INTO THE PRINCIPLES OF THE MODERN DEISTS; OR, NATURAL RELIGION INSUFFICIENT, AND BY THE LATE REVEREND MR. THOMAS HALYBURTON, PROFESSOR OF DIVINITY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF ST. ANDREWS. A scorner seeketh wisdom and findeth it not: but knowledge is easy unto him that understandeth.-PROV. xiv. 6. If any man will do his will, he shall know of the doctrine, whether it be of God, or whether I speak of myself.-Joнn vii. 17. Solis nosse Deos & cæli numina vobis, Aut solis nescire, datum.-LUCAN. DE DRUID. New-York: PUBLISHED BY THE SOCIETY FOR THE DIFFUSION OF CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE. INTRODUCTION. In this sceptical age, which questions almost every thing, it is still owned as certain, that all men must die. If there were any place for disputing this, there are not a few, who would spare no pains to bring themselves into the disbelief of a truth, that gives them so much disturbance, in the courses they love and seem resolved to follow: but the case is so clear, and the evidence of this principle so pregnant, which is every day confirmed by new experiments, that the most resolved infidel is forced, when it comes in his way, though unwillingly, to give his assent, and moan out an Amen. The grave is the house appointed for all the living. Some arrive sooner, some later; but all come there at length. The obscurity of the meanest cannot hide him, nor the power of the greatest screen him from the impartial hand of death, the executioner of fate, if I may be allowed the use of a word so much abused. As its coming is placed beyond doubt, so its aspect is hideous beyond the reach of thought, the force of expression, or the utmost efforts of the finest pencil in the most artful hand. It, in a moment, dashes down a fabric, which has more of curious contrivance than all the celebrated pieces put together, which the most refined human wits have invented, even when carried to the greatest height, which the improvement of so many subsequent generations, after the utmost of application and diligence, could bring them to. It puts a stop to many thousand motions, which, though strangely diversified, did all concur, with wondrous exactness, to maintain, and carry on the design and intendment of the glorious and Divine Artificer. How this Divine and wonderful machine was first erected, set a going, and has, for so long a tract of time, regularly performed all its motions, could never yet be understood by the most elevated understandings. Canst thou tell how the bones grow in the womb of her that is with child, is a challenge to all the sons of art, to unfold the mystery? Many have accepted it, but all have been foiled. Something they could say: but, in spite of it all, the thing they found a mystery, they left so still. How can one then look on the dissolution of so admirable a contrivance, a machine so curious, and so far surpassing human art, without the deepest and most sensible regret. It untwists that mysterious tie, whereby soul and body were so fast linked together; breaks up that intimate and close correspondence, that entire sympathy which was founded thereon ; dislodges an old inhabitant; and while it lingers, being unwilling to remove, death pulls that curious fabric, wherein it dwelt, down about its ears, and so forces it thence, to take up its lodging, it can scarce tell where. And upon its removal, that curious fabric, that a little before was full of life, activity, vigor, order, warmth, and every thing else that is pleasant, is now left a dead, unactive, cold lump, or disordered mass of loathsome matter, full of stench and corruption. Now the body is a spectacle so hideous, that they who loved, and who embraced it before, WORK cannot abide the sight or smell of it; but shut it up in a coffin, and not content with that, away they carry it and lodge it amongst worms, and the vilest insects in the bowels of the earth, to be consumed, devoured, torn and rent by the most abominable vermin that lodge in the grave. Quantum mutatus ab illo.* We have all heard of the afflictions of Job. Two or three messengers arrive, each after another, and still the last is worst. Every one tells a story. The first is sad; but its still more melancholy that follows. The disaster is so terrible, that it fills the world with just astonishment. And yet after all, what is this to death, which alone is able to furnish subject, more than enough, for some thousands of such melancholy messages! One might bring the dying man the melancholy tidings, that he is divested of all his beneficial, pleasant, and honorable employments: While he is yet speaking, another might be ready to bid him denude himself of all his possessions: A third, to continue the tragedy, might assure him that there is a commission issued out to an impartial hand, to tear him from the embraces of his dear relations, without regarding the hideous outcries of a loving wife, the meltings of tender infants, the intercessions of dear friends: while others continuing still the mournful scene, might assure him that he was no more to relish the fragrancy of the spring, or taste the delights of the sons of men, or see the pleasant light of the sun, or hear the charming airs of music, or the yet more useful converse of friends. And to make the matter sadder still, if it can well be so, the story might be shut up with a rueful account of the parting of soul and body, with all the horrible disasters that follow upon this parting. Thus the case evidently stands. Not a title of all this admits of debate. To every man it may be said, De te fabula narratur. What a wonder is it, that so grave and important a subject is so little in the thoughts of men? What apology can be made for the folly of mankind, who are at so much pains to shelter themselves against lesser inconveniences, quite overlooking this, that is of infinitely greater consequence? Here is the light side of death, which every body may see. What a rueful and astonishing prospect doth it give us? Where shall we find comfort against that dismal day, whereon all this shall be verified in us? He is something worse than a fool or a madman, that will not look to this. And he is yet more mad that thinks, that rational comfort in such a case can be maintained upon dark, slender and conjectural grounds. It is certain, that which must support, must be something on the other side of time. The one side of death affords nothing but matter of terror; if we are not enabled to look forward, and get such a sight of the other as may balance it, we may reasonably say, that it had been been better for us never to have