The Rational Creation

Rational Faculties and Affections in Man

Peculiarity of Man's Constitution.—What is man? There is no inquiry that is surrounded with greater difficulties than this. In studying material philosophy, we can have recourse to experiment and observation, in order to test the accuracy of our conjectures; and in theology we have Revelation to guide our steps; but we have no such aids to assist us in pursuing our inquiry into the nature of the human mind. At the same time, no subject more urgently demands our attention. It is not only in itself highly interesting and important, but the relation in which it stands, both to Natural and to Revealed Religion, requires us to bestow upon it a careful and attentive investigation.

Some writers, who have published treatises on the science of mind, take no notice of the mental peculiarities that distinguish man from the other inhabitants of the earth. Some seem to think that the only distinction between the faculties of man and those of the beast, consists in the superior strength and activity which these faculties manifest in the human race. Others, such as Gall and some phrenologists, enumerate certain powers and emotions which they describe as peculiar to man; but these powers are represented as precisely similar in character to those that are found in other creatures, and consequently, on this supposition, all animals here below are essentially the same in their nature, and man only differs from the others in being more largely endowed. It may also be remarked, that the faculties and feelings which Gall enumerates as peculiar to man, for example, reverence or respect to superior power, are very evidently manifested, though in an imperfect and modified form, in various tribes of the irrational creatures.

The inquiries which we have made have brought us to a very different conclusion. We regard the soul of man as altogether different, both, in its nature and in its destiny, from the spirit that animates the beast. In addition to the material frame which he possesses, in common with all creatures animate and inanimate here below, he has within him the principle of organization, by which he is associated with the animal and vegetable world, and distinguished from the mineral and inorganic creation. He has again, the spirit of animal life, with its corresponding faculties and feelings, by which he is distinguished from the herb and tree, and allied to the animated tribes. And, in addition to all these, he has also a soul, a living principle, altogether distinct from anything found in the other tribes of earthborn beings, and the possession of which renders him as much superior to the lower animals, as they are superior to the plant, and as the plant is superior to the stone.

In support of these opinions we propose, in the first place, to adduce some general considerations which lead us to believe that the soul of man is essentially different in its nature from the living principle that animates the lower orders of creation; and in the next place, and more especially, to shew, by an examination of the faculties and desires that are peculiar to man, that he is higher than the creatures around him, both in nature and in destiny.

 

General considerations inducing the belief that the soul of man is essentially different in its nature from the animating principle of the irrational creation.

I. The general belief of mankind in regard to the nature of the soul leads to this conclusion.—It is needless to adduce proofs to shew that in every age, and in every state of society, the soul of man has been considered as essentially different from the spirit that animates the brute. It is sufficient to mention the fact, and to remark that, though the prevalence of an opinion would in general form a very insecure foundation for hypothesis, yet when we find this belief almost universally entertained, and when we remember that on this subject men have abundant opportunities of observing and determining, we must not look on the fact of its prevalence as an argument altogether destitute of weight. The common sense and common feeling of mankind, in matters within the reach of their observation, are generally far more accurate than the metaphysical speculations of philosophers, more especially when these speculations have been adduced in order to support some favourite theory or fanciful hypothesis. The language used by Dr. Chalmers, when treating of a different subject, is strikingly applicable here. "We are not to estimate the strength or clearness of that Natural Theology which obtains throughout the mass of our population, by the impression of our scientific arguments upon their understandings,—whether these be metaphysical, or drawn from the study of external nature. Whether they comprehend the reasoning that is grounded on the arrangements of the material world or not, they are in immediate contact with other phenomena which far more promptly and far more powerfully convince them."*

* Chalmers's Natural Theology, vol. ii.

2. The works which man carries on shew a peculiar exaltation of nature.—When we pass through a country where man is unknown, we find the trees of the forest raising their giant boughs aloft, while no hatchet threatens their fall. The jungle spreads over the ground, and no mattock approaches to tear up its tangled roots. The streams rush down the declivities unconfined by breakwater or dam, the stagnant water slumbers in the marsh in undisturbed repose, and the mineral treasures of the earth rest in their primeval beds unnoticed and unknown. The beast of prey exhibits his cunning in his stealthy attack on the unsuspecting victim, the animal which he pursues shows its skill in its artful endeavours to elude his grasp; the different tribes of animated creatures manifest the various instincts with which they are endowed; but the nest of the bird and the dam of the beaver are the most favourable evidences we find of contrivance and skill. How different is the scene when the colonist has landed and taken possession! The leafy patriarchs of the forest bend beneath his stroke, their massive trunks and spreading boughs are sawn into timber to build his ships, and to furnish his dwellings. The ploughshare passes over the plain, and waving fields of corn occupy the place where the jungle covered the soil; the marsh is drained by his skill, and verdant pastures afford nourishment to the flock and the herd, where formerly the alligator wallowed in the noxious swamp. The rocks are broken to build his cities, and the wealth of the mineral vein is fabricated into his tools. The streams are diverted from their course, and compelled to turn his machines; the devouring flame is made a submissive and serviceable ally; the ocean is taught to bear his burdens; and the winds of heaven convey his vessels to the distant shore. Inanimate nature confesses him its lord, and the lower animals yield submission to his sway. The lion and the tiger flee from his weapon, while the horse and the elephant bend their neck to the burden, and bear the yoke of man. In all this there is certainly abundant evidence to shew that man is distinguished from the other creatures, not only in the extent, but in the nature of his powers, and that in this lower world at least he stands alone. The natural historian tells us of many thousand species of living creatures that now people the globe; but in none of all the multitude do we find any trace of an intellect that may for a moment be compared to that of man. The works which he carries on shew that he is possessed of a superior nature; that he is not to be regarded merely as the ablest and most intelligent of a class, essentially the same in their nature, but must be placed in an order of his own, far more exalted than that of any other creature here below.

3. The manner in which knowledge is acquired by man shews an essential distinction between him and the lower creatures. When we carefully examine the actions of infants, and compare them with those of the young of other animals, we see a very remarkable distinction between them. As was formerly observed, excepting the instinctive operations of sucking, breathing, swallowing, sleeping, smiling, and crying, the child of man has everything to learn. He must be taught to walk, to speak, and to discriminate between good and evil. He learns from long, and sometimes painful experience, to recognise objects by the appearances which they exhibit, by the sounds they emit, and by the tastes and odours which they exhale. The case is very different with regard to the offspring of other animals. So soon as their limbs acquire sufficient strength to sustain their weight, they give evident proof that they know how to use them. The new-dropped lamb begins to walk, recognises the voice of its mother, and knows where to find the teat that supplies its repast. The duckling, newly hatched, betakes itself to the water, and begins to swim. The chicken, so soon as it leaves the shell, is able to walk, and picks up the crumbs and grains of corn that are suited for its support. Even at that early period of its existence, it can judge of the nature and position of different objects by the appearance they present to the eye. This is a power which a careful observation of the action of infants clearly proves to be one which man acquires but slowly, and after many a vain attempt to grasp at things beyond his reach. In the chicken we see, besides, a skill in selecting those substances that are suitable for food, a power of discriminating between good and evil, between the indigestible and the nourishing, very different from the blind desire that is manifested by children to put everything, whether wholesome or pernicious, into their mouths. In observing the operations of the feathered race when they have reached maturity, we see every bird, without any teacher to give it instructions, preparing for its young the nest which their nature and constitution require. The little wren builds a house for her offspring of thickly matted moss, with a close and warm roof, and lines it with the greatest care, for her young ones are naturally chilly, and require more than usual protection. The pigeon, on the other hand, lays her eggs on the cleft of the rock, or on a few small twigs laid loosely across the branches of a tree, as if she were aware that closer confinement would be injurious. The coot gathers the stems of rushes together, and builds a floating ark, which she moors to the reeds around it that her young may have a fixed habitation in the midst of the moving element in which they delight. Every bird has its appropriate style of architecture, selects the spot best fitted for her building, and collects the materials that are best adapted to the purposed erection, without instruction and without experience. The bird of one year old shews a knowledge of the work required, and a dexterity in accomplishing it, that receives little, if any, improvement by the experience of successive seasons.

