sook his eyes for a moment; he looked up wistfully in my uncle Toby's face; then cast a look upon his boy;-and that ligament, fine as it was-was never broken! Nature instantly ebb'd again;-the film returned to its place;-the pulse fluttered; stopped; - went on, throbbed, stopped again; moved, stopped.-Shall I go on?No. THE HOUSE OF FEASTING AND THE HOUSE OF MOURNING DESCRIBED. A SERMON ON ECCLES. VII. 2, 3. For what purpose, do you imagine, has God made us for the social sweets of the wellwatered valleys, where he has planted us; or for the dry and dismal desert of a Sierra Morena? Are the sad accidents of life, and the uncheery hours which perpetually overtake us, are they not enough, but we must sally forth in quest of them,-belie our own hearts, and say, as our text would have us, that they are better than those of joy? Did the Best of Beings send us into the world for this end,-to go weeping through it,-to vex and shorten a life short and vexatious enough already? Do you think, my good Preacher, that He who is infinitely happy can envy us our enjoyments? or that a Being so infinitely kind would grudge a mournful traveller the short rest and refreshments necessary to support his spirits through the stages of a weary pilgrimage? or that He would call him to a severe reckoning, because in this way he had hastily snatched at some little fugacious pleasures, merely to sweeten this uneasy journey of life, and reconcile him to the ruggedness of the road, and the many hard jostlings he is sure to meet with? Consider, I beseech you, what provision and accommodation the Author of our being has prepared for us, that we might not go on our way sorrowing-how many caravanseras of rest-what powers and faculties he has given us for taking it--what apt objects he has placed in our way to entertain us; some of which he has made so fair, so exquisitely fitted for this end, that they have power over us for a time, to charm away the sense of pain, to cheer up the dejected heart under poverty and sickness, and make it go and remember its miseries no more. I will not contend at present against this rhetoric; I would choose rather for a moment to go on with the allegory, and say we are travellers, and, in the most affecting sense of that idea, that, like travellers, though upon business of the last and nearest concern to us, we may surely be allowed to amuse ourselves with the natural or artificial beauties of the country we are passing through, without reproach of forgetting the main errand we are sent upon; and if we can so order it as not to be led out of the way by the variety of prospects, edifices, and ruins which solicit us, it would be a nonsensical piece of saint-errantry to shut our eyes. But let us not lose sight of the argument in pursuit of the simile. Let us remember, various as our excursions are that we have still set our faces towards Jerusalem,—that we have a place of rest and happiness, towards which we hasten, and that the way to get there is not so much to please our hearts, as to improve them in virtue;that mirth and feasting are usually no friends to achievements of this kind-but that a season of affliction is in some sort a season of piety— not only because our sufferings are apt to put us in mind of our sins, but that, by the check and interruption which they give to our pursuits, they allow us what the hurry and bustle of the world too often deny us, and that is a little time for reflection, which is all that most of us want to make us wiser and better men;-that at certain times it is so necessary a man's mind should be turned towards itself that, rather than want occasions, he had better purchase them at the expense of his present happiness. He had better, as the text expresses it, go to the house of mourning, where he will meet with something to subdue his passions, than to the house of feasting, where the joy and gaiety of the place is likely to excite them. That whereas the entertainments and caresses of the one place expose his heart and lay it open to temptations-the sorrows of the other defend it, and as naturally shut them from it. So strange and unaccountable a creature is man! he is so framed that he cannot but pursue happiness--and yet, unless he is made sometimes miserable, how apt is he to mistake the way which can only lead him to the accomplishment of his own wishes. This is the full force of the wise man's declaration.