K F ClassfrG^ SERMON PREACHED m THE 13RATTLE-SQUARE CHURCH, (^n t^t Snnbag snccttbing t^c ^tal^ OF HON. RICHARD SULLIYAN. BY REV. S. K. LOTHROP, D.D. iFirmness ant) ©eutlcness uniteti in tlje Cljvistian Cfjaracter : SERMON PREACHED IN THE BRATTLE-SQUARE CHURCH, Dec. 15, 1861, STbe ^unbag samtbing % §tat^ ai HON. RICHARD SULLIYAN. V REV. S; K. LOTHROP, D.D. |3ul)lts{)Ei Jjg Itlcquest. BOSTON: PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON, 22, School Street. 1862. In oxcluuige ^ ^ i9ie SERMON. Prov. xiv. 14: "A good man shall be satisfied from himself." A GOOD man, a man of religious faith and principle, has an inward happiness that never fails, a peren- nial fountain of peace and joy in his own heart. This is the simple thought of the text. In that search for happiness in which all engage, he seeks not vain shadows, but substantial, because spiritual, realities. He seeks truth, virtue, holiness, the reli- gious culture of his mind and heart ; and this culture — the glory and purpose of his' being — satisfies him, gives him peace, a happiness flowing from the har- mony of the soul, that satisfies the soul. Some have thought the idea of the text to be, "A good man shall be sufficient for himself and from himself" A man of religious faith and principle has an inward energy adequate to all emergencies of life ; a strength of the soul — the result, the product, of religious faith — that makes him equal to every duty, the conqueror over every temptation, the cheerful bearer of every burden Providence may impose. He is sufficient for himself, independent of human coun- sel and human sympathy. Both ideas are embraced in the text, because the one involves the other. If a good man is to be satis- fied from himself, he must find in himself an inward energy, moral strength, adequate to all life's demands, — an inward happiness, independent of all life's vicissitudes. As a broad popular statement, the text is true ; but taken in the full meaning of the words, as an absolute universal proposition, it is not true. There are limitations to be made, qualifications to be con- sidered. From themselves alone, or from religious faith alone, the good do not always derive a happi- ness that perfectly satisfies, or strength adequate to every burden of trial, every work of duty. The cha- racter of the soul, in its progress and development here on earth, is somewhat eff"ected by the constitu- tion and temperament of the body ; and this fact modifies religious truth in its application, or, I should rather say, its exhibition in the soul. Religion can no more give every soul an equal degree of ener- gy, independence, self-relying strength, self-springing happiness, than earth, air, sunshine, can raise from every acorn an oak equal in stateliness, beauty, and grandeur to the largest and strongest of those giants of the forests. Religion, of necessity, respects the individuaUty of the soul, the natural diversities in men's characters ; and in no attributes are these diversities more marked than in the different degrees of self-reliance, solitary, self-sustaining energy, they exhibit. Some persons are very dependent upon others, not from any weakness of intellect, not from any imbecility of judgment, or a consequent incapa- city of independent thought and action, but from the quickness of their sympathies, the depth and strength of their affections. They have great power, and can make noble manifestation of it, in being the first to enter upon some high course of thought and action ; yet, in the very act of such manifestation, they trem- ble to find themselves alone, and instinctively seek the shelter of some sympathizing heart. They do not care for numbers ; they do not seek for praise ; they do not crave popularity : but they do crave sympathy. Let but one loving and approving heart be near them, with them, and they can stand against the world. The scorn of the multitude does not abash them ; the menace of the powerful does not terrify them ; the voice of the people, though it be as the roar of many waters, cannot drown the voice of conscience which speaks in their hearts of duty and of right. Applause, popularity, a wide favor, shouts of approbation from the multitude, — they have no low, selfish desire for these ; but they Jiave a natural affi- 6 nity, an irrepressible longing, for sympathy. This they must have. Its absolute loss makes them weak as a child. Let them feel the faintest breath of its warm presence, and their reverence for truth, their fidelity to duty, become firm as a rock. Let but the sympathy of one kind, loving heart be sure to them, and they can do all that humanity demands, all that the diviner impulses of the soul prompt. This is the temperament, the original mental constitution, of some persons. Religion cannot change, does not propose to change, it. So there are others whose character is the ex- treme opposite. They are singularly independent of human sympathy. They think and act, as it were, in empty space, utterly regardless of the ap- proval or displeasure of others. Universal opposi- tion does not discourage, universal approbation does not elate, them. Neither the one nor the other can induce them to modify an opinion they have adopted, regret a feeling they have expressed, repent of an action they have performed, or alter, in the slightest degree, a position they have assumed and mean to maintain. If others agree with their opinions, and assent to their plans, it is well : their plans will be so much more easily accomplished. If others differ and oppose, it is well also. They are not dis- turbed : there is only so much more resistance to be overcome ; and they set themselves resolutely to the work. Human sympathy, if given, does not increase — if refused or withdrawn, does not weaken — their energy or abate their zeal. They do not care for it or ask it : if proffered, they receive