Many similar facts might be adduced, not only of birds and quadrupeds, but of insects, such as the wasp and the bee.

To what faculty or power are we to ascribe these operations? They are not the effect of instinct, if instinct be "a power which, without any intelligent regard to consequences, accomplishes a purpose of which the animal is ignorant." In constructing her nest, the bird has a distinct object in view, proceeds most intelligently in accomplishing it, and frequently shews no small skill in accommodating her operations to the circumstances in which she is placed. In running and swimming, in picking up the food that is suited for their nourishment, the chicken and duckling exhibit an intelligence far superior to that which is manifested by the child of man at the corresponding period of his growth. From what source is this knowledge and intelligence derived? It must either be the immediate and direct gift of the Creator, or it must be derived from the parent by inheritance. The prevailing opinion inclines to the former supposition. We shall, however, adduce some arguments to shew, that the usually received opinion as to the immediate and direct communication of their intelligence to the irrational creatures by the Creator, is at least questionable, and that it may more probably be regarded as a gift given to the species at the first, and communicated, along with a portion of the knowledge acquired by experience, by a kind of paternal inheritance to each succeeding generation.

The circumstances to which we refer are the facts which go to prove that the lower animals, in some measure, inherit the acquired accomplishments of their parents. This has often been remarked in the case of pointer and spaniel dogs; but other instances might be multiplied, if attention were carefully directed to the subject. "Knight, in his paper read before the Royal Society, chiefly dwells on the case of springing spaniels, and among other instances gives this, which is indeed very remarkable. He found the young and untaught ones as skilful as the old ones, not only in finding and raising the woodcocks, but in knowing the exact degree of frost which will drive those birds to springs and rills of unfrozen water. He gives the instance, too, of a young retriever, bred from a clever and thoroughly taught parent, which, being taken out at ten months old, with hardly any instruction at all, behaved as well, as knowingly, as the best taught spaniel, in rushing into the water for game that was shot, when pointed out to it, however small, bringing it and depositing it, and then going again, and when none remained, seeking the sportsman and keeping by him. He imported some Norwegian ponies, mares, and had a breed from them. It was found that the produce 'had no mouth,' as the trainers say, and it was impossible to give it them; but they were otherwise perfectly docile. Now, in Norway, draught horses, as I know, having travelled there and driven them, are all trained to go by the voice, and have no mouth. Again: he observed that they could not be kept between hedges, but walked deliberately through them,—there being, he supposes, none in the country from which their dams came."*— "A race of dogs employed for hunting deer in the platform of Santa Fé, in Mexico, affords a beautiful illustration of a new hereditary instinct. The mode of attack, observes M. Roulin, which they employ, consists in seizing the animal by the belly, and overturning it by a sudden effort, taking advantage of the moment when the body of the deer rests only upon the fore-legs. The weight of the animal thus thrown over is often six times that of its antagonist. The dog of pure breed inherits a disposition to this kind of chase, and never attacks a deer from before while running. Even should the deer, not perceiving him, come directly upon him, the dog slips aside and makes his assault on the flank, whereas other hunting dogs, though of superior strength and general sagacity, which are brought from Europe, are destitute of this instinct.

* Brougham's Dialogues on Instinct.

For want of similar precautions they are often killed by the deer on the spot, the vertebræ of their neck being dislocated by the violence of the shock. A new instinct has also become hereditary in the mongrel race of dogs employed by the inhabitants of the Magdalena in hunting the white-lipped pecari. The address of these dogs consists in restraining their ardour, and attaching themselves to no animal in particular, but keeping the whole herd in check. Now, among these dogs, some are found which, the very first time they are taken to the woods, are acquainted with this mode of attack; whereas a dog of another breed starts forward at once, is surrounded by the pecari, and, whatever may be his strength, is destroyed in a moment."— "The amble, a pace to which the domestic horses in some parts of Spanish America are exclusively trained, has, in the course of several generations, become hereditary, and is assumed by all the young colts before they are broken in."— "In the Gallipagos archipelago, nearly 600 miles west from the American continent, all the terrestrial birds, the finches, doves, hawks, and others, are so tame that they may be killed with a switch. Formerly, when the first Europeans landed, and found no inhabitants in these islands, the birds were even tamer than they are now; already they are beginning to acquire that dread of man which, in countries long settled, is natural even to young birds which have never received any injury. So in the Falkland Isles, both the birds and foxes are entirely without fear of man; whereas in the adjoining mainland, many of the same species are extremely wild, having been for ages persecuted by the natives."*

* Lyell's Principles of Geology.

It is in consequence of the offspring of the lower animals inheriting their parents' capacities, and, in some measure, their parents' acquirements, that man is enabled to tame the different creatures which he has brought under his subjection. Were it otherwise, though he might render individuals familiar, the species would still be wild. The common mallard and the duck of the poultry-yard are found by naturalists to belong to the same species, but the produce of the wild duck's egg, though hatched by a bird of the domestic breed, is a wild duck still. It may, to a certain extent, be tamed, it may even be made familiar with the person that feeds it, but it retains the propensities of its race, and continues in its habits, wild and roving, It seems to be only after ages of domestication that these habits are changed.

While the lower animals thus inherit not only the appetites and faculties of their parents, but not a little even of their acquired information, man inherits but in a limited degree his parent's capacity—the son of the learned may never rise even to mediocrity, and the child of the genius may be a fool; and in no case does the acquired information of the parent descend to his offspring. As was formerly observed, man's information must either be learned by experience, or by direct instruction.

There is thus a manifest distinction between man and the lower creatures in regard to the manner in which their knowledge is acquired. The subject is unquestionably dark, and hypotheses must be stated with caution; still, however, in the circumstances we have enumerated, there scenic ground for concluding that the soul of man is essentially different in its nature from the animating spirit of the irrational creation.

The general considerations which have been adduced may not be regarded as of themselves sufficient to establish the truth of the statement in support of which they have been brought forward; but they serve at least to chew its probability, and thus form a suitable introduction to our examination of the Faculties and Affections of the Rational Mind, by which we hope to find our doctrine fully confirmed.

 

Reason

The primary characteristic by which reason is distinguished from mere animal intelligence, and the understanding of man from the sagacity of the brute, seems to be the power by which we form an idea of a quality or attribute, as something distinct and separate from the object in which it resides.

This faculty enables us to attach a meaning to such terms as whiteness and hardness, without having before our minds any particular object in which these properties reside. It enables us to form an intelligent notion of sentiments and emotions, such as hatred and love, without our having any immediate reference to the objects that awaken these emotions, or to the effects which they produce. It compares together the various facts brought under notice by the exercise of the other faculties; it decides upon their nature, and classifies circumstances, persons, and things, according to the qualities which they exhibit. It observes the working, and traces the origin, of emotions and sentiments, and enables us to decide on the character of actions, by tracing them to the motives from which they proceed. It takes cognizance of essential properties and abstract relations.

Various names have been given to this power, according to the nature of the operation in which it is engaged.

Abstraction is employed to denote its more simple and ordinary operation, when we examine into the nature and properties of the objects around us. Like the chemist, who extracts from the various herbs employed in medicine the essences in which their virtue consists, and who thereby enables the physician to preserve them uninjured, and to apply them with effect, it deduces general principles from observation and experiment, and draws practical lessons for the guidance of our conduct from the multitudinous occurrences with which memory is stored.

Reflection, in its more appropriate signification, denotes the effort by which the mind, having collected together a variety of similar facts, deduces from an examination of their properties some general principle, which constitutes the original cause of their characteristic and distinctive peculiarity. It determines, if we may so express it, the nature of the secret force that puts the machine in motion, from an examination of the movement that has been communicated to the various parts of which the mechanism consists. It infers the nature of general causes from a comparison and induction of particular results.

Deduction and Argument are commonly used to denote the process by which we deduce conclusions from an examination of first principles, and from our knowledge of the effects produced by different causes, determine the probable consequences that will result, if these causes be brought into operation in any given conjuncture.

