The sermons of Mr. Yorick.: [pt.1]

SERMON IV.

2 SAMUEL XII. 7. 1st part.

And Nathan said unto David thou art the man.

THERE is no historical passage in scripture, which gives a more remarkable instance of the deceitfulness of the heart of man to itself, and of how little we truly know of ourselves, than this, wherein David is convicted out of his own mouth, and is led by the pro|phet to condemn and pronounce a severe judgment upon another, for an act of injustice, which he had passed over in himself, and possibly reconciled to his own conscience. To know one's self, one would think could be no very diffi|cult

lesson; — for who, you'll say, can well be truly ignorant of himself and the true disposition of his own heart. If a man thinks at all, he cannot be a stran|ger to what passes there — he must be conscious of his own thoughts and de|sires, he must remember his past pur|suits, and the true springs and motives which in general have directed the ac|tions of his life: he may hang out false colours and deceive the world, but how can a man deceive himself? That a man can — is evident, because he daily does so. — Scripture tells us, and gives us many historical proofs of it, besides this to which the text refers — that the heart of man is treacherous to itself and de|ceitful above all things; and experience and every hour's commerce with the world confirms the truth of this seeming paradox,

"That though man is the

only creature endowed with reflection, and consequently qualified to know the most of himself — yet so it hap|pens, that he generally knows the least — and with all the power which GOD has given him of turning his eyes inwards upon himself, and taking notice of the chain of his own thoughts and desires — yet in fact, is generally so inattentive, but always so partial an observer of what passes, that he is as much, nay often, a much greater stranger to his own disposition and true character than all the world be|sides."

By what means he is brought under so manifest a delusion, and how he suffers himself to be so grosly imposed upon in a point which he is capable of knowing so much better than others, is not hard

to give an account of, nor need we seek further for it, than amongst the causes which are every day perverting his rea|son and misleading him. We are de|ceived in judging of ourselves, just as we are in judging of other things, when our passions and inclinations are called in as counsellors, and we suffer ourselves to see and reason just so far and no far|ther than they give us leave. How hard do we find it to pass an equitable and sound judgment in a matter where our interest is deeply concerned? — and even where there is the remotest considerations of self, connected with the point before us, what a strange bias does it hang up|on our minds, and how difficult is it to disengage our judgments entirely from it? with what reluctance are we brought to think evil of a friend whom we have long loved and esteemed, and though

there happens to be strong appearances against him, how apt are we to overlook or put favourable constructions upon them, and even sometimes, when our zeal and friendship transport us, to assign the best and kindest motives for the worst and most unjustifiable parts of his conduct.

We are still worse casuists, and the deceit is proportionably stronger with a man, when he is going to judge of him|self — that dearest of all parties, — so closely connected with him — so much and so long beloved — of whom he has so early conceived the highest opinion and esteem, and with whose merit he has all-along, no doubt, found so much reason to be contented. It is not an easy matter to be severe, where there is such an impulse to be kind, or to efface at

once all the tender impressions in favour of so old a friend, which disable us from thinking of him, as he is, and seeing him in the light, may be, in which every one else sees him.

So that however easy this knowledge of one's-self may appear at first sight, it is otherwise when we come to examine; since not only in practice but even in speculation and theory, we find it one of the hardest and most painful lessons. Some of the earliest instructors of man|kind, no doubt, found it so too, and for that reason, soon saw the necessity of laying such a stress upon this great pre|cept of self knowledge, which for its excellent wisdom and usefulness, many of them supposed to be a divine direc|tion; that it came down from Heaven, and comprehended the whole circle both

of knowledge and the duty of man. And indeed their zeal might easily be allowed in so high an encomium upon the attain|ment of a virtue, the want of which so often baffled their instructions, and ren|dered their endeavours of reforming the heart vain and useless. For who could think of a reformation of the faults within him, who knew not where they lay, or could set about correcting, till he had first come to a sense of the defects which required it.

But this was a point always much ea|sier recommended by public instructors than shewn how to be put in practice, and therefore others, who equally sought the reformation of mankind, observing that this direct road which led to it was guarded on all sides by self-love, and consequently very difficult of open ac|cess,

soon found out that a different and more artful course was requisite; as they had not strength to remove this flatter|ing passion which stood in their way and blocked up all the passages to the heart, they endeavoured by stratagem to get beyond it, and by a skilful address, if possible, to deceive it. This gave rise to the early manner of conveying their instructions in parables, fables, and such sort of indirect applications, which, tho' they could not conquer this principle of self-love, yet often laid it asleep, or at least over-reached it for a few moments, till a just judgment could be procured.

The prophet Nathan seems to have been a great master in this way of ad|dress. David had greatly displeased GOD by two grievous sins which he had com|mitted, and the prophet's commission

was to go and bring him to a convic|tion of them, and touch his heart with a sense of guilt for what he had done against the honour and life of Uriah.

