Will or Simple Volition is that state of mind which immediately precedes action;—We will a certain act; and the act follows, unless it be prevented either by external restraint, or by physical inability to perform it.

The actions thus produced arise out of the mental emotions formerly treated of,—the desires, and the affections.—We desire an object, or we experience one of the affections;—the next mental act, according to the regular course of a reflecting mind, is proposing to ourselves the question,—shall we gratify the desire,—shall we exercise the affection. Then follows the process of considering or deliberating.—We perceive, perhaps, a variety of considerations or inducements,—some of which are in favour of gratifying the desire or exercising the affection, others opposed to it. We therefore proceed to weigh the relative force of these opposing motives, with the view of determining which of them we shall allow to regulate our decision. We, at length, make up our mind on this, and resolve, we shall suppose, to do the act;—this is followed by the mental condition of willing or simple volition.

In the chain of mental operations which, in such a case, intervene between the desire and the volition, a class of agents is brought into view which act upon the mind as moral causes of its volitions;—these are usually called motives,—or principles of action. When treating of this subject as a branch of the philosophy of the intellectual powers, I endeavoured to shew the grounds on which we believe, that there are facts, truths, motives, or moral causes, which have a tendency thus to influence the determinations of the mind, with a uniformity similar to that which we observe in the operation of physical causes. For the due operation of moral causes, indeed, certain circumstances are required in the individual on whom they are expected to operate, and, without these, they may fail in their operation. It is necessary that he should be fully informed in regard to them as truths addressed to his understanding,—that he direct his attention to them with suitable intensity, and exercise his reasoning powers upon their tendencies,—and that he be himself in a certain healthy state of moral feeling. In all our intercourse with mankind, accordingly, we proceed upon an absolute confidence in the uniformity of the operation of these causes, provided we are acquainted with the moral condition of the individual. We can foretel, for example, the respective effects which a tale of distress will have upon a cold-hearted miser, and a man of active benevolence, with the same confidence with which we can predict the different actions of an acid upon an alkali and upon a metal;—and there are individuals in regard to whose integrity and veracity, in any situation in which they can be placed, we have a confidence similar to that with which we rely on the course of nature. In this manner we gradually acquire, by experience, a knowledge of mankind; precisely as, by observation or experiment, we acquire a knowledge of the operation of physical agents. Thus we come to know that one man is absolutely to be relied on, in regard to a particular line of conduct in given circumstances;—and that another is not to be relied on, if any thing should come in the way, affecting his own pleasure or interest. In endeavouring to excite various individuals to the same conduct in a particular case, we learn, that in one, we have to appeal only to his sense of duty,—in another, to his love of approbation;—while, on a third, nothing will make any impression except what bears upon his interest or his pleasure. Again, when we find that, in a particular individual, certain motives or truths fail of the effects which we have observed them to produce in others, we endeavour to impress them upon his mind, and to rouse his attention to their bearings and tendencies;—and this we do from the conviction, that these truths have a certain uniform tendency to influence the volitions of a moral being, provided he can be induced seriously to attend to them, and provided he is in that moral condition which is required for their efficiency.

In all such cases, which are familiar to every one, we recognise, therefore, a uniform relation between certain moral causes or motives, and the determinations of the human mind in willing certain acts. It is no objection to this, that men act in very different ways with the same motives before them;—for this depends upon their own moral condition. When treating of the intellectual powers, I alluded to the metaphysical controversies connected with this subject, and I do not mean to recur to them here. Our present object is entirely of a practical nature,—namely, to investigate the circumstances which are required for the due operation of motives or moral causes, and the manner in which the moral feelings may be so deranged, that these fail of producing their natural or proper effects.