Attention.—The power of abstraction imparts a peculiar character to the operation of the rational mind when its attention is excited. The lower creatures have their attention aroused by present sensation, or remembrance of external occurrences. Man has the faculty of turning his thoughts to whatever objects he may desire to investigate, whether they be present before his senses, shrouded in the recesses of the past, or hidden in the remotest obscurities of the future.

Imagination is the power by which we group together ideas selected at pleasure from those which memory supplies, and by which we clothe, as it were, one object with the qualities that belong to another, and thus form new and ideal combinations.

All these operations of the mind seem to be dependent on the peculiar principle by which we form, what have been usually termed abstract ideas, and by which we are led to look on different appearances as the necessary results of certain qualities in the objects around us.

It is extremely difficult to describe with precision the functions that belong to the Rational faculty of which we are now speaking. But it is very evident that when we compare it with the perceptive and reflective powers, formerly described, we must look on it as standing alone. It is not one of a multitude, par inter pares. It is not one of a company equal in influence and similar in nature. Its office is peculiar and its influence is supreme. It is the builder by whom the edifice of demonstration is erected; the other faculties are merely the labourers that bring in the materials. It is the general that directs the onward march of argument; the others are merely the scouts that bring in intelligence, the messengers that convey his orders, and the subordinates that execute his commands.

At the same time it is only through the exercise of the inferior faculties and senses, that the soul can acquire any knowledge of that which is external to itself, and only through them that it can hold communication with others. It is, therefore, exceedingly difficult, in a great many mental phenomena, to draw a line of distinction between that which is peculiar to the agent, and that which is due to the instruments employed. And so manifold are the perplexities with which it is beset, that there is little hope we shall ever be able fully to elucidate the subject, till the time arrive when the soul and body shall part, and we shall learn by experience the nature and properties of the spirit " unclothed."

Language.—There is probably no distinction between the rational and the irrational creation that so readily attracts the attention of the casual observer as the faculty of speech in man, and the want of it in other creatures.

Some authors have endeavoured to controvert this generally received opinion, by referring to the various signs and inarticulate cries by which animals communicate to each other their intentions and desires; but a very brief examination of what has been called the language of beasts will be sufficient to shew the wide difference that exists between it and the language of men. The sounds uttered by animals are merely the instinctive expressions by which they make known the desires and sensations which they experience at the time. When the dog, for example, finds himself in want, whether he is hungry and requires food, or in confinement and wishes for freedom, he gives expression to his feelings by whining and howling; when he is irritated, he shews his anger by snarling and growling; when he is frightened, or in pain, he expresses his apprehension or suffering by yelping; and when startled by a stranger's approach, he shews his alarm by barking. The utterance of these sounds awakens sympathy, more especially in other animals of the same species, and may thus enable him to obtain the end he desires. All his varied notes, and there is none of the lower creatures that possesses so extensive a vocabulary, only express present sensations, and beyond this his language does not go. The same remarks may be made in regard to all the signs and sounds that are made use of by the various tribes of irrational creatures.

The language of man is based on an altogether different principle. When we turn to the philologist and grammarian, and make inquiry as to the number and character of the word which men employ, they tell us that there are eight or nine different classes of words, or parts of speech, as they are usually termed. On further inquiry, however, we find that one-half of these, the indeclinable parts of speech, as the Latin grammarians called them, are but abbreviated forms of the others. The conjunction if, for example, is a corruption of gif, the old imperative of the verb to give. The adverbs when and while are nouns denoting a space of time, of which while is still employed as a noun, though when in that acceptation has become obsolete. Those who wish to see this inquiry carried out to its full extent, may consult Horne Tooke's Diversions of Purley, in which the statement made above is fully demonstrated.

When we examine into the nature of the remaining parts of speech, we find no difficulty in referring the article and pronoun to the adjective and noun. Words are thus found to consist of three general classes, or divisions, the adjective, the verb, and the noun; and these, on farther examination, are found in fact to form but one. They all denote qualities or properties, and may be classed under the definition usually given of an adjective,— "a word that denotes some quality or circumstance." "The verb denotes either action, or the endurance of an action." The performing of an action and the enduring of an action are merely two different classes of qualities, and the relationships of time and dependence, which constitute the distinction between tenses and moods, are merely "circumstances" connected with them. The substantive or noun is said to be "the name of a thing;" but what is meant by a name? Often, no doubt, in modern speech, the noun is a mere arbitrary sound, employed by common consent to designate some particular person, place, or thing, without any meaning being suggested by the word itself; but originally, all names are significant, and denote some particular quality or circumstance, which distinguishes the individual they are employed to designate. The original meaning of many of the substantives that are found in the English language is now forgotten, but in regard to the greater part of them it can still be traced. It is especially worthy of remark, that there are no new nouns introduced into our language that are not significant, in other words, that do not denote qualities. We may mention, for example, umbrella, a little shade; telescope, that which perfects vision; thermometer, a measurer of heat. All the scientific terms employed in every department of art or philosophy, are, in like manner, significant of properties and circumstances. What then are words? They are arbitrary signs denoting qualities; and language is the communicating of information with regard to the qualities, or qualifying circumstances, that distinguish the objects which form the subject of our discourse.

The language of beasts, as was before remarked, is altogether different. It is the natural and instinctive sound by which they express a present sensation, and has nothing corresponding to it in the speech of man, excepting a few of our interjections.

Some writers have affirmed, that "we think in language." If by language we understand the conventional sounds by which the qualities of objects are denoted, the statement is evidently erroneous, for the deaf man thinks as well as the man who hears; but if we understand by language not merely the employment of arbitrary sounds to denote attributes and qualities, but the exercise of that faculty by which we perceive, remember, and refer to the qualities which the sounds are intended to express, and which constitutes the peculiarity that distinguishes the language of man, the statement is perfectly correct. It is the prerogative of the rational soul to form abstractions, to discriminate qualities, to classify and to compare them. Thinking denotes the calling forth of the faculties when thus exercised, and language is the communication of the knowledge thus acquired. In this sense we can scarcely overrate its value; it is truly, as the Hebrew Psalmist expresses it, our "glory."

Barter, Trade, and Use of Money.—Adam Smith speaks of the circumstance of brutes having no idea of the interchange of property as constituting an essential difference between them and man, and remarks that no one ever saw one dog barter a bone with another, Some authors have opposed this opinion, and speak of the aid given to each other by animals labouring in concert, as a proof that they have a very distinct idea of mutual agreement. We observe, however, that mutual agreement and conjoint labour do not imply any abstract idea, which barter, and more especially the use of money, and other arbitrary signs denoting property, evidently do. To these things, therefore, we refer with Dr. Smith, as a proof of an essential distinction between man and the lower orders of creation.

Capacity and Desire for Improvement.—That power, of which abstraction and reflection are the operations, and which is mani­fested in the use of language and employment of money, has yet another peculiarity to which it becomes us to advert. It is capable of indefinite advancement, and there is a corresponding pleasure taken in its continual increase.

Not only do we find the store of knowledge possessed by each individual capable of great enlargement, but the amount of information accumulated by the human race as a whole, is receiving daily accessions, and we can assign no limit to its increase. Every new discovery in art and science, whether it be the result of casual observation, or of protracted study, enlarges the field of knowledge, and increases our powers of research; and what the result of future discoveries may be, no one can venture to anticipate.

There is, along with this, a corresponding appetite for informa­tion. Knowledge is eagerly sought after, simply on account of the pleasure that is experienced in its acquisition. The most sluggish intellect, though its desires for farther information may be but feeble, does not rest altogether satisfied with its meagre share of instruction; and the cultivated mind finds in the feeling we now refer to, one of the most powerful incentives to intellectual exertion. No limit, moreover, can be assigned to its aspirations, for the more it is indulged, the stronger it grows, and "the sweet Pierian spring" resembles the briny wave, for he who endeavours to quench his thirst in it, will only thirst the more.

