, the best boy in his
school, should stand accused of such a crime.
He sent for the boy, examined, and cross-ex-
amined him. No marks of guilt appeared.
him.-No
But still though he pleaded not guilty, there lay
the red-streaks in his father's window. All the
idle fellows in the place, who were most likely
to have committed such a theft themselves, were
the very people who fell with vengeance on poor
Tom. The wicked seldom give any quarter.
'This is one of your sanctified ones!' cried they.
This was all the good that Sunday-schools did! At length Sunday came, and Tom went to
For their parts they never saw any good come school as usual. As soon as he walked in there
by religion. Sunday was the only day for a was a great deal of whispering and laughing
little pastime, and if poor boys must be shut up among the worst of the boys; and he overheard
with their godly books, when they ought to be them say, 'Who would have thought it? This
out taking a little pleasure, it was no wonder is master's favourite!-This is parson Wilson's
they made themselves amends by such tricks.' sober Tommy! We shan't have Tommy thrown
Another said he should like to see parson Wil-in our teeth again if we go to get a bird's nest,
son's righteous one well whipped. A third
hoped he would be clapped in the stocks for a
young hypocrite as he was; while old Giles,
who thought the only way to avoid suspicion
was by being more violent than the rest, de-
clared, that he hoped the young dog would be
transported for life.'
or gather a few nuts on a Sunday.' 'Your de
mure ones are always hypocrites,' says another.
The still sow sucks all the milk,' says a
third.
Giles's family had always kept clear of the
school. Dick, indeed, had sometimes wished to
go; not that he had much sense of sin, or de-
Mr. Wilson was too wise and too just to pro-sire after goodness, but he thought if he could
ceed against Tom without full proof-He de-
clared the crime was a very heavy one, and he
feared that heavy must be the punishment.
Tom, who knew his own innocence, earnestly
prayed to God that it might be made to appear
as clear as the noon-day; and very fervent were
his secret devotions on that night.
Black Giles passed his night in a very differ-
ent manner. He set off as soon as it was dark,
with his sons and their jack-asses, laden with
their stolen goods. As such a cry was raised
about the apples, he did not think it safe to keep
them longer at home, but resolved to go and sell
them at the next town; borrowing without leave
a lame colt out of the moor to assist in carrying
off his booty.
once read, he might rise in the world, and not
be forced to drive asses all his life. Through
this whole Saturday night he could not sleep.
He longed to know what would be done to Tom.
He began to wish to go to school, but he had not
courage; sin is very cowardly. So on the Sun-
day morning he went and sat himself down un-
der the church wall. Mr. Wilson passed by. It
was not his way to reject the most wicked, till
he had tried every means to bring them over;
and even then he pitied and prayed for them.
He had, indeed, long left off talking to Giles's
sons; but seeing Dick sitting by himself, he once
more spoke to him, desired him to leave off his
vagabond life, and go with him into the school.
The boy hung down his head, but made no an-
Giles and his eldest sons had rare sport all the swer. He did not, however, either rise up and
way in thinking, that while they were enjoying run away, or look sulky, as he used to do. The
the profit of their plunder, Tom Price would be minister desired him once more to go. Sir,'
whipt round the market place at least, if not said the boy, 'I can't go; I am so big I am
sent beyond sea. But the younger boy Dick, ashamed.' The bigger you are the less time
who had naturally a tender heart, though hard- you have to lose.' But, sir, I can't read.' 'Then
• I should be
ened by his long familiarity with sin, could not it is high time you should learn.'
help crying, when he thought that Tom Price ashamed to begin to learn my letters.'
might, perhaps, be transported for a crime which shame is not in beginning to learn them, but in
he himself had helped to commit. He had had being contented never to know them.'—' But,
no compuction about the robbery, for he had not sir, I am so ragged! God looks at the heart,
been instructed in the great principles of truth and not at the coat.' 'But, sir, I have no shoes
and justice; nor would he therefore, perhaps, and stockings.' 'So much the worse.
have had much remorse about accusing an in-member who gave you both-(Here Dick co-
nocent boy. But though utterly devoid of prin- loured.) It is bad to want shoes and stockings,
ciple, he had some remains of natural feeling but still if you can drive your asses a dozen
and of gratitude. Tom Price had often given miles without them, you may certainly walk a
him a bit of his own bread and cheese; and once, hundred yards to school without them.'
when Dick was like to be drowned, Tom had Sir, the good boys will hate me, and won't speak
jumped into the pond with his clothes on, and to me.'- Good boys hate nobedy; and as to not
•The
I re-
. But,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
257
speaking to you, to be sure they will not keep,
your company while you go on in your present
evil courses, but as soon as they see you wish to
reform, they will help you, and pity you, and
teach you; and so come along.'-Here Mr. Wil-
son took this dirty boy by the hand, and gently
pulled him forward, kindly talking to him all
the way, in the most condescending manner.
How the whole school stared to see Dick Giles
come in! No one however, dared to say what
he thought. The business went on, and Dick
slunk into a corner, partly to hide his rags, and
partly to hide his sin; for last Sunday's trans-
action sat heavy on his heart, not because he
had stolen the apples, but because Tom Price
had been accused. This, I say, made him slink
behind. Poor boy! he little thought there was
ONE saw him who sees all things, and from
whose eye no hole nor corner can hide the sin-
ner: for he is about our bed, and about our
path, and spieth out all our ways.'
the only one he broke? Now suppose I could
prove to you that he probably broke not less
than six out of those ten commandments, which
the great Lord of heaven himself stooped down
from his eternal glory to deliver to men, would
you not, then, think it a terrible thing to steal,
whether apples or guineas?
Boy. Yes, master.
Master. I will put the case. Some wicked boy
has robbed widow Brown's orchard. (Here the
eyes of every one were turned on poor Tom
Price, except those of Dick Giles, who fixed his
on the ground.) I accuse no one, continued the
master, Tom Price is a good boy, and was not
missing at the time of the robbery; these are
two reasons why I presume that he is innocent;
but whoever it was, you allow that by stealing
these apples he broke the eighth commandment?
Boy. Yes, master.
Master. On what day were these apples
stolen ?
Boy. On Sunday.
Master. What is the fourth commandment?
Boy. Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath-day
Master. Does that person keep holy the Sab.
bath-day who loiters in an orchard on Sunday,
when he should be at church, and steals apples
when he ought to be saying his prayers?
Boy. No, master.
Master. What command does he break?
Boy. The fourth.
It was the custom in that school, and an ex-
cellent custom it is, for the master, who was a
good and wise man, to mark down in his pocket-
book all the events of the week, that he might
turn them to some account in his Sunday even-
ing instructions; such as any useful story in the
newspaper, any account of boys being drowned
as they were out in a pleasure boat on Sundays,
any sudden death in the parish, or any other re-
markable visitation of Providence; insomuch,
that many young people in the place, who did
not belong to the school, and many parents also,
used to drop in for an hour on a Sunday even-
ing, when they were sure to hear something
profitable. The minister greatly approved this
practice, and often called in himself, which was
a great support to the master, and encourage-ther.
ment to the people who attended.
The master had taken a deep concern in the
story of widow Brown's apple tree. He could
not believe Tom Price was guilty, nor dared he
pronounce him innocent; but he resolved to turn
the instructions of the present evening to this
subject. He began thus: 'My dear boys, how-
ever light some of you may make of robbing an
orchard, yet I have often told you there is no
such thing as a little sin, if it be wilful or habi-
tual. I wish now to explain to you, also, that
there is hardly such a thing as a single solitary
sin. You know I teach you not merely to re-
peat the commandments as an exercise for your
memory, but as a rule for your conduct. If
you
were to come here only to learn to read and spell
on a Sunday, I should think that was not em-
ploying God's day for God's work; but I teach
you to read that you may, by this means, come
so to understand the Bible and the Catechism,
as to make every text in the one, and every
question and answer in the other, to be so fixed
in your hearts, that they may bring forth in you
the fruits of good living.'
Master. How many commandments are there?
Boy. Ten.
Master. How many commandments did that
boy break who stole widow Brown's apples?
Boy. Only one, master; the eighth.
Muster. What is the eighth?
Boy. Thou shalt not steal.
Master. Suppose this boy had parents who
had sent him to church, and that he had dis
obeyed them by not going, would that be keep.
ing the fifth commandment?
Boy. No, master; for the fifth commandment
says, Thou shalt honour thy father and thy mo-
This was the only part of the case in which
poor Dick Giles's heart did not smite him; he
knew he had disobeyed no father; for his father;
alas! was still wickeder than himself, and had
brought him up to commit the sin. But what a
wretched comfort was this! The master went on.
Master. Suppose this boy earnestly coveted
this fruit, though it belonged to another person;
would that be right?
Boy. No, master; for the tenth command:
ment says, thou shalt not covet.
Master. Very well. Here are four of God's
positive commands already broken. Now do
you think thieves ever scruple to use wicked
words?
Boy. I am afraid not, master.
Here Dick Giles was not so hardened but that
he remembered how many curses had passed
between him and his father while they were
filling the bags, and he was afraid to look up.
The master went on.
I will now go one step further. If the thief,
to all his other sins, has added that of accusing
the innocent to save himself, if he should break
the ninth commandment, by bearing false wit-
ness against a harmless neighbour, then six com-
mandments are broken for an apple! But if it be
otherwise, if Tom Price should be found guilty,
it is not his good character shall save him. I shall
shed tears over him, but punish him I must,
and that severely. No, that you shan't,' roared
Master. And you are very eure that this was out Dick Giles, who sprung from his hiding
R
*
258
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
place, fell on his knees, and burst out a crying,
Tom Price is as good a boy as ever lived; it
was father and I who stole the apples!'
It would have done your heart good to have
seen the joy of the master, the modest blushes
of Tom Price, and the satisfaction of every ho-
nest boy in the school. All shook hands with
Tom, and even Dick got some portion of pity. I
wish I had room to give my readers the moving
exhortation which the master gave. But while
Mr. Wilson left the guilty boy to the manage.
ment of the master, he thought it became him,
as a minister and a magistrate, to go to the ex-
tent of the law in punishing the father. Early
on the Monday morning he sent to apprehend
Giles. In the meantime Mr. Wilson was sent
for to a gardener's house two miles distant, to
attend a man who was dying. This was a duty
to which all others gave way in his mind. He
set out directly; but what was his surprise, on
his arrival, to see, on a little bed on the floor,
poaching Giles lying in all the agonies of death!
Jack Weston, the same poor young man against
whom Giles had informed for killing a hare,
was kneeling by him, offering him some broth,
and talking to him in the kindest manner. Mr.
Wilson begged to know the meaning of all this;
and Jack Weston spoke as follows:
'At four in the morning, as I was going out
to mow, passing under the high wall of this gar-
den, I heard a most dismal moaning. The
nearer I came the more dismal it grew. At last,
who should I see but poor Giles groaning, and
struggling uuder a quantity of bricks and stones,
but not able to stir. The day before he had
marked a fine large net on this old wall, and re-
solved to steal it, for he thought it might do as
well to catch partridges as to preserve cherries;
so, sir, standing on the very top of this wall, and
tugging with all his might to loosen the net
from the hooks which fastened it, down came
Giles, net, wall, and all; for the wall was gone
to decay. It was very high indeed, and poor
Giles not only broke his thigh, but has got a
terrible blow on his head, and is bruised all over
like a mummy. On seeing me, sir, poor Giles
cried out, 'Oh, Jack! I did try to ruin thee by
lodging that information, and now thou wilt be
revenged by letting me lie here and perish.'
'God forbid, Giles! cried I; thou shalt see what
sort of revenge a Christian takes.' So sir, I
sent off the gardener's boy to fetch a surgeon,
while I scampered home and brought on my
back this bit of a hammock, which is indeed my
own bed, and put Giles upon it: we then lifted
him up, bed and all, as tenderly as if he had
been a gentleman, and brought him in here.
My wife has just brought him a drop of nice
broth; and now, sir, as I have done what I
could for this poor perishing body, it was I who
took the liberty to send to you to come to try to
help his poor soul, for the doctor says he can't
live.
Mr. Wilson could not help saying to himself,
Such an action as this is worth a whole volume
of comments on that precept of our blessed Mas-
ter, Love your enemies; do good to them that
hate you. Giles's dying groans confirmed the
sad account Weston had just given. The poor
wretch could neither pray himself nor attend to
the minister. He could only cry out, 'Oh! sir,
what will become of me? I don't know how to
repent. O my poor wicked children! Sir, I
have bred them all up in sin and ignorance.
Have mercy on them, sir; let me not meet them
in the place of torment to which I am going.
Lord grant them that time for repentance which
I have thrown away! He languished a few
days, and died in great misery:- a fresh and
sad instance that people who abuse the grace
of God and resist his Spirit, find it difficult to
repent when they will.
Except the minister and Jack Weston, no one
came to see poor Giles, besides Tommy Price,
who had been so sadly wronged by him. Tom
often brought him his own rice-milk or apple-
dumpling; and Giles, ignorant and depraved as
he was, often cried out,That he thought now
there must be some truth in religion, since it
taught even a boy to deny himself, and to for-
give an injury. Mr. Wilson the next Sunday,
made a moving discourse on the danger of what
are called petty offences. This, together with the
awful death of Giles, produced such an effect
that no poacher has been able to show his head
in that parish ever since.
TAWNEY RACHEL;
OR, THE FORTUNE TELLER :
WITH SOME ACCOUNT OF DREAMS, OMENS, AND CONJURORS.
But Rachel only made this traffic a pretence for
getting admittance into farmers' kitchens in
order to tell fortunes.
TAWNEY RACHEL was the wife of poaching | honest people, let them trade in what they will.
Giles. There seemed to be a conspiracy in
Giles's whole family to maintain themselves by
tricks and pilfering. Regular labour and honest
industry did not suit their idle habits. They
had a sort of genius at finding out every unlaw-
ful means to support a vagabond life. Rachel
travelled the country with a basket on her arm.
She pretended to get her bread by selling laces,
cabbage-nets, ballads, and history books, and
used to buy old rags and rabbit skins. Many
honest people trade in these things, and I
am sure I do not mean to say a word against
She was continually practising on the credu-
lity of silly girls; and took advantage of their
ignorance to cheat and deceive them. Many
an innocent servant has she caused to be sus-
pected of a robbery, while she herself, perhaps,
was in league with the thief. Many a harmless
maid has she brought to ruin by first contriving
plots and events herself, and then pretending to
foretel them. She had not, to be sure, the power
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
259
of really foretelling things, because she had no
power of seeing into futurity: but she had the
art sometimes to bring them about according as
she foretold them. So she got that credit for
her wisdom which really belonged to her wick-
edness.
cellar door, and on no pretence to open it in less
than forty-eight hours. If,' added she, 'you
closely follow these directions, then, by the power
of my art, you will find the basin conveyed to
the very stone under which the money lies hid,
and a fine treasure it be!" Mrs. Jenkins, who
firmly believed every word the woman said, did
exactly as she was told, and Rachel took her
leave with a handsome reward.
When farmer Jenkins came home he desired
his wife to draw him a cup of cider; this she
Rachel was also a famous interpreter of
dreams, and could distinguish exactly between
the fate of any two persons who happened to
have a mole on the right or the left cheek. She
had a cunning way of getting herself off when
any of her prophecies failed. When she ex-put off so long that he began to be displeased.
plained a dream according to the natural ap-
pearance of things, and it did not come to pass;
then she would get out of that scrape by saying,
that this sort of dreams went by contraries. Now
of two very opposite things, the chance always
is that one of them may turn out to be true; so
in either case she kept up the cheat.
to that name, when she insisted that the cellar
door might be kept locked till she had time to
get out of the reach of all pursuit.
At last she begged he would be so good as to
drink a little beer instead. He insisted on know-
ing the reason, and when at last he grew angry,
she told him all that had passed; and owned
that as the pot of gold happened to be in the ci
der cellar, she did not dare open the door, as she
was sure it would break the charm. • And it
Rachel, in one of her rambles, stopped at the would be a pity you know,' said she, 'to lose a
house of farmer Jenkins. She contrived to call good fortune for the sake of a draught of cider."
when she knew the master of the house was The farmer, who was not so easily imposed
from home, which indeed was her usual way. upon, suspected a trick. He demanded the key,
She knocked at the door; the maids being in and went and opened the cellar door; there he
the field haymaking, Mrs. Jenkins went to open found the basin, and in it five round pieces of
it herself. Rachel asked her if she would please tin covered with powder. Mrs. Jenkins burst
to let her light her pipe? This was a common out a-crying; but the farmer thought of nothing
pretence, when she could find no other way of but of getting a warrant to apprehend the cun-
getting into a house. While she was filling herning woman. Indeed she well proved her claim
pipe, she looked at Mrs. Jenkins, and said, she
could tell her some good fortune. The farmer's
wife, who was a very inoffensive, but a weak
and superstitious woman, was curious to know Poor Sally Evans! I am sure she rued the
what she meant. Rachel then looked about day that ever she listened to a fortune-teller.
carefully, and shutting the door with a myste- Sally was as harmless a girl as ever churned a
rious air, asked her if she was sure nobody would pound of butter; but Sally was credulous, igno-
hear them. This appearance of mystery was rant and superstitious. She delighted in dream
at once delightful and terrifying to Mrs. Jen- books, and had consulted all the cunning women
kins, who, with trembling agitation, bid the in the country to tell her whether the two moles
cunning woman speak out. Then,' said Ra- on her cheek denoted that she was to have two
chel in a solemn whisper,' there is to my certain husbands, or two children. If she picked up an
knowledge a pot of money hid under one of the old horse-shoe going to church, she was sure
stones in your cellar.'-'Indeed!" said Mrs. that would be a lucky week. She never made
Jenkins, it is impossible, for now I think of it, a black pudding without borrowing one of the
I dreamt last night I was in prison for debt.' parson's old wigs to hang in the chimney, firmly
• Did
you really said Rachel; 'that is quite believing there was no other means to preserve
surprising. Did you dream this before twelve them from burning. She would never go to bed
o'clock or after ?'-'O it was this morning, just on Midsummer eve without sticking up in her
before I awoke.'-' Then I am sure it is true, room the well-known plant called Midsummer-
for morning dreams always go by contraries," men, as the bending of the leaves to the right
cried Rachel. 'How lucky it was you dreamt or to the left, would not fail to tell her whether
it so late.'-Mrs. Jenkins could hardly contain Jacob, of whom we shall speak presently, was
her joy, and asked how the money was to be true or false. She would rather go five miles
There is but one way,' said Rachel; about than pass near a church-yard at night.
I must go into the cellar. I know by my art Every seventh year she would not eat beans be-
under which stone it lies, but I must not tell.' cause they grew downward in the pod, instead
Then they both went down into the cellar, but of upward; and, though a very neat girl, she
Rachel refused to point at the stone unless Mrs. would rather have gone with her gown open
Jenkins would put five pieces of gold into a ba- than have taken a pin from an old woman, for
sin and do as she directed. The simple woman, fear of being bewitched. Poor Sally had so ma-
instead of turning her out of doors for a cheat,ny unlucky days in her calender, that a large
did as she was bid. She put the guineas into a
basin which she gave into Rachel's hand. Ra-
chel strewed some white powder over the gold,
muttered some barbarous words, and pretended
to perform the black art. She then told Mrs.
Jenkins to put the basin quietly down within
the cellar; teling her that if she offered to look
into it, or even to speak a word, the charm would
be broken She also directed her to lock the
come at.
portion of her time became of little use, because
on these days she did not dare set about any
new work. And she would have refused the
best offer in the country if made to her on a
Friday, which she thought so unlucky a day that
she often said what a pity it was that there were
any Friday in the week. Sally had twenty
pounds left her by her grandmother. She had
long been courted by Jacob, a sober tad, with
260
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
whom she lived fellow servant at a creditable
farmer's. Honest Jacob, like his namesake of
old, thought it little to wait seven years to get
this damsel to wife, because of the love he bore
her, for Sally had promised to marry him when
he could match her twenty pounds with another
of his own.
Now there was one Robert, a rambling idle
young gardener, who, instead of sitting down
steadily in one place, used to roam about the
country, and do odd jobs where he could get
them. No one understood any thing about him,
except that he was a down-looking fellow, who
came nobody knew whence, and got his bread
nobody knew how, and never had a penny in
his pocket. Robert, who was now in the neigh-
bourhood, happened to hear of Sally Evans and
her twenty pounds. He immediately conceived
a long desire for the latter. So he went to his
old friend Rachel the fortune-teller, told her all
he had heard of Sally, and promised if she could
bring about a marriage between them, she should
go shares in the money.
"
it.
It
But true it is, it certainly cured me.
must be the sixpence you know, for I am sure I
did nothing else for my ague, except indeed
taking some bitter stuff every three hours which
the doctor called bark. To be sure I lost my
ague soon after I took it, but I am certain it
was owing to the crooked sixpence, and not to
the bark. And so, good woman, you may come
in, if you will, for there is not a soul in the
house but me.' This was the very thing Ra-
chel wanted to know, and very glad she was to
learn it.
While Sally was above stairs untying her
glove, Rachel slipped in to the parlour, took a
small silver cup from the beaufet, and clapped
it into her pocket. Sally ran down, lamenting
that she had lost her sixpence, which she verily
believed was owing to her having put it into
a left glove, instead of a right one. Rachel
comforted her by saying, that if she gave her
two plain ones instead, the charm would work
just as well. Simple Sally thought herself hap-
py to be let off so easily, never calculating that
a smooth shilling was worth two crooked six-
pences. But this skill was a part of the black
art in which Rachel excelled. She took the
money and began to examine the lines of Sally's
left hand. She bit her withered lip, shook her
| head, and bade her poor dupe beware of a young
No, indeed,' cried
man who had black hair.
Sally, all in a fright, 'you mean black eyes, for
our Jacob has got brown hair, 'tis his eyes that
That is the very thing I was go-
are black.'
Rachel undertook the business. She set off
to the farm-house, and fell to singing one of her
most enticing songs just under the dairy win-
dow. Sally was so struck with the pretty tune,
which was unhappily used, as is too often the
case, to set off some very loose words, that she
jumped up, dropped the skimming dish into the
cream and ran out to buy the song. While she
stooped down to rummage the basket for those
songs which had the most tragical pictures (for
Sally had a tender heart, and delighted in what-ing to say,' muttered Rachel, I meant eyes,
ever was mournful) Rachel looked stedfastly in though I said hair, for I know his hair is as
her face, and told her she knew by art that she brown as a chesnut, and his eyes as black as a
was born to good fortune, but advised her not sloe.' 'So they are, sure enough,' cried Sally,
to throw herself away. These two moles on how in the world could you know that?" for-
vour cheek,' added she, 'show you are in some getting that she herself had just told her so.
danger.' 'Do they denote husbands or chil- And it is thus that these hags pick out of the
dren?' cried Sally, starting up, and letting fall credulous all which they afterwards pretend to
the song of the Children in the Wood-Hus- reveal to them. O, I know a pretty deal more
bands,' muttered Rachel-'Alas! poor Jacob!' than that,' said Rachel, but you must beware
said Sally, mournfully, then he will die first, of this man.' Why so,' cried Sally, with great
won't he?" 'Mum for that,' quoth the fortune quickness: 'Because,' answered Rachel, 'you
teller, 'I will say no more.' Sally was impa- are fated to marry a man worth a hundred of
tient, but the more curiosity she discovered, the him, who has blue eyes, light hair, and a stoop
No, indeed, but I can't,'
more mystery Rachel affected. At last, she in the shoulders.'
said, ' if you will cross my hand with a piece of said Sally; I have promised Jacob, and Jacob
I will marry.'
By the power
silver, I will tell your fortune.
'You cannot, child,' returned
of my art I can do this three ways; first by Rachel in a solemn tone;' it is out of your pow-
cards, next by the lines on your hand, or by er, you are fated to marry the gray eyes and
turning a cup of tea grounds; which will you light hair.' Nay, indeed,' said Sally, sighing
have?' 'O, all! all! cried Sally, looking up deeply, if I am fated, I must; I know there's
with reverence to this sun-burnt oracle of wis- no resisting one's fate.' This is a co nmon cant
dom, who was possessed of no less than three with poor deluded girls, who are not aware that
different ways of diving into the secrets of futu- they themselves make their fate by their folly,
rity. Alas! persons of better sense than Sally and then complain there is no resisting it.
have been so taken in; the more is the pity. 'What can I do?' said Sally. I will tell you
'You must take a walk
The poor girl said she would run up stairs to that, too,' said Rachel.
her little box where she kept her money tied up
in a bit of an old glove, and would bring down
a bright queen Ann's sixpence very crooked.
'I am sure,' added she, 'it is a lucky one, for it
cured me of a very bad ague last spring, by
only laying it nine nights under my pillow with-
out speaking a word. But then you must know
what gave the virtue to this sixpence was, that
it had belonged to three young men of the name
of John; I am sure I had work enough to get
|
|
next Sunday afternoon to the church-yard, and
the first man you meet in a blue coat, with a
large posy of pinks and southern-wood in his
bosom, sitting on the church-yard wall, about
'Provided,'
seven o'clock, he will be the man.'
said Sally, much disturbed, 'that he has grey
eyes and stoops.' 'O, to be sure,' said Rachel,
'But if I
otherwise it is not the right man.'
should mistake,' said Sally, for two men may
happen to have a coat and eyes of the same co-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
261
lour?' To prevent that,' replied Rachel, ' if it,
is the right man, the two first letters of his name
will be R. P. This man has got money beyond
sea.' 'O, I do not value his inoney,' said Sally,
with tears in her eyes, for I love Jacob better
than house or land; but if I am fated to marry
another, I can't help it; you know there is no
struggling against my fate.'
Poor Sally thought of nothing, and dreamt
of nothing all the week but the blue coat and the
gray eyes. She made a hundred blunders at
her work. She put her rennet into the butter-
pan, and her skimming-dish into the cheese-
tub. She gave the curds to the hogs, and put
the whey into the vats. She put her little knife
out of her pocket for fear it should cut love, and
would not stay in the kitchen if there was not
an even number of people, lest it should break
the charm. She grew cold and mysterious in
her behaviour to faithful Jacob, whom she truly
loved. But the more she thought of the fortune-
teller, the more she was convinced that brown
hair and black eyes were not what she was
fated to marry, and therefore, though she trem-
bled to think it, Jacob could not be the man.
|
and I shall marry Jacob still; but on looking
again, she saw it was southern-wood plain
enough, and that of course all was over. The
man accosted her with some very nonsensical,
but too acceptable, compliments. She was na-
turally a modest girl, and but for Rachel's wick-
ed arts, would not have had courage to talk with
a strange man; but how could she resist her
fate you know? After a little discourse, she
asked him, with a trembling heart, what might
be his name? Robert Price, at your service, was
the answer. 'Robert Price! that is R. P. as
sure as I am alive, and the fortune-teller was a
witch! It is all out' O the wonderful art of for-
tune-tellers!"
The little sleep she had that night was dis-
turbed with dreams of graves, and ghosts, and fu-
nerals, but as they were morning dreams, she
knew those always went by contraries, and that a
funeral denoted a wedding. Still a sigh would
now and then heave, to think that in that wed-
ding Jacob would have no part. Such of my
readers as know the power which superstition
has over the weak and credulous mind, scarcely
need be told, that poor Sally's unhappiness was
soon completed. She forgot all her vows to
Jacob; she at once forsook an honest man whom
she loved, and consented to marry a stranger,
of whom she knew nothing, from a ridiculous
notion that she was compelled to do so by a de-
cree which she had it not in her power to resist.
She married this Richard Price, the strange
gardener, whom she soon found to be very
worthless, and very much in debt. He had no
such thing as 'money beyond sea,' as the for-
tune-teller had told her; but alas! he had an
other wife there. He got immediate possession
of Sally's twenty pounds. Rachel put in for
her share, but he refused to give her a farthing,
and bid her get away or he would have her
taken up on the vagrant act. He soon ran
away from Sally, leaving her to bewail her own
weakness; for it was that indeed, and not any
irresistible fate, which had been the cause of
her ruin. To complete her misery, she herself
was suspected of having stole the silver cup
which Rachel had pocketed. Her master, how-
ever, would not prosecute her, as she was fall
ing into a deep decline, and she died in a few
months of a broken heart, a sad warning to all
credulous girls.
On Sunday she was too uneasy to go to
church; for poor Sally had never been taught
that her being uneasy was only a fresh reason
why she ought to go thither. She spent the
whole afternoon in her little garret, dressing in
all her best. First she put on her red riband,
which she had bought at last Lammas fair: then
she recollected that red was an unlucky colour,
and changed it for a blue riband, tied in a true
lover's knot; but suddenly calling to mind that
poor Jacob had bought this knot for her of a
pedlar at the door, and that she had promised to
wear it for his sake, her heart smote her, and
she laid it by, sighing to think she was not fated
to marry the man who had given it to her.-
When she had looked at herself twenty times
in the glass (for one vain action always brings
on another) she set off, trembling and shaking
every step she went. She walked eagerly to-
wards the church-yard, not daring to look to the
right or left, for fear she should spy Jacob, who
would have offered to walk with her, and so
have spoilt all. As soon as she came within
sight of the wall, she spied a man sitting upon
it: Her heart beat violently. She looked again;
but alas! the stranger not only had on a black
coat, but neither hair nor eyes answered the Rachel, whenever she got near home, used to
description. She now happened to cast her drop her trade of fortune-telling, and only dealt
eyes on the church-clock, and found she was in the wares of her basket. Mr. Wilson, the
two hours before her time. This was some clergyman, found her one day dealing out some
comfort. She walked away and got rid of the very wicked ballads to some children. He went
two hours as well as she could, paying great at-up with a view to give her a reprimand; but had
tention not to walk over any straws which lay no sooner begun his exhortation than up came
across, and carefully looking to see if there were a constable, followed by several people. There
never an old horse-shoe in the way, that infal- she is, that is the old witch who tricked my
lible symptom of good fortune. While the clock wife out of the five guineas,' said one of them,
was striking seven, she returned to the church-Do your office constable, seize that old hag.
yard, and O! the wonderful power of fortune.
tellers! there she saw him! there sat the very
man! his hair as light as flax, his eyes as blue
as butter-milk, and his shoulders as round as a
tub. Every tittle agreed to the very nosegay in
his waistcoat button-hole. At first, indeed, she
thought it had been sweetbriar, and glad to catch
at a straw, whispered to herself, it is not he,
|
+
She may tell fortunes and find pots of gold in
Taunton jail, for there she will have nothing
else to do!' This was that very farmer Jenkins,
whose wife had been cheated by Rachael of the
five guineas. He had taken pains to trace her
to her own parish: he did not so much value
the loss of the money, as he thought it was a
duty he owed the public to clear the country of
•
262
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
such vermin. Mr. Wilson immediately com- |
mitted her. She took her trial at the next as-
sizes, when she was sentenced to a year's im-
prisonment. In the mean time, the pawn-
broker to whom she had sold the silver cup,
which she had stolen from poor Sally's master, im-
peached her; and as the robbery was fully proved
upon Rachel, she was sentenced for this crime
to Botany Bay; and a happy day it was for the
county of Somerset, when such a nuisance was
sent out of it. She was transported much about
the same time that her husband Giles lost his
life in stealing the net from the garden wall, as
related in the second part of poaching Giles.
:
selves as ignorant as those whom they pretend
to teach and is sinful, because it is prying into
that futurity which God, in mercy as well as
wisdom, hides from men. God indeed orders
all things; but when you have a mind to do a
foolish thing, do not fancy you are fated to do
it. This is tempting Providence, and not trust-
ing him. It is indeed charging God with folly.
Prudence is his gift, and you obey him better
when you make use of prudence, under the di-
rection of prayer, than when you madly run
into ruin, aud think you are only submitting to
your fate. Never fancy that you are compelled
to undo yourself, or to rush upon your own de.
I have thought it my duty to print this little struction, in compliance with any supposed fa.
history, as a kind of warning to all young men tality. Never believe that God conceals his will
and maidens not to have any thing to say to from a sober Christian who obeys his laws, and
cheats, impostors, cunning-women. fortune-tel- reveals it to a vagabond gypsy who runs up and
lers, conjurors, and interpreters of dreams. Lis- down breaking the laws both of God and man.
ten to me, your true friend, when I assure you King Saul never consulted the witch till he left
that God never reveals to weak and wicked wo-off serving God. The Bible will direct us what
men those secret designs of his providence, to do better than any conjurer, and there are no
which no human wisdom is able to foresee. To days unlucky but those which we make so by
consult these false oracles is not only foolish, our own vanity, sin, and folly.
but sinful. It is foolish, because they are them.
THOUGHTS
ON THE IMPORTANCE OF THE MANNERS OF THE GREAT,
TO GENERAL SOCIETY.
• You are the makers of manners.'-Shakspeare.
To a large and honourable class of the com-
munity, to persons considerable in reputation,
important by their condition in life, and com-
mendable for the decency of general conduct,
these slight hints are respectfully addressed.
They are not intended as a satire upon vice, or
ridicule upon folly, being written neither for the
foolish nor the vicious. The subject is too se-
rious for ridicule; and those to whom it is ad-
dressed are too respectable for satire. It is re-
commended to the consideration of those who,
filling the higher ranks of life, are naturally
regarded as patterns, by which the manners of
the rest of the world are to be fashioned.
The mass of mankind, in most places, and
especially in those conditions of life which ex-
empt them from the temptation to shameful
vices, is perhaps chiefly composed of what is
commonly termed by the courtesy of the world
good kind of people; for persons of very flagitious
wickedness are almost as rare as those of very
eminent piety. To the latter of these, admoni-
tion were impertinent; to the former it were
superfluous. These remarks, therefore, are
principally written with a view to those persons
of rank and fortune who live within the re-
straints of moral obligation, and acknowledge
the truth, of the Christian religion; and who,
if in certain instances they allow themselves
in practices not compatible with a strict pro-
fession of Christianity, seem to do it rather from
habit and want of reflection, than either from
disbelief of its doctrines, or contempt of its pre-
cepts,
Inconsideration, fashion, and the world, are
three confederates against virtue, with whom
even good kind of people often contrive to live
on excellent terms; and the fair reputation
which may be obtained by a complaisant con-
formity to the prevailing practice, and by mere
decorum of manners without a strict attention
to religious principle, is a constant source of
danger to the rich and great. There is some-
thing almost irresistibly seducing in the conta-
gion of general example; hence the necessity of
that vigilance, which it is the business of Chris-
tianity to quicken by incessant admonition, and
which it is the business of the world, to lay
asleep by the perpetual opiates of ease and plea-
sure.
A fair reputation is among the laudable ob.
jects of human ambition; yet even this really
valuable blessing is sometimes converted into a
snare, by inducing a treacherous security as
soon as it is obtained; and by leading him who
is too anxious about obtaining it to stop short
without aiming at a higher motive of action.
A fatal indolence is apt to creep in upon the
soul when it has once acquired the good opinion
of mankind, if the acquisition of that good opi-
nion was the ultimate end of its endeavours.
Pursuit is at an end when the object is in pos-
session; for he is not likely to press forward,'
who thinks he has already attained.' The
love of worldly reputation, and the desire of
God's favour, have this specific difference, that
in the latter, the possession always augments
the desire; and the spiritual mind accounts
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
263
.
done.
nothing done while any thing remains un-nalty of eternal misery. That his expenses
were suitable to his station, and his splendour
proportioned to his opulence, does not exhibit
one objection to his character. Nor are we told
that he refused the crumbs which Lazarus soli.
cited. And yet this man on an authority which
we are not permitted to question, is represented,
in a future state, as lifting up his eyes being in
torments. His punishinent seems to have been
the consequence of an irreligious, a worldly
spirit, a heart corrupted by the softness and de-
lights of life. It was not because he was rich,
but because he trusted in riches; or, if even he
was charitable, his charity wanted that princi-
ple which alone could sanctify it. His views
terminated here; this world's good, and this
world's applause, were the motives and the end
of his actions. He forgot God; he was destitute
of piety; and the absence of this great and first
principle of human actions rendered his shining
deeds, however they might be admired among
men, of no value in the sight of God.
But after all, a fair fame, the support of num-
bers, and the flattering concurrence of human
opinion, is obviously a deceitful dependence; for
as every individual must die for himself, and
answer for himself, both these imaginary re-
sources will fail, just at the moment when they
could have been of any use. A good reputation,
even without internal piety, would be worth ob
taining, if the tribunal of heaven were fashioned
after the manner of human courts of judicature.
If at the general judgment we were to be tried
by a jury of our fellow mortals, it would be but
common prudence to secure their favour at any
price. But it can stand us in little stead in the
great day of decision, it being the consummation
of infinite goodness not to abandon us to the
mercy of each other's sentence; but to reserve
us for his final judgment who knows every mo-
tive of every action: who will make strict in-
quisition into singleness of heart, and upright-
ness of intention; in whose eyes the sincere
prayer of powerless benevolence will outweigh
the most splendid profession or the most daz-dulgence of pleasure, and an unbounded grati-
zling action.
|
There is no error more common, or more dan-
gerous, than the notion that an unrestrained in-
fication of the appetites is generally attended
with a liberal, humane, and merciful temper.
Nor is there any opinion more false and more
fatal, or which demands to be more steadily con-
troverted, than that libertinism and good-nature
are natural and necessary associates. For after
all that corrupt poets, and more corrupt philoso-
phers, have told us of the blandishments of plea-
sure, and of its tendency to soften the temper
and humanize the affections, it is certain, that
nothing hardens the heart like excessive and un-
bounded luxury; and he who refuses the fewest
gratifications to his own voluptuousness, will
generally be found the least susceptible of ten-
derness for the wants of others. In one reign
the cruelties at Rome bore an exact proportion
to the dissoluteness at Capreæ. And in another
it is not less notorious: that the imperial fiddler
became more barbarous, as he grew more pro-
fligate. Prosperity, says the Arabian proverb,
fills the heart until it makes it hard; and the
most dangerous pits and snares for human vir-
tue are those, which are so covered over with
the flowers of prosperous fortune, that it requires
a cautious foot, and a vigilant eye, to escape
them.
We cannot but rejoice in every degree of hu-
man virtue which operates favourably on society,
whatever be the motive, or whoever be the actor;
and we should gladly commend every degreo
of goodness, though it be not exactly squared by
our own rules and notions. Even the good ac-
tions of such persons as are too much actuated
by a regard to appearances, are not without
their beneficial effects. The righteousness of
those who occupy this middle region of morality
among us, certainly exceed the righteousness
of the Scribes and Pharisees; for they are not
only exact in ceremonials, but in many respects
fulfil the weightier matters of law and con-
science. Like Herod, they often hear gladly,'
and 'do many things.' Yet I am afraid I shall
be thought severe in remarking that in general
those characters in the New Testament, of
whose future condition no very comfortable hope
is given, seem to have been taken, not from the
profligate, the abandoned, and the dishonourable;
but from that decent class commonly described
by the term good sort of people, that mixed kind
of character in which virtue appears, if it do
not predominate. The young ruler was certainly
one of the first of this order; and yet we are Ananias and Sapphira, were, perhaps, well
left in dark uncertainty as to his final allotment. esteemed in society; for it was enough to esta-
The rich man who built him barns and store-blish a very considerable reputation to sell even
houses, and only proposed to himself the full en-
joyment of that fortune, which we do not hear
was unfairly acquired, might have been for all
that appears to the contrary, a very good sort of
man; at least if we may judge of him by mul-
titudes who live precisely for the same purposes,
and yet enjoy a good degree of credit, and who
are rather considered as objects of respect, than
of censure. His plan, like theirs, was to take
his ease, to eat, drink, and be merry.'
But the most alarming instance is that of the
splendid epicure, who was clothed in purple and
fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day.
He committed no enormities that have been
transmitted to us; for that he dined well and
dressed well, could hardly incur the bitter pe-
part of their possessions for religious purposes:
but what an alarm does it sound to hypocrisy,
that, instead of being rewarded for what they
brought, they were punished for what they kept
back! And it is to be feared, that this deceitful
pair are not the only one, upon whom a good
action, without a pure intention, has drawn down
a righteous retribution.
Outward actions are the surest, and, indeed,
to human eyes the only evidences of sincerity,
but Christianity is a religion of motives and prin.
ciples. The Gospel is continually referring to
the heart, as the source of good; it is to the poor
in spirit, to the pure in heart, that the divine
blessing is annexed. A man may correct many
improper practices, and refrain from many im-
261
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
moral actions, from merely human motives; but not always thought binding, not only on the
though this partial amendment is not without reader, but on their eloquent encomiasts them-
its uses, yet this is only attacking symptoms, selves. How would they be surprised to find
and neglecting the mortal disease. But to sub- that universal benevolence may subsist with
due a worldly temper, to controul irregular de-partial injustice, and boundless liberality with
sires, and to have a clean heart,' is to attack sordid selfishness! that a man may seem eager
sin in its strong holds. Totally to accomplish in redressing the injuries of half the globe, with-
this, is, perhaps, beyond the narrow limits of out descending to the petty detail of private vir-
human perfection, the best men being constantly tues: and burn with zeal for the good of mil-
humbled to find, that when they would do good, lions he never saw, while he is spreading vice
evil is present with them;' but to attempt it, and ruin through the little circle of his own per-
with an humble reliance on superior aid, is so sonal influence!
far from being an extravagant or romantic flight When the general texture of an irregular life
of virtue, that it is but the common duty of every is spangled over with some constitutional pleas-
ordinary Christian. And this perfection is not ing qualities; when gayety, good humour, and
the less real, because it is a point which seems a thoughtless profusion of expense, throw a lus-
constantly to recede from our approaches, just tre round the faultiest characters, it is no won-
as the sensible horizon recedes from our natural der that common observers are blinded into ad-
eye. Our highest attainments, instead of bring- miration; a profuse generosity dazzles them
ing us to the mark,' only teach us that the more than all the duties of the decalogue. But
mark is at a greater distance, by giving us more though it may be a very good electioneering
humbling views of ourselves, and more exalted virtue, yet there are many qualities which may
conceptions of the state after which we are la- obtain popularity among men, which do not tend
bouring. Though the progress towards perfec- to secure the favour of God. It is somewhat
tion may be perpetual in this world, the actual strange that the extravagance of the great should
attainment is reserved for a better. And this be the criterion of their goodness with those very
restless desire of a happiness which we cannot people who are themselves the victims to this
reach, and this lively idea of a perfection which idol; for the prodigal pays no debts if he can
we cannot attain, are among the many argu-help it; and it is a notorious instance of the
ments for a future state, which seem to come danger of these popular virtues, and of the false
little short of demonstration. The humble Chris-judgments of men, that in one of the wittiest and
tian, takes refuge under the deep sense of his
disappointments and defects, in this consoling
hope, When I awake up after thy likeness I
shall be satisfied.'
most popular comedies* which this country has
ever produced, those very passages which exalt
liberality, and turn justice into ridicule, were
nightly applauded with enthusiastic rapture by
those deluded tradesmen, whom, perhaps that
very sentiment helped to keep out of their
money.
There is another sort of fashionable charac-
Let me not here be misunderstood as under-
valuing the virtues which even worldly men
may possess. I am charmed with humanity,
generosity, and integrity, in whomsoever they
may be found. But one virtue must not intrench ter, whose false brightness is still more perni.
upon another. Charity must not supplant faith. cious, by casting a splendour over the most de-
If a man be generous, good-natured, and hu- structive vices. Corrupt manners, ruinous ex-
mane, it is impossible not to feel for him the travagance, and the most fatal passion for play,
tenderness of a brother; but if, at the same time, are sometimes gilded over with many engaging
he be irreligious, intemperate, or profane, who acts of charity, and a general attention and re-
shall dare to say he is in a safe state? Good hu-spect to the ceremonials of religion. But this is
mour and generous sentiments, will always degrading the venerable image and superscrip-
make a man a pleasant acquaintance; but who tion of Christianity, by stamping them on a
shall lower the doctrines of the Gospel, to ac-baser metal than they were ever intended to im-
commodate them to the conduct of men? Who press. The young and gay shelter themselves
shall bend a straight rule to favour a crooked
practice? Who shall controvert that authority
which has said, that without holiness no man
shall see the Lord?
May I venture to be a little paradoxical; and
while so many grave persons are descanting on
the mischiefs of vice, may I be permitted to say
a word on the mischiefs of virtue, or, rather, of
that shining counterfeit, which, while it wants
the specific gravity, has much of the brightness
of sterling worth? Never, perhaps, did any
age produce more beautiful declamations in
praise of virtue than the present; never were
more polished periods rounded in honour of hu-
manity. An ancient Pagan would imagine that
Astrea had returned to take up her abode in our
metropolis; a primitive Christian would con-
clude that 'righteousness and peace had there
met together.' But how would they be surprised
to find that the obligation to these duties was
under such examples, and scruple the less to
adopt the bad parts of such mixed characters,
when they see that a loose and negligent, not to
say immoral conduct, is so compatible with a
religious profession.
But I digress from my intention; for it is not
the purpose of this address to take notice of any
actions which the common consent of mankind
has determined to be wrong: but of such chiefly
as are practised by the sober, the decent, and
the regular; and to drop a few hints on such
less obvious offences as are, in general,
Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne.
Nor will the bounds which I have prescribed
myself allow of my wandering into a wide and
general field of observation.
The idea of the present slight performance
was suggested by reading the king's late excel-
*The School for Scandal
'}
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
265
*
lent proclamation against irreligion and immo- | ner, her carpenter or mason, on a Sunday, while
rality. Under the shelter of so high a sanction, she makes no scruple regularly to employ a
it may not be unseasonable to press on the hearts hair-dresser ?
of the better disposed, such observances as seem
to be generally overlooked, and to remark such
offences as commonly elude censure, because
they are not commonly thought censurable.
It is obvious to all pious persons, that that
branch of the divine law, against which the bet-
ter kind of people trespass with the least scruple,
is the fourth commandment. Many who would
shudder at the violation of the other nine, seem
without ceremony to expunge this from the Di-
vine code; but by what authority they do this, has
never been explained. The christian legislator
does not seem to have abridged the command-
ments: and there is no subsequent authority so
much as pretended to by Protestants.
It is not here intended to take notice of such
flagrant offences as lie open to the cognizance
of higher tribunals; or to pollute this paper with
descanting on the holders of card assemblies on
Sundays; the frequenters of taverns and gaming
houses; the printers of Sunday newspapers; the
proprietors of Sunday Stage-coaches; and others
who openly insult the laws of the land; laws
which will always be held sacred by good sub-
jects, even were not the law of God antecedent
to them.
Many of the order whom I here address are
persons of the tenderest humanity, and not only
wish well to the interests of virtue, but are fa-
vourably disposed to advance the cause of reli-
gion; nay, would be extremely startled at not
being thought sincerely religious; yet from in-
consideration, want of time, want of self-exami-
nation, want of a just sense of the high require-
ments of the Divine law, want of suspecting the
deceitfulness of the human heart, sometimes
allow themselves in inattentions and negligences
which materially affect their own safety, and
the comfort of others. While an animated spirit
of charity seems to be kindled among us: while
there is a general disposition to instruct the ig-
norant, and to reform the vicious; we cannot
help regretting that these amiable exertions
should be counteracted, in some degree, by
practices of a directly opposite tendency; tri-
fling in their appearance, but serious in their
effects.
There are still among us petty domestic evils,
which seemed too inconsiderable to claim re-
dress. There is an aggrieved body of men in
our very capital, whose spiritual hardships seem
scarcely to have been taken into consideration,
mean the HAIR DRESSERS on whom
The Sunday shines, no day of rest to them.
Is there not a peculiar degree of unkindness
in exercising such cruelty on the souls of men,
whose whole lives are employed in embellishing
our persons? And is it quite conceivable how
a lady's conscience is able to make such nice
distinctions that she would be shocked at the
idea of sending for her mantuamakert or milli-
*This tract was written soon after the institution of
the society for enforcing the king's proclamation against
vice and irreligion.
It is feared that since these pages were written the
scruple of sending for either is much diminished.
VOL. I.
Is it not almost ridiculous to observe the zeal
we have for doing good at a distance, while we
neglect the little, obvious, every-day, domestic
duties which should seem to solicit our imme-
diate attention? But an action ever so right
and praise-worthy which is only to be periodi-
cally performed, at distant intervals, is less bur-
thensome to corrupt nature, than an undeviating
attention to such small, constant right habits as
are hostile to our natural indolence, and would
be perpetually vexing and disturbing our self-
love. The weak heart indulges its infirmity, by
allowing itself intermediate omissions, and ha-
bitual neglects of duty; reposing itself for safety,
on regular but remote returns of stated perform-
ances. It is less trouble to subscribe to the pro-
pagation of the Gospel in foreign parts, than to
have daily prayers in our own families, and I am
persuaded that there are multitudes of well-
meaning people who would gladly contribute to
a mission of Christianity to Japan or Otaheite,
to whom it never occurred that the hair-dresser,
whom they are every Sunday detaining from
church has a soul to be saved; that the law of
the land co-operates with the law of God, to for-
bid their employing him; and that they have no
right, either legal or moral, to this portion of
his time. The poor man, himself, perhaps, dares
not remonstrate, for fear he should be deprived
of his employment for the rest of the week. If
there were no other objection to a pleasurable
Sunday among the great and affluent, methinks
this single one might operate: would not a de-
vout heart be unwilling to rob a fellow creature
of his time for devotion, or a humane one of his
hour of rest? Love worketh no ill to his neigh.
bour, therefore love is the fulfilling of the law.'
It is strange that there should be so little con-
sistency in human conduct, that the same per-
sons should gladly contribute to spread the light
of Christianity in another hemisphere; while,
by their example, they actually obstruct the pro-
gress of it at home. But it is, I doubt not, much
oftener owing to the imperceptible influence of
custom and habit, than to a decided ill intention.
Besides, it may be in morals as it is in optics,
the eye and the object may come too close to
each other, to answer the end of vision. There
are certain faults which press too near our self-
love to be even perceptible to us.
The petty mischief of what is called card mo-
Iney is so assimilated to our habits, and interwo-
ven with our family arrangements, that even
many of the prudent and virtuous no longer
consider it as a worm which is feeding on the
vitals of domestic virtue. How many poor
youths, after having been trained in a wholesome
dread of idleness and gaming, when they are
sent abroad into the world, are astonished to
find that part of the wages of the servant is to
be paid by his furnishing the implements of di-
version for the guests of the master. Thus good
servants are a commodity which has long been
diminishing by an elaborate system. The more
sober the family, the fewer attractions it must
necessarily have; for these servants will natu
rally quit a place, however excellent, where there
266
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
is no play, for one where there is some; and a
family where there is but little, for one where
there is much. Thus if the advantage of the
dependent is to increase in a direct ratio to the
dissipation of his employer, what encouragement
is left for valuable servants, or what prospect
remains of securing valuable servants for sober
minded families?
It will be said that so small an evil is scarcely
worth insisting on. But a small fault which is
become a part of a system, in time establishes
an error into a principle. And that remon-
strance which should induce people to abolish
one wrong habit, or pluck out one rooted error,
however trifling, would be of more real use than
the most eloquent declamation against vice in
general. To take out only one thorn from a
suffering patient, is more beneficial to him than
the most elaborate disquisition on the pain he is
suffering from the thorns which remain.
It is hardly too ludicrous to add, that seeing
how this point has been carried in favour of the
groom of the chambers (and it descends down
to the lowest footman,) we need not despair of
seeing the butler insist on being allowed to fur-
nish the wine, for which he shall compel the
guests to pay with the same high interest with
which they now pay for the cards. It will seem
odd at first, but afterwards we shall think no
more about it, to see him, during dinner, noting
down those who drink the more costly wines,
that they may be taxed double. And it will
sound whimsical at first, to hear the butler give
his master notice that he must quit his place,
because the company have drank a little wine.
This only sounds ridiculous, while the leaving
a place through deficiency of card money sounds
reasonable, because we are accustomed to the
one, and the other is not yet become fashionable.
Had any
The extinction of this favourite perquisite
would at first be considered as a violent innova-
tion. All reformations seem formidable before
they are attempted. The custom of vails, 'which
gave corruption broader wings to fly,' was sup-
posed to be invincible. Yet how soon did a
general concurrence exterminate it! Had
one foretold twenty years ago, that in a very
short space, near half a million of pilfering,
swearing, Sabbath-breaking children, should be
rescued from the streets, and brought into ha-
bits of sobriety and virtue, should we not have
undertaken that the cleansing stream of reli-
gious instruction should thus be poured through
the Augean stable of ignorance and vice, and
in some measure wash away its grossest impu-
It should be held as an eternal truth, that
what is morally wrong can never be politically
right. It would be arguing great ignorance of
human nature, and exacting a very rigorous de-
gree of virtue from a person of vulgar sentiments
to expect that he should wish well to the inte-
rests of sobriety, or heartily desire the decrease
of dissipation, while the growth of it is made so
profitable to himself. It is requiring too much
to make the temptation so forcible where the
power of resistance is so weak. To hold out to
a poor fellow the strong seduction of interest,
and yet to expect he will retain the same in-
flexible principle, is to expect from an illiterate
servant an elevation of virtue, which has not
always been found even in statesmen and mi-rities?
nisters.
It is not here intended to enter into any ani-
madversion on the subject of play itself. But
may we not ask without offence, if it be per-
fectly right to introduce any money arising from
or connected with it, into a part of regular fa-
mily economy? Is it not giving an air of sys-
tem to diversion, which does not seem entirely
of a piece with the other orderly practices of
many discreet families where this odd traffic is
carried on? Would not our ancestors, who
seem to have understood economy and magnifi-
cence too, at least as well as their desc ndants,
have been scandalized had it been proposed to
them to incorporate play so intimately with the
texture of their domestic arrangements, as that
it should make part of their plan! And would
they have thought it a very dignified practice
not to have paid themselves for the amusements
of their own houses; but to have invited their
friends to an entertainment of which the guests
were to defray part of the expense ?
Let me suppose a case: what appearance
would it have, if every gentleman who has par-
taken of the social entertainment of a friend's
table, were after dinner, expected by the butler,
to leave a piece of money under his plate to pay
for his wine? Do not common sense, hospitality,
friendship, and liberal feelings revolt at the bare
suggestion of such a project? Yet there is in
effect as little hospitality, as little friendship,
and as little liberality in being obliged to pay
for the cards as for the wine; both equally ma-
king a part of the entertainment.
The servant would probably complain of the
annihilation of this gainful custom: but the
master would find his account in indemnifying
the loss; for he in his turn would be released
from the preposterous contribution to the wages
of other men's servants. If in a family of over-
grown dissipation the stated addition should not
be found equivalent to the relinquished perqui-
site, the servant must heroically submit to the
disadvantageous commutation for the public
good. And after all it would be no very serious
grievance if his reduced income should not then
exceed that of the chaplain. It will still at least
exceed that of many a deserving gentleman,
bred to liberal learning, whose feelings that
learning has refined to a painful acuteness, and
who is witnering away in hopeless penury with
a large family, on a curacy, but little surpassing
the wages of a livery servant.
The same principle in human nature by which
the nabob, the contractor, and others, by a sud-
den influx of unaccustomed wealth, become vo-
luptuous, extravagant, and insolent, seldom fails
to produce the same effect on persons in these
humbler stations, when raised from inferior
places, to the sudden affluence of these gainful
ones. Increased profligacy on a sudden swell
of fortune is commonly followed by desperate
methods to improve the circumstances when im-
paired by the improvidence attending unaccus-
tomed prosperity.
There is another domestic practice which it
is almost idle to mention, because it is so diffi-
cult to redress, since such is the present state
A
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
267
of society, that even the conscientious think
themselves obliged to concur in it. That inge-
nuity which could devise some effectual substi-
tute for the daily and hourly lie of Not at home,
would deserve well of society. Why will not
some of those illustrious ladies who lead in the
fashionable world invent some phrase which
shall equally rescue from destruction the time
of the master and the veracity of the servant?
Some new and appropriate expression, the not |
adopting which should be blended with the stig-
ma of vulgarity, might accomplish that which
the charge of its being immoral has failed to
accomplish.
The expediency of the denial itself, no one
will dispute, who has a just idea of the value of
time. Some scrupulous persons so very much
dispute the lawfulness of making their servant's
tongue the medium of any kind of falsehood, as
to make it a point of conscience rather to lay
themselves open to the irruption of every idle
invader, who sallies out on morning visits bent
on the destruction of business and the annihila-
tion of study. People of very strict integrity
lament that this practice induces a general spi-
rit of lying, mixes itself with the habit, and by
a quality, the reverse of an alterative, gradually
undermines the moral constitution. Others on
the contrary assert, that it is one of those lies
of convention, no more intended to deceive than
the dear sir at the beginning, or your humble
servant at the close of a letter to a person who
is not dear to you, and to whom you owe no sub-
jection. There is, however, this very material
difference, that if the first be a falsehood, you
do not convey it by proxy: You use it yourself,
and you use it to one who sets no more value on
your words than you intended he should; and
who shows you he does not, by using the same
stated phrase in return, in addressing you, for
whom he cares as little. Here the words pass
for no more than they are worth.
|
and hourly weakened in conformity to his own
command.
Let us bring home the case to ourselves, the
only fair way of determining in all cases of con-
science. Suppose we had established it into a
system to allow ourselves regularly to lie on one
certain given subject, every day; while we con-
tinued to value ourselves on the most undeviat
ing adherence to truth on every other point.
Who shall say, that at the end of one year's to-
lerable and systematic lying, on this individual
subject, we should continue to look upon false-
hood in general with the same abhorrence we
did, when we first entered upon this partial ex-
ercise of it.
There is an evil newly crept into polished so-
ciety, and it comes under a mask so specious,
that they who are allured by it, come not sel-
dom under the description of good sort of people.
I allude to SUNDAY-CONCERTS. Many who would
be startled at a profane or even a light amuse-
ment, allow themselves to fancy that the name
of sacred music sanctifies the diversion. But if
those more favoured beings, whom Providence
enables to live in ease and affluence, do not
make these petty renunciations of their own
ways, and their own pleasure, what criterion
have we by which to judge of their sincerity?
For as the goodness of Providence has exempted
them from painful occupations, they have nei-
ther labour from which to rest, nor business
from which to refrain. A little abstinence from
pleasure is the only valid evidence they have to
give of their obedience to the divine precept.
I know with what indignant scorn this re-
mark will, by many, be received: I know that
much will be advanced in favour of the sanctity
of this amusement. I shall be told that the words
are, many of them, extracted from the Bible,
and that the composition is the divine Handel's.
But were the angel Gabriel the poet, the arch-
angel Michael the composer, and the song of
The ill effect of the custom we are lainenting the Lamb the subject, it would not abrogate that
may be traced in marking the gradual initiation statute of the Most High, which has said, Thou
of an unpractised country servant. And who shalt keep holy the Sabbath day, and thy SERVANT,
has not felt for his virtuous distress, when he and thy CATTLE, shall do no manner of work.'
has been ordered to call back a more favoured I am persuaded that the hallelujahs of heaven
visitant, whom he had just sent away with the would make no moral music to the ear of a con-
assurance that his lady was not at home? Who scientious person, while he reflected that multi-
has not seen his suppressed indignation at being tudes of servants are through his means wait-
obliged to become himself the detector of that ing in the street, exposed to every temptation;
falsehood of which he had been before the in-engaged, perhaps, in profane swearing, and idle,
strument? But a little practice, and a repetition
of reproof for even daring to look honest, soon
cures this fault, especially as he is sure to be
commended in proportion to the increased firmn-
ness of his voice, and the steadiness of his coun-
tenance.
If this evil, petty as it may seem to be, be
really without a remedy; if the state of society
be such that it cannot be redressed, let us not
be so unreasonable as to expect that a servant
will equivocate in small instances, and not in
great ones. To hope that he will always lie for
your convenience, and never for his own, is per-
haps expecting more from human nature in a
low and uncultivated state than we have any
right to expect. Nor should the master look for
undeviating and perfect rectitude from his ser-
vant, in whom the principle of veracity is daily
if not dissolute conversation, and the very cattle
are deprived of that rest which the tender mercy
of God was graciously pleased, by an astonish-
ing condescension, to include in the command-
ment.
But I will, for the sake of argument, so far
concede as to allow of the innocence and even
piety of Sunday-concerts: I will suppose (what,
however, does not often happen) that no unhal-
lowed strains are ever introduced; I will admit
that some attend these concerts with a view to
cultivate devout affections; that they cherish the
serious impressions excited by the music, and
retire in such a frame of spirit as convinces
them that the heart was touched while the ear
was gratified: nay, I would grant, if such a
concession would be accepted, that the intervals
were filled up with conversation, whereby one
268
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
may edify another' yet all these good effects,,
allowing them really to have been produced,
will not remove the invincible objection of an
EVIL EXAMPLE; and what liberal spirit would re-
fuse any reasonable sacrifice of its own pleasure
to so important a motive? Your servants have
been accustomed to consider a concert as a se-
cular diversion; if you, therefore, continue it
on a Sunday, will not they also expect to be in-
dulged on that day with their common amuse-
ments? Saint Paul, who was a very liberal
thinker, believed it prudent to make frequent
sacrifices of things indifferent in themselves.
He was willing to deny himself a harmless and
lawful gratification, even as long as the world
stood, rather than shock the tender consciences
of men of less understanding. Where a prac-
tice is neither good nor evil in itself, it is both
discreet and generous to avoid it, if it can be at-
tended with any possible danger to minds less
enlightened, and to faith less confirmed.
But religion apart, I have sometimes wonder-
ed that people do not yield to the temptation that
is held out to them, of abstaining from diver-
sions one day in seven, upon motives of mere
human policy; as voluptuaries sometimes fast,
to give a keener relish to the delights of the
next repast: for pleasure, like an over-fed lamp,
is extinguished by the excess of its own ali-
ment: not to say that the instrument of our
gratification is often converted into our bane.
Anacreon was choaked by a grape stone. The
lovers of pleasure are not always prudent, even
upon their own principles; for I am persuaded
that this world would afford much more real sa-
tisfaction than it does, if we did not press, and
torture, and strain it, in order to make it yield
what it does not contain. Much good, and
much pleasure, it does liberally bestow; but no
labour or art, can extract from it that elixir of
peace, that divine essence of content, which it is
not in its nature to produce. There is good
sense in searching into every blessing for its
hidden properties; but it is folly to ransack and
plunder it for such properties as the experience
of all ages tells us are foreign to it. We ex-
haust the world of its pleasures, and then la-
ment that it is empty: we wring those pleasures
to the very dregs, and then complain that they
are vapid. We erroneously seek in the world
for that peace which we are repeatedly told is
not to be found in it. While we neglect to seek
it in Him who has expressly told us that our
happiness depends on his having overcome the
world. 'Peace I leave with you, my peace I
give unto you; not as the world giveth give I
unto you.'
I shall, probably, be accused of a very narrow
and fanatical spirit in animadverting on a prac-
tice so little suspected of harm as the frequent-
ing of public walks and gardens on a Sunday;
and certainly there cannot be an amusement
more entirely harmless in itself. But I must
appeal to the honest testimony of our own hearts,
if the effect be favourable to seriousness. Do
we commonly retire from these places with the
impressions which were made on us at church,
in their full force? We entered these sprightly
scenes, perhaps with a strong remaining tinc-
ture of that devout spirit which the public wor-
ship had infused into the mind: but have we
not felt it gradually diminish? Have not our
powers of resistance grown insensibly weaker?
Has not the gayety of the scene converted, as it
were, argument into allusion? The doctrines,
which in the morning appeared the sober dic-
tates of reason, now seem unreasonably rigid,
and truths, which were then thought incontro-
vertible, now appear impertinent. To answer
objections is much easier than to withstand al-
lurements. The understanding may controvert
a startling proposition with less difficulty than
the sliding heart can resist the infection of se-
ducing gayety. To oppose a cold and specula-
tive faith to the enchantment of present plea-
sure, is to fight with inadequate weapons; it is
resisting arms with rules; it is combating temp-
tation with an idea. Whereas, he who engages
in the christian warfare, will find that his chief
strength consists in knowing that he is very
weak; his progress will depend on his convic-
tion that he is every hour liable to go back; his
success, on the persuasion of his fallibility; his
safety, on the assurance that to retreat from
danger is his highest glory, and to decline the
combat his truest courage.
Whatever indisposes the mind for the duty
of any particular season, though it assume ever
so innocent a form, cannot be perfectly right.
If the heart be laid open to the incursion of
vain imaginations, and worldly thoughts, it
matters little by what gate the enemy entered.
If the effect be injurious, the cause cannot be
quite harmless. It is the perfidious property of
certain pleasures, that though they seem not to
have the smallest harm in themselves, they im-
perceptibly indispose the mind to every thing
that is good.
Many readers will be apt to produce against all
this preciseness, that hackneyed remark which
one is tired of hearing, that Sunday diversions
are allowed publicly in many foreign coun-
tries, as well in those professing the reform-
ed religion, as popery. But the corruptions
of one part of the protestant world are no
reasonable justification of the evil practices of
another. Error and infirmity can never be pro-
per objects of imitation. It is still a remnant
of the old leaven; and as to pleading the prac-
tice of Roman catholic countries, one blushes to
hear an enlightened protestant justifying him-
self by examples drawn from that benighted re-
ligion, whose sanctions we should in any other
instance be ashamed to plead.
Besides, though I am far from vindicating
the amusements permitted on Sundays in fo-
reign countries, by allowing that established
custom and long prescription have the privilege
of conferring right; yet foreigners may, at least,
plead the sanction of custom, and the conni-
vance of the law: while in this country, the law
of the land, and established usage, concurring
with still higher motives, give a sort of venera-
ble sanction to religious observances, the breach
of which will be always more liable to miscon-
struction than in countries where so many mo
tives do not concur in its support.
I do not assert that all those who neglect a
strict observation of the Lord's day are remiss
in the performance of all their other duties
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
269
though they should bear in mind that the ob-,
servance of their other duties is no atonement
for the neglect of this; I will however venture
to affirm, that all whom I have remarked con-
scientiously to observe this day from right mo-
tives, have been uniformly attentive to their ge-
neral conduct. It has been the opinion of many
wise and good men,* that Christianity will stand
or fall, as this day is neglected or observed.
Sunday seems to be a kind of Christian Palla-
dium; and the city of God will never be totally
taken by the enemy till the observance of that
be quite lost. Every sincere soldier of the great
Captain of our Salvation must, therefore, exert
himself in its defence, if ever he would preserve
the divine Fort of Revelation against the con-
federated attacks of the world and the devil.
sort.
I shall proceed to enumerate a few of the
many causes which seem to impede well-dis-
posed people in the progress of religion. None
perhaps contributes more to it than that cold,
prudential caution against the folly of aiming
at perfection, so frequent in the mouths of the
worldly wise. 'We must take the world,' say
they, as we find it, reformation is not our busi-
ness, and we are commanded not to be righte-
ous overmuch.' A text by the way entirely
misunderstood and perverted by people of this
But these admonitions are contrary to
every maxim in human affairs. In arts and
letterst the most consummate models are held
out to imitation. We never hear any
We never hear any body
cautioned against becoming too wise, too learn-
ed, or too rich. Activity in business is account-
ed commendable; in friendship it is amiable;
in ambition it is laudable. The highest exer.
tions of industry are commended; the finest
energies of genius are admired. In all the
perishing concerns of earthly things, zeal is ex-
tolled as exhibiting marks of a sprightly temper
and a vigorous mind! Strange! that to be fer-
vent in spirit,' should only be dishonourable in
that single instance which should seem to de-
mand unremitting diligence, and unextinguish-
able warmth.
But after all, is an excessive and intemperate
zeal the common vice of the times? Is there any
very imminent danger that the enthusiasm of
the great should transport them to dangerous
and inconvenient excesses? Are our young men
of fashion so very much led away by the fer-
vours of piety, that they require to have their
imaginations tamed and their ardours cooled
by the freezing maxims of worldly wisdom?
Is the spirit of the age so very much inclined to
catch and communicate the fire of devotion, as
to require to be damped by admonition, or ex-
tinguisned by ridicule? When the inimitable
Cervantes attacked the wild notions and ro-
mantic ideas which misled the age in which he
lived, he did wisely, because he combated an
actually existing evil: but in this latter end of
the 18th century, there seems to be little more
occasion, (among persons of rank, I mean) of
cautions against enthusiasm than against chival-
ry; and he who declaims against religious ex-
cesses in the company of well-bred people shows
himself to be as little acquainted with the man-
ners of the times in which he lives, as he
would do who should think it a point of duty to
write another Don Quixotte.
Among the devices dangerous to our moral
safety, certain favourite and specious maxims
are not the least successful, as they carry with
them an imposing air of indulgent candour, and
always seem to be on the popular side of good
nature. Of the most obvious of these is, that
method of reconciling the conscience to prac
tices not decidedly wicked, and yet not scrupu-
lously right by the qualifying phrase, that there
is no harm in it. I am mistaken if more inno-
cent persons do not inflame their spiritual reck-
oning by this treacherous apology than by al-
most any other means. Few are systematically,
or premeditatedly wicked, or propose to them-
selves, at first, more than such small indulgences
as they are persuaded have no harm in them.
But this latitude is gradually and imperceptibly
enlarged. As the expression is vague and in-
determinate; as the darkest shade of virtue, and
the brightest shade of vice, melt into no very
incongruous colouring; as the bounds between
good and evil are not always so precisely defined
but that he who ventures to the confines of the
one, will find himself on the borders of the
other; every one furnishes his own definition;
every one extends the supposed limits a little
farther; till the bounds which fence in, per-
mitted from unlawful pleasures, are gradually
broken down and the marks which separated
them imperceptibly destroyed.
It is, perhaps, one of the most alarming symp
toms of the degeneracy of morals in the present
day, that the distinctions of right and wrong
are almost swept away in polite conversation.
The most grave offences are often named with
cool indifference; the most shameful profligacy
* The testimony of one lawyer, will, perhaps, be less with affected tenderness and indulgent tolera-
suspected than that of many priests. I have ever
I have ever tion. The substitution of the word gallantry
found,' says the great lord chief justice Hale, by a
strict and diligent observation, that a due observance of for that crime which stabs domestic happiness
the duty of Sunday has ever had joined to it a blessing and conjugal virtue, is one of the most danger-
upon the rest of my time; and the week that has been
ous of all the modern abuses of language. Atro-
so begun has been blessed and prosperous to me: and,
on the other side, when I have been negligent of the cious deeds should never be called by gentle
names. This must certainly contribute more
than any thing to diminish the horror of vice in
the rising generation. That our passions should
be too often engaged on the side of error, we
may look for the cause, though not for the vin-
dication, in the unresisted propensities of our
constitution: but that our reason should ever be
exerted in its favour, that our conversation
should ever be taught to palliate it, that our
judgment should ever look on with indifference,
duties of this day, the rest of the week has been unsuc-
cessful and unhappy to my own secular employments.
So that I could easily make an estimate of my successes
the week following, by the manner of my passing this
day. And 1 do not write this lightly but by long and
sound experience.'-Sir Matthew Hale's Works.
When Pliny the younger was accused of despising
the degenerate eloquence of his own age, and of the va
nity of aspiring at perfection in oratory, and of endea-
vouring to become the rival of Cicero; instead of deny:
ing the charge, he exclaimed with a noble spirit,
think it the height of folly not always to propose to my.
self the most perfect object of imitation.'
I
270
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
•
that our tongues should ever be employed to, den many a tender-hearted person. The milk
confound the eternal distinctions of right and of human kindness becomes soured by repeated
wrong; this has no shadow of excuse: because acts of ingratitude. This commonly induces an
this can pretend to no foundation in nature, no indifference to the well-being of others, from a
apology in temptation, no palliative in passion. hopelessness of adding to the stock of human
However defective, therefore, our practice virtue and human happiness. This uncomfort-
may be; however we may be allured by seduc-able disease is very fond of spreading its own
tion or precipitated by passion, let us beware of contagion, which is a cruelty to the health of
lowering the STANDARD OF RIGHT. This induces young and uninfected virtue. For this distem-
an imperceptible corruption into the heart, stag-per, generated by a too sanguine disposition,
nates the noblest principles of action, irrecover-
ably debases the sense of moral and religious
obligation, and prevents us from living up to the
height of our nature, because it prevents us from
knowing its possible elevation. It cuts off all
communication with virtue, and almost, prevents
the possibility of a return to it. If we do not
rise as high as we aim, we shall rise the higher
for having aimed at a lofty mark: but where the
RULE is low, the practice cannot be high, though
the converse of the proposition is not proportion-ness when the consequence does not answer his
ably true.
Nothing more benumbs the exertions of ar-
dent youthful virtue than the cruel sneer which
worldly prudence bestows on active goodness,
and the cool derision it expresses at the defeat
of a benevolent scheme, of which malice, rather
than penetration, had foreseen the failure. Alas!
there is little need of any such discouragements.
The world is a climate which too naturally chills
a glowing generosity, and contracts an expand-
ed heart. The zeal of the most sanguine is but
too apt to cool, and the activity of the most dili-
gent, to slacken of itself: and the disappoint-
ments which benevolence encounters in the
failure of her best concerted projects, and the
frequent depravity of the most chosen objects of
her bounty, would soon dry up the amplest
streams of charity, were they not fed by the
living fountain of religious principle.
I cannot dismiss this part of my subject with-
out animadverting on the too prompt alacrity,
even of worthy people, to disseminate, in public
and general conversation, instances of their un-
successful attempts to do good. I never hear
a charity sermon begun to be related in mixed
company that I do not tremble for the catas-
trophe, lest it should exhibit some mortifying
disappointment, which may deter the inexpe-
rienced from running any generous hazards, and
excite harsh suspicions, at an age when it is
less dishonourable to meet with a few casual
hurts, and transient injuries, than to go cased
in the cumbersome and impenetrable armour of
distrust. The liberal should be particularly
cautious how they furnish the avaricious with
creditable pretences for saving their money,
since all the instances of the mortifications the hu-
mane meet with are carefully treasured up, and
added to the armoury of the covetous man's ar-
guments, and never fail to be produced by him
as defensive weapons, upon every fresh attack
on his heart or his purse.
But I am willing to hope that that uncharita-
bleness which we so often meet with in persons
of advanced years, is not always the effect of a
heart naturally hard. Misanthropy is very
often nothing but abused sensibility. Long ha-
bits of the world, and a melancholy conviction
how little good he has been able to do in it, har.
and grown chronical from repeated disappoint-
ments, from having rated worldly generosity too
highly, there is but one remedy, or rather one
prevention: and this is a genuine principle of
piety. He who is once convinced that he is to
assist his fellow creatures, because it is the will
of God; he who is persuaded that his forgiving
his fellow-servant the hundred pence, is a con-
dition annexed to the remission of his own ten
thousand talents, will soon get above all uneasi
expectation. He will soon become only anxious
to do his duty, humbly committing events to
higher hands. Disappointments will then only
serve to refine his motives, and purify his virtue.
His charity will then become a sacrifice with
which God is well pleased! His affections will
be more spiritualized, and his devotions more
intense. Nothing short of such a courageous
piety growing on the stock of Christian princi-
ple, can preserve a heart hackneyed in the world
from relaxed diligence or criminal despair.
People in general are not aware of the mis-
chief of judging of the righteousness of any ac-
tion by its prosperity, or of the excellence of
any institution by the abuse of it.
We must never proportion our exertions to
our success, but to our duty. If every laudable
undertaking were to be dropped because it failed
in some cases, or was abused in others, there
would not be left an alms-house, a charity-school,
or an hospital in the land. If every right prac-
tice were to be discontinued because it had been
found not to be successful in every instance, and
if every right principle were rejected because
it had not been operative in all cases, this false
reasoning pushed to the extreme, might at last
be brought as an argument for shutting up our
churches, and burning our Bibles.
But if, on the one hand, there is a proud and
arrogant discretion which ridicules, as Utopian
and romantic, every generous project of the ac-
tive and the liberal; so there is on the other, a
sort of popular bounty which arrogates to itself
the exclusive name of feeling, and rejects with
disdain the influence of an higher principle. I
am far from intending to deprecate this humane
and exquisitely tender sentiment which the be-
neficent Author of our nature gave us, as a sti-
mulus to remove the distresses of the others, in
order to get rid of our own uneasiness. I would
only observe that where not strengthened by
superior motives, it is a casual and precarious
instrument of good, and ceases to operate, ex-
cept in the immediate presence, and within the
audible cry of misery. This sort of feeling for-
gets that any calamity exists which is out of its
own sight; and though it would empty its purse
for such an occasional object as rouses transient
sensibility, yet it seldom makes any stated pro-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
271
vision for miseries, which are not the less real
because they do not obtrude upon the sight, and
awaken the tenderness of immediate sympathy.
This is a mechanical charity, which requires
springs and wheels to set it a going; whereas
real Christian charity does not wait to be acted
upon by impressions and impulses.
Another cause which very much intimidates
well-disposed people, is their terror lest the cha.
racter of piety should derogate from their repu-
tation as men of sense. Every man of the world
naturally arrogates to himself the superiority of
understanding over every religious man. He,
therefore, who has been accustomed to set a
high value on his intellectual powers, must have
made very considerable advances in piety be-
fore he can acquire a magnanimous indifference
to this usurped superiority of another: before
he can submit to the parsimonious allotment of
wit and learning, which is assigned him by the
supercilious hand of worldly wisdom. But this
attack upon his pride will be no bad touchstone
of his sincerity. If his advances have not been
so considerable, then by an hypocrisy of the
least common kind, he will be industrious to
appear less good than he really is, lest the de-
tection of his serious propensities should draw
on him the imputation of ordinary parts or low
attainments. But the danger is, that while he
is too sedulously intent on maintaining his pre-
tensions as an ingenious man, his claims to
piety should daily become weaker. That which
is long suppressed is too frequently extin-
guished.
|
ral to our corrupt hearts, as to require none of
the helps which are indispensable on all other
subjects? Travellers, who are to visit any par-
ticular country, are full of earnest inquiry, and
diligent research; they think nothing indiffer-
ent by which their future pleasure or advantage
may be affected. Every hint which may pro-
cure them any information, or caution them
against any danger, is thankfully received; and
all this, because they are really in earnest in
their preparation for this journey; and do fully
believe, not only that there is such a country, but
that they themselves have a personal individual
interest in the good or evil which may be found
in it.
While
A farther danger to good kind of people seems
to arise from a mistaken idea, that only great
and actual sins are to be guarded against.
Whereas, in effect, temptations to the grosser
sins do not so frequently occur to those who are
hedged in by the blessings of affluence, by a re
gard to reputation and the care of health; while
sins of omission make up, perhaps, the most for-
midable part of their catalogue of offences. These
generally supply in number what they want in
weight, and are the more dangerous for being
little ostensible. They continue to be repeated
with less regret, because the remembrance of
their predecessors does not, like the remem-
brance of formal, actual crimes, assume a body
and a shape, and terrify by the impression of
particular scenes and circumstances.
the memory of transacted evil haunts a tender
conscience by perpetual apparition; omitted
duty, having no local or personal existence, not
being recorded by standing acts and deeds, and
dates, and having no distinct image to which
the mind may recur, sinks into quiet oblivion,
without deeply wounding the conscience, or
tormenting the imagination. These omissions
were, perhaps, among the 'secret sins,' from
which the royal penitent so earnestly desired to
be cleansed: and it is worthy of the most serious
consideration, that these are the offences against
which the Gospel pronounces some of its very
alarming denunciations. It is not less against
negative than against actual evil, that affection-
ate exhortation, lively remonstrance, and point-
ed parable, are exhausted. It is against the
tree which bore no fruit, the lamp which had no
Nothing, perhaps, more plainly discovers the
faint impression which religion has really made
upon our hearts, than this disinclination, even
of good people, to serious conversation. Let me
not be misunderstood; I do not mean the wran-
gle of debate; I do not mean the gall of contro-
versy; I do not mean the fiery strife of opinions,
than which nothing can be less favourable to
good nature, good manners, or good society.
But it were to be wished, that it was not thought
ill-bred and indiscreet that the escapes of the
tongue should now and then betray the abun.
dance of the heart; that when such subjects
are casually introduced, a discouraging cold-
ness did not instantly take place of that sprightly
animation of countenance which made common
topics interesting. If these 'outward and visi-oil, the unprofitable servant who made No use of
ble signs were unequivocal, we should form but
moderate ideas of the inward and spiritual
grace.' It were to be wished, that such sub-
jects were not thought dull merely because they
are good; it were to be wished that they had
the common chance of fair discussion; and that
parts and learning were not ashamed to exert
themselves on occasions where both might ap-
pear to so much advantage. If the heart were
really interested, could the affections forbear
now and then to break out into language? Art-
its, physicians, merchants, lawyers, and scho-
lars keep up the spirit of their professions by
mutual intercourse. New lights are struck out,
improvements arc suggested, emulation is kin- Another cause, which still further impedes
dled, love of the object is inflamed, mistakes of the reception of Religion even among the well-
the judgment are rectified, and desire of excel-disposed, is, that garment of sadness in which
lence is excited by communication. And is piety people delight to suppose her dressed; and that
alone so very easy of acquisition, so very natu- life of hard austerity, and pining abstinence,
his talent, that the severe sentence is denounced;
as well as against corrupt fruit, had oil, and ta-
lents ill employed. We are led to believe, from
the same high authority, that omitted duties
and neglected opportunities, will furnish no in-
considerable portion of our future condemnation.
A very awful part of the decision, in the great
day of account, seems to be reserved merely for
carelessness, omissions, and negatives. Ye gave
me No meat; ye gave me No drink; ye took mie
NOT in ; ye visited me NOT. On the punishment
attending positive crimes, as being more natu-
rally obvious, it was not, perhaps, thought so
necessary to insist.
272
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
It cannot be denied that good sort of people
sometimes use religion as the voluptuous use
physic. As the latter employ medicine to make
health agree with luxury, the former consider
religion as a medium to reconcile peace of con-
science with a life of pleasure. But no moral
chemistry can blend natural contradictions. In
all such unnatural mixtures the world will still
be uppermost, and religion will disdain to coa-
lesce with its antipathy.
which they pretend she enjoins on her disciples. | parably attached to the difficult and self-denying
And it were well if this were only the misre-injunction of keeping ourselves unspotted from
presentation of her declared enemies; but un- the world.' This adjunct is the more needful,
happily, it is the too frequent misconception of as many are apt to make a kind of moral com-
her injudicious friends. But such an over- mutation, and to allow themselves so much
charged picture is not more unamiable than it pleasure in exchange for so much charity. But
is unlike; for I will venture to affirm, that reli- one good quality can never stand proxy for an.
gion, with all her beautiful and becoming sancti- other. The Christian virtues derive their high-
ty, imposes fewer sacrifices, not only of rational, est lustre from association: they have such a
but of pleasurable enjoyment, than the uncon- spirit of society, that they are weak and imper-
trolled dominion of any one vice. Her service fect when solitary; their radiance is brightened
is not only safety hereafter, but freedom here. by an intermingling of their beams, and their
She is not so tyrannizing as appetite, so exact- natural strength multiplied by their alliance
ing as the world, nor so despotic as fashion. Let with each other.
us try the case by a parallel, and examine it,
not as affecting our virtue but our pleasure.
Does Religion forbid the cheerful enjoyments of
life as rigorously as Avarice forbids them? Does
she require such sacrifices of our ease as Ambi-
tion, or such renunciation of our quiet as Pride?
Does Devotion murder sleep like Dissipation?
Does she destroy health like Intemperance?
Does she annihilate Fortune like Gaming? Does
she embitter Life like Discord; or abridge it
like Duelling? Does Religion impose more vi-
gilance than Suspicion? or inflict half as many
mortifications as Vanity? Vice has her mar-
tyrs and the most austere and self-denying
Ascetic (who mistakes the genius of Christianity
almost as much as her enemies mistake it) never
tormented himself with such cruel and causeless
severity as that with which Envy lacerates her
unhappy votaries. Worldly honour obliges us
to be at the trouble of resenting injuries; and
worldly prudence obliges us to be at the expense
of litigating about them: but Religion spares us
the inconvenience of the one, and the cost of the
other, by the summary command to forgive;
and by this injunction she consults our happi-
ness no less than our virtue, for the torment of
constantly hating any one must be, at least,
equal to the sin of it. And resentment is an
evil so costly to our peace that we should find it
more cheap to forgive even were it not more
right. If this estimate be fairly made, then is
the balance clearly on the side of Religion, even
in the article of pleasure.
Let me not be suspected of intending to insi-
nuate that religion encourages men to fly from
society, and hide themselves in solitudes; to re-
nounce the generous and important duties of
active life for the visionary, cold, and fruitless
virtues of an hermitage or a cloister. No: the
mischief arises not from our living in the world,
but from the world living in us; occupying our
hearts, and monopolizing our affections. Action
is the life of virtue; and the world is the theatre
of action. Perhaps some of the most perfect
patterns of human conduct may be found in the
most public stations, and among the busiest or-
ders of mankind. It is, indeed, a scene of trial,
but the glory of the triumph is proportioned
to the peril of the conflict. A sense of danger
quickens circumspection, and makes virtue
more vigilant. Lot, perhaps, is not the only
character, who maintained his integrity in a
great city, proverbially wicked, and forfeited it
in the bosom of retirement.
It has been said that worldly good sort of
people are a greater credit to their profession,
by exhibiting more cheerfulness, gayety, and
happiness, than are visible in serious Christians.
If this assertion be true, which I very much
suspect, is it not probable that the apparent
ease and gayety of the former may be derived
from the same source of consolation which Mrs.
Quickly recommends to Falstaff, in Shaks-
peare's admirable picture of the death-bed scene
of that witty profligate? He wished for com-
fort, quoth mine hostess, and began to talk of
God; now I, to comfort him, begged him he
should not think of God; it was time enough to
trouble himself with these things.' Do not ma.
ny deceive themselves by drawing water from
these dry wells of comfort? and patch up a pre-
carious and imperfect happiness in this world,
by diverting their attention from the concerns
of the next.
It is an infirmity not uncommon to good kind
of people, to comfort themselves that they are
living in the exercise of some one natural good
quality, and to make a religious merit of a con-
stitutional happiness. They have also a strong
propensity to separate what God has joined, be-
lief and practice; the creed and the command-
ments; actions and motives; moral duty and
religious obedience. Whereas, you will hardly
find, in all the new Testament, a moral, or a so-
cial virtue, that is not hedged in by some reli-
gious injunction: scarcely a good action enjoined
towards others, but it is connected with some
exhortation to personal purity. All the charities
of benevolence are, in general, so agreeable to
the natural make of the heart, that it is a very
tender mercy of God to have made that a duty,
which, to finer spirits would have been irresisti-
ble as an inclination, and to have annexed the Another obstruction to the growth of piety,
highest future reward to the greatest present is that unhappy prejudice which even good kind
pleasure. But in order to give a religious sanc- of people too often entertain against those who
tion to a social virtue, the duty of visiting the differ from them in opinion. Every man who
fatherless and widow in their affliction,' is inse-l is sincerely in earnest to advance the interests
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
273
of religion, will have acquired such a degree of
candour, as to become indifferent by whom good
is done, or who has the reputation of doing it,
provided it be actually done. He will be anxi.
ous to increase the stock of human virtue and
of happiness by every possible means. He will
whet and sharpen every instrument of goodness,
though it be not cast in his own mould, or
fashioned after his own pattern. He will never
consider whether the form suits his own parti-
cular taste, but whether the instrument itself
be calculated to accomplish the work of his
master.
cordially relish a religion which professedly
tells them it was sent to stain the pride of hu-
man glory, and to exclude boasting?'
We show the rough and thorny way to heav'n,
While we the primrose path of dalliance tread.
Would it not become the character of a man
But though the passive and self-denying vir-
tues are not high in the esteem of mere good
sort of people, yet they are peculiarly the evan-
gelical virtues. The world extols brilliant ac-
tions; the Gospel enjoins good habits and right
motives: it seldom inculcates those splendid
deeds which make heroes, or teaches those lofty
sentiments which constitute philosophers; but
it enjoins the harder task of renouncing self, of
living uncorrupted in the world, of subduing
I shall conclude these Isose and immethodi- besetting sins, and of 'not thinking of ourselves
cal hints with a plain though short address to more highly than we ought.' The acquisition
those who content themselves with a decent pro- of glory was the precept of other religions, the
fession of the doctrines, and a formal attend-contempt of it is the perfection of Christianity.
ance on the offices, instead of a diligent dis- Let us then be consistent, and we shall never
charge of the duties of Christianity. Believe, be contemptible, even in the eyes of our ene-
and forgive me!-you are the people who lower mies. Let not the unbeliever say that we have
religion in the eyes of its enemies. The open- one set of opinions for our theory, and another
ly profane, the avowed enemies to God and for our practice, that to the vulgar
goodness, serve to confirm the truths they mean
to oppose, to illustrate the doctrines they deny,
and to accomplish the very prediction they affect
to disbelieve. But you, like an inadequate and of sense, of which consistency is a most une
faithless prop, overturn the edifice which you quivocal proof, to choose some rule and abide by
pretend to support.-When an acute and keen- it? An extempore Christian is a ridiculous
eyed infidel measures your lives with the rule character. Fixed principles, if they be really
by which you profess to walk, he finds so little principles of the heart, and not merely opinions
analogy between them, the copy is so unlike the of the understanding, will be followed by a con-
pattern, that this inconsistency of your's is the sistent course of action; while indecision of
pass through which his most dangerous attack spirit will produce instability of conduct. If
is made. And I must confess, that, of all the there be a model which we profess to admire,
arguments, which the malignant industry of in- let us square our lives by it. If either the Ko-
fidelity has been able to muster, the negligent ran of Mahomet, or the Revelations of Zoroaster
conduct of professing Christians seems to me to be a perfect guide, let us follow one of them. If
be the only one which is really capable of stag: either Epicurus, Zeno, or Confucius, be the pe
gering a man of sense. He hears of a spiritual culiar object of our veneration and respect, let
and self-denying religion; he reads the beati-
tudes; he observes that the grand artillery of of their philosophy; and then, though we may
us avowedly fashion our conduct by the dictates
the gospel is planted against pride and sensu- be wrong, we shall not be absurd; we may be
ality. He then turns to the transcript of this erroneous, but we shall not be inconsistent; but
perfect original; to the lives which pretend to if the Bible be in truth the word of God, as we
be fashioned by it. There he sees, with tri- profess to believe, we need look no farther for a
umphant derision that pride, self-love, luxury,
consummate pattern. 'If the Lord be God, let
self-sufficiency, unbounded personal expense, us follow HIM.' If Christ he a sacrifice for sin;
and an inordinate appetite for pleasure, are re-let Him be also to us the example of an holy
putable vices in the eyes of many of those who
acknowledge the truth of the Christian doctrines.
He weighs that meekness to which a blessing
is promised, with that arrogance which is too
common to be very dishonourable. He com-
pares that non-conformity to the world, which
the Bible makes the criterion of a believer, with
that rage for amusement which is not consider
ed as disreputable in a Christian. He opposes
the self-denying and lowly character of the Au-
thor of our faith with the sensual practices of
his followers. He finds little resemblance be-
tween the restraints prescribed, and the gratifi-
cations indulged in. What conclusions must a
speculative reasoning sceptic draw from such
premises? Is it any wonder that such phrases
as a broken spirit,' a contrite heart,' 'poverty
of spirit,' refraining the soul,' keeping it low,
and casting down high imaginations,' should
life.
•
moral and intellectual scene about us begins to
But I am willing to flatter myself that the
brighten. I indulge myself in moments of the
most enthusiastic and delightful vision, that
things are beginning gradually to lead to the
fulfilment of that promise, that all the king.
doms of the earth shall become the kingdoms of
our God and of his Christ.' I take encourage.
ment that that glorious prophecy, that of the
increase of his government there shall be no
end,' seems to be gradually accomplishing ; and
in no instance more, perhaps, than in the noble
attempt about to be made for the abolition of
the African slave-trade.* For what event can
human wisdom foresee more likely to contri-
bute to give the Son the heathen for his in-
heritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth
for his possession,' than the success of such an
be to the unbelieverfoolishness,' when such
humiliating doctrines are a 'stumbling block' to
*This interesting question was then beginning to be
professing Christians; to Christians who cannot agitated in parliament.
VOL. I.
S
274
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
enterprise, which will restore the lustre of the
British name, and cut off at a single stroke as
large and disgraceful a portion of national guilt
as ever impaired the virtue or dishonoured the
councils of a Christian country.
A good spirit seems to be at work. A catho-
lic temper is diffusing itself among all sects and
parties an enlightened candour, and a liberal
toleration, were never more prevalent; good men
combat each others opinions with less rancour,
and better manners;* they hate each other
less for those points in which they disagree,
and love each other more for those points in
which they join issue than they formerly did.
We have many public encouragements; we have
a pious king; a wise and virtuous minister;
very many respectable, and not a few serious
clergy. Their number I am willing to hope is
daily increasing. Among these some of the
first in dignity are the most exemplary in con-
duct. An increasing desire to instruct the poor,
to inform the ignorant, and to reclaim the vi-
cious, is spreading among us. The late royal
proclamation affords an honourable sanction to
virtuous endeavours, and lends nerves and si-
news to the otherwise feeble exertions of in-
dividuals, by enforcing laws wisely planned,
but hitherto feebly executed. In short, there is a
good hope that we shall more and more become
that happy people who have the Lord for their
God:' that as prosperity is already within our
walls, peace and virtue may abide in our dwellings.
But vain will be all endeavours after partial
and subordinate amendment. Reformation must
begin with the GREAT, or it will never be effec-
tual. Their example is the fountain whence
the vulgar draw their habits, actions, and cha-
racters. To expect to reform the poor while
the opulent are corrupt is to throw odours into
the stream while the springs are poisoned.
If, therefore, the rich and great will not,
from a liberal spirit of doing right, and from a
christian spirit of fearing God, abstain from those
offences, for which the poor are to suffer fines
and imprisonments, effectual good cannot be
done. It will signify little to lay penalties on
the horses of the drover, or the wagon of the
husbandman, while the chariot wheels of the
great roll with incessant motion; and while the
sacred day on which the sons of industry are
commanded by royal proclamation to desist from
travelling, is for that very reason selected for
*This was written before the French revolution!!
|
the journeys of the great, and preferred because
the road is incumbered with fewer interruptions
But will it not strike every well-meaning Sun-
day traveller with a generous remorse, when he
reflects that he owes the accommodation of an
unobstructed road to the very obedience which
is paid by others to that divine and human law
which he is in the very act of violating?
Will not the common people think it a little
inequitable that they are abridged of the diver-
sions of the public house and the gaming yard
on Sunday evening, when they shall hear that
many houses of the first nobility are on that
evening crowded with company, and such
amusements carried on as are prohibited by hu-
man laws even on common days? As imitation,
and a desire of being in the fashion, govern the
lower orders of mankind, it is to be feared that
they will not think reformation reputable, while
they see it recommended only, and not practised,
by their superiors. A precept counteracted by
an example, is worse than fruitless; it is ridicu
lous; and the common people will be tempted to
set an inferior value on goodness, when they
find it is only expected from the lower ranks..
They cannot surely but smile at the disinterest-
edness of their superiors, who, while they seem
anxiously concerned to save others, are so little
solicitous about their own state. The ambitious.
vulgar will hardly relish a salvation which is
only intended for plebians; nor will they be apt
to entertain very exalted notions of that pro-
mised future reward, the road to which they
perceive their betters are so much more earnest
to point out to them, than to walk in themselves.
It was not by inflicting pains and penalties
that Christianity first made its way into the
world: the divine truths it inculcated received
irresistible confirmation from the LIVES, PRAC-
TICES, and EXAMPLES of its venerable professors.
These were arguments which no popular pre-
judice could resist, no Jewish logic refute, and
no Pagan persecution discredit. Had the pri-
mitive Christians only praised and promulgated
it
the most perfect religion the world ever saw,
would have produced but very slender effects on
the faith and manners of the people. The asto-
nishing consequences which followed the pure
doctrines of the Gospel, would never have been
produced, if the jealous and inqusitive eye of
malice could have detected that the DOCTRINES
the Christians recommended had not been illus
trated by the LIVES they led.
POSTSCRIPT TO THE SECOND EDITION
THE public favour having already brought a wrong system, without so much as attempting
To these observations
this little essay to another edition, the author to build up a right one.
has been sedulous to discover any particular ob- the author begs leave to reply, that whilst ani-
jections that have been made to it. Since the madverting on error, the insisting on obvious
preceding sheets were printed off, it has been duty was purposely omitted. To tell people what.
suggested by some very respectable persons who they already know to be right, was less the in-
have honoured this slight performance with their tention of this address, than to observe upon
notice, that it inculcates a too rigid austerity, practices which long habit had prevented them
and carries the point of observing Sunday much from perceiving to be wrong. Sensible and well-
too far; that it takes away all the usual occu- meaning persons can hardly be at a loss on a
pations of the day, without substituting any subject which has exhausted precept and wea-
others in their stead; and that it only pulls down | ried exhortation. To have expatiated on it,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
275
would only have been to repeat what is already |
known and acknowledged to be right, even by
those whom the hurry of engagements will not
allow to take breath one day in a week, that they
may run the race of pleasure with more alacrity
on the other six. But probably it is not the du-
ties, but the amusements appropriated to the day
about which the inquiry is made. It will, per-
haps, be found, that the intervals of a Sunday
regularly devoted to all its reasonable and ob-
vious employments, are not likely to be so very
tedious, but that they might be easily and plea-
santly filled up by cheerful, innocent, and in-
structive conversation. Human delights would
be very circumscribed indeed, if the practices
here noticed as erroneous, included the whole
circle of enjoyments. In addition to the appro-
priate pleasures of devotion, are the pleasures
of retirement, the pleasures of friendship, the
pleasures of intellect, and the pleasures of be-
neficence, to be estimated as nothing?
There will not be found, perhaps, a single
person who shall honour these pages with a pe-
rusal, who has not been repeatedly told, with an
air of imposing gravity, by those who produce
cards on a Sunday evening, that it is better to
play than to talk scandal.-Before this pithy
axiom was invented, it was not perhaps suspect
ed that Sunday gaming would ever be adduced
as an argument in favour of morals. Without
entering into the comparative excellence of these
two occupations, or presuming to determine
which has a claim to pre-eminence of piety,
may we not venture to be thankful that these
alternatives do not seem to empty the whole
stock of human resource; but that something
will still be left to occupy and to interest those
who adopt neither the one nor the other?
People in the gay and elegant scenes of life
are perpetually complaining that an extensive
acquaintance, and the necessity of being con-
stantly engaged in large circles and mixed as.
semblies, leaves them little leisure for family
enjoyment, select conversation, and domestic
delights. Others, with no less earnestness, la-
ment that the hurry of public stations, and the
necessary demands of active life, allow them no
time for any but frivolous reading. Now the
recurrence of one Sunday in every week seems
to hold out an inviting remedy for both these
evils. The sweet and delightful pleasures of
family society might then be uninterruptedly
enjoyed, by the habitual exclusion of trifling and
idle visiters, who do not come to see their friends,
but to get rid of themselves. Persons of fashion,
living in the same house, and connected by the
closest ties, whom business and pleasure keep a
sunder during the greatest part of the week, would
then have an opportunity of spending a little time
together, and of cultivating that friendship for
each other, that affection for their children, and
that intercourse with their Maker, to which the
present manners are not very favourable. To
the other set of complainers, those who can find
no time to read, this interval naturally presents
itself; and it so happens, that some of the most
enlightened men the world ever saw, have, not
unfrequently, devoted their rare talents to sub-
jects peculiarly suited to this day; and that not
merely in the didactic form of sermons, which
men of the world affect to disdain, but in every
alluring shape which human ingenuity could
assume. It can be fortunately produced among
a thousand other instances, that the deepest
metaphysician,* the greatest astronomer, the
sublimest poet, the acutest reasoner, the politest
writer, the most consummate philosopher, and
the profoundest investigator of nature, which
this, or perhaps any country has produced, have
all written on such subjects as are analogous to
the business of the Lord's day. Such authors
as these, even wits, philosophers, and men of
the world, must acknowledge that it is not
bigotry to read, nor enthusiasm to commend.
Of this illustrious group only one was a clergy-
man, which to a certain class of readers will be
a strong recommendation; though it is a little
hard that the fastidiousness of modern taste
should undervalue the learned and pious labours
of divines, only because they are professional.-
In every other function, a man's compositions
are not the less esteemed because they peculi-
arly belong to his more immediate business.
Blackstone's opinions in jurisprudence are in
high reputation, though he was a lawyer; Sy
denham is still consulted as oracular in fevers,
in spite of his having been a physician; and the
Commentaries of Cæsar are of established au-
thority in military operations, notwithstanding
he was a soldier.
* Locke, Newton, Milton, Butler, Addison, Bacon,
Boyle.
AN ESTIMATE
OF THE RELIGION OF THE FASHIONABLE WORLD.
There was never found in any age of the world, either philosophy, or sect, or religion, or law,
or discipline, which did so highly exalt the public good as the Christian faith.-Lord Bacon.
INTRODUCTION.
THE general design of these pages is to offer
some cursory remarks, on the present state of
religion among a great part of the polite and the
fashionable; not only among that description of
persons who, whether from disbelief or whatever
other cause, avowedly neglect the duties of
Christianity; but among that more decent class
also, who, while they acknowledge their belief of
its truth by a public profession, and are not inat
tentive to any of its forms, yet exhibit little of
its spirit in their general temper and conduct.
It is designed to show that Christianity, like its
Divine Author, is not only denied by those who
in so many words disown their submission to
276
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
its authority, but is betrayed by the still more
treacherous disciple, even while he cries, Hail,
Master!
'new born babes desire the sineere milk of the
word, that we may grow thereby.'
so simple, yet so sublime; so full of fervour, at
the same time so free from enthusiasm ; so rich
in the gold of Christian antiquity, yet so asto-
nishingly exempt from its dross. That it has
imperfections we do not deny, but what are they
compared with its general excellence? They
are as the spots on the sun's disk, which a sharp
observer may detect, but which neither diminish
the warmth, nor obscure the brightness.
. Perhaps there has not been since the age of
For this visible declension of piety various the Apostles, a church upon earth in which the
reasons have been assigned, some of which how-public worship was so solemn and so cheerful;
ever do not seem fully adequate to the effects
ascribed to them. The author of a late popular
pamphlet* has accounted for the increased pro-
fligacy of the common people, by ascribing it,
very justly, to the increased dissoluteness of
their superiors. And who will deny what he
farther affirms-that the general conduct of high
and low receives a deep tincture of depravity
from the growing neglect of public worship?
So far I most cordially agree with the noble But if those imperfections which are insepa-
author. Nothing can be more obvious than that rable from all human institutions, are to be al-
the disuse of public worship is naturally follow-leged as reasons for abstaining to attend on the
ed by a neglect of all religious duties. Energies, service of the established church, we must on
which are not called out into action, almost ne- the same principle, and on still stronger grounds,
cessarily die in the mind. The soul, no less abstain from all public worship whatever; and
than the body, requires its stated repairs, and indeed it must be confessed that the persons of
regular renovations. And from the sluggish whom we are now speaking are very consistent
and procrastinating spirit of man, that religious in this matter.
duty to which no fixed time is assigned, is sel-
dom, it is to be feared, performed at all.†
I must, however, take leave to dissent from
the opinion of the noble author, that the too
common desertion of persons of rank from the
service of the establishment is occasioned in
general, as he intimates, by their disapprobation
of the Liturgy; as it may more probably be sup-
posed, that the far greater part of them are de-
terred from going to church by motives widely
removed from speculative objections and con-
scientious scruples.
It would be quite foreign to my present pur-
pose to enter upon the question of the superior
utility of a form of prayer for public worship.
Most sincerely attached to the establishment
myself, not, as far as I am able to judge, from
prejudice, but from a fixed and settled convic-
tion. I regard its institution with a veneration
at once affectionate and rational. Never need a
Christian, except when his own heart is strange-
ly indisposed, fail to derive benefit from its or-
dinances, and he may bless the overruling pro-
vidence of God, that, in this instance, the natural
variableness and inconstancy of human opinion
is, as it were fixed, and settled, and hedged in,
by a stated service so pure, so evangelical, and
which is enriched by such a large infusion of
sacred Scripture.
|
But the difference of opinion here intimated,
is not so much about the Liturgy itself, as the
imaginary effects attributed to it in thinning the
pews of our people of fashion. The slightest
degree of observation serves to contradict this
assertion. Those, however, who, with the noble
author, maintain the other opinion, may satisfy
their doubts by inquiring, whether the regular
and systematic absentees from church are chiefly
to be found among the thinking, the reading,
the speculative, and the scrupulous part of man-
kind.
Even the most negligent attendant on public
worship must know, that the obnoxious creed,
to whose malignant potency this general deser-
tion is ascribed, by the noble author, is never
read above three or four Sundays in the year;
and even allowing the validity of the objections
brought against it, that does not seem a very
adequate reason for banishing the most scru-
pulous and tender consciences from church on
the remaining eight-and-forty Sundays of the
calender.
Besides, there is one test which is absolutely
unequivocal: this creed is never read at all in
the afternoon, any more than the Litany, that
other great source of offence and supposed de-
sertion; and yet with all these multiplied rea-
sons for their attendance do we see the con-
If so many among us contemn the service as scientious crowds of the high born, who abstain
having been, individually, to us fruitless and un- from the morning service through their repug-
profitable, let us inquire whether the blessing nance to subscribe to the dogmas of Athanasius,
may not be withheld because we are not fervent or the more orthodox clauses of the morning
in asking it. If we do not find a suitable hu- | Litany, do we see them, I say, flocking to the
miliation in the Confession, a becoming earnest-evening service, impatient for the exercise of
ness in the Petitions, a congenial joy in the that devotion which had been obstructed by
Adoration, a corresponding gratitude in the
Thanksgivings, it is because our hearts do not
accompany our words; it is because we rest in
the form of godliness,' and are contented to re-
main destitute of its 'power.' If we are not
duly interested when the select portions of Scrip-
ture are read to us, it is because we do not as
* Hints to an Association for preventing Vice and Im-
morality, written by a nobleman of the highest rank.
† On this subject see Dr. Johnson's Life of Milton.
|
these two objectionable portions of the Li-
turgy? Do we see them eager to explain the
cause of their morning absence, and zealous to
vindicate their piety by assiduously attending
when the reprobated portions are omitted? So
far from it, is it not pretty evident that the
general quarrel (with some few exceptions) of
public worship, is not with the Creed, but the
those who habitually absent themselves from
commandments? With such, to reform the
Prayer-book would go but a little wav, unless
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
277
the new Testament could be also abridged. Cut,
and pare, and prune the service of the church
ever so much, still Christianity itself will be
found full of formidable objections. Should the
church even give up her abstruse creeds, it
would avail but little, unless the Bible would
also expunge those rigorous laws which not only
prohibit sinful actions, but corrupt inclinations.
And to speak honestly, I do not see how such
persons as habitually infringe the laws of virtue
and sobriety, and who are yet men of acute sa-
gacity, accustomed on other subjects to a con-
sistent train of reasoning; who see consequen-
ces in their causes; who behold practical self-
denial necessarily involved in the sincere ha-
bit of religious observances-I do not see
how, with respect to such men, any doctrines
reformed, any redundancies lopped, any obscuri-
ties brightened, could effect the object of this
author's very benevolent and Christian wish.
Religious duties are often neglected upon
more consistent grounds than the friends of Re-
ligion are willing to allow. They are often dis-
continued, not as repugnant to the understanding,
not as repulsive to the judgment, but as hostile
to a licentious life. And when a prudent man,
And when a prudent man,
after having entered into a solemn convention,
finds that he is living in a constant breach of
every article of the treaty he has engaged to
observe, one cannot much wonder at his getting
out of the hearing of the heavy artillery which
he knows is planted against him, and against
every one who lives in the allowed infraction
of the covenant into which every Christian has
entered.
For a man of sense who should acknowledge
the truth of the doctrine, would find himself
obliged to submit to the force of the precept.
It is not easy to be a comfortable sinner, with-
out trying, at least, to be a confirmed unbeliever.
And as that cannot be achieved by a wish, the
next expedient is to shun the recollection of that
belief, and to forget that of which we cannot be
ignorant. The smallest remains of faith would
embitter a life of libertinism, and to be frequent-
ly reminded of the articles of that faith would
disturb the ease induced by a neglect of all ob-
servances. While to him who retains any im-
pression of Christianity, the wildest festivals of
intemperance will be converted into the terrify.
ing feast of Damocles.
speculation, argument, or philosophical deduc-
tion may lie almost as quietly on the shelf, as
the volumes of its most able antagonist; and the
cobwebs are almost as seldom brushed from
Hobbes as from Hooker. No: prudent scepti-
cism hath wisely studied the temper of the
times, and skilfully felt the pulse of this relaxed,
and indolent, and selfish age. It prudently ac-
commodated itself to the reigning character,
when it adopted sarcasm instead of reasoning,
and preferred a sneer to an argument. It dis-
creetly judged, that, if it would now gain prose-
lytes, it must show itself under the bewitching
form of a profane bon-mot; must be interwoven in
the texture of some amusing history, written with
the levity of a romance, and the point and glitter
of an epigram: it must embellish the ample
margin with some offensive anecdote or impure
allusion, and decorate impiety with every loose
and meretricious ornament which a corrupt
imagination can invent. It must break up the
old flimsy system into little mischievous apho-
risms, ready for practical purposes: it must di-
vide the rope of sand into little portable parcels,
which the shallowest wit can comprehend, and
the shortest memory carry away.
Philosophy therefore (as Unbelief by a patent
of its own creation, has been pleased to call it-
self) will not do nearly so much mischief to the
present age as its primitive apostles intended,
since it requires time, application, and patience
to peruse the reasoning veterans of the sceptic
school: and these are talents not now very se-
verely devoted to study of any sort, by those
who give the law to fashion; especially since,
as it was hinted above, the same principles may
be acquired on cheaper terms, and the reputa-
tion of being philosophers obtained without the
sacrifices of pleasure for the severities of study;
since the industry of our literary chemists has
extracted the spirit from the gross substance of
the old unvendible poison, and exhibited it in the
volatile essence of a few sprightly sayings.
If therefore in this voluptuous age, when a
frivolous and relaxing dissipation has infected
our very studies, Infidelity will not be at the
pains of deep research and elaborate investiga-
tion, even on such subjects as are congenial to
its affections, and promotive of its object; it is
in vain to expect that Christianity will be more
engaging, either as an object of speculation, or
That many a respectable non-conformist is as a rule of practice; since it demands a still
kept out of the pale of the establishment by some stronger exertion of those energies which the
of the causes noticed by the noble author, can- gay world is not at the pains to exercise, even
not be questioned, and a matter of regret it is. on the side they approve. For the evidences of
But these, however, are often sober thinkers, Christianity require attention to be comprehend-
serious inquirers, conscientious reasoners, whose ed, no less than its doctrines require humility
object we may charitably believe is truth, how-to be received, and its precepts self-denial to be
ever they may be deceived as to its nature: but
that the same objections banish the great and
the gay, is not equally evident. Thanks to the
indolence and indifference of the times, it is not
dogmas or doctrines, it is not abstract reason-
ings, or puzzling propositions, it is not perplexed
argument, or intricate metaphysics, which can
now disincline from Christianity; so far from
it they cannot even allure to unbelief. Infidelity
itself, with all that strong and natural bias which
selfishness and appetite entertain in its favour,
if it appear in the grave and scholastic form of
obeyed.
Will it then be uncharitable to pronounce,
that the leading mischief, not which thins our
churches (for that is not the evil I propose to
consider) but which pervades our whole charac-
ter, and gives the colour to our general conduct,
is practical irreligion? an irreligion not so much
opposed to a speculative faith, not so much in
hostility to the evidences of Christianity, as to
that spirit, temper, and behaviour which Chris-
tianity inculcates.
On this practical irreligion it is proposed to
278
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
offer a few hints. After attempting to show,, middle of the last century, when the fiery and
by a comparison with the religion of the great
in preceding ages, that there is a visible decline
of piety among the higher ranks-that even
those more liberal spirits who neglect not many
of the great duties of benevolence, yet hold the
severer obligations of piety in no esteem-I
shall proceed, though perhaps with too little
method to remark on the notorious effects of the
decay of this religious principle, as it corrupts
our mode of education, infects domestic conduct,
spreads the contagion downwards among ser-
vants and inferiors, and influences our general
manners, habits, and conversation.
indiscreet zeal of one party was made a pretext
for the profligate impiety of the other; who to
the bad principle which dictated a depraved
conduct, added the bad taste of being proud of
it: when even the least abandoned were ab-
surdly apprehensive that an appearance of de-
cency might subject them to the charge of fana-
ticism, a charge in which they took care to
involve real piety, as well as enthusiastic pre-
tence, till it became the general fashion to avoid
no sin but hypocrisy; to dread no imputation
but that of seriousness, and to be more afraid of
the virtues which procure a good reputation
than of every vice which ever earned a bad one.
Party was no longer confined to political dis-
tinctions, but became a part of morals, and was
carried into religion. The more profligate of
the court party began to connect the idea of de-
But what it is here proposed principally to in-
sist on is, that this defect of religious principle
is almost equally fatal as to all the ends and pur-
poses of genuine piety, whether it appear in the
open contempt and defiance of all sacred insti-
tutions, or under the more decent veil of exter-votion with that of republicanism; and to prove
nal observances, unsupported by such a conduct
as is analogous to the christian profession.
I shall proceed with a few remarks on a third
class of fashionable characters, who profess to
acknowledge Christianity as a perfect system
of morals, while they deny its divine authority:
and conclude with some slight animadversions
on the opinion which these modish Christians
maintain, that morality is the whole of religion.
It must be confessed, however, that manners
and principles act reciprocally on each other;
and are, by turns, cause, and effect. For in-
stance the increased relaxation of morals pro-
duces the increased neglect of infusing religious
principle in the education of youth; which effect
becomes, in its turn, a cause, and in due time,
when that cause comes to operate, helps on the
decline of manners.
CHAP. I.
Decline of Christianity shown by a comparative
view of the religion of the great in preceding
ages.
IF the general position of this little tract be
allowed, namely, that Religion is at present in
no very flourishing state among those whose ex-
ample, from the high ground on which they
stand, guides and governs the rest of mankind,
it will not be denied by those who are ever so
superficially acquainted with the history of
our country, that this has not always been the
case. Those who make a fair comparison must
allow, that however the present age may be im-
proved in other important and valuable advan-
tages, yet, that there is but little appearance re-
maining among the great and the powerful of
that righteousness which exalteth a nation.'-
They must confess that there has been a moral
revolution in the national manners and princi-
ples, very little analogous to that great political
one which we hear so much and so justly ex-
tolled. That our public virtues bear little pro-
portion to our public blessings; and that our re-
ligion has decreased in pretty exact proportion
to our having secured the means of enjoying it.
That the antipodes to wrong are hardly ever
right, was very strikingly illustrated about the
their aversion to the one, though they could
never cast too much ridicule upon the other.
The public taste became debauched, and to be
licentious in principle, was thought by many to
be the best way of making their court to the
restored monarch, and of proving their abhor-
rence of the hypocritical side. And Poems by
a person of honour, the phrase of the day to de-
signate a fashionable author, were often scan-
dalous offences against modesty and virtue.
It was not till piety was thus unfortunately
brought into disrepute, that persons of condition
thought it made their sincerity, their abilities,
or their good breeding questionable, to appear
openly on the side of Religion. A strict at
tachment to piety did not subtract from a great
reputation. Men were not thought the worst
lawyers, generals, ministers, legislators, or his-
torians, for believing, and even defending, the
religion of their country. The gallant Sir
Philip Sidney, the rash but heroic Essex, the
politic and sagacious Burleigh, the all-accom.
plished Falkland,* not only publicly owned
their belief in Christianity, but even wrote some
things of a religious nature. These instances,
and many others which might be adduced, are
not, it will be allowed, selected from among con-
templative recluses, grave divines, or authors by
profession; but from the busy, the active, and
the illustrious; from public characters, from
men of strong passions, beset with great tempta-
tions; distinguished actors on the stage of life;
and whose respective claims to the title of fine
gentlemen, brave soldiers, or able statesmen,
have never been called in question.
What would the Hales, and the Clarendons,
and the Somersets, have said, had they been
told that the time was at no great distance when
that sacred book, for which they thought it no
derogation from their wisdom or their dignity
to entertain the profoundest reverence; the book
which they made the rule of their faith, the ob
|ject of their most serious study, and the founda-
* Lord Faulkland assisted the great Chillingworth in
his incomparable work, The Religion of a Protestant.
Anecdotes of Royal and Noble Authors.'
† See that equally elegant and authentic work,
The
This consummate statesman was not only remark-
abie for a strict attendance on the public duties of reli.
gion, but for maintaining them with equal exactness in
his family, at a period too when religion was most dis
countenanced.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE
279
tion of their eternal hope; that this book would
one day be of little more use to men in high
public stations, than to be the instrument of an
oath; and that the sublimest rites of the chris-
tian religion would soon be considered as little
more than a necessary qualification for a place,
or the legal preliminary to an office.
think ourselves accountable for opinions at no
earthly tribunal, yet it should be remembered
that thoughts as well as actions are amenable at
the bar of God; and though we may rejoice that
the tyranny of the spiritual Procustes is so far
annihilated, that we are in no danger of having
our opinions lopped or lengthened till they are
brought to fit the measure of human caprice,
yet there is still a standard by which not only
actions are weighed, but opinions are judged;
and every sentiment which is clearly inconsis.
tent with the revealed will of God, is as much
as throwing off his dominion as the breach of
any of his moral precepts. This cuts up by the
roots that popular and independent phrase, that
more at liberty to indulge opinions in opposition
to the express word of God, that we are at liberty
to infringe practically on his commandments.
This indeed is the boasted period of free in-
quiry and liberty of thinking: but it is the pe-
culiar character of the present age, that its mis-
chiefs often assume the most alluring forms;
and that the most alarming evils not only look
so like goodness as to be often mistaken for it,
but are sometimes mixed up with so much real
good, as often to disguise though never to coun-
teract, their malignity. Under the beautiful' thoughts are free,' for in this view we are no
mask of an enlightened philosophy, all religious
restraints are set at nought; and some of the
deadliest wounds have been aimed at Christi-
anity, in works written in avowed vindica-
tion of the most amiable of all the christian
principles !* Even the prevalence of a liberal
and warm philanthropy is secretly sapping
the foundation of christian morals, because
many of its champions allow themselves to
live in the open violation of the severer duties
of justice and sobriety, while they are contend-
ing for the gentler ones of charity and bene-
ficence.
The strong and generous bias in favour of
universal toleration, noble as the principle itself
is, has engendered a dangerous notion that all
error is innocent. Whether it be owing to this,
or to whatever other cause, it is certain that the
discriminating features of the Christian religion
are every day growing into less repute; and
it is become the fashion, even among the better
sort, to evade, to lower, or to generalize, its most
distinguishing peculiarities.
:
There is so little of the Author of Christianity |
left in his own religion, that an apprehensive
believer is ready to exclaim, with the woman at
the sepulchre, They have taken away my
Lord, and I know not where they have laid
him.' The locality of Hell and the existence
of an Evil Spirit are annihilated, or considered
as abstract ideas. When they are alluded to,
it is periphrastically; or they are discontinued
not on the ground of their being awful and ter-
rible, but they are set aside as topics too vulgar
for the polished, too liberal for the learned, and
as savouring too much of credulity for the en-
lightened.
While we glory in having freed ourselves
from the trammels of human authority, are we
not turning our liberty into licentiousness, and
wantonly struggling to throw off the Divine
authority too? Freedom of thought is the glory
of the human mind, while it is confined within
its just and sober limits; but though we may
*See particularly Voltaire sur la Tolerance. This is
a common artifice of that insidious author. In this in-
stance he has made use of the popularity he obtained in
the fanatical tragedy at Thoulouse, (the murder of Ca-
lais) to discredit, though in the most guarded manner
Christianity itself; degrading martyrdoms, denying the
truth of the Pagan persecutions, &c. &c. And by mix
ing some truths with many falsehoods, by assuming an
amiable candour, and professing to serve the interest of
goodness, he treacherously contrives to leave on the
mind of the unguarded reader impressions the most un-
favourable to Christianity,
There is then surely one test by which it is
no mark of intolerance to try the principles of
men, namely, the Law and the Testimony: and
on applying to this touchstone, it is impossible
not to lament, that while a more generous spirit
governs our judgment, a purer principle does
not seem to regulate our lives. May it not be
said, that while we are justly commended for
thinking charitably of the opinions of others
we seem, in return, as if we were desirous of
furnishing them with an opportunity of exer-
cising their candour by the laxity of principle
in which we indulge ourselves? If the hearts of
men were as firmly united to each other, by the
bond of charity as some pretend, they could not
fail of being united to God also by one common
principle of piety. And christian piety furnishes
the only certain source of all charitable judg-
ment, as well as of all virtuous conduct.
•
Instead of abiding by the salutary precept of
judging no man, it is the fashion to exceed our
commission, and to fancy every body to be in
a safe state. Judge not' is the precise limit
of our rule. There is no more encouragement
to judge falsely on the side of worldly candour,
than there is to judge harshly on the side of
Christian charity. In forming our notions we
have to choose between the Bible and the world,
between the rule and the practice. Where
these do not agree it is left to the judgment of
believers, at least, by which we are to decide.
But we never act, in religious concerns, by the
same rule of common sense and equitable judg-
ment which governs us on other occasions. In
weighing any commodity, its weight is deter-
mined by some generally allowed standard;
and if the commodity be heavier or lighter than
the standard weight, we add or take from it:
but we never break, or clip, or reduce the weight
to suit the thing we are weighing; because the
common consent of mankind has agreed that
the one shall be considered as the standard to
ascertain the value of the other. But, in weigh-
ing our principles by the standard of the Gos-
pel, we do just the reverse. Instead of bringing
our opinions and actions to the balance of the
sanctuary, to determine and rectify their com-
parative deficiencies, we lower and reduce the
standard of the Scripture doctrines till we have
accommodated them to our own purposes: so
that instead of trying others and ourselves by
280
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
God's unerring rule, we try the truth of God's
rule by its conformity or non-conformity to our
own depraved notions and corrupt practices.
CHAP. II.
Benevolence allowed to be the reigning virtue,
but not exclusively the virtue of the present
age.—Benevolence not the whole of Religion,
though one of its most characteristic features.
Whether Benevolence proceeds from a religious
principle, will be more infallibly known by the
general disposition of time, fortune, and the
common habits of life, than from a few occa-
sional acts of bounty.
bly more are debauched by our licentiousness→→
the balance perhaps will not turn out so de-
cidedly in our favour of the times as we are wil-
ling to imagine.
If then the most valuable species of charity
is that which prevents distress by preventing or
lessening vice, the greatest and most inevitable
the bounty of the great in the present day, in
cause of want-we ought not so highly to exalt
preference to that broad shade of protection, pa-
tronage, and maintenance, which the wide-
spread bounty of their forefathers stretched out
over whole villages, I had almost said whole
provinces. When a few noblemen in a county,
which were not often set upon a card,) extend-
like their own stately oaks, (paternal oaks!
ed their sheltering branches to shield all the un-
To all the remonstrance and invective of the derwood of the forest-when there existed a
preceding chapter, there will not fail to be op- kind of passive charity, a negative sort of be-
posed that which we hear every day so loudly nevolence, which did good of itself; and with.
insisted on-the decided superiority of the pre-out effort, exertion, or expensc, produced the
scnt age in other and better respects. It will
be said, that even those who neglect the outward
forms of religion, exhibit, however, the best
proofs of the best principles; that the unparal-
leled instances of charity of which we are con-
tinual witnesses; that the many striking acts
of public bounty, and the various new and no-
ble improvements in this shining virtue, justly
entitle the present age to be called, by way of
eminence, the Age of Benevolence.
It is with the liveliest joy I acknowledge the
delightful truth. Liberality flows with a full
tide through a thousand channels. There is
scarcely a newspaper but records some meeting
of men of fortune for the most salutary purposes.
The noble and numberless structures for the
relief of distress, which are the ornament and
the glory of our metropolis, proclaim a species
of munificence unknown to former ages. Sub-
scriptions, not only to hospitals, but to various
other valuable institutions, are obtained almost
as soon as solicited. And who but must wish
that these beautiful monuments of benevolence
may become every day more numerous, and
more extended!
effect of all, and performed the best functions of
bounty, though it did not aspire to the dignity
of its name-it was simply this :-great people
staid at home; and the sober pomp and orderly
magnificence of a noble family, residing at their
own castle a great part of the year, contributed in
the most natural way to the maintenance of the
poor; and in a good degree prevented their dis-
tress, which it must however thankfully be con-
fessed it is the laudable object of modern bounty
to relieve. A man of fortune might not then,
it is true, so often dine in public for the benefit
of the poor; but the poor were more regularly
and comfortably fed with the abundant crumbs
which then fell from the rich man's table.
Whereas it cannot be denied that the prevailing
mode of living has pared real hospitality to the
very quick; and, though the remark may be
thought ridiculous, it is a material disadvantage
to the poor, that the introduction of the modern
style of luxury has rendered the remains of the
most costly table but of small value.
But even allowing the boasted superiority of
modern benevolence, still it would not be incon-
sistent with the object of the present design, to
Yet, with all these allowed and obvious ex- inquire whether the diffusion of this branch of
cellences, it is not quite clear whether some- charity, though the most lovely offspring of re-
thing too much has not been said of the liberal-ligion, be yet any positive proof of the preva-
ity of the present age, in a comparative view with
that of those ages which preceded it. A gene-
A
ral alteration of habits and manners has at the
same time multiplied public bounties and pri-
vate distress; and it is scarcely a paradox, to
say that there was probably less misery when
there was less munificence.
lence of religious principle? and whether it be
not the fashion rather to consider benevolence
as a substitute for Christianity than as an evi-
dence of it?
It seems to be one of the reigning errors
among the better sort, to reduce all religion into
benevolence, and all benevolence into alms-giv-
ing. The wide and comprehensive idea of chris-
tian charity is compressed into the slender com-
pass of a little pecuniary relief. This species of
benevolence is indeed a bright gem among the
ornaments of a Christian; but by no means fur-
nishes all the jewels of his crown, which derives
its lustre from the associated radiance of every
christian grace. Besides, the genuine virtues
are all of the same family: and it is only by be-
ing seen in company with each other, and with
Piety their common parent, that they are cer-
tainly known to be legitimate.
If an increased benevolence now ranges
through and relieves a wider compass of dis-
tress; yet still, if those examples of luxury and
dissipation which promote that distress are still
more increased, this makes the good done, bear
little proportion to the evil promoted. If the
miseries removed by the growth of charity fall,
both in number and weight, far below those
which are caused by the growth of vice and
disorder; if we find that, though bounty is ex-
tended, yet those corruptions which make boun-
ty so necessary are extended also, almost beyond
calculation; if it appear that, though more ob- But it is the property of the christian virtues,
iects are relieved by our money, yet incompara-that, like all other amiable members of the same
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
281
family, while each is doing its own particular, point, an uniform desire to please Him. This
duty, it is contributing to the prosperity of the desire will naturally and necessarily manifest
rest; and the larger the family, the better they itself in our doing all the good we can to our
live together, as no one can advance itself with- | fellow-creatures in every possible way; for it
out labouring for the advancement of the whole will be found that neither of the two parts into
thus, no man can be benevolent on Christian which practical religion is divided, can be per-
principles without self-denial; and so of the formed with any degree of perfection but by
other virtues : each is connected with some other, those who unite both; as it may be questioned
and all with Religion.
if any man really does 'love his neighbour as
himself,' who does not first endeavour to 'love
God with all his heart.' As genius has been de-
fined to be strong general powers of mind, acci-
dentally determined to some particular pursuit,
so piety may be denominated a strong general
disposition of the heart to every thing that is
right, breaking forth into every excellent action,
as the occasion presents itself.
The temper
must be ready in the mind, and the whole heart
must be prepared and trained to every act of
virtue to which it may be called out. For reli-
gious principles are like the military exercise;
they keep up an habitual state of preparation
for actual service; and, by never relaxing the
discipline, the real Christian is ready for every
duty to which he may be commanded. Right
actions best prove the existence of religion
of the heart; but they are evidences, not
causes.
I already anticipate the obvious and hack-
neyed reply, that,' whoever be the instrument,
and whatever be the motive of bounty, still the
poor are equally relieved, and therefore the end
is the same.' And it must be confessed that
those compassionate hearts, who cannot but be
earnestly anxious that the distressed should be
relieved at any rate, should not too scrupulously
inquire into any cause of which the effect is so
beneficial. Nor indeed will candour scrutinize
too curiously into the errors of any life of which
benevolence will always be allowed to be the
shining ornament, while it does not pretend to
be the atoning virtue.
Let me not he misrepresented, as if I were
seeking to detract from the value of this amia-
ble feeling; we do not surely lower the practice
by seeking to enoble the principle; the action
will not be impaired by mending the motive;
and no one will be likely to give the poor less
because he seeks to please God more.
One cannot then help wishing that pecuniary
bounty were not only not practised, but that it
were not sometimes enjoined too, as a redeem-
ing virtue. In many conversations, (I had al-
most said in many charity-sermons,) it is insi-
nuated as if a little alms-giving could pay off
old scores contracted by favourite indulgences.
This, though often done by well-meaning men
to advance the interests of some present pious
purpose, yet has the mischievous effect of those
medicines which, while they may relieve a local
complaint, are yet undermining the general
habit.
Whether therefore, a man's charitable actions
proceed from religious principle, he will be best
able to ascertain by scrutinizing into what is
the general disposition of his time and fortune,
and by observing whether his pleasures and ex-
penses are habitually regulated with a view
to enable him to be more or less useful to
others.
It is in vain that he possesses what is called
by the courtesy of fashion, the best heart in the
world, (a character we every day hear applied
to the libertine and the prodigal,) if he squander
his time and estate in such a round of extrava-
gant indulgences and thoughtless dissipation as
leaves hirn little money, and less leisure for no-
bler purposes. It makes but little difference
whether a man is prevented from doing good by
hard-hearted parsimony or an unprincipled ex-
travagance; the stream of usefulness is equally
cut off by both.
That great numbers who are not influenced
by so high a principle as Christianity holds out,
are yet truly compassionate without hypocrisy
and without ostentation, who can doubt? But
who that feels the beauty of benevolence can
avoid being solicitous, not only that its offer- The mere casual benevolence of any man can
ings should comfort the receiver, but return in have little claim to solid esteem; nor does any
blessings to the bosom of the giver, by spring-charity deserve the name, which does not grow
ing from such motives, and being accompanied
by such a temper as shall redound to his eternal
good? For that the benefit is the same to the
object, whatever be the character of the bene-
factor, is but an uncomfortable view of things to
a real Christian, whose compassion reaches to
the souls of men. Such a one longs to see the
charitable giver as happy as he is endeavouring
to make the object of his bounty: but such a
one knows that no happiness can be fully and
finally enjoyed but on the solid basis of chris-
tian piety.
For as Religion is not, on the one hand, mere-
ly an opinion or a sentiment, so neither is it, on
the other, merely an act or a performance; but
it is a disposition, a habit, a temper: it is not a
name, but a nature: it is a turning the whole
mind to God: it is a concentration of all the
powers and affections of the soul into one steadv
VOL. I.
out of a tender conviction that it is his bounden
duty; which does not spring from a settled pro-
pensity to obey the whole will of God; which
is not therefore made a part of the general plan
of his conduct; and which does not lead him to
order the whole scheme of his affairs with an
eye to it.
He therefore, who does not habituate himself
to certain interior restraints, who does not live
in a regular course of self-renunciation, will not
be likely often to perform acts of beneficence,
when it becomes necessary to convert to such
purposes any of that time or money which ap-
petite, temptation, or vanity solicit him to divert
to other purposes.
And surely he who seldom sacrifices one dar-
ling indulgence, who does not subtract one gra-
tification from the incessant round of his enjoy.
ments, when the indulgence would obstruct his
282
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
capacity of doing good, or when the sacrifice
would enlarge his power, does not deserve the
name of benevolent. And for such an unequivo-
cal criterion of charity, to whom are we to look,
but to the conscientious Christian? No other
spirit but that by which he is governed, can
subdue self-love: and where self-love is the
pre-
dominant passion, benevolence can have but a
feeble, or an accidental dominion.
Now if we look around, and remark the ex-
cesses of luxury, the costly diversions, and the
intemperate dissipation in which numbers of
professing Christians indulge themselves, can
any stretch of candour, can even that tender
sentiment by which we are enjoined to hope'
and to believe all things,' enable us to hope
and believe that such are actuated by a spirit of
christian benevolence, merely because we see
them perform some casual acts of charity, which
the spirit of the world can contrive to make
extremely compatible with a voluptuous life;
and the cost of which, after all, bears but lit-
tle proportion to that of any one vice, or even
vanity.
Men will not believe that there is hardly any
one human good quality which will know and
keep its proper bounds, without the restraining
influence of religious principle. There is, for
instance, great danger lest a constant attention
to so right a practice as an invariable economy,
should incline the heart to the love of money.
Nothing can effectually counteract this natural
propensity but the christian habit of devoting
those retrenched expenses to some good pur-
pose; and then economy instead of narrowing
the heart, will enlarge it, by inducing a con-
stant association of benevolence with frugality.
An habitual attention to the wants of others is
the only wholesome regulator of our own ex-
penses; and carries with it a whole train of
virtues, disinterestedness, sobriety, and tempe-
rance. And those who live in the custom of
levying constant taxes on their vanities for such
purposes, serve the poor still less than they serve
themselves. For if they are charitable upon
true christian principles, they are laying up
for themselves a good foundation against the
time to come.'
CHAP. III.
The neglect of religious education, both a cause
and a consequence of the decline of Christiani-
ty.-No moral restraints.-Religion only inci-
dentally taught, not as a principle of action-
A few of the many causes which dispose the
young to entertain low opinions of Religion.
LET not the truly pious be offended, as if, in
the present chapter, which is intended to treat
of the notorious neglect of religious education,
I meant to insinuate, that the principles and
tempers of Christianity may be formed in the
young mind, by the mere mechanical operation
of early instruction, without the co-operating
aid of the Holy Spirit of God. To imply this
would be indeed to betray a lamentable igno-
rance of human nature, of the disorder that sin
has introduced, of the inefficacy of mere human
means; and entirely to mistake the genius, and
overlook the most obvious and important truths
of our holy religion.
It must however be allowed, that the Supreme
Being works chiefly by means; and though it
be confessed that no defect of education, no cor-
ruption of manners can place any out of the
reach of the Divine influences (for it is under
such circumstances, perhaps, that some of the
most extraordinary instances of Divine grace
have been manifested) yet it must be owned,
that instructing children in principles of reli-
gion, and giving them early habits of tempe-
rance and piety, is the way in which we may
most confidently expect the Divine blessing.→
And that it is a work highly pleasing to God,
and which will be most assuredly accompanied
by his gracious energy, we may judge from
what he says of his faithful servant Abraham ;
I know him that he will command his children,
and his household after him, and they shall keep
the way of the Lord.'
But religion is the only thing in which we
seem to look for the end, without making use
of the means; and yet it would not be more sur-
prising if we were to expect that our children
should become artists and scholars without be-
ing bred to arts and languages, than it is to
look for a christian world, without a christian
education.
Thus when a vein of Christianity runs through
the whole mass of a man's life, it gives a new The noblest objects can yield no delight if
value to all his actions, and a new character to there be not in the mind a disposition to relish
all his views, It transmutes prudence and eco- them. There must be a congruity between the
nomy into christian virtues; and every offering mind and the object, in order to produce any
that is presented on the altar of charity becomes capacity of enjoyment. To the mathematician,
truly consecrated, when it is the gift of obedi- demonstration is pleasure; to the philosopher,
ence, and the price of self-denial. Piety is that the study of nature; to the voluptuary, the gra.
fire from heaven that can alone kindle the sacri- tification of his appetite; to the poet, the plea-
fice, which through the mediation and interces-sures of the imagination. These objects they
sion of our great High Priest,' will go up for a
memorial before God.'
each respectively pursue, as pleasures adapted
to that part of their nature which they have been
accustomed to indulge and cultivate.
On the other hand, when any act of bounty is
performed by way of composition with our Ma- Now as men will be apt to act consistently
ker, either as a purchase or an expiation of un- with their general views and habitual tenden-
allowed indulgences; though, even in this case, cies, would it not be absurd to expect that the
God (who makes all passions of men subservient philosopher should look for his sovereign good
to his good purposes,) can make the gift equally at a ball, or the sensualist in the pleasures of in-
beneficial to the receiver, yet it is surely not too tellect or piety? None of these ends are an-
severe to say, that to the giver such acts are answerable to the general views of the respective
unfounded dependence, a deceitful refuge, a
broken staff,
pursuer; they are not correspondent to his ideas;
they are not commensurate to his aims. The
1
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
283
But the great and radical defect, and that
which comes more immediately within the pre-
sent design, seems to be, that in general the
characteristical principles of Christianity are
not early and strongly infused into the mind:
that religion, if taught at all, is rather taught
sublimest pleasures can afford little gratification | leaves himself, for the rest of his life, nothing
where a taste for them has not been previously but ravaged fields and barren stubble.
formed. A clown, who should hear a scholar
or an artist talk of the delights of a library, a
picture gallery, or a concert, could not guess at
the nature of the pleasures they afford; nor
would his being introduced to them give him
much clearer ideas; because he would bring to
them an eye blind to proportion, an understand-incidentally, as a thing of subordinate value,
ing new to science, and an ear deaf to harmony.
Shall we expect then, since men can only be-
come scholars by diligent labour, that they shall
become Christians by mere chance! Shall we
be surprised if those do not fulfil the offices of
religion who are not trained to an acquaintance
with them? And will it not be obvious that it
must be some other thing besides the abstruse-
ness of creeds, which has tended to make Chris-
tianity unfashionable, and piety obsolete?
than as the leading principle of human actions,
the great animating spring of human conduct.
Were the high influential principles of the chris-
tian religion anxiously and early inculcated, we
should find that those lapses from virtue, to
which passion and temptation afterwards too
frequently solicit, would be more easily reco-
verable.
For though the evil propensities of fallen na-
ture, and the bewitching allurements of plea-
It probably will not be disputed, that in no sure, will too often seduce even those of the best
age have the passions of our high-born youth education into devious paths, yet we shall find
been so early freed from all curb and restraint. that men will seldom be incurably wicked unless
In no age has the paternal authority been so that internal corruption of principle has taken
contemptuously treated, or every species of place, which teaches them how to justify ini-
subordination so disdainfully trampled upon.quity by argument, and to confirm evil conduct
In no age have simple, and natural, and youth-by the sanction of false reasoning; or where
ful pleasures so early lost their power over the there is a total ignorance of the very nature and
mind; nor was ever one great secret of virtue design of Christianity, which ignorance can on-
and happiness, the secret of being cheaply pleas-ly exist where early religious instruction has
ed, so little understood.
been entirely neglected.
The errors occasioned by the violence of pas-
sion may be reformed, but systematic wicked-
ness will be only fortified by time; and no de-
crease of strength, no decay of appetite, can
weaken the power of a pernicious principle.
He who deliberately commits a bad action, puts
himself indeed out of the path of safety; but he
who adopts a false principle, not only throws
himself into the enemy's country, but burns the
ships, breaks the bridge, cuts off every retreat
by which he might one day hope to return to
his own.
A taste for costly, or artificial, or tumultuous
pleasures cannot be gratified, even by their most
sedulous pursuers, at every moment; and what
wretched management is it in the economy of
human happiness, so to contrive, as that the en-
joyment shall be rare and difficult, and the in-
tervals long and languid! Whereas real and
unadulterated pleasures occur perpetually to
him who cultivates a taste for truth and nature,
and science and virtue. But these simple and
tranquil enjoyments cannot but be insipid to
him whose passions have been prematurely ex-
It is remarkable that in almost all the cele-
cited by agitating pleasures, or whose taste has
been depraved by such as are debasing and fri-brated characters of whom we have an account
volous; for it is of more consequence to virtue in former periods of the English history, we
than some good people are willing to allow, to find a serious attention to religion discovering
preserve the taste pure and the judgment sound. itself at the close of life, however the preceding
A vitiated intellect has no small connexion with years might have been misemployed. We meet
depraved morals.
with striking examples of this kind amongst
Since amusements of some kind are necessa-statesmen, amongst philosophers, amongst men
ry to all ages (I speak now with an eye to mere of business, and even amongst men of pleasure.
human enjoyment) why should it be an object We have on record the dying sentiments of
of early care, to keep a due proportion of them Walsingham, of Smith, of Hutton, the favourites
in reserve for those future seasons of life in of queen Elizabeth. We see, in the following
which there will be so much more needed? reign, Raleigh supporting himself by religion
Why should there not, even for this purpose, be under the severity of his fate; Bacon seeking
adopted a system of salutary restriction, to be comfort in devotion amidst his disgraces; and
used by parents toward their children, by in- Wotton, after having been ambassador to almost
structors toward their pupils, and in the pro- every court in Europe, taking refuge at last in
gress of life by each man toward himself? In a pious retirement at Eton college. But to enu-
a word, why should not the same reasons, which merate instances would be endless, when, in
have induced us to tether inferior animals, sug- fact, we scarcely discover a single instance tc
gest the expediency of, in some sort, tethering the contrary.-In those times it was considered
man also ?
Since nothing but experience seems
to teach him, that if he be allowed to anticipate
his future possessions, and trample all the flow-
ery fields of real, as well as those of imaginary
and artificial enjoyment, he not only endures
present disgust, but defaces and destroys all the
rich materials of his future happiness; and
as a matter even of common decency, that ad-
vanced age should possess, at least, the exterior
of piety; and we have every reason to believe
that an irreligious old man would have been
pointed at as a sort of inonster.
Do we now
But is this the case in our day?
commonly perceive in any rank that disposition
284
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
·
to close life religiously, which at the period to |
which I have alluded was so general even in the
fashionable world? I fear it is so far the reverse,
that if Pope had been our contemporary, and
were now composing his famous Ethical Poem,
he could not hazard even that light remark,
That beads and prayer-books are the toys of age,
without grossly violating probability.
But to what cause are we to ascribe that su-
perannuated impiety, which seems to distinguish
the present from the preceding generations?
Is it not chiefly owing to the neglect of early re-
ligious instruction, which now for so many
years has been gaining ground among us? In
the last age even public schools were places, no
less of christian than of classical instruction:
and the omission of religious worship, whether
public or private, was deemed, at least, as cen-
surable a fault as the neglect of a lesson.-Pa-
rents had not yet imbibed that maxim of modern
refinement, that religious instruction ought to
be deferred until the mind be capable of choos-
ing for itself—that is, until it be so preoccupied
as to leave neither room nor relish for the arti-
cles of Christian faith, or the rules of Christian
obedience. The advice of the wise king of
Israel of training up a child in the way he
should go,' had not then become obsolete; and
the truth of his assertion in the remaining
clause of the passage, was happily realized in the
sincere, though late return of many a wanderer.
Even in the very laws of our nature, there
seems to be a gracious provision for promoting
the final efficacy of early religious instruction.
When the old man has no longer any relish left
for his accustomed gratifications, in what way
does he endeavour to fill up the void? Is it not
by sending back his thoughts to his early years,
and endeavouring to live over again in idea
those scenes which, in this distant retrospect,
appear far more delightful than he had found
them to be at the actual period of enjoyment?
Disgusted at every thing around him, and dis-
appointed in those pursuits to which he had
once looked forward with all the ardour of hope;
but to which he now feels he has sacrificed in
vain, his quiet, and perhaps his integrity, he
takes a pensive pleasure in reviewing the season
when his mind was yet cheerful and innocent;
and even the very cares and anxieties of that
happy period appear to him now, in a more
captivating form than any pleasures he can yet
hope to enjoy. What then is more natural, I
had almost said more certain, than that if the
principles of religion were inculcated, and the
feelings of devotion excited in his mind in that
most susceptible season of life, they should now
revive as well as other contemporary impres-
sions, and present themselves in a point of view,
the more interesting, because, while all other
instances of youthful occupation can be only re-
collected, these may be called up into fresh exist-
ence, and be enjoyed even more perfectly than
before.
|
hood are remembered with accuracy. If there-
fore pious principles have been implanted, they
will, even by the course of nature, be recollect-
ed, while those things which most contribute to
hinder their growth are swept from the memory.
What a powerful encouragement then does this
consideration afford! or rather what an indis-
pensable obligation does it lay upon parents, to
store the minds of their children with the seeds
of piety! And on the other hand, what unna-
tural barbarity is it, irretrievably to shut up the
last refuge of the wretched, by a neglect of this
duty; and to render it impossible for those who
had stood all the day idle,' to be called (at least
without a miracle) even at the eleventh hour.
No one surely will impute to bigotry or en-
thusiasm, the lamenting, or even remonstrating
against such desperate negligence; nor can it
be deemed illiberal to inquire, whether even
a still greater evil does not exist? I mean,
whether pernicious principles are not as stre-
nuously inculcated as those of real virtue and
happiness are discountenanced? Whether young
men are not expressly taught to take custom
and fashion as the ultimate and exclusive
standard by which to try their principles and
to weigh their actions! Whether some idol
of false honour be not consecrated and set
up for them to worship? Whether, even among
the better sort, reputation be not held out
as a motive of sufficient energy to produce
virtue, in a world, where yet the greatest
vices are every day practised openly, with-
out at all obstructing the reception of those
who practise them into the best company?
Whether resentment be not ennobled ; and pride,
and many other passions, erected into honour-
able virtues-virtues not less repugnant to the
genius and spirit of Christianity than obvious
and gross vices? Will it be thought impertinent
to inquire if the awful doctrines of a perpetually
present Deity, and a future righteous judgment,
are early impressed and lastingly engraved on
the hearts and consciences of our high-born
youth?
Perhaps if there be any one particular in
which we fall remarkably below the politer na-
tions of antiquity, it is in that part of educa-
tion which has a reference to purity of mind
and the discipline of the heart.
The great secret of religious education, which
seems banished from the present practice, con-
sists in training young men to an habitual in-
terior restraint, an early government of the af
fections, and a course of self-controul over those
tyrannizing inclinations which have so natural
a tendency to enslave the human heart. With-
out this habit of moral restraint, which is one
of the fundamental laws of christian virtue,
though men may, from natural temper, often
do good, yet it is impossible that they should
ever be good. Without the vigorous exercise of
this controling principle, the best dispositions
and the most amiable qualities will go but a
little way towards establishing a virtuous cha-
racter. For the best dispositions will be easily
overcome by the concurrence of passion and
temptation, in a heart where the passions have
not been accustomed to this wholesome disci.
pline: and the most amiable qualities will but
child-pline:
The defects of memory also, which old age
induces, will, in this instance, assist rather than
obstruct. It almost universally happens, that
the more recent transactions are those soonest
forgotten, while the events of youth and child-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
285
more easily betray their possessor, unless the
heart be fortified by repeated acts and long
habits of resistance.
In this, as in various other instances, we may
blush at the superiority of pagan instruction.
Were the Roman youth taught to imagine
themselves always in the awful presence of
Cato, in order to habituate them betimes to
suppress base sentiments, and to excite such as
were generous and noble? and should not the
christian youth be continually reminded, that a
greater than Cato is here? Should they not be
trained to the habit of acting under the con-
stant impression, that He to whom they must
one day be accountable for intentions, as well as
words and actions, is witness to the one as well
as the other? that he not only is about their
path,' but 'understands their very thoughts.'
Were the disciples of a pagan* leader taught
that it was a motive sufficient to compel their
obedience to any rule, whether they liked it or
not, that it had the authority of their teacher's
name? Were the bare words, the master hath
said it, sufficient to settle all disputes, and to
subdue all reluctance? And shall the scholars
of a more Divine teacher, who have a code of
laws written by God himself, be contented with
a lower rule, or abide by a meaner authority?
And is any argument drawn from human con-
siderations likely to operate more forcibly on a
dependent being, than that simple but grand as-
sertion, with which so many of the precepts of
our religion are introduced-Because, THUS
SAITH THE LORD ?
It may perhaps be objected, that this deep
sense of religion would interfere with the gene-
ral purpose of education, which is designed to
qualify men for the business of human life, and
not train up a race of monks and ascetics.
There is however so little real solidity in this
specious objection, that I am firmly persuaded,
that if religious principles were more deeply im-
pressed on the heart, even the things of this world
would be much better carried on. For where
are we to look for all the qualities; which
constitute the man of business; for punctuality,
diligence, and application, for such attention
in doing every thing in its proper day (the
great hinge on which business turns) as among
men of principle? Economy of time, truth
in observing his word, never daring to de-
ceive or to disappoint-these form the very es-
sence of an active and an useful character; and
for these, to whom shall we most naturally look?
Who is so likely to be 'slothful in business' as
he who is 'fervent in spirit?' And will not he
be most regular in dealing with men, who is
most diligent in 'serving the Lord?'
But, it may be said, allowing that Religion
does not necessarily spoil a man of business,
yet it would effectually defeat those accomplish-
ments, and counteract that fine breeding, which
essentially constitute the gentleman.
This again is so far from being a natural con-
sequence, that, supposing all the other real ad-
vantages of parts, education, and society, to be
equally taken into the account, there is no doubt
but that, in point of true politeness, a real Chris-
tian would beat the world at his own weapons,
the world itself being judge.
It is doing but little, in the infusion of first
principles, to obtain the bare assent of the un-
derstanding to the existence of one Supreme It must be confessed, that in the present cor-
power, unless the heart and affections go along rupt state of things, there is scarcely any one
with the conviction, by our conceiving of that contrivance for which we are more obliged to
power as intimately connected with ourselves. the inventions of mankind than for that polite-
A feeling temper will be but little affected withness, as there is perhaps no screen in the world
the cold idea of a geometrical God, as the excel-
lent Pascal expresses it, who merely adjusts all
the parts of matter, and keeps the elements in
order. Such a mind will be but little moved,
unless he be taught to consider his Maker un-
der the interesting and endearing representa-
tion which revealed religion gives of him.
That God is,' will be to him rather an alarm-
ing than a consolatory idea; till he be persuad-
ed of the subsequent proposition, that he is a
rewarder of them that diligently seek him.'
Nay, if natural religion does even acknowledge
one awful attribute, that 'God is just,' it will
only increase the terror of a tender conscience,
till it be learned from the fountain of truth,
that he is 'the justifier of him who believeth in
Jesus.'
But if the great sanctions of our religion are
not deeply engraven on the heart, where shall
we look for any other adequate curb to the fiery
spirit of youth? For, let the elements be ever
so kindly mixed in a human composition, let the
natural temper be ever so amiable, still when-
ever a man ceases to think himself an account-
able being, what motive can he have for resist-
ing a strong temptation to a present good, when
he has no dread that he shall thereby forfeit a
greater future good?
* Pythagoras.
which hides so many ugly sights, yet while we
allow that there never was so admirable a sub-
stitute for real goodness as good breeding, it is
certain that the principles of Christianity put
into action, would of themselves produce more
genuine politeness than any maxims drawn
from motives of human vanity or worldly con-
venience. If love, peace, joy, long-suffering,
gentleness, patience, goodness, and meekness,
may be thought instruments to produce sweet-
ness of manners, these we are expressly told are
the fruits of the Spirit.' If mourning with
the afflicted, rejoicing with the happy; if to
esteem others better than ourselves; if 'to
take the lowest room;' if not to seek our own;"
if not to behave ourselves unseemly;' if 'not
to speak great swelling words of vanity'-if
these are amiable, engaging, and polite parts of
behaviour, then would the documents of Saint
Paul make as true a fine gentleman as the
courtier of Castiglione, or even the Letters of
lord Chesterfield himself. Then would simu-
lation, and dissimulation, and all the nice shades
and delicate gradations of passive and active
deceit, be rendered superfluous; and the affec
tions of every heart be won by a shorter and
a surer way than by the elegant obliquities of
this late popular preceptor, whose mischiefs
have outlived his reputation; and who notwith-
286
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
standing the present just declension of his fame,
greatly helped, during its transient meridian,
to relax the general nerve of virtue, and has
left a taint upon the public morals, of which we
are still sensible.
Pascal has proved that as much rhetoric and
logic too may be shown in defending Revelation,
as in attacking it. His geometrical spirit was
not likely to take
not likely to take up with any proofs but such
as came as near to demonstration as the nature
of the subject would admit. Erasmus in his
writings on the ignorance of the monks, and the
Provincial Letters on the fallacies of the Jesuits,
while they exhibit as entire a freedom from bi
gotry, exhibit also as much pointed wit, and as
much sound reasoning, as can be found in the
whole mass of modern philosophy.
That self-abasement then, which is insepara-
ble from true Christianity, and the external
signs of which good breeding knows so well
how to assume; and those charities which sug-
gest invariable kindness to others, even in the
smallest things, would if left to their natural
workings, produce that gentleness which it is
one great object of a polite education to imitate. But while the young adopt the opinion from
They would produce it too without effort and one class of writers, that religious men are weak
without exertion; for being inherent in the sub-men, they acquire from another class a notion
stance, it would naturally discover itself on the that they are ridiculous. And this opinion, by
surface.
mixing itself with their common notions, and
deriving itself from their very amusements, is
the more mischievous, as it is imbibed without
suspicion, and entertained without resistance.
For however useful the institutions of polish-
ed society may be found, yet they can never
alter the eternal difference between right and
wrong, or convert appearances into realities;
they cannot transform decency into virtue, nor
make politeness pass for principle. And the
advocates for fashionable breeding should be
humbled to reflect that every convention of ar-
tificial manners was adopted not to cure, but to
conceal, deformity; that though the superficial
civilities of elegant life tend to make this corrupt
world a more tolerable place than it would be
without them, yet they never will be considered
as a substitute for truth, nor a commutation for
virtue, by HIM who is to pass the definitive sen-
tence on the characters of men.
Among the many prejudices which the young
and the gay entertain against religion, one is,
that it is the declared enemy to wit and genius.
But, says one of its wittest champions, piety
enjoins no man to be dull:' and it will be found,
on a fair inquiry, that though it cannot be de-
nied that irreligion has had able men for its ad-
vocates, yet they have never been the most able.
Nor can any learned profession, any department
in letters or in science, produce a champion on
the side of unbelief, but Christianity has a still
greater name to oppose to it; philosophers them-
selves being judges.
|
One common medium through which they
take this false view is, those favourite works of
wit and humour, so captivating to youthful ima-
ginations, where no small part of the author's
success perhaps has been owing to his dexter-
ously introducing a pious character with so
many virtues, that it is impossible not to love
him; yet tinctured with so many absurdities,
that it is equally impossible not to laugh at him.
The reader's memory will furnish him with too
many instances of what is here meant. The
slightest touches of a witty malice can make the
best character ridiculous. It is effected by any
little awkwardness; absence of mind, an obso
lete phrase, a formal pronunciation, a peculiarity
of gesture. Or if such a character be brought
by unsuspecting honesty, and credulous good-
ness, into some foolish scrape, it will stamp on
him an impression of ridicule so indelible, that
all his worth shall not be able to efface it; and
the young, who do not always separate their
ideas very carefully, shall ever after, by this
early and false association, conceive of piety as
having something essentially ridiculous in itself.
But one of the most infallible arts by which
the inexperienced are engaged on the side of
He who studied the book of nature with a irreligion, is that popular air of candour, good-
scrutiny which has scarcely been permitted to nature, and toleration, which it so invariably
any other mortal eye, was deeply learned in the puts on. While sincere piety is often accused
book of God. And the ablest writer on the in- of moroseness and severity, because it cannot
tellect of man, has left one of the ablest treatises hear the doctrines on which it founds its eter-
on the Reasonableness of Christianity. This es- nal hopes derided without emotion; indiffer-
say of Mr. Locke, on the Human Understand-ence and unbelief purchase the praise of candor
ing, will stand up to latest ages, as a monument at an easy price, because they neither suffer
of wisdom; while Hume's posthumous work,
the Essay on Suicide, which had excited such
large expectations, has been long since forgot-
ten.t
* Dr. South.
† Sir Isaac Newton.
The Essay on Suicide was published soon after Mr.
Hume's death. It might mortify his liberal mind (if
matter and motion were capable of consciousness) to
learn that his dying legacy, the last concentrated effect
of his genius and his principles, sent from the grave as
it were, by a man so justly renowned in other branches
of literature, produced no sensation on the public mind.
And that the precious information that every man had
a right to be his own executioner, was considered as a
privilege so little desirable, that it probably had not the
glory of converting one cross road into a cemetery. It
is to the credit of this country that fewer copies of this
|
grief nor express indignation at hearing the
most awful truths ridiculed, or the most solemn
obligations set at nought. They do not engage
on equal terms. The infidel appears good-hu-
moured from his very levity; but the Christian
work were sold than perhaps ever was the case with a
writer of so much eminence. A more impotent act of
wickedness has seldom been achieved, or one which has
had the glory of making fewer persons wicked or mise-
rable. That cold and cheerless oblivion which he held
out as a refuge to beings who had solaced themselves
with the soothing hope of immortality, has, by a memo-
rable retribution, overshadowed his last labour; the
Essay on Suicide being already as much forgotten as he
promised the best men that they themselves would be.
And this favourite work became at once a prey to that
forgetfulness to which he had consigned the whole hu
man race.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
287
cannot jest on subjects which involve his ever-
lasting salvation.
spirit of Christianity—that it is of a sordid tem-
per, works for pay, and looks for reward.
The scoffers whom young people hear talk, This jargon of French philosophy, which
and the books they hear quoted, falsely charge prates of pure disinterested goodness acting for
their own injurious opinions on Christianity, its own sake, and equally despising punishment
and then unjustly accuse her of being the mon- and disdaining recompence, indicates as little
ster they have made. They dress her up with knowledge of human nature as of Christian re-
the sword of persecution in one hand, and the velation, when it addresses man as a being made
flames of intolerance in the other; and then up of pure intellect, without any mixture of
ridicule the sober-minded for worshipping an passions, and who can be made happy without
idol which their misrepresentation has rendered hope, and virtuous without fear. These philoso-
as malignant as Moloch. In the mean-time phers affect to be more independent than Moses,
they affect to seize on benevolence with exclu- more disinterested than Christ himself; for
sive appropriation as their own cardinal virtue, 'Moses had respect to the recompence of re-
and to accuse of a bigotted cruelty that narrow ward;' and Christ endured the cross and de.
spirit which points out the perils of licentious-spised the shame, for the joy that was set be-
ness, and the terrors of a future account. And fore him.'
yet this benevolence, with all its tender mercies,
is not afraid nor ashamed to endeavour at
snatching away from humble piety the comfort
of a present hope, and the bright prospect of a
felicity that shall have no end. It does not how
ever seem a very probable means of increasing
the stock of human happiness, to plunder man.
kind of that principle, by the destructio of
which friendship is robbed of its bond, society
of its security, patience of its motive, morality
of its foundation, integrity of its reward, sorrow
of its consolation, life of its balm, and death of
its support.*
:
It will not perhaps be one of the meanest ad-
vantages of a better state that, as the will shall
be reformed, so the judgment shall be rectified;
that 'evil shall no more be called good,' nor the
'churl liberal ;' nor the plunderer of our best pos-
session, our principles, benevolent. Then it will
be evident that greater injury could not be done
to truth, nor greater violence to language, than
by attempting to wrest from Christianity that
benevolence which is in fact her most appropri-
ate and peculiar attribute. 'A new command-
ment give I unto you, that ye love one another.'
If benevolence be good will to men,' it was
that which angelic messengers were not thought
too high to announce, nor a much higher being
than angels too great to teach by his example,
and to illustrate by his death. It was the cri-
terion, the very watch-word as it were, by which
he intended his religion and his followers should
be distinguished. By this shall all men know
that ye are my disciples, if ye have love one to
another.' Besides, it is the very genius of
Christianity to extirpate all selfishness, on whose
vacated ground benevolence naturally and ne-
cessarily plants itself.
But not to run through all the particulars
which obstruct the growth of piety in young
persons, I shall only name one more. They
hear much declamation from the fashionable
reasoners against the contracted and selfish
* Young persons are too liable to be misled by that ex-
treme disingenuousness of the new philosophers, when
writing on every thing and person connected with re-
vealed religion. These authors often quote satirical po-
ets as grave historical authorities; for instance, because
Juvenal has said that the Jews were so narrow-minded
that they refused to show a spring of water, or the right
road. to an enquiring traveller who was not of their re-
ligion, I make little doubt but many an ignorant free-
thinker has actually gone away with the belief, that
such good-natured acts of information were actually for
bidden by the law of Moses.
A creature hurried away by the impulse of
some impetuous inclination, is not likely to be
restrained (if he be restrained at all) by a cold
reflection on the beauty of virtue. If the dread
of offending God, and incurring his everlasting
displeasure, cannot stop him, how shall a weak-
er motive do it? When we see that the power-
ful sanctions which Religion holds out are too
often an ineffectual curb; to think of attaining
the same end by feebler means, is as if one
should expect to make a watch go the better by
breaking the main-spring; nay, as absurd as if
the philosopher who inculcates the doctrine
should undertake, with one of his fingers, to
lift an immense weight which had resisted the
powers of the crane and lever.
On calm and temperate spirits indeed, in the
hour of retirement, in the repose of the pas-
sions, in the absence of temptation, virtue does
seem to be her own adequate reward: and
very lovely are the fruits she bears in preserv
ing health, credit, and fortune. But on how few
will this principle act! and even on them how
often will its operation be suspended? and
though virtue for her own sake might have cap-
tivated a few hearts, which almost seem cast in
a natural mould of goodness, yet no motive could
at all times, be so likely to restrain even these,
(especially under the pressure of temptation) as
this simple assertion-For all this, God will
bring thee unto judgment.
It is the beauty of our religion, that it is not
held out exclusively to a few select spirits; that
it is not an object of speculation, or an exercise
of ingenuity, but a rule of life suited to every
condition, capacity, and temper. It is the glory
of the Christian religion to be, what it was the
glory of every ancient philosophic system not to
be, the religion of the people; and that which
constitutes its characteristic value, is its suita-
bleness to the genius, condition, and necessities
of mankind.
For with whatsoever obscurities it has pleased
God to shadow some parts of his written word,
yet he has graciously ordered that whatever is
necessary should be perspicuous also: and
though, as to his adorable essence,' clouds and
darkness are round about him; yet these are
not the medium through which he has left us to
discover our duty. In this, as in all other points,
revealed religion has a decided superiority over
all the ancient systems of philosophy, which
were always in many respects impracticable
288
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
and extravagant, because not framed from ob- no little mischief, inasmuch, as under the mask
servations drawn from a perfect knowledge of of hopelessness it suggests an indolent acqui-
what was in man.' Whereas the whole scheme escence; yet to make the best of the times in
of the Gospel is accommodated to real human which we live; to fill up the measure of our
nature; laying open its mortal disease, present-own actual, particular, and individual duties;
ing its only remedy; exhibiting rules of conduct and to take care that the age shall not be the
often difficult, indeed, but never impossible; and worse for our having been cast into it, seems to
where the rule was so high that the practicabili- be the bare dictate of common probity, and not
ty seemed desperate, holding out a living pat- a romantic flight of impracticable perfection.
tern, to elucidate the doctrine and to illustrate Is it then so very chimerical to imagine that
the precept; offering every where the clearest the benevolent can be sober-minded?
notions of what we have to hope, and what wemantic to desire that the good should be con-
have to fear; the strongest injunctions of what sistent? Is it absurd to fancy that what has
we are to believe, and the most explicit direc-once been practised should not now be imprac-
tions of what we are to do; with the most en- ticable?
couraging offers of Divine assistance for strength-
ening our faith and quickening our obedience.
In short, whoever examines the wants of his
own heart, and the appropriate assistance which
the Gospel furnishes, will find them to be two
tallies which exactly correspond-an internal
evidence, stronger perhaps than any other, of
the truth of Revelation.
|
Is it ro-
It is impossible not to help regretting that it
should be the general temper of many of the
leading persons of that age which arrogates to
itself the glorious character of the age of bene-
volence, to be kind, considerate, and compassion-
ate, every where rather than at home; that the
rich and the fashionable should be zealous in
promoting religious as well as charitable insti-
This is the religion with which the ingenuous tutions abroad, and yet discourage every thing
hearts of youth should be warmed, and by which which looks like religion in their own families;
their minds, while pliant, should be directed. that they should be at a considerable expense in
This will afford a 'lamp to their paths,' strong instructing the poor at a distance, and yet dis-
er, steadier, brighter, than the feeble and un- credit piety among their own servants-those
certain glimmer of a cold and comfortless ohi-more immediate objects of every man's attention,
losophy.
whom Providence has enabled to keep any;
and for whose conduct he will be finally ac-
countable, inasmuch as he may have helped to
corrupt it.
Is there any degree of pecuniary bounty with-
Other symptoms of the decline of Christianity—out doors which can counteract the mischief of
No family religion-Corrupt or negligent ex-
ample of superiors-The self-denying and
evangelical virtues held in contempt-Neglect
of encouraging and promoting religion among
servants.
a wrong example at home, or atone for that in-
fectious laxity of principle which spreads cor-
ruption wherever its influence extends? Is not
he the best benefactor to society who sets the
best example, and who does not only the most
It was by no means the design of the present good, but the least evil? Will not that man,
undertaking to make a general invective on the however liberal, very imperfectly promote virtue
corrupt state of manners, or even to animadvert in the world at large, who neglects to dissemi-
on the conduct of the higher ranks, but inas-nate its principles within the immediate sphere
much as the corruption of that conduct, and the of his own personal influence, by a correct con-
depravation of those manners appear to be a na- duct and a blameless behaviour? Can a gene-
tural consequence of the visible decline of reli.rous but profligate person atone by his purse
gion; and as operating in its turn, as a cause,
on the inferior orders of society.
for the disorders of his life? Can he expect a
blessing on his bounties, while he defeats their
effect by a profane or even a careless conver-
sation?
Of the other obvious causes which contribute
to this decline of morals, little will be said. Nor
is the present a romantic attempt to restore the
In moral as well as in political treatises, it is
simplicity of primitive manners. This is too often asserted that it is a great evil to do no
literally an age of gold, to expect that it should good; but it has not been perhaps enough in-
be so in the poetical and figurative sense.
It sisted on, that it is a great deal to do no evil.
would be unjust and absurd not to form our opi. This species of goodness is not ostentatious
nions and expectations from the present general enough for popular declamation; and the value
state of society. And it would argue great ig- of this abstinence from vice is perhaps not well
norance of the corruption which commerce, and understood but by Christians, because it wants.
conquest, and riches, and arts necessarily intro- the ostensible brilliancy of actual performance.
duce into a state, to look for the same sober-
mindedness, simplicity, and purity among the
dregs of Romulus, as the severe and simple
manners of elder Rome presented.
But as the principles of Christianity are in no
great repute, so their concomitant qualities, the
evangelical virtues, are proportionably dises-
teemed. Let it, however, be remembered, that
those secret habits of self-control, those interior
and unobtrusive virtues, which excite no asto-
nishment, kindle no emulation, and extort no
praise, are at the same time the most difficult,
and the most sublime; and if Christianity be
a popular aphorism, by the way, which has done true, will be the most graciously accepted by
But though it would be an attempt of despe-
rate hardihood, to controvert that maxim of the
witty bard, that
To mend the world's a vast design!
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
£89
Him who witnesses the secret combat and the
silent victory while the splendid deeds which
have the world for their witness, and immortal
fame for their reward, shall perhaps cost him
who achieved them less than it costs a conscien-
tious Christian to subdue one irregular inclina-
tion: a conquest which the world will never
know, and, if it did, would probably despise.
Though great actions, performed on human
motives, are permitted by the Supreme Dispo-
ser to be equally beneficial to society with such
as are performed on purer principles; yet it is
an affecting consideration, that, at the final ad-
justment of accounts, the politician who raised
a state, or the hero who preserved it, may miss
of that favour of God which, if it was not his
motive, will certainly not be his reward. And
it is awful to reflect, as we visit the monuments
justly raised by public gratitude, or the statues
properly erected by well-earned admiration; it
is awful, I say, to reflect on what may now be
the unalterable condition of the illustrious object
of these deserved but unavailing honours; and
that he who has saved a state may have lost his
own soul !
'
declamation of the historian, or the panegyric
of the poet, will, however, be had in everlasting
remembrance,' when the works of the statuary,
the historian, and the poet will be no more.
And, for our encouragement, it is observable
that a more difficult Christian virtue generally
involves an easier one. A habit of self-denial
in permitted pleasures, easily induces a victory
over such as are unlawful. And to sit loose to
our own possessions, necessarily includes an ex-
emption from coveting the possessions of others:
and so on of the rest.
:
Will it be difficult then to trace back to that
want of early restraint noticed in the preceding
chapter, that licence of behaviour which, having
been indulged in youth, afterwards reigned
uncontrolled in families and which having
infected education in its first springs, taints all
the streams of domestic virtue? And will it be
thought strange that that same want of religious
principle which corrupted our children, should
corrupt our servants?
We scarcely go into any company without
hearing some invective against the increased
profligacy of this order of men; and the remark
A christian life seems to consist of two things is made with as great an air of astonishment, as
almost equally difficult; the adoption of good if the cause of the complaint were not as visible
habits, and the excision of such as are evil. No as the truth of it. It would be endless to point
one sets out on a religious course with a stock out instances in which the increased dissipation
of native innocence, or actual freedom from sin; of their betters (as they are oddly called) has
for there is no such state in human life. The contributed to the growth of this evil. But
natural heart is not, as has been too often sup-it comes only within the immediate design of
posed, a blank paper, whereon the Divine Spirit
has nothing to do but to stamp characters of
goodness. No! many blots are to be erased,
many defilements are to be cleansed, as well as
fresh impressions to be made.
the present undertaking to insist on the single
circumstance of the almost total extermination
of religion in fashionable families, as a cause
adequate of itself to any consequence which de-
praved morals can produce.
The vigilant Christian, therefore, who acts Is there not a degree of injustice in persons
with an eye to the approbation of his Maker, who express strong indignation at those crimes
rather than to that of mankind; to a future ac- which crowd our prisons, and furnish our inces-
count, rather than to present glory; will find sant executions, and who yet discourage not an
that diligently to cultivate the unweeded gar- internal principle of vice: since those crimes
den' of his own heart; to mend the soil; to clear are nothing more than that principle put into
the ground of indigenous vices, by practising action? And it is no less absurd than cruel, in
the painful business of extirpation, will be that such of the great as lead disorderly lives, to ex-
part of his duty which will cost him most la-pect to prevent vice by the laws they make to
bour, and bring him least credit: while the fair | restrain or punish it, while their own example
flower of one showy action, produced with little is a perpetual source of temptation to commit it.
trouble, and of which the very pleasure is re-
ward enough, shall gain him more praise than
the eradication of the rankest weeds which over-
run the natural heart.
༔
But the Gospel judges not after the manner
of men; for it never fails to make the abstinent
virtues a previous step to the right performance
of the operative ones; and the relinquishing
what is wrong to be a necessary prelude to the
performance of what is right. It makes ceas-
ing to do evil' the indispensable preliminary to
learning to do well.' It continually suggests
that something is to be laid aside, as well as to
be practised. We must hate vain thoughts'
before we can love God's law.' We must
lay aside malice and hypocrisy,' to enable
us 'to receive the engrafted word.' Having
*a conscience void of offence; abstaining
from fleshly lusts ;'-' bring every thought into
obedience ;'-these are actions, or rather nega-
tions, which, though they never will obtain im-
mortality from the chisel of the statuary, the
VOL. I.
T
If, by their own practice, they demonstrate that
they think a vicious life is the only happy
one, with what colour of justice can they inflict
penalties on others, who, by acting on the same
principle, expect the same indulgence!
And indeed it is somewhat unreasonable to
expect very high degrees of virtue and probity
from a class of people whose whole life, after
they are admitted into dissipated families, is one
continued counteraction of the principles in
which they have probably been bred.
When a poor youth is transplanted from one
of those excellent institutions which do honor to
the present age, and give some hope of reform-
ing the next, into the family of his noble bene.
factor in town, who has, perhaps, provided libe-
rally for his instruction in the country; what
must be his astonishment at finding the manner
of life to which he is introduced diametrically
opposite to that life to which he has been taught
that salvation is alone annexed! He has been
taught that it was his bounden duty to be de
290
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
voutly thankful for his own scanty meal, per- | both. Even when religion is by pretty generai
haps of barley-bread; yet he sees his noble lord
sit down every day,
Not to a dinner, but a hecatomb:
to a repast of which every element is plundered,
and every climate impoverished; for which na-
ture is ransacked, and art is exhausted; without
even the formal ceremony of a slight acknow-
ledgment. It will be lucky for the master, if
his servant does not happen to know that even
the pagans never sat down to a repast without
making a libation to their deities; and that the
Jews did not eat a little fruit, or drink a cup of
water, without an expression of devout thank-
fulness.
Next to the law of God, he has been taught to
reverence the law of the land, and to respect an
act of parliament next to a text of Scripture:
yet he sees his honourable protector, publicly
in his own house, engaged in the evening in
playing at a game expressly prohibited by the
laws, and against which perhaps he himself had
been assisting in the day to pass an act.
While the contempt of religion was confined
to wits and philosophers, the effect was not so
sensibly felt. But we cannot congratulate the
ordinary race of mortals on their emancipation
from old prejudices, or their indifference to sa-
cred usages; as it is not at all visible that the
world is become happier in proportion as it is
become more enlightened. We might rejoice
more in the boasted diffusion of light and free-
dom, were it not apparent that bankruptcies are
grown more frequent, robberies more common,
divorces more numerous, and forgeries more ex-
tensive-that more rich men die by their own
hand, and more poor men by the hand of the
executioner-than when Christianity was prac-
tised by the vulgar, and countenanced, at least,
by the great.
It is not to be regretted, therefore, while the
affluent are encouraging so many admirable
schemes for promoting religion among the chil-
dren of the poor, that they do not like to perpe-
tuate the principle, by encouraging it in their
own children and their servants also? Is it
not a pity, since these last are so moderately
furnished with the good things of this life, to
rob them of that bright reversion, the bare hope
of which is a counterpoise to all the hardships
they undergo here-especially since by dimi-
nishing this future hope, we shall not be likely
to add to their present usefulness?
consent banished from our families at home, that
only furnishes a stronger reason why our fami-
lies should not be banished from religion in the
churches.
But if these opportunities are not made easy
and convenient to them, their superiors have no
right to expect from them a zeal so far trans-
cending their own, as to induce them to sur-
mount difficulties for the sake of duty. Religion
is never once represented in Scripture as a light
attainment; it is never once illustrated by an
easy, a quiet, or an indolent allegory.
On the contrary, it is exhibited under the ac-
tive figure of a combat, a race; something ex-
pressive of exertion, activity, progress. And yet
many are unjust enough to think that this war-
fare can be fought, though they themselves are
perpetually weakening the vigour of the com-
batant; this race be run, though they are inces-
santly obstructing the progress of him who runs
by some hard and interfering command. That
our compassionate Judge, who 'knoweth where-
of we are made, and remembereth that we are
but dust,' is particularly touched with the feeling
of their infirmities, can never be doubted; but
what portion of forgiveness he will extend to
those who lay on their virtue, hard burdens 'too
heavy for them to bear,' who shall say?
To keep an immortal being in a state of spi-
ritual darkness, is a positive disobedience to His
law, who when he bestowed the Bible, no less
than when he created the material world, said
Let there be light. It were well, both for the
advantage of master and servant, that the latter
should have the doctrines of the Gospel fre
quently impressed on his heart; that his con-
science should be made familiar with a system
which offers such clear and intelligible proposi-
tions of moral duty. The striking interrogation,
'how shall I do this great wickedness, and sin
against God?' will perhaps operate as forcibly
on an uncultivated mind, as the most eloquent.
essay to prove that man is not an accountable
being. That once credited promise, that 'they
who have done well shall go into everlasting
life,' will be more grateful to the spirit of a plain
man, than that more elegant and disinterested
sentiment, that virtue is its own reward. That,
he that walketh uprightly walketh surely,' is
not on the whole a dangerous, or a misleading
maxim. And well done, good and faithful ser-
vant! I will make thee ruler over many things,'
though offensive to the liberal spirit of philoso-
Still allowing, what has been already granted, phic dignity, is a comfortable support to humble
that absolute infidelity is not the reigning evil, and suffering piety. That we should do to
and that servants will perhaps be more likely others as we would they should do to us,' is a
to see religion neglected than to hear it ridiculed portable measure of human duty, always at hand,
-would it not be a meritorious kindness in fa- as always referring to something within him-
milies of a better stamp, to furnish them with self, not amiss for a poor man to carry constant-
more opportunities of learning and practisingly about with him, who has neither time nor
their duty? Is it not impolitic indeed, as well
as unkind, to refuse them any means of having
impressed on their consciences the operative
principles of Christianity? It is but little, barely
not to oppose their going to church, not to pre-
vent their doing their duty at home, their op-
portunities of doing both ought to be facilitated,
by giving them, at certain seasons, as few em-
ployments as possible that may interfere with
learning to search for a better. It is an uni-
versal and compendious law, so universal as to
include the whole compass of social obligation;
so compendious as to be inclosed in so short and
plain an aphorism, that the dullest mind cannot.
misapprehend, nor the weakest memory forget.
it. It is convenient for bringing out on all the
ordinary occasions of life. We need not say,
'who shall go up to heaven and bring it unto
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
291
as, for this word is very nigh unto thee, in, dictory.-This was no fault of the author, but
thy mouth and in thy heart, that thou mayest
do it.'*
For it is a very valuable part of the gospel of
Christ, that though it is an entire and perfect
system in its design! though it exhibits one
great plan from which complete trains of argu-
ment, and connected schemes of reasoning may
be deduced; yet in compassion to the multitude,
for whom this benevolent institution was in a
good measure designed, and who could not have
comprehended a long chain of propositions, or
have embraced remote deductions, the most im
portant truths of doctrine, and the most essential
documents of virtue, are detailed in single max-
ims, and comprised in short sentences; inde-
pendent of themselves, yet making a necessary
part of a consummate whole; from a few of
which principles the whole train of human vir-
tues has been deduced, and many a perfect body
of ethics has been framed.
of the system. The vision was acute, but the
light was dim. The sharpest sagacity could
not distinguish spiritual objects, in the twilight
of natural religion, with that accuracy with
which they are now discerned by every common
Christian, in the diffusion of gospel light.
And whether it be that what depraves the
principle darkens the intellect also, certain it is
that an uneducated serious Christian reads his
Bible with a clearness of intelligence, with an
intellectual comment which no sceptic or mere
worldling ever attains. The former has not
prejudged the cause he is examining. He is
not often led by his passions, still more rarely
by his interest, to resist his convictions. While
the secret of the Lord is (obviously) with them
that fear him,' the mind of them who fear him
not, is generally prejudiced by a retaining fee
from the world, from their passions or their
pride, before they enter on the inquiry.
If it be thought wonderful, that from so few With what consistency can the covetous mari
letters of the alphabet, so few figures of arithme- embrace a religion which so pointedly forbids
tic, so few notes in music, such endless combi-him to lay up treasures on earth? How will
nations should have been produced in their re- the man of spirit, as the world is pleased to call
spective arts how far more beautiful would it the duellist, relish a religion which allows not
be to trace the whole circle of morals thus grow-the sun to go down upon his wrath?' How
ing out of a few elementary principles of gospel
truth.
All Seneca's arguments against the fear of
death never yet reconciled one reader to its ap-
proach half so effectually as the humble believer
is reconciled to it by that simple persuasion, I
know that my Redeemer liveth.'
While the modern philosopher is extending
the boundaries of human knowledge, by under
taking to prove that matter is eternal; or en-
larging the stock of human happiness, by de-
monstrating the extinction of spirit-it can do
no harm to an unlettered man to believe, that
'heaven and earth shall pass away, but God's
word shall not pass away. While the former
is indulging the profitable inquiry why the
Deity made the world so late, or why he made it
at all, it will not hurt the latter to believe that
in the beginning God made the world,' and
that in the end he shall judge it in righteous
ness.'
can the ambitious struggle for 'a kingdom
which is not in this world, and embrace a faith
which commands him to lay down his crown at
the feet of another?' How should the professed
wit or the mere philosopher adopt a system
which demands in a lofty tone of derision,
'Where is the scribe? Where is the wise?
Where is the disputer of this world? How will
the self-satisfied Pharisee endure a religion
which, while it peremptorily demands from him
every useful action, and every right exertion,
will not permit him to rest his hope of salvation
on their performance? He whose affections are
voluntarily riveted to the present world, will not
much delight in a scheme whose avowed prin
ciples is to set him above it. The obvious con-
sequence of these hard sayings,' is illustrated
by daily instances. Have any of the rulers
believed on him?" is a question not confined to
the first age of his appearance. Had the most
enlightened philosophers of the most polished
nations, collected all the scattered wit and learn-
ing of the world into one point in order to in
vent a religion for the salvation of mankind, the
doctrine of the cross is perhaps precisely the
thing they would never have hit upon: precisely
the thing which, being offered to them, they
would reject. The intellectual pride of the phi-
losopher relished it as little as the carnal pride
of the Jew; for it flattered human wit no more
than it gratified human grandeur. The pride
of great acquirements, and of great wealth,
equally obstructs the reception of divine truth
into the heart; and whether the natural man be
called upon to part either from 'great posses-
sions,' or 'high imaginations,' he equally goes
While the liberal scholar is usefully studying
the law of nature and of nations, let him rejoice
that his more illiterate brother possesses the
plain conviction that love is the fulfilling of the
law' that 'love worketh no ill to his neighbour.
And let him be persuaded that he himself,
though he know all Tully's Offices by heart,
may not have acquired a more feeling and ope-
rative sentiment than is conveyed to the com-
mon Christian in the rule to 'bear each other's
burthen.' While the wit is criticising the creed,
he will be no loser by encouraging his depend-
ants to keep the commandments; since a few
such simple propositions as the above furnish a
more practical and correct rule of life than can
be gleaned from all the volumes of ancient phi-away sorrowing.
losophy, justly eminent as many of them are for
wisdom and purity. For though they abound
with passages of true sublimity, and sentiments
of great moral beauty, yet the result is naturally
CHAP. V.
defective, the conclusions necessarily contra- The negligent conduct of Christians no real ob-
* Beut. xix. 11 and 12
jection against Christianity.—The reason why
292
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
its effects are not more manifest to worldly virtues, man would still find evil propensities
men, is because believers do not lead Chris- enough, in his fallen nature, to make it neces-
tian lives. Professors differ but little in their sary that he should counteract them by keeping
practice from unbelievers. Even real Chris- alive his diligence after higher attainments, and
Chris-alive
tians are too diffident and timid, and afraid to quicken his aspirations after a better state; yet
of acting up to their principles.-The absur- the prevailing temper would be in general right;
dity of the charge commonly brought against the will would be in a great measure rectified;
religious people, that they are too strict. and the heart, feeling, and acknowledging its dis-
ease, would apply itself diligently to the only
remedy. Thus though even the best men have
infirmities enough to deplore, and commit sins
enough to keep them deeply humble, and feel
that vessel in which their heavenly treasure is
hid, they however have the internal consolation
of knowing that they shall have to do with a
merciful Father, who despiseth not the sighing
of the contrite heart, nor the desire of such as
be sorrowful,' who has been witness to all their
struggles against sin, and to whom they can ap
peal with Peter for the sincerity of their desires
Ir is, an objection frequently brought against
Christianity, that if it exhibited so perfect a
scheme, if its influences were as strong, if its
effects were as powerful, as its friends pre-more sensibly than others the imperfections of
tend, it must have produced more visible con-
sequences in the reformation of mankind. This
is not the place fully to answer this objection,
which (like all the other cavils against our re-
ligion) continues to be urged just as if it never
had been answered.
That vice and immorality prevail in no small
degree in countries professing Christianity, we
need not go out of our own to be convinced.
But that this is the case only because this be-
nign principle is not suffered to operate in its
full power, will be no less obvious to all who are
sincere in their inquiries: For if we allow (and
who that examines impartially can help allow-
ing) that it is the natural tendency of Christi-
anity to make men better, then it must be the
aversion from receiving it, and not the fault of
the principle, which prevents them from be-
coming so.
Lord! Thou knowest all things: thou
knowest that I love Thee.'
All the heavy charges which have been
brought against religion have been taken from
the abuses of it. In every other instance, the
injustice of this proceeding would be notorious :
but there is a general want of candour in the
judgment of men on this subject, which we do
not find them exercise on other occasions; that
of throwing the fault of the erring or ignorant
professor on the profession itself.
It does not derogate from the honourable pro-
fession of arms, that there are cowards and brag-
garts in the army. If any man lose his estate
by the chicanery of an attorney, or his health
by the blunder of a physician, it is commonly
said that the one was a disgrace to his business,
and the other was ignorant of it; but no one
therefore concludes that law and physie are
contemptible professions.
Those who are acquainted with the effects
which Christianity actually produced in the
first ages of the church, when it was received
in its genuine purity, and when it did operate
without obstruction, from its professors at least,
will want no oth r proof of its inherent power
and efficacy. At that period, its most decided
and industrious enemy, the emperor Julian,
could recommend the manners of Gallileans to
the imitation of his pagan high priests; though Christianity alone is obliged to bear all the
he himself, at the same time, was doing every obloquy incurred by the misconduct of its follow-
thing which the most inveterate malice, sharpeners; to sustain all the reproach excited by igno-
ed by the acutest wit, and backed by the most
absolute power could devise, to discredit their
doctrines.
Nor would the efficacy of Christianity be less
visible now in influencing the conduct of its
professors, if its principles were heartily and
sincerely received. They would, were they of
the true genuine cast operate on the conduct so
effectually, that we should see morals and man-
ners growing out of principles, as we see other
consequences grow out of their proper and na-
tural causes. Let but this great spring have its
unobstructed play, and there would be little oc-
casion to declaim against this excess or that
enormity. If the same skill and care which are
employed in curing symptoms, were vigorously
levelled at the internal principle of the disease,
the moral health would feel the benefit. If that
attention which is bestowed in lopping the re-
dundant and unsightly branches, were devoted
to the cultivation of a sound and uncorrupt root,
the effect of this labour would soon be discovered
by the excellence of the fruits.
rant, by fanatical, by superstitious, or hypocritical
professors. But whoever accuses it of a tendency
to produce the errors of these professors, must
have picked up his opinion any where rather
than in the New Testament; which book being
the only authentic history of Christianity, is that
which candour would naturally consult for in-
formation.
But as worldly and irreligious men do not
draw their notions from that pure fountain, but
from the polluted stream of human practice; as
they form their judgment of Divine truth from
the conduct of those who pretend to be en-
lightened by it; some charitable allowance must
be made for the contempt which they entertain
for Christianity, when they see what poor effects
it produces in the lives of the generality of pro-
fessing Christians. What do they observe there
which can lead them to entertain very high
ideas of the principles which give birth to such
practices?
Do men of the world discover any marked,
any decided difference between the conduct of
For though, even in the highest possible ex-nominal Christians and the rest of their neigh-
ertion of religious principle, and the most dili-
gent practice of all its consequential train of
bours who pretend to no religion at all? Do
they see, in the daily lives of such, any great
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
293
abundance of those fruits by which they have,
heard believers are to be known? On the con-
trary, do they not discern in them the same
anxious and unwearied pursuit after the things
of the earth, as in those who do not profess to
have any thought of heaven? Do not they see
them labour as sedulously in the interests of a
debasing and frivolous dissipation, as those who
do not pretend to have any nobler object in
view? Is there not the same eagerness to plunge
into all sorts of follies themselves, and the same
unrighteous speed in introducing their children
to them, as if they had never entered into a
solemn engagement to renounce them? Is
there not the same self-indulgence, the same
luxury, and the same passionate attachment to
the things of this world in them, as is visible in
those who do not look for another?
Do not thoughtless neglect, and habitual dis-
sipation answer, as to society, all the ends of the
most decided infidelity? Between the barely
decent and the openly profane there is indeed
this difference-That the one, by making no
profession, deceives neither the world nor his
own heart: while the other, by introducing him-
self in forms, fancies that he does something,
and thanks God that he is not like this pub-
lican.' The one only shuts his eyes upon the
danger which the other despises.
But these unfruitful professors would do well
to recollect that, by a conduct so little worthy
of their high calling, they not only violate the
law to which they have vowed obedience, but
occasion many to disbelieve or to despise it;
that they are thus in a great measure accounta.
ble for the infidelity of others, and of course will
have to answer for more than their own person-
al offences. For did they in any respect live
up to the principles they profess; did they adorn
the doctrines of Christianity by a life in any de-
gree consonant to their faith; did they exhibit
any thing of the 'beauty of holiness' in théir
daily conversation; they would then give such
a demonstrative proof not only of the sincerity
of their own obedience, but of the brightness
of that divine light by which they profess to
walk, that the most determined unbeliever would
at last begin to think there must he something
in a religion of which the effects were so visible,
and the fruits so amiable; and in time be led to
'glorify,' not them, not the imperfect doers of
these works, but their Father, which is in
heaven.' Whereas, as things are at present
carried on, the obvious conclusion must be,
either that Christians do not believe in the re-
ligion they profess, or that there is no truth in
the religion itself.
For will he not naturally say, that if its in-
fluences were so predominant, its consequences
must be more evident! that, if the prize held out
were really so bright, those who truly believed
so, would surely do something, and sacrifice
something to obtain it!
This effect of the carelessness of believers on
the hearts of others, will probably be a heavy
aggravation of their own guilt at the final reck-
oning :—and there is no negligent Christian can
guess where the infection of his example may
stop; or how remotely it may be pleaded as a
palliation of the sins of others, who either may
think themselves safe while they are only doing
what Christian's allow themselves to do; or who
may adduce a Christian's habitual violation of
the divine law, as a presumptive evidence that
there is no truth in Christianity.
This swells the amount of the actual mischief
beyond calculation; and there is something
terrible in the idea of this sort of definite evil,
that the careless Christian can never know the
extent of the contagion he spreads, nor the mul
tiplied infections which they may communicate
in their turn, whom his disorders first corrupted.
And there is this farther aggravation of his
offence, that he will not only be answerable for
all the positive evils of which his example is the
cause; but for the omission of all the probable
ca
good which might have been called forth in
others, had his actions been consistent with his
profession. What a strong, what an almost
irresistible conviction would it carry to the
hearts of unbelievers, if they beheld that charac-
teristic difference in the manner of Christians,
which their profession gives one to expect, if
they saw that disinterestedness, that humility,
sober-mindedness, temperance, simplicity, and
sincerity, which are the unavoidable fruits of a
genuine faith! and which the Bible has taught
them to expect in every Christian.
But, while a man talks like a saint, and yet
lives like a sinner; while he professes to believe
like an apostle, and yet leads the life of a sen-
sualist; talks of ardent faith, and yet exhibits a
cold and low practice; boasts himself the dis-
ciple of a meek Master, and yet is as much a
slave to his passions as they who acknowledge
no such authority; while he appears the proud
professor of an humble religion, or the intem-
perate champion of a self-denying one-such a
man brings Christianity into disrepute, confirms
those in error who might have been awakened
to conviction, strengthens doubt into disbelief,
and hardens indifference into contempt.