Let us, then, suppose an individual deliberating in regard to the line of conduct he shall pursue in a particular case;—the circumstances or impressions which are calculated to act upon him as moral causes in determining his volition,—that is, in deciding his conduct, are chiefly the following: (1.) Self-love, which prompts him to seek his own ease, interest, or gratification. (2.) Certain affections which lead him to take into view duties which he owes to other men; such as, justice, benevolence, &c. (3.) The impression of moral rectitude or moral responsibility. This is derived from the great principle of conscience, aided by the truths of religious belief. (4.) We ought to add reason of judgment, which leads him to perceive certain tendencies of actions, apart from their moral aspect. Now, in deciding on his conduct in any particular instance, one man makes every thing bend to his own interest or pleasure,—with little regard to the interests of others;—unless in so far as the absolute requirements of justice are concerned, the infringement of which might expose him to loss of reputation, or even to punishment.—Another surrenders a certain portion of his personal gratification to the advantage or comfort of others, purely as an exercise of feeling from which he experiences satisfaction;—influenced, also, probably, in some measure, by a regard to character, or the love of approbation. In such a man, it becomes, in individual instances, a matter of calculation, what degree of the sacrifice of personal ease, interest, of feeling, is to be made to this principle of action. A third contemplates the case purely as one of duty of moral responsibility, and acts upon this principle, though it may involve a degree of personal exertion, or a sacrifice of personal feeling, in itself disagreeable or even injurious to him; that is, though the strongest personal motives would lead to a different conduct. Let the case, again, refer to one of the desires, bearing no immediate relation to the interests of other men. One man goes directly into the gratification of it, without any consideration. Another, who feels the same desire, considers the influence which the indulgence would be likely to have on his health, interest, or reputation.—This may be considered as simply an exercise of judgment, combined with a certain operation of self-love. A third views the aspect of the deed purely as a question of moral responsibility,—and, if he sees cause, decides against it on this ground alone;—though he should perceive that it might be gratified without any danger to his health, interest, or reputation, or even that it might contribute to his advantage.

We have thus presented to us three characters;—one who acts upon the high and pure ground of moral principle;—one who acts from motives of a more contracted and personal nature, though, in certain instances, his conduct may be the same;—and one who goes straight forward to the gratification of a ruling desire or governing propensity, without attending to motives of either class. The first is a uniform character, on whose conduct we depend in any given circumstances, with a confidence similar to that with which we rely on the operation of physical agents. For we know the uniform tendencies of the motives or moral causes by which he is habitually influenced, and we know his moral temperament. We have nearly the same kind of knowledge respecting him, which we have of the tendencies of chemical agents towards each other, and which enables us with perfect confidence to foretel their actions. The third has also a uniformity of conduct, though of a very different kind. We know, likewise, his moral condition, and, to predict his conduct, we require only to learn the particular inducements or temptations to which he is exposed in a given instance. The second we cannot rely or calculate upon; for we have not the means of tracing the conflicting views by which he may be influenced in a particular case, or the principle on which he may ultimately decide between them. They involve the strength of the inclination,—and the degree of power exerted over it by the class of personal or selfish motives by which he is influenced.—In regard to various instances of ill-regulated desire, we must add his hope of evading detection,—as on this depends, in a great measure, the kind of evils dreaded by him in reference to the indulgence. These taken together imply a complicated moral calculation, of which it is impossible for another man to trace the result.

There cannot be an inquiry of more intense interest than to investigate the causes in which originate the differences among these three characters; or, in other words, the principles on which we can explain the fact, that the will of individuals may be influenced so differently with the same motives before them. These appear to be referable to three heads,—Knowledge,—Attention,—and Moral Habits.

I. A primary and essential element, in the due regulation of the will, is a correct knowledge of the truths and motives which tend to influence its determinations. The highest class of these comprehends the truths of religious belief,—a series of moral causes, the tendencies of which are of the most important kind, and calculated to exert a uniform power over every man who surrenders himself to their guidance. For this purpose, a correct knowledge of them is required, and, to all who have this knowledge within their reach, the careful acquisition involves a point of the deepest moral responsibility. The sacred writers speak in the strongest terms of the guilt attached to voluntary ignorance: and this must be obvious to every one who considers the clearness with which the highest truths are disclosed, and the incontrovertible evidence by which they are supported. This applies equally to the principles both of natural and of revealed religion. The important truths of natural religion are partly matters of the most simple induction from the phenomena of nature which are continually before us; and partly impressed upon our own moral constitution in the clearest and most forcible manner. From the planet revolving in its appointed orbit, to the economy of the insect on which we tread, all nature demonstrates, with a power which we cannot put away from us, the great incomprehensible One, a being of boundless perfections and infinite wisdom. In regard to his moral attributes, also, he has not left himself without a witness; for a sense of these he has impressed upon us in the clearest manner in that wondrous part of our constitution,—the moral principle or conscience. From these two sources may be derived a knowledge of the character of the Deity, and of our relation to him as moral beings;—and the man is left entirely without excuse who fails to direct to them his most earnest attention, and to make the impressions derived from them the habitual rule of his volitions, and the guide of his whole character. "He hath the rule of right within," says Butler, "all that is wanting is,—that he honestly attend to it."

