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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8180aac --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53792 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53792) diff --git a/old/53792-8.txt b/old/53792-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 7266cd6..0000000 --- a/old/53792-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16225 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Philosophical Works, v. 2 (of 4), by David Hume - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Philosophical Works, v. 2 (of 4) - Including all the Essays, and Exhibiting the more Important - Alterations and Corrections in the Successive Editions - Published by the Author - -Author: David Hume - -Release Date: December 22, 2016 [EBook #53792] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS, V. 2 (OF 4) *** - - - - -Produced by Madelaine Kilsby and Marc D'Hooghe at Free -Literature (back online soon in an extended version, also -linking to free sources for education worldwide ... MOOC's, -educational materials,...) Images generously made available -by the Bodleian Library, Oxford. - - - - - -THE - -PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS - -OF - -DAVID HUME. - - -INCLUDING ALL THE ESSAYS, AND EXHIBITING THE - -MORE IMPORTANT ALTERATIONS AND CORRECTIONS - -IN THE SUCCESSIVE EDITIONS PUBLISHED - -BY THE AUTHOR. - -IN FOUR VOLUMES. - -VOL. II. - -EDINBURGH: - -PRINTED FOR ADAM BLACK AND WILLIAM TAIT; - -AND CHARLES TAIT, 63, FLEET STREET, - -LONDON. - -MDCCCXXVI. - - - - -CONTENTS OF VOLUME SECOND. - - - TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. - - BOOK II.--OF THE PASSIONS. - - PART I. - - OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY. - - Division of the Subject - Of Pride and Humility, their Objects and Causes - Whence these Objects and Causes are derived - Of the Relations of Impressions and Ideas - Of the Influence of these Relations on Pride and Humility - Limitations of this System - Of Vice and Virtue - Of Beauty and Deformity - Of external Advantages and Disadvantages - Of Property and Riches - Of the Love of Fame - Of Pride and Humility of Animals - - PART II. - - OF LOVE AND HATRED. - - Of the Objects and Causes of Love and Hatred - Experiments to confirm this System - Difficulties solved - Of the Love of Relations - Of our Esteem for the Rich and Powerful - Of Benevolence and Anger - Of Compassion - Of Malice and Envy - Of the mixture of Benevolence and Anger with Compassion and Malice - Of Respect and Contempt - Of the Amorous Passion, or Love betwixt the Sexes - Of Love and Hatred of Animals - - PART III. - - OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS. - - Of Liberty and Necessity - The Same subject continued - Of the Influencing Motives of the Will - Of the Causes of the Violent Passions - Of the Effects of Custom - Of the Influence of the Imagination on the Passions - Of Contiguity and Distance in Space and Time - The same Subject continued - Of the Direct Passions - Of Curiosity, or the Love of Truth - - BOOK III.--OF MORALS. - - PART I. - - OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL. - - Moral Distinctions not derived from Reason - Moral Distinctions derived from a Moral Sense - - PART II. - - OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE. - - Justice, whether a natural or artificial Virtue? - Of the Origin of Justice and Property - Of the Rules which determine Property - Of the Transference of Property by Consent - Of the Obligation of Promises - Some farther Reflections concerning Justice and Injustice - Of the Origin of Government - Of the Source of Allegiance - Of the Measures of Allegiance - Of the Objects of Allegiance - Of the Laws of Nations - Of Chastity and Modesty - - PART III. - - OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES. - - Of the Origin of the Natural Virtues and Vices - Of Greatness of Mind - Of Goodness and Benevolence - Of Natural Abilities - Some farther Reflections concerning the Natural Virtues - Conclusion of this Book - - Dialogues concerning Natural Religion - - Appendix to the Treatise of Human Nature - - - -BOOK II. - -OF THE PASSIONS - -PART I. - -OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY. - - - - -SECTION I. - -DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT. - - -As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into _impressions_ -and _ideas_, so the impressions admit of another division into -_original_ and _secondary_. This division of the impressions is the -same with that which I formerly made use of[1] when I distinguished -them into impressions of _sensation_ and _reflection_. Original -impressions, or impressions of sensation, are such as, without any -antecedent perception, arise in the soul, from the constitution of the -body, from the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to -the external organs. Secondary, or reflective impressions, are such as -proceed from some of these original ones, either immediately, or by the -interposition of its idea. Of the first kind are all the impressions of -the senses, and all bodily pains and pleasures: of the second are the -passions, and other emotions resembling them. - -'Tis certain that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere; -and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there -must be some impressions, which, without any introduction, make their -appearance in the soul. As these depend upon natural and physical -causes, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present -subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. For this -reason I shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which -I have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the -original impressions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures -are the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the -mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you -please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. A fit -of the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear; -but is not derived immediately from any affection or idea. - -The reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the -_calm_ and the _violent_. Of the first kind is the sense of beauty and -deformity in action, composition, and external objects. Of the second -are the passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. -This division is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and music -frequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions, -properly called _passions_, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to -become in a manner imperceptible. But as, in general, the passions -are more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity, -these impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. The -subject of the human mind being so copious and various, I shall here -take advantage of this vulgar and specious division, that I may proceed -with the greater order; and, having said all I thought necessary -concerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or -passions, their nature, origin, causes and effects. - -When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of -them into _direct_ and _indirect_. By direct passions I understand -such as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. -By indirect, such as proceed from the same principles, but by the -conjunction of other qualities. This distinction I cannot at present -justify or explain any farther. I can only observe in general, that -under the indirect passions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition, -vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their -dependents. And under the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief, -joy, hope, fear, despair, and security. I shall begin with the former. - - -[1] Book I. Part I. Sect. 2. - - - - -SECTION II. - -OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES. - - -The passions of _pride_ and _humility_ being simple and uniform -impressions, 'tis impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words, -give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. The -utmost we can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration -of such circumstances as attend them: but as these words, _pride_ and -_humility_, are of general use, and the impressions they represent the -most common of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just -idea of them, without any danger of mistake. For which reason, not -to lose time upon preliminaries, I shall immediately enter upon the -examination of these passions. - -'Tis evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have -yet the same _object_. This object is self, or that succession of -related ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory -and consciousness. Here the view always fixes when we are actuated by -either of these passions. According as our idea of ourself is more or -less advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are -elated by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may -be comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to -ourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these -passions, or produce the smallest increase or diminution of them. When -self enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for -pride or humility. - -But though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call -_self_ be always the object of these two passions, 'tis impossible -it can be their _cause_, or be sufficient alone to excite them. For -as these passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in -common; were their object also their cause, it could never produce -any degree of the one passion, but at the same time it must excite -an equal degree of the other; which opposition and contrariety must -destroy both. 'Tis impossible a man can at the same time be both proud -and humble; and where he has different reasons for these passions, as -frequently happens, the passions either take place alternately, or, if -they encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength -goes, and the remainder only of that which is superior, continues to -operate upon the mind. But in the present case neither of the passions -could ever become superior; because, supposing it to be the view only -of ourself which excited them, that being perfectly indifferent to -either, must produce both in the very same proportion; or, in other -words, can produce neither. To excite any passion, and at the same time -raise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was -done, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent. - -We must therefore make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object -of these passions; betwixt that idea which excites them, and that to -which they direct their view when excited. Pride and humility, being -once raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that -as their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther -requisite in order to raise them: something, which is peculiar to -one of the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree. -The first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the cause or -productive principle. This excites the passion connected with it; and -that passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is -that of self. Here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which -the one produces it, and the other is produced by it. The first idea -therefore represents the cause, the second the _object_ of the passion. - -To begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that -their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of -_subjects_ on which they may be placed. Every valuable quality of the -mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition; -wit, good sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are -the causes of pride, and their opposites of humility. Nor are these -passions confined to the mind, but extend their view to the body -likewise. A man may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good -mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing, and of his dexterity in -any manual business or manufacture. But this is not all. The passion, -looking farther, comprehends whatever objects are in the least allied -or related to us. Our country, family, children, relations, riches, -houses, gardens, horses, dogs, clothes; any of these may become a cause -either of pride or of humility. - -From the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we should -make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that -_quality_ which operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed. A -man, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house which belongs to him, -or which he has himself built and contrived. Here the object of the -passion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: which cause -again is subdivided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates -upon the passion, and the subject, in which the quality inheres. The -quality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his -property or contrivance. Both these parts are essential, nor is the -distinction vain and chimerical. Beauty, considered merely as such, -unless placed upon something related to us, never produces any pride or -vanity; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something -else in its place, has as little influence on that passion. Since, -therefore, these two particulars are easily separated, and there is a -necessity for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we -ought to consider them as component parts of the cause; and infix in -our minds an exact idea of this distinction. - - - - -SECTION III. - -WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED. - - -Being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the _object_ -of the passions and their _cause_, and to distinguish in the cause the -_quality_, which operates on the passions, from the _subject_, in which -it inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to -be what it is, and assigns such a particular object and quality, and -subject to these affections. By this means we shall fully understand -the origin of pride and humility. - -'Tis evident, in the first place, that these passions are determined -to have self for their _object_, not only by a natural, but also by an -original property. No one can doubt but this property is _natural_, -from the constancy and steadiness of its operations. 'Tis always self, -which is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions -look beyond, 'tis still with a view to ourselves; nor can any person or -object otherwise have any influence upon us. - -That this proceeds from an _original_ quality or primary impulse, will -likewise appear evident, if we consider that 'tis the distinguishing -characteristic of these passions. Unless nature had given some original -qualities to the mind, it could never have any secondary ones; because -in that case it would have no foundation for action, nor could ever -begin to exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as -original, are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be -resolved into no other: and such is the quality which determines the -object of pride and humility. - -We may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the _causes_ that -produce the passion, be as _natural_ as the object to which it is -directed, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice, or -from the constitution of the mind. This doubt we shall soon remove, if -we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that, in all nations -and ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and -that upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly what -will either increase or diminish his passions of this kind. If there -be any variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a -difference in the tempers and complexions of men, and is, besides, very -inconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible, that while human nature -remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their -power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and -vanity will not be affected by these advantages? - -But though the causes of pride and humility be plainly _natural_, we -shall find, upon examination, that they are not _original_, and that -'tis utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these -passions by a particular provision and primary constitution of nature. -Beside their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, -and arise partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly -from the good fortune of men. Industry produces houses, furniture, -clothes. Caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. And -good fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the -effects that result from the different mixtures and combinations -of bodies. 'Tis absurd therefore to imagine, that each of these was -foreseen and provided for by nature, and that every new production -of art, which causes pride or humility, instead of adapting itself -to the passion by partaking of some general quality that naturally -operates on the mind, is itself the object of an original principle, -which till then lay concealed in the soul, and is only by accident -at last brought to light. Thus the first mechanic that invented a -fine scrutoire, produced pride in him who became possessed of it, by -principles different from those which made him proud of handsome chairs -and tables. As this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, -that each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the passions -by a distinct original quality, but that there are some one or more -circumstances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends. - -Besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be -many, the principles from which they arise are commonly but few and -simple, and that 'tis the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have -recourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different -operation. How much more must this be true with regard to the human -mind, which, being so confined a subject, may justly be thought -incapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would -be necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each -distinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles! - -Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural, -with regard to astronomy before the time of Copernicus. The ancients, -though sensible of that maxim, _that Nature does nothing in vain_, -contrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent -with true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple -and natural. To invent without scruple a new principle to every -new phenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our -hypothesis with a variety of this kind, are certain proofs that none of -these principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number -of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth. - - - - -SECTION IV. - -OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS. - - -Thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty, -_that 'tis from natural principles this variety of causes excite -pride and humility_, and _that 'tis not by a different principle each -different cause is adapted to its passion_. We shall now proceed to -inquire how we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find -among the causes something common on which their influence depends. - -In order to this, we must reflect on certain properties of human -nature, which, though they have a mighty influence on every operation -both of the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted -on by philosophers. The _first_ of these is the association of ideas, -which I have so often observed and explained. 'Tis impossible for the -mind to fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time; -nor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. But -however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without -rule and method in their changes. The rule by which they proceed, is to -pass from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced -by it. When one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united -by these relations naturally follows it, and enters with more facility -by means of that introduction. - -The _second_ property I shall observe in the human mind is a like -association of impressions. All resembling impressions are connected -together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow. -Grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to -malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be completed. -In like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws -itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other -resembling affections. 'Tis difficult for the mind, when actuated -by any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without -any change or variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of -any such regularity. Changeableness is essential to it. And to what -can it so naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are -suitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions which -then prevail? 'Tis evident then there is an attraction or association -among impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable -difference, that ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and -causation, and impressions only by resemblance. - -In the _third_ place, 'tis observable of these two kinds of -association, that they very much assist and forward each other, and -that the transition is more easily made where they both concur in -the same object. Thus, a man who, by an injury from another, is very -much discomposed and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred -subjects of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions, -especially if he can discover these subjects in or near the person who -was the cause of his first passion. Those principles which forward -the transition of ideas here concur with those which operate on the -passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double -impulse. The new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater -violence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy -and natural. - -Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who -expresses himself in the following manner:--"As the fancy delights in -every thing that is great, strange or beautiful, and is still more -pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the _same_ object, -so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of -another sense. Thus, any continued sound, as the music of birds or a -fall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and -makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie -before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, -they heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the -colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the -ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together -than when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours of a -picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive -an additional beauty from the advantage of the situation." In this -phenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and ideas, -as well as the mutual assistance they lend each other. - - - - -SECTION V. - -OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY. - - -These principles being established on unquestionable experience, I -begin to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the -causes of pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded as the -qualities that operate, or as the subjects on which the qualities -are placed. In examining these _qualities_, I immediately find many -of them to concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, -independent of those affections which I here endeavour to explain. Thus -the beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives -pleasure as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. -A magnificent feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I -discover to be true in some instances, I _suppose_ to be so in all, -and take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, that -every cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate -pleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness. - -Again, in considering the _subjects_, to which these qualities -adhere, I make a new _supposition_, which also appears probable from -many obvious instances, viz. that these subjects are either parts -of ourselves, or something nearly related to us. Thus the good and -bad qualities of our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice, -and determine our personal character, than which nothing operates -more strongly on these passions. In like manner, 'tis the beauty or -deformity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which -we are rendered either vain or humble. The same qualities, when -transferred to subjects, which bear us no relation, influence not in -the smallest degree either of these affections. - -Having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of -these affections, viz. that the _qualities_ produce a separate -pain or pleasure, and that the _subjects_, on which the qualities -are placed, are related to self; I proceed to examine the passions -themselves, in order to find something in them correspondent to the -supposed properties of their causes. _First_, I find, that the peculiar -object of pride and humility is determined by an original and natural -instinct, and that 'tis absolutely impossible, from the primary -constitution of the mind, that these passions should ever look beyond -self, or that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each -of us is intimately conscious. Here at last the view always rests, -when we are actuated by either of these passions; nor can we, in that -situation of mind, ever lose sight of this object. For this I pretend -not to give any reason; but consider such a peculiar direction of the -thought as an original quality. - -The _second_ quality which I discover in these passions, and which -I likewise consider as an original quality, is their sensations, or -the peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute -their very being and essence. Thus, pride is a pleasant sensation, and -humility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, -there is in reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling -convinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reason or -dispute. - -If I compare therefore these two _established_ properties of the -passions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensation, which -is either pleasant or painful, to the two _supposed_ properties of the -causes, viz. their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a -pain or pleasure independent of the passion; I immediately find, that -taking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me -with an irresistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion, -is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion; -the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to -the sensation of the passion: from this double relation of ideas and -impressions, the passion is derived. The one idea is easily converted -into its correlative; and the one impression into that which resembles -and corresponds to it: with how much greater facility must this -transition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other, -and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its -impressions and ideas! - -That we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose that nature -has given to the organs of the human mind a certain disposition fitted -to produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call _pride_: -to this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz. that of _self_, -which it never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily -conceived. We have many instances of such a situation of affairs. -The nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain -circumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind: the -sensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those -peculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. These two -circumstances are united in pride. The organs are so disposed as to -produce the passion; and the passion, after its production, naturally -produces a certain idea. All this needs no proof. 'Tis evident we never -should be possessed of that passion, were there not a disposition of -mind proper for it; and 'tis as evident, that the passion always turns -our view to ourselves, and makes us think of our own qualities and -circumstances. - -This being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, _Whether nature -produces the passion immediately of herself, or whether she must be -assisted by the cooperation of other causes_? For 'tis observable, -that in this particular her conduct is different in the different -passions and sensations. The palate must be excited by an external -object, in order to produce any relish: but hunger arises internally, -without the concurrence of any external object. But however the case -may stand with other passions and impressions, 'tis certain that pride -requires the assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs -which produce it exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by -an original internal movement. For, _first_, daily experience convinces -us, that pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes -when unsupported by some excellency in the character, in bodily -accomplishments, in clothes, equipage, or fortune. _Secondly_, 'tis -evident pride would be perpetual if it arose immediately from nature, -since the object is always the same, and there is no disposition of -body peculiar to pride, as there is to thirst and hunger. _Thirdly_, -humility is in the very same situation with pride; and therefore either -must, upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the -contrary passion from the very first moment; so that none of them could -ever make its appearance. Upon the whole, we may rest satisfied with -the foregoing conclusion, that pride must have a cause as well as an -object, and that the one has no influence without the other. - -The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what -it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs -in action which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. Upon -my consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, I -immediately find a hundred different causes that produce pride; and -upon examining these causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to -be probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances, which are, -that of themselves they produce an impression allied to the passion, -and are placed on a subject allied to the object of the passion. When I -consider after this the nature of _relation_, and its effects both on -the passions and ideas, I can no longer doubt upon these suppositions, -that 'tis the very principle which gives rise to pride, and bestows -motion on those organs, which, being naturally disposed to produce that -affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action. -Any thing that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self, -excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for -its object. - -What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The sensation -of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason -the separate sensation arising from the causes must be reversed, while -the relation to self continues the same. Though pride and humility -are directly contrary in their effects and in their sensations, they -have notwithstanding the same object; so that 'tis requisite only to -change the relation of impressions without making any change upon that -of ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful house belonging to -ourselves produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging -to ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is -changed into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which -corresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related -to humility. The double relation between the ideas and impressions -subsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one -emotion to the other. - -In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain -impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance, -naturally introduces its correlative. If these two attractions or -associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they -mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and -of the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. When -an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is -connected with an idea related to the first idea, these two impressions -must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be -unattended with the other. 'Tis after this manner that the particular -causes of pride and humility are determined. The quality which operates -on the passion produces separately an impression resembling it; the -subject to which the quality adheres is related to self, the object of -the passion: no wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of -a subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the passion. - -To illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that by which I -have already explained the belief attending the judgments which we -form from causation. I have observed, that in all judgments of this -kind, there is always a present impression and a related idea; and -that the present impression gives a vivacity to the fancy, and the -relation conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related -idea. Without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor -the spirits excited. Without the relation, this attention rests on -its first object, and has no farther consequence. There is evidently -a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, and our present one of an -impression and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression -and idea by means of their double relation: which analogy must be -allowed to be no despicable proof of both hypotheses. - - - - -SECTION VI. - -LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM. - - -But before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly -all the causes of pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some -limitations to the general system, _that all agreeable objects, related -to ourselves by an association of ideas and of impressions, produce -pride, and disagreeable ones, humility_: and these limitations are -derived from the very nature of the subject. - -I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the -first passion that appears on this occasion is joy; and this passion -discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory. -We may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are -regaled with delicacies of every kind: but 'tis only the master of -the feast, who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of -self-applause and vanity. 'Tis true, men sometimes boast of a great -entertainment, at which they have only been present; and by so small -a relation convert their pleasure into pride: but however this must in -general be owned, that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation -than vanity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce -pride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleasure. The reason -of the difference may be explained thus. A relation is requisite to -joy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any -satisfaction. But beside this, which is common to both passions, -'tis requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition from one -passion to another, and convert the satisfaction into vanity. As it -has a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force and -energy. To which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not -a very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other -person; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes, -and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.[2] - -Here then is the first limitation we must make to our general position, -_that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain, -produces likewise pride or humility_. There is not only a relation -required, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy. - -II. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable -object be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or -at least common to us with a few persons. 'Tis a quality observable -in human nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards, -that every thing, which is often presented, and to which we have been -long accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little -time despised and neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from -comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we -cannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook -even what is essentially good in them. These qualities of the mind have -an effect upon joy as well as pride; and 'tis remarkable, that goods, -which are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by -custom, give us little satisfaction, though perhaps of a more excellent -kind than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher -value. But though this circumstance operates on both these passions, it -has a much greater influence on vanity. We are rejoiced for many goods, -which, on account of their frequency, give us no pride. Health, when it -returns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; -but is seldom regarded as a subject of vanity, because 'tis shared with -such vast numbers. - -The reason why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than -joy, I take to be as follows. In order to excite pride, there are -always two objects we must contemplate, viz. the _cause_, or that -object which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of -the passion. But joy has only one object necessary to its production, -viz. that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite that this -bear some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to -render it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of -this passion. Since, therefore, pride has, in a manner, two objects to -which it directs our view, it follows, that where neither of them have -any singularity, the passion must be more weakened upon that account -than a passion which has only one object. Upon comparing ourselves -with others, as we are every moment apt to do, we find we are not in -the least distinguished; and, upon comparing the object we possess, we -discover still the same unlucky circumstance. By two comparisons so -disadvantageous, the passion must be entirely destroyed. - -III. The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be -very discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves but to -others also. This circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect -upon joy as well as pride. We fancy ourselves more happy, as well as -more virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still -more ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds -from causes which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards. - -IV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause -of these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with -ourselves. What is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less -pride. We are not much satisfied with the thing itself; and are still -less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account. -We foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination, which makes -us little satisfied with the thing: we compare it to ourselves, whose -existence is more durable, by which means its inconstancy appears still -greater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from -an object which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during -so small a part of our existence. 'Twill be easy to comprehend the -reason why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in -pride; since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion -as to the latter. - -V. I may add, as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this -system, that _general rules_ have a great influence upon pride and -humility, as well as on all the other passions. Hence we form a notion -of different ranks of men, suitable to the power or riches they are -possessed of; and this notion we change not upon account of any -peculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive -them of all enjoyment in their possessions. This may be accounted for -from the same principles that explained the influence of general rules -on the understanding. Custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds -in our passions as well as in our reasonings. - -It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence -of general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to -facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain -in the progress of this Treatise. For 'tis evident, that if a person, -full grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a sudden -transported into our world, he would be very much embarrassed with -every object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred, -pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it. -The passions are often varied by very inconsiderable principles; and -these do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the -first trial. But as custom and practice have brought to light all -these principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this -must certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and -guide us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions -we ought to observe in preferring one object to another. This remark -may, perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties that may arise concerning -some causes which I shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions, -and which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and -certainly as they are found to do. I shall close this subject with a -reflection derived from these five limitations. This reflection is, -that the persons who are proudest, and who, in the eye of the world, -have most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest; nor -the most humble always the most miserable, as may at first sight be -imagined from this system. An evil may be real, though its cause has -no relation to us: it may be real, without being peculiar: it may be -real without showing itself to others: it may be real, without being -constant: and it may be real, without falling under the general rules. -Such evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though they -have little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the most real and -the most solid evils of life will be found of this nature. - - -[2] Part. II. Sect. 4. - - - - -SECTION VII. - -OF VICE AND VIRTUE. - - -Taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the -causes of pride and humility, and see whether in every case we can -discover the double relations by which they operate on the passions. -If we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a -pleasure or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no -farther scruple with regard to the present system. We shall principally -endeavour to prove the latter point, the former being in a manner -self-evident. - -To begin with _vice_ and _virtue_, which are the most obvious causes -of these passions, 'twould be entirely foreign to my present purpose -to enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited -the curiosity of the public, _whether these moral distinctions be -founded on natural and original principles, or arise from interest -and education_. The examination of this I reserve for the following -book; and, in the mean time, shall endeavour to show, that my system -maintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses, which will be a -strong proof of its solidity. - -For, granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still -be allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the -prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and -this we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of -that hypothesis. Every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they) -which has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight -or uneasiness; and 'tis from thence the approbation or disapprobation -arises. We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in -danger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us, but cowardice -lays us open to every attack: justice is the support of society, but -injustice, unless checked, would quickly prove its ruin: humility -exalts, but pride mortifies us. For these reasons the former qualities -are esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. Now, since -'tis granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or -demerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose. - -But I go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my -present system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the -former to be just, 'tis an absolute and invincible proof of the latter. -For if all morality be founded on the pain or pleasure which arises -from the prospect of any loss or advantage that may result from our own -characters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must -be derived from the same pain or pleasure, and, among the rest, the -passions of pride and humility. The very essence of virtue, according -to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, and that of vice to give -pain. The virtue and vice must be part of our character, in order to -excite pride or humility. What farther proof can we desire for the -double relation of impressions and ideas? - -The same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion -of those who maintain that morality is something real, essential, -and founded on nature. The most probable hypothesis, which has been -advanced to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and -the origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary -constitution of nature, certain characters and passions, by the very -view and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner -excite a pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not only -inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and -essence. To approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon -its appearance. To disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. -The pain and pleasure therefore being the primary causes of vice and -virtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently -of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that -distinction. - -But, supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to -be false, 'tis still evident that pain and pleasure, if not the causes -of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. A generous and -noble character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when -presented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm -and delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery displease -from their very nature; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to -these qualities, either in ourselves or others. Thus, one hypothesis of -morality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, and the other -at worst agrees with it. - -But pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the -mind, which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been -comprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a -connexion with pleasure and uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity -more than the talent of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other -accomplishment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than -a disappointment in any attempt of that nature. No one has ever been -able to tell what _wit_ is, and to show why such a system of thought -must be received under that denomination, and such another rejected. -'Tis only by taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possessed -of any other standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind. -Now, what is this _taste_, from which true and false wit in a manner -receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to -either of these denominations? 'Tis plainly nothing but a sensation of -pleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from false, without our being -able to tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. The power of -bestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very essence -of true and false wit, and consequently the cause of that pride or -humility which arises from them. - -There may perhaps be some, who, being accustomed to the style of the -schools and pulpit, and having never considered human nature in any -other light, than that in which _they_ place it, may here be surprised -to hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a -vice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught -to consider as a virtue. But not to dispute about words, I observe, -that by _pride_ I understand that agreeable impression, which arises in -the mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power, -makes us satisfied with ourselves; and that by _humility_ I mean the -opposite impression. 'Tis evident the former impression is not always -vicious, nor the latter virtuous. The most rigid morality allows us -to receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action; and 'tis -by none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon the -thoughts of past villany and baseness. Let us, therefore, examine these -impressions, considered in themselves; and inquire into their causes, -whether placed on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at -present with that merit or blame, which may attend them. - - - - -SECTION VIII. - -OF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY. - - -Whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those -philosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be -allowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double -relations, which I have asserted to be necessary to the causes of -pride and humility. Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation -of impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance -either of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or -uneasy. But _beauty_ of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and -satisfaction; as _deformity_ produces pain, upon whatever subject it -may be placed, and whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object. -If the beauty or deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies, -this pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility, -as having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce a -perfect transition of impressions and ideas. These opposite sensations -are related to the opposite passions. The beauty or deformity is -closely related to self, the object of both these passions. No wonder, -then, our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of -humility. - -But this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof -of the present system, by showing that the passions arise not in -this case without all the circumstances I have required, but may be -employed as a stronger and more convincing argument. If we consider -all the hypotheses which have been formed either by philosophy -or common reason, to explain the difference betwixt beauty and -deformity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that -beauty is such an order and construction of parts, as, either by the -_primary constitution_ of our nature, by _custom_, or by _caprice_, -is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. This is -the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the difference -betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce -uneasiness. Pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary -attendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence. -And, indeed, if we consider that a great part of the beauty which we -admire either in animals or in other objects is derived from the idea -of convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to -this opinion. That shape which produces strength is beautiful in one -animal; and that which is a sign of agility, in another. The order and -convenience of a palace are no less essential to its beauty than its -mere figure and appearance. In like manner the rules of architecture -require, that the top of a pillar should be more slender than its base, -and that because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security, -which is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension -of danger, which is uneasy. From innumerable instances of this kind, -as well as from considering that beauty, like wit, cannot be defined, -but is discerned only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude that -beauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity -is a structure of parts which conveys pain; and since the power of -producing pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty -and deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be derived from -the sensation; and among the rest pride and humility, which of all -their effects are the most common and remarkable. - -This argument I esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater -authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a -moment, and see what will follow. 'Tis certain, then, that if the power -of producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and -deformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities, -and 'tis even difficult to consider them apart. Now, there is nothing -common to natural and moral beauty (both of which are the causes of -pride), but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect -always supposes a common cause, 'tis plain that pleasure must in both -cases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. Again, there -is nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and -the beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has -a near relation to ourselves, which is waiting in the other. This -original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other -differences, and, among the rest, of their different influence upon the -passion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but -is not affected in the least by that of foreign and external objects. -Placing then these two conclusions together, we find they compose the -preceding system betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or -resembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a natural -transition produces pride, and its contrary, humility. This system, -then, seems already sufficiently confirmed by experience, though we -have not yet exhausted all our arguments. - -'Tis not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also -its strength and force. Strength is a kind of power, and therefore -the desire to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior -species of _ambition_. For this reason the present phenomenon will be -sufficiently accounted for in explaining that passion. - -Concerning all other bodily accomplishments, we may observe, in -general, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful or -surprising, is an object of pride, and its contrary of humility. Now, -'tis obvious that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising, agrees -in producing a separate pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. The -pleasure, therefore, with relation to self, must be the cause of the -passion. - -Though it should not be questioned whether beauty be not something -real, and different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never -be disputed, that, as surprise is nothing but a pleasure arising from -novelty, it is not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but -merely a passion or impression in the soul. It must therefore be from -that impression that pride by a natural transition arises. And it -arises so naturally, that there is nothing _in us, or belonging to us_, -which produces surprise, that does not at the same time excite that -other passion. Thus, we are vain of the surprising adventures we have -met with, the escapes we have made, and dangers we have been exposed -to. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men, without any interest, -and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, -which are either the fictions of their brain, or, if true, have at -least no connexion with themselves. Their fruitful invention supplies -them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting, -they appropriate such as belong to others, in order to satisfy their -vanity. - -In this phenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which, if -we compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we -judge of cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other -sciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the -double relations above-mentioned. By one of these experiments we find, -that an object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure; -and that because the quality by which it produces pride, is in reality -nothing but the power of producing pleasure. By the other experiment -we find, that the pleasure produces the pride by a transition along -related ideas; because when we cut off that relation, the passion is -immediately destroyed. A surprising adventure, in which we have been -ourselves engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride: -but the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure, yet, for -want of this relation of ideas, never excite that passion. What farther -proof can be desired for the present system? - -There is only one objection to this system with regard to our body; -which is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more -painful than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one, -nor mortified with the other. This will easily be accounted for, if -we consider the _second_ and _fourth_ limitations, proposed to our -general system. It was observed, that no object ever produces pride or -humility, if it has not something _peculiar_ to ourself; as also, that -every cause of that passion must be in some measure _constant_, and -hold some proportion to the duration of ourself, which is its object. -Now, as health and sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is -none who is _solely_ or _certainly_ fixed in either, these accidental -blessings and calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are -never considered as connected with our being and existence. And that -this account is just, appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind -is so rooted in our constitution that we no longer entertain any hopes -of recovery, from that moment it becomes an object of humility; as is -evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration -of their age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as possible, to -conceal their blindness and deafness, their rheums and gout; nor do -they ever confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. And though -young men are not ashamed of every headache or cold they fall into, yet -no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a -mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our -lives subject to such infirmities. This sufficiently proves that bodily -pain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility; though -the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more than by its -intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we -find to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of our -merit and character independent of them. - -We are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either -dangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy, because it gives -a horror to every one present; of the itch, because it is infectious; -of the king's evil, because it commonly goes to posterity. Men always -consider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. This -has evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings, and will -appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards. - - - - -SECTION IX. - -OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES. - - -But though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, -that is _self_, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find -by experience that there are many other objects which produce these -affections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured -and lost by the multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. We round a -vanity upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal -merit and accomplishments; and though these external advantages be -in themselves widely distant from thought or a person, yet they -considerably influence even a passion, which is directed to that as -its ultimate object. This happens when external objects acquire any -particular relation to ourselves, and are associated or connected with -us. A beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed -any thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of -influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it may be -endowed with, and whatever degree of surprise and admiration it may -naturally occasion. It must be some way associated with us in order to -touch our pride. Its idea must hang in a manner upon that of ourselves; -and the transition from the one to the other must be easy and natural. - -But here 'tis remarkable, that though the relation of _resemblance_ -operates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation, -in conveying us from one idea to another, yet 'tis seldom a foundation -either of pride or of humility. If we resemble a person in any of the -valuable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the -quality in which we resemble him; and this quality we always choose -to survey directly in ourselves, rather than by reflection in another -person, when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. So that -though a likeness may occasionally produce that passion, by suggesting -a more advantageous idea of ourselves, 'tis there the view, fixes at -last, and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause. - -There are instances, indeed, wherein men show a vanity in resembling -a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute -circumstances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation; -but it must be confessed, that this extends not very far, nor is of -any considerable moment in these affections. For this I assign the -following reason. We can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles -any person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities, which -give us a respect and veneration for him. These qualities, then, are, -properly speaking, the causes of our vanity, by means of their relation -to ourselves. Now, after what manner are they related to ourselves? -They are parts of the person we value, and, consequently, connected -with these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him. These -trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in us; and these -qualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and, by -that means, form a chain of several links betwixt ourselves and the -shining qualities of the person we resemble. But, besides that this -multitude of relations must weaken the connexion, 'tis evident the -mind, in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must, -by that contrast, the better perceive the minuteness of the latter, and -be, in some measure, ashamed of the comparison and resemblance. - -The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt -the cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to -give rise to these passions; and these relations are nothing else -but qualities, by which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to -another. Now, let us consider what effect these can possibly have upon -the mind, and by what means they become so requisite to the production -of the passions. 'Tis evident, that the association of ideas operates -in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible -of it, and discover it more by its effects than by any immediate -feeling or perception. It produces no emotion, and gives rise to no -new impression of any kind, but only modifies those ideas of which the -mind was formerly possessed, and which it could recal upon occasion. -From this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may -conclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is not alone -sufficient to give rise to any passion. - -'Tis evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion, either of -pride or humility, upon the appearance of a related object, there -is, beside the relation or transition of thought, an emotion, or -original impression, produced by some other principle. The question -is, whether the emotion first produced be the passion itself, or some -other impression related to it. This question we cannot be long in -deciding. For, besides all the other arguments with which this subject -abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which -experience shows to be so requisite a circumstance to the production -of the passion, would be entirely superfluous, were it not to second -a relation of affections, and facilitate the transition from one -impression to another. If nature produced immediately the passion -of pride or humility, it would be completed in itself, and would -require no farther addition or increase from any other affection. But, -supposing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility, -'tis easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects may -serve, and how the two different associations of impressions and ideas, -by uniting their forces, may assist each other's operation. This is not -only easily conceived, but, I will venture to affirm, 'tis the only -manner in which we can conceive this subject. An easy transition of -ideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or -even useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition betwixt -some related impressions. Not to mention that the same object causes -a greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in proportion to the -increase or decrease of its qualities, but also to the distance or -nearness of the relation, which is a clear argument for the transition -of affections along the relation of ideas, since every change in the -relation produces a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one -part of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas, is a -sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is -itself so evidently founded on experience, that 'twould be lost time to -endeavour farther to prove it. - -This will appear still more evidently in particular instances. Men are -vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish. -Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. This pleasure -is related to pride. The object or cause of this pleasure is, by the -supposition, related to self, or the object of pride. By this double -relation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one -impression to the other. - -Men are also vain of the temperature of the climate in which they were -born; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the -wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of -their language, with other particulars of that kind. These objects have -plainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally -considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste, or hearing. How is it -possible they could ever become objects of pride, except by means of -that transition above explained? - -There are some that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect -to depreciate their own country, in comparison of those to which -they have travelled. These persons find, when they are at home, and -surrounded with their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them -and their own nation is shared with so many, that 'tis in a manner lost -to them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is -formed by their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their -considering how few there are who have done the same. For this reason -they always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what is abroad, -above what is at home. - -Since we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object -which bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we are vain of the -qualities of those who are connected with us by blood or friendship. -Accordingly we find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves -produce pride, produce also, in a lesser degree, the same affection -when discovered in persons related to us. The beauty, address, merit, -credit, and honours of their kindred, are carefully displayed by the -proud, as some of their most considerable sources of their vanity. - -As we are proud of riches in ourselves, so, to satisfy our vanity, we -desire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise -be possessed of them, and are ashamed of any one that is mean or poor -among our friends and relations. For this reason we remove the poor -as far from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some -distant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest -relations, upon this account every one affects to be of a good family, -and to be descended from a long succession of rich and honourable -ancestors. - -I have frequently observed, that those who boast of the antiquity -of their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance, -that their ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted -proprietors of the same portion of land, and that their family has -never changed its possessions, or been transplanted into any other -county or province. I have also observed, that 'tis an additional -subject of vanity, when they can boast that these possessions have been -transmitted through a descent composed entirely of males, and that -the honours and fortune have never passed through any female. Let us -endeavour to explain these phenomena by the foregoing system. - -'Tis evident that, when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family, -the subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number -of ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to -reflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. He -first considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable -manner; and then returning back to himself, through the relation of -parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of -the double relation of impressions and ideas. Since, therefore, the -passion depends on these relations, whatever strengthens any of the -relations must also increase the passion, and whatever weakens the -relations must diminish the passion. Now 'tis certain the identity of -the possession strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood -and kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one -generation to another, from the remotest ancestors to their posterity, -who are both their heirs and their descendants. By this facility the -impression is transmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of -pride and vanity. - -The case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune -through a succession of males without their passing through any female. -'Tis a quality of human nature, which we shall consider afterwards,[3] -that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and -considerable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and -a great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the -latter. As in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage -above the female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether -we consider him directly, or reach him by passing through related -objects, the thought both rests upon him with greater satisfaction, -and arrives at him with greater facility than his consort. 'Tis easy -to see, that this property must strengthen the child's relation to the -father, and weaken that to the mother. For as all relations are nothing -but a propensity to pass from one idea to another, whatever strengthens -the propensity strengthens the relation; and as we have a stronger -propensity to pass from the idea of the children to that of the father, -than from the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the -former relation as the closer and more considerable. This is the reason -why children commonly bear their father's name, and are esteemed to -be of nobler or baser birth, according to _his_ family. And though -the mother should be possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the -father, as often happens, the _general rule_ prevails, notwithstanding -the exception, according to the doctrine above explained. Nay, even -when a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other reasons -have such an effect, as to make the children rather represent the -mother's family than the father's, the general rule still retains -such an efficacy, that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of -break in the line of ancestors. The imagination runs not along them -with facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the -ancestors to their posterity of the same name and family so readily, -as when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes -from father to son, or from brother to brother. - - -[3] Part II. Sect. 2. - - - - -SECTION X. - -OF PROPERTY AND RICHES. - - -But the relation which is esteemed the closest, and which, of all -others, produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of -_property_. This relation 'twill be impossible for me fully to explain -before I come to treat of justice and the other moral virtues. 'Tis -sufficient to observe on this occasion, that property may be defined, -_such a relation betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but -forbids any other, the free use and possession of it, without violating -the laws of justice and moral equity_. If justice therefore be a -virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind, -property may be looked upon as a particular species of _causation_; -whether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate -as he pleases upon the object, or the advantages which he reaps -from it. 'Tis the same case, if justice, according to the system of -certain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not a -natural virtue. For then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply -the place of natural conscience, and produce in some degree, the same -effects. This, in the mean time, is certain, that the mention of the -property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the -proprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation -of ideas, is all that is requisite to our present purpose. A relation -of ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition -of affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises -from an object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, that -either pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations, -if the foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. And whether it be so -or not, we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human -life. - -Every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to -be found. His houses, equipage, furniture, clothes, horses, hounds, -excel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy to observe, that from -the least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride -and vanity. His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than -any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his -servant more expert; the air in which he lives more healthful; the soil -he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater -perfection; such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another -for its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist, that -belonged to such a prince or great man; all objects, in a word, that -are useful, beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such, may, by -means of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in giving -pleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is common to them, and -therefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their -common effect. As every new instance is a new argument, and as the -instances are here without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce -any system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that which I have -here advanced. - -If the property of any thing that gives pleasure either by its -utility, beauty, or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation -of impressions and ideas; we need not be surprised that the power of -acquiring this property should have the same effect. Now, riches are to -be considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases; -and 'tis only in this view they have any influence on the passions. -Paper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that -because it may convey the power of acquiring money; and money is not -riches, as it is a metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity, -weight, and fusibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleasures -and conveniences of life. Taking then this for granted, which is in -itself so evident, we may draw from it one of the strongest arguments -I have yet employed to prove the influence of the double relations on -pride and humility. - -It has been observed, in treating of the understanding, that the -distinction which we sometimes make betwixt a _power_ and the -_exercise_ of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any -other being ought ever to be thought possessed of any ability, unless -it be exerted and put in action. But though this be strictly true in -a just and _philosophical_ way of thinking, 'tis certain it is not -_the philosophy_ of our passions, but that many things operate upon -them by means of the idea and supposition of power, independent of -its actual exercise. We are pleased when we acquire an ability of -procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires a power of -giving pain. This is evident from experience; but in order to give a -just explication of the matter, and account for this satisfaction and -uneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections. - -'Tis evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise -proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of _free will_, -which, indeed, enters very little into common life, and has but small -influence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. According to -that doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our -power of performing or forbearing any action. But according to common -notions a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt -him and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear -what he wishes to perform. I do not think I have fallen into my enemy's -power when I see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side, -while I am, unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil -magistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that I am in as -perfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. But when a person -acquires such an authority over me, that not only there is no external -obstacle to his actions, but also that he may punish or reward me as he -pleases without any dread of punishment in his turn, I then attribute a -full power to him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal. - -Now, if we compare these two cases, that of a person who has very -strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and -that of another who lies under no such obligation, we shall find, -according to the philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that -the only _known_ difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the -former case we conclude, from _past experience_, that the person never -will perform that action, and in the latter, that he possibly or -probably will perform it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant -on many occasions than the will of man; nor is there any thing but -strong motives which can give us an absolute certainty in pronouncing -concerning any of his future actions. When we see a person free -from these motives, we suppose a possibility either of his acting -or forbearing; and though, in general, we may conclude him to be -determined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty -of our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that -uncertainty on the passions. Since, therefore, we ascribe a power of -performing an action to every one who has no very powerful motive to -forbear it, and refuse it to such as have, it may justly be concluded, -that _power_ has always a reference to its _exercise_, either actual -or probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability -when we find, from past experience, that 'tis probable, or at least -possible, he may exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard -the real existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality -from past instances, nothing can be more likely of itself, without -any farther reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or -probability of any action, as discovered by experience and the practice -of the world. - -Now, 'tis evident that, wherever a person is in such a situation with -regard to me that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from -injuring me, and consequently 'tis _uncertain_ whether he will injure -me or not, I must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider -the possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible -concern. The passions are not only affected by such events as are -certain and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are -possible and contingent. And though perhaps I never really feel any -harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the -person never had any power of harming me, since he did not exert any, -this prevents not my uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. The -agreeable passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a -pleasure when I perceive a good to become either possible or probable -by the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon -the removal of any strong motives which might formerly have hindered -him. - -But we may farther observe, that this satisfaction increases, when -any good approaches, in such a manner that it is in one's _own_ power -to take or leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment, -nor any very strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men desire -pleasure, nothing can be more probable than its existence when there is -no external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger -in following their inclinations. In that case their imagination easily -anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy as if they were -persuaded of its real and actual existence. - -But this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction which attends -riches. A miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the -_power_ it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences -of life, though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty years -without ever enjoying them; and consequently cannot conclude, by any -species of reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is -nearer, than if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions. -But though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning -concerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, 'tis certain he -_imagines_ it to approach nearer, whenever all external obstacles are -removed, along with the more powerful motives of interest and danger, -which oppose it. For farther satisfaction on this head, I must refer to -my account of the will,[4] where I shall explain that false sensation -of liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing that is not -very dangerous or destructive. Whenever any other person is under no -strong obligations of interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from -_experience_, that the pleasure will exist, and that he will probably -obtain it. But when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an -_illusion of the fancy_, that the pleasure is still closer and more -immediate. The will seems to move easily every way, and casts a shadow -or image of itself even to that side on which it did not settle. By -means of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us, and -gives us the same lively satisfaction as if it were perfectly certain -and unavoidable. - -'Twill now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point, and -to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their -possessors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by means of a double -relation of impressions and ideas. The very essence of riches consists -in the power of procuring the pleasures and conveniences of life. -The very essence of this power consists in the probability of its -exercise, and in its causing us to anticipate, by a _true_ or _false_ -reasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. This anticipation of -pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause -is some possession or property which we enjoy, and which is thereby -related to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the foregoing -system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us. - -For the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and -poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must produce the -former emotions, and slavery the latter. Power or an authority over -others makes us capable of satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by -subjecting us to the will of others, exposes us to a thousand wants and -mortifications. - -'Tis here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of -slavery, are much augmented by the consideration of the persons over -whom we exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. For, -supposing it possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism, -that they could move and act in obedience to the will; 'tis evident the -possession of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a -degree as the same authority, when exerted over sensible and rational -creatures, whose condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem -more agreeable and honourable. Comparison is in every case a sure -method of augmenting our esteem of any thing. A rich man feels the -felicity of his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar. -But there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which -is, in a manner, presented to us betwixt ourselves and the person we -command. The comparison is obvious and natural: the imagination finds -it in the very subject: the passage of the thought to its conception -is smooth and easy. And that this circumstance has a considerable -effect in augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining -the nature of _malice_ and _envy_. - - -[4] Part III. Sect. 2. - - - - -SECTION XI. - -OF THE LOVE OF FAME. - - -But beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a -secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence -on the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name, are -considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes -of pride, virtue, beauty and riches, have little influence, when not -seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to account -for this phenomenon, 'twill be necessary to take some compass, and -first explain the nature of _sympathy_. - -No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and -in its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize -with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and -sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to, our own. This -is not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every -opinion proposed to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and -understanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason -or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily -companions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the great uniformity -we may observe in the humours and turn of thinking of those of the -same nation; and 'tis much more probable, that this resemblance arises -from sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and climate, which, -though they continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the -character of a nation the same for a century together. A good-natured -man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his company; -and even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their -countrymen and acquaintance. A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible -complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one -throws a sudden damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem, love, -courage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from -communication, than from my own natural temper and disposition. So -remarkable a phenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to -its first principles. - -When any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only -by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and -conversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently -converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force -and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an -equal emotion as any original affection. However instantaneous this -change of the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain -views and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a -philosopher, though they may the person himself who makes them. - -'Tis evident that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves, is -always intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us -so lively a conception of our own person, that 'tis not possible to -imagine that any thing can in this particular go beyond it. Whatever -object, therefore, is related to ourselves, must be conceived with a -like vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and -though this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it -must still have a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity -are relations not to be neglected; especially when, by an inference -from cause and effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are -informed of the real existence of the object, which is resembling or -contiguous. - -Now, 'tis obvious that nature has preserved a great resemblance among -all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle -in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a -parallel in ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the -mind as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in shape -or size, their structure and composition are in general the same. -There is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst -all their variety; and this resemblance must very much contribute to -make us enter into the sentiments of others, and embrace them with -facility and pleasure. Accordingly we find, that where, beside the -general resemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity -in our manners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates -the sympathy. The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any -object, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and -convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we -always form the idea of our own person. - -Nor is resemblance the only relation which has this effect, but -receives new force from other relations that may accompany it. The -sentiments of others have little influence when far removed from -us, and require the relation of contiguity to make them communicate -themselves entirely. The relations of blood, being a species of -causation, may sometimes contribute to the same effect; as also -acquaintance, which operates in the same manner with education and -custom, as we shall see more fully afterwards.[5] All these relations, -when united together, convey the impression or consciousness of our own -person to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes -us conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner. - -It has been remarked in the beginning of this Treatise, that all ideas -are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions -differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity with which they -strike upon the soul. The component parts of ideas and impressions are -precisely alike. The manner and order of their appearance may be the -same. The different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, -the only particulars that distinguish them: and as this difference may -be removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions -and ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion may by -this means be so enlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion. -The lively idea of any object always approaches its impression; and -'tis certain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of -imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. But this -is most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and 'tis there -principally that a lively idea is converted into an impression. Our -affections depend more upon ourselves, and the internal operations of -the mind, than any other impressions; for which reason they arise more -naturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of -them. This is the nature and cause of sympathy; and 'tis after this -manner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of others, -whenever we discover them. - -What is principally remarkable in this whole affair, is the strong -confirmation these phenomena give to the foregoing system concerning -the understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning -the passions, since these are analogous to each other. 'Tis indeed -evident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments -of others, these movements appear at first in _our_ mind as mere -ideas, and are conceived to belong to another person, as we conceive -any other matter of fact. 'Tis also evident, that the ideas of the -affections of others are converted into the very impressions they -represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we -form of them. All this is an object of the plainest experience, and -depends not on any hypothesis of philosophy. That science can only be -admitted to explain the phenomena; though at the same time it must be -confessed, they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little -occasion to employ it. For, besides the relation of cause and effect, -by which we are convinced of the reality of the passion with which we -sympathize; besides this, I say, we must be assisted by the relations -of resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in its -full perfection. And since these relations can entirely convert an -idea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into -the former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition, -we may easily conceive how the relation of cause and effect alone, -may serve to strengthen and enliven an idea. In sympathy there is an -evident conversion of an idea into an impression. This conversion -arises from the relation of objects to ourself. Ourself is always -intimately present to us. Let us compare all these circumstances, and -we shall find, that sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations -of our understanding; and even contains something more surprising and -extraordinary. - -'Tis now time to turn our view from the general consideration of -sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions -arise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. We may -observe, that no person is ever praised by another for any quality -which would not, if real, produce of itself a pride in the person -possessed of it. The eulogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, -or family, or virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we -have already explained and accounted for. 'Tis certain, then, that -if a person considered himself in the same light in which he appears -to his admirer, he would first receive a separate pleasure, and -afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis -above explained. Now, nothing is more natural than for us to embrace -the opinions of others in this particular, both from _sympathy_, -which renders all their sentiments intimately present to us, and from -_reasoning_, which makes us regard their judgment as a kind of argument -for what they affirm. These two principles of authority and sympathy -influence almost all our opinions, but must have a peculiar influence -when we judge of our own worth and character. Such judgments are -always attended with passion;[6] and nothing tends more to disturb -our understanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however -unreasonable, than their connexion with passion, which diffuses itself -over the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related -idea. To which we may add, that, being conscious of great partiality in -our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing that confirms -the good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily shocked with -whatever opposes it. - -All this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a -full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phenomena of the -passions, and see if they agree with it. - -Among these phenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our -present purpose, that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we -receive a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those -whom we ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those whom we hate -and despise. In like manner we are principally mortified with the -contempt of persons upon whose judgment we set some value, and are, -in a great measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of -mankind. But if the mind received from any original instinct a desire -of fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us -without distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourable -or unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. The -judgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as -that of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own -judgment. - -We are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than -with that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the -former, when 'tis obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. This -is accounted for after the same manner. - -The praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur -with our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities in which we -chiefly excel. A mere soldier little values the character of eloquence; -a gownman, of courage; a bishop, of humour; or a merchant, of -learning. Whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly -considered, when he is conscious he is not possessed of it, the -opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that -particular, and that because they never will be able to draw his own -opinion after them. - -Nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow -circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek -their livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers, -than among those who are acquainted with their birth and education. -We shall be unknown, say they, where we go. Nobody will suspect from -what family we are sprung. We shall be removed from all our friends and -acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more -easy upon us. In examining these sentiments, I find they afford many -very convincing arguments for my present purpose. - -First, we may infer from them that the uneasiness of being contemned -depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of -objects to ourselves, since we are most uneasy under the contempt of -persons who are both related to us by blood and contiguous in place. -Hence we seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating -these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers, -and at a distance from relations. - -Secondly, we may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy, -not absolutely considered as relations, but by their influence -in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very -sentiments by means of the association betwixt the idea of their -persons and that of our own. For here the relations of kindred and -contiguity both subsist, but not being united in the same persons, they -contribute in a less degree to the sympathy. - -Thirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy, by the -separation of relations, is worthy of our attention. Suppose I am -placed in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but -lightly treated; I yet find myself easier in that situation, than when -I was every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. -Here I feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent; -from those about me, but they are strangers. This double contempt is -likewise strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity. -But as the persons are not the same who are connected with me by those -two relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions -arising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other. -The contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence, as has also -that of my kindred; but these influences are distinct and never unite, -as when the contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my -neighbours and kindred. This phenomenon is analogous to the system of -pride and humility above explained, which may seem so extraordinary to -vulgar apprehensions. - -Fourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth -from those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy if any one suspects -him to be of a family much superior to his present fortune and way of -living. Every thing in this world is judged of by comparison What is -an immense fortune for a private gentleman, is beggary for a prince. -A peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries -for a gentleman. When a man has either been accustomed to a more -splendid way of living, or thinks himself entitled to it by his birth -and quality, every thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and -'tis with the greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better -fortune. Here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those with whom -he lives are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable reflection and -comparison suggested only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by -a sympathy with others; which must contribute very much to his ease and -satisfaction. - -If there be any objections to this hypothesis, _that the pleasure which -we receive from praise arises from a communication of sentiments_, we -shall find, upon examination, that these objections, when taken in a -proper light, will serve to confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable -even to a man who despises the vulgar; but 'tis because their multitude -gives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are delighted -with praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this -is a kind of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself -with its own fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by -a sympathy with the sentiments of others. Proud men are most shocked -with contempt, though they do not most readily assent to it; but 'tis -because of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural to -them, and that received by sympathy. A violent lover, in like manner, -is very much displeased when you blame and condemn his love; though -'tis evident your opposition can have no influence but by the hold it -takes of himself, and by his sympathy with you. If he despises you, or -perceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him. - - -[5] Part II. Sect. 4. - -[6] Book I. Part III. Sect. 10. - - - - -SECTION XII. - -OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS. - - -Thus, in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still -observe, that the causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to -our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions, -unless it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or -pain independent of the passion. We have not only proved, that a -tendency to produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of -pride or humility, but also that 'tis the only thing which is common, -and consequently is the quality by which they operate. We have farther -proved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are -really nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy -sensations; and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest -pride and humility, are derived solely from that origin. Such simple -and natural principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be -received by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections that have -escaped me. - -'Tis usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments -on human bodies to those on beasts; and, from the agreement of these -experiments, to derive an additional argument for any particular -hypothesis. 'Tis indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in -brutes is the same as in men, and the operation of these parts also -the same, the causes of that operation cannot be different; and that -whatever we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded, -without hesitation, to be certain of the other. Thus, though the -mixture of humours, and the composition of minute parts, may justly -be presumed to be somewhat different in men from what it is in mere -animals, and therefore any experiment we make upon the one concerning -the effects of medicines, will not always apply to the other, yet, as -the structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the -heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver, and other parts, are the -same or nearly the same in all animals, the very same hypothesis, which -in one species explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle, -the circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one; and, -according as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments we may make in -any species of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falsehood -on the whole. Let us therefore apply this method of inquiry, which is -found so just and useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our -present anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make by it. - -In order to this, we must first show the correspondence of _passions_ -in men and animals, and afterwards compare the _causes_, which produce -these passions. - -'Tis plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially -of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility. -The very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock, show the high -idea he has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others. -This is the more remarkable, that, in the two last species of animals, -the pride always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the mule -only. The vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have been -commonly remarked; as likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds -in sagacity and smell, of the bull and cock in strength, and of every -other animal in his particular excellency. Add to this, that every -species of creatures, which approach so often to man as to familiarize -themselves with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and -are pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every -other consideration. Nor are they the caresses of every one without -distinction which give them this vanity, but those principally of -the persons they know and love; in the same manner as that passion -is excited in mankind. All these are evident proofs that pride and -humility are not merely human passions, but extend themselves over the -whole animal creation. - -The _causes_ of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts -as in us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and -understanding. Thus, animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice; -they quickly lose sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable -of that of right and property: for which reason the causes of their -pride and humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed -either in the mind or external objects. But so far as regards the body, -the same qualities cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and -'tis on beauty, strength, swiftness, or some other useful or agreeable -quality, that this passage is always founded. - -The next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and -arise from the same causes through the whole creation, the _manner_, -in which the causes operate, be also the same. According to all rules -of analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find upon -trial, that the explication of these phenomena, which we make use of -in one species, will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that -explication, however specious, is in reality without foundation. - -In order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is -evidently the same _relation_ of ideas, and derived from the same -causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. A dog, that has -hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his -thought passes easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the -contiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. In like manner, -when he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his -approach to it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger. -The effects of resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation -makes a considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals show -so evident a judgment, we may conclude, that the three relations of -resemblance, contiguity, and causation operate in the same manner upon -beasts as upon human creatures. - -There are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to -convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each -other in the inferior species of creatures, as well as in the superior, -and that their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of -connected emotions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into -love and kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner, -when full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and ill natured; -and that passion, which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion -converted into anger. - -Thus, all the internal principles that are necessary in us to produce -either pride or humility, are common to all creatures; and since the -causes, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may -justly conclude, that these causes operate after the same _manner_ -through the whole animal creation. My hypothesis is so simple, and -supposes so little reflection and judgment, that 'tis applicable -to every sensible creature; which must not only be allowed to be a -convincing proof of its veracity, but, I am confident, will be found an -objection to every other system. - - - - -PART II. - -OF LOVE AND HATRED. - - - - -SECTION I. - -OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED. - - -'Tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions -of _love_ and _hatred_; and that because they produce merely a -simple impression, without any mixture or composition. 'Twould be -as unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their -nature, origin, causes, and objects; and that both because these -are the subjects of our present inquiry, and because these passions -of themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and -experience. This we have already observed concerning pride and -humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and, indeed, -there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions, -that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our -reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter. - -As the immediate _object_ of pride and humility is self, or that -identical person of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are -intimately conscious; so the _object_ of love and hatred is some -other person, of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are not -conscious. This is sufficiently evident from experience. Our love and -hatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and -when we talk of _self-love_, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the -sensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion, -which is excited by a friend or mistress. 'Tis the same case with -hatred. We may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never -feel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others. - -But though the object of love and hatred be always some other person, -'tis plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the _cause_ of -these passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. For since love -and hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the -same object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would -produce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must, -from the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever -be able to make its appearance. There must, therefore, be some cause -different from the object. - -If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are -very much diversified, and have not many things in common. The virtue, -knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love -and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same -passions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, -swiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the -external advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, clothes, -nation and climate. There is not one of these objects but what, by -its different qualities, may produce love and esteem, or hatred and -contempt. - -From the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt -the _quality_ that operates, and the _subject_ on which it is placed. -A prince that is possessed of a stately palace commands the esteem of -the people upon that account; and that, _first_, by the beauty of the -palace; and, _secondly_, by the relation of property, which connects it -with him. The removal of either of these destroys the passion; which -evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one. - -'Twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred through all -the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility, -and which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. 'Twill be -sufficient to _remark_, in general, that the object of love and hatred -is evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former -passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also -_suppose_, with some show of probability, _that the cause of both these -passions is always related to a thinking being_, and _that the cause of -the former produces a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate -uneasiness_. - -One of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and hatred must -be related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these -passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. Virtue -and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when -placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging to a -third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt, -towards those who have no relation to them. A person looking out at a -window sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with -which I have no concern: I believe none will pretend, that this person -will pay me the same respect as if I were owner of the palace. - -'Tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions -is requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition -the one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they -become in a manner undistinguishable. But as in pride and humility, -we have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that -every cause of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I -might here observe the same method with the same success, in examining -particularly the several causes of love and hatred. But as I hasten to -a full and decisive proof of these systems, I delay this examination -for a moment; and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my -present purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an -argument that is founded on unquestionable experience. - -There are few persons that are satisfied with their own character, -or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of showing themselves to -the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now -'tis evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which -are the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity, -or the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those -particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied. But if love -and esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according -as these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of -proceeding would be very absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence -in the sentiments of every other person with those themselves have -entertained. 'Tis true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or -make reflections on their general nature and resemblances. But without -such a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in -this particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as -well as by a kind of _presentation_, which tells us what will operate -on others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since then the -same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred, -all the arguments that have been employed to prove that the causes -of the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the -passion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the -latter. - - - - -SECTION II. - -EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM. - - -Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to -assent to that conclusion I draw from them, concerning the transition -along related impressions and ideas, especially as 'tis a principle in -itself so easy and natural. But that we may place this system beyond -doubt, both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill -be proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well -as to recal a few of these observations which I have formerly touched -upon. - -In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am in company with -a person, whom I formerly regarded without any sentiments either of -friendship or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of -all these four passions placed before me. Myself am the proper object -of pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred. - -Regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their -situation with respect to each other. 'Tis evident here are four -affections, placed as it were in a square, or regular connexion with, -and distance from, each other. The passions of pride and humility, -as well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the -identity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self, -to the second some other person. These two lines of communication or -connexion form two opposite sides of the square. Again, pride and love -are agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. This similitude of -sensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred, -form a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of -the square. Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love -with hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with -hatred, by their sensations or impressions. - -I say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without -bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the -passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. This we must prove by -our experiments. - -_First experiment_. To proceed with the greater order in these -experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation -above mentioned, viz. in company with some other person, there is an -object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas -to any of these passions. Thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary -stone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing -of itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: 'tis evident -such an object will produce none of these four passions. Let us try it -upon each of them successively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to -humility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree -imaginable. Let us change the object as oft as we please, provided -still we choose one that has neither of these two relations. Let us -repeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the mind is -susceptible. No object in the vast variety of nature will, in any -disposition, produce any passion without these relations. - -_Second experiment_. Since an object that wants both these relations -can ever produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these -relations, and see what will follow. Thus, suppose I regard a stone, -or any common object that belongs either to me or my companion, and by -that means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions: -'tis plain that, to consider the matter _a priori_, no emotion of -any kind can reasonably be expected. For, besides that a relation of -ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal -impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love -and hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others; -which opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind -perfectly free from any affection or emotion. This reasoning _a priori_ -is confirmed by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that causes -not a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will ever, by its -property or other relations, either to ourselves or others, be able to -produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred. - -_Third experiment_. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas -is not able alone to give rise to these affections. Let us now remove -this relation, and, in its stead, place a relation of impressions, -by presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has -no relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the -consequences. To consider the matter first _a priori_, as in the -preceding experiment, we may conclude that the object will have a -small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. For, besides -that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not -the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal -force to two contrary passions, which, by their opposition, destroy -each other. But if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition -from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle -that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though -the one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change -of objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause a -transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will -ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion that is connected with -the passion merely by a relation of impressions. What our reason would -conclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that -an object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of -connexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the -disposition as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility -or hatred, and search for other objects, upon which, by a double -relation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has -only one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can -never give rise to any constant and established passion. - -Most fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be exactly -conformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions. Suppose I -were travelling with a companion through a country to which we are both -utter strangers; 'tis evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the -roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good -humour both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose that -this country has no relation either to myself or friend, it can never -be the immediate cause of pride or love; and, therefore, if I found -not the passion on some other object that bears either of us a closer -relation, my emotions are rather to be considered as the overflowings -of an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion. -The case is the same where the object produces uneasiness. - -_Fourth experiment_. Having found, that neither an object, without -any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object that has only one -relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason -alone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever -has a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since -'tis evident they must have some cause. But, to leave as little room -for doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether -the event in this case answers our expectation. I chuse an object, -such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object -I bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of -affairs there immediately arises a passion. But what passion? That very -one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea -is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation -it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. That I may be sure I -am not mistaken in this experiment, I remove first one relation, then -another, and find that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves -the object perfectly indifferent. But I am not content with this. I -make a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation, -I only change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue -to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows -from this alteration. I immediately perceive the affections to wheel -about, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz. -of impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted -by a double relation of impressions and ideas. By repeating the -same experiment in changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the -affections back to pride; and, by a new repetition, I again place them -at love or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this -relation, I try the effects of the other; and, by changing virtue for -vice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from the former, -into the disagreeable one which proceeds from the latter. The effect -still answers expectation. Vice, when placed on another, excites, -by means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of -love, which, for the same reason, arises from virtue. To continue the -experiment, I change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice -to belong to myself. What follows? What is usual. A subsequent change -of the passion from hatred to humility. This humility I convert into -pride by a new change of the impression; and find, after all, that I -have completed the round, and have by these changes brought back the -passion to that very situation in which I first found it. - -But to make the matter still more certain, I alter the object; and, -instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity, -riches and poverty, power and servitude. Each of these objects runs -the circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their -relations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride, -love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride, -the experiment is not in the least diversified. Esteem and contempt, -indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these -are, at the bottom, the same passions, only diversified by some causes, -which we shall explain afterwards. - -_Fifth experiment_. To give greater authority to these experiments, let -us change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the -passions and objects in all the different positions of which they are -susceptible. Let us suppose, beside the relations above mentioned, that -the person, along with whom I make all these experiments, is closely -connected with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall -suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar -acquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion -acquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and -let us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions -and relations. - -Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they -ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'Tis plain, that, according -as the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or -hatred must arise towards the person who is thus connected to the cause -of the impression by these double relations which I have all along -required. The virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice -or infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge only from the -situation of affairs, I should not expect that the affections would -rest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression. -As there is here a person, who, by means of a double relation, is the -object of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the -passion will be carried farther. The person has a relation of ideas -to myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which he is -the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of -impressions to pride or humility. 'Tis evident, then, that one of these -passions must arise from the love or hatred. - -This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am -pleased to find, upon trial, that every thing answers exactly to my -expectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites -love or hatred, but, by a new transition from similar causes, gives -rise to pride or humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any -shining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than -their vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our -reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis upon -which we reason. - -_Sixth experiment_. This evidence will be still augmented if we reverse -the experiment, and, preserving still the same relations, begin only -with a different passion. Suppose that, instead of the virtue or vice -of a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards -pride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, -without any immediate connexion with the person who is related to us, -experience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the whole -chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to -another, as in the preceding instance. We never love or hate a son or -brother for the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though 'tis -evident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or -humility. The transition from pride or humility to love or hatred, -is not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This -may at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the -relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the -same. Pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred. -Myself am related to the person. It should therefore be expected, that -like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise -from the double relation, as in all other cases. This difficulty we may -easily solve by the following reflections. - -'Tis evident that, as we are at all times intimately conscious of -ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us -with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of -any other person. But every thing that strikes upon us with vivacity, -and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, -into our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest -hint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when it is once -present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other -objects, however strong may be their relation to our first object. -The imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with -difficulty from lively to obscure. In the one case the relation is -aided by another principle; in the other case, 'tis opposed by it. - -Now, I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the -imagination and passions, assist each other in their operation when -their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object. -The mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other -related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the -one passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur -with each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy. -But if it should happen, that, while the relation of ideas, strictly -speaking, continues the same, its influence in causing a transition -of the imagination should no longer take place, 'tis evident its -influence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely -on that transition. This is the reason why pride or humility is not -transfused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter -passions are changed into the former. If a person be my brother, I am -his likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal, they have very -different effects on the imagination. The passage is smooth and open -from the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself, -of whom we are every moment conscious. But when the affections are once -directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from -that object to any other person, how closely soever connected with us. -This easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the -passions, and facilitates or retards their transition; which is a clear -proof that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are -connected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence -upon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that prove -this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any -particular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an -association or transition of ideas is prevented, its usual effect upon -the passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner -prevented. - -Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt this phenomenon -and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea -of ourselves to that of any other object related to us. But this -difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person -is not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing that fixes our -attention on ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed -to be actuated, with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of the -perception of every other object, is in reality nothing; for which -reason we must turn our view to external objects, and 'tis natural for -us to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or -resemble us. But when self is the object of a passion, 'tis not natural -to quit the consideration of it till the passion be exhausted, in -which case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer -operate. - -_Seventh experiment_. To put this whole reasoning to a farther trial, -let us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects -of related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of -passions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the -effects of this new situation. 'Tis evident a transition of the -passions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be -expected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, -and an identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion, -than the most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. If a double -relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas, is able to produce a -transition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions -with a relation of ideas. Accordingly, we find, that when we either -love or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their -first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous -objects, and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or -hate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on -account of our friendship for another, without any farther examination -of his character. A quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the -whole family, though entirely innocent of that which displeases us. -Instances of this kind are every where to be met with. - -There is only one difficulty in this experiment which it will be -necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. 'Tis evident, -that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related -to it, yet this transition is made with greater facility where the -more considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows -it, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the -precedence. Thus, 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account -of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant -for the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the -prince, than the prince for the subject. In like manner we more readily -contract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel -is with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or -servant, or some inferior member. In short, our passions, like other -objects, descend with greater facility than they ascend. - -That we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty of explaining -this phenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which -determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects -with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise -to change with more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for -the less. Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of; -and whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily -to the imagination. We are more apt to overlook in any subject what -is trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially -if the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention. -Thus, if any accident makes us consider the satellites of Jupiter, our -fancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if -we first reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to -overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of any empire -conveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns -not with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces. -The idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the -subject carries our view to the prince. But the same relation has not -an equal influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded -that reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed -she should be more known by the title of the daughter of Scipio, -than by that of the mother of the Gracchi. This was, in other words, -exhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their -grandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her -who was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would -always leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and -of greater moment. On the same principle is founded that common custom -of making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands -that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to -those whom we honour and respect. We might find many other instances to -confirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident. - -Now, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing from the -lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not -this easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in -the former case as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend -or brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case -the imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its -propensity. Our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to -a friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from -contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the love or -hatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion to the superior, -though that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the -love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior, -contrary to its propensity. In short, the same facility of transition -operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon -contiguous and remote. These two phenomena appear contradictory, and -require some attention to be reconciled. - -As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural -propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by -some stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever -present to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must -necessarily lie in the impressions. Now, it has been observed, that -impressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and -that where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar -dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on -the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty -in the transition of the passions. But, 'tis observable, that this -repugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind; -nor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly from a -small degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to -a great degree of either of these affections. A man, when calm or only -moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself, -when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more -unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other, -without a considerable interval betwixt them. - -The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in passing -from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to -the strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the -other, and they do not both of them exist at once. But the case is -entirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the -mind at the same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes -not so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when added -to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the -great degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great. - -The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an -affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills -and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object -a person we esteem of less consequence. Here then, the contradiction -betwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays -itself. When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the -imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great, -than from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater -difficulty: and, as the affections are a more powerful principle than -the imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to -their side. In spite of the difficulty of passing from the idea of -great to that of little, a passion directed to the former produces -always a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and little -are related together. The idea of the servant conveys our thought most -readily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces -with greater facility anger or good will to the servant. The strongest -passion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the -weaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is -by that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them. - -As, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation of ideas, -which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual -effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to -operate on the passions; so, in the present experiment, we find the -same property of the impressions. Two different degrees of the same -passion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first -present, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and -that because the addition of the great to the little produces a more -sensible alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to -the great. These phenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing -proofs of this hypothesis. - -And these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which -the mind here reconciles the contradiction I have observed betwixt the -passions and the imagination. The fancy passes with more facility from -the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less. But, on the -contrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble than that -does a violent. In this opposition, the passion in the end prevails -over the imagination: but 'tis commonly by complying with it, and -by seeking another quality, which may counterbalance that principle -from whence the opposition arises. When we love the father or master -of a family, we think of his children or servants. But when these are -present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them, -the nearness and contiguity in this case increases their magnitude, -or at least removes that opposition which the fancy makes to the -transition of the affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in -passing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing -from remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and -leaves the way open from the one passion to the other. - -_Eighth experiment_. I have observed, that the transition from love or -hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility -to love or hatred; and that the difficulty which the imagination finds -in passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have -any instance of the latter transition of the affections. I must, -however, make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride -and humility is placed in some other person. For, in that case, the -imagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly -confine its view to ourselves. Thus, nothing more readily produces -kindness and affection to any person than his approbation of our -conduct and character; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with -a stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. Here, 'tis evident, that -the original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and -that this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is -some other person, notwithstanding the rule I have already established, -_that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to -remote_. But the transition in this case is not made merely on account -of the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very -person is the real cause of our first passion, and, of consequence, is -intimately connected with it. 