Even among those of a better cast and a
purer principle, the excessive restraints of
timidity, caution, and that fear of man, which
bringeth a snare,' confine, and almost stifle the
generous spirit of an ardent exertion in the
cause of religion. Christianity may patheti-
cally expostulate, that it is not always 'an open
enemy which dishonours her,' but her familiar
friend.' And what dost thou more than
others?' is a question which even the good and
worthy should often ask themselves, in order to
quicken their zeal; to prevent the total stagna-
tion of unexerted principles, on the one hand
or the danger, on the other, of their being driven
down the gulf of ruin by the unresisted and con-
fluent tides of temptation, fashion, and example.
In a very strict and mortified age, of which a
scrupulous severity was the predominant cha-
racter, precautions against an excessive zeal
might, and doubtless would, be a wholesome
and prudent measure. But in these times of
relaxed principle and frigid indifference, to see
people so vigilantly on their guard against the
imaginary mischiefs of enthusiasm, while they
run headlong into the real opposite perils of a
destructive licentiousness, reminds us of the one-
eyed animal in the fable; who, living on the
banks of the ocean, never fancied he could be
294
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
destroyed any way but by drowning: but, while
he kept that one eye constantly fixed on the sea,
on which side he concluded all the peril lay, he
was devoured by an enemy on the dry land,
from which quarter he never suspected any
danger,
Are not the mischiefs of an enthusiastic piety
insisted on with as much earnestness as if an
extravagant devotion were the prevailing pro-
pensity? Is not the necessity of moderation as
vehemently urged as if an intemperate zeal
were the epidemic distemper of the great world?
as if all our apparent danger and natural bias
lay on the side of a too rigid austerity, which
required the discreet and constant counteraction
of an opposite principle? Would not a stranger
be almost tempted to imagine, from the frequent
invectives against extreme strictness, that ab-
straction from the world, and a monastic rage
for retreat, were the ruling temper? that we
were in some danger of seeing our places of di-
version abandoned, and the enthusiastic scenes
of the Holy Fathers of the desert acted over again
by the frantic and uncontrollable devotion of
pur young persons of fashion?
surely not a less fatal evil than making uncom.
manded additions to it.
It is seriously to be regretted in an age like
the present, remarkable for indifference in reli-
gion and levity in manners, and which stands
so much in need of lively patterns of firm and
resolute piety, that many who really are Chris.
tians on the soberest conviction, should not ap-
pear more openly and decidedly on the side they
have espoused; that they assimilate so very
much with the manners of those about them
(which manners they yet scruple not to disap
prove) and, instead of an avowed but prudent
steadfastness, which might draw over the others,
appear evidently fearful of being thought pre-
cise and overscrupulous; and actually seem to
disavow their right principles, by concessions
and accommodations not strictly consistent with
them. They often seem cautiously afraid of do-
ing too much, and going too far; and the dan
gerous plea, the necessity of living like other
people, of being like the rest of the world, and
the propriety of not being particular, is brought
as a reasonable apology for a too yielding and
indiscriminate conformity,
But, at a time when almost all are sinking
into the prevailing corruption, how beautiful, a
rare, a single integrity is, let the instances of
Lot and Noah declare! And to those with whom
a poem is an higher authority than the Bible,
let me recommend the most animated picture
of a righteous singularity that ever was deline
ated in
-The Seraph Abdiel, faithful found
Among the faithless, faithful only he
Among innumerable false, unmov'd,
Unshaken, unseduc'd, unterrify'd,
His loyalty he kept, his love and zeal :
Nor numbers, nor example with him wrought
To swerve from truth or change his constant mind,
Though single.
PAR. LOST, B. iv.
Few indeed of the more orderly and decent
have any objection to that degree of Religion
which is compatible with their general accept-
It is not to be denied, that enthusiasm is an
evil to which the more religious of the lower
class are peculiarly exposed; and this from a
yariety of causes, upon which this is not the
place to enlarge. But who will be hardy enough
to assert that the class we are now addressing,
commonly fall into the same error. In order to
establish or to overthrow this assertion, let each |
fashionable reader confess whether, within the
sphere of his own observation, the fact be real-
ized. Let each bring this vague charge spe-
cifically home to his own acquaintance. Let
him honestly declare what proportion of noble
enthusiasts, what number of honourable fanatics
his own personal knowledge of the great world
supplies. Let him compare the list of his en-
thusiastic with that of his luxurious friends, of
his fanatical with his irreligious acquaintance,
of the righteous overmuch with such as care
for none of these things;' of the strict and pre-ance with others, or the full enjoyment of their
cise with that of the loose and irregular, of those
who beggar themselves by their pious alms, with
those who injure their fortune by extravagance;
of those who are lovers of God,' with those who
are lovers of pleasure. Let him declare whether
he sees more of his associates swallowed up in
gloomy meditation or immersed in sensuality;
whether more are the slaves of superstious ob-
servances or of ambition. Surely those who ad-
dress the rich and great in the way of exhorta.
tion and reproof, would do particularly well to
define exactly what is indeed the prevailing cha-
racter; lest, for want of such discrimination
they should heighten the disease they might
wish to cure, and increase the bias they would
desire to counteract, by addressing to the vo-
luptuary cautions which belong to the hermit,
and thus aggravate his already inflamed appe-
tites by invectives against an evil of which he
is in little danger.
If, however, superstition, where it really does
exist, injures religion, and we grant that it
greatly injures it, yet we insist that scepticism
injures it no less, for to deride, or to omit any
of the component parts of Christian faith, is
own pleasures. For a formal and ceremonious
exercise of the outward duties of Christianity
may not only be kept up without exciting cen-
sure, but will even procure a certain respect and
confidence; and is not quite irreconcilable with
a voluptuous and dissipated life. So far many
go; and so far as 'godliness is profitable to the
life that is,' it passes without reproach.
But as soon as men begin to consider religious
exercises not as a decency, but a duty; not as a
commutation for a self-denying life, but as a
means to promote a holy temper and a virtuous
conduct; as soon as they feel disposed to carry
the effect of their devotion into their daily life;
as soon as their principles discover themselves,
by leading them to withdraw from those scenes
and abstain from those actions in which the gay
place their supreme happiness; as soon as some-
thing is to be done, and something is to be part-
ed with, then the world begins to take offence,
and to stigmatize the activity of that piety which
had been commended as long as it remained in-
operative, and had only evaporated in words.
When religion, like the vital principle, takes
its seat in the heart and sends out supplies of
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
295'
life and heat to every part; diffuses motion, soul,
and vigour through the whole circulation, and
informs and animates the whole man; when it
operates on the practice, influences the conver-
sation, breaks out into a lively zeal for the ho-
hour of God, and the best interest of mankind,
then the sincerity of heart or the sanity of mind,
of that person, will become questionable; and
it must be owing to a very fortunate combina-
tion of circumstances indeed, if he can at once
preserve the character of parts and piety, and
retain the reputation of a man of sense after he
has acquired that of a Christian.
in which the second half of the Sunday is com-
monly spent, even by those who make a con-
science of spending the former part properly,
than that, now they have done their duty, they
may take their pleasure.'
But to him who acts from the nobler motive
of love, and the animating power of the chris-
tian hope, the exercise is the reward, the per-
mission is the privilege, the work is the wages.
He does not carve out some miserable pleasure,
and stipulate for some meagre diversion, to pay
himself for the hard performance of his duty,
who in that very performance experiences the
highest pleasure; and feels the truest gratifica-
tion of which his nature is capable, in devoting
the noblest part of that nature to His service, to
whom he owes all, because from Him he has
received all.
But while Christian observances are consider-
ed as tasks, which are to be got over to entitle
us to something more pleasant; as a burthen
which we must endure in order to propitiate an
inexorable judge, who makes a hard bargain
with his creatures, and allows them just so
much amusement in pay for so much drudgery
-we must not wonder that such low views are
It is surely a folly to talk of being too holy, entertained of Christianity, and that a religious
too strict, or too good. When there really hap-life is reprobated as strict and rigid.
pens to appear some foundation for the charge
of enthusiasm (as there are indeed sometimes
in good people eccentricities which justify the
censure) we may depend upon it, that it pro-
ceeds from some defect in the judgment, and
not from any excess in the piety: for in good-
ness there is no excess and it is as preposter-
ous to say that any one is 'too good, or too pious,
as that he is too wise, too strong, or too healthy:
since the highest point in all these is only the
perfection of that quality which we admired in
a lower degree. There may be an imprudent,
but there cannot be a superabundant goodness.
An ardent imagination may mislead a rightly
turned heart; and a weak intellect may incline
the best intentioned to ascribe too much value
to things of comparatively small importance.
Such a one not having discernment enough to
perceive where the force and stress of duty lie,
may inadvertently discredit religion by a too
scrupulous exactness in points of small intrinsic
value. And even well-meaning men as well as
hypocrites may think they have done a merito-
rious service when their mint' and 'anise' are
rigorously tithed.
But in observing the weightier matters of
the law,' in the practice of universal holiness,
in the love of God, there can be no possibility |
of exceeding, while there is no limitation in the
command. We are in no danger of loving our
neighbour better than ourselves; and let us re-
member that we do not go beyond, but fall short
of our duty, while we love him less. If we were
commanded to love God with some of our heart,
with part of our soul, and a portion of our
strength, there would then be some colour for
those perpetual cavils about the proportion of
love and the degree of obedience which are due
to him. But as the command is so definite, so
absolute, so comprehensive, so entire, nothing
can be more absurd than that unmeaning, but
not unfrequent charge brought against religious
persons, that they are too strict. It is in effect
saying, that they love God too much, and serve
him too well.
This reprobated strictness, therefore, so far
from being the source of discomfort and misery,
as is pretended, is in reality the true cause of
actual enjoyment, by laying the axe to the root
of all those turbulent and uneasy passions, the
unreserved and yet imperfect gratification of
which does so much more tend to disturb our
happiness, than that self-government which
Christianity enjoins.
But all precepts seem rigorous, all observances
are really hard, where there is not an entire
conviction of God's right to our obedience and
an internal principle of faith and love to make
that obedience pleasant. A religious life is in-
deed a hard bondage to one immersed in the
practices of the world, and under the dominion
of its appetites and passions. To a real Chris-
tian it is 'perfect freedom.' He does not now
abstain from such and such things, merely be
cause they are forbidden (as he did in the first
stages of his progress) but because his soul has
no longer any pleasure in them. And it would
be the severest of all punishments to oblige him
to return to those practices, from which he once
abstained with difficulty, and through the less
noble principle of fear.
There is not, therefore, perhaps, a greater
mistake than that common notion entertained
by the more orderly part of the fashionable
world, that a little religion will make people
happy, but that a high degree of it is incom-
patible with all enjoyment. For surely that re-
The foundation of this silly censure is com-ligion can add little to a man's happiness which
monly laid in the first principles of education, restrains him from the commission of a wrong
where an early separation is systematically action, but which does not pretend to extinguish
made between duty and pleasure. One of the
first baits held out for the encouragement of
children, is that when they have done their duty
they will be entitled to some pleasure; thus
forcibly disjoining what should be considered as
inseparable. And there is not a more common
justification of that idle and dissipated manner
the bad principle from which the act proceeded.
A religion which ties the hands, without chang-
ing the heart; which, like the hell of Tantalus,
subdues not the desire, yet forbids the gratifica-
tion, is indeed an uncomfortable religion: and
such a religion, though it may gain a
something on the side of reputation, will give
man
296
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
him but little inward comfort. For what true, and in time wear out, the best feelings and af
peace can that heart enjoy which is left a prey
to that temper which produced the evil, even
though terror or shame may have prevented the
outward act.
That people devoted to the pursuits of a dissi-
pated life should conceive of religion as a diffi-
cult and even unattainable state, it is easy to
believe. That they should conceive of it as an
unhappy state, is the consummation of their
error and their ignorance; for that a rational
being should have his understanding enlighten-
ed; that an immortal being should have his
views extended and enlarged; that a helpless be-
ing should have a consciousness of assistance;
a sinful being the prospect of a pardon, or a
fallen one the assurance of restoration, does not
seem a probable ground of unhappiness: and on
any other subject but religion, such reasoning
would not be admissible,
CHAP. VI.
fections of the human heart. And the mere
spirit of dissipation, thus contracted from inva-
riable habit, even detached from all its concomi-
tant evils, is in itself as hostile to a religious
spirit, as more positive and actual offences. Far
be it from me to say that it is as criminal; I
only insist that it is as opposite to that heavenly
mindedness which is the essence of the Chris-
tian temper.
Let us suppose an ignorant and unprejudiced
spectator, who should have been taught the
theory of all the religions on the globe, brought
hither from the other hemisphere. Set him
down in the politest part of our capital, and let
him determine, if he can, except from what he
shall see interwoven in the texture of our laws,
and kept up in the service of our churches,to what
particular religion we belong. Let him not mix
entirely with the most flagitious, but only with
the most fashionable; at least, let him keep
what they themselves call the best company. Let
him scrutinize into the manners, customs, ha-
bits, and diversions, most in vogue, and then in-
fer from all he has seen and heard, what is the
established religion of the land.
That it could not be the Jewish he would
soon discover: for of rites, ceremonies, and ex-
remains. He would be equally convinced that
ternal observances, he would trace but slender
it could not be the religion of old Greece and
A stranger, from observing the fashionable mode
of life, would not take this to be a Christian
country.-Lives of professing Christians ex-
amined by a comparison with the Gospel.-
Christianity not made the rule of life, even by
those who profess to receive it as an object of
faith.-Temporizing writers contribute to
lower the credit of Christianity. Loose ha-Rome; for that enjoined reverence to the gods,
rangues on morals not calculated to reform the
heart.
and inculcated obedience to the laws. His most
probable conclusion would be in favour of the
Mahometan faith, did not the excessive indulg-
ence of some of the most distinguished in an
article of intemperance prohibited even by the
sensual prophet of Arabia, defeat that conjec-
ture.
THE Christian religion is not intended, as
some of its fashionable professors seem to fancy,
to operate as a charm, a talisman, or incantation,
and to produce its effect by our pronouncing
certain mystical words, attending at certain con- How would the petrified inquirer be astonish-
secrated places, and performing certain hallow-ed, if he were told that all these gay, thought.
ed ceremonies; but it is an active, vital, influ-less, luxurious, dissipated persons, professed a
ential principle, operating on the heart, restrain-religion, meek, spiritual, self-denying; of which
ing the desires, affecting the general conduct, humility, poverty of spirit, a renewed mind, and
and as much regulating our commerce with the non-conformity to the world, were specific dis
world, our business, pleasures, and enjoyments, tinctions!
our conversations, designs, and actions, as our
behaviour in public worship, or even in private
devotion,
That the effects of such a principle are strik-
ingly visible in the lives and manners of the
generality of those who give the law to fashion,
will not perhaps be insisted on. And indeed,
the whole present system of fashionable life is
utterly destructive of seriousness. To instance
only in the growing habit of frequenting great
assemblies, which is generally thought insigni-
ficant, and is in effect so vapid, that one almost
wonders how it can be dangerous;-it would
excite laughter, because we are so broken into
the habit, were I to insist on the immorality of
passing one's whole life in a crowd.-But those
promiscuous myriads which compose the so-
ciety, falsely so called, of the gay world; who
are brought together without esteem, remain
without pleasure, and part without regret; who
live in a round of diversions, the possession of
which is so joyless, though the absence is so in-
supportable; these, by the mere force of inces-
sant and indiscriminate association, weaken,
When he saw the sons of men of fortune,
scarcely old enough to be sent to school, admit-
ted to be spectators of the turbulent and unnatu-
ral diversions of racing and gaming; and the
almost infant daughters, even of wise and vir-
tuous mothers (an innovation which fashion her-
self forbade till now) carried with most unthrifty
anticipation to the frequent and late protracted
ball-would he believe that we were of a religion
which has required from those very parents a
solemn vow that these children should be bred
up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord?'
That they should constantly believe God's holy
word and keep his commandments?"
L
When he observed the turmoils of ambition,
the competitions of vanity, the ardent thirst for
the possession of wealth, and the wild misappli-
cation of it when possessed; how could he per-
suade himself that all these anxious pursuers of
present enjoyment were the disciples of a mas-
ter who exhibited the very character and es-
sence of his religion, as it were in a motto-
MY KINGDOM IS NOT OF THIS WORLD!'
When he beheld those nocturnal clubs, so
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
207
subversive of private virtue and domestic happi-,
ness, would he conceive that we were of a reli-
gion which in express terms'exhorts young
men to be sober-minded ?'
When he saw those magnificent and brightly
illuminated structures which decorate and dis-
grace the very precincts of the royal residence,
(so free itself from all these pollutions) when he
beheld the nightly offerings made to the demon
of play, on whose cruel altar the fortune and
happiness of wives and children are offered up
without remorse; would he not conclude that
we were of some of those barbarous religions
which enjoins unnatural sacrifices, and whose
horrid deities are appeased with nothing less
than human victims?
actions! Do even what the world calls religi.
ous persons, employ their time, their abilities,
and their fortune, as talents for which they how-
ever confess they believe themselves accounta
ble: or do they, in any respect live, I will not
say up to their profession (for what human being
does so?) but in any consistency with it, or even
with an eye to its predominant tendencies? Do
persons in general of this description seem to
consider the peculiar doctrines of the Gospel, as
any thing more than a form of words necessary
indeed to be repeated, and proper to be believed?
But do they consider them as necessary to be
adopted into a governing principle of action?
Is it acting a consistent part to declare in the
solemn assemblies that they are ' miserable
offenders,' and that there is no health in them,'
and yet never in their daily lives to discover
any symptom of that humility and self-abase.
ment, which should naturally be implied in such
a declaration?
Now ought we not to pardon our imaginary
spectator, if he should not at once conclude that
all the various descriptions of persons above no-
ticed professed the Christian religion; supposing
him to have no other way of determining but
by the conformity of their manners to that rule
by which he had undertaken to judge them?
We indeed must judge with a certain latitude,
and candidly take the present state of society
into the account; which in some few instances,
perhaps, must be allowed to dispense with that
literal strictness, which more peculiarly belong-oppose one of these devices, to resist one of these
ed to the first ages of the Gospel.
But as this is really a Christian country, pro-
fessing to enjoy the purest faith in the purest
form, it cannot be unreasonable to go a little
farther, and inquire whether Christianity, how-
ever firmly established and generally professed
in it, is really practised by that order of fashion-
able persons, who, while they are absorbed in
the delights of the world, and their whole souls
devoted to the pursuit of pleasure, yet still arro-
gate to themselves the honourable name of Chris-
tians, and occasionally testify their claim to this
high character, by a general profession of their
belief in, and a decent occasional compliance
with the forms of religion, and the ordinances
of our church?
This inquiry must be made, not by a compa-
rison with the state of Christianity in other
countries (a mode always fallacious, whether
adopted by nations or individuals, is that of com-
paring themselves with those who are still
worse) nor must it be made from any notions
drawn from custom, or any other human stand-
ard; but from a scripture view of what real re-
ligion is; from any one of those striking and
comprehensive representations of it, which may
be found condensed in so many single passages
of the sacred writings.
Whoever then looks into the Book of God,
and observes its prevailing spirit, and then looks
into that part of the world under consideration,
will not surely be thought very censorious, if he
pronounce that the conformity between them
does not seem to be very striking; and the man-
ners of the one do not very evidently appear to
be dictated by the spirit of the other. Will he
discover that the Christian religion is so much
as pretended to be made the rule of life even by
that decent order who profess not to have dis-
carded it as an object of faith? Do even the
more regular, who neglect not public observan-
ces, consider Christianity as the measure of their
VOL. I,
Is it reasonable or compatible, I will not say
with piety, but with good sense, earnestly to la-
ment having followed the devices and desires
of their own hearts,' and then deliberately to
plunge into such a torrent of dissipations as
clearly indicates that they do not struggle to
• Be
desires? I dare not say this is hypocrisy, I do
not believe it is, but surely it is inconsistency.
ye not conformed to this world,' is a lead-
ing principle in the book they acknowledge as
their guide. But after unresistingly assenting
to this as a doctrinal truth, at church-how ab-
surd would they think any one who should ex-
pect them to adopt it into their practice! Per-
haps the whole law of God does not exhibit a
single precept more expressly, more steadily,
and more uniformly rejected by the class in
question. If it mean any thing, it can hardly
be consistent with that mode of life emphatical
ly distinguished by the appellation of fashion-
able.
Now, would it be much more absurd (for any
other reason but because it is not the custom) if
our legislators were to meet one day in every
week, gravely to read over all the obsolete sta.
tutes, and rescinded acts of parliament, than it
is for the order of persons of the above descrip-
tion to assemble every Sunday, to profess their
belief in and submission to a system of princi-
ples, which they do not so much as intend shall
be binding on their practice?
But to continue our inquiry.-There is not a
more common or more intelligible definition of
human duty, than that of Fear God, and keep
his commandments.' Now, as to the first of
these inseparable precepts, can we, with the ut.
most stretch of charity, be very forward to con-
clude that God is really very greatly feared' in
secret, by those who give too manifest indica-
tions that they live without him in the world?'
And as to the latter precept, which naturally
grows out of the other-without noticing any
the flagrant breaches of the moral law, let us
only confine ourselves to the allowed, general,
and notorious violation of the third and fourth
commandments, by the higher as well as by the
lower orders; breaches so flagrant, that they
force themselves on the observation of the most
of
298
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
inattentive, too palpably to be either unnoticed | perused, many a fashionable reader would here
or palliated.
|
throw it aside, as having now detected the pal-
pable enthusiast, the abettor of strange doc-
trines,' long ago consigned over by the liberal
and the polite to bigots and fanatics. And yet,
if the Bible be true, this is a simple and faithful
description of Christianity.
Surely men forget that we are urging them
upon their own principles; that while we are
urging them with motives drawn from Chris-
tianity, they seem to have as little concern in
these motives as if they themselves were of an-
other religion. It is not a name that will stand
us instead. It is not merely glorying in the title
of Christians, while we are living in the neglect
of its precepts; it is not in valuing ourselves on
the profession of religion as creditable, while we
reject the power of it as fanatical, that will save
us! In any other circumstances of life it would
be accounted absurd to have a set of propositions,
principles, statutes, or fundamental articles, and
not to make them the ground of our acting as
Shall we have reason to change our opinion if
we take that Divine representation of the sum
and substance of religion, and apply it as a
touchstone in the present trial-Thou shalt
love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and
with all thy mind, and with all thy soul, and
with all thy strength, and thy neighbour as thy-
self?' Now, judge by inference, do we see
many public proofs of that heavenly-mindedness
which would be the inevitable effect of such a
fervent and animated dedication of all the pow-
ers, faculties, and affections of the soul to Him
who gave it? And, as to the great rule of social
duty expressed in the second clause, do we ob-
serve as much of that considerate kindness, that
pure disinterestedness, that conscientious atten-
tion to the comfort of others, especially of de-
pendents and inferiors, as might be expected
from those who enjoyed the privilege of so un-
erring a standard of conduct? a standard, which,
if impartially consulted, must make our kind-well as of our reasoning. In these supposed in-
ness to others bear an exact proportion to our stances the blame would lie in the contradiction,
self-love; a rule in which christian principle, in religion it lies in the agreement. Strange!
operating on human sensibility, could not fail that to act in consequence of received and ac-
to decide aright in every supposeable case. For knowledged principles, should be accounted
no man can doubt how he ought to act towards weakness! Strange, that what alone is truly con-
another, while the inward corresponding sug-sistent, should be branded as absurd! Strange,
gestions of conscience and feeling concur in that men must really forbear to act rationally,
letting him know how he would wish, in a change only that they may not be reckoned mad!
of circumstances, that others should act towards Strange, that they should be commended for
him.
having prayed in the excellent words of the Bi-
ble and of our church, for a clean heart, and a
right spirit;' and yet, if they gave any sign of
such a transformation of heart, they should be
accounted, if not fanatical, at least, singular,
weak, or melancholy men.
Or suppose we take a more detailed survey,
by a third rule, which indeed is not so much the
principle as the effect of piety-True religion,
and undefiled before God and the Father, is this:
to visit the fatherless and widows in their afflic-
tion, and to keep himself unspotted from the
world.' Now, if Christianity insists that obedi-
ence to the latter injunction be the true evidence
of the sincerity of those who fulfil the former, is
the beneficence of the fashionable world very
strikingly illustrated by this spotless purity, this
exemption from the pollutions of the world,
which is here declared to be its invariable con-
comitant?
But if I were to venture to take my estimate
with a view more immediately evangelical; if I
presumed to look for that genuine Christianity
which consists in repentance towards God, and
faith in our Lord Jesus Christ;' to insist, that
whatever natural religion and fashionable reli-
gion may teach, it is the peculiarity of the Chris-
tian religion to humble the sinner and exalt the
Saviour; to insist that not only the grossly fla-
gitious, but that all have sinned; that all are by
nature in a state of condemnation; that all stand
in need of mercy, of which there is no hope but
on the Gospel terms; that eternal life is pro-
mised to those only who accept it on the offered
conditions of 'faith, repentance, and renewed
obedience ;'-if I were to insist on such eviden-
ces of our Christianity as these; if I were to
express these doctrines in plain scriptural terms
without lowering, qualifying, disguising, or do-
ing them away; if I were to insist on this belief,
and its implied and corresponding practices; I
am aware that, with whatever condescending
patience this little tract might have been so far
After having, however, just ventured to hint
at what are indeed the humbling doctrines of
the gospel, the doctrines to which alone eternal
life is promised, I shall in deep humility forbear
to enlarge on this part of the subject, which has
been exhausted by the labours of wise and pious
men in all ages. Unhappily, however, the most
awakening of these writers are not the favourite
guests in the closets of the more fashionable
Christians; who, when they happen to be more
seriously disposed than ordinary, are fond of
finding out some middle kind of reading, which
recominends some half-way state, something
between Paganism and Christianity, suspending
the mind, like the position of Mahomet's tomb,
between earth and heaven: a kind of reading
which, while it quiets the conscience by being
on the side of morals, neither awakens fear, nor
alarms security. By dealing in generals, it
comes home to the hearts of none: it flatters the
passions of the reader, by ascribing high merits
to the performance of certain right actions, and
the forbearance from certain wrong ones; among
which, that reader must be very unlucky indeed
who does not find some performances and some
forbearances of his own. It at once enables him
to keep heaven in his eye, and the world in his
heart. It agreeably represents the readers to
themselves as amiable persons, guilty indeed of
a few faults, but never as condemned sinners
under sentence of death. It commonly abounds
with high encomiums on the dignity of human
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
299
them.
nature; the good effects of virtue on health, for- of going too far. While the one is debating for
tune, and reputation: the dangers of a blind a little more disputed ground, the other is so
zeal, the mischiefs of enthusiasm, and the folly fearful of straying into the regions of unhallow-
of singularity, with various other kindred senti- ed indulgence, that he keeps at a prudent dis-
ments; which, if they do not fall in of them-tance from the extremity of his permitted
selves with the corruptions of our nature, may, limits; and is anxious in restricting as the other
by a little warping, be easily accommodated to is desirous of extending them. One thing is
clear, and it may be no bad indication by which
to discover the state of man's heart to himself;
while he is contending for this allowance, and
stipulating for the other indulgence, it will show
him that, whatever change there may be in his
life, there is none in his heart; the temper re-
mains as it did; and it is by the inward frame
rather than the outward act that he can best
judge of his own state, whatever may be the rule
by which he undertakes to judge of that of an-
other,
These are the too successful practices of cer-
tain luke-warm and temporizing divines, who
have become popular by blunting the edge of
the heavenly tempered weapon, whose salutary
keenness, but for their deceitful handling,'
would often 'pierce to the dividing asunder of
soul and spirit.'
But those severer preachers of righteousness,
who disgust by applying too closely to the con-
science; who probe the inmost heart and lay
open all its latent peccancies; who treat of
principles as the only certain source of man-
ners; who lay the axe at the root, oftener than
the pruning knife to the branch; who insist
much and often on the great leading truths, that
man is a fallen creature, who must be restored,
if restored at all, by means very little flattering
to human pride such heart-searching writers
as these will seldom find access to the houses
and hearts of the more modish Christians, unless
they happen to owe their admission to some sub-
ordinate quality of style; unless they can cap-
tivate, with the seducing graces of language,
those well-bred readers, who are childishly
amusing themselves with the garnish, when they
are perishing for want of food; who are search
ing for polished periods when they should be in
quest of alarming truths: who are looking for
elegance of composition when they should be
anxious for eternal life.
It is less wonderful that there are not more
Christians, than that Christians, as they are
called, are not better men; for if Christianity
be not true, the motives of virtue are not high
enough to quicken ordinary men to very extra-
ordinary exertions. We see them do and suffer
every day for popularity, for custom, for fash-
ion, for the point of honour, not only more than
good men do and suffer for religion, but a great
deal more than religion requires them to do. For
her reasonable service demands no sacrifices but
what are sanctioned by good sense, sound policy,
right reason, and uncorrupt jndgment.
Many of these fashionable professors even go
for their wrong practice. They have a com-
so far as to bring their right faith as an apology
modious way of intrenching themselves within
the shelter of some general position of unques-
tionable truth: even the great Christian hope
becomes a snare to them. They apologize for
Whatever comparative praise may be due to
a life of offence, by taking refuge in the extreme
the former class of writers, when viewed with
others of a less decent order, yet I am not sure merciful,' is the common reply to those who
goodness they are abusing. That 'God is all
whether so many books of frigid morality, ex-hint to them their danger. This is a false and
hibiting such inferior motives of action, such mo-
derate representations of duty, and such a low
standard of principle; have not done religion
much more harm than good; whether they do
not lead many a reader to inquire what is the
lowest degree in the scale of virtue with which
he may content himself, so as barely to escape
eternal punishment; how much indulgence he
may allow himself, without absolutely forfeiting
his chance of safety: what is the uttermost verge
to which he may venture of this world's enjoy-
ment, and yet just keep within a possibility of
hope for the next; adjusting the scales of indul-
gence and security with such a scrupulous equi-
librium, as not to lose much pleasure, yet not
incur much penalty.
This is hardly an exaggerated representa-
tion; and to these low views of duty is partly
owing so much of that bare-weight virtue with
which even Christians are apt to content them-
selves; fighting for every inch of ground which
may possibly be taken within the pales of per-
mission, and stretching those pales to the ut-
most edge of that limitation about which the
world and the Bible contend.
But while the nominal Christian is persuad-
ing himself that there can be no harm in going
a little farther, the real Christian is always afraid
:
fatal application of a divine and comfortable
truth. Nothing can be more certain than the
proposition, nor more delusive than the infer-
merciful to sin repented of, but to sin continued
ence for their deduction implies, not that he is
in. But it is a most fallacious hope to expect
that God will violate his own covenant, or that
he is indeed, all mercy,' to the utter exclusion
of his other attributes of perfect holiness, purity
and justice.
It is a dangerous folly to rest on these vague
and general notions of indefinite mercy ; and no.
thing can be more delusive than this indefinite
trust in being forgiven in our own way, after
God has clearly revealed to us that he will only
forgive us in his way. Besides, is there not
something singularly base in sinning against
God because he is merciful?
But the truth is no one does truly trust in God,
who does not endeavour to obey him. For to
break his laws, and yet to depend on his fa..
vour; to live in opposition to his will, and yet in
expectation of his mercy; to violate his com-
mands, and yet to look for his acceptance, would
not, in any other instance, be thought a reason.
able ground of conduct; and yet it is by no
means as uncommon as it is inconsistent,
300
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
CHAP. VII.
View of those who acknowledge Christianity as
a perfect system of morals, but deny its divine
authority.—Morality not the whole of Religion.
As in the preceding chapter notice was taken
of that description of persons who profess to re-
ceive Christianity with great reverence as a
matter of faith, who yet do not pretend to adopt
it as a rule of conduct; I shall conclude these
slight remarks with some short animadversions
on another set of men, and that not a small one
among the decent and fashionable, who profess
to think it exhibits an admirable system of
morals, while they deny its divine authority;
though that authority alone can make the neces-
sity of obeying its precepts binding on the con-
sciences of men.
alone is the solution. The dark veil which is
thrown over the divine dispensations in this
lower world must naturally shock those who
consider only the single scene which is acting
on the present stage; but is reconcilable to him
who, having learnt from Revelation the nature
of the laws by which the great Author acts,
trusts confidently that the catastrophe will set
all to rights. The confusion which sin and the
passions have introduced; the triumph of wick-
edness; the seemingly arbitrary disproportion
of human conditions, accountable on no scheme
but that which the Gospel has opened to us-
have all a natural tendency to withdraw from
the love of God, the hearts of those who erect
themselves into critics on the Divine conduct,
and yet will not study the plan, and get ac-
quainted with the rules, so far as it has pleased
the Supreme Disposer to reveal them.
as a
him;' until he has enlarged their hearts' with
the knowledge and belief of his word, they will
not very vigorously run the way of his com-
mandments.' Until they have acquired that
faith, without which it is impossible to please
God,' they will not attain that 'holiness, with-
out which no man can see him.'
1
This is a very discreet scheme; for such per-
Till therefore the word of God is used
sons at once save themselves from the discredit lamp to their paths,' men can neither truly dis-
of having their understanding imposed upon cern the crookedness of their own ways, nor the
by a supposed blind submission to evidences and perfection of that light by which they are di
authorities; and yet, prudently enough, secure rected to walk. And this light can only be seen
to themselves, in no small degree, the reputa- | by its own proper brightness; it has no other
tion of good men. By steering this middle kind | medium. Until therefore, the secret of the
of course, they contrive to be reckoned liberal Lord' is with men, they will not truly fear
by the philosophers, and decent by the believers.
But we are not to expect to see the pure mo-
rality of the Gospel very carefully transfused
into the lives of such objectors. And indeed it
would be unjust to imagine that the precepts
should be most scrupulously observed by those
who reject the authority. The influence of
divine truth must necessarily best prepare the
heart for an unreserved obedience to its laws.
If we do not depend on the offers of the Gospel,
we shall want the best motives to the actions
and performances which it enjoins. A lively
belief must therefore precede a hearty obedience.
Let those who think otherwise, hear what the
Saviour of the world has said: 'For this end was
I born, and for this cause came I into the world,
that I might bear witness unto the truth.'
Those who reject the Gospel, therefore, reject
the power of performing good actions. That
command, for instance, to set our affections on
things above,' will operate but faintly, till that
Spirit from which the command proceeds,
touches the heart, and convinces that no human
good is worthy of the entire affection of an im-
mortal creature. An unreserved faith in the
promiser must precede our acceptable perform-
ance of any duty to which the promise is an-
nexed.
But as to a set of duties enforced by no other
motive than a bare acquiescence in their beauty,
and a cold conviction of their propriety, but
impelled by no obedience to his authority who
imposes them; though we know not how well
they might be performed by pure and impecca-
ble beings, yet we know how they commonly
are performed by frail and disorderly creatures,
fallen from their innocence, and corrupt in their
very natures.
Nothing but a conviction of the truth of
Christianity can reconcile thinking beings to
the extraordinary appearances of things in the
Creator's moral government of the world. The
works of God are an enigma, of which his word
|
And indeed if God has thought fit to make
the Gospel an instrument of salvation, we must
own the necessity of receiving it as a divine in-
stitution, before it is likely to operate very ef
fectually on the human conduct. The great
Creator, if we may judge by analogy from na
tural things, is so just and wise an economist,
that he always adapts, with the most accurate
precision, the instrument to the work; and never
lavishes more means than are necessary to ac-
complish the proposed end. If therefore Chris-
tianity had been intended for nothing more than
a mere system of ethics, such a system surely
might have been produced at an infinitely less
expense. The long chain of prophecy, the
succession of miracles, the labours of apostles,
the blood of the saints, to say nothing of the
great costly sacrifice which the Gospel records,
might surely have been spared. Lessons of
mere human virtue might have been delivered by
some suitable instrument of human wisdom,
strengthened by the visible authority of human
power. A bare system of morals might have been
communicated to mankind with a more reasona-
ble prospect of advantage, by means not so repug-
nant to human pride. A mere scheme of con-
duct might have been delivered with far greater
probability of the success of its reception by
Antoninus the emperor, or Plato the philosopher,
than by Paul the tent-maker, or Peter the
fisherman.
Christianity, then, must be embraced entirely,
if it be received at all. It must be taken with-
out mutilation, as a perfect scheme, in the way
in which God has been pleased to reveal it. It
must be accepted, not as exhibiting beautiful
3
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
301
parts, but as presenting one consummate whole, I merely by habit, profession, or education; he is
of which the perfection arises from coherence
and dependence, from relation and consistency.
Its power will be weakened, and its energy de-
stroyed, if every caviller pulls out a pin, or ob-
structs a spring with the presumptuous view of
new modelling the Divine work, and making it
go to his own mind. There must be no break-gested to his understanding, or reasons which
ing the system into portions of which we are
at liberty to choose one and reject another.
There is no separating the evidences from the
doctrines, the doctrines from the precepts, belief
from obedience, morality from piety, the love of
our neighbour from the love of God. If we al-
low Christianity to be any thing, we must allow
it to be every thing: if we allow the Divine
Author to be indeed unto us 'wisdom and
righteousness,' he must be also sanctification
and redemption.'
Christianity then is assuredly something more
than a mere set of rules; and faith, though it
never pretended to be the substitute for an use-
ful life, is indispensably necessary to its accept-
ance with God. The Gospel never offers to
make religion supersede morality, but every
where clearly proves that morality is not the
whole of religion. Piety is not only necessary
as a means, but is itself a most important end.
It is not only the best principle of moral conduct,
but is an indispensable and absolute duty in it-
self. It is not only the highest motive to the
practice of virtue, but is a prior obligation, and
absolutely necessary, even when detached from
its immediate influence on outward actions.
Religion will survive all the virtues of which it
is the source; for we shall be living in the no-
blest exercises of piety when we shall have no
objects on which to exercise many human vir-
When there will be no distress to be re-
lieved, no injuries to be forgiven, no evil habits
to be subdued, there will be a Creator to be
blessed and adored, a Redeemer to be loved and
praised.
tues.
To conclude, a real Christian is not such
not a Christian in order to acquit his sponsors
of the engagements they entered into in his
name; but he is one who has embraced Chris.
tianity from a conviction of its truth, and an
experience of its excellence. He is not only
confident in matters of faith by evidences sug-
correspond to his inquiries; but all these evi-
dences of truth, all these principles of goodness
are working into his heart, and exhibit them-
selves in his practice. He sees so much of the
body of the great truths and fundamental points
of religion, that he has a satisfactory trust in
those lesser branches which ramify to infinity
from the parent stock; though he may not in-
dividually and completely comprehend them all.
He is so powerfully convinced of the general
truth, and so deeply impressed by the general
spirit of the Gospel, that he is not startled by
every little difficulty; he is not staggered by
every hard saying.' Those depths of mystery
which surpass his understanding do not shake
his faith, and this, not because he is credulous,
and given to take things upon trust, but because,
knowing that his foundations are right, he sees
how one truth of Scripture supports another like
the bearings of a geometrical building; because
he sees the aspect one doctrine has upon an-
other; because he sees the consistency of each
with the rest, and the place, order, and relation
of all. The real Christian by no means rejects
reason from his religion; so far from it, he most
carefully exercises it in furnishing his mind
with all the evidences of its truth. But he does
not stop here. Christianity furnishes him with
a living principle of action, with the vital in-
fluences of the holy Spirit, which, while it en-
lightens his faculties, rectifies his will, turns his
knowledge into practice, sanctifies his heart,
changes his habits, and proves that when faith-
fully received, the word of truth' is life indeed,
and is spirit indeed !'
REMARKS ON THE SPEECH OF M. DUPONT,
MADE IN THE NATIONAL CONVENTION OF FRANCE.
ON THE SUBJECTS OF RELIGION AND PUBLIC EDUCATION.
A PREFATORY ADDRESS
TO THE LADIES, &c. of great BRITAIN,—IN BEHALF OF THE FRENCH EMIGRANT CLERGY.
tress as pressing as it is unexampled.
Ir it be allowed that there may arise occasions | raising further supplies towards relieving a dis-
so extraordinary that all the lesser motives of
delicacy ought to vanish before them, it is pre-
sumed that the present emergency will be con-
sidered as presenting one of those occasions, and
will in some measure justify the hardiness of
this address from a private individual, who, sti-
mulated by the urgency of the case, sacrifices
inferior considerations to the ardent desire of
|
We are informed by public advertisement,
that the large sums already so liberally subscrib-
ed for the emigrant clergy are almost exhausted.
Authentic information adds, that multitudes of
distressed exiles in the island of Jersey, are on
the point of wanting bread.
Very many to whom this address is made have
NOTE.-The profits of this publication, which were considerable, were given to the French emigrant clergy.
302
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
already contributed. O let them not be weary
in well-doing! I know that many are making
generous exertions for the just and natural claims
of the widows and children of our own brave
seamen and soldiers. Let it not be said, that
the present is an interfering claim. Those to
whom I write, have bread enough, and to spare.
You, who fare sumptuously every day, and yet
complain that you have little to bestow, let not
this bounty be subtracted from another bounty,
but subtract it rather from some superfluous
expense.
The beneficent and right-minded want no ar-
guments to be pressed upon them; but it is not
those alone who I address; I write to persons
of every description. Luxurious habits of living,
which really furnish the distressed with the
fairest grounds for application, are too often
urged by those who practise them as a motive
for withholding assistance, and produced as a
plea for having little to spare. Let her who in-
dulges such habits, and pleads such excuses in
consequence, reflect, that by retrenching one
costly dish from her abundant table, by cutting
off the superfluities of one expensive desert,
omitting one evening's public amusement, she
may furnish at least a week's subsistence to
more than one person,* as liberally bred perhaps
as herself, and who, in his own country, may
have often tasted how much more blessed it is
to give than to receive-to a once affluent mi-
nister of religion, who has been long accustomed
to bestow the necessaries he is now reduced to
solicit.
|
persons for whom we plead, were, by the sur-
prising vicissitudes of life, thrown down from
heights of gayety and prosperity equal to what
they are now enjoying. And let those who have
husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, or friends, re-
flect on the uncertainties of war, and the revo-
lution of human affairs. It is only by imagining
the possibility that those who are dear to us may
be placed by the instability of human events in
the same calamitous circumstances, that we can
obtain an adequate feeling of the woes we are
called upon to commiserate.
In a distress so wide and comprehensive as
the present, many are prevented from giving by
that popular excuse, 'That it is but a drop of
water in the ocean.' But let them reflect, that
if all the individual drops were withheld, there
would be no ocean at all; and the inability to
give much ought not, on any occasion, to be
converted into an excuse for giving nothing.
Even moderate circumstances need not plead ar
exemption. The industrious tradesman will not,
even in a political view, be eventually a loser
by his small contribution. The money now
raised is neither carried out of our country, nor
dissipated in luxuries, but returns again to the
community; returns to our shops and to our
markets, to procure the bare necessaries of
life.
Some have objected to the difference of reli-
gion of those for whom we solicit. Such an ob-
jection hardly deserves a serious answer. Surely
if the superstitious Tartar hopes to become pos-
sessed of the courage and talents of the enemy
he slays, the Christian is not afraid of catching,
or of propagating the error of the sufferer he
relieves.-Christian charity is of no party. We
plead not for their faith, but for their wants.
But while we affirm that it is not for their pope-
ry but their poverty which we solicit; yet let
the more scrupulous, who look for desert as well
as distress in the objects of their bounty, bear
in mind, that if these men could have sacrificed
their conscience to their convenience, they had
not now been in this country; and if we wish
for proselytes, who knows but it may be the first
Even your young daughters, whom maternal
prudence has not yet furnished with the means
of bestowing, may be cheaply taught the first
rudiments of charity, together with an impor-
tant lesson of economy: they may be taught to
sacrifice a feather, a set of ribands, an expensive
ornament, an idle diversion. And if they are
on this occasion instructed, that there is no true
charity without self-denial, they will gain more
than they are called upon to give: for the sup.
pression of one luxury for a charitable purpose,
is the exercise of two virtues, and this without
any pecuniary expense.--An indulgence is abridg-step towards their conversion, if we show them
ed and christian charity is exercised.
the purity of our religion, by the beneficence of
our actions.
Let the sick and afflicted remember how
dreadful it must be, to be exposed to the suffer-
ings they feel without one of the alleviations
which mitigate their affliction. How dreadful
it is to be without comfort, without necessaries,
without a home-without a country! While
the gay and prosperous would do well to recol-
lect, how suddenly and terribly those unhappy
* Mr. Bowdler's letter states, that about six shillings
week includes the expenses of each priest at Win
a
chester,
If you will permit me to press upon you such
high motives (and it were to be wished that in
every action we were to be influenced only by
the highest) perhaps no act of bounty to which
you may be called out, can ever come so imme
diately, and so literally under that solemn and
affecting description, which will be recorded in
the great day of account—I was a stranger, and
ye took me in.
SPEECH OF MR. DUPONT.
The following is an exact Translation from a Speech made in the National Convention at Paris;
on Friday, the 14th of December, 1792, in a debate on the subject of establishing Public Schools
for the education of Youth, by citizen Dupont, a member of considerable weight; and as the
doctrines contained in it were received with unanimous applause, except from two or three of
the clergy, it may be fairly considered as an exposition of the creed of that enlightened assem
bly. Translated from Le Moniteur, of Sunday, the 16th of December, 1792.
KA
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
303
WHAT! Thrones are overturned! Sceptres |
broken! Kings expire! And yet the altars of
GOD remain! (Here there is a murmur from
some members; and the abbe ICHON demands
that the person speaking may be called to order.)
Tyrants in outrage to nature, continue to burn
an impious incense on those altars! (Some mur-
murs arise, but they are lost in the applauses
from the majority of the assembly.) The thrones
that have been reversed, have left these altars
naked, unsupported, and tottering. A single
breath of enlightened reason will now be suffi-
cient to make them disappear; and if humanity
is under obligations to the French nation for
the first of these benefits, the fall of kings, can
it be doubted but that the French people now
sovereign, will be wise enough, in like manner,
to overthrow those altars and those idols to
which those kings have hitherto made them sub-
ject? Nature and Reason, these ought to be the
gods of men! These are my gods! (Here the
abbe AUDREIN cried out, 'there is no bearing
this ;' and rushed out of the assembly.-A great
laugh.) Admire nature-cultivate reason. And
you, legislators, if you desire that the French
people should be happy, make haste to propa-
gate these principles, and to teach them in your
primary schools, instead of those fanatical prin-
ciples which have hitherto been taught. The
tyranny of kings was confined to make their
people miserable in this life-but those other
tyrants, the priests, extend their dominion into
another, of which they have no other idea than
of eternal punishments; a doctrine which some
men have hitherto had the good nature to believe.
But the moment of the catastrophe is come-all
these prejudices must fall at the same time. We
must destroy them, or they will destroy us. For
myself, I honestly avow to the convention, I am
an atheist! (Here there is some noise and tu-
mult. But a great number of members cry out,
what is that to us-you are an honest man!)
But I defy a single individual amongst the
twenty-four millions of Frenchmen, to make
any well-grounded reproach. I doubt whether
the Christians or the Catholics, of which the last
speaker, and those of his opinion, have been
talking to us, can make the same challenge.
(Great applauses.) There is another considera.
tion-Paris has had great losses. It has been
deprived of the commerce of luxury; of that
factitious splendour which was found at courts,
and invited strangers hither. Well! We must
repair these losses. Let me then represent to
you the times, that are fast approaching, when
our philosophers, whose names are celebrated
throughout Europe, PETION, SYEYES, CONDORCET,
and others-surrounded in our Pantheon, as the
Greek Philosophers were at Athens, with a
crowd of disciples coming from all parts of Eu-
rope, walking like the peripatetics, and teaching
this man, the system of the universe, and de-
veloping the progress of all human knowledge;
that, perfectioning the social system, and show-
ing in our decree of the 17th of June, 1789, the
seeds of the insurrections of the 14th of July,
and the 10th of August, and of all those insur-
rections which are spreading with such rapidity
throughout Europe-so that these young stran-
gers, on their return to their respective coun-
tries, may spread the same lights, and may ope-
rate for the happiness of mankind, similar revo-
lutions throughout the world.
(Numberless applauses arose, almost through-
out the whole assembly, and in the galleries.)
REMARKS ON THE SPEECH OF MR. DUPONT,
ON THE SUBJECT OF RELIGION AND PUBLIC EDUCATION.
perance; so it is hoped that this piece of impi
ety may be placed in such a light before the
eyes of the Christian reader, that, in proportion
as his detestation is raised, his faith, instead of
being shaken, will be only so much the more
strengthened.
It is presumed that it may not be thought un- | dren, in order to increase their horror of intem
seasonable at this critical time to offer to the
public, and especially to the more religious
part of it, a few slight observations, occasioned
by the late famous speech of Mr. Dupont, which
exhibits the confession of faith of a considerable
member of the French national convention.
Though the speech itself has been pretty gene-
rally read, yet it was thought necessary to pre-
fix it to these remarks, lest such as have not al-
ready perused it, might, from an honest reluc-
tance to credit the existence of such principles,
dispute its authenticity, and accuse the remarks,
if unaccompanied by the speech, of a spirit of
invective, and unfair exaggeration. At the same
time it must be confessed that its impiety is so
monstrous, that many good men were of opinion
that it ought not to be made familiar to the
minds of Englishmen; for there are crimes
with which even the imagination should never
come in contact, and which it is almost safer
not to controvert than to detail.
But as an ancient nation intoxicated their
slaves, and then exposed them before their chil.
This celebrated speech, though delivered in
an assembly of politicians, is not on a question
of politics, but on one as superior to all political
considerations as the soul is to the body, as eter-
nity is to time. The object of this oration is not
to dethrone kings, but HIM by whom kings reign,
It does not excite the cry of indignation in the
orator that Louis the Sixteenth reigns, but that
the Lord God omnipotenth reigneth!
Nor is this the declaration of some obscure
and anonymous person, but it is an exposition
of the creed of a public leader. It is not a sen-
timent hinted in a journal, hazarded in a pam-
phlet, or thrown out at a disputing club; but iŝ
is the implied faith of the rulers of a great na-
tion.
Little notice would have been due to this fa-
=
304
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
ن
G
mous speech, if it conveyed the sentiments of
only one vain orator; but it should be observed,
that it was heard, received, applauded, with two
or three exceptions only-a fact, which you,
who have scarcely believed in the existence of
atheism, will hardly credit, and which, for the
honour of the eighteenth century, it is hoped
that our posterity will reject as totally incredible.
A love of liberty, generous in its principle,
inclines some well-meaning but mistaken men
still to favour the proceedings of the national
convention of France. They do not perceive
that the licentious wildness which has been ex-
cited in that country, is destructive of all true
happiness, and no more resembles liberty, than
the tumultuous joys of the drunkard resemble
the cheerfulness of a sober and well-regulated
mind.
To those who do not know of what strange
inconsistencies man is made up; who have not
considered how some persons having at first
been hastily and heedlessly drawn in as approv
ers, by a sort of natural progression, soon be-
come principals:-to those who have never ob-
served by what a variety of strange associations
in the mind, opinions that seem the most irre-
concilable meet at some unsuspected turning,
and come to be united in the same man ;-to all
such it may appear quite incredible, that well
meaning and even pious people should continue
to applaud the principles of a set of men who
have publicly made known their intention of
abolishing Christianity, as far as the demolition
of altars, priests, temples, and institutions, can
abolish it. As to the religion itself, this also
they may traduce and reject, but we know from
the comfortable promise of an authority still sa-
cred in this country at least, that the gates of
hell shall not prevail against it.
triumph in the warm hope, that one of the finest
countries in the world would soon be one of the
most free? Popery and despotism, though chain-
ed by the gentle influence of Louis the Six-
teenth, had actually slain their thousands. Little
was it then imagined,that Anarchy and Atheism,
the monsters who were about to succeed them,
would soon slay their ten thousands. If we can-
not regret the defeat of the two former tyrants,
what must they be who can triumph in the mis-
chiefs of the two latter? Who, I say, that had
a head to reason, or a heart to feel, did not glow
with the hope, that from the ruins of tyranny,
and the rubbish of popery, a beautiful and finely
framed edifice would in time have been con-
structed, and that ours would not have been the
only country in which the patriot's fair idea of
well-understood liberty, the politician's view of
a perfect constitution, together with the esta-
blishment of a pure and reasonable, a sublime
and rectified Christianity, might be realized?
But, alas! it frequently happens that the wise
and good are not the most adventurous in attack
ing the mischiefs which they are the first to
perceive and lament. With a timidity in some
respects virtuous, they fear attempting any thing
which may possibly aggravate the evils they de-
plore, or put to hazard the blessings they already
enjoy. They dread plucking up the wheat with
the tares, and are rather apt, with a spirit of
hopeless resignation,
'To bear the ills they have,
'Than fly to others that they know not of.'
While sober-minded and considerate men,
therefore, sat mourning over this complicated
mass of error, and waited till God, in his own
good time, should open the blind eyes; the vast
scheme of reformation was left to that set of rash
Let me not be misunderstood by those to and presumptuous adventurers who are gene-
whom these slight remarks are principally ad- rally watching how they may convert public
dressed; by that class of well-intentioned but grievances to their own personal account. It
ill-judging people, who favour at least, if they do was undertaken, not upon the broad basis of a
not adopt, the prevailing sentiments of the new wise and well-digested scheme, of which all the
republic. You are not here accused of being parts should contribute to the perfection of one
the wilful abettors of infidelity. God forbid consistent whole: it was carried on, not by those
'We are persuaded better things of you; and steady measures, founded on rational delibera-
things which accompany salvation.' But this tion, which are calculated to accomplish so im-
ignis fatuus of liberty and universal brother-portant an end; not with a temperance which
hood, which the French are madly pursuing,
with the insignia of freedom in one hand, and
the bloody bayonet in the other, has bewitched
your senses, is misleading your steps, and be-
traying you to ruin. You are gazing at a me
teor raised by the vapours of vanity, which thescing influence over the whole globe;-a vanity
wild and infatuated wanderers are pursuing to
their destruction; and though for a moment you
mistake it for a heaven born light, which leads
to the perfection of human freedom, you will,
should you join in the mad pursuit, soon disco-
ver that it will conduct you over dreary wilds
and sinking bogs, only to plunge you in deep
and inevitable destruction.
Much, very much is to be said in vindication
of your favouring in the first instance their po-
litical projects. The cause they took in hand
seemed to be the great cause of human kind.
Its very name insured its popularity. What
English heart did not exult at the demolition of
the Bastile? What lover of his species did not
indicated a sober love of law, or a sacred regard
for religion; but with the most extravagant lust
of power, with the most inordinate vanity which
perhaps ever instigated human measures—a lust
of power, which threatens to extend its desolat-
of the same destructive species with that which
stimulated the celebrated incendiary of Ephesus,
who being weary of his native obscurity and
insignificance, and preferring infamy to oblivion,
could contrive no other road to fame and immor.
tality, than that of setting fire to the exquisite
temple of Diana. He was remembered indeed,
as he desired to be, but it was only to be exe-
crated; while the seventh wonder of the world
lay prostrate through his crime.
But too often that daring boldness which ex.
cites admiration, is not energy, is not virtue, is
not genius. It is blindness in the judgment, is
vanity in the heart. Strong and unprecedented
measures, plans instantaneously conceived, and
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
305
'when I awake up after thy likeness I shall he
satisfied;' implying that our true life will begin
at our departure out of this world. The destruc-
tion or dissolution of the body will be the re-
vival, not the death, of the soul. It is to the
living the apostle says, 'awake thou that sleep-
est, and arise from the DEAD, and Christ shall
give thee light.'
It is surely to be charged to the inadequate
and wretched hands into which the work of
reformation fell, and not to the impossibility of
amending the civil and religious institutions of
France, that all has succeeded so ill. It can-
not be denied perhaps, that a reforming spirit
was wanted in that country; their government
was not more despotic, than their church was
superstitious and corrupt.
as rapidly executed, argue not ability but arro-
gance. A mind continually driven out in quest
of presumptuous novelties, is commonly a mind
void of real resources within, and incapable of
profiting from observation without. Sure princi-
ples cannot be ascertained without experiment,
and experiment requires more time than the san-
guine can spare, and more patience than the vain
possess. In the crude speculations of these rash
reformists, few obstructions occur. It is like
taking a journey, not on a road, but on a map.
Difficulties are unseen, or are kept in the back
ground. Impossibilities are smothered, or rather
they are not suffered to be born. Nothing is
felt but the ardour of enterprise, nothing is seen
but the certainy of success. Whereas if diffi-
culties grow out of sober experiment, the disap-
pointments attending them generate humility;
the failures inseparable from the best concerted
human undertakings, serve at once to multiply
resources, and to excite self-distrust; while
ideal projectors, and actual demolishers, are the
most conceited of mortals. It never occurs to
them that those defects of old institutions, on
which they frame their objections, are equally
palpable to all other men. It never occurs to
thein that frenzy can demolish faster than wis-ing, however just it might be, when applied to
dom can build, that pulling down the strongest France, to the case of England. For what can
edifice is far more easy than the reconstruction be more unreasonable, than to draw from dif
of the meanest, that the most ignorant labourer ferent and even opposite premises, the same
is competent to the one, while for the other the conclusion? Must a revolution be equally neces
skill of the architect, and the patient industry sary in the case of two sorts of government, and
of the workman must unite. That a sound two sorts of religion, which are the very reverse
judgment will profit by the errors of our pre-of each other?-opposite in their genius, unlike
decessors, as well as by their excellences. in their fundamental principles, and completely
That there is a retrospective wisdom to which | different in each of their component parts.
much of our prospective wisdom owes its birth ;
and that after all, neither the perfection pre-
tended, nor the pride which accompanies the
pretension, 'is made for man.'
It is the same over-ruling vanity which ope-
rates in their politics, and in their religion which
makes Kersaint* boast of carrying his destruc-
tive projects from the Tagus to the Brazils, and
from Mexico to the shores of the Ganges; which
makes him menace to outstrip the enterprise of
the most extravagant hero of romance, and al-
most undertake with the marvellous celerity of
the nimble-footed Puck,
4
To put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.'—
It is the same vanity, still the master-passion
in the bosom of a Frenchman, which leads Du-
pont and Manuel to undertake in their orations
to abolish the Sabbath, to exterminate the priest-
hood, to erect a pantheon for the world, to re-
store the peripatetic philosophy, and in short to
revive every thing of ancient Greece, except the
pure taste, the profound wisdom, the love of vir-
tue, the veneration of the laws, and that high
degree of reverence which even virtuous Pagans
profess for the Deity.
It is the same spirit of novelty, and the same
hostility to established opinions, which dictate
the preposterous and impious doctrine that death
is an eternal sleep. The prophets and apostles
assert the contrary. David expressly says,
* Sec his speech enumerating their intended projects.
VOL. I.
U
But though this is readily granted, and though
it may be unfair to blame those who in the first
outset of the French revolution, rejoiced even
on religious motives: yet it is astonishing, how
any pious person, even with all the blinding
power of prejudice, can think without horror of
the present state of France. It is no less won-
derful how any rational man could, even in the
beginning of the revolution, transfer that reason-
That despotism, priesteraft, intolerance, and
superstition are terrible evils, no candid Chris-
tian it is presuined will deny; but, blessed be
God, though these mischiefs are not yet entire.
ly banished from the face of the earth, they
have scarcely any existence in this happy coun.
try.
To guard against a real danger, and to cure
actual abuses, of which the existence has been
first plainly proved, by the application of a
suitable remedy, requires diligence as well as
courage; observation as well as genius; patience
and temperance as well as zeal and spirit. It
requires the union of that clear head and sound
heart which constitute the true patriot. But
to conjure up fancied evils; or even greatly to
aggravate real ones; and then to exhaust our
labour in combating them, is the characteristic
of a distempered imagination and an ill govern-
ed spirit.
Romantic crusades, the ordeal trial, drown-
ing of witches, the torture, and the inqui-
sition, have been justly reprobated as the foul-
est stains of the respective periods in which,
to the disgrace of human reason, they existed;
but would any inan be rationally employed,
who should now stand up gravely to declaim
against these as the predominating mischiefs
of the present century? Even the whimsical
knight of La Mancha himself, would not fight
wind-mills that were pulled down; yet I will
venture to say, that the above-nained evils are
at present little more chimerical than some of
those now so bitterly complained of among us
306
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
It is not as Dryden said, when one of his works
was unmercifully abused, that the piece has not
faults enough in it, but the critics have not had
the wit to fix upon the right ones.
It is allowed that, as a nation, we do not want
faults; but our political critics err in the objects
of their censure. They say little of those real
and pressing evils resulting from our own cor-
ruption, of that depravity which constitutes the
actual miseries of life; while they gloomily
speculate upon a thousand imaginary political
grievances, and fancy that the reformation of
our rulers and our legislatures is all that is
wanting to make us a happy people. Alas!
How small, of all that human hearts endure,
That part, which kings or laws can cause or cure.
The principles of just and equitable govern-
ment were, perhaps, never more fully establish-
ed, nor was public justice ever more exactly ad-
ministered. Pure and undefiled religion was
never laid more open to all, than at this day. I
wish I could say we were a religious people;
but this at least may be safely asserted, that the
great truths of religion were never better un-
derstood; that Christianity was never more com-
pletely stripped from all its incumbrances and
disguises, or more thoroughly purged from hu-
man infusions, and from whatever is debasing
in human institutions, than it is at this day in
this country.
|
policy shall suggest as wise and expedient to
be corrected.
If there are errors in the church, and it does
not perhaps require the sharp-sightedness of a
keen observer to discover that there are, there
is at least nothing like fierce intolerance, or
spiritual usurpation. A fiery zeal and unchari-
table bigotry might have furnished matter for a
well deserved ecclesiastical philipic in other
times; but thanks to the temper of the present
day, unless we conjure up a spirit of religious
chivalry, and sally forth in quest of imaginary
evils, we shall not apprehend any danger from
persecution or enthusiasm. If grievances there
are, they do not appear to be those which result
from polemic pride, and rigid bigotry, but are
of a kind far different.
of the Church, will avail but little to the en-
largement of Christ's kingdom, without a strict
spirit of personal watchfulness, habitual self-
denial, and laborious exertion.
If the warm sun of prosperity has unhappily
produced its too common effect, in relaxing the
vigour of religious exertion; if, in too many in-
stances, security has engendered sloth, and
affluence produced dissipation; let us implore
the Divine grace, that the present alarming
crisis may rouse the careless, and quicken the
supine; that our pastors may be convinced that
the Church has less to fear from external vio-
lence, than from internal decay; nay, that even
the violence of attack is often really beneficial,
by exciting that activity which enables us to
repel danger, and that increase of diligence is
the truest accession of strength. May they be
convinced that the love of power, with which
In vain we look around us to discover the their enemies perhaps unjustly accuse them, is
ravages of religious tyranny, or the triumphs of not more fatal than the love of pleasure; that no
priestcraft or superstition. Who attempts to stoutness of orthodoxy in opinion can atone for
impose any yoke upon our reason? Who seeks a too close assimilation with the manners of the
to put any blind on the eyes of the most illite- world; that heresy without, is less to be dread-
rate? Who fetters the judgment or enslaves the ed than indifference from within; that the most
conscience of the meanest of our Protestant regular clerical education, the most scrupulous
brethren? Nay, such is the power of pure Chris-attention to forms, and even the strictest con-
tianity, that genuine Christianity, which is ex-formity to the established discipline and opinions
hibited in our liturgy to enlighten the under-
standing, as well as to reform the heart, and
such are the advantages which the most abject
in this country possess for enjoying its privi-
leges, that the poorest peasant among us, if he
be as religious as multitudes of his station really
are, has clear ideas of God and his own soul,
purer notions of that true liberty wherewith
Christ has made him free, than the mere dis-
puter of this world, though he possess every
splendid advantage which education, wisdom,
and genius can bestow. I am not speaking
either of a perfect form of government, or of a per-
fect church establishment, because I am speak-
ing of institutions which are human; and the
very idea of their being human involves also
the idea of imperfection. But I am speaking
of the best constituted government, and the best
constituted national church, with which the
history of mankind is yet acquainted. Time,
that silent instructor, and experience, that great
rectifier of the judgment, will more and more
discover to us what is wanting to the perfection
of both. And if we may trust to the active
genius of Christian liberty, and to that liberal
and candid spirit which is the characteristic
of the age we live in, there is little doubt but
that a temperate and well regulated zeal will, at
a convenient season, correct whatsoever sound
Though it is not here intended to animadvert
on any political complaint which is not in some
sort connected with religion; yet it is presumed
it may not be thought quite foreign to the pre-
sent purpose to remark, that among the reign-
ing complaints against our civil administration,
the most plausible seems to be that excited by
the supposed danger of an invasion on the liberty
of the press.-Were this apprehension well
founded, we should indeed be threatened by one
of the most grievous misfortunes that can befall
a free country. The liberty of the press is not
only a most noble privilege itself, but the guar-
dian of all our other liberties and privileges, and,
notwithstanding the abuse which has lately
been made of this valuable possession, yet every
man of a sound unprejudiced mind is well
aware that true liberty of every kind is scarcely
inferior in importance to any object for which
human activity can contend. Nay, the very
abuse of a good, often makes us more sensible
of the value of the good itself. Fair and well-
proportioned freedom will ever retain all her
native beauty to a judicious eye, nor will the
genuine loveliness of her form be the less prized
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
307
for our having lately contemplated the distorted
features and false colouring of her caricature,
as presented to us by the daubing hand of Gallic
patriots.
When atheism
and Christianity as eccentric?
shall be considered as a proof of accomplished
breeding, and religion as the stamp of a vulgar
education? When the regular course of obedi-
ence to masters and tutors will consist in re-
nouncing the hope of everlasting happiness, and
in deriding the idea of future punishment?
When every man and every child, in conformity
with the principles professed in the convention,
shall presume to say with his tongue, what hither-
to even the fool has only dared to say in heart,
That there is no God.*
But highly as the freedom of the press ought
to be valued, would it really be so very heavy a
misfortune, if corrupt and inflaming publica
tions, calculated to destroy that virtue which
every good man is anxious to preserve, that
peace which every honest man is struggling to
secure, should, just at this alarming period, be
somewhat difficult to be obtained? Would it be
so very grievous a national calamity, if the
crooked progeny of treason and blasphemy
should find it a little inconvenient to venture
forth from their lurking holes, and range abroad
in open day? Is the cheapness of poison, or the
facility with which it may be obtained, to be
reckoned among the real advantages of medici-
nal repositories? And can the easiness of ac-
cess to seditious or atheistical writings, be seri-
ously numbered among the substantial blessings
of any country? Would France, at this day,
have had much solid cause of regret, if most of
the writings of Voltaire, Rousseau, and d'Alem-
bert (the prolific seed of their wide-spreading
tree) had found more difficulty in getting into
the world, or been less profusely circulated when
in it? And might not England at this moment My fellow Christians! This is not a strife of
have been just as happy in her ignorance, if the words; this is not a controversy about opinions
famous orations of citizen Dupont and citizen of comparatively small importance, such as you
Manuel, had been confined to their own enlight-have been accustomed at home to hear even good
ened and philosophical countries ?*
To return to these orations:We have too
often, in our own nation, seen and deplored the
mischiefs of irreligion, arising incidentally from
a neglected or an abused education. But what
mischiefs will not irreligion produce, when, in
the projected schools of France, as announced
to us by the two metaphysical legislators above
mentioned, impiety shall be taught by system?
When out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
the monstrous opinions, exhibited by Dupont
and Manuel, shall be perfected? When the
fruits of atheism dropping from their newly
planted tree of liberty, shall pollate the very
fountains of knowledge? When education being
poisoned in all her springs, the rising generation
shall be taught to look on atheism as decorous,
* Extraet from Mons. Manuel's Letter to the National
Convention, dated January 26, 1793.
'The priests of a republic are its magistrates, the law
its gospel. What mission can be more august than that
of the instructors of youth, who having themselves esca-
ped from the hereditary prejudice of all sects, point out
to the human race their inalienable rights, founded upon
that sublime wisdom which pervades all nature. Reli-
gious faith impressed on the mind of an infant seven
years old, will lead to perfect slavery: or dogmas at that
age are only arbitrary commands. Ah! what is belief
without examination, without conviction. It renders
men either melancholy or mad, &c.
·
Legislators! Virtue wants neither temples nor syna-
gogues. It is not from priests we learn to do good or
noble actions. No religion must be taught in schools
which are to be national ones. To prescribe one would
be to prefer it to all others.-There history must speak
of sects, as she speaks of other events. It would become
your wisdom, perhaps, to order that the pupils of the re-
public should not enter the temples before the age of
seventeen. Reason must be taken by surprise, &c.
Hardly were children born before they fell into the hands
of priests, who first blinded their eyes, and then deliver-
ed them over ta kings. Wherever kings cease to govern,
priests must cease to educate '
Christianity, which involves the whole duty
of man, divides that duty into two portions-the
love of God and the love of our neighbour. Now,
as these two principles have their being from
the same source, and derive their vitality from
the union; so impiety furnishes the direct con-
verse-That atheism which destroys all belief
in, and of course cuts off all love of, and com-
munion with God, disqualifies for the due per-
formance of the duties of civil and social life.
There is, in its way, the same consistency, agree-
ment and uniformity, between the principles
which constitute an infidel and a bad member
of society, as there is between giving glory to
God in the highest,' and exercising' peace and
good will to men.'
men dispute upon, when perhaps they would
have acted a more wise and amiable part had
they remained silent, sacrificing their mutual
differences on the altar of Christian charity:
But this bold renunciation of the first great fun-
damental article of faith, this daring rejection
of the Supreme Creator and Ruler of the world,
is laying the axe and striking with a vigorous
stroke at the root of all human happiness. It is
tearing up the very foundation of human hope,
and extirpating every true principle of human
excellence. It is annihilating the very exist-
ence of virtue, by annihilating its motives, its
sanctions, its obligations, its object, and its
end.
That atheism will be the favoured and the
popular tenet in France seems highly probable;
whilst in the wild contempt of all religion, which
has lately had the arroganee to call itself tolera-
tion, it is not improbable that christianity itself
may be tolerated in that country, as a sect not
persecuted perhaps, but derided. It is, how-
ever, far from clear, that this will be the case,
if the new doctrines should become generally
It is a remarkable circumstance, that though the
French are continually binding themselves by oaths,
they have not mentioned the name of God in any oath
which has been invented since the revolution. It may
also appear curious to the English readers, that though
in almost all the addresses of congratulation, which
were sent by the associated clubs from this country to
the National Convention, the success of the French arms
was in part ascribed to Divine providence, yet in none
of the answers was the least notice ever taken of this.
And to show how the same spirit spreads itself among
every description of men in France, their admiral La-
touche, after having described the dangers to which his
ship was exposed in a storm, says, 'we owe our exist
ence to the tutelary Genius which watches over the des-
tiny of the French republic, and the defenders of liberty
and equality.'
308
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
tion of liberty:* his moderation and humanity
facilitated their plans and increased their power,
which, with unparalleled ingratitude, they em-
ployed to degrade his person and character in
the eyes of mankind, by the blackest and most
detestable arts, and at length to terminate his
calamities by a crime which has excited the
grief and indignation of all Europe.
prevalent. Atheists are not without their bigot-,
ry; they too have their spirit of exclusion and
monopoly in a degree not inferior to the most
superstitious monks. And that very spirit of
And that very spirit of
intolerance which is now so much the object of
their invective, would probably be no less the
rule of their practice, if their will should ever
be backed by power. It is true that Voltaire
and the other great apostles of infidelity have On the trial and murder of that most unfortu-
employed all the acuteness of their wit to con- nate king, and on the inhuman proceedings
vince us that irreligion never persecutes. To which accompanied them, I shall purposely
prove this, every art of false citation, partial ex- avoid dwelling, for it is not the design of these
tract, suppressed evidence, and gross misrepre- remarks to excite the passions. I will only say,
sentation, has been put in practice. But if this that so monstrous has been the inversion of all
unsupported assertion were true, then Polycarp, order, law, humanity, justice, received opinion,
Ignatius, Justin, Cyprian, and Basil, did not good faith, and religion, that the conduct of his
suffer for the faith once delivered to the saints. bloody executioners seems to have exhibited the
Then the famous Christian apologists, most of most scrupulous conformity with the principles
them learned converts from the pagan philoso- announced in the speeches we have been con-
phy, idly employed their zeal to abate a clamour sidering. In this one instance we must not call
which did not exist, and to propitiate emperors the French an inconsequent people. Savage
who did not persecute. Then Tacitus, Trajan, brutality, rapine, treason and murder have been
Pliny, and Julian, those bitter enemies to Chris- the noxious fruit gathered from these thorns;
An over-
tianity, are suborned witnesses on her side. the baneful produce of these thistles.
Then ecclesiastical history is a series of false-turn of all morals has been the well-proportioned
hoods, and the book of martyrs a legend of ro- offspring of a subversion of all principle.
mance.*
That one extravagant mischief should produce
its opposite, is agreeable to the ordinary course
of human events. That to the credulity of a
dark and superstitious religion, a wanton con-
tempt of all decency, and an unbridled profane-
ness should succeed, that to a government abso-
lutely despotic, an utter abhorrence of all re-
straint and subordination should follow, though
it is deplorable, yet it is not strange. The hu-
man mind in flying from the extreme verge of
one error, seldom stops till she has reached the
opposite extremity. She generally passes by
with a lofty disdain the obvious truth which lies
directly in her road, and which is indeed com-
monly to be found in the midway, between the
error she is flying from, and the error she is
pursuing.
Is it a breach of Christian charity to conclude,
from a view of the present state of the French,
that since that deluded people have given up
GOD, GOD, by a righteous retribution, seems to
have renounced them for a time, and to have
given them over to their own heart's lust, to
work iniquity with greediness? If such is their
present career, what is likely to be their appoint-
ed end? How fearfully applicable to them seems
that awful denunciation against an ancient,
offending people- The Lord shall smite thee
with madness, and blindness, and astonishment
of heart.'
But, notwithstanding the consistency, in this
instance, between cause and consequence; so
new and surprising have been the turns in their
extraordinary projects, that to foretell what their
next enterprize would be from what their last
has been, has long baffled all calculation, has
long bid defiance to all conjecture. Analogy
from history, the study of past events, and an
investigation of present principles and passions;
judgment, memory, comparison, combination and
deduction, afford human sagacity but very slen-
der assistance in its endeavours to develope their
future plans. We have not even the data of
consistent wickedness on which to build rational
conclusions. Their crimes, though visibly con-
nected by uniform depravity, are yet so surpri-
singly diversified by interfering absurdities, as
to furnish no ground on which reasonable argu-
ment can be founded. Nay, such is their incre-
dible eccentricity, that it is hardly extravagant
to affirm, that improbability is become rather an
additional reason for expecting any given event
to take place.
But let us, in this yet happy country, learn at
least one great and important truth from the
errors of this distracted people. Their conduct
has always illustrated a position, which is not
the less sound for having been often controvert-
ed-That no degree of wit and learning, no pro-
gress in commerce, no advances in the know-
ledge of nature, or in the embellishments of art,
It is no part of the present design to enter in- can ever thoroughly tame that savage, the natu-
to a detail of their political conduct; but I can- ral human heart, without RELIGION.
The arts
not omit to remark, that the very man in their of social life may give sweetness to manners,
long list of kings who seemed best to have de- and grace to language, and induce, in soine de,
served their assumed application of most Chris-gree, a respect for justice, truth, and humanity;
tian, was also most favourable to their acquisi-
* It may be objected here, that this is not applicable
to the state of France; for that the Roman emperors
were not atheists or deists, but polytheists, with an esta-
blished religion, To this it may be answered, that mo-
dern infidels not only deny the ten pagan persecutions,
but accuse Christianity of being the only persecuting
religion; and affirm that only those who refuse to em-
brace it discover a spirit of toleration.
but attainments derived from such inferior causes
are no more than the semblance and the shadow
of the qualities derived from pure Christianity.
Varnish is an extraneous ornament, but true
* Of this the French themselves were so well persua·
ded, that the title of Restorateur de la liberte Francoise,
was solemnly given to Louis XVIth by the Constituent
Assembly.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE,
309
polish is a proof of the solidity of the body on
whose surface it is produced. It depends greatly
on the nature of the substance, is not superin-
duced by accidental causes, but in a good mea-
sure proceeds from internal soundness.
The poets of that classic country, whose style,
sentiments, manners, and religion, the French
so affectedly labour to imitate, have left keen
and biting satires on the Roman vices. Against
the late proceedings in France, no satirist need
employ his pen; that of the historian will be
quite sufficient. Truth will be the severest sa-
tire; fact will put fable out of countenance; and
the crimes which are usually held up to our ab-
horrence, and are rejected for their exaggera-
tion in works of invention, will be regarded as
flat and feeble by those who shall peruse the re-
cords of the tenth of August, of the second and
third of September, and of the twenty-first of
January.
If the same astonishing degeneracy in taste,
principle, and practice, should ever come to
flourish among us, Britain may still live to exult
in the desolation of her cities, and in the de-
struction of her finest monuments of art; she
may triumph in the peopling of the fortresses
of her rocks and her forests; may exult in be-
ing once more restored to that glorious state of
liberty and equality, when all subsisted by ra-
pine and the chase; when all, O enviable privi-
lege! were equally savage, equally indigent, and
equally naked; her sons may extol it as the re-
storation of reason, the triumph of nature, and
the consummation of liberty, that they are again
brought to feed on acorns, instead of bread!
Groves of consecrated misletoe may happily suc-
ceed to useless cornfields; and Thor and Woden
may hope once more to be invested with all
their bloody honours
when light and order shall spring from the pre
sent darkness and confusion, and the reign of
chaos shall be no more.
May I be permitted a short digression on the
subject of the conduct of Great Britain to these
exiles? It shall only be to remark, that all the
boasted conquests of our Edwards and our Hen-
rys over the French nation, do not confer such
substantial glory on our own country, as she de-
rives from having received, protected, and sup-
ported among innumerable multitudes of other
sufferers, at a time and under circumstances so
peculiarly disadvantageous to herself, three thou-
sand priests, of a nation habitually her enemy,
and of a religion intolerant and hostile to her
own. This is the solid triumph of true Chris-
tianity; and it is worth remarking, that the
deeds which poets and historians celebrate as
rare and splendid actions; which they record
as sublime instances of greatness of soul, in the
heroes of the pagan world, are but the ordinary
and habitual virtues which occur in the common
course of action among Christians; quietly per-
forming without effort or exertion, and with no
view to renown or reward; but resulting natu-
rally and consequently from the religion to
which they belong.
So predominating is the power of an example
we have once admired, and set up as a standard
of imitation, and so fascinating has been the
ascendency of the convention over the minds of
those whose approbation of French politics com.
menced in the earlier periods of the revolution,
that it extends to the most trivial circumstances.
I cannot forbear to notice this in an instance
which, though inconsiderable in itself, yet ceases
to be so when we view it in the light of a pre-
vailing symptom of the reigning disease.
While the fantastic phraseology of the new
Let not any serious reader feel indignation, republic is such, as to be almost as disgusting to
as if pains were ungenerously taken to involve sound taste as their doctrines are to sound mo-
their religious with their political opinions. Farrals, it is curious to observe how deeply the ad-
be it from me to wound, unnecessarily, the feel-
ings of a people, many of whom are truly esti-
mable: but it is much to be suspected, that cer-
tain opinions in politics have a tendency to lead
to certain opinions in religion. Where so much
is at stake, they will do well to keep their con-
sciences tender, in order to which they should
try to keep their discernment acute. They will
do well to observe, that the same restless spirit
of innovation is busily operating under various,
though seemingly unconnected forms; to ob-
serve, that the same impatience of restraint, the
same contempt of order, peace, and subordina-
tion, which makes men bad citizens, makes them
bad Christians; and that to this secret and al-
most infallible connexion between religious and
political sentiment, does France owe her present
unparalleled anarchy and impiety.
There are doubtless in that unhappy country
multitudes of virtuous and reasonable men, who
rather silently acquiesce in the authority of
their present turbulent government, than em-
brace its principles or promote its projects from
the sober conviction of their own judgment.
These, together with those conscientious exiles
whom this nation so honourably protects, may
yet live to rejoice in the restoration of true li-
berty and solid peace to their native country,
I
dresses, which have been sent to it from the
clubs* in this country, have been infected with
it, as far at least as phrases and terms are ob.
jects of imitation. In the more leading points
it is but justice to the French convention to con-
fess, that they are hitherto without rivals and
without imitators; for who can aspire to emu-
late that compound of anarchy and atheism
which in their debates is mixed up with the pe-
dantry of a school-boy, the jargon of a cabal,
and the vulgarity and ill-breeding of a mob?
One instance of the prevailing cant may suffice,
where a hundred might be adduced, and it is
not the most exceptionable. To demolish every
existing law and establishment; to destroy the
fortunes and ruin the principles of every coun-
try into which they are carrying their destruc
tive arms and their frantic doctrines; to untie
or cut asunder every bond which holds society
together; to impose their own arbitrary shac-
kles where they succeed, and to demolish every
thing where they fail. This desolating system,
by a most unaccountable perversion of language,
they are pleased to call by the endearing name
of fraternization; and fraternization is one of
the favourite terms which their admirers in this
country have adopted. Little would a simple
* See the collection of addresses from England
310
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
stranger, uninitiated in this new and surprising |
dialect, uninstructed by the political lexicogra-
phers of modern France, imagine that the peace-
ful terms of fellow-citizen and of brother, the
winning offer of freedom and happiness, and the
warm embrace of fraternity, were only watch-
words by which they, in effect,
Cry havoc,
And let slip the dogs of war.
.
God grant that those who go forth to fight
our battles, instead of being intimidated by the
number of their enemies, may bear in mind,
that there is no restraint with God to save by
many or by few.' And let the meanest among
us who reinains at home remember also, that
even he may contribute to the internal safety
of the country, by the integrity of his private
life, and to the success of her defenders, by fol
lowing them with his fervent prayers. And in
what war can the sincere Christian ever have
stronger inducements and more reasonable en-
couragement to pray for the success of his coun,
try, than in this? Without entering far into any
In numberless other instances, the fashiona-
ble language of France at this day would be as
unintelligible to the correct writers of the age
of Louis the XIV. as their fashionable notions
of liberty would be irreconcilable with those of
the true revolution patriots of his great contem-political principles, the discussion of which
porary and victorious rival William the Third.
Such is indeed their puerile rage for novelty
in the invention of new words, and the perver-
sion of their taste in the use of old ones, that the
celebrated Vossius, whom Christiana of Sweden |
oddly complimented by saying, that he was so
learned as not only to know whence all words
came, but whither they were going, would, were
he admitted to the honour of a sitting, be obliged
to confess, that he was equally puzzled to tell
the one, as to foretel the other.
would be in a great measure foreign to the de-
sign of this little tract, it may be remarked, that
the unchristian principle of revenge is not our
motive to this war; conquest is not our object;
nor have we had recourse to hostility in order
to effect a change in the internal government
of France.* The present war is undoubtedly
undertaken entirely on defensive principles. It
is in defence of our king, our constitution, our
religion, our laws, and consequently our liberty,
in the sound, sober, and rational sense of that
term. It is to defend ourselves from the savage
violence of a crusade, made against all religion,
as well as all government. If ever therefore a
war was undertaken on the ground of self-de-
fence and necessity-if ever men night be libe-
rally said to fight pro ARIS et Focis, this seems
to be the occasion.
The ambition of conquerors has been the
source of great and extensive evils: religious
fanaticism, of still greater. But little as I am
disposed to become the apologist (of either the
one principle or the other, there is no extrava
gance in asserting, that they have seemed inca-
pable of producing, even in ages, that extent of
mischief, that variety of ruin, that comprehen-
sive desolation, which philosophy, falsely so call-
ed, has produced in three years.
If it shall please the Almighty in his anger to
let loose this infatuated people, as a scourge for
the iniquities of the human race; if they are de-
legated by infinite justice to act as storm and
tempest fulfilling his word,' if they are commis-
sioned to perform the errand of the destroying
lightning or the avenging thunderbolt, let us
try at least to extract personal benefit from a
national calamity; let every one of us, high and
low, rich and poor, enter upon this serious and
humbling inquiry, how much his own individual
offences have contributed to that awful aggre-
gate of public guilt, which has required such a
Visitation. Let us carefully examine in what
proportion we have separately added to that
common stock of abounding iniquity, the de-
scription of which formed the character of an
ancient nation, and is so peculiarly applicable
to our own-Pride, fulness of bread, and abun-life! The pestilence of irreligion which you de-
dance of idleness. Let every one of us humbly test, will insinuate itself imperceptibly with
inquire, in the self-suspecting language of the those manners, phrases, and principles which
disciples of their Divine Master-Lord, is it I? you admire and adopt. It is the humble wisdom
Let us learn to fear the fleets and armies of the of a Christian, to shrink from the most distant
enemy, much less than those iniquities at home, approaches of sin: to abstain from the very ap-
which this alarming dispensation may be in-pearance of evil. If we would fly from the dead-
tended to chastise.
The war which the French had declared
against us, is of a kind altogether unexampled
in every respect; insomuch that human wisdom
is baffled when it would pretend to conjecture
what may be the event,
be the event, But this at least we
may safely say, that it is not so much the force
of French bayonets, as the contamination of
French principles, that ought to excite our ap-
prehensions. We trust, that through the bless-
ing of God we shall be defended from their open
hostilities, by the temperate wisdom of our ru-
lers, and the bravery of our fleets and armies;
but the domestic danger arising from licentious
and irreligious principles among ourselves, can
only be guarded against by the personal care
and vigilance of every one of us who values re-
ligion and the good order of society in this
World and an eternity of happiness in the next.
Christians! it is not a small thing-it is your
ly contagion of atheism, let us fly from those
seemingly remote but not very indirect paths
which lead to it. Let France choose this day
whom she will serve; but as for us and our
houses, we will serve the Lord.
And, O gracious and long-suffering God! be-
fore that awful period arrives, which shall ex-
hibit the dreadful effects of such an education
as the French nation are instituting; before a
race of men can be trained up, not only without
the knowledge of Thee, but in the contempt of
Thy most holy law, do Thou, in great mercy
change the heart of this people as the heart of
one man. Give them not finally over to their
own corrupt imaginations, to their own heart's
lusts. But after having made them a fearful
* See the report of Mr. Pitt's speech in the House of
Commons, on February 12, 1793, published by Woodfall,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
311
example to all the nations of the earth, what a | abused; so that they may happily find, while
people can do, who have cast off the fear of the discovery can be attended with hope and
Thee, do Thou graciously bring them back to a consolation, that doubtless there is a reward for
sense of that law which they have violated, and the righteous ; verily, there is a God who judgeth
to a participation of that mercy which they have the earth.
STRICTURES
ON THE MODERN SYSTEM OF FEMALE EDUCATION
WITH A VIEW OF THE PRINCIPLES AND CONDUCT PREVALENT AMONG WOMEN OF RANK AND FORTUNE,
May you so raise your character that you may help to make the next age a better thing, and
leave posterity in your debt, for the advantage it shall receive by your example.-Lord Halifax.
Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
Of Paradise that has survived the Fall!
Thou art not known where PLEASURE is ador'd,
That reeling goddess with the zoneless waist.
Forsaking thee, what shipwreck have we made
Of honour, dignity, and fair renown!—Cowper.
INTRODUCTION.
It is a singular injustice which is often exercised towards women, first to give them a very
defective education, and then to expect from them the most undeviating purity of conduct-to
train them in such a manner as shall lay them open to the most dangerous faults, and then to
censure them for not proving faultless. Is it not unreasonable and unjust to express disappoint-
ment if our daughters should, in their subsequent lives, turn out precisely that very kind of
character for which it would be evident to an unprejudiced by-stander that the whole scope and
tenor of their instruction had been systematically preparing them?
Some reflections on the present erroneous system are here with great deference submitted to
public consideration. The author is apprehensive that she shall be accused of betraying the
interests of her sex by laying open their defects: but surely an earnest wish to turn their attention
to objects calculated to promote their true dignity, is not the office of an enemy. So to expose
the weakness of the land as to suggest the necessity of internal improvement, and to point out
the means of effectual defence, is not treachery, but patriotism.
Again, it may be objected to this little work, that many errors are here ascribed to women
which by no means belongs to them exclusively, and that it seems to confine to the sex those faults
which are common to the species: but this is in some measure unavoidable. In speaking on the
qualities of one sex, the moralist is somewhat in the situation of the geographer, who is treating
on the nature of one country: the air, soil, and produce of the land which he is describing, can-
not fail in many essential points to resemble those of other countries under the same parallel; yet
it is his business to descant on the one without adverting to the other; and though in drawing the
map he may happen to introduce some of the neighbouring coast, yet his principal attention must
be confined to that country which he proposes to describe, without taking into account the resem-
bling circumstances of the adjacent shores.
It may be also objected that the opinion here suggested on the state of manners among the
higher classes of our countrywomen, may seem to controvert the just encomiums of modern
travellers, who generally concur in ascribing a decided superiority to the ladies of this country
over those of every other. But such is, in general, the state of foreign manners, that the com-
parative praise is almost an injury to English women. To be flattered for excelling those whose
standard of excellence is very low, is but a degrading kind of commendation; for the value of all
praise derived from superiority, depends on the worth of the competitor. The character of
British ladies, with all the unparalleled advantages they possess, must never be determined by
comparison with the women of other nations, but by comparing them with what they themselves
might be if all their talents and unrivalled opportunities were turned to the best account.
Again, it may be said, that the author is less disposed to expatiate on excellence than error: but
the office of the historian of human manners is delineation rather than panegyric. Were the end
in view eulogium and not improvement, eulogium would have been far more gratifying, nor
would just objects for praise have been difficult to find. Even in her own limited sphere of ob-
servation, the author is acquainted with much excellence in the class of which she treats-with
women who, possessing learning which would be thought extensive in the other sex, set an ex-
ample of deep humility to their own-women who, distinguished for wit and genius, are eminent
312
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
for domestic qualities-who, excelling in the fine arts, have carefully enriched their understand-
ings-who, enjoying great influence, devote it to the glory of God-who, possessing elevated rank,
think their noblest style and title is that of a Christian.
That there is also much worth which is little known, she is persuaded; for it is the modest
nature of goodness to exert itself quietly, while a few characters of the opposite cast seem, by the
rumour of their exploits, to fill the world; and by their noise to multiply their numbers. It often
happens that a very small party of people, by occupying the foreground, by seizing the public
attention and monopolizing the public talk, contrive to appear to be the great body: a few active
spirits, provided their activity take the wrong turn, and support the wrong cause, seem to fill the
scene; and a few disturbers of order, who have the talent of thus exciting a false idea of their
multitudes by their mischiefs, actually gain strength, and swell their numbers, by this fallacious
arithmetic.
But the present work is no more intended for a panegyric on those purer characters who seek
not human praise because they act from a higher motive, than for a satire on the avowedly
licentious, who, urged by the impulse of the moment, resist no inclination; and led away by the
love of fashion, dislike no censure, so it may serve to rescue them from neglect or oblivion.
There are, however, multitudes of the young and the well disposed, who have as yet taken no
decided part, who are just launching on the ocean of life, just about to lose their own right con-
victions, virtually preparing to counteract their better propensities, and unreluctantly yielding
themselves to be carried down the tide of popular practices: sanguine, thoughtless, and confident
of safety. To these the author would gently hint, that when once embarked, it will be no longer
easy to say to their passions, or even to their principles, 'Thus far shall y go, and no further.'
Their struggles will grow fainter, their resistance will become feebler, till orne down by the con-
fluence of example, temptation, appetite, and habit, resistance and opposition will soon be the only
things of which thy will learn to be ashamed.
Should any reader revolt at what is conceived to be unwarranted strict: ess in this little book,
let it not be thrown by in disgust before the following short consideration be weighed.—If in this
christian country we are actually beginning to regard the solemn office of Baptism as merely
furnishing an article to the parish register-if we are learning from our indefatigable teachers,
to consider this Christian rite as a legal ceremony retained for the sole purpose of recording the
age of our children;-then, indeed, the prevaling system of education and manners of which
these pages presume to animadvert may be adopted with propriety, and persisted in with safety,
without entailing on our children or on ourselves the peril of broken promises or the guilt of vio-
lated vows-But, if the obligation which christian Baptism imposes be really binding-if the or-
dinance have, indeed, a meaning beyond a mere secular transaction, beyond a record of names
and dates-if it be an institution by which the child is solemnly devoted to God as his Father, to
Jesus Christ as his Saviour, and to the Holy Spirit as his sanctifier; if there be no definite period
assigned when the obligation of fulfilling the duties it enjoins shall be superseded-if, having
once dedicated our offspring to their Creator, we no longer dare to mock Him by bringing them up
in ignorance of His will and neglect of His laws-if, after having enlisted them under the banners
of Christ, to fight manfully against the three great enemies of mankind, we are no longer at liberty
to let them lay down their arms; much less to lead them to act as if they were in alliance, instead
of hostility with these enemies-if, after having promised that they shall renounce the vanities
of the world, we are not allowed to invalidate the engagement-if, after such a covenant we
should tremble to make these renounced vanities, the supreme object of our own pursuit or of
their instruction-if all this be really so, then the Strictures on Modern Education, and on the
Habits of Polished Life, will not be found so repugnant to truth, and reason, and common sense,
as may on a first view be supposed.
But if on candidly summing up the evidence, the design and scope of the author be fairly
judged, not by the customs or opinions of the worldly (for every English subject has a right to
object to a suspected or prejudiced jury) but by an appeal to that divine law which is the only in-
fallible rule of judgment; if on such an appeal her views and principles shall be found censurable
for their rigour, absurd in their requisitions, or preposterous in their restrictions, she will have
no right to complain of such a verdict, because she will then stand condemned by that court to
whose decision she implicitly submits.
Let it not be suspected that the author arrogantly conceives herself to be exempt from that
natural corruption of the heart which it is one chief object of this slight work to exhibit; that
she superciliously erects herself into the implacable censor of her sex and of the world, as if from
the critic's chair she were coldly pointing out the faults and errors of another order of beings, in
whose welfare she had not that lively interest which can only flow from the tender and intimate
participation of fellow-feeling.
With a deep self-abasement, arising from a strong conviction of being indeed a partaker in the
same corrupt nature; together with a full persuasion of the many and great defects of these
pages, and a sincere consciousness of her inability to do justice to a subject which, hewever, a
sense of duty impelled her to undertake, she commits herself to the candour of that public, which
has so frequently, in her instance, accepted a right intention as a substitute for a powerful per-
formance.
BATH, March 14, 1799.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
313
STRICTURES
ON THE MODERN SYSTEM OF FEMALE EDUCATION.
CHAP. I.
In this moment of alarm and peril, I would
should stir up every latent principle in their
call on them with a warning voice,' which
minds, and kindle every slumbering energy in
their hearts: I would call on them to come for-
ward, and contribute their full and fair propor-
tion towards the saving of their country. But I
would call on them to come forward, without
departing from the refinement of their character,
without derogating from the dignity of their
rank, without blemishing the delicacy of their
sex; I would call them to the best and most ap-
propriate exertion of their power, to raise the
depressed tone of public morals, and to awaken
the drowsy spirit of religious principle. They
know too well how arbitrarily they give the law
to manners, and with how despotic a sway they
Address to women of rank and fortune, on the
effects of their influence on society.—Sugges-
tions for the exertion of it in various instances.
AMONG the talents for the application of which
women of the higher class will be peculiarly
accountable, there is one, the importance of
which they can scarcely rate too highly. This
talent is influence. We read of the greatest
orator of antiquity, that the wisest plans which
it had cost him years to frame, a woman could
overturn in a single day; and when we consider
the variety of mischiefs which an ill-directed
influence has been known to produce, we are led
to reflect with the most sanguine hope on the
beneficial effects to be expected from the same
powerful force when exerted in its true direc-fix the standard of fashion. But this is not
tion.
this influence, will depend, in no low degree,
the well-being of those states, and the virtue and
happiness, nay perhaps the very existence, of
that society.
enough; this is a low mark, a prize not worthy
The general state of civilized society depends, of their high and holy calling. For, on the use
more than those are aware who are not accus- which women of the superior class may now be
tomed to scrutinize into the springs of human disposed to make of that power delegated to
action, on the prevailing sentiments and habits them by the courtesy of custom, by the honest
of women, and on the nature and degree of the gallantry of the heart, by the imperious control
estimation in which they are held. Even those of virtuous affections, by the habits of civilized
who admit the power of female elegance on the states, by the usages of polished society; on the
manners of men, do not always attend to the in-use, I say, which they shall hereafter make of
fluence of female principles on their character.
In the former case, indeed, women are apt to be
sufficiently conscious of their power, and not
backward in turning it to account. But there
are nobler objects to be effected by the exertion At this period when our country can only hope
of their powers, and unfortunately, ladies, who to stand by opposing a bold and noble unanimity
are often unreasonably confident where they to the most tremendous confederacies against
ought to be diffident, are sometimes capriciously religion, and order, and governments, which the
diffident just when they ought to feel where world ever saw, what an accession would it
their true importance lies; and feeling to exert bring to the public strength, could we prevail on
it. To use their boasted power over mankind beauty, and rank, and talents, and virtue, con-
to no higher purpose than the gratification of federating their several powers, to exert them-
vanity or the indulgence of pleasure, is the de-selves with a patriotism at once firin and femi-
grading triumph of those fair victims to luxury, nine, for the general good! I am not sounding
caprice, and despotism, whom the laws and the an alarm to female warriors, or exciting female
religion of the voluptuous prophet of Arabia ex-politicians: I hardly know which of the two is
clude from light, and liberty, and knowledge:
and it is humbling to reflect, that in those coun-
tries in which fondness for the mere persons of
women is carried to the highest excess, they are
slaves; and that their moral and intellectual
degradation increases in direct proportion to
the adoration which is paid to mere external
charms.
the most disgusting and unnatural character.
Propriety is to a woman what the great Roman
critic says action is to an orator; it is the first,
the second, the third requisite. A woman may
be knowing, active, witty and amusing; but with-
out propriety she cannot be amiable. Propriety
is the centre in which all the lines of duty and
of agreeableness meet. It is to character what
But I turn to the bright reverse of this morti- proportion is to figure, and grace to attitude. It
fying scene; to a country where our sex enjoys does not depend on any one perfection, but it is
the blessings of liberal instruction, of reasonable the result of general excellence. It shows itself
laws, of a pure religion, and all the endearing by a regular, orderly, undeviating course; and
pleasures of an equal, social, virtuous, and de- never starts from its sober orbit into any splen-
lightful intercourse. I turn, with an carnest did eccentricities; for it would be ashamed of
hope, that women thus richly endowed with the such praise as it might extort by any deviations
bounties of Providence, will not content them- from its proper path. It renounces all commen-
selves with polishing when they are able to re-dation but what is characteristic; and I would
form; with entertaining when they may awaken;
and with captivating for a day, when they may
bring into action powers of which the effects
may be coinmensurate with eternity.
VOL. I.
make it the criterion of true taste, right princi-
ple, and genuine feeling, in a woman, whether
she would be less touched with all the flattery
of romantic and exaggerated panegyric than
314
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
with that beautiful picture of correct and elegant | effects which we actually see produced, through
propriety which Milton draws of our first mo-
ther, when he delineates
'Those thousand decencies which daily flow
From all her words and actions.'
Even the influence of religion is to be exer-
cised with discretion. A female Polemic wan-
ders nearly as far from the limits prescribed
to her sex, as a female Machiavel or warlike
Thalestris. Fierceness has made almost as few
converts as the sword, and both are peculiarly
ungraceful in a female. Even religious violence
has human tempers of its own to indulge, and
is gratifying itself when it would be thought to
be serving God. Let not the bigot place her
natural passions to the account of Christianity,
or imagine she is pious when she is only pas-
sionate. Let her bear in mind that a Christian
doctrine is always to be defended with a Chris-
tian spirit, and not make herself amends by the
stoutness of her orthodoxy for the badness of
her temper. Many, because they defend a reli-
gious opinion with pertinacity, seem to fancy
that they thereby acquire a kind of right to
withhold the meekness and obedience which
should be necessarily involved in the principle.
But the character of a consistent Christian is
as carefully to be maintained as that of a fiery
disputant is to be avoided; and she who is afraid
to avow her principles, or ashamed to defend
them, has little claim to that honourable title.
A profligate who laughs at the most sacred in
stitutions and keeps out of the way of every
thing which comes under the appearance of for-
mal instruction, may be disconcerted by the
modest, but spirited rebuke of a delicate woman,
whose life adorns the doctrines which her con-
versation defends: but she who administers re-
proof with ill-breeding, defeats the effect of her
remedy. On the other hand, there is a dishonest
way of labouring to conciliate the favour of a
whole company, though of characters and prin-
ciples irreconcilably opposite. The words may
be so guarded as not to shock the believer, while
the eye and voice may be so accommodated, as
not to discourage the infidel. She who, with a
half-earnestness trims between the truth and the
fashion; who while she thinks it creditable to
defend the cause of religion, yet does it in a
faint tone, a studied ambiguity of phrase, and a
certain expression in her countenance, which
proves that she is not displeased with what she
affects to censure, or that she is afraid to lose
her reputation for wit, in proportion as she ad-
vances her credit for piety, injures the cause
more than he who attacked it, for she proves
either that she does not believe what she pro-
fesses, or that she does not reverence what fear
compels her to believe. But this is not all: she
is called on, not barely to repress impiety, but
to excite, to encourage, and to cherish every
tendency to serious religion.
Some of the occasions of contributing to the
general good which are daily presenting them-
selves to ladies are almost too minute to be
pointed out. Yet of the good which right mind-
ed women, anxiously watching these minute oc-
casions, and adroitly seizing them, might ac-
complish we may form some idea by the ill
|
the mere levity, carelessness, and inattention
(to say no worse) of some of those ladies who
are looked up to as standards in the fashionable
world.
I am persuaded if many a woman of fashion,
who is now disseminating unintended mischief,
under the dangerous notion that there is no
harm in any thing short of positive vice, and
under the false colours of that indolent humility,
'what good can I do?' could be brought to see in
its collected force the annual aggregate of the
random evil she is daily doing, by constantly
throwing a little casual weight into the wrong
scale, by a mere inconsiderate and unguarded
chat, she would start from her self-complacent
dream. If she could conceive how much she
may be diminishing the good impressions of
young men; and if she could imagine how little
amiable levity or irreligion makes her appear in
the eyes of those who are older and abler (how-
ever loose their own principles may be) she
would correct herself in the first instance, from
pure good nature; and in the second, from
worldly prudence and mere self-love.-But on
how much higher principles would she restrain
herself, if she habitually took into account the
important doctrine of consequences: and if she
reflected that the lesser but more habitual cor-
ruptions make up by their number, what they
may seem to come short of by their weight:
then perhaps she would find, that among the
higher class of women, inconsideration is adding
more to the daily quantity of evil than almost all
other causes put together.
:
There is an instrument of inconceivable force,
when it is employed against the interest of
Christianity: it is not reasoning, for that may
be answered; it is not learning, for luckily the
infidel is not seldom ignorant; it is not invec-
tive, for we leave so coarse an engine to the
hands of the vulgar; it is not evidence, for hap-
pily we have that all on our side it is RIDICULE,
the most deadly weapon in the whole arsenal of
impiety, and which becomes an almost unerring
shaft when directed by a fair and fashionable
hand. No maxim has been more readily adopt-
ed, or is more intrinsically false, than that which
the fascinating eloquence of a noble sceptic of
the last age contrived to render so popular, that
'ridicule is the test of truth.'* It is no test of
truth itself; but of their firmness who assert
the cause of truth, it is indeed a severe test.
This light, keen, missile weapon, the irresolute,
unconfirmed Christian will find it harder to
withstand, than the whole heavy artillery of in-
fidelity united.
A young man of the better sort, has perhaps
just entered upon the world, with a certain share
of good dispositions and right feelings; neither
ignorant of the evidences, nor destitute of the
principles of Christianity: without parting with
his respect for religion, he sets out with the too
natural wish of making himself a reputation
and of standing well with the fashionable part
of the female world. He preserves for a time a
horror of vice, which makes it not difficult for
him to resist the grosser corruptions of society;
he can as yet repel profaneness; nay he can
* Lord Shaftesbury.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
315
withstand the banter of a club. He has sense
enough to see through the miserable fallacies |
of the new philosophy, and spirit enough to ex-
pose its malignity. So far he does well, and
you are ready to congratulate him on his secu
rity. You are mistaken: the principles of the
ardent, and hitherto promising adventurer, are
shaken, just in that very society where, while
he was looking for pleasure, he doubted not of
safety. In the company of certain women of
good fashion and no ill fame, he makes ship-
wreck of his religion. He sees them treat with
levity or derision subjects which he has been |
used to hear named with respect. He could
confute an argument, he could unravel a so-
phistry; but he cannot stand a laugh. A sneer,
not at the truth of religion, for that perhaps is
by none of the party disbelieved, but at its
gravity, its unseasonableness, its dulness, puts
all his resolution to flight. He feels his mis.
take, and struggles to recover his credit; in or-
der to which he adopts the gay affectations
of trying to seem worse than he really is; he
goes on to say things which he does not believe,
and to deny things which he does believe; and
all to efface the first impression, and to recover
a reputation which he has committed to their
hands, on whose report he knows he shall stand
or fall, in those circles in which he is ambitious
to shine.
in their hearts and lives had taken place: their
principles became reformed, but their imagina-
tions were indelibly soiled. They could desist
from sins which the strictness of Christianity
would not allow them to commit, but they could
not dismiss from their minds images which her
purity forbade them to entertain.
There was a time when a variety of epithets
were thought necessary to express various kinds
of excellence, and when the different qualities
of the mind were distinguished by appropriate
and discriminating terms: when the words
venerable, learned, sagacious, profound, acute,
pious, worthy, ingenious, valuable, elegant,
agreeable, wise, or witty, were used as specific
marks of distinct characters. But the legisla-
tors of fashion have of late years thought pro-
per to comprise all merit in one established
epithet; an epithet which, it may be confessed,
is a very desirable one as far as it goes. This
term is exclusively and indiscriminately applied
whenever commendation is intended. The word
pleasant now serves to combine and express all
moral and intellectual excellence. Every in-
dividual, from the gravest professors, of the
gravest prófessions, down to the trifler who is
of no profession at all, must earn the epithet of
pleasant, or must be contented to be nothing;
and must be consigned over to ridicule, under
the vulgar and inexpressive cant word of a bore.
This is the mortifying designation of many a
respectable man, who, though of much worth
and much ability, cannot perhaps clearly make
out his letters patent to the title of pleasant.
For according to this modern classification there
is no intermediate state, but all are comprised
within the ample bounds of one or other of
these two comprehensive terms.
That cold compound of irony, irreligion,
selfishness, and sneer, which make up what the
French (from whom we borrow the thing as
well as the word) so well express by the term
persiflage, has of late years made an incredible
progress in blasting the opening buds of piety
in young persons of fashion. A cold pleasantry,
a temporary cant word, the jargon of the day
(for the 'great vulgar' have their jargon) blights We ought to be more on our guard against
the first promise of seriousness. The ladies of this spirit of ridicule, because whatever may be
ton have certain watch-words, which may be the character of the present day, its faults do
detected as indications of this spirit. The not spring from the redundancies of great
clergy are spoken of under the contemptuous qualities, or the overflowing of extravagant
appellation of The Parsons.
of The Parsons. Some ludicrous | virtues. It is well if more correct views of life,
association is infallibly combined with the very a more regular administration of laws, and a
idea of religion. If a warm hearted youth has more settled state of society, have helped to re-
ventured to name with enthusiasm some emi-strain the excesses of the heroic ages, when
nently pious character, his glowing ardour is love and war were considered as the great and
extinguished with a laugh: and a drawling de-sole business of human life. Yet, if that period
claration, that the person in question is really a
mighty harmless good creature, is uttered in a
tone which leads the youth secretly to vow, that
whatever else he may be, he will never be a
good harmless creature.
was marked by a romantic extravagance, and
the present is distinguished by an indolent sel-
fishness, our superiority is not so triumphantly
decisive, as, in the vanity of our hearts we may
be ready to imagine.
Nor is ridicule more dangerous to true piety I do not wish to bring back the frantic reign
than to true taste. An age which values itself of chivalry, nor to reinstate women in that fan-
on parody, burlesque, irony, and caricature, tastic empire in which they then sat enthroned
produces little that is sublime, either in genius in the hearts, or rather in the imaginations of
or in virtue; but they amuse and we live in an men. Common sense is an excellent material
age which must be amused, though genius, of universal application, which the sagacity of
feeling, truth, and principle be the sacrifice. latter ages has seized upon, and rationally ap-
Nothing chills the ardours of devotion like a plied to the business of common life. But let
frigid sarcasm; and, in the season of youth the us not forget, in the insolence of acknowledged,
mind should be kept particularly clear of all superiority, that it was religion and chastity,
light associations. This is of so much impor-operating on the romantic spirit of those times,
tance, that I have known persons who, having
been early accustomed to certain ludicrous com-
binations, were never liable to get their minds
cleansed from the impurities contracted by this
habitual levity, even after thorough reformation
which established the despotic sway of wo-
man; and though in this altered scene of things,
she now no longer looks down on her adoring
votaries from the pedestal to which an absurd
idolatry had lifted her: yet let her remember
316
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
!
that it is the same religion and the same chas-,
tity which once raised her to such an elevation,
that must still furnish the noblest energies of
her character, must still attract the admiration,
still retain the respect of the other sex.
While we lawfully ridicule the absurdities
which we have abandoned, let us not plume
ourselves on that spirit of novelty which glories
in the opposite extreme. If the manners of the
period in question were affected, and if the
gallantly was unnatural, yet the tone of virtue
was high and let us remember that constancy,
purity, and honour, are not ridiculous in them-
selves, though they may unluckily be associated
with qualities which are so: and women of de-
licacy would do well to reflect, when descanting
on those exploded manners, how far it be de-
corous to deride with too broad a laugh, attach-
ments which could subsist on remote gratifica-
tions; or grossly to ridicule the taste which led
the admirer to sacrifice pleasure to respect, and
inclination to honour; how far it be delicate to
sneer at that purity which made self-denial a
proof of affection; to call in question the sound
understanding of him who preferred the fame
of his mistress to his own indulgence; to bur-
lesque that antiquated refinement which con-
sidered dignity and reserve as additional titles
to affection and reverence.
dually out of observation and practice, and to be
improved by the accumulating additions brought
by the wisdom of successive ages. Our wisdom
is not a creature slowly brought by ripening
time and gradual growth to perfection; but is an
instantaneously created goddess, which starts
at once, full grown, mature, armed cap-a-pee,
from the heads of our modern thunderers. Or
rather, if I may change the allusion, a perfect
saystem is now expected inevitably to spring
spontaneously at once, like the fabled bird of
Arabia, from the ashes of its parent; and, like
that, can receive its birth no other way but by
the destruction of its predecessor.
.
Instead of clearing away what is redundant,
pruning what is cumbersome, supplying what
is defective, and amending what is wrong, we
adopt the indefinite rage for radical reform of
Jack, who, in altering lord Peter's* coat, showed
his zeal by crying out, Tear away, brother
Martin, for the love of heaven; never mind, so
you do but tear away.'
This tearing system has unquestionably rent
away some valuable parts of that strong, rich
native stuff, which formed the ancient texture
of British manners. That we have gained much
I am persuaded; that we have lost nothing I
dare not therefore aflirm. But though it fairly
exhibits a mark of our improved judgment to
ridicule the fantastic notions of love and honour
in the heroic ages; let us not rejoice that the
spirit of generosity in sentiment, and of ardour
in piety, the exuberances of which were then so
inconvenient, are now sunk as unreasonably low.
That revolution of taste and manners which the
unparalleled wit and genius of Don Quixote so
happily effected throughout all the polished
countries of Europe, by abolishing extravagan-
cies the most absurd and pernicious, was so far
imperfect, that some virtues which he never
meant to expose, unjustly fell into disrepute
with the absurdities which he did: and it is be-
come the turn of the present taste inseparably
to attach in no small degree that which is ridi-
culous to that which is serious and heroic.
Some modern works of wit have assisted in
bringing piety and some of the noblest virtues
into contempt, by studiously associating them.
with oddity, childish simplicity, and ignorance
of the world: and unnecessary pains have been
taken to extinguish that zeal and ardour, which
however liable to excess and error, are yet the
spring of whatever is great and excellent in the
human character. The novel of Cervantes is
incomparable; the Tartuffe of Moliere is un-
equalled; but true generosity and true religion
will never lose any thing of their intrinsic value,
because knight-errantry and hypocrisy are legi-
We cannot but be struck with the wonderful
contrast exhibited to our view, when we con-
template the opposite manners of the two periods
in question. In the former all the flower of
Europe smit with a delirious gallantry; all that
was young, and noble, and brave, and great,
with a frantic frenzv, and preposterous con-
tempt of danger, t versed seas and scaled
mountains and compassed a large portion of
the globe, at the expense of ease, and fortune,
and life, for the unprofitable project of rescuing,
by force of arms, from the hands of infidels, the
sepulchre of that Saviour, whom, in the other
period, their posterity would think it the height
of fanaticism so much as to name in good com-
pany. That Saviour, whose altars they desert,
whose temples they neglect; and though in
more than one country at least they still call
themselves by his name, yet too many, it is to
be feared, contemn his precepts, still more are
ashamed of his doctrines, and not a few reject
his sacrifice. Too many consider Christianity
rather as a political than a religious distinction;
too many claim the appellation of Christians, in
mere opposition to that democracy with which
they conceive infidelity to be associated, rather
than from an abhorrence of impiety for its own
sake; too many deprecate the charge of irre-
ligion, as the supposed badge of a reprobated
party, more than on account of that moral cor-timate objects for satire.
ruption which is its inseparable concomitant!
On the other hand, in an age when inversion
is the character of the day, the modern idea of
improvement does not consist in altering, but
extirpating. We do not reform, but subvert.
We do not correct old systems but demolish |
them, fancying that when every thing shall be
new it will be perfect. Not to have been wrong,
but to have been at all, is the crime. Existence
is sin. Excellence is no longer considered as
an experimental thing which is to grow gra-
But to return from this too long digression,
to the subject of female influence. Those who
have not watched the united operation of vanity
and feeling on a youthful mind, will not conceive
how much less formidable the ridicule of all his
own sex will be to a very young man, than that
of those women to whom he has been taught to
look up as the arbiters of elegance. Such a
youth, I doubt not, might be able to work him-
Swift's Tale of a Tub.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
317
self up, by the force of genuine Christian prin-
ciple, to such a pitch of true heroism, as to re-
fuse a challenge (and it requires more real cou-
rage to refuse a challenge than to accept one)
who would yet be in danger of relapsing into
the dreadful pusillanimity of the world, when he
is told that no woman of fashion will hereafter
look on him but with contempt. While we have
cleared away the rubbish of the Gothic ages, it
were to be wished we had not retained the most
criminal of all their ins itutions. Why chivalry
should indicate a madman, while its leading ob-
ject, the single combat, should designate a gen-
tleman, has not yet been explained. Nay, the
plausible original motive is lost, while the sinful
practice is continued; for the fighter of the duel
no longer pretends to be a glorious redresser of
the wrongs of strangers; no longer considers
himself as piously appealing to heaven for the
justice of his cause; but from the slavish fear
of unmerited reproach, often selfishly hazards
the happiness of his nearest connexions, and al-
ways comes forth in direct defiance of an ac-
knowledged command of the Almighty. Per-
haps there are few occasions on which female
influence might be exerted to a higher purpose
than on this, in which laws and conscience have
hitherto effected so little. But while the duellist
(who perhaps becomes a duellist only because
he was first a seducer) is welcomed with smiles;
the more hardy dignified youth, who, not be
cause he fears man but God, declines a challenge,
who is resolved to brave disgrace rather than
commit sin, would be treated with cool contempt
by those very persons to whose esteem he might
reasonably have looked, as one of the rewards
of his true and substantial fortitude.
cessary; nor prudently practicable, to have a
single page in the whole work professedly reli-
gious; but still, when the living principle in-
forms the mind of the writer, it is almost im-
possible but that something of its spirit will dif
fuse itself even into subjects with which it
should seem but remotely connected. It is at
least a comfort to the reader, to feel that honest
confidence which results from knowing that he
has put himself into safe hands; that he has
committed himself to an author, whose known
principles are a pledge that his reader need not
be driven to watch himself at every step with
anxious circumspection; that he need not be
looking on the right hand and on the left, as if
he knew there were pitfalls under the flowers
which are delighting him. And it is no surall
point gained, that on subjects in which you do
not look to improve your religion, it is at least
secured from deterioration. If the Athenian
laws were so delicate that they disgraced any
one who showed an inquiring traveller the
wrong road, what disgrace among Christians,
should attach to that author, who when a youth
is inquiring the road to history or philosophy,
directs him to blasphemy and unbelief?*
In animadverting farther on the reigning
evils which the times more particularly demand
that women of rank and influence should re-
press, Christianity calls upon them to bear their
decided testimony against every thing which is
notoriously contributing to the public corrup-
tion. It calls upon them to banish from their
dressing rooms (and oh, that their influence
could banish from the libraries of their sons
and husbands) that sober and unsuspected mass
of mischief, which, by assuming the plausible
How then is it to be reconciled with the deci- names of science, of philosophy, of arts, of
sions of principle, that delicate women should belles lettres, is gradually administering death
receive with complacency the successful liber- to the principles of those who would be on their
tine, who has been detected by the wretched fa- guard, had the poison been labelled with its own
ther or the injured husband in a criminal com- pernicious title. Avowed attacks upon revela-
merce, the discovery of which has too justly ba- tion are more easily resisted, because the ma-
nished the unhappy partner of his crime from lignity is advertised. But who suspects the de-
virtuous society? Nay, if he happens to be struction which lurks under the harmless or in-
very handsome, or very brave, or very fashion-structive names of general history, natural his-
able, is there not sometimes a kind of disho-tory, travels, voyages, lives, encyclopedias, criti-
nourable competition for his favour? Is there
not a sort of bad popularity attached to his atten-
tions? But, whether his flattering reception be
derived from birth, or parts, or person, or (what
is often a substitute for all) from his having
made his way into good company, women of dis-
tinction sully the sanctity of virtue by the too
visible pleasure they sometimes express at the
attentions of such a popular libertine, whose vo-
luble small-talk they admire, whose sprightly
nothings they quote, whose vices they justify or
extenuate, and whom perhaps their very favour
tends to prevent from becoming a better charac-
ter, because he finds himself more acceptable as
he is.
May I be allowed to introduce a new part of
my subject, by remarking that it is a matter of
inconceivable importance, though not perhaps
sufficiently considered, when any popular work,
not on a religious topic, but on any common
subject, such as politics, history or science, has
happened to be written by an author of sound
Christian principles? It may not have been ne-
cism, and romance? Who will deny that many
of these works contain much admirable matter;
brilliant passages, important facts, just descrip-
tions, faithful pictures of nature, and valuable
illustrations of science? But while 'the dead
fly lies at the bottom,' the whole will exhale a
corrupt and pestilential stench.
* The author has often heard it mentioned as matter
of regret, that Mr. Gibbon should have blemished his
elegant history with the two notoriously offensive chap-
ters against Christianity. But does not this regret seem
to imply that the work would, by this omission, have
been left safe and unexceptionable? May we not rather
consider these chapters as a fatal rock indeed; but as a
rock enlightened by a beacon, fairly and unequivocally
warning us of the surrounding perils? To change the
metaphor-Had not the mischiefs of these chapters been
rendered thus conspicuous, the incautious reader would
have been still left exposed to the fatal effects of the
more disguised poison which is infused through almost
all parts of the volumes. Is it not obvious that a spirit
so virulent against revealed religion as these two chap-
ters indicate, would be incessantly pouring out some
of its infectious matter on every occasion; and would
even industriously make the opportunities which it did
not find?
318
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
|
main-spring of virtuous actions, while laws and
religion are only unjust restraints; the former
imposed by arbitrary men, the latter by the ab
surd prejudices of timorous and unenlightened
conscience. Alas! they do not know that the
best creature of impulse that ever lived, is but a
wayward, unfixed, unprincipled being! That
the best natural man requires a curb; and needs
that balance to the affections which Christianity
t Densities are no security to virtue. And
perhaps it is not too much to say, in spite of the
monopoly of benevolence to which the new phi-
losophy lays claim, that the human duties of the
second table have never once been well perform
ed by any of the rejectors of that previous por-
tion of the decalogue which enjoins duty to God.
Novels, which chiefly used to be dangerous
in one respect, are now become mischievous in
a thousand. They are continually shifting their
ground, and enlarging their sphere, and are
daily becoming vehicles of wider mischief.
Sometimes they concentrate their force, and are
at once employed to diffuse destructive politics,
deplorable profligacy, and impudent infidelity.
Rousseau was the first popular dispenser of this
complicated drug, in which the deleterious in-alone can furnish, and without which benevolent
fusion was strong, and the effect proportionably
fatal. For he does not attempt to seduce the af-
fections but through the medium of the princi-
ples. He does not paint an innocent woman
ruined, repenting, and restored; but with a far
more mischievous refinement, he annihilates the
value of chastity, and with pernicious subtlety
attempts to make this heroine appear almost In some of the most splendid of these charac-
more amiable without it. He exhibits a virtuous ters compassion is erected into the throne of
woman the victim, not of temptation, but of rea- justice, and justice degraded into the rank of
son; not of vice, but of sentiment; not of pas- plebian virtues. It is considered as a noble ex-
sion, but of conviction; and strikes at the very emplification of sentiment that creditors should
root of honour, by elevating a crime into a prin- be defrauded, while the money due to them is
ciple. With a metaphysical sophistry the most lavished in dazzling acts of charity to some ob-
plausible, he debauches the heart of woman, by|ject that affects the senses; which paroxysms
cherishing her vanity in the erection of a system of charity are made the sponge of every sin, and
of male virtues, to which, with a lofty derelic- the substitute of every virtue: the whole indi-
tion of those that are her more peculiar and cha-rectly tending to intimate how very benevolent
racteristic praise, he tempts her to aspire; pow-people are who are not Christians. From many
erfully insinuating, that to this splendid system of these compositions, indeed, Christianity is
chastity does not necessarily belong: thus cor- systematically, and always virtually, excluded;
rupting the judgment, and bewildering the un- for the law, and the prophets, and the gospel,
derstanding, as the most effectual way to in-can make no part of a scheme in which this
flame the imagination and deprave the heart. world is looked upon as all in all; in which
The rare mischief of this author, consists in his want and misery are considered as evils arising
power of seducing by falsehood those who love solely from the defects of human governments,
truth, but whose minds are still wavering, and and not as making part of the dispensations of
whose principles are not yet formed. He allures God; in which poverty is represented as merely
the warm-hearted to embrace vice, not because a political evil, and the restraints which tend to
they prefer vice, but because he gives to vice so keep the poor honest, are painted as the most
natural an air of virtue and ardent and enthu- flagrant injustice. The Gospel can make no
siastic youth, too confidently trusting in their part of a system in which the absurd idea of
integrity and in their teacher, will be undone, perfectibility is considered as applicable to fallen
while they fancy they are indulging in the no-creatures; in which the chimerical project of
blest feelings of their nature. Many authors
will more infallibly complete the ruin of the
loose and ill-disposed: but perhaps there never
was a net of such exquisite art, and inextrica-
ble workmanship, spread to entangle innocence,
and ensnare inexperience, as the writings of
Rousseau; and, unhappily, the victim does not
even struggle in the toils, because part of the
delusion consists in his imagining that he is set
at liberty.
Some of our recent popular publications have
adopted and enlarged all the mischiefs of this
school; and the principal evil arising from them
is, that the virtues they exhibit are almost more
dangerous than the vices. The chief materials
out of which these delusive systems are framed,
are characters who practice superfluous acts of
generosity, while they are trampling on obvious
and commanded duties, who combine inflated
sentiments of honour with actions the most fla-
gitious; a high tone of self-confidence, with a
perpetual neglect of self-denial; pathetic apos-
trophes to the passions, but no attempt to resist
them. They teach that chastity is only indi-
vidual attachment; that no duty exists which
is not prompted by feeling; that impulse is the
|
consummate earthly happiness, (founded on the
mad pretence of loving the poor better than God
loves them) would defeat the divine plan, which
meant this world for a scene of discipline, not
of remuneration. The Gospel can have nothing
to do with a system in which sin is reduced to
a little human imperfection, and Old Baily
crimes are softened down to a few engaging
weaknesses; and in which the turpitude of all
the vices a man himself commits, is done away
by his candour in tolerating all the vices com-
mitted by others.*
But the part of the system the most fatal to
that class whom I am addressing is, that even
in those works which do not go all the length of
treating marriage as an unjust infringement on
liberty, and a tyrannical deduction from gene-
ral happiness; yet it commonly happens that
*It is to be lamented that some, even of those more
virtuous novel writers, who intend to espouse the cause
of religion, yet exhibit such false views of it. I have
lately seen a work of some merit in this way, which was
meritoriously designed to expose the impieties of the
new philosophy, But the writer betrayed his own im-
perfect knowledge of the Christianity he was defending,
by making his hero, whom he proposed as a pattern,
fight a du
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
313
:
the hero or heroine, who has particularly viola-
ted the letter of the seventh commandment, and
continues to live in the allowed violation of its
spirit, is painted as so amiable, and so benevo-
lent, so tender or so brave; and the temptation
is represented as so irresistible, (for all these
philosophers are fatalists) the predominant and
cherished sin is so filtered and defected of its
pollutions, and is so sheltered and surrounded,
and relieved with shining qualities, that the in-
nocent and impressible young reader is brought
to lose all horror of the awful crime in question,
in the complacency she feels for the engaging
virtues of the criminal.
But let us not on account of this victory ro-
pose in confident security. The modern apos-
tles of infidelity and immorality, little less inde-
fatigable in dispersing their pernicious doctrines
than the first apostles were in propagating Gos-
pel truths, have indeed changed their weapons,
but they have by no means desisted from the
attack. To destroy the principles of Christiani-
ty in this island, appears at the present moment
to be their grand aim. Deprived of the assist-
ance of the French press, they are now attempt-
ing to attain their object under the close and
more artificial veil of German literature. Con
scious that religion and morals will stand or fall
together, their attacks are sometimes levelled
against the one, and sometimes against the other.
With strong occasional professions of general
attachment to both of these, they endeavour to
interest the feelings of the reader, sometimes in
favour of some one particular vice, at other times
on the subject of some one objection to revealed
religion. Poetry as well as prose, romance as
well as history, writings on philosophical as well
as on political subjects, have thus been employ-
There is another object to which I would di-
rect the exertion of that power of female influ-
ence of which I am speaking. Those ladies
who take the lead in society, are loudly called
upon to act as the guardians of the public taste,
as well as of the public virtue. They are called
upon, therefore, to oppose with the whole weight
of their influence, the irruption of those swarms
of publications now daily issuing from the banks
of the Danube, which, like their ravaging pre-
decessors of the darker ages, though with fared to instil the principles of Illuminism, while
other and more fatal arms, are overrunning ci-
vilized society. Those readers, whose purer
taste has been formed on the correct models of
the old classic school, see with indignation and
astonishment the Huns and Vandals once more
overpowering the Greeks and Romans. They
behold our minds, with a retrograde but rapid
motion, hurried back to the reign of chaos and
old night,' by distorted and unprincipled compo-
sitions, which, in spite of strong flashes of geni-
us, unite the taste of the Goths with the morals
of Bagshot ;*
Gorgons and Hydras, and Chimeras dire!
These compositions terrify the weak, and amaze
and enchant the idle; while they disgust the
discerning, by wild and misshapen superstitions,
in which, with that consistency which forms so
striking a feature of the new philosophy, those
who most earnestly deny the immortality of the
soul, are most eager to introduce the machinery
of ghosts.
The writings of the French infidels were some
years ago circulated in England with uncommon
industry, and with some effect: but the plain
sense and good principles of the far greater part
of our countrymen, resisted the attack, and rose
superior to the trial. Of the doctrines and prin-
ciples here alluded to, the dreadful consequen-
ces, not only in the unhappy country where they
originated, and were almost universally adopted,
but in every part of Europe where they have
been received, have been such as to serve as a
beacon to surrounding nations, if any warning
can preserve them from destruction. In this
country the subject is now so well understood,
that every thing which issues from the French
press is received with jealousy; and a work, on
the first appearance of its exhibiting the doc-
trines of Voltaire and his associates, is rejected
with indignation.
*The newspapers announce that Schiller's tragedy of
the Robbers, which inflamed the young nobility of Ger-
many to enlist themselves into a band of highwaymen
to rob in the forests of Bohemia, is now acting in En.
gland by persons of quality!
incredible pains have been taken to obtain able
translations of every book which was supposed
likely to be of use in corrupting the heart or mis-
leading the understanding. In many of these
translations, certain bolder passages, which,
though well received in Germany, would have
excited disgust in England, are wholly omitted,
in order that the mind may be more certainly,
though more slowly, prepared for the full effect
of the same poison to be administered in a strong-
er degree at another period.
Let not those to whom these pages are ad-
dressed deceive themselves, by supposing this
to be a fable; and let them inquire most seri-
ously whether I speak truth, in asserting that
the attacks of infidelity in Great Britain are at
this moment principally directed against the fe-
male breast. Conscious of the influence of wo
men in civil society, conscious of the effect
which female infidelity produced in France,
they attribute the ill success of their attempts in
this country to their having been hitherto chiefly
addressed to the male sex. They are now sedu-
lously labouring to destroy the religious princi-
ples of women, and in too many instances have
fatally succeeded. For this purpose, not only
novels and romances have been made the vehi-
cles of vice and infidelity, but the same allure-
ment has been held out to the women of our
country, which was employed by the first phi-
losophists to the first sinner-Knowledge. Lis-
ten to the precepts of the new German enlight-
eners, and you need no longer remain in that
situation in which Providence has placed you!
Follow their example, and you shall be permit-
ted to indulge in all those gratifications which
custom, and not religion has tolerated in the
male sex.
Let us jealously watch every deepening shade
in the change of manners; let us mark every
step, however inconsiderable, whose tendency is
downwards. Corruption is neither stationary
nor retrograde; and to have departed from mo-
desty, simplicity, and truth, is already to have
made a progress. It is not only awfully true,
320
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
3
an æra in manners, a direct vindication of adul
tery was for the first time attempted by a woman
a professed admirer and imitator of the German
suicide Werter. The female Werter, as she is
titled, The Wrongs of Women,' that adultery
is justifiable, and that the restrictions placed on
it by the laws of England, constitute one of the
Wrongs of Women.
that since the new principles have been afloat,
women have been too eagerly inquisitive after
these monstrous compositions; but it is true
also, that with a new and offensive renunciation
of their native delicacy, many women of charac-styled by her biographer, asserts in a work en-
ter nake little hesitation in avowing their fami-
liarity with works abounding with principles,
sentiments, and descriptions, which should not
be so much as named among them. By allow-
ing their minds to come in contact with such
contagious matter, they are irrecoverably taint-
ing them; and by acknowledging that they are
actually conversant with such corruptions (with
whatever reprobation of the author they may
qualify their perusal of the book) they are exci-
ting in others a most mischievous curiosity for
the same unhallowed gratification. Thus they
are daily diminishing in the young and timid
those wholesome scruples, by which, when a ten-
der conscience ceases to be intrenched, all the
subsequent stages of ruin are gradually facili.
tated.
We have hitherto spoken only of the German
writings; but because there are multitudes who
seldom read, equal pains have been taken to
promote the same object through the medium
of the stage and this weapon is, of all others,
that against which it is, at the present moment,
the most important to warn the more inconsi-
derate of my countrywomen.
This leads me to dwell a little longer on this
most destructive class in the whole wide range
of modern corrupters, who effect the most des-
perate work of the passions without so much as
pretending to urge their violence, in extenuation
of the guilt of indulging them. They solicit
this very indulgence with a sort of cold blooded
speculation, and invite the reader to the most
unbounded gratifications, with all the saturnine
coolness of a geometrical calculation. Theirs
is an iniquity rather of phlegm than of spirit:
and in the pestilent atmosphere they raise about
them, as in the infernal climate described by
Milton-
The parching air*
Burns frore, and frost performs th' effects of fire.
This cool, calculating, intellectual wickedness
eats out the very heart and core of virtue, and
like a deadly mildew blights and shrivels the
blooming promise of the human spring. Its be-
numbing touch communicates a torpid sluggish-
ness which paralyses the soul. It descants on
depravity as gravely, and details its grossest acts
as frigidly as if its object were to allay the tu-
mult of the passions, while it is letting them
loose on mankind, by 'plucking off the muzzle
of present restraint and future accountableness."
The system is a dire infusion, compounded of
bold impiety, brutish sensuality, and exquisite.
folly, which creeping fatally about the heart,
checks the moral circulation, and totally stops
the pulse of goodness by the extinction of the
vital principle: thus not only choking the stream
of actual virtue, but drying up the very fountain
of future remorse and remote repentance.
As a specimen of the German drama, it may
not be unseasonable to offer a few remarks on
the admired play of the Stranger. In this piece
the character of an adultress, which, in all peri-
ods of the world, ancient as well as modern, in
all countries, heathen as well as christian, has
hitherto been held in detestation, and has never
been introduced but to be reprobated, is for the
first time presented to our view in the most
pleasing and fascinating colours. The heroine
is a woman who forsook a husband the most
affectionate and the most amiable, and lived for
some time in a criminal commerce with her
seducer. Repenting at length of her crime, she
buries herself in retirement.-The talents of the
poet during the whole piece are exerted in at-
The ravages which some of the old offenders
tempting to render this woman the object not against purity made in the youthful heart, by
only of the compassion and forgiveness, but of the exercise of fervid but licentious imagination
the esteem and affection of the audience. The on the passions, resembled the mischief effected
injured husband, convinced of his wife's repent- by floods, cataracts, and volcanos. The desola-
ance, forms a resolution which every man of tion indeed was terrible, and the ruin was tre-
true feeling and christian piety will probably ap-mendous; yet it was a train which did not in-
prove. He forgives her offence, and promises fallibly preclude the possibility of recovery. The
her through life, his advice, protection and for. country, though deluged, and devastated, was
tune, together with every thing which can alle-not utterly put beyond the power of restoration.
viate the misery of her condition, but refuses to
replace her in the situation of his wife! But
this is not sufficient for the German author. His
efforts are employed, and it is to be feared but
too successfully, in making the audience consi-
der the husband as an unrelenting savage, while
they are led by the art of the poet anxiously to
wish to see an adultress restored to that rank of
women who have not violated the most solemn
covenant that can be made with man, nor dis-
obeyed one of the most positive laws which has
been enjoined by God.
About the same time that this first attempt at
representing an adultress in an exemplary light
was made by a German dramatist, which forms
The harvests indeed were destroyed, and all was
wide sterility. But though the crops were lost,
the seeds of vegetation were not absolutely era-
dicated; so that, after a long and barren blank,
fertility might finally return.
But the heart once infected with this newly
medicated venom, subtile though sluggish in its
operation, resembles what travellers relate of
that blasted spot the dead sea, where those de-
voted cities once stood, which for their pollutions
were burnt with fire from heaven. It continues
a stagnant lake of putrifying waters. No whole-
mountains, and burneth the wilderness, and consumeth
the grass as fire! Eccles. xl. 20.
*When the north wind bloweth it devoureth the
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE:
321
some blade ever more shoots up; the air is so
tainted that no living thing subsists within its
influence. Near the sulphureous pool the very
principle of being is annihilated. All is death,
Death, unrepealable, eternal death!
But let us take comfort, These projects are
not yet generally realized. These atrocious
principles are not yet adopted into common
practice. Though corruption seems with a
confluent tide to be pouring in upon us from
every quarter, yet there is still left among us a
discriminating judgment. Clear and strongly
marked distinctions between right and wrong
still subsist. While we continue to cherish this
sanity of mind, the case is not desperate.
Though that crime, the growth of which al-
ways exhibits the most irrefragable proof of the
dissoluteness of public manners; though that
crime, which cuts up order and virtue by the
roots, and violates the sanctity of vows, is aw-
fully increasing,
'Till senates seem,
For purposes of empire less conven'd
Than to release the adult'ress from her bonds:
through the Divine blessing on your patient en.
deavours, she should ever be awakened to re-
murse, be not anxious to restore the forlorn peni-
tent to that society against whose laws she has
so grievously offended; and remember that her
soliciting such a restoration, furnishes but too
plain a proof that she is not the penitent your
partiality would believe; since penitence is
more anxious to make its peace with heaven
than with the world. Joyfully would a truly
contrite spirit commute an earthly for an ever
lasting reprobation! To restore a criminal to
public society, is perhaps to tempt her to repeat
her crime, or to deaden her repentance for hav
ing committed it, as well as to insult and to in
jure that society; while to restore a strayed soul
to God will add lustre to your Christian charac.
ter, and brighten your eternal crown.
In the mean time, there are other evils, ulti-
mately perhaps tending to this, into which wê
are falling, through that sort of fashionable can-
dour, which, as was hinted above, is among the
mischievous characteristics of the present day j
of which period perhaps it is not the smallest
evil, that vices are made to look so like virtues,
and are so assimilated to them, that it requires
yet, thanks to the surviving efficacy of a holy watchfulness and judgment sufficient to analyze
religion, to the operation of virtuous laws, and and discriminate. There are certain women of
to the energy and unshaken integrity with good fashion who practice irregularities not con-
which these laws are now administered; and, sistent with the strictness of virtue ; while their
most of all, perhaps, to a standard of morals good sense and knowledge of the world make
which continues in force, when the principles them at the same time keenly alive to the valuë
which sanctioned it are no more; this crime, in of reputation. They want to retain their indul-
the female sex at least, is still held in just ab-gences, without quite forfeiting their credit;
horrence. If it be practised, it is not honoura- but finding their fame fast declining, they ciing,
ble; if it be committed, it is not justified; we by flattery and marked attentions, to a few per-
do not yet affect to palliate its turpitude; as yet sons of more than ordinary character; and thus,
it hides its abhorred head in lurking privacy; till they are driven to let go their hold, continue
and reprobation hitherto follows its publicity. to prop a falling fame.
But on your exerting your influence, with
just application and increasing energy, may in
no small degree, depend whether this corruption
shall still continue to be resisted. For the abhor-
rence of a practice will too probably diminish, of
which the theory is perused with enthusiasm.
From admiring to adopting, the step is short, and
the progress rapid; and it is in the moral as in
the natural world; the motion, in the case of
minds as well as of bodies, is accelerated as they
approach the centre to which they are tending.
O ye to whom this address is particularly di-
rected! an awful charge is, in this instance,
committed to your hands; as you discharge it
or shrink from it, you promote or injure the ho-
nour of your daughters and the happiness of
your sons, of both of which you are the deposi-
tories. And, while you resolutely persevere in
making a stand against the encroachments of
this crime, suffer not your firmness to be shaken
by that affectation of charity, which is growing
into a general substitute for principle. Abuse
not so noble a quality as Christian candour, by
misemploying it in instances to which it does
not apply. Pity the wretched woman you dare
not countenance; and bless Him who has 'made
you to differ.' If unhappily she be your rela-
tion or friend, anxiously watch for the period
when she shall be deserted by her betrayer;
and see if, by your Christian offices, she can be
snatched from a perpetuity of vice. But if
VOL. I.
X
On the other hand, there are not wanting wos
men of distinction of very correct general con-
duct, and of no ordinary sense and virtue, who
confiding with a high mind on what they too
confidently call the integrity of their own hearts;
anxious to deserve a good fame on the one hand,
by a life free from reproach, yet secretly too de
sirous on the other of securing a worldly and
fashionable reputation; while their general as-
sociates are persons of honour, and their general
resort places of safety; yet allow themselves to
be occasionally present at the midnight orgies
of revelry and gaming, in houses of no honour-
able estimation; and thus help to keep up cha.
racters, which without their sustaining hand,
would sink to their just level of contempt and
reprobation. While they are holding out this
plank to a drowning reputation, rather, it is to
to be feared, showing their own strength than
assisting another's weakness, they value them-
selves, perhaps, on not partaking of the worse
parts of the amusements which may be carry-
ing on; but they sanction them by their pres
sence; they lend their countenance to corrup
tions they should abhor, and their example to
the young and inexperienced, who are looking
about for some such sanction to justify them in
that to which they were before înclined, but
were too timid to have ventured upon without
the protection of such unsullied names. Thus
these respectable characters, without looking to
322
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
the general consequences of their indiscretion,
are thoughtlessly employed in breaking down,
as it were, the broad fence which should ever
separate two very different sorts of society,
and are becoming a kind of unnatural link be-
tween vice and virtue.
There is a gross deception which even per-
sons of reputation practise on themselves. They
loudly condemn vice and irregularity as an ab.
stract principle, nay, they stigmatise them in
persons of an opposite party, or in those from
whom they themselves have no prospect of per-
sonal advantage or amusement, and in whom
therefore they have no particular interest to to-
lerate evil. But the same disorders are viewed
without abhorrence when practised by those
who in any way minister to their pleasures. Re-
fined entertainments, luxurious decorations, se-
lect music; whatever furnishes any delight rare
and exquisite to the sense, these soften the se-
verity of criticism; these palliate sins; these
varnish over the flaws of a broken character, and
extort not pardon merely but justification, coun-
tenance, intimacy! The more respectable will
not, perhaps, go all the length of vindicating the
disreputable vice, but they affect to disbelieve its
existence in the individual instance; or, failing
in this, they will bury its acknowledged turpi-
tude in the seducing qualities of the agreeable
delinquent. Talents of every kind are consider-
ed as a commutation for a few vices; and such
talents are made a passport to introduce into
honourable society, characters whom their pro-
fligacy ought to exclude from it.
But the great object to which you, who are or
may be mothers, are more especially called, is
the education of your children. If we are re-
sponsible for the use of influence in the case of
those over whom we have no immediate control,
grace to say, with humble confidence, to her
Maker and Redeemer, Behold the children
whom thou hast given me !'
'
Christianity, driven out from the rest of the
world, has still, blessed be God! a 'strong hold'
in this country. And though it be the special
duty of the appointed watchman now that he
seeth the sword come upon the land, to blow
the trumpet and warn the people, which if he
neglect to do, their blood shall be required of the
watchman's hand :"* yet, in this sacred garri-
son, impregnable but by neglect, you too have an
awful post, that of arming the minds of the
rising race with the shield of faith, whereby
they shall be able to quench the fiery darts of
the wicked;' that of girding them with that
sword of the Spirit which is the word of God.'
Let that very period which is desecrated in a
neighbouring country, by a formal renunciation
of religion, be solemnly marked by you to pur-
poses diametrically opposite. Let that disho-
noured æra in which they avowed their resolu-
tion to exclude Christianity from the national
education, be the precise moment seized upon
by you for its more sedulous inculcation. And
while their children are systematically trained
to live without God in the world,' let YOURS,
with a more decided emphasis, be consecrated
to promote his glory in it.
If you neglect this your bounden duty, you
will have effectually contributed to expel Chris-
tianity from her last citadel. And remember,
that the dignity of the work to which you are
called, is no less than that of 'preserving the
ark of the Lord."
CHAP. II.
On the education of women.— -The prevailing sys-
tem tends to establish the errors which it ought
to correct.-Dangers arising from an exces-
sive cultivation of the arts.
in the case of our children we are responsible
for the exercise of acknowledged power; a
power wide in its extent, indefinite in its effects,
and inestimable in its importance. On You de-
pend in no small degree the principles of the
whole rising generation. To your direction the It is far from being the object of this slight
daughters are almost exclusively committed; work to offer a regular plan of female education,
and until a certain age, to you also is consigned a task which has been often more properly as-
the mighty privilege of forming the hearts and sumed by far abler writers; but it is intended
minds of your infant sons. To you is made over rather to suggest a few remar!;s on the reigning
the awfully important trust of infusing the first mode, which though it has had many panegy-
principles of piety into the tender minds of those rists, appears to be defective, not only in certain
who may be one day called to instruct, not fa- particulars, but as a general system. There are
milies merely, but districts; to influence, not indeed numberless honourable exceptions to an
individuals, but senates. Your private exertions observation which will be thought severe; yet
may at this moment be contributing to the fu- the author would ask, whether it be not the r
ture happiness, your domestic neglect, to the tural tendency of the prevailing and popu
future ruin of your country. And may you never mode to excite and promote those very ev
forget, in this your early instruction of your off-which it ought to be the main end and object
spring, nor they, in their future application of of christian instruction to remove? whether th
it, that religion is the only sure ground of mo- reigning system does not tend to weaken the
rals; that private principle is the only solid ba- principles it ought to strengthen, and to dissolve
sis of public virtue. O think that they both may the heart it should fortify? whether, instead of
be fixed or forfeited for ever according to the directing the grand and important engine of
use you are now making of that power which education to attack and destroy vanity, selfish-
God has delegated to you, and of which he willness, and inconsideration, that triple alliance in
demand a strict account. By his blessing on
your pious labours may both son id daughters
hereafter arise and call you blessed.' And in
the great day of general account, may every
Christian mother be enabled through divine!
strict and constant league against female virtue;
the combined powers of instruction are not
sedulously confederated in confirming their
strength and establishing their empire?
* Ezekiel, xxxiii. 6,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
323
If indeed the material substance; if the body,
and limbs, with the organs and senses, be really
the more valuable objects of attention, then there
is little room for animadversion and improve-
ment: but if the immaterial and immortal mind;
if the heart, 'out of which are the issues of life,'
be the main concern; if the great business of
education be to implant right ideas, to commu-
nicate useful knowledge, to form a taste and a
sound judgment, to resist evil propensities, and
above all to seize the favourable season for in-
fusing principles and confirming habits; if
education be a school to fit us for life, and life
be a school to fit us for eternity; if such, I re-
peat it, be the chief work and grand ends of
education, it may then be worth enquiring how
far these ends are likely to be effected by the
prevailing system.
ful must cease to be young, and the beautiful to
excite admiration, to learn how to grow old
gracefully is perhaps one of the rarest and most
valuable arts which can be taught to woman.
And it must be confessed it is a most severe trial
for those women to be called to lay down beauty,
who have nothing else to take up. It is for
this sober season of life that education should
lay up its rich resources. However disregarded
they may hitherto have been, they will be
wanted now. When admirers fall away, and
flatterers become mute, the mind will be driven
to retire into itself, and if it find no entertain.
ment at home, it will be driven back again upon
the world with increased force. Yet forgetting
this, do we not seem to educate our daughters
exclusively for the transient period of youth,
when it is to maturer life we ought to advert?
Do we not educate them for a crowd, forgetting
that they are to live at home? for the world, and
not for themselves? for show, and not for use?
for time, and not for eternity?
Vanity (and the same may be said of self-
ishness) is not to be resisted like any other vice,
which is sometimes busy and sometimes quiet;
it is not to be attacked as a single fault which
is indulged in opposition to a single virtue; but
it is uniformly to be controlled, as an active, a
restless, a growing principle, at constant war
with all the christian graces; which not only
mixes itself into all our faults, but insinuates
into all our virtues too; and will, if not check-
ed effectually, rob our best actions of their
rewards. Vanity, if I may use the analogy,
is with respect to the other vices, what feel-
ing is in regard to the other senses; it is not
confined in its operation to the eye, or the ear,
or any single organ, but is diffused through the
whole being, alive in every part, awakened and
communicated by the slightest touch.
Is it not a fundamental error to consider chil-
dren as innocent beings, whose little weaknesses
may perhaps want some correction, rather than
as beings who bring into the world a corrupt
nature and evil dispositions, which it should be
the great end of education to rectify? This
appears to be such a foundation-truth, that if I
were asked what quality is most important in an
instructor of youth, I should not hesitate to re-
ply, such a strong impression of the corruption
of our nature, as should insure a disposition to
counteract it; together with such a deep view
and thorough knowledge of the human heart,
as should be necessary for developing and con-
trolling its most secret and complicated workings.
And let us remember that to know the world, as
it is called, that is to know its local manners,
temporary usages and evanescent fashions, is
not to know human nature: and that where this
prime knowledge is wanting, those natural evils
which ought to be counteracted will be fostered.
Vanity, for instance, is reckoned among the
light and venial errors of youth; nay, so far
from being treated as a dangerous enemy, it is
often called in as an auxiliary. At worst, it is
considered as a harmless weakness, which sub-
tracts little from the value of a character; as a
natural effervescence, which will subside of it-
self, when the first ferment of the youthful pas-
sions shall have done working. But those per-
sons know little of the conformation of the hu-
man, and especially of the female heart, who
fancy that vanity is ever exhausted, by the mere
operation of time and events. Let those who
maintain this opinion look into our places of
public resort, and there behold if the ghost of
departed beauty is not to its last flitting, fond
of haunting the scenes of its past pleasures.
The soul, unwilling (if I may borrow an allusion
from the Platonic mythology) to quit the spot in❘
which the body enjoyed its former delights, This frenzy of accomplishments, unhappily,
still continues to hover about the same place, is no longer restricted within the usual limits
though the same pleasures are no longer to be of rank and fortune; the middle orders have
found there. Disappointments indeed may di- caught the contagion, and it rages downward
vert vanity imo a new direction; prudence may with increasing and destructive violence, from
prevent it from breaking out into esses, and the elegantly dressed but slenderly portioned
age may prove that it is vexation of spirit;' curate's danghter to the equally fashioned
but neither disappointment, prudence, nor age daughter of the little tradesman, and of the
can curc it for they do not correct the princi- more opulent but not more judicious farmer.
ple. Nay, the very disappointment itself serves | And is it not obvious, that as far as this epidemi-
as a painful evidence of its protracted existence. cal mania has spread, this very valuable part of
Since then there is a scason when the youth- I society is declining in usefulness, as it rises in
Not a few of the evils of the present day arise
from a new and perverted application of terms:
among these, perhaps, there is not one more
absurd, misunderstood, or misapplied, than the
term accomplishments. This word in its original
meaning signifies completeness, perfection. But
I may safely appeal to the observation of man-
kind, whether they do not meet with swarms of
youthful females, issuing from our boarding
schools, as well as emerging from the more pri
vate scenes of domestic education, who are intrō-
duced into the world, under the broad and uni-
versal title of accomplished young ladies, of all
of whom it cannot very truly and correctly be
pronounced, that they illustrate the definition,
by a completeness which leaves nothing to be
added, and a perfection which leaves nothing to
be desired.
324
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
its ill-founded pretensions to elegance? till this
rapid revolution of the manners of the middle
class has so far altered the character of the age,
as to be in danger of rendering obsolete the
heretofore common saying, that most worth
and virtue are to be found in the middle station.'
For I do not scruple to assert, that in general,
as far as my little observation has extended,
this class of females, in what relates both to
religious knowledge and to practical industry,
falls short both of the very high and the very
low. Their new course of education, and the
indolent habits of life and elegance of dress
connected with it, peculiarly unfits them for the
active duties of their own very important con-
dition; while, with frivolous eagerness, and se-
cond-hand opportunities, they run to snatch a
few of those showy acquirements which decorate
the great. This is done apparently with one
or other of these views; either to make their
fortunes by marriage, or if that fail, to qualify
them to become teachers of others: hence the
abundant multiplication of superficial wives,
and of incompetent and illiterate governesses.
The use of the pencil, the performance of ex-
quisite but unnecessary works, the study of
foreign languages and of music, require (with
some exceptions which should always be made
in favour of great natural genius) a degree
of leisure which belongs exclusively to af
fluence.* One use of learning languages is,
not that we may know what the terms which
express the articles of our dress and our table
are called in French or Italian; nor that we
may think over a few ordinary phrases in
English, and then translate them, without one
foreign idiom; for he who cannot think in a
language cannot be said to understand it but
the great use of acquiring any foreign language
is, either that it enables us occasionally to con-
verse with foreigners, unacquainted with any
other, or that it is a key to the literature of the
country to which it belongs. Now those hum-
bler females, the chief part of whose time is re-
quired for domestic offices, are little likely to fall
in the way of foreigners; and so far from enjoy-
ing opportunities for the acquisition of foreign
literature, they have seldom time to possess
themselves of much of the valuable knowledge
which the books of their own country so abun-
dantly furnish; and the acquisition of which
would be so much more useful and honourable
than the paltry accessions they make by ham-
mering out the meaning of a few passages in a
tongue they but imperfectly understand, and
of which they are never likely to make any use.
It would be well if the reflection, how eagerly
this redundancy of accomplishments is seized
on by their inferiors, were to operate as in the
case of other absurd fashions; the rich and great
being seldom brought to renounce any mode of
custom, from the mere consideration that it is
preposterous, or that it is wrong; while they are
frightened into its immediate relinquishment,
from the pressing consideration that the vulgar
are beginning to adopt it.
:
*Those among the class in question, whose own
good sense leads them to avoid these mistaken pursuits,
cannot be offended at a reproof which does not belong
to them.
But to return to that more elevated, and on ac-
count of their more extended influence only,
that more important class of females, to whose
use this little book is more immediately dedicat-
ed. Some popular authors, on the subject of
female instruction, had for a time established a
fantastic code of artificial manners. They had
refined elegance into insipidity, frittered down
delicacy into frivolousness, and reduced manner
into minauderie. 'But to lisp, and to amble,
and to nick-name God's creatures,' has nothing
to do with true gentlenses of mind; and to be
silly makes no necessary part of softness. An-
other class of contemporary authors turned all
the force of their talents to excite emotions, to
inspire sentiment, and to reduce all mental and
moral excellence into sympathy and feeling.
These softer qualities were elevated at the ex-
pense of principle; and young women were in-
cessantly hearing unqualified sensibility extolled
as the perfection of their nature; till those who
really possessed this amiable quality, instead of
directing, and chastising, and restraining it,
were in danger of fostering it to their hurt, and
began to consider themselves as deriving their
excellence from its excess; while those less in-
teresting damsels, who happened not to find any
of this amiable sensibility in their hearts, but
thought it creditable to have it somewhere,
fancied its seat was in the nerves; and here in-
deed it was easily found or feigned; till a false and
excessive display of feeling became so predomi-
nant, as to bring in question the actual existence
of that true tenderness, without which, though a
woman may be worthy, she can never be amiable.
Fashion then, by one of her sudden and rapid
turns, instantaneously struck out both real sen-
sibility and the affectation of it from the stand-
ing list of female perfections; and, by a quick
touch of her magic wand, shifted the scene, and
at once produced the bold and independent
beauty, the intrepid female, the hoyden, the
huntress, and the archer; the swinging arms,
the confident address, the regimental, and the
four-in-hand. Such self-complacent heroines
made us ready to regret their softer predecessors,
who had aimed only at pleasing the other sex,
while these aspiring fair ones struggled for the
bolder renown of rivalling them the project
failed; for, whereas the former had sued for ad-
miration, the latter challenged, seized, compelled
it; but the men, as was natural, continued to
prefer the more modest claimant to the sturdy
competitor.
It would be well if we, who have the advan-
tage of contemplating the errors of the two ex-
tremes, were to seek for truth where she is
commonly to be found, in the plain and obvious
middle path, equally remote from each excess;
and while we bear in mind that helplessness is.
not delicacy, let us also remember that maseu-
line manners do not necessarily include strength
of character, nor vigour of intellect. Should we
not reflect also, that we are neither to train up
Amazons nor Circassians, but that it is our busi-
ness to form Christians? that we have to edu-
cate not only rational, but accountable beings?
and, remembering this, should we not be soli-
citous to let our daughters learn of the well-
taught, and associate with the well-bred? In
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
325
*
training them, should we not carefully cultivate, I to hazard enumerating the variety of musical
intellect, implant religion, and cherish modesty? teachers who attend at the same time in the
Then, whatever is engaging in manners would same family; the daughters of which are sum-
be the natural result of whatever is just in sen- moned by at least as many instruments as the
timent, and correct in principle; softness would subjects of Nebuchadnezzar, to worship the idol
grow out of humility, and external delicacy which fashion has set up. They would be in-
would spring from purity of heart. Then the credulous were I to produce real instances, in
decorums, the proprieties, the elegances, and which the delighted mother has been heard to
even the graces, as far as they are simple, pure, declare, that the visits of masters of every art,
and honest, would follow as an almost inevitable and the different masters for various gradations
consequence; for to follow in the train of the of the same art, followed each other in such
christian virtues, and not to take the lead of close and rapid succession during the whole
them, is the proper place which religion assigns London residence, that her girls had not a mo-
to the graces.
ment's interval to look into a book; nor could
she contrive any method to introduce one, till
she happily devised the scheme of reading to
them herself for half an hour while they were
drawing, by which means no time was lost.*
Whether we have made the best use of the
errors of our predecessors, and of our own num-
berless advantages, and whether the prevailing
system be really consistent with sound policy,
true taste, or Christian principle, it may be worth
our while to inquire.
Would not a stranger be led to imagine by a
view of the reigning mode of female education,
that human life consisted of one universal holi-
day, and that the grand contest between the
several competitors was, who should be most
eminently qualified to excel, and carry off the
prize, in the various shows and games which
were intended to be exhibited in it? And to
the exhibitors themselves, would he not be ready
to apply sir Francis Bacon's observations on the
Olympian victors, that they were so excellent
in these unnecessary things, that their perfection
must needs have been acquired by the neglect
of whatever was necessary?
Before the evil has past redress, it will be pru-
dent to reflect that in all polished countries an
entire devotedness to the fine arts has been one
grand source of the corruption of the women;
and so justly were these pernicious consequen-
ces appreciated by the Greeks, among whom
these arts were carried to the highest possible
perfection, that they seldom allowed them to be
cultivated to a very exquisite degree by women
of great purity of character. And if the ambi-
tion of an elegant British lady should be fired
by the idea that the accomplished females of
those polished states were the admired compa-
nions of the philosophers, the poets, the wits,
and the artists of Athens; and their beauty or
talents, so much the favourite subjects of the
What would the polished Addison who thought muse, the lyre, the pencil, and the chissel, that
that one great end of a lady's learning to dance their pictures and statues furnished the most
was, that she might know how to sit still grace- consummate models of Grecian art: if, I say, the
fully; what would even the pagan historian* of accomplished females of our day are panting
the great Roman conspirator, who could com- for similar renown, let their modesty chastise
memorate it among the defects of this hero's ac- their ambition, by recollecting that these cele-
complished mistress, 'that she was too good a brated women are not to be found among the
singer and dancer for a virtuous woman ;'- chaste wives and the virtuous daughters of the
what would these refined critics have said, had Aristideses, the Agises, and the Phocions; but
they lived as we have done, to see the art of that they are to be looked for among the Phrynes,
dancing lifted into such importance that it can- the Laises, the Aspasias, and the Glyceras. I
not with any degree of safety be confided to one am persuaded the truly Christian female, what-
instructor; but a whole train of successive mas- ever be her taste or talents, will renounce the
ters are considered as absolutely essential to its desire of any celebrity when attached to impu-
perfection? What would these accurate judges rity of character, with the same noble indigna-
of female manners have said, to see a modest | tion with which the virtuous biographer of the
young lady first delivered into the hands of a above-named heroes renounced any kind of fame
military sergeant to instruct her in the feminine which might be dishonestly attained, by exclaim-
art of marching? and when this delicate acqui-ing, 'I had rather it should be said there never
sition is attained, to see her transferred to a pro-
fessor, who is to teach her the Scotch steps;
which professor, having communicated his in-
dispensable portion of this indispensable art,
makes way for the professor of French dances:
and all, perhaps, in their turn, either yield to, or
have the honour to co-operate with, a finishing
master; each probably receiving a stipend which
would make the pious curate or the learned
chaplain rich and happy ?
The science of music, which used to be com-
municated in so competent a degree to a young
lady by one able instructor, is now distributed
among a whole band. She now requires, not a
master, but an orchestra. And my country
readers would accuse me of exaggeration, were
* Sallust.
was a Plutarch, than that they should say Plu-
tarch was malignant, unjust, or envious.'+
* Since the first edition of this work appeared the au-
thor has received from a person of great eminence the
following statement, ascertaining the time employed in
calculation, it will perhaps be found to be so far from
the acquisition of music, in one instance. As a general
exaggerated, as to be below the truth. The statement
concludes with remarking, that the individual who is the
subject of it is now married to a man who dislikes music!
Suppose your pupil to begin at six years of age, and to
continue at the average of four hours a-day only, Sun-
day excepted, and thirteen days allowed for travelling
annually, till she is eighteen, the statement stands thus;
300 days multiplied by four, the number of hours amount
to 1200; that number multiplied by twelve, which is the
number of years, amounts to 14,400 hours!
† No censure is levelled at the exertions of real genius,
which is as valuable as it is rare; but at the absurdity
of that system which is erecting the whole sex into
artists.
326
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
And while this corruption brought on by an,
excessive cultivation of the arts, has contributed
its full share to the decline of states, it has al-
ways furnished an infallible symptom of their
impending fall. The satires of the most pene-
trating and judicious of the Roman poets, cor-
roborating the testimonies of the most accurate
of their historians, abound with invectives against
the general depravity of manners introduced by
the corrupt habits of female education. The
bitterness and gross indelicacy of some of these
satirists (too gross to be either quoted or refer-
red to) make little against their authority in
these points; for how shocking must those cor-
ruptions have been, and how obviously offensive
their causes, which could have appeared so high-
ly disgusting to minds so coarse as not likely to
be scandalized by slight deviations from decen-
cy! The famous ode of Horace, attributing the
vices and disasters of his degenerate country to
the same cause, might, were it quite free from
the above objections, be produced, I will not
presume to say as an exact picture of the exist-
ing manners of this country; but may I not
venture to say, as a prophecy, the fulfilment of
which cannot be very remote ? It may however
that indelicate statue-like exhibition of the fe
male figure, which by its artfully disposed folds,
its seemingly wet and adhesive drapery, so de-
fines the form as to prevent covering itself from
becoming a veil? This licentious mode, as the
acute Montesquieu observed on the dances of
the Spartan virgins, has taught us to strip
chastity itself of modesty.'
•
May the author be allowed to address to our
own country and cur own circumstances, to
both of which they seem peculiarly applicable,
the spirit of that beautiful apostrophe of the
most polished poet of antiquity to the most vic-
torious nation? Let us leave to the inhabitants
of conquered countries the praise of carrying to
the very highest degree of perfection, sculpture
and the sister arts; but let this country direct
her own exertions to the art of governing man-
kind in equity and peace, of showing mercy to
the submissive, and of abasing the proud among
surrounding nations.**
CHAP. III.
governesses.
be observed, that the modesty of the Roman External improvement. Children's balls. French
matron, and the chaste demeanour of her virgin
daughters, which amidst the stern virtues of the
state were as immaculate and pure as the honour
of the Roman citizen, fell a sacrifice to the luxu-
rious dissipation brought in by their Asiatic
conquests; after which the females were soon
taught a complete change of charactor. They
were instructed to accommodate their talents of
pleasing to the more vitiated tastes of the other
sex; and began to study every grace and every
art, which might captivate the exhausted hearts
and excite the wearied and capricious inclina-
tions of the men; till by a rapid and at length
complete enervation, the Roman character lost
its signature, and through a quick succession
of slavery, effeminacy, and vice, sunk into that
degeneracy of which some of the modern Italian
states serve to furnish a too just specimen.
LET me not however be misunderstood.-The
customs which fashion has established, when
they are not in opposition to what is right, when
they are not hostile to virtue, should unquestion-
ably be pursued in the education of ladies. Piety
maintains no natural war with elegance, and
Christianity would be no gainer by making her
disciples unamiable. Religion does not forbid
that the exterior be made to a certain degree
the object of attention. But the admiration be-
stowed, the sums expended, and the time lavish-
ed on arts, which add little to the intrinsic value
of life, should have limitations. While these
arts should be admired, let them not be admired
above their just value: while they are practised,
let it not be to the exclusion of higher employ-
ments while they are cultivated, let it be to
amuse leisure, not to engross life.
But it happens unfortunately, that to ordinary
observers, the girl who is really receiving the
worst instruction often makes the best figure;
while in the more correct but less ostensible edu.
cation, the deep and sure foundations to which
the edifice will owe its strength and stability lie
out of sight. The outward accomplishments
have the dangerous advantage of addressing
themselves more immediately to the senses, and
It is of the essence of human things that the
same objects which are highly useful in their
season, measure, and degree, become mischiev-
ous in their excess, at other periods and under
other circumstances. In a state of barbarism,
the arts are among the best reformers; and they
go on to be improved themselves, and improving
those who cultivate them, till having reached a
certain point, those very arts which were the in-
struments of civilization and refinement, become
instruments of corruption and decay; enervating
and depraving in the second instance, by the ex- * Let me not be suspected of bringing into any sort of
cess and universality of their cultivation, as cer- comparison the gentleness of British government with
tainly as they refined in the first. They become ciples of Roman dominion. To spoil, to butcher, and to
the rapacity of Roman conquests, or the tyrannical prin-
agents of voluptuousness.-They excite the ima- commit every kind of violence, they call, says one of the
gination; and the imagination thus excited, and ablest of their historians, by the lying name of govern-
no longer under the government of strict prin-ment, and when they have spread a general desolation,
they call it peace. (1)
ciple, becomes the most dangerous stimulant of
the passions; promotes a too keen relish for
pleasure, teaching how to multiply its sources,
and inventing new and pernicious modes of ar-
tificial gratification.
May we not rank among the present corrupt
consequences of this unbounded cultivation, the
unchaste costume, the impure style of dress, and
With such dictatorial, or as we might now read, direc-
torial, inquisitors, we can have no point of contact; and
if I have applied the servile flattery of a delightful poet
to the purpose of English happiness, it was only to show
wherein true national grandeur consists, and that every
country pays too dear a price for those arts and embel-
lishments of society which endanger the loss of its mo
rals and manners.
(1) Tacitus' Life of Agricola, speech of Galgaous to
his soldiers:
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
327
of course meet every where with those who can,
in some measure appreciate as well as admire
them; for all can see and hear, but all cannot
scrutinize and discriminate, External acquire-
ments too recommend themselves the more be-
cause they are more rapidly, as well as more
visibly progressive; while the mind is led on to
improvement by slow motions and impercepti-
ble degrees; while the heart must now be ad-
monished by reproof, and now allured by kind-
ness; its liveliest advances being suddenly im-
peded by obstinacy, and its brightest prospects
often obscured by passion; it is slow in its ac-
quisitions of virtue, and reluctant in its ap-
proaches to piety; and its progress, when any
progress is made, does not obtrude itself to vul-
gar observation.-The unruly and turbulent
propensities of the mind are not so obedient to
the forming hand as defects of manner or awk-
wardness of gait. Often when we fancy that a
troublesome passion is completely crushed, we
have the mortification to find that we have
'scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it.' One evil tem-
per starts up before another is conquered. The
subduing hand cannot cut off the ever-sprouting
heads so fast as the prolific hydra can reproduce
them, nor fell the stubborn Antæus so often as
he can recruit his strength, and rise in vigorous
and repeated opposition.
Hired teachers are also under a disadvantage
resembling tenants at rack-rent; it is their in-
terest to bring in an immediate revenue of praise
and profit; and, for the sake of a present rich
crop, those who are not strictly conscientious,
do not care how much the ground is impoverish-
ed for future produce. But parents, who are the
lords of the soil, must look to permanent value,
and to continued fruitfulness. The best effects
of a careful education are often very remote;
they are to be discovered in future scenes, and
exhibited in as yet untried connexions. Every
event of life will be putting the heart into fresh
situations, and making new demands on its pru-
dence, its firmness, its integrity, or its forbear-
ance. Those whose business it is to form and
model it, cannot foresee those contingent situa-
tions specifically and distinctly: yet, as far as
human wisdom will allow, they must enable it
to prepare for them all by general principles,
correct habits, and an unremitted sense of de-
pendence on the Great Disposer of events. As
the soldier must learn and practise all his evo-
lutions, though he do not know on what service
his leader may command him, by what particu-
lar foe he shall be most assailed, nor what mode
of attack the enemy may employ; so must the
young Christian militant be prepared by pre-
vious discipline for actual duty.
But the contrary of all this is the case with
external acquisitions. The master, it is his in-
terest, will industriously instruct his young pu-
pil to set all her improvements in the most im-
mediate and conspicuous point of view. To at-
tract admiration is the great principle sedu-
lously inculcated into her young heart; and is
considered as the fundamental maxim: and,
perhaps, if we were required to condense the
reigning system of the brilliant education of a
lady into an aphorism, it might be comprised
into this short sentence, To allure and to shine.
|
from
This system however is the fruitful germ,
which a thousand yet unborn vanities, with all
their multiplied ramifications, will spring. A
tender mother cannot but feel an honest triumph
in contemplating those talents in her daughter,
which will necessarily excite admiration; but
she will also shudder at the vanity that admira-
tion may excite, and at the new ideas it will
awaken: and, startling as it may sound, the
labours of a wise mother, anxious for her daugh-
ter's best interests, will seem to be at variance
with those of all her teachers. She will indeed
rejoice at her progress, but she will rejoice with
trembling; for she is fully aware that if all pos-
sible accomplishments could be bought at the
price of a single virtue, of a single principle,
the purchase would be infinitely dear, and she
would reject the dazzling but destructive acqui-
sition. She knows that the superstructure of
the accomplishments can be alone safely erected
on the broad and solid basis of Christian hu-
mility: nay more, that as the materials of which
that superstructure is to be composed, are in
themselves of so unstable and tottering a nature,
the foundation must be deepened and enlarged
with more abundant care, otherwise the fabric
will be overloaded with its own ornaments, and
what was intended only to embellish the build-
ing, will prove the occasion of its fall.
To every thing there is a season, and a time
for every purpose under heaven,' said the wise
man; but he said it before the invention of
BABY-BALLS; an invention which has formed a
kind of æra, and a most inauspicious one, in
the annals of polished education. This modern
device is a sort of triple conspiracy against the
innocence, the health, and the happiness of
children. Thus by factitious amusements, to
rob them of a relish for the simple joys, the un-
bought delights, which naturally belong to their
blooming season, is like blotting out spring from
the year. To sacrifice the true and proper en-
joyments of sprightly and happy children, is to
make them pay a dear and disproportionate
price for their artificial pleasures. They step
at once from the nursery to the ball-room; and,
by a change of habits as new as it is prepos-
terous, are thinking of dressing themselves, at
an age when they used to be dressing their
dolls. Instead of bounding with the unrestrain-
ed freedom of little wood-nymphs over hill and
dale, their cheeks flushed with health, and their
hearts overflowing with happiness, these gay
little creatures are shut up all the morning, de-
murely practising the pas grave, and transacting
the serious business of acquiring a new step for
the evening, with more cost of time and pains
than it would have taken them to acquire twenty
new ideas.
Thus they lose the amusements which proper-
ly belong to their smiling period, and unnatu-
rally anticipate those pleasures (such as they
are) which would come in, too much of course,
on their introduction into fashionable life. The
true pleasures of childhood are cheap and natu-
ral: for every object teems with delight to eyes
and hearts new to the enjoyment of life; nay,
the hearts of healthy children abound with a
general disposition to mirth and joyfulness, even
without a specific object to excite it: like our
$28
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
first parent, in the world's first spring, when all take off from the merriment of it, as any of the
was new and fresh, and gay about hirn,
they live and move,
And feel that they are happier than they know.
Only furnish them with a few simple and harm-
less materials, and a little, but not too much,
leisure, and they will manufacture their own
pleasure with more skill and success, and satis.
faction, than they will receive from all that your
money can purchase. Their bodily recreations
should be such as will promote their health,
quicken their activity, enliven their spirits, whet
their ingenuity, and qualify them for their men-
tal work. But, if you begin thus early to create
wants, to inyent gratifications, to multiply de-
sires, to waken dormant sensibilities, to stir up
hidden fires, you are studiously laying up for
your children a store of premature caprice and
irritability, of impatience and discontent.
ridiculous and preposterous disproportions in the
diverting travels of captain Lemuel Gulliver.
we are sustaining from the principles and the
Under a just impression of the evils which
practices of modern France, we are apt to lose
sight of those deep and lasting mischiefs which
so long, so regularly, and so systematically we
have been importing from the same country,
though in another form, and under another go-
vernment. In one respect, indeed, the first were
the more formidable, because we embraced the
ruin without suspecting it; while we defeat the
malignity of the latter, by detecting the turpi-
tude, and defending ourselves against its conta,
gion. This is not the place to descant on that
levity of manners, that contempt of the sabbath,
that fatal familiarity with loose principles, and
those relaxed notions of conjugal fidelity, which
While childhood preserves its native simpli- have ofteen been transplanted into this country
city, every little change is interesting, every by women of fashion, as a too common effect of
gratification is a luxury. A ride or a walk, a a long residence in a neighbouring nation; but
garland of flowers of her own forming, a plant it is peculiarly suitable to my subject to advert
of her own cultivating, will be a delightful to another domestic mischief derived from the
amusement to a child in her natural state; but same foreign extraction; I mean the risks that
these harmless and interesting recreations will have been run, and the sacrifices which have
be dull and tasteless to a sophisticated little been made, in order to furnish our young ladies
creature, nursed in such forced, and costly, and with the means of acquiring the French lan.
vapid pleasures. Alas! that we should throw guage in the greatest possible purity. Perfec-
away this first grand opportunity of working tion in this accomplishment has been so long
into a practical habit the moral of this impor-established as the supreme object; so long con-
tant truth, that the chief source of human dis-
content is to be looked for, not in our real, but
in our factitious wants; not in the demands of
nature, but in the insatiable cravings of artifi-
cial desire!
sidered as the predominant excellence to which
all other excellencies must bow down, that it
would be hopeless to attack a law which fashion
has immutably decreed, and which has received
the stamp of long prescription. We must, there-
When we see the growing zeal to crowd the fore, be contented with expressing a wish, that
midnight ball with these pretty fairies, we this indispensable perfection could have been
should be almost tempted to fancy it was a kind attained at the expense of sacrifices less impor-
of pious emulation among the mothers to cure tant. It is with the greater regret I animad
their infants of a fondness for vain and foolish vert on this and some other prevailing practices
pleasures, by tiring them out by this premature as they are errors into which the wise and re-
familiarity with them. And we should be so spectable have through want of consideration,
desirous to invent an excuse for a practice so or rather through want of firmness to resist the
inexcusable, that we should be ready to hope tyranny of fashion, sometimes fallen. It has
that they were actuated by something of the not been unusual when mothers of rank and re-
same principle which led the Spartans to intro-putation have been asked how they ventured to
duce their sons to scenes of riot, that they might
conceive an early disgust at vice! or possibly,
that they imitated those Scythian mothers who
used to plunge their new-born infants into the
flood, thinking none to be worth saving who
could not stand this early struggle for their lives;
the greater part, indeed, as might have been ex-teacher and the pupil.' This, it must be con-
pected, perished; but the parents took comfort,
that if they were lost, the few who escaped
would be the stronger for having been thus ex-
posed!
To behold Lilliputian coquettes, projecting
dresses, studying colours, assorting ribands,
mixing flowers, and choosing feathers; their
little hearts beating with hopes about partners
and fears about rivals; to see their fresh cheeks
pale after the midnight supper, their aching
heads and unbraced nerves, disqualifying the
little languid beings for the next day's task;
and to hear the grave apology, that it is owing
to the wine, the crowd, the heated room of the
last night's ball;' all this, I say, would really be
as ludicrous, if the mischief of the thing did not
intrust their daughters to foreigners, of whose
principles they knew nothing, except that they
were Roman Catholics, to answer, That they
had taken care to be secure on that subject; for
that it had been stipulated that the question of
religion should never be agitated between the
fessed, is a most desperate remedy; it is like
starving to death to avoid being poisoned. And
who can help trembling for the event of that
education, from which religion, as far as the go-
verness is concerned, is thus formally and sys-
tematically excluded. Surely it would not be
exacting too much, to suggest at least that an
attention no less scrupulous should be exerted
to insure the character of our children's in-
structor, for piety and knowledge, than is
thought necessary to ascertain that she has no-
thing patois in ner dialect.
elegant phraseology at their just price, and I
I would rate a correct pronunciation and an
would not rate them low; but I would not offer
up piety and principle as victims to sounds and
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
329
accents. And the matter is now made more
easy; for whatever disgrace it might once have
brought on an English lady to have had it sus-
pected from her accent that she had the misfor-
tune not to be born in a neighbouring country;
some recent events may serve to reconcile her
to the suspicion of having been bred in her own.
A country, to which, (with all its sins, which
are many!) the whole world is looking up with
envy and admiration, as the seat of true glory
and of comparative happiness! A country, in
which the exile, driven out by the crimes of his
own, finds a home! A country, to obtain the
protection of which it was claim enough to be
unfortunate; and no impediment to have been
the subject of her direst foe! A country, which,
in this respect, humbly imitating the Father of
compassion, when it offered mercy to a suppli-
ant enemy, never conditioned for merit, nor in.
sisted on the virtues of the miserable as a pre-
liminary to its own bounty!
'England! with all thy faults, I love thee still.'
CHAP. IV.
furnished with a stock of ideas, and principles,
and qualifications and habits, ready to be applied
and appropriated, as occasion may demand, to
each of these respective situations. For though
the arts which merely embellish life must claim
admiration; yet when a man of sense comes to
marry, it is a companion whom he wants, and
not an artist. It is not merely a creature who
can paint, and play, and sing, and draw, and
dress, and dance; it is a being who can com-
fort and counsel him; one who can reason, and
reflect, and feel and judge, and discourse and
discriminate; one who can assist him in his
affairs, lighten his cares, sooth his sorrows,
purify his joys, strengthen his principles, and
educate his chidren.
Almost any ornamental acquirement is a good
thing, when it is not the best thing a woman
has; and talents are admirable when not made
to stand proxy for virtues. The writer of these
pages is intimately acquainted with several
ladies who, excelling most of their sex in the art
of music, but excelling them also in prudence
and piety, find little leisure or temptation amidst
the delights and duty of a large and lovely
family, for the exercise of this charming talent;
Comparison of the mode of female education in they regret that so much of their own youth
the last age with the present.
-
was wasted in acquiring an art which can be
now conscientiously restricting their daughters
turned to so little account in married life, and are
in the portion of time allotted to its acquisition.
of any existing talent; but may it not be ques-
Far be it from me to discourage the cultivation
tioned of the fond believing mother, whether
talents like the spirits of Owen Glendower,
though conjured by parental partiality with ever
so loud a voice,
Yet will they come when you do call for them?
To return, however, to the subject of general
education. We admit that a young lady may
excel in speaking French and Italian; may re-
peat a few passages from a volume of extracts;
play like a professor, and sing like a syren;
have her dressing-room decorated with her own
drawings, tables, stands, flower-pots, screens
and cabinets; nay,
; nay, she
may dance like Sempro-
nia* herself, and yet we shall insist that she
may have been very badly educated. I am far
from meaning to set no value whatever on these
qualifications; they are all of them elegant, and be too much discouraged of endeavouring to
That injudicious practice, therefore, cannot
many of them properly tend to the perfecting create talents which do not exist in nature.
of a polite education. These things in their That their daughters shall learn every thing, is
measure and degree may be done, but there are
others which should not be left nndone. Many daughters, of whose expected abilities and con-
so general a maternal maxim, that even unborn
things are becoming, but one thing is needful.'jectured faculties, it is presumed, no very ac-
Besides, as the world seems to be fully apprised
of the value of whatever tends to embellish life,
there is less occasion here to insist on its impor-
tance.
curate judgment can previously be formed, are
yet predestined to this universality of accom.
plishments. This comprehensive maxim, thus
But though a well-bred youug lady may law- weakens the general powers of the mind, by
almost universally brought into practice, at once
fully learn most of the fashionable arts; yet, let drawing off its strength into too great a variety
me ask, does it seem to be the true end of educa- of directions; and cuts up time into too many
tion to make women of fashion dancers, singers, separate portions, by splitting it into such an
players, painters, actresses, sculptors, gilders, endless multiplicity of employments. I know
varnishers, engravers, and embroiderers? Most that I am treading on tender ground; but I can-
men are commonly destined to some profession, not help thinking that the restless pains we take
and their minds are consequently turned each to cram up every little vacuity of life, by crowd-
to its respective object. Would it not be strangeing one new thing upon another, rather creates
if they were called out to exercise their profes- a thirst for novelty than knowledge; and is but
sion, or to set up their trade, with only a little
general knowledge of the trades and profes-
sions of all other men, and without any previous
definite application to their own peculiar call-
ing? The professions of ladies, to which the
bent of their instruction should be turned, is
that of daughters, wives, mothers, and mistresses
of families. They should be therefore trained
with a view to these several conditions, and be
* See Cataline's Conspiracy,
a well disguised contrivance to anticipate the
keeping us in after-life more effectually from
conversing with ourselves. The care taken to
prevent ennui is but a creditable plan for pro-
moting self-ignorance. We run from one occu-
pation to another (I speak of those arts to which
little intellect is applied) with a view to lighten
the pressure of time; above all we fly to them to
save us from our own thoughts; we fly to them
to rescue us from ourselves; whereas we were
330
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
lightest head, nor vanity to the vainest heart, to
solace her labours in reflecting how exceedingly
the gown she is working will become her mo-
thrown a little more on our own hands, we,
might at last be driven, by way of something to
do, to try to get acquainted with our own hearts.
But it is only one part of the general inconsis-ther. This suggestion, trifling as it may seem,
tency of the human character, that with the
person of all others we best love, we least like
to converse and to form an intimacy; I mean
ourselves. But though our being less absorbed
by this busy trifling, which dignifies its inanity
with the imposing name of occupation, might
render us somewhat more sensible of the tedium
of life; yet might not this very sensation tend to
quicken our pursuit of a better? For an awful
thought here suggests itself. If life be so long that
we are driven to set at work every engine to pass
away the tediousness of time; how shall we do to
get rid of the tediousness of eternity? an eternity
in which not one of the acquisitions which life
has been exhausted in acquiring, will be of the
least use? Let not then the soul be starved by
feeding it on such unsubstantial aliment, for the
mind can be no more nourished by these empty
husks than the body can be fed with ideas and
principles.
Among the boasted improvements of the pre-
sent age, none affords more frequent matter of
peculiar exultation, than the manifest superiority
in the employment of the young ladies of our
time over those of the good house-wives of the
last century. It is matter of general triumph
that they are at present employed in learning
the polite arts, or in acquiring liberal accom-
plishments; while it is insisted that their forlorn
predecessors wore out their joyless days in
adorning the mansion-house with hideous hang-
ings of sorrowful tapestry and disfiguring tent-
stitch. Most cheerfully do I allow to the reign-
ing modes their just claim of boasted superiority,
for certainly there no piety in bad taste. Still,
granting all the deformity of the exploded orna-
ments, one advantage attended them, the walls
and the floors were not vain of their decorations;
and it is to be feared, that the little person some.
times is. The flattery bestowed on the obsolete
employments, for probably even they had their
flatterers, furnished less aliment to selfishness,
and less gratification to vanity and the occu-
pation itself was less likely to impair the deli-
cacy and modesty of the sex, than the exqui-
site cultivation of personal accomplishments or
personal decorations; and every mode which
keeps down vanity and keeps back self, has at
least a moral use. For while we admire the
rapid movement of the elegant fingers of a young
lady busied in working or painting her ball
dress, we cannot help suspecting that her alac-
rity may be a little stimulated by the animating
idea how very well she shall look in it. Nor
was the industrious matron of Ithaca more
soothed at her solitary loom with the sweet re-
flection that by her labour she was gratifying
her filial and conjugal feelings, than the in-
dustrious but pleasure-loving damsel of Britain
is gratified by the anticipated admiration which
her ingenuity is procuring for her beauty.
Might not this propensity be a little checked,
and an interesting feeling combined with her
industry, were the fair artist habituated to ex-
ercise her skill in adorning some one else rather
than herself? For it will add no lightness to the
of habituating young ladies to exercise their
taste and devote their leisure, not to the deco-
ration of their own persons, but to the service
of those to whom they are bound by every ten-
der tie of love and duty, would not only help to
repress vanity, but by thus associating the idea
of industry with that of filial tenderness, would
promote, while it gratified some of the best
affections of the heart. The Romans (and it is
mortifying on the subject of Christian educa-
tion to be driven so often to refer to the superi-
ority of pagans) were so well aware of the im-
portance of keeping up a sense of family fond-
ness and attachment by the very same means
which promoted simple and domestic employ-
ment, that no citizen of note ever appeared in
public in any garb but what was spun by his
wife and daughter; and this virtuous passion
was not confined to the early days of republican
severity, but even in all the pomp and luxury
of imperial power. Augustus preserved in his
own family this simplicity of private manners.
Let me be allowed to repeat, that I mean not
with preposterous praise to descant on the igno-
rance or the prejudices of past times, nor absurdly
to regret the vulgar system of education which
rounded the little circle of female acquirements
within the limits of the sampler and the receipt
book. Yet if a preference almost exclusive was
then given to what was merely useful, a pre-
ference almost equally exclusive also is now
assigned to what is merely ornamental. And it
must be owned, that if the life of a young lady.
formerly too much resembled the life of a con-
fectioner, it now too much resembles that of an
actress: the morning is all rehearsal, and the
evening is all preformance. And those who
are trained in this regular routine, who are in-
structed in order to be exhibited, soon learn to
fcel a sort of impatience in those societies in
which their kind of talents are not likely to be
brought into play; the task of an auditor be-
comes dull to her who has been used to be a
performer. Esteem and kindness become but
cold substitutes to one who has been fed on
plaudits and pampered with acclamations: and
the excessive commendation which the visiter
is expected to pay for his entertainment not
only keeps alive the flame of vanity in the artist
by constant fuel, but is not seldom exacted at a
price which a veracity at all strict would grudge.
The misfortune is, when a whole circle are ob-
liged to be competitors who shall flatter most,
it is not easy to be at once very sincerc and
very civil. And unfortunately, while the age is
become so knowing and so fastidious, that if a
young lady does not play like a public perfor-
mer, no one thinks her worth attending; yet if
she does so excel, some of the soperest of the
admiring circle feel a strong alloy to their plea-
sure, on reflecting at what a vast expense of
time this perfection probably must have been
acquired.*
de Maintenon, was so well aware of the danger result-
* That accurate judge of the human heart, madame
ing from some kinds of excellence, that after the young
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
331
that they have done all, and have fully acquitted
themselves of the important duties of education.
For having, as they think, sufficiently grounded
their daughters in religion, they do not scruple
to allow them to spend almost the whole of their
time exactly like the daughters of worldly peo-
ple. Now, though it be one great point gained,
to have imbued their young minds with the best
knowledge, the work is not therefore by any
means accomplished. 'What do ye more than
others?' is a question which in a more extend-
ed sense, religious parents must be prepared to
answer.
The study of the fine arts, indeed, is forced | ments, do not neglect to infuse religious know-
on young persons, with or without genius (fa-ledge into the minds of their children; and
shion, as was said before, having swallowed up having done this, are but too apt to conclude
that distinction) to such excess, as to vex, fa-
tigue, and disgust those who have no talents,
and to determine them, as soon as they become
free agents, to abandon all such tormenting ac-
quirements. While by this incessant compul-
sion still more pernicious effects are often pro-
duced on those who actually possess genius; for
the natural constant reference in the mind to
that public performance for which they are se-
dulously cultivating this talent, excites the same
passions of envy, vanity, and competition in the
dilettanti performers, as might be supposed to
stimulate professional candidates for fame and
profit at public games and theatrical exhibitions.
Such parents should go on to teach children
Is this emulation, is this spirit of rivalry, is this the religious use of time, the duty of consecra-
hunger after public praise the temper which ting to God every talent, every faculty, every
prudent parents would wish to excite and foster? possession, and of devoting their whole lives to
Besides, in any event the issue is not favourable his glory. People of piety should be more pe-
if the young performers are timid; they disgrace culiarly on their guard against a spirit of idle-
themselves and distress their friends; if courage-ness, and a slovenly habitual wasting of time,
ous, their boldness offends still more than their
bad performance. Shall they then be studiously
brought into situations in which failure discre-
dits and success disgusts ?
May I venture, without being accused of pe-
dantry, to conclude this chapter with another
reference to pagan examples? The Hebrews,
Egyptians, and Greeks, believed that they could
more effectually teach their youth maxims of
virtue, by calling in the aid of music and poetry;
these maxims, therefore, they put into verses,
and these verses were set to the most popular
and simple tunes, which the children sang; thus
was their love of goodness excited by the very
instrument of their pleasure; and the senses, the
taste, and the imagination, as it were, pressed
into the service of religion, and morals. Dare I
appeal to christian parents, if these arts are
commonly used by them, as subsidiary to reli-
gion, and to a system of morals much more
worthy of every ingenious aid and association,
which might tend to recommend them to the
youthful mind? Dare I appeal to Christian pa-
rents, whether music, which fills up no trifling
portion of their daughter's time, does not fill it
without any moral end, or even without any
specific object? Nay, whether some of the fa-
vourite songs of polished societies are not ama-
tory, are not Anacreontic, more than quite be-
come the modest lips of innocent youth and de-
licate beauty?
because this practice, by not assuming a palpa-
ble shape of guilt, carries little alarm to the con-
science. Even religious characters are in dan-
ger on this side; for not allowing themselves to
follow the world in its excesses and diversions,
they have consequently more time upon their
hands; and instead of dedicating the time so
rescued to its true purposes, they sometimes
make as it were compensation to themselves for
their abstinence from dangerous places of pub-
lic resort, by an habitual frivolousness at home;
by a superabundance of unprofitable small-talk,
idle reading, and a quiet and dull frittering
away of time. Their day perhaps has been
more free from actual evil: but it will often be
discovered to have been as unproductive as that
of more worldly characters; and they will be
found to have traded to as little purpose with
their master's talents. But a Christian must
take care to keep his conscience peculiarly alive
to the unapparent, though formidable perils of
unprofitableness.
To these, and to all, the author would ear-
nestly recommend to accustom their children to
pass at once from serious business to active and
animated recreation; they should carefully pre-
serve them from those long and torpid intervals
between both, that languid indolence and spirit-
less trifling that merely getting rid of the day
without stamping on it any characters of active
goodness or of intellectual profit, that inane
drowsiness which wears out such large portions
of life in both young and old. It has, indeed,
passed into an aphorism, that activity is neces-
sary to virtue, even among those who are not
On the religious employment of time.—On the apprised that it is also indispensable to happi-
ness. So far are many parents from being sen-
manner in which holydays are passed.-Self-sible of this truth, that vacations from school are
ishness and inconsideration considered.-Dan-
gers arising from the world.
CHAP. V.
THERE are many well-disposed parents, who,
while they attend to these fashionable acquire
ladies of the court of Louis Quatorze had distinguished
themselves by the performance of some dramatic pieces
of Racine, when her friends told her how admirably
they had played their parts; 'Yes,' answered this wise
woman, so admirably that they shall never play again.'
not merely allowed, but appointed to pass away
in wearisome sauntering and indeterminate idle-
ness, and this is done by erring tenderness, by
way of converting the holydays into pleasure!