The holy man knew, that was it any one's case but David's own, no man would have been so quick-sighted in dis|cerning the nature of the injury, — more ready to have redressed it, or who would have felt more compassion for the party who had suffered it, than he him|self.

Instead therefore of declaring the real intention of his errand, by a direct ac|cusation and reproof for the crimes he had committed; he comes to him with a fictitious complaint of a cruel act of injustice done by another, and accord|ingly he frames a case, not so parallel

to David's as he supposed would awaken his suspicion, and prevent a patient and candid hearing, and yet not so void of resemblance in the main circumstances, as to fail of striking him, when shewn in a proper light.

And Nathan came and said unto him,

"There were two men in one city, the one rich and the other poor — the rich man had exceeding many flocks and herds, but the poor man had nothing, save one little ewe lamb which he had bought and nourished up — and it grew up together with him and with his children — it did eat of his own meat, and drank of his own cup, and lay in his bosom, and was unto him as a daughter — and there came a traveller unto the rich man, and he spared to take of his own flock and of his own

herd to dress for the wayfaring man that was come unto him, but took the poor man's lamb and dressed it for the man that was come unto him."

The case was drawn up with great judgment and beauty — the several mi|nute circumstances which heightened the injury truly affecting — and so strongly urged, that it would have been impos|sible for any man with a previous sense of guilt upon his mind, to have de|fended himself from some degree of re|morse, which it must naturally have ex|cited.

The story, though it spoke only of the injustice and oppressive act of an|other man — yet it pointed to what he had lately done himself, with all the circumstances of its aggravation — and

withal, the whole was so tenderly ad|dressed to the heart and passions, as to kindle at once the utmost horror and in|dignation. And so it did, — but not against the proper person. In his trans|port he forgot himself — his anger greatly kindled against the man — and he said unto Nathan,

"As the Lord liveth, the man that hath done this thing, shall surely die, and he shall restore the lamb fourfold, because he did this thing and because he had no pity."

It can scarce be doubted here, but that David's anger was real, and that he was what he appeared to be, greatly provoked and exasperated against the offender: and, indeed, his sentence against him proves he was so above measure. For to punish the man with death, and

oblige him to restore fourfold besides, was highly unequitable, and not only disproportioned to the offence, but far above the utmost rigour and severity of the law, which allowed a much softer attonement, requiring in such a case, no more than an ample restitution and re|compence in kind. The judgment how|ever, seems to have been truly sincere and well meant, and bespoke rather the honest rashness of an unsuspicious judge, than the cool determination of a con|scious and guilty man, who knew he was going to pass sentence upon himself.

I take notice of this particular, be|cause it places this instance of self deceit, which is the subject of the discourse, in the strongest light, and fully demonstrates the truth of a fact in this great man, which happens every day amongst our|selves,

namely, that a man may be guilty of very bad and dishonest actions, and yet reflect so little, or so partially, upon what he has done, as to keep his con|science free, not only from guilt, but even the remotest suspicions, that he is the man which in truth he is, and what the tenor and evidence of his life demonstrate. If we look into the world — David's is no uncommon case — we see some one or other perpetually copy|ing this bad original, sitting in judg|ment upon himself — hearing his own cause, and not knowing what he is do|ing; hasty in passing sentence, and even executing it too with wrath upon the person of another, when in the language of the phophet, one might say to him with justice,

"thou art the man."

Of the many revengeful, covetous, false and ill-natured persons which we complain of in the world, though we all join in the cry against them, what man amongst us singles out himself as a criminal, or ever once takes it into his head that he adds to the number? — or where is there a man so bad, who would not think it the hardest and most unfair imputation to have any of those parti|cular vices laid to his charge?

If he has the symptoms never so strong upon him, which he would pronounce infallible in another, they are indications of no such malady in himself. — He sees what no one else sees, some secret and flattering circumstances in his favour, which no doubt make a wide difference betwixt his case and the parties which he condemns.

What other man speaks so often and vehemently against the vice of pride, sets the weakness of it in a more odious light, or is more hurt with it in another, than the proud man himself? It is the same with the passionate, the designing, the ambitious, and some other common cha|racters in life; and being a consequence of the nature of such vices, and almost in|separable from them, the effects of it are generally so gross and absurd, that where pity does not forbid, 'tis pleasant to ob|serve and trace the cheat through the se|veral turns and windings of the heart, and detect it through all the shapes and appearances which it puts on.

Next to these instances of self deceit and utter ignorance of our true disposi|tion and character, which appears in not seeing that in ourselves which shocks us

in another man, there is another spe|cies still more dangerous and delusive, and which the more guarded perpetually fall into from the judgments they make of different vices, according to their age and complexion, and the various ebbs and flows of their passions and desires.