been. Undoubtedly, therefore, no question is so useful, so necessary, so noble, and truly worthy the mind of man as this-What shall become of me after death? What have I to look for on the other side of that awful change? Those arts and sciences which exercise the industry and consideration How greatly changed from what it once was. It is of you that the story is told. INTRODUCTION. In this sceptical age, which questions almost every thing, it is still owned as certain, that all men must die. If there were any place for disputing this, there are not a few, who would spare no pains to bring themselves into the disbelief of a truth, that gives them so much disturbance, in the courses they love and seem resolved to follow: but the case is so clear, and the evidence of this principle so pregnant, which is every day confirmed by new experiments, that the most resolved infidel is forced, when it comes in his way, though unwillingly, to give his assent, and moan out an Amen. The grave is the house appointed for all the living. Some arrive sooner, some later; but all come there at length. The obscurity of the meanest cannot hide him, nor the power of the greatest screen him from the impartial hand of death, the executioner of fate, if I may be allowed the use of a word so much abused. As its coming is placed beyond doubt, so its aspect is hideous beyond the reach of thought, the force of expression, or the utmost efforts of the finest pencil in the most artful hand. It, in a moment, dashes down a fabric, which has more of curious contrivance than all the celebrated pieces put together, which the most refined human wits have invented, even when carried to the greatest height, which the improvement of so many subsequent generations, after the utmost of application and diligence, could bring them to. It puts a stop to many thousand motions, which, though strangely diversified, did all concur, with wondrous exactness, to maintain, and carry on the design and intendment of the glorious and Divine Artificer. How this Divine and wonderful machine was first erected, set a going, and has, for so long a tract of time, regularly performed all its motions, could never yet be understood by the most elevated understandings. Canst thou tell how the bones grow in the womb of her that is with child, is a challenge to all the sons of art, to unfold the mystery? Many have accepted it, but all have been foiled. Something they could say: but, in spite of it all, the thing they found a mystery, they left so still. How can one then look on the dissolution of so admirable a contrivance, a machine so curious, and so far surpassing human art, without the deepest and most sensible regret. It untwists that mysterious tie, whereby soul and body were so fast linked together; breaks up that intimate and close correspondence, that entire sympathy which was founded thereon; dislodges an old inhabitant; and while it lingers, being unwilling to remove, death pulls that curious fabric, wherein it dwelt, down about its ears, and so forces it thence, to take up its lodging, it can scarce tell where. And upon its removal, that curious fabric, that a little before was full of life, activity, vigor, order, warmth, and every thing else that is pleasant, is now left a dead, unactive, cold lump, or disordered mass of loathsome matter, full of stench and corruption. Now the body is a spectacle so hideous, that they who loved, and who embraced it before, AR cannot abide the sight or smell of it; but shut it up in a coffin, and not content with that, away they carry it and lodge it amongst worms, and the vilest insects in the bowels of the earth, to be consumed, devoured, torn and rent by the most abominable vermin that lodge in the grave. Quantum mutatus ab illo.* We have all heard of the afflictions of Job. Two or three messengers arrive, each after another, and still the last is worst. Every one tells a story. The first is sad; but its still more melancholy that follows. The disaster is so terrible, that it fills the world with just astonishment. And yet after all, what is this to death, which alone is able to furnish subject, more than enough, for some thousands of such melancholy messages! One might bring the dying man the melancholy tidings, that he is divested of all his beneficial, pleasant, and honorable employments: While he is yet speaking, another might be ready to bid him denude himself of all his possessions: A third, to continue the tragedy, might assure him that there is a commission issued out to an impartial hand, to tear him from the embraces of his dear relations, without regarding the hideous outcries of a loving wife, the meltings of tender infants, the intercessions of dear friends: while others continuing still the mournful scene, might assure him that he was no more to relish the fragrancy of the spring, or taste the delights of the sons of men, or see the pleasant light of the sun, or hear the charming airs of music, or the yet more useful converse of friends. And to make the matter sadder still, if it can well be so, the story might be shut up with a rueful account of the parting of soul and body, with all the horrible disasters that follow upon this parting. Thus the case evidently stands. Not a title of all this admits of debate. To every man it may be said, De te fabula narratur. What a wonder is it, that so grave and important a subject is so little in the thoughts of men? What apology can be made for the folly of mankind, who are at so much pains to shelter themselves against lesser inconveniences, quite overlooking this, that is of infinitely greater consequence? Here is the light side of death, which every body may see. What a rueful and astonishing prospect doth it give us? Where shall we find comfort against that dismal day, whereon all this shall be verified in us? He is something worse than a fool or a madman, that will not look to this. And he is yet more mad that thinks, that rational comfort in such a case can be maintained upon dark, slender and conjectural grounds. It is certain, that which must support, must be something on the other side of time. The one side of death affords nothing but matter of terror; if we are not enabled to look forward, and get such a sight of the other as may balance it, we may reasonably say, that it had been been better for us never to have been. Undoubtedly, therefore, no question is so useful, so necessary, so noble, and truly worthy the mind of man as this-What shall become of me after death? What have I to look for on the other side of that awful change? Those arts and sciences which exercise the industry and consideration |