it with ungra- cious indifference. A reserved, almost repulsive, self-reliance is a predominant element of their cha- racter. I have presented two extremes, — dependence upon, and indifference to, human sympathy. As both are to be avoided, it is hardly necessary to inquire which is the worse and which the better, — which makes a man most useful and most happy. Each has a power peculiar to itself. One gives a man control over himself ; the other, control over his fellows. One fits a man for thought, investiga- tion, the pursuit and ascertainment of truth ; the other, for action and the exercise of a beneficial influence. In the one case, the judgment is swayed by no disturbing forces. Every subject is studied, every question weighed, with a calm, serene eye, almost as if it were an abstraction, having no connection with surrounding interests. There is nothing in the heart to plead for an old error, simply because it is old ; or to resist or reject a new truth, simply because it is new. The faculties act vigorously and faithfully : a conclusion, once reached, is at once adopted ; and thereafter no doubt disturbs, no anxiety paralyzes, and no storm of oppo- 8 sition stays, or turns aside, adhesion to it. Yet little comparatively is done, or can be done, to make this conclusion lovely to others, or gain for it a wide pre- valence. A capacity to impart implies a capacity, I had almost said originates in a disposition, to receive sympathy and influence. No man can touch the emotions of others, understand their prejudices, enter into their anxieties, comprehend their weaknesses, and secure that confidence which is the basis of all influence, who is himself cold, reserved, unsocial, standing apart in the strength of an acute, capacious intellect, which, because it feels no dependence and seeks no sympathy, awakens no aff"ection and wins no trust. It is the heart, after all, that gives power to the intellect, influence to man, and happiness to his whole being. They, probably, have been the most happy and the most useful, who have loved the sympathies of their kind, and have recognized, not only the chain which binds conscience to duty and to right, but that also which binds heart to heart in links of mutual dependence and reciprocal aff"ection. These two extremes, — dependence upon, and in- diff"erence to, human sympathy, — and the inflnite variety of the degrees of each to be found between them, modify the absolute, unqualified statement of the text, and are to be taken into account in the application of it to ourselves or others. 9 Still, beneath the statement of the text, there is a great and profound truth. A good man shall be satisfied from himself, shall be sufficient for himself. There is a measure of independence of human sym- pathy which we can and must attain. There is a degree of weakness we must avoid, and of danger that we must guard against, in being too dependent upon it. There is a strength of individual vutue, a power of personal faith and lofty principle, a union of the tender and the firm, — of an afi"ectionate heart and a resolved will, — that can be reached, and, if reached, satisfies and suffices the soul, makes it strong, and happy because it is strong. As the oak, with the vine twining around and chnging to it, both adorning and benefiting each other, is a more beautiful thing than either the oak or vine separate ; so a character that combines the graceful and tender affections, open, receptive s}Tnpathies, with firmness of purpose and an independent self-reliance, is more beautiful and perfect than a character whose distinctive trait is an extreme either of dependence upon sympathy or in- dependence of it. This combination was one of the peculiar beauties, the di\-ine glories, of the character of our Saviour. He was gentle, tender, sympathetic ; susceptible, to a singular degree, of the influence of human attachments : yet he could stand alone with duty and with God, — meet, if need be, the solitude and suffering of a martyr. His character begins in 10 beauty, and ends in grandeur and power ; winning its way to loftiness through a host of angelic humanities. He could lean, and evidently loved to lean, when duty permitted, upon the sympathy of kindred and friends ; and, when required, he could stand alone, strong in the love of God and the power of truth. He could shelter, and evidently loved to shelter, him- self in the bosom of domestic affections, in the sym- pathies of dear, familiar, confiding friends ; but when duty forbade this, and the solemn purposes of his mission called, he could go forth in the solitary strength of his own heart, and face any storm that beat, traverse any wilderness that stretched beneath the canopy of heaven, make any sacrifice that would bring blessing and benefit upon the world. The power of Christ's character to touch our hearts, to win our affections, while it inspires a most profound reverence and awe, is to be attributed to its just and beautiful combination of these qualities, — sympa- thetic tenderness, lofty and independent firmness. This combination we must aim at in our characters. Some approximation to it we must have, before we can experience a fulfilment of the declaration of the text. To this end, we must shun the stoical pride of a perfect self-reliance, a cold indifference, an entire independence of human sympathy : for, after all our efforts, we are not sufficient for ourselves; and, if we attempt to be so, there will come, ever 11 and anon, yearnings in our hearts for some one bosom upon which we can lean, for intimate, unre- served communion, — some one friend not so infi- nite as God, not so holy as Christ, into whose ear we can pour our thoughts, who can tremble with us in our anxieties, struggle with us in our temptations, and weep with us in our tears. On the other hand, we must shun that weak dependence upon sympathy, and