This capacity for unlimited improvement, and more especially this desire for onward progress in knowledge, forms not only a marked difference between man and the lower orders of creation, but presents a decided contrast to their limited powers, and yet more limited inclinations. The inferior animals inherit not only the capacities of their parents, but, in a great measure, the knowledge which they have acquired, and consequently attain to very great perfection in the circumscribed range of intellectual exertion to which their faculties and necessities confine them; but beyond that range they do not pass. No architect could build a nest more suitable for the purposes required, than that which the bird constructs for herself; no mechanician could form a honey-comb more mathematically accurate, in all its dimensions, than that which the insect fabricates;—but there is no onward progress in their art. Centuries pass on, and bees and birds continue to build as bees and birds have built before. Even among animals that have been brought under the dominion of man, there is no trace of intellectual advancement. Man takes advantage of some instinct implanted in them by nature, and contrives to modify it by long and careful training, so as to promote some object of his own; but after all his labour, the original faculties and appetites of the animal are but little changed. "It is undoubtedly true, that many new habits and qualities have not only been acquired, in recent times, by certain races of dogs, but have been transmitted to their offspring. But in these cases, it will be observed, that the new peculiarities have an intimate relation to the habits of the animal in a wild state, and therefore do not attest any tendency to departure, to an indefinite extent, from the original type of the species." "So, when man uses force or stratagem against wild animals, the persecuted race soon becomes more cautious, watchful, and cunning; new instincts seem often to be developed, and to become hereditary in the first two or three generations: but let the skill and address of man increase, however gradually, no farther variation can take place, no new qualities are elicited by the increasing dangers. The alteration of the habits of the species has reached a point beyond which no ulterior modification is possible, however indefinite the lapse of ages during which the new circumstances operate."*

* Lyell's Principles of Geology.

Unlike the lower orders of creatures, man comes into the world utterly ignorant of all that his fathers had learned before. His animal faculties and instincts exhibit in infancy a development far inferior to that which is found in other animals at a corresponding period of their being; but in a very brief space of time he excels them all in his intellectual acquirements, and manifests an aptitude for learning, and a desire for improvement, to which we can assign no limit, and which very clearly indicate a nobler nature and a higher destiny.

 

Conscience, or, the Moral Sense

We next come to consider the nature of Conscience, or that moral sense which has been implanted within us for the guidance of our actions. This most important part of our rational constitution may be regarded as including both a faculty and an affection—a faculty by which we discriminate between the right and the wrong—and an affection by which we are led to look on the one with approbation and pleasure, and on the other with condemnation and dislike. As very few subjects have given rise to so many conflicting opinions, we shall examine, in order, the more important propositions connected with it.

1. All men are conscious of a principle within them by which they are enabled to determine between right and wrong.—This is universally allowed to be the case, though wide differences of opinion exist in regard to its nature, and in reference to the standards by which its decisions are regulated. Even the har­dened transgressor, who has habitually disregarded its claims, dares not deny its existence, and in the hours of calm reflection he is forced to acknowledge its power. Bishop Butler, who was the first that clearly pointed out the place and authority to which this principle is entitled, introduces his dissertation on the Nature of Virtue with the following observations, which are at once so clear and so ample as to leave no room for farther remark:—

"Brute creatures are impressed and actuated by various instincts and propensities; so also are we. But, in addition to this we have a capacity of reflecting upon actions and characters, and of making them an object of thought. On doing this we naturally and unavoidably approve some actions, under the peculiar view of their being virtuous and of good desert, and disapprove of others, as vicious and of ill desert. That we have this moral approving and disapproving faculty is certain from our experiencing it in ourselves, and recognising it in others. It appears, from our exercising it unavoidably in the approbation and disapprobation even of feigned characters; from the words right and wrong, odious and amiable, base and worthy, with many others of like signification, in all languages, applied to actions and characters; from the many written systems of morals which suppose it, since it cannot be imagined that all these authors, throughout all these treatises, had absolutely no meaning to their words, or a meaning merely chimerical; from our natural sense of gratitude, which implies a distinction between merely being the instrument of good and intending it; from the like distinction which every one makes between injury and mere harm, which, Hobbes says, is peculiar to mankind; and between injury and just punishment, a distinction plainly natural, prior to the consideration of human laws. It is manifest that a great part of common language, and of common behaviour, over the world, is formed upon supposition of such a moral faculty, whether it be called conscience, moral reason, moral sense, or divine reason; and whether it be considered as a sentiment of the understanding, or as a perception of the heart, or, which seems the truth, as including both. Nor is it at all doubtful, in the general, what course of action this faculty, or practical discerning power within us, approves, and what it disapproves. For, however much it may have been disputed wherein virtue consists, and whatever ground for doubt there may be about particulars, yet, in general, there is in reality a universally acknowledged standard of it."

2. Conscience claims Supremacy over all the Feelings and Emotions.—If we have probable ground for saying that the peculiar faculty of the rational soul which manifests itself in abstraction, reflection, and argument, is lord over all the animal faculties and bodily senses, we have far stronger reason for saying that conscience is the undoubted monarch of the sentiments and emotions, and that we are bound to give implicit obedience to its dictates, however unpalatable they may be. All men are conscious to themselves that, whatever the inward monitor points out as their duty, they cannot without shame and compunction neglect. They may debate the question, What is duty? But the place which duty is entitled to hold, is intuitively perceived, and in all but the most hardened offenders, is readily confessed. The supremacy of conscience is not a lesson taught by experience, or communicated by intercourse with others; in no case is its authority more strikingly exemplified than in the effect which an appeal to it produces in the young and unsophis­ticated mind. We often find instances where the fear of punishment has little effect on the juvenile offender, and where a regard to the feelings of friends and relatives exercises but a feeble influence; but when the nature of the offence has been explained, the question, Was that right? if quietly and solemnly put, will very seldom fail of calling forth an humble and contrite "No."

"There can be no doubt but that several propensions, or instincts, several principles in the heart of man, carry him to society, and to contribute to the happiness of it, in a sense and in a manner in which no inward principle leads him to evil. These principles, propensions, or instincts, which lead him to do good, are approved of by a certain faculty within, quite distinct from these propensions themselves."— "There is a superior principle of reflection, or conscience, in every man, which dis­tinguishes between the internal principles in his heart, as well as his external actions which passes judgment upon himself and them, pronounces determinately some actions to be in themselves just, right, and good; others to be in themselves evil, wrong, unjust—which, without being consulted, without being advised with, magisterially exerts itself, and approves or condemns him, as the doer of them, accordingly."— "Passion, or appetite, implies a direct simple tendency towards such and such objects, without distinction of the means by which they are to be obtained; consequently, it will often happen that there will be a desire for particular objects, in cases where they cannot be obtained without manifest injury to others. Reflection, or conscience, comes in, and disapproves the pursuit of them in these circumstances; but the desire remains. Which is to be obeyed, appetite or reflection? Cannot this question be answered from the economy and constitution of human nature, without saying, Who is strongest? or need this at all come into consideration? Would not the question be intelligibly and fully answered by saying, that the principle of reflection, or conscience, being compared with the various appetites, passions, and affections, the former is manifestly superior and chief, without regard to strength? and how often soever the latter happens to prevail, it is mere usurpation. The former remains in nature and in kind its superior; and every instance of such prevalence of the latter is an instance of breaking in upon and violation of the constitution of man. That principle by which we survey, and either approve or disapprove our own heart, temper, and actions, is not to be considered as that which is merely to have some influence in its turn, which may be said of every passion, of the lowest appetites; but as being superior, as from its nature manifestly claiming superiority over all others, insomuch that you cannot form a notion of this faculty, conscience, without taking in judgment, direction, superintendency. This is a constituent part of the idea, that is, of the faculty itself; and to preside and govern, from the very economy and constitution of man, belongs to it. Had it strength as it has right, had it power as it has manifest authority, it would absolutely govern the world."*

* Butler's Sermons, ii.