Similar observations apply with equal or greater force to the truths of revealed religion. These are supported by a weight of miraculous evidence, and are transmitted to us by a chain of testimony, carrying absolute conviction to the mind of every candid inquirer. They are farther confirmed by a probability, and a force of internal evidence, which fix themselves upon the moral feelings of every sound understanding with a power which is irresistible. The whole is addressed to us as rational beings; it is pressed upon our attention as creatures destined for another state of existence; and the duty is imposed upon every individual seriously to examine and to consider. Every man is in the highest degree responsible for the care with which he has informed himself of these evidences, and for the attention with which he has given to every part of them its due weight in the solemn inquiry. He is farther responsible for the influence of previously formed prejudice, or that vitiated state of his moral feelings, which prevents him from approaching the subject with the simplicity of a mind which is seriously desirous of the truth. From the want of these essential elements of character, it may very often happen, that a man may fancy he has formed his opinions after much examination, while the result of his prejudiced or frivolous inquiry has been only to fix him in delusion and falsehood. Among the singular sophistries, indeed, by which some men shut their minds against inquiries of the highest import, is a kind of impression, not perhaps distinctly avowed in words, but clearly recognised in practice, that these subjects of belief are in great measure matters of opinion,—instead of being felt to rest upon the basis of immutable and eternal truth. Can any thing be more striking than the manner in which a late distinguished poet expresses himself on the subject of a future life,—as if this truth were a mere opinion which could be taken up or laid down at pleasure, to suit the taste of the individual inquirer;—"Of the two, I should think the long sleep better than the agonized vigil. But men, miserable as they are, cling so to any thing like life, that they probably would prefer damnation to quiet. Besides, they think themselves so important in the creation, that nothing less can satisfy then pride,—the insects!"[1] Such is the frivolous sophistry by which one, who holds a high rank in the literature of his country, could put away from him the most momentous inquiry that can engage the attention of a rational being.

II. Next to the acquisition of knowledge, and the formation of opinions, calculated to act upon us as moral beings, is the important rule of habitually attending to them, so as to bring their influence to bear upon our volitions. He, who honestly attends to what is passing within, will perceive that this is a voluntary exercise of his thinking and reasoning faculties. When a particular desire is present to his mind, he has the power to act upon the first impulse, or upon a very partial and limited, perhaps a distorted, view of the considerations and motives by which he ought to be influenced;—and he has the power to suspend acting, and direct his attention deliberately and fully to the facts and principles which are calculated to guide his determination. This is the first great step in that remarkable chain of sequences which belong to the regulation of the will. It is what every one is conscious of; and, putting aside all those metaphysical subtleties in which the subject has been involved, this constitutes man a free and responsible agent. In this important process, the first mental state is a certain movement of one of the desires or one of the affections;—we may use the term Inclination as including both. The second is a reference of the inclination to the moral causes or motives which more peculiarly apply to it,—especially the indications of conscience, and the principles of moral rectitude.—If these be found to harmonize with the inclination, volition and action follow, with the full concurrence of every moral feeling. If the inclination be condemned by these, it is, in a well-regulated mind, instantly dismissed, and the healthy condition of the moral being is preserved. But this voluntary and most important mental process may be neglected;—the inclination may be suffered to engross the mind and occupy fully the attention:—the power may not be exercised of directing it to moral causes and motives, and of comparing with them the inclination which is present. The consequence may be, that the man runs heedlessly into volition and action, from which the due exercise of this process of the mind might have preserved him.