'Tis his approbation that produces pride, -and disapprobation humility. No wonder, then, the imagination returns -back again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. This -is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception -that arises from the same reason with the rule itself. - -Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the -rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments I have -explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of -them, and that 'tis by means of a transition arising from a double -relation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred -are produced. An object without a relation,[1] or with but one,[2] -never produces either of these passions; and 'tis found[3] that the -passion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay we may -observe, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has -not its usual effect of producing a transition either of ideas or of -impressions,[4] it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives -rise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find -still to hold good, even under the appearance of its contrary;[5] and -as relation is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon -examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance -that prevents the transition; so, even in instances where that -circumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, 'tis found -to arise from some other circumstance which counterbalances it. Thus, -not only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle, -but even the variations of these variations. - - -[1] First experiment. - -[2] Second and third experiments. - -[3] Fourth experiment. - -[4] Sixth experiment. - -[5] Seventh and eighth experiments. - - - - -SECTION III. - -DIFFICULTIES SOLVED. - - -After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience -and observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular -examination of all the causes of love and hatred. I shall therefore -employ the sequel of this part, _first_, in removing some difficulties -concerning particular causes of these passions; _secondly_, in -examining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love -and hatred with other emotions. - -Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or -is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness -we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the -sensations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the -means, either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render -himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections; as, on -the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite -our anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other, -we detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and -violent; but always esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, -and merciful. If the general of our enemies be successful, 'tis with -difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is a -sorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is reported of Oliver -Cromwell and the Duke of Luxembourg; he is bloody-minded, and takes a -pleasure in death and destruction. But if the success be on our side, -our commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern -of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call -policy; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short, every -one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with -the name of that virtue which approaches it. 'Tis evident the same -method of thinking rims through common life. - -There are some who add another condition, and require not only that the -pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise -knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. A man who wounds -and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor -do we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one who does -us any service after the same manner. By the intention we judge of the -actions; and, according as that is good or bad, they become causes of -love or hatred. - -But here we must make a distinction. If that quality in another, which -pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and -character, it will cause love or hatred, independent of the intention: -but otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give -rise to these passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or -folly, is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain, -than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these -qualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an -action, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, 'tis necessary, -in order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently -with the person, that it be derived from a particular forethought and -design. 'Tis not enough that the action arise from the person, and -have him for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone is -too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. It -reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from -any thing _durable_ in him, nor leaves any thing behind it, but passes -in a moment, and is as if it had never been. On the other hand, an -intention shows certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is -performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition -of ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him without -reflecting on these qualities, unless repentance and a change of life -have produced an alteration in that respect; in which case the passion -is likewise altered. This, therefore, is one reason why an intention is -requisite to excite either love or hatred. - -But we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its -strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a -relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. For -'tis observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt -and hatred which it shows in the person that injures us; and without -that, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like -manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our -vanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who -performs it. The removal of the intention removes the mortification -in the one case, and vanity in the other; and must of course cause a -remarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred. - -I grant, that these effects of the removal of design, hatred, in -diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor -able to remove every degree of these relations. But then I ask, if the -removal of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and -hatred? Experience, I am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there -any thing more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger -for injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary -and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance, -but still is sufficient to show, that there is a natural connexion -betwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will -operate upon a very small relation of ideas. But when the violence of -the impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation -begins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise -interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom -happens that on their account we entertain a lasting enmity. - -To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe, -that not only the uneasiness which proceeds from another by accident, -has but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises -from an acknowledged necessity and duty. One that has a real design of -harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill will, but from justice -and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree -reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing -cause, of our sufferings. Let us examine a little this phenomenon. - -'Tis evident, in the first place, that this circumstance is not -decisive; and though it may be able to diminish the passions, 'tis -seldom it can entirely remove them. How few criminals are there who -have no ill will to the person that accuses them, or to the judge that -condemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts! -In like manner our antagonist in a lawsuit, and our competitor for -any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though we must -acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is -entirely as justifiable as our own. - -Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person, -we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty -we allow of his justice and innocence. This is a clear proof that, -independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a -natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for -reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here the -idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it. - -Nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury; -since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the -passions avoid as much as possible. The removal of injury may remove -the anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. -The harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has -a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according -to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that -either of the objects prevails and excites its proper passion. - - - - -SECTION IV. - -OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS. - - -Having given a reason why several actions that cause a real pleasure or -uneasiness excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of -love or hatred towards the actors, 'twill be necessary to show wherein -consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects which we find by -experience to produce these passions. - -According to the preceding system, there is always required a double -relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in -order to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally -true, 'tis remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by -only one _relation_ of a different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and -the object; or, more properly speaking, that this relation is always -attended with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion -is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, -without inquiring into his other qualities. Thus, the relation of -blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of -parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection -as the relation lessens. Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but -any other relation without exception. We love our countrymen, our -neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with -ourselves. Every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives -a title to a share of our affection. - -There is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that -_acquaintance_, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and -kindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any -person, though in frequenting his company we have not been able to -discover any very valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we -cannot forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit we -are fully convinced. These two phenomena of the effects of relation -and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both -explained from the same principle. - -Those who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature have -observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself, -and that, when you loosen all the holds which he has of external -objects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and -despair. From this, say they, proceeds that continual search after -amusement in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour -to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state -into which they fall when not sustained by some brisk and lively -emotion. To this method of thinking I so far agree, that I own the -mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that -it naturally seeks after foreign objects which may produce a lively -sensation, and agitate the spirits. On the appearance of such an object -it awakes, as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide; -the heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour which he -cannot command in his solitary and calm moments. Hence company is -naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects, -viz. a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates -to us all the actions of his mind, makes us privy to his inmost -sentiments and affections, and lets us see, in the very instant of -their production, all the emotions which are caused by any object. -Every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, -because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more -sensible agitation to the mind than any other image or conception. - -This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company of -strangers is agreeable to us for _a short time_, by enlivening our -thought, so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be -peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree, -and is of more _durable_ influence. Whatever is related to us is -conceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves -to the related object. Custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the -entrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. The first case -is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to -education. And as reasoning and education concur only in producing a -lively and strong idea of any object, so is this the only particular -which is common to relation and acquaintance. This must therefore be -the influencing quality by which they produce all their common effects; -and love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the -force and liveliness of conception that the passion is derived. Such a -conception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate -regard for every thing that produces it, when the proper object of -kindness and good will. - -'Tis obvious that people associate together according to their -particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers -naturally love the gay, as the serious bear an affection to the -serious. This not only happens where they remark this resemblance -betwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the -disposition, and by a certain sympathy which always arises betwixt -similar characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates -after the manner of a relation by producing a connexion of ideas. Where -they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this -latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a -confirmation of the foregoing reasoning. - -The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys -a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object to -which we are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real -impression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the -same, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But -this change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural -temper gives us a propensity to the same impression which we observe -in others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case -resemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means -of the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the -related idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from -the least spark. And as in both cases a love or affection from the -resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable -only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and -correspondent emotions are alone common to _relation, acquaintance_, -and _resemblance_. - -The great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another -similar phenomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived -a considerable time in any city, however at first it might be -disagreeable to us, yet as we become familiar with the objects, and -contract an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, -the aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the -opposite passion. The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view -of objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to -others, which, though perhaps in themselves more valuable, are less -known to it. By the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a -good opinion of ourselves, and of all objects that belong to us. They -appear in a stronger light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter -subjects of pride and vanity than any other. - -It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our -acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phenomena -which attend it. 'Tis easy to remark in common life, that children -esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great -measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same -eye as if she had continued in her state of widowhood. Nor does this -happen only when they have felt any inconveniences from her second -marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without -any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part -of another family. This also takes place with regard to the second -marriage of a father, but in a much less degree; and 'tis certain the -ties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the -marriage of a mother. These two phenomena are remarkable in themselves, -but much more so when compared. - -In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis -requisite, not only that the imagination be conveyed from one to the -other, by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return -back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At -first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. -If one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily -resemble the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second -object is effect to its cause. 'Tis the same with contiguity; and -therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, -that the return of the imagination from the second to the first must -also, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first -to the second. But upon farther examination we shall easily discover -our mistake. For supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal -relation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third -object; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the -second, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation -continues the same, but is readily carried on to the third object, -by means of the new relation which presents itself, and gives a new -impulse to the imagination. This new relation, therefore, weakens the -tie betwixt the first and second objects. The fancy is, by its very -nature, wavering and inconstant, and considers always two objects as -more strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy -both in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in -one of these motions. The double motion is a kind of a double tie, and -binds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner. - -The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and -parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself -to her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination -is arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded -with so many other relations which challenge its regard, that it knows -not which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. -The ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent -that return of the fancy from her to myself which is necessary to -support the union. The thought has no longer the vibration requisite -to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change. -It goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that -interruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be -were the passage open and easy on both sides. - -Now, to give a reason why this effect follows not in in the same degree -upon the second marriage of a father; we may reflect on what has been -proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view -of a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the -same facility from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes -from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his -second wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, -but as continuing the head of that family of which I am myself a part. -His superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him -to his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself -along the same relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new -relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought -is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its -inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force -and influence. - -A mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because 'tis shared with -her husband; nor a son his with a parent, because 'tis shared with a -brother. The third object is here related to the first as well as to -the second: so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them -with the greatest facility. - - - - -SECTION V. - -OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL. - - -Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person than -his power and riches, or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness: -and as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and -hatred, 'twill be proper in this place to explain these phenomena. - -Here it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is, -not to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, -but to chuse the chief and predominant among several that present -themselves. The _satisfaction_ we take in the riches of others, and -the _esteem_ we have for the possessors, may be ascribed to three -different causes. _First_, to the objects they possess; such as houses, -gardens, equipages, which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily -produce a sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or -surveys them. _Secondly_, to the expectation of advantage from the -rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. _Thirdly_, to -sympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one that -approaches us. All these principles may concur in producing the present -phenomenon. The question is, to which of them we ought principally to -ascribe it. - -'Tis certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on -agreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first sight, -we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or -ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or -uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much, in our common -indolent way of thinking, 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation, -to discover them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects -that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any -objects but such as are of the same nature. Mr Philips has chosen -_Cider_ for the subject of an excellent poem. Beer would not have been -so proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. But he -would certainly have preferred wine to either of them, could his native -country have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from -thence, that every thing which is agreeable to the senses, is also, in -some measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an -image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to -the bodily organs. - -But, though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy -of the imagination among the causes of the respect which we pay the -rich and powerful, there are many other reasons that may keep us from -regarding it as the sole or principal. For, as the ideas of pleasure -can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them -approach impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas should have that -influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural -tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions -and sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles -ourselves, and, by that means, has an advantage above any other object -in operating on the imagination. - -Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great -influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be -persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or -gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, -the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to -the related objects, and, in particular, to the person who possesses -them. And this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image, -produces here a passion towards the person by means of his relation -to the object; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must enter into the -original conception, since he makes the object of the derivative -passion. But if he enters into the original conception, and is -considered as enjoying these agreeable objects, 'tis _sympathy_ which -is properly the cause of the affection; and the _third_ principle is -more powerful and universal than the _first_. - -Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed, -naturally cause esteem and respect; and, consequently, these passions -arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis -true money implies a kind of representation of such objects by the -power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be -esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise to -the passion. But as this prospect is very distant, 'tis more natural -for us to take a contiguous object, viz. the satisfaction which this -power affords the person who is possessed of it. And of this we shall -be farther satisfied, if we consider that riches represent the goods of -life only by means of the will which employs them; and therefore imply, -in their very nature, an idea of the person, and cannot be considered -without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments. - -This we may confirm by a reflection which to some will perhaps appear -too subtile and refined. I have already observed that power, as -distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is -nothing but a possibility or probability of existence, by which any -object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the -mind. I have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the -fancy, appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the -power than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the former case, -the objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey -almost an equal satisfaction as if actually in our possession. Now I -assert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we -must enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without -such a sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give -him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon -us. An avaricious man is respected for his money, though he scarce -is possessed of a _power_; that is, there scarce is a _probability_ -or even _possibility_ of his employing it in the acquisition of the -pleasures and conveniences of life. To himself alone this power seems -perfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his sentiments by -sympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, -or esteem him upon account of them. - -Thus we have found, that the _first_ principle, viz. _the agreeable -idea of those objects which riches afford the enjoyment of_, resolves -itself in a great measure into the _third_, and becomes a _sympathy_ -with the person we esteem or love. Let us now examine the _second_ -principle, viz. _the agreeable expectation of advantage_, and see what -force we may justly attribute to it. - -'Tis obvious, that, though riches and authority undoubtedly give -their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be -considered as on the same footing with that which they afford him -of pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love -approaches the power and exercise very near each other in the latter -case; but in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must -suppose a friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. -Without that circumstance 'tis difficult to conceive on what we can -found our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there -is nothing more certain than that we naturally esteem and respect the -rich, even before we discover in them any such favourable disposition -towards us. - -But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the -rich and powerful where they show no inclination to serve us, but also -when we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they -cannot even be supposed to be endowed with that power. Prisoners of -war are always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and -'tis certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any -person. If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us -an argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth, -but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful -ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom -we esteem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected in some -measure on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind -of expectation. - -But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances -of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe, with a -little attention, those phenomena that occur to us in common life and -conversation. A man who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming -into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different -degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different -fortunes and conditions; though 'tis impossible he can ever propose, -and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is -always admitted into company, and meets with civility in proportion as -his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. -In short, the different ranks of men are in a great measure regulated -by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors, -strangers as well as acquaintance. - -There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the -influence of _general rules_. It may be pretended, that, being -accustomed to expect succour and protection from the rich and powerful, -and to esteem them upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to -those who resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never -hope for any advantage. The general rule still prevails, and, by giving -a bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner -as if its proper object were real and existent. - -But that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear, -if we consider that, in order to establish a general rule, and extend -it beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity -in our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which -are conformable to the rule, above the contrary. But here the case is -quite otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, -there is not perhaps one from whom I can expect advantage, so that 'tis -impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case. - -Upon the whole, there remains nothing which can give us an esteem for -power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the -pride of _sympathy_, by which we enter into the sentiments of rich -and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give -satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to -the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling -the original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or -impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It -proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of -love. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the -passion arises according to my hypothesis. - -The best method of reconciling us to this opinion, is to take a general -survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the -whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from -one thinking being to another. In all creatures that prey not upon -others, and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a -remarkable desire of company, which associates them together, without -any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is -still more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe -who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by -the most advantages. We can form no wish which has not a reference to -society. A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can -suffer. Every pleasure languishes when enjoyed apart from company, and -every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions -we may be actuated by, pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge -or lust, the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; -nor would they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the -thoughts and sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of -nature conspire to serve and obey one man; let the sun rise and set -at his command; the sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth -furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him; he -will still be miserable, till you give him some one person at least -with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship -he may enjoy. - -This conclusion, from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by -particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable. -Most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first -object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, 'tis seldom we rest -there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational -creatures. A man who shows us any house or building, takes particular -care, among other things, to point out the convenience of the -apartments, the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost -in the stairs, anti-chambers and passages; and indeed 'tis evident the -chief part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation -of convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after -what manner does it give pleasure? 'Tis certain our own interest is not -in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of -form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by -our sympathizing with the proprietor of the lodging. We enter into his -interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction -that the objects naturally occasion in him. - -This observation extends to tables, chairs, scrutoires, chimneys, -coaches, saddles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being -an universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their -utility, and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are -destined. But this is an advantage that concerns only the owner, nor is -there any thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator. - -'Tis evident that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its -fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will -be able to equal this beauty. 'Tis the same case with particular trees -and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a -plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful -as a hill covered with vines or olive trees, though it will never -appear so to one who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is -a beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears -to the senses. Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and -that to riches, joy, and plenty, in which, though we have no hope of -partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and -share them in some measure with the proprietor. - -There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of balancing the -figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper -centre of gravity. - -A figure which is not justly balanced is disagreeable; and that because -it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain; which ideas are -painful when by sympathy they acquire any degree of force and vivacity. - -Add to this, that the principal part of personal beauty is an air -of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises -strength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but -by sympathy. - -In general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one -another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also -because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions, may be often -reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. Thus, the -pleasure which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown -upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again -being perceived and sympathized with, increase the pleasure of the -possessor, and, being once more reflected, become a new foundation for -pleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original -satisfaction in riches derived from that power which they bestow of -enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature -and essence, it must be the first source of all the passions which -arise from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is -that of love or esteem in others, which, therefore, proceeds from a -sympathy with the pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also -a secondary satisfaction in riches, arising from the love and esteem -he acquires by them; and this satisfaction is nothing but a second -reflection of that original pleasure which proceeded from himself. -This secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal -recommendations of riches, and is the chief reason why we either -desire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others. Here then is a -third rebound of the original pleasure, after which 'tis difficult to -distinguish the images and reflections, by reason of their faintness -and confusion. - - - - -SECTION VI. - -OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER. - - -Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter and -impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells, -and other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but -are endowed with a kind of impenetrability by which they exclude each -other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, -not by their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are -susceptible of an entire union, and, like colours, may be blended so -perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute -only to vary that uniform impression which arises from the whole. Some -of the most curious phenomena of the human mind are derived from this -property of the passions. - -In examining those ingredients which are capable of uniting with love -and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune -that has attended every system of philosophy with which the world -has been yet acquainted. 'Tis commonly found, that in accounting -for the operations of nature by any particular hypothesis, among a -number of experiments that quadrate exactly with the principles we -would endeavour to establish, there is always some phenomenon which -is more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need -not be surprised that this should happen in natural philosophy. The -essence and composition of external bodies are so obscure, that we -must necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning -them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as -the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all -imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, I have -always hoped to keep clear of those contradictions which have attended -every other system. Accordingly, the difficulty which I have at present -in my eye is no wise contrary to my system, but only departs a little -from that simplicity which has been hitherto its principal force and -beauty. - -The passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather -conjoined with, benevolence and anger. 'Tis this conjunction which -chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For -pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any -desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred -are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion which -they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always -followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an -aversion to his misery: as hatred produces a desire of the misery, -and an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a -difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility, -love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each -other, merits our attention. - -The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may -be accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love -and hatred have not only a _cause_ which excites them, viz. pleasure -and pain, and an _object_ to which they are directed, viz. a person or -thinking being, but likewise an _end_ which they endeavour to attain, -viz. the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which -views, mixing together, make only one passion. According to this -system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, -and hatred that of misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very -nature of love and hatred. They are not only inseparable, but the same. - -But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though 'tis certain -we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any -without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas -of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by -the imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. -They are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, -but not the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred -ways, and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on -the happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves that -these desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any -essential part of them. - -We may therefore infer, that benevolence and anger are passions -different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them by the -original constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body -certain appetites and inclinations, which she increases, diminishes, -or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids, she -has proceeded in the same manner with the mind. According as we -are possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the -happiness or misery of the person who is the object of these passions, -arises in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite -passions. This order of things, abstractedly considered, is not -necessary. Love and hatred might have been unattended with any such -desires, or their particular connexion might have been entirely -reversed. If nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect -as hatred, and hatred as love. I see no contradiction in supposing a -desire of producing misery annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. -If the sensation of the passion and desire be opposite, nature could -have altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire, -and by that means made them compatible with each other. - - - - -SECTION VII. - -OF COMPASSION. - - -But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according -to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original -instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on -many occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. _Pity_ is -a concern for, and _malice_ a joy in, the misery of others, without -any friendship or enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity -even strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: and -if our ill-will to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is -not, properly speaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine these -affections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be secondary ones, -arising from original affections, which are varied by some particular -turn of thought and imagination. - -'Twill be easy to explain the passion of _pity_, from the precedent -reasoning concerning _sympathy_. We have a lively idea of every thing -related to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance. -Their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains -and pleasures, must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an -emotion similar to the original one, since a lively idea is easily -converted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be -more so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more -lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment. - -A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror, -indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the -persons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent -one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator -must sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious -joy as well as every other passion. Unless therefore it be asserted, -that every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original -quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy -above explained, it must be allowed that all of them arise from -that principle. To except any one in particular must appear highly -unreasonable. As they are all first present in the mind of one person, -and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of -their appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every -case the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. I am -at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as -certain, either in natural philosophy or common life. - -Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity, -and even sight of the object, which is a proof that 'tis derived from -the imagination; not to mention that women and children are most -subject to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The same -infirmity, which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though -in the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those -whom they find in any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who -derive this passion from I know not what subtile reflections on the -instability of fortune, and our being liable to the same miseries we -behold, will find this observation contrary to them among a great many -others, which it were easy to produce. - -There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phenomenon -of this passion, which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy -sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and -even arises by a transition from affections which have no existence. -Thus, when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a -great fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, -the less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and -indifference he shows in its enjoyment. In like manner, a man who -is not dejected by misfortunes is the more lamented on account of -his patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove -all sense of uneasiness, it still farther increases our compassion. -When a person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great -misfortune, we form a notion of his condition; and, carrying our fancy -from the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of -his sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, entirely overlooking -that greatness of mind which elevates him above such emotions, or -only considering it so far as to increase our admiration, love, and -tenderness for him. We find from experience, that such a degree of -passion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and though there -be an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected -by the _general rule_, and makes us conceive a lively idea of the -passion, or rather feel the passion itself in the same manner as if -the person were really actuated by it. From the same principles we -blush for the conduct of those who behave themselves foolishly before -us, and that though they show no sense of shame, nor seem in the least -conscious of their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy, but 'tis -of a partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without -considering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would entirely -destroy that emotion which arises from the first appearance. - -We have also instances wherein an indifference and insensibility -under misfortune increases our concern for the misfortunate, even -though the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. -'Tis an aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons -asleep and in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any -infant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is -more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable -condition. As we ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched -situation of the person, it gives us a lively idea and sensation of -sorrow, which is the passion that _generally_ attends it; and this idea -becomes still more lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast -with that security and indifference which we observe in the person -himself. A contrast of any kind never fails to effect the imagination, -especially when presented by the subject; and 'tis on the imagination -that pity entirely depends.[6] - - - -[6] To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I oppose the -imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty that presents -our fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly when it is -opposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, excluding -only our demonstrative and probable reasonings. - - - - -SECTION VIII. - -OF MALICE AND ENVY. - - -We must now proceed to account for the passion of _malice_, which -imitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love, and gives us -a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or -injury on their part. - -So little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions, -that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their -intrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed -to any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really -estimable, has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as -what is defective and ill. This is an _original_ quality of the soul, -and similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. -Let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will at -the same time seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition -of the different organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a -greater, produces the same sensation as if less than it really is, and -even sometimes as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain that follows a -violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as, on the -other hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous -and uneasy. - -This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. -But there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and -objects. When an object augments or diminishes to the eye or -imagination, from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the -object are still the same, and are equally extended in the _retina_, -and in the brain or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of -light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very -same manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does -even the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of -a comparison with others. The question then is, how, from the same -impression, and the same idea, we can form such different judgments -concerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at -another despise its littleness? This variation in our judgments must -certainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the -variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object, -it must lie in some other impression that accompanies it. - -In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two -principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress -of this Treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe -it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is -presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is -accompanied with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned -to it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation, -and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be easy, -by careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them. -For, to instance only in the cases of extension and number, 'tis -evident that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended -plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous -collection of objects, such as an army, a fleet, a crowd, excite in -the mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which arises on -the appearance of such objects is one of the most lively pleasures -which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now, as this admiration -increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of the objects, -we may conclude, according to our foregoing principles,[7] that 'tis -a compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several -effects which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then, of -extension, and every unite of number, has a separate emotion attending -it when conceived by the mind; and though that emotion be not always -agreeable, yet, by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating -the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of -admiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect -to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to -virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and -misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with -an evident emotion. - -The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence -to _general rules_; which has such a mighty influence on the actions -and understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an -object is found by experience to be always accompanied with another, -whenever the first object appears, though changed in very material -circumstances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and -form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had -inferred its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion -of our understanding. Nothing can undeceive us, not even our senses, -which, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted -by it, and seem to authorize its errors. - -The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the -influence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. -Every object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great -object with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. -A great _object_, therefore, succeeding a small one, makes a great -_emotion_ succeed a small one. Now, a great emotion succeeding a small -one becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. -But as there is a certain degree of an emotion which commonly attends -every magnitude of an object, when the emotion increases, we naturally -imagine that the object has likewise increased. The effect conveys -our view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain -magnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may -change the emotion without changing any thing in the object. Those -who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics, and know how -we transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the -senses, will easily conceive this whole operation. - -But leaving this new discovery of an impression that secretly attends -every idea, we must at least allow of that principle from whence the -discovery arose, _that objects appear greater or less by a comparison -with others_. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible -we can dispute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle I derive the -passions of malice and envy. - -'Tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or -uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances, -in proportion as they appear more or less fortunate or unhappy, -in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and -reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. Now, as we seldom -judge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of -them from a comparison with other objects, it follows, that according -as we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others, -we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or -pleasure. The misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our -happiness, and his happiness of our misery. The former, therefore, -produces delight, and the latter uneasiness. - -Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising -in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person whom he -considers. In general we may observe, that, in all kinds of comparison, -an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is -compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct -and immediate survey. A small object makes a great one appear still -greater. A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of -itself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure by its -contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as, -on the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us -receive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity -it augments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and -misery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us -pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. His -pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of -our own happiness, and gives us pleasure. - -Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst sensation from -the happiness and misery of others, since we find the same comparison -may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for -our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus, the prospect of past -pain is agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition; -as, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we -enjoy nothing at present equal to them. The comparison being the same -as when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with -the same effects. - -Nay, a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his -present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, -and increase his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions. -_First_, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear -to him. _Secondly_, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime of -which he has been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of comparison that -both these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person who indulges -himself in any pleasure while his friend lies under affliction, feels -the reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison -with the original pleasure which he himself enjoys. This contrast, -indeed, ought also to enliven the present pleasure. But as grief is -here supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to -that side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least -upon the contrary affection. 'Tis the same case with those penances -which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. When -a criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is -magnified by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction, which -forces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so -disagreeable a contrast. - -This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of -malice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, -that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which, by -comparison, diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the -unprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a -pleasure from the comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of -envy, is commonly superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to -overshade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the -case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to -augment still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes, -the comparison is, less to our advantage, and consequently gives us -less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of -envy which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or -overtaking them in the pursuit of glory or happiness. In this envy we -may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares -himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison; and -when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what -should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a -new comparison with its preceding condition. - -'Tis worthy of observation concerning that envy which arises from a -superiority in others, that 'tis not the great disproportion betwixt -ourself and another, which produces it; but, on the contrary, our -proximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as -to his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with -so great jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors that -more nearly approach him. It may indeed be thought, that the greater -the disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the -comparison. But we may consider on the other hand, that the great -disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing -ourselves, with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of -the comparison. Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of -ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may -bring two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting quality -to join them in the imagination, 'tis impossible they can remain long -united, or have any considerable influence on each other. - -I have observed, in considering the nature of ambition, that the great -feel a double pleasure in authority, from the comparison of their own -condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a -double influence, because 'tis natural, and presented by the subject. -When the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from -the one object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great -measure broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, -as it were, upon a new footing. The impression which attends every -object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the -same kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their -distinct effects, without any communication together. The want of -relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by -such a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence. - -To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree -of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be -assisted by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, -or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or a different -age. All these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and -consequently the passion. - -This too is the reason why all objects appear great or little, merely -by a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither -magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and a -Welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other -less, then when viewed apart. - -From the same principle we may account for that remark of historians, -that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy -at any hazard, rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin -applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt -the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, -language, and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with -superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise -more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority, -which may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a -less sensible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives -its several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to -be most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations, -seeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and by -breaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison -so much more natural and efficacious. When it cannot break the -association, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority; -and this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their -praises to the Chinese and Persians, at the same time that they -depreciate those neighbouring nations which may stand upon a foot of -rivalship with their native country. - -These examples from history and common experience are rich and -curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less -remarkable. Should an author compose a treatise, of which one part -was serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would -condemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect -of all rules of art and criticism. These rules of art are founded -on the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature, -which requires a consistency in every performance, is that which -renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and -disposition to a quite different one. Yet this makes us not blame Mr -Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in the same volume; though -that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the -one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the -reader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he -would feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why? but -because he considers these performances as entirely different, and, by -this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and -hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other. - -An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be -monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in -the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or -difficulty. - -In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by -the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together -by some relation which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and -consequently of the emotions or impressions attending the ideas, and -may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination -to the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, -because it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the -_understanding_ and the _passions_. Suppose two objects to be presented -to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that -each of these objects separately produces a passion, and that these -two passions are in themselves contrary; we find from experience, -that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural -contrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of -the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their -opposition. 'Tis the same case with comparison; and from both these -phenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must -forward the transition of impressions, since its absence alone is able -to prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated -upon each other. When the absence of an object or quality removes any -usual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its presence -contributes to the production of the effect. - - -[7] Book I. Part III. Sect. 15. - - - - -SECTION IX. - -OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER - -WITH COMPASSION AND MALICE. - - -Thus we have endeavoured to account for _pity_ and _malice_. Both these -affections arise from the imagination, according to the light in which -it places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments -of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the -passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. -On the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, -we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy -from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are -only the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other -passions are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture -of love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. -But it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be -contradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a -joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in -all other cases, produce hatred, and malice, love. This contradiction I -endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner. - -In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double -relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient to -produce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this -double relation, we must consider, that 'tis not the present sensation -alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of -any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning -to the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when -their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the -preceding cases, but also when their impulses or directions are similar -and correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and -humility, because these are only pure sensations, without any direction -or tendency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of -this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are -attended with a certain appetite or desire, such as those of love and -hatred. - -Benevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire of the -happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery, as -anger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery -of the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire, -therefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, -are similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion -to his happiness, are correspondent to anger. Now, pity is a desire -of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the -contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence, and malice to -anger; and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with -love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred, 'tis by -this chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and -hatred. - -This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who, from -any motives, has entertained a resolution of performing an action, -naturally runs into every other view or motive which may fortify that -resolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm -us in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from -honour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice -and anger, being the same desires arising from different principles, -should so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to -the connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being -_original_ and primary, it admits of no difficulty. - -We may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevolence and anger, -and, consequently, love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery -have any dependence on the happiness or misery of another person, -without any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will -appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it. - -Suppose that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a -town that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the success of one -is perfectly incompatible with that of the other; and that whatever -is for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and -so _vice versa_. Suppose, again, that two merchants, though living -in different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership -together, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the -advantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily -attends both. Now, 'tis evident, that, in the first case, hatred -always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second, -love arises from their union. Let us consider to what principle we can -ascribe these passions. - -'Tis plain they arise, not from the double relations of impressions and -ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For, taking the first -case of rivalship, though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist -necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet, to counterbalance this, -his pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and, supposing -him to be unsuccessful, I may, by this means, receive from him a -superior degree of satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a -partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal -proportion; and 'tis easy to imagine that the latter sentiment may, in -some cases, preponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner -be good or bad, I always hate the former and love the latter. - -This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation or connexion -betwixt us, in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A -rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For, as the -pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the -pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The -connexion, then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and -if, in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther relation of -resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being -also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal. - -The only explication, then, we can give of this phenomenon, is derived -from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our -concern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and -a pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy -we feel a sensation correspondent to those which appear in any person -who is present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our -interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the -pain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of sentiments -as arises from comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel -direction of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to -benevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived -from sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect. - -In general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good to others, -from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and -good will towards them; as the injuries we do not only cause hatred in -the person who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phenomena, -indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles. - -But here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill be -necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured -to prove that power and riches, or poverty and meanness, which give -rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or -uneasiness, operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived -from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce in -the person who possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there -arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. But 'tis a maxim -which I have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary -to the explication of the phenomena of pity and malice, "That 'tis not -the present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines -the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it -from the beginning to the end." For this reason, pity or a sympathy -with pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the -fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation -correspondent to the primary, in which it has the same influence with -love and benevolence. Since, then, this rule holds good in one case, -why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness -ever produce any passion beside good will and kindness? Is it becoming -a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one -principle to its contrary, according to the particular phenomenon which -he would explain? - -I have mentioned two different causes from which a transition of -passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and impressions, -and, what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction -of any two desires which arise from different principles. Now I -assert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces -hatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love -or tenderness by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing -difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on -such evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even -though it were not necessary to the explication of any phenomenon. - -'Tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present -moment, but that we often feel, by communication, the pains and -pleasures of others which are not in being, and which we only -anticipate by the force of imagination. For, supposing I saw a person -perfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger -of being trod under foot by horses, I should immediately run to his -assistance; and in this I should be actuated by the same principle -of sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a -stranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sympathy being -nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, 'tis evident -that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any -person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it -our own concern, and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures -which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any -real existence. - -But however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any -person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon -our sense of his present condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination -to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as -to feel these very sentiments; but 'tis impossible we could extend this -sympathy to the future without being aided by some circumstance in the -present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present -misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the -conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses -its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion -of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or -future; possible, probable, or certain. By means of this lively notion -I am interested in them, take part with them, and feel a sympathetic -motion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I -diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the -related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at -the fountain. By this diminution I destroy the future prospect which -is necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may -feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and -never transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the -related objects. If it be another's misery which is presented in this -feeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all -the passions related to it: but as I am not so much interested as to -concern myself in his good fortune as well as his bad, I never feel the -extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to _it_. - -Now, in order to know what passions are related to these different -kinds of sympathy, we must consider that benevolence is an original -pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain -proceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions -there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his -pain. In order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, -'tis requisite we should feel these double impressions, correspondent -to those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one of them -alone sufficient for that purpose. When we sympathize only with one -impression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger -and to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as -the extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first -sympathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred depends upon -the same principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a -double tendency of the passions, which is related to benevolence and -love by a similarity of direction, however painful the first impression -might have been. A weak impression that is painful is related to -anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence, -therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly -sympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly -sympathized with; which is the principle I intended to prove and -explain. - -Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but -also experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but -a degree beyond causes compassion and good will. We may undervalue -a peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very -great, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him -in his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and -benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions, according to its -different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles -that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The -increase of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase -of the misery. - -A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, -and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This -deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy -with the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only -a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, -which is disagreeable. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent -sentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the -miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel -their adversity. - -But though the force of the impression generally produces pity and -benevolence, 'tis certain that, by being carried too far, it ceases -to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the -uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages -not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the -future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its -acquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the -person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune; and from -that complete sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But 'twill -easily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than -ordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that -double sympathy above mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one, -but especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals who -go to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome -and well-shaped; yet one who is present at the cruel execution of the -rack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with -horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any -opposite sympathy. - -But the instance which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is -that wherein, by a change of the objects, we separate the double -sympathy even from a middling degree of the passion; in which case we -find that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, -always gives rise to the contrary affection. When we observe a person -in misfortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of -that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the -more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now, for -what reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person -who suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person who causes it; -unless it be because, in the latter case, the author bears a relation -only to the misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry -our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are -sensible of his affliction? - -I shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this -phenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, -may contribute to the production of the kindness which we naturally -bear our relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter -deeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose -to attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and -operates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and -grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing -that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of -sentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that -affection. - - - - -SECTION X. - -OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT. - - -There now remains only to explain the passions of _respect_ and -_contempt_, along with the _amorous_ affection, in order to understand -all the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin -with respect and contempt. - -In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either -regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison -betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these -two methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the -first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and, from -the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their bad -qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or -contempt, according to the light in which we survey them. - -That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in -respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or -appearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture arises -from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with -ourselves, is no less evident. The same man may cause either respect, -love, or contempt, by his condition and talents, according as the -person who considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or -superior. In changing the point of view, though the object may remain -the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the -cause of an alteration in the passions. These passions, therefore, -arise from our observing the proportion, that is, from a comparison. - -I have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity -to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles -of human nature, to assign a cause for this phenomenon. Whether my -reasoning be received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears -in many instances. Among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a much -greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and -why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortified -with the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a -tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible: -Whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient -than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouses at -the least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it -exert itself. - -But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only -in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects -which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of -pride when transferred to ourselves; and consequently ought to be -causes of humility as well as love while they belong to others, and are -only compared to those which we ourselves possess. In like manner every -quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought -always to give rise to pride by comparison, and, by a mixture of these -passions of hatred and pride, ought to excite contempt or scorn. The -difficulty then is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, -and produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt. - -I have supposed all along that the passions of love and pride, and -those of humility and hatred, are similar in their sensations, and that -the two former are always agreeable, and that the two latter painful. -But though this be universally true, 'tis observable, that the two -agreeable as well as the two painful passions, have some differences, -and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and -exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time -love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and enfeeble it. The same -difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred -bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and -shame deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions, -'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember that pride -and hatred invigorate the soul, and love and humility enfeeble it. - -From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and -hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be -excited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason -why they are excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are -_pleasant_ and _magnificent_ objects, and by both these circumstances -are adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by their -pleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are _disagreeable_ and _mean_, -which in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility, -and a single one with hatred. We may, therefore, consider it as -certain, that though the same object always produces love and pride, -humility and hatred, according to its different situations, yet it -seldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions in the -same proportion. - -'Tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty -above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and -does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility -or pride. No quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison, -unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; -and, _vice versa_, no object excites pride by comparison, unless it -would have produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident, -objects always produce by _comparison_ a sensation directly contrary to -their _original_ one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be presented, -which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite -pride, this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a -great degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison; -and consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound, -nor is able to convert the love into respect. This is the case with -good nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other -qualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others; -but not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which -reason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure -love, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. 'Tis easy to -extend the same reasoning to the opposite passions. - -Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a -pretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a distance -such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near -even in place and situation. It has already been observed, that almost -every kind of ideas is attended with some emotion, even the ideas of -number and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed -of consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with entire -indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must -feel some faint touches, at least, of respect in the former case, and -of contempt in the latter. These two passions are contrary to each -other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must -be someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and -distinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the -persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy -at seeing such disproportioned objects as a rich man and a poor one, a -nobleman and a porter, in that situation. - -This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more -sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the -inferior is regarded as a piece of ill breeding, and shows that he is -not sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A -sense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to -keep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble -the marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach -him; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof they are -not sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any -great _difference_ in the degrees of any quality is called a _distance_ -by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded -on natural principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines -us to produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are, -therefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for -each other; and this is in general the source of the metaphor, as we -shall have occasion to observe afterwards. - - - - -SECTION XI. - -OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES. - - -Of all the compound passions which proceed from a mixture of love and -hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, -than that love which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of -its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for -which it affords us an uncontestable argument. 'Tis plain that this -affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction -of three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation -arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous -kindness or good will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be -explained from the foregoing reasoning. The question is, how the bodily -appetite is excited by it. - -The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is -evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with all -the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness, are all -incentives to this desire, as well as music, dancing, wine, and good -cheer. On the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are -destructive of it. From this quality, 'tis easily conceived why it -should be connected with the sense of beauty. - -But there is another principle that contributes to the same effect. -I have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real -relation, and, no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces -a connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of -this relation, we must consider that any principal desire may be -attended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to -which, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to -the principal one. Thus, hunger may oft be considered as the primary -inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the -secondary one, since 'tis absolutely necessary to the satisfying that -appetite. If an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines -us to approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as on the -contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is -contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now, -'tis plain, that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second; -which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for -our victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most -savoury dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable -to the appetite for generation. - -From these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel desire, -there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily -appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable; -and we find from experience, that 'tis indifferent which of them -advances first, since any of them is almost sure to be attended with -the related affections. One who is inflamed with lust, feels at least -a momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time -fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many, who -begin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person, -and advance from that to the other passions. But the most common -species of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards -diffuses itself into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. Kindness -or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite -easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the -soul, the other the most gross and vulgar. The love of beauty is placed -in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures; from -whence it proceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both. - -This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable -on any hypothesis. The three affections which compose this passion are -evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. 'Tis -certain, therefore, that 'tis only by their relation they produce each -other. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. 'Tis -likewise necessary there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty of -one person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a -sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From -one instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest. - -This may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted -on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have -observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions, -and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone -be the causes of the passions, as having each of them a relation to -two contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy -each other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already -described it. It has certain organs naturally fitted to produce a -passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a -certain object. But this not being sufficient to produce the passion, -there is required some other emotion, which, by a double relation of -impressions and ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow -on them their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable -with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object, -but also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it, -when actuated by that appetite, but the reflecting on it suffices to -excite the appetite. But as this cause loses its force by too great -frequency, 'tis necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse; -and that impulse we find to arise from the _beauty_ of the _person_; -that is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this -double relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct -cause and object, how much more so where it has only a distinct object -without any determinate cause! - - - - -SECTION XII. - -OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS. - - -But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their -mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same -affections as they display themselves in brutes, we may observe, not -only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation, -but likewise that their causes, as above explained, are of so simple -a nature that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. -There is no force of reflection or penetration required. Every thing -is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man, -or any one species of animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in -favour of the foregoing system. - -Love, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same -species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every -sensible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own -species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection. - -As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains -of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible -good or evil which they produce, and from _that_ must regulate their -affections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or -injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that, by feeding and -cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating -and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will. - -Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our species; and -that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations, -except in very obvious instances. Yet 'tis easy to remark, that on -some occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus, -acquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces -love in animals, either to men or to each other. For the same reason, -any likeness among them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a -park with horses, will naturally join their company, if I may so speak, -but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the -choice of both. - -The affection of parents to their young proceeds from a peculiar -instinct in animals, as well as in our species. - -'Tis evident that _sympathy_, or the communication of passions, takes -place among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage, -and other affections, are frequently communicated from one animal to -another, without their knowledge of that cause which produced the -original passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy, and produces -almost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions, as in -our species. The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible -concern in his fellows. And 'tis remarkable, that though almost all -animals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as -in fighting; a lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws; an ox, his horns; -a dog, his teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid -harming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his -resentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each -other's pain and pleasure. - -Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt -in a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and 'tis evident -this can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. 'Tis also well known -to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in -too great a degree, where too packs that are strangers to each other -are joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this -phenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves. - -Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are -perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and -imagination. - - - - -PART III. - -OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS. - - - - -SECTION I. - -OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY. - - -We come now to explain the _direct_ passions, or the impressions which -arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. Of this -kind are, _desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear._ - -Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more -remarkable than the _will_; and though, properly speaking, it be not -comprehended among the passions, yet, as the full understanding of its -nature and properties is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall -here make it the subject of our inquiry. I desire it may be observed, -that, by the _will_, I mean nothing but _the internal impression we -feel, and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new -motion of our body, or new perception of our mind_. This impression, -like the preceding ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, 'tis -impossible to define, and needless to describe any farther; for -which reason we shall cut off all those definitions and distinctions -with which philosophers are wont to perplex rather than clear up this -question; and entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that -long-disputed question concerning _liberty and necessity_, which occurs -so naturally in treating of the will. - -'Tis universally acknowledged that the operations of external bodies -are necessary; and that, in the communication of their motion, in their -attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are not the least traces of -indifference or liberty. Every object is determined by an absolute fate -to a certain degree and direction of its motion, and can no more depart -from that precise line in which it moves, than it can convert itself -into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. The actions, -therefore, of matter, are to be regarded as instances of necessary -actions; and whatever is, in this respect, on the same footing with -matter, must be acknowledged to be necessary. That we may know whether -this be the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with -examining matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in -its operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to -be the infallible cause of another. - -It has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate -connexion of any objects is discoverable either by our senses or -reason, and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and -construction of bodies, as to perceive the principle on which their -mutual influence depends. 'Tis their constant union alone with which -we are acquainted; and 'tis from the constant union the necessity -arises. If objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with -each other, we should never arrive at any idea of cause and effect; -and even after all, the necessity which enters into that idea, is -nothing but a determination of the mind to pass from one object to -its usual attendant, and infer the existence of one from that of the -other. Here then are two particulars which we are to consider as -essential to necessity, viz. the constant _union_ and the _inference_ -of the mind; and wherever we discover these, we must acknowledge a -necessity. As the actions of matter have no necessity but what is -derived from these circumstances, and it is not by any insight into -the essence of bodies we discover their connexion, the absence of -this insight, while the union and inference remain, will never, in -any case, remove the necessity. 'Tis the observation of the union -which produces the inference; for which reason it might be thought -sufficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the mind, -in order to establish the inference along with the necessity of these -actions. But that I may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, I shall -examine these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience -that our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and -circumstances, before I consider the inferences we draw from it. - -To this end a very slight and general view of the common course of -human affairs will be sufficient. There is no light in which we can -take them that does not confirm this principle. Whether we consider -mankind according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments, -conditions, or methods of education; the same uniformity and regular -operation of natural principles are discernible. Like causes still -produce like effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the -elements and powers of nature. - -There are different trees which regularly produce fruit, whose relish -is different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as -an instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. But are the -products of Guienne and of Champagne more regularly different than -the sentiments, actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the -one are distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their -delicacy and softness? - -Are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and -certain than those of our mind and conduct? And would a man be more -ridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will -raise a weight of three hundred pounds, than one who, from a person of -the same age, would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent -and well concerted action? - -We must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter -arises from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we -may find in explaining them: and for a like reason we must allow, that -human society is founded on like principles; and our reason in the -latter case is better than even that in the former; because we not -only observe that men _always_ seek society, but can also explain the -principles on which this universal propensity is founded. For it is -more certain that two flat pieces of marble will unite together, than -two young savages of different sexes will copulate? Do the children -arise from this copulation more uniformly, than does the parents' care -for their safety and preservation? And after they have arrived at years -of discretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniences -attending their separation more certain than their foresight of these -inconveniences, and their care of avoiding them by a close union and -confederacy? - -The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer, are different -from those of a man of quality: so are his sentiments, actions, and -manners. The different stations of life influence the whole fabric, -external and internal; and these different stations arise necessarily, -because uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of human -nature. Men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated -without government. Government makes a distinction of property, and -establishes the different ranks of men. This produces industry, -traffic, manufactures, lawsuits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages, -travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all those other actions and objects -which cause such a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an -uniformity in human life. - -Should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had -seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all -the fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the -summer, after the same manner as in England they are produced and decay -in the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe -him. I am apt to think a traveller would meet with as little credit, -who should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those -in Plato's republic on the one hand, or those in Hobbes's _Leviathan_ -on the other. There is a general course of nature in human actions, as -well as in the operations of the sun and the climate. There are also -characters peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as -well as common to mankind. The knowledge of these characters is founded -on the observation of an uniformity in the actions that flow from them; -and this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity. - -I can imagine only one way of eluding this argument, which is by -denying that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. As -long as actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation -and temper of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge -the necessity, we really allow the thing. Now, some may perhaps find -a pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. For what is more -capricious than human actions? What more inconstant than the desires -of man? And what creature departs more widely, not only from right -reason, but from his own character and disposition? An hour, a moment -is sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and -overturn what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. Necessity -is regular and certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The -one therefore proceeds not from the other. - -To this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed -upon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects. -When any phenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together, -they acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from -one to the other without any doubt or hesitation. But below this there -are many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one -single contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning. -The mind balances the contrary experiments, and, deducting the inferior -from the superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, -which remains. Even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal, -we remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but, supposing that -the usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and -concealed causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies -only in our judgment on account of our imperfect knowledge, not in the -things themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though, -to appearance, not equally constant or certain. No union can be more -constant and certain than that of some actions with some motives and -characters; and if, in other cases, the union is uncertain, 'tis no -more than what happens in the operations of body; nor can we conclude -any thing from the one irregularity which will not follow equally from -the other. - -'Tis commonly allowed that madmen have no liberty. But, were we to -judge by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than -the actions of wise men, and consequently are farther removed from -necessity. Our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore, -absolutely inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused -ideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our -reasonings, especially on the present subject. - -We must now show, that, as the _union_ betwixt motives and actions has -the same constancy as that in any natural operations, so its influence -on the understanding is also the same, in _determining_ us to infer -the existence of one from that of another. If this shall appear, there -is no known circumstance that enters into the connexion and production -of the actions of matter that is not to be found in all the operations -of the mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity, -attribute necessity to the one, and refuse it to the other. - -There is no philosopher, whose judgment is so rivetted to this -fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of -_moral evidence_, and both in speculation and practice proceed upon -it as upon a reasonable foundation. Now, moral evidence is nothing -but a conclusion concerning the actions of men, derived from the -consideration of their motives, temper, and situation. Thus, when we -see certain characters or figures described upon paper, we infer that -the person who produced them would affirm such facts, the death of -Cæsar, the success of Augustus, the cruelty of Nero; and, remembering -many other concurrent testimonies, we conclude that those facts were -once really existent, and that so many men, without any interest, -would never conspire to deceive us; especially since they must, in the -attempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their contemporaries, -when these facts were asserted to be recent and universally known. The -same kind of reasoning runs through politics, war, commerce, economy, -and indeed mixes itself so entirely in human life, that 'tis impossible -to act or subsist a moment without having recourse to it. A prince who -imposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their compliance. A general -who conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of courage. A -merchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor or supercargo. A -man who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the obedience of -his servants. In short, as nothing more nearly interests us than our -own actions and those of others, the greatest part of our reasonings -is employed in judgments concerning them. Now I assert, that whoever -reasons after this manner, does _ipso facto_ believe the actions of the -will to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what he means when -he denies it. - -All those objects, of which we call the one _cause_ and the other -_effect_, considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from -each other as any two things in nature; nor can we ever, by the most -accurate survey of them, infer the existence of the one from that -of the other. 'Tis only from experience and the observation of their -constant union, that we are able to form this inference; and even -after all, the inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the -imagination. We must not here be content with saying, that the idea -of cause and effect arises from objects constantly united; but must -affirm, that 'tis the very same with the idea of these objects, and -that the _necessary connexion_ is not discovered by a conclusion of -the understanding, but is merely a perception of the mind. Wherever, -therefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the union operates -in the same manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of -causes and necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions. -Motion in one body, in all past instances that have fallen under our -observation, is followed upon impulse by motion in another. 'Tis -impossible for the mind to penetrate farther. From this constant union -it _forms_ the idea of cause and effect, and by its influence _feels_ -the necessity. As there is the same constancy, and the same influence, -in what we call moral evidence, I ask no more. What remains can only be -a dispute of words. - -And indeed, when we consider how aptly _natural_ and _moral_ evidence -cement together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we -shall make no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and -derived from the same principles. A prisoner, who has neither money nor -interest, discover the impossibility of his escape, as well from the -obstinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars with which he is -surrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom, chooses rather to work -upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature -of the other. The same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, -foresees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of -his guards, as from the operation of the axe or wheel. His mind runs -along a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers to consent -to his escape; the action of the executioner; the separation of the -head and body, bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. Here is a -connected chain of natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind -feels no difference betwixt them in passing from one link to another; -nor is less certain of the future event than if it were connected -with the present impressions of the memory and senses by a train of -causes cemented together by what we are pleased to call a _physical -necessity_. The same experienced union has the same effect on the mind, -whether the united objects be motives, volitions and actions, or figure -and motion. We may change the names of things, but their nature and -their operation on the understanding never change. - -I dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these -reasonings otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a -different meaning to the terms of _cause, and effect, and necessity, -and liberty, and chance_. According to my definitions, necessity makes -an essential part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing -necessity, removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance. -As chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least -directly contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments -against liberty or free-will. If any one alters the definitions, I -cannot pretend to argue with him till I know the meaning he assigns to -these terms. - - - - -SECTION II. - -THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. - - -I believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalence -of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense, -and unintelligible in any other. First, after we have performed any -action, though we confess we were influenced by particular views and -motives, 'tis difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed -by necessity, and that 'twas utterly impossible for us to have acted -otherwise, the idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force, -and violence, and constraint, of which we are not sensible. Few are -capable of distinguishing betwixt the liberty of _spontaneity_, as it -is called in the schools, and the liberty of _indifference_; betwixt -that which is opposed to violence, and that which means a negation of -necessity and causes. The first is even the most common sense of the -word; and as 'tis only that species of liberty which it concerns us to -preserve, our thoughts have been principally turned towards it, and -have almost universally confounded it with the other. - -Secondly, there is a _false sensation or experience_ even of the -liberty of indifference, which is regarded as an argument for its real -existence. The necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the -mind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or -intelligent being, who may consider the action, and consists in the -determination of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding -objects: as liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the -want of that determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel -in passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other. -Now, we may observe, that though in reflecting on human actions, we -seldom feel such a looseness or indifference, yet it very commonly -happens, that, in performing the actions themselves, we are sensible of -something like it: and as all related or resembling objects are readily -taken for each other, this has been employed as a demonstrative, or -even an intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel that our actions -are subject to our will on most occasions, and imagine we feel that -the will itself is subject to nothing; because when, by a denial of -it, we are provoked to try, we feel that it moves easily every way, -and produces an image of itself even on that side on which it did not -settle. This image or faint motion, we persuade ourselves, could have -been completed into the thing itself; because, should that be denied, -we find, upon a second trial, that it can. But these efforts are all in -vain; and whatever capricious and irregular actions we may perform, as -the desire of showing our liberty is the sole motive of our actions, we -can never free ourselves from the bonds of necessity. We may imagine -we feel a liberty within ourselves, but a spectator can commonly infer -our actions from our motives and character; and even where he cannot, -he concludes in general that he might, were he perfectly acquainted -with every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most -secret springs of our complexion and disposition. Now, this is the very -essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine. - -A third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better -received in the world than its antagonist, proceeds from _religion_, -which has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. There -is no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable, -than in philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis -by a pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality. -When any opinion leads us into absurdities, 'tis certainly false; -but 'tis not certain an opinion is false, because 'tis of dangerous -consequence. Such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn, -as serving nothing to the discovery of truth, but only to make the -person of an antagonist odious. This I observe in general, without -pretending to draw any advantage from it. I submit myself frankly to an -examination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine -of necessity, according to my explication of it, is not only innocent, -but even advantageous to religion and morality. - -I define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of -_cause_, of which it makes an essential part. I place it either in the -constant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference -of the mind from the one to the other. Now, necessity, in both these -senses, has universally, though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, -and in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no -one has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning -human actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced -union of like actions with like motives and circumstances. The only -particular in which any one can differ from me is, either that perhaps -he will refuse to call this necessity; but as long as the meaning is -understood, I hope the word can do no harm; or, that he will maintain -there is something else in the operations of matter. Now, whether it -be so or not, is of no consequence to religion, whatever it may be to -natural philosophy. I may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no -idea of any other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad -to be farther instructed on that head: but sure I am, I ascribe nothing -to the actions of the mind, but what must readily be allowed of. Let no -one, therefore, put an invidious construction on my words, by saying -simply, that I assert the necessity of human actions, and place them -on the same footing with the operations of senseless matter. I do not -ascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is supposed -to lie in matter. But I ascribe to matter that intelligible quality, -call it necessity or not, which the most rigorous orthodoxy does or -must allow to belong to the will. I change, therefore, nothing in the -received systems, with regard to the will, but only with regard to -material objects. - -Nay, I shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so -essential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue -an absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is -entirely destructive to all laws, both _divine_ and _human_. 'Tis -indeed certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and -punishments, 'tis supposed as a fundamental principle, that these -motives have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and -prevent the evil actions. We may give to this influence what name we -please; but as 'tis usually conjoined with the action, common sense -requires it should be esteemed a cause, and be looked upon as an -instance of that necessity, which I would establish. - -This reasoning is equally solid, when applied to _divine_ laws, -so far as the Deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed -to inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce -obedience. But I also maintain, that even where he acts not in his -magisterial capacity, is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on -account of their odiousness and deformity, not only 'tis impossible, -without the necessary connexion of cause and effect in human actions, -that punishments could be inflicted compatible with justice and moral -equity; but also that it could ever enter into the thoughts of any -reasonable being to inflict them. The constant and universal object -of hatred or anger is a person or creature endowed with thought and -consciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that -passion, 'tis only by their relation to the person or connexion with -him. But according to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion -is reduced to nothing, nor are men more accountable for those actions, -which are designed and premeditated, than for such as are the most -casual and accidental. Actions are, by their very nature, temporary and -perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the characters -and disposition of the person who performed them, they infix not -themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good, -nor infamy, if evil. The action itself may be blameable; it may be -contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is -not responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him that is -durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, 'tis -impossible he can, upon its account, become the object of punishment or -vengeance. According to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is -as pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes, -as at the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way -concerned in his actions, since they are not derived from it, and the -wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of -the other. 'Tis only upon the principles of necessity, that a person -acquires any merit or demerit from his actions, however the common -opinion may incline to the contrary. - -But so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often -assert that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either -towards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to reason -upon these very principles of necessity in all their judgments -concerning this matter. Men are not blamed for such evil actions -as they perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their -consequences. Why? but because the causes of these actions are only -momentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are less blamed for such -evil actions as they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than for such -as proceed from thought and deliberation. For what reason? but because -a hasty temper, though a constant cause in the mind, operates only by -intervals, and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance wipes -off every crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of -life and manners. How is this to be accounted for? but by asserting -that actions render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs -of criminal passions or principles in the mind; and when, by any -alteration of these principles, they cease to be just proofs, they -likewise cease to be criminal. But according the doctrine of _liberty_ -or _chance_, they never were just proofs, and consequently never were -criminal. - -Here then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system -from these odious consequences before he charge them upon others. -Or, if he rather chooses that this question should be decided by fair -arguments before philosophers, than by declamations before the people, -let him return to what I have advanced to prove that liberty and chance -are synonymous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the -regularity of human actions. Upon a review of these reasonings, I -cannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore, having proved that -all actions of the will have particular causes, I proceed to explain -what these causes are, and how they operate. - - - - -SECTION III. - -OF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL. - - -Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to -talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to -reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform -themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, 'tis said, is -obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or -principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose -it, 'till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity -with that superior principle. On this method of thinking the greatest -part of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems to be founded; -nor is there an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as -popular declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above -passion. The eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former, -have been displayed to the best advantage: the blindness, inconstancy, -and deceitfulness of the latter, have been as strongly insisted on. In -order to show the fallacy of all this philosophy, I shall endeavour to -prove _first_, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action -of the will; and _secondly_, that it can never oppose passion in the -direction of the will. - -The understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as the judges -from demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations -of our ideas, or those relations of objects of which experience only -gives us information. I believe it scarce will be asserted, that the -first species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. As -its proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always -places us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem upon -that account to be totally removed from each other. Mathematics, -indeed, are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in -almost every art and profession: but 'tis not of themselves they have -any influence. Mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of -bodies _to some designed end or purpose_; and the reason why we employ -arithmetic in fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may -discover the proportions of their influence and operation. A merchant -is desirous of knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person: -why? but that he may learn what sum will have the same _effects_ in -paying his debt, and going to market, as all the particular articles -taken together. Abstract or demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never -influences any of our actions, but only as it directs our judgment -concerning causes and effects; which leads us to the second operation -of the understanding. - -'Tis obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from -any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity, -and are carried to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasiness -or satisfaction. 'Tis also obvious, that this emotion rests not here, -but, making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever -objects are connected with its original one by the relation of cause -and effect. Here then reasoning takes place to discover this relation; -and according as our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent -variation. But 'tis evident, in this case, that the impulse arises not -from reason, but is only directed by it. 'Tis from the prospect of pain -or pleasure that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object: -and these emotions extend themselves to the causes and effects of that -object, as they are pointed out to us by reason and experience. It can -never in the least concern us to know, that such objects are causes, -and such others effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent -to us. Where the objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion -can never give them any influence; and 'tis plain that, as reason is -nothing but the discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means -that the objects are able to affect us. - -Since reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to -volition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing -volition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion. -This consequence is necessary. 'Tis impossible reason could have the -latter effect of preventing, volition, but by giving an impulse in a -contrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated -alone, would have been able to produce volition. Nothing can oppose or -retard the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this -contrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must -have an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as -well as hinder, any act of volition. But if reason has no original -influence, 'tis impossible it can withstand any principle which has -such an efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. Thus, -it appears, that the principle which opposes our passion, cannot be -the same with reason, and is only called so in an improper sense. We -speak not strictly and philosophically, when we talk of the combat of -passion and of reason. Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of -the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve -and obey them. As this opinion may appear somewhat extraordinary, it -may not be improper to confirm it by some other considerations. - -A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of -existence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders -it a copy of any other existence or modification. When I am angry, I -am actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more -a reference to any other object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or -more than five feet high. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this passion -can be opposed by, or be contradictory to, truth and reason; since this -contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as -copies, with those objects which they represent. - -What may at first occur on this head is, that as nothing can be -contrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as -the judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must -follow, that passions can be contrary to reason only, so far as they -are _accompanied_ with some judgment or opinion. According to this -principle, which is so obvious and natural, 'tis only in two senses -that any affection can be called unreasonable. First, When a passion, -such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded -on the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not -exist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we choose -means sufficient for the designed end, and deceive ourselves in our -judgment of causes and effects. Where a passion is neither founded on -false suppositions, nor chooses means insufficient for the end, the -understanding can neither justify nor condemn it. 'Tis not contrary to -reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching -of my finger. 'Tis not contrary to reason for me to choose my total -ruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian, or person wholly -unknown to me. 'Tis as little contrary to reason to prefer even my -own acknowledged lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent -affection for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from -certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from -the greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more -extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight raise -up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. In short, a passion -must be accompanied with some false judgment, in order to its being -unreasonable; and even then, 'tis not the passion, properly speaking, -which is unreasonable, but the judgment. - -The consequences are evident. Since a passion can never, in any sense, -be called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition, -or when it chuses means insufficient for the designed end, 'tis -impossible, that reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or -dispute for the government of the will and actions. The moment we -perceive the falsehood of any supposition, or the insufficiency of -any means, our passions yield to our reason without any opposition. -I may desire any fruit as of an excellent relish; but whenever -you convince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. I may will the -performance of certain actions as means of obtaining any desired good; -but as my willing of these actions is only secondary, and founded on -the supposition that they are causes of the proposed effect; as soon -as I discover the falsehood of that supposition, they must become -indifferent to me. - -'Tis natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict -philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are -entirely the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are -not immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. Reason, -for instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion; -and except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the -frivolous subtilties of the schools, scarce ever conveys any pleasure -or uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind which -operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded -with reason by all those who judge of things from the first view -and appearance. Now 'tis certain there are certain calm desires and -tendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion -in the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate -feeling or sensation. These desires are of two kinds; either certain -instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and -resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general -appetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. When -any of these passions are calm, and cause no disorder in the soul, -they are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are -supposed to proceed from the same faculty with that which judges of -truth and falsehood. Their nature and principles have been supposed the -same, because their sensations are not evidently different. - -Beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are -certain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great -influence on that faculty. When I receive any injury from another, I -often feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his -evil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and -advantage to myself. When I am immediately threatened with any grievous -ill, my fears, apprehensions and aversions rise to a great height, and -produce a sensible emotion. - -The common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction -of the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the -other to have no influence. Men often act knowingly against their -interest; for which reason, the view of the greatest possible good -does not always influence them. Men often counteract a violent passion -in prosecution of their interests and designs; 'tis not, therefore, -the present uneasiness alone which determines them. In general we may -observe, that both these principles, operate on the will; and where -they are contrary, that either of them prevails, according to the -_general_ character or _present_ disposition of the person. What we -call strength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm passions -above the violent; though we may easily observe, there is no man so -constantly possessed of this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield -to the solicitations of passion and desire. From these variations -of temper proceeds the great difficulty of deciding concerning the -actions and resolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of -motives and passions. - - - - -SECTION IV. - -OF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS. - - -There is not in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than -this, of the different _causes_ and _effects_ of the calm and violent -passions. 'Tis evident, passions influence not the will in proportion -to their violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper; -but, on the contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled -principle of action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul, -it commonly produces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated -custom and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs -the actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion which so -naturally attend every momentary gust of passion. We must, therefore, -distinguish betwixt a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and -a strong one. But notwithstanding this, 'tis certain that, when we -would govern a man, and push him to any action, 'twill commonly be -better policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and -rather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly called his -_reason_. We ought to place the object in such particular situations -as are proper to increase the violence of the passion. For we may -observe, that all depends upon the situation of the object, and that a -variation in this particular will be able to change the calm and the -violent passions into each other. Both these kinds of passions pursue -good, and avoid evil; and both of them are increased or diminished by -the increase or diminution of the good or evil. But herein lies the -difference betwixt them: the same good, when near, will cause a violent -passion, which, when remote, produces only a calm one. As this subject -belongs very properly to the present question concerning the will, we -shall here examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those -circumstances and situations of objects, which render a passion either -calm or violent. - -'Tis a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion which -attends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their -natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to, each -other. 