vertible certainty. It is judgment which determines our belief or disbelief, our action or inaction. Judgment is distinct from knowledge in this, that the one is conversant with comparisons and verisimilitudes, the other with perceptions and demonstrations. Judgment executes the functions of an umpire or a magistrate; knowledge is an explorer or a geometrician. So imperfect and defective is man, that knowledge, unerring knowledge, hath but a small empire in the world of thought within him; he can grasp little of absolute demonstrable certainty; it is his judgment, which is at best frail and feeble and liable to error, that is brought into action every hour of his thinking existence, as the appointed arbiter and director of thought and deed, and, if the Scripture be true, sits bare to the scrutiny of the eternal eye of Omniscience. Men pride themselves upon the wonderful skill and wisdom of this invisible but mighty ruler; they each exult in the decisions of their own inward tribunal, as though it were infallible, and they altogether forget that it is a possession which ought rather to inspire them with humility and caution. For judgment is, after all, but a substitute for knowledge. The Deity (and possibly all angelic natures also) perceives and knows, but does not judge or reason. To His sublime and all-pervading Majesty, truth is one grand eternal whole-palpable, visible, real. Doubt is darkness; but He is light, and dwelleth in the light which no man can approach unto. Still, this gift of judgment is a noble gift; for it is reason which exalts us above the brute. The immaterial part of the brute hath but a short tether; the mind of man is FREE-free, and strong, and agile, though as yet it is only in the first stage of its eternal growth. And yet, they say, although the man is free in action, and although the mind's eye "Glances from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven," judgment is tied and bound; the high arbiter is a chained prisoner; it is ruled by necessity in all its doings; it must determine according to the evidence before it. I allow that judgment may be a slave, and in many men is a slave; but that it must be such-that it was given us by our Creator only as such, far surpasses the range of my credulity. That the beneficial use of this faculty is often prevented or thwarted, in some way or other, cannot be denied; universal experience proves it. Let us then consider how this happens, and whether it always happens so as to involve no guilt or demerit. Our judgment frequently falls into error through carelessness and indolence; through neglecting-wilfully neglecting-to consider all the circumstances of the case which fall in our way, or which are accessible to us. Now, in the general course of nature, in the regular order and constitution of the world, we everywhere see that carelessness and indolence bring with them a corresponding punishment; and more particularly, carelessness and indolence in the exercise of judgment about our worldly concerns are quite sure, in the long run, to bring difficulties and disasters as a natural consequence. This is the result of an evident law of nature. We may therefore take it as a certain indication that the God of nature demands a careful use of this important faculty, at least in our worldly concerns and if He requires such a use of it in the pursuit of worldly advantage, which is temporal, why not in the pursuit of truth, which is eternal?—unless, indeed, we assume that eternal verity is a less important object for intellectual man than his present interest. A man's affections and desires often deceive his judgment, and thus lead him into false opinions. In this case also he may be culpable. These inclinations may be vicious-the result of a habit formed by a continued course of depraved action. It is notorious that men frequently believe what they hope to be true: "The wish is father of the thought." For instance, we may suppose the case of a man, who, by a series of enormous crimes-crimes against man and God-had thrown away the hope of mercy, and, for a substitute, clung to the miserable hope that there is no God! Now in such a person this prodigious and awful belief-or, rather, disbelief-must be guilty, for it is the direct product of guilt. "A man," they say, "cannot be responsible for his belief, because he must decide according to the evidence proposed to his judgment." But, let me ask-how does this apply in the present case? Where is the evidence of Atheism? Who ever heard of any? Where are the witnesses? Are they man, who is so fearfully and wonderfully made that he scans the workmanship of a God in his every joint and muscle-or all animal nature, which proclaims with every breath of life the care and wisdom of a mighty and merciful Creator-or the whole vegetable world, from the cedars of Lebanon and the giant oaks of Bashan, to the fragile yet curiouslyformed field flower? Or has any one traversed the illimitable regions of space, and