SERM. II. P. 33.
FRAILTY.
THE best of men appear sometimes to be strange compounds of contradictory qualities: and, were the accidental oversights and folly of the wisest man, — the failings and imperfections of a religious man, — the hasty acts and passionate words of a meek man; — were they to rise up in judgment against them, — and an ill-natured judge be suffered to mark in this manner what has been done amiss — what character so unexceptionable as to be able to stand before him?
SERM. XXXI. P. 33.
INSENSIBILITY.
IT is the fate of mankind, too often, to seem insensible of what they may enjoy at the easiest rate.
SERM. XLVI. P. 226.
UNCERTAINTY.
THERE is no condition in life so fixed and permanent as to be out of danger, or the rea•• of change: — and we all may depend upon it, that we shall take our turns of wanting and desiring. By how many unforeseen causes may riches take wing! — The crowns of princes may be shaken, and the greatest that ever awed the world have experienced what the turn of the wheel can do. — That which hath happened to one man, may befal another; and, therefore, that excellent rule of our Saviour’s ought to govern us in all our actions, — Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do you also to them likewise. — Time and chance happens to all; — and the most affluent may be stript of all, and find his worldly comforts like so many withered leaves dropping from him.
SERM. XLI. P. 209.
THE DEAD ASS.
AND this, said he, putting the remains of a crust into his wallet — and this should have been thy portion, said he, hadst thou been alive to have shared it with me. I thought by the accent, it had been an apostrophe to his child; but ’twas to his ass, and to the very ass we had seen dead in the road, which had occasioned La Fleur’s misadventure. The man seemed to lament it much; and it instantly brought into my mind Sancho’s lamentation for his; but he did it with more true touches of nature.
The mourner was sitting upon a stone-bench at the door, with the ass’s pannel and its bridle on one side, which he took up from time to time — then laid them down — look’d at them — and shook his head. He then took his crust of bread out of his wallet again, as if to eat it? held it some time in his hand — then laid it upon the bit of his ass’s bridle — look’d wistfully at the little arrangement he had made — and then gave a sigh.
The simplicity of his grief drew numbers about him, and La Fleur amongst the rest, whilst the horses were getting ready; as I continued sitting in the post-chaise, I could see and hear over their heads.
— He said he had come last from Spain, where he had been from the furthest borders of Franconia; and had got so far on his return home, when his ass died. Every one seem’d desirous to know what business could have taken so old and poor a man so far a journey from his own home.
It had pleased heaven, he said, to bless him with three sons, the finest lads in all Germany; but having in one week lost two of them by the small-pox, and the youngest falling ill of the same distemper, he was afraid of being berest of them all; and made a vow, if heaven would not take him from him also, he would go in gratitude to St. Jago in Spain,
When the mourner got thus far on his story, he stopp’d to pay nature her tribute — and wept bitterly.
He said heaven had accepted the conditions, and that he had set out from his cottage with this poor creature, who had been a patient partner of his journey — that it had eat the same bread with him all the way, and was unto him as a friend.
Every body who stood about heard the poor fellow with concern — La Fleur offered him money — The mourner said he did not want it — it was not the value of the ass — but the loss of him. — The ass, he said, he was assured, loved him — and upon this told them a long story of a mischance upon their passage over the Pyrenean mountains which had separated them from each other three days; during which time the ass had sought him as much as he had sought the ass, and that they had neither scarce eat or drank till they met.
Thou hast one comfort, friend, said I, at least in the loss of thy poor beast; I’m sure thou hast been a merciful master to him, — Alas! said the mourner, I thought so, when he was alive — but now he is dead I think otherwise. — I fear the weight of myself and my afflictions together have been too much for him — they have shortened the poor creature’s days, and I fear I have them to answer for. — Shame on the world! said I to myself — Did we love each other as this poor soul but lov’d his ass— ‘twould be something.
SEN. JOURNEY, P. 74.
HUMOURING IMMORAL APPETITES.
THE humouring of certain appetites, where morality is not concerned, seems to be the means by which the Author of nature intended to sweeten this journey of life, — and bear us up under the many shocks and hard jostlings, which we are sure to meet with in our way. — And a man might, with as much reason, musfle up himself against sunshine and fair weather, — and at othertimes expose himself naked to the inclemencies of cold and rain, as debar himself of the innocent delights of his nature, for affected reserve and melancholy.
It is true, on the other hand, our passions are apt to grow upon us by indulgence, and become exorbitant, if they are not kept under exact discipline, that by way of caution and prevention ‘twere better, at certain times, to affect some degree of needless reserve, than hazard any ill consequences from the other extreme.
SERMON, XXXVII. P. 13.
UNITY.