3. Conscience confines its cognizance to the determinations of the rational mind.—All will allow that the objects to which conscience directs attention, and on which it pronounces its decisions, are not actions in themselves, nor the consequences which they produce, but the motives and design which led to their performance. It often happens that a man with the best intentions engages in a pursuit that brings ruin and misery both on himself and others. In such a case, we pity his misfortunes, we regret his error, but conscience pronounces no condemnation. On the other hand, it may happen that an act, perpetrated from the vilest motives, is followed by consequences the most beneficial. The selling of Joseph for a slave, was ultimately the means of saving many thousands from death; but the benefits resulting from that unnatural deed did not justify the motives that led to its perpetration. The death of the Great Redeemer has been the source of blessings unspeakable; but the overruling of their wickedness by the gracious Disposer of events, does not excuse the treachery of the betrayer, who sold his Master, nor the iniquity of the high-priest, who from envy procured his condemnation.

"It does not appear that brutes have any reflex sense of actions, as distinguished from events, or that will and design, which constitute the very nature of actions as such, are at all an object to their perception. But to ours they are; and they are the object, and the only one, of the approving and disapproving faculty."*

* Butler.

We must further observe, that the cognizance of conscience is not only confined to motives, but that there is a large class of motives over which it exercises no jurisdiction. In regard to many of the feelings that influence us, we cannot say that they are either morally good or morally evil. They are natural, and may be lawful, but they merit no approbation and deserve no censure. All the animal instincts and appetites are motives of this description. When a hungry man partakes of the food set before him, we neither blame him nor praise him, for seeking to satisfy the cravings of nature. If in gratifying his natural longing he goes to excess, we do not blame him for the appetite, though we condemn him for the want of that moral control which should have restrained and regulated it. If, on the other hand, he partakes of food with the design of being thereby fitted for duty, if he puts a rein on his appetite, and, while he eats, "gives God thanks," we approve of his moderation and devotion; but we do not consider the relish with which he enjoys the viands on his table a subject either for praise or for displeasure. Motives are thus to be divided into two classes; those that merit approbation on the one hand, or disapprobation on the other, and those that are morally indifferent. It is only in regard to the former that conscience pronounces its decision, over the latter it claims no jurisdiction.

When we further ask, What are the motives that come under its review? we find that they are those which have either originated in the rational mind, or have received its countenance and sanction. As we have already seen, the mere animal appetites are not considered proper objects for moral decision, excepting in so far as their undue indulgence leads us to infer a neglect of the control which reason and a sense of duty should have enforced. In the same manner we may speak of the instinctive emotions, such as anger, and indeed of all the sentiments and feelings formerly described under the head of animal desires. They are natural and lawful, and their influence, on the whole, is highly beneficial; but it is only after they have received the sanction and encouragement of the higher powers, that we can award to them either censure or praise. Before conscience can pronounce its sentence, we must ascertain what was the determination of the rational will, that is, the deliberate design and purpose that were formed, after the rational faculties had considered the circumstances, and conscience had determined the path of duty. And it is in reference to this resolution of the will, to this conclusion to which the faculties of the soul have arrived, that the verdict of the moral sense is pronounced.

It must, however, be observed, that the strength and prevalence of the different animal desires are, in one respect, the subjects of moral judgment. The well-known fact that all our feelings are strengthened by indulgence and subdued by restraint, leads us to conclude that when any sentiment or appetite unduly preponderates, there has been a want of that superintendence which reason and conscience are designed to exercise. Inordinate affections and evil habits are conclusive evidence that there has been a neglect of duty, while a well-regulated mind affords ground for a contrary belief. "To read at once the history and destiny of an individual, we need only behold the acquired association of his ideas. In the characters which are engraven on his mental tablet, he carries within him the handwriting of his doom."

4. The decisions of conscience presuppose the exercise of observation and reflection.—The preliminary inquiry into purposes and motives, without which conscience can form no decision, necessarily implies the exercise of the rational faculties which we formerly endeavoured to describe. There must be a process of observation and reflection, by which we determine, from the nature of the action under our consideration, from the manner in which it was performed, and from the circumstances and character of the actor, what was the motive, or secret cause, from which it proceeded. There must also be a further inquiry in order to ascertain the relation in which the actor stood towards the person who has been benefited or injured, before a decision can be given as to the merit or demerit of the inciting motive.

This inquiry into the nature of the design and feeling from which the action proceeded, and this examination into the circumstances and relations of the actor, do not properly belong to the function of conscience, though they form a necessary preparation for its decision. It often happens, therefore, that glaring errors are committed, and the greatest injury done, even when the supremacy of conscience is most readily allowed, and when there is the utmost desire to do that which is right. In order to secure a just decision, a clear and intelligent understanding is necessary, as well as uprightness of purpose. We must, however, be careful to distinguish between the mental operations by which we collect and arrange the evidence necessary for a judgment, and the deliberate act from which the decision proceeds. The perceptive faculties, which we have in common with the lower creatures, acting in subserviency to the powers of abstraction and reasoning peculiar to man, collect the facts, and determine the motives; but it is the prerogative of conscience to decide on the character of the motive, and to assign to it the meed of censure or of praise.

5. Conscience is a simple and original faculty, altogether different from the animal faculties and emotions formerly described.—When we inquire into the nature of this most important principle, we find considerable diversity of opinion prevailing in regard to it. Some have confounded it with the mere animal feeling that leads us to sympathize with the injured; but it evidently belongs to a higher class of affections, and has assigned to it a far more extended and important sphere. Others have described it as a compound emotion, arising principally from a feeling of pity for those who may have been aggrieved, united to a fear of the consequences that may follow to ourselves, if we have been the aggressors. A moment's reflection, however, is sufficient to shew us, that, while compassion for the injured and apprehension of punishment have especial regard to the consequences that flow from an action, conscience directs its scrutiny to the motives that have led to it, and awards to them its censure or approbation.

The acknowledged facts which we have already adduced are sufficient to shew that it is a simple and uncompounded feeling, an original part of the human constitution, altogether distinct from the faculties and feelings with which it is usually associated, and with which it is sometimes confounded.

6. Conscience determines in regard to actions and motives by a reference to previously existing relations.—A faculty so peculiar in its nature, and claiming for itself the supremacy over every other appetite and desire, naturally excites our attention, and leads us to inquire, What is the standard by which its decisions are regulated? Bishop Butler says, "However much it may have been disputed wherein virtue consists, and whatever ground for doubt there may be about particulars, yet in general there is in reality a universally acknowledged standard of it. It is that which all ages and all countries have made profession of in public; it is that which every man you meet puts on the show of; it is that which the primary and fundamental laws of civil constitutions over the earth make it their business and endeavour to enforce the practice of upon mankind, namely, justice, veracity, and regard to the common good." These remarks, however, are not sufficiently definite. Justice, veracity, and regard to the common good are not convertible terms,—they express three very different and distinct ideas; and if conscience has a varying standard, and directs our attention sometimes to one object and sometimes to another, it cannot be fitted for the office which it claims.

The subject is certainly one of considerable difficulty; at the same time we cannot but wonder at the diversity of opinion that has prevailed respecting it, and more especially at the tendency, which so many writers have shewn, to confine their attention to the results and consequences which actions produce. Some speak of an enlightened regard to our own interest, as if that were the standard by which conscience is to be guided; others describe a regard to the general good, or the greatest good of the greatest number, as the object especially to be pursued; but when we consider the nature of the moral principle within us, we find that results and consequences hold a very inferior place in its estimation. The primary and special objects to which its cognizance is directed, are the relations in which rational beings stand to each other and to God, and the various claims and duties that are connected with these relations. The Latin proverb, "Fiat justitia, ruat cœlum," "Let justice be done, though heaven should fall;" and the common English expression, "Duty is ours, consequences belong to God," are sufficient to shew that it is the general belief and persuasion of mankind, that the object contemplated by conscience is something altogether distinct from the effects, whether good or bad, that follow our actions. What, then, are the considerations by which conscience is regulated in its decisions? They are those that involve duty, right, and obligation; in other words, they are those considerations which imply some present service that is due, in consequence of a previously established relation. It is to this relationship that conscience, in the first place, directs its regard; and the consequences that may follow hold but a secondary place in the investigation. All the terms by which the performance of duty is expressed, such as honesty, honour, integrity, uprightness, distinctly imply the idea we have now set forth. Conscience, if we may so express ourselves, is, therefore, the Lord-chief-justice of the soul; and it is because its decisions are based on established relations and obligations, that they have such weight and importance attached to them. Conscience decides on principles precisely similar to those that direct a judge on the bench. When a person engaged in mercantile affairs has promised to pay a sum of money at a specified time, the relation of debtor and creditor is then established be­tween him and the person to whom the promise is made. If the obligation connected with this relationship be not cancelled by a new agreement between the parties, the debtor is bound to lay the debt, even though his doing so should expose him to the greatest inconvenience, and though he should have the strongest reason for believing that the creditor on receiving it would apply it to an unworthy use. The probable consequences on the one side and on the other, do not alter the obligation; and if they were adduced in a court of justice to arrest an order for payment, the plea would not meet with a moment's consideration. In like manner, the court of conscience does not decide on future contingencies, but on existing relations and their consequent duties.