'Tis true, in order to make a perfect union among the passions, -there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas; -nor is one relation sufficient for that purpose. But though this be -confirmed by undoubted experience, we must understand it with its -proper limitations, and must regard the double relation as requisite -only to make one passion produce another. When two passions are already -produced by their separate causes, and are both present in the mind, -they readily mingle and unite, though they have but one relation, -and sometimes without any. The predominant passion swallows up the -inferior, and converts it into itself. The spirits, when once excited, -easily receive a change in their direction; and 'tis natural to imagine -this change will come from the prevailing affection. The connexion is -in many respects closer betwixt any two passions, than betwixt any -passion and indifference. - -When a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprice -of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels to which that commerce is -so subject, however unpleasant, and related to anger and hatred, are -yet found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. 'Tis a -common artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very -much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to -excite his curiosity, delay as long as possible the satisfying it, and -by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before -they give him a full insight into the business. They know that his -curiosity will precipitate him into the passion they design to raise, -and assist the object in its influence on the mind. A soldier advancing -to the battle, is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, -when he thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with -fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion, -therefore, proceeds from the former, naturally increases the courage; -as the same emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear, -by the relation of ideas, and the conversion of the inferior emotion -into the predominant. Hence it is, that in martial discipline, the -uniformity and lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and -motions, with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves and -allies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror into us, -though agreeable and beautiful in themselves. - -Since passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each -other, if they are both present at the same time, it follows, that when -good or evil is placed in such a situation as to cause any particular -emotion beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter -passion must acquire new force and violence. - -This happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary -passions. For 'tis observable that an opposition of passions commonly -causes a new emotion in the spirits, and produces more disorder than -the concurrence of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion -is easily converted into the predominant passion, and increases its -violence beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with -no opposition. Hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a -pleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful. -The notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to -overcome them; and, when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to -increase them, by producing an opposition in our motives and principles. - -The same effect follows, whether the opposition arises from internal -motives or external obstacles. The passion commonly acquires new -force and violence in both cases. The efforts which the mind makes to -surmount the obstacle, excite the spirits and enliven the passion. - -Uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The agitation of the -thought, the quick turns it makes from one view to another, the variety -of passions which succeed each other, according to the different views; -all these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves -into the predominant passion. - -There is not, in my opinion, any other natural cause why security -diminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty which -increases them. The mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes, -and, in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by -a new flow of passion. For the same reason, despair, though contrary to -security, has a like influence. - -'Tis certain, nothing more powerful animates any affection, than to -conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade, -which, at the same time that it shows enough to prepossess us in -favour of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. -Besides, that obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; -the effort which the fancy makes to complete the idea, rouses the -spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion. - -As despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the -same effects, so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and, in -different circumstances, either increases or diminishes our affections. -The Duc de la Rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence -destroys weak passions, but increases strong; as the wind extinguishes -a candle, but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally weakens our idea, -and diminishes the passion; but where the idea is so strong and lively -as to support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, increases -the passion, and gives it new force and violence. - - - - -SECTION V. - -OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM. - - -But nothing has a greater effect both to increase and diminish our -passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than -custom and repetition. Custom has two _original_ effects upon the mind, -in bestowing a _facility_ in the performance of any action, or the -conception of any object, and afterwards a _tendency or inclination_ -towards it; and from these we may account for all its other effects, -however extraordinary. - -When the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the -conception of any object to which it is not accustomed, there is a -certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirits -moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the spirits, -'tis the source of wonder, surprise, and of all the emotions which -arise from novelty, and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing -which enlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But though surprise be -agreeable in itself, yet, as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not -only augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according -to the foregoing principle, _that every emotion which precedes or -attends a passion is easily converted into it_. Hence, every thing -that is new is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or -pain than what, strictly speaking, naturally belongs to it. When it -often returns upon us, the novelty wears off, the passions subside, the -hurry of the spirits is over, and we survey the objects with greater -tranquillity. - -By degrees, the repetition produces a facility, which is another -very powerful principle of the human mind, and an infallible source -of pleasure where the facility goes not beyond a certain degree. And -here 'tis remarkable, that the pleasure which arises from a moderate -facility has not the same tendency with that which arises from -novelty, to augment the painful as well as the agreeable affections. -The pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of -the spirits, as in their orderly motion, which will sometimes be so -powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a relish in -time for what at first was most harsh and disagreeable. - -But, again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so it often -converts pleasure into pain when it is too great, and renders the -actions of the mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able -to interest and support it. And indeed scarce any other objects become -disagreeable through custom, but such as are naturally attended with -some emotion or affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent -repetition. One can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, -and stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling any -aversion. But when the fair sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing -that naturally ought to be agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily -produces the opposite affection. - -But custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but -likewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not -entirely disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination. -And this is the reason why custom increases all _active_ habits, but -diminishes _passive_, according to the observation of a late eminent -philosopher. The facility takes off from the force of the passive -habits by rendering the motion of the spirits faint and languid. But as -in the active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves, -the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends them more -strongly to the action. - - - - -SECTION VI. - -OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS. - - -'Tis remarkable, that the imagination and affections have a close union -together, and that nothing, which affects the former, can be entirely -indifferent to the latter. Wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire -a new vivacity, the passions become more violent, and keep pace with -the imagination in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from -the principle above-mentioned, _that any attendant emotion is easily -converted into the Predominant_, I shall not determine. 'Tis sufficient -for my present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this -influence of the imagination upon the passions. - -Any pleasure with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any -other which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly -ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: -the other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and 'tis -certain, that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the -less influence they have upon the imagination. A general idea, though -it be nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is -commonly more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we -represent a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily -be changed for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the -representation. - -There is a noted passage in the history of Greece, which may serve -for our present purpose. Themistocles told the Athenians, that he had -formed a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which -'twas impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the -execution, since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with -which it should be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting him -full power to act as he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his -design to Aristides, in whose prudence they had an entire confidence, -and whose opinion they were resolved blindly to submit to. The design -of Themistocles was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the -Grecian commonwealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port, -and which, being once destroyed, would give the Athenians the empire -of the sea without any rival. Aristides returned to the assembly, and -told them, that nothing could be more advantageous than the design of -Themistocles; but at the same time that nothing could be more unjust: -upon which the people unanimously rejected the project. - -A late celebrated historian[1] admires this passage of ancient history -as one of the most singular that is any where to be met with. "Here," -says he, "they are not philosophers, to whom 'tis easy in their schools -to establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of morality, who -decide that interest ought never to prevail above justice. 'Tis a whole -people interested in the proposal which is made to them, who consider -it as of importance to the public good, and who, notwithstanding, -reject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely because it is -contrary to justice." For my part I see nothing so extraordinary in -this proceeding of the Athenians. The same reasons which render it so -easy for philosophers to establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part, -to diminish the merit of such a conduct in that people. Philosophers -never balance betwixt profit and honesty, because their decisions are -general, and neither their passions nor imaginations are interested -in the objects. And though, in the present case, the advantage was -immediate to the Athenians, yet as it was known only under the general -notion of advantage, without being conceived by any particular idea, it -must have had a less considerable influence on their imaginations, and -have been a less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted -with all its circumstances: otherwise 'tis difficult to conceive, -that a whole people, unjust and violent as men commonly are, should -so unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any considerable -advantage. - -Any satisfaction which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is -fresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence than another -of which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. From whence -does this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the -fancy, and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions? -The image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these -qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with -it by the relation of resemblance. - -A pleasure which is suitable to the way of life in which we are -engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another which is -foreign to it. This phenomenon may be explained from the same principle. - -Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than -eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most -lively colours. We may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object -is valuable, and such another odious; but till an orator excites the -imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble -influence either on the will or the affections. - -But eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion of another, -especially when enforced with passion, will cause an idea of good or -evil to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been -entirely neglected. This proceeds from the principle of sympathy or -communication; and sympathy, as I have already observed, is nothing -but the conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of -imagination. - -'Tis remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively -imagination. In this respect, as well as others, the force of the -passion depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or -situation of the object. - -I have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea -related to a present impression. This vivacity is a requisite -circumstance to the exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the -violent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any considerable -influence upon either of them. 'Tis too weak to take any hold of the -mind, or be attended with emotion. - - -[1] Mons. Rollin. - - - - -SECTION VII. - -OF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME. - - -There is an easy reason why every thing contiguous to us, either in -space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity, -and excel every other object in its influence on the imagination. -Ourself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self -must partake of that quality. But where an object is so far removed -as to have lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther -removed, its idea becomes still fainter and more obscure, would -perhaps require a more particular examination. - -'Tis obvious that the imagination can never totally forget the -points of space and time in which we are existent; but receives such -frequent advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that, -however it may turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it -is necessitated every moment to reflect on the present. 'Tis also -remarkable, that in the conception of those objects which we regard as -real and existent, we take them in their proper order and situation, -and never leap from one object to another, which is distant from it, -without running over, at least in a cursory manner, all those objects -which are interposed betwixt them. When we reflect, therefore, on -any object distant from ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach -it at first by passing through all the intermediate space betwixt -ourselves and the object, but also to renew our progress every moment, -being every moment recalled to the consideration of ourselves and our -present situation. 'Tis easily conceived, that this interruption must -weaken the idea, by breaking the action of the mind, and hindering the -conception from being so intense and continued, as when we reflect on -a nearer object. The _fewer_ steps we make to arrive at the object, -and the _smoother_ the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less -sensibly felt, but still may be observed more or less in proportion to -the degrees of distance and difficulty. - - -Here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and -remote, of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves, -approach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter, by reason of -the interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker -and more imperfect light. This is their effect on the imagination. -If my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on -the will and passions. Contiguous objects must have an influence much -superior to the distant and remote. Accordingly we find, in common -life, that men are principally concerned about those objects which are -not much removed either in space or time, enjoying the present, and -leaving what is afar off to the care of chance and fortune. Talk to a -man of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not regard you. -Speak of what is to happen to-morrow, and he will lend you attention. -The breaking of a mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the -burning of a house when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant. - -But farther; though distance, both in space and time, has a -considerable effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will -and passions, yet the consequence of a removal in _space_ are much -inferior to those of a removal in _time_. Twenty years are certainly -but a small distance of time in comparison of what history and even -the memory of some may inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thousand -leagues, or even the greatest distance of place this globe can admit -of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminish our passions. -A West India merchant will tell you, that he is not without concern -about what passes in Jamaica; though few extend their views so far into -futurity, as to dread very remote accidents. - -The cause of this phenomenon must evidently lie in the different -properties of space and time. Without having recourse to metaphysics, -any one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a -number of co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of -being at once present to the sight or feeling. On the contrary, time -or succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents -to us more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them -ever to co-existent. These qualities of the objects have a suitable -effect on the imagination. The parts of extension being susceptible -of an union to the senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as -the appearance of one part excludes not another, the transition or -passage of the thought through the contiguous parts is by that means -rendered more smooth and easy. On the other hand, the incompatibility -of the parts of time in their real existence separates them in the -imagination, and makes it more difficult for that faculty to trace any -long succession or series of events. Every part must appear single and -alone, nor can regularly have entrance into the fancy without banishing -what is supposed to have been immediately precedent. By this means any -distance in time causes a greater interruption in the thought than an -equal distance in space, and consequently weakens more considerably the -idea, and consequently the passions; which depend in a great measure on -the imagination, according to my system. - -There is another phenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz. -_the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in -the past_. This difference with respect to the will is easily accounted -for. As none of our actions can alter the past, 'tis not strange it -should never determine the will. But with respect to the passions, the -question is yet entire, and well worth the examining. - -Besides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of -space and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking, -which concurs in producing this phenomenon. We always follow the -succession of time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of -any object pass more easily to that which follows immediately after -it, than to that which went before it. We may learn this, among other -instances, from the order which is always observed in historical -narrations. Nothing but an absolute necessity can oblige an historian -to break the order of time, and in his _narration_ give the precedence -to an event, which was in _reality_ posterior to another. - -This will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect -on what I have before observed, that the present situation of the -person is always that of the imagination, and that 'tis from thence -we proceed to the conception of any distant object. When the object -is past, the progression of the thought in passing to it from the -present is contrary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time -to that which is preceding, and from that to another preceding, in -opposition to the natural course of the succession. On the other hand, -when we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the -stream of time, and arrives at the object of an order, which seems -most natural, passing always from one point of time to that which is -immediately posterior to it. This easy progression of ideas favours -the imagination, and makes it conceive its object in a stronger and -fuller light, than when we are continually opposed in our passage, -and are obliged to overcome the difficulties arising from the natural -propensity of the fancy. A small degree of distance in the past -has, therefore, a greater effect in interrupting and weakening the -conception, than a much greater in the future. From this effect of it -on the imagination is derived its influence on the will and passions. - -There is another cause, which both contributes to the same effect, and -proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined -to trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas. -When, from the present instant, we consider two points Of time equally -distant in the future and in the past, 'tis evident that, abstractedly -considered, their relation to the present is almost equal. For as the -future will _some time_ be present, so the past was _once_ present. -If we could, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an -equal distance in the past and in the future would have a similar -influence. Nor is this only true when the fancy remains fixed, and from -the present instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it -changes its situation, and places us in different periods of time. For -as, on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of -time interposed betwixt the present instant and the future object, we -find the future object approach to us, and the past retire and become -more distant: so, on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent -in a point of time interposed betwixt the present and the past, the -past approaches to us, and the future becomes more distant. But from -the property of the fancy above mentioned, we rather choose to fix -our thought on the point of time interposed betwixt the present and -the future, than on that betwixt the present and the past. We advance -rather than retard our existence; and, following what seems the natural -succession of time, proceed from past to present, and from present to -future; by which means we conceive the future as flowing every moment -nearer us, and the past as retiring. An equal distance, therefore, in -the past and in the future, has not the same effect on the imagination; -and that because we consider the one as continually increasing, and -the other as continually diminishing. The fancy anticipates the course -of things, and surveys the object in that condition to which it tends, -as well as in that which is regarded as the present. - - - - -SECTION VIII. - -THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. - - -Thus, we have accounted for three phenomena, which seem pretty -remarkable. Why distance weakens the conception and passion: why -distance in time has a greater effect than that in space: and why -distance in past time has still a greater effect than that in future. -We must now consider three phenomena, which seem to be in a manner the -reverse of these: why a very great distance increases our esteem and -admiration for an object: why such a distance in time increases it -more than that in space: and a distance in past time more than that in -future. The curiousness of the subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling -on it for some time. - -To begin with the first phenomenon, why a great distance increases our -esteem and admiration for an object; 'tis evident that the mere view -and contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended, -enlarges the soul, and gives it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide -plain, the ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these -are entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful, -which accompanies not its beauty with a suitable greatness. Now, when -any very distant object is presented to the imagination, we naturally -reflect on the interposed distance, and by that means conceiving -something great and magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction. But -as the fancy passes easily from one idea to another related to it, -and transports to the second all the passions excited by the first, -the admiration, which is directed to the distance, naturally diffuses -itself over the distant object. Accordingly we find, that 'tis not -necessary the object should be actually distant from us in order to -cause our admiration; but that 'tis sufficient if, by the natural -association of ideas, it conveys our view to any considerable distance. -A great traveller, though in the same chamber, will pass for a very -extraordinary person; as a Greek medal, even in our cabinet, is -always esteemed a valuable curiosity. Here the object, by a natural -transition, conveys our view to the distance; and the admiration which -arises from that distance, by another natural transition, returns back -to the object. - -But though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant -object, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that -in space. Ancient busts and inscriptions are more valued than Japan -tables: and, not to mention the Greeks and Romans, 'tis certain we -regard with more veneration the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the -modern Chinese and Persians; and bestow more fruitless pains to clear -up the history and chronology of the former, than it would cost us to -make a voyage, and be certainly informed of the character, learning, -and government of the latter. I shall be obliged to make a digression -in order to explain this phenomenon. - -'Tis a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition -which does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a -contrary effect, and inspires us with a more than ordinary grandeur -and magnanimity. In collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we -invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it -would never have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our strength -useless, makes us insensible of it; but opposition awakens and employs -it. - -This is also true in the inverse. Opposition not only enlarges the -soul; but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner -seeks opposition. - - - Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis - Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem. - - -Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as, on the -contrary, what weakens and enfeebles them is uneasy. As opposition has -the first effect, and facilitates the second, no wonder the mind, in -certain dispositions, desires the former, and is averse to the latter. - -These principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the -passions. To be convinced of this, we need only consider the influence -of _heights_ and _depths_ on that faculty. Any great elevation of -place communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and -gives a fancied superiority over those that lie below; and, _vice -versa_, a sublime and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and -elevation. Hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea -of whatever is good with that of height, and evil with lowness. Heaven -is supposed to be above, and hell below. A noble genius is called an -elevate and sublime one. _Atque udam spernit humum fugiente penna_. On -the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is styled indifferently -low or mean. Prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity descent. -Kings and princes are supposed to be placed at the top of human -affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the lowest -stations. These methods of thinking and of expressing ourselves, are -not of so little consequence as they may appear at first sight. - -'Tis evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no -natural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this -distinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces -a motion from the one to the other. The very same direction, which in -this part of the globe is called _ascent_, is denominated _descent_ in -our antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency -of bodies. Now 'tis certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually -operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency -in the fancy; and that when we consider any object situated in an -ascent, the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it -from the place in which it is situated to the place immediately below -it, and so on till we come to the ground, which equally stops the -body and our imagination. For a like reason we feel a difficulty in -mounting, and pass not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior -to that which is situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of -gravity from their objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that -the facility, which is so much studied in music and poetry, is called -the fall or cadency of the harmony or period; the idea of facility -communicating to us that of descent, in the same manner as descent -produces a facility? - -Since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds -an opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since -the soul, when elevated with joy and courage, in a manner seeks -opposition, and throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought -or action where its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ -it, it follows, that every thing which invigorates and enlivens the -soul, whether by touching the passions or imagination, naturally -conveys to the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to -run against the natural stream of its thoughts and conceptions. This -aspiring progress of the imagination suits the present disposition of -the mind; and the difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and -alacrity, has the contrary effect of sustaining and increasing it. -Virtue, genius, power and riches, are for this reason associated with -height and sublimity, as poverty, slavery and folly, are conjoined -with descent and lowness. Were the case the same with us as Milton -represents it to be with the angels, to whom _descent is adverse_, and -who _cannot sink without labour and compulsion_, this order of things -would be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very nature of -ascent and descent is derived from the difficulty and propensity, and -consequently every one of their effects proceeds from that origin. - -All this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable -distance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant -objects than a like removal in space. The imagination moves with more -difficulty in passing from one portion of time to another, than in -a transition through the parts of space; and that because space or -extension appears united to our senses, while time or succession is -always broken and divided. This difficulty, when joined with a small -distance, interrupts and weakens the fancy, but has a contrary effect -in a great removal. The mind, elevated by the vastness of its object, -is still farther elevated by the difficulty of the conception, and, -being obliged every moment to renew its efforts in the transition -from one part of time to another, feels a more vigorous and sublime -disposition than in a transition through the parts of space, where -the ideas flow along with easiness and facility. In this disposition, -the imagination, passing, as is usual, from the consideration of the -distance to the view of the distant objects, gives us a proportionable -veneration for it; and this is the reason why all the relicks of -antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than -what is brought even from the remotest parts of the world. - -The third phenomenon I have remarked will be a full confirmation of -this. 'Tis not every removal in time which has the effect of producing -veneration and esteem. We are not apt to imagine our posterity -will excel us, or equal our ancestors. This phenomenon is the more -remarkable, because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so -much as an equal removal in the past. Though a removal in the past, -when very great, increases our passions beyond a like removal in the -future, yet a small removal has a greater influence in diminishing them. - -In our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station -betwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of -difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following -the course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, -and the facility of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to -be, in a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us. -Our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches -the other: which effort weakens the conception, where the distance is -small; but enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a -suitable object. As on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy -in a small removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates -any considerable distance. - -It may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to -resume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order -to set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. What we -commonly understand by _passion_ is a violent and sensible emotion of -mind, when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the -original formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite. -By _reason_ we mean affections of the very same kind with the former, -but such as operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper: -which tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes -us to regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties. -Both the _causes_ and _effects_ of these violent and calm passions are -pretty variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper -and disposition of every individual. Generally speaking, the violent -passions have a more powerful influence on the will; though 'tis -often found that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and -seconded by resolution, are able to control them in their most furious -movements. What makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm -passion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change -of temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the object; as by -the borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by -exciting the imagination. Upon the whole, this struggle of passion -and of reason, as it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men -so different not only from each other, but also from themselves in -different times. Philosophy can only account for a few of the greater -and more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the smaller -and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and -minute for her comprehension. - - - - -SECTION IX. - -OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS. - - -'Tis easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect, -are founded on pain and pleasure, and that, in order to produce an -affection of any kind, 'tis only requisite to present some good or -evil. Upon the removal of pain and pleasure, there immediately follows -a removal of love and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion, -and of most of our reflective or secondary impressions. - -The impressions which arise from good and evil most naturally, and -with the least preparation, are the _direct_ passions of desire and -aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. The mind, -by an _original_ instinct, tends to unite itself with the good, and -to avoid the evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be -considered as to exist in any future period of time. - -But supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or -pleasure, and _that_ arising from an object related to ourselves or -others, this does not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the -consequent emotions, but, by concurring with certain dormant principles -of the human mind, excites the new impressions of pride or humility, -love or hatred. That propensity which unites us to the object, or -separates us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction -with the _indirect_ passions which arise from a double relation of -impressions and ideas. - -These indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in -their turn additional force to the direct passions, and increase -our desire and aversion to the object. Thus, a suit of fine clothes -produces pleasure from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the -direct passions, or the impressions of volition and desire. Again, -when these clothes are considered as belonging to ourself, the double -relation conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect -passion; and the pleasure which attends that passion returns back to -the direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition, -joy or hope. - -When good is certain or probable, it produces _joy_. When evil is in -the same situation, there arises _grief or sorrow_. - -When either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to _fear_ or -_hope_, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the -other. - -_Desire_ arises from good considered simply; and _aversion_ is derived -from evil. The _will_ exerts itself, when either the good or the -absence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body. - -Beside good and evil, or, in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct -passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is -perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to -our enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few -other bodily appetites. These passions, properly speaking, produce -good and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections. - -None of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention, -except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for. -'Tis evident that the very same event, which, by its certainty, -would produce grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when -only probable and uncertain. In order, therefore, to understand the -reason why this circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we -must reflect on what I have already advanced in the preceding book -concerning the nature of probability. - -Probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by -which the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly -tost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider -an object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. The -imagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates -betwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned -to the one side than the other, 'tis impossible for it, by reason of -the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. The _pro_ and -_con_ of the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the -object in its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly -destroys all certainty and established opinion. - -Suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are -doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, 'tis evident -that, according as the mind turns itself either to the one side or -the other, it must feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. An -object, whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect -on those causes which produce it; and, for the same reason, excites -grief or uneasiness from the opposite consideration: so that as the -understanding, in all probable questions, is divided betwixt the -contrary points of view, the affections must in the same manner be -divided betwixt opposite emotions. - -Now, if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that, with regard -to the passions, 'tis not of the nature of a wind-instrument of music, -which, in running over all the notes, immediately loses the sound -after the breath ceases; but rather resembles, a string-instrument, -where, after each stroke, the vibrations still retain some sound, which -gradually and insensibly decays. The imagination is extremely quick -and agile; but the passions are slow and restive: for which reason, -when any object is presented that affords a variety of views to the -one, and emotions to the other, though the fancy may change its views -with great celerity, each stroke will not produce a clear and distinct -note of passion, but the one passion will always be mixt and confounded -with the other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil, -the passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition: because -the nature of probability is to cast a superior number of views or -chances on one side; or, which is the same thing, a superior number of -returns of one passion; or, since the dispersed passions are collected -into one, a superior degree of that passion. That is, in other words, -the grief and joy being intermingled with each other, by means of -the contrary views of the imagination, produce, by their union, the -passions of hope and fear. - -Upon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning -that contrariety of passions which is our present subject. 'Tis -observable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented -at once, beside the increase of the predominant passion (which has -been already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock -or rencounter), it sometimes happens that both the passions exist -successively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each -other, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them -remain united in the mind. It may therefore be asked, by what theory -we can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can -reduce them. - -When the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they -take place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating -the impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. Thus, -when a man is afflicted for the loss of a lawsuit, and joyful for the -birth of a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous -object, with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely -temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a -state of indifference. - -It more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of -a mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous -in its different circumstances. For in that case, both the passions, -mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually -destructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquillity. - -But suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound -of good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any -degree; in that case I assert, that the contrary passions will both -of them be present at once in the soul, and, instead of destroying -and tempering each other, will subsist together, and produce a third -impression or affection by their union. Contrary passions are not -capable of destroying each other, except when their contrary movements -exactly rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as -in the sensation they produce. This exact rencounter depends upon the -relations of those ideas from which they are derived, and is more or -less perfect, according to the degrees of the relation. In the case -of probability, the contrary chances are so far related that they -determine concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object. -But this relation is far from being perfect, since some of the chances -lie on the side of existence, and others on that of non-existence, -which are objects altogether incompatible. 'Tis impossible, by one -steady view, to survey the opposite chances, and the events dependent -on them; but 'tis necessary that the imagination should run alternately -from the one to the other. Each view of the imagination produces its -peculiar passion, which decays away by degrees, and is followed by a -sensible vibration after the stroke. The incompatibility of the views -keeps the passions from shocking in a direct line, if that expression -may be allowed; and yet their relation is sufficient to mingle their -fainter emotions. 'Tis after this manner that hope and fear arise from -the different mixture of these opposite passions of grief and joy, and -from their imperfect union and conjunction. - -Upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when -they arise from different objects; they mutually destroy each other, -when they proceed from different parts of the same; and they subsist, -both of them, and mingle together, when they are derived from the -contrary and incompatible chances or possibilities on which any one -object depends. The influence of the relations of ideas is plainly -seen in this whole affair. If the objects of the contrary passions -be totally different, the passions are like two opposite liquors in -different bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the -objects be intimately connected, the passions are like an _alkali_ and -an _acid_, which, being mingled, destroy each other. If the relation -be more imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same -object, the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, -never perfectly unite and incorporate. - -As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence -along with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. A few strong -arguments are better than many weak ones. - -The passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on -both sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the -other. Nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as -the mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with -the greatest uncertainty. Throw in a superior degree of probability to -the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over -the composition, and tincture it into fear. Increase the probability, -and by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more, -till at last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes, -into pure grief. After you have brought it to this situation, diminish -the grief, after the same manner that you increased it, by diminishing -the probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every -moment, 'till it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after -the same manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you increase that part -of the composition by the increase of the probability. Are not these -as plain proofs, that the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of -grief and joy, as in optics 'tis a proof, that a coloured ray of the -sun passing through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as -you diminish or increase the quantity of either, you find it prevail -proportionably more or less in the composition? I am sure neither -natural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger proofs. - -Probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself -uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object -be already certain, yet 'tis uncertain to our judgment, which finds -a number of proofs on each side of the question. Both these kinds of -probabilities cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that -property, in which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluctuation -they bestow on the imagination by the contrariety of views which is -common to both. - -'Tis a probable good or evil that commonly produces hope or fear; -because probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of -surveying an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty -of passion. But we may observe, that wherever, from other causes, this -mixture can be produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise, -even though there be no probability; which must be allowed to be a -convincing proof of the present hypothesis. - -We find that an evil, barely conceived as _possible_, does sometimes -produce fear; especially if the evil be very great. A man cannot think -of excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be in the -least danger of suffering them. The smallness of the probability is -compensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally -lively, as if the evil were more probable. One view or glimpse of the -former has the same effect as several of the latter. - -But they are not only possible evils that cause fear, but even some -allowed to be _impossible_; as when we tremble on the brink of a -precipice, though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and -have it in our choice whether we will advance a step farther. This -proceeds from the immediate presence of the evil, which influences the -imagination in the same manner as the certainty of it would do; but -being encountered by the reflection on our security, is immediately -retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when, from a -contrariety of chances, contrary passions are produced. - -Evils that are _certain_ have sometimes the same effect in producing -fear, as the possible or impossible. Thus, a man in a strong prison -well-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the -thought of the rack, to which he is sentenced. This happens only when -the certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind -continually rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in -upon the thought. The evil is there fixed and established, but the mind -cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty -there arises a passion of much the same appearance with fear. - -But 'tis not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its -_existence_, but also as to its _kind_, that fear or hope arises. Let -one be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one -of his sons is suddenly killed, 'tis evident the passion this event -would occasion, would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain -information which of his sons he had lost. Here there is an evil -certain, but the kind of it uncertain: consequently the fear we feel on -this occasion is without the least mixture of joy, and arises merely -from the fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its objects. And though each -side of the question produces here the same passion, yet that passion -cannot settle, but receives from the imagination a tremulous and -unsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as well as in its sensation, -the mixture and contention of grief and joy. - -From these principles we may account for a phenomenon in the passions, -which at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz. that surprise is -apt to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights -us. The most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is -in general pusillanimous; since, upon the sudden appearance of any -object, we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and, without waiting -till we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at -first affected with fear. This, I say, is the most obvious conclusion; -but upon farther examination, we shall find that the phenomenon is -otherwise to be accounted for. The suddenness and strangeness of an -appearance naturally excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing -for which we are not prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. This -commotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness, -which, being very violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of -the object, becomes uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and -uncertainty, the sensation of fear, or the mixed passions of grief and -joy. This image of fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and -gives us a real apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its -judgments more from its present disposition than from the nature of its -objects. - -Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even -though they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite -views and considerations they present to us. A person who has left his -friend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if -he were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him -assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. In -this case, though the principle object of the passion, viz. the life or -death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when -absent; yet there are, a thousand little circumstances of his friend's -situation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and -prevents that fluctuation and uncertainty so nearly allied to fear. -Uncertainty is, indeed, in one respect, as nearly allied to hope as to -fear, since it makes an essential part in the composition of the former -passion; but the reason why it inclines not to that side, is, that -uncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a relation of impressions to the -uneasy passions. - -'Tis thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating -to a person, increases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune. -Horace has remarked this phenomenon: - - Ut assidens implumibus pullus avis - Serpentium allapsus timet, - Magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxili - Latura plus presentibus. - -But this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty I carry -farther, and observe, that any doubt produces that passion, even -though it presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and -desirable. A virgin, on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and -apprehensions, though she expects nothing but pleasure of the highest -kind, and what she has long wished for. The newness and greatness of -the event, the confusion of wishes and joys, so embarrass the mind, -that it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from whence arises -a fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits, which being, in some -degree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates into fear. - -Thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of -passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at -least a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished. - -I have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in -their most simple and natural situation, without considering all the -variations they may receive from the mixture of different views and -reflections. _Terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety_, and -other passions of that kind, are nothing but different species and -degrees of fear. 'Tis easy to imagine how a different situation of the -object, or a different turn of thought, may change even the sensation -of a passion; and this may in general account for all the particular -subdivisions of the other affections, as well as of fear. Love may -show itself in the shape of _tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem, -good-will_, and in many other appearances; which at the bottom are the -same affections, and arise from the same causes, though with a small -variation, which it is not necessary to give any particular account of. -'Tis for this reason I have all along confined myself to the principal -passion. - -The same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I waive the -examination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals; -since nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature, -and excited by the same causes as in human creatures. I leave this to -the reader's own observation, desiring him at the same time to consider -the additional force this bestows on the present system. - - - - -SECTION X. - -OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH. - - -But methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so -many different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions, -without taking once into consideration that love of truth, which was -the first source of all our inquiries. 'Twill therefore be proper, -before we leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that -passion, and show its origin in human nature. 'Tis an affection of so -peculiar a kind, that it would have been impossible to have treated of -it under any of those heads, which we have examined, without danger of -obscurity and confusion. - -Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the -proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our -ideas of objects to their real existence. 'Tis certain that the former -species of truth is not desired merely as truth, and that 'tis not the -justness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. For these -conclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two -bodies by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical -demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative, -and in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind -acquiesces with equal assurance in the one as in the other. And in -an arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the assurance are -of the same nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the -pleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate -into pain: which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we -sometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not from it, -merely as such, but only as endowed with certain qualities. - -The first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render -truth agreeable, is the genius and capacity which is employed in its -invention and discovery. What is easy and obvious is never valued; -and even what is _in itself_ difficult, if we come to the knowledge -of it without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or -judgment, is but little regarded. We love to trace the demonstrations -of mathematicians; but should receive small entertainment from a person -who should barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles, -though we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and -veracity. In this case 'tis sufficient to have ears to learn the truth. -We never are obliged to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of -all other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant and agreeable. - -But though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that -satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt if it be alone -sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. The truth we discover -must also be of some importance. 'Tis easy to multiply algebraical -problems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the -proportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any -pleasure in these researches, but turn their thoughts to what is -more useful and important. Now the question is, after what manner -this utility and importance operate upon us? The difficulty on this -head arises from hence, that many philosophers have consumed their -time, have destroyed their health, and neglected their fortune, in -the search of such truths, as they esteemed important and useful to -the world, though it appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour, -that they were not endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had -any concern for the interests of mankind. Were they convinced that -their discoveries were of no consequence, they would entirely lose all -relish for their studies, and that though the consequences be entirely -indifferent to them; which seems to be a contradiction. - -To remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain -desires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination, -and are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any -real affections. Thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the -fortifications of any city; considers their strength and advantages, -natural or acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the -bastions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; 'tis plain that, -in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends, he will -receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure, as it -arises from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other -than a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose security all this art -is employed; though 'tis possible that this person, as a stranger or -an enemy, may in his heart have no kindness for them, or may even -entertain a hatred against them. - -It may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight -foundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application, -as we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so -inconsiderable an original. But here I return to what I have already -remarked, that the pleasure of study consists chiefly in the action -of the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the -discovery or comprehension of any truth. If the importance of the truth -be requisite to complete the pleasure, 'tis not on account of any -considerable addition which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but -only because 'tis in some measure requisite to fix our attention. When -we are careless and inattentive, the same action of the understanding -has no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction -which arises from it when we are in another disposition. - -But beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation -of the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in -the attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine. -Upon this head I shall make a general remark, which may be useful -on many occasions, viz. that where the mind pursues any end with -passion, though that passion be not derived originally from the end, -but merely from the action and pursuit, yet, by the natural course -of the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and are -uneasy under any disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it. -This proceeds from the relation and parallel direction of the passions -above-mentioned. - -To illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe, that -there cannot be two passions more nearly resembling each other than -those of hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first -sight appear betwixt them. 'Tis evident, that the pleasure of hunting -consists in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention, -the difficulty, and the uncertainty. 'Tis evident, likewise, that these -actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their -having any effect upon us. A man of the greatest fortune, and the -farthest removed from avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting -after partridges and pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows -and magpies; and that because he considers the first as fit for the -table, and the other as entirely useless. Here 'tis certain, that the -utility or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is only -requisite to support the imagination; and the same person who overlooks -a ten times greater profit in any other subject, is pleased to bring -home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employed several -hours in hunting after them. To make the parallel betwixt hunting and -philosophy more complete, we may observe, that though in both cases -the end of our action may in itself be despised, yet, in the heat of -the action, we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are very -uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss our -game, or fall into any error in our reasoning. - -If we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the -passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles -as hunting and philosophy. It has been remarked, that the pleasure of -gaming arises not from interest alone, since many leave a sure gain for -this entertainment; neither is it derived from the game alone, since -the same persons have no satisfaction when they play for nothing; but -proceeds from both these causes united, though separately they have -no effect. 'Tis here, as in certain chemical preparations, where the -mixture of two clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is -opaque and coloured. - -The interest which we have in any game engages our attention, without -which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action. -Our attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden -reverses of fortune; still farther interest us; and 'tis from that -concern our satisfaction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and -men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses -them, though by a passion mixed with pain, does in the main give them a -sensible pleasure. And this pleasure is here increased by the nature of -the objects, which, being sensible and of a narrow compass, are entered -into with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination. - -The same theory that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics -and algebra, may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy, -and other studies, where we consider not the abstract relations of -ideas, but their real connexions and existence. But beside the love of -knowledge which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain -curiosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from -a quite different principle. Some people have an insatiable desire of -knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their -interest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on -others for their information; in which case there is no room for study -or application. Let us search for the reason of this phenomenon. - -It has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once -to enliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind -of hesitation and uncertainty about it. Both these circumstances are -advantageous. By the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and -produce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure which arises from -a moderate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its -certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the -mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. 'Tis a -quality of human nature which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is -common both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change -is unpleasant to us, and that, however any objects may in themselves be -indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As 'tis the nature -of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly -from one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of -pain. This pain chiefly takes place where interest, relation, or the -greatness and novelty of any event interests us in it. 'Tis not every -matter of fact of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are -they such only as we have an interest to know. 'Tis sufficient if the -idea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to -give us an uneasiness in its instability and inconstancy. A stranger, -when he arrives first at any town, may be entirely indifferent about -knowing the history and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he -becomes farther acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable -time among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives. When -we are reading the history of a nation, we may have an ardent desire -of clearing up any doubt or difficulty that occurs in it; but become -careless in such researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a -great measure, obliterated. - - - - -BOOK III. - -OF MORALS. - - -PART I. - -OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL. - - - - -SECTION I. - -MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVED FROM REASON. - - -There is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning, that -it may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the -same intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first -requisite for its invention. When we leave our closet, and engage -in the common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish like -the phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning; and 'tis -difficult for us to retain even that conviction which we had attained -with difficulty. This is still more conspicuous in a long chain of -reasoning, where we must preserve to the end the evidence of the first -propositions, and where we often lose sight of all the most received -maxims, either of philosophy or common life. I am not, however, without -hopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force -as it advances; and that our reasonings concerning _morals_ will -corroborate whatever has been said concerning the _understanding_ and -the _passions_. Morality is a subject that interests us above all -others; we fancy the peace of society to be at stake in every decision -concerning it; and 'tis evident, that this concern must make our -speculations appear more real and solid, than where the subject is in -a great measure indifferent to us. What affects us, we conclude can -never be a chimera; and, as our passion is engaged on the one side -or the other, we naturally think that the question lies within human -comprehension; which, in other cases of this nature, we are apt to -entertain some doubt of. Without this advantage, I never should have -ventured upon a third volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age -wherein the greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into -an amusement, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable -degree of attention to be comprehended. - -It has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but its -perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging, -loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. The mind -can never exert itself in any action which we may not comprehend -under the term of _perception_; and consequently that term is no less -applicable to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and -evil, than to every other operation of the mind. To approve of one -character, to condemn another, are only so many different perceptions. - -Now, as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz. -_impressions_ and _ideas_, this distinction gives rise to a question, -with which we shall open up our present inquiry concerning morals, -_whether 'tis by means of our ideas or impressions we distinguish -betwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce an action blameable or -praiseworthy_? This will immediately cut off all loose discourses and -declamations, and reduce us to something precise and exact on the -present subject. - -Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason; -that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which -are the same to every rational being that considers them; that the -immutable measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not -only on human creatures, but also on the Deity himself: all these -systems concur in the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned -merely by ideas, and by their juxtaposition and comparison. In order, -therefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider, whether it -be possible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and -evil, or whether there must concur some other principles to enable us -to make that distinction. - -If morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions, -'twere in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be -more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts with which all -moralists abound. Philosophy is commonly divided into _speculative_ and -_practical_; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter -division, 'tis supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to -go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. And -this is confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are -often governed by their duties, and are deterred from some actions by -the opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation. - -Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and -affections, it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and -that because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have -any such influence. Morals excite passions, and produce or prevent -actions. Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The -rules of morality, therefore, are not conclusions of our reason. - -No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is -there any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle, -on which it is founded. As long as it is allowed, that reason has -no influence on our passions and actions, 'tis in vain to pretend -that morality is discovered only by a deduction of reason. An -active principle can never be founded on an inactive; and it reason -be inactive in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and -appearances, whether it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects, -whether it considers the powers of external bodies, or the actions of -rational beings. - -It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which I have -proved,[1] that reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent -or produce any action or affection. 'Twill be easy to recollect what -has been said upon that subject. I shall only recall on this occasion -one of these arguments, which I shall endeavour to render still more -conclusive, and more applicable to the present subject. - -Reason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. Truth or falsehood -consists in an agreement or disagreement either to the _real_ relations -of ideas, or to _real_ existence and matter of fact. Whatever therefore -is not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of -being true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. Now, -'tis evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible -of any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and -realities, complete in themselves, and implying no reference to other -passions, volitions, and actions. 'Tis impossible, therefore, they -can be pronounced either true or false, and be either contrary or -conformable to reason. - -This argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. For it -proves _directly_, that actions do not derive their merit from a -conformity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it -proves the same truth more _indirectly_, by showing us, that as reason -can never immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or -approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which -are found to have that influence. Actions may be laudable or blameable; -but they cannot be reasonable or unreasonable: laudable or blameable, -therefore, are not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit -and demerit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes control -our natural propensities. But reason has no such influence. Moral -distinctions, therefore, are not the offspring of reason. Reason is -wholly inactive, and can never be the source of so active a principle -as conscience, or a sense of morals. - -But perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can -be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a -contradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in -its causes or effects. The action may cause a judgment, or may be -_obliquely_ caused by one, when the judgment concurs with a passion; -and by an abusive way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow -of, the same contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the -action. How far this truth or falsehood may be the source of morals, -'twill now be proper to consider. - -It has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense, -can have an influence on our conduct only after two ways: either when -it excites a passion, by informing us of the existence of something -which is a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of -causes and effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion. -These are the only kinds of judgment which can accompany our actions, -or can be said to produce them in any manner; and it must be allowed, -that these judgments may often be false and erroneous. A person may be -affected with passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an -object, which has no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or -which produces the contrary to what is imagined. A person may also take -false measures for the attaining of his end, and may retard, by his -foolish conduct, instead of forwarding the execution of any project. -These false judgments may be thought to affect the passions and -actions, which are connected with them, and may be said to render them -unreasonable, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. But though -this be acknowledged, 'tis easy to observe, that these errors are so -far from being the source of all immorality, that they are commonly -very innocent, and draw no manner of guilt upon the person who is so -unfortunate as to fall into them. They extend not beyond a mistake of -_fact_, which moralists have not generally supposed criminal, as being -perfectly involuntary. I am more to be lamented than blamed, if I am -mistaken with regard to the influence of objects in producing pain or -pleasure, or if I know not the proper means of satisfying my desires. -No one can ever regard such errors as a defect in my moral character. -A fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me -at a distance, and, through mistake, I fancy it to be pleasant and -delicious. Here is one error. I choose certain means of reaching this -fruit, which are not proper for my end. Here is a second error; nor is -there any third one, which can ever possibly enter into our reasonings -concerning actions. I ask, therefore, if a man in this situation, and -guilty of these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal, -however unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be possible to -imagine, that such errors are the sources of all immorality? - -And here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be -derived from the truth or falsehood of those judgments, they must take -place wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference, -whether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether -the error be avoidable or unavoidable. - -For as the very essence of morality is supposed to consist in an -agreement or disagreement to reason, the other circumstances are -entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any action the -character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that character. To -which we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, not admitting of -degrees, all virtues and vices would of course be equal. - -Should it be pretended, that though a mistake of _fact_ be not -criminal, yet a mistake of _right_ often is; and that this may be -the source of immorality: I would answer, that 'tis impossible such -a mistake can ever be the original source of immorality, since it -supposes a real right and wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals, -independent of these judgments. A mistake, therefore, of right, may -become a species of immorality; but 'tis only a secondary one, and is -founded on some other antecedent to it. - -As to those judgments which are the _effects_ of our actions, and -which, when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary -to truth and reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause -any judgment, either true or false, in ourselves, and that 'tis only -on others they have such an influence. 'Tis certain that an action, -on many occasions, may give rise to false conclusions in others; -and that a person, who, through a window, sees any lewd behaviour of -mine with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine she is -certainly my own. In this respect my action resembles somewhat a lie or -falsehood; only with this difference, which is material, that I perform -not the action with any intention of giving rise to a false judgment -in another, but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. It causes, -however, a mistake and false judgment by accident; and the falsehood of -its effects may be ascribed, by some odd figurative way of speaking, -to the action itself. But still I can see no pretext of reason for -asserting, that the tendency to cause such an error is the first spring -or original source of all immorality.[2] - -Thus, upon the whole, 'tis impossible that the distinction betwixt -moral good and evil can be made by reason; since that distinction has -an influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable. -Reason and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by -prompting or by directing a passion; but it is not pretended that a -judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falsehood, is attended -with virtue or vise. And as to the judgments, which are caused by our -judgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the -actions which are their causes. - -But, to be more particular, and to show that those eternal immutable -fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound -philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations. - -If the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the -boundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious -either must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter -of fact which is discovered by our reasoning. This consequence is -evident. As' the operations of human understanding divide themselves -into two kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter -of fact, were virtue discovered by the understanding, it must be an -object of one of these operations; nor is there any third operation -of the understanding which can discover it. There has been an opinion -very industriously propagated by certain philosophers, that morality -is susceptible of demonstration; and though no one has ever been able -to advance a single step in those demonstrations, yet tis taken for -granted that this science may be brought to an equal certainty with -geometry or algebra. Upon this supposition, vice and virtue must -consist in some relations; since 'tis allowed on all hands, that no -matter of fact is capable of being demonstrated. Let us therefore -begin with examining this hypothesis, and endeavour, if possible, -to fix those moral qualities which have been so long the objects of -our fruitless researches; point out distinctly the relations which -constitute morality or obligation, that we may know wherein they -consist, and after what manner we must judge of them. - -If you assert that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible -of certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those -_four_ relations which alone admit of that degree of evidence; and in -that case you run into absurdities from which you will never be able -to extricate yourself. For as you make the very essence of morality to -lie in the relations, and as there is no one of these relations but -what is applicable, not only to an irrational but also to an inanimate -object, it follows, that even such objects must be susceptible of -merit or demerit. _Resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality_, and -_proportions in quantity and number_; all these relations belong as -properly to matter, as to our actions, passions, and volitions. 'Tis -unquestionable, therefore, that morality lies not in any of these -relations, nor the sense of it in their discovery.[3] - -Should it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists in -the discovery of some relation distinct from these, and that our -enumeration was not complete when we comprehended all demonstrable -relations under four general heads; to this I know not what to reply, -till some one be so good as to point out to me this new relation. 'Tis -impossible to refute a system which has never yet been explained. In -such a manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in the -air, and often places them where the enemy is not present. - -I must therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with requiring the -two following conditions of any one that would undertake to clear up -this system. _First_, as moral good and evil belong only to the actions -of the mind, and are derived from our situation with regard to external -objects, the relations from which these moral distinctions arise must -lie only betwixt internal actions and external objects, and must not be -applicable either to internal actions, compared among themselves, or to -external objects, when placed in opposition to other external objects. -For as morality is supposed to attend certain relations, if these -relations could belong to internal actions considered singly, it would -follow, that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and independent -of our situation with respect to the universe; and in like manner, if -these moral relations could be applied to external objects, it would -follow, that even inanimate beings would be susceptible of moral beauty -and deformity. Now, it seems difficult to imagine that any relation can -be discovered betwixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared -to external objects, which relation might not belong either to these -passions and volitions, or to these external objects, compared among -_themselves_. - -But it will be still more difficult to fulfil the _second_ condition, -requisite to justify this system. According to the principles of those -who maintain an abstract rational difference betwixt moral good and -evil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of things, 'tis not only -supposed, that these relations, being eternal and immutable, are the -same, when considered by every rational creature, but their _effects_ -are also supposed to be necessarily the same; and 'tis concluded they -have no less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will -of the Deity, than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own -species. These two particulars are evidently distinct. 'Tis one thing -to know virtue, and another to conform the will to it. In order, -therefore, to prove that the measures of right and wrong are eternal -laws, _obligatory_ on every rational mind, 'tis not sufficient to show -the relations upon which they are founded: we must also point out the -connexion betwixt the relation and the will; and must prove that this -connexion is so necessary, that in every well-disposed mind, it must -take place and have its influence; though the difference betwixt these -minds be in other respects immense and infinite. Now, besides what I -have already proved, that even in human nature no relation can ever -alone produce any action; besides this, I say, it has been shown, in -treating of the understanding, that there is no connexion of cause and -effect, such as this is supposed to be, which is discoverable otherwise -than by experience, and of which we can pretend to have any security by -the simple consideration of the objects. All beings in the universe, -considered in themselves, appear entirely loose and independent of each -other. 'Tis only by experience we learn their influence and connexion; -and this influence we ought never to extend beyond experience. - -Thus it will be impossible to fulfil the _first_ condition required to -the system of eternal rational measures of right and wrong; because it -is impossible to show those relations, upon which such a distinction -may be founded: and 'tis as impossible to fulfil the _second_ -condition; because we cannot prove _a priori_, that these relations, if -they really existed and were perceived, would be universally forcible -and obligatory. - -But to make these general reflections more clear and convincing, we may -illustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this character -of moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged. Of all -crimes that human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid -and unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against -parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds and -death. This is acknowledged by all mankind, philosophers as well as -the people; the question only arises among philosophers, whether the -guilt or moral deformity of this action be discovered by demonstrative -reasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, and by means of some -sentiment, which the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions. -This question will soon be decided against the former opinion, if we -can show the same relations in other objects, without the notion of -any guilt or iniquity attending them. Reason or science is nothing but -the comparing of ideas, and the discovery of their relations; and if -the same relations have different characters, it must evidently follow, -that those characters are not discovered merely by reason. To put the -affair, therefore, to this trial, let us choose any inanimate object, -such as an oak or elm; and let us suppose, that, by the dropping of -its seed, it produces a sapling below it, which, springing up by -degrees, at last overtops and destroys the parent tree: I ask, if, in -this instance, there be wanting any relation which is discoverable -in parricide or ingratitude? Is not the one tree the cause of the -other's existence; and the latter the cause of the destruction of the -former, in the same manner as when a child murders his parent? 'Tis -not sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. For in -the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any _different_ -relations, but is only the cause from which the action is derived; and -consequently produces the _same_ relations, that in the oak or elm -arise from some other principles. 'Tis a will or choice that determines -a man to kill his parent: and they are the laws of matter and motion, -that determine a sapling to destroy the oak from which it sprung. Here -then the same relations have different causes; but still the relations -are the same: and as their discovery is not in both cases attended with -a notion of immorality, it follows, that that notion does not arise -from such a discovery. - -But to choose an instance still more resembling; I would fain ask any -one, why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very -same action, and the same relations in animals, have not the smallest -moral turpitude and deformity? If it be answered, that this action -is innocent in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to -discover its turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that faculty, -which _ought_ to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly -becomes criminal to him. Should this be said, I would reply, that this -is evidently arguing in a circle. For, before reason can perceive this -turpitude, the turpitude must exist; and consequently is independent -of the decisions of our reason, and is their object more properly than -their effect. According to this system, then, every animal that has -sense and appetite and will, that is, every animal must be susceptible -of all the same virtues and vices, for which we ascribe praise and -blame to human creatures. All the difference is, that our superior -reason may serve to discover the vice or virtue, and by that means -may augment the blame or praise: but still this discovery supposes -a separate being in these moral distinctions, and a being which -depends only on the will and appetite, and which, both in thought and -reality, may be distinguished from reason. Animals are susceptible of -the same relations with respect to each other as the human species, -and therefore would also be susceptible of the same morality, if the -essence of morality consisted in these relations. Their want of a -sufficient degree of reason may hinder them from perceiving the duties -and obligations of morality, but can never hinder these duties from -existing; since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being -perceived. Reason must find them, and can never produce them. This -argument deserves to be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely -decisive. - -Nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists not in any -relations that are the objects of science; but if examined, will prove -with equal certainty, that it consists not in any _matter of fact_, -which can be discovered by the understanding. This is the _second_ part -of our argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude, that -morality is not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty in -proving, that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose existence -we can infer by reason? Take any action allowed to be vicious; wilful -murder, for instance. Examine it in all lights, and see if you can -find that matter of fact, or real existence, which you call _vice_. In -whichever way you take it, you find only certain passions, motives, -volitions and thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case. -The vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the object. -You never can find it, till you turn your reflection into your own -breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, which arises in you, -towards this action. Here is a matter of fact; but 'tis the object of -feeling, not of reason. It lies in yourself, not in the object. So -that when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you -mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a -feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. Vice and -virtue, therefore, may be compared to sounds, colours, heat and cold, -which, according to modern philosophy, are not qualities in objects, -but perceptions in the mind: and this discovery in morals, like that -other in physics, is to be regarded as a considerable advancement of -the speculative sciences; though, like that too, it has little or no -influence on practice. Nothing can be more real, or concern us more, -than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness; and if these -be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no more can be -requisite to the regulation of our conduct and behaviour. - -I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, which may, -perhaps, be found of some importance. In every system of morality -which I have hitherto met with, I have always remarked, that the -author proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and -establishes the being of a God, or makes observations concerning human -affairs; when of a sudden I am surprised to find, that instead of the -usual copulations of propositions, _is_, and _is not_, I meet with no -proposition that is not connected with an _ought_, or an _ought not_. -This change is imperceptible; but is, however, of the last consequence. -For as this _ought_, or _ought not_, expresses some new relation or -affirmation, 'tis necessary that it should be observed and explained; -and at the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems -altogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from -others, which are entirely different from it. But as authors do not -commonly use this precaution, I shall presume to recommend it to the -readers; and am persuaded, that this small attention would subvert all -the vulgar systems of morality, and let us see, that the distinction of -vice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor -is perceived by reason. - - -[1] Book II. Part III. Sect. 3 - -[2] One might think it were entirely superfluous to prove this, if a -late author, who has had the good fortune to obtain some reputation, -had not seriously affirmed, that such a falsehood is the foundation of -all guilt and moral deformity. That we may discover the fallacy of his -hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false conclusion is drawn -from an action, only by means of an obscurity of natural principles, -which makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its operation, by -contrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two objects -uncertain and variable. Now, as a like uncertainty and variety of -causes take place, even in natural objects, and produce a like error in -our judgment, if that tendency to produce error were the very essence -of vice and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate objects -might be vicious and immoral. - -'Tis in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and -choice. For as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action -produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect, -essential to morality; and I do not readily perceive, upon this system, -how they can ever come to be regarded by it. If the tendency to cause -error be the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would -in every case be inseparable. - -Add to this, that if I had used the precaution of shutting the windows, -while I indulged myself in those liberties with my neighbour's wife, I -should have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action, -being perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any -false conclusion. - -For the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a window, -and takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no -respect criminal. For either he will not be perceived, or if he be, -'tis impossible he can produce any error, nor will any one, from these -circumstances, take him to be other than what he really is. - -'Tis well known, that those who are squint-sighted do very readily -cause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute or are -talking to one person, while they address themselves to another. Are -they, therefore, upon that account, immoral? - -Besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is -an evident reasoning in a circle. A person who takes possession of -_another's_ goods, and uses them as his _own_, in a manner declares -them to be his own; and this falsehood is the source of the immorality -of injustice. But is property, or right, or obligation, intelligible -without an antecedent morality? - -A man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms that -he never received any favours from him. But in what manner? Is it -because 'tis his duty to be grateful? But this supposes that there is -some antecedent rule of duty and morals. Is it because human nature is -generally grateful, and makes us conclude that a man who does any harm, -never received any favour from the person he harmed? But human nature -is not so generally grateful as to justify such a conclusion; or, if it -were, is an exception to a general rule in every case criminal, for no -other reason than because it is an exception? - -But what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is, -that it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth -is virtuous and falsehood vicious, as to account for the merit or -turpitude of any other action. I shall allow, if you please, that all -immorality is derived from this supposed falsehood in action, provided -you can give me any plausible reason why such a falsehood is immoral. -If you consider rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the -same difficulty as at the beginning. - -This last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not -an evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or -falsehood, it can never have any influence upon our actions. For who -ever thought of forbearing any action, because others might possibly -draw false conclusions from it? Or who ever performed any, that he -might give rise to true conclusions? - - -[3] As a proof how confused our way of thinking on this subject -commonly is, we may observe, that those who assert that morality is -demonstrable, do not say that morality lies in the relations, and -that the relations are distinguishable by reason. They only say, that -reason can discover such an action, in such relations, to be virtuous, -and such another vicious. It seems they thought it sufficient if they -could bring the word Relation into the proposition, without troubling -themselves whether it was to the purpose or not. But here, I think, is -plain argument. Demonstrative reason discovers only relations. But that -reason, according to this hypothesis, discovers also vice and virtue. -These moral qualities, therefore, must be relations. When we blame any -action, in any situation, the whole complicated object of action and -situation must form certain relations, wherein the essence of vice -consists. This hypothesis is not otherwise intelligible. For what -does reason discover, when it pronounces any action vicious? Does it -discover a relation or a matter of fact? These questions are decisive, -and must not be eluded. - - - -SECTION II. - -MORAL DISTINCTIONS DERIVED FROM A MORAL SENSE. - - -Thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that since vice -and virtue are not discoverable merely by reason, or the comparison -of ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they -occasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them. Our -decisions concerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently -perceptions; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas, -the exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other. -Morality, therefore, is more properly felt than judged of; though this -feeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and gentle that we are apt to -confound it with an idea, according to our common custom of taking all -things for the same which have any near resemblance to each other. - -The next question is, of what nature are these impressions, and after -what manner do they operate upon us? Here we cannot remain long in -suspense, but must pronounce the impression arising from virtue to be -agreeable, and that proceeding from vice to be uneasy. Every moment's -experience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle so fair and -beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which gives us more -abhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. No enjoyment equals -the satisfaction we receive from the company of those we love and -esteem; as the greatest of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our -lives with those we hate or contemn. A very play or romance may afford -us instances of this pleasure which virtue conveys to us; and pain, -which arises from vice. - -Now, since the distinguishing impressions by which moral good or evil -is known, are nothing but _particular_ pains or pleasures, it follows, -that in all inquiries concerning these moral distinctions, it will be -sufficient to show the principles which make us feel a satisfaction or -uneasiness from the survey of any character, in order to satisfy us -why the character is laudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment, -or character, is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes -a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a reason, -therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain -the vice or virtue. To have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to -_feel_ a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a -character. The very _feeling_ constitutes our praise or admiration. We -go no farther; nor do we inquire into the cause of the satisfaction. -We do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it pleases; but in -feeling that it pleases after such a particular manner, we in effect -feel that it is virtuous. The case is the same as in our judgments -concerning all kinds of beauty, and tastes, and sensations. Our -approbation is implied in the immediate pleasure they convey to us. - -I have objected to the system which establishes eternal rational -measures of right and wrong, that 'tis impossible to show, in the -actions of reasonable creatures, any relations which are not found in -external objects; and therefore, if morality always attended these -relations, 'twere possible for inanimate matter to become virtuous -or vicious. Now it may, in like manner, be objected to the present -system, that if virtue and vice be determined by pleasure and pain, -these qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations; and -consequently any object, whether animate or inanimate, rational or -irrational, might become morally good or evil, provided it can excite a -satisfaction or uneasiness. But though this objection seems to be the -very same, it has by no means the same force in the one case as in the -other. For, _first_, 'tis evident that, under the term _pleasure_, we -comprehend sensations, which are very different from each other, and -which have only such a distant resemblance as is requisite to, make -them be expressed by the same abstract term. A good composition of -music and a bottle of good wine equally produce pleasure; and, what is -more, their goodness is determined merely by the pleasure. But shall we -say, upon that account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music of a -good flavour? In like manner, an inanimate object, and the character -or sentiments of any person, may, both of them, give satisfaction; -but, as the satisfaction is different, this keeps our sentiments -concerning them from being confounded, and makes us ascribe virtue to -the one and not to the other. Nor is every sentiment of pleasure or -pain which arises from characters and actions, of that _peculiar_ kind -which makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities of an enemy are -hurtful to us, but may, still command our esteem and respect. 'Tis -only when a character is considered in general, without reference to -our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment as -denominates it morally good or evil. 'Tis true, those sentiments from -interest and morals are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into -one another. It seldom happens that we do not think an enemy vicious, -and can distinguish betwixt his opposition to our interest and real -villany or baseness. But this hinders not but that the sentiments are -in themselves distinct; and a man of temper and judgment may preserve -himself from these illusions. In like manner, though 'tis certain a -musical voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a _particular_ -kind of pleasure; yet 'tis difficult for a man to be sensible that the -voice of an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. But a -person of a fine ear, who has the command of himself, can separate -these feelings, and give praise to what deserves it. - -_Secondly_, we may call to remembrance the preceding system of the -passions, in order to remark a still more considerable difference -among our pains and pleasures. Pride and humility, love and hatred, -are excited, when there is any thing presented to us that both bears -a relation to the object of the passion, and produces a separate -sensation, related to the sensation of the passion. Now, virtue and -vice are attended with these circumstances. They must necessarily be -placed either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or -uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions, -which clearly distinguishes them from the pleasure and pain arising -from inanimate objects, that often bear no relation to us; and this is, -perhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon -the human mind. - -It may now be asked, _in general_ concerning this pain or pleasure that -distinguishes moral good and evil, _From what principle is it derived, -and whence does it arise in the human mind_? To this I reply, _first_, -that 'tis absurd to imagine that, in every particular instance, -these sentiments are produced by an _original_ quality and _primary_ -constitution. For as the number of our duties is in a manner infinite, -'tis impossible that our original instincts should extend to each of -them, and from our very first infancy impress on the human mind all -that multitude of precepts which are contained in the completest system -of ethics. Such a method of proceeding is not conformable to the usual -maxims by which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce all -that variety we observe in the universe, and every thing is carried on -in the easiest and most simple manner. 'Tis necessary, therefore, to -abridge these primary impulses, and find some more general principles -upon which all our notions of morals are founded. - -But, in the _second_ place, should it be asked, whether we ought to -search for these principles in _nature_, or whether we must look for -them in some other origin? I would reply, that our answer to this -question depends upon the definition of the word Nature, than which -there is none more ambiguous and equivocal. If _nature_ be opposed to -miracles, not only the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural, -but also every event which has ever happened in the world, _excepting -those miracles on which our religion is founded_. In saying, then, that -the sentiments of vice and virtue are natural in this sense, we make no -very extraordinary discovery. - -But _nature_ may also be opposed to rare and unusual; and in this sense -of the word, which is the common one, there may often arise disputes -concerning what is natural or unnatural; and one may in general affirm, -that we are not possessed of any very precise standard by which these -disputes can be decided. Frequent and rare depend upon the number of -examples we have observed; and as this number may gradually increase -or diminish, 'twill be impossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt -them. We may only affirm on this head, that if ever there was any thing -which could be called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality -certainly may; since there never was any nation of the world, nor any -single person in any nation, who was utterly deprived of them, and -who never, in any instance, showed the least approbation or dislike -of manners. These sentiments are so rooted in our constitution and -temper, that, without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or -madness, 'tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them. - -But _nature_ may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to what is -rare and unusual; and in this sense it may be disputed, whether the -notions of virtue be natural or not. We readily forget, that the -designs and projects and views of men are principles as necessary in -their operation as heat and cold, moist and dry; but, taking them to be -free and entirely our own, 'tis usual for us to set them in opposition -to the other principles of nature. Should it therefore be demanded, -whether the sense of virtue be natural or artificial, I am of opinion -that 'tis impossible for me at present to give any precise answer to -this question. Perhaps it will appear afterwards that our sense of some -virtues is artificial, and that of others natural. The discussion of -this question will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail -of each particular vice and virtue.[4] - -Mean while, it may not be amiss to observe, from these definitions of -_natural_ and _unnatural_, that nothing can be more unphilosophical -than those systems which assert, that virtue is the same with what -is natural, and vice with what is unnatural. For, in the first sense -of the word, nature, as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue -are equally natural; and, in the second sense, as opposed to what is -unusual, perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. At -least it must be owned, that heroic virtue, being as unusual, is as -little natural as the most brutal barbarity. As to the third sense of -the word, 'tis certain that both vice and virtue are equally artificial -and out of nature. For, however it may be disputed, whether the notion -of a merit or demerit in certain actions, be natural or artificial, -'tis evident that the actions themselves are artificial, and are -performed with a certain design and intention; otherwise they could -never be ranked under any of these denominations. 'Tis impossible, -therefore, that the character of natural and unnatural can ever, in any -sense, mark the boundaries of vice and virtue. - -Thus we are still brought back to our first position, that virtue is -distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, that any action, -sentiment, or character, gives us by the mere view and contemplation. -This decision is very commodious; because it reduces us to, this -simple question, _Why any action or sentiment, upon the general view -or survey, gives a certain satisfaction or uneasiness_, in order to -show the origin of its moral rectitude or depravity, without looking -for any incomprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist -in nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and distinct -conception? I flatter myself I have executed a great part of my present -design by a state of the question, which appears to me so free from -ambiguity and obscurity. - -[4] In the following discourse, _natural_ is also opposed sometimes to -_civil_, sometimes to _moral_. The opposition will always discover the -sense in which it is taken. - - - - -PART II. - -OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE. - - - -SECTION I. - -JUSTICE, WHETHER A NATURAL OR ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE? - - -I have already hinted, that our sense of every kind of virtue is not -natural; but that there are some virtues that produce pleasure and -approbation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which arises from -the circumstances and necessity of mankind. Of this kind I assert -_justice_ to be; and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short, -and, I hope, convincing argument, before I examine the nature of the -artifice, from which the sense of that virtue is derived. - -'Tis evident that, when we praise any actions, we regard only the -motives that produced them, and consider the actions as signs or -indications of certain principles in the mind and temper. The external -performance has no merit. We must look within to find the moral -quality. This we cannot do directly; and therefore fix our attention on -actions, as on external signs. But these actions are still considered -as signs; and the ultimate object of our praise and approbation is the -motive that produced them. - -After the same manner, when we require any action, or blame a person -for not performing it, we always suppose that one in that situation -should be influenced by the proper motive of that action, and we -esteem it vicious in him to be regardless of it. If we find, upon -inquiry, that the virtuous motive was still powerful over his breast, -though checked in its operation by some circumstances unknown to us, -we retract our blame, and have the same esteem for him, as if he had -actually performed the action which we require of him. - -It appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their merit -only from virtuous motives, and are considered merely as signs of -those motives. From this principle I conclude, that the first virtuous -motive which bestows a merit on any action, can never be a regard -to the virtue of that action, but must be some other natural motive -or principle. To suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the -action, may be the first motive which produced the action, and rendered -it virtuous, is to reason in a circle. Before we can have such a -regard, the action must be really virtuous; and this virtue must be -derived from some virtuous motive: and consequently, the virtuous -motive must be different from the regard to the virtue of the action. -A virtuous motive is requisite to render an action virtuous. An action -must be virtuous before we can have a regard to its virtue. Some -virtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard. - -Nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters into all our -reasonings in common life, though perhaps we may not be able to -place it in such distinct philosophical terms. We blame a father -for neglecting his child. Why? because it shows a want of natural -affection, which is the duty of every parent. Were not natural -affection a duty, the care of children could not be a duty; and 'twere -impossible we could have the duty in our eye in the attention we give -to our offspring. In this case, therefore, all men suppose a motive to -the action distinct from a sense of duty. - -Here is a man that does many benevolent actions; relieves the -distressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty even to the -greatest strangers. No character can be more amiable and virtuous. We -regard these actions as proofs of the greatest humanity. This humanity -bestows a merit on the actions. A regard to this merit is, therefore, a -secondary consideration, and derived from the antecedent principles of -humanity, which is meritorious and laudable. - -In short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim, _that no action -can be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be in human nature some -motive to produce it distinct from the sense of its morality_. - -But may not the sense of morality or duty produce an action, without -any other motive? I answer, it may; but this is no objection to the -present doctrine. When any virtuous motive or principle is common in -human nature, a person who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may -hate himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the -motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire, by practice, -that virtuous principle, or at least to disguise to himself, as much -as possible, his want of it. A man that really feels no gratitude in -his temper, is still pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks -he has, by that means, fulfilled his duty. Actions are at first only -considered as signs of motives: but 'tis usual, in this case, as in -all others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, in some -measure, the thing signified. But though, on some occasions, a person -may perform an action merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet -still this supposes in human nature some distinct principles, which are -capable of producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the -action meritorious. - -Now, to apply all this to the present case; I suppose a person to have -lent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restored in a few days; -and also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on, -he demands the sum: I ask, _What reason or motive have I to restore -the money_? It will perhaps be said, that my regard to justice, and -abhorrence of villany and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if -I have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation. -And this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his -civilized state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline -and education. But in his rude and more natural condition, if you are -pleased to call such a condition natural, this answer would be rejected -as perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. For one in that situation -would immediately ask you, _Wherein consists this honesty and justice, -which you find in restoring a loan, and abstaining from the property -of others_? It does not surely lie in the external action. It must, -therefore, be placed in the motive from which the external action -is derived. This motive can never be a regard to the honesty of the -action. For 'tis a plain fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is -requisite to render an action honest, and, at the same time, that a -regard to the honesty is the motive of the action. We can never have a -regard to the virtue of an action, unless the action be antecedently -virtuous. No action can be virtuous, but so far as it proceeds from a -virtuous motive. A virtuous motive, therefore, must precede the regard -to the virtue; and 'tis impossible that the virtuous motive and the -regard to the virtue can be the same. - -'Tis requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice and -honesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty; and in this lies the -great difficulty. For should we say, that a concern for our private -interest or reputation, is the legitimate motive to all honest actions: -it would follow, that wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no -longer have place. But 'tis certain that self-love, when it acts at its -liberty, instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all -injustice and violence; nor can a man ever correct those vices, without -correcting and restraining the _natural_ movements of that appetite. - -But should it be affirmed, that the reason or motive of such actions -is the _regard to public interest_, to which nothing is more contrary -than examples of injustice and dishonesty; should this be said, I -would propose the three following considerations as worthy of our -attention. _First_, Public interest is not naturally attached to the -observation of the rules of justice; but is only connected with it, -after an artificial convention for the establishment of these rules, -as shall be shown more at large hereafter. _Secondly_, If we suppose -that the loan was secret, and that it is necessary for the interest -of the person, that the money be restored in the same manner (as when -the lender would conceal his riches), in that case the example ceases, -and the public is no longer interested in the actions of the borrower; -though I suppose there is no moralist who will affirm that the duty -and obligation ceases. _Thirdly_, Experience sufficiently proves that -men, in the ordinary conduct of life, look not so far as the public -interest, when they pay their creditors, perform their promises, and -abstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice of every kind. That is a -motive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of mankind, -and operate with any force in actions so contrary to private interest -as are frequently those of justice and common honesty. - -In general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion in -human minds as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of -personal qualities, of services, or of relation to ourself. 'Tis true, -there is no human, and indeed no sensible creature, whose happiness -or misery does not, in some measure, affect us, when brought near -us, and represented in lively colours: but this proceeds merely from -sympathy, and is no proof of such an universal affection to mankind, -since this concern extends itself beyond our own species. An affection -betwixt the sexes is a passion evidently implanted in human nature; and -this passion not only appears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in -inflaming every other principle of affection, and raising a stronger -love from beauty, wit, kindness, than what would otherwise flow from -them. Were there an universal love among all human creatures, it would -appear after the same manner. Any degree of a good quality would cause -a stronger affection than the same degree of a bad quality would cause -hatred; contrary to what we find by experience. Men's tempers are -different, and some have a propensity to the tender, and others to -the rougher affections: but in the main, we may affirm, that man in -general, or human nature, is nothing but the object both of love and -hatred, and requires some other cause, which, by a double relation -of impressions and ideas, may excite these passions. In vain would -we endeavour to elude this hypothesis. There are no phenomena that -point out any such kind affection to men, independent of their merit, -and every other circumstance. We love company in general; but 'tis as -we love any other amusement. An Englishman in Italy is a friend; a -European in China; and perhaps a man would be beloved as such, were we -to meet him in the moon. But this proceeds only from the relation to -ourselves; which in these cases gathers force by being confined to a -few persons. - -If public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests of -mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much less can -_private benevolence_, or a _regard to the interests of the party -concerned_, be this motive. For what if he be my enemy, and has given -me just cause to hate him? What if he be a vicious man, and deserves -the hatred of all mankind? What if he be a miser, and can make no use -of what I would deprive him of? What if he be a profligate debauchee, -and would rather receive harm than benefit from large possessions? What -if I be in necessity, and have urgent motives to acquire something to -my family? In all these cases, the original motive to justice would -fail; and consequently the justice itself, and along with it all -property, right, and obligation. - -A rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate to those in -necessity a share of his superfluities. Were private benevolence the -original motive to justice, a man would not be obliged to leave others -in the possession of more than he is obliged to give them. At least, -the difference would be very inconsiderable. Men generally fix their -affections more on what they are possessed of, than on what they never -enjoyed: for this reason, it would be greater cruelty to dispossess a -man of any thing, than not to give it him. But who will assert, that -this is the only foundation of justice? - -Besides, we must consider, that the chief reason why men attach -themselves so much to their possessions, is, that they consider them -as their property, and as secured to them inviolably by the laws of -society. But this is a secondary consideration, and dependent on the -preceding notions of justice and property. - -A man's property is supposed to be fenced against every mortal, in -every possible case. But private benevolence is, and ought to be, -weaker in some persons than in others; and in many, or indeed in most -persons, must absolutely fail. Private benevolence, therefore, is not -the original motive of justice. - -From all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for -observing the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that -observance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where -it cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident -sophistry and reasoning in a circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow -that nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and -unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is -not derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily, -from education, and human conventions. - -I shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no action can -be laudable or blameable, without some motives or impelling passions, -distinct from the sense of morals, these distinct passions must have a -great influence on that sense. 'Tis according to their general force -in human nature that we blame or praise. In judging of the beauty of -animal bodies, we always carry in our eye the economy of a certain -species; and where the limbs and features observe that proportion which -is common to the species, we pronounce them handsome and beautiful. -In like manner, we always consider the _natural_ and _usual_ force of -the passions, when we determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the -passions depart very much from the common measures on either side, they -are always disapproved as vicious. A man naturally loves his children -better than his nephews, his nephews better than his cousins, his -cousins better than strangers, where every thing else is equal. Hence -arise our common measures of duty, in preferring the one to the other. -Our sense of duty always follows the common and natural course of our -passions. - -To avoid giving offence, I must here observe, that when I deny justice -to be a natural virtue, I make use of the word _natural_, only as -opposed to _artificial_. In another sense of the word, as no principle -of the human mind is more natural than a sense of virtue, so no virtue -is more natural than justice. Mankind is an inventive species; and -where an invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as -properly be said to be natural as any thing that proceeds immediately -from original principles, without the intervention of thought or -reflection. Though the rules of justice be _artificial_, they are not -_arbitrary_. Nor is the expression improper to call them _Laws of -Nature_; if by natural we understand what is common to any species, or -even if we confine it to mean what is inseparable from the species. - - - - -SECTION II. - -OF THE ORIGIN OF JUSTICE AND PROPERTY. - - -We now proceed to examine two questions, viz. _concerning the manner -in which the rules of justice are established by the artifice of men_; -and _concerning the reasons which determine us to attribute to the -observance or neglect of these rules a moral beauty and deformity_. -These questions will appear afterwards to be distinct. We shall begin -with the former. - -Of all the animals with which this globe is peopled, there is none -towards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have exercised more -cruelty than towards man, in the numberless wants and necessities -with which she has loaded him, and in the slender means which she -affords to the relieving these necessities. In other creatures, these -two particulars generally compensate each other. If we consider the -lion as a voracious and carnivorous animal, we shall easily discover -him to be very necessitous; but if we turn our eye to his make and -temper, his agility, his courage, his arms and his force, we shall -find that his advantages hold proportion with his wants. The sheep -and ox are deprived of all these advantages; but their appetites -are moderate, and their food is of easy purchase. In man alone this -unnatural conjunction of infirmity and of necessity may be observed -in its greatest perfection. Not only the food which is required for -his sustenance flies his search and approach, or at least requires his -labour to be produced, but he must be possessed of clothes and lodging -to defend him against the injuries of the weather; though, to consider -him only in himself, he is provided neither with arms, nor force, nor -other natural abilities which are in any degree answerable to so many -necessities. - -'Tis by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and raise -himself up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and even acquire a -superiority above them. By society all his infirmities are compensated; -and though in that situation his wants multiply every moment upon him, -yet his abilities are still more augmented, and leave him in every -respect more satisfied and happy than 'tis possible for him, in his -savage and solitary condition, ever to become. When every individual -person labours apart, and only for himself, his force is too small to -execute any considerable work; his labour being employed in supplying -all his different necessities, he never attains a perfection in any -particular art; and as his force and success are not at all times -equal, the least failure in either of these particulars must be -attended with inevitable ruin and misery. Society provides a remedy for -these _three_ inconveniences. By the conjunction of forces, our power -is augmented; by the partition of employments, our ability increases; -and by mutual succour, we are less exposed to fortune and accidents. -'Tis by this additional _force, ability_, and _security_, that society -becomes advantageous. - -But, in order to form society, 'tis requisite not only that it be -advantageous, but also that men be sensible of these advantages; and -'tis impossible, in their wild uncultivated state, that by study and -reflection alone they should ever be able to attain this knowledge. -Most fortunately, therefore, there is conjoined to those necessities, -whose remedies are remote and obscure, another necessity, which, -having a present and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded as -the first and original principle of human society. This necessity is -no other than that natural appetite betwixt the sexes, which unites -them together, and preserves their union, till a new tie takes place -in their concern for their common offspring. This new concern becomes -also a principle of union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms -a more numerous society, where the parents govern by the advantage of -their superior strength and wisdom, and at the same time are restrained -in the exercise of their authority by that natural affection which they -bear their children. In a little time, custom and habit, operating on -the tender minds of the children, makes them sensible of the advantages -which they may reap from society, as well as fashions them by degrees -for it, by rubbing off those rough comers and untoward affections which -prevent their coalition. - -For it must be confest, that however the circumstances of human -nature may render an union necessary, and however those passions -of lust and natural affection may seem to render it unavoidable, -yet there are other particulars in our _natural temper_, and in our -_outward circumstances_, which are very incommodious, and are even -contrary to the requisite conjunction. Among the former we may justly -esteem our _selfishness_ to be the most considerable. I am sensible -that, generally speaking, the representations of this quality have -been carried much too far; and that the descriptions which certain -philosophers delight so much to form of mankind in this particular, are -as wide of nature as any accounts of monsters which we meet with in -fables and romances. So far from thinking that men have no affect ion -for any thing beyond themselves, I am of opinion that, though it be -rare to meet with one who loves any single person better than himself, -yet 'tis as rare to meet with one in whom all the kind affections, -taken together, do not overbalance all the selfish. Consult common -experience; do you not see, that though the whole expense of the family -be generally under the direction of the master of it, yet there are few -that do not bestow the largest part of their fortunes on the pleasures -of their wives and the education of their children, reserving the -smallest portion for their own proper use and entertainment? This is -what we may observe concerning such as have those endearing ties; and -may presume, that the case would be the same with others, were they -placed in a like situation. - -But, though this generosity must be acknowledged to the honour of human -nature, we may at the same time remark, that so noble an affection, -instead of fitting men for large societies, is almost as contrary -to them as the most narrow selfishness. For while each person loves -himself better than any other single person, and in his love to others -bears the greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, -this must necessarily produce an opposition of passions, and a -consequent opposition of actions, which cannot but be dangerous to the -new-established union. - -'Tis, however, worth while to remark, that this contrariety of -passions would be attended with but small danger, did it not concur -with a peculiarity in our _outward circumstances_, which affords it -an opportunity of exerting itself. There are three different species -of goods which we are possessed of; the internal satisfaction our -minds; the external advantages of our body; and the enjoyment of such -possessions as we have acquired by our industry and good fortune. We -are perfectly secure in the enjoyment of the first. The second may be -ravished from us, but can be of no advantage to him who deprives us of -them. The last only are both exposed to the violence of others, and may -be transferred without suffering any loss or alteration; while at the -same time there is not a sufficient quantity of them to supply every -one's desires and necessities. As the improvement, therefore, of these -goods is the chief advantage of society, so the _instability_ of their -possession, along with their _scarcity_, is the chief impediment. - -In vain should we expect to find, in _uncultivated nature_, a remedy to -this inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial principle of the human -mind which might control those partial affections, and make us overcome -the temptations arising from our circumstances. The idea of justice -can never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural principle, -capable of inspiring men with an equitable conduct towards each other. -That virtue, as it is now understood, would never have been dreamed -of among rude and savage men. For the notion of injury or injustice -implies an immorality or vice committed against some other person: And -as every immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of the -passions, and as this defect must be judged of, in a great measure, -from the ordinary course of nature in the constitution of the mind, -'twill be easy to know whether we be guilty of any immorality with -regard to others, by considering the natural and usual force of those -several affections which are directed towards them. Now, it appears -that, in the original frame of our mind, our strongest attention -is confined to ourselves; our next is extended to our relations and -acquaintance; and 'tis only the weakest which reaches to strangers and -indifferent persons. This partiality, then, and unequal affection, must -not only have an influence on our behaviour and conduct in society, -but even on our ideas of vice and virtue; so as to make us regard any -remarkable transgression of such a degree of partiality, either by -too great an enlargement or contraction of the affections, as vicious -and immoral. This we may observe in our common judgments concerning -actions, where we blame a person who either centres all his affections -in his family, or is so regardless of them as, in any opposition -of interest, to give the preference to a stranger or mere chance -acquaintance. From all which it follows, that our natural uncultivated -ideas of morality, instead of providing a remedy for the partiality of -our affections, do rather conform themselves to that partiality, and -give it an additional force and influence. - -The remedy, then, is not derived from nature, but from _artifice_; -or, more properly speaking, nature provides a remedy, in the judgment -and understanding, for what is irregular and incommodious in the -affections. For when men, from their early education in society, have -become sensible of the infinite advantages that result from it, and -have besides acquired a new affection to company and conversation, and -when they have observed, that the principal disturbance in society -arises from those goods, which we call external, and from their -looseness and easy transition from one person to another, they must -seek for a remedy, by putting these goods, as far as possible, on the -same footing with the fixed and constant advantages of the mind and -body. This can be done after no other manner, than by a convention -entered into by all the members of the society to bestow stability on -the possession of those external goods, and leave every one in the -peaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire by his fortune and industry. -By this means, every one knows what he may safely possess; and the -passions are restrained in their partial and contradictory motions. Nor -is such a restraint contrary to these passions; for, if so, it could -never be entered into nor maintained; but it is only contrary to their -heedless and impetuous movement. Instead of departing from our own -interest, or from that of our nearest friends, by abstaining from the -possessions of others, we cannot better consult both these interests, -than by such a convention; because it is by that means we maintain -society, which is so necessary to their well-being and subsistence, as -well as to our own. - -This convention is not of the nature of a _promise_; for even promises -themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from human conventions. -It is only a general sense of common interest; which sense all the -members of the society express to one another, and which induces them -to regulate their conduct by certain rules. I observe, that it will -be for my interest to leave another in the possession of his goods, -_provided_ he will act in the same manner with regard to me. He is -sensible of a like interest in the regulation of his conduct. When -this common sense of interest is mutually expressed, and is known to -both, it produces a suitable resolution and behaviour. And this may -properly enough be called a convention or agreement betwixt us, though -without the interposition of a promise; since the actions of each of -us have a reference to those of the other, and are performed upon the -supposition that something is to be performed on the other part. Two -men who pull the oars of a boat, do it by an agreement or convention, -though they have never given promises to each other. Nor is the rule -concerning the stability of possession the less derived from human -conventions, that it arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow -progression, and by our repeated experience of the inconveniences -of transgressing it. On the contrary, this experience assures us -still more, that the sense of interest has become common to all our -fellows, and gives us a confidence of the future regularity of their -conduct; and 'tis only on the expectation of this that our moderation -and abstinence are founded. In like manner are languages gradually -established by human conventions, without any promise. In like manner -do gold and silver become the common measures of exchange, and are -esteemed sufficient payment for what is of a hundred times their value. - -After this convention, concerning abstinence from the possessions of -others, is entered into, and every one has acquired a stability in -his possessions, there immediately arise the ideas of justice and -injustice; as also those of _property, right_, and _obligation_. The -latter are altogether unintelligible, without first understanding -the former. Our property is nothing but those goods, whose constant -possession is established by the laws of society; that is, by the laws -of justice. Those, therefore, who make use of the words _property_, -or _right_, or _obligation_, before they have explained the origin of -justice, or even make use of them in that explication, are guilty of -a very gross fallacy, and can never reason upon any solid foundation. -A man's property is some object related to him. This relation is not -natural, but moral, and founded on justice. 