explored the far corners of infinitude, to bring to our little world the tidings that THERE IS NO GOD? Surely he who has sunk into this fearful abyss of error, cannot have been overwhelmed in it by the force of evidence-it has happened to him by his own fault, and by no stern fatality. "He hath loved darkness rather than light, because his deeds were evil." But we have here taken but a single, and, perhaps, an extreme instance of the manner in which the inclinations and passions may influence and overrule the judgment. Yet our every-day experience presents numberless examples of the same kind, though of different degrees of importance. Indeed, there is no knowing what some people will believe or disbelieve, if they are only assured that their own interests are concerned in the matter. "I would be wise, but that I often see The fox suspected, while the ass goes free." And if we will but dive into our own bosoms, and severely examine the process by which we have formed some of our dearest opinions, we shall each one of us be able to discover more or less of this inward perversion. We shall find that, in many cases, our ardent desires have excited our imagination. Imagination embodies, and, as it were, realizes the hope-judgment, gazing for a moment upon the bright picture, is deceived by its semblance to reality-and here the Will steps in, hastily snatches the cheat from the scrutiny of judgment, and immediately proceeds to action upon it as a truth, or else lays it up in the storehouse of memory, among the facts of knowledge and the axioms of reason. Now, if we are responsible for anything at all, we must certainly be responsible for such a random use of our reasoning faculties. A similar rash conduct in the common concerns of life would be accounted by every one worthy of censure, or, in some cases, of punishment; and it is not possible to conceive it blameless in matters of philosophical speculation, and much less in matters of religion, which have regard to interests of infinitely higher moment. Prejudice is another great obstacle to the proper exercise of the judgment. Indeed, it causes men to maintain or reject opinions, without ever once bringing them to the test of judgment. The belief or disbelief, whatever it may be, has become settled in the mind by a sort of prescription or immemorial usage; it is familiar to us, and dear as a right hand or a right eye; we cannot, we will not, drag it forth to the tribunal. In every man's mind there is a certain vis inertiæ; so that it requires an extraordinary impulse to disturb or to remove that which has once become a fixture. But the will should always exert such an impulse, when it is seen that truth or virtue may be at stake in the question. And if the will omit its part here, it is obvious that a greater or less amount of guilt-wilful guilt—is incurred. But prejudice acts in other ways. We despise or hate a man, for some insufficient cause, it may be. Prejudice extends our contempt or disgust from the person himself to his words and opinions. Let him reason as clearly as he may-let him utter the very persuasions of Wisdom-yet prejudice prompts us to close the avenue of our understanding against all-even like the deaf adder that stoppeth her ears; which refuseth to hear the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely." If in this manner we refuse the truth, our error is our own. It is a strange thing that some religionists actually profess to believe in religion without any operation of the judgment at all. They commend this wholesale irrationality as the sublimest act of faith. They are of the same school as the poor Papist collier, who, when asked what was his belief, replied, "I believe all that the Church believes." "But what does the Church believe?" 66 Truly, Sir, the Church believes as I do." How can such persons "give a reason of the hope that is in them," while they believe irrespectively of all reason? This passive acquiescence in authority may save the mind many doubts and painful inquiries. Reason may thus ensure to herself, in great measure, the indolent gratification of being unused and useless; but such a soul is groping in the dark, never able to come to the knowledge of the truth; it is dark by preference, although the light may be within its reach; and surely it can be rendering no homage to its Maker in neglecting the employment of those faculties, with which it must have been provided only that they might be used. Whatever truth such a person may happen to hit upon, he is right only by chance-by a fortunate mistake, as it were; and no more credit is due to him than if he had been wrong. It is as little a proof of the rectitude of his judgment, that he believes the truth, as it is a proof of a man's acuteness of vision, that he has not fallen into the ditch, though he was walking on its brim with his eyes shut. But, perhaps, an objector will come forward, and say, that such opinions, to be sure, as are injurious to mankind, are