But a third condition may take place which presents a subject of the highest interest. The moral causes may be so far attended to, as to prevent the inclination from being followed by action; while the inclination is still cherished, and the mind is allowed to dwell, with a certain feeling of regret, on the object which it had been obliged to deny itself. Though the actual deed be thus prevented, the harmony of the moral feelings is destroyed;—and that mental condition is lost which is strictly to be called purity of heart. For this consists in the desires and affections, as well as the conduct, being in strict subjection to the indications of conscience and the principles of moral rectitude. The inclination, thus cherished, gradually acquires greater ascendency over the moral feelings;—at each succeeding contest, it more and more occupies the mind; the attention is less and less directed to the moral truths and motives which are opposed to it; the inclination at length acquires the predominance, and is followed by volition. This is what we mean by a man being carried away by passion, in opposition to his moral conviction; for passion consists in a desire or an affection which has been allowed to engross the mind, until it gradually overpowers the moral causes which are calculated to counteract its influence. Now in the whole of this course each single movement of the mind is felt to be entirely voluntary. From that step, which constitutes the first departure from moral purity, the process consists in a desire being cherished which the moral feelings condemn; while, at each succeeding step, the influence of these feelings is gradually weakened, and finally destroyed. Such is the economy of the human heart, and such the chain of sequences to be traced in the moral history of every man, who, with a conviction upon his mind of what is right, has followed the downward course which gradually led him astray from virtue. When we trace such a process backwards in a philosophical point of view, the question still recurs,—what was the first step, or that by which the mind was led into the course which thus terminated in favour of vice. In the wonderful chain of sequences, which has been established in the mental constitution, it would appear that a very slight movement only is required for deranging the delicate harmony which ought to exist among the moral feelings; but this each individual feels to be entirely voluntary. It may consist in a desire being cherished which the moral feelings disapprove;—and, though the effect at first may be small, a morbid influence has arisen, which gains strength by continuance, and at last acquires the power of a moral habit. The more the desire is cherished, the less is the attention directed to the considerations or moral causes by which it might be counteracted. In this manner, according to the mental economy, these causes gradually lose their power over the volitions or determinations of the mind, and, at a certain period of this progress, the judgment itself comes to be changed respecting the moral aspect of the deed.

There is still another mental condition to be mentioned in connexion with this subject; in which the harmony of the moral feelings may be destroyed, without the action following. This takes places when the inclination is cherished, as in the former case, in opposition to the indications of conscience; while the action is opposed by some inferior motives,—as a regard to reputation or interest. The deed may thus be prevented, and the interests of society may benefit by the difference; but, so far as regards the individual himself, the disruption of moral harmony is the same; and his moral aspect must be similar in the eye of the Almighty One, who regards not the outward appearance alone, but who looketh into the heart. In this manner it may very often happen, that strong inducements to vice are resisted from motives referring merely to health, or to character. But this is not to overcome temptation,—it is only to balance one selfish feeling against another.

III. From the state of mind which has now been referred to, there gradually results a Moral Habit. This is a mental condition, in which a desire or an affection, repeatedly acted upon, is, after each repetition, acted upon with less and less effort,—and, on the other hand, a truth or moral principle, which has been repeatedly passed over without adequate attention, after every such act makes less and less impression, until at length it ceases to exert any influence over the moral feelings or the conduct. I had occasion to illustrate this remarkable principle in another point of view, when treating of the connexion between the emotions of sympathy and benevolence, and the conduct which naturally arises out of them. This conduct at first may require a certain effort, and is accompanied by a strong feeling of the emotion which leads to it. But, after each repetition, the acts go on with less feeling of the emotion, and less reference to the principle from which they spring, while there is progressively forming the habit of active benevolence. It is precisely the same with habits of vice. At first a deed requires an effort,—and a powerful contest with moral principles, and it is speedily followed by that feeling of regret, to which superficial observers give the name of repentance. This is the voice of conscience, but its power is more and more diminished after each repetition of the deed;—even the judgment becomes perverted respecting the first great principles of moral rectitude; and acts, which at first occasioned a violent conflict, are gone into without remorse, or almost without perception of their moral aspect. A man in this situation may still retain the knowledge of truths and principles which at one time exerted an influence over his conduct; but they are now matters of memory alone. Their power as moral causes is gone, and even the judgment is altered respecting their moral tendencies. He views them now perhaps as the superstitions of the vulgar, or the prejudices of a contracted education; and rejoices, it may be, in his emancipation from their authority. He knows not,—for he has not the moral perception now to know, that he has been pursuing a downward course, and that the issue, on which he congratulates himself, consists in his last degradation as a moral being. Even in this state of moral destitution, indeed, the same warning principle may still raise its voice,—unheeded but not subdued,—repelled as an enemy, not admitted as a friendly monitor and guide. "I have not the smallest influence over Lord Byron, in this particular," writes one of the chosen friends of that distinguished individual,—"if I had, I certainly should employ it to eradicate from his great mind the delusions of Christianity, which, in spite of his reason, seem perpetually to recur, and to lay in ambush for the hours of sickness and distress." It would be interesting to know what the particular impressions were, from which this sympathizing friend was anxious to rescue the poet. They were probably the suggestions of a power within, which, in certain seasons of reflection, compelled his attention in spite of his attempts to reason against it,—pleading with authority for a present Deity, and a life to come.