subjection to it, by which we are led into sinful compliances, by which the integrity of conscience breaks down in subserviency to public opinion or private entreaty, and through which the whole life often is wasted in habits over which our meditations in privacy pour a flood of inefl"ectual tears, and the impulse and the deske for better things grow more intense and more humiliating as the power to pursue them and strive for them becomes less strong, weaker, more inefficient. In every man's life, there are passages of thought and action which must be solitary ; passages of duty which throw him upon his own individual moral forces ; passages in which there can be no partner- ship in responsibility, as there is none in the peril of consequences ; in which sympathy cannot be given, or, if profl"ered, cannot help, and may mislead. We must be prepared for these passages ; and we can be prepared for them, only by holy faith and lofty prin- ciple, by a reverent and profound love of God, a 12 meek obedience to Christ, a stern self-inspection that corrects our moral perceptions, clears the atmosphere between us and Heaven, and permits no sophistry to blind our eyes to the rugged path wherein we must walk. Thus prepared, we shall triumph in the con- flict ; the sympathy of friends will not, as it sometimes does, add to our danger and lead to our defeat ; the soothing words of a mistaken kindness will have no power, as they often have, to check when they ought to deepen contrition, — no power to lead us to a false self-complacency, a fatal moral indolence, a longer dalliance with temptation : but in the silent, solitary strength of our own hearts we shall pile effort upon efi'ort, till wrong impulses are repressed, till pure desires are maintained, till lofty aims are accomplished; and then we shall understand, by a blessed experience, the truth of the text, — we shall be satisfied from ourselves and with ourselves ; there will be peace, that great peace of God, in our souls ; an inward happiness, — deeper, purer, more invi- gorating, more abiding, than any thing outward can bestow. If we are thus prepared by holy faith and lofty principle for the solitary passages of duty, we shall be prepared for the solitary hours of sorrow. Sor- row, though less solitary and individual than temp- tation, is yet solitary ; has its secret depths in every heart, which no human sympathy can reach. In sor- 13 row, we may lean upon sympathy more than in scenes of resolute action and effort ; but, even in sorrow, we must have more than sympathy. We must have faith, love, trust, an entire repose on God. If in those silent watches by the couch of sickness, which, in turn, come to all of lis ; if in those midnight hours, poised between life and death, when we hang upon the faint breathing of some friend whose breath seems our very life ; if in that moment of agony when we stand by the grave that is to shut from our sight the countenance in whose living light we have walked from our childhood ; if in that dark day when we return from the mourner's last errand to the house of the dead, and in those darker days which succeed, — we lean, not upon sympathy, — which may help, but cannot suffice, — but upon God and Christ, in holy faith and lofty trust, then we shall understand by another blessed experience the truth of the text. We shall find ourselves, not haggard and wasted in mind, morose and selfish in spirit, but with an uplifted con- science, with a heart tender towards others and strict with itself; we shall find an inward, infinite peace, that satisfies and abides amid the destruction of out- ward joys, — the peace of a pure conscience and an immortal hope. My friends, it is not by accident that I have been led myself, or without purpose that I have carried you, through this train of thought. In our services 14 this morning, we have ah'eady been called to notice the death of one, long a worshipper at this church, a communicant at this altar ; whose image has been constantly before me while writing ; whose character was a beautiful combination of the firmness and ten- derness of which I have spoken ; and who, so far as we can look into the heart of another, and judge, knew, by a distinct and blessed fulfilment of it in himself, the truth of the promise of the text. Hon. Richard Sullivan, whose funeral obsequies were yesterday appropriately held in this church, whence his body was removed to its last resting-place, has been so long retired from participation in the aff"airs of active life, and so many years have passed since he has been able to worship with us, that to some of the congregation he may be entirely un- known, and others may have but a faint remembrance of him. But in yielding to the pleasant memories reaching back to the early days of my youth, which prompt me to speak of him, I am but doing justice to the claims of a good man upon our remembrance, and service to you, in holding up his life and character as an example worthy of imitation. He was born June 17, 1779, in Saco, Me. ; where his father (Hon. James Sullivan, subsequently, and at the period of his death, in 1808, Governor of this Common- wealth) at that time resided. He was educated at Harvard College, and graduated from that institution 15 in the class of 1798, — of which but three survive him. One of these survivors told me, yesterday, that his college career was marked by the same pure, courteous, gentlemanly deportment that had distin- guished him through life, and by assiduous attention to his studies ; that he held an honorable rank as a scholar, an English oration being assigned to him at one of the exhibitions. In college, he formed intimate friendships, which lasted through life, with some of the most distinguished men of the class, — such as the late Joseph Story, S. P. P. Fay, and William Ellery Channing. On leaving college, he studied