Nay the idleness is specifically made over to the
child's mind, as the strongest expression of the
fondness of the parent! A dislike to learning
is thus systematically excited by preposterously
erecting indolence into a reward for application'
332
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
And the promise of doing nothing is held out as
the strongest temptation, as well as the best re-
compence, for having done well!
These, and such like errors of conduct arise
from the latent, but very operative, principle of
selfishness. This principle is obviously promo-
ted by many habits and practice seemingly of
little importance; and indeed selfishness is so
commonly interwoven with vanity and inconsi-
deration that I have not always thought it ne-
cessary to mark the distinction. They are al-
ternately cause and effect; and are produced
and reproduced by reciprocal operation. They
They
are a joint confederacy, who are mutually pro-
moting each other's strength and interest; they
are united by almost inseparable ties, and the
indulgence of either is the gratification of all.
Ill-judging tenderness is in fact only a concealed
self-love, which cannot bear to be a witness to
the uneasiness which a present disappointment,
or difficulty, or vexation, would cause to a dar-
ling child; but which yet does not scruple by
improper gratification to store up for it future
miseries, which the child will infallibly suffer,
though it may be at a distant period, which the
selfish mother does not disturb herself by anti-
cipating, because she thinks she may be saved
the pain of beholding.
I
|
with the tempting remark, that they cannot
have this or that dainty at school.' They are
indulged in irregular hours for the same motive,
because they cannot have that indulgence at
school.' Thus the natural seeds of idleness,
sensuality, and sloth, are at once cherished, by
converting the periodical visit at home into a
season of intemperance, late hours, and exemp-
tion from learning. So that children are habi-
tuated, at an age when lasting associations are
formed in the mind, to connect the idea of study
with that of hardship, of happiness with gluttony,
and of pleasure with loitering, feasting, or sleep-
ing. Would it not be better, would it not be
kinder, to make them combine the delightful idea
of home, with the gratification of the social affec-
tions, the fondness of maternal love, the kind-
ness, and warmth, and confidence of the sweet
domestic attachments,
-And all the charities
Of father, son and brother?
I will venture to say, that those listless and
vacant days, when the thoughts have no precise
object; when the imagination has nothing to
shape; when industry has no definitive pursuit;
when the mind and the body have no exercise:
and the ingenuity has no acquisition either to
Another principle, something different from and the least happy, which children of spirit and
anticipate or to enjoy, are the longest, the dullest,
this, though it may probably fall under the head
of selfishness, seems to actuate some parents in keen and lively intervals of animated pleasure,
genius ever pass. Yes! it is a few short but
their conduct towards their children: I mean a snatched from between the successive labours
certain slothfulness of mind, a love of ease which and duties of a well-ordered, busy day, looked
imposes a voluntary blindness, and makes them forward to with hope, enjoyed with taste, and
not choose to see what will give them the trou-recollected without remorse, which, both to men
ble to combat. From the persons in question
we frequently hear such expressions as these:
Children will be children.'-'My children,
suppose are much like those of other people,'
&c. Thus we may observe this dangerous and
delusive principle frequently turning off with a
smile from the first indications of those tempers,
which from their fatal tendency ought to be very
seriously taken up. I would be understood now
as speaking to conscientious parents, who con..
sider it as a general duty to correct the faults of
their children, but who, from this indolence of
mind, are extremely backward in discovering
such faults, and are not very well pleased when
they are pointed out by others. Such parents
will do well to take notice, that whatever they
consider it is a duty to correct, must be equally
a duty to endeavour to find out. And this indo-
lent love of ease is the more to be guarded
and to children, yield the truest portions of en-
to the number of those objects of supreme com-
joyment. O snatch your offspring from adding
miseration, who seek their happiness in doing
nothing! The animal may be gratified by it,
but the man is degraded. Life is but a short
day; but it is a working day. Activity may
lead to evil; but inactivity cannot be led to
good.
Young ladies should also be accustomed to set
apart a fixed portion of their time, as sacred to
to the poor,* whether in relieving, instructing,
or working for them; and the performance of
this duty must not be left to the event of con-
tingent circumstances, or operation of acciden-
tal impressions; but it must be established into
a principle, and wrought into a habit. A specific
portion of the day must be allotted to it, on which
no common engagement must be allowed to in-
trench. Those periods of time, which are not
stated, are seldom turned to their proper use;
and nothing short of a regular planf (which must
however be sometimes made to give way to cir-
against, as it not only leads parents into errone-
ous conduct towards their children, but is pecu-
liarly dangerous to themselves. It is a fault
frequently cherished from ignorance of its real
character; for not bearing on it the strong fea-
tures of deformity which mark many other vices,
but on the contrary bearing some resemblance
to virtue, it is frequently mistaken for Christian
graces of patience, meekness, and forbearance,
than which nothing can be more opposite; these
proceeding from that Christian principle of self-ces of sickness and sufferings peculiar to themselves,
denial, the other from self-indulgence.
In this connexion may I be permitted to re-
mark on the practice at the tables of many fa-
milies when the children are at home for the
holydays? Every delicacy is forced upon them,
* It would be a noble employment, and well becoming
the tenderness of their sex, if ladies were to consider the
superintendance of the poor as their immediate office.
They are peculiarly fitted for it, for from their own ha-
bits of life they are more intimately acquainted with do-
mestic wants than the other sex; and in certain instan-
they should be expected to have more sympathy; and
they have obviously more leisure. There is a certain
religious society, distinguished by simplicity of dress,
manners, and language, whose poor are perhaps better
taken care of than any other; and one reason may be,
that they are immediately under the inspection of the
women.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
333
the whole of Sunday,' while she was virtually
compelling her to do so, by an injunction to
bring the gown home finished on the Monday
morning, on pain of her displeasure. To these
hardships numbers are continually driven by
good natured but inconsiderate employers. As
these petty exactions of inconsideration furnish
only a constant aliment to selfishness, let not a
desire to counteract them be considered as lead-
ing to too minute details; nothing is too frivo-
lous for animadversion, which tends to fix a bad
cumstances) insures the conscientious discharge
of any duty. This will help to furnish a powerful
remedy for that selfishness, whose strong holds
(the truth cannot be too often repeated) it is the
grand business of Christian education perpe-
tually to attack. If we were but aware how
much better it makes ourselves to wish to see
others better and to assist in making them so,
we should find that the good done would be of
as much importance by the habit of doing good,
which it would induce in our own minds, as by
its beneficial effects on the objects of our kind-habit in the superior, or to wound the feelings
ness.*
In what relates to pecuniary bounty, it will
be requiring of young persons a very small sa
crifice, if you teach them merely to give that
money to the poor which properly belongs not
to the child but to the parent; this sort of charity
commonly subtracts little from their own plea-
sures, especially when what they have bestowed
is immediately made up to them as a reward for
their little fit of generosity. They will, on this
plan, soon learn to give, not only for praise but
for profit. The sacrifice of an orange to a little
girl, or feather to a great one, given at the ex-
pense of their own gratification, would be a bet-
ter lesson of charity on its right ground, than a
considerable sum of money to be presently re-
placed by the parent. And it would be habi-
tuating them early to combine two ideas, which
ought never to be separated, charity and self
denial.
of the dependant.
Would it not be turning those political doc-
trines, which are now so warmly agitating, to
a truly moral account, and give the best prac-
tical answer to the popular declamations on the
inequality of human conditions, were the rich
carefully to instruct their children to soften that
inevitable inequality by the mildness and ten-
derness of their behaviour to their inferiors?
This dispensation of God, which excites so many
sinful murmurs, would, were it thus practically
improved, tend to establish the glory of that
Being who is now so often charged with injus-
tice; for God himself is covertly attacked in
many of the invectives against laws, govern-
ments, and the supposed arbitrary and unjust
disproportion of ranks and riches.
This dispensation, thus properly improved,
would, at once call into exercise the generosity,
kindness, and forbearance of the superior; and
the patience, resignation, and gratitude of the
inferior; and thus, while we were vindicating
the ways of Providence, we should be accom-
plishing his plan, by bringing into action those
virtues of both classes, which would have little
exercise had there been no inequality in station
and fortune. Those more exalted persons who
are so zealously contending for the privileges of
rank and power, should never lose sight of the
religious duties and considerate virtues which
the possession of rank and power imposes on
As an antidote to selfishness, as well as to
pride and indolence, they should also very early
be taught to perform all the little offices in their
power for themselves; they should be accustom-
ed not to be insolently exercising their supposed
prerogative of rank and wealth, by calling for
servants where there is no real occasion; above
all they should be accustomed to consider the
domestics' hours of meals and rest as almost
sacred, and the golden rule should be practicably
and uniformly enforced, even on so trifling an
occasion as ringing a bell, through mere wan-themselves; duties and virtues which should ever
tonness, or self-love, or pride.
To check the growth of inconsiderateness,
young ladies should early be taught to discharge
their little debts with punctuality. They should
be made sensible of the cruelty of obliging
trades-people to call often for the money due to
them; and of hindering and detaining those
whose time is the source of their subsistence,
under the pretence of some frivolous engage-
ment, which ought to be made to bend to the
comfort and advantage of others. They should
conscientiously allow sufficient time for the exe-
cution of their orders; and with a Christian cir-
cumspection be careful not to drive work-peo-
ple, by needless hurry, into losing their rest, or
breaking the Sabbath. I have known a lady
give her gown to a mantua-maker on the Satur-
day night, to whom she would not for the world
say in so many words, 'You must work through
* In addition to the instruction of the individual poor,
and the superintendance of charity schools, ladies might
be highly useful in assisting the parochial clergy in the
adoption of that excellent plan for the instruction of the
ignorant, suggested by the bishop of Durham in his last
admirable charge to his clergy. It is with pleasure the
author is enabled to add that the scheme has actually
been adopted with good effect in that extensive diocese.
be inseparable from those privileges. As the
inferior classes have little real right to complain
of laws in this respect, let the great be watchful
to give them as little cause to complain of man-
ners. In order to this, let them carefully train
up their children to supply by individual kind-
ness those cases of hardship which laws cannot
reach; let them obviate, by an active and well-
directed compassion, those imperfections of
which the best constructed human institutions
must unavoidably partake; and, by the exercise
of private bounty, early inculcated, soften those
distresses which can never come under the cog-
nizance of even the best government. Let them
teach their offspring, that the charity of the
rich should ever be subsidiary to the public pro-
vision in those numberless instances to which
the most equal laws cannot apply. By such
means every lesson of politics may be convert-
descending love might win over some whom a
ed into a lesson of piety; and a spirit of con-
spirit of invective will only inflame.
Among the instances of negligence into which
even religiously disposed parents and teachers
are apt to fall, one is, that they are not suffi
ciently attentive in finding interesting employ.
334
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
:
ment for the Sunday. They do not make a
scruple of sometimes allowing their children to
fill up the intervals of public worship with
their ordinary employments and common school
exercises. They are not aware that they are
training their offspring to an early and a sys-
tematic profanation of the Sabbath by this cus-
tom; for to children, their tasks are their busi-
ness; to them a French or Latin exercise is as
serious an occupation as the exercise of a trade
or profession is to a man ; and if they are allowed
to think the one right now, they will not be
brought hereafter to think that the other is
wrong for the opinions and practices fixed at
this important season are not easily altered:
and an early habit becomes rooted into an in-
veterate prejudice. By this oversight even the
friends of religion may be contributing even-
tually to that abolition of the Lord's day, so
devoutly wished and so indefatigably laboured
after by its enemies, as the desired preliminary
to the destruction of whatever is most dear to
christians. What obstruction would it offer to
the general progress of youth, if all their Sunday
exercises (which, with reading, composing,
transcribing and getting by heart, might be ex-
tended to an entertaining variety) were adapted
to the peculiar nature of the day?
Though the author, chiefly writing with a
view to domestic instruction, has purposely
avoided entering on the disputed question,
whether a school or home education be best; a
question which perhaps must generally be de-
cided by the state of the individual home, and
the state of the individual school; yet she
begs leave to suggest one remark, which pecu-
liarly belongs to a school education; namely,
the general habit of converting the Sunday into
a visitiug day, by way of gaining time; as if the
appropriate instructions of the Lord's day were
the cheapest sacrifice which could be made to
pleasure. Even in those schools in which re-
ligion is considered as an indispensable part of
instruction, this kind of instruction is almost ex-
clusively limited to Sundays: how then are
girls ever to make any progress in this most
important article, if they are habituated to lose
the religious advantages of the school, for the
sake of having more dainties for dinner abroad?
This remark cannot be supposed to apply to the
visits which children make to religious parents,
and indeed it only applies to those cases where
the school is a conscientious school, and the
visit a trifling visit.
Among other subjects which engross a good
share of worldly conversation, one of the most
attracting is beauty. Many ladies have often
a random way of talking rapturously on the
general importance and the fascinating power
of beauty, who are yet prudent enough to be
very unwilling to let their own daughters find
out they are handsome. Perhaps the contrary
course might be safer. If the little listener
were not constantly hearing that beauty is the
best gift, she would not be so vain from fancy-
ing herself to be the best gifted. Be less soli-
citous, therefore, to conceal from her a secret,
which, with all your watchfulness, she will be
sure to find out, without your telling; but rather
seek to lower the general value of beauty in her
estimation. Use your daughter in all things to a
different standard from that of the world. It is
not by vulgar people and servants only that she
will be told of her being pretty. She will be hear-
Those whose own spirits and vigour of mind
are exhausted by the amusements of the world,
and who therefore grow faint and languid under
the continuance of serious occupation, are not
aware how different the case is with lively young
people, whose spring of action has not been
broken by habitual indulgence. They are not
aware that a firm and well disciplined intellect
wants, comparatively, little amusement. The
mere change from one book to another, is a re-
lief almost amounting to pleasure. But then
the variation must be judiciously made, so that
to novelty must be superadded comparative
amusement; that is, the gradation should be
made from the more to the less serious book.
If care be thus taken that greater exertion of
the mental powers shall not be required, when,
through length of application, there is less ability
or disposition to exert them; such a well ordering it not only from gay ladies, but from grave
ed distinction, will produce on the mind nearly
the same effect as a new employment.
men; she will be hearing it from the whole world
around her. The antidote to the present danger
It is not meant to impose on them such rigor- is not now to be searched for ; it must be already
ous study as shall convert the day they should operating; it must have been provided for in the
be taught to love into a day of burdens and hard-foundation laid in the general principle she has
ships, or to abridge them of such innocent en-
joyments as are compatable with a season of
holy rest. It is intended merely to suggest that
there should be a marked distinction in the na-
ture of their employments and studies; for on
the observance or neglect of this, as was before
observed, their future notions and principles will
in a good degree be formed. The Gospel, in
rescuing the Lord's day from the rigorous bond-
age of the Jewish sabbath, never lessened the
obligation to keep it holy, nor meant to sanc-
tion any secular occupation.* Christianity in
lightening its austerities has not defeated the
end of its institution; in purifying its spirit, it
has not abolished its object.
*The strongest proof of this observation is the con-
duct of the first christians who had their instructions
immediately from the Apostles.
been imbibing before this particular temptation
of beauty came in question. And this general
principle is an habitual indifference to flattery.
She must have learnt not to be intoxicated by
the praise of the world. She must have learnt
to estimate things by their intrinsic worth,
rather than by the world's estimation. Speak
to her with particular kindness and commenda-
tion of plain but amiable girls; mention with
compassion such as are handsome but ill-edu.
cated; speak casually of some who were once
thought pretty, but have ceased to be good;
make use of the arguments arising from the
shortness and uncertainty of beauty, as strong
additional reasons for making that which is
little valuable in itself, still less valuable. As it
is a new idea which is always dangerous, you
may thus break the force of this danger by al-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
335
lowing her an early introduction to this inevi-
table knowledge, which would become more in-
teresting, and of course more perilous by every
additional year; and if you can guard against
that fatal and almost universal error of letting
her see that she is more loved on account of her
beauty, her familiarity with the idea may be
less dangerous than its novelty afterwards would
prove.
But the great and constant peril to which
young persons in the higher walks of life are
exposed, is the prevailing turn and spirit of ge-
neral conversation. Even the children of better
families, who are well-instructed when at their
studies, are yet at other times continually be-
holding the WORLD set up in the highest and
most advantageous point of view. Seeing the
world! knowing the world! standing well with
the world! making a figure in the world! is
spoken of as including the whole sum and sub-
stance of human advantages. They hear their
education almost exclusively alluded to with re-
ference to the figure it will enable them to make
in the world. In almost all companies they hear
all that the world admires spoken of with admi-
ration; rank flattered, fame coveted, power
sought, beauty idolized, money considered as
the one thing needful, and as the atoning sub-
stitute for the want of all other things; profit
held up as the reward of virtue, and worldly es-
timation as the just and highest prize of lauda-
ble ambition; and after the very spirit of the
world has been thus habitually infused into them
all the week, one cannot expect much effect
from their being coldly and customarily told
now and then on Sundays, that they must not
'love the world, nor the things of the world.'
To tell them once in seven days that it is a sin
to gratify an appetite which you have been
whetting and stimulating the preceding six, is
to require from them a power of self-control,
which our knowledge of the impetuosity of the
passions, especially in early age, should have
taught us is impossible.
This is not the place to animadvert on the
usual misapplication of the phrase, knowing
the world;' which term is commonly applied, in
the way of panegyric, to keen, designing, sel-
fish, ambitious men, who study mankind in or-
der to turn them to their own account. But in
the true sense of the expression, the sense which
christian parents would wish to impress on their
children, to know the world is to know its emp-
tiness, its vanity, its futility, and its wickedness.
To know it is to despise it, to be on our guard
against it, to labour to live above it; and in this
view an obscure Christian in a village may be
said to know the world better than a hoary
courtier or wily politician. For how can they
be said to know it who go on to love it, to be led
captive by its allurements, to give their soul in
exchange for its lying promises?
But while so false an estimate is often made
in fashionable society of the real value of things;
hat is, while Christianity does not furnish the
standard, and human opinion does; while the
multiplying our desires is considered as a symp-
tom of elegance, though to subdue those desires
is the grand criterion of religion; while mode.
ration is beheld as indicating a poorness of spi-
rit, though to that very poverty of spirit the
highest promise of the gospel is assigned; while
worldly wisdom is sedulously enjoined by world-
ly friends, in contradiction to that assertion,
that the wisdom of the world is foolishness with
God;' while the praise of man is to be anxiously
sought in opposition to that assurance, that'the
fear of man worketh a snare;' while they are
taught all the week, that the friendship of the
world' is the wisest pursuit; and on Sundays
that it is enmity with God
that it is enmity with God;' while these things
are so (and that they are so in a good degree
who will undertake to deny ?) may we not ven-
ture to affirm that a Christian education, though
it be not an impossible, is yet a very difficult
work?
CHAP. VI.
ON THE EARLY FORMING OF HABITS.
On the necessity of forming the Judgment to di-
rect those Habits.
1r can never be too often repeated, that one
of the great objects of education is the forming
of habits. I may be suspected of having recur-
red too often, though hitherto only incidentally,
to this topic. It is, however, a topic of such im-
portance, that it will be useful to consider it
somewhat more in detail; as the early forming
of right habits on sound principles seems to be
one of the grand secrets of virtue and happiness.
The forming of any one good habit seems to
be effected rather by avoiding the opposite bad
habit, and resisting every temptation to the op-
posite vice, than by the mere occasional prac-
tice of the virtue required.-Humility, for in-
stance, is less an act than a disposition of the
mind. It is not so much a single performance
of some detached humble deed, as an incessant
watchfulness against every propensity to pride.
Sobriety, is not a prominent ostensible thing; it
evidently consists in a series of negations, and
not of actions. It is a conscientious habit of
resisting every incentive to intemperance.-
Meekness is best attained and exemplified by
guarding against every tendency to anger, im-
patience and resentment. A habit of attention
and application is formed by early and constant
vigilance against a trifling spirit and a wander-
ing mind. A habit of industry, by watching
against the blandishments of pleasure, the waste
of small portions of time, and the enchroach.
ment of small indulgences.
Now, to stimulate us to an earnest desire of
working any or all of these habits into the minds
of children, it will be of importance to consider
what a variety of uses each of them involves.
To take, for example, the case of moderation
and temperance. It would seem to a superficial
observer of no very great importance to acquire
a habit of self-denial in respect either to the ele-
gancies of decoration, or to the delicacies of the
table, or to the common routine of pleasure;
that there can be no occasion for an indifference
to luxuries harmless in themselves; and no
need of daily moderation in those persons who
are possessed of affluence, and to whom there
!
336
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
ST
fore, as the expense is no object, so the forbear- |
ance is thought of no importance. Those acts
of self-denial, I admit, when contemplated by
themselves, appear to be of no great value, yet
they assume high importance, if you consider
what it is to have, as it were, dried up the spring
of only one importunate passion; if you reflect
after any one such conquest is obtained, how
easily, comparatively speaking, it is followed up
by others.
How much future virtue and self-government,
in more important things, may a mother there-
fore be securing to that child, who should al-
ways remain in as high a situation as she is in
when the first foundations of this quality are
laying; but should any reverse of fortune take
place in the daughter, how much integrity and
independence of mind also may be prepared for
her, by the early excision of superfluous desires.
She, who has been trained to subdue these pro-
pensities, will, in all probability be preserved
from running into worthless company, merely
for the sake of the splendor which may be at-
tached to it. She will be rescued from the temp-
tation to do wrong things for the sake of enjoy.
ments from which she cannot abstain. She is
delivered from the danger of flattering those
whom she despises; because her moderate mind
and well ordered desires do not solicit indul-
gences which could only be procured by mean
compliances. For she will have been habituated
to consider the character as the leading circum-
stance of attachment, and the splendor as an
accident, which may or may not belong to it;
but which, when it does, as it is not a ground
of merit in the possessor, so it is not to be the
ground of her attachment. The habit of self
control, in small as well as in great things in-
volves in the aggregate less loss of pleasure, than
will be experienced by disappointments in the
mind ever yielding itself to the love of present
indulgences, whenever those indulgences should
be abridged or withdrawn.
She who has been accustomed to have an early
habit of restraint exercised over all her appetites
and temper; she who has been used to set
bounds to her desires as a general principle,
will have learned to withstand a passion for
dress and personal ornaments; and the woman
who has conquered this propensity has sur-
mounted one of the most domineering tempta-
tions which assail the sex. While this seemingly
little circumstance, if neglected, and the oppo-
site habit formed, may be the first step to every
successive error, and every consequent distress.
Those women who are ruined by seduction in
the lower classes, and those who are made mi-
serable by ambitious marriages in the higher,
will be more frequently found to owe their mi-
sery to an ungoverned passion for dress and
show, than to motives more apparently bad. An
habitual moderation in this article, growing out
of a pure self-denying principle, and not arising
from the affectation of a singularity, which may
have more pride in it, than others feel in the in-
dulgence of any of the things which this singu-
larity renounces, includes many valuable ad-
vantages. Modesty, simplicity, humility, econo-
my, prudence, liberality, charity, are almost in-
separably, and not very remotely, connected
with an habitual victory over personal vanity
and a turn to personal expense. The inferior
and less striking virtues are the smaller pearls,
which serve to string and connect the great ones.
An early and unremitting zeal in forming the
mind to a habit of attention not only produces
the outward expression of good breeding, as one
of its incidental advantages, but involves, or ra-
ther creates, better qualities than itself; while
vacancy and inattention not only produce vulgar
manners, but are usually the indication, if not
of an ordinary, yet of a neglected understanding.
To the habitually inattentive, books offer little
benefit; company affords little improvement;
while a self-imposed attention sharpens observa-
tion, and creates a spirit of inspection and in-
quiry, which often lifts a common understand-
ing to a degree of eminence in knowledge, sa-
gacity, and usefulness, which indolent or negli
gent genius does not always reach. A habit of
attention exercises intellect, quickens discern-
ment, multiplies ideas, enlarges the power of
combining images and comparing characters,
and gives a faculty of picking up improvement
from circumstances the least promising; and
gaining instruction from those slight but fre-
quently recurring occasions, which the absent
and the negligent turn to no account. Scarcely
any thing or person is so unproductive as not
to yield some fruit to the attentive and sedulous
collector of ideas. But this is far from being
the highest praise of such a person; she, who
early imposes on herself a habit of strict atten-
tion to whatever she is engaged in, begins to
wage early war with wandering thoughts, use-
less reveries, and that disqualifying train of
busy, but unprofitable imaginations, by which
the idle are occupied, and the absent are ab-
sorbed. She who keeps her intellectual powers
in action, studies with advantage, herself, her
books, and the world. Whereas they, in whose
undisciplined minds vagrant thoughts have been
suffered to range without restriction on ordinary
occasions, will find they cannot easily call them
home, when wanted to assist in higher duties.
Thoughts, which are indulged in habitual wan-
dering, will not be readily restrained in the so-
lemnities of public worship or of private devo-
tion.
But in speaking of the necessary habits, it
must be noticed that the habit of unremitting
industry, which is indeed closely connected with
those of which we have just made mention, can-
not be too early or too sedulously formed. Let
not the sprightly and the brilliant reject indus
try as a plebian quality, as a quality to be exer-
cised only by those who have their bread to earn,
or their fortune to make. But let them respect
it, and adopt it as an habit to which many ele-
vated characters have, in a good measure, owed
their distinction. The masters in science, the
leaders in literature, legislators, and statesmen,
even apostles and reformers would not, at least
in so eminent a degree, have enlightened, con-
verted, and astonished the world, had they not
been eminent possessors of this sober and unos-
tentatious quality. It is the quality to which
the immortal Newton modestly ascribed his own
vast attainments; who, when he was asked by
what means he had been enabled to make that
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
337
Euccessful progress which struck mankind with |
wonder, replied, that it was not so much owing
to any superior strength of genius, as to an habit
of patient thinking, laborious attention, and close
application. We must, it is true, make some
deductions for the humility of the speaker. Yet
it is not overrating its value, to assert that in-
dustry is the sturdy and hard working pioneer,
who by persevering labour removes obstructions,
overcomes difficulties, clears intricacies, and
thus facilitates the march, and aids the victories
of genius.
An exact habit of economy is of the same fa-
mily with the two foregoing qualities; and like
them is the prolific parent of a numerous off
spring of virtues. For want of the early ingraft-
ing of this practice on its only legitimate stock
-a sound principle of integrity-may we not,
in too many instances in subsequent life, almost
apply to the fatal effects of domestic profuseness,
what Tacitus observes of a lavish profligacy in
the expenditure of public money-that an ex-
chequer which is exhausted by prodigality will
probably be replenished by crimes.
Those who are early trained to scrupulous
punctuality in the division of time, and an ex-
actness to the hours of their childish business,
will have learnt how much the economy of time
is promoted by habits of punctuality, when they
shall enter on the more important business of
life. By getting one employment cleared away,
exactly as the succeeding employment shall have
a claim to be despatched, they will learn two
things that one business must not trench on
the time which belongs to another business, and
to set a value on those odd quarters of an hour,
and even minutes which are so often lost between
successive duties, for want of calculation, punctu-
ality and arrangement.
A habit of punctuality is perhaps one of the
earliest which the youthful mind may be made
capable of receiving; and it is so connected with
truth, with morals, and with the general good
government of the mind, as to render it impor-
tant that it should be brought into exercise on
the smallest occasions. But I refrain from en-
larging on this point as it will be discussed in
another part of this work.*
It must however be observed that diligent care
is to be exercised, that, together with the gra-
dual formation of these and other useful habits,
an adequate attention be employed to the form-
ing of the judgment; to the framing such a
sound constitution of mind, as shall supply the
power of directing all the faculties of the under-
standing, and all the qualities of the heart, to
keep their proper places and due bounds, to ob-
serve their just proportions, and maintain their
right station, relation, order, and dependence.
For instance, while the young person's mind
is trained to those habits of attention and indus.
try, which we have been recommending; great
care must be used that her judgment be so en-
lightened as to enable her to form sound notions
with regard to what is really worthy her attentive
pursuit, without which discriminating power,
application would only be actively misemploy-
ed; and ardour and industry would but serve
to lead her more widely from the right road of
truth. Without a correct judgment she would
be wasting her activity on what was frivolous, or
exhausting it on what was mischievous. With-
out that ardour and activity we have been re-
commending she might only be weaving spi-
ders' webs;' with it, if destitute of judgment,
she would be hatching cockatrices' eggs.'
Again, if the judgment be not well informed
as to the nature and true ends of temperance,
the ill-instructed mind might be led into a su-
perstitious reliance on the merits of self-denial;
and resting in the letter of a few outward ob-
servances, without any consideration of the spirit
of this christian virtue, might be led to infer that
the kingdom of heaven was the abstinence from
meat and drink,' and not peace, and righteous.
'
ness, and joy in the Holy Ghost.'
The same well ordered judgment will also be
required in superintending and regulating the
habit of economy; for extravagance being rather
a relative than a positive term, the true art of
regulating expense, is not to proportion it to the
fashion, or to the opinion or practice of others,"
but to our own station and to our own circum.
stances. Aristippus being accused of extrava-
gance by one who was not rich, because he had
given six crowns for a small fish, said to him,
pence,' answered the other. Then,' replied
Aristippus, our economy is equal; for six
crowns are no more to me than twelve pence
are to you.'
It requires perhaps still more sedulity to layWhy what would you have given ?'—' Twelve
early the first foundation of those interior habits
which are grounded on watchfulness against
such faults as do not often betray themselves by
breaking out into open excess; and which there
would therefore be less discredit in judging. It
should more particularly make a part of the first
elements of education, to try to infuse into the
mind that particular principle which stands în
opposition to those evil tempers, to which the
individual pupil is more immediately addicted.
As it cannot be followed up too closely, so it can
hardly be set about too early. May we not bor-
row an important illustration of this truth from
the fabulous hero of the Grecian story? He who
was one day to perform exploits, which should
fill the earth with his renown, began by con- There is also a perpetual call for the interfe.
quering in his infancy; and it was a preliminarence of the judgment in settling the true no-
ry to his delivering the world from monsters in
his riper years, that he should set out by strang-
ling the serpents in his cradle.
VOL. I.
* See Chapter on Definitions.
It is the more important to enlighten the judg
ment in this point, because so predominant is
the control of custom and fashion, that men of
unfixed principle are driven to borrow other
peoples' judgment of them, before they can ven-
ture to determine whether they themselves are
rich or happy. These vain slaves to human
opinion do not so often say, How ought I to act?
or, What ought I to spend ? as, What does the
world think I ought to do? What do others think
I ought to spend ?
tion of what meekness is, before we can adopt
the practice without falling into error. We must
apprize those on whose minds we are inculca-
ting this amiable virtue, of the broad line of dis-
338
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
have here nothing to do) has been, that he was
so severe a father as to have compelled his
daughters, after he was blind, to read aloud to
him, for his sole pleasure, Greek and Latin au-
thors, of which they did not understand a word.
But this is in fact nothing more than an instance
of the strict domestic regulations of the age in
which Milton lived; and should not be brought
tinction between Christian meekness and that | character (for with his political character we
well-bred tone and gentle manner which passes
current for it in the world. We must teach
them also to distinguish between an humble opi-
nion of our own ability to judge, and servile de-
reliction of truth and principle, in order to pur-
chase the poor praise of indiscriminate compli-
ance and yielding softness. We must lead them
to distinguish accurately between honesty and
obstinacy, between perseverance and perverse-forward as a proof of the severity of his indivi-
ness, between firmness and prejudice. We must
convince them that it is not meekness, but base-
ness, when through a dishonest dread of offend-
ing the prosperous, or displeasing the powerful,
we forbear to recommend, or refuse to support,
those whom it is our duty to recommend or to
support. That it is selfishness and not meek-
ness, when through fear of forfeiting any portion
of our reputation, or risking our own favour
with others, we refuse to bear our testimony to
suspected worth or discredited virtue.*
CHAP. VII.
Filial obedience not the character of the age. A
comparison with the preceding age in this re-
spect. Those who cultivate the mind advised
to study the nature of the soil.-Unpromising
children often make strong characters.- Teach-
ers too apt to devote their pains almost exclu-
sively to children of parts.
AMONG the real improvements of modern
times, and they are not a few, it is to be feared
that the growth of filial obedience cannot be in-
cluded. Who can forbear observing and regret-
ting in a variety of instances, that not only sons
but daughters have adopted something of that
spirit of independence, and disdain of control,
which characterize the times? And is it not
too generally obvious that domestic manners are
not slightly tinctured with the prevailing hue
of public principles? The rights of man have
been discussed, till we are somewhat wearied
with the discussion. To these have been oppo-
sed, as the next stage in the progress of illumi-
nation, and with more presumption than pru-
dence, the rights of women. It follows, accord-
ing to the natural progression of human things,
that the next influx of that irradiation which
our enlighteners are pouring in upon us, will
illuminate the world with grave descants on the
rights of youth, the rights of children, the rights
of babies!
This revolutionary spirit in families suggests
the remark, that among the faults with which
it had been too much the fashion of recent times
to load the memory of the incomparable Milton,
one of the charges brought against his private
*To this criminal timidity, madame de Maintenon, a
woman of parts and piety, sacrificed the ingenious and
amiable Racine; whom, while she had taste enough to
admire, she had not the generosity to defend, when the
royal favour was withdrawn from him. A still darker
cloud hangs over her fame, on account of the selfish neu-
trality she maintained in not interposing her good offices
between the resentments of the king and the sufferings
of the Hugunots. It is a heavy aggravation of her fault,
that she herself had been educated in the faith of these
persecuted people
dual temper. Nor indeed in any case should it
ever be considered as an hardship for an affec-
tionate child to amuse an afflicted parent, even
though it should be attended with a heavier sa-
crifice of her own pleasure than that produced
in the present instance.*
Is the author then inculcating the harsh doc-
trine of paternal austerity? By no means.
It
drives the gentle spirit to artifice, and the rugged
to despair. It generates deceit and cunning,
the most hopeless and hateful in the whole cata-
logue of female failings. Ungoverned anger in
the teacher, and inability to discriminate be-
tween venial errors and premeditated offence,
though they may lead a timid creature to hide
wrong tempers, or to conceal bad actions, will
not help her to subdue the one or correct the
other. The dread of severity will drive terrified
children to seek, not for reformation, but for im-
punity. A readiness to forgive them promotes
frankness: and we should, above all things, en-
courage them to be frank, in order to come at
their faults. They have not more faults for be-
ing open, they only discover more; and to know
the worst of the character we have to regulate
will enable us to make it better.
Discipline, however, is not cruelty, and re-
straint is not severity. A discriminating teach-
er will appreciate the individual character of
each pupil, in order to appropriate her manage-
ment. We must strengthen the feeble, while
we repel the bold. We cannot educate by a re-
ceipt; for after studying the best rules, and
after digesting them into the best system, much
must depend on contingent circumstances, for
that which is good may yet be inapplicable.
The cultivator of the human mind must, like
the gardener, study diversities of soil, or he may
plant diligently and water faithfully with little
fruit. The skilful labourer knows that even
where the surface is not particularly promising,
there is often a rough strong ground which will
amply repay the trouble of breaking it up; yet
we are often most taken with a soft surface,
though it conceal a shallow depth, because it
promises present reward and little trouble. But
strong and pertinacious tempers, of which per-
* In spite of this too prevailing spirit, and at a time
when, by an inverted state of society, sacrifices of ease
and pleasure are rather exacted by children from parents,
than required by parents from children, numberless in-
stances might be adduced of filial affection truly honour-
able to the present period. And the author records with
pleasure, that she has seen amiable young ladies of high
rank conducting the steps of a blind but illustrious pa.
rent with true filial fondness; and has often contempla-
ted, in another family, the interesting attentions of
daughters who were both hands and eyes to an infirm
and nearly blind father. It is but justice to repeat that
these examples are not taken from that middle rank of
life which Milton filled, but from the daughters of the
highest officers in the state.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
339
haps obstinacy is the leading vice, under skilful
management often turn out steady and sterling
characters; while from softer clay a firm and
vigorous virtue is but seldom produced. Perti-
nacity is often principle, which wants nothing
but to be led to its true object; while the uni-
formly yielding, and universally accommodating
spirit, is not seldom the result of a feeble tone
of morals, of a temper eager for praise and act-
ing for reward.
But these revolutions in character cannot be
effected by a mere education. Plutarch had ob-
served that the medical science would never be
brought to perfection till poisons should be con-
verted into physic. What our late improvers in
natural science have done in the medical world,
by converting the most deadly ingredients into
instruments of life and health, Christianity with
a sort of divine alchymy has effected in the mo-
ral world, by that transmutation which makes
those passions which have been working for sin
become active in the cause of religion. The
violent temper of Saul of Tarsus, which was
exceedingly mad' against the saints of God,
did God see fit to convert into that burning zeal
which enabled Paul the apostle to labour so un-
remittingly for the conversion of the gentile
world. Christianity indeed does not so much
give us new affections or faculties, as give a
new direction to those we already have. She
changes that sorrow of the world which worketh
death into 'godly sorrow which worketh repent-
ance.' She changes our anger against the per-
sons we dislike into hatred of their sins. The
fear of man which worketh a snare,' she trans-
mutes into that fear of God which worketh
salvation.' That religion does not extinguish
the passions, but only alters their object, the
animated expressions of the fervid apostle con-
firm-'Yea, what fearfulness; yea, what clear-
ing of yourselves; yea, what indignation; yea,
what fear; yea, what vehement desire; yea,
what zeal; yea, what revenge.*
C
they may enjoy at the present, lest they should
be taken out of the world without having tasted
any of its delights. But a slight degree of
observation would prove that this is an error in
judgment as well as in principle. For omitting
any considerations respecting their future wel-
fare, and entering only into their immediate in-
terests; it is an indisputable fact that children
who know no control, whose faults encounter
no contradiction, and whose humours experience
constant indulgence, grow more irritable and
capricious, invent wants, create desires, lose all
relish for the pleasures which they know they
may reckon upon; and become perhaps more
miserable than even those unfortunate children
who labour under the more obvious and more
commiserated misfortune of suffering under the
tyranny of unkind parents.
An early habitual restraint is peculiarly im-
portant to the future character and happiness of
women. A judicious, unrelaxing, but steady
and gentle curb on their tempers and passions
can alone insure their peace and establish their
principles. It is a habit which cannot be adopted
too soon, nor persisted in too pertinaciously.
They should when very young be inured to
contradiction. Instead of hearing their bon
mots treasured up and repeated till the guests
are tired, and till the children begin to think it
dull, when they themselves are not the little he-
roines of the theme, they should be accustomed
to receive but moderate praise for their vivacity
or their wit, though they should receive just
commendation for such qualities as have more
worth than splendour.
Patience, diligence, quiet, and unfatigued
perseverance, industry, regularity, and economy
of time, as these are the dispositions I would la
bour to excite, so these are the qualities I would
warmly commend. So far from admiring ge-
nius, or extolling its prompt effusions, I would
rather intimate that excellence, to a certain de-
gree, is in the power of every competitor: that
Thus, by some of the most troublesome pas- it is the vanity of over-valuing herself for sup-
sions of our nature being converted by the bless-posed original powers, and slackening exertion
ing of God on a religious education to the side in consequence of that vanity, which often leave
of virtue, a double purpose is effected. Because the lively ignorant, and the witty superficial.-
it is the character of the passions never to ob- A girl who overhears her mother tell the com-
serve a neutrality. If they are no longer rebels, pany that she is a genius, and is so quick, that
they become auxiliaries; and the accession of she never thinks of applying to her task till a
strength is doubled, because a foe subdued is an few minutes before she is to be called to repeat
ally obtained. For it is the effect of religion on it, will acquire such a confidence in her own
the passions, that when she siezes the enemy's abilities, that she will be advancing in conceit
garrison, she does not content herself with de- as she is falling short in knowledge. Whereas,
feating its future mischiefs, she does not destroy, if she were made to suspect that her want of
the works, she does not burn the arsenal and application rather indicated a deficiency than a
spike the cannon; but the artillery she seizes, superiority in her understanding, she would be-
she turns to her own use; she attacks in her come industrious in proportion as she became
turn, and plants its whole force against an ene-modest; and by thus adding the diligence of the
my from whom she has taken it.
But while I would deprecate harshness, I
would enforce discipline; and that not merely
on the ground of religion, but of happiness also.
One reason, not seldom brought forward by ten-
der but mistaken mothers as an apology for an
unbounded indulgence, especially to weakly
children, is, that they probably will not live to
enjoy the world when grown up, and that there.
fore they would not abridge the little pleasure
* 2 Corinthians, vii. 1.
humble to the talents of the ingenious, she
might really attain a degree of excellence, which
mere quickness of parts, too lazy, because too
proud to apply, seldom attains.
Girls should be led to distrust their own judg-
ment; they should learn not to murmur at expos
tulation; they should be accustomed to expect
and to endure opposition. It is a lesson with
which the world will not fail to furnish them
and they will not practise it the worse for hav-
ing learnt it the sooner. It is of the last im
+
;
340
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
of
portance to their happiness, even in this life, forgive his persecutors, to love his enemies, to
that they should early acquire a submissive tem- pray for his murderers with his last breath;-
per and a forbearing spirit. They must endure these are things which, while they compel us to
to be thought wrong sometimes, when they can- cry out with the centurion, 'Truly this was the
not but feel they are right. And while they Son of God,' should remind us, that they are not
|
should be anxiously aspiring to do well, they only adorable but imitable parts of his character.
must not expect always to obtain the praise of These are not speculative and barren doctrines
having done so. But while a gentle demeanour which he came to preach to Christians, but liv-
is inculcated, let them not be instructed to prac-ing duties which he meant to entail on them;
tise gentleness merely on the low ground of its symbols of their profession; tests of their disci-
being decorous, and feminine, and pleasing, and pleship. These are perfections which we are
calculated to attract human favour: but let not barely to contemplate with holy awe and dis-
them be carefully taught to cultivate it on the tant admiration, as if they were restricted to
high principle of obedience to Christ; on the the divine nature of our Redeemer; but we must
practical ground of labouring after conformity consider them as suited to the human nature
to HIM, who, when he proposed himself as a also, which he condescended to participate. In
perfect pattern of imitation, did not say, learn contemplating, we must imitate; in admiring
me, for I am great, or wise, or mighty, but we must practise; and in our measure and de-
'learn of me, for I am meek and lowly and gree go and do likewise. Elevate your thoughts
who graciously promised that the reward should for one moment to this standard (and you should
accompany the practice, by encouragingly add- never allow yourself to be contented with a low-
ing, and ye shall find rest to your souls. Do er) and then go, if you can, and teach your chil-
not teach them humility on the ordinary ground dren to be mild, and soft, and gentle on worldly
that vanity is unamiable, and that no one will grounds, on human motives, as an external
love them if they are proud; for that will only attraction, as a decoration to their sex, as an
go to correct the exterior, and make them soft appendage to their rank, as an expression of
and smiling hypocrites. But inform them, that their good breeding.
'God resisteth the proud,' while them that are
meek he shall guide in judgment, and such as
are gentle, them shall he teach his way.' In
these as in all other cases, an habitual attention
to the motives should be carefully substituted in
their young hearts, in the place of too much
anxiety about the event of actions. Principles,
aims, and intentions should be invariably insist-
ed on, as the only true ground of right practice,
and they should be carefully guarded against
too much solicitude for that human praise which
attaches to appearances as much as to realities,
to success more than to desert.
There is a custom among teachers, which is
not the more right for being common; they are
apt to bestow an undue proportion of pains on
children of the best capacity, as if only geniuses
were worthy of attention. They should reflect
that in moderate talents, carefully cultivated,
we are perhaps to look for the chief happiness
and virtue of society. If superlative genius had
been generally necessary, its existence would
not have been so rare; for Omnipotence could
easily have made those talents common which
we now consider as extraordinary, had they been
necessary to the perfection of his plan. Besides,
Let me repeat, without incurring the censure while we are conscientiously instructing chil-
of tautology, that it will be of vast importance dren of moderate capacity, it is a comfort to re-
not to let slip the earliest occasions of working flect, that if no labour will raise them to a high
gentle manners into an habit on their only true degree in the scale of intellectual distinction,
foundation, Christian meekness. For this pur-yet they may be led on to perfection in that road
pose I would again urge your calling in the ex-in which a wayfaring man, though simple shall
ample of our Redeemer in aid of his precepts. not err.' And when a mother feels disposed to
Endeavour to make your pupil feel that all the repine that her family is not likely to exhibit a
wonders exhibited in his life do not so over-group of future wits and growing beauties, let
whelm the awakened heart with rapture, love,
and astonishment, as the perpetual instances of
his humility and meekness, with which the Gos-
pel abounds. Stupendous miracles, exercises of
infinite power prompted by infinite mercy, are
actions which we should naturally enough con-
ceive as growing out of omnipotence and divine
perfection but silence under cruel mockings,
patience under reproach, gentleness of demeanor
under unparalleled injuries; these are perfec-
tions of which unassisted nature not only has no
conception in a Divine Being, but at which it
would revolt, had not the reality been exempli-
fied by our perfect pattern. Healing the sick,
feeding the multitude, restoring the blind, rais-
ing the dead, are deeds of which we could form
some adequate idea, as necessarily flowing from
Almighty goodness: but to wash his disciples'
feet-to preach the Gospel to the poor-to re-
nounce not only ease, for that heroes have done
on human motives-but to renounce praise, to
her console herself by looking abroad into the
world, where she will quickly perceive that the
monopoly of happiness is not engrossed by
beauty, nor that of virtue by genius.
Perhaps mediocrity of parts was decreed to
be the ordinary lot, by way of furnishing a sti-
mulus to industry, and strengthening the mo-
tives to virtuous application. For is it not ob-
vious that moderate abilities, carefully carried
to that measure of perfection of which they are
capable, often enables their possessors to out-
strip, in the race of knowledge and of usefulness,
their more brilliant but less persevering com-
petitors? It is with mental endowments, as
with other rich gifts of Providence; the inha-
bitant of the luxuriant southern clime, where
nature has done every thing in the way of vege-
tation, indolently lays hold on this very plea of
fertility which should animate his exertions, as
a reason for doing nothing himself; so that the
soil which teems with euch encouraging abun
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
341
dance leaves the favoured possessor idle, and,
comparatively poor: whilst the native of the
less genial region, supplying by his labours the
deficiencies of his lot, overtakes his more fa-
voured competitor; by substituting industry for
opulence, he improves the riches of his native
land beyond that which is blessed with warmer
suns, and thus vindicates Providence from the
charge of partial distribution.
Apollos water, but it is God must give the in-
crease. But to what does he give the increase?
To the exertions of Paul and Apollos. It is
never said, because God only can give the in-
crease, that Paul and Apollos may spare their
labour.
It is one grand object to give the young pro-
bationer just and sober views of the world on
which she is about to enter. Instead of making
A girl who has docility will seldom be found her bosom bound at the near prospect of eman.
to want understanding sufficient for all the pur- cipation from her instructors; instead of teach-
poses of an useful, a happy, and a pious life. ing her young heart to dance with premature
And it is as wrong for parents to set out with flutterings as the critical winter draws near in
too sanguine a dependence on the figure their which she is to come out; instead of raising a
children are to make in life, as it is unreason- tumult in her busy imagination at the approach
able to be discouraged at every disappointment. of her first grown up ball, an event held out as
Want of success is so far from furnishing a mo- forming the first grand epocha of a female life,
tive for relaxing their energy that it is a reason as the period from which a fresh computation,
for redoubling it. Let them suspect their own fixing the pleasures and independence of wo-
plans, and reform them; let them distrust their manhood, is to be dated; instead of this, endea-
own principles, and correct them. The gene- vour to convince her, the world will not turn out
rality of parents do too little; some do much, to be that scene of unvarying and never-ending
and miss their reward, because they look not to delights which she has perhaps been led to ex-
any strength beyond their own: after much is pect, not only from the sanguine temper and
done, much will remain undone: for the entire warm spirits natural to youth, but from the
regulation of the heart and affections is not the value she has seen put on those showy accom-
work of education alone, but is effected by the plishments which have too probably been fitting
operation of divine grace. Will it be account- her for her exhibition in life. Teach her that
ed enthusiasm to suggest, that the fervent this world is not a stage for the display of super-
effectual prayer of a righteous parent availeth ficial or even of shining talent, but for the strict
much?' and to observe that perhaps the reason and sober exercise of fortitude, temperance,
why so many anxious mothers fail of success is, meekness, faith, diligence, and self-denial; of
because they repose with confidence in their own her due performance of which Christian graces,
skill and labour, neglecting to look to Him with- angels will be spectators, and God the judge.
out whose blessing they do but labour in vain? Teach her that human life is not a splendid ro-
On the other hand, is it not to be feared that mance, spangled over with brilliant adventures,
some pious parents have fallen into an error of and enriched with extraordinary occurrences,
an opposite kind? From a full conviction that and diversified with wonderful incidents; lead
human endeavours are vain, and that it is God her not to expect that it will abound with scenes
alone who can change the heart, they are which will call extraordinary qualities and won-
earnest in their prayers, but not so earnest derful powers into perpetual action; and for
in their endeavours.-Such parents should be which, if she acquit herself well, she will be
reminded, that if they do not add their exer- rewarded with proportionate fame and certain
tions to their prayers, their children are not commendation. But apprize her that human
likely to be more benefited than the children life is a true history, many passages of which
of those who do not add their prayers to their will be dull, obscure, and uninteresting; some
exertions. What God has joined, let no man perhaps tragical; but that whatever gay inci-
presume to separate. It is the work of God, we dents and pleasing scenes may be interspersed
readily acknowledge, to implant religion in the in the progress of the piece, yet, finally 'one
heart, and to maintain it there as a ruling prin- event happeneth to all :' to all there is one awful
ciple of conduct. And is it not the same God and infallible catastrophe. Apprize her that
which causes the corn to grow? Are not our the estimation which mankind forms of merit
natural lives constantly preserved by His power? is not always just, nor is its praise very exactly
Who will deny that in Him we live, and move, proportioned to desert; tell her that the world
and have our being? But how are these works weighs actions in far different scales from the
of God carried on? By means which he has ap- | balance of the sanctuary,, and estimates worth
pointed. By the labour of the husbandman the by a far different standard from that of the Gos-
corn is made to grow; by food the body is sus-pel. Apprize her that while her purest inten-
tained; and by religious instruction God is tions may be sometimes calumniated, and her
pleased to work upon the human heart. But un- best actions misrepresented, she will on the
less we diligently plough, and sow, and weed,
and manure, have we any right to depend on
the refreshing showers and ripening suns of
heaven for the blessing of an abundant harvest?
As far as we see the ways of God, all his works
are carried on by means. It becomes, therefore,
our duty to use the means, and trust in God; to
remember that God will not work without the
means; and that the means can effect nothing
without his blessing. 'Paul may plant, and
other hand, be liable to receive commendation
on occasions wherein her conscience will tell
her she has not deserved it; and that she may
be extolled by others for actions for which, if
she be honest, she will condemn herself.
Do not, however, give her a gloomy and dis-
couraging picture of the world, but rather seek
to give her a just and sober view of the part she
will have to act in it. And restrain the im-
petuosity or hope, and cool the ardour of expec-
342
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
a 'primrose path of dalliance.' Do what we
will we cannot cheat children into learning, or
play them into knowledge, according to the
conciliating smoothness of the modern creed,
and the selfish indolence of the modern habite.
There is no idle way to any acquisitions which
really deserve the name. And as Euclid, in
order to repress the impetuous vanity of great-
tation, by explaining to her, that this part, even
in her best estate, will probably consist in a
succession of petty trials, and a round of quiet
duties, which, if well performed, though they
will make little or no figure in the book of fame,
will prove of vast importance to her in that day
when another book is opened, and the judg-
ment is set, and every one will be judged ac-
cording to the deeds done in the body, whetherness, told his sovereign that there was no royal
they be good or bad.'
way to geometry, so the fond mother may be
Say not that these just and sober views will assured that there is no short cut to any other
cruelly wither her young hopes, blast her bud- kind of learning; no privileged by-path 'cleared
ding prospects, and deaden the innocent satis- from the thorns and briars of repulse and diffi-
factions of life. It is not true. There is, hap-culty, for the accommodation of opulent inac-
pily, an active spring in the mind of youth
which bounds with fresh vigour and uninjured
elasticity from any such temporary depression.
And though her feelings, tastes and passions,
will all be against you, if you set before her a
faithful delineation of life, yet it will be some,
thing to get her judgment on your side. It is
no unkind office to assist the short view of youth
with the aids of long-sighted experience; to
enable them to discover spots in the brightness
of that world which dazzles them in prospect,
though it is probable they will after all choose
to believe their own eyes, rather than the offer-
ed glass.
CHAP. VIII.
1
On female study, and initiation into knowledge.
-Error of cultivating the imagination to the
neglect of the judgment.-Books of reasoning
recommended.
As this little work by no means assumes the
character of a general scheme of education, the
author has purposely avoided expatiating largely
on any kind of instruction, but as it happens to
be connected, either immediately or remotely
with objects of a moral or religious nature,
Of course she has been so far from thinking it
necessary to enter into the enumeration of
those popular books which are used in general
instruction, that she has purposely forborn to
mention any. With such books the rising
generation is far more copiously and ably fur-
nished than any that has preceded it; and out
of an excellent variety the judicious instructor
can hardly fail to make such a selection as shall
be beneficial to the pupil.
But while due praise ought not to be withheld
from the improved methods of communicating
the elements of general knowledge; yet is there
not some danger that our very advantages may
lead us into error, by causing us to repose so
confidently on the multiplied helps which facili.
tate the entrance into learning, as to render our
pupils superficial through the very facility of
acquirement? Where so much is done for them,
may they not be led to do too little for them-
selves? and besides that exertion may slacken
for want of a spur, may there not be a moral
disadvantage in possessing young persons with
the notion that learning may be acquired with
out diligence, and knowledge be attained with-
out labour? Sound education never can be made
The tree of
tivity or feminine weakness.
knowledge, as a punishment, perhaps, for its
having been at first unfairly tasted cannot now
be claimed without difficulty; and this very
circumstance serves afterwards to furnish not
only literary pleasures, but moral advantages.
For the knowledge which is acquired by un-
wearied assiduity, is lasting in the possession,
and sweet to the possessor; both perhaps in pro-
portion to the cost and labour of the acquisition.
And though an able teacher ought to endeavour,
by improving the communicating faculty in
himself (for many know what they cannot teach)
to soften every difficulty; yet in spite of the
kindness and ability with which he will smooth
every obstruction, it is probably among the wise
institutions of Providence that great difficul-
ties should still remain. For education is but
an initiation into that life of trial to which we
are introduced on our entrance into this world.
It is the first breaking into that state of toil and
labour to which we are born, and to which sin
has made us liable; and in this view of the sub-
ject the pains taken in the acquisition of learn-
ing may be converted to higher uses than such
as are purely literary.
Will it not be ascribed to a captious singu-
larity, if I venture to remark that real know-
ledge and real piety, though they may have
gained in many instances, have suffered in,
others from that profusion of little, amusing,
sentimental books with which the youthful li
brary overflows? Abundance has its dangers
as well as scarcity. In the first place may not
the multiplicity of these alluring little works
increase the natural reluctance to those more
dry and uninteresting studies of which, after all,
the rudiments of every part of learning must
consist? And secondly, is there not some dan-
ger (though there are many honourable excep-
tions) that some of those engaging narratives
may serve to infuse into the youthful heart a
sort of spurious goodness, a confidence of virtue,
a parade of charity? And that the benevolent
actions with the recital of which they abound,
when they are not made to flow from any source
but feeling, may tend to inspire a self-com-
placency, a self-gratulation, 'a stand by, for t
am holier than thou! May not the success with
which the good deeds of the little heroes are
uniformly crowned; the invariable reward which
is made the instant concomitant of well doing,
furnish the young reader with false views of
the condition of life, and the nature of the di-
vine dealings with men? May they not help to
suggest a false standard of morals, to infuse a
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
343
love of popularity and an anxiety for praise, in,
the place of that simple and unostentatious rule
of doing whatever good we do, because it is the
will of God? The universal substitution of this
principle would tend to purify the worldly mo-
rality of many a popular little story. And there
are few dangers which good parents will more
carefully guard against than that of giving their
children a mere political piety; that sort of reli-
gion which just goes to make people more re-
spectable, and to stand well with the world; a
religion which is to save appearances without
inculcating realities; a religion which affects to
'preach peace and good will to men,' but which
forgets to give 'glory to God in the highest.**
There is a certain precocity of mind which is
much helped on by these superficial modes of
instruction; for frivolous reading will produce
its correspondent effect, in much less time than
books of solid instruction; the imagination being
liable to be worked upon, and the feelings to be
set a-going, much faster than the understanding
can be opened and the judgment enlightened.
A talent for conversation should be the result of
instruction, not its precursor; it is a golden fruit
when suffered to ripen gradually on the tree of
knowledge; but if forced in the hot-bed of a cir-
culating library, it will turn out worthless and
vapid in proportion as it was artificial and pre-
mature. Girls who have been accustomed to
devour a multitude of frivolous books will con-
verse and write with a far greater appearance
of skill as to style and sentiment at twelve or
fourteen years old, than those of a more advan-
ced age, who are under the discipline of severer
studies but the former having early attained
to that low standard which had been held out to
them, become stationary; while the latter, qui-
etly progressive, are passing through just gra-
dations to a higher strain of mind; and those
who early begin with talking and writing like
women commonly end with thinking and acting
like children.
:
I would not however prohibit such works of
imagination as suit this early period. When
moderately used they serve to stretch the facul-
ties and expand the mind; but I should prefer
works of vigorous genius and pure unmixed fa-
ble to many of those tame and more affected
moral stories, which are not grounded on Chris-
tian principle. I should suggest the use on the
one hand of original and acknowledged fictions:
and on the other, of accurate and simple facts;
so that truth and fable may ever be kept sepa-
rate and distinct in the mind. There is some-
thing that kindles fancy, awakens genius and
excites new ideas in many of the bold fictions
of the east. And there is one peculiar merit in
the Arabian and some other Oriental tales,
which is, that they exhibit striking, and in ma-
ny respects faithful views of the manners, ha-
bits, customs, and religion of their respective
* An ingenious (and in many respects useful) French
Treatise on Education, has too much encouraged this
political piety, by considering religion as a thing of hu-
man invention, rather than of divine institution; as a
thing creditable, rather than commanded; by erecting
the doctrine of expediency in the room of Christian sim-
plicity; and wearing away the spirit of truth, by the
substitution of occasional deceit, equivocation subter-
fuge and mental reservation.
countries; so that some tincture of real local
information is acquired by the perusal of the
wildest fable, which will not be without its use
in aiding the future associations of the mind in
all that relates to eastern history and literature.
The irregular fancy of women is not suffi-
ciently subdued by early application, nor tamed
by labour, and the kind of knowledge they com-
monly do acquire is early attained; and being
chiefly some slight acquisition of the memory,
something which is given them to get off by
themselves, and not grounded in their minds by
comment and conversation, it is easy lost. The
superficial question-and-answer-way for instance,
in which they often learn history, furnishes the
mind with little to lean on: the events being
detached and separated, the actions having no
links to unite them with each other; the cha-
racters not being interwoven by mutual relation:
the chronology being reduced to disconnected
dates, instead of presenting an unbroken series;
of course, neither events, actions, characters,
nor chronology, fasten themselves on the under-
standing, but rather float in the memory as so
many detached episodes, than contribute to form
the mind and to enrich the judgment of the
reader, in the important science of men and
manners.
The swarms of Abridgments, Beauties, and
Compendiums, which form too considerable a
part of a young lady's library, may be consider-
ed in many instances as an infallible receipt for
making a superficial mind. The names of the
renowned characters in history thus become fa-
miliar in the mouths of those who can neither
attach to the ideas of the person, the series of
his actions, nor the peculiarities of his character.
A few fine passages from the poets (passages
perhaps which derived their chief beauty from
their position and connexion) are huddled to-
gether by some extract-maker, whose brief and
disconnected patches of broken and discordant
materials, while they inflame young readers
with the vanity of reciting, neither fill the mind
nor form the taste, and it is not difficult to trace
back to their shallow sources the hackneyed
quotations of certain accomplished young ladies,
who will be frequently found not to have come
legitimately by any thing they know. I mean
not to have drawn it from its true spring, the
original works of the author from which some
beauty-monger has severed it. Human inconsis-
tency in this, as in other cases, wants to com-
bine two irreconcileable things; it strives to
unite the reputation of knowledge with the plea-
sures of knowledge, forgetting that nothing that
is valuable can be obtained without sacrifices,
and that if we would purchase knowledge, we
must pay for it the fair and lawful price of time
and industry. For this extract-reading, while
it accommodates itself to the convenience, illus-
trates the character of the age in which we live.
The appetite for pleasure, and that love of ease
and indolence which is generated by it, leave
little time or taste for sound improvement; while
the vanity, which is equally a characteristic of
the existing period, puts in its claim also for in-
dulgence, and contrives to figure away by these
little snatches of ornamental reading, caught in
the short intervals of successive amusements.
344
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Besides, the taste, thus pampered with deli.
cious morsels, is early vitiated. The young
reader of these clustered beauties conceives a
disrelish for every thing which is plain, and
grows impatient, if obliged to get through those
equally necessary though less showy parts of a
work, in which perhaps the author gives the
best proof of his judgment by keeping under
that occasional brilliancy and incidental orna-
ment, of which these superficial students are in
constant pursuit. In all well-written books,
there is much that is good which is not dazzling;
and these shallow critics should be taught, that
it is for the embellishment of the more tame and
uninteresting parts of his work, that the judi-
cious poet commonly reserves those flowers,
whose beauty is defaced when they are plucked
from the garland into which he had so skilfully
woven thein.
The remark, however, as far as it relates to
abridgments, is by no means of general appli-
cation; there are many valuable works which
from their bulk would be almost inaccessible to
a great number of readers, and a considerable
part of which may not be generally useful.
Even in the best written books there is often
superfluous matter; authors are apt to get ena-
moured of their subject, and to dwell too long
on it: every person cannot find time to read a
longer work on any subject, and yet it may be
well for them to know something on almost
every subject; those, therefore, who abridge vo-
luminous works judiciously, render service to
the community. But there seems, if I may
venture the remark, to be a mistake in the use
of abridgments. They are put systematically
into the hands of youth, who have, or ought to
have, leisure for the works at large; while
abridgments seem more immediately calculated
for persons in more advanced life, who wish to
recall something they had forgotten; who want
to restore old ideas rather than acquire new
ones; or they are useful for persons immersed
in the business of the world; who have little
leisure for voluminous reading: they are excel-
lent to refresh the mind, but not competent to
form it; they serve to bring back what had been
formerly known, but do not supply a fund of
knowledge.
|
after a proper course of preparatory reading, to
swallow and digest such strong meat as Watts's
or Duncan's little book of Logic, some part of
Mr. Locke's Essay on the Human Understand-
ing, and bishop Butler's Analogy. Where there
is leisure, and capacity, and an able friend to
comment and to counsel, works of this nature
might be profitably substituted in the place of
so much English sentiment, French philosophy,
Italian love-songs, and fantastic German image-
ry and magic wonders.-While such enervating
or absurd books sadly disqualify the reader for
solid pursuit or vigorous thinking, the studies
here recommended would act upon the constitu-
tion of the mind as a kind of alterative, and, if
I may be allowed the expression, would help to
brace the intellectual stamina.
This suggestion, is, however, by no means in
tended to exclude works of taste and imagina-
tion, which must always make the ornamental
part, and of course a very considerable part, of
female studies. It is only intimated, that they
should not form them entirely and exclusively.
For what is called dry, tough reading, indepen-
dent of the knowledge it conveys, is useful as an
habit, and wholesome as an exercise. Serious
study serves to harden the mind for more trying
conflicts; it lifts the reader from sensation to
intellect; it abstracts her from the world and
its vanities; it fixes a wandering spirit, and for-
tifies a weak one; it divorces her from matter;
it corrects the spirit of trifling which she natu-
rally contracts from the frivolous turn of female
conversation and the petty nature of female em-
ployments; it concentrates her attention, assists
her in a habit of excluding trivial thoughts, and
thus even helps to qualify her for religious pur-
suits. Yes, I repeat it, there is to woman a
Christian use to be made of sober studies; while
books of an opposite cast, however unexception-
able they may be sometimes found in point of
expression, however free from evil in its more
gross and palpable shapes, yet from their very
nature and constitution they excite a spirit of
relaxation, by exhibiting scenes and suggesting
ideas which soften the mind and set the fancy
at work; they take off wholesome restraints, di-
minish sober-mindedness, impair the general
powers of resistance, and at best feed habits of
improper indulgence, and nourish a vain and
visionary indolence, which lays the mind open
to error and the heart to seduction.
Perhaps there is some analogy between the
mental and bodily conformation of women. The
instructor therefore should imitate the physi-
cian. If the latter prescribe bracing medicines Women are little accustomed to close reason-
for a body of which delicacy is the disease, the ing on any subject; still less do they inure their
former would do well to prohibit relaxing read-minds to consider particular parts of a subject;
ing for a mind which is already of too soft a
texture, and sould strengthen its feeble tone by
invigorating reading.
By softness, I cannot be supposed to mean
imbecility of understanding, but natural softness
of heart, and pliancy of temper, together with
that indolence of spirit which is fostered by in-
dulging in seducing books, and in the general
habits of fashionable life.
I mean not here to recommend books which
are immediately religious, but such as exercise
the reasoning faculties, teach the mind to get
acquainted with its own nature, and to stir up
its own powers.
Let not a timid young lady
start if I should venture to recommend to her,
they are not habituated to turn a truth round,
and view it in all its varied aspects and positions,
and this perhaps is one cause (as will be obser-
ved in another place*) of the too great confidence
they are disposed to place in their own opinions.
Though their imagination is already too lively,
and their judgment naturally incorrect; in edu-
cating them we go on to stimulate the imagina-
tion, while we neglect the regulation of the
judgment. They already want ballast, and we
make their education consist in continually
crowding more sail than they can carry. Their
intellectual powers being so little strengthened
by exercise, makes every petty business appear
* See Chapter on Conversations.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
345
a hardship to them: whereas serious study
would be useful, were it only that it leads the
mind to the habit of conquering difficulties. But
it is peculiarly hard to turn at once from the in-
it is peculiarly hard to turn at once from the in-
dolent repose of light reading, from the con-
cerns of mere animal life, the objects of sense,
or the frivolousness of female chit chat; it is
peculiarly hard, I say, to a mind so softened, to
rescue itself from the dominion of self-indul-
gence, to resume its powers, to call home its
scattered strength, to shut out every foreign in
trusion, to force back a spring so unnaturally
bent, and to devote itself to religious reading, to
active business, to sober reflection, to self-exa-
mination. Whereas to an intellect accustomed
to think at all, the difficulty of thinking seriously
is obviously lessened.
Another, and another, and another!
Is a lady, however destitute of talents, educa-
tion, or knowledge of the world, whose studies
have been completed by a circulating library, in
any distress of mind? the writing a novel sug-
gests itself as the best soother of her sorrows!
Does she labour under any depression of cir-
cumstances? writing a novel occurs, as the rea-
diest receipt for mending them! And she so-
laces her imagination with the conviction that
the subscription which has been extorted by her
importunity, or given to her necessities, has
been offered as an homage to her genius. And
this confidence instantly levies a fresh contribu-
tion for a succeeding work. Capacity and cul-
tivation are so little taken into the account, that
writing a book seems to be now considered as
the only sure resource which the idle and the
illiterate have always in their power.
Far be it from me to desire to make scholastic
ladies or female dialecticians; but there is little
fear that the kind of books here recommended,
May the author be indulged in a short digres-
if thoroughly studied, and not superficially sion while she remarks, though rather out of
skimmed, will make them pedants or induce its place, that the corruption occasioned by these
conceit; for by showing them the possible pow-books has spread so wide, and descended so low,
ers of the human mind, you will bring them to
see the littleness of their own; and surely to
get acquainted with the mind, to regulate, to in-
form it; to show it its own ignorance and its
own nature, does not seem the way to puff it
up.-But let her who is disposed to be elated
with her literary acquisitions, check the rising
vanity by calling to mind the just remark of
Swift, that after all her boasted acquirements,
a woman will, generally speaking, be found to
possess less of what is called learning than a
common school-boy."
C
as to have become one of the most universal, as
well as most pernicious sources of corruption
Not only among milliners, mantua-
among us.
makers, and other trades where numbers work
together, the labour of one girl is frequently sa-
crificed, that she may be spared to read those
mischievous books to the others; but she has
been assured by clergymen who have witnessed
the fact, that they are procured and greedily
read in the wards of our hospitals! an awful
hint, that those who teach the poor to read,
should not only take care to furnish them with
principles which will lead them to abhor corrupt
books, but that they should also furnish them
with such books as shall strengthen and confirm
their principles.* And let every Christian re-
member, that there is no other way of entering
truly into the spirit of that divine prayer, which
petitions that the name of God may be 'hallow-
ed,' that his kingdom (of grace) may come,'
and that his will may be done on earth as it is
in heaven,' that by each individual contributing
according to his measure to accomplish the
work for which he prays; for to pray that these
C
Neither is there any fear that this sort of
reading will convert ladies into authors. The
direct contrary effect will be likely to be pro-
duced by the perusal of writers who throw the
generality of readers at such an unapproachable
distance as to check presumption, instead of ex-
citing it. Who are those ever multiplying au
thors that with unparalleled fecundity are over-
stocking the world with their quick succeeding
progeny?
? They are NOVEL-WRITERS; the easi-
ness of whose productions is at once the cause
of their own fruitfulness, and of the almost infi-
nitely numerous race of imitators to whom they
give birth. Such is the frightful facility of this
* The above facts furnish no argument on the side of
species of composition, that every raw girl, while those who would keep the poor in ignorance. Those
she reads, is tempted to fancy that she can also who cannot read can hear, and are likely to hear to
write. And as Alexander, on perusing the Iliad, worse purpose than those who have been better taught.
And that ignorance furnishes no security for integrity
found by congenial sympathy the image of either in morals or politics, the late revolts in more than
Achilles stamped on his own ardent soul, and one country, remarkable for the ignorance of the poor
felt himself the hero he was studying; and as fully illustrate. It is earnestly hoped that the above
facts may tend to impress ladies with the importance of
Corregio, on first beholding a picture which ex- superintending the instruction of the poor, and of mak-
hibited the perfection of the graphic art, pro-ing it an indispensable part of their charity to give them
phetically felt all his own future greatness, and
cried out in rapture, And I too am a painter!'
so a thorough-paced novel-reading miss, at the
close of every tissue of hackneyed adventures,
feels within herself the stirring impulse of cor-
responding genius, and triumphantly exclaims,
' And I too am an author! The glutted imagi-
nation soon overflows with the redundance of
cheap sentiment and plentiful incident, and by
a sort of arithmetical proportion, is enabled by
the perusal of any three novels, to produce a
fourth; till every fresh production, like the pro-
lific progeny of Banquo, is followed by—
VOL, I.
moral and religious books.
The late celebrated Henry Fielding (a man not likely
to be suspected of over-strictness) assured a particular
friend of the author, that during his long administration
of justice in Bow-street, only six Scotchmen were
brought before him. The remark did not proceed from
any national partiality in the magistrate, but was pro-
duced by him in proof of the effect of a sober and reli
gious education among the lower ranks, on their morals
and conduct.
See farther the sentiments of a still more celebrated
•
cotemporary on the duty of instructing the poor. We
have been taught that the circumstance of the Gospels
being preached to the poor was one of the surest tests
of its mission. We think, therefore, that those do not
believe it who do not take care it should be preached to
the poor.-Burke on the French Revolution.
346
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
3
great objects may be promoted, without contri-
buting to their promotion by our exertions, our
money, and our influence, is a palpable incon-
sistency.
CHAP. IX.
|
from the medium between his best and his worst
characters; without acquiring a just notion of
that prevalence of evil; which, in spite of those
few brighter luminaries that here and there just
serve to gild the gloom of history, tends abun-
dantly to establish the doctrine. It will indeed
be continually establishing itself by those who,
in perusing the history of mankind, carefully
On the religious and moral use of history and mark the rise and progress of sin, from the first
geography.
WHILE every sort of useful knowledge should
be carefully imparted to young persons, it should
be imparted not merely for its own sake, but
also for the sake of its subserviency to higher
things. All human learning should be taught,
not as an end, but a means; and in this view
even a lesson of history or geography may be
converted into a lesson of religion. In the study
of history, the instructor will accustom the pu-
pil not merely to store her memory with facts
and anecdotes, and to ascertain dates and epochs:
but she will accustom her also to trace effects
to their causes, to examine the secret springs
of action, and accurately to observe the opera-
tions of the passions. It is only meant to notice
here some few of the moral benefits which may
be derived from judicious perusal of history;
and from among other points of instruction, I
select the following :*
The study of history may serve to give a
clearer insight into the corruption of human
nature :
It may help to show the plan of Providence
in the direction of events, and in the use of un-
worthy instruments:
It may assist in the vindication of Providence,
in the common failure of virtue, and the frequent
success of vice:
It may lead to a distrust of our own judg.
ment:
It may contribute to our improvement in self.
knowledge.
But to prove to the pupil the important doc-
trine of human corruption from the study of
history, will require a truly Christian commen-
tator in the friend with whom the work is pe-
rused. For, from the low standard of right esta-
blished by the generality of historians, who
erect so many persons into good characters who
fall short of the true idea of Christian virtue, the
unassisted reader will be liable to form very im-
perfect views of what is real goodness; and
will conclude, as his author sometimes does, that
the true idea of human nature is to be taken
* It were to be wished that more historians resembled
the excellent Rollin in the religious and moral turn
given to his writings of this kind. But here may I be
permitted to observe incidentally (for it is not immedi-
ately analogous to my subject) that there is one disad-
vantage which attends the common practice of setting
young ladies to read ancient history and geography in
French or Italian, who have not been previously well
grounded in the pronunciation of classical names of
persons and places in our own language. The foreign
termination of Greek and Roman names are often very
different from the English, and where they are first ac
quired are frequently retained and adopted in their
stead, so as to give an illiterate appearance to the con-
versation of some women who are not really ignorant.
And this defective pronunciation is the more to be
guarded against in the education of ladies who are not
taught quantity as boys are.
timid irruption of an evil thought, to the fearless
accomplishment of the abhorred crime in which
that thought has ended: from the indignant
question, Is thy servant a dog that he should
do this great thing ?'* to the perpetration of that
very enormity of which the self-acquitting de-
linquent could not endure the slightest sugges.
tion.
In this connexion may it not be observed,
that young persons should be put on their guard
against a too implicit belief in the flattering ac-
counts which many voyage writers are fond of
exhibiting of the virtue, amiableness, and be-
nignity, of some of the countries newly disco-
vered by our circumnavigators; that they should
learn to suspect the superior goodness ascribed
to the Hindoos, and particularly the account of
the inhabitants of the Pelew Islands? These
last indeed have been represented as having al-
most escaped the universal taint of our common
nature, and would seem by their purity to have
sprung from another ancestor than Adam.
We cannot forbear suspecting that these pleas-
ing, but somewhat overcharged portraits of man
in his natural state, are drawn with the invidi-
ous design, by counteracting the doctrine of hu-
man corruption, to degrade the value and even
destroy the necessity of the Christian sacrifice;
by insinuating that uncultivated man is so dis-
posed to rectitude as to supersede the occasion
for that redemption which is professedly design.
ed for sinners. That in countries professing
Christianity, very many are not Christians will
be too readily granted. Yet to say nothing of
the vast superiority of goodness in the lives of
those who are really governed by Christianity,
is there not something even in her reflex light
which guides to greater purity many of those
who do not profess to walk by it; I doubt much,
if numbers of the unbelievers of a Christian
country, from the sounder views and better ha-
bits derived incidentally and collaterally, as it
were from the influence of a Gospel, the truth
of which however they do not acknowledge,
would not start at many of the actions which
these heathen perfectionists daily commit with
out hesitation.
The religious reader of general history will
observe the controlling hand of Providence in
the direction of events; in turning the most un-
worthy actions and instruments to the accom-
plishment of his own purposes. She will mark
infinite Wisdom directing what appears to be
casual occurrences, to the completion of his own
plan. She will point out how causes seemingly
the most unconnected, events seemingly the
most unpromising, circumstances seemingly the
most incongruous, are all working together for
some final good. She will mark how national
* 2 Kings, viii. 13.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
347
as well as individual crimes are often overruled
to some hidden purpose far different from the
intention of the actors: how Omnipotence can,
and often does, bring about the best purposes
by the worst instruments: how the bloody and
unjust conqueror is but the rod of his wrath,'
to punish or to purify his offending children:
how the fury of the oppressor,' and the suffer-
ings of the oppressed, will one day, when the
whole scheme shall be unfolded, vindicate his
righteous dealings. She will explain to the less
enlightened reader, how infinite Wisdom often
mocks the insignificance of human greatness,
and the shallowness of human ability, by set-
ting aside instruments the most powerful and
promising, while He works by agents compara-
tively contemptible. But she will carefully
guard this doctrine of Divine Providence, thus
working out his own purposes through the sins
of his creatures, and by the instrumentality of
the wicked, by calling to mind, while the offend-
er is but a tool in the hands of the great Arti-
ficer,' the wo denounced against him by whom
the offence cometh! She will explain how those
mutations and revolutions in states which appear
to us so unaccountable, and how those opera-
tions of Providence which seem to us so entan-
gled and complicated, all move harmoniously
and in perfect order: that there is not an event
but has its commission; not a misfortune which
breaks its allotted rank; not a trial which moves
out of its appointed track. While calamities
and crimes seem to fly in casual confusion, all
is commanded or permitted; all is under the
control of a wisdom which cannot err, of a good-
ness which cannot do wrong.
To explain my meaning by a few instances.
When the spirit of the youthful reader rises in
honest indignation at that hypocritical piety
which divorced an unoffending queen to make
way for the lawful crime of our eighth Henry's
marriage with Ann Boleyn, and when that in-
dignation is increased by the more open profli-
gacy which brought about the execution of the
latter; the instructor will not lose so fair an oc-
casion for unfolding how in the councils of the
Most High the crimes of the king were over-
ruled to the happiness of the country; and how,
to this inauspicious marriage, from which the
heroic Elizabeth sprang, the protestant religion
owed its firm stability. This view of the sub-
ject will lead the reader to justify the Provi-
dence of God without diminishing her abhor-
rence of the vices of the tyrant.
|
of pagans to embrace the religion of Christ.
She will inform her, that when afterwards the
victorious country of the same Cæsar had made
Judea a Roman province, and the Jews had be-
come its tributaries, the Romans did not know,
nor did the indignant Jews suspect, that this
circumstance was operating to the confirmation
of an event the most important the world ever
witnessed.
For when Augustus sent forth a decree that
all the world should be taxed;' he vainly thought
he was only enlarging his own imperial power,
whereas he was acting in unconscious subser-
vience to the decree of a higher Sovereign, and
was helping to ascertain by a public act the
exact period of Christ's birth, and furnishing a
record of his extraction from that family from
which it was predicted by a long line of pro-
phets that he should spring. Herod's atrocious
murder of the innocents has added an addition.
al circumstance for the confirmation of our
faith; the incredulity of Thomas has strength.
ened our belief; nay, the treachery of Judas, and
the injustice of Pilate, were the human instru.
ments employed for the salvation of the world.
The youth that is not thoroughly armed with
Christian principles, will be tempted to mutiny
not only against the justice, but the very exist-
ence of a superintending Providence, in con-
templating those frequent instances which occur
in history of the ill success of the more virtuous
cause, and the prosperity of the wicked. He
will see with astonishment that it is Rome which
triumphs, while Carthage, which had clearly
the better cause, falls. Now and then indeed a
Cicero prevails, and a Cataline is subdued: but
often, it is Cæsar successful against the some-
what juster pretensions of Pompey, and against
the still clearer cause of Cato. It is Octavius
who triumphs, and it is over Brutus that he
triumphs. It is Tiberius who is enthroned,
while Germanicus falls!
Thus his faith in a righteous Providence at
first view is staggered, and he is ready to say,
'Surely it is not God that governs the earth!
But on a fuller consideration (and here sugges-
tions of a Christian instructor are peculiarly
wanted) there will appear great wisdom in this
very confusion of vice and virtue; for it is cal-
culated to send our thoughts forward to a world
of retribution, the principle of retribution being
so imperfectly established in this. It is indeed
so far common for virtue to have the advantage
here, in point of happiness at least, though not
She will explain to her how even the conquest of glory, that the course of Providence is still
of ambition, after having deluged a land with calculated to prove that God is on the side of
blood, involved the perpetrator in guilt, and the virtue ; but still virtue is so often unsuccessful,
innocent victim in ruin, may yet be made the that clearly the God of virtue, in order that his
instrument of opening to future generations the work may be perfect, must have in reserve a
way to commerce, to civilization, to Christianity, world of retribution. This confused state of
She may remind her, as they are following things therefore is just that state which is most
Cæsar in his invasion of Britain, that whereas of all calculated to confirm the deeply conside-
the conqueror fancied he was only gratifying rate mind in the belief of a future state; for if
his own inordinate ambition, extending the
flight of the Roman Eagle, immortalizing his
own name, and proving that this world was
made for Cæsar;' he was in reality becoming
the effectual though unconscious instrument of
leading a land of barbarians to civilization and
to science and was in fact preparing an island
all here were even or very nearly so, should we
not say, 'Justice is already satisfied, and there
needs no other world.' On the other hand, if
vice always triumphed, should we not then be
ready to argue in favour of vice rather than vir-
tue, and to wish for no other world.
It seems so very important to ground young
348
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
constancy of the martyr, if she do not bear in
mind that she herself is called to endure her
own common trials with something of the same
temper: if she do not bear in mind that, to con-
troul irregular humours, and to submit to the
daily vexations of life, will require, though in a
lower degree, the exertion of the same principle,
and supplication for the aid of the same spirit
which sustained the Christian hero in the try-
ing conflicts of life; or the martyr in his agony
at the stake.
persons in the belief that they will not inevita-¡ over the fortitude of the Christian hero, or the
bly meet in this world with reward and success
according to their merit, and to habituate them
to expect even the most virtuous attempts to be
often, though not always disappointed, that I
am in danger of tautology on this point. This
fact is precisely what history teaches. The truth
should be plainly told to the young reader; and
the antidote to that evil, which mistaken and
worldly people would expect to arise from di-
vulging this discouraging doctrine is faith.
The importance of faith therefore, and the ne-
cessity of it to real, unbending, and persevering
virtue, is surely made plain by profane history
itself. For the same thing which happens to
states and kings, happens to private life and
to individuals. Thus there is scarcely a page,
even of pagan history, which may not be made
instrumental to the establishing of the truth of
revelation; and it is only by such a guarded
mode of instruction that some of the evils attend-
ing on the study of ancient literature can be ob-
viated.
Distrust and diffidence in our own judgment
seems to be also an important instruction to be
learnt from history. How contrary to all ex-
pectation do the events therein recorded com-
monly turn out! How continually is the most
sagacious conjecture of human penetration baffl-
ed! and yet we proceed to foretel this conse-
quence, and to predict that event from the ap-
pearances of things under our own observation,
with the same arrogant certainty as if we had
never been warned by the monitory annals of
successive ages.
May I be permitted to suggest a few in-
stances, by way of specimen, how both sacred
and common history may tend to promote self-
knowledge? And let me again remind the warm
admirer of suffering piety under extraordinary
trials, that if she now fail in the petty occasions
to which she is actually called out, she would
not be likely to have stood in those more trying
occasions which excite her admiration.
While she is applauding the self-denying saint
who renounced his case, or chose to embrace
death, rather than violate his duty, let her ask
herself if she has never refused to submit to the
paltry inconvenience of giving up her company,
or even altering her dinner-hour on a Sunday,
though by this trifling sacrifice her family might
have been enabled to attend the public worship
in the afternoon.
While she reads with horror that Belshazzar
was rioting with his thousand nobles at the
very moment when the Persian army was burst-
ing through the brazen gates of Babylon; is she
very sure that she herself, in an almost equally
imminent moment of public danger, has not been
nightly indulging in every species of dissipation?
There is scarcely one great event in history
which does not in the issue, produce effects
upon which human foresight could never have When she is deploring the inconsistency of
calculated. The success of Augustus against the human heart, while she contrasts in Mark
his country produced peace in many distant Anthony his bravery and contempt of ease at
provinces, who thus ceased to be harassed and one period, with his licentious indulgences at
tormented by this oppressive republic. Could another; or while she laments over the intrepid
this effect have been foreseen, it might have soul of Cæsar, whom she had been following
sobered the despair of Cato, and checked the in his painful marches, or admiring in his con-
vehemence of Brutus. In politics, in short in tempt of death, now dissolved in dissolute plea-
every thing except in morals and religion, all sures with the ensnaring queen of Egypt: let
is to a considerable degree uncertain.-This her examine whether she herself has never,
reasoning is not meant to show that Cato ought though in a much lower degree, evinced some-
not to have fought, but that he ought not to thing of the same inconsistency? whether she
have desponded even after the last battle; and who lives perhaps an orderly, sober, and reason-
certainly, even upon his own principles, oughtable life during her summer residence in the
not to have killed himself. It would be de-
parting too much from my object to apply this ar-
gument, however obvious the application, against
those who were driven to unreasonable distrust
and despair by the late successes of a neighbour-ligion, which can be made to bend to places and
ing nation.
But all knowledge will be comparatively of
little value, if we neglect self-knowledge; and
of self-knowledge history and biography may
be made successful vehicles. It will be to little
purpose that our pupils become accurate critics
on the characters of others, while they remain
ignorant of themselves; for while to those who
exercise a habit of self-application a book of
profane history may be made an instrument of
improvement in this difficult science; so with
out such an habit the Bible itself may, in this
view, be read with little profit.
It will be to no purpose that the reader weeps
country, does not plunge with little scruple in
the winter into all the most extravagant plea-
sures of the capital? whether she never carries
about with her an accommodating kind of re-
seasons, to climates and customs, to times and
circumstances; which takes its tincture from
the fashion without, and not its habits from the
principle within; which is decent with the pious,
sober with the orderly, and loose with the li-
centious?
While she is admiring the generosity of Alex-
ander in giving away kingdoms and provinces,
let her, in order to ascertain whether she could
imitate this magnanimity, take heed if she her-
self is daily seizing all the little occasions of
doing good, which every day presents to the
affluent? Her call is not to sacrifice a province;
but does she sacrifice an opera ticket? She who
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
349
is not doing all the good she can under her pre- |
sent circumstances, would not do all she fore-
sees she should, in imaginary ones, were her
power enlarged to the extent of her wishes.
commodation. And here the pious instructor
will come in, in aid of their deficiency: for phi-
losophers too seldom trace up causes, and won-
ders, and blessings to their Author. And it is
peculiarly to be regretted that a late justly cele-
brated French naturalist, who, though not fa-
mous for his accuracy, possessed such diversified,
powers of description that he had the talent of
making the driest subjects interesting; together
with such liveliness of delineation, that his cha-
racters of animals are drawn with a spirit and
variety rather to be looked for in an historian of
men than of beasts: it is to be regretted, I say
that this writer, with all his excellencies, is ab-
While she is inveighing with patriotic indig-
nation, that in a neighbouring metropolis, thirty
theatres were open every night in time of war
and public calamity, is she very clear that in a
metropolis which contains only three, she was
not almost constantly at one of them in time of
war and public calamity also? For though in a
national view it may make a wide difference
whether there be in the capital three theatres or
thirty, yet, as the same person can only go to
one of them at once, it makes but little differ-solutely inadmissible into the library of a young
ence as to the quantum of dissipation in the in-
dividual. She who rejoices at successful virtue
in a history, or at the prosperity of a person
whose interests do not interfere with her own,
may exercise her self-knowledge by examining
whether she rejoices equally at the happiness
of every one about her: and let her remember
she does not rejoice at it in the true sense, if she
does not labour to promote it. She who glows
with rapture at a virtuous character in history,
should ask her own heart, whether she is equally
ready to do justice to the fine qualities of her
acquaintance, though she may not particularly
love them; and whether she takes unfeigned
pleasure in the superior talents, virtues, fame
lady, both on account of his immodesty and his
impiety; and if in wishing to exclude him, it
may be thought wrong to have given him so
much commendation, it is only meant to show
that the author is not led to reprobate his in-
ciples from insensibility to his talents. The e-
mark is rather made to put the reader on re-
membering that no brilliancy of genius, no
diversity of attainments, should ever be allowed
as a commutation for defe ctive principles and
corrupt ideas.*
CHAP. X.
and fortune of those whom she professes to love, On the use of definitions, and the moral benefits
though she is eclipsed by them?
*
*
*
*
*
In like manner, in the study of geography and
natural history, the attention should be habitu-
ally turned to the goodness of Providence, who
commonly adapts the various productions of cli-
mates to the peculiar wants of the respective
inhabitants. To illustrate my meaning by one
or two instances out of a thousand. The reader
may be led to admire the considerate goodness
of Providence in having caused the spiry fir,
whose slender foliage does not obstruct the beams
intolerable fervor of a vertical sun. How the
of accuracy in langnge.
'PERSONS having been accuston led from their
cradles to learn words before they knew the
do so all their lives, never taking the pains to
ideas for which they stand, usually continue to
settle in their minds, the determined ideas which
cation of their words, when they come to reason,
belong to them. This want of a. precise signifi-
especially in moral matters, is die cause of very
obscure and uncertain notions. They use these
undetermined words confider tly, without much
troubling their heads about a certain fixed mean-
ing, whereby, besides the es se of it, they obtain
this advantage, that as in such discourse they
are seldom in the right, so they are seldom to
be convinced that they are in the wrong, it be-
of the sun, to grow in the dreary regions of the
north, whose shivering inhabitants could spare
none of its scanty rays; while in the torrid zone,
the palm-tree, the plantain, and the banana,
spread their umbrella leaves to break the almost
camel, who is the sole carrier of all the merchan- ing just the same to go abo at to draw those per-
sons out of their mistakes, who have no settled
dise of Turkey, Persia, Egypt, Arabia, and Bar-notions, as to dispossess a vagrant of his habita-
bary, who is obliged to transport his incredible
burthens through countries in which pasture is
so rare, can subsist twenty-four hours without
food, and can travel loaded, many days without
water, through dry and dusty deserts, which
supply none; and all this, not from the habit,
but from the conformation of the animal: for
naturalists make this conformity of powers to
climates a rule of judgment in ascertaining the
native countries of animals, and always deter-
mine it to be that to which their powers and
properties are most appropriate.
Thus the writers of natural history are per-
haps unintentionally magnifying the operations
of Providence, when they insist that animals do
not modify and give way to the influence of
other climates; but here they too commonly
stop; neglecting, or perhaps refusing, to ascribe
to infinite goodness this wise and merciful ac-
tion who has no settled a bode.-The chief end
of language being to be understood, words serve
not for that end when they do not excite in the
hearer the same idea which they stand for in
the mind of the speaker.'†
broad sanction of the great author here quoted,
I have chosen to shelter myself under the
with a view to ap ply this rule in philology to a
moral purpose; for it applies to the veracity of
conversation as much as to its correctness; and
as strongly recomm ends unequivocal and simple
any one perhaps he is an adequate conception
truth, as accurate an d just expression. Scarcely
any one perhaps hats an adequate
* Goldsmith's History of Animated Nature has many
references to a Divine A athor. It is to be wished that
some judicious person would publish a new edition of
this work, purified from, the indelicate and offensive
parts.
↑ Locke.
E
350
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
how much clear and correct expression favours,
the elucidation of truth; and the side of truth
is obviously the side of morals; it is in fact one
and the same cause; and it is of course the same
cause with that of true religion also.
เ
misled by these trope and figure ladies, when
they degrade as when they panegyrize; for to a
plain and sober judgment, a tradesman may not
be the most good-for-nothing fellow that ever
existed,' merely because it was impossible for
him to execute in an hour, an order which re-
quired a week; a lady may not be the most
hideous fright the world ever saw,' though the
make of her gown may have been obsolete for a
month; nor may one's young friend's father be
a' monster of cruelty,' though he may be a quiet
gentleman who does not choose to live at water-
ing-places, but likes to have his daughter stay
at home with him in the country.
It is therefore no worthless part of education,
even in a religious view, to study the precise
meaning of words, and the appropriate signifi-
cation of language. To this end I know no
better method than to accustom young persons
very early to a habit of defining common words
and things; for, as definition seems to lie at the
root of correctness, to be accustomed to define
English words in English, would improve the
understanding more than barely to know what Of all the parts of speech, the interjection is
these words are called in French, Italian, or the most abundantly in use with the hyperboli-
Latin. Or rather, one use of learning other cal fair ones. Would it could be added that
languages is, because definition is often involved these emphatical expletives (if I may make use
in etymology; that is, since many English words of a contradictory term,) were not sometimes
take their derivation from foreign or ancient tinctured with profaneness! Though I am per-
languages, they cannot be so accurately under- suaded that idle habit is often more at the bot-
stood without some knowledge of those lan-tom of this deep offence than intended impiety,
guages: but precision of any kind, either moral
or philological, too seldom finds its way into the
education of women.
yet there is scarcely any error of youthful talk
which merits severer castigation. And an habit
of exclamation should be rejected by polished
people as vulgar, even if it were not abhorred as
profane.
It is perhaps going out of my province to ob-
serve, that it might be well if young men also
before they entered on the world, were to be fur- The habit of exaggerating trifles, together
nished with correct definitions of certain words, with the grand female failing of excessive mu-
the use of which is become rather ambiguous; tual flattery, and elaborate general professions
or rather they should be instructed in the double of fondness and attachment, is inconceivably
sense of modern phraseology. For instance; cherished by the voluminous private correspon-
they should be provided with a good definition dences in which some girls are indulged. In
of the word honour in the fashionable sense, vindication of this practice it is pleaded that a
showing what vices it includes, and what virtues facility of style, and an easy turn of expression,
it does not include; the term good company, are acquisitions to be derived from an early in-
which even the courtly Petronius of our days terchange of sentiments by letter-writing; but
has defined as sometimes including not a few even if it were so, these would be dearly pur-
immoral and disreputable characters: religion, chased by the sacrifice of that truth, and sobriety
which in the various senses assigned it by the of sentiment, that correctness of language, and
world, sometimes means superstition, sometimes that ingenuous simplicity of character and man-
fanaticism, and sometimes a mere disposition to ners so lovely in female youth,
attend on any kind of form of worship: the word
goodness, which is made to mean every thing
that is not notoriously bad; and sometimes even
that too, if what is notoriously bad be accompa-
nied by good humour, pleasing manners, and a
little alms-giving. By these means they would
go forth armed against many of the false opini-
ons which, through the abuse or ambiguous
meaning of words, pass so current in the world.
But to return to the youthful part of that sex
which is the more immediate object of this little
work. With correct definition they should also
be taught to study the shades of words, and this
not merely with a view to accuracy of expression,
though even that involves both sense and ele-
gance, but with a view to moral truth.
It may be thought ridiculous to assert that
morals have any connexion with the purity of
language, or that the precision of truth may be
violated through defect of critical exactness in
the three degrees of comparison: yet how fre-
quently do we hear from the dealers in superla-
tives, of most admirable, superexcellent, and
quite perfect' people, who, to plain persons, not
bred in the school of exaggeration, would appear
mere common characters, not rising above the
level of mediocrity! By this negligence in the
just application of words, we shall be as much
·
Next to pernicious reading, imprudent and
violent friendships are the most dangerous snares
to this simplicity. And boundless correspon-
dences with different confidants, whether they
live in a distant province, or, as it often happens,
in the same street, are the fuel which principally
feeds this dangerous flame of youthful sentiment.
In those correspondences the young friends often
encourage each other in the falsest notions of
human life, and the most erroneous views of
each other's character. Family affairs are di
vulged, and family faults aggravated. Vows of
everlasting attachment and exclusive fondness
are in a pretty just proportion bestowed on every
friend alike. These epistles overflow with quo-
tations from the most passionate of the dramatic
poets; and passages wrested from their natural
meaning, and pressed into the service of senti-
ment, are, with all the violence of misapplica-
tion, compelled to suit the case of the heroic
transcriber.
But antecedent to this epistolary period of life
they should have been accustomed to the most
scrupulous exactness in whatever they relate.
They should maintain the most critical accuracy
in facts, in dates, in numbering, in describing,
in short, in whatever pertains, either directly or
indirectly, closely or remotely, to the great fun
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
351
damental principle, truth. It is so very difficult
for persons of great liveliness to restrain them-
selves within the sober limits of strict veracity,
either in their assertions or narrations, especi-
ally when a little undue indulgence of fancy is
apt to procure for them the praise of genius and
spirit, that this restraint is one of the earliest
principles which should be worked into the
youthful mind.
The conversation of young females is also in
danger of being overloaded with epithets. As
in the warm season of youth hardly any thing
is seen in the true point of vision, so hardly any
thing is named in naked simplicity; and the
very sensibility of the feelings is partly a cause
of the extravagance of the expression. But here,
as in other points, the sacred writers, particu-
larly of the New Testament, present us with
the purest models; and its natural and unlabour-
ed style of expression is perhaps not the mean-
est evidence of the truth of the Gospel. There
is throughout the whole narratives, no over-
charged character, no elaborate description, no-
thing studiously emphatical, as if truth of itself
were weak, and wanted to be helped out. There
is little panegyric, and less invective; none but
on great, and awful, and justifiable occasions.
The authors record their own faults with the
same honesty as if they were the faults of other
men, and the faults of other men with as little
amplification as if they were their own. There
is perhaps no book in which adjectives are so
sparingly used. A modest statement of the fact,
with no colouring and little comment, with little
emphasis and no varnish, is the example held
out to us for correcting the exuberances of pas-
sion and of language, by that divine volume
which furnishes us with the still more important
rule of faith and standard of practice. Nor is
the truth lowered by any feebleness, nor is the
spirit diluted, nor the impression weakened by
this soberness and moderation; for with all this
plainness there is so much force, with all this
simplicity there is so much energy, that a few
slight touches and artless strokes of Scripture
characters convey a stronger outline of the per-
son delineated, than is sometimes given by the
most elaborate and finished portrait of more arti-
ficial historians.
very tropes and figures, though bold, are never
unnatural or affected: when it embellishes it
does not mislead; even when it exaggerates, it
does not misrepresent; if it be hyperbolical, it
is so either in compliance with the genius of
oriental language, or in compliance with con-
temporary customs, or because the subject is
one which will be most forcibly impressed by a
strong figure. The loftiness of the expression
deducts nothing from the weight of the circum-
stance; the imagery animates the reader with-
out misleading him; the boldest illustration,
while it dilates his conception of the subject, de-
tracts nothing from its exactness; and the di-
vine Spirit, instead of suffering truth to be in-
jured by the opulence of the figures, contrives to
make them fresh and varied avenues to the
heart and the understanding.
CHAP. XI.
On religion. The necessity and duty of early
instruction shown by analogy with human
learning.
IT has been the fashion of our late innovators
in philosophy, who have written some of the
most brilliant and popular treatises on education,
to decry the practice of early instilling religious
knowledge into the minds of children. In vin-
dication of this opinion it has been alleged, that
it is of the utmost importance to the cause of
truth, that the mind of man should be kept free
from prepossessions; and in particular, that
every one should be left to form such judgment
on religious subjects as may seem best to his
own reason in maturer years.
This sentiment has received some counte.
nance from those better characters who have
wished, on the fairest principle, to encourage
free inquiry in religion; but it has been pushed
to the blameable excess here censured, chiefly
by the new philosophers; who, while they pro-
fess only an ingenuous zeal for truth, are in
fact slily endeavouring to destroy Christianity
itself, by discountenancing, under the plausible
pretence of free inquiry, all attention whatever
to the religious education of our youth.
It is undoubtedly our duty, while we are in-
stilling principles into the tender mind, to take
peculiar care that those principles be sound and
just; that the religion we teach be the religion
of the Bible, and not the inventions of human
error or superstition: that the principles we in-
fuse into others, be such as we ourselves have
well scrutinized, and not the result of our cre-
dulity or bigotry; not the mere hereditary, un-
examined prejudices of our own undiscerning
childhood. It may also be granted, that it is
the duty of every parent to inform the youth,
that when his faculties shall have so unfolded
themselves, as to enable him to examine for
himself those principles which the parent is now
instilling, it will be his duty so to examine
them.
If it be objected to this remark, that many
parts of the sacred writings abound in a lofty,
figurative, and even hyperbolical style; this ob-
jection applies chiefly to the writings of the Old
Testament, and to the prophetical and poetical
parts of that. But the metaphorical and florid
style of those writings is distinct from the inac-
curate and overstrained expression we have been
censuring; for that only is inaccuracy which
leads to a false and inadequate conception in the
reader or hearer. The lofty style of the eastern,
and of other heroic poetry, does not so mislead;
for the metaphor is understood to be a metaphor,
and the imagery is understood to be ornamental.
The style of the Scriptures of the Old Testa-
ment is not, it is true, plain in opposition to
figurative; nor simple in opposition to florid;
but it is plain and simple in the best sense, as But after making these concessions, I would
opposed to false principles and false taste; it most seriously insist that there are certain lead-
raises no wrong idea; it gives an exact impres-ing and fundamental truths; that there are cer-
sion of the thing it means to convey; and its tain sentiments on the side of Christianity, as
352
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
well as of virtue and benevolence, in favour of
which every child ought to be prepossessed; and
may it not be also added, that to expect to keep
the mind void of all prepossession, even upon
any subject, appears to be altogether a vain and
impracticable attempt; an attempt, the very
suggestion of which argues much ignorance of
human nature.
norant not only of the science, but the language
of Christianity?
But at worst, whatever be the event of a pious
education to the child, though in general we are
encouraged from the tenor of Scripture and the
course of experience to hope that the event will
be favourable, and that when he is old he will
not depart from it.' Is it nothing for the parent
Let it be observed here, that we are not com- to have acquitted himself of this prime duty?
bating the infidel; that we are not producing Is it nothing to him that he has obeyed the plain
evidences and arguments in favour of the truth command of 'training his child in the way he
of Christianity, or trying to win over the assent should go?' And will not the parent who so
of the reader to that which he disputes, but that acquits himself, with better reason and more
we are taking it for granted, not only that lively hope, supplicate the Father of mercies for
Christianity is true, but that we are addressing the reclaiming of a prodigal, who has wandered
those who believe it to be true: an assumption out of that right path in which he has set him
which has been made throughout this work. forward, than for the conversion of a neglected
Assuming, therefore, that there are religious creature, to whose feet the Gospel had never
principles which are true, and which ought to been offered as a light? And how different will
be communicated in the most effectual manner, be the dying reflections even of that parent
the next question which arises seems to be, at whose earnest endeavours have been unhappily
what age and in what manner these ought to be defeated by the subsequent and voluntary per-
inculcated; that it ought to be at an early period version of his child, from his who will reasona-
we have the command of Christ; who encourag-bly aggravate his pangs, by transferring the sins
ingly said, in answer to those who would have
repelled their approach, Suffer little children
to come unto me.'
of his neglected child to the number of his own
transgressions.
And to such well-intentioned but ill-judging
parents as really wish their children to be here-
after pious, but erroneously withhold instruction
till the more advanced period prescribed by the
great master of splendid paradoxes* shall arrive
who can assure them, that while they are with-
holding the good seed, the great and ever vigi-
lant enemy, who assiduously seizes hold on every
opportunity which we slight, and cultivates
every advantage which we neglect, may not be
stocking the fallow ground with tares? Nay,
who in this fluctuating state of things can be
assured, even if this were not certainly to be the
case, that to them the promised period ever shall
arrive at all? Who shall ascertain to them that
their now neglected child shall certainly live to
receive the delayed instructions? Who can as-
sure them that they themselves will live to com-
municate it?
But here conceding, for the sake of argument,
what yet cannot be conceded, that some good
reasons may be brought in favour of delay; al-
lowing that such impressions as are communi-
cated early may not be very deep; allowing
them even to become totally effaced by the sub-
sequent corruptions of the heart and of the world;
still I would illustrate the importance of early
infusing religious knowledge, by an allusion
drawn from the power of early habit in human
learning. Put the case, for instance, of a person
who was betimes initiated in the rudiments of
classical studies. Suppose him after quitting
school to have fallen, either by a course of idle-
ness or of vulgar pursuits, into a total neglect
of study. Should this person at any future pe-
riod happen to be called to some profession,
which should oblige him, as we say, to rub up
his Greek and Latin; his memory still retain- It is almost needless to observe that parents
ing the unobliterated though faint traces of his who are indifferent about religion, much more
early pursuits, he will be able to recover his ne- those who treat it with scorn, are not likely to
glected learning with less difficulty than he be anxious on this subject; it is therefore the
could now begin to learn; for he is not again attention of religious parents which is here.
obliged to set out with studying the simple ele-chiefly called upon; and the more so, as there
ments; they come back on being pursued; they
are found on being searched for; the decayed
images assume shape, and strength, and colour;
he has in his mind first principles to which to
recur; the rules of grammar which he has al-
lowed himself to violate, he has not however
forgotten; he will recall neglected ideas, he will
resume slighted habits far more easily than he
could now begin to acquire new ones. I appeal
to clergymen who are called to attend the dying
beds of such as have been bred in gross and stu-
pid ignorance of religion, for the justness of this
comparison. Do they not find that these un-
happy people have no ideas in common with
them? that they therefore possess no intelligible
medium by which to make themselves under-
stood? that the persons to whom they are ad-
dressing themselves have no first principles to
which they can be referred? that they are ig-
seems, on this point, an unaccountable negli-
gence in many of these, whether it arises from
indolence, false principles, or whatever other
motive.
But independent of knowledge, it is some-
thing, nay, let philosophers say what they will,
it is much to give youth prepossessions in favour
of religion, to secure their prejudices on its side
before you turn them adrift into the world; a
world in which, before they can be completely
armed with arguments and reasons, they will be
assailed by numbers whose prepossessions and
prejudices, far more than their arguments and
reasons, attach them to the other side. Why
should not the Christian youth furnish himself
in the best cause with the same natural armour
which the enemies of religion wear in the worst?
It is certain that to set out in life with senti
* Rosseau.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
353
ments in favour of the religion of our country is,
no more an error or a weakness, than to grow
up with a fondness for our country itself. If the
love of our country be judged a fair principle,
surely a Christian who is a citizen of no mean |
city,' may lawfully have his attachments too.
If patriotism be an honest prejudice, Christi-
anity is not a servile one. Nay, let us teach the
youth to hug his prejudices, to glory in his pre-
possessions, rather than to acquire that versa-
tile and accommodating citizenship of the world,
by which he may be an infidel in Paris, a Papist
at Rome, and a Mussulman at Cairo.
which is now usurped by externals, should be
restored to the rightful owners, the understand-
ing and the heart; and that the acquisition of
religious knowledge in early youth should at
least be no less an object of sedulous attention
than the cultivation of human learning or of
outward embellishments. It is also not un-
reasonable to suggest, that we should in Christi
anity, as in arts, sciences, or languages, begin
with the beginning, set out with the simple
elements, and thus go on unto perfection.'
Why in teaching to draw do you begin with
straight lines and curves, till by gentle steps
the knowledge of outline and proportion be ob
tained, and your picture be completed; never
losing sight, however, of the elementary lines
and curves? Why in music do you set out
with the simple notes, and pursue the acquisi-
tion through all its progress, still in every stage
recurring to the notes? Why in the science of
numbers do you invent the simplest methods of
conveying just ideas of computation, still refer-
ring to the tables which involve the fundamen-
tal rules? Why in the science of quantity do
men introduce the pupil at first to the plainest
diagrams, and clear up one difficulty before they
allow another to appear? Why in teaching
Let me not be supposed so to elevate politics,
or so to depress religion, as to make any com-
parision of the value of the one with the other,
when I observe, that between the true British
patriot and the true Christian, there will be this
common resemblance: the more deeply each of
them inquires, the more will he be confirmed in
his respective attachment, the one to his coun-
try, the other to his religion. I speak with re-
verence of the immeasurable distance; but the
more the one presses on the firm arch of our
constitution, and the other on that of Christi-
anity, the stronger he will find them both. Each
challenges scrutiny; each has nothing to dread
but from shallow politicians and shallow philo-languages to the youth do you sedulously infuse
sophers; in each intimate knowledge justifies
prepossession; in each investigation confirms
attachment.
into his mind the rudiments of your syntax?
Why in parsing is he led to refer every word
to its part of speech, to resolve every sentence
into its elements, to reduce every term to its
original, and from the first case of nouns, and
the first tense of verbs, to explain their forma
tions, changes, and dependences, till the prin
ciples of language become so grounded, that, by
continually recurring to the rules, speaking and
writing correctly are fixed into a habit? Why
all this, but because you uniformly wish him to
be grounded in each of his acquirements? Why,
but because you are persuaded that a slight,
and slovenly, and superficial, and irregular way
of instruction will never train him to excellence
in any thing?
Do young persons then become musicians,
painters, linguists, and mathematicians by early
study and regular labour; and shall they become
Christians by accident? or rather, is not this
acting on that very principle of Dogberry, at
which you probably have often laughed? Is it
not supposing that religion like reading and
writing comes by nature? Shall all those ac-
If we divide the human being into three com-
ponent parts, the bodily, the intellectual, and
the spiritual, is it not reasonable that a portion
of care and attention be assigned to each in
some degree adequate to its importance? Should
I venture to say a due portion, a portion adapt-
ed to the real comparative value of each, would
not that condemn in one word the whole system
of modern education? The rational and intel-
lectual part being avowedly more valuable than
the bodily, while the spiritual and immortal
part exceeds even the intellectual still more than
that surpasses what is corporeal; is it acting
according to the common rules of proportion;
is it acting on the principles of distributive jus-
tice; is it acting with that good sense and right
judgment with which the ordinary business of
this world is usually transacted, to give the
larger portion of time and care to that which is
worth the least? Is it fair that what relates to
the body and the organs of the body, I mean
those accomplishments which address them-complishments, which perish in the using,"
selves to the eye and the ear, should occupy al-
most the whole thoughts; while the intellectual
part should be robbed of its due proportion, and
the spiritual part should have almost no propor-
tion at all? Is not this preparing your children
for an awful disappointment in the tremendous
day when they shall be stripped of that body, of
those senses and organs, which have been made
almost the sole objects of their attentions, and
shall feel themselves left in possession of nothing
but that spiritual part which in education was
scarcely taken into the account of their exist-ledge which parents, even under a darker dis-
ence ?
Surely it should be thought a reasonable com-
promise (and I am in fact undervaluing the ob-
ject for the importance of which I plead) to
suggest, that at least two-thirds of that time
Z
be so assiduously, so systematically taught?
Shall all those habits, which are limited to the
things of this world, be so carefully formed, so
persisted in, as to be interwoven with our very
make, so as to become as it were a part of our-
selves; and shall that knowledge which is to
make us wise unto salvation' be picked up at
random, cursorily, or perhaps not picked up at
all? Shall that difficult divine science which
requires line upon line, and precept upon pre-
cept,' here a little and there a little; that know-
pensation, were required to teach their children
diligently, and to talk of it when they sat in
their house, and when they walked by the way,
and when they lay down, and when they rose
up,' shall this knowledge be by Christian parents
354
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
omitted or deferred, or taught slightly; or be
superseded by things of comparatively little
worth?
Shall the lively period of youth, the soft and
impressible season when lasting habits are form-
ed, when the seal cuts deep into the yielding wax,
and the impression is more likely to be clear,
and sharp, and strong, and lasting; shall this
warm and favourable season be suffered to
slide by, without being turned to the great pur-
pose for which not only youth, but life and
breath, and being were bestowed? Shall not
that faith without which it is impossible to
please God;' shall not that 'holiness without
which no man can see the Lord;' shall not that
knowledge which is the foundation of faith and
practice; shall not that charity without which
all knowledge is 'sounding brass and a tinkling
cymbal,' be impressed, be inculcated, be enforc-
ed, as early, as constantly, as fundamentally,
with the same earnest pushing on to continual
progress, with the same constant reference to.
first principles, as are used in the case of those
arts which merely adorn human life? Shall we
not seize the happy period when the memory is
strong, the mind and all its powers vigorous and
active, the imagination busy and all alive; the
heart flexible, the temper ductile, the conscience
tender, curiosity awake, fear powerful, hope
eager, love ardent; shall we not seize this period
for inculcating that knowledge, and impressing
those principles which are to form the character,
and fix the destination for eternity?
on which we have already dwelt so much; how
preposterous would it seem to you to hear any
one propose to an illiterate dying man, to set
about learning even the plainest, and easiest
rudiments of any new art; to study the musical
notes; to conjugate a verb; to learn, not the firs
problem in Euclid, but even the numeration table,
and yet you do not think it absurd to postpone
religious instruction, on principles, which, if
admitted, at all, must terminate either in igno
rance or in your proposing too late to a dying
man to begin to learn the totally unknown
scheme of Christianity. You do not think it
impossible that he should be brought to listen to
the voice of this charmer, when he can no
longer listen to 'the voice of singing men and
You do not think it unreason
singing women.'
able that immortal beings should delay to de-
vote their days to heaven, till they have 'no
pleasure in them' themselves. You will not
bring them to offer up the first fruits of their
lips, and hearts, and lives, to their Maker, be-
cause you persuade yourselves that he who has
called himself a 'jealous God,' may however be
contented hereafter with the wretched sacrifice
of decayed appetites, and the worthless leavings
of almost extinguished affections.
We can scarcely believe, even with all the
melancholy procrastination we see around us
that there is any one, except he be a decided in-
fidel, who does not consider religion as at least
a good reversionary thing; as an object which
ought always to occupy a little remote corner
of his map of life; the study of which, though
it is always to be postponed, is however not to
be finally rejected; which, though it cannot con-
veniently come into his present scheme of life,
it is intended somehow or other to take up be-
fore death. This awful deception, this defect
in the intellectual vision, arises, partly from the
bulk which the objects of time and sense acquire
in our eyes by their nearness; while the in-
visible realities of eternity are but faintly dis-
cerned by a feeble faith, through a dim and dis-
tant medium. It arises also partly from a to-
tally false idea of the nature of Christianity,
from a fatal fancy that we can repent at any
future period, and that as amendment is a thing
which will always be in our power, it will be
time enough to think of reforming our life, when
we should think only of closing it.
I would now address myself to another and a
still more dilatory class, who are for procrasti-
nating all concern about religion till they are
driven to it by actual distress, and who do not
think of praying till they are perishing like
the sailor who said, 'he thought it was always
time enough to begin to pray when the storm
began.' Of these I would ask, shall we, with
an unaccountable deliberation, defer our anxiety
about religion till the busy man and the dissipa-
ted woman are become so immersed in the cares
of life, or so entangled in its pleasures, that they
will have little heart or spirit to embrace a new
principle? a principle whose precise object it
will be to condemn that very life in which they
have already embarked: nay, to condemn almost
all that they have been doing and thinking ever
since they first began to act or think? Shall we,
I say, begin now? or shall we suffer those in-
structions, to receive which, requires all the con-ed, I do not mean by gross vices merely, but by
centrated powers of a strong and healthy mind,
to be put off till the day of excruciating pain,
till the period of debility and stupefaction?
Shall we wait for that season, as if it were the
most favourable for religious acquisitions, when
the senses shall have been palled by excessive
gratification, when the eye shall be tired with
seeing, and the ear with hearing? Shall we,
when the whole man is breaking up by disease
or decay, expect that the dim apprehension will
discern a new science, or the obtuse feelings de-
light themselves with a new pleasure? a plea-
sure too, not only incompatible with many of the
hitherto indulged pleasures, but one which car-
ries with it a strong intimation that those plea-
sures terminate in the death of the soul.
But, not to lose sight of the important analogy
But depend upon it, that a heart long harden-
a fondness for the world, by an habitual and ex-
cessive indulgence in the pleasures of sense,
will by no means be in a favourable state to
admit the light of divine truth, or to receive the
impressions of divine grace. God indeed some-
times shows us by an act of his sovereignty, that
this wonderful change, the conversion of a sin-
ner's heart, may be produced without the inter-
vention of human means, to show that the work
is His. But as this is not the way in which the
Almighty usually deals with his creatures, it
would be nearly as preposterous for men to act
on this presumption, and sin on in hopes of a
miraculous conversion, as it would be to take
no means for the preservation of their lives, be-
cause Jesus Christ raised Lazarus from the
dead.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
355
-
CHAP. XII.
On the manner of instructing young persons in
religion.—General remarks on the genius of
Christianity.
I WOULD now with great deference address
those respectable characters who are really con-
cerned about the best interests of their children;
those to whom Christianity is indeed an impor-
tant consideration, but whose habits of life have
hitherto hindered them from giving it its due
degree in the scale of education.
Begin then with considering that religion is a
part, and the most prominent part, in your sys-
lem of instruction. Do not communicate its
principles in a random, desultory way; nor
scantily stint this business to only such scraps
and remnants of time as may be casually picked
up from the gleanings of other acquirements.
Will you bring to God for a sacrifice that which
costs you nothing? Let the best part of the
day, which with most people is the earliest part,
be steadily and invariably dedicated to this work
by your children, before they are tired with their
other studies, while the intellect is clear, the
spirit light, and the attention sharp and unfa-
tigued.
Confine not your instructions to mere verbal
rituals and dry systems, but communicate them
in a way which shall interest their feelings, by
lively images, and by a warm practical applica-
tion of what they read to their own hearts and
circumstances. If you do not study the great
but too much slighted art of fixing, of command-
ing, of chaining the attention, you may throw
away much time and labour, with little other
effect than that of disgusting your pupils and
wearying yourself. There seems to be no good
reason that while every other thing is to be made
amusing, religion alone must be dry and unin-
viting. Do not fancy that a thing is good merely
because it is dull. Why should not the most
entertaining powers of the human mind be su-
premely consecrated to that subject which is
most worthy of their full exercise? The mis-
fortune is, that religious learning is too often
rather considered as an act of the memory than
of the heart and affections; as a dry duty, rather
than a lively pleasure. The manner in which
it is taught differs as much from their other
learning as punishment from recreation. Chil-
dren are turned over to the dull work of getting
by rote as a task that which they should get
from example, from animated conversation, from
lively discussion, in which the pupil should
learn to bear a part, instead of being merely a
passive hearer. Teach them rather, as their
blessed Saviour taught, by interesting parables,
which, while they corrected the heart, left some
exercise for the ingenuity in the solution, and
for the feelings in their application. Teach, as
He taught, by seizing on surrounding objects,
passing events, local circumstances, peculiar
characters, apt illusions, just analogy, appropri-
ate illustration. Call in all creation, animate
and inanimate, to your aid, and accustom your
young audience to
|
necessary for you to be more plain and didactic,
do not fail frequently to enliven these less en-
dental imagery which will captivate the fancy;
gaging parts of your discourse with some inci.
with some affecting story with which it shall be
associated in the memory. Relieve what would
otherwise be too dry and preceptive, with some
striking exemplification in point, some touching
instance to be imitated, some awful warning to
be avoided; something which shall illustrate
your instruction, which shall realize your posi-
tion, which shall embody your idea, and give
shape and form, colour and life, to your precept.
Endeavour unremittingly to connect the reader
with the subject by making her feel that what
you teach is neither an abstract truth, nor a
thing of mere general information, but that it is
a business in which she herself is individually
and immediately concerned; in which not only
her eternal salvation but her present happiness
is involved. Do, according to your measure of
ability, what the Holy Spirit which indited the
Scriptures has done, always take the sensibility
of the learner into your account of the faculties
which are to be worked upon. For the doc-
trines of the Bible,' as the profound and enlight-
ened Bacon observes, are not proposed to us in
a naked logic form, but arrayed in the most
beautiful and striking colours which creation
affords.' By those affecting illustrations used
by Him who knew what was in man,' and
therefore best knew how to address him, it was,
that the unlettered audiences of Christ and his
apostles were enabled both to comprehend and
to relish doctrines, which would not readily have
made their way to their understandings, had
they not first touched their hearts; and which
would have found access to neither the one nor
the other, had they been delivered in dry scho-
lastic disquisitions. Now, those audiences not
being learned, may be supposed to have been
nearly in the state of children, as to their recep
tive faculties, and to have required nearly the
same sort of instruction; that is, they were more
capable of being moved with what was simple
and touching, and lively, than what was elabo-
rate, abstruse, and unaffecting. Heaven and
earth were made to furnish their contributions,
when man was to be taught that science which
was to make him wise unto salvation. Some.
thing which might enforce or illustrate was
drawn from every element. The appearances
of the sky, the storms of the ocean, the birds of
the air, the beasts of the field, the fruits of the
earth, the seed and the harvest, the labours of
the husbandmen, the traffic of the merchant, the
season of the year! all were laid hold of in turn.
And the most important moral instruction, or
religious truth, was deduced from some recent
occurrence, some natural appearance, some or-
dinary fact.
If that be the purest eloquence which most
persuades and which comes home to the heart
with the fullest evidence and the most irresisti
ble force, then no eloquence is so powerful as
that of Scripture; and an intelligent Christian
teacher will be admonished by the mode of
Scripture itself, how to communicate its truths
with life and spirit; while he is musing, the
Even when the nature of your subjeet makes it fire burns;' that fire which will preserve him
Find tongues in trees, hooks in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in every thing
356
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
doctrines are best understood in its own appro-
priate language; its precepts are best retained
in their own simple form. Paraphrases, in pro-
fessing to explain, often dilute; while the terse-
ness and brevity of Scripture composition fills
the mind, touches the heart, and fastens on the
memory. While I would cause them to read,
the commentary for the improvement of the un-
derstanding, they should mark, learn, and in-
wardly digest' the Bible for the comfort and
edification of the heart.
from an insipid and freezing mode of instruc-,
tion. He will morever, as was said above, al-
ways carefully keep up a quick sense of the
personal interest the pupil has in every religious
instruction which is impressed upon him. He
will teach as Paul prayed, with the spirit, and
with the understanding also;' and in imitating
this great model, he will necessarily avoid the
opposite faults of two different sorts of instruc-
tors; for while some of our divines of the higher
class have been too apt to preach as if mankind
had only intellect, and the lower and more po-
Young people who have been taught religion
pular sort as if they had only passions, let him in a formal and superficial way, who have had
borrow what is good from both, and address his all its drudgeries and none of its pleasures, will
pupils as beings compounded of both under-probably have acquired so little relish for it, as
standing and affections.*
Fancy not that the Bible is too difficult and
intricate to be presented in its own naked form,
and that it puzzles and bewilders the youthful
understanding. In all needful and indispensa-
ble points of knowledge, the darkness of Scrip-
ture, as a great Christian philosophert has ob-
served, is hut a partial darkness, like that of
Egypt, which benighted only the enemies of
God, while it left his children in clear day.' It
is not pretended that the Bible will find in the
young reader clear views of God and of Christ,
of the soul and eternity, but that it will give |
them. And if it be really the appropriate cha-
racter of Scripture, as it tells us itself that it is,
'to enlighten the eyes of the blind,' and 'to
make wise the simple,' then it is as well calcu-
lated for the youthful and uninformed as for any
other class; and as it was never expected that
the greater part of Christians should be learned,
so is learning, though of inestimable value in a
teacher of theology, no essential qualification for
a common Christian, for which reason Scripture
truths are expressed with that clear and simple
evidence adapted to the kind of assent which
they require; an assent materially different from
that sort of demonstration which a mathematical
theorem demands. He who could bring an un-
prejudiced heart and an unperverted will, would
bring to the Scriptures the best qualification for
understanding and receiving them. And though
they contain things which the pupil cannot com-
prehend (as what ancient poet, historian, or ora-
tor does not) the teacher may address to him the
words which Christ addressed to Peter, What
I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know
hereafter.'
Histories of the Bible, and commentaries on
the Bible, for the use of children, though valua-
ble in their way, should never be used as sub-
stitutes for the Bible itself. For historical or
geographical information, for calling the atten-
tion to events and characters, they are very use-
ful. But Scripture truths are best conveyed in
its own sublime and simple phraseology; its
* The zeal and diligence with which the bishop of
London's weekly lectures have been attended by persons
of all ranks and descriptions, but more especially by that
class to whom this little work is addressed, is a very
promising circumstance for the age. And while we con-
sider with pleasure the advantages peculiarly to be de-
rived by the young from so interesting and animated an
exposition of the Gospel, we are further led to rejoice at
the countenance given by such high authority to the re-
vival of that excellent but too much neglected practice
of lectures.
† Mr. Boyle.
to consider the continued prosecution of their
religious studies as a badge of their tutelage, as
a mark that they are still under subjection; and
will look forward with impatience to the hour of
their emancipation from the lectures on chris-
tianity, as the era of their promised liberty; the
epocha of independence. They will long for
the period when its lessons shall cease to be de-
livered; will conclude that, having once attained
such an age, and arrived at the required profi-
ciency, the object will be accomplished, and the
labour at an end. But let not your children 'so
learn Christ.' Apprise them that no specific
day will ever arise, on which they shall say, I
have attained; but inform them, that every ac-
quisition must be followed up; knowledge must
be increased; prejudices.subdued; good habits
rooted; evil ones eradicated; amiable disposi-
tions strengthened; right principles confirmed;
till going on from light to light, and from strength
to strength, they come to the measure of the
stature of the fulness of Christ.'
But though serious instruction will not only
be uninteresting but irksome, if conveyed to
youth in a cold didactic way; yet if their affec-
tions be suitably engaged, while their under-
standings are kept in exercise, their hearts so
far from necessarily revolting, as some insist,
will often receive the most solemn truths with
alacrity. It is, as we have repeated, the manner
which revolts them, and not the thing. Nor
will they, as some assert, necessarily dislike the
teacher, because the truths taught are of the
most awful and solemn kind. It has happened
to the writer to be a frequent witness of the gra-
titude and affection expressed by young persons
to those who had sedulously and seriously in-
structed them in religious knowledge; an affec-
tion as lively, a gratitude as warm, as could
have been excited by any indulgence to their
persons, or any gratification of a worldly na-
ture.
As it is notorious that men of wit and spright-
ly fancy have been the most formidable ene-
mies to Christianity; while men, in whom
those talents have been consecrated to God,
have been some of her most useful champi-
ons, take particular care to press that ardent
and ever-active power, the imagination, into
the service of religion. This bright and busy
faculty will be leading its possessor into per-
petual peril, and is an enemy of peculiar po-
tency till it come to be employed in the cause
of God. It is a lion, which though worldly pru-
dence indeed may chain so as to prevent out
;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
357
ward mischief, yet the malignity remains with-
in; but when sanctified by Christianity, the
imagination is a lion tamed; you have all the
benefit of its strength and its activity, divested
of its mischief. God never bestowed that noble
but restless faculty, without intending it to be
an instrument of his own glory; though it has
been too often set up in rebellion against him;
because, in its youthful stirrings, while all alive
and full of action, it has not been seized upon to
serve its rightful Sovereign, but was early en-
listed with little opposition under the banners
of the world, the flesh, and the devil! Religion
is the only subject in which, under the guidance
of a severe and sober-minded prudence, this dis-
cursive faculty can safely stretch its powers and
expand its energies! But let it be remembered,
that it must be a sound and genuine Christian-
ity which can alone so chastise and regulate the
imagination, as to restrain it from those errors
and excesses into which a false, a mistaken, an
irregular religion, has too often led its injudi-
cious and ill-instructed professor. Some of the
most fatal extremes into which a wild enthu-
siasm or a frightful superstition has plunged its
unhappy votaries, have been owing to the want
of a due direction, to the want of a strict and
holy castigation of this ever-working faculty.
To secure imagination, therefore, on the safe
side, and, if I may change the metaphor, to put
it under the direction of its true pilot, in the
stormy voyage of life, is like engaging those
potent elements, the wind and tide in your fa-
vour.
coin resembles sterling gold; they may have, it
is true, certain points of resemblance with the
others; they may be bright and shining; they
have perhaps the image and the superscription,
but they ever want the true distinguishing pro-
perties; they want sterling value, purity, and
weight. They may indeed pass current in the
traffic of this world, but when brought to the
touchstone, they will be found full of alloy;
when weighed in the balance of the sanctuary,
they will be found wanting,' they will not stand
that final trial which is to separate the precious
from the vile;' they will not abide the day of
his coming who is like a refiner's fire.'
One error into which even some good people
are apt to fall, is that endeavouring to deceive
young minds by temporising expedients. In
order to allure them to become religious, they
exhibit false, or faint, or inadequate views of
Christianity; and while they represent it as it
really is, as a life of superior happiness and ad-
vantage, they conceal its difficulties, and like
the jesuitical Chinese missionaries, extenuate,
or sink, or deny, such parts of it as are least
alluring to human pride. In attempting to dis-
guise its principles, they destroy its efficacy.
They deny the cross instead of making it the
badge of a Christian. But besides that, the pro-
ject fails with them as it did with the Jesuits;
all fraud is bad in itself; and a pious fraud is
a contradiction in terms, which ought to be bu-
ried in the rubbish of papal desolation.
Instead of representing to the young Chris-
tian, that it may be possible by a prudent inge-
In your communications with young people, nuity at once to pursue, with equal ardour and
take care to convince them that as religion is success, worldly fame and eternal glory, would
not a business to be laid aside with the lesson, it not be more honest to tell him fairly and un-
so neither is it a single branch of duty; some ambiguously that there are two distinct roads
detached thing, which like the acquisition of an between which there is a broad boundary line?
art or a language, is to be practised separately, that there are two contending and irreconcilable
and to have its distinct periods and modes of interests? that he must forsake the one if he
operation. But let them understand, that com- would cleave to the other? that 'there are two
mon acts, by the spirit in which they are to be masters,' both of whom it is impossible to serve?
performed, are to be made acts of religion. Let that there are two sorts of characters at eternal
them perceive that Christianity may be consi-variance? that he must renounce the one if he
dered as having something of that influence over
the conduct, which external grace has over the
manners; for as it is not the performance of
some particular act which denominates any one
to be graceful, grace being a spirit diffused
through the whole system, which animates every
sentiment, and informs every action; as she
who has true personal grace has it uniformly,
and is not sometimes awkward and sometimes
elegant; does not sometimes lay it down and
sometimes take it up; so religion is not an oc-
casional act, but an indwelling principle, an in-
wrought habit, a pervading and informing spirit,
from which indeed every act derives all its life,
and energy, and beauty.
is in earnest for the other? that nothing short
of absolute decision can make a confirmed Chris-
tian? Point out the different sorts of promises
annexed to these different sorts of characters.
Confess in the language of Christ how the man
of the world often obtains (and it is the natural
course of human things) the recompence he se-
dulously seeks. Verily I say unto you they have
their reward.' Explain the beatitudes on the
other hand, and unfold what kind of specific re-
ward is there individually promised to its con-
comitant virtue. Show your pupil that to that
poverty of spirit' to which the kingdom of
heaven' is promised, it would be inconsistent to
expect that the recompence of human commen.
Give them clear views of the broad discrimi- dation should be also attached ; that to that ' pu-
nation between practical religion and worldly rity of heart' to which the beatific vision is an-
morality; in short, between the virtues of Chris- nexed, it would be unreasonable to suppose you
tians and of Pagans. Show them that no good can unite the praise of licentious wits, or the
qualities are genuine, but such as flow from the admiration of a catch-club. These will be be-
religion of Christ. Let them learn that the vir- stowed on their appropriate and corresponding
tues which the better sort of people, who are yet merit. Do not enlist them under false colours;
destitute of true Christianity, inculcate and disappointment will produce a desertion. Dif
practise, resemble those virtues which have the ferent sorts of rewards are attached to different
love of God for their motive, just as counterfeit | sorts of services; and while you truly assert that
353
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
?
Religion's ways are 'ways of pleasantness, and
all her paths are peace,' take care that you do
not lead them to depend too exclusively on
worldly happiness and earthly peace, for these
make no part of the covenant; they may be,
and they often are, superadded, but they were
never stipulated in the contract.
to think that the Christian alone should obtain
a triumph without a warfare? the highest prize
with the lowest exertion? an eternal crown
without a present cross? and that heaven is the
only reward which the idle may reckon upon?
No: though salvation 'be the gift of God,' yet
it must be worked out. Convince your young
But if, in order to attract the young to a re- friends, however, that in this case the difficulty
ligious course, you disingenuously conceal its of the battle bears no proportion to the prize of
difficulties, while you are justly enlarging upon the victory. In one respect, indeed, the point
its pleasures, you will tempt them to distrust of resemblance between worldly and Christian
the truth of Scripture itself.-For what will pursuits fails, and that most advantageously for
they think, not only of a few detached texts, but the Christian; for while, even by the most pro-
of the general cast and colour of the Gospel bable means, which are the union of talents
when contrasted with your representation of it? with diligence, no human prosperity can be in-.
When you are describing to them the insepara-sured to the worldly candidate; while the most
ble human advantages which will follow a reli- successful adventurer may fail by the fault of
gious course, what notion will they conceive of another; while the best concerted project of the
the strait gate' and 'narrow way?' of the am-statesman may be crushed; the bravest hero
putation of a 'right hand?? of the excision of a lose the battle; the brightest genius fail of get-
right eye of the other strong metaphors by ting bread; and while moreover, the pleasure
which the Christian warfare is shadowed out? arising even from success in these may be no
of crucifying the flesh?' of mortifying the old sooner tasted than it is poisoned by a more pros-
man?' of dying unto sin?' of overcoming the perous rival; the persevering Christian is safe
world? Do you not think their meek and com- and certain of obtaining his object; no misfor-
passionate Saviour who died for your children, tunes can defeat his hope; no competition can
loved them as well as you love them? And if endanger his success; for though another gain,
this were his language, ought it not to be yours? he will not lose; nay, the success of another, so
It is the language of true love; of that love with far from diminishing his gain, is an addition to
which a merciful God loved the world, when he it; the more he diffuses, the richer he grows;
spared not his own Son. Do not fear to tell his blessings are enlarged by communication;
your children what he told his disciples, that and that mortal hour which cuts off for ever the
in the world they shall have tribulation; but hopes of worldly men, crowns and consummates
teach them to rise superior to it, on his principle, his.
by 'overcoming the world.' Do not then try to Beware at the same time of setting up any act
conceal from them, that the life of a Christian of self-denial or mortification as the procuring
is necessarily opposite to the life of the world; cause of salvation. This would be a presump-
and do not seek by a vain attempt at accommo-tuous project to purchase that eternal life which
This
dation to reconcile that difference which Christ is declared to be the 'free gift of God.'
himself has pronounced to be irreconcilable. would be to send your children, not to the Gos-
May it not be partly owing to the want of a pel to learn their christianity, but to the monks
due introduction to the knowledge of the real and ascetics of the middle ages; it would be
nature and spirit of religion, that so many young sending them to Peter the hermit, and the holy
Christians, who set out in a fair and flourishing fathers of the desert, and not to Peter the apos-
way, decline and wither when they come to tle and his Divine Master. Mortification is not
perceive the requisitions of experimental chris-the price; it is nothing more than the discipline
tianity? requisitions which they had not sus- of a soul of which sin is the disease, the diet
pected of making any part of the plan; and prescribed by the great Physician. Without
from which, when they afterwards discover
them, they shrink back, as not prepared and
hardened for the unexpected contest.
People are no more to be cheated into religion
than into learning. The same spirit which in-
fluences your oath in a court of justice should
influence your discourse in that court of equity
-your family. Your children should be told
the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the
truth. It is unnecessary to add, that it must be
done gradually and discreetly. We know whose
example we have for postponing that which the
mind is not yet prepared to receive: I have
many things yet to say to you, but ye cannot
bear them now.' Accustom them to reason by
analogy. Explain to them that great worldly
attainments are never made without great sa-
crifices; that the merchant cannot become rich
without industry; the statesman eminent with-
out labour; the scholar learned without study;
the hero renowned without danger: would it
not then, on human principles, be unreasonable
this guard the young devout Christian would be
led to fancy that abstinence, pilgrimage and pe-
nance might be adopted as the cheap substitute
for the subdued desire, the resisted temptation,
the conquered corruption, and the obedient will;
and would be almost in as much danger, on the
one hand, of self-righteousness arising from aus-
terities and mortification, as she would be, on
the other, from self-gratification in the indul-
gences of the world. And while you carefully
impress on her the necessity of living a life of
strict obedience if she would please God, do not
neglect to remind her also that a complete re-
nunciation of her own performances as a ground
of merit, purchasing the favour of God by their
own intrinsic worth, is included in that obe-
dience.
It is of the last importance in stamping on
young minds a true impression of the genius of
christianity, to possess them with a conviction
that it is the purity of the motive which not only
gives worth and beauty, but which, in a Chris-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
359
|
ness, of baseness and servility. Christianity so
stands on its own single ground, is so far from as-
similating itself to the spirit of other religions,
that, unlike the Roman emperor, who, though he
would not become a Christian, yet ordered that
the image of Christ should be set up in the pan-
theon with those of the heathen gods, and be wor-
shipped in common with them; Christianity not
only rejects all such partnerships with other reli-
gions, but it pulls down their images, defaces
their temples, tramples on their honours, founds
its own existence on the ruins of spurious reli-
gions and spurious virtues, and will be every
thing when it is admitted to be any thing.
tian sense gives life and soul to the best action;
nay, that while a right intention will be ac-
knowledged and accepted at the final judgment,
even without the act, the act itself will be dis-
owned which wanted the basis of a pure design.
'Thou didst well that it was in thy heart to
build me a temple,' said the Almighty to that
monarch, whom yet he permitted not to build it.
How many splendid actions will be rejected in
the great day of retribution, to which statues and
monuments have been raised on earth, while
their almost deified authors shall be as much
confounded at their own unexpected reprobation,
as at the Divine acceptance of those whose life
the world counted madness.' It is worthy of Will it be going too much out of the way to
remark, that 'Depart from me, I never knew | observe, that Christian Britain retaliates upon
you,' is not the malediction denounced on the pagan Rome? For if the former used humility
sceptic, or the scoffer, or the profligate, and the in a bad sense, has not the latter learnt to use
libertine, but on the high professor, on the un- pride in a good one? May we without imperti-
fruitful worker of 'miracles,' on the unsancti- nence venture to remark, that in the delibera-
fied utterer of 'prophecies;' for even acts of tions of as honourable and upright political as-
piety wanting the purifying principle, however semblies as ever adorned, or, under Providence
they may dazzle men, offend God. Cain sacri- upheld a country; in orations which leave us
ficed, Balaam prophesied, Rousseau wrote the nothing to envy in Attic or Roman eloquence
most sublime panegyric on the Son of Mary, in their best days; it were to be wished that we
VOLTAIRE BUILT A CHURCH! nay, so superior was did not borrow from Rome an epithet which
his affectation of sanctity, that he ostentatiously suited the genius of her religion as much as it
declared, that while others were raising churches militates against ours? The panegyrist of the
to saints, there was one man at least who would battle of Marathon, of Platea, or of Zama, might
erect his church to God :* that God whose altars with propriety speak of a proud day,' or a
he was overthrowing, whose name he was villify-'proud event,' or a ' proud success.'
But surely
ing, whose gospel he was exterminating, and the
very name of whose Son he had solemnly pledg-
ed himself to blot from the face of the earth!
Though it be impossible here to enumerate
all those Christian virtues which should be im-
pressed in the progress of a Christian education,
yet in this connexion I cannot forbear mention-
ing one which more immediately grows out of
the subject; and to remark that the principle
which should be the invariable concomitant of
all instruction, and especially of religious in-
struction, is humility. As this temper is incul-
cated in every page of the Gospel, as it is de-
ducible from every precept and every action of
Christ; that is a sufficient intimation that it
should be made to grow out of every study,
that it should be grafted on every acquisition.
It is the turning point, the leading principle in-
dicative of the very genius, of the very being
of Christianity. The chastising quality should
therefore be constantly made in education to
operate as the only counteraction of that know-
ledge which puffeth up.'-Youth should be
taught that as humility is the discriminating
characteristic of our religion, therefore a proud
Christian, a haughty disciple of a crucified |
Master, furnishes perhaps a stronger opposition
in terms than the whole compass of language
can exhibit. They should be taught that hu-
mility being the appropriate grace of Christi-
anity, is precisely the thing which makes Chris-
tian and pagan virtues essentially different.
The virtues of the Romans, for instance, were ob-
viously founded in pride; as a proof of this, they
had not even a word in their copious language
to express humility, but what was used in a bad
sense, and conveyed the idea of meanness or vile-
* Deo erexit Voltaire, is the inscription affixed by
himself on his church at Ferney
|
|
the Christian encomiasts of the battle of the
Nile, might, from their abundance, select an
epithet better appropriated to such a victory—
a victory which, by preserving Europe, has per-
haps preserved that religion which sets its foot
on the very neck of pride, and in which the
conqueror himself, even in the first ardours of
triumph, forgot not to ascribe the victory to
ALMIGHTY GOD. Let us leave to the enemy both
the terms and the thing; arrogant words being
the only weapons in which we must ever vail to
their decided superiority. As we must despair
of the victory, let us disdain the contest.
Above all things then you should beware that
your pupils do not take up with a vague, gene-
ral, and undefined religion, but look to it that
their Christianity be really the religion of
Christ. Instead of slurring over the doctrines
of the Cross, as disreputable appendages to our
religion, which are to be disguised or got over
as well as we can, but which are never to be
dwelt upon, take care to make these your grand
fundamental articles. Do not dilute or explain
away these doctrines, and by some elegant peri-
phrasis hint at a Saviour instead of making him
the foundation-stone of your system. Do not
convey primary, and plain, and awful, and in-
dispensable truths elliptically, I mean as some-
thing that is to be understood without being ex-
pressed; nor study fashionable circumlocutions
to avoid names and things on which our salva-
tion hangs, in order to prevent your discourse
from being offensive. Persons who are thus
instructed in religion with more good-breeding
than seriousness and simplicity, imbibe a dis-
taste for plain scriptural language: and the
Scriptures themselves are so little in use with a
certain fashionable class of readers, that when
the doctrines and language of the Bible occa-
360
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
other the model for their supplications. By
this confused and indistinct beginning, they set
out with a perplexity in their ideas which is not
always completely disentangled in more ad-
vanced life.
sionally occur in other authors, or in conversa-, the one is the confession of their faith, and the
tion, they present a sort of novelty and peculi-
arity which offend; and such readers as disuse
the Bible, are apt from a supposed delicacy of
taste, to call that precise and puritanical, which
is in fact sound and scriptural. Nay, it has
everal times happened to the author to hear
persons of sense and learning ridicule insulated
sentiments and expressions that have fallen in
their way, which they would have treated with
decent respect, had they known them to be, as
they really were, texts of Scripture. This ob-nishes valuable materials for a distinct lecture.
servation is hazarded with a view to enforce the
importance of early communicating religious
knowledge, and of infusing an early taste for
the venerable phraseology of Scripture.
An intelligent mother will seize the first occa-
sion which the child's opening understanding
shall allow, for making a little course of lec-
tures on the Lord's Prayer, taking every divi-
sion or short sentence separately; for each fur-
The child should be led gradually through every
part of this divine composition; she should be
taught to break it into all the regular divisions,
into which indeed it so naturally resolves itself.
She should be made to comprehend one by one
each of its short but weighty sentences; to am-
better understanding them, not in their most
extensive and critical sense, but in their most
simple and obvious meaning. For in those con-
densed and substantial expressions every word
is an ingot and will bear beating out; so that
the teacher's difficulty will not so much be what
she shall say as what she shall suppress; so
abundant is the expository matter which this
succinct pattern suggests.
*
The persons in question thus possessing a
kind of pagan Christianity, are apt to acquire a
sort of a pagan expression also, which just en-plify and spread them out for the purpose of
ables them to speak with complacency of the
'Deity,' of a 'first cause,' and of conscience.'
Nay, some may even go so far as to talk of
the Founder of our religion,' of the Author of
Christianity,' in the same general terms, as
they would talk of the prophet of Arabia, or the
lawgiver of China, of Athens, or of the Jews.
But their refined ears revolt not a little at the
unadorned name of Christ, and especially the
naked and unqualified term of our Saviour, or When the child has a pretty good conception
Redeemer, carries with it a queerish, inelegant, of the meaning of each division, she should then
not to say suspicious sound.-They will ex- be made to observe the connexion, relation and
press a serious disapprobation of what is wrong, dependance of the several parts of this prayer
under the moral term of vice, or the forensic one upon another; for there is a great method
term of crime; but they are apt to think that the and connexion in it.-We pray that the 'king-
Scripture term of sin has something fanatical dom of God may come,' as the best means to
in it and, while they discover a respect for mo- 'hallow his name ;' and that by us, the obedient
ality, they do not much relish holiness, which subjects of his kingdom, his will may be done.'
is indeed the specific and only morality of a A judicious interpreter will observe how logically
Christian. They will speak readily of a man's and consequently one clause grows out of an-
reforming, or leaving off a vicious habit, or other, though she will use neither the word
growing more correct in some individual prac-logical nor consequence; for all explanations
tice; but the idea conveyed under any of the
Scripture phrases signifying a total change of
heart, they would stigmatize as the very shib-
boleth of a sect, though it is the language of a
Liturgy they affect to admire and of a Gospel
which they profess to receive.
CHAP. XIII.
should be made in the most plain and familiar
terms, it being words, and not things, which
commonly perplex children, if, as it sometimes
happens, the teacher, though not wanting sense,
wants perspicuity and simplicity.*
The young person from being made a com-
plete mistress of this short composition (which
as it is to be her guide and model through life,
too much pains cannot be bestowed on it) will
have a clearer conception, not only of its indi-
vidual contents, but of prayer in general, than
Hints suggested for furnishing young persons many ever attain, though their memory has been
with a scheme of prayer.
perhaps loaded with long and unexplained forms,
which they have been accustomed to swallow in
the lump without scrutiny and without discri-
mination. Prayer should not be so swallowed.
It is a regular prescription which should stand
analysis and examination: it is not a charm,
the successful operation of which depends on
your blindly taking it, without knowing what is
in it, and in which the good you receive is pro-
moted by your ignorance of its contents.
THOSE who are aware of the inestimable value
of prayer themselves, will naturally be anxious
not only that this duty should be earnestly in-
culcated on their children, but that they should
be taught it in the best manner; and such pa-
rents need little persuasion or counsel on the
subject. Yet children of decent and orderly
(I will not say of strictly religious) families are
often so superficially instructed in this important
business, that when they are asked what pray-in general, to suspect that any petition which cannot in
ers they use, it is not unusual for them to an-
swer, the Lord's Prayer and the Creed.' And
even some who are better taught, are not always
made to understand with sufficient clearness
the specific distinction between the two; that
* It might perhaps be a safe rule to establish for prayer
some shape or other be accommodated to the spirit of
Here, temporal things are kept in their due subordina-
some part of this prayer may not be right to be adopted.
tion; they are asked for moderately, as an acknowledg-
ment of our dependance and of God's power; for our
heavenly Father knoweth that we have need of these
things.'
<
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
361
I would have it understood that by these little,
comments, I do not mean that the child should
be put to learn dry, and to her unintelligible ex-
positions; but that the exposition is to be col-
loquial. And here I must remark in general,
that the teacher is sometimes unreasonably apt
to relieve herself at the child's expense, by load-
ing the memory of a little creature on occasions
in which far other faculties should be put in
exercise. The child herself should be made to
furnish a good part of this extemporaneous com-
mentary by her answers; in which answers she
will be much assisted by the judgment the teach-
er uses in her manner of questioning. And the
youthful understanding, when its powers are
properly set at work, will soon strengthen by
exercise, so as to furnish reasonable if not very
correct answers.
Written forms of prayer are not only useful
and proper, but indispensably necessary to begin
with. But I will hazard the remark, that if
children are thrown exclusively on the best forms,
if they are made to commit them to memory
like a copy of verses, and to repeat them in a
dry, customary way, they will produce little ef-
fect on their minds. They will not understand
what they repeat, if we do not early open to
them the important scheme of prayer. Without
such an elementary introduction to this duty,
they will afterwards be either ignorant or en-
thusiasts, or both. We should give them know-
ledge before we can expect them to make much
progress in piety, and as a due preparative to it:
Christian instruction in this resembling the Sun,
who, in the course of his communications, gives
light before he gives heat. And to labour to
excite a spirit of devotion without first infusing
that knowledge out of which it is to grow, is
practically reviving the popish maxim, that ig-
norance is the mother of devotion, and virtually
adopting the popish rule of praying in an un-
known tongue.
self.
:
And if they are first taught that important
truth, that as needy creatures they want help,
which may be done by some easy analogy, they
will easily be led to understand how naturally
petition forms a most considerable branch of
prayer: and divine grace being among the things
for which they are to petition, this naturally
suggests to the mind the doctrine of the influ-
ences of the Holy Spirit. And when to this is
added the conviction which will be readily work-
ed into an ingenuous mind, that as offending
creatures they want pardon, the necessity of
confession will easily be made intelligible to
them. But they should be brought to under-
stand that it must not be such a general and
vague confession as awakens no sense of per-
sonal humiliation, as excites no recollection of
their own more peculiar and individual faults.
But it must be a confession founded on self-
knowledge, which is itself to arise out of the
practice of self-examination for want of this
sort of discriminating habit, a well-meaning but
ill-instructed girl may be caught confessing the
sins of some other person and omitting those
which are more especially her own. On the
gladness of heart natural to youth, it will be less
difficult to impress the delightful duty of thanks-
giving, which forms so considerable a branch of
prayer. In this they should be habituated to
recapitulate not only their general, but to enu-
merate their peculiar, daily, and incidental mer-
cies, in the same specific manner as they should
have been taught to detail their individual and
personal wants in the petitionary, and their faults
in the confessional part. The same warmth of
feeling which will more readily dispose them to
express their gratitude to God in thanksgiving,
will also lead them more gladly to express their
love to their parents and friends, by adopting
another indispensable, and, to an affectionate
heart, pleasing part of prayer, which is inter-
cesssion.
Children, let me again observe, will not attend When they had been made, by a plain and
to their prayers if they do not understand them; perspicuous mode of instruction, fully to under-
and they will not understand them, if they are stand the different nature of all these; and
not taught to analyze, to dissect them, to know when they clearly comprehend that adoration,
their component parts, and to methodise them. self-dedication, confession, petition, thanksgiv-
It is not enough to teach them to considering, and intercession, are distinct heads, which
prayer under the general idea that it is an ap- must not be involved in each other, you may
plication to God for what they want, and an ac- exemplify the rules by pointing out to them
knowledgment to Him for what they have. these successive branches in any well written
This, though true in the gross, is not sufficiently form.
is not sufficiently forın. And they will easily discern, that ascrip-
precise and correct. They should learn to de- tion of glory to that God to whom we owe so
fine and to arrange all the different parts of much, and on whom we so entirely depend, is
prayer. And as a preparative to prayer itself, the conclusion into which a Christian's prayer
they should be impressed with as clear an idea will naturally resolve itself. It is hardly need-
as their capacity and the nature of the subject ful to remind the teacher that our truly Scriptu-
will admit, of Him with whom they have to do.' ral Liturgy invariably furnishes the example or
His omnipresence is perhaps, of all his attri- presenting every request in the name of the great
butes, that of which we may make the first prac- Mediator. For there is no access to the Throne
tical use, Every head of prayer is founded on of grace but by that new and living way. In
some great scriptural truths, which truths the the liturgy too they will meet with the best ex-
little analysis here suggested will materially emplifications of prayers, exhibiting separate
assist to fix in their minds.
specimens of each of the distinct heads we have
seen suggesting.
On the knowledge that 'God is,' that he is an
infinitely Holy Being, and that he is the re-
warder of all them that diligently seek him,'
will be grounded the first part of prayer, which
is adoration. The creature, devoting itself to
the Creator, or self-dedication, next presents it-
VOL. I.
But in order that the minds of young persons
may, without labour or difficulty, be gradually
brought into such a state of preparation as to
be benefitted by such a little course of lectures
as we have recommended they should, from
362
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
The hundred and third Psalm will open to
the mind rich and abundant sources of expres-
sion for gratitude and thanksgiving, and it in-
cludes the acknowledgment of spiritual as well
as temporal favours. It illustrates the compas-
sionate mercies of God by familiar and domestic
images, of such peculiar tenderness and exqui-
site endearment, as are calculated to strike upon
every chord of filial fondness in the heart of an
affectionate child. The fifty-first supplies an
infinite variety of matter in whatever relates to
confession of sin, or to supplication for the aids
of the Spirit. The twenty-third abounds with
captivating expressions of the protecting good-
ness and tender love of their heavenly Father,
conveyed by pastoral imagery of uncommon
beauty and sweetness: in short, the greater
part of these charming compositions overflows
with materials for every head of prayer.
the time when they were first able to read, have | of real and present existence on him of whom
been employing themselves at their leisure she is apt to conceive as having his distant ha-
hours, in laying in a store of provisions for their bitation only in Heaven, as will greatly help her
present demands. And here the memory may to realize the sense of his actual presence.
be employed to good purpose; for being the first
faculty which is ripened, and which is indeed
perfected when the others are only beginning
to unfold themselves, this is an intimation of
Providence that it should be the first seized on
for the best uses. It should therefore be devoted
to lay in a stock of the more easy and devotional
parts of Scripture. The Psalms alone are an
inexhaustible storehouse of rich materials.*
Children, whose minds have been early well fur-
nished from these, will be competent at nine or
ten years old to produce from them, and to se-
lect with no contemptible judgment, suitable
examples of all the parts of prayer; and will be
able to extract and appropriate texts under each
respective head, so as to exhibit, without help,
complete specimens of every part of prayer. By
confining them entirely to the sense, and nearly
to the words of Scripture, they will be preserved
from enthusiasm, from irregularity, and conceit.
By being obliged continually to apply for them-
selves, they will get a habit in all their difficul-
ties of searching the Scriptures,' which may
be hereafter useful to them on other and more
trying occasions. But I would at first confine
them to the Bible; for were they allowed with
equal freedom to ransack other books with a
view to get helps to embellish their little com-
positions, or rather compilations, they might be
tempted to pass off for their own what they pick
up from others, which might tend at once to
make them both vain and deceitful. This is a
temptation to which they are too much laid open
when they find themselves extravagantly com-
mended for any pilfered passage with which
they decorate their little themes and letters.
But in the present instance there is no danger
of any similar deception, for there is such a sa-
cred signature stamped on every Scripture
phrase, that the owner's name can never be de-
faced or torn off from the goods, either by fraud
or violence.
It would be well, if in those Psalms which
children were first directed to get by heart, an
eye were had to this their future application;
and that they were employed, but without any
intimation of your subsequent design, in learn-
ing such as may be best turned to this account.
In the hundred and thirty-ninth, the first great
truth to be imprinted on the young heart, the
divine omnipresence, as was before observed, is
unfolded with such a mixture of majestic gran-
deur, and such an interesting variety of intimate
and local circumstances, as is likely to seize on
the quick and lively feelings of youth. The
awful idea that that Being whom she is taught
to reverence, is not only in general acquainted
with all her ways,' but that he is about her
path, and about her bed,' bestows such a sense
* This will be so far from spoiling the cheerfulness, or
impeding the pleasures of childhood, that the author
knows a little girl who, before she was seven years old,
had learnt the whole Psalter through a second time; and
that without any diminution of uncommon gayety of
spirits or any interference with the elegant acquire
ments suited to her station.
The child who, while she was engaged in
learning these scriptures, was not aware that
there was any specific object in view, or any
farther end to be answered by it, will afterwards
feel an unexpected pleasure arising from the
application of her petty labours, when she is
called to draw out from her little treasury of
knowledge the stores she has been insensibly
collecting; and will be pleased to find that with-
out any fresh application to study, for she is now
obliged to exercise a higher faculty than me-
mory, she has lying ready in her mind the ma-
terials with which she is at length called upon
to work. Her judgment must be set about se-
lecting one, or two, or more texts which shall
contain the substance of every specific head of
prayer before noticed; and it will be a farther
exercise to her understanding to concatenate the
detached parts into one regular whole, occasion-
ally varying the arrangement as she likes; that
is, changing the order, sometimes beginning
with invocation, sometimes with confession
sometimes dwelling longer on one part, some
times on another. As the hardships of a reli-
gious Sunday are often so pathetically pleaded,
as making one of the heavy burdens of religion;
and as the friends of religion are so often called
upon to mitigate its intolerable rigours, by re-
commending pleasant employment, might not
such an exercise as has been here suggested
help, by varying its occupations, to lighten its
load.
The habits of the pupil being thus early form-
ed, her memory, attention and intellect being
bent in a right direction, and the exercise in-
variably maintained, may we not reasonably
hope that her affections also, through divine
grace, may become interested in the work, till
she will be enabled to pray with the spirit and
with the understanding also?' She will now
be qualified to use a well-composed form, if ne-
cessary, with seriousness and advantage; for
she will now use it not mechanically, but ra-
tionally. That which before appeared to her a
mere mass of good words, will now appear a
significant composition, exhibiting variety, and
regularity, and beauty: and while she will have
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
363
the farther advantage of being enabled by her
improved judgment to distinguish and select for
her own purpose such prayers as are more ju-
dicious and more scriptural, it will also habitu-
ate her to look for plan, and design, and lucid
order, in other works.
A VIEW
OF THE PRINCIPLES AND CONDUCT
PREVALENT AMONG WOMEN OF RANK AND FORTUNE.
CHAP. XIV.
The practical use of female knowledge, with a
sketch of the female character, and a compara-
tive view of the sexes.
THE chief end to be proposed in cultivating
the understandings of women, is to qualify them
for the practical purposes of life. Their know.
ledge is not often like the learning of men, to be
reproduced in some literary composition, nor
ever in any learned profession; but it is to come
out in conduct. It is to be exhibited in life and
manners.
A lady studies, not that she may
qualify herself to become an orator or a pleader;
not that she may learn to debate, but to act.
She is to read the best hooks, not so much to
enable her to talk of them, as to bring the im-
provement which they furnish, to the rectifica.
tion of her principles and the formation of her
habits. The great uses of study to a woman are
to enable her to regulate her own mind, and to
be instrumental to the good of others.
ed pretensions of literary vanity; for it is not
the really learned, but the smatterers who have
generally brought their sex into discredit, by an
absurd affectation, which has set them on de-
spising the duties of ordinary life. There have
not indeed been wanting (but the character is
not now common) precieuses ridicules, who as-
suming a superiority to the sober cares which
ought to occupy their sex, have claimed a lofty
and supercilious exemption from the dull and
plodding drudgeries
Of this dim speck called earth!
There have not been wanting ill-judging females
who have affected to establish an unnatural se-
paration between talents and usefulness, instead
of bearing in mind that talents are the great ap-
pointed instruments of usefulness, who have
acted as if knowledge were to confer on woman
a kind of fantastic sovereignty which should ex-
whereas it is only meant the more eminently to
onerate her from the discharge of female duties;
To woman, therefore, whatever be her rank, qualify her for the performance of them. A
I would recommend a predominance of those while the greater part of her proper duties are
woman of real sense will never forget, that
more sober studies, which, not having display such as the most moderately gifted may fulfil
for their object, may make her wise without va-
nity, happy without witnesses, and content with- with credit (since Providence never makes that
to be very difficult, which is generally necessa-
out panegyrists; the exercise of which will not
bring celebrity, but improve usefulness. Shey) yet that the most highly endowed are equally
should pursue every kind of study which will
teach her to elicit truth; which will lead her to
be intent upon realities; will give precision to
her ideas; will make an exact mind. She
should cultivate every study which, instead of
stimulating her sensibility, will chastise it;
which will neither create an excessive or a false
refinement; which will give her definite notions;
will bring the imagination under dominion; will
lead her to think, to compare, to combine, to
methodise; which will confer such a power of
discrimination, that her judgment shall learn to
reject what is dazzling, if it be not solid; and
to prefer, not what is striking, or bright, or new,
but what is just. That kind of knowledge which
is rather fitted for home consumption than fo-
reign exportation, is peculiarly adapted to wo-
men.*
It is because the superficial nature of their
education furnishes them with a false and low
standard of intellectual excellence, that women
have too often become ridiculous by the unfound-
bound to fulfil them; and let her remember that
the humblest of these offices, performed on Chris-
tian principles, are wholesome for the minds
even of the most enlightened, as they tend to
the casting down of those 'high imaginations'
which women of genius are too much tempted
to indulge.
For instance; ladies whose natural vanity has
been aggravated by a false education, may look
down on economy as a vulgar attainment; un-
intellect; but this is the false estimate of a shal-
worthy of the attention of an highly cultivated
low mind. Economy, such as a woman of for-
tune is called on to practise, is not merely the
petty detail of small daily expenses, the shabby
petty detail of small daily expenses, the shabby
curtailments and stinted parsimony of a little
mind, operating on little concerns; but it is the
exercise of a sound judgment exerted in the
comprehensive outline of order, of arrangements,
of distribution; of regulations by which alone
well governed societies, great and small, sub-
sist. She who has the best regulated mind will,
other things being equal, have the best regulat-
*May I be allowed to strengthen my own opinioned family. As in the superintendance of the
with the authority of Dr. Johnson, that a woman cannot
have too much arithmetic? It is a solid practical acquire-
ment, in which there is much use and little display; it
is a quiet sober kind of knowledge, which she acquires
for herself and her family, and not for the world.
universe, wisdom is seen in its effects ; and as
in the visible works of Providence that which
goes on with such beautiful regularity is the re-
sult not of chance but of design, so that manage,
364
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
ment which seems the most easy is commonly | that she is a female, that she is young, that she
the consequence of the best concerted plan: and has had no advantages, that she is pretty per-
a well concerted plan is seldom the offspring of | haps—when her verses come to be stripped of
an ordinary mind. A sound economy is a sound all their extraneous appendages, and the fair
understanding brought into action: it is calcu- author is driven off her vantage ground' of
lation realized; it is the doctrine of proportion partiality, sex, and favour, she will commonly
reduced to practice: it is foreseeing conse- sink to the level of ordinary capacities. While
quences, and guarding against them; it is ex- those more quiet women, who have meekly sat
pecting contingencies and being prepared for down in the humble shades of prose and pru-
them. The difference is, that to a narrow dence, by a patient perseverance in rational stu-
minded vulgar economist, the details are conti- dies, rise afterwards much higher in the scale
nually present; she is overwhelmed by their of intellect, and acquire a much larger stock of
weight, and is perpetually bespeaking your pity sound knowledge for far better purposes than
for her labours, and your praise for her exer- mere display.
mere display. And though it may seem a con-
tions; she is afraid you will not see how much tradiction, yet it will generally be found true,
she is harassed. She is not satisfied that the that girls who take to scribble, are the least stu-
machine moves harmoniously, unless she is per- dious, the least reflecting, and the least rational.
petually exposing every secret spring to obser- They early acquire a false confidence in their
vation. Little events and trivial operations en- own unassisted powers: it becomes more grati-
gross her whole soul; while a woman of sense, fying to their natural vanity to be always pour-
having provided for their probable recurrence, ing out their minds on paper, than to be draw-
guards against the inconveniences, without be- ing into them fresh ideas from richer sources.
ing disconcerted by the casual obstructions The original stock, small perhaps at first, is
which they offer to her general scheme. Sub- soon spent. The subsequent efforts grow more
ordinate expenses and inconsiderable retrench- and more feeble, if the mind which is continu-
ments should not swallow up that attention ally exhausting itself, be not also continually
which is better bestowed on regulating the ge- replenished; till the latter compositions become
neral scale of expense; correcting and reducing little more than reproductions of the same ideas,
an overgrown establishment, and reforming ra- and fainter copies of the same images, a little
dical and growing excesses.
varied and modified perhaps, and not a little di
luted and enfeebled.
Superior talents, however, are not so common,
as, by their frequency, to offer much disturb-
ance to the general course of human affairs:
and many a lady, who tacitly accuses herself of
neglecting her ordinary duties because she is a
genius, will perhaps be found often to accuse
herself as unjustly as good St. Jerome, when he
laments that he was beaten by the angel for be-
ing too Ciceronian in his style.
The truth is, women who are so puffed up
with the conceit of talents as to neglect the plain
duties of life, will not frequently be found to be
women of the best abilities. And here may the
author be allowed the gratification of observing,
that those women of real genius and extensive
knowledge, whose friendship has conferred ho-
nour and happiness on her own life, have been,
in general, eminent for economy and the prac-
tice of domestic virtues; and have risen superior
to the poor affectation of neglecting the duties
and despising the knowledge of common life,
with which literary women have been frequent-
ly, and not always unjustly, accused.
It will be necessary to combat vigilantly that
favourite plea of lively ignorance, that study is
an enemy to originality. Correct the judgment,
while you humble the vanity of the young un-
taught pretender, by convincing her that those
half-formed thoughts and undigested ideas which
she considers as proofs of her invention, prove
only, that she wants taste and knowledge. That
while conversation must polish and reflection
invigorate her ideas, she must improve and en-
large them by the accession of various kinds of
virtue and elegant literature; and that the cul-
tivated mind will repay with large interest the
seeds sown in it by judicious study. Let it be
observed, I am by no means encouraging young
ladies to turn authors: I am only reminding
them, that
Authors before they write should read.
I am only putting them in mind that to be ig-
norant is not to be original.
These self-taught, and self-dependant scrib-
A romantic girl with a pretension to senti- blers pant for the unmerited and unattainable
ment, which her still more ignorant friends praise of fancy and of genius, while they disdain
mistake for genius (for in the empire of the blind the commendation of judgment, knowledge, and
the one-eyed are kings) and possessing some- perseverance which would probably be within
thing of a natural ear, has perhaps in her child- their reach. To extort admiration they are ac-
hood exhausted all the images of grief, and love, customed to boast of an impossible rapidity in
and fancy picked up in her desultory poetical composing; and while they insinuate how little
reading, in an elegy on a sick linnet, or a son- time their performances cost them, they intend
net on a dead lap-dog; she begins thencefor-you should infer how perfect they might have
ward to be considered as a prodigy in her little
circle; surrounded with fond and flattering
friends, every avenue to truth is shut out; she
has no opportunity of learning that her fame is
derived not from her powers, but her position;
and that when an impartial critic shall have
made all the necessary deductions, such as-
that she is a neighbour, that she is a relation,
made them had they condescended to the drudg-
ery of application: but application with them
implies defect of genius. They take superfluous
pains to convince you that there was neither
learning nor labour employed in the work for
which they solicit your praise: Alas! the judi-
cious eye too soon perceives it! though it docs
not perceive that native strength and mother-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
365
wit, which in works of real genius make some
amends for the negligence, which yet they do
not justify. But instead of extolling those effu-
sions for their facility, it would be kind in
friends rather to blame them for their crudeness:
and when the young candidates for fame, are
eager to prove in how short a time such a poem
has been struck off, it would be well to regret
that they had not either taken a longer time, or
refrained from writing at all; as in the former
case the work would have been less defective,
and in the latter the writer would have discover-
ed more humility, and self-distrust.
A general capacity for knowledge, and the
cultivation of the understanding at large, will
always put a woman into the best state of di-
recting her pursuits into those particular chan-
nels which her destination in life may after-
wards require. But she should be carefully in-
structed that her talents are only a means to a
still higher attainment, and that she is not to
rest in them as an end: that merely to exercise
them as instruments for the acquisition of fame
and the promotion of pleasure is subversive of
her delicay as a woman, and contrary to the
spirit of a christian.
Study, therefore, is to be considered as the
means of strengthening the mind, and of fitting
it for higher duties, just as exercise is to be con-
sidered as an instrument for strengthening the
body for the same purpose! And the valetudi-
narian who is religiously punctual in the obser-
vance of his daily rides to promote his health, and
rests in that as an end, without so much as in-
tending to make his improved health an instru-
ment of increased usefulness, acts on the same
low and selfish principle with her who reads
merely for pleasure and for fame, without any
design of devoting the more enlarged and invi-
gorated mind to the glory of the Giver.
But there is one human consideration which
would perhaps more effectually tend to damp in
an aspiring woman the ardours of literary vanity
(I speak not of real genius, though there the re-
mark often applies) than any which she will de-
rive from motives of humility, or propriety, or
religion; which is, that in the judgment passed
on her performances, she will have to encounter
the mortifying circumstance of having her sex
always taken into account; and her highest ex-
ertions will probably be received with the quali-
fied approbation that it is really extraordinary
for a woman. Men of learning, who are natu-
rally inclined to estimate works in proportion as
they appear to be the result of art, study, and
institution, are inclined to consider even the
happier performances of the other sex as the
spontaneous productions of a fruitful but shallow
soil; and to give them the same kind of praise
which we bestow on certain sallads, which often
draw from us a sort of wondering commenda-
tion, not indeed as being worth much in them-
selves, but because by the lightness of the earth,
and a happy knack in the gardener, these in-
different cresses spring up in a night, and there-
fore we are ready to wonder they are no worse.
As to men of sense, however, they need be
the less hostile to the improvement of the other
sex, as they themselves will be sure to be gainers
by it; the enlargement of the female understand-
|
ing being the most likely means to put an end
to those petty and absurd contentions for equality
which female smatterers so anxiously maintain.
I say smatterers, for between the first class of
both sexes the question is much more, rarely, and
always more temperately agitated. Co-operation
and not competition is indeed the clear principle
we wish to see reciprocally adopted by those
higher minds in each sex which readily approxi-
mate the nearest to each other. The more a wo-
man's understanding is improved, the more ob-
viously she will discern that there can be no hap-
piness in any society where there is a perpetual
struggle for power; and the more her judgment is
rectified, the more accurate views will she take
of the station she was born to fill, and the more
readily will she accommodate herself to it;
while the most vulgar and ill informed women
are ever most inclined to be tyrants, and those
always struggle most vehemently for power,
who feel themselves at the greatest distance from
deserving it; and who would not fail to make
the worst use of it when attained. Thus the
weakest reasoners are always the most positive
in debate; and the cause is obvious, for they are
unavoidably driven to maintain their pretensions
by violence, who want arguments and reasons
to prove that they are in the right.
There is this singular difference between a
woman vain of her wit, and a woman vain of
her beauty; that the beauty while she is an-
xiously alive to her own fame, is often indiffer-
ent enough about the beauty of other women,
and provided she herself is sure of your admira-
tion, she does not insist on your thinking that
there is another handsome woman in the world;
while she who is vain of her genius, more liberal
at least in her vanity, is jealous for the honour
of her whole sex, and contends for the equality
of their pretensions as a body, in which she feels
that her own are involved as an individual.
The beauty vindicates her own rights, the wit
the rights of women; the beauty fights for her-
self; the wit for a party; and while the more
selfish though more moderate beauty
would but be queen for life,
the public spirited wit struggles to abrogate the
Salique law of intellect, and to enthrone
a whole sex of queens.
At the revival of letters in the sixteenth and
the following century, the controversy about
this equality was agitated with more warmth
than wisdom; and the process was instituted
and carried on, on the part of the female com-
plainant, with that sort of acrimony which al-
ways raises a suspicion of the justice of any
cause; for violence commonly implies doubt,
and invective indicates weakness rather than
strength. The novelty of that knowledge that
was then bursting out from the dawn of a long
dark night, kindled all the ardours of a female
mind, and the ladies fought zealously for a por-
tion of that renown which the reputation of
Besides
learning was beginning to bestow.
their own pens, they had for their advocates all
those needy authors who had any thing to hope
from their power, their riches or their influence;
and so giddy did some of these literary ladies
366
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
become by the adulation of their numerous pane-
gyrists, that through these repeated draughts
of inebriating praise, they even lost their former
moderate measure of sober-mindedness, and
grew to despise the equality for which they had
before contended, as a state below their merit,
and unworthy of their acceptance. They now
scorned to litigate for what they had already
thought they obviously possessed, and nothing
short of the palm of superiority was at length
considered as adequate to their growing claims.
When court-ladies and princesses were the can-
didates, they could not long want champions to
support their cause; by these champions female
authorities were produced as if paramount to
facts; quotations from these female authors
were considered as proofs, and their point-blank
assertions stood for solid and irrefragable argu-
ments. In those parasites who offered this
homage to female genius, the homage was the
effect neither of truth, nor of justice, nor of con-
viction. It arose rather out of gratitude, or it
was a reciprocation of flattery; it was sometimes
vanity, it was often distress, which prompted
the adulation; it was the want of a patroness;
it was the want of a dinner. When a lady, and
especially as it then often happened, when a
lady who was noble or royal sat with gratifying
docility at the foot of a professor's chair; when
she admired the philosopher, or took upon her to
protect the theologian, whom his rivals among
his own sex were tearing to pieces, what could
the grateful professor or delighted theologian do
less in return than make the apotheosis of her
who had the penetration to discern his merit and
the spirit to reward it? Thus in fact it was not
so much her vanity as his own, that he was often
flattering, though she was the dupe of her more
deep and designing panegyrist.
But it is a little unfortunate for the perpetuity
of that fame which the encomiast had made
over to his patroness, in the never-dying records
of his verses and orations, that in the revolution
of a century or two the names of the flattered
are now almost as little known as the works
of the flatterers. Their memorial is perished
with them.* An instructive lesson, reminding
us that whoever bestows, or assumes a reputa-
tion disproportioned to the merit of the claimant,
will find that reputation as little durable as it is
solid. For this literary warfare which engaged
such troops of the second-hand authors of the
age in question in such continual skirmishes,
and not a few pitched battles; which provoked
so much rancour, so many volumes, and so little
wit; so much vanity, so much flattery, and so
much invective, produced no useful nor lasting
effect. Those who promised themselves that
their names would outlive one half of round
eternity,' did not reach the end of the century
in which the boast was made; and those who
prodigally offered the incense, and those who
greedily snuffed up the fumes, are buried in the
same blank oblivion !
But when the temple of Janus seemed to have
been closed; or when at worst the peace was
only occasionally broken by a slight and random
shot from the hand of some single straggler;
* See Brantome, Pere le Moine, Mons. Thomas, &c.
|
it appears that though open rebellion had ceased,
yet the female claim had not been renounced;
it had only (if we may change the metaphor)
lain in abeyance. The contest has recently
been revived with added fury, and with multi-
plied exactions; for whereas the ancient demand
was merely a kind of imaginary prerogative, a
speculative importance, a mere titular right, a
shadowy claim to a few unreal acres of Parnas-
sian territory; the revived contention has taken
a more serious turn, and brings forward poli-
tical as well as intellectual pretensions; and
among the innovations of this innovating period,
the imposing term of rights has been produced
to sanctify the claim of our female pretenders,
with a view not only to rekindle in the minds of
women a presumptuous vanity dishonourable to
their sex, but produced with a view to excite in
their hearts an impious discontent with the post
which God has assigned them in this world.
But they little understand the true interests
of woman who would lift her from the impor-
tant duties of her allotted station, to fill with
fantastic dignity a loftier but less appropriate
niche. Nor do they understand her true hap-
piness, who seek to annihilate distinctions from
which she derives advantages, and to attempt
innovations which would depreciate her real
value. Each sex has its proper excellencies
which would be lost, were they melted down
into the common character by the fusion of
the new philosophy. Why should we do
away distinctions which increase the mutual
benefits and enhance the satisfactions of life?
Whence, but by carefully preserving the original
marks of difference stamped by the hand of the
Creator, would be derived the superior advan-
tage of mixed society? Is either sex so abound-
ing in perfection as to be independent on the
other for improvement? Have men no need to
have their rough angles filed off, and their harsh-
ness and asperities smoothed and polished by
assimilating with beings of more softness and
refinement! Are the ideas of women naturally
so very judicious, are their principles so invinci-
bly firm, are their views so perfectly correct, are
their judgments so completely exact, that there
is occasion for no additional weight, no super-
added strength, no increased clearness, none of
that enlargement of mind, none of that addi-
tional invigoration which may be derived from
the aids of the stronger sex? What identity
could advantageously supercede such an enliven-
ing opposition, such an interesting variety of
character? Is it not then more wise, as well as
more honourable to move contentedly in the
plain path which Providence has obviously
marked out to the sex, and in which custom has
for the most part rationally confirmed them,
rather than to stray, awkwardly, unbecomingly,
and unsuccessfully, in a forbidden road? Is it
not desirable to be the lawful possessors of a
lesser domestic territory, rather than the turbu-
lent usurpers of a wider foreign empire? to be
good originals, than bad imitators ? to be the
best thing of one's own kind, rather than an infe-
rior thing even if it were of an higher kind? to be
excellent women rather than indifferent men?
Is the author then undervaluing her own sex?
-No. It is her zeal for their true interests
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
367
which leads her to oppose their imaginary rights., of observation extends; but they describe a
It is her regard for their happiness which makes smaller circle. A woman sees the world, as it
her endeavour to cure them of a feverish thirst were, from a little elevation in her own garden,
for a fame as unattainable as inappropriate; to whence she makes an exact survey of home
guard them against an ambition as little becom-scenes, but takes not in that wider range of dis-
ing the delicacy of their female character as the tant prospects which he who stands on a loftier
meekness of their religious profession. A little eminence commands. Women have a certain
Christian humility and sober-mindedness are tact which often enables them to feel what is
worth all the empty renown which was ever at- just, more instantaneously than they can define
tained by the misapplied energies of the sex; it. They have an intuitive penetration into
it is worth all the wild metaphysical discussion character, bestowed on them by Providence, like
which has ever been obtruded under the name the sensitive and tender organs of some timid
of reason and philosophy; which has unsettled animals, as a kind of natural guard to warn, of
the peace of vain women, and forfeited the re- the approach of danger, beings who are often
spect of reasonable men. And the most elabo- called to act defensively.
rate definition of ideal rights, and the most hardy
measures for obtaining them, are of less value
in the eyes of a truly amiable woman, than that
meek and quiet spirit which is in the sight of
God of great price.'
Natural propensities best mark the designa-
tions of Providence as to their application. The
fin was not more clearly bestowed on the fish
that he should swim, nor the wing given to the
bird that he should fly, than superior strength
of body, and a firmer texture of mind was given
to man, that he might preside in the deep and
daring scenes of action and of council; in the
complicated arts of government, in the conten-
tion of arms, in the intricacies and depths of
science, in the bustle of commerce, and in those
professions which demand a higher reach, and
a wider range of powers. The true value of
woman is not diminished by the imputation of
inferiority in those talents which do not belong
to her, of those qualities in which her claim to
excellence does not consist. She has other re-
quisites, better adapted to answer the end and
purposes of her being, from 'Him who does all
things well;' who suits the agent to the ac-
tion; who accommodates the instrument to the
work.
In summing up the evidence, if I may so
speak, of the different capacities of the sexes,
one may venture, perhaps, to assert, that women
have equal parts, but are inferior in wholeness
of mind, in the integral understanding: that
though a superior woman may possess single
faculties in equal perfection, yet there is com-
monly a juster proportion in the mind of a su-
perior man: that if women have in an equal
degree the faculty of fancy which creates images,
and the faculty of memory which collects and
stores ideas, they seem not to possess in equal
measure the faculty of comparing, combining,
analysing, and separating these ideas; that deep
and patient thinking which goes to the bottom
of a subject; nor that power of arrangement
which knows how to link a thousand connected
ideas in one dependant train, without losing
sight of the original idea out of which the rest
grow, and on which they all hang. The female
too, wanting steadiness in her intellectual pur-
suits, is perpetually turned aside by her charac-
teristic tastes and feelings. Woman in the ca-
reer of genius, is the Atalanta, who will risk
losing the race by running out of her road to
pick up the golden apple; while her male com-
petitor, without, perhaps, possessing greater na-
Let not then aspiring, because ill-judging tural strength or swiftness, will more certainly
woman, view with pining envy the keen satirist, attain his object, by direct pursuit, by being
hunting vice through all the doublings and wind- less exposed to the seductions of extraneous
ings of the heart; the sagacious politician, lead-beauty, and will win the race, not by excelling
ing senates and directing the fate of empires;
the acute lawyer, detecting the obliquities of
fraud; and the skilful dramatist, exposing the
pretensions of folly; but let her ambition be
consoled by reflecting, that those who thus ex-
cel, to all that Nature bestows, and books can
teach, must add besides, that consummate know-
ledge of the world, to which a delicate woman
has no fair avenues, and which even if she could
attain, she would never be supposed to have
come honestly by.
in speed, but by despising the bait.*
Here it may be justly enough retorted, that
as it is allowed the education of women is so de-
fective, the alleged inferiority of their minds
may be accounted for on that ground, more
justly than by ascribing it to their natural make.
And, indeed, there is so much truth in the re-
mark, that till women shall be more reasonably
educated, and till the native growth of their
mind shall cease to be stinted and cramped, we
have no juster ground for pronouncing that their
understanding has already reached its highest
attainable point, than the Chinese would have
for affirming that their women have attained to
the greatest possible perfection in walking, whilst
the first care is, during their infancy, to cripple
their feet! At least, till the female sex are more
carefully instructed, this question will always
In almost all that comes under the description
of polite letters, in all that captivates by image-
ry, or warms by just and affecting sentiment,
women are excellent. They possess in a high
degree that delicacy and quickness of perception,
and that nice discernment between the beautiful
and defective which comes under the denomina-
tion of taste. Both in composition and action
they excel in details; but they do not so much
generalize their ideas as men, nor do their minds
seize a great subject with so large a grasp.
They are acute observers, and accurate judges
of life and manners, as far as their own sphere I woman.
* What indisposes even reasonable women to concede
in these points is, that the weakest man instantly lays
hold on the concession; and on the mere ground of sex,
plumes himself on his own individual superiority; in-
ferring that the silliest man is superior to the first rate
368
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
remain as undecided as to the degree of differ- | their own. Christianity brings that superindu.
ence between the masculine and feminine un-ced strength; it comes in aid of their conscious
derstanding, as the question between the under- weakness, and offers the only true counterpoise
standings of blacks and whites; for until men to it. Woman be thou healed of thine infirmi.
and women, and until Africans and Europeans ty,' is still the heart-cheering language of a gra-
are put more nearly on a par in the cultivation cious Saviour.
of their minds, the shades of distinction, what-
ever they be, between their native abilities, can
never be fairly ascertained.
And when we see (and who will deny that we
see it frequently?) so many women nobly rising
from under all the pressure of a disadvantageous
education, and a defective system of society,
and exhibiting the most unambiguous marks of
a vigorous understanding, a correct judgment,
and a sterling piety, it reminds us of those shi-
ning lights which have now and then burst out
through all the darkness visible' of the Romish
church, have disencumbered themselves from
the gloom of ignorance, shaken off the fetters of
prejudice, and with a noble energy risen supe-
rior to all the errors of a corrupt theology.
But whatever characteristical distinctions may
exist; whatever inferiority may be attached to
woman from the slighter frame of her body, or
the more circumscribed powers of her mind;
from a less systematic education, and from the
subordinate station she is called to fill in life;
there is one great and leading circumstance
which raises her importance, and even establishes
her equality. Christianity has exalted women
to true and undisputed dignity; in Christ Jesus,
as there is neither rich nor poor,' bond nor
free,' so there is neither 'male nor female.' In
the view of that immortality, which is brought
to light by the Gospel, she has no superior.
'Women' (to borrow the idea of an excellent
prelate) 'make up one half of the human race;
equally with men redeemed by the blood of
Christ.' In this their true dignity consists;
here their best pretensions rest; here their high-
est claims are allowed.
All disputes then for pre-eminence between
the sexes, have only for their object the poor
precedence for a few short years, the attention
of which would be better devoted to the duties
of life and the interests of eternity.
And as the final hope of the female sex is
equal, so are their present means, perhaps, more
favourable, and their opportunities, often, less
obstructed than those of the other sex. In their
Christian course, women have every superior
advantage, whether we consider the natural
make of their minds, their leisure for acquisi-
tion in youth, or their subsequently less exposed
mode of life. Their hearts are naturally soft
and flexible, open to impressions of love and gra-
titude; their feelings tender and lively; all these
are favourable to the cultivation of a devotional
spirit. Yet while we remind them of these na-
tive benefits, they will do well to be on their
guard lest this very softness and ductility lay
them more open to the seductions of temptation
and error.
They have in the native constitution of their
minds, as well as from the relative situations
they are called to fill, a certain sense of attach-
ment and dependance, which is peculiarly fa-
vourable to religion. They feel, perhaps, more
intimately the want of a strength which is not
Women also bring to the study of Christianity
fewer of those prejudices which persons of the
other sex too often early contract. Men, from
their classical education, acquire a strong par-
tiality for the manners of pagan antiquity, and
the documents of pagan philosophy: this, to-
gether with the impure taint caught from the
loose descriptions of their poets, and the licen-
tious language even of their historians (in whom
we reasonably look for more gravity) often
weakens the good impressions of young men,
and at least confuses their ideas of piety, by
mixing them with so much heterogeneous mat-
ter. Their very spirits are imbued all the week
with the impure follies of a depraved mytholo-
gy; and it is well if even on Sundays they can
hear of the 'true God, and Jesus Christ whom
he has sent.' While women, though struggling
with the same natural corruptions, have com-
monly less knowledge to unknow, and fewer
schemes to unlearn; they have not to shake off
the pride of system, and to disencumber their
minds from the shackles of favourite theories:
they do not bring from the porch or the acade-
my any oppositions of science' to obstruct their
reception of those pure doctrines taught on the
Mount: doctrines which ought to find a readier
entrance into minds uninfected with the pride
of the school of Zeno, or the libertinism of that
of Epicurus.
And as women are naturally more affectionate
than fastidious, they are likely both to read and
to hear with a less critical spirit than men : they
will not be on the watch to detect errors, so
much as to gather improvement; they have sel-
dom that hardness which is acquired by dealing
deeply in books of controversy, but are more in-
clined to the perusal of works which quicken
the devotional feelings, than to such as awaken
a spirit of doubt and scepticism. They are less
disposed to consider the compositions they read,
as materials on which to ground objections and
answers, than as helps to faith and rules of life.
With these advantages, however, they should
also bear in mind that their more easily received
impressions being often less abiding, and their
reason less open to conviction by means of the
strong evidences which exist in favour of the
truth of Christianity, they ought, therefore, to
give the more earnest heed to the things which
they have heard, lest at any time they should
let them slip.' Women are, also, from their do-
mestic habits, in possession of more leisure and
tranquility for religious pursuits, as well as se-
cured from those difficulties and strong tempta-
tions to which men are exposed in the tumult
of a bustling world. Their lives are more re-
gular and uniform, less agitated by the passions,
the businesses, the contentions, the shock of opi-
nions, and the opposition of interests which di-
vide society and convulse the world.
If we have denied them the possession of ta-
lents which might lead them to excel as lawyers,
they are preserved from the peril of having their
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
3690
ช
principles warped by that too indiscriminate de- |
fence of right and wrong, to which the profes-
sors of the law are exposed. If we should ques-
tion their title to eminence as mathematicians,
they are happily exempt from the danger to
which men devoted to that science are said to
be liable namely, that of looking for demon-
stration on subjects, which by their very nature,
are incapable of affording it. If they are less
conversant in the powers of nature, the struc-
ture of the human frame, and the knowledge of
the heavenly bodies than philosophers, physi-
cians, and astronomers; they are, however, de-
livered from the error into which many of each
of these have sometimes fallen, I mean from the
fatal habit of resting in second causes, instead
of referring all to the first; instead of making
'the heavens declare the glory of God, and pro-
claim his handy work;' instead of concluding,
when they observe how fearfully and wonder-
fully we are made, marvellous are thy works
O Lord, and that my soul knoweth right well.'
And let the weaker sex take comfort, that in
their very exemption from privileges, which
they are sometimes foolishly disposed to envy,
consists not only their security, but their hap-
piness. If they enjoy not the distinctions of
public life and high offices, do they not escape
the responsibility attached to them, and the mor-
tification of being dismissed from them? If
they have no voice in deliberative assemblies, do
they not avoid the load of duty inseparably con-
nected with such privileges? Preposterous pains
have been taken to excite in women an uneasy
jealousy, that their talents are neither rewarded
with public honours nor emoluments in life;
nor with inscriptions, statues, and mausoleums
after death. It has been absurdly represented
to them as an hardship, that while they are ex-
pected to perform duties, they must yet be con-
tent to relinquish honours, and must unjustly be
compelled to renounce fame, while they must
sedulously labour to deserve it.
But for christian women to act on the low
views suggested to them by their ill-judging
panegyrists; for christian women to look up
with a giddy head and a throbbing heart, to
honours and remunerations, so little suited to
the wants and capacities of an immortal spirit,
would be no less ridiculous than if christian
heroes should look back with an envy on, the
old pagan reward of ovations, oak garlands,
parsley crowns, and laurel wreaths. The Chris-
tian hope more than reconciles Christian wo-
men to these petty privations, by substituting a
nobler prize for their ambition, the prize of the
high calling of God in Christ Jesus;' by sub-
stituting, for that popular and fluctuating voice,
which may cry, Hosanna,' and 'crucify' in a
breath, that' favour of God which is eternal life.'
If women should lament it as a disadvantage
attached to their sex, that their character is of
so delicate a texture as to be sullied by the
slightest breath of calumny, and that the stain
once received is indelible; yet are they not led
by that very circumstance as if indistinctively
to shrink from all those irregularities to which
the loss of character is so certainly expected to
be attached; and to shun with keener circum-
spection the most distant approach towards the
VOL. I.
A 2
confines of danger? Let them not lament it as
an hardship, but account it as a privilege, that
the delicacy of their sex impels them more
scrupulously to avoid the very appearance of
evil; let them not regret that the conscious-
ness of their danger serves to secure their purity,
by placing them at a greater distance, and in a
more deep intrenchment from the evil itself.
Though it be one main object of this little
work, rather to lower than to raise any desire
of celebrity in the female heart; yet I would
awaken it to a just sensibility to honest fame :
I would call on women to reflect that our reli-
gion has not only made them heirs to a blessed
immortality hereafter, but has greatly raised
them in the scale of being here, by lifting them
to an importance in society unknown to the
most polished ages of antiquity. The religion
of Christ has even bestowed a degree of renown
on the sex beyond what any other religion ever
did. Perhaps there are hardly so many virtuous
women (for I reject the long catalogue whom
their vices have transferred from oblivion to in-
famy) named in all the pages of Greek or Roman
history, as are handed down to eternal fame, in
a few of those short chapters with which the
great Apostle to the Gentiles has concluded his
epistles to his converts. 'Of devout and hon-
ourable women,' the sacred scriptures record
not a few. Some of the most affecting scenes;
the most interesting transactions, and the most
touching conversations which are recorded of
the Saviour of the world, passed with women.
Their examples have supplied some of the most
eminent inatances of faith and love. They are
the first remarked as having 'ministered to him
of their substance.' Theirs was the praise of
not abandoning their despised Redeemer when
he was led to execution, and under all the hope-
less circumstances of his ignominious death,
they appear to have been the last attending at
his tomb, and the first on the morning when he
arose from it. Theirs was the privilege of re-
ceiving the earliest consolation from their risen
Lord; theirs was the honour of being first com-
missioned to announce his glorious resurrection.
And even to have furnished heroic confessors,
devoted saints, and unshrinking martyrs to the
Church of Christ, has not been the exclusive
honour of the bolder sex.
CHAP. XV.
CONVERSATION.-Hints suggested on the subject.
-On the tempers and dispositions to be intro-
duced in it.-Errors to be avoided. Vanity
under various shapes the cause of those errors.
