By certain intellectual operations, man acquires the knowledge of a series of facts,—he remembers them,—he separates and classifies them,—and forms them into new combinations. But, with the most active exercise of all these operations, his mind might present an accumulation of facts, without order, harmony, or utility;—without any principle of combination, or combined only in those fantastic and extravagant forms which appear in the conceptions of the maniac. It is Reason that reduces the whole into order and harmony,—by comparing, distinguishing, and tracing their true analogies and relations,—and then by deducing truths as conclusions from the whole. It is in this manner particularly, that a man acquires a knowledge of the uniform actions of bodies on each other,—and, confiding in the uniformity of these actions, learns to direct his means to the ends which he has in view. He knows also his own relations to other sentient beings,—and adapts his conduct to them, according to the circumstances in which he is placed,—the persons with whom he is connected,—and the objects which he wishes to accomplish. He learns to accommodate his measures to new circumstances as they arise,—and thus is guided and directed through his physical relations. When reason is suspended, all this harmony is destroyed. The visions of the mind are acted upon as facts; things are combined into fantastic forms, entirely apart from their true relations;—conduct is widely at variance with what circumstances require;—ends are attempted by means which have no relation to them;—and the ends themselves are equally at variance with those which are suitable to the circumstances of the individual. Such is the maniac, whom accordingly we shut up, to prevent him from being dangerous to the public;—for he has been known to mistake so remarkably the relation of things, and the conduct adapted to his circumstances, as to murder his most valuable friend, or his own helpless infant.
In all this process there is a striking analogy to certain conditions of the moral feelings, and to the control which is exercised over them by the principle of Conscience. By self-love, a man is led to seek his own gratification or advantage;—and the desires direct him to certain objects by which these propensities may be gratified. But the affections carry forth his views to other men with whom he is connected by various relations, and to the offices of justice, veracity, and benevolence, which arise out of them. Conscience is the regulating power, which, acting upon the desires and affections, as reason does upon a series of facts, preserves among them harmony and order. It does so by repressing the propensity of selfishness, and reminding the man of the true relation between regard to his own interest and the duties he owes to other men. It regulates his senses and pursuits, by carrying his views beyond present feelings and present gratifications, to future times and future consequences,—and by raising his attention to his relation to the great moral Governor of the universe. He thus learns to adapt his conduct and pursuits, not to present and transient feelings, but to an extended view of his great and true interests as a moral being. Such is conscience,—still, like reason, pointing out the moral ends a man ought to pursue, and guiding him in the means by which he ought to pursue them;—and the man does not act in conformity with the constitution of his nature, who does not yield to conscience the supremacy and direction over all his other feelings and principles of action. But the analogy does not stop here;—for we can also trace a condition in which this controlling influence of conscience is suspended or lost. I formerly endeavoured to trace the manner in which this derangement arises, and have now only to allude to its influence on the harmony of the moral feelings. Self-love degenerates into low selfish gratification: the desires are indulged without any other restraint than that which arises from a mere selfish principle,—as a regard to health, perhaps in some degree to reputation; the affections are exercised only in so far as similar principles impose a certain degree of attention to them: present and momentary impulses are acted upon, without any regard to future results: conduct is adapted to present gratification, without the perception either of its moral aspect, or its consequences to the man himself as a responsible being; and without regard to the means by which these feelings are gratified. In all this violation of moral harmony, there is no derangement of the ordinary exercise of judgment. In the most remarkable example that can be furnished by the history of human depravity, the man may be as acute as ever in the details of business or the pursuits of science. There is no diminution of his sound estimate of physical relations,—for this is the province of reason. But there is a total derangement of his sense and approbation of moral relations,—for this is conscience. Such a condition of mind, then, appears to be, in reference to the moral feelings, what insanity is in regard to the intellectual. The intellectual maniac fancies himself a king, surrounded by every form of earthly splendour,—and this hallucination is not corrected even by the sight of his bed of straw and all the horrors of his cell. The moral maniac pursues his way, and thinks himself a wise and a happy man:—- but feels not that he is treading a downward course, and is lost as a moral being.
