duties which are indicated by the conscience, or moral consciousness, man is responsible to the Governor of the universe;—and farther, that to this Being he owes, more immediately, a certain homage of the moral feelings, entirely distinct from the duties which he owes to his fellow-men.

IV. From this chain of moral convictions, it is impossible to separate a deep impression of continued existence, or of a state of being beyond the present life,—and of that as a state of moral retribution.

The consideration of these important objects of belief will afterwards occur to us in various parts of our inquiry. They are briefly stated here, in reference to the place which they hold as First Truths, or primary articles of moral belief, which arise by a natural and obvious chain of sequence, in the moral conviction of every sound understanding. For the truth of them we appeal not to any process of reasoning, properly so called, but to the conviction which forces itself upon every regulated mind. Neither do we go abroad among savage nations, to inquire whether the impression of them be universal; for this may be obscured in communities, as it is in individuals, by a course of moral degradation. We appeal to the casuist himself, whether, in the calm moment of reflection, he can divest himself of their power. We appeal to the feelings of the man who, under the consciousness of guilt, shrinks from the dread of a present Deity and the anticipation of a future reckoning. But chiefly we appeal to the conviction of him, in whom conscience retains its rightful supremacy, and who habitually cherishes these momentous truths, as his guides in this life in its relation to the life that is to come.

In applying to these important articles of belief the name of First Truths, or primary principles of moral conviction, I do not mean to ascribe to them any thing of the nature of innate ideas. I mean only that they arise, with a rapid or instantaneous conviction entirely distinct from what we call a process of reasoning, in every regulated mind, when it is directed, by the most simple course of reflection, to the phenomena of nature without, and to the moral feelings of which it is conscious within. It appears to be a point of the utmost practical importance, that we should consider them as thus arising out of principles which form a part of our moral constitution; as it is in this way only that we can consider them as calculated to influence the mass of mankind. For, if we do not believe them to arise, in this manner, by the spontaneous exercise of every uncorrupted mind, there are only two methods by which we can suppose them to originate;—the one is a direct revelation from the Deity,—the other is a process of reasoning or of investigation, properly so called, analogous to that by which we acquire the knowledge of any principle in natural science. We cannot believe that they are derived entirely from revelation, because we find the belief existing where no revelation is known, and because we find the sacred writers appealing to them as sources of conviction existing in the mental constitution of every man. There is an obvious absurdity, again, in supposing that principles, which are to regulate the conduct of responsible beings, should be left to the chance of being unfolded by processes of reasoning, in which different minds may arrive at different conclusions, and in regard to which many are incapable of following out any argument at all. What is called the argument a priori for the existence and attributes of the Deity, for instance, conveys little that is conclusive to most minds, and to many is entirely incomprehensible. The same observation may be applied to those well-intended and able arguments, by which the probability of a future state is shewn from analogy and from the constitution of the mind. These are founded chiefly on three considerations,—the tendency of virtue to produce happiness, and of vice to be followed by misery,—the unequal distribution of good and evil in the present life,—and the adaptation of our moral faculties to a state of being very different from that in which we are at present placed. There is much in these arguments calculated to elevate our conceptions of our condition as moral beings, and of that future state of existence for which we are destined; and there is much scope for the highest powers of reasoning, in shewing the accordance of these truths with the soundest inductions of true philosophy. But, notwithstanding all their truth and all their utility, it may be doubted whether they are to any one the foundation of his faith in another state of being. It must be admitted, at least, that their force is felt by those only whose minds have been in some degree trained to habits of reasoning, and that they are therefore not adapted to the mass of mankind. But the truths which they are intended to establish are of eternal importance to men of every degree, and we should therefore expect them to rest upon evidence which finds its way with unerring aim to the hearts of the unlearned. The unanswerable reasonings of Butler never reached the ear of the gray-haired pious peasant, but he needs not their powerful aid to establish his sure and certain hope of a blessed immortality. It is no induction of logic that has transfixed the heart of the victim of deep remorse, when he withers beneath an influence unseen by human eye, and shrinks from the anticipation of a reckoning to come. In both, the evidence is within,—a part of the original constitution of every rational mind, planted there by him who framed the wondrous fabric. This is the power of conscience;—with an authority, which no man can put away from him, it pleads at once for his own future existence, and for the moral attributes of an omnipotent and ever-present Deity. In a healthy state of the moral feelings, the man recognises its claim to supreme dominion. Amid the degradation of guilt, it still raises its voice and asserts its right to govern the whole man; and, though its warnings are disregarded, and its claims disallowed, it proves within his inmost soul an accuser that cannot be stilled, and an avenging spirit that never is quenched.

Similar observations apply to the uniformity of moral distinctions, or the conviction of a certain line of conduct which man owes to his fellow-men. There have been many controversies and various contending systems in reference to this subject, but I submit that the question may be disposed of in the same manner as the one now mentioned. Certain fixed and defined principles of relative duty appear to be recognised by the consent of mankind, as an essential part of their moral constitution, by as absolute a conviction as that by which are recognised our bodily qualities. The hardened criminal, whose life has been a course of injustice and fraud, when at length brought into circumstances which expose him to the knowledge or the retribution of his fellow-men, expects from them veracity and justice, or perhaps even throws himself upon their mercy. He thus recognises such principles as a part of the moral constitution, just as the blind man, when he has missed his way, asks direction of the first person he meets,—presuming upon the latter possessing a sense which, though lost to him, he still considers as belonging to every sound man. In defending himself, also, the criminal shews the same recognition. For, his object is to disprove the alleged facts, or to frame excuses for his conduct;—he never attempts to question those universal principles by which he feels that his actions must be condemned, if the facts are proved against him. Without such