The principle of Habit, therefore, holds a most important place in the moral condition of every man; and it applies equally to any species of conduct, or any train of mental operations, which, by frequent repetition, have become so familiar, as not to be accompanied by a recognition of the principles in which they originated. In this manner good habits are continued without any immediate sense of the right principles by which they were formed; but they arose from a frequent and uniform acting upon these principles, and on this is founded the moral approbation which we attach to habits of this description. In the same manner, habits of vice, and habits of inattention to any class of duties, are perpetuated without a sense of the principles and affections which they violate; but this arose from a frequent violation of these principles, and a frequent repulsion of these affections, until they gradually lost their power over the conduct; and in this consists the guilt of habits. Thus, one person acquires habits of benevolence, veracity, and kindness,—of minute attention to his various duties,—of correct mental discipline,—and active direction of his thoughts to all those objects of attention which ought to engage a well regulated mind:—Another sinks into habits of listless vacuity or frivolity of mind,—of vicious indulgence and contracted selfishness,—of neglect of important duties, disregard to the feelings of others, and total indifference to all those considerations and pursuits which claim the highest regard of every responsible being; and the striking fact is, that, after a certain period, all this may go on without a feeling that aught is wrong either in the moral condition, or the state of mental discipline; such is the power of a moral habit.

The important truth, therefore, is deserving of the deepest and most habitual attention, that character consists in a great measure in habits, and that habits arise out of individual actions and individual operations of the mind. Hence the importance of carefully weighing every action of our lives, and every train of thought that we encourage in our minds; for we never can determine the effect of a single act, or a single mental process, in giving that influence to the character, or to the moral condition, the result of which shall be decisive and permanent. In the whole history of habits, indeed, we see a wondrous display of that remarkable order of sequences which has been established in our mental constitution, and by which every man becomes, in an important sense, the master of his own moral destiny. For each act of virtue tends to make him more virtuous; and each act of vice gives new strength to an influence within, which will certainly render him more more vicious.

These considerations have a practical tendency of the utmost interest. In subduing habits of an injurious character, the laws of mental sequences, which have now been referred to, must be carefully acted upon. When the judgment, influenced by the indications of conscience, is convinced of the injurious nature of the habit, the attention must be steadily and habitually directed to the truths which produced this impression. There will thus arise desire to be delivered from the habit,—or, in other words, to cultivate the course of action that is opposed to it. This desire, being cherished in the mind, is then made to bear upon every individual case in which a propensity is felt towards particular actions, or particular mental processes, referable to the habit. The new inclination is at first acted upon with an effort, but, after every instance of success, less effort is required, until at length the new course of action is confirmed, and overpowers the habit to which it was opposed. But that this result may take place, it is necessary that the mental process be followed, in the manner distinctly indicated by the philosophy of the moral feelings; for if this is not attended to, the expected effect may not follow, even under circumstances which appear, at first sight, most likely to produce it. On this principle we are to explain the fact, that bad habits may be long suspended by some powerful extrinsic influence, while they are in no degree broken. Thus, a person addicted to intemperance will bind himself by an oath to abstain, for a certain time, from intoxicating liquors. In an instance which has been related to me, an individual under this process observed the most rigid sobriety for five years, but was found in a state of intoxication the very day after the period of abstinence expired. In such a case, the habit is suspended by the mere influence of the oath; but the desire continues unsubdued, and resumes all its former power whenever this artificial restraint is withdrawn. The effect is the same as if the man had been in confinement during the period, or had been kept from his favourite indulgence by some other restraint entirely of an external kind; the gratification was prevented, but his moral nature continued unchanged.

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

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

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

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