Luke 16:19-31 There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day:… The argument from memory for a future judgment is powerful, because, on every excursion of the mind into the past, there is now a judgment of conscience, and an expectation of a righteous award. Now if there be within the circle of our natural knowledges or capacities the prediction of any event, we look inevitably for some grounds of the prediction, or some signs that it is a probability, and that the event promised will take place. If it be rumoured among the people of a vast city that a new and magnificent Hall of Justice is to be built, and if there be seen a multitude of workmen collecting materials at the stated place of the proposed building, those materials are a strong proof of the truth of the common rumour. And just so, when the conscience of all mankind tells of a judgment to come, and we see how the materials for that judgment are accumulating, and the demand and necessity for it increasing, and how the busy memory is occupied with collecting and arranging those materials, the proof becomes very strong; the common rumour of the world and of the individual conscience is so corroborated, that one who looks fairly at the light of nature, even apart from that of Revelation, cannot doubt. And every instance of the power of memory, every elucidation of the laws under which the mind acts in its operations of remembrance, and every instance of the manner in which conscience accompanies this work, affords additional conviction. The first instance we shall give of the involuntary power of memory, is that noted one presented by Coleridge, which shall be related mainly in the words and with the conclusions of that eminent man. The fact that the case may be so familiar to some of our readers as to be almost a truism does not lesson its importance. A young woman, he says, of four or five-and-twenty, who could neither read nor write, was seized with a nervous fever, during which the priests and monks in the neighbourhood supposed that she became possessed of the devil. She continued incessantly talking Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, in very pompous tones, and with most distinct enunciation. The case had attracted the particular attention of a young physician, and by his statement many eminent physiologists and psychologists visited the town, and cross-examined the case on the spot. Sheets full of her ravings were taken down from her own mouth, and were found to consist of sentences coherent and intelligible each for itself, but with little or no connection with each other. Of the Hebrew, a small portion only could be traced to the Bible; the remainder seemed to be in the Rabbinical dialect. A trick or conspiracy was out of the question. Not only had the young woman ever been a harmless, simple creature, but she was evidently labouring under a nervous fever. In the town of which she had been a resident for many years, as a servant in different families, no solution presented itself. The physician, however, determined to trace her past life, step by step; for the patient herself was incapable of returning a rational answer. He searched out the place of her nativity, and from a surviving uncle learned that the patient had been charitably taken by an old Protestant pastor at nine years of age, and had remained with him some years, till his death. Of this pastor the uncle knew nothing, but that he was a very good man. With great difficulty he at length discovered a niece of the pastor's, who had lived with him as his housekeeper, and had inherited his effects, and who remembered the girl. Anxious inquiries were made concerning the pastor's habits, and the solution of the phenomenon was soon obtained. For it appeared that is had been his custom for years to walk up and down a passage of his house, into which the kitchen door opened, and to read to himself with a loud voice out of his favourite books. A considerable number of these were still in the niece's possession. She added, that he was a very learned man, and a great Hebraist. Among the books were found a collection of Rabbinical writings, together with several of the Greek and Latin Fathers; and the physician succeeded in identifying so many passages with those taken down at the young woman's bedside, that no doubt could remain in any rational mind concerning the true origin of the impression made on her nervous system. "This authenticated case," Coleridge concludes, "furnishes both proof and instance that relics of sensation may exist for an indefinite time in a latent state, in the very same order in which they were originally impressed; and as we cannot rationally suppose the feverish state of the brain to act in any other way than as a stimulus, this fact, and it would not be difficult to adduce several of the same kind, contributes to make it even probable that all thoughts are in themselves imperishable; and that, if the intelligent faculty should be rendered more comprehensive, it would require only a different and apportioned organization, the body celestial instead of the body terrestrial, to bring before every human soul the collective experience of its whole past existence. And this, perchance, is the dread book of judgment, in whose mysterious hieroglyphics every idle word is recorded. Yea, in the very nature of a living spirit, it may be more possible that heaven and earth should pass away, than that a single act, a single thought, should be