The relations on which duty and obligation are thus dependent are of various kinds, and are entitled to different degrees of respect. They may be classed under the following general divisions: the relation in which we stand to our Creator, the relation in which we stand to ourselves,—the relation in which we stand to our families, to our country, and to our fellow-creatures.

The relation in which we stand to our Creator, and the corresponding obligation which it implies, may be very simply enunciated. Even if we should make no reference to the Being or Nature of God, it must be allowed by all that there are not only unquestionable evidences of beneficent contrivance in the works of Nature, but that every part of creation is formed for advancing some premeditated design. It follows, therefore, as a necessary consequence, that if an intelligent creature can discover the end and object for which he has been created, that end and that object it is his duty to pursue. Thus far even the sceptic, who denies the existence of a personal God, must be constrained to concur. He who, from belief in the Word of Revelation, or from examination of the works of creation, has been led to look to the great origin of all things as a living God, possessed alike of intelligence and of power, will express the same truth in language more explicit, and confess that it is our duty, our first and most imperative duty, to follow the counsel and perform the purpose of Him by whom we were made, and in whom we live, and move, and have our being. If we stand in the relation of creatures to the great Jehovah, if we owe all that we have, and all that we are, to Him alone, it is manifest that the obligation consequent on that relation is implicit obedience to His will.

In regard to the duties which we owe to our fellow-men, in consequence of the different relations in which we stand to them, we find, in the first place, that man has evidently been formed for living in society; he has been endowed with a variety of social affections, which can only find scope and exercise in the company of his fellows; he has been so constituted that the prosperity, the enjoyment, nay, the very existence of the human race, depend on the performance of the duties which the social relations impose,—we therefore conclude, that it is the purpose of the Creator that men should be connected together by the various ties to which we have referred, and consequently, that they should perform the obligations which these relations impose. We find, in the second place, without our having any reference to the design of the Creator, that the advantages we derive from our connexion with society must have their corresponding obligations. Men, in their several places and relations, are to be regarded as the mutually dependent parts of a corporate whole; they are members of one body, and therefore "members one of another." The wellbeing of each part, and the prosperity of the whole, depend on the manner in which the respective duties of each individual are performed, in the same manner that the smooth and uniform working of a complicated machine depends on the accurate fitting and harmonious movement of the various wheels and pinions of which it is composed. As members of a community we possess very great advantages over those who live alone, or who have become the aliens and outcasts of society. The military prowess of the nation secures us against violence from abroad; the due administration of justice insures our peace and tranquility at home; the co-operation of those around us enables us to accomplish many beneficial objects which would otherwise have been beyond our reach;—all the blessings, in short, which civilisation confers, we enjoy in consequence of the relation in which we stand to the community. This relation, however, has its corresponding duties; and conscience decides that these advantages should meet with a due return. We must, therefore, contribute our just proportion of the expenses, whether of money or of service, that may be required for the defence of the country and the administration of justice; we must employ our endeavours to uphold and to perfect our national institutions; and it is only when we have "rendered to all their dues—tribute to whom tribute is due, custom to whom custom, fear to whom fear, honour to whom honour," that we fulfil the obligation under which we lie to the community with which we are connected.

In the same manner, when we consider the relation in which we stand to the different members of our families, we find many peculiar and tender ties binding us to them. All these relations have at once their peculiar advantages, and their corresponding duties. And while we acknowledge the obligations under which we lie to society at large, those who are more immediately connected with us have a preferable claim to our regard. Enlightened philosophy concurs with sound theology in condemning him, "who provides not for his own, especially for those of his own household."

There is also a duty which we owe to ourselves. An undue desire of promoting our own enjoyment has been the great source of the manifold errors into which men have fallen in respect to the calls of duty; and, from this circumstance, some have been led to consider disinterestedness as the peculiar quality that distinguishes right actions. This, however, is a mistake. There is a duty which we owe to ourselves, or rather, we should say, which we owe to society and to our Creator, in reference to ourselves, which can no more be neglected without incurring the condemnation of conscience, than the duty we owe to our neighbour. The preservation of our own life and health, of our own vigour of body and intelligence of mind, is a duty which we owe at once to ourselves, to our families, to our country, and to our God; and he who neglects it, is not practising a virtue, but committing a crime.

The claims that arise from the varied relations in which we are placed, sometimes interfere, though in actual experience this happens but seldom. In such cases reason is called on to decide as to the comparative importance of the competing claims, and conscience calls on us to implement the decision. In judging of any duty or obligation, we must not allow self-love, in any sense of the term, to bias our determination,—we must be uniformly guided by the broad principles of original and essential equity. We must judge in our own case as we would judge if another were placed in our stead, and as if we had, on the one hand, no prospect of receiving advantage, and, on the other, no fear of suffering loss. At the same time, we are not required to be indifferent to our own welfare, or to banish all reference to our own enjoyment, when the decision has been. formed. There is a pleasure of the very noblest kind necessarily associated with the performance of duty, and an inward pang of the most painful description follows its neglect. To be indifferent, either to the satisfaction that arises from the approbation of conscience, or to the pain that is caused by the stinging of remorse, would betoken a mind dead to all the higher influences that affect the soul of man.

In general, the claims of the different relations to which we have referred coincide in their demands. So wonderfully are the various parts of our mental constitution adapted to each other, that an enlightened regard to our own advantage, a disinterested desire of promoting the general good of our fellow-creatures, and a devout regard to the will of the Creator, unite in stimulating us to the performance of the same duty. They are not like op­posing forces which destroy each other's effects, they are not even like obliquely acting powers, which produce, by their combination, an intermediate and diagonal motion; but, though different in their nature, they act all in one direction, and concur in urging us onward in the path of unbending rectitude.

7. The decisions of conscience possess a peculiar character and authority.—When the motive or inward cause from which an action proceeds, has been brought under the review of conscience, we then determine that some actions deserve approbation, while others, of an opposite nature, are to be condemned. We say of the one class, that they are morally good, that they merit esteem, and should be imitated and rewarded; we say of the others, that they are morally evil, that they deserve censure, and should be shunned and punished. But this is not all; we not only regard the one with pleasure, and the other with disapprobation, we feel called on openly to express these feelings, and to employ active endeavour in encouraging that which is good, and discountenancing that which is evil. Our duty requires of us to maintain that which is right, by rewarding, if it be in our power, those who do well, and to repress that which is wrong, by taking means to prevent the offender from proceeding in his course of transgression. The relation that we stand in to the person, or community, that has been aggrieved, requires of us a corresponding exertion for securing and punishing the transgressor. It is the duty of every member of the social community to support those judicial measures by which evil-doers may be made to fear, and the weak and gentle may be defended from the violence of unprincipled men. The motto of the critic, Judex damnatur si nocens absolvitur, is the natural language of the moral principle within us; and the fierce pursuit of the avenger of blood, so often referred to in the early history of the East, the wild Lynch law of the backwoodsman of America, and the trials and decisions of the criminal courts of settled society may be referred to as some of the varied means which it has prompted for carrying its decisions into effect.