In the preceding observations respecting the moral principle or conscience, I have alluded chiefly to its influence in preserving a certain harmony among the other feelings,—in regulating the desires by the indications of moral purity,—and presenting self-love from interfering with the duties and affections which we owe to other men. But there is another and a most important purpose which is answered by this faculty, and that is to make us acquainted with the moral attributes of the Deity. In strict philosophical language we ought perhaps to say, that this high purpose is accomplished by a combined operation of conscience and reason; but, however this may be, the process appeals clear and intelligible in its nature, and fully adapted to the end now assigned to it. From a simple exercise of mind, directed to the great phenomena of nature, we acquire the knowledge of a First Cause,—a being of infinite power and infinite wisdom; and this conclusion is impressed upon us in a peculiar manner, when, from our own bodily and mental endowments, we infer the attributes of him who framed us:—"he that planted the ear," says a sacred writer, "shall he not hear;—he that formed the eye, shall he not see;—he that teacheth man knowledge, shall not he know?" When we trace backwards a series of finite yet intelligent beings, we must arrive at one of two conclusions:—We must either trace the series through an infinite and eternal succession of finite beings, each the cause of the one which succeeded it;—or we must refer the commencement of the series to one great intelligent being, himself uncaused, infinite, and eternal. To trace the series to one being, finite, yet uncaused, is totally inadmissible; and not less so is the conception of finite beings in an infinite and eternal series. The belief of one infinite being, self-existent and eternal, is, therefore, the only conclusion at which we can arrive, as presenting any characters of credibility or truth. The superintending care, the goodness, and benevolence of the Deity, we learn, with a feeling of equal certainty, from the ample provision he has made for supplying the wants and ministering to the comfort of all the creatures whom he has made. This part of the argument, also, is in the clearest manner insisted upon in the sacred writings; when the apostle Paul, in calling upon the people of Lystra to worship the true God, who made heaven and earth, adds, as a source of knowledge from which they ought to learn his character;—"he left not himself without a witness, in that he did good, and gave us rain from heaven and fruitful seasons, filling our hearts with food and gladness."
A being, thus endowed with infinite power, wisdom, and goodness, we cannot conceive to exist without moral feelings; and, by a process equally obvious, we arrive at a distinct knowledge of these, when, from the moral perceptions of our own minds, we infer the moral attributes of him who thus formed us. We have certain impressions of justice, veracity, compassion, and moral purity, in regard to our own conduct,—we have a distinct approbation of these qualities in others,—and we attach a feeling of disapprobation to the infringement of them. By a simple step of reasoning, which conveys an impression of absolute conviction, we conclude, that he, who formed us with these feelings, possesses, in his own character, corresponding moral attributes, which, while they resemble in kind, must infinitely exceed in degree, those qualities in the wisest and the best of men. In our actual observation of mankind, we perceive these attributes impaired in their exercise by human weakness, distorted by human passion,—and impeded in their operation by personal wants, personal feelings, and selfish interests. But, apart from such deteriorating causes, we have a certain abstract idea of the full and perfect exercise of those qualities; and it is in this pure and perfect form that we ascribe them to the Almighty. In him, they can be impeded by no weakness,—distorted by no passion, and impaired in their operation by no personal interest. We therefore conclude him to be perfect in the exercise of all these moral attributes, and to take the most rigid estimate of any infringement of them by man:—this is what we call the holiness of God. Even the man, who has himself departed from moral rectitude, still feels a power within, which points with irresistible force to what is purity, and fixes upon him a conviction that God is pure.
When we view such a Being, apart from any inferior creature, all seems harmony and consistency;—we have only to contemplate him as high and holy, and enjoying perfect happiness in his own spotless attributes. But, when we view him in relation to man in a state of moral discipline, and, in that state, tainted deeply with moral evil, a difficulty arises of an appalling magnitude. There is ample scope now, we perceive, for the exercise of his holiness, veracity, and justice; and he appeals in sublime and terrible majesty, in his exalted character as a moral governor. But, amid such a display, there is an obvious interruption to the exercise of compassion,—especially in that essential department of it,—mercy or forgiveness. This attribute may be exercised without restraint by an individual, where his own interests alone are concerned, because in him it involves only a sacrifice of self-love. But forgiveness in a moral governor either implies an actual change of purpose, or supposes a former decision to have been made without sufficient knowledge of, or due attention to, all the facts by which he ought to have been influenced;—it denotes either undue rigour in the law, or ignorance or inattention in him who administers it, and it may very often interfere with the essential requisites of justice. But, in a moral governor of infinite perfection, there can be neither ignorance of facts nor change of purpose;—the requirements of his justice must stand unshaken; and his law, written on the hearts of all his rational creatures, must be upheld, in the face of the universe, as holy, and just, and good. Is, then, the exercise of mercy to be excluded from our conception of the divine character,—and is there no forgiveness with God.—The soundest inductions of philosophy, applied to the actual state of man, bring us to this momentous question; but the highest efforts of human science fail to answer it. It is in this our utmost need, that we are met by the dictates of revelation, and are called to humble the pride of our reason before that display of the harmony and integrity of the divine character. We there learn the truths, far beyond the inductions of human science, and the utmost conceptions of human thought,—that an atonement is made, a sacrifice offered;—and that the exercise of forgiveness is consistent with the perfections of the Deity. Thus, by a process of the mind itself, which seems to present every element of fair and logical reasoning, we arrive at a full conviction of the necessity, and the moral probability, of that truth which forms the great peculiarity of the Christian revelation. More than any other in the whole circle of religious belief it rises above the inductions of science, while reason, in its soundest conclusions, recognises its probability, and receives its truth; and it stands forth alone, simply proposed to our belief, and offered to our acceptance, on that high but peculiar evidence by which is supported the testimony of God.
