These principles may be confidently stated as facts in the moral constitution of man, challenging the assent of every candid observer of human nature. Several conclusions seem to arise out of them, of the utmost practical importance. We perceive, in the first place, a state which the mind may attain, in which there is such a disruption of its moral harmony, that no power appeals in the mind itself capable of restoring it to a healthy condition. This important fact in the philosophy of human nature has been clearly recognised, from the earliest ages, on the mere principles of human science. It is distinctly stated by Aristotle in his Nicomachean Ethics, where he draws a striking comparison between a man who, being first misled by sophistical reasonings, has gone into a life of voluptuousness, under an impression that he was doing no wrong,—and one who has followed the same course in opposition to his own moral convictions. The former he contends might be reclaimed by argument; but the latter he considers as incurable. In such a state of mind, therefore, it follows, by an induction which cannot be controverted, either that the evil is irremediable and hopeless, or that we must look for a power from without the mind which may afford an adequate remedy. We are thus led to perceive the adaptation and the probability of the provisions of Christianity, where an influence is indeed disclosed to us, capable of restoring the harmony which has been lost, and raising man anew to his place as a moral being. We cannot hesitate to believe that the Power, who framed the wondrous fabric, may thus hold intercourse with it, and redeem it from disorder and ruin. On the contrary, it accords with the highest conceptions we can form of the benevolence of the Deity, that he should thus look upon his creatures in their hour of need; and the system disclosing such communication appears, upon every principle of sound philosophy, to be one of harmony, consistency, and truth. The subject, therefore, leads our attention to that inward change, so often the scoff of the profane, but to which so prominent a place is assigned in the sacred writings, in which a man is said to be created anew by a power from Heaven, and elevated in his whole views and feelings as a moral being. Sound philosophy teaches us, that there is a state in which nothing less than such a complete transformation can restore the man to a healthy moral condition, and that, for producing it, nothing will avail but an influence from without the mind,—a might and a power from the same Almighty One who originally framed it. Philosophy teaches, in the clearest manner, that a portion of mankind require such a transformation; Christianity informs us that it is required by all. When the inductions of science and the dictates of revelation harmonize to this extent, who shall dare to assert that the latter are not truth. Who, that places himself in the presence of a being of infinite purity, will say, he requires not such a change; or that, for the production of it, he needs no agency, beyond the resources of his own mind. If none be found who is entitled to believe he forms the exception, we are forced into the acknowledgement of the truth, so powerfully impressed upon us in the sacred writings, that, in the eye of the Almighty One, no man in himself is righteous; and that his own power avails not for restoring him to a state of moral purity.

From the whole of this inquiry, we see the deep influence of habits, and the fearful power which they may acquire over the whole moral system; considerations of the highest practical interest to those who would prevent the formation of habits of an injurious nature, or who, feeling their influence, strive to be delivered from them. There is indeed a point in this downward course, where the habit has acquired undisputed power, and the whole moral feelings yield to it unresisting submission. Peace may then be within, but that peace is the stillness of death; and, unless a voice from heaven shall wake the dead, the moral being is lost. But, in the progress towards this fearful issue, there maybe a tumult, and a contest, and a strife, and the voice of conscience may still command a certain attention to its warnings. While there are these indications of life, there is yet hope of the man; but on each moment is now suspended his moral existence. Let him retire from the influence of external things; and listen to that voice within, which, though often unheeded, still pleads for God. Let him call to aid those high truths which relate to the presence and inspection of this being of infinite purity, and the solemnities of a life which is to come. Above all, let him look up in humble supplication to that pure and holy One, who is the witness of this warfare,—who will regard it with compassion, and impart his powerful aid. But let him not presumptuously rely on this aid, as if the victory were already secured. The contest is but begun; and there must be a continued effort, and unceasing watchfulness,—a habitual direction of the attention to those truths which, as moral causes, are calculated to act upon the mind,—and a constant reliance upon the power from on high which is felt to be real and indispensable. With all this provision, his progress may be slow; for the opposing principle, and the influence of established moral habits, may be felt contending for their former dominion; but by each advantage that is achieved over them, their power will be broken, and finally destroyed. Now in all this contest towards the purity of the moral being, each step is no less a process of the mind itself than the downward course by which it was preceded. It consists in a surrender of the will to the suggestions of conscience, and a habitual direction of the attention to those truths which are calculated to act upon the moral volitions. In this course, the man feels that he is authorized to look for a might and an influence not his own. This is no imaginary or mysterious impression, which one may fancy that he feels, and then pass on contented with the vision; but a power which acts through the healthy operations of his own mind; it is in his own earnest exertions, as a rational being, to regulate these operations, that he is encouraged to expect its communication; and it is in feeling these assuming the characters of moral health, that he has the proof of its actual presence.

And where is the improbability that the pure and holy One, who framed the wondrous moral being, may thus hold intercourse with it, and impart an influence in its hour of deepest need. According to the utmost of our conceptions, it is the highest of his works,—for he has endowed it with the power of rising to the contemplation of himself, and with the capacity of aspiring to the imitation of his own moral perfections. We cannot, for a moment, doubt, that his eye must reach its inmost movements, and that all its emotions, and desires, and volitions, are exposed to his view. We must believe that he looks with displeasure when he perceives them wandering from himself; and contemplates with approbation the contest, when the spirit strives to throw off its moral bondage, and to fight its way upwards to a conformity to his will. Upon every principle of sound philosophy, all this must be open to his inspection; and we can perceive nothing opposed to the soundest inductions of reason in the belief, that he should impart an influence to the feeble being in this high design, and conduct him to its accomplishment. In all this, in fact, there is so little improbability, that we find it impossible to suppose it could be otherwise. We find it impossible to believe, that such a mental process could go on without the knowledge of him whose presence is in every place,—or that, looking upon it, he should want either the power or the willingness to impart his effectual aid.