loosened or lost from that living chain of causes, to all whose links, conscious or unconscious, the free will, our only absolute self, is coextensive and copresent." This last remark respecting the copresence of the will in all our intelligent life, conscious or unconscious, is of the utmost solemnity and importance. Dr. Abercrombie relates another example, which he puts under the phenomena of dreams, but which is in reality a development of memory. It occurred with one of his own intimate friends, a gentleman connected with one of the principal banks in Glasgow. He was at his place at the teller's desk, when a person entered, demanding payment of the sum of six pounds. There were several waiting, who were entitled to be attended to before him; but he was extremely impatient, and rather noisy; and being likewise a remarkable stammerer, he became so annoying that another gentleman requested the teller to pay. him his money and get rid of him. He did so, accordingly, but with an expression of impatience at being obliged to attend to him before his turn, and thought no more of the transaction. At the end of the year the books of the bank could not be made to balance, the deficiency being exactly six pounds. He spent days and nights in endeavouring to discover the error, but without success; when at last one night retiring to bed much fatigued, he dreamed of being at his place in the bank, where the transaction with the stammerer passed before him in all its particulars. He found on examination that the sum paid had not been inserted in the book of accounts, and that it exactly amounted to the error in the balance. His memory, which had failed him during the day, had wrought during sleep with perfect exactness. This was simply an instance of the revival of old associations, which had passed for a season from the mind and been forgotten. Thus it is that all mistakes in our accounts for eternity, arising from forgetfulness here, will be rectified when the mind acts with its full power in the spiritual world. The stars come out by night that were hidden by the day, and ten thousand thousand worlds of transactions and of consequences will be revealed in the firmament of man's consciousness, when the delusions of time and sense shall have given way to the realities of eternity. From the experience of Niebuhr, the celebrated Danish traveller, Dr. Abercrombie relates an instance of the vividness with which, as the light of the day of this world is retiring, the past realities, that are to encircle our being in the judgment, throng upon the mind; whether they be scenes of innocent delight, or of guilt and terror. When old, blind, and so infirm that he was able only to be carried from his bed to his chair, he used to describe to his friends the scenes which he had visited in his early days, with wonderful minuteness and vivacity. When they expressed their astonishment, he told them that as he lay in bed, all visible objects shut out, the pictures of what he had seen in the East continually floated before his mind's eye, so that it was no wonder he could speak of them as if he had seen them yesterday. With like vividness the deep intense sky of Asia, with its brilliant and twinkling hosts of stars, which he had so often gazed at by night, was reflected, in the hours of stillness and darkness, on his inmost soul. Now these were simply the beautiful images of nature, that, having once made their impressions on a sensitive soul, could never be forgotten. But if pictures daguerreotyped, as it were, upon the soul from abroad, can thus be reproduced after the lapse of a lifetime, as vivid as when the soul first received into its depths, as in a mirror, the reflection of the glory of God's universe, how much more certainly, with how much greater exactitude, must everything which the mind itself has originated, every spontaneous movement of thought and feeling, every development of character, be treasured in the memory, to be reproduced when conscience calls for it! If Niebuhr's memory had been filled with scenes of sin, or with the recollection of sensual and sinful pleasures, instead of those exquisite images of Oriental scenery, how intensely painful would his old age have been in the reproduction of such accumulated forms of evil, with conscience passing judgment on them all! Sometimes the acquisitions, the knowledges, of the earliest period of life, long utterly disused and forgotten, come suddenly and spontaneously again into power and exercise, as indestructible possessions of the soul. Sometimes it seems as if an invisible power were busy removing or replacing at will, as in a camera obscura, the pictures in the memory. Sometimes those that lie lowest, at the bottom of the pile, are placed uppermost, excluding all others, and sometimes the last drawn are the last seen. But how easy for the Divine Being, acting simply by the laws of the mind, to bid the soul stand still, and to draw forth before it, plate after plate, the impressions of every moment, hour, day, week, of existence, and let the conscience meditate upon it! And what an employment for a guilty and unpardoned soul! Even a single scene of guilt may fully arrest and occupy the mind for almost any period.There are cases of persons, whose sane and healthy action of mind has been disordered, having their consciousness arrested upon one single event or idea, and remaining involved in that event, or revolving that idea, for the period of near fifty years. This we