ich, had it not been so, might have essentially
changed the view of the case, and have taught me that it was a very
different conclusion at which I ought to have arrived.

At first sight nothing can appear more unreasonable, than that I should
hesitate to admit the seemingly irresistible force of the argument
presented to me. An ingenuous disposition would appear to require that,
the moment the truth, or what seems to be the truth, is set before me,
I should pay to it the allegiance to which truth is entitled. If I do
otherwise, it would appear to argue a pusillanimous disposition, a
mind not prompt and disengaged to receive the impression of evidence,
a temper that loves something else better than the lustre which all
men are bound to recognise, and that has a reserve in favour of ancient
prejudice, and of an opinion no longer supported by reason.

In fact however I shall act most wisely, and in the way most honourable
to my character, if I resolve to adjourn the debate. No matter how
complete the view may seem which is now presented to my consideration,
or how irresistible the arguments: truth is too majestic a divinity,
and it is of too much importance that I should not follow a delusive
semblance that may shew like truth, not to make it in the highest degree
proper that I should examine again and again, before I come to the
conclusion to which I mean to affix my seal, and annex my sanction,
"This is the truth." The ancient Goths of Germany, we are told, had a
custom of debating every thing of importance to their state twice, once
in the high animation of a convivial meeting, and once in the serene
stillness of a morning consultation. Philip of Macedon having decided a
cause precipitately, the party condemned by him immediately declared his
resolution to appeal from the sentence. And to whom, said the king, wilt
thou appeal? To Philip, was the answer, in the entire possession of his
understanding.

Such is the nature of the human mind--at least, such I find to be the
nature of my own--that many trains of thinking, many chains of evidence,
the result of accumulated facts, will often not present themselves, at
the time when their presence would be of the highest importance.
The view which now comes before me is of a substance so close and
well-woven, and of colours so brilliant and dazzling, that other matters
in a certain degree remote, though of no less intrinsic importance, and
equally entitled to influence my jud