LOOK into private life, — behold how good and pleasant a thing it is to live together in unity; — it is like the precious ointment poured upon the head of Aaron, that run down to his skirts; — importing that this balm of life is felt and enjoyed, not only by governors of kingdoms, but is derived down to the lowest rank of life, and tasted in the most private recesses; — all, from the king to the peasant, are refreshed with its blessings, without which we can find no comfort in any thing this world can give. — It is this blessing gives every one to sit quietly under his vine, and reap the fruits of his labour and industry: — in one word, which bespeaks who is the bestower of it — it is that only which keeps up the harmony and order of the world, and preserves every thing in it from ruin and confusion.
SERMON, XLI. P. 203.
OPPOSITION.
THERE are secret workings in human affairs, which over-rule all human contrivance, and counterplot the wisest of our councils, in so strange and unexpected a manner, as to cast a damp upon our best schemes and warmest endeavours.
SERMON, XXXIX. P. 170
CAPTAIN SHANDY’S JUSTIFICATION OF HIS OWN PRINCIPLES AND CONDUCT, IN WISHING TO CONTINUE THE WAR. WRITTEN TO HIS BROTHER.
I AM not insensible, brother Shandy, that when a man, whose profession is arms, wishes, as I have done, for war — it has an ill aspect to the world; — and that, how just and right soever his motives and intentions may be, — he stands in an uneasy posture in vindicating himself from private views in doing it.
For this cause, if a soldier is a prudent man, which he may be, without being a jot the less brave, he will be sure not to utter his wish in the hearing of an enemy; for say what he will, an enemy will not believe him. — He will be cautious of doing it even to a friend, — lest he may suffer in his esteem: — But if his heart is overcharged, and a secret sigh for arms must have its vent, he will reserve it for the ear of a brother, who knows his character to the bottom, and what his true notions, dispositions, and principles of honour are: What, I hope, I have been in all these, brother Shandy, would be unbecoming in me to say: — much worse, I know, have I been than I ought, — and something worse, perhaps, than I think: But such as I am, you, my dear brother Shandy, who have sucked the same breasts with me, — and with whom I have been brought up from my cradle, — and from whose knowledge, from the first hours of of our boyish pastimes, down to this, I have concealed no one action of my life, and scarce a thought in it — Such as I am, brother, you must by this time know me, with all my vices, and with all my weaknesses too, wh
ether of my age, my temper, my passions, or my understanding.
Tell me then, my dear brother Shandy, upon which of them it is, that when I condemned the peace of Utrecht, and grieved the war was not carried on with vigour a little longer, you should think your brother did it upon unworthy views; or that in wishing for war, he should be bad enough to wish more of his fellow-creatures slain, — more slaves made, and more families driven from their peaceful habitations, mere¦ly for his own pleasure: — Tell me, brother Shandy, upon what one deed of mine do you ground it?
If when I was a school-boy, I could not hear a drum beat, but my heart beat with it — was it my fault? Did I plant the propensity there? Did I sound the alarm within? or Nature?
When Guy, Earl of Warwick, and Parismus and Parismenus, and Valentine and Orson, and the Seven Champions of England were handed around the school, — were they not all purchased with my own pocket money? Was that selfish, brother Shandy? When we read over the siege of Troy, which lasted ten years and eight months, — though with such a train of artillery as we had at Namur, the town might have been carried in a week — was I not as much concerned for the Greeks and Trojans as any boy of the whole school? Had I not three strokes of a ferula given me, two on my right hand and one on my left, for calling Helena a bitch for it? Did any one of you shed more tears for Hector? And when king Priam came to the camp to beg his body, and returned weeping back to Troy without it, — you know, brother, I could not eat my dinner.
— Did that bespeak me cruel? Or because, brother Shandy, my blood flew out into the camp, and my heart panted for war, — was it a proof it could not ache for the distresses of war too?
O brother! ’tis one thing for a soldier to gather laurels, — and ’tis another to scatter cypress.
— ’Tis one thing, brother Shandy, for a soldier to hazard his own life — to leap first down into the trench, where he is sure to be cut in pieces:— ’Tis one thing from public spirit and a thirst of glory, to enter the breach the first man, — to stand in the foremost rank, and march bravely on with drums and trumpets, and colours flying about his ears:— ’Tis one thing, I say, brother Shandy, to do this, — and ’tis another thing to reflect on the miseries of war; — to view the desolations of whole countries, and consider the intolerable fatigues and hardships which the soldier himself, the instrument who works them, is forced (for six-pence a day, if he can get it) to undergo.
Need I be told, dear Yorick, as I was by you, in Le Fever’s funeral sermon, That so soft and gentle a creature, born to love, to mercy, and kindness, as man is, was not shaped for this? But why did you not add, Yorick, — if not by NATURE — that he is so by NECESSITY? — For what is war? what is it, Yorick, when fought as ours has been, upon principles of liberty, and upon principles of honour — what is it, but the getting together of quiet and harmless people, with their swords in their hands, to keep the ambitious and the turbulent within bounds? And heaven is my witness, brother Shandy, that the pleasure I have taken in these things, — and that infinite delight, in particular, which has attended my sieges in my bowling green, has arose within me, and I hope in the Corporal too, from the consciousness we both had, that in carrying them on, we were answering the great ends of our creation.