The supremacy of reason and conscience over the other faculties and feelings, shews that the human soul, of which they are the attributes, is not only essentially distinct in its nature, but is far more exalted in its character, than the animating spirit of the irrational creatures. We find all men ready to allow that we cannot trust to mere outward appearance, but, on the contrary, must place our reliance on careful examination and patient reflection. We must search out the secret properties and objects, and the hidden causes of events, and be guided by a knowledge of their nature, and not by their external features. This examination is the peculiar faculty and prerogative of reason. In like manner, in judging of actions, we must discover the secret motives that lead to them, and we must judge of these motives by an unprejudiced reference to moral relations. This is the office of conscience. Reason and conscience agree in this, that they do not direct attention to the mere outward appearance of the objects of which they take cognizance, but to their original inherent properties and character. Whether, therefore, we regard these mental attributes as essentially distinct, or look on them as modifications of the same faculty, they stand so closely allied to each other, and they differ in so many respects from the inferior powers, that we can have no hesitation in forming them into a class by themselves, and assigning to them a rank and an influence greatly superior to the other faculties and feelings of our nature. This supremacy is, in fact, acknowledged by all intelligent observers of the human constitution. We must, therefore, regard the soul of man, of which they are the attributes, as essentially distinct in its nature, and greatly more exalted in its rank, than the spirit which animates the irrational creatures.

 

Affections of the Soul Associated with the Moral Sense

There are some emotions, or affections of the soul, so closely associated with the operations and decisions of conscience, that we are naturally led to consider them as originating in the same principle. At the same time, there are some circumstances that would lead us to regard them as essentially distinct. Without professing to discuss the subject, which is too difficult and too important to be satisfactorily treated of in the brief space that we could allot to it, we shall enumerate the more important of these affections.

The pleasure that is felt in practising and in witnessing that which is right, and the shame and indignation that are felt on committing or witnessing that which is wrong, are emotions so closely connected with the moral sense, that the term conscience might be considered as including both the faculty and the feeling. There is however, no necessary connexion between the faculty and the emotion. The Author of our being might have so framed our constitution, that, while able clearly to discover the path of duty, and constrained by the most terrible sanctions of authority to pursue it, we should have had no pleasure in it. But we find that the same gracious arrangement which not only gives to the eye the power of seeing, but makes the exercise of that power a source of pleasure, has been followed out in regard to the powers and feelings of the soul. We are not only constrained to do that which is right, but we experience, in so doing, a satisfaction of the very highest kind; for there is nothing more pleasing than the testimony of an approving conscience. We have here an evidence of the Creator's wisdom and goodness, precisely similar to those to which we formerly referred in speaking of the external senses, excepting only that it is on a wider scale, and in a higher sphere.

The desire of sharing in the favour, and escaping from the wrath of the Creator, is another of those emotions which are so connected with the moral sense, that it is difficult to determine whether they are to be considered as effects flowing from it, or regarded as essentially distinct. All men are naturally inclined to believe in a God, and everywhere manifest a desire to propitiate his favour, and deprecate his displeasure. The natural acknowledgment of a Deity, whether it is exhibited in the superstitious rites of the heathen, or in the enlightened services of the Christian, shows that there is in the soul of man an emotion that leads him to look up to his Creator with reverence, to fear His displeasure, and to delight in the hope of His favour. Whether this feeling is an original and distinct part of our constitution, or whether it is a consequence of the effect that is produced on our understandings by the evidences which we have on every side of the being and attributes of God, we cannot easily determine; but that there is such a feeling, and that it harmonizes with the office assigned to conscience, and tends to make our duty pleasing, cannot be denied; and in this fact we have yet another example of the gracious determinations of Him that made us.

There is also a pleasure experienced in witnessing and promoting the happiness of our fellow-creatures, and in contemplating the character and exertions of those who endeavour to advance the general good,—This sentiment is quite distinct from the feeling of sympathy, formerly referred to as one of the animal emotions. It is that expansive benevolence which seeks the wellbeing of every creature, whether present to our view, or altogether unknown. It leads us to look with approbation on generous endeavour and faithful performance of duty, whatever the result may have been. This sentiment, like the others to which we have just referred, affords us encouragement in fulfilling the obligations that are required of us, and strews flowers on the path in which conscience desires us to tread.

 

Arguments in Proof of Man's Immortality

Some have boldly affirmed that death is an eternal sleep, and that, when the breath has left the body, there is an end of all our existence. Others, who acknowledge the certainty of a life beyond the grave, rest their expectations on the statements of Scripture alone, and seem to shrink from drawing any argument from natural reason, or consideration of the constitution of the human mind. But a careful examination of the nature and condition of man enables us to discover arguments which are well fitted for silencing the bold assertions of the one class, and for confirming the cherished hopes of the other. These arguments we shall now enumerate, without attempting to illustrate.

1. The universal belief of man is directed to a future existence. The weight that is due to such a persuasion we have before considered, and need not again insist on.

2. In our examination of the rational faculties and feelings, we have found evidences that man possesses a nature greatly superior to that of the other creatures here below. We observe, also, that the mind can at pleasure abstract itself from external objects, and that it is often most intently occupied when the world is shut out of view. This natural superiority of the human soul, and independence, if we may so call it, of the external world, lead us to conclude that there is at least some probability in supposing that it does not perish when the material frame is dissolved, but retains its vitality and its powers in a separate state of existence.

3. The adaptation of the rational faculties for a more extensive sphere than this world affords, and for a longer exercise of their powers than our present lifetime permits, leads us to expect that such a sphere, and such a period, will yet be provided. We formerly remarked that we cannot assign any limit to man's intellectual attainments, and far less to his desire for knowledge. We, at the same time, observe, that whenever faculties are bestowed on any creature, means and opportunities of exercising these faculties are also provided. When we look to the nestling as yet unfledged, we see its wings gradually unfolding; we see even in the egg the rudiments and embryo of its pinions; the nest affords no room for flight, and the egg is a still narrower prison; but when we discover preparation made for a wider sphere, we conclude that, as the Creator does nothing in vain, such a sphere will be provided. The expansive power of the human mind, and its breathing after higher attainments, lead us, in like manner, to believe that it is destined to burst the narrow shell that at present confines it, and that, at some future tine, it will soar on expanded wing, in a more exalted sphere, and have bestowed on it a more extended existence.

4. We see again in all men a longing desire for a future life. This is not only shewn in the various religious services in which they engage in the hope of securing bliss hereafter;

"The fond desire, the longing after immortality,"

of which the poet speaks, is manifested in the love of posthumous fame, in the wish of handing down our names to posterity, and of founding families. It is exhibited in the "calling of places by our own names," and even in the care which men shew for the burial of their mortal remains. The existence of such a desire induces the conclusion that it has its appropriate gratification provided. Throughout the visible creation, in so far as our observation can carry us, we uniformly find that whenever there is an appetite or desire naturally implanted in any creature, the means of gratifying it have also been provided. If, for example, an animal has given to it an appetite for any particular kind of food, that food is supplied. If the affections of any creature lead it to seek for society, there are companions prepared for it. If man, therefore, has shewn in all ages a "longing after immortality," analogy leads us to conclude that for this desire an appropriate gratification has been designed, and that there must consequently be a life hereafter.

5. The imperfect administration of justice on this side the grave, leads us to a similar conclusion. If the supremacy of conscience be acknowledged, and few will venture to deny its claims, we cannot but conclude that the Creator, who implanted that principle within us, will Himself act in accordance with its dictates. When, therefore, we see the relations in which men stand to each other and to their Maker continually disregarded, and when we find the measure of punishment administered here to be unequal and inadequate, we cannot resist the conclusion that there must be a day of retribution hereafter,—that there must be a time coming when suffering integrity shall receive its reward, and triumphant iniquity shall meet its doom. The fear and dread of a future state of being, which arise in the bosom of an offender from a consciousness of transgression, are a striking evidence of the power which this argument possesses.

Unassisted reason is unable to determine what the nature of this future state will be; but that there will be a life; hereafter, that to it man's peculiar nature and probable destiny have a special reference, and that in it there will be a reckoning for the deeds of the present time, is shewn, by the arguments we have adduced, to be in the very highest degree probable, or rather we may say, is established beyond a doubt.

It is therefore the part of wisdom and duty to prepare for that existence which we look for hereafter, and to seek the favour of Him from whom as our Creator we derive our being, and before whom as our Judge we must expect to stand.

