and hence originated the phrase sub rosa, confession being made literally under the rose.

The general estimation in which this flower is held, has led us to bestow its name upon beauties, pointers, houses, racehorses and boats. Hardly a stage-chambermaid but bears the name of Rose; hardly a hero or heroine, in a fashionable play or novel, without the euphonious monysyllable forming some portion of his or her appellation. Thus we have Lady Rosewood,' Captain Roseville,' Rosamond,' 'Lieut. Rosemore,' and Lord Rosefield'; and these worthies invariably reside at Rose Villa,' Rose Bank,' or 'Rosedale Hermitage.' Indeed, the world is something sick of roses upon paper, which article itself is frequently rose-colored, perfumed with otto of rose, and laid upon a rose-wood desk.

We have done with the sweets come we to the thorns, without which, neither pleasures nor flowers are to be expected in this world; and this brings us to the moral of our essay. The thornless rose is a worthless thing. Caution is requisite in handling the true flower- since, surrounded by the bristling safeguards of its beauty, it seems to say, with the proud motto of Scotia's arms, Nemo me impune lacessit.'

There is yet another drawback to my favorites. In some delicate constitutions, their fragrance, during the height of their reign, induces a disease very generally known by the name of the rosecold. Persons afflicted with this malady, on the first appearance of the fatal flowers, fly to the rough rocks of the sea-shore, until this (to me) delightful season is over. Lord Byron, in the opening canto of the Bride of the Abydos,' speaks of the east as a clime

'Where the wings of the zephyr, oppressed with perfume,
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in their bloom.'

I would advise the victims of the rose-cold not to waste any time in complaining to the rose, as the nightingale is said to do, but to escape, with all possible speed, to some sea-side retreat, unless, with the fortitude of martyrs, they have made up their minds to

'Die of a rose in aromatic pain.'

I have lingered too long, discoursing of my favorite flower, and it is time to bring this paper to a close. But, before quitting my pen, I would fain record my approbation of the taste which is rapidly banishing all the horrors of death from the external appearance of our grave-yards, and making the last resting-places of our race in the midst of flower-gardens. Looking for the moment of my dissolution with calmness, I would fain be assured that, when I have yielded up my spirit, this poor body shall repose in the scenes which I now haunt with an enthusiastic love

of nature. I would have the sweet, familiar flowers, that I love, planted on the turf that covers me, that I may not be separated, even in death, from the fair and fragile things I have reared.

Mine be the breezy hill, that skirts the down,
Where a green grassy turf is all I crave;
With here and there a violet bestrown,

Fast by a brook, or fountain's murmuring wave,

And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave.'

How finely does Sir Walter Scott make Macgregor exclaim: The heather, that I tread upon while living, shall bloom over me when dead!'

Alas! what are we, even in the pride of manhood, that we should dare to call the flowers frail, standing, as we ever do, upon the brink of that dread passage to the ever-during dark.' Battle and pestilence come upon the face of the earth, and we fall by tens of thousands

Thick as autumnal leaves, that strew the brooks
In Vallombrosa.'

The flower, that we rear to deck the grave, is but an emblem of ourselves:

'All flesh is grass, and all its glory fades,
Like the fair flower dishevel'd in the wind;
Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream.'

To the moralist, the labors of the garden are full of instruction; and, since Nature is the best teacher, surely he who holds daily communion with her, is best prepared for the journey to that land from which no traveler returns.' My own experience speaks strongly in favor of rural employments; and if you, fair reader, would listen to my urging, I would address you in the language of a poet, who is greatly honored by the followers of Flora:

'Hic gelidi fontes, hic mollia prata, Lycori,
Hic nemus, hic toto tecum consumerer ævo.'*

'Come, see what pleasures in our plains abound
The woods, the fountains, and the flowery ground,
Here could I live and love and die with only you.' †

87

ARE GREAT MINDS PRONE TO SKEPTICISM?

The undiscovered country, from whose bourn

No traveler returns, puzzles the will.

Ir a man were to have eyes sensitive to some of the objects in the prospect, but partially or totally blind to others, we should at once pronounce the organs of his vision to be defective; because a good eye implies equal sensibility to whatever is revealed by the light of Heaven. Such a defect is known in those curious cases, in which some people are incapable of distinguishing some colors. Now, in all languages, knowledge has been expressed by a metaphor, or half-metaphor, borrowed from seeing; which shews there is an analogy (perhaps the closest in nature) between the perception of the mind and the function of the eye. In some cases, they act together; and it is impossible to separate them, though we may be able to distinguish. We may say, then, that a good mind should resemble a good eye, and be awake to all the proofs or arguments in the intellectual prospect, which God, the source of knowledge, has spread around it. It is natural to consider our perceptive faculties, intuition, reason, or whatever we choose to call it, as a kind of mental eye. All the possible arguments or proofs, which can be adduced on any side of any question, are a kind of complex landscape, lying around the investigating mind; and, as a good eye discerns all the bright spots and dark corners in the literal horizon, and especially discerns what is the limit of its vision, and where are the boundaries between the clear and obscure; so, I suppose, it is the office of a well-balanced mind, to take all considerations into view-to weigh the force of all proofs, and make its inward belief an exact picture of the external world. The field and the forest, the mountain and the meadow, are not more exactly pictured on the retina of the pleased spectator, than the parts of external truth are reflected in the cautious conclusions of a wise and impartial man.