THE sexes will naturally desire to appear to
each other, such as each believes the other will
best like; their conversation will act recipro-
cally; and each sex will wish to appear more or
less rational as they perceive it will more or
less recommend them to the other. It is there-
fore to be regretted, that many men, even of
distinguished sense and learning, are too apt to
consider the society of ladies as a scene in which
they are rather to rest their understandings,
!
370
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
than to exercise them; while ladies, in return, | are considered as beings who must be contented
are too much addicted to make their court by to behold every thing through a false medium,
lending themselves to this spirit of trifling; and who are not expected to see and to judge of
they often avoid making use of what abilities things as they really exist.
they have; and affect to talk below their natural
and acquired powers of mind; considering it as
a tacit and welcome flattery to the understand-
ing of men, to renounce the exercise of their
own.
Do we then wish to see, the ladies, whose
want of opportunities leaves them so incompe-
tent on many points, and the modesty of whose
sex ought never to allow them even to be as
shining as they are able; do we wish to see
them take the lead in metaphysical disquisi-
tions? Do you wish them to plunge into the
depths of theological polemics,
Now since taste and principles thus mutually
operate; men, by keeping up conversation to its
proper standard, would not only call into exer-
cise the powers of mind which women actually
And find no end in wand'ring mazes lost?
possess; but would even awaken in them new
energies which they do not know they possess; Do we wish them to revive the animosities of
and men of sense would find their account in the Bangorian controversy, or to decide the pro-
doing this, for their own talents would be more
cess between the Jesuits and the five proposi-
highly rated by companions who were better tions of Jansenius? Do we wish to enthrone
able to appreciate them; and they would be re- them in the professor's chair, to deliver oracles,
ceiving as well as imparting improvement. harangues, and dissertations? to weigh the
And on the other hand, if young women found merits of every new production in the scales of
it did not often recommend them in the eyes of Quintilian, or to regulate the unities of drama-
those whom they most wish to please, to be tic composition by Aristotle's clock? Or re-
frivolous and superficial, they would become nouncing those foreign aids, do we desire to
more sedulous in correcting their own habits. behold them vain of a native independence of
Whenever fashionable women indicate a relish soul, inflated with their original powers, labour-
for instructive conversation, men will not being to strike out sparks of wit, with a restless
apt to hazard what is vain, or unprofitable; much
less will they ever presume to bring forward
what is loose or corrupt, where some signal has
not been previously given, that it will be accep-
table, or at least that it will be pardoned.
Ladies commonly bring into company minds
already too much relaxed by petty pursuits,
rather than overstrained by intense application.
The littleness of the employments in which they
are usually engaged, does not so exhaust their
spirits as to make them stand in need of that
relaxation from company which severe applica-
tion or overwhelming business makes requisite
for studious or public men. The due conside-
ration of this circumstance might serve to bring
the sexes more nearly on a level in society; and
each might meet the other half way; for that
degree of lively and easy conversation, which is
a necessary refreshment to the learned and the
busy, would not decrease in pleasantness by
being made of so rational a cast as would yet
somewhat raise the minds of women, who com-
monly seek society as a scene of pleasure, not as
a refuge from intense thought or exhausting la-
bour.
It is a disadvantage even to those women who
keep the best company, that it is unhappily
almost established into a system, by the other
sex, to postpone every thing like instructive
discourse till the ladies are withdrawn; their
retreat serving as a kind of signal for the exer-
cise of intellect. And in the few cases in which
it happens that any important discussion takes
place in their presence, they are for the most
part considered as having little interest in
serious subjects. Strong truths, whenever such
happen to be addressed to them, are either di-
luted with flattery, or kept back in part, or
softened to their taste; or if the ladies express a
wish for information on any point, they are put
off with a compliment, instead of a reason.
They are reminded of their beauty when they
are seeking to inform their understanding, and
anxiety to shine, which generally fails, and with
an anxious affectation to please, which never
pleases?
Diseurs de bon mots, fades caracteres !
All this be far from them!-But we do wish
to see the conversation of well-bred women
rescued from vapid common place, from unin-
teresting tattle, from trite and hackneyed com-
munications, from frivolous earnestness, from
false sensibility, from a warm interest about
things of no moment, and an indifference to
topics the most important; from a cold vanity,
from the ill concealed overflowings of self-love,
exhibiting itself under the smiling mask of an
engaging flattery, and from all the factitious
manners of artificial intercourse. We do wish
to see the time passed in polished and intelligent
society, considered among the beneficial, as well
as the pleasant portions of our existence, and
not consigned over, as it too frequently is, to
premeditated triflings, to empty dulness, to un-
meaning levity, to systematic unprofitableness.
Let me not however, be misunderstood: it is
not meant to prescribe that ladies should affect
to discuss lofty subjects, so much as to suggest
that they should bring good sense, simplicity,
precision, and truth to the discussion of those
common subjects, of which, after all, both the
business and conversation of mankind must be
in a great measure made up.
It is too well known how much the dread of
imputed pedantry keeps off every thing that
verges towards learned, and the terror of im-
puted enthusiasm frightens away any thing that
approaches to serious conversation; so that the
two topics which peculiarly distinguish us, as
rational and immortal beings, are by general
consent in a good degree banished from the
society of rational and immortal creatures. But
we might almost as consistently give up the
comforts of fire, because a few persons have been
burnt, and the benefit of water, because some
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
371
others have been drowned, as relinquish the en-
joyments of intellectual, and the blessings of
religious intercourse, because the learned world
has sometimes been infested with pedants, and
the religious world with fanatics.
| the principle expressed by the vulgar phrase of
the danger of playing with edge tools. They
conceive of religion as something which involves
controversy, and dispute; something either me-
lancholy or mischievous; something of an in-
flammatory nature which is to stir up ill hu
mours and hatred; they consider it as a question
which has two sides; as of a sort of party-busi-
ness which sets friends at variance. So much
is this notion adopted, that I have seen announ-
ced two works of considerable merit, in which
it was stipulated as an attraction, that the sub-
ject of religion, as being likely to excite anger
and party distinctions, should be carefully ex-
cluded. Such is the worldly idea of the spirit
of that religion whose direct object it was to
bring peace and good will to men!'
As in the momentous times in which we live
it is next to impossible to pass an evening in
company but the talk will so inevitably revert |
to politics, that without any premeditated de-
sign, every one present shall infallibly be able
to find out to which side the other inclines;
why, in the far higher concern of eternal things,
should we so carefully shun every offered op-
portunity of bearing even a casual testimony to
the part we espouse in religion? Why, while
we make it a sort of point of conscience to leave
no doubt on the mind of a stranger, whether we
adopt the party of Pitt or Fox, shall we choose Women too little live or converse up to the
to leave it very problematical whether we belong standard of their understandings, and however
to God or Baal? Why, in religion, as well as we have deprecated affectation or pedantry, let it
in politics, should we not act like people who, be remembered, that both in reading and conver-
having their all at stake, cannot forbear now sing, the understanding gains more by stretch-
and then adverting for a moment to the objecting than stooping. If by exerting itself it may
of their grand concern, and dropping, at least,
an incidental intimation of the side to which
they belong?
which it is conversant: while the understanding
which is active and aspiring, expands and raises
itself, grows stronger by exercise, larger by dif
fusion, and richer by communication.
Catch, e'er she fall, the Cynthia of the minute;
not attain to all its desires, yet it will be sure to
gain something. The mind by always applying
itself to objects below its level, contracts its di-
Even the news of the day, in such an eventful mensions, and shrinks itself to the size, and
period as the present, may lend frequent occa-lowers itself to the level, of the object about
sions to a woman of principle to declare, without
parade, her faith in a moral Governor of the
world; her trust in a particular Providence;
her belief in the Divine Omnipotence; her con-
fidence in the power of God, in educing good -But the taste of general society is not favour-
from evil, in his employing wicked nations, not able to improvement. The seriousness with
as favourites, but instruments; her persuasion which the most frivolous subjects are agitated,
that present success is no proof of the Divine and the levity with which the most serious are
favour; in short, some intimation that she is despatched, bear a pretty exact proportion to
not ashamed to declare that her mind is under each other. Society too is a sort of magic lan-
the influence of Christian faith; that she is stea-tern; the scene is perpetually shifting. In this
dily governed by an unalterable principle, of incessant change we must
which no authority is too great to make her
ashamed, which no occasion is too trivial to call
into exercise. A general concurrence in habi- and the fashion of the present minute, evanes.
tually exhibiting this spirit of decided faith and cent probably like its rapid precursors, while in
holy trust, would inconceivably discourage that many it leads to the cultivation of real know-
pert and wakeful infidelity which is ever on the ledge, has also not unfrequently led even the gay
watch to produce itself: and, as we have alrea-and idle to the affectation of mixing a sprinkling
dy observed, if women, who derive authority
from their rank or talents, did but reflect how
their sentiments are repeated, and how their
authority is quoted, they would be so on their
guard, that general society might become a
scene of profitable communication and common
improvement; and the young who are looking
for models on which to fashion themselves, would
become ashamed and afraid of exhibiting any
thing like levity, or scepticism, or profaneness.
Let it be understood, that it is not meant to
intimate that serious subjects should make up
the bulk of conversation; this, as it is impossi-
ble, would also often be improper. It is not in-
tended to suggest that they should be abruptly
introduced, or unsuitably prolonged; but only
that they should not be systematically shunned;
nor the brand of fanaticism be fixed on the per-
son who, with whatever propriety hazards the
introduction of such subjects. It is evident,
however, that this general dread of serious to-
pics arises a good deal from an ignorance of the
Amaze the unlearn'd, and make the learned smile,
true nature of Christianity; people avoid it on would it not be more modest even for those who
of science with the mass of dissipation. Thẻ
ambition of appearing to be well informed breaks
out even in those triflers who will not spare
time from their pleasurable pursuits sufficient
ever, the reputation is so desirable. A little
for acquiring that knowledge, of which, how-
suits of their day, without rescuing them from
smattering of philosophy often dignifies the pur-
the vanities of the night. A course of lectures
(that admirable assistant for enlightening the
understanding) is not seldom resorted to as a
for the fatigue of application. But where this
means fo substitute the appearance of knowledge
valuable help is attended merely like any other
is not furthered by correspondent reading at
public exhibition, as a fashionable pursuit, and
home it often serves to set off the reality of ig
norance with the affectation of skill. But in-
stead of producing in conversation a few reign-
ing scientific terms, with a familiarity and rea-
diness, which
1
372
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
t
are better informed to avoid the use of technical, and disconnected; they arise out of no concate-
terms whenever the idea can be as well conveyed nation of ideas, nor any dependent series of de-
without them? For it argues no real ability to duction. Yet on this pleasant but desultory
know the names of tools; the ability lies in reading, the mind which has not been trained
knowing their use: and while it is in the thing, to severe exercise, loves to repose itself in a sort
not in the term, that real knowledge consists, of creditable indolence, instead of stretching its
the charge of pedantry is attached to the use of energies in the wholesome labour of consecutive
the term, which would not attach to the know-investigation.*.
ledge of the science.
show
I am not discouraging study at a late period
In the faculty of speaking well, ladies have of life, or even censuring slender knowledge;
such a happy promptitude of turning their slen- information is good at whatever period and in
der advantages to account, that there are many whatever degree it be acquired. But in such
who, though they have never been taught a rule cases it should be attended with peculiar humi-
of syntax, yet by a quick facility in profiting lity: and the new possessor should bear in mind,
from the best books and the best company, hard- that what is fresh to her has been long known
ly ever violate one; and who often exhibit an to others; and she should therefore be aware of
elegant and perspicuous arrangement of style advancing as novel that which is common, and
without having studied any of the laws of com- obtruding as rare that which every body pos-
position. Every kind of knowledge which ap- sesses. Some ladies are eager to exhibit proofs
pears to be the result of observation, reflection, of their reading, though at the expense of their
and natural taste, sits gracefully on women.- judgment, and will introduce in conversation
Yet on the other hand it sometimes happens, quotations quite irrelevant to the matter in hand,
that ladies of no contemptible natural parts are because they happen at the instant to recur to
too ready to produce, not only pedantic expres- their recollection, or were, perhaps, found in the
sions, but crude and unfounded notions; and book they have just been reading. Unappro-
still oftener to bring forward obvious and hack-priate quotations or strained analogy may
neyed remarks; which float on the very surface reading, but they do not show taste. That just
of a subject, with the imposing air of recent in- and happy allusion which knows by a word
vention, and all the vanity of conscious discove- how to awaken a corresponding image, or to
ry. This is because their acquirements have excite in the hearer the idea which fills the
not been worked into their minds by early in- mind of the speaker, shows less pedantry and
struction; what knowledge they have gotten more taste than bare citations; and a mind im-
stands out as it were above the very surface of bued with elegant knowledge will inevitably
their minds, like the appliquee of the embroider- betray the opulence of its resources, even on to-
er, instead of having been interwoven with the pics which do not relate to science or literature.
growth of the piece, so as to have become a part It is the union of parts and acquirements, of
of the stuff. They did not, like men, acquire spirit and modesty, which produces the indefi-
what they know while the texture was forming.nable charm of conversation. Well-informed
Perhaps no better preventive could be devised
for this literary vanity, than early instruction:
that woman would be less likely to be vain of
her knowledge who did not remember the time
when she was ignorant. Knowledge that is
burnt in if I may so speak, is seldom obtrusive,
rarely impertinent.
Their reading also has probably consisted
much in abridgments from larger works, as was
observed in a former chapter; this makes a rea-
dier talker, but a shallower thinker, than the
perusal of books of more bulk. By these scanty
sketches, their critical powers have not been
formed; for in those crippled mutilations they
have seen nothing of that just proportion of
parts, that skilful arrangement of the plan, and
that artful distribution of the subject, which,
while they prove the master hand of the writer,
seem also to form the taste of the reader, far
more than a disjointed skeleton, or a beautiful
feature or two, can do. The instruction of wo-
men is also too much drawn from the scanty and
penurious sources of short writings of the essay
kind: this, when it comprises the best part of a
person's reading, makes a smatterer and spoils
a scholar; for though it supplies current talk,
yet it does not make a full mind; it does not
furnish a storehouse of materials, to stock the
understanding, neither does it accustom the
mind to any trains of reflection: for the subjects,
besides being each succinctly, and, on account
of this brevity, superficially treated, are distinct
persons will easily be discovered to have read
the best books, though they are not always de-
tailing lists of authors; for a muster-roll of
names may be learnt from the catalogue as well
as from the library.-Though honey owes its
exquisite taste to the fragrance of the sweetest
flowers, yet the skill of the little artificer appears
in this, that the delicious stores are so admira-
bly worked up, and there is such a due propor-
tion observed in mixing them, that the perfection
of the whole consists in its not tasting individu-
ally of the rose, the jessamine, the carnation, or
any of those sweets of the very essence of all
which it is compounded. But true judgment
will discover the infusion which true modesty
will not display; and even common subjects
passing through a cultivated understanding,
A A power of
borrow a flavour of its richness.
apt selection is more valuable than any power
of general retention; and an apposite remark,
which shoots straight to the point, demands a
higher capacity of mind than an hundred simple
acts of memory; for the business of the memory
is only to store up materials which the under-
standing is to mix and work up with its native
* The writer cannot be supposed desirous of depreci-
ating the value of those many beautiful periodical essays
which adorn our language. But, perhaps, it might be
better to regale the mind with them singly, at different
times, than to read, at the same sitting, a multitude of
short pieces on dissimilar and unconnected topics, by
way of getting through the book,
"
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
373
4
faculties, and which the judgment is to bring
out and apply. But young women who have
more vivacity than sense, and more vanity than
vivacity, often risk the charge of absurdity to
escape that of ignorance, and will even compare
two authors who are totally unlike, rather than
miss the occasion to show that they have read
both.
Among the arts to spoil conversation some
ladies possess that of suddenly diverting it from
the channel in which it was beneficially flowing,
because some word used by the person who was
speaking has accidentally struck out a new train
of thinking in their own minds, and not because
the general idea expressed has struck out a cor-
responding idea, which sort of collision is in- |
deed the way of eliciting the true fire. Young
ladies, whose sprightliness has not been disci-
plined by a correct education, consider how
things may be prettily said, rather than how
they may be prudently or seasonably spoken;
and willingly hazard being thought wrong, or
rash, or vain, for the chance of being reckoned
pleasant. The graces of rhetoric captivate them
more than the justest deductions of reason;
when they have no arms they use flowers, and
to repel an argument, they arm themselves with
a metaphor.-Those also who do not aim so
high as eloquence, are often surprised that you
refuse to accept of a prejudice instead of a rea-
son; they are apt to take up with a probability
instead of a demonstration, and cheaply put you
off with an assertion, when you are requiring a
proof. The mode of education which renders
them light in assumption, and superficial in
reasoning, renders them also impatient of oppo-
sition; and if they happen to possess beauty,
and to be vain of it, they may be tempted to
consider that this is an additional proof of their
being always in the right. In this case, they
will not ask you to submit your judgment to the
force of their argument, so much as to the au-
thority of their charms.
pects, in order to form a competent judgment
before they decide; you will often find the most
superficial woman present determine the mat-
ter, without hesitation. Not seeing the per-
plexities in which the question is involved, she
wonders at the want of penetration in the man
whose very penetration keeps him silent. She
secretly despises the dull perception and slow
decision of him who is patiently untying the
knot which she fancies she exhibits more dex-
terity by cutting. By this shallow sprightliness,
of which vanity is commonly the radical princi-
ple, the most ignorant person in the company
leads the conversation, while he whose opinion
is best worth having is discouraged from deli-
vering it, and an important subject is dismissed
without discussion, by inconsequent flippancy
and voluble rashness. It is this abundance of
florid talk, from superficial matter, which has
brought on so many of the sex the charge of in-
verting the Apostle's precept, and being swift to
speak, slow to hear.
If the great Roman orator could observe, that
silence was so important a part of conversation,
that there was not only an art but an eloquence
in it,' how peculiarly does the remark apply to
the modesty of youthful females! But the si-
lence of listless and vapid ignorance, and the
animated silence of sparkling intelligence, are
two things almost as obviously distinct, as the
wisdom and the folly of the tongue. An invio-
lable and marked attention may show that a
woman is pleased with a subject, and an illu-
minated countenance may prove that she under-
stands it almost as unequivocally as language
itself could do; and this, with a modest ques-
tion, which indicates at once rational curiosity
and becoming diffidence, is in many cases as
large a share of the conversation as it is deco-
rous for feminine delicacy to take. It is also
as flattering an encouragement as men of sense
and politeness require, for pursuing useful topics
in the presence of women, which they would be
more disposed to do, did they oftener gain by it
the attention which it is natural to wish to ex-
cite; and did women themselves discover that
desire of improvement which liberal-minded
men are pleased with communicating.
Yet do we not sometimes see an impatience
to be heard (nor is it a feminine failing only)
which good breeding can scarcely subdue? And
even when these incorrigible talkers are com-
pelled to be quiet, is it not evident that they are
not silent because they are listening to what is
said, but because they are thinking of what they
themselves shall say when they can seize the
first lucky interval for which they are so nar-
rowly watching? The very turn of their coun-
tenance betrays that they do not take the slight-
est degree of interest in any thing that is said
by others, except with a view to lie in wait for
any little chasm in the discourse, on which they
may lay hold, and give vent to their own over-
flowing vanity.
The same fault in the mind, strengthened by
the same error (a neglected education) leads
lively women often to pronounce on a question,
without examining it: on any given point they
seldomer doubt than men; not because they are
more clear-sighted, but because they have not
been accustomed to look into a subject long
enough to discover its depths and its intricacies;
and not discerning its difficulties, they conclude
that it has none. Is it a contradiction to say,
that they seem at once to be quick-sighted and
short-sighted? What they see at all, they com-
monly see at once; a little difficulty discourages
them; and, having caught a hasty glimpse of a
subject, they rush to this conclusion, that either
there is no more to be seen, or that what is be-
hind will not pay them for the trouble of search-
ing. They pursue their object eagerly, but not
regularly; rapidly, but not pertinaciously; for
they want that obstinate patience of investiga-
tion which grows stouter by repulse. What
they have not attained, they do not believe ex- But conversation must not be considered as a
ists: what they cannot seize at once, they per-stage for the display of our talents, so much as
suade themselves is not worth having.
a field for the exercise and improvement of our
virtues ; as a means for promoting the glory of
our Creator, and the good and happiness of our
fellow creatures. Well-bred and intelligent
Is a subject of moment started in company?
While the more sagacious are deliberating on
its difficulties, and viewing it under all its as-
"
374
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
|
ter by the brightest wit, or of exciting admira.
tion by the most poignant sallies of ridicule.
Christians are not, when they join in society, to
consider themselves as entering the lists like in-
tellectual prize-fighters, in order to exhibit their Wit is, of all the qualities of the female mind,
own vigour and dexterity, to discomfit their ad- that which requires the severest castigation: yet
versary, and to bear away the palm of victory. the temperate exercise of this fascinating quality
Truth and not triumph should be the invariable throws an additional lustre round the character
object; and there are few occasions in life, in of an amiable woman; for to manage with dis-
which we are more unremittingly called upon creet modesty a dangerous talent, confers a
to watch ourselves narrowly, and to resist the higher praise than can be claimed by those from
assaults of various temptations, than in conver- whom the absence of the talent removes the
sation. Vanity, jealousy, envy, misrepresenta- temptation to misemploy it. To women, wit is
tion, resentment, disdain, levity, impatience, in- a peculiar perilous possession, which nothing
sincerity, and pride, will in turn solicit to be short of the sober-mindedness of religion can
gratified. Constantly to struggle against the keep in subjection; and perhaps there is scarce-
desire of being thought more wise, more witty, ly any one order of human beings that requires
and more knowing, than those with whom we the powerful curb of Christian control more than
associate, demands the incessant exertion of women whose genius has this tendency. In-
Christian vigilance; a vigilance which the ge- temperate wit craves admiration as its natural
nerality are far from suspecting to be at all ne- aliment: it lives on flattery as its daily bread!
cessary in the intercourse of common society. The professed wit is a hungry beggar, subsist-
On the contrary, cheerful conversation is rather ing on the extorted alms of perpetual panegyric;
considered as an exemption and release from and like the vulture in the Grecian fable, the
watchfulness, than as an additional obligation to appetite increases by indulgence. Simple truth
it. But a circumspect soldier of Christ will and sober approbation become tasteless and in-
never be off his post; even when he is not call-sipid to the palate daily vitiated by the delicious
ed to public combat by the open assaults of his
great spiritual enemy, he must still be acting as
a sentinel, for the dangers of an ordinary Chris-
tian will arise more from these little skirmishes
which are daily happening in the warfare of
human life, than from those pitched battles
which more rarely occur, and for which he will
probably think it sufficient to be armed.
poignancies of exaggerated commendation. Un-
der the above restrictions, however, wit may be
safely and pleasantly exercised; for chastised
wit is an elegant and well-bred, and not unfemi-
nine quality. But humour, especially if it de-
generates into imitation, or mimicry, is very
sparingly to be ventured on; for it is so difficult
totally to detach it from the suspicion of buf-
foonery, that a woman will be likely to lose
more of the delicacy which is her appropriate
grace, and without which every other quality
loses its charm, than she will gain in another
way in the eyes of the judicious, by the most
successful display of humour.
A woman of genius, if she have true humility,
will not despise those lesser arts which she may
not happen to possess, even though she be some-
times put to the trial of having her superior
mental endowments overlooked, while she is
held cheap for being destitute of some more or-
dinary accomplishment. Though the rebuke of
Themistocles* was just to one who thought that
so great a general and politician should employ
his time like an effeminate lutinist, yet he would
probably have made a different answer if he had
But society, as was observed before, is not
a stage on which to throw down our gauntlet,
and prove our own prowess by the number of
falls we give to our adversary; so far from it,
true good-breeding as well as Christianity, con-
siders as an indispensable requisite for conver-
sation, the disposition to bring forward to no-
tice any talent in others, which their own mo-
desty, or conscious inferiority, would lead them
to keep back. To do this with effect it requires
a penetration exercised to discern merit, and a
generous candour which delights in drawing it
out. There are few who cannot converse tole-
rably on some
some one topic: what that is, we
should try to discover, and in general introduce
that topic, though to the suppression of any one
on which we ourselves are supposed to excel:
and however superior we may be in other re-happened to understand music.
spects to the persons in question, we may, per-
If it be true that some women are too apt to
haps, in that particular point, improve by them; affeet brilliancy and display in their own dis-
or if we do not gain information, we shall at course, and to undervalue the more humble pre-
least gain a wholesome exercise to our humility tensions of less showy characters; it must be
and self-denial; we shall be restraining our own confessed also, that some of more ordinary abi.
impetuosity; we shall, if we take this course on lities are now and then guilty of the opposite
just occasions only, and so as to beware lest we error and foolishly affect to value themselves on
gratify the vanity of others, be giving confi- not making use of the understanding they real-
dence to a doubting, or cheerfulness to a de-ly possess; and affect to be thought even more
pressed spirit. And to place a just remark, ha-
zarded by the diffident, in the most advantage-
ous point of view; to call the attention of the
inattentive, the forward, and the self-sufficient,
to the unobtrusive merit of some quiet person
in the company, who, though of much worth, is
perhaps of little note; these are requisites for
conversation, less brilliant, but far more valua-
ble, than the power of exciting bursts of laugh-little village a great city.'
silly than they are. They exhibit no small sa-
tisfaction in ridiculing women of high intellec-
tual endowments, while they exclaim, with
much affected humility, and much real envy,
that they are thankful they are not geniuses.
Now, though we are glad to hear gratitude ex-
to Themistocles. No,' replied he, but I can make
*Can you play on the lute ?' said a certain Athenian
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
8-5
"
pressed on any occasion, yet the want of sense
is really no such great mercy to be thankful for;
and it would indicate a better spirit, were they
to pray to be enabled to make a right use of the
moderate understanding they possess, than to
expose with a too visible pleasure, the imaginary
or real defects of their more shining acquaint-
ance. Women of the brightest faculties should
not only bear those faculties meekly,' but
should consider it as no derogation, cheerfully
to fulfil those humbler offices which make up
the business and the duties of common life,
while they should always take into the account
the nobler exertions as well as the higher re-
sponsibilities attached to higher gifts. In the
mean time women of lower attainments should
exert to the utmost such abilities as Providence
has assigned them; and while they should not
deride excellences which are above their reach,
they should not despond at any inferiority which
did not depend on themselves; nor, because God
has denied them ten talents, should they forget
that they are equally responsible for the one he
has allotted them, but set about devoting that
one with humble diligence to the glory of the
giver.
|
C
species of deceit. The Apostle when he enjoins,
not to think of ourselves more highly than we
ought,' does not exhort us to think falsely of our-
selves, but to think soberly;' and it is worth
observing that in this injunction he does not use
the word speak, but think, inferring possibly,
that it would be safer to speak little of ourselves
or not at all; for it is so far from being an un-
equivocal proof of our humility to talk even of
our defects, that while we make self the subject,
in whatever way, self-love contrives to be grati-
fied, and will even be content that our faults
should be talked of, rather than that we should
not be talked of at all. Some are also attacked
with such proud fits of humility, that while
they are ready to accuse themselves, of almost
every sin in the lump, they yet take fire at the
imputation of the slightest individual fault;
and instantly enter upon their own vindication
as warmly as if you, and not themselves, had
brought forward the charge. The truth is, they
ventured to condemn themselves, in the full con-
fidence that you would contradict the self-accu-
sation; the last thing they intended was that
you should believe them, and they are never so
much piqued and disappointed as when they are
taken at their word.
Vanity, however, is not the monopoly of ta-
lents. Let not a young lady, therefore, fancy Of the various shapes and undefined forms
that she is humble, merely because she is not into which vanity branches out in conversation,
ingenious, or consider the absence of talents as there is no end. Out of restless desire to please,
the criterion of worth. Humility is not the ex-grows the vain desire to astonish: for from
clusive privilege of dulness. Folly is as con-
ceited as wit, and ignorance many a time out-
strips knowledge in the race of vanity. Equally
earnest competitions spring from causes less
worthy to excite them than wit and genius.
Vanity insinuates itself into the female heart
under a variety of unsuspected forms, and is on
the watch to enter it by seizing on many a little
pass which was not thought worth guarding.
Who has not seen as restless emotion agitate
the features of an anxious matron, while peace
and fame hung trembling in doubtful suspense
on the success of a soup or sauce, on which sen-
tence was about to be pronounced by some con-
summate critic, as could have been excited by
any competition for literary renown, or any
struggle for contested wit? Anxiety for fame is
by no means measured by the real value of the
object pursued, but by the degree of estimation
in which it is held by the pursuer. Nor was
the illustrious hero of Greece more effectually
hindered from sleeping by the trophies of Mil-
tiades, than many a modish damsel by the
eclipsing superiority of some newer decoration
exhibited by her more successful friend.
There is another species of vanity in some
women which disguises itself under the thin veil
of an affected humility; they will accuse them-
selves of some fault from which they are re-
markably exempt, and lament the want of some
talent which they are rather notorious for pos-
sessing. Now though the wisest are commonly
the most humble, and those who are freest from
faults are most forward in confessing error; yet
the practice we are censuring is not only a
clumsy trap for praise, but a disingenuous inten-
tion, by renouncing a quality they eminently
possess, to gain credit for others in which they
are really deficient. All affectation involves a
vanity, as much as from credulity, arises that
strong love of the marvellous, with which the
conversation of the ill-educated abounds. Hence
that fondness for dealing in narratives hardly
within the compass of possibility. Here vanity
has many shades of gratification; those shades
will be stronger or weaker, whether the relater
chance to have been an eye-witness of the won-
der she records; or whether she claim only the
second-hand renown of its having happened to
her friend, or the still remoter celebrity of its
having been witnessed only by her friend's
friend: but even though that friend only knew
the man, who remembered the woman, who con-
versed with the person, who actually beheld the
thing which is now causing admiration in the
company, still self, though in a fainter degree,
is brought into notice, and the relater contrives
in some circuitous and distant way to be con-
nected with the wonder.
To correct this propensity, 'to elevate and
surprise, it would be well in mixed society to
abstain altogether from hazarding stories, which
though they may not be absolutely false, yet
lying without the verge of probability, are apt
to impeach the credit of the narrator; in whom
the very consciousness that she is not believed,
excites an increased eagerness to depart still
farther from the soberness of truth, and induces
a habit of vehement asseveration, which is too
often called in to help out a questionable point.†
*The Rehearsal.
though it may actually have happened, yet if it be out
†This is also a good rule in composition. An event
of the reach of probability, or contrary to the common
course of nature, will seldom be chosen as a subject by
a writer of good taste; for he knows that a probable
ll interest the feeling more than an unlikely
truth. Verisimilitude is indeed the poet's truth, but the
truth of the moralist is of a more sturdy growth.
'.
376
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Or if the propensity be irresistible, I would re-, breeding to give pain, as it is to true piety to be
commend to those persons who are much addict. profane. It is astonishing that the refined and
ed to relate doubtful, or improbable, or wonder-elegant should not reprobate this practice for its
ful circumstances, to imitate the example of the coarseness and vulgarity, as much as the pious
two great naturalists, Aristotle and Boyle, who abhor it for its sinfulness.
not being willing to discredit their works with
incredible realities threw all their improbabili-
ties into a lump, under the general name of
Strange Reports. May we not suspect that, in
some instances, the chapter of strange reports
would be a bulky one?
There is another shape, and a very deformed
shape it is, in which loquacious vanity shows
itself: I mean the betraying of confidence.
Though the act be treacherous, yet the fault, in
the first instance, is not treachery, but vanity.
It does not so often spring from the mischievous
desire of divulging a secret, as from the pride
of having been trusted with it. It is the secret
inclination of mixing self with whatever is im-
portant. The secret would be of little value, if
the revealing it did not serve to intimate our
connexion with it; the pleasure of its having
been deposited with us would be nothing, if
others may not know that it has been so depo-
sited. When we continue to see the variety of
serious evils which this principle involves, shall
we persist in asserting that vanity is a slender
mischief?
There is one offence committed in conversa-
tion of much too serious a nature to be over-
looked, or to be animadverted on without sorrow
and indignation: I mean, the habitual thought-
less profaneness of those who are repeatedly in-
voking their Maker's name on occasions the
most trivial. It is offensive in all its variety of
aspects;—it is very pernicious in its effects;-
it is a growing evil;-those who are most guilty
of it, are from habit hardly conscious when they
do it; are not aware of the sin; and for both
these reasons without the admonitions of faithful.
friendship, are little likely to discontinue it. It
is utterly INEXCUSABLE;-it has none of the pal-
liatives of temptation which other vices plead,
and in that respect stands distinguished from all
others both in its nature and degree of guilt.-
Like many other sins, however, it is at once
cause and effect: it proceeds from want of love
and reverence to the best of Beings, and causes
the want of that love both in themselves and
others. Yet with all these aggravations, there
is perhaps, hardly any sin so frequently com-
mitted, so slightly censured, so seldom repented
of, and so little guarded against. On the score
of impropriety too, it is additionally offensive, as
to being utterly repugnant to female delicacy,
which often does not see the turpitude of this
sin, while it affects to be shocked at swearing
Now this species of profaneness is
not only swearing, but, perhaps, in some re-
spects, swearing of the worst sort; as it is a
direct breach of an express command, and
offends against the very letter of that law which
says in so many words, THOU SHALT NOT TAKE
THE NAME OF THE LORD THY GOD IN VAIN. It
offends against politeness and good breeding;
for those who commit it, little think of the pain
they are inflicting on the sober mind, which is
deeply wounded when it hears the holy name it
loves dishonoured; and it is as contrary to good
in a man.
I would endeavour to give some faint idea of
the grossness of this offence, by an analogy
(oh! how inadequate !) with which the feeling
heart, even though not seasoned with religion,
may yet be touched. To such I would earnestly
say: Suppose you had some beloved friend-
to put the case still more strongly, a depart-
ed friend-a revered parent, perhaps-whose
image never occurs without awaking in your
bosom sentiments of tender love and lively
gratitude; how would you feel if you heard this
honourable name bandied about with unfeeling
familiarity and indecent levity; or at best, thrust
into every pause of speech as a vulgar expletive?
Does not your affectionate heart recoil at the
thought? And yet the hallowed name of your
truest Benefactor, your heavenly Father, your
best friend, to whom you are indebted for all
you enjoy ; who gives you those very friends in
whom you so much delight, those very talents
with which you dishonour him, those very or-
gans of speech with which you blaspheme him,
is treated with an irreverence, a contempt, a
wantonness, with which you cannot bear the
very thought or mention of treating a human
friend. His name is impiously, is unfeelingly,
is ungratefully singled out as the object of de-
cided irreverence, of systematic contempt, of
thoughtless levity. His sacred name is used
indiscriminately to express anger, joy, grief,
surprise, impatience; and what is almost still
more unpardonable than.all, it is wantonly used
as a mere unmeaning expletive, which, being
excited by no temptation, can have nothing to
extenuate it; which, causing no emotion, can
have nothing to recommend it, unless it be the
pleasure of the sin.
Among the deep, but less obvious mischiefs
of conversation, misrepresentation must not be
overlooked. Self-love is continually at work, to
give to all we say a bias in our own favour.
The counteraction of this fault should be set
about in the earliest stages of education. If
young persons have not been discouraged in the
natural, but evil, propensity to relate every dis-
pute they have had with others to their own ad-
vantage; if they have not been trained to the
bounden duty of doing justice even to those with
whom they are at variance; if they have not
been led to aim at a complete impartiality in
their little narratives, and instructed never to
take advantage of the absence of the other party,
in order to make the story lean to their own
side more than the truth will admit: how shall
we in advanced life look for correct habits, for
unprejudiced representations, for fidelity, accu-
racy, and unbiassed justice?
Yet, how often in society, otherwise respect.
able, are we pained with narrations in which
prejudice warps, and self-love binds! How often
do we see, that withholding part of a truth an-
swers the worst ends of a falsehood! How often
regret the unfair turn given to a cause, by
placing a sentiment in one point of view, which
the speaker had used in another! the letter of
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
377
truth preserved where its spirit is violated! a, indiscretions for which no reparation can be de-
superstitious exactness scrupulously maintained manded. What can be said for those who care-
in the under parts of a detail, in order to impress lessly involve the injured party in consequences
such an idea of integrity as shall gain credit for from which they know themselves exempted,
the misrepresenter, while he is designedly mis-and whose very sense of their own security
taking the leading principle. How may we ob- leads them to be indifferent to the security of
serve a new character given to a fact by a differ- others!
ent look, tone, or emphasis, which alters it as
much as words could have done! the false im-
pression of a sermon conveyed, when we do not
like the preacher, or when through him we wish
to make religion itself ridiculous! the care to
avoid literal untruths, while the mischief is bet-
ter effected by the unfair quotation of a passage
divested of its context; the bringing together
detached portions of a subject, and making those
parts ludicrous, when connected, which were
serious in their distinct position! the insidious
use made of a sentiment by representing it as
the opinion of him who had only brought it for-
ward in order to expose it! the relating opinions
which had merely been put hypothetically, as if
they were the avowed principles of him we would
discredit! that subtle falsehood which is so made
to incorporate with a certain quantity of truth,
that the most skilful moral chemists cannot ana-
lyse or separate them! for a good misrepresenter
knows that a successful lie must have a certain
infusion of truth, or it will not go down. And
this amalgamation is the test of his skill; as too
much truth would defeat the end of his mischief;
and too little would destroy the belief of the
hearer. All that indefinable ambiguity and
equivocation; all that prudent deceit, which is
rather implied than expressed; those more deli-
cate artifices of the school of Loyola and of
Chesterfield, which allow us when we dare not
deny a truth, yet so to disguise and discolour it,
that the truth we relate shall not resemble the
truth we heard! These and all the thousand
shades of simulation and dissimulation will be
carefully guarded against in the conversation of
vigilant Christians.
Again, it is surprising to mark the common
deviations from strict veracity which spring, not
from enmity to truth, not from intentional de-
ceit, not from malevolence or envy, not from the
least design to injure; but from mere levity, ha-
bitual inattention, and a current notion that it
is not worth while to be correct in small things.
But here the doctrine of habits comes in with
great force, and in that view ǹo error is small.
The cure of this disease in its more inveterate
stages being next to impossible, its prevention
ought to be one of the earliest objects of educa-
tion.*
Some women indulge themselves in sharp
raillery, unfeeling wit, and cutting sarcasms,
from the consciousness, it is to be feared, that
they are secure from the danger of being called
to account; this license of speech being encou-
raged by the very circumstance which ought to
suppress it. To be severe, because they can be
so with impunity, is a most ungenerous reason.
It is taking a base and dishonourable advantage
of their sex, the weakness of which, instead of
tempting them to commit offences because they
can commit them with safety, ought rather to
make them more scrupulously careful to avoid
* See the chapter on the use of definitions.
The grievous fault of gross and obvious detrac-
tion which infects conversation, has been so
heavily and so justly condemned by divines and
moralists, that the subject, copious as it is, is
exhausted. But there is an error of an opposite
complexion, which we have before noticed, and
against which the peculiar temper of the times
requires that young ladies of a better cast should
be guarded. From the narrowness of their own
sphere of observation, they are sometimes ad-
dicted to accuse of uncharitableness, that dis-
tinguishing judgment which, resulting from a
sound penetration and a zeal for truth, forbids
persons of a very correct principle to be indis-
criminately prodigal of commendation without
inquiry and without distinction. There is an
affectation of candour, which is almost as mis.
chievous as calumny itself; nay, if it be less in-
jurious in its individual application, it is per-
haps, more alarming in its general principle, as
it lays waste the strong fences which separate
good from evil. They know, as a general prin-
ciple (though they sometimes calumniate) that
calumny is wrong; but they have not been told
that flattery is wrong also; and youth, being apt
to fancy that the direct contrary to wrong must
necessarily be right, are apt to be driven into
violent extremes. The dread of being only sus-
pected of one fault, makes them actually guilty
of the opposite; and to avoid the charge of harsh.
ness or of envy, they plunge into insincerity and
falsehood. In this they are actuated either by
an unsound judgment which does not see what
is right, or an unsound principle which prefers
what is wrong. Some also commend to conceal
envy; and others are compassionate to indulge
superiority.
In this age of high-minded independence when
our youth are apt to set up for themselves, and
every man is too much disposed to be his own
legislator without looking to the established law
of the land as his standard; and to set up for
his own divine, without looking to the revealed
will of God as his rule-by a candour equally
vicious with our vanity, we are also complai-
santly led to give the latitude we take : and it is
become too frequent a practice in our tolerating
young ladies, when speaking.of their more
erring and misled acquaintance, to offer for them
this flimsy vindication, that what they do is
right. if it appear right to them :'-' if they see
the thing in that light, and act up to it with sin-
cerity, they cannot be materially wrong.' But
the standard of truth, justice, and religion, must
neither be elevated nor depressed, in order to
accommodate it to actual circumstances; it must
never be lowered to palliate error, to justify folly,
or to vindicate vice. Good natured young peo-
ple often speak favourably of unworthy, or extra
vagantly of common characters, from one of
these motives; either their own views of excel-
lence are low, or they speak respectfully of the
undeserving, to purchase for themselves the re
*.
Vol. I.
378
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
?
1
in manner as truth is in mind; and could truth
make herself visible, she would appear invested
in simplicity.
Remember also that true Christian good na-
ture is the soul, of which politeness is only the
garb. It is not that artificial quality which is
taken up by many when they go into society, in
order to charm those whom it is not their par-
ticular business to please; and is laid down when
they return home to those to whom to appear
amiable is a real duty. It is not that fascinating
but deceitful softness, which, after having acted
over a hundred scenes of the most lively sympa-
thy and tender interest with every slight ac-
putation of tenderness and generosity; or they,
lavish unsparing praise on almost all alike, in
the usurious hope of buying back universal com-
mendation in return; or in those captivating
characters in which the simple and masculine
language of truth is sacrificed to the jargon of
affected softness; and in which smooth and pli-
ant manners are substituted for intrinsic worth,
the inexperienced are too apt to suppose virtues,
and to forgive vices. But they should carefully
guard against the error of making manner the
criterion of merit, and of giving unlimited cre.
dit to strangers for possessing every perfection,
only because they bring into company the en-
gaging exterior of urbanity and alluring gentle-quaintance; after having exhausted every phrase
ness. They should also remember that it is an
easy, but not an honest way of obtaining the
praise of candour, to get into the soft and popu-
lar habit of saying of all their acquaintance,
when speaking of them, that they are so good!
True Christian candour conceals faults, but it
does not invent virtues. It tenderly forbears to
expose the evil which may belong to a charac-
ter, but it dares not ascribe to it the good which
does not exist. To correct this propensity to
false judgment and insincerity, it would be well
to bear in mind, that while every good action,
come from what source it may, and every good
quality, be it found in whomsoever it will, de-
serves its fair proportion of distinct and willing
commendation; yet no character is GOOD, in the
true sense of the word, which is not REligious.
In fine-to recapitulate what has been said,
with some additional hints :-Study to promote
both intellectual and moral improvement in con-
versation; labour to bring into it a disposition
to bear with others, and to be watchful over
yourself; keep out of sight any prominent ta-
lent of your own, which, if indulged, might dis-
courage or oppress the feeble minded; and try
to bring their modest virtues into notice. If
you know any one present to possess any parti-
cular weakness or infirmity, never exercise your
wit by maliciously inventing occasions which
may lead her to expose or betray it; but give as
favourable a turn as you can to the follies which
appear, and kindly help her to keep the rest out
of sight. Never gratify your own humour, by
hazarding what you suspect may wound any
one present in their persons, connexions, pro-
fessions in life, or religious opinions; and do not
forget to examine whether the laugh your wit
has raised be never bought at this expense.
Give credit to those who, without your kindness,
will get none;'do not talk at any one whom you
dare not talk to, unless from motives in which
the golden rule will bear you out. Seek neither
to shine nor to triumph; and if you seek to
please, take care that it be in order to convert
the influence you may gain by pleasing to the
good of others. Cultivate true politeness, for it
grows out of true principle, and is consistent
with the Gospel of Christ; but avoid those feign-
ed attentions which are not stimulated by good
will, and those stated professions of fondness
which are not dictated by esteem. Remember
that the pleasure of being thought amiable by
strangers may be too dearly purchased, if it be
purchased at the expense of truth and simplici-
ty, remember that simplicity is the first charm
of feeling, for the trivial sicknesses or petty sor-
rows of multitudes who are scarcely known,
leaves it doubtful whether a grain of real feeling
or genuine sympathy be reserved for the dearest
connexions; and which dismisses a woman to
her immediate friends with little affection, and
to her own family with little attachment.
True good-nature, that which alone deserves
the name, is not a holyday ornament, but an
every-day habit. It does not consist in servile
complaisance, or dishonest flattery, or affected
sympathy, or unqualified assent, or unwarranta-
ble compliance, or eternal smiles. Before it can
be allowed to rank with the virtues, it must be
wrought up from a humour into a principle,
from an occasional disposition into a habit. It
must be the result of an equal aud well-governed
mind, not the start of casual gayety, the trick
of designing vanity, or the whim of capricious
fondness. It is compounded of kindness, for-
bearance, forgiveness, and self-denial; it seek-
eth not its own,' but is capable of making con-
tinual sacrifices of its own tastes, humours, and
self-love; yet knows that among the sacrifices
it makes, it must never include its integrity.
Politeness on the one hand, and insensibility on
the other, assume its name, and wear its ho-
nours; but they assume the honours of a tri-
umph, without the merit of a victory; for po-
liteness subdues nothing, and insensibility has
nothing to subdue. Good-nature of the true cast,
and under the foregoing regulations, is above
all price in the common intercourse of domestic
society; for an ordinary quality, which is con-
stantly brought into action by the perpetually
recurring through minute events of daily life, is
of higher value than more brilliant qualities
which are less frequently called into use; as
small pieces of ordinary current coin are of
more importance in the commerce of the world
than the medals of the antiquary. And, indeed,
Christianity has given that new turn to the cha-
racter of all the virtues, that perhaps it is the
best test of the excellence of many that they
have little brilliancy in them.-The Christian
religion has degraded some splendid qualities
from the rank they held, and elevated those
which were obscure into distinction.
CHAP. XVI.
On the danger of an ill-directed Sensibility.
In considering the human mind with a view
.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
379
For young women of affections naturally
warm but not carefully disciplined, are in dan-
ger of incurring an unnatural irritability; and
while their happiness falls a victim to the ex-
cess of uncontrolled feelings, they are liable at
the same time to indulge a vanity of all others
the most preposterous, that of being vain of
their very defect. They have heard sensibility
highly commended, without having heard any
thing of those bounds and fences which were
intended to confine it, and without having been
imbued with that principle which would have
given it a beneficial direction. Conscious that
they possess the quality itself in the extreme,
and not aware that they want all that makes
that quality safe and delightful, they plunge
headlong into those sins and miseries from
which they conceitedly and ignorantly imagine,
that not principle, but coldness, has preserved
the more sober-minded and well-instructed of
their sex.
to its improvement, it is prudent to endeavour | zeal in discharging its duties. But let it be re-
to discover the natural bent of the individual membered likewise, that as there is no quality in
character: and having found it, to direct your the female character which more raises its tone,
force against that side on which the warp lies, so there is none which will be so likely to en-
that you may lessen by counteraction the defect danger the peace, and to expose the virtue of
which you might be promoting, by applying the possessor; none which requires to have its
your aid in a contrary direction. But the mis- luxuriances more carefully watched, and its
fortune is, people who mean better than they wild shoots more closely lopped.
judge are apt to take up a set of general rules,
good perhaps in themselves, and originally
gleaned from experience and observation on the
nature of human things, but not applicable in
all cases. These rules they keep by them as
nostrums of universal efficacy, which they
therefore often bring out for use in cases to
which they do not apply. For to make any re-
medy effectual, it is not enough to know the
medicine, you must study the constitution also;
if there be not a congruity between the two,
you may be injuring one patient by the means
which are requisite to raise and restore another.
In forming the female character it is of im-
portance that those on whom the task devolves
should possess so much penetration as accu-
rately to discern the degree of sensibility, and
so much judgment as to accommodate the treat-
ment to the individual character. By constantly
stimulating and extolling feelings naturally
quick, those feelings will be rendered too acute
and irritable. On the other hand, a calm and
equable temper will become obtuse by the total
want of excitement; the former treatment con-
verts the feelings into a source of error, agita-
tion, and calamity; the latter starves their na-
tive energy, deadens the affections and produces
a cold, dull, selfish spirit; for the human mind
is an instrument which will lose its sweetness
if strained too high, and will be deprived of its
tone and strength if not sufficiently raised.
As it would be foreign to the present design
to expatiate on those criminal excesses which
are some of the sad effects of ungoverned pas-
sion, it is only intended here to hazard a few
remarks on those lighter consequences of it
which consist in the loss of comfort without ruin
of character, and occasion the privation of much
of the happiness of life without involving any
very censurable degree of guilt or discredit. It
may, however, be incidentally remarked, and
let it be carefully remembered, that if no women
have risen so high in the scale of moral excel-
lence as those whose natural warmth has been
conscientiously governed by its true guide, and
directed to its true end; so none have furnished
such deplorable instances of extreme depravity
as those who, through the ignorance or the de-
reliction of principle, have been abandoned by
the excess of this very temper to the violence of
ungoverned passions and uncontrolled inclina-
tions. Perhaps, if we were to inquire into the
remote cause of some of the blackest erimes
which stain the annals of mankind, profligacy,
murder, and especially suicide, we might trace
them back to this original principle, an ungo-
verned sensibility.
It is cruel to chill the precious sensibility of
an ingenuous soul, by treating with supercilious
coldness and unfeeling ridicule every indication
of a warm, tender, disinterested, and enthusi-
astic spirit, as if it exhibited symptoms of a de-
ficiency in understanding or in prudence. How
many are apt to intimate, with a smile of min-
gled pity and contempt, in considering such a
character, that when she knows the world, that
is, in other words, when she shall be grown cun-
ning, selfish, and suspicious, she will be ashamed
of her present glow of honest warmth, and of
her lovely susceptibility of heart. May she
never know the world, if the knowledge of it
must be acquired at such an expense! But to
sensible hearts, every indication of genuine feel-
ing will be dear, for they well know that it is Notwithstanding all the fine theories in prose
this temper which, by the guidance of the Di- and verse to which this topic has given birth, it
vine Spirit, may make her one day become will be found that very exquisite sensibility con-
more enamoured of the beauty of holiness; tributes so little to happiness, and may yet be
which, with the co-operation of principle, and made to contribute so much to usefulness, that
under its direction will render her the lively it may perhaps be generally considered as be-
agent of Providence in diminishing the miserystowed for an exercise to the possessor's own
that is in the world; into which misery this
temper will give her a quicker intuition than
colder characters possess. It is this temper
which, when it is touched and purified by a
live coal from the altar,'* will give her a keener
taste for the spirit of religion, and a quicker
* Isaiah, vi. 6.
virtue, and at the same time, as a keen instru-
ment with which he may better work for the
good of others.
Women of this cast of mind are less careful
to avoid the charge of unbounded extremes, than
to escape at all events the imputation of insen-
sibility. They are little alarmed at the danger
of exceeding, though terrified at the suspicion
1
380
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
of coming short, of what they take to be the ex-
treme point of feeling. They will even resolve
to prove the warmth of their sensibility, though
at the expense of their judgment, and some-
times also of their justice. Even when they
earnestly desire to be and to do good, they are
apt to employ the wrong instrument to accom-
plish the right end. They employ the passions
to do the work of the judgment; forgetting, or
not knowing, that the passions were not given
us to be used in the search and discovery of
truth, which is the office of a cooler and more
discriminating faculty; but to animate us to
warmer zeal in the pursuit and practice of truth,
when the judgment shall have pointed out what
is truth.
obsequious qualities are the 'soft green,'* on
which the soul loves to repose itself.-But it is
not a refreshing or a wholesome repose; we
should not select, for the sake of present ease, a
soothing flatterer, who will lull us into a pleas-
ing oblivion of our failings, but a friend who,
valuing our soul's health above our immediate
comfort, will rouse us from torpid indulgence,
to animation, vigilance, and virtue.
An ill-directed sensibility also leads a woman
to be injudicious and eccentric in her charities;
she will be in danger of proportioning her bounty
to the immediate effect which the distressed ob-
ject produces on her senses; and will therefore
be more liberal to a small distress presenting
itself to her own eyes, than to the more pressing
wants and better claims of those miseries of
which she only hears the relation. There is a
sort of stage effect which some people require
for their charities; and such a character as we
are considering, will be apt also to desire, that
the object of her compassion shall have some-
thing interesting and amiable in it, such as
shall furnish pleasing images and lively pic-
Through this natural warmth, which they
have been justly told is so pleasing, but which
perhaps, they have not been told will be conti-
nually exposing them to peril and to suffering,
their joys and sorrows are excessive. Of this
extreme irritability, as was before remarked,
the ill-educated learn to boast as if it were a de-
cided indication of superiority of soul, instead
of labouring to restrain it as the excess of a tem-tures to her imagination, that in her charities
per which ceases to be amiable when it is no
longer under the control of the governing facul-
ty. It is misfortune enough to be born more
liable to suffer and to sin, from this conformation
of mind, it is too much to nourish the evil by
unrestrained indulgence; it is still worse to be
proud of so misleading a quality.
Flippancy, impetuosity, resentment, and vio-
lence of spirit, grow out of this disposition, which
will be rather promoted than corrected, by the
system of education, on which we have been
animadverting; in which system emotions are
too early and too much excited, and tastes and
feelings are considered as too exclusively mak-
ing up the whole of the female character; in
which the judgment is little exercised, the rea-
soning powers are seldom brought into action,
and self-knowledge and self-denial scarcely in-
cluded.
as well as in every thing else, and engaging
subjects for description; forgetting she is to be
a 'follower of Him who pleased not himself:"
forgetting that the most coarse and disgusting
object may be as 'much the representative of
Him, who said, 'Inasmuch as ye do it to one
of the least of these ye do it unto me,' as the
most interesting. Nay, the more uninviting
and repulsive cases may be better tests of the
principle on which we relieve, than those which
abound in pathos and interest, as we can have
less suspicion of our motive in the latter case
than in the former. But while we ought to ne-
glect neither of these supposed cases, yet the
less our feelings are caught by pleasing circum-
stances, the less will be the danger of our in-
dulging self-complacency, and the more likely
shall we be to do what we do for the sake of
Him who has taught us, that no deeds but what
are performed on that principle 'shall be recom-
pensed at the resurrection of the just.'
But through the want of that governing prin-
ciple which should direct her sensibility, a ten-
der-hearted woman, whose hand, if she be actu-
ally surrounded with scenes and circumstances
to call it into action, is
The propensity of mind which we are consi-
dering, if unchecked, lays its possessors open to
unjust prepossessions, and exposes them to all
the danger of unfounded attachments. In early
youth, not only love at first sight, but also friend-
ship of the same instantaneous growth, springs
up from an ill-directed sensibility, and in after-
life, women under the powerful influence of this
Open as day to melting charity;
temper, conscious that they have much to be
borne with, are too readily inclined to select for nevertheless may utterly fail in the great and
their confidential connexions, flexible and flat- comprehensive duty of Christian love, for she
tering companions, who will indulge and per- has feelings which are acted upon solely by lo-
haps admire her faults, rather than firm and ho- cal circumstances and present events. Only re-
nest friends, who will reprove and would assist move her into another scene, distant from the
in curing them. We may adopt it as a general wants she has been relieving; place her in the
maxim, that an obliging, weak, yielding, com- lap of indulgence, so entrenched with ease and
plaisant friend, full of small attentions, with lit-pleasure, so immersed in the softness of life,
tle religion, little judgment, and much natural that distress no longer finds any access to her
acquiescence and civility, is a most dangerous, presence, but through the faint and dull medium
though generally a too much desired confidante: of a distant representation; remove her from the
she soothes the indolence, and gratifies the va-sight and sound of that misery, which, when
nity of her friend, by reconciling her to her
faults, while she neither keeps the understand
ing nor the virtues of that friend in exercise;
but withholds from her every useful truth, which
by opening her eyes might give her pain. These
present, so tenderly affected her-she now for.
gets that misery exists; as she hears but little,
and sees nothing of want and sorrow, she is
* Burke's 'Sublime and Beautiful.”
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
381
admiration and attachment; but by a kind of
unconscious idolatry, they rather make a merit
of loving supremely things and persons which
ought to be loved with moderation and in a sub-
ordinate degree the one to the other. Unfor-
ready to fancy that the world is grown happier
than it was: in the meantime, with a quiet con-
science and a thoughtless vanity, she has been
lavishing on superfluities that money, which she
would cheerfully have given to a charitable case,
had she not forgotten that any such were in ex-tunately, they consider moderation as so neces-
istence, because pleasure had blocked up the sarily indicating a cold heart, and narrow soul,
avenues through which misery used to find its and they look upon a state of indifference with
way to her heart; and now, when again such a so much horror, that either to love or hate with
case enforces itself into her presence, she la-energy is supposed by them to proceed from a
ments with real sincerity that the money is gone higher state of mind than is possessed by more
which should have relieved it.
steady and equable characters. Whereas it is
in fact the criterion of a warm but well-directed
sensibility, that while it is capable of loving with
energy, it must be enabled, by the judgment
which governs it, to suit and adjust its degree of
interest to the nature and excellence of the ob-
ject about which it is interested; for unreason-
able prepossession, disproportionate attachment,
and capricious or precarious fondness, is not
sensibility.
In the mean time, perhaps, other women of
less natural sympathy, but whose sympathies
are under better regulation, or who act from a
principle which requires little stimulus, have,
by an habitual course of self-denial, by a con-
stant determination to refuse themselves un-
necessary indulgences, and by guarding against
that dissolving PLEASURE which melts down the
firmest virtue that allows itself to bask in its
beams, have been quietly furnishing a regular
provision for miseries, which their knowledge
of the state of the world teaches them are every
where to be found, and which their obedience
to the will of God tells them it is their duty both
to find out and relieve; a general expectation of
being liable to be called upon for acts of charity,
will lead the conscientiously charitable always
to be prepared.
thoroughly acquainted with to take our opinion
of ourselves from what we hear from others.
Excessive but unintentional flattery is another
fault into which a strong sensibility is in danger
of leading its possessor. A tender heart and a
warm imagination conspire to throw a sort
of radiance round the object of their love, till
they are dazzled by a brightness of their own
creating. The worldly and fashionable borrow
the warm language of sensibility without having
the really warm feeling; and young ladies get
On such a mind as we have been describing, such a habit of saying, and especially of writing
Novelty also will operate with peculiar force, and such over-obliging and flattering things to each
in nothing more than in the article of charity. other, that this mutual politeness, aided by the
Old established institutions, whose continued ex- self-love so natural to us all, and by an unwilling-
istence must depend on the continued bounty of ness to search into our own hearts, keeps up the
that affluence to which they owed their origin, illusion, and we acquire a habit of taking our
will be sometimes neglected, as presenting no character from the good we hear of ourselves,
variety to the imagination, as having by their which others assume, but do not very well
uniformity ceased to be interesting; there is know, rather than from the evil we feel in our-
now a total failure of those springs of more ser-selves, and which we therefore ought to be too
sitive feeling which set the charity a-going, and
those sudden emotions of tenderness and gusts
of pity, which once were felt, must now be ex- Ungoverned sensibility is apt to give a wrong
cited by newer forms of distress. As age comes direction to its anxieties; and its affection often
on, that charity which has been the effect of falls short of the true end of friendship. If the
mere feeling, grows cold and rigid: this hard- object of its regard happen to be sick, what
ness is also increased by the frequent disap-inquiries! what prescription! what an accumu-
pointments charity has experienced in its too
high expectations of the gratitude and subse-
quent merit of those it has relieved; and by
withdrawing its bounty, because some of its ob-
jects have been undeserving, it gives clear proof
that what it bestowed was for its own gratifica-
tion; and now finding that self-complacency at
an end, it bestows no longer. Probably too the
cause of so much disappointment may have
been, that ill choice of the objects to which feel-
ing, rather than a discriminating judgment, has
led. The summer showers of mere sensibility
soon dry up, while the living spring of Christian
charity flows alike in all seasons.
The impatience, levity, and fickleness, of
which women have been somewhat too gene-
rally accused, are perhaps in no small degree
aggravated by the littleness and frivolousness
of female pursuits. The sort of education they
commonly receive, teaches girls to set a great
price on small things.-Besides this, they do not
always learn to keep a very correct scale of de-
grees for rating the value of the objects of their
lation is made of cases in which the remedy its
fondness suggests has been successful! What
an unaffected tenderness for the perishing body!
Yet is this sensibility equally alive to the im-
mortal interests of the sufferer ? Is it not silent
and at ease when it contemplates the dearest
friend persisting in opinions essentially dan-
gerous; in practices unquestionably wrong?
Does it not view all this, not only without a
generous ardour to point out the peril, and rescue
the friend; but if that friend be supposed to be
dying, does it not even make it the criterion of
kindness to let her die, undeceived as to her true
state? What a want of real sensibility, to feel
for the pain but not for the danger of those we
love? Now see what sort of sensibility the
Bible teaches? Thou shalt not hate thy brother
in thine heart, but thou shalt in any wise rebuke
him, and shalt not suffer sin upon him.'*
let that tenderness which shrinks from the idea
of exposing what it loves to a momentary pang,
* Leviticus, xix. 17,
But
•
382
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
*
figure to itself the bare possibibility, that the
object of its own fond affection may not be the
object of Divine favour! Let it shrink from the
hare conjecture, that 'the familiar friend with
whom it has taken sweet counsel,' is going
down to the gates of death, unrepenting, unpre-
pared and yet unwarned!
But mere human sensibility goes a shorter
way to work. Not being able to give its friend
the pain of hearing her faults or of knowing her
danger, it works itself up into the quieting de-
lusion that no danger exists, at least not for the
objects of its own affection; it gratifies itself by
inventing a salvation so comprehensive as shall
take in all itself loves with all their faults; it
creates to its own fond heart an ideal and exag-
gerated divine mercy, which shall pardon and
receive all in whom this blind sensibility has
an interest, whether they be good or whether
they be evil.
In regard to its application to religious pur-
poses, it is a test that sensibility has received
its true direction when it is supremely turned
to the love of God: for to possess an overflowing
fondness for our fellow-creatures and fellow-
sinners, and to be cold and insensible to the
essence of goodness and perfection, is an incon-
sistency to which the feeling heart is awfully
liable. God has himself the first claim to the
sensibility he bestowed. 'He first loved us:'
this is a natural cause of love. He loved us
while we were sinners:' this is a supernatural
cause. He continues to love us though we ne-
glect his favours and slight his mercies: this
would wear out any earthly kindness. He
forgives us, not petty neglects, not occasional
slights, but grievous sins, repeated offences,
broken vows, and unrequited love. What hu-
man friendship performs offices so calculated to
touch the soul of sensibility?
Those young women in whom feeling is in-
dulged to the exclusion of reason and examina-
tion, are peculiarly liable to be the dupes of preju-
dice, rash decisions, and false judgment. The
understanding having but little power over the
will, their affections are not well poised, and
their minds are kept in a state ready to be acted
upon by the fluctuations of alternate impulses ;
by sudden and varying impressions; by casual
and contradictory circumstances; and by emo-
tions excited by every accident. Instead of
being guided by the broad views of general
truth, instead of having one fixed principle, they
are driven on by the impetuosity of the moment.
And this impetuosity blinds the judgment as
much as it misleads the conduct; so that for
want of a habit of cool investigation and inquiry,
they meet every event without any previously
formed opinion or settled rule of action. And
as they do not accustom themselves to appre-
ciate the real value of things, their attention is
as likely to be led away by the under parts of a
subject, as to seize on the leading feature. The
same eagerness of mind which hinders the ope-
ration of the discriminating faculty leads also to
the error of determining on the rectitude of an
action by its success, and to that of making the
event of an undertaking decide on its justice
or propriety: it also leads to that superficial and
erroneous way of judging which fastens on ex-
ceptions, if they make in our own favour, as
grounds of reasoning, while they lead us to over-
look received and general rules which tend to
establish a doctrine contrary to our wishes.
Open-hearted, indiscreet girls, often pick up
a few strong notions, which are as false in them.
selves as they are popular among the class in
question: such as that warm friends must make
warm enemies;'-that the generous love and
hate with all their heart;' that 'a reformed rake
makes the best husband;'-that there is no
medium in marriage, but that it is a state of
exquisite happiness or exquisite misery;' with
many other doctrines of equal currency and
equal soundness! These they consider as axioms,
and adopt them as rules of life. From the two
first of these oracular sayings, girls are in no
small danger of becoming unjust through the
very warmth of their hearts: for they will ac-
quire a habit of making their estimate of the
good or ill quality of others merely in propor-
tion to the greater or less degree of kindness
which they themselves have received from them.
Their estimation of general character is thus
formed on insulated and partial grounds; on the
accidental circumstance of personal predilection
or personal pique. Kindness to themselves or
their friends involves all possible excellence;
neglect, all imaginable defects. Friendship and
gratitude can and should go a great way; but as
they cannot convert vice into virtue, so they
ought never to convert truth into falsehood.
And it may be the more necessary to be upon
our guard in this instance, because the very
idea of gratitude may mislead us, by converting
injustice into the semblance of a virtue.
expressions should therefore be limited to the con-
veying a sense of our own individual obligations
which are real, rather than employed to give an
impression of general excellence in the person
who has obliged us, which may be imaginary.
A good man is still good, though it may not have
fallen in his way to oblige or serve us, nay,
though he may have neglected, or even unin-
tentionally hurt us: and sin is still sin, though
committed by the person in the world to whom
we are the most obliged, and whom we best love.
Warm
There is danger lest our excessive commen-
dation of our friends, merely as such, may be
derived from vanity as well as gratitude. While
we only appear to be triumphing in the virtues
of our friend, we may be guilty of self-com-
placency; the person so excellent is the person
who distinguishes us, and we are too apt to in-
sert into the general eulogium the distinction
we ourselves have received from him who is
himself so much distinguished by others.
With respect to that fatal and most indelicate,
nay gross maxim, that a 'reformed rake makes
the best husband,' (an aphorism to which the
principles and happiness of so many young wo-
men have been sacrificed)-it goes upon the
preposterous supposition, not only that effects do
not follow causes, but that they oppose them;
on the supposition, that habitual vice creates
rectitude of character, and that sin produces
happiness: thus flatly contradicting what the
moral government of God uniformly exhibits in
the course of human events; and what revela.
tion so evidently and universally teaches.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
383
+
For it should be observed that the reformation
is generally, if not always supposed to be brought
about by the all-conquering force of female
charms. Let but a profligate young man have a
point to carry by winning the affections of a vain
and thoughtless girl; he will begin his attack
upon her heart by undermining her religious
principles, and artfully removing every impedi-
ment which might have obstructed her receiving
the addresses of a man without character. And
while he will lead her not to hear without ridi-
cule the mention of that change of heart which
Scripture teaches and experience proves, that
the power of Divine grace can work on a vicious
character; while he will teach her to sneer at a
change which he would treat with contempt, be-
cause he denies the possibility of so strange and
miraculous a conversion; yet he will not scru-
ple to swear that the power of her beauty has
worked a revolution in his own loose practices
which is equally complete and instantaneous.
But supposing his reformation to be genuine,
it would even then by no means involve the
truth of her proposition, that past libertinism in-
sures future felicity; yet many a weak girl,
confirmed in this palatable doctrine by examples
she has frequently admired of those surprising
reformations so conveniently effected in the last
scene of most of our comedies, has not scrupled
to risk her earthly and eternal happiness with a
man, who is not ashamed to ascribe to the in-
fluence of her beauty that power of changing
the heart which he impiously denies to Omni-
potence itself.
birds to render the grove delightful, yet we never
think of following them as guides to conduct us
through its labyrinths.
Those women in whom the natural defects of
a warm temper have been strengthened by an
education which fosters their faults, are very
dexterous in availing themselves of a hint, when
it favours a ruling inclination, sooths vanity, in-
dulges indolence, or gratifies their love of power.
They have heard so often from their favourite
sentimental authors, and their more flattering
male friends, 'that when nature denied them
strength, she gave them fascinating graces in
compensation; that their strength consists in
their weakness;' and that they are endowed
with arts of persuasion which supply the absence
of force, and the place of reason;' that they may
learn, in time, to pride themselves on that very
weakness, and to become vain of their imperfec-
tions; till at length they begin to claim for their
defects not only pardon, but admiration. Hence
they acquire a habit of cherishing a species of
feeling which, if not checked, terminates in ex-
cessive selfishness; they learn to produce their
inability to bear contradiction as a proof of their
tenderness; and to indulge in that sort of irrita-
bility in all that relates to themselves, which in-
evitably leads to the utter exclusion of all interest
in the sufferings of others. Instead of exercising
their sensibility in the wholesome duty of re-
lieving distress and visiting scenes of sorrow
that sensibility itself is pleaded as a reason for
their not being able to endure sights of wo, and
for shunning the distress it should be exerted in
removing. That exquisite sense of feeling which
God implanted in the heart as a stimulus to
quicken us in relieving the miseries of others, is
thus introverted, and learns to consider self not
as the agent, but the object of compassion. Ten-
derness is made an excuse for being hard-heart-
ed; and instead of drying the weeping eyes of
others, this false delicacy reserves its selfish and
ready tears for the more elegant and less expen.
sive sorrows of the melting novel, or the pathetic
tragedy.
As to the last of these practical aphorisms,
that there is no medium in marriage, but that
it is a state of exquisite happiness or exquisite
misery; this, though not equally sinful, is equal-
ly delusive; for marriage is only one modifica-
tion of human life, and human life is not com-
monly in itself a state of exquisite extremes;
but is for the most part that mixed and mode-
rate statë, so naturally dreaded by those who set
out with fancying this world a state of rapture;
and so naturally expected by those who know it
to be a state of probation and discipline. Mar- When feeling stimulates only to self-indul-
riage, therefore, is only one condition, and often gence; when the more exquisite affections of
the best condition, of that imperfect state of be- sympathy and pity evaporate in sentiment, in-
ing which, though seldom very exquisite, is often stead of flowing out in active charity, and afford-
very tolerable; and which may yield much com- ing assistance, protection, or consolation to every
fort to those who do not look for constant trans-species of distress within its reach, it is an evi-
port. But unfortunately, those who find them-dence that the feeling is of a spurious kind; and
selves disappointed of the unceasing raptures instead of being nourished as an amiable tender-
they had anticipated in marriage disdaining to ness, it should be subdued as a fond and base
sit down with so poor a provision as comfort, self-love.
and scorning the acceptance of that moderate That idleness, to whose cruel inroads many
lot which Providence commonly bestows with a women of fortune are unhappily exposed, from
view to check despondency and to repress pre- not having been trained to consider wholesome
sumption, give themselves up to the other alter-occupation, vigorous exertion, and systematic
native; and, by abandoning their hearts to dis-employment, as making part of the indispensable
content, make to themselves that misery with
which their fervid imagination had filled the op-
posite scale.
The truth is, these young ladies are very apt
to pick up their opinions, less from the divines
than the poets; and the poets, though it must be
confessed they are some of the best embellishers
of life, are not quite the safest conductors through
it. In travelling through a wilderness, though
we avail ourselves of the harmony of singing
duties and pleasures of life, lays them open to a
thousand evils of this kind, from which the use.
ful and the busy are exempted; and, perhaps, it
would not be easy to find a more pitiable object
than a woman with a great deal of time, and a
great deal of money on her hands, who, never
having been taught the conscientious use of
either squanders both at random, or rather moul-
ders both away, without plan, without principle,
and without pleasure: all whose projects begin.
?
384
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
and terminate in self; who considers the rest of
the world only as they may be subservient to
her gratification; and to whom it never occurred,
that both her time and money were given for the
gratification and good of others.
Every animal is endowed by Providence with
the peculiar powers adapted to its nature and
its wants; while none, except the human, by
grafting art on natural sagacity, injures or mars
the gift. Spoilt women, who fancy there is
something more picquant and alluring in the
mutable graces of caprice, than in the monoto-
nous smoothness of an even temper; and who
also having heard much, as was observed be-
fore, about their 'amiable weakness,' learn to
look about them for the best succedaneum to
strength, the supposed absence of which, they
sometimes endeavour to supply by artifice. By
this engine the weakest woman frequently fur
French minister, who, when he was accused of
governing the mind of that feeble queen, Mary
de Medicis, by sorcery, replied, that the only
sorcery he had used, was that influence which
strong minds naturally have over weak ones.'
It is not much to the credit of the other sex,
that they now and then lend themselves to the
indulgence of this selfish spirit in their wives,
and cherish by a kind of false fondness those
faults which should be combatted by good sense
and a reasonable counteraction; slothfully pre-
ferring a little false peace, the purchase of pre-
carious quiet, and the popular reputation of good
nature, to the higher duty of forming the mind,
fixing the principles, and strengthening the cha-nishes the converse to the famous reply of the
racter of her with whom they are connected.
Perhaps too, a little vanity in the husband helps
out his good nature; he secretly rewards him-
self for his sacrifice by the consciousness of his
superiority; he feels a self-complacency in his
patient condescension to her weakness, which
tacitly flatters his own strength: and he is, as
it were, paid for stooping, by the increased sense
of his own tallness. Seeing also, perhaps, but
little of other women, he is taught to believe that
they are all pretty much alike, and that, as a
man of sense, he must content himself with what
he takes to be the common lot. Whereas, in
truth, by his misplaced indulgence, he has ra-
ther made his own lot than drawn it; and thus,
through an indolent despair in the husband of
being able to effect any amendment by opposi-
tion, and through the want of that sound affection
which labours to improve and exalt the character
of its object; it happens, that many a helpless,
fretful, and daudling wife acquires a more pow-
erful ascendancy than the most discreet and
amiable woman; and that the most absolute fe-
male tyranny is established by these sickly and
capricious humours.
The poets again, who, to do them justice, are
always ready to lend a helping hand when any
mischief is to be done, have contributed their
full share towards confirming these feminine
follies: they have strengthened by adulatory
maxims, sung in seducing strains, those faults
which their talents and their influence should
have been employed in correcting. By fair and
youthful females, an argument, drawn from
sound experience and real life, is commonly re-
pelled by a stanza or a sonnet; and a couplet is
considered as nearly of the same validity with
a text. When ladies are complimented with
being
Fine by defect, and delicately weak
But though it be fair so to study the tempers,
defects, and weaknesses of others, as to convert
our knowledge of them to the promotion of their
benefit and our own; and though it be making
a lawful use of our penetration to avail ourselves
of the faults of others for their good to edifica-
tion; yet all deviations from the straight line
of truth and simplicity; every plot insidiously
to turn influence to unfair account; all contri-
vances to extort from a bribed complaisance
what reason and justice would refuse to our
wishes; these are some of the operations of that
lowest and most despicable engine, selfish cun-
ning, by which little minds sometimes govern
great ones.
-
And, unfortunately, women from their natural
desire to please, and from their sometimes doubt-
ing by what means this grand end may be best
effected, are in more danger of being led into
dissimulation than men; for dissimulation is
the result of weakness; it is the refuge of doubt
and distrust, rather than of conscious strength,
the dangers of which lie another way. Frank-
ness, truth, and simplicity, therefore, as they
are inexpressibly charming, so are they pecu-
liarly commendable in women; and nobly evince
that while the possessors of them wish to please
(and why should they not wish it?) they dis-
dain to have recourse to any thing but what is
fair, and just, and honourable to effect it; that
they scorn to attain the most desired end by any
but the most lawful means. The beauty of
simplicity is indeed so intimately felt and gene-
rally acknowledged by all who have a true taste
for personal, moral, or intellectual beauty, that
women of the deepest dissimulation often find
their account in assuming an exterior the most
foreign to their character, and exhibiting the
most engaging naivete. It is curious to see how
much art they put in practice in order to appear
is not a standard of feebleness held out to them,
to which vanity will gladly resort, and to which
softness and indolence can easily act up, or ra-
ther act down, if I may be allowed the expres-natural; and the deep design which is set at
sion?
work to display simplicity. And, indeed, this
feigned simplicity is the most mischievous, be-
cause the most engaging of all the Proteus forms
which artifice can put on. For the most free
and bold sentiments have been sometimes ha-
zarded with fatal success under this unsuspect-
When ladies are told by the same misleading,
but to them, high authority, that 'smiles and
tears are the irresistible arms with which nature
has furnished the weak for conquering the
strong,' will they not eagerly fly to this cheap
and ready artillery, instead of labouring to fur-ed mask. And an innocent, quiet, indolent, art-
nish themselves with a reasonable mind, an equa-
ble temper, and a meek and quiet spirit ?
less manner, has been adopted as the most re-
fined and unsuccessful accompaniment of senti
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
385
ments, ideas, and designs, neither artless, quiet, great, since the transformation of man and wo-
nor innocent.
CHAP. XVII.
On dissipation, and the modern habits of fashion
able life.
PERHAPS the interests of true friendship, ele-
gant conversation, mental improvement, social
pleasure, maternal duty, and conjugal comfort,
never received such a blow as when Fashion
issued out that arbitrary and universal decree,
that every body must be acquainted with every
body; together with that consequent, authori-
tative, but rather inconvenient clause that every
body must also go every where every night. The
implicit and devout obedience paid to this law,
is incompatible with the very being of friend-
ship; for as the circle of acquaintance expands,
and it will be continually expanding, the affec.
tions will be beaten out into such thin lamina,
as to leave little solidity remaining. The heart
which is continually exhausting itself in profes-
sions, grows cold and hard. The feelings of
kindness diminish in proportion as the expres.
sion of it becomes more diffuse and indiscrimi
nate. The very traces of simplicity and Godly
sincerity,' in a delicate female, wear away im-
perceptibly by constant collision with the world
at large. And perhaps no woman takes so little
interest in the happiness of her real friends, as
she whose affections are incessantly evaporat-
ing in universal civilities; as she who is saying
fond and flattering things at random, to a circle
of five hundred people every night.
The decline and fall of animated and instruc-
tive conversation, has been in a good measure
effected by this barbarous project of assembling
en masse. An excellent prelate,* with whose
friendship the author was long honoured, and
who himself excelled in the art of conversation,
used to remark, that a few years had brought
about a great revolution in the manners of so-
ciety; that it used to be the custom, previously
to going into company, to think that something
was to be communicated or received, taught or
learnt; that the powers of the understanding
were expected to he brought into exercise, and
that it was therefore necessary to quicken the
mind, by reading and thinking, for the share
the individual might be expected to take in the
general discourse; but that now, knowledge and
taste, and wit, and erudition, seemed to be
scarcely considered as necessary materials to
be brought into the pleasurable commerce of the
world; because now there was little chance of
turning them to much account; and therefore,
he who possessed them, and he who possessed
them not, were nearly on a footing.
It is obvious also that multitudinous assem-
blies are so little favourable to that cheerfulness
which it should seem to be their very end to
promote, that if there were any chemical pro-
cess by which the quantum of spirits, animal or
intellectual, could be ascertained, the diminu-
tion would be found to have been inconceivably
VOL. I.
*The late Bishop Horne.
B 2
|
man from a social to a gregarious animal.
But if it be true that friendship, society, and
cheerfulness, have sustained so much injury by
this change of manners, how much more point-
edly does the remark apply to family happiness.
manners, and the mutability of language, could
Notwithstanding the known fluctuation of
it be foreseen when the apostle Paul exhorted
married women to be keepers at home,' that
the time would arrive when that very phrase
would be selected to designate one of the most
decided acts of dissipation? Could it be foreseen
that when a fine lady should send out a notifi-
cation that on such a night she shall be AT HOME,
these two significant words (besides imitating
the rarity of the thing) would present to the
mind an image the most undomestic which lan-
guage can convey? Could it be anticipated that
the event of one lady's being at home could only
be effected by the universal concurrence of all
her acquaintance to be abroad? That so simple
an act should require such complicated co-ope-
ration? And that the report that one person
would be found in her own house, should ope-
rate with such an electric force as to empty the
houses of all her friends?
My country readers, who may require to have
it explained that these two magnetic words at
home, now possess the powerful influence of
drawing together every thing fine within the
sphere of their attraction, may need also to he
apprized, that the guests afterwards are not ask-
ed what was said by the company, but whether
the crowd was prodigious; the rule for deciding
on the merit of a fashionable society, not being
by the taste or the spirit, but by the score and
the hundred. The question of pleasure, like a
parliamentary question, is now carried by num
bers. And when two parties modish, like two
parties political, are run one against another on
the same night, the same kind of mortification
attends the leader of a defeated minority, the
same triumph attends the exulting carrier of
superior nambers, in the one case as in the other.
The scale of enjoyment is rated by the measure
of fatigue, and the quantity of inconvenience
furnishes the standard of gratification: the
smallness of the dimensions to which each per-
son is limited on account of the multitudes
which must divide among them a certain given
space, adds to the sum total of general delight;
the aggregate of pleasure is produced by the
proportion of individual suffering; and not till
every guest feels herself in the state of a cat in
an exhausted receiver, does the delighted host-
ess attain the consummation of that renown
which is derived from such overflowing roonis
as shall throw all her competitors at a disgrace.
ful distance.
An eminent divine has said, that either 'per-
severance in prayer will make a man leave off
sinning, or a continuance in sin will make him
leave off prayer.' This remark may be accom-
modated to those ladies who, while they are de-
voted to the enjoyments of the world, yet retain
considerable solicitude for the instruction of
their daughters. But if they are really in earnest
to give them a christian education, they must
themselves renounce a dissipated life. Or if
386
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
4
they resolve to pursue the chase of pleasure, they |
must renounce this prime duty. Contraries can-
not unite. The moral nurture of a tall daughter
can no more be administered by a mother whose
time is absorbed by crowds abroad, than the
physical nurture of her infant offspring can be
supplied by her in a perpetual absence from
home. And is not that a preposterous affection,
which, after leading a mother to devote a few
months to the inferior duty of furnishing ali-
ment to the mere animal life, allows her to de-
sert her post when the more important moral
and intellectual cravings require sustenance?
This great object is not to be effected with the
shreds and parings rounded off from the circle
of a dissipated life; but in order to its adequate
execution, the mother should carry it on with
the same spirit and perseverance at home, which
the father thinks it necessary to be exerting
abroad in his public duty or professional en-
gagement.
The usual vindication (and in theory it has a
plausible sound) which has been offered for the
large portion of time spent by women in ac-
quiring ornamental talents is, that they are cal-
culated to make the possessor love home, and
that they innocently fill up the hours of leisure.
The plea has indeed so promising an appear-
ance, that it is worth inquiring whether it be in
fact true. Do we then, on fairly pursuing the
inquiry, discover that those who have spent most
time in such light acquisitions, are really re-
markable for loving home, or staying quietly
there? or that when there, they are sedulous in
turning time to the best account? I speak not
of that rational and respectable class of women,
who, applying (as many of them do) these ele.
gant talents to their true purpose, employ them
to fill up the vacancies of better occupations,
and to embellish the leisure of a life actively
good. But do we generally see that even the
most valuable and sober part of the reigning fe-
male acquisitions leads their possessor to scenes
most favourable to the enjoyment of them? to
scenes which we should naturally suppose she
would seek, in order to the more effectual culti-
vation of such rational pleasures? To learn to
endure, to enjoy, and to adorn solitude, seems
to be one great end for bestowing accomplish-
ments, instead of making them the motive for
hurrying those who have acquired them into
crowds, in order for their most effectual dis-
play.
Would not those delightful pursuits, botany
and drawing, for instance, seem likely to court
the fields, the woods, and gardens of the pater-
nal seat, as more congenial to their nature, and
more appropriate to their exercise, than barren |
watering places, destitute of a tree, or an herb,
or a flower, and not affording an hour's interval
from successive pleasures, to profit by the scene,
even it abounded with the whole vegetable world,
from the cedar of Lebanon to the hyssop on
the wall.'
|
ease, into the resorts of vanity for those who
have no disease but idleness?
This inability of staying at home, as it is one
of the most infallible, so it is one of the most
dangerous symptoms of the reigning mania. It
would be more tolerable, did this epidemic ma-
lady break out only as formerly during the win-
ter, or some one season.- -Heretofore, the tenan-
try and the poor, the natural dependants on the
rural mansions of the opulent, had some definite
period to which they might joyfully look for-
ward for the approach of those patrons, part of
whose business in life it is to influence by their
presence, to instruct by their example, to sooth
by their kinkness, and to assist by their liberal-
ity, those whom Providence, in the distribution
of human lots, has placed under their more im-
mediate protection. Though it would be far
from truth to assert, that dissipated people are
never charitable, yet I will venture to say that
dissipation is inconsistent with the spirit of
charity. That affecting precept followed by so
gracious a promise, 'Never turn away thy face
from any poor man, and then the face of the
Lord shall never be turned away from thee,'
cannot literally mean that we should give to all,
as then we should soon have nothing left to give:
but it seems to intimate the habitual attention,
the duty of inquiring out all cases of distress,
in order to judge which are fit to be relieved;
now for this inquiry, for this attention, for this
sympathy, the dissipated have little taste, and
less leisure.
Let a reasonable conjecture (for calculation
would fail !) be made of how large a diminution
of the general good has been effected in this
single respect by causes which, though they do
not seem important in themselves, yet make no
inconsiderable part of the mischief arising from
modern manners; and I speak now to persons
who intend to be charitable: what a deduction
will be made from the aggregate of charity by
a circumstance apparently trifling, when we
consider what would be the beneficial effects of
that regular bounty which must almost unavoid-
ably result from the evening walks of a great
and benevolent family among the cottages of
their own domain: the thousand little acts of
comparatively unexpensive kindness which the
sight of petty wants and difficulties would ex-
cite; wants, which will scarcely be felt in the
relation; and which will probably be neither
seen, nor felt, nor fairly represented, in their
long absences, by an agent. And what is even
almost more than the good done, is the habit of
Would not
mind kept up in those who do it.
this habit, exercised on the Christian principle,
that even a cup of cold water,' given upon right
motives, shall not lose its reward; while the giv
ing all their goods to feed the poor,' without
the true principle of charity, shall profit them
nothing; would not this habit, I say, and the
inculcation of the spirit which produces it, be
almost the best part of the education of daugh-
ters.*
From the mention of watering places, may
the author be allowed to suggest a few remarks
* It would be a pleasant summer amusement for our
on the evils which have arisen from the general young ladies of fortune, if they were to preside at such
conspiracy of the gay to usurp the regions of spinning feasts as are instituted at Nuneham for the
the sick; and from their converting the health-promotion of virtue and industry in their own sex.
restoring fountains, meant as a refuge for dis-
Pleasurable anniversaries of this kind would serve to
combine in the minds of the poor two ideas which ought
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
387
Transplant this wealthy and bountiful family | pose plausible theories by the simple and deci-
periodically, to the frivolous and uninteresting sive answer of experiment; and it is presumed
bustle of the watering place; there it is not de- that this popular error, as well as others, is daily
nied that frequent public and fashionable acts receiving the refutation of actual experience.
of charity may make a part (and it is well they For it cannot surely be maintained on ground
do) of the business and amusement of the day; that is any longer tenable, that acquirements
with this latter, indeed, they are sometimes truly rational are celculated to draw off the
good naturedly mixed up. But how shall we mind from real duties. Whatever removes pre-
compare the regular systematical good these judices, whatever stimulates industry, whatever
persons would be doing at their own home, with rectifies the judgment, whatever corrects self-
the light, and amusing, and bustling bounties conceit, whatever purifies the taste, and raises
of the public place? The illegal raffle at the toy- the understanding, will be likely to contribute
shop, may relieve, it is true, some distress; but to moral excellence: to woman moral excellence
this distress, though it may be real, and if real is the grand object of education: and of moral
it ought to be relieved, is far less easily ascer- excellence, domestic life is to woman the proper
tained than the wants of the poor round a per- sphere.
son's own neighbourhood, or the debts of a dis-
tressed tenant. How shall we compare the broad
stream of bounty which should be flowing
through, and refreshing whole districts; with
the penurious current of the subscription break-will not be found considerable who have been
fast for the needy musician, in which the price
of the gift is taken out in the diversion, and in
which pleasure dignifies itself with the name of
bounty? How shall we compare the attention,
and time, and zeal, which would otherwise, per-
haps, be devoted to the village school, spent in
hawking about benefit tickets for a broken play-
er, while the kindness of the benefactress, per-
haps, is rewarded by scenes in which her cha-
rity is not always repaid by the purity of the
exhibition.
Far be it from the author to wish to check
the full tide of charity wherever it is disposed to
flow! Would she could multiply the already
abundant streams, and behold every source pu-
rified! But in the public resorts there are many
who are able and willing to give. In the seques.
tered, though populous village, there is, perhaps,
only one affluent family: the distress which
they do not behold will probably not be attended
to the distress which they do not relieve will
probably not be relieved at all: the wrongs
which they do not redress will go unredressed
the oppressed whom they do not rescue will sink
under the tyranny of the oppressor.-Through
their own rural domains too, charity runs in a
clearer current, and is under less suspicion of
being polluted by that muddy tincture which it
is sometimes apt to contract in passing through
the impure soil of the world.
But to return from this too long digression.
The old standing objection formerly brought
forward by the prejudices of the other sex, and
too eagerly laid hold on as a shelter for indo-
lence and ignorance by ours, was, that intellec-
tual accomplishments too much absorbed the
thoughts and affections, took women off from
the necessary attention to domestic duties, and
superinduced a contempt or neglect of whatever
was useful. It is peculiarly the character of the
present day to detect absurd opinions, and ex-
never to be separated, but which they are not very for.
ward to unite-that the great wish is to make them happy
as well as good. Occasional approximations of the rich
and poor, for the purposes of relief and instruction, and
annual meetings for the purpose of innocent pleasure,
would do much towards wearing away discontent, and
the conviction that the rich really take an interest in
their comfort, would contribute to reconcile the lower
class to that state in which it has pleased God to place
class to that state in which it has pleased God to place
them.
Count over the list of females who have made
shipwreck of their fame and virtue, and have
furnished the most lamentable examples of the
dereliction of family duties; and the number
led astray by the pursuit of knowledge. And
if a few deplorable instances of this kind be pro-
duced, it will commonly be found that there was
little infusion in the minds of such women of
that correcting principle without which all other
knowledge only 'puffeth up.'
The time nightly expended in late female vi-
gils is expended by the light of far other lamps
than those which are fed by the student's oil:
and if families are to be found who are neglect-
ed through too much study in the mistress, it
will probably be proved to be Hoyle and not
Homer, who has robbed her children of her
time and affections. For one family which has
been neglected by the mother's passion for
books, an hundred have been deserted through
her passion for play. The husband of a fashion-
able woman will not often find that the library
is the apartment the expenses of which involve
him in debt or disgrace. And for one literary
slattern, who now manifests her indifference to
her husband by the neglect of her person, there
are scores of elegant spendthrifts who ruin theirs
by excess of decoration.
May I digress a little while I remark, that I
am far from asserting that literature has never
filled women with vanity and self-conceit: the
contrary is too obvious: and it happens in this
as in other cases, that a few characters conspi-
cuously absurd, have served to bring a whole
order into ridicule. But I will assert, that in
general those whom books are supposed to have
spoiled, would have been spoiled in another way
without them. She who is a vain pedant be-
cause she has read much, has probably that de-
feet in her mind which would have made her a
vain fool if she had read nothing. It is not her
having more knowledge, but less sense, which
makes her insufferable and ignorance would
have added little to her value, for it is not what
she has, but what she wants, which makes her
unpleasant. The truth, however, probably lies
here, that while her understanding was improv
ed, the tempers of her heart were neglected, and
that in cultivating the fame of a savante, she
lost the humility of a Christian. But these in-
stances too furnish only a fresh argument for
the general cultivation of the female mind. The
wider diffusion of sound knowledge, would re
'
...
388
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
move that temptation to be vain which may be
excited by its rarity.
From the union of an unfurnished mind and
a cold heart there results a kind of necessity for
dissipation. The very term gives an idea of
mental imbecility. That which a working and
fatigued mind requires is relaxation; it requires
something to unbend itself; to slacken its efforts,
to relieve it from its exertions; while amusement
is the business of feeble minds, and is carried on
with a length and seriousness incompatible with
the refreshing idea of relaxation. There is
scarcely any one thing which comes under the
description of public amusement, which does not
fill the space of three or four hours nightly. Is
not that a large proportion of refreshment for a
mind, which, generally speaking, has been kept
so many hours together on the stretch in the
morning, by business, by study, by devotion?
But while we would assert that a woman of a
cultivated intellect is not driven by the same ne-
cessity as others into the giddy whirl of public
resort; who but regrets that real cultivation does
not inevitably preserve her from it? No wonder
that inanity of character, that vacuity of mind,
that torpid ignorance, should plunge into dissi-
pation as their natural refuge; should seek to
bury their insignificance in the crowd of pressing
multitudes, and hope to escape analysis and de-
tection in the undistinguished mass of mixed as-
semblies! There attrition rubs all bodies smooth,
and makes all surfaces alike! thither superficial
and external accomplishments naturally fly as
to their proper scene of action; as to a field
where competition in such perfections is in per-
petual exercise; where the laurels of admiration
are to be won; whence the trophies of vanity
may be carried off triumphantly.
ascribe it to a growing, regular, systematic series
of amusements; to an incessant, boundless, and
Other cor-
not very disreputable DISSIPATION.
ruptions, though more formidable in appearance,
are yet less fatal in some respects, because they
leave us intervals to reflect on their turpitude,
and spirit to lament their excesses: but dissipa-
tion is the more hopeless, as by engrossing al
most the entire life, and enervating the whole
moral and intellectual system, it leaves neither
time for reflection, nor space for self-examina
tion, nor temper for the cherishing of right affec-
tions, nor leisure for the operation on sound
principles, nor interval for regret, nor vigour to
resist temptation, nor energy to struggle for
amendment.
The great master of the science of pleasure
among the ancients, who reduced it into a sys-
tem which he called the chief good of man, di-
rected that there should be interval enough be-
tween the succession of delights to sharpen in-
clination; and accordingly instituted periodical
days of abstinence; well knowing that gratifica-
tion was best promoted by previous self-denial.
But so little do our votaries of fashion understand
the true nature of pleasure, that one amusement
is allowed to overtake another without any in-
terval, either for recollection of the past or pre-
paration for the future. Even on their own selfish
principle, therefore, nothing can be worse under-
stood than this continuity of enjoyment: for to
such a degree of labour is the pursuit carried,
that the pleasures exhaust instead of exhilara-
ting, and the recreations require to be rested
from.
For, not to argue the question on the ground
of religion, but merely on that of present enjoy-
ment look abroad and see who are the people that
complain of weariness, listlessness and dejection.
You will not find them among the class of such
as are overdone with work, but with pleasure.
The natural and healthful fatigues of business
may be recruited by simple and cheap gratifica-
tions: but a spirit worn down with the toils of
amusement, requires pleasures, of poignancy,
varied, multiplied, stimulating.
It would indeed be matter of little comparative
regret, if this corrupt air were breathed only by
those whose natural element it seems to be; but
who can forbear lamenting that the power of
fashion attracts into this impure and unwhole-
some atmosphere, minds also of a better make,
of higher aims and ends, of more ethereal tem-
per? that it attracts even those who, renouncing
enjoyments for which they have a genuine taste, It has been observed by medical writers, that
and which would make them really happy, ne- that sober excess in which many indulge, by
glect society they love and pursuits they admire. eating and drinking a little too much at every
in order that they may seem happy and be fa- day's dinner and every night's supper, more ef
shionable in the chase of pleasures they despise, fectually undermines the health, than those more
and in company they disapprove! But no cor- rare excesses by which others now and then
rectness of taste, no depth of knowledge, will in-break in upon a life of general sobriety. This
fallibly preserve a woman from this contagion,
unless her heart be impressed with a deep Chris-
tian conviction that she is accountable for the
application of time. Perhaps if there be any one
principle which should more sedulously than
another be worked into the youthful mind, it
is the doctrine of particular as well as general
responsibility.
The contagion of dissipated manners is so deep,
so wide, and fatal, that if I were called upon to
assign the predominant cause of the greater part
of the misfortunes and corruptions of the great
and gay in our days, I should not look for it
principally in any obviously great or striking
circumstance not in the practice of notorious
vices, not originally in the dereliction of Chris-
tian principle; but I should without hesitation
illustration is not introduced with a design to re-
commend occasional deviations into gross vice,
by way of a pious receipt for mending the mo-
rals; but merely to suggest that there is a pro-
bability that those who are sometimes driven by
unresisted passion into irregularities which shock
their cooler reason, are more liable to be roused
to a sense of their danger, than persons whose
perceptions of evil are blunted through a round
of systematical unceasing and yet not scandalous
dissipation. And when I affirm that this system
of regular indulgence relaxes the soul, enslaves
the heart, bewitches the senses, and thus dis-
qualifies for pious thought or useful action, with-
out having any thing in it so gross as to shock
the conscience; and when I hazard an opinion
that this state is more formidable, because less.
}
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
389
alarming, than that which bears upon it a more
determined character of evil, I no more mean to
speak of the latter in slight and palliating terms,
than I would intimate, because the sick some
times recover from a fever, but seldom from a
palsy, that a fever is therefore a safe or a healthy
state.
and admiring those amiable beings in the best
point of view; there they might have been ena-
bled to form a juster estimate of female worth,
than is likely to be obtained in the scenes where
such qualities and talents as might be expected
to add to the stock of domestic comfort must ne-
cessarily be kept in the back ground, and where
such only can be brought into view as are not
particularly calculated to insure the certainty of
home delights.
O! did they keep their persons fresh and new,
How would they pluck allegiance from men's hearts,
And win by rareness!
But there seems to be an error in the first con-
coction, out of which the subsequent errors suc-
cessively grow. First then, as has been obser-
ved before, the showy education of women tends
chiefly to qualify them for the glare of public
assemblies: secondly, they seem in many in-
stances to be so educated, with a view to the But by what unaccountable infatuation is it
greater probability of their being splendidly mar- that men too, even men of understanding, join
ried; thirdly, it is alleged in vindication of those in the confederacy against their own happiness,
dissipated practices, that daughters can only be by looking for their home companions in the re-
seen, and admirers, procured at balls, operas, sorts of vanity? Why do not such men rise su-
and assemblies: and that therefore by a natural perior to the illusions of fashion? Why do they
and necessary consequence, balls, operas, and not uniformly seek her who is to preside in their
assemblies must be followed up without inter-families in the bosom of her own? in the prac-
mission till the object be effected. For the ac-
complishment of this object it is that all this com-
plicated machinery had been previously set a
going, and kept in motion with an activity not
at all slackened by the disordered state of the
system; for some machines, instead of being
stopped, go faster because the main spring is out
of order; the only difference being that they go
wrong, and so the increased rapidity adds only
to the quantity of error.
tice of every domestic duty, in the exercise of
every amiable virtue, in the exertion of every
elegant accomplishment? those accomplishments
of which we have been reprobating, not the pos-
session, but the application? there they would
find her exerting them to their true end; to en
liven business, to animate retirement, to embel-
lish the charming scene of family delights, to
heighten the interesting pleasures of social in
tercourse, and rising in just gradation to their
noblest object, to adorn the doctrine of God her
Saviour.
It is also, as we have already remarked, an
error to fancy that the love of pleasure exhausts
itself by indulgence, and that the very young If, indeed, women were mere outside, form
are chiefly addicted to it. The contrary appears and face only, and if mind made up no part of
to be true. The desire often grows with the her composition, it would follow that a ball-room
pursuit in the same degree as motion is quick-was quite as appropriate a place for choosing a
ened by the continuance of the gravitating force. wife, as an exhibition room for choosing a pic-
First then it cannot be thought unfair to trace ture. But, inasmuch as women are not mere
back the excessive fondness for amusement to portraits, their value not being determinable by a
that mode of education we have elsewhere repro-glance of the eye, it follows that a different mode
bated. Few of the accomplishments, falsely so of appreciating their value, and a different place
called, assist the developement of the faculties: for viewing them antecedent to their being in-
they do not exercise the judgment, nor bring in-dividually selected, is desirable. The two cases
to action those powers which fit the heart and
mind for the occupations of life; they do not pre-
pare women to love home, to understand its oc-
cupations, to enliven its uniformity, to fulfil its
duties, to multiply its comforts: they do not
lead to that sort of experimental logic, if I may
so speak, compounded of observation and reflec-
tion, which makes up the moral science of life
and manners. Talents which have display for
their object despise the narrow stage of home!
they demand mankind for their spectators, and
the world for their theatre.
differ also in this, that if a man select a picture
for himself from among all its exhibited compe-
titors, and bring it to his own house, the picture
being passive, he is able to fix it there: while
the wife, picked up at a public place, and accus-
tomed to incessant display, will not, it is proba-
ble, when brought home, stick so quietly to the
spot where he fixes her, but will escape to the
exhibition-room again, and continue to be dis-
played at every subsequent exhibition, just as if
she were not become private property, and had
never been definitely disposed of.
While we cannot help shrinking a little from It is the novelty of a thing which astonishes
the idea of a delicate young creature, lovely in us, and not its absurdity; objects may be so long
person, and engaging in mind and manners, sa- kept before the eye that it begins no longer to
crificing nightly at the public shrine of Fashion, observe them; or may be brought into such
at once the votary and the victim; we cannot close contact with it, that it does not discern
help figuring to ourselves how much more in- them. Long habit so reconciles us to almost any
teresting she would appear in the eyes of a man thing, that the grossest improprieties cease to
of sense and feeling, did he behold her in the strike us when they once make a part of the
more endearing situation of domestic life. And common course of action. This, by the way, is
who can forbear wishing, that the good sense, a strong reason for carefully sifting every opi.
good taste, and delicacy of the men had rather
led them to prefer seeking companions for life
in the almost sacred quiet of a virtuous home?
There they might have had the means of seeing
nion and every practice before we let them in-
corporate into the mass of our habits, for after
that time they will be no more examined.—Would
it not be accounted preposterous for a young
t
390
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
J
A
tone of manners forbids him to bring into exer-
cise with real energies which that tone does
not allow him to discover, and an unreal apathy
which it commands him to feign; with the heart
of a hero, perhaps, if called into the field, affects
at home the manners of a Sybarite; and he who,
with a Roman, or what is more, with a British
valour, would leap into the gulf at the call of
public duty,
Yet in the soft and piping time of peace,
when fashion has resumed her rights, would
murmur if a rose leaf lay double under him.
man to say he had fancied such a lady would
dance à better minuet because he had seen her
behave devoutly at church, and therefore had
chosen her for his partner? and yet he is not
thought at all absurd when he intimates that he
chose a partner for life because he was pleased
with her at a ball. Surely the place of choosing
and the motives of choice, would be just as ap-
propriate in one case as in the other, and the mis-
take, if the judgment failed, not quite so serious.
There is among the more elevated classes of
society, a certain set of persons who are pleased
exclusively to call themselves, and whom others
by a sort of compelled courtesy are pleased to The clubs above alluded to, as has been said,
call, the fine world. This small detachment generate and cherish luxurious habits, from
consider their situation with respect to the rest their perfect ease, undress, liberty, and inatten-
of mankind, just as the ancient Grecians did tion to the distinctions of rank; they promote a
theirs, that is as the Grecians thought there love of play, and in short, every temper and spirit
were but two sorts of beings, and that all who which tends to undomesticate; and what adds
were not Grecians were barbarians; so this to the mischief is, all this is attained at a cheap
certain set conceives of society as resolving it-rate compared with what may be procured at
self into two distinct classes, the fine world and home in the same style.
the people; to which last class they turn over
all who do not belong to their little coterie, how-
ever high their rank, or fortune, or merit.
Celebrity, in their estimation, is not bestowed by
birth or talents, but by being connected with
them. They have laws, immunities, privileges,
and almost a language of their own; they form
a kind of distinct cast, and with a sort of esprit
du corps detach themselves from others, even in
general society, by an affectation of distance
and coldness; and only whisper and smile in
their own little groups of the initiated: their
confines are jealously guarded, and their privi-
leges are incommunicable.
These indulgences, and this habit of mind,
gratify so many passions, that a woman can
never hope successfully to counteract the evil by
supplying at home gratifications which are of
the same kind, or which gratify the same habits.
Now a passion for gratifying vanity, and a spirit
of dissipation is a passion of the same kind; and
therefore, though for a few weeks, a man who
has chosen his wife in the public haunts, and
this wife a woman made up of accomplishments,
may, from the novelty of the connexion and
of the scene, continue domestic; yet in a little
time she will find that those passions, to which
she has trusted for making pleasant the married
life of her husband, will crave the still higher
pleasures of the club; and while these are pur-
sued, she will be consigned over to solitary
evenings at home, or driven back to the old
dissipations.
To conquer the passions for club gratifica-
tions, a woman must not strive to feed it with
sufficient aliment of the same kind in her so-
plant and overcome it by a passion of a different
nature, which Providence has kindly planted
within us; I mean by inspiring him with the
love of fire-side enjoyments. But to qualify
herself for administering these she must cul-
tivate her understanding, and her heart, and her
temper, acquiring at the same time that modicum
of accomplishments suited to his taste, whịch
may qualify her for possessing, both for him and
for herself, greater varieties of safe recreation.
In this society a young man loses his natural
eharacter, which, whatever, it might have been
originally, is melted down and cast into the one
prevailing mould of fashion: all the strong, na-
tive, discriminating qualities of his mind being
made to take one shape, one stamp, one super-
scription! However varied and distinct might
have been the materials which nature threw into
the crucible, plastic fashion takes care that theyciety, either at home or abroad; she must sup-
shall all be the same, or at least appear the same,
when they come out of the mould. A young
man in such an artificial state of society, accus-
tomed to the voluptuous ease, refined luxuries,
soft accommodations, obsequious attendance,
and all the unrestrained indulgencies of a fash-
able club, is not to be expected after marriage
to take very cordially to a home, unless very
extraordinary exertions are made to amuse,
to attach, and to interest him: and he is not
likely to lend a very helping hand to the One great cause of the want of attachment in
union, whose most laborious exertions have these modish couples is, that by living in the
hitherto been little more than a selfish stratagem world at large, they are not driven to depend on
to reconcile health with pleasure. Excess of each other as the chief source of comfort. Now
gratification has only served to make him irrita- it is pretty clear, in spite of modern theories,
ble and exacting; it will of course be no part of that the very frame and being of societies,
his project to make sacrifices, he will expect to whether great or small, public or private, is
receive them and what would appear incredi-jointed and glued together by dependence.
ble to the Paladins of gallant times, and the
Chevaliers Preux of more heroic days, even in
the necessary business of establishing himself
for life, he sometimes is more disposed to expect
attentions than to make advances.
Thus the indolent son of fashion, with a thou-
sand fine, but dormant qualities, which a bad
Those attachments, which arise from, and are
compacted by, a sense of mutual wants, mutual
affection, mutual benefit, and mutual obligation,
are the cement, which secure the union of the
family as well as of the state.
Unfortunately, when two young persons of
the above description marry, the union is some
i
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
391
A
times considered rather as the end than the a little time together, so as to get acquainted
beginning of an engagement; the attachment of with each other; and if each would live in the
each to the other is rather viewed as an object lively and conscientious exercise of those talents
already completed, than as one which marriage and attractions which they sometimes know how
is to confirm more closely. But the companion to produce on occasions not quite so justifiable;
for life is not always chosen from the purest they would, I am persuaded, often find out each
motive; she is selected, perhaps, because she is other to be very agreeable people. And both
admired by other men, rather than because she of them, delighted and delighting, receiving and
possesses in an emiment degree those peculiar bestowing happiness, would no longer be driven
qualties which are likely to constitute the indi- to the necessity of perpetually escaping from
vidual happiness of the man who chooses her. home as from the only scene which offers no
Vanity usurps the place of affection; and indo- possible materials for pleasure. The steady
lence swallows up the judgment. Not happi- and growing attachment, improved by unbound-
ness, but some easy substitute for happiness is ed confidence and mutual interchange of senti-
pursued ; and a choice which may excite envy,ments; judgment ripening, and experience
rather than produce satisfaction, is adopted as strengthening that esteem which taste and in-
the means of effecting it.
clination first inspired; each party studying to
faith of the beloved object; this would enrich the
feeling heart with gratifications which the in-
solvent world has not to bestow such an heart
would compare its interesting domestic scenes
with the vapid pleasures of public resort, till it
would fly to its own home, not from necessity
but from taste; not from custom, but choice;
not from duty, but delight.
It may seem a contradiction to have asserted,
that beings of all ages, tempers and talents,
should with such unremitting industry follow
up any way of life, if they did not find some
enjoyment in it: yet I appeal to the bosoms of
these incessant hunters in the chase of pleasure,
whether they are really happy. No:-in the
full tide and torrent of diversion, in the full
blaze of gayety and splendor,
The pair, not matched but joined, set out sepa-promote the eternal as well as temporal happi-
rately with their independent and individual ness of the other; each correcting the errors,
pursuits. Whether it made a part of their origi-improving the principles and confirming the
nal plan or not, that they should be indispensa-
bly necessary to each other's comfort, the sense
of this necessity, probably not very strong at
first, rather diminishes than increases by time;
they live so much in the world, and so little
together, that to stand well with their own set
continues the favourite project of each; while
to stand well with each other is considered as
an under part of the plot in the drama of life.
Whereas, did they start in the conjugal race
with the fixed idea that they were to look to
each other for their chief worldly happiness, not
only principle, but prudence, and even selfish-
ness, would convince them of the necessity of
sedulously cultivating each other's esteem and
affection as the grand means of promoting that
happiness. But vanity, and the desire of flattery
and applause, still continue to operate. Even
after the husband is brought to feel a perfect in-
difference for his wife, he still likes to see her
decorated in a style which may serve to justify
his choice. He encourages her to set off her
person, not so much for his own gratification, as
that his self-love may be flattered, by her con-
tinuing to attract the admiration of those whose
opinion is the standard by which he measures
his fame, and which fame is to stand him in the
stead of happiness. Thus is she necessarily
exposed to the two-fold temptation of being at
once neglected by her husband, and exhibited as
an object of attraction to other men. If she
escape this complicated danger, she will be in-
debted for her preservation not to his prudence,
but to her own principles.
The heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy?
But there is an anxious restlessness excited by
the pursuit, which, if not interesting, is bust-
ling. There is the dread, and partly the dis-
credit, of being suspected of having one hour
unmortgaged, not only to successive, but con-
tending engagements; this it is, and not the
pleasure of the engagement itself, which is the
object-There is an agitation in the arrange.
ments which imposes itself on the vacant heart
for happiness. There is a tumult kept up in
the spirits which is a busy though treacherous
substitute for comfort.-The_multiplicity of
solicitations sooths vanity. The very regret
that they cannot be all accepted has its charms:
for dignity is flattered because refusal implies
In some of these modish marriages, instead importance, and pre-engagement intimates cele-
of the decorous neatness, the pleasant inter-brity. Then there is the joy of being invited
course, and the mutual warmth of communica-
tion of the once social dinner; the late and un-
'
interesting meal is commonly hurried over by
the languid and slovenly pair, that the one may
have time to dress for his club, and the other
for her party. And in these cold abstracted
teles-a-tetes, they often take as little pains to
entertain each other, as if the one was precisely
the only human being in the world in whose
eyes the other did not feel it necessary to appear
agreeable.
Now if these young, and perhaps really
amiable persons could struggle against the im-
perious tyranny of fashion, and contrive to pass
when others are neglected; the triumph of show-
ing our less modish friend that we are going
where she cannot come; and the feigned regret
at being obliged to go, assumed before her who is
half wild at being obliged to stay away.-There
is the secret art of exciting envy in the very act
of bespeaking compassion; and of challenging
respect by representing their engagements as
duties, oppressive indeed but indispensable.-
These are some of the supplemental shifts for
happiness with which Vanity contrives to feed
her hungry followers, too eager to be nice.*
* The precaution which is taken against the possibi
Ility of being unengaged by the long interval between
4
392
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
|
rant, the fair and the frightful, the sprightly and
the dull, the rich and the poor, the patrician and
the plebian, meet in one common and uniform
equality; an equality as religiously respected
in these solemnities, in which all distinctions
are levelled at a blow (and of which the very
spirit therefore is democratical) as it is combat.
ted in all other instances.
Behold four kings, in majesty rever'd,
With hoary whiskers and a forked beard
And four fair queens, whose hands sustain a flowr,
The expressive emblem of their softer pow'r :
Four knaves in garbs succint, a trusty band,
Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;
And party-colour'd troops, a shining train,
Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain.*
CHAP. XVIII.
On public amusements.
In the succession of open houses, in which
pleasure is to be started and pursued on any
given night, the actual place is never taken into
the account of enjoyment: the scene of which
is always supposed to lie in any place where
her votaries happen not to be. Pleasure has no
present tense: but in the house which her pur. |
suers have just quitted, and in the house to
which they are just hastening, a stranger might
conclude the slippery goddess had really fixed
her throne, and that her worshippers considered
the existing scene, which they seem compelled
to suffer, but from which they are eager to es-
cape, as really detaining them from some posi-
tive joy to which they are flying in the next
crowd; till, if he met them there, he would find
the component parts of each precisely the same.
He would hear the same stated phrases inter-
rupted, not answered, by the same stated replies,
the unfinished sentence' driven adverse to the
winds,' by pressing multitudes; the same warm
regret mutually exchanged by two friends (who Ir is not proposed to enter the long contested
had expressly denied to each other all the win-field of controversy as to the individual amuse-
ter) that they had not met before; the same soft ments which may be considered as safe and
and smiling sorrow at being torn away from lawful for those women of the higher class who
each other now; the same avowed anxiety to make a strict profession of Christianity. The
renew the meeting, with perhaps the same se- judgment they will be likely to form for them.
cret resolution to avoid it. He would hear de- selves on the subject, and the plan they will
scribed with the same pathetic earnestness the consequently adopt, will depend much on the
difficulties of getting into this house, and the clearness or obscurity of their religious views,
dangers of getting out of the last! the perilous and on the greater or less progress they have
retreat of former nights, effected amidst the made in their Christian course. It is in their
shock of chariots, and the clang of contending choice of amusements that you are able, in some
coachmen! a retreat indeed effected with a skill measure to get acquainted with the real disposi-
and peril little inferior to that of the ten thousand, tions of mankind. In their business, in the
and detailed with far juster triumph: for that leading employments of life, their path is in a
which happened only once in a life to the Gre- good degree chalked out for them: there is in
cian hero, occurs to these British heroines every this respect a sort of general character; wherein
night. There is one point of resemblance, in- the greater part, more or less, must coincide.
deed, between them, in which the comparison But in their pleasures the choice is voluntary,
fails; for the commander with a mauvaise honte the taste is self-directed, the propensity is inde-
at which a true female veteran would blush, is pendent; and of course the habitual state, the
remarkable for never naming himself.
genuine bent and bias of the temper, are most
likely to be seen in those pursuits which every
person is at liberty to choose for himself.
With 'mysterious reverence' I forbear to des-
cant on those serious and interesting rites, for
the more august and solemn celebration of
which, Fashion nightly convenes these splendid
myriads to her more sumptuous temples. Rites!
which, when engaged in with due devotion, ab-
sorb the whole soul, and call every passion into
exercise, except indeed those of love, and peace,
and kindness, and gentleness. Inspiring rites!
which stimulate fear, rouse hope, kindle zeal,
quicken dulness, sharpen discernment, exercise
memory, inflame curiosity! Rites! in short, in
the due performance of which all the energies
and attentions, all the powers and abilities, all
the abstraction and exertion, all the diligence
and devotedness, all the sacrifice of time, all the
contempt of ease, all the neglect of sleep, all the
oblivion of care, all the risks of fortune (half of
which, if directed to their true objects, would
change the very face of the world) all these are
concentrated to one point; a point in which the
wise and the weak, the learned and the igno-
the invitation and the period of its accomplishment, re-
minds us of what historians remark of the citizens of
ancient Crotona, who used to send their invitations
a year before the time, that the guests might prepare
both their dress and their appetite for the visit.
|
|
When a truly religious principle shall have
acquired such a degree of force as to produce
that conscientious and habitual improvement of
time before recommended, it will discover itself
by an increasing indifference and even deadness
to those pleasures which are interesting to the
world at large. A woman under the predomi-
nating influence of such a principle, will begin
to discover that the same thing which in itself
is innocent may yet be comparatively wrong.
She will begin to feel that there are many
amusements and employments which, though
they have nothing censurable in themselves, yet
if they be allowed to intrench on hours which
ought to be dedicated to still better purposes;
or if they are protracted to an undue length; or
above all, if by softening and relaxing her mind
and dissipating her spirits, they so indispose her
for better pursuits as to render subsequent duties
a burden, they become in that case clearly wrong
for her, whatever they may be for others. Now
as temptations of this sort are the peculiar dan-
gers of better kind of characters, the sacrifice of
such little gratifications as may have no great
* Rape of the Lock
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
393
harm in them, come in among the daily calls to
self-denial in a Christian.
The fine arts, for instance, polite literature,
elegant society, these are among the lawful, and
liberal, and becoming recreations of higher life;
yet if even these be cultivated to the neglect or
exclusion of severer duties; if they interfere
with serious studies, or disqualify the mind for
religious exercises, it is an intimation that they
have been too much indulged, and under such
circumstances, it might be the part of Christian
circumspection to inquire if the time devoted to
them ought not to be abridged. Above all, a
tender conscience will never lose sight of one
safe rule of determining in all doubtful cases:
if the point be 30 nice that though we hope upon
the whole there may be no harm in engaging in
it, we may at least be always quite sure that
there can be no harm in letting it alone. The
adoption of this simple rule would put a period
to much unprofitable casuistry.
The principle of being responsible for the use
of time once fixed in the mind, the conscientious
Christian will be making a continual progress
in the great art of turning time to account. In
the first stages of her religion she will have ab-
stained from pleasures which began a little to
wound the conscience, or which assumed a ques-
tionable shape; but she will probably have ab-
stained with regret, and with a secret wish that
conscience could have permitted her to keep
well with pleasure and religion too. But you
may discern in her subsequent course that she
has reached a more advanced stage, by her be-
ginning to neglect even such pleasures or em-
ployments as have no moral turpitude in them,
but are merely what are called innocent. This
relinquishment arises, not so much from her
feeling still more the restraints of religion, as
from the improvement in her religious taste.
Pleasures cannot now attach her merely from
being innocent, unless they are likewise inte-
resting, and to be interesting they must be con-
sonant to her superinduced views. She is not
contented to spend a large portion of her time
harmlessly, it must be spent profitably also.
Nay, if she be indeed earnestly pressing to-
wards the mark,' it will not be even enough for
her that her present pursuit be good if she be
convinced that it might be still better. Her
contempt of ordinary enjoyments will increase
in a direct proportion to her increased relish for
those pleasures which religion enjoins and be-
stows. So that at length if it were possible to
suppose that an angel could come down to take
off as it were the interdict, and to invite her to
resume all the pleasures she had renounced, and
to resume them with complete impunity; she
would reject the invitation, because, from an
improvement in her spiritual taste, she would
despise those delights from which she had at
first abstained through fear. Till her will and
affections come heartily to be engaged in the
service of God, the progress will not be com-
fortable; but when once they are so engaged,
the attachment to this service will be cordial,
and her heart will not desire to go back and toil
again in the drudgery of the world. For her
religion has not so much given her a new creed,
as a new heart, and a new life,
VOL. I.
As her views are become new, so her tempers,
dispositions, tastes, actions, pursuits, choice of
company, choice of amusements, are new also;
her employment of time is changed, her turn of
conversation is altered; 'old things are passed
away, all things are become new.' In dissipated
and worldly society, she will seldom fail to feel
a sort of uneasiness, which will produce one of
these two effects; she will either, as proper sea-
sons present themselves, struggle hard to intro-
duce such subjects as may be useful to others,
or, supposing that she finds herself unable to
effect this, she will as far as she prudently can,
absent herself from all unprofitable kind of so-
ciety. Indeed her manner of conducting her-
self under these circumstances may serve to
furnish her with a test of her own sincerity
For while people are contending for a little more
of this amusement, and pleading for a little ex
tension of that gratification, and fighting in or-
der that they may hedge in a little more terri,
tory to their pleasure ground, they are exhibit,
ing a kind of evidence against themselves, that
they are not yet 'renewed in the spirit of their
mind.'
It has been warmly urged as an objection to
certain religious books, and particularly against
a recent work of high worth and celebrity, by a
distinguished layman,* that they have set the
standard of self-denial higher than reason or
even than Christianity requires. The works do
indeed elevate the general tone of religion to a
higher pitch than is quite convenient to those
who are at infinite pains to construct a comfort-
able and comprehensive plan which shall unite
the questionable pleasures of this world with the
promised happiness of the next. I say it has
been sometimes objected, even by those readers
who, on the whole, greatly admire the particular
work alluded to, that it is unreasonably strict in
the preceptive and prohibitory parts; and espe-
cially that it individually and specifically for-
bids certain fashionable amusements, with a se-
verity not to be found in the Scriptures; and is
scrupulously rigid in condemning diversions
against which nothing is said in the New Tes-
tament. Each objector, however, is so far rea
sonable, as only to beg quarter for her own fa.
vourite diversion, and generously abandons the
defence of those in which she herself has no
particular pleasure.
But these objectors do not seem to understand
the true genius of Christianity. They do not
consider that it is the character of the gospel to
exhibit a scheme of principles, of which it is
the tendency to infuse such a spirit of holiness
as must be utterly incompatible, not only with
customs decidedly vicious, but with the very
spirit of worldly pleasure. They do not consider
that Christianity is neither a table of ethics, nor
a system of opinions, nor a bundle of rods to
punish, nor an exhibition of rewards to allure,
nor a scheme of restraints to terrify, nor merely
a code of laws to restrict; but it is a new prin.
ciple infused into the heart by the word and the
Spirit of God; out of which principle will in.
evitably grow right opinions, renewed affections,
correct morals, pure desires, heavenly tempers,
and holy habits, with an invariable desire of
* Practical View, &c. bv Mr Wilberforce.
394
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
÷
pleasing God, and a constant fear of offending, as might have belonged to them, would have
hip. A real Christian whose heart is thorough- been totally inapplicable to the Cretes and Ara-
ly imbued with this principle, can no more re- bians; or again, those which suited these would
turn to the amusements of the world, than a not have applied to the Elamites and Mesapota-
philosopher can be refreshed with the diversions mians. By such partial and circumscribed ad-
of the vulgar, or a man be amused with the re- dresses, his multifarious audience, composed of
creations of a child. The New Testament is all nations and countries, would not have been,
not a mere statute book: it is not a table where as we are told they were, pricked to the heart.'
every offence is detailed, and its corresponding But when he preached on the broad ground of
penalty annexed: it is not so much a compila- general repentance and remission of sins in
tion, as a spirit of laws: it does not so much the name of Jesus Christ,' it was no wonder
prohibit every individual wrong practice, as that they all cried out, What shall we do?"
suggest a temper and implant a general princi- These collected foreigners, at their return home,
ple with which every wrong practice is incom- must have found very different usages to be cor-
patible. It did not, for instance, so much attack rected in their different countries; of course a
the then reigning and corrupt fashions, which detailed restriction of the popular abuses at Je-
were probably like the fashions of other coun-rusalem, would have been of little use to stran-
tries, temporary and local, as it struck at the
worldliness, which is the root and stock from
which all corrupt fashions proceed.
The prophet Isaiah, who addressed himself
more particularly to the Israelitish women, in-
veighed not only against vanity, luxury, and
immodesty, in general; but with great propriety
censured even those precise instances of each,
to which the women of rank, in the particular
country he was addressing, were especially ad-
dicted; nay, he enters into the minute detail*
of their very personal decorations, and brings
specific charges against several instances of
their levity and extravagance of apparel; mean-
ing, however, chiefly to censure the turn of cha-
racter which these indicated. But the gospel
of Christ, which was to be addressed to all ages,
stations, and countries, seldom contains any such
detailed animadversions; for though many of
the censurable modes which the prophet so se-
verely reprobated, continued probably to be still
prevalent in Jerusalem in the days of our Sa-
viour, yet how little would it have suited the
universality of his mission, to have confined his
preaching to such local, limited and fluctuating
customs! not but there are many texts which
actually do define the Christian conduct as well
as temper, with sufficient particularity to serve
as a condemnation of many practices which are
pleaded for, and often to point pretty directly at
them.
gers returning to their respective nations. The
ardent apostle, therefore, acted more consistent-
ly in communicating to them the large and
comprehensive spirit of the gospel which should
at once involve all their scattered and separate
duties, as well as reprove all their scattered and
separate corruptions, for the whole always in-
cludes a part, and the greater involves the less.
Christ and his disciples, instead of limiting their
condemnation to the peculiar vanities reprehend-
ed by Isaiah, embraced the very soul and prin-
ciple of them all, in such exhortations as the
following: Be ye not conformed to the world'
-'If a man love the world, the love of the
Father is not in him: The fashion of this
world passeth away.' Our Lord and his apos-
tles, whose future unselected audience was
to be made up out of the various inhabitants of
the whole world, attacked the evil heart, out of
which all those incidental, local, peculiar, and
popular corruptions proceeded.
In the time of Christ and his immediate fol-
lowers, the luxury and intemperance of the Ro-
mans had arisen to a pitch before unknown in
the world; but as the same gospel, which its
Divine Author and his disciples were then
preaching to the hungry and necessitous, was
afterwards to be preached to high and low, not
excepting the Roman emperors themselves; the
large precept, Whether ye eat or drink, or
whatever you do, do all to the glory of God,'
It would be well for those modish Christians was likely to be of more general use, than any
who vindicate excessive vanity in dress, expense, separate exhortation to temperance, to thank-
and decoration, on the principle of their being fulness, to moderation, as to quantity or expense;
mere matters of indifference, and no where pro- which last indeed must always be left in some
hibited in the gospel, to consider that such prac-degree to the judgment and circumstances of
tices strongly mark the temper and spirit with the individual.
which they are connected, and in that view are
so little creditable to the Christian profession,
as to furnish a just subject of suspicion against
the piety of those who indulge in them.
When the apostle of the Gentiles visited the
Saints of Caesar's household,' he could hardly
fail to have heard, nor could he have heard
without abhorrence, of some of the fashionable
Had Peter, on that memorable day when he amusements in the court of Nero. He must
added three thousand converts to the church by have reflected with peculiar indignation on
a single sermon, narrowed his subject to a re- many things which were practised in the Cir-
monstrance against this diversion, or that pub-censian games; yet, instead of pruning this cor-
lic place, or the other vain amusement, it might
indeed have suited the case of some of the fe-
male Jewish converts who were present, but
such restrictions as might have been appropri-
ate to them, would probably not have applied to
the cases of the Parthians and the Medes, of
which his audience was partly composed or such
* Isaiah, chap. iii.
rupt tree, and singling out even the inhuman
gladiatorial sports for the object of his condem-
nation, he laid his axe to the root of all corrup-
tion, by preaching to them that Gospel of Christ
of which he was not ashamed,' and showing to
them that believed, that it was the power of
God and the wisdom of God.' Of this gospel
the great object was, to attack not one popular
J
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
395
evil, but the whole body of sin. Now the doc- | of universal and lasting application. As a proof
trine of Christ crucified, was the most appropri-
ate means for destroying this; for by what
other means could the fervid imagination of the
apostle have so powerfully enforced the heinous
ness of sin, as by insisting on the costliness of
the sacrifice which was offered for its expiation?
It is somewhat remarkable, that about the very
time of his preaching to the Romans, the public
taste had sunk to such an excess of depravity,
that the very women engaged in those shocking
encounters with the gladiators.
But in the first place, it was better that the
right practice of his hearers should grow out of
the right principle; and next, his specifically
reprobating these diversions might have had this
ill-effect, that succeeding ages, seeing that they
in their amusements came somewhat short of
those dreadful excesses of the polished Romans,
would only have plumed themselves on their
own comparative superiority; and on this prin-
ciple, even the bull fights of Madrid might in
time have had their panegyrists. The truth is,
the apostle knew that such abominable corrup-
tions could never subsist together with Chris-
tianity, and in fact the honour of abolishing
these barbarous diversions, was reserved for
Constantine, the first Christian emperor.
of this, little is said in the gospel of the then
prevailing corruption of polygamy; nothing
against the savage custom of exposing children,
or even against slavery; nothing expressly
against suicide or duelling; the last Gothic cus-
toin, indeed, did not exist among the crimes of
Paganism. But is there not implied a prohibi-
tion against polygamy, in the general denunci-
ation against adultery? Is not exposing of chil
dren condemned in that charge against the Ro
mans, that they were without natural affection?'
Is there not a strong censure against slavery
conveyed in the command, to do unto others
as you would have them do unto you?' and
against suicide and duelling, in the general pro-
hibition against murder, which is strongly en-
forced and affectingly amplified by the solemn
manner in which murder is traced back to its
first seed of anger in the sermon on the mount?
Thus it is clear, that when Christ sent the
gospel to all nations, he meant that that gospel
should proclaim those prime truths, general
laws, and fundamental doctrines, which must
necessarily involve the prohibition of all indi-
vidual, local, and inferior errors; errors which
could not have been specifically guarded against,
without having a distinct gospel for every coun-
Besides, the apostles, by inveighing against try, or without swelling the divine volume into
some particular diversions might have seemed such inconvenient length as would have defeat.
to sanction all which they did not actually cen-ed one great end of its promulgation.* And
sure: and as, in the lapse of time, and the revo- while its leading principles are of universal ap.
lution of governments, customs change and man-plication, it must always, in some measure, be
ners fluctuate, had a minute reprehension of the
fashions of the then existing age been published
in the New Testament, that portion of scrip-
ture must in time have become obsolete, even in
that very same country, when the fashions
themselves should have changed. Paul and his
brother apostles knew that their epistles would
be the oracles of the Christian world, when these
temporary diversions would be forgotten. In
consequence of this knowledge, by the universal
precept to avoid the lust of the flesh, the lust
of the eye, and the pride of life;' they have pre-
pared a lasting antidote against the principle of
all corrupt pleasures, which will ever remain
equally applicable to the loose fashions of all
ages, and of every country, to the end of the
world.
|
left to the discretion of the preacher, and to the
conscience of the hearer, to examine whether
the life and habits of those who profess it, are
conformable to its main spirit and design.
The same Divine Spirit which indited the
Holy Scriptures, is promised to purify the hearts
and renew the natures of repenting and believ
ing Christians; and the compositions it inspired,
are in some degree analogous to the workman-
ship it effects. It prohibited the vicious prac-
tices of the apostolical days, by prohibiting the
passions and principles which render them gra-
tifying; and still working in like manner on the
hearts of real Christians, it corrects the taste
which was accustomed to find its proper grati-
fication in the resorts of vanity; and thus effec
tually provides for the reformation of the habits,
and infuses a relish for rational and domestic
enjoyments, and for whatever can administer
pleasure to that spirit of peace, and love, and
hope, and joy, which animates and rules the re.
newed heart of the true Christian.
Therefore, to vindicate diversions which are
in themselves unchristian, on the pretended
ground that they are not specifically condemned
in the gospel, would be little less absurd than if
the heroes of Newmarket should bring it as a
proof that their periodical meetings are not con- But there is a portion of scripture which,
demned in scripture, because St. Paul, when though to a superficial reader it may seem but
writing to the Corinthians, did not speak against very remotely connected with the present sub.
these diversions; and that in availing himselfject, yet to readers of another cast, seems to set.
of the Isthmian games, as a happy illustration tle the matter beyond controversy. In the pa-
of the Christian race, he did not drop any cen-rable of the great supper, this important truth is
sure on the practice itself: a practice which
was indeed as much more pure than the races
of Christian Britain, as the moderation of being
contented with the triumph of a crown of leaves,
is superior to that criminal spirit of gambling
which iniquitously enriches the victor by beg-
garing the competitor.
Local abuses, as we have said, were not the
object of a book whose instructions were to be
held out to us, that even things good in themselves,
may be the means of our eternal ruin; by drawing
our hearts from God, and causing us to make
light of the offers of the gospel. One invited guest
had bought an estate, another had made a pur-
chase,equally blameless, of oxen; a third had mar-
ried a wife, an act not illaudable in itself. They
*To the poor the gospel is preached,'-Luke vii. 22.
396
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
question may be enabled to decide on the posi-
tive innocence and safety of such diversions; I
mean, provided they are sincere in their scru-
tiny and honest in their avowal. If, on their
return at night from those places, they find they
can retire, and 'commune with their own
hearts;' if they find the love of God operating
with undiminished force on their minds; if they
can bring every thought into subjection,' and
had all different reasons, none of which appeared,
to have any moral turpitude; but they all agree in
this, to decline the invitation to the supper. The
worldly possessions of one, the worldly business
of another, and what should be particularly at-
tended to, the love to his dearest relative, of a
third, (a love by the way, not only allowed, but
commanded in Scripture) were brought forward
as excuses for not attending to the important
business of religion. The consequence, how-concentrate every wandering imagination; if
ever, was the same to all. None of those which
were bidden shall taste of my supper.' If then
things innocent, things necessary, things lauda-
ble, things commanded, become sinful, when by
unseasonable or excessive indulgence, they de-
tain the heart and affections from God, how vain
will all those arguments necessarily be render-
ed, which are urged by the advocates for certain
amusements, on the ground of their harmless-consciousness of having avoided in the evening,
ness; if those amusements serve (not to men-
tion any positive evil which may belong to them)
in like manner to draw away the thoughts and
affections from all spiritual objects!
To conclude; when this topic happens to be-
come the subject of conversation, instead of ad-
dressing severe and pointed attacks to young
ladies on the sin of attending places of diversion,
would it not be better first to endeavour to ex-
eite in them that principle of Christianity, with
which such diversions seem not quite compati-
ble; as the physician, who visits a patient in an
eruptive fever, pays little attention to those spots
which to the ignorant appear to be the disease,
except indeed so far as they serve as indications
to let him into its nature, but goes straight to
the root of the malady? He attacks the fever, he
lowers the pulse, he changes the system, he cor-
rects the general habit; well knowing that if
he can but restore the vital principle of health,
the spots, which were nothing but symptoms,
will die away of themselves.
In instructing others, we should imitate our
Lord and his apostles, and not always´aim our
blow at each particular corruption; but making
it our business to convince our pupil that what
brings forth the evil fruit she exhibits, cannot
be a branch of the true vine; we should thus
avail ourselves of individual corruptions, for im-
pressing her with a sense of the necessity of
purifying the common source from whence they
flow-a corrupt nature. Thus making it our
grand business to rectify the heart, we pursue
the true, the compendious, the only method of
producing universal holiness.
C
|
they can soberly examine into their own state
of mind--I do not say if they can do all
this perfectly and without distraction: (for who
almost can do this at any time ?) but if they can
do it with the same degree of seriousness, pray
with the same degree of fervour, and renounce
the world in as great a measure as at other
times; and if they can lie down with a peaceful
'that temptation' which they had prayed not to
be 'led into' in the morning, they may then
more reasonably hope that all is well, and that
they are not speaking false peace to their hearts.
-Again, if we cannot beg the blessing of our
Maker on whatever we are going to do or to
enjoy, is it not an unequivocal proof that the
thing ought not to be done or enjoyed? On all
the rational enjoyments of society, on all health-
ful and temperate exercise, on the delights of
friendship, arts, and polished letters, on the
exquisite pleasures resulting from the enjoy-
ment of rural scenery; and the beauties of na-
ture; on the innocent participation of these we
may ask the divine favour-for the sober enjoy-
ment of these we may thank the divine benefi-
cence: but do we feel equally disposed to invoke
blessings or return praises for gratifications
found (to say no worse) in levity, in vanity, and
waste of time?-If these tests were fairly used ;
if these experiments were honestly tried; if
these examinations were conscientiously made,
may we not, without offence, presume to ask
-Could our numerous places of public resort,
could our ever-multiplying scenes of more select
but not less dangerous diversion, nightly over-
flow with an excess hitherto unparalleled in the
annals of pleasure ?*
J
* If I might presume to recommend a book which of
all others exposes the insignificance, vanity, littleness
and emptiness of the world, I should not hesitate to
name Mr. Law's Serious call to a devout and holy life.'
Few writers except Pascal, have directed so much acute-
ness of reasoning and so much pointed wit to this object.
He not only makes the reader afraid of a worldly life
on account of its sinfulness, but ashamed of it on ac.
I would, however, take leave of those amiable count of its folly. Few men perhaps have had a deeper
insight into the human heart, or have more skilfully
and not ill-disposed young persons, who com- probed its corruptions: yet on points of doctrine his
plain of the rigour of human prohibitions, and views do not seem to be just; and his disquisitions are
declare, they meet with no such strictness in often unsound and fanciful, so that a general perusal of
his works would neither be profitable nor intelligible. To
the Gospel,' by asking them with the most
a fashionable woman immersed in the vanities of life,
affectiouate earnestness, if they can conscien- or to a busy man overwhelmed with its cares, I know
tiously reconcile their nightly attendance, at no book so applicable, or likely to exhibit with equal
every public place which they frequent, with force the vanity of the shadows they are pursuing. But
even in this work, Law is not a safe guide to evangeli-
such precepts as the following: 'Redeeming the cal light; and in many of his others he is highly vision-
time; Watch and pray :- Watch, for yeary and whimsical: and I have known some excellent
know not at what time your Lord cometh :'—
'Abstain from all appearance of evil :'-'Set
your affections on things above:'-' Be ye
spiritually minded:'-' Crucify the flesh with
with
its affections and lusts!' And I would venture
to offer one criterion, by which the persons in
persons who were first led by this admirable genius to
see the wants of their own hearts, and the utter in-
sufficiency of the world to fill up the craving void, who,
though they became eminent for piety and self-denial,
have had their usefulness abridged; and whose minds
have contracted something of a monastic severity by an
unqualified perusal of Mr. Law. True Christianity does
not call on us to starve our bodies, but our corruptions.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
397
CHAP. XIX.
if introduced at all into the system, only makes
it occasional, and if I may so speak its holyday
A worldly spirit incompatible with the spirit of appearance. To bring religion into every thing,
Christianity.
is thought incompatible with the due attention
to the things of this life. And so it would be,
Is it not whimsical to hear such complaints if by religion were meant talking about reli-
against the strictness of religion as we are fregion. The phrase, therefore, is: We cannot
quently hearing, from the beings who are volun-always be praying; we must mind our business
tarily pursuing, as has been shown in the pre- and our social duties as well as our devotion.'
ceding chapters, a course of life which fashion Worldly business being thus subjected to world-
makes infinitely more severe. How really
burdensome would Christianity be if she enjoin-mind during the conduct of business grows
ly, though in some degree moral, maxims, the
ed such sedulous application, such unremitting worldly; and a continually increasing worldly
labours, such a succession of fatigues! If re-
ligion commanded such hardships and self. spirit dims the sight and relaxes the moral prin-
denial, such days of hurry, such evenings of ciple on which the affairs of the world are con-
exertion, such nights of broken rest, such per- exercises of devotion.
ducted, as well as indisposes the mind for all the
petual sacrifices of quiet, such exile from family
delights, as fashion imposes, then indeed the
service of Christianity would no longer merit its
present appellation of being a reasonable ser-
vice then the name of perfect slavery might
be justly applied to that which we are told
in the beautiful language of our church, is
a service of perfect freedom;' a service the
great object of which is to deliver us from the
bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty
of the children of God.'
เ
But this temper as far as relates to business,
so much assumes the semblance of goodness,
that those who have not the right views are apt
to mistake the carrying on the affairs of life on
a tolerable moral principle, for religion. They
do not see that the evil lies not in their so carry-
ing on business, but in their not carrying on
the things of this life in subserviency to the
things of eternity; in their not carrying them
on with the unintermitting idea of responsibi-
lity. The evil does not lie in their not being
always on their knees, but in their not bringing
their religion from the closet into the world: in
their not bringing the spirit of Sunday's devo-
tions into the transactions of the week in not
transforming their religion from a dry, and
speculative, and imperative system, into a lively,
and influential, and unceasing principle of ac-
tion.
Though there are, blessed be God! in the
most exalted stations, women who adorn their
Christian profession by a consistent conduct;
yet are there not others who are labouring hard
to unite the irreconcileable interests of earth and
yet are there not others who are labouring hard
heaven? who, while they will not relinquish one
jot of what this world has to bestow, yet by no
not think it unreasonable that their indulging in
means renounce their hopes of a better? who do
the fullest possession of present pleasure should
interfere with the most certain reversion of fu-
ture glory? who, after living in the most un-
bounded gratification of ease, vanity, and luxury,
fancy that heaven must be attached of course to
a life of which Christianity is the outward pro-
fession and which has not been stained by any
flagrant or dishonourable act of guilt.
A worldly temper, by which I mean a dispo-
sition to prefer worldly pleasures, worldly satis-
factions, and worldly advantages, to the immor-
tal interests of the soul; and to let worldly con-
siderations actuate us instead of the dictates of
religion in the concerns of ordinary life; a
worldly temper, I say, is not, like almost any
other fault, the effect of passion or the conse-
quence of surprise, when the heart is off its
guard. It is not excited incidentally by the
operation of external circumstances on the in-
firmity of nature but it is the vital spirit, the
essential soul, the living principle of evil. It is
not so much an act, as a state of being; not so
much an occasional complaint, as a tainted con-
stitution of mind. It does not always show
itself in extraordinary excesses, it has no perfect
intermission. Even when it is not immediately
tempted to break out into overt and specific
acts, it is at work within, stirring up the heart
to disaffection against holiness, and infusing a
kind of moral disability to whatever is intrinsi-
cally right. It infects and depraves all the
powers and faculties of the soul; for it operates
on the understanding, by blinding it to what-
ever is spiritually good; on the will, by making
Are there not many who, while they enter-
it averse from God; on the affections, by dis-tain a respect for Religion (for I address not the
ordering and sensualizing them; so that one unbelieving or the licentious) while they believe
may almost say to those who are under the su- its truths, observe its forms, and would be
preme dominion of this spirit, what was said to shocked not to be thought religious are yet im-
the hosts of Joshua, Ye cannot serve the Lord.'mersed in this life of disqualifying worldliness?
The worldliness of mind is not at all common- who, though they make a conscience of going
ly understood, and for the following reason :- to the public worship once on a Sunday; and
People suppose that in this world, our chief
business is with the things of this world, and that of the church, yet hesitate not to give up all
are scrupulously observant of the other rites
to conduct the business of this world well, that is the rest of their time to the very same pur-
conformably to moral principles, is the chief suits and pleasures which occupy the hearts
substance of moral and true goodness. Religion, and engross the lives of those looser charac-
As the mortified apostle of the holy and self-denying
Baptist, preaching repentance because the kingdom of
Heaven is at hand, Mr. Law has no superior. As a
preacher of salvation on spiritual grounds I would fol-
low other guides.
•
ters whose enjoyment is not obstructed by
any dread of a future account? and who are
acting on the wise principle of the 'children of
the world,' in making the most of the present
398
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
•
state of being from the conviction that there is to themselves a larger capital for their future
no other to be expected.
subsistence?
It must be owned, indeed, that faith in unseen
things is at times lamentably weak and defec-
tive even in the truly pious; and that it is so, is
the subject of their grief and humiliation. O!
how does the real Christian take shame in the
coldness of his belief, in the lowness of his at-
tainments! How deeply does he lament that
'when he would do good, evil is present with
him! that the life he now lives in the flesh,
is' not, in the degree it ought to be, by faith in
the Son of God!" Yet one thing is clear; how-
ever weak his belief may seem to be, it is evi-
dent that his actions are principally governed
by it; he evinces his sincerity to others by a life
in some good degree analogous to the doctrines
he professes; while to himself he has at least
this conviction, that faint as his confidence may
be at times, low as may be his hope, and feeble
as his faith may seem, yet at the worst of times
he would not exchange that faint measure of
trust and hope for all the actual pleasures and
possessions of his most splendid acquaintance;
and what is a proof of his sincerity he never
seeks the cure of his dejection, where they seek
theirs, in this world, but in God.
Now, 'Faith, which is the substance of things
hoped for,' is meant to furnish the soul with
present support, while it satisfies it as to the
security on which it has lent itself; just as a
man's bonds and mortgages assure him that he
is really rich, though he has not all the money
in hand ready to spend at the moment. Those
who truly believe the Bible, must in the same
manner be content to live on its promises, by
which God has as it were pledged himself for
their future blessedness.
Even that very spirit of enjoyment which
leads the persons in question so studiously to
possess themselves of the qualifications necessa-
ry for the pleasures of the present scene, that
understanding and good sense, which leads them
to acquire such talents as may enable them to
relish the resorts of gayety here; that very spi-
rit should induce those who are really looking
for a future state of happiness, to wish to acquire
something of the taste, and temper, and talents,
which may be considered as qualifications for
the enjoyment of that happiness. The neglect
of doing this must proceed from one of these
two causes; either they must think their pre-
But as to the faith of worldly persons, how- sent course a safe and proper course; or they
ever strong it may be in speculation, however must think that death is to produce some sudden
orthodox their creed, however stout their pro- and surprising alteration in the human charac-
fession, we cannot help fearing that it is a little ter. But the office of death is to transport us to
defective in sincerity: for if there were in their a new state, not to transform us to a new na-
minds a full persuasion of the truth of Revela- ture; the stroke of death is intended to effect
tion, and of the eternal bliss it promises, would our deliverance out of this world, and our intro-
it not be obvious to them that there must be duction into another; but it is not likely to effect
more diligence for its attainment? We disco- any sudden and wonderful, much less a total
ver great ardour in carrying on worldly pro- change in our hearts or our tastes; so far from
jects, because we believe the good which we are this that we are assured in Scripture, that he
pursuing is real, and will reward the trouble of that is filthy will be filthy still, and he that is
the pursuit; we believe that good is to be at- holy will be holy still." Though we believe that
tained by diligence, and we prudently proportion death will completely cleanse the holy soul from
our earnestness to this conviction; when there- its remaining pollutions, that it will exchange
fore we see persons professing a lively faith in defective sanctification into perfect purity, en-
a better world, yet labouring little to obtain an tangling temptation into complete freedom; suf-
interest in it, can we forbear suspecting that fering and affliction into health and joy; doubts
their belief, not only of their own title to eternal and fears into perfect security, and oppressive
happiness but of eternal happiness itself, is not weariness into everlasting rest; yet there is no
well grounded; and that, if they were to exa-magic in the wand of death which will convert
mine themselves truly,' and to produce the an unholy soul into a holy one. And it is aw-
principle of such a relaxed morality, the faithful to reflect, that such tempers as have the al-
would be found to be much of a piece with the
practice?
The objections which disincline the world to
make present sacrifices of pleasure, with a view
to obtaining eternal happiness, are such as ap-
ply to all the ordinary concerns of life. That
is, men object chiefly to a religious course as
tending to rob them of that actual pleasure
which is within their reach, for the sake of a
remote enjoyment. They object to giving up
the seen good for the unseen. But do not almost
all the transactions of life come under the same
description ?-Do we not give up present ease
and renounce much indulgence in order to ac-
quire a future? Do we not part with our cur-
rent money for the reversion of an estate, which
we know it will be a long time before we can
possess? Nay, do not the most worldly often
submit to an immediate inconvenience, by re-
ducing their present income, in order to insure
་
lowed predominance here will maintain it for-
ever; that such as the will is when we close our
eyes upon the things of time, such it will be
when we open them on those of eternity. The
mere act of death no more fits us for heaven,
than the mere act of the mason who pulls down
our old house fits us for a new one. If we die
with our hearts running over with the love of
the world, there is no promise to lead us to ex-
pect that we shall rise with them full of the love
of God. Death indeed will show us to ourselves
such as we are, but will not make us such as we
are not and it will be too late to be acquiring
self-knowledge when we can no longer turn it
to any account, but that of tormenting ourselves.
To illustrate this truth still farther by an allu-
sion familiar to the persons I address: the draw.
ing up the curtain at the theatre, though it serve
to introduce us to the entertainments behind it,
does not create in us any new faculties to un-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
399
ì
derstand or to relish those entertainments: these
must have been already acquired; they must
have been provided beforehand, and brought with
us to the place, if we would relish the pleasure
of the place; for the entertainment can only
operate on that taste we carry to it. It is too
late to be acquiring when we ought to be en-
joying.
|
sole property of the purchaser. Faith does not
consist merely in submitting the opinions of the
understanding, but the dispositions of the heart;
religion is not a sacrifice of sentiments, but of
affections; it is not the tribute of fear extorted
from a slave, but the voluntary homage of love
paid by a child.
Neither does a Christian's piety consist in
living in retreat, and railing at the practices of
the world, while perhaps her heart is full of the
spirit of that world at which she is railing: but
it consists in subduing the spirit of the world
resisting its temptations, and opposing its prac-
tices, even while her duty obliges her to live
in it.
That spirit of prayer and praise, those dispo-
sitions of love, meekness, peace, quietness, and
assurance;' that indifference to the fashion of a
world which is passing away; that longing after
deliverance from sin; that desire of holiness,
together with all the fruits of the Spirit' here,
must surely make some part of our qualification
for the enjoyment of a world, the pleasures of Nor is the spirit or the love of the world con
which are all spiritual. And who can conceive fined to those only who are making a figure in
any thing comparable to the awful surprise of ait; nor are its operations bounded by the pre-
soul long immersed in the indulgences of vanity cincts of the metropolis nor by the limited re-
and pleasure, yet all the while lulled by the self-gions of first-rate rank and splendour. She who
complacency of a religion of mere forms; who,
while it counted upon heaven as a thing of
course; had made no preparation for it! Who
can conceive any surprise comparable to that of
such a soul on shutting its eyes on a world of
sense, of which all the objects and delights were
so congenial to its nature, and opening them on
a world of spirits of which all the characters of
enjoyment are of a nature new, unknown, sur-versions of her provincial town, if she be busied
prising, and specifically different? pleasures
more inconceivable to its apprehension and more
unsuitable to its taste, than the gratifications of
one sense are to the organs of another, or than
the most exquisite works of art and genius to
absolute imbecility of mind.
While we would with deep humility confess
that we cannot purchase heaven by any works
or right dispositions of our own; while we grate-
fully acknowledge that it must be purchased for
us by Him who loved us and washed us from
our sins in his blood;' yet let us remember that
we have no reason to expect we could be capable
of enjoying the pleasures of a heaven so pur-
chased without heavenly mindedness.
inveighs against the luxury and excesses of
London, and solaces herself in her own compa-
rative sobriety, because her more circumscribed
fortune compels her to take up with the second-
hand pleasures of successive watering-places, if
she pursue these pleasures with avidity, is go-
verned by the same spirit and she whose still
narrower opportunities stint her to the petty di-
in swelling and enlarging her smaller sphere of
vanity and idleness, however she may comfort
herself with her own comparative goodness, by
railing at the unattainable pleasures of the wa-
tering place, or the still more unapproachable
joys of the capital, is governed by the same spi-
rit; for she who is as vain as dissipated, and as
extravagant as actual circumstances admit,
would be as vain, as dissipated, and as extrava-
gant as the gayest objects of her invective ac-
tually are, if she could change places with them.
It is not merely by what we do that we can be
sure the spirit of the world has no dominion
over us, but by fairly considering what we should
probably do if more were in our power.
The worldly Christian, if I may be allowed
such a palpable contradiction in terms, must not
imagine that she acquits herself of her religious
When those persons who are apt to expect
as much comfort from religion as if their hearts
were not full of the world, now and then in a fit
of honesty or low spirits, complain that Chris-obligations by paying in her mere weekly obla-
tianity does not make them as good and happy tion of prayer. There is no covenant by which
as they were led to expect from that assurance, communion with God is restricted to an hour or
that great peace have they who love the law of two on the Sunday: she must not imagine she
God,' and that they who wait on him shall want acquits herself by setting apart a few particular
no manner of thing that is good;' when they days in the year for the exercise of a periodical.
lament that the paths of religion are not those devotion, and then flying back to the world as
'paths of pleasantness' which they were led to eagerly as if she were resolved to repay herself
expect; their case reminds one of a celebrated with a large interest for her short fit of self-de-
physician, who used to say that the reason whynial; the stream of pleasure running with a
his prescriptions, which commonly cured the more rapid current, from having been interrupt-
poor and the temperate, did so little good among ed by this forced obstruction. And the avidity
his rich and luxurious patients, was, that while with which we have seen certain persons of a
he was labouring to remove the disease by me- still less correct character than the class we have
dicines, of which they only took drams, grains, | been considering, return to a whole year's car-
and scruples, they were inflaming it by a mul-nival, after the self imposed penance of a passion
tiplicity of injurious aliments, which they swal-week, gives a shrewd intimation that they con-
lowed by ounces, pounds, and pints.
sidered the temporary abstraction less as an act
These fashionable Christians should be re- of penitence for the past, than as a purchase of
minded, that there was no half engagement indemnity for the future. Such bareweight
made for them at their baptism; that they are Protestants prudently condition for retaining the
not partly their own, and partly their Redeem-Popish doctrine of indulgences, which they buy
er's. He that is bought with a price,' is the not indeed of the late spiritual court of Rome
400
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
་
but of that secret self-acquitting judge, which, as a mere form; who dignify with the idea of a
ignorance of its own turpitude, and of the strict religious retirement, a week in which it is ra
requirements of the divine law, has established ther unfashionable to be seen in town; who re-
supreme in the tribunal of every unrenewed
heart.
tire with unabated resolution to return to the
maxims, the pleasures, and the spirit of that
world which they do but mechanically renounce;
is it not to be feared that this short secession,
which does not even pretend to subdue the prin.
ciple, but merely suspends the act, may only
the pleasures they are quitting? Is it not to be
feared that the bow may fly back with redoubled
violence from having been unnaturally bent?
that by varnishing over a life of vanity with the
transient externals of a formal and temporary
piety they may the more dangerously skin over
the troublesome soreness of a tender conscience,
by laying
This flattering unction to the soul?
But the practice of self-examination is im-
peded by one clog, which renders it peculiarly
inconvenient to the gay and worldly for the
royal prophet (who was, however, himself as
likely as any one to be acquainted with the diffi-serve to set a keener edge on the appetite for
culties peculiar to greatness) has annexed as a
concomitant to communing with our own
heart,' that we should be still. Now this clause
of the injunction annihilates the other, by ren-
dering it incompatible with the present habits
of fashionable life, of which stillness is clearly
not one of the constituents. It would, however,
greatly assist those who do not altogether de-
cline the practice, if they were to establish into
a rule the habit of detecting certain suspicious
practices, by realizing them, as it were, to their And is it not awfully to be apprehended that
own minds, through the means of drawing them such devotions come in among those vain obla-
out in detail, and of placing them before their tions which the Almighty has declared he will
eyes clothed in language; for there is nothing not accept? For, is it not among the delusions
that so effectually exposes an absurdity which of a worldly piety, to consider Christianity as a
has hitherto passed muster for want of such an thing which cannot, indeed, safely be omitted,
inquisition, as giving it shape, and form, and but which is to be got over; a certain quantity
body. How many things which now silently of which is, as it were, to be taken in the lump,
work themselves into the habit, and pass current with long intervals between the repetitions? Is
without inquiry, would then shock us by their it not among its delusions to consider religion
palpable inconsistency! Who, for instance, could as imposing a set of hardships, which must be
stand the sight of such a debtor and creditor ac- occasionally encountered, in order to procure a
count as this:-Item; so many card-parties, peaceable enjoyment of the long respite ?—a
balls, and operas due to me in the following short penalty for a long pleasure? that these se-
year, for so many manuals, prayers, and medi-verer conditions thus fulfilled, the acquitted
tations paid beforehand during the last six days Christian having paid the annual demand of a
in lent? With how much indignation soever rigorous requisition, she may now lawfully re-
this suggestion may be treated; whatever of turn to her natural state; the old reckoning be-
fence may be taken at such a combination of the ing adjusted, she may begin a new score, and
serious and the ludicrous; however we may re-receive the reward of her punctual obedience,
volt at the idea of such a composition with our
Maker, when put into so many words; does not
the habitual course of some go near to realize
such a statement ?
But ' a Christian's race,' as a venerable pre-
late* observes, 'is not to run at so many heats,'
but is a constant course, a regular progress by
which we are continually gaining ground upon
sin, and approaching nearer to the kingdom of
God.
Am I then ridiculing this pious seclusion of
contrite sinners? Am I then jesting at that
'troubled spirit' which God has declared is his
acceptable sacrifice?' God forbid! Such rea-
sonable retirements have been the practice, and
continue to be the comfort of some of the sin-
cerest Christians; and will continue to be re-
sorted to as long as Christianity, that is, as long
as the world shall last. It is well to call off the
thoughts, even for a short time, not only from
sin and vanity, but even from the lawful pursuits
of business and the laudable concerns of life;
and at times, to annihilate, as it were, the space
which divides us from eternity:
'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to heaven,
And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Yet to those who seek a short annual retreat
Bishop Hopkins.
|
in the resumed indulgence of those gratifications
which she had for a short time laid aside as a
hard task to please a hard master; but this task
performed and the master appeased, the mind
may discover its natural bent, in joyfully return-
ing to the objects of its real choice? Whereas,
it is not clear on the other hand, that if the re-
ligious exercises had produced the effect which
it is the nature of true religion to produce, the
penitent could not return with her own genuine
alacrity to those habits of the world, from which
the pious weekly manuals through which she
has been labouring with the punctuality of an
almanac as to the day, and the accuracy of a
bead-roll as to the number, were intended by the
devout authors to rescue their reader?
I am far from insinuating, that this literal se-
questration ought to be prolonged throughout
the year, or that all the days of business are to
be made equally days of solemnity and conti-
nued meditation. This earth is a place in which
a much larger portion of a common Christian's
time must be assigned to action than to contem-
plation. Women of the higher class were not
sent into the world to shun society, but to im-
prove it. They were not designed for the cold
and visionary virtues of solitudes and monaste-
ries, but for the amiable, and endearing, and use-
ful offices of social life: they are of a religion
which does not impose idle austerities, but en-
1.
1
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
401
joins active duties; a religion which demands, while the worldly Christian is little troubled at
the most benevolent actions, and which requires his own failures, but deplores the strictness of
them to be sanctified by the purest motives; a the divine requisitions. The one wishes that
religion which does not condemn its followers | God would expect less, the other prays for
to the comparatively easy task of seclusion from strength to do more.
When the worldly person
the world, but assigns them the more difficult hears real Christians speak of their own low
province of living uncorrupted in it; a religion state, and acknowledge their extreme unworthi.
which, while it forbids them to follow a multi- ness, he really believes them to be worse than
tude to do evil,' includes in that prohibition the those who make no such humiliating confes-
sin of doing nothing, and which moreover en- sions. He does not know that a mind which is
joins them to be followers of Him who went at once deeply convinced of its own corruptions,
about doing good.'
and of the purity of the divine law, is so keenly
alive to the perception of all sin, as to be hum
bled by the commission of such as is compara-
tively small, and which those who have less cor-
rect views of gospel truth, hardly allow to be
sin at all. Such an one, with Job, says,
L
'Now
But may we not reasonably contend, that
though the same sequestration is not required,
yet that the same spirit and temper which we
would hope is thought necessary even by those
on whom we are animadverting, during the oc-
casional humiliation, must by every real Chris-mine eye seeth Thee.'
tian be extended throughout all the periods of
the year? And when that is really the case,
when once the spirit of religion shall indeed
govern the heart, it will not only animate her
religious actions and employments, but will
gradually extend itself to the chastising her
conversation, will discipline her thoughts, influ-
ence her common business, restrain her indul-fort in the occasional predominance of the for-
gences, and sanctify her very pleasures:
But it seems that many, who entertain a ge-
neral notion of Christian duty, do not consider
it as of universal and unremitting obligation,
but rather as a duty binding at times on all, and
at all times on some. To the attention of such
we would recommend that very explicit address
of our Lord on the subject of self-denial, the
temper directly opposed to a worldly spirit:
'And he said unto them ALL, if any man will
come after me, let him deny himself, and take
up his cross DAILY.' Those who think self-de-
nial not of universal obligation will observe the
word all; and those who think the obligation not
constant, will attend to the term daily. These
two little words cut up by the root all the occa-
sional religious observances grafted on a worldly
life; all transient, periodical, and temporary
acts of piety, which some seem willing to com-
mute for a life of habitual thoughtlessness and
vanity.
There is, indeed, scarcely a more pitiable be-
ing than one who, instead of making her religion
the informing principle of all she does has only
just enough to keep her in continual fear; who
drudges through her stinted exercises with a
superstitious kind of terror, while her general
life shows that the love of holiness is not the
governing principle in her heart; who seems to
suffer all the pains and penalties of Christianity,
but is a stranger to that liberty wherewith
Christ has made us free.' Let it not be thought
a ludicrous invention, if the author hazard the
producing a real illustration of these remarks,
in the instance of a lady of this stamp, who re-
turning from church on a very cold day, and re-
marking with a good deal of self-complacency
how much she had suffered in the performance
of her duty, comforted herself with emphatically
adding, 'that she hoped it would answer.'
There is this striking difference between the
real and the worldly Christian, the latter does
not complain of the strictness of the divine law,
but of the deficiencies of his own performance;
VOL. I.
€ 2
But there is no permanent comfort in any re
ligion, short of that by which the diligent Chris-
tian strives that all his actions shall have the
love of God for their motive; and the glory of
God, as well as his own salvation, for their end;
while we go about to balance our good and bad
actions, one against the other, and to take com.
mer while the cultivation of the principle from
which they should spring is neglected, is not
the road to all those peaceful fruits of the Spirit
to which true Christianity conducts the humble
and penitent believer. For, after all we can do,
Christian tempers and a Christian spirit are the
true criterion of a Christian character, and serve
to furnish the most unequivocal test of our at-
tainments in religion. Our doctrines may be
sound, but they may not be influential; our ac
tions may be correct, but they may want the
sanctifying principle; our frames and feelings
may seem, nay they may be devout, but they
may be heightened by mere animal fervour
even if genuine, they are seldom lasting; and
to many pious persons they are not given: it is
therefore the Christian tempers which most in-
fallibly indicate the sincere Christian, and best
prepare him for the heavenly state.
I am aware that a better cast of characters
than those we have been contemplating; that
even the amiable and the well-disposed, who,
while they want courage to resist what they
have too much principle to think right, and too
much sense to justify, will yet plead for the pal-
liating system, and accuse these remarks of un-
necessary rigour. They will declare 'That
really they are as religious as they can be ; they
wish they were better: they have little satisfac-
tion in the life they are leading, yet they cannot
break with the world; they cannot fly in the
face of custom; it does not become individuals
like them to oppose the torrent of fashion.' Be
ings so interesting, abounding with engaging
qualities; who not only feel the beauty of good-
ness, but reverence the truths of Christianity,
and are awfully looking for a general judgment,
we are grieved to hear lament that they only
do as others do,' when they are perhaps them.
selves of such rank and importance that if they
would begin to do right, others would be brought
to do as they did. We are grieved to hear them
Lindolently assert, that, they wish it were other-
wise,' when they possess the power to make it
4:
402
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
he had literally the example of the whole face of
the earth to oppose. The fear of man also
would have been a more pardonable fault, when
the lives of the same individuals who were
likely to excite respect or fear was prolonged
many ages, than it can be in the short period
now assigned to human life. How lamentable
then that human opinion should operate so pow-
erfully, when it is but the breath of a being so
frail and so short-lived,
otherwise, by setting an example which they, haps is only a petty neighbourhood, a few
know would be followed. We are sorry to hear streets and squares; but the patriarch had really
them content themselves with declaring, that the contagion of a whole united world to resist ;
they have not the courage to be singular,' when
they must feel, by seeing the influence of their
example in worse things, that there would be
no such great singularity in piety itself, if once
they become sincerely pious. Besides, this diffi-
dence does not break out on other occasions.
They do not blush to be quoted as the opposers
of an old mode, or the inventors of a new one:
nor are they equally backward in being the
first to appear in a strange fashion, such an one
as often excites wonder, and sometimes even
offends against delicacy. Let not then diffidence
be pleaded as an excuse only on occasions where-
in courage would be virtue.
"
Will it be thought too harsh a question if we
venture to ask these gentle characters who are
thus entrenching themselves in the imaginary
safety of surrounding multitudes, and who say,
"We only do as others do,' whether they are
willing to run the tremendous risk of conse-
quences, and to fare as others fare?
|
That he doth cease to be,
Ere one can say he is?
You who find it so difficult to withstand the in-
dividual allurement of modish acquaintance,
would, if you had been in the patriach's case
have concluded the struggle to be quite ineffec-
tual, and sunk under the supposed fruitlessness
of resistance. 'Myself,' would you not have
said? or at most my little family of eight per-
sons can never hope to stop this torrent of cor-
But while these plead the authority of fashion ruption; I lament the fruitlessness of opposi-
as a sufficient reason for their conformity to the tion; I deplore the necessity of conformity with
world, one who has spoken with a paramount the prevailing system: but it would be a foolish
authority has positively said, 'Be ye not con- presumption to hope that one family can effect
formed to the world.' Nay, it is urged as the a change in the state of the world.' In your
very badge and distinction by which the cha-own case, however, is it not certain to how wide.
racter opposite to the Christian is to be marked, an extent the hearty union of even fewer per-
'that the friendship of the world is enmity with sons in such a cause might reach at least is it
God.'
nothing to what the patriarch did? was it no-
thing to preserve himself from the general de-
struction; was it nothing to deliver his own
soul? was it nothing to rescue the souls of his
whole family?
Temptation to conform to the world was
never perhaps more irresistible than in the days
which immediately preceded the Deluge; and
no man could ever have pleaded the fashion in
order to justify a criminal assimilation with the
reigning manners, with more propriety than the
patriarch Noah. He had the two grand and
contending objects of terror to encounter which
we have; the fear of ridicule, and the fear of de-
struction; the dread of sin, and the dread of
singularity. Our cause of alarm is at least
equally pressing with his; for it does not appear,
even while he was actually obeying the Divine
command in providing the means of his future
safety, that he saw any actual symptoms of the
impending ruin. So that in one sense he might
have truly pleaded as an excuse for slackness
of preparation,' that all things continued as they
were from the beginning;' while many of us,
though the storm is actually begun, never
think of providing the refuge: it is true he was
'warned of God,' and he provided by faith.'
But are not we also warned of God? have we
not had a fuller revelation? have we not seen
Scripture illustrated, prophecy fulfilling, with
every awful circumstance that can either
quicken the most sluggish remissness, or con-
firm the feeblest faith?
Besides, the patriarch's plea for following the
fashion was stronger than you can produce.
While you must see that many are going wrong,
he saw that none were going right. All flesh
had corrupted his way before God;' whilst,
blessed be God! you have still instances enough
of piety to keep you in countenance. While you
lament that the world seduces you (for every one
bas a little world of his own) your world per-
:
A wise man will never differ from the world
in trifles. It is certainly a mark of a sound
judgment to comply with custom whenever we
safely can; such compliance strengthens our
influence by reserving to ourselves the greater
weight of authority on those occasions, when
our conscience obliges us to differ. Those who
are prudent will cheerfully conform to all the
innocent usages of the world; but those who are
Christians will be scrupulous in defining which
are really innocent previous to their conformity
to them. Not what the world, but what the
Gospel calls innocent will be found at the grand
scrutiny to have been really so. A discreet
Christian will take due pains to be convinced
he is right before he will presume to be singular:
but from the instant he is persuaded the Gospel
is true, and the world of course wrong, he will
no longer risk his safety by following multitudes,
or hazard his soul by staking it on human
opinion. All our most dangerous mistakes
arise from our not constantly referring our prac-
tice to the standard of Scripture, instead of the
mutable standard of human estimation by which
it is impossible to fix the real value of characters.
For this latter standard in some cases deter-
mines those to be good who do not run all the
lengths in which the notoriously bad allow
themselves. The Gospel has an universal, the
world has a local standard of goodness; in cer-
tain societies certain vices alone are dishonour-
able, such as covetousness and cowardice; while
those sins of which our Saviour has said, that
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
403
they which commit them 'shall not inherit the nition of the Lord.' The manner in which they
kingdom of God,' detract nothing from the re- should be taught has likewise with great plain-
spect some persons receive. Nay, those very ness been suggested; that it should be done in
characters whom the Almighty has expressly so lively and familiar a manner as to make re-
and awfully declared 'He will judge,' are re-ligion amiable, and her ways to appear, what
ceived, are admired, are caressed, in that which
calls itself the best company.
But to weigh our actions by one standard
now, when we know they will be judged by an-
other hereafter, would be reckoned the height
of absurdity in any transctions but those which
involve the interests of eternity. 'How readest
thou?' is a more specific direction than any com-
parative view of our own habits with the habits
of others: and at the final bar it will be of little
avail that our actions have risen above those of
bad men, if our views and principles shall be
found to have been in opposition the Gospel of
Christ.
Nor is their practice more commendable, who
are ever on the watch to pick out the worst ac-
tions of good men, by way of justifying their
own conduct on the comparison. The faults of
the best men, for there is not a just man upon
earth who sinneth not,' can in no wise justify
the errors of the worst: and it is not invariably
the example of even good men that we must take
for our unerring rule of conduct: nor is it by a
single action that either they or we shall be
judged; for in that case who could be saved?
but it is by the general prevalence of right prin-
ciples and good habits and Christian tempers;
by the predominance of holiness and righteous-
ness, and temperance in the life, and by the
power of humility, faith and love in the heart.
CHAP. XX.
On the leading doctrines of Christianity. The
corruption of human nature. The doctrine of
redemption. The necessity of a change of
heart and of the divine influences to produce
that change. With a sketch of the Christian
character.
they really are,' ways of pleasantness.' And a
slight sketch has been given of the genius of
Christianity, by which her amiableness would
more clearly appear. But this, being a subject
of such vast importance compared with which
every other subject sinks into nothing; it seems
not sufficient to speak on the doctrines and
duties of Christianity in detached parts, but it
is of importance to point out, though in a brief
and imperfect manner, the mutual dependence
of one doctrine upon another, and the influence
which these doctrines have upon the heart and
life, so that the duties of Christianity may be
seen to grow out of its doctrines: by which it
will appear that Christian virtue differs essen-
tially from pagan : it is of a quite different kind;
the plant itself is different, it comes from a dif.
ferent root, and grows in a different soil.
C
It will be seen how the humbling doctrine of
the corruption of human nature, which was fol-
lowed from the corruption of our first parents,
makes way for the bright display of redeeming
love. How from the abasing thought that we
are all as sheep going astray, every one in his
own way;' that none can return to the Shep
herd of our souls, 'except the Farther draw
him :' that the natural man cannot receive the
things of the Spirit, because they are spiritually
discerned' how from this humiliating view of
the helplessness, as well as the corruption of hu-
man nature, we are to turn to that animating
doctrine, the offer of divine assistance. So that,
though human nature will appear from this view
in a deeply degraded state, and consequently
cause for despair: the disease indeed is dread-
all have cause for humility, yet not one has
ful, but a physician is at hand, both able and
willing to save us though we are naturally
without strength, our help is laid upon one
that is mighty. If the gospel discover to us
our lapsed state, it discovers also the means of
It not only discovers but impresses this image;
our restoration to the divine image and favour.
it not only gives us the description, but the at-
tainment of this favour; and while the word of
God suggests the remedy, his Spirit applies it.
THE author having in this little work taken a
view of the false notions often imbibed in early
life from a bad education, and of their pernicious
effects; and having attempted to point out the
respective remedies to these; she would now
draw all that has been said to a point, and de- of our Saviour are, if I may so speak, with a
We should observe then, that the doctrines
clare plainly what she humbly conceives to be beautiful consistency, all woven into one piece.
the source whence all these false notions and We should get such a view of their reciprocal
this wrong conduct really proceed: the prophet dependence as to be persuaded that without a
Jeremiah shall answer: It is because they deep sense of our own corruptions we can never
have forsaken the fountain of living waters, seriously believe in a Saviour, because the sub-
and have hewn out to themselves cisterns, stantial and acceptable belief in Him must
broken cisterns that can hold no water.' It is always arise from the conviction of our want of
an ignorance past belief of what true Christi- Him; that without a firm persuasion that the
anity really is the remedy, therefore, and the Holy Spirit can alone restore our fallen nature,
only remedy that can be applied with any pros-repair the ruins of sin, and renew the image of
pect of success, is RELIGION, and by Religion she God upon the heart, we never shall be brought
would be understood to mean the Gospel of to serious humble prayer for repentance and
Jesus Christ.
It has been before hinted, that religion should
be taught at an early period of life; that children
should be brought up in the nurture and admo-
* Hebrew, ii: 4.
there is no salvation: for though Christ has died
restoration; and that, without this repentance,
for us, and consequently to him alone we must
look as a Saviour, yet he has himself declared
that he will save none but true penitents.
404
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
On the doctrine of human corruption.
To come now to a more particular statement
of these doctrines. When an important edifice |
is about to be erected, a wise builder will dig
deep, and look well to the foundations: know
ing that without this the fabric will not be likely
to stand. The foundation of the Christian reli-
gion, out of which the whole structure may be
said to arise, appears to be the doctrine of the
fall of man from his original state of righteous-
ness; and the corruption and helplessness of
human nature, which are the consequences of
this fall, and which is the natural state of every
one born into the world. To this doctrine it is
important to conciliate the minds, more especi-
ally of young persons, who are peculiarly dis-
posed to turn away from it as a morose, unami-
able and gloomy idea. They are apt to accuse
those who are more strict, and serious of unne-
cessary severity, and to suspect them of think-
ing unjustly ill of mankind. Some of the reasons
which prejudice the inexperienced against the
doctrine in question appear to be the following:
Young persons themselves have seen little of
the world. In pleasurable society the world
puts on its most amiable appearance; and that
softness and urbanity which prevail, particularly
amongst persons of fashion, are liable to be mis-
taken for more than they are really worth. The
opposition to this doctrine in the young, arises
partly from ingenuousness of heart, partly from
a habit of indulging themselves in favourable
suppositions respecting the world, rather than
of pursuing truth, which is always the grand
thing to be pursued; and partly from the popu-
larity of the tenet, that every body is so wonder-
fully good!
This error in youth has however a still deeper
foundation, which is their not having a right
standard of moral good and evil themselves, in
consequence of their already partaking of the
very corruption which is spoken of, and which,
in perverting the will, darkens the understand-
ing also; they are therefore apt to have no very
strict sense of duty, or of the necessity of a right
and religious motive to every act.
Moreover, young people usually do not know
themselves. Not having yet been much exposed
to temptation, owing to the prudent restraints
in which they have been kept, they little sus-
pect to what lengths in vice they are liable to be
transported, nor how far others are actually car-
ried who are set free from those restraints.
Having laid down these as some of the causes
of error on this point, I proceed to observe on
what strong grounds the doctrine itself stands.
race.
Profane history abundantly confirms this truth:
the history of the world being in fact but little
else than the history of the crimes of the human
Even though the annals of remote ages
lie so involved in obscurity, that some degree of
uncertainty attaches itself to many of the events
ecorded, yet this one melancholy truth is always
clear, that most of the miseries which have been
brought upon mankind, have proceeded from
this general depravity.
|
cence and dignity of man, almost all the profes
sions, since they would have been rendered use-
less by such a state of innocence, would not
have existed. Without sin we may fairly pre-
sume there would have been no sickness; so
that every medical professor is a standing evi-
dence of this sad truth. Sin not only brought
sickness but death into the world; consequently
every funeral presents a more irrefragable ar-
gument than a thousand sermons.
Had man
persevered in his original integrity, there could
have been no litigation, for there would be no
contests about property in a world where none
would be inclined to attack it. Professors of
law, therefore, from the attorney who prosecutes
for a trespass, to the pleader who defends a cri-
minal, or the judge who condemns him, loudly
confirm the doctrine. Every victory by sea or
land should teach us to rejoice with humilia-
tion, for conquest itself brings a terrible, though
splendid attestation to the truth of the fall of
man.
Even those who deny the doctrine, act univer-
sally more or less on the principle. Why do we
all secure our houses with bolts, and bars, and
locks? Do we take those steps to defend our
lives or property from any particular fear; from
any suspicion of this neighbour, or that servant,
or the other invader? No-It is from a practical
conviction of the common depravity; from a
constant, pervading, but undefined dread of im-
pending evil arising from the sense of general
corruption. Are not prisons built, and laws en-
acted on the same practical principle?
But not to descend to the more degraded part
of our species. Why in the fairest transaction
of business is nothing executed without bonds,
receipts, and notes of hand? why does not a
perfect confidence in the dignity of human na-
ture abolish all these securities; if not between
enemies, or people indifferent to each other, yet
at least between friends and kindred, and the
most honourable connexions? why, but because
of that universal suspicion between man and
man, which, by all we see, and hear, and feel,
is become interwoven with our very make?
Though we do not entertain any individual sus-
picion, nay, though we have the strongest per-
sonal confidence, yet the acknowledged princi-
ple of conduct has this doctrine for its basis. 'I
will take a receipt, though it were from my bro-
ther,' is the established voice of mankind; or as
I have heard it more artfully put, by a fallacy
of which the very disguise discovers the princi.
ple, Think every man honest, but deal with
him as if you knew him to be otherwise.' And
as in a state of innocence, the beasts, it is pre-
sumed, would not have bled for the sustenance
of man, so their parchments would not have been
wanted as instruments of his security against
his fellow man.*
But the grand arguments for this doctrine
must be drawn from the Holy Scriptures; and
these, besides implying it almost continually,
* Bishop Butler distinctly declares this truth to be evi-
dent from experience as well as Revelation,' that this
world exhibits an idea of a Ruin; and he will hazard
much who ventures to assert that Butler defended Chris-
tianity upon principles unconsonant to reason, philoso
The world we now live in furnishes abundant
proof of this truth. In a world formed on the
deceitful theory of those who assert the inno-phy, or sound experience.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
405
others is, 'Strive to enter in at the strait gate.'
It is enough for us to believe that God, who will
judge the world in righteousness,' will judge
all men according to their opportunities. The
heathen to whom he has not sent the light of
the Gospel will probably not be judged by the
Gospel. But with whatever mercy he may
judge those who, living in a land of darkness,
are without knowledge of his revealed law, our
business is not with them, but with ourselves.
It is our business to consider what mercy he
will extend to those who, living in a Christian
country, abounding with means and ordinances,
where the Gospel is preached in its purity; it is
our business to inquire how he will deal with
those who shut their eyes to its beams, and who
close their ears to its truths. For an unbeliever
who has passed his life in the meredian of Scrip-
ture light, or for an outward but unfruitful pro-
fessor of Christianity, I know not what hope the
Gospel holds out.
expressly assert it; and that in instances too nu- | such curious inquirers concerning the state of
inerous to be all of them brought forward here.
Of these may I be allowed to produce a few;
'God saw that the wickedness of man was great,
and that every imagination of the thoughts of
his heart was only evil continually. God look-
ed upon the earth, and behold, it was corrupt;
for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the
earth. And it repented the Lord that he had
made man on the earth, and it grieved him at
his heart.'* This is a picture of mankind before
the flood, and the doctrine receives additional
confirmation in Scripture, when it speaks of the
times which followed after that tremendous
judgment had taken place. The Psalms abound
in lamentations on the depravity of man. They
are all gone aside; there is none that doeth
good, no not one.'—' In thy sight,' says David,
addressing the Most High, shall no man living
be justified.' Job, in his usual lofty strain of in-
terrogation, asks, What is man that he should
be clean, and he that is born of a woman that he
should be righteous? Behold the heavens are
not clean in His sight, how much more abomi-
nable and filthy is man, who drinketh iniquity
like water.'t
C
Nor do the Scriptures speak of this corruption
as arising only from occasional temptation, or |
from mere extrinsic causes. The wise man tells
us, that 'foolishness is bound up in the heart of
a child; the prophet Jeremiah assures us, 'the
heart is deceitful above all things, and despe-
rately wicked' and David plainly states the
doctrine: Behold, I was shapen in iniquity,
and in sin did my mother conceive me.' Can
language be more explicit?
The New Testament corroborates the Old.
Our Lord's reproof of Peter seems to take the
doctrine for granted: Thou savourest not the
things that be of God, but those that be of man;'
clearly intimating, that the ways of man are
opposite to the ways of God. And our Saviour,
in that affecting discourse to his disciples, ob-
serves to them that, as they were by his grace
made different from others, therefore they must
expect to be hated by those who were so unlike
them. And it should be particularly observed,
as another proof that the world is wicked, that
our Lord considered the world' as opposed to
him and to his disciples. 'If ye were of the
world, the world would love its own; but I have
chosen you out of the world, therefore the world
hateth you.'t St. John, writing to his Christian
church, states the same truth: We know that
we are of God, and the whole world lieth in
wickedness.'
Man in his natural and unbelieving state, is
likewise represented as in a state of guilt, and
under the displeasure of Almighty God. He
that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but
the wrath of God abideth on him.'
Here, however, if it be objected, that the hea-
then who never heard of the Gospel will not as-
suredly be judged by it, the Saviour's answer to
* Genesis vi.
↑ Perhaps one reeson why the faults of the most emi-
nent saints are recorded in Scripture, is to add fresh
confirmation to this doctrine. If Abraham, Moses, Noah,
Elijah, David, and Peter sinned, who shall we presume
to say has escaped the universal taint?
↑ John, xv. 19.
The natural state of man is again thus de-
scribed: The carnal mind is enmity against
God! (awful thought!) for it is not subject to
the law of God, neither indeed can be. So then
they that are in the flesh cannot please God.'
What the apostle means by being in the flesh, is
evident by what follows; for speaking of those
whose hearts were changed by divine grace, he
says, 'But ye are not in the flesh, but in the spi-
rit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwell in you;'
that is, you are not now in your natural state:
the change that has passed on your minds by
the influence of the Spirit of God, is so great
that your state may properly be called,' being
in the spirit.' It may be further observed that
the same apostle, writing to the churches of
Galatia, tells them, that the natural corruption
of the human heart is continually opposing the
Spirit of holiness which influences the regene-
rate. The flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and
the Spirit against the flesh; and these are con-
trary to each other:' which passage by the way,
at the same time that it proves the corruption of
the heart, proves the necessity of divine influ-
ences. And the apostle, with respect to him-
self, freely confesses and deeply laments the
workings of this corrupt principle: O wretch-
ed man that I am, who shall deliver me from
the body of this death?"
It has been objected by some who have oppo-
sed this doctrine, that the same Scriptures which
speak of mankind as being sinners, speak of
some as being righteous; and hence they would
argue that though this depravity of human na-
ture may be general, yet it cannot be universal.
This objection, when examined, serves only like
all other objections against the truth to establish
that which it was intended to destroy. For
what do the Scriptures assert respecting the
righteous? That there are some whose princi-
ples, views and conduct, are so different from
the rest of the world, and from what theirs them-
selves once were, that these persons are honoured
with the peculiar title of the sons of God.' But
no where do the Scriptures assert, that even
these are sinless; on the contrary their faults
are frequently mentioned; and persons of this
class are moreover represented as those on whom
406
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
a great change has passed: as having been for-
merly 'dead in trespasses and sins; but as
being now called out of darkness into light;"'
as 'translated into the kingdom of God's dear
Son;' as 'having passed from death to life.'
And St. Paul put this matter past all doubt, by
expressly asserting, that 'they were all by nature
the children of wrath even as others.'
It might be well to ask certain persons, who
oppose the doctrine in question, and who also
seem to talk as if they thought there were many
şinless people in the world, how they expect
that such sinless people will be saved? (though
indeed to talk of an innocent person being saved
involves a palpable contradiction in terms, of
which those who use the expression do not seem
to be aware; it is talking of curing a man al-
ready in health.) 'Undoubtedly,' such will say,
they will be received into those abodes of bliss
prepared for the righteous.' But be it remem-
bered, there is but one way to these blissful
abodes, and that is, through Jesus Christ: For
there is none other name given among men
whereby we must be saved.' If we ask whom
did Christ come to save? the Scripture directly
answers, 'He came into the world to save sin-
ners :—' IHis name was called Jesus, because he
came to save his people from their sins.' When
St. John was favoured with a heavenly vision,
he tells us, that he beheld a great multitude
which no man could number, of all nations, and
kindred, and people, and tongues, standing be-
fore the throne, and before the Lamb, clothed
with white robes: that one of the heavenly in-
habitants informed him who they were :-These
are they who came out of great tribulation, and
have washed their robes, and made them white
in the blood of the Lamb; therefore are they
before the throne of God, and serve Him day and
night in his Temple; and He that sitteth on the
throne shall dwell among them; they shall hun-
ger no more, neither thirst any more, neither
shall the sun light on them, nor any heat; for
the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne
shall feed them, and shall lead them to living
fountains of waters, and God shall wipe away
all tears from their eyes.'
C
·
We may gather from this description what
these glorious and happy beings once were
they were sinful creatures: their robes were
not spotless: They had washed them, and made
theni white in the blood of the Lamb.' They
are likewise generally represented as having
been once a suffering people: they came out of
great tribulation. They are described as hav
ing overcome the great tempter of mankind,
'by the blood of the Lamb:** as they who fol-
low the Lamb whithersoever he goeth' as 're-
deemed from among men.'t And their employ-
ment in the regions of bliss is a farther confirma-
tion of the doctrine of which we are treating.
The great multitude' &c. &c. we are told,
'stood and cried with a loud voice, Salvation to
our God, who sitteth upon the throne, and to the
Lamb!' Here we see they ascribe their salva-
tion to Christ, and consequently their present
happiness to his atoning blood. And in another
of their celestial anthems, they say in like man-
ner: 'Thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us
† Rev. xiv. 4,
* Rev xii. 14.
to God by Thy blood, out of every kindred, and
tongue, and people, and nation.'*
By all this it is evident that men of any other
description than redeemed sinners must gain ad-
mittance to heaven some other way than that
which the Scriptures point out; and also that
when they shall arrive there, so different will
be their employment, that they must have an
anthem peculiar to themselves.
Nothing is more adapted to 'the casting down
of high imaginations,' and to promote humility,
than this reflection, that heaven is always in
Scripture pointed out not as the reward of the
innocent, but as the hope of the penitent. This,
while it is calculated to 'exclude boasting,' the
temper the most opposite to the Gospel, is yet
the most suited to afford comfort; for were hea-
ven promised as the reward of innocence, who
could attain to it? but being as it is the pro-
mised portion of faith and repentance, purchased
for us by the blood of Christ, and offered to
every penitent believer, who is compelled to
miss it?
It is urged that the belief of this doctrine of
our corruption produces many ill effects, and
therefore it should be discouraged. That it does
not produce those ill effects, when not misun-
derstood or partially represented, we shall at-
tempt to show at the same time let it be ob-
served, if it be really true we must not reject it
on account of any of these supposed ill conse-
quences. Truth may often be attended with
disagreeable effects, but if it be truth it must
still be pursued. If, for instance, treason should
exist in a country, every one knows the disa-
greeable effects which will follow such a convic-
tion; but our not believing such treason to exist,
will not prevent such effect following it on the
contrary, our believing it may prevent the fatal
consequences.
It is objected, that this doctrine debases and
degrades human nature, and that finding fault
with the building is only another way of finding
fault with the architect. To the first part of
this objection it may be remarked, that if man
be really a corrupt, fallen being, it is proper to
represent him as such: the fault then lies in the
man, and not in the doctrine, which only states
the truth. As to the inference which is sup-
posed to follow, namely, that it throws the fault
upon the Creator, it proceeds upon the false sup-
position that man's present corrupt state is the
state in which he was originally created: the
contrary of which is the truth. God made man
upright, but he hath sought out many inven-
|tions."
It is likewise objected, that as this doctrine
must give us such a bad opinion of mankind, it
must consequently produce ill-will, hatred, and
suspicion. But it should be remembered, that
it gives us no worse an opinion of other men
than it gives us of ourselves; and such views
of ourselves have a very salutary effect, inas
much as they have a tendency to produce humi
lity; and hnmility is not likely to produce ill-
will to others, for only from pride cometh con-
tention:' and as to the views it gives us of man-
kind, it represents us as fellow-sufferers; and
surely the consideration that we are companions
* Rev. v. 9,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
407
in misery is not calculated to produce hatred. |
The truth is, these effects, where they have ac-
tually followed, have followed from a false and
partial view of the subject.
Old persons who have seen much of the world,
and who have little religion, are apt to be strong
in their belief of man's actual corruption; but
not taking it up on Christian grounds, this be-
lief in them shows itself in a narrow and ma-
lignant temper; in uncharitable judgment and
harsh opinions, in individual suspicion, and in
too general a disposition to hatred.
drives him to seek a better refuge; and such an
one is in a proper state to receive the glorious
doctrine we are next about to contemplate,
namely,
THAT GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD, THAT HE GAVE
IIIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON, THAT WHOSOEVER EE-
LIEVED ON HIM SHOULD NOT PERISH, BUT HAVE
EVERLASTING LIFE.
Of this doctrine it is of the last importance
to form just views, for as it is the only doctrine
Suspicion and hatred also are the uses to which can keep the humble penitent from de-
which Rochefaucault and the other French phi-spair, so, on the other hand, great care must be
losophers have converted this doctrine: their
acute minds intuitively found the corruption of
man, and they saw it without its concomitant
and correcting doctrine; they allowed man to
be a depraved creature, but disallowed his high
original: they found him in a low state, but did
not conceive of him as having fallen from a bet.
ter. They represent him rather as a brute than
as an apostate; not taking into the account that
his present degraded nature and depraved fa-
culties are not his original state: that he is not
such as he came out of the hands of his Creator,
but such as he has been made by sin. Nor do
they know that he has not even now lost all re-
mains of his primitive dignity, all traces of his
divine original, but is still capable of a restora-
tion more glorious
taken that false views of it do not lead us to pre-
sumption. In order to understand it rightly,
we must not fill our minds with our own rea-
sonings upon it, which is the way in which
some good people have been misled, but we must
betake ourselves to the Scriptures, wherein we
shall find the doctrine stated so plainly as to
show that the mistakes have not arisen from a
want of clearness in the Scriptures, but from a
desire to make it bend to some favourite notions.
While it has been totally rejected by some, it
has been so mutilated by others, as hardly to
retain any resemblance to the Scripture doctrine
of redemption. We are told in the beautiful
passage last quoted the source-the love of God
to a lost world;-who the Redeemer was-the
Son of God; the end for which this plan was
formed and executed-' that whosoever believed
Than is dreamt of in their philosophy.
in him should not perish, but have everlasting
Perhaps, too, they know from what they feel all life.'-As I live, saith the Lord, I have no pleasure
the evil to which man is inclined; but they do in the death of the wicked.'' He would have
doi
not know, for they have not felt, all the good of all men to be saved and come to the knowledge
which he is capable by the superinduction of the of the truth.'' He would not have any perish,
divine principle: thus they asperse human na- but that all should come to repentance.' There
ture instead of representing it fairly, and in so is nothing surely in all this to promote gloomi-
doing it is they who calumniate the great Cre- ness. On the contrary, if kindness and mercy
have a tendency to win and warm the heart,
The doctrine of corruption, is likewise ac- here is every incentive to joy and cheerfulness.
cused of being a gloomy, discouraging doctrine, Christianity looks kindly towards all, and with
and an enemy to joy and comfort.-Now sup. peculiar tenderness on such as, from humbling
pose this objection true in its fullest extent, is views of their own unworthiness, might be led
it any way unreasonable that a being fallen into to fancy themselves excluded:-we are expressly
a state of sin, under the displeasure of Almighty told, that Christ died for all-that he tasted
God, should feel seriously alarmed at being in death for every man ;'-that ' he died for the sins
such a state? Is the condemned criminal blamed of the whole world. Accordingly he has com-
because he is not merry? And would it be es-manded that his gospel should be preached to
teemed a kind action to persuade him that he is
not condemned in order to make him so?
ator.