'Tis very preposterous, -therefore, to imagine that we can have any idea of property, without -fully comprehending the nature of justice, and showing its origin in -the artifice and contrivance of men. The origin of justice explains -that of property. The same artifice gives rise to both. As our first -and most natural sentiment of morals is founded on the nature of our -passions, and gives the preference to ourselves and friends above -strangers, 'tis impossible there can be naturally any such thing as a -fixed right or property, while the opposite passions of men impel them -in contrary directions, and are not restrained by any convention or -agreement. - -No one can doubt that the convention for the distinction of property, -and for the stability of possession, is of all circumstances the most -necessary to the establishment of human society, and that, after the -agreement for the fixing and observing of this rule, there remains -little or nothing to be done towards settling a perfect harmony and -concord. All the other passions, beside this of interest, are either -easily restrained, or are not of such pernicious consequence when -indulged. _Vanity_ is rather to be esteemed a social passion, and a -bond of union among men. _Pity_ and _love_ are to be considered in the -same light. And as to _envy_ and _revenge_, though pernicious, they -operate only by intervals, and are directed against particular persons, -whom we consider as our superiors or enemies. This avidity alone, of -acquiring goods and possessions for ourselves and our nearest friends, -is insatiable, perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of -society. There scarce is any one who is not actuated by it; and there -is no one who has not reason to fear from it, when it acts without -any restraint, and gives way to its first and most natural movements. -So that, upon the whole, we are to esteem the difficulties in the -establishment of society to be greater or less, according to those we -encounter in regulating and restraining this passion. - -'Tis certain, that no affection of the human mind has both a sufficient -force and a proper direction to counterbalance the love of gain, -and render men fit members of society, by making them abstain from -the possessions of others. Benevolence to strangers is too weak for -this purpose; and as to the other passions, they rather inflame this -avidity, when we observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more -ability we have of gratifying all our appetites. There is no passion, -therefore, capable of controlling the interested affection, but the -very affection itself, by an alteration of its direction. Now, this -alteration must necessarily take place upon the least reflection; -since 'tis evident that the passion is much better satisfied by its -restraint than by its liberty, and that, in preserving society, we -make much greater advances in the acquiring possessions, than in the -solitary and forlorn condition which must follow upon violence and an -universal license. The question, therefore, concerning the wickedness -or goodness of human nature, enters not in the least into that other -question concerning the origin of society; nor is there any thing to -be considered but the degrees of men's sagacity or folly. For whether -the passion of self-interest be esteemed vicious or virtuous, 'tis all -a case, since itself alone restrains it; so that if it be virtuous, -men become social by their virtue; if vicious, their vice has the same -effect. - -Now, as 'tis by establishing the rule for the stability of possession -that this passion restrains itself, if that rule be very abstruse -and of difficult invention, society must be esteemed in a manner -accidental, and the effect of many ages. But if it be found, that -nothing can be more simple and obvious than that rule; that every -parent, in order to preserve peace among his children, must establish -it; and that these first rudiments of justice must every day be -improved, as the society enlarges: if all this appear evident, as it -certainly must, we may conclude that 'tis utterly impossible for men to -remain any considerable time in that savage condition which precedes -society, but that his very first state and situation may justly be -esteemed social. This, however, hinders not but that philosophers -may, if they please, extend their reasoning to the supposed _state of -nature_; provided they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction, -which never had, and never could have, any reality. Human nature -being composed of two principal parts, which are requisite in all -its actions, the affections and understanding, 'tis certain that the -blind motions of the former, without the direction of the latter, -incapacitate men for society; and it may be allowed us to consider -separately the effects that result from the separate operations -of these two component parts of the mind. The same liberty may be -permitted to moral, which is allowed to natural philosophers; and 'tis -very usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and -consisting of two parts separate from each other, though at the same -time they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable. - -This _state of nature_, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere fiction, -not unlike that of the _golden age_ which poets have invented; only -with this difference, that the former is described as full of war, -violence and injustice; whereas the latter is painted out to us as -the most charming and most peaceable condition that can possibly be -imagined. The seasons, in that first age of nature, were so temperate, -if we may believe the poets, that there was no necessity for men to -provide themselves with clothes and houses as a security against the -violence of heat and cold. The rivers flowed with wine and milk; the -oaks yielded honey; and nature spontaneously produced her greatest -delicacies. Nor were these the chief advantages of that happy age. -The storms and tempests were not alone removed from nature; but those -more furious tempests were unknown to human breasts, which now cause -such uproar, and engender such confusion. Avarice, ambition, cruelty, -selfishness, were never heard of: cordial affection, compassion, -sympathy, were the only movements with which the human mind was yet -acquainted. Even the distinction of _mine_ and _thine_ was banished -from that happy race of mortals, and carried with them the very notions -of property and obligation, justice and injustice. - -This, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction; but yet deserves -our attention, because nothing can more evidently show the origin of -those virtues, which are the subjects of our present inquiry. I have -already observed, that justice takes its rise from human conventions; -and that these are intended as a remedy to some inconveniences, which -proceed from the concurrence of certain _qualities_ of the human mind -with the _situation_ of external objects. The qualities of the mind -are _selfishness_ and _limited generosity_: and the situation of -external objects is their _easy change_, joined to their _scarcity_ in -comparison of the wants and desires of men. But however philosophers -may have been bewildered in those speculations, poets have been guided -more infallibly, by a certain taste or common instinct, which, in most -kinds of reasoning, goes farther than any of that art and philosophy -with which we have been yet acquainted. They easily perceived, if every -man had a tender regard for another, or if nature supplied abundantly -all our wants and desires, that the jealousy of interest, which justice -supposes, could no longer have place; nor would there be any occasion -for those distinctions and limits of property and possession, which at -present are in use among mankind. Increase to a sufficient degree the -benevolence of men, or the bounty of nature, and you render justice -useless, by supplying its place with much nobler virtues, and more -valuable blessings. The selfishness of men is animated by the few -possessions we have, in proportion to our wants; and 'tis to restrain -this selfishness, that men have been obliged to separate themselves -from the community, and to distinguish betwixt their own goods and -those of others. - -Nor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn this; -but, beside the reason of the thing, may discover the same truth -by common experience and observation. 'Tis easy to remark, that a -cordial affection renders all things common among friends; and that -married people, in particular, mutually lose their property, and are -unacquainted with the _mine_ and _thine_, which are so necessary, and -yet cause such disturbance in human society. The same effect arises -from any alteration in the circumstances of mankind; as when there is -such a plenty of any thing as satisfies all the desires of men: in -which case the distinction of property is entirely lost, and every -thing remains in common. This we may observe with regard to air and -water, though the most valuable of all external objects; and may easily -conclude, that if men were supplied with every thing in the same -abundance, or if _every one_ had the same affection and tender regard -for _every one_ as for himself, justice and injustice would be equally -unknown among mankind. - -Here then is a proposition, which, I think, may be regarded as certain, -_that 'tis only from the selfishness and confined generosity of men, -along with the scanty provision nature has made for his wants, that -justice derives its origin_. If we look backward we shall find, -that this proposition bestows an additional force on some of those -observations which we have already made on this subject. - -_First_, We may conclude from it, that a regard to public interest, or -a strong extensive benevolence, is not our first and original motive -for the observation of the rules of justice; since 'tis allowed, that -if men were endowed with such a benevolence, these rules would never -have been dreamt of. - -_Secondly_, We may conclude from the same principle, that the sense -of justice is not founded on reason, or on the discovery of certain -connexions and relations of ideas, which are eternal, immutable, -and universally obligatory. For since it is confessed, that such an -alteration as that above-mentioned, in the temper and circumstances -of mankind, would entirely alter our duties and obligations, 'tis -necessary upon the common system, _that the sense of virtue is derived -from reason_, to show the change which this must produce in the -relations and ideas. But 'tis evident, that the only cause why the -extensive generosity of man, and the perfect abundance of every thing, -would destroy the very idea of justice, is, because they render it -useless; and that, on the other hand, his confined benevolence, and -his necessitous condition, give rise to that virtue, only by making -it requisite to the public interest, and to that of every individual. -'Twas therefore a concern for our own and the public interest which -made us establish the laws of justice; and nothing can be more certain, -than that it is not any relation of ideas which gives us this concern, -but our impressions and sentiments, without which every thing in nature -is perfectly indifferent to us, and can never in the least affect us. -The sense of justice, therefore, is not founded on our ideas, but on -our impressions. - -_Thirdly_, We may farther confirm the foregoing proposition, _that -those impressions, which give rise to this sense of justice, are -not natural to the mind of man, but arise from artifice and human -conventions_. For, since any considerable alteration of temper and -circumstances destroys equally justice and injustice; and since such -an alteration has an effect only by changing our own and the public -interest, it follows, that the first establishment of the rules of -justice depends on these different interests. But if men pursued the -public interest naturally, and with a hearty affection, they would -never have dreamed of restraining each other by these rules; and if -they pursued their own interest, without any precaution, they would -run headlong into every kind of injustice and violence. These rules, -therefore, are artificial, and seek their end in an oblique and -indirect manner; nor is the interest which gives rise to them of a kind -that could be pursued by the natural and inartificial passions of men. - -To make this more evident, consider, that, though the rules of justice -are established merely by interest, their connexion with interest -is somewhat singular, and is different from what may be observed on -other occasions. A single act of justice is frequently contrary to -_public interest_; and were it to stand alone, without being followed -by other acts, may, in itself, be very prejudicial to society. When a -man of merit, of a beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune -to a miser, or a seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably; -but the public is a real sufferer. Nor is every single act of justice, -considered apart, more conducive to private interest than to public; -and 'tis easily conceived how a man may impoverish himself by a signal -instance of integrity, and have reason to wish, that, with regard to -that single act, the laws of justice were for a moment suspended in -the universe. But, however single acts of justice may be contrary, -either to public or private interest, 'tis certain that the whole plan -or scheme is highly conducive, or indeed absolutely requisite, both -to the support of society, and the well-being of every individual. -'Tis impossible to separate the good from the ill. Property must be -stable, and must be fixed by general rules. Though in one instance -the public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is amply compensated by -the steady prosecution of the rule, and by the peace and order which -it establishes in society. And even every individual person must find -himself a gainer on balancing the account; since, without justice, -society must immediately dissolve, and every one must fall into that -savage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse than the worst -situation that can possibly be supposed in society. When, therefore, -men have had experience enough to observe, that, whatever may be the -consequence of any single act of justice, performed by a single person, -yet the whole system of actions concurred in by the whole society, -is infinitely advantageous to the whole, and to every part, it is not -long before justice and property take place. Every member of society -is sensible of this interest: every one expresses this sense to his -fellows, along with the resolution he has taken of squaring his actions -by it, on condition that others will do the same. No more is requisite -to induce any one of them to perform an act of justice, who has the -first opportunity. This becomes an example to others; and thus justice -establishes itself by a kind of convention or agreement, that is, by -a sense of interest, supposed to be common to all, and where every -single act is performed in expectation that others are to perform the -like. Without such a convention, no one would ever have dreamed that -there was such a virtue as justice, or have been induced to conform his -actions to it. Taking any single act, my justice may be pernicious in -every respect; and 'tis only upon the supposition that others are to -imitate my example, that I can be induced to embrace that virtue; since -nothing but this combination can render justice advantageous, or afford -me any motives to conform myself to its rules. - -We come now to the second question we proposed, viz. _Why we annex the -idea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice_. This question -will not detain us long after the principles which we have already -established. All we can say of it at present will be despatched in a -few words: and for farther satisfaction, the reader must wait till -we come to the _third_ part of this book. The natural obligation to -justice, viz. interest, has been fully explained; but as to the _moral_ -obligation, or the sentiment of right and wrong, 'twill first be -requisite to examine the natural virtues, before we can give a full -and satisfactory account of it. - -After men have found by experience, that their selfishness and confined -generosity, acting at their liberty, totally incapacitate them for -society; and at the same time have observed, that society is necessary -to the satisfaction of those very passions, they are naturally induced -to lay themselves under the restraint of such rules, as may render -their commerce more safe and commodious. To the imposition, then, and -observance of these rules, both in general, and in every particular -instance, they are at first induced only by a regard to interest; and -this motive, on the first formation of society, is sufficiently strong -and forcible. But when society has become numerous, and has increased -to a tribe or nation, this interest is more remote; nor do men so -readily perceive that disorder and confusion follow upon every breach -of these rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. But though, -in our own actions, we may frequently lose sight of that interest which -we have in maintaining order, and may follow a lesser and more present -interest, we never fail to observe the prejudice we receive, either -mediately or immediately, from the injustice of others; as not being -in that case either blinded by passion, or biassed by any contrary -temptation. Nay, when the injustice is so distant from us as no way -to affect our interest, it still displeases us; because we consider -it as prejudicial to human society, and pernicious to every one that -approaches the person guilty of it. We partake of their uneasiness -by _sympathy_; and as every thing which gives uneasiness in human -actions, upon the general survey, is called Vice, and whatever produces -satisfaction, in the same manner, is denominated Virtue, this is the -reason why the sense of moral good and evil follows upon justice and -injustice. And though this sense, in the present case, be derived only -from contemplating the actions of others, yet we fail not to extend -it even to our own actions. The _general rule_ reaches beyond those -instances from which it arose; while, at the same time, we naturally -_sympathize_ with others in the sentiments they entertain of us. - -Though this progress of the sentiments be _natural_, and even -necessary, 'tis certain, that it is here forwarded by the artifice of -politicians, who, in order to govern men more easily, and preserve -peace in human society, have endeavoured to produce an esteem for -justice, and an abhorrence of injustice. This, no doubt, must have -its effect; but nothing can be more evident, than that the matter has -been carried too far by certain writers on morals, who seem to have -employed their utmost efforts to extirpate all sense of virtue from -among mankind. Any artifice of politicians may assist nature in the -producing of those sentiments, which she suggests to us, and may even, -on some occasions, produce alone an approbation or esteem for any -particular action; but 'tis impossible it should be the sole cause of -the distinction we make betwixt vice and virtue. For if nature did not -aid us in this particular, 'twould be in vain for politicians to talk -of _honourable_ or _dishonourable, praiseworthy_ or _blameable_. These -words would be perfectly unintelligible, and would no more have any -idea annexed to them, than if they were of a tongue perfectly unknown -to us. The utmost politicians can perform, is to extend the natural -sentiments beyond their original bounds; but still nature must furnish -the materials, and give us some notion of moral distinctions. - -As public praise and blame increase our esteem for justice, so private -education and instruction contribute to the same effect. For as parents -easily observe, that a man is the more useful, both to himself and -others, the greater degree of probity and honour he is endowed with, -and that those principles have, greater force when custom and education -assist interest and reflection: for these reasons they are induced -to inculcate on their children, from their earliest infancy, the -principles of probity, and teach them to regard the observance of those -rules by which society is maintained, as worthy and honourable, and -their violation as base and infamous. By this means the sentiments of -honour may take root in their tender minds, and acquire such firmness -and solidity, that they may fall little short of those principles which -are the most essential to our natures, and the most deeply radicated in -our internal constitution. - -What farther contributes to increase their solidity, is the interest -of our reputation, after the opinion, _that a merit or demerit attends -justice or injustice_, is once firmly established among mankind. -There is nothing which touches us more nearly than our reputation, -and nothing on which our reputation more depends than our conduct -with relation to the property of others. For this reason, every one -who has any regard to his character, or who intends to live on good -terms with mankind, must fix an inviolable law to himself, never, by -any temptation, to be induced to violate those principles which are -essential to a man of probity and honour. - -I shall make only one observation before I leave this subject, viz. -that, though I assert that, in the _state of_ nature, or that imaginary -state which preceded society, there be neither justice nor injustice, -yet I assert not that it was allowable, in such a state, to violate -the property of others. I only maintain, that there was no such thing -as property; and consequently could be no such thing as justice or -injustice. I shall have occasion to make a similar reflection with -regard to _promises_, when I come to treat of them; and I hope this -reflection, when duly weighed, will suffice to remove all odium from -the foregoing opinions, with regard to justice and injustice. - - - - -SECTION III. - -OF THE RULES WHICH DETERMINE PROPERTY. - - -Though the establishment of the rule, concerning the stability of -possession, be not only useful, but even absolutely necessary to human -society, it can never serve to any purpose, while it remains in such -general terms. Some method must be shown, by which we may distinguish -what particular goods are to be assigned to each particular person, -while the rest of mankind are excluded from their possession and -enjoyment. Our next business, then, must be to discover the reasons -which modify this general rule, and fit it to the common use and -practice of the world. - -'Tis obvious, that those reasons are not derived from any utility or -advantage, which either the _particular_ person or the public may -reap from his enjoyment of any _particular_ goods, beyond what would -result from the possession of them by any other person. 'Twere better, -no doubt, that every one were possessed of what is most suitable -to him, and proper for his use: But besides, that this relation of -fitness may be common to several at once, 'tis liable to so many -controversies, and men are so partial and passionate in judging of -these controversies, that such a loose and uncertain rule would be -absolutely incompatible with the peace of human society. The convention -concerning the stability of possession is entered into, in order to cut -off all occasions of discord and contention; and this end would never -be attained, were we allowed to apply this rule differently in every -particular case, according to every particular utility which might be -discovered in such an application. Justice, in her decisions, never -regards the fitness or unfitness of objects to particular persons, but -conducts herself by more extensive views. Whether a man be generous, or -a miser, he is equally well received by her, and obtains, with the same -facility, a decision in his favour, even for what is entirely useless -to him. - -It follows, therefore, that the general rule, _that possession must be -stable_, is not applied by particular judgments, but by other general -rules, which must extend to the whole society, and be inflexible -either by spite or favour. To illustrate this, I propose the following -instance. I first consider men in their savage and solitary condition; -and suppose that, being sensible of the misery of that state, and -foreseeing the advantages that would result from society, they seek -each other's company, and make an offer of mutual protection and -assistance. I also suppose that they are endowed with such sagacity as -immediately to perceive that the chief impediment to this project of -society and partnership lies in the avidity and selfishness of their -natural temper; to remedy which, they enter into a convention which for -the stability of possession, and for mutual restraint and forbearance. -I am sensible that this method of proceeding is not altogether natural; -but, besides that, I here only suppose those reflections to be formed -at once, which, in fact, arise insensibly and by degrees; besides this, -I say, 'tis very possible that several persons, being by different -accidents separated from the societies to which they formerly belonged, -may be obliged to form a new society among themselves; in which case -they are entirely in the situation above-mentioned. - -'Tis evident, then, that their first difficulty in this situation, -after the general convention for the establishment of society, and for -the constancy of possession, is, how to separate their possessions, -and assign to each his particular portion, which he must for the -future unalterably enjoy. This difficulty will not detain them long; -but it must immediately occur to them, as the most natural expedient, -that every one continue to enjoy what he is at present master of, and -that property or constant possession be conjoined to the immediate -possession. Such is the effect of custom, that it not only reconciles -us to any thing we have long enjoyed, but even gives us an affection -for it, and makes us prefer it to other objects, which may be more -valuable, but are less known to us. What has long lain under our eye, -and has often been employed to our advantage, _that_ we are always the -most unwilling to part with; but can easily live without possessions -which we never have enjoyed, and are not accustomed to. 'Tis evident, -therefore, that men would easily acquiesce in this expedient, _that -every one continue to enjoy what he is at present possessed of_; and -this is the reason why they would so naturally agree in preferring -it.[1] - -But we may observe, that, though the rule of the assignment of property -to the present possessor be natural, and by that means useful, yet -its utility extends not beyond the first formation of society; nor -would any thing be more pernicious than the constant observance of -it; by which restitution would be excluded, and every injustice would -be authorized and rewarded. We must, therefore, seek for some other -circumstance, that may give rise to property after society is once -established; and of this kind I find four most considerable, viz. -Occupation, Prescription, Accession, and Succession. We shall briefly -examine each of these, beginning with _occupation_. - -The possession of all external goods is changeable and uncertain; -which is one of the most considerable impediments to the establishment -of society, and is the reason why, by universal agreement, express -or tacit, men restrain themselves by what we now call the rules of -justice and equity. The misery of the condition which precedes this -restraint, is the cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as -possible; and this affords us an easy reason why why annex the idea of -property to the first possession, or to _occupation_. Men are unwilling -to leave property in suspense, even for the shortest time, or open the -least door to violence and disorder. To which we may add, that the -first possession always engages the attention most; and did we neglect -it, there would be no colour of reason for assigning property to any -succeeding possession.[2] - -There remains nothing but to determine exactly what is meant by -possession; and this is not so easy as may at first sight be imagined. -We are said to be in possession of any thing, not only when we -immediately touch it, but also when we are so situated with respect -to it, as to have it in our power to use it; and may move, alter, -or destroy it, according to our present pleasure or advantage. This -relation, then, is a species of cause and effect; and as property is -nothing but a stable possession, derived from the rules of justice, -or the conventions of men, 'tis to be considered as the same species -of relation. But here we may observe, that, as the power of using any -object becomes more or less certain, according as the interruptions -we may meet with are more or less probable; and as this probability -may increase by insensible degrees, 'tis in many cases impossible to -determine when possession begins or ends; nor is there any certain -standard by which we can decide such controversies. A wild boar that -falls into our snares, is deemed to be in our possession if it be -impossible for him to escape. But what do we mean by impossible? How -do we separate this impossibility from an improbability? And how -distinguish that exactly from a probability? Mark the precise limits of -the one and the other, and show the standard, by which we may decide -all disputes that may arise, and, as we find, by experience, frequently -do arise upon this subject.[3] - -But such disputes may not arise concerning the real existence of -property and possession, but also concerning their extent; and these -disputes are often susceptible of no decision, or can be decided by no -other faculty than the imagination. A person who lands on the shore of -a small island that is desart and uncultivated is deemed its possessor -from the very first moment, and acquires the property of the whole; -because the object is there bounded and circumscribed in the fancy, and -at the same time is proportioned to the new possessor. The same person -landing on a desart island as large as Great Britain, extends his -property no farther than his immediate possession; though a numerous -colony are esteemed the proprietors of the whole from the instant of -their debarkment. - -But if it often happens that the title of first possession becomes -obscure through time, and that 'tis impossible to determine many -controversies which may arise concerning it; in that case, long -possession or _prescription_ naturally takes place, and gives a person -a sufficient property in any thing he enjoys. The nature of human -society admits not of any great accuracy; nor can we always remount -to the first origin of things, in order to determine their present -condition. Any considerable space of time sets objects at such a -distance that they seem in a manner to lose their reality, and have -as little influence on the mind as if they never had been in being. A -man's title that is clear and certain at present, will seem obscure -and doubtful fifty years hence, even though the facts on which it is -founded should be proved with the greatest evidence and certainty. -The same facts have not the same influence after so long an interval -of time. And this may be received as a convincing argument for our -preceding doctrine with regard to property and justice. Possession -during a long tract of time conveys a title to any object. But as 'tis -certain that, however every thing be produced in time, there is nothing -real that is produced by time, it follows, that property being produced -by time, is not any thing real in the objects, but is the offspring of -the sentiments, on which alone time is found to have any influence.[4] - -We acquire the property of objects by _accession_, when they are -connected in an intimate manner with objects that are already our -property, and at the same time are inferior to them. Thus, the fruits -of our garden, the offspring of our cattle, and the work of our slaves, -are all of them esteemed our property, even before possession. Where -objects are connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be -put on the same footing, and are commonly supposed to be endowed with -the same qualities. We readily pass from one to the other, and make no -difference in our judgments concerning them, especially if the latter -be inferior to the former. [5] - -The right of _succession_ is a very natural one, from the presumed -consent of the parent or near relation, and from the general interest -of mankind, which requires that men's possessions should pass to those -who are dearest to them, in order to render them more industrious -and frugal. Perhaps these causes are seconded by the influence of -_relation_, or the association of ideas, by which we are naturally -directed to consider the son after the parent's decease, and ascribe -to him a title to his father's possessions. Those goods must become the -property of somebody: but _of whom_ is the question. Here 'tis evident -the person's children naturally present themselves to the mind; and -being already connected to those possessions by means of their deceased -parent, we are apt to connect them still farther by the relation of -property. Of this there are many parallel instances.[6] - - - -[1] No questions in philosophy are more difficult, than when a number -of causes present themselves for the same phenomenon, to determine -which is the principal and predominant. There seldom is any very -precise argument to fix our choice, and men must be contented to -be guided by a kind of taste or fancy, arising from analogy, and a -comparison of similar instances. Thus, in the present case, there -are, no doubt, motives of public interest for most of the rules -which determine property; but still I suspect, that these rules are -principally fixed by the imagination, or the more frivolous properties -of our thought and conception. I shall continue to explain these -causes, leaving it to the reader's choice, whether he will prefer those -derived from public utility, or those derived from the imagination. We -shall begin with the right of the present possessor. - -'Tis a quality which I have already observed(*) in human nature, that -when two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is -apt to ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to complete -the union; and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run -into errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if -we find that they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions -are incapable of place or local position; and yet those very -impressions we suppose to have a local conjunction with the impressions -of sight and touch, merely because they are conjoined by causation, and -are already united in the imagination. Since, therefore, we can feign a -new relation, and even an absurd one, in order to complete any union, -'twill easily be imagined, that if there be any relations which depend -on the mind, 'twill readily conjoin them to any preceding relation, -and unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the -fancy. Thus, for instance, we never fail, in our arrangement of bodies, -to place those which are resembling in contiguity to each other, or at -least in _correspondent_ points of view; because we feel a satisfaction -in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the -resemblance of situation to that of qualities. And this is easily -accounted for from the known properties of human nature. When the mind -is determined to join certain objects, but undetermined in its choice -of the particular objects, it naturally turns its eye to such as are -related together. They are already united in the mind: they present -themselves at the same time to the conception; and instead of requiring -any new reason for their conjunction, it would require a very powerful -reason to make us overlook this natural affinity. This we shall have -occasion to explain more fully afterwards when we come to treat of -_beauty_. In the mean time, we may content ourselves with observing, -that the same love of order and uniformity which arranges the books in -a library, and the chairs in a parlour, contributes to the formation -of society, and to the well-being of mankind, by modifying the general -rule concerning the stability of possession. And as property forms a -relation betwixt a person and an object, 'tis natural to found it on -some preceding relation; and, as property is nothing but a constant -possession, secured by the laws of society, 'tis natural to add it to -the present possession, which is a relation that resembles it. For -this also has its influence. If it be natural to conjoin till sorts of -relations, 'tis more so to conjoin such relations as are resembling, -and are related together. (*) Book I. Part IV. Sect. 5 - - -[2] Some philosophers account for the right of occupation, by saying -that every one has a property in his own labour; and when he joins that -labour to any thing, it gives him the property of the whole: but, I. -There are several kinds of occupation where we cannot be said to join -our labour to the object we acquire: as when we possess a meadow by -grazing our cattle upon it 2. This accounts for the matter by means of -_accession_; which is taking a needless circuit. 3. We cannot be said -to join our labour to any thing but in a figurative sense. Properly -speaking, we only make an alteration on it by our labour. This forms -a relation betwixt us and the object; and thence arises the property, -according to the preceding principles. - -[3] If we seek a solution of these difficulties in reason and public -interest, we never shall find satisfaction; and if we look for it in -the imagination, 'tis evident, that the qualities which operate upon -that faculty, run so insensibly and gradually into each other, that -'tis impossible to give them any precise bounds or termination. The -difficulties on this head must increase, when we consider that our -judgment alters very sensibly according to the subject, and that the -same power and proximity will be deemed possession in one case, which -is not esteemed such in another. A person who has hunted a hare to -the last degree of weariness, would look upon it as an injustice for -another to rush in before him, and seize his prey. But the same person, -advancing to pluck an apple that hangs within his reach, has no reason -to complain if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession. -What is the reason of this difference, but that immobility, not being -natural to the hare, but the effect of industry, forms in that case a -strong relation with the hunter, which is wanting in the other? - -Here, then, it appears, that a certain and infallible power of -enjoyment, without touch or some other sensible relation, often -produces not property: and I farther observe, that a sensible relation, -without any present power, is sometimes sufficient to give a title to -any object. The sight of a thing is seldom a considerable relation, and -is only regarded as such, when the object is hidden, or very obscure; -in which case we find that the view alone conveys a property; according -to that maxim, _that even a whole continent belongs to the nation which -first discovered it_. 'Tis however remarkable, that both in the case of -discovery and that of possession, the first discoverer and possessor -must join to the relation an intention of rendering himself proprietor, -otherwise the relation will not have its effect; and that because the -connexion in our fancy betwixt the property and the relation is not so -great but that it requires to be helped by such an intention. - -From all these circumstances, 'tis easy to see how perplexed many -questions may become concerning the acquisition of property by -occupation; and the least effort of thought may present us with -instances which are not susceptible of any reasonable decision. If we -prefer examples which are real to such as are feigned, we may consider -the following one, which is to be met with in almost every writer -that has treated of the laws of nature. Two Grecian colonies, leaving -their native country in search of new seats, were informed that a city -near them was deserted by its inhabitants. To know the truth of this -report, they despatched at once two messengers, one from each colony, -who finding, on their approach, that the information was true, begun a -race together, with an intention to take possession of the city, each -of them for his countrymen. One of these messengers, finding that he -was not an equal match for the other, launched his spear at the gates -of the city, and was so fortunate as to fix it there before the arrival -of his companion. This produced a dispute betwixt the two colonies, -which of them was the proprietor of the empty city; and this dispute -still subsists among philosophers. For my part, I find the dispute -impossible to be decided, and that because the whole question hangs -upon the fancy, which in this case is not possessed of any precise or -determinate standard upon which it can give sentence. To make this -evident, let us consider, that if these two persons had been simply -members of the colonies, and not messengers or deputies, their actions -would not have been of any consequence; since in that case their -relation to the colonies would have been but feeble and imperfect. Add -to this, that nothing determined them to run to the gates rather than -the walls or any other part of the city, but that the gates, being the -most *obviated*, and remarkable part, satisfy the fancy best in taking -them for the whole; as we find by the poets, who frequently draw their -images and metaphors from them. Besides, we may consider that the touch -or contact of the one messenger is not properly possession, no more -than the piercing the gates with the spear, but only forms a relation; -and there is a relation in the other case equally obvious, though not -perhaps of equal force. Which of these relations, then, conveys a right -and property, or whether any of them be sufficient for that effect, I -leave to the decision of such as are wiser than myself. - -[4] Present possession is plainly a relation betwixt a person and an -object; but is not sufficient to counterbalance the relation of first -possession, unless the former be long and uninterrupted; in which case -the relation is increased on the side of the present possession by -the extent of time, and diminished on that of first possession by the -distance. This change in the relation produces a consequent change in -the property. - -[5] This source of property can never be explained but from the -imagination; and one may affirm, that the causes are here unmixed. We -shall proceed to explain them more particularly, and illustrate them by -examples from common life and experience. - -It has been observed above, that the mind has a natural propensity to -join relations, especially resembling ones, and finds a kind of fitness -and uniformity in such an union. From this propensity are derived these -laws of nature, _that upon the first formation of society, property -always follows the present possession_; and afterwards, _that it arises -from first or from long possession_. Now, we may easily observe, that -relation is not confined merely to one degree; but that from an object -that is related to us, we acquire a relation to every other object -which is related to it, and so on, till the thought loses the chain by -too long a progress. However the relation may weaken by each remove, -'tis not immediately destroyed; but frequently connects two objects -by means of an intermediate one, which is related to both. And this -principle is of such force as to give rise to the right of _accession_, -and causes us to acquire the property, not only of such objects as we -are immediately possessed of, but also of such as are closely connected -with them. - -Suppose a German, a Frenchman, and a Spaniard, to come into a room -where there are placed upon the table three bottles of wine, Rhenish, -Burgundy, and Port; and suppose they should fall a quarrelling about -the division of them, a person who was chosen for umpire would -naturally, to show his impartiality, give every one the product of his -own country; and this from a principle which, in some measure, is the -source of those laws of nature that ascribe property to occupation, -prescription and accession. - -In all these cases, and particularly that of accession, there is first -a _natural_ union betwixt the idea of the person and that of the -object, and afterwards a new and moral union produced by that right -or property which we ascribe to the person. But here there occurs a -difficulty which merits our attention, and may afford us an opportunity -of putting to trial that singular method of reasoning which has been -employed on the present subject. I have already observed, that the -imagination passes with greater facility from little to great, than -from great to little, and that the transition of ideas is always easier -and smoother in the former case than in the latter. Now, as the right -of accession arises from the easy transition of ideas by which related -objects are connected together, it should naturally be imagined that -the right of accession must increase in strength, in proportion as -the transition of ideas is performed with greater facility. It may -therefore be thought; that when we have acquired the property of any -small object, we shall readily consider any great object related to it -as an accession, and as belonging to the proprietor of the small one; -since the transition is in that case very easy from the small object -to the great one, and should connect them together in the closest -manner. But in fact the case is always found to be otherwise. The -empire of Great Britain seems to draw along with it the dominion of -the Orkneys, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and the Isle of Wight; but -the authority over those lesser islands does not naturally imply any -title to Great Britain. In short, a small object naturally follows a -great one as its accession; but a great one is never supposed to belong -to the proprietor of a small one related to it, merely on account of -that property and relation. Yet in this latter case the transition of -ideas is smoother from the proprietor to the small object which is -his property, and from the small object to the great one, than in the -former case from the proprietor to the great object, and from the great -one to the small. It may therefore be thought, that these phenomena are -objections to the foregoing hypothesis, _that the ascribing of property -to accession is nothing but an effect of the relations of ideas, and of -the smooth transition of the imagination_. - -'Twill be easy to solve this objection, if we consider the agility and -unsteadiness of the imagination, with the different views in which it -is continually placing its objects. When we attribute to a person a -property in two objects, we do not always pass from the person to one -object, and from that to the other related to it. The objects being -here to be considered as the property of the person, we are apt to join -them together, and place them in the same light. Suppose, therefore, -a great and a small object to be related together, if a person be -strongly related to the great object, he will likewise be strongly -related to both the objects considered together, because he is related -to the most considerable part. On the contrary, if he be only related -to the small object, he will not be strongly related to both considered -together, since his relation lies only with the most trivial part, -which is not apt to strike us in any great degree when we consider the -whole. And this is the reason why small objects become accessions to -great ones, and not great to small. - -'Tis the general opinion of philosophers and civilians, that the sea is -incapable of becoming the property of any nation; and that because 'tis -impossible to take possession of it, or form any such distinct relation -with it, as may be the foundation of property. Where this reason -ceases, property immediately takes place. Thus, the most strenuous -advocates for the liberty of the seas universally allow, that friths -and bays naturally belong as an accession to the proprietors of the -surrounding continent These have properly no more bond or union with -the land than the _Pacific_ ocean would have; but having an union in -the fancy, and being at the same time _inferior_, they are of course -regarded as an accession. - -The property of rivers, by the laws of most nations, and by the natural -turn of our thought, is attributed to the proprietors of their banks, -excepting such vast rivers as the Rhine or the Danube, which seem too -large to the imagination to follow as an accession the property of -the neighbouring fields. Yet even these rivers are considered as the -property of that nation through whose dominions they run; the idea of -a nation being a suitable bulk to correspond with them, and bear them -such a relation in the fancy. - -The accessions which are made to lands bordering upon rivers, follow -the land, say the civilians, provided it be made by what they -call _alluvion_, that is, insensibly and imperceptibly; which are -circumstances that mightily assist the imagination in the conjunction. -Where there is any considerable portion torn at once from one bank, -and joined to another, it becomes not his property whose land it falls -on, till it unite with the land, and till the trees or plants have -spread their roots into both. Before that, the imagination does not -sufficiently join them. - -There are other cases which somewhat resemble this of accession, -but which, at the bottom, are considerably different, and merit our -attention. Of this kind is the conjunction of the properties of -different persons, after such a manner as not to admit of _separation_. -The question is, to whom the united mass must belong. - -Where this conjunction is of such a nature as to admit of _division_, -but not of _separation_, the decision is natural and easy. The -whole mass must be supposed to be common betwixt the proprietors -of the several parts, and afterwards must be divided according to -the proportions of these parts. But here I cannot forbear taking -notice of a remarkable subtilty of the Roman law, in distinguishing -betwixt _confusion_ and _commixtion_. Confusion is an union of two -bodies, such as different liquors, where the parts become entirely -undistinguishable. Commixtion is the blending of two bodies, such as -two bushels of corn, where the parts remain separate in an obvious and -visible manner. As in the latter case the imagination discovers not so -entire an union as in the former, but is able to trace and preserve -a distinct idea of the property of each; this is the reason why the -_civil_ law, though it established an entire community in the case of -_confusion_, and after that a proportional division, yet in the case of -_commixtion_, supposes each of the proprietors to maintain a distinct -right; however, necessity may at last force them to submit to the same -division. _Quod si frumentum Titii frumento tuo mistum fuerit: siquidem -ex voluntate vestra, communc est: quia singula corpora, id est, singula -grana, quæ a cujusque propria fuerunt, ex consensu vestro communicata -sunt. Quod si casu id mistum fuerit, vel Titius id miscuerit sine -tua voluntate, non videtur id communc esse; quia singula corpora -in sua substantia durant. Sed nec magis istis casibus commune sit -frumentum quam grex intelligitur esse communis, si pecora Titii tuis -pecoribus mista fuerint. Sed si ab alterutro vestrum totum id frumentum -retineatur, in rem quidem actio pro modo frumenti cujusque competit. -Arbitrio autem judicis, ut ipse æstimet quale cujusque frumentum -fuerit_. Inst. Lib. II. Tit I. § 28. - -Where the properties of two persons are united after such a manner as -neither to admit of _division_ nor _separation_, as when one builds a -house on another's ground, in that case the whole must belong to one of -the proprietors; and here I assert, that it naturally is conceived to -belong to the proprietor of the most considerable part. For, however -the compound object may have a relation to two different persons, and -carry our view at once to both of them, yet, as the most considerable -part principally engages our attention, and by the strict union draws -the inferior along it; for this reason, the whole bears a relation to -the proprietor of that part, and is regarded as his property. The only -difficulty is, what we shall be pleased to call the most considerable -part, and most attractive to the imagination. - -This quality depends on several different circumstances which have -little connexion with each other. One part of a compound object may -become more considerable than another, either because it is more -constant and durable; because it is of greater value; because it is -more obvious and remarkable; because it is of greater extent; or -because its existence is more separate and independent. 'Twill be easy -to conceive, that, as these circumstances may be conjoined and opposed -in all the different ways, and according to all the different degrees, -which can be imagined, there will result many cases where the reasons -on both sides are so equally balanced, that 'tis impossible for us to -give any satisfactory decision. Here, then, is the proper business of -municipal laws, to fix what the principles of human nature have left -undetermined. - -The superficies yields to the soil, says the civil law: the writing to -the paper: the canvas to the picture. These decisions do not well agree -together, and are a proof of the contrariety of those principles from -which they are derived. - -But of all the questions of this kind, the most curious is that which -for so many ages divided the disciples of _Proculus_ and _Sabinus_. -Suppose a person should make a cup from the metal of another, or a ship -from his wood, and suppose the proprietor of the metal or wood should -demand his goods, the question is, whether he acquires a title to the -cup or ship. _Sabinus_ maintained the affirmative, and asserted, that -the substance or matter is the foundation of all the qualities; that -it is incorruptible and immortal, and therefore superior to the form, -which is casual and dependent. On the other hand, _Proculus_ observed, -that the form is the most obvious and remarkable part, and that from -it bodies are denominated of this or that particular species. To which -he might have added, that the matter or substance is in most bodies -so fluctuating and uncertain, that 'tis utterly impossible to trace -it in all its changes. For my part, I know not from what principles -such a controversy can be certainly determined. I shall therefore -content myself with observing, that the decision of _Trebonian_ seems -to me pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs to the proprietor of the -metal, because it can be brought back to its first form: but that the -ship belongs to the author of its form, for a contrary reason. But, -however ingenious this reason may seem, it plainly depends upon the -fancy, which, by the possibility of such a reduction, finds a closer -connexion and relation betwixt a cup and the proprietor of its metal, -than betwixt a ship and the proprietor of its wood, where the substance -is more fixed and unalterable. - - -[6] In examining the different titles to authority in government, -we shall meet with many reasons to convince us that the right of -succession depends, in a great measure, on the imagination. Meanwhile I -shall rest contented with observing one example, which belongs to the -present subject. Suppose that a person die without children, and that -a dispute arises among his relations concerning his inheritance; 'tis -evident, that if his riches be derived partly from his father, partly -from his mother, the most natural way of determining such a dispute -is, to divide his possessions, and assign each part to the family from -whence it is derived. Now, as the person is supposed to have been -once the full and entire proprietor of those goods, I ask, what is it -makes us find a certain equity and natural reason in this partition, -except it be the imagination? His affection to these families does not -depend upon his possessions; for which reason his consent can never be -presumed precisely for such a partition. And as to the public interest, -it seems not to be in the least concerned on the one side or the other. - - - - -SECTION IV. - -OF THE TRANSFERENCE OF PROPERTY BY CONSENT. - - -However useful, or even necessary, the stability of possession may be -to human society, 'tis attended with very considerable inconveniences. -The relation of fitness or suitableness ought never to enter into -consideration, in distributing the properties of mankind; but we must -govern ourselves by rules which are more general in their application, -and more free from doubt and uncertainty. Of this kind is _present_ -possession upon the first establishment of society; and afterwards -_occupation, prescription, accession_, and _succession_. As these -depend very much on chance, they must frequently prove contradictory -both to men's wants and desires; and persons and possessions must often -be very ill adjusted. This is a grand inconvenience, which calls for a -remedy. To apply one directly, and allow every man to seize by violence -what he judges to be fit for him, would destroy society; and therefore -the rules of justice seek some medium betwixt a rigid stability and -this changeable and uncertain adjustment. But there is no medium -better than that obvious one, that possession and property should -always be stable, except when the proprietor consents to bestow them on -some other person. This rule can have no ill consequence in occasioning -wars and dissensions, since the proprietor's consent, who alone is -concerned, is taken along in the alienation; and it may serve to many -good purposes in adjusting property to persons. Different parts of the -earth produce different commodities; and not only so, but different -men both are by nature fitted for different employments, and attain -to greater perfection in any one, when they confine themselves to it -alone. All this requires a mutual exchange and commerce; for which -reason the translation of property by consent is founded on a law of -nature, as well as its stability without such a consent. - -So far is determined by a plain utility and interest. But perhaps 'tis -from more trivial reasons, that _delivery_, or a sensible transference -of the object, is commonly required by civil laws, and also by the laws -of nature, according to most authors, as a requisite circumstance in -the translation of property. The property of an object, when taken for -something real, without any reference to morality, or the sentiments of -the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and even inconceivable; -nor can we form any distinct notion, either of its stability or -translation. This imperfection of our ideas is less sensibly felt with -regard to its stability, as it engages less our attention, and is -easily past over by the mind, without any scrupulous examination. But -as the translation of property from one person to another is a more -remarkable event, the defect of our ideas becomes more sensible on that -occasion, and obliges us to turn ourselves on every side in search of -some remedy. Now, as nothing more enlivens any idea than a present -impression, and a relation betwixt that impression and the idea; 'tis -natural for us to seek some false light from this quarter. In order -to aid the imagination in conceiving the transference of property, we -take the sensible object, and actually transfer its possession to the -person on whom we would bestow the property. The supposed resemblance -of the actions, and the presence of this sensible delivery, deceive the -mind, and make it fancy that it conceives the mysterious transition of -the property. And that this explication of the matter is just, appears -hence, that men have invented a _symbolical_ delivery, to satisfy the -fancy where the real one is impracticable. Thus the giving the keys of -a granary, is understood to be the delivery of the corn contained in -it: the giving of stone and earth represents the delivery of a manor. -This is a kind of superstitious practice in civil laws, and in the laws -of nature, resembling the _Roman Catholic_ superstitions in religion. -As the _Roman Catholics_ represent the inconceivable mysteries of the -_Christian_ religion, and render them more present to the mind, by -a taper, or habit, or grimace, which is supposed to resemble them; -so lawyers and moralists have run into like inventions for the same -reason, and have endeavoured by those means to satisfy themselves -concerning the transference of property by consent. - - - - -SECTION V. - -OF THE OBLIGATION OF PROMISES. - - -That the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance of -promises, is not _natural_, will sufficiently appear from these two -propositions, which I proceed to prove, viz. _that a promise would not -be intelligible before human conventions had established it; and that -even if it were intelligible, it would not be attended with any moral -obligation_. - -I say, _first_, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, nor -antecedent to human conventions; and that a man, unacquainted with -society, could never enter into any engagements with another, even -though they could perceive each other's thoughts by intuition. If -promises be natural and intelligible, there must be some act of the -mind attending these words, I _promise_; and on this act of the mind -must the obligation depend. Let us therefore run over all the faculties -of the soul, and see which of them is exerted in our promises. - -The act of the mind, expressed by a promise, is not a _resolution_ to -perform any thing; for that alone never imposes any obligation. Nor is -it a _desire_ of such a performance; for we may bind ourselves without -such a desire, or even with an aversion, declared and avowed. Neither -is it the _willing_ of that action which we promise to perform; for a -promise always regards some future time, and the will has an influence -only on present actions. It follows, therefore, that since the act of -the mind, which enters into a promise, and produces its obligation, -is neither the resolving, desiring, nor willing any particular -performance, it must necessarily be the _willing_ of that _obligation_ -which arises from the promise. Nor is this only a conclusion of -philosophy, but is entirely conformable to our common ways of thinking -and of expressing ourselves, when we say that we are bound by our -own consent, and that the obligation arises from our mere will and -pleasure. The only question then is, whether there be not a manifest -absurdity in supposing this act of the mind, and such an absurdity as -no man could fall into, whose ideas are not confounded with prejudice -and the fallacious use of language. - -All morality depends upon our sentiments; and when any action or -quality of the mind pleases us _after a certain manner_, we say it is -virtuous; and when the neglect or non-performance of it displeases -us _after a like manner_, we say that we lie under an obligation -to perform it. A change of the obligation supposes a change of the -sentiment; and a creation of a new obligation supposes some new -sentiment to arise. But 'tis certain we can naturally no more change -our own sentiments than the motions of the heavens; nor by a single -act of our will, that is, by a promise, render any action agreeable or -disagreeable, moral or immoral, which, without that act, would have -produced contrary impressions, or have been endowed with different -qualities. It would be absurd, therefore, to will any new obligation, -that is, any new sentiment of pain or pleasure; nor is it possible -that men could naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. A promise, -therefore, is _naturally_ something altogether unintelligible, nor is -there any act of the mind belonging to it.[7] - -But, _secondly_, if there was any act of the mind belonging to it, it -could not _naturally_ produce any obligation. This appears evidently -from the foregoing reasoning. A promise creates a new obligation. A new -obligation supposes new sentiments to arise. The will never creates new -sentiments. There could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation -from a promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the absurdity -of willing that obligation. - -The same truth may be proved still more evidently by that reasoning -which proved justice in general to be an artificial virtue. No action -can be required of us as our duty, unless there be implanted in -human nature some actuating passion or motive capable of producing -the action. This motive cannot be the sense of duty. A sense of -duty supposes an antecedent obligation; and where an action is not -required by any natural passion, it cannot be required by any natural -obligation; since it may be omitted without proving any defect or -imperfection in the mind and temper, and consequently without any -vice. Now, 'tis evident we have no motive leading us to the performance -of promises, distinct from a sense of duty. If we thought that promises -had no moral obligation, we never should feel any inclination to -observe them. This is not the case with the natural virtues. Though -there was no obligation to relieve the miserable, our humanity would -lead us to it; and when we omit that duty, the immorality of the -omission arises from its being a proof that we want the natural -sentiments of humanity. A father knows it to be his duty to take care -of his children, but he has also a natural inclination to it. And if -no human creature had that inclination, no one could lie under any -such obligation. But as there is naturally no inclination to observe -promises distinct from a sense of their obligation, it follows, -that fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises have no force -antecedent to human conventions. - -If any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof of these two -propositions, viz. _that there is a peculiar act of the mind annexed -to promises_; and _that consequent to this act of the mind, there -arises an inclination to perform, distinct from a sense of duty_. I -presume that it is impossible to prove either of these two points; and -therefore I venture to conclude, that promises are human inventions, -founded on the necessities and interests of society. - -In order to discover these necessities and interests, we must consider -the same qualities of human nature which we have already found to give -rise to the preceding laws of society. Men being naturally selfish, or -endowed only with a confined generosity, they are not easily induced to -perform any action for the interest of strangers, except with a view -to some reciprocal advantage, which they had no hope of obtaining -but by such a performance. Now, as it frequently happens that these -mutual performances cannot be finished at the same instant, 'tis -necessary that one party be contented to remain in uncertainty, and -depend upon the gratitude of the other for a return of kindness. But -so much corruption is there among men, that, generally speaking, this -becomes but a slender security; and as the benefactor is here supposed -to bestow his favours with a view to self-interest, this both takes -off from the obligation, and sets an example of selfishness, which -is the true mother of ingratitude. Were we, therefore, to follow the -natural course of our passions and inclinations, we should perform -but few actions for the advantage of others from disinterested views, -because we are naturally very limited in our kindness and affection; -and we should perform as few of that kind out of regard to interest, -because we cannot depend upon their gratitude. Here, then, is the -mutual commerce of good offices in a manner lost among mankind, and -every one reduced to his own skill and industry for his well-being -and subsistence. The invention of the law of nature, concerning the -_stability_ of possession, has already rendered men tolerable to each -other; that of the _transference_ of property and possession by consent -has begun to render them mutually advantageous; but still these laws -of nature, however strictly observed, are not sufficient to render -them so serviceable to each other as by nature they are fitted to -become. Though possession be _stable_, men may often reap but small -advantage from it, while they are possessed of a greater quantity of -any species of goods than they have occasion for, and at the same -time suffer by the want of others. The _transference_ of property, -which is the proper remedy for this inconvenience, cannot remedy it -entirely; because it can only take place with regard to such objects -as are _present_ and _individual_, but not to such as are _absent_ or -_general_. One cannot transfer the property of a particular house, -twenty leagues distant, because the consent cannot be attended with -delivery, which is a requisite circumstance. Neither can one transfer -the property of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads of wine, by the -mere expression and consent, because these are only general terms, and -have no direct relation to any particular heap of corn or barrels of -wine. Besides, the commerce of mankind is not confined to the barter -of commodities, but may extend to services and actions, which we may -exchange to our mutual interest and advantage. Your corn is ripe -to-day; mine will be so to-morrow. 'Tis profitable for us both that I -should labour with you to-day, and that you should aid me to-morrow. I -have no kindness for you, and know you have as little for me. I will -not, therefore, take any pains upon your account; and should I labour -with you upon my own account, in expectation of a return, I know I -should be disappointed, and that I should in vain depend upon your -gratitude. Here, then, I leave you to labour alone: you treat me in the -same manner. The seasons change; and both of us lose our harvests for -want of mutual confidence and security. - -All this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles and -passions of human nature; and as these passions and principles are -unalterable, it may be thought that our conduct, which depends on them, -must be so too, and that 'twould be in vain, either for moralists or -politicians, to tamper with us, or attempt to change the usual course -of our actions, with a view to public interest. And, indeed, did the -success of their designs depend upon their success in correcting the -selfishness and ingratitude of men, they would never make any progress, -unless aided by Omnipotence, which is alone able to new-mould the -human mind, and change its character in such fundamental articles. -All they can pretend to is, to give a new direction to those natural -passions, and teach us that we can better satisfy our appetites in an -oblique and artificial manner, than by their headlong and impetuous -motion. Hence I learn to do a service to another, without bearing him -any real kindness; because I foresee that he will return my service, -in expectation of another of the same kind, and in order to maintain -the same correspondence of good offices with me or with others. And -accordingly, after I have served him, and he is in possession of the -advantage arising, from my action, he is induced to perform his part, -as foreseeing the consequences of his refusal. - -But though this self-interested commerce of men begins to take place, -and to predominate in society, it does not entirely abolish the more -generous and noble intercourse of friendship and good offices. I may -still do services to such persons as I love, and am more particularly -acquainted with, without any prospect of advantage; and they may -make me a return in the same manner, without any view but that of -recompensing my past services. In order, therefore, to distinguish -those two different sorts of commerce, the interested and the -disinterested, there is a _certain form of words_ invented for the -former, by which we bind ourselves to the performance of any action. -This form of words constitutes what we call a _promise_, which is -the sanction of the interested commerce of mankind. When a man says -_he promises any thing_, he in effect expresses a _resolution_ of -performing it; and along with that, by making use of this _form of -words,_, subjects himself to the penalty of never being trusted again -in case of failure. A resolution is the natural act of the mind, which -promises express; but were there no more than a resolution in the case, -promises would only declare our former motives, and would not create -any new motive or obligation. They are the conventions of men, which -create a new motive, when experience has taught us that human affairs -would be conducted much more for mutual advantage, were there certain -_symbols_ or _signs_ instituted, by which we might give each other -security of our conduct in any particular incident. After these signs -are instituted, whoever uses them is immediately bound by his interest -to execute his engagements, and must never expect to be trusted any -more, if he refuse to perform what he promised. - -Nor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind sensible of -this interest in the _institution_ and _observance_ of promises, to be -esteemed superior to the capacity of human nature, however savage and -uncultivated. There needs but a very little practice of the world, to -make us perceive all these consequences and advantages. The shortest -experience of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each -individual perceives the same sense of interest in all his fellows, he -immediately performs his part of any contract, as being assured that -they will not be wanting in theirs. All of them, by concert, enter -into a scheme of actions, calculated for common benefit, and agree to -be true to their word; nor is there any thing requisite to form this -concert or convention, but that every one have a sense of interest -in the faithful fulfilling of engagements, and express that sense to -other members of the society. This immediately causes that interest -to operate upon them; and interest is the _first_ obligation to the -performance of promises. - -Afterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest, and becomes -a new obligation upon mankind. This sentiment of morality, in the -performance of promises, arises from the same principles as that -in the abstinence from the property of others. _Public interest, -education_, and _the artifices of politicians_, have the same effect -in both cases. The difficulties that occur to us in supposing a moral -obligation to attend promises, we either surmount or elude. For -instance, the expression of a resolution is not commonly supposed to -be obligatory; and we cannot readily conceive how the making use of a -certain form of words should be able to cause any material difference. -Here, therefore, we _feign_ a new act of the mind, which we call the -_willing_ an obligation; and on this we suppose the morality to depend. -But we have proved already, that there is no such act of the mind, and -consequently, that promises impose no natural obligation. - -To confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections concerning -that will, which is supposed to enter into a promise, and to cause -its obligation. 'Tis evident, that the will alone is never supposed -to cause the obligation, but must be expressed by words or signs, in -order to impose a tie upon any man. The expression being once brought -in as subservient to the will, soon becomes the principal part of the -promise; nor will a man be less bound by his word, though he secretly -give a different direction to his intention, and withhold himself -both from a resolution, and from willing an obligation. But though the -expression makes on most occasions the whole of the promise, yet it -does not always so; and one who should make use of any expression of -which he knows not the meaning, and which he uses without any intention -of binding himself, would not certainly be bound by it. Nay, though he -knows its meaning, yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs -as show evidently he has no serious intention of binding himself, he -would not lie under any obligation of performance; but 'tis necessary -that the words be a perfect expression of the will, without any -contrary signs. Nay, even this we must not carry so far as to imagine, -that one, whom, by our quickness of understanding, we conjecture, from -certain signs, to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound by -his expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it; but must limit -this conclusion to those cases where the signs are of a different kind -from those of deceit. All these contradictions are easily accounted -for, if the obligation of promises be merely a human invention for the -convenience of society; but will never be explained, if it be something -_real_ and _natural_, arising from any action of the mind or body. - -I shall farther observe, that, since every new promise imposes a new -obligation of morality on the person who promises, and since this -new obligation arises from his will; 'tis one of the most mysterious -and incomprehensible operations that can possibly be imagined, and -may even be compared to _transubstantiation_, or _holy orders_,[8] -where a certain form of words, along with a certain intention, -changes entirely the nature of an external object, and even of a -human creature. But though these mysteries be so far alike, 'tis very -remarkable that they differ widely in other particulars, and that this -difference may be regarded as a strong proof of the difference of their -origins. As the obligation of promises is an invention for the interest -of society, 'tis warped into as many different forms as that interest -requires, and even runs into direct contradictions, rather than lose -sight of its object. But as those other monstrous doctrines are mere -priestly inventions, and have no public interest in view, they are less -disturbed in their progress by new obstacles; and it must be owned, -that, after the first absurdity, they follow more directly the current -of reason and good sense. Theologians clearly perceived, that the -external form of words, being mere sound, require an intention to make -them have any efficacy; and that this intention being once considered -as a requisite circumstance, its absence must equally prevent the -effect, whether avowed or concealed, whether sincere or deceitful. -Accordingly, they have commonly determined, that the intention of -the priest makes the sacrament, and that when he secretly withdraws -his intention, he is highly criminal in himself; but still destroys -the baptism, or communion, or holy orders. The terrible consequences -of this doctrine were not able to hinder its taking place; as the -inconvenience of a similar doctrine, with regard to promises, have -prevented that doctrine from establishing itself. Men are always more -concerned about the present life than the future; and are apt to think -the smallest evil which regards the former, more important than the -greatest which regards the latter. - -We may draw the same conclusion, concerning the origin of promises, -from the force which is supposed to invalidate all contracts, and -to free us from their obligation. Such a principle is a proof -that promises have no natural obligation, and are mere artificial -contrivances for the convenience and advantage of society. If we -consider aright of the matter, force is not essentially different -from any other motive of hope or fear, which may induce us to engage -our word, and lay ourselves under any obligation. A man, dangerously -wounded, who promises a competent sum to a surgeon to cure him, would -certainly be bound to performance; though the case be not so much -different from that of one who promises a sum to a robber, as to -produce so great a difference in our sentiments of morality, if these -sentiments were not built entirely on public interest and convenience. - - -[7] Were morality discoverable by reason, and not by sentiment, 'twould -be still more evident that promises could make no alteration upon it. -Morality is supposed to consist in relation. Every new imposition of -morality, therefore, must arise from some new relation of objects; -and consequently the will could not produce immediately any change in -morals, but could have that effect only by producing a change upon the -objects. But as the moral obligation of a promise is the pure effect -of the will, without the least change in any part of the universe, it -follows, that promises have no natural obligation. - -Should it be said, that this act of the will, being in effect a new -object, produces new relations and new duties; I would answer, that -this is a pure sophism, which may be detected by a very moderate share -of accuracy and exactness. To will a new obligation, is to will a new -relation of objects; and therefore, if this new relation of objects -were formed by the volition itself, we should, in effect, will the -volition, which is plainly absurd and impossible. The will has here -no object to which it could tend, but must return upon itself in -_infinitum_. The new obligation depends upon new relations. The new -relations depend upon a new volition. The new volition has for object a -new obligation, and consequently new relations, and consequently a new -volition; which volition, again, has in view a new obligation, relation -and volition, without any termination. 'Tis impossible, therefore, we -could ever will a new obligation; and consequently 'tis impossible the -will could ever accompany a promise, or produce a new obligation of -morality. - -[8] I mean so far as holy orders are supposed to produce the _indelible -Character_. In other respects they are only a legal qualification. - - - - -SECTION VI. - -SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE. - - -We have now run over the three fundamental laws of nature, _that of the -stability of possession, of its transference by consent_, and _of the -performance of promises_. 'Tis on the strict observance of those three -laws that the peace and security of human society entirely depend; nor -is there any possibility of establishing a good correspondence among -men, where these are neglected. Society is absolutely necessary for -the well-being of men; and these are as necessary to the supports -of society. Whatever restraint they may impose on the passions of -men, they are the real offspring of those passions, and are only a -more artful and more refined way of satisfying them. Nothing is more -vigilant and inventive than our passions; and nothing is more obvious -than the convention for the observance of these rules. Nature has, -therefore, trusted this affair entirely to the conduct of men, and has -not placed in the mind any peculiar original principles, to determine -us to a set of actions, into which the other principles of our frame -and constitution were sufficient to lead us. And to convince us the -more fully of this truth, we may here stop a moment, and, from a review -of the preceding reasonings, may draw some new arguments, to prove that -those laws, however necessary, are entirely artificial, and of human -invention; and consequently, that justice is an artificial, and not a -natural virtue. - -I. The first argument I shall make use of is derived from the vulgar -definition of justice. Justice is commonly defined to be _a constant -and perpetual will of giving every one his due_. In this definition -'tis supposed that there are such things as right and property, -independent of justice, and antecedent to it; and that they would have -subsisted, though men had never dreamt of practising such a virtue. -I have already observed, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this -opinion, and shall here continue to open up, a little more distinctly, -my sentiments on that subject. - -I shall begin with observing, that this quality, which we call -_property_, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the -_Peripatetic_ philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate inspection -into the subject, when considered apart from our moral sentiments, 'Tis -evident property does not consist in any of the sensible qualities -of the object. For these may continue invariably the same, while the -property changes. Property, therefore, must consist in some relation of -the object. But 'tis not in its relation with regard to other external -and inanimate objects. For these may also continue invariably the -same, while the property changes. This quality, therefore, consists in -the relations of objects to intelligent and rational beings. But 'tis -not the external and corporeal relation which forms the essence of -property. For that relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects, -or with regard to brute creatures; though in those cases it forms no -property. 'Tis therefore in some internal relation that the property -consists; that is, in some influence which the external relations of -the object have on the mind and actions. Thus, the external relation -which we call _occupation_ or first possession, is not of itself -imagined to be the property of the object, but only to cause its -property. Now, 'tis evident this external relation causes nothing in -external objects, and has only an influence on the mind, by giving us -a sense of duty in abstaining from that object, and in restoring it to -the first possessor. These actions are properly what we call _justice_; -and consequently 'tis on that virtue that the nature of property -depends, and not the virtue on the property. - -If any one, therefore, would assert that justice is a natural virtue, -and injustice a natural vice, he must assert, that abstracting from the -notions of _property_ and _right_ and _obligation_, a certain conduct -and train of actions, in certain external relations of objects, has -naturally a moral beauty or deformity, and causes an original pleasure -or uneasiness. Thus, the restoring a man's goods to him is considered -as virtuous, not because nature has annexed a certain sentiment of -pleasure to such a conduct with regard to the property of others, but -because she has annexed that sentiment to such a conduct, with regard -to those external objects of which others have had the first or long -possession, or which they have received by the consent of those who -have had first or long possession. If nature has given us no such -sentiment, there is not naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions, -any such thing as property. Now, though it seems sufficiently evident, -in this dry and accurate consideration of the present subject, that -nature has annexed no pleasure or sentiment of approbation to such a -conduct, yet, that I may leave as little room for doubt as possible, I -shall subjoin a few more arguments to confirm my opinion. - -_First_, If nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it would -have been as evident and discernible as on every other occasion; nor -should we have found any difficulty to perceive, that the consideration -of such actions, in such a situation, gives a certain pleasure and -sentiment of approbation. We should not have been obliged to have -recourse to notions of property in the definition of justice, and at -the same time make use of the notions of justice in the definition of -pro-property. This deceitful method of reasoning is a plain proof that -there are contained in the subject some obscurities and difficulties -which we are not able to surmount, and which we desire to evade by this -artifice. - -_Secondly_, Those rules by which properties, rights and obligations -are determined, have in them no marks of a natural origin, but many -of artifice and contrivance. They are too numerous to have proceeded -from nature; they are changeable by human laws; and have all of them a -direct and evident tendency to public good, and the support of civil -society. This last circumstance is remarkable upon two accounts. -_First_, Because, though the cause of the establishment of these laws -had been a _regard_ for the public good, as much as the public good -is their natural tendency, they would still have been artificial, as -being purposely contrived, and directed to a certain end. _Secondly_, -Because, if men had been endowed with such a strong regard for public -good, they would never have restrained themselves by these rules; so -that the laws of justice arise from natural principles, in a manner -still more oblique and artificial. 'Tis self-love which is their real -origin; and as the self-love of one person is naturally contrary to -that of another, these several interested passions are obliged to -adjust themselves after such a manner as to concur in some system -of conduct and behaviour. This system, therefore, comprehending the -interest of each individual, is of course advantageous to the public, -though it be not intended for that purpose by the inventors. - -II. In the _second_ place, we may observe, that all kinds of vice -and virtue run insensibly into each other, and may approach by such -imperceptible degrees as will make it very difficult, if not absolutely -impossible, to determine when the one ends and the other begins; and -from this observation we may derive a new argument for the foregoing -principle. For, whatever may be the case with regard to all kinds -of vice and virtue, 'tis certain that rights, and obligations, and -property, admit of no such insensible gradation, but that a man -either has a full and perfect property, or none at all; and is either -entirely obliged to perform any action, or lies under no manner of -obligation. However civil laws may talk of a perfect _dominion_, and of -an imperfect, 'tis easy to observe, that this arises from a fiction, -which has no foundation in reason, and can never enter into our notions -of natural justice and equity. A man that hires a horse, though but -for a day, has as full a right to make use of it for that time, as he -whom we call its proprietor has to make use of it any other day; and -'tis evident that, however the use may be bounded in time or degree, -the right itself is not susceptible of any such gradation, but is -absolute and entire, so far as it extends. Accordingly, we may observe, -that this right both arises and perishes in an instant; and that a man -entirely acquires the property of any object by occupation, or the -consent of the proprietor; and loses it by his own consent, without any -of that insensible gradation which is remarkable in other qualities and -relations. Since, therefore, this is the case with regard to property, -and rights, and obligations, I ask, how it stands with regard to -justice and injustice? After whatever manner you answer this question, -you run into inextricable difficulties. If you reply, that justice -and injustice admit of degree, and run insensibly into each other, -you expressly contradict the foregoing position, that obligation and -property are not susceptible of such a gradation. These depend entirely -upon justice and injustice, and follow them in all their variations. -Where the justice is entire, the property is also entire: where the -justice is imperfect, the property must also be imperfect. And _vice -versa_, if the property admit of no such variations, they must also -be incompatible with justice. If you assent, therefore, to this last -proposition, and assert that justice and injustice are not susceptible -of degrees, you in effect assert that they are not _naturally_ either -vicious or virtuous; since vice and virtue, moral good and evil, and -indeed all _natural_ qualities, run insensibly into each other, and are -on many occasions undistinguishable. - -And here it may be worth while to observe, that though abstract -reasoning and the general maxims of philosophy and law establish this -position, _that property, and right, and obligation, admit not of -degrees_, yet, in our common and negligent way of thinking, we find -great difficulty to entertain that opinion, and do even secretly -embrace the contrary principle. An object must either be in the -possession of one person or another. An action must either be performed -or not. The necessity there is of choosing one side in these dilemmas, -and the impossibility there often is of finding any just medium, oblige -us, when we reflect on the matter, to acknowledge that all property and -obligations are entire. But, on the other hand, when we consider the -origin of property and obligation, and find that they depend on public -utility, and sometimes on the propensity of the imagination, which -are seldom entire on any side, we are naturally inclined to imagine -that these moral relations admit of an insensible gradation. Hence -it is that in references, where the consent of the parties leave the -referees entire masters of the subject, they commonly discover so much -equity and justice on both sides as induces them to strike a medium, -and divide the difference betwixt the parties. Civil judges, who have -not this liberty, but are obliged to give a decisive sentence on some -one side, are often at a loss how to determine, and are necessitated -to proceed on the most frivolous reasons in the world. Half rights -and obligations, which seem so natural in common life, are perfect -absurdities in their tribunal; for which reason they are often obliged -to take half arguments for whole ones, in order to terminate the affair -one way or other. - -III. The _third_ argument of this kind I shall make use of may be -explained thus. If we consider the ordinary course of human actions, -we shall find that the mind restrains not itself by any general and -universal rules, but acts on most occasions as it is determined by -its present motives and inclination. As each action is a particular -individual event, it must proceed from particular principles, and from -our immediate situation within ourselves, and with respect to the rest -of the universe. If on some occasions we extend our motives beyond -those very circumstances which gave rise to them, and form something -like _general rides_ for our conduct, 'tis easy to observe that these -rules are not perfectly inflexible, but allow of many exceptions. -Since, therefore, this is the ordinary course of human actions, we -may conclude that the laws of justice, being universal and perfectly -inflexible, can never be derived from nature, nor be the immediate -offspring of any natural motive or inclination. No action can be either -morally good or evil, unless there be some natural passion or motive to -impel us to it, or deter us from it; and tis evident that the morality -must be susceptible of all the same variations which are natural to the -passion. Here are two persons who dispute for an estate; of whom one is -rich, a fool, and a bachelor; the other poor, a man of sense, and has a -numerous family: the first is my enemy; the second my friend. Whether -I be actuated in this affair by a view to public or private interest, -by friendship or enmity, I must be induced to do my utmost to procure -the estate to the latter. Nor would any consideration of the right and -property of the persons be able to restrain me, were I actuated only -by natural motives, without any combination or convention with others. -For as all property depends on morality, and as all morality depends -on the ordinary course of our passions and actions, and as these again -are only directed by particular motives, 'tis evident such a partial -conduct must be suitable to the strictest morality, and could never -be a violation of property. Were men, therefore, to take the liberty -of acting with regard to the laws of society, as they do in every -other affair, they would conduct themselves, on most occasions, by -particular judgments, and would take into consideration the characters -and circumstances of the persons, as well as the general nature of the -question. But 'tis easy to observe, that this would produce an infinite -confusion in human society, and that the avidity and partiality of men -would quickly bring disorder into the world, if not restrained by some -general and inflexible principles. 'Twas therefore with a view to this -inconvenience, that men have established those principles, and have -agreed to restrain themselves by general rules, which are unchangeable -by spite and favour, and by particular views of private or public -interest. These rules, then, are artificially invented for a certain -purpose, and are contrary to the common principles of human nature, -which accommodate themselves to circumstances, and have no stated -invariable method of operation. - -Nor do I perceive how I can easily be mistaken in this matter. I see -evidently, that when any man imposes on himself general inflexible -rules in his conduct with others, he considers certain objects as -their property, which he supposes to be sacred and inviolable. But -no proposition can be more evident, than that property is perfectly -unintelligible without first supposing justice and injustice; and that -these virtues and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives, -independent of the morality, to impel us to just actions, and deter -us from unjust ones. Let those motives, therefore, be what they will, -they must accommodate themselves to circumstances, and must admit of -all the variations which human affairs, in their incessant revolutions, -are susceptible of. They are, consequently, a very improper foundation -for such rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature; and 'tis evident -these laws can only be derived from human conventions, when men have -perceived the disorders that result from following their natural and -variable principles. - -Upon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction betwixt -justice and injustice, as having two different foundations, viz. -that of _interest_, when men observe, that 'tis impossible to live -in society without restraining themselves by certain rules; and that -of _morality_, when this interest is once observed, and men receive -a pleasure from the view of such actions as tend to the peace of -society, and an uneasiness from such as are contrary to it. 'Tis the -voluntary convention and artifice of men which makes the first interest -take place; and therefore those laws of justice are so far to be -considered as _artificial_. After that interest is once established and -acknowledged, the sense of morality in the observance of these rules -follows _naturally_, and of itself; though tis certain, that it is also -augmented by a new _artifice_, and that the public instructions of -politicians, and the private education of parents, contribute to the -giving us a sense of honour and duty, in the strict regulation of our -actions with regard to the properties of others. - - - - -SECTION VII. - -OF THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT. - - -Nothing is more certain, than that men are in a great measure governed -by interest, and that, even when they extend their concern beyond -themselves, 'tis not to any great distance; nor is it usual for -them, in common life, to look farther than their nearest friends and -acquaintance. 'Tis no less certain, that 'tis impossible for men to -consult their interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal and -inflexible observance of the rules of justice, by which alone they can -preserve society, and keep themselves from falling into that wretched -and savage condition which is commonly represented as the _state of -nature_. And as this interest which all men have in the upholding of -society, and the observation of the rules of justice, is great, so -is it palpable and evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated -of the human race; and 'tis almost impossible for any one who has -had experience of society, to be mistaken in this particular. Since, -therefore, men are so sincerely attached to their interest, and their -interest is so much concerned in the observance of justice, and this -interest is so certain and avowed, it may be asked, how any disorder -can ever arise in society, and what principle there is in human nature -so _powerful_ as to overcome so strong a passion, or so _violent_ as to -obscure so clear a knowledge? - -It has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that men are -mightily governed by the imagination, and proportion their affections -more to the light under which any object appears to them, than to its -real and intrinsic value. What strikes upon them with a strong and -lively idea commonly prevails above what lies in a more obscure light; -and it must be a great superiority of value that is able to compensate -this advantage. Now, as every thing that is contiguous to us, either in -space or time, strikes upon us with such an idea, it has a proportional -effect on the will and passions, and commonly operates with more force -than any object that lies in a more distant and obscure light. Though -we may be fully convinced, that the latter object excels the former, we -are not able to regulate our actions by this judgment, but yield to the -solicitations of our passions, which always plead in favour of whatever -is near and contiguous. - -This is the reason why men so often act in contradiction to their known -interest; and, in particular, why they prefer any trivial advantage -that is present, to the maintenance of order in society, which so -much depends on the observance of justice. The consequences of every -breach of equity seem to lie very remote, and and are not liable to -counterbalance any immediate advantage that may be reaped from it. They -are, however, never the less real for being remote; and as all men are, -in some degree, subject to the same weakness, it necessarily happens, -that the violations of equity must become very frequent in society, -and the commerce of men, by that means, be rendered very dangerous -and uncertain. You have the same propension that I have in favour of -what is contiguous above what is remote. You are, therefore, naturally -carried to commit acts of injustice as well as me. Your example both -pushes me forward in this way by imitation, and also affords me a new -reason for any breach of equity, by showing me, that I should be the -cully of my integrity, if I alone should impose on myself a severe -restraint amidst the licentiousness of others. - -This quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very dangerous -to society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to be incapable of any -remedy. The remedy can only come from the consent of men; and if men -be incapable of themselves to prefer remote to contiguous, they will -never consent to any thing which would oblige them to such a choice, -and contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles and -propensities. Whoever chooses the means, chooses also the end; and -if it be impossible for us to prefer what is remote, 'tis equally -impossible for us to submit to any necessity which would oblige us to -such a method of acting. - -But here 'tis observable, that this infirmity of human nature becomes -a remedy to itself, and that we provide against our negligence about -remote objects, merely because we are naturally inclined to that -negligence. When we consider any objects at a distance, all their -minute distinctions vanish, and we always give the preference to -whatever is in itself preferable, without considering its situation and -circumstances. This gives rise to what, in an improper sense, we call -_reason_, which is a principle that is often contradictory to those -propensities that display themselves upon the approach of the object. -In reflecting on any action which I am to perform a twelvemonth hence, -I always resolve to prefer the greater good, whether at that time it -will be more contiguous or remote; nor does any difference in that -particular make a difference in my present intentions and resolutions. -My distance from the final determination makes all those minute -differences vanish, nor am I affected by any thing but the general and -more discernible qualities of good and evil. But on my nearer approach, -those circumstances which I at first overlooked begin to appear, and -have an influence on my conduct and affections. A new inclination to -the present good springs up, and makes it difficult for me to adhere -inflexibly to my first purpose and resolution. This natural infirmity -I may very much regret, and I may endeavour, by all possible means, to -free myself from it. I may have recourse to study and reflection within -myself; to the advice of friends; to frequent meditation, and repeated -resolution: And having experienced how ineffectual all these are, I -may embrace with pleasure any other expedient by which I may impose a -restraint upon myself, and guard against this weakness. - -The only, difficulty, therefore, is to find out this expedient, by -which men cure their natural weakness, and lay themselves under the -necessity of observing the laws of justice and equity, notwithstanding -their violent propension to prefer contiguous to remote. 'Tis -evident such a remedy can never be effectual without correcting -this propensity; and as 'tis impossible to change or correct any -thing material in our nature, the utmost we can do is to change our -circumstances and situation, and render the observance of the laws of -justice our nearest interest, and their violation our most remote. -But this being impracticable with respect to all mankind, it can only -take place with respect to a few, whom we thus immediately interest -in the execution of justice. These are the persons whom we call civil -magistrates, kings and their ministers, our governors and rulers, -who, being indifferent persons to the greatest part of the state, -have no interest, or but a remote one, in any act of injustice; and, -being satisfied with their present condition, and with their part in -society, have an immediate interest in every execution of justice, -which is so necessary to the upholding of society. Here, then, is the -origin of civil government and society. Men are not able radically to -cure, either in themselves or others, that narrowness of soul which -makes them prefer the present to the remote. They cannot change their -natures. All they can do is to change their situation, and render -the observance of justice the immediate interest of some particular -persons, and its violation their more remote. These persons, then, are -not only induced to observe those rules in their own conduct, but also -to constrain others to a like regularity, and enforce the dictates of -equity through the whole society. And if it be necessary, they may -also interest others more immediately in the execution of justice, and -create a number of officers, civil and military, to assist them in -their government. - -But this execution of justice, though the principal, is not the -only advantage of government. As violent passion hinders men from -seeing distinctly the interest they have in an equitable behaviour -towards others, so it hinders them from seeing that equity itself, -and gives them a remarkable partiality in their own favours. This -inconvenience is corrected in the same manner as that above mentioned. -The same persons who execute the laws of justice, will also decide all -controversies concerning them; and, being indifferent to the greatest -part of the society, will decide them more equitably than every one -would in his own case. - -By means of these two advantages in the _execution_ and _decision_ -of justice, men acquire a security against each other's weakness and -passion, as well as against their own, and, under the shelter of their -governors, begin to taste at ease the sweets of society and mutual -assistance. But government extends farther its beneficial influence; -and, not contented to protect men in those conventions they make for -their mutual interest, it often obliges them to make such conventions, -and forces them to seek their own advantage, by a concurrence in some -common end or purpose. There is no quality in human nature which causes -more fatal errors in our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer -whatever is present to the distant and remote, and makes us desire -objects more according to their situation than their intrinsic value. -Two neighbours may agree to drain a meadow, which they possess in -common: because 'tis easy for them to know each other's mind; and each -must perceive, that the immediate consequence of his failing in his -part, is the abandoning the whole project. But 'tis very difficult, and -indeed impossible, that a thousand persons should agree in any such -action; it being difficult for them to concert so complicated a design, -and still more difficult for them to execute it; while each seeks a -pretext to free himself of the trouble and expense, and would lay the -whole burden on others. Political society easily remedies both these -inconveniences. Magistrates find an immediate interest in the interest -of any considerable part of their subjects. They need consult nobody -but themselves to form any scheme for the promoting of that interest. -And as the failure of any one piece in the execution is connected, -though not immediately, with the failure of the whole, they prevent -that failure, because they find no interest in it, either immediate -or remote. Thus, bridges are built, harbours opened, ramparts raised, -canals formed, fleets equipped, and armies disciplined, every where, -by the care of government, which, though composed of men subject to -all human infirmities, becomes, by one of the finest and most subtile -inventions imaginable, a composition which is in some measure exempted -from all these infirmities. - - - - -SECTION VIII. - -OF THE SOURCE OF ALLEGIANCE. - - -Though government be an invention very advantageous, and even in some -circumstances absolutely necessary to mankind, it is not necessary in -all circumstances; nor is it impossible for men to preserve society -for some time, without having recourse to such an invention. Men, 'tis -true, are always much inclined to prefer present interest to distant -and remote; nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation of any -advantage that they may immediately enjoy, in apprehension of an evil -that lies at a distance from them; but still this weakness is less -conspicuous where the possessions and the pleasures of life are few -and of little value, as they always are in the infancy of society. -An Indian is but little tempted to dispossess another of his hut, or -to steal his bow, as being already provided of the same advantages; -and as to any superior fortune which may attend one above another in -hunting and fishing, 'tis only casual and temporary, and will have -but small tendency to disturb society. And so far am I from thinking -with some philosophers, that men are utterly incapable of society -without government, that I assert the first rudiments of government -to arise from quarrels, not among men of the same society, but among -those of different societies. A less degree of riches will suffice -to this latter effect, is requisite for the former. Men fear nothing -from public war and violence but the resistance they meet with, which, -because they share it in common, seems less terrible, and, because it -comes from strangers, seems less pernicious in its consequences, than -when they are exposed singly against one whose commerce is advantageous -to them, and without whose society 'tis impossible they can subsist. -Now foreign war, to a society without government, necessarily produces -civil war. Throw any considerable goods among men, they instantly fall -a quarrelling, while each strives to get possession of what pleases -him, without regard to the consequences. In a foreign war, the most -considerable of all goods, life and limbs, are at stake; and as every -one shuns dangerous ports, seizes the best arms, seeks excuse for the -slightest wounds, the laws, which may be well enough observed while -men were calm, can now no longer take place, when they are in such -commotion. - -This we find verified in the American tribes, where men live in concord -and amity among themselves, without any established government, and -never pay submission to any of their fellows, except in time of war, -when their captain enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after -their return from the field and the establishment of peace with the -neighbouring tribes. This authority, however, instructs them in the -advantages of government, and teaches them to have recourse to it, -when, either by the pillage of war, by commerce, or by any fortuitous -inventions, their riches and possessions have become so considerable -as to make them forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in -the preservation of peace and justice. Hence we may give a plausible -reason, among others, why all governments are at first monarchical, -without any mixture and variety; and why republics arise only from the -abuses of monarchy and despotic power. Camps are the true mothers of -cities; and as war cannot be administered, by reason of the suddenness -of every exigency, without some authority in a single person, the same -kind of authority naturally takes place in that civil government which -succeeds the military. And this reason I take to be more natural than -the common one derived from patriarchal government, or the authority -of a father, which is said first to take place in one family, and to -accustom the members of it to the government of a single person. The -state of society without government is one of the most natural states -of men, and must subsist with the conjunction of many families, and -long after the first generation. Nothing but an increase of riches -and possessions could oblige men to quit it; and so barbarous and -uninstructed are all societies on their first formation, that many -years must elapse before these can increase to such a degree as to -disturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord. - -But though it be possible for men to maintain a small uncultivated -society without government, 'tis impossible they should maintain a -society of any kind without justice, and the observance of those -three fundamental laws concerning the stability of possession, its -translation by consent, and the performance of promises. These are -therefore antecedent to government, and are supposed to impose an -obligation, before the duty of allegiance to civil magistrates has -once been thought of. Nay, I shall go farther, and assert, that -government, _upon its first establishment_, would naturally be supposed -to derive its obligation from those laws of of nature, and, in -particular, from that concerning the performance of promises. When men -have once perceived the necessity of government to maintain peace and -execute justice, they would naturally assemble together, would choose -magistrates, determine their power, and _promise_ them obedience. As -a promise is supposed to be a bond or security already in use, and -attended with a moral obligation, 'tis to be considered as the original -sanction of government, and as the source of the first obligation to -obedience. This reasoning appears so natural, that it has become the -foundation of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a manner -the creed of a party amongst us, who pride themselves, with reason, on -the soundness of their philosophy, and their liberty of thought. 'All -men,' say they, 'are born free and equal: government and superiority -can only be established by consent: the consent of men, in establishing -government, imposes on them a new obligation, unknown to the laws -of nature. Men, therefore, are bound to obey their magistrates, -only because they promise it; and if they had not given their word, -either expressly or tacitly, to preserve allegiance, it would never -have become a part of their moral duty. This conclusion, however, -when carried so far as to comprehend government in all its ages and -situations, is entirely erroneous; and I maintain, that though the duty -of allegiance be at first grafted on the obligation of promises, and be -for some time supported by that obligation, yet it quickly takes root -of itself, and has an original obligation and authority, independent -of all contracts. This is a principle of moment, which we must examine -with care and attention, before we proceed any farther. - -'Tis reasonable for those philosophers who assert justice to be a -natural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions, to resolve all -civil allegiance into the obligation of a promise, and assert that 'tis -our own consent alone which binds us to any submission to magistracy. -For as all government is plainly an invention of men, and the origin of -most governments is known in history, 'tis necessary to mount higher, -in order to find the source of our political duties, if we would assert -them to have any _natural_ obligation of morality. These philosophers, -therefore, quickly observe, that society is as ancient as the human -species, and those three fundamental laws of nature as ancient as -society; so that, taking advantage of the antiquity and obscure origin -of these laws, they first deny them to be artificial and voluntary -inventions of men, and then seek to ingraft on them those other duties -which are more plainly artificial. But being once undeceived in this -particular, and having found that _natural_ as well as _civil_ justice -derives its origin from human conventions, we shall quickly perceive -how fruitless it is to resolve the one into the other, and seek, in the -laws of nature, a stronger foundation for our political duties than -interest and human conventions; while these laws themselves are built -on the very same foundation. On whichever side we turn this subject, -we shall find that these two kinds of duty are exactly on the same -footing, and have the same source both of their _first invention_ and -_moral obligation_. They are contrived to remedy like inconveniences, -and acquire their moral sanction in the same manner, from their -remedying those inconveniences. These are two points which we shall -endeavour to prove as distinctly as possible. - -We have already shown, that men _invented_ the three fundamental -laws of nature, when they observed the necessity of society to their -mutual subsistence, and found that 'twas impossible to maintain any -correspondence together, without some restraint on their natural -appetites. The same self-love, therefore, which renders men so -incommodious to each other, taking a new and more convenient direction, -produces the rules of justice, and is the _first_ motive of their -observance. But when men have observed, that though the rules of -justice be sufficient to maintain any society, yet 'tis impossible -for them, of themselves, to observe those rules in large and polished -societies; they establish government as a new invention to attain -their ends, and preserve the old, or procure new advantages, by a more -strict execution of justice. So far, therefore, our _civil_ duties are -connected with our _natural_, that the former are invented chiefly for -the sake of the latter; and that the principal object of government -is to constrain men to observe the laws of nature. In this respect, -however, that law of nature, concerning the performance of promises, is -only comprised along with the rest; and its exact observance is to be -considered as an effect of the institution of government, and not the -obedience to government as an effect of the obligation of a promise. -Though the object of our civil duties be the enforcing of our natural, -yet the _first_[9] motive of the invention, as well as performance -of both, is nothing but self-interest; and since there is a separate -interest in the obedience to government, from that in the performance -of promises, we must also allow of a separate obligation. To obey the -civil magistrate is requisite to preserve order and concord in society. -To perform promises is requisite to beget mutual trust and confidence -in the common offices of life. The ends, as well as the means, are -perfectly distinct; nor is the one subordinate to the other. - -To make this more evident, let us consider, that men will often bind -themselves by promises to the performance of what it would have been -their interest to perform, independent of these promises; as when they -would give others a fuller security, by superadding a new obligation -of interest to that which they formerly lay under. The interest in the -performance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is general, -avowed, and of the last consequence in life. Other interests may be -more particular and doubtful; and we are apt to entertain a greater -suspicion, that men may indulge their humour or passion in acting -contrary to them. Here, therefore, promises come naturally in play, and -are often required for fuller satisfaction and security. But supposing -those other interests to be as general and avowed as the interest in -the performance of a promise, they will be regarded as on the same -footing, and men will begin to repose the same confidence in them. Now -this is exactly the case with regard to our civil duties, or obedience -to the magistrate; without which no government could subsist, nor any -peace or order be maintained in large societies, where there are so -many possessions on the one hand, and so many wants, real or imaginary, -on the other. Our civil duties, therefore, must soon detach themselves -from our promises, and acquire a separate force and influence. The -interest in both is of the very same kind; 'tis general, avowed, -and prevails in all times and places. There is, then, no pretext of -reason for founding the one upon the other, while each of them has a -foundation peculiar to itself. We might as well resolve the obligation -to abstain from the possessions of others, into the obligation of a -promise, as that of allegiance. The interests are not more distinct in -the one case than the other. A regard to property is not more necessary -to natural society, than obedience is to civil society or government; -nor is the former society more necessary to the being of mankind, -than the latter to their well-being and happiness. In short, if the -performance of promises be advantageous, so is obedience to government; -if the former interest be general, so is the latter; if the one -interest be obvious and avowed, so is the other. And as these two rules -are founded on like obligations of interest, each of them must have a -peculiar authority, independent of the other. - -But 'tis not only the _natural_ obligations of interest, which are -distinct in promises and allegiance; but also the _moral_ obligations -of honour and conscience: nor does the merit or demerit of the one -depend in the least upon that of the other. And, indeed, if we consider -the close connexion there is betwixt the natural and moral obligations, -we shall find this conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. Our interest -is always engaged on the side of obedience to magistracy; and there is -nothing but a great present advantage that can lead us to rebellion, by -making us overlook the remote interest which we have in the preserving -of peace and order in society. But though a present interest may thus -blind us with regard to our own actions, it takes not place with regard -to those of others; nor hinders them from appearing in their true -colours, as highly prejudicial to public interest, and to our own in -particular. This naturally gives us an uneasiness, in considering such -seditious and disloyal actions, and makes us attach to them the idea -of vice and moral deformity. 'Tis the same principle which causes us -to disapprove of all kinds of private injustice, and, in particular, -of the breach of promises. We blame all treachery and breach of faith; -because we consider, that the freedom and extent of human commerce -depend entirely on a fidelity with regard to promises. We blame all -disloyalty to magistrates; because we perceive that the execution of -justice, in the stability of possession, its translation by consent, -and the performance of promises, is impossible, without submission to -government. As there are here two interests entirely distinct from each -other, they must give rise to two moral obligations, equally separate -and independent. Though there was no such thing as a promise in the -world, government would still be necessary in all large and civilized -societies; and if promises had only their own proper obligation, -without the separate sanction of government, they would have but little -efficacy in such societies. This separates the boundaries of our public -and private duties, and shows that the latter are more dependent on the -former, than the former on the latter. _Education_, and _the artifice -of politicians_, concur to bestow a farther morality on loyalty, and to -brand all rebellion with a greater degree of guilt and infamy. Nor is -it a wonder that politicians should be very industrious in inculcating -such notions, where their interest is so particularly concerned. - -Lest those arguments should not appear entirely conclusive (as I think -they are), I shall have recourse to authority, and shall prove, from -the universal consent of mankind, that the obligation of submission to -government is not derived from any promise of the subjects. Nor need -any one wonder, that though I have all along endeavoured to establish -my system on pure reason, and have scarce ever cited the judgment even -of philosophers or historians on any article, I should now appeal to -popular authority, and oppose the sentiments of the rabble to any -philosophical reasoning. For it must be observed, that the opinions of -men, in this case, carry with them a peculiar authority, and are, in -a great measure, infallible. The distinction of moral good and evil -is founded on the pleasure or pain which results from the view of any -sentiment or character; and, as that pleasure or pain cannot be unknown -to the person who feels it, it follows,[10] that there is just so much -vice or virtue in any character as every one places in it, and that -'tis impossible in this particular we can ever be mistaken. And, though -our judgments concerning the _origin_ of any vice or virtue, be not so -certain as those concerning their _degrees_, yet, since the question in -this case regards not any philosophical origin of an obligation, but a -plain matter of fact, 'tis not easily conceived how we can fall into -an error. A man who acknowledges himself to be bound to another for -a certain sum, must certainly know whether it be by his own bond, or -that of his father; whether it be of his mere good will, or for money -lent him; and under what conditions, and for what purposes, he has -bound himself. In like manner, it being certain that there is a moral -obligation to submit to government, because everyone thinks so; it must -be as certain that this obligation arises not from a promise; since no -one, whose judgment has not been led astray by too strict adherence to -a system of philosophy, has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it to that -origin. Neither magistrates nor subjects have formed this idea of our -civil duties. - -We find, that magistrates are so far from deriving their authority, and -the obligation to obedience in their subjects, from the foundation of -a promise or original contract, that they conceal, as far as possible, -from their people, especially from the vulgar, that they have their -origin from thence. Were this the sanction of government, our rulers -would never receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be -pretended; since what is given tacitly and insensibly, can never have -such influence on mankind as what is performed expressly and openly. -A tacit promise is, where the will is signified by other more diffuse -signs than those of speech; but a will there must certainly be in the -case, and that can never escape the person's notice who exerted it, -however silent or tacit. But were you to ask the far greatest part of -the nation, whether they had ever consented to the authority of their -rulers, or promised to obey them, they would be inclined to think very -strangely of you; and would certainly reply, that the affair depended -not on their consent, but that they were born to such an obedience. -In consequence of this opinion, we frequently see them imagine such -persons to be their natural rulers, as are at that time deprived of -all power and authority, and whom no man, however foolish, would -voluntarily choose; and this merely because they are in that line -which ruled before, and in that decree of it which used to succeed: -though perhaps in so distant a period, that scarce any man alive could -ever have given any promise of obedience. Has a government, then, no -authority over such as these, because they never consented to it, -and would esteem the very attempt of such a free choice a piece of -arrogance and impiety? We find by experience, that it punishes them -very freely for what it calls treason and rebellion, which, it seems, -according to this system, reduces itself to common injustice. If you -say, that by dwelling in its dominions, they in effect consented to -the established government, I answer, that this can only be where they -think the affair depends on their choice, which few or none beside -those philosophers have ever yet imagined. It never was pleaded as an -excuse for a rebel, that the first act he performed, after he came -to years of discretion, was to levy war against the sovereign of the -state; and that, while he was a child he could not bind himself by his -own consent, and having become a man, showed plainly, by the first act -he performed, that he had no design to impose on himself any obligation -to obedience. We find, on the contrary, that civil laws punish this -crime at the same age as any other which is criminal of itself, -without our consent; that is, when the person is come to the full use -of reason: whereas to this crime it ought in justice to allow some -intermediate time, in which a tacit consent at least might be supposed. -To which we may add, that a man living under an absolute government -would owe it no allegiance; since, by its very nature, it depends not -on consent. But as that is as _natural_ and _common_ a government as -any, it must certainly occasion some obligation; and 'tis plain from -experience, that men who are subjected to it do always think so. This -is a clear proof, that we do not commonly esteem our allegiance to -be derived from our consent or promise; and a farther proof is, that -when our promise is upon any account expressly engaged, we always -distinguish exactly betwixt the two obligations, and believe the one to -add more force to the other, than in a repetition of the same promise. -Where no promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as broken -in private matters, upon account of rebellion; but keeps those two -duties of honour and allegiance perfectly distinct and separate. As -the uniting of them was thought by these philosophers a very subtile -invention, this is a convincing proof that 'tis not a true one; since -no man can either give a promise, or be restrained by its sanction and -obligation, unknown to himself. - - - - -SECTION IX. - -OF THE MEASURES OF ALLEGIANCE. - - -Those political writers who have had recourse to a promise, or original -contract, as the source of our allegiance to government, intended -to establish a principle which is perfectly just and reasonable; -though the reasoning upon which they endeavoured to establish it, was -fallacious and sophistical. They would prove, that our submission to -government admits of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the -rulers is sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance. -Since men enter into society, say they, and submit themselves to -government by their free and voluntary consent, they must have in -view certain advantages which they, propose to reap from it, and for -which they are contented to resign their native liberty. There is -therefore something mutual engaged on the part of the magistrate, -viz. protection and security; and 'tis only by the hopes he affords -of these advantages, that he can ever persuade men to submit to him. -But when, instead of protection and security, they meet with tyranny -and oppression, they are freed from their promises, (as happens in -all conditional contracts), and return to that state of liberty -which preceded the institution of government. Men would never be so -foolish as to enter into such engagements as should turn entirely -to the advantage of others, without any view of bettering their own -condition. Whoever proposes to draw any profit from our submission, -must engage himself, either expressly or tacitly, to make us reap some -advantage from his authority; nor ought he to expect, that, without the -performance of his part, we will ever continue in obedience. - -I repeat it: This conclusion is just, though the principles be -erroneous; and I flatter myself, that I can establish the same -conclusion on more reasonable principles. I shall not take such a -compass, in establishing our political duties, as to assert that men -perceive the advantages of government; that they institute government -with a view to those advantages; that this institution requires a -promise of obedience, which imposes a moral obligation to a certain -degree, but, being conditional, ceases to be binding whenever the other -contracting party performs not his part of the engagement. I perceive, -that a promise itself arises entirely from human conventions, and is -invented with a view to a certain interest. I seek, therefore, some -such interest more immediately connected with government, and which may -be at once the original motive to its institution, and the source of -our obedience to it. This interest I find to consist in the security -and protection which we enjoy in political society, and which we can -never attain when perfectly free and independent. As the interest, -therefore, is the immediate sanction of government, the one can have no -longer being than the other; and whenever the civil magistrate carries -his oppression so far as to render his authority perfectly intolerable, -we are no longer bound to submit to it. The cause ceases; the effect -must cease also. - -So far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning the _natural_ -obligation which we have to allegiance. As to the _moral_ obligation, -we may observe, that the maxim would here be false, that _when the -cause ceases the effect must cease also_. For there is a principle -of human nature, which we have frequently taken notice of, that men -are mightily addicted to _general rules_, and that we often carry our -maxims beyond those reasons which first induced us to establish them. -Where cases are similar in many circumstances, we are apt to put them -on the same footing, without considering that they differ in the most -material circumstances, and that the resemblance is more apparent than -real. It may therefore be thought, that, in the case of allegiance, -our moral obligation of duty will not cease, even though the natural -obligation of interest, which is its cause, has ceased; and that men -may be bound by _conscience_ to submit to a tyrannical government, -against their own and the public interest. And indeed, to the force of -this argument I so far submit, as to acknowledge, that general rules -commonly extend beyond the principles on which they are founded; and -that we seldom make any exception to them, unless that exception have -the qualities of a general rule, and be founded on very numerous and -common instances. Now this I assert to be entirely the present case. -When men submit to the authority of others, 'tis to procure themselves -some security against the wickedness and injustice of men, who are -perpetually carried, by their unruly passions, and by their present -and immediate interest, to the violation of all the laws of society. -But as this imperfection is inherent in human nature, we know that it -must attend men in all their states and conditions; and that those -whom we choose for rulers, do not immediately become of a superior -nature to the rest of mankind, upon account of their superior power and -authority. What we expect from them depends not on a change of their -nature, but of their situation, when they acquire a more immediate -interest in the preservation of order and the execution of justice. -But, besides that this interest is only more immediate in the execution -of justice among their subjects; besides this, I say, we may often -expect, from the irregularity of human nature, that they will neglect -even this immediate interest, and be transported by their passions -into all the excesses of cruelty and ambition. Our general knowledge -of human nature, our observation of the past history of mankind, -our experience of present times; all these causes must induce us to -open the door of exceptions, and must make us conclude, that we may -resist the more violent effects of supreme power without any crime or -injustice. - -Accordingly we may observe, that this is both the general practice and -principle of mankind, and that no nation that could find any remedy, -ever yet suffered the cruel ravages of a tyrant, or were blamed for -their resistance. Those who took up arms against Dionysius or Nero, or -Philip the Second, have the favour of every reader in the perusal of -their history; and nothing but the most violent perversion of common -sense can ever lead us to condemn them. 'Tis certain, therefore, that -in all our notions of morals, we never entertain such an absurdity -as that of passive obedience, but make allowances for resistance in -the more flagrant instances of tyranny and oppression. The general -opinion of mankind has some authority in all cases; but in this of -morals 'tis perfectly infallible. Nor is it less infallible, because -men cannot distinctly explain the principles on which it is founded. -Few persons can carry on this train of reasoning: 'Government is a mere -human invention for the interest of society. Where the tyranny of the -governor removes this interest, it also removes the natural obligation -to obedience. The moral obligation is founded on the natural, and -therefore must cease where _that_ ceases; especially where the subject -is such as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the natural -obligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind of general rule for -the regulation of our conduct in such occurrences.' But though this -train of reasoning be too subtile for the vulgar, 'tis certain that -all men have an implicit notion of it, and are sensible that they owe -obedience to government merely on account of the public interest; and, -at the same time, that human nature is so subject to frailties and -passions, as may easily pervert this institution, and change their -governors into tyrants and public enemies. If the sense of public -interest were not our original motive to obedience, I would fain ask, -what other principle is there in human nature capable of subduing -the natural ambition of men, and forcing them to such a submission? -Imitation and custom are not sufficient. For the question still recurs, -what motive first produces those instances of submission which we -imitate, and that train of actions which produces the custom? There -evidently is no other principle than public interest; and if interest -first produces obedience to government, the obligation to obedience -must cease whenever the interest ceases in any great degree, and in a -considerable number of instances. - - - - -SECTION X. - -OF THE OBJECTS OF ALLEGIANCE. - - -But though, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in sound -politics and morality, to resist supreme power, 'tis certain that, in -the ordinary course of human affairs, nothing can be more pernicious -and criminal; and that, besides the convulsions which always attend -revolutions, such a practice tends directly to the subversion of -all government, and the causing an universal anarchy and confusion -among mankind. As numerous and civilized societies cannot subsist -without government, so government is entirely useless without an exact -obedience. We ought always to weigh the advantages which we reap from -authority, against the disadvantages: and by this means we shall become -more scrupulous of putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. The -common rule requires submission; and 'tis only in cases of grievous -tyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place. - -Since, then, such a blind submission is commonly due to magistracy, -the next question is, _to whom it is due, and whom we are to regard -as our lawful magistrates_? In order to answer this question, let us -recollect what we have already established concerning the origin of -government and political society. When men have once experienced the -impossibility of preserving any steady order in society, while every -one is his own master, and violates or observes the laws of interest, -according to his present interest or pleasure, they naturally run into -the invention of government, and put it out of their own power, as far -as possible, to transgress the laws of society. Government, therefore, -arises from the voluntary convention of men; and 'tis evident, that the -same convention which establishes government, will also determine the -persons who are to govern, and will remove all doubt and ambiguity in -this particular. And the voluntary consent of men must here have the -greater efficacy, that the authority of the magistrate does _at first_ -stand upon the foundation of a promise of the subjects, by which they -bind themselves to obedience, as in every other contract or engagement. -The same promise, then, which binds them to obedience, ties them down -to a particular person, and makes him the object of their allegiance. - -But when government has been established on this footing for some -considerable time, and the separate interest which we have in -submission has produced a separate sentiment of morality, the case -is entirely altered, and a promise is no longer able to determine -the particular magistrate; since it is no longer considered as the -foundation of government. We naturally suppose ourselves born to -submission; and imagine that such particular persons have a right to -command, as we on our part are bound to obey. These notions of right -and obligation are derived from nothing but the _advantage_ we reap -from government, which gives us a repugnance to practise resistance -ourselves, and makes us displeased with any instance of it in others. -But here 'tis remarkable, that in this new state of affairs, the -original sanction of government, which is _interest_, is not admitted -to determine the persons whom we are to obey, as the original sanction -did at first, when affairs were on the footing of a _promise_. A -_promise_ fixes and determines the persons, without any uncertainty: -but 'tis evident, that if men were to regulate their conduct in this -particular, by the view of a peculiar _interest_, either public or -private, they would involve themselves in endless confusion, and -would render all government, in a great measure, ineffectual. The -private interest of every one is different; and, though the public -interest in itself be always one and the same, yet it becomes the -source of as great dissensions, by reason of the different opinions -of particular persons concerning it. The same interest, therefore, -which causes us to submit to magistracy, makes us renounce itself in -the choice of our magistrates, and binds us down to a certain form of -government, and to particular persons, without allowing us to aspire -to the utmost perfection in either. The case is here the same as -in that law of nature concerning the stability of possession. 'Tis -highly advantageous, and even absolutely necessary to society, that -possession should be stable; and this leads us to the establishment of -such a rule: but we find, that were we to follow the same advantage, -in assigning particular possessions to particular persons, we should -disappoint our end, and perpetuate the confusion which that rule is -intended to prevent. We must therefore proceed by general rules, and -regulate ourselves by general interests, in modifying the law of -nature concerning the stability of possession. Nor need we fear, that -our attachment to this law will diminish upon account of the seeming -frivolousness of those interests by which it is determined. The -impulse of the mind is derived from a very strong interest; and those -other more minute interests serve only to direct the motion, without -adding any thing to it, or diminishing from it. 'Tis the same case -with government. Nothing is more advantageous to society than such -an invention; and this interest is sufficient to make us embrace it -with ardour and alacrity; though we are obliged afterwards to regulate -and direct our devotion to government by several considerations which -are not of the same importance, and to choose our magistrates without -having in view any particular advantage from the choice. - -The _first_ of those principles I shall take notice of, as a foundation -of the right of magistracy, is that which gives authority to all the -most established governments of the world, without exception: I mean, -_long possession_ in any one form of government, or succession of -princes. 'Tis certain, that if we remount to the first origin of every -nation, we shall find, that there scarce is any race of kings, or form -of a commonwealth, that is not primarily founded on usurpation and -rebellion, and whose title is not at first worse than doubtful and -uncertain. Time alone gives solidity to their right; and, operating -gradually on the minds of men, reconciles them to any authority, and -makes it seem just and reasonable. Nothing causes any sentiment to have -a greater influence upon us than custom, or turns our imagination more -strongly to any object. When we have been long accustomed to obey any -set of men, that general instinct or tendency which we have to suppose -a moral obligation attending loyalty, takes easily this direction, and -chooses that set of men for its objects. 