deservedly punishable; but that all other opinions, being merely speculative, are utterly innocuous, and, of course, guiltless. Are there, then, no opinions which are injurious to God? Is man all in all? Methinks it becomes poor mortals to pause awhile before they decide that they cannot err in holding sentiments derogatory to the truthfulness, the goodness, the wisdom, the glory of God. We are not competent to assert-unless, indeed, He himself hath told us so that our Creator is quite indifferent to the views which we may form of his character, whether as manifested in the course of providence and in the works of nature, or as deduced by the operations of abstract reasoning. Such a precipitate assumption as this would be to "Snatch from His hand the balance and the rod, And judge his justice, as the God of God!" Let us rather know that "our safest eloquence concerning Him and his ways is our silence, when we confess without confession that his glory is inexplicable, his greatness beyond our capacity and reach. He is above, and we upon earth; therefore it behoveth our words to be wary and few." It is easy to show that this doctrine of our non-accountableness for our opinions must necessarily involve that we are not responsible for our actions. Action always has its origin in opinion; and it is absurd to say that we incur guilt by a wrong deed, but that the belief out of which that wrong deed proceeds is perfectly innocent. Take a case: A man is wronged by another, or imagines himself wronged. His anger boils within him; he contrives revenge; and on the first opportunity plunges a knife into his enemy's bosom. All the time he is brooding vengeance, and until the heat of his fury has subsided, the murderer undoubtedly believes that it is right or fitting to inflict this punishment. on his oppressor. Now, it is ridiculous to assert that, although this fearful act was a flagrant breach of morality, yet the belief itself, whence the act arose, is altogether guiltless or indifferent. Why, the chief part of the crime lies in his entertaining such a belief at all. He was not wrong in doing what he believed to be right, but in allowing his judgment to be biassed or overpowered by his passions, and in not bringing his inclinations to the test of reason or the moral sense. But what would be the effect of the general adoption or carrying out of this dogma? It would strike at the root of all religion, natural as well as revealed. No one would then think it concerned his interest to attain a knowledge of truth; no one would study to acquire those correct notions of morality and virtue which are now conceived a necessary preparation for future happiness. The vagaries of the theorist and the certainties of the philosopher would stand upon an equal footing; and prejudice and fancy would everywhere usurp the place of reason. None need then be at the trouble -"to train the youthful mind, And teach the young idea how to shoot ;" for it could be of little consequence in what direction the mind's opinions might sprout forth-they might wreath and curl themselves in most fantastic wantonness, and it be none the worse. Men might substitute bad for good, or' bitter for sweet, and yet the soul remain as really innocent and virtuous, and as really faithful in the use of the faculties entrusted to it, as though it had constantly sought after truth to the utmost stretch of its capacities. When I look within me, and reflect upon my own understanding, I consider it a solemn trust with which I am charged by God. It is but a poor instrument, I confess; yet I may do much mischief with it, if it be not used carefully and honestly. But unless the will be coincident with the moral sense, the understanding is sadly liable to be misapplied, and the judgment perverted, so as to breed many hurtful errors which might otherwise be altogether avoided. I therefore feel that I must seek to cherish pious affections, and practise holy actions; and in this way I may best hope to learn the truth; for "truth enters into the heart of man when it is empty, and clean, and still.” CHAPTER VII. THE MELANCHOLY MAN INDULGETH IN A SMALL JOKE, AND THEN FALLETH INTO A ROMANTIC MOOD. As I have now wearied myself by so long and serious a meditation, I will e'en recreate my spirit for a moment. My mind inciteth me to versify, and a strange pricking in my organ of individuality prompteth me to be personal. It shall be epigram; and here it is : TO M. PELF, ESQ. When a thousand gallants for Penelope sigh'd, : And a thousand gallants swore they'd have her their bride, By lopping their heads off, great, middling, and small; But how far more blest is Methuselah Pelf Not one rival has he-he's in love with-himself! Or thus: IN HIRRUM. Rivales centum felix jugulavit Ulysses Bah! sorry trash, sorry trash. amusement. What shall I do? Fun is no recreation, epigram is no Hail, mighty Love! a joyous sovereign thou; Thy jewels are, her sighs thy messengers, Her breath thine incense. |