•
every creature;' which is in effect declaring,
that not a single human being is excluded: for
But this charge is not true in the sense in to preach the gospel is to offer a Saviour :-and
tended by those who bring it forward.-Those the Saviour in the plainest language offers him-
who believe this doctrine are not the most self to all,-declaring to all the ends of the
gloomy people. When, indeed, any one by the earth,'-' Look unto me and be saved.' It is
influence of the Holy Spirit is brought to view therefore an undeniable truth, that no one will
his state as it really is, a state of guilt and dan-perish for the want of a Saviour, but for reject-
ger, it is natural that fear should be excited in ing him. That none are excluded who do not
his mind, but it is such a fear as impels him to exclude themselves, as many unhappily do, who
'flee from the wrath to come; it is such a fearreject the counsel of God against themselves,
as moved Noah to prepare an ark to the saving and so receive the grace of God in vain.'
of his house.' Such an one will likewise feel But to suppose that because Christ has died
sorrow; not however the sorrow of the world for the sins of the whole world,' the whole
which worketh death,' but that godly sorrow world will therefore be saved, is a most fatal
which worketh repentance. Such an one is said mistake. In the same book which tells us that
to be driven to despair by this doctrine; but it' Christ died for all,' we have likewise this awful
is the despair of his own ability to save himself; admonition; Strait is the gate, and few there
it is that wholesome despair of his own merits be that find it ;' which, whether it be understood
produced by conviction and humility which of the immediate reception of the gospel, or of
•
408
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
the final use which was too likely to be made
of it, gives no encouragement to hope that all
will be qualified to partake of its promises. And
whilst it declares that there is no other name
whereby we may be saved but the name of Je-
sus; it likewise declares
be used, or it will be withdrawn. The Almighty
thinks it not derogatory to his free grace to de-
clare, that those only who do his command-
ments have right to the tree of life.' And the
scriptures represent it as not derogatory to the
sacrifice of Christ, to follow his example in well-
doing. The only caution is, that we must not
THAT ' WITHOUT HOLINESS NO MAN SHALL SEE THE work in our own strength, nor bring in our con-
LORD.'
tribution of works as if in aid of the supposed
deficiency of His merits.
For we must not in our over-caution fancy,
that because Christ has 'redeemed us from the
curse of the law,' we are therefore without a
law. In acknowledging Christ as a deliverer,
we must not forget that he is a law-giver too,
and that we are expressly commanded to fulfil
the law of Christ' if we wish to know what his
laws are, we must 'search the Scriptures,' espe-
cially the New Testament; there we shall find
him declaring
It is much to be feared that some, in their
zeal to defend the gospel doctrines of free grace,
have materially injured the gospel doctrine of
holiness stating that Christ has done all in
such a sense, as that there is nothing left for us
to do. But do the Scriptures hold out this lan-
guage? Come, for all things are ready,' is the
gospel call; in which we may observe, that at
the same time that it tells us that all things are
ready,' it nevertheless tells us that we must
come.' Food being provided for us will not
benefit us except we partake of it. It will not
avail us that Christ our passover is sacrificed
for us,' unless we keep the feast.-We must
make use of the fountain which is opened for Our Saviour says, that 'except a man be born
sin and uncleanness,' if we would be purified. again, he cannot see the kingdom of God:' that
! All, indeed, who are athirst are invited to take it is not a mere acknowledging His authority,
of the waters of life freely; but if we feel no calling him 'Lord, Lord,' that will avail any
thirst;' if we do not drink, their saving quali-thing, except we Do what He commands; that
ties are of no avail.
THE ABSOLUTE NECESSITY OF A CHANGE OF HEART
AND LIFE.
1*.
men are grown tired of them, or find they in.
jure their credit, health, or fortune; nor does it
consist in inoffensiveness and obliging manners,
nor indeed in any merely outward reformation,
any thing short of this is like a man building
It is the more necessary to insist on this in his house upon the sand, which when the storms
the present day, as there is a worldly and come on, will certainly fall. In like manner
fashionable, as well as a low and sectarian An. the apostles are continually enforcing the neces
tinomianism: there lamentably prevails in the sity of this change, which they describe under
world an unwarranted assurance of salvation, the various names of the new man;
•'*' the
founded on a slight, vague, and general confi- new creature ;'-'a transformation into the
dence in what Christ has done and suffered for image of God;'-' a participation of the divine
us, as if the great object of his doing and suffer-nature.'s Nor is this change represented as
ing had been to emancipate us from all obliga- consisting merely in a change of religious opi-
tions to duty and obedience; and as if, because nions, not even in being delivered over from a
he died for sinners, we might therefore safely worse to a better system of doctrines, nor in ex-
and comfortably go on to live in sin, contenting changing gross sins for those which are more
ourselves with now and then a transient, formal, sober and reputable: nor in renouncing the sins
and unmeaning avowal of our unworthiness, our of youth, and assuming those of a quieter period
obligation, and the all-sufficiency of his atone-of life; nor in leaving off evil practices because
ment. By the discharge of this quit-rent, of
which all the cost consists in acknowledgment,
the sensual, the worldly, and the vain hope to
find a refuge in heaven, when driven from the
enjoyment of this world. But this cheap and
indolent Christianity is no where taught in the
Bible. The faith inculcated there is not a lazy,
professional faith, but that faith which 'pro-
duceth obedience,' that faith which worketh by
ove,' that faith of which the practical language
is-'Strive that you may enter in So run
that you may obtain ;'-' So fight that you may
lay hold on eternal life :-that faith which di-
rects us not to be weary in well-doing ;'
which says, work out your own salvation :'-
never forgetting at the same time, that it is
God which worketh in us both to will and to do.'
The contrary doctrine is implied in the very
name of the Redeemer; And his name shall
be called 'Jesus, for he shall save his people
from their sins,' not in their sins.-Are those
rich supplies of grace which the gospel offers;
are those abundant aids of the Spirit which it
promises, tendered to the slothful?-No. God
will have all his gifts improved. Grace must
But the change consists in being renewed
in the spirit of our minds;' in being conformed
to the image of the Son of God:' in being call-
ed out of darkness into his marvellous light.'
And the whole of this great change, its begin-
ning, progress, and final accomplishment (for it is
represented as a gradual change) is ascribed to
THE INFLUENCES OF THE HOLY SPIRIT.
We are perpetually reminded of our utter in-
ability to help ourselves, that we may set the
higher value on those gracious aids which are
held out to us. We are taught that we are
not sufficient to think any thing as of ourselves,
but our sufficiency is of God.' And when we are
told that if we live after the flesh, we shall die,'
we are at the same time reminded, that it is
through the Spirit that we must mortify the
* Ephesians, iv. 24.
† 2 Corinthians, xii.
† Galatians, vi. 15.
§ 2 Peter, i. 4.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
409
portant one trifling? If such preachers have
given offence by their uncouth manner of ma
naging an awful doctrine, that indeed furnishes
a caution to treat the subject more discreetly,
but it is no just reason for avoiding the doctrine.
For to keep a truth out of sight because it has
been absurdly handled or ill-defended, might in
time be assigned as a reason for keeping back,
one by one, every doctrine of our holy church;
for which of them has not occasionally had im-
prudent advocates or weak champions?
deeds of the body.' We are likewise cautioned |
that we 'grieve not the Holy Spirit of God,'
that we quench not the Spirit.' By all which
expressions, and many others of like import, we
are taught that, while we are to ascribe with
humble gratitude every good thought, word, and
work, to the influence of the Holy Spirit, we are
not to look on such influence as superseding our
own exertions; and it is too plain that we may
reject the gracious offers of assistance, since
otherwise there would be no occasion to caution
us not to do it. The scriptures have illustrated Be it remembered that the doctrine in question
this in terms which are familiar indeed, but is not only interwoven by allusion, implication,
which are therefore only the more condescend- or direct assertion throughout the whole scrip-
ing and endearing, ‘Behold, I stand at the door ture, but that it stands prominently personified
and knock. If any man hear my voice and at the opening of the New as well as the Old
open the door, I will come in to him, and will Testament. The devil's temptation of our Lord,
sup with him, and he with me.' Observe, it is in which he is not represented figuratively, but
not said, if any man will not listen to me, I will visibly and palpably, stands exactly on the same
force open the door. But if we refuse admit-ground of authority with other events which are
tance to such a guest, we must abide by the
consequences.
The sublime doctrine of divine assistance is
the more to be prized not only on account of
our own helplessness, but from the additional
consideration of the powerful adversary with
whom the Christian has to contend: an article
of our faith by the way, which is growing into
general disrepute among the politer class of so-
ciety. Nay, there is a kind of ridicule attached
to the very suggestion of the subject, as if it
were exploded by general agreement, on full
proof of its being an absolute absurdity, utterly
repugnant to the liberal spirit of an enlightened
age. And it requires no small neatness of ex-
pression and periphrastic ingenuity to get the
very mention tolerated;-I mean
THE SCRIPTURE DOCTRINE OF THE EXISTENCE AND
POWER OF OUR GREAT SPIRITUAL ENEMY.
:
This is considered by the fashionable sceptic
as a vulgar invention, which ought to be banish-
ed with the belief in dreams, and ghosts and
witchcraft by the fashionable Christian, as an
ingenious allegory, but not as a literal truth;
and by almost all, as a doctrine which, when it
happens to be introduced at church, has at least
nothing to do with the pews, but is by common
consent made over to the aisles, if indeed it must
be retained at all.
received without repugnance. And it may not
be an unuseful observation to remark, that the
very refusing to believe in an evil spirit, may be
considered as one of his own suggestions; for
there is not a more dangerous illusion than to
believe ourselves out of the reach of illusions,
nor a more alarming temptation than to fancy
that we are not liable to be tempted.
But the dark cloud raised by this doctrine
will be dispelled by the cheering certainty that
our blessed Saviour having himself been tempt
ed like as we are, is able to deliver those who are
tempted.'
To return.-From this imperfect sketch we
may see how suitable the religion of Christ is to
fallen man! How exactly it meets every want!
No one needs now perish because he is a sinner,
provided he be willing to forsake his sins; for
'Jesus Christ came into the world to save sin,
ners; and He is now exalted to be a Prince
and a Saviour, to give repentance and forgive
ness of sin." Which passage, be it observed,
may be considered as pointing out to us the or-
der in which he bestows his blessings; he gives
first repentance and then forgiveness.
We may likewise see how much the character
of a true Christian rises above every other; that
there is a wholeness, an integrity, a complete-
ness in the Christian character, that a few natu-
ral, pleasing qualities, not cast in the mould of
the Gospel, are but as beautiful fragments, or
May I, with great humility and respect, pre-well-turned single limbs, which for want of that
sume to suggest to our divines that they would
do well not to lend their countenance to the mo-
dish curtailments of the Christian faith: nor to
shun the introduction of this doctrine whenever
it consists with their subject to bring it forward!
A truth which is seldom brought before the eye,
imperceptibly grows less and less important;
and if it be an unpleasing truth, we grow more
and more reconciled to its absence, till at length
its intrusion becomes offensive, and we learn in
the end to renounce what we at first only ne-
glected. Because some coarse and ranting en-
husiasts have been fond of using tremendous
terms and awful denunciations with a violence
and frequency, which might make it seem to be
a gratification to them to denounce judgments
and anticipate torments, can their coarseness or
vulgarity make a true doctrine false, or an im-
VOL. I.
beauty, which arises from the proportion of
parts, for want of that connexion of the members
with the living head, are of little comparative
excellence. There may be amiable qualities
which are not Christian graces; and the apostle,
after enumerating every separate article of at-
tack or defence with which a Christian warrior
is to be accoutred, sums up the matter by di-
recting that we put on 'the whole armour of
God.' And this completeness is insisted on by
all the apostles. One prays that his converts
may stand perfect and complete in the whole
will of God ;" another enjoins that they be per-
fect and entire, wanting nothing.'
Now we are not to suppose that they expected
any convert to be without faults; they knew
too well the constitution of the human heart to
form so unfounded an
form so unfounded an expectation. But Chris
410
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
part of Scripture between practice and belief,
the religious world furnishes two sorts of people
who seem to enlist themselves, as if in opposi-
tion, under the banner of Saint Paul and Saint
Christian cause had fought for two masters.
Those who affect respectively to be the disciples
of each, treat faith and works as if they were
opposite interests, instead of inseparable points.
Nay, they go farther, and set Saint Paul at va-
riance with himself.
tians must have no fault in their principle; their |
views must be correct, their proposed scheme
must be faultless; their intention must be sin-
gle: their standard must be lofty; their object
must be right; their mark must be the high call-James; as if those two great champions of the
ing of God in Christ Jesus.'-There must be no
allowed evil, no warranted defection, no tolerated
impurity, no habitual irregularity. Though they
do not rise as high as they ought, nor as they
wish, in the scale of perfection, yet the scale it-
self must be correct, and the desire of ascending
perpetual; counting nothing done while any
thing remains undone. Every grace must be
kept in exercise; conquests once made over an
evil propensity must not only be maintained but
extended. And in truth Christianity so com.
prizes contrary, and as it may be thought irre-
concilable excellences, that those which seem
su incompatible as to be incapable by nature of
being inmates of the same breast are almost ne-
cessarily involved in the Christian character.
For instance; Christianity requires that our
faith be at once fervent and sober; that our love
be both ardent and lasting; that our patience be
not only heroic but gentle; she demands daunt.
less zeal and genuine humility; active services
and complete self-renunciation; high attain-
ments in goodness, with deep consciousness of
defect; courage in reproving, and meekness in
bearing reproof; a quick perception of what is
sinful; with a willingness to forgive the offender;
active virtue ready to do all, and passive virtue
ready to bear all. We must stretch every fa-
culty in the service of our Lord, and yet bring
every thought into obedience to Him: while we
aim to live in the exercise of every Christian
grace, we must account ourselves unprofitable
servants: we must strive for the crown, yet re-
ceive it as a gift, and then lay it at our Master's
feet: while we are busily trading in the world
with our Lord's talents, we must commune
with our hearts, and be still:' while we strive
to practise the purest disinterestedness, we must
be contented though we meet with selfishness in
return; and while laying out our lives for the
good of mankind, we must submit to reproach
without murmuring, and to ingratitude without
resentment. And to render us equal to all these
services, Christianity bestows not only the pre-
cepts, but the power; she does what the great
poet of Ethics lamented that reason could not do,
'she lends us arms as well as rules.'
For here, if not only the worldly and the ti-
mid, but the humble and the well-disposed, should
demand with fear and trembling, 'Who is suffi-
cient for these things?' Revelation makes its
own reviving answer, 'My grace is sufficient for
thee.'
It will be well here to distinguish that there
are two sorts of Christian professors, one of
which affect to speak of Christianity as if it were
a mere system of doctrines, with little reference
to their influence on life and manners; while
the other consider it as exhibiting a scene of
human duties independent of its doctrines. For
though the latter sort may admit the doctrines,
yet they contemplate them as a separate and
disconnected set of opinions, rather than as an
influential principle of action. In violation of
that beautiful harmony which subsists in every
Now instead of reasoning on the point, let us
refer to the apostle in question, who himself de-
finitely settles the dispute. The apostolic order
and method in this respect deserves notice and
imitation: for it is observable that the earlier
parts of most of the epistles abound in the doc-
trines of Christianity, while those latter chap-
ters, which wind up the subject, exhibit all the
duties which grow out of them, as the natural
and necessary productions of such a living root.*
But this alternate mention of doctrine and prac-
tice, which seemed likely to unite, has on the
contrary formed a sort of line of separation be-
tween these two orders of believers, and intro-
duced a broken and mutilated system. Those
who would make Christianity consist of doc-
trines only, dwell for instance, on the first eleven
chapters of the Epistle to the Romans, as con-
taining exclusively the sum and substance of
the Gospel. While the mere moralists, who
wish to strip Christianity of her lofty and appro-
priate attributes, delight to dwell on the twelfth
chapter, which is a table of duties, as exclusive-
ly as if the preceding chapters made no part of
the sacred Canon. But Saint Paul himself, who
was at least as sound a theologian as any of his
commentators, settles the matter another way,
by making the duties of the twelfth grow out
of the doctrines of the antecedent eleven, just as
any other consequence grows out of its cause.
And as if he suspected that the indivisible union
between them might possibly be overlooked, he
links the two distinct divisions together by a lo-
gical therefore,' with which the twelfth begins:
—'I beseech you therefore,' (that is, as the effect
of all I have been inculcating,) that you pre-
sent your bodies a living sacrifice, acceptable to
God,' &c. and then goes on to enforce on them,
as a consequence of what he had been preach-
ing, the practice of every Christian virtue. This
combined view of the subject seems on the one
hand, to be the only means of preventing the
substitution of Pagan morality for Christian ho-
liness: and, on the other, of securing the leading
doctrine of justification by faith, from the dread-
ful danger of Antinomian licentiousness; every
human obligation being thus grafted on the liv
ing stock of a divine principle.
CHAP. XXI.
On the duty and efficacy of prayer.
It is not proposed to enter largely on a topic
*This is the language of our church, as may be seen
in her 12th article; viz.
lively faith; insomuch that by them a lively faith may
be as evidently known, as a tree discerned by its fruit.
Good works do spring out necessarily of a true and
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
411
which has been exhausted by the ablest pens. | lieve Omnipotence of part of his burden, by as-
But as a work of this nature seems to require signing to his care only such a portion as may
that so important a subject should not be over- be more easily managed, seem to have no ade-
looked, it is intended to notice in a slight man-quate conception of his attributes.
ner a few of those many difficulties and popular
objections which are brought forward against
the use and efficacy of prayer, even by those
who would be unwilling to be suspected of im-
piety and unbelief.
There is a class of objectors who strangely
profess to withhold homage from the Most High,
not out of contempt but reverence. They affect
to consider the use of prayer as derogatory from
the omniscience of God, asserting that it looks
as if we thought he stood in need of being in-
formed of our wants; and as derogatory from
his goodness, as implying that he needs to be
put in mind of them.
They forget that infinite wisdom puts him as
easily within reach of all knowledge, as infinite
power does of all performance; that he is a Be-
ing in whose plans complexity makes no diffi-
culty, variety no obstruction, and multiplicity
no confusion; that to ubiquity distance does not
exist; that to infinity space is annihilated; that
past, present, and future, are discerned more
accurately at one glance of his eye, to whom a
thousand years are as one day, than a single
moment of time or a single point of space can
be by ours.
To the other part of the objection, founded on
the supposed interference (that is irreconcilable-
ness) of one man's petitions with those of an-
other, this answer seems to suggest itself: first,
that we must take care that when we ask, we
do not ask amiss;' that for instance, we ask
chiefly, and in an unqualified manner, only for
spiritual blessings to ourselves and others; and
in doing this the prayer of one man cannot in-
terfere with that of another, because no propor-
tion of sanctity or virtue implored by one ob-
But is it not enough for such poor frail beings
as we are to know, that God himself does not
consider prayer as derogatory either to his wis-
dom or goodness? And shall we erect ourselves
into judges of what is consistent with the attri-
butes of Him before whom angels fall prostrate
with self-abasement? Will he thank such de-
fenders of his attributes, who, while they profess
to reverence, scruple not to disobey him? It
ought rather to be viewed as a great encourage-structs the same attainments in another. Next
ment to prayer, that we are addressing a Being,
who knows our wants better than we can ex-
press them, and whose preventing goodness is
always ready to relieve them. Prayer seems to
unite the different attributes of the Almighty
for if he is indeed the God that heareth prayer,
that is the best reason why to him all flesh
should come.'
It is objected by another class, and on the spe-
cious ground of humility too, though we do not
always find the objector himself quite as humble
as his plea would be thought, that it is arrogant
in such insignificant beings as we are to pre-
sume to lay our petty necessities before the Great
and Glorious God, who cannot be expected to
condescend to the multitude of trifling and even
interfering requests which are brought before
him by his creatures. These and such like ob.
jections arise from mean and unworthy thoughts
of the Great Creator. It seems as if those who
make them considered the Most High as such
an one as themselves;' a Being, who can per-
form a certain given quantity of business, but
who would be overpowered with an additional
quantity. Or, at best, is it not considering the
Almighty in the light, not of an infinite God,
but of a great man, of a minister, or a king,
who, while he superintends public and national
concerns, is obliged to neglect small and indivi-
dual petitions, because his hands being full he
cannot spare that leisure and attention which
suffice for every thing? They do not consider
him as that infinitely glorious Being, who while
he beholds at once all that is doing in heaven
and in earth, is at the same time as attentive to
the prayer of the poor destitute, as present to
the sorrowful sighing of the prisoner, as if each
of these forlorn creatures were individually the
object of his undivided attention.
These critics, who are for sparing the Su-
preme Being the trouble of our prayers, and, if
I may so speak without profaneness, would re-
in asking for temporal and inferior blessings,
we must qualify our petition, even though it
should extend to deliverance from the severest
pains, or to our very life itself, according to that
example of our Saviour: Father if it be possi-
ble, let this cup pass from me. Nevertheless,
not my will, but thine, be done.' By thus qua-
lifying our prayer, we exercise ourselves in an
act of resignation to God; we profess not to wish
what will interfere with his benevolent plan, and
yet we may hope by prayer to secure the bless-
ing so far as it is consistent with it. Perhaps
the reason why this objection to prayer is so
strongly felt, is the too great disposition to pray
for merely temporal and worldly blessings, and
to desire them in the most unqualified manner,
not submitting to be without them, even though
the granting them should be inconsistent with
the general plan of Providence.
Another class continue to bring forward, as
pertinaciously as if it had never been answered,
the exhausted argument, that seeing God is im-
mutable, no petitions of ours can ever change
Him: that events themselves being settled in a
fixed and unalterable course, and bound in a fa-
tal necessity, it is folly to think that we can dis-
turb the established laws of the universe, or in-
terrupt the course of Providence by our prayers:
and that it is absurd to suppose these firm de-
crees can be reversed by any requests of ours,
Without entering into the wide and trackless
field of fate and free will, from which pursuit Į
am kept back equally by the most profound ig-
norance and the most invincible dislike, I would
only observe, that these objections apply equally
to all human action as well as to prayer. It
may therefore with the same propriety be urged,
that seeing God is immutable and his decrees
unalterable, therefore our actions can produce
no change in Him or in our own state. Weak
as well as impious reasoning! It may be ques,
tioned whether even the modern French and
412
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
lofty One who inhabiteth eternity, and that
heart of the 'contrite in which he delights to
dwell.' He knows that this inexplicable union
between beings so unspeakably, so essentially
different, can only be maintained by prayer:
that this is the strong but secret chain which
unites time with eternity, earth with heaven,
man with God.
German philosophers may not be prevailed upon, link of communication between 'the high and
to acknowledge the existence of God, if they
might make such a use of his attributes. The
truth is (and it is a truth discoverable without
any depth of learning) all these objections are
the offspring of pride. Poor short-sighted man
cannot reconcile the omniscience and decrees
of God with the efficacy of prayer; and because
he cannot reconcile them, he modestly concludes
they are irreconcilable. How much more wis-
dom, as well as happiness, results from an hum-
ble Christian spirit! Such a plain practical text
as, 'Draw near unto God, and he will draw near
unto you,' carries more consolation, more true
knowledge of his wants and their remedy to the
heart of a penitent sinner, than all the tomes
of casuistry,' which have puzzled the world ever
since the question was first set afloat by its
original propounders.
And as the plain man only got up and walked,
to prove there was such a thing as motion,
in answer to the philosopher who in an elabo-
rate theory denied it: so the plain Christian,
when he is borne down with the assurance that
there is no efficacy in prayer, requires no better
argument to repel the assertion, than the good
he finds in prayer itself.
All the doubts proposed to him respecting
God, do not so much affect him, as this one
doubt respecting himself: 'Ifl regard iniquity
in my heart, the Lord will not hear me.' For
the chief doubt and difficulty of a real Christian
consists, not so much of a distrust of God's
ability and willingness to answer the prayer of
the upright, as in a distrust of his own upright-
ness, as in a doubt whether he himself belongs
to that description of persons to whom the pro-
mises are made, and of the quality of the prayer
which he offers up.
The plain Christian, as was before observed,
cannot explain why it is so; but while he feels
the efficacy, he is content to let the learned de-
fine it; and he will no more postpone prayer till
he can produce a chain of reasoning on the
manner in which he derives benefit from it,
than he will postpone eating till he can give a
scientific lecture on the nature of digestion; he
is contented with knowing that his meat has
nourished him; and he leaves to the philosopher,
who may choose to defer his meal till he has
elaborated his treatise, to starve in the interim.
The Christian feels better than he is able to ex-
plain, that the functions of his spiritual life can
no more be carried on without habitual prayer,
than those of his natural life without frequent
bodily nourishment. He feels renovation and
strength grow out of the use of the appointed
means, as necessarily in the one case as in the
other. He feels that the health of his soul can
no more be sustained, and its powers kept in
continued vigour, by the prayers of a distant
day, than his body by the aliment of a distant
day.
But there is one motive to the duty in ques-
tion, far more constraining to the true believer
than all others that can be named; more im-
perious than any argument on its utility, than
any convictions of its efficacy, even than any
experience of its consolations. Prayer is the
Let the subjects of a dark fate maintain a command of God; the plain, positive, repeated
sullen, or the slaves of a blind chance a hopeless injunction of the Most High, who declares,
silence, but let the child of a compassionate Al-'He will be inquired of.'
He will be inquired of.' This is enough to
mighty Father supplicate His mercies with a
humble confidence, inspired by the assurance,
that 'the very hairs of his head are numbered.'
Let him take comfort in that individual and
minute attention, without which not a sparrow
falls to the ground, as well as in that heart-
cheering promise; that, as 'the eyes of the
Lord are over the righteous,' so are 'his ears
open to their prayers.' And as a pious bishop
has observed, 'Our Saviour has as it were
hedged in and inclosed the Lord's prayer with
these two great fences of our faith, God's willing-
ness and his power to help us ;' the preface to it
assures us of the one, which by calling God by
the tender name of 'Our Father,' intimates his
readiness to help his children: and the animat-
ing conclusion, Thine is the power,' rescues
us from every unbelieving doubt of his ability to
help us.
C
A Christian knows, because he feels, that
prayer is, though in a way to him inscrutable, the
medium of connexion between God and his ra-
tional creatures: the means appointed by him to
draw down his blessings upon us. The Christian
knows that prayer is the appointed means of unit-
ing two ideas, one of the highest magnificence,
the other of the most profound lowliness, within
the compass of imagination; namely, that it is the
secure the obedience of the Christian, even
though a promise were not, as it always is, at-
tached to the command. But in this case, to
our unspeakable comfort, the promise is as clear
as the precept: Ask, and ye shall receive—
seek, and ye shall find-Knock, and it shall be
opened unto you.' This is encouragement
enough for the plain Christian. As to the man-
ner in which prayer is made to coincide with
the general scheme of God's plan in the govern-
ment of human affairs; how God has left him-
self at liberty to reconcile our prayer with his
own predetermined will, the Christian does not
very critically examine, his precise and imme-
diate duty being to pray, and not to examine;
and probably this being among the
things which belong to God,' and not to us, it
will lie hidden among those numberless myste-
ries which we shall not fully understand till
faith be lost in sight.
secret
In the meantime it is enough for the humble
believer to be assured, that the Judge of all the
earth is doing right; it is enough for him to be
assured in that word of God' which cannot lie,'
of numberless actual instances of the efficacy
of prayer in obtaining blessings and averting
calamities, both national and individual: it is
enough for him to be convinced experimentally,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE
413
of tried faith. Of this holy perseverance Job
was a noble instance. Defeat and disappoint-
ment rather stimulated than stopped his prayers-
Though in a vehement strain of passionate elo-
quence he exclaims, 'I cry out of wrong, but I
am not heard; I cry aloud, but there is no
judgment,' yet so persuaded was he, notwith-
standing, of the duty of continuing this holy
by that internal evidence, which is perhaps
paramount to all other evidence, the comfort he
himself has received from prayer when all other
comforts have failed :—and above all to end with
the same motive with which we began, the only
motive indeed which he requires for the perfor-
mance of any duty-it is motive enough for
him that thus saith the Lord. For when a
serious Christian has once got a plain unequivo-importunity, that he persisted against all human
cal command from his Maker on any point, he
never suspends his obedience while he is amus-
ing himself with looking about for subordinate
motives of action. Instead of curiously ana-
lysing the nature of the duty, he considers
how he shall best fulfil it for on these points
at least it may be said without controversy
that the ignorant (and here who is not igno-
rant?) have nothing to do with the law but to
obey it?
Öthers there are, who, perhaps not contro-
verting any of the premises, yet neglect to build
practical consequences on the admisssion of
them, who neither denying the duty nor the
efficacy of prayer, yet go on to live either in the
irregular observance or the total neglect of it,
as appetite, or pleasure, or business, or humour,
may happen to predominate; and who by living
almost without prayer, may be said to live
almost without God in the world.' To such we
can only say, that they little know what they
lose. The time is hastening on when they will
look upon those blessings as invaluable, which
now they think not worth asking for; when
they will bitterly regret the absence of those
means and opportunities which now they either
neglect or despise. O that they were wise!
that they understood this! that they would con-
sider their latter end!'
There are again others, who it is to be feared
having once lived in the habit of prayer, yet not
having been well grounded in those principles
of faith and repentance on which genuine prayer
is built, have by degrees totally discontinued it.
They do not find,' say they, that their affairs
prosper the better or the worse; or perhaps they
were unsuccessful in their affairs even before
they dropped the practice, and so had no en-
couragement to go on.' They do not know that
they had no encouragement; they do not know
how much worse their affairs might have gone
on, had they discontinued it sooner, or how their
prayers helped to retard their ruin. Or they
do not know that perhaps they asked amiss,'
or that if they had obtained what they asked,
they might have been far more unhappy. For
a true believer never restrains prayer' because
he is not certain he obtains every individual re-
quest; for he is persuaded that God, in com-
passion to our ignorance, sometimes in great
mercy withholds what we desire, and often dis-
appoints his most favoured children by giving
them, not what they ask, but what he knows is
really good for thein. The froward child, as a
pious prelate observes, cries for the shining
blade, which the tender parent withholds, know-
ing it would cut his fingers.
Thus to persevere when we have not the en-
couragement of visible success, is an evidence
* Bishop Hall.
hope, till he attained to that exalted pitch of
unshaken faith, by which he was enabled to
break out into that sublime apostrophe, Though
he slay me, yet I will trust in him.'
But may we not say that there is a consider-
able class, who not only bring none of the ob-
jections which we have stated against the use
of prayer; who are so far from rejecting, that
they are exact and regular in the performance
of it; who yet take it up on as low ground as is
consistent with their ideas of their own safety;
who while they consider prayer as an indispen-
sable form, believe nothing of that change of
heart and of those holy tempers which it is in-
tended to produce? Many who yet adhere
scrupulously to the letter, are so far from enter-
ing into the spirit of this duty, that they are
strongly inclined to suspect those of hypocrisy
who adopt the true scriptural views of prayer.
Nay, as even the Bible may be so wrested as to
be made to speak almost any language in support
of almost any opinion, these persons lay hold on
Scripture itself to bear them out in their own
slight views of this duty; and they profess to
borrow from thence the ground of that censure
which they cast on the more serious Christians.
Among the many passages which have been
made to convey a meaning foreign to their
original design, none have been seized upon
with more avidity by such persons than the
pointed censures of our Saviour on those who
for a pretence make long prayers;' as well as
on those who use vain repetitions, and think
they shall be heard for much speaking.'
the things here intended to be reproved, were
the hypocrisy of the Pharisees and the igno
rance of the heathen, together with the error of
all those who depended on the success of their
prayers, while they imitated the deceit of the
one or the folly of the other. But our Saviour
never meant those severe reprehensions should
cool or abridge the devotion of pious Christians,
to which they do not at all apply.
Now
More or fewer words, however, so little con-
stitute the true value of prayer, that there is no
doubt but one of the most affecting specimens
on record is the short petition of the publican,
full fraught as it is with that spirit of contrition
and self-abasement which is the very principle
and soul of prayer. And this specimen perhaps
is the best model for that sudden lifting up of
the heart which we call ejaculation. But I
doubt, in general, whether those few hasty
words to which these frugal petitioners would
stint the scanty devotions of others and them-
selves, will be always found ample enough to
satisfy the humble penitent, who, being a sinner,
has much to confess; who, hoping he is a par-
doned sinner, has much to acknowledge. Such
an one perhaps cannot always pour out the ful
ness of his soul within the prescribed abridg
414
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1-
to ask forgiveness for the iniquity of his holy
things:' and would find cause enough for humi-
liation every night, had he to lament the sins of
his prayers only.
ments. Even the sincerest Christian, when he
wishes to find his heart warm, has often to la-
ment its coldness. Though he feel that he has
received much, and has therefore much to be
thankful for, yet he is not able at once to bring We know that such a brief petition as 'Lord
his wayward spirit into such a posture as shall help my unbelief,' if the supplicant be in so hap
fit it for the solemn business; for such an one py a frame, and the prayer be darted up with
has not merely his form to repeat; but he has such strong faith that his very soul mounts with
his tempers to reduce to order; his affections to the petition, may suffice to draw down a blessing
excite, and his peace to make. His thoughts which may be withheld from the more prolix
may be realizing the sarcasm of the prophet on petitioner: yet, if by prayer we do not mean a
the idol Baal, they may be gone a journey,' mere form of words, whether they be long or
and must be recalled; his heart perhaps 'sleep- short; if the true definition of prayer be, that it
oth and must be awaked.' A devout supplicant is the desire of the heart: if it be that secret
too will labour to affect and warm his mind communion between God and the soul, which is
with a sense of the great and gracious attributes the very breath and being of religion; then is
of God, in imitation of the holy men of old. the Scripture so far from suggesting that short
Like Jehosaphat, he will sometimes enumerate measure of which it is accused, that it expressly
'the power, and the might, and the mercies of says, 'Pray without ceasing'-' Pray evermore'
the Most High,' in order to stir up the senti- I will that men pray every where'-'conti-
ments of awe, and gratitude, and love, and hu-nue instant in prayer.'
$
|
tice; for once we are told he continued all
night in prayer to God.' And again, in the
most awful crisis of his life, it is expressly said,
'He prayed the third time, using the same
words.'*
All habits gain by exercise; of course the
Christian graces gain force and vigour by being
called out, and, as it were, mustered in prayer.
Love, faith, and trust in the divine promises, if
they were not kept alive by this stated inter-
course with God, would wither and die. Prayer
is also one great source and chief encourager of
holiness. If I regard iniquity in my heart the
Lord will not hear me.'
mility in his own soul.* He will labour to imi- If such repetitions' as these objectors re-
tate the example of his Saviour, whose heart di- probate, stir up desires as yet unawakened, or
lated with the expression of the same holy protract affections already excited (for 'vain re-
affections. I thank thee, O Father, Lord of petitions' are such as awaken or express no new
heaven and earth. A heart thus animated, thus desire, and serve no religious purpose) then are
warmed with divine love, cannot always scru-repetitions not to be condemned. And that
pulously limit itself to the mere business of our Saviour did not give the warning against.
prayer, if I may so speak. It cannot content long prayers and repetitions' in the sense these
itself with merely spreading out its own neces-objections allege, is evident from his own prac-
cities, but expands in contemplating the perfec-
tions of Him to whom he is addressing them.
The humble supplicant, though he be no longer
governed by a love of the world, yet grieves to
find that he cannot totally exclude it from his
thoughts. Though he has on the whole a deep
sense of his own wants, and of the abundant pro-
vision which is made for them in the Gospel;
yet when he most wishes to be rejoicing in those
strong motives for love and gratitude, alas! even
then he has to mourn his worldliness, his insen-
sibility, his deadness. He has to deplore the
littleness and vanity of the objects which are
even then drawing away his heart from his Re-
deemer. The best Christian is but too liable,
during the temptations of the day, to be ensnared
by the lust of the eye, and the pride of life,'
and is not always brought without effort to re-
flect that he is but dust and ashes. How can
even good persons who are just come perhaps
from listening to the flattery of their fellow- A sense of sin should be so far from keeping
worms, acknowledge before God, without any us from prayer, through a false plea of unwor-
preparation of the heart, that they are miserable thiness, that the humility growing on this very
sinners? They require a little time to impress consciousness is the truest and strongest incen-
on their own souls the truth of that solemn con- tive to prayer. There is, for our example and
fession of sin they are making to Him, without encouragement, a beautiful union of faith and
which brevity and not length might constitute humility in the prodigal-'I have sinned against
hypocrisy. Even the sincerely pious have in heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy
prayer grievous wanderings to lament, from to be called thy son.' This as it might seem to
which others mistakingly suppose the advanced imply hopelessness of pardon, might be supposed
Christian to be exempt. Such wanderings that, to promote unwillingness to ask it; but the
as an old divine has observed, it would exceed-heart-broken penitent drew the direct contrary
ingly humble a good man, could he, after he
had prayed, be made to see his prayers written
down, with exact interlineations of all the vain
and impertinent thoughts which had thrust
themselves in amongst them. So that such an
one will indeed, from a strong sense of these
distractions, feel deep occasion with the prophet
* 2 Chron. xv. 5, 6.
Prayer possesses the two-fold property of
fighting and preparing the heart to receive the
blessings we pray for, in case we should attain
them; and of fortifying and disposing it to sub-
mit to the will of God, in case it should be his
pleasure to withhold them.
conclusion—' I will arise and go to my father!"
Prayer, to make it accepted, requires neither
genius, eloquence, nor language; but sorrow for
sin, faith, and humility. It is the cry of dis-
tress, the sense of want, the abasement of con-
trition, the energy of gratitude. It is not an
elaborate string of well arranged periods nor an
* Matt. xxvi. 44..
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
415
exercise of ingenuity, nor an effort of the me-
mory; but the devout breathing of a soul struck
with a sense of its own misery, and of the infi.
nite holiness of Him whom it is addressing; ex-
perimentally convinced of its own emptiness,
and of the abundant fulness of God. It is the
complete renunciation of self, and the entire de-
pendence on another. It is the voice of a beg-
gar who would be relieved; of the sinner who
would be pardoned. It has nothing to offer but
sin and sorrow; nothing to ask but forgiveness
and acceptance; nothing to plead but the pro-
mises of the Gospel in the death of Christ. It
never seeks to obtain its object by diminishing
the guilt of sin, but by exalting the merits of the
Saviour.
it adds a divine motive to human obedience :
when we pray for our enemies, it softens the
savageness of war and molifies hatred into ten-
derness, and resentment into sorrow.
And we
can only learn the duty so difficult to human
nature, of forgiving those who have offended us,
when we bring ourselves to pray for them to
Him whom we ourselves daily offend. When
those who are the faithful followers of the same
Divine Master pray for each other, the recipro-
cal intercession delightfully realizes that beauti
ful idea of the communion of saints.' There is
scarcely any thing which more enriches the
Christian than the circulation of this holy com-
merce; than the comfort of believing, while he
is praying for his Christian friends, that he is
also reaping the benefit of their prayers for him.
Some are for confining their intercessions on-
ly to the good, as if none but persons of merit
were entitled to our prayers. Merit! who has
it? Desert! who can plead it? in the sight of
God, I mean. Who shall bring his own piety,
or the piety of others, in the way of claim, be-
fore a Being of such transcendant holiness, that
the heavens are not clean in his sight?' And
if we wait for perfect holiness as a preliminary
to prayer, when shall such erring creatures pray
at all to HIM' who chargeth the angels with
folly!'
But as it is the effect of prayer to expand the
affections as well as to sanctify them; the bene-
volent Christian is not satisfied to commend
himself alone to the divine favour. The heart
which is full of the love of God will overflow
with love to its neighbour. All that are near to
himself he wishes to bring near to God. He
will present the whole human race as objects of
divine compassion; but especially the faithful
followers of Jesus Christ. Religion makes a
man so liberal of soul, that he cannot endure to
restrict any thing, much less divine mercies, to
himself: he therefore spiritualizes the social af-
fections, by adding intercessory to personal In closing this little work with the subject of
prayer; for he knows that petitioning for others intercessory prayer, may the author be allowed
is one of the best methods of exercising and en- to avail herself of the feeling it suggests to her
larging our own love and charity, even if it were
own heart? And while she earnestly implores
not to draw down those blessings which are pro- that Being, who can make the meanest of his
mised to those for whom we ask them. It is creatures instrumental to his glory, to bless this
unnecessary to produce any of the numberless humble attempt to those for whom it was written,
instances with which Scripture abounds, on the may she, without presumption, entreat that this
efficacy of intercession in which God has pro- work of Christian charity may be reciprocal;
ved the truth of his own assurance, that 'his ear and that those who peruse these pages may put
was open to their cry.' I shall confine myself up a petition for her, that in the great day to
to a few observations on the benefits it brings to which we are all hastening, she may not be
him who offers it. When we pray for the object found to have suggested to others what she her-
of our dearest regard, it purifies passion, and self did not believe, or to have recommended
exalts love into religion; when we pray for those what she did not desire to practice? In that
with whom we have worldly intercourse, it awful day of everlasting decision, may both the
smooths down the swellings of envy, and bids reader and the writer be pardoned and accepted,
the tumults of anger and ambition subside: 'not for any works of righteousness which they
when we pray for our country, it sanctifies pa- have done,” but through the merits of the GREAT
triotism: when we pray for those in authority, | INTERCESSOR.
:
PRACTICAL PIETY,
OR THE INFLUENCE OF
THE RELIGION OF THE HEART
ON THE CONDUCT OF THE LIFE.
The fear of God begins with the Heart, and purifies and rectifies it; and from the Heart, thus
rectified, grows a conformity in the Life, the Words, and the Actions.-Sir Matthew Hale's
Contemplations.
PREFACE.
An eminent professor of our own time modestly declared that he taught chemistry in order
that he might learn it. The writer of the following pages might, with far more justice, offer a
416
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
similar declaration, as an apology for so repeatedly treating on the important topics of religion
and morals
Abashed by the equitable precept,
Let those teach others who themselves excel-
she is aware, how fairly she is putting it in the power of the reader, to ask, in the searching
words of an eminent old prelate, They that speak thus, and advise thus, do they do thus ?' She
can defend herself in no other way, than by adopting for a reply the words of the same venerable
divine, which immediately follow-O that it were not too true. Yet although it be but little
that is attained, the very aim is right, and something there is that is done by it. It is better to
have such thoughts and desires, than altogether to give them up; and the very desire, if it be
serious and sincere, may so much change the habitude of the soul and life, that it is not to bc
despised.'
The world does not require so much to be informed as reminded. A remembrancer may be
almost as useful as an instructor; if his office be more humble, it is scarcely less necessary. The
man whose employment it was, statedly to proclaim in the ear of Philip, REMEMBER THAT THOƯ
ART MORTAL, had his plain admonition been allowed to make its due impression, might have
produced a more salutary effect on the royal usurper, than the impassioned orations of his im-
mortal assailant
whose resistless eloquence
Shook th' arsenal and fulmined over Greece
To Macedon and Artaxerxes' throne.
While the orator boldly strove to check the ambition, and arrest the injustice of the king, the
simple herald barely reminded him, how short would be the reign of injustice, how inevitable
and how near was the final period of ambition. Let it be remembered to the credit of the mo-
narch, that while the thunders of the politician were intolerable, the monitor was of his own ap
pointment.
This slight sketch, for it pretends to no higher name, aims only at being plain and practical.
Contending solely for those indispensable points, which by involving present duty, involve future
happiness, the writer has avoided, as far as Christian sincerity permits, all controverted topics;
has shunned whatever might lead to disputation rather than to profit.
We live in an age, when, as Mr. Pope observed of that in which he wrote, it is criminal to be mo-
derate. Would it could not be said that Religion has her parties as well as politics! Those who
endeavour to steer clear of all extremes in either, are in danger of being reprobated by both. It
is rather a hardship for persons, who have considered it as a Christian duty to cultivate a spirit
of moderation in thinking, and of candour in judging, that, when these dispositions are brought
into action, they frequently incur a harsher censure than the errors which it was their chief aim
to avoid.
Perhaps, therefore, to that human wisdom whose leading object is human applause, it might
answer best to be exclusively attached to some one party. On the protection of that party at least,
it might in that case reckon; and it would then have this dislike of the opposite class alone to
contend against; while those who cannot go all lengths with either, can hardly escape the dis
approbation of both.
To apply the remark to the present case :-The author is apprehensive that she may at once
be censured by opposite classes of readers, as being too strict and too relaxed :—too much attach-
ed to opinions, and too indifferent about them ;-as having narrowed the broad field of Christian-
ity by labouring to establish its peculiar doctrines;—as having broken down its enclosures by
not confining herself to doctrines exclusively;-as having considered morality of too little impor-
tance; as having raised it to an undue elevation;-as having made practice every thing;—as
having made it nothing.
While a catholic spirit is accused of being latitudinarian in one party, it really is so in another.
In one it exhibits the character of Christianity on her own grand but correct scale; in the other,
it is the offspring of that indifference, which, considering all opinions as nearly of the same value,
indemnifies itself for tolerating all, by not attaching itself to any, which, establishing a self-com-
placent notion of general benevolence, with a view to discredit the narrow spirit of Christianity,
and adopting a display of that cheap material, liberal sentiment, as opposed to religious strictness,
sacrifices true piety to false candour.
Christianity may be said to suffer between two criminals, but it is difficult to determine by
which she suffers most ;-whether by that uncharitable bigotry which disguises her divine cha.
racter, and speculatively adopts the faggot and the flames of inquisitorial intolerance; or by that
indiscriminate candour, that conceding slackness, which, by stripping her of her appropriate at-
tributes, reduces her to something scarcely worth contending for; to something which, instead
of making her the religion of Christ, generalizes her into any religion which may choose to adopt
her. The one distorts her lovely lineaments into caricature, and throws her graceful figure into
gloomy shadow; the other, by daubing her over with colours not her own, renders her form in
distinct, and obliterates her features. In the first instance, she excites little affection; in the lat
ter she is not recognized.
The writer has endeavoured to address herself as a Christian who must die soon, to Christians
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
417
#
who must die certainly. She trusts that she shall not be accused of erecting herself into a cen
sor, but be considered as one who writes with a real consciousness that she is far from having
reached the attainments she suggests; with a heartfelt conviction of the danger of holding out a
standard too likely to discredit her own practice. She writes not with the assumption of superi-
ority, but with a deep practical sense of the infirmities against which she has presumed to cau-
tion others. She wishes to be understood as speaking the language of sympathy, rather than of
dictation; of feeling rather than of document. So far from fancying herself exempt from the
evils on which she has animadverted, her very feeling of those evils has assisted her in their de-
lineation. Thus this interior sentiment of her own deficiencies, which might be urged as a dis-
qualification, has, she trusts, enabled her to point out dangers to others.-If the patient cannot
lay down rules for the cure of a reigning disease, much less effect the cure; yet from the symp-
toms common to the same malady, he who labours under it may suggest the necessity of attend-
ing to it.
He may treat the case feelingly, if not scientifically. He may substitute experience,
in default of skill: he may insist on the value of the remedy he has neglected, as well as recom-
mend that from which he has found benefit.
The subjects considered in this treatise have been animadverted on, have been in a manner ex-
hausted, by persons before whose names the author bows down with the deepest humility; by able
professional instructors, by piety adorned with all the graces of style, and invigorated with all
the powers of argument.
Why, then, it may be asked, multiply books which may rather incumber the reader than
strengthen the cause? That the older is better,' cannot be disputed. But is not the being 'old'
sometimes the reason why the 'better' is not regarded? Novelty itself is an attraction which but
too often supersedes merit. A slighter drapery, if it be a new one, may excite a degree of at-
tention to an object, not paid to it when clad in a richer garb to which the eye has been accus-
tomed.
The author may begin to ask with one of her earliest and most enlightened friends*- Where
is the world into which we were born?' Death has broken most of those connexions which made
the honour and happiness of her youthful days. Fresh links however have continued to attach
her to society. She is singularly happy in the affectionate regard of a great number of amiable
young persons, who may peruse with additional attention, sentiments which come recommended
to them by the warmth of their own attachment, more than by any claim of merit in the writers
Is there not something in personal knowledge, something in the feelings of endeared acquaint-
ance, which by that hidden association, whence so much of our undefined pleasure is derived, if
it does not impart new force to old truths, may excite a new interest in considering truths which
are known? Her concern for these engaging persons extends beyond the transient period of
present intercourse. It would shed a ray of brightness on her parting hour, if she could hope
that any caution here held out, any principle here suggested, any habit here recommended, might
be of use to any one of them; when the hand which now guides the pen, can be no longer ex-
erted in their service. This would be remembering their friend in a way which would evince
the highest affection in them, which would confer the truest honour on herself.
Barley Wood, March 1st, 1811.
PRACTICAL PIETY,
OR THE INFLUENCE OF THE RELIGION OF THE HEART ON THE CONDUCT OF THE LIFE.
CHAP. I.
Christianity an internal principle.
CHRISTIANITY bears all the marks of a divine
original. It came down from heaven, and its
gracious purpose is to carry us up thither. Its
Author is God. It was foretold from the begin-
ning, by prophecies which grew clearer and
brighter as they approached the period of their
accomplishment. It was confirmed by miracles
which continued till the religion they illustrated
was established. It was ratified by the blood of
its author. Its doctrines are pure, sublime, con-
sistent. Its precepts just and holy. Its worship
is spiritual. Its services reasonable, and render-
ed practicable by offers of divine aid to human
weakness. It is sanctioned by the eternal hap-
piness of the faithful, and the everlasting mise-
ry to the disobedient. It had no collusion with
|
power, for power sought to crush it. It could
not be in any league with the world, for it set
out by declaring itself the enemy of the world.
It reprobated its maxims, it showed the vanity
of its glories, the danger of its riches, the emp
tiness of its pleasures.
Christianity though the most perfect rule of
life that ever was devised, is far from being
barely a rule of life. A religion consisting of a
mere code of laws, might have sufficed for a
man in a state of innocence. But man who
has broken these laws cannot be saved by a rule
which he has violated. What consolation could
he find in the perusal of statutes, every one of
which, bringing a fresh conviction of his guilt,
brings a fresh assurance of his condemnation
The chief object of the Gospel is not to furnish
rules for the preservation of innocence, but to
hold out the means of salvation to the guilty. It
• Dr. Johnson.
VOL. I'
D 2
418
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
+
does not proceed from a supposition but a fact;
not upon what might have suited man in a state
of purity, but upon what is suitable to him in
the exigences of his fallen state.
in the place of those shadows which he has been
pursuing. It presents this world as a scene of
whose original beauty Sin has darkened and
disordered, Man as a dependant creature, Jesus
This religion does not consist in an external Christ as the repairer of all the evils which sin
conformity to practices, which, though right in has caused, and as our restorer to holiness and
themselves, may be adopted from human mo- happiness. Any religion short of this, any at
tives, and to answer secular purposes. It is not least, which has not this for its end and object,
a religion of forms, and modes, and decencies. is not that religion, which the Gospel has pre-
It is being transformed into the image of sented to us, which our Redeemer came down
God. It is being like-minded with Christ. It on earth to teach us by his precepts, to illus-
is considering him as our sanctification, as trate by his example, to confirm by his death,
well as our redemption. It is endeavouring to and to consummate by his resurrection.
live to him here that we may live with him
hereafter. It is desiring earnestly to surrender
our will to his, our heart to the conduct of his
Spirit, our life to the guidance of his word.
The change in the human heart, which the
Scriptures declare to be necessary, they repre-
sent to be not so much an old principle improved,
as a new one created; not educed out of the
former character, but infused into the new one.
T'his change is there expressed in great varieties
of language, and under different figures of
speech. Its being so frequently described, or
figuratively intimated in almost every part of
the volume of inspiration, entitles the doctrine
itself to reverence, and ought to shield from ob-
loquy the obnoxious terms in which it is some-
times conveyed.
If Christianity do not always produce these
happy effects to the extent here represented, it
If we
has always a tendency to produce them.
do not see the progress to be such as the Gospel
annexes to the transforming power of true re-
ligion, it is not owing to any defect in the prin-
ciple, but to the remains of sin in the heart; to
the imperfectly subdued corruptions of the Chris-
tian. Those who are very sincere are still very
imperfect. They evidence their sincerity by
acknowledging the lowness of their attainments,
by lamenting the remainder of their corruptions.
Many an humble Christian whom the world
reproaches with being extravagant in his zeal,
whom it ridicules for being enthusiastic in his
aims, and rigid in his practice, is inwardly
mourning on the very contrary ground. He
would bear their censure more cheerfully, but
that he feels his danger lies in the opposite di-
rection. He is secretly abasing himself before
his Maker for not carrying far enough that
principle which he is accused of carrying too
far. The fault which others find in him is ex-
cess. The fault he finds in himself is deficiency.
He is, alas! too commonly right. His enemies
speak of him as they hear. He judges of him-
self as he feels. But though humbled to the
dust by the deep sense of his own unworthiness,
he is, strong in the Lord, and in the power of
his might.' 'He has,' says the venerable
Hooker, a Shepherd full of kindness, full of
care, and full of power. His prayer is not for
reward but pardon. His plea is not merit but
mercy; but then it is mercy made sure to him by
the promise of the Almighty to penitent believers.
The sacred writings frequently point out the
analogy between natural and spiritual things.
The same Spirit which in the creation of the
world moved upon the face of the waters,
operates on the human character to produce a
new heart and a new life. By this operation
the affections and faculties of the man receive a
new impulse-his dark understanding is illu.
minated, his rebellious will is subdued, his
irregular desires are rectified, his judgment is
informed, his imagination is chastised, his in-
elinations are sanctified; his hopes and fears
are directed to their true and adequate end.
Heaven becomes the object of his hopes, an
eternal separation from God the object of his
fears. His love of the world is transmuted
into the love of God. The lower faculties
are pressed into the new service. The senses
have a higher direction. The whole inter-
nal frame and constitution receive a nobler
bent; the intents and purposes of the mind a
sublimer aim; his aspirations a loftier flight;
his vacillating desires find a fixed object; his
vagrant purposes a settled home; his disappoint-
ed heart a certain refuge. The heart, no longer
a worshipper of the world, is struggling to be-
come 'its conqueror. Our blessed Redeemer,
in overcoming the world, bequeathed us his com- But genuine Christianity can never be graft-
mand to overcome it also: but as he did noted on any other stock than the apostacy of man.
give the command without the example, so he
did not give the example without the offer of a
power to obey the command.
Genuine religion demands not merely an ex-
ternal profession of our allegiance to God, but
an inward devotedness of ourselves to his ser-
vice. It is not a recognition, but a dedication.
It puts the Christian into a new state of things,
a new condition of being. It raises him above
the world while he lives in it. It disperses the
illusion of sense, by opening his eyes to realities
|
The mistake of many in religion appears to
be, that they do not begin with the beginning.
They do not lay their foundation in the persua-
sion that man is by nature in a state of aliena
tion from God. They consider him rather as
an imperfect than a fallen creature. They al-
low that he requires to be improved, but deny
that he requires a thorough renovation of
heart.
The design to reinstate beings who have not
fallen; to propose a restoration without a pre-
vious loss, a cure where there was no radical
disease, is altogether an incongruity which
would seem too palpable to require confutation,
did we not so frequently see the doctrine of re-
demption maintained by those who deny that
man was in a state to require such a redemption..
But would Christ have been sent to preach de-
liverence to the captive,' if there had been no
captivity; and the opening of the prison to
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
419
them that were bound,' had there been no prison,
had man been in no bondage?
We are aware that many consider the doc-
trine in question as a bold charge against our
Creator. But
But may we not venture to ask, Is it
not a bolder charge against God's goodness to
presume that he had made beings originally
wicked; and against God's veracity to believe,
that having made such beings he pronounced
them 'good?" İs not that doctrine more reason-
able which is expressed or implied in every part
of Scripture, that the moral corruption of our
first parent has been entailed on his whole pos-
terity; that from this corruption (though only
punishable for their actual offences) they are no
more exempt than from natural death?
We must not, however, think falsely of our
nature; we must humble but not degrade it.
Our original brightness is obscured, but not ex-
tinguished. If we consider ourselves in our
natural state, our estimation cannot be too low:
when we reflect at what a price we have been
bought, we can hardly overrate ourselves in
the view of immortality.
the sound and sober exercises of genuine piety.
They seize every occasion to represent it as if
it were criminal, as the foe of morality; ridicu-
lous as the infallible test of an unsound mind;
mischievous, as hostile to active virtue, and de-
structive as the bane of public utility.
;
But if these charges be really well founded;
then were the brightest luminaries of the Chris-
tian church-then were Horne, and Porteus;
and Beveridge; then were Hooker, and Taylor,
and Herbert; Hopkins, Leighton, and Usher
Howe, and Baxter; Ridley, Jewel, and Hooper
then were Chrysostome and Augustine, the re-
formers and the fathers; then were the goodly
fellowship of the prophets; then were the noble
army of martyrs; then were the glorious com-
pany of the apostles; then was the disciple
whom Jesus loved; then was Jesus himself-
I shudder at the amplification-dry speculatists,
frantic enthusiasts, enemies to virtue, and sub:
verters of the public weal.
Those who disbelieve, or deride, or reject
this inward religion, are much to be compas-
sionated. Their belief that no such principle
exists, will, it is to be feared, effectually prevent
its existing in themselves, at least, while they
make their own state the measure of their gene.
ral judgment. Not being sensible of their re-
quired dispositions in their own hearts, they
establish this as a proof of its impossibility in all
cases: This persuasion, as long as they main-
tain it, will assuredly exclude the reception of
divine truth. What they assert can be true in
no case, cannot be true in their own. Their
hearts will be barred against any influence in
the power of which they do not believe. They
will not desire it, they will not pray for it, ex-
cept in the Liturgy, where it is the decided lans
If, indeed, the Almighty had left us to the
consequences of our natural state, we might,
with more colour of reason, have mutinied
against his justice. But when we see how
graciously he has turned our very lapse into an
occasion of improving our condition; how from
this evil he was pleased to advance us to a
greater good than we had lost; how that life
which was forfeited may be restored; how by
grafting the redemption of man on the very cir-
cumstance of his fall, he has raised him to the
capacity of a higher condition than that which
he has forfeited, and to a happiness superior to
that from which he fell-What an impression
does this give us of the immeasurable wisdomguage: They will not addict themselves to
and goodness of God, of the unsearchable riches
of Christ.
those pious exercises to which it invites them, ex-
ercises which it ever loves and cherishes. Thus
they expect the end, but avoid the way which
leads to it; they indulge the hope of glory,
while they neglect or pervert the means of
grace. But let not the formal religionist, who
has probably never sought, and therefore never
obtained, any sense of the spiritual mercies of
God, conclude that there is, therefore, no such
state. His having no conception of it is no more
proof that no such state exists, than it is a proof,
that the cheering beams of a genial climate
have no existence, because the inhabitants of
the frozen zone never felt them.
The religion which it is the object of these
pages to recommend, has been sometimes mis-
understood, and not seldom misrepresented. It
has been described as an unproductive theory,
and ridiculed as a fanciful extravagance. For
the sake of distinction it is here called, The re-
ligion of the Heart.-There it subsists as the
fountain of spiritual life; thence it sends forth,
as from the central seat of its existence, supplies
of life and warmth through the whole frame;
there is the soul of virtue; there is the vital princi-
ple which animates the whole being of a Christian.
This religion has been the support and con- Where our own heart and experience do not
solation of the pious believer in all ages of the illustrate these truths practically, so as to afford
church. That it has been perverted both by the us some evidence of their reality, let us examine
cloistered and the uncloistered mystic, not our minds, and faithfully follow up our convic-
merely to promote abstraction of mind, but in- tions; let us inquire whether God has really
activity of life, makes nothing against the prin- been wanting in the accomplishment of his pro-
ciple itself. What doctrine of the New Testa-mises, or whether we have not been sadly de-
ment has not been made to speak the language
of its injudicious advocate, and turned into arms
against some other doctrines which it was never
meant to oppose ?
ficient in yielding to those suggestions of con-
science which are the motions of his Spirit
Whether we have not neglected to implore the
aids of that Spirit; whether we have not, in
But if it has been carried to a blameable excess various instances, resisted them? Let us ask
by the pious error of holy men, it has also been ourselves-have we looked up to our heavenly
adopted by the less innocent fanatic, and abused Father with humble dependence for the supplies
to the most pernicious purposes. His extrava- of his grace? or have we prayed for these bless-
gance has furnished to the enemies of internal ings only as a form, and having acquitted our-
religion, arguments or rather invectives, against I selves of the form, do we continue to live as if
420
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
we had not so prayed? Having repeatedly im-
plored his direction, do we endeavour to submit
ourselves to its guidance? Having prayed that
his will may be done, do we never stoutly set up
our own will in contradiction to his?
If, then, we receive not the promised support
and comfort, the failure must rest somewhere:
it lies between him who has promised, and him
to whom the promise was made. There is no
other alternative; would it not be blasphemy to
transfer the failure to God? Let us not, then,
rest till we have cleared up the difficulty. The
spirits sink and the faith fails, if, after a conti-
nued round of reading and prayer: after hav-
ing for years conformed to the letter of the com-
mand; after having scrupulously brought in our
tale of outward duties, we find ourselves just
where we were at setting out.
We complain justly of our own weakness, and
truly plead our inability as a reason why we
eannot serve God as we ought. This infirmity,
its nature, and its measure, God knows far more
exactly than we know it; yet he knows that,
with the help which he offers us, we can both
love and obey him, or he never would have made
it the qualification of our obtaining his favour.
He never would have said, 'give me thy heart' |
'seek ye my face'-'add to your faith, virtue'
have a right heart and a right spirit,'-
'strengthen the things that remain'-'ye will
not come to me that ye might have life'-had
not all these precepts a definite meaning, had
not all these been practicable duties.
set themselves above it; it is however that pow-
erful agency which sanctifies all means, renders
all external revelation effectual. Notwithstand-
ing that all the truths of religion, all the doc-
trines of salvation are contained in the holy
Scriptures, these very scriptures require the in-
fluence of that Spirit which dictated them to pro-
duce an influential faith. This Spirit, by en-
lightening the mind, converts the rational per-
suasion, brings the intellectual conviction of
divine truth conveyed in the New Testament,
into an operative principle. A man from read-
ing, examining, and inquiring, may attain to
such a reasonable assurance of the truth of re-
velation as will remove all doubts from his own
mind, and even enable him to refute the objec-
tions of others; but this bare intellectual faith
alone will not operate against his corrupt affec-
tions, will not cure his besetting sin, will not
conquer his rebellious will, and may not there-
fore be an efficacious principle. A mere histo-
rical faith, the mere evidence of facts with the
soundest reasonings and deductions from them,
may not be that faith which will fill him with
all joy and peace in believing.
An habitual reference to that Spirit which
animates the real Christian is so far from ex-
cluding, that it strengthens the truth of revela-
tion, but never contradicts it. The word of God
is always in unison with his Spirit; his Spirit is
never in opposition to his word. Indeed that
this influence is not an imaginary thing, is con-
firmed by the whole tenor of Scripture. We are
Can we suppose that the omniscient God aware that we are treading on dangerous, be-
would have given these unqualified commands cause disputed ground; for among the fashion-
to powerless, incapable, unimpressible beings? able curtailments of Scripture doctrines, there
Can we suppose that he would paralyse his crea- is not one truth which has been lopped from the
tures, and then condemn them for not being modern creed with a more unsparing hand; not
able to move? He knows, it is true, our natural one, the defence of which excites more suspi-
impotence, but he knows, because he confers, cion against its advocates. But if it had been
our superinduced strength. There is scarcely a mere phantom, should we with such jealous
a command in the whole Scripture which has iteration have been cautioned against neglecting
not either immediately, or in some other part a or opposing it? If the Holy Spirit could not be
corresponding prayer, and a corresponding pro-grieved,' might it not be 'quenched;' were it
mise. If it says in one place 'get thee a new heart,' not likely to be resisted,' that very Spirit which
-it says in another a new heart will I give proclaimed the prohibitions would never have
thee; and in a third 'make me a clean heart!' said grieve not,' quench not,'' resist not.' The
For it is worth observing that a diligent inquirer Bible never warns us against imaginary evil,
may trace every where this threefold union. If nor courts us to imaginary good. If then we
God commands by Saint Paul, let not sin reign refuse to yield to its guidance, if we reject its
in your mortal body,' he promises by the same directions; if we submit not to its gentle per-
apostle, 'sin shall not have dominion over you;' suasions, for such they are, and not arbitrary
-while to complete the tripartate agreement, compulsions, we shall never attain to that peace
he makes David pray that his 'sins may not and liberty which are the privilege, the promised
have dominion over him.'
reward of sincere Christians.
The saints of old, so far from setting up on
In speaking of that peace which passeth un-
the stock of their own independent virtue, seem derstanding, we allude not to those illuminations
to have had no idea of any light but what was and raptures, which, if God has in some in-
imparted, of any strength but what was commu- stances bestowed them, he has no where pledged
nicated to them from above. Hear their impor- himself to bestow; but of that rational yet ele-
tunate petitions!-'O send forth thy light and vated hope which flows from an assured persua-
thy truth.'-Mark their grateful declarations!sion of the paternal love of our heavenly Father;
The Lord is my strength and my salvation!' of that secret of the Lord,' which he himself
-Observe their cordial acknowledgments!-assured us 'is with them that fear him ; of that
• Bless the Lord, O my soul! and all that is
within me bless his holy name!'
Though we must be careful not to mistake
for the divine Agency those impulses which
pretend to operate independently of external re-
velation; which have little reference to it; which
life and power of religion which are the privi-
lege of those who abide under the shadow of
the Almighty; of those who 'know in whom
they have believed;' of those who walk not.
after the flesh but after the Spirit;' of those
I' who endure as seeing him who is invisible.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
421
¡
Many faults may be committed where there | freedom from solicitude in a lowly confidence
is nevertheless a sincere desire to please God. in him, for which the world has nothing to give
Many infirmities are consistent with a cordial in exchange.
love of our Redeemer. Faith may be sincere
where it is not strong. But he who can con-
scientiously say that he seeks the favour of God
above every earthly good; that he delights in
his service incomparably more than in any other
gratification; that to obey him here and to en-
joy his presence hereafter is the prevailing de-
sire of his heart; that his chief sorrow is that
he loves him no more and serves him no better,
such a man requires no evidence that his heart
is changed, and his sins forgiven.
For the happiness of the Christian does not
consist in mere feeling which may deceive, nor
in frames which can be only occasional; but in
a settled, calm conviction that God and eternal
things have the predominance in his heart; in
a clear perception that they have, though with
much alloy of infirmity, the supreme, if not un-
disturbed possession of his mind; in an experi-
mental persuasion that his chief remaining sor-
row is, that he does not surrender himself with
so complete an acquiescence as he ought to his
convictions. These abatements, though sufficient
to keep us humble, are not powerful enough to
make us happy.
The true measure then to be taken of our
state is from a perceptible change in our desires,
tastes, and pleasures; from a sense of progress,
however small, in holiness of heart and life.
This seems to be the safest rule of judging, for
if mere feeling were allowed to be the criterion,
the presumptuous world would be inflated with
spiritual pride from the persuasion of enjoying
them; while the humble from their very humi-
lity, might be as unreasonably depressed at
wanting such evidences.
The recognition of this divine aid then, in-
volves no presumption, raises no illusion, causes
no inflation: it is sober in its principle and ra-
tional in its exercise. In establishing the law
of God it does not reverse the law of nature, for
it leaves us in full possession of those natural
faculties which it improves and sanctifies; and
so far from inflaming the imagination, its pro-
per tendency is to subdue and regulate it.
On the whole then, the state which we have
been describing is not the dream of the enthu-
siast; it is not the revery of the visionary, who
renounces prescribed duties for fanciful specu-
lations, and embraces shadows for realities; but
it is that sober earnest of Heaven, that reasona-
ble anticipation of eternal felicity which God is
graciously pleased to grant, not partially, nor
arbitrarily, but to all who diligently seek his
face, to all to whom his service is freedom, his
will a law, his word a delight, his Spirit a guide;
to all who love him unfeignedly, to all who de-
vote themselves to him unreservedly, to all who
with deep self-abasement, yet with filial confi-
dence, prostrate themselves at the foot of his
throne, saying, Lord, lift thou up the light of
thy countenance upon us and we shall be safe.
•
CHAP. II.
Christianity a practical principle.
If God be the author of our spiritual life, the
root from which we derive the vital principle,
with daily supplies to maintain this vitality
then the best evidence we can give that we have
received something of this principle, is an unre-
served dedication of ourselves to the actual pro-
motion of his glory. No man ought to flatter
himself that he is in the favour of God, whose
life is not consecrated to the service of God.
Will it not be the only unequivocal proof of such
a consecration, that he be more zealous of good
works than those who, disallowing the principle,
on which he performs them, do not even pretend
to be actuated by any such motive?
The finest theory never yet carried any man
to heaven. A religion of notions which occupies
the mind, without filling the heart, may obstruct,
but cannot advance the salvation of men. If
these notions are false, they are most pernicious;
if true and not operative, they aggravate guilt;
if unimportant though not unjust, they occupy
the place which belongs to nobler objects, and
sink the mind below its proper level; substitut-
undone, in the place of those which ought to be
done; and causing the grand essentials not to
be done at all. Such a religion is not that which
Christ came to teach mankind.
A security which outruns our attainments is
a most dangerous state, yet it is a state most un-ing the things which only ought not to be left
wisely coveted. The probable way to be safe
hereafter, is not to be presumptuous now. If
God graciously vouchsafe us inward consolation,
it is only to animate us to farther progress. It
is given us for support in our way, and not for
settled maintenance in our present condition.
If the promises are our aliment, the command-
ments are our works; and a temperate Chris-
tian ought to desire nourishment only in order
to carry him through his business. If he so
supinely rest on the one as to grow sensual and
indolent, he might become not only unwilling,
but incapacitated for the performance of the
other. We must not expect to live upon cordials,
which only serve to inflame without strengthen-
ing. Even without these supports, which we
are more ready to desire than to put ourselves
in the way to obtain, there is an inward peace
in an humble trust in God, and in a simple re-
liance on his word; there is a repose of spirit, a
All the doctrines of the gospel are practical
principles. The word of God was not written,
the Son of God was not incarnate, the Spirit of
God was not given, only that Christians might
obtain right views, and possess just notions.
Religion is something more than mere correct-
ness of intellect, justness of conception, and ex-
actness of judgment. It is a life-giving princi-
ple. It must be infused into the habit, as well
as govern the understanding; it must regulate
the will as well as direct the creed. It must not
only cast the opinions into a new frame, but the
heart into a new mould. It is a transforming as
well as a penetrating principle. It changes the
taste, gives activity to the inclinations, and to-
gether with a new heart produces a new life.
422
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Christianity enjoins the same temper, the same, mon good; whose restlessness, indicating the
spirit, the same dispositions, on all its real pro- unsatisfactoriness of all they find on earth, he
fessors. The act, the performance, must depend points to a higher destination. Were total se-
on circumstances which do not depend on us. clusion and abstraction designed to have been
The power of doing good is withheld from ma- the general state of the world, God would have
ny, from whom, however, the reward will not given man other laws, other rules, other facul-
be withheld. If the external act constituted the ties, and other employments.
whole value of Christian virtue, then must the
author of all good be himself the author of in-
justice, by putting it out of the power of multi-
tudes to fulfil his own commands. In principles,
in tempers, in fervent desires, in holy endea-
vours, consist the very essence of Christian
duty.
Nor must we fondly attach ourselves to the
practice of some particular virtue, or value our-
selves exclusively on some favourite quality;
nor must we wrap ourselves up in the perform-
ance of some individual actions, as if they form-
ed the sum of Christian duty. But we must
embrace the whole law of God in all its aspects,
bearings and relations. We must bring no fan-
cies, no partialities, no prejudices, no exclusive
choice or rejection into our religion, but take it
as we find it, and obey it as we receive it, as it
is exhibited in the Bible without addition, cur-
tailment, or adulteration.
Nor must we pronounce on a character by a
single action really bad, or apparently good; if
so, Peter's denial would render him the object
of our execration, while we should have judged
favourably of the prudent economy of Judas.
The catastrophe of the latter, who does not
know? while the other became a glorious mar-
tyr to that master, whom, in a moment of infir-
mity he had denied.
There is a class of visionary but pious writers
who seem to shoot as far beyond the mark, as
mere moralists fall short of it.-Men of low
views and gross minds may be said to be wise
below what is written, while those of too subtle
refinement are wise above it. The one grovel
in the dust from the inertness of their intellectual
faculties; while the others are lost in the clouds
by stretching them beyond their appointed li-
mits. The one build spiritual castles in the air,
instead of erecting them on the holy ground'
of Scripture; the other lay their foundation in
the sand instead of resting it on the Rock of
Ages. Thus, the superstructure of both is equal-
ly unsound.
God is the fountain from which all the streams
of goodness flow; the centre from which all the
rays of blessedness diverge.-All our actions
are, therefore, only good, as they have a refer-
ence to Him: the streams must revert back to
their fountain, the rays must converge again to
their centre.
If love of God be the governing principle, this
powerful spring will actuate all the movements
of the rational machine. The essence of reli-
gion does not so much consist in actions as af-
fections. Though right actions, therefore, as
from an excess of courtesy they are commonly
termed, may be performed where there are no
A piety altogether spiritual, disconnected with right affections; yet are they a mere carcass;
all outward circumstances; a religion of pure utterly destitute of the soul, and, therefore, of
meditation and abstracted devotion, was not the substance of virtue. But neither can affec-
made for so compound, so imperfect a creature tions substantially and truly subsist without pro-
as man. There have, indeed, been a few sub-ducing right actions; for never let it be forgot-
lime spirits, not touched but rapt,' who totally
cut off from the world, seem almost to have lite-
rally soared above this terrene region, who al-
most appear to have stolen the fire of the Se-
raphim, and to have had no business on earth,
but to keep alive the celestial flame. They
would, however, have approximated more nearly
to the example of their divine master, the great
standard and only perfect model, had they com-
The love of God, as it is the source of every
bined a more diligent discharge of the active right action and feeling, so it is the only princi-
duties and benefices of life with their high devo-ple which necessarily involves the love of our
tional attainments.
But while we are in little danger of imitating,
let us not too harshly censure the pious error of
these sublimated spirits. Their number is small.
Their example is not catching. Their ethereal
fire is not likely, by spreading, to inflame the
world. The world will take due care not to
come in contact with it, while its distant light
and warmth may cast, accidentally, a not un-
useful ray on the cold-hearted and the worldly.
But from this small number of refined but in-
operative beings, we do not intend to draw our
notions of practical piety. God did not make a
religion for these few exceptions to the general
state of the world, but for the world at large;
for beings active, busy, restless; whose activity,
he, by his word, diverts into its proper channels;
whose busy spirit is there directed to the com.
ten that a pious inclination which has not life
and vigour sufficient to ripen into act when the
occasion presents itself, and a right action which
does not grow out of a sound principle, will
neither of them have any place in the account
of real goodness. A good inclination will be
contrary to sin, but a mere inclination will not
subdue sin.
We
fellow creatures. As man we do not love man.
There is a love of partiality but not of benevo
lence; of sensibility but not of philanthropy; of
friends and favourites, of parties and societies,
but not of man collectively. It is true we may,
and do, without this principle, relieve his dis-
tresses, but we do not bear with his faults.
may promote his fortune, but we do not forgive
his offences; above all, we are not anxious for
his immortal interests. We could not see him
want without pain, but we can see him sin with-
out emotion. We could not hear of a beggar
perishing at our door without horror, but we
can, without concern, witness an acquaintance
dying without repentance. Is it not strange
that we must participate something of the divine
nature, before we can really love the human?
It seems, indeed, to be an insensibility to sin,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
423
rather than want of benevolence to mankind, | become not retrograde. Those who are truly
that makes us naturally pity their temporal, and sincere, will commonly be persevering. If their
be careless of their spiritual wants; but does speed is less eager, it is more steady. As they
not this very insensibility proceed from the want know their own heart more, they discover its
of love to God?
deceitfulness, and learn to distrust themselves.
As they become more humble in spirit, they be-
come more charitable in judging. As they
grow more firm in principle they grow more
exact in conduct.
As it is the habitual frame, and predominating
disposition, which are the true measure of vir-
tue, incidental good actions are no certain crite-
rion of the state of the heart; for who is there,
who does not occasionally do them? Having
made some progress in attaining this disposition,
we must not sit down satisfied with propensities
and inclinations to virtuous actions, while we
rest short of their actual exercise. If the prin-
ciple be that of sound Christianity, it will never
be inert. While we shall never do good with
any great effect, till we labour to be conformed,
in some measure, to the image of God; we shall
best evince our having obtained something of
that conformity, by a course of steady and ac-
tive obedience to God.
The rooted habits of a religious life may in
deed lose their prominence because they are be-
come more indented. If they are not embossed
it is because they are burnt in. Where there
is uniformity and consistency in the whole cha-
racter, there will be little relief in an individual
action. A good deed will be less striking in an
established Christian than a deed less good in
one who has been previously careless; good ac-
tions being his expected duty and his ordinary
practice. Such a Christian indeed, when his
right habits cease to be new and striking, may
Every individual should bear in mind, that he fear that he is declining: but his quiet and con-
is sent into this world to act a part in it. And firmed course is a surer evidence than the more
though one may have a more splendid, and an-early starts of charity, or fits of piety, which
other a more obscure part assigned him, yet the may have drawn more attention, and obtained
actor of each is equally, is awfully accountable. more applause.
Though God is not a hard, he is an exact mas-
ter. His service, though not a severe, is a rea-
sonable service. He accurately proportions his
requisitions to his gifts. If he does not expect
that one talent should be as productive as five,
yet to a single talent a proportionable responsi-
bility is annexed.
He who has said 'Give me thy heart,' will
not be satisfied with less; he will not accept the
praying lips, nor the mere hand of charity as
substitutes.
A real Christian will be more just, sober, and
charitable than other men, though he will not
rest for salvation on justice, sobriety, or charity.
He will perform the duties they enjoin, in the
spirit of Christianity, as instances of devout
obedience, as evidences of a heart devoted to
God.
All virtues, it cannot be too often repeated,
are sanctified or unhallowed according to the
principle, which dictates them; and will be ac-
cepted or rejected accordingly. This principle
kept in due exercise, becomes a habit, and
every act strengthens the inclination, adding
vigour to the principle and pleasure to the per-
formance.
|
4
Again;-We should cultivate most assiduous-
ly, because the work is so difficult, those graces
which are most opposite to our natural temper;
the value of our good qualities depending much
on their being produced by the victory over
some natural wrong propensity. The implanta-
tion of a virtue is the eradication of a vice. It
would cost one man more to keep down a rising.
passion than to do a brilliant deed. It will try
another more to keep back a sparkling but cor-
rupt thought, which his wit had suggested but
which religion checks, than it would to give a
large sum in charity. A real Christian being
deeply sensible of the worthlessness of any ac-
tions which do not spring from the genuine
fountain, will aim at such,an habitual conformi-
ty to the divine image, that to perform all acts
of justice, charity, kindness, temperance, and
every kindred virtue, may become the temper,
the habitual, the abiding state of his heart; that
like natural streams they may flow spontaneously
from the living source.
Practical Christianity then, is the actual ope-
ration of Christian principles. It is lying on
the watch for occasions to exemplify them. It
is exercising ourselves unto godliness.' A
Christian cannot tell in the morning, what op-
We cannot be said to be real Christians, till
religion become our animating motive, our pre-portunities he may have of doing good during
dominating principle and pursuit, as much as
worldly things are the predominating motive,
principle and pursuit, of worldly men.
New converts, it is said, are most zealous, but
they are not always the most persevering. If
their tempers are warm; and they have only
been touched on the side of their passions, they
start eagerly, march rapidly, and are full of
confidence in their own strength. They too
often judge others with little charity, and them-
selves with little humility. While they accuse
those who move steadily of standing still, they
fancy their own course will never be slackened.
If their conversion be not solid, religion, in losing
its novelty, loses its power. Their speed de-
clines. Nay, it will be happy if their motion
the day; but if he be a real Christian, he can
tell that he will try to keep his heart open, his
mind prepared, his affections alive to do what-
ever may occur in the way of duty. He will,
as it were, stand in the way to receive the orders
of Providence. Doing good is his vocation. Nor
does the young artisan bind himself by firmer
articles to the rigid performance of his master's
work, than the indentured Christian to the ac-
tive service of that Divine Master, who himself
'went about doing good.' He rejects no duty
which comes within the sphere of his calling,
nor does he think the work he is employed in a
good one, if he might be doing a better. His
having well acquitted himself of a good action,
is so far from furnishing him with an excuse
424
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
T
for avoiding the next, that it is a new reason |
for his embarking in it. He looks not at the
work which he has accomplished; but on that
which he has to do. His views are always
prospective. His charities are scarcely limited
by his power. His will knows no limits. His
fortune may
have bounds: His benevolence has
none. He is, in mind and desire, the benefactor
of every miserable man. His heart is open to
all the distressed; to the household of faith it
overflows. Where the heart is large, however
small the ability, a thousand ways of doing good
will be invented. Christian charity is a great
enlarger of means. Christian self-denial nega-
tively accomplishes the purpose of the favourites
of fortune in the fables of the nursery-if it can-
not fill the purse by a wish, it will not empty it
by a vanity. It provides for others by abridg
ing from itself. Having carefully defined what
is necessary and becoming, it allows of no en-
croachment on its definition. Superfluities it
will lop, vanities it will cut off. The deviser
of liberal things will find means of effecting
them, which to the indolent appear incredible,
to the covetous impossible. Christian bene-
ficence takes a large sweep. That circumfer-
ence cannot be small of which God is the centre.
Nor does religious charity in a Christian stand
still because not kept in motion by the main
spring of the world. Money may fail, but benevo-
lence will be going on. If he cannot relieve want,
he may mitigate sorrow. He may warn the inex-
perienced, he may instruct the ignorant, he may
confirm the doubting. The Christian will find
out the cheapest way of being good as well as of
doing good. If he cannot give money, he may
exercise a more difficult virtue; he may forgive
injuries. Forgiveness is the economy of the
heart. A Christian will find it cheaper to par-
don than to resent. Forgiveness saves expense
of anger, the cost of hatred, the waste of spirits.
It also puts the soul into a frame, which makes
the practice of other virtues easy. The achieve-
ment of a hard duty is a great abolisher of diffi-
culties. If great occasions do not arise, he will
thankfully seize on small ones. If he cannot
glorify God by serving others, he knows that
he has always something to do at home; some
evil temper to correct, some wrong propensity
to reform, some crooked practice to straighten.
He will never be at a loss for employment,
while there is a sin or misery in the world; he
will never be idle, while there is a distress to be
relieved in another, or a corruption to be cured
in his own heart. We have employment assign-
ed to us for every circumstance in life. When
we are alone, we have our thoughts to watch:
in the family, our tempers; in company, our
tongues.
What an example of disinterested goodness
and unbounded kindness have we in our
heavenly Father, who is merciful over all his
works; who distributes common blessings with-
out distinction; who bestows the necessary re-
freshments of life, the shining sun and the re-
freshing shower, without waiting, as we are apt
to do for personal merit, or attachment or gra-
titude; who does not look out for desert, but
want as a qualification for his favours; who
does not afflict willingly, who delights in the
happiness and desires the salvation of all his chil-
dren; who dispenses his daily munificence and
bears with our daily offences; who in return for
our violation of his laws, supplies our necessities
who waits patiently for our repentance, and even
solicits us to have mercy on our own souls?
What a model for our humble imitation is
that Divine person who was clothed with our
humanity; who dwelt among us that the pattern
being brought near might be rendered more
engaging, the conformity be made more practi-
cable; whose whole life was one unbroken
series of universal charity; who in his com-
plicated bounties never forgot that man is com-
pounded both of soul and body; who after teach-
ing the multitude, fed them; who repulsed none
for being ignorant; was impatient with none
for being dull; despised none for being contemn-
ed by the world; rejected none for being sin-
ners; who encouraged those whose importunity
others censured; who in healing sickness con-
verted souls; who gave bread and forgave in-
juries!
•
It will be the endeavour of the sincere Chris
tian, to illustrate his devotions in the morning
by his actions during the day. He will try to
make his conduct a practical exposition of the
divine prayer which made a part of them. He
will desire to hallow the name of God, to pro-
mote the enlargement and the coming' of the
kingdom' of Christ. He will endeavour to do
and to suffer his whole will; to forgive' as he
himself trusts that he is forgiven. He will re-
solve to avoid that 'temptation' into which he
had been praying 'not to be led ;' and he will
labour to shun the 'evil' from which he had been
begging to be 'delivered.' He thus makes his
prayers as practical as the other parts of his
religion; and labours to render his conduct as
spiritual as his prayers. The commentary and
the text are of reciprocal application.
If this gracious Saviour has left us a perfect
model for our devotion in his prayer, he has left
a model no less perfect for our practice in his
sermon. This Divine exposition has been some-
times misunderstood. It was not so much a
supplement to a defective law, at the restoration
of the purity of a perfect law from the corrupt
interpretations of its blind expounders. These
persons had ceased to consider it as forbidding
the principle of sin, and as only forbidding the act.
Christ restores it to its original meaning, spreads
it out on its due extent, shows the largeness of its
dimensions and the spirit of its institution. He
unfolds all its motions, tendencies and relations.
Not contenting himself, as human legislators,
are obliged to do, to prohibit a man the act
which is injurious to others, but the inward
temper which is prejudicial to himself.
There cannot be a more striking instance,
how emphatically every doctrine of the gospel
has a reference to practical goodness, than is
exhibited by St. Paul in that magnificent pic-
ture of the resurrection, in his epistle to the
Corinthians, which our church has happily
selected, for the consolation of survivors at the
last closing scene of mortality. After an inter-
ference as triumphant as it is logical, that be-
cause Christ is risen, we shall rise also;' after
the most philosophical illustration of the raising
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
425
supere-
of the body from the dust, by the process of suit; he is to keep his ground without troubling
grain sown in the earth, and by the springing himself in searching after imaginary perfection.
These frugal Christians are afraid of nothing
up into a new mode of existence; after describ-
ing the subjugation of all things to the Re- so much as superfluity in their love, and
deemer, and his laying down the mediatorial rogation in their obedience. This kind of fear
kingdom; after sketching with a seraph's pen- however is always superfluous, but most espe-
cil, the relative glories of the celestial and ter- cially in those who are troubled with the appre-
restrial bodies; after exhausting the grandest hension. They are apt to weigh in the nicely
images of created nature, and the dissolution of poised scales of scrupulous exactness, the duties
nature itself;-after such a display of the which must of hard necessity be done, and
solemnities of the great day, as makes this those which without much risk may be left
world, and all its concerns shrink into nothing: undone; compounding for a larger indulgence
in such a moment, when, if ever, the rapt spirit by the relinquishment of a smaller; giving up,
might be supposed too highly wrought for pre- through fear, a trivial gratification to which they
cept and admonition, the apostle, wound up as are less inclined, and snatching doubtingly, as
he was by the energies of inspiration, to the im- an equivalent, at one they like better. The
mediate view of the glorified state-the last gratification in both cases being perhaps such
trumpet sounding-the change from mortal to as a manly mind would hardly think worth
immortality effected in the twinkling of an eye contending for, oven were religion out of the
-the sting of death drawn out-victory snatch-question. Nothing but love to God can conquer
ed from the grave-then, by a turn as surprising
as it is beautiful, he draws a conclusion as un-
expectedly practical as his premises were grand
and awful: Therefore, my beloved brethren, be
ye steadfast, unmoveable; always abounding in
the work of the Lord.' Then at once, by an-
other quick transition, resorting from the duty
to the reward, and winding up the whole with
an argument as powerful, as his rhetoric had
been sublime, he adds- Forasmuch as ye know
that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.'
CHAP. III.
Mistakes in Religion
love of the world. One grain of that divine
principle would make the scale of self-indul-
gence kick the beam.
These persons dread nothing so much as en-
thusiasm. Yet if to look for effects without their
predisposing causes; to depend for heaven on
that to which heaven was never promised, be
features of enthusiasm, then are they themselves
enthusiasts.
that submission to the power of God, obedience
to his laws, compliance with his will, trust in
his word, are through the efficacy of the eternal
Spirit, real evidences, because they are vital
acts of genuine faith in Jesus Christ. If they
profess not to place their reliance on works,
they are however more zealous in performing
them than the others, who professing to depend
on their good deeds for salvation, are not always
diligent in securing it by the very means which
they themselves establish to be alone effectual.
The religion of a second class, we have al-
ready described in the two preceding chapters.
It consists in a heart devoted to its Maker; in-
wardly changed in its temper and disposition,
yet deeply sensible of its remaining infirmities;
continually aspiring however to higher improve-
ments in faith, hope and charity, and thinking
that the greatest of these is charity.' These,
by the former class, are reckoned enthusiasts,
To point out with precision all the mistakes but they are in fact, if Christianity be true,
which exist in the present day, on the awful acting on the only rational principles. If the
subject of religion, would far exceed the limits doctrines of the gospel have any solidity, if its
of this small work. No mention therefore is promises have any meaning, these Christians
intended to be made of the opinions or the prac-are building on no false ground. They hope
tice of any particular body of people; nor will
any notice be taken of any of the peculiarities
of the numerous sects and parties which have
risen up among us.
It will be sufficient for the
present purpose, to hazard some slight remarks
on a few of those common classes of characters,
which belong more or less to most general bodies.
There are, among many others, three differ-
ent sorts of religious professors. The religion
of one consists in a sturdy defence of what they
themselves call orthodoxy, an attendance on
There is a third class-the high flown pro-
public worship, and a general decency of beha-
viour. In their views of religion, they are not fessor, who looks down from the giddy heights
a little apprehensive of excess, not perceiving of antinomian delusion on the other two, abhors
that their danger lies on the other side. They the one, and despises the other, concludes that
are far from rejecting faith or morals, but are the one is lost, and the other in a fair way to be
somewhat afraid of believing too much, and a so. Though perhaps not living himself in any
little scrupulous about doing too much, lest the course of immorality, which requires the sanc-
former be suspected of fanaticism, and the latter tion of such doctrines, he does not hesitate to
of singularity. These Christians consider re-imply in his discourse, that virtue is heathenish,
ligion as a point, which they, by their regular and good works superfluous if not dangerous.
observances, having attained, there is nothing
further required but to maintain the point they
have reached, by a repetition of the same obser-
vances. They are therefore satisfied to remain
stationary, considering that whoever has obtain-
ed his end, is of course saved the labour of pur-
He does not consider that though the Gospel is
an act of oblivion to penitent sinners, yet it no
where promises pardon to those who continue
to live in a state of rebellion against God, and
of disobedience to his laws. He forgets to in-
sist to others that it is of little importance even
426
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1
to believe that sin is an evil (which however, much from the imprudence and enthusiasm of
they do not always believe) while they persist those, who have absurdly confined it to real or
to live in it; that to know every thing of duty | supposed instances of sudden or miraculous
except the doing it, is to offend God with an ag- changes from profligacy to piety. But surely,
gravation from which ignorance itself is exempt. with reasonable people, we run no risk in as-
It is not giving ourselves up to Christ in a name- serting that he, who being awakened by any of
less, inexplicable way, which will avail us. God those various methods which the Almighty uses
loves an humble, not an audacious faith. To to bring his creatures to the knowledge of him-
suppose that the blood of Christ redeems us from self; who seeing the corruptions that are in the
sin, while sin continues to pollute the soul, is to world, and feeling those with which his heart
suppose an impossibility; to maintain that it is abounds, is brought, whether gradually or rapid.
effectual for the salvation, and not for the sanc-ly from an evil heart of unbelief, to a lively faith
tification of the sinner, is to suppose that it acts
like an amulet, an incantation, a talisman, which
is to produce its effect by operating on the ima-
gination, and not on the disease.
The religion which mixes with human pas-
sions, and is set on fire by them, will make a
stronger blaze than that light which is from
above, which sheds a steady and lasting bright-
ness on the path, and communicates a sober but
desirable warmth to the heart. It is equable
and constant; while the other, like culinary
fire, fed by gross materials, is extinguished the
sooner from the fierceness of the flame.
That religion which is merely seated in the
passions, is not only liable to wear itself out by
its own impetuosity, but to be driven out by
some other passion. The dominion of violent
passions is short. They dispossess each other.
When religion has had its day, it gives way to
the next usurper. Its empire is no more solid
than it is lasting, when principle and reason do
not fix it on the throne.
The first of the above classes consider pru-
dence as the paramount virtue in religion. Their
antipodes, the flaming professors, believe a burn-
ing zeal to be the exclusive grace. They revere
saint Paul's collocation of the three Christian
graces, and think that the greatest of these is
faith. Though even in respect of this grace,
their conduct and conversation too often give us
reason to lament that they do not bear in mind
its genuine and distinctive properties. Their
faith instead of working by love, seems to be
adopted from a notion that it leaves the Chris-
tian nothing to do, rather than because it is its
nature to lead him to do more and better than
other men.
►
In this case, as in many others, that which is
directly contrary to what is wrong, is wrong
also. If each opponent would only barter half
his favourite quality with the favourite quality
of the other, both parties would approach nearer
to the truth. They might even furnish a com.
plete Christian between them, that is, provided
the zeal of the one was sincere, and the prudence
of the other honest. But the misfortune is, each
is as proud of not possessing the quality he
wants, because his adversary has it, as he is
proud of possessing that of which the other is
destitute, and because he is destitute of it.
Among the many mistakes in religion, it is
commonly thought that there is something so
unintelligible, absurd, and fanatical in the term
conversion, that those who employ it, run no
small hazard of being involved in the ridicule it
excites. It is seldom used but ludicrously, or
in contempt. This arises partly from the levity
and ignorance of the censurer, but perhaps as
in the Redeemer; from a life, not only of gross
vice, but of worldliness and vanity, to a life of
progressive piety; whose humility keeps pace
with his progress; who, though his attainments
are advancing, is so far from counting himself
to have attained, that he presses onward with
unabated zeal, and evinces, by the change in his
conduct, the change that has taken place in his
heart-such a one is surely as sincerely con-
verted, and the effect is as much produced by
the same divine energy, as if some instantaneous
revolution in his character had given it a mira-
culous appearance. The doctrines of Scripture
are the same now as when David called them,
a law converting the soul, and giving light to
the eyes.' This is perhaps the most accurate
and comprehensive definition of the change for
which we are contending, for it includes both
the illumination of the understanding, and the
alteration in the disposition.
If then this obnoxious expression signify no-
thing more nor less than that change of charac-
ter which consists in turning from the world to
God, however the term may offend, there is no-
thing ridiculous in the thing. Now, as it is not
for the term which we contend, but for the prin-
ciple conveyed by it; so it is the principle and
not the term which is the real ground of objec-
tion; though it is a little inconsistent that many
who would sneer at the idea of conversion, would
yet take it extremely ill if it were suspected that
their hearts were not turned to God.
Reformation, a term against which no objec-
tion is ever made, would, if words continued to
retain their primitive signification, convey the
same idea. For it is plain that to reform means
to make anew. In the present use, however, it
does not convey the same meaning in the same
extent, nor indeed does it imply the operation
of the same principle. Many are reformed on
human motives, many are partially reformed;
but only those who, as our great poet says, are
' reformed altogether,' are converted. There is
no complete reformation in the conduct effected
without a revolution in the heart. Ceasing from
some sins; retaining others in a less degree; or
adopting such as are merely creditable; or fly.
ing from one sin to another; or ceasing from
the external act without any internal change of
disposition, is not Christian reformation. The
new principle must abolish the old habit; the
rooted inclination must be subdued by the sub-
stitution of an opposite one. The natural bias
must be changed.
must be changed. The actual offence will no
more be pardoned than cured, if the inward cor-
ruption be not eradicated. To be alive unto
God through Jesus Christ' must follow 'the
death unto sin,' There cannot be new aims and
C
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
427
ends where there is not a new principle to pro- |
duce them. We shall not choose a new path
until a light from heaven direct our choice and
'guide our feet.' We shall not run the way of
God's commandments,' till God himself enlarge❘
our heart.
|
years, even the hopelessness of decrepitude, in
the pious, though they excite sympathy, yet it
is the sympathy of tenderness unmixed with
distress. We take and give comfort, from the
cheering persuasion that the exhausted body
will soon cease to clog its immortal companion;
that the dim and failing eyes will soon open on
a world of glory. Dare we paint the reverse of
the picture? Dare we suffer the imagination
to dwell on the opening prospects of hoary im-
piety? Dare we figure to ourselves that the
weakness, the miseries, the terrors, we are now
commiserating, are ease, are peace, are happi-
ness compared with the unutterable perspec-
tive?
We do not, however, insist that the change
required is such as precludes the possibility of
falling into sin; but it is a change which fixes
in the soul such a disposition as shall make sin
a burden, as shall make the desire of pleasing
God the governing desire of a man's heart; as
shall make him hate the evil which he does; as
shall make the lowness of his attainments the
subject of his deepest sorrow. A Christian has
hopes and fears, cares and temptations, inclina- There is a fatal way of lulling the conscience
tions and desires, as well as other men. God in by entertaining diminishing thoughts of sins
changing the heart does not extinguish the pas-long since committed. We persuade ourselves
gions. Were that the case the Christian life to forget them, and we therefore persuade our-
would cease to be a warfare.
selves that they are not remembered by God.
But though distance diminishes objects to, the
eye of the beholder, it does not actually lessen
them. Their real magnitude remains the same.
Deliver us, merciful God! from the delusion of
believing that secret sins, of which the world
has no cognizance, early sins, which the world
has forgotten, but which are known to Him
with whom we have to do,' become by secrecy
and distance as if they had never been.
not these things noted in THY book?' Perhaps
if we remember them, God may forget them,
especially if our remembrance be such as to in-
duce a sound repentance. If we remember
them not, He assuredly will. The holy contri-
tion which should accompany this remembrance,
while it will not abate our humble trust in our
compassionate Redeemer, will keep our con-
science tender, and our heart watchful.
We are often deceived by that partial improve-
ment which appears in the victory over some
one bad quality. But we must not mistake the
removal of a symptom for a radical cure of the
disease. An occasional remedy might remove
an accidental sickness, but it requires a general
regimen to renovate the diseased constitution.
:
It is the natural but melancholy history of the
unchanged heart, that from youth to advanced
years, there is no other revolution in the cha-
racter but such as increase both the number and
quality of its defects: that the levity, vanity,
and self-sufficiency of the young man is carried
into advanced life, and only meet, and mix with
the defects of a mature period: that, instead of
crying out with the royal prophet, ' O remember
not my old sins,' he is inflaming his reckoning
by new ones that age, protracting all the faults
of youth, furnishes its own contingent of vices:
that sloth, suspicion, and covetousness, swell
the account which religion has not been called
in to cancel that the world, though it has lost
the power to delight, has yet lost nothing of its
power to enslave. Instead of improving in can-
dour by the inward sense of its own defects, that
very consciousness makes him less tolerant of
the defects of others, and more suspicious of
their apparent virtues. His charity in a warmer
season having failed to bring him in that return
of gratitude for which it was partly performed,
and having never flowed from the genuine spring,
is dried up. His friendships having been form-
ed on worldly principles, or interest, or ambi-
tion, or convivial hilarity, fail him. One must
make some sacrifices to the world, is the pre-
vailing language of the nominal Christian.
'What will the world pay you for your sacri-
fices?' replies the real Christian. Though he
finds that the world is insolvent, that it pays no-
thing of what is promised, for it cannot bestow
what it does not possess-happiness: yet he
continues to cling to it almost as confidently as
if it had never disappointed him. Were we
called upon to name the object under the sun
which excites the deepest commiseration in the
heart of Christian sensibility, which includes in
itself the most affecting congruities, which con-
tains the sum and substance of real human mi-
sery, we should not hesitate to say an irreligi-
ous old age. The mere debility of declining
· Are
We do not deny that there is frequently much
kindness and urbanity, much benevolence and
generosity, in men who do not even pretend to
be religious. These qualities often flow from
constitutional feeling, natural softness of temper,
and warm affections: often from an elegant edu-
cation, that best human sweetener, and polisher
of social life. We feel a tender regret as we
exclaim' what a fine soil would such dispositions
afford to plant religion in? Well bred persons
are accustomed to respect all the decorums of
society, to connect inseparably the ideas of per-
sonal comfort with public esteem, of generosity
with credit, of order with respectability. They
have a keen sense of dishonour, and are careful
to avoid every thing that may bring the shadow
of discredit on their name. Public opinion is
the breath by which they live, the standard by
which they act; of course they would not lower
by gross misconduct, that standard on which
their happiness depends. They have been taught
to respect themselves; this they can do with
more security while they can retain, on this
half-way principle the respect of others.
In some who make further advances towards
religion, we continue to see it in that same low
degree which we have always observed. It is
dwarfish and stunted, it makes
no shoots.
Though it gives some signs of life, it does not
grow. By a tame and spiritless round, or rather
by this fixed and immoveable position, we rob
ourselves of that fair reward of peace and joy
$
428
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
which attends on an humble consciousness of, trating discerner of the thoughts and intente
progress: on the feeling of difficulties conquered; of the heart.' These well-intentioned persons
on a sense of the divine favour. That religion seem to spend no inconsiderable portion of time
which is profitable, is commonly perceptible. in religious exercises, and yet complain that
Nothing supports a traveller in his Christian they make little progress. They almost seem
course like the conviction that he is getting on; to insinuate as if the Almighty did not keep his
like looking back on the country he has passed; word with them, and manifest that religion to
and, above all, like the sense of that protection them is not 'pleasantness, nor her paths peace.'
which has hitherto carried him on, and of that
grace which has promised to support him to the
end.
The proper motion of the renewed heart is
still directed upward. True religion is of an
aspiring nature, continually tending towards
that heaven from whence it was transplanted.
Its top is high because its root is deep. It is
watered by a perennial fountain; in its most
flourishing state it is always capable of further
growth. Real goodness proves itself to be such
by a continual desire to be better. No virtue
on earth is ever in a complete state. Whatever
stage of religion any man has attained, if he be
satisfied to rest in that stage, we would not call
that man religious. The Gospel seems to con-
sider the highest degree of goodness as the low-
est with which a Christian ought to sit down
satisfied. We cannot be said to be finished in
any Christian grace, because there is not one
which may not be carried further than we have
carried it. This promotes the double purpose
of keeping us humble as to our present stage,
and of stimulating us to something higher which
we may hope to attain.
That superficial thing, which by mere people
of the world is dignified by the appellation of
religion, though it brings just that degree of
credit which makes part of the system of world-
ly Christians; neither brings comfort for this
world, nor security for the next. Outward ob.
servances, indispensable as they are, are not re-
ligion. They are the accessory, but not the
principal; they are important aids and adjuncts,
but not the thing itself; they are its aliment
but not its life, the fuel but not the flame, the
scaffolding but not the edifice. Religion can no
more subsist merely by them. They are di-
vinely appointed, and must be conscientiously
observed; but observed as a means to promote
an end, and not as an end in themselves.
The heartless homage of formal worship,
where the living power does not give life to the
form, the cold compliment of ceremonial attend-
ance, without the animating principle, as it will
not bring peace to our own mind, so neither will
it satisfy a jealous God. That God whose eye
is on the heart,' who trieth the reins and search-
eth the spirits,' will not be satisfied that we make
him little more than a nominal deity, while the
world is the real object of our worship. Such
persons seem to have almost the whole body of
performance; all they want is the soul. They
are constant in their devotions, but the heart,
which even the heathens esteemed the best part
of the sacrifice, they keep away. They read
the Scriptures, but rest in the letter, instead of
trying themselves by its spirit. They consider
it as an enjoined task, but not as the quick and
powerful instrument put into their hands for the
critical dissection of 'piercing and dividing
asunder the soul and spirit;' not as the pene.
Of such may we not ask, would you not do
better to examine than to complain ? to inquire
whether you do, indeed, possess a heart which
notwithstanding its imperfections, is sincerely
devoted to God? He who does not desire to be
perfect, is not sincere. Would you not do well
to convince yourselves that God is not unfaithful?
that his promises do not fail? that his goodness
is not slackened? May you not be entertaining
some secret infidelity, practising some latent
disobedience, withholding some part of your
heart, neglecting to exercise that faith, subtract-
ing something from that devotedness, to which
a Christian should engage himself, and to which
the promises of God are annexed? Do you in-
dulge no propensities contrary to his will? Do
you never resist the dictates of his Spirit? never
shut your eyes to its illumination, nor your
heart to its influences? Do you not indulge
some cherished sin which obscures the light of
grace, some practice which obstructs the growth
of virtue, some distrust which chills the warmth
of love? The discovery will repay the search,
and if you succeed in this scrutiny, let not the
detection discourage but stimulate.
If, then, you resolve to take up religion in
earnest, especially if you have actually adopted
its customary forms, rest not in such low attain-
ment as will afford neither present peace nor
future happiness. To know Christianity only
in its external forms, and its internal dissatis-
faction, its superficial appearances without, and
its disquieting apprehensions within; to be de-
sirous of standing well with the world as a
Christian, yet to be unsupported by a well-
founded Christian hope; to depend for happi-
ness on the opinion of men, instead of the favour
of God; to go on dragging through the mere
exercises of piety, without deriving from them
real strength or solid peace; to live in the dread
of being called an enthusiast, by outwardly ex-
ceeding in religion, and in secret consciousness
of falling short of it; to be conformed to the
world's view of Christianity, rather than to as-
pire to be transformed by the renewing of
your
mind, is a state, not of pleasure but of penalty,
not of conquest but of hopeless conflict, not of
ingenuous love but of tormenting fear. It is
knowing religion only as the captive in a foreign
land knows the country in which he is a pri-
soner. He hears from the cheerful natives of
its beauties, but is himself ignorant of every
thing beyond his own gloomy limits. He hears
of others as free and happy, yet feels nothing
himself but the rigours of incarceration.
The Christian character is little understood
by the votaries of the world; if it were, they
would be struck with its grandeur. It is the
very reverse of that meanness and pusillanimity,
that abject spirit and those narrow views, which
those who know it not ascribe to it.
A Christian lives at the height of his being;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
429
not only at the top of his spiritual, but of his ¡ence must have a centre, the body must have a
intellectual life. He alone lives in the full ex-soul, the performances must have a principle.
ercise of his rational powers. Religion ennobles Outward observances were wisely constituted
his reason while it enlarges it.
to rouse our forgetfulness, to awaken our secu-
but it was never intended that we should stop
short in the use of them. They were designed
to excite holy thoughts, to quicken us to holy
deeds, but not to be used as equivalents for either.
But we find it cheaper to serve God in a multi-
tude of exterior acts, than to starve on interior
corruption.
Let then your soul act up to its high destina-lar spirits, to call back our negligent hearts;
tion; let not that which was made to soar to
heaven, grovel in the dust. Let it not live so
much below itself. You wonder it is not more
fixed, when it is perpetually resting on things
which are not fixed themselves. In the rest of
a Christian there is stability, Nothing can
shake his confidence but sin. Outward attack
and troubles rather fix than unsettle him, as
tempests from without only serve to root the oak
faster, while an inward canker will gradually rot
and decay it.
These are only a few of the mistakes among
the multitude which might have been pointed
out; but these are noticed as being of common
and every day occurrence. The ineffectiveness
of such a religion will be obvious.
Nothing short of that uniform stable principle,
that fixedness in religion which directs a man
in all his actions, aims, and pursuits, to God as
his ultimate end, can give consistency to his
conduct or tranquillity to his soul. This state
once attained, he will not waste all his thoughts
and designs upon the world; he will not lavish
all his affections on so poor a thing as his own
advancement. He will desire to devote all to the
Our Sa-
only object worthy of them, to God.
of glorifying him may not run out into fanci-
ful chimeras or subtle inventions, by simply
stating-'HEREIN IS MY FATHER GLORIFIED, THAT
YE BEAR MUCH FRUIT.' This, he goes on to in-
form us, is the true evidence of our being of the
number of his people, by adding-so shall ye
be my disciples.'
That religion which sinks Christianity into a
mere conformity to religious usages, must al-viour has taken care to provide that our ideas
ways fail of substantial effects. If sin be seated
in the heart, if that be its home, that is the place
in which it must be combatted. It is in vain to
attack it in the suburbs, when it is lodged in
the centre. Mere forms can never expel that
enemy which they can never reach. By a re-
ligion of decencies, our corruptions may perhaps
be driven out of sight, but they will never
be driven out of possession. If they are expelled
from their outworks, they will retreat to their
citadel. If they do not appear in grosser forms,
prohibited by the decalogue, still they will exist.
The shape may be altered, but the principle will
remain. They will exist in the spiritual modi-
fication of the same sins, equally forbidden by
WE deceive ourselves not a little when we
the divine expositor. He who dares not be re- fancy that what is emphatically called the world,
vengeful, will be unforgiving. He who ventures is only to be found in this or that situation. The
not to break the letter of the seventh command-world is every where. It is a nature as well as
ment in act, will violate it in the spirit. He who
has not courage to forfeit heaven by profligacy,
will scale it by pride, or forfeit it by unprofita-
bleness.
It is not any vain hope, built on some external
privilege or performance on the one hand, nor a
presumptuous confidence that our names are
written in the book of life, on the other, which
can afford a reasonable ground of safety, but it
is endeavouring to keep all the commandments
of God; it is living to him who died for us; it
is being conformed to his image, as well as re-
deemed by his blood. This is Christian virtue;
this is the holiness of a believer. A lower mo-
tive will produce a lower morality, but such an
unsanctified morality God will not accept.
For it will little avail us that Christ has died
for us, that he has conquered su, triumphed
over the powers of darkness, and overcome the
world, while any sin retains its unresisted do-
minion in our hearts, while the world is our
idol, while our fostered corruptions cause us to
prefer darkness to light. We must not persuade
ourselves that we are reconciled to God while
our rebellious hearts are not reconciled to good-
ness.
It is not casting a set of opinions into a mould,
and a set of duties into a system, which consti-
tutes the Christian religion. The circumfer-
CHAP. IV.
Periodical Religion.
a place; a principle as well as a local habitation
and a name.' Though the principle and the na-
ture flourish most in those haunts which are
their congenial soil, yet we are too ready, when
we withdraw from the world abroad, to bring it
home, to lodge it in our own bosom. The natu-
ral heart is both its temple and its worshipper.
But the most devoted idolater of the world,
with all the capacity and industry which he may
have applied to the subject, has never yet been
able to accomplish the grand design of uniting
the interests of heaven and earth. This ex-
periment, which has been more assiduously and
more frequently tried than that of the philoso-
pher for the grand hermetic secret, has been
tried with about the same degree of success.
The most laborious process of the spiritual
chemist to reconcile religion with the world,
has never yet been competent to make the con-
tending principles coalesce.
But to drop metaphor.-Religion was never
yet thoroughly relinquished by a heart full of
the world. The world in return cannot be com-
pletely enjoyed where there is just religion
enough to disturb its false peace. In such
minds heaven and earth ruin each other's en-
joyments.
There is a religion which is too sincere for
hypocrisy, but too transient to be profitable; too
430
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
mighty has said, 'I cannot away with them,
they are iniquity.'
Now is this superficial devotion that ‘giving
ourselves not with our lips only, but with
our lives,' to our Maker, to which we solemnly
pledge ourselves, at least once a week? Is con-
secrating an hour or two to public worship on
the Sunday morning, making the Sabbath 'a
delight?' Is desecrating the rest of the day, by
doing our own ways, finding our own pleasure,
speaking our own words,' making it 'honour-
able?"
superficial to reach the heart, too unproductive
to proceed from it. It is slight, but not false.
It has discernment enough to distinguish sin,
but not firmness enough to oppose it ; compunc-up
tion sufficient to soften the heart, but not vigour
sufficient to reform it. It laments when it does
wrong, and performs all the functions of re-
pentance of sin except forsaking it It has
every thing of devotion except the stability, and
gives every thing to religion except the heart.
This is a religion of times, events, and circum-
stances; it is brought into play by accidents,
and dwindles away with the occasion which
called it out. Festivals and fasts which occur
but seldom, are much observed, and it is to be
feared because they occur but seldom ; while the
great festival which comes every week, comes
too often to be so respectfully treated. The
piety of these people comes out much in sick-
ness, but is apt to retreat again as recovery ap-
proaches. If they die, they are placed by their
admirers in the Saints' calender; if they re-
cover, they go back into the world they had re-
nounced, and again suspend their amendment
as often as Death suspends his blow.
There is another class whose views are still
lower, who cannot so far shake off religion as to
be easy without retaining its brief and stated
forms, and who contrive to mix up these forms
with a faith of a piece with their practice.
They blend their inconsistent works with a
vague and unwarranted reliance on what the
Saviour has done for them, and thus patch up
a merit, and a propitiatiou of their own-run-
ning the hazard of incurring the danger of
punishment by their lives, and inventing a
scheme to avert it by their. creed. Religion
never interferes with their pleasures except by
the compliment of a short and occasional sus-
pension. Having got through these periodical
acts of devotion, they return to the same scenes
of vanity and idleness which they had quitted
for the temporary duty: forgetting that it was
the very end of those acts of devotion to cure the
vanity and to correct the idleness. Had the
periodical observance answered its true design,
it would have disinclined them to the pleasure
instead of giving them a disposition for its in-
dulgence. Had they used the devout exercise
in a right spirit, and improved it to the true end,
it would have set the heart and life at work on
all those pursuits which it was calculated to
promote. But their project has more ingenuity.
By the stated minutes they give to religion,
they cheaply purchase a protection for the mis-
employment of the rest of their time. They
make these periodical devotions a kind of spiri-
tual insurance office, which is to make up to the
adventurers in pleasure, any loss or damage
which they may sustain in its voyage.
It is of these shallow devotions, these pre-
sumed equivalents for a new heart and a new
life, that God declares by the prophet, that he is
'weary.' Though of his own express appoint-
ment, they become an abomination' to him as
soon as the sign comes to be rested in for the
thing signified. We Christians have our new
moons and our sacrifices' under other names
and other shapes; of which sacrifices, that is,
of the spirit in which they are offered, the Al-
Sometimes in an awakening sermon, these
periodical religionists hear, with awe and terror,
of the hour of death and the day of judgment.
Their hearts are penetrated with the solemn
sounds. They confess the awful realities by
the impression they make on their own feelings.
The sermon ends, and with it the serious re-
flections it excited: While they listen to these
things especially if the preacher be alarming,
they are all in all to them. They return to the
world-and these things are as if they were
not; as if they had never been; as if their re-
ality lasted only while they were preached; as
if their existence depended only on their being
heard; as if truth were no longer truth than
while it solicited their notice; as if there were
as little stability in religion itself as in their at-
tention to it. As soon as their minds are dis-
engaged from the question, one would think
that death and judgment were an invention,
that heaven and hell were blotted from existence,
that eternity ceased to be eternity, in the long
intervals in which they cease to be the object
of their consideration.
This is the natural effect of what we venture
to denominate periodical religion. It is a tran-
sient homage kept totally distinct and separate
from the rest of our lives, instead of its being
made the prelude and the principle of a course
of pious practice; instead of our weaving our
devotions and our actions into one uniform tissue
by doing all in one spirit and to one end. When
worshippers of this description pray for a clean
heart and a right spirit;' when they beg of God
to turn away their eyes from beholding vanity,'
is it not to be feared that they pray to be made
what they resolve never to become, that they
would be very unwilling to become as good, as
they pray to be made, and would be sorry to be
as penitent as they profess to desire? But alas!
they are in little danger of being taken at their
word; there is too much reason to fear their pe-
titions will not be heard or answered, for prayer
for the pardon of sin will obtain no pardon,
while we retain the sin in hope that the prayer
will be accepted without the renunciation.
The most solemn office of our Religion, the sa-
cred memorial of the death of its Author, the
blessed injunction and tender testimony of his
dying love, the consolation of the humble be-
liever, the gracious appoinment for strengthen-
ing his faith, quickening his repentance, awaken-
ing his gratitude and kindling his charity, is too
often resorted to on the same erroneous princi
ple. He who ventures to live without the use
of this holy institution, lives in a state of dis
obedience to the last appointment of his Re-
deemer. He who rests in it as a means for sup
?
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
431
plying the place of habitual piety, totally mis-, painful measure which he can find a creditable
takes its design, and is fatally deceiving his own
soul.
This awful solemnity is, it is to be hoped,
rarely frequented even by this class of Chris-
tians without a desire of approaching it with the
pious feelings above described. But if they
carry them to the altar, are they equally anxious
to carry them away from it; are they anxious
to maintain them after it? Does the rite so
seriously approached commonly leave any ves-
tige of seriousness behind it? Are they careful
to perpetuate the feelings they were so desirous
to excite? Do they strive to make them pro-
duce solid and substantial effects? Would that
this inconstancy of mind were to be found only
in the class of characters under consideration!
Let the reader, however sincere in his desires,
let the writer, however ready to lament the
levity of others, seriously ask their own hearts
if they can entirely acquit themselves of the in-
consistency they are so forward to blame. If
they do not find the charge brought against
others but too applicable to themselves.
as
•
Irreverence antecedent to, or during this
sacred solemnity, is far more rare than durable
improvement after it. If there are, as we are
willing to believe, none so profane as to violate
the act, except those who impiously use it only
a pick-lock to a place, there are too few who
make it lastingly beneficial. Few so thought-
less as not to approach it with resolution of
amendment; few comparatively who carry those
resolutions into effect. Fear operates in the
operates in the
previous instance. Why should not love ope-
rate in that which is subsequent?
A periodical religion is accompanied with a
periodical repentance. This species of repen-
tance is adopted with no small mental reserva-
tion. It is partial and disconnected. These
fragments of contrition, these broken parcels of
penitence-while a succession of worldly pur-
suits is not only resorted to, but is intended to
be resorted to, during the whole of the interven-
ing spaces, is not that sorrow which the Al-
mighty hath promised to accept. To render it
pleasing to God and efficacious to ourselves,
there must be an agreement in the parts, an
entireness in the whole web of life. There
must be an integral repentance. A quarterly
contrition in the four weeks preceding the sa-
cred seasons will not wipe out the daily offences,
the hourly negligences of the whole sinful year.
Sins half forsaken through fear, and half retain-
ed through partially resisted temptation and
partially adopted resolution, make up but an un-
profitable piety.
/
In the bosom of these professors there is a per-
petual conflict between fear and inclination.
In conversation you will generally find them
very warm in the cause of religion; but it is re-
religion as opposed to infidelify, not as opposed
to worldly-mindedness. They defend the worship
of God, but desire to be excused from his service.
Their heart is the slave of the world, but their
blindness hides from them the turpitude of that
world. They commend piety but dread its requi-
sitions. They allow that repentance is necessary,
but then how easy is it to find reasons for defer-
ring a necessary evil? Who will hastily adopt a
pretence for evading? They censure whatever is
ostensibly wrong, but avoiding only part of it,
the part they retain robs them of the benefits
of their partial renunciation.
We cannot sufficiently admire the wisdom of
the church, in enjoining extraordinary acts of
devotion at the return of those festivals so hap-
pily calculated to excite devotional feelings.
Extraordinary repentance of sin is peculiarly
suitable to the seasons that record those grand
events which sin occasioned. But the church
never intended that these more stated and strict
self-examinations should preclude our habitual
self-inspection. It never intended its holy of
fices to supply the place of general holiness, but
to promote it. It intended that these solemn
occasions should animate the flame of piety, but
it never meant to furnish a reason for neglect-
ing to keep the flame alive till the next return
should again kindle the dying embers. It
meant that every such season should gladden
the heart of the Christian at its approach, and
not discharge him from duty at its departure.
It meant to lighten his conscience of the burden
of sin, not to encourage him to begin a new score,
again to be wiped off at the succeeding festival.
It intended to quicken the vigilance of the be-
liever and not to dismiss the sentinel from his
post. If we are not the better for these divinely
appointed helps, we are the worse
If we use
them as a discharge from that diligence which
they were intended to promote, we convert
our blessings into snares.
This abuse of our advantages arises from our
not incorporating our devotions into the general
habit of our lives. Till our religion become an
inward principle, and not an external act, we
shall not receive that benefit from her forms,
however excellent, which they are calculated to
convey. It is to those who possess the spirit of
Christianity that her forms are so valuable.
To them, the form excites the spirit, as the
spirit animates the form. Till religion become
the desire of our hearts, it will not become the
business of our lives. We are far from mean-
ing that it is to be its actual occupation; but
that every portion, every habit, every act of life
is to be animated by its spirit, influenced by its
principle, governed by its power.
The very mark of our nature and our neces-
sary commerce with the world, naturally fill
our hearts and minds with thoughts and ideas,
over which we have unhappily too little control.
We find this to be the case when in our better
hours we attempt to give ourselves up to serious
reflection. How many intrusions of worldly
thoughts, how many impertinent imaginations,
not only irrelevant, but uncalled and unwel-
come, crowd in upon the mind so forcibly as
scarcely to be repelled by our sincerest efforts.
How impotent then to repel such images must
that mind be, which is devoted to worldly pur-
suits, which yields itself up to them, whose
opinions, habits, and conduct are under their
allowed influence !
If, as we have before observed, religion con-
sists in a new heart and a new spirit, it will be-
come not our occasional act, but our abiding
disposition, proving its settled existence in the
432
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1
:.
mind by its habitually disposing our thoughts
and actions, our devotions and our practice to a
conformity to each other and to itself.
Let us not consider a spirit of worldliness as
a little infirmity, as a natural, and therefore a
pardonable weakness; as a trifling error which
will be overlooked for the sake of our many good
qualities. It is in fact the essence of our other
faults; the temper that stands between us and
our salvation; the spirit which is in direct op-
position to the Spirit of God. Individual sins
may more easily be cured, but this is the prin-
ciple of all spiritual disease. A worldly spirit
where it is rooted and cherished, runs through
the whole character, insinuates itself in all we
say and think and do. It is this which makes
us so dead in religion, so averse from spiritual
things, so forgetful of God, so unmindful of eter-
nity, so satisfied with ourselves, so impatient of
serious discourse, and so alive to that vain and
frivolous intercourse, which excludes intellect
almost as much as piety from our general con-
versation.
It is not therefore our more considerable ac-
tions alone which require watching, for they
seldom occur. They do not form the habit of
life in ourselves, nor the chief importance of our
example to others. It is to our ordinary beha-
viour; it is to our deportment in common life;
it is to our prevailing turn of mind in general
intercourse, by which we shall profit or corrupt
those with whom we associate. It is our con-
duct in social life which will help to diffuse a
spirit of piety, or a distaste to it. If we have
much influence, this is the place in which par-
ticularly to exert it. If we have little we have
still enough to infect the temper and lower the
tone of our narrow society.
nagement in company, by giving a better turn
to conversation, then at once we grow wickedly
modest-Such an insignificant creature as I
am can do no good.'-' Had I higher rank or
brighter talents, then indeed my influence might
be exerted to some purpose.'-Thus under the
mask of diffidence, we justify our indolence;
and let slip those lesser occasions of promoting
religion which if we all improved, how much
might the condition of society be raised.
The hackneyed interrogation, 'What-must
we be always talking about religion?' must
have the hackneyed answer-Far from it. Talk-
ing about religion is not being religious. But
we may bring the spirit of religion into compa-
ny, and keep it in perpetual operation when we
do not professedly make it our subject. We
may be constantly advancing its interests, we
may without effort or affectation be giving an
example of candour, of moderation, of humility,
of forbearance. We may employ our influence
by correcting falsehood, by checking levity, by
discouraging calumny, by vindicating misre-
presented me it, by countenancing every thing
which has a good tendency-in short, by throw-
ing our whole weight, be it great or small, into
the right scale.
CHAP. V.
Prayer.
the cry of faith to the ear of mercy.
PRAYER is the application of want to him who
only can relieve it; the voice of sin to him who
alone can pardon it. It is the urgency of po-
verty, the prostration of humility, the fervency
of penitence, the confidence of trust. It is not
If we really believe that it is the design of eloquence, but earnestness: not the definition
Christianity to raise us to a participation of the of helplessness, but the feeling of it; not figures
divine nature, the slightest reflection on this of speech, but compunction of soul. It is the
elevation of our character would lead us to main-Lord save us or we perish' of drowning Peter;
tain its dignity in the ordinary intercourse of
life. We should not so much inquire whether
we are transgressing any actual prohibition;
whether any standing law is pointed against us;
as whether we are supporting the dignity of the
Christian character; whether we are acting Prayer is desire. It is not a conception of
suitably to our profession; whether more exact- the mind nor a mere effort of the intellect, nor
ness in the common occurrences of the day, an act of the memory; but an elevation of the
more correctness in our conversation, would not soul towards its Maker; a pressing sense of
be such evidences of our religion, as by being our own ignorance and infirmity, a conscious-
obvious and intelligible, might not almost insen-ness of the perfections of God, of his readiness
sibly produce important effects.
to hear, of his power to help, of his willingness
to save.
Adoration is the noblest employment of cre-
ated beings; confession the natural language
of guilty creatures; gratitude the spontaneous
expression of pardoned sinners.
It is not an emotion produced in the sensos;
nor an effect wrought by the imagination; but
a determination of the will, an effusion of the
heart..
Prayer is the guide to self-knowledge by
prompting us to look after our sins in order to
pray against them; a motive to vigilance, by
teaching us to guard against those sins which,
through self-examination, we have been enabled
to detect.
The most insignificant people must not through
indolence and selfishness undervalue their own
influence. Most persons have a little circle of
which they are a sort of centre. Its smallness
may lessen their quantity of good, but does not
diminish the duty of using that little influence
wisely. Where is the human being so inconsi-
derable but that he may in some shape benefit
others, either by calling their virtues into ex-
ercise, or by setting them an example of virtue
himself? But we are humble just in the wrong
place. When the exhibition of our talents or Prayer is an act both of the understanding
splendid qualities is in question, we are not back-and of the heart. The understanding must ap-
ward in the display. When a little self-denial ply itself to the knowledge of the divine perfec-
is to be exercised, when a little good might be tions, or the heart will not be led to the adora-
effected by our example, by our discreet ma- tion of them. It would not be a reasonable
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
433
service if the mind was excluded. It must be
rational worship, or the human worshipper would
not bring to the service the distinguished faculty
of his nature, which is reason. It must be spi-
ritual worship; or it would want the distinctive
quality to make it acceptable to Him, who has
declared that He will be worshipped in spirit
and in truth.'
Prayer is right in itself as the most powerful
means of resisting sin and advancing in holi-
ness. It is above all right, as every thing is,
which has the authority of Scripture, the com-
mand of God, and the example of Christ.
There is a perfect consistency in all the or-
dinations of God; a perfect congruity in the
whole scheme of his dispensations. If man
were not a corrupt creature, such prayer as the
gospel enjoins would not have been necessary.
Had not prayer been an important means for
curing those corruptions, a God of perfect wis-
dom would not have ordered it. He would not
have prohibited every thing which tends to in-
flame and promote them, had they not existed,
nor would he have commanded every thing that
has a tendency to diminish and remove them,
had not their existence been fatal. Prayer,
therefore, is an indispensable part of his econo-
my and of our obedience.
It is a hackneyed objection to the use of pray.
er that it is offending the omniscience of God to
suppose he requires information of our wants.
But no objection can be more futile. We do
not pray to inform God of our wants, but to ex-
press our sense of the wants which he already
knows. As he has not so much made his pro-
mise to our necessities, as to our requests, it is
reasonable that our requests should be made be-
fore we can hope that our necessities will be re-
lieved. God does not promise to those who want
that they shall 'have,' but to those who 'ask ;'
nor to those who need that they shall find,' but
to those who seek.' So far therefore from his
previous knowledge of our wants being a ground
of objection to prayer, it is in fact the true ground
for our application. Were he not knowledge it-
self, our information would be of as little use as
our application would be, were he not goodness
itself.
We cannot attain to a just notion of prayer
while we remain ignorant of our own nature,
of the nature of God as revealed in Scripture, of
our relation to him and dependence on him. If
therefore we do not live in the daily study of
the holy scriptures, we shall want the highest
motives to this duty and the best helps for per-
forming it; if we do, the cogency of these mo-
tives, and the inestimable value of these helps,
will render argument unnecessary and exhorta-
tion superfluous.
One cause therefore of the dulness of many
Christians in prayer, is, their slight acquaint-
ance with the sacred volume. They hear it pe-
riodically, they read it occasionally, they are
contented to know it historically, to consider it
superficially, but they do not endeavour to get
their minds imbued with its spirit. If they
store their memory with its facts, they do not
impress their hearts with its truths. They do
not regard it as the nutriment on which their
spiritual life and growth depend. They do not
VOL. I.
E 2
pray over it; they do not consider all its doc-
trines as of practical application; they do not
cultivate that spiritual discernment which alone
can enable them judiciously to appropriate its
promises and its denunciations to their own
actual case. They do not apply it as an un-
erring line to ascertain their own rectitude or
obliquity.
In our retirements, we too often fritter away
our precious moments, moments rescued from
the world, in trivial, sometimes it is to be feared,
in corrupt thoughts. But if we must give the
reins to our imagination, let us send this excur-
sive faculty to range among great and noble ob-
jects. Let it stretch forward under the sanction
of faith and the anticipation of prophecy, to the
accomplishment of those glorious promises and
tremendous threatenings which will soon be re-
alized in the eternal world. These are topics
which under the safe and sober guidance of
Scripture, will fix its largest speculations and
sustain its loftiest flights. The same Scripture
while it expands and elevates the mind, will
keep it subject to the dominion of truth; while
at the same time it will teach it that its boldest
excursions must fall infinitely short of the asto-
nishing realities of a future state.
Though we cannot pray with a too deep sense
of sin, we may make our sins too exclusively the
object of our prayers. While we keep, with a
self-abasing eye, our own corruptions in view,
let us look with equal intenseness on that mer-
cy, which cleanseth from all sin. Let our pray-
ers be all humiliation, but let them not be all
complaint. When men indulge no other thought
but that they are rebels, the hopelessness of par-
don hardens them into disloyalty. Let them
look to the mercy of the king, as well as to the
rebellion of the subject. If we contemplate his
grace as displayed in the gospel, then, though
our humility will increase, our despair will va
nish. Gratitude in this as in human instances
will create affection. We love him because he
first loved us.'
Let us then always keep our unworthiness in
view as a reason why we stand in need of the
mercy of God in Christ; but never plead it as a
reason why we should not draw nigh to him to
implore that mercy. The best men are unwor
thy for their own sakes; the worst on repent-
ance will be accepted for his sake and through
his merits.
In
prayer then, the perfections of God, and
especially his mercy in our redemption, should
occupy our thoughts as much as our sins; our
obligation to him as much as our departures
from him. We should keep up in our hearts a
constant sense of our own weakness, not with a
design to discourage the mind and depress the
spirits; but with a view to drive us out of our-
selves, in search of the divine assistance.
should contemplate our infirmity in order to
draw us to look for his strength, and to seek
that power from God which we vainly look for
in ourselves. We do not tell a sick friend of
his danger in order to grieve or terrify him, but
to induce him to apply to his physician, and to
have recourse to his remedy.
We
Among the charges which have been brough
against serious piety, one is, that it teaches men
434
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
his creatures.
to despair. The charge is just in one sense as, would be dissolving the connexion which he has
to the fact, but false in the sense intended. It condescended to establish between himself and
teaches us to despair indeed of ourselves, while
it inculcates that faith in a Redeemer, which is
the true antidote to despair. Faith quickens the
doubting spirit, while it humbles the presump-
tuous. The lowly Christian takes comfort in
the blessed promise, that God will never forsake
them that are his. The presumptuous man is
equally right in the doctrine, but wrong in ap-
plying it. He takes that comfort to himself
which was meant for another class of characters.
The mal-appropriation of Scripture promises
and threatenings, is the cause of much error
and delusion.
Though some devout enthusiasts have fallen
into error by an unnatural and impracticable
disinterestedness, asserting that God is to be
loved exclusively for himself, with an absolute
renunciation of any view of advantage to our-
selves; yet that prayer cannot be mercenary,
which involves God's glory with our own happi-
ness, and makes his will the law of our requests.
Though we are to desire the glory of God su-
premely; though this ought to be our grand ac-
tuating principle, yet he has graciously permit-
ted, commanded, invited us, to attach our own
happiness to this primary object. The Bible
exhibits not only a beautiful, but an inseparable
combination of both, which delivers us from the
danger of unnaturally renouncing our own be-
nefit for the promotion of God's glory, on the
one hand; and on the other, from seeking any
happiness independent of him, and underived
from him. In enjoining us to love him supreme-
ly, he has connected an unspeakable blessing
with a paramount duty, the highest privilege
with the most positive command.
What a triumph for the humble Christian to
be assured, that the high and lofty One which
inhabiteth eternity,' condescends at the same
time to dwell in the heart of the contrite ;-in
his heart! To know that God is the God of his
life, to know that he is even invited to take the
Lord for his God. To close with God's offers,
to accept his invitations, to receive God as his
portion, must surely be more pleasing to our
heavenly Father, than separating our happiness
from his glory. To disconnect our interests
from his goodness, is at once to detract from his
perfections, and to obscure the brightness of our
own hopes. The declarations of inspired writers
are confirmed by the authority of the heavenly
hosts. They proclaim that the glory of God
and the happiness of his creatures, so far from
interfering, are connected with each other. We
know but of one anthem Composed and sung by
angels, and this most harmoniously combines
the glory of God in the highest with peace on
earth and good will to men.'
'The beauty of Scripture,' says the great
Saxon reformer, 'consists in pronouns.' This
God is our God-God, even our own God, shall
bless us.
How delightful the appropriation!
To glorify him as being in himself consummate
excellence, and to love him from the feeling that
this excellence is directed to our felicity! Here
modesty would be ingratitude; disinterestedness
rebellion. It would be severing ourselves from
Him, in whom we live, and move, and are; it
It has been justly observed, that the Scripture
saints make this union the chief ground of their
grateful exultation- My strength'-' my rock'
— my fortress'—'my deliverer!' Again-' Let
the God of my salvation be exalted! Now take
away the pronoun and substitute the article the,
how comparatively cold is the impression! The
consummation of the joy arises from the peculi-
arity, the intimacy, the endearment of the rela-
tion.
Nor to the liberal Christian is the grateful joy
diminished, when he blesses his God as 'the
God of all them that trust in him.' All general
blessings, will he say, all providential mercies,
are mine individually, are mine as completely
as if no other shared in the enjoyment. Life,
light, the earth and heavens, the sun and stars,
whatever sustains the body, and recreates the
spirits! My obligation is as great as if the mer-
cy had been made purely for me. As great?
nay, it is greater-it is augmented by a sense
of the millions who participate in the blessing.
The same enlargement of the personal obliga-
tion holds good, nay rises higher, in the mercies
of redemption. The Lord is my Saviour as com-
pletely as if he had redeemed only me. That
he has redeemed a great multitude which no
man can number, of all nations, and kindreds,
and people, and tongues,' is diffusion without
abatement; it is general participation without
individual diminution-Each has all.
In adoring the providence of God, we are apt
to be struck with what is new and out of course,
while we too much overlook long, habitual, and
uninterrupted mercies. But common mercies,
if less striking, are more valuable, both because
we have them always, and for the reason above
assigned, because others share them. The or-
dinary blessings of life are overlooked for the
very reason that they ought to be most prized-
because they are most uniformly bestowed.
They are most essential to our support, and
when once they are withdrawn we begin to find
that they are also most essential to our comfort.
Nothing raises the price of a blessing like its
removal; whereas it was its continuance which
should have taught us its value.
We require
novelties to awaken our gratitude, not consider-
ing that it is the duration of mercies which en-
hances their value. We want fresh excitements.
We consider mercies long enjoyed as things of
course, as things to which we have a sort of
presumptive claim; as if God had no right to
withdraw what he had once bestowed; as if he
were obliged to continue what he has once been
pleased to confer.
But that the sun has shone unremittingly
from the day that God created him, is not a less
stupendous exertion of power than that the hand
which fixed him in the heavens, and marked
out his progress through them, once said by his
servant, Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon.'
That he has gone on in his strength, driving his
uninterrupted career, and rejoicing as a giant
to run his course,' for six thousand years, is a
more astonishing exhibition of Omnipotence
than that he should have been once suspended.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORË.
435
by the hand which set him in motion. That
the ordinances of heaven, that the established
laws of nature, should have been for one day in-
terrupted to serve a particular occasion, is a less
real wonder, and certainly a less substantial
blessing, than that in such a multitude of ages
they should have pursued their appointed course,
for the comfort of the whole system :
For ever singing as they shine
The hand that inade us is divine.
As the affections of the Christian ought to be
set on things above, so it is for them that his
prayers will be chiefly addressed. God in pro-
mising to give those who delight in him the
desire of their heart,' could never mean tempo-
ral things; for these they might desire impro-
perly as to the object, and inordinately as to the
degree. The promise relates principally to spi-
ritual blessings. He not only gives us these
mercies, but the very desire to obtain them is
also his gift. Here our prayer requires no qua-
lifying, no conditioning, no limitation. We
cannot err in our choice, for God himself is the
object of it; we cannot exceed in the degree,
unless it were possible to love him too well; or
to please him too much.
We should pray for worldly comforts, and for
a blessing on our earthly plans, though lawful
in themselves, conditionally, and with a reser-
vation: because after having been earnest in
our requests for them, it may happen that when
we come to the petition 'thy will be done,' we
may in these very words be praying that our
previous petitions may not be granted. In this
brief request consists the vital principle, the es-
sential spirit of prayer. God shows his munifi-
cence in encouraging us to ask most carnestly
for the greatest things, by promising that the
smaller shall be added unto us.' We therefore
acknowledge his liberality most when we re-
quest the highest favours. He manifests his in-
finite superiority to earthly fathers by chiefly
delighting to confer those spiritual gifts, which
they less solicitously desire for their children
than those worldly advantages on which God
sets so little value.
Nothing short of a sincere devotedness to God,
can enable us to maintain an equality of mind,
under unequal circumstances. We murmur
that we have not the things we ask amiss, not
knowing that they are withheld by the same
mercy by which the things that are good for us
are granted. Things good in themselves may
not be good for us. A resigned spirit is the
proper disposition to prepare us for receiving
mercies, or for having them denied. Resigna-
tion of soul, like the allegiance of a good sub-
ject, is always in readiness, though not in ac-
tion: whereas an impatient mind is a spirit of
disaffection always prepared to revolt, when the
will of the sovereign is in opposition to that of
the subject. This seditious principle is the in-
fallible characteristic of an unrenewed mind.
A sincere love of God will make us thankful
when our supplications are granted, and patient
and cheerful when they are denied. He who
feels his heart rise against any divine dispensa-
tion, ought not to rest till by serious meditation
and earnest prayer it be moulded into submis-
sion. A habit of acquiescence in the will of
God, will so operate on the faculties of his mind;
that even his judgment will embrace the con-
viction, that what he once so ardently desired,
would not have been that good thing, which his
blindness had conspired with his wishes to make
him believe it to be. He will recollect the many
instances in which if his importunity had pre-
vailed, the thing which ignorance requested, and
wisdom denied, would have insured his misery.
Every fresh disappointment will teach him to
distrust himself, and to confide in God. Expe-
rience will instruct him that there may be a
better way of hearing our requests than that of
granting them. Happy for us that he to whom
they are addressed knows which is best, and
acts upon that knowledge.
Still lift for good the supplicating voice,
But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice;
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest,
Secure whate'er he gives, he gives the best.
We should endeavour to render our private
devotions effectual remedies for our own parti-
cular sins. Prayer against sin in general is too
indefinite to reach the individual case. We must
bring it home to our own heart, else we may be
confessing another man's sins and overlooking
our own. If we have any predominant fault,
we should pray more especially against that
fault. If we pray for any virtue of which we
particularly stand in need, we should dwell on
our own deficiencies in that virtue, till our souls
become deeply affected with our want of it. Our
prayers should be circumstantial, not, as was
before observed, for the information of infinite
wisdom, but for the stirring up of our own dull
affections. And as the recapitulation of our
wants tends to keep up a sense of our depen-
dence, the enlarging on our especial mercies
will tend to keep alive a sense of gratitude.
While indiscriminate petitions, confessions, and
thanksgivings leave the mind to wander in in-
definite devotion and unaffecting generalities,
without personality and without appropriation.
It must be obvious that we except those grand
universal points in which all have an equal in-
terest, and which must always form the essence
of public prayer.
On the blessing attending importunity im
prayer, the Gospel is abundantly explicit. God
perhaps delays to give that we may persevere
in asking. He may require importunity for our
own sakes, that the frequency and urgency of
the petition may bring our hearts into that frame
to which he will be favourable.
As we ought to live in a spirit of obedience to
his commands, so we should live in a frame of
waiting for his blessings on our prayers, and in
a spirit of gratitude when we have obtained it.
This is that 'preparation of the heart' which
would always keep us in a posture for duty. If
we desert the duty because an immediate bless-
ing does not visibly attend it, it shows that we
do not serve God out of conscience, but selfish-
ness: that we grudge expending on him that
service which brings us in no immediate inte-
rest. Though he grant not our petition, let us
never be tempted to withdraw our application.
Our reluctant devotions may remind us of
436
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
cant, or ignorant, or unprepared mind, with a
heart full of the world; as we shall feel no dis-
position or qualification for the work we are
about to engage in, so we cannot expect that our
petitions will be heard or granted. There must
be some congruity between the heart and the
object, some affinity between the state of our
minds and the business in which they are em-
ployed, if we would expect success in the work.
the remark of a certain political wit, who apolo- | be always laying in materials for prayer, by a
gized for his late attendance in parliament, diligent course of serious reading, by treasur-
by his being detained while a party of soldiers ing up in our minds the most important truths.
were dragging a volunteer to his duty. How If we rush into the divine presence with a va-
many excuses do we find for not being in time! |
How many apologies for brevity! How many
evasions for neglect! How unwilling, too often,
are we to come into the divine presence, how
reluctant to remain in it! Those hours which
are least valuable for business, which are least
seasonable for pleasure, we commonly give to
religion. Our energies which were so exerted
in the society we have just quitted, are sunk as
we approach the divine presence. Our hearts,
which were all alacrity in some frivolous con-
versation, become cold and inanimate, as if it
were the natural property of devotion to freeze
the affections. Our animal spirits, which so
readily performed their functions before, now
slacken their vigour and lose their vivacity.
The sluggish body sympathizes with the un-
willing mind, and each promotes the deadness
of the other; both are slow in listening to the
call of duty; both are soon weary in performing
it. As prayer requires all the energies of the
compound being of man, so we too often feel as
as
if there were a conspiracy of body, soul and
spirit, to disincline and disqualify us for it.
We are often deceived, both as to the princi-
ple and the effect of our prayers. When from
some external cause the heart is glad, the
spirits light, the thoughts ready, the tongue volu-
able, a kind of spontaneous eloquence is the re-
sult; with this we are pleased, and this ready flow
we are willing to impose on ourselves for piety.
On the other hand when the mind is dejected;
the animal spirits low; the thoughts confused
when apposite words do not readily present
themselves, we are apt to accuse our hearts of
want of fervour, to lament our weakness, and
to monrn that because we have had no pleasure
in praying, our prayers have, therefore, not as-
cended to the throne of mercy. In both cases
When the heart is once sincerely turned to we perhaps judge ourselves unfairly. These
religion, we need not, every time we pray, ex- unready accents, these faltering praises, these
amine into every truth, and seek for conviction ill expressed petitions, may find more accept-
over and over again; but assume that those doc-ance than the florid talk with which we were
trines are true, the truth of which we have al- so well satisfied the latter consisted, it may be,
ready proved. From a general and fixed im- of shining thoughts floating on the fancy, elo-
pression of these principles, will result a taste,quent words dwelling only on the lips: the for-
a disposedness, a love, so intimate, that the con-
victions of the understanding will become the
affections of the heart.
To be deeply impressed with a few funda-
mental truths, to digest them thoroughly, to
meditate on them seriously, to pray over them
fervently, to get them deeply rooted in the heart,
will be more productive of faith and holiness,
than to labour after variety, ingenuity or ele-
gance. The indulgence of imagination will
rather distract than edify. Searching after in-
genious thoughts will rather divert the atten-
tion from God to ourselves, than promote fixed-
ness of thought, singleness of intention, and de-
votedness of spirit. Whatever is subtil and re-
fined, is in danger of being unscriptural. If we
do not guard the mind it will learn to wander in
quest of novelties. It will learn to set more
value on original thoughts than devout affec-
tions. It is the business of prayer to cast down
imaginations which gratify the natural activity
of the mind, while they leave the heart un-
humbled.
We should confine ourselves to the present
business of the present moment; we should keep
the mind in a state of perpetual dependence;
we should entertain no long views. Now is
the accepted time.'-' To day we must hear his
voice.'—'Give us this day our daily bread.' The
manna will not keep till to-morrow: to-morrow
will have its own wants, and must have its own
petitions. To-morrow we must seek the bread of
heaven afresh.
We should, however, avoid coming to our de-
votions with unfurnished minds. We should
:
mer was the sighing of a contrite heart, abased
by the feeling of its own unworthiness, and
awed by the perfections of a holy and heart-
searching God. The heart is dissatisfied with
its own dull and tasteless repetitions, which,
with all their imperfections, infinite goodness
may perhaps hear with favour.* We may not
only be elated with the fluency, but even with
the fervency of our prayers. Vanity may grow
out of the very act of renouncing it, and we may
begin to feel proud at having humbled ourselves
so eloquently.
There is, however, a strain and spirit of
prayer equally distinct from that facility and
copiousness for which we certainly are never
the better in the sight of God, and from that
constraint and dryness for which we may be
never the worse. There is a simple, solid,
pious strain of prayer, in which the supplicant
is so filled and occupied with a sense of his own
dependence, and of the importance of the things
for which he asks, and so persuaded of the
power and grace of God through Christ to give
him those things, that while he is engaged in
it, he does not merely imagine, but feels assured
that God is nigh to him as a reconciled Father,
so that every burden and doubt are taken off
* Of this sort of repetitions, our admirable church-
liturgy has been accused as a fault; but this defect, if
it be one, happily accommodates itself to our infirmities.
wanders, whose heart accompanies his lips in every
Where is the favoured being whose attention never
sentence? Is there no absence of mind in the petitioner,
no wandering of the thoughts, no inconstancy of the
heart? which these repetitions are wisely calculated to
correct, to rouse the dead attention, to bring back the
strayed affections.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
437
from his mind. He knows,' as Saint John ex-, be given to better things, but gradually destroy
presses it, that he has the petitions he desired
of God,' and feels the truth of that promise,
while they are yet speaking I will hear.'
This is the perfection of prayer.
CHAP. VI.
Cultivation of a Devotional Spirit.
To maintain a devotional spirit, two things are
especially necessary-habitually to cultivate the
disposition, and habitually to avoid whatever is
unfavourable to it. Frequent retirement and
recollection are indispensable, together with
such a general course of reading, as if it do not
actually promote the spirit we are endeavour-
ing to maintain, shall never be hostile to it.
We should avoid as much as in us lies all such
society, all such amusements, as excite tempers
which it is the daily business of a Christian to
subdue, and all those feelings which it is his
constant duty to suppress.
all taste for better things. They sink the mind
to their own standard, and give it a sluggish
reluctance, we had almost said, a moral incapa-
city for every thing above their level. The
mind, by long habit of stooping, loses its erect-
ness, and yields to its degradation. It becomes
so low and narrow by the littleness of the things
which engage it, that it requires a painful effort
to lift itself high enough, or to open itself wide
enough to embrace great and noble objects.
The appetite is vitiated. Excess, instead of
producing a surfeit, by weakening the digestion,
only induces a loathing for stronger nourish-
ment. The faculties which might have been
expanding in works of science, or soaring in
the contemplation of genius, become satisfied
with the impertinences of the most ordinary
fiction, lose their relish for the severity of truth,
the elegance of taste, and the soberness of reli-
gion. Lulled in the torpor of repose, the intel-
lect doses, and enjoys in its waking dream,
All the wild trash of sleep, without the rest.
In avoiding books which excite the passions,
it would seem strange to include even some de-
And here may we venture to observe, that votional works. Yet such as merely kindle
if some things which are apparently innocent, warm feelings, are not always the safest. Let
and do not assume an alarming aspect, or bear us rather prefer those, which, while they tend
a dangerous character; things which the gene- to raise a devotional spirit, awaken the affections
rality of decorous people affirm, (how truly we without disordering them; which while they
know not) to be safe for them; yet if we find elevate the desires, purify them, which show us
that these things stir up in us improper propen- our own nature, and lay open its corruptions.
sities; if they awaken thoughts which ought Such as show us the malignity of sin, the de-
not to be excited; if they abate our love for re- ceitfulness of our hearts, the feebleness of our
ligious exercises, or infringe on our time for best resolutions; such as teach us to pull off
performing them; if they make spiritual con- the mask from the fairest appearances, and dis-
cerns appear insipid; if they wind our heart a cover every hiding place, where some lurking
little more about the world: in short, if we have evil would conceal itself; such as show us not
formerly found them injurious to our own souls, what we appear to others, but what we really
then let no example or persuasion, no belief of are; such as co-operating with our interior feel-
their alleged innocence, no plea of their perfecting, and showing us our natural state, point out
safety, tempt us to indulge in them. It mat- our absolute need of a Redeemer, lead us to seek
ters little to our security what they are to others. to him for pardom from a conviction that there
Our business is with ourselves. Our respon- is no other refuge, no other salvation. Let us
sibility is on our own heads. Others cannot
know the side on which we are assailable.
Let our own unbiassed judgment determine our
opinion; let our own experience decide for our
own conduct.
be conversant with such writings as teach us
that while we long to obtain the remission of
our transgressions, we must not desire the re-
mission of our duties. Let us seek for such a
Saviour as will not only deliver us from the
punishment of sin, but from its dominion also.
and business, always be thinking of heavenly
things; yet the desire, the frame, the propen-
sity, the willingness to return, to them we must,
however difficult, endeavour to maintain.
In speaking of books, we cannot forbear notic-
ing that very prevalent sort of reading, which And let us ever bear in mind that the end of
is little less productive of evil, little less preju- prayer is not answered when the prayer is
dicial to moral and mental improvement, than finished. We should regard prayer as a means
that which carries a more formidable appear- to a farther end. The act of prayer is not suf
ance. We cannot confine our censure to those ficient, we must cultivate a spirit of prayer.
more corrupt writings which deprave the heart, | And though when the actual devotion is over,
debauch the imagination, and poison the prin- we cannot, amid the distractions of company
ciples. Of these the turpitude is so obvious,
that no caution on this head, it is presumed, can
be necessary. But if justice forbids us to con-
found the insipid with the mischievous, the idle
with the vicious, and the frivolous with the pro- The proper temper for prayer should precede
fligate, still we can only admit of shades, deep the act. The disposition should be wrought in
shades we allow, of difference. These works, the mind before the exercise is begun. To bring
if comparatively harmless, yet debase the taste, a proud temper to an humble prayer, a luxurious
slacken the intellectual nerve, let down the un- habit to a self-denying prayer, or a worldly dis-
derstanding, set the fancy loose, and send it position to a spiritually-minded prayer, is a po-
gadding among low and mean objects. They sitive anomaly. A habit is more powerful than
not only run away with the time which should an act, and a previously indulged temper during
|
438
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
the day will not, it is to be feared, be fully coun- | barely passing through the mind will make lıt-
teracted by the exercise of a few minutes devo-
tion at night.
Prayer is designed for a perpetual renovation
of the motives to virtue; if therefore the cause
is not followed by its consequence, a consequence
inevitable but for the impediments we bring to
it, we rob our nature of its highest privilege, and
run the danger of incurring a penalty where we
are looking for a blessing.
That the habitual teudency of the life should
be the preparation for the stated prayer, is na-
turally suggested to us by our blessed Redeemer
in his sermon on the Mount. He announced
the precepts of holiness, and their corresponding
beatitudes; he gave the spiritual exposition of
the law, the direction for alms-giving, the ex-
hortation to love our enemies, nay the essence
and spirit of the whole Decalogue, previous to
his delivering his own divine prayer as a pattern
for ours.
Let us learn from this that the prepa-
ration of prayer is therefore to live in all those
pursuits which we may safely beg of God to
bless, and in a conflict with all those temptations
into which we pray not to be led.
tle impression on it. We must arrest it, con-
strain it to remain with us, expand, amplify, and
as it were, take it to pieces. It must be dis-
tinctly unfolded, and carefully examined, or it
will leave no precise idea: it must be fixed and
incorporated, or it will produce no practical ef
fect. We must not dismiss it till it has left
some trace on the mind, till it has made some
impression on the heart.
"
On the other hand, if we give the reins to a
loose ungoverned fancy, at other times; if we
abandon our minds to frivolous thoughts; if we
fill them with corrupt images; if we cherish
sensual ideas during the rest of the day, can
they expect that none of these images will in-
trude, that none of these impressions will be re-
vived, but that the temple into which foul
things' have been invited, will be cleansed at a
given moment; that worldly thoughts will re
cede and give place at once to pure and holy
thoughts? Will that Spirit grieved by impurity,
or resisted by levity, return with his warm
beams and cheering influences, to the contami-
nated mansion from which he has been driven
out? Is it wonderful if finding no entrance in.
If God be the centre to which our hearts are
tending, every line in our lives must meet into a heart filled with vanity he should withdraw
him. With this point in view there will be a
harmony between our prayers and our practice,
a consistency between devotion and conduct,
which will make every part turn to this one end,
hear upon this one point. For the beauty of
the Christian scheme consists not in parts (how.
ever good in themselves) which tend to separate
views, and lead to different ends; but it arises
from its being one entire, uniform, connected
plan, compacted of that which every joint, sup-
plieth,' and of which all the parts terminate in
this one grand ultimate point.
The design of prayer therefore as we before
observed, is not merely to make us devout while
we are engaged in it, but that its odour may be
diffused through all the intermediate spaces of
the day, enter into all its occupations, duties and
tempers. Nor must its results be partial, or li-
mited to easy and pleasant duties, but extend to
such as are less alluring. When we pray, for
instance, for our enemies, the prayer must be
rendered practical, must be made a means of
softening our spirit, and cooling our resentment
toward them. If we deserve their enmity, the
true spirit of prayer will put us upon endeavour-
ing to cure the fault which has excited it. If
we do not deserve it, it will put us on striving
for a placable temper, and we shall endeavour
not to let slip so favourable an occasion of culti-
vating it. There is no such softener of animo-
sity, no such soother of resentment, no such al-
layer of hatred, as sincere, cordial prayer.
himself? We cannot, in retiring into our clo-
sets, change our natures as we do our clothes.
The disposition we carry thither will be likely
to remain with us. We have no right to expect
that a new temper will meet us at the door.
We can only hope that the spirit we bring thither
will be cherished and improved. It is not easy,
rather it is not possible, to graft genuine devo-
tion on a life of an opposite tendency; nor can
we delight ourselves regularly for a few stated
moments, in that God whom we have not been
serving during the day. We may indeed to
quiet our conscience, take up the employment
of prayer, but cannot take up the state of mind
which will make the employment beneficial to
ourselves, or the prayer acceptable to God, if
all the previous day we have been careless of
ourselves, and unnindful of our Maker. They
will not pray differently from the rest of the
world, who do not live differently.
What a contradiction is it to lament the weak.
ness, the misery, and the corruption of our na-
ture, in our devotions, and then to rush into a
life, though not perhaps of vice, yet of indul
gence, calculated to increase that weakness, to
inflame those corruptions, and to lead to that
misery! There is either no meaning to our
prayers, or no sense in our conduct. In the one
we mock God, in the other we deceive ourselves.
Will not he who keeps up an habitual inter-
course with his Maker, who is vigilant in
thought, self-denying in action, who strives to
It is obvious, that the precept to pray without keep his heart from wrong desires, his mind
ceasing can never mean to enjoin a continual from vain imaginations, and his lips from idle
course of actual prayer. But while it more di- words, bring a more prepared spirit, a more
rectly enjoins us to embrace all proper occasions collected mind, be more engaged, more pene-
of performing this sacred duty, or rather of trated, more present to the occasion? Will he
claiming this valuable privilege, so it plainly not feel more delight in this devout exercise,
implies that we should try to keep up constantly reap more benefit from it, than he who lives at
that sense of the divine presence which shall random, prays from custom, and who, though
maintain the disposition. In order to this, we he dares not intermit the form, is a stranger to
should inure our minds to reflection; we should its spirit? O God my heart is ready,' cannot be
encourage serious thoughts. A good thought|lawfully uttered by him who is no more prepared.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
439
not by our conduct furnish arguments against
ourselves; for, as if the difficulty were not great
enough in itself, we are continually heaping up
mountains in our way, by indulging in such
pursuits and passions, as make a small labour
an insurmountable one.
But we may often judge better of our state by
the result, than by the act of prayer. Our very
defects, our coldness, deadness, wanderings, may
leave more contrition on the soul than the hap-
piest turn of thought. The feeling of our wants,
the confession of our sins, the acknowledgment
of our dependence, the renunciation of ourselves,
the supplication for mercy, the application to
the fountain opened for sin,' the cordial entrea-
ty for the aid of the Spirit, the relinquishment of
our own will, resolutions of better obedience,
We speak not here to the self-sufficient form-
alist, or the careless profligate. Among those
whom we now take the liberty to address, are
to be found, especially in the higher class of fe-
males, the amiable and the interesting, and in
many respects the virtuous and correct; charac-
ters so engaging, so evidently made for better
things, so capable of reaching high degrees of
excellence, so formed to give the tone to Chris-
tian practice, as well as to fashion; so calculated
to give a beautiful impression on that religion
which they profess without sufficiently adoring;
which they believe without fairly exemplifying;
that we cannot forbear taking a tender interest
in their welfare; we cannot forbear breathing a
fervent prayer that they may yet reach the
elevation for which they were intended; that
they may hold out a uniform and consistent pat-petitions that these resolutions may be directed
tern, of 'whatsoever things are pure, honest,
just, lovely, and of good report!' This the Apos-
tle goes on to intimate can only be done by
THINKING ON THESE THINGS. Things can only
influence our practice as they engage our atten-
tion. Would not then a confirmed habit of se-
rious thought tend to correct that inconsidera-
tion, which we are willing to hope, more than
want of principle, lies at the bottom of the in-
consistency we are lamenting.
and sanctified; these are the subjects in which
the suppliant should be engaged, by which his
thoughts should be absorbed. Can they be so
absorbed, if many of the intervening hours are
passed in pursuits of a totally different com-
plexion; pursuits which raise the passions which
we are seeking to allay? Will the cherished va-
nities go at our bidding? Will the required dis-
positions come at our calling? Do we find our
tempers so obedient, our passions so obsequious
If, as is generally allowed, the great difficulty in the other concerns of life? If not, what rea-
of our spiritual life is to make the future pre- son have we to expect their obsequiousness in
We should therefore en-
dominate over the present, do we not by the this grand concern.
conduct we are regretting, aggravate what it is deavour to believe as we pray, to think as we
in our power to diminish? Miscalculation of pray, to feel as we pray, and to act as we pray.
the relative value of things is one of the greatest Prayer must not be a solitary, independent ex-
errors of our moral life. We estimate them inercise; but an exercise interwoven with
an inverse proportion to their value, as well as
to their duration : we lavish earnest and dura-
ble thoughts on things so trifling, that they de-
serve little regard, so brief, that they perish
with the using,' while we bestow only slight
attention on things of infinite worth, only tran-
sient thoughts on things of eternal duration.
Those who are so far conscientious as not to
intermit a regular course of devotion, and who
yet allow themselves at the same time to go on
in a course of amusements, which excite a di-
rectly opposite spirit, are inconceivably aug-
menting their own difficulties.-They are eager.
ly heaping up fuel in the day, on the fire which
they intend to extinguish in the evening; they
are voluntarily adding to the temptations,
against which they mean to request grace to
struggle. To acknowledge at the same time,
that we find it hard to serve God as we ought,
and yet to be systematically indulging habits,
which must naturally increase the difficulty,
makes our characters almost ridiculous, while
it renders our duty almost impracticable.
While we make our way more difficult by
those very indulgences with which we think to
cheer and refresh it, the determined Christian
becomes his own pioneer: he makes his path
easy by voluntarily clearing it of the obstacles
which impede his progress.
These habitual indulgences seem a contradic-
tion to that obvious law, that one virtue always
involves another; for we cannot labour after any
grace, that of prayer for instance, without re-
sisting whatever is opposite to it. If then we
lament, that it is so hard to serve God, let us |
many,
and inseparably connected with that golden
chain of Christian duties, of which, when so
connected, it forms one of the most important
links.
Business however must have its period as
well as devotion. We were sent into this world
to act as well as to pray; active duties must be
performed as well as devout exercises. Even
relaxation must have its interval, only let us be
careful that the indulgence of the one do not de-
stroy the effect of the other; that our pleasures
do not encroach on the time or deaden the spi-
rit of our devotions: let us be careful that our
cares, occupations, and amusements may be
always such that we may not be afraid to im-
plore the divine blessing on them; this is the
criterion of their safety and of our duty. Let
us endeavour that in each, in all, one continu-
ally growing sentiment and feeling, of loving,
serving, and pleasing God, maintain its predo.
minant station in the heart.
An additional reason why we should live in
the perpetual use of prayer, seems to be, that
our blessed Redeemer after having given both
the example and the command, while on earth,
condescends still to be our unceasing interces-
sor in heaven. Can we ever cease petitioning
for ourselves, when we believe that he never
ceases interceding for us?
If we are so unhappy as now to find little
pleasure in this holy exercise, that however is
so far from being a reason for discontinuing it,
that it affords the strongest argument for per-
severance. That which was at first a form, will
become a pleasure; that which was a burden
440
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
will become a privilege; that which we impose
upon ourselves as a medicine, will become ne-
cessary as an aliment, and desirable as a grati-
fication. That which is now short and super-
ficial, will become copious and solid. The cha-
riot wheel is warmed by its own motion. Use
will make that easy which was at first painful.
That which is once become easy will soon be
rendered pleasant; instead of repining at the
performance, we shall be unhappy at the omis-
sion. When a man recovering from sickness at-
tempts to walk, he does not discontinue the ex-
ercise because he feels himself weak, nor even
because the effort is painful. He rather redou- |
bles his exertion. It is from his perseverance
that he looks for strength. An additional turn
every day diminishes his repugnance, augments
his vigour, improves his spirits. That effort
which was submitted to because it was salutary,
is continued because the feeling of renovated
strength renders it delightful.
CHAP. VII.
The Love of God.
OUR love to God arises out of want. God's
love to us out of fulness. Our indigence draws
us to that power which can relieve, and to that
goodness which can bless us. His overflowing
love delights to make us partakers of the boun-
ties he graciously imparts, not only in the gifts
of his Providence, but in the richer communica-
tions of his grace. We can only be said to love
God when we endeavour to glorify him, when
we desire a participation of his nature, when we
study to imitate his perfections.
|
is therefore no less our highest happiness, than
our most bounden duty. Love makes all labour
light. We serve with alacrity, where we love
with cordiality.
When the heart is devoted to an object, we
require not to be perpetually reminded of our
obligations to obey him; they present themselves
spontaneously, we fulfil them readily, I had al-
most said, involuntarily; we think not so much
of the service as of the object. The principle
which suggests the work inspires the pleasure;
to neglect it would be an injury to our feelings.
The performance is the gratification.
omission is not more a pain to the conscience,
than a wound to the affections. The implanta-
tion of this vital root perpetuates virtuous prac-
tice, and secures internal peace.
The
Though we cannot be always thinking of God,
we may be always employed in his service.
There must be intervals of our communion with
him, but there must be no intermission of our
attachment to him. The tender father who la-
bours for his children, does not always employ
his thoughts about them; he cannot be always
conversing with them, or concerning them, yet
he is always engaged in promoting their inter-
ests. His affection for them is an inwoven
principle, of which he gives the most unequivo-
cal evidence, by the assiduousness of his appli-
cation in their service.
'Thou shouldst love the Lord thy God with
all thy heart,' is the primary law of our religion.
Yet how apt are we to complain that we cannot
love God, that we cannot maintain a devout in-
tercourse with him. But would God, who is all
justice, have commanded that of which he knew
we were incapable? Would he who is all mercy
have made our eternal happiness to depend on
something which he knew was out of our power
to perform, capriciously disqualifying us for the
duty he had prescribed? Would he have given
the exhortation, and withheld the capacity?
This would be to charge Omniscience with folly,
and infinite goodness with injustice;—no, when
he made duty and happiness inseparable, he nei-
ther made our duty impracticable, nor our hap-
We are sometimes inclined to suspect the love
of God to us. We are too little suspicious of our
want of love to him. Yet if we examine the
case by evidence, as we should examine any
common question, what real instances can we
produce of our love to him? What imaginable
instance can we not produce of his love to us?
If neglect, forgetfulness, ingratitude, disobedi-piness unattainable. But we are continually
ence, coldness in our affections, deadness in our
duty, be evidences of our love to him, such evi-
dences, but such only, we can abundantly allege.
If life and all the countless catalogue of mercies
that make life pleasant, be proofs of his love to
us, these he has given us in hand; if life eter-
nal, if blessedness that knows no measure and
no end, be proofs of love, these he has given us
in promise to the Christian we had almost
said, he has given them in possession.
It must be an irksome thing to serve a master
whom we do not love; a master whom we are
compelled to obey, though we think his requisi-
tions hard, and his commands unreasonable;
under whose eye we know that we continually
live, though his presence is not only undelight-
ful but formidable.
Now every Christian must obey God whether
he love him or not; he must act always in his
sight, whether he delight him or not; and to a
heart of any feeling, to a spirit of any liberality,
nothing is so grating as constrained obedience.
To love God, to serve him because we love him,
flying to false refuges, clinging to false holds,
resting on false supports; as they are uncertain
they disappoint us, as they are weak they fail
us; but as they are numerous, when one fails
another presents itself. Till they slip from un-
der us, we never suspect how much we rested
upon them. Life glides away in a perpetual
succession of these false dependences and suc-
cessive privations.
There is, as we have elsewhere observed, a
striking analogy between the natural and spi-
ritual life; the weakness and helplessness of the
Christian resemble those of the infant; neither
of them becomes strong, vigorous, and full
grown at once, but through a long and often
painful course. This keeps up a sense of de-
pendance, and accustoms us to lean on the hand
which fosters us. There is in both conditions,
an imperceptible chain of depending events, by
which we are carried on insensibly to the vigour
of maturity. The operation which is not always
obvious, is always progressive. By attempting
to walk alone we discover our weakness, the ex-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
441
perience of that weakness humbles us, and every
fall drives us back to the sustaining hand, whose
assistance we vainly flattered ourselves we no
longer needed.
In some halcyon moments we are willing to
persuade ourselves that religion has made an
entire conquest over our heart; that we have
renounced the dominion of the world, have con-
quered our attachment to earthly things. We
flatter ourselves that nothing can now again ob- |
struct our entire submission. But we know not
what spirit we are of. We say this in the calm
of repose and in the stillness of the passions:
when our path is smooth, our prospect smiling,
danger distant, temptation absent, when we have
many comforts and no trials. Suddenly, some
loss, some disappointment, some privation tears
off the mask, reveals us to ourselves. We at
once discover that though the smaller fibres and
lesser roots which fasten us down to earth may
have been loosened by preceding storms, yet our
substantial hold on earth is not shaken, the tap-
root is not cut, we are yet fast rooted to the
soil, and still stronger tempests must be sent to
make us let go our hold.
It might be useful to cultivate the habit of
stating our own case as strongly to ourselves as
if it were the case of another; to express in so
many words, thoughts which are not apt to as-
sume any specific or palpable form; thoughts
which we avoid shaping into language, but
slur over, generalize, soften, and do away. How
indignant, for instance, should we feel, though
we ourselves make the complaint, to be told by
others, that we do not love our Maker and Pre-
server. But let us put the question fairly to
ourselves. Do we really love him? Do we love
him with a supreme, nay even with an equal
affection? Is there no friend, no child, no re-
putation, no pleasure, no society, no possession
which we do not prefer to him? It is easy to
affirm in a general way that there is not. But
let us particularize, individualize the question-
bring it home to our own hearts in some actual
instance, in some tangible shape. Let us com-
mune with our own consciences, with our own
feelings, with our own experience; let us ques-
tion pointedly and answer honestly. Let us not
be more ashamed to detect the fault, than to have
been guilty of it.
bestows on us;—a thankful reflection on the
goodness of the giver, a deep sense of the un-
worthiness of the receiver, and a sober recollec-
tion of the precarious tenure by which we hold
it. The first would make us grateful, the second
humble, the last moderate.
But how seldom do we receive his favours in
this spirit! As if religious gratitude were to be
confined to the appointed days of public thanks-
giving, how rarely in common society do we
hear any recognition of Omnipotence even on
those striking and heart-rejoicing occasions,
when, with his own right hand, and with his
glorious arm he has gotten himself the victory!"
Let us never detract from the merit of our va-
liant leaders, but rather honour them the more
for this manifestation of divine power in their
favour; but let us never lose sight of him 'who
teacheth their hands to war, and their fingers
to fight.' Let us never forget that He is the
Rock, that his work is perfect, and all his ways
are judgment.'
How many seem to show not only their want
of affiance in God, but that he is not in all
their thoughts,' by their appearing to leave him
entirely out of their concerns, by projecting
their affairs without any reference to him, by
setting out on the stock of their own unassisted
wisdom, contriving and acting independently of
God; expecting prosperity in the event, without
seeking his direction in the outset, and taking
to themselves the whole honour of the success
without any recognition of his hand! do they
not thus virtually imitate what Sophocles makes
his blustering Atheist* boast: 'Let other men
expect to conquer with the assistance of the
gods, I intend to gain honour without them.'
The Christian will rather rejoice to ascribe
the glory of his prosperity to the same hand
to which our own manly queen gladly ascribed
her signal victory. When after the defeat of
the Armada, impiously termed invincible, her
enemies, in order to lower the value of her
agency, alleged that the victory was not owing
to her, but to God who had raised the storm, she
heroically declared that the visible interference
of God in her favour was that part of the suc
cess from which she derived the truest honour.
Incidents and occasions every day arise, which
not only call on us to trust in God, but which
This then will commonly be the result. Let furnish us with suitable occasion of vindicating,
the friend, child, reputation, possession, pleasure if I may presume to use the expression, the
be endangered, but especially let it be taken character and conduct of the Almighty in the
away by some stroke of Providence. The scales government of human affairs; yet there is no
fall from our eyes; we see, we feel, we acknow-duty which we perform with less alacrity.
ledge, with brokenness of heart, not only for our Strange, that we should treat the Lord of hea-
loss but for our sin, that though we did love ven and earth with less confidence than we ex-
God, yet we loved him not superlatively, and ercise towards each other! That we should vin-
that we loved the blessing, threatened or re-dicate the honour of a common acquaintance
sumed, still more. But this is one of the cases
with more zeal than that of our insulted Maker
in which the goodness of God bringeth us to re- and Preserver!
pentance. By the operation of his grace the re-
sumption of the gift brings back the heart to
the giver. The Almighty by his Spirit takes
possession of the temple from which the idol is
driven out. God is re-instated in his rights, and
becomes the supreme and undisputed Lord of
our reverential affection.
There are three requisites to our proper en-
joyment of every earthly blessing which God
If we hear a friend accused of any act of in-
justice, though we cannot bring any positive
proof why he should be acquitted of this specific
charge, yet we resent the injury offered to his
character; we clear him of the individual alle.
gation on the ground of his general conduct, in-
ferring that from the numerous instances we
* Ajax
VOL. I
442
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
can produce of his rectitude on other occasions, |
he cannot be guilty of the alleged injustice. We
reason from analogy, and in general we reason
fairly. But when we presume to judge of the
Most High, instead of vindicating his rectitude
on the same grounds, under a providence seem-
ingly severe; instead of reverting, as in the case
of our friend, to the thousand instances we have
formerly tasted of his kindness; instead of giving
God the same credit we give to his erring crea-
ture, and inferring from his past goodness, that
the present inexplicable dispensation must be
consistent, though we cannot explain how, with
his general character, we mutinously accuse
him of inconsistency, nay of injustice. We ad-
mit virtually the most monstrous anomaly in the
character of the perfect God.
But what a clue has revelation furnished to
the intricate labyrinth which seems to involve
the conduct which we impiously question! It
unrols the volume of divine Providence, lays
open the mysterious map of infinite wisdom,
throws a bright light on the darkest dispensa-
tions, vindicates the inequality of appearances,
and points to that blessed region, where to all
who have truly loved and served God, every ap-
parent wrong shall be approved to have been un-
impeachably right, every affliction a mercy, and
the severest trials the shortest blessings.
So blind has sin made us, that the glory of
God is concealed from us, by the very means
which, could we discern aright, would display
it. That train of second causes, which he has
so marvellously disposed, obstructs our view of
himself. We are so filled with wonder at the
immediate effect, that our short sight penetrates
not to the first cause. To see him as he is, is
reserved to be the happiness of a better world.
We shall then indeed admire him in his saints,
and in all them that believe; we shall see how
necessary it was for those whose bliss is now so
perfect, to have been poor, and despised, and op-
pressed. We shall see why the ungodly were
in such prosperity.' Let us give God credit
here for what we shall then fully know; let us
adore now, what we shall understand hereafter.
They who take up religion on a false ground
will never adhere to it. If they adopt it merely
for the peace and pleasantness it brings, they
will desert it as soon as they find their adherence
to it will bring them into difficulty, distress, or
discredit. It seldom answers therefore to at-
tempt making proselytes by hanging out false
colours. The Christian endures as seeing him
who is invisible.' He who adopts religion for
the sake of immediate enjoyment, will not do a
virtuous action that is disagreeable to himself;
nor resist a temptation that is alluring, present
pleasure being his motive. There is no sure
basis for virtue but the love of God in Christ
Jesus, and the bright reversion for which that
love is pledged. Without this, as soon as the
paths of piety become rough and thorny, we
shall stray into pleasant pastures.
Religion, however, has her own peculiar ad-
vantages. In the transaction of all worldly af-
fairs, there are many and great difficulties.
There may be several ways out of which to
choose. Men of the first understanding are not
always certain which of these ways is the best,
Persons of the deepest penetration are full of
doubt and perplexity; their minds are undecided
how to act, lest while they pursue one road,
they may be neglecting another which might
better have conducted them to their proposed
end.
In religion the case is different, and, in this
respect, easy. As a Christian can have but one
object in view, he is also certain there is but one
way of attaining it. Where there is but one
end, it prevents all possibility of choosing wrong
where there is but one road, it takes away all
perplexity as to the course of pursuit. That we
so often wander wide of the mark, is not from
any want of plainness in the path, but from the
perverseness of our will in not choosing it,
from the indolence of our mind in not following
it up.
In our attachments to earthly things, even the
most innocent, there is always a danger of ex-
cess; but from this danger we are here perfectly
exempt, for there is no possibility of excess in
our love to that Being who has demanded the
whole heart. This peremptory requisition cuts
off all debate. Had God required only a portion,
even were it a large portion, we might be puzzled
in settling the quantum. We might be plotting
how large a part we might venture to keep back
without absolutely forfeiting our safety; we
might be haggling for deductions, bargaining
for abatements, and be perpetually compromising
with our Maker. But the injunction is entire,
the command is definitive, the portion is unequi
vocal. Though it is so compressed in the ex-
pression, yet it is so expansive and ample in the
measure: it is so distinct a claim, so imperative
a
requisition of all the faculties of the mind and
strength; all the affections of the heart and
soul: that there is not the least opening left for
litigation; no place for any thing but absolute
unreserved compliance.
Every thing which relates to God is infinite.
We must therefore while we keep our hearts
humble, keep our aims high. Our highest ser-
vices indeed are but finite, imperfect. But as
God is unlimited in goodness, he should have
our unlimited love. The best we can offer is
poor, but let us not withhold that best. He de-
serves incomparably more than we have to give.
Let us not give him less than all. If he has en-
nobled our corrupt nature with spiritual affec-
tions, let us not refuse their noblest aspirations,
to their noblest object. Let him not behold us
so prodigally lavishing our affections on the
meanest of his bounties, as to have nothing left
for himself. As the standard of every thing in
religion is high, let us endeavour to act in it with
the highest intention of mind, with the largest
use of our faculties. Let us obey him with the
most intense love, adore him with the most fer-
vent gratitude. Let us praise him according
to his excellent greatness.' Let us serve him
with all the strength of our capacity, with all
the devotion of our will.
Grace being a new principle added to our na-
tural powers, as it determines the desires to a
higher object, so it adds vigour to their activity.
We shall best prove its dominion over us by de-
siring to exert ourselves in the cause of heaven
with the same energy with which we once ex
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
443
erted ourselves in the cause of the world. The In those intervals when our sense of divine
world was too little to fill our whole capacity. things is weak and low, we must not give way
Scaliger lamented how much was lost because to distrust, but warm our hearts with the recol-
Our motives to
so fine a poet as Claudian, in his choice of a sub-lection of our best moments.
ject, wanted matter worthy of his talent; but it
is the felicity of the Christian to have chosen a
theme to which all the powers of his heart and
of his understanding will be found inadequate.
It is the glory of religion to supply an object
worthy of the entire consecration of every power,
faculty and affection of an immaterial, immortal
being.
CHAP. VIII.
The Hand of God to be acknowledged in the
daily circumstances of life.
6
If we would indeed love God, let us acquaint
ourselves with him.' The word of inspiration
has assured us that there is no other way to be
at peace.' As we cannot love an unknown God,
so neither can we know him, or even approach
toward that knowledge, but on the terms which
he himself holds out to us; neither will he save
us but in the method which he himself has pre-
scribed. His very perfections, the just objects
of our adoration, all stand in the way of crea-
tures so guilty. His justice is the flaming
sword which excludes us from the Paradise we
have forfeited. His purity is so opposed to our
corruptions, his omnipotence to our infirmity,
his wisdom to our folly, that had we not to plead
the great propitiation, those very attributes which
are now our trust, would be our terror. The
most opposite images of human conception, the
widest extremes of human language, are used
for the purpose of showing what God is to us in
our natural state, and what he is under the
Christian dispensation. The 'consuming fire'
is transformed into essential love.
But as we cannot find out the Almighty to
perfection, so we cannot love him with that pure
flame, which animates glorified spirits. But
there is a preliminary acquaintance with him,
an initial love of him, for which he has furnish-
ed us with means by his works, by his word,
and by his Spirit. Even in this weak and bar-
ren soil some germs will shoot, some blossoms
will open, of that celestial plant, which, watered
by the dews of heaven, and ripened by the Sun
of righteousness, will, in a more genial clime,
expand into the fulness of perfection, and bear
immortal fruits in the Paradise of God.
A person of a cold phlegmatic temper, who
laments that he wants that fervor in his love of
the Supreme Being, which is apparent in more
ardent characters, may take comfort, if he find
the same indifference respecting his worldly at-
tachments. But if his affections are intense to
wards the perishable things of earth, while they
are dead to such as are spiritual, it does not
prove that he is destitute of passions, but only
that they are not directed to the proper object.
If, however, he love God with that measure of
feeling with which God has endowed him, he
will not be punished or rewarded because the
stock is greater or smaller than that of some
other of his fellow creatures,
love and gratitude are not now diminished, but
our spiritual frame is lower, our natural spirits
are weaker. Where there is languor there will
be discouragements. But we must not desist.
Faint yet pursuing,' must be the Christian's
motto.
There is more merit (if ever we dare apply so
arrogant a word to our worthless efforts) in per-
severing under depression and discomfort, than
in the happiest flow of devotion, when the tide
of health and spirits runs high. Where there
is less gratification there is more disinterested-
ness. We ought to consider it as a cheering
evidence, that our love may be equally pure
though it is not equally fervent, when we persist
in serving our heavenly Father with the same
constancy, though it may please him to with-
draw from us the same consolations. Perse-
verance may bring us to the very dispositions
the absence of which we are lamenting-'0
tarry thou the Lord's leisure, be strong and he
shall comfort thy heart.'
|
We are too ready to imagine that we are reli.
gious, because we know something of religion.
We appropriate to ourselves the pious sentiments
we read, and we talk as if the thoughts of other
men's heads were really the feelings of our own
hearts. But piety has not its seat in the memo-
ry, but in the affections, for which however the
memory is an excellent purveyor, though a bad
substitute. Instead of an undue elation of heart
when we peruse some of the psalmist's beautiful
effusions, we should feel a deep self-abasement
at the reflection, that however our case may
sometimes resemble his, yet how inapplicable to
our hearts are the ardent expressions of his re-
pentance, the overflowing of his gratitude, the
depth of his submission, the entireness of his
self-dedication, the fervour of his love. But he
who indeed can once say with him, Thou art
my portion,' will, like him, surrender himself
unreservedly to his service.
.
It is important that we never suffer our faith,
any more than our love, to be depressed or ele-
vated, by mistaking for its own operations, the
ramblings of a busy imagination. The steady
principle of faith must not look for its character
to the vagaries of a mutable and fantastic fancy
-La folle de la Maison, as she has been well
denominated. Faith which has once fixed her
foot on the immutable Rock of Ages, fastened
her firm eye on the Cross, and stretched out her
triumphant hand to seize the promised crown,
will not suffer her stability to depend on this
ever-shifting faculty; she will not be driven to
despair by the blackest shades of its pencil, nor
be betrayed into a careless security, by its most
flattering and vivid colours.
One cause of the fluctuations of our faith is,
that we are too ready to judge the Almighty by
our own low standard. We judge him not by
his own declarations of what he is, and what he
will do, but by our own feelings and practices.
We ourselves are too little disposed to forgive
those who have offended us. We therefore
conclude that God cannot pardon our offences,
444
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
course, which demands the liveliest exercise of
our rational powers, the highest elevation of our
spiritual affections! Is it not to be apprehended,
that the dread of being driven to this sacred in-
tercourse is one grand cause of that activity and
restlessness, which sets the world in such per-
We suspect him to be implacable, because we
are apt to be so, and we are unwilling to believe
that he can pass by injuries, because we find
it so hard to do it. When we do forgive, it is
grudgingly and superficially; we therefore infer
that God cannot forgive freely and fully. We
make a hypocritical distinction between for-petual motion?
giving and forgetting injuries. God clears away
the score when he grants the pardon. He does
not only say, 'thy sins and thy iniquities will
I forgive,' but I will remember them no more.'
We are disposed to urge the smallness of our
offences, as a plea for their forgiveness; whereas
God to exhibit the boundlessness of his own
merey, has taught us to allege a plea directly
contrary-Lord, pardon my iniquity, for it is
great.' To natural reason this argument of
David is most extraordinary. But while he
felt that the greatness of his own iniquity left
him no resource, but in the mercy of God, he
felt that God's mercy was greater even than his
own sin. What a large, what a magnificent
idea does it give us of the divine power and good
ness, that the believer, instead of pleading the
smallness of his own offences as a motive for
pardon, pleads only the abundance of the divine
compassion!
We are told that it is the duty of the Christian
to' seek God.' We assent to the truth of the
proposition. Yet it would be less irksome to
corrupt nature, in pursuit of this knowledge, to
go a pilgrimage to distant lands, than to seek
him within our own hearts. Our own heart is
the true terra incognitia: a land more foreign
and unknown to us, then the regions of the polar
circle. Yet that heart is the place, in which an
acquaintance with God must be sought. It is
there we must worship him, if we would wor-
ship him in spirit and in truth.
But, alas! the heart is not the home of a
worldly man, it is scarcely the home of a Chris-
tian. If business and pleasure are the natural
element of the generality-a dreary vacuity,
sloth and insensibility, too often worse than both,
disincline, disqualify too many Christians for
the pursuit.
I have observed, and I think I have heard
others observe, that a common beggar had
rather screen himself under the wall of a church-
yard, if overtaken by a shower of rain, though
the church door stand invitingly open, than take
shelter within it, while divine service is per-
forming. It is a less annoyance to him to be
drenched with the storm, than to enjoy the con-
venience of a shelter and a seat, if he must en-
joy them at the heavy price of listening to the
sermon.
|
Though we are ready to express a general
sense of our confidence in Almighty goodness,
yet what definite meaning do we annex to the
expression? What practical evidences have we
to produce, that we really do trust him? Does
this trust deliver us from worldly anxiety? Does
it exonerate us from the same perturbation of
spirits, which those endure who make no such
profession? Does it relieve the mind from doubt
and distrust? Does it tranquillize the troubled
heart, does it regulate its disorders, and com-
pose its fluctuations? Does it sooth us under
irritation? Does it support under trials? Does
it fortify us against temptations? Does it lead
us to repose a full confidence in that Being
whom we profess to trust? Does it produce in
us, that work of righteousness, which is peace,'
that effect of righteousness, which is 'quietness
and assurance for ever? Do we commit our-
selves and our concerns to God in word, or in
reality? Does this implicit reliance simplify
our desires? Does it induce us to credit the
testimony of his word and the promises of his
Gospel? Do we not even entertain some secret
suspicions of his faithfulness and truth in our
hearts, when we persuade others and try to per-
suade ourselves that we unreservedly trust him.
In the preceding chapter we endeavoured to
illustrate our want of love to God, by our not
being as forward to vindicate the divine conduct
as to justify that of an acquaintance. The same
illustration may express our reluctance to trust
in God. If a tried friend engage to do us a
kindness, though he may not think it necesssary
to explain the particular manner in which he
intends to do it, we repose on his word. Assur-
ed of the result, we are neither very inquisitive
about the mode nor the detail. But do we treat
our Almighty friend with the same liberal con.
fidence? Are we not murmuring because we
cannot see all the process of his administration,
and follow his movements step by step? Do we
wait the development of his plan, in full assur-
ance that the issue will be ultimately good?
Do we trust that he is as abundantly willing as
able, to do more for us than we can ask or think,
if by our suspicions we do not offend him, if by
our infidelity we do not provoke him? In short,
do we not think ourselves utterly undone, when
we have only but Providence to trust to?
While we condemn the beggar, let us look We are perhaps ready enough to acknowledge
into our own hearts; happy if we cannot there God in our mercies, nay, we confess him in the
detect somewhat of the same indolence, indis-ordinary enjoyments of life. In some of these
posedness, and distaste to serious things! Hap-common mercies, as in a bright day, a refresh-
py, if we do not find, that we prefer not only ing shower, a delightful scenery, a kind of sen-
our pleasures and enjoyments, but, I had almost sitive pleasure, an hilarity of spirits, a sort of
said, our very pains, and vexations, and incon-animal enjoyment, though of a refined nature,
veniences, to communing with our Maker!
Happy, if we had not rather be absorbed in our
petty cares, and little disturbances, provided we
can contrive to make them the means of occupy-
ing our thoughts, filling up our minds, and
drawing them away from that devout inter
|
mixes itself with our devotional feelings; and
though we confess and adore the bountiful
Giver, we do it with a little mixture of self-com-
placency, and of human gratification, which he
pardons and accepts.
But we must look for him in scenes less ani,
1
2
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
445
mating, we must acknowledge him on occa-
sions less exhilarating, less sensibly gratifying.
It is not only in his promises that God manifests
his mercy. His threatenings are proofs of the
same compassionate love. He threatens, not to
punish, but by the warning, to snatch from the
punishment.
God; we may please him without any other ex-
ertion than by crossing our own will.
Perhaps you had been busying your imagina-
tion with some projected scheme, not only law-
ful, but laudable. The design was radically
good, but the supposed value of your own
agency, might too much interfere, might a little
We may also trace marks of his hand, not taint the purity of your best intentions. The
only in the awful visitations of life, not only in motives were so mixed that it was difficult to
the severer dispensations of his providence, but separate them. Sudden sickness obstructed the
in vexations so trivial that we should hesitate to design. You naturally lament the failure, not
suspect that they are providential appointments, perceiving that, however good the work might
did we not know that our daily life is made up be for others, the sickness was better for your-
of unimportant circumstances rather than of self. An act of charity was in your intention,
great events. As they are, however, of suffi- but God saw that your soul required the exercise
cient importance to exercise the Christian tem- of a more difficult virtue; that humility and re-
pers and affections, we may trace the hand of signation, that the patience, acquiescence, and
our heavenly Father in those daily little disap- contrition of a sick bed, were more necessary
pointments and hourly vexations, which occur for you. He accepts the meditated work as far
even in the most prosperous state, and which as it was designed for his glory, but he calls
are inseparable from the condition of humanity. his servant to other duties, which were more
-We must trace that same beneficent hand, salutary for him, and of which the master was
secretly at work for our purification, our cor- the better judge. He sets aside his work, and
rection, our weaning from life; in the imper- orders him to wait, the more difficult part of
fections and disagreeableness of those who may his task. As far as your motive was pure, you
be about us; in the perverseness of those with will receive the reward of your unperformed
whom we transact business, and in those inter- charity, though not the gratification of the per-
ruptions which break in upon our favourite en-formance. If it was not pure, you are rescued
gagements.
We are perhaps too much addicted to our in-
nocent delights, or we are too fond of our leisure,
of our learned, even of our religious leisure.
But while we say it is good for us to be here,
the divine vision is withdrawn, and we are com-
pelled to come down from the mount. Or, per-
haps, we do not improve our retirement to the
purposes for which it was granted, and to which
we had resolved to devote it, and our time is
broken in upon to make us more sensible of its
value. Or we feel a complacency in our leisure,
a pride in our books; perhaps we feel proud of
the good things we are intending to say, or me-
ditating to write, or preparing to do. A check
is necessary, yet it is given in a way almost im-
perceptible. The hand that gives it is unseen,
is unsuspected, yet it is the same gracious hand
which directs the more important events of life.
An importunate application, a disqualifying,
though not severe indisposition, a family avoca-
tion, a letter important to the writer, but un-
seasonable to us, breaks in on our projected
privacy; calls us to a sacrifice of our inclination,
to a renunciation of our own will. These inces-
sant trials of temper, if well improved, may be
more salutary to the mind, than the finest pas-
sage we had intended to read, or the sublimest
sentiment we had fancied we should write.
from the danger attending a right action per-
formed on a worldly principle. You may be
the better Christian though one good deed is
subtracted from your catalogue.
By a life of activity and usefulness, you had
perhaps attracted the public esteem.—An ani-
mal activity had partly stimulated your exer-
tions. The love of reputation begins to mix
itself with your better motives. You do not, it
is presumed, act entirely or chiefly for human
applause; but you are too sensible to it. It is a
delicious poison which begins to infuse itself
into your purest cup. You acknowledge indeed
the sublimity of higher motives, but do you
never feel that, separated from this accompani
ment of self, they would be too abstracted, too
speculative, and might become too little produc-
tive both of activity and of sensible gratifica.
tion? You begin to feel the human incentive
necessary, and your spirits would flag if it were
withdrawn.