'Tis interest which gives the -general instinct; but 'tis custom which gives the particular direction. - -And here 'tis observable, that the same length of time has a different -influence on our sentiments of morality, according to its different -influence on the mind. We naturally judge of every thing by comparison; -and since, in considering the fate of kingdoms and republics, we -embrace a long extent of time, a small duration has not, in this -case, a like influence on our sentiments, as when we consider any -other object. One thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit -of clothes, in a very short time; but a century is scarce sufficient -to establish any new government, or remove all scruples in the minds -of the subjects concerning it. Add to this, that a shorter period of -time will suffice to give a prince a title to any additional power -he may usurp, than will serve to fix his right, where the whole -is an usurpation. The kings of France have not been possessed of -absolute power for above two reigns; and yet nothing will appear -more extravagant to Frenchmen than to talk of their liberties. If we -consider what has been said concerning _accession_, we shall easily -account for this phenomenon. - -When there is no form of government established by _long_ possession, -the _present_ possession is sufficient to supply its place, and may -be regarded as the _second_ source of all public authority. Right -to authority is nothing but the constant possession of authority, -maintained by the laws of society and the interests of mankind; and -nothing can be more natural than to join this constant possession to -the present one, according to the principles above mentioned. If the -same principles did not take place with regard to the property of -private persons, 'twas because these principles were counterbalanced -by very strong considerations of interest; when we observed, that all -restitution would by that means be prevented, and every violence be -authorized and protected. And, though the same motives may seem to -have force with regard to public authority, yet they are opposed by a -contrary interest; which consists in the preservation of peace, and the -avoiding of all changes, which, however they may be easily produced in -private affairs, are unavoidably attended with bloodshed and confusion -where the public is interested. - -Any one who, finding the impossibility of accounting for the right of -the present possessor, by any received system of ethics, should resolve -to deny absolutely that right, and assert that it is not authorized -by morality, would be justly thought to maintain a very extravagant -paradox, and to shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. No -maxim is more conformable, both to prudence and morals, than to -submit quietly to the government which we find established in the -country where we happen to live, without inquiring too curiously into -its origin and first establishment. Few governments will bear being -examined so rigorously. How many kingdoms are there at present in the -world, and how many more do we find in history, whose governors have no -better foundation for their authority than that of present possession! -To confine ourselves to the Roman and Grecian empire; is it not -evident, that the long succession of emperors, from the dissolution -of the Roman liberty, to the final extinction of that empire by the -Turks, could not so much as pretend to any other title to the empire? -The election of the senate was a mere form, which always followed the -choice of the legions; and these were almost always divided in the -different provinces, and nothing but the sword was able to terminate -the difference. 'Twas by the sword, therefore, that every emperor -acquired, as well as defended, his right; and we must either say, that -all the known world, for so many ages, had no government, and owed no -allegiance to any one, or must allow, that the right of the stronger, -in public affairs, is to be received as legitimate, and authorized by -morality, when not opposed by any other title. - -The right of _conquest_ may be considered as a _third_ source of the -title of sovereigns. This right resembles very much that of present -possession, but has rather a superior force, being seconded by the -notions of glory and honour which we ascribe to _conquerors_, instead -of the sentiments of hatred and detestation which attend _usurpers_. -Men naturally favour those they love; and therefore are more apt to -ascribe a right to successful violence, betwixt one sovereign and -another, than to the successful rebellion of a subject against his -sovereign.[11] - -When neither long possession, nor present possession, nor conquest take -place, as when the first sovereign who founded any monarchy dies; in -that case, the right of _succession_ naturally prevails in their stead, -and men are commonly induced to place the son of their late monarch -on the throne, and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. The -presumed consent of the father, the imitation of the succession to -private families, the interest which the state has in choosing the -person who is most powerful and has the most numerous followers; all -these reasons lead men to prefer the son of their late monarch to any -other person.[12] - -These reasons have some weight; but I am persuaded, that, to one who -considers impartially of the matter, 'twill appear that there concur -some principles of the imagination along with those views of interest. -The royal authority seems to be connected with the young prince even in -his father's lifetime, by the natural transition of the thought, and -still more after his death; so that nothing is more natural than to -complete this union by a new relation, and by putting him actually in -possession of what seems so naturally to belong to him. - -To confirm this, we may weigh the following phenomena, which are -pretty curious in their kind. In elective monarchies, the right of -succession has no place by the laws and settled custom; and yet its -influence is so natural, that 'tis impossible entirely to exclude it -from the imagination, and render the subjects indifferent to the son -of their deceased monarch. Hence, in some governments of this kind, -the choice commonly falls on one or other of the royal family; and -in some governments they are all excluded. Those contrary phenomena -proceed from the same principle. Where the royal family is excluded, -'tis from a refinement in politics, which makes people sensible of -their propensity to choose a sovereign in that family, and gives them -a jealousy of their liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by this -propensity, should establish his family, and destroy the freedom of -elections for the future. - -The history of Artaxerxes and the younger Cyrus, may furnish us with -some reflections to the same purpose. Cyrus pretended a right to the -throne above his elder brother, because he was born after his father's -accession. I do not pretend that this reason was valid. I would only -infer from it, that he would never have made use of such a pretext, -were it not for the qualities of the imagination above-mentioned, by -which we are naturally inclined to unite by a new relation whatever -objects we find already united. Artaxerxes had an advantage above his -brother, as being the eldest son, and the first in succession; but -Cyrus was more closely related to the royal authority, as being begot -after his father was invested with it. - -Should it here be pretended, that the view of convenience may be -the source of all the right of succession, and that men gladly take -advantage of any rule by which they can fix the successor of their -late sovereign, and prevent that anarchy and confusion which attends -all new elections; to this I would answer, that I readily allow that -this motive may contribute something to the effect; but at the same -time I assert, that, without another principle, 'tis impossible such -a motive should take place. The interest of a nation requires that the -succession to the crown should be fixed one way or other; but 'tis the -same thing to its interest in what way it be fixed; so that if the -relation of blood had not an effect independent of public interest, it -would never have been regarded without a positive law; and 'twould have -been impossible that so many positive laws of different nations could -ever have concurred precisely in the same views and intentions. - -This leads us to consider the _fifth_ source of authority, viz. -_positive laws_, when the legislature establishes a certain form -of government and succession of princes. At first sight, it may be -thought that this must resolve into some of the preceding titles of -authority. The legislative power, whence the positive law is derived, -must either be established by original contract, long possession, -present possession, conquest, or succession; and consequently the -positive law must derive its force from some of those principles. But -here 'tis remarkable, that though a positive law can only derive its -force from these principles, yet it acquires not all the force of the -principle from whence it is derived, but loses considerably in the -transition, as it is natural to imagine. For instance, a government is -established for many centuries on a certain system of laws, forms, and -methods of succession. The legislative power, established by this long -succession, changes, all on a sudden, the whole system of government, -and introduces a new constitution in its stead. I believe few of the -subjects will think themselves bound to comply with this alteration, -unless it have an evident tendency to the public good, but will think -themselves still at liberty to return to the ancient government. Hence -the notion of _fundamental_ laws, which are supposed to be unalterable -by the will of the sovereign; and of this nature the Salic law is -understood to be in France. How far these fundamental laws extend, is -not determined in any government, nor is it possible it ever should. -There is such an insensible gradation from the most material laws to -the most trivial, and from the most ancient laws to the most modern, -that 'twill be impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and -determine how far it may innovate in the principles of government. That -is the work more of imagination and passion than of reason. - -Whoever considers the history of the several nations of the world, -their revolutions, conquests, increase and diminution, the manner in -which their particular governments are established, and the successive -right transmitted from one person to another, will soon learn to treat -very lightly all disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will be -convinced that a strict adherence to any general rules, and the rigid -loyalty to particular persons and families, on which some people set -so high a value, are virtues that hold less of reason than of bigotry -and superstition. In this particular, the study of history confirms the -reasonings of true philosophy, which, showing us the original qualities -of human nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in politics as -incapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely subordinate -to the interests of peace and liberty. Where the public good does -not evidently demand a change, 'tis certain that the concurrence -of all those titles, _original contract, long possession, present -possession, succession_, and _positive laws_, forms the strongest title -to sovereignty, and is justly regarded as sacred and inviolable. But -when these titles are mingled and opposed in different degrees, they -often occasion perplexity, and are less capable of solution from the -arguments of lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the -soldiery. Who shall tell me, for instance, whether Germanicus or Drusus -ought to have succeeded Tiberius, had he died while they were both -alive, without naming any of them for his successor? Ought the right -of adoption to be received as equivalent to that of blood, in a nation -where it had the same effect in private families, and had already, -in two instances, taken place in the public? Ought Germanicus to be -esteemed the eldest son, because he was born before Drusus; or the -younger, because he was adopted after the birth of his brother? Ought -the right of the elder to be regarded in a nation, where the eldest -brother had no advantage in the succession to private families? Ought -the Roman empire at that time to be esteemed hereditary, because of two -examples; or ought it, even so early, to be regarded as belonging to -the stronger, or the present possessor, as being founded on so recent -an usurpation? Upon whatever principles we may pretend to answer these -and such like questions, I am afraid we shall never be able to satisfy -an impartial inquirer, who adopts no party in political controversies, -and will be satisfied with nothing but sound reason and philosophy. - -But here an English reader will be apt to inquire concerning that -famous _revolution_ which has had such a happy influence on our -constitution, and has been attended with such mighty consequences. -We have already remarked, that, in the case of enormous tyranny and -oppression, 'tis lawful to take arms even against supreme power; and -that, as government is a mere human invention, for mutual advantage -and security, it no longer imposes any obligation, either natural or -moral, when once it ceases to have that tendency. But though this -_general_ principle be authorized by common sense, and the practice -of all ages, 'tis certainly impossible for the laws, or even for -philosophy, to establish any _particular_ rules by which we may -know when resistance is lawful, and decide all controversies which -may arise on that subject. This may not only happen with regard to -supreme power, but 'tis possible, even in some constitutions, where -the legislative authority is not lodged in one person, that there -may be a magistrate so eminent and powerful as to oblige the laws to -keep silence in this particular. Nor would this silence be an effect -only of their _respect_, but also of their _prudence_; since 'tis -certain, that, in the vast variety of circumstances which occur in -all governments, an exercise of power, in so great a magistrate, may -at one time be beneficial to the public, which at another time would -be pernicious and tyrannical. But notwithstanding this silence of -the laws in limited monarchies, 'tis certain that the people still -retain the right of resistance; since 'tis impossible, even in the -most despotic governments, to deprive them of it. The same necessity -of self-preservation, and the same motive of public good, give them -the same liberty in the one case as in the other. And we may farther -observe, that in such mixed governments, the cases wherein resistance -is lawful must occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to -the subjects to defend themselves by force of arms, than in arbitrary -governments. Not only where the chief magistrate enters into measures -in themselves extremely pernicious to the public, but even when he -would encroach on the other parts of the constitution, and extend his -power beyond the legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone -him; though such resistance and violence may, in the general tenor of -the laws, be deemed unlawful and rebellious. For, besides that nothing -is more essential to public interest than the preservation of public -liberty, 'tis evident, that if such a mixed government be once supposed -to be established, every part or member of the constitution must have -a right of self-defence, and of maintaining its ancient bounds against -the encroachment of every other authority. As matter would have been -created in vain, were it deprived of a power of resistance, without -which no part of it could preserve a distinct existence, and the whole -might be crowded up into a single point; so 'tis a gross absurdity to -suppose, in any government, a right without a remedy, or allow that the -supreme power is shared with the people, without allowing that 'tis -lawful for them to defend their share against every invader. Those, -therefore, who would seem to respect our free government, and yet deny -the right of resistance, have renounced all pretensions to common -sense, and do not merit a serious answer. - -It does not belong to my present purpose to show, that these general -principles are applicable to the late _revolution_; and that all the -rights and privileges which ought to be sacred to a free nation, were -at that time threatened with the utmost danger. I am better pleased to -leave this controverted subject, if it really admits of controversy, -and to indulge myself in some philosophical reflections which naturally -arise from that important event. - -_First_, We may observe, that should the _lords_ and _commons_ in our -constitution, without any reason from public interest, either depose -the king in being, or, after his death, exclude the prince, who, by -laws and settled custom, ought to succeed, no one would esteem their -proceedings legal, or think themselves bound to comply with them. -But should the king, by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a -tyrannical and despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not -only becomes morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political -society to dethrone him; but, what is more, we are apt likewise to -think, that the remaining members of the constitution acquire a right -of excluding his next heir, and of choosing whom they please for his -successor. This is founded on a very singular quality of our thought -and imagination. When a king forfeits his authority, his heir ought -naturally to remain in the same situation as if the king were removed -by death; unless by mixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it for -himself. But though this may seem reasonable, we easily comply with the -contrary opinion. The deposition of a king, in such a government as -ours, is certainly an act beyond all common authority; and an illegal -assuming a power for public good, which, in the ordinary course of -government, can belong to no member of the constitution. When the -public good is so great and so evident as to justify the action, the -commendable use of this license causes us naturally to attribute to the -_parliament_ a right of using farther licenses; and the ancient bounds -of the laws being once transgressed with approbation, we are not apt -to be so strict in confining ourselves precisely within their limits. -The mind naturally runs on with any train of action which it has begun; -nor do we commonly make any scruple concerning our duty, after the -first action of any kind which we perform. Thus at the _revolution_, -no one who thought the deposition of the father justifiable, esteemed -themselves to be confined to his infant son; though, had that unhappy -monarch died innocent at that time, and had his son, by any accident, -been conveyed beyond seas, there is no doubt but a regency would have -been appointed till he should come to age, and could be restored to -his dominions. As the slightest properties of the imagination have -an effect on the judgments of the people, it shows the wisdom of the -laws and of the parliament to take advantage of such properties, and -to choose the magistrates either in or out of a line, according as the -vulgar will most naturally attribute authority and right to them. - -_Secondly_, Though the accession of the Prince of Orange to the throne, -might at first give occasion to many disputes, and his title be -contested, it ought not now to appear doubtful, but must have acquired -a sufficient authority from those three princes who have succeeded -him upon the same title. Nothing is more usual, though nothing may, -at first sight, appear more unreasonable, than this way of thinking. -Princes often _seem_ to acquire a right from their successors, as well -as from their ancestors; and a king who, during his lifetime, might -justly be deemed an usurper, will be regarded by posterity as a lawful -prince, because he has had the good fortune to settle his family on -the throne, and entirely change the ancient form of government. Julius -Cæsar is regarded as the first Roman emperor; while Sylla and Marius, -whose titles were really the same as his, are treated as tyrants and -usurpers. Time and custom give authority to all forms of government, -and all successions of princes; and that power, which at first was -founded only on injustice and violence, becomes in time legal and -obligatory. Nor does the mind rest there; but, returning back upon -its footsteps, transfers to their predecessors and ancestors that -right which it naturally ascribes to the posterity, as being related -together, and united in the imagination. The present King of France -makes Hugh Capet a more lawful prince than Cromwell; as the established -liberty of the Dutch is no inconsiderable apology for their obstinate -resistance to Philip the Second. - - -[10] This proposition must hold strictly true with regard to every -quality that is determined merely by sentiment. In what sense we can -talk either of a _right_ or a _wrong_ taste in morals, eloquence, or -beauty, shall be considered afterwards. In the mean time it may be -observed, that there is such an uniformity in the _general_ sentiments -of mankind, as to render such questions of but small importance. - -[11] It is not here asserted, that _present possession_ or _conquest_ -are sufficient to give a title against _long possession_ and _positive -laws_: but only that they have some force, and will be able to cast -the balance where the titles are otherwise equal, and will even be -sufficient _sometimes_ to sanctify the weaker title. What degree of -force they have is difficult to determine. I believe all moderate men -will allow, that they have great force in all disputes concerning the -rights of princes. - -[12] To prevent mistakes I must observe, that this case of succession -is not the same with that of hereditary monarchies, where custom has -fixed the right of succession. These depend upon the principle of long -possession above explained. - - - - -SECTION XI. - -OF THE LAWS OF NATIONS. - - -When civil government has been established over the greatest part of -mankind, and different societies have been formed contiguous to each -other, there arises a new set of duties among the neighbouring states, -suitable to the nature of that commerce which they carry on with each -other. Political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse -a body politic is to be considered as one person; and indeed, this -assertion is so far just, that different nations, as well as private -persons, require mutual assistance; at the same time that their -selfishness and ambition are perpetual sources of war and discord. But -though nations in this particular resemble individuals, yet as they are -very different in other respects, no wonder they regulate themselves by -different maxims, and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call -_the laws of nations_. Under this head we may comprise the sacredness -of the persons of ambassadors, the declaration of war, the abstaining -from poisoned arms, with other duties of that kind, which are evidently -calculated for the commerce that is peculiar to different societies. - -But though these rules be superadded to the laws of nature, the former -do not entirely abolish the latter; and one may safely affirm, that the -three fundamental rules of justice, the stability of possession, its -transference by consent, and the performance of promises, are duties -of princes as well as of subjects. The same interest produces the same -effect in both cases. Where possession has no stability, there must -be perpetual war. Where property is not transferred by consent, there -can be no commerce. Where promises are not observed, there can be no -leagues nor alliances. The advantages, therefore, of peace, commerce, -and mutual succour, make us extend to different kingdoms the same -notions of justice which take place among individuals. - -There is a maxim very current in the world, which few politicians are -willing to avow, but which has been authorized by the practice of -all ages, _that there is a system of morals calculated for princes, -much more free than that which ought to govern private persons_. -'Tis evident this is not to be understood of the lesser _extent_ of -public duties and obligations; nor will any one be so extravagant as -to assert, that the most solemn treaties ought to have no force among -princes. For as princes do actually form treaties among themselves, -they must propose some advantage from the execution of them; and the -prospect of such advantage for the future must engage them to perform -their part, and must establish that law of nature. The meaning, -therefore, of this political maxim is, that though the morality of -princes has the same _extent_, yet it has not the same _force_ as -that of private persons, and may lawfully be transgressed from a -more trivial motive. However shocking such a proposition may appear -to certain philosophers, 'twill be easy to defend it upon those -principles, by which we have accounted for the origin of justice and -equity. - -When men have found by experience that 'tis impossible to subsist -without society, and that 'tis impossible to maintain society, while -they give free course to their appetites; so urgent an interest -quickly restrains their actions, and imposes an obligation to observe -those rules which we call _the laws of justice_. This obligation of -interest rests not here; but, by the necessary course of the passions -and sentiments, gives rise to the moral obligation of duty; while we -approve of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and disapprove -of such as tend to its disturbance. The same _natural_ obligation of -interest takes place among independent kingdoms, and gives rise to -the same _morality_; so that no one of ever so corrupt morals will -approve of a prince, who voluntarily, and of his own accord, breaks his -word, or violates any treaty. But here we may observe, that though the -intercourse of different states be advantageous, and even sometimes -necessary, yet it is not so necessary nor advantageous as that among -individuals, without which 'tis utterly impossible for human nature -ever to subsist. Since, therefore, the _natural_ obligation to justice, -among different states, is not so strong as among individuals, the -_moral_ obligation which arises from it must partake of its weakness; -and we must necessarily give a greater indulgence to a prince or -minister who deceives another, than to a private gentleman who breaks -his word of honour. - -Should it be asked, _what proportion these two species of morality -bear to each other_? I would answer, that this is a question to which -we can never give any precise answer; nor is it possible to reduce to -numbers the proportion, which we ought to fix betwixt them. One may -safely affirm, that this proportion finds itself without any art or -study of men; as we may observe on many other occasions. The practice -of the world goes farther in teaching us the degrees of our duty, -than the most subtile philosophy which was ever yet invented. And -this may serve as a convincing proof, that all men have an implicit -notion of the foundation of those moral rules concerning natural and -civil justice, and are sensible that they arise merely from human -conventions, and from the interest which we have in the preservation -of peace and order. For otherwise the diminution of the interest would -never produce a relaxation of the morality, and reconcile us more -easily to any transgression of justice among princes and republics, -than in the private commerce of one subject with another. - - - - -SECTION XII. - -OF CHASTITY AND MODESTY. - - -If any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of nature and -nations, 'twill be with regard to the universal approbation or blame -which follows their observance or transgression, and which some may not -think sufficiently explained from the general interests of society. -To remove, as far as possible, all scruples of this kind, I shall -here consider another set of duties, viz. the _modesty_ and _chastity_ -which belong to the fair sex: and I doubt not but these virtues will be -found to be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those -principles which I have insisted on. - -There are some philosophers who attack the female virtues with great -vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in detecting popular -errors, when they can show, that there is no foundation in nature for -all that exterior modesty which we require in the expressions, and -dress, and behaviour of the fair sex. I believe I may spare myself the -trouble of insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without -farther preparation, to examine after what manner such notions arise -from education, from the voluntary conventions of men, and from the -interest of society. - -Whoever considers the length and feebleness of human infancy, with -the concern which both sexes naturally have for their offspring, will -easily perceive, that there must be an union of male and female for the -education of the young, and that this union must be of considerable -duration. But, in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this -restraint, and undergo cheerfully all the fatigues and expenses to -which it subjects them, they must believe that their children are their -own, and that their natural instinct is not directed to a wrong object, -when they give a loose to love and tenderness. Now, if we examine the -structure of the human body, we shall find, that this security is very -difficult to be attained on our part; and that since, in the copulation -of the sexes, the principle of generation goes from the man to the -woman, an error may easily take place on the side of the former, though -it be utterly impossible with regard to the latter. From this trivial -and anatomical observation is derived that vast difference betwixt the -education and duties of the two sexes. - -Were a philosopher to examine the matter a _priori_, he would reason -after the following manner. Men are induced to labour for the -maintenance and education of their children, by the persuasion that -they are really their own; and therefore 'tis reasonable, and even -necessary, to give them some security in this particular. This security -cannot consist entirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any -transgressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife; since -these public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal proof, which -'tis difficult to meet with in this subject. What restraint, therefore, -shall we impose on women, in order to counterbalance so strong a -temptation as they have to infidelity? There seems to be no restraint -possible, but in the punishment of bad fame or reputation; a punishment -which has a mighty influence on the human mind, and at the same time -is inflicted by the world upon surmises and conjectures, and proofs -that would never be received in any court of judicature. In order, -therefore, to impose a due restraint on the female sex, we must attach -a peculiar degree of shame to their infidelity, above what arises -merely from its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on -their chastity. - -But though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our philosopher -would quickly discover that it would not alone be sufficient to that -purpose. All human creatures, especially of the female sex, are apt -to overlook remote motives in favour of any present temptation: the -temptation is here the strongest imaginable; its approaches are -insensible and seducing; and a woman easily finds, or flatters -herself she shall find, certain means of securing her reputation, and -preventing all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. 'Tis -necessary, therefore, that, beside the infamy attending such licenses, -there should be some preceding backwardness or dread, which may prevent -their first approaches, and may give the female sex a repugnance to -all expressions, and postures, and liberties, that have an immediate -relation to that enjoyment. - -Such would be the reasonings of our speculative philosopher; but I am -persuaded that, if he had not a perfect knowledge of human nature, he -would be apt to regard them as mere chimerical speculations, and would -consider the infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its -approaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than hoped -for in the world. For what means, would he say, of persuading mankind -that the transgressions of conjugal duty are more infamous than any -other kind of injustice, when 'tis evident they are more excusable, -upon account of the greatness of the temptation? And what possibility -of giving a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure to which -nature has inspired so strong a propensity, and a propensity that 'tis -absolutely necessary in the end to comply with, for the support of the -species? - -But speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to philosophers, -are often formed by the world naturally, and without reflection; as -difficulties which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over -in practice. Those who have an interest in the fidelity of women, -naturally disapprove of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it. -Those who have no interest are carried along with the stream. Education -takes possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in their -infancy. And when a general rule of this kind is once established, -men are apt to extend it beyond those principles from which it first -arose. Thus, bachelors, however debauched, cannot choose but be shocked -with any instance of lewdness or impudence in woman. And though all -these maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet women past -child-bearing have no more privilege in this respect than those who -are in the flower of their youth and beauty. Men have undoubtedly an -implicit notion, that all those ideas of modesty and decency have a -regard to generation; since they impose not the same laws, _with the -same force_, on the male sex, where that reason takes not place. The -exception is there obvious and extensive, and founded on a remarkable -difference, which produces a clear separation and disjunction of ideas. -But as the case is not the same with regard to the different ages of -women, for this reason, though men know that these notions are founded -on the public interest, yet the general rule carries us beyond the -original principle, and makes us extend the notions of modesty over the -whole sex, from their earliest infancy to their extremest old age and -infirmity. - -Courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives its merit in a -great measure from artifice, as well as the chastity of women; though -it has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see afterwards. - -As to the obligations which the male sex lie under with regard to -chastity, we may observe that, according to the general notions of -the world, they bear nearly the same proportion to the obligations of -women, as the obligations of the law of nations do to those of the -law of nature. 'Tis contrary to the interest of civil society, that -men should have an _entire_ liberty of indulging their appetites -in venereal enjoyment; but as this interest is weaker than in the -case of the female sex, the moral obligation arising from it must be -proportionably weaker. And to prove this we need only appeal to the -practice and sentiments of all nations and ages. - - - - -PART III. - -OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES. - - - -SECTION I. - -OF THE ORIGIN OF THE NATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES. - - -We come now to the examination of such virtues and vices as are -entirely natural, and have no dependence on the artifice and -contrivance of men. The examination of these will conclude this system -of morals. - -The chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind is pleasure -or pain; and when these sensations are removed, both from our thought -and feeling, we are in a great measure incapable of passion or action, -of desire or volition. The most immediate effects of pleasure and pain -are the propense and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified -into volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, -according as the pleasure or pain changes its situation, and becomes -probable or improbable, certain or uncertain, or is considered as out -of our power for the present moment. But when, along with this, the -objects that cause pleasure or pain acquire a relation to ourselves or -others, they still continue to excite desire and aversion, grief and -joy; but cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or -humility, love or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of -impressions and ideas to the pain or pleasure. - -We have already observed, that moral distinctions depend entirely on -certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that whatever -mental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction, by the -survey or reflection, is of course virtuous; as every thing of this -nature that gives uneasiness is vicious. Now, since every quality -in ourselves or others which gives pleasure, always causes pride -or love, as every one that produces uneasiness excites humility or -hatred, it follows, that these two particulars are to be considered -as equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, _virtue_ and the -power of producing love or pride, _vice_ and the power of producing -humility or hatred. In every case, therefore, we must judge of the one -by the other, and may pronounce any _quality_ of the mind virtuous -which causes love or pride, and any one vicious which causes hatred or -humility. - -If any _action_ be either virtuous or vicious, 'tis only as a sign -of some quality or character. It must depend upon durable principles -of the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into -the personal character. Actions themselves, not proceeding from any -constant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or -humility; and consequently are never considered in morality. - -This reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to, as -being of the utmost importance in the present subject. We are never -to consider any single action in our inquiries concerning the origin -of morals, but only the quality or character from which the action -proceeded. These alone are _durable_ enough to affect our sentiments -concerning the person. Actions are indeed better indications of a -character than words, or even wishes and sentiments; but 'tis only so -far as they are such indications, that they are attended with love or -hatred, praise or blame. - -To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred which -arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty deep, and -compare some principles which have been already examined and explained. - -We may begin with considering anew the nature and force of _sympathy_. -The minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor -can any one be actuated by any affection of which all others are not -in some degree susceptible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion -of one communicates itself to the rest, so all the affections readily -pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements -in every human creature. When I see the _effects_ of passion in the -voice and gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these -effects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion as -is presently converted into the passion itself. In like manner, when I -perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects, -and is actuated with a like emotion. Were I present at any of the more -terrible operations of surgery, 'tis certain that, even before it -begun, the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the bandages -in order, the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and -concern in the patient and assistants, would have a great effect upon -my mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. No -passion of another discovers itself immediately to the mind. We are -only sensible of its causes or effects. From _these_ we infer the -passion; and consequently _these_ give rise to our sympathy. - -Our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle; and where -any object has a tendency to produce pleasure in its possessor, it is -always regarded as beautiful; as every object that has a tendency to -produce pain, is disagreeable and deformed. Thus, the conveniency of a -house, the fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity, -security, and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of -these several objects. Here the object, which is denominated beautiful, -pleases only by its tendency to produce a certain effect. That effect -is the pleasure or advantage of some other person. Now, the pleasure of -a stranger for whom we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy. -To this principle, therefore, is owing the beauty which we find in -every thing that is useful. How considerable a part this is of beauty -will easily appear upon reflection. Wherever an object has a tendency -to produce pleasure in the possessor, or, in other words, is the proper -_cause_ of pleasure, it is sure to please the spectator, by a delicate -sympathy with the possessor. Most of the works of art are esteemed -beautiful, in proportion to their fitness for the use of man; and even -many of the productions of nature derive their beauty from that source. -Handsome and beautiful, on most occasions, is not an absolute, but a -relative quality, and pleases us by nothing but its tendency to produce -an end that is agreeable.[1] - -The same principle produces, in many instances, our sentiments of -morals, as well as those of beauty. No virtue is more esteemed than -justice, and no vice more detested than injustice; nor are there -any qualities which go farther to the fixing the character, either -as amiable or odious. Now justice is a moral virtue, merely because -it has that tendency to the good of mankind, and indeed is nothing -but an artificial invention to that purpose. The same may be said of -allegiance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good manners. -All these are mere human contrivances for the interest of society. And -since there is a very strong sentiment of morals, which in all nations -and all ages has attended them, we must allow that the reflecting on -the tendency of characters and mental qualities is sufficient to give -us the sentiments of approbation and blame. Now, as the means to an -end can only be agreeable where the end is agreeable, and as the good -of society, where our own interest is not concerned, or that of our -friends, pleases only by sympathy, it follows, that sympathy is the -source of the esteem which we pay to all the artificial virtues. - -Thus it appears, _that_ sympathy is a very powerful principle in -human nature, _that_ it has a great influence on our taste of beauty, -and _that_ it produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial -virtues. From thence we may presume, that it also gives rise to many -of the other virtues, and that qualities acquire our approbation -because of their tendency to the good of mankind. This presumption -must become a certainty, when we find that most of those qualities -which we _naturally_ approve of, have actually that tendency, and -render a man a proper member of society; while the qualities which -we _naturally_ disapprove of have a contrary tendency, and render -any intercourse with the person dangerous or disagreeable. For having -found, that such tendencies have force enough to produce the strongest -sentiment of morals, we can never reasonably, in these cases, look for -any other cause of approbation or blame; it being an inviolable maxim -in philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for an -effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not to multiply -causes without necessity. We have happily attained experiments in the -artificial virtues, where the tendency of qualities to the good of -society is the _sole_ cause of our approbation, without any suspicion -of the concurrence of another principle. From thence we learn the force -of that principle. And where that principle may take place, and the -quality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philosopher -will never require any other principle to account for the strongest -approbation and esteem. - -That many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the good -of society, no one can doubt of. Meekness, beneficence, charity, -generosity, clemency, moderation, equity, bear the greatest figure -among the moral qualities, and are commonly denominated the _social_ -virtues, to mark their tendency to the good of society. This goes so -far, that some philosophers have represented all moral distinctions -as the effect of artifice and education, when skilful politicians -endeavoured to restrain the turbulent passions of men, and make them -operate to the public good, by the notions of honour and shame. This -system, however, is not consistent with experience. For, _first_, -There are other virtues and vices beside those which have this -tendency to the public advantage and loss. _Secondly_, Had not men a -natural sentiment of approbation and blame, it could never be excited -by politicians, nor would the words _laudable_ and _praiseworthy, -blameable_ and _odious_, be any more intelligible than if they were -a language perfectly unknown to us, as we have already observed. -But though this system be erroneous, it may teach us that moral -distinctions arise in a great measure from the tendency of qualities -and characters to the interests of society, and that 'tis our concern -for that interest which makes us approve or disapprove of them. Now, -we have no such extensive concern for society, but from sympathy; and -consequently 'tis that principle which takes us so far out of ourselves -as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of -others, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss. - -The only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice lies in -this, that the good which results from the former arises from every -single act, and is the object of some natural passion; whereas a -single act of justice, considered in itself, may often be contrary -to the public good; and 'tis only the concurrence of mankind, in a -general scheme or system of action, which is advantageous. When I -relieve persons in distress, my natural humanity is my motive; and so -far as my succour extends, so far have I promoted the happiness of my -fellow-creatures. But if we examine all the questions that come before -any tribunal of justice, we shall find that, considering each case -apart, it would as often be an instance of humanity to decide contrary -to the laws of justice as conformable to them. Judges take from a poor -man to give to a rich; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of the -industrious; and put into the hands of the vicious the means of harming -both themselves and others. The whole scheme, however, of law and -justice is advantageous to the society; and 'twas with a view to this -advantage that men, by their voluntary conventions, established it. -After it is once established by these conventions, it is _naturally_ -attended with a strong sentiment of morals, which can proceed from -nothing but our sympathy with the interests of society. We need no -other explication of that esteem which attends such of the natural -virtues as have a tendency to the public good. - -I must farther add, that there are several circumstances which render -this hypothesis much more probable with regard to the natural than -the artificial virtues. 'Tis certain, that the imagination is more -affected by what is particular, than by what is general; and that the -sentiments are always moved with difficulty, where their objects are -in any degree loose and undetermined. Now, every particular act of -justice is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system; -and it may not perhaps be any individual person for whom we are -concerned, who receives benefit from justice, but the whole society -alike. On the contrary, every particular act of generosity, or relief -of the industrious and indigent, is beneficial, and is beneficial to -a particular person, who is not undeserving of it. 'Tis more natural, -therefore, to think that the tendencies of the latter virtue will -affect our sentiments, and command our approbation, than those of the -former; and therefore, since we find that the approbation of the former -arises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with better reason, the -same cause to the approbation of the latter. In any number of similar -effects, if a cause can be discovered for one, we ought to extend -that cause to all the other effects which can be accounted for by -it; but much more, if these other effects be attended with peculiar -circumstances, which facilitate the operation of that cause. - -Before I proceed farther, I must observe two remarkable circumstances -in this affair, which may seem objections to the present system. The -first may be thus explained. When any quality or character has a -tendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve -of it, because it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea -affects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this -sympathy is very variable, it may be thought that our sentiments of -morals must admit of all the same variations. We sympathize more with -persons contiguous to us, than with persons remote from us; with our -acquaintance, than with strangers; with our countrymen, than with -foreigners. But notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we -give the same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in -England. They appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally -to the esteem of a judicious spectator. The sympathy varies without -a variation in our esteem. Our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from -sympathy. - -To this I answer, the approbation of moral qualities most certainly -is not derived from reason, or any comparison of ideas; but proceeds -entirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure -or disgust, which arise upon the contemplation and view of particular -qualities or characters. Now, 'tis evident that those sentiments, -whencever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or -contiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the same lively pleasure from -the virtues of a person who lived in Greece two thousand years ago, -that I feel from the virtues of a familiar friend and acquaintance. -Yet I do not say that I esteem the one more than the other; and -therefore, if the variation of the sentiment, without a variation of -the esteem, be an objection, it must have equal force against every -other system, as against that of sympathy. But to consider the matter -aright, it has no force at all; and 'tis the easiest matter in the -world to account for it. Our situation with regard both to persons and -things is in continual fluctuation; and a man that lies at a distance -from us, may in a little time become a familiar acquaintance. Besides, -every particular man has a peculiar position with regard to others; -and 'tis impossible we could ever converse together on any reasonable -terms, were each of us to consider characters and persons only as -they appear from his peculiar point of view. In order, therefore, to -prevent those continual _contradictions_, and arrive at a more _stable_ -judgment of things, we fix on some _steady_ and _general_ points of -view, and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever -may be our present situation. In like manner, external beauty is -determined merely by pleasure; and 'tis evident a beautiful countenance -cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at a distance of twenty paces, -as when it is brought nearer us. We say not, however, that it appears -to us less beautiful; because we know what effect it will have in such -a position, and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance. - -In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, according -to our situation of nearness or remoteness with regard to the person -blamed or praised, and according to the present disposition of our -mind. But these variations we regard not in our general decisions, but -still apply the terms expressive of our liking or dislike, in the same -manner as if we remained in one point of view. Experience soon teaches -us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least of correcting -our language, where the sentiments are more stubborn and unalterable. -Our servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite stronger sentiments -of love and kindness than Marcus Brutus, as represented in history; -but we say not, upon that account, that the former character is more -laudable than the latter. We know that, were we to approach equally -near to that renowned patriot, he would command a much higher degree -of affection and admiration. Such corrections are common with regard -to all the senses; and indeed 'twere impossible we could ever make use -of language, or communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not -correct the momentary appearances of things, and overlook our present -situation. - -'Tis therefore from the influence of characters and qualities upon -those who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame or praise -him. We consider not whether the persons affected by the qualities -be our acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners. Nay, we -overlook our own interest in those general judgments, and blame not a -man for opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest -is particularly concerned. We make allowance for a certain degree of -selfishness in men, because we know it to be inseparable from human -nature, and inherent in our frame and constitution. By this reflection -we correct those sentiments of blame which so naturally arise upon any -opposition. - -But however the general principle of our blame or praise may be -corrected by those other principles, 'tis certain they are not -altogether efficacious, nor do our passions often correspond entirely -to the present theory. 'Tis seldom men heartily love what lies at -a distance from them, and what no way redounds to their particular -benefit; as 'tis no less rare to meet with persons who can pardon -another any opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable -that opposition may be by the general rules of morality. Here we are -contented with saying, that reason requires such an impartial conduct, -but that 'tis seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and that our -passions do not readily follow the determination of our judgment. This -language will be easily understood, if we consider what we formerly -said concerning that _reason_ which is able to oppose our passion, and -which we have found to be nothing but a general calm determination -of the passions, founded on some distant view or reflection. When -we form our judgments of persons merely from the tendency of their -characters to our own benefit, or to that of our friends, we find so -many contradictions to our sentiments in society and conversation, and -such an uncertainty from the incessant changes of our situation, that -we seek some other standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit -of so great variation. Being thus loosened from our first station, we -cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means as by a -sympathy with those who have any commerce with the person we consider. -This is far from being as lively as when our own interest is concerned, -or that of our particular friends; nor has it such an influence on our -love and hatred; but being equally conformable to our calm and general -principles, 'tis said to have an equal authority over our reason, and -to command our judgment and opinion. We blame equally a bad action -which we read of in history, with one performed in our neighbourhood -t'other day; the meaning of which is, that we know from reflection that -the former action would excite as strong sentiments of disapprobation -as the latter, were it placed in the same position. - -I now proceed to the _second_ remarkable circumstance which I proposed -to take notice of. Where a person is possessed of a character that -in its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him -virtuous, and are delighted with the view of his character, even though -particular accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from -being serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in rags is still -virtue; and the love which it procures attends a man into a dungeon or -desart, where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action, and is -lost to all the world. Now, this may be esteemed an objection to the -present system. Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if -sympathy were the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of -approbation could only take place where the virtue actually attained -its end, and was beneficial to mankind. Where it fails of its end, 'tis -only an imperfect means; and therefore can never acquire any merit from -that end. The goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone -as are complete, and actually produce the end. - -To this we may reply, that where any object, in all its parts, is -fitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure, -and is esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be -wanting to render it altogether effectual. 'Tis sufficient if every -thing be complete in the object itself. A house that is contrived -with great judgment for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon -that account; though perhaps we are sensible, that no one will ever -dwell in it. A fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a -reflection on the happiness which they would afford the inhabitants, -though at present the country be desart and uninhabited. A man, whose -limbs and shape promise strength and activity, is esteemed handsome, -though condemned to perpetual imprisonment. The imagination has a set -of passions belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much -depend. These passions are moved by degrees of liveliness and strength, -which are inferior to _belief_, and independent of the real existence -of their objects. Where a character is, in every respect, fitted to be -beneficial to society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to -the effect, without considering that there are still some circumstances -wanting to render the cause a complete one. _General rules_ create a -species of probability, which sometimes influences the judgment, and -always the imagination. - -'Tis true, when the cause is complete, and a good disposition is -attended with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to -society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator, and is attended -with a more lively sympathy. We are more affected by it; and yet we do -not say that it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know -that an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition -entirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the -fortune from the disposition. The case is the same as when we correct -the different sentiments of virtue, which proceed from its different -distances from ourselves. The passions do not always follow our -corrections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our -abstract notions, and are alone regarded when we pronounce in general -concerning the degrees of vice and virtue. - -'Tis observed by critics, that all words or sentences which are -difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. There -is no difference, whether a man hear them pronounced, or read them -silently to himself. When I run over a book with my eye, I imagine -I hear it all; and also, by the force of imagination, enter into -the uneasiness which the delivery of it would give the speaker. The -uneasiness is not real; but, as such a composition of words has a -natural tendency to produce it, this is sufficient to affect the -mind with a painful sentiment, and render the discourse harsh and -disagreeable. 'Tis a similar case, where any real quality is, by -accidental circumstances, rendered impotent, and is deprived of its -natural influence on society. - -Upon these principles we may easily remove any contradiction which -may appear to be betwixt the _extensive sympathy_, on which our -sentiments of virtue depend, and that _limited generosity_, which I -have frequently observed to be natural to men, and which justice and -property suppose, according to the precedent reasoning. My sympathy -with another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when -any object is presented that has a tendency to give him uneasiness; -though I may not be willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest, -or cross any of my passions, for his satisfaction. A house may -displease me by being ill-contrived for the convenience of the owner; -and yet I may refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it. -Sentiments must touch the heart to make them control our passions: but -they need not extend beyond the imagination, to make them influence -our taste. When a building seems clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is -ugly and disagreeable; though we may be fully assured of the solidity -of the workmanship. 'Tis a kind of fear which causes this sentiment -of disapprobation; but the passion is not the same with that which we -feel when obliged to stand under a wall that we really think tottering -and insecure. The _seeming tendencies_ of objects affect the mind: -and the emotions they excite are of a like species with those which -proceed from the _real consequences_ of objects, but their feeling is -different. Nay, these emotions are so different in their feeling, that -they may often be contrary, without destroying each other; as when the -fortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are esteemed beautiful -upon account of their strength, though we could wish that they were -entirely destroyed. The imagination adheres to the _general_ views of -things, and distinguishes the feelings they produce from those which -arise from our particular and momentary situation. - -If we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of great men, we -shall find, that most of the qualities which are attributed to them -may be divided into two kinds, viz. such as make them perform their -part in society; and such as render them serviceable to themselves, and -enable them to promote their own interest. Their _prudence, temperance, -frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprise, dexterity_, are celebrated, -as well as their _generosity_ and _humanity_. If we ever give an -indulgence to any quality that disables a man from making a figure in -life, 'tis to that of _indolence_, which is not supposed to deprive -one of his parts and capacity, but only suspends their exercise; and -that without any inconvenience to the person himself, since 'tis, in -some measure, from his own choice. Yet indolence is always allowed to -be a fault, and a very great one, if extreme: nor do a man's friends -ever acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save his -character in more material articles. He could make a figure, say they, -if he pleased to give application: his understanding is sound, his -conception quick, and his memory tenacious; but he hates business, and -is indifferent about his fortune. And this a man sometimes may make -even a subject of vanity, though with the air of confessing a fault: -because he may think, that this incapacity for business implies much -more noble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit, a fine taste, a -delicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and society. But take any other -case: suppose a quality that, without being an indication of any other -good qualities, incapacitates a man _always_ for business, and is -destructive to his interest; such as a blundering understanding, and a -wrong judgment of every thing in life; inconstancy and irresolution; or -a want of address in the management of men and business: these are all -allowed to be imperfections in a character; and many men would rather -acknowledge the greatest crimes, than have it suspected that they are -in any degree subject to them. - -'Tis very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we find the -same phenomenon diversified by a variety of circumstances; and by -discovering what is common among them, can the better assure ourselves -of the truth of any hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. Were -nothing esteemed virtue but what were beneficial to society, I am -persuaded that the foregoing explication of the moral sense ought still -to be received, and that upon sufficient evidence: but this evidence -must grow upon us, when we find other kinds of virtue which will not -admit of any explication except from that hypothesis. Here is a man -who is not remarkably defective in his social qualities; but what -principally recommends him is his dexterity in business, by which he -has extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted -the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. I -find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me: his company is a -satisfaction to me; and before I have any farther acquaintance with -him, I would rather do him a service than another whose character is -in every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. In -this case, the qualities that please me are all considered as useful -to the person, and as having a tendency to promote his interest and -satisfaction. They are only regarded as means to an end, and please me -in proportion to their fitness for that end. The end, therefore must -be agreeable to me. But what makes the end agreeable? The person is a -stranger: I am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation -to him: his happiness concerns not me, farther than the happiness -of every human, and indeed of every sensible creature; that is, it -affects me only by sympathy. From that principle, whenever I discover -his happiness and good, whether in its causes or effects, I enter so -deeply into it, that it gives me a sensible emotion. The appearance -of qualities that have a _tendency_ to promote it, have an agreeable -effect upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem. - -This theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, in all cases, -produce both pride and love, humility and hatred; and the same man -is always virtuous or vicious, accomplished or despicable to others, -who is so to himself. A person in whom we discover any passion or -habit, which originally is only incommodious to himself, becomes always -disagreeable to us merely on its account; as, on the other hand, one -whose character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can -never be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of that -disadvantage. Nor is this observable only with regard to characters and -manners, but may be remarked even in the most minute circumstances. A -violent cough in another gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does -not in the least affect us. A man will be mortified if you tell him he -has a stinking breath; though 'tis evidently no annoyance to himself. -Our fancy easily changes its situation; and, either surveying ourselves -as we appear to others, or considering others as they feel themselves, -we enter, by that means, into sentiments which no way belong to us, -and in which nothing but sympathy is able to interest us. And this -sympathy we sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeased with a -quality commodious to us, merely because it displeases others, and -makes us disagreeable in their eyes; though perhaps we never can have -any interest in rendering ourselves agreeable to them. - -There have been many systems of morality advanced by philosophers -in all ages; but if they are strictly examined, they may be reduced -to two, which alone merit our attention. Moral good and evil are -certainly distinguished by our _sentiments_, not by _reason_: but these -sentiments may arise either from the mere species or appearance of -characters and passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the -happiness of mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is, that -both these causes are intermixed in our judgments of morals; after the -same manner as they are in our decisions concerning most kinds of -external beauty: though I am also of opinion, that reflections on the -tendencies of actions have by far the greatest influence, and determine -all the great lines of our duty. There are, however, instances in cases -of less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our -approbation. Wit, and a certain easy and disengaged behaviour, are -qualities _immediately agreeable_ to others, and command their love -and esteem. Some of these qualities produce satisfaction in others -by particular _original_ principles of human nature, which cannot be -accounted for: odiers may be resolved into principles which are more -general. This will best appear upon a particular inquiry. - -As some qualities acquire their merit from their being _immediately -agreeable_ to others, without any tendency to public interest; so some -are denominated virtuous from their being _immediately agreeable_ -to the person himself, who possesses them. Each of the passions and -operations of the mind has a particular feeling, which must be either -agreeable or disagreeable. The first is virtuous, the second vicious. -This particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion; and -therefore needs not be accounted for. - -But, however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may seem -to flow from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness, which particular -qualities cause to ourselves or others, 'tis easy to observe, that it -has also a considerable dependence on the principle of _sympathy_ so -often insisted on. We approve of a person who is possessed of qualities -_immediately agreeable_ to those with whom he has any commerce, though -perhaps we ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. We also -approve of one who is possessed of qualities that are _immediately -agreeable_ to himself, though they be of no service to any mortal. To -account for this, we must have recourse to the foregoing principles. - -Thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: Every quality -of the mind is denominated virtuous which gives pleasure by the mere -survey, as every quality which produces pain is called vicious. This -pleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. For -we reap a pleasure from the view of a character which is naturally -fitted to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is -agreeable to others, or to the person himself. One may perhaps be -surprised, that, amidst all these interests and pleasures, we should -forget our own, which touch us so nearly on every other occasion. But -we shall easily satisfy ourselves on this head, when we consider, that -every particular person's pleasure and interest being different, 'tis -impossible men could ever agree in their sentiments and judgments, -unless they chose some common point of view, from which they might -survey their object, and which might cause it to appear the same to all -of them. Now, in judging of characters, the only interest or pleasure -which appears the same to every spectator, is that of the person -himself whose character is examined, or that of persons who have a -connexion with him. And, though such interests and pleasures touch us -more faintly than our own, yet, being more constant and universal, they -counterbalance the latter even in practice, and are alone admitted in -speculation as the standard of virtue and morality. They alone produce -that particular feeling or sentiment on which moral distinctions depend. - -As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, 'tis an evident -consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or uneasiness. These -sentiments produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original -constitution of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger; -that is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and -miserable the person we hate. We have treated of this more fully on -another occasion. - - - - -SECTION II. - -OF GREATNESS OF MIND. - - -It may now be proper to illustrate this general system of morals, by -applying it to particular instances of virtue and vice, and showing how -their merit or demerit arises from the four sources here explained. We -shall begin with examining the passions of _pride_ and _humility_, and -shall consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just -proportion. An excessive pride or overweening conceit of ourselves, -is always esteemed vicious, and is universally hated, as modesty, or -a just sense of our weakness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures the -good will of every one. Of the four sources of moral distinctions, this -is to be ascribed to the _third_; viz. the immediate agreeableness and -disagreeableness of a quality to others, without any reflections on the -tendency of that quality. - -In order to prove this, we must have recourse to two principles, -which are very conspicuous in human nature. The _first_ of these is -the _sympathy_ and communication of sentiments and passions above -mentioned. So close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, -that no sooner any person approaches me, than he diffuses on me all -his opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser -degree. And though, on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not -so far as entirely to change my sentiments and way of thinking, yet it -seldom is so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and -give an authority to that opinion which is recommended to me by his -assent and approbation. Nor is it any way material upon what subject he -and I employ our thoughts. Whether we judge of an indifferent person, -or of my own character, my sympathy gives equal force to his decision: -and even his sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the -same light in which he regards himself. - -This principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuating a nature, -that it enters into most of our sentiments and passions, and often -takes place under the appearance of its contrary. For 'tis remarkable, -that when a person opposes me in any thing which I am strongly bent -upon, and rouses up my passion by contradiction, I have always a -degree of sympathy with him, nor does my commotion proceed from any -other origin. We may here observe an evident conflict or rencounter -of opposite principles and passions. On the one side, there is that -passion or sentiment which is natural to me; and 'tis observable, that -the stronger this passion is, the greater is the commotion. There must -also be some passion or sentiment on the other side; and this passion -can proceed from nothing but sympathy. The sentiments of others can -never affect us, but by becoming in some measure our own; in which case -they operate upon us, by opposing and increasing our passions, in the -very same manner as if they had been originally derived from our own -temper and disposition. While they remain concealed in the minds of -others, they can never have any influence upon us: and even when they -are known, if they went no farther than the imagination or conception, -that faculty is so accustomed to objects of every different kind, that -a mere idea, though contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, would -never alone be able to affect us. - -The _second_ principle I shall take notice of is that of _comparison_, -or the variation of our judgments concerning objects, according to -the proportion they bear to those with which we compare them. We -judge more of objects by comparison than by their intrinsic worth and -value; and regard every thing as mean, when set in opposition to what -is superior of the same kind. But no comparison is more obvious than -that with ourselves; and hence it is, that on all occasions it takes -place, and mixes with most of our passions. This kind of comparison is -directly contrary to sympathy in its operation, as we have observed in -treating of _compassion and malice_.[2] _In all kinds of comparison, an -object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, -a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and -immediate survey. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally -gives us pleasure; and therefore produces pain, when compared with our -own. His pain, considered in itself is painful; but augments the idea -of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure_. - -Since then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison with -ourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while to consider, -what general rules can be formed, beside the particular temper of -the person, for the prevalence of the one or the other. Suppose I am -now in safety at land, and would willingly reap some pleasure from -this consideration, I must think on the miserable condition of those -who are at sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as -strong and lively as possible, in order to make me more sensible of -my own happiness. But whatever pains I may take, the comparison will -never have an equal efficacy, as if I were really on the shore,[3] and -saw a ship at a distance tost by a tempest, and in danger every moment -of perishing on a rock or sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become -still more lively. Suppose the ship to be driven so near me, that I can -perceive distinctly the horror painted on the countenance of the seamen -and passengers, hear their lamentable cries, see the dearest friends -give their last adieu, or embrace with a resolution to perish in each -other's arms: no man has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from -such a spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest compassion -and sympathy. 'Tis evident, therefore, there is a medium in this case; -and that, if the idea be too faint, it has no influence by comparison; -and on the other hand, if it be too strong, it operates on us entirely -by sympathy, which is the contrary to comparison. Sympathy being the -conversion of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force and -vivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison. - -All this is easily applied to the present subject. We sink very much -in our own eyes when in the presence of a great man, or one of a -superior genius; and this humility makes a considerable ingredient in -that _respect_ which we pay our superiors, according to our foregoing -reasonings on that passion.[4] Sometimes even envy and hatred arise -from the comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests at -respect and esteem. As sympathy has such a powerful influence on the -human mind, it causes pride to have in some measure the same effect as -merit; and, by making us enter into those elevated sentiments which the -proud man entertains of himself, presents that comparison, which is so -mortifying and disagreeable. Our judgment does not entirely accompany -him in the flattering conceit in which he pleases himself; but still -is so shaken as to receive the idea it presents, and to give it an -influence above the loose conceptions of the imagination. A man who, -in an idle humour, would form a notion of a person of a merit very -much superior to his own, would not be mortified by that fiction: but -when a man, whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is -presented to us; if we observe in him any extraordinary degree of pride -and self-conceit, the firm persuasion he has of his own merit, takes -hold of the imagination, and diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same -manner as if he were really possessed of all the good qualities which -he so liberally attributes to himself. Our idea is here precisely in -that medium which is requisite to make it operate on us by comparison. -Were it accompanied with belief, and did the person appear to have -the same merit which he assumes to himself, it would have a contrary -effect, and would operate on us by sympathy. The influence of that -principle would then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to -what happens where the person's merit seems below his pretensions. - -The necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride, or -an overweening conceit of ourselves, must be vicious; since it -causes uneasiness in all men, and presents them every moment with a -disagreeable comparison. 'Tis a trite observation in philosophy, and -even in common life and conversation, that 'tis our own pride, which -makes us so much displeased with the pride of other people; and that -vanity becomes insupportable to us merely because we are vain. The gay -naturally associate themselves with the gay, and the amorous with the -amorous; but the proud never can endure the proud, and rather seek the -company of those who are of an opposite disposition. As we are all of -us proud in some degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned -by all mankind, as having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in -others by means of comparison. And this effect must follow the more -naturally, that those, who have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves, -are for ever making those comparisons; nor have they any other method -of supporting their vanity. A man of sense and merit is pleased with -himself, independent of all foreign considerations; but a fool must -always find some person that is more foolish, in order to keep himself -in good humour with his own parts and understanding. - -But though an overweening conceit of our own merit be vicious and -disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable than to have a value for -ourselves, where we really have qualities that are valuable. The -utility and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of -virtue, as well as its agreeableness to others; and 'tis certain, that -nothing is more useful to us in the conduct of life, than a due degree -of pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a -confidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprises. Whatever -capacity any one may be endowed with, 'tis entirely useless to him, if -he be not acquainted with it, and form not designs suitable to it. 'Tis -requisite on all occasions to know our own force; and were it allowable -to err on either side, 'twould be more advantageous to over-rate our -merit, than to form ideas of it below its just standard. Fortune -commonly favours the bold and enterprising; and nothing inspires us -with more boldness than a good opinion of ourselves. - -Add to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be sometimes -disagreeable to others, 'tis always agreeable to ourselves; as, on the -other hand, modesty, though it give pleasure to every one who observes -it, produces often uneasiness in the person endowed with it. Now, it -has been observed, that our own sensations determine the vice and -virtue of any quality, as well as those sensations, which it may excite -in others. - -Thus, self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allowable, but -requisite in a character. 'Tis however certain, that good breeding and -decency require that we should avoid all signs and expressions, which -tend directly to show that passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful -partiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our -sentiments in this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest -indignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so -disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of -our judgments. In like manner, therefore, as we establish the _laws -of nature_, in order to secure property in society, and prevent the -opposition of self-interest, we establish the _rules of good breeding_, -in order to prevent the opposition of men's pride, and render -conversation agreeable and offensive. Nothing is more disagreeable than -a man's overweening conceit of himself. Every one almost has a strong -propensity to this vice. No one can well distinguish _in himself_ -betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain that his esteem of his -own merit is well-founded; for these reasons, all direct expressions -of this passion are condemned; nor do we make any exception to this -rule in favour of men of sense and merit. They are not allowed to do -themselves justice openly in words, no more than other people; and even -if they show a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves justice -in their own thoughts, they will be more applauded. That impertinent, -and almost universal propensity of men, to overvalue themselves, has -given us such a _prejudice_ against self-applause, that we are apt to -condemn it by a _general rule_ wherever we meet with it; and 'tis with -some difficulty we give a privilege to men of sense, even in their -most secret thoughts. At least, it must be owned that some disguise in -this particular is absolutely requisite; and that, if we harbour pride -in our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have the appearance -of modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct and behaviour. We -must, on every occasion, be ready to prefer others to ourselves; to -treat them with a kind of deference, even though they be our equals; to -seem always the lowest and least in the company, where we are not very -much distinguished above them; and if we observe these rules in our -conduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret sentiments, when -we discover them in an oblique manner. - -I believe no one who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate -into the inward sentiments of men, will assert that the humility which -good-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside, -or that a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteemed a real -part of our duty. On the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and -hearty pride, or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is -essential to the character of a man of honour, and that there is no -quality of the mind which is more indispensably requisite to procure -the esteem and approbation of mankind. There are certain deferences and -mutual submissions which custom requires of the different ranks of men -towards each other; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if through -interest, is accused of meanness, if through ignorance, of simplicity. -'Tis necessary, therefore, to know our rank and station in the world, -whether it be fixed by our birth, fortune, employments, talents, or -reputation. 'Tis necessary to feel the sentiment and passion of pride -in conformity to it, and to regulate our actions accordingly. And -should it be said, that prudence may suffice to regulate our actions in -this particular, without any real pride, I would observe, that here the -object of prudence is to conform our actions to the general usage and -custom; and that 'tis impossible those tacit airs of superiority should -ever have been established and authorized by custom, unless men were -generally proud, and unless that passion were generally approved, when -well-grounded. - -If we pass from common life and conversation to history, this reasoning -acquires new force, when we observe, that all those great actions and -sentiments which have become the admiration of mankind, are founded on -nothing but pride and self-esteem. 'Go,' says Alexander the Great to -his soldiers, when they refused to follow him to the Indies, 'go tell -your countrymen, that you left Alexander completing the conquest of -the world.' This passage was always particularly admired by the prince -of Condé, as we learn from St Evremond. 'Alexander,' said that prince, -'abandoned by his soldiers, among barbarians not yet fully subdued, -felt in himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he could not -believe it possible any one could refuse to obey him. Whether in Europe -or in Asia, among Greeks or Persians, all was indifferent to him; -wherever he found men, he fancied he had found subjects.' - -In general, we may observe, that whatever we call _heroic virtue_, -and admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind, is -either nothing but a steady and well-established pride and self-esteem, -or partakes largely of that passion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition, -love of glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that -kind, have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive -a great part of their merit from that origin. Accordingly we find, -that many religious declaimers decry those virtues as purely pagan -and natural, and represent to us the excellency of the _Christian_ -religion, which places humility in the rank of virtues, and corrects -the judgment of the world, and even of philosophers, who so generally -admire all the efforts of pride and ambition. Whether this virtue of -humility has been rightly understood, I shall not pretend to determine. -I am content with the concession, that the world naturally esteems a -well-regulated pride, which secretly animates our conduct, without -breaking out into such indecent expressions of vanity as may offend the -vanity of others. - -The merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two circumstances, -viz. its utility, and its agreeableness to ourselves; by which it -capacitates us for business, and at the same time gives us an immediate -satisfaction. When it goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first -advantage, and even becomes prejudicial; which is the reason why we -condemn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the -decorums of good-breeding and politeness. But as such a passion is -still agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime sensation to the -person who is actuated by it, the sympathy with that satisfaction -diminishes considerably the blame which naturally attends its dangerous -influence on our conduct and behaviour. Accordingly we may observe, -that an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays -itself under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a great measure to -the character of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of -posterity, at the same time that it ruins his affairs, and leads him -into dangers and difficulties with which otherwise he would never have -been acquainted. - -Heroism, or military glory, is much admired by the generality of -mankind. They consider it as the most sublime kind of merit. Men -of cool reflection are not so sanguine in their praises of it. The -infinite confusions and disorder which it has caused in the world, -diminish much of its merit in their eyes. When they would oppose the -popular notions on this head, they always paint out the evils which -this supposed virtue has produced in human society; the subversion of -empires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. As long as -these are present to us, we are more inclined to hate than admire the -ambition of heroes. But when we fix our view on the person himself, -who is the author of all this mischief, there is something so dazzling -in his character, the mere contemplation of it so elevates the mind, -that we cannot refuse it our admiration. The pain which we receive from -its tendency to the prejudice of society, is overpowered by a stronger -and more immediate sympathy. - -Thus, our explication of the merit or demerit which attends the -degrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for -the preceding hypothesis, by showing the effects of those principles -above explained in all the variations of our judgments concerning -that passion. Nor will this reasoning be advantageous to us only by -showing, that the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the _four_ -principles of the _advantage_ and of the _pleasure_ of the _person -himself_ and of _others_, but may also afford us a strong proof of some -under parts of that hypothesis. - -No one who duly considers of this matter will make any scruple of -allowing, that any piece of ill-breeding, or any expression of pride -and haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our -own pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison which causes the -disagreeable passion of humility. Now, as an insolence of this kind -is blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in -particular, nay, in one whose name is only known to us in history, it -follows that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others, -and from the reflection that such a character is highly displeasing -and odious to every one who converses or has any intercourse with -the person possest of it. We sympathize with those people in their -uneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy -with the person who insults them, we may here observe a double rebound -of the sympathy, which is a principle very similar to what we have -observed on another occasion.[5] - - -[1] Decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem velocior. -Pulcher aspectu sit athleta, cujus lacertos exercitatio expressit; idem -certamini paratior. Nunquam vero _species ab utilitate_ dividitur. Sed -hoc quidem discernere, modici judicii est.--Quinct. lib. 8. - -[2] Book II. Part II. Sect 8. - -[3] - -Suavi mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis E terra magnum alterius -spectare laborem; Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas, Sed -quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suav'est.--_Lucret_. - - - -[4] Book II. Part II. Sect 10. - - - - -SECTION III. - -OF GOODNESS AND BENEVOLENCE. - - -Having thus explained the origin of that praise and approbation which -attends every thing we call _great_ in human affections, we now proceed -to give an account of their _goodness_, and show whence its merit is -derived. - -When experience has once given us a competent knowledge of human -affairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion, -we perceive that the generosity of men is very limited, and that it -seldom extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond -their native country. Being thus acquainted with the nature of man, -we expect not any impossibilities from him; but confine our view to -that narrow circle in which any person moves, in order to form a -judgment of his moral character. When the natural tendency of his -passions leads him to be serviceable and useful within his sphere, -we approve of his character, and love his person, by a sympathy with -the sentiments of those who have a more particular connexion with -him. We are quickly obliged to forget get our own interest in our -judgments of this kind, by reason of the perpetual contradictions -we meet with in society and conversation, from persons that are not -placed in the same situation, and have not the same interest with -ourselves. The only point of view in which our sentiments concur with -those of others, is when we consider the tendency of any passion to -the advantage or harm of those who have any immediate connexion or -intercourse with the person possessed of it. And though this advantage -or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes 'tis very -near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. This concern we -readily extend to other cases that are resembling; and when these are -very remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or -blame fainter and more doubtful. The case is here the same as in our -judgments concerning external bodies. All objects seem to diminish by -their distance; but though the appearance of objects to our senses -be the original standard by which we judge of them, yet we do not -say that they actually diminish by the distance; but, correcting the -appearance by reflection, arrive at a more constant and established -judgment concerning them. In like manner, though sympathy be much -fainter than our concern for ourselves, and a sympathy with persons -remote from us much fainter than that with persons near and contiguous, -yet we neglect all these differences in our calm judgments concerning -the characters of men. Besides that we ourselves often change our -situation in this particular, we every day meet with persons who are -in a different situation from ourselves, and who could never converse -with us on any reasonable terms, were we to remain constantly in that -situation and point of view which is peculiar to us. The intercourse -of sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form -some general unalterable standard by which we may approve or disapprove -of characters and manners. And though the _heart_ does not always take -part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by -them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes -in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools. - -From these principles, we may easily account for that merit which is -commonly ascribed to _generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude, -friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, liberality_, and all -those other qualities which form the character of good and benevolent. -A propensity to the tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful -in all the parts of life, and gives a just direction to all his other -qualities, which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. Courage -and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make -a tyrant and public robber. 'Tis the same case with judgment and -capacity, and all the qualities of that kind. They are indifferent in -themselves to the interests of society, and have a tendency to the -good or ill of mankind, according as they are directed by these other -passions. - -As love is _immediately agreeable_ to the person who is actuated by it, -and hatred _immediately disagreeable_, this may also be a considerable -reason why we praise all the passions that partake of the former, -and blame all those that have any considerable share of the latter. -'Tis certain we are infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as -well as with a great one. The tears naturally start in our eyes at -the conception of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same -tenderness towards the person who exerts it. All this seems to me a -proof that our approbation has, in these cases, an origin different -from the prospect of utility and advantage, either to ourselves or -others. To which we may add, that men naturally, without reflection, -approve of that character which is most like their own. The man of a -mild disposition and tender affections, in forming a notion of the -most perfect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity than -the man of courage and enterprise, who naturally looks upon a certain -elevation of the mind as the most accomplished character. This must -evidently proceed from an _immediate_ sympathy, which men have with -characters similar to their own. They enter with more warmth into such -sentiments, and feel more sensibly the pleasure which arises from them. - -'Tis remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than -any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where -a person is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is -willing to sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own. -Such delicacies have little influence on society; because they make -us regard the greatest trifles: but they are the more engaging the -more minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit in -any one who is capable of them. The passions are so contagious, that -they pass with the greatest facility from one person to another, and -produce correspondent movements in all human breasts. Where friendship -appears in very signal instances, my heart catches the same passion, -and is warmed by those warm sentiments that display themselves before -me. Such agreeable, movements must give me an affection to every one -that excites them. This is the case with every thing that is agreeable -in any person. The transition from pleasure to love is easy: but the -transition must here be still more easy; since the agreeable sentiment -which is excited by sympathy, is love itself; and there is nothing -required but to change the object. - -Hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes and -appearances. Hence even its weaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and a -person, whose grief upon the loss of a friend were excessive, would be -esteemed upon that account. His tenderness bestows a merit, as it does -a pleasure, on his melancholy. - -We are not, however, to imagine that all the angry passions are -vicious, though they are disagreeable. There is a certain indulgence -due to human nature in this respect. Anger and hatred are passions -inherent in our very frame and constitution. The want of them, on some -occasions, may even be a proof of weakness and imbecility. And where -they appear only in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they -are natural, but even bestow our applauses on them, because they are -inferior to what appears in the greatest part of mankind. - -Where these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form the most -detested of all vices. All the pity and concern which we have for the -miserable sufferers by this vice, turns against the person guilty of -it, and produces a stronger hatred than we are sensible of on any other -occasion. - -Even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme degree, our -sentiments concerning it are very much influenced by reflections on -the harm that results from it. And we may observe in general, that if -we can find any quality in a person, which renders him incommodious -to those who live and converse with him, we always allow it to be a -fault or blemish, without any farther examination. On the other hand, -when we enumerate the good qualities of any person, we always mention -those parts of his character which render him a safe companion, an easy -friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father. -We consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate -him, according as he affects those who have any immediate intercourse -with him. And 'tis a most certain rule, that if there be no relation -of life in which I could not wish to stand to a particular person, his -character must so far be allowed to be perfect. If he be as little -wanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely perfect. -This is the ultimate test of merit and virtue. - - -[5] Book II. Part II. Sect. 5. - - - - -SECTION IV. - -OF NATURAL ABILITIES. - - -No distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than that -betwixt _natural abilities_ and _moral virtues_; where the former are -placed on the same footing with bodily endowments, and are supposed -to have no merit or moral worth annexed to them. Whoever considers -the matter accurately, will find, that a dispute upon this head would -be merely a dispute of words, and that, though these qualities are -not altogether of the same kind, yet they agree in the most material -circumstances. They are both of them equally mental qualities: and both -of them equally produce pleasure; and have of course an equal tendency -to procure the love and esteem of mankind. There are few who are not as -jealous of their character, with regard to sense and knowledge, as to -honour and courage; and much more than with regard to temperance and -sobriety. Men are even afraid of passing for good-natured, lest _that_ -should be taken for want of understanding; and often boast of more -debauches than they have been really engaged in, to give themselves -airs of fire and spirit. In short, the figure a man makes in the -world, the reception he meets with in company, the esteem paid him -by his acquaintance; all these advantages depend almost as much upon -his good sense and judgment, as upon any other part of his character. -Let a man have the best intentions in the world, and be the farthest -from all injustice and violence, he will never be able to make himself -be much regarded, without a moderate share, at least, of parts and -understanding. Since then natural abilities, though perhaps inferior, -yet are on the same footing, both as to their causes and effects, with -those qualities which we call moral virtues, why should we make any -distinction betwixt them? - -Though we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we must -allow, that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give -a new lustre to the other virtues; and that a man possessed of them is -much more entitled to our good will and services than one entirely void -of them. It may indeed be pretended, that the sentiment of approbation -which those qualities produce, besides its being _inferior_, is also -somewhat _different_ from that which attends the other virtues. But -this, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason for excluding them -from the catalogue of virtues. Each of the virtues, even benevolence, -justice, gratitude, integrity, excites a different sentiment or -feeling in the spectator. The characters of Cæsar and Cato, as drawn by -Sallust, are both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word, -but in a different way: nor are the sentiments entirely the same which -arise from them. The one produces love, the other esteem; the one is -amiable, the other awful: we could wish to meet with the one character -in a friend, the other character we would be ambitious of in ourselves. -In like manner, the approbation which attends natural abilities, may -be somewhat different to the feeling from that which arises from the -other virtues, without making them entirely of a different species. And -indeed we may observe, that the natural abilities, no more than the -other virtues, produce not, all of them, the same kind of approbation. -Good sense and genius beget esteem; wit and humour excite love.[6] - -Those who represent the distinction betwixt natural abilities and -moral virtues as very material, may say, that the former are entirely -involuntary, and have therefore no merit attending them, as having no -dependence on liberty and free will. But to this I answer, _first_, -That many of those qualities which all moralists, especially the -ancients, comprehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally -involuntary and necessary with the qualities of the judgment and -imagination. Of this nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity; -and, in short, all the qualities which form the _great_ man. I might -say the same, in some degree, of the others; it being almost impossible -for the mind to change its character in any considerable article, or -cure itself of a passionate or splenetic temper, when they are natural -to it. The greater degree there is of these blameable qualities, -the more vicious they become, and yet they are the less voluntary. -_Secondly_, I would have any one give me a reason, why virtue and vice -may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and deformity. These moral -distinctions arise from the natural distinctions of pain and pleasure; -and when we receive those feelings from the general consideration -of any quality or character, we denominate it vicious or virtuous. -Now I believe no one will assert, that a quality can never produce -pleasure or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly -voluntary in the person who possesses it. _Thirdly_, As to free will, -we have shown that it has no place with regard to the actions, no more -than the qualities of men. It is not a just consequence, that what is -voluntary is free. Our actions are more voluntary than our judgments; -but we have not more liberty in the one than in the other. - -But, though this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary, be not -sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural abilities and -moral virtues, yet the former distinction will afford us a plausible -reason, why moralists have invented the latter. Men have observed, -that, though natural abilities and moral qualities be in the main on -the same footing, there is, however, this difference betwixt them, -that the former are almost invariable by any art or industry; while -the latter, or at least the actions that proceed from them, may be -changed by the motives of rewards and punishment, praise and blame. -Hence legislators and divines and moralists have principally applied -themselves to the regulating these voluntary actions, and have -endeavoured to produce additional motives for being virtuous in that -particular. They knew, that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to -be prudent and sagacious, would have but little effect; though the same -punishments and exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice, -might have a considerable influence. But as men, in common life and -conversation, do not carry those ends in view, but naturally praise -or blame whatever pleases or displeases them, they do not seem much -to regard this distinction, but consider prudence under the character -of virtue as well as benevolence, and penetration as well as justice. -Nay, we find that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a -strict adherence to a system, enter into the same way of thinking; and -that the ancient moralists, in particular, made no scruple of placing -prudence at the head of the cardinal virtues. There is a sentiment -of esteem and approbation, which may be excited, in some degree, by -any faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition; and to -account for this sentiment is the business of _philosophers_. It -belongs to _grammarians_ to examine what qualities are entitled to the -denomination of _virtue_; nor will they find, upon trial, that this is -so easy a task as at first sight they may be apt to imagine. - -The principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed, is because -of their tendency to be useful to the person who is possessed of -them. 'Tis impossible to execute any design with success, where it is -not conducted with prudence and discretion; nor will the goodness -of our intentions alone suffice to procure us a happy issue to our -enterprises. Men are superior to beasts principally by the superiority -of their reason; and they are the degrees of the same faculty, which -set such an infinite difference betwixt one man and another. All the -advantages of art are owing to human reason; and where fortune is not -very capricious, the most considerable part of these advantages must -fall to the share of the prudent and sagacious. - -When it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension be most -valuable? whether one, that at first view penetrates into a subject, -but can perform nothing upon study; or a contrary character, which must -work out every thing by dint of application? whether a clear head, or -a copious invention? whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in -short, what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent -than another? 'Tis evident we can answer none of these questions, -without considering which of those qualities capacitates a man best for -the world, and carries him farthest in any of his undertakings. - -There are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit is derived -from the same origin. _Industry, perseverance, patience, activity, -vigilance, application, constancy_, with other virtues of that kind, -which 'twill be easy to recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no other -account than their advantage in the conduct of life. 'Tis the same case -with _temperance, frugality, economy, resolution_; as, on the other -hand, _prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncertainty_, are vicious, -merely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us for business -and action. - -As wisdom and good sense are valued because they are _useful_ to the -person possessed of them, so _wit_ and _eloquence_ are valued because -they are _immediately agreeable_ to others. On the other hand, _good -humour_ is loved and esteemed, because it is _immediately agreeable_ to -the person himself. 'Tis evident, that the conversation of a man of wit -is very satisfactory; as a cheerful good-humoured companion diffuses -a joy over the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. These -qualities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturally beget love and -esteem, and answer to all the characters of virtue. - -'Tis difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that renders one -man's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, and another's so -insipid and distasteful. As conversation is a transcript of the mind as -well as books, the same qualities which render the one valuable must -give us an esteem for the other. This we shall consider afterwards. -In the mean time, it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit -a man may derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very -considerable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys to those -who are present. - -In this view, _cleanliness_ is also to be regarded as a virtue, -since it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very -considerable source of love and affection. No one will deny that a -negligence in this particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing -but smaller vices, and this fault can have no other origin than the -uneasy sensation which it excites in others, we may in this instance, -seemingly so trivial, clearly discover the origin of the moral -distinction of vice and virtue in other instances. - -Besides all those qualities which render a person lovely or valuable, -there is also a certain _je-ne-sçai-quoi_ of agreeable and handsome -that concurs to the same effect. In this case, as well as in that of -wit and eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which -acts without reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities -and characters. Some moralists account for all the sentiments of -virtue by this sense. Their hypothesis is very plausible. Nothing but -a particular inquiry can give the preference to any other hypothesis. -When we find that almost all the virtues have such particular -tendencies, and also find that these tendencies are sufficient alone to -give a strong sentiment of approbation, we cannot doubt, after this, -that qualities are approved of in proportion to the advantage which -results from them. - -The _decorum_ or _indecorum_ of a quality, with regard to the age, -or character, or station, contributes also to its praise or blame. -This decorum depends in a great measure upon experience. 'Tis usual -to see men lose their levity as they advance in years. Such a degree -of gravity, therefore, and such years, are connected together in our -thoughts. When we observe, them separated in any person's character, -this imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is disagreeable. - -That faculty of the soul which, of all others, is of the least -consequence to the character, and has the least virtue or vice in its -several degrees, at the same time that it admits of a great variety -of degrees, is the _memory_. Unless it rise up to that stupendous -height as to surprise us, or sink so low as in some measure to affect -the judgment, we commonly take no notice of its variations, nor ever -mention them to the praise or dispraise of any person. 'Tis so far -from being a virtue to have a good memory, that men generally affect -to complain of a bad one; and, endeavouring to persuade the world -that what they say is entirely of their own invention, sacrifice it -to the praise of genius and judgment. Yet, to consider the matter -abstractedly,'twould be difficult to give a reason why the faculty -of recalling past ideas with truth and clearness, should not have as -much merit in it as the faculty of placing our present ideas in such -an order as to form true propositions and opinions. The reason of the -difference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted without any -sensation of pleasure or pain, and in all its middling degrees serves -almost equally well in business and affairs. But the least variations -in the judgment are sensibly felt in their consequences; while at -the same time that faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree, -without an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. The sympathy with -this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the understanding; and -the absence of it makes us consider the memory as a faculty very -indifferent to blame or praise. - -Before I leave this subject of _natural abilities_, I must observe, -that perhaps one source of the esteem and affection which attends -them, is derived from the _importance_ and _weight_ which they bestow -on the person possessed of them. He becomes of greater consequence -in life. His resolutions and actions affect a greater number of his -fellow-creatures. Both his friendship and enmity are of moment. And -'tis easy to observe, that whoever is elevated, after this manner, -above the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments of esteem -and approbation. Whatever is important engages our attention, fixes -our thought, and is contemplated with satisfaction. The histories of -kingdoms are more interesting than domestic stories; the histories of -great empires more than those of small cities and principalities; and -the histories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and -order. We sympathize with the persons that suffer, in all the various -sentiments which belong to their fortunes. The mind is occupied by -the multitude of the objects, and by the strong passions that display -themselves. And this occupation or agitation of the mind is commonly -agreeable and amusing. The same theory accounts for the esteem and -regard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. The good -and ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. Whatever they -undertake is important, and challenges our attention. Nothing is to be -overlooked and despised that regards them. And where any person can -excite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem, unless other -circumstances of his character render him odious and disagreeable. - - -[6] Love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and arise from -like causes. The qualities that produce both are agreeable, and give -pleasure. But where this pleasure is severe and serious; or where its -object is great, and makes a strong impression; or where it produces -any degree of humility and awe: in all these cases, the passion which -arises from the pleasure is more properly denominated esteem than love. -Benevolence attends both; but is connected with love in a more eminent -degree. - - - - -SECTION V. - -SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURAL VIRTUES. - - -It has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that pride -and humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages or -disadvantages of the _mind, body_, or _fortune_; and that these -advantages or disadvantages have that effect by producing a separate -impression of pain or pleasure. The pain or pleasure which arises from -the general survey or view of any action or quality of the _mind_, -constitutes its vice or virtue, and gives rise to our approbation -or blame, which is nothing but a fainter and more imperceptible love -or hatred. We have assigned four different sources of this pain and -pleasure; and, in order to justify more fully that hypothesis, it may -here be proper to observe, that the advantages or disadvantages of -the _body_ and of _fortune_, produce a pain or pleasure from the very -same principles. The tendency of any object to be _useful_ to the -person possessed of it, or to others; to convey _pleasure_ to him or -to others; all these circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the -person who considers the object, and command his love and approbation. - -To begin with the advantages of the _body_; we may observe a phenomenon -which might appear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if any thing -could be trivial which fortified a conclusion of such importance, or -ludicrous, which was employed in a philosophical reasoning. 'Tis a -general remark, that those we call good _women's men_, who have either -signalized themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body -promises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well received by -the fair sex, and naturally engage the affections even of those whose -virtue prevents any design of ever giving employment to those talents. -Here 'tis evident that the ability of such a person to give enjoyment, -is the real source of that love and esteem he meets with among the -females; at the same time that the women who love and esteem him have -no prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and can only be -affected by means of their sympathy with one that has a commerce of -love with him. This instance is singular, and merits our attention. - -Another source of the pleasure we receive from considering bodily -advantages, is their utility to the person himself who is possessed of -them. 'Tis certain, that a considerable part of the beauty of men, as -well as of other animals, consists in such a conformation of members as -we find by experience to be attended with strength and agility, and to -capacitate the creature for any action or exercise. Broad shoulders, -a lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our -species, because they are signs of force and vigour, which, being -advantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey to the beholder a -share of that satisfaction they produce in the possessor. - -So far as to the _utility_ which may attend any quality of the body. -As to the immediate _pleasure_, 'tis certain that an air of health, as -well as of strength and agility, makes a considerable part of beauty; -and that a sickly air in another is always disagreeable, upon account -of that idea of pain and uneasiness which it conveys to us. On the -other hand, we are pleased with the regularity of our own features, -though it be neither useful to ourselves nor others; and 'tis necessary -for us in some measure to set ourselves at a distance, to make it -convey to us any satisfaction. We commonly consider ourselves as we -appear in the eyes of others, and sympathize with the advantageous -sentiments they entertain with regard to us. - -How far the advantages of _fortune_ produce esteem and approbation -from the same principles, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting on -our precedent reasoning on that subject. We have observed, that our -approbation of those who are possessed of the advantages of fortune, -may be ascribed to three different causes. _First_, To that immediate -pleasure which a rich man gives us, by the view of the beautiful -clothes, equipage, gardens, or houses, which he possesses. _Secondly_, -To the advantage which we hope to reap from him by his generosity and -liberality. _Thirdly_, To the pleasure and advantage which he himself -reaps from his possessions, and which produce an agreeable sympathy -in us. Whether we ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one or -all of these causes, we may clearly see the traces of those principles -which give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. I believe most people, -at first sight, will be inclined to ascribe our esteem of the rich -to self-interest and the prospect of advantage. But as 'tis certain -that our esteem or deference extends beyond any prospect of advantage -to ourselves, 'tis evident that that sentiment must proceed from a -sympathy with those who are dependent on the person we esteem and -respect, and who have an immediate connexion with him. We consider him -as a person capable of contributing to the happiness or enjoyment of -his fellow-creatures, whose sentiments with regard to him we naturally -embrace. And this consideration will serve to justify my hypothesis in -preferring the _third_ principle to the other two, and ascribing our -esteem of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage which -they themselves receive from their possessions. For as even the other -two principles cannot operate to a due extent, or account for all the -phenomena without having recourse to a sympathy of one kind or other, -'tis much more natural to choose that sympathy which is immediate and -direct, than that which is remote and indirect. To which we may add, -that where the riches or power are very great, and render the person -considerable and important, in the world, tire esteem attending them -may in part be ascribed to another source, distinct from these three, -viz. their interesting the mind by a prospect of the multitude and -importance of their consequences; though, in order to account for the -operation of this principle, we must also have recourse to _sympathy_, -as we have observed in the preceding section. - -It may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flexibility of -our sentiments, and the several changes they so readily receive from -the objects with which they are conjoined. All the sentiments of -approbation which attend any particular species of objects, have a -great resemblance to each other, though derived from different sources; -and, on the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different -objects, are different to the feeling, though derived from the same -source. Thus, the beauty of all visible objects causes a pleasure -pretty much the same, though it be sometimes derived from the mere -_species_ and appearance of the objects; sometimes from sympathy, -and an idea of their utility. In like manner, whenever we survey the -actions and characters of men, without any particular interest in them, -the pleasure or pain which arises from the survey (with some minute -differences) is in the main of the same kind, though perhaps there be -a great diversity in the causes from which it is derived. On the other -hand, a convenient house and a virtuous character cause not the same -feeling of approbation, even though the source of our approbation be -the same, and flow from sympathy and an idea of their utility. There -is something very inexplicable in this variation of our feelings; but -'tis what we have experience of with regard to all our passions and -sentiments. - - - - -SECTION VI. - -CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK. - - -Thus, upon the whole, I am hopeful that nothing is wanting to an -accurate proof of this system of ethics. We are certain that sympathy -is a very powerful principle in human nature. We are also certain -that it has a great influence on our sense of beauty, when we regard -external objects, as well as when we judge of morals. We find that -it has force sufficient to give us the strongest sentiments of -approbation, when it operates alone, without the concurrence of any -other principle; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, chastity, and -good manners. We may observe, that all the circumstances requisite for -its operation are found in most of the virtues, which have, for the -most part, a tendency to the good of society, or to that of the person -possessed of them. If we compare all these circumstances, we shall -not doubt that sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions; -especially when we reflect, that no objection can be raised against -this hypothesis in one case, which will not extend to all cases. -Justice is certainly approved of, for no other reason than because it -has a tendency to the public good; and the public good is indifferent -to us, except so far as sympathy interests us in it. We may presume the -like with regard to all the other virtues, which have a like tendency -to the public good. They must derive all their merit from our sympathy -with those who reap any advantage from them; as the virtues, which have -a tendency to the good of the person possessed of them, derive their -merit from our sympathy with him. - -Most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of the -mind are virtuous, because of their utility. This way of thinking is -so natural, and occurs on so many occasions, that few will make any -scruple of admitting it. Now, this being once admitted, the force of -sympathy must necessarily be acknowledged. Virtue is considered as -means to an end. Means to an end are only valued so far as the end is -valued. But the happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone. -To that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of -approbation which arises from the survey of all those virtues that are -useful to society, or to the person possessed of them. These form the -most considerable part of morality. - -Were it proper, in such a subject, to bribe the reader's assent, or -employ any thing but solid argument, we are here abundantly supplied -with topics to engage the affections. All lovers of virtue (and such -we all are in speculation, however we may degenerate in practice) -must certainly be pleased to see moral distinctions derived from so -noble a source, which gives us a just notion both of the _generosity_ -and _capacity_ of human nature. It requires but very little knowledge -of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle -inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into -the composition. But this sense must certainly acquire new force when, -reflecting on itself, it approves of those principles from whence it is -derived, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and -origin. Those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts -of the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient -authority, but want the advantage which those possess who account for -that sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. According to their -system, not only virtue must be approved of, but also the sense of -virtue: and not only that sense, but also the principles from whence -it is derived. So that nothing is presented on any side but what is -laudable and good. - -This observation may be extended to justice, and the other virtues of -that kind. Though justice be artificial, the sense of its morality is -natural. 'Tis the combination of men in a system of conduct, which -renders any act of justice beneficial to society. But when once it has -that tendency, we _naturally_ approve of it; and if we did not so, -'tis impossible any combination or convention could ever produce that -sentiment. - -Most of the inventions of men are subject to change. They depend upon -humour and caprice. They have a vogue for a time, and then sink into -oblivion. It may perhaps be apprehended, that if justice were allowed -to be a human invention, it must be placed on the same footing. But the -cases are widely different. The interest on which justice is founded is -the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. It cannot -possibly be served by any other invention. It is obvious, and discovers -itself on the very first formation of society. All these causes render -the rules of justice steadfast and immutable; at least, as immutable -as human nature. And if they were founded on original instincts, could -they have any greater stability? - -The same system may help us to form a just notion of the _happiness_, -as well as of the _dignity_ of virtue, and may interest every principle -of our nature in the embracing and cherishing that noble quality. Who -indeed does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits of -knowledge and ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides -the advantages which immediately result from these acquisitions, they -also give him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally -attended with esteem and approbation? And who can think any advantages -of fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the -_social_ virtues, when he considers, that not only his character with -regard to others, but also his peace and inward satisfaction entirely -depend upon his strict observance of them; and that a mind will never -be able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its parts to -mankind and society? But I forbear insisting on this subject. Such -reflections require a work apart, very different from the genius of -the present. The anatomist ought never to emulate the painter; nor -in his accurate dissections and portraitures of the smaller parts of -the human body, pretend to give his figures any graceful and engaging -attitude or expression. There is even something hideous, or at least -minute, in the views of things which he presents; and 'tis necessary -the objects should be set more at a distance, and be more covered -up from sight, to make them engaging to the eye and imagination. An -anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give advice to a painter; -and 'tis even impracticable to excel in the latter art, without the -assistance of the former. We must have an exact knowledge of the parts, -their situation and connection, before we can design with any elegance -or correctness. And thus the most abstract speculations concerning -human nature, however cold and unentertaining, become subservient to -_practical morality_; and may render this latter science more correct -in its precepts, and more persuasive in its exhortations. - -See Appendix at the end of the volume. - - - - -DIALOGUES - -CONCERNING - -NATURAL RELIGION - - -PAMPHILUS TO HERMIPPUS. - - -It has been remarked, my Hermippus, that though the ancient -philosophers conveyed most of their instruction in the form of -dialogue, this method of composition has been little practised in -later ages, and has seldom succeeded in the hands of those who have -attempted it. Accurate and regular argument, indeed, such as is now -expected of philosophical inquirers, naturally throws a man into the -methodical and didactic manner; where he can immediately, without -preparation, explain the point at which he aims; and thence proceed, -without interruption, to deduce the proofs on which it is established. -To deliver a *SYSTEM in conversation, scarcely appears natural; and -while the dialogue-writer desires, by departing from the direct style -of composition, to give a freer air to his performance, and avoid the -appearance of _Author_ and _Reader_, he is apt to run into a worse -inconvenience, and convey the image of _Pedagogue_ and _Pupil_. Or, -if he carries on the dispute in the natural spirit of good company, -by throwing in a variety of topics, and preserving a proper balance -among the speakers, he often loses so much time in preparations and -transitions, that the reader will scarcely think himself compensated, -by all the graces of dialogue, for the order, brevity and precision, -which are sacrificed to them. - -There are some subjects, however, to which dialogue-writing is -peculiarly adapted, and where it is still preferable to the direct and -simple method of composition. - -Any point of doctrine, which is so _obvious_ that it scarcely admits -of dispute, but at the same time so _important_ that it cannot be too -often inculcated, seems to require some such method of handling it; -where the novelty of the manner may compensate the triteness of the -subject; where the vivacity of conversation may enforce the precept; -and where the variety of lights, presented by various personages and -characters, may appear neither tedious nor redundant. - -Any question of philosophy, on the other hand, which is so _obscure_ -and _uncertain_, that human reason, can reach no fixed determination -with regard to it; if it should be treated at all, seems to lead us -naturally into the style of dialogue and conversation. Reasonable men -may be allowed to differ, where no one can reasonably be positive: -Opposite sentiments, even without any decision, afford an agreeable -amusement; and if the subject be curious and interesting, the book -carries us, in a manner, into company; and unites the two greatest and -purest pleasures of human life, study and society. - -Happily, these circumstances are all to be found in the subject of -NATURAL RELIGION. What truth so obvious, so certain, as the being of a -God, which the most ignorant ages have acknowledged, for which the most -refined geniuses have ambitiously striven to produce new proofs and -arguments? What truth so important as this, which is the ground of all -our hopes, the surest foundation of morality, the firmest support of -society, and the only principle which ought never to be a moment absent -from our thoughts and meditations? But, in treating of this obvious and -important truth, what obscure questions occur concerning the nature of -that Divine Being, his attributes, his decrees, his plan of providence? -These have been always subjected to the disputations of men; concerning -these human reason has not reached any certain determination. But -these are topics so interesting, that we cannot restrain our restless -inquiry with regard to them; though nothing but doubt, uncertainty -and contradiction, have as yet been the result of our most accurate -researches. - -This I had lately occasion to observe, while I passed, as usual, -part of the summer season with Cleanthes, and was present at those -conversations of his with Philo and Demea, of which I gave you lately -some imperfect account. Your curiosity, you then told me, was so -excited, that I must, of necessity, enter into a more exact detail of -their reasonings, and display those various systems which they advanced -with regard to so delicate a subject as that of natural religion. The -remarkable contrast in their characters still farther raised your -expectations; while you opposed the accurate philosophical turn of -Cleanthes to the careless scepticism of Philo, or compared either of -their dispositions with the rigid inflexible orthodoxy of Demea. My -youth rendered me a mere auditor of their disputes; and that curiosity, -natural to the early season of life, has so deeply imprinted in my -memory the whole chain and connexion of their arguments, that, I hope, -I shall not omit or confound any considerable part of them in the -recital. - - - - -PART I. - - -After I joined the company, whom I found sitting in Cleanthes's -library, Demea paid Cleanthes some compliments on the great care -which he took of my education, and on his unwearied perseverance and -constancy in all his friendships. The father of Pamphilus, said he, was -your intimate friend: The son is your pupil; and may indeed be regarded -as your adopted son, were we to judge by the pains which you bestow in -conveying to him every useful branch of literature and science. You -are no more wanting, I am persuaded, in prudence than in industry. I -shall, therefore, communicate to you a maxim, which I have observed -with regard to my own children, that I may learn how far it agrees with -your practice. The method I follow in their education is founded on -the saying of an ancient, 'That students of philosophy ought first to -learn logics, then ethics, next physics, last of all the nature of the -gods.'