law in the office of his father, who, several years before (in 1782), had removed to Boston ; and he was admitted to the Suffolk Bar in 1801. In 1804 (May 22), he married Sarah Pussell, a daughter of the princely merchant, Thomas Pussell ; and shortly after, in company with her, made an extensive tour in Europe. On his return, he opened a lawyer's office : but, relieved by this marriage from the neces- sity of continuing it, he gradually relinquished the practice of his profession ; not, however, that he might waste life in indolent and useless leisure, but that he might be at liberty to serve God and the community in other ways. He felt the responsibility of his talents, his wealth, and his social position ; and promoted his own happiness and honor by using them for the good of others. He kept up, by revi- 16 sion, considerable knowledge of his profession; and was always assiduous in the culture of his mind, — reading much of the current literature of the day, and more largely the old books, from which much of that literature is drawn. From impulse, and on principle, he w as public-spirited and philanthropic ; and the records of several of our most valuable public institutions, founded during the first thirty years of the present century, bear ample testimony to his services in their behalf It was at a meeting of gentlemen at his house that the project of the Massachusetts Gene- ral Hospital was first seriously started ; and, among those who aided in rearing that beneficent establish- ment, the labors of few were more earnest or more efficient than those of Mr. Sullivan. In addition to his successful eff"orts in obtaining subscriptions, he delivered, before a large audience in King's Chapel, an address upon the subject, replete with the elo- quence of a large practical wisdom, and a generous, humane heart. During the earlier years of his manhood, he took a hearty interest in political aff'airs, and entered some- what into political life. He was a member of one, and, I believe, of both branches of our State Legislature. He occupied, for two or three years, a seat in the Executive Council during the administration of Gov. Brooks ; and was an unsuccessful candidate for Con- gress at a time when the Federal party, to which he 17 was attached, was losing its ascendency in the State. As a member of its Board of Overseers, he was assi- duous in his efforts to x^romote the best interests of Harvard College, and enlarge its instrumentahties of education. He was especially active and interested in those efforts, made about forty years ago, to increase the means of theological education at Cambridge, which resulted in the establishment of the present Divinity School with all its endowments. Removing into the country, and residing for many years in the neighboring town of Brookline, he was among the first of those, who, nearly half a century ago, gave an impulse to rural tastes and pursuits, to the advancement of agriculture, and to that culture of fruits and flowers, which now, wide-spread, does so much to embeUish and refine life among us. Here, at his beautiful estate in the country, surrounded by his wife and daughters, he had a home, which, in the dignity and grace that presided over it, in the intel- lectual and moral refinement that pervaded it, in the holy love and faith that sanctified it, was the model of a Christian home ; and comes up to the thoughts of all who remember it, as near an approach to a pic- ture and miniature of heaven as they may ever hope to see on earth. Providence had a great lesson to teach, and charac- ter a severe test to meet. Death sped its shafts : that home was made desolate, that family circle severed, 3 IS its remaining members were scattered, property was diminished ; and Mr. Sullivan returned, solitary, to solitary chambers in the city, and to a solitary pew in the old church where he had worshipped years be- fore. All who remember him at this period of his life cannot but recall with reverence and admiration the beautiful union of gentleness and firmness, tenderness and manly self-reliance, which he exhibited. He was not gloomy, morose, complaining, but cheerful, sub- missive, trustful ; bearing his trials and bereavements with a brave, serene, Christian fortitude ; ever ready, as before, to be active and useful. The last office of any prominence or importance which he held was that of delegate and representative from this church to the Benevolent Fraternity of Churches for the support of the Ministry at Large. He soon became deeply inte- rested in this institution and its object ; and presided over the Fraternity, for several years, with singular fidelity. Kemoviug to Cambridge a few years ago, retiring more and more from the world, his physical and somewhat his mental strength very gently and gradually failing, after a brief illness, without suffer- ing, his pure spirit, at peace Avith God, with itself, and with the world, passed on to its reward. Such is a brief outline of his life ; and in this out- line, and in my previous remarks, you read his charac- ter. Pure in motive, unselfish in purpose, courteous in manners, firm in principle, strong in faith, tender 19 in affection, devont in emotion and aspiration, bear- in$jj the reverses of fortune and the bereavements of Providence w^ith noble fortitude, he was a goodly pattern of a true Christian gentleman. When such a man dies at a good old age, the order of nature, and purposes of Providence,. all beautifully fulfilled in his life and character, gratitude, not grief, is the strong emotion of the mind. Let it be strong in our hearts at this time. Deeply sensible of what we owe to our fathers of the generation immediately preceding us, for noble services. Christian lives, and their goodly deeds, let then* memory — that memory of the just which is blessed — abide, a consolation and incentive to our own fidelity.