This sensibility to praise would gradually
tarnish the purity of your best actions. He
who sees your heart, as well as your works,
mercifully snatches you from the perils of pros-
perity. Malice is awakened. Your most meri-
torious actions are ascribed to the most corrupt
motives. You are attacked just where your
character is least vulnerable. The enemies
Instead then of going in search of great mor- whom your success raised up, are raised up by
tifications, as a certain class of pious writers God, less to punish than to save you. We are
recommend, let us cheerfully bear and diligently far from meaning that he can ever be the author
improve these inferior trials which God pre- of evil; he does not excite or approve the ca-
pares for us. Submission to a cross which he lumny, but he uses your calumniators as instru-
inflicts, to a disappointment which he sends, to a ments of your purification. Your fame was too
contradiction of our self-love, which he appoints, dear to you. It is a costly sacrifice, but God
is a far better exercise than great penances of requires it. It must be offered up. You would
our own choosing. Perpetual conquests over im- gladly compound for any, for every other offer-
patience, ill-temper, and self-will, indicate a bet-ing, but this is the offering he chooses: and
ter spirit than any self-imposed mortification. while he graciously continues to employ you
We may traverse oceans, and scale mountains for his glory, he thus teaches you to renounce
on uncommanded pilgrimages, without pleasing your own. He sends this trial as a test, by
446
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
which you are to try yourself. He thus instructs, ed had, before their conversion no vices to which
you not to abandon your Christian exertions, but
to elevate the principle which inspired them, to
defecate it from all impure admixtures.
By thus stripping the most engaging employ-
ments of this dangerous delight, by infusing
some drops of salutary bitterness into our sweet-
est draught, by some of these ill-tasted but whole-
some mercies, he graciously compels us to re-
turn to himself. By taking away the stays by
which we are perpetually propping up our frail
delights, they fall to the ground. We are as it
were driven back to Him, who condescends to
receive us, after we have tried every thing else,
and after every thing else has failed us, and
though he knows we should not have returned
to Him if every thing else had not failed us. He
makes us feel our weakness, that we may have
recourse to his strength; he makes us sensible
of our hitherto unperceived sins, that we may
take refuge in his everlasting compassion
CHAP. IX.
Christianity Universal in its Requisitions.
Ir is not unusual to see people get rid of some
of the most awful injunctions, and emancipate
themselves from some of the most solemn re-
quisitions of Scripture, by affecting to believe
that they do not apply to them. They consider
them as belonging exclusively to the first age
of the Gospel, and to the individuals to whom
they were immediately addressed; consequently
the necessity to observe them does not extend to
persons under an established Christianity, to
hereditary Christians.
C
These exceptions are particularly applied to
some of the leading doctrines, so forcibly and
repeatedly pressed in the Epistles. The reason-
ers endeavour to persuade themselves that it was
only the Ephesians, who are dead in trespasses
and sins'-that it was only the Galatians who
are enjoined not to fulfil the lusts of the flesh'-
that it was only the Philippians who were 'ene-
mies to the cross of Christ.' They shelter them-
selves under the comfortable assurances of a
geographical security. As they know that they
are neither Ephesians, Galatians, nor Philippi-
ans, they have of course little or nothing to do
with the reproofs, expostulations, or threatenings
which were originally directed to the converts
among those people. They console themselves
with the belief that it was only these pagans
who walked according to the course of this
world' who were 'strangers from the covenants
of promise'—and who were without God in the
world.'
But these self-satisfied critics would do well
to learn that not only circumcision or uncir-
cumcision,'-but baptism or no baptism avail-
eth nothing,' (I mean as a mere form) but a
new creature.' An irreligious professor of Chris-
tianity is as much a stranger and foreigner, as
a heathen; he is no more a fellow citizen of
the saints,' and of the household of God than a
Colosian or Galatian was, before the Christian
dispensation had reached them.
But the persons to whom the Apostles preach-
we are not liable, they had certainly difficulties
afterwards from which we are happily exempt
There were indeed differences between them
and us in external situation, in local circum-
stances, references which we ought certainly to
take into the account in perusing the epistles.
We allow that they were immediately, but we
do not allow that they were exclusively, appli-
cable to them. It would have been too limited
an object for inspiration to have confined its in-
structions to any one period, when its purpose
was the conversion and instruction of the whole
unborn world. That these converts were mira-
culously called out of darkness into the mavel-
lous light of the gospel'—that they were changed
from gross blindness to a rapid illumination-
that the embracing the new faith exposed them
to persecution, reproach and ignominy-that the
few had to struggle against the world-that
laws, principalities and powers which support
our faith opposed theirs-these are distinctions
of which we ought not to lose sight: nor should
we forget that not only all the disadvantages lay
on their side in this antecedent condition, but
that also all the superiority lies on ours in that
which is subsequent.
But however the condition of the external
state of the Church might differ, there can be no
necessity for any difference in the interior state
of the individual Christian. On whatever high
principles of devotedness to God and love to man
they were called to act, we are called to act on
precisely the same. If their faith was called to
more painful exertions, if their self-denial to
harder sacrifices, if their renunciation of earthly
things to severer trials, let us thankfully remem-
ber this would naturally be the case at the first
introduction of a religion which had to combat
with the pride, prejudices and enmity of corrupt
nature, invested with temporal power :-That
the hostile party would not fail to perceive how
much the new religion opposed itself to their
corruptions, and that it was introducing a spirit
which was in direct and avowed hostility to the
spirit of the world.
But while we are deeply thankful for the di-
minished difficulties of an established faith, let
us never forget that Christianity allows of no di-
minution in the temper, of no abatement in the
spirit, which constituted a Christian in the first
ages of the church.
Christianity is precisely the same religion.
now as it was when our Saviour was upon earth.
The spirit of the world is exactly the same now
as it was then. And if the most eminent of the
apostles, under the immediate guidance of in
spiration were driven to lament their conflicts
with their own corrupt nature, the power of
temptation, combining with their natural pro-
pensities to evil, how can we expect that a lower
faith, a slackened zeal, an abated diligence, and
an inferior holiness will be accepted in us? Be-
lievers then were not called to higher degress of
purity, to a more elevated devotion, to a deeper
humility, to greater rectitude, patience and sin-
cerity, than they are called to in the age in
which we live. The promises are not limited
to the period in which they were made, the aid
of the Spirit is not confined to those on whom it
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
447
was first poured out. It was expressly declared
by St. Peter on its first effusion, to be promised
not only to them and their children, but to all
who were afar off, even to as many as the Lord
their God should call.'
C
the objects of their worship, are only on a par
with the inhabitants of Otaheite.
It furnishes the most incontrovertible proof
that the world by wisdom knew not God, that it
was at the very time, and in the very country,
in which knowledge and taste has attained their
utmost perfection, when the porch and the aca-
demy had given laws to human intellect, that
atheism first assumed a shape, and established
itself into a school of philosophy. It was at the
moment when the mental powers were carried
to the highest pitch in Greece, that it was settled
as an infallible truth in this philosophy, that the
senses were the highest natural light of mankind.
If then the same salvation be now offered as
was offered at first, is it not obvious that it must
be worked out in the same way? And as the
same Gospel retains the same authority in all
ages, so does it maintain the same universality
among all ranks. Christianity has no by-laws,
no particular exemptions, no individual immu.
nities. That there is no appropriate way of at-
taining salvation for a prince or a philosopher,
is probably one reason why greatness and wis-It was in the most enlightened age of Rome that
dom have so often rejected it. But if rank can-
not plead its privileges, genius cannot claim its
distinctions. That Christianity does not owe
its success to the arts of rhetoric or the sophistry
of the schools, but that God intended by it to
make foolish the wisdom of this world,' actually
explains why the disputers of this world' have
always been its enemies.
It would have been unworthy of the infinite
God to have imparted a partial religion. There
is but one 'gate,' and that a 'strait' one; but
one 'way,' and that a 'narrow' one; there is
but one salvation and that a common one. The
Gospel enjoins the same principles of love and
obedience on all of every condition; offers the
same aids under the same exigencies; the same
supports under all trials; the same pardon to all
penitents; the same Saviour to all believers;
the same rewards to all who endure to the end.'
The temptations of one condition and the trials |
of another may call for the exercise of different
qualities, for the performance of different duties,
but the same personal holiness is enjoined on
all. External acts of virtue may be promoted
by some circumstances, and impeded by others,
but the graces of inward piety are of universal
force, are of eternal obligation.
this atheistical philosophy was transplanted
thither, and that one of her most elegant poets
adopted it, and rendered popular by the bewitch-
ing graces of his verse.
It seems as if the most accomplished nations
stood in the most pressing need of the light of
Revelation; for it was not to the dark and stupid
corners of the earth that the apostles had their
earliest missions. One of St. Paul's first and
noblest expositions of Christian truth was made
before the most august deliberative assembly in
the world, though, by the way, it does not ap-
pear that more than one member of the Arcopa.
gus was converted. In Rome, some of the apos-
tle's earliest converts belonged to the imperial
palace. It was to the metropolis of cultivated
Italy, it was to the 'regions of Achaia,' to the
opulent and luxurious city of Corinth, in pre-
ference to the barbarous countries of the unci-
vilized world, that some of his first epistles were
addressed.
Even natural religion was little understood by
those who professed it; it was full of obscurity
till viewed by the clear light of the Gospel. Not
only natural religion remained to be clearly
comprehended, but reason itself remained to be
carried to its highest pitch in the countries
where Revelation is professed. Natural Reli-
gion could not see itself by its own light, Reason
could not extricate itself from the labyrinth of
error and ignorance in which false religion had
involved the world. Grace has raised Nature.
Revelation has given a lift to Reason, and taught
her to despise the follies and corruptions which
obscured her brightness. If nature is now deli-
vered from darkness, it was the helping hand
of Revelation which raised her from the rubbish
in which she lay buried.
The universality of its requisitions is one of
its most distinguishing characteristics. In the
pagan world it seemed sufficient that a few ex-
alted spirits, a few fine geniuses should soar to
a vast superiority above the mass; but it was
never expected that the mob of Rome or Athens,
should aspire to any religious sentiments or feel-
ings in common with Socrates or Epictetus. I
say religious sentiments, because in matters of
taste the distinctions were less striking, for the
mob of Athens were competent critics in the
dramatic art, while they were sunk in the most Christianity has not only given us right con-
stupid and degrading idolatry. As to those of a ceptions of God, of his holiness, of the way in
higher class, while no subject in science, arts or which he will be worshipped; it has not only
learning was too lofty or too abstruse for their given us principles to promote our happiness
acquisition, no object in nature was too low, no here, and to insure it hereafter; but it has really
conception of a depraved imagination was too taught us what a proud philosophy arrogates to
impure for their worship. While the civil and itself, the right use of reason. It has given us
political wisdom of the Romans was carried to those principles of examining and judging, by
such perfection that their code of laws has still which we are enabled to determine on the ab-
a place in the most enlightened countries, their surdity of false religions. For to what else
deplorably gross superstitions, rank them in can it be ascribed,' says the sagacious bishop
point of religion with the savages of Africa. It Sherlock, 'that in every nation that names the
shows how little a way that reason, which ma- name of Christ, even reason and nature see and
nifested itself with such unrivalled vigour in condemn the follies, to which others are still,
their poets, orators and historians, as to make for want of the samne help, held in subjection?"
them still models to ours, could go in what re- Allowing however that Plato and Antonius
lated to religion, when these polished people, in | seemed to have been taught of heaven, yet the
448
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
object for which we contend is, that no provi-
sion was made for the vulgar. While a feint
ray shone on the page of philosophy, the people
were involved in darkness which might be felt.
The million were left to live without knowledge,
and to die without hope. For what knowledge
or what hope would be acquired from the pre-
posterous, though amusing, and in many re-
spects elegant mythology, which they might
pick up in their poets, the belief of which seem-
ed to be confined to the populace.
But there was no common principle of hope
or fear, of faith or practice; no motive of conso-
lation, no bond of charity, no communion of
everlasting interest, no reversionary equality
between the wise and the ignorant, the master
and the slave, the Greek and the barbarian.
A religion was wanted which should be of
general application. Christianity happily ac-
commodated itself to the common exigencies. It
furnished an adequate supply to the universal
want. Instead of perpetual but unexpiating sa-
crifices to appease imaginary deities,
Gods, such as guilt makes welcome,
it presents 'one oblation once offered, a full,
perfect, and sufficient sacrifice, oblation, and
satisfaction for the sins of the whole world.' It
presents one consistent scheme of morals grow-
ing out of one uniform system of doctrines; one
perfect rule of practice, depending on one prin-
ciple of faith; it offers grace to direct the one
and to assist the other. It encircles the whole
sphere of duty with the broad and golden zone
of coalescing charity, stamped with the inscrip-
tion a new commandment give I unto you,
that you love one another.' Christianity instead
of destroying the distinctions of rank, or break-
ing in on the regulations of society, by this uni-
versal precept, furnishes new fences to its order,
additional security to its repose, and fresh
strength to its subordinations.
Were this command, so inevitably productive
of that peculiarly Christian injunction of doing
to others as we would they should do unto us,'
uniformly observed, the whole frame of society
would be cemented and consolidated into one
indissoluble bond of universal brotherhood. This
divinely enacted law is the seminal principle of
justice, charity, patience, forbearance, in short,
of all social virtue. That it does not produce
these excellent effects, is not owing to any de-
fect in the principle, but in our corrupt nature,
which so reluctantly, so imperfectly obeys it.
If it were conscientiously adopted, and substan-
tially acted upon, received in its very spirit, and
obeyed from the ground of the heart, human
laws might be abrogated, courts of justice abo-
lished, and treaties of morality burnt; war
would be no longer an art, nor military tactics
a science. We should suffer long and be kind,
and so far from 'seeking that which is ano-
ther's,' we should not even 'seek our own.'
But let not the soldier or the lawyer be alarm-
ed.—Their craft is in no danger. The world
does not intend to act upon the divine principle
which would injure their professions; and till
this only revolution which good men desire ac-
tually takes place, our fortunes will not be sc-
|
cure without the exertions of the one, nor our
lives without the protection of the other.
All the virtues have their appropriate place
and rank in Scripture. They are introduced as
individually, beautifully, and as reciprocally con-
nected, like the graces in the mythologic dance.
But perhaps no Christian grace ever sat to the
hand of a more consummate master than Cha-
rity. Her incomparable painter, St. Paul, has
drawn her at full length in all her fair propor-
tions. Every attitude is full of grace, every line-
ament of beauty. The whole delineation is per-
fect and entire, wanting nothing.
Who can look at this finished piece without
blushing at his own want of likeness to it? Yet
if this conscious dissimilitude induce a cordial
desire of resemblance, the humiliation will be
salutary. Perhaps a more frequent contempla
tion of this exquisite figure, accompanied with
earnest endeavours for a growing resemblance,
would gradually lead us, not barely to admire
the portrait, but would at length assimilate us
to the divine original.
CHAP. X.
Christian Holiness.
CHRISTIANITY then, as we have attempted to
show in the preceding chapter, exhibits no dif
ferent standards of goodness applicable to dif
ferent stations or characters. No one can be
allowed to rest in a low degree, and plead his
exemption for aiming no higher. No one can
be secure in any state of piety below that state
which would not have been enjoined on all, had
not all been entitled to the means of attaining it.
Those who keep their pattern in their eye,
though they may fail of the highest attainments,
will not be satisfied with such as are low. The
striking inferiority will excite compunction;
compunction will stimulate them to press on,
which those never do, who losing sight of their
standard, are satisfied with the height they have
reached
He is not likely to be the object of God's fa-
vour, who takes his determined stand on the
very lowest step in the scale of perfection; who
does not even aspire above it; whose aim seems
to be, not so much to please God as to escape
punishment. Many however will doubtless be
accepted, though their progress has been small;
their difficulties may have been great, their na-
tural capacity weak, their temptation strong,
and their instruction defective.
Revelation has not only furnished injunctions
but motives to holiness; not only motives, but
examples and authorities. 'Be ye therefore
perfect' (according to your measure and degree,)
as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.'
And what says the Old Testament? It accords
with the New—' Be ye holy, for I the Lord your
God am holy.'
This was the injunction of God himself, not
given exclusively to Moses, to the leader and
legislator, or to a few distinguished officers, or
to a selection of eminent men, but to an im-
mense body of people even to the whole assem
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
449
:
bled host of Israel; to men of all ranks, profes-, mit it himself. He may forgive sin on his own
sions, capacities, and characters, to the minister conditions, but there are no conditions on which
of religion, and to the uninstructed, to enlight- he can be reconciled to it. The infinite good-
ened rulers, and to feeble women. 'God,' says ness of God may delight in the beneficial pur-
an excellent writer,* had antecedently given to poses to which his infinite wisdom has made
his people particular laws, suited to their several the sins of his creatures subservient, but sin it-
exigencies and various conditions; but the com. self will always be abhorrent to his nature. His
mand to be holy was a general (might he not wisdom may turn it to a merciful end, but his
have said a universal) law.'
indignation at the offence cannot be diminished.
He loves man, for he cannot but love his own
work; he hates sin, for that was man's own in-
vention, and no part of the work which God had
made. Even in the imperfect administration
of human laws impunity of crimes would be
construed into approbation of them.*
"Who is like unto thee, O Lord, among the
gods? Who is like unto thee, glorious in holi-
ness, fearful in praises, doing wonders?' This
is perhaps the sublimest apostrophe of the
praise (rendered more striking by its inter-
rogatory form,) which the Scriptures have re-
corded. It makes a part of the first song of
gratulation which is to be found in the treasury
of sacred poetry. The epithet of holy is more
frequently affixed to the name of God than any
other. His mighty name is less often invoked,
than his holy name. To offend against this at-
tribute is represented as more heinous than to
oppose any other. It has been remarked that
the impiety of the Assyrian monarch is not de-
scribed by his hostility against the great, the
Almighty God, but it is made an aggravation
of his crime that he had committed it against
the Holy One of Israel.
The law of holiness then, is a law binding on
all persons without distinction, not limited to
the period nor to the people to whom it was
given. It reaches through the whole Jewish
dispensation, and extends with wider demands
and higher sanctions to every Christian, of
every denomination, of every age, and every
country.
A more sublime motive cannot be assigned
why we should be holy, than because the Lord
our God is holy.' Men of the world have no ob-
jection to the terms virtue, morality, integrity,
rectitude; but they associate something over-
acted, not to say hypocritical, with the term
holiness, and neither use it in a good sense when
applied to others, nor would wish to have it ap-
plied to themselves; but make it over, with`a
little suspicion, and not a little derision, to puri.
tans and enthusiasts.
This suspected epithet, however, is surely
rescued from every injurious association, if we
consider it as the chosen attribute of the Most
High. We do not presume to apply the terms
virtue, probity, morality, to God; but we ascribe
holiness to him because he first ascribed it to
himself as the aggregate and consummation of
all his perfections.
When God condescended to give a pledge for
the performance of his promise, he swears by
his holiness, as if it were the distinguishing qua-
lity which was more especially binding. It
seems connected and interwoven with all the
divine perfections. Which of his excellences
can we contemplate as separated from this? Is
not his justice stamped with sanctity! It is free
from any tincture of vindictiveness, and is there-
fore a holy justice. His mercy has none of the
partiality of favouritism, or capricious fondness
of human kindness, but is a holy mercy. His
holiness is not more the source of his mercies
than of his punishments. If his holiness in his
severities to us wanted a justification, there can- Shall so imperfect a being as man then, ridi
not be at once a more substantial and more cule the application of this term to others, or be
splendid illustration of it than the noble passage ashamed of it himself? There is a cause indred
already quoted, for he is called 'glorious in ho- which should make him ashamed of the appro-
liness' immediately after he had vindicated the priation; that of not deserving it. This com-
honour of his name, by the miraculous destruc-prehensive appellation includes all the Christian
tion of the army of Pharaoh.
graces; all the virtues in their just proportion,
Is it not then a necessary consequence grow-order, and harmony; in all their bearings, rela
ing out of his perfections, that a righteous God tions, and dependences. And as in God glory
loveth righteousness,' that he will of course re- and holiness are united, so the apostle combines
quire in his creatures a desire to imitate as well'sanctification and honour' as the glory of man.
as to adore that attribute by which He himself
loves to be distinguished? We cannot indeed,
like God, be essentially holy. In an infinite be-
ing it is a substance, in a created being it is
only an accident: God is the essence of holiness,
but we can have no holiness, nor any other good
thing, but what we derive from him-It is his
prerogative, but our privilege.
If God loves holiness because it is his image,
he must consequently hate sin because it de-
faces his image. If he glorifies his own mercy
and goodness in rewarding virtue, he no less
vindicates the honour of his holiness in the
punishment of vice. A perfect God can no more
approve of sin in his creatures than he can com.
VOL. I.
Saurin.
F 2
Traces more or less of the holiness of God
may be found in his works, to those who view
them with the eye of faith. They are more
plainly visible in his providences; but it is in
his word that we must chiefly look for the ma-
nifestations of his holiness. He is every where
described as perfectly holy in himself, as a mo-
del to be imitated by his creatures, and, though
with an interval immeasurable, as imitable by
them.
The great doctrine of redemption is insepara-
bly connected with the doctrine of sanctification.
As an admirable writer has observed, 'If the
blood of Christ reconcile us to the justice of
God, the Spirit of Christ is to reconcile us to the
* See Charnock on the Attributes.
450
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
holiness of God.'—When we are told therefore
that Christ is made unto us righteousness,' we
are in the same place taught that he is made
unto us sanctification; that is, he is both justi-
fier and sanctifier. In vain shall we deceive
ourselves by resting on his sacrifice, while we
neglect to imitate his example.
The glorious spirits which surrounded the
throne of God are not represented as singing
hallelujahs to his omnipotence, nor even to his
mercy, but to that attribute which, as with a
glory, encircles all the rest. They perpetually
ery, holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts; and
it is observable, that the angels which adore him
for his holiness are the ministers of his justice.
Those pure intelligences perceive, no doubt, that
this union of attributes constitutes the divine
perfection.
This infinitely blessed Being then, to whom
angels and archangels, and all the hosts of
heaven are continually ascribing holiness, has
commanded us to be holy. To be holy because
God is holy, is both an argument and a com-
mand. An argument founded on the perfec-
tions of God, and a command to imitate him.
This command is given to creatures, fallen in-
deed, but to whom God graciously promises
strength for the imitation. If in God holiness
implies an aggregate of perfections; in man,
even in his low degree, it is an incorporation of
the Christian graces.
"
an imperfect state. Religion, it is true, is ini-
tial happiness, and points to its perfection: but
as the best men possess it but imperfectly, they
cannot be perfectly happy. Nothing can con-
fer completeness which is itself incomplete.
With Thee, O Lord, is the fountain of life, and
in Thy light only we shall see light.'*
Whatever shall still remain wanting in our
attainments, and much will still remain, let
this last, greatest, highest consideration stimu-
late our languid exertions, that God has nega-
tively promised the beatific vision, the enjoy-
ment of his presence, to this attainment, by
specifically proclaiming, that without holiness
no man shall see his face. To know God is the
rudiments of that eternal life which will here-
after be perfected by seeing him. As there is
no stronger reason why we must not look for
perfect happiness in this life, than because there
is no perfect holiness, so the nearer advances we
make to the one, the greater progress we shall
make towards the other; we must cultivate
here those tendencies and tempers which must
be carried to perfection in a happier clime.-
But as holiness is the concomitant of happiness,
so must it be its precursor. As sin has destroy-
ed our happiness, so sin must be destroyed be-
fore our happiness can be restored. Our na-
ture must be renovated before our felicity can
be established. This is according to the nature
of things, as well as agreeable to the law and
will of God. Let us then carefully look to the
subduing in our inmost hearts all those dispo-
sitions that are unlike God; all those actions,
thoughts, and tendencies that are contrary to
God.
The holiness of God indeed is confined by no
limitation; ours is bounded, finite, imperfect.
Yet let us be sedulous to extend our little sphere.
Let our desires be large, though our capacities
are contracted. Let our aims be lofty, though
our attainments are low. Let us be solicitous Independently therefore of all the other mo-
that no day pass without some augmentation of tives to holiness which religion suggests, inde-
our holiness, some added height in our aspira- pendently of the fear of punishment; indepen-
tions, some wider expansion in the compass of dently even of the hope of glory, let us be holy
our virtues. Let us strive every day for some from this ennobling, elevating motive, because
superiority to the preceding day; something the Lord our God is holy. And when our virtue
that shall distinctly mark the passing scene with flags, let it be renovated by this imperative in-
progress; something that shall inspire an hum-junction, backed by this irresistible argument.
ble hope that we are rather less unfit for heaven
to-day than we were yesterday.
The celebrated artist who has recorded that
he passed no day without drawing a line, drew
it, not for repetition, but for progress; not to
produce a given number of strokes, but to for-
ward his work, to complete his design. The
Christian, like the painter, does not draw his
lines at random; he has a model to imitate, as
well as an outline to fill. Every touch conforms
him more and more to the great original. He
who has transfused most of the life of God into
his soul, has copied it most successfully.
"To seek happiness,' says one of the fathers,
'is to desire God, and to find him is that hap-
piness.' Our very happiness therefore is not
our independent property; it flows from that
eternal mind which is the source and sum of
happiness. In vain we look for felicity in all
around us. It can only be found in that origi-
nal fountain, whence we, and all we are and
have, are derived. Where then is the imagi-
nary wise man of the school of Zeno? what is
the perfection of virtue supposed by Aristotle?
They have no existence but in the romance of
philosophy. Happiness must be imperfect in
The motive for imitation, and the Being to be
imitated, seem almost to identify us with in-
finity. It is a connexion which endears, an as-
similation which dignifies, a resemblance which
elevates. The apostle has added to the prophet
an assurance which makes the crown and con-
summation of the promise, that though we
know not yet what we shall be, yet we know
that when he shall appear, we shall be like
him, for we shall see him as he is.'
In what a beautiful variety of glowing ex-
pressions, and admiring strains, do the Scrip-
ture worthies delight to represent God; not
only in relation to what he is to them, but to
the supreme excellence of his own transcendent
perfections! They expatiate, they amplify, they
dwell with unwearied iteration on the adorable
theme: they ransack language, they exhaust
all the expressions of praise, and wonder, and
admiration; all the images of astonishment and
delight, to laud and magnify his glorious name.
They praise him, they bless him, they worship
him, they glorify him, they give thanks to him
for his great glory, saying Holy, holy, holy
* See Leighton on Happiness.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
451
Lord God of hosts, heaven and earth are full of
the majesty of thy glory.'
inferior trials; for the sin of habitually yielding,
or the grace of habitually resisting in compa
They glorify him relatively to themselves ratively small points, tends in no inconsiderable
'I will magnify Thee, O Lord my strength-degree to produce that vigour or that debility of
My help cometh of God-The Lord himself is mind on which hangs victory or defeat.
the portion of my inheritance.' At another
time soaring with a noble disinterestedness, and
quite losing sight of self and all created glories,
they adore him for his own incommunicable ex-
cellences. 'Be thou exalted, O God, in thine
own strength.'-'Oh the depth of the riches,
both of the wisdom and knowledge of God.'
Then bursting to a rapture of adoration, and burn-
ing with a more intense flame, they cluster his
attributes' To the King eternal, immortal, in-
visible, be honour and glory for ever and cver.'
One is lost in admiration of his wisdom-his
ascription is to the only wise God.' Another in
triumphant strains overflows with transport at
the consideration of the attribute on which we
have been descanting: 'O Lord, who is like
unto Thee, there is none holy as the Lord.'-
'Sing praises unto the Lord, oh ye saints of his,
and give thanks unto him for a remembrance of
his holiness.'
The prophets and apostles were not deterred
from pouring out the overflowings of their fer-
vent spirits, they were not restrained from cele.
brating the perfections of their Creator, through
the cold-hearted fear of being reckoned enthu-
siasts. The saints of old were not prevented
from breathing out their rapturous hosannahs to
the King of Saints, through the coward dread
of being branded as fanatical. The conceptions
of their minds dilating with the view of the
glorious constellation of the Divine attributes;
and the affections of their hearts warming with
the thought, that those attributes were all con-
centrated in mercy-they display a sublime
oblivion of themselves-they forget every thing
but God. Their own wants dwindled to a point.
Their own concerns, nay the universe itself,
shrinks into nothing. They seem absorbed in
the effulgence of Deity, lost in the radient beams
of infinite glory.
CHAP. XI.
On the comparatively small faults and virtues.
THE 'Fishers of men, as if exclusively bent
on catching the greater sinners, often make the
interstices of the moral net so wide, that it ean-
not retain those of more ordinary size, which
every where abound. Their draught might be
more abundant, were not the meshes so large
that the smaller sort, aided by their own lubri-
city, escape the toils and slip through. Happy |
to find themselves not bulky enough to be en-
tangled, they plunge back again into their na-
tive element, enjoy their escape, and hope they
may safely wait to grow bigger, before they are
in danger of being caught.
It is of more importance than we are aware,
or are willing to allow, that we take care dili.
gently to practice the smaller virtues, avoid
serupulously the lesser sins, and bear patiently
Conscience is moral sensation. It is the hasty
perception of good and evil, the peremptory de
cision of the mind to adopt the one or avoid the
other. Providence has furnished the body with
senses, and the soul with conscience, as a tact
by which to shrink from the approach of danger;
as a prompt feeling to supply the deductions of
reasoning; as a spontaneous impulse to precede
a train of reflections for which the suddenness
and surprise of the attack allow no time. An
enlightened conscience if kept tenderly alive by
a continual attention to its admonitions, would
especially preserve us from those smaller sins,
and stimulate us to those lesser duties which
we are falsely apt to think are too insignificant
to be brought to the bar of religion, too trivial
to be weighed by the standard of Scripture.
By cherishing this quick feeling of rectitude,
light and sudden as the flash from heaven, and
which is in fact the motion of the spirit, we
intuitively reject what is wrong before we have
time to examine why it is wrong, and seize on
what is right before we have time to examine
why it is right. Should we not then be careful
how we extinguish this sacred spark? Will any
thing be more likely to extinguish it than to ne-
glect its hourly momentoes to perform the
smaller duties, and to avoid the lesser faults,
which, as they in a good measure make up the
sum of human life, will naturally fix and deter-
mine our character, that creature of habits
Will not our neglect or observance of it, incline
or indispose us for those more important duties
of which these smaller ones are connecting
links?
The vices derive their existence from wild-
ness, confusion, disorganization. The discord
of the passions is owing to their having different
views, conflicting aims, and opposite ends. The
rebellious vices have no common head; each is
all to itself. They promote their own operations
by disturbing those of others, but in disturb.
ing they do not destroy them. Though they
are all of one family, they live on no friendly
terms. Profligacy hates covetousness as much
as if it were a virtue. The life of every sin
is a life of conflict, which occasions the torment,
but not the death of its opposite. Like the fa-
bled brood of the serpent, the passions spring
up, armed against each other, but they fail to
complete the resemblance, for they do not effect
their mutual destruction.
But without union the Christian graces could
not be perfected, and the smaller virtues are the
threads and filaments which gently but firmly
tie them together. There is an attractive power
in goodness which draws each part to the other.
This concord of the virtues is derived from their
having one common centre in which all meet.
In vice there is a strong repulsion. Though
bad men seek each other, they do not love each
other. Each seeks the other in order to promote
his own purposes, while he hates him by whom
his purposes are promoted.
The lesser qualities of the human character
452
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
i
are like the lower people in a country; they are
It is not difficult to attract respect on great
numerically, if not individually important. If occasions, where we are kept in order by know-
It is
well regulated they become valuable from that ing that the public eye is fixed upon us.
very circumstance of numbers, which, under a easy to maintain a regard to our dignity in a
negligent administration, renders them formi-Symposiack, or an academical dinner;' but to
dable. The peace of the individual mind and
of the nation, is materially affected by the disci-
pline in which these inferior orders are main-
tained. Laxity and neglect in both cases are
subversive of all good government.
But if we may be allowed to glance from earth
to heaven, perhaps the beauty of the lesser virtues
may be still better illustrated by that long and
luminous track made up of minute and almost
imperceptible stars, which though separately
too inconsiderable to attract attention, yet from
their number and confluence, form that soft and
shining stream of light every where discernable,
and which always corresponds to the same fixed
stars, as the smaller virtues do to their concomi-
tant great ones.-Without pursuing the meta-
phor to the classic fiction that the Galaxy was
the road through which the ancient heroes went
to heaven, may we not venture to say that Chris-
tians will make their way thither more pleasant
by the consistent practice of the minuter vir-
tues ?
Every Christian should consider religion as
a fort which he is called to defend. The mean-
est soldier in the army if he add patriotism to
valour, will fight as earnestly as if the glory of
the contest depended on his single arm. But
he brings his watchfulness as well as his cou-
rage into action. He strenuously defends every
pass he is appointed to guard, without inquiring
whether it be great or small. There is not any
defect in religion or morals so little as to be of
no consequence. Worldly things may be little
because their aim and end may be little. Things
are great or small, not according to their osten-
sible importance, but according to the magni-
tude of their object, and the importance of their
consequences.
The acquisition of even the smallest virtue
being, as has been before observed, an actual
conquest over the opposite vice, doubles our mo-
ral strength. The spiritual enemy has one ob-
ject less, and the conqueror one virtue more.
By allowed negligence in small things, we
are not aware how much we injure religion in
the eye of the world. How can we expect peo-
ple to believe that we are in earnest in great
points, when they see that we cannot withstand
a trivial temptation, against which resistance
would have been comparatively easy? At a
distance they hear with respect our general cha-
racters. They become domesticated with us,
and discover the same failings, littleness, and
bad tempers, as they have been accustomed to
meet with in the most ordinary persons.
If Milton, in one of his letters to a learned
foreigner who had visited him, could congratu-
late himself on the consciousness that in that
visit he had been found equal to his reputation,
and had supported in private conversation his
high character as an author; shall not the
Christian be equally anxious to support the cre-
dit of holy profession, by not betraying in fa-
miliar life any temper inconsistent with reli-
gion?
labour to maintain it in the recesses of domestic
privacy requires more watchfulness, and is no
less the duty, than it will be the habitual prac-
tice, of the consistent Christian.
Our neglect of inferior duties is particularly
injurious to the mind of our dependants and ser-
vants. If they see us weak and infirm of pur-
pose,' peevish, irresolute, capricious, passionate,
or inconsistent, in our daily conduct, which
comes under their immediate observation, and
which comes also within their power of judging,
they will not give us credit for those higher
qualities which we may possess, and those su-
perior duties which we may be more careful to
fulfil. Neither their capacity nor their opportu-
nities, may enable them to judge of the ortho-
doxy of the head; but there will be obvious and
decisive proofs to the meanest capacity, of the
state and temper of the heart. Our greater
qualities will do them little good, while our les-
ser but incessant faults do them much injury.
Seeing us so defective in the daily course of do-
mestic conduct, though they will obey us be-
cause they are obliged to it, they will neither
love nor esteem us enough to be influenced by
our advice, nor to be governed by our instruc-
tions, on those great points which every con-
scientious head of a family will be careful to in-
culcate on all about him. It demands no less
circumspection to be a Christian than to be a
'hero, to one's valet de chambre.'
In all that relates to God and to himself the
Christian knows of no small faults. He consi-
ders all allowed and wilful sins, whatever be
their magnitude, as an offence against his Ma-
ker. Nothing that offends him can be insignifi-
cant. Nothing that contributes to fasten on
ourselves a wrong habit can be trifling. Faults
which we are accustomed to consider as small
are repeated without compunction. The habit
of committing them is confirmed by the repeti.
tion. Frequency renders us at first indifferent,
then insensible. The hopelessness attending a
long indulged custom generates carelessness,
till for want of exercise the power of resistance
is first weakened, then destroyed.
But there is a still more serious point of view
in which the subject may be considered. Do
small faults, continually repeated, always retain
their original diminutiveness? Is any axiom
more established than that all evil is of a pro-
gressive nature? Is a bad temper which is ne-
ver repressed, no worse after years of indul-
gence, than when we at first gave the reins to
it? Does that which we first allowed ourselves
under the name of harmless levity on serious
subjects, never proceed to profaneness? Does
what was once admired as proper spirit, never
grow into pride, never swell into insolence?
Does the habit of incorrect narrative, or loose
talking, or allowed hyperbole, never lead to
falsehood; never settle in deceit? Before we
positively determine that small faults are inno-
cent, we must undertake to prove that they shall
never outgrow their primitive dimensions; we
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
-453
must ascertain that the infant shall never be-,
come a giant.
Procrastination is reckoned among the most
venial of our faults, and sits so lightly on our
minds that we scarcely apologize for it. But
who can assure us, that had not the assistance
we had resolved to give to one friend under dis-
tress, or the advice to another under temptation,
to-day, been delayed, and from mere sloth and
indolence been put off till to-morrow, it might
not have preserved the fortunes of the one, or
saved the soul of the other?
It is not enough that we perform duties; we
must perform them at the right time. We must
do the duty of every day in its own season.
Every day has its own imperious duties; we
must not depend upon to-day for fulfilling those
which we neglected yesterday; for to-day might
not have been granted us. To-morrow will be
equally peremptory in its demands; and the
succeeding day, if we live to see it, will be ready
with its proper claims.
Indecision, though it is not so often caused
by reflection as by the want of it, yet may be
as mischievous; for if we spend too much time
in balancing probabilities, the period for action
is lost. While we are ruminating on difficulties
which may never occur, reconciling differences
which perhaps do not exist, and poising in op-
posite scales things of nearly the same weight,
the opportunity is lost of producing that good
which a firm and manly decision would have
effected.
Idleness, though itself 'the most unperform-
ing of all the vices,' is however the pass through
which they all enter, the stage on which they
all act. Though supremely passive itself, it lends
a willing hand to all evil, practical as well as
speculative. It is the abettor of every sin who-
ever commits it, the receiver of all booty, who-
ever is the thief. If it does nothing itself, it con-
nives at all the mischief that is done by others.
Vanity is exceedingly misplaced when ranked
as she commonly is, in the catalogue of small
faults. It is under her character of harmless-
ness that she does all her mischief. She is in-
deed often found in the society of great virtues.
She does not follow in the train, but mixes her-
self with the company, and by mixing mars it.
The use our spiritual enemy makes of her is a
master stroke. When he cannot prevent us from
doing right actions, he can accomplish his pur-
pose almost as well by making us vain of
them.' When he cannot deprive the public of
our benevolence, he ean defeat the effect to our-
selves by poisoning the principle. When he
cannot rob others of the good effect of the deed,
he can gain his point by robbing the doer of his
reward.
Peevishness is another of the minor miseries.
Human life, though sufficiently unhappy, can-
not contrive to furnish misfortunes so often as
the passionate and the peevish can supply im-
patience. To commit our reason and temper
to the mercy of every acquaintance, and of every
servant, is not making the wisest use of them.
If we recollect that violence and peevishness are
the common resource of those whose knowledge
is small, and whose arguments are weak, our
very pride might lead us to subdue our passion,
|
if we had not a better principle to resort to.
Anger is the common refuge of insignificance.
People who feel their character to be slight, hope
to give it weight by inflation: but the blown
bladder at its fullest distention is still empty
Sluggish characters, above all, have no right to
be passionate. They should be contented with
their own congenial faults. Dullness however
has its impetuosities and its fluctuations as well
as genius. It is on the coast of heavy Boeotia
that the Euripus exhibits its unparalleled rest-
lessness and agitation.
Trifling is ranked among the venial faults.
But if time be one grand talent given us in or-
der to our securing eternal life; if we trifle
away that time so as to lose that eternal life, on
which by not trifling we might have laid hold,
then will it answer the end of sin. A life de-
voted to trifles not only takes away the inclina-
tion, but the capacity for higher pursuits. The
truths of Christianity have scarcely more influ-
ence on a frivolous than on a profligate charac-
ter. If the mind be so absorbed, not mercly
with what is vicious, but with what is useless,
as to be thoroughly disinclined to the activities
of a life of piety, it matters little what the cause
is which so disinclines it. If these habits can-
not be accused of great moral evil, yet it argues
a low state of mind; that a being who has an
eternity at stake can abandon itself to trivial
pursuits. If the great concern of life cannot be
secured without habitual watchfulness, how is it
to be secured by habitual carelessness? It will
afford little comfort to the trifler, when at the
last reckoning he gives in his long negative ca-
talogue, that the more ostensible offender was
worse employed. The trifler will not be weigh-
ed in the scale with the profligate, but in the
balance of the sanctuary.
Some men make for themselves a sort of code
of the lesser morals, of which they settle both
the laws and the chronology. They fix the
climacterics of the mind;'* determine at what
period such a vice may be adopted without dis-
credit, at what age one bad habit may give way
to another more in character. Having settled
it as a matter of course, that to a certain age
certain faults are natural, they proceed to act as
if they thought them necessary.
We
But let us not practice on ourselves the gross
imposition to believe that any failing, much less
any vice, is necessarily appended to any state or
any age, or that it is irresistible at any.
may accustom ourselves to talk of vanity and
extravagance as belonging to the young; and
avarice and peevishness to the old, till the next
step will be that we shall think ourselves justi-
fied in adopting them. Whoever is eager to
find excuses for vice and folly, will feel his
own backwardness to practise them much di-
minished.
C'est le premier pas qui coute. It is only to
make out an imaginary necessity, and then we
easily fall into the necessity we have imagined.
Providence has established no such association.
There is, it is true, more danger of certain faults
under certain circumstances; and some tempta-
tions are stronger at some periods: but it is a
* Dr. Johnson.
1
454
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
proof that they are not irresistible because all | you, do ye also unto them :-This law, if faith
do not fall into them. The evil is in ourselves, fully obeyed, operating as an infallible remedy
who mitigate the discredit by the supposed ne- for all the disorders of self-love, would, by throw
cessity. The prediction, like the dream of ing its partiality into the right scale, establish
the astrologer, creates the event instead of fore- the right exercise of all the smaller virtues. Its
telling it.
But there is no supposition can be strict observance would not only put a stop to
made of a bad case which will justify the ma- all injustice, but to all unkindness: not only to
king it our own: Nor will general positions ever oppressive acts, but to unfeeling language. Even
serve for individual apologies.-Who has not haughty looks and supercilious gestures would
known persons who, though they retain the | be banished from the face of society, did we ask
sound health and vigour of active life, sink pre- ourselves how we should like to receive what
maturely into sloth and inactivity, solely on the we are not ashamed to give.
ground that these dispositions are fancied to
be unavoidably incident to advancing years.
They demand the indulgence before they feel
the infirmity. Indolence thus forges a dismis.
sion from duty before the discharge is issued
out by Providence. No.-Let us endeavour to
meet the evils of the several conditions and pe-
riods of life with submission, but it is an offence
to their divine dispenser to forestall them.
But we have still a saving clause for ourselves,
whether the evil be of greater or lesser magni-
tude. If the fault be great, we lament the in-
ability to resist it; if sinall, we deny the impor-
tance of so doing, we plead that we cannot with-
stand a great temptation, and that a small one
is not worth withstanding. But if the tempta-
tion or the fault be great, we should resist it on
account of that very magnitude; if small, the
giving it up can cost but little; and the con-
scientious habit of conquering the less will con-
fer considerable strength towards subduing the
greater.
There is again, a sort of splendid character,
which, winding itself up occasionally to certain
shining actions, thinks itself fully justified in
breaking loose from the shackles of restraint in
smaller things it makes no scruple to indem-
nify itself for these popular deeds by indulgences
which, though allowed, are far from innocent.
It thus secures to itself praise and popularity by
what is sure to gain it, and immunity from cen-
sure in indulging the favourite fault, practically
exclaiming, 'Is it not a little one?'
Vanity is at the bottom of almost all, may we
not say, of all our sins? We think more of
signalizing than of saving ourselves. We over-
look the hourly occasions which occur of serving,
of obliging, of comforting those around us, while
we sometimes, not unwillingly perform an act
of notorious generosity. The habit, however, in
the former case, better indicates the disposition
and bent of the mind, than the solitary act of
splendor. The apostle does not say whatsoever
great things ye do, but 'whatsoever things ye
do, do all to the glory of God." Actions are less
weighed by their bulk than their motive. Vir-
tues are less measured by their splendor than
their principle. The racer proceeds in his
course more effectually by a steady unslackened
pace, than by starts of violent but unequal ex-
ertion.
That great abstract of moral law, of which
we have elsewhere spoken,* that rule of the
highest court of appeal, set up in his own bosom,
to which every man can always resort, all
things that ye would that men should do unto
* Chapter ix.
|
Till we thus morally transmute place, person,
and circumstance with those of our brother, we
shall never treat him with the tenderness this
gracious law enjoins. Small virtues and small
offences are only so by comparison. To treat a
fellow-creature with harsh language, is not in-
deed a crime like robbing him of his estate or
destroying his reputation. They are, however,
all the offspring of the same family.-They are
the same in quality though not in degree. All
flow, though in streams of different magnitude,
from the same fountain; all are indications of a
departure from that principle which is included
in the law of love. The consequences they in-
volve are not less certain; though they are less
important.
The reason why what are called religious peo-
ple often differ so little from others in small
trials is, that instead of bringing religion to
their aid in their lesser vexations, they either
leave the disturbance to prey upon their minds,
or apply to false reliefs for its removal. Those
who are rendered unhappy by frivolous troubles,
seek comfort in frivolous enjoyments. But we
should apply the same remedy to ordinary trials,
as to great ones; for as small disquietudes spring
from the same cause as great trials, namely, the
uncertain and imperfect condition of human life,
so they require the same remedy. Meeting
common cares with a right spirit would impart
a smoothness to the temper, a spirit of cheerful-
ness to the heart, which would mightily break
the force of heavier trials.
You apply to the power of religion in great
evils. Why does it not occur to you to apply
to it in the less?
to it in the less? Is it that you think the in-
strument greater than the occasion demands?
It is not too great if the lesser one will not pro❤
duce the effect, or if it produce it in the wrong
way; for there is such a thing as putting an
evil out of sight without curing it. You would
apply to religion on the loss of your child-ap-
ply to it on the loss of your temper. Throw in
this wholesome tree to sweeten the bitter waters,
As no calamity is too great for the power of
Christianity to mitigate, so none is too small to
experience its beneficial results. Our behaviour
under the ordinary accidents of life forms a cha-
racteristic distinction between different classes
of Christians. The least advanced, resort to re-
ligion on great occasions; the deeper proficient
resorts to it on all. What makes it appear of
so little comparative value is, that the medicine
prepared by the Great Physician is thrown by
instead of being taken. The patient thinks not
of it but in extreme cases. A remedy, however
potent, not applied, can produce no effect. But
he who has adopted one fixed principle for the
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
455
government of his life, will try to keep it in per- in the performance of higher duties. Instead
petual exercise. An acquaintance with the na-of little renunciations being grievous, and petty'
ture of human evils and of their remedy, would self-denials a hardship, they in reality soften
check that spirit of complaint which so much grievances, diminish hardships. They are the
abounds, and which often makes so little differ- private drill which trains for public service.
ence between people professing religion and
those who profess it not.
If, as we have repeatedly observed, the prin
ciple is the test of the action, we are hourly fur-
nished with occasions of showing our piety by
the spirit in which the quiet unobserved actions
of life are performed. The sacrifices may be
too little to be observed, except by Him to whom
they are offered. But small solicitudes, and de-
If the duties in question are not great they
become important by the constant demand that
is made for them. They have been called 'the
small coin of human life,' and on their perpetual
and unobstructed circulation depends much of
the comfort, as well as convenience of its transac-monstrations of attachment, scarcely perceptible
tions. They make up in frequency what they
want in magnitude. How few of us are called
to carry the doctrines of Christianity into dis-
tant lands! But which of us is not called every
day to adorn those doctrines, by gentleness in
our own carriage, by kindness and forbearance
to all about us?
In performing the unostensible duties, there
is no incentive from vanity. No love of fame
inspires that virtue, of which fame will never
hear. There can be but one motive, and that
the purest, for the exercise of virtues, the report
of which will never reach beyond the little cir-
cle whose happiness they promote. They do
not fill the world with our renown, but they fill
our own family with comfort, and if they have
the love of God for their principle, they will have
his favour for their reward.
to any eye but his for whom they were made,
bear the true character of love to God, as they
are the infallible marks of affection to our fellow
creatures.
By enjoining small duties, the spirit of which
is every where implied in the gospel, God, as it
were, seems contriving to render the great ones
easy to us. He makes the light yoke of Christ
still lighter, not by abridging duty, but by in-
creasing its facility through its familiarity.
These little habits at once indicate the senti-
ment of the soul and improve it.
It is an awful consideration and one which
every Christian should bring home to his own
bosom, whether small faults wilfully persisted
in, may not in time, not only dim the light of
conscience, but extinguish the Spirit of grace;
whether the power of resistance against great
sins may not be finally withdrawn as a just
punishment for having neglected to exert it
against small ones.
Let us endeavour to maintain in our minds
the awful impression that perhaps among the
first objects which may meet our eyes when we
In this enumeration of faults, we include not
sins of infirmity, inadvertency, and surprise, to
which even the most sincere Christians are but
too liable. What are here adverted to are allow-
ed, habitual, and unresisted faults: Habitual,
because unresisted, and allowed from the notion
that they are too inconsiderable to call for re-open them on the eternal world, may be that
sistance. Faults into which we are betrayed
through surprise and inadvertency, though that
is no reason for committing them, may not be
without their uses; they renew the salutary
conviction of our sinful nature, make us little in
our own eyes, increase our sense of dependence,
promote watchfulness, deepen humility, and
quicken repentance.
We must however be careful not to entangle
the conscience or embarrass the spirit by ground-
less apprehensions. We have a merciful Father,
not a hard master to deal with. We must not
harass our minds with a suspicious dread, as if
by a needless rigour the Almighty were laying
snares to entrap us, nor be terrified with imagi-
nary fears, as if he were on the watch to punish
every casual error !-To be immutable and im-
peccable belongs not to humanity. He, who
made us, best knows of what we are made. Our
compassionate High Priest will bear with much
infirmity, will pardon much involuntary weak-
ness.
But knowing, as every man must know, who
looks into his own heart, the difficulties he has
from the intervention of his evil tempers, in
serving God faithfully, and still however earn-
estly desirous of serving him, is it not to be la-
mented that he is not more solicitous to remove
his hindrances by trying to avoid those inferior
sins, and resisting those lesser temptations, and
practising those smaller virtues, the neglect of
which obstructs his way, and keeps him back
tremendous book, in which, together with our
great and actual sins, may be recorded in no less
prominent characters, the ample page of omis-
sions, of neglected opportunities, and even of
fruitless good intentions, of which indolence, in-
decision, thoughtlessness, vanity, trifling, and
procrastination concurred to frustrate the exe.
cution.
CHAP. XII.
Self-Examination.
In this stage of general inquiry, every kind
of ignorance is esteemed dishonourable. In al-
most every sort of knowledge there is a compe-
tion for superiority. Intellectual attainments
are never to be undervalued. Learning is the
best human thing. All knowledge is excellent
as far as it goes, and as long as it lasts. But
how short is the period before 'tongues shall
cease, and knowledge shall vanish away!
Shall we then esteem it dishonourable to be
ignorant in any thing which relates to life and
literature, to taste and science, and not feel
ashamed to live in ignorance of our own hearts?
To have a flourishing estate and a mind in
disorder; to keep exact accounts with a steward
and no reckoning with our Maker; to have an
accurate knowledge of loss or gain in our busi-
456
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
hurts not him who flatters not himself. If we
examined our motives keenly, we should fre-
quently blush at the praises our actions receive.
Let us then conscientiously inquire not only
what we do, but whence and why we do it, from
what motive and to what end.
ness, and to remain utterly ignorant whether we swallow the flattery of others. Flattery
our spiritual concerns are improving or declin-
ing; to be cautious in ascertaining at the end
of every year, how much we have increased or
diminished our fortune, and to be careless
whether we have incurred profit or loss in faith
and holiness, is a wretched miscalculation of
the comparative value of things. To bestow
our attention on objects in an inverse proportion
to their importance, is surely no proof that our
learning has improved our judgment.
That deep thinker and acute reasoner, Dr.
Barrow, has remarked that it is a peculiar ex-
cellency of human nature, and which distin-
guishes man from the inferior creatures more
than bare reason itself, that he can reflect upon
all that is done within him, can discern the ten-
dencies of his soul, and is acquainted with his
own purposes.'
This distinguishing faculty of self-inspection
would not have been conferred on man, if it had
not been intended that it should be in habitual
operation. It is surely, as we before observed,
as much a common law of prudence, to look
well to our spiritual as to our worldly posses-
sions. We have appetites 'to control, imagina-
tions to restrain, tempers to regulate, passions to
subdue; and how can this internal work be
effected, how can our thoughts be kept within
due bounds, how can a proper bias be given to
the affections, how can the little state of man'
be preserved from continual insurrection, how
can this restraining power be maintained if
this capacity of discerning, if this faculty of
inspecting be not kept in regular exercise?
Without constant discipline, imagination will
become an outlaw, conscience an attainted rebel.
This inward eye, this power of introversion.
is given us for a continual watch upon the soul.
On an unremitted vigilance over its interior
motions, those fruitful seeds of action, those
prolific principles of vice and virtue, will de-
pend both the formation and the growth of our
moral and religious character. A superficial
glance is not enough for a thing so deep, an
unsteady view will not suffice for a thing so
wavering, nor a casual look for a thing so de-
ceitful as the human heart. A partial inspec-
tion on any one side, will not be enough for an
object which must be observed under a variety
of aspects, because it is always shifting its po-
sitions, always changing its appearances.
Self-inspection is the only means to preserve
us from self-conceit. We could not surely so
very extravagantly value a being whom we our-
selves should not only see, but feel to be so full
of faults. Self-acquaintance will give us a far
more deep and intimate knowledge of our own
errors than we can possibly have, with all the
inquisitiveness of an idle curiosity, of the errors
of others. We are eager enough to blame them
without knowing their motives. We are no
less eager to vindicate ourselves, though we can-
not be entirely ignorant of our own. Thus two
virtues will be acquired by the same act, humi-
lity and candour; an impartial review of our
own infirmities, being the likeliest way to make
us tender and compassionate to those of others.
Nor shall we be liable so to overrate our own
judgment when we perceive that it often forms
such false estimates, is so captivated with trifles,
so elated with petty successes, so dejected with
little disappointments. When we hear others
commend our charity which we know is so cold;
when others extol our piety which we feel to
be so dead; when they applaud the energies of
our faith, which we must know to be so faint
and feeble, we cannot possibly be so intoxicated
with the applause which never would have
been given, had the applauder known us as we
know, or ought to know ourselves. If we con-
tradict him, it may be only to draw on ourselves
the imputation of a fresh virtue, humility, which
perhaps we as little deserve to have ascribed to
us as that which we have been renouncing. If
we keep a sharp look out, we should not be
proud of praises which cannot apply to us, but
should rather grieve at the involuntary fraud of
imposing on others, by tacitly accepting a cha-
racter to which we have so little real pretension.
To be delighted at finding that people think so
much better of us than we are conscious of de-
serving, is in effect to rejoice in the success of
our own deceit.
curred by others thinking too ill of us, than in
our thinking to well of ourselves.
We shall also become more patient, more for-
bearing and forgiving, shall better endure the
harsh judgment of others respecting us, when
We should examine not only our conduct but we perceive that their opinion of us nearly coin-
our opinions; not only our faults but our preju- cides with our own real though unacknowledg
dices; not only our propensities but our judged sentiments. There is much less injury in-
ments. Our actions themselves will be obvious
enough; it is our intentions which require the
scrutiny. These we should follow up to their It is evident then, that to live at random, is
remotest springs, scrutinize to their deepest not the life of a rational, much less of an im-
recesses, trace through their most perplex-mortal, least of all, of an accountable being. To
ing windings. And lest we should, in our
pursuit, wander in uncertainty and blindness,
let us make use of that guiding clue which the
Almighty has furnished by his word and by his
Spirit, for conducting us through the intrica-
cies of this labyrinth. 'What I know not,
teach thou me,' should be our constant petition
in all our researches.
Did we turn our thoughts inward, it would
abate much of the self-complacency with which
pray occasionally, without deliberate course of
prayer; to be generous without proportioning
our means to our expenditure; to be liberal
without a principle; to let the mind float on the
current of public opinion; lie at the mercy of
events, for the probable occurrence of which
we have made no provision; to be every hour
liable to death without any habitual preparation
for it; to carry within us a principle which we
believe will exist through all the countless ages
+
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE
457
1
of eternity, and yet to make little inquiry,
whether that eternity is likely to be happy or
miserable—all this is an inconsiderateness which,
if adopted in the ordinary concerns of life, would
bid fair to ruin a man's reputation for common
sense: yet of this infatuation he who dives with
out self-examination is absolutely guilty.
Nothing more plainly shows us what weak
vacillating creatures we are, than the difficulty
we find in fixing ourselves down to the very
self-scrutiny we had deliberately resolved on.
Like the worthless Roman emperor we retire to
our closet under the appearance of serious oc-
cupation, but might now and then be surprised,
if not in catching flies, yet in pursuits nearly
as contemptible. Some trifle which we should
be ashamed to dwell upon at any time, intrudes
itself on the moments dedicated to serious
thought; recollection is interrupted; the whole
chain of reflection broken, so that the scattered
links cannot again be united. And so incon-
sistent are we that we are sometimes not sorry
to have a plausible pretence for interrupting the
very employment in which we had just before
made it a duty to engage. For want of this
home acquaintance, we remain in utter igno-
rance of our inability to meet even in ordinary
trials of life with cheerfulness; indeed by this
neglect we confirm that inability. Nursed in
the lap of luxury, we have an indefinite notion
that we have but a loose hold on the things of
this world, and of the world itself. But let
some accident take away, not the world, but
some trifle on which we thought we set no value
while we possessed it, and we, find to our aston-
ishment that we hold, not the world only, but
even this trivial possession with a pretty tight
grasp. Such detections of our self-ignorance,
if they do not serve to wean, ought at least to
humble us.
There is a spurious sort of self-examination
which does not serve to enlighten but to blind.
A person who has left off some notorious vice,
who has softened some shades of a glaring sin,
or substituted some outward forms in the place
of open irreligion, looks on this change of cha-
racter with pleasure.-He compares himself
with what he was, and views the alteration with
self-complacency. He deceives himself by tak-
ing his standard from his former conduct, or
from the character of still worse men, instead
of taking it from the unerring rule of Scrip-
ture. He looks rather at the discredit than
the sinfulness of his former life, and being
more ashamed of what is disreputable than
grieved at what is vicious, he is, in this state
of shallow reformation, more in danger in pro-
portion as he is more in credit. He is not
aware that it is not having a fault or two less
that will carry him to heaven, while his heart
is still glued to the world and estranged from
God.
This painful
jects for regret and remorse.
duty however must be performed, and will be
more salutary in proportion as it is less plea
sant.-Let us establish it into a habit to rumi-
nate on our faults. With the recollection of
our virtues we need not feed our vanity. They
will, if that vanity does not obliterate them, be
recorded elsewhere.
We are almost disposed to look at those parts
of our character which will best bear it, and
which consequently least need it: at those parts
which afford most self-gratulation. If a cove-
tous man, for instance, examines himself, instead
of turning his attention to the peccant part, he
applies the probe where he knows it will not go
very deep; he turns from his avarice to that so-
briety of which his very avarice is perhaps the
source. Another, who is the slave of passion,
fondly rests upon some act of generosity, which
he considers as a fair commutation for some
favourite vice, that would cost him more to re-
nounce than he is willing to part with. We
are all too much disposed to dwell on that
smiling side of the prospect which pleases and
deceives us, and to shut our eyes upon that part
which we do not choose to see, because we are
resolved not to quit. Self-love always holds a
screen between the superficial self-examiner
and his faults. The nominal Christian wraps
himself up in forms which he makes himself be-
lieve are Religion. He exults in what he does,
overlooks what he ought to do, nor ever suspects
that what is done at all can be done amiss.
As we are so indolent that we seldom ex.
amine a truth on more than one side, so we
generally take care that it shall be that side
which shall contain some old prejudices. While
we will not take pains to correct those preju-
dices and to rectify our judgment, lest it should
oblige us to discard a favourite opinion, we are
yet as eager to judge, and as forward to decide,
as if we were fully possessed of the grounds on
which a sound judgment may be made, and a
just decision formed.
We should watch ourselves whether we ob-
serve a simple rule of truth and justice, as well
in our conversation, as in our ordinary transac-
tions; whether we are exact in our measures
of commendation and censure; whether we do
not bestow extravagant praise where simple ap-
probation alone is due; whether we do not with-
hold commendation, where, if given, it would
support modesty and encourge merit; whether
what deserves only a slight censure as impru-
dent, we do not reprobate as immoral; whether
we do not sometimes affect to overrate ordinary
merit, in the hope of securing to ourselves the
reputation of candour, that we may on other oc-
casions, with less suspicion, depreciate estab-
lished excellence. We extol the first because
we fancy that it can come into no competition
with us, and we derogate from the last because
it obviously eclipses us.
Let us ask ourselves if we are conscientiously
upright in our estimation of benefits; whether
when we have a favour to ask, we do not depre-
ciate its value, when we have one to grant we
If we ever look into our hearts at all, we are
naturally most inclined to it when we think we
have been acting right. Here inspection grati-
fies self-love. We have no great difficulty in
directing our attention to an object, when that
object persents us with pleasing images. But do not aggravate it.
it is a painful effort to compel the mind to turn It is only by scrutinizing the heart that we
in on itself, when the view only presents sub. I can know it. It is only by knowing the heart
VOL. I.
1
"
458
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
that we can reform the life. Any careless ob-
server, indeed, when his watch goes wrong, may
see that it does so, by casting an eye on the dial
plate; but it is only the artist who takes it to
pieces and examines every spring and every
wheel separately, and who, by ascertaining the
precise causes of the irregularity, can set the
machine right, and restore the obstructed move-
ments.
be much moderated by previous habitual self-
examination. It will not do to repent in the
lump. The sorrow must be as circumstantial
as the sin. Indefinite repentance is no repen-
tance. And it is one grand use of self-inquiry,
to remind us, that all unforsaken sins are unre
pented sins.
trouble.
The faithful searcher into his own heart, that
'chamber of imagery,' feels himself in the situ-
ation of the prophet,* who being conducted in
vision from one idol to another, the spirit at sight
of each, repeatedly exclaims, 'here is another
abomination!' The prophet being commanded
to dig deeper, the further he penetrated the
more evils he found, while the spirit continued
to cry out, I will show thee yet more abomi-
nation.'
To a Christian there is this substantial com-
fort attending a minute self-inspection, that when
The illusions of intellectual vision would be he finds fewer sins to be noted, and more victo-
materially corrected by a close habit of culti-ries over temptation obtained, he has a solid evi-
vating an acquaintance with our hearts. We dence of his advancement, which well repays his
fill much too large a space in our own imagina- |
tions; we fancy we take up more room in the
world than Providence assigns to an individual
who has to divide his allotment with so many
millions, who are all of equal importance in
their own eyes; and who, like us, are elbowing
others to make room for themselves. Just as in
the natural world, where every particle of mat-
ter would stretch itself, and move out of its
place, if it were not kept in order by surround-
ing particles; the pressure of other parts reduces
this to remain in a confinement from which it
would escape, if it were not thus pressed and
acted upon on all sides. The conscientious
practice we have been recommending, would
greatly assist in reducing us to our proper di-
mensions, and in limiting us to our proper place.
We should be astonished if we could see our
real diminutiveness, and the speck we actually
occupy. When shall we learn from our own
feelings of how much consequence every man is
to himself?
Nor must the examination be occasional, but
regular. Let us not run into long arrears, but
settle our accounts frequently. Little articles
will run up to a large amount, if they are not
cleared off. Even our innocent days, as we may
choose to call them, will not have passed without
furnishing their contingent-our deadness in
devotion-our eagerness for human applause-
our care to conceal our faults rather than to
correct them-our negligent performance of
some relative duty-our imprudence in conver-
sation, especially at table-our inconsideration-
our driving to the very edge of permitted in-
dulgences-let us keep these let us keep all
our numerous items in small sums.
Let us ex-
amine them while the particulars are fresh in
our memory; otherwise, however we may flatter
ourselves that lesser evils will be swallowed up
by the greater, we may find when we come to
settle the grand account that they will not be
the less remembered for not having been re-
corded.
And let it be one subject of our frequent in-
quiry, whether since we last scrutinized our
hearts, our secular affairs, or our eternal con-
cerns have had the predominance there. We
do not mean which of them has occupied most
of our time, the largest portion of which must,
necessarily, to the generality, be absorbed in
the cares of the present life; but on which our
affections have been most bent; and especially
how we have conducted ourselves when there
has arisen a competition between the interests
of both.
That general burst of sins which so frequently
rushes in on the consciences of the dying, would
De-
Self-examination by detecting self-love, self-
denial by weakening its power, self-government
by reducing its despotism, turns the temper of
the soul from its natural bias, controls the dis-
orderly appetite, and, under the influence of
Divine Grace, in a good measure restores to the
man that dominion over himself which God at
first gave him over the inferior creatures.
sires, passions, and appetites, are brought to
move somewhat more in their appointed order;
subjects not tyrants. What the stoics, vainly
pretended to, Christianity effects. It restores
man to a dominion over his own will, and in a
good measure enthrones him in that empire
which he had forfeited by sin.
He now begins to survey his interior, the aw-
ful world within; not indeed with self-compla-
cency, but with the control of a sovereign; he
still finds too much rebellion to indulge security,
he therefore continues his inspection with vigi-
lance, but without perturbation. He continues
to experience a remainder of insubordination
and disorder, but this rather solicits to a stricter
government than drives him to relax his dis-
cipline.
This self-inspection somewhat resembles the
correction of a literary performance. After ma-
ny and careful revisals, though some grosser
faults may be done away; though the errors are
neither quite so numerous, nor so glaring as at
first, yet the critic perpetually perceives faults
which he had not perceived before; negligences
appear which he had overlooked, and even de-
fects start up which had passed on him for beau-
ties. He finds much to amend, and even to ex-
punge, in what he had before admired. When
by rigorous castigation the most acknowledged
faults are corrected, his critical acumen, im.
proved by exercise, and a more habitual ac-
quaintance with his subjects, still detect, and
will forever detect, new imperfections. But he
neither throws aside his work, nor remits his
criticism, which if it do not make the work per-
fect, will at least make the author humble.
Conscious that if it is not quite so bad as it was,
* Ezekiel,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
459
it is still at an immeasurable distance from the
required excellence.
Is it not astonishing that we should go on re-
peating periodically, Try me, O God,' while
we are yet neglecting to try ourselves? Is there
not something more like defiance than devotion
to invite the inspection of Omniscience to that
heart which we ourselves neglect to inspect?
How can a Christian solemnly cry out to the
Almighty, 'seek the ground of my heart, prove
me and examine my thoughts, and see if there
be any ways of wickedness in me,' while he
himself neglects to 'examine his heart,' is afraid
of 'proving his thoughts,' and dreads to inquire
if there be any way of wickedness' in himself,
knowing that the inquiry ought to lead to the
expulsion.
In our self-inquisition let us fortify our virtue
by a rigorous exactness in calling things by their
proper names. Self-love is particularly ingeni-
ous in inventing disguises of this kind. Let us
lay them open, strip them bare, face them, and
give them as little quarter as if they were the
faults of another. Let us not call wounded
pride delicacy.-Self-love is made up of soft and
sickly sensibilities. Not that sensibility which
melts at the sorrows of others, but that which
cannot endure the least suffering itself. It is
alive in every pore where self is concerned. A
touch is a wound. It is careless in inflicting
pain, but exquisitely awake in feeling it. It
defends itself before it is attacked, revenges
affronts before they are offered, and resents
as an insult the very suspicion of an imperfec-
tion.
|
|
him see that he is not quite so good as he had
tried to make himself believe.
It is more necessary to excite us to the hum-
bling of our pride, than to the performance of
certain good actions: the former is more diffi-
cult as it is less pleasant. That very pride will
of itself stimulate to the performance of many
things that are laudable. These performances
will reproduce pride, as they were produced by
it; whereas humility has no outward stimulus.
Divine grace alone produces it. It is so far
from being actuated by the love of fame, that it
is not humility, till it has laid the desire of fame
in the dust.
If an actual virtue consists, as we have fre-
quently had occasion to observe, in the dominion
over the contrary vice, humility is the conquest
over pride, charity over selfishness: not only a
victory over the natural temper, but a substitu-
tion of the opposite quality. This proves that
all virtue is founded in self-denial, self-denial in
self-knowledge, and self-knowledge in self-ex.
amination. Pride so insinuates itself in all we
do, and say, and think, that our apparent humi-
lity has not seldom its origin in pride. That
very impatience which we feel at the perception
of our faults is produced by the astonishment at
finding that we are not perfect. This sense of
our sins should make us humble but not despe-
rate. It should teach us to distrust every thing
in ourselves, and to hope for every thing from
God. The more we lay open the wounds which
sin has made, the more earnestly shall we seek
the remedy which Christianity has provided.
But instead of seeking for self-knowledge, we
are glancing about us for grounds of self-exulta-
tion! We almost resemble the Pharisee, who
with so much self-complacency delivered in the
catalogue of his own virtues and other men's
sins, and, like the Tartars, who think they pos-
sess the qualities of those they murder, fancied
that the sins of which he accused the publican
would swell the amount of his own good deeds.
Like him we take a few items from memory,
and a few more from imagination. Instead of
pulling down the edifice which pride has raised,
we are looking round on our good works for
buttresses to prop it up. We excuse ourselves
from the imputation of many faults by alleging
that they are common, and by no means peculiar
to ourselves. This is one of the weakest of our
deceits. Faults are not less personally ours be-
cause others commit them. There is divisibili-
ty in sin as well as in matter. Is it any dimi-
nution of our error that others are guilty of the
same?
In order then to unmask our hearts, let us
not be contented to examine our vices, let us
examine our virtues also,' those smaller faults.'
Let us scrutinize to the bottom those qualities
and actions which have more particularly ob-
tained public estimation.-Let us inquire if they
were genuine in the principle, simple in the in-
tention, honest in the prosecution. Let us ask
ourselves if in some admired instances our ge.
nerosity had no tincture of vanity, our charity
no taint of ostentation? Whether when we did
such a right action which brought us credit, we
should have persisted in doing it, had we fore-
seen that it would incur censure. Do we never
deceive ourselves by mistaking a constitutional
indifference of temper for Christian moderation?
Do we never construe our love of ease into dead-
ness of the world? Our animal activity into
Christian zeal? Do we never mistake our ob-
stinacy for firmness, our pride for fortitude, our
selfishness for feeling, our love of controversy
for the love of God, our indolence of temper for
Self-love being a very industrious principle,
superiority to human applause?—When we have has generally two concerns in hand at the same
stripped our good qualities bare; when we have time. It is as busy in concealing our own de-
made all due deductions for natural temper, easi- fects, as in detecting those of others, especially
ness of disposition, self-interest; desire of admi- those of the wise and good. We might indeed
ration; of every extrinsic appendage, every ille. direct its activity in the latter instance to our
gitimate motive, let us fairly cast up the account, own advantage, for if the faults of good men are
and we shall be mortified to see how little there injurious to themselves, they might be rendered
will remain. Pride may impose itself upon us, profitable to us, if we were careful to convert
even in the shape of repentance. The humble them to their true use. But instead of turning
Christian is grieved at his faults, the proud man them into a means of promoting our own watch-
is angry at them.-He is indignant when he fulness, we employ them mischievously in two
discovers he has done wrong, not so much be- ways. We lessen our respect for pious charac,
cause his sin offends God, as because it has letters when we see the infirmities which are
460
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
blended with their fine qualities, and we turn | hearts. No principle short of Christianity is
their failings into a justification of our own, strong enough to impel us to a study so disa-
which are not like theirs overshadowed with greeable as that of our faults. Of Christianity
virtues. To admire the excellences of others humility is the prime grace, and this grace can
without imitating them is fruitless admiration; never take root and flourish in a heart that lives
to condemn their errors without avoiding is un- in ignorance of itself. If we do not know the
profitable censoriousness.
greatness and extent of our sins, if we do not
know the imperfections of our virtues, the falli-
bility of our best resolutions, the infirmity of
our purest purposes, we cannot be humble; if
we are not humble, we cannot be Christians.
When we are compelled by our conscience to
acknowledge and regret any fault we have re-
cently committed, this fault so presses upon our
recollection, that we seem to forget that we have
any other. This single error fills our mind, and
we look at it as through a telescope, which,
while it shows an object, confines the sight to
that one object exclusively. Others indeed are
more effectually shut out, than if we were not
examining this. Thus while the object in ques-
tion is magnified, the others are as if they did
not exist.
But it may be asked, is there to be no end to
this vigilance? Is there no assigned period when
No
this self-denial may become unnecessary?
given point when we may be emancipated from
the vexatious self-inspection? Is the matured
Christian to be a slave to the same drudgery as
the novice? The true answer is-we may cease to
watch when our spiritual enemy ceases to asail.
We may be off our guard when there is no longer
any temptation without. We may cease our self-
denial when there is no more corruption within.
We may give the reins to our imagination when
we are sure its tendencies will be towards hea-
ven. We may dismiss repentance when sin is
abolished. We may indulge selfishness when
we can do it without danger to our souls. We
may neglect prayer when we no longer need
the favour of God. We may cease to praise
him when he ceases to be gracious to us.-To
discontinue our vigilance at any period short of
this, will be to defeat all the virtues we hav
practised on earth, to put to hazard all our hopes
It seems to be established into a kind of sys-
tem not to profit by any thing without us, and
not to cultivate an acquaintance with any thing
within us. Though we are perpetually remark.
ing on the defects of others, yet when does the
remark lead us to study and to root out the
same defects in our own hearts? We are almost
every day hearing of the death of others, but
does it induce us to reflect on death as a thing
in which we have an individual concern? We
consider the death of a friend as a loss, but sel-
dom apply it as a warning. The death of others
we lament, the faults of others we censure, but
how seldom do we make use of the one for our
own amendment, or of the other for our own pre-of happiness in heaven.
paration.*
It is the fashion of the times to try experi-
ments in the arts, in agriculture, in philosophy.
In every science the diligent professor is always
afraid there may be some secret which he has
not yet attained, some occult principle which
would reward the labour of discovery, something
even which the assiduous and intelligent have
actually found out, but which has hitherto
eluded his pursuit. And shall the Christian stop
short in his scrutiny, shall he not examine and
inquire till he lays hold on the very heart and
core of religion?
Why should experimental philosophy be the
prevailing study, and experimental religion be
branded as the badge of enthusiasm, the cant of
a hollow profession? Shall we never labour to
establish the distinction between appearance
and reality, between studying religion critically,
and embracing it practically, between having
our conduct creditable and our hearts sanctified?
Shall we not aspire to do the best things from
the highest motives, and elevate our aims with
our attainments? Why should we remain in the
vestibule when the sanctuary is open? Why
should we be contented to dwell in the outer
courts when we are invited to enter into the ho-
liest by the blood of Jesus?
Natural reason is not likely to furnish argu-
ments sufficiently cogent, nor motives sufficient-
ly powerful to drive us to a close self-inspection.
Our corruptions foster this ignorance. To this
they owe their undisputed possession of our
*For this hint, and a few others on the same subject,
the author is indebted to that excellent christian mo-
ralist, M. Nicole.
CHAP. XIII.
Self-Love.
'THE idol Self,' says an excellent old divine,*
has made more desolation among men than
ever was made in those places where idols were
served by human sacrifices. It has preyed more
fiercely on human lives, than Moloch or the
Minotaur.'
To worship images is a more obvious, but it
is scarcely a more degrading idolatry, than to
set up self in opposition to God. To devote our-
selves to this service is as perfect slavery as the
service of God is perfect freedom. If we cannot
imitate the sacrifice of Christ in his death, we
are called upon to imitate the sacrifice of him.
self in his will. Even the Son of God declared
I came not to do my own will, but the will of
Him who sent me.' This was his grand lesson,
this was his distinguishing character.
Self-will is the ever flowing fountain of all
the evil tempers which deform our hearts, of
all the boiling passions which inflame and dis-
order society; the root of bitterness on which
all its corrupt fruits grow. We set up our own
understanding against the wisdom of God, and
our own passions against the will of God. If
we could ascertain the precise period when sen-
suality ceased to govern in the animal part of
* Howe.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
461
our nature, and pride in the intellectual, that
period would form the most memorable era of
the Christian life; from that moment he begins
a new date of liberty and happiness; from that
stage he sets out on a new career of peace, li-
berty, and virtue.
Self-love is a Proteus of all shapes, shades,
and complexions. It has the power of dilation
and contraction as best serves the occasion.
There is no crevice so small through which its
subtle essence cannot force its way, no space so
ample that it cannot stretch itself to fill.-It is
of all degrees of refinement, so coarse and hun-
gry as to gorge itself with the grossest adula-
tion; so fastidious as to require a homage as re-
fined as itself; so artful as to elude the detection
of ordinary observers; so specious as to escape
the observation of the very heart in which it
reigns paramount: yet, though so extravagant
in its appetites, it can adopt a moderation which
imposes, a delicacy which veils its deformity, an
artificial character which keeps its real one out
of sight.
course of incessant counteraction, the spirit
striving against the flesh, and the flesh against
the spirit.
To Christian benevolence all the happy effects
attributed to self-love might have been fairly
traced. It was only to dislodge the idol and
make the love of God the centre, and the poet's
delightful numbers might have conveyed truths
worthy of so perfect a vehicle. This centre
moved,' does indeed extend its pervading influ-
ence in the very manner ascribed to the oppo.
site principle; does indeed spread from its throne
in the individual breast, to all those successive
circles, wide and more wide,' of which the
poet makes self-love the first mover.
The apostle James appears to have been of a
different opinion from the ethic bard; he speaks
as if he suspected that the pebble stirred the
lake a little too roughly. He traces this mis-
chievous principle from its birth to the largest
extent of its malign influence.-The question,
'whence come wars and fightings among you,'
he answers by another question;-- Come they
not hence, even of your lusts that war in your
members?'
We are apt to speak of self-love as if it were
only a symptom, whereas it is the distemper it-
self; a malignant distemper which has posses- The same pervading spirit which creates hos-
sion of the moral constitution, of which malady tility between nations, creates animosity among
every part of the system participates. In direct neighbours, and discord in families. It is the
opposition to the effect produced by the touch same principle which, having in the beginning
of the fabled king, which converted the basest made 'Cain the first male child,' a murderer in
materials into gold, this corrupting principle his father's house, has been ever since in per-
pollutes, by coming in contact with it, whateverpetual operation; has been transmitted in one
is in itself great and noble.
Self-love is the centre of the unrenewed heart.
This stirring principle, as has been observed,
serves indeed
The virtuous mind to wake;
but it disturbs it from its slumbers to ends and
purposes directly opposite to those assigned to
it by our incomparable bard.* Self-love is by
no means 'the small pebble which stirs the
peaceful lake.' It is rather the pent up wind
within, which causes the earthquake; it is the
tempest which agitates the sleeping ocean. Had
the image been as just as its clothing is beau-
tiful; or rather had Mr. Pope been as sound a
theologian as he was an exquisite poet, the allu-
sion in his hands might have conveyed a sounder
meaning without losing a particle of its elegance.
This might have been effected by only substi-
tuting the effect for the cause; that is, by mak-
ing benevolence the principle instead of the con-
sequence, and by discarding self-love from its
central situation in the construction of the meta-
phor.
But by arraying a beggarly idea in princely
robes, he knew that his own splendid powers
could at any time transform meanness into ma-
jesty, and deformity into beauty.
4
After all however, le vrai est le seul beau. Had
he not blindly adopted the misleading system
of the noble sceptic, his guide, philosopher, and
friend,' he might have transferred the shining
attributes of the base-born thing which he has
dressed out with so many graces, to the legiti-
mate claimant-benevolence;-of which self-
love is so far from being, as he represents, the
moving spring, that they are both working in a
* Essay on Man, 1, 362.
unbroken line of succession, through that long
chain of crimes of which history is composed,
to the present triumphant spoiler of Europe.—
In cultivated societies, laws repress, by punish-
ing, the overt act in private individuals, but no
one thing but the Christian religion has ever
been devised to cleanse the spring.
"The heart is deceitful above all things and
desperately wicked, who can know it? This
proposition, this interrogation, we read with
complacency, and both the aphorism and the
question being a portion of Scripture, we think
it would not be decent to controvert it. We
read it however with a secret reservation, that
it is only the heart of all the rest of the world
that is meant, and we rarely make the applica-
tion which the Scripture intended. Each hopes
that there is one heart which may escape the
charge, and he makes the single exception in
favour of his own. But if the exception which
every one makes were true, there would not be
a deceitful or wicked heart in the world.
As a theory we are ready enough to admire
self-knowledge, yet when the practice comes in
question we are as blindfolded as if our happi-
ness depended on our ignorance. To lay hold
* Self-love thus pushed to social, to divine,
Gives thee to make thy neighbour's blessing thine:
Self-love but serves the virtuous mind to wake,
As the small pebble stirs the peaceful lake;
The centre mov'd, a circle straight succeeds,
Another still, and still another spreads:
Friend, parent, neighbour, first it will embrace,
His country next, and next all human race.
she has hazarded them for the sake of her more youth-
The author hopes to be forgiven for these remarks:
ful readers. She has not forgotten the time when, in
the admiration of youthful enthusiasm, she never sus-
pected that the principle of these finished verses was less
excellent than the poetry.
462
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
on a religious truth, and to maintain our hold,
is no easy matter. Our understandings are
not more ready to receive than our affections to
lose it. We like to have an intellectual know-
ledge of divine things, but to cultivate a spiritual
acquaintance with them cannot be effected at so
cheap a rate. We can even more readily force
ourselves to believe that which has no affinity
with our understanding, than we can bring our-
selves to choose that which has no interest in
our will, no correspondence with our passions.
One of the first duties of a Christian is to
endeavour to conquer this antipathy to the self-
denying doctrines against which the human
heart so sturdily holds out. The learned take
incredible pains for the acquisition of knowledge.
The philosopher cheerfully consumes the mid-
night oil in his laborious pursuits; he willingly
sacrifices food and rest to conquer a difficulty
in science. Here the labour is pleasant, the fa-
tigue is grateful, the very difficulty is not with-
out its charms. Why do we feel so differently
in our religious pursuits? Because in the most
operose hunan studies, there is no contradic-
tion of self, there is no opposition to the will,
there is no combat of the affections. If the pas-
sions are at all implicated, if self-love is at all
concerned, it is rather in the way of gratifica-
tion than of opposition.
ed that it is his own case, and seizes on the eon-
solations which belong only to the most elevated
piety. Self-knowledge would correct the jndg-
ment. It would teach us to use the pattern
held out as an original to copy, instead of lead.
ing us to fancy that we are already wrought
into the assimilation. It would teach us when
we read the history of an established Christian,
to labour after a conformity to it, instead of
mistaking it for the delineation of our own
character.
Human prudence, daily experience, self-love,
all teach us to distrust others, but all motives
combined do not teach us to distrust ourselves;
we confide unreservedly in our own heart, though
as a guide it misleads, as a counsellor it betrays.
It is both party and judge. As the one, it blinds
through ignorance, as the other, it acquits
through partiality.
Though we value ourselves upon our discre-
tion in not confiding too implicitly in others,
yet it would be difficult to find any friend, any
neighbour, or even any enemy who has deceived
us so often as we have deceived ourselves. If
any acquaintance betray us, we take warning,
are on the watch, and are careful not to trust
him again. But however frequently the bosom
traitor deceive and misled, no such determined
stand is made against his treachery: we lie as
There is such a thing as a mechanical chris-open to his next assault as if he had never be-
tianity. There are good imitations of religion, trayed us. We do not profit by the remem-
so well executed and so resembling, as not only brance of the past delusion to guard against the
to deceive the spectator, but the artist. Self- future.
love in its various artifices to deceive us to our
ruin, sometimes makes use of a means, which,
if properly used, is one of the most beneficial
that can be devised to preserve us from its in-
fluence the perusal of pious books.
Yet if another deceive us, it is only in matters
respecting this world; but we deceive ourselves
in things of eternal moment. The treachery
of others can only affect our fortune or our fame,
or at worst our peace; but the internal traitor
But these books in the hands of the ignorant, may mislead us to our everlasting destruction.
the indolent, and the self-satisfied, produce an We are too much disposed to suspect others
effect directly contrary to that which they were who probably have neither the inclination nor
intended to produce, and which they actually do the power to injure us, but we seldom suspect
produce on minds prepared for the perusal.our own heart though it possesses and employs
They inflate where they were intended to
humble. As some hypochondriacs, who amuse
their melancholy hours with consulting indis-
criminately every medical book which falls in
their way, fancy they find their own case in
every page, their own ailment in the ailment
of every patient, till they believe they actually
feel every pain of which they read, though the
work treats of cases diametrically opposite to
their own:-so the religious valetudinarian, as
unreasonably elated as the others are depressed,
reads books descriptive of a highly religious
state, with the same unhappy self-application.
He feels his spiritual pulse by a watch that has
no movements in common with it, yet he fancies
that they go exactly alike. He dwells with de-
light on symptoms, not one of which belongs to
him, and flatters himself with their supposed
agreement. He observes in those books what
are the signs of grace, and he observes them
with complete self-application; he traces what
are the evidences of being in God's favour, and
those evidences he finds in himself.
Self-ignorance appropriates truths faithfully
stated but wholly inapplicable. The presump-
tion of the novice arrogates to itself the experi-
ence of the advanced Christian. He is persuad-
both. We ought however fairly to distinguish
between the simple vanity and the hypocrisy
of self-love. Those who content themselves
with talking as if the praise of virtue implied
the practice, and who expect to be thought
good, because they commend goodness, only
propagate the deceit which has misled them-
selves, whereas hypocrisy does not even believe
herself. She has deeper motives; she has de-
signs to answer, competitions to promote, pro-
jects to effect. But mere vanity can subsist
on the thin air of the admiration she soli-
cits, without intending to get any thing by it.
She is gratuitous in her loquacity; for she is
ready to display her own merit to those who have
nothing to give in return, whose applause brings
no profit, and whose censure no disgrace.
It is not strange that we should judge of
things not according to the opinion of others in
cases foreign to ourselves; cases on which we
have no correct means of determining; but we
do it in things which relate immediately to
ourselves, thus making not truth but the opinion
of others our standard in points which others
cannot know, and of which we ought not to be
ignorant. We are as fond of the applauses ever
of the upper gallery as the dramatic poet. Like
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
463
him we affect to despise the mob considered as
individual judges, yet as a mass, we covet their
applause. Like him we feel strengthened by
the number of voices in our favour, and are less
anxious about the goodness of the work, than
the loudness of the acclamation. Success is
merit in the eye of both.
1
ple act of justice. These refinements of self-
love are the dangers only of spirits of the higher
order, but to such they are dangers.
The ingenuity of self-deceit is inexhaustible.
If people extol us, we feel our good opinion of
ourselves confirmed. If they dislike us, we do
not think the worse of ourselves, but of them;
ment, we persuade ourselves that they are not
so much insensible to our worth as envious of
it. There is no shift, stratagem, or device
which we do not employ to make us stand well
with ourselves.
But even though we may put more refinement it is not we who want merit but they who want
into our self-love, it is self-love still. No sub-penetration. If we cannot refuse them discern-
tlety of reasoning, no elegance of taste, though
it may disguise the radical principle, can destroy
it. We are still too much in love with flattery,
even though we may profess to despise that
praise which depends on the acclamations of
the vulgar. But if we are over anxious for the
admiration of the better born and the better
bred, this by no means proves that we are not
vain; it only proves that our vanity has a better
taste. Our appetite is not coarse enough per-
haps to relish that popularity which ordinary
ambition covets, but do we never feed in secret
upon the applauses of more distinguished
judges? Is not their having extolled our merit
a confirmation of our discernment, and the chief
ground of our high opinion of theirs?
But if any circumstance arise to induce
them to change the too favourable opinion
which they had formed of us, though their
general character remain unimpeachable, and
their general conduct as meritorious as when
we most admired them, do we not begin to judge
them unfavourably? Do we not begin to ques-
tion their claim to that discernment which we
had ascribed to them, to suspect the soundness
of their judgment which we had so loudly com-
mended? It is well if we do not entertain some
doubt of the rectitude of their principles, as we
probably do of the reality of their friendship.
We do not candidly allow for the effect which
prejudicc, which misrepresentation, which party
may produce even on an upright mind. Still
less does it enter into our calculation that we
may actually have deserved their disapproba-
tion, that something in our conduct may have
incurred the change in theirs.
It is no low attainment to detect this lurking
injustice in our hearts, to strive against it, to
pray against it, and especially to conquer it.
We may reckon that we have acquired a sound
principle of integrity when prejudice no longer
blinds our judgment, nor resentment biases our
justice; when we do not make our opinion of
another depend on the opinion which we con-
ceive he entertains of us. We must keep a just
mearsure, and hold an even balance in judging
of ourselves as well as of others. We must have
no false estimate which shall incline to con-
demnation without, or to partiality within.
The examining principle must be kept sound,
or our determination will not be exact. It must
be at once a testimony of our rectitude, and an
incentive to it.
In order to improve this principle, we should
make it a test of our sincerity to search out and
to commend the good qualities of those who do
not like us. But this must be done without
affectation, and without insincerity. We must
practice no false candour. If we are not on our
guard we may be laying out for the praise of
generosity, while we are only exercising a sim-
We are too apt to calculate our own character
unfairly in two ways; by referring to some one
signal act of generosity, as if such acts were
the common habit of our lives, and by treating
our habitual faults, not as common habits, but
occasional failures. There is scarcely any fault
in another which offends us more than vanity,
though perhaps there is none that really injures
us so little. We have no patience that another
should be as full of self-love as we allow our-
selves to be; so full of himself as to have little
leisure to attend to us. We are particularly
quick sighted to the smallest of his imperfec-
tions which interferes with our self-esteem,
while we are lenient to his more grave offences,
which by not coming in contact with our vanity,
do not shock onr self-love.
Is it not strange that though we love our-
selves so much better than we love any other
person, yet there is hardly one, however little
we value him, that we had not rather be alone
with, that we had not rather converse with,
that we had not rather come to close quarters
with, than ourselves? Scarcely one whose pri-
vate history, whose thoughts, feelings, actions,
and motives we had not rather pry into than
our own. Do we not use every art and con-
trivance to avoid getting at the truth of our own
character? Do we not endeavour to keep our-
selves ignorant of what every one else knows
respecting our faults, and do we not account
that man our enemy, who takes on himself the
best office of a friend, that of opening to us our
real state and condition?
The little satisfaction people find when they
faithfully look within, makes them fly more
eagerly to things without. Early practice and
long habit might conquer the repugnance to
look at home, and the fondness for looking
abroad. Familiarity often makes us pleased
with the society which, while strangers we
dreaded. Intimacy with ourselves might pro-
duce a similar effect.
We might perhaps collect a tolerably just
knowledge of our own character, could we
ascertain the real opinion of others respecting
us; but that opinion being, except in a moment
of resentment, carefully kept from us by our
own precautions, profits us nothing. We do
not choose to know their secret sentiments,
because we do not choose to be cured of our
error; because we love darkness rather than
light;' because we conceive that in parting
with our vanity, we should part with the only
comfort we have, that of being ignorant of our
own faults.
464
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Self-knowledge would materially contribute, we affect to charge ourselves with more corrup
to our happiness, by curing us of that self-suffi-
ciency which is continually exposing us to mor-
tifications. The hourly rubs and vexations which
pride undergoes, is far more than an equivalent
for the short intoxication of pleasure which it
snatches.
The enemy within is always in a confederacy
with the enemy without, whether that enemy
be the world or the devil. The domestic foe ac-
commodates itself to their allurements, flatters
our weaknesses, throws a veil over our vices,
tarnishes our good deeds, gilds our bad ones,
hoodwinks our judgment, and works hard to
conceal our internal springs of action.
Self-love has the talent of imitating whatever
the world admires, even though it should be the
Christian virtues. It leads us from our regard
to reputation to avoid all vices, not only which
would bring punishment but discredit by the
commission. It can even assume the zeal and
copy the activity of Christian charity. It com-
municates to our conduct those properties and
graces, manifested in the conduct of those who
are actuated by a sounder motive. The differ-
ençe lies in the ends proposed. The object of
the one is to please God, of the other to obtain
the praise of man.
Self-love judging of the feelings of others by
its own, is aware that nothing excites so much
odium as its own character would do, if nakedly
exhibited. We feel, by our own disgust at its
exhibition in others, how much disgust we our-
selves should excite did we not invest it with
the soft garb of gentle manners and polished ad-
dress. When therefore we would not conde-
scend 'to take the lowest place, to think others
better than ourselves, to be courteous and pitiful,'
on the true scripture ground, politeness steps in
as the accidental substitute of humility, and the
counterfeit brilliant is willingly worn by those
who will not be at the expense of the jewel.
There is a certain elegance of mind which
will often restrain a well-bred man from sordid
pleasures and gross voluptuousness. He will be
led by his good taste perhaps not only to abhor
the excesses of vice, but to admire the theory of
virtue. But it is only the crapule of vice which
he will abhor. Exquisite gratif.cations, sober
luxury, incessant but not unmeasured enjoy-
ment, form the principle of his plan of life, and
if he observe a temperance in his pleasures, it
is only because excess would take off the edge,
destroy the zest, and abridge the gratification.
By resisting gross vices he flatters himself that
he is a temperate man, and that he has made
all the sacrifices which self-denial imposes. In-
wardly satisfied, he compares himself with those
who have sunk into coarser indulgences, enjoys
his own superiority in health, credit, and unim-
paired faculties, and triumphs in the dignity of
his own character.
|
•
tion than is attributed to us; but on the other
hand, while we are lamenting our general want
of all goodness, we fight for every particle that
is disputed. The one quality that is in question
always happens to be the very one to which we
must lay claim, however deficient in others.-
Thus, while renouncing the pretensions to every
virtue, we depreciate ourselves into all.' We
had rather talk even of our faults than not oc-
cupy the foreground of the canvass.
Humility does not consist in telling our faults,
but in bearing to be told of them; in hearing
them patiently and even thankfully; in correct-
ing ourselves when told; in not hating those
who tell us of them. If we were little in our
own eyes, and felt our real insignificance, we
should avoid false humility as much as mere
obvious vanity; but we seldom dwell on our
faults except in a general way, and rarely on
those of which we are really guilty. We do it
in the hope of being contradicted, and thus of
being confirmed in the secret good opinion we
entertain of ourselves. It is not enough that we
inveigh against ourselves, we must in a manner
forget ourselves. This oblivion of self from a
pure principle, would go further towards our
advancement in christian virtue, than the most
splendid actions performed on the opposite
ground.
That self-knowledge which teaches us humi-
lity, teaches us compassion also. The sick pity
the sick. They sympathize with the disorder
of which they feel the symptoms in themselves.
Self-knowledge also checks injustice by esta-
blishing the equitable principle of showing the
kindness we expect to receive; it represses am-
bition by convincing us how little we are entitled
to superiority; it renders adversity profitable
by letting us see how much we deserve it; it
makes prosperity safe, by directing our hearts
to HIM who confers it, instead of receiving it as
the consequence of our own desert.
We even carry our self-importance to the foot
of the throne of God. When prostrate there we
are not required, it is true, to forget ourselves,
but we are required to remember HIм. We have
indeed much sin to lament, but we have also
much mercy to adore. We have much to ask,
but we have likewise much to acknowledge.
Yet our infinite obligations to God do not fill
our hearts half as much as a petty uneasiness
of our own; nor His infinite perfections as much
as our own smallest want.
The great, the only effectual antidote to self-
love, is to get the love of God and of our neigh-
bour firmly rooted in the heart. Yet let us ever
bear in mind that dependance on our fellow crea-
tures is as carefully to be avoided as love of them
is to be cultivated, There is none but God on
whom the principles of love and dependance
form but one duty.
CHAP. XIV.
There is, if the expression may be allowed,
a sort of religious self-deceit, an affection of hu-
mility which is in reality full of life, which re-
solves all importance into what concerns self,
which only looks at things as they refer to life. On the conduct of Christians in their intercourse
This religious vanity operates in two ways:-
We not only fly out at the imputation of the
smallest individual fault, while at the same time
with the irreligious.
THE Combination of integrity with discretion
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
465
is the precise point at which a serious Christian
must aim in his intercourse, and especially in
his debates on religion, with men of the oppo-
site description. He must consider himself as
not only having his own reputation but the ho-
nour of religion in his keeping. While he must
on the one hand 'set his face as a flint' against
any thing that may be construed into compro-
mise or evasion, into denying or concealing any
christian truth, or shrinking from any com-
manded duty, in order to conciliate favour; he
must, on the other hand, be scrupulously care-
ful never to maintain a christian doctrine with
an unchristian temper. In endeavouring to con-
vince he must be cautious not needlessly to irri-
tate. He must distinguish between the honour
of God and the pride of his own character, and
never be pertinaciously supporting the one, un-
der the pretence that he is only maintaining the
other. The dislike thus excited against the dis-
putant is at once transferred to the principle,
and the adversary's unfavourable opinion of re-
ligion is augmented by the faults of its cham-
pion. At the same time, the intemperate cham-
pion puts it out of his power to be of any fur-
ther service to the man whom his offensive man-
ners have disgusted.
A serious Christian, it is true, feels an honest
indignation at hearing those truths on which
his everlasting hopes depend, lightly treated.
He cannot but feel his heart rise at the affront
offered to his Maker. But instead of calling
But instead of calling
down fire from heaven on the reviler's head, he
will raise a secret supplication to the God of
heaven in his favour, which, if it change not the
heart of his opponent, will not only tranquilize
his own, but soften it towards his adversary;
for we cannot easily hate the man for whom we
pray.
He who advocates the sacred cause of Chris-
tianity, should be particularly aware of fancying
that his being religious will atone for his being
disagreeable; that his orthodoxy will justify his
uncharitableness, or his zeal make up for his in-
discretion. He must not persuade himself that
he has been serving God, when he has only been
gratifying his own resentment, when he has
actually by a fiery defence prejudiced the cause
which he might perhaps have advanced by tem-
perate argument and persuasive mildness. Even
a judicious silence under great provocation is, in
a warm temper, real forbearance. And though
'to keep silence from good words' may be pain
and grief, yet the pain and grief must be borne,
and the silence must be observed.
We sometimes see imprudent religionists
glory in the attacks which their own indiscre-
tion has invited. With more vanity than truth
they apply the strong and ill-chosen term of
persecution, to the sneers and ridicule which
some impropriety of manner or some inadvert-
ency of their own has occasioned. Now and then
it is to be feared the censure may be deserved,
and the high professor may possibly be but an
indifferent moralist. Even a good man, a point
we are not sufficiently ready to concede, may
have been blameable in some instance on which
his censures will naturally have kept a keen eye.
On these occasions how forcibly does the point.
ed caution recur, which was implied by the di-
VOL. I.
G 2
|
vine moralist on the mount, and enforced by the
apostle Peter, to distinguish for whose sake we
are calumniated.
By the way, this sharp look-out of worldly
men on the professors of religion, is not without
very important uses. While it serves to promote
circumspection in the real Christian, the detec-
tion. to which it leads in the case of the hollow
professor, forms a broad and useful line of dis-
tinction between two classes of characters so
essentially distinct, and yet so frequently, so un.
justly, and so malevolently confounded.
But if
The world believes, or at least affects to be.
lieve, that the correct and elegant minded reli-
gious man is blind to those errors and infirmis
ties, that eccentricity and bad taste, that pro-
pensity to diverge from the straight line of pru-
dence, which is discernible in some pious but
ill-judging men, and which delight and gratify
the enemies of true piety, as furnishing them
with so plausible a ground for censure.
the more judicious and better informed Chris-
tian bears with these infirmities, it is not that
he does not clearly perceive and entirely con-
demn thein. But he bears with what he disap.
proves for the sake of the zeal, the sincerity, the
general usefulness of these defective characters:
these good qualities are totally overlooked by
the censurer, who is ever on the watch to aggra
vate the failings which Christian charity la
ments without extenuating. It bears with them
from the belief that impropriety is less mis-
chievous than carelessness, a bad judgment than
a bad heart, and some little excesses of zeal than
gross immorality or total indifference.
We are not ignorant how much truth itself
offends, though unassociated with any thing that
is displeasing. This furnishes an important
rule not to add to the unavoidable offence, by
mixing the faults of our own character with the
cause we support; because we may be certain
that the enemy will take care never to separate
them. He will always voluntarily maintain the
pernicious association in his own mind. He will
never think or speak of religion without connect-
ing with it the real or imputed bad qualities of
all the religious men he knows or has heard of.
Let not then the friends of truth unnecessarily
increase the number of her enemies. Let her
not have at once to sustain the assaults to which
her divine character inevitably subjects her, and
the obloquy to which the infirmities and foibles
of her injudicious, and if there are any such,
her unworthy champions expose her.
But we sometimes justify our rash violence
under colour that our correct piety cannot en-
dure the faults of others. The Pharisees, over.
flowing with wickedness themselves, made the
exactness of their own virtue a pretence for
looking with horror on the publicans whom our
Saviour regarded with compassionate tender-
ness, while he reprobated with keen severity
the sins, and especially the censoriousness of
their accusers. Charity,' says an admirable
French writer, is that law which Jesus Christ
came down to bring into the world, to repair
the divisions which sin has introduced into it:
to be the proof of the reconciliation of man with
God, by bringing him into obedience to the di
vine law; to reconcile him to himself by subju-
466
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
gating his passions to his reason; and in fine to
reconcile him to all mankind, by curing him of
the desire to domineer over them.'
temporary, bishop Warburton.-When they saw
this Goliah in talents and learning, dealing about
his ponderous blows, attacking with the same
But we put it out of our power to become the powerful weapons, not the enemies only, but the
instruments of God in promoting the spiritual friends of Christianity, who happened to see
good of any one, if we stop up the avenue to his some points in a different light from himself;
heart by violence or imprudence. We not only not meeting them as his opponents, but pouncing
put it out of our power to do good to all whom on them as his prey; not seeking to defend
we disgust, but are we not liable to some respon- himself, but tearing them to pieces; waging of
sibility for the failure of all the good we might fensive war; delighting in unprovoked hostility
have done them, had we not forfeited our influ--when they saw him thus advocate the Chris-
What we do not to tian cause, with a spirit diametrically opposite
ence by our indiscretion?
to Christianity, would they not exultingly ex-
others, in relieving their spiritual as well as
bodily wants, Christ will punish as not having claim, in different opposition to the exclamation
been done to himself. This is one of the cases of the apostolic age, See how these Christians
in which our own reputation is so inseparably hate one another" Whereas had his vast
connected with that of religion, that we shoulders of mind and astonishing compass of know-
be tender of one for the sake of the other.
The modes of doing good in society are vari-
ous. We should sharpen our discernment to
discover them; and our zeal to put them in
practice. If we cannot open man's eyes to the
truth of religion by our arguments, we may
perhaps open them to its beauty by our modera-
tion. Though he may dislike Christianity in
itself, he may, from admiring the forbearance of
the Christian, be at last led to admire the prin-
ciple from which it flowed. If he have hitherto
refused to listen to the written evidences of re-
ligion, the temper of her advocate may be a new
evidence of so engaging a kind, that his heart
may be opened by the sweetness of the one to
the varieties of the other. He will at least be
brought to allow that that religion cannot be
very bad, the fruits of which are so amiable.
The conduct of the disciple may in time bring
im to the feet of the Master. A new combina-
tion may be formed in his mind. He may be-
gin to see what he had supposed antipathies re-
'conciled, to unite two things which he thought
as impossible to be brought together as the two
poles he may begin to couple candour with
Christianity.
But if the mild advocate fail to convince, he
may persuade; even if he fail to persuade, he
will at least leave on the mind of the adversary
such favourable impressions, as may induce him
to inquire farther. He may be able to employ
on some future occasion, to more effectual pur-
pose, the credit which his forbearance will have
obtained for him: whereas uncharitable vehe-
mence would probably have forever shut the ears
and closed the heart of his opponent against any
further intercourse.
But if the temperate pleader should not be so
happy as to produce any considerable effect on
the mind of his antagonist, he is in any case
promoting the interests of his own soul; he is
at least imitating the faith and patience of the
saints; he is cultivating that 'meek and quiet
spirit' of which his blessed Master gave at once
the rule, the injunction, and the praise.
If all bitterness, and clamour, and malice,
and evil speaking,' are expressly forbidden in
ordinary cases, surely the prohibition must more
peculiarly apply to the case of religious contro-
versialists. Suppose Voltaire and Hume had
been left to take their measure of our religion
(as one would really suppose they had) from the
defences of Christianity by their very able con-
pow-
ledge been sanctified by the angelic meekness
of archbishop Leighton, they would have been
compelled to acknowledge, if Christianity be
false, it is after all so amiable that it deserves
to be true. Might they not have applied to
these two prelates what was said of Bossuet and
Fenelon, l'un prouve la Religion, l'autre la fait
aimer.'
If we studiously contrive how to furnish the
most complete triumph to infidels, contentious
theology would be our best contrivance. They
enjoy the wounds the combatants inflict on each
other, not so much from the personal injury
which either might sustain, as from the convic-
tion that every attack, however it may termi-
In all en-
nate, weakens the common cause.
gagements with a foreign foe, they know that
Christianity must come off triumphantly. All
their hopes are founded on a civil war.
If a forbearing temper should be maintained
towards the irreligious, how much more by the
professors of religion towards each other. As it
is a lamentable instance of human infirmity that
there is often much hostility carried on by good
men, who profess the same faith; so it is a
striking proof of the litigious nature of man
that this spirit is less excited by broad distinc-
tions, (such as conscience ought not to reconcile)
than by shades of opinion, shades so few and
light, that the world would not know they ex-
isted at all, if by their animosities the disputants
were not so impatient to inform it.
While we should never withhold a clear and
honest avowal of the great principles of our re-
ligion, let us discreetly avoid dwelling on incon
siderable distinctions, on which, as they do not
affect the essentials either of faith or practice,
we may allow another to maintain his opinion.
But in
while we steadily hold fast our own.
religious as in military warfare, it almost seems
as if the hostility were great in proportion to the
We all re-
littleness of the point contested.
member when two great nations were on the
point of being involved in war for a spot of
ground* in another hemisphere, so little known
that the very name had scarcely reached us; so
inconsiderable that its possession would have
added nothing to the strength of either. In ci-
vil too, as well as in national and theological
disputes, there is often most stress laid on the
most indifferent things. Why would the Spanish
Nootka Sound.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
467
government some years ago so little consult the
prejudices of the people, as nearly to produce an
insurrection, by issuing an edict for them to re-
liuquish the ancient national dress? Why was
the security of the state, and the lives of the sub-
jects put to hazard for a cloak and a jerkin?
For the obstinate people made as firm a stand
against this trifling requisition, as they could
have made for the preservation of their civil or
religious liberty, if they had been so happy as
to possess either-a stand as firm as they are
now nobly making in defence of their country
and their independence.
Without invidiously enumerating any of the
narrowing names which split Christianity in
pieces, and which so unhappily drive the sub-
jects of the Prince of Peace into interminable
war, and range them into so many hostile bands,
not against the common enemy, but against
each other; we cannot forbear regretting that
less temper is preserved among these near
neighbours in local situation and in Christian
truth, than if the attack of either were levelled
at Jews, Turks, or Infidels.
excite a prejudice against it, nor to make any
concessions in the hope of obtaining popularity
'If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live
peaceably with all men,' can no more mean that
we should exercise that false candour which
conciliates at the expense of sincerity, than that
we should defend the truth with so intolerant a
spirit, as to injure the cause by discrediting the
advocate.
As the apostle beautifully obtests his brethren;
not by the power and dignity, but 'by the meek-
ness and gentleness of Christ,' so every Christian
should adorn his doctrine by the same endearing
qualities, evincing by the brightness of the pos
lish, the solidity of the substance. But he will
carefully avoid adopting the external appearance
of these amiable tempers as substitutes for piety;
when they are only its ornaments. Condescend-
ing manners may be one of the numberless mo.
difications of selfishness, and reputation is thus
often obtained, where it is not fairly earned.
Carefully to examine whether he pleased others,
for their good to edification, or in order to gain
praise and popularity, is the bounden duty of a
Christian.
Is this that catholic spirit which embraces
with the love of charity, though not of approba- We should not be angry with the blind for
tion, the whole offspring of our common Father not seeing, nor with the proud for not acknow-
-which in the arms of its large affection, with-ledging their blindness. We ourselves perhaps
out vindicating their faults or adopting their
opinions, 'takes every creature in of every kind,'
and which like its gracious Author, would not
that any thing should perish?'
The preference of remote to approximating
opinion is, however, by no means confined to
the religious world. The Author of the Decline
and Fall of the Roman Empire, though so pas-
sionate an admirer of the prophet of Arabia as
to raise a suspicion of his own Islamism; though
so rapturous an eulogist of the apostate Julian
as to raise a suspicion of his own polytheism,
yet with an inconsistency not uncommon to un-
belief, he treats the stout orthodoxy of the vehe-
ment Athanasius, with more respect than he
shows to the 'scanty creed' of a contemporary
philosopher and theologian, whose cold and com-
fortless doctrines were much less removed from
his own.
Might not the twelve monsters which even
the incredible strength and labour of Hercules
found so hard to subdue, be interpreted as an
ingenious allegory, by which were meant twelve
popular prejudices? But though the hero went
forth armed preternaturally, the goddess of
Wisdom herself furnishing him with his helmet,
and the god of eloquence with his arrows, yet it
is not certain that he conquered the religious
prejudices, not of the world, but even of Argos
and Mycenæ ; at least they were not among his
earlier conquests; they were not serpents which
an infant hand could strangle. They were more
probably the fruitful hydra, which lost nothing
by losing a head, a new head always starting
up to supply the incessant decapitation. But
though he slew the animal at last, might not its
envenomed gore in which his arrows were dip-
ped be the perennial fountain in which perse-
cuting bigotry, harsh intolerance, and polemical
acrimony, have continued to dip their pens!
It is a delicate point to hit upon, neither to
vindicate the truth in so coarse a manner as to
were once as blind; happy if we are not still as
proud. If not in this instance, in others per-
haps they might have made more of our advan-
tages than we have done; we, under their cir-
cumstances might have been more perversely
wrong than they are, had we not been treated
by the enlightened with more patient tenderness'
than we are disposed to exercise towards them.
Tyre and Sidon, we are assured by truth itself,
would have repented, had they enjoyed the pri
vileges which Chorazin and Bethsaida threw
away. Surely we may do that for the love of
God, and for the love of our opponent's soul,
which well-bred men do through a regard to po-
liteness. Why should a Christian be more ready
to offend against the rule of charity than a gen-
tleman against the rule of decorum? Candour
in judging is like disinterestedness in acting;
both are statutes of the royal law.
There is also a kind of right which men feel'
they possess to their own opinion. With this
right it is often more difficult to part than even
with the opinion itself. If our object be the
real good of our opponent; if it be to promote
the cause of truth, and not to contest for victory,
we shall remember this. We shall consider
what a value we put upon our own opinion:
why should his, though a false one, be less dear
to him, if he believe it true? This considera-
tion will teach us not to expect too much at first.
It will teach us the prudence of seeking some
general point, in which we cannot fail to agree.
This will let him see that we do not differ from
him for the sake of differing; which conciliating
spirit of ours may bring him to a temper to listen
to arguments on topics where our disagreement
is wider.
In disputing, for instance, with those who
wholly reject the divine authority of the scrip-
tures, we can gain nothing by quoting them,
and insisting vehemently on the proof which is
to be drawn from them, in support of the point
468
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
:
incident with their former taste. Questions of
criticism, of grammar, of history, of metaphy-
sics, of mathematics, and of all the sciences
meet us, in the very place of that which saint
Paul tells us is the end of all,'-that is, 'Charity
out of a pure heart, and of a good conscience,
and of faith unfeigned, from which' he adds,
'some having swerved, have turned aside to
vain jangling.'*
in debate their unquestionable truth availing, and find it composed of materials but too co-
nothing with those who do not allow it. But
if we take some common ground, on which both
the parties can stand, and reason, from the analo-
gies of natural religion, and the way in which |
God proceeds in the known and acknowledged
course of his providence, to the way in which
he deals with us, and has declared he will deal
with us, as the God revealed in the Bible; our
opponent may be struck with the similarity and
be put upon a track of consideration, and be
brought to a temper in considering which may
terminate in the happiest manner. He may
be brought at length to be less averse from
listening to us, on those grounds and principles
of which probably he might otherwise never
have seen the value.
Where a disputant of another description can-
not endure what he sneeringly calls the strict-
ness of evangelical religion, he will have no
objection to acknowledge the momentous truths
of man's responsibility to his Maker, of the
omniscience, omnipresence, majesty and purity
of God. Strive then to meet him on these
grounds, and respectfully inquire if he can
sincerely affirm that he is acting up to the truths
he acknowledges ?-If he is living in all re-
spects as an accountable being ought to live?-
If he is really conscious of acting as a being
ought to act, who knows that he is continually
acting under the eye of a just and holy God?
You will find he cannot stand on these grounds.
Either he must be contented to receive the truth
as revealed in the gospel, or be convicted of in-
consistency, or self-deceit, or hypocrisy; you
will at least drive him off his own ground which
he will find untenable, if you cannot bring him
over to yours. But while the enemy is effecting
his retreat, do not you cut off the means of his
return?
Some Christians approve Christianity as it is
knowledge, rather than as it is principle. They
like it as it yields a grand object of pursuit; as
it enlarges their view of things, as it opens to
them a wider field of inquiry; a fresh source of
discovery, an additional topic of critical inves-
tigation. They consider it rather as extending
the limits of their research, than as a means of
ennobling their affections. It furnishes their
understanding with a fund of riches on which
they are eager to draw, not so much for the im-
provement of the heart as of the intellect. They
consider it as a thesis on which to raise inter-
esting discussion, rather than as premises from
which to draw practical conclusions; as an in-
controvertible truth, rather than as a rule of life.
There is something in the exhibition of sacred
subjects given us by these persons, which ac-
cording to our conception, is not only mistaken
but pernicious. We refer to their treatment of
religion as a mere science divested of its practi-
cal application, and taken rather as a code of
philosophical speculations than of active princi-
ples. To explain our meaning, we might per-
haps venture to except against the choice of
topics almost exclusively made by these writers.
After they have spent half a life upon the
evidences, the mere vestibule, so necessary, we
allow, to be passed into the temple of Christi-
anity, we acoompany them into their edifice,
We are very far from applying the latter
term to all scientific discussions in religion, of
which we should be the very last to deny the
use, or question the necessity. Our main objec-
tion lies to the preponderance given to such
topics by our controversialists in their divinity,
and to the spirit too often manifested in their
discussions. A preponderance it is, which
makes us sometimes fear they cousider these
things rather as religion itself, than as helps to
understand it, as the substitutes, not the allies
of devotion. At the same time, a cold and
philosophical spirit, often studiously maintained,
seems to confirm the suspicion, that religion
with them is not accidentally, but essentially,
and solely an exercise of the wits, and a field
for the display of intellectual prowess-as if
the salvation of souls were a thing by the by.
These prize fighters in theology remind us
of the philosophers of other schools: we feel as
if we were reading Newton against Des Cartes,
or the theory of caloric in opposition to phlogis-
ton. Nous le regardons,' says the eloquent
Saurin upon some religious subject, 'pour la
plupart, de la meme maniere, dont on envisage
les ide es d'un ancien philosophe sur le gouverne-
ment.'-The practical part of religion in short
is forgotten, is lost in its theories; and what is
worst of all, a temper hostile to the spirit of
Christianity is employed to defend or illustrate
its positions.
The latter effect might be traced beyond the
foregoing causes, to another nearly allied to
them-the habit of treating religion as a science
capable of demonstration. On a subject evi-
dently admitting but of moral evidence, we
lament to see questions dogmatically proved,
instead of being temperately argued. Nay we
could almost smile at the sight of some intricate
and barren novelty in religion, demonstrated to
the satisfaction of some one ingenious theorist,
who draws upon himself instantly a hundred
confutations of every position he maintains.
The ulterior stages of the debate are often such
as might make angels weep.' And when we
remember that even in the most important ques-
tions, involving eternal interests, probability is
the yery guide of life,'t we could most devoutly
wish, that on subjects, to say the least, not
'generally necessary to salvation,' infallibility
were not the claim of the disputant, or personał
animosity the condition of his failure.
Such speculatists who are more anxious to
make proselytes to an opinion, than converts to
a principle, will not be so likely to convince an
(
* See 1 Tim. i, 5, 6, also verse 4, in which the apostle
hints at certain fables and endless genealogies, which
minister questions rather than godly edifying which is
by faith.' We dare not say how closely this description
applies to some modern controvertists in theology.
Butler's Introduction to The Analogy.
†
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
469
opponent, as the Christian who is known to acting to ourselves promises which do not belong
up to his convictions, and whose genuine piety to us, particularly that which is attached to the
will put life and heart into his reasonings. The
opponent probably knows already all the inge-
nious arguments which books supply. Inge-
nuity therefore, if he be a candid man, will not
be so likely to touch him, as that godly sin-
cerity' which he cannot but perceive the heart
of his antagonist is dictating to his lips. There
is a simple energy in pure Christian truth which
a factitious principle imitates in vain. The
'knowledge which puffeth up' will make few
practical converts unaccompanied with the
charity which edifieth.'
To remove prejudices, then, is the bounden
duty of a Christian, but he must take care not
to remove them by conceding what integrity
forbids him to concede. He must not wound
his conscience to save his credit. If an ill bred
roughness disgusts another, a dishonest com-
plaisance undoes himself. He must remove all
obstructions to the reception of truth, but the
truth itself he must not adulterate. In clearing
away the impediment he must secure the prin-
ciple.
If his own reputation be attacked, he must
defend it by every lawful means; nor will he
sacrifice the valuable possession to any demand
but that of conscience, to any call but the im-
perative call of duty. If his good name be put
in competition with any other earthly good, he
will preserve it, however dear may be the good
he relinquishes; but, if the competition lie be.
tween his reputation and his conscience, he has
no hesitation in making the sacrifice, costly as
it is. A feeling man struggles for his fame as
for his life, but if he be a Christian, he parts
with it, for he knows that it is not the life of his
soul.
last beatitude. When our fame is attacked, let
us carefully inquire, if we are suffering for
righteousness' sake,' or for our own faults; let
us examine, whether we may not deserve the
censures we have incurred. Even if we are
suffering in the cause of God, may we not have
brought discredit on that holy cause by our im-
prudence, our obstinacy, our vanity; by our zeal
without knowledge, and our earnestness without
temper? Let us inquire, whether our revilers
have not some foundation for the charge?
Whether we have not sought our own glory more
than that of God? Whether we are not more
disappointed at missing that revenue of praise,
which we thought our good works were entitled
to bring us in, than at the wound religion may
have sustained? Whether, though our views
were right on the whole, their purity was not
much alloyed by human mixtures? Whether
neglecting to count the cost, we did not expect
unmixed approbation, uninterrupted success,
and a full tide of prosperity and applause, to-
tally forgetting the reproaches received, and the
obloquy sustained by the Man of Sorrows.'
If we can on an impartial review, acquit our-
selves as to the general purity of our motives,
the general integrity of our conduct, the un-
feigned sincerity of our endeavours, then we
may indeed, though with deep humility, take
to ourselves the comfort of this divine beatitude.
When we really find, that men only speak evil
of us for his sake in whose cause we have la-
boured, however that labour may have been
mingled with imperfection, we may
indeed 're-
joice and be exceeding glad.' Submission may
be elevated into gratitude, and forgiveness into
love.
CHAP. XV.
general conversation.
For the same reason that we must not be
over anxious to vindicate our fame, we must
be careful to preserve it from any unjust
imputation. The great apostle of the Gentiles
has set us an admirable example in both re-
spects, and we should never consider him in one On the propriety of introducing Religion in
point of view, without recollecting his conduct
in the other. So profound is his humility that
he declares himself less than the least of all MAY we be allowed to introduce here an
saints.' Not content with this comparative opinion warmly maintained in the world, and
depreciation, he proclaims his actual corrup- which indeed strikes at the root of all rules for
tions. In me, that is, in my flesh, there is no the management of religious debate recom-
good thing.' Yet this deep self-abasement did mended in the preceding chapter? It is, that
not prevent him from asserting his own calum. the subject of religion ought on no occasion to
niated worth, from declaring that he was not be introduced in mixed company that the di-
behind the very 'chiefest of the apostles ;'-versity of sentiment upon it is so great, and so
again-' As the truth of Christ is in me, no
man shall stop me of this boasting,' &c. He then
enumerates, with a manly dignity, tempered
with a noble modesty, a multitude of instances
of his unparalleled sufferings and his unrivalled
zeal.
|
nearly connected with the tenderest feelings of
our minds, as to be liable to lead to heat and
contention. Finally, that it is too grave and
solemn a topic to be mixed in the miscellaneous
circle of social discourse, much less in the fes-
tive effusions of convivial cheerfulness. Now,
in answer to these allegations, we must at least
insist, that should religion, on other grounds, be
found entitled to social discussion, the last ob-
servation, if true, would prove convivial cheer-
fulness incompatible with the spirit and practice
of religion, rather than religion inadmissible
into cheerful parties. And it is certainly a
While we rejoice in the promises annexed to retort difficult of evasion, that where to intro-
the beatitudes, we should be cautious of apply-duce Religion herself is to endanger her honour,
Where only his own personal feelings were
in question, how self-abasing, how self-anni-
hilating! But where the unjust imputation in-
volved the honour of Christ and the credit of
religion 'what carefulness is wrought in him,
yea what clearing of himself; yea what vehe-
ment desire; yea what zeal!
470
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
!
there she rather suffers in reputation by the pre-
sence of her friend. The man endeared by con-
viction to his religion will never bear to be long,
much less to be statedly separated from the ob-
ject of his affections: and he whose zeal once
determined him 'to know nothing' amongst his
associates, but Jesus Christ and him crucified,'
never could have dreamt of a latitude of inter-
pretation, which would admit a Christian into
scenes where every thing but Jesus Christ and
him crucified, might be recognized with credit.
These principles appear so plain and incon-
trovertible, that the question seems rather to call
for a different statement, viz.-Why religion
should not be deemed admissible into every so-
cial meeting and friendly circle in which a
Christian himself would choose to be found?
That it is too weighty and important a subject
for discussion, is an argument, which, standing
alone, assumes the gross absurdity that either
men never talk of that which most nearly in-
terests them, or that when they do, they talk
improperly. They will not, it is true, introduce
a private concern, however important, in which
no one is interested but themselves. But in the
subject of religion, who is not interested? Or
where will topics be found more universal in
their application to all times, persons, places and
circumstances, as well as more important, than
those which relate to the eternal welfare of
mankind?
Nor will it be avowed with great colour of
reason, that topics so important suffer in point
of gravity, or in the respect of mankind, by fre-
quent discussion. We never observed men grow
indifferent to their health, their affairs, their
friends, their country, in proportion as these
were made the subjects of their familiar dis-
course. On the contrary, oblivion has been no-
ticed as the offspring of silence. The man who
never mentions his friend, is, we think, in gene-
ral most likely to forget him. And far from
deeming the name of ONE, greater than any
earthly friend 'taken in vain,' when mentioned
discreetly in conversation, we generally find
him most remembered and respected in secret,
by those whose memories are occasionally re-
freshed by a reference to his word and authority
in public. Familiarity,' indeed, we have been
told, produces contempt;' a truism, on which
we are convinced many persons, honestly, though
blindly, rest their habitual, and even systematic
reserve on religious subjects. But familiarity'
in our mind has reference rather to the manner,
than to the act, of introducing religion. To us
it is synonymous with a certain trite and trivial
repetition of serious remarks, evidently to no
profit,' which we sometimes hear from persons
familiarized, rather by education than feeling,
to the language of piety.
เ
More particularly we refer it to a still more
criminal habit which, to their disgrace, some
professors of religion share with the profane, of
raising a laugh by the introduction of a religious
observation or even a Scriptural quotation. To
court a grin when we should woo a soul,' is
surely an abuse of religion, as well in the par-
lour as the pulpit. Nor has the senate itself
been always exempt from this impropriety. Dr.
Johnson has long since pronounced a jest drawn
|
from the Bible, the vulgarest because the easiest
of all jests. And far from perverting religious
topics to such a purpose himself, a feeling Chris-
tian would not often be found, where such would
be the probable consequence of offering a pious
sentiment in company.
That allusions involving religious questions
are often productive of dispute and altercation,
is a fact, which though greatly exaggerated,
must yet in a degree be admitted. This cir-
cumstance may in some measure account for
the singular reception which a religious remark
is often observed to meet with in the world. It
is curious to notice the surprise and alarm
which, on such occasions, will frequently per-
vade the party present. The remark is received
as a stranger guest, of which no one knows the
quality or intentions. And, like a species of
intellectual foundling, it is cast upon the com-
pany without a friend to foster its infancy, or to
own any acquaintance with the parent. A fear
of consequences prevails. It is obvious that the
feeling is-'We know not into what it may
grow it is therefore safer to stifle it in the
birth.' This, if not the avowed, is the implied
sentiment.
But is not this delicacy, this mauvaise honte,
so peculiar perhaps to our countrymen on reli.
gious subjects, the very cause which operates so
unfavourably upon that effect which it labours
to obviate? Is not the very infrequency of mo-
ral or religious observations, a sufficient account
to be given both of the perplexity and the irrita-
tion said to be consequent upon their introduc-
tion? And were not religion (we mean such
religious topics as may legitimately arise in
mixed society,) banished so much as it is from
conversation, might not its occasional recurrence
become by degrees as natural, perhaps as inte-
resting, certainly as instructive, and after all as
safe, as a close committee on the weather,' or
any other of the authorized topics which are
about as productive of amusement as of instruc-
tion? People act as if religion were to be re-
garded at a distance; as if even a respectful ig-
norance were to be preferred to a more familiar
approach. This reserve, however, does not give
an air of respect, so much as of mystery, to re-
ligion. An able writer* has observed,' that was
esteemed the most sacred part of Pagan devotion
which was the most impure, and the only thing
that was commendable in it is, that it was kept
a great mystery.' He approves of nothing in
this religion but the modesty of withdrawing it-
self from the eyes of the world. But Christiani-
such mys
ty requires not to be shrouded in
any such
She does not, like the Eastern
terious recesses.
monarchs, owe her dignity to her concealment.
She is, on the contrary, most honoured where
most known, and most revered where most clear-
ly visible.
It will be obvious that hints rather than ar-
gument belong to our present undertaking. - In
this view, we may perhaps be excused if we of
fer a few general observations, upon the differ-
ent occasions on which a well regulated mind
would be solicitous to introduce religion into
social discourse. The person possessed of such
* Bishop Sherlock.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
471
duct to which we feel it a boldness to make any
reference at all. Bold indeed, is that casuist,
who would lay down general rules on a subject
where the consciences of men seem to differ so
widely from each other: and feeble too often
will be its justest rules, where the feelings of
timidity or delicacy rush in with a force which
sweeps down many a land-mark erected for its
own guidance, even by conscience itself.
a mind, would be mainly anxious, in a society | proof. Here is indeed a point in religious con-
of Christians, that something should appear in-
dicative of their profession. He would accord-
ingly feel a strong desire to effect it, when he
plainly perceived his company engaged on no
other topic either innocently entertaining, or ra-
tionally instructive. The desire, however, would
by no means cloud his brow, give an air of im-
patience to his countenance, or render him inat-
tentive to the general tone and temper of the
circle. On the contrary, he would endeavour to
feel additional interest in his neighbour's sug-
gestions, in proportion as he hoped in turn to
attract notice to his own. He would show long
forbearance to the utmost extent of conscientious
toleration. In the prosecution of his favourite
design, he would never attempt a forced or un-
reasonable allusion to serious subjects; a caution
requiring the nicest judgment and discrimina-
tion, most particularly where he felt the senti:
ments or the zeal of his company to be not con-
genial with his own. His would be the spirit
of the prudent mariner, who does not even ap-
proach his native shore without carefully watch-
ing the winds, and sounding the channels;
knowing well that a temporary delay, even on
an unfriendly element, is preferable to a hasty
landing his company, on shore indeed, but upon
the point of a rock.
Happily for our present purpose, the days we
live in, afford circumstances both of foreign and
domestic occurrence, of every possible variety
of colour and connection, so as to leave scarcely
any mind unfurnished with a store of progressive
remarks by which the most instructive truths
may be approached through the most obvious
topics. And a prudent mind will study to make
its approaches to such an ultimate object, pro-
gressive; it will know also where to stop, rather
indeed out of regard to others than to itself.
And in the manly avowal of its sentiments,
avoiding as well what is canting in utterance as
technical in language, it will make them at once
appear not the ebullition of an ill educated ima-
gination, but the result of a long exercised un-
derstanding.
Nothing will be more likely to attract atten-
tion or secure respect to your remarks, than the
good taste in which they are delivered. On
common topics, we reckon him the most elegant
speaker whose pronunciation and accent are so
free from all peculiarities, that it cannot be de-
termined to what place he owes his birth. A
polished critic of Rome accuses one of the finest
of her historians of provinciality. This is a
fault obvious to less enlightened critics, since
the Attic herb-woman could detect the provin-
cial dialect of a great philosopher. Why must
religion have her Patavinity? Why must the
Christian adopt the quaintness of a party, or a
scholar the idiom of the illiterate? Why should
a valuable truth be combined with a vulgar or
fanatical expression If either would offend
when separate, how inevitably must they disgust
when the one is mistakingly intended to set off
the other. Surely this is not enchasing our
' apples of gold in pictures of silver.'
Certainly much allowance, perhaps respect, is
due in cases of very doubtful decision, to those
feelings which, after the utmost self regulation
of mind, are found to be irresistible. And cer-
tainly the habits and modes of address attached
to refined society, are such as to place personal
observations on a very different footing to that
on which they stand by nature. A frown, even
a cold and disapproving look, may be a reception
which the profane expression or loose action of
a neighbour of rank and opulence, may have
never before encountered from his flatterers or
convivial companions. A vehement censure in
his case might inflame his resentment without
amending his fault.-Whether the attempt be to
correct a vice or rectify an error, one object
should ever be steadily kept in view-to con-
ciliate rather than to contend, to inform but not
to insult, to evince that we assume, not the cha-
racter of a dictator, but the office of a Christian
friend; that we have the best interests of the
offender, and the honour of religion at heart,
and that to reprove is so far from a gratification,
that it is a trial to ourselves, the effort of con-
science, not the effect of choice.
The feelings, therefore, of the person to be
admonished should be most scrupulously con-
sulted. The admonition, if necessarily strong,
explicit and personal, should yet be friendly,
temperate, and well bred. An offence, even
though publicly committed, is generally best re-
proved in private, perhaps in writing. Age,
superiority of station, previous acquaintance,
above all, that sacred profession to which the
honour of religion is happily made a personal
concern, are circumstances which especially
call for, and sanction the attempt recommended.
And he must surely be unworthy his Christian
vocation, who would not conscientiously use any
influence or authority which he might chance to
possess, in discountenancing or rectifying the
delinquency he condemns.
We are, indeed, as elsewhere, after the closest
reflection and longest discussion often forced
into the general conclusion, that a good heart
is the best casuist.'-And doubtless where true
Christian benevolence towards man meets in the
same mind with an honest zeal for the glory of
God, a way will be found, let us rather say will
be opened, for the right exercise of this, as of
every virtuous disposition.
Let us ever remember what we have so ofter.
insisted on, that self-denial is the ground work,
the indispensable requisite for every Christian
virtue; that without the habitual exercise of this
principle, we shall never be followers of him
'who pleased not himself.' And when we are
We must not close this part of our subject called by conscience to the largest use of it in
without alluding to another, and still more deli-practice, we must arm ourselves with the high.
cate introduction of religion, in the way of re- est considerations for the trial; we must consi-
472
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
der him, who (through his faithful reproofs)
'endured the contradiction of sinners against
himself." And when even from Moses we hear
the truly evangelical precept,' thou shalt in any
wise rebuke thy brother, and not suffer sin up-
on him; we must duly weigh how strongly its
performance is enforced upon ourselves, by the
conduct of one greater than Moses, who express-
ly suffered for us, leaving us an example that
we should follow his footsteps.'
CHAP. XVI.
Christian Watchfulness.
Or all the motives to vigilance and self-disci-
pline which Christianity presents, there is not
one more powerful than the danger, from which
even religious persons are not exempt, of slack-
ening in zeal and declining in piety. Would we
could affirm, that coldness in religion is confined
to the irreligious! If it be melancholy to observe
an absence of Christianity where no profession
of it was ever made, it is far more grievous to
mark its declension, where it once appeared not
only to exist, but to flourish. We feel on the
comparison, the same distinct sort of compas-
sion with which we contemplate the pecuniary
distresses of those who have been always indi-
gent, and of those who have fallen into want
from a state of opulence. Our concern differs
not only in degree but in kind.
This declension is one of the most awakening
calls to watchfulness, to humility, and self-in-
spection, which religion can make to him who
thinketh he standeth;' which it can make to him
who, sensible of his own weakness, ought to feel
the necessity of strengthening the things which
remain that are ready to die.'
If there is not any one circumstance which
ought more to alarm and quicken the Christian,
than that of finding himself grow languid and
indifferent, after having made not only a profes-
sion but a progress, so there is not a more rea-
sonable motive of triumph to the profane, not
one cause which excites in him a more plausible
ground of suspicion, either that there never was
any truth in the profession of the person in ques-
tion, or which is a more fatal, and, to such a
mind, a more natural conclusion-that there is
no truth in religion itself. At best, he will be
persuaded that this can only be a faint and fee-
ble principle, the impulse of which is so soon
exhausted, and which is by no means found suf.
ficiently powerful to carry on its votary through-
out his course. He is assured that piety is only
an outer garment, put on for show or conveni-
ence, and that when it ceases to be wanted for
either it is laid aside. In these unhappy in-
stances the evil seldom ceases with him who
causes it. The inference becomes general, that
all religious men are equally unsound or equally
deluded, only that some are more prudent, or
more fortunate, or greater hypocrites than
others. After the falling away of one promising
character, the old suspicion recurs and is con-
firmed, and the defection of others pronounced
to be infallible.
There seems to be this marked distinction in
the different opinions which religious and world-
ly men entertain respecting human corruption.
The candid Christian is contented to believe it,
as an indisputable general truth, while he is
backward to suspect the wickedness of the indi-
vidual, nor does he allow himself to give full
credit to particular instances without proof. The
man of the world, on the contrary, who denies
the general principle is extremely prone to sus-
pect the individual: Thus his knowledge of
mankind not only furnishes a proof, but out-
strips the truth of the doctrine: though he de-
nies it as a proposition of Scripture, he is eager
to establish it as a fact of experiment.
But the probability is, that the man by his de-
parture from the principles with which he ap-
peared to set out, so much gratifies the thought-
less, and grieves the serious mind, never was a
sound and genuine Christian. His religion was
perhaps taken up on some accidental circum.
stance, built on some false ground, produced by
some evanescent cause; and though it cannot
be fairly pronounced that he intended by his
forward profession and prominent zeal, to de-
ceive others, it is probable that he himself was
deceived. Perhaps he had made too sure of
himself. His early profession was probably ra-
ther bold and ostentatious; he had imprudently
fixed his stand on ground so high as to be not
easily tenable, and from which a descent would
be but too observable. While he thought he
never could be too secure of his own strength,
he allowed himself to be too censorious on the
infirmities of others, especially of those whom
he had apparently outstripped, and who, though
they had started together, he had left behind
him in the race.
Might it not be a safer course, if in the outset
of the Christian life, a modest and self-distrust-
ing humility were to impose a temporary re-
straint on the forwardness of outward profession?
A little knowledge of the human heart, a little
suspicion of the deceitfulness of his own, would
not only moderate the intemperance of an ill-
understood zeal, should the warm convert be-
come an established Christian, but would save
the credit of religion, which will receive a fresh
wound in the possible event of his desertion from
her standard.
Some of the most distinguished Christians in
this country began their religious career with
this graceful humility. They would not suffer
their change of character, and their adoption of
new principles, and a new course to be blazoned
abroad, as the affectionate zeal of their confiden-
tial friends would have advised, till the princi-
ples they had adopted were established, and
worked into habits of piety; till time and expe-
rience had evinced that the grace of God had
not been bestowed on them in vain. Their pro-
gress proved to be such as might have been in,
ferred from the modesty of their outset. They
have gone on with a perseverance which diffi-
culties have only contributed to strengthen, and
experience to confirm; and will, through divine
aid, doubtless go on, shining more and more un-
to the perfect day.
But to return to the less steady convert. Per-
haps religion was only, as we have hinted else.
:
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
473
it, till it has fallen into that gradual oblivion,
which is the natural consequence of its being
kept out of sight.
where, one pursuit among many which he had
taken up when other pursuits failed, and which
he now lays down because, his faith not being
rooted and grounded, fails also ;—or the tempta- But we proceed to a far more interesting and
tion arising from without might concur with the important character. The one indeed whom we
failure within. If vanity be his infirmity, he have been slightly sketching, may by his incon-
will shrink from the pointed disapprobation of stancy do much harm; the one on which we are
his superiors. If the love of novelty be his be- about to animadvert, might by his consistency
setting weakness, the very peculiarity and strict- and perseverance effect essential good. Even
ness of religion, the very marked departure the sincere, and to all appearance, the establish-
from the 'gay and primrose path' in which he ed Christian, especially if his situation in life
had before been accustomed to walk, which first be easy, and his course smooth and prosperous,
attracted, now repels him. The attention which had need keep a vigilant eye upon his own
his early deviation from the manners of the heart. For such a one it will not be sufficient
world drew upon him, and which once flattered, that he keep his ground if he do not advance in
now disgusts him. The very opposition which it. Indeed it will be a sure proof that he has
once animated, now cools him. He is discou-gone back, if he has not advanced.
raged at the near view, subdued by the required In a world so beset with snares, various are
practice, of that Christian self-denial which, as
a speculation, had appeared so delightful. Per-
haps his fancy had been fired by some act of
Christian heroism, which he felt an ambition to
imitate: a feeling which tales of martial prow-
ess, or deeds of chivalry, something that, pro-
mising celebrity and exciting emulation, had
often kindled before. The truth is, religion had
only taken hold of his imagination, his heart had
been left out of the question.
Or he had in the twilight of his first awaken-
ing, seen religion only as something to be be-
lieved; he now finds that much is to he done
in the new life, and much which was habituai
to the old one left undone. Above all, he did
not reckon on the CONSISTENCY which the Chris-
tian life demands. Warm affections rendered
the practice of some right actions easy to him;
but he did not include in his faulty and imper-
fect scheme, the self-denial, the perseverance,
the renouncing of his own will and his own
way, the evil report as well as the good report,
to which every man pledges himself, when he
enlists under the banner of Christ. The cross
which it was easy to venerate, he finds it hard
to bear.
|
the causes which may possibly occasion in even
good men a slow but certain decline in piety.
A decline scarcely perceptible at first, but which
becomes more visible in its subsequent stages.
When therefore we suspect our hearts of any
declension in piety, we should not compare our-
selves with what we were in the preceding week
or month, but what we were at the supposed
height of our character. Though the alteration
was not perceptible in its gradual progress, one
shade melting into the next, and each losing its
distinctness, yet when the two remote states are
brought into contrast, the change will be stri-
kingly obvious.
Among other causes, may be assigned the in-
discreet forming of some worldly connexion,
especially that of marriage. In this connexion,
for union it cannot be called, it is to be lamented
that the irreligious more frequently draw away
the religious to their side, than that the contrary
takes place; a circumstance easily accounted
for by those who are at all acquainted with the
human heart.
Or the sincere but incautious Christian may
be led by a strong affection which assumes the
shape of virtue, into a fond desire of establish-
Or religion might be adopted when he was ing his children advantageously in the world,
in affliction, and he is now happy :--when he iuto methods which if not absolutely incorrect,
was in bad circumstances, and he is now grown are yet ambiguous at the best. In order to raise
affluent. Or it might be assumed as something those whom he loves to a station above their
wanting to his recommendation to that party or level, he may be tempted, while self-deceit will
project by which he wished to make his way; teach him to sanctify the deed by the motive, to
as something that would better enable him to make some little sacrifices of principle, some
carry certain points which he had in view; little abatements of that strict rectitude, for
something that, with the new acquaintance he which in the abstract no man would more stre-
wished to cultivate, might obliterate certain de-nuously contend. And as it may be in general
fects, in his former conduct, and white-wash a
somewhat sullied reputation.
observed, that the most amiable minds are most
susceptible of the strongest natural affections;
of course the very tenderness of the heart lays
such characters peculiarly open to a danger, to
which the unfeeling and the obdurate are less
Or in his now more independent situation, it
may be he is surrounded by temptations, soften-
ed by blandishments, allured by pleasures, which
he never expected would arise to weaken his re-exposed.
solutions. These new enchantments make it
not so easy to be pious, as when he had little to
lose and every thing to desire, as when the world
wore a frowning, and religion an inviting as-
pect. Or he is perhaps by the vicissitudes of
life, transferred from a sober and humble society,
where to be religious was honourable, to a more
fashionable set of associates, where, as the dis-
closure of his piety would add nothing to his
credit, he set out with taking pains to conceal | discretion intrench on his integrity.
VOL. I.
If the person in question be of the sacred or-
der, no small danger may arise from his living
under the eye of an irreligious, but rich and
bountiful patron. It is his duty to make religion
appear amiable in his eyes. He ought to con-
ciliate his good will by every means which rec-
titude can sanction. But though his very piety
will stimulate his discretion in the adoption of
those means, he will take care never to let his
474
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1
If he be under obligations to him, he may be | known, and perhaps an unbroken soil-as if hu-
in danger of testifying his gratitude, and fur-man nature were not pretty much the same
thering his hopes by some electioneering ma- every where; as if the labourer were accounta
nœuvres, and by too much electioneering society. ble for the abundance of his crop, and not solely
He may, unawares be tempted to too much con- for his own assiduity; as if actual duty, faith-
formity to his friend's habits, too much convivi- fully performed, even in this circumscribed
ality in his society. And when he witnesseth sphere in which God has cast our lot, is not
so much kindness and urbanity in his manners, more acceptable to him, than theories of the
possibly so much usefulness and benevolence in most extensive good, than distant speculations
his life, he may be even tempted to suspect that and improbable projects, for the benefit even of
he himself may be wrong; to accuse himself of a whole district; while, in the indulgence of
being somewhat churlish in his own temper, a these airy schemes, our own specific and ap-
little too austere in his habits, and rather hard pointed work lies neglected, or is performed
in his judgment of a man so amiable. He will without energy and without attention.
be still more likely to fall into this error if he
expects a favour than if he has obtained it; for
though it is not greatly to the honour of human
nature, we daily see how much keener are the
feelings which are excited by hope than those
which are raised by gratitude..-The favour which
has been already conferred, excites a temperate,
that which we are looking for, a fervid feeling.
These relaxing feelings and these softened
dispositions, aided by the seducing luxury of the
table, and the bewitching splendour of the apart-
ment; by the soft accommodations which opu-
lence exhibits; and the desires which they are
too apt to awaken in the dependant, may, not im-
possibly, lead by degrees to a criminal timidity
in maintaining the purity of his own principles,
in supporting the strictness of his own practice.
He may gradually lose somewhat of the dignity
of his professional, and of the sobriety of the
Christian character. He may be brought to for-
feit the independence of his mind; and in order
to magnify his fortune, may neglect to magnify
his office.
Self-love so naturally infatuates the judgment,
that it is no paradox to assert that we look too
far, and yet do not look far enough. We look
too far when passing over the actual duties of the
immediate scene, we form long connected trains
of future projects, and indulge our thoughts in
such as are most remote, and perhaps least pro-
bable. And we do not look far enough when
the prospective mind does not shoot beyond all
these little earthly distances, to that state, falsely
called remote, whither all our steps are not the
less tending, because our eyes are confined to
the home scenes. But while the precariousness
of our duration ought to set limits to our designs,
it should furnish incitements to our application.
Distant projects are too apt to slacken present
industry; while the magnitude of schemes, pro-
bably impracticable, may render our actual ex-
ertions cold and sluggish.
Let it be observed that we would be the last
to censure any of those fair and honourable
means of improving his condition which every
man, be he worldly or religious, owes to himself,
Even here, from an increasing remissness in and to his family. Saints as well as sinners
self-examination, he may deceive himself by have in common, what a great genius calls,
persisting to believe-for the films are now grow-certain inconvenient appetites of eating and
ing thick over his spiritual sight-that his mo- | drinking;' which while we are in the body must
tives are defensible. Were not his discernment
labouring under a temporary blindness, he would
reprobate the character which interested views
have insensibly drawn him in to act. He would
be as much astonished to be told that his cha-
racter was become his own, as was the royal
offender, when the righteous boldness of the
prophet pronounced the heart-appalling words,
Thou art the man.'
•
be complied with. It would be a great hardship
on good men, to be denied any innocent means
of fair gratification. It would be a peculiar in-
justice that the most diligent labourer should be
esteemed the least worthy of his hire, the least
fit to rise in his profession.
The more serious clergyman has also the same
warm affection for his children with his less
scrupulous brother, and consequently the same
Still he continues to flatter himself that the laudable desire for their comfortable establish-
reason of his diminished opposition to the faults ment; only in his plans for their advancement
of his friend, is not because he has a more lu- he should neither entertain ambitious views nor
crative situation in view, but because he may, prosecute any views, even the best, by methods
by a slight temporary concession, and a short not consonant to the strictness of his avowed
suspension of a severity which he begins to fan- principles. Professing to seek first the king-
cy he has carried too far, secure for his future dom of God and his righteousness,' he ought to
life a more extensive field of usefulness, in the be more exempt from an over anxious solicitude
benefice which is hanging over his head. than those who profess it less zealously. Avow-
In the mean time hope and expectation so filling a more determined confidence that all other
his mind, that he insensibly grows cold in the
prosecution of his positive duties. He begins to
lament that in his present situation he can make
but few converts, that he sees but small effects
of his labours, not perceiving that God may have
withdrawn his blessing from a ministry which
is exercised on such questionable grounds. With
his new expectations he continues to blend his
old ideas. He feasts his imagination with the
prospect of a more fruitful harvest on an un-
things will, as far as they are absolutely neces
sary, 'be added unto him,' he should, as it is
obvious he commonly does, manifest practically,
a more implicit trust, confiding in the gracious
and cheering promise, that promise expressed
both negatively and positively, as if to comfort
with a double confirmation, that God who is
both his light and defence, who will give grace
and worship, will also withhold no good thing
from them that live a godly life.'
!
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
475
It is one of the trials of faith appended to the
sacred office, that its ministers, like the father
of the faithful, are liable to go out, 'not knowing
whither they go;' and this not only at their
first entrance into their profession, but through
life; an inconvenience to which no other pro-
fession, is necessarily liable; a trial which is
not perhaps fairly estimated.
But there are perils on the right hand and on
the left. It is not among the least, that though
a pious clergyman may at first have tasted with
trembling caution of the delicious cup of ap-
plause, he may gradually grow, as thirst is in-
creased by indulgence, to drink too deeply of
the enchanted chalice. The dangers arising
from any thing that is good are formidable, be-
This remark will naturally raise a laugh cause unsuspected. And such are the perils of
among those who at once hold the function in
popularity, that we will ventùre to say that the
contempt, deride its ministers, and think their victorious general who has conquered a king-
well-earned remuneration lavishly and even un- dom, or the sagacious statesman who has pre-
necessarily bestowed. They will probably ex- served it, is almost in less danger of being spoilt
claim with as much complacency in their ridi- by acclamation than the popular preacher; be-
cule, as if it were really the test of truth-Acause their danger is likely to happen but once,
great cause of commisseration truly, to be trans-his is perpetual. Theirs is only on a day of
ferred from a starving curacy to a plentiful bene- triumph, his day of triumph occurs every week;
fice, or from the vulgar society of a country parish we mean the admiration he excites. Every
to be a stalled theologian in an opulent town!' fresh success ought to be a fresh motive to hu-
We are far from estimating at a low rate the miliation; he who feels his danger will vigilant-
exchange from a state of uncertainty to a stately guard against swallowing too greedily the in-
of independence, from a life of penury to com-
fort, or from a barely decent to an affluent pro-
vision. But does the ironical remarker rate the
feelings and affections of the heart at nothing?
If he insists that money is that chief good of
which ancient philosophy says so much, we beg
leave to insist that it is not the only good. We
are above the affectation of pretending to con- |
dole with any man on his exaltation, but there
are feelings which a man of acute sensibility,
rendered more acute by an elegant education,
values more intimately than silver or gold.
Is it absolutely nothing to resign his local
comforts, to break up his local attachments, to
have new connexions to form, and that frequent-
ly at an advanced period of life? Connexions,
perhaps less valuable than those he is quitting?
Is it nothing for a faithful minister to be sepa-
rated from an affectionate people, a people not
only whose friendship, but whose progress has
constituted his happiness here, as it will make
his joy and crown of rejoicing hereafter?
discriminate, and often undistinguishing plaudits
which his doctrines or his manner, his talent or
his voice, may equally procure for him.
If he be not prudent as well as pious, he may
be brought to humour his audience, and his
audience to flatter him with a dangerous emula-
tion, till they will scarcely endure truth itself
from any other lips. Nay, he may imperceptibly
be led not to be always satisfied with the atten-
tion and improvement of his hearers, unless
the attention be sweetened by flattery, and the
improvement followed by exclusive attachment.
The spirit of exclusive fondness generates a
spirit of controversy. Some of the followers
will rather improve in casuistry than in Chris-
tianity. They will be more busied in opposing
Paul to Apollos, than looking unto 'Jesus, the
author and finisher of their faith ;' than in bring.
ing forth fruits meet for repentance. Religious
gossip may assume the place of religion itself.
A party spirit is thus generated, and Christianity
may begin to be considered as a thing to be dis-
cussed and disputed, to be heard and talked about,
rather than as the productive principle of virtu-
ous conduct.*
Men of delicate minds estimate things by their
affections as well as by their circumstances: to
a man of a certain cast of character, a change
however advantageous, may be rather an exile We owe, indeed, lively gratitude and affec-
than a promotion. While he gratefully accepts tionate attachment to the minister who has
the good, he receives it with an edifying ac- faithfully laboured for our edification; but the
knowledgment of the imperfection of the best author has sometimes noticed a manner adopted
human things. These considerations we con- by some injudicious adherents, especially of her
fess add the additional feelings of kindness to own sex, which seems rather to erect their fa-
their persons, and of sympathy with their vicis-vourite into the head of a sect, than to reverence
situdes, to our respect and veneration for their
holy office.
C
To themselves, however, the precarious tenor
of their situation presents an instructive emblem
of the uncertain condition of human life, of the
transitory nature of the world itself. Their
liableness to a sudden removal, gives them the
advantage of being more especially reminded of
the necessity and duty of keeping in a continual
posture of preparation, having their loins gird-
ed, their shoes on their feet, and their staff in
their hand.' They have also the same promises
which supported the Israelites in the desert.-
The same assurance which cheered Abraham,
may still cheer the true servants of God under
all difficulties.—' Fear not-I am thy shield and
thy exceeding great reward.'
him as the pastor of a flock. This mode of
evincing an attachment, amiable in itself, is
doubtless as distressing to the delicacy of the
minister as it is unfavourable to religion, to which
it is apt to give an air of party.
May we be allowed to animadvert more im-
mediately on the cause of declension in piety, in
some persons who formerly exhibited evident
marks of that seriousness in their lives which
they continue to inculcate from the pulpit. If
such has been sometimes (we hope it has been
very rarely) the case, may it not be partly
ascribed to an unhappy notion that the same ex-
actness in his private devotion, the same watch.
* This polemic tattle is of a totally different character
from that species of religious conversation recommended
in the preceding chapter.
t
476
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
fulness in his daily conduct, is not equally ne-
cessary in the advanced progress as in the first
stages of a religious course? He does not de-
sist from warning his hearers of the continual
necessity of these things, but is he not in some
danger of not applying the necessity to himself?
May he not begin to rest satisfied with the in-
culcation without the practice? It is not pro-
bable indeed that he goes so far as to establish
himself as an exempt case, but he slides from
indolence into the exemption, as if its avoidance
were not so necessary for him as for others.
Even the very sacredness of his profession is
not without a snare. He may repeat the holy
offices so often that he may be in danger on the
one hand, of sinking into the notion that it is a
mere profession, or on the other, of so resting in
it as to make it supercede the necessity of that
strict personal religion with which he set out:
He may at least be satisfied with the occasional,
without the uniform practice. There is a dan.
ger-we advert only to its possibility-that his
very exactness in the public exercise of his
function, may lead to a little justification of his
remissness in secret duties. His zealous expo-
sition of the Scriptures to others may satisfy
him, though it does not always lead to a practi-
cal application of them to himself.
But God, by requiring exemplary diligence
in the devotion of his appointed servants, would
keep up in their minds a daily sense of their
dependance on him. If he does not continually
teach by his Spirit those who teach others, they
have little reason to expect success, and that
Spirit will not be given where it is not sought;
or, which is an awful consideration, may be
withdrawn, where it had been given, and not
improved as it might have been.
|
offers the best occasion, which he will not fail to
use for improving his humility. Thus he may
always be assured that good has been done
somewhere, so that in any case his labour will
not have been vain in the Lord.
CHAP. XVII.
True and False Zeal.
It is one of the most important ends of cul-
tivating that self-knowledge which we have
elsewhere reoommended, to discover what is the
real bent of our mind, and which are the strong-
est tendencies of our character; to discover
where our disposition requires restraint, and
where we may be safely trusted with some
liberty of indulgence. If the temper be fervid,
and that fervour be happily directed to religion,
the most consummate prudenee will be requisite
to restrain its excesses without freezing its
energies.
If, on the contrary, timidity and diffidence be
the natural propensity, we shall be in danger of
falling into coldness and inactivity with regard
to ourselves, and into too unresisting a com-
pliance with the requisitions, or too easy a con-
formity with the habits of others. It will there-
fore be an evident proof of Christian self-govern-
ment, when the man of too ardent zeal restrains
its outward expression where it would be un-
seasonable, or unsafe; while it will evince the
same Christian self denial in the fearful and
diffident character, to burst the fetters of timidity,
where duty requires a holy boldness; and when
he is called upon to lose all lesser fears in the
fear of God.
Should this unhappily ever be the case, it
would almost reduce the minister of Christ to a It will then be one of the first objects of a
mere engine, a vehicle through which know- Christian to get his understanding and his con-
ledge was barely to pass, like the ancient oracles science thoroughly enlightened; to take an
who had nothing to do with the information but exact survey not only of the whole comprehen-
to convey it. Perhaps the public success of the sive scheme of Christianity, but of his own
best men has been, under God, principally owing character; to discover, in order to correct the
to this, that their faithful ministration in the defects in his judgment, and to ascertain the
temple has been uniformly preceded and follow-deficiencies even of his best qualities. Through
ed by petitions in the closet; that the truths
implanted in the one, have chiefly flourished
from having been watered by the tears, and
nourished by the prayers of the other.
ignorance in these respects, though he may
really be following up some good tendency,
though he is even persuaded that he is not wrong
either in his motive or his object, he may yet
be wrong in the measure, wrong in the mode,
wrong in the application, though right in the
principle. He must therefore watch with a
suspicious eye over his better qualities, and
guard his very virtues from deviation and ex-
cess.
We will hazard but one more observation on
this dangerous and delicate subject; in this
superficial treatment of which, it is the thing in
the world the most remote from the writer's
wish, to give the slightest offence to any pious
member of an order which possesses her highest
veneration. If the indefatigable labourer in his His zeal, that indispensable ingredient in the
great Master's vineyard, has, as must often be composition of a great character, that quality,
the case, the mortification of finding that his without which no great eminence either secular
labours have failed of producing their desired or religious has ever been attained; which is
effect, in some instance, where his warmest essential to the acquisition of excellence in arts
hopes had been excited;-if he feels that he has and arms, in learning and piety; that principle
not benefitted others as he had earnestly de- without which no man will be able to reach the
sired, this is precisely the moment to benefit perfection of his nature, or to animate others to
himself, and is perhaps permitted for that very aim at that perfection, will yet hardly fail to
end.
Where his usefulness has been obviously mislead the animated Christian, if his know-
great, the true Christian will be humbled by ledge of what is right and just, if his judgment
the recollection that he is only an instrument. in the application of that knowledge do not
Where it has been less, the defeat of his hopes | keep pace with the principle itself.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE
477
Zeal, indeed, is not so much an individual quality, are, when brought into contact, repug-
virtue as the principle which gives life and nant, and even destructive to each other. There
colouring, as the spirit which gives grace and is no attribute of the human mind where the
benignity, as the temper which gives warmth different effects of the same principle have such
and energy to every other. It is that feeling which a total opposition: for is it not obvious that the
exalts the relish of every duty, and sheds a same principle under another direction, which
lustre on the practice of every virtue; which, actuates the tyrant in dragging the martyr to
embellishing every image of the mind with its the stake, enables the martyr to embrace it?
glowing tints, animates every quality of the
heart with its invigorating motion. It may be
said of zeal among the virtues as of memory
among the faculties, that though it singly never
made a great man, yet no man has ever made
himself conspicuously great where it has been
wanting.
As a striking proof that the necessity for cau-
tion is not imaginary, it has been observed that
the Holy Scriptures record more instances of a
bad zeal than of a good one. This furnishes the
most authoritative argument for regulating this
impetuous principle, and for governing it by all
those restrictions which a feeling so calculated
for good and so capable of evil demands.
Many things however must concur before we
can be allowed to determine whether zeal be It was zeal, but of a blind and furious cha-
really a virtue or a vice. Those who are con-racter, which produced the massacre on the day
tending for the one or the other, will be in the
situation of the two knights, who meeting on a
cross road, were on the point of fighting about
the colour of a cross which was suspended be-
tween them. One insisted it was gold; the other
maintained it was silver. The duel was pre-
vented by the interference of a passenger, who
desired them to change their positions. Both
crossed over to the opposite side, found the cross
was gold on one side, and silver on the other.
Each acknowledged his opponent to be right.
It may be disputed whether fire be a good or
an evil. The man who feels himself cheerful
by its kindly warmth, is assured that it is a be-
nefit, but he whose house it has just burnt down
will give another verdict. Not only the cause,
therefore, in which zeal is exerted must be good,
but the principle itself must be under due regu-
lation: or, like the rapidity of the traveller who
gets into a wrong road, it will only carry him
so much the further out of his way; or if he
be in the right road, it will, through inattention,
carry him involuntarily beyond his destined
point. That degree of motion is equally mis-
leading which detains us short of our end, or
which pushes us beyond it.
The apostle suggests a useful precaution by
expressly asserting that it is in a good cause,'
that we must be zealously affected; which im-
plies this further truth, that where the cause is
not good, the mischief is proportioned to the
zeal. But lest we should carry our limitations
of the quality to any restriction of the seasons
for exercising it, he takes care to animate us to
its perpetual exercise, by adding that we must
be always so affected.
If the injustice, the intolerance and persecu-
tion, with which a misguided zeal has so often
afflicted the church of Christ, in its more early
periods, be lamented as a deplorable evil; yet
the overruling wisdom of Providence educing
good from evil, made the very calamities which
false zeal occasioned, the instruments of pro-
ducing that true and lively zeal to which we
owe the glorious band of martyrs and confessors,
those brightest ornaments of the best periods of
the church. This effect, though a clear vindi-
cation of that divine goodness which suffers evil,
is no apology for him who perpetrates it.
It is curious to observe the contrary opera-
tions of true and false zeal, which though appa-
rently only different modifications of the same
of St. Bartholomew;-a day to which the mourn-
ful strains of Job have been so well applied.-
'Let that day perish. Let it not be joined to
the days of the years. Let darkness and the
shadow of death stain it.'-It was a zeal the
most bloody, combined with a perfidy the most
detestable, which inflamed the execrable Flo-
rentine,* when, having on this occasion invited
so many illustrious protestants to Paris under
the alluring mask of a public festivity, she con-
trived to involve her guest, the pious queen of
Navarre, and the venerable Coligni in the gene-
ral mass of undistinguished destruction. The
royal and pontifical assassins not satisfied with
the sin, converted it into a triumph.-Medals
were struck in honour of a deed which has no
parallel even in the annals of Pagan persecution.
Even glory did not content the pernicious
plotters of this direful tragedy. Devotion was
called in to be
The crown and consummation of their crime.
The blackest hypocrisy was made use of to sanc-
tify the foulest murder. The iniquity could not
be complete without solemnly thanking God for
its success.
A
The pope and cardinals proceeded
to St. Mark's church, where they praised the
Almighty for so great a blessing conferred on
the see of Rome, and the Christian world.
solemn jubilee completed the preposterous mum-
mery.-This zeal of devotion was as much worse
than even the zeal of murder, as thanking God
for enabling us to commit a sin is worse than
the commission itself. A wicked piety is still
more disgusting than a wicked act. God is less
offended by the sin itself than by the thank-
offering of its perpetrators. It looks like a black
attempt to involve the Creator in the crime.f
It was this exterminating zeal which made
the fourteenth Louis, bad in the profligacy of
his youth, worse in the superstition of his age,
revoke the tolerating edict which might have
drawn down a blessing on his kingdom. One
species of crime was called on, in his days of
blind devotion, to expiate another committed in
his days of mad ambition.-But the expiation
was even more intolerable than the offence. The
havoc made by the sword of civil persecution
* Catharine de Medici.
See Thuanus for a most affecting and exact account
of this direful massacre.
7
478
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
A
was a miserable atonement for the blood which
unjust aggression had shed in foreign wars.
It was this impious and cruel zeal which in-
spired the monk Dominick, in erecting the most
infernal tribunal which ever inventive bigotry
projected to dishonour the Christian name, and
which with pertinacious barbarity has conti-
nued for above six centuries, to afflict the hu-
man race.
|ing; zeal is not Christrian fervour, but animal
ing;, zeal is not Christian f
heat, if not associated with charity and pru
dence.
For a complete contrast to this pernicious zeal
we need not, blessed be God, travel back into re-
mote history, nor abroad into distant realms.
This happy land of civil and religious liberty
can furnish a countless catalogue of instances
of a pure, a wise, and a well directed zeal. Not
to swell the list, we will only mention that it
has in our own age, produced the Society for
promoting Christian Knowledge, the British and
Foreign Bible Society, and the Abolition of the
African slave trade. Three as noble, and which
will, we trust, be as lasting monuments as ever
national virtue erected to true piety. These are
institutions which bear the genuine stamp of
Christianity, not originating in party, founded
in disinterestedness, and comprehending the
best interests of almost the whole habitable
globe,' without partiality and without hypo-
crisy.'
તે
Zeal indeed, like other good things, is fre-
quently calumniated because it is not understood;
and it may sometimes deserve censure, as being
the effervescence of that weak but well meaning
mind which will defeat the efforts not only of
this, but of every other good propensity.
That most valuable faculty therefore of in-
tellectual man, the judgment, the enlightened,
impartial, unbiassed judgment, must be kept in
perpetual activity, not only in order to ascertain
that the cause be good, but to determine also
the degree of its importance in any given case,
that we may not blindly assign an undue value
to an inferior good: for want of this discrimina
tion we may be fighting a windmill, when we
fancy we are attacking a fort. We must prove
not only whether the thing contended for be
right, but whether it be essential; whether in
our eagerness to attain this subordinate good we
may not be sacrificing, or neglecting, things of
more real consequence. Whether the value we
assign to it may not be even imaginary.
Why we hear so much in praise of zeal from
a certain class of religious characters, is partly
owing to their having taken up a notion, that
its acquired exertions relate to the care of other
people's salvation rather than to their own; and
indeed the casual prying into a neighbour's
house, though much more entertaining, is not
near so troublesome as the constant inspection
of one's own. It is observable that the outcry
against zeal among the irreligious is raised on
nearly the same ground, as the clamour in its
favour by these professors of religion.
The
former suspect that the zeal of the religionist
evaporates in censuring their impiety, and in
eagerness for their conversion, instead of being
directed to themselves. This supposed anxiety
they resent, and give a practical proof of their
resentment by resolving not to profit by it.
|
|
Two very erroneous opinions exist, respecting
zeal. It is commonly supposed to indicate a
want of charity, and the two principles are ac-
cused of maintaining separate interests. This
is so far from being the case, that charity is the
firm associate of that zeal of which it is sup-
posed to be the enemy.-Indeed, this is so infal.
lible a criterion by which to try its sincerity,
that we should be apt to suspect the legitimacy
of the zcal which is unaccompanied by this fair
ally.
Above all, we should examine whether we do
not contend for it chiefly because it happens to
fall in with our own humour, or our own party,
more than on account of its intrinsic worth;
whether we do not wish to distinguish ourselves
by our pertinacity, and to append ourselves to
the party rather than to the principle; and thus,
as popularity is often gained by the worst part
of a man's character, whether we do not princi-
pally persist from the hope of becoming popular.
The favourite adage that le jeu ne vaut pas la
chandelle, might serve as an appropriate motto
to one half of the contentions which divide and
distract the world.
as
Another opinion equally erroneous is not a
little prevalent that where there is much zeal
there is little or no prudence. Now a sound and
sober zeal is not such an idiot as to neglect to
provide for its own success; and would that suc-
cess be provided for, without employing for its
accomplishment, every precaution which pru-
dence can suggest?-True zeal, therefore, will
be as discreet as it is fervent, well knowing that
its warmest efforts will be neither effectual, nor
lasting, without those provisions which discre-
tion alone can make. No quality is ever pos-
sessed in perfection where its opposite is want-
This zeal, hotly exercised for mere circum-
stantials, for ceremonies different in themselves,
for distinctions rather than differences, has un-
happily assisted in causing irreparable separa-
tions and dissentions in the Christian world,
even where the champions on both sides were
great and good men.-Many of the points which
have been the sources of altercation were not
worth insisting upon, where the opponents
agreed in the grand fundamentals of faith and
practice.
But to consider zeal as a general question, as
a thing of every day experience. He whose
piety is most sincere will be likely to be the
most zealous. But though zeal is an indication,
and even a concomitant of sincerity, a burning
zeal is sometimes seen where the sincerity is
somewhat questionable.
For where zeal is generated by ignorance it
is commonly fostered by self-will. That which
we have embraced through false judgment we
maintain through false honour.-Pride is gene-
rally called in to nurse the offspring of error.
It is from this confederacy that we frequently
see those who are perversely zealous for points
which can add nothing to the cause of Christian
truth, whether they are rejected or retained,
cold and indifferent about the great things which
involve the salvation of man.
Though all momentous truths, all in dispensa-
ble duties, are, in the luminous volume of inspi-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
479
ration, made so obvious that those may read who
run; the contested matters are not only so com-
paratively little as to be by no means worthy
of the heat they excite, but are rendered so
doubtful, not in themselves, but by the opposite
systems built on them, that he who fights for
them is not always sure whether he be right or
not; and if he carry his point he can make no
moral use of his victory. This indeed is not his
concern. It is enough that he has conquered.
The importance of the object having never de-
pended on its worth, but on the opinion of his
right to maintain that worth.
The Gospel assigns very different degrees
of importance to allowed practices and com-
manded duties. It by no means censures those
who were rigorous in their payment of the
most inconsiderable tythes; but seeing this duty
was not only put in competition with, but pre-
ferred before, the most important duties, even
judgment, mercy and faith, the flagrant hypo-
crisy was pointedly censured by MEEKNESS itself.
This opposition of a scrupulous exactness in
paying the petty demand on three paltry herbs,
to the neglect of the three cardinal Christian
virtues, exhibits as complete and instructive a
specimen of that frivolous and false zeal which,
evaporating in trifles, wholly overlooks those
grand points on which hangs eternal life, as can
be conceived.
indeed a natural effect of zeal to appear where
it exists, as a fire which really burns will not be
prevented from emitting both light and heat;
yet we should labour principally to keep up in
our own minds the pious feelings which religion
has excited there. The brightest flame will
decay if no means are used to keep it alive.
Pure zeal will cherish every holy affection, and
by increasing every pious disposition will ani-
mate us to every duty. It will add new force
to our hatred of sin, fresh contrition to our re-
pentance, additional vigour to our resolutions,
and will impart augmented energy to every
virtue. It will give life to our devotions, and
spirit to all our actions.
When a true zeal has fixed these right affec-
tions in our own hearts, the same principle will,
as we have already observed, make us earnest
to excite them in others. No good man wishes
to go to heaven alone, and none ever wished
others to go thither without earnestly endea-
vouring to awaken right affections in them.
That will be a false zeal which does not begin
with the regulation of our own hearts. That
will be an illiberal zeal which stops where it
begins. A true zeal will extend itself through
the whole sphere of its possessor's influence
Christian zeal, like Christian charity, will begin
at home, but neither the one nor the other must
end there.
This passage serves to corroborate a striking But that we must not confine our zeal to mere
fact, that there is scarcely in scripture any pre- conversation is not only implied but expressed
cept enforced, which has not some actual ex- in Scripture. The apostle does not exhort us
emplification attached to it. The historical to be zealous only of good words but of good
parts of the Bible, therefore, are of inestimable works. True zeal ever produces true benevo-
value, were it only on this single ground, that lence. It would extend the blessings which we
the appended truths and principles so abundant- ourselves enjoy, to the whole human race. It
ly scattered through them, are in general so will consequently stir us up to exert all our in-
happily illustrated by them. They are not dry fluence to the extension of religion, to the ad-
aphorisms and cold propositions, which stand vancement of every well concerted and well
singly, and disconnected, but truths suggested conducted plan, calculated to enlarge the limits
by the event, but precepts growing out of the of human happiness, and more especially to
occasion. The recollection of the principles re- promote the eternal interests of human kind.
calls to the mind the instructive story which But if we do not first strenuously labour for our
they enrich, while the remembrance of the cir-own illumination, how shall we presume to en-
cumstance impresses the sentiment upon the
heart. Thus the doctrine, like a precious gem,
is at once preserved and embellished by the
narrative being made a frame in which to en-
shrine it.
True zeal will first exercise itself in earnest
desires, in increasing ardour to obtain higher
degrees of illumination in our own minds; in
fervent prayer that this growing light may
operate to the improvement of our practice, that
the influences of divine grace may become more
outwardly perceptible by the increasing correct-
ness of our habits; that every holy affection may
be followed by its correspondent act, whether
of obedience or of resignation, of doing, or of
suffering.
But the effects of a genuine and enlightened
zeal will not stop here. It will be visible in our
discourse with those to whom we may have a.
probability of being useful. But though we
should not confine the exercise of our zeal to our
conversation, nor our attention to the opinions
and practices of others, yet this, when not done
with a bustling kind of interference, and offen-
sive forwardness, is proper and useful. It is
lighten others! It is a dangerous presumption,
to busy ourselves in improving others, before
we have diligently sought our own improvement.
Yet it is a vanity not uncommon that the first
feelings, be they true or false, which resemble
devotion, the first faint ray of knowledge which
has imperfectly dawned, excites in certain raw
minds an eager impatience to communicate to
others what they themselves have not yet at-
tained. Hence the novel swarms of uninstruct-
ed instructors, of teachers who have had no
time to learn. The act previous to the impart-
ing knowledge should seem to be that of ac-
quiring it. Nothing would so effectually check
an irregular and improve a temperate zeal,
as the personal discipline, the self acquaintance
we have so repeatedly recommended.
True Christian zeal will always be known
by its distinguishing and inseparable properties.
It will be warm, indeed, not from temperament
but principle. It will be humble, or it will not
be Christian zeal.—It will restrain its impetu-
osity that it may the more effectually promote
its object.-It will be temperate, softening what
is strong in the act by gentleness in the man-
1
480
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
ner. It will be tolerating, willing to grant what
it would itself desire.-It will be forbearing, in
the hope that the offence it censures may be oc-
casional failing and not a habit of the mind.
-It will be candid, making a tender allowance
for those imperfections which beings, fallible
themselves ought to expect from human infir-
mity. It will be reasonable-employing fair
argument and affectionate remonstrance, instead
of irritating by the adoption of violence, instead
of mortifying by the assumption of superiority.
He, who in private society allows himself in
violent anger or unhallowed bitterness, or ac-
rimonious railing, in reprehending the faults
of another, might, did his power keep pace with:
his inclination, have recourse to other weapons.
He would probably banish and burn, confiscate
and imprison, and think then as he thinks now,
that he is doing God service.
If there be any quality which demands a
clearer sight, a tighter rein, a stricter watchful-
ness than another, zeal is that quality. The
heart where it is wanting has no elevation;
where it is not guarded, no security. The pru-
dence with which it is exercised is the surest
evidence of its integrity; for if intemperate it
not only raises enemies to ourselves but to God.
It augments the natural enmity to religion in-
stead of increasing her friends.
ners,
CHAP. XVIII.
Insensibility to Eternal Things.
INSENSIBILITY to eternal things, in beings who
are standing on the brink of eternity, is a mad.
ness which would be reckoned among prodigies,
It would be al
if it were not so common.
together incredible, if the numberless instances
we have of it were only related, and not wit-
nessed, were only heard of, and not experienced.
If we had a certain prospect of a great estate,
and a splendid mansion which we knew must
be ours in a few days; and not only ours as a
bequest, but an inheritance, not only as a
possession, but a perpetuity; if, in the mean
time, we rented, on a precarious lease, a paltry
cottage in bad repair, ready to fall, and from
which we knew we must at all events soon be
turned out, depending on the proprietor's will,
whether the ejectment might not be the next
minute; would it argue wisdom or even com-
mon sense, totally to overlook our near and
noble reversion, and to be so fondly attached to
our falling tenement, as to spend great part of
our time and thoughts in supporting its ruins
by props, and concealing its decays by decora-
tions? To be so absorbed in the little sordid
pleasures of this frail abode, as not even to cul-
tivate a taste for the delights of the mansion,
where such treasures are laid up for us, and on
the possession of which we fully reckon in spite
of our neglect,-this is an excess of inconside
ration, which must be seen to be credited.
But if tempered by charity, if blended with
benevolence, if sweetened by kindness, if evinc-
ed to be honest by its influence on your own
conduct, and gentle by its effect on your man-
it
It is a striking fact, that the acknowledged
your irreligious acquaintance
may lead
to inquire more closely in what consists the uncertainty of life drives worldly men to make
distinction between them and you. You will sure of every thing depending on it, except their
already by this mildness have won their affec-eternal concerns. It leads them to be regular
tion. Your next step may be to gain over their
judgment. They may be led to examine what
solid grounds of difference subsists between you
and them. What substantial reason you have
for not going their lengths. What sound argu-
ment they can offer for not going yours.
in their accounts, and exact in their bargains.
They are afraid of risking ever so little property,
on so precarious a tenure as life, without ensur-
ing a reversion. There are even some who
speculate on the uncertainty of life as a trade.
Strange, that this accurate calculation of the
duration of life should not involve a serious at-
tention to its end! Strange, that the critical
annuitant should totally overlook his perpetuity!
Strange, that in the prudent care not to risk a
fraction of property, equal care should not be
taken to risk eternal salvation!
We are not supposing flagitious characters,
remarkable for any thing which the world calls
wicked: we are not supposing their wealth ob-
tained by injustice, or increased by oppression.
We are only supposing a soul drawn aside from
God, by the alluring baits of a world, which,
like the treacherous love of Atalanta, causes
him to lose the victory by throwing golden ap-
ples in his way. The shining baits are obtain-
But it may possibly be asked, after all, where
do we perceive any symptoms of this inflam-
matory distemper? Should not the prevalence,
or at least the existence of a disease be ascer-
tained previous to the application of the remedy?
That it exists is sufficiently obvious, though it
must be confessed that among the higher ranks
it has not hitherto spread very widely; nor is its
progress likely to be very alarming, or its
effects very malignant. It is to be lamented
that in every rank, indeed, coldness and indiffer-
ence, carelessness and neglect, are the reigning
epidemics. These are diseases far more diffi-
cult to cure; diseases.not more dangerous to the
patient than distressing to the physician, who
generally finds it more dfficult to raise a slug-ed, but the race is lost!
gish habit than to lower an occasional heat.
The imprudently zealous man, if he be sincere,
may, by a discreet regimen, be brought to a
state of complete sanity; but to rouse from a
state of morbid indifference, to brace from a to-
tal relaxation of the system, must be the imme-
diate work of the great Physician of souls; of
him who can effect even this, by his Spirit ac-
companying this powerful word, 'Awake thou
that sleepest, and arise from the dead, and
Christ shall give thee light.'
To worldly men of a graver cast, business
may be as formidable an enemy as pleasure is to
those of a lighter turn: business has so sober an
air that it looks like virtue, and virtuous it cer-
tainly is, when carried on in a proper spirit, with-
due moderation, and in the fear of God. To have a
lawful employment, and to pursue it with deli
gence, is not only right and honourable in itself,
but is one of the best preservatives from tempta-
tion.*
* That accurate judge of human life, Dr. Johnson, has
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
481
}
When a man pleads in his favour, the dili- | characterises the real Christian; instead of com-
gence business demands, the self-denying prac-plaining that we do not possess those consola-
tices it imposes, the patience, the regularity, the tions, which can be consequent only on such a
industry indispensable to its success; when he mutation of the mind.
argues that these are habits of virtue, that they
are a daily discipline to the moral man; and
that the world could not subsist without busi-
ness, he argues justly;-but when he forgets his
interest in the eternal world, when he neglects
to lay up a treasure in heaven, in order that he
may augment a store which he does not want,
and, perhaps, he does not intend to use, or uses
to purposes merely secular, he is a bad calcu-
lator, of the relative value of things.
Business has an honourable aspect as being
opposed to idleness, the most hopeless offspring
of the whole progeny of sin. The man of busi-
ness comparing himself with the man of dissi-
pation, feels a fair and natural consciousness of
his own value, and of the superiority of his own
pursuits. But it is by comparison that we de-
ceive ourselves to our ruin. Business, whether
professional, commercial, or political, endangers
minds of a better cast, minds which look down
on pleasure as beneath a thinking being. But
if business absorb the affections, if it swallow up
time, to the neglect of eternity; if it generate a
worldly spirit; if it cherish covetousness; if it
engage the mind in long views, and ambitious
pursuits, it may be as dangerous, as its more in-
considerate frivolous rival. The grand evil of
both lies in the alienation of the heart from God.
Nay, in one respect, the danger is greater to
him who is the best employed. The man of
pleasure, however thoughtless, can never make
himself believe that he is doing right. The man
plunged in the serious bustle of business, can-
not easily persuade himself that he may be doing
wrong.
Commutation, compensation and substitution,
are the grand engines which WORLDLY RELIGION
incessantly keeps in play. Her's is a life of
barter, a state of spiritual traffic, so much in-
dulgence for so many good works. The impli-
cation is, 'we have a rigorous master,' and it is
but fair to indemnify ourselves for the severity
of his requisitions; just as an overworked ser-
vant steals a holyday. These persons,' says
an eminent writer,* 'maintain a meum and tuum
with heaven itself.' The set bounds to God's
prerogative, lest it should too much encroach on
man's privilege.
We have elsewhere observed, that if we invite
people to embrace religion on the mere merce-
nary ground of present pleasure, they will desert
it as soon as they find themselves disappointed.
Men are too ready to clamour for the pleasures
of piety before they have, I dare not say entitled
themselves to them, but put themselves into the
way of receiving them. We should be angry at
that servant, who made the receiving of his
wages a preliminary to the performance of his
work. This is not meant to establish the merit
of the works, but the necessity of our seeking
that transforming and purifying change which
often been heard by the writer of these pages to ob-
serve, that it was the greatest misfortune which could
befal a man to have been bred to no profession, and pa-
thetically to regret that this misfortune was his own.
* The learned and pious John Smith.
VOL. I.
H 3
But if men consider this world on the true
scripture ground as a state of probation; if they
consider religion as a school for happiness, in
deed, but of which the consummation is only to
be enjoyed in heaven, the Christian hope will
support them; the Christian faith will strengthen
them. They will serve diligently, wait patient-
ly, love cordially, obey faithfully, and be stead-
fast under all trials, sustained by the cheering
promise held out to him, 'who endures to the end.'
There are certain characters who seem to have
a graduated scale of vices. Of this scale they
keep clear of the lowest degrees, and to rise
above the highest they are not ambitious, forget-
ful that the same principle which operates in
the greater, operates also in the less. A life of
incessant gratification does not alarm the con-
science, yet it is equally unfavorable to religion,
equally destructive of its principle, equally op-
posite to its spirit, with more obvious vices.
These are the habits which, by relaxing the
mind and dissolving the heart, particularly fos-
ter indifference to our spiritual state, and insen-
sibility to the things of eternity. A life of vo-
luptuousness, if it be not a life of actual sin, is a
disqualification for holiness, for happiness, for
heaven. It not only alienates the heart from
God, but lays it open to every temptation to
which natural temper may invite, or incidental
circumstances allure. The worst passions lie
dormant in hearts given up to selfish indulgences,
always ready to start into action as occasion
calls.
Voluptuousness and irreligion play into each
other's hands: they are reciprocally cause and
effect. The looseness of the principle confirms
the carelessness of the conduct, while the negli-
gent conduct in its own vindication shelters it-
self under the supposed security of unbelief.
The instance of the rich man in the parable of
Lazarus, strikingly illustrates this truth.
Whoever doubts that a life of sensuality is
consistent with the most unfeeling barbarity to
the wants and sufferings of others; whoever
doubts that boundless expense and magnificence,
the means of procuring which were wrung from
the robbery and murder of a lacerated world,
may not be associated with that robbery and
murder,-let him turn to the gorgeous festivities
and unparalleled pageantries of Versailles and
Saint Cloud.-There the Imperial Harlequin,
from acting the deepest and the longest tragedy
that ever drew tears of blood from an audience
composed of the whole civilized globe, by a sud-
den stroke of his magic wand, shifts the scene
of this most preposterous pantomime :—
Where moody madness laughing wild
Amidst severest wo,
cle, secs the records of the Tyburn Chronicle
gloomily contemplates the incongruous specta-
embellished with the wanton splendours of the
Arabian tables; beholds
Perverse all monstrous, all prodigious things;
beholds tyranny with his painted vizor of pa-
triotism, and polygamy with her Janus face of
482
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
:
+
political conscience and counterfeit affection fill | It is sometimes pleaded that the labour attach-
the fore ground; while sceptred parasites, and ed to persons in high public stations and im
pinchbeck potentates, tricked on with the shining portant employments, by leaving them no time,
spoils of plundered empires, and decked with the furnishes a reasonable excuse for the omission
pilfered crowns of deposed and exiled monarchs, of their religious duties. These apologies are
fill and empty the changing scene, with exits | never offered for any such neglect in the poor
and with entrances,' as fleeting and unsubstan- man, though to him every day brings the in-
tial as the progeny of Banquo,-beholds inven- evitable return of his twelve hours' labour, with-
tive but fruitless art, solicitously decorate the out intermission and without mitigation.
ample stage to conceal the stains of blood-stains
as indelible as those which the ambitious wife
of the irresolute thane vainly strove to wash
from her polluted hands; while in her sleeping
delirium she continued to cry,
Still here's the smell of blood;
The perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten it.
But to return to the general question. Let
us not inquire whether these unfeeling tempers
and selfish habits offend society, and discredit
us with the world; but whether they feed our
corruptions and put us in a posture unfavour-
able to all interior improvement; whether they
offend God and endanger the soul; whether the
gratification of self is the life which the Re-
deemer taught or lived; whether sensuality is a
suitable preparation for that state where God
himself, who is a Spirit, will constitute all the
happiness of spiritual beings.
But these are not the only, perhaps not the
greatest dangers. The intellectual vices, the
spiritual offences may destroy the soul without
much injuring the credit. These have not, like
voluptuousness, their seasons of alteration and
repose. Here the principle is in continual ope-
ration. Envy has no interval. Ambition never
cools. Pride never sleeps. The principle at
least is always awake. An intemperate man is
sometimes sober, but a proud man is never hum-
ble. Where vanity reigns, she reigns always.
These interior sins are more difficult of extirpa-
tion, they are less easy of detection; more hard
to come at; and, as the citadel holds out after
the outworks are taken, these sins of the heart
are the latest conquered in the moral warfare.
Here lies the distinction between the worldly
and the religious man. It is alarm enough for
the Christian that he feels any propensities to
vice. Against these propensities he watches,
strives and prays: and though he is thankful for
the victory when he has resisted the temptation,
he can feel no elation of heart while conscious
of inward dispositions, which nothing but divine
grace enables him to keep from breaking out in
a flame. He feels that there is no way to obtain
the pardon of sin but to leave off sinning: he
feels that though repentance is not a Saviour,
yet that there can be no salvation where there
is no repentance. Above all, he knows that the
promise of remission of sin by the death of Christ
is the only solid ground of comfort. However
correct his present life may be, the weight of
past offences would hang so heavy on his con-
science, that without the atoning blood of his
Redeemer, despair of pardon for the past would
leave him hopeless. He would continue to sin,
as an extravagant bankrupt who can get no ac-
quittal, would continue to be extravagant, be-
cause no present frugality could redeem his
former debts:
But surely the more important the station, the
higher and wider the sphere of action, the more
imperious is the call for religion, not only in the
way of example, but even in the way of success;
if it be indeed granted that there is such a thing
as divine influences, if it be allowed that God
has a blessing to bestow. If the ordinary man
who has only himself to govern, requires that
aid, how urgent is his necessity who has to go-
vern millions! What an awful idea, could we
even suppose it realized, that the weight of a
nation might rest on the head of him whose heart
looks not up for a higher support!
Were we alluding to sovercigns, and not to
statesmen, we need not look beyond the throne
of Great Britain, for the instance of a monarch
who has never made the cares attendant on a
king, an excuse for neglecting his duty to the
King of kings.
The
The politician, the warrior, and the orator,
find it peculiarly hard to renounce in themselves
that wisdom and strength, to which they believe
that the rest of the world are looking up.
man of station or of genius, when invited to the
self-denying duties of Christianity, as well as
he who has great possessions,' goes away' sor-
rowing.'
But to know that they must end, stamps va-
nity on all the glories of life; to know that they
must end soon, stamps infatuation, not only on
him who sacrifices his conscience for their ac-
quisition, but on him who, though upright in
the discharge of his duties, discharges them
without any reference to God.-Would the con-
queror or the orator reflect when the 'laurel
crown is placed on his brow, how soon will it be
followed by the cypress wreath,' it would lower
the delirium of ambition; it would cool the in-
toxication of prosperity.
There is a general kind of belief in Chris
tianity, prevalent among men of the world, which,
by soothing the conscience, prevents self-inquiry.
That the holy Scriptures contain the will of God,
they do not question; that they contain the best
system of morals, they frequently assert: but
that they do not feel the necessity of acquiring
a correct notion of the doctrines those Scriptures
involve. The depravity of man, the atonement
made by Christ, the assistance of the Holy Spi-
rit-these they consider as the metaphysical
part of religion, into which it is not of much im-
portance to enter, and by a species of self-flat-
tery, they satisfy themselves with an idea of
acceptableness with their Maker, as a state to
be attained without the humility, faith, and new-
ness of life which they require, and which are
indeed their proper concomitants.
A man absorbed in a multitude of secular con-
cerns, decent but unawakened, listens with a
kind of respectful insensibility, to the overtures
of religion. He considers the church as venera.
f
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
483
ble from her antiquity, and important from her,
connexion with the state. No one is more alive
to her political, nor more dead to her spiritual
importance. He is anxious for her existence,
but indifferent to her doctrines. These he con-
aiders as a general matter in which he has no
individual concern. He considers religious ob-
servances as something decorous but unreal; as
a grave custom made respectable by public usage,
and long prescription. He admits that the poor,
who have little to enjoy, and the idle who have
little to do, cannot do better than make over to
God that time which cannot be turned to a more
profitable account. Religion, he thinks, may
properly enough employ leisure, and occupy old
age. But though both advance towards himself
with no imperceptible step, he is still at a loss
to determine the precise period when the leisure
is sufficient, or the age enough advanced. It
recedes as the destined season approaches. He
continues to intend moving, but he continues to
stand still.
of engagements, the mingling pursuits, the very
tumult and hurry have their gratifications. The
tumult and hurry have their gratifications. The
bustle gives false peace by leaving no leisure
for reflection. He lays his conscience asleep
with the flattering unction, of good intentions.
He comforts himself with the credible pretence
of want of time, and the vague resolution of giv-
ing up to God the dregs of that life, of the vi-
gorous season of which he thinks the world
more worthy. Thus commuting with his Ma-
ker, life wears away, its close draws near-and
ev
even the poor commutation which was promised
is not made. The assigned hour of retreat either
never arrives, or if it does arrive, sloth and sen-
suality are resorted to, as the fair reward of a
life of labour and anxiety; and whether he dies
in the protracted pursuit of wealth, or in the en-
joyment of the luxuries it has earned, he dies in
the trammels of the world.
If we do not cordially desire to be delivered
from the dominion of these worldly tempers, it
is because we do not believe in the condemna-
tion annexed to their indulgence. We may in-
deed believe it as we believe any other general
proposition, or any indifferent fact; but not as
truth in which we have a personal concern; not
as a danger which has any reference to us. We
evince this practical unbelief in the most une-
quivocal way, by thinking so much more about
the most frivolous concern in which we are as-
sured we have an interest, than about this must
important of all concerns.
Compare his drowsy Sabbaths with the ani-
mation of the days of business, you would not
think it was the same man. The one are to be
got over, the others are enjoyed. He goes from
the dull decencies, the shadowy forms-for such
they are to him, of public worship, to the solid
realities of his worldly concerns, to the cheerful
activities of secular life. These he considers as
bounden, almost as exclusive duties. The others
indeed may not be wrong, but these he is sure
are right. The world is his element. Here he Indifference to eternal things, instead of tran-
breathes freely his native air. Here he is sub- quilizing the mind, as it professes to do, is, when
stantially engaged. Here his whole mind is a thoughtful moment occurs, a fresh subject of
alive, his understanding broad awake, all his uneasiness; because it adds to our peril the hor-
energies are in full play; his mind is all ala- ror of not knowing it. If shutting our eyes to
crity; his faculties are employed, his capacities a danger would prevent it, to shut them would
are filled; here they have an object worthy of not only be a happiness but a duty; but to bar-
their widest expansion. Here his desires and ter eternal safety for momentary ease,is a wretch-
affections are absorbed. The faint impressioned compromise. To produce this delusion, mere
of the Sunday's sermon fades away, to be as
faintly revived on the Sunday following, again
to fade in the succeeding week. To the sermon
he brings a formal ceremonious attendance; to
the world, he brings all the heart, and soul, and
mind, and strength. To the one he resorts in
conformity to law and custom; to induce him to
resort to the other, he wants no law, no sanction,
no invitation, no argument. His will is of the
party. His passions are volunteers. The in-
visible things of heaven are clouded in shadow,
are lost in distance. The world is lord of the
ascendant. Riches, honours, power fill his mind
with brilliant images. They are present, they
are certain, they are tangible. They assume
form and bulk. In these therefore he cannot be
mistaken; in the others he may. The eager-
ness of competition, the struggle for superiority,
the perturbations of ambition, fill his mind with
an emotion, his soul with an agitation, his affec-
tions with an interest, which, though very un-
like happiness, he yet flatters himself is the road
to it. This fictitious pleasure, this tumultuous
feeling, produces at least that negative satisfac-
tion of which he is constantly in search-it
keeps him from himself.