 

Anomalies Found in the Constitution and Condition of Man

When we consider the various elements that form the strangely complicated nature of the human constitution, we may well speak of man as a microcosm, or world in miniature. In the conformation of his bodily organs, in the changes that take place on the substances received into the stomach and lungs, in the absorptions and secretions that go on in the internal organs, we find exemplifications of all the general properties of matter, both mechanical and chemical. In the heat that is generated in the body, and in the galvanic actions that are excited, we see the imponderable agents continuously at work. In the organization of his frame, we find him partaking of the properties that distinguish the plant and the animal from the inanimate stone. In his appetites, faculties, and feelings, we find him sharing in all the qualifications that distinguish the animal from the plant. In all these respects we perceive evidences of his superiority over the other creatures here below; he has a frame of a more delicate texture and a more symmetrical form; he has livelier perceptions and more tender emotions. We find, in addition to all this, reason and conscience, the attributes of the rational soul, appointed to rule over the whole, endowed with faculties to fit them for their office, invested with an authority that none dares to question, and accompanied with emotions which make obedience to their decisions the source of the purest and noblest enjoyment. When we look to the constitution, of man, and judge of it by its general aspect, and by what appears to have been its original design, we see a combination of varied excellencies that shew forth more clearly than any other part of the visible creation the perfections of the source from which his being is derived;—but, when we examine more narrowly into his character and condition, we find anomalies of the most perplexing kind.

1. Man is the victim of discontent.—when we direct our attention to the original principles of his nature, we say, without hesitation, that man is chief of all the creatures here below; and were we to judge by the analogies that pervade the other parts of the animated kingdom, we should naturally expect to find him the happiest and the most contented of earthly beings. This, however, is very far from being the case. We see the lower animals satisfied with their condition: their situation and their enjoyments are suited to their appetites and powers. But it is not so with the human race. "Man never is, but always to be blest." Though he should have all that his soul can covet of earthly good, he is never satisfied. Whatever his pursuit may be, whether it be wealth, or honour, or power, he is ever uncomfortable, never at home. Like the fish that has been thrown on the river's brink, and tumbles and tosses in vain endeavour to regain its native stream, man is engaged in a continual struggle to find an element congenial to his nature, and seeks for happiness in pursuits that end in disappointment and disgust. This uneasy discontent, this longing after something better and more enduring than anything that the present world affords, is the first anomaly that we remark in the condition of man. Like the restlessness and fretfulness that mark an incipient attack of disease, it shews a derangement of his system, and leads us to suspect a deep-seated evil "festering at the core."

2. An anomaly of a still more startling kind is found in the limited influence which reason exercises over the conduct.—Happiness is the object of which all are in pursuit, and reason has been given to direct us in our search. This is confessed by all. At the same time, there are very few who follow its counsels with consistency; many follow a course directly contrary to that which it indicates, and no one keeps in the path without occasional transgression. Feelings and appetites which, according to the analogy of our constitution, ought to have been completely under its control, usurp its authority, and hurry men on in a course of error, which not unfrequently ends in misery and shame. In some respects, man may be called more irrational than the brutes. We may refer as a proof of this startling assertion to the exterminating wars which have been so incessantly carrying on. The beast of prey is formed for seizing and tearing his victim, and naturally thirsts for blood; but when his appetite is appeased, he destroys no more, or if, under the maddening influence of excited rage, he kills more than he can devour, this is but the effect of sudden impulse, and such instances seldom occur. Widely different has been the conduct of the human race. How often do we see two nations, divided but by a river or a mountain range, after living together for many years in peace, and interchanging friendly relations, begin to contend about some insignificant portion of territory, or on account of some trifling affront, or it may be, for some reason of state which the mass of the people neither know nor understand; and forthwith the proclamation of war is issued, the fruits of industry are torn from their owners, in the form of taxes and loans, the young and vigorous are dragged from the embrace of those they love, and the hope and pride of the nations are sent into the battlefield, to slay and to be slain! And scenes of brutal carnage, that might sicken the heart of a tiger, are called glorious victories; and cruel invaders that revel in the blood of their fellow-men, are lauded as heroes, and loaded with honours! Such has been the practice of men from the earliest dawn of history down to the present day. And man boasts of his reason, and proudly exults in his superior attainments! The utter contempt that is shown in such instances as these for the dictates of sound and enlightened reason, and all the absurdities into which men are led when their unruly passions gain the mastery over them, manifest such feebleness in that faculty which is the rightful monarch of the mind, and such a deplorable disorganization in the internal constitution, as lead us to conclude that this cannot have been the original condition of the human race, and that it could not have been the ultimate design of their Creator.

3. We arrive at a similar result when we consider the supremacy which conscience has evidently been designed to exercise, and observe the very limited influence that its decisions possess.—When we direct our attention to the relation in which we stand to the Creator, conscience determines that, as a Being of infinite perfections, He is entitled to our adoration and highest esteem; that, as the Author of our existence, and the continual source of our enjoyment, He should ever be regarded with gratitude and devotion, and should continually receive a rational service, such as it becomes intelligent creatures to offer, and an All-wise and Almighty God to receive. But of very many men it may be said, that God is not in all their thoughts, and of none can it be affirmed that a sense of the Divine presence holds in him its appropriate place; while multitudes bow down to stock and stone, and foolishly think that they honour their Maker, when they present before him degrading observances and revolting superstitions. The claims of our families, of our country, and of our fellow-men, are, in like manner, enjoined by the monitor within us; yet by multitudes they are utterly neglected, and by none are duly considered. Selfish enjoyment, and the gratification of mere animal appetite, lead men away, regardless alike of the counsels of reason and the dictates of conscience. All must, therefore, concur in saying, that man is not conformed to the principles which evidently appear to have been implanted within him for the regulation of his conduct. He is not what he ought to be. The law originally engravers on the tablets of his heart, is righteous in its enactments, and beneficent in its objects; but that law we find him habitually violating.

Man is the chief of all the creatures here below: he possesses the most delicate organization, the highest faculties, and the most tender feelings; he is distinguished by his reason and conscience from all the other inhabitants of earth;—at the same time, he exhibits a divergence from constitutional law which is unknown in any other part of the visible creation, and his character and conduct manifest the most strange and startling anomalies. In many respects he is exalted far above the noblest of irrational creatures, but in others he is sunk beneath them. Are we, then, to suppose, that he was created such as he now appears? Did the Creator originally design man to be the victim of discontent? Did He give reason and conscience to guide his actions, and, at the same time intend that appetite and passion should lead him captive at their will? Did the Creator so highly endow him, that he might fall prostrate before a graven image, and adore a block of stone? Were reason and conscience implanted within him, that he might go forth, like a destroying fiend, wasting his means and hazarding his life in the slaughter of his fellow-men; taking delight in carnage, and seeking his glory in the multitude of the slain? Reason revolts from the supposition, and answers, No! Man's present condition cannot be that for which he was originally designed. However mortifying it may be to that pride of heart which distinguishes our race, we cannot avoid entertaining an innate consciousness of a fall. To this secret persuasion, as well as to the influence of ancient tradition, we must ascribe the belief so generally entertained of an early "age of gold." To it also we may attribute the readiness with which men give ear to the many plausible schemes that are from time to time propounded for elevating the social condition of the community. Reason, in short, unassisted and alone, is able to determine that man is fallen. He still retains traces of his original excellence. The stately pillar still standing erect in the midst of decay, the elaborate sculpture remaining unscathed, though prostrate on the ground, and the stones of price overgrown by the bramble and brier, tell of the beauty which the building originally displayed. But man is now a ruin. Reason points to the anomalies that are found in his constitution as unanswerable evidences of a great and melancholy change in his condition. How that change originated, and by what means the evil may be repaired, unassisted reason is unable to discover. It is the province of Revelation to make known the hidden records of the past, to speak

"Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world."

And it is Revelation's glorious prerogative to point out the means by which the anomaly is reconciled to law, by which the fallen is exalted, and the ruin rebuilt in a form more beautiful, and on a scale more magnificent, than the edifice ever exhibited, well in its primeval perfection.