But this exact balance, this clearness to discern all that is true, and willingness to be impressed by it, certainly implies that we know the weakness of our powers as well as their strength. A good eye discerns not the light alone; it distinguishes the faintest shadow that passes beneath the sun. To see, implies that we clearly know when we do not see. If a man is walking around mountains and comes to a cave, if he have good eyes, he as clearly knows that the cave is dark, as he knows that the atmosphere above it is light. Hence, one of the first articles of knowledge, in a well-regulated mind, is to know its own ignorance. On this, Socrates valued himself; and this part of

knowledge he carefully taught. The wisest and best men have always delighted to dwell on this theme. They have considered a conscious sense of our ignorance as the best motive to awaken that curiosity which leads to improvement. The man that never makes the negative discovery, will never make the positive. 'Creation,' says bishop Butler, is absolutely and entirely out of our depth, and beyond the extent of our utmost reach.

It is, indeed, in general, no more than effects, that the most knowing are acquainted with; for, as to causes, they are as entirely in the dark as the most ignorant. What are the laws by which matter acts upon matter, but certain effects; which some, having observed to be frequently repeated, have reduced to general rules? The real nature and essence of beings, likewise, is what we are altogether ignorant of. All these things are so entirely out of our reach, that we have not the least glimpse of them.'* Such is the condition of man, with all his boasted powers; the best penetration only leads him to discover their weak

ness.

Our knowledge, however, of the fallacy of any instrument we use, naturally leads us to distrust that instrument; and all the objects it may assist us to accomplish. The mind is an instrument as well as an agent. It is the instrument by which we investigate and discover the truth. As the telescope is the instrument by which we look at the stars, and as the magic tool has converted their glittering points into worlds and systems, so reason-which is but the mind reasoning-is the instrument by which we have discovered the truths which lie in the remotest circle of our intellectual vision. But, if the instrument be so very fallacious, how can we help distrusting its results? or, in other words, must not the known ignorance of man produce and justify a very large degree of skepticism? It has always been pretended by infidels, that their doubts in religion were but the result of their superior discernment; their skepticism was but the effect of selfknowledge. All men teach that man has very limited powers — that he reasons to be deceived, and asserts to be confuted. best men have made it a motive of humility that we know so little. The ignorance of man is the universal theme; even revelation itself tells us that we see through a glass darkly. Now, if man be ignorant, he ought to know his ignorance; he ought to know it to the utmost extent. Self-knowledge, then, leads to a distrust of his powers; and distrust of our own powers is but another name for skepticism.

The

It is obvious, too, that some of the finest minds have been remarkable for this suspending of the balance; for this dubious, rather than settled, state of the intellect. Socrates made it his

* Butler's Sermons. Sermon xv.

glory. Cicero considered it the foundation of philosophy. We trace the fragments of it in the writings of Pascal, warm as he was in the cause of religion. Dryden tells us that, being inclined to skepticism in philosophy, he had no reason to impose his opinions on a subject which was above it—namely, religion. Franklin was inclined to the same state of mind; and the most learned men, who have been without this latent skepticism—namely: sense of their own ignorance, sensibility to the force of an objection have in this age lost much of their power over the human mind. I will adduce two examples, of men embracing opposite principles-Calvin and Hobbs. It is well known, that Hobbs has lost his power, as a philosopher, chiefly by his dogmatism. He is a very peculiar instance of a man, opposed to implicit faith, and yet demanding an implicit faith of his own. Of Calvin, I am free to say, that the chief impediment to profit in perusing his writings, is the want of sensibility to human ignorance. He seldom feels the force of an objection. Now, such a man we distrust. We feel as little inclined to allow the force of his conclusions, as we should be to weigh guineas in a pair of scales, which could only turn from an equilibrium on one side.

Such, then, is one of the essential elements of human nature. So is man constituted by God. His powers are weak and fallacious; and it is his duty to know it; knowing it, he becomes inclined to skepticism. The ignorant never doubt; the intelligent must. And this broad propensity must be met some how by the claims of religion.

When we turn to the Bible, at first view it may seem to be very little calculated to meet this state of mind. It requires a confident belief in all its doctrines; it even suspends salvation on the condition of that belief. It seems to be addressed to our fears more than to our reason. When we read the history of some notorious impostor-such, for example, as Matthias, in Luther's day, and Matthias, recently in New-York — we always find two ingredients in his delusion: one is implicit belief in what he says, and the other is, terror used as the chief argument to enforce that belief. In such cases, confidence is the great virtue, and incredulity is the only crime. Now, I apprehend, one of the greatest impediments to the general reception of the gospel, is an apprehended resemblance between its claims and the claims of all other impostors. This apprehension operates far wider than on avowed infidels. Many have felt it secretly checking their confidence in the gospel, who are far from the conclusion deliberately to reject it. They seem to half suspect, at least, that faith is the abandonment of reason; that it is something which sets aside all the ordinary operations of the human powers; something which mistakes the nature of man, and puts confidence and credulity in the place of those very arguments on

VOL. IX.

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