call insanity. But suppose an immortal mind to stand thus petrified as it were in the eternal world for a similar interval of time, brooding in guilty consciousness over some one scene, idea, or act of guilt. Would not this be one of the direst images by which the mind can body forth its conceptions of the misery of hell? When the missionary, Mr. Moffat, had once been preaching to the natives in Africa, his attention was arrested by a young man in the midst of a group that had gathered around him, to whom he was preaching over from memory the sermon he had heard, imitating Mr. M.'s gestures, as well as repeating his language, with great solemnity. He repeated the sermon almost verbatim, and when Mr. Moffat remarked to him that he was doing what he himself could not have done, he did not appear conscious of any superior ability, but touched his forehead with his finger, and remarked, "When I hear anything great, it remains there." By "great," he evidently meant in the sense of solemnity as connected with the soul's destiny in the eternal world. And indeed there is nothing great but with reference to eternity, nothing worth preserving or remembering but in its relation to that. But all things that have the stamp of that greatness remain there, as the poor untutored man observed, there in the mind, and can never pass from the memory. The instances of memory we have presented are most of them involuntary, spontaneous; they are instances of power, of activity, which could not be checked or prevented. Had it been ever so much against the will of the master of the faculty, that would have made no difference. The busy operator, with the utmost indifference to the soul's wishes, would have brought out and displayed the mind's innumerable stores. It is no matter whether they be full of sin and shame, or such as the mind would delight to avouch and greet again as its creations or possessions. The memory does not ask whether the mind be pleased with them, but starts them into being. Nay, the more displeasing they are, the more certain they are to be recalled; for this is one manifest way in which the law of association acts, and anything which the mind greatly fears, is for that very reason held tight to it. If you put by an article of your experience, and say that it is proscribed, debarred from remembrance; if you say, I never wish to see that again, let it be buried and never have a resurrection — it may be a single word, deed, look, event, or incident — the very label which you put upon it, "never to be revealed," the very burial service which you perform over it, the very act of your will, consigning it to eternal banishment and forgetfulness, secure its eternal existence and power over you. Your unwillingness to look at it compels you to look. Your dread and unwillingness give it, in fact, an additional, morbid, torturing action within you, and attraction over you. Hatred is, in some respects, a stronger bond than friendship. What we hate and dread we remember with a dreadful energy, and so long as the hatred and dread exist, the object of it cannot be forgotten. We have reason to believe that even to a guilty soul nothing will be more dreadful, more hateful, than the realities of past sins. The state of a man's system in health may not attract his notice. It seems the very plenitude of health to be in such enjoyment of it, that no particular sensations excite notice. But let there be a festering wound in any organ in the system, and it shall excite more notice than the healthful state of the whole system besides. If there could be such a thing as a coal of living fire wound up as a ganglion in a man's nervous system, it would compel and concentrate all his attention. But every sin, unforgiven, is such a coal of fire. The secretions of evil, of guilt, in our experience, are secretions of irritating, painful action, secretions of remorse, compelling the remembrance. The more painful they are, the more we would forget them; but of course the more we would forget them, the more certainly we remember them. We can quicken memory, but we cannot dispossess it of any of its stores, we cannot make ourselves forget. The very attempt at forgetfulness does but startle the memory. The involuntariness of memory is the security for its full and impartial action at the judgment. The involuntariness of memory grows out of the nature of the law of association. By this law of our being, one thing, by having been connected with another, suggests and recalls it.In this way all events and all thoughts may be so linked together that if one be preserved the whole are inevitably in existence. Now there being a connection between every thought and thing in God's universe, and some other thought or thing, and between every experience in our nature and some other experience, it is impossible, under this law, but that all should come to light, impossible that anything whatever should be lost. If two persons, or things, or ideas, are seen but once in proximity or relation, the association may be weak; one may not now necessarily suggest the other. But if seen often, the association becomes so strong as to be inevitable and irresistible. Thus, if a man be a notorious drunkard, every time you see that man you will think of his habit of drunkenness; or if a man be a profane swearer, every time you see that man, or ever hear of him, you will think of his habit of profane swearing. The thought of a man conspicuous in a page of history which is