T. SHANDY, VOL. III. CHAP. 75.
MERCY.
MY uncle Toby was a man patient of injuries; — not from want of courage, — where just occasions presented, or called it forth, — I know no man under whose arm I would sooner have taken shelter; — nor did this arise from any insensibility or obtuseness of his intellectual parts; — he was of a peaceful, placid nature, — no jarring element in it, — all was mixed up so kindly within him; my uncle Toby had scarce a hear to retaliate upon a fly: — Go, — says he one day at dinner, to an overgrown one which had buzzed about his nose, and tormented him cruelly all dinner-time, — and which, after infinite attempts, he had caught at last — as it flew by him; — I’ll not hurt thee, says my uncle Toby, rising from his chair, and going across the room, with the fly in his hand, — I’ll not hurt a hair of thy head: — Go, says he, lifting up the sash, and opening his hand as he spoke, to let it escape; — go, poor devil, — get thee gone, why should I hurt thee? — This world surely is wide enough to hold both thee and me.
⁂ This is to serve for parents and governors instead of a whole volume upon the subject.
T. SHANDY, VOL. 1. CHAP. 37.
INDOLENCE.
INCONSISTENT soul that man is! — languishing under wounds which he has the power to heal! — his whole life a contradiction to his knowledge! — his reason, that precious gift of God to him — (instead of pouring in oil) serving but to sharpen his sensibilities, — to multiply his pains and render him more melancholy and uneasy under them! — Poor unhappy creature, that he should do so! — are not the necessary causes of misery in this life enow, but he must add voluntary ones to his stock of sorrow; — struggle against evils which cannot be avoided, and submit to others, which a tenth part of the trouble they create him, would remove from his heart for ever?
T. SHANDY, VOL. II. CHAP. 14.
CONSOLATION.
BEFORE an affliction is digested, — consolation ever comes too soon; — and after it is digested — it comes too late: — there is but a mark between these two, as fine almost as a hair, for a comforter to take aim at.
T. SHANDY, VOL. II. CHAP. 22.
THE STARLING.
— BESHREW the sombre pencil! said I vauntingly — for I envy not its powers, which paints the evils of life with so hard and deadly a colouring. The mind sits terrified at the objects she has magnified herself, and blackened: reduce them to their proper size and hue she overlooks them— ’Tis true, said I, correcting the proposition — the Bastile is not an evil to be despised — but strip it of its towers — fill up the fosse — unbarricade the doors — call it simply a confinement, and suppose ’tis some tyrant of a distemper — and not of a man which holds you in it — the evil vanishes, and you bear the other half without complaint.
I was interrupted in the hey-day of this soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained “it could not get out.” — I looked up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out without further attention.
In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage— “I can’t get out — I can’t get out,” said the starling.
I stood looking at the bird: and to every person who came through the passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached it, with the same lamentations of its captivity— “I can’t get out,” said the starling — God help thee! said I, but I will let thee out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage to get the door; it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces — I took both hands to it.
The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient — I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thee at liberty— “No, said the starling— “I can’t get out — I can’t get out,” said the starling.
I vow I never had my affections more tenderly awakened; nor do I remember an incident in my life, where the dissipated spirits, to which my reason had been a bubble, were so suddenly called home. Mechanical as the notes were, yet so true in tune to nature were they chanted, that in one moment they overthrew all my systematic reasonings upon the Bastile; and I heavily walked up stairs, unsaying every word I had said in going down them.
Disguise thyself as thou wilt, still, slavery! said I — still thou art a bitter draught! and though thousands in all ages have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account.— ’Tis thou thrice sweet and gracious goddess, addressing myself to LIBERTY, whom all in public or in private worship, whose taste grateful, and ever will be so, till NATURE herself shall change — no tint of
words can spot thy snowy mantle, or chymic power turn thy sceptre into iron — with thee to smile upon him as he eats his crust, the swain is happier than his monarch, from whose court thou art exiled — Gracious heaven! cried I, kneeling down upon the last step but one in my ascent — Grant me but health, thou great Bestower of it, and give me but this fair goddess as my companion — and shower down thy mitres, if it seems good unto thy divine providence, upon those heads which are aching for them.
SENT. JOURNEY, P. 134.
THE CAPTIVE.
THE bird in his cage pursued me into my room; I sat down close by my table, and leaning my head upon my hand, I began to figure to myself the miseries of confinement. I was in a right frame for it, and so I gave full scope to my imagination.
Complete Works of Laurence Sterne Page 136