-But to do further justice to his words, I will endeavour to bring the subject still nearer. For which purpose it will be necessary to stop here, and make a transient view of the two places here referred to,—the house of mourning, and the house of feasting. Give me leave therefore, I beseech you, to recall both of them for a moment to your imaginations, that thence I may appeal to your hearts, how faithfully, and upon what good grounds, the effects and natural operations of each upon our minds are intimated in the text. excess in the gratification of the appetites as shall ferment the blood and set the desires in a flame :-let us admit no more of it, therefore, than will gently stir them, and fit them for the impressions which so benevolent a commerce will naturally excite. In this disposition, And first, let us look into the house of thus wrought upon beforehand, and already feasting. And here, to be as fair and candid as possible in the description of this, we will not take it from the worst originals, such as are open merely for the sale of virtue, and so calculated for the end that the disguise each is under not only gives power safely to drive on the bargain, but safely to carry it into execution too. This we will not suppose to be the casenor let us even imagine the house of feasting to be such a scene of intemperance and excess as the house of feasting does often exhibit; but let us take it from one as little exceptionable as we can-where there is, or, at least, appears, nothing really criminal-but where everything seems to be kept within the visible bounds of moderation and sobriety. Imagine then such a house of feasting, where, either by consent or invitation, a number of each sex is drawn together, for no other purpose but the enjoyment and mutual entertainment of each other, which we will suppose shall arise from no other pleasures but what custom authorizes, and religion does not absolutely forbid. Before we enter-let us examine what must be the sentiments of each individual previous to his arrival, and we shall find, however they may differ from one another in tempers and opinions, that every one seems to agree in this --that, as he is going to a house dedicated to joy and mirth, it was fit he should divest himself of whatever was likely to contradict that intention or be inconsistent with it. That, for this purpose, he had left his cares-his serious thoughts-and his moral reflections behind him, and was come forth from home with only such dispositions and gaiety of heart as suited the occasion, and promoted the intended mirth and jollity of the place. With this preparation of mind, which is as little as can be supposed, since it will amount to no more than a desire in each to render himself an acceptable guest,-let us conceive them entering into the house of feasting, with hearts set loose from grave restraints, and open to the expectations of receiving pleasure. It is not necessary, as I premised, to bring intemperance into the scene-or to suppose such an improved to this purpose,—take notice how mechanically the thoughts and spirits rise— how soon and insensibly they are got above the pitch and first bounds which cooler hours would have marked. When the gay and smiling aspect of things has begun to leave the passages to a man's heart thus thoughtlessly unguarded — when kind and caressing looks of every object without, that can flatter his senses, have conspired with the enemy within to betray him, and put him off his defence,-when music likewise hath lent her aid, and tried her power upon the passions,-when the voice of singing men, and the voice of singing women, with the sound of the viol and the lute, have broken in upon his soul, and in some tender notes have touched the secret springs of rapture,-that moment let us dissect and look into his heart,—see how vain! how weak! how empty a thing it is! Look through its several recesses,—those pure mansions formed for the reception of innocence and virtue-sad spectacle! Behold those fair inhabitants now dispossessed — turned out of their sacred dwellings, to make room-for what?-at the best for levity and indiscretion-perhaps for folly-it may be for more impure guests, which possibly, in so general a riot of the mind and senses, may take occasion to enter unsuspected at the same time. In a scene and disposition thus describedcan the most cautious say, Thus far shall my desires go--and no further? or will the coolest and most circumspect say, when pleasure has taken full possession of his heart, that no thought nor purpose shall arise there, which he would have concealed?--In those loose and unguarded moments the imagination is not always at command-in spite of reason and reflection, it will forcibly carry him sometimes whither he would not-like the unclean spirit, in the parent's sad description of his child's case, which took him, and oft-times cast him into the fire to destroy him, and wheresoever it taketh him it teareth him, and hardly departeth from him. But this, you'll say, is the worst account of what the mind may suffer here. Why may we not make more favourable suppositions?