To conceive this, let any man look into his own heart, and observe in how different a degree of detestation, num|bers of actions stand there, though equal|ly bad and vicious in themselves: he will soon find that such of them, as strong inclination or custom has promp|ted him to commit, are generally dressed out, and painted with all the false beau|ties which a soft and flattering hand can give them; and that the others, to which he feels no propensity, appear at once naked and deformed, surrounded with

all the true circumstances of their folly and dishonour.

When David surprized Saul sleeping in the cave, and cut off the skirt of his robe, we read, his heart smote him for what he had done — strange! it smote him not in the matter of Uriah, where it had so much stronger reason to take the alarm. — A whole year had almost passed from the first commission of that injustice, to the time the prophet was sent to reprove him — and we read not once of any remorse or compunction of heart for what he had done: and it is not to be doubted, had the same pro|phet met him when he was returning up out of the cave — and told him, that scrupulous and conscientious as he then seemed and thought himself to be, that he was deceiving himself, and was

capable of committing the foulest and most dishonourable actions; — that he should one day murder a faithful and a valiant servant, whom he ought in justice to have loved and honoured, — that he should without pity first wound him in the tenderest part, by taking away his dearest possession, — and then unmerciful|ly and treacherously rob him of his life. — Had Nathan in a prophetic spirit foretold to David, that he was capable of this, and that he should one day actually do it, and from no other motive but the momentary gratification of a base and unworthy passion, he would have received the pre|diction with horror, and said possibly with Hazael upon just such another occasion, and with the same ignorance of himself — What? is thy servant a dog that he should do this great thing. And yet in all likelihood, at that very time there

wanted nothing but the same degree of temptation, and the same opportunity, to induce him to the sin which afterwards overcame him.

Thus the case stands with us still. When the passions are warmed, and the sin which presents itself exactly tallies to the desire, observe how impetuously a man will rush into it, and act against all prin|ciples of honour, justice and mercy. — Talk to him the moment after upon the nature of another vice to which he is not addicted, and from which perhaps his age, his temper, or rank in life secure him — take notice, how well he reasons — with what equity he determines — what an honest indignation and sharp|ness he expresses against it, and how in|sensibly his anger kindles against the man who hath done this thing.

Thus are we nice in grains and scruples — but knaves in matters of a pound weight — every day straining at gnats, yet swallowing camels — misera|bly cheating ourselves, and torturing our reason to bring us in such a report of the sin as suits the present appetite and inclination.

Most of us are aware of and pretend to detest the barefaced instances of that hypocrisy by which men deceive others, but few of us are upon our guard or see that more fatal hypocrisy by which we deceive and over-reach our own hearts. It is a flattering and dangerous distem|per, which has undone thousands — we bring the seeds of it along with us into the world — they insensibly grow up with us from our childhood — they lye long concealed and undisturbed, and have

generally got such deep root in our na|tures by the time we are come to years of understanding and reflection, that it requires all we have got to defend our|selves from their effects.

To make the case still worse on our sides, 'tis with this as with every grie|vous distemper of the body — the reme|dies are dangerous and doubtful, in pro|portion to our mistakes and ignorance of the cause: for in the instances of self-deceit, though the head is sick, and the whole heart faint, the patient seldom knows what he ails: — of all the things we know and learn, this necessary know|ledge comes to us the last.

Upon what principles it happens thus, I have endeavoured to lay open in the first part of this discourse; which I con|clude

with a serious exhortation to strug|gle against them; which we can only hope to do, by conversing more and oftener with ourselves, than the business and diversions of the world generally give us leave.

We have a chain of thoughts, desires, engagements and idlenesses, which perpe|tually return upon us in their proper time and order, — let us, I beseech you, assign and set apart some small portion of the day for this purpose — of retiring into ourselves, and searching into the dark corners and recesses of the heart, and taking notice of what is passing there. If a man can bring himself to do this task with a curious and impartial eye, he will quickly find the fruits of it will more than recompense his time and la|bour.

He will see several irregularities and unsuspected passions within him which he never was aware of, — he will discover in his progress many secret turns and windings in his heart to which he was a stranger, which now gradually open and disclose themselves to him up|on a nearer view; in these labyrinths he will trace out such hidden springs and motives for many of his most applau|ded actions, as will make him rather sorry, and ashamed of himself, than proud.

In a word, he will understand his errors, and then see the necessity, with David, of imploring GOD to cleanse him from his secret faults — and with some hope and confidence to say, with this great man after his conviction —

"Try me, O GOD! and seek the ground of my heart, — prove me and examine my thoughts, — look well if there be any way of wickedness in me, and lead me in the way everlasting."

Now to GOD the Father, &c. &c.