Even in circumstances where there is no suc-
cess to prevent a very tempting bait, the mere
occupation, the crowd of objects, the succession
inconsideration is as efficient a cause as the
most prominent sin. The reason why we do
not value eternal things is, because we do not
think of them. The mind is so full of what is
present, that it has no room to admit a thought
of what is to come. Not only we do not give
that attention to a never-dying soul which pru-
dent men give to a common transaction, but we
do not even think it worth the care which in
considerate men give to an inconsiderable one.
We complain that life is short, and yet throw
away the best part of it, only making over to
religion that portion which is good for nothing
else; life would be long enough if we assigned
its best period to its best purpose.
If a
Say not that the requisitions of religion are
severe, ask rather if they are necessary.
thing must absolutely be done, if eternal misery
will be incurred by not doing it, it is fruitless
to inquire whether it be hard or easy. Inquire
only whether it be indispensable, whether it be
commanded, whether it be practicable. It is a
well known axiom in science, that difficulties
are of no weight against demonstrations. The
duty on which our eternal state depends, is not
a thing to be debated, but done. The duty which
is too imperative to be evaded, too important to
be neglected, is not to be argued about, but per-
formed. To sin on quietly, because you do not
484
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
intend to sin always, is to live on a reversion
which will probably never be yours.
It is one of the striking characters of the Om
nipotent that he is strong and patient.' It is a
standing evidence of his patience that he is
provoked every day.' How beautifully do these
characters reflect lustre on each other. If he
were not strong, his patience would want its
distinguishing perfection. If he were not pa.
tient, his strength would instantly crush those
who provoke him, not sometimes, but often; not
every year, but 'every day.'
It is folly to say that religion drives men to
despair; when it only teaches them by a salu-
tary fear to avoid destruction. The fear of God
differs from all other fear, for it is accompanied
with trust, and confidence, and love. 'Blessed
is the man that feareth alway,' is no paradox to
him who entertains this holy fear. It sets him
above the fear of ordinary troubles. It fills his
heart. He is not discomposed with those inferior
apprehensions which unsettle the soul and un-repentance; confess that the forbearance of God,
hinge the peace of worldly men. His mind is
occupied with one grand concern, and is there-
fore less liable to be shaken than little minds
which are filled with little things. Can that
principle lead to despair, which proclaims the
mercy of God in Christ Jesus to be greater than
all the sins of all the men in the world?
Oh you, who have a long space given you for
when viewed as coupled with his strength, is his
most astonishing attribute! Think of the com-
panions of your early life; if not your associates
in actual vice, if not your confederates in guilty
pleasures, yet the sharers of your thoughtless
meetings, of your convivial revelry, of your
worldly schemes, of your ambitious projects—
think how many of them have been cut off, per-
haps without warning, probably without repent-
ance.-They have been represented to their
Judge; their doom, whatever it be, is irreversi
bly fixed; yours is mercifully suspended.-
Adore the mercy: embrace the suspension.
If despair then prevent your return, add not
to your list of offences that of doubting of the
forgiveness which is sincerely implored. You
have already wronged God in his holiness, wrong
him not in his mercy. You may offend him
more by despairing of his pardon than by all the
sins which have made that pardon necessary.
Repentance, if one may venture the bold remark,
almost disarms God of the power to punish.
Hear his style and title as proclaimed by him-
self;- The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and
gracious, long suffering and abundant in good-
ness and truth, keeping mercy for thousands,
forgiving iniquity, transgression, and sin, and
that will by no means clear the guilty'—that is,
those who by unrepented guilt exclude them-seen too late.'
selves from the offered mercy.
If infidelity or indifference, which is practi-
cal infidelity, keep you back, yet, as reasonable
beings, ask yourselves a few short questions;
For what end was I sent into the world? Is
my soul immortal? Am I really placed here in
a state of trial, or is this span my all? Is there
an eternal state? If there be, will the use I
make of this life decide on my condition in that?
I know that there is death, but is there a judg-
ment?"-
Rest not till you have cleared up, I do not
say your own evidences for heaven ;-you have
much to do before you arrive at that stage-but
whether there be any heaven? Ask yourself
whether Christianity is not important enough
to deserve being inquired into? Whether eter-
nal life is not too valuable to be entirely over-
looked? Whether eternal destruction, if a reali-
ty, is not worth avoiding ?-If you make these
interrogations sincerely, you will make them
practically. They will lead you to examine
your own personal interest in these things.
Evils which are ruining us for want of atten-
tion to them, lessen, from the moment our atten-
tion to them begins. True or false, the question
is worth settling. Vibrate then no longer be
tween doubt and certainty. If the evidence be
inadmissible, reject it. But if you can once as-
certain these cardinal points, then throw away
your time if you can, then trifle with eternity if
you dare.*
* An awakening call to public and individual feelings
has been recently made, by an observation of an elo-
quent speaker in the house of commons. He remarked
·
Only suppose if they could be permitted to
come back to this world, if they could be allow-
ed another period of trial, how would they spend
their restored life! How cordial would be their
penitence, how intense their devotion, how pro-
found their humility, how holy their actions!
Think then that you have still in your power
that for which they would give millions of
worlds. 'Hell,' says a pious writer, 'is truth
Be-
In almost every mind there sometimes float
indefinite and general purposes of repentance.
The operation of these purposes is often repelled
by a real though disavowed scepticism.
cause sentence is not executed speedily,' they
suspect it has never been pronounced. They
therefore think they may safely continue to de-
fer their intended but unshapen purpose.-
Though they sometimes visit the sick bed of
others; though they see how much disease dis-
qualifies for all duties, yet to this period of inca-
pacity, to this moment of disqualification do they
continue to defer this tremendously important
concern.
6
What an image of the divine condescension
does it convey, that the goodness of God lead-
eth to repentance! It does not barely invite,
but it conducts. Every warning is more or less
an invitation; every visitation is a lighter stroke
to avert a heavier blow. This was the way in
which the heathen world understood portents
and prodigies, and on this interpretation of them
they acted. Any alarming warning, whether
rational or superstitious, drove them to their tem-
ples, their sacrifices, their expiations. Does our
that himself and the honourable member for Yorkshire,
then sitting on a committee appointed on occasion of a
great national calamity, were the only surviving mem-
bers of the committee on a similar occasion twenty-two
years ago! The call is the more alarming, because the
mortality did not arise from some extraordinary cause,
which might not again occur, but was in the common
course of human things. Such a proportion of deaths is
perpetually taking place, but the very frequency which
ought to excite attention prevents it, till it is thus forced
on our notice.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
485
clearer light always carry us farther? Does it
in these instances, always carry us as far as na-
tural conscience carried them?
| able doom, our instant transition to that state of
unutterable bliss or unimaginable wo to which
death will in a moment consign us.
Such a
mental representation would assist us in dissi-
pating the illusion of the senses, would help to
realise what is invisible, and approximate what
we think remote. It would disenchant us from
the world, tear off her painted mask, shrink her
pleasures into their proper dimensions, her con-
cerns into their real value, her enjoyments
into their just compass, her promises into no-
thing.
The final period of the worldly man at length
arrives; but he will not believe his danger.
Even if he fearfully glance round for an intima-
tion of it in every surrounding face, every face,
it is too probable, is in a league to deceive him.
What a noble opportunity is now offered to the
Christian physician to show a kindness as far
superior to any he has ever shown, as the con-
cerns of the soul are superior to those of the
body? Oh let him not fear prudently to reveal Terrible as the evil is, if it must, and that at
a truth for which the patient may bless him in no distant day, be met, spare not to present it to
eternity! Is it not sometimes to be feared that your imagination; not to lacerate your feelings,
in the hope of prolonging for a little while the but to arm your resolution; not to excite unpro-
existence of the perishing body, he robs the ne-fitable distress, but to strengthen your faith. If
ver-dying soul of its last chance of pardon?
Does not the concern for the immortal part
united with his care of the afflicted body, bring
the medical professor to a nearer imitation than
any other supposable situation can do, of that
Divine Physician, who never healed the one
without manifesting a tender concern for the
other?
|
it terrify you at first, draw a little nearer to it
every time. Familiarity will abate the terror.
If you cannot face the image, how will you en-
counter the reality?
Let us then figure to ourselves the moment
(who can say that moment may not be the next?)
when all we cling to shall elude our grasp; when
every earthly good shall be to us as if it had
But the deceit is short, is fruitless. The never been, except in the remembrance of the
amazed spirit is about to dislodge. Who shall use we have made of it; when our eyes shall
speak its terror and dismay? Then he cries close upon a world of sense, and open on a world
out in the bitterness of his soul, 'What capacity of spirits; when there shall be no relief for the
has a diseased man, what time has a dying man, fainting body, and no refuge for the parting
what disposition has a sinful man to acquire soul, except that single refuge to which, per-
good principles, to unlearn false notions, to re-haps, we have never thought of resorting—that
nounce bad practices, to establish right habits,
to begin to love God, to begin to hate sin? How
is the stupendous concern of salvation to be
worked out by a mind incompetent to the most
ordinary concerns.
refuge which if we have not despised we have
too probably neglected-the everlasting mercies
of God in Christ Jesus.
Reader! whoever you are, who have neglected
to remember that to die is the end for which you
The infinite importance of what he has to do were born, know that you have a personal in-
-the goading conviction that it must be done-terest in this scene. Turn not away from it in
the utter inability of doing it-the dreadful com-
bination in his mind of both the necessity and
incapacity-the despair of crowding the con-
cerns of an age into a moment-the impossibili-
ty of beginning a repentance which should have
been completed-of setting about a peace which
should have been concluded-of suing for a par-
don which should have been obtained;-all these
complicated concerns-without strength, with-
out time, without hope, with a clouded memory,
a disjointed reason, a wounded spirit, undefined
terrors, remembered sins, anticipated punish-
ment, an angry God, and accusing conscience,
altogether, intolerably augment the sufferings
of a body which stands in little need of the in-
supportable burthen of a distracted mind to ag-
gravate its torments.
disdain, however feebly it may have been repre-
sented. You may escape any other evil of life,
but its end you cannot escape. Defer not then
its weightiest concern to its weakest period.
Begin not the preparation when you should be
completing the work. Delay not the business
which demands your best faculties to the period
of their debility, probably of their extinction.
Leave not the work which requires an age to do,
to be done in a moment, a moment too which
may not be granted. The alternative is tremen-
dous. The difference is that of being saved or
lost. It is no light thing to perish!
CHAP. XIX.
Happy Deaths.
Though we pity the superstitious weakness
of the German emperor in acting over the anti-
cipated solemnities of his own funeral-that
eccentric act of penitence of a great but per-
FEW circumstances contribute more fatally to
verted mind; it would be well if we were now confirm in worldly men that insensibility to
and then to represent to our minds while in eternal things which was considered in the pre-
sound health, the solemn certainties of a dying ceding chapter, than the boastful accounts we
bed; if we were sometimes to imagine to our sometimes hear of the firm and heroic death-
selves this awful scene, not only as inevitable, beds of popular but irreligious characters. Many
but as near; if we accustomed ourselves to see causes contribute to these happy deaths as they
things now, as we shall then wish we had seen are called. The blind are bold, they do not see
them. Surely the most sluggish insensibility the precipice they despise. Or perhaps there is
must be roused by figuring to itself the rapid less unwillingness to quit a world which has so
approach of death, the nearness of our unalter-often disappointed them, or which they have
486
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
(
sucked to the last dregs. They leave life with
less reluctance, feeling that they have exhausted
all its gratifications. Or it is a disbelief of the
reality of the state on which they are about to
enter. Or it is a desire to be released from ex-
cessive pain, a desire naturally felt by those who
calculate their gain rather by what they are
escaping from, than by what they are to receive.
-Or it is equability of temper, or firmness of
nerve, or hardness of mind.-Or it is the arro-
gant wish to make the last act of life confirm
its preceding professions. Or it is the vanity
of perpetuating their philosophic character.-
Or if some faint ray of light break in, it is the
pride of not retracting the sentiments which
from pride they have maintained ;-The desire
of posthumous renown among their own party;
the hope to make their disciples stand firm by
their example; the ambition to give their last
possible blow to revelation-or perhaps the fear
of expressing doubts which might beget a suspi-
cion that their disbelief was not so sturdy as
they would have it thought. Above all, may
they not, as a punishment for their long neglect
of the warning voice of truth, be given up to a
strong delusion to believe the lie they have so
often propagated, and really to expect to find in
death that eternal sleep, with which they have
affected to quiet their own consciences, and have
really weakened the faith of others?
great intellectual powers it is as impossible not
to admire, as not to lament their unhappy mis-
application, has been eulogized by his friend, as
coming nearer than almost any other man, to
the perfection of human nature in his life; and
has been almost deified for the cool courage and
heroic firmness with which he met death. His
eloquent panegyrist, with as insidious an inuen-
do as has ever been thrown out against revealed
religion, goes on to observe, that perhaps it is
one of the very worst circumstances against
Christianity, that very few of its professors were
ever either so moral, so humane, or could so
philosophically govern their passions, as the
sceptical David Hume.'
Yet notwithstanding this rich embalming of
so noble a compound of matter and motion,' we
must be permitted to doubt one of the two things
presented for our admiration; we must either
doubt the so much boasted happiness of his
death, or the so much extolled humanity of his
heart. We must be permitted to suspect the
soundness of that benevolence which led him to
devote his latest hours to prepare, under the la-
bel of an Essay on Suicide, a potion for posterity
of so deleterious a quality, that if taken by the
patient, under all the circumstances in which
he undertakes to prove it innocent, might have
gone near to effect the extinction of the whole
human race. For if all rational beings, accord-
ty to procure their own release from life,' under
pain or sickness, shame or poverty,' how large
a portion of the world would be authorized to
quit it uncalled! For how many are subject to
the two latter grievances; from the two former
how few are altogether exempt !*
Every new instance is an additional buttressing to this posthumous prescription, are at liber-
on which the sceptical school lean for support,
and which they produce as a fresh triumph.
With equal satisfaction they collect stories of
infirmity, depression, and want of courage in
the dying hour of religious men, whom the na-
ture of the disease, timorousness of spirit, pro-
found humility, the sad remembrance of sin,
though long repented of and forgiven, a deep
sense of the awfulness of meeting God in judg-
ment;-whom some or all of these causes may
occasion to depart in trembling fear in whom,
though heaviness may endure through the night
of death, yet joy cometh in the morning of the
resurrection.
The energy of that ambition which could con-
centrate the last efforts of a powerful mind, the
last exertions of a spirit greedy of fame, into a
project not only for destroying the souls, but for
abridging the lives of his fellow creatures, leaves
at a disgraceful distance the inverted thirst of
glory of the man, who to immortalize his own
name, set fire to the Temple at Ephesus. Such
a burning zeal to annihilate the eternal hope of
his fellow creatures might be philosophy; but
surely to authorise them to curtail their moral
existence, which to the infidel who looks for no
other, must be invaluable, was not philanthropy.
It is a maxim of the civil law that definitions
are hazardous. And it cannot be denied that
various descriptions of persons have hazarded
much in their definitions of a happy death. A
very able and justly admired writer, who has
distinguished himself by the most valuable works But if this death was thought worthy of being
on political economy, has recorded as proofs of blazoned to the public eye in all the warm and
the happy death of a no less celebrated contem-glowing colours with which affection decorates
porary, that he cheerfully amused himself in his
last hours with Lucian, a game of whist, and
some good humoured drollery upon Charon and
his boat.
But may we not venture to say, with 'one of
the people called Christians,'* himself a wit and
philosopher, though of the school of Christ, that
the man who could meet death in such a frame
of mind, might smile over Babylon in ruins,
esteem the earthquake which destroyed Lisbon
an agrceable occurrence, and congratulate the
hardened Pharaoh on his overthrow in the Red
Sea.'
panegyric; the disciples of the same school have
been in general, anxiously solicitous to produce
only the more creditable instances of invincible
hardness of heart, while they have laboured to
cast an impenetrable veil over the closing scene
of those among the less inflexible of the fater.
nity, who have established in their departing
moments, any symptoms of doubt, any indica
* Another part of the Essay on Suicide, has this pas
sage,-Whenever pain or sorrow so far overcome my
patience, as to make me tired of life, I may conclude
that I am recalled from my station in the plainest and
most express terms.' And again—'When I fall upon
This eminent historian and philosoper, whose my own sword, I receive my death equally from the
hands of the Deity, as if it had proceeded from a lion, a
precipice, or a fever.' And again—'Where is the crime
* The late excellent Bishop Horne. See his letters to of turning a few ounces of blood from their natural
Dr Adam Smith.
channel,'
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
487
tions of distrust, respecting the validity of their | and infidelity, continue with fatal success to
principles :-Principles which they had long
maintained with so much zeal, and disseminat-
ed with so much industry.
make successive proselytes through successive
ages-if their works last so long, and thus ac-
cumulate on themselves anguish ever growing,
miseries ever multiplying, without hope of any
mitigation, without hope of any end!
A more recent instance of the temper and
spirit which the College of Infidelity exhibits
on these occasions is perhaps less generally
known. A person of our own time and country,
of high rank and talents, and who ably filled a
great public situation, had unhappily in early
In spite of the sedulous anxiety of his satel-
lites to conceal the clouded setting of the great lu-
minary of modern infidelity, from which so many
minor stars have filled their little urns, and then
set up for original lights themselves; in spite
of the pains taken-for we must drop metaphor
-to shroud from all eyes, except those of the
initiated, the terror and dismay with which the
Philosopher of Geneva met death, met his sum-life, imbibed principles and habits analogous to
mons to appear before that God whose provi-
dence he had ridiculed, that Saviour whose
character and offices he had vilified,-the secret
was betrayed. In spite of the precautions taken
by his associates to bury in congenial darkness
the agonies which in his last hours contradicted
the audacious blasphemies of a laborious life
spent in their propagation, at last like his great
instigator, he believed and trembled.
Whatever the sage of Ferney might be in the
eyes of Journalists, of Academicians, of Ency:
clopodists, of the Royal Author of Berlin, of
Revolutionists in the egg of his own hatching,
of full grown infidels of his own spawning; of
a world into which he had been for more than
half a century industriously infusing a venom,
the effects of which will be long felt, the ex-
piring philosopher was no object of veneration
to his NURSE.-She could have recorded a tale
to harrow up the soul,' the horrors of which were
sedulously attempted to be consigned to oblivion.
But for this woman and a few other unbribed
witnesses, his friends would probably have en-
deavoured to edify the world with this addition
to the brilliant catalogue of happy deaths.*
It has been a not uncommon opinion that the
works of an able and truly pious Christian, by
their happy tendency to awaken the careless
and to convince the unbelieving, may, even for
ages after the excellent author is entered into
after the excellent author is entered into
his eternal rest, by the accession of new con-
verts which they bring to Christianity, con-
tinue to add increasing brightness to the crown
of the already glorified saint. If this be true,
how shall imagination presume to conceive,
much less how shall language express, what
must be expected in the contrary case? How
shall we dare turn our thoughts to the progres-
sive torments which may be ever heaping on
the heads of those unhappy men of genius, who
have devoted their rare talents to promote vice
*It is a well attested fact, that this woman, after his
decease, being sent for to attend another person in dy-
ing circumstances, anxiously inquired if the patient was
a gentleman; for that she had recently been so dread-
fully terrified in witnessing the dying horrors of Mons.
de Voltaire, which surpassed all description, that she
had resolved never to attend any other person of that
sex unless she could be assured that he was not a philo-
sopher. Voltaire, indeed, as he was deficient in the
moral honesty and the other good qualities, which ob-
tained for Mr. Hume the affection of his friends, wanted
his sincerity. Of all his other vices, hypocrisy was the
consummation While he daily dishonoured the Re-
deemer by the invention of unheard of blasphemies:
after he had bound himself by a solemn pledge never to
rest till he had exterminated his very name from the
face of the earth, he was not ashamed to assist regu-
larly at the awful commemoration of his death at the
altar!
these of a notoriously profligate society of which
he was a member, a society, of which the very
appellation it delighted to distinguish itself
by, is
Offence and torture to the sober ear.
In the near view of death, at an advanced age,
deep remorse and terror took possession of his
soul; but he had no friend about him to whom
he could communicate the state of his mind, or
from whom he could derive either counsel or
consolation. One day in the absence of his at-
tendants he raised his exhausted body on his
dying bed, and threw himself on the floor, where
he was found in great agony of spirit, with a
prayer-book in his hand. This detection was
at once a subject for ridicule and regret to
his colleagues, and he was contemptuously
spoken of as a pusillanimous deserter from the
good cause. The phrase used by them to ex-
press their displeasure at his apostacy is too
offensive to find a place here.* Were we called
upon to decide between the two rival horrors,
we should feel no hesitation in pronouncing this
death a less unhappy one than those to which
we have before alluded.
Another well known sceptic, while in perfect
health, took measures by a special order, to
guard against any intrusion in his last sick-
ness, by which he might, even in the event
of delirium, betray any doubtful apprehension
that there might be any hereafter; or in any
other way be surprised in uttering expressions
of terror, and thus exposing the state of his
mind, in case any such revolution should take
place, which his heart whispered him might
possibly happen.
But not only in those happy deaths which
close a life of avowed impiety, is there great
room for suspicion, but even in cases where
without acknowledged infidelity, there has been
a careless life; when in such cases we hear of
a sudden death-bed revolution, of much seeming
contrition, succeeded by extraordinary profes-
sions of joy and triumph, we should be very
cautious of pronouncing on their real state.
Let us rather leave the penitent of a day to that
mercy against which he has been sinning
through a whole life. These 'Clinical Converts,'
(to borrow a favourite phrase of the eloquent
bishop Taylor,) may indeed be true penitents;
but how shall we pronounce them to be so?—
How can we conclude that they are dead unto
sin' unless they are spared to 'live unto righte-
ousness?'
* The writer had this anecdote from an acquaintance
of the noble person at the time of his death.
488
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Happily we are not called upon to decide. ¡ dead, charity, though well understood, is often
He to whose broad eye the future and the past mistakingly exercised.
lie open, as he has been their constant witness,
so will he be their unerring judge.*
If we were called upon to collect the greatest
quantity of hyperbole-falsehood might be too
But the admirers of certain happy deaths, do harsh a term-in the least given time and space,
not even pretend that any such change appeared we should do well to search for it in those sacred
in the friends of whom they make not so much edifices expressly consecrated to truth. There
the panegyric as the apotheosis. They would we should see the ample mass of canonizing
even think repentance a derogation from the kindness which fills their mural decorations,
dignity of their character. They pronounce expressed in all those flattering records inscrib-
them to have been good enough as they were;ed by every variety of motive to every variety
insisting that they have a demand for happiness of claim. In addition to what is dedicated to
upon God, if there be any such Being; a claim | real merit by real sorrow, we should hear of
upon heaven, if there be any such place. They tears which were never shed, grief which was
are satisfied that their friend, after a life spent never felt, praise which was never earned; we
'without God in the world,' without evidencing should see what is raised by the decent demands
any marks of a changed heart, without even of connexion, by tender, but undiscerning friend-
affecting any thing like repentance, without in- ship, by poetic licence, by eloquent gratitude for
timating that there was any call for it, DIED testamentary favours.
PRONOUNCING HIMSELF HAPPY.
But nothing is more suspicious than a happy
death, where there has neither been religion in
the life nor humility in its close, where its course
has been without piety, and its termination with-
out repentance.
Others in a still bolder strain, disdaining the
posthumous renown to be conferred by survi-
vers, of their having died happily, prudently
secure their own fame, and changing both the
tense and the person usual in monumental in-
scriptions, with prophetic confidence record on
their own sepulchral marble, that they shall die
not only 'HAPPY,' but 'GRATEFUL,'-the pre-
science of philosophy thus assuming as certain
what the humble spirit of Christianity only pre-
sumes to hope.
There is another reason to be assigned for
the charitable error of indiscriminately consign-
ing our departed acquaintance to certain hap.
piness. Affliction, as it is a tender, so it is a
misleading feeling; especially in minds na-
turally soft, and but slightly tinctured with re.
ligion. The death of a friend awakens the
kindest feelings of the heart. But by exciting
true sorrow, it often excites false charity. Grief
naturally softens every fault, love as naturally
heightens every virtue. It is right and kind
to consign error to oblivion, but not to immor-
tality. Charity indeed we owe to the dead as
well as to the living, but not that erroneous
charity by which truth is violated, and unde-
served commendation lavished on those whom
truth could no longer injure. To calumniate
the dead is even worse than to violate the rights
of sepulture; not to vindicate calumniated worth,
when it can no longer vindicate itself, is a
crime next to that of attacking it ; but on the
*The primitive church carried their incredulity of
the appearances of repentance so far as to require not
only years of sorrow for sin, but perseverance in piety,
before they would admit offenders to their communion;
and as a test of their sincerity, required the uniform
practice of those virtues most opposite to their former
vices. Were this made the criterion now, we should
not so often hear such flaming accounts of converts, so
exultingly reported, before time has been allowed to try
their stability. More especially we should not hear of
so many triumphant relations of death-bed converts, in
whom the symptoms must frequently be too equivocal
to admit the positive decision of human wisdom.
It is an amiable though not a correct feeling
in human nature, that, fancying we have not
done justice to certain characters during their
lives, we run into the error of supposed com-
pensation by over estimating them after their
decease.
On account of neighbourhood, affinity, long
acquaintance, or some pleasing qualities, we
may have entertained a kindness for many per-
sons, of whose state however, while they lived,
we could not with the utmost stretch of charity
think favourably. If their sickness has been
long and severe, our compassion having been
kept by that circumstance in a state of continued
excitement, though we lament their death, yet
we feel thankful that their suffering is at an end.
Forgetting our former opinion, and the course
of life on which it was framed, we fall into all
the common-place of consolation,-' God is mer-
ciful-we trust that they are at rest-what a
happy release they have had !'-Nay, it is well
if we do not go so far as to entertain a kind of
vague belief that their better qualities joined to
their sufferings have, on the whole, ensured
their felicity.
Thus at once losing sight of that word of God
which cannot lie, of our former regrets on their
subject, losing the remembrance of their defec-
tive principles and thoughtless conduct; without
any reasonable ground for altering our opinion,
any pretence for entertaining a better hope-we
assume that they are happy. We reason as if
we believed that the suffering of the body had
purchased the salvation of the soul, as if it had
rendered any doubt almost criminal, We seem
ously rescues his reputation from the assaults of ma-
lignity, was given by the late excellent bishop Por
teus, in his animated defence of archbishop Secker! May
his own fair fame never stand in need of any such warm
vindication, which, however, it could not fail to find in
the bosom of every good man!-The fine talents of this
lamented prelate, uniformly devoted to the purposes for
which God gave them-his life directed to those duties
to which his high professional station called him-his
Christian graces-those engaging manners which shed
a soft lustre on the firm fidelity of his friendships-that
kindness which was ever flowing from his heart to his
lips-the benignity and candour which distinguished
not his conversation only, but his conduct-these and
all those amiable qualities, that gentle temper and cor-
rect cheerfulness with which he adorned society, will
ever endear his memory to all who knew him intimate-
† What a generous instance of that disinterested at-ly; and let his friends remember, that to imitate his vir.
tachment which survives the grave of its object and pi-
tues, will be the best proof of their remembering them.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
489
to make ourselves easy on the falsest ground | feared to admonish, and that because we loved
imaginable, not because we believe their hearts
were changed, but because they are now beyond
all possibility of change.
But surely the mere circumstance of death
will not have rendered them fit for that heaven
for which we before feared they were unfit. Far
be it from us, indeed, blind and sinful as we are,
to pass sentence upon them, to pass sentence
upon any. We dare not venture to pronounce
what may have passed between God and their
souls, even at the last hour. We know that in-
finite mercy is not restricted to times or seasons;
to an early or a late repentance: we know not
but in that little interval their peace was made,
their pardon granted, through the atoning blood,
and powerful intercession of their Redeemer.
Nor should we too scrupulously pry into the
state of others, never, indeed, except to benefit
them or ourselves; we should rather imitate the
example of Christ, who at once gave an admira-
ble lesson of meekness and charitable judgment,
when avoiding an answer which might have
led to fruitless discussion, he gave a reproof un-
der the shape of an exhortation. In reply to the
inquiry,' Are there few that be saved,' he thus
checked vain curiosity-'Strive (you) to enter
in at the strait gate." On another occasion, in
the same spirit, he corrected inqusitiveness, not
by an answer, but by an interrogation and a
precept― What is that to thee? Follow thou
me.'
But where there is strong ground to appre-
hend that the contrary may have been the case,
it is very dangerous to pronounce peremptorily
on the safety of the dead. Because if we allow
ourselves to be fully persuaded that they are en-
tered upon a state of happiness, it will natu-
rally and fatally tempt us to lower our own
standard. If we are ready to conclude that they
are now in a state of glory whose principles we
believed to be incorrect, whose practice, to say
the least of it, we know to have been negligent,
who, without our indulging a censorious or a
presumptuous spirit, we thought lived in a state
of mind, and a course of habits, not only far
from right, but even avowedly inferior to our
own; will not this lead to the conclusion, either
that we ourselves, standing on so much higher
ground, are in a very advanced state of grace,
or that a much lower than ours may be a state
of safety? And will not such a belief tend to
slacken our endeavours, and to lower our tone,
both of faith and practice?
By this conclusion we contradict the
ing assertion of a very sublime poet,
For us they sieken and for us they die.
him; for whom, though we saw his danger, yet
perhaps we neglected to pray; to see him
brought to that ultimate and fixed state in which
admonition is impossible, in which prayer is not
only fruitless, but unlawful.
Another distressing circumstance frequently
occurs. We meet with affectionate but irreli-
gious parents, who though kind and perhaps
amiable, have neither lived themselves, nor edu-
cated their families in Christian principles, nor
in habits of Christian piety. A child at the
age of maturity dies. Deep is the affliction of
the doting parent. The world is a blank. He
looks round for comfort where he has been ac-
customed to look for it among his friends. He
finds it not. He looks up for it where he has
not been accustomed to seek it. Neither his
heart nor his treasure has been laid up in hea-
ven. Yet a paroxysm, of what may be termed
natural devotion, gives to his grief an air of
piety. The first cry of anguish is commonly
religious.
The lamented object perhaps, through utter
ignorance of the awful gulf which was opening
to receive him, added to a tranquil temper,
might have expired without evincing any great
distress, and his happy death is industriously
proclaimed through the neighbourhood, and the
mourning parents have only to wish that their
latter end may be like his. They cheat at once
their sorrow and their souls, with the soothing
notion that they shall soon meet their beloved
child in Heaven. Of this they persuade them-
selves as firmly and as fondly, as if both they
and the object of their grief had been living in
the way which leads thither. Oh, for that un-
bought treasure, a sincere, a real friend, who
might lay hold on the propitious moment! When
the heart is softened by sorrow, it might possi-
bly, if ever, be led to its true remedy. This
would indeed be a more unequivocal, because
more painful act of friendship than pouring in
the lulling opiate of false consolation, which we
are too ready to administer, because it saves our
cwn feelings, while it sooths, without healing,
those of the mourner.
But perhaps the integrity of the friend con-
quers his timidity. Alas! he is honestly explicit
to unattending or to offended ears. They refuse
to hear the voice of the charmer. But if the
mourners will not endure the voice of exhorta-
tion now, while there is hope, how will they en-
dure the sound of the last trumpet when hope is
affect-at an end? If they will not bear the gentle
whisper of friendship, how will they bear the
voice of the accusing angel, the terrible sentence
of the incensed Judge? If private reproof be
intolerable, how will they stand the being made
a spectacle to angels and to men, even to the
whole assembled universe, to the whole creation
of God?
For while we are thus taking and giving false
comfort, our friend as to us will have died in
vain. Instead of his death having operated as
a warning voice, to rouse us to a more animated But instead of converting the friendly warn-
piety, it will be rather likely to lull us into a ing to their eternal benefit, they are probably
dangerous security. If our affection has so wholly bent on their own vindication. Still their
blinded our judgment, we shall by a false can-character is dearer to them than their soul.
dour to another, sink into a false peace ourselves.
It will be a wounding circumstance to the
feelings of surviving friendship, to see a person
of loose habits, whom though we love, yet we
loose_habits,
VOL. I.
'We never,' say they, were any man's enemy.'
Yes-you have been the enemy of all to whom
you have given a bad example. You have espe-
cially been the enemy to your children in whom
490
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
in heart shall see God, let us remember that
this purity is not to be contracted after we have
been admitted to its remuneration. The beati-
tude is pledged as a reward for the purity, not
as a qualification for it. Purity will be subli-
mated in heaven, but will not begin to be pro-
duced there. It is to be acquired by passing
through the refiner's fire here, not through the
penal and expiatory fire which human ingenuity
you have implanted no christian principles. I will there serve him in perfection. If the pure
Still they insist with the prophet that there is
no iniquity in them that can be called iniquity.'
'We have wronged no one,' say they, we have
given to every one his due. We have done our
duty.' Your first duty was to God. You have
robbed your Maker of the service due to Him.
You have robbed your Redeemer of the souls
he died to save. You have robbed your own
soul and too probably the souls of those whom
you have so wretchedly educated, of eternal hap-devised to purge offending man
piness.
Thus the flashes of religion which darted in
upon their conscience in the first burst of sor-
row, too frequently die away; they expire be-
fore the grief which kindled them. They resort
again to their old resource, the world, which if
it cannot soon heal their sorrow, at least soon
diverts it.
To shut our eyes upon death as an object of
terror or of hope, and to consider it only as a
release or an extinction, is viewing it under a
character which is not its own. But to get rid
of the idea at any rate, and then boast that we
do not fear the thing we do not think of is not
difficult. Nor is it difficult to think of it with-
out alarm if we do not include its consequences.
But to him who frequently repeats, not' me-
chanically, but devoutly, we know that THOU
shalt come to be our Judge,' death cannot be a
matter of indifference.
From the foul deeds done in his days of nature.
The extricated spirit will be separated from the
feculence of all that belongs to sin, to sense, to
self. We shall indeed find ourselves new, be-
cause spiritualized beings; but if the cast of the
mind were not in a great measure the same,
how should we retain our identity? The soul
will there become that which it here desired to
be, that which it mourned because it was so far
from being. It will have obtained that complete
victory over its corruptions which it here only
desired, which it here only struggled to obtain.
Here our love of spiritual things is superin-
duced, there it will be our natural frame. The
impression of God on our hearts will be stamped
deeper, but it will not be a different impression.
Our obedience will be more voluntary, because
there will be no rival propensities to obstruct it.
Another cause of these happy deaths is that It will be more entire, because it will have to
many think salvation a slight thing, that heaven struggle with no counteracting force.-Here we
is cheaply obtained, that a merciful God is easily sincerely though imperfectly love the law of
pleased, that we are Christians, and that mercy God, even though it controuls our perverse will,
comes of course to those who have always pro- though it contradicts our corruptions. There
fessed to believe that Christ died to purchase it our love will be complete, because our will will
for them. This notion of God being more mer-retain no perverseness, and our corruptions will
ciful than he has any where declared himself to be done away.
be, instead of inspiring them with more grati- Repentance, precious at all seasons, in the
tude to him, inspires more confidence in them-season of health is noble. It is a generous prin-
selves. This corrupt faith generates a corrupt ciple when it overtakes us surrounded with the
morality. It leads to this strange consequence, prosperities of life, when it is not put off till dis-
not to make them love God better, but to ven- tress drives us to it. Seriousness of spirit is
ture on offending him more.
most acceptable to God when danger is out of
sight, preparations for death when death appears
to be at a distance.
People talk as if the act of death made a com-
plete change in the nature, as well as in the
condition of man. Death is the vehicle to ano-
ther state of being, but possesses no power to
qualify us for that state. In conveying us to a
new world it does not give us a new heart. It
puts the unalterable stamp of decision on the
character, but does not transform it into a cha-
racter diametrically opposite.
Virtue and piety are founded on the nature
of things, on the laws of God, not on any vicis-
situdes in human circumstances. Irreligion,
folly, and vice, are just as unreasonable in the
meridian of life as at the approach of death.
They strike us differently but they always re-
tain their own character. Every argument
Our affections themselves will be rather raised against an irreligious death is equally cogent
than altered. Their tendencies will be the same, against an irreligious life. Piety and penitence
though their advancement will be incomparably may be quickened by the near view of death,
higher. They will be exalted in their degree, but the reasons for practising them are not
but not changed in their nature. They will be founded on its nearness. Death may stimulate
purified from all earthly mixtures, cleansed from our fears for the consequences of vice, but fur-
all human pollutions, the principle will be clear-nishes no motive for avoiding it, which Chris-
ed from its imperfections, but it will not become
another principle. He that is unholy will not
be made holy by death. The heart will not have
a new object to seek, but will be directed more
intensely to the same object.
They who love God here will love him far
more in heaven, because they will know him
far better. There he will reign without a com-
petitor. They who served him here in sincerity
tianity had not taught before. The necessity
of religion is as urgent now as it will be when
we are dying. It may not appear so, but the
reality of a thing does not depend on appear-
ances. Besides, if the necessity of being reli-
gious depended on the approach of death, what
moment of our lives is there, in which we have
any security against it? In every point of view,
therefore, the same necessity for being religious
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
491
subsists when we are in full health as when we
are about to die.
And duller would he be than the fat weed
That rots itself at ease on Lethe's wharf,
We may then fairly arrive at this conclusion,
were he left to batten undisturbed, in peaceful
that there is no happy death but that which con-
ducts to a happy immortality :-No joy in put-security, on the unwholesome pastures of rank
ting off the body, if we have not put on the Lord prosperity. The thick exhalations drawn up
Jesus Christ; No consolation in escaping from from this gross soil render the atmosphere so
the miseries of time, till we have obtained a well heavy as to obstruct the ascent of piety, her
grounded hope of a blessed eternity.
flagging pinions are kept down by the influence
of this moist vapour; she is prevented from
soaring,
CHAP. XX.
On the Sufferings of Good Men.
AFFLICTION is the school in which great vir-
tues are acquired, in which great characters are
formed. It is a kind of moral Gymnasium, in
which the disciples of Christ are trained to
robust exercise, hardy exertion, and severe
conflict.
We do not hear of martial heroes in the calm
and piping time of peace,' nor of the most emi-
nent saints in the quiet and unmolested periods
of ecclesiastical history. We are far from deny-
ing that the principle of courage in the warrior,
or of piety in the saint continues to subsist, ready
to be brought into action when perils beset the
country or trials assail the church; but it must
be allowed that in long periods of inaction, both
are liable to decay.
-to live insphered
In regions mild of calm and serene air,
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot
Which men call earth.
The pampered Christian thus continually gra-
vitating to the earth, would have his heart solely
bent to
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,
Unmindful of the crown religion gives,
After this mortal change, to her true servants.
It is an unspeakable blessing that no events
are left to the choice of beings, who from their
blindness would seldom fail to choose amiss.
should allot ourselves nothing but ease and suc-
Were circumstances at our own disposal we
cess, but riches and fame, but protracted youth,
perpetual health, unvaried happiness.
All this as it would not be very unnatural, so
perhaps it would not be very wrong, for beings
who were always to live on earth. But for be-
The Christian, in our comparatively tranquilings who are placed here in a state of trial and
day, is happily exempt from the trials and the not established in their final home, whose con-
terrors which the annals of persecution record. dition in eternity depends on the use they make
Thanks to the establishment of a pure Chris- of time, nothing would be more dangerous than
tianity in the church, thanks to the infusion of such a power, nothing more fatal than the con-
the same pure principle into our laws, and to the sequences to which such a power would lead.
mild and tolerating spirit of both—a man is so
far from being liable to pains and penalties for
his attachment to his religion, that he is pro-
tected in its exercise; and were certain existing
statutes enforced, he would even incur penalties
for his violation of religious duties, rather than
for his observance of them.*
If a surgeon were to put in the hand of a
wounded patient the probe or the lancet, with
how much false tenderness would he treat him-
self! How skin-deep would be the examina-
tion, how slight the incision! The patient
would escape the pain, but the wound might
prove mortal. The practitioner therefore wisely
uses his instruments himself. He goes deep
perhaps, but not deeper than the case demands.
The pain may be acute but the life is preserved.
and loves us too well to trust us with ourselves.
Thus HE in whose hands we are, is too good,
He knows that we will not contradict our own
inclinations, that we will not impose on ourselves
any thing unpleasant, that we will not inflict on
ourselves any voluntary pain, however necessary
the infliction, however salutary the effect. God
graciously does this for us himself, or he knows
it would never be done.
Yet still the Christian is not exempt from his
individual, his appropriate, his undefined trials.
We refer not merely to those cruel mockings,'
which the acute sensibility of the apostle led him
to rank in the same catalogue with bonds, im-
prisonments, exile and martyrdom itself. We
allude not altogether to those misrepresentations
and calumnies to which the zealous Christian is
peculiarly liable; nor exclusively to those diffi-
culties to which his very adherence to the prin-
ciples he professes, must necessarily subject
him; nor entirely to those occasional sacrifices
A Christian is liable to the same sorrows and
of credit, of advancement, of popular applause,
to which his refusing to sail with the tide of sufferings with other men: he has no where
popular opinion may compel him; nor solely to any promise of immunity from the troubles of V
the disadvantages which under certain circum-life, but he has a merciful promise of support
stances his not preferring expediency to princi-
ple may expose him. But the truly good man
is not only often called to struggle with trials of
large dimensions, with exigencies of obvious
difficulty, but to encounter others which are
better understood than defined.
*We allude to the laws against swearing, attending
public worship, &c.
under them. He considers them in another
view, he bears them with another spirit, he im-
proves them to other purposes than those whose
views are bounded by this world. Whatever
may be the instruments of his sufferings, whether
sickness, losses, calumnies, persecutions, he
knows that it proceeds from God; all means are
HIS instruments. All inferior causes operate by
HIS directing hand.
492
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
We said that a Christian is liable to the same
sufferings with other men. Might we not re-
peat what we have before said, that his very
Christian profession is often the cause of his
sufferings? They are the badge of his disciple-
ship, the evidences of his Father's love; they
are at once the marks of God's favour, and the
materials of his own future happiness.
the tribulation' which should be the effect of
that conquest, a ground for animating the fidelity
of his followers-ever thought of bidding them
'be of good cheer,' because he had overcome the
world in a sense which was to make his subjects
lose all hope of rising in it.
should also suffer for him.' Any other religion
would have made use of such a promise as an
argument to deter, not to attract. That a reli-
gion should flourish the more under such dis-
couraging invitations, with the threat of even
degrading circumstances and absolute losses, is
an unanswerable evidence that it was of no hu-
man origin.
The apostle to the Philippians enumerated it
among the honours and distinctions prepared
What were the arguments of worldly advan- for his most favoured converts, not only that
tage held out through the whole New Testa-'they should believe in Christ,' but that they
ment, to induce the world to embrace the religion
it taught? What was the condition of St. Paul's
introduction to Christianity? It was not-I will
crown him with honour and prosperity, with
dignity and pleasure, but-I will show him how
great things he must suffer for my name's sake.'
What were the virtues which Christ chiefly
taught in his discourses? What were the graces
he most recommended by his example? Self-
denial, mortification, patience, long-suffering,
renouncing ease and pleasure. These are the
marks which have ever since its first appearance,
distinguished Christianity from all the religions
in the world, and on that account evidently prove
its divine original. Ease, splendour, external
prosperity, conquest, made no part of its esta-
blishment. Other empires have been founded
in the blood of the vanquished.-the dominion
of Christ was founded in his own blood. Most
of the beatitudes which infinite compassion pro-
nounced, have the sorrows of earth for their
subject, but the joys of heaven for their com-
pletion:
To establish this religion in the world, the
Almighty, as his own word assures us, subverted
kingdoms and altered the face of nations. For
thus saith the Lord of Hosts,' (by his prophet
Haggai) 'yet once, it is a little while, and I will
shake the heavens and the earth, and the sea
and the dry land; and I will shake all nations,
and the desire of all nations shall come.' Could
a religion, the kingdom of which was to be
founded by such awful means, be established, be
perpetuated, without involving the sufferings of
its subjects.
If the Christian course had been meant for a
path of roses, would the life of the author of
Christianity have been a path strewed with
thorns? 'He made for us,' says bishop Jeremy
Taylor, a covenant of sufferings, his very pro-
mises were sufferings; his rewards were suffer-
✓ings, and his arguments to invite men to follow
him were only taken from sufferings in this life,
and the reward of sufferings hereafter.
But if no prince but the Prince of Peace ever
set out with the proclamation of the reversionary
nature of his empire-if no other king, to allay
avarice and check ambition, ever invited sub-
jects by the unalluring declaration that his
kingdom was not of this world'-if none other
ever declared that it was not dignity or honours,
valour or talents that made them 'worthy of
him,' but 'taking up the cross'—if no other ever
made the sorrows which would attend his fol-
lowers a motive for their attachment-yet no
other ever had the goodness to promise, or the
power to make his promise good, that he would
give 'rest to the heavy laden.' Other sovereigns
have 'overcome the world' for their own ambi-
tion, but none besides ever thought of making |
It is among the mercies of God, that he
strengthens the virtues of his servants by hard-
ening them under the cold and bracing climate
of adverse fortune, instead of leaving them to
languish under the shining but withering sun
of unclouded prosperity. When they cannot be
attracted to him by gentler influences, he sends
these salutary storms and tempests, which purify
while they alarm. Our gracious Father knows
that eternity is long enough for his children to
be happy in.
The character of Christianity may be seen by
the very images of military conflict, under which
the Scriptures so frequently exhibit it. Suffering
is the initiation into a Christian's calling. It is
his education for heaven. Shall the scholar re-
bel at the discipline which is to fit him for his
profession; or the soldier at the exercise which
is to qualify him for victory?
But the Christian's trials do not all spring
from without. He would think them compara-
tively easy, had he only the opposition of men
to struggle against, or even the severer dispen-
sations of God to sustain.
sations of God to sustain. If he has a conflict
with the world, he has a harder conflict with sin.
His bosom foe is his most unyielding enemy;
His warfare is within, there unfatigued
His fervent spirit labours.
This it is which makes his other trials heavy,
which makes his power of sustaining them weak,
which renders his conquest over them slow and
inconclusive; which too often solicits him to
oppose interest to duty, indolence to resistance,
and self-indulgence to victory.
This world is the stage on which worldly men
more exclusively act, and the things of the world,
and the applause of the world, are the rewards
which they propose to themselves. These they
often attain-with these they are satisfied. They
aim at no higher end, and of their aim they are
not disappointed. But let not the Christian re-
pine at the success of those whose motives he
rejects, whose practices he dares not adopt,
whose ends he deprecates. If he feel any dis-
position to murmur when he sees the irreligious
in great prosperity, let him ask himself if he
would tread their path to attain their end—if he
would do their work to obtain their wages? He
knows he would not. Let him then cheerfully
leave them to scramble for the prizes, and jostle
for the places, which the world temptingly holds
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
493
out, but which he will not purchase at the | own soul? Do you really consider a temporary
world's price.
success a recompence for deeds which will en-
Consult the page of history, and observe, not sure eternal woe to the perpetrator? Is the suc
only if the best men have been the most successful bad man happy? Of what materials
cessful, but egen if they have not often eminent-
ly failed in great enterprizes, undertaken per-
haps on the purest principles; while unworthy
instruments have been often employed, not only
to produce dangerous revolutions, but to bring
about events ultimately tending to the public
benefit; enterprizes in which good men feared-Think of the hidden vulture that feeds on the
to engage, which perhaps they were not com-
petent to effect, or in effecting which they might
have wounded their conscience and endangered
their souls.
Good causes are not always conducted by
good men. A good cause may be connnected
with something that is not good, with party for
instance. Party often does that for virtue,
which virtue is not able to do for herself; and
thus the right cause is promoted and effected by
some subordinate, even by some wrong motive.
A worldly man, connecting himself with a re-
ligious cause, gives it that importance in the
eyes of the world, which neither its own recti-
tude, nor that of its religious supporters had
been able to give it. Nay the very piety of its
advocates for worldly men always connect
piety with imprudence-had brought the wis-
dom, or at least the expediency of the cause into
suspicion, and it is at last carried by a means
foreign to itself. The character of the cause
must be lowered, we had almost said, it must in
a certain degree be deteriorated, to suit the
general taste, even to obtain the approbation of
that multitude for whose benefit it is intended.
How long, as we have had occasion to ob-
serve in another connexion, had the world
groaned under the most tremendous engine
which superstition and despotism, in dreadful
confederation, ever contrived to force the con-
sciences, and torture the bodies of men; where
racks were used for persuasion, and flames for
arguments! The best of men for ages have
been mourning under this dread tribunal, with-
out being competent to effect its overthrow; the
worst of men have been able to accomplish it
with a word. It is a humiliating lesson for good
men, when they thus see how entirely instru-
mentality may be separated from personal virtue.
We still fall into the error of which the pro-
phet so long ago complained, 'we call the proud
happy,' and the wicked fortunate, and our hearts
are too apt to rise at their successes. We pre-
tend indeed that they rise with indignation; but
is it not to be feared that with this indignation
is mixed a little envy, a little rebellion against
God? We murmur, though we know that when
the instrument has finished his work, the divine
employer throws him by, cuts him off, lets him
perish.
But you envy him in the midst of that work,
to accomplish which he has sacrificed every
principle of justice, truth, and mercy. Is this
a man to be envied? Is this a prosperity to be
grudged? Would you incur the penalties of that
happiness at which you are not ashamed to
murmur ?
But is it happiness to commit sin, to be ab-
horred by good men, to offend God, to ruin his
then is happiness made up? Is it composed of a
disturbed mind and an unquiet conscience?
Are doubt and difficulty, are terror and appre-
hension, are distrust and suspicion, felicities for
which a Christian would renounce his peace,
would displease his Maker, would risk his soul?
vitals of successful wickedness, and your repin-
ings, your envy, if you are so unhappy as to feel
envy, will cease. Your indignation will be con-
verted into compassion, your execrations into
prayer.
But if he feel neither the scourge of conscience
nor the sting of remorse, pity him the more.
Pity him for the very want of that addition to
his unhappiness: for if he added to his miseries
that of anticipating his punishment, he might
be led by repentance to avoid it. Can you
reckon the blinding the eyes and the hardening
his heart, any part of his happiness? This
opinion, however, you practically adopt, when-
ever you grudge the propensity of the wicked.
God, by delaying the punishment of bad men,
for which we are so impatient, may have de-
signs of mercy of which we know nothing;-
mercy perhaps to them, or if not to them, yet
mercy to those who are suffering by them, and
whom he intends by these bad instruments to
punish, and by punishing, eventually to save.
There is another sentiment which prosperous
wickedness excites in certain minds; that is
almost more preposterous than envy itself,-
and that is respect; but this feeling is never
raised unless both the wickedness and the pros-
perity be on a grand scale.
This sentiment also is founded in secret im-
piety, in the belief either that God does not
govern human affairs, or that the motives of
action are not regarded by him, or that pros-
perity is a certain proof of his favour, or that
where there is success there must be worth.
These flatterers however forsake the prosperous.
with their good fortune; their applause is with-
held with the success which attracted it. As
they were governed by events in their admira-
tion, so events lead them to withdraw it.
But in this admiration there is a bad taste as
well as a bad principle. If ever wickedness
pretends to excite any idea of sublimity, it must
be, not in its elevation but its fall. If ever
Caius Marius raises any such sentiment, it is
not when he carried the world before him, it is
not in his seditious and bloody triumphs at
Rome, but it is when in poverty and exile his
intrepid look caused the dagger to drop from
the hand of the executioner ;-it is when sitting
among the venerable ruins of Carthage he en--
joined a desolation so congenial to his own-
Dionysius, in the plenitude of arbitrary power,
raises our unmixed abhorrence. We detest
the oppressor of the people while he continued
to trample on them, we execrate the monster
who was not ashamed to sell Plato as a slave.
If ever we feel any thing like interest on this
subject, it is not with the tyrant of Syracuse
but with the school-master of Corinth.
494
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
But though God may be patient with triumph-
ant wickedness, he does not wink or connive at
it. Between being permitted and supported,
between being employed and approved, the dis-
tance is wider than we are ready to acknow-
ledge. Perhaps the iniquity of the Amorites is
not yet full.' God has always the means of
punishment as well as of pardon in his own
hands. But to punish just at the moment when
we would hurl the bolt, might break in on a
scheme of Previdence of wide extent and in-
definite consequences. They have drunk their
hemlock,' says a fine writer, 'but the poison does
not yet work.' Perhaps the convulsion may be
the more terrible for the delay. Let us not be im.
patient to accomplish a sentence which infinite
justice sees right to defer; it is always time
enough to enter into hell. Let us think more
of restraining our own vindictive tempers, than
of precipitating their destruction. They may
yet repent of their crimes they are perpetrating.
God may still by some scheme, intricate, and
unintelligible to us, pardon the sin which we
think exceeds the limits even of his mercy.
But we contrive to make revenge itself look
like religion. We call down thunder on many
a head under pretence, that those on whom we
invoke it are God's enemies, when perhaps we
invoke it because they are ours.
|
tion, supports commonly reserved for the afflict
ed Christian, and eminently bestowed in his
greatest exigence; if we place these feelings in
the opposite scale with all that unjust power
ever bestowed or guilty wealth possessed; we
shall have no hesitation in deciding on which
side even present happiness lies.
With a mind thus fixed, with a faith thus
firm, one great object so absorbs the Christian,
that his peace is not tossed about with the things
which discompose ordinary men. My for-
tune,' may he say, 'it is true, is shattered; but
as I made not fine gold my confidenee' while
I possessed it, in losing it I have not lost myself.
I leaned not on power, for I knew its instability.
Had prosperity been my dependence, my sup-
port being removed, I must fall.'
In the case of the afflicted Christian you la
ment perhaps with the wife of the persecuted
hero, that he suffers being innocent. But would
it extract the sting from suffering, were guilt
added to it! Out of two worlds to have all sor-
row in this and no hope in the next would be
indeed intolerable. Would you have him pur-
chase a reprieve from suffering by sinful com-
pliances? Think how ease would be destroyed
by the price paid for it! For how short a time
he would enjoy it, even if it were not bought at
the expence of his soul!
ing the reward of virtue is enlarged by suffering,
and thus it becomes not only the instrument of
promoting virtue, but the instrument of reward-
ing it. Besides, God chooses for the confirma-
tion of our faith, as well as for the consumma-
tion of his gracious plans, to reserve in his own
hand this most striking proof of a future retri-
bution. To suppose that he cannot ultimately
recompense his virtuous afflicted children, is to
believe him less powerful than an earthly fa-
ther; to suppose that he will not is to believe
him less merciful.
But though they should go on with a full It would be preposterous to say that suffering
tide of prosperity to the end, will it not cure is the recompence of virtue, and yet it may with
our impatience that that end must come?-truth be asserted that the capacity for enjoying-
Will it not satisfy us that they must die,
that they must come to judgment? Which
is to be envied, the Christian who dies and his
brief sorrows have a period, or he who closes a
prosperous life and enters on a miserable eter-
nity? The one has nothing to fear if the pro-
mises of the Gospel be true, the other nothing to
hope if they be not false. The work of God
must be a lie, heaven a fable, hell an invention,
before the impenitent sinner can be safe. Is
that man to be envied whose security depends on
their falsehood? Is the other to be pitied whose
hope is founded on their reality? Can that state
be happiness, which results from believing that
there is no God, no future reckoning? Can that
state be misery which consists in knowing that
there is both ?
Great trials are oftener proofs of favour than
of displeasure. An inferior officer will suffice
for inferior expeditions, but the sovereign se-
lects the ablest general for the most difficult
service. And not only does the king evidence
his opinion by the selection, but the soldier
proves his attachment by rejoicing in the pre-
ference. His having gained one victory is no
reason for his being set aside. Conquest, which
qualifies him for new attacks, suggests a reason
for his being again employed.
In estimating the comparative happiness of
good and bad men, we should ever bear in mind
that of all the calamities which can be inflicted
or suffered, sin is the greatest, and of all punish-
ments insensibility to sin is the heaviest which
the wrath of God inflicts in this world for the
commission of it. God so far then from approv- The sufferings of good men by no means
ing a wicked man, because he suffers him to go contradict the promises that 'Godliness has the
on triumphantly, seems rather by allowing him promise of the life that now is,' nor that pro-
to continue his smooth and prosperous course, mise that the meek shall inherit the earth.'
to have some awful destiny in store for him, They possess it by the spirit in which they en-
which will not perhaps be revealed till his re-joy its blessings, by the spirit with which they
pentance is too late; then his knowledge of God's
displeasure, and the dreadful consequences of
The belief too that trials will facilitate salva-
that displeasure, may be revealed together, may tion is another source of consolation. Suffer-
be revealed when there is no room for mercy. ings also abate the dread of death by cheapen-
But without looking to futurity-consulting ing the price of life. The affections even of the.
only the present condition of suffering virtue, real Christian are too much drawn downwards.
if we put the inward consolation derived from His heart too fondly cleaves to the dust, though
How
communion with God, the humble confidence he knows that trouble springs out of it.
of prayer, the devout trust in the divine protec-would it be, if he invariably possessed present
resign them.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
495
enjoyments, and if a long vista of delights lay
always open before him? He has a farther
comfort in his own honest consciousness; a
bright conviction that his Christian feeling un-
der trials, is a cheering evidence that his piety
is sincere. The gold has been melted down,
and its purity is ascertained.
|
other way of serving God but by active exer-
tions; exertions which are often made because
they indulge our natural taste, and gratify our
own inclinations.-But it is an error to imagine
that God, by putting us in any supposable situa-
tion, puts it out of our power to glorify him;
that he can place us under any circumstances
Among his other advantages, the afflicted which may not be turned to some account, either
Christian has that of being able to apply to the for ourselves or others. Joseph in his prison,
mercy of God: not as a new and untried, and under the strongest disqualifications, loss of li-
therefore an uncertain resource. He does not berty, and a blasted reputation, made way for
come as an alien before a strange master, but as both his own high advancement and for the de-
a child into the well known presence of a tender | liverance of Israel. Daniel in his dungeon, not
father. He did not put off prayer till this press- only the destined prey, but in the very jaws of
ing exigence. He did not make his God a sort furious beasts, converted the king of Babylon,
of dernier resort, to be had recourse to only in and brought him to the knowledge of the true
the great water-floods. He had long and dili- God. Could prosperity have effected the for-
gently sought him in the calm; he had adhered mer? Would not prosperity have prevented the
to him, if the phrase may be allowed, before he latter?
was driven to it. He had sought God's favour
while he enjoyed the favour of the world. He
did not wait for the day of evil to seek the su-
preme Good. He did not defer his meditations
on heavenly things to the disconsolate hour when
earth has nothing for him. He can cheerfully
associate religion with those former days of feli-
city, when with every thing before him out of
which to choose, he chose God. He not only
feels the support derived from his present pray-
ers, but the benefit of all those which he offered
up in the day of joy and gladness. He will es-
pecially derive comfort from the supplications
he had made for the anticipated though unknown
trial of the present hour, and which in such
a world of vicissitudes, it was reasonable to
expect.
Let us confess, then, that in all the trying
circumstances of this changeful scene, there is
something infinitely soothing to the feelings of
a Christian, something inexpressibly tranquiliz-
ing to his mind, to know that he has nothing to
do with events, but to submit to them; that he
has nothing to do with the revolutions of life but
to acquiesce in them, as the dispensations of
eternal wisdom; that he has not to take the ma-
nagement out of the hands of Providence, but
submissively to follow the divine leading; that
he has not to contrive for to-morrow, but to ac-
quiesce to-day; not to condition about events
yet to come, but to meet those which are pre-
sent with cheerful resignation. Let him be
thankful that as he could not by foreseeing, pre-
vent them, so he was not permitted to foresee
them, thankful for ignorance where knowledge
would only prolong without preventing suffer-
ing; thankful for that grace which has promised
that our strength shall be proportioned to our
day, thankful that as he is not responsible for
trials which he has not brought on himself, so
by the goodness of God these trials may be im-
proved to the noblest purposes. The quiet ac-
quiescence of the heart, the annihilation of the
will under actual circumstances, be the trial
great or small, is more acceptable to God, more
indicative of true piety, than the strongest ge-
neral resolutions of firm acting and deep sub-
mission under the most trying unborn events.
In the remote case it is the imagination which
submits in the actual case it is the will.
But to descend to more familiar instances;~~
It is among the ordinary, though most mysteri-
ous dispensations of Providence, that many of
his appointed servants who are not only emi
nently fitted, but also most zealously disposed,
to glorify their Redeemer, by instructing and
reforming their fellow creatures, are yet dis-
qualified by disease, and set aside from that pub-
lic duty of which the necessity is so obvious,
and of which the fruits were so remarkable;
whilst many others possess uninterrupted health
and strength, for the exercise of those func-
tions for which they are little gifted and less
disposed.
But God's ways are not as our ways. He is
not accountable to his creatures. The caviller
would know why it is right. The suffering
Christian believes and feels it to be right. He
humbly acknowledges the necessity of the afflic-
tion which his friends are lamenting; he feels
the mercy of the measure which others are sus-
pecting of injustice. With deep humility he is
persuaded that if the affliction is not yet with-
drawn, it is because it has not yet accomplished
the purpose for which it was sent.
The priva-
tion is probably intended both for the individual
interest of the sufferer, and for the reproof of
those who have neglected to profit by his labours.
Perhaps God more especially thus draws still
nearer to himself, him who had drawn so many
others.
But to take a more particular view of the case,
we are too ready to consider suffering as an in-
dication of God's displeasure, not so much
against sin in general, as against the individual
sufferer.
suffer- sufferer. Were this the case, then would those
saints and martyrs who have pined in exile, and
groaned in dungeons, and expired on scaffolds,
have been the objects of God's peculiar wrath
instead of his special favour. But the truth is,
some little tincture of latent infidelity mixes it-
self in almost all our reasonings on these topics.
We do not constantly take into the account a
future state. We want God, if I may hazard
the expression, to clear himself as he goes. We
cannot give him such long credit as the period
of human life. He must every moment be vin-
dicating his character against every sceptical
cavil; he must unravel his plans to every shal-
low critic, he must anticipate the knowledge of
his design before its operations are completed.
We are too ready to imagine that there is no
496
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
If we may adopt a phrase in use among the vul- I
gar, we will trust him no farther than we can
see him. Though he has said, 'judge nothing
before the time, we judge instantly, of course
rashly, and in general falsely. Were the brevity
of earthly prosperity and suffering, the certainty
of retributive justice, and the eternity of future
blessedness perpetually kept in view, we should
have more patience with God.
as far from peace as he is from God? Is it no-
thing that every day brings the Christian nearer
to his crown, and that the sinner is every day
working his way nearer to his ruin? The hour
of death which the one dreads as something
worse than extinction, is to the other the hour
of his nativity, the birth-day of immortality. At
the height of his sufferings, the good man knows
that they will soon terminate. In the zenith of
Even in judging fictitious compositions, we his success the sinner has a similar assurance.
are more just. During the perusal of a tragedy, But how different is the result of the same con-
or any work of invention, though we feel for the viction! An invincible faith sustains the one,
distresses of the personages, yet we do not form in the severest calamities, while an inextin-
an ultimate judgment of the propriety or injus-guishable dread gives the lie to the proudest
tice of their sufferings. We wait for the catas- triumphs of the other.
trophe. We give the poet credit either that he
will extricate them from their distresses, or
eventually explain the justice of them. We do
not condemn him at the end of every scene for
the trials of that scene, which the sufferers do
not appear to have deserved; for the sufferings
which do not always seem to have arisen from
their own misconduct. We behold the trials of
the virtuous with sympathy, and the successes
of the wicked with indignation; but we do not
pass our final sentence till the poet has passed
his. We reserve our decisive judgment till the
last scene closes, till the curtain drops. Shall
we not treat the schemes of Infinite Wisdom
with as much respect as the plot of a drama?
But to borrow our illustrations from realities.
In a court of justice the by-standers do not
give their sentence in the midst of a trial. We
wait patiently till all the evidence is collected,
and circumstantially detailed, and finally sum-
med up. And-to pursue the illusion-imper-
fect as human decisions may possibly be, fallible
as we must allow the most deliberate and honest
verdict must prove, we commonly applaud the
justice of the jury, and the equity of the judge.
The felon they condemn, we rarely acquit; where
they remit judgment, we rarely denounce it.-
It is only INFINITE WISDOM on whose purposes
we cannot rely; it is only INFINITE MERCY whose
operations we cannot trust. It is only the
Judge of all the earth' who cannot do right. We
reverse the order of God by summoning HIM
at our bar, at whose awful bar we shall soon be
judged.
But to return to our more immediate point-
the apparently unfair distribution of prosperity
between good and bad men. As their case is
opposite in every thing-the one is constantly
deriving his happiness from that which is the
source of the other's misery, a sense of the di-
vine omniscience. The eye of God if a 'pillar
of light' to the one, and a cloud and darkness'
to the other. It is no less a terror to him who
dreads His justice, than a joy to him who derives
all his support from the awful thought, THOU
GOD SEEST!
But as we have already observed, can we want
a broader line of discrimination between them
than their actual condition here, independently
of the different portions reserved for them here-
after? Is it not distinction enough, that the
one, though sad, is safe; that the other, though
confident, is insecure? Is not the one as far
from rest as he is from virtue, as far from the
enjoyment of quiet as from the hope of heaven,
He then, after all, is the only happy man,-
not whom worldly prosperity renders apparently
happy, but whom no change of worldly circum-
stances can make essentially miserable; whose
peace depends not on external events, but on an
internal support; not on that success which is
common to all, but on that hope which is the
peculiar privilege, on that promise which is the
sole prerogative of a Christian.
CHAP. XXI.
The temper and conduct of the Christian in Sick-
ness and in Death.
THE pagan philosophers have given many ad-
mirable precepts both for resigning blessings
and for sustaining misfortunes; but wanting the
motives and sanctions of Christianity, though
they excite much intellectual admiration, they
produce little practical effect. The stars which
glittered in their moral night, though bright, im-
parted no warmth. Their most beautiful dis-
sertations on death had no charm to extract its
sting. We receive no support from their most
elaborate treatises on immortality, for want of
Him who brought life and immortality to light.'
Their consolatory discussion could not strip the
grave of its terrors, for to them it was not 'swal-
lowed up in victory.' To conceive of the soul
as an immortal principle, without proposing a
scheme for the pardon of its sins, was but cold
consolation. Their future state was but a happy
guess: their heaven but a fortunate conjecture.
When we peruse their finest compositions, we
admire the manner in which the medicine is ad-
ministered, but we do not find it effectual for
the cure, nor even for the mitigation of our dis-
ease. The beauty of the sentiment we applaud,
but our heart continues to ache. There is no
healing balm in their elegant prescription.
These four little words, 'THY WILL BE DONE,'
contain a charm of more powerful efficacy than
all the discipline of the stoic school! They cut
up a long train of clear but cold reasoning, and
supercede whole volumes of argument on fate
and necessity.
What sufferer ever derived any ease from the
subtle distinction of the hair-splitting casuist,
who allowed that pain was very troublesome,
but resolved never to acknowledge it to be an
evil? There is an equivocation in his manner
of stating the proposition. He does not directly
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
497
•
say that pain is not an evil, but by a sophistical,
turn professes that philosophy will never confess
it to be an evil. But what consolation does the
sufferer draw from the quibbling nicety? What
difference is there,' as archbishop Tillotson well
inquires,' between things being troublesome and
being evils, when all the evil of an affliction lies
in the trouble it creates to us?'
Christianity knows none of these fanciful dis-
tinctions. She never pretends to insist that pain
is not an evil, but she does more; she converts
it into a good. Christianity therefore teaches a
fortitude as much more noble than philosophy,
as meeting pain with resignation to the hand
that inflicts it, is more heroic than denying it
to be an evil.
affliction did not disqualify us from being useful
to our families, and active in the service of God,
we could more cheerfully bear it. Let us rather
be assured that it does not disqualify us for that
duty which we most need, and to which God
calls us by the very disqualification.
A constant posture of defence against the at-
tacks of our great spiritual enemy, is a better
security than an incidental blow, or even an oc-
casional victory. It is also a better preparation
for all the occurrences of life. It is not some
signal act of mortification, but an habitual state
of discipline which will prepare us for great
trials. A soul ever on the watch, fervent in pray-
er, diligent in self-inspection, frequent in medi-
tation, fortified against the vanities of time by
repeated views of eternity, all the avenues to
such a heart will be in a good measure shut
against temptation, barred in a great degree
against the the tempter. Strong in the Lord
and in the power of his might,' it will be enna-
bled to resist the one, to expel the other. To a
mind so prepared, the thoughts of sickness will
not be new, for he knows it is the condition of
the battle; the prospect of death will not be sur-
To submit on the mere human ground that
there is no alternative, is not resignation, but
hopelessness. To bear affliction solely because
impatience will not remove it is but an inferior,
though a just reason for bearing it. It savours
rather of despair than submission, when not
sanctioned by a higher principle. It is the
Lord, let him do what seemeth him good,' is at
once a motive of more powerful obligation, than
all the documents which philosophy ever sug-prising, for he knows it is its termination.
gested; a firmer ground of support than all the
energies that natural fortitude ever supplied.
Under any visitation, sickness for instance,
God permits us to think the affliction not joy.
ous but grievous.' But though he allows us to
feel, we must not allow ourselves to repine.
There is again a sort of heroism in bearing up
against affliction, which some adopt on the
ground that it raises their character, and confers
dignity on their suffering. This philosophic
firmness is far from being the temper which
Christianity inculcates.
When we are compelled by the hand of God
to endure sufferings, or driven by a conviction
of the vanity of the world to renounce its enjoy.
ments, we must not endure the one on the low
principle of its being inevitable, nor, in flying
from the other must we retire to the contempla-
tion of our own virtues. We must not, with a
sullen intrepidity, collect ourselves into a centre
of our own; into a cold apathy to all without,
and a proud approbation of all within. We must
not contract our scattered faults into a sort of
dignified selfishness; nor concentrate our feel.
ings into a proud magnanimity, we must not
adopt an independent rectitude. A gloomy sto.
icism is not Christian heroism. A melancholy
non-resistance is not Christian resignation.
|
We
The period is now come when we must sum-
mon all the fortitude of the rational being, all the
resignation of the Christian. The principles we
have been learning must now be made practical.
The speculations we have admired we must
now realize. All that we have been studying
was in order to furnish materials for this grand
exigence.-All the strength we have been col-
lecting must now be brought into action.
must now draw to a point all the scattered
argu-
ments, all the several motives, all the individual
supports, all the cheering promises of religion.
We must exemplify all the rules we have given
to others; we must embody all the resolutions
we have formed for ourselves; we must reduce
our precepts to experience; we must pass from
discourses on submission to its exercise; from
dissertations on suffering to sustaining it.
must heroically call up the determinations of
our better days. We must recollect what we
have said of the supports of faith and hope
when our strength was in full vigour, when our
heart was at ease, and our mind undisturbed.
Let us collect all that remains to us of mental
strength. Let us implore the aid of holy
hope and fervent faith, to show that religion
is not a beautiful theory, but a soul-sustaining
truth.
We
Nor must we indemnify ourselves for our out- Endeavour without harrassing scrutiny or
ward self-control by secret murmurings. We distressing doubt, to act on the principles which
may be admired for our resolution in this in- your sounder judgment formerly admitted. The
stance, as for our generosity and disinterested- strongest faith is wanted in the hardest trials.
ness in other instances; but we deserve little Under those trials, to the confirmed Christian
commendation for whatever we give up, if we the highest degree of grace is commonly im-
do not give up our own inclination. It is in- parted. Impair not that faith on which you
ward repining that we must endeavour to re-rested when your mind was strong, by suspect-
press; it is the discontent of the heart, the un-
expressed but not unfelt murmur, against which
we must pray for grace and struggle for resist
ance. We must not smother our discontents
before others, and feed on them in private. It
is the hidden rebellion of the will we must sub-
due, if we would submit as Christians. Nor must
we justify our impatience by saying that if our
VOL. I.
1 2
ing its validity now it is weak. That which
had your full assent in perfect health, which
was then firmly rooted in your spirit, and
grounded in your understanding, must not be
unfixed by the doubts of an enfeebled reason
and the scruples of an impaired judgment. You
may not now be able to determine on the rea-
sonableness of propositions, but you may derive
498
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
strong consolation from conclusions which were
once fully established in your mind.
The reflecting Christian will consider the na-
tural evil of sickness as the consequence and
punishment of moral evil. He will mourn, not
only that he suffers pain, but because that pain
is the effect of sin. If man had not sinned, he
would not have suffered. The heaviest aggra-
vation of his pain is to know that he has de-
served it. But it is a counterbalance to this
trial to know that our merciful Father has no
pleasure in the sufferings of his children; that
he chastens them in love; that he never in-
flicts a stroke which he could safely spare; that
he inflicts it to purify as well as to punish, to
caution as well as to cure, to improve as well as
to chastise.
just value that fame which was so often eclipsed
by envy, and which will be so soon forgotten in
death. He has no ambition left but for heaven,
where there will be neither envy, death, nor for-
getfulness.
When capable of reflection, the sick Chris-
tian will revolve all the sins and errors of his
past life; he will humble himself for them as
sincerely as if he had never repented of them
before; and implore the divine forgiveness as
fervently as if he did not believe they were long
since forgiven. The remembrance of his former
offences will grieve him, but the humble hope
that they are pardoned will fill him with joy
unspeakable and full of glory.'
Even in this state of helplessness he may im-
prove his self-acquaintance. He may detect new
What a support in the dreary season of sick-deficiencies in his character, fresh imperfections
ness is it to reflect, that the Captain of our sal- in his virtues. . Omissions will now strike him
vation was made perfect through sufferings; with the force of actual sins. Resignation,
that if we suffer with him we shall also reign which he fancied was so easy when only the
with him, which implies also the reverse, that sufferings of others required it, he now finds to
if we do not suffer with him, we shall not reign be difficult when called on to practise it himself.
with him; that is, if we suffer merely because He has sometimes wondered at their impatience,
we cannot help it, without reference to him, he is now humbled at his own. He will not only
without suffering for his sake and in his spirit. try to bear patiently the pains he actually suf
If it be not sanctified suffering it will avail but fers, but will recollect gratefully those from
little. We shall not be paid for having suffered, which he has been delivered, and which he may
as is the creed of too many, but our meetness have formerly found less supportable than his
for the kingdom of glory will be increased if we present sufferings.
suffer according to his will and after his exam-
ple.
He who is brought to serious reflection by the
salutary affliction of a sick bed, will look back
with astonishment on his former false estimate
of worldly things. Riches! Beauty! Pleasure!
Genius! Fame!-What are they in the eyes
of the sick and the dying?
RICHES! These are so far from affording him
a moment's ease, that it will be well if no former
misapplication of them aggravate his present
pains. He feels as if he only wished to live
that he might henceforth dedicate them to the
purposes for which they were given.
BEAUTY! What is beauty, he cries, as he con-
siders his own sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and
pallid countenance. He acknowledges with
the Psalmist, that the consuming of beauty is
'the rebuke with which the Almighty corrects
man for sin.'
GENIUS! What is it? Without religion, ge-
nius is only a lamp on ths gate of a palace. It
may serve to cast a gleam of light on those with-
out, while the inhabitant sits in darkness.
PLEASURE! That has not left a trace behind
it. 'It died in the birth, and is not therefore
worthy to come into the bill of Mortality."*
FAME! Of this his very soul acknowledges
the emptiness. He is astonished how he could
ever be so infatuated as to run after a sound, to
court a breath, to pursue a shadow, to embrace
a cloud. Augustus, asking his friends as they
surrounded his dying bed, if he had acted his
part well, on their answering in the affirmative,
cried plaudite. But the acclamations of the
whole universe would rather mock than sooth
the dying Christian if unsanctioned by the hope
of the divine approbation. He now rates at its
*Bishop Hall.
In the extremity of pain he feels there is no
consolation but in humble acquiescence in the
divine will. It may be that he can pray but
little, but that little will be fervent. He can
articulate perhaps not at all, but his prayer is
addressed to one who sees the heart, who can
interpret its language, who requires not words,
but affections. A pang endured without a mur-
mur, or only such an involuntary groan as na-
ture extorts, and faith regrets, is itself a prayer.
If surrounded with all the accommodations
of affluence, let him compare his own situation
with that of thousands, who probably with great-
er merit, and under severer trials, have not one
of his alleviations. When invited to the distaste-
ful remedy, let him reflect how many perishing
fellow creatures may be pining for that remedy,
to whom it might be restorative, or who, fancy-
ing that it might be so, suffer additional distress
from their inability to procure it.
In the intervals of severer pain he will turn
his few advantages to the best account. He will
make the most of every short respite. He will
patiently bear with little disappointments, little
delays, with the awkwardness of accidental ne-
glect of his attendants, and, thankful for gene-
ral kindness, he will accept good will instead
of perfection. The suffering Christian will be
grateful for small reliefs, little alleviations, short
To him, abated pain will be
snatches of rest.
positive pleasure. The freer use of limbs which
had nearly lost their activity, will be enjoyments.
Let not the reader who is rioting
In all the madness of superfluous health,
think lightly of these trivial comforts. Let him
not despise them as not worthy of gratitude, or
as not capable of exciting it. He may one day,
and that no distant day, be brought to the same
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
499
་
state of debility and pain. May he experience
the mercies he now derides, and may he feel
higher comforts of safe grounds!
The sufferer has perhaps often regretted that
one of the worst effects of sickness is the selfish-
ness it too naturally induces. The temptation
to this he will resist, by not being exacting and
unreasonable in his requisitions. Through his
tenderness to the feelings of others, he will be
careful not to add to their distress by any ap-
pearance of discontent.
What a lesson against selfishness have we
in the conduct of our dying Redeemer !-It was
while bearing his cross to the place of execu-
tion, that he said to the sorrowing multitude,
'Weep not for me, but for yourselves and for
your children.' It was while enduring the
agonies of crucifixion that he endeavoured to
mitigate the sorrows of his mother and of his
friend, by tenderly committing them to each
other's care. It was while sustaining the
pangs of dissolution, that he gave the imme-
diate promise of heaven to the expiring crimi-
nal.
The Christian will review, if able, not only
the sins, but the mercies of his past life. If pre-
viously accustomed to unbroken health, he will
bless God for the long period in which he has en-
joyed it. If continued infirmity has been his
portion, he will feel grateful that he has had |
such a long and gradual weaning from the
world. From either state he will extract con-
solation. If pain be new, what a mercy to have
hitherto escaped it! If habitual, we bear more
easily what we have borne long.
He will review his temporal blessings and de-
liverances; his domestic comforts, his Christian
friendships. Among his mercies, his now
'purged eyes' will reckon his difficulties, his
sorrows and trials. A new and heavenly light
will be thrown on that passage, 'It is good for
me that I have been afflicted.' It seems to him
It seems to him
as if hitherto he had only heard it with the
hearing of his ear, but now his eye seeth it.'
If he be a real Christian, and has had enemies,
he will always have prayed for them, but now
he will be thankful for them. He will the more
earnestly implore mercy for them as instru-
ments which have helped to fit him for his pre-
sent state. He will look up with holy gratitude
to the great Physician, who by a divine che-
mistry in making up events, has made that one
unpalatably ingredient, at the bitterness of
which he once revolted, the very means by
which all other things have worked together
for good; had they worked separately they
would not have worked efficaciously.
Under the most severe visitations, let us com-
pare, if the capacity of comparing be allowed
us, our own sufferings with the cup which our
Redeemer drank for our sakes-drank to avert
the divine displeasure from us. Let us pursue
the comparative view of our condition with that
of the Son of God. He was deserted in his
most trying hour; deserted probably by those
whose limbs, sight, life, he had restored, whose
souls he had come to save. We are surrounded
by unwearied friends; every pain is mitigated
by sympathy, every want not only relieved but
prevented; the 'asking eye' explored; the in-
articulate sound understood; the ill-expressed
wish anticipated; the but suspected want sup-
plied. When our souls are exceeding sorrow-
ful,' our friends participate our sorrow; when
desired to watch' with us, they watch not 'one
hour,' but many, not falling asleep, but both
flesh and spirit ready and willing; not forsak-
ing us in our agony,' but sympathizing where
they cannot relieve!
We
Besides this, we must acknowledge with the
penitent malefactor, we indeed suffer justly,
but this man hath done nothing amiss.'
suffer for our offences the inevitable penalty
of our fallen nature. He bore our sins and those
of the whole human race. Hence the heart-
rending interrogation, Is it nothing to you all
ye that pass by? Behold and see if there be
any sorrow like unto my sorrow, which is done
unto me, wherewith the Lord hath afflicted me
in the day of his fierce anger.'
How cheering in this forlorn state to reflect
that he not only suffered for us then, but is
sympathizing with us now; that 'in all our
afflictions he is afflicted.' The tenderness of
the sympathy seems to add a value to the sacri-
fice, while the vastness of the sacrifice, endears
the sympathy by ennobling it.
If the intellectual powers be mercifully pre-
served, how many virtues may now be brought
into exercise which had either lain dormant, or
been considered as of inferior worth in the pros-
perous day of activity. The Christian temper
indeed seems to be that part of religion which
is more peculiarly to be exercised on a sick bed.
The passive virtues, the least brilliant, but the
most difficult, are then particularly called into
action. To suffer the whole will of God on the
tedious bed of languishing, is more trying than
to perform the most shining exploit on the
theatre of the world. The hero in the field of
battle has the love of fame as well as patriotism
to support him.
to support him. He knows that the witnesses
of his valour will be the heralds of his renown.
The martyr at the stake is divinely strengthen-
ed. Extraordinary grace is imparted for extra-
ordinary trials. His pangs are exquisite, but
they are short.'-The crown is in sight, it is
almost in possession. By faith he sees the
heavens opened. He sees the glory of God, and
Jesus standing at the right hand of God.' But
to be strong in faith, and patient in hope, in a
long and lingering sickness, is an example of
more general use and ordinary application, than
even the sublime heroism of the martyr. The
sickness is brought home to our feelings, we see
it with our eyes, we apply it to our hearts. Of
the martyr we read, indeed, with astonishment.
Our faith is strengthened, and our admiration
kindled; but we read it without that special ap-
probation, without that peculiar reference to
our own circumstances, which we feel in cases
that are likely to apply to ourselves. With the
dying friend we have not only a feeling of pious
tenderness, but there is also a community of
interests. The certain conviction that his case
must soon be our own, makes it our own now.
Self mixes with the social feeling, and the Chris-
tian death we are contemplating we do not so
much admire as a prodigy, as propose for a
model. To the martyr's stake we feel that we
500
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
are not likely to be brought. To the dying bed,
we must inevitably come.
Accommodating his state of mind to the na-
ture of his disease, the dying Christian will de-
rive consolation in any case, either from think-
ing how forcibly a sudden sickness breaks the
chain which binds him to the world, or how
gently a gradual decay unties it. He will feel
and acknowledge the necessity of all he suffers
to wean him from life. He will admire the di-
vine goodness which commissions the infirmities
of sickness to divest the world of its enchant-
ments, and to strip death of some of its most
formidable terrors. He feels with how much
less reluctance we quit a body exhausted by suf-
fering than one in the vigour of health
Sickness, instead of narrowing the heart-its
worst effect on an unrenewed mind, enlarges
his. He earnestly exhorts those around him to
defer no act of repentance, no labour of love, no
deed of justice, no work of mercy, to that state
of incapacity in which he now lies.
How many motives has the Christian to re-
strain his murmurs! Murmuring offends God
both as it is injurious to his goodness, and as it
perverts the occasion which God has now offered
for giving an example of patience. Let us not
complain that we have nothing to do in sickness,
when we are furnished with the opportunity as
well as called to the duty of resignation; the
duty indeed is always ours, but the occasion is
now more eminently given. Let us not say even
in this depressed state that we have nothing to
be thankful for. If sleep be afforded, let us ac-
knowledge the blessing: if wearisome nights be
our portion, let us remember they are ' appoint-
ed to us.' Let us mitigate the grievance of
watchfulness, by considering it as a sort of pro-
longation of life; as the gift of more minutes
granted for meditation and prayer. If we are
not able to employ it to either of these purposes,
there is a fresh occasion for exercising that re-
signation which will be accepted for both.
If reason be continued, yet with sufferings too
intense for any religious duty, the sick Christian
may take comfort that the business of life was
accomplished, before the sickness began. He
will not be terrified if duties are superseded, if
means are at an end, for he has nothing to do
but to die. This is the act for which all acts,
all other duties, all other means, will have been
preparing him. He who has long been habitu-
ated to look death in the face, who has often an-
ticipated the agonies of dissolving nature; who
has accustomed himself to pray for support un-
der them, will now feel the blessed effect of
those petitions which have long been treasured
in heaven. To those anticipatory prayers he
may perhaps now owe the humble confidence of
hope in this inevitable hour. Habituated to the
contemplation, he will not, at least, have the
dreadful additions of surprise and novelty to ag-
gravate the trying scene. It has long been fa-
miliar to his mind, though hitherto it could only
operate with the inferior force of a picture to a
reality. He will not however have so much
scared his imagination by the terrors of death,
as invigorated his spirit by looking beyond them
to the blessedness which follows. Faith will
not so much dwell on the opening grave as shoot
|
The
forward to the glories to which it leads.
hope of heaven will soften the pangs which lie
in the way to it. On heaven then he will fix
his eyes rather than on the awful intervening
circumstances. He will not dwell on the strug-
gle which is for a moment, but on the crown
which is forever. He will endeavour to think
less of death than of its conqueror; less of the
grave than of its spoiler; less of the body in
ruins than of the spirit in glory; less of the
darkness of his closing day than of the opening
dawn of immortality. In some brighter mo-
ments, when viewing his eternal redemption
drawing nigh, as if the freed spirit had already
burst its prison walls, as if the manumission had
actually taken place, he is ready exultingly to
exclaim, 'My soul is escaped, the snare is broken,
and I am delivered.'
If he ever inclines to wish for recovery, it is
only that he may glorify God by his future life,
more than he has done by the past; but as he
knows the deceitfulness of his heart, he is not
certain that this would be the case, and he there-
Yet should he be re-
fore does not wish to live.
stored he humbly resolves, in a better strength
than his own, to dedicate his life to the restorer.
But he suffers not his thoughts to dwell on
life. Retrospections are at an end. His pros-
pects as to this world are at an end also. He
commits himself unreservedly to his heavenly
Father. But though secure of the port, he may
still dread the passage. The Christian will re-
joice that his rest is at hand, the man may shud-
der at the unknown transit. If faith is strong,
nature is weak. Nay, in this awful exigence,
strong faith is sometimes rendered faint through
the weakness of nature.
At the moment when his faith is looking round
for every additional confirmation, he may rejoice
in those blessed certainties, those glorious reali-
zations which scripture affords. He may take
comfort that the strongest attestations given by
the apostles to the reality of the heavenly state,
were not conjectural. They, to use the words
of our Saviour, spake what they knew, and testi-
fied what they had seen. I reckon,' says St.
Paul, that the afflictions of this present life are
not worthy to be compared with the glory that
shall be revealed.' He said this after he had
been caught up in the third heaven; after he
had beheld the glories to which he alludes. The
author of the Apocalyptic vision, having described
the ineffable glories of the new Jerusalem, thus
puts new life and power into his description.-'I
John saw these things, and heard them.'
The power of distinguishing objects increases
with our approach to them. The Christian feels
that he is entering on a state where every care
will cease, every fear vanish, every desire be
fulfilled, every sin be done away, every grace
perfected: where there will be no more tempta-
tions to resist, no more passions to subdue, no
more insensibility to mercies, no more deadness
in service, no more wandering in prayer, no
more sorrows to be felt for himself, no tears to
be shed for others. He is going where his de-
votion will be without languor, his love without
alloy, his doubts certainty, his expectation en-
joyment, his hope fruition. All will be perfect,
for God will be all in all.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
501
From God he knows that he shall derive im-
mediately all his happiness. It will no longer
pass through any of those channels which now
sully its purity. It will be offered him through
no second cause which may fail, no intermediate
agent which may deceive, no uncertain medium
which may disappoint. The felicity is not only
certain, but perfect, not only perfect, but eter-
nal.
of vision. He has ceased to lean on the world,
for he has found it both a reed and a spear; it
has failed and it has pierced him. He leans not
on himself, for he has long known his weakness.
He leans not on his virtues, for they can do no-
thing for him. Had he no better refuge he feels
that his sun would set in darkness; his life close
in despair.
But he knows in whom he has trusted, and
As he approaches the land of realities, the therefore knows not what he should fear.-He
shadows of this earth cease to interest or mislead | looks upward with holy but humble confidence
him. The films are removed from his eyes. Ob- to that great Shepherd, who having long since
jects are stripped of their false lustre. Nothing conducted him into green pastures, having by
that is really little any longer looks great. The his rod corrected, and by his staff supported
mists of vanity are dispersed. Every thing him, will, he humbly trusts, guide him through
which is to have an end appears small, appears the dark valley of the shadow of death, and
nothing. Eternal things assume their proper safely land him on the peaceful shores of ever.
magnitude, for he beholds them in the true point lasting rest,
TRAGEDIES.
PREFACE TO THE TRAGEDIES.
I AM desirous to anticipate a censure which the critical reader will be ready to bring forward,
on the apparent inconsistency between the contents of the latter part of this volume, composed of
dramatic pieces, and several sentiments not unfrequently introduced in some of my writings, re-
specting the dangerous tendency of certain public amusements, in which dramatic entertainments
will be naturally included. The candid reader will be able to solve the paradox when it is inti-
mated at what different periods of life these different pieces were written. The dates, if they were
regularly preserved, would explain that the seeming disagreement does not involve a contradiction,
as it proceeds not from an inconsistency, but from a revolution in the sentiments of the author.
From my youthful course of reading, and early habits of society and conversation, aided, per-
haps, by that natural but secret bias which the inclination gives to the judgment, I had been led
to entertain that common, but, as I must now think, delusive and groundless hope, that the stage,
under certain regulations, might be converted into a school of virtue; and thus, like many others,
inferred, by a seemingly reasonable conclusion, that though a bad play would always be a bad
thing, yet the representation of a good one might become not only harmless, but useful; and
that it required nothing more than a correct judgment and a critical selection, to transform a
pernicious pleasure into a profitable entertainment.
On these grounds (while, perhaps, as was intimated above, it was nothing more than the in-
dulgence of a propensity), I was led to flatter myself it might be rendering that inferior service
to society which the fabricator of safe and innocent amusements may reasonably be supposed to
confer, to attempt some theatrical compositions, which, whatever other defects might be justly
imputable to them, should at least be found to have been written on the side of virtue and mod-
esty; and which should neither hold out any corrupt image to the mind, nor any impure descrip-
tion to the fancy.
As the following pieces were written and performed at an early period of my life, under the
above impressions, I feel it a kind of duty (imploring pardon for the unavoidable egotism to which
it leads), not to send them afresh into the world in this collection, without prefixing to them a
candid declaration of my altered view. In so doing, I am fully aware that I equally subject
myself to the opposite censures of two different classes of readers, one of which will think that
the best evidence of my sincerity would have been the suppression of the tragedies themselves,
while the other will reprobate the change of sentiment which gives birth to the qualifying preface.
I should, perhaps, have been inclined to adopt the first of these two opinions, had it not
occurred to me that the suppression would be thought disingenuous; and had I not been
also desirous of grounding on the publication, though in a very cursory manner, my sentiments
on the general tendency of the drama; for it appeared but fair and candid to include in this
view my own compositions; and thus, in some measure, though without adverting to them, to
involve myself in the general object of my own animadversions.
I am not, even now, about to controvert the assertion of some of the ablest critics, that a well-
written tragedy is, perhaps, one of the noblest efforts of the human mind-I am not, even now,
about to deny, that of all public amusements it is the most interesting, the most intellectual, and
the most accommodated to the tastes and capacities of a rational being; nay, that it is almost the
only one which has mind for its object; which has the combined advantage of addressing itself
to the imagination, the judgment, and the heart; that it is the only public diversion which calls
out the higher energies of the understanding in the composition, and awakens the most lively and
natural feelings of the heart in the representation.
With all this decided superiority in point of mental pleasure which the stage possesses over
every other species of public entertainment, it is not to be wondered at that its admirers and
advocates, even the most respectable, should cherish a hope, that, under certain restrictions, and
under an improved form, it might be made to contribute to instruction as well as to pleasure; and
it is on this plausible ground that we have heard so many ingenious defences of this species of
amusement.
What the stage might be under another and an imaginary state of things, it is not very easy
for us to know, and therefore not very important to inquire. Nor is it, indeed, the soundest logic
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to argue on the possible goodness of a thing, which, in the present circumstances of society, is
doing positive evil, from the imagined good that thing might be conjectured to produce in a sup-
posed state of unattainable improvement. Would it not be more safe and simple to determine
our judgment as to the character of the thing in question, on the more visible, and therefore more
rational grounds, of its actual state, and from the effects which it is known to produce in that state?
For, unfortunately, this Utopian good cannot be produced, until not only the stage itself has
undergone a complete purification, but until the audience shall be purified also. For we must
first suppose a state of society in which the spectators will be disposed to relish all that is pure,
and to reprobate all that is corrupt, before the system of a pure and uncorrupt theatre can be
adopted with any reasonable hope of success. There must always be a congruity between the
taste of the spectator and the nature of the spectacle, in order to effect that point of union which
can produce pleasure for it must be remembered that people go to a play, not to be instructed,
but to be pleased. As we do not send the blind to an exhibition of pictures, nor the deaf to a
concert, so it would be leaving the projected plan of a pure stage in a state of imperfection, unless
the general corruption of human nature itself were so reformed as to render the amusements of
a perfectly purified stage palatable. If the sentiments and passions exhibited were no longer
accommodated to the sentiments and passions of the audience, corrupt nature would soon with-
draw itself from the vapid and inappropriate amusement; and thin, I will not say empty benches,
would too probably be the reward of the conscientious reformer.
Far be it from me to wish to restore that obsolete rubbish of ignorance and folly with which
the monkish legends furnished out the rude materials of our early drama: I mean those uncouth
pieces, in which, under the titles of mysteries and moralilies, the most sacred persons were intro-
duced as interlocutors; in which events too solemn for exhibition, and subjects too awful for
detail, were brought before the audience with a formal gravity more offensive than levity itself.
The superstitions of the cloister were considered as suitable topics for the diversions of the stage;
and celestial intelligences, uttering the sentiments and language, and blended with the buffoon-
eries, of Bartholomew fair, were regarded as appropriate subjects of merrimaking for a holyday
audience. But from this holy mummery, at which piety, taste, and common sense, would be
equally revolted, I return to the existing state of things.*
I have never perused any of those treatises, excellent as some of them are said to be, which
pious divines have written against the pernicious tendency of theatrical entertainments. The
convictions of my mind have arisen solely from experience and observation. I shall not, there-
fore, go over the well-trodden ground of those who have inveighed, with too much justice, against
the immoral lives of too many stage professors, allowing always for some very honourable excep-
tions. I shall not remark on the gross and palpable corruptions of those plays which are obvi-
ously written with an open disregard to all purity and virtue: nor shall I attempt to show whether
any very material advantage would arise to the vain and the dissipated, were they to exclude the
theatre from its turn in their undiscriminated round of promiscuous pleasure. But I would
coolly and respectfully address a few words to those many worthy and conscientious persons, who
would not, perhaps, so early and incautiously expose their youthful offspring to the temptations of
an amusement of which they themselves could be brought to see and to feel the existence.
The question, then, which with great deference I would propose, is not whether those who
risk every thing may not risk this also; but whether the more correct and considerate Christian
might not find it worth while to consider if the amusement in question be entirely compatible
with his avowed character? whether it be entirely consistent with the clearer views of one who
professes to live in the sure and certain hope of that immortality which is brought to light by the
gospel?
For, however weighty the arguments in favour of the superior rationality of plays may be
found in the scale, when a rational being puts one amusement in the balance against another;
however fairly he may exalt the stage against other diversions, as being more adapted to a man
of sense; yet this, perhaps, will not quite vindicate it in the opinion of the more scrupulous
Christian, who will not allow himself to think that of two evils either may be chosen. His
amusements must be blameless, as well as ingenious; safe, as well as rational; moral, as well as
intellectual. They must have nothing in them which may be likely to excite any of the tempers
which it is his daily task to subdue; any of the passions which it is his constant business to keep
in order. His chosen amusements must not deliberately add to the "weight" which he is com-
manded" to lay aside;" they should not irritate the "besetting sin" against which he is strug-
"to
gling; they should not obstruct that "spiritual mindedness" which he is told "is life and peace;
they should not inflame that "lust of the flesh, that lust of the eye, and that pride of life," which
he is forbidden to gratify. A religious person who occasionally indulges in an amusement not
consonant to his general views and pursuits, inconceivably increases his own difficulties by whet-
* An enthusiast to the literature of my own country, and so jealous of its fame as grudgingly to allow its com-
parative inferiority in any one instance, I am yet compelled to acknowledge, that, as far as my slender reading en-
ables me to form a judgment, the English dramatic poets are in general more licentious than those of most other
countries. In that profligate reign,
"When all the Muses were debauched at court,”
the stage attained its highest degree of dissoluteness. Mr. Garrick did a great deal towards its purification. It is
said not to have since kept the ground it then gained.
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ting tastes and exciting appetites, which it will cut him out so much work to counteract, as will
greatly overbalance, in a conscientious mind, the short and trivial enjoyment. I speak now on
the mere question of pleasure. Nay, the more keen his relish for the amusement, the more ex-
quisite his discernment of the beauties of composition or the graces of action may be, the more
prudent he may perhaps find it to deny himself the gratification which is enjoyed at the slightest
hazard of his higher interests; a gratification which to him will be the more dangerous, in pro-
portion as it is more poignantly felt.
A Christian, in our days, is seldom called, in his ordinary course, to great and signal sacrifices,
to very striking and very ostensible renunciations; but he is daily called to a quiet, uniform, con-
stant series of self-denial in small things. A dangerous and bewitching, especially if it be not a
disreputable pleasure, may perhaps have a just place among those sacrifices: and, if he be really
in earnest, he will not think it too much to renounce such petty enjoyments, were it only from
the single consideration that it is well to seize every little occasion which occurs of evidencing to
himself that he is constantly on the watch; and of proving to the world, that in small things, as
well as in great, he is a follower of Him who "pleased not himself
Little, unobserved, and unostentatious abstinences, are among the silent deeds of his daily
warfare. And whoever brings himself to exercise this habitual self-denial, even in doubtful cases,
will soon learn, from happy experience, that in many instances abstinence is much more easily
practised than temperance. There is in this case no excited sensibility to allay; there is no
occasional remorse to be quieted; there is no lost ground to be recovered; no difficult backing out,
only to get again to the same place where we were before. This observation adopted into practice
might, it is presumed, effectually abolish the qualifying language of many of the more sober fre-
quenters of the theatre, "that they go but seldom, and never but to a good play." We give
these moderate and discreet persons all due praise for comparative sobriety. But while they go
at all, the principle is the same; for they sanction, by going sometimes, a diversion which is not
to be defended on strict Christian principles. Indeed, their acknowledging that it should be but
sparingly frequented, probably arises from a conviction that it is not quite right.
I have already remarked that it is not the object of this address to pursue the usual track of
attacking bad plays, of which the more prudent and virtuous seldom vindicate the principle,
though they do not always scrupulously avoid attending the exhibition. I impose rather on my-
self the unpopular task of animadverting on the dangerous effects of those which come under the
description of good plays; for from those chiefly arises the danger (if danger there be), to good
people.
Now, with all the allowed superiority justly ascribed to pieces of a better cast, it does not seem
to be a complete justification of the amusement, that the play in question is more chaste in the
sentiment, more pure in the expression, and more moral in the tendency, than those which are
avowedly objectionable; though I readily concede all the degrees of distinction, and very im-
portant they are, between such compositions and those of the opposite character. But the point
for which I am contending is of another and of a distinct nature; namely, that there will, gen-
erally speaking, still remain, even in tragedies, otherwise the most unexceptionable, provided they
are sufficiently impassioned to produce a powerful effect on the feelings, and have spirit enough
to deserve to become popular; there will still remain an essential radical defect. What I insist
on is, that there almost inevitably runs through the whole web of the tragic drama (for to this
least blameable half of stage composition I confine my remarks, as against comedy still stronger
objections may be urged), a prominent thread of false principle. It is generally the leading
object of the poet to erect a standard of honour in direct opposition to the standard of Chris-
tianity; and this is not done subordinately, incidentally, occasionally; but worldly honour is the
very soul, and spirit, and lifegiving principle of the drama. Honour is the religion of tragedy.
It is her moral and political law. Her dictates form its institutes. Fear and shame are the capi-
tal crimes in her code. Against these, all the eloquence of her most powerful pleaders, against
these her penal statutes, pistol, sword, and poison, are in full force. Injured honour can only be
vindicated at the point of the sword; the stains of injured reputation can only be washed out in
blood. Love, jealousy, hatred, ambition, pride, revenge, are too often elevated into the rank of
splendid virtues, and form a dazzling system of worldly morality, in direct contradiction to the
spirit of that religion whose characteristics are "charity, meekness, peaceableness, longsuffer-
ing, gentleness, forgiveness." "The fruits of the Spirit" and the fruits of the stage, if the
parallel were followed up, as it might easily be, would perhaps exhibit as pointed a contrast as
human imagination could conceive.
I by no means pretend to assert that religion is excluded from tragedies; it is often incidentally
introduced; and many a period is beautifully turned, and many a moral is exquisitely pointed, with
the finest sentiments of piety. But the single grains of this counteracting principle, scattered up
and down the piece, do not extend their antiseptic property in a sufficient degree to preserve from
corruption the body of a work, the general spirit and leading tempers of which, as was said above,
are evidently not drawn from that meek religion, the very essence of which consists in "casting
down high imaginations:" while, on the other hand, the leaven of the predominating evil secretly
works and insinuates itself, till the whole mass becomes impregnated by the pervading principle.
Now, if the directing principle be unsound, the virtues growing out of it will be unsound also;
and no subordinate merit, no collateral excellences, can operate with effectual potency against
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505
an evil which is of prime and fundamental force and energy, and which forms the very essence
of the work.
A learned and witty friend, who thought differently on this subject, once asked me if I went so
far as to think it necessary to try the merit of a song or a play by the ten commandments. To
this may we not venture to answer, that neither a song nor a play should at least contain any
thing hostile to the ten commandments. That, if harmless merriment be not expected to advance
religion, we must take care that it do not oppose it; that if we concede that our amusements are
not expected to make us better than we are, ought we not to condition that they do not make us
worse than they find us? If so, then, whatever pleasantry of idea, whatever gayety of senti-
ment, whatever airiness of expression we innocently admit, should we not jealously watch against
any unsoundness in the general principle, any mischief in the prevailing tendency?
We cannot be too often reminded, that we are, to an inconceivable degree, the creatures of
habit. Our tempers are not principally governed, nor our characters formed, by single marked
actions; nor is the colour of our lives often determined by prominent, detached circumstances;
but the character is gradually moulded by a series of seemingly insignificant but constantly re-
curring practices, which, incorporated into our habits, become part of ourselves.
Now, as these lesser habits, if they take a wrong direction, silently and imperceptibly eat out
the very heart and life of vigorous virtue, they will be almost more sedulously watched by those
who are careful to keep their consciences tenderly alive to the perception of sin (however they
may elude the attention of ordinary Christians), than actions which deter by bold and decided evil.
When it is recollected how many young men pick up their habits of thinking, and their notions
of morality, from the playhouse, it is not perhaps going too far to suspect, that the principles and
examples exhibited on the stage may contribute in their full measure and proportion towards sup-
plying a sort of regular aliment to the appetite (how dreadfully increased!) for duelling, and even
suicide. For, if religion teaches, and experience proves, the immense importance to our tempers
and morals of a regular attendance on public worship, which attendance is only required of us
one day in a week; and if it be considered how much the heart and mind of the attentive hearer
become gradually imbued with the principles infused by this stated, though unfrequent attend-
ance; who, that knows any thing of the nature of the human heart, will deny how much more
deep and lasting will be the impression likely to be made by a far more frequent attendance at
those places where sentiments of a direct contrary tendency are exhibited; exhibited too, with
every addition which can charm the imagination and captivate the senses. Once in a week, it
may be, the young minds are braced by the invigorating principles of a strict and self-denying
religion on the intermediate nights, their good resolutions (if such they have made), are melted
down with all that can relax the soul, and dispose it to yield to the temptations against which it
was the object of the Sunday's lecture to guard and fortify it. In the one case, there is every
thing held out which can inflame or sooth corrupt nature, in opposition to those precepts which,
in the other case, were directed to subdue it. And this one grand and important difference
between the two cases should never be overlooked, that religious instruction, applied to the
human heart, is seed sown in an uncultivated soil, where much is to be cleared, to be broken up,
and to be rooted out, before good fruit will be produced: whereas the theatrical seed, by lighting
on the fertile soil prepared by nature for the congenial implantation, is likely to shoot deep,
spread wide, and bring forth fruit in abundance.
But, to drop all metaphor.-They are told-and from whose mouth do they hear it?—that
"blessed are the poor in spirit, the meek, and the peacemakers." Will not these, and such
like humbling propositions, delivered one day in seven only, in all the sober and beautiful sim-
plicity of our church, with all the force of truth indeed, but with all its plainness also, be more
than counterbalanced by the speedy and much more frequent recurrence of the nightly exhibi-
tion, whose precise object it too often is, not only to preach, but to personify doctrines in dia-
metrical and studied opposition to poverty of spirit, to purity, to meekness, forbearance, and
forgiveness? Doctrines, not simply expressed, as those of the Sunday are, in the naked form of
axioms, principles, and precepts, but realized, imbodied, made alive, furnished with organs,
clothed, decorated, brought into lively discourse, into interesting action; enforced with all the
energy of passion, adorned with all the graces of language, and exhibited with every aid of em-
phatical delivery, every attraction of appropriate gesture. To such a complicated temptation is
Is not the
it wise, voluntarily, studiously, unnecessarily, to expose frail and erring creatures?
conflict too severe ? Is not the competition too unequal?
It is pleaded by the advocates for church music, that the organ and its vocal accompaniments
assist devotion, by enlisting the senses on the side of religion; and it is justly pleaded as an
argument in favour of both, because the affections may fairly and properly derive every honest
aid from any thing which helps to draw them off from the world to God. But is it not equally
true, that the same species of assistance, in a wrong direction, will produce an equally forcible
effect in its way, and at least equally contribute in drawing off the soul from God to the world?
I do not presume to say that the injury will be inevitable, much less that it will be irretrievable;
but I dare repeat, that it is exposing feeble virtue to a powerful temptation; and to a hazard so
great, that were the same reason applied to any worldly subject, it would be thought a folly to
venture on any undertaking where the chances against our coming off unhurt were so obviously
against us. Besides, if we may pursue the doctrine of chances a little farther. that is at best
а
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playing a most unprofitable game, where, if we even could be sure that nothing would be lost, it
is clear to demonstration that nothing can be gained; so that the certain risk is not even coun-
terbalanced by the possible success.
It is not in point to the present design to allude to the multitude of theatrical sentiments
which seem to be written as if in avowed opposition to such precepts as "Swear not at all:"
He that looketh on a woman to lust after her, hath already committed adultery in his heart,"
&c. &c. We are willing to allow that this last offence, at least, is generally, I would it were
invariably, confined to those more incorrect dramas which we do not now profess to consider.
Yet it is to be feared we should not find many pieces (are we sure we can find one?) entirely
exempt from the first heavy charge. And it is, perhaps, one of the most invincible objections to
many tragedies, otherwise not very exceptionable, that the awful and tremendous name of the
infinitely glorious God is shamefully, and almost incessantly, introduced in various scenes, both
in the way of asseveration and of invocation.
Besides, the terms good and bad play are relative; for we are so little exact in our general
definitions, that the character given to the piece often takes its colour from the character of him
who gives it. Passages which to the decent moral man (him, I mean, who is decent and moral
on mere worldly principles) are to the "purged eye" of a Christian disgusting by their vanity,
and offensive by their levity, to speak in the gentlest terms.
But more especially the prime animating spirit of many of our more decorous dramas seems
to furnish a strong contrast to the improved and enlarged comment of our Saviour in the New
Testament, on the divine prohibition against murder in the Old, in the wo denounced against
anger, as containing in itself the seed and principle of murder; anger, and its too usual con-
comitant, revenge, being the main spring on which some of our best tragedies turns.
The eloquent apologies, and the elaborate vindication of the crimes resulting from the point
of honour and the dread of shame, and with such apologies and vindications some of our most
approved pieces abound, too temptingly invite the high unbroken spirit of a warm youth, from
admiring such sentiments to adopt them; and he is liable to be stimulated first to the commis-
sion of the crime, and, after he has committed it, to the hope of having his reputation cleared,
by the perpetual eulogies these flattering scenes bestow on rash and intemperate bravery; on the
dignity of that spirit which cannot brook an insult; and on that generous sense of wounded
honour which is ever on the watch to revenge itself. And when he hears the bursts of applause
with which these sallies of resentment, these. vows of revenge, these determinations to destroy or
be destroyed, this solemn obtesting the great Judge of hearts to witness the innocence of-per-
haps a very criminal action or intention;-when, I say, a hotheaded young man witnesses the
enthusiasm of admiration which such expressions excite in a transported audience, will it not
operate as a kind of stimulus to him to adopt a similar conduct, should he ever be placed in
similar circumstances? and will it not furnish him with a sort of criterion how such maxims
would be received, and such conduct approved, in real life? For the danger does not lie merely
in his hearing such sentiments delivered from the stage, but also in seeing how favourably they
are received by the audience; received, too, by those persons who, should he realize these sen-
timents, would probably be the arbiters of his conduct. These are to him a kind of anticipated
jury. The scene is, as it were, the rehearsal of an acquittal at the bar of that world whose
tribunal is, perhaps, unhappily for him, considered as his last appeal; for it is not probably
hazarding too much to conclude, that by the sort of character we are considering, human opin-
ion will be looked upon as the highest motive of action, human praise as the highest reward, and
human censure as an evil to be deprecated, even by the loss of his soul.
If one of the most virtuous of poets and of men, by the cool, deliberate, argumentative man-
ner in which he makes his Roman hero destroy himself; this hero, too, a pagan, consistently
illustrating by this action an historical fact, and acting in a natural conformity to his own stoical
principles;-if, I say, under all these palliating circumstances, the ingenious sophistry by which
the poet was driven to mitigate the crime of suicide, in order to accommodate the sentiment to
the real character of his hero;-if this Christian poet, even to his own private friend and literary
associate, could appear, by the specious reasoning of his famous soliloquy, to vindicate self-mur-
der, so that the unhappy Budgell exclaimed, when falling by his own hand,
"What Cato did, and Addison approv'd,
Must sure be right :-
""
If, I say, under all the extenuating circumstances here detailed, such a dreadful effect could be
produced from a cause so little expected or intended by its author to produce it, how much more
probably are similar ill consequences likely to arise from similar causes in the hands of a poet
less guarded and worse principled; and whose heroes have, perhaps, neither the apology of ac-
knowledged paganism, nor the sanction of historic truth? For Addison, who in general has
made his piece a vehicle of the noblest and most patriotic sentiments, could not avoid making
his catastrophe just what he has made it, without violating a notorious fact, and falsifying the
character he exhibits.
Even in those plays in which the principles which false honour teaches are neither professedly
inculcated nor vindicated; nay, where moreover the practices above alluded to, and especially
the practice of duelling, are even reprobated in the progress of the piece; yet the hero who has
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been reprieved from sin during four acts by the sage remonstrance of some interfering friend, or
the imperious power of beauty; beauty, which is to a stage hero that restraining or impelling
power which law, or conscience, or scripture, are to other men; still, in the conclusion, when
the intrigue is dexterously completed, when the passion is worked up to its acme, and the vale-
dictory scene is so near at hand that it becomes inconvenient to the poet that the impetuosity of
his hero should be any longer restrained; when his own patience and the expostulating powers
of his friend are both exhausted together, and he seasonably winds up the drama by stabbing
either his worst enemy or his best benefactor, or, as it still more frequently happens, himself;
still, notwithstanding his criminal catastrophe, the hero has been exhibited through all the pre-
ceding scenes as such a combination of perfections; his behaviour has been so brave and so gen-
erous (and bravery and generosity are two qualities which the world boldly stakes against both
tables of the decalogue), that the youthful spectator, especially if he have that amiable warmth
and sensibility of soul which lay him so peculiarly open to seduction, is too much tempted to con-
sider as venial the sudden and unpremeditated crime to which the unresisted impulse of the
moment may have driven so accomplished a character. And a little tame tag of morality, set to
a few musical periods by the unimpassioned friend, is borne down, absorbed, lost, in the impetu-
ous but too engaging character of the feeling, fiery hero; a character, the errors of which are
now consummated by an act of murder, so affectingly managed, that censure is swallowed up in
pity the murderer is absolved by the weeping auditory, who are ready, if not to justify the crime,
yet to vindicate the criminal. The drowsy moral at the close, slowly attempts to creep after the
poison of the piece; but it creeps in vain; it can never expel that which it can never reach; for
one stroke of feeling, one natural expression of the passions, be the principle right or wrong,
carries away the affections of the auditor beyond any of the poet's force of reasoning to control.
And they know little of the power of the dramatic art, or of the conformation of the human mind,
who do not know that the heart of the feeling spectator is always at the command of the passions
in the hand of a true poet; who snatches him with uncontrolled dominion
"To Thebes and Athens when he will, and where."
Now, to counteract the bias given by the passions, all the flowers of rhetoric, all the flights
of mere poetry, and all the blunted weapons of logic united, are ineffectual. Of course, the con-
cluding antidote never defeats the mischief of the piece; the effect of the smooth moral is in-
stantly obliterated, while that of the indented passion is perhaps indelible.
Let me now for a moment turn to the younger part of that sex, to whose service I have
generally devoted my principal attention. A virtuous young woman, it will be said, who has
been correctly educated, will turn with abhorrence from the unchaste scenes of a loose play.
It is indeed so to be hoped; and yet many plays which really deserve that character, escape
that denomination. But I concede this point, and proceed to the more immediate object of my
animadversions. The remark may be thought preposterous, should I observe, that, to a chaste
and delicate young mind, there is in good plays one danger which, I will venture to assert, is
almost more formidable than that which is often attached to pieces more obviously censurable.
The more refined and delicate the passion of love is made to appear, the more insinuating, and,
of course, the more dangerous, will the exquisite and reiterated representation of that passion
be found. Now, love being the grand business of plays, those young ladies who are frequently
attending them, will be liable to nourish a feeling which is often strong enough of itself, without
this constant supply of foreign fuel, namely, that love is the grand business of life also. If the
passion be avowedly illicit, her well-instructed conscience will arm her with scruples, and her
sense of decorum will set her on her guard. While, on the other hand, the greater the purity
with which the passion is exhibited, provided the exhibition be very touching and warm, the more
deep and irresistible will be its effect on a tender and inexperienced heart; nay, the more likely
will the passion acted on the stage be to excite a corresponding passion in the heart of the young
spectatress. If she have not yet felt the passion she sees so finely portrayed, she will wish to
feel it; and, the not having felt it, she will consider as something wanting to the perfection of
her nature. She will ascribe the absence of it to a defect in her own heart which must be sup-
plied, or to some untowardness in her own circumstances which must be removed. Thus her
imagination will do the work of the passions, and the fancy will anticipate the feelings of the
heart the source this, of some of the most fatal disorders in the female character!
Now, to captivate such a tender and affectionate heart as that we are considering, the semblance
of virtue is necessary; for, while she will conceive of criminal passion as censurable, she will be
equally apt to consider even the most imprudent passion as justifiable, so long as the idea of
absolute crime is kept at a distance. If the love be represented as avowedly vicious, instead
of lending herself to the illusion, she will allow it ought to be sacrificed to duty; but if she
thinks it innocent, she persuades herself that every duty should be sacrificed to it. Nay, she
will value herself in proportion as she thinks she could imitate the heroine who is able to love
with so much violence and so much purity at the same time. By frequent repetition, especially
if there be a taste for romance and poetry in the innocent young mind, the feelings are easily
transplanted from the theatre to the closet; they are made to become a standard of action, and
are brought home as the regulators of life and manners. The heart being thus filled with the
pleasures of love a new era takes place in her mind, and she carries about with her an aptitude
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to receive any impression herself, and a constantly waking and active desire to make this im-
pression in return. The plain and sober duties of life begin to be uninteresting; she wishes
them to be diversified with events, and enlivened by heroes. Though she retains her virtue, her
sobermindedness is impaired; for she longs to be realizing those pains and pleasures, and to be
acting over those scenes and sacrifices, which she so often sees represented. If the evils arising
from frequent scenic representations to a young woman were limited to this single inconvenience,
that it makes her sigh to be a heroine, it would be a strong reason why a discreet and pious
mother should be slow in introducing her to them.
I purposely forbear, in this place, repeating any of those higher arguments drawn from the
utter irreconcileableness of this indulgence of the fancy, of this gratification of the senses, this
unbounded roving of the thoughts, with the divine injunction of bringing "every thought into
the obedience of Christ."
But it will be said, perhaps, all this rigour may be very suitable to enthusiasts and fanatics, to
the vulgar, the retired, and the obscure: but would you exclude the more liberal and polished
part of society from the delight and instruction which may be derived from the great masters
of the human heart, from Shakspeare particularly?
On this subject I think myself called upon to offer my opinion (such as it is) as unreservedly
as I have taken the liberty of doing on the points considered in the former part of this preface.
I think, then, that there is a substantial difference between seeing and reading a dramatic com-
position; and that the objections which lie so strongly against the one, are not, at least in the
same degree, applicable to the other. Or, rather, while there is an essential and inseparable
danger attendant on dramatic exhibitions, let the matter of the drama be ever so innocent, the
danger in reading a play arises solely from the sentiments contained in it.
To read a moral play is little different from reading any other innocent poem; the dialogue
form being a mere accident, and no way affecting the moral tendency of the piece. Nay, some
excellent poets have chosen that form on account of its peculiar advantages, even when the nature
of their subjects precluded the idea of theatrical exhibition. Thus Buchanan wrote his fine
tragedies of "The Baptist," and "Jephthah," Grotius that of "Christ Suffering," and Milton
that of "Samson Agonistes;" not to name the "Joseph," the "Bethulia Delivered," and some
other pieces of the amiable Metastasio. Nothing, therefore, could be more unreasonable, than to
proscribe from the study or the closet well-selected dramatic poetry. It may be read with safety,
because it can there be read with soberness. The most animated speeches subside into com-
parative tameness, and, provided they are perfectly pure, produce no ruffle of the passions, no
agitation of the senses, but merely afford a pleasant, and, it may be, a not unsalutary exercise to
the imagination.
In all the different kinds of poetry, there will be a necessity for selection; and where could
safer poetical amusement be found than in the works of Racine, whose Athalia, in particular (as
we have had occasion elsewhere to observe), most happily illustrates an interesting piece of scrip-
ture history, at the same time that, considered as a cornposition, it is itself a model of poetical
perfection. I may mention, as an exquisite piece, the Masque of Comus, and, as interesting
poems in the dramatic form also, the Caractacus, and Elfrida, of Mason; the passing over which
pieces in the volumes of that virtuous poet, merely because they are in a dramatic form, would
be an instance of scrupulosity which one might venture to say no well-informed conscience could
suggest.
Let neither, then, the devout and scrupulous, on the one hand, nor the captious caviller, on
the other, object to this distinction; I mean between reading a dramatic composition, and seeing
a theatrical exhibition, as if it were fanciful or arbitrary. In the latter, is it the mere repetition
of the speeches which implies danger? is it this which attracts the audience? No: were even
the best reader, if he did not bring in aid the novelty of a foreign language, to read the whole
play himself, without scenic decorations, without dress, without gesticulation, would such an ex-
hibition be numerously, or for any length of time, attended? What then chiefly draws the
multitude? It is the semblance of real action which is given to the piece, by different persons
supporting the different parts, and by their dress, their tones, their gestures, heightening the repre-
sentation into a kind of enchantment. It is the concomitant pageantry, it is the splendour of
the spectacle, and even the show of the spectators :-these are the circumstances which alto-
gether fill the theatre-which altogether produce the effect-which altogether create the danger.
These give a pernicious force to sentiments which, when read, merely explain the mysterious
action of the human heart, but which, when thus uttered, thus accompanied, become contagious
and destructive. These, in short, make up a scene of temptation and seduction, of overwrought
voluptuousness and unnerving pleasure, which surely ill accords with "working out our salvation
with fear and trembling," or with that frame of mind which implies that "the world is crucified
to us, and we to the world.”
I trust I have sufficiently guarded against the charge of inconsistency, even though I venture
to hazard an opinion that, in company with a judicious friend or parent, many scenes of Shak-
speare may be read not only without danger, but with improvement. Far be it from me to wish
to abridge the innocent delights of life, where they may be enjoyed with benefit to the under-
standing, and without injury to the principles. Women, especially, whose walk in life is so
circumscribed, and whose avenues of information are so few, may, I conceive, learn to know the
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
509
world with less danger, and to study human nature with more advantage, from the perusal of
selected parts of this incomparable genius, than from most other attainable sources. I would in
this view consider Shakspeare as a philosopher as well as poet, and I have been surprised to hear
many pious people universally confound and reprobate this poet with the common herd of drama-
tists and novelists. To his acute and sagacious mind every varied position of the human heart,
every shade of discrimination in the human character, all the minuter delicacies, all the exquisite
touches, all the distinct affections, all the contending interests, all the complicated passions of
the heart of man, seem, as far as is allowed to human inspection to discern them, to be laid
open. Though destitute himself of the aids of literature, and of the polish of society, he seems
to have possessed by intuition all the advantages that various learning and elegant society can
bestow; and to have combined the warmest energies of passion, and the boldest strokes of im-
agination, with the justest proprieties of reasoning, and the exactest niceties of conduct. He
makes every description a picture, and every sentiment an axiom. He seems to have known
how every being which did exist would speak and act under every supposed circumstance and
every possible situation; and how every being which did not exist must speak and act, if ever
he were to be called into actual existence.
From the discriminated, the guarded, the qualified perusal of such an author, it would be
impossible, nor does it appear to be necessary, to debar accomplished and elegantly educated
young persons. Let not the above eulogium be censured as too strong or too bold. In almost
every library they will find his writings; in almost every work of taste and criticism, the young
reader will not fail to meet the panegyric of Shakspeare. The frequent allusions to him, and the
beautiful quotations from him, will, if they light upon a corresponding taste, inflame it with a
curiosity to peruse all his works. Now, would it not be safer to anticipate the danger which
might result from a private and unqualified perusal, for the parent to select such pieces as have
in them the fewest of those corruptions, which truth must allow that Shakspeare possesses in
common with other dramatic poets? For who will deny that all the excellences we have ascribed
to him are debased by passages of offensive grossness? are tarnished with indelicacy, false taste,
and vulgarity? This is not the place for a discussion of those faults, too obvious to be over-
looked, too numerous to be detailed, too strong to be palliated. Let me, however, be permitted
to observe, that though Shakspeare often disgusts by single passages and expressions (which I
will not vindicate by ascribing them to the false taste of the age in which he wrote; for though
that may extenuate the fault of the poet, it does not diminish the danger of the reader), yet
perhaps the general tendency of his pieces is less corrupt than that of the pieces of almost any
dramatist; and the reader rises from the perusal of Shakspeare without those distinct images of
evil on his mind, without having his heart so dissolved by amatory scenes, or his mind so warped
by corrupt reasoning, or his heart so inflamed with seducing principles, as he will have expe-
rienced from other writers of the same description, however exempt their works may be from the
more broad and censurable vices of composition which disfigure many parts of Shakspeare. Lest
I be misrepresented, let it be observed, that I am now distinguishing the general result arising
from the tendency of his pieces, from the effect of particular passages; and this is the reason
why a discriminated perusal is so important. For, after all, the general disposition of mind with
which we rise from the reading of a work, is the best criterion of its utility or mischief. To
the tragedies of Shakspeare, too, belongs this superiority, that his pieces being faithful histories
of the human heart, and portraits of the human character, love is only introduced as one passion
among many which enslave mankind; whereas by most other play writers, it is treated as the
monopolizing tyrant of the heart.
It is not because I consider Shakspeare as a correct moralist and an unerring guide, that I sug-
gest the advantage of having the youthful curiosity allayed by a partial perusal, and under prudent
inspection but it is for this very different reason, lest, by having that curiosity stimulated by the
incessant commendation of this author, with which both books and conversation abound, young
persons should be excited to devour in secret an author who, if devoured in the gross, will not
fail, by many detached passages, to put a delicate reader in the situation of his own ancient Pistol
when eating the leek; that is, to swallow and execrate at the same time.
But to conclude,-which I will do with a recapitulation of the principal objects already touched
upon. That I may not be misunderstood, let me repeat that this preface is not addressed to the
gay and dissolute; to such as profess themselves to be "lovers of pleasure more than lovers of
God;"-but it is addressed to the more soberminded; to those who believe the gospel of Jesus
Christ; who wish to be enlightened by its doctrines, to be governed by its precepts, and who
profess to be "seeking a better country, even a heavenly one.' The question then which we
have been asking is, whether the stage, in its present state, be a proper amusement for such a
character? What it would be, if perfectly reformed, and cast into the Christian mould, we have
considered as another question, which it will be time enough to answer when the reformation
itself takes place.
Neither (as has been observed) is it to the present purpose to insist that theatrical amuse-
ments are the most rational; for the question we have undertaken to agitate is, whether they
are blameless? In this view, the circumstance of going but seldom cannot satisfy a conscien-
tious mind; for if the amusement be right, we may partake of it with moderation, as of other
lawful pleasures; if wrong, we should never partake of it.
510
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Some individuals may urge that the amusements of the theatre never had the bad effects on
their minds which they are said to have on the minds of others; but supposing this to be really
the case (which however may admit of doubt), ought not such persons to reflect, that by their
presence they sanction that which is obviously hurtful to others, and which must, if so, be dis-
pleasing to God?
The stage is by universal concurrence allowed to be no indifferent thing. The impressions it
makes on the mind are deep and strong; deeper and stronger, perhaps, than are made by any
other amusement. If then such impressions be in the general hostile to Christianity, the whole
resolves itself into this short question-Should a Christian frequent it
[In addition to what has here been advanced on the subject of theatrical amusements, the
editor hopes to be excused for inserting the conclusion of Jeremy Collier's "Short View of the
Immorality and Profaneness of the English Stage:" printed in 1699.
"These entertainments are, as it were, literally renounced in baptism. They are the vanities
of the wicked world, and the works of the devil, in the most open and emphatical signification.
What communion has light with darkness, and what concord has Christ with Belial? Call you
this diversion? can profaneness be such an irresistible delight? Does the crime of the perform
ance make the spirit of the satisfaction, and is the scorn of Christianity the entertainment of
Christians? Is it such a pleasure to hear the scriptures burlesqued? Is ribaldry so very obli-
ging, and atheism so charming a quality? Are we indeed willing to quit the privilege of our
nature, to surrender our charter of immortality, and throw up the pretences to another life? It
may be so; but then we should do well to remember that NOTHING is not in our power. Our
desires did not make us, neither can they unmake us. But I hope our wishes are not so mean,
and that we have a better sense of the dignity of our being. And if so, how can we be pleased
with those things which would degrade us into brutes, which ridicule our creed, and turn all our
expectations into romance.
And, after all, the jest on't is, these men would make us believe their design is virtue and
reformation. In good time! they are likely to combat vice with success, who destroy the princi-
ples of good and evil! Take them at the best, and they do no more than expose a little humour
and formality. But then, as the matter is managed, the correction is much worse than the fault.
They laugh at pedantry and teach atheism; cure a pimple, and give the plague. I heartily
wish they would have let us alone. To exchange virtue for behaviour, is a hard bargain.
not plain honesty much better than hypocrisy well dressed? what's sight good for, without sub-
stance? what is a wellbred libertine, but a wellbred knave? One that can't prefer conscience
to pleasure, without calling himself fool; and will sell his friend, or his father, if need be, for
his convenience.
Is
"In short: nothing can be more disserviceable to probity and religion than the management
of the STAGE. It cherishes those passions, and rewards those vices, which 'tis the business of
reason to discountenance It strikes at the root of principle, draws off the inclinations from
virtue, and spoils good education. It is the most effectual means to emasculate people's spirits,
and debauch their manners. How many of the unwary have these sirens devoured? and how
often has the best blood been tainted with this infection? what disappointments of parents, what
confusion in families, and what beggary in estates, have been hence occasioned? and, which is
still worse, the mischief spreads daily, and the malignity grows more envenomed. The fever
works up towards madness, and will scarcely endure to be touched. And what hope is there of
health, when the patient strikes in with the disease, and flies in the face of the remedy? Can
religion retrieve us? yes, when we don't despise it. But while our notions are naught, our
lives will hardly be otherwise. What can the assistance of the church signify to those who are
more ready to rally the preacher, than practise the sermon? to those who are overgrown with
pleasure, and hardened in ill custom? who have neither patience to hear, nor conscience to take
hold of? you may almost as well feed a man without a mouth, as give advice where there's no
disposition to receive it. It is true, as long as there is life there's hope. Sometimes the force
of argument, and the grace of God, and the anguish of affliction, may strike through the preju-
dice, and make their way into the soul. But these circumstances don't always meet, and ther
the case is extremely dangerous. For this miserable temper, we may thank the STAGE, in a
great measure; and, therefore, if I mistake not, they have the least pretence to favour, and the
most need of repentance of all men living."]
i
THE INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE:
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
as it was acted in 1774, at THE THEATRE ROYAL AT BATH.
"The man resolv'd, and steady to his trust,
Inflexible to ill, and obstinately just."
DEAR MADAM,
ΤΟ
THE HON. MRS. BOSCAWEN.
Ir seems somewhat extraordinary, that although, with persons of great merit and delicacy,
no virtue stands in higher estimation than truth; yet, in such an address as the present, there
would be some danger of offending them, by a strict adherence to it: I mean, by uttering truths
so generally acknowledged, that every one except the person addressed would acquit the writer
of flattery. And it will be a singular circumstance to see a dedication without praise, to a lady
possessed of every quality and accomplishment which can justly entitle her to it.
I
am,
dear madam, with great respect,
Your most obedient, and very obliged humble servant,
THE AUTHOR.
THE ARGUMENT.
AMONG the great names which have done honour to antiquity in general, and to the Roman
Republic in particular, that of Marcus Attilius Regulus has, by the general consent of all ages,
been considered as one of the most splendid, since he not only sacrificed his labours, his liberty,
and his life, for the good of his country, but, by a greatness of soul almost peculiar to himself,
contrived to make his very misfortunes contribute to that glorious end.
After the Romans had met with various successes in the first Punic war, under the command
of Regulus, victory at length declared for the opposite party-the Roman army was totally
overthrown, and Regulus himself taken prisoner by Xantippus, a Lacedæmonian general in the
service of the Carthaginians: the victorious enemy, exulting in so important a conquest, kept
him many years in close imprisonment, and loaded him with the most cruel indignities. They
thought it was now in their power to make their own terms with Rome, and determined to send
Regulus thither, with their ambassador, to negotiate a peace, or at least an exchange of captives,
thinking he would gladly persuade his countrymen to discontinue a war which necessarily pro-
longed his captivity. They previously exacted from him an oath to return, should his embassy
prove unsuccessful; at the same time giving him to understand, that he must expect to suffer a
cruel death if he failed in it: this they artfully intimated, as the strongest motive for him to
leave no means unattempted to accomplish their purpose.
At the unexpected arrival of this venerable hero, the Romans expressed the wildest transports
of joy, and would have submitted to almost any conditions, to procure his enlargement; but
Regulus, so far from availing himself of his influence with the senate to obtain any personal
advantages, employed it to induce them to reject proposals so evidently tending to dishonour
their country, declaring his fixed resolution to return to bondage and death, rather than violate
his oath.
He at last extorted from them their consent; and departed amid the tears of his family, the
importunities of his friends, the applauses of the senate, and the tumultuous opposition of the
people and, as a great poet of his own nation beautifully observes, "he embarked for Carthage
as calm and unconcerned, as if, on finishing the tedious lawsuits of his clients, he was retiring
to Venafrian fields, or the sweet country of Tarentum."
*This piece is a pretty close imitation of the Attilio Regolo of Metastasio, but enlarged
and extended into a tragedy of five acts. Historical truth has in general been followed, except
in some less essential instances, particularly that of placing the return of Regulus to Rome pos-
terior to the death of his wife. The writer herself never considered the plot as sufficiently
bustling and dramatic for representation.
512
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
PROLOGUE.
WRITTEN BY THE REV. DR. Langhorne.
DEEP in the bosom of departed days,
Where the first gems of human glory blaze;
Where, crown'd with flowers, in wreaths im-
mortal dress'd,
The sacred shades of ancient virtue rest;
With joy they search, who joy can feel, to find
Some honest reason still to love mankind.
There the fair foundress of the scene to-night,
Explores the paths that dignify delight;
The regions of the mighty dead pervades ;
The sibyl she that leads us to the shades.
O may each blast of ruder breath forbear
To waft her light leaves on the ruthless air;
Since she, as heedless, strives not to maintain
This tender offspring of her teeming brain!
For this poor birth was no provision made,
A flower that sprung and languish'd in the shade.
On Avon's banks, forsaken and forlorn,
This careless mother left her elder born;
And though unlike what Avon hail'd of yore,
Those giant sons that Shakspeare's banners
bore,
Yet may we yield this little offspring grace,
And love the last and least of such a race.
Shall the strong scenes, where senatorial Rome
Mourn'd o'er the rigour of a patriot's doom;
Where melting nature, aw'd by virtue's eye,
Hid the big drop, and held the bursting sigh,
Where all that majesty of soul can give,
Truth, honour, pity, fair affection live:
Shall scenes like these, the glory of an age,
Gleam from the press, nor triumph on the stage?
Forbid it, Britons! and, as Romans brave,
| Like Romans boast one citizen to save.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
REGULUS.-Mr. Henderson.
PUBLIUS, his son. Mr. Dimond.
MANLIUS, the Consul.-Mr. Blissett.
LICINIUS, a Tribune.-Mr. Brown.
ACT I.
HAMILCAR, the Carthaginian Ambassador.—
Mr. Rowbotham.
ATTILIA, daughter of Regulus.-Miss Mansell.
BARCE, a Carthaginian captive.-Miss Wheeler.
Guards, Lictors, People, &c.
Scene.-Near the Gates of Rome.
SCENE-A Hall in the Consul's Palace.
Enter LICINIUS, ATTILIA, Lictors, and People.
Lic. ATTILIA waiting here? Is't possible?
Is this a place for Regulus's daughter?
Just gods! must that incomparable maid
Associate here with Lictors and Plebeians?
Act. Yes, on this threshold patiently I wait
The consul's coming; I would make him blush
To see me here his suiter. O, Licinius,
This is no time for form and cold decorum ;
Five lagging years have crept their tedious round,
And Regulus, alas !. is still a slave;
A wretched slave, unpitied, and forgotten;
No other tribute paid his memory,
Than the sad tears of his unhappy child;
If she be silent, who will speak for Regulus?
Lic. Let not her sorrows make my fair unjust.
Is there in Rome a heart so dead to virtue,
That does not beat in Regulus's cause?
That wearies not the gods for his return?
That does not think all subjugated Afric,
A slender, unimportant acquisition,
If, in return for this extended empire,
The freedom of thy father be the purchase?
These are the feelings of imperial Rome;
My own, it were superfluous to declare.
For if Licinius were to weigh his merit,
That he's thy father were sufficient glory.
He was my leader, train'd me up to arms;
And, if I boast a spark of Roman honour,
I owe it to his precepts and his virtues.
Att. And yet I have not seen Licinius stir.
Lic. Ah! spare me thy reproaches-what,
when late
Twas not the lust of power, or pride of rank,
A private citizen, could I attempt ?
Which made me seek the dignity of tribune;
No, my Attilia, but I fondly hop'd
"Twould strengthen and enforce the just request,
Which, as a private man, I vainly urg'd;
But now, the people's representative,
I shall demand, Attilia, to be heard.
Att. Ah! let us not too hastily apply
This dangerous remedy; I would not rouse
Fresh tumults 'twixt the people and the senate:
Each views with jealousy the idol, power,
Which, each possessing, would alike abuse.
What one demands, the other still denies.
Might I advise you, try a gentler method;
I know that every moment Rome expects
Th' ambassador of Carthage, nay, 'tis said
The conscript fathers are already met
To give him audience in Bellona's temple.
There might the consul at my suit, Licinius,
Propose the ransom of my captive father.
Lic. Ah! think, Attilia, who that consul is,
Manlius, thy father's rival, and his foe:
His ancient rival, and his foe profess'd:
To hope in him, my fair, were fond delusion.
Att. Yet tho' his rival, Manlius, is a Roman:
Nor will he think of private enmities,
Weigh'd in the balance with the good of Rome,
Let me at least make trial of his honour.
Lic. Be it so, my fair! but elsewhere make
thy suit;
Let not the consul meet Attilia here,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
513
Confounded with the refuse of the people.
Att. Yes, I will see him here, e'en here, Lici-
nius.
Let Manlius blush, not me: here will I speak,
Here shall he answer me.
Lic.
Att. Do thou retire.
Lic.
Behold, he comes.
O, bless me with a look,
One parting look, at least.
Att.
Know, my Licinius,
That at this moment I am all the daughter,
The filial feelings now possess my soul,
And other passions find no entrance there.
Lic. O sweet, yet powerful influence of virtue,
That charms though cruel, though unkind sub-
And what was love exalts to admiration! [dues,
Yes, 'tis the privilege of souls like thine
To conquer most when least they aim at conquest.
Yet, ah! vouchsafe to think upon Licinius,
Nor fear to rob thy father of his due;
For surely virtue and the gods approve
Unwearied constancy and spotless love.
[Exit LICINIUS.
Enter MANLius.
Att. Ah! Manlius, stay, a moment stay, and
hear me.
Man. I did not think to meet thee here, Attilia ;
The place so little worthy of the guest.
Att. It would, indeed, have ill become Attilia,
While still her father was a Roman citizen
But for the daughter of a slave to Carthage,
It surely is most fitting.
Say, Attilia,
Man.
What is the purpose of thy coming hither?
Att. What is the purpose, patience, pitying
Heaven!
Tell me, how long, to Rome's eternal shame,
To fill with horror all the wond'ring world,
My father still must groan in Punic chains,
And waste the tedious hours in cruel bondage?
Days follow days, and years to years succeed,
And Rome forgets her hero, is content
That Regulus be a forgotten slave.
What is his crime? is it that he preferr'd
His country's profit to his children's good?
Is it th' unshaken firmness of his soul,
Just, uncorrupt, and, boasting, let me speak it,
Poor in the highest dignities of Rome?
Illustrious crime! O glorious poverty!
Man. But know, Attilia-
Att.
O, have patience with me.
And can ungrateful Rome so soon forget?
Can those who breathe the air he breath'd forget
The great, the godlike virtues of my father?
There's not a part of Rome but speaks his praise.
The streets-thro' them the hero pass'd trium-
The forum-there the legislator plann'd [phant:
The wisest, purest laws the senate-house-
There spoke the patriot Roman-there his voice
Secur'd the public safety: Manlius, yes;
The wisdom of his counsels match'd his valour.
Enter the temples-mount the capitol—
And tell me, Manlius, to what hand but his
They owe their trophies, and their ornaments,
Their foreign banners, and their boasted ensigns,
Tarentine, Punic, and Sicilian spoils?
Nay, e'en those lictors who precede thy steps,
VOL. I.
This consul's purple which invests thy limbs,
All, all were Regulus's, were my father's.
And yet this hero, this exalted patriot,
This man of virtue, this immortal Roman,
In base requital for his services,
Is left to linger out a life in chains,
No honours paid him but a daughter's tears.
O Rome! O Regulus! O thankless citizens!
Man. Just are thy tears:-thy father well
deserves them;
But know thy censure is unjust, Attilia.
The fate of Regulus is felt by all:
We know and mourn the cruel woes he suffers
From barbarous Carthage.
Att.
Manlius, you mistake;
Alas! it is not Carthage which is barbarous;
'Tis Rome, ungrateful Rome, is the barbarian;
Carthage but punishes a foe profess'd,
But Rome betrays her hero and her father:
Carthage remembers how he slew her sons,
But Rome forgets the blood he shed for her:
Carthage revenges an acknowledged foe,
But Rome with basest perfidy rewards
The glorious hand that bound her brow with
laurels.
Which now is the barbarian, Rome or Carthage ?
Man. What can be done?
Att.
A woman shall inform you.
Convene the senate; let them straight propose
A ransom, or exchange for Regulus,
To Africa's ambassador. Do this,
And heav'n's best blessings crown your days
with peace.
Man. Thou speakest like a daughter, I, Attilia,
Must as a consul act; I must consult
The good of Rome, and with her good, her glory.
Would it not tarnish her unspotted fame,
To sue to Carthage on the terms thou wishest?
Att. Ah! rather own thou'rt still my father's
foe.
Man. Ungen'rous maid! no fault of mine
concurr'd
To his destruction. "Twas the chance of war.
Farewell! ere this the senate is assembled-
My presence is requir'd.-Speak to the fathers,
And try to soften their austerity;
My rigour they may render vain, for know,
I am Rome's consul, not her king, Attilia.
[Exit MANLIUS with the lictors, &c.
Att. (alone.) This flattering hope, alas! has
prov'd abortive.
One consul is our foe, the other absent.
What shall the sad Attilia next attempt?
Suppose I crave assistance from the people!
Ah! my unhappy father, on what hazards,
What strange vicissitudes, what various turns,
Thy life, thy liberty, thy all depends!
Enter BARCE (in haste).
Bar. Ah, my Attilia!
Att.
Whence this eager haste?
Bar. Th' ambassador of Carthage is arriv'd.
Att. And why does that excite such won-
drous transport?
Bar. I bring another cause of greater still.
Att. Name it, my Barce.
Bar.
Regulus comes with him.
Att. My father! can it be?
2 K
"
-
514
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1
Bar.
Thy father-Regulus.
Att. Thou art deceiv'd, or thou deceiv'st thy
friend.
Bar. Indeed I saw him not, but every tongue
Speaks the glad tidings.
Enter PUBLIUS.
Att.
See where Publius comes.
Pub. My sister, I'm transported! Oh Attilia,
He's here, our father-Regulus is come!
Att. I thank you, gods: O my full heart!
where is he?
Hasten, my brother, lead, O lead me to him.
Pub. It is too soon: restrain thy fond impa-
tience.
With Africa's ambassador he waits,
Until th' assembled senate give him audience.
Att. Where was he, Publius, when thou
saw'st him first?
Pub. You know, in quality of Roman questor,
My duty 'tis to find a fit abode
For all ambassadors of foreign states.
Hearing the Carthaginian was arriv'd,
I hasten'd to the port, when, O just gods!
No foreigner, no foe, no African
Salutes my eye, but Regulus-my father!
Att. Oh mighty joy! too exquisite delight!
What said the hero? tell me, tell me all,
And ease my anxious breast.
Ere I arriv'd,
Pub.
My father stood already on the shore,
Fixing his eyes with anxious eagerness,
As straining to descry the capitol.
I saw, and flew with transport to embrace him,
Pronounced with wildest joy the name of father--
With reverence seiz'd his venerable hand,
And would have kiss'd it; when the awful hero,
With that stern grandeur which made Carthage
tremble,
Drew back-stood all collected in himself,
And said austerely, Know, thou rash young man,
That slaves in Rome have not the rights of fa-
thers.
Then asked, if yet the senate was assembled,
And where? which having heard, without in-
dulging
The fond effusions of his soul, or mine,
He suddenly retired. I flew with speed
To find the consul, but as yet, success
Attends not my pursuit. Direct me to him.
Bar. Publius, you'll find him in Bellona's
temple.
Att. Then Regulus returns to Rome a slave!
Pub. Yes, but be comforted; I know he brings
Proposals for a peace; his will's his fate.
Att. Rome may perhaps refuse to treat of
peace.
Pub. Didst thou behold the universal joy
At his return, thou wouldst not doubt success.
There's not a tongue in Rome but, wild with
transport,
Proclaims aloud that Regulus is come!
The streets are filled with thronging multitudes,
Pressing with eager gaze to catch a look.
The happy man who can descry him first,
Points him to his next neighbour, he to his ;
|
Then what a thunder of applause goes round;
What music to the ear of filial love!
Attilia! not a Roman eye was seen,
But shed pure tears of exquisite delight.
Judge of my feelings by thy own, my sister.
By the large measure of thy fond affection,
Judge mine.
Att. Where is Licinius? find him out;
My joy is incomplete till he partakes it.
When doubts and fears have rent my anxious
In all my woes he kindly bore a part: [heart,
Felt all my sorrows with a soul sincere,
Sigh'd as I sigh'd, and number'd tear for tear:
Now favouring heav'n my ardent vows has blest,
He shall divide the transports of my breast.
P
[Exit ATTILIA.
Pub. Barce, adieu!
Bar
Publius, a moment hear me.
Know'st thou the name of Africa's ambassador?
Pub. Hamilcar?
Bar. Son of Hanno?
Pub. Yes! the same.
Bar. Ah me! Hamilcar !-How shall I sup-
port it!
(aside.)
Pub. Ah, charming maid! the blood forsakes
thy cheek:
Is he the rival of thy Publius? speak,
And tell me all the rigour of my fate.
Bar. Hear me, my lord. Since I have been
thy slave,
Thy goodness, and the friendship of Attilia,
Have soften'd all the horrors of my fate.
Till now I have not felt the weight of bondage.
Till now-ah, Publius!-think me not un-
grateful,
I would not wrong thee-I will be sincere—
I will expose the weakness of my soul.
Know then, my lord-how shall I tell thee all?
Pub. Stop, cruel maid, nor wound thy Publius
more;
I dread the fatal frankness of thy words:
Spare me the pain of knowing I am scorn'd;
And if thy heart's devoted to another,
Yet do not tell it me; in tender pity
Do not, my fair, dissolve the fond illusion,
The dear delightful visions I have form'd
Of future joy, and fond exhaustless love.
[Exit PUBLIUS.
Bar. (alone.) And shall I see him then, see
my Hamilcar,
Pride of my soul, and lord of all my wishes?
The only man in all our burning Afric
Who ever taught my bosom how to love!
Down, foolish heart! be calm, my busy
thoughts!
If at his name I feel these strange emotions,
How shall I see, how meet my conqueror?
O let not those presume to judge of joy [gives.
Who ne'er have felt the pangs which absence
Such tender transport those alone can prove,
Who long, like me, have known disastrous love;
The tears that fell, the sighs that once were paid,
Like grateful incense on his altar laid;
The lambent flame rekindle, not destroy,
And woes remember'd heighten present joy.
[Exit.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
515
ACT II.
SCENE-The inside of the Temple of Bellona-
Seats for the Senators and Ambassadors-
Lictors guarding the entrance.
MANLIUS, PUBLIUS, and Senators.
Man. Let Regulus be sent for to our presence;
And with him the ambassador of Carthage.
Is it then true the foe would treat of peace?
Pub. They wish at least our captives were
exchang'd,
And send my father to declare their wish:
If he obtain it, well: if not, then Regulus
Returns to meet the vengeance of the foe,
And pay for your refusal with his blood:
He ratified this treaty with his oath,
And, ere he quitted Carthage, heard, unmov'd,
The dreadful preparations for his death, [men!
Should he return. O Romans! O my country-
Can you resign your hero to your foe?
Say, can you give up Regulus to Carthage?
Man. Peace, Publius, peace, for see, thy
father comes.
Enter HAMILCAR and REGULUS.
Ham. Why dost thou stop? dost thou forget
this temple?
I thought these walls had been well known to
Regulus ?
Reg. Hamilcar! I was thinking what I was
When last I saw them, and what now I am.
Ham. (to the consul.) Carthage, by me, to
Rome this greeting sends;
That, wearied out, at length, with bloody war,
If Rome inclines to peace, she offers it.
Man. We will at leisure answer thee.
seated.
Be
Come, Regulus, resume thine ancient place.
Reg. (pointing to the senators.) Who then
are these?
Man. The senators of Rome.
Reg. And who art thou?
|
Reg. Know, Publius, that thy duty's at an
Thy father died when he became a slave. [end;
Man. Now urge thy suit, Hamilcar, we at-
tend.
[senger;
Ham. Afric hath chosen Regulus her mes-
In him, both Carthage and Hamilcar speak.
Man. (to Reg.) We are prepar'd to hear thee.
Ham. (to Reg.)
Ere thou speak'st
Maturely weigh what thou hast sworn to do,
Should Rome refuse to treat with us of peace.
Reg. What I have sworn I will fulfil, Ham-
Be satisfied.
[ilcar.
Pub.
Ye guardian gods of Rome,
With your own eloquence inspire him now!
Reg. Carthage by me this embassy has sent
If Rome will leave her undisturb'd possession
Of all she now enjoys, she offers peace ;
But if you rather wish protracted war,
Her next proposal is, exchange of captives ;—
If you demand advice of Regulus,
Reject them both.
Ham. What dost thou mean?
Pub. My father!
;
Man. Exalted fortitude! I'm lost in wonder.
(Aside.)
[breath,
Reg. Romans! I will not idly spend my
To show the dire effects of such a peace;
The foes, who beg it, show their dread of war.
Man. But the exchange of prisoners thou pro-
posest?
[nic fraud.
Reg. That artful scheme conceals some Pu-
Ham. Roman, beware! hast thou so soon
forgotten?
Reg. I will fulfil the treaty I have sworn to.
Pub. All will be ruined.
Reg. Conscript fathers! hear me.— [ills,
Though this exchange teems with a thousand
Yet 'tis th' example I would deprecate.
This treaty fix'd, Rome's honour is no more;
Should her degenerate sons be promis'd life,
Dishonest life, and worthless liberty,
Her glory, valour, military pride,
Her fame, her fortitude, her all were lost.
What honest captive of them all would wish
With shame to enter her imperial gates,
The flagrant scourge of slavery on his back?
None, none, my friends, would wish a fate so vile,
Man. Yes!-For her heroes Rome forgets But those base cowards who resign'd their arms,
Softens their harsh austerity for thee, [her laws; Unstain'd with hostile blood, and poorly sued,
To whom she owes her conquest and her tri-Through ignominious fear of death, for bond-
umphs.
Man. What mean'st thou? I'm her consul;
Hast thou so soon forgotten Manlius? [Rome,
Reg. And shall a slave then have a place in
Among her consuls and her senators?
[bers.
Reg. Rome may forget, but Regulus remem-
Man. Was ever man so obstinately good?
(Aside.)
Pub. (rising.) Fathers, your pardon. I can sit
no longer.
(To the senators.)
Reg. Publius, what dost thou mean?
Pub.
To do my duty;
Where Regulus must stand, shall Publius sit?
Reg. Alas! O Rome, how are thy manners
chang'd!
When last I left thee, ere I sail'd for Afric,
It was a crime to think of private duties
When public cares requir'd attention.—Sit,
(To Pub.) And learn to occupy thy place with
honour.
Pub. Forgive me, sir, if I refuse obedience;
My heart o'erflows with duty to my father.
age;
The scorn, the laughter, of th' insulting foe.
O shame! shame! shame! eternal infamy!
Man. However hurtful this exchange may be,
The liberty, the life of Regulus,
More than compensates for it.
Reg.
Thou art mistaken.
This Regulus is a mere mortal man,
Yielding apace to all th' infirmities
Of weak, decaying nature. I am old,
Nor can my future, feeble services,
Assist my country much; but mark me well;
The young fierce heroes you'd restore to Car-
thage,
In lieu of this old man, are her chief bulwarks.
Fathers! in vig'rous youth this well-strung arm
Fought for my country, fought and conquer'd
for her:
:
...
516
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
That was the time to prize its service high.
Now, weak and nerveless, let the foe possess it,
For it can harm them in the field no more.
Let Carthage have the poor, degrading triumph,
To close these failing eyes; but, O, my coun-
trymen !
Check their vain hopes, and show aspiring Afric
That heroes are the common growth of Rome.
Man. Unequall'd fortitude.
Pub. O fatal virtue!
[founds me.
Ham. What do I hear? this constancy con-
Man. (to the senators.) Let honour be the
spring of all our actions,
Not interest, fathers. Let no selfish views
Preach safety at the price of truth and justice.
Reg. If Rome would thank me, I will teach
her how.
-Know, fathers, that these savage Africans
Thought me so base, so very low of soul,
That the poor, wretched privilege, of breathing,
Would force me to betray my country to them.
Have these barbarians any tortures left,
To match the cruelty of such a thought?
Revenge me, fathers! and I'm still a Roman.
Arm, arm yourselves, prepare your citizens,
Snatch your imprison'd eagles from their fanes,
Fly to the shores of Carthage, force her gates,
Die every Roman sword in Punic blood-
And do such deeds—that when I shall return
(As I have sworn, and am resolved to do),
I may behold with joy, reflected back,
The terrors of your rage in the dire visages
Of my astonish'd executioners. [in wonder !
Ham. Surprise has chill'd my blood! I'm lost
Pub. Does no one answer? must my father
perish!
[question:
Man. Romans, we must defer th' important
Maturest counsels must determine on it.
Rest we awhile :-Nature requires some pause
From high-rais'd admiration. Thou, Hamilcar,
Shalt shortly know our final resolution.
Meantime, we go to supplicate the gods.
Reg. Have you a doubt remaining? Man-
lius, speak.
Man. Yes, Regulus, I think the danger less
To lose th' advantage thy advice suggests,
Than would accrue to Rome in losing thee,
Whose wisdom might direct, whose valour
guard her.
Athirst for glory thou wouldst rush on death,
And for thy country's sake wouldst greatly perish.
Too vast a sacrifice thy zeal requires,
For Rome must bleed when Regulus expires.
Exeunt consul and senators.
Manent REGULUS, PUBLIUS, HAMILCAR; to
them enter ATTILIA and LICINIUS.
Ham. Does Regulus fulfil his promise thus ?
Reg. I've promis'd to return, and I will do it.
Att. My father! think a moment.
Lic.
Ah! my friend!
Lic. and Att. O, by this hand, we beg—
Reg.
Away! no more.
Thanks to Rome's guardian gods, I'm yet a slave,
And will be still a slave, to make Rome free!
Att. Was the exchange refused? Oh! ease
my fears.
Reg. Publius! conduct Hamilcar and myself
|
To the abode thou hast for each provided.
Att. A foreign residence? a strange abode ?
And will my father spurn his household gods?
Pub. My sire a stranger ?-Will he taste no
more
The smiling blessings of his cheerful home?
Reg. Dost thou not know the laws of Rome
A foe's ambassador within her gates? [forbid
Pub. This rigid law does not extend to thee.
Reg. Yes; did it not alike extend to all,
"Twere tyranny.-The law rights every man,
But favours none.
Att.
Then, O my father,
Allow thy daughter to partake thy fate!
Reg. Attilia no. The present exigence
Demands far other thoughts, than the soft cares,
The fond effusions, the delightful weakness,
The dear affections 'twixt the child and parent.
Att. How is my father chang'd from what
I've known him!
[Regulus,
Reg. The fate of Regulus is chang'd, not
I am the same; in laurels or in chains..
'Tis the same principle; the same fix'd soul,
Unmov'd itself, though circumstances change.
The native vigour of the free-born mind
Still struggles with, still conquers, adverse for-
tune;
Soars above chains, invincible though van-
quish'd.
[Exeunt REGULUS and PUBlius.
ATTILIA, HAMILCAR, going, enter BARCE.
Bar. Ah! my Hamilcar.
Ham.
Ah! my long-lost BARCE:
Again I lose thee; Regulus rejects
Th' exchange of prisoners Africa proposes.
My heart's too full. Oh, I have much to say!
Bar. Yet you unkindly leave me, and say
nothing.
[loves,
Ham. Ah! didst thou love as thy Hamilcar
Words were superfluous; in my eyes, my Barce,
Thou'dst read the tender eloquence of love,
Th' uncounterfeited language of my heart.
A single look betrays the soul's soft feelings,
And shows imperfect speech of little worth.
[Exit HAMILCar.
Att. My father then conspires his own de-
Is it not so?
[struction.
Bar.
Indeed, I fear it much;
But as the senate has not yet resolv'd, [ment;
There is some room for hope; lose not a mo-
And, ere the conscript fathers are assembled,
Try all the powers of winning eloquence,
Each gentle art of feminine persuasion,
To bend the rigid Romans to thy purpose.
The love of kindred, and the faith of friends,
Att. Yes, Barce, I will go; I will exert
My little pow'r, though hopeless of success.
Undone Attilia! fall'n from hope's gay heights
Down the dread precipice of deep despair.
So some tir'd mariner the coast espies,
And his lov'd home explores with straining eyes;
Prepares with joy to quit the treacherous deep,
Hush'd every wave, and every wind asleep;
But, ere he lands upon the well-known shore,
Wild storms arise, and furious billows roar,
Tear the fond wretch from all his hopes away,
And drive his shatter'd bark again to sea.
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
517
ACT III.
SCENE-A Portico of a Palace without the
gates of Rome.-The abode of the Cartha-
ginian ambassador.
Enter REGULUS and PUBLIUS meeting.
Reg. Ah! Publius here at such a time as
this?
[senate
Know'st thou the important question that the
This very hour debate?-Thy country's glory,
Thy father's honour, and the public good?
Dost thou know this, and fondly linger here?
Pub. They're not yet met, my father.
Reg.
Haste-away--
Support my counsel in th' assembled senate,
Confirm their wav'ring virtue by thy courage,
And Regulus shall glory in his boy. [task.
Pub. Ah! spare thy son the most ungrateful
What!—supplicate the ruin of my father?
Reg. The good of Rome can never hurt her
sons.
Pub. In pity to thy children, spare thyself.
Reg. Dost thou then think that mine's a
frantic bravery?
That Regulus would rashly seek his fate?
Publius! how little dost thou know thy sire!
Misjudging youth! learn, that like other men,
I shun the evil, and I seek the good;
But that I find in guilt, and this in virtue.
Were it not guilt, guilt of the blackest die,
Even to think of freedom at th' expense
Of my dear bleeding country? to me, therefore,
Freedom and life would be the heaviest evils;
But to preserve that country, to restore her,
To heal her wounds, though at the price of life,
Or, what is dearer far, the price of liberty,
Is virtue-therefore, slavery and death
Are Regulus's good-his wish-his choice.
Pub. Yet sure our country-
Reg.
Is a whole, my Publius,
Of which we all are parts, nor should a citizen
Regard his interests as distinct from hers;
No hopes or fears should touch his patriot soul,
But what affect her honour or her shame.
E'en when in hostile fields he bleeds to save her,
'Tis not his blood he loses, 'tis his country's;
He only pays her back a debt he owes.
To her he's bound for birth and education :
Her laws secure him from domestic feuds,
And from the foreign foe her arms protect him.
She lends him honours, dignity, and rank,
His wrongs revenges, and his merit pays;
And, like a tender and indulgent mother,
Loads him with comforts, and would make his
state
As blest as nature and the gods design'd it.
Such gifts, my son, have their alloy of pain,
And let th' unworthy wretch, who will not bear
His portion of the public burden, lose
Th' advantages it yields;-let him retire
From the dear blessings of a social life,
And from the sacred laws which guard those
blessings;
Renounce the civiliz'd abodes of man,
With kindred brutes one common shelter seek
In horrid wilds, and dens, and dreary caves,
And with their shaggy tenants share the spoil;
Or, if the savage hunters miss their prey,
From scatter'd acorns pick a scanty meal,-
Far from the sweet civilities of life; [dom :
There let him live, and vaunt his wretched free-
While we, obedient to the laws that guard us,
Guard them, and live or die as they decree.
Pub. With reverence and astonishment I hear
thee!
Thy words, my father, have convinc'd my reason,
But cannot touch my heart;-nature denies
Obedience so repugnant. I'm a son.
Reg. A poor excuse, unworthy of a Roman!
Brutus, Virginius, Manlius-they were fathers.
Pub. 'Tis true, they were; but this heroic
This glorious elevation of the soul. [greatness,
Has been confin'd to fathers,-Rome, till now,
Boasts not a son of such unnatural virtue,
Who, spurning all the powerful ties of blood,
Has labour'd to procure his father's death.
Reg. Then be the first to give the great ex-
ample-
Go, hasten, be thyself that son, my Publius.
Pub. My father, ah !
Reg.
Publius, no more; begone-
Attend the senate-let me know my fate;
'Twill be more glorious if announc'd by thee.
Pub. Too much, too much, thy rigid virtue
claims
From thy unhappy son.
O nature, nature!
Reg. Publius! am I a stranger, or thy father?
In either case an obvious duty waits thee;
If thou regard'st me as an alien here,
Learn to prefer to mine the good of Rome;
If as a father-reverence my commands. [soul,
Pub. Ah! couldst thou look into my inmost
And see how warm it burns with love and duty,
Thou wouldst abate the rigour of thy words.
Reg. Could I explore the secrets of thy breast,
The virtue I would wish should flourish there
Were fortitude, not weak, complaining love.
Pub. If thou requir'st my blood, I'll shed it all;
But when thou dost enjoin the harsher task
That I should labour to procure thy death,
Forgive thy son-he has not so much virtue.
[Exit PUBLIUS.
Reg. Th' important hour draws on, and now
my soul
Loses her wonted calmness, lest the senate
Should doubt what answer to return to Car-
O ye protecting deities of Rome`!
[thage.
Ye guardian gods! look down propitious on her,
Inspire her senate with your sacred wisdom,
And call up all that's Roman in their souls!
Enter MANLIUS (speaking).
See that the lictors wait, and guard the en-
Take care that none intrude.
[trance-
Reg.
Ah! Manlius here?
What can this mean?
Man.
Where, where is Regulus?
The great, the godlike, the invincible?
Oh, let me strain the hero to my breast.-
Reg. (avoiding him.) Manlius, stand off, re-
member I'm a slave?
And thou Rome's consul.
Man.
I am something more:
I am a man enamour'd of thy virtues;
Thy fortitude and courage have subdued me.
I was thy rival-I am now thy friend ;
•
518
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Allow me that distinction, dearer far
Than all the honours Rome can give without it.
Reg. This is the temper still of noble minds,
And these the blessings of an humble fortune.
Had I not been a slave, I ne'er had gain'd
The treasure of thy friendship.
Man.
I confess,
Thy grandeur cast a veil before my eyes,
Which the reverse of fortune has remov'd.
Oft have I seen thee on the day of triumph,
A conqueror of nations, enter Rome;
Now, thou hast conquer'd fortune and thyself.
Thy laurels oft have mov'd my soul to envy,
Thy chains awaken my respect, my reverence;
Then Regulus appear'd a hero to me,
He rises now a god.
Reg.
Manlius, enough.
Cease thy applause; 'tis dang'rous; praise like
thine
Might tempt the most severe and cautious virtue.
Bless'd be the gods, who gild my latter days
With the bright glory of the consul's friendship!
Man. Forbid it, Jove! saidst thou thy latter
days?
May gracious heav'n to a far distant hour
Protract thy valued life. Be it my care
To crown the hopes of thy admiring country,
By giving back her long-lost hero to her.
I will exert my power to bring about
Th' exchange of captives Africa proposes.
Reg. Manlius, and is it thus, is this the way
Thou dost begin to give me proofs of friendship?
Ah! if thy love be so destructive to me,
What would thy hatred be? Mistaken consul!
Shall I then lose the profit of my wrongs?
Be thus defrauded of the benefit
I vainly hoped from all my years of bondage?
I did not come to show my chains to Rome,
To move my country to a weak compassion;
I came to save her honour, to preserve her
From tarnishing her glory; came to snatch her
From offers so destructive to her fame.
O Manlius! either give me proofs more worthy
A Roman's friendship, or renew thy hate.
Man. Dost thou not know, that, this exchange
Inevitable death must be thy fate? [refus'd,
Reg. And has the name of death such terror
in it,
One must resign his being, one his friend.
It is but just, that what procures our country
Such real blessings, such substantial good,
Should cost thee something-I shall lose but
little.
Go then, my friend! but promise, ere thou goest,
With all the consular authority,
Thou wilt support my counsel in the senate.
If thou art willing to accept these terms, [ship.
With transport I embrace thy proffer'd friend-
Man. (after a pause.) Yes, I do promise.
Reg.
Bounteous gods, I thank you!
Ye never gave, in all your round of blessing,
A gift so greatly welcome to my soul,
As Manlius' friendship on the terms of honour!
Man. Immortal Powers! why am not I a slave?
By heav'n! I almost envy thee thy bonds.
Reg. My friend! there's not a moment to be
lost;
Ere this, perhaps, the senate is assembled.
To thee, and to thy virtues, I commit
The dignity of Rome-my peace and honour.
Man. Illustrious man, farewell!
Reg.
Farewell, my friend!
Man. The sacred flame thou hast kindled in
my soul
Glows in each vein, trembles in every nerve,
And raises me to something more than man.
My blood is fired with virtue, and with Rome,
And every pulse beats an alarm to glory.
Who would not spurn a sceptre when compar'd
With chains like thine? Thou man of every
virtue,
O farewell! may all the gods protect and bless
thee.
[Exit MANLIUS.
Enter LICINIUS.
Reg. Now I begin to live: propitious Heaven
Inclines to favour me. Licinius here?
Lic. With joy, my honour'd friend, I seek
thy presence.
Reg. And why with joy?
Lic.
Because my heart once more
Beats high with flattering hope. In thy great
I have been labouring.
[cause
Reg.
Say'st thou in my cause?
Lic. In thine and Rome's. Does it excite
thy wonder?
To strike with dread the mighty soul of Manlius? Couldst thou then think so poorly of Licinius,
'Tis not to-day I learn that I am mortal. That base ingratitude could find a place
The foe can only take from Regulus
Within his bosom ?-Can I then forget
What wearied nature would have shortly yield- Thy thousand acts of friendship to my youth?~
It will be now a voluntary gift,
[ed; Forget them too at that important moment
"Twould then become a tribute seiz'd, not offer'd. When most I might assist thee ?-Regulus,
Yes, Manlius, tell the world that as I lived Thou wast my leader, general, father-all.
For Rome alone, when I could live no longer, Didst thou not teach me early how to tread
'Twas my last care how, dying, to assist, The path of glory; point the way thyself,
To save that country I had lived to serve. And bid me follow thee?
Man. O unexampled worth! O godlike Reg-
ulus !
Thrice happy Rome! unparalleled in heroes!
Hast thou then sworn, thou awfully good man!
Never to bless the consul with thy friendship?
Reg. If thou wilt love me, love me like a
Roman.
[ship.
These are the terms on which I take thy friend-
We both must make a sacrifice to Rome,
I of my life, and thou of Regulus :
Reg.
But say, Licinius,
What hast thou done to serve me?
Lic.
I have defended
Thy liberty and life!
Reg.
Ah! speak-explain.-
Lic. Just as the fathers were about to meet,
I hasten'd to the temple-at the entrance
Their passage I retarded, by the force
Of strong entreaty; then address'd myself
So well to each, that I from each obtain'd
"
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
519
A declaration, that his utmost power
Should be exerted for thy life and freedom.
Reg. Great gods! what do I hear? Licinius
too!
Lic. Not he alone; no, 'twere indeed unjust
To rob the fair Attilia of her claim
To filial merit.-What I could, I did. [earth,
But she thy charming daughter-heav'n and
What did she not, to save her father?
Who?
Reg.
Lic. Attilia, thy belov'd-thy age's darling!
Was ever father bless'd with such a child!
Gods! how her looks took captive all who saw
How did her soothing eloquence subdue [her!
The stoutest hearts of Rome! How did she rouse
Contending passions in the breasts of all!
How sweetly temper dignity with grief!
With what a soft, inimitable grace, [sooth'd.
She prais'd, reproach'd, entreated, flatter'd,
Reg. What said the senators?
Lic.
What could they say?
Who could resist the lovely conqueror?
See where she comes-Hope dances in her eyes,
And lights up all her beauties into smiles.
Enter ATTILIA.
Att. Once more, my dearest father-
Reg.
Ah, presume not
To call me by that name. For know, Attilia,
I number thee among the foes of Regulus.
Att. What do I hear thy foe? my father's
foe?
[glory.
Reg. His worst of foes-the murd'rer of his
Att. Ah! is it then a proof of enmity
To wish thee all the good that gods can give thee,
To yield my life, if needful, for thy service?
Reg. Thou rash, imprudent girl! thou little
know'st
The dignity and weight of public cares.
Who made a weak and inexperienc'd woman
The arbiter of Regulus's fate?
Lic. For pity's sake, my Lord!
Reg.
Peace, peace, young man!
Her silence better than thy language pleads.
That bears at least the semblance of repentance.
Immortal powers!—A daughter and a Roman!
Att. Because I am a daughter, I presum'd-
Lic. Because I am a Roman, I aspired
T'oppose th' inhuman rigour of thy fate.
Reg. No more, Licinius. How can he be call'd
A Roman, who would live with infamy?
Or how can she be Regulus's daughter,
Do not repent thee of the pious deed:
It was a virtuous error. That in us
Is a just duty, which the godlike soul
Of Regulus would think a shameful weakness.
If the contempt of life in him be virtue,
It were in us a crime to let him perish.
Perhaps at last he may consent to live;
He then will thank us for our cares to save him:
Let not his anger fright thee. Though our love
Offend him now, yet, when his mighty soul
Is reconcil'd to life, he will not chide us.
The sick man loathes, and with reluctance takes
The remedy by which his health's restor❜d.
Att. Licinius! his reproaches wound my soul.
I cannot live, and bear his indignation.
Lic. Would my Attilia rather lose her father
Than, by offending him, preserve his life?
Att. Ah! no. If he but live, I am contented.
Lic. Yes, he shall live, and we again be
bless'd :
Then dry thy tears, and let those lovely orbs
Beam with their wonted lustre on Licinius,
Who lives but in the sunshine of thy smiles.
[Exit LICINIUS.
Att. (alone.) Oh Fortune, Fortune, thou ca-
pricious goddess!
Thy frowns and favours have alike no bounds;
Unjust or prodigal, in each extreme.
When thou wouldst humble human vanity,
By singling out a wretch to bear thy wrath,
Thou crushest him with anguish to excess;
If thou wouldst bless, thou mak'st the happiness
Too poignant for his giddy sense to bear.
Immortal gods, who rule the fates of men,
Preserve my father! bless him, bless him,
heav'n!
If your avenging thunderbolts must fall,
Strike here this bosom will invite the blow,
And thank you for it: but in mercy spare,
Oh! spare his sacred, venerable head;
Respect in him an image of yourselves;
And leave a world, who wants it, an example
Of courage, wisdom, constancy, and truth.
Yet if, Eternal Powers who rule this ball!
You have decreed that Regulus must fall;
Teach me to yield to your divine command,
And meekly bow to your correcting hand;
Contented to resign, or pleas'd receive,
What reason may withhold, or mercy give.
[Exit ATTILIA.
ACT IV.
Whose coward mind wants fortitude and honour? | SCENE-Gallery in the Ambassador's Palace.
Unhappy children! now you make me feel
The burden of my chains: your feeble souls
Have made me know I am indeed a slave.
[Exit REGULUS.
Att. Tell me, Licinius, and oh! tell me truly,
If thou believ'st in all the round of time
There ever breath'd a maid so truly wretched?
To weep, to mourn, a father's cruel fate—
To love him with soul-rending tenderness—
To know no peace by day, or rest by night-
To bear a bleeding heart in this poor bosom,
Which aches and trembles but to think he suffers:
This is my crime-in any other child
'Twould be a merit.
Lic.
Oh! my best Attilia!
Reg. (alone.) Be calm my soul! what strange
emotions shake thee!
Emotions thou hast never felt till now.
Thou hast defied the dangers of the deep,
Th' impetuous hurricane, the thunder's roar,
And all the terrors of the various war;
Yet, now thou tremblest, fearful and dismay'd,
With anxious expectation of thy fate.-
Yes, thou hast amplest reason for thy fears;
For till this hour, so pregnant with events,
Thy fame and glory never were at stake.
Soft-let me think-what is this thing called
glory?
'Tis the soul's tyrant, that should be dethron'd,
And learn subjection like her other passions
520
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Ah no! 'tis false: this is the coward's plea ;
The lazy language of refining vice.
That man was born in vain, whose wish to serve
Is circumscribed within the wretched bounds
Of self-a narrow, miserable sphere!
Glory exalts, enlarges, dignifies,
Absorbs the selfish in the social claims,
And renders man a blessing to mankind.—
It is this principle, this spark of deity,
Rescues debased humanity from guilt,
And elevates it by her strong excitements.-
It takes off sensibility from pain, [death;
From peril, fear; plucks out the sting from
Changes ferocious into gentle manners;
And teaches men to imitate the gods.
It shows, but see, alas! where Publius comes.
Ah! he advances with a downcast eye,
And step irresolute.-
Reg.
Enter PUBLIUS.
My Publius, welcome!
What tidings dost thou bring? What says the
senate?
Is yet my fate determin'd? quickly tell me.-
Pub. I cannot speak, and yet, alas! I must.
Reg. Tell me the whole.-
Pub.
Would I were rather dumb?
Reg. Publius, no more delay :—I charge thee
speak.
[part.
Pub. The senate has decreed you shall de-
Reg. Blest spirit of Rome! thou hast at last
prevail'd-
I thank the gods, I have not lived in vain!
Where is Hamilcar?-find him-let us go,
For Regulus has naught to do in Rome;
I have accomplish'd her important work,
And must depart.
Pub.
Ah, my unhappy father!
Reg. Unhappy, Publius! didst thou say un-
happy?
Does he, does that blest man deserve this name,
Who to his latest breath can serve his country?
Pub. Like thee, my father, I adore my
country,
Yet weep with anguish o'er thy cruel chains.
Reg. Dost thou not know that life's a slavery?
The body is the chain that binds the soul;
A yoke that every mortal must endure.
Wouldst thou lament-lament the general fate,
The chain that nature gives, entail'd on all,
Not these I wear.
Pub.
Forgive, forgive my sorrows:
I know, alas! too well, those fell barbarians
Intend thee instant death.
Reg.
|
|
Her sinking spirits are subdued by grief,
And, should her sorrows pass the bounds of rea-
Publius, have pity on her tender age; [son,
Compassionate the weakness of her sex;
We must not hope to find in her soft soul
The strong exertion of a manly courage.-
Support her fainting spirit, and instruct her,
By thy example, how a Roman ought
To bear misfortune. O, indulge her weakness!
And be to her the father she will lose.
I leave my daughter to thee-I do more-
I leave to thee the conduct of-thyself.
Ah, Publius! I perceive thy courage fails- ·
I see the quivering lip, the starting tear ;-
That lip, that tear calls down my mounting soul.
Resume thyself-oh! do not blast my hope!
Yes I'm composed-thou wilt not mock my
age-
Thou art-thou art a Roman-and my son.
[Exit.
Pub. And is he gone?-now be thyself, my
soul-
Hard is the conflict, but the triumph glorious.
Yes, I must conquer these too tender feelings;
The blood that fills these veins demands it of
My father's great example, too, requires it. [me;
Forgive me, Rome, and glory, if I yielded
To nature's strong attack :-I must subdue it.
Now, Regulus, I feel I am thy son.
Enter ATTILLA and BARCE.
Att. My brother, I'm distracted, wild with
fear-
Tell me, O tell me, what I dread to know-
Is it, then, true?—I cannot speak-my father?
Bar. May we believe the fatal news?
Pub.
Yes, Barce.
It is determin'd. Regulus must go.
Att. Immortal powers!-What say'st thou?
Bar.
Can it be?
Thou canst not mean it.
Att.
Then you've all betrayed me.
Pub. Thy grief avails not.
Enter HAMILCAR and LICINIUS.
Bar.
Pity us, Hamilcar !
Att. Oh, help, Licinius, help the lost Attilia!
Ham. My Barce! there's no hope.
Ah! my fair mourner,
Lic.
All's lost!
Att. What, all, Licinius? saidst thou all?
Not one poor glimpse of comfort left behind?
Tell me at least where Regulus is gone:
So shall my life The daughter shall partake the father's chains,
And share the woes she knew not to prevent.
[Going.
And servitude together have an end.-
Publius, farewell! nay, do not follow me.
Pub. Alas! my father, if thou ever lov'dst
Refuse me not the mournful consolation
To pay the last sad offices of duty
I e'er can show thee.-
Reg.
[me,
No!-thou canst fulfil
Thy duty to thy father in a way
More grateful to him: I must straight embark.
Be it meanwhile thy pious care to keep
My lov'd Attilia from a sight, I fear,
Would rend her gentle heart. Her tears, my son,
Would dim the glories of thy father's triumph.
Pub. What would thy wild despair? Attilia,
stay,
Thou must not follow; this excess of grief
Would much offend him.
Att.
Dost thou hope to stop me?
Pub. I hope thou wilt resume thy better self,
And recollect thy father will not bear-
Att. I only recollect I am a daughter,
A poor, defenceless, helpless, wretched daugh-
Away-and let me follow.
[ter!
Pub.
No, my sister.
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
521
ra
Att. Detain me not-Ah! while thou hold'st
me here,
He goes, and I shall never see him more.
Bar. My friend, be comforted, he cannot go
Whilst here Hamilcar stays.
Att.
O, Barce, Barce!
Who will advise, who comfort, who assist me?
Hamilcar, pity me.-Thou wilt not answer?
Ham. Rage and astonishment divide my soul.
Att. Licinius, wilt thou not relieve my sor-
rows?
Lic. Yes, at my life's expense, my heart's
Wouldst thou instruct me how. [best treasure,
Att.
My brother, too-
Ah! look with mercy on thy sister's woes!
Pub. I will at least instruct thee how to
bear them.
My sister-yield thee to thy adverse fate;
Think of thy father, think of Regulus;
Has he not taught thee how to brave misfortune?
'Tis but by following his illustrious steps
Thou e'er canst merit to be call'd his daughter.
Att. And is it thus thou dost advise thy sister?
Are these, ye gods, the feelings of a son?
Indifference here becomes impiety-
Thy savage heart ne'er felt the dear delights
Of filial tenderness-the thousand joys
That flow from blessing and from being bless'd!
No didst thou love thy father as I love him,
Our kindred souls would be in unison;
And all my sighs be echoed back by thine.
Thou wouldst-alas!-I know not what I say.-
Forgive me, Publius, but, indeed, my brother,
I do not understand this cruel coldness.
Ham Thou mayst not-but I understand it
His mighty soul, full as to thee it seems [well.
Of Rome and glory-is enamour'd-caught-
Enraptur'd with the beauties of fair Barce.-
She stays behind, if Regulus departs.
Behold the cause of all the well-feign'd virtue
Of this mock patriot-curst dissimulation!
Pub. And canst thou entertain such vile sus-
picions?
Gods! what an outrage to a son like me.
Ham. Yes, Roman: now I see thee as thou
Thy naked soul divested of its veil, [art,
Its specious colouring, its dissembled virtues :
Thou hast plotted with the senate to prevent
Th' exchange of captives. All thy subtle arts,
Thy smooth inventions, have been set to work-
The base refinements of your polish'd land.
Pub. In truth the doubt is worthy of an
African.
(Contemptuously.)
Ham. I know-
Pub. Peace, Carthaginian, peace, and hear
Didst thou not know, that on the very man [me,
Thou hast insulted, Barce's fate depends?
Ham. Too well I know, the cruel chance of
war
Gave her, a blooming captive, to thy mother;
Who, dying, left the beauteous prize to thee.
Pub. Now, see the use a Roman makes of
power.
Heav'n is my witness how I lov'd the maid!
O she was dearer to my soul than light!
Dear as the vital stream that feeds my heart!
But know, my honour's dearer than my love.
I do not even hope thou wilt believe me;
VOL. I.
| Thy brutal soul, as savage as thy clime,
Can never taste those elegant delights,
Those pure refinements, love and glory yield.
'Tis not to thee I stoop for vindication,
Alike to me thy friendship or thy hate;
But to remove from others a pretence
For branding Publius with the name of villain;
That they may see no sentiment but honour
Informs this bosom.-Barce, thou art free.
Thou hast my leave with him to quit this shore.
Now learn, barbarian, how a Roman loves. [Exit.
Bar. He cannot mean it!
Ham.
Which challenges esteem, though from a foe.
(Looking after Publius.)
Att. Ah! cruel Publius, wilt thou leave me
Thus leave thy sister?
[thus?
Bar.
Didst thou hear, Hamilcar?
Oh! didst thou hear the godlike youth resign me?
(Hamilcar and Licinius seem lost in thought.)
Ham. Farewell, I will return.
Lic.
Oh, exalted virtue!
Farewell, my love! (to Attilia.)
Bar. Hamilcar, where—
Att.
Álas! where art thou going?
(to Licinius.
Lic. If possible, to save the life of Regulus.
Att. But by what means?-Ah! how canst
thou effect it?
Lic. Since the disease so desperate is become,
We must apply a desperate remedy.
Ham. (after a long pause.) Yes, I will mor
tify this generous foe;
I'll be reveng'd upon this stubborn Roman;
Not by defiance bold, or feats of arms,
But by a means more sure to work its end;
By emulating his exalted worth,
And showing him a virtue like his own;
Such a refin'd revenge as noble minds
Alone can practise, and alone can feel,
Att. If thou wilt go, Licinius, let Attilia
At least go with thee.
Lic.
No, my gentle love,
Too much I prize thy safety and thy peace.
Let me entreat thee, stay with Barce here
Till our return.
Att.
Then, ere ye go, in pity
Explain the latent purpose of your souls.
Lic. Soon shalt thou know it all-Farewell!
farewell!
Let us keep Regulus in Rome or die.
(to Hamilcar as he goes out.)
Ham. Yes. These smooth, polish'd Romans,
shall confess
The soil of Afric too produces heroes. [theirs,
What, though our pride perhaps be less than
Our virtue may be equal: they shall own
The path of honour's not unknown to Carthage,
Nor, as they arrogantly think, confin'd
To their proud capitol:-Yes, they shall learn
The gods look down on other climes than theirs,
[Exit.
Att. What! gone, both gone? What can I
think or do?
Licinius leaves ine, led by love and virtue,
To rouse the citizens to war and tumult,
Which may be fatal to himself and Rome,
And yet, alas! not serve my dearest father.
Protecting deities! preserve them both!
婴
​523
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1
Bar. Nor is thy Barce more at ease, my friend;
I dread the fierceness of Hamilcar's courage;
Rous'd by the grandeur of thy brother's deed,
And stung by his reproaches, his great soul
Will scorn to be outdone by him in glory.
Yet, let us rise to courage and to life,
Forget the weakness of our helpless sex,
And mount above these coward woman's fears.
Hope dawns upon my mind-my prospect clears,
And every cloud now brightens into day.
Att. How different are our souls! Thy san-
guine temper,
Flush'd with the native vigour of thy soil,
Supports thy spirits; while the sad Attilia,
Sinking with more than all her sex's fears,
Sees not a beam of hope; or, if she sees it,
"Tis not the bright, warm splendour of the sun;
It is a sickly and uncertain glimmer
Of instantaneous lightning, passing by.
It shows, but not diminishes the danger,
And leaves my poor benighted soul as dark
As it had never shone.
Bar.
Come, let us go.
Yes, joys unlook'd for now shall gild thy days,
And brighter suns reflect propitious rays.
[Exeunt.
SCENE-A Hall looking towards the Garden.
Enter REGULUS, speaking to one of HAMILCAR'S
attendants.
Where's your ambassador? where is Hamilcar?
Ere this he doubtless knows the senate's will.
Go seek him out-tell him we must depart―
Rome has no hope for him, or wish for me.
Longer delay were criminal in both.
Enter MANLIUS.
Reg. He comes.
noble friend!
The consul comes! my
O let me strain thee to this grateful heart,
And thank thee for the vast, vast debt, I owe
thee!
But for thy friendship I had been a wretch-
Had been compell'd to shameful liberty.
To thee I owe the glory of these chains,
My faith inviolate, my fame preserv'd,
My honour, virtue, glory, bondage,—all !
Man. But we shall lose thee, so it is decreed-
Thou must depart!
Reg.
Because I must depart
You will not lose me; I were lost indeed
Did I remain in Rome.
Man.
Ah! Regulus,
Why, why so late do I begin to love thee?
Alas! why have the adverse fates decreed,
I ne'er must give thee other proofs of friendship,
Than those, so fatal, and so full of wo?
Reg. Thou hast perform'd the duties of a
friend;
Of a just, faithful, true, and noble friend :
Yet, generous as thou art, if thou constrain me
To sink beneath a weight of obligation,
I could-yes, Manlius-I could ask still more.
Man. Explain thyself.
Reg.
I think I have fulfill'd
The various duties of a citizen;
Nor have I aught beside to do for Rome.
Now, nothing for the public good remains.
| Manlius, I recollect I am a father!
My Publius! my Attilia! ah! my friend,
They are--(forgive the weakness of a parent)
To my fond heart dear as the drops that warm it.
Next to my country, they're my all of life;
And, if a weak old man be not deceiv'd,
They will not shame that country. Yes, my
The love of virtue blazes in their souls. [friend,
As yet these tender plants are immature,
And ask the fostering hand of cultivation :
Heav'n in its wisdom would not let their father
Accomplish this great work. To thee, my friend,
The tender parent delegates the trust:
Do not refuse a poor man's legacy;
I do bequeath my orphans to thy love-
If thou wilt kindly take them to thy bosom,
Their loss will be repaid with usury.
O, let the father owe his glory to thee,
The children their protection!
Man.
Regulus,
With grateful joy my heart accepts the trust;
Oh! I will shield with jealous tenderness,
The precious blossoms from a blasting world.
In me thy children shall possess a father,
Though not as worthy, yet as fond as thee.
The pride be mine to fill their youthful breasts
With every virtue-'twill not cost me much :
I shall have naught to teach, nor they to learn,
But the great history of their godlike sire.
Reg. I will not hurt the grandeur of thy virtue,
By paying thee so poor a thing as thanks.
Now all is over, and, I bless the gods,
I've nothing more to do.
Pub.
Enter PUBLIUS in haste.
O Regulus!
Reg. Say what has happen'd?
Pub.
Rome is in a tumult-
There's scarce a citizen but runs to arms-
They will not let thee go.
Reg.
Is't possible?
Can Rome so far forget her dignity
As to desire this infamous exchange?
I blush to think it!
Pub.
Ah! not so, my father.
Rome cares not for the peace, nor for th' ex-
She only wills that Regulus shall stay. [change;
Reg. How, stay? my oath-my faith-my
Do they forget?
[honour! ah!
Pub.
No: Every man exclaims,
That neither faith nor honour should be kept
With Carthaginian perfidy and fraud.
Reg. Gods! gods! on what vile principles
they reason!
Can guilt in Carthage palliate guilt in Rome,
Or vice in one absolve it in another?
Ah! who hereafter shall be criminal,
If precedents are used to justify
The blackest crimes?
Pub.
Th' infatuated people
Have called the augurs to the sacred fane,
There to determine this momentous point.
Reg. I have no need of oracles, my son;
Honour's the oracle of honest men.
I
gave my promise, which I will observe
With most religious strictness. Rome, 'tis true,
Had power to choose the peace, or change of
But whether Regulus return or not,
[slaves;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
523
Is his concern, not the concern of Rome.
That was a public, this a private care.
Publius! thy father is not what he was;
I am the slave of Carthage, nor has Rome
Power to dispose of captives not her own.
Guards! let us to the port.-Farewell, my
friend.
[thou go
Man. Let me entreat thee stay; for shouldst
To stem this tumult of the populace,
They will by force detain thee: then, alas !
Both Regulus and Rome must break their faith.
Reg. What! must I then remain?
Man.
No, Regulus,
I will not check thy great career of glory:
Thou shalt depart; meanwhile, I'll try to calm
This wild, tumultuous uproar of the people.
The consular authority shall still them.
Reg. Thy virtue is my safeguard-but-
Man.
Enough.-
I know thy honour, and trust thou to mine.
I am a Roman, and I feel some sparks
Of Regulus's virtue in my breast.
Though fate denies me thy illustrious chains,
I will at least endeavour to deserve them.
[Exit.
Reg. How is my country alter'd! how, alas,
Is the great spirit of old Rome extinct !
Restraint and force must now be put to use,
To make her virtuous. She must be compell'd
To faith and honour.-Ah! what, Publius here?
And dost thou leave so tamely to my friend
The honour to assist me? Go, my boy,
'Twill make me more in love with chains and
To owe them to a son.
[death,
Pub.
I go, my father-
I will, I will obey thee.
Reg.
Do not sigh-
One sigh will check the progress of thy glory.
Pub. Yes, I will own the pangs of death itself
Would be less cruel than these agonies:
Yet do not frown austerely on thy son:
His anguish is his virtue: if to conquer
The feelings of my soul were easy to me,
"Twould be no merit. Do not then defraud
The sacrifice I make thee of its worth.
[Exeunt severally.
MANLIUS, ATTILIA.
Att. (speaking as she enters.) Where is the
consul?—where, oh! where is Manlius?
I come to breathe the voice of mourning to him;
I come to crave his mercy, to conjure him
To whisper peace to my afflicted bosom,
And heal the anguish of a wounded spirit.
Man. What would the daughter of my noble
friend?
[touch'd thee,
Att. (kneeling.) If ever pity's sweet emotions
If ever gentle love assail'd thy breast-
If ever virtuous friendship fir'd thy soul-
By the dear names of husband and of parent-
By all the soft yet powerful ties of nature-
If e'er thy lisping infants charm'd thine ear,
And waken'd all the father in thy soul,-
If e'er thou hop'st to have thy latter days
Bless'd by their love, and sweeten'd by their
duty-
[ter,
Oh! hear a kneeling, weeping, wretched daugh-
Who begs a father's life-nor hers alone,
But Rome's-his country's father.
Man.
Gentle maid!
Oh! spare this soft, subduing eloquence !—
Nay, rise. I shall forget I am a Roman-
Forget the mighty debt I owe my country-
Forget the fame and glory of thy father.
I must conceal this weakness. (turns from her.)
Atl. (rises eagerly.) Ah! you weep!
Indulge, indulge, my lord, the virtuous softness :
Was ever sight so graceful, so becoming,
As pity's tear upon the hero's cheek? [ing.)
Man. No more-I must not hear thee. (go-
Att.
How! not hear me ! [lord-
You must-you shall-nay, nay, return, my
Oh! fly not from me-look upon my woes,
And imitate the mercy of the gods:
'Tis not their thunder that excites our reverence,
'Tis their mild mercy and forgiving love.
