AN ESSAY ON CONSCIENCE. MR. EDITOR. SIR.-On reading your valuable Magazine some time since, I was much pleased with some papers on conscience, as to whether it is of divine origin, or the result of education. But it appeared to me, that your correspondents did not go sufficiently far into the subject. If, therefore, you think the following essay worth inserting, you will add to the obligations already conferred on your obedient servant, B. BROUGH. What is conscience? It is supposed to be a moral tribunal, a mental court of chancery, where right and wrong, equity and injustice, are determined without any reference to the jury of reason-or the deductions of the understanding; by giving its sanction to virtue, and issuing its injunctions to vice, with a celerity quite the reverse of the “law's delay” in any of the courts of Westminster. That some such principle exists, few will have the folly to deny. The object of this essay is not to inquire into its existence; it is to ascertain its origin, to find the cause, and not to detail the effects. And where we have not positive or self-evident proofs to adduce, it is our duty to offer the next best in our power; and in this case, that next best proof appears to be,-candid inference, and impartial comparisons. Let us then examine those works which we know could proceed from no other hand than that of nature's God; and if a discrepancy exists between them and the subject immediately under consideration, the conclusion that they are the result of different causes, the designs of different architects, must be conceded. That the former are all perfection, and that the latter is defective, and in many cases erroneous, appears to me as clear as that virtue is not vice, or that Omniscience cannot Look through nature; look at the finished workmanship of God's creative energy; look with a philosophic eye at his celestial wonders-where worlds revolve round worlds, and systems extend beyond systems, in the most beautiful order, and in the strictest concord. Survey vegetable, animal, and rational life, and you will perceive harmony, consistency, and uniformity prevailing throughout the whole. err. Now, as all nature's works are performed in the aggregate,—to be a perfect work, all men ought to be possessed of the same sort of conscience : for it is mere accident that has placed them in different situations.-For instance, the child that is born to-day, may by accident fall into the hands of a Catholic, a Hindoo, a Quaker, a Methodist, or an Episcopalian; and what would be the consequence? The Catholic would bring him up,-storing his mind with the dogmas of his creed, and when of mature age, conscience would reprove him if he ate meat on Fridays, or neglected to cross himself on particular occasions. But suppose, instead of the Catholic, the child had fallen into the Quaker's hands-educated in Quaker principles, he would look upon the forms of Catholicism as absurd, and his conscience would suffer him to indulge in any food that might suit his choice. Now, if conscience were divine, it would be perfect, and act independently of circumstance, and reprove for, or approve of, eating meat equally, whether the person had been educated in the Roman Catholic faith, or in the more humble one of a Quaker. We are taught by our laws and our religion, to respect as sacred the property of others; and I am bold to say, that nineteen out of twenty who may read these observations, would be most promptly accused of error, were they illegally to appropriate the property of their neighbours to their own use. But had they lived during the prosperous days of the Spartan republic, they would have heard nothing from conscience unless they had been found out;-for there, dexterity (even when applied to thieving) was esteemed a virtue worthy of practice by children of the first families of the state; and he who could steal with most address, was esteemed the most worthy of praise. Is there, Mr. Editor, a man in England, nay, is there a man in Europe, who could unfeelingly commit that worst of all murders-parricide? "Murder which in itself is foul" and horrible, is rendered a thousand times more so, when the parricidical hand is raised by the son against the life of the father, when the ties of affection are disregarded, and the sacred bulwarks of filial obligation are broken down; and yet, had it been our for week, the conversion of a Mussulman from the faith of Mahomet to that of Christ. Would conscience still deny him a glass of wine to recruit exhausted nature, or to counteract disease, or condemn him for putting to his lips the wine chalice, in commemoration of the last supper of Jesus? I answer, fearlessly, no! His idea of moral wrong being removed, and his judgment approving of the act, con tune to have been born amongst some of the savage tribes, the horror that now is excited at the bare idea of the crime, would cease; and at a certain period of life, the murderous knife would be sharpened; the parental victim would be brought forth; and, as an act of duty, the son would embrue his hands in his father's blood. Perhaps it may be asked, what evidence can be adduced, that conscience did not disapprove of the deed?