well known, brings up the details of that history. What person ever thinks of William Tell, without seeing the child, the arrow, and the apple? If there be an alarm-bell, which we are accustomed to hear rung only on occasions of danger, the sound of the bell will always suggest the image of the danger; so, the moment we hear the fire-bell, the mind inevitably pictures the evil of which it is the warning. In the country, when the bell tolls slowly and at measured intervals, you instantly think of death and a funeral. On the other hand, the noise of sleigh-bells brings to the mind all ideas of life and activity; a bracing atmosphere, a fine road covered with snow, the laughter of merry parties, the health and activity of winter. Again, you can scarcely hear the sound of the violin, but it suggests the dance; of the drum, but it brings before you all the excitement and fury of war. A case of surgical instruments tells you of ghastly wounds. The smell of camphor in a room makes you inquire if any one be ill; so does the sight of a physician entering the house. These arc common instances of the operation of the law of association, in regard to things seen or known in connection or relation. It is a law, which, even viewed merely in an external operation, as a cord, binding our knowledges in bundles, may be as powerful for evil as for good. We may lay hold upon it for the accomplishment of a happy and useful training of the mind and heart, or an education in all folly and misery. The law of association is at the foundation of most of our prejudices and superstitions. Children, whose minds are filled with nursery tales of ghosts and goblins, are afraid to be left alone in the dark; darkness has become associated in their mind with frightful images. Now it is possible to conceive of its being associated wish nothing but images of security and repose. The degree of activity and wideness of sweep in this law, in different minds, may make a genius out of one person, a dull plodder out of another. It has much to do with the development and power of the imagination. The might and majesty of its action, amidst sublime materials, may be seen in the poetry of Milton, whose imagination combined, in such intensity and comprehensiveness, the associative and aggregative faculty. The constitution of the mind of John Foster was remarkable in this respect. His associations were intensely vivid, so that words affected him with all the power of realities. In one of his Essays he speaks of a young person (and he is supposed to refer to himself, at a period when he was enchanted with the stories of Gregory Lopez and other recluses), with whom at any time the word "hermit "was enough to transport him, like the witch's broom-stick, to the solitary hut, surrounded by shady, solemn groves, mossy rocks, crystal streams, and gardens of radishes. The words "woods" and "forests" are said to have produced in his mind the most powerful emotion. In one of his letters he says, "I have just been admiring the marvellous construction of the mind, in the circumstance of its enabling me, as I sit by my candle here, in a chamber at Chichester, to view almost as distinctly as if before my eyes, your house, the barn, the adjacent fields, neighbouring houses, and a multitude of other objects. I can go through each part of the house, and see the exact form of the looms, tables, maps, cakes of bread, and so on: down to my mother's thimble. Yet I still find myself almost three hundred miles off. At present I take no notice of the things now about me; but perhaps at some future time, at a still greater distance, I may thus review in imagination the room in which I now write, and the objects it contains; and I find that few places where I have continued some time can be thus recollected without some degree of regret; particularly the regret that I did not obtain and accomplish all the good that was possible at that place, and that time. Will it be so, when hereafter I recollect this time, and this place?" This is exceedingly striking, and we are here brought from mere external things, whether of knowledge or imagination, to inward experiences, the voice of conscience, the goings on of our inward and permanent being. Here it is, and in the circle of the sweep of connection between the moral responsibilities of that permanent being and the world around us, that the law of association acts for eternity; and if it be true, as Wordsworth declares, that the faculty of imagination was given us to incite and support the eternal part of our being, equally true it is that the associative law and faculty bears reference to the same. It is with reference to the responsibilities and realities of eternity, and to the materials which we ourselves have gone on voluntarily providing for eternity, that it possesses such indestructible and unlimited dominion. Without this law, the memory would be a thing of chance, a perfect chaos. By this law, all things are connected, so connected, that, begin at whatever part of the chain you may, be sure of whatever link you please, all the rest will follow, or may be regained. There can be nothing lost, nothing forgotten. But this law is not that of mere connection, by evident and known links of circumstances; it is also that of suggestion. One idea, or train of ideas, that may have been introduced by direct connection with some present person or thing, shall suggest to the mind another, by mere resemblance or contrast, or by an abrupt