[1] This science of natural theology, according to him, being the -most profound and abstruse of any, required the maturest judgment in -its students; and none but a mind enriched with all the other sciences, -can safely be intrusted with it. - -Are you so late, says Philo, in teaching your children the principles -of religion? Is there no danger of their neglecting, or rejecting -altogether those opinions of which they have heard so little during -the whole course of their education? It is only as a science, replied -Demea, subjected to human reasoning and disputation, that I postpone -the study of Natural Theology. To season their minds with early piety, -is my chief care; and by continual precept and instruction, and I hope -too by example, I imprint deeply on their tender minds an habitual -reverence for all the principles of religion. While they pass through -every other science, I still remark the uncertainty of each part; -the eternal disputations of men; the obscurity of all philosophy; -and the strange, ridiculous conclusions, which some of the greatest -geniuses have derived from the principles of mere human reason. Having -thus tamed their mind to a proper submission and self-diffidence, I -have no longer any scruple of opening to them the greatest mysteries -of religion; nor apprehend any danger from that assuming arrogance -of philosophy, which may lead them to reject the most established -doctrines and opinions. - -Your precaution, says, Philo, of seasoning your childrens minds early -with piety, is certainly very reasonable; and no more than is requisite -in this profane and irreligious age. But what I chiefly admire in your -plan of education, is your method of drawing advantage from the very -principles of philosophy and learning, which, by inspiring pride and -self-sufficiency, have commonly, in all ages, been found so destructive -to the principles of religion. The vulgar, indeed, we may remark, who -are unacquainted with science and profound inquiry, observing the -endless disputes of the learned, have commonly a thorough contempt for -philosophy; and rivet themselves the faster, by that means, in the -great points of theology which have been taught them. Those who enter -a little into study and inquiry, finding many appearances of evidence -in doctrines the newest and most extraordinary, think nothing too -difficult for human reason; and, presumptuously breaking through all -fences, profane the inmost sanctuaries of the temple. But Cleanthes -will, I hope, agree with me, that, after we have abandoned ignorance, -the surest remedy, there is still one expedient left to prevent this -profane liberty. Let Demea's principles be improved and cultivated: -Let us become thoroughly sensible of the weakness, blindness, and -narrow limits of human reason: Let us duly consider its uncertainty and -endless contrarieties, even in subjects of common life and practice: -Let the errors and deceits of our very senses be set before us; the -insuperable difficulties which attend first principles in all systems; -the contradictions which adhere to the very ideas of matter, cause and -effect, extension, space, time, motion; and in a word, quantity of all -kinds, the object of the only science that can fairly pretend to any -certainty or evidence. When these topics are displayed in their full -light, as they are by some philosophers and almost all divines; who -can retain such confidence in this frail faculty of reason as to pay -any regard to its determinations in points so sublime, so abstruse, -so remote from common life and experience? When the coherence of the -parts of a stone, or even that composition of parts which renders it -extended; when these familiar objects, I say, are so inexplicable, -and contain circumstances so repugnant and contradictory; with what -assurance can we decide concerning the origin of worlds, or trace their -history from eternity to eternity? - -While Philo pronounced these words, I could observe a smile in the -countenance both of Demea and Cleanthes. That of Demea seemed to -imply an unreserved satisfaction in the doctrines delivered: But, in -Cleanthes's features, I could distinguish an air of finesse; as if he -perceived some raillery or artificial malice in the reasonings of Philo. - -You propose then, Philo, said Cleanthes, to erect religious faith on -philosophical scepticism; and you think, that if certainty or evidence -be expelled from every other subject of inquiry, it will all retire to -these theological doctrines, and there acquire a superior force and -authority. Whether your scepticism be as absolute and sincere as you -pretend, we shall learn by and by, when the company breaks up: We shall -then see, whether you go out at the door or the window; and whether -you really doubt if your body has gravity, or can be injured by its -fall; according to popular opinion, derived from our fallacious senses, -and more fallacious experience. And this consideration, Demea, may, I -think, fairly serve to abate our ill-will to this humorous sect of the -sceptics. If they be thoroughly in earnest, they will not long trouble -the world with their doubts, cavils, and disputes: If they be only in -jest, they are, perhaps, bad railers; but can never be very dangerous, -either to the state, to philosophy, or to religion. - -In reality, Philo, continued he, it seems certain, that though a -man, in a flush of humour, after intense reflection on the many -contradictions and imperfections of human reason, may entirely renounce -all belief and opinion, it is impossible for him to persevere in -this total scepticism, or make it appear in his conduct for a few -hours. External objects press in upon him; passions solicit him; his -philosophical melancholy dissipates; and even the utmost violence upon -his own temper will not be able, during any time, to preserve the poor -appearance of scepticism. And for what reason impose on himself such -a violence? This is a point in which it will be impossible for him -ever to satisfy himself, consistently with his sceptical principles. -So that, upon the whole, nothing could be more ridiculous than the -principles of the ancient Pyrrhonians; if in reality they endeavoured, -as is pretended, to extend, throughout, the same scepticism which they -had learned from the declamations of their schools, and which they -ought to have confined to them. - -In this view, there appears a great resemblance between the sects of -the Stoics and Pyrrhonians, though perpetual antagonists; and both -of them seem founded on this erroneous maxim, That what a man can -perform sometimes, and in some dispositions, he can perform always, -and in every disposition. When the mind, by Stoical reflections, is -elevated into a sublime enthusiasm of virtue, and strongly smit with -any _species_ of honour or public good, the utmost bodily pain and -sufferings will not prevail over such a high sense of duty; and it is -possible, perhaps, by its means, even to smile and exult in the midst -of tortures. If this sometimes may be the case in fact and reality, -much more may a philosopher, in his school, or even in his closet, -work himself up to such an enthusiasm, and support in imagination the -acutest pain or most calamitous event which he can possibly conceive. -But how shall he support this enthusiasm itself? The bent of his mind -relaxes, and cannot be recalled at pleasure; avocations lead him -astray; misfortunes attack him unawares; and the _philosopher_ sinks -by degrees into the _plebeian_. - -I allow of your comparison between the Stoics and Sceptics, replied -Philo. But you may observe, at the same time, that though the mind -cannot, in Stoicism, support the highest flights of philosophy, yet, -even when it sinks lower, it still retains somewhat of its former -disposition; and the effects of the Stoic's reasoning will appear in -his conduct in common life, and through the whole tenor of his actions. -The ancient schools, particularly that of Zeno, produced examples of -virtue and constancy which seem astonishing to present times. - - Vain Wisdom all and false Philosophy. - Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm - Pain, for a while, or anguish; and excite - Fallacious Hope, or arm the obdurate breast - With stubborn Patience, as with triple steel. - -In like manner, if a man has accustomed himself to sceptical -considerations on the uncertainty and narrow limits of reason, he -will not entirely forget them when he turns his reflection on other -subjects; but in all his philosophical principles and reasoning, I dare -not say in his common conduct, he will be found different from those, -who either never formed any opinions in the case, or have entertained -sentiments more favourable to human reason. - -To whatever length any one may push his speculative principles of -scepticism, he must act, I own, and live, and converse, like other men; -and for this conduct he is not obliged to give any other reason, than -the absolute necessity he lies under of so doing. If he ever carries -his speculations farther than this necessity constrains him, and -philosophizes either on natural or moral subjects, he is allured by a -certain pleasure and satisfaction which he finds in employing himself -after that manner. He considers besides, that every one, even in common -life, is constrained to have more or less of this philosophy; that -from our earliest infancy we make continual advances in forming more -general principles of conduct and reasoning; that the larger experience -we acquire, and the stronger reason we are endued with, we always -render our principles the more general and comprehensive; and that -what we call _philosophy_ is nothing but a more regular and methodical -operation of the same kind. To philosophize on such subjects, is -nothing essentially different from reasoning on common life; and we -may only expect greater stability, if not greater truth, from our -philosophy, on account of its exacter and more scrupulous method of -proceeding. - -But when we look beyond human affairs and the properties of the -surrounding bodies: when we carry our speculations into the two -eternities, before and after the present state of things; into the -creation and formation of the universe; the existence and properties of -spirits; the powers and operations, of one universal Spirit existing -without beginning and without end; omnipotent, omniscient, immutable, -infinite and incomprehensible: We must be far removed from the smallest -tendency to scepticism not to be apprehensive, that we have here got -quite beyond the reach of our faculties. So long as we confine our -speculations to trade, or morals, or politics, or criticism, we make -appeals, every moment, to common sense and experience, which strengthen -our philosophical conclusions, and remove, at least in part, the -suspicion which we so justly entertain with regard to every reasoning -that is very subtile and refined. But, in theological reasonings, we -have not this advantage; while, at the same time, we are employed upon -objects, which, we must be sensible, are too large for our grasp, and -of all others require most to be familiarized to our apprehension. We -are like foreigners in a strange country, to whom every thing must seem -suspicious, and who are in danger every moment of transgressing against -the laws and customs of the people with whom they live and converse. We -know not how far we ought to trust our vulgar methods of reasoning in -such a subject; since, even in common life, and in that province which -is peculiarly appropriated to them, we cannot account for them, and are -entirely guided by a kind of instinct or necessity in employing them. - -All sceptics pretend, that, if reason be considered in an abstract -view, it furnishes invincible arguments against itself: and that we -could never retain any conviction or assurance, on any subject, were -not the sceptical reasonings so refined and subtile, that they are -not able to counterpoise the more solid and more natural arguments -derived from the senses and experience. But it is evident, whenever our -arguments lose this advantage, and run wide of common life, that the -most refined scepticism comes to be upon a footing with them, and is -able to oppose and counterbalance them. The one has no more weight than -the other. The mind must remain in suspense between them; and it is -that very suspense or balance, which is the triumph of scepticism. - -But I observe, says Cleanthes, with regard to you, Philo, and all -speculative sceptics, that your doctrine and practice are as much at -variance in the most abstruse points of theory as in the conduct of -common life. Wherever evidence discovers itself, you adhere to it, -notwithstanding your pretended scepticism; and I can observe, too, some -of your sect to be as decisive as those who make greater professions of -certainty and assurance. In reality, would not a man be ridiculous, who -pretended to reject Newton's explication of the wonderful phenomenon -of the rainbow, because that explication gives a minute anatomy -of the rays of light; a subject, forsooth, too refined for human -comprehension? And what would you say to one, who, having nothing -particular to object to the arguments of Copernicus and Galilæo for -the motion of the earth, should withhold his assent, on that general -principle, that these subjects were too magnificent and remote to be -explained by the narrow and fallacious reason of mankind? - -There is indeed a kind of brutish and ignorant scepticism, as you well -observed, which gives the vulgar a general prejudice against what they -do not easily understand, and makes them reject every principle which -requires elaborate reasoning to prove and establish it. This species of -scepticism is fatal to knowledge, not to religion; since we find, that -those who make greatest profession of it, give often their assent, not -only to the great truths of Theism and natural theology, but even to -the most absurd tenets which a traditional superstition has recommended -to them. They firmly believe in witches, though they will not believe -nor attend to the most simple proposition of Euclid. But the refined -and philosophical sceptics fall into an inconsistence of an opposite -nature. They push their researches into the most abstruse corners of -science; and their assent attends them in every step, proportioned -to the evidence which they meet with. They are even obliged to -acknowledge, that the most abstruse and remote objects are those which -are best explained by philosophy. Light is in reality anatomized: The -true system of the heavenly bodies is discovered and ascertained. But -the nourishment of bodies by food is still an inexplicable mystery: -The cohesion of the parts of matter is still incomprehensible. These -sceptics, therefore, are obliged, in every question, to consider -each particular evidence apart, and proportion their assent to the -precise degree of evidence which occurs. This is their practice in all -natural, mathematical, moral, and political science. And why not the -same, I ask, in the theological and religious? Why must conclusions -of this nature be alone rejected on the general presumption of the -insufficiency of human reason, without any particular discussion of the -evidence? Is not such an unequal conduct a plain proof of prejudice and -passion? - -Our senses, you say, are fallacious; our understanding erroneous; our -ideas, even of the most familiar objects, extension, duration, motion, -full of absurdities and contradictions. You defy me to solve the -difficulties, or reconcile the repugnancies which you discover in them. -I have not capacity for so great an undertaking: I have not leisure -for it: I perceive it to be superfluous. Your own conduct, in every -circumstance, refutes your principles, and shows the firmest reliance -on all the received maxims of science, morals, prudence, and behaviour. - -I shall never assent to so harsh an opinion as that of a celebrated -writer,[2] who says, that the Sceptics are not a sect of philosophers: -They are only a sect of liars. I may, however, affirm (I hope without -offence), that they are a sect of jesters or railers. But for my -part, whenever I find myself disposed to mirth and amusement, I shall -certainly choose my entertainment of a less perplexing and abstruse -nature. A comedy, a novel, or at most a history, seems a more natural -recreation than such metaphysical subtilties and abstractions. - -In vain would the sceptic make a distinction between science and common -life, or between one science and another. The arguments employed in -all, if just, are of a similar nature, and contain the same force and -evidence. Or if there be any difference among them, the advantage lies -entirely on the side of theology and natural religion. Many principles -of mechanics are founded on very abstruse reasoning; yet no man who has -any pretensions to science, even no speculative sceptic, pretends to -entertain the least doubt with regard to them. The Copernican system -contains the most surprising paradox, and the most contrary to our -natural conceptions, to appearances, and to our very senses: yet even -monks and inquisitors are now constrained to withdraw their opposition -to it. And shall Philo, a man of so liberal a genius and extensive -knowledge, entertain any general undistinguished scruples with regard -to the religious hypothesis, which is founded on the simplest and most -obvious arguments, and, unless it meets with artificial obstacles, has -such easy access and admission into the mind of man? - -And here we may observe, continued he, turning himself towards Demea, -a pretty curious circumstance in the history of the sciences. After -the union of philosophy with the popular religion, upon the first -establishment of Christianity, nothing was more usual, among all -religious teachers, than declamations against reason, against the -senses, against every principle derived merely from human research -and inquiry. All the topics of the ancient academics were adopted by -the fathers; and thence propagated for several ages in every school -and pulpit throughout Christendom. The Reformers embraced the same -principles of reasoning, or rather declamation; and all panegyrics on -the excellency of faith, were sure to be interlarded with some severe -strokes of satire against natural reason. A celebrated prelate too,[3] -of the Romish communion, a man of the most extensive learning, who -wrote a demonstration of Christianity, has also composed a treatise, -which contains all the cavils of the boldest and most determined -Pyrrhonism. Locke seems to have been the first Christian who ventured -openly to assert, that _faith_ was nothing but a species of _reason_; -that religion was only a branch of philosophy; and that a chain of -arguments, similar to that which established any truth in morals, -politics, or physics, was always employed in discovering all the -principles of theology, natural and revealed. The ill use which Bayle -and other libertines made of the philosophical scepticism of the -fathers and first reformers, still farther propagated the judicious -sentiment of Mr Locke: And it is now in a manner avowed, by all -pretenders to reasoning and philosophy, that Atheist and Sceptic are -almost synonymous. And as it is certain that no man is in earnest when -he professes the latter principle, I would fain hope that there are as -few who seriously maintain the former. - -Don't you remember, said Philo, the excellent saying of Lord Bacon -on this head? That a little philosophy, replied Cleanthes, makes a -man an Atheist: A great deal converts him to religion. That is a very -judicious remark too, said Philo. But what I have in my eye is another -passage, where, having mentioned David's fool, who said in his heart -there is no God, this great philosopher observes, that the Atheists -now-a-days have a double share of folly; for they are not contented to -say in their hearts there is no God, but they also utter that impiety -with their lips, and are thereby guilty of multiplied indiscretion and -imprudence. Such people, though they were ever so much in earnest, -cannot, methinks, be very formidable. - -But though you should rank me in this class of fools, I cannot forbear -communicating a remark that occurs to me, from the history of the -religious and irreligious scepticism with which you have entertained -us. It appears to me, that there are strong symptoms of priestcraft in -the whole progress of this affair. During ignorant ages, such as those -which followed the dissolution of the ancient schools, the priests -perceived, that Atheism, Deism, or heresy of any kind, could only -proceed from the presumptuous questioning of received opinions, and -from a belief that human reason was equal to every thing. Education had -then a mighty influence over the minds of men, and was almost equal in -force to those suggestions of the senses and common understanding, by -which the most determined sceptic must allow himself to be governed. -But at present, when the influence of education is much diminished, -and men, from a more open commerce of the world, have learned to -compare the popular principles of different nations and ages, our -sagacious divines have changed their whole system of philosophy, and -talk the language of Stoics, Platonists, and Peripatetics, not that of -Pyrrhonians and Academics. If we distrust human reason, we have now no -other principle to lead us into religion. Thus, sceptics in one age, -dogmatists in another; whichever system best suits the purpose of these -reverend gentlemen, in giving them an ascendant over mankind, they are -sure to make it their favourite principle, and established tenet. - -It is very natural, said Cleanthes, for men to embrace those -principles, by which they find they can best defend their doctrines; -nor need we have any recourse to priestcraft to account for so -reasonable an expedient. And, surely nothing can afford a stronger -presumption, that any set of principles are true, and ought to be -embraced, than to observe that they tend to the confirmation of true -religion, and serve to confound the cavils of Atheists, Libertines, and -Freethinkers of all denominations. - -[1] Chrysippus apud Plut. de repug. Stoicorum. - -[2] L'art de penser. - -[3] Mons. Huet. - - - - -PART II. - - -I must own, Cleanthes, said Demea, that nothing can more surprise -me, than the light in which you have all along put this argument. -By the whole tenor of your discourse, one would imagine that you -were maintaining the Being of a God, against the cavils of Atheists -and Infidels; and were necessitated to become a champion for that -fundamental principle of all religion. But this, I hope, is not by any -means a question among us. No man, no man at least of common sense, -I am persuaded, ever entertained a serious doubt with regard to a -truth so certain and self-evident. The question is not concerning the -*BEING, but the $NATURE of *GOD. This, I affirm, from the infirmities -of human understanding, to be altogether incomprehensible and unknown -to us. The essence of that supreme Mind, his attributes, the manner -of his existence, the very nature of his duration; these, and every -particular which regards so divine a Being, are mysterious to men. -Finite, weak, and blind creatures, we ought to humble ourselves in his -august presence; and, conscious of our frailties, adore in silence his -infinite perfections, which eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, -neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. They are -covered in a deep cloud from human curiosity: It is profaneness to -attempt penetrating through these sacred obscurities: And, next to the -impiety of denying his existence, is the temerity of prying into his -nature and essence, decrees and attributes. - -But lest you should think that my _piety_ has here got the better of my -_philosophy_, I shall support my opinion, if it needs any support, by -a very great authority. I might cite all the divines, almost, from the -foundation of Christianity, who have ever treated of this or any other -theological subject: But I shall confine myself, at present, to one -equally celebrated for piety and philosophy. It is Father Malebranche, -who, I remember, thus expresses himself.[1] 'One ought not so much,' -says he, 'to call God a spirit, in order to express positively what -he is, as in order to signify that he is not matter. He is a Being -infinitely perfect: Of this we cannot doubt. But in the same manner -as we ought not to imagine, even supposing him corporeal, that he is -clothed with a human body, as the Anthropomorphites asserted, under -colour that that figure was the most perfect of any; so, neither -ought we to imagine that the spirit of God has human ideas, or bears -any resemblance to our spirit, under colour that we know nothing -more perfect than a human mind. We ought rather to believe, that as -he comprehends the perfections of matter without being material.... -he comprehends also the perfections of created spirits without being -spirit, in the manner we conceive spirit: That his true name is, _He -that is_; or, in other words, Being without restriction, All Being, the -Being infinite and universal.' - -After so great an authority, Demea, replied Philo, as that which -you have produced, and a thousand more which you might produce, it -would appear ridiculous in me to add my sentiment, or express my -approbation of your doctrine. But surely, where reasonable men treat -these subjects, the question can never be concerning the _Being_, -but only the _Nature_, of the Deity. The former truth, as you well -observe, is unquestionable and self-evident. Nothing exists without a -cause; and the original cause of this universe (whatever it be) we call -God; and piously ascribe to him every species of perfection. Whoever -scruples this fundamental truth, deserves every punishment which -can be inflicted among philosophers, to wit, the greatest ridicule, -contempt, and disapprobation. But as all perfection is entirely -relative, we ought never to imagine that we comprehend the attributes -of this divine Being, or to suppose that his perfections have any -analogy or likeness to the perfections of a human creature. Wisdom, -Thought, Design, Knowledge; these we justly ascribe to him; because -these words are honourable among men, and we have no other language -or other conceptions by which we can express our adoration of him. -But let us beware, lest we think that our ideas anywise correspond to -his perfections, or that his attributes have any resemblance to these -qualities among men. He is infinitely superior to our limited view and -comprehension; and is more the object of worship in the temple, than of -disputation in the schools. - -In reality, Cleanthes, continued he, there is no need of having -recourse to that affected scepticism so displeasing to you, in order -to come at this determination. Our ideas reach no farther than our -experience: We have no experience of divine attributes and operations: -I need not conclude my syllogism: You can draw the inference yourself. -And it is a pleasure to me (and I hope to you too) that just reasoning -and sound piety here concur in the same conclusion, and both of them -establish the adorably mysterious and incomprehensible nature of the -Supreme Being. - -Not to lose any time in circumlocutions, said Cleanthes, addressing -himself to Demea, much less in replying to the pious declamations of -Philo; I shall briefly explain how I conceive this matter. Look round -the world: contemplate the whole and every part of it: You will find it -to be nothing but one great machine, subdivided into an infinite number -of lesser machines, which again admit of subdivisions to a degree -beyond what human senses and faculties can trace and explain. All these -various machines, and even their most minute parts, are adjusted to -each other with an accuracy which ravishes into admiration all men who -have ever contemplated them. The curious adapting of means to ends, -throughout all nature, resembles exactly, though it much exceeds, the -productions of human contrivance; of human design, thought, wisdom, -and intelligence. Since therefore the effects resemble each other, we -are led to infer, by all the rules of analogy, that the causes also -resemble; and that the Author of Nature is somewhat similar to the -mind of man, though possessed of much larger faculties, proportioned -to the grandeur of the work which he has executed. By this argument -_a posteriori_, and by this argument alone, do we prove at once the -existence of a Deity, and his similarity to human mind and intelligence. - -I shall be so free, Cleanthes, said Demea, as to tell you, that from -the beginning I could not approve of your conclusion concerning the -similarity of the Deity to men; still less can I approve of the mediums -by which you endeavour to establish it. What! No demonstration of -the Being of God! No abstract arguments! No proofs _a priori_! Are -these, which have hitherto been so much insisted on by philosophers, -all fallacy, all sophism? Can we reach no farther in this subject than -experience and probability? I will not say that this is betraying -the cause of a Deity; But surely, by this affected candour, you give -advantages to Atheists, which they never could obtain by the mere dint -of argument and reasoning. - -What I chiefly scruple in this subject, said Philo, is not so much -that all religious arguments are by Cleanthes reduced to experience, -as that they appear not to be even the most certain and irrefragable -of that inferior kind. That a stone will fall, that fire will burn, -that the earth has solidity, we have observed a thousand and a thousand -times; and when any new instance of this nature is presented, we draw -without hesitation the accustomed inference. The exact similarity -of the cases gives us a perfect assurance of a similar event; and a -stronger evidence is never desired nor sought after. But wherever you -depart, in the least, from the similarity of the cases, you diminish -proportionably the evidence; and may at last bring it to a very weak -_analogy_, which is confessedly liable to error and uncertainty. After -having experienced the circulation of the blood in human creatures, we -make no doubt that it takes place in Titius and Mævius: But from its -circulation in frogs and fishes, it is only a presumption, though a -strong one, from analogy, that it takes place in men and other animals. -The analogical reasoning is much weaker, when we infer the circulation -of the sap in vegetables from our experience that the blood circulates -in animals; and those, who hastily followed that imperfect analogy, are -found, by more accurate experiments, to have been mistaken. - -If we see a house, Cleanthes, we conclude, with the greatest certainty, -that it had an architect or builder; because this is precisely that -species of effect which we have experienced to proceed from that -species of cause. But surely you will not affirm, that the universe -bears such a resemblance to a house, that we can with the same -certainty infer a similar cause, or that the analogy is here entire and -perfect. The dissimilitude is so striking, that the utmost you can here -pretend to is a guess, a conjecture, a presumption concerning a similar -cause; and how that pretension will be received in the world, I leave -you to consider. - -It would surely be very ill received, replied Cleanthes; and I should -be deservedly blamed and detested, did I allow, that the proofs of a -Deity amounted to no more than a guess or conjecture. But is the whole -adjustment of means to ends in a house and in the universe so slight a -resemblance? The economy of final causes? The order, proportion, and -arrangement of every part? Steps of a stair are plainly contrived, that -human legs may use them in mounting; and this inference is certain and -infallible. Human legs are also contrived for walking and mounting; and -this inference, I allow, is not altogether so certain, because of the -dissimilarity which you remark; but does it, therefore, deserve the -name only of presumption or conjecture? - -Good God! cried Demea, interrupting him, where are we? Zealous -defenders of religion allow, that the proofs of a Deity fall short -of perfect evidence! And you, Philo, on whose assistance I depended -in proving the adorable mysteriousness of the Divine Nature, do you -assent to all these extravagant opinions of Cleanthes? For what other -name can I give them? or, why spare my censure, when such principles -are advanced, supported by such an authority, before so young a man as -Pamphilus? - -You seem not to apprehend, replied Philo, that I argue with Cleanthes -in his own way; and, by showing him the dangerous consequences of his -tenets, hope at last to reduce him to our opinion. But what sticks most -with you, I observe, is the representation which Cleanthes has made of -the argument _a posteriori_; and finding that that argument is likely -to escape your hold and vanish into air, you think it so disguised, -that you can scarcely believe it to be set in its true light. Now, -however much I may dissent, in other respects, from the dangerous -principles of Cleanthes, I must allow that he has fairly represented -that argument; and I shall endeavour so to state the matter to you, -that you will entertain no farther scruples with regard to it. - -Were a man to abstract from every thing which he knows or has seen, he -would be altogether incapable, merely from his own ideas, to determine -what kind of scene the universe must be, or to give the preference -to one state or situation of things above another. For as nothing -which he clearly conceives could be esteemed impossible or implying -a contradiction, every chimera of his fancy would be upon an equal -footing; nor could he assign any just reason why he adheres to one idea -or system, and rejects the others which are equally possible. - -Again; after he opens his eyes, and contemplates the world as it really -is, it would be impossible for him at first to assign the cause of -any one event, much less of the whole of things, or of the universe. -He might set his fancy a rambling; and she might bring him in an -infinite variety of reports and representations. These would all be -possible; but being all equally possible, he would never of himself -give a satisfactory account for his preferring one of them to the rest. -Experience alone can point out to him the true cause of any phenomenon. - -Now, according to this method of reasoning, Demea, it follows, (and is, -indeed, tacitly allowed by Cleanthes himself), that order, arrangement, -or the adjustment of final causes, is not of itself any proof of -design; but only so far as it has been experienced to proceed from -that principle. For aught we can know _a priori_, matter may contain -the source or spring of order originally within itself, as well as -mind does; and there is no more difficulty in conceiving, that the -several elements, from an internal unknown cause, may fall into the -most exquisite arrangement, than to conceive that their ideas, in the -great universal mind, from a like internal unknown cause, fall into -that arrangement. The equal possibility of both these suppositions is -allowed. But, by experience, we find, (according to Cleanthes), that -there is a difference between them. Throw several pieces of steel -together, without shape or form; they will never arrange themselves -so as to compose a watch. Stone, and mortar, and wood, without an -architect, never erect a house. But the ideas in a human mind, we see, -by an unknown, inexplicable economy, arrange themselves so as to form -the plan of a watch or house. Experience, therefore, proves, that there -is an original principle of order in mind, not in matter. From similar -effects we infer similar causes. The adjustment of means to ends is -alike in the universe, as in a machine of human contrivance. The -causes, therefore, must be resembling. - -I was from the beginning scandalized, I must own, with this -resemblance, which is asserted, between the Deity and human creatures; -and must conceive it to imply such a degradation of the Supreme Being -as no sound Theist could endure. With your assistance, therefore, -Demea, I shall endeavour to defend what you justly call the adorable -mysteriousness of the Divine Nature, and shall refute this reasoning of -Cleanthes, provided he allows that I have made a fair representation of -it. - -When Cleanthes had assented, Philo, after a short pause, proceeded in -the following manner. - -That all inferences, Cleanthes, concerning fact, are founded on -experience; and that all experimental reasonings are founded on the -supposition that similar causes prove similar effects, and similar -effects similar causes; I shall not at present much dispute with -you. But observe, I entreat you, with what extreme caution all just -reasoners proceed in the transferring of experiments to similar cases. -Unless the cases be exactly similar, they repose no perfect confidence -in applying their past observation to any particular phenomenon. -Every alteration of circumstances occasions a doubt concerning the -event; and it requires new experiments to prove certainly, that the -new circumstances are of no moment or importance. A change in bulk, -situation, arrangement, age, disposition of the air, or surrounding -bodies; any of these particulars may be attended with the most -unexpected consequences: And unless the objects be quite familiar to -us, it is the highest temerity to expect with assurance, after any of -these changes, an event similar to that which before fell under our -observation. The slow and deliberate steps of philosophers here, if -any where, are distinguished from the precipitate march of the vulgar, -who, hurried on by the smallest similitude, are incapable of all -discernment or consideration. - -But can you think, Cleanthes, that your usual phlegm and philosophy -have been preserved in so wide a step as you have taken, when you -compared to the universe houses, ships, furniture, machines, and, from -their similarity in some circumstances, inferred a similarity in their -causes? Thought, design, intelligence, such as we discover in men -and other animals, is no more than one of the springs and principles -of the universe, as well as heat or cold, attraction or repulsion, -and a hundred others, which fall under daily observation. It is an -active cause, by which some particular parts of nature, we find, -produce alterations on other parts. But can a conclusion, with any -propriety, be transferred from parts to the whole? Does not the great -disproportion bar all comparison and inference? From observing the -growth of a hair, can we learn any thing concerning the generation of a -man? Would the manner of a leaf's blowing, even though perfectly known, -afford us any instruction concerning the vegetation of a tree? - -But, allowing that we were to take the _operations_ of one part of -nature upon another, for the foundation of our judgment concerning the -_origin_ of the whole, (which never can be admitted), yet why select -so minute, so weak, so bounded a principle, as the reason and design -of animals is found to be upon this planet? What peculiar privilege -has this little agitation of the brain which we call _thought_, that -we must thus make it the model of the whole universe? Our partiality -in our own favour does indeed present it on all occasions; but sound -philosophy ought carefully to guard against so natural an illusion. - -So far from admitting, continued Philo, that the operations of a part -can afford us any just conclusion concerning the origin of the whole, -I will not allow any one part to form a rule for another part, if the -latter be very remote from the former. Is there any reasonable ground -to conclude, that the inhabitants of other planets possess thought, -intelligence, reason, or any thing similar to these faculties in men? -When nature has so extremely diversified her manner of operation in -this small globe, can we imagine that she incessantly copies herself -throughout so immense a universe? And if thought, as we may well -suppose, be confined merely to this narrow corner, and has even there -so limited a sphere of action, with what propriety can we assign it for -the original cause of all things? The narrow views of a peasant, who -makes his domestic economy the rule for the government of kingdoms, is -in comparison a pardonable sophism. - -But were we ever so much assured, that a thought and reason, resembling -the human, were to be found throughout the whole universe, and were -its activity elsewhere vastly greater and more commanding than it -appears in this globe; yet I cannot see, why the operations of a world -constituted, arranged, adjusted, can with any propriety be extended -to a world which is in its embryo-state, and is advancing towards -that constitution and arrangement. By observation, we know somewhat -of the economy, action, and nourishment of a finished animal; but we -must transfer with great caution that observation to the growth of a -foetus in the womb, and still more to the formation of an animalcule in -the loins of its male parent. Nature, we find, even from our limited -experience, possesses an infinite number of springs and principles, -which incessantly discover themselves on every change of her position -and situation. And what new and unknown principles would actuate her in -so new and unknown a situation as that of the formation of a universe, -we cannot, without the utmost temerity, pretend to determine. - -A very small part of this great system, during a very short time, -is very imperfectly discovered to us; and do we thence pronounce -decisively concerning the origin of the whole? - -Admirable conclusion! Stone, wood, brick, iron, brass, have not, at -this time, in this minute globe of earth, an order or arrangement -without human art and contrivance; therefore the universe could not -originally attain its order and arrangement, without something similar -to human art. But is a part of nature a rule for another part very wide -of the former? Is it a rule for the whole? Is a very small part a rule -for the universe? Is nature in one situation, a certain rule for nature -in another situation vastly different from the former? - -And can you blame me, Cleanthes, if I here imitate the prudent reserve -of Simonides, who, according to the noted story, being asked by Hiero, -_What God was_? desired a day to think of it, and then two days more; -and after that manner continually prolonged the term, without ever -bringing in his definition or description? Could you even blame me, if -I had answered at first, _that I did not know_, and was sensible that -this subject lay vastly beyond the reach of my faculties? You might cry -out sceptic and rallier, as much as you pleased: but having found, in -so many other subjects much more familiar, the imperfections and even -contradictions of human reason, I never should expect any success from -its feeble conjectures, in a subject so sublime, and so remote from the -sphere of our observation. When two _species_ of objects have always -been observed to be conjoined together, I can _infer_, by custom, the -existence of one wherever I _see_ the existence of the other; and -this I call an argument from experience. But how this argument can -have place, where the objects, as in the present case, are single, -individual, without parallel, or specific resemblance, may be difficult -to explain. And will any man tell me with a serious countenance, that -an orderly universe must arise from some thought and art like the -human, because we have experience of it? To ascertain this reasoning, -it were requisite that we had experience of the origin of worlds; and -it is not sufficient, surely, that we have seen ships and cities arise -from human art and contrivance. - -Philo was proceeding in this vehement manner, somewhat between jest -and earnest, as it appeared to me, when he observed some signs of -impatience in Cleanthes, and then immediately stopped short. What I had -to suggest, said Cleanthes, is only that you would not abuse terms, or -make use of popular expressions to subvert philosophical reasonings. -You know, that the vulgar often distinguish reason from experience, -even where the question relates only to matter of fact and existence; -though it is found, where that _reason_ is properly analyzed, that -it is nothing but a species of experience. To prove by experience -the origin of the universe from mind, is not more contrary to common -speech, than to prove the motion of the earth from the same principle. -And a caviller might raise all the same objections to the Copernican -system, which you have urged against my reasonings. Have you other -earths, might he say, which you have seen to move? Have.... - -Yes! cried Philo, interrupting him, we have other earths. Is not the -moon another earth, which we see to turn round its centre? Is not -Venus another earth, where we observe the same phenomenon? Are not the -revolutions of the sun also a confirmation, from analogy, of the same -theory? All the planets, are they not earths, which revolve about the -sun? Are not the satellites moons, which move round Jupiter and Saturn, -and along with these primary planets round the sun? These analogies -and resemblances, with others which I have not mentioned, are the sole -proofs of the Copernican system; and to you it belongs to consider, -whether you have any analogies of the same kind to support your theory. - -In reality, Cleanthes, continued he, the modern system of astronomy -is now so much received by all inquirers, and has become so essential -a part even of our earliest education, that we are not commonly very -scrupulous in examining the reasons upon which it is founded. It is now -become a matter of mere curiosity to study the first writers on that -subject, who had the full force of prejudice to encounter, and were -obliged to turn their arguments on every side in order to render them -popular and convincing. But if we peruse Galilæo's famous Dialogues -concerning the system of the world, we shall find, that that great -genius, one of the sublimest that ever existed, first bent all his -endeavours to prove, that there was no foundation for the distinction -commonly made between elementary and celestial substances. The schools, -proceeding from the illusions of sense, had carried this distinction -very far; and had established the latter substances to be ingenerable, -incorruptible, unalterable, impassible; and had assigned all the -opposite qualities to the former. But Galilæo, beginning with the moon, -proved its similarity in every particular to the earth; its convex -figure, its natural darkness when not illuminated, its density, its -distinction into solid and liquid, the variations of its phases, the -mutual illuminations of the earth and moon, their mutual eclipses, the -inequalities of the lunar surface, &c. After many instances of this -kind, with regard to all the planets, men plainly saw that these bodies -became proper objects of experience; and that the similarity of their -nature enabled us to extend the same arguments and phenomena from one -to the other. - -In this cautious proceeding of the astronomers, you may read your -own condemnation, Cleanthes; or rather may see, that the subject in -which you are engaged exceeds all human reason and inquiry. Can you -pretend to show any such similarity between the fabric of a house, find -the generation of a universe? Have you ever seen nature in any such -situation as resembles the first arrangement of the elements? Have -worlds ever been formed under your eye; and have you had leisure to -observe the whole progress of the phenomenon, from the first appearance -of order to its final consummation? If you have, then cite your -experience, and deliver your theory. - - -[1] Recherche de la Verité, liv. 3, cap. 9. - - - - -PART III. - - -How the most absurd argument, replied Cleanthes, in the hands of a -man of ingenuity and invention, may acquire an air of probability! -Are you not aware, Philo, that it became necessary for Copernicus -and his first disciples to prove the similarity of the terrestrial -and celestial matter; because several philosophers, blinded by old -systems, and supported by some sensible appearances, had denied this -similarity? but that it is by no means necessary, that Theists should -prove the similarity of the works of Nature to those of Art; because -this similarity is self-evident and undeniable? The same matter, a -like form; what more is requisite to show an analogy between their -causes, and to ascertain the origin of all things from a divine purpose -and intention? Your objections, I must freely tell you, are no better -than the abstruse cavils of those philosophers who denied motion; and -ought to be refuted in the same manner, by illustrations, examples and -instances, rather than by serious argument and philosophy. - -Suppose, therefore, that an articulate voice were heard, in the clouds, -much louder and more melodious than any which human art could ever -reach: Suppose, that this voice were extended in the same instant -over all nations, and spoke to each nation in its own language and -dialect: Suppose, that the words delivered not only contain a just -sense and meaning, but convey some instruction altogether worthy of a -benevolent Being, superior to mankind: Could you possibly hesitate a -moment concerning the cause of this voice? and must you not instantly -ascribe it to some design or purpose? Yet I cannot see but all the -same objections (if they merit that appellation) which lie against the -system of Theism, may also be produced against this inference. - -Might you not say, that all conclusions concerning fact were founded -on experience: that when we hear an articulate voice in the dark, -and thence infer a man, it is only the resemblance of the effects -which leads us to conclude that there is a like resemblance in the -cause: but that this extraordinary voice, by its loudness, extent, and -flexibility to all languages, bears so little analogy to any human -voice, that we have no reason to suppose any analogy in their causes: -and consequently, that a rational, wise, coherent speech proceeded, you -know not whence, from some accidental whistling of the winds, not from -any divine reason or intelligence? You see clearly your own objections -in these cavils, and I hope too you see clearly, that they cannot -possibly have more force in the one case than in the other. - -But to bring the case still nearer the present one of the universe, -I shall make two suppositions, which imply not any absurdity or -impossibility. Suppose that there is a natural, universal, invariable -language, common to every individual of human race; and that books -are natural productions, which perpetuate themselves in the same -manner with animals and vegetables, by descent and propagation. -Several expressions of our passions contain a universal language: all -brute animals have a natural speech, which, however limited, is very -intelligible to their own species. And as there are infinitely fewer -parts and less contrivance in the finest composition of eloquence, than -in the coarsest organized body, the propagation of an Iliad or Æneid is -an easier supposition than that of any plant or animal. - -Suppose, therefore, that you enter into your library, thus peopled by -natural volumes, containing the most refined reason and most exquisite -beauty; could you possibly open one of them, and doubt, that its -original cause bore the strongest analogy to mind and intelligence? -When it reasons and discourses; when it expostulates, argues, and -enforces its views and topics; when it applies sometimes to the pure -intellect, sometimes to the affections; when it collects, disposes, and -adorns every consideration suited to the subject; could you persist in -asserting, that all this, at the bottom, had really no meaning; and -that the first formation of this volume in the loins of its original -parent proceeded not from thought and design? Your obstinacy, I know, -reaches not that degree of firmness: even your sceptical play and -wantonness would be abashed at so glaring an absurdity. - -But if there be any difference, Philo, between this supposed case and -the real one of the universe, it is all to the advantage of the latter. -The anatomy of an animal affords many stronger instances of design than -the perusal of Livy or Tacitus; and any objection which you start in -the former case, by carrying me back to so unusual and extraordinary a -scene as the first formation of worlds, the same objection has place on -the supposition of our vegetating library. Choose, then, your party, -Philo, without ambiguity or evasion; assert either that a rational -volume is no proof of a rational cause, or admit of a similar cause to -all the works of nature. - -Let me here observe too, continued Cleanthes, that this religious -argument, instead of being weakened by that scepticism so much -affected by you, rather acquires force from it, and becomes more firm -and undisputed. To exclude all argument or reasoning of every kind, -is either affectation or madness. The declared profession of every -reasonable sceptic is only to reject abstruse, remote, and refined -arguments; to adhere to common sense and the plain instincts of -nature; and to assent, wherever any reasons strike him with so full -a force that he cannot, without the greatest violence, prevent it. -Now the arguments for Natural Religion are plainly of this kind; and -nothing but the most perverse, obstinate metaphysics can reject them. -Consider, anatomize the eye; survey its structure and contrivance; -and tell me, from your own feeling, if the idea of a contriver does -not immediately flow in upon you with a force like that of sensation. -The most obvious conclusion, surely, is in favour of design; and it -requires time, reflection, and study, to summon up those frivolous, -though abstruse objections, which can support Infidelity. Who can -behold the male and female of each species, the correspondence of -their parts and instincts, their passions, and whole course of life -before and after generation, but must be sensible, that the propagation -of the species is intended by Nature? Millions and millions of such -instances present themselves through every part of the universe; and -no language can convey a more intelligible irresistible meaning, than -the curious adjustment of final causes. To what degree, therefore, of -blind dogmatism must one have attained, to reject such natural and such -convincing arguments? - -Some beauties in writing we may meet with, which seem contrary to -rules, and which gain the affections, and animate the imagination, in -opposition to all the precepts of criticism, and to the authority of -the established masters of art. And if the argument for Theism be, as -you pretend, contradictory to the principles of logic; its universal, -its irresistible influence proves clearly, that there may be arguments -of a like irregular nature. Whatever cavils may be urged, an orderly -world, as well as a coherent, articulate speech, will still be received -as an incontestable proof of design and intention. - -It sometimes happens, I own, that the religious arguments have not -their due influence on an ignorant savage and barbarian; not because -they are obscure and difficult, but because he never asks himself any -question with regard to them. Whence arises the curious structure of -an animal? From the copulation of its parents. And these whence? From -_their_ parents? A few removes set the objects at such a distance, that -to him they are lost in darkness and confusion; nor is he actuated by -any curiosity to trace them farther. But this is neither dogmatism -nor scepticism, but stupidity: a state of mind very different from -your sifting, inquisitive disposition, my ingenious friend. You can -trace causes from effects: You can compare the most distant and -remote objects: and your greatest errors proceed not from barrenness -of thought and invention, but from too luxuriant a fertility, which -suppresses your natural good sense, by a profusion of unnecessary -scruples and objections. - -Here I could observe, Hermippus, that Philo was a little embarrassed -and confounded: But while he hesitated in delivering an answer, luckily -for him, Demea broke in upon the discourse, and saved his countenance. - -Your instance, Cleanthes, said he, drawn from books and language, being -familiar, has, I confess, so much more force on that account: but is -there not some danger too in this very circumstance; and may it not -render us presumptuous, by making us imagine we comprehend the Deity, -and have some adequate idea of his nature and attributes? When I read -a volume, I enter into the mind and intention of the author: I become -him, in a manner, for the instant; and have an immediate feeling and -conception of those ideas which revolved in his imagination while -employed in that composition. But so near an approach we never surely -can make to the Deity. His ways are not our ways. His attributes are -perfect, but incomprehensible. And this volume of nature contains a -great and inexplicable riddle, more than any intelligible discourse or -reasoning. - -The ancient Platonists, you know, were the most religious and devout -of all the Pagan philosophers; yet many of them, particularly -Plotinus, expressly declare, that intellect or understanding is not -to be ascribed to the Deity; and that our most perfect worship of him -consists, not in acts of veneration, reverence, gratitude, or love; -but in a certain mysterious self-annihilation, or total extinction of -all our faculties. These ideas are, perhaps, too far stretched; but -still it must be acknowledged, that, by representing the Deity as so -intelligible and comprehensible, and so similar to a human mind, we are -guilty of the grossest and most narrow partiality, and make ourselves -the model of the whole universe. - -All the _sentiments_ of the human mind, gratitude, resentment, love, -friendship, approbation, blame, pity, emulation, envy, have a plain -reference to the state and situation of man, and are calculated for -preserving the existence and promoting the activity of such a being -in such circumstances. It seems, therefore, unreasonable to transfer -such sentiments to a supreme existence, or to suppose him actuated by -them; and the phenomena besides of the universe will not support us in -such a theory. All our _ideas_ derived from the senses are confessedly -false and illusive; and cannot therefore be supposed to have place in -a supreme intelligence: And as the ideas of internal sentiment, added -to those of the external senses, compose the whole furniture of human -understanding, we may conclude, that none of the _materials_ of thought -are in any respect similar in the human and in the divine intelligence. -Now, as to the _manner_ of thinking; how can we make any comparison -between them, or suppose them any wise resembling? Our thought is -fluctuating, uncertain, fleeting, successive, and compounded; and -were we to remove these circumstances, we absolutely annihilate its -essence, and it would in such a case be an abuse of terms to apply to -it the name of thought or reason. At least if it appear more pious -and respectful (as it really is) still to retain these terms, when we -mention the Supreme Being, we ought to acknowledge, that their meaning, -in that case, is totally incomprehensible; and that the infirmities -of our nature do not permit us to reach any ideas which in the least -correspond to the ineffable sublimity of the Divine attributes. - - - - -PART IV. - - -It seems strange to me, said Cleanthes, that you, Demea, who are so -sincere in the cause of religion, should still maintain the mysterious, -incomprehensible nature of the Deity, and should insist so strenuously -that he has no manner of likeness or resemblance to human creatures. -The Deity, I can readily allow, possesses many powers and attributes of -which we can have no comprehension: But if our ideas, so far as they -go, be not just, and adequate, and correspondent to his real nature, -I know not what there is in this subject worth insisting on. Is the -name, without any meaning, of such mighty importance? Or how do you -mystics, who maintain the absolute incomprehensibility of the Deity, -differ from Sceptics or Atheists, who assert, that the first cause of -all is unknown and unintelligible? Their temerity must be very great, -if, after rejecting the production by a mind, I mean a mind resembling -the human, (for I know of no other), they pretend to assign, with -certainty, any other specific intelligible cause: And their conscience -must be very scrupulous indeed, if they refuse to call the universal -unknown cause a God or Deity; and to bestow on him as many sublime -eulogies and unmeaning epithets as you shall please to require of them. - -Who could imagine, replied Demea, that Cleanthes, the calm -philosophical Cleanthes, would attempt to refute his antagonists -by affixing a nickname to them; and, like the common bigots and -inquisitors of the age, have recourse to invective and declamation, -instead of reasoning? Or does he not perceive, that these topics -are easily retorted, and that Anthropomorphite is an appellation as -invidious, and implies as dangerous consequences, as the epithet of -Mystic, with which he has honoured us? In reality, Cleanthes, consider -what it is you assert when you represent the Deity as similar to a -human mind and understanding. What is the soul of man? A composition -of various faculties, passions, sentiments, ideas; united, indeed, -into one self or person, but still distinct from each other. When it -reasons, the ideas, which are the parts of its discourse, arrange -themselves in a certain form or order; which is not preserved entire -for a moment, but immediately gives place to another arrangement. New -opinions, new passions, new affections, new feelings arise, which -continually diversify the mental scene, and produce in it the greatest -variety and most rapid succession imaginable. How is this compatible -with that perfect immutability and simplicity which all true Theists -ascribe to the Deity? By the same act, say they, he sees past, -present, and future: His love and hatred, his mercy and justice, are -one individual operation: He is entire in every point of space; and -complete in every instant of duration. No succession, no change, no -acquisition, no diminution. What he is implies not in it any shadow of -distinction or diversity. And what he is this moment he ever has been, -and ever will be, without any new judgment, sentiment, or operation. He -stands fixed in one simple, perfect state: nor can you ever gay, with -any propriety, that this act of his is different from that other; or -that this judgment or idea has been lately formed, and will give place, -by succession, to any different judgment or idea. - -I can readily allow, said Cleanthes, that those who maintain the -perfect simplicity of the Supreme Being, to the extent in which you -have explained it, are complete Mystics, and chargeable with all the -consequences which I have drawn from their opinion. They are, in a -word, Atheists, without knowing it For though it be allowed, that the -Deity possesses attributes of which we have no comprehension, yet -ought we never to ascribe to him any attributes which are absolutely -incompatible with that intelligent nature essential to him. A mind, -whose acts and sentiments and ideas are not distinct and successive; -one, that is wholly simple, and totally immutable, is a mind which has -no thought, no reason, no will, no sentiment, no love, no hatred; or, -in a word, is no mind at all. It is an abuse of terms to give it that -appellation; and we may as well speak of limited extension without -figure, or of number without composition. - -Pray consider, said Philo, whom you are at present inveighing against. -You are honouring with the appellation of _Atheist_ all the sound, -orthodox divines, almost, who have treated of this subject; and you -will at last be, yourself, found, according to your reckoning, the -only sound Theist in the world. But if idolaters be Atheists, as, I -think, may justly be asserted, and Christian Theologians the same, what -becomes of the argument, so much celebrated, derived from the universal -consent of mankind? - -But because I know you are not much swayed by names and authorities, -I shall endeavour to show you, a little more distinctly, the -inconveniences of that Anthropomorphism, which you have embraced; and -shall prove, that there is no ground to suppose a plan of the world to -be formed in the Divine mind, consisting of distinct ideas, differently -arranged, in the same manner as an architect forms in his head the plan -of a house which he intends to execute. - -It is not easy, I own, to see what is gained by this supposition, -whether we judge of the matter by _Reason_ or by _Experience_. We are -still obliged to mount higher, in order to find the cause of this -cause, which you had assigned as satisfactory and conclusive. - -If _Reason_ (I mean abstract reason, derived from inquiries _a priori_) -be not alike mute with regard to all questions concerning cause and -effect, this sentence at least it will venture to pronounce, That -a mental world, or universe of ideas, requires a cause as much, as -does a material world, or universe of objects; and, if similar in its -arrangement, must require a similar cause. For what is there in this -subject, which should occasion a different conclusion or inference? In -an abstract view, they are entirely alike; and no difficulty attends -the one supposition, which is not common to both of them. - -Again, when we will needs force _Experience_ to pronounce some -sentence, even on these subjects which lie beyond her sphere, neither -can she perceive any material difference in this particular, between -these two kinds of worlds; but finds them to be governed by similar -principles, and to depend upon an equal variety of causes in their -operations. We have specimens in miniature of both of them. Our own -mind resembles the one; a vegetable or animal body the other. Let -experience, therefore, judge from these samples. Nothing seems more -delicate, with regard to its causes, than thought; and as these causes -never operate in two persons after the same manner, so we never find -two persons who think exactly alike. Nor indeed does the same person -think exactly alike at any two different periods of time. A difference -of age, of the disposition of his body, of weather, of food, of -company, of books, of passions; any of these particulars, or others -more minute, are sufficient to alter the curious machinery of thought, -and communicate to it very different movements and operations. As far -as we can judge, vegetables and animal bodies are not more delicate -in their motions, nor depend upon a greater variety or more curious -adjustment of springs and principles. - -How, therefore, shall we satisfy ourselves concerning the cause of that -Being whom you suppose the Author of Nature, or, according to your -system of Anthropomorphism, the ideal world, into which you trace the -material? Have we not the same reason to trace that ideal world into -another ideal world, or new intelligent principle? But if we stop, and -go no farther; why go so far? why not stop at the material world? How -can we satisfy ourselves without going on _in infinitum_? And, after -all, what satisfaction is there in that infinite progression? Let us -remember the story of the Indian philosopher and his elephant. It was -never more applicable than to the present subject. If the material -world rests upon a similar ideal world, this ideal world must rest upon -some other; and so on, without end. It were better, therefore, never -to look beyond the present material world. By supposing it to contain -the principle of its order within itself, we really assert it to be -God; and the sooner we arrive at that Divine Being, so much the better. -When you go one step beyond the mundane system, you only excite an -inquisitive humour which it is impossible ever to satisfy. - -To say, that the different ideas which compose the reason of the -Supreme Being, fall into order of themselves, and by their own nature, -is really to talk without any precise meaning. If it has a meaning, I -would fain know, why it is not as good sense to say, that the parts -of the material world fall into order of themselves and by their own -nature. Can the one opinion be intelligible, while the other is not so? - -We have, indeed, experience of ideas which fall into order of -themselves, and without any _known_ cause. But, I am sure, we have -a much larger experience of matter which does the same; as, in all -instances of generation and vegetation, where the accurate analysis of -the cause exceeds all human comprehension. We have also experience of -particular systems of thought and of matter which have no order; of the -first in madness, of the second in corruption. Why, then, should we -think, that order is more essential to one than the other? And if it -requires a cause in both, what do we gain by your system, in tracing -the universe of objects into a similar universe of ideas? The first -step which we make leads us on for ever. It were, therefore, wise in -us to limit all our inquiries to the present world, without looking -farther. No satisfaction can ever be attained by these speculations, -which so far exceed the narrow bounds of human understanding. - -It was usual with the Peripatetics, you know, Cleanthes, when the cause -of any phenomenon was demanded, to have recourse to their _faculties_, -or _occult qualities_; and to say, for instance, that bread, nourished -by its nutritive faculty, and senna purged by its purgative. But it -has been discovered, that this subterfuge was nothing but the disguise -of ignorance; and that these philosophers, though less ingenuous, -really said the same thing with the sceptics or the vulgar, who -fairly confessed that they knew not the cause of these phenomena. -In like manner, when it is asked, what cause produces order in the -ideas of the Supreme Being; can any other reason be assigned by you, -Anthropomorphites, than that it is a _rational_ faculty, and that -such is the nature of the Deity? But why a similar answer will not be -equally satisfactory in accounting for the order of the world, without -having recourse to any such intelligent creator as you insist on, may -be difficult to determine. It is only to say, that _such_ is the nature -of material objects, and that they are all originally possessed of a -_faculty_ of order and proportion. These are only more learned and -elaborate ways of confessing our ignorance; nor has the one hypothesis -any real advantage above the other, except in its greater conformity to -vulgar prejudices. - -You have displayed this argument with great emphasis, replied -Cleanthes: You seem not sensible how easy it is to answer it. Even in -common life, if I assign a cause for any event, is it any objection, -Philo, that I cannot assign the cause of that cause, and answer every -new question which may incessantly be started? And what philosophers -could possibly submit to so rigid a rule? philosophers, who confess -ultimate causes to be totally unknown; and are sensible, that the most -refined principles into which they trace the phenomena, are still to -them as inexplicable as these phenomena themselves are to the vulgar. -The order and arrangement of nature, the curious adjustment of final -causes, the plain use and intention of every part and organ; all these -bespeak in the clearest language an intelligent cause or author. The -heavens and the earth join in the same testimony: The whole chorus of -Nature raises one hymn to the praises of its Creator. You alone, or -almost alone, disturb this general harmony. You start abstruse doubts, -cavils, and objections: You ask me, what is the cause of this cause? I -know not; I care not; that concerns not me. I have found a Deity; and -here I stop my inquiry. Let those go farther, who are wiser or more -enterprising. - -I pretend to be neither, replied Philo: And for that very reason, I -should never perhaps have attempted to go so tar; especially when I -am sensible, that I must at last be contented to sit down with the -same answer, which, without farther trouble, might have satisfied me -from the beginning. If I am still to remain in utter ignorance of -causes, and can absolutely give an explication of nothing, I shall -never esteem it any advantage to shove off for a moment a difficulty, -which, you acknowledge, must immediately, in its full force, recur -upon me. Naturalists indeed very justly explain particular effects by -more general causes, though these general causes themselves should -remain in the end totally inexplicable; but they never surely thought -it satisfactory to explain a particular effect by a particular cause, -which was no more to be accounted for than the effect itself. An ideal -system, arranged of itself, without a precedent design, is not a whit -more explicable than a material one, which attains its order in a like -manner; nor is there any more difficulty in the latter supposition than -in the former. - - - - -PART V. - - -But to show you still more inconveniences, continued Philo, in your -Anthropomorphism, please to take a new survey of your principles. -_Like effects prove like causes_. This is the experimental argument; -and this, you say too, is the sole theological argument. Now, it is -certain, that the liker the effects are which are seen, and the liker -the causes which are inferred, the stronger is the argument. Every -departure on either side diminishes the probability, and renders the -experiment less conclusive. You cannot doubt of the principle; neither -ought you to reject its consequences. - -All the new discoveries in astronomy, which prove the immense grandeur -and magnificence of the works of Nature, are so many additional -arguments for a Deity, according to the true system of Theism; but, -according to your hypothesis of experimental Theism, they become -so many objections, by removing the effect still farther from all -resemblance to the effects of human art and contrivance. For, if -Lucretius,[1] even following the old system of the world, could exclaim, - - Quis regere immensi summam, quis habere profundi - Indu manu validas potis est moderanter habenas? - Quis pariter coelos omnes convertere? et omnes - Ignibus ætheriis terras suffire feraces? - Omnibus inque locis esse omni tempore præsto? - -If Tully[2] esteemed this reasoning so natural, as to put it into -the mouth of his Epicurean: 'Quibus enim oculis animi intueri potuit -vester Plato fabricam illam tanti operis, qua construi a Deo atque -ædificari mundum facit? quæ molito? quæ ferramenta? qui vectes? quæ -machinæ? qui minstri tanti muneris fuerunt? quemadmodum autem obedire -et parere voluntati architecti aer, ignis, aqua, terra potuerunt?' If -this argument, I say, had any force in former ages, how much greater -must it have at present, when the bounds of Nature are so infinitely -enlarged, and such a magnificent scene is opened to us? It is still -more unreasonable to form our idea of so unlimited a cause from our -experience of the narrow productions of human design and invention. - -The discoveries by microscopes, as they open a new universe in -miniature, are still objections, according to you, arguments, according -to me. The farther we push our researches of this kind, we are still -led to infer the universal cause of all to be vastly different from -mankind, or from any object of human experience and observation. - -And what say you to the discoveries in anatomy, chemistry, botany?... -These surely are no objections, replied Cleanthes; they only discover -new instances of art and contrivance. It is still the image of mind -reflected on us from innumerable objects. Add, a mind _like the human_, -said Philo. I know of no other, replied Cleanthes. And the liker the -better, insisted Philo. To be sure, said Cleanthes. - -Now, Cleanthes, said Philo, with an air of alacrity and triumph, mark -the consequences. _First_, By this method of reasoning, you renounce -all claim to infinity in any of the attributes of the Deity. For, -as the cause ought only to be proportioned to the effect, and the -effect, so far as it falls under our cognizance, is not infinite; what -pretensions have we, upon your suppositions, to ascribe that attribute -to the Divine Being? You will still insist, that, by removing him so -much from all similarity to human creatures, we give in to the most -arbitrary hypothesis, and at the same time weaken all proofs of his -existence. - -_Secondly_, You have no reason, on your theory, for ascribing -perfection to the Deity, even in his finite capacity, or for -supposing him free from every error, mistake, or incoherence, in his -undertakings. There are many inexplicable difficulties in the works of -Nature, which, if we allow a perfect author to be proved _a priori_, -are easily solved, and become only seeming difficulties, from the -narrow capacity of man, who cannot trace infinite relations. But -according to your method of reasoning, these difficulties become all -real; and perhaps will be insisted on, as new instances of likeness to -human art and contrivance. At least, you must acknowledge, that it is -impossible for us to tell, from our limited views, whether this system -contains any great faults, or deserves any considerable praise, if -compared to other possible, and even real systems. Could a peasant, -if the Æneid were read to him, pronounce that poem to be absolutely -faultless, or even assign to it its proper rank among the productions -of human wit, he, who had never seen any other production? - -But were this world ever so perfect a production, it must still remain -uncertain, whether all the excellences of the work can justly be -ascribed to the workman. If we survey a ship, what an exalted idea must -we form of the ingenuity of the carpenter who framed so complicated, -useful, and beautiful a machine? And what surprise must we feel, when -we find him a stupid mechanic, who imitated others, and copied an art, -which, through a long succession of ages, after multiplied trials, -mistakes, corrections, deliberations, and controversies, had been -gradually improving? Many worlds might have been botched and bungled, -throughout an eternity, ere this system was struck out; much labour -lost, many fruitless trials made; and a slow, but continued improvement -carried on during infinite ages in the art of world-making. In such -subjects, who can determine, where the truth; nay, who can conjecture -where the probability lies, amidst a great number of hypotheses which -may be proposed, and a still greater which may be imagined? - -And what shadow of an argument, continued Philo, can you produce, from -your hypothesis, to prove the unity of the Deity? A great number of -men join in building a house or ship, in rearing a city, in framing a -commonwealth; why may not several deities combine in contriving and -framing a world? This is only so much greater similarity to human -affairs. By sharing the work among several, we may so much farther -limit the attributes of each, and get rid of that extensive power and -knowledge, which must be supposed in one deity, and which, according to -you, can only serve to weaken the proof of his existence. And if such -foolish, such vicious creatures as man, can yet often unite in framing -and executing one plan, how much more those deities or demons, whom we -may suppose several degrees more perfect! - -To multiply causes without necessity, is indeed contrary to true -philosophy: but this principle applies not to the present case. Were -one deity antecedently proved by your theory, who were possessed -of every attribute requisite to the production of the universe; it -would be needless, I own, (though not absurd), to suppose any other -deity existent. But while it is still a question, Whether all these -attributes are united in one subject, or dispersed among several -independent beings, by what phenomena in nature can we pretend to -decide the controversy? Where we see a body raised in a scale, we -are sure that there is in the opposite scale, however concealed from -sight, some counterpoising weight equal to it; but it is still allowed -to doubt, whether that weight be an aggregate of several distinct -bodies, or one uniform united mass. And if the weight requisite very -much exceeds any thing which we have ever seen conjoined in any single -body, the former supposition becomes still more probable and natural. -An intelligent being of such vast power and capacity as is necessary -to produce the universe, or, to speak in the language of ancient -philosophy, so prodigious an animal exceeds all analogy, and even -comprehension. - -But farther, Cleanthes: Men are mortal, and renew their species by -generation; and this is common to all living creatures. The two great -sexes of male and female, says Milton, animate the world. Why must -this circumstance, so universal, so essential, be excluded from those -numerous and limited deities? Behold, then, the theogony of ancient -times brought back upon us. - -And why not become a perfect Anthropomorphite? Why not assert the deity -or deities to be corporeal, and to have eyes, a nose, mouth, ears, &c.? -Epicurus maintained, that no man had ever seen reason but in a human -figure; therefore the gods must have a human figure. And this argument, -which is deservedly so much ridiculed by Cicero, becomes, according to -you, solid and philosophical. - -In a word, Cleanthes, a man who follows your hypothesis is able perhaps -to assert, or conjecture, that the universe, sometime, arose from -something like design: but beyond that position he cannot ascertain one -single circumstance; and is left afterwards to fix every point of his -theology by the utmost license of fancy and hypothesis. This world, for -aught he knows, is very faulty and imperfect, compared to a superior -standard; and was only the first rude essay of some infant deity, who -afterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his lame performance: it is the -work only of some dependent, inferior deity; and is the object of -derision to his superiors: it is the production of old age and dotage -in some superannuated deity; and ever since his death, has run on at -adventures, from the first impulse and active force which it received -from him. You justly give signs of horror, Demea, at these strange -suppositions; but these, and a thousand more of the same kind, are -Cleanthes's suppositions, not mine. From the moment the attributes of -the Deity are supposed finite, all these have place. And I cannot, for -my part, think that so wild and unsettled a system of theology is, in -any respect, preferable to none at all. - -These suppositions I absolutely disown, cried Cleanthes: they strike -me, however, with no horror, especially when proposed in that -rambling way in which they drop from you. On the contrary, they give -me pleasure, when I see, that, by the utmost indulgence of your -imagination, you never get rid of the hypothesis of design in the -universe, but are obliged at every turn to have recourse to it. To -this concession I adhere steadily; and this I regard as a sufficient -foundation for religion. - - -[1] Lib. xi. 1094. - -[2] De Nat Deor. lib. i. - - - - -PART VI. - - -It must be a slight fabric, indeed, said Demea, which can be erected -on so tottering a foundation. While we are uncertain whether there is -one deity or many; whether the deity or deities, to whom we owe our -existence, be perfect or imperfect, subordinate or supreme, dead or -alive, what trust or confidence can we repose in them? What devotion or -worship address to them? What veneration or obedience pay them? To all -the purposes of life the theory of religion becomes altogether useless: -and even with regard to speculative consequences, its uncertainty, -according to you, must render it totally precarious and unsatisfactory. - -To render it still more unsatisfactory, said Philo, there occurs to me -another hypothesis, which must acquire an air of probability from the -method of reasoning so much insisted on by Cleanthes. That like effects -arise from like causes: this principle he supposes the foundation of -all religion. But there is another principle of the same kind, no less -certain, and derived from the same source of experience; that where -several known circumstances are observed to be similar, the unknown -will also be found similar. Thus, if we see the limbs of a human body, -we conclude that it is also attended with a human head, though hid from -us. Thus, if we see, through a chink in a wall, a small part of the -sun, we conclude, that, were the wall removed, we should see the whole -body. In short, this method of reasoning is so obvious and familiar, -that no scruple can ever be made with regard to its solidity. - -Now, if we survey the universe, so far as it falls under our knowledge, -it bears a great resemblance to an animal or organized body, and -seems actuated with a like principle of life and motion. A continual -circulation of matter in it produces no disorder: a continual waste in -every part is incessantly repaired: the closest sympathy is perceived -throughout the entire system: and each part or member, in performing -its proper offices, operates both to its own preservation and to that -of the whole. The world, therefore, I infer, is an animal; and the -Deity is the soul of the world, actuating it, and actuated by it. - -You have too much learning, Cleanthes, to be at all surprised at this -opinion, which, you know, was maintained by almost all the Theists of -antiquity, and chiefly prevails in their discourses and reasonings. -For though, sometimes, the ancient philosophers reason from final -causes, as if they thought the world the workmanship of God; yet it -appears rather their favourite notion to consider it as his body, whose -organization renders it subservient to him. And it must be confessed, -that, as the universe resembles more a human body than it does the -works of human art and contrivance, if our limited analogy could ever, -with any propriety, be extended to the whole of nature, the inference -seems juster in favour of the ancient than the modern theory. - -There are many other advantages, too, in the former theory, which -recommended it to the ancient theologians. Nothing more repugnant -to all their notions, because nothing more repugnant to common -experience, than mind without body; a mere spiritual substance, -which fell not under their senses nor comprehension, and of which -they had not observed one single instance throughout all nature. Mind -and body they knew, because they felt both: an order, arrangement, -organization, or internal machinery, in both, they likewise knew, after -the same manner: and it could not but seem reasonable to transfer this -experience to the universe; and to suppose the divine mind and body -to be also coeval, and to have, both of them, order and arrangement -naturally inherent in them, and inseparable from them. - -Here, therefore, is a new species of _Anthropomorphism_, Cleanthes, -on which you may deliberate; and a theory which seems not liable to -any considerable difficulties. You are too much superior, surely, to -_systematical prejudices_, to find any more difficulty in supposing -an animal body to be, originally, of itself, or from unknown causes, -possessed of order and organization, than in supposing a similar order -to belong to mind. But the _vulgar prejudice_, that body and mind -ought always to accompany each other, ought not, one should think, to -be entirely neglected; since it is founded on _vulgar experience_, -the only guide which you profess to follow in all these theological -inquiries. And if you assert, that our limited experience is an -unequal standard, by which to judge of the unlimited extent of nature; -you entirely abandon your own hypothesis, and must thenceforward -adopt our Mysticism, as you call it, and admit of the absolute -incomprehensibility of the Divine Nature. - -This theory, I own, replied Cleanthes, has never before occurred to me, -though a pretty natural one; and I cannot readily, upon so short an -examination and reflection, deliver any opinion with regard to it. You -are very scrupulous, indeed, said Philo: were I to examine any system -of yours, I should not have acted with half that caution and reserve, -in starting objections and difficulties to it. However, if any thing -occur to you, you will oblige us by proposing it. - -Why then, replied Cleanthes, it seems to me, that, though the world -does, in many circumstances, resemble an animal body; yet is the -analogy also defective in many circumstances the most material: no -organs of sense; no seat of thought or reason; no one precise origin of -motion and action. In short, it seems to bear a stronger resemblance -to a vegetable than to an animal, and your inference would be so far -inconclusive in favour of the soul of the world. - -But, in the next place, your theory seems to imply the eternity of -the world; and that is a principle, which, I think, can be refuted by -the strongest reasons and probabilities. I shall suggest an argument -to this purpose, which, I believe, has not been insisted on by any -writer. Those, who reason from the late origin of arts and sciences, -though their inference wants not force, may perhaps be refuted by -considerations derived from the nature of human society, which is in -continual revolution, between ignorance and knowledge, liberty and -slavery, riches and poverty; so that it is impossible for us, from -our limited experience, to foretel with assurance what events may or -may not be expected. Ancient learning and history seem to have been -in great danger of entirely perishing after the inundation of the -barbarous nations; and had these convulsions continued a little longer, -or been a little more violent, we should not probably have now known -what passed in the world a few centuries before us. Nay, were it not -for the superstition of the Popes, who preserved a little jargon of -Latin, in order to support the appearance of an ancient and universal -church, that tongue must have been utterly lost; in which case, the -Western world, being totally barbarous, would not have been in a fit -disposition for receiving the Greek language and learning, which was -conveyed to them after the sacking of Constantinople. When learning -and books had been extinguished, even the mechanical arts would have -fallen considerably to decay; and it is easily imagined, that fable or -tradition might ascribe to them a much later origin than the true one. -This vulgar argument, therefore, against the eternity of the world, -seems a little precarious. - -But here appears to be the foundation of a better argument. Lucullus -was the first that brought cherry-trees from Asia to Europe; though -that tree thrives so well in many European climates, that it grows -in the woods without any culture. Is it possible, that throughout a -whole eternity, no European had ever passed into Asia, and thought of -transplanting so delicious a fruit into his own country? Or if the tree -was once transplanted and propagated, how could it ever afterwards -perish? Empires may rise and fall, liberty and slavery succeed -alternately, ignorance and knowledge give place to each other; but the -cherry-tree will still remain in the woods of Greece, Spain and Italy, -and will never be affected by the revolutions of human society. - -It is not two thousand years since vines were transplanted into France, -though there is no climate in the world more favourable to them. It -is not three centuries since horses, cows, sheep, swine, dogs, corn, -were known in America. Is it possible, that during the revolutions -of a whole eternity, there never arose a Columbus, who might open -the communication between Europe and that continent? We may as well -imagine, that all men would wear stockings for ten thousand years, and -never have the sense to think of garters to tie them. All these seem -convincing proofs of the youth, or rather infancy, of the world; as -being founded on the operation of principles more constant and steady -than those by which human society is governed and directed. Nothing -less than a total convulsion of the elements will ever destroy all -the European animals and vegetables which are now to be found in the -Western world. - -And what argument have you against such convulsions? replied Philo. -Strong and almost incontestable proofs may be traced over the whole -earth, that every part of this globe has continued for many ages -entirely covered with water. And though order were supposed inseparable -from matter, and inherent in it; yet may matter be susceptible of many -and great revolutions, through the endless periods of eternal duration. -The incessant changes, to which every part of it is subject, seem to -intimate some such general transformations; though, at the same time, -it is observable, that all the changes and corruptions of which we -have ever had experience, are but passages from one state of order to -another; nor can matter ever rest in total deformity and confusion. -What we see in the parts, we may infer in the whole; at least, that -is the method of reasoning on which you rest your whole theory. And -were I obliged to defend any particular system of this nature, which I -never willingly should do, I esteem none more plausible than that which -ascribes an eternal inherent principle of order to the world, though -attended with great and continual revolutions and alterations. This at -once solves all difficulties; and if the solution, by being so general, -is not entirely complete and satisfactory, it is at least a theory that -we must sooner or later have recourse to, whatever system we embrace. -How could things have been as they are, were there not an original -inherent principle of order somewhere, in thought or in matter? And it -is very indifferent to which of these we give the preference. Chance -has no place, on any hypothesis, sceptical or religious. Every thing -is surely governed by steady, inviolable laws. And were the inmost -essence of things laid open to us, we should then discover a scene, -of which, at present, we can have no idea. Instead of admiring the -order of natural beings, we should clearly see that it was absolutely -impossible for them, in the smallest article, ever to admit of any -other disposition. - -Were any one inclined to revive the ancient Pagan Theology, which -maintained, as we learn from Hesiod, that this globe was governed -by 30,000 deities, who arose from the unknown powers of nature: you -would naturally object, Cleanthes, that nothing is gained by this -hypothesis; and that it is as easy to suppose all men animals, beings -more numerous, but less perfect, to have sprung immediately from a -like origin. Push the same inference a step farther, and you will find -a numerous society of deities as explicable as one universal deity, -who possesses within himself the powers and perfections of the whole -society. All these systems, then, of Scepticism, Polytheism, and -Theism, you must allow, on your principles, to be on a like footing, -and that no one of them has any advantage over the others. You may -thence learn the fallacy of your principles. - - - - -PART VII. - - -But here, continued Philo, in examining the ancient system of the soul -of the world, there strikes me, all on a sudden, a new idea, which, if -just, must go near to subvert all your reasoning, and destroy even your -first inferences, on which you repose such confidence. If the universe -bears a greater likeness to animal bodies and to vegetables, than to -the works of human art, it is more probable that its cause resembles -the cause of the former than that of the latter, and its origin ought -rather to be ascribed to generation or vegetation, than to reason or -design. Your conclusion, even according to your own principles, is -therefore lame and defective. - -Pray open up this argument a little farther, said Demea, for I do not -rightly apprehend it in that concise manner in which you have expressed -it. - -Our friend Cleanthes, replied Philo, as you have heard, asserts, that -since no question of fact can be proved otherwise than by experience, -the existence of a Deity admits not of proof from any other medium. The -world, says he, resembles the works of human contrivance; therefore -its cause must also resemble that of the other. Here we may remark, -that the operation of one very small part of nature, to wit man, upon -another very small part, to wit that inanimate matter lying within -his reach, is the rule by which Cleanthes judges of the origin of -the whole; and he measures objects, so widely disproportioned, by the -same individual standard. But to waive all objections drawn from this -topic, I affirm, that there are other parts of the universe (besides -the machines of human invention) which bear still a greater resemblance -to the fabric of the world, and which, therefore, afford a better -conjecture concerning the universal origin of this system. These parts -are animals and vegetables. The world plainly resembles more an animal -or a vegetable, than it does a watch or a knitting-loom. Its cause, -therefore, it is more probable, resembles the cause of the former. The -cause of the former is generation or vegetation. The cause, therefore, -of the world, we may infer to be something similar or analogous to -generation or vegetation. - -But how is it conceivable, said Demea, that the world can arise from -any thing similar to vegetation or generation? - -Very easily, replied Philo. In like manner as a tree sheds its seed -into the neighbouring fields, and produces other trees; so the great -vegetable, the world, or this planetary system, produces within itself -certain seeds, which, being scattered into the surrounding chaos, -vegetate into new worlds. A comet, for instance, is the seed of a -world; and after it has been fully ripened, by passing from sun to sun, -and star to star, it is at last tossed into the unformed elements which -every where surround this universe, and immediately sprouts up into a -new system. - -Or if, for the sake of variety (for I see no other advantage), we -should suppose this world to be an animal; a comet is the egg of this -animal: and in like manner as an ostrich lays its egg in the sand, -which, without any farther care, hatches the egg, and produces a new -animal; so ... I understand you, says Demea: But what wild, arbitrary -suppositions are these! What _data_ have you for such extraordinary -conclusions? And is the slight, imaginary resemblance of the world to -a vegetable or an animal sufficient to establish the same inference -with regard to both? Objects, which are in general so widely different, -ought they to be a standard for each other? - -Right, cries Philo: This is the topic on which I have all along -insisted. I have still asserted, that we have no _data_ to establish -any system of cosmogony. Our experience, so imperfect in itself, and -so limited both in extent and duration, can afford us no probable -conjecture concerning the whole of things. But if we must needs fix -on some hypothesis; by what rule, pray, ought we to determine our -choice? Is there any other rule than the greater similarity of the -objects compared? And does not a plant or an animal, which springs from -vegetation or generation, bear a stronger resemblance to the world, -than does any artificial machine, which arises from reason and design? - -But what is this vegetation and generation of which you talk, said -Demea? Can you explain their operations, and anatomize that fine -internal structure on which they depend? - -As much, at least, replied Philo, as Cleanthes can explain the -operations of reason, or anatomize that internal structure on which -_it_ depends. But without any such elaborate disquisitions, when I -see an animal, I infer, that it sprang from generation; and that with -as great certainty as you conclude a house to have been reared by -design. These words, _generation, reason_, mark only certain powers -and energies in nature, whose effects are known, but whose essence is -incomprehensible; and one of these principles, more than the other, has -no privilege for being made a standard to the whole of nature. - -In reality, Demea, it may reasonably be expected, that the larger the -views are which we take of things, the better will they conduct us in -our conclusions concerning such extraordinary and such magnificent -subjects. In this little corner of the world alone, there are four -principles, _reason, instinct, generation, vegetation_, which are -similar to each other, and are the causes of similar effects. What a -number of other principles may we naturally suppose in the immense -extent and variety of the universe, could we travel from planet to -planet, and from system to system, in order to examine each part of -this mighty fabric? Any one of these four principles above mentioned, -(and a hundred others which lie open to our conjecture), may afford -us a theory by which to judge of the origin of the world; and it is -a palpable and egregious partiality to confine our view entirely to -that principle by which our own minds operate. Were this principle -more intelligible on that account, such a partiality might be somewhat -excuseable: But reason, in its internal fabric and structure, is -really as little known to us as instinct or vegetation; and, perhaps, -even that vague, undeterminate word, _Nature_, to which the vulgar -refer every thing, is not at the bottom more inexplicable. The -effects of these principles are all known to us from experience; -but the principles themselves, and their manner of operation, are -totally unknown; nor is it less intelligible, or less conformable to -experience, to say, that the world arose by vegetation, from a seed -shed by another world, than to say that it arose from a divine reason -or contrivance, according to the sense in which Cleanthes understands -it. - -But methinks, said Demea, if the world had a vegetative quality, and -could sow the seeds of new worlds into the infinite chaos, this power -would be still an additional argument for design in its author. For -whence could arise so wonderful a faculty but from design? Or how can -order spring from any thing which perceives not that order which it -bestows? - -You need only look around you, replied Philo, to satisfy yourself with -regard to this question. A tree bestows order and organization on that -tree which springs from it, without knowing the order; an animal in -the same manner on its offspring; a bird on its nest; and instances -of this kind are even more frequent in the world than those of order, -which arise from reason and contrivance. To say, that all this order -in animals and vegetables proceeds ultimately from design, is begging -the question; nor can that great point be ascertained otherwise than by -proving, _a priori_, both that order is, from its nature, inseparably -attached to thought; and that it can never of itself, or from original -unknown principles, belong to matter. - -But farther, Demea; this objection which you urge can never be made -use of by Cleanthes, without renouncing a defence which he has already -made against one of my objections. When I inquired concerning the -cause of that supreme reason and intelligence into which he resolves -every thing; he told me, that the impossibility of satisfying such -inquiries could never be admitted as an objection in any species of -philosophy. _We must stop somewhere_, says he; _nor is it ever within -the reach of human capacity to explain ultimate causes, of show the -last connections of any objects. It is sufficient, if any steps, so -far as we go, are supported by experience and observation_. Now, that -vegetation and generation, as well as reason, are experienced to be -principles of order in nature, is undeniable. If I rest my system of -cosmogony on the former, preferably to the latter, it is at my choice. -The matter seems entirely arbitrary. And when Cleanthes asks me what is -the cause of my great vegetative or generative faculty, I am equally -entitled to ask him the cause of his great reasoning principle. These -questions we have agreed to forbear on both sides; and it is chiefly -his interest on the present occasion to stick to this agreement. -Judging by our limited and imperfect experience, generation has some -privileges above reason: for we see every day the latter arise from the -former, never the former from the latter. - -Compare, I beseech you, the consequences on both sides. The world, say -I, resembles an animal; therefore it is an animal, therefore it arose -from generation. The steps, I confess, are wide; yet there is some -small appearance of analogy in each step. The world, says Cleanthes, -resembles a machine; therefore it is a machine, therefore it arose from -design. The steps are here equally wide, and the analogy less striking. -And if he pretends to carry on _my_ hypothesis a step farther, and -to infer design or reason from the great principle of generation, on -which I insist; I may, with better authority, use the same freedom -to push farther _his_ hypothesis, and infer a divine generation or -theogony from his principle of reason. I have at least some faint -shadow of experience, which is the utmost that can ever be attained in -the present subject. Reason, in innumerable instances, is observed to -arise from the principle of generation, and never to arise from any -other principle. - -Hesiod, and all the ancient mythologists, were so struck with this -analogy, that they universally explained the origin of nature from an -animal birth, and copulation. Plato too, so far as he is intelligible, -seems to have adopted some such notion in his Timæus. - -The Brahmins assert, that the world arose from an infinite spider, -who spun this whole complicated mass from his bowels, and annihilates -afterwards the whole or any part of it, by absorbing it again, and -resolving it into his own essence. Here is a species of cosmogony, -which appears to us ridiculous; because a spider is a little -contemptible animal, whose operations we are never likely to take for -a model of the whole universe. But still here is a new species of -analogy, even in our globe. And were there a planet wholly inhabited by -spiders, (which is very possible), this inference would there appear -as natural and irrefragable as that which in our planet ascribes the -origin of all things to design and intelligence, as explained by -Cleanthes. Why an orderly system may not be spun from the belly as well -as from the brain, it will be difficult for him to give a satisfactory -reason. - -I must confess, Philo, replied Cleanthes, that of all men living, the -task which you have undertaken, of raising doubts and objections, -suits you best, and seems, in a manner, natural and unavoidable to -you. So great is your fertility of invention, that I am not ashamed -to acknowledge myself unable, on a sudden, to solve regularly such -out-of-the-way difficulties as you incessantly start upon me: though -I clearly see, in general, their fallacy and error. And I question -not, but you are yourself, at present, in the same case, and have not -the solution so ready as the objection: while you must be sensible, -that common sense and reason are entirely against you; and that such -whimsies as you have delivered, may puzzle, but never can convince us. - - - - -PART VIII. - - -What you ascribe to the fertility of my invention, replied Philo, -is entirely owing to the nature of the subject. In subjects adapted -to the narrow compass of human reason, there is commonly but one -determination, which carries probability or conviction with it; and to -a man of sound judgment, all other suppositions, but that one, appear -entirely absurd and chimerical. But in such questions as the present, a -hundred contradictory views may preserve a kind of imperfect analogy; -and invention has here full scope to exert itself. Without any great -effort of thought, I believe that I could, in an instant, propose other -systems of cosmogony, which would have some faint appearance of truth; -though it is a thousand, a million to one, if either yours or any one -of mine be the true system. - -For instance, what if I should revive the old Epicurean hypothesis? -This is commonly, and I believe justly, esteemed the most absurd -system that has yet been proposed; yet I know not whether, with a few -alterations, it might not be brought to bear a faint appearance of -probability. Instead of supposing matter infinite, as Epicurus did, let -us suppose it finite. A finite number of particles is only susceptible -of finite transpositions: and it must happen, in an eternal duration, -that every possible order or position must be tried an infinite number -of times. This world, therefore, with all its events, even the most -minute, has before been produced and destroyed, and will again be -produced and destroyed, without any bounds and limitations. No one, who -has a conception of the powers of infinite, in comparison of finite, -will ever scruple this determination. - -But this supposes, said Demea, that matter can acquire motion, without -any voluntary agent or first mover. - -And where is the difficulty, replied Philo, of that supposition? Every -event, before experience, is equally difficult and incomprehensible; -and every event, after experience, is equally easy and intelligible. -Motion, in many instances, from gravity, from elasticity, from -electricity, begins in matter, without any known voluntary agent: -and to suppose always, in these cases, an unknown voluntary agent, -is mere hypothesis; and hypothesis attended with no advantages. The -beginning of motion in matter itself is as conceivable _a priori_ as -its communication from mind and intelligence. - -Besides, why may not motion have been propagated by impulse through all -eternity, and the same stock of it, or nearly the same, be still upheld -in the universe? As much is lost by the composition of motion, as much -is gained by its resolution. And whatever the causes are, the fact is -certain, that matter is, and always has been, in continual agitation, -as far as human experience or tradition reaches. There is not probably, -at present, in the whole universe, one particle of matter at absolute -rest. - -And this very consideration too, continued Philo, which we have -stumbled on in the course of the argument, suggests a new hypothesis -of cosmogony, that is not absolutely absurd and improbable. Is there a -system, an order, an economy of things, by which matter can preserve -that perpetual agitation which seems essential to it, and yet maintain -a constancy in the forms which it produces? There certainly is such -an economy; for this is actually the case with the present world. -The continual motion of matter, therefore, in less than infinite -transpositions, must produce this economy or order; and by its very -nature, that order, when once established, supports itself, for many -ages, if not to eternity. But wherever matter is so poized, arranged, -and adjusted, as to continue in perpetual motion, and yet preserve a -constancy in the forms, its situation must, of necessity, have all the -same appearance of art and contrivance which we observe at present. All -the parts of each form must have a relation to each other, and to the -whole; and the whole itself must have a relation to the other parts -of the universe; to the element in which the form subsists; to the -materials with which it repairs its waste and decay; and to every other -form which is hostile or friendly. A defect in any of these particulars -destroys the form; and the matter of which it is composed is again set -loose, and is thrown into irregular motions and fermentations, till it -unite itself to some other regular form. If no such form be prepared -to receive it, and if there be a great quantity of this corrupted -matter in the universe, the universe itself is entirely disordered; -whether it be the feeble embryo of a world in its first beginnings -that is thus destroyed, or the rotten carcase of one languishing in -old age and infirmity. In either case, a chaos ensues; till finite, -though innumerable revolutions produce at last some forms, whose parts -and organs are so adjusted as to support the forms amidst a continued -succession of matter. - -Suppose (for we shall endeavour to vary the expression), that matter -were thrown into any position, by a blind, unguided force; it is -evident that this first position must, in all probability, be the -most confused and most disorderly imaginable, without any resemblance -to those works of human contrivance, which, along with a symmetry of -parts, discover an adjustment of means to ends, and a tendency to -self-preservation. If the actuating force cease after this operation, -matter must remain for ever in disorder, and continue an immense chaos, -without any proportion or activity. But suppose that the actuating -force, whatever it be, still continues in matter, this first position -will immediately give place to a second, which will likewise in all -probability be as disorderly as the first, and so on through many -successions of changes and revolutions. No particular order or position -ever continues a moment unaltered. The original force, still remaining -in activity, gives a perpetual restlessness to matter. Every possible -situation is produced, and instantly destroyed. If a glimpse or dawn -of order appears for a moment, it is instantly hurried away, and -confounded, by that never-ceasing force which actuates every part of -matter. - -Thus the universe goes on for many ages in a continued succession -of chaos and disorder. But is it not possible that it may settle at -last, so as not to lose its motion and active force (for that we -have supposed inherent in it), yet so as to preserve an uniformity -of appearance, amidst the continual motion and fluctuation of its -parts? This we find to be the case with the universe at present. -Every individual is perpetually changing, and every part of every -individual; and yet the whole remains, in appearance, the same. May we -not hope for such a position, or rather be assured of it, from the -eternal revolutions of unguided matter; and may not this account for -all the appearing wisdom and contrivance which is in the universe? -Let us contemplate the subject a little, and we shall find, that this -adjustment, if attained by matter of a seeming stability in the forms, -with a real and perpetual revolution or motion of parts, affords a -plausible, if not a true solution of the difficulty. - -It is in vain, therefore, to insist upon the uses of the parts in -animals or vegetables, and their curious adjustment to each other. I -would fain know, how an animal could subsist, unless its parts were so -adjusted? Do we not find, that it immediately perishes whenever this -adjustment ceases, and that its matter corrupting tries some new form? -It happens indeed, that the parts of the world are so well adjusted, -that some regular form immediately lays claim to this corrupted matter: -and if it were not so, could the world subsist? Must it not dissolve as -well as the animal, and pass through new positions and situations, till -in great, but finite succession, it fall at last into the present or -some such order? - -It is well, replied Cleanthes, you told us, that this hypothesis -was suggested on a sudden, in the course of the argument. Had -you had leisure to examine it, you would soon have perceived the -insuperable objections to which it is exposed. No form, you say, can -subsist, unless it possess those powers and organs requisite for its -subsistence: some new order or economy must be tried, and so on, -without intermission; till at last some order, which can support and -maintain itself, is fallen upon. But according to this hypothesis, -whence arise the many conveniences and advantages which men and all -animals possess? Two eyes, two ears, are not absolutely necessary for -the subsistence of the species. Human race might have been propagated -and preserved, without horses, dogs, cows, sheep, and those innumerable -fruits and products which serve to our satisfaction and enjoyment. If -no camels had been created for the use of man in the sandy deserts of -Africa and Arabia, would the world have been dissolved? If no loadstone -had been framed to give that wonderful and useful direction to the -needle, would human society and the human kind have been immediately -extinguished? Though the maxims of Nature be in general very frugal, -yet instances of this kind are far from being rare; and any one of them -is a sufficient proof of design, and of a benevolent design, which gave -rise to the order and arrangement of the universe. - -At least, you may safely infer, said Philo, that the foregoing -hypothesis is so far incomplete and imperfect, which I shall not -scruple to allow. But can we ever reasonably expect greater success -in any attempts of this nature? Or can we ever hope to erect a system -of cosmogony, that will be liable to no exceptions, and will contain -no circumstance repugnant to our limited and imperfect experience of -the analogy of Nature? Your theory itself cannot surely pretend to any -such advantage, even though you have run into _Anthropomorphism_, the -better to preserve a conformity to common experience. Let us once more -put into trial. In all instances which we have ever seen, ideas are -copied from real objects, and are ectypal, not archetypal, to express -myself in learned terms: You reverse this order, and give thought the -precedence. In all instances which we have ever seen, thought has no -influence upon matter, except where that matter is so conjoined with -it as to have an equal reciprocal influence upon it. No animal can move -immediately any thing but the members of its own body; and indeed, -the equality of action and re-action seems to be an universal law of -nature: But your theory implies a contradiction to this experience. -These instances, with many more, which it were easy to collect, -(particularly the supposition of a mind or system of thought that is -eternal, or, in other words, an animal ingenerable and immortal); these -instances, I say, may teach all of us sobriety in condemning each -other, and let us see, that as no system of this kind ought ever to be -received from a slight analogy, so neither ought any to be rejected on -account of a small incongruity. For that is an inconvenience from which -we can justly pronounce no one to be exempted. - -All religious systems, it is confessed, are subject to great and -insuperable difficulties. Each disputant triumphs in his turn; while he -carries on an offensive war, and exposes the absurdities, barbarities, -and pernicious tenets of his antagonist. But all of them, on the whole, -prepare a complete triumph for the _Sceptic_; who tells them, that no -system ought ever to be embraced with regard to such subjects: For -this plain reason, that no absurdity ought ever to be assented to with -regard to any subject. A total suspense of judgment is here our only -reasonable resource. And if every attack, as is commonly observed, and -no defence, among Theologians, is successful; how complete must be -_his_ victory, who remains always, with all mankind, on the offensive, -and has himself no fixed station or abiding city, which he is ever, on -any occasion, obliged to defend? - - - - -PART IX. - - -But if so many difficulties attend the argument _a posteriori_, said -Demea, had we not better adhere to that simple and sublime argument _a -priori_, which, by offering to us infallible demonstration, cuts off -at once all doubt and difficulty? By this argument, too, we may prove -the INFINITY of the Divine attributes, which, I am afraid, can never be -ascertained with certainty from any other topic. For how can an effect, -which either is finite, or, for aught we know, may be so; how can such -an effect, I say, prove an infinite cause? The unity too of the Divine -Nature, it is very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to deduce -merely from contemplating the works of nature; nor will the uniformity -alone of the plan, even were it allowed, give us any assurance of that -attribute. Whereas the argument _a priori_.... - -You seem to reason, Demea, interposed Cleanthes, as if those -advantages and conveniences in the abstract argument were full proofs -of its solidity. But it is first proper, in my opinion, to determine -what argument of this nature you choose to insist on; and we shall -afterwards, from itself, better than from its _useful_ consequences, -endeavour to determine what value we ought to put upon it. - -The argument, replied Demea, which I would insist on, is the common -one. Whatever exists must have a cause or reason of its existence; it -being absolutely impossible for any thing to produce itself, or be the -cause of its own existence. In mounting up, therefore, from effects -to causes, we must either go on in tracing an infinite succession, -without any ultimate cause at all; or must at last have recourse to -some ultimate cause, that is _necessarily_ existent: Now, that the -first supposition is absurd, may be thus proved. In the infinite chain -or succession of causes and effects, each single effect is determined -to exist by the power and efficacy of that cause which immediately -preceded; but the whole eternal chain or succession, taken together, -is not determined or caused by any thing; and yet it is evident that -it requires a cause or reason, as much as any particular object -which begins to exist in time. The question is still reasonable, -why this particular succession of causes existed from eternity, and -not any other succession, or no succession at all. If there be no -necessarily existent being, any supposition which can be formed is -equally possible; nor is there any more absurdity in Nothing's having -existed from eternity, than there is in that succession of causes -which constitutes the universe. What was it, then, which determined -Something to exist rather than Nothing, and bestowed being on a -particular possibility, exclusive of the rest? _External causes_, there -are supposed to be none. _Chance_ is a word without a meaning. Was it -_Nothing_? But that can never produce any thing. We must, therefore, -have recourse to a necessarily existent Being, who carries the REASON -of his existence in himself, and who cannot be supposed not to exist, -without an express contradiction. There is, consequently, such a Being; -that is, there is a Deity. - -I shall not leave it to Philo, said Cleanthes, though I know that the -starting objections is his chief delight, to point out the weakness of -this metaphysical reasoning. It seems to me so obviously ill-grounded, -and at the same time of so little consequence to the cause of true -piety and religion, that I shall myself venture to show the fallacy of -it. - -I shall begin with observing, that there is an evident absurdity in -pretending to demonstrate a matter of fact, or to prove it by any -arguments _a priori_. Nothing is demonstrable, unless the contrary -implies a contradiction. Nothing, that is distinctly conceivable, -implies a contradiction. Whatever we conceive as existent, we can -also conceive as non-existent. There is no being, therefore, whose -non-existence implies a contradiction. Consequently there is no being, -whose existence is demonstrable. I propose this argument as entirely -decisive, and am willing to rest the whole controversy upon it. - -It is pretended that the Deity is a necessarily existent being; and -this necessity of his existence is attempted to be explained by -asserting, that if we knew his whole essence or nature, we should -perceive it to be as impossible for him not to exist, as for twice two -not to be four. But it is evident that this can never happen, while -our faculties remain the same as at present. It will still be possible -for us, at any time, to conceive the non-existence of what we formerly -conceived to exist; nor can the mind ever lie under a necessity of -supposing any object to remain always in being; in the same manner as -we lie under a necessity of always conceiving twice two to be four. The -words, therefore, _necessary existence_, have no meaning; or, which is -the same thing, none that is consistent. - -But farther, why may not die material universe be the necessarily -existent Being, according to this pretended explication of necessity? -We dare not affirm that we know all the qualities of matter; and for -aught we can determine, it may contain some qualities, which, were they -known, would make its non-existence appear as great a contradiction as -that twice two is five. I find only one argument employed to prove, -that the material world is not the necessarily existent Being; and -this argument is derived from the contingency both of the matter and -the form of the world. 'Any particle of matter,' it is said,[1] 'may -be _conceived_ to be annihilated; and any form may be _conceived_ to -be altered. Such an annihilation or alteration, therefore, is not -impossible.' But it seems a great partiality not to perceive, that -the same argument extends equally to the Deity, so far as we have -any conception of him; and that the mind can at least imagine him to -be non-existent, or his attributes to be altered. It must be some -unknown, inconceivable qualities, which can make his non-existence -appear impossible, or his attributes unalterable: And no reason can -be assigned, why these qualities may not belong to matter. As they -are altogether unknown and inconceivable, they can never be proved -incompatible with it. - -Add to this, that in tracing an eternal succession of objects, it seems -absurd to inquire for a general cause or first author. How can any -thing, that exists from eternity, have a cause, since that relation -implies a priority in time, and a beginning of existence? - -In such a chain, too, or succession of objects, each part is caused -by that which preceded it, and causes that which succeeds it. Where -then is the difficulty? But the WHOLE, you say, wants a cause. I -answer, that the uniting of these parts into a whole, like the uniting -of several distinct countries into one kingdom, or several distinct -members into one body, is performed merely by an arbitrary act of the -mind, and has no influence on the nature of things. Did I show you -the particular causes of each individual in a collection of twenty -particles of matter, I should think it very unreasonable, should you -afterwards ask me, what was the cause of the whole twenty. This is -sufficiently explained in explaining the cause of the parts. - -Though the reasonings which you have urged, Cleanthes, may well -excuse me, said Philo, from starting any farther difficulties, yet -I cannot forbear insisting still upon another topic. It is observed -by arithmeticians, that the products of 9 compose always either 9, -or some lesser product of 9, if you add together all the characters -of which any of the former products is composed. Thus, of 18, 27, -36, which are products of 9, you make 9 by adding 1 to 8, 2 to 7, 3 -to 6. Thus, 369 is a product also of 9; and if you add 3, 6, and 9, -you make 18, a lesser product of 9.[2] To a superficial observer, so -wonderful a regularity may be admired as the effect either of chance -or design: but a skilful algebraist immediately concludes it to be -the work of necessity, and demonstrates, that it must for ever result -from the nature of these numbers. Is it not probable, I ask, that the -whole economy of the universe is conducted by a like necessity, though -no human algebra can furnish a key which solves the difficulty? And -instead of admiring the order of natural beings, may it not happen, -that, could we penetrate into the intimate nature of bodies, we should -clearly see why it was absolutely impossible they could ever admit of -any other disposition? So dangerous is it to introduce this idea of -necessity into the present question! and so naturally does it afford an -inference directly opposite to the religious hypothesis! - -But dropping all these abstractions, continued Philo, and confining -ourselves to more familiar topics, I shall venture to add an -observation, that the argument _a priori_ has seldom been found -very convincing, except to people of a metaphysical head, who have -accustomed themselves to abstract reasoning, and who, finding from -mathematics, that the understanding frequently leads to truth through -obscurity, and, contrary to first appearances, have transferred the -same habit of thinking to subjects where it ought not to have place. -Other people, even of good sense and the best inclined to religion, -feel always some deficiency in such arguments, though they are not -perhaps able to explain distinctly where it lies; a certain proof that -men ever did, and ever will derive their religion from other sources -than from this species of reasoning. - - -[1] Dr Clarke. - -[2] République des Lettres, Août 1685. - - - - -PART X. - - -It is my opinion, I own, replied Demea, that each man feels, in a -manner, the truth of religion within his own breast, and, from a -consciousness of his imbecility and misery, rather than from any -reasoning, is led to seek protection from that Being, on whom he and -all nature is dependent. So anxious or so tedious are even the best -scenes of life, that futurity is still the object of all our hopes -and fears. We incessantly look forward, and endeavour, by prayers, -adoration, and sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers, whom we -find, by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us. Wretched -creatures that we are! what resource for us amidst the innumerable -ills of life, did not religion, suggest some methods of atonement, -and appease those terrors with which we are incessantly agitated and -tormented? - -I am indeed persuaded, said Philo, that the best, and indeed the only -method of bringing every one to a due sense of religion, is by just -representations of the misery and wickedness of men. And for that -purpose a talent of eloquence and strong imagery is more requisite than -that of reasoning and argument. For is it necessary to prove what every -one feels within himself? It is only necessary to make us feel it, if -possible, more intimately and sensibly. - -The people, indeed, replied Demea, are sufficiently convinced of this -great and melancholy truth. The miseries of life; the unhappiness -of man; the general corruptions of our nature; the unsatisfactory -enjoyment of pleasures, riches, honours; these phrases have become -almost proverbial in all languages. And who can doubt of what all men -declare from their own immediate feeling and experience? - -In this point, said Philo, the learned are perfectly agreed with the -vulgar; and in all letters, _sacred_ and _profane_, the topic of -human misery has been insisted on with the most pathetic eloquence -that sorrow and melancholy could inspire. The poets, who speak from -sentiment, without a system, and whose testimony has therefore the -more authority, abound in images of this nature. From Homer down to Dr -Young, the whole inspired tribe have ever been sensible, that no other -representation of things would suit the feeling and observation of each -individual. - -As to authorities, replied Demea, you need not seek them. Look round -this library of Cleanthes. I shall venture to affirm, that, except -authors of particular sciences, such as chemistry or botany, who have -no occasion to treat of human life, there is scarce one of those -innumerable writers, from whom the sense of human misery has not, in -some passage or other, extorted a complaint and confession of it. At -least, the chance is entirely on that side; and no one author has ever, -so far as I can recollect, been so extravagant as to deny it. - -There you must excuse me, said Philo: Leibnitz has denied it; and is -perhaps the first[1] who ventured upon so bold and paradoxical an -opinion; at least, the first who made it essential to his philosophical -system. - -And by being the first, replied Demea, might he not have been sensible -of his error? For is this a subject in which philosophers can propose -to make discoveries especially in so late an age? And can any man hope -by a simple denial (for the subject scarcely admits of reasoning), -to bear down the united testimony of mankind, founded on sense and -consciousness? - -And why should man, added he, pretend to an exemption from the lot of -all other animals? The whole earth, believe me, Philo, is cursed and -polluted. A perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures. -Necessity, hunger, want, stimulate the strong and courageous: Fear, -anxiety, terror, agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into -life gives anguish to the new-born infant and to its wretched parent: -Weakness, impotence, distress, attend each stage of that life: and it -is at last finished in agony and horror. - -Observe too, says Philo, the curious artifices of Nature, in order -to embitter the life of every living being. The stronger prey upon -the weaker, and keep them in perpetual terror and anxiety. The weaker -too, in their turn, often prey upon the stronger, and vex and molest -them without relaxation. Consider that innumerable race of insects, -which either are bred on the body of each animal, or, flying about, -infix their stings in him. These insects have others still less than -themselves, which torment them. And thus on each hand, before and -behind, above and below, every animal is surrounded with enemies, which -incessantly seek his misery and destruction. - -Man alone, said Demea, seems to be, in part, an exception to this rule. -For by combination in society, he can easily master lions, tigers, and -bears, whose greater strength and agility naturally enable them to prey -upon him. - -On the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried Philo, that the uniform -and equal maxims of Nature are most apparent. Man, it is true, can, -by combination, surmount all his _real_ enemies, and become master of -the whole animal creation: but does he not immediately raise up to -himself _imaginary_ enemies, the demons of his fancy, who haunt him -with superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life? His -pleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime: his food and -repose give them umbrage and offence: his very sleep and dreams furnish -new materials to anxious fear: and even death, his refuge from every -other ill, presents only the dread of endless and innumerable woes. Nor -does the wolf molest more the timid flock, than superstition does the -anxious breast of wretched mortals. - -Besides, consider, Demea: This very society, by which we surmount those -wild beasts, our natural enemies; what new enemies does it not raise to -us? What wo and misery does it not occasion? Man is the greatest enemy -of man. Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition, -war, calumny, treachery, fraud; by these they mutually torment each -other; and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed, -were it not for the dread of still greater ills, which must attend -their separation. - -But though these external insults, said Demea, from animals, from men, -from all the elements, which assault us, form a frightful catalogue -of woes, they are nothing in comparison of those which arise within -ourselves, from the distempered condition of our mind and body. How -many lie under the lingering torment of diseases? Hear the pathetic -enumeration of the great poet. - - Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs, - Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy, - And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy, - Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence. - Dire was the tossing, deep the groans: *DESPAIR - Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch. - And over them triumphant *DEATH his dart - Shook: but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd - With vows, as their chief good and final hope. - -The disorders of the mind, continued Demea, though more secret, are -not perhaps less dismal and vexatious. Remorse, shame, anguish, rage, -disappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, despair; who has ever passed -through life without cruel inroads from these tormentors? How many -have scarcely ever felt any better sensations? Labour and poverty, so -abhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number; -and those few privileged persons, who enjoy ease and opulence, never -reach contentment or true felicity. All the goods of life united would -not make a very happy man; but all the ills united would make a wretch -indeed; and any one of them almost (and who can be free from every -one?) nay often the absence of one good (and who can possess all?) is -sufficient to render life ineligible. - -Were a stranger to drop on a sudden into this world, I would show him, -as a specimen of its ills, an hospital full of diseases, a prison -crowded with malefactors and debtors, a field of battle strewed with -carcases, a fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languishing under -tyranny, famine, or pestilence. To turn the gay side of life to him, -and give him a notion of its pleasures; whether should I conduct him? -to a ball, to an opera, to court? He might justly think, that I was -only showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow. - -There is no evading such striking instances, said Philo, but by -apologies, which still farther aggravate the charge. Why have all men, -I ask, in all ages, complained incessantly of the miseries of life?.... -They have no just reason, says one: these complaints proceed only from -their discontented, repining, anxious disposition.... And can there -possibly, I reply, be a more certain foundation of misery, than such a -wretched temper? - -But if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says my antagonist, -why do they remain in life?.... - - - Not satisfied with life, afraid of death. - - -This is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are terrified, not -bribed to the continuance of our existence. - -It is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few refined spirits -indulge, and which has, spread these complaints among the whole, nice -of mankinds.... And what is this delicacy, I ask, which you blame? Is -it any thing but a greater sensibility to all the pleasures and pains -of life? and if the man of a delicate, refined temper, by being so much -more alive than the rest of the world, is only so much more unhappy, -what judgment must we form in general of human life? - -Let men remain at rest, says our adversary, and they will be easy. They -are willing artificers of their own misery.... No! reply I: an anxious -languor follows their repose; disappointment, vexation, trouble, their -activity and ambition. - -I can observe something like what you mention in some others, replied -Cleanthes: but I confess I feel little or nothing of it in myself, and -hope that it is not so common as you represent it. - -If you feel not human misery yourself, cried Demea, I congratulate -you on so happy a singularity. Others, seemingly the most prosperous, -have not been ashamed to vent their complaints in the most melancholy -strains. Let us attend to the great, the fortunate emperor, Charles -V., when, tired with human grandeur, he resigned all his extensive -dominions into the hands of his son. In the last harangue which -he made on that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed, _that the -greatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had been mixed with -so many adversities, that he might truly say he had never enjoyed -any satisfaction or contentment_. But did the retired life, in which -he sought for shelter, afford him any greater happiness? If we may -credit his son's account, his repentance commenced the very day of his -resignation. - -Cicero's fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the greatest lustre -and renown; yet what pathetic complaints of the ills of life do his -familiar letters, as well as philosophical discourses, contain? And -suitably to his own experience, he introduces Cato, the great, the -fortunate Cato, protesting in his old age, that had he a new life in -his offer, he would reject the present. - -Ask yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether they would live -over again the last ten or twenty years of their life. No! but the next -twenty, they say, will be better: - - - And from the dregs of life, hope to receive - What the first sprightly running could not give. - - -Thus at last they find (such is the greatness of human misery, it -reconciles even contradictions), that they complain at once of the -shortness of life, and of its vanity and sorrow. - -And is it possible, Cleanthes, said Philo, that after all these -reflections, and infinitely more, which might be suggested, you -can still persevere in your Anthropomorphism, and assert the moral -attributes of the Deity, his justice, benevolence, mercy, and -rectitude, to be of the same nature with these virtues in human -creatures? His power we allow is infinite: whatever he wills is -executed: but neither man nor any other animal is happy: therefore he -does not will their happiness. His wisdom is infinite: he is never -mistaken in choosing the means to any end: but the course of Nature -tends not to human or animal felicity: therefore it is not established -for that purpose. Through the whole compass of human knowledge, there -are no inferences more certain and infallible than these. In what -respect, then, do his benevolence and mercy resemble the benevolence -and mercy of men? - -Epicurus's old questions are yet unanswered. - -Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? then is he impotent. Is -he able, but not willing? then is he malevolent Is he both able and -willing? whence then is evil? - -You ascribe, Cleanthes (and I believe justly), a purpose and intention -to Nature. But what, I beseech you, is the object of that curious -artifice and machinery, which she has displayed in all animals? The -preservation alone of individuals, and propagation of the species. It -seems enough for her purpose, if such a rank be barely upheld in the -universe, without any care or concern for the happiness of the members -that compose it. No resource for this purpose: no machinery, in order -merely to give pleasure or ease: no fund of pure joy and contentment: -no indulgence, without some want or necessity accompanying it. At -least, the few phenomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite -phenomena of still greater importance. - -Our sense of music, harmony, and indeed beauty of all kinds, gives -satisfaction, without being absolutely necessary to the preservation -and propagation of the species. But what racking pains, on the other -hand, arise from gouts, gravels, megrims, toothaches, rheumatisms, -where the injury to the animal machinery is either small or incurable? -Mirth, laughter, play, frolic, seem gratuitous satisfactions, which -have no farther tendency: spleen, melancholy, discontent, superstition, -are pains of the same nature. How then does the Divine benevolence -display itself, in the sense of you Anthropomorphites? None but we -Mystics, as you were pleased to call us, can account for this strange -mixture of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes, infinitely -perfect, but incomprehensible. - -And have you at last, said Cleanthes smiling, betrayed your intentions, -Philo? Your long agreement with Demea did indeed a little surprise me; -but I find you were all the while erecting a concealed battery against -me. And I must confess, that you have now fallen upon a subject worthy -of your noble spirit of opposition and controversy. If you can make out -the present point, and prove mankind to be unhappy or corrupted, there -is an end at once of all religion. For to what purpose establish the -natural attributes of the Deity, while the moral are still doubtful and -uncertain? - -You take umbrage very easily, replied Demea, at opinions the most -innocent, and the most generally received, even amongst the religious -and devout themselves: and nothing can be more surprising than to -find a topic like this, concerning the wickedness and misery of man, -charged with no less than Atheism and profaneness. Have not all -pious divines and preachers, who have indulged their rhetoric on so -fertile a subject; have they not easily, I say, given a solution of -any difficulties which may attend it? This world is but a point in -comparison of the universe; this life but a moment in comparison of -eternity. The present evil phenomena, therefore, are rectified in -other regions, and in some future period of existence. And the eyes -of men, being then opened to larger views of things, see the whole -connection of general laws; and trace with adoration, the benevolence -and rectitude of the Deity, through all the mazes and intricacies of -his providence. - -No! replied Cleanthes, No! These arbitrary suppositions can never be -admitted, contrary to matter of fact, visible and uncontroverted. -Whence can any cause be known but from its known effects? Whence can -any hypothesis be proved but from the apparent phenomena? To establish -one hypothesis upon another, is building entirely in the air; and -the utmost we ever attain, by these conjectures and fictions, is to -ascertain the bare possibility of our opinion; but never can we, upon -such terms, establish its reality. - -The only method of supporting Divine benevolence, and it is what I -willingly embrace, is to deny absolutely the misery and wickedness of -man. Your representations are exaggerated; your melancholy views mostly -fictitious; your inferences contrary to fact and experience. Health is -more common than sickness; pleasure than pain; happiness than misery. -And for one vexation which we meet with, we attain, upon computation, a -hundred enjoyments. - -Admitting your position, replied Philo, which yet is extremely -doubtful, you must at the same time allow, that if pain be less -frequent than pleasure, it is infinitely more violent and durable. -One hour of it is often able to outweigh a day, a week, a month of -our common insipid enjoyments; and how many days, weeks, and months, -are passed by several in the most acute torments? Pleasure, scarcely -in one instance, is ever able to reach ecstasy and rapture; and in -no one instance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch -and altitude. The spirits evaporate, the nerves relax, the fabric is -disordered, and the enjoyment quickly degenerates into fatigue and -uneasiness. But pain often, good God, how often! rises to torture and -agony; and the longer it continues, it becomes still more genuine agony -and torture. Patience is exhausted, courage languishes, melancholy -seizes us, and nothing terminates our misery but the removal of its -cause, or another event, which is the sole cure of all evil, but -which, from our natural folly, we regard with still greater horror and -consternation. - -But not to insist upon these topics, continued Philo, though most -obvious, certain, and important; I must use the freedom to admonish -you, Cleanthes, that you have put the controversy upon a most dangerous -issue, and are unawares introducing a total scepticism into the most -essential articles of natural and revealed theology. What! no method of -fixing a just foundation for religion, unless we allow the happiness -of human life, and maintain a continued existence even in this world, -with all our present pains, infirmities, vexations, and follies, to be -eligible and desirable! But this is contrary to every one's feeling and -experience: It is contrary to an authority so established as nothing -can subvert. - -No decisive proofs can ever be produced against this authority; nor is -it possible for you to compute, estimate and compare, all the pains and -all the pleasures in the lives of all men and of all animals: And thus, -by your resting the whole system of religion on a point, which, from -its very nature, must for ever be uncertain, you tacitly confess, that -that system is equally uncertain. - -But allowing you what never will be believed, at least what you never -possibly can prove, that animal, or at least human happiness, in this -life, exceeds its misery, you have yet done nothing: For this is not, -by any means, what we expect from infinite power, infinite wisdom, and -infinite goodness. Why is there any misery at all in the world? Not by -chance surely. From some cause then. Is it from the intention of the -Deity? But he is perfectly benevolent. Is it contrary to his intention? -But he is almighty. Nothing can shake the solidity of this reasoning, -so short, so clear, so decisive; except we assert, that these subjects -exceed all human capacity, and that our common measures of truth and -falsehood are not applicable to them; a topic which I have all along -insisted on, but which you have, from the beginning, rejected with -scorn and indignation. - -But I will be contented to retire still from this intrenchment, for -I deny that you can ever force me in it. I will allow, that pain or -misery in man is _compatible_ with infinite power and goodness in the -Deity, even in your sense of these attributes: What are you advanced by -all these concessions? A mere possible compatibility is not sufficient. -You must _prove_ these pure, unmixt, and uncontrollable attributes -from the present mixt and confused phenomena, and from these alone. A -hopeful undertaking! Were the phenomena ever so pure and unmixt, yet -being finite, they would be insufficient for that purpose. How much -more, where they are also so jarring and discordant! - -Here, Cleanthes, I find myself at ease in my argument. Here I triumph. -Formerly, when we argued concerning the natural attributes of -intelligence and design, I needed all my sceptical and metaphysical -subtilty to elude your grasp. In many views of the universe, and of its -parts, particularly the latter, the beauty and fitness of final causes -strike us with such irresistible force, that all objections appear -(what I believe they really are) mere cavils and sophisms; nor can -we then imagine how it was ever possible for us to repose any weight -on them. But there is no view of human life, or of the condition of -mankind, from which, without the greatest violence, we can infer the -moral attributes, or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined with -infinite power and infinite wisdom, which we must discover by the eyes -of faith alone. It is your turn now to tug the labouring oar, and to -support your philosophical subtilties against the dictates of plain -reason and experience. - - -[1] That sentiment had been maintained by Dr King, and some few others, -before Leibnitz, though by none of so great fame as that German -philosopher. - - - - - -PART XI. - - -I scruple not to allow, said Cleanthes, that I have been apt to -suspect the frequent repetition of the word _infinite_, which we meet -with in all theological writers, to savour more of panegyric than of -philosophy; and that any purposes of reasoning, and even of religion, -would be better served, were we to rest contented with more accurate -and more moderate expressions. The terms, _admirable, excellent, -superlatively great, wise_, and _holy_; these sufficiently fill the -imaginations of men; and any thing beyond, besides that it leads into -absurdities, has no influence on the affections or sentiments. Thus, -in the present subject, if we abandon all human analogy, as seems your -intention, Demea, I am afraid we abandon all religion, and retain no -conception of the great object of our adoration. If we preserve human -analogy, we must for ever find it impossible to reconcile any mixture -of evil in the universe with infinite attributes; much less can we ever -prove the latter from the former. But supposing the Author of Nature -to be finitely perfect, though far exceeding mankind, a satisfactory -account may then be given of natural and moral evil, and every untoward -phenomenon be explained and adjusted. A less evil may then be chosen, -in order to avoid a greater; inconveniences be submitted to, in order -to reach a desirable end; and in a word, benevolence, regulated by -wisdom, and limited by necessity, may produce just such a world as -the present. You, Philo, who are so prompt at starting views, and -reflections, and analogies, I would gladly hear, at length, without -interruption, your opinion of this new theory; and if it deserve our -attention, we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it into form. - -My sentiments, replied Philo, are not worth being made a mystery of; -and therefore, without any ceremony, I shall deliver what occurs to -me with regard to the present subject. It must, I think, be allowed, -that if a very limited intelligence, whom we shall suppose utterly -unacquainted with the universe, were assured, that it were the -production of a very good, wise, and powerful Being, however finite, he -would, from his conjectures, form _beforehand_ a different notion of it -from what we find it to be by experience; nor would he ever imagine, -merely from these attributes of the cause, of which he is informed, -that the effect could be so full of vice and misery and disorder, as -it appears in this life. Supposing now, that this person were brought -into the world, still assured that it was the workmanship of such a -sublime and benevolent Being; he might, perhaps, be surprised at the -disappointment; but would never retract his former belief, if founded -on any very solid argument; since such a limited intelligence must -be sensible of his own blindness and ignorance, and must allow, that -there may be many solutions of those phenomena, which will for ever -escape his comprehension. But supposing, which is the real case with -regard to man, that this creature is not antecedently convinced of a -supreme intelligence, benevolent, and powerful, but is left to gather -such a belief from the appearances of things; this entirely alters -the case, nor will he ever find any reason for such a conclusion. He -may be fully convinced of the narrow limits of his understanding; but -this will not help him in forming an inference concerning the goodness -of superior powers, since he must form that inference from what he -knows, not from what he is ignorant of. The more you exaggerate his -weakness and ignorance, the more diffident you render him, and give -him the greater suspicion that such subjects are beyond the reach of -his faculties. You are obliged, therefore, to reason with him merely -from the known phenomena, and to drop every arbitrary supposition or -conjecture. - -Did I show you a house or palace, where there was not one apartment -convenient or agreeable; where the windows, doors, fires passages, -stairs, and the whole economy of the building, were the source of -noise, confusion, fatigue, darkness, and the extremes of heat and -cold; you would certainly blame the contrivance, without any farther -examination. The architect would in vain display his subtilty, and -prove to you, that if this door or that window were altered, greater -ills would ensue. What he says may be strictly true: The alteration -of one particular, while the other parts of the building remain, may -only augment the inconveniences. But still you would assert in general, -that, if the architect had had skill and good intentions, he might -have formed such a plan of the whole, and might have adjusted the -parts in such a manner, as would have remedied all or most of these -inconveniences. His ignorance, or even your own ignorance of such a -plan, will never convince you of the impossibility of it. If you find -any inconveniences and deformities in the building, you will always, -without entering into any detail, condemn the architect. - -In short, I repeat the question: Is the world, considered in general, -and as it appears to us in this life, different from what a man, or -such a limited being, would, _beforehand_, expect from a very powerful, -wise, and benevolent Deity? It must be strange prejudice to assert -the contrary. And from thence I conclude, that however consistent the -world may be, allowing certain suppositions and conjectures, with the -idea of such a Deity, it can never afford us an inference concerning -his existence. The consistence is not absolutely denied, only the -inference. Conjectures, especially where infinity is excluded from the -Divine attributes, may perhaps be sufficient to prove a consistence, -but can never be foundations for any inference. - -There seem to be _four_ circumstances, on which depend all, or the -greatest part of the ills, that molest sensible creatures; and it -is not impossible but all these circumstances may be necessary -and unavoidable. We know so little beyond common life, or even of -common life, that, with regard to the economy of a universe, there -is no conjecture, however wild, which may not be just; nor any one, -however plausible, which may not be erroneous. All that belongs to -human understanding, in this deep ignorance and obscurity, is to be -sceptical, or at least cautious, and not to admit of any hypothesis -whatever, much less of any which is supported by no appearance of -probability. Now, this I assert to be the case with regard to all the -causes of evil, and the circumstances on which it depends. None of them -appear to human reason in the least degree necessary or unavoidable; -nor can we suppose them such, without the utmost license of imagination. - -The _first_ circumstance which introduces evil, is that contrivance or -economy of the animal creation, by which pains, as well as pleasures, -are employed to excite all creatures to action, and make them vigilant -in the great work of self-preservation. Now pleasure alone, in its -various degrees, seems to human understanding sufficient for this -purpose. All animals might be constantly in a state of enjoyment: -but when urged by any of the necessities of nature, such as thirst, -hunger, weariness; instead of pain, they might feel a diminution of -pleasure, by which they might be prompted to seek that object which -is necessary to their subsistence. Men pursue pleasure as eagerly as -they avoid pain; at least, they might have been so constituted. It -seems, therefore, plainly possible to carry on the business of life -without any pain. Why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of -such a sensation? If animals can be free from it an hour, they might -enjoy a perpetual exemption from it; and it required as particular a -contrivance of their organs to produce that feeling, as to endow them -with sight, hearing, or any of the senses. Shall we conjecture, that -such a contrivance was necessary, without any appearance of reason? and -shall we build on that conjecture as on the most certain truth? - -But a capacity of pain would not alone produce pain, were it not for -the _second_ circumstance, viz. the conducting of the world by general -laws; and this seems nowise necessary to a very perfect Being. It is -true, if every thing were conducted by particular volitions, the course -of nature would be perpetually broken, and no man could employ his -reason in the conduct of life. But might not other particular volitions -remedy this inconvenience? In short, might not the Deity exterminate -all ill, wherever it were to be found; and produce all good, without -any preparation, or long progress of causes and effects? - -Besides, we must consider, that, according to the present economy of -the world, the course of nature, though supposed exactly regular, -yet to us appears not so, and many events are uncertain, and many -disappoint our expectations. Health and sickness, calm and tempest, -with an infinite number of other accidents, whose causes are unknown -and variable, have a great influence both on the fortunes of particular -persons and on the prosperity of public societies; and indeed all human -life, in a manner, depends on such accidents. A being, therefore, who -knows the secret springs of the universe, might easily, by particular -volitions, turn all these accidents to the good of mankind, and render -the whole world happy, without discovering himself in any operation. -A fleet, whose purposes were salutary to society, might always meet -with a fair wind. Good princes enjoy sound health and long life. -Persons born to power and authority, be framed with good tempers and -virtuous dispositions. A few such events as these, regularly and -wisely conducted, would change the face of the world; and yet would no -more seem to disturb the course of nature, or confound human conduct, -than the present economy of things, where the causes are secret, and -variable, and compounded. Some small touches given to Caligula's brain -in his infancy, might have converted him into a Trajan. One wave, a -little higher than the rest, by burying Cæsar and his fortune in the -bottom of the ocean, might have restored liberty to a considerable -part of mankind. There may, for aught we know, be good reasons why -Providence interposes not in this manner; but they are unknown to -us; and though the mere supposition, that such reasons exist, may be -sufficient to _save_ the conclusion concerning the Divine attributes, -yet surely it can never be sufficient to _establish_ that conclusion. - -If every thing in the universe be conducted by general laws, and if -animals be rendered susceptible of pain, it scarcely seems possible -but some ill must arise in the various shocks of matter, and the -various concurrence and opposition of general laws; but this ill -would be very rare, were it not for the _third_ circumstance, which I -proposed to mention, viz. the great frugality with which all powers -and faculties are distributed to every particular being. So well -adjusted are the organs and capacities of all animals, and so well -fitted to their preservation, that, as far as history or tradition -reaches, there appears not to be any single species which has yet -been extinguished in the universe. Every animal has the requisite -endowments; but these endowments are bestowed with so scrupulous an -economy, that any considerable diminution must entirely destroy the -creature. Wherever one power is increased, there is a proportional -abatement in the others. Animals which excel in swiftness are commonly -defective in force. Those which possess both are either imperfect in -some of their senses, or are oppressed with the most craving wants. -The human species, whose chief excellency is reason and sagacity, is -of all others the most necessitous, and the most deficient in bodily -advantages; without clothes, without arms, without food, without -lodging, without any convenience of life, except what they owe to -their own skill and industry. In short, nature seems to have formed -an exact calculation of the necessities of her creatures; and, like -a _rigid master_, has afforded them little more powers or endowments -than what are strictly sufficient to supply those necessities. An -_indulgent parent_ would have bestowed a large stock, in order to -guard against accidents, and secure the happiness and welfare of the -creature in the most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. Every -course of life would not have been so surrounded with precipices, that -the least departure from the true path, by mistake or necessity, must -involve us in misery and ruin. Some reserve, some fund, would have been -provided to ensure happiness; nor would the powers and the necessities -have been adjusted with so rigid an economy. The Author of Nature is -inconceivably powerful: his force is supposed great, if not altogether -inexhaustible: nor is there any reason, as far as we can judge, to make -him observe this strict frugality in his dealings with his creatures. -It would have been better, were his power extremely limited, to have -created fewer animals, and to have endowed these with more faculties -for their happiness and preservation. A builder is never esteemed -prudent, who undertakes a plan beyond what his stock will enable him to -finish. - -In order to cure most of the ills of human life, I require not that -man should have the wings of the eagle, the swiftness of the stag, the -force of the ox, the arms of the lion, the scales of the crocodile -or rhinoceros; much less do I demand the sagacity of an angel or -cherubim. I am contented to take an increase in one single power or -faculty of his soul. Let him be endowed with a greater propensity to -industry and labour; a more vigorous spring and activity of mind; a -more constant bent to business and application. Let the whole species -possess naturally an equal diligence with that which many individuals -are able to attain by habit and reflection; and the most beneficial -consequences, without any allay of ill, is the immediate and necessary -result of this endowment. Almost all the moral, as well as natural -evils of human life, arise from idleness; and were our species, by -the original constitution of their frame, exempt from this vice or -infirmity, the perfect cultivation of land, the improvement of arts and -manufactures, the exact execution of every office and duty, immediately -follow; and men at once may fully reach that state of society, which -is so imperfectly attained by the best regulated government. But -as industry is a power, and the most valuable of any, Nature seems -determined, suitably to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men with a -very sparing hand; and rather to punish him severely for his deficiency -in it, than to reward him for his attainments. She has so contrived -his frame, that nothing but the most violent necessity can oblige him -to labour; and she employs all his other wants to overcome, at least -in part, the want of diligence, and to endow him with some share of a -faculty of which she has thought fit naturally to bereave him. Here our -demands may be allowed very humble, and therefore the more reasonable. -If we required the endowments of superior penetration and judgment, of -a more delicate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to benevolence -and friendship; we might be told, that we impiously pretend to break -the order of Nature; that we want to exalt ourselves into a higher rank -of being; that the presents which we require, not being suitable to our -state and condition, would only be pernicious to us. But it is hard; I -dare to repeat it, it is hard, that being placed in a world so full of -wants and necessities, where almost every being and element is either -our foe or refuses its assistance ... we should also have our own -temper to struggle with, and should be deprived of that faculty which -can alone fence against these multiplied evils. - -The _fourth_ circumstance, whence arises the misery and ill of -the universe, is the inaccurate workmanship of all the springs and -principles of the great machine of nature. It must be acknowledged, -that there are few parts of the universe, which seem not to serve -some purpose, and whose removal would not produce a visible defect -and disorder in the whole. The parts hang all together; nor can one -be touched without affecting the rest, in a greater or less degree. -But at the same time, it must be observed, that none of these parts -or principles, however useful, are so accurately adjusted, as to keep -precisely within those bounds in which their utility consists; but -they are, all of them, apt, on every occasion, to run into the one -extreme or the other. One would imagine, that this grand production -had not received the last hand of the maker; so little finished is -every part, and so coarse are the strokes with which it is executed. -Thus, the winds are requisite to convey the vapours along the surface -of the globe, and to assist men in navigation: but how oft, rising -up to tempests and hurricanes, do they become pernicious? Rains are -necessary to nourish all the plants and animals of the earth: but how -often are they defective? how often excessive? Heat is requisite to all -life and vegetation; but is not always found in the due proportion. -On the mixture and secretion of the humours and juices of the body -depend the health and prosperity of the animal: but the parts perform -not regularly their proper function. What more useful than all the -passions of the mind, ambition, vanity love, anger? But how oft do they -break their bounds, and cause the greatest convulsions in society? -There is nothing so advantageous in the universe, but what frequently -becomes pernicious, by its excess or defect; nor has Nature guarded, -with the requisite accuracy, against all disorder or confusion. The -irregularity is never perhaps so great as to destroy any species; but -is often sufficient to involve the individuals in ruin and misery. - -On the concurrence, then, of these _four_ circumstances, does all or -the greatest part of natural evil depend. Were all living creatures -incapable of pain, or were the world administered by particular -volitions, evil never could have found access into the universe: and -were animals endowed with a large stock of powers and faculties, -beyond what strict necessity requires; or were the several springs -and principles of the universe so accurately framed as to preserve -always the just temperament and medium; there must have been very -little ill in comparison of what we feel at present. What then shall -we pronounce on this occasion? Shall we say that these circumstances -are not necessary, and that they might easily have been altered in -the contrivance of the universe? This decision seems too presumptuous -for creatures so blind and ignorant. Let us be more modest in our -conclusions. Let us allow, that, if the goodness of the Diety (I mean -a goodness like the human) could be established on any tolerable -reasons _a priori_, these phenomena, however untoward, would not be -sufficient to subvert that principle; but might easily, in some unknown -manner, be reconcileable to it. But let us still assert, that as this -goodness is not antecedently established, but must be inferred from the -phenomena, there can be no grounds for such an inference, while there -are so many ills in the universe, and while these ills might so easily -have been remedied, as far as human understanding can be allowed to -judge on such a subject. I am Sceptic enough to allow, that the bad -appearances, notwithstanding all my reasonings, may be compatible with -such attributes as you suppose; but surely they can never prove these -attributes. Such a conclusion cannot result from Scepticism, but must -arise from the phenomena, and from our confidence in the reasonings -which we deduce from these phenomena. - -Look round this universe. What an immense profusion of beings, animated -and organized, sensible and active! You admire this prodigious -variety and fecundity. But inspect a little more narrowly these -living existences, the only beings worth regarding. How hostile and -destructive to each other! How insufficient all of them for their own -happiness! How contemptible or odious to the spectator! The whole -presents nothing but the idea of a blind Nature, impregnated by a -great vivifying principle, and pouring forth from her lap, without -discernment or parental care, her maimed and abortive children! - -Here the Manichæan system occurs as a proper hypothesis to solve the -difficulty: and no doubt, in some respects, it is very specious, and -has more probability than the common hypothesis, by giving a plausible -account of the strange mixture of good and ill which appears in life. -But if we consider, on the other hand, the perfect uniformity and -agreement of the parts of the universe, we shall not discover in it any -marks of the combat of a malevolent with a benevolent being. There is -indeed an opposition of pains and pleasures in the feelings of sensible -creatures: but are not all the operations of Nature carried on by an -opposition of principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and -heavy? The true conclusion is, that the original Source of all things -is entirely indifferent to all these principles; and has no more regard -to good above ill, than to heat above cold, or to drought above -moisture, or to light above heavy. - -There may _four_ hypotheses be framed concerning the first causes of -the universe: _that_ they are endowed with perfect goodness; _that_ -they have perfect malice; _that_ they are opposite, and have both -goodness and malice; _that_ they have neither goodness nor malice. Mixt -phenomena can never prove the two former unmixt principles; and the -uniformity and steadiness of general laws seem to oppose the third. The -fourth, therefore, seems by far the most probable. - -What I have said concerning natural evil will apply to moral, with -little or no variation; and we have no more reason to infer, that the -rectitude of the Supreme Being resembles human rectitude, than that -his benevolence resembles the human. Nay, it will be thought, that we -have still greater cause to exclude from him moral sentiments, such as -we feel them; since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is much more -predominant above moral good than natural evil above natural good. - -But even though this should not be allowed, and though the virtue which -is in mankind should be acknowledged much superior to the vice, yet so -long as there is any vice at all in the universe, it will very much -puzzle you Anthropomorphites, how to account for it. You must assign a -cause for it, without having recourse to the first cause. But as every -effect must have a cause, and that cause another, you must either carry -on the progression _in infinitum_, or rest on that original principle, -who is the ultimate cause of all things.... - -Hold! hold! cried Demea: Whither does your imagination hurry you? I -joined in alliance with you, in order to prove the incomprehensible -nature of the Divine Being, and refute the principles of Cleanthes, -who would measure every thing by human rule and standard. But I now -find you running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and -infidels, and betraying that holy cause which you seemingly espoused. -Are you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy than Cleanthes himself? - -And are you so late in perceiving it? replied Cleanthes. Believe me, -Demea, your friend Philo, from the beginning, has been amusing himself -at both our expense; and it must be confessed, that the injudicious -reasoning of our vulgar theology has given him but too just a handle -of ridicule. The total infirmity of human reason, the absolute -incomprehensibility of the Divine Nature, the great and universal -misery, and still greater wickedness of men; these are strange topics, -surely, to be so fondly cherished by orthodox divines and doctors. -In ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, these principles may -safely be espoused; and perhaps no views of things are more proper to -promote superstition, than such as encourage the blind amazement, the -diffidence, and melancholy of mankind. But at present.... - -Blame not so much, interposed Philo, the ignorance of these reverend -gentlemen. They know how to change their style with the times. Formerly -it was a most popular theological topic to maintain, that human life -was vanity and misery, and to exaggerate all the ills and pains which -are incident to men. But of late years, divines, we find, begin to -retract this position; and maintain, though still with some hesitation, -that there are more goods than evils, more pleasures than pains, even -in this life. When religion stood entirely upon temper and education, -it was thought proper to encourage melancholy; as indeed mankind never -have recourse to superior powers so readily as in that disposition. But -as men have now learned to form principles, and to draw consequences, -it is necessary to change the batteries, and to make use of such -arguments as will endure at least some scrutiny and examination. This -variation is the same (and from the same causes) with that which I -formerly remarked with regard to Scepticism. - -Thus Philo continued to the last his spirit of opposition, and his -censure of established opinions. But I could observe that Demea did not -at all relish the latter part of the discourse; and he took occasion -soon after, on some pretence or other, to leave the company. - - - - -PART XII. - - -After Demea's departure, Cleanthes and Philo continued the conversation -in the following manner. Our friend, I am afraid, said Cleanthes, -will have little inclination to revive this topic of discourse, -while you are in company; and to tell truth, Philo, I should rather -wish to reason with either of you apart on a subject so sublime and -interesting. Your spirit of controversy, joined to your abhorence of -vulgar superstition, carries you strange lengths, when engaged in an -argument; and there is nothing so sacred and venerable, even in your -own eyes, which you spare on that occasion. - -I must confess, replied Philo, that I am less cautious on the subject -of Natural Religion than on any other; both because I know that I can -never, on that head, corrupt the principles of any man of common sense; -and because no one, I am confident, in whose eyes I appear a man of -common sense, will ever mistake my intentions. You, in particular, -Cleanthes, with whom I live in unreserved intimacy; you are sensible, -that notwithstanding the freedom of my conversation, and my love of -singular arguments, no one has a deeper sense of religion impressed -on his mind, or pays more profound adoration to the Divine Being, -as he discovers himself to reason, in the inexplicable contrivance -and artifice of nature. A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes -every where the most careless, the most stupid thinker; and no man -can be so hardened in absurd systems, as at all times to reject it. -_That Nature does nothing in vain_, is a maxim established in all -the schools, merely from the contemplation of the works of Nature, -without any religious purpose; and, from a firm conviction of its -truth, an anatomist, who had observed a new organ or canal, would never -be satisfied till he had also discovered its use and intention. One -great foundation of the Copernican system is the maxim, _That Nature -acts by the simplest methods, and chooses the most proper means to -any end_; and astronomers often, without thinking of it, lay this -strong foundation of piety and religion. The same thing is observable -in other parts of philosophy: And thus all the sciences almost lead -us insensibly to acknowledge a first intelligent Author; and their -authority is often so much the greater, as they do not directly profess -that intention. - -It is with pleasure I hear Galen reason concerning the structure of -the human body. The anatomy of a man, says he,[1] discovers above 600 -different muscles; and whoever duly considers these, will find, that, -in each of them, Nature must have adjusted at least ten different -circumstances, in order to attain the end which she proposed; proper -figure, just magnitude, right disposition of the several ends, upper -and lower position of the whole, the due insertion of the several -nerves, veins, and arteries: So that, in the muscles alone, above 6000 -several views and intentions must have been formed and executed. The -bones he calculates to be 284: The distinct purposes aimed at in the -structure of each, above forty. What a prodigious display of artifice, -even in these simple and homogeneous parts! But if we consider the -skin, ligaments, vessels, glandules, humours, the several limbs and -members of the body; how must our astonishment rise upon us, in -proportion to the number and intricacy of the parts so artificially -adjusted! The farther we advance in these researches, we discover new -scenes of art and wisdom: But descry still, at a distance, farther -scenes beyond our reach; in the fine internal structure of the parts, -in the economy of the brain, in the fabric of the seminal vessels. All -these artifices are repeated in every different species of animal, with -wonderful variety, and with exact propriety, suited to the different -intentions of Nature in framing each species. And if the infidelity of -Galen, even when these natural sciences were still imperfect, could -not withstand such striking appearances, to what pitch of pertinacious -obstinacy must a philosopher in this age have attained, who can now -doubt of a Supreme Intelligence! - -Could I meet with one of this species (who, I thank God, are very -rare), I would ask him: Supposing there were a God, who did not -discover himself immediately to our senses, were it possible for him -to give stronger proofs of his existence, than what appear on the -whole face of Nature? What indeed could such a Divine Being do, but -copy the present economy of things; render many of his artifices so -plain, that no stupidity could mistake them; afford glimpses of still -greater artifices, which demonstrate his prodigious superiority above -our narrow apprehensions; and conceal altogether a great many from such -imperfect creatures? Now, according to all rules of just reasoning, -every fact must pass for undisputed, when it is supported by all the -arguments which its nature admits of; even though these arguments be -not, in themselves, very numerous or forcible: How much more, in the -present case, where no human imagination can compute their number, and -no understanding estimate their cogency! - -I shall farther add, said Cleanthes, to what you have so well urged, -that one great advantage of the principle of Theism, is, that it is -the only system of cosmogony which can be rendered intelligible and -complete, and yet can throughout preserve a strong analogy to what -we every day see and experience in the world. The comparison of the -universe to a machine of human contrivance, is so obvious and natural, -and is justified by so many instances of order and design in Nature, -that it must immediately strike all unprejudiced apprehensions, -and procure universal approbation. Whoever attempts to weaken this -theory, cannot pretend to succeed by establishing in its place any -other that is precise and determinate: It is sufficient for him if -he start doubts and difficulties; and by remote and abstract views -of things, reach that suspense of judgment, which is here the utmost -boundary of his wishes. But, besides that this state of mind is in -itself unsatisfactory, it can never be steadily maintained against -such striking appearances as continually engage us into the religious -hypothesis. A false, absurd system, human nature, from the force of -prejudice, is capable of adhering to with obstinacy and perseverance: -But no system at all, in opposition to a theory supported by strong and -obvious reason, by natural propensity, and by early education, I think -it absolutely impossible to maintain or defend. - -So little, replied Philo, do I esteem this suspense of judgment in the -present case to be possible, that I am apt to suspect there enters -somewhat of a dispute of words into this controversy; more than is -usually imagined. That the works of Nature bear a great analogy to -the productions of art, is evident; and according to all the rules of -good reasoning, we ought to infer, if we argue at all concerning them, -that their causes have a proportional analogy. But as there are also -considerable differences, we have reason to suppose a proportional -difference in the causes; and in particular, ought to attribute a much -higher degree of power and energy to the supreme cause, than any we -have ever observed in mankind. Here then the existence of a *DEITY is -plainly ascertained by reason: and if we make it a question, whether, -on account of these analogies, we can properly call him a _mind_ -or _intelligence_, notwithstanding the vast difference which may -reasonably be supposed between him and human minds; what is this but -a mere verbal controversy? No man can deny the analogies between the -effects: To restrain ourselves from inquiring concerning the causes is -scarcely possible. From this inquiry, the legitimate conclusion is, -that the causes have also an analogy: And if we are not contented with -calling the first and supreme cause a *GOD or *DEITY, but desire to -vary the expression; what can we call him but *MIND or $THOUGHT, to -which he is justly supposed to bear a considerable resemblance? - -All men of sound reason are disgusted with verbal disputes, which -abound so much in philosophical and theological inquiries; and it -is found, that the only remedy for this abuse must arise from clear -definitions, from the precision of those ideas which enter into any -argument, and from the strict and uniform use of those terms which -are employed. But there is a species of controversy, which, from the -very nature of language and of human ideas, is involved in perpetual -ambiguity, and can never, by any precaution or any definitions, be -able to reach a reasonable certainty or precision. These are the -controversies concerning the degrees of any quality or circumstance. -Men may argue to all eternity, whether Hannibal be a great, or a very -great, or a superlatively great man, what degree of beauty Cleopatra -possessed, what epithet of praise Livy or Thucydides is entitled to, -without bringing the controversy to any determination. The disputants -may here agree in their sense, and differ in the terms, or _vice -versa_; yet never be able to define their terms, so as to enter into -each other's meaning: Because the degrees of these qualities are not, -like quantity or number, susceptible of any exact mensuration, which -may be the standard in the controversy. That the dispute concerning -Theism is of this nature, and consequently is merely verbal, or -perhaps, if possible, still more incurably ambiguous, will appear upon -the slightest inquiry. I ask the Theist, if he does not allow, that -there is a great and immeasurable, because incomprehensible difference -between the _human_ and the _divine_ mind: The more pious he is, the -more readily will he assent to the affirmative, and the more will he -be disposed to magnify the difference: He will even assert, that the -difference is of a nature which cannot be too much magnified. I next -turn to the Atheist, who, I assert, is only nominally so, and can never -possibly be in earnest; and I ask him, whether, from the coherence -and apparent sympathy in all the parts of this world, there be not -a certain degree of analogy among all the operations of Nature, in -every situation and in every age; whether the rotting of a turnip, the -generation of an animal, and the structure of human thought, be not -energies that probably bear some remote analogy to each other: It -is impossible he can deny it: He will readily acknowledge it. Having -obtained this concession, I push him still farther in his retreat; -and I ask him, if it be not probable, that the principle which first -arranged, and still maintains order in this universe, bears not also -some remote inconceivable analogy to the other operations of Nature, -and, among the rest, to the economy of human mind and thought. However -reluctant, he must give his assent. Where then, cry I to both these -antagonists, is the subject of your dispute? The Theist allows, that -the original intelligence is very different from human reason: The -Atheist allows, that the original principle of order bears some remote -analogy to it. Will you quarrel, Gentlemen, about the degrees, and -enter into a controversy, which admits not of any precise meaning, -nor consequently of any determination? If you should be so obstinate, -I should not be surprised to find you insensibly change sides; while -the Theist, on the one hand, exaggerates the dissimilarity between the -Supreme Being, and frail, imperfect, variable, fleeting, and mortal -creatures; and the Atheist, on the other, magnifies the analogy among -all the operations of Nature, in every period, every situation, and -every position. Consider then, where the real point of controversy -lies; and if you cannot lay aside your disputes, endeavour, at least, -to cure yourselves of your animosity. - -And here I must also acknowledge, Cleanthes, that as the works of -Nature have a much greater analogy to the effects of _our_ art and -contrivance, than to those of _our_ benevolence and justice, we have -reason to infer, that the natural attributes of the Deity have a -greater resemblance to those of men, than his moral have to human -virtues. But what is the consequence? Nothing but this, that the moral -qualities of man are more defective in their kind than his natural -abilities. For, as the Supreme Being is allowed to be absolutely and -entirely perfect, whatever differs most from him, departs the farthest -from the supreme standard of rectitude and perfection.[2] - -These, Cleanthes, are my unfeigned sentiments on this subject; and -these sentiments, you know, I have ever cherished and maintained. But -in proportion to my veneration for true religion, is my abhorrence of -vulgar superstitions; and I indulge a peculiar pleasure, I confess, -in pushing such principles, sometimes into absurdity, sometimes into -impiety. And you are sensible, that all bigots, notwithstanding their -great aversion to the latter above the former, are commonly equally -guilty of both. - -My inclination, replied Cleanthes, lies, I own, a contrary way. -Religion, however corrupted, is still better than no religion at all. -The doctrine of a future state is so strong and necessary a security -to morals, that we never ought to abandon or neglect it. For if and -temporary rewards and punishments have so great an effect, as we daily -find; how much greater must be expected from such as are infinite and -eternal? - -How happens it then, said Philo, if vulgar superstition be so salutary -to society, that all history abounds so much with accounts of its -pernicious consequences on public affairs? Factions, civil wars, -persecutions, subversions of government, oppression, slavery; these -are the dismal consequences which always attend its prevalency over -the minds of men. If the religious spirit be ever mentioned in any -historical narration, we are sure to meet afterwards with a detail of -the miseries which attend it. And no period of time can be happier or -more prosperous, than those in which it is never regarded or heard of. - -The reason of this observation, replied Cleanthes, is obvious. The -proper office of religion is to regulate the heart of men, humanize -their conduct, infuse the spirit of temperance, order, and obedience; -and as its operation is silent, and only enforces the motives of -morality and justice, it is in danger of being overlooked, and -confounded with these other motives. When it distinguishes itself, and -acts as a separate principle over men, it has departed from its proper -sphere, and has become only a cover to faction and ambition. - -And so will all religion, said Philo, except the philosophical and -rational kind. Your reasonings are more easily eluded than my facts. -The inference is not just, because finite and temporary rewards and -punishments have so great influence, that therefore such as are -infinite and eternal must have so much greater. Consider, I beseech -you, the attachment which we have to present things, and the little -concern which we discover for objects so remote and uncertain. When -divines are declaiming against the common behaviour and conduct of -the world, they always represent this principle as the strongest -imaginable (which indeed it is); and describe almost all human kind as -lying under the influence of it, and sunk into the deepest lethargy -and unconcern about their religious interests. Yet these same divines, -when they refute their speculative antagonists, suppose the motives -of religion to be so powerful, that, without them, it were impossible -for civil society to subsist; nor are they ashamed of so palpable a -contradiction. It is certain, from experience, that the smallest grain -of natural honesty and benevolence has more effect on men's conduct, -than the most pompous views suggested by theological theories and -systems. A man's natural inclination works incessantly upon him; it -is for ever present to the mind, and mingles itself with every view -and consideration: whereas religious motives, where they act at all, -operate only by starts and bounds; and it is scarcely possible for them -to become altogether habitual to the mind. The force of the greatest -gravity, say the philosophers, is infinitely small, in comparison of -that of the least impulse: yet it is certain, that the smallest gravity -will, in the end, prevail above a great impulse; because no strokes or -blows can be repeated with such constancy as attraction and gravitation. - -Another advantage of inclination: It engages on its side all the wit -and ingenuity of the mind; and when set in opposition to religious -principles, seeks every method and art of eluding them: In which it -is almost always successful. Who can explain the heart of man, or -account for those strange salvos and excuses, with which people satisfy -themselves, when they follow their inclinations in opposition to their -religious duty? This is well understood in the world; and none but -fools ever repose less trust in a man, because they hear, that from -study and philosophy, he has entertained some speculative doubts with -regard to theological subjects. And when we have to do with a man, who -makes a great profession of religion and devotion, has this any other -effect upon several, who pass for prudent, than to put them on their -guard, lest they be cheated and deceived by him? - -We must farther consider, that philosophers, who cultivate reason and -reflection, stand less in need of such motives to keep them under -the restraint of morals; and that the vulgar, who alone may need -them, are utterly incapable of so pure a religion as represents the -Deity to be pleased with nothing but virtue in human behaviour. The -recommendations to the Divinity are generally supposed to be either -frivolous observances, or rapturous ecstasies, or a bigotted credulity. -We need not run back into antiquity, or wander into remote regions, -to find instances of this degeneracy. Amongst ourselves, some have -been guilty of that atrociousness, unknown to the Egyptian and Grecian -superstitions, of declaiming in express terms, against morality; and -representing it as a sure forfeiture of the Divine favour, if the least -trust or reliance be laid upon it. - -But even though superstition or enthusiasm should not put itself in -direct opposition to morality; the very diverting of the attention, -the raising up a new and frivolous species of merit, the preposterous -distribution which it makes of praise and blame, must have the most -pernicious consequences, and weaken extremely men's attachment to the -natural motives of justice and humanity. - -Such a principle of action likewise, not being any of the familiar -motives of human conduct, acts only by intervals on the temper; -and must be roused by continual efforts, in order to render the -pious zealot satisfied with his own conduct, and make him fulfil -his devotional task. Many religious exercises are entered into with -seeming fervour, where the heart, at the time, feels cold and languid: -A habit of dissimulation is by degrees contracted; and fraud and -falsehood become the predominant principle. Hence the reason of that -vulgar observation, that the highest zeal in religion and the deepest -hypocrisy, so far from being inconsistent, are often or commonly united -in the same individual character. - -The bad effects of such habits, even in common life, are easily -imagined; but where the interests of religion are concerned, no -morality can be forcible enough to bind the enthusiastic zealot. The -sacredness of the cause sanctifies every measure which can be made use -of to promote it. - -The steady attention alone to so important an interest as that of -eternal salvation, is apt to extinguish the benevolent affections, -and beget a narrow, contracted selfishness. And when such a temper is -encouraged, it easily eludes all the general precepts of charity and -benevolence. - -Thus, the motives of vulgar superstition have no great influence on -general conduct; nor is their operation favourable to morality, in the -instances where they predominate. - -Is there any maxim in politics more certain and infallible, than that -both the number and authority of priests should be confined within very -narrow limits; and that the civil magistrate ought, for ever, to keep -his _fasces_ and _axes_ from such dangerous hands? But if the spirit of -popular religion were so salutary to society, a contrary maxim ought -to prevail. The greater number of priests, and their greater authority -and riches, will always augment the religious spirit. And though the -priests have the guidance of this spirit, why may we not expect a -superior sanctity of life, and greater benevolence and moderation, from -persons who are set apart for religion, who are continually inculcating -it upon others, and who must themselves imbibe a greater share of it? -Whence comes it then, that, in fact, the utmost a wise magistrate can -propose with regard to popular religions, is, as far as possible, to -make a saving game of it, and to prevent their pernicious consequences -with regard to society? Every expedient which he tries for so humble -a purpose is surrounded with inconveniences. If he admits only one -religion among his subjects, he must sacrifice, to an uncertain -prospect of tranquillity, every consideration of public liberty, -science, reason, industry, and even his own independency. If he gives -indulgence to several sects, which is the wiser maxim, he must preserve -a very philosophical indifference to all of them, and carefully -restrain the pretensions of the prevailing sect; otherwise he can -expect nothing but endless disputes, quarrels, factions, persecutions, -and civil commotions. - -True religion, I allow, has no such pernicious consequences: but we -must treat of religion, as it has commonly been found in the world; -nor have I any thing to do with that speculative tenet of Theism, -which, as it is a species of philosophy, must partake of the beneficial -influence of that principle, and at the same time must lie under a like -inconvenience, of being always confined to very few persons. - -Oaths are requisite in all courts of judicature; but it is a question -whether their authority arises from any popular religion. It is the -solemnity and importance of the occasion, the regard to reputation, -and the reflecting on the general interests of society, which are the -chief restraints upon mankind. Customhouse oaths and political oaths -are but little regarded even by some who pretend to principles of -honesty and religion; and a Quaker's asseveration is with us justly put -upon the same footing with the oath of any other person. I know, that -Polybius[3] ascribes the infamy of Greek faith to the prevalency of the -Epicurean philosophy: but I know also, that Punic faith had as bad a -reputation in ancient times as Irish evidence has in modern; though we -cannot account for these vulgar observations by the same reason. Not to -mention that Greek faith was infamous before the rise of the Epicurean -philosophy; and Euripides,[4] in a passage which I shall point out to -you, has glanced a remarkable stroke of satire against his nation, with -regard to this circumstance. - -Take care, Philo, replied Cleanthes, take care: push not matters too -far: allow not your zeal against false religion to undermine your -veneration for the true. Forfeit not this principle, the chief, the -only great comfort in life; and our principal support amidst all the -attacks of adverse fortune. The most agreeable reflection, which it is -possible for human imagination to suggest, is that of genuine Theism, -which represents us as the workmanship of a Being perfectly good, wise, -and powerful; who created us for happiness; and who, having implanted -in us immeasurable desires of good, will prolong our existence to all -eternity, and will transfer us into an infinite variety of scenes, in -order to satisfy those desires, and render our felicity complete and -durable. Next to such a Being himself (if the comparison be allowed), -the happiest lot which we can imagine, is that of being under his -guardianship and protection. - -These appearances, said Philo, are most engaging and alluring; and with -regard to the true philosopher, they are more than appearances. But it -happens here, as in the former case, that, with regard to the greater -part of mankind, the appearances are deceitful, and that the terrors of -religion commonly prevail above its comforts. - -It is allowed, that men never have recourse to devotion so readily as -when dejected with grief or depressed with sickness. Is not this a -proof, that the religious spirit is not so nearly allied to joy as to -sorrow? - -But men, when afflicted, find consolation in religion, replied -Cleanthes. Sometimes, said Philo: but it is natural to imagine, -that they will form a notion of those unknown beings, suitably to -the present gloom and melancholy of their temper, when they betake -themselves to the contemplation of them. Accordingly, we find the -tremendous images to predominate in all religions; and we ourselves, -after having employed the most exalted expression in our descriptions -of the Deity, fall into the flattest contradiction in affirming that -the damned are infinitely superior in number to the elect. - -I shall venture to affirm, that there never was a popular religion, -which represented the state of departed souls in such a light, as would -render it eligible for human kind that there should be such a state. -These fine models of religion are the mere product of philosophy. For -as death lies between the eye and the prospect of futurity, that event -is so shocking to Nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the regions -which lie beyond it; and suggest to the generality of mankind the idea -of Cerberus and Furies; devils, and torrents of fire and brimstone. - -It is true, both fear and hope enter into religion; because both these -passions, at different times, agitate the human mind, and each of -them forms a species of divinity suitable to itself. But when a man -is in a cheerful disposition, he is fit for business, or company, or -entertainment of any kind; and he naturally applies himself to these, -and thinks not of religion. When melancholy and dejected, he has -nothing to do but brood upon the terrors of the invisible world, and -to plunge himself still deeper in affliction. It may indeed happen, -that after he has, in this manner, engraved the religious opinions deep -into his thought and imagination, there may arrive a change of health -or circumstances, which may restore his good humour, and, raising -cheerful prospects of futurity, make him run into the other extreme of -joy and triumph. But still it must be acknowledged, that, as terror -is the primary principle of religion, it is the passion which always -predominates in it, and admits but of short intervals of pleasure. - -Not to mention, that these fits of excessive, enthusiastic joy, by -exhausting the spirits, always prepare the way for equal fits of -superstitious terror and dejection; nor is there any state of mind -so happy as the calm and equable. But this state it is impossible to -support, where a man thinks that he lies in such profound darkness -and uncertainty, between an eternity of happiness and an eternity of -misery. No wonder that such an opinion disjoints the ordinary frame -of the mind, and throws it into the utmost confusion. And though that -opinion is seldom so steady in its operation as to influence all the -actions; yet it is apt to make a considerable breach in the temper, and -to produce that gloom and melancholy so remarkable in all devout people. - -It is contrary to common sense to entertain apprehensions or terrors -upon account of any opinion whatsoever, or to imagine that we run any -risk hereafter, by the freest use of our reason. Such a sentiment -implies both an _absurdity_ and an _inconsistency_. It is an absurdity -to believe that the Deity has human passions, and one of the lowest -of human passions, a restless appetite for applause. It is an -inconsistency to believe, that, since the Deity has this human passion, -he has not others also; and, in particular, a disregard to the opinions -of creatures so much inferior. - -_To know God_, says Seneca, _is to worship him_. All other worship -is indeed absurd, superstitious, and even impious. It degrades him -to the low condition of mankind, who are delighted with entreaty, -solicitation, presents, and flattery. Yet is this impiety the smallest -of which superstition is guilty. Commonly, it depresses the Deity far -below the condition of mankind; and represents him as a capricious -demon, who exercises his power without reason and without humanity! And -were that Divine Being disposed to be offended at the vices and follies -of silly mortals, who are his own workmanship, ill would it surely fare -with the votaries of most popular superstitions. Nor would any of human -race merit his _favour_, but a very few, the philosophical Theists, -who entertain, or rather indeed endeavour to entertain, suitable -notions of his Divine perfections: As the only persons entitled to his -_compassion_ and _indulgence_ would be the philosophical Sceptics, a -sect almost equally rare, who, from a natural diffidence of their own -capacity, suspend, or endeavour to suspend, all judgment with regard to -such sublime and such extraordinary subjects. - -If the whole of Natural Theology, as some people seem to maintain, -resolves itself into one simple, though somewhat ambiguous, at least -undefined proposition, _That the cause or causes of order in the -universe probably bear some remote analogy to human intelligence_: -If this proposition be not capable of extension, variation, or more -particular explication: If it affords no inference that affects human -life, or can be the source of any action or forbearance: And if the -analogy, imperfect as it is, can be carried no farther than to the -human intelligence, and cannot be transferred, with any appearance of -probability, to the other qualities of the mind; if this really be the -case, what can the most inquisitive, contemplative, and religious man -do more than give a plain, philosophical assent to the proposition, -as often as it occurs, and believe that the arguments on which it -is established exceed the objections which lie against it? Some -astonishment, indeed, will naturally arise from the greatness of the -object; some melancholy from its obscurity; some contempt of human -reason, that it can give no solution more satisfactory with regard to -so extraordinary and magnificent a question. But believe me, Cleanthes, -the most natural sentiment which a well-disposed mind will feel on -this occasion, is a longing desire and expectation that Heaven would -be pleased to dissipate, at least alleviate, this profound ignorance, -by affording some more particular revelation to mankind, and making -discoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the Divine -object of our faith. A person, seasoned with a just sense of the -imperfections of natural reason, will fly to revealed truth with the -greatest avidity: While the haughty Dogmatist, persuaded that he can -erect a complete system of Theology by the mere help of philosophy, -disdains any further aid, and rejects this adventitious instructor. -To be a philosophical Sceptic is, in a man of letters, the first and -most essential step towards being a sound, believing Christian; a -proposition which I would willingly recommend to the attention of -Pamphilus: And I hope Cleanthes will forgive me for interposing so far -in the education and instruction of his pupil. - -Cleanthes and Philo pursued not this conversation much farther: and as -nothing ever made greater impression on me, than all the reasonings -of that day, so I confess, that, upon a serious review of the whole, -I cannot but think, that Philo's principles are more probable than -Demea's; but that those of Cleanthes approach still nearer to the truth. - - -[1] De Formatione Foetus. - -[2] It seems evident that the dispute between the Sceptics and -Dogmatists is entirely verbal, or at least regards only the degrees -of doubt and assurance which we ought to indulge with regard to all -reasoning; and such disputes are commonly, at the bottom, verbal, and -admit not of any precise determination. No philosophical Dogmatist -denies that there are difficulties both with regard to the senses and -to all science, and that these difficulties are in a regular, logical -method, absolutely insolvable. No Sceptic denies that we lie under an -absolute necessity, notwithstanding these difficulties, of thinking, -and believing, and reasoning, with regard to all kinds of subjects, and -even of frequently assenting with confidence and security. The only -difference, then, between these sects, if they merit that name, is, -that the Sceptic, from habit, caprice, or inclination, insists most on -the difficulties; the Dogmatist, for like reasons, on the necessity. - -[3] Lib. vi. cap. 54. - -[4] Iphigenia in Tauride. - - - - -APPENDIX - -TO THE - -TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE. - - -There is nothing I would more willingly lay hold of, than an -opportunity of confessing my errors; and should esteem such a return to -truth and reason to be more honourable than the most unerring judgment. -A man who is free from mistakes can pretend to no praises, except from -the justness of his understanding; but a man who corrects his mistakes -shows at once the justness of his understanding, and the candour -and ingenuity of his temper. I have not yet been so fortunate as to -discover any very considerable mistakes in the reasonings delivered -in the preceding volumes, except on one article; but I have found by -experience, that some of my expressions have not been so well chosen -as to guard against all mistakes in the readers; and 'tis chiefly to -remedy this defect I have subjoined the following Appendix. - -We can never be induced to believe any matter of fact except where -its cause or its effect is present to us; but what the nature is of -that belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect, few -have had the curiosity to ask themselves. In my opinion this dilemma -is inevitable. Either the belief is some new idea, such as that of -_reality_ or _existence_, which we join to the simple conception -of an object, or it is merely a peculiar _feeling_ or _sentiment_. -That it is not a new idea, annexed to the simple conception, may be -evinced from these two arguments. _First_, We have no abstract idea of -existence, distinguishable and separable from the idea of particular -objects. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this idea of existence can -be annexed to the idea of any object, or form the difference betwixt -a simple conception and belief. _Secondly_, The mind has the command -over all its ideas, and can separate, unite, mix, and vary them, as -it pleases; so that, if belief consisted merely in a new idea annexed -to the conception, it would be in a man's power to believe what he -pleased. We may therefore conclude, that belief consists merely in a -certain feeling or sentiment; in something that depends not on the -will, but must arise from certain determinate causes and principles -of which we are not masters. When we are convinced of any matter of -fact, we do nothing but conceive it, along with a certain feeling, -different from what attends the mere _reveries_ of the imagination. -And when we express our incredulity concerning any fact, we mean, -that the arguments for the fact produce not that feeling. Did not the -belief consist in a sentiment different from our mere conception, -whatever objects were presented by the wildest imagination would be on -an equal footing with the most established truths founded on history -and experience. There is nothing but the feeling or sentiment to -distinguish the one from the other. - -This, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth, that _belief is -nothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the simple conception_, -the next question that naturally occurs is, _what is the nature of -this feeling or sentiment, and whether it be analogous to any other -sentiment of the human mind_? This question is important. For if it be -not analogous to any other sentiment, we must despair of explaining -its causes, and must consider it as an original principle of the human -mind. If it be analogous, we may hope to explain its causes from -analogy, and trace it up to more general principles. Now, that there -is a greater firmness and solidity in the conceptions, which are the -objects of conviction and assurance, than in the loose and indolent -reveries of a castle-builder, every one will readily own. They strike -upon us with more force; they are more present to us; the mind has -a firmer hold of them, and is more actuated and moved by them. It -acquiesces in them; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes itself on -them. In short, they approach nearer to the impressions, which are -immediately present to us; and are therefore analogous to many other -operations of the mind. - -There is not, in my opinion, any possibility of evading this -conclusion, but by asserting that belief, beside the simple conception, -consists in some impression or feeling, distinguishable from the -conception. It does not modify the conception, and render it more -present and intense: it is only annexed to it, after the same manner -that _will_ and _desire_ are annexed to particular conceptions of -good and pleasure. But the following considerations will, I hope, -be sufficient to remove this hypothesis. _First_, It is directly -contrary to experience, and our immediate consciousness? All men have -ever allowed reasoning to be merely an operation of our thoughts or -ideas; and however those ideas may be varied to the feeling, there is -nothing ever enters into our _conclusions_ but ideas, or our fainter -conceptions. For instance, I hear at present a person's voice with -whom I am acquainted, and this sound comes from the next room. This -impression of my senses immediately conveys my thoughts to the person, -along with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out to myself -as existent at present, with the same qualities and relations that I -formerly knew them possessed of. These ideas take faster hold of my -mind, than the ideas of an enchanted castle. They are different to the -feeling; but there is no distinct or separate impression attending -them. 'Tis the same case when I recollect the several incidents of a -journey, or the events of any history. Every particular fact is there -the object of belief. Its idea is modified differently from the loose -reveries of a castle-builder: but no distinct impression attends -every distinct idea, or conception of matter of fact. This is the -subject of plain experience. If ever this experience can be disputed -on any occasion, 'tis when the mind has been agitated with doubts and -difficulties; and afterwards, upon taking the object in a new point of -view, or being presented with a new argument, fixes and reposes itself -in one settled conclusion and belief. In this case there is a feeling -distinct and separate from the conception. The passage from doubt -and agitation to tranquillity and repose, conveys a satisfaction and -pleasure to the mind. But take any other case. Suppose I see the legs -and thighs of a person in motion, while some interposed object conceals -the rest of his body. Here 'tis certain, the imagination spreads out -the whole figure. I give him a head and shoulders, and breast and neck. -These members I conceive and believe him to be possessed of. Nothing -can be more evident, than that this whole operation is performed -by the thought or imagination alone. The transition is immediate. -The ideas presently strike us. Their customary connexion with the -present impression varies them and modifies them in a certain manner, -but produces no act of the mind, distinct from this peculiarity of -conception. Let any one examine his own mind, and he will evidently -find this to be the truth. - -_Secondly_, Whatever may be the case, with regard to this distinct -impression, it must be allowed that the mind has a firmer hold, or -more steady conception of what it takes to be matter of fact than of -fictions. Why then look any farther, or multiply suppositions without -necessity? - -_Thirdly_, We can explain the _causes_ of the firm conception, but not -those of any separate impression. And not only so, but the causes of -the firm conception exhaust the whole subject, and nothing is left to -produce any other effect. An inference concerning a matter of fact is -nothing but the idea of an object that is frequently conjoined, or is -associated with a present impression. This is the whole of it. Every -part is requisite to explain, from analogy, the more steady conception; -and nothing remains capable of producing any distinct impression. - -_Fourthly_, The _effects_ of belief, in influencing the passions -and imagination, can all be explained from the firm conception; and -there is no occasion to have recourse to any other principle. These -arguments, with many others, enumerated in the foregoing volumes, -sufficiently prove, that belief only modifies the idea or conception; -and renders it different to the feeling, without producing any distinct -impression. - -Thus, upon a general view of the subject, there appear to be two -questions of importance, which we may venture to recommend to -the consideration of philosophers, _Whether there be any thing to -distinguish belief from the simple conception, beside the feeling -or sentiment_? And, _Whether this feeling be any thing but a firmer -conception, or a faster hold, that we take of the object_? - -If, upon impartial inquiry, the same conclusion that I have formed -be assented to by philosophers, the next business is to examine the -analogy which there is betwixt belief and other acts of the mind, -and find the cause of the firmness and strength of conception; and -this I do not esteem a difficult task. The transition from a present -impression, always enlivens and strengthens any idea. When any object -is presented, the idea of its usual attendant immediately strikes us, -as something real and solid. 'Tis _felt_ rather than conceived, and -approaches the impression, from which it is derived, in its force -and influence. This I have proved at large, and cannot add any new -arguments. - -I had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our theory of the -intellectual world might be, it would be free from those contradictions -and absurdities, which seem to attend every explication, that human -reason can give of the material world. But upon a more strict review of -the section concerning _personal identity_, I find myself involved in -such a labyrinth, that, I must confess, I neither know how to correct -my former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. If this be not -a good _general_ reason for scepticism, 'tis at least a sufficient -one (if I were not already abundantly supplied) for me to entertain -a diffidence and modesty in all my decisions. I shall propose the -arguments on both sides, beginning with those that induced me to deny -the strict and proper identity and simplicity of a self or thinking -being. - -When we talk of _self_ or _subsistence_, we must have an idea annexed -to these terms, otherwise they are altogether unintelligible. Every -idea is derived from preceding impressions; and we have no impression -of self or substance, as something simple and individual. We have, -therefore, no idea of them in that sense. - -Whatever is distinct, is distinguishable, and whatever is -distinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. All -perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable, and -separable, and may be conceived, as separately existent, and may exist -separately, without any contradiction or absurdity. - -When I view this table and that chimney, nothing is present to me but -particular perceptions, which are of a like nature with all the other -perceptions. This is the doctrine of philosophers. But this table, -which is present to me, and that chimney, may, and do exist separately. -This is the doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction. -There, is no contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine -to all the perceptions. - -In general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. All ideas are -borrowed from preceding perceptions. Our ideas of objects, therefore, -are derived from that source. Consequently no proposition can be -intelligible or consistent with regard to objects, which is not so -with regard to perceptions. But 'tis intelligible and consistent to -say, that objects exist distinct and independent, without any common -_simple_ substance or subject of inhesion. This proposition, therefore, -can never be absurd with regard to perceptions. - -When I turn my reflection on _myself_, I never can perceive this _self_ -without some one or more perceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thing -but the perceptions. 'Tis the composition of these, therefore, which -forms the self. - -We can conceive a thinking being to have either many or few -perceptions. Suppose the mind to be reduced even below the life of an -oyster. Suppose it to have only one perception, as of thirst or hunger. -Consider it in that situation. Do you conceive any thing but merely -that perception? Have you any notion of _self_ or _substance_? If not, -the addition of other perceptions can never give you that notion. - -The annihilation which some people suppose to follow upon death, and -which entirely destroys this self, is nothing but an extinction of all -particular perceptions; love and hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and -sensation. These, therefore, must be the same with self, since the one -cannot survive the other. - -Is _self_ the same with _substance_? If it be, how can that question -have place, concerning the subsistence of self, under a change of -substance? If they be distinct, what is the difference betwixt them? -For my part, I have a notion of neither, when conceived distinct from -particular perceptions. - -Philosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, _that we have -no idea of external substance, distinct from the ideas of particular -qualities_. This must pave the way for a like principle with regard to -the mind, _that we have no notion of it, distinct from the particular -perception_. - -So far I seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. But having thus -loosened all our particular perceptions, when I proceed to explain -the principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us -attribute to them a real simplicity and identity, I am sensible that my -account is very defective, and that nothing but the seeming evidence -of the precedent reasonings could have induced me to receive it. If -perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being -connected together. But no connexions among distinct existences are -ever discoverable by human understanding. We only _feel_ a connexion -or determination of the thought to pass from one object to another. It -follows, therefore, that the thought alone feels personal identity, -when reflecting on the train of past perceptions that compose a mind, -the ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally -introduce each other. However extraordinary this conclusion may seem, -it need not surprise us. Most philosophers seem inclined to think, that -personal identity _arises_ from consciousness, and consciousness is -nothing but a reflected thought or perception. The present philosophy, -therefore, has so far a promising aspect. But all my hopes vanish, when -I come to explain the principles that unite our successive perceptions -in our thought or consciousness. I cannot discover any theory, which -gives me satisfaction on this head. - -In short, there are two principles which I cannot render consistent, -nor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz. _that all -our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind -never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences_. Did -our perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or -did the mind perceive some real connexion among them, there would be -no difficulty in the case. For my part, I must plead the privilege -of a sceptic, and confess, that this difficulty is too hard for my -understanding. I pretend not, however, to pronounce it absolutely -insuperable. Others, perhaps, or myself, upon more mature reflections, -may discover some hypothesis that will reconcile those contradictions. - -I shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other errors of -less importance, which more mature reflection has discovered to me in -my reasoning. The first may be found in Vol. I. page 85, where I say, -that the distance betwixt two bodies is known, among other things, by -the angles which the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with -each other. 'Tis certain, that these angles are not known to the mind, -and consequently can never discover the distance. The second error may -be found in Vol. I. p. 132, where I say, that two ideas of the same -object can only be different by their different degrees of force and -vivacity. I believe there are other differences among ideas, which -cannot properly be comprehended under these terms. Had I said, that -two ideas of the same object can only be different by their different -_feeling_, I should have been nearer the truth. - - - -END OF VOLUME SECOND. - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Philosophical Works, v. 2 (of 4), by David Hume - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS, V. 2 (OF 4) *** - -***** This file should be named 53792-8.txt or 53792-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/7/9/53792/ - -Produced by Madelaine Kilsby and Marc D'Hooghe at Free -Literature (back online soon in an extended version, also -linking to free sources for education worldwide ... MOOC's, -educational materials,...) 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Philosophical Works, v. 2 (of 4) - Including all the Essays, and Exhibiting the more Important - Alterations and Corrections in the Successive Editions - Published by the Author - -Author: David Hume - -Release Date: December 22, 2016 [EBook #53792] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS, V. 2 (OF 4) *** - - - - -Produced by Madelaine Kilsby and Marc D'Hooghe at Free -Literature (back online soon in an extended version, also -linking to free sources for education worldwide ... MOOC's, -educational materials,...) Images generously made available -by the Bodleian Library, Oxford. - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 500px;"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="500" alt="" /> -</div> -<h1>THE</h1> - -<h1>PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS</h1> - -<h1>OF</h1> - -<h1>DAVID HUME.</h1> - - -<h4>INCLUDING ALL THE ESSAYS, AND EXHIBITING THE</h4> - -<h4>MORE IMPORTANT ALTERATIONS AND CORRECTIONS</h4> - -<h4>IN THE SUCCESSIVE EDITIONS PUBLISHED</h4> - -<h4>BY THE AUTHOR.</h4> - - -<h4>IN FOUR VOLUMES.</h4> - - -<h4>VOL. II.</h4> - - -<h5>EDINBURGH:</h5> - -<h5>PRINTED FOR ADAM BLACK AND WILLIAM TAIT;</h5> - -<h5>AND CHARLES TAIT, 63, FLEET STREET,</h5> - -<h5>LONDON.</h5> - -<h5>MDCCCXXVI.</h5> -<hr class="full" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p> - - -<p style="margin-left: 15%;"> -<span class="caption"><span style="font-size: 0.8em;">CONTENTS OF VOLUME SECOND.</span></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;">TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#BOOK_II">BOOK II.—OF THE PASSIONS.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_I_II">PART I.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_I_II">OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#SECTION_I_aII">Division of the Subject</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_II_aII">Of Pride and Humility, their Objects and Causes</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_III_aII">Whence these Objects and Causes are derived</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IV_aII">Of the Relations of Impressions and Ideas</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_V_aII">Of the Influence of these Relations on Pride and Humility</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VI_aII">Limitations of this System</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VII_aII">Of Vice and Virtue</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VIII_aII">Of Beauty and Deformity</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IX_aII">Of external Advantages and Disadvantages</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_X_aII">Of Property and Riches</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_XI_aII">Of the Love of Fame</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_XII_aII">Of Pride and Humility of Animals</a><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_II_II">PART II.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_II_II">OF LOVE AND HATRED.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#SECTION_I_bII">Of the Objects and Causes of Love and Hatred</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_II_bII">Experiments to confirm this System</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_III_bII">Difficulties solved</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IV_bII">Of the Love of Relations</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_V_bII">Of our Esteem for the Rich and Powerful</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VI_bII">Of Benevolence and Anger</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VII_bII">Of Compassion</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VIII_bII">Of Malice and Envy</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IX_bII">Of the mixture of Benevolence and Anger with Compassion and Malice</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_X_bII">Of Respect and Contempt</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_XI_bII">Of the Amorous Passion, or Love betwixt the Sexes</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_XII_bII">Of Love and Hatred of Animals</a><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi">[Pg vi]</a></span> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_III_II">PART III.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_III_II">OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#SECTION_I_cII">Of Liberty and Necessity</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_II_cII">The Same subject continued</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_III_cII">Of the Influencing Motives of the Will</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IV_cII">Of the Causes of the Violent Passions</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_V_cII">Of the Effects of Custom</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VI_cII">Of the Influence of the Imagination on the Passions</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VII_cII">Of Contiguity and Distance in Space and Time</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VIII_cII">The same Subject continued</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IX_cII">Of the Direct Passions</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_X_cII">Of Curiosity, or the Love of Truth</a><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#BOOK_III">BOOK III.—OF MORALS.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_I_III">PART I.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_I_III">OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#SECTION_I_aIII">Moral Distinctions not derived from Reason</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_II_aIII">Moral Distinctions derived from a Moral Sense</a><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_II_III">PART II.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_II_III">OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#SECTION_I_bIII">Justice, whether a natural or artificial Virtue?</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_II_bIII">Of the Origin of Justice and Property</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_III_bIII">Of the Rules which determine Property</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IV_bIII">Of the Transference of Property by Consent</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_V_bIII">Of the Obligation of Promises</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VI_bIII">Some farther Reflections concerning Justice and Injustice</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VII_bIII">Of the Origin of Government</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VIII_bIII">Of the Source of Allegiance</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IX_bIII">Of the Measures of Allegiance</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_X_bIII">Of the Objects of Allegiance</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_XI_bIII">Of the Laws of Nations</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_XII_bIII">Of Chastity and Modesty</a><br /> -<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_III_III">PART III.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#PART_III_III">OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES.</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#SECTION_I_cIII">Of the Origin of the Natural Virtues and Vices</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_II_cIII">Of Greatness of Mind</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_III_cIII">Of Goodness and Benevolence</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_IV_cIII">Of Natural Abilities</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_V_cIII">Some farther Reflections concerning the Natural Virtues</a><br /> -<a href="#SECTION_VI_cIII">Conclusion of this Book</a><br /> -<br /> -<span style="font-size: 0.8em;"><a href="#DIALOGUES">DIALOGUES CONCERNING NATURAL RELIGION</a></span><br /> -<br /> -<a href="#APPENDIX">Appendix to the Treatise of Human Nature</a><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span><br /> -</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<h3>TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.</h3> - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a id="BOOK_II"></a>BOOK II.</h5> - -<h4>OF THE PASSIONS</h4> -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a id="PART_I_II"></a>PART I.</h5> - -<h4>OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY.</h4> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p> - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_I_aII" id="SECTION_I_aII">SECTION I.</a></h5> - -<h5>DIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.</h5> - - -<p>As all the perceptions of the mind may be divided into <i>impressions</i> -and <i>ideas</i>, so the impressions admit of another division into -<i>original</i> and <i>secondary</i>. This division of the impressions is the -same with that which I formerly made use of<a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> when I distinguished -them into impressions of <i>sensation</i> and <i>reflection</i>. Original -impressions, or impressions of sensation, are such as, without any -antecedent perception, arise in the soul, from the constitution of the -body, from the animal spirits, or from the application of objects to -the external organs. Secondary, or reflective impressions, are such as -proceed from some of these original ones, either immediately, or by the -interposition of its idea. Of the first kind are all the impressions of -the senses, and all bodily pains and pleasures: of the second are the -passions, and other emotions resembling them.</p> - -<p>'Tis certain that the mind, in its perceptions, must begin somewhere; -and that since the impressions precede their correspondent ideas, there -must be some impressions, which, without any introduction, make their -appearance in the soul. As these depend upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span> natural and physical -causes, the examination of them would lead me too far from my present -subject, into the sciences of anatomy and natural philosophy. For this -reason I shall here confine myself to those other impressions, which -I have called secondary and reflective, as arising either from the -original impressions, or from their ideas. Bodily pains and pleasures -are the source of many passions, both when felt and considered by the -mind; but arise originally in the soul, or in the body, whichever you -please to call it, without any preceding thought or perception. A fit -of the gout produces a long train of passions, as grief, hope, fear; -but is not derived immediately from any affection or idea.</p> - -<p>The reflective impressions may be divided into two kinds, viz. the -<i>calm</i> and the <i>violent</i>. Of the first kind is the sense of beauty and -deformity in action, composition, and external objects. Of the second -are the passions of love and hatred, grief and joy, pride and humility. -This division is far from being exact. The raptures of poetry and music -frequently rise to the greatest height; while those other impressions, -properly called <i>passions</i>, may decay into so soft an emotion, as to -become in a manner imperceptible. But as, in general, the passions -are more violent than the emotions arising from beauty and deformity, -these impressions have been commonly distinguished from each other. The -subject of the human mind being so copious and various, I shall here -take advantage of this vulgar and specious division, that I may proceed -with the greater order; and, having said all I thought necessary -concerning our ideas, shall now explain those violent emotions or -passions, their nature, origin, causes and effects.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span></p> - -<p>When we take a survey of the passions, there occurs a division of -them into <i>direct</i> and <i>indirect</i>. By direct passions I understand -such as arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. -By indirect, such as proceed from the same principles, but by the -conjunction of other qualities. This distinction I cannot at present -justify or explain any farther. I can only observe in general, that -under the indirect passions I comprehend pride, humility, ambition, -vanity, love, hatred, envy, pity, malice, generosity, with their -dependents. And under the direct passions, desire, aversion, grief, -joy, hope, fear, despair, and security. I shall begin with the former.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Book I. Part I. Sect. 2.</p></div> - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a name="SECTION_II_aII" id="SECTION_II_aII">SECTION II.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF PRIDE AND HUMILITY, THEIR OBJECTS AND CAUSES.</h5> - - -<p>The passions of <i>pride</i> and <i>humility</i> being simple and uniform -impressions, 'tis impossible we can ever, by a multitude of words, -give a just definition of them, or indeed of any of the passions. The -utmost we can pretend to is a description of them, by an enumeration -of such circumstances as attend them: but as these words, <i>pride</i> and -<i>humility</i>, are of general use, and the impressions they represent the -most common of any, every one, of himself, will be able to form a just -idea of them, without any danger of mistake. For which reason, not -to lose time upon preliminaries, I shall immediately enter upon the -examination of these passions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Tis evident, that pride and humility, though directly contrary, have -yet the same <i>object</i>. This object is self, or that succession of -related ideas and impressions, of which we have an intimate memory -and consciousness. Here the view always fixes when we are actuated by -either of these passions. According as our idea of ourself is more or -less advantageous, we feel either of those opposite affections, and are -elated by pride, or dejected with humility. Whatever other objects may -be comprehended by the mind, they are always considered with a view to -ourselves; otherwise they would never be able either to excite these -passions, or produce the smallest increase or diminution of them. When -self enters not into the consideration, there is no room either for -pride or humility.</p> - -<p>But though that connected succession of perceptions, which we call -<i>self</i> be always the object of these two passions, 'tis impossible -it can be their <i>cause</i>, or be sufficient alone to excite them. For -as these passions are directly contrary, and have the same object in -common; were their object also their cause, it could never produce -any degree of the one passion, but at the same time it must excite -an equal degree of the other; which opposition and contrariety must -destroy both. 'Tis impossible a man can at the same time be both proud -and humble; and where he has different reasons for these passions, as -frequently happens, the passions either take place alternately, or, if -they encounter, the one annihilates the other, as far as its strength -goes, and the remainder only of that which is superior, continues to -operate upon the mind. But in the present case neither of the passions -could ever become superior; because, supposing it to be the view only -of ourself which excited them, that being perfectly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> indifferent to -either, must produce both in the very same proportion; or, in other -words, can produce neither. To excite any passion, and at the same time -raise an equal share of its antagonist, is immediately to undo what was -done, and must leave the mind at last perfectly calm and indifferent.</p> - -<p>We must therefore make a distinction betwixt the cause and the object -of these passions; betwixt that idea which excites them, and that to -which they direct their view when excited. Pride and humility, being -once raised, immediately turn our attention to ourself, and regard that -as their ultimate and final object; but there is something farther -requisite in order to raise them: something, which is peculiar to -one of the passions, and produces not both in the very same degree. -The first idea that is presented to the mind is that of the cause or -productive principle. This excites the passion connected with it; and -that passion, when excited, turns our view to another idea, which is -that of self. Here then is a passion placed betwixt two ideas, of which -the one produces it, and the other is produced by it. The first idea -therefore represents the cause, the second the <i>object</i> of the passion.</p> - -<p>To begin with the causes of pride and humility; we may observe, that -their most obvious and remarkable property is the vast variety of -<i>subjects</i> on which they may be placed. Every valuable quality of the -mind, whether of the imagination, judgment, memory or disposition; -wit, good sense, learning, courage, justice, integrity; all these are -the causes of pride, and their opposites of humility. Nor are these -passions confined to the mind, but extend their view to the body -likewise. A man may be proud of his beauty, strength, agility, good -mien, address in dancing, riding, fencing,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span> and of his dexterity in -any manual business or manufacture. But this is not all. The passion, -looking farther, comprehends whatever objects are in the least allied -or related to us. Our country, family, children, relations, riches, -houses, gardens, horses, dogs, clothes; any of these may become a cause -either of pride or of humility.</p> - -<p>From the consideration of these causes, it appears necessary we should -make a new distinction in the causes of the passion, betwixt that -<i>quality</i> which operates, and the <i>subject</i> on which it is placed. A -man, for instance, is vain of a beautiful house which belongs to him, -or which he has himself built and contrived. Here the object of the -passion is himself, and the cause is the beautiful house: which cause -again is subdivided into two parts, viz. the quality, which operates -upon the passion, and the subject, in which the quality inheres. The -quality is the beauty, and the subject is the house, considered as his -property or contrivance. Both these parts are essential, nor is the -distinction vain and chimerical. Beauty, considered merely as such, -unless placed upon something related to us, never produces any pride or -vanity; and the strongest relation alone, without beauty, or something -else in its place, has as little influence on that passion. Since, -therefore, these two particulars are easily separated, and there is a -necessity for their conjunction, in order to produce the passion, we -ought to consider them as component parts of the cause; and infix in -our minds an exact idea of this distinction.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_III_aII" id="SECTION_III_aII">SECTION III.</a></h5> - -<h5>WHENCE THESE OBJECTS AND CAUSES ARE DERIVED.</h5> - - -<p>Being so far advanced as to observe a difference betwixt the <i>object</i> -of the passions and their <i>cause</i>, and to distinguish in the cause the -<i>quality</i>, which operates on the passions, from the <i>subject</i>, in which -it inheres; we now proceed to examine what determines each of them to -be what it is, and assigns such a particular object and quality, and -subject to these affections. By this means we shall fully understand -the origin of pride and humility.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident, in the first place, that these passions are determined -to have self for their <i>object</i>, not only by a natural, but also by an -original property. No one can doubt but this property is <i>natural</i>, -from the constancy and steadiness of its operations. 'Tis always self, -which is the object of pride and humility; and whenever the passions -look beyond, 'tis still with a view to ourselves; nor can any person or -object otherwise have any influence upon us.</p> - -<p>That this proceeds from an <i>original</i> quality or primary impulse, will -likewise appear evident, if we consider that 'tis the distinguishing -characteristic of these passions. Unless nature had given some original -qualities to the mind, it could never have any secondary ones; because -in that case it would have no foundation for action, nor could ever -begin to exert itself. Now these qualities, which we must consider as -original,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> are such as are most inseparable from the soul, and can be -resolved into no other: and such is the quality which determines the -object of pride and humility.</p> - -<p>We may, perhaps, make it a greater question, whether the <i>causes</i> that -produce the passion, be as <i>natural</i> as the object to which it is -directed, and whether all that vast variety proceeds from caprice, or -from the constitution of the mind. This doubt we shall soon remove, if -we cast our eye upon human nature, and consider that, in all nations -and ages, the same objects still give rise to pride and humility; and -that upon the view even of a stranger, we can know pretty nearly what -will either increase or diminish his passions of this kind. If there -be any variation in this particular, it proceeds from nothing but a -difference in the tempers and complexions of men, and is, besides, very -inconsiderable. Can we imagine it possible, that while human nature -remains the same, men will ever become entirely indifferent to their -power, riches, beauty or personal merit, and that their pride and -vanity will not be affected by these advantages?</p> - -<p>But though the causes of pride and humility be plainly <i>natural</i>, we -shall find, upon examination, that they are not <i>original</i>, and that -'tis utterly impossible they should each of them be adapted to these -passions by a particular provision and primary constitution of nature. -Beside their prodigious number, many of them are the effects of art, -and arise partly from the industry, partly from the caprice, and partly -from the good fortune of men. Industry produces houses, furniture, -clothes. Caprice determines their particular kinds and qualities. And -good fortune frequently contributes to all this, by discovering the -effects that result<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span> from the different mixtures and combinations -of bodies. 'Tis absurd therefore to imagine, that each of these was -foreseen and provided for by nature, and that every new production -of art, which causes pride or humility, instead of adapting itself -to the passion by partaking of some general quality that naturally -operates on the mind, is itself the object of an original principle, -which till then lay concealed in the soul, and is only by accident -at last brought to light. Thus the first mechanic that invented a -fine scrutoire, produced pride in him who became possessed of it, by -principles different from those which made him proud of handsome chairs -and tables. As this appears evidently ridiculous, we must conclude, -that each cause of pride and humility is not adapted to the passions -by a distinct original quality, but that there are some one or more -circumstances common to all of them, on which their efficacy depends.</p> - -<p>Besides, we find in the course of nature, that though the effects be -many, the principles from which they arise are commonly but few and -simple, and that 'tis the sign of an unskilful naturalist to have -recourse to a different quality, in order to explain every different -operation. How much more must this be true with regard to the human -mind, which, being so confined a subject, may justly be thought -incapable of containing such a monstrous heap of principles, as would -be necessary to excite the passions of pride and humility, were each -distinct cause adapted to the passion by a distinct set of principles!</p> - -<p>Here, therefore, moral philosophy is in the same condition as natural, -with regard to astronomy before the time of Copernicus. The ancients, -though sensible of that maxim, <i>that Nature does nothing in vain</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> -contrived such intricate systems of the heavens, as seemed inconsistent -with true philosophy, and gave place at last to something more simple -and natural. To invent without scruple a new principle to every -new phenomenon, instead of adapting it to the old; to overload our -hypothesis with a variety of this kind, are certain proofs that none of -these principles is the just one, and that we only desire, by a number -of falsehoods, to cover our ignorance of the truth.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_IV_aII" id="SECTION_IV_aII">SECTION IV.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE RELATIONS OF IMPRESSIONS AND IDEAS.</h5> - - -<p>Thus we have established two truths without any obstacle or difficulty, -<i>that 'tis from natural principles this variety of causes excite -pride and humility</i>, and <i>that 'tis not by a different principle each -different cause is adapted to its passion</i>. We shall now proceed to -inquire how we may reduce these principles to a lesser number, and find -among the causes something common on which their influence depends.</p> - -<p>In order to this, we must reflect on certain properties of human -nature, which, though they have a mighty influence on every operation -both of the understanding and passions, are not commonly much insisted -on by philosophers. The <i>first</i> of these is the association of ideas, -which I have so often observed and explained. 'Tis impossible for the -mind to fix itself steadily upon one idea for any considerable time; -nor can it by its utmost efforts ever arrive at such a constancy. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span> -however changeable our thoughts may be, they are not entirely without -rule and method in their changes. The rule by which they proceed, is to -pass from one object to what is resembling, contiguous to, or produced -by it. When one idea is present to the imagination, any other, united -by these relations naturally follows it, and enters with more facility -by means of that introduction.</p> - -<p>The <i>second</i> property I shall observe in the human mind is a like -association of impressions. All resembling impressions are connected -together, and no sooner one arises than the rest immediately follow. -Grief and disappointment give rise to anger, anger to envy, envy to -malice, and malice to grief again, till the whole circle be completed. -In like manner our temper, when elevated with joy, naturally throws -itself into love, generosity, pity, courage, pride, and the other -resembling affections. 'Tis difficult for the mind, when actuated -by any passion, to confine itself to that passion alone, without -any change or variation. Human nature is too inconstant to admit of -any such regularity. Changeableness is essential to it. And to what -can it so naturally change as to affections or emotions, which are -suitable to the temper, and agree with that set of passions which -then prevail? 'Tis evident then there is an attraction or association -among impressions, as well as among ideas; though with this remarkable -difference, that ideas are associated by resemblance, contiguity, and -causation, and impressions only by resemblance.</p> - -<p>In the <i>third</i> place, 'tis observable of these two kinds of -association, that they very much assist and forward each other, and -that the transition is more easily made where they both concur in -the same object. Thus, a man who, by an injury from another, is very -much discomposed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> and ruffled in his temper, is apt to find a hundred -subjects of discontent, impatience, fear, and other uneasy passions, -especially if he can discover these subjects in or near the person who -was the cause of his first passion. Those principles which forward -the transition of ideas here concur with those which operate on the -passions; and both uniting in one action, bestow on the mind a double -impulse. The new passion, therefore, must arise with so much greater -violence, and the transition to it must be rendered so much more easy -and natural.</p> - -<p>Upon this occasion I may cite the authority of an elegant writer, who -expresses himself in the following manner:—"As the fancy delights in -every thing that is great, strange or beautiful, and is still more -pleased the more it finds of these perfections in the <i>same</i> object, -so it is capable of receiving a new satisfaction by the assistance of -another sense. Thus, any continued sound, as the music of birds or a -fall of waters, awakens every moment the mind of the beholder, and -makes him more attentive to the several beauties of the place that lie -before him. Thus, if there arises a fragrancy of smells or perfumes, -they heighten the pleasure of the imagination, and make even the -colours and verdure of the landscape appear more agreeable; for the -ideas of both senses recommend each other, and are pleasanter together -than when they enter the mind separately: as the different colours of a -picture, when they are well disposed, set off one another, and receive -an additional beauty from the advantage of the situation." In this -phenomenon we may remark the association both of impressions and ideas, -as well as the mutual assistance they lend each other.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_V_aII" id="SECTION_V_aII">SECTION V.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE INFLUENCE OF THESE RELATIONS ON PRIDE AND HUMILITY.</h5> - - -<p>These principles being established on unquestionable experience, I -begin to consider how we shall apply them, by revolving over all the -causes of pride and humility, whether these causes be regarded as the -qualities that operate, or as the subjects on which the qualities -are placed. In examining these <i>qualities</i>, I immediately find many -of them to concur in producing the sensation of pain and pleasure, -independent of those affections which I here endeavour to explain. Thus -the beauty of our person, of itself, and by its very appearance, gives -pleasure as well as pride; and its deformity, pain as well as humility. -A magnificent feast delights us, and a sordid one displeases. What I -discover to be true in some instances, I <i>suppose</i> to be so in all, -and take it for granted at present, without any farther proof, that -every cause of pride, by its peculiar qualities, produces a separate -pleasure, and of humility a separate uneasiness.</p> - -<p>Again, in considering the <i>subjects</i>, to which these qualities -adhere, I make a new <i>supposition</i>, which also appears probable from -many obvious instances, viz. that these subjects are either parts -of ourselves, or something nearly related to us. Thus the good and -bad qualities of our actions and manners constitute virtue and vice, -and determine our personal character,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span> than which nothing operates -more strongly on these passions. In like manner, 'tis the beauty or -deformity of our person, houses, equipage, or furniture, by which -we are rendered either vain or humble. The same qualities, when -transferred to subjects, which bear us no relation, influence not in -the smallest degree either of these affections.</p> - -<p>Having thus in a manner supposed two properties of the causes of -these affections, viz. that the <i>qualities</i> produce a separate -pain or pleasure, and that the <i>subjects</i>, on which the qualities -are placed, are related to self; I proceed to examine the passions -themselves, in order to find something in them correspondent to the -supposed properties of their causes. <i>First</i>, I find, that the peculiar -object of pride and humility is determined by an original and natural -instinct, and that 'tis absolutely impossible, from the primary -constitution of the mind, that these passions should ever look beyond -self, or that individual person, of whose actions and sentiments each -of us is intimately conscious. Here at last the view always rests, -when we are actuated by either of these passions; nor can we, in that -situation of mind, ever lose sight of this object. For this I pretend -not to give any reason; but consider such a peculiar direction of the -thought as an original quality.</p> - -<p>The <i>second</i> quality which I discover in these passions, and which -I likewise consider as an original quality, is their sensations, or -the peculiar emotions they excite in the soul, and which constitute -their very being and essence. Thus, pride is a pleasant sensation, and -humility a painful; and upon the removal of the pleasure and pain, -there is in reality no pride nor humility. Of this our very feeling -convinces us; and beyond our feeling, 'tis here in vain to reason or -dispute.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p> - -<p>If I compare therefore these two <i>established</i> properties of the -passions, viz. their object, which is self, and their sensation, which -is either pleasant or painful, to the two <i>supposed</i> properties of the -causes, viz. their relation to self, and their tendency to produce a -pain or pleasure independent of the passion; I immediately find, that -taking these suppositions to be just, the true system breaks in upon me -with an irresistible evidence. That cause, which excites the passion, -is related to the object, which nature has attributed to the passion; -the sensation, which the cause separately produces, is related to -the sensation of the passion: from this double relation of ideas and -impressions, the passion is derived. The one idea is easily converted -into its correlative; and the one impression into that which resembles -and corresponds to it: with how much greater facility must this -transition be made, where these movements mutually assist each other, -and the mind receives a double impulse from the relations both of its -impressions and ideas!</p> - -<p>That we may comprehend this the better, we must suppose that nature -has given to the organs of the human mind a certain disposition fitted -to produce a peculiar impression or emotion, which we call <i>pride</i>: -to this emotion she has assigned a certain idea, viz. that of <i>self</i>, -which it never fails to produce. This contrivance of nature is easily -conceived. We have many instances of such a situation of affairs. -The nerves of the nose and palate are so disposed, as in certain -circumstances to convey such peculiar sensations to the mind: the -sensations of lust and hunger always produce in us the idea of those -peculiar objects, which are suitable to each appetite. These two -circumstances are united in pride. The organs are so disposed as to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span> -produce the passion; and the passion, after its production, naturally -produces a certain idea. All this needs no proof. 'Tis evident we never -should be possessed of that passion, were there not a disposition of -mind proper for it; and 'tis as evident, that the passion always turns -our view to ourselves, and makes us think of our own qualities and -circumstances.</p> - -<p>This being fully comprehended, it may now be asked, <i>Whether nature -produces the passion immediately of herself, or whether she must be -assisted by the cooperation of other causes</i>? For 'tis observable, -that in this particular her conduct is different in the different -passions and sensations. The palate must be excited by an external -object, in order to produce any relish: but hunger arises internally, -without the concurrence of any external object. But however the case -may stand with other passions and impressions, 'tis certain that pride -requires the assistance of some foreign object, and that the organs -which produce it exert not themselves like the heart and arteries, by -an original internal movement. For, <i>first</i>, daily experience convinces -us, that pride requires certain causes to excite it, and languishes -when unsupported by some excellency in the character, in bodily -accomplishments, in clothes, equipage, or fortune. <i>Secondly</i>, 'tis -evident pride would be perpetual if it arose immediately from nature, -since the object is always the same, and there is no disposition of -body peculiar to pride, as there is to thirst and hunger. <i>Thirdly</i>, -humility is in the very same situation with pride; and therefore either -must, upon this supposition, be perpetual likewise, or must destroy the -contrary passion from the very first moment; so that none of them could -ever make its appearance. Upon the whole, we may rest satisfied with -the foregoing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> conclusion, that pride must have a cause as well as an -object, and that the one has no influence without the other.</p> - -<p>The difficulty, then, is only to discover this cause, and find what -it is that gives the first motion to pride, and sets those organs -in action which are naturally fitted to produce that emotion. Upon -my consulting experience, in order to resolve this difficulty, I -immediately find a hundred different causes that produce pride; and -upon examining these causes, I suppose, what at first I perceive to -be probable, that all of them concur in two circumstances, which are, -that of themselves they produce an impression allied to the passion, -and are placed on a subject allied to the object of the passion. When I -consider after this the nature of <i>relation</i>, and its effects both on -the passions and ideas, I can no longer doubt upon these suppositions, -that 'tis the very principle which gives rise to pride, and bestows -motion on those organs, which, being naturally disposed to produce that -affection, require only a first impulse or beginning to their action. -Any thing that gives a pleasant sensation, and is related to self, -excites the passion of pride, which is also agreeable, and has self for -its object.</p> - -<p>What I have said of pride is equally true of humility. The sensation -of humility is uneasy, as that of pride is agreeable; for which reason -the separate sensation arising from the causes must be reversed, while -the relation to self continues the same. Though pride and humility -are directly contrary in their effects and in their sensations, they -have notwithstanding the same object; so that 'tis requisite only to -change the relation of impressions without making any change upon that -of ideas. Accordingly we find, that a beautiful<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> house belonging to -ourselves produces pride; and that the same house, still belonging -to ourselves, produces humility, when by any accident its beauty is -changed into deformity, and thereby the sensation of pleasure, which -corresponded to pride, is transformed into pain, which is related -to humility. The double relation between the ideas and impressions -subsists in both cases, and produces an easy transition from the one -emotion to the other.</p> - -<p>In a word, nature has bestowed a kind of attraction on certain -impressions and ideas, by which one of them, upon its appearance, -naturally introduces its correlative. If these two attractions or -associations of impressions and ideas concur on the same object, they -mutually assist each other, and the transition of the affections and -of the imagination is made with the greatest ease and facility. When -an idea produces an impression, related to an impression, which is -connected with an idea related to the first idea, these two impressions -must be in a manner inseparable, nor will the one in any case be -unattended with the other. 'Tis after this manner that the particular -causes of pride and humility are determined. The quality which operates -on the passion produces separately an impression resembling it; the -subject to which the quality adheres is related to self, the object of -the passion: no wonder the whole cause, consisting of a quality and of -a subject, does so unavoidably give rise to the passion.</p> - -<p>To illustrate this hypothesis, we may compare it to that by which I -have already explained the belief attending the judgments which we -form from causation. I have observed, that in all judgments of this -kind, there is always a present impression and a related idea; and -that the present impression gives a vivacity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> to the fancy, and the -relation conveys this vivacity, by an easy transition, to the related -idea. Without the present impression, the attention is not fixed, nor -the spirits excited. Without the relation, this attention rests on -its first object, and has no farther consequence. There is evidently -a great analogy betwixt that hypothesis, and our present one of an -impression and idea, that transfuse themselves into another impression -and idea by means of their double relation: which analogy must be -allowed to be no despicable proof of both hypotheses.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_VI_aII" id="SECTION_VI_aII">SECTION VI.</a></h5> - -<h5>LIMITATIONS OF THIS SYSTEM.</h5> - - -<p>But before we proceed farther in this subject, and examine particularly -all the causes of pride and humility, 'twill be proper to make some -limitations to the general system, <i>that all agreeable objects, related -to ourselves by an association of ideas and of impressions, produce -pride, and disagreeable ones, humility</i>: and these limitations are -derived from the very nature of the subject.</p> - -<p>I. Suppose an agreeable object to acquire a relation to self, the -first passion that appears on this occasion is joy; and this passion -discovers itself upon a slighter relation than pride and vain-glory. -We may feel joy upon being present at a feast, where our senses are -regaled with delicacies of every kind: but 'tis only the master of -the feast, who, beside the same joy, has the additional passion of -self-applause and vanity. 'Tis true, men sometimes boast of a great -entertainment, at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span> which they have only been present; and by so small -a relation convert their pleasure into pride: but however this must in -general be owned, that joy arises from a more inconsiderable relation -than vanity, and that many things, which are too foreign to produce -pride, are yet able to give us a delight and pleasure. The reason -of the difference may be explained thus. A relation is requisite to -joy, in order to approach the object to us, and make it give us any -satisfaction. But beside this, which is common to both passions, -'tis requisite to pride, in order to produce a transition from one -passion to another, and convert the satisfaction into vanity. As it -has a double task to perform, it must be endowed with double force and -energy. To which we may add, that where agreeable objects bear not -a very close relation to ourselves, they commonly do to some other -person; and this latter relation not only excels, but even diminishes, -and sometimes destroys the former, as we shall see afterwards.<a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p>Here then is the first limitation we must make to our general position, -<i>that every thing related to us, which produces pleasure or pain, -produces likewise pride or humility</i>. There is not only a relation -required, but a close one, and a closer than is required to joy.</p> - -<p>II. The second limitation is, that the agreeable or disagreeable -object be not only closely related, but also peculiar to ourselves, or -at least common to us with a few persons. 'Tis a quality observable -in human nature, and which we shall endeavour to explain afterwards, -that every thing, which is often presented, and to which we have been -long accustomed, loses its value in our eyes, and is in a little -time despised and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span> neglected. We likewise judge of objects more from -comparison than from their real and intrinsic merit; and where we -cannot by some contrast enhance their value, we are apt to overlook -even what is essentially good in them. These qualities of the mind have -an effect upon joy as well as pride; and 'tis remarkable, that goods, -which are common to all mankind, and have become familiar to us by -custom, give us little satisfaction, though perhaps of a more excellent -kind than those on which, for their singularity, we set a much higher -value. But though this circumstance operates on both these passions, it -has a much greater influence on vanity. We are rejoiced for many goods, -which, on account of their frequency, give us no pride. Health, when it -returns after a long absence, affords us a very sensible satisfaction; -but is seldom regarded as a subject of vanity, because 'tis shared with -such vast numbers.</p> - -<p>The reason why pride is so much more delicate in this particular than -joy, I take to be as follows. In order to excite pride, there are -always two objects we must contemplate, viz. the <i>cause</i>, or that -object which produces pleasure; and self, which is the real object of -the passion. But joy has only one object necessary to its production, -viz. that which gives pleasure; and though it be requisite that this -bear some relation to self, yet that is only requisite in order to -render it agreeable; nor is self, properly speaking, the object of -this passion. Since, therefore, pride has, in a manner, two objects to -which it directs our view, it follows, that where neither of them have -any singularity, the passion must be more weakened upon that account -than a passion which has only one object. Upon comparing ourselves -with others, as we are every moment apt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> to do, we find we are not in -the least distinguished; and, upon comparing the object we possess, we -discover still the same unlucky circumstance. By two comparisons so -disadvantageous, the passion must be entirely destroyed.</p> - -<p>III. The third limitation is, that the pleasant or painful object be -very discernible and obvious, and that not only to ourselves but to -others also. This circumstance, like the two foregoing, has an effect -upon joy as well as pride. We fancy ourselves more happy, as well as -more virtuous or beautiful, when we appear so to others; but are still -more ostentatious of our virtues than of our pleasures. This proceeds -from causes which I shall endeavour to explain afterwards.</p> - -<p>IV. The fourth limitation is derived from the inconstancy of the cause -of these passions, and from the short duration of its connexion with -ourselves. What is casual and inconstant gives but little joy, and less -pride. We are not much satisfied with the thing itself; and are still -less apt to feel any new degrees of self-satisfaction upon its account. -We foresee and anticipate its change by the imagination, which makes -us little satisfied with the thing: we compare it to ourselves, whose -existence is more durable, by which means its inconstancy appears still -greater. It seems ridiculous to infer an excellency in ourselves from -an object which is of so much shorter duration, and attends us during -so small a part of our existence. 'Twill be easy to comprehend the -reason why this cause operates not with the same force in joy as in -pride; since the idea of self is not so essential to the former passion -as to the latter.</p> - -<p>V. I may add, as a fifth limitation, or rather enlargement of this -system, that <i>general rules</i> have a great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span> influence upon pride and -humility, as well as on all the other passions. Hence we form a notion -of different ranks of men, suitable to the power or riches they are -possessed of; and this notion we change not upon account of any -peculiarities of the health or temper of the persons, which may deprive -them of all enjoyment in their possessions. This may be accounted for -from the same principles that explained the influence of general rules -on the understanding. Custom readily carries us beyond the just bounds -in our passions as well as in our reasonings.</p> - -<p>It may not be amiss to observe on this occasion, that the influence -of general rules and maxims on the passions very much contributes to -facilitate the effects of all the principles, which we shall explain -in the progress of this Treatise. For 'tis evident, that if a person, -full grown, and of the same nature with ourselves, were on a sudden -transported into our world, he would be very much embarrassed with -every object, and would not readily find what degree of love or hatred, -pride or humility, or any other passion he ought to attribute to it. -The passions are often varied by very inconsiderable principles; and -these do not always play with a perfect regularity, especially on the -first trial. But as custom and practice have brought to light all -these principles, and have settled the just value of every thing; this -must certainly contribute to the easy production of the passions, and -guide us, by means of general established maxims, in the proportions -we ought to observe in preferring one object to another. This remark -may, perhaps, serve to obviate difficulties that may arise concerning -some causes which I shall hereafter ascribe to particular passions, -and which may be esteemed too refined to operate so universally and -certainly as they are found to do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span> I shall close this subject with a -reflection derived from these five limitations. This reflection is, -that the persons who are proudest, and who, in the eye of the world, -have most reason for their pride, are not always the happiest; nor -the most humble always the most miserable, as may at first sight be -imagined from this system. An evil may be real, though its cause has -no relation to us: it may be real, without being peculiar: it may be -real without showing itself to others: it may be real, without being -constant: and it may be real, without falling under the general rules. -Such evils as these will not fail to render us miserable, though they -have little tendency to diminish pride: and perhaps the most real and -the most solid evils of life will be found of this nature.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Part. II. Sect. 4.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_VII_aII" id="SECTION_VII_aII">SECTION VII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF VICE AND VIRTUE.</h5> - - -<p>Taking these limitations along with us, let us proceed to examine the -causes of pride and humility, and see whether in every case we can -discover the double relations by which they operate on the passions. -If we find that all these causes are related to self, and produce a -pleasure or uneasiness separate from the passion, there will remain no -farther scruple with regard to the present system. We shall principally -endeavour to prove the latter point, the former being in a manner -self-evident.</p> - -<p>To begin with <i>vice</i> and <i>virtue</i>, which are the most obvious causes -of these passions, 'twould be entirely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> foreign to my present purpose -to enter upon the controversy, which of late years has so much excited -the curiosity of the public, <i>whether these moral distinctions be -founded on natural and original principles, or arise from interest -and education</i>. The examination of this I reserve for the following -book; and, in the mean time, shall endeavour to show, that my system -maintains its ground upon either of these hypotheses, which will be a -strong proof of its solidity.</p> - -<p>For, granting that morality had no foundation in nature, it must still -be allowed, that vice and virtue, either from self-interest or the -prejudices of education, produce in us a real pain and pleasure; and -this we may observe to be strenuously asserted by the defenders of -that hypothesis. Every passion, habit, or turn of character (say they) -which has a tendency to our advantage or prejudice, gives a delight -or uneasiness; and 'tis from thence the approbation or disapprobation -arises. We easily gain from the liberality of others, but are always in -danger of losing by their avarice: courage defends us, but cowardice -lays us open to every attack: justice is the support of society, but -injustice, unless checked, would quickly prove its ruin: humility -exalts, but pride mortifies us. For these reasons the former qualities -are esteemed virtues, and the latter regarded as vices. Now, since -'tis granted there is a delight or uneasiness still attending merit or -demerit of every kind, this is all that is requisite for my purpose.</p> - -<p>But I go farther, and observe, that this moral hypothesis and my -present system not only agree together, but also that, allowing the -former to be just, 'tis an absolute and invincible proof of the latter. -For if all morality be founded on the pain or pleasure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span> which arises -from the prospect of any loss or advantage that may result from our own -characters, or from those of others, all the effects of morality must -be derived from the same pain or pleasure, and, among the rest, the -passions of pride and humility. The very essence of virtue, according -to this hypothesis, is to produce pleasure, and that of vice to give -pain. The virtue and vice must be part of our character, in order to -excite pride or humility. What farther proof can we desire for the -double relation of impressions and ideas?</p> - -<p>The same unquestionable argument may be derived from the opinion -of those who maintain that morality is something real, essential, -and founded on nature. The most probable hypothesis, which has been -advanced to explain the distinction betwixt vice and virtue, and -the origin of moral rights and obligations, is, that from a primary -constitution of nature, certain characters and passions, by the very -view and contemplation, produce a pain, and others in like manner -excite a pleasure. The uneasiness and satisfaction are not only -inseparable from vice and virtue, but constitute their very nature and -essence. To approve of a character is to feel an original delight upon -its appearance. To disapprove of it is to be sensible of an uneasiness. -The pain and pleasure therefore being the primary causes of vice and -virtue, must also be the causes of all their effects, and consequently -of pride and humility, which are the unavoidable attendants of that -distinction.</p> - -<p>But, supposing this hypothesis of moral philosophy should be allowed to -be false, 'tis still evident that pain and pleasure, if not the causes -of vice and virtue, are at least inseparable from them. A generous and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span> -noble character affords a satisfaction even in the survey; and when -presented to us, though only in a poem or fable, never fails to charm -and delight us. On the other hand, cruelty and treachery displease -from their very nature; nor is it possible ever to reconcile us to -these qualities, either in ourselves or others. Thus, one hypothesis of -morality is an undeniable proof of the foregoing system, and the other -at worst agrees with it.</p> - -<p>But pride and humility arise not from these qualities alone of the -mind, which, according to the vulgar systems of ethicks, have been -comprehended as parts of moral duty, but from any other that has a -connexion with pleasure and uneasiness. Nothing flatters our vanity -more than the talent of pleasing by our wit, good humour, or any other -accomplishment; and nothing gives us a more sensible mortification than -a disappointment in any attempt of that nature. No one has ever been -able to tell what <i>wit</i> is, and to show why such a system of thought -must be received under that denomination, and such another rejected. -'Tis only by taste we can decide concerning it, nor are we possessed -of any other standard, upon which we can form a judgment of this kind. -Now, what is this <i>taste</i>, from which true and false wit in a manner -receive their being, and without which no thought can have a title to -either of these denominations? 'Tis plainly nothing but a sensation of -pleasure from true wit, and of uneasiness from false, without our being -able to tell the reasons of that pleasure or uneasiness. The power of -bestowing these opposite sensations is, therefore, the very essence -of true and false wit, and consequently the cause of that pride or -humility which arises from them.</p> - -<p>There may perhaps be some, who, being accustomed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> to the style of the -schools and pulpit, and having never considered human nature in any -other light, than that in which <i>they</i> place it, may here be surprised -to hear me talk of virtue as exciting pride, which they look upon as a -vice; and of vice as producing humility, which they have been taught -to consider as a virtue. But not to dispute about words, I observe, -that by <i>pride</i> I understand that agreeable impression, which arises in -the mind, when the view either of our virtue, beauty, riches or power, -makes us satisfied with ourselves; and that by <i>humility</i> I mean the -opposite impression. 'Tis evident the former impression is not always -vicious, nor the latter virtuous. The most rigid morality allows us -to receive a pleasure from reflecting on a generous action; and 'tis -by none esteemed a virtue to feel any fruitless remorses upon the -thoughts of past villany and baseness. Let us, therefore, examine these -impressions, considered in themselves; and inquire into their causes, -whether placed on the mind or body, without troubling ourselves at -present with that merit or blame, which may attend them.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_VIII_aII" id="SECTION_VIII_aII">SECTION VIII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF BEAUTY AND DEFORMITY.</h5> - - -<p>Whether we consider the body as a part of ourselves, or assent to those -philosophers, who regard it as something external, it must still be -allowed to be near enough connected with us to form one of these double -relations, which I have asserted to be necessary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span> to the causes of -pride and humility. Wherever, therefore, we can find the other relation -of impressions to join to this of ideas, we may expect with assurance -either of these passions, according as the impression is pleasant or -uneasy. But <i>beauty</i> of all kinds gives us a peculiar delight and -satisfaction; as <i>deformity</i> produces pain, upon whatever subject it -may be placed, and whether surveyed in an animate or inanimate object. -If the beauty or deformity, therefore, be placed upon our own bodies, -this pleasure or uneasiness must be converted into pride or humility, -as having in this case all the circumstances requisite to produce a -perfect transition of impressions and ideas. These opposite sensations -are related to the opposite passions. The beauty or deformity is -closely related to self, the object of both these passions. No wonder, -then, our own beauty becomes an object of pride, and deformity of -humility.</p> - -<p>But this effect of personal and bodily qualities is not only a proof -of the present system, by showing that the passions arise not in -this case without all the circumstances I have required, but may be -employed as a stronger and more convincing argument. If we consider -all the hypotheses which have been formed either by philosophy -or common reason, to explain the difference betwixt beauty and -deformity, we shall find that all of them resolve into this, that -beauty is such an order and construction of parts, as, either by the -<i>primary constitution</i> of our nature, by <i>custom</i>, or by <i>caprice</i>, -is fitted to give a pleasure and satisfaction to the soul. This is -the distinguishing character of beauty, and forms all the difference -betwixt it and deformity, whose natural tendency is to produce -uneasiness. Pleasure and pain, therefore, are not only necessary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> -attendants of beauty and deformity, but constitute their very essence. -And, indeed, if we consider that a great part of the beauty which we -admire either in animals or in other objects is derived from the idea -of convenience and utility, we shall make no scruple to assent to -this opinion. That shape which produces strength is beautiful in one -animal; and that which is a sign of agility, in another. The order and -convenience of a palace are no less essential to its beauty than its -mere figure and appearance. In like manner the rules of architecture -require, that the top of a pillar should be more slender than its base, -and that because such a figure conveys to us the idea of security, -which is pleasant; whereas the contrary form gives us the apprehension -of danger, which is uneasy. From innumerable instances of this kind, -as well as from considering that beauty, like wit, cannot be defined, -but is discerned only by a taste or sensation, we may conclude that -beauty is nothing but a form, which produces pleasure, as deformity -is a structure of parts which conveys pain; and since the power of -producing pain and pleasure make in this manner the essence of beauty -and deformity, all the effects of these qualities must be derived from -the sensation; and among the rest pride and humility, which of all -their effects are the most common and remarkable.</p> - -<p>This argument I esteem just and decisive; but in order to give greater -authority to the present reasoning, let us suppose it false for a -moment, and see what will follow. 'Tis certain, then, that if the power -of producing pleasure and pain forms not the essence of beauty and -deformity, the sensations are at least inseparable from the qualities, -and 'tis even difficult to consider them apart. Now, there is nothing -common<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> to natural and moral beauty (both of which are the causes of -pride), but this power of producing pleasure; and as a common effect -always supposes a common cause, 'tis plain that pleasure must in both -cases be the real and influencing cause of the passion. Again, there -is nothing originally different betwixt the beauty of our bodies and -the beauty of external and foreign objects, but that the one has -a near relation to ourselves, which is waiting in the other. This -original difference, therefore, must be the cause of all their other -differences, and, among the rest, of their different influence upon the -passion of pride, which is excited by the beauty of our person, but -is not affected in the least by that of foreign and external objects. -Placing then these two conclusions together, we find they compose the -preceding system betwixt them, viz. that pleasure, as a related or -resembling impression, when placed on a related object, by a natural -transition produces pride, and its contrary, humility. This system, -then, seems already sufficiently confirmed by experience, though we -have not yet exhausted all our arguments.</p> - -<p>'Tis not the beauty of the body alone that produces pride, but also -its strength and force. Strength is a kind of power, and therefore -the desire to excel in strength is to be considered as an inferior -species of <i>ambition</i>. For this reason the present phenomenon will be -sufficiently accounted for in explaining that passion.</p> - -<p>Concerning all other bodily accomplishments, we may observe, in -general, that whatever in ourselves is either useful, beautiful or -surprising, is an object of pride, and its contrary of humility. Now, -'tis obvious that every thing useful, beautiful or surprising,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> agrees -in producing a separate pleasure, and agrees in nothing else. The -pleasure, therefore, with relation to self, must be the cause of the -passion.</p> - -<p>Though it should not be questioned whether beauty be not something -real, and different from the power of producing pleasure, it can never -be disputed, that, as surprise is nothing but a pleasure arising from -novelty, it is not, properly speaking, a quality in any object, but -merely a passion or impression in the soul. It must therefore be from -that impression that pride by a natural transition arises. And it -arises so naturally, that there is nothing <i>in us, or belonging to us</i>, -which produces surprise, that does not at the same time excite that -other passion. Thus, we are vain of the surprising adventures we have -met with, the escapes we have made, and dangers we have been exposed -to. Hence the origin of vulgar lying; where men, without any interest, -and merely out of vanity, heap up a number of extraordinary events, -which are either the fictions of their brain, or, if true, have at -least no connexion with themselves. Their fruitful invention supplies -them with a variety of adventures; and where that talent is wanting, -they appropriate such as belong to others, in order to satisfy their -vanity.</p> - -<p>In this phenomenon are contained two curious experiments, which, if -we compare them together, according to the known rules, by which we -judge of cause and effect in anatomy, natural philosophy, and other -sciences, will be an undeniable argument for that influence of the -double relations above-mentioned. By one of these experiments we find, -that an object produces pride merely by the interposition of pleasure; -and that because the quality by which it produces pride, is in reality -nothing but the power of producing pleasure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span> By the other experiment -we find, that the pleasure produces the pride by a transition along -related ideas; because when we cut off that relation, the passion is -immediately destroyed. A surprising adventure, in which we have been -ourselves engaged, is related to us, and by that means produces pride: -but the adventures of others, though they may cause pleasure, yet, for -want of this relation of ideas, never excite that passion. What farther -proof can be desired for the present system?</p> - -<p>There is only one objection to this system with regard to our body; -which is, that though nothing be more agreeable than health, and more -painful than sickness, yet commonly men are neither proud of the one, -nor mortified with the other. This will easily be accounted for, if -we consider the <i>second</i> and <i>fourth</i> limitations, proposed to our -general system. It was observed, that no object ever produces pride or -humility, if it has not something <i>peculiar</i> to ourself; as also, that -every cause of that passion must be in some measure <i>constant</i>, and -hold some proportion to the duration of ourself, which is its object. -Now, as health and sickness vary incessantly to all men, and there is -none who is <i>solely</i> or <i>certainly</i> fixed in either, these accidental -blessings and calamities are in a manner separated from us, and are -never considered as connected with our being and existence. And that -this account is just, appears hence, that wherever a malady of any kind -is so rooted in our constitution that we no longer entertain any hopes -of recovery, from that moment it becomes an object of humility; as is -evident in old men, whom nothing mortifies more than the consideration -of their age and infirmities. They endeavour, as long as possible, to -conceal their blindness and deafness,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> their rheums and gout; nor do -they ever confess them without reluctance and uneasiness. And though -young men are not ashamed of every headache or cold they fall into, yet -no topic is so proper to mortify human pride, and make us entertain a -mean opinion of our nature, than this, that we are every moment of our -lives subject to such infirmities. This sufficiently proves that bodily -pain and sickness are in themselves proper causes of humility; though -the custom of estimating every thing by comparison more than by its -intrinsic worth and value, makes us overlook these calamities, which we -find to be incident to every one, and causes us to form an idea of our -merit and character independent of them.</p> - -<p>We are ashamed of such maladies as affect others, and are either -dangerous or disagreeable to them. Of the epilepsy, because it gives -a horror to every one present; of the itch, because it is infectious; -of the king's evil, because it commonly goes to posterity. Men always -consider the sentiments of others in their judgment of themselves. This -has evidently appeared in some of the foregoing reasonings, and will -appear still more evidently, and be more fully explained afterwards.</p> - - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_IX_aII" id="SECTION_IX_aII">SECTION IX.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF EXTERNAL ADVANTAGES AND DISADVANTAGES.</h5> - - -<p>But though pride and humility have the qualities of our mind and body, -that is <i>self</i>, for their natural and more immediate causes, we find -by experience that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span> there are many other objects which produce these -affections, and that the primary one is, in some measure, obscured -and lost by the multiplicity of foreign and extrinsic. We round a -vanity upon houses, gardens, equipages, as well as upon personal -merit and accomplishments; and though these external advantages be -in themselves widely distant from thought or a person, yet they -considerably influence even a passion, which is directed to that as -its ultimate object. This happens when external objects acquire any -particular relation to ourselves, and are associated or connected with -us. A beautiful fish in the ocean, an animal in a desart, and indeed -any thing that neither belongs, nor is related to us, has no manner of -influence on our vanity, whatever extraordinary qualities it may be -endowed with, and whatever degree of surprise and admiration it may -naturally occasion. It must be some way associated with us in order to -touch our pride. Its idea must hang in a manner upon that of ourselves; -and the transition from the one to the other must be easy and natural.</p> - -<p>But here 'tis remarkable, that though the relation of <i>resemblance</i> -operates upon the mind in the same manner as contiguity and causation, -in conveying us from one idea to another, yet 'tis seldom a foundation -either of pride or of humility. If we resemble a person in any of the -valuable parts of his character, we must, in some degree, possess the -quality in which we resemble him; and this quality we always choose -to survey directly in ourselves, rather than by reflection in another -person, when we would found upon it any degree of vanity. So that -though a likeness may occasionally produce that passion, by suggesting -a more advantageous idea of ourselves, 'tis there the view, fixes at -last, and the passion finds its ultimate and final cause.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p> - -<p>There are instances, indeed, wherein men show a vanity in resembling -a great man in his countenance, shape, air, or other minute -circumstances, that contribute not in any degree to his reputation; -but it must be confessed, that this extends not very far, nor is of -any considerable moment in these affections. For this I assign the -following reason. We can never have a vanity of resembling in trifles -any person, unless he be possessed of very shining qualities, which -give us a respect and veneration for him. These qualities, then, are, -properly speaking, the causes of our vanity, by means of their relation -to ourselves. Now, after what manner are they related to ourselves? -They are parts of the person we value, and, consequently, connected -with these trifles; which are also supposed to be parts of him. These -trifles are connected with the resembling qualities in us; and these -qualities in us, being parts, are connected with the whole; and, by -that means, form a chain of several links betwixt ourselves and the -shining qualities of the person we resemble. But, besides that this -multitude of relations must weaken the connexion, 'tis evident the -mind, in passing from the shining qualities to the trivial ones, must, -by that contrast, the better perceive the minuteness of the latter, and -be, in some measure, ashamed of the comparison and resemblance.</p> - -<p>The relation, therefore, of contiguity, or that of causation, betwixt -the cause and object of pride and humility, is alone requisite to -give rise to these passions; and these relations are nothing else -but qualities, by which the imagination is conveyed from one idea to -another. Now, let us consider what effect these can possibly have upon -the mind, and by what means they become so requisite to the production -of the passions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span> -'Tis evident, that the association of ideas operates -in so silent and imperceptible a manner, that we are scarce sensible -of it, and discover it more by its effects than by any immediate -feeling or perception. It produces no emotion, and gives rise to no -new impression of any kind, but only modifies those ideas of which the -mind was formerly possessed, and which it could recal upon occasion. -From this reasoning, as well as from undoubted experience, we may -conclude, that an association of ideas, however necessary, is not alone -sufficient to give rise to any passion.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident, then, that when the mind feels the passion, either of -pride or humility, upon the appearance of a related object, there -is, beside the relation or transition of thought, an emotion, or -original impression, produced by some other principle. The question -is, whether the emotion first produced be the passion itself, or some -other impression related to it. This question we cannot be long in -deciding. For, besides all the other arguments with which this subject -abounds, it must evidently appear, that the relation of ideas, which -experience shows to be so requisite a circumstance to the production -of the passion, would be entirely superfluous, were it not to second -a relation of affections, and facilitate the transition from one -impression to another. If nature produced immediately the passion -of pride or humility, it would be completed in itself, and would -require no farther addition or increase from any other affection. But, -supposing the first emotion to be only related to pride or humility, -'tis easily conceived to what purpose the relation of objects may -serve, and how the two different associations of impressions and ideas, -by uniting their forces, may assist each other's operation. This is not -only easily<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span> conceived, but, I will venture to affirm, 'tis the only -manner in which we can conceive this subject. An easy transition of -ideas, which, of itself, causes no emotion, can never be necessary, or -even useful to the passions, but by forwarding the transition betwixt -some related impressions. Not to mention that the same object causes -a greater or smaller degree of pride, not only in proportion to the -increase or decrease of its qualities, but also to the distance or -nearness of the relation, which is a clear argument for the transition -of affections along the relation of ideas, since every change in the -relation produces a proportionable change in the passion. Thus one -part of the preceding system, concerning the relations of ideas, is a -sufficient proof of the other, concerning that of impressions; and is -itself so evidently founded on experience, that 'twould be lost time to -endeavour farther to prove it.