-that numbers, by exercise and custom to such encounters, learn gradually to despise and triumph over them;-that the minds of many are not so susceptible of warm impressions, or so badly fortified against them, that pleasure should easily corrupt or soften them; that it would be hard to suppose, of the great multitudes which daily throng and press into this house of feasting, but that numbers come out of it again with all the innocence with which they entered;-and that if both sexes are included in the computation, what fair example shall we see of many of so pure and chaste a turn of mind that the house of feasting, with all its charms and temptations, was never able to excite a thought, or awaken an inclination, which virtue need blush at, or which the most scrupulous conscience might not support. God forbid we should say otherwise. No doubt, numbers of all ages escape unhurt, and get off this dangerous sea without shipwreck. Yet are they not to be reckoned amongst the more fortunate adventurers; and though one would not absolutely prohibit the attempt, or be so cynical as to condemn every one who tries it, since there are so many, I suppose, who cannot well do otherwise, and whose condition and situation in life unavoidably force them upon it-yet we may be allowed to describe this fair and flattering coast-we may point out the unsuspected dangers of it, and warn the unwary passenger where they lie. We may show him what hazards his youth and inexperience will run, how little he can gain by the venture, and how much wiser and better it would be (as is implied in the text) to seek occasions rather to improve his little stock of virtue than incautiously expose it to so unequal a chance, where the best he can hope is to return safe with what treasure he carried out but where, probably, he may be so unfortunate as to lose it all-be lost himself, and undone for ever. Thus much for the house of feasting; which, by the way, though generally open at other times of the year throughout the world, is supposed, in Christian countries, now everywhere to be universally shut up. And, in truth, I have been more full in my cautions against it, not only as reason requires,--but in reverence to this season [Lent], wherein our Church exacts a more particular forbearance and self-denial in this point, and thereby adds to the restraints upon pleasure and entertainments which this representation of things has suggested against them already. VOL. I. Here, then, let us turn aside from this gay scene and suffer me take you with me for a moment to one much fitter for your meditation. Let us go into the house of mourning, made so by such afflictions as have been brought in merely by the common cross accidents and disasters to which our condition is exposed-where, perhaps, the aged parents sit broken-hearted, pierced to their souls with the folly and indiscretion of a thankless childthe child of their prayers, in whom all their hopes and expectations centred:-perhaps a more affecting scene-a virtuous family lying pinched with want, where the unfortunate support of it, having long struggled with a train of misfortunes, and bravely fought up against them, is now piteously borne down at the last, overwhelmed with a cruel blow which no forecast or frugality could have prevented.-O GOD! look upon his afflictions. Behold him distracted with many sorrows, surrounded with the tender pledges of his love, and the partner of his cares-without bread to give them—unable, from the remembrance of better days, to dig;-to beg, ashamed! When we enter into the house of mourning such as this, it is impossible to insult the unfortunate even with an improper look.— Under whatever levity and dissipation of heart such objects catch our eyes,-they catch likewise our attentions, collect and call home our scattered thoughts, and exercise them with wisdom. A transient scene of distress, such as is here sketched, how soon does it furnish materials to set the mind at work! how necessarily does it engage it to the consideration of the miseries and misfortunes, the dangers and calamities, to which the life of man is subject! By holding up such a glass before it, it forces the mind to see and reflect upon the vanitythe perishing condition and uncertain tenure of everything in this world. From reflections of this serious cast, how insensibly do the thoughts carry us further!-and from considering what we are— -what kind of world we live in, and what evils befall us in it, how naturally do they set us to look forwards at what possibly we shall be!-For what kind of world we are intended-what evils may befall us there-and what provision we should make against them here, whilst we have time and opportunity. If these lessons are so inseparable from the house of mourning here supposed-we shall find it a still more instructive school of wisdom when we take a view of the place in that more 16 affecting light in which the wise man seems | ably they are laid!-In this gloomy mansion, to confine it in the text, in which, by the house of mourning, I believe, he means that particular scene of sorrow where there is lamentation and mourning for the dead. Turn in hither, I beseech you, for a moment. Behold a dead man ready to be carried out, the only son of his mother, and she a widow. Perhaps a more affecting spectacle-a kind and indulgent father of a numerous family, lies breathless-snatched away in the strength of his age-torn in an evil hour from his children and the bosom of a disconsolate wife. Behold much people of the city gathered together to mix their tears, with settled sorrow in their looks, going heavily along to the house of mourning, to perform that last melancholy office which, when the debt of nature is paid, we are called upon to pay to each other. full of shades and uncomfortable damps to seize the soul-see the light and easy heart which never knew what it was to think before, how pensive it is now, how soft, how susceptible, how full of religious impressions, how deeply it is smitten with sense, and with a love of virtue! Could we, in this crisis, whilst this empire of reason and religion lasts, and the heart is thus exercised with wisdom, and busied with heavenly contemplations-could we see it naked as it is-stripped of its passions, unspotted by the world, and regardless of its pleasures-we might then safely rest our cause upon this single evidence, and appeal to the most sensual, whether Solomon has not made a just determination here, in favour of the house of mourning?