transition, of which, at the time, we can give no account. The causes by which the law of association is thus rendered active and powerful are multitudinous almost beyond computation. And they respect almost equally the power and activity of memory, and the processes of present thought. If I see a face resembling that of a dear absent or departed relative or friend, I say, it reminds me of that beloved individual; it may also suggest to me a thousand busy thoughts in the present or for the future. Now the occasions on which this suggestive power is exercised are as multiplied as the experiences of our being. The various innumerable and interminable relations between external things, cause and effect, resemblance and contrast, nearness of time and place, position, preceding or succeeding, high or low, first or last, order or disorder; and in moral and intellectual processes and experiences, the same and other relations, influenced and varied by everything that can have power in building up our being, in developing our character; as the home and discipline of childhood, the instructions and examples of the family circle, the tenor of our pursuits and studies, the books read, the kind of minds conversed with, the habits of sentiment, opinion, feeling, action, formed and indulged; all these are occasions and influences, on and under which the law of association works. The part which this law of association, therefore, is to play in men's future judgment, and in the determination of their state for eternity, is evident. Without it, except by an external manifestation of things, as in a book, there could be no judgment, and but a weak self-condemnation. If, for example, when a man sees a fellow-being with whom, in time past, he has had transactions, the sight of that person did not recall those transactions, if each particular were a thing to be remembered by itself, and had no associating links of thought and feeling, no power of relation to bring up other things, a man might meet a person whom he has greatly injured, and yet not meet again the memory of that injury. A man might meet another, against whom he has borne false witness, so as to fill the slandered man's life with misfortune and misery, and yet might feel little or no compunction at the meeting, because of the want of this law of association, whereby things that have been together, or related together, suggest each other. Accordingly, because of the weakness of this law of association in some persons, there is a great defect in memory; and of course the vividness of one's recollections must be greatly dependent on the energy and power with which this law acts. A man's compunction or remorse for sin will depend greatly on his remembrance of the circumstances and feelings with which the sin was committed. And if by any means it could be possible to evade this law of association, if you could break up the inevitable chain that connects every part of a man's being with all his feelings and memories, and with him every creature and thing he has ever had to do with, if you could loosen some link, and part the series, then a man's condemnation and misery on account of sin might be not so inevitable, that is, his self-condemnation, and his misery from compunction and remorse. So much of the essence of this article of remorse depends on the remembrance of things in their order and connection, on the remembrance of associated feelings, on the remembrance of little circumstances that surrounded any act, and made up what might be called the scenery of it, that if a man could succeed in getting rid of these, if he could break the links of association, if he were not bound inevitably and for ever to them, or if he could make a chaos or confusion out of them, he would be comparatively secure. But there is no possibility of this. In being judged, a man is to be thrown back, not on the bare recollection of his sins, but on all the circumstances and feelings in and with which they were committed. Not merely the sin will be remembered, but all the then reproaches of conscience, all the light under which it was committed, all the self-deception exercised will be made plain, all the aggravations of the sin will come to view, and all the dreadful feelings that followed it will be renewed and deepened. Every sin of injury against others, against the feelings of others, against the interests of others in any way, will be connected with all the materials of compunction and remorse that preceded, accompanied, or grew out of it. And sometimes little circumstances, or what seemed little at the time, shall have extraordinary power, be invested with a world of feeling and of meaning. A single look, a single word, a circumstance that passed like a flash of lightning, shall have meaning and feeling enough connected with it to be dwelt upon for ever and ever. We might consider this in the case of the murderer; a dying word, a dying look of his victim, shall have more horror to him in the recollection, than the bare remembrance of his crime could ever have. And there may be cases in which the exercise of a cruel, severe, or hard-hearted disposition, the turning away from the cry of a fellow-being in distress, the infliction of a pang on the feelings by a cruel or contemptuous word, shall be followed by the face of the man so grieved, by the picture of the wounded spirit, with the arrow festering in it, in the soul of the sinner, to dwell there for ever. For it must be that every