</p> - -<p>This will appear still more evidently in particular instances. Men are -vain of the beauty of their country, of their county, of their parish. -Here the idea of beauty plainly produces a pleasure. This pleasure -is related to pride. The object or cause of this pleasure is, by the -supposition, related to self, or the object of pride. By this double -relation of impressions and ideas, a transition is made from the one -impression to the other.</p> - -<p>Men are also vain of the temperature of the climate in which they were -born; of the fertility of their native soil; of the goodness of the -wines, fruits, or victuals, produced by it; of the softness or force of -their language, with other particulars of that kind. These objects have -plainly a reference to the pleasures of the senses, and are originally -considered as agreeable to the feeling, taste, or hearing. How is it -possible they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span> could ever become objects of pride, except by means of -that transition above explained?</p> - -<p>There are some that discover a vanity of an opposite kind, and affect -to depreciate their own country, in comparison of those to which -they have travelled. These persons find, when they are at home, and -surrounded with their countrymen, that the strong relation betwixt them -and their own nation is shared with so many, that 'tis in a manner lost -to them; whereas their distant relation to a foreign country, which is -formed by their having seen it and lived in it, is augmented by their -considering how few there are who have done the same. For this reason -they always admire the beauty, utility, and rarity of what is abroad, -above what is at home.</p> - -<p>Since we can be vain of a country, climate, or any inanimate object -which bears a relation to us, 'tis no wonder we are vain of the -qualities of those who are connected with us by blood or friendship. -Accordingly we find, that the very same qualities, which in ourselves -produce pride, produce also, in a lesser degree, the same affection -when discovered in persons related to us. The beauty, address, merit, -credit, and honours of their kindred, are carefully displayed by the -proud, as some of their most considerable sources of their vanity.</p> - -<p>As we are proud of riches in ourselves, so, to satisfy our vanity, we -desire that every one, who has any connexion with us, should likewise -be possessed of them, and are ashamed of any one that is mean or poor -among our friends and relations. For this reason we remove the poor -as far from us as possible; and as we cannot prevent poverty in some -distant collaterals, and our forefathers are taken to be our nearest -relations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span> upon this account every one affects to be of a good family, -and to be descended from a long succession of rich and honourable -ancestors.</p> - -<p>I have frequently observed, that those who boast of the antiquity -of their families, are glad when they can join this circumstance, -that their ancestors for many generations have been uninterrupted -proprietors of the same portion of land, and that their family has -never changed its possessions, or been transplanted into any other -county or province. I have also observed, that 'tis an additional -subject of vanity, when they can boast that these possessions have been -transmitted through a descent composed entirely of males, and that -the honours and fortune have never passed through any female. Let us -endeavour to explain these phenomena by the foregoing system.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident that, when any one boasts of the antiquity of his family, -the subjects of his vanity are not merely the extent of time and number -of ancestors, but also their riches and credit, which are supposed to -reflect a lustre on himself on account of his relation to them. He -first considers these objects; is affected by them in an agreeable -manner; and then returning back to himself, through the relation of -parent and child, is elevated with the passion of pride, by means of -the double relation of impressions and ideas. Since, therefore, the -passion depends on these relations, whatever strengthens any of the -relations must also increase the passion, and whatever weakens the -relations must diminish the passion. Now 'tis certain the identity of -the possession strengthens the relation of ideas arising from blood -and kindred, and conveys the fancy with greater facility from one -generation to another, from the remotest ancestors to their posterity, -who are both their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span> heirs and their descendants. By this facility the -impression is transmitted more entire, and excites a greater degree of -pride and vanity.</p> - -<p>The case is the same with the transmission of the honours and fortune -through a succession of males without their passing through any female. -'Tis a quality of human nature, which we shall consider afterwards,<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> -that the imagination naturally turns to whatever is important and -considerable; and where two objects are presented to it, a small and -a great one, usually leaves the former, and dwells entirely upon the -latter. As in the society of marriage, the male sex has the advantage -above the female, the husband first engages our attention; and whether -we consider him directly, or reach him by passing through related -objects, the thought both rests upon him with greater satisfaction, -and arrives at him with greater facility than his consort. 'Tis easy -to see, that this property must strengthen the child's relation to the -father, and weaken that to the mother. For as all relations are nothing -but a propensity to pass from one idea to another, whatever strengthens -the propensity strengthens the relation; and as we have a stronger -propensity to pass from the idea of the children to that of the father, -than from the same idea to that of the mother, we ought to regard the -former relation as the closer and more considerable. This is the reason -why children commonly bear their father's name, and are esteemed to -be of nobler or baser birth, according to <i>his</i> family. And though -the mother should be possessed of a superior spirit and genius to the -father, as often happens, the <i>general rule</i> prevails, notwithstanding -the exception,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span> according to the doctrine above explained. Nay, even -when a superiority of any kind is so great, or when any other reasons -have such an effect, as to make the children rather represent the -mother's family than the father's, the general rule still retains -such an efficacy, that it weakens the relation, and makes a kind of -break in the line of ancestors. The imagination runs not along them -with facility, nor is able to transfer the honour and credit of the -ancestors to their posterity of the same name and family so readily, -as when the transition is conformable to the general rules, and passes -from father to son, or from brother to brother.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Part II. Sect. 2.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_X_aII" id="SECTION_X_aII">SECTION X.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF PROPERTY AND RICHES.</h5> - - -<p>But the relation which is esteemed the closest, and which, of all -others, produces most commonly the passion of pride, is that of -<i>property</i>. This relation 'twill be impossible for me fully to explain -before I come to treat of justice and the other moral virtues. 'Tis -sufficient to observe on this occasion, that property may be defined, -<i>such a relation betwixt a person and an object as permits him, but -forbids any other, the free use and possession of it, without violating -the laws of justice and moral equity</i>. If justice therefore be a -virtue, which has a natural and original influence on the human mind, -property may be looked upon as a particular species of <i>causation</i>; -whether we consider the liberty it gives the proprietor to operate -as he pleases upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span> the object, or the advantages which he reaps -from it. 'Tis the same case, if justice, according to the system of -certain philosophers, should be esteemed an artificial and not a -natural virtue. For then honour, and custom, and civil laws supply -the place of natural conscience, and produce in some degree, the same -effects. This, in the mean time, is certain, that the mention of the -property naturally carries our thought to the proprietor, and of the -proprietor to the property; which being a proof of a perfect relation -of ideas, is all that is requisite to our present purpose. A relation -of ideas, joined to that of impressions, always produces a transition -of affections; and therefore, whenever any pleasure or pain arises -from an object, connected with us by property, we may be certain, that -either pride or humility must arise from this conjunction of relations, -if the foregoing system be solid and satisfactory. And whether it be so -or not, we may soon satisfy ourselves by the most cursory view of human -life.</p> - -<p>Every thing belonging to a vain man is the best that is any where to -be found. His houses, equipage, furniture, clothes, horses, hounds, -excel all others in his conceit; and 'tis easy to observe, that from -the least advantage in any of these, he draws a new subject of pride -and vanity. His wine, if you'll believe him, has a finer flavour than -any other; his cookery is more exquisite; his table more orderly; his -servant more expert; the air in which he lives more healthful; the soil -he cultivates more fertile; his fruits ripen earlier, and to greater -perfection; such a thing is remarkable for its novelty; such another -for its antiquity: this is the workmanship of a famous artist, that -belonged to such a prince or great man; all objects, in a word, that -are useful, beautiful, or surprising, or are related to such,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> may, by -means of property, give rise to this passion. These agree in giving -pleasure, and agree in nothing else. This alone is common to them, and -therefore must be the quality that produces the passion, which is their -common effect. As every new instance is a new argument, and as the -instances are here without number, I may venture to affirm, that scarce -any system was ever so fully proved by experience, as that which I have -here advanced.</p> - -<p>If the property of any thing that gives pleasure either by its -utility, beauty, or novelty, produces also pride by a double relation -of impressions and ideas; we need not be surprised that the power of -acquiring this property should have the same effect. Now, riches are to -be considered as the power of acquiring the property of what pleases; -and 'tis only in this view they have any influence on the passions. -Paper will, on many occasions, be considered as riches, and that -because it may convey the power of acquiring money; and money is not -riches, as it is a metal endowed with certain qualities of solidity, -weight, and fusibility; but only as it has a relation to the pleasures -and conveniences of life. Taking then this for granted, which is in -itself so evident, we may draw from it one of the strongest arguments -I have yet employed to prove the influence of the double relations on -pride and humility.</p> - -<p>It has been observed, in treating of the understanding, that the -distinction which we sometimes make betwixt a <i>power</i> and the -<i>exercise</i> of it, is entirely frivolous, and that neither man nor any -other being ought ever to be thought possessed of any ability, unless -it be exerted and put in action. But though this be strictly true in -a just and <i>philosophical</i> way of thinking, 'tis certain it is not -<i>the philosophy</i> of our passions,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span> but that many things operate upon -them by means of the idea and supposition of power, independent of -its actual exercise. We are pleased when we acquire an ability of -procuring pleasure, and are displeased when another acquires a power of -giving pain. This is evident from experience; but in order to give a -just explication of the matter, and account for this satisfaction and -uneasiness, we must weigh the following reflections.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident the error of distinguishing power from its exercise -proceeds not entirely from the scholastic doctrine of <i>free will</i>, -which, indeed, enters very little into common life, and has but small -influence on our vulgar and popular ways of thinking. According to -that doctrine, motives deprive us not of free-will, nor take away our -power of performing or forbearing any action. But according to common -notions a man has no power, where very considerable motives lie betwixt -him and the satisfaction of his desires, and determine him to forbear -what he wishes to perform. I do not think I have fallen into my enemy's -power when I see him pass me in the streets with a sword by his side, -while I am, unprovided of any weapon. I know that the fear of the civil -magistrate is as strong a restraint as any of iron, and that I am in as -perfect safety as if he were chained or imprisoned. But when a person -acquires such an authority over me, that not only there is no external -obstacle to his actions, but also that he may punish or reward me as he -pleases without any dread of punishment in his turn, I then attribute a -full power to him, and consider myself as his subject or vassal.</p> - -<p>Now, if we compare these two cases, that of a person who has very -strong motives of interest or safety to forbear any action, and -that of another who lies<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> under no such obligation, we shall find, -according to the philosophy explained in the foregoing book, that -the only <i>known</i> difference betwixt them lies in this, that in the -former case we conclude, from <i>past experience</i>, that the person never -will perform that action, and in the latter, that he possibly or -probably will perform it. Nothing is more fluctuating and inconstant -on many occasions than the will of man; nor is there any thing but -strong motives which can give us an absolute certainty in pronouncing -concerning any of his future actions. When we see a person free -from these motives, we suppose a possibility either of his acting -or forbearing; and though, in general, we may conclude him to be -determined by motives and causes, yet this removes not the uncertainty -of our judgment concerning these causes, nor the influence of that -uncertainty on the passions. Since, therefore, we ascribe a power of -performing an action to every one who has no very powerful motive to -forbear it, and refuse it to such as have, it may justly be concluded, -that <i>power</i> has always a reference to its <i>exercise</i>, either actual -or probable, and that we consider a person as endowed with any ability -when we find, from past experience, that 'tis probable, or at least -possible, he may exert it. And indeed, as our passions always regard -the real existence of objects, and we always judge of this reality -from past instances, nothing can be more likely of itself, without -any farther reasoning, than that power consists in the possibility or -probability of any action, as discovered by experience and the practice -of the world.</p> - -<p>Now, 'tis evident that, wherever a person is in such a situation with -regard to me that there is no very powerful motive to deter him from -injuring me, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> consequently 'tis <i>uncertain</i> whether he will injure -me or not, I must be uneasy in such a situation, and cannot consider -the possibility or probability of that injury without a sensible -concern. The passions are not only affected by such events as are -certain and infallible, but also in an inferior degree by such as are -possible and contingent. And though perhaps I never really feel any -harm, and discover by the event, that, philosophically speaking, the -person never had any power of harming me, since he did not exert any, -this prevents not my uneasiness from the preceding uncertainty. The -agreeable passions may here operate as well as the uneasy, and convey a -pleasure when I perceive a good to become either possible or probable -by the possibility or probability of another's bestowing it on me, upon -the removal of any strong motives which might formerly have hindered -him.</p> - -<p>But we may farther observe, that this satisfaction increases, when -any good approaches, in such a manner that it is in one's <i>own</i> power -to take or leave it, and there neither is any physical impediment, -nor any very strong motive to hinder our enjoyment. As all men desire -pleasure, nothing can be more probable than its existence when there is -no external obstacle to the producing it, and men perceive no danger -in following their inclinations. In that case their imagination easily -anticipates the satisfaction, and conveys the same joy as if they were -persuaded of its real and actual existence.</p> - -<p>But this accounts not sufficiently for the satisfaction which attends -riches. A miser receives delight from his money; that is, from the -<i>power</i> it affords him of procuring all the pleasures and conveniences -of life, though he knows he has enjoyed his riches for forty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span> years -without ever enjoying them; and consequently cannot conclude, by any -species of reasoning, that the real existence of these pleasures is -nearer, than if he were entirely deprived of all his possessions. -But though he cannot form any such conclusion in a way of reasoning -concerning the nearer approach of the pleasure, 'tis certain he -<i>imagines</i> it to approach nearer, whenever all external obstacles are -removed, along with the more powerful motives of interest and danger, -which oppose it. For farther satisfaction on this head, I must refer to -my account of the will,<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> where I shall explain that false sensation -of liberty, which makes us imagine we can perform any thing that is not -very dangerous or destructive. Whenever any other person is under no -strong obligations of interest to forbear any pleasure, we judge from -<i>experience</i>, that the pleasure will exist, and that he will probably -obtain it. But when ourselves are in that situation, we judge from an -<i>illusion of the fancy</i>, that the pleasure is still closer and more -immediate. The will seems to move easily every way, and casts a shadow -or image of itself even to that side on which it did not settle. By -means of this image the enjoyment seems to approach nearer to us, and -gives us the same lively satisfaction as if it were perfectly certain -and unavoidable.</p> - -<p>'Twill now be easy to draw this whole reasoning to a point, and -to prove, that when riches produce any pride or vanity in their -possessors, as they never fail to do, 'tis only by means of a double -relation of impressions and ideas. The very essence of riches consists -in the power of procuring the pleasures and conveniences of life. -The very essence of this power<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> consists in the probability of its -exercise, and in its causing us to anticipate, by a <i>true</i> or <i>false</i> -reasoning, the real existence of the pleasure. This anticipation of -pleasure is, in itself, a very considerable pleasure; and as its cause -is some possession or property which we enjoy, and which is thereby -related to us, we here clearly see all the parts of the foregoing -system most exactly and distinctly drawn out before us.</p> - -<p>For the same reason, that riches cause pleasure and pride, and -poverty excites uneasiness and humility, power must produce the -former emotions, and slavery the latter. Power or an authority over -others makes us capable of satisfying all our desires; as slavery, by -subjecting us to the will of others, exposes us to a thousand wants and -mortifications.</p> - -<p>'Tis here worth observing, that the vanity of power, or shame of -slavery, are much augmented by the consideration of the persons over -whom we exercise our authority, or who exercise it over us. For, -supposing it possible to frame statues of such an admirable mechanism, -that they could move and act in obedience to the will; 'tis evident the -possession of them would give pleasure and pride, but not to such a -degree as the same authority, when exerted over sensible and rational -creatures, whose condition, being compared to our own, makes it seem -more agreeable and honourable. Comparison is in every case a sure -method of augmenting our esteem of any thing. A rich man feels the -felicity of his condition better by opposing it to that of a beggar. -But there is a peculiar advantage in power, by the contrast, which -is, in a manner, presented to us betwixt ourselves and the person we -command. The comparison is obvious and natural: the imagination finds -it in the very subject: the passage of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span> the thought to its conception -is smooth and easy. And that this circumstance has a considerable -effect in augmenting its influence, will appear afterwards in examining -the nature of <i>malice</i> and <i>envy</i>.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Part III. Sect. 2.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_XI_aII" id="SECTION_XI_aII">SECTION XI.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE LOVE OF FAME.</h5> - - -<p>But beside these original causes of pride and humility, there is a -secondary one in the opinions of others, which has an equal influence -on the affections. Our reputation, our character, our name, are -considerations of vast weight and importance; and even the other causes -of pride, virtue, beauty and riches, have little influence, when not -seconded by the opinions and sentiments of others. In order to account -for this phenomenon, 'twill be necessary to take some compass, and -first explain the nature of <i>sympathy</i>.</p> - -<p>No quality of human nature is more remarkable, both in itself and -in its consequences, than that propensity we have to sympathize -with others, and to receive by communication their inclinations and -sentiments, however different from, or even contrary to, our own. This -is not only conspicuous in children, who implicitly embrace every -opinion proposed to them; but also in men of the greatest judgment and -understanding, who find it very difficult to follow their own reason -or inclination, in opposition to that of their friends and daily -companions. To this principle we ought to ascribe the great uniformity -we may observe<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span> in the humours and turn of thinking of those of the -same nation; and 'tis much more probable, that this resemblance arises -from sympathy, than from any influence of the soil and climate, which, -though they continue invariably the same, are not able to preserve the -character of a nation the same for a century together. A good-natured -man finds himself in an instant of the same humour with his company; -and even the proudest and most surly take a tincture from their -countrymen and acquaintance. A cheerful countenance infuses a sensible -complacency and serenity into my mind; as an angry or sorrowful one -throws a sudden damp upon me. Hatred, resentment, esteem, love, -courage, mirth and melancholy; all these passions I feel more from -communication, than from my own natural temper and disposition. So -remarkable a phenomenon merits our attention, and must be traced up to -its first principles.</p> - -<p>When any affection is infused by sympathy, it is at first known only -by its effects, and by those external signs in the countenance and -conversation, which convey an idea of it. This idea is presently -converted into an impression, and acquires such a degree of force -and vivacity, as to become the very passion itself, and produce an -equal emotion as any original affection. However instantaneous this -change of the idea into an impression may be, it proceeds from certain -views and reflections, which will not escape the strict scrutiny of a -philosopher, though they may the person himself who makes them.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident that the idea, or rather impression of ourselves, is -always intimately present with us, and that our consciousness gives us -so lively a conception of our own person, that 'tis not possible to -imagine that any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> thing can in this particular go beyond it. Whatever -object, therefore, is related to ourselves, must be conceived with a -like vivacity of conception, according to the foregoing principles; and -though this relation should not be so strong as that of causation, it -must still have a considerable influence. Resemblance and contiguity -are relations not to be neglected; especially when, by an inference -from cause and effect, and by the observation of external signs, we are -informed of the real existence of the object, which is resembling or -contiguous.</p> - -<p>Now, 'tis obvious that nature has preserved a great resemblance among -all human creatures, and that we never remark any passion or principle -in others, of which, in some degree or other, we may not find a -parallel in ourselves. The case is the same with the fabric of the -mind as with that of the body. However the parts may differ in shape -or size, their structure and composition are in general the same. -There is a very remarkable resemblance, which preserves itself amidst -all their variety; and this resemblance must very much contribute to -make us enter into the sentiments of others, and embrace them with -facility and pleasure. Accordingly we find, that where, beside the -general resemblance of our natures, there is any peculiar similarity -in our manners, or character, or country, or language, it facilitates -the sympathy. The stronger the relation is betwixt ourselves and any -object, the more easily does the imagination make the transition, and -convey to the related idea the vivacity of conception, with which we -always form the idea of our own person.</p> - -<p>Nor is resemblance the only relation which has this effect, but -receives new force from other relations that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span> may accompany it. The -sentiments of others have little influence when far removed from -us, and require the relation of contiguity to make them communicate -themselves entirely. The relations of blood, being a species of -causation, may sometimes contribute to the same effect; as also -acquaintance, which operates in the same manner with education and -custom, as we shall see more fully afterwards.<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> All these relations, -when united together, convey the impression or consciousness of our own -person to the idea of the sentiments or passions of others, and makes -us conceive them in the strongest and most lively manner.</p> - -<p>It has been remarked in the beginning of this Treatise, that all ideas -are borrowed from impressions, and that these two kinds of perceptions -differ only in the degrees of force and vivacity with which they -strike upon the soul. The component parts of ideas and impressions are -precisely alike. The manner and order of their appearance may be the -same. The different degrees of their force and vivacity are, therefore, -the only particulars that distinguish them: and as this difference may -be removed, in some measure, by a relation betwixt the impressions -and ideas, 'tis no wonder an idea of a sentiment or passion may by -this means be so enlivened as to become the very sentiment or passion. -The lively idea of any object always approaches its impression; and -'tis certain we may feel sickness and pain from the mere force of -imagination, and make a malady real by often thinking of it. But this -is most remarkable in the opinions and affections; and 'tis there -principally that a lively idea is converted into an impression. Our -affections depend more upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span> ourselves, and the internal operations of -the mind, than any other impressions; for which reason they arise more -naturally from the imagination, and from every lively idea we form of -them. This is the nature and cause of sympathy; and 'tis after this -manner we enter so deep into the opinions and affections of others, -whenever we discover them.</p> - -<p>What is principally remarkable in this whole affair, is the strong -confirmation these phenomena give to the foregoing system concerning -the understanding, and consequently to the present one concerning -the passions, since these are analogous to each other. 'Tis indeed -evident, that when we sympathize with the passions and sentiments -of others, these movements appear at first in <i>our</i> mind as mere -ideas, and are conceived to belong to another person, as we conceive -any other matter of fact. 'Tis also evident, that the ideas of the -affections of others are converted into the very impressions they -represent, and that the passions arise in conformity to the images we -form of them. All this is an object of the plainest experience, and -depends not on any hypothesis of philosophy. That science can only be -admitted to explain the phenomena; though at the same time it must be -confessed, they are so clear of themselves, that there is but little -occasion to employ it. For, besides the relation of cause and effect, -by which we are convinced of the reality of the passion with which we -sympathize; besides this, I say, we must be assisted by the relations -of resemblance and contiguity, in order to feel the sympathy in its -full perfection. And since these relations can entirely convert an -idea into an impression, and convey the vivacity of the latter into -the former, so perfectly as to lose nothing of it in the transition, -we may easily conceive<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> how the relation of cause and effect alone, -may serve to strengthen and enliven an idea. In sympathy there is an -evident conversion of an idea into an impression. This conversion -arises from the relation of objects to ourself. Ourself is always -intimately present to us. Let us compare all these circumstances, and -we shall find, that sympathy is exactly correspondent to the operations -of our understanding; and even contains something more surprising and -extraordinary.</p> - -<p>'Tis now time to turn our view from the general consideration of -sympathy, to its influence on pride and humility, when these passions -arise from praise and blame, from reputation and infamy. We may -observe, that no person is ever praised by another for any quality -which would not, if real, produce of itself a pride in the person -possessed of it. The eulogiums either turn upon his power, or riches, -or family, or virtue; all of which are subjects of vanity, that we -have already explained and accounted for. 'Tis certain, then, that -if a person considered himself in the same light in which he appears -to his admirer, he would first receive a separate pleasure, and -afterwards a pride or self-satisfaction, according to the hypothesis -above explained. Now, nothing is more natural than for us to embrace -the opinions of others in this particular, both from <i>sympathy</i>, -which renders all their sentiments intimately present to us, and from -<i>reasoning</i>, which makes us regard their judgment as a kind of argument -for what they affirm. These two principles of authority and sympathy -influence almost all our opinions, but must have a peculiar influence -when we judge of our own worth and character. Such judgments are -always attended with passion;<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> and nothing tends<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span> more to disturb -our understanding, and precipitate us into any opinions, however -unreasonable, than their connexion with passion, which diffuses itself -over the imagination, and gives an additional force to every related -idea. To which we may add, that, being conscious of great partiality in -our own favour, we are peculiarly pleased with any thing that confirms -the good opinion we have of ourselves, and are easily shocked with -whatever opposes it.</p> - -<p>All this appears very probable in theory; but in order to bestow a -full certainty on this reasoning, we must examine the phenomena of the -passions, and see if they agree with it.</p> - -<p>Among these phenomena we may esteem it a very favourable one to our -present purpose, that though fame in general be agreeable, yet we -receive a much greater satisfaction from the approbation of those -whom we ourselves esteem and approve of, than of those whom we hate -and despise. In like manner we are principally mortified with the -contempt of persons upon whose judgment we set some value, and are, -in a great measure, indifferent about the opinions of the rest of -mankind. But if the mind received from any original instinct a desire -of fame, and aversion to infamy, fame and infamy would influence us -without distinction; and every opinion, according as it were favourable -or unfavourable, would equally excite that desire or aversion. The -judgment of a fool is the judgment of another person, as well as -that of a wise man, and is only inferior in its influence on our own -judgment.</p> - -<p>We are not only better pleased with the approbation of a wise man than -with that of a fool, but receive an additional satisfaction from the -former, when 'tis obtained after a long and intimate acquaintance. This -is accounted for after the same manner.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p> - -<p>The praises of others never give us much pleasure, unless they concur -with our own opinion, and extol us for those qualities in which we -chiefly excel. A mere soldier little values the character of eloquence; -a gownman, of courage; a bishop, of humour; or a merchant, of -learning. Whatever esteem a man may have for any quality, abstractedly -considered, when he is conscious he is not possessed of it, the -opinions of the whole world will give him little pleasure in that -particular, and that because they never will be able to draw his own -opinion after them.</p> - -<p>Nothing is more usual than for men of good families, but narrow -circumstances, to leave their friends and country, and rather seek -their livelihood by mean and mechanical employments among strangers, -than among those who are acquainted with their birth and education. -We shall be unknown, say they, where we go. Nobody will suspect from -what family we are sprung. We shall be removed from all our friends and -acquaintance, and our poverty and meanness will by that means sit more -easy upon us. In examining these sentiments, I find they afford many -very convincing arguments for my present purpose.</p> - -<p>First, we may infer from them that the uneasiness of being contemned -depends on sympathy, and that sympathy depends on the relation of -objects to ourselves, since we are most uneasy under the contempt of -persons who are both related to us by blood and contiguous in place. -Hence we seek to diminish this sympathy and uneasiness by separating -these relations, and placing ourselves in a contiguity to strangers, -and at a distance from relations.</p> - -<p>Secondly, we may conclude, that relations are requisite to sympathy, -not absolutely considered as relations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span> but by their influence -in converting our ideas of the sentiments of others into the very -sentiments by means of the association betwixt the idea of their -persons and that of our own. For here the relations of kindred and -contiguity both subsist, but not being united in the same persons, they -contribute in a less degree to the sympathy.</p> - -<p>Thirdly, this very circumstance of the diminution of sympathy, by the -separation of relations, is worthy of our attention. Suppose I am -placed in a poor condition among strangers, and consequently am but -lightly treated; I yet find myself easier in that situation, than when -I was every day exposed to the contempt of my kindred and countrymen. -Here I feel a double contempt; from my relations, but they are absent; -from those about me, but they are strangers. This double contempt is -likewise strengthened by the two relations of kindred and contiguity. -But as the persons are not the same who are connected with me by those -two relations, this difference of ideas separates the impressions -arising from the contempt, and keeps them from running into each other. -The contempt of my neighbours has a certain influence, as has also -that of my kindred; but these influences are distinct and never unite, -as when the contempt proceeds from persons who are at once both my -neighbours and kindred. This phenomenon is analogous to the system of -pride and humility above explained, which may seem so extraordinary to -vulgar apprehensions.</p> - -<p>Fourthly, a person in these circumstances naturally conceals his birth -from those among whom he lives, and is very uneasy if any one suspects -him to be of a family much superior to his present fortune and way of -living. Every thing in this world is judged of by comparison<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span> What is -an immense fortune for a private gentleman, is beggary for a prince. -A peasant would think himself happy in what cannot afford necessaries -for a gentleman. When a man has either been accustomed to a more -splendid way of living, or thinks himself entitled to it by his birth -and quality, every thing below is disagreeable and even shameful; and -'tis with the greatest industry he conceals his pretensions to a better -fortune. Here he himself knows his misfortunes; but as those with whom -he lives are ignorant of them, he has the disagreeable reflection and -comparison suggested only by his own thoughts, and never receives it by -a sympathy with others; which must contribute very much to his ease and -satisfaction.</p> - -<p>If there be any objections to this hypothesis, <i>that the pleasure which -we receive from praise arises from a communication of sentiments</i>, we -shall find, upon examination, that these objections, when taken in a -proper light, will serve to confirm it. Popular fame may be agreeable -even to a man who despises the vulgar; but 'tis because their multitude -gives them additional weight and authority. Plagiaries are delighted -with praises, which they are conscious they do not deserve; but this -is a kind of castle-building, where the imagination amuses itself -with its own fictions, and strives to render them firm and stable by -a sympathy with the sentiments of others. Proud men are most shocked -with contempt, though they do not most readily assent to it; but 'tis -because of the opposition betwixt the passion, which is natural to -them, and that received by sympathy. A violent lover, in like manner, -is very much displeased when you blame and condemn his love; though -'tis evident your opposition can have no influence but by the hold it -takes of himself, and by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span> his sympathy with you. If he despises you, or -perceives you are in jest, whatever you say has no effect upon him.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Part II. Sect. 4.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Book I. Part III. Sect. 10.</p></div> -<hr class="tb" /> - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_XII_aII" id="SECTION_XII_aII">SECTION XII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE PRIDE AND HUMILITY OF ANIMALS.</h5> - - -<p>Thus, in whatever light we consider this subject, we may still -observe, that the causes of pride and humility correspond exactly to -our hypothesis, and that nothing can excite either of these passions, -unless it be both related to ourselves, and produces a pleasure or -pain independent of the passion. We have not only proved, that a -tendency to produce pleasure or pain is common to all the causes of -pride or humility, but also that 'tis the only thing which is common, -and consequently is the quality by which they operate. We have farther -proved, that the most considerable causes of these passions are -really nothing but the power of producing either agreeable or uneasy -sensations; and therefore that all their effects, and amongst the rest -pride and humility, are derived solely from that origin. Such simple -and natural principles, founded on such solid proofs, cannot fail to be -received by philosophers, unless opposed by some objections that have -escaped me.</p> - -<p>'Tis usual with anatomists to join their observations and experiments -on human bodies to those on beasts; and, from the agreement of these -experiments, to derive an additional argument for any particular -hypothesis. 'Tis indeed certain, that where the structure of parts in -brutes is the same as in men, and the operation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span> of these parts also -the same, the causes of that operation cannot be different; and that -whatever we discover to be true of the one species, may be concluded, -without hesitation, to be certain of the other. Thus, though the -mixture of humours, and the composition of minute parts, may justly -be presumed to be somewhat different in men from what it is in mere -animals, and therefore any experiment we make upon the one concerning -the effects of medicines, will not always apply to the other, yet, as -the structure of the veins and muscles, the fabric and situation of the -heart, of the lungs, the stomach, the liver, and other parts, are the -same or nearly the same in all animals, the very same hypothesis, which -in one species explains muscular motion, the progress of the chyle, -the circulation of the blood, must be applicable to every one; and, -according as it agrees or disagrees with the experiments we may make in -any species of creatures, we may draw a proof of its truth or falsehood -on the whole. Let us therefore apply this method of inquiry, which is -found so just and useful in reasonings concerning the body, to our -present anatomy of the mind, and see what discoveries we can make by it.</p> - -<p>In order to this, we must first show the correspondence of <i>passions</i> -in men and animals, and afterwards compare the <i>causes</i>, which produce -these passions.</p> - -<p>'Tis plain, that almost in every species of creatures, but especially -of the nobler kind, there are many evident marks of pride and humility. -The very port and gait of a swan, or turkey, or peacock, show the high -idea he has entertained of himself, and his contempt of all others. -This is the more remarkable, that, in the two last species of animals, -the pride always attends the beauty, and is discovered in the mule -only. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> vanity and emulation of nightingales in singing have been -commonly remarked; as likewise that of horses in swiftness, of hounds -in sagacity and smell, of the bull and cock in strength, and of every -other animal in his particular excellency. Add to this, that every -species of creatures, which approach so often to man as to familiarize -themselves with him, show an evident pride in his approbation, and -are pleased with his praises and caresses, independent of every -other consideration. Nor are they the caresses of every one without -distinction which give them this vanity, but those principally of -the persons they know and love; in the same manner as that passion -is excited in mankind. All these are evident proofs that pride and -humility are not merely human passions, but extend themselves over the -whole animal creation.</p> - -<p>The <i>causes</i> of these passions are likewise much the same in beasts -as in us, making a just allowance for our superior knowledge and -understanding. Thus, animals have little or no sense of virtue or vice; -they quickly lose sight of the relations of blood; and are incapable -of that of right and property: for which reason the causes of their -pride and humility must lie solely in the body, and can never be placed -either in the mind or external objects. But so far as regards the body, -the same qualities cause pride in the animal as in the human kind; and -'tis on beauty, strength, swiftness, or some other useful or agreeable -quality, that this passage is always founded.</p> - -<p>The next question is, whether, since those passions are the same, and -arise from the same causes through the whole creation, the <i>manner</i>, -in which the causes operate, be also the same. According to all rules -of analogy, this is justly to be expected; and if we find<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> upon -trial, that the explication of these phenomena, which we make use of -in one species, will not apply to the rest, we may presume that that -explication, however specious, is in reality without foundation.</p> - -<p>In order to decide this question, let us consider, that there is -evidently the same <i>relation</i> of ideas, and derived from the same -causes, in the minds of animals as in those of men. A dog, that has -hid a bone, often forgets the place; but when brought to it, his -thought passes easily to what he formerly concealed, by means of the -contiguity, which produces a relation among his ideas. In like manner, -when he has been heartily beat in any place, he will tremble on his -approach to it, even though he discover no signs of any present danger. -The effects of resemblance are not so remarkable; but as that relation -makes a considerable ingredient in causation, of which all animals show -so evident a judgment, we may conclude, that the three relations of -resemblance, contiguity, and causation operate in the same manner upon -beasts as upon human creatures.</p> - -<p>There are also instances of the relation of impressions, sufficient to -convince us, that there is an union of certain affections with each -other in the inferior species of creatures, as well as in the superior, -and that their minds are frequently conveyed through a series of -connected emotions. A dog, when elevated with joy, runs naturally into -love and kindness, whether of his master or of the sex. In like manner, -when full of pain and sorrow, he becomes quarrelsome and ill natured; -and that passion, which at first was grief, is by the smallest occasion -converted into anger.</p> - -<p>Thus, all the internal principles that are necessary in us to produce -either pride or humility, are common<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span> to all creatures; and since the -causes, which excite these passions, are likewise the same, we may -justly conclude, that these causes operate after the same <i>manner</i> -through the whole animal creation. My hypothesis is so simple, and -supposes so little reflection and judgment, that 'tis applicable -to every sensible creature; which must not only be allowed to be a -convincing proof of its veracity, but, I am confident, will be found an -objection to every other system.</p> - - -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h4><a name="PART_II_II" id="PART_II_II">PART II.</a></h4> - -<h4>OF LOVE AND HATRED.</h4> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_I_bII" id="SECTION_I_bII">SECTION I.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE OBJECT AND CAUSES OF LOVE AND HATRED.</h5> - - -<p>'Tis altogether impossible to give any definition of the passions -of <i>love</i> and <i>hatred</i>; and that because they produce merely a -simple impression, without any mixture or composition. 'Twould be -as unnecessary to attempt any description of them, drawn from their -nature, origin, causes, and objects; and that both because these -are the subjects of our present inquiry, and because these passions -of themselves are sufficiently known from our common feeling and -experience. This we have already observed concerning pride and -humility, and here repeat it concerning love and hatred; and, indeed, -there is so great a resemblance betwixt these two sets of passions, -that we shall be obliged to begin with a kind of abridgment of our -reasonings concerning the former, in order to explain the latter.</p> - -<p>As the immediate <i>object</i> of pride and humility is self,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> or that -identical person of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are -intimately conscious; so the <i>object</i> of love and hatred is some -other person, of whose thoughts, actions and sensations, we are not -conscious. This is sufficiently evident from experience. Our love and -hatred are always directed to some sensible being external to us; and -when we talk of <i>self-love</i>, 'tis not in a proper sense, nor has the -sensation it produces any thing in common with that tender emotion, -which is excited by a friend or mistress. 'Tis the same case with -hatred. We may be mortified by our own faults and follies; but never -feel any anger or hatred, except from the injuries of others.</p> - -<p>But though the object of love and hatred be always some other person, -'tis plain that the object is not, properly speaking, the <i>cause</i> of -these passions, or alone sufficient to excite them. For since love -and hatred are directly contrary in their sensation, and have the -same object in common, if that object were also their cause, it would -produce these opposite passions in an equal degree; and as they must, -from the very first moment, destroy each other, none of them would ever -be able to make its appearance. There must, therefore, be some cause -different from the object.</p> - -<p>If we consider the causes of love and hatred, we shall find they are -very much diversified, and have not many things in common. The virtue, -knowledge, wit, good sense, good humour of any person, produce love -and esteem; as the opposite qualities, hatred and contempt. The same -passions arise from bodily accomplishments, such as beauty, force, -swiftness, dexterity; and from their contraries; as likewise from the -external advantages and disadvantages of family, possessions, clothes, -nation and climate. There is not one of these objects<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span> but what, by -its different qualities, may produce love and esteem, or hatred and -contempt.</p> - -<p>From the view of these causes we may derive a new distinction betwixt -the <i>quality</i> that operates, and the <i>subject</i> on which it is placed. -A prince that is possessed of a stately palace commands the esteem of -the people upon that account; and that, <i>first</i>, by the beauty of the -palace; and, <i>secondly</i>, by the relation of property, which connects it -with him. The removal of either of these destroys the passion; which -evidently proves that the cause is a compounded one.</p> - -<p>'Twould be tedious to trace the passions of love and hatred through all -the observations which we have formed concerning pride and humility, -and which are equally applicable to both sets of passions. 'Twill be -sufficient to <i>remark</i>, in general, that the object of love and hatred -is evidently some thinking person; and that the sensation of the former -passion is always agreeable, and of the latter uneasy. We may also -<i>suppose</i>, with some show of probability, <i>that the cause of both these -passions is always related to a thinking being</i>, and <i>that the cause of -the former produces a separate pleasure, and of the latter a separate -uneasiness</i>.</p> - -<p>One of these suppositions, viz. that the cause of love and hatred must -be related to a person or thinking being, in order to produce these -passions, is not only probable, but too evident to be contested. Virtue -and vice, when considered in the abstract; beauty and deformity, when -placed on inanimate objects; poverty and riches, when belonging to a -third person, excite no degree of love or hatred, esteem or contempt, -towards those who have no relation to them. A person looking out at a -window sees me in the street, and beyond me a beautiful palace, with -which I have no concern:<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span> I believe none will pretend, that this person -will pay me the same respect as if I were owner of the palace.</p> - -<p>'Tis not so evident at first sight, that a relation of impressions -is requisite to these passions, and that because in the transition -the one impression is so much confounded with the other, that they -become in a manner undistinguishable. But as in pride and humility, -we have easily been able to make the separation, and to prove, that -every cause of these passions produces a separate pain or pleasure, I -might here observe the same method with the same success, in examining -particularly the several causes of love and hatred. But as I hasten to -a full and decisive proof of these systems, I delay this examination -for a moment; and in the mean time shall endeavour to convert to my -present purpose all my reasonings concerning pride and humility, by an -argument that is founded on unquestionable experience.</p> - -<p>There are few persons that are satisfied with their own character, -or genius, or fortune, who are not desirous of showing themselves to -the world, and of acquiring the love and approbation of mankind. Now -'tis evident, that the very same qualities and circumstances, which -are the causes of pride or self-esteem, are also the causes of vanity, -or the desire of reputation; and that we always put to view those -particulars with which in ourselves we are best satisfied. But if love -and esteem were not produced by the same qualities as pride, according -as these qualities are related to ourselves or others, this method of -proceeding would be very absurd; nor could men expect a correspondence -in the sentiments of every other person with those themselves have -entertained. 'Tis true, few can form exact systems of the passions, or -make reflections on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span> their general nature and resemblances. But without -such a progress in philosophy, we are not subject to many mistakes in -this particular, but are sufficiently guided by common experience, as -well as by a kind of <i>presentation</i>, which tells us what will operate -on others, by what we feel immediately in ourselves. Since then the -same qualities that produce pride or humility, cause love or hatred, -all the arguments that have been employed to prove that the causes -of the former passions excite a pain or pleasure independent of the -passion, will be applicable with equal evidence to the causes of the -latter.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_II_bII" id="SECTION_II_bII">SECTION II.</a></h5> - -<h5>EXPERIMENTS TO CONFIRM THIS SYSTEM.</h5> - - -<p>Upon duly weighing these arguments, no one will make any scruple to -assent to that conclusion I draw from them, concerning the transition -along related impressions and ideas, especially as 'tis a principle in -itself so easy and natural. But that we may place this system beyond -doubt, both with regard to love and hatred, pride and humility, 'twill -be proper to make some new experiments upon all these passions, as well -as to recal a few of these observations which I have formerly touched -upon.</p> - -<p>In order to make these experiments, let us suppose I am in company with -a person, whom I formerly regarded without any sentiments either of -friendship or enmity. Here I have the natural and ultimate object of -all these four passions placed before me. Myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span> am the proper object -of pride or humility; the other person of love or hatred.</p> - -<p>Regard now with attention the nature of these passions, and their -situation with respect to each other. 'Tis evident here are four -affections, placed as it were in a square, or regular connexion with, -and distance from, each other. The passions of pride and humility, -as well as those of love and hatred, are connected together by the -identity of their object, which to the first set of passions is self, -to the second some other person. These two lines of communication or -connexion form two opposite sides of the square. Again, pride and love -are agreeable passions; hatred and humility uneasy. This similitude of -sensation betwixt pride and love, and that betwixt humility and hatred, -form a new connexion, and may be considered as the other two sides of -the square. Upon the whole, pride is connected with humility, love -with hatred, by their objects or ideas: pride with love, humility with -hatred, by their sensations or impressions.</p> - -<p>I say then, that nothing can produce any of these passions without -bearing it a double relation, viz. of ideas to the object of the -passion, and of sensation to the passion itself. This we must prove by -our experiments.</p> - -<p><i>First experiment</i>. To proceed with the greater order in these -experiments, let us first suppose, that being placed in the situation -above mentioned, viz. in company with some other person, there is an -object presented, that has no relation either of impressions or ideas -to any of these passions. Thus, suppose we regard together an ordinary -stone, or other common object, belonging to neither of us, and causing -of itself no emotion, or independent pain and pleasure: 'tis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span> evident -such an object will produce none of these four passions. Let us try it -upon each of them successively. Let us apply it to love, to hatred, to -humility, to pride; none of them ever arises in the smallest degree -imaginable. Let us change the object as oft as we please, provided -still we choose one that has neither of these two relations. Let us -repeat the experiment in all the dispositions of which the mind is -susceptible. No object in the vast variety of nature will, in any -disposition, produce any passion without these relations.</p> - -<p><i>Second experiment</i>. Since an object that wants both these relations -can ever produce any passion, let us bestow on it only one of these -relations, and see what will follow. Thus, suppose I regard a stone, -or any common object that belongs either to me or my companion, and by -that means acquires a relation of ideas to the object of the passions: -'tis plain that, to consider the matter <i>a priori</i>, no emotion of -any kind can reasonably be expected. For, besides that a relation of -ideas operates secretly and calmly on the mind, it bestows an equal -impulse towards the opposite passions of pride and humility, love -and hatred, according as the object belongs to ourselves or others; -which opposition of the passions must destroy both, and leave the mind -perfectly free from any affection or emotion. This reasoning <i>a priori</i> -is confirmed by experience. No trivial or vulgar object, that causes -not a pain or pleasure independent of the passion, will ever, by its -property or other relations, either to ourselves or others, be able to -produce the affections of pride or humility, love or hatred.</p> - -<p><i>Third experiment</i>. 'Tis evident, therefore, that a relation of ideas -is not able alone to give rise to these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span> affections. Let us now remove -this relation, and, in its stead, place a relation of impressions, -by presenting an object, which is agreeable or disagreeable, but has -no relation either to ourself or companion; and let us observe the -consequences. To consider the matter first <i>a priori</i>, as in the -preceding experiment, we may conclude that the object will have a -small, but an uncertain connexion with these passions. For, besides -that this relation is not a cold and imperceptible one, it has not -the inconvenience of the relation of ideas, nor directs us with equal -force to two contrary passions, which, by their opposition, destroy -each other. But if we consider, on the other hand, that this transition -from the sensation to the affection is not forwarded by any principle -that produces a transition of ideas; but, on the contrary, that though -the one impression be easily transfused into the other, yet the change -of objects is supposed contrary to all the principles that cause a -transition of that kind; we may from thence infer, that nothing will -ever be a steady or durable cause of any passion that is connected with -the passion merely by a relation of impressions. What our reason would -conclude from analogy, after balancing these arguments, would be, that -an object, which produces pleasure or uneasiness, but has no manner of -connexion either with ourselves or others, may give such a turn to the -disposition as that it may naturally fall into pride or love, humility -or hatred, and search for other objects, upon which, by a double -relation, it can found these affections; but that an object, which has -only one of these relations, though the most advantageous one, can -never give rise to any constant and established passion.</p> - -<p>Most fortunately, all this reasoning is found to be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span> exactly -conformable to experience and the phenomena of the passions. Suppose I -were travelling with a companion through a country to which we are both -utter strangers; 'tis evident, that if the prospects be beautiful, the -roads agreeable, and the inns commodious, this may put me into good -humour both with myself and fellow-traveller. But as we suppose that -this country has no relation either to myself or friend, it can never -be the immediate cause of pride or love; and, therefore, if I found -not the passion on some other object that bears either of us a closer -relation, my emotions are rather to be considered as the overflowings -of an elevate or humane disposition, than as an established passion. -The case is the same where the object produces uneasiness.</p> - -<p><i>Fourth experiment</i>. Having found, that neither an object, without -any relation of ideas or impressions, nor an object that has only one -relation, can ever cause pride or humility, love or hatred; reason -alone may convince us, without any farther experiment, that whatever -has a double relation must necessarily excite these passions; since -'tis evident they must have some cause. But, to leave as little room -for doubt as possible, let us renew our experiments, and see whether -the event in this case answers our expectation. I chuse an object, -such as virtue, that causes a separate satisfaction: on this object -I bestow a relation to self; and find, that from this disposition of -affairs there immediately arises a passion. But what passion? That very -one of pride, to which this object bears a double relation. Its idea -is related to that of self, the object of the passion: the sensation -it causes resembles the sensation of the passion. That I may be sure I -am not mistaken in this experiment, I remove first one relation, then -another,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span> and find that each removal destroys the passion, and leaves -the object perfectly indifferent. But I am not content with this. I -make a still farther trial; and instead of removing the relation, -I only change it for one of a different kind. I suppose the virtue -to belong to my companion, not to myself; and observe what follows -from this alteration. I immediately perceive the affections to wheel -about, and leaving pride, where there is only one relation, viz. -of impressions, fall to the side of love, where they are attracted -by a double relation of impressions and ideas. By repeating the -same experiment in changing anew the relation of ideas, I bring the -affections back to pride; and, by a new repetition, I again place them -at love or kindness. Being fully convinced of the influence of this -relation, I try the effects of the other; and, by changing virtue for -vice, convert the pleasant impression which arises from the former, -into the disagreeable one which proceeds from the latter. The effect -still answers expectation. Vice, when placed on another, excites, -by means of its double relations, the passion of hatred, instead of -love, which, for the same reason, arises from virtue. To continue the -experiment, I change anew the relation of ideas, and suppose the vice -to belong to myself. What follows? What is usual. A subsequent change -of the passion from hatred to humility. This humility I convert into -pride by a new change of the impression; and find, after all, that I -have completed the round, and have by these changes brought back the -passion to that very situation in which I first found it.</p> - -<p>But to make the matter still more certain, I alter the object; and, -instead of vice and virtue, make the trial upon beauty and deformity, -riches and poverty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> power and servitude. Each of these objects runs -the circle of the passions in the same manner, by a change of their -relations: and in whatever order we proceed, whether through pride, -love, hatred, humility, or through humility, hatred, love, pride, -the experiment is not in the least diversified. Esteem and contempt, -indeed, arise on some occasions instead of love and hatred; but these -are, at the bottom, the same passions, only diversified by some causes, -which we shall explain afterwards.</p> - -<p><i>Fifth experiment</i>. To give greater authority to these experiments, let -us change the situation of affairs as much as possible, and place the -passions and objects in all the different positions of which they are -susceptible. Let us suppose, beside the relations above mentioned, that -the person, along with whom I make all these experiments, is closely -connected with me either by blood or friendship. He is, we shall -suppose, my son or brother, or is united to me by a long and familiar -acquaintance. Let us next suppose, that the cause of the passion -acquires a double relation of impressions and ideas to this person; and -let us see what the effects are of all these complicated attractions -and relations.</p> - -<p>Before we consider what they are in fact, let us determine what they -ought to be, conformable to my hypothesis. 'Tis plain, that, according -as the impression is either pleasant or uneasy, the passion of love or -hatred must arise towards the person who is thus connected to the cause -of the impression by these double relations which I have all along -required. The virtue of a brother must make me love him, as his vice -or infamy must excite the contrary passion. But to judge only from the -situation of affairs, I should not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> expect that the affections would -rest there, and never transfuse themselves into any other impression. -As there is here a person, who, by means of a double relation, is the -object of my passion, the very same reasoning leads me to think the -passion will be carried farther. The person has a relation of ideas -to myself, according to the supposition; the passion of which he is -the object, by being either agreeable or uneasy, has a relation of -impressions to pride or humility. 'Tis evident, then, that one of these -passions must arise from the love or hatred.</p> - -<p>This is the reasoning I form in conformity to my hypothesis; and am -pleased to find, upon trial, that every thing answers exactly to my -expectation. The virtue or vice of a son or brother not only excites -love or hatred, but, by a new transition from similar causes, gives -rise to pride or humility. Nothing causes greater vanity than any -shining quality in our relations; as nothing mortifies us more than -their vice or infamy. This exact conformity of experience to our -reasoning is a convincing proof of the solidity of that hypothesis upon -which we reason.</p> - -<p><i>Sixth experiment</i>. This evidence will be still augmented if we reverse -the experiment, and, preserving still the same relations, begin only -with a different passion. Suppose that, instead of the virtue or vice -of a son or brother, which causes first love or hatred, and afterwards -pride or humility, we place these good or bad qualities on ourselves, -without any immediate connexion with the person who is related to us, -experience shows us, that, by this change of situation, the whole -chain is broke, and that the mind is not conveyed from one passion to -another, as in the preceding instance. We never love or hate a son or -brother for<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> the virtue or vice we discern in ourselves; though 'tis -evident the same qualities in him give us a very sensible pride or -humility. The transition from pride or humility to love or hatred, -is not so natural as from love or hatred to pride or humility. This -may at first sight be esteemed contrary to my hypothesis, since the -relations of impressions and ideas are in both cases precisely the -same. Pride and humility are impressions related to love and hatred. -Myself am related to the person. It should therefore be expected, that -like causes must produce like effects, and a perfect transition arise -from the double relation, as in all other cases. This difficulty we may -easily solve by the following reflections.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident that, as we are at all times intimately conscious of -ourselves, our sentiments and passions, their ideas must strike upon us -with greater vivacity than the ideas of the sentiments and passions of -any other person. But every thing that strikes upon us with vivacity, -and appears in a full and strong light, forces itself, in a manner, -into our consideration, and becomes present to the mind on the smallest -hint and most trivial relation. For the same reason, when it is once -present, it engages the attention, and keeps it from wandering to other -objects, however strong may be their relation to our first object. -The imagination passes easily from obscure to lively ideas, but with -difficulty from lively to obscure. In the one case the relation is -aided by another principle; in the other case, 'tis opposed by it.</p> - -<p>Now, I have observed, that those two faculties of the mind, the -imagination and passions, assist each other in their operation when -their propensities are similar, and when they act upon the same object. -The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span> mind has always a propensity to pass from a passion to any other -related to it; and this propensity is forwarded when the object of the -one passion is related to that of the other. The two impulses concur -with each other, and render the whole transition more smooth and easy. -But if it should happen, that, while the relation of ideas, strictly -speaking, continues the same, its influence in causing a transition -of the imagination should no longer take place, 'tis evident its -influence on the passions must also cease, as being dependent entirely -on that transition. This is the reason why pride or humility is not -transfused into love or hatred with the same ease that the latter -passions are changed into the former. If a person be my brother, I am -his likewise: but though the relations be reciprocal, they have very -different effects on the imagination. The passage is smooth and open -from the consideration of any person related to us to that of ourself, -of whom we are every moment conscious. But when the affections are once -directed to ourself, the fancy passes not with the same facility from -that object to any other person, how closely soever connected with us. -This easy or difficult transition of the imagination operates upon the -passions, and facilitates or retards their transition; which is a clear -proof that these two faculties of the passions and imagination are -connected together, and that the relations of ideas have an influence -upon the affections. Besides innumerable experiments that prove -this, we here find, that even when the relation remains; if by any -particular circumstance its usual effect upon the fancy in producing an -association or transition of ideas is prevented, its usual effect upon -the passions, in conveying us from one to another, is in like manner -prevented.</p> - -<p>Some may, perhaps, find a contradiction betwixt<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span> this phenomenon -and that of sympathy, where the mind passes easily from the idea -of ourselves to that of any other object related to us. But this -difficulty will vanish, if we consider that in sympathy our own person -is not the object of any passion, nor is there any thing that fixes our -attention on ourselves, as in the present case, where we are supposed -to be actuated, with pride or humility. Ourself, independent of the -perception of every other object, is in reality nothing; for which -reason we must turn our view to external objects, and 'tis natural for -us to consider with most attention such as lie contiguous to us, or -resemble us. But when self is the object of a passion, 'tis not natural -to quit the consideration of it till the passion be exhausted, in -which case the double relations of impressions and ideas can no longer -operate.</p> - -<p><i>Seventh experiment</i>. To put this whole reasoning to a farther trial, -let us make a new experiment; and as we have already seen the effects -of related passions and ideas, let us here suppose an identity of -passions along with a relation of ideas; and let us consider the -effects of this new situation. 'Tis evident a transition of the -passions from the one object to the other is here in all reason to be -expected; since the relation of ideas is supposed still to continue, -and an identity of impressions must produce a stronger connexion, -than the most perfect resemblance that can be imagined. If a double -relation, therefore, of impressions and ideas, is able to produce a -transition from one to the other, much more an identity of impressions -with a relation of ideas. Accordingly, we find, that when we either -love or hate any person, the passions seldom continue within their -first bounds; but extend themselves towards all the contiguous -objects,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span> and comprehend the friends and relations of him we love or -hate. Nothing is more natural than to bear a kindness to one brother on -account of our friendship for another, without any farther examination -of his character. A quarrel with one person gives us a hatred for the -whole family, though entirely innocent of that which displeases us. -Instances of this kind are every where to be met with.</p> - -<p>There is only one difficulty in this experiment which it will be -necessary to account for, before we proceed any farther. 'Tis evident, -that though all passions pass easily from one object to another related -to it, yet this transition is made with greater facility where the -more considerable object is first presented, and the lesser follows -it, than where this order is reversed, and the lesser takes the -precedence. Thus, 'tis more natural for us to love the son upon account -of the father, than the father upon account of the son; the servant -for the master, than the master for the servant; the subject for the -prince, than the prince for the subject. In like manner we more readily -contract a hatred against a whole family, where our first quarrel -is with the head of it, than where we are displeased with a son, or -servant, or some inferior member. In short, our passions, like other -objects, descend with greater facility than they ascend.</p> - -<p>That we may comprehend wherein consists the difficulty of explaining -this phenomenon, we must consider, that the very same reason, which -determines the imagination to pass from remote to contiguous objects -with more facility than from contiguous to remote, causes it likewise -to change with more ease the less for the greater, than the greater for -the less. Whatever has the greatest influence is most taken notice of; -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> whatever is most taken notice of, presents itself most readily -to the imagination. We are more apt to overlook in any subject what -is trivial, than what appears of considerable moment; but especially -if the latter takes the precedence, and first engages our attention. -Thus, if any accident makes us consider the satellites of Jupiter, our -fancy is naturally determined to form the idea of that planet; but if -we first reflect on the principal planet, 'tis more natural for us to -overlook its attendants. The mention of the provinces of any empire -conveys our thought to the seat of the empire; but the fancy returns -not with the same facility to the consideration of the provinces. -The idea of the servant makes us think of the master; that of the -subject carries our view to the prince. But the same relation has not -an equal influence in conveying us back again. And on this is founded -that reproach of Cornelia to her sons, that they ought to be ashamed -she should be more known by the title of the daughter of Scipio, -than by that of the mother of the Gracchi. This was, in other words, -exhorting them to render themselves as illustrious and famous as their -grandfather, otherwise the imagination of the people, passing from her -who was intermediate, and placed in an equal relation to both, would -always leave them, and denominate her by what was more considerable and -of greater moment. On the same principle is founded that common custom -of making wives bear the name of their husbands, rather than husbands -that of their wives; as also the ceremony of giving the precedency to -those whom we honour and respect. We might find many other instances to -confirm this principle, were it not already sufficiently evident.</p> - -<p>Now, since the fancy finds the same facility in passing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> from the -lesser to the greater, as from remote to contiguous, why does not -this easy transition of ideas assist the transition of passions in -the former case as well as in the latter? The virtues of a friend -or brother produce first love, and then pride; because in that case -the imagination passes from remote to contiguous, according to its -propensity. Our own virtues produce not first pride, and then love to -a friend or brother; because the passage in that case would be from -contiguous to remote, contrary to its propensity. But the love or -hatred of an inferior, causes not readily any passion to the superior, -though that be the natural propensity of the imagination: while the -love or hatred of a superior, causes a passion to the inferior, -contrary to its propensity. In short, the same facility of transition -operates not in the same manner upon superior and inferior as upon -contiguous and remote. These two phenomena appear contradictory, and -require some attention to be reconciled.</p> - -<p>As the transition of ideas is here made contrary to the natural -propensity of the imagination, that faculty must be overpowered by -some stronger principle of another kind; and as there is nothing ever -present to the mind but impressions and ideas, this principle must -necessarily lie in the impressions. Now, it has been observed, that -impressions or passions are connected only by their resemblance, and -that where any two passions place the mind in the same or in similar -dispositions, it very naturally passes from the one to the other: as on -the contrary, a repugnance in the dispositions produces a difficulty -in the transition of the passions. But, 'tis observable, that this -repugnance may arise from a difference of degree as well as of kind; -nor do we experience a greater difficulty in passing suddenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> from a -small degree of love to a small degree of hatred, than from a small to -a great degree of either of these affections. A man, when calm or only -moderately agitated, is so different, in every respect, from himself, -when disturbed with a violent passion, that no two persons can be more -unlike; nor is it easy to pass from the one extreme to the other, -without a considerable interval betwixt them.</p> - -<p>The difficulty is not less, if it be not rather greater in passing -from the strong passion to the weak, than in passing from the weak to -the strong, provided the one passion upon its appearance destroys the -other, and they do not both of them exist at once. But the case is -entirely altered, when the passions unite together, and actuate the -mind at the same time. A weak passion, when added to a strong, makes -not so considerable change in the disposition, as a strong when added -to a weak; for which reason there is a closer connexion betwixt the -great degree and the small, than betwixt the small degree and the great.</p> - -<p>The degree of any passion depends upon the nature of its object; and an -affection directed to a person, who is considerable in our eyes, fills -and possesses the mind much more than one, which has for its object -a person we esteem of less consequence. Here then, the contradiction -betwixt the propensities of the imagination and passion displays -itself. When we turn our thought to a great and a small object, the -imagination finds more facility in passing from the small to the great, -than from the great to the small; but the affections find a greater -difficulty: and, as the affections are a more powerful principle than -the imagination, no wonder they prevail over it, and draw the mind to -their side. In spite of the difficulty of passing from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span> the idea of -great to that of little, a passion directed to the former produces -always a similar passion towards the latter, when the great and little -are related together. The idea of the servant conveys our thought most -readily to the master; but the hatred or love of the master produces -with greater facility anger or good will to the servant. The strongest -passion in this case takes the precedence; and the addition of the -weaker making no considerable change on the disposition, the passage is -by that means rendered more easy and natural betwixt them.</p> - -<p>As, in the foregoing experiment, we found that a relation of ideas, -which, by any particular circumstance, ceases to produce its usual -effect of facilitating the transition of ideas, ceases likewise to -operate on the passions; so, in the present experiment, we find the -same property of the impressions. Two different degrees of the same -passion are surely related together; but if the smaller be first -present, it has little or no tendency to introduce the greater; and -that because the addition of the great to the little produces a more -sensible alteration on the temper than the addition of the little to -the great. These phenomena, when duly weighed, will be found convincing -proofs of this hypothesis.</p> - -<p>And these proofs will be confirmed, if we consider the manner in which -the mind here reconciles the contradiction I have observed betwixt the -passions and the imagination. The fancy passes with more facility from -the less to the greater, than from the greater to the less. But, on the -contrary, a violent passion produces more easily a feeble than that -does a violent. In this opposition, the passion in the end prevails -over the imagination: but 'tis commonly by complying with it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> and -by seeking another quality, which may counterbalance that principle -from whence the opposition arises. When we love the father or master -of a family, we think of his children or servants. But when these are -present with us, or when it lies any ways in our power to serve them, -the nearness and contiguity in this case increases their magnitude, -or at least removes that opposition which the fancy makes to the -transition of the affections. If the imagination finds a difficulty in -passing from greater to less, it finds an equal facility in passing -from remote to contiguous, which brings the matter to an equality, and -leaves the way open from the one passion to the other.</p> - -<p><i>Eighth experiment</i>. I have observed, that the transition from love or -hatred to pride or humility, is more easy than from pride or humility -to love or hatred; and that the difficulty which the imagination finds -in passing from contiguous to remote, is the cause why we scarce have -any instance of the latter transition of the affections. I must, -however, make one exception, viz. when the very cause of the pride -and humility is placed in some other person. For, in that case, the -imagination is necessitated to consider the person, nor can it possibly -confine its view to ourselves. Thus, nothing more readily produces -kindness and affection to any person than his approbation of our -conduct and character; as, on the other hand, nothing inspires us with -a stronger hatred than his blame or contempt. Here, 'tis evident, that -the original passion is pride or humility, whose object is self; and -that this passion is transfused into love or hatred, whose object is -some other person, notwithstanding the rule I have already established, -<i>that the imagination passes with difficulty from contiguous to -remote</i>. But the transition in this case is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span> not made merely on account -of the relation betwixt ourselves and the person; but because that very -person is the real cause of our first passion, and, of consequence, is -intimately connected with it. 'Tis his approbation that produces pride, -and disapprobation humility. No wonder, then, the imagination returns -back again attended with the related passions of love and hatred. This -is not a contradiction, but an exception to the rule; and an exception -that arises from the same reason with the rule itself.</p> - -<p>Such an exception as this is, therefore, rather a confirmation of the -rule. And indeed, if we consider all the eight experiments I have -explained, we shall find that the same principle appears in all of -them, and that 'tis by means of a transition arising from a double -relation of impressions and ideas, pride and humility, love and hatred -are produced. An object without a relation,<a name="FNanchor_1_7" id="FNanchor_1_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_7" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> or with but one,<a name="FNanchor_2_8" id="FNanchor_2_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_8" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> -never produces either of these passions; and 'tis found<a name="FNanchor_3_9" id="FNanchor_3_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_9" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> that the -passion always varies in conformity to the relation. Nay we may -observe, that where the relation, by any particular circumstance, has -not its usual effect of producing a transition either of ideas or of -impressions,<a name="FNanchor_4_10" id="FNanchor_4_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_10" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>| it ceases to operate upon the passions, and gives -rise neither to pride nor love, humility nor hatred. This rule we find -still to hold good, even under the appearance of its contrary;<a name="FNanchor_5_11" id="FNanchor_5_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_11" class="fnanchor">[5]</a> and -as relation is frequently experienced to have no effect, which upon -examination is found to proceed from some particular circumstance -that prevents the transition; so, even in instances where that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> -circumstance, though present, prevents not the transition, 'tis found -to arise from some other circumstance which counterbalances it. Thus, -not only the variations resolve themselves into the general principle, -but even the variations of these variations.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_7" id="Footnote_1_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_7"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> First experiment.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_8" id="Footnote_2_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_8"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Second and third experiments.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_9" id="Footnote_3_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_9"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Fourth experiment.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_10" id="Footnote_4_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_10"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Sixth experiment.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_5_11" id="Footnote_5_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_11"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Seventh and eighth experiments.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_III_bII" id="SECTION_III_bII">SECTION III.</a></h5> - -<h5>DIFFICULTIES SOLVED.</h5> - - -<p>After so many and such undeniable proofs drawn from daily experience -and observation, it may seem superfluous to enter into a particular -examination of all the causes of love and hatred. I shall therefore -employ the sequel of this part, <i>first</i>, in removing some difficulties -concerning particular causes of these passions; <i>secondly</i>, in -examining the compound affections, which arise from the mixture of love -and hatred with other emotions.</p> - -<p>Nothing is more evident, than that any person acquires our kindness, or -is exposed to our ill-will, in proportion to the pleasure or uneasiness -we receive from him, and that the passions keep pace exactly with the -sensations in all their changes and variations. Whoever can find the -means, either by his services, his beauty, or his flattery, to render -himself useful or agreeable to us, is sure of our affections; as, on -the other hand, whoever harms or displeases us never fails to excite -our anger or hatred. When our own nation is at war with any other, -we detest them under the character of cruel, perfidious, unjust, and -violent; but always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span> esteem ourselves and allies equitable, moderate, -and merciful. If the general of our enemies be successful, 'tis with -difficulty we allow him the figure and character of a man. He is a -sorcerer; he has a communication with demons, as is reported of Oliver -Cromwell and the Duke of Luxembourg; he is bloody-minded, and takes a -pleasure in death and destruction. But if the success be on our side, -our commander has all the opposite good qualities, and is a pattern -of virtue, as well as of courage and conduct. His treachery we call -policy; his cruelty is an evil inseparable from war. In short, every -one of his faults we either endeavour to extenuate, or dignify it with -the name of that virtue which approaches it. 'Tis evident the same -method of thinking rims through common life.</p> - -<p>There are some who add another condition, and require not only that the -pain and pleasure arise from the person, but likewise that it arise -knowingly, and with a particular design and intention. A man who wounds -and harms us by accident, becomes not our enemy upon that account; nor -do we think ourselves bound, by any ties of gratitude, to one who does -us any service after the same manner. By the intention we judge of the -actions; and, according as that is good or bad, they become causes of -love or hatred.</p> - -<p>But here we must make a distinction. If that quality in another, which -pleases or displeases, be constant and inherent in his person and -character, it will cause love or hatred, independent of the intention: -but otherwise a knowledge and design is requisite, in order to give -rise to these passions. One that is disagreeable by his deformity or -folly, is the object of our aversion, though nothing be more certain, -than that he has not the least intention of displeasing us by these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span> -qualities. But if the uneasiness proceed not from a quality, but an -action, which is produced and annihilated in a moment, 'tis necessary, -in order to produce some relation, and connect this action sufficiently -with the person, that it be derived from a particular forethought and -design. 'Tis not enough that the action arise from the person, and -have him for its immediate cause and author. This relation alone is -too feeble and inconstant to be a foundation for these passions. It -reaches not the sensible and thinking part, and neither proceeds from -any thing <i>durable</i> in him, nor leaves any thing behind it, but passes -in a moment, and is as if it had never been. On the other hand, an -intention shows certain qualities, which, remaining after the action is -performed, connect it with the person, and facilitate the transition -of ideas from one to the other. We can never think of him without -reflecting on these qualities, unless repentance and a change of life -have produced an alteration in that respect; in which case the passion -is likewise altered. This, therefore, is one reason why an intention is -requisite to excite either love or hatred.</p> - -<p>But we must farther consider, that an intention, besides its -strengthening the relation of ideas, is often necessary to produce a -relation of impressions, and give rise to pleasure and uneasiness. For -'tis observable, that the principal part of an injury is the contempt -and hatred which it shows in the person that injures us; and without -that, the mere harm gives us a less sensible uneasiness. In like -manner, a good office is agreeable, chiefly because it flatters our -vanity, and is a proof of the kindness and esteem of the person who -performs it. The removal of the intention removes the mortification -in the one case, and vanity in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> the other; and must of course cause a -remarkable diminution in the passions of love and hatred.</p> - -<p>I grant, that these effects of the removal of design, hatred, in -diminishing the relations of impressions and ideas, are not entire, nor -able to remove every degree of these relations. But then I ask, if the -removal of design be able entirely to remove the passion of love and -hatred? Experience, I am sure, informs us of the contrary, nor is there -any thing more certain than that men often fall into a violent anger -for injuries which they themselves must own to be entirely involuntary -and accidental. This emotion, indeed, cannot be of long continuance, -but still is sufficient to show, that there is a natural connexion -betwixt uneasiness and anger, and that the relation of impressions will -operate upon a very small relation of ideas. But when the violence of -the impression is once a little abated, the defect of the relation -begins to be better felt; and as the character of a person is no wise -interested in such injuries as are casual and involuntary, it seldom -happens that on their account we entertain a lasting enmity.</p> - -<p>To illustrate this doctrine by a parallel instance, we may observe, -that not only the uneasiness which proceeds from another by accident, -has but little force to excite our passion, but also that which arises -from an acknowledged necessity and duty. One that has a real design of -harming us, proceeding not from hatred and ill will, but from justice -and equity, draws not upon him our anger, if we be in any degree -reasonable; notwithstanding he is both the cause, and the knowing -cause, of our sufferings. Let us examine a little this phenomenon.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident, in the first place, that this circumstance is not -decisive; and though it may be able to diminish<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span> the passions, 'tis -seldom it can entirely remove them. How few criminals are there who -have no ill will to the person that accuses them, or to the judge that -condemns them, even though they be conscious of their own deserts! -In like manner our antagonist in a lawsuit, and our competitor for -any office, are commonly regarded as our enemies, though we must -acknowledge, if we would but reflect a moment, that their motive is -entirely as justifiable as our own.</p> - -<p>Besides we may consider, that when we receive harm from any person, -we are apt to imagine him criminal, and 'tis with extreme difficulty -we allow of his justice and innocence. This is a clear proof that, -independent of the opinion of iniquity, any harm or uneasiness has a -natural tendency to excite our hatred, and that afterwards we seek for -reasons upon which we may justify and establish the passion. Here the -idea of injury produces not the passion, but arises from it.</p> - -<p>Nor is it any wonder that passion should produce the opinion of injury; -since otherwise it must suffer a considerable diminution, which all the -passions avoid as much as possible. The removal of injury may remove -the anger, without proving that the anger arises only from the injury. -The harm and the justice are two contrary objects, of which the one has -a tendency to produce hatred, and the other love; and 'tis according -to their different degrees, and our particular turn of thinking, that -either of the objects prevails and excites its proper passion.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_IV_bII" id="SECTION_IV_bII">SECTION IV.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE LOVE OF RELATIONS.</h5> - - -<p>Having given a reason why several actions that cause a real pleasure or -uneasiness excite not any degree, or but a small one, of the passion of -love or hatred towards the actors, 'twill be necessary to show wherein -consists the pleasure or uneasiness of many objects which we find by -experience to produce these passions.</p> - -<p>According to the preceding system, there is always required a double -relation of impressions and ideas betwixt the cause and effect, in -order to produce either love or hatred. But though this be universally -true, 'tis remarkable that the passion of love may be excited by -only one <i>relation</i> of a different kind, viz. betwixt ourselves and -the object; or, more properly speaking, that this relation is always -attended with both the others. Whoever is united to us by any connexion -is always sure of a share of our love, proportioned to the connexion, -without inquiring into his other qualities. Thus, the relation of -blood produces the strongest tie the mind is capable of in the love of -parents to their children, and a lesser degree of the same affection -as the relation lessens. Nor has consanguinity alone this effect, but -any other relation without exception. We love our countrymen, our -neighbours, those of the same trade, profession, and even name with -ourselves. Every one of these relations is esteemed some tie, and gives -a title to a share of our affection.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span></p> - -<p>There is another phenomenon which is parallel to this, viz. that -<i>acquaintance</i>, without any kind of relation, gives rise to love and -kindness. When we have contracted a habitude and intimacy with any -person, though in frequenting his company we have not been able to -discover any very valuable quality of which he is possessed; yet we -cannot forbear preferring him to strangers of whose superior merit we -are fully convinced. These two phenomena of the effects of relation -and acquaintance will give mutual light to each other, and may be both -explained from the same principle.</p> - -<p>Those who take a pleasure in declaiming against human nature have -observed, that man is altogether insufficient to support himself, -and that, when you loosen all the holds which he has of external -objects, he immediately drops down into the deepest melancholy and -despair. From this, say they, proceeds that continual search after -amusement in gaming, in hunting, in business, by which we endeavour -to forget ourselves, and excite our spirits from the languid state -into which they fall when not sustained by some brisk and lively -emotion. To this method of thinking I so far agree, that I own the -mind to be insufficient, of itself, to its own entertainment, and that -it naturally seeks after foreign objects which may produce a lively -sensation, and agitate the spirits. On the appearance of such an object -it awakes, as it were, from a dream; the blood flows with a new tide; -the heart is elevated; and the whole man acquires a vigour which he -cannot command in his solitary and calm moments. Hence company is -naturally so rejoicing, as presenting the liveliest of all objects, -viz. a rational and thinking being like ourselves, who communicates -to us all the actions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> of his mind, makes us privy to his inmost -sentiments and affections, and lets us see, in the very instant of -their production, all the emotions which are caused by any object. -Every lively idea is agreeable, but especially that of a passion, -because such an idea becomes a kind of passion, and gives a more -sensible agitation to the mind than any other image or conception.</p> - -<p>This being once admitted, all the rest is easy. For as the company of -strangers is agreeable to us for <i>a short time</i>, by enlivening our -thought, so the company of our relations and acquaintance must be -peculiarly agreeable, because it has this effect in a greater degree, -and is of more <i>durable</i> influence. Whatever is related to us is -conceived in a lively manner by the easy transition from ourselves -to the related object. Custom also, or acquaintance, facilitates the -entrance, and strengthens the conception of any object. The first case -is parallel to our reasonings from cause and effect; the second to -education. And as reasoning and education concur only in producing a -lively and strong idea of any object, so is this the only particular -which is common to relation and acquaintance. This must therefore be -the influencing quality by which they produce all their common effects; -and love or kindness being one of these effects, it must be from the -force and liveliness of conception that the passion is derived. Such a -conception is peculiarly agreeable, and makes us have an affectionate -regard for every thing that produces it, when the proper object of -kindness and good will.</p> - -<p>'Tis obvious that people associate together according to their -particular tempers and dispositions, and that men of gay tempers -naturally love the gay, as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span> the serious bear an affection to the -serious. This not only happens where they remark this resemblance -betwixt themselves and others, but also by the natural course of the -disposition, and by a certain sympathy which always arises betwixt -similar characters. Where they remark the resemblance, it operates -after the manner of a relation by producing a connexion of ideas. Where -they do not remark it, it operates by some other principle; and if this -latter principle be similar to the former, it must be received as a -confirmation of the foregoing reasoning.</p> - -<p>The idea of ourselves is always intimately present to us, and conveys -a sensible degree of vivacity to the idea of any other object to -which we are related. This lively idea changes by degrees into a real -impression; these two kinds of perception being in a great measure the -same, and differing only in their degrees of force and vivacity. But -this change must be produced with the greater ease, that our natural -temper gives us a propensity to the same impression which we observe -in others, and makes it arise upon any slight occasion. In that case -resemblance converts the idea into an impression, not only by means -of the relation, and by transfusing the original vivacity into the -related idea; but also by presenting such materials as take fire from -the least spark. And as in both cases a love or affection from the -resemblance, we may learn that a sympathy with others is agreeable -only by giving an emotion to the spirits, since an easy sympathy and -correspondent emotions are alone common to <i>relation, acquaintance</i>, -and <i>resemblance</i>.</p> - -<p>The great propensity men have to pride may be considered as another -similar phenomenon. It often happens, that after we have lived -a considerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span> time in any city, however at first it might be -disagreeable to us, yet as we become familiar with the objects, and -contract an acquaintance, though merely with the streets and buildings, -the aversion diminishes by degrees, and at last changes into the -opposite passion. The mind finds a satisfaction and ease in the view -of objects to which it is accustomed, and naturally prefers them to -others, which, though perhaps in themselves more valuable, are less -known to it. By the same quality of the mind we are seduced into a -good opinion of ourselves, and of all objects that belong to us. They -appear in a stronger light, are more agreeable, and consequently fitter -subjects of pride and vanity than any other.</p> - -<p>It may not be amiss, in treating of the affection we bear our -acquaintance and relations, to observe some pretty curious phenomena -which attend it. 'Tis easy to remark in common life, that children -esteem their relation to their mother to be weakened, in a great -measure, by her second marriage, and no longer regard her with the same -eye as if she had continued in her state of widowhood. Nor does this -happen only when they have felt any inconveniences from her second -marriage, or when her husband is much her inferior; but even without -any of these considerations, and merely because she has become part -of another family. This also takes place with regard to the second -marriage of a father, but in a much less degree; and 'tis certain the -ties of blood are not so much loosened in the latter case as by the -marriage of a mother. These two phenomena are remarkable in themselves, -but much more so when compared.</p> - -<p>In order to produce a perfect relation betwixt two objects, 'tis -requisite, not only that the imagination be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span> conveyed from one to the -other, by resemblance, contiguity or causation, but also that it return -back from the second to the first with the same ease and facility. At -first sight this may seem a necessary and unavoidable consequence. -If one object resemble another, the latter object must necessarily -resemble the former. If one object be the cause of another, the second -object is effect to its cause. 'Tis the same with contiguity; and -therefore the relation being always reciprocal, it may be thought, -that the return of the imagination from the second to the first must -also, in every case, be equally natural as its passage from the first -to the second. But upon farther examination we shall easily discover -our mistake. For supposing the second object, beside its reciprocal -relation to the first, to have also a strong relation to a third -object; in that case the thought, passing from the first object to the -second, returns not back with the same facility, though the relation -continues the same, but is readily carried on to the third object, -by means of the new relation which presents itself, and gives a new -impulse to the imagination. This new relation, therefore, weakens the -tie betwixt the first and second objects. The fancy is, by its very -nature, wavering and inconstant, and considers always two objects as -more strongly related together, where it finds the passage equally easy -both in going and returning, than where the transition is easy only in -one of these motions. The double motion is a kind of a double tie, and -binds the objects together in the closest and most intimate manner.</p> - -<p>The second marriage of a mother breaks not the relation of child and -parent; and that relation suffices to convey my imagination from myself -to her with the greatest ease and facility. But after the imagination<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> -is arrived at this point of view, it finds its object to be surrounded -with so many other relations which challenge its regard, that it knows -not which to prefer, and is at a loss what new object to pitch upon. -The ties of interest and duty bind her to another family, and prevent -that return of the fancy from her to myself which is necessary to -support the union. The thought has no longer the vibration requisite -to set it perfectly at ease, and indulge its inclination to change. -It goes with facility, but returns with difficulty; and by that -interruption finds the relation much weakened from what it would be -were the passage open and easy on both sides.</p> - -<p>Now, to give a reason why this effect follows not in in the same degree -upon the second marriage of a father; we may reflect on what has been -proved already, that though the imagination goes easily from the view -of a lesser object to that of a greater, yet it returns not with the -same facility from the greater to the less. When my imagination goes -from myself to my father, it passes not so readily from him to his -second wife, nor considers him as entering into a different family, -but as continuing the head of that family of which I am myself a part. -His superiority prevents the easy transition of the thought from him -to his spouse, but keeps the passage still open for a return to myself -along the same relation of child and parent. He is not sunk in the new -relation he acquires; so that the double motion or vibration of thought -is still easy and natural. By this indulgence of the fancy in its -inconstancy, the tie of child and parent still preserves its full force -and influence.</p> - -<p>A mother thinks not her tie to a son weakened because 'tis shared with -her husband; nor a son his with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span> a parent, because 'tis shared with a -brother. The third object is here related to the first as well as to -the second: so that the imagination goes and comes along all of them -with the greatest facility.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_V_bII" id="SECTION_V_bII">SECTION V.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF OUR ESTEEM FOR THE RICH AND POWERFUL.</h5> - - -<p>Nothing has a greater tendency to give us an esteem for any person than -his power and riches, or a contempt, than his poverty and meanness: -and as esteem and contempt are to be considered as species of love and -hatred, 'twill be proper in this place to explain these phenomena.</p> - -<p>Here it happens, most fortunately, that the greatest difficulty is, -not to discover a principle capable of producing such an effect, -but to chuse the chief and predominant among several that present -themselves. The <i>satisfaction</i> we take in the riches of others, and -the <i>esteem</i> we have for the possessors, may be ascribed to three -different causes. <i>First</i>, to the objects they possess; such as houses, -gardens, equipages, which, being agreeable in themselves, necessarily -produce a sentiment of pleasure in every one that either considers or -surveys them. <i>Secondly</i>, to the expectation of advantage from the -rich and powerful by our sharing their possessions. <i>Thirdly</i>, to -sympathy, which makes us partake of the satisfaction of every one that -approaches us. All these principles may concur in producing the present -phenomenon. The question is, to which of them we ought principally to -ascribe it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Tis certain that the first principle, viz. the reflection on -agreeable objects, has a greater influence than what, at first sight, -we may be apt to imagine. We seldom reflect on what is beautiful or -ugly, agreeable or disagreeable, without an emotion of pleasure or -uneasiness; and though these sensations appear not much, in our common -indolent way of thinking, 'tis easy, either in reading or conversation, -to discover them. Men of wit always turn the discourse on subjects -that are entertaining to the imagination; and poets never present any -objects but such as are of the same nature. Mr Philips has chosen -<i>Cider</i> for the subject of an excellent poem. Beer would not have been -so proper, as being neither so agreeable to the taste nor eye. But he -would certainly have preferred wine to either of them, could his native -country have afforded him so agreeable a liquor. We may learn from -thence, that every thing which is agreeable to the senses, is also, in -some measure, agreeable to the fancy, and conveys to the thought an -image of that satisfaction, which it gives by its real application to -the bodily organs.</p> - -<p>But, though these reasons may induce us to comprehend this delicacy -of the imagination among the causes of the respect which we pay the -rich and powerful, there are many other reasons that may keep us from -regarding it as the sole or principal. For, as the ideas of pleasure -can have an influence only by means of their vivacity, which makes them -approach impressions, 'tis most natural those ideas should have that -influence, which are favoured by most circumstances, and have a natural -tendency to become strong and lively; such as our ideas of the passions -and sensations of any human creature. Every human creature resembles -ourselves,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> and, by that means, has an advantage above any other object -in operating on the imagination.</p> - -<p>Besides, if we consider the nature of that faculty, and the great -influence which all relations have upon it, we shall easily be -persuaded, that however the ideas of the pleasant wines, music, or -gardens, which the rich man enjoys, may become lively and agreeable, -the fancy will not confine itself to them, but will carry its view to -the related objects, and, in particular, to the person who possesses -them. And this is the more natural, that the pleasant idea, or image, -produces here a passion towards the person by means of his relation -to the object; so that 'tis unavoidable but he must enter into the -original conception, since he makes the object of the derivative -passion. But if he enters into the original conception, and is -considered as enjoying these agreeable objects, 'tis <i>sympathy</i> which -is properly the cause of the affection; and the <i>third</i> principle is -more powerful and universal than the <i>first</i>.</p> - -<p>Add to this, that riches and power alone, even though unemployed, -naturally cause esteem and respect; and, consequently, these passions -arise not from the idea of any beautiful or agreeable objects. 'Tis -true money implies a kind of representation of such objects by the -power it affords of obtaining them; and for that reason may still be -esteemed proper to convey those agreeable images which may give rise to -the passion. But as this prospect is very distant, 'tis more natural -for us to take a contiguous object, viz. the satisfaction which this -power affords the person who is possessed of it. And of this we shall -be farther satisfied, if we consider that riches represent the goods of -life only by means of the will which employs them; and therefore imply, -in their very nature, an idea of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span> the person, and cannot be considered -without a kind of sympathy with his sensations and enjoyments.</p> - -<p>This we may confirm by a reflection which to some will perhaps appear -too subtile and refined. I have already observed that power, as -distinguished from its exercise, has either no meaning at all, or is -nothing but a possibility or probability of existence, by which any -object approaches to reality, and has a sensible influence on the -mind. I have also observed, that this approach, by an illusion of the -fancy, appears much greater when we ourselves are possessed of the -power than when it is enjoyed by another; and that, in the former case, -the objects seem to touch upon the very verge of reality, and convey -almost an equal satisfaction as if actually in our possession. Now I -assert, that where we esteem a person upon account of his riches, we -must enter into this sentiment of the proprietor, and that, without -such a sympathy, the idea of the agreeable objects, which they give -him the power to produce, would have but a feeble influence upon -us. An avaricious man is respected for his money, though he scarce -is possessed of a <i>power</i>; that is, there scarce is a <i>probability</i> -or even <i>possibility</i> of his employing it in the acquisition of the -pleasures and conveniences of life. To himself alone this power seems -perfect and entire; and therefore we must receive his sentiments by -sympathy, before we can have a strong intense idea of these enjoyments, -or esteem him upon account of them.</p> - -<p>Thus we have found, that the <i>first</i> principle, viz. <i>the agreeable -idea of those objects which riches afford the enjoyment of</i>, resolves -itself in a great measure into the <i>third</i>, and becomes a <i>sympathy</i> -with the person we esteem or love. Let us now examine the <i>second</i> -principle,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> viz. <i>the agreeable expectation of advantage</i>, and see what -force we may justly attribute to it.</p> - -<p>'Tis obvious, that, though riches and authority undoubtedly give -their owner a power of doing us service, yet this power is not to be -considered as on the same footing with that which they afford him -of pleasing himself, and satisfying his own appetites. Self-love -approaches the power and exercise very near each other in the latter -case; but in order to produce a similar effect in the former, we must -suppose a friendship and good-will to be conjoined with the riches. -Without that circumstance 'tis difficult to conceive on what we can -found our hope of advantage from the riches of others, though there -is nothing more certain than that we naturally esteem and respect the -rich, even before we discover in them any such favourable disposition -towards us.</p> - -<p>But I carry this farther, and observe, not only that we respect the -rich and powerful where they show no inclination to serve us, but also -when we lie so much out of the sphere of their activity, that they -cannot even be supposed to be endowed with that power. Prisoners of -war are always treated with a respect suitable to their condition; and -'tis certain riches go very far towards fixing the condition of any -person. If birth and quality enter for a share, this still affords us -an argument of the same kind. For what is it we call a man of birth, -but one who is descended from a long succession of rich and powerful -ancestors, and who acquires our esteem by his relation to persons whom -we esteem? His ancestors, therefore, though dead, are respected in some -measure on account of their riches, and consequently without any kind -of expectation.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p> - -<p>But not to go so far as prisoners of war and the dead to find instances -of this disinterested esteem for riches, let us observe, with a -little attention, those phenomena that occur to us in common life and -conversation. A man who is himself of a competent fortune, upon coming -into a company of strangers, naturally treats them with different -degrees of respect and deference, as he is informed of their different -fortunes and conditions; though 'tis impossible he can ever propose, -and perhaps would not accept of any advantage from them. A traveller is -always admitted into company, and meets with civility in proportion as -his train and equipage speak him a man of great or moderate fortune. -In short, the different ranks of men are in a great measure regulated -by riches, and that with regard to superiors as well as inferiors, -strangers as well as acquaintance.</p> - -<p>There is, indeed, an answer to these arguments, drawn from the -influence of <i>general rules</i>. It may be pretended, that, being -accustomed to expect succour and protection from the rich and powerful, -and to esteem them upon that account, we extend the same sentiments to -those who resemble them in their fortune, but from whom we can never -hope for any advantage. The general rule still prevails, and, by giving -a bent to the imagination draws along the passion, in the same manner -as if its proper object were real and existent.</p> - -<p>But that this principle does not here take place, will easily appear, -if we consider that, in order to establish a general rule, and extend -it beyond its proper bounds, there is required a certain uniformity -in our experience, and a great superiority of those instances, which -are conformable to the rule, above the contrary.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span> But here the case is -quite otherwise. Of a hundred men of credit and fortune I meet with, -there is not perhaps one from whom I can expect advantage, so that 'tis -impossible any custom can ever prevail in the present case.</p> - -<p>Upon the whole, there remains nothing which can give us an esteem for -power and riches, and a contempt for meanness and poverty, except the -pride of <i>sympathy</i>, by which we enter into the sentiments of rich -and poor, and partake of their pleasure and uneasiness. Riches give -satisfaction to their possessor; and this satisfaction is conveyed to -the beholder by the imagination, which produces an idea resembling -the original impression in force and vivacity. This agreeable idea or -impression is connected with love, which is an agreeable passion. It -proceeds from a thinking conscious being, which is the very object of -love. From this relation of impressions, and identity of ideas, the -passion arises according to my hypothesis.</p> - -<p>The best method of reconciling us to this opinion, is to take a general -survey of the universe, and observe the force of sympathy through the -whole animal creation, and the easy communication of sentiments from -one thinking being to another. In all creatures that prey not upon -others, and are not agitated with violent passions, there appears a -remarkable desire of company, which associates them together, without -any advantages they can ever propose to reap from their union. This is -still more conspicuous in man, as being the creature of the universe -who has the most ardent desire of society, and is fitted for it by -the most advantages. We can form no wish which has not a reference to -society. A perfect solitude is, perhaps, the greatest punishment we can -suffer. Every pleasure languishes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> when enjoyed apart from company, and -every pain becomes more cruel and intolerable. Whatever other passions -we may be actuated by, pride, ambition, avarice, curiosity, revenge -or lust, the soul or animating principle of them all is sympathy; -nor would they have any force, were we to abstract entirely from the -thoughts and sentiments of others. Let all the powers and elements of -nature conspire to serve and obey one man; let the sun rise and set -at his command; the sea and rivers roll as he pleases, and the earth -furnish spontaneously whatever may be useful or agreeable to him; he -will still be miserable, till you give him some one person at least -with whom he may share his happiness, and whose esteem and friendship -he may enjoy.</p> - -<p>This conclusion, from a general view of human nature, we may confirm by -particular instances, wherein the force of sympathy is very remarkable. -Most kinds of beauty are derived from this origin; and though our first -object be some senseless inanimate piece of matter, 'tis seldom we rest -there, and carry not our view to its influence on sensible and rational -creatures. A man who shows us any house or building, takes particular -care, among other things, to point out the convenience of the -apartments, the advantages of their situation, and the little room lost -in the stairs, anti-chambers and passages; and indeed 'tis evident the -chief part of the beauty consists in these particulars. The observation -of convenience gives pleasure, since convenience is a beauty. But after -what manner does it give pleasure? 'Tis certain our own interest is not -in the least concerned; and as this is a beauty of interest, not of -form, so to speak, it must delight us merely by communication, and by -our sympathizing with the proprietor of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> the lodging. We enter into his -interest by the force of imagination, and feel the same satisfaction -that the objects naturally occasion in him.</p> - -<p>This observation extends to tables, chairs, scrutoires, chimneys, -coaches, saddles, ploughs, and indeed to every work of art; it being -an universal rule, that their beauty is chiefly derived from their -utility, and from their fitness for that purpose, to which they are -destined. But this is an advantage that concerns only the owner, nor is -there any thing but sympathy, which can interest the spectator.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident that nothing renders a field more agreeable than its -fertility, and that scarce any advantages of ornament or situation will -be able to equal this beauty. 'Tis the same case with particular trees -and plants, as with the field on which they grow. I know not but a -plain, overgrown with furze and broom, may be, in itself, as beautiful -as a hill covered with vines or olive trees, though it will never -appear so to one who is acquainted with the value of each. But this is -a beauty merely of imagination, and has no foundation in what appears -to the senses. Fertility and value have a plain reference to use; and -that to riches, joy, and plenty, in which, though we have no hope of -partaking, yet we enter into them by the vivacity of the fancy, and -share them in some measure with the proprietor.</p> - -<p>There is no rule in painting more reasonable than that of balancing the -figures, and placing them with the greatest exactness on their proper -centre of gravity.</p> - -<p>A figure which is not justly balanced is disagreeable; and that because -it conveys the ideas of its fall, of harm, and of pain; which ideas are -painful when by sympathy they acquire any degree of force and vivacity.</p> - -<p>Add to this, that the principal part of personal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> beauty is an air -of health and vigour, and such a construction of members as promises -strength and activity. This idea of beauty cannot be accounted for but -by sympathy.</p> - -<p>In general we may remark, that the minds of men are mirrors to one -another, not only because they reflect each others emotions, but also -because those rays of passions, sentiments and opinions, may be often -reverberated, and may decay away by insensible degrees. Thus, the -pleasure which a rich man receives from his possessions, being thrown -upon the beholder, causes a pleasure and esteem; which sentiments again -being perceived and sympathized with, increase the pleasure of the -possessor, and, being once more reflected, become a new foundation for -pleasure and esteem in the beholder. There is certainly an original -satisfaction in riches derived from that power which they bestow of -enjoying all the pleasures of life; and as this is their very nature -and essence, it must be the first source of all the passions which -arise from them. One of the most considerable of these passions is -that of love or esteem in others, which, therefore, proceeds from a -sympathy with the pleasure of the possessor. But the possessor has also -a secondary satisfaction in riches, arising from the love and esteem -he acquires by them; and this satisfaction is nothing but a second -reflection of that original pleasure which proceeded from himself. -This secondary satisfaction or vanity becomes one of the principal -recommendations of riches, and is the chief reason why we either -desire them for ourselves, or esteem them in others. Here then is a -third rebound of the original pleasure, after which 'tis difficult to -distinguish the images and reflections, by reason of their faintness -and confusion.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_VI_bII" id="SECTION_VI_bII">SECTION VI.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER.</h5> - - -<p>Ideas may be compared to the extension and solidity of matter and -impressions, especially reflective ones, to colours, tastes, smells, -and other sensible qualities. Ideas never admit of a total union, but -are endowed with a kind of impenetrability by which they exclude each -other, and are capable of forming a compound by their conjunction, -not by their mixture. On the other hand, impressions and passions are -susceptible of an entire union, and, like colours, may be blended so -perfectly together, that each of them may lose itself, and contribute -only to vary that uniform impression which arises from the whole. Some -of the most curious phenomena of the human mind are derived from this -property of the passions.</p> - -<p>In examining those ingredients which are capable of uniting with love -and hatred, I begin to be sensible, in some measure, of a misfortune -that has attended every system of philosophy with which the world -has been yet acquainted. 'Tis commonly found, that in accounting -for the operations of nature by any particular hypothesis, among a -number of experiments that quadrate exactly with the principles we -would endeavour to establish, there is always some phenomenon which -is more stubborn, and will not so easily bend to our purpose. We need -not be surprised that this should happen in natural philosophy. The -essence and composition<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span> of external bodies are so obscure, that we -must necessarily, in our reasonings, or rather conjectures concerning -them, involve ourselves in contradictions and absurdities. But as -the perceptions of the mind are perfectly known, and I have used all -imaginable caution in forming conclusions concerning them, I have -always hoped to keep clear of those contradictions which have attended -every other system. Accordingly, the difficulty which I have at present -in my eye is no wise contrary to my system, but only departs a little -from that simplicity which has been hitherto its principal force and -beauty.</p> - -<p>The passions of love and hatred are always followed by, or rather -conjoined with, benevolence and anger. 'Tis this conjunction which -chiefly distinguishes these affections from pride and humility. For -pride and humility are pure emotions in the soul, unattended with any -desire, and not immediately exciting us to action. But love and hatred -are not completed within themselves, nor rest in that emotion which -they produce, but carry the mind to something farther. Love is always -followed by a desire of the happiness of the person beloved, and an -aversion to his misery: as hatred produces a desire of the misery, -and an aversion to the happiness of the person hated. So remarkable a -difference betwixt these two sets of passions of pride and humility, -love and hatred, which in so many other particulars correspond to each -other, merits our attention.</p> - -<p>The conjunction of this desire and aversion with love and hatred may -be accounted for by two different hypotheses. The first is, that love -and hatred have not only a <i>cause</i> which excites them, viz. pleasure -and pain, and an <i>object</i> to which they are directed, viz. a person<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> or -thinking being, but likewise an <i>end</i> which they endeavour to attain, -viz. the happiness or misery of the person beloved or hated; all which -views, mixing together, make only one passion. According to this -system, love is nothing but the desire of happiness to another person, -and hatred that of misery. The desire and aversion constitute the very -nature of love and hatred. They are not only inseparable, but the same.</p> - -<p>But this is evidently contrary to experience. For though 'tis certain -we never love any person without desiring his happiness, nor hate any -without wishing his misery, yet these desires arise only upon the ideas -of the happiness or misery of our friend or enemy being presented by -the imagination, and are not absolutely essential to love and hatred. -They are the most obvious and natural sentiments of these affections, -but not the only ones. The passions may express themselves in a hundred -ways, and may subsist a considerable time, without our reflecting on -the happiness or misery of their objects; which clearly proves that -these desires are not the same with love and hatred, nor make any -essential part of them.</p> - -<p>We may therefore infer, that benevolence and anger are passions -different from love and hatred, and only conjoined with them by the -original constitution of the mind. As nature has given to the body -certain appetites and inclinations, which she increases, diminishes, -or changes according to the situation of the fluids or solids, she -has proceeded in the same manner with the mind. According as we -are possessed with love or hatred, the correspondent desire of the -happiness or misery of the person who is the object of these passions, -arises in the mind, and varies with each variation of these opposite -passions. This order of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span> things, abstractedly considered, is not -necessary. Love and hatred might have been unattended with any such -desires, or their particular connexion might have been entirely -reversed. If nature had so pleased, love might have had the same effect -as hatred, and hatred as love. I see no contradiction in supposing a -desire of producing misery annexed to love, and of happiness to hatred. -If the sensation of the passion and desire be opposite, nature could -have altered the sensation without altering the tendency of the desire, -and by that means made them compatible with each other.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_VII_bII" id="SECTION_VII_bII">SECTION VII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF COMPASSION.</h5> - - -<p>But though the desire of the happiness or misery of others, according -to the love or hatred we bear them, be an arbitrary and original -instinct implanted in our nature, we find it may be counterfeited on -many occasions, and may arise from secondary principles. <i>Pity</i> is -a concern for, and <i>malice</i> a joy in, the misery of others, without -any friendship or enmity to occasion this concern or joy. We pity -even strangers, and such as are perfectly indifferent to us: and -if our ill-will to another proceed from any harm or injury, it is -not, properly speaking, malice, but revenge. But if we examine these -affections of pity and malice, we shall find them to be secondary ones, -arising from original affections, which are varied by some particular -turn of thought and imagination.</p> - -<p>'Twill be easy to explain the passion of <i>pity</i>, from the precedent -reasoning concerning <i>sympathy</i>. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span> have a lively idea of every thing -related to us. All human creatures are related to us by resemblance. -Their persons, therefore, their interests, their passions, their pains -and pleasures, must strike upon us in a lively manner, and produce an -emotion similar to the original one, since a lively idea is easily -converted into an impression. If this be true in general, it must be -more so of affliction and sorrow. These have always a stronger and more -lasting influence than any pleasure or enjoyment.</p> - -<p>A spectator of a tragedy passes through a long train of grief, terror, -indignation, and other affections, which the poet represents in the -persons he introduces. As many tragedies end happily, and no excellent -one can be composed without some reverses of fortune, the spectator -must sympathize with all these changes, and receive the fictitious -joy as well as every other passion. Unless therefore it be asserted, -that every distinct passion is communicated by a distinct original -quality, and is not derived from the general principle of sympathy -above explained, it must be allowed that all of them arise from -that principle. To except any one in particular must appear highly -unreasonable. As they are all first present in the mind of one person, -and afterwards appear in the mind of another; and as the manner of -their appearance, first as an idea, then as an impression, is in every -case the same, the transition must arise from the same principle. I am -at least sure, that this method of reasoning would be considered as -certain, either in natural philosophy or common life.</p> - -<p>Add to this, that pity depends, in a great measure, on the contiguity, -and even sight of the object, which is a proof that 'tis derived from -the imagination; not to mention that women and children are most -subject to pity, as being most guided by that faculty. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> same -infirmity, which makes them faint at the sight of a naked sword, though -in the hands of their best friend, makes them pity extremely those -whom they find in any grief or affliction. Those philosophers, who -derive this passion from I know not what subtile reflections on the -instability of fortune, and our being liable to the same miseries we -behold, will find this observation contrary to them among a great many -others, which it were easy to produce.</p> - -<p>There remains only to take notice of a pretty remarkable phenomenon -of this passion, which is, that the communicated passion of sympathy -sometimes acquires strength from the weakness of its original, and -even arises by a transition from affections which have no existence. -Thus, when a person obtains any honourable office, or inherits a -great fortune, we are always the more rejoiced for his prosperity, -the less sense he seems to have of it, and the greater equanimity and -indifference he shows in its enjoyment. In like manner, a man who -is not dejected by misfortunes is the more lamented on account of -his patience; and if that virtue extends so far as utterly to remove -all sense of uneasiness, it still farther increases our compassion. -When a person of merit falls into what is vulgarly esteemed a great -misfortune, we form a notion of his condition; and, carrying our fancy -from the cause to the usual effect, first conceive a lively idea of -his sorrow, and then feel an impression of it, entirely overlooking -that greatness of mind which elevates him above such emotions, or -only considering it so far as to increase our admiration, love, and -tenderness for him. We find from experience, that such a degree of -passion is usually connected with such a misfortune; and though there -be an exception in the present case, yet the imagination is affected -by the <i>general rule</i>, and makes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> us conceive a lively idea of the -passion, or rather feel the passion itself in the same manner as if -the person were really actuated by it. From the same principles we -blush for the conduct of those who behave themselves foolishly before -us, and that though they show no sense of shame, nor seem in the least -conscious of their folly. All this proceeds from sympathy, but 'tis -of a partial kind, and views its objects only on one side, without -considering the other, which has a contrary effect, and would entirely -destroy that emotion which arises from the first appearance.</p> - -<p>We have also instances wherein an indifference and insensibility -under misfortune increases our concern for the misfortunate, even -though the indifference proceed not from any virtue and magnanimity. -'Tis an aggravation of a murder, that it was committed upon persons -asleep and in perfect security; as historians readily observe of any -infant prince, who is captive in the hands of his enemies, that he is -more worthy of compassion the less sensible he is of his miserable -condition. As we ourselves are here acquainted with the wretched -situation of the person, it gives us a lively idea and sensation of -sorrow, which is the passion that <i>generally</i> attends it; and this idea -becomes still more lively, and the sensation more violent by a contrast -with that security and indifference which we observe in the person -himself. A contrast of any kind never fails to effect the imagination, -especially when presented by the subject; and 'tis on the imagination -that pity entirely depends.<a name="FNanchor_6_12" id="FNanchor_6_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_12" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_6_12" id="Footnote_6_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_12"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> To prevent all ambiguity, I must observe, that where I -oppose the imagination to the memory, I mean in general the faculty -that presents our fainter ideas. In all other places, and particularly -when it is opposed to the understanding, I understand the same faculty, -excluding only our demonstrative and probable reasonings.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_VIII_bII" id="SECTION_VIII_bII">SECTION VIII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF MALICE AND ENVY.</h5> - - -<p>We must now proceed to account for the passion of <i>malice</i>, which -imitates the effects of hatred as pity does those of love, and gives us -a joy in the sufferings and miseries of others, without any offence or -injury on their part.</p> - -<p>So little are men governed by reason in their sentiments and opinions, -that they always judge more of objects by comparison than from their -intrinsic worth and value. When the mind considers, or is accustomed -to any degree of perfection, whatever falls short of it, though really -estimable, has, notwithstanding, the same effect upon the passions as -what is defective and ill. This is an <i>original</i> quality of the soul, -and similar to what we have every day experience of in our bodies. -Let a man heat one hand and cool the other; the same water will at -the same time seem both hot and cold, according to the disposition -of the different organs. A small degree of any quality, succeeding a -greater, produces the same sensation as if less than it really is, and -even sometimes as the opposite quality. Any gentle pain that follows a -violent one, seems as nothing, or rather becomes a pleasure; as, on the -other hand, a violent pain succeeding a gentle one, is doubly grievous -and uneasy.</p> - -<p>This no one can doubt of with regard to our passions and sensations. -But there may arise some difficulty with regard to our ideas and -objects. When an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span> object augments or diminishes to the eye or -imagination, from a comparison with others, the image and idea of the -object are still the same, and are equally extended in the <i>retina</i>, -and in the brain or organ of perception. The eyes refract the rays of -light, and the optic nerves convey the images to the brain in the very -same manner, whether a great or small object has preceded; nor does -even the imagination alter the dimensions of its object on account of -a comparison with others. The question then is, how, from the same -impression, and the same idea, we can form such different judgments -concerning the same object, and at one time admire its bulk, and at -another despise its littleness? This variation in our judgments must -certainly proceed from a variation in some perception; but as the -variation lies not in the immediate impression or idea of the object, -it must lie in some other impression that accompanies it.</p> - -<p>In order to explain this matter, I shall just touch upon two -principles, one of which shall be more fully explained in the progress -of this Treatise; the other has been already accounted for. I believe -it may safely be established for a general maxim, that no object is -presented to the senses, nor image formed in the fancy, but what is -accompanied with some emotion or movement of spirits proportioned -to it; and however custom may make us insensible of this sensation, -and cause us to confound it with the object or idea, 'twill be easy, -by careful and exact experiments, to separate and distinguish them. -For, to instance only in the cases of extension and number, 'tis -evident that any very bulky object, such as the ocean, an extended -plain, a vast chain of mountains, a wide forest; or any very numerous -collection of objects, such as an army,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span> a fleet, a crowd, excite in -the mind a sensible emotion; and that the admiration which arises on -the appearance of such objects is one of the most lively pleasures -which human nature is capable of enjoying. Now, as this admiration -increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of the objects, -we may conclude, according to our foregoing principles,<a name="FNanchor_7_13" id="FNanchor_7_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_13" class="fnanchor">[7]</a> that 'tis -a compound effect, proceeding from the conjunction of the several -effects which arise from each part of the cause. Every part