-It is self-science would ratify, and not conevident; for had conscience condemned the act in men in a state of nature, it would have been discontinued. But, instead of this, custom reconciled its horrors, and they found in prevailing opinion a justification of the deed, One of the most glaring proofs of the truckling of conscience to circumstance, is in its justifying or disapproving of bigamy or polygamy.Would not my married readers have the most severe compunctions, were they to intermarry with other women during the lives of their present wives? Yet, had they lived during the reign of Solomon,-or, what is more possible, had they been educated Mahomedans instead of Christians, they might in that case marry as many wives as they liked, and not the least notice would their inward monitor have taken of their actions. Now, it is either wrong, or not wrong, to marry more than one wife. If wrong, conscience does its duty by Christians, but behaves most unhandsomely to Turks: and hence we cannot but conclude, that it is in itself imperfect. Now, which of my Christian readers, or what man of this happy island, would feel the disapproval of his moral sense (as the ancients called conscience) for indulging himself in an occasional glass of generous wine? on the contrary, one of the most solemn ceremonies of the Christian religion is partly performed with the aid of wine. But, if the Mahomedan took a cup, it would be a cup too much for his conscience, and he would not be free from the upbraidings of his inward monitor, till he had made confession, and undergone ablution. Now, drinking wine must be either wrong or not wrong; and conscience making it wrong in one man, and justifying it in another, proves that there is something imperfect in its formation. This is strikingly exemplified in an occurrence that may happen every demn, its performance; then, I ask, can conscience be the result of an immediate divine inspiration, when it is known to approve to-day, of that which it reprobated yesterday; and to disapprove to-day, of that which it sanctioned yesterday,—and on the morrow may again justify. Wherever conscience approves of an act contrary to the laws of nature, there exists powerful proof that it is not divine. When, therefore, conscience justifies such acts as sons murdering their fathers, and mothers sacrificing their infants, as is done in the East, an outrage is committed on nature; and that which is contrary to nature being contrary to truth, cannot proceed from God, who is the "light of truth." Ergo, conscience in this sense, is not divine. Can works then, such as have been compared, works so opposite, so perfect, and so imperfect, spring from one source?-the discrepancy is glaring; and the conclusion inevitable, that the modifications of conscience are artificial, and not indigenous to the mind. It is What then is conscience? only another name for judgment, or an appeal on moral actions to the reasoning faculties of the mind. But perhaps it will be said, reason requires time and arrangement, and that conscience decides instantaneously, and acts independently of arrangement. But, on examination, we shall find that reason, in many cases, acts with as much promptitude as the most tender conscience can possibly do. For instance, two men of unequal size present themselves to my view,—I conclude instantly that the one is taller and stouter than the other. This I do by a consecutive movement of the mind. Custom has taught me, that an object of certain dimensions makes an impression which begets the idea of a certain magnitude. On comparing the two, I find different ideas pro duced, and thence conclude, as all objects make impressions in proportion to thefr size, that the impression of the less is made by a smaller man. This, Mr. Editor, is the mode, and the only mode, by which we judge of shape, size, colour, quality, &c.; but by constant use, things and consequences become familiar to the eye, as truth or falsehood does to the mind, or the divisions in the type-box do to the hand of the compositor. The most ignorant man is aware that he must die; and this assurance he obtains precisely in the way I have just shewn. He finds, from observation, that all men die; and, knowing that he himself is a man, he concludes that he must die like his fellows; and yet the fact of his mortality is seen without his appearing to use any syllogistic reasoning. So is it with conscience: an appeal is made to the judgment, and from habit, without appearing to weigh the matter, an instantaneous approval or disapproval is given. For conscience never approves of that which judgment condemns; and as our judgment of right and wrong is the result of circumstance, and not immutable, in as much as that which is right here is wrong elsewhere, and that which is right here to-day may be wrong to-morrow:-Judgment is, therefore, mutable; and that which is POETRY. HYMN ON THE SAVIOUR'S NATIVITY. Fair Mercy left her throne! The Day-star brightly shone. Mild Prince of peace! Eternal Word! Great Prophet, Priest, and King! Our noblest music bring. Accept our praise; thy gifts impart; Thy word, thy Spirit send! J. M. M. (For the Imperial Magazine.) THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. JANUARY, 1826. "Redeem we time? Its loss we dearly buy." Young. TIME is a river, rolling to the deep, Th' eternal deep, from whence its stream began ; mutable, cannot be the immediate OR, SIMILES ON TIME, FOR THE FIRST OF effect of immutability. Nature is immutable; ergo,-our modes of conscience cannot be the result of nature. That which is not natural must be artificial. Education