injury shall have a time for its revenge; every violence done to the feelings, or the welfare of others, shall be perfectly remembered, and in this very way memory shall have its revenge. So that a dying murdered man, if he wished for eternal vengeance on his murderer, wished to make it secure beyond escape and for ever, and had the command over the mind of the assassin to write there whatever he pleased through eternity, need only say that one word, "remember." And every poor, oppressed bondman, and every individual helplessly borne down by a man greedy of gain, and every creature, indeed, unjustly treated in any way, need only say, "remember." For this law of association makes such remembrance eternally perfect. And this law, though it be less active and apparently less perfect now in some persons than in others, and sometimes exceedingly deficient, yet is perfect and universal in the very structure of our being; and when the peculiar causes that now hinder its perfect operation in some minds shall be removed, will bring everything together.We often look with surprise in this world at some men's carelessness in regard to sin, at the hardness of their conscience, at the utter absence of conviction. It is principally because this law of association is not now in active operation in regard to the past. And hence a man sometimes thinks he has escaped from his past sins, or that the remembrance of them, if it comes, will not be so severe and terrible, the consciousness of them not so fresh, so lively, so powerful. But it will. And, moreover, there are things on which, at the time, he dwelt but for a moment, flashes of thought and feeling, gone as soon as experienced, and movements of the soul covered and put out of view by other successive movements, on which he is to dwell, and which he is to experience again, at leisure. Flashes of thought, feeling, judgment, that passed at the time like lightning, although with a voice as of God's thunder; he is to see them again and deliberately; he is to hear the peal again, and dwell upon it; he is to listen to the voice of conscience again, and dwell upon it. And he is to do this with larger associations still, a more comprehensive circle of associated considerations, than he then deemed himself encompassed by. His connections with the universe, his place under God's government, his attitude in regard to God's law, his place under the atonement, his relation to Jesus Christ, all his relations as a spiritual being, are to be dwelt upon. How the law of God, and the character of God, and the weight of his own infinite obligations to God were connected with his own sins, with every one of them, he did not care to consider, when he committed them. What light they threw upon them, how much more aggravated they made them than they were when considered merely with reference to society or to one's self, he had not time, in the whirl of sin, to think of. What they were in the light of the cross of Christ, in reference to the suffering of Christ, in reference to the scheme of redemption, their associations with this scheme, and the condemnation they draw for ever from it, he had neither time nor inclination to examine. He would not have had inclination, if he had had time; and this was a part of the operation of the law of association, from which, above all else, if he had seen it, he would have desired to be released. But he will have plenty of time for its consideration. And the law of association in his mind will carry him, in all these directions, into an infinitude of conviction and remorse. In the direction toward God, as well as toward men, toward Christ as well as toward God, toward the law and the gospel, the associated relations, consequences, and condemnation of his sins will be boundless and eternal. This is the structure of our being. What subject, exclaimed Mr. Burke, on one occasion, does not branch out into infinity? This is especially the case with the moral relation of our being. We are fearfully and wonderfully made. How single circumstances connect worlds of dreadful meaning, we sometimes see developed in a striking manner. A man's sins in this world are often like old forgotten, buried, coins. They have grown rusty and illegible. They are laid away in the mind like the lumber in the shop of an antiquary. But they all have an image and superscription. They have dates and hieroglyphics, full of meaning. And there is a process by which they may be restored. The rust can be rubbed from the surface, and by fire, if no way else, the letters can again be read. So it is with men's forgotten sins. They are to have a resurrection. Some of them shall rise even with the body, shall pass from this earthly body into that spiritual body, which is to spring from it. For as the body that is laid in the grave is to be in some sense the germ of that body which is to be raised, so the character of the body which is to be raised shall be determined by the character of the body which is interred. He that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption. Sin is the seed, sin and death shall be the harvest. Neither can the sins, which are not written in a man's constitution, be forgotten, any more than those which, in their consequences in his spiritual body, are to rise with him in the res Parallel Verses KJV: There was a certain rich man, which was clothed in purple and fine linen, and fared sumptuously every day: |
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