'Twill add a brighter lustre to thy laurels,
When men shall say, and proudly point thee out,
"Behold the consul!—he who say'd his friend."
Oh! what a tide of joy will overwhelm thee!
Who will not envy thee thy glorious feelings?
Man. Thy father scorns his liberty and life,
Nor will accept of either, at th' expense
Of honour, virtue, glory, faith, and Rome.
Att. Think you behold the godlike Regulus;
The prey of unrelenting, savage foes,
Ingenious only in contriving ill:—
Eager to glut their hunger of revenge,
They'll plot such new, such dire, unheard-of
tortures-
Such dreadful and such complicated vengeance,
As e'en the Punic annals have not known;
And, as they heap fresh torments on his head,
They'll glory in their genius for destruction.
Ah! Manlius-now methinks I see my father-
My faithful fancy, full of his idea, [torn-
Presents him to me-mangled, gash'd, and
Stretch'd on the rack in writhing agony-
The torturing pincers tear his quivering flesh,
While the dire murderers smile upon his
wounds-
His groans their music, and his pangs their sport.
And if they lend some interval of ease,
Some dearbought intermission, meant to make
The following pang more exquisitely felt,
Th' insulting executioners exclaim, [scorn'd!"
"Now, Roman! feel the vengeance thou hast
Man. Repress thy sorrows-
Att.
Can the friend of Regulus
Advise his daughter not to mourn his fate?
How cold, alas! is friendship, when compar'd
To ties of blood--to nature's powerful impulse!
Yes-she asserts her empire in my soul;
'Tis nature pleads-she will she must be
heard;
With warm, resistless eloquence, she pleads.
Ah, thou art soften'd!-see-the consul yields
The feelings triumph-tenderness prevails-
The Roman is subdued-the daughter con-
quers ! (catching hold of his robe.)
Man. Ah! hold me not-I must not, cannot
The softness of thy sorrow is contagious; [stay,
I too may feel, when I should only reason.
I dare not hear thee-Regulus and Rome,
The patriot and the friend-all, all forbid it.
(breaks from her, and exit.)
524
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
1
Att. Oh feeble grasp !-and is he gone, quite | The generous lover, and the faithful friend!
gone?
Hold, hold thy empire, reason, firmly hold it,
Or rather quit at once thy feeble throne,
Since thou but serv'st to show me what I've lost,
To heighten all the horrors that await me;
To summon up a wild, distracted crowd
Of fatal images, to shake my soul,
To scare sweet peace, and banish hope itself.
Farewell! delusive dreams of joy, farewell!
Come, fell despair! thou pale-eyed spectre,
For thou shalt be Attilia's inmate now, [come,
And thou shalt grow, and twine about her heart,
And she shall be so much enamour'd of thee,
The pageant pleasure ne'er shall interpose
Her gaudy presence to divide you more.
(stands in an attitude of silent grief.)
Enter LICINIUS.
+
Lic. At length I've found thee-ah, my
charming maid!
[fondness!
How have I sought thee out with anxious
Alas! she hears me not. My best Attilia!
Ah! grief oppresses every gentle sense.
Still, still she hears not-'tis Licinius speaks,
He comes to sooth the anguish of thy spirit,
And hush thy tender sorrows into peace.
Att. Who's he that dares assume the voice
of love,
And comes unbidden to these dreary haunts?
Steals on the sacred treasury of wo,
And breaks the league despair and I have made?
Lic. 'Tis one who comes the messenger of
Heav'n,
To talk of peace, of comfort, and of joy.
Att. Didst thou not mock me with the sound
of joy?
Thou little know'st the anguish of my soul,
If thou believ'st I ever can again,
So long the wretched sport of angry fortune,
Admit delusive hope to my sad bosom.
No-I abjure the flatterer and her train.
Let those who ne'er have been like me deceiv'd,
Embrace the fair, fantastic sycophant-
For I, alas! am wedded to despair,
And will not hear the sound of comfort more.
Lic. Cease, cease, my love, this tender voice
of wo,
Though softer than the dying cygnet's plaint:
She ever chants her most melodious strain
When death and sorrow harmonize her note.
Att. Yes, I will listen now with fond delight;
For death and sorrow are my darling themes.
Well!-what hast thou to say of death and
sorrow?
Believe me, thou wilt find me apt to listen,
And, if my tongue be slow to answer thee,
Instead of words I'll give thee sighs and tears.
Lic. I come to dry thy tears, not make them
flow;
The gods, once more propitious, smile upon us,
Joy shall again await each happy morn,
And ever-new delight shall crown the day!
Yes, Regulus shall live.
Att.
Ah, me! what say'st thou?
Alas! I'm but a poor, weak, trembling woman—
I cannot bear these wild extremes of fate-
Then mock me not. I think thou art Licinius,
I think thou wouldst not sport with my afflictions.
Lic. Mock thy afflictions? May eternal Jove,
And every power at whose dread shrine we wor-
Blast all the hopes my fond ideas form, [ship,
If I deceive thee! Regulus shall live,
Shall live to give thee to Licinius' arms.
Oh! we will smooth his downward path of life,
And after a long length of virtuous years,
At the last verge of honourable age,
When nature's glimmering lamp goes gently out,
We'll close, together close, his eyes in peace,
Together drop the sweetly-painful tear,
Then copy out his virtues in our lives.
Att. And shall we be so blest? is't possible?
Forgive me, my Licinius, if I doubt thee.
Fate never gave such exquisite delight
As flattering hope hath imaged to thy soul.
But how? Explain this bounty of the gods.
Lic. Thou know'st what influence the name
of tribune
Gives its possessor o'er the people's minds :
That power I have exerted, nor in vain;
All are prepar'd to second my designs:
The plot is ripe-there's not a man but swears
To keep thy godlike father here in Rome-
To save his life at hazard of his own.
Att. By what gradation does my joy ascend!
I thought that if my father had been sav'd
By any means, I had been rich in bliss:
But that he lives, and lives preserv'd by thee,
Is such a prodigality of fate,
I cannot bear my joy with moderation :
Heaven should have dealt it with a scantier
hand,
[on me;
And not have shower'd such plenteous blessings
They are too great, too flattering, to be real;
'Tis some delightful vision which enchants
And cheats my senses, weaken'd by misfortune.
Lic. We'll seek thy father, and, meanwhile,
my fair,
[him.
Compose thy sweet emotions ere thou see'st
Pleasure itself is painful in excess;
For joys, like sorrows, in extreme, oppress:
The gods themselves our pious cares approve,
And, to reward our virtue, crown our love.
ACT V.
An Apartment in the Ambassador's palace-
Guards and other attendants seen at a dis-
tance.
Ham. Where is this wondrous man, this
matchless hero,
This arbiter of kingdoms and of kings,
This delegate of Heaven, this Roman god?
I long to show his soaring mind an equal,
And bring it to the standard of humanity.
What pride, what glory will it be, to fix
An obligation on his stubborn soul !
Oh! to constrain a foe to be obliged!
The very thought exalts me e'en to rapture.
Enter REGULUS and Guards.
Ham. Well, Regulus! At last-
Reg.
I know it all ;
I know the motive of thy just complaint-
Be not alarm'd at this licentious uproar
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
525
Of the mad populace. I will depart—
Fear not; I will not stay in Rome alive.
Hum. What dost thou mean by uproar and
alarms?
Hamilcar does not come to vent complaints;
He rather comes to prove, that Afric too
Produces heroes, and that Tiber's banks
May find a rival on the Punic coast. [bate:
Reg. Be it so.-'Tis not a time for vain de-
Collect thy people.-Let us straight depart.
Ham. Lend me thy hearing first.
Reg.
O patience, patience!
Ham. It is esteem'd a glory to be grateful?
Reg. The time has been when 'twas a duty
But 'tis a duty now so little practis'd,
That to perform it is become a glory.
[only,
Ham. If to fulfil it should expose to danger?
Reg. It rises then to an illustrious virtue.
Ham. Then grant this merit to an African.
Give me a patient hearing.-Thy great son,
As delicate in honour as in love,
Hath nobly given my Barce to my arms;
And yet I know he dotes upon the maid.
I come to emulate the generous deed;
He gave me back my love, and in return
I will restore his father.
Reg.
Ah! what say'st thou ?
Wilt thou preserve mẻ, then?
Ham.
Reg.
I will.
But how?
Ham. By leaving thee at liberty to fly.
Reg.
Ah! [tence,
Ham. I will dismiss my guards on some pre-
Meanwhile do thou escape, and lie conceal'd:
I will affect a rage I shall not feel,
Unmoor my ships, and sail for Africa.
Reg. Abhorr'd barbarian!
Ham.
Know'st thou my countrymen prepare thee tor-
That shock imagination but to think of? [tures
Thou wilt be mangled, butcher'd, rack'd, im-
Goes not thy nature shrink?
[paled.
Reg. (smiling at his threats.) Hamilcar! no.
Dost thou not know the Roman genius better?
We live on honour-'tis our food, our life,
The motive and the measure of our deeds!
We look on death as on a common object;
The tongue nor faulters, nor the cheek turns pale,
Nor the calm eye is moved at sight of him:
We court, and we embrace him, undismay'd;
We smile at tortures if they lead to glory,
And only cowardice and guilt appal us.
Ham. Fine sophistry! the valour of the tongue,
The heart disclaims it; leave this pomp of words,
And cease dissembling with a friend like me.
I know that life is dear to all who live,
That death is dreadful,-yes, and must be fear'd,
E'en by the frozen apathists of Rome.
Reg. Did I fear death, when, on Bagrada's
banks,
I faced and slew the formidable serpent
That made your boldest Africans recoil,
And shrink with horror, though the monster liv'd
A native inmate of their own parch'd deserts?
Did I fear death before the gates of Adis?—
Ask Bostar, or let Asdrubal confess.
Ham. Or shall I rather of Xantippus ask,
Who dar'd to undeceive deluded Rome,
And prove this vaunter not invincible?
'Tis even said, in Africa I mean,
He made a prisoner of this demi-god.-
Did we not triumph then?
Reg.
Vain boaster! no.
No Carthaginian conquer'd Regulus;
Xantippus was a Greek-a brave one, too:
Well, what dost thou say? Yet what distinction did your Afric make
Art thou not much surpris'd?
Reg.
I am indeed.
Ham. Thou couldst not then have hoped it ?
Reg.
No! I could not.
Ham. And yet I'm not a Roman.
Reg. (smiling contemptuously.) I perceive it.
Ham. You may retire. (aloud to the guards.)
Reg.
No!-Stay, I charge you, stay.
Ham. And wherefore stay?
Reg.
I thank thee for thy offer,
'Tis well, proud man!
But I shall go with thee.
Ham.
Thou dost despise me, then?
Reg.
Ham. Why pity me?
Reg.
No, but I pity thee.
Because thy poor, dark soul,
Hath never felt the piercing ray of virtue.
Know, African! the scheme thou dost propose
Would injure me, thy country, and thyself.
Ham. Thou dost mistake.
Reg.
Who was it gave thee power
To rule the destiny of Regulus ?
Am I a slave to Carthage, or to thee?
Ham. What does it signify from whom, proud
Thou dost receive this benefit?
[Roman,
Reg.
A benefit?
O, savage ignorance! is it a benefit
To lie, elope, deceive, and be a villain?
|
|
Between the man who serv'd her and her foe?
I was the object of her open hate :
He, of her secret, dark malignity.
He durst not trust the nation he had sav'd;
He knew, and therefore fear'd you.-Yes, he
knew
Where once you were obliged, you ne'er forgave.
Could you forgive at all, you'd rather pardon
The man who hated, than the man who serv'd you..
Xantippus found his ruin ere it reach'd him,
Lurking behind your honours and rewards,,
Found it in your feign'd courtesies and fawnings.
When vice intends to strike a master stroke,
Its veil is smiles, its language protestations.
The Spartan's merit threaten'd, but his service
Compell'd his ruin.-Both you could not pardon.
Ham. Come, come, I know full well-
Reg.
Barbarian!. peace.
I've heard too much-Go, call thy followers;
Prepare thy ships, and learn to do thy duty.
Ham. Yes!-show thyself intrepid, and in-
sult me;
Call mine the blindness of barbarian friendship.
On Tiber's banks I hear thee, and am calm :/
But know, thou´scornful Roman! that too soon
In Carthage thou mayst fear and feel my ven-
geance :
Thy cold, obdurate pride shall there confess,
Ham. What! not when life itself, when all's Though Rome may talk-'tis Africa can punish.
at stake?
[Exit.
526
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Reg. Farewell! I've not a thought to waste | But think thou mak'st the sacrifice to Rome,
on thee.
Where is the consul? why does Publius stay?
Alas! I fear-but see, Attilia comes.
Enter ATTILIA.
And all is well again.
Att.
In aught beside-
Alas! my father,
Reg. What wouldst thou do, my child?
Canst thou direct the destiny of Rome,
Reg. What brings thee here, my child? what And boldly plead amid th' assembled senate?
eager joy
Transports thee thus?
Att.
I cannot speak-my father!
Joy chokes my utterance-Rome, dear, grateful
Rome
(Oh! may her cup with blessings overflow),
Gives up our common destiny to thee; [her,
Faithful and constant to th' advice thou gav'st
She will not hear of peace, or change of slaves,
But she insists-reward and bless her, gods!
That thou shalt here remain.
Reg.
What! with the shame-
Att. Oh! no-the sacred senate hath con-
sider'd
[faith,
That, when to Carthage thou didst pledge thy
Thou wast a captive, and that, being such,
Thou couldst not bind thyself in covenant.
Reg. He who can die is always free, my
child!
Learn farther, he who owns another's strength
Confesses his own weakness. Let them know,
I swore I would return because I chose it,
And will return, because I swore to do it.
Enter PUBLIUS.
Pub. Vain is that hope, my father.
Reg.
Who shall stop me?
Pub. All Rome.-The citizens are up in
arms :
In vain would reason stop the growing torrent;
In vain wouldst thou attempt to reach the port,
The way is barr'd by thronging multitudes :
The other streets of Rome are all deserted.
Reg. Where, where is Manlius?
Pub.
He is still thy friend;
His single voice opposes a whole people;
He threats this moment, and the next entreats,
But all in vain; none hear him, none obey.
The general fury rises e'en to madness.
The axes tremble in the lictors' hands,
Canst thou, forgetting all thy sex's softness,
Fiercely engage in hardy deeds of arms?
Canst thou encounter labour, toil, and famine,
Fatigue and hardships, watchings, cold and heat?
Canst thou attempt to serve thy country thus ?
Thou canst not :-but thou mayst sustain my
Without these agonizing pangs of grief, [loss
And set a bright example of submission,
Worthy a Roman's daughter.
Ått.
Yet such fortitude-
Reg. Is a most painful virtue ;-but Attilia
Is Regulus's daughter, and must have it.
Att. I will entreat the gods to give it me.
Ah! thou art offended! I have lost thy love.
Reg. Is this concern a mark that thou hast
lost it?
I cannot, cannot spurn my weeping child.
Receive this proof of my paternal fondness;—
Thou lov'st Licinius-he too loves my daughter.
I give thee to his wishes; I do more-
I give thee to his virtues.-Yes, Attilia,
The noble youth deserves this dearest pledge
Thy father's friendship ever can bestow.
Att. My lord! my father! wilt thou, canst
thou leave me?
The tender father will not quit his child!
Reg. I am, I am thy father! as a proof,
I leave thee my example how to suffer.
My child! I have a heart within this bosom ;
That heart has passions-see in what we
differ;
Passion-which is thy tyrant-is my slave.
Att. Ah! stay, my father. Ah!
Reg.
Farewell! farewell! [Exit.
Att. Yes, Regulus! I feel thy spirit here,
Thy mighty spirit, struggling in this breast,
And it shall conquer all these coward feelings,
It shall subdue the woman in my soul;
A Roman virgin should be something more-
Should dare above her sex's narrow limits
Who, pale and spiritless, want power to use And I will dare-and mis'ry shall assist me
them-
me.
Att. Ah! where? I tremble-
And one wild scene of anarchy prevails.
Reg. Farewell! my daughter. Publius, follow
[Exit PUBLIUS.
(detaining REGULUS.)
Reg.
To assist my friend-
T'upbraid my hapless country with her crime-
To keep unstain'd the glory of these chains-
To go, or perish.
Att.
Reg.
Oh! have mercy!
Hold;
I have been patient with thee; have indulg'd
Too much the fond affections of thy soul;
It is enough; thy grief would now offend
Thy father's honour; do not let thy tears
Conspire with Rome to rob me of my triumph.
Att. Alas! it wounds my soul.
Reg.
I know it does.
My father! I will be indeed thy daughter!
The hero shall no more disdain his child;
Attilia shall not be the only branch
That yields dishonour to the parent tree.
Enter BARCE.
Bar. Attilia! is it true that Regulus,
In spite of senate, people, augurs, friends,
And children, will depart?
Att.
Yes, it is true.
Bar. Oh! what romantic madness!
Att.
You forget-
Barce! the deeds of heroes claim respect.
Bar. Dost thou approve a virtue which must
lead
To chains, to tortures, and to certain death?
Att. Barce! those chains, those tortures, and
Will be his triumph.
[that death,
Bar.
Thou art pleas'd, Attilia;
I know 'twill grieve thy gentle heart to lose me ; | By heav'n, thou dost exult in his destruction!
I
:
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
(weeps.)
Att. Ah! pitying powers.
Bar.
Att. No, Barce, I believe it.Why, how
shouldst thou?
I do not comprehend thee.
If I mistake not, thou wast born in Carthage;
In a barbarian land, where never child
Was taught to triumph in a father's chains.
Bar. Yet thou dost weep-thy tears at least
are honest,
For they refuse to share thy tongue's deceit ;
They speak the genuine language of affliction,
And tell the sorrows that oppress thy soul.
Att. Grief, that dissolves in tears, relieves
the heart.
When congregated vapours melt in rain,
The sky is calm'd, and all's serene again.
[Exit.
Bar. Why, what a strange, fantastic land is
this!
This love of glory's the disease of Rome;
It makes her mad, it is a wild delirium,
A universal and contagious phrensy;
It preys on all, it spares nor sex nor age:
The consul envies Regulus his chains- [dom-
He, not less mad, contemns his life and free-
The daughter glories in the father's ruin-
And Publius, more distracted than the rest,
Resigns the object that his soul adores,
For this vain phantom, for this empty glory.
This may be virtue; but I thank the gods,
The soul of Barce's not a Roman soul. [Exit.
SCENE-Within sight of the Tiber-ships ready
for the embarcation of Regulus and the Am-
bassador-Tribune and People stopping up the
passage-Consul and Lictors endeavouring to
clear it.
MANLIUS and LICINIUS advance.
Lic. Rome will not suffer Regulus to go.
Man. I thought the consul and the senators
Had been a part of Rome.
Lic.
I grant they are-
But still the people are the greater part.
Man. The greater, not the wiser.
Lic.
The less cruel..
Full of esteem and gratitude to Regulus,
We would preserve his life.
Man.
And we his honour.
Lic. His honour !:
Man. Yes. Time presses. Words are vain.
Make way there-clear the passage.
Lic.
Stir not a man.
Man.
On your lives,
I do command you, go.
Lic. And I forbid it.
Man.
Clear the way, my friends.
How dares Licinius thus oppose the consul?
Lic. How dar'st thou, Manlius, thus oppose
the tribune?
Man. I'll show thee what I dare, imprudent
Lictors, force through the passage. [boy!
Lic.
Romans, guard it.
Man. Gods! is my power resisted then with
Thou dost affront the majesty of Rome. [arms!
Lic. The majesty of Rome is in the people;
Thou dost insult it by opposing them.
People. Let noble Regulus remain in Rome.
527
Man. My friends, let me explain this treach-
erous scheme.
People. We will not hear thee-Regulus shall
Man. What! none obey me?
[stav.
People.
Regulus shall stay.
Man. Romans, attend.
People.
Let Regulus remain.
Enter REGULUS, followed by PUBLius, Attilia,
HAMILCAR, BArce, &c.
Reg. Let Regulus remain! What do I hear?
Is't possible the wish should come from you?
Can Romans give, or Regulus accept,
A life of infamy? Is't possible?
Where is the ancient virtue of my country?
Rise, rise, ye mighty spirits of old Rome!
I do invoke you from your silent tombs ;
Fabricius, Cocles, and Camillus, rise, [were.
And show your sons what their great fathers
My countrymen, what crime have I committed?
Alas! how has the wretched Regulus
Deserv'd your hatred.!
Lic.
Hatred? ah! my friend,
It is our love would break these cruel chains.
Reg. If you deprive me of my chains, I'm
nothing;
They are my honours, riches, titles,-all! [try;
They'll shame my enemies, and grace my coun-
They'll waft her glory to remotest climes,
Beyond her provinces and conquer'd realms,
Where yet her conq'ring eagles never flew,
Nor shall she blush hereafter if she find
Recorded with her faithful citizens,
The name of Regulus, the captive Regulus.
My countrymen! what, think you, kept in awe
The Volsci, Sabines, qui, and Hernici?
The arms of Rome alone? no, 'twas her virtue,
That sole surviving good, which brave men keep,
Though fate and warring worlds combine against
them :
This still is mine—and I'll preserve it, Romans!
The wealth of Plutus shall not bribe it from me!
you, alas! require this sacrifice,
If
Carthage herself was less my foe than Rome;
She took my freedom-she could take no more;
But Rome, to crown her work, would take my
honour.
My friends! if you deprive me of my chains,
I am no more than any other slave:
Yes, Regulus becomes a common captive,
A wretched, lying, perjur'd fugitive!
But if, to grace my bonds, you leave my honour,
I shall be still a Roman, though a slave. [ges?
Lic. What faith should be observ'd with sava-
What promise should be kept which bonds
extort?
Reg. Unworthy subterfuge! ah! let us leave
To the wild Arab and the faithless Moor
These wretched maxims of deceit and fraud:
Examples ne'er can justify the coward.
The brave man never seeks a vindication,
Save from his own just bosom and the gods;
From principle, not precedent, he acts;
As that arraigns him, or as that acquits,
He stands or falls; condemnn'd or justified.
Lic. Rome is no more, if Regulus departs.
Reg. Let Rome remember Regulus must die ;
Nor would the moment of my death be distant,
ز
528
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
..
If nature's work had been reserv'd for nature:
What Carthage means to do, she would have
As speedily, perhaps, at least as surely. [done,
My wearied life has almost reach'd its goal;
The once warm current stagnates in these veins,
Or through its icy channels slowly creeps-
View the weak arm; mark the pale, furrow'd
cheek,
The slacken'd sinew, and the dim sunk eye,
And tell me then I must not think of dying!
How can I serve you else? My feeble limbs
Would totter now beneath the armour's weight,
The burden of that body it once shielded.
You see, my friends, you see, my countrymen,
I can no longer show myself a Roman,
Except by dying like one.-Gracious Heaven
Points out a way to crown my days with glory;
O, do not frustrate then the will of Jove,
And close a life of virtue with disgrace.
Come, come, I know my noble Romans better;
I see your souls, I read repentance in them ;
You all applaud me-nay, you wish my chains;
'Twas nothing but excess of love misled you,
And, as you're Romans, you will conquer that.
Yes! I perceive your weakness is subdued—
Seize, seize the moment of returning virtue;
Throw to the ground, my sons, those hostile
Retard no longer Regulus's triumph;
I do request it of you as a friend,
I call you to your duty as a patriot,
[arms;
And were I still your gen'ral, I'd command
you.
Lic. Lay down your arms-let Regulus depart.
(To the people, who clear the way, and quit their
arms.)
Reg. Gods! gods! I thank you-you indeed
are righteous.
[oh, father!
Pub. See every man disarm'd. Oh, Rome!
Att. Hold, hold, my heart. Alas! they all
obey.
[thee.
Reg. The way is clear. Hamilcar, I attend
Ham. Why, I begin to envy this old man!
(aside.)
Man. Not the proud victor on the day of tri-
umph,
|
Warm from the slaughter of dispeopled realins,
Though conquer'd princes grace his chariot
wheels,
Though tributary monarchs wait his nod,
And vanquish'd nations bend the knee before him,
E'er shone with half the lustre that surrounds
This voluntary sacrifice for Rome!
Who loves his country will obey her laws;
Who most obeys them is the truest patriot.
Reg. Be our last parting worthy of ourselves.
Farewell! my friends. I bless the gods who
rule us,
Since I must leave you, that I leave you Romans.
Preserve the glorious name untainted still,
And you shall be the rulers of the globe,
The arbiters of earth. The farthest east,
Beyond where Ganges rolls his rapid flood,
Shall proudly emulate the Roman name.
(Kneels.) Ye gods, the guardians of this glori-
ous people,
Who watch with jealous eye Æneas' race,
This land of heroes I commit to you!
[care!
This ground, these walls, this people, be your
Oh! bless them, bless them with a liberal hand!
Let fortitude and valour, truth and justice,
For ever flourish and increase among them!
And if some baneful planet threat the capitol
With its malignant influence, oh! avert it.
Be Regulus the victim of your wrath.----
On this white head be all your vengeance pour'd,
But spare, oh! spare, and bless immortal Rome!
Ah! tears? my Romans weep! Farewell! fare-
well!
ATTILIA struggles to get to REGULUS-is pre-
vented—she faints-he fixes his eye steadily
on her for some time, and then departs to the
ships.
MANLIUS. (looking after him.) Farewell! fare-
well! thou glory of mankind!
Protector, father, saviour of thy country!
Through Regulus the Roman name shall live,
Shall triumph over time, and mock oblivion.
Farewell! thou pride of this immortal coast!
'Tis Rome alone a Regulus can boast.
EPILOGUE.
BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. ›
WHAT son of physic, but his heart extends,
As well as hand, when call'd on by his friends?
What landlord is so weak to make you fast,
When guests like you bespeak a good repast?
But weaker still were he whom fate has plac'd
To sooth your cares, and gratify your taste,
Should he neglect to bring before your eyes,
Those dainty dramas which from genius rise;
Whether your luxury be to smile or weep,
His and your profits just proportion keep.
To-night he brought, nor fears a due reward,
A Roman Patriot by a Female Bard.
Britons, who feel his flame, his worth will rate,
No common spirit his, no common fate.
INFLEXIBLE and CAPTIVE must be great.
How!" cries a sucking fop, thus lounging,
straddling,
(Whose head shows want of ballast by its nod-
dling),
"A woman write? Learn, madam, of your
betters,
And read a noble lord's posthumous letters.
There you will learn the sex may merit praise,
By making puddings-not by making plays :
They can make tea and mischief, dance and sing;
Their heads, though full of feathers, can't take
[chance,
wing."
I thought they could, sir; now and then, by
Maids fly to Scotland, and some wives to France.
He still went nodding on-" Do all she can,
Woman's a trifle-plaything-like her fan."
Right, sir, and when a wife, the rattle of a man.
And shall such things as these become the test
Of female worth? the fairest and the best.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
529
*
Of all heaven's creatures? for so Milton sung us,
And, with such champions, who shall dare to
[ray'd;
wrong us?
Come forth, proud man, in all your pow'rs ar-
Shine out in all your splendour-who's afraid?
Who on French wit has made a glorious war,
Defended Shakspeare, and subdued Voltaire ?-
Woman!*-Who, rich in knowledge; knows no
pride,
Can boast ten tongues, and yet not satisfied?
* Mrs. Montague, author of an essay on the wri-
tings of Shakspeare.
VOL. I:
|
Woman!* Who lately sung the sweetest lay?
A woman! woman! woman!t still I say.
Well then, who dares deny our power and might?
Will any married man dispute our right?
Speak boldly; sirs, your wives are not in sight.
What! are you silent? then you are content;
Silence, the proverb tells us, gives consent.
Critics, will you allow our honest claim?
Are you dumb too? This night has fix'd our
fame.
* Mrs. Carter, well known for her skill in ancient
and modern languages.
+Miss Aikin, whose poems were just published:
2 L
!
1
}
1
}
PERCY:
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
\
!
REMARKS.
The feuds of the rival houses of Percy and of Douglas have furnished materials for this melancholy tale, in
bich Mrs. More* has embodied many judicious sentiments and excellent passages, producing a forcible lesson to
arental tyranny. The victim of her husband's unreasonable jealousy, Elwina's virtuous conflict is pathetic and
interesting; while Percy's sufferings, and the vain regret of Earl Raby, excite and increase our sympathy..
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
PERCY, Earl of Northumberland,
EARL DOUGLAS,..
EARL RABY, Elwina's Father,..
EDRIC, Friend to Douglas,..
HARCOURT, Friend to Percy,.
SIR HUBERT, a Knight,...
ELWINA, .
BIRTHA,.
ACT I.
Knights, Guards, Attendants, &c.
SCENE.-Raby Castle, in Durham.
SCENE I-A Gothic Hall.
Enter EDRIC and BIRTHA.
Mr. Lewis.
Mr. Wroughton:
. Mr. Aickin.
Mr. Whitefield.
Mr. Robson,
Mr. Hull.
Mrs. Barry.
..Mrs. Jackson.
And though the ties of blood unite us closely,
I shudder at his haughtiness of temper,
Which not his gentle wife, the bright Elwina,
Can charm to rest. Ill are their spirits pair'd;
Bir. What may this mean? Earl Douglas has His is the seat of frenzy, hers of softness,
enjoin'd thee
To meet him here in private?
Edr. Yes, my sister,
And this injunction I have oft receiv'd;
But when he comes, big with some painful secret,
He starts, looks wild, then drops ambiguous hints,
Frowns, hesitates, turns pale, and says 'twas
nothing;
Then feigns to smile, and by his anxious care
To prove himself at ease, betrays his pain.
Bir. Since my short sojourn here, I've mark'd
this earl,
His love is transport, hers is trembling duty;
Rage in his soul is as the whirlwind fierce,
While hers ne'er felt the power of that rude
passion.
Edr. Perhaps the mighty soul of Douglas
mourns,
Because inglorious love detains him here,
While our bold knights, beneath the Christian
standard,
Press to the bulwarks of Jerusalem.
Bir. Though every various charm adorns
Elwina,
* Of this estimable lady, a cotemporary writer says, "This lady has for many years flourished in the literary
world, which she has richly adorned by a variety of labours, all possessing strong marks of excellence. In the
cause of religion and society, her labours are original and indefatigable; and the industrious poor have been
once enlightened by her instructions, and supported by her bounty."
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
331
And though the noble Douglas dotes to madness,
Yet some dark mystery involves their fate:
The canker grief devours Elwina's bloom,
And on her brow meek resignation sits;
Hopeless, yet uncomplaining.
Edr. 'Tis most strange.
Bir. Once, not long since, she thought herself
alone;
'Twas then the pent-up anguish burst its bounds;
With broken voice, clasp'd hands, and streaming
eyes,
She call'd upon her father, call'd him cruel,
And said her duty claim'd far other recompense.
Edr. Perhaps the absence of the good Lord
Raby,
Who, at her nuptials, quitted this fair castle,
Resigning it to her, may thus afflict her.
Hast thou e'er question'd her, good Birtha?
Bir. Often,
But hitherto in vain; and yet she shows me
The endearing kindness of a sister's love;
But if I speak to Douglas-
Edr. See! he comes.
Ít would offend him should he find
Enter DOUGLAS.
you here:
Dou. How! Edric and his sister in close con-
ference ?
Do they not seem alarm'd at my approach?
And see, how suddenly they part! Now Edric,
[Exit BIRTHA.
Was this well done? or was it like a friend,
When I desir'd to meet thee here alone,
With all the warmth of trusting confidence,
To lay my bosom naked to thy view,
And show thee all its weakness, was it well
To call thy sister here, to let her witness
Thy friend's infirmity?—perhaps to tell her-
Edr. My lord, I nothing know; I came to learn.
Dou. Nay then thou dost suspect there's some.
thing wrong?
Edr. If we were bred from infancy together,
If I partook in all thy youthful griefs,
And every joy thou knew'st was doubly mine,
Then tell me all the secret of thy soul:
Or have these few short months of separation,
The only absence we have ever known,
Have these so rent the bands of love asunder,
That Douglas should distrust his Edric's truth ?
Dou. My friend, I know thee faithful as thou'rt
brave,
And I will trust thee-but not now, good Edric.
'Tis past, 'tis gone, it is not worth the telling,
'Twas wrong to cherish what disturb'd my peace;
I'll think of it no more.
Edr. Transporting news!
I fear'd some hidden trouble vex'd your quiet.
In secret I have watch'd
ست
Dou. Ha! watch'd in secret?
A spy, employ'd, perhaps, to note my actions.
What have I said? Forgive me, thou art noble:
Yet do not press me to disclose my grief,
For when thou know'st it, I perhaps shall hate thee
As much, my Edric, as I hate myself
For my suspicions I am ill at ease.
Edr. How will the fair Elwina grieve to hear it!
Dou. Hold, Edric, hold-thou hast touch'd the
fatal string
That wakes me into madness. Hear me then,
But let the deadly secret be secured
With bars of adamant in thy close breast.
Think on the curse which waits on broken oaths;
| A knight is bound by more than vulgar ties,
And perjury in thee were doubly damn'd.
Well then, the king of England-
Edr. Is expected
From distant Palestine.
Dou. Forbid it, Heaven!
For with him comes—
Edr. Ah! who?
Dou. Peace, peace,
For see Elwina's here. Retire, my Edric;
When next we meet, thou shalt know all. Fare-
well.
[Exit EDRIC.
Now to conceal with care my bosom's anguish,
And let her beauty chase away my sorrows!
Yes, I would meet her with a face of smiles-
But 'twill not be.
Enter ELWINA.
Elio. Alas, 'tis ever thus!
Thus ever clouded is his angry brow. [Asidë,
Dou. I were too bless'd, Elwina, could I hope
You met me here by choice, or that your bosom
Shar'd the warm transports mine must ever feel
At your approach.
Elw. My lord, if I intrude,
[giveness:
The cause which brings me claims at least for-
I fear you are not well, and come, unbidden,
Except by faithful duty, to inquire,
If haply in my power, my little power
I have the means to minister relief
To your affliction?
"
Dou. What unwonted goodness
O I were bless'd above the lot of man,
If tenderness, not duty, brought Elwina;
Cold, ceremonious, and unfeeling duty,
That wretched substitute for love: but know,
The heart demands a heart; nor will be paid
With less than what it gives. E'en now, Elwina,
The glistening tear stands trembling in your eyes,
Which cast their mournful sweetness on the
ground,
As if they fear'd to raise their beams to mine,
And read the language of reproachful love.
Elw. My lord, I hop'd the thousand daily proofs
Of my obedience
Dou. Death to all my hopes!
[ence?
Heart-rending word!obedience! what's obedi
'Tis fear, 'tis hate, 'tis terror, 'tis aversion,
'Tis the cold debt of ostentatious duty,
Paid with insulting caution, to remind me
How much you tremble to offend a tyrant
So terrible as Douglas.-O, Elwina-
While duty measures the regard it owes
With scrupulous precision and nice justice,
Love never reasons, but profusely gives,
Gives, like a thoughtless prodigal, its all,
And trembles then, lest it has done too little.
Elw. Indeed I'm most unhappy that my cares,
And my solicitude to please, offend.
Dou. True tenderness is less solicitous,
Less prudent and more fond; the enamour'd heart
Conscious it loves, and bless'd in being lov'd,
Reposes on the object it adores,
And trusts the passion it inspires and feels.—
Thou hast not learn'd how terrible it is
To feed a hopeless flame. But hear, Elwina,
Thou most obdurate, hear me.-
Elw. Say, my lord,
For your own lips shall vindicate my fame,
Since at the altar I became your wife,
Can malice charge me with an act, a word,
I ought to blush at? Have I not still liv❜ď
532
THE WORKS OF HANNAII MORE.
As open to the eye of observation,
As fearless innocence should ever live?
I call attesting angels to be witness,
If in my open deed, or secret thought,
My conduct, or my heart, they've aught discern'd
Which did not emulate their purity.
Dou. This vindication ere you were accus'd,
This warm defence, repelling all attacks
Ere they are made, and construing casual words
To formal accusations, trust me, Madam,
Shows rather an alarm'd and vigilant spirit,
For ever on the watch to guard its secret,
Than the sweet calm of fearless innocence.
Who talk'd of guilt? Who testified suspicion?
Elw. Learn, Sir, that virtue, while 'tis free from
blame,
Is modest, lowly, meek, and unassuming;
Not apt, like fearful vice, to shield its weakness
Beneath the studied pomp of boastful phrase
Which swells to hide the poverty it shelters;
But, when this virtue feels itself suspected,
Insulted, set at nought, its whiteness stain'd,
It then grows proud, forgets its humble worth,
And rates itself above its real value,
Dou. I did not mean to chide! but think, O
think,
What pangs must rend this fearful doting heart,
To see you sink impatient of the grave,
To feel, distracting thought! to feel you hate me!
Elw. What if the slender thread by which I
hold
This poor precarious being soon must break,
Is it Elwina's crime, or Heaven's decree?
Yet I shall meet, I trust, the king of terrors,
Submissive and resign'd, without one pang,
One fond regret, at leaving this gay world.
Dou. Yes, Madam, there is one, one man ador'd,
For whom your sighs will heave, your tears will
flow,
For whom this hated world will still be dear,
For whom you still would live-
Elv. Hold, hold my lord,
What
may
this mean?
Dou. Ah! I have gone too far.
What have I said?--Your father, sure, your father,
The good Lord Raby, may at least expect
One tender sigh.
Elw. Alas, my lord! I thought
The precious incense of a daughter's sighs
Might rise to heaven, and not offend its ruler.
Dou. 'Tis true; yet Raby is no more belov❜d
Since he bestow'd his daughter's hand on Douglas:
That was a crime the dutiful Elwina
Can never pardon; and believe me, Madam,
My love's so nice, so delicate my honour,
I am asham'd to owe my happiness
To ties which make you wretched. [Exit DOUGLAS.
Elw. Ah! how's this?
Though I have ever found him fierce and rash,
Full of obscure surmises and dark hints,
Till now he never ventur'd to accuse me.
"Yet there is one, one man belov'd, ador'd,
For whom your tears will flow"-these were his
words-
And then the wretched subterfuge of Raby-
How poor th' evasion!-But my Birtha comes.
Enter BIRTHA.
Bir. Crossing the portico I met Lord Douglas,
Disorder'd were his looks, his eyes shot fire;
He call'd upon your name with such distraction
I fear'd some sudden evil had befallen you.
Elw. Not sudden: no; long has the storm
been gathering,
Which threatens speedily to burst in ruin
On this devoted head.
Bir. I ne'er beheld
Your gentle soul so ruffled, yet I've marked you,
While others thought you happiest of the happy,
Bless'd with whate'er the world calls great, or
good,
With all that nature, all that fortune gives,
I've mark'd you bending with a weight of sorrow.
Elu. OI will tell thee all! thou couldst not find
An hour, a moment in Elwina's life,
When her full heart so long'd to ease its burden,
And pour its sorrows in thy friendly bosom:
Hear then, with pity hear, my tale of wo,
And, O forgive, kind nature, filial piety,
If my presumptuous lips arraign a father!
Yes, Birtha, that belov'd, that cruel father,
Has doom'd me to a life of hopeless anguish,
To die of grief ere half my days are number'd;
Doom'd me to give my trembling hand to Douglas,
'Twas all I had to give-my heart was-Percy's.
Bir. What do I hear?
Elw. My misery, not my crime.
Long since the battle 'twixt the rival houses
Of Douglas and of Percy, for whose hate
This mighty globe 's too small a theatre,
One summer's morn, my father chas'd the deer
On Cheviot Hills, Northumbria's fair domain.
Bir. On that fam'd spot where first the feuds
commenc'd
Between the earls ?
Elw. The same. During the chace,
Some of my father's knights receiv'd an insult
From the Lord Percy's herdsmen, churlish fo-
resters,
;
Unworthy of the gentle blood they serv'd.
My father, proud and jealous of his honour,
(Thou know'st the fiery temper of our barons,)
Swore that Northumberland had been concern'd
In this rude outrage, nor would hear of peace,
Or reconcilement, which the Percy offer'd
But bade me hate, renounce, and banish him.
O! 'twas a task too hard for all my duty:
I strove, and wept; I strove-but still I lov'd.
Bir. Indeed 'twas most unjust; but say what
[tale?
Elw. Why should I dwell on the disastrous
Forbid to see me, Percy soon embark'd
With our great king against the Saracen.
Soon as the jarring kingdoms were at peace,
Earl Douglas, whom till then I ne'er had seen,
Came to this castle; 'twas my hapless fate
To please him.-Birtha! thou can'st tell what
followed:
follow'd?
But who shall tell the agonies I felt ?
My barbarous father forc'd me to dissolve
The tender vows himself had bid me form-
He dragg'd me trembling, dying, to the altar,
I sigh'd, I struggled, fainted, and complied.
Bir. Did Douglas know, a marriage had been
[once
Propos'd 'twixt you and Percy?
Elw. If he did,
He thought, like you, it was a match of policy,
Nor knew our love surpass'd our fathers' prudence..
Bir. Should he now find he was the instru
ment
Of the Lord Raby's vengeance?
Elw. Twere most dreadful!
My father lock'd this motive in his breast,
And feign'd to have forgot the chace of Cheviot:
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
533
Some moons have now completed their slow course | I am convinc'd-I can no longer doubt,
Since my sad marriage.-Percy still is absent.
Bir. Nor will return before his sov'reign comes.
Elu. Talk not of his return this coward heart
Can know no thought of peace but in his absence.
How, Douglas here again? some fresh alarm!
Enter DOUGLAS, agitated, with letters in his hand.
Dou. Madam, your pardon-
Elw. What disturbs my lord?
[ease.
Nor talk, nor hear, nor reason, nor reflect,
I must retire, and give a loose to joy.
Bir. The king returns.
[Exit DOUGLAR,
Elw. And with him Percy comes!
Bir. You needs must go.
Elw. Shall I solicit ruin,
And pull destruction on me ere its time?
Dou. Nothing.-Disturb! I ne'er was more at, who have held it criminal to name him?
These letters from your father give us notice
He will be here to-night-He farther adds,
The king's each hour expected.
Elw. How? the king?
Said you, the king?
Dou. And 'tis Lord Raby's pleasure
That you among the foremost bid him welcome.
You must attend the court.
Elw. Must I, my lord?
Dou. Now to observe how she receives the
news!
[Aside.
Elw. I must not, cannot.-By the tender love
You have so oft profess'd for poor Elwina,
Indulge this one request-O let me stay!
Dou. Enchanting sounds! she does not wish
to go-
[Aside.
Elu. The bustling world, the pomp which
waits on greatness,
Ill suits my humble, unambitious soul;—
Then leave me here, to tread the safer path
Of private life; here, where my peaceful course
Shall be as silent as the shades around me;
Nor shall one vagrant wish be e'er allow'd
To stray beyond the bounds of Raby Castle.
Dou. O music to my ears! [Aside.] Can you
resolve
To hide those wondrous beauties in the shade,
Which rival kings would cheaply buy with empire?
Can you renounce the pleasures of a court,
Whose roofs resound with minstrelsy and mirth?
Elw. My lord, retirement is a wife's best duty,
And virtue's safest station is retreat.
Dou. My soul's in transports! [Aside.]
can you forego
But
What wins the soul of woman-admiration?
A world, where charms inferior far to yours
Only presume to shine when you are absent!
Will you not long to meet the public gaze
Long to eclipse the fair, and charm the brave?
Elw. These are delights in which the mind
partakes not.
Dou. I'll try her farther.
[Aside.
[Takes her hand, and looks steadfastly at her
as he speaks.
But reflect once more:
When you shall hear that England's gallant peers.
Fresh from the fields of war, and gay with glory,
All vain with conquest, and elate with fame,
When you shall hear these princely youths contend,
In many a tournament, for beauty's prize;
When you shall hear of revelry and masking,
Of mimic combats and of festive halls,
Of lances shiver'd in the cause of love,
Will you not then repent, then wish your fate,
Your happier fate, had till that hour reserv'd you
For some plumed conqueror ?
Elw. My fate, my lord,
[der;
Is now bound up with yours.
Dou. Here let me kneel—
Yes, I will kneel, and gaze, and weep, and won-
Thou paragon of goodness!-pardon, pardon.
[Kisses her hand.
VOL. I.
|
I will not go-I disobey thee, Douglas,
But disobey thee to preserve thy honour. [Exeunt
ACT II.
SCENE I.—The Hall.
Enter DOUGLAS, speaking.
See that the traitor instantly be seiz'd,
And strictly watch'd; let none have access to him.
O jealousy, thou aggregate of woes!
Were there no hell, thy torments would create one.
But yet she may be guiltless-may? she must.
How beautiful she look'd! pernicious beauty!
Yet innocent as bright seem'd the sweet blush
That mantled on her cheek. But not for me,
But not for me, those breathing roses blow!
And then she wept-What! can I bear her tears?
Well- let her weep-her tears are for another;
O did they fall for me, to dry their streams
I'd drain the choicest blood that feeds this heart,
Nor think the drops I shed were half so precious.
[He stands in a musing posture.
Enter LORD RABY.
Raby. Sure I mistake-am I in Raby Castle?
Impossible; that was the seat of smiles;
And Cheerfulness and Joy were household gods.
I us'd to scatter pleasures when I came,
And every servant shar'd his lord's delight;
But now Suspicion and Distrust dwell here,
And Discontent maintains a sullen sway.
Where is the smile unfeign'd, the jovial welcome,
Which cheer'd the sad, beguil'd the pilgrim's pain,
And made Dependency forget its bonds?
Where is the ancient, hospitable hall,
Whose vaulted roof once rung with harmless mirth,
Where every passing stranger was a guest,
And every guest a friend? I fear me much,
If once our nobles scorn their rural seats,
Their rural greatness, and their vassals' love,
Freedom and English grandeur are no more.
Dou. [Advancing.] My lord, you are welcome.
Raby. Sir, I trust I am;
But yet methinks I shall not feel I'm welcome
Till my Elwina bless me with her smiles:
She was not wont with ling'ring step to meet me,
Or greet my coming with a cold embrace;
Now, I extend my longing arms in vain :
My child, my darling, does not come to fill them.
O they were happy days, when she would fly
To meet me from the camp, or from the chace,
And with her fondness overpay my toils!
How eager would her tender hands unbrace
The ponderous armour from my war-worn limbs,
And pluck the helmet which oppos'd her kiss!
Dou. O sweet delights, that never must be mine!
Raby. What do I hear?
Dou. Nothing: inquire no farther.
Raby. My lord, if you respect an old man's
peace,
If e'er you doted on my much-lov'd child,
As 'tis most sure you made me think you did,
534
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Then, by the pangs which you may one day feel,
When you, like me, shall be a fond, fond father,
And tremble for the treasure of your age,
Tell me what this alarming silence means?
You sigh, you do not speak, nay more, you hear
not;
Your lab'ring soul turns inward on itself,
As there were nothing but your own sad thoughts
Deserv'd regard. Does my child live?
Dou. She does.
Raby. To bless her father!
Dou. And to curse her husband!
Raby. Ah! have a care, my lord, I'm not są
old-
Dou. Nor I so base, that I should tamely bear it;
Nor am I so inur'd to infamy,
That I can say, without a burning blush,
She lives to be my curse!
Raby. How's this?
Dou. I thought
The lily opening to the heaven's soft dews,
Was not so fragrant, and was not so chaste.
Raby. Has she prov'd otherwise? I'll not be-
lieve it.
Who has traduc'd my sweet, my innocent child?
Yet she's too good to 'scape calumnious tongues.
I know that Slander loves a lofty mark:
It saw her soar a flight above her fellows,
And hurl'd its arrow to her glorious height,
To reach her heart, and bring her to the ground.
Dou. Had the rash tongue of Slander so pre-
sum'd,
My vengeance had not been of that slow sort
To need a prompter; nor should any arm,
No, not a father's, dare dispute with mine,
The privilege to die in her defence.
None dares accuse Elwina, but--
Raby. But who?
Dou. But Douglas.
Raby. [Puts his hand to his sword.] You ?-
O spare my age's weakness!
You do not know what 'tis to be a father;
You do not know, or you would pity me,
The thousand tender throbs, the nameless feel-
ings,
The dread to ask, and yet the wish to know,
When we adore and fear; but wherefore fear?
Does not the blood of Raby fill her veins ?
Dou. Percy;-know'st thou that name?
Raby. How? What of Percy?
Dou. He loves Elwina, and, my curses on him!
He is belov'd again.
Raby. I'm on the rack!
Dou. Not the two Theban brothers bore each
other
Such deep, such deadly hate as I and Percy.
Raby. But tell me of my child.
Dou. [Not minding him.] As I and Percy!
When at the marriage rites, O rites accurs'd!
I seiz'd her trembling hand, she started back,
Cold horror thrill'd her veins, her tears flow'd fast.
Fool that I was, I thought 'twas maiden fear;
Dull, doting ignorance: beneath those terrors,
Hatred for me and love for Percy lurk'd.
Raby. What proof of guilt is this?
Dou. E'er since our marriage,
Our days have still been cold and joyless all;
Painful restraint, and hatred ill disguis'd,
Her sole return for all my waste of fondness.
This very morn I told her 'twas your will
She should repair to court; with all those graces,
Which first subdued my soul, and still enslave it,
She begg'd to stay behind in Raby Castle,
For courts and cities had no charms for her.
Curse my blind love! I was again ensnar'd,
And doted on the sweetness which deceiv'd me.
Just at the hour she thought I should be absent,
(For chance could ne'er have tim'd their guilt so
well,)
Arriv'd young Harcourt, one of Percy's knights,
Strictly enjoin'd to speak to none but her;
I seiz'd the miscreant: hitherto he 's silent,
But tortures soon shall force him to confess!
Raby. Percy is absent-They have never met.
Dou. At what a feeble hold you grasp for suc-
cour!
's
Will it content me that her person pure ?
No, if her alien heart dotes on another,
She is unchaste, were not that other Percy.
Let vulgar spirits basely wait for proof,
She loves another-'tis enough for Douglas.
Raby. Be patient.
Dou. Be a tame convenient husband,
And meanly wait for circumstantial guilt?
No-I am nice as the first Cæsar was,
And start at bare suspicion.
[Going.
Raby. [Holding him.] Douglas, hear me :
Thou hast nami'd a Roman husband; if she's
false,
I mean to prove myself a Roman father.
[Exit DOUGLAS.
This marriage was my work, and thus I'm pu-
nish'd!
Enter ELWINĄ.
Elw. Where is my father? let me fly to meet
O let me clasp his venerable knees,
And die of joy in his belov'd embrace!
Raby. [Avoiding her embrace.] Elwina!
Elw. And is that all? so cold?
Raby. [Sternly.] Elwina!
[him,
Elw. Then I'm undone indeed! How stern
his looks!
I will not be repuls'd, I am your child,
The child of that dear mother you ador'd;
You shall not throw me off, I will grow here,
And, like the patriarch, wrestle for a blessing.
Raby. [Holding her from him.] Before I take
thee in these aged arms,
Press thee with transport to this beating heart
And give a loose to all a parent's fondness,
Answer, and see thou answer me as truly
As if the dread inquiry came from Heaven,-
Does no interior sense of guilt confound thee?
Canst thou lay all thy naked soul before me?
Can thy unconscious eye encounter mine?
Canst thou endure the probe, and never shrink?
Can thy firm hand meet mine, and never tremble?
Art thou prepar'd to meet the rigid Judge?
Or to embrace the fond, the melting father?
Elu. Mysterious Heaven! to what am I re-
serv'd!
Raby. Should some rash man, regardless of
thy fame,
And in defiance of thy marriage vows,
Presume to plead a guilty passion for thee
What wouldst thou do?
Elw. What honour bids me do.
Raby. Come to my arms!
Elw. My father!
Raby. Yes, Elwina,
[They embrace
Thou art my child-thy mother's perfect image.
Elw. Forgive these tears of mingled joy and
doubt;
A
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
535
For why that question? who should seek to please
The desolate Elwina?
Raby. But if any
Should so presume, canst thou resolve to hate him,
Whate'er his name, whate'er his pride of blood,
Whate'er his former arrogant pretensions?
Elwo. Ha!
Raby. Dost thou falter? Have a care, Elwina.
Elw. Sir, do not fear me: am I not your
daughter ?
[honour;
Raby. Thou hast a higher claim upon thy
Thou art Earl Douglas' wife.
Elw. [Weeps.] I am, indeed!
Raby. Unhappy Douglas!
Elw. Has he then complain'd
Has he presum'd to sully my white fame ?
Kaby. He knows that Percy-
Elw. Was my destin'd husband;
By your own promise, by a father's promise,
And by a tie more strong, more sacred still,
Mine, by the fast firm bond of mutual love.
Raby. Now, by my fears, thy husband told me
truth.
Elw. If he has told thee, that thy only child
Was forc❜d a helpless victim to the altar,
Torn from his arms who had her virgin heart,
And forc'd to make false vows to one she hated,
Then I confess that he has told the truth.
Raby. Her words are barbed arrows in my
heart.
But 'tis too late. [Aside.] Thou hast appointed
Harcourt
To see thee here by stealth in Douglas' absence?
Elw. No, by my life, nor knew I till this moment
That Harcourt was return'd. Was it for this
I taught my heart to struggle with its feelings?
Was it for this I bore my wrongs in silence?
When the fond ties of early love were broken,
Did my weak soul break out in fond complaints?
Did I reproach thee? Did I call thee cruel?
No-I endur'd it all; and wearied Heaven
To bless the father who destroy'd my peace.
Enter MESSENGER.
Eli. When policy assumes religion's name,
And wears the sanctimonious garb of faith
Only to colour fraud, and license murder,
War then is tenfold guilt.
Raby. Blaspheming girl!
Elw. 'Tis not the crosier, nor the pontiff's robe
The saintly look, nor elevated eye,
Nor Palestine destroy'd, nor Jordan's banks
Deluged with blood of slaughter'd infidels;
No, nor the extinction of the eastern world,
Nor all the mad, pernicious, bigot rage
Of your crusades, can bribe that Power that sees
The motive with the act. O blind, to think
That cruel war can please the Prince of Peace!
He, who erects his altar in the heart,
Abhors the sacrifice of human blood,
And all the false devotion of that zeal
Which massacres the world he died to save.
Raby. O impious rage! If thou wouldst shun
my curse,
[Hubert,
No more, I charge thee.-Tell me, good Sir
Say, have our arms achiev'd this glorious deed,
(I fear to ask,) without much Christian blood-shedʼn
Elw. Now, Heaven support me! [Aside.
Sir H. My good lord of Raby,
Imperfect is the sum of human glory!
Would I could tell thee that the field was won,
Without the death of such illustrious knights
As make the high-flush'd cheek of victory pale.
Elw. Why should I tremble thus ?
Raby. Who have we lost?
Aside.
[Grey,
Sir II. The noble Clifford, Walsingham, and
Sir Harry Hastings, and the valiant Pembroke,
All men of choicest note.
Raby. O that my name
Had been enroll'd in such a list of heroes!
If I was too infirm to serve my country,
I might have prov'd my love by dying for her.
Elw. Were there no more?
Sir H. But few of noble blood.
But the brave youth who gain'd the palm of glory,
The flower of knighthood, and the plume of war,
Who bore his banner foremost in the field,
Yet conquer'd more by mercy than the sword,
Elw. Then he lives!
Mess. My lord, a knight, Sir Hubert as I think, Was Percy.
But newly landed from the holy wars,
Entreats admittance.
Raby. Let the warrior enter.
[Exit MESSENGER.
All private interests sink at his approach;
All selfish cares be for a moment banish'd;
I've now no child, no kindred but my country.
Elw. Weak heart, be still, for what hast thou
to fear?
Enter SIR HUBERT.
Raby. Welcome, thou gallant knight! Sir Hu-
bert, welcome!
Welcome to Raby Castle !-In one word,
Is the king safe? Is Palestine subdu'd?
Sir H. The king is safe, and Palestine subdu'd.
Raby. Bless'd be the God of armies! Now, Sir
Hubert,
By all the saints, thou'rt a right noble knight.
O why was I too old for this crusade!
I think it would have made me young again,
Could I, like thee, have seen the hated crescent
Yield to the Christian cross.-How now, Elwina!
What! cold at news which might awake the dead?
If there's a drop in thy degenerate veins
That glows not now, thou art not Raby's daughter.
It is religion's cause, the cause of Heaven!
Raby. Did he? Did Percy?
[Aside
O gallant boy, then I'm thy foe no more;
Who conquers for my country is my friend!
His fame shall add new glories to a house,
Where never maid was false, nor knight dis-
loyal.
[tears:
Sir H. You do embalm him, lady, with your
They grace the grave of glory where he lies
He died the death of honour.
Elu. Said'st thou-died?
Sir H. Beneath the towers of Solyma he fell.
Elw. Oh!
Sir H. Look to the lady.
[ELWINA faints in her father's arms.
Raby. Gentle knight, retire-
'Tis an infirmity of nature in her,
She ever mourns at any tale of blood;
She will be well anon-meantime, Sir Hubert,
You'll grace our castle with your friendly sojourn.
Sir H. I must return with speed-health to the
lady.
[Exit.
Raby. Look up, Elwina. Should her husband
Yet she revives not.
[come!
Enter Douglas.
Dou. Ha-Elwina fainting!
536
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
My lord, I fear you have too harshly chid her.
Her gentle nature could not brook your sternness.
She wakes, she stirs, she feels returning life.
My love!
[He takes her hand.
Elw. O Percy!
Dou. [Starts.] Do my senses fail me?
Elw. My Percy, 'tis Elwina calls.
Dou. Hell, hell!
Raby. Retire awhile, my daughter.
Elu. Douglas here,
My father and my husband?-O for pity
[Exit, casting a look of anguish on both.
Dou. Now, now confess she well deserves my
vengeance!
Before my face to call upon my foe!
Raby. Upon a foe who has no power to hurt
Earl Percy 's slain.
[thee-
Dou. I live again.-But hold-
Did she not weep? she did, and wept for Percy.
If she laments him, he 's my rival still,
And not the grave can bury my resentment.
Raby. The truly brave are still the truly gen'rous.
Now, Douglas, is the time to prove thee both.
If it be true that she did once love Percy,
Thou hast no more to fear, since he is dead.
Release young Harcourt, let him see Elwina,
Twill serve a double purpose, 'twill at once
Prove Percy's death, and thy unchang'd affection.
Be gentle to my child, and win her heart
By confidence and unreproaching love.
Dou. By Heaven, thou counsel'st well! it shall
be done.
Go set him free, and let him have admittance
To my Elwina's presence.
Raby. Farewell, Douglas.
SO.
Show thou beliey'st her faithful, and she'll prove
[Exit.
Dou. Northumberland is dead-that thought is
peace!
Her heart may yet be mine, transporting hope!
Percy was gentle, even a foe avows it,
And I'll be milder than a summer's breeze.
Yes, thou most lovely, most ador'd of women,
I'll copy every virtue, every grace,
Of my bless'd rival, happier even in death
To be thus lov'd, than living to be scorn'd. [Exit.
r
ACT III.
SCENE I.—A Garden at Raby Castle, with a
Bower.
Enter PERCY and SIR HUEERT.
Sir H. That Percy lives, and is return'd in
safety,
More joys my soul than all the mighty conquests
That sun beheld, which rose on Syria's ruin.
Per. I've told thee, good Sir Hubert, by what
wonder
I was preserv'd, though number'd with the slain.
Sir H 'Twas strange, indeed!
Per. 'Twas Heaven's immediate work!
But let me now indulge a dearer joy,
Talk of a richer gift of Mercy's hand;
A gift so precious to my doting heart,
That life preserv'd is but a second blessing.
O Hubert, let my soul indulge its softness!
The hour, the spot, is sacred to Elwina.
This was her fav'rite walk; I well remember,
(For who forgets that loves as I have lov'd?)
'Twas in that very bower she gave this,scarf,
Wrought by the hand of love! she bound it on,
And, smiling, cried, Whate'er befall us, Percy,,
Be this the sacred pledge of faith between us.
I knelt, and swore, call'd every power to witness,
No time, nor circumstance, should force it from me,
But I would lose my life and that together-
Here I repeat my vow.
Sir H. Is this the man
Beneath whose single arm a host was crush'd?
He, at whose name the Saracen turn'd pale?
And when he fell, victorious armies wept,
And mourn'd a conquest they had bought so dear?
How has be chang'd the trumpet's martial note,
And all the stirring clangour of the war,
For the soft melting of the lover's lute!
Why are thine eyes still bent upon the bower?
Per. O Hubert, Hubert, to a soul enamour'd,
There is a sort of local sympathy,
Which, when we view the scenes of early passion,
Paints the bright image of the object lov❜d
In stronger colours than remoter scenes
Could ever paint it; realizes shade,
Dresses it up in all the charms it wore,
Talks to it nearer, frames its answers kinder,
Gives form to fancy, and embodies thought.
Sir H. I should not be believ'd in Percy's camp,
If I should tell them that their gallant leader,
The thunder of the war, the bold Northumberland,
Renouncing Mars, dissolv'd in amorous wishes,
Loiter'd in shades, and pined in rosy bowers,
To catch a transient gleam of two bright eyes.
Per. Enough of conquest, and enough of war!
Ambition 's cloy'd-the heart resumes its rights.
When England's king, and England's good re-
quir'd,
This arm not idly the keen falchion brandish'd:
Enough-for vaunting misbecomes a soldier.
I live, I am return'd-am near Elwina! [her;
Seest thou those turrets? Yes, that castle holds
But wherefore tell thee this? for thou hast seen her.
How look'd, what said she? Did she hear the tale
Of my imagin'd death without emotion?
Sir H. Percy, thou hast seen the musk-rose,
newly blown,
Disclose its hashful beauties to the sun,
Till an unfriendly, chilling storm descended,
Crush'd all its blushing glories in their prime,
Bow'd its fair head, and blasted all its sweetness;
So droop'd the maid beneath the cruel weight
Of my sad tale.
Per. So tender and so true!
Sir H. I left her fainting in her father's arms,
The dying flower yet hanging on the tree.
Even Raby melted at the news I brought,
And envy'd thee thy glory.
Per. Then I am bless'd!
His hate subdu'd, I've nothing more to fear.
Sir H. My embassy dispatch'd, I left the castle,
Nor spoke to any of Lord Raby's household,
For fear the king should chide the tardiness
Of my return. My joy to find you living
You have already heard.
Per. But where is Harcourt?
Ere this he should have seen her, told her all,
How I surviv'd, return'd-and how I love!
I tremble at the near approach of bliss,
And scarcely can sustain the joy which waits me.
Sir H. Grant, Heaven, the fair one prove but
half so true!
Per. O she is truth itself!
Sir H. She may be chang'd,
Spite of her tears, her fainting, and alarms.
I know the sex, know them as nature made 'em,
Not such as lovers wish, and poets feign.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
537
[ven,
Per. To doubt her virtue were suspecting Hea- | He will forget the fatal Cheviot chace;
'Twere little less than infidelity!
Raby is brave, and I have serv'd my country
I would not boast, it was for thee I conquer'á;
Then come, my love.
And yet Itremble. Why does terror shake
These firm-strung nerves? But 'twill be ever thus,
When fate prepares us more than mortal bliss,
And gives us only human strength to bear it.
Sir H. What beam of brightness breaks through
yonder gloom?
[comes
Per. Hubert-she comes! by all my hopes, she
'Tis she-the blissful vision is Elwina! [me!
But ah! what mean those tears ?-She weeps for
O transport!-go.-I'll listen unobserv'd,
And for a moment taste the precious joy,
The banquet of a tear which falls for love.
ཡ
[Exit SIR HUBERT, PERCY goes into the | I
bower.
Enter ELWINA.
Shall I not weep? and have I then no cause?
If I could break the eternal bands of death,
And wrench the sceptre from his iron grasp;
If I could bid the yawning sepulchre
Restore to life its long committed dust;
If I could teach the slaughtering hand of war
To give me back my dear, my murder'd Percy,
Then I indeed might once more cease to weep.
[PERCY comes out of the bower.
Per. Then cease, for Percy lives.
Elw, Protect me, Heaven!
Per. O joy unspeakable! My life, my love!
End of my toils, and crown of all my cares!
Kind as consenting peace, as conquest bright,
Dearer than arms, and lovelier than renown!
Elw. It is his voice-it is, it is my Percy!
And dost thou live?
Per. I never liv'd till now.
Elw. And did my sighs, and did my sorrows
reach thee?
And art thou come at last to dry my tears?
How did'st thou 'scape the fury of the foe?
Per. Thy guardian genius hover'd o'er the field,
And turn'd the hostile spear from Percy's breast,
Lest thy fair image should be wounded there.
But Harcourt should have told thee all my fate,
How I surviv’d
Elw. Alas! I have not seen him.
Oh! I have suffer'd much.
Per. Of that no more;
For every minute of our future lives
Shall be so bless'd, that we will learn to wonder
How we could ever think we were unhappy.
Elw. Percy-I cannot speak.
Per. Those tears how eloquent!
I would not change this motionless, mute joy,
For the sweet strains of angels: I look down
With pity on the rest of human kind,
However great may be their fame of happiness,
And think their niggard fate has given them
nothing,
Not giving thee; or, granting some small blessing,
Denies them my capacity to feel it.
?
Elw. Alas! what mean you
fit:
Per. Can I speak my meaning?
'Tis of such magnitude that words would wrong
But surely my Elwina's faithful bosom
Should beat in kind responses of delight,
And feel, but never question, what I mean.
Elw. Hold, hold, my heart, thou hast much
more to suffer!
Per. Let the slow form, and tedious ceremony,
Wait on the splendid victims of ambition.
Love stays for none of these. Thy father's soften'd,
Elw. O never, never, never!
Per. Am I awake? Is that Elwina's voice?
Elw. Percy, thou most ador'd, and most de-
[ceiv'd!
If ever fortitude sustain'd thy soul,
When vulgar minds have sunk beneath the stroke,
Let thy imperial spirit now support thee.—
If thou canst be so wondrous merciful,
Do not, O do not curse me!-but thou wilt,
Thou must-for I have done a fearful deed,
A deed of wild despair, a deed of horror,
I am-
am,
Per. Speak, say, what art thou ?
Elu. Married!
Per. Oh!
[me;
Elw. Percy, I think I begg'd thee not to curse
But now I do revoke the fond petition.
Speak! ease thy bursting soul; reproach, upbraid,
O'erwhelm me with thy wrongs- -I'll bear it all.
Per. Open, thou earth, and hide me from her
sight!
Did'st thou not bid me curse thee?
Elw. Mercy! mercy!
Per. And have I 'scaped the Saracen's fell
Only to perish by Elwina's guilt? [sword
I would have bared my bosom to the foe,
I would have died, had I but known you wish'd it,
Elw. Percy, I lov'd thee most when most Į
wrong'd thee;
Yes, by these tears I did.
Per. Married! just Heaven!
Married! to whom? Yet wherefore should
know?
It cannot add fresh horrors to thy crime,
Or my destruction.
Elw. Oh! 'twill add to both.
How shall I tell? Prepare for something dreadful,
Hast thou not heard of-Douglas ?
Per. Why, 'tis well!
Thou awful Power, why waste thy wrath on me?
Why arm omnipotence to crush a worm?
I could have fallen without this waste of ruin.
Married to Douglas! By my wrongs, I like it;
'Tis perfidy complete, 'tis finish'd falsehood,
'Tis adding fresh perdition to the sin,
And filling up the measure of offence!
Elw. Oh! 'twas my father's deed! he made his
child
An instrument of vengeance on thy head.
He wept and threaten'd, sooth'd me, and com-
manded.
Per. And you complied, most duteously com
plied!
Elw. I could withstand his fury; but his tears,
Ah, they undid me! Percy dost thou know
The cruel tyranny of tenderness?
Hast thou e'er felt a father's warm embrace?
Hast thou e'er seen a father's flowing tears,
And known that thou could'st wipe those tears
away ?
If thou hast felt, and hast resisted these,
Then thou may'st curse my weakness; but if not,
Thou canst not pity, for thou canst not judge.
Per. Let me not hear the music of thy voice,
Or I shall love thee still; I shall forget
Thy fatal marriage and my savage wrongs.
Elw. Dost thou not hate me, Percy?
Per. Hate thee? Yes,
As dying martyrs hate the righteous cause
538
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE,
•
Of that bless'd power for whom they bleed-1
hate thee.
[They look at each other with silent agony.
Enter HARCOURT.
Har. Forgive, my lord, your faithful knight-
Per. Come, Harcourt,
Come, and behold the wretch who once was Percy.
Har. With grief I've learn'd the whole un-
happy tale.
Earl Douglas, whose suspicion never sleeps-
Per. What, is the tyrant jealous?
Elw. Hear him, Percy.
Per. I will command my rage-Go on.
Har. Earl Douglas
Knew, by my arms and my accoutrements,
That I belong'd to you; he questioned much,
And much he menac'd me, but both alike
In vain; he then arrested and confin'd me.
[it.
Per. Arrest my knight! The Scot shall answer
Elw. How came you now releas'd?
Har. Your noble father
Obtain❜d my freedom, having learn'd from Hubert
The news of Percy's death. The good old lord,
Hearing the king's return, has left the castle
To do him homage.
To PERCY.] Sir, you had best retire;
Your safety is endanger'd by your stay.
I fear should Douglas know
Per. Should Douglas know!
Why what new magic 's in the name of Douglas?
That it should strike Northumberland with fear?
Go, seek the haughty Scot, and tell him-no-
Conduct me to his presence.
Elw. Percy, hold;
Think not 'tis Douglas-'tis-
Per. I know it well-
Thou mean'st to tell me 'tis Elwina's husband;
But that inflames me to superior madness.
This happy husband, this triumphant Douglas,
Shall not insult my misery with his bliss.
I'll blast the golden promise of his joys.
Conduct me to him-nay, I will have way-
Come, let us seek this husband.
Elw. Percy, hear me.
When I was robb'd of all my peace of mind,
My cruel fortune left me still one blessing,
One solitary blessing, to console me;
It was my fame.-'Tis a rich jewel, Percy,
And I must keep it spotless, and unsoil'd:
But thou wouldst plunder what e'en Douglas spar'd,
And rob this single gem of all its brightness.
Per. Go-thou wast born to rule the fate of
Thou art my conqueror still.
[Percy.
Elw. What noise is that?
[HARCOURT goes to the side of the stage.
Per. Why art thou thus alarm'd?
The cowardice and terrors of the wicked,
Elu. Alas! I feel
Without their sense of guilt.
Har. My lord, 'tis Douglas.
Elw. Fly, Percy, and for ever
Per. Fly from Douglas?
My
life and fame.
DOUGLAS at the side with his sword drawn,
EDRIC holds him.
Dou. Give me way.
Edr. Thou shalt not enter.
[no hell,
Dou. [Struggling with EDRIC.] If there were
It would defraud my vengeance of its edge,
And she should live.
[Breaks from EDRIC and comes forward.
Cursed chance! he is not here.
Elw. [Going.] I dare not meet his fury.
Dou. See she flies
With every mark of guilt.-Go, search the bower,
[Aside to EDRIc.
He shall not thus escape. Madam, return. [Aloud.
Now, honest Douglas, learn of her to feign. [Aside.
Alone, Elwina? who had just parted hence?
[With affected composure.
Elw. My lord, 'twas Harcourt; sure you must
have met him.
[else!
Dou. O exquisite dissembler! [Aside.] No one
Elu. My lord!
Dou. How I enjoy her criminal confusion!
You tremble, Madam.
[Aside.
Elw. Wherefore should I tremble?
By your permission Harcourt was admitted;
'Twas no mysterious, secret introduction.
Dou. And yet you seem alarm'd.—If Harcourt's
presence
Thus agitates each nerve, makes every pulse
Thus wildly throb, and the warm tides of blood
Mount in quick rushing tumults to your cheek,
If friendship can excite such strong emotions,
What tremors had a lover's presence caus'd?
Elw. Ungenerous man!
[Aside.
Dou. I feast upon her terrors.
The story of his death was well contriv'd; [To her.
But it affects not me; I have a wife,
Compar'd with whom cold Dian was unchaste.
[Takes her hand.
But mark me well-though it concerns not you-
If there's a sin more deeply black than others,
Distinguish'd from the list of common crimes,
A legion in itself, and doubly dear
To the dark prince of hell, it is-hypocrisy.
[Throws her from him, and exit.
Elwo. Yes, I will bear this fearful indignation!
Thou melting heart, be firm as adamant;
Ye shatter'd nerves, be strung with manly force,
That I may conquer all my sex's weakness,
Nor let this bleeding bosom lodge one thought,
Cherish one wish, or harbour one desire,
That angels may not hear, and Douglas know.
[Exit.
ACT IV.
SCENE I-The Hall.
Enter DOUGLAS, his sword drawn and bloody in
one hand, in the other a letter. HARCOURT,
wounded.
Dou. Traitor, no more! this letter shows thy
office.
Elw. Then stay, barbarian, and at once destroy Twice hast thou robb'd me of my dear revenge.
Per. That thought is death. I go:
My honour to thy dearer honour yields.
Elw. Yet, yet thou art not gone!
Per. Farewell, farewell!
[Exit PERCY.
Elw. I dare not meet the searching eye of
Douglas.
I must conceal my terrors.
I took thee for thy leader.-Thy base blood
Would stain the noble temper of my sword;
But as the pander to thy master's lust,
Thou justly fall'st by a wrong'd husband's hand.
Har. Thy wife is innocent.
Dou. Take him away.
Har. Percy, revenge my fall!
[Guards bear HARCOURT in
.
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
539
1
Dou. Now for the letter!
He begs once more to see her.-So 'tis plain
They have already met!—but to the rest-
[Reads.] "In vain you wish me to restore the
scarf;
Dear pledge of love, while I have life I'll wear it,
'Tis next my heart; no power shall force it thence;
Whene'er you see it in another's hand,
Conclude me dead."-My curses on them both!
How tamely I peruse my shame! but thus,
Thus let me tear the guilty characters
Which register my infamy; and thus,
Thus would I scatter to the winds of heaven
The vile complotters of my foul dishonour.
[Tears the letter in the utmost agitation.
Enter EDRiC.
Edr. My lord
Dou. [In the utmost fury, not seeing EDRIC.]
The scarf!
Edr. Lord Douglas.
Dou. [Still not hearing him.] Yes, the scarf!
Percy, I thank thee for the glorious thought!
I'll cherish it; 'twill sweeten all my pangs,
And add a higher relish to revenge!
Edr. My lord !
Dou. How! Edric here?
Edr. What new distress?
[shame,
Dou. Dost thou expect I should recount my
Dwell on each circumstance of my disgrace,
And swell my infamy into a tale?
Rage will not let me-But-my wife is false.
Edr. Art though convinc'd?
Dou. The chronicles of hell
Cannot produce a falser.-But what news
Of her cursed paramour?
Edr. He has escap'd.
Dou. Hast thou examin'd every avenue?
Each spot? the grove? the bower, her favourite
Edr. I've search'd them all.
[haunt?
Dou. He shall be yet pursued.
Set guards at every gate.-Let none depart
Or gain admittance here, without my knowledge.
Edr. What can their purpose be?
Dou. Is it not clear?
Harcourt has raised his arm against my life;
He fail'd; the blow is now reserv'd for Percy;
Then, with his sword fresh reeking from my heart,
He'll revel with that wanton o'er my tomb;
Nor will he bring her aught she'll hold so dear,
As the curs'd hand with which he slew her husband.
But he shall die! I'll drown my rage in blood,
Which I will offer as a rich libation
On thy infernal altar, black revenge!
SCENE II.-The Garden.
Enter ELWINA.
[Exeunt.
Elw. Each avenue is so beset with guards,
And lynx-ey'd Jealousy so broad awake,
He cannot pass unseen. Protect him, Heaven!
Enter BIRTHA.
My Birtha, is he safe? has he escap'd? [to him,
Bir. I know not. I despatch'd young Harcourt
To bid him quit the castle, as you order'd,
Restore the scarf, and never see you more.
But how the hard injunction was receiv'd,
Or what has happen'd since, I'm yet to learn.
Elu. O when shall I be eas'd of all my cares,
And in the quiet bosom of the grave
Lay down this weary head!-I'm sick at heart!
Should Douglas intercept his flight!
Bir. Be calm;
Douglas this very moment left the castle,
With seeming peace.
Elw. Ah, then, indeed there's danger!
Birtha, whene'er Suspicion feigns to sleep,
'Tis but to make its careless prey secure.
[thee,
Bir. Should Percy once again entreat to see
'Twere best admit him; from thy lips alone
He will submit to hear his final doom
Of everlasting exile.
Elw. Birtha, no;
If honour would allow the wife of Douglas
To meet his rival, yet I durst not do it.
Percy! too much this rebel heart is thine:
Too deeply should I feel each pang I gave
I cannot hate-but 1 will banish-thee.
Inexorable duty, O forgive,
If I can do no more!
Bir. If he remains,
As I suspect, within the castle walls,
'Twere best I sought him out.
Elw. Then tell him, Birtha,
But, Oh! with gentleness, with mercy, tell him,
That we must never, never meet again.
The purport of my tale must be severe,
But let thy tenderness embalm the wound
My virtue gives. O soften his despair;
But say-we meet no more.
Enter PERCY.
Rash man, he's here!
[She attempts to go, he seizes her hand.
Per. I will be heard; nay, fly not; I will speak;
Lost as I am, I will not be denied
The mournful consolation to complain.
Elu. Percy, I charge thee, leave me.
Per. Tyrant, no:
I blush at my obedience, blush to think
I left thee here alone, to brave the danger
I now return to share.
Elw. That danger 's past:
Douglas was soon appeas'd; he nothing knows.
Then leave me, I conjure thee, nor again
Endanger my repose. Yet, ere thou goest,
Restore the scarf.
Per. Unkind Elwina, never!
'Tis all that's left me of my buried joys,
All which reminds me that I once was happy.
My letter told thee I would ne'er restore it.
El. Letter! what letter?
Per. That I sent by Harcourt.
Elw. Which I ne'er receiv'd. Douglas per-
[haps-
Who knows?
Bir. Harcourt, t' elude his watchfulness,
Might prudently retire.
so!
Elw. Grant Heaven it prove so
[ELWINA going, PERCY holds her.
Per. Hear me, Elwina; the most savage honour
Forbids not that poor grace.
Elw. It bids me fly thee.
[part,
Per. Then, ere thou goest, if we indeed must
To sooth the horrors of eternal exile,
Say but-thou pity'st me!
Elw. [Weeps.] O Percy-pity thee!
Imperious honour;-Surely I may pity him.
Yet, wherefore pity? no, I envy thee:
For thou hast still the liberty to weep,
In thee 'twill be no crime; thy tears are guiltless,
For they infringe no duty, stain no honour,
And blot no vow; but mine are criminal,
Are drops of shame which wash the cheek of guilt,
And every tear I shed dishonours Douglas.
1
540
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Per. I swear my jealous love e'en grudges thee
Thy sad pre-eminence in wretchedness.
Elu. Rouse, rouse, my slumb'ring virtue!
Percy hear me.
[thine,
Heaven, when it gives such high-wrought souls as
Still gives as great occasions to exert them.
If thou wast form'd so noble, great, and gen'rous,
'Twas to surmount the passions which enslave
The gross of human-kind. Then think, O think,
She, whom thou once didst love, is now another's.
Per. Go on-and tell me that that other's
Douglas.
[me:
Elw. Whate'er his name, he claims respect from
His honour 's in my keeping, and I hold
The trust so pure, its sanctity is hurt
E'en by thy presence.
Per. Thou again hast conquer'd.
Celestial virtue, like the angel spirit,
Whose flaming sword defended Paradise,
Stands guard on every charm.-Elwina, yes,
To triumph over Douglas, we'll be virtuous.
Elw. 'T'is not enough to be, we must appear so:
Great souls disdain the shadow of offence,
Nor must their whiteness wear the stain of guilt.
Per. I shall retract-I dare not gaze upon thee;
My feeble virtue staggers, and again
The fiends of jealousy torment and haunt me.
They tear my heart-strings.-Oh!
Elw. No mors;
But spare my injur'd honour the affront
To vindicate itself.
Per. But, love!
Elw. But, glory!
Per. Enough! a ray of thy sublimer spirit
Has warm'd my dying honour to a flame!
One effort and 'tis done. The world shall say,
When they shall speak of my disastrous love,
Percy deserv'd Elwina though he lost her.
Fond tears, blind me not yet! a little longer,
Let my sad eyes a little longer gaze,
And leave their last beams here.
mine?
Elw. [Turns from him.] I do not weep.
Per. Not weep? then why those eyes avoiding
[cents?
And why that broken voice? those trembling ac-
That sigh which rends my soul?
Elw. No more, no more.
+
[once;
Per. That pang decides it. Come-I'll die at
Thou Power supreme! take all the length of days,
And all the blessings kept in store for me,
And add to her account.-Yet turn once more,
One little look, one last, short glimpse of day,
And then a long dark night.-Hold, hold my heart,
O break not yet, while I behold her sweetness;
For after this dear, mournful, tender moment,
I shall have nothing more to do with life.
Elu. I do conjure thee, go.
Per. 'Tis terrible to nature!
With pangs like these the soul and body part!
And thus, but oh, with far less agony,
The poor departing wretch still grasps at being,
Thus clings to life, thus dreads the dark unknown,
Thus struggles to the last to keep his hold;
And when the dire convulsive groan of death
Dislodges the sad spirit-thus it stays,
And fondly hovers o'er the form it lov'd.
Once and no more-farewell, farewell!
Elw. For ever!
[They look at each other for some time, then
exit PERCY. After a pause ;
'Tis past-the conflict's past! retire, my Birtha,
I would address me to the throne of grace.
Bir. May Heaven restore that peace thy bosom
wants!
[Exit BIRTHA.
Elw. [Kneels.] Look down, thou awful, heart-
inspecting Judge,
Look down with mercy on thy erring creature,
And teach my soul the lowliness it needs!
And if some sad remains of human weakness
Should sometimes mingle with my best resolves,
O breathe thy spirit on this wayward heart,
And teach me to repent th' intruding sin
In it's first birth of thought'
[Noise within.] What noise is that?
The clash of swords! should Douglas be return'd!
Enter DOUGLAS and PERCY, fighting.
Dou. Yield, villain, yield.
Per. Not till this good right arm
Shall fail its master.
Dou. This to thy heart, then.
Per. Defend thy own.
[They fight; PERCY disarms DOUGLAS.
Dou. Confusion, death, and hell!
Edr. [Without.] This way I heard the noise.
Enter EDRIC, and many Knights and Guards,
from every part of the stage.
Per. Cursed treachery!
But dearly will I sell my life.
Dou. Seize on him.
Per. I'm taken in the toils.
[PERCY is surrounded by Guards, who take
his sword.
Dou. In the cursed snare
Thou laidst for me, traitor, thyself art caught.
Elw. He never sought thy life.
Dou. Adulteress, peace!
The villain Harcourt too-but he's at rest.
Per. Douglas, I'm in thy power; but do not
triumph,
[me.
Percy 's betray'd, not conquer'd. Come, despatch
Elw. [To DOUGLAS.] Ô do not, do not kill him!
Per. Madam, forbear;
For by the glorious shades of my great fathers,
Their godlike spirit is not so extinct,
That I should owe my life to that vile Scot.
Though dangers close me round on every side,
And death besets me, I am Percy still.
Dou. Sorceress, I'll disappoint thee-he shall die,
Thy minion shall expire before thy face,
That I may feast my hatred with your pangs,
And make his dying groans, and thy fond tears,
A banquet for my vengeance.
Elw. Savage tyrant!
[thee.
I would have fallen a silent sacrifice,
So thou had'st spar'd my fame-I never wrong'd
Per. She knew not of my coming;-I alone
Have been to blame-Spite of her interdiction,
I hither came. She's pure as spotless saints.
Elw. I will not be excus'd by Percy's crime;
So white my innocence, it does not ask
The shade of others' faults to set it off;
Nor shall he need to sully his fair fame
To throw a brighter lustre round my virtue.
Dou. Yet he can only die-but death for honour!
Ye powers of hell, who take malignant joy
In human bloodshed, give me some dire means,
Wild as my hate, and desperate as my wrongs!
Per. Enough of words. Thou know'st I hate
thee, Douglas;
'Tis steadfast, fix'd, hereditary hate,
As thine for me; our fathers did bequeath it
As part of our unalienable birthright,
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
541
Which nought but death can end.-Come, end it | Yet I've the deepest, deadliest cause of hate,
I am but Percy, thou'rt-Elwina's husband.
here.
Elw. [Kneels.] Hold, Douglas, hold !—not for
myself I kneel,
I do not plead for Percy, but for thee:
Arm not thy hand against thy future peace,
Spare thy brave breast the tortures of remorse,-
Stain not a life of unpolluted honour,
For, oh! as surely as thou strik'st at Percy,
Thou wilt for ever stab the fame of Douglas.
Per. Finish the bloody work.
Dou. Then take thy wish.
Per. Why dost thou start?
[PERCY bares his bosom. DOUGLAS advances
to stab him, and discovers the scarf.
Dou. Her scarf upon his breast!
'The blasting sight converts me into stone;
Withers my powers like cowardice or age,
Curdles the blood within my shiv'ring veins
And palsies my bold arm.
Per. [Ironically to the Knights.] Hear
friends!
you,
his
Bear witness to the glorious, great exploit,
Record it in the annals of his race,
That Douglas, the renown'd-the valiant Douglas,
Fenc'd round with guards, and safe in his own
castle,
Surpris'd a knight unarm'd, and bravely slew him.
Dou. [Throwing away his dagger.] 'Tis true
-I am the very stain of knighthood.
How is my glory dimm'd!
Elw. It blazes brighter!
Douglas was only brave-he now is generous!
Per. This action has restor'd thee to thy rank,
And makes thee worthy to contend with Percy.
Dou. Thy joy will be as short as 'tis insulting.
[TO ELWINA.
And thou, imperious boy, restrain thy boasting.
Thou hast sav'd my honour, not remov'd my hate,
For my soul loathes thee for the obligation.
Give him his sword.
Per. Now thou'rt a noble foe,
And in the field of honour I will meet thee,
As knight encount'ring knight.
Elw. Stay, Percy, stay,
Strike at the wretched cause of all, strike here,
Here sheathe thy thirsty sword, but spare my
husband.
[me,
Dou. Turn, Madam, and address those vows to
To spare the precious life of him you love.
Even now you triumph in the death of Douglas;
Now your loose fancy kindles at the thought,
And, wildly rioting in lawless hope,
Indulges the adultery of the mind.
But I'll defeat that wish.-Guards, bear her in.
Nay, do not struggle.
[She is borne in.
Per. Let our deaths suffice,
And reverence virtue in that form inshrin'd.
Dou. Provoke my rage no farther.-I have
kindled
The burning torch of never-dying vengeance
At love's expiring lamp. But mark me, friends,
If Percy's happier genius should prevail,
And I should fall, give him safe conduct hence,
Be all observance paid him.-Go, I follow thee.
[Aside to EDRIC.
Within I've something for thy private ear.
Per. Now shall this mutual fury be appeas'd!
These eager hands shall soon be drench'd in
slaughter!
Yes-like two famish'd vultures snuffing blood,
And panting to destroy, we'll rush to combat;
Voc. I.
ACT V.
[Exeunt.
SCENE I.—ELWINA'S Apartment
Elw. Thou who in judgment still remember'st
mercy,
Look down upon my woes, preserve my husband!
Preserve my husband! Ah, I dare not ask it;
My very prayers may pull down ruin on me!
If Douglas should survive, what then becomes
Of-him-I dare not name? And if he conquers,
I've slain my husband. Agonizing state!
When I can neither hope, nor think, nor pray,
But guilt involves me. Sure to know the worst
Cannot exceed the torture of suspense,
When each event is big with equal horror.
[Looks out.
What, no one yet? This solitude is dreadful!
My horrors multiply!
Enter BIRTHA.
Thou messenger of wo!
Bir. Of wo, indeed!
Elw. How, is my husband dead?
Oh, speak!
Bir. Your husband lives.
Elw. Then farewell, Percy
He was the tenderest, truest !-Bless him, Heaven,
With crowns of glory and immortal joys!
Bir. Still are you wrong; the combat is not over.
Stay, flowing tears, and give me leave to speak.
Elw. Thou sayest that Percy and my husband
Then why this sorrow?
[live;
Bir. What a task is mine!
Elw. Thou talk'st as if I were a child in grief,
And scarce acquainted with calamity.
Speak out, unfold thy tale, whate'er it be,
For I am so familiar with affliction,
It cannot come in any shape will shock me.
Bir. How shall I speak? Thy husband-
Elw. What of Douglas?
Bir. When all was ready for the fatal combat,
He call'd his chosen knights, then drew his sword,
And on it made them swear a solemn oath,
Confirm'd by every rite religion bids,
That they would see perform'd his last request,
Be it whate'er it would. Alas! they swore.
Elw. What did the dreadful preparation mean?
Bir. Then to their hands he gave a poison'd cup,
Compounded of the deadliest herbs and drugs;
Take this, said he, it is a husband's legacy;
Percy may conquer-and-I have a wife!
If Douglas falls, Elwina must not live.
Elw. Spirit of Herod! Why, 'twas greatly
thought!
'Twas worthy of the bosom which conceiv'd it !
Yet 'twas too merciful to be his own.
Yes, Douglas, yes, my husband, I'll obey thee,
And bless thy genius which has found the means.
To reconcile thy vengeance with my peace,
The deadly means to make obedience pleasant.
Bir. O spare, for pity spare, my bleeding heart:
Inhuman to the last! Unnatural poison!
Elw. My gentle friend, what is there in a name?
The means are little where the end is kind.
If it disturb thee, do not call it poison;
Call it the sweet oblivion of my cares,
My balm of wo, my cordial of affliction,
The drop of mercy to my fainting soul,
My kind dismission from a world of sorrow,
1
གས
}
! -
542
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
My cup of bliss, my passport to the skies.
Bir. Hark! what alarm is that?
Elw. The combat 's over! [BIRTHA goes out.
[ELWINA stands in a fixed attitude, her
hands clasped.
Now, gracious Heaven, sustain me in the trial,
And bow my spirit to thy great decrees!
Re-enter BIRTHA.
Say but that little word, that Percy lives,
And Alps and oceans shall divide us ever,
As far as universal space can part us.
Dou. Canst thou renounce him?
Elw. Tell me that he lives,
And thou shalt be the ruler of my fate,
For ever hide me in a convent's gloom,
From cheerful day-light, and the haunts of men,
Where sad austerity, and ceaseless prayer
[ELWINA looks steadfastly at her without Shall share my uncomplaining day between them.
speaking.
Bir. Douglas is fallen.
Elw. Bring me the poison.
Bir. Never.
[approach!
Elw. Where are the knights? Isummon you-
Draw near, ye awful ministers of fate,
Dire instruments of posthumous revenge!
Come-I am ready; but your tardy justice
Defrauds the injur'd dead.-Go, haste, my friend,
See that the castle be securely guarded,
Let every gate be barr'd-prevent his entrance.
Bir. Whose entrance?
Elw. His-the murderer of my husband.
Bir. He's single, we have hosts of friends.
Elw. No matter;
Who knows what love and madness may attempt?
But here I swear by all that binds the good,
Never to see him more.-Unhappy Douglas!
O if thy troubled spirit still is conscious
Of our past woes, look down, and hear me swear,
That when the legacy thy rage bequeath'd me
Works at my heart, and conquers struggling
Ev'n in that agony I'll still be faithful. [nature,
She who could never love, shall yet obey thee,
Weep thy hard fate, and die to prove her truth.
Bir. O unexampled virtue! [A noise without.
Elw. Heard you nothing?
By all my fears the insulting conqueror comes.
O save me, shield me!
Enter DOUGLAS.
Heaven and earth, my husband!
Dou. Yes
To blast thee with the sight of him thou hat'st,
Of him thou hast wrong'd, adultress, 'tis thy
husband.
[mercy,
Elw. [Kneels,] Bless'd be the fountain of eternal
This load of guilt is spar'd me! Douglas lives!
Perhaps both live! [TO BIRTHA.] Could I be sure
of that,
The poison were superfluous, joy would kill me.
Dou. Be honest now, for once, and curse thy
stars;
Curse thy detested fate which brings thee back
A hated husband, when thy guilty soul
Revell'd in fond, imaginary joys
With my foo happy rival: when thou flew'st,
To gratify impatient, boundless passion,
And join adulterous lust to bloody murder;
Then to reverse the scene! polluted woman!
Mine is the transport now, and thine the pang.
Elw. Whence sprung the false report that thou
had'st fall'n?
•
Dou. To give thy guilty breast a deeper wound,
To add a deadlier sting to disappointment,
I rais'd it-I contriv'd-I sent it thee. [virtue.
Elw. Thou seest me bold, but bold in conscious
-That my sad soul may not be stain'd with blood,
That I may spend my few short hours in peace,
And die in holy hope of Heaven's forgiveness,
Relieve the terrors of my lab'ring breast,
Say I am clear of murder-say he lives,
Dou. O, hypocrite! now, Vengeance, to thy
office.
I had forgot-Percy commends him to thee,
And by my hand-
Elw. How-by thy hand?
Dou. Has sent thee
This precious pledge of love.
[He gives her PERCY's scarf:
Elw. Then Percy's dead!
[mine!
Dou. He is.-0 great revenge, thou now art
See how convulsive sorrow rends her frame!
This, this is transport !-injur'd honour now
Receives its vast, its ample retribution.
She sheds no tears, her grief s too highly wrought;
'Tis speechless agony.-She must not faint-
She shall not 'scape her portion of the pain.
No! she shall feel the fulness of distress,
And wake to keen perception of her loss.
Bir. Monster! Barbarian! leave her to her
sorrows.
Elw. [In a low broken voice.] Douglas-think
not I faint, because thou seest
The pale and bloodless cheek of wan despair.
Fail me not yet, my spirits; thou cold heart,
Cherish thy freezing current one short moment,
And bear thy mighty load a little longer.
Dou. Percy, I must avow it, bravely fought,-
Died as a hero should;- but, as he fell,
(Hear it, fond wanton!) call'd upon thy name,
And his last guilty breath sigh'd out-Elwina!
Come give a loose to rage, and feed thy soul
With wild complaints, and womanish upbraidings.
Elw. [In a low solemn voice.] No.
The sorrow's weak that wastes itself in words,
Mine is substantial anguish-deep, not loud;
I do not rave-Resentment's the return
Of common souls for common injuries. [sion;
Light grief is proud of state, and courts compas-
But there's a dignity in cureless sorrow,
A sullen grandeur which disdains complaint;
Rage is for little wrongs-Despair is dumb.
[Exeunt ELWINA and BIRTHA.
Dou. Why, this is well! her sense of wo is
strong!
[her,
The sharp, keen tooth of gnawing grief devours
Feeds on her heart, and pays me back my pangs.
Since I must perish, 'twill be glorious ruin:
I fall not singly, but, like some proud tower,
I'll crush surrounding objects in the wreck,
And make the devastation wide and dreadful.
Enter RABY.
Raby. O whither shall a wretched father turn,
Where fly for comfort? Douglas, art thou here ?*
I do not ask for comfort at thy hands.
I'd but one little casket, where I lodged
My precious hoard of wealth, and, like an idiot,
I gave my treasure to another's keeping,
Who threw away the gem, nor knew its value,
But left the plunder'd owner quite a beggar.
Dou. What art thou come to see thy race dis
honour'd ?
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
543
And thy bright sun of glory set in blood?
I would have spar'd thy virtues, and thy age,
The knowledge of her infamy.
Raby. "Tis false.
[blood.
Had she been base, this sword had drank her
Dou. Ha! dost thou vindicate the wanton ?
Raby. Wanton?
Thou hast defam'd a noble lady's honour-
My spotless child-in me behold her champion:
The strength of Hercules will nerve this arm,
When lifted in defence of innocence.
The daughter's virtue for the father's shield,
Will make old Raby still invincible.
Dou. Forbear.
[Offers to draw.
Raby. Thou dost disdain my feeble arm,
And scorn my age.
Dou. There will be blood enough;
Despair had been my portion! Fly, good Birtna,
Find out the suffering saint-describe my peni-
tence,
And paint my vast extravagance of fondness,
Tell her I love as never mortal lov'd—
Tell her I know her virtues, and adore them--
Tell her I come, but dare not seek her presence,
Till she pronounce my pardon.
Bir. I obey.
[Exit BIRTHA.
Raby. My child is innocent! ye choirs of saints,
Catch the bless'd sounds--my child is innocent!
Dou. O I will kneel, and sue for her forgiveness,
And thou shalt help me plead the cause of love,
And thou shalt weep-she cannot sure refuse
A kneeling husband and a weeping father.
Thy venerable cheek is wet already.
Raby. Douglas! it is the dew of grateful joy
My child is innocent! I now would die,
Nor need thy wither'd veins, old lord, be drain'd, Lest fortune should grow weary of her kindness,
To swell the copious stream.
Raby. Thou wilt not kill her?
Dou. Oh, 'tis a day of horror!
Enter EDRIC and BIRTHA.
Edr. Where is Douglas?
I come to save him from the deadliest crime
Revenge did ever meditate.
Dou. What meanest thou?
And grudge me this short transport.
Dou. Where, where is she?
My fond impatience brooks not her delay;
Quick, let me find her, hush her anxious soul,
And sooth her troubled spirit into peace.
Enter BIRTHA.
Bir. O horror, horror, horror!
[wife.
Dou. Ah! what mean'st thou ?
Bir. Elwina-
Edr. This instant fly, and save thy guiltless
Dou. Save that perfidious-
Edr. That much-injur'd woman.
Bir. Unfortunate indeed, but O most innocent!
Edr. In the last solemn article of death,
That truth-compelling state, when even bad men
Fear to speak falsely, Percy clear'd her fame.
Dou. I heard him.-'Twas the guilty fraud of
love.
The scarf, the scarf! that proof of mutual passion,
Given but this day to ratify their crimes!
Bir. What means my lord? This day? That
fatal scarf
Was given long since, a toy of childish friendship;
Long ere your marriage, ere you knew Elwina.
Raby. 'Tis I am guilty.
Dou. Ha!
Raby. I,—I alone.
Confusion, honour, pride, parental fondness,
Distract my soul,-Percy was not to blame,
He was the destin'd husband of Elwina!
He lov'd her was belov'd—and I approv'd.
The tale is long.-I chang'd my purpose since,
Forbade their marriage-
Dou. And confirm'd my mis'ry!
Twice did they meet to-day-my wife and Percy.
Raby. I know it.
Dou. Ha! thou knew'st of my dishonour?
Thou wast a witness, an approving witness,
At least a tame one!
Raby. Percy came, 'tis true,
A constant, tender, but a guiltless lover!
Dou, I shall grow mad indeed; a guiltless lover!
Percy, the guiltless lover of my wife?
Raby. He knew not she was married.
Dou. How? is't possible?
[cent;
Raby. Douglas, 'tis true; both, both were inno-
He of her marriage, she of his return. [vow'd
Bir. But now, when we believ'd thee dead, she
Never to see thy rival. Instantly,
Not in a state of momentary passion,
But with a martyr's dignity and calmness,
She hade me bring the poison.
Dou. Had'st thou done it,
Dou. Speak--
Bir. Her grief wrought up to frenzy,
She has, in her delirium, swallow'd poison!
Raby. Frenzy and poison!
Dou. Both a husband's gift;
But thus I do her justice.
As DOUGLAS goes to stab himself, enter ELWINA
distracted, her hair dishevelled, PERCY's scarf
in her hand.
Elw. [Goes up to DorGLAS.] What, blood
again? We cannot kill him twice!
Soft, soft--no violence-he's dead already ;-
I did it-Yes-I drown'd him with my tears;-
But hide the cruel deed! I'll scratch him out
A shallow grave, and lay the green sod on it;
Ay-and I'll bind the wild briar o'er the turf,
And plant a willow there, a weeping willow-
[She sits on the ground.
But look you tell not Douglas, he'll disturb him;
He'll pluck the willow up-and plant a thorn.
He will not let me sit upon his grave,
And sing all day, and weep and pray all night.
Raby. Dost thou not know me?
Elo. Yes-I do remember
You had a harmless lamb.
Raby. I had indeed!
[mate,
Elw. From all the flock you chose her out a
In sooth a fair one-you did bid her love it-
But while the shepherd slept the wolf devour'd it.
Raby. My heart will break. This is too much,
too much!
Elw. [Smiling.] O 'twas a cordial draught—I
drank it all.
Raby. What means my child?
Dou. The poison! Oh the poison!
Thou dear wrong'd innocence-
Elw. Off-murderer, off!
Do not defile me with those crimson hands.
[Shows the scarf.
This is his winding sheet-I'll wrap him in it-
I wrought it for my love-there--now I've dress'd
him.
How brave he looks! my father will forgive him,
544
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
He dearly lov'd him once--but that is over.
See where he comes-beware, my gallant Percy,
Ah! come not here, this is the cave of death,
And there's the dark, dark palace of Revenge!
See the pale king sits on his blood-stain'd throne!
He points to me-I come, I come, I come.
[She faints, they run to her, DOUGLAS takes
up his sword and stabs himself.
Dou. Thus, thus I follow thee.
Edr. Hold thy rash hand!
Dou. It is too late. No remedy but this
Could medicine a disease so desperate.
Raby. Ah, she revives!
But something tells me-O those painful struggles!
| Raise me a little-there-
[She sees the body of DOUGLAS.
What sight is that?
[der'd!
A sword, and bloody? Ah! and Douglas mur-
Edr. Convinc'd too late of your unequall'd
virtues,
[wrongs,
And wrung with deep compunction for your
By his own hand the wretched Douglas fell.
Elw. This adds another, sharper pang to death.
O thou Eternal! take him to thy mercy,
Nor let this sin be on his head, or mine!
Raby. I have undone you all the crime is mine!
Dou. [Raising himself.] She lives! bear, bear O thou poor injur'd saint, forgive thy father,
me to her!
We shall be happy yet.
He kneels to his wrong'd child.
Elw. Now you are cruel,
[He struggles to get to her, but sinks down. Come near, my father, nearer-I would see you,
It will not be
O for a last embrace-Alas! I faint-
She lives--Now death is terrible indeed-
Fair spirit, I lov'd thee-O-Elwina! [Dies.
El. Where have I been? The damps of
death are on me.
[thus!
Raby. Look up, my child! O do not leave me
Pity the anguish of thy aged father.
Hast thou forgot me?
Elw. No-you are my father;
O you are kindly come to close my eyes,
And take the kiss of death from my cold lips!
Raby. Do we meet thus ?
Elw. We soon shall meet in peace.
I've but a faint remembrance of the past-
But mists and darkness cloud my failing sight.
O death! suspend thy rights for one short moment,
Till I have ta'en a father's last embrace--
A father's blessing.-Once-and now 'tis over.
Receive me to thy mercy, gracious Heaven!
[She dies.
Raby. She's gone! for ever gone! cold, dead
and cold.
Am I a father? Fathers love their children
I murder mine! With impious pride I snatch'd
The bolt of vengeance from the hand of Heaven.
My punishment is great-but oh! 'tis just.
My soul submissive bows. A righteous God
Has made my crime become my chastisement.
[Exeunt.
A
THE FATAL FALSEHOOD:
A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.
▲8 IT WAS ACted in 1779, at the theatre Royal, covent garden.
TO
THE COUNTESS BATHURST,
THIS TRAGEDY IS VERY RESPECTFULLY INSCRibed, as a
SMALL TRIBUTE TO HER MANY VIRTUES,
AND AS A
GRATEFUL TESTIMONY OF THE FRIENDSHIP WITH WHICH SHE HONOURS
HER MOSt obedient and MOST
OBLIGED HUMBLE SERVANT,
THE AUTHOR.
PROLOGUE.
WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY.—SPOKEN BY MR. HULL.
OUR modern poets now can scarcely choose
A subject worthy of the Tragic Muse;
For bards so well have glean'd th' historic field,
That scarce one sheaf th' exhausted ancients
yield;
Or if, perchance, they from the golden crop
Some grains, with hand penurious, rarely drop;
Our author these consigns to manly toil,
For classic themes demand a classic soil.
A vagrant she, the desert waste who chose,
Where truth and history no restraints impose.
To her the wilds of fiction open lie,
A flow'ry prospect, and a boundless sky;
Yet hard the task to keep the onward way,
Where the wide scenery lures the foot to stray;
Where no severer limits check the Muse
Than lawless fancy is dispos'd to choose.
Nor does she emulate the loftier strains
Which high heroic Tragedy maintains :
Nor conquest she, nor wars, nor triumphs sings,
Nor with rash hand o'erturns the thrones of
kings.
No ruin'd empires greet to-night your eyes,
No nations at our bidding fall or rise;
To statesmen deep, to politicians grave,
These themes, congenial to their tastes, we
leave,
Of crowns and camps, a kingdom's weal or wo,
How few can judge, because how few can know!
But here you all may boast the censor's art,
Here all are critics who possess a heart.
And of the passions we display to-night,
Each hearer judges like the Stagyrite.
The scenes of private life our author shows
A simple story of domestic woes;
Nor unimportant is the glass we hold,
To show the effect of passions uncontroll'd;
For if to govern realms belong to few,
Yet all who live have passions to subdue.
Self-conquest is the lesson books should preach,
Self-conquest is the theme the stage should
teach.
Vouchsafe to learn this obvious duty here,
The verse though feeble, yet the moral's clear.
O mark to-night the unexampled woes
Which from unbounded self-indulgence flows.
Your candour once endur'd our author's lays;
Endure them now-it will be ample praise.
Earl GUILDford.
RIVERS, his son.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA
ORLANDO, a young Italian Count.
BERTRAND.
EMMELINA.
JULIA.
Scene.-Earl GUILDFORD's Castle.
ACT I.
SCENE-An Apartment in Guildford Castle.
Enter BERTRAND.
I play a surer game, and screen my heart
With easy looks and undesigning smiles;
And while my plots still spring from sober
thought,
Ber. What fools are seriously melancholy My deeds appear the effect of wild caprice,
villains!
VOL. I.
And I the thoughtless slave of giddy chance.
2 M
546
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
What but this frankness could have won the | And if he from the field returned a conqueror,
promise
Of young Orlando, to confide to me
That secret grief which preys upon his heart?
'Tis shallow, indiscreet hypocrisy,
To seem too good: I am the careless Bertrand,
The honest, undesigning, plain, blunt man.
The follies I avow cloak those I hide,
For who will search where nothing seems con-
ceal'd?
'Tis rogues of solid, prudent, grave demeanour,
Excite suspicion; men on whose dark brow
Discretion, with his iron hand, has grav'd
The deep-mark'd characters of thoughtfulness.
Here comes my uncle, venerable Guildford,
Whom I could honour, were he not the sire
Of that aspiring boy, who fills the gap [thee!
'Twixt me and fortune ;-Rivers, how I hate
Enter GUILdford.
How fares my noble uncle?
Guild.
miss'd you.
Honest Bertrand!
I must complain we have so seldom met :
Where do you keep? believe me, we have
[me, sir,
Ber. O, my good lord! your pardon-spare
For there are follies in a young man's life,
And idle thoughtless hours, which I should blush
To lay before your wise and temperate age.
Guild. Well, be it so-youth has a privilege,
And I should be asham'd could I forget
I have myself been young, and harshly chide
This not ungraceful gayety. Yes, Bertrand,
Prudence becomes moroseness, when it makes
A rigid inquisition of the fault,
Not of the man, perhaps, but of his youth.
Foibles that shame the head on which old Time
Has shower'd his snow, are then more pardon-
And age has many a weakness of its own. [able.
Ber. Your gentleness, my lord, and mild re-
proof,
Correct the wanderings of misguided youth,
More than rebuke can shame me into virtue.
Guild. Saw you my beauteous ward, the
lady Julia?
Ber. She pass'd this way, and with her your
Your Emmelina.
[fair daughter,
Guild. Call them both my daughters;
For scarce is Emmelina more belov'd
Than Julia, the dear child of my adoption.
The hour approaches too, (and, bless it heaven,
With thy benignest, kindliest influence !)
When Julia shall indeed become my daughter,
Shall, in obedience to her father's will,
Crown the impatient vows of my brave son,
And richly pay him for his dangers past.
Ber. Oft have I wondered how the gallant
Youthful and ardent, doting to excess, [Rivers,
Could dare the dangers of uncertain war,
Ere marriage had confirmed his claim to Julia.
Guild. 'Twas the condition of her father's will,
My brave old fellow-soldier, and my friend!
He wished to see our ancient houses joined
By this, our children's union; but the veteran
So highly valued military prowess,
That he bequeath'd his fortunes and his daughter
To my young Rivers, on these terms alone,
That he should early gain renown in arms;
That sun which saw him come victorious home
Should witness their espousals. Yet he comes
not!
The event of war is to the brave uncertain,
Nor can desert in arms ensure success.
Ber. Yet fame speaks loudly of his early
valour.
[Orlando,
Guild. E'er since the Italian count, the young
My Rivers' bosom friend, has been my guest,
The glory of my son is all his theme:
Oh! he recounts his virtues with such joy,
Dwells on his merit with a zeal so warm,
As to his generous heart pays back again
The praises he bestows.
Ber.
Orlando's noble.
He's of a tender, brave, and gallant nature,
Of honour most romantic, with such graces
As charm all womankind.
Guild.
And here comes one,
To whom the story of Orlando's praise
Sounds like sweet music.
Ber.
What, your charming daughter!
Yes, I suspect she loves the Italian count:
(Aside.)
That must not be. Now to observe her closely.
Enter EMMELINA.
Guild. Come hither, Emmelina: we
speaking
Of the young Count Orlando. What think you
Of this accomplished stranger?
Of Orlando?
Em. (confused.)
Sir, as my father's guest, my brother's friend,
I do esteem the count.
Guild.
Nay, he has merit
Might justify thy friendship, if he wanted
The claims thou mention'st; yet I mean to
blame him.
[my father?
Em. What has he done? How has he wrong'd
For you are just, and are not angry lightly;
And he is mild, unapt to give offence,
As you to be offended.
Guild.
Nay, 'tis not much :
But why does young Orlando shun my presence?
Why lose that cheerful and becoming spirit
Which lately charmed us all? Rivers will
chide us,
Should he return and find his friend unhappy.
He is not what he was. What says my child?
Em. My lord, when first my brother's friend
arrived-
Be still, my heart—
Ber.
(Aside.)
She dares not use his name
(Aside.)
Her brother's friend!
Em.
When first your noble guest
Came from that voyage he kindly undertook
To ease our terrors for my Rivers' safety,
When we believed him dead, he seem'd most
happy,
And shar'd the gen'ral joy his presence gave.
Of late he is less gay; my brother's absence,
(Or I mistake) disturbs his friend's repose :
Nor is it strange; one mind informs them both;
Each is the very soul that warms the other,
And both are wretched or are bless'd together.
Ber. Why trembles my fair cousin?
Em.
Can I think
1
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
547
That my lov'd brother's life has been in danger, | So little skill'd to seem the thing it is not,
Nor feel a strong emotion?
Ber. (ironically.)
Generous pity!
But when that danger has so long been past,
You should forget your terrors.
Em.
I shall never ;
For when I think that danger sprung from friend-
That Rivers, to preserve another's life, [ship;
Incurr'd this peril, still my wonder rises.
Ber. And why another's life? Why not Or-
lando's ?
Such caution more betrays than honest freedom.
Guild. He's still the same, the gibing, thought-
less Bertrand,
Severe of speech, but innocent of malice.
[Exit GUILDFORD: EMMELINA going.
Ber. Stay, my fair cousin! still with adverse
Am I beheld? Had I Orlando's form, [eyes
I mean, were I like him your brother's friend,
Then would your looks be turned thus coldly
on me?
[nothing,
Em. But that I know your levity means
And that your heart accords not with your
This would offend me.
[tongue,
Come, confess the truth,
That this gay Florentine, this Tuscan rover,
Has won your easy heart, and given you his :
I know the whole; I'm of his secret council;
He has confess'd-
Ber.
Em.
Ber. That you are wondrous fair: nay, noth-
ing farther :
Ha! what has he confess'd?
How disappointment fires her angry cheek!
(Aside.)
Yourself have told the rest, your looks avow it,
Your eyes are honest, nor conceal the secret.
Em. Know, sir, that virtue no concealment
needs:
So far from dreading, she solicits notice,
And wishes every secret thought she harbours,
Bare to the eye of men, as 'tis to heaven.
Ber. Yet mark me well: trust not Orlando's
truth ;
The citron groves have heard his amorous vows
Breath'd out to many a beauteous maid of
Florence;
Bred in those softer climes, his roving heart
Ne'er learn'd to think fidelity a virtue;
He laughs at tales of British constancy.
But see, Orlando comes-he seeks you here.
With eyes bent downwards, folded arms, pale
Disorder'd looks, and negligent attire, [cheeks,
And all the careless equipage of love, [blood
He bends this way. Why does the mounting
Thus crimson your fair cheek? He does not
see us;
I'll venture to disturb his meditations,
And instantly return.
[Exit BERTRAND.
Em.
No more; but leave me.
He's talkative, but harmless; rude, but honest;
Fuller of mirth than mischief. See, they meet-
This way they come; why am I thus alarm'd?
What is't to me that here Orlando comes?
Oh, for a little portion of that art
Ungenerous men ascribe to our whole sex!
A little artifice were prudence now:
But I have none; my poor unpractis'd heart
Is so unknowing of dissimulation,
That if my lips are mute, my looks betray me.
Re-enter BERTRAND with ORLANDO.
Ber. Now to alarm her heart, and search out
his.
(Aside.)
Or. We crave your pardon, beauteous Em-
melina,
If rudely we intrude upon your thoughts;
Thoughts pure as infants' dreams or angels'
wishes,
And gentle as the breast from which they spring.
Em. Be still, my heart, nor let him see thy
weakness.
(Aside.)
We are much bound to thank you, cousin Ber-
trand,
That since your late return, the Count Orlando
Appears once more among us. Say, my lord,
Why have you shunn'd your friends' society?
Was it well done? My father bade me chidé
you;
I am not made for chiding, but he bade me;
He says, no more you rise at, early dawn
With him to chase the boar: I pleaded for you;
Told him 'twas savage sport.
What was his answer?
Em. He said 'twas sport for heroes, and
made heroes.;
Or.
That hunting was the very school of war,
Taught our brave youth to shine in nobler fields,
Preserv'd them from the rust of dull inaction,
Train'd them for arms, and fitted them for con-
quest.
Or. Ô, my fair advocate! scarce can I grieve
To have done wrong, since my offence has
So sweet a pleader.
[gain'd
Ber. (aside.) So, I like this well;
Full of respect, but cold.
Em.
My lord, your pardon;
My father waits my coming; I attend him.
[Exit.
Ber. In truth, my lord, you're a right happy
man;
Her parting look proclaims that you are blest;
The crimson blushes on her cheek display'd
A gentle strife 'twixt modesty and love :
Discretion strove to dash the rising joy,
But conquering love prevail'd and told the tale.
My lord, you answer not.
What shall I say?
Oh, couldst thou read my heart!
Ber.
The hour is comè
When my impatient friendship claims that trust
Which I so oft have press'd, and you have
promis'd.
Or.
Or. I cannot tell thee: 'tis a tale of guilt;
How shall I speak? my resolution sickens ;
All virtuous men will shun me, thou wilt scorn
And fly the foul contagion of my crime. [me,
Ber. My bosom is not steel'd with that harsh
prudence
Which would reproach thy failings: tell me all;
The proudest heart loves to repose its faults
Upon a breast that has itself a tincture
Of human weakness: I have frailties too,
Frailties that teach me how to pity thine.
What! silent still? Thou lov'st my beauteous
Have I not guess'd?
[cousin!
548
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Or.
Or.
Forbid it, heaven!
What! think'st thou I am so far gone in guilt
As boldly to avow it? Bertrand, no;
For all the kingdoms of the spacious earth,
I would not wrong my friend, or damn my hon-
[self.
I own that she has charms Finds a new star. I gaz'd, and was undone;
Might warm a frozen stoic into love,
Gaz'd, and forgot the tender Emmelina,
Tempt hermits back again to that bad world Gaz'd, and forgot the gen'rous, trusting Rivers,
They had renounc'd, and make religious men Forgot my faith, my friendship, and my honour.
Forgetful of their holy vows to heav'n :
Ber. Does Julia know your love?
Yes,
Bertrand-come, I'll tell thee all my weak-
Thou hast a tender, sympathizing heart-[ness;
Thou art not rigid to a friend's defects.
That heavenly form I view with eyes as cold
As marble images of lifeless saints;
I see and know the workmanship divine;
My judgment owns her exquisite perfections,
But my rebellious heart denies her claim.
Ber. What do I hear! you love her not!
Or.
Oh! Bertrand!
For pity do not hate me; but thou must,
For am I not at variance with myself?
Yet shall I wrong her gentle, trusting nature,
And spurn the heart I labour'd to obtain?
She loves me, Bertrand: oh! too sure she
loves me :
our.
Ber. Trust me, you think too hardly of your-
Or. Think I have lodg'd a secret in thy breast
On which my peace, my fame, my all depends;
Long have I struggled with the fatal truth,
And scarce have dar'd to breathe it to myself:
For, oh! too surely the first downward step,
The treacherous path that leads to guilty deeds,
Is to make sin familiar to the thoughts. [Exit.
Ber. Am I awake? No: 'tis delusion all!
My wildest wishes never soar'd to this;
Loves me with tenderest, truest, chastest pas-Fortune anticipates my plot: he loves her.
Loves me, oh, barb'rous fate! as I love-Julia. Loves just whom I would have him love-loves
Ber. Heard I aright? Did you not speak of
Julia!
Julia?
[sion;
Julia! the lovely ward of my good uncle?
Julia! the mistress of your friend, of Rivers?
Or. Go on, go on, and urge me with my guilt;
Display my crime in all its native blackness;
Tell me some legend of infernal falsehood,
Tell me some dreadful tale of perjur'd friends,
Of trust betray'd, of innocence deceiv'd:
Place the dire chronicle before my eyes;
Inflame the horror, aggravate the guilt:
That I may see the evils which await me,
Nor pull such fatal mischiefs on my head,
As with my ruin must involve the fate
Of all I love on earth.
(Aside.)
Ber.
Just as I wish.
Or. Thou know'st I left my native Italy,
Directed hither by the noble Rivers,
To ease his father's fears, who thought he fell
In that engagement where we both were
wounded.
His was a glorious wound, gain'd in the cause
Of gen'rous friendship for a hostile spear,
Aim'd at my breast, Rivers in his receiv'd,
Sav'd my devoted life, and won my soul.
Ber. So far I knew; but what of Emmelina?
Or. Whether her gentle beauties first allur'd
me,
Or whether peaceful scenes and rural shades,
Or leisure, or the want of other objects,
Or solitude, apt to engender love,
Engag'd my soul, I know not; but I lov'd her.
We were together always, till the habit
Grew into something like necessity.
When Emmelina left me I was sad,
Nor knew a joy till Emmelina came;
Her soft society amus'd my mind,
Fill'd up my vacant heart, and touch'd my soul:
'Twas gratitude, 'twas friendship, 'twas esteem,
'Twas reason, 'twas persuasion,-nay, 'twas
Ber. But where was Julia ?
[love.
Or.
Oh! too soon she came;
For when I saw that wondrous form of beauty,
I stood entranced, like some astronomer,
Who, as he views the bright expanse of heaven,
|
Orlando, yes, I'll play thee at my will;
Poor puppet! thou hast trusted to my hand
The strings by which I'll move thee to thy ruin,
And make thee too the instrument of vengeance,
Of glorious vengeance on the man I hate. [Exit.
ACT II.
Enter JULIA and EMMELINA.
Julia. How many cares perplex the maid who
loves!
Cares which the vacant heart can never know.
You fondly tremble for a brother's life;
Orlando mourns the absence of a friend
Guildford is anxious for a son's renown;
In my poor heart your various terrors meet,
With added fears and fonder apprehensions :
They all unite in me, I feel for all,
His life, his fame, his absence, and his love;
For he may live to see his native home,
And he may live to bless a sister's hopes,
May live to gratify impatient friendship,
May live to crown a father's house with honour,
May live to glory, yet be dead to love.
Em. Forbear these fears; they wound my
brother's honour :
Julia! a brave man must be ever faithful
Cowards alone dare venture to be false;
Cowards alone dare injure trusting virtue,
And with bold perjuries affront high heaven.
Julia. I know his faith, and venerate his vir-
I know his heart is tender as 'tis brave; [tues;
That all his father's worth, his sister's softness,
Meet in his generous breast-and yet I fear-
Whoever lov'd like me, and did not fear
Enter GUILdford.
Guild. Where are my friends, my daughter?
where is Julia?
How shall I speak the fulness of my heart?
My son, my Rivers, will this day return.
Em. My dearest brother!
Julia.
Propitious heaven!
Ha! my Rivers cames!
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
549
Em.
And yet my Julia trembles.
Julia. Have I not cause? my Rivers comes!
I dread to ask, and yet I die to hear. [but how?
My lord-you know the terms-
Guild.
He comes a conqueror!
He comes as Guildford's son should ever come!
The battle's o'er, the English arms successful,
And Rivers, like an English warrior, hastes
To lay his laurels at the feet of beauty. [Exit.
Julia. My joy oppresses me!
Em.
How will the welcome news transport his soul,
And raise his drooping heart! with caution tell
him,
And see, Orlando!
Lest the o'erwhelming rapture be too much
For his dejected mind.
Enter ORLANDO and BERTRAND.
Julia.
My lord Orlando,
Wherefore that troubled air? no more you dwell
On your once darling theme; you speak no more
The praises of your Rivers; is he chang'd?
Is he not still the gallant friend you lov'd,
As virtuous and as valiant?
Or.
Still the same;
He must be ever virtuous, ever valiant.
Em. If Rivers is the same, then must I think
Orlando greatly chang'd; you speak not of him,
Nor long for his return, as you were wont.
How did you use to spend the livelong day,
In telling some new wonders of your friend,
Till night broke in upon th' unfinish'd tale;
And when 'twas o'er, you would begin again,
And we again would listen with delight,
With fresh delight, as if we had not heard it!
Does Rivers less deserve, or you less love?
Or. Have I not lov'd him? was my friendship
When any praised his glories in the field? [cold
My raptur'd heart has bounded at the tale!
Methought I grew illustrious from his glory,
And rich from his renown; to hear him prais'd,
More proud than if I had achiev'd his deeds,
And reap'd myself the harvest of his fame.
How have I trembled for a life so dear,
When his too ardent soul, despising caution,
Has plung'd him in the foremost ranks of war,
As if in love with danger.
Julia.
Valiant Rivers!
How does thy greatness justify my love!
Ber. He's distant far, so I may safely praise
him.
(Aside.)
I claim some merit in my love of Rivers,
Since I admire the virtues that eclipse me ;
With pleasure I survey those dazzling heights
My gay, inactive temper cannot reach.
Em. Spoke like my honest cousin. Then,
Orlando,
Since such the love you bear your noble friend,
How will your heart sustain the mighty joy
The news I tell will give you? Yes, Orlando,
Restrain the transports of your grateful friend-
ship,
And hear with moderation, hear me tell you
That Rivers will return-
Or.
Em.
Or. Impossible!
Ber.
How? when?
This day.
Then all my schemes are air. (Aside.)
Em. To-day I shall embrace my valiant
brother!
[her right?
Julia. You droop, my lord: did you not hear
She told you that your Rivers would return,
Would come to crown your friendship and our
hopes.
[friend?
Or. He is most welcome! Is he not my
You say my Rivers comes. Thy arm, good
Bertrand.
Ber. Joy to us all; joy to the Count Orlando!
Weak man, take care. (Aside to ORLANDO.)
Em.
My lord! you are not well.
Ber. Surprise and joy oppress him; I myself
Partake his transports. Rouse, my lord, for
Em. How is it with you now? [shame.
Or.
Quite well-'tis past.
Ber. The wonder's past, and naught but joy
remains.
Enter GUILDFORD and RIVERS.
Guild. He's come! he's here! I have em-
brac'd my warrior;
Now take me, heav'n, I have liv'd long enough.
Julia. My lord, my Rivers!
Riv.
My life!
'Tis my Julia's self!
Julia. My hero! Do I then behold thee?
Riv. Oh, my full heart! expect not words,
Em. Rivers!
[my Julia!
Riv.
My sister! what an hour is this!
My own Orlando, too!
Or.
My noble friend!
Riv. This is such prodigality of bliss,
I scarce can think it real. Honest Bertrand,
Your hand; yours, my Orlando, yours, my
And as a hand, I have a heart for all; [father;
Love has enlarg'd it; from excess of love
I am become more capable of friendship.
My dearest Julia !
[her,
Guild.
She is thine, my son,
Thou hast deserv'd her nobly; thou hast won
Fulfill'd the terms-
Riv.
Therefore I dare not ask her;
I would not claim my Julia as a debt,
But take her as a gift; and, oh! I swear
It is the dearest, richest, choicest gift,
The bounty of indulgent heaven could grant.
(GUILDFORD joins their hands.)
Julia. Spare me, my lord.-As yet I scarce
have seen you.
Confusion stops my tongue-yet I will own,
If there be truth or faith in woman's vows,
Then you have still been present to this heart,
And not a thought has wander'd from its duty.
[Exeunt JULIA and EMMELINA.
Riv. (looking after Julia.) Oh, generous Julia!
Or. (aside to Ber.) Mark how much she loves
him! [fond sex have always ready.
Ber. (aside to Or.) Mere words, which the
Riv. Forgive me, good Orlando, best of friends!
How my soul joys to meet thee on this shore!
Thus to embrace thee in my much-lov'd Eng-
land!
[of heroes,
Guild. England! the land of worth, the soil
Where great Elizabeth the sceptre sways,
O'er a free, glorious, rich, and happy people !
Philosophy, not cloister'd up in schools,
The speculative dream of idle monks,
550
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Attir'd in attic robe, here roams at large;
Wisdom is wealth, and science is renown.
Here sacred laws protect the meanest subject,
[ens,
There will I live in love with misery;
Ne'er shall the sight of mirth profane my grief,
The sound of joy shall never charm my ear,
The bread that toil procures fair freedom sweet-Nor music reach it, save when the slow bell
And every peasant eats his homely meal
Content and free, lord of his small domain.
Riv. Past are those Gothic days, and, thanks
to heav'n,
They are for ever past, when English subjects
Were born the vassals of some tyrant lord!
When free-soul'd men were basely handed down
To the next heir, transmitted with their lands,
The shameful legacy, froin sire to son! [boy,
Guild. But while thy generous soul, my noble
Justly abhors oppression, yet revere
The plain stern virtues of our rough forefathers:
O, never may the gallant sons of England
Lose their plain, manly, native character,
Forego the glorious charter nature gave them,
Beyond what kings can give, or laws bestow;
Their candour, courage, constancy, and truth!
[Exeunt GUILDFORD and RIVERS.
Or. Stay, Bertrand, stay-Oh, pity my dis-
traction!
This heart was never made to hide its feelings;
I had near betray'd myself.
Ber.
I trembled for you;
Remember that the eye of love is piercing,
And Emmelina mark'd you.
Qr.
'Tis too much :
My artless nature cannot bear disguise.
Think what I felt when unsuspecting Rivers
Press'd me with gen'rous rapture to his bosom,
Profess'd an honest joy, and call'd me friend!
I felt myself a traitor: yet I swear,
Yes, by that Power who sees the thoughts of
I swear, I love the gallant Rivers more [men,
Than light or life! I love, but yet I fear him :
I shrunk before the lustre of his virtue-
I felt as I had wrong'd him-felt abash'd.
I cannot bear this conflict in my soul,
And therefore have resolv'd-
Ber.
Or.
On what?
To fly.
Ber. To fly from Julia?
Or.
Yes, to fly from all,
From every thing I love; to fly from Rivers,
From Emmelina, from myself, from thee:
From Julia? no-that were impossible,
For I shall bear her image in my soul;
It is a part of me, the dearest part;
So closely interwoven with my being,
That I can never lose the dear remembrance,
Till I am robb'd of life and her together.
Ber. 'Tis cowardice to fly.
Or.
"Tis death to stay.
Ber. Where would you go? How lost in
thought he stands!
(Aside.)
A vulgar villain now would use persuasion,
And by his very earnestness betray
The thing he meant to hide; I'll coolly wait,
Till the occasion shows me how to act,
Then turn it to my purpose. Ho! Orlando!
Where would you go?
Or. To solitude, to hopeless banishment!
Yes, I will shroud my youth in those dark cells |
Where disappointment steals devotion's name,
To cheat the wretched votary into ruin;
Wakes the dull brotherhood to lifeless prayer.
Then, when the slow-retreating world recedes,
When warm desires are cold, and passion dead,
And all things but my Julia are forgotten,
One thought of her shall fire my languid soul,
Chase the faint orison, and feed despair.
Ber. What! with monastic, lazy drones retire,
And chant cold hymns with holy hypocrites?
First perish all the sex! forbid it, manhood!
Where is your nobler self? for shame, Orlando;
Renounce this superstitious, whining weakness,
Or I shall blush to think I call'd you friend.
Or. What can I do?
Ber. (after a pause.) Beg she'll defer the mar
But for one single day; do this, and leave
The rest to me: she shall be thine.
Or.
What, wrong her virtue?
Ber.
[riage
How sayst thou?
Still this cant of virtue !
This pomp of words, this phrase without a
meaning!
I grant that honour's something, manly honour;
I'd fight, I'd burn, I'd bleed, I'd die for honour
But what's this virtue?
Or.
Ask you what it is?
Why, 'tis what libertines themselves adore;
'Tis that which wakens love and kindles rapture,
Beyond the rosy lip ar starry eye.
Virtue! 'tis that which gives a secret force
To common charms; but to true loveliness
Lends colouring celestial. Such its power,
That she who ministers to guilty pleasures,
Assumes its semblance when she most would
Virtue! 'tis that ethereal energy [please,
Which gives to body spirit, soul to beauty. [Exit.
Ber. Curse on his principles! Yet I shall
shake them;
Yes, I will bend his spirit to my will,
Now, while 'tis warm with passion, and will takę
Whatever mould my forming hand will give it.
"Tis worthy of my genius! Then I lave
This Emmelina: true, she loves not me,
But, should young Rivers die, his father's lands
Would then be mine-is Rivers, then, immortal?
Come-Guildford's lands, and his proud daugh-
[genius!
Are worth some thought. Aid me, ye spurs to
Love, mischief, poverty, revenge, and envy!
[Exit BERTRAND.
ter's hand,
Enter EMMELINA and RIVERS, talking.
Em. Yet do not blame Orlando, good my
brother;
[lov'd;
He's still the same, that brave frank heart you
Only his temper's chang'd, he is grown sad;
But that's no fault, I only am to blame;
Fond, foolish heart, to give itself away
To one who gave me nothing in return!
Riv. How's this? ny father said Orlando
lov'd thee.
Em. Indeed I thought so; he was kinder once;
Nay, still he loves, or my poor heart deceives me.
Riv. If he has wrong'd thee! yet I know he
could not;
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
551
His gallant soul is all made up of virtues,
And I would rather doubt myself than him.
Yet tell me all the story of your loves,
And let a brother's fondness sooth thy cares.
Em. When to this castle first Orlando came,
A welcome guest to all, to me most welcome;
Yes, spite of maiden shame and burning blushes,
Let me confess he was most welcome to me!
At first my foolish heart so much deceiv'd me,
I thought I lov'd him for my brother's sake;
But when I closely search'd this bosom traitor,
I found, alas! I lov'd him for his own.
Riv. Blush not to own it; 'twas a well-plac'd
I glory in the merit of my friend, [flame!
And love my sister more for loving him.
Em. He talk'd of you; I listen'd with delight,
And fancied 'twas the subject only charm'd me;
But when Orlando chose another theme,
Forgive me, Rivers, but I listen'd still
With undiminish'd joy-he talk'd of love,
Nor was that theme less grateful than the former.
I seem'd the very idol of his soul;
Rivers, he said, would thank me for the friend-
I bore to his Orlando; I believ'd him. [ship
Julia was absent then-but what of Julia?
Riv. Ay, what of her indeed? why nam'd
you Julia?
You could not surely think? no, that were wild.
Why did you mention Julia?
Em. (confusedly.) Nay, 'twas nothing,
'Twas accident, nor had my words a meaning;
If I did name her-'twas to note the time-
To mark the period of Orlando's coldness.
The circumstance was casual, and but meant
To date the change; it aim'd at nothing farther.
Riv. (agitated.) 'Tis very like-no more-
I'm satisfied-
You talk as I had doubts: what doubts have I?
Why do you labour to destroy suspicions
Which never had a birth? Is she not mine?
Mine by the fondest ties of dear affection ?-
But did Orlando change at her return?
Did he grow cold? It could not be for that;
You may mistake. And yet you said 'twas then:
Was it precisely then? I only ask
For the fond love I bear my dearest sister.
Em. 'Twas as I said.
[melina
Riv. (recovering himself.) He loves thee, Em-
These starts of passion, this unquiet temper,
Betray how much he loves thee: yes, my sister,
He fears to lose thee, fears his father's will
May dash his rising hopes, nor give thee to him.
Em. Oh, flatterer! thus to sooth my easy
With tales of possible, unlikely bliss! [nature
Because it may be true, my credulous heart
Whispers it is, and fondly loves to cherish
The feeble glimmering of a sickly hope.
:
Why do I trace his steps? I thought him here;
This is his hour of walking, and these shades
His daily haunt: oft have they heard his vows :
Ah! fatal vows, which stole my peace away!
But now he shuns my presence: yet who knows,
He may not be ungrateful, but unhappy!
Yes, he will come to clear his past offences,
With such prevailing eloquence will plead,
So mourn his former faults, so blame his cold-
ness,
And by ten thousand graceful ways repair them,
That I shall think I never was offended.
He comes, and every doubt's at once dispell'd :
'Twas fancy all; he never meant to wrong me.
Enter ORLANDO.
Or. Why at this hour of universal joy, [ture,
When every heart beats high with grateful rap-
And pleasure dances her enchanting round ;
O, tell me why, at this auspicious hour,
You quit the joyful circle of your friends:
Rob social pleasure of its sweetest charm,
And leave a void e'en in the happiest hearts,
An aching void which only you can fill?
Why do you seek these unfrequented shades?
Why court these gloomy haunts, unfit for beauty,
But made for meditation and misfortune?
Em. I might retort the charge, my lord Or-
lando!
I might inquire how the lov'd friend of Rivers,
Whom he has held deep-rooted in his heart
Beyond a brother's dearness, sav'd his life,
And cherish'd it when sav'd beyond his own ;-
I might inquire, why, when this Rivers comes,
After long tedious months of expectation,
Alive, victorious, and as firm in friendship
As fondness could have wish'd, or fancy feign'd;
I might inquire why thus Orlando shuns him-
Why thus he courts this melancholy gloom,
As if he were at variance with delight,
And scorn'd to mingle in the general joy?
Or. Oh, my fair monitress! I have deserv'd
Your gentle censure. Henceforth I'll be gay.
Em. Julia complains too of you.
Or.
Or.
Ah! does Julia?
no,
If Julia chides me, I have err'd indeed :
For harshness is a stranger to her nature. [fore?
But why does she complain? O, tell me where-
That I may soon repair the unwilling crime,
And prove my heart at least ne'er meant to
Em. Why so alarm'd?
[wrong her.
Alarm'd !
Em.
Indeed, you seem'd so.
Or. Sure you mistake. Alarm'd! oh I
was not;
There was no cause-I could not be alarm'd
Upon so slight a ground. Something you said,
But what, I know not, of your friend.
Of Julia?
Em.
Or. That Julia was displeas'd-was it not so?
'Twas that, or something like it.
Em.
[Exeunt. | That you avoid her.
[age
Riv. This precious moment, worth a tedious
Of vulgar time, I've stol'n from love and Julia;
She waits my coming, and a longer stay
Were treason to her beauty and my love.
Doubts vanish, fears recede, and fondness
triumphs.
ACT III.
SCENE-A Garden.
Em. Why do my feet unbidden seek this
grove?
She complains
Or.
How! that I avoid her?
Did Julia say so? ah! you had forgot―
It could not be.
Em.
Or.
Why are you terrified?
No.
552
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Just now, when I expected such a welcome,
As happy souls in paradise bestow
Upon a new inhabitant, who comes
To taste their blessedness, you coldly tell me
You will depart: it must not be, Orlando.
Or. It must, it must.
Not terrified-I am not-but were those [ing; | To the kind arms of long desiring friendship,
Her very words? you might mistake her mean-
Did Julia say Orlando shunn'd her presence?
Oh! did she, could she say so?
Em.
If she did,
Why this disorder? there's no cause.
Or.
No cause?
Oh! there's a cause of dearer worth than em-
pire!
Quick let me fly, and find the fair upbraider;
Tell her she wrongs me, tell her I would die
Rather than meet her anger. (EMMELINA faints.)
Ah, she faints!
What have I said? curse my imprudent tongue!
Look up, sweet innocence! my Emmelina-
My gentle friend, awake! look up, fair creature!
"Tis your Orlando calls.
Orlando's voice!
Em.
Methought he talked of love-nay, do not mock
My heart is but a weak, a very weak one! [me;
I am not well-perhaps I've been to blame.
Spare my distress; the error has been mine,
[Exit EMMELINA.
Or. So then, all's over; I've betrayed my
secret,
And stuck a poison'd dagger to her heart,
Her innocent heart. Why, what a wretch am I!
Ruin approaches-shall I tamely meet it,
And dally with destruction till it blast me?
No, I will fly thee, Julia, fly for ever.
Ah, fly what then becomes of Emmelina?
Shall I abandon her? it must be so;
Better escape with this poor wreck of honour
Than hazard all by staying, Rivers here?
Enter RIVERS.
Riv. The same. My other self! my own
Orlando !
I came to seek thee; 'twas in thy kind bosom,
My suffering soul reposed its secret cares,
When doubts and difficulties stood before me :
And now, now when my prosperous fortune
shines,
And gilds the smiling hour with her bright beams,
Shall I become a niggard of my bliss,
Defraud thee of thy portion of my joys, [them?
And rob thee of thy well-earn'd claim to share
Or. That I have ever lov'd thee, witness
Heaven!
[sing
That I have thought thy friendship the best bles-
That mark'd the fortune of my happier days,
I here attest the sovereign Judge of hearts!
Then think, O think what anguish I endure,
When I declare, in bitterness of spirit,
That we must part-
Riv.
What does Orlando mean?
Or. That I must leave thee, Rivers; must
Thy lov'd society.
[renounce
Riv.
Thou hast been injur'd;
Thy merit has been slighted: sure, my father,
Who knew how dear I held thee, would not
wrong thee.
Or. He is all goodness; no-there is a cause
Seek not to know it.
Riv.
Now, by holy friendship!
I swear thou shalt not leave me ; what, just now,
When I have safely pass'd so many perils,
Escap'd so many deaths, return'd once more
Riv. Ah, must! then tell me wherefore?
Or. I would not dim thy dawn of happiness,
Nor shade the brighter beams of thy good fortune
With the dark sullen cloud that hangs o'er mine.
Riv. Is this the heart of him I call'd my
friend,
Full of the graceful weakness of affection?
How have I known it bend at my request!
How lose the power of obstinate resistance,
Because his friend entreated! This Orlando!
How is he chang'd!
Or.
Alas, how chang'd, indeed!
How dead to every relish of delight!
How chang'd in all but in his love for thee!
Yet think not that my nature is grown harder,
That I have lost that ductile, yielding heart;
Rivers, I have not-oh! 'tis still too soft;
E'en now it melts, it bleeds in tenderness---
Farewell! I dare not trust myself-farewell!
Riv. Then thou resolv'st to go?
Or.
This very day!
Riv. What do I hear? To-day! It must not
This is the day that makes my Julia mine. [be.
Or. Wed her to-day?
Riv.
This day unites me to her;
Then stay at least till thou behold'st her mine.
Or. Impossible! another day were ruin.
Riv. Then let me fly to Julia, and conjure her
To bless me with her hand this hour-this
Or. Oh no, no, no!
[moment,
Riv,
I will: in such a cause
Surely she will forego the rigid forms
Of cold decorum; then, my best Orlando!
I shall receive my Julia from thy hand;
The blessing will be doubled! I shall owe
The precious gift of love to sacred friendship!
Or. Canst thou bear this, my heart?
Riv.
Then, my Orlando,
Since thy unkind reserve denies
Its partnership in this thy hoard of sorrows,
my heart
I will not press to know it; thou shalt go
Soon as the holy priest has made us one:
For, oh! 'twill sooth thee in the hour of parting,
To know I'm in possession of my love,
To think I'm blest with Julia, to reflect
Thou gav'st her to my arms, my bride! my wife!
Or. Ah! my brain turns!
Riv.
'Tis as I thought; I'll try him.
(Aside.)
Now answer me, Orlando, and with truth;
Hide nothing from thy friend-dost thou not
love?
[heart.
Or. Ha! how! I am betray'd! he reads my
Riv. Hast thou, with all that tenderness of
soul,
From love's infection kept thy yielding heart?
Say, couldst thou bask in all the blaze of beauty,
And never feel its warmth ?-Impossible!
Oh! I shall probe thy soul, till thou confess
The conqu'ring fair one's name-but why con-
Come, come, I know full well-
[fess?
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
553
Or.
Ha! dost thou know?
And knowing, dost thou suffer me to live?
And dost thou know my guilt, and call me friend?
He mocks but to destroy me!
Riv.
Come, no more :
Love is a proud, an arbitrary god,
And will not choose as rigid fathers bid;
I know that thine has destin'd for thy bride
A Tuscan maid; but hearts disdain all force.
Or. How's this? what, dost thou justify my
passion?
Riv. Applaud it-glory in it-will assist it.
She is so fair, so worthy to be lov'd,
That I should be thy rival, were not she
My sister.
Or.
How!
She is another Julia.
Riv.
Or. I stood upon a fearful precipice-
I'm giddy still-oh, yes! I understand thee-
Thy beauteous sister! what a wretch I've been!
Oh, Rivers! too much softness has undone me.
Yet I will never wrong the maid I love,
Nor injure thee; first let Orlando perish!
Riv. Be more explicit.
Or.
For the present spare me.
Think not too hardly of me, noble Rivers!
I am a man, and full of human frailties;
But hate like hell the crime which tempts me on.
When I am ready to depart I'll see thee,
Clear all my long accounts of love and honour,
Remove thy doubts, embrace thee, and expire.
[Exit ORLANDO.
Manet RIVERS.
Riv. It must be so-to what excess he loves
her!
Yet wherefore not demand her? for his birth
May claim alliance with the proudest fortune.
Sure there's some hidden cause-perhaps―ah,
no !
[suspicion;
Turn from that thought, my soul! 'twas vile
And I could hate the heart which but conceiv'd it.
'Tis true their faiths are different-then his
father,
Austere and rigid, dooms him to another.
That must not be these bars shall be remov'd;
I'll serve him with my life, nor taste of bliss
Till I have sought to bless the friend I love.
Re-enter ORLANDO.
[Exit.
Or. Wed her to-day? wed her perhaps this
hour?
Hasten the rites for me? I give her to him?
I stand a tame spectator of their bliss?
I live a patient witness of their joy? [blood.
First let this dagger drink my heart's warm
(Takes a dagger from his bosom, then sees JULIA.)
The sorceress comes! oh, there's a charm about
her
[live.
Which holds my hand, and makes me wish to
I shudder at her sight! open, thou earth,
And save me from the peril of her charms!
(Puts up the dagger.)
Enter JULIA.
Julia. Methought I heard the cry of one in
pain;
VOL. I.
|
From hence it came; ah, me! my lord Orlando !
What means that sigh? that agonizing voice?
Those groans which rend your heart? those
frantic looks?
Indeed I'm terrified. What would you do?
Or. (furiously.)
Die!
Julia. Talk you of death? renounce the fatal
Live for my sake, Orlando.
[thought;
Or.
For thy sake?
That were indeed a cause to live for ages,
Would nature but extend the narrow limits
Of human life so far.
Julia.
And for the sake
Of Rivers; live for both; he sends me here
To beg you would delay your purpos'd parting;
His happiness, he swears, if you are absent,
Will be but half complete.
Is it to-night?
01.
This marriage, Julia, did you say to-night?
Julia. It is, and yet you leave us.
Or.
No.-I'll stay.
Since you command, stay and expire before you.
Julia. What mean you?
Or.
Of—Rivers.
Julia.
That I'll perish at the feet
Tell your sorrows to my lord;
Upon his faithful breast repose the weight
That presses you to earth,
Or.
Tell him? Tell Rivers?
Is he not yours? Does not the priest now wait
To make you one? Then do not mock me thus:
What leisure can a happy bridegroom find
To think upon so lost a wretch as I am?
You hate me, Julia.
Julia. Hate you! how you wrong me!
Live to partake our joy.
Or.
Hope you for joy?
Julia. Have I not cause? Am I not lov'd
by Rivers ?
Rivers, the best, the bravest of his sex!
Whose valour fabled heroes ne'er surpass'd,
Whose virtues teach the young and charm the
Whose graces are the wonder of our sex, [old;
And envy of his own.
Or.
Enough! enough!
O spare this prodigality of praise.
But, Julia, if you would not here behold me
Stretch'd at your feet a lifeless bloody corpse,
Promise what I shall now request.
Julia.
What is it?
Or. That till to-morrow's sun, I ask no longer,
You will defer this marriage.
Julia.
Ah! defer it!
Impossible; what would my Rivers think?
Or. No matter what; 'tis for his sake I ask it:
His peace, his happiness, perhaps his life
Depends on what I ask.
Julia.
His life the life of Rivers!
Some dreadful thought seems lab'ring in your
Explain this horrid mystery.
[breast;
Or.
I dare not.
If you comply, before to-morrow's dawn,
All will be well, the danger past: then finish
These-happy nuptials: but if you refuse,
Tremble for him you love; the altar's self
Will be no safeguard from a madman's rage.
Julia. What rage? what madman? what re-
morseless villain?
554
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Orlando-will not you protect your friend?
Think how he loves you-he would die for you-
Then save him, on my knees I beg you save
him-
(Kneels.)
Oh! guard my Rivers from this bloody foe.
Or. Dearer than life I love him—ask no more,
But promise in the awful face of heaven,
To do what I request-and promise further,
Not to disclose the cause.
Julia.
Oh, save him! save him!
Or. 'Tis to preserve him that I ask it: promise,
Or see me fall before you.
(He draws the dagger, she still kneeling.)
Julia.
I do promise.
Hide, hide that deadly weapon-I do promise.
(Rises.)
How wild you look! you tremble more than I.
I'll call my Rivers hither.
Or.
Not for worlds.
If you have mercy in your nature, Julia,
Retire. Oh, leave me quickly to myself;
Do not expose me to the strong temptation
Which now assaults me.- -Yet you are not gone.
Julia. Be more composed; I leave you with
regret.
[its seat!
(As she goes out.) His noble mind is shaken from
What may these transports mean? heav'n guard
my Rivers!
As JULIA goes out, enter BERTRAND; he speaks
behind.
Ber. Why, this is well; this has a face; she
weeps,
He seems disorder'd.-Now, to learn the cause,
And then make use of what I hear by chance,
As of a thing I knew. (He listens.)
?
Or. (after a pause.) And is she gone?
Her parting words shot fire into my soul;
Did she not say she left me with regret
Her look was tender, and the starting tear
Fill'd her bright eye; she left me with regret
She own'd it too.
Ber.
'Twill do.
(Comes forward.) What have you done?
The charming Julia is dissolv'd in wo;
Her radiant eyes are quench'd in floods of tears;
For you they fall; her blushes have confess'd it.
Or. For me? what sayst thou? Julia weep
for me!
Yet she is gentle, and she would have wept
For thee; for any who but seem'd unhappy.
Ber. Ungrateful!
How?
Or.
Ber.
Not by her tears, I judge,
But by her words, not meant for me to hear.
Or. What did she say? What didst thou
hear, good Bertrand?
Speak-I'm on fire.
Ber.
It is not safe to tell you.
Farewell! I would not injure Rivers.
Stay,
Or.
Or tell me all, or I renounce thy friendship.
Ber. That threat unlocks my tongue; I must
not lose thee.
Sweet Julia wept, clasp'd her fair hands, and
Why was I left a legacy to Rivers, [cried,
Robb'd of the power of choice? Seeing me
she started,
|
|
|
|
Would have recall'd her words, blush'd, and
retir'd.
[my ruin.
Or. No more; thou shalt not tempt me to
Deny what thou hast said, deny it quickly,
Ere I am quite undone; for, oh! I feel
Retreating virtue touches its last post,
And my lost soul now verges on destruction.
Bertrand! she promis'd to defer the marriage.
Ber. Then my point's gain'd; that will make
Rivers jealous.
(Aside.)
She loves you.
Or.
I have no hope.
Ber.
No; and even if she did
You are too scrupulous.
Be bold, and be successful; sure of this,
There is no crime a woman sooner pardons
Than that of which her beauty is the cause.
Or. Shall I defraud my friend? he bled to
gain her!
What! rob the dear preserver of my life
Of all that makes the happiness of his?
And yet her beauty might excuse a falsehood;
Nay, almost sanctify a perjury.
Perdition's in that thought-'twas born in hell.
My soul is up in arms, my reason's lost,
And love, and rage, and jealousy, and honour,
Pull my divided heart, and tear my soul. [Exit.
Manet BERTRAND.
Ber. Rave on, and beat thy wings; poor
bird! thou'rt lim'd,
And vain will be thy struggles to get loose.
How much your very honest men lack prudence!
Though all the nobler virtues fill one scale,
Yet place but indiscretion in the other,
In worldly business, and the ways of men,
That single folly weighs the balance down,
While all the ascending virtues kick the beam.
Here's this Orlando now, of rarest parts,
Honest, heroic, generous, frank, and kind,
As inexperience of the world can make him;
Yet shall this single weakness, this imprudence,
Pull down unheard-of plagues upon his head,
And snare his heedless soul beyond redemption;
While dull, unfeeling hearts, and frozen spirits,
Sordidly safe, secure because untempted,
Look up, and wonder at the generous crime
They wanted wit to frame, and souls to dare.
ACT IV.
SCENE-An Apartment.
Em. How many ways there are of being
wretched!
The avenues to happiness how few!
When will this busy, fluttering heart be still?
When will it cease to feel and beat no more?
E'en now it shudders with a dire presage
Of something terrible it fears to know.
Ent'ring, I saw my venerable father
In earnest conference with the Count Orlando ;
Shame and confusion fill'd Orlando's eye,
While stern resentment fir'd my father's cheek.
And look, he comes, with terror on his brow!
But, O! he sees me, sees his child; and now
The terror of his look is lost in love,
In fond, paternal love.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
555
Guild.
Enter GUILDFORD.
Come to my arms,
And there conceal that penetrating eye,
Lest it should read what I would hide for ever,
Would hide from all, but most would hide from
thee-
Thy father's grief, his shame, his rage, his tears.
Em. Tears! heaven and earth! see if he
does not weep!
[my eyes
Guild. He who has drawn this sorrow from
Shall pay me back again in tears of blood.
"Tis for thy sake I weep.
Em.
Ah, weep for me!
Hear, heaven, and judge; hear, heaven, and
If any crime of mine-
[punish me!
Guild.
Thou art all innocence;
Just what a parent's fondest wish would frame;
No fault of thine e'er stain'd thy father's cheek;
For if I blush'd, it was to hear thy virtues,
And think that thou wast mine: and if I wept,
It was from joy and gratitude to heaven,
That made me father of a child like thee.
Orlando-
Em.
Guild.
What of him?
I cannot tell thee;
An honest shame, a virtuous pride forbids.
Em. Oh, speak!
[father?
Guild, Canst thou not guess, and spare thy
Em. 'Tis possible I can and yet I will not:
Tell me the worst while I have sense to hear.
Thou wilt not speak-nay, never turn away;
Dost thou not know that fear is worse than grief?
There may be bounds to grief, fear knows no
bounds;
In grief we know the worst of what we feel,
But who can tell the end of what we fear?
Grief mourns some sorrow palpable and known,
But fear runs wild with horrible conjecture.
Guild. Then hear the worst, and arm thy soul
to bear it.
My child!-he has-Orlando has refus'd thee.
Em. (after a long pause.) 'Tis well-'tis very
well-'tis as it should be.
[wo,
Guild. Oh, there's an eloquence in that mute
Which mocks all language. Speak, relieve thy
heart,
Thy bursting heart; thy father cannot bear it.
Am I a man? no more of this, fond eyes!
I am grown weaker than a chidden infant,
While not a sigh escapes to tell thy pain.
Em. See, I am calm; I do not shed a tear;
The warrior weeps, the woman is a hero!
Guild. (embraces her.) My glorious child!
now thou art mine indeed!
Forgive me if I thought thee fond and weak.
I have a Roman matron for my daughter,
And not a feeble girl. And yet I fear,
For, oh! I know thy tenderness of soul,
İ fear this silent anguish but portends
Some dread convulsion soon to burst in horrors.
Em. I will not shame thy blood; and yet,
my father,
Methinks thy daughter should not be refus'd!
Refused! It is a harsh, ungrateful sound;
Thou shouldst have found a softer term of scorn.
And have I then been held so cheap? Refus'd?
Been treated like the light ones of my sex,
Held up to sale? been offer'd, and refused?
Guild. Long have I known thy love; I
thought it mutual;
I met him-talk'd of marriage-
Em.
Ah! no more:
I am rejected;—does not that suffice?
Excuse my pride the mortifying tale;
Spare me particulars of how and when,
And do not parcel out thy daughter's shame.
No flowers of rhetoric can change the fact,
No arts of speech can varnish o'er my shame ;
Orlando has refus'd me.
Guild.
Villain! villain!
He shall repent this outrage.
Em.
Think no more on't:
I'll teach thee how to bear it; I'll grow proud,
As gentle spirits still are apt to do
When cruel slight or killing scorn assails them.
Come, virgin dignity, come, female pride,
Come, wounded modesty, come, slighted love,
Come, conscious worth, come too, O black
despair!
Support me, arm me, fill me with my wrongs!
Sustain this feeble spirit! Yes, my father,
But for thy share in this sad tale of shame,
I think I could have borne it.
Guild.
He shall assert thy cause.
Em.
Thou hast a brother;
First strike me dead-
No, in the wild distraction of my spirit,
In this dread conflict of my breaking heart,
Hear my fond pleading-save me from that
curse;
Thus I adjure thee by the dearest ties (kneels)
Which link society; by the sweet names
Of parent and of child; by all the joys
These tender chains have yielded, I adjure thee
Breathe not this fatal secret to my brother;
Let him not know his sister was refused!
O, spare me that consummate, perfect ruin!
Conceive the mighty wo-I cannot speak :
And tremble to become a childless father.
[Exit EMMELINA.
Guild. What art thou, life? thou lying vanity!
Thou promiser, who never mean'st to pay !
This beating storm will crush my feeble age!
Yet let me not complain; I have a son,
Just such a son as heaven in mercy gives,
When it would bless supremely; he is happy;
His ardent wishes will this day be crown'd;
He weds the maid he loves; in him, at least,
My soul will yet taste comfort.—See, he's here ;
He seems disorder'd.
Riv.
Enter RIVERS (not seeing GUILdford.)
Yes, I fondly thought
Not all the tales which malice might devise,
Not all the leagues combined hell might form,
Could shake her steady soul.
Guild.
Where is thy bride?
Riv.
What means my son?
O, name her not!
Guild. Not name her?
Riv.
No, if possible, not think of her;
Would I could help it!-Julia! oh, my Julia!
Curse my fond tongue! I said I would not name
I did not think to do it, but my heart
Is full of her idea; her lov'd image
So fills my soul, it shuts out other thoughts;
[her;
556
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
4
·
My lips resolving not to frame the sound,
Dwell on her name, and all my talk is Julia!
Guild. 'Tis as it should be; ere the mid-
night bell
Sound in thy raptured ear, this charming Julia
Will be thy wife.
Riv.
No.
Guild.
How?
Riv.
She has refused.
Guild. Sayst thou?
Riv.
Guild.
She has.
Why, who would be a father!
Who that could guess the wretchedness it brings,
But would entreat of heaven to write him child-
less!
Riv. 'Twas but a little hour ago we parted,
As happy lovers should; but when again
I sought her presence, with impatient haste,
Told her the priest, the altar, all was ready;
She blushed, she wept, and vowed it could not be ;
That reasons of importance to our peace
Forbade the nuptial rites to be performed
Before to-morrow.
Guild.
She consents to-morrow!
She but defers the marriage, not declines it.
Riv. Mere subterfuge! mere female artifice!
What reason should forbid our instant union?
Wherefore to-morrow? wherefore not to-night?
What difference could a few short hours have
made?
Or if they could, why not avow the cause?
Guild. I have grown old in camps, have lived
in courts;
[fate,
The toils of bright ambition have I known,
Woo'd greatness and enjoy'd it, till disgust
Follow'd possession; still I fondly look'd
Through the false perspective for distant joy,
Hop'd for the hour of honourable ease,
When, safe from all the storms and wrecks of
My shatter'd bark at rest, I might enjoy
An old man's blessings, liberty and leisure,
Domestic happiness and smiling peace.
The hour of age indeed is come! I feel it;
Feel it in all its sorrows, pains, and cares;
But where, oh where's th' untasted peace it
promis'd?
[Exit GUILDFord.
Riv. I would not deeper wound my father's
peace;
But hide the secret cause of my resentment,
Till all be known; and yet I know too much.
It must be so-his grief, his sudden parting:
Fool that I was, not to perceive at once-
But friendship blinded me, and love betray'd.
Bertrand was right, he told me she was changed,
And would, on some pretence, delay the mar-
riage;
I hop'd 'twas malice all.-Yonder she comes,
Dissolved in tears; I cannot see them fall,
And be a man; I will not, dare not meet her;
Her blandishments would sooth me to false
peace,
And if she asked it, I should pardon all. [Exit.
Enter JULIA.
Julia. Stay, Rivers! stay, barbarian! hear
me speak!
Return, inhuman !-best belov'd! return:
Oh! I will tell thee all, restore thy peace,
Kneel at thy feet, and sue for thy forgiveness.
He hears me not-alas! he will not hear.
Break, thou poor heart, since Rivers is unkind.
Enter ORLANDO.
Or. Julia in tears!
Julia.
Alas! you have undone me!
Behold the wretched victim of her promise!
I urged, at your request, the fatal suit
Which has destroy'd my peace; Rivers sus-
And I am wretched!
[pects me,
Or.
Better 'tis to weep
A temporary ill, than weep for ever;
That anguish must be mine.
Julia.
love?
Ha! weep for ever!
Can they know wretchedness, who know not
[honour !
Or. Not love! oh cruel friendship! tyrant
Julia. Friendship! alas, how cold art thou
to love!
Or. Too well I know it; both alike destroy me,
I am the slave of both, and, more than either,
The slave of honour.
Julia.
The bitter agonies-
Or.
If you then have felt
Talk you of agonies?
You who are lov'd again! No! they are mine,
Mine are the agonies of hopeless passion;
Yes, I do love-I dote, I die for love!
(falls at her feet.)
Julia.
How?
Julia!
;
Or. Nay, never start-I know I am a villain!
I know thy hand is destin'd to another,
That other too my friend, that friend the man
To whom I owe my life! Yes, I adore thee
Spite of the black ingratitude, adore thee;
I dote upon my friend, and yet betray him;
I'm bound to Emmelina, yet forsake her;
I honour virtue, while I follow guilt;
I love the noble Rivers more than life,
But Julia more than honour.
Julia.
Hold astonishment
Has seal'd my lips; whence sprung this mon-
Or. (rises.) From despair. [strous daring?
Julia.
What can you hope from me?
Or.
Hope! nothing.
I would not aught receive, aught hope but death.
Think'st thou I need reproach? think'st thou I
To be reminded that my love's a crime? [need
That every moral tie forbids my passion?
But though I know that heaven has plagues in
store,
Yet mark-I do not, will not, can't repent;
I do not even wish to love thee less;
I glory in my crime: pernicious beauty!
Come, triumph in thy power, complete my woes;
Insult me with the praises of my rival,
The man on earth-whom most I ought to love!
Julia. I leave thee to remorse, and to that
Thy crime demands. (going.) [penitence
Or.
Julia.
A moment stay.
I dare not.
Or. Hear all my rival's worth, and all my
The unsuspecting Rivers sent me to thee, [guilt.
To plead his cause; I basely broke my trust,
And, like a villain, pleaded for myself.
Julia. Did he? Did Rivers? Then he loves
Quick let me seek him out.
[me still-
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
557
Or. (takes out the dagger.) First take this
dagger;
Had you not forced it from my hand to-day,
I had not liv'd to know this guilty moment;
Take it, present it to the happy Rivers;
Tell him to plunge it in a traitor's heart;
Tell him his friend, Orlando, is that traitor;
Tell him Orlando forg'd the guilty tale;
Tell him Orlando was the only foe
Who at the altar would have murder'd Rivers,
And then have died himself.
Julia.
Farewell-repent-think better.
[Exit JULIA.
(As she goes out, he still looks after her.)
Enter RIVERs.
Rio. Turn, villain, turn!
Or.
Riv.
Ha! Rivers here?
Yes, Rivers.
Or. Gape wide, thou friendly earth, for ever
hide me!
Rise Alps, ye crushing mountains, bury me!
Riv. Nay, turn, look on me.
Or.
Rivers! oh, I cannot,
I dare not, I have wrong'd thee.
Riv.
Doubly wrong'd me ;
Thy complicated crimes cry out for vengeance.
Or.
Take it.
Riv.
Draw.
But I would take it as a man.
(RIVERS draws.)
Or. Not for a thousand worlds.
Riv.
Not fight?
Why, thou'rt a coward too as well as villain :
I shall despise as well as hate thee.
Or.
Do;
Yet wrong me not, for if ram a coward
'Tis but to thee: there does not breathe the
Thyself excepted, who durst call me so, [man,
And live; but, oh! 'tis sure to heaven and thee,
I am the veriest coward guilt e'er made.
Now, as thou art a man, revenge thyself;
Strike!
Riv. No, not stab thee like a base assassin,
But meet thee as a foe.
Or.
Riv. I feel them here.
Or.
Think of my wrongs.
Think of my treachery.
Riv. Oh, wherefore wast thou false? how
have I lov'd thee !
Or. Of that no more: think of thy father's
Of Emmelina's wrongs—
Riv.
Or. Of Julia-
Riv.
Provoke me not.
[grief,
| If ever you were dear to one another;
If ever you desire or look for mercy,
When, in the wild extremity of anguish,
You supplicate that Judge who has declared
That vengeance is his own-oh, hear me now;
Hear a fond wretch, whom misery has made
bold;
[souls.
Spare, spare each other's life-spare your own
Or. (to RIVERS.) Thou shouldst have struck
at once! O, tardy hand! [curtail'd?
Em. Does death want engines? is his power
Has fell disease forgotten to destroy?
Are there not pestilence and spotted plagues,
Devouring deluges, consuming fires,
Earthquakes, volcanoes, hurricanes, and famine,
That man must perish by the hand of man?
Nay, to complete the horror, friend by friend?
Riv. What shall I then endure this outrage
tamely?
[love
Em. No.-If you covet death; if you're in
With slaughter and destruction-does not war
Invite you to her banner? Far and wide
Her dire dominion reaches.-There seek death.
There fall without a crime. There, where no
No individual rage, no private wrong, [hate,
Arms man against his brother.-Not as here,
Where both are often murderers in the act;
In the foul purpose—always.
Riv.
Is honour nothing?
Em. Honour! O, yes, I know him. 'Tis a
phantom;
A shadowy figure wanting bulk and life;
Who, having nothing solid in himself,
Wraps his thin form in Virtue's plunder'd robe,
And steals her title. Honour! 'tis the fiend
Who feeds on orphans' tears and widows' groans,
And slakes his impious thirst in brothers' blood.
Honour! why, 'tis the primal law of hell!
The grand device to people the dark realms
With noble spirits, who, but for this curst honour,
Had been at peace on earth, or bless'd in heaven.
With this false honour, Christians have no com-
Religion disavows, and truth disowns it. [merce.
Or. (throws away his sword.) An angel speaks,
and angels claim obedience.
Riv. (to ORLANDO.) This is the heart thou
hast wrong'd.
Em. (comes up to ORLANDO.) I pity thee;
Calamity has taught me how to pity :
Before I knew distress, my heart was hard;
But now it melts at every touch of wo;
And wholesome sufferings bring it back to virtue.
Rivers, he once was good and just like thee:
Ha! I shall forget my honour, Who shall be proud, and think he stands secure,
And do a brutal violence upon thee,
Would tarnish my fair fame.
fair fame. Villain and cow-
Traitor! will nothing rouse thee?
[ard!
Or. (drawing.)
Swelling heart!
Yet this I have deserv'd, all this, and more.
As they prepare to fight, enter EMMELINA hastily.
Em. Lend me your swiftness, lightnings-
'tis too late.
See, they're engaged-oh no-they live, both
Hold, cruel men!
[live!
Riv.
Unlucky! 'tis my sister.
Em. Ye men of blood! if yet you have not
All sense of human kindness, love, or pity: [lost
If thy Orlando's false?
Riv.
Think of his crime.
Em. Oh, think of his temptation! think 'twas
Julia;
Thy heart could not resist her; how should his?
It is the very error of his friendship.
Your souls were fram'd so very much alike,
He could not choose but to love whom Rivers
[like this?
lov'd.
Or. Think'st thou there is in death a pang
Strike, my brave friend! be sudden and be
Death, which is terrible to happy men, [silent.
To me will be a blessing: I have lost [friend ;
All that could make life dear; I've lost my
508
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
I've stabb'd the peace of mind of that fair crea- | (Going out he spies the dagger.) Orlando's dag-
I have surviv'd my honour: this is dying! [ture,
The mournful fondness of officious love
Will plant no thorns upon my dying pillow;
No precious tears embalm my memory,
But curses follow it.
Em.
He pities thee.
Or.
See, Rivers melts;
I'll spare thy noble heart
The pain of punishing; Orlando's self
Revenges both.
Em.
(Goes to stab himself with the dagger.)
Barbarian! kill me first.
Riv. (snatching the dagger.) Thou shalt not
die! I swear I love thee still:
That secret sympathy which long has bound us,
Pleads for thy life with sweet but strong en-
treaty.
Thou shalt repair the wrongs of that dear saint,
And be again my friend.
Or.
Em.
Oh, hear me,
No.
I cannot stoop to live on charity,
And what but charity is love compell'd?
I've been a weak, a fond, believing woman,
And credulous beyond my sex's softness:
But with the weakness, I've the pride of woman.
I loved with virtue, but I fondly loved;
That passion fixed my fate, determined all,
And marked at once the colour of my life.
Hearts that love well, love long; they love but
[mine;
My peace thou hast destroyed, my honour's
She who aspired to gain Orlando's heart,
Shall never owe Orlando's hand to pity.
once.
[Exit EMMELINA.
Or. (after a pause.) And I still live !
Riv.
Farewell! should I stay longer
I might forget my vow.
Or.
Yet hear me, Rivers.
[Exit RIVERS, ORLANDO following.
Enter BERTRAND on the other side.
Ber. How's this? my fortune fails me, both
alive!
I thought by stirring Rivers to this quarrel,
There was at least an equal chance against him.
I work invisibly, and, like the tempter,
My agency is seen in its effects.
Well, honest Bertrand! now for Julia's letter.
(Takes out a letter.) This fond epistle of a love-
sick maid,
I've sworn to give, but did not swear to whom.
"Give it my love," said she, "my dearest lord!"
Rivers, she meant; there's no address-that's
lucky.
Then where's the harm? Orlando is a lord
As well as Rivers, loves her too as well.
(Breaks open the letter.) I must admire your
style-your pardon, fair one.
(Runs over it.) I tread in air-methinks I brush
[me.-
the stars,
ger! ha! 'tis greatly thought.
This may do noble service; such a scheme !
My genius catches fire! the bright idea
Is formed at once, and fit for instant action.
[Exit:
ACT V.
SCENE-The Garden.
Ber. 'Twas here we were to meet; where
does he stay?
This compound of strange contradicting parts,
Too flexible for virtue, yet too virtuous
To make a flourishing, successful villain !
Conscience! be still, preach not remorse to me;
Remorse is for the luckless, failing villain.
He who succeeds repents not; penitence
Is but another name for ill success.
Was Nero penitent when Rome was burnt?
No; but had Nero been a petty villain,
Subject to laws and liable to fear,
Nero perchance had been a penitent.
He comes. This paper makes him all my own.
Enter ORLANDO.
Or. At length this wretched, tempest-beaten
bark
Seems to have found its haven: I'm resolved;
My wavering principles are fixed to honour;
My virtue gathers force, my mind grows strong,
I feel an honest confidence within,
A precious earnest of returning peace.
Ber. Who feels secure, stands on the verge
of ruin.
(Aside.)
Trust me, it joys my heart to see you thus:
What have I not attempted for your sake!
My love for you has warped my honest nature,
And friendship has infringed on higher duties.
Or.
It was a generous fault.
Ber.
Yet 'twas a fault.
Oh for a flinty heart that knows no weakness,
But moves right onward, unseduc'd by friend-
| And all the weak affections!
[ship,
Or.
Hear me, Bertrand!
This is my last farewell; absence alone
Can prop my stagg'ring virtue.
Ber.
You're resolv'd:
Then Julia's favours come too late.
Or.
What favours?
Ber. Nay, nothing: I renounce these weak
affections;
|
They have misled us both. I too repent,
And will return the letter back to Julia.
Or. Letter! what letter? Julia write to me?
I will not see it. What would Rivers say?
Bertrand he sav'd my life ;-I will not see it.
Ber. I do not mean you should: nay, I refus'd
To bring it you.
Or.
Refus'd to bring the letter?
Ber. Yes, I refus'd at first.
Or.
Ber.
Then thou hast brought it?
And spurn the subject world which rolls beneath | My faithful Bertrand!-come.
There's not a word but fits Orlando's case
As well as Rivers';-tender to excess- [less;
No name 'twill do; his faith in me is bound-
Then, as the brave are still, he's unsuspecting,
And credulous beyond a woman's weakness.
"Twere best not see it.
Or. Not see it! how! not read my Julia's
letter !
An empire should not bribe me to forbear.
Come, come.
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
559
Ber. Alas, how frail is human virtue ! 'Tis what she means, you must not mind her
My resolution melts, and though I mean not A little gentle violence perhaps, [struggles;
To trust you with the letter, I must tell you To make her yield to what she had resolv'd,
With what a thousand, thousand charms she And save her pride; she'll thank you for it after.
[it,
gave it.
Or. Take her by force? I like not that, O
Bertrand,
"Take this," said she, "and, as Orlando reads
Attend to every accent of his voice;
Watch every little motion of his eye;
Mark if it sparkles when he talks of Julia
If when he speaks, poor Julia be the theme;
If when he sighs, his bosom heave for Julia :
Note every trifling act, each little look,
For, oh! of what importance is the least
To those who love like me!"
Or.
Delicious poison !
O how it taints my soul! give me the letter.
(BERTRAND offers it, ORLANDO refuses.)
Ha! where's the virtue which but now I boasted?
'Tis lost, 'tis gone-conflicting passions tear me.
I am again a villain. Give it-no:
A spark of honour strikes upon my soul.
Take back the letter; take it back, good Ber-
Spite of myself compel me to be just: [trand!
I will not read it.
Ber.
How your friend will thank you!
Another day makes Julia his for ever.
Even now the great pavilion is prepar'd ;
There will the nuptial rites be solemnized.
Julia already dress'd in bridal robes,
Like some fair victim-
O, no more, no more.
Or.
What can she write to me?
Ber.
Some prudent counsel.
Or. Then wherefore fear to read it? come,
I'll venture;
What wondrous harm can one poor letter do?
The letter-quick-the letter.
Ber.
Since you force me. (Gives it.)
Or. Be firm, ye shivering nerves! It is her
hand.
[you this.
(Reads.) "To
"To spare my blushes, Bertrand brings
How have you wrong'd me! you believ'd me
false;
[you.
'Twas my compassion for your friend deceiv'd
Meet me at midnight in the great pavilion;
But shun till then my presence; from that hour
My future life is yours; your once-lov'd friend
I pity and esteem; but you alone
Possess the heart of Julia."
This to me!
I dream, I rave, 'tis all Elysium round me,
And thou, my better angel! this to me!
Ber. I'm dumb; oh, Julia! what a fall is
thine!
Or. What, is it such a crime to love? away-
Thy moral comes too late; thou shouldst have
Thy scruple sooner, or not urg'd at all: [urg'd
Thou shouldst-alas! I know not what I say-
But this I know, the charming Julia loves me,
Appoints a meeting at the dead of night!
She loves! the rest is all beneath my care.
Ber. Be circumspect; the hour is just at hand;
Since all is ready for your purpos'd parting,
See your attendants be dispos'd' aright,
Near the pavilion gate.
Or.
Ber.
Why so?
'Tis plain,
Julia must be the partner of your flight:
There is a mutinous spirit in my blood,
That wars against my conscience. Tell my Julia
I will not fail to meet her.
Ber.
I obey.
Be near the garden; I shall soon return.
[Exit BERTRAND.
Or. This giant sin, whose bulk so lately scared
Shrinks to a common size; I now embrace [me,
What I but lately fear'd to look upon.
Why, what a progress have I made in guilt!
Where is the hideous form it lately wore?
It grows familiar to me; I can think,
Contrive, and calmly meditate on mischief,
Talk temp'rately of sin, and cherish crimes.
I lately so abhorr'd, that had they once
But glanced upon the surface of my fancy
I had been terrified. Oh, wayward conscience!
Too tender for repose, too sear'd for penitence!
[Exit ORLANDO.
Scene changes to another part of the Garden-
A grand Pavilion-The Moon shining.
Enter RIVERS, in a melancholy attitude.
Riv. Ye lovely scenes of long-remember'd
bliss!
Scenes which I hop'd were fated to bestow
Still dearer blessings in a beauteous bride!
Thou gay pavilion, which art dress'd so fair
To witness my espousals, why, ah, why
Art thou adorn'd in vain? Yet still I court thee,
For Julia lov'd thee once :-dear, faithless Julia
Yet is she false? Orlando swore she was not:
It may be so, yet she avoids my presence,
Keeps close from every eye, but most from
mine.
Enter ORLANDO.
Or. Ah! Rivers here? would I had shunn'd
his walks!
How shall I meet the man I mean to wrong?
Riv. Why does Orlando thus expose his
To this cold air?
[health
Or.
I ask the same of Rivers?
Riv. Because this solitude, this silent hour,
Feeds melancholy thoughts, and sooths my
My Julia will not see me.
[soul.
Or.
Riv.
How?
She denies me
Admittance to her presence.
Or. (aside.)
Then I'm lost,
Confirm'd a villain, now 'tis plain she loves me.
Riv. She will not pardon me one single fault
Of jealous love, though thou hadst clear'd up
all.
[known.
Or. Wait till to-morrow, all will then be
Riv. Wait till to-morrow! Look at that
pavilion ;
All was prepar'd; yes, I dare tell thee all,
For thou art honest now.
Or. (aside.)
That wounds too deeply.
Riv. Soon as the midnight bell gave the glad
summons,
560
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
This dear pavilion had beheld her mine.
Or. All will be well to-morrow. (aside.) If I
stay
[Rivers.
I shall betray the whole.-Good night, my
Riv. Good night; go you to rest; I still shall
walk.
[Exit ORLANDO.
Yes, I will trace her haunts; my too fond heart,
Like a poor bird that's hunted from its nest,
Dares not return, and knows not where to fix;
Still it delights to hover round the spot
Which lately held its treasure; eyes it still,
And with heart-breaking tenderness surveys
The scene of joys which never may return. [Exit.
Scene changes to another part of the garden.
Re-enter ORLANDO.
Or. Did he say rest? talk'd he of rest to me?
Can rest and guilt associate? but no matter,
I cannot now go back; then such a prize,
Such voluntary love, so fair, so yielding,
Would make archangels forfeit their allegiance!
I dare not think; reflection leads to madness.
There shall Orlando's well-arm'd servants meet
him,
And take his righteous soul from this bad world.
If they should fail, his honest cousin Bertrand
Will help him onward in his way to heav'n.
Then this good dagger, which I'll leave beside
him,
Will, while it proves the deed, conceal the doer ;
'Tis not an English instrument of mischief,
And who'll suspect good Bertrand wore a dag-
ger?
To clear me further, I've no sword-unarm'd-
Poor helpless Bertrand! Then no longer poor,
But Guildford's heir, and lord of these fair lands.
[Exit BERTRAND.
Enter ORLANDO on the other side.
Or. Draw thy dun curtain round, oh, night!
black night!
Inspirer and concealer of foul crimes!
| Thou wizard night! who conjur'st up dark
thoughts,
[guilt!
And mak'st him bold, who else would start at
Beneath thy veil the villain dares to act,
Bertrand! I was not made for this dark work: What in broad day he would not dare to think.
My heart recoils-poor Rivers!
Oh, night! thou hid'st the dagger's point from
Enter BERTRand.
Ber.
Or. I've seen him.
Where?
What of Rivers?
Ber.
Or.
Before the great pavilion.
Ber. (aside.) That's lucky, saves me trouble;
were he absent,
Half of my scheme had failed.
Or.
He's most unhappy;
He wish'd me rest, spoke kindly to me, Bertrand;
How, how can I betray him?
He deceives you ;
Ber.
He's on the watch, else wherefore now abroad
At this late hour? beware of treachery.
Or. I am myself the traitor.
Ber.
Come, no more!
The time draws near, you know the cypress
[walk,
'Tis dark.
Or. The fitter for dark deeds like mine.
Ber. I have prepar'd your men; when the bell
Go into the pavilion; there you'll find [strikes
The blushing maid, who with faint screams per-
haps
Will feign resentment. But you want a sword.
Or. A sword!-I'll murder no one-why a
sword?
[take mine;
Ber. 'Tis prudent to be arm'd; no words,
There may be danger, Julia may be lost,
This night secures or loses her for ever.
The cypress walk-spare none who look like
spies.
Or. (looking at the sword.) How deeply is that
soul involv'd in guilt,
Who dares not hold communion with its
Nor ask itself what it designs to do! [thoughts,
But dallies blindly with the genʼral sin,
Of unexamin'd, undefin'd perdition!
[Exit ORLANDO.
Ber. Thus far propitious fortune fills my sails,
Yet still I doubt his milkiness of soul;
My next exploit must be to find out Rivers,
And, as from Julia, give him a feign'd message,
To join her here at the pavilion gate;
men,
But canst thou screen the assassin from himself?
Shut out the eye of heav'n? extinguish con-
science?
Or heal the wounds of honour? Oh, no, no, no!
Yonder she goes-the guilty, charming Julia !
My genius drives me on―Julia, I come.
SCENE-The Pavilion.
(Runs off.)
An arched door, through which JULIA and her
maid come forward on the stage.
Julia. Not here? not come look out, my
faithful Anna.
When Rivers would not make his Julia wait.
There was a time-oh, time for ever dear!
Perhaps he blames me, thinks the appointment
Too daring, too unlike his bashful Julia; [bold,
But 'twas the only means my faithful love
I have kept close, refus'd to see my Rivers;
Devis'd, to save him from Orlando's rashness.
Now all is still, and I have ventured forth,
With this kind maid, and virtue for my guard.
Come, we'll go in, he cannot sure be long.
(They go into the pavilion.)
Enter ORLANDO, his sword drawn and bloody,
his hair dishevelled.
Or. What have I done? a deed that earns
damnation !
Where shall I fly? ah! the pavilion door!
'Tis open-it invites me to fresh guilt;
I'll not go in-let that fallen angel wait,
And curse her stars as I do.
(The midnight bell strikes.) Hark! the bell!
Demons of darkness, what a peal is that!
Again! 'twill wake the dead-I cannot bear it!
'Tis terrible as the last trumpet's sound!
That was the marriage signal! Powers of hell,
What blessings have I blasted! Rivers! Julia!
(JULIA comes out.)
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE
561
Julia. My Rivers calls; I come, I come.-
Orlando !
Yes,
Or.
Thou beautiful deceiver! 'tis that wretch.
Julia. That perjur'd friend.
That devil!
Or.
Julia.
Why art thou here?
Or.
I'm betrayed.
Thou canst make ruin lovely,
Or I would ask, why didst thou bring me here?
Julia. I bring thee here?
Or.
Yes, thou, bright falsehood! thou.
Julia. No, by my hopes of heaven! where is
[my Rivers?
Or. (catches her hand.) Julia! the crime is
done.
Some crime is meant.
Dost thou not shudder? art thou not amaz'd?
Art thou not cold and blasted with my touch?
Is not thy blood congeal'd? does no black horror
Fill thy presaging soul? look at these hands;
Julia! they're stain'd with blood; blood, Julia,
Nay, look upon them.
[blood!
Julia.
Ah! I dare not. Blood!
Or. Yes, thou dear false one, with the noblest
That ever stain'd a dark assassin's hand. [blood
Had not thy letter with the guilty message
To meet thee here this hour, blinded my honour,
And wrought my passion into burning phrensy,
Whole worlds should not have bribed me.
Letter and message?
Julia.
I sent thee none.
Or.
Then Bertrand has betrayed me!
And I have done a deed beyond all reach,
All hope of mercy-I have murder'd Rivers.
Julia. Oh! (She falls into her maid's arms.)
Or. O rich reward which love prepares for
Thus hell repays its instruments! [murder !
Enter GUILDFORD with servants.
Guild.
Where is he?
Where is this midnight murderer? this assassin?
This is the place Orlando's servant nam'd.
Or. The storm comes on. 'Tis Guildford,
good old man!
Behold the wretch accurst of heaven and thee.
Guild. Accurst of both indeed. How, Julia
fainting!
Or. She's pure as holy truth; she was de-
And so was I.
[ceiv'd,
Guild.
Who tempted thee to this?
Or. Love, hell, and Bertrand.
Julia. (recovering.) Give me back my Rivers;
I will not live without him. Oh, my father!
Guild. Father! I'm none; I am no more a
father ;
I have no child; my son is basely murder'd,
And my sweet daughter, at the fatal news,
Is quite bereft of reason.
Or.
Seize me, bind me:
If death's too great a mercy, let me live:
Drag me to some damp dungeon's horrid gloom,
Deep as the centre, dark as my offences;
Come, do your office, take my sword; oh, Ber-
trand,
Yet, ere I perish, could it reach thy heart!
(They seize ORLANDO.)
Julia. I will not long survive thee, oh, my
Rivers!
VOL. I.
Enter RIVERS with the dagger.
Riv. Who calls on Rivers with a voice so sad,
So full of sweetness?
Guild.
Julia.
Ah, my son !
'Tis he, 'tis he!
JULIA and RIVERS run into each other's arms.
ORLANDO breaks from the guards, and falls
on his knees.
Or. He lives, he lives the godlike Rivers
lives!
Hear it, ye host of heaven! witness, ye saints!
Recording angels, tell it in your songs;
Breathe it, celestial spirits, to your lutes,
That Rivers lives!
Julia.
Explain this wondrous happiness?
Riv. 'Twas Bertrand whom Orlando killed
the traitor
;
Has with his dying breath confess'd the whole.
Or. Good sword, I thank thee!
Riv.
In the tangled maze
Orlando miss'd the path he was to take, [ceal'd
And pass'd through that where Bertrand lay con-
To watch th' event: Orlando thought 'twas me,
And that I play'd him false : the walk was dark.
With which he meant to take my life; but how
In Bertrand's bloody hand I found this dagger,
Were
you alarm'd?
Guild.
One of Orlando's men,
Whom wealth could never bribe to join in mur-
Or. Murder! I bribe to murder? [der-
Riv.
No; 'twas Bertrand
Brib'd them to that curst deed; he lov'd my
Or. Exquisite villain !
[sister.
Guild.
Fly to Emmelina,
If any spark of reason yet remain,
Tell her the joyful news. Alas, she's here!
Wildly she flies! Ah, my distracted child!
Enter EMMELINA distracted.
Em. Off, off! I will have way! ye shall not
hold me:
I come to seek my lord; is he not here?
Tell me, ye virgins, have ye seen my love,
Or know you where his flocks repose at noon?
My love is comely-sure you must have seen
him;
'Tis the great promiser! who vows and swears;
The perjur'd youth! who deals in oaths and
breaks them.
In truth he might deceive a wiser maid.
I lov'd him once; he then was innocent;
He was no murderer then, indeed he was not;
He had not kill'd my brother.
Riv.
Nor has now;
Thy brother lives.
Em.
I know it—yes, he lives
Among the cherubim. Murd'rers too will live;
But where? I'll tell you where-down, down,
down, down.
How deep it is! 'tis fathomless—'tis dark!
No-there's a pale blue flame-ah, poor Or-
Guild. My heart will burst.
[lando!
Or.
Pierce mine, and that will ease it.
Em. (comes up to her father.) I knew a maid
who lov'd-but she was mad-
Fond, foolish girl! Thank heav'n, I am not mad ;
2 N
562
THE WORKS OF HANNAH MORE.
Yet the afflicting angel has been with me;
But do not tell my father, he would grieve;
Sweet, good old man-perhaps he'd weep to
hear it :
I never saw my father weep but once;
I'll tell you when it was. I did not weep;
'Twas when but soft, my brother must not
know it.
'Twas when his poor fond daughter was refus'd.
Guild. Who can bear this?
Or.
I will not live to bear it.
Em. (comes up to ORLANDO.) Take comfort,
thou wretch! I'll not appear
poor
Against thee, nor shall Rivers; but blood must,
Blood will appear; there's no concealing blood.
What's that? my brother's ghost-it vanishes;
(Catches hold of RIVERS.)
Stay, take me with thee, take me to the skies;
I have thee fast; thou shalt not go without me.
But hold-may we not take the murd❜rer with us?
That look says-No. Why then I'll not go
with thee.
gone.
Yet hold me fast-'tis dark-I'm lost-I'm
(Dies.)
Or. One crime makes many needful; this
day's sin
Blots out a life of virtue. Good old man!
My bosom bleeds for thee; thy child is dead,
And I the cause. 'Tis but a poor atonement;
But I can make no other. (Stabs himself.)
Riv.
What hast thou done?
Or. Fill'd up the measure of my sins. Oh,
mercy!
Eternal goodness, pardon this last guilt!
Rivers, thy hand!—farewell! forgive me,
heaven!
Yet is it not an act which bars forgiveness,
And shuts the door of grace for ever?-Oh!
(The curtain falls to soft music.)
(Dies,)
EPILOGUE,
WRITTEN BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.-SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES.
UNHAND me, gentlemen, by heaven, I say,
I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way.
[Behind the scenes.
Forth let me come-A poetaster true,
As lean as envy, and as baneful too;
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female scribblers from the stage.
For scene or history, we've none but these,
The law of liberty and wit they seize;
In tragic-comic-pastoral-they dare to please.
Each puny bard must surely burst with spite,
To find that women with such fame can write;
But, oh, your partial favour is the cause,
Which feeds their follies with such full applause.
Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim
Where the dull duties of domestic life
Wage with the muse's toils eternal strife.
;
What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
While maids and metaphors conspire to vex!
In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse.
Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies,
A checker'd wreck of notable and wise;
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass;
Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid,
And there a mantuamaker's bill unpaid :
There, dormant patterns pine for future gauze ;
A moral essay now is all her care,
A satire next, and then a bill of fare:
A scene she now projects, and now a dish,
Here's act the first-and here remove with
Now while this eye in a fine phrensy rolls, [fish.
That, soberly casts up a bill for coals;
Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and thread, and balls, and thimbles
mix.
Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic song,
For years esteem'd all household studies wrong;
When dire mishap, though neither shame nor sin,
Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bower,
And matron Juno claims despotic power;
Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn ;
Nor books nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the inkstand, and they rend the page;
Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake,
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake,
And Aristotle's only sav'd-to wrap plumcake.
Yet, shall a woman tempt the tragic scene?
And dare-but hold-I must repress my spleen;
I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause,
While Shakspeare's spirit seems to aid her
cause;
Well pleas'd to aid-since o'er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,
Here newborn plays foretaste the town's ap- And gave the greenest laurel that is worshipp'd
}
plause,
there,
POEMS.
MORNING SOLILOQUY.
The following lines were written by Hannah More for
her own use, in early life; but a copy having been given
to a friend, the author was importuned to print it. She
complied, and prefixed to the piece the following-
"As early rising is very conducive to health,
and to the improvement of the mind in knowl-
edge and piety, this soliloquy is designed to pro-
mote so important an end; and is recommended
more particularly to young persons, as, by con-
tracting a habit of rising early in the days of
their youth, they would be less liable to depart
from such a custom as they advance in life.
The last stanza is expressive of the action of
rising, in order that those who repeat it may
have no excuse for not quitting their beds im-
mediately."
SOFT slumbers now mine eyes forsake,
My powers are all renew'd;
May my freed spirit too awake,
With heavenly strength endued!
Thou silent murderer SLOTн, no more
My mind imprison'd keep;
Nor let me waste another hour
With thee, thou felon SLEEP.
Hark, O my soul, could dying men
One lavish'd hour retrieve,
Though spent in tears, and pass'd in pain,
What treasures would they give!
;
But seas of pearl, and mines of gold,
Were offer'd them in vain ;
Their pearl of countless price is lost,*
And where's the promis'd gain?
Lord, when thy day of dread account
For squander'd hours shall come,
Oh, let them not increase th' amount,
And swell the former sum!
* See Matthew xiii. 46.
Teach me in health each good to prize,
I, dying, shall esteem;
And every pleasure to despise
I then shall worthless deem.
For all thy wondrous mercies past
My grateful voice I raise,
While thus I quit the bed of rest
Creation's Lord to praise.
ON MR. SHAPLAND,
An eminent Apothecary in Bristol.
WOULDST thou inquire of him who sleeps be-
neath,
[dust,
This tomb shall tell thee, 'tis no common
That, crush'd at length by oft defeated death,
Fills the cold urn committed to its trust.
Stranger! this building fallen to decay,
Was once the dwelling of an honest mind-
A spirit cheerful as the light of day—
The soul of friendship-milk of human kind.
His art torbade th' expiring wretch to die,
Empower'd the nerveless tongue once more
to speak,
Restor'd its lustre to the sunken eye,
And spread fresh roses on the livid cheek
Each various duty bound on social man,
'Twas his with glowing duty to perform,
As crystal pure, his stream of conduct ran,
Unstain'd by folly, undisturb'd by storm.
With me, then, stranger! mourn departed
worth;
Steel'd is the heart that can forbear to sigh;
Let deep regret call all thy sorrows forth-
Live as he liv'd-and fear not then to die.*
* Dr. Stonhouse had the highest esteem for Mr. Shap-
land, who attended his family, as well as that of Mrs.
More, even after he had left off general practice. Dr.
Stonhouse, in 1789, presented to Mr. Shapland a piece
of plate "as a testimony of his gratitude for the restora-
tion of health, through the blessing of God."
END OF VOL. I.
Mating Places 1.386

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=
UNIVERSITY OF MICHIGAN
3 9015 02021 2612
DUPL
B 428114