But, independently of our conviction of an actual communication from the Deity, there is a power in the mind itself, which is calculated to draw down upon it an influence of the most efficient kind. This is produced by the mental process which we call Faith: and it may be illustrated by an impression which many must have experienced. Let us suppose that we have a friend of exalted intelligence and virtue, who has often exercised over us a commanding influence,—restraining us from pursuits to which we felt an inclination,—exciting us to virtuous conduct,—and elevating, by his intercourse with us, our impressions of a character on which we wished to form our own. Let us suppose that we are removed to a distance from this friend, and that circumstances of difficulty or danger occur, in which we feel the want of a guide and counsellor. In the reflections which the situation naturally gives rise to, the image of our friend is brought before us; an influence is conveyed analogous to that which was often produced by his presence and his counsel;—and we feel as if he were actually present, to tender his advice and watch our conduct. How much would this impression be increased, could we farther entertain the thought, that this absent friend was able, in some way, to communicate with us, so far as to be aware of our present circumstances, and to perceive our efforts to recall the influence of his character upon our own.—Such is the intercourse of the soul with God.—Every movement of the mind is known to him; his eye is present with it, when, in any situation of duty, distress, or mental discipline, the man, under this exercise of faith, realizes the presence and character of the Deity, and solemnly inquires how, in the particular instance, his moral feelings and his conduct will appear in the eye of him who seeth in secret. This is no vision of the imagination, but a fact supported by every principle of sound reason,—the influence which a man brings down upon himself, when, by an effort of his own mind, he thus places himself in the immediate presence of the Almighty. The man who does so in every decision of life is he who lives by faith;—and, whether we regard the inductions of reason, or the dictates of sacred truth, such a man is taught to expect an influence greater and more effectual still. This is a power immediately from God, which shall be to him direction in every doubt,—light in every darkness,—strength in his utmost weakness,—and comfort in all distress;—a power which shall bear upon all the principles of his moral nature, when he carries on the mighty conflict of bringing every desire and every volition under a conformity to the divine will. We again hazard with confidence the assertion, that in all this there is no improbability;—but that, on the contrary, the improbability is entirely on the other side,—in supposing that any such mental process could take place, without the knowledge and the interposition of that incomprehensible One, whose eye is upon all his works.

PART III.

OF THE MORAL PRINCIPLE, OR CONSCIENCE.

There has been much dispute respecting the nature and even the existence of the Moral Principle, as a distinct element of our mental constitution; but this controversy may probably be considered as allied to other speculations of a metaphysical nature, in regard to which a kind of evidence was sought of which the subjects are not susceptible. Without arguing respecting the propriety of speaking of a separate power or principle, we simply contend for the fact, that there is a mental exercise, by which we feel certain actions to be right and certain others wrong. It is an element or a movement of our moral nature which admits of no analysis, and no explanation; and is referable to no other principle than a simple recognition of the fact, which forces itself upon the conviction of every man who looks into the processes of his own mind. Of the existence and the nature of this most important principle, therefore, the evidence is entirely within. We appeal to the consciousness of every man, that he perceives a power which, in particular cases, warns him of the conduct which he ought to pursue, and administers a solemn admonition when he has departed from it. For, while his judgment conveys to him an impression, both of the tendencies and certain of the qualities of actions, he has, besides this, a feeling by which he views the actions with approbation or disapprobation, in reference purely to their moral aspect, and without any regard to their consequences. When we refer to the sacred writings, we find the principle of conscience represented as a power of such importance,—that, without any acquired knowledge, or any actual precepts, it is sufficient to establish, in every man, such an impression of his duty as leaves him without excuse in the neglect of it:—"For when the Gentiles, which have not the law, do by nature the things contained in the law, these, having not the law, are a law unto themselves; which shew the work of the law written in their hearts, then conscience also bearing witness, and their thoughts the meanwhile accusing or else excusing one another." We even find a power assigned to the decisions of conscience, differing in extent only, but not in kind, from the judgment of the Almighty;—"If our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart, and knoweth all things."

The province of conscience then appears to be, to convey to man a certain conviction of what is morally right and wrong, in regard to conduct in individual cases,—and to the general exercise of the desires or affections. This it does independently of any acquired knowledge, and without reference to any other standard of duty. It does, so, by a rule of right which it carries within itself,—and by applying this to the primary moral feelings, that is, the desires and affections, so as to indicate among them a just and healthy balance towards each other. The desires direct us to certain gratifications which we feel to be worthy of acquirement, and the affections lead us to a certain course of conduct which we feel to be agreeable to ourselves, or useful to others. But, to act under the influence of conscience is to perform actions, simply because we feel them to be right, and to abstain from others, simply because we feel them to be wrong,—without regard to any other impression, or to the consequences of the actions either to ourselves or others. He, who on this principle performs an action, though it may be highly disagreeable to him, or abstains from another though it may be highly desirable, is a conscientious man. Such a man, under the influence of habit, comes to act more and more easily under the suggestions of conscience, and to be more and more set free from every feeling and propensity that is opposed to it. Conscience seems therefore to hold a place among the moral powers, analogous to that which reason holds among the intellectual;—and, when we view it in this relation, there appears a beautiful harmony pervading the whole economy of the mind.