The truth of these considerations is impressed upon us in the strangest manner, when we turn our attention to the actual moral condition of mankind. When we contemplate man, as he is displayed to us by the soundest inductions of philosophy,—his capacity for distinguishing truth from falsehood, and evil from good; the feelings and affections which bind him to his fellow men, and the powers which enable him to rise to intercourse with God:—when we consider the power, which sits among his other principles and feelings, as a faithful monitor and guide, carrying in itself a rule of rectitude without any other knowledge, and a right to govern without reference to any other authority; we behold a fabric complete and harmonious in all its parts, and eminently worthy of its Almighty Maker;—we behold an ample provision for peace, and order, and harmony, in the whole moral world. But, when we compare with these inductions the actual state of man, as displayed to us in the page of history, and in our own daily observation, the conviction is forced upon us, that some mighty change has taken place in this beauteous system, some marvellous disruption of its moral harmony. The manner in which this condition arose,—or the origin of moral evil under the government of God, is a question entirely beyond the reach of the human faculties.—It is one of those, however, on which it is simply our duty to keep in mind, that our business is, not with the explanation, but with the facts;—for, even by the conclusions of philosophy, we are compelled to believe, that man has fallen from his high estate,—and that a pestilence has gone abroad over the face of the moral creation.
In arriving at this conclusion, it is not with the inductions of moral science alone, that we compare or contrast the actual state of man. For one bright example has appeared in our world, in whom was exhibited human nature in its highest state of order and harmony. In regard to the mighty purposes which he came to accomplish, indeed, philosophy fails us, and we are called to submit the inductions of our reason to the testimony of God. But, when we contemplate his whole character purely as a matter of historical truth,—the conviction is forced upon us, that this was the highest state of man;—and the inductions of true science harmonize with the impression of the Roman Centurion, when, on witnessing the conclusion of the earthly sufferings of the Messiah, he exclaimed—"truly this was the Son of God."
When we endeavour to trace the manner, in which mankind have departed so widely from this high pattern, we arrive at moral phenomena of which we can offer no explanation. But an inquiry of much greater importance is to mark the process by which, in individual instances, conscience ceases to be the regulating principle of the character; and this is a simple and legitimate object of philosophical observation. There cannot, indeed, be an inquiry of more intense and solemn interest, than to trace the chain of sequences which has been established in the mind of man as a moral being. We can view it only as a matter of fact, without being able to refer it to any other principle than the will of Him who framed us;—but the facts which are before us claim the serious attention of every man, who would cultivate that most important of all pursuits,—the knowledge of his own moral condition. The fact to which I chiefly allude is a certain relation, formerly referred to, between the truths which are calculated to act upon us as moral causes, and the mental emotions which ought to result from them;—and between these emotions and a certain conduct which they tend to produce. If the due harmony between these be carefully cultivated, the result is a sound moral condition; but by every instance in which this harmony is violated, a morbid influence is introduced, which gains strength in each succeeding volition, and carries disorder through the moral economy. We have formerly illustrated this important moral process, by the relation between the emotion of compassion, and the conduct which ought to arise from it. If this tendency of the emotion be diligently cultivated, the result is the habit of active benevolence;—but, if the emotion be violated, its influence is progressively diminished, and a character is produced of cold and barren selfishness.