is artificial, and our notions of right and wrong depend on education. The approval or disapproval of conscience, therefore, depends on our knowledge of right and wrong; and consequently, the modes which conscience assumes, must, by a consecutive conclusion, be the result of education. There endless ages in their fountain sleep; The just and virtuous, by its gentle swell; Time is a theatre, the parts are seven,* Mankind performs, from infancy to age: Some gain the golden plaudit of high heaven; Others in infamy go off the stage! "Tis infinite eternity begun; A drop of that unfathomable deep; A cycle measur'd by the rolling sun; A segment of the circle's mighty sweep. Time is a sacred mine of solid ore; (To make a jewel for their future throne.) The diligent its richest veins explore; And faith transmutes to gold the precious stone. * See Shakspeare's Seven Ages of Man. Time is a ready-writer, take the hint; His records are coeval with the fall; The Doomsday-book, stern destiny shall print, And truth, at man's last audit, read it all. Time is blank paper, life the season fit To write the wise engross the volume well: Eternity will read what man has writ; And frown the scribe who blots it, down to hell! Time is a feast, the fragments, morsels, crumbs, A string of precious pearls in wisdom's eye. Time is a filial usher, death the gate Through which all pass to his eternal sire. 'Tis but a moment,--watch, and weep, and wait! A SKETCH. -I SAW a long procesion pass. Then fly to bliss, and sweep the living lyre! They pass'd, and faded into that thick gloom Time is a little province, dark and damp, Canton'd from everlasting's awful coast; The sun its day, the moon its midnight lamp, And seventy hundred years its utmost boast! 'Tis the fool's play-thing, but the truly wise Esteem it more than silver, ruby, gold, The pearl of countless price, whoever buys, Is richer than king Solomon of old. Time is eternity's beloved son, Cherish the darling child within thy breast! And when thy race of shame and glory's run, The awful sire will greet thy soul to rest. Salop, Dec. 4th. Jos. MARSDEN. * £100,000. NEW-YEAR'S DAY. (For JANUARY FIRST, 1826.) "Eunt anni more fluentis aquæ." AGAIN the months have fled Ovid. With unremitting, rapid pace; His stay, or stop bis swift career? Both we and Time may run together;- Beyond the outposts of our solar sphere, So bright the place From which they issued, and so gloomy, that Whither they hastened all, the sight in vain, With brightness dazzled, or with darkness dimm'd, Essay'd to mark them out from ambient beams, Or trace their forms in gloom; but visible Each as he came, one following one, and thusTill all had pass'd. Bright on the brow of each Glisten'd the star of morning, with the blush Aurora wears, when Phoebus' first broad orb Peers o'er the eastern hills. The mid-day sun Full on their breast shone out; and round their feet Hung heaven-embroidered robes, by sunset wove. But these were ofttimes hid by crowning mists And girdling clouds, and feet-enveloping dark ness. Scarce one of all the long-succeeding line, Some bore the palm of martyrdom, and some Of all the train I saw, had sacred robes came With triumph on his glory-crowned brow;Burst out from darkness, which, on all sides round Fled from his radiant head. Heaven's golden keys And sceptre great, he carried; and the keys Of the dark grave. But one had gone before (With one between) in sorrow's deepest garb. Like a lorn mother, she mov'd on in tears Sat beaming out illustrious-fit to lead New-Year's-Day, 1825. VICISSITUDE; J. M. G. OR, WINTER ANTICIPATED. THE glories of summer, alas, they have flown! Aud Flora's fair offspring have sunk to decay: The sun, bis intention to leave us has shown; The swallows have taken their flight o'er the sea. Manificent Autumn, with liberal hand, Her sceptre resign to the monarch of dread. Yes, Winter, stern king, soon again will appear, The rivers assail with bis ice-forming breath; The Earth will acknowledge his rigid career, And Nature appear in the vesture of death. Vicissitude's impress each earthly thing bears, How oft is the sunshine succeeded by rain! The bright eye of joy oft is darken'd by tears; We all have our seasons of pleasure and pain. Time's e'er-ebbing tide to eternity's sea Runs down, bearing life's feeble bark on its The moon shines softly from the star-gemm'd sky, And brightly gilds the billows curling by, Rolling unconscious o'er the scene of gloom, Where ship and inmates found one common doom: Where sank, and perish'd, riches, hopes, and life Nor left a floating vestige of that billowy strife! From India's climes the noble vessel came, For Britain bound,-the Rosalband her name: Each nook with gold and fragrant spice was fill'd, And costly raiment in the hold was pil'd; And noble blood and beauty's pride were there While waves propitious roll'd, and every wind was fair. Ab,-little thought that gay licentious crew, While their bark bounded o'er the swelling blue While rich wines sparkled, and the jest ran high And songs and laughter told their revelry; Oh!--it was hard, when glist'ning in moonlight, Ay; 'twas a night of wild,—of dark alarm, When death's black car roll'd on the rattling storm; When hearts that throbb'd with ecstasy of bliss, And love and friendship's soft anxietiesWere coldly quench'd in reckless billow's lave, And still'd, ay, still'd for ever, 'neath the deep dark wave! |