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| In Public Spectacles He is Moved by an Empty Compassion. He is Attacked by a Troublesome Spiritual Disease.
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Chapter II.—In Public Spectacles
He is Moved by an Empty Compassion. He is Attacked by a Troublesome
Spiritual Disease.
2. Stage-plays also drew me away, full of
representations of my miseries and of fuel to my fire.218
| 218 The early Fathers strongly reprobated stage-plays,
and those who went to them were excluded from baptism. This is not
to be wondered at, when we learn that “even the laws of Rome
prohibited actors from being enrolled as citizens” (De Civ.
Dei, ii. 14), and that they were accounted infamous
(Tertullian, De Spectac. sec. xxii.). See also Tertullian,
De Pudicitia, c. vii. | Why does man
like to be made sad when viewing doleful and tragical scenes, which
yet he himself would by no means suffer? And yet he wishes, as a
spectator, to experience from them a sense of grief, and in this
very grief his pleasure consists. What is this but wretched
insanity? For a man is more affected with these actions, the less
free he is from such affections. Howsoever, when he suffers in his
own person, it is the custom to style it “misery” but when he
compassionates others, then it is styled “mercy.”219
| 219 See i. 9, note, above. | But what
kind of mercy is it that arises from fictitious and scenic
passions? The hearer is not expected to relieve, but merely invited
to grieve; and the more he grieves, the more he applauds the actor
of these fictions. And if the misfortunes of the characters
(whether of olden times or merely imaginary) be so represented as
not to touch the feelings of the spectator, he goes away disgusted
and censorious; but if his feelings be touched, he sits it out
attentively, and sheds tears of joy.
3. Are sorrows, then, also loved? Surely all
men desire to rejoice? Or, as man wishes to be miserable, is he,
nevertheless, glad to be merciful, which, because it cannot exist
without passion, for this cause alone are passions loved? This also
is from that vein of friendship. But whither does it go? Whither
does it flow? Wherefore runs it into that torrent of pitch,220
| 220 An allusion, probably, as Watts suggests, to the
sea of Sodom, which, according to Tacitus (Hist. book v.),
throws up bitumen “at stated seasons of the year.” Tacitus
likewise alludes to its pestiferous odour, and to its being deadly
to birds and fish. See also Gen. xiv. 3; 10. | seething
forth those huge tides of loathsome lusts into which it is changed
and transformed, being of its own will cast away and corrupted from
its celestial clearness? Shall, then, mercy be repudiated? By no
means. Let us, therefore, love sorrows sometimes. But beware of
uncleanness, O my soul, under the protection of my God, the God of
our fathers, who is to be praised and exalted above all for ever,221
beware of
uncleanness. For I have not now ceased to have compassion; but then
in the theatres I sympathized with lovers when they sinfully
enjoyed one another, although this was
done fictitiously in the play. And
when they lost one another, I grieved with them, as if pitying
them, and yet had delight in both. But now-a-days I feel much more
pity for him that delighteth in his wickedness, than for him who is
counted as enduring hardships by failing to obtain some pernicious
pleasure, and the loss of some miserable felicity. This, surely, is
the truer mercy, but grief hath no delight in it. For though he
that condoles with the unhappy be approved for his office of
charity, yet would he who had real compassion rather there were
nothing for him to grieve about. For if goodwill be ill-willed
(which it cannot), then can he who is truly and sincerely
commiserating wish that there should be some unhappy ones, that he
might commiserate them. Some grief may then be justified, none
loved. For thus dost Thou, O Lord God, who lovest souls far more
purely than do we, and art more incorruptibly compassionate,
although Thou art wounded by no sorrow. “And who is sufficient
for these things?”222
4. But I, wretched one, then loved to grieve, and
sought out what to grieve at, as when, in another man’s misery,
though reigned and counterfeited, that delivery of the actor best
pleased me, and attracted me the most powerfully, which moved me to
tears. What marvel was it that an unhappy sheep, straying from Thy
flock, and impatient of Thy care, I became infected with a foul
disease? And hence came my love of griefs—not such as should
probe me too deeply, for I loved not to suffer such things as I
loved to look upon, but such as, when hearing their fictions,
should lightly affect the surface; upon which, like as with
empoisoned nails, followed burning, swelling, putrefaction, and
horrible corruption. Such was my life! But was it life, O my
God?
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