—not for its own sake, but as it is fruitful in virtue, and becomes the occasion of so much good. Without this end, sorrow, I own, has no use but to shorten a man's days-nor can gravity, with all its studied solemnity of look and carriage, serve any end but to make one half of the world merry, and impose upon the other. If this sad occasion, which leads him there, has not done it already, take notice to what a serious and devout frame of mind every man is reduced, the moment he enters this gate of affliction. The busy and fluttering spirits which, in the house of mirth, were wont to transport him from one diverting object to another-see how they are fallen! how peace-of his mercy, bless you! Amen. Consider what has been said, and may God, PHILIP FRANCIS. BORN 1719 - DIED 1773. About this time he was a constant visitor at Holland House, and was appointed chaplain to Lady Holland. [Philip Francis, so well known as a translator | of genius. of Horace, was born in Dublin in 1719. His father, the Rev. John Francis, D.D., a man of some ability, was for a time rector of St. Mary's, Dublin, and afterwards Dean of Lismore. In due course young Philip entered and graduated at Trinity College. After this he took holy orders; and in 1750 removed to England, where he set up an academy at Esher in Surrey, in which, among other pupils, he had his son, afterwards Sir Philip, and Gibbon the celebrated historian. After a time, by the influence of Lord Holland, he obtained the rectory of Barrow in Suffolk, and, as a reward for some literary support he had rendered the government, he was appointed to the chaplaincy of Chelsea Hospital. Two years after his arrival in England appeared his first work of any importance, Eugenia, a tragedy; and in 1754 this was followed by Constantine, a tragedy. Both plays are carefully and correctly written, but are wanting somewhat in the fire In 1743 appeared his great work, which still stands first among translations of Horace. It was received not only with favour but enthusiasm by the whole learned and reading world, and Dr. Johnson in speaking of it said, "The lyrical part of Horace can never be properly translated; so much of the excellence is in the numbers and the expression. Francis has done it the best. I'll take his, five out of six, against them all." Soon after this appeared his translation of Demosthenes, which was also successful, but not to the same extent as Horace. This was his last extant work, for the rest of his life produced nothing except political ephemera in the interest of Henry Fox and his party, which of course are not now recognizable, and we fear not of much value if recognized. He was also one of the editors of the daily Gazette in the pay of the FULVIA pleading with CONSTANTINE. And be it so. Maximian shall appear Fulvia. My father! Maximian. How that name comes o'er my heart. She kneels and weeps! Art thou so wondrous good, Canst thou forgive me, Fulvia; call me father, ber'd; But even ambition shall be satisfied, Fulvia. But, sir, my father, speak; oh! look Duty and love shall wait upon your age, 'Till time with lenient hand shall lay it down Oh! hear these speechless sorrows, hear and pity In honourable death, till fame shall crown me. Constantine. With all the fearful tenderness of love, With eyes that flow in pity, with a tongue Who, when thy great heart's quell'd by age or sickness, Shall hear thy weakness, hear thy cries of pain, Your life and that last hour with equal glory. Maximian. If life could pass away in the delight Of fondly gazing on thee; could the idea [Stabs himself. For my last groan gives you the universe. Constantine. Oh, Fulvia-but I'll not insult thy sorrows By talking comfort to them. Yet remember Fulvia. Angels of mercy, hear the sacred sounds Why we are placed thus high;-not to exempt us That bid my father live; And thou, O Love, in all thy golden records, For it is thine, preserve this act of wonder, And on thy purple pinions waft it wide O'er earth and heaven, the glory of thy reign! Enter MAXIMIAN and AURELIAN. otherwise decreed, From human woes, but that the world may learn A nobler fortitude by our example. To wake the soul to virtue, and impart A warmer spirit to the languid heart, The passions were designed; but here behold, Maximian. (Speaking.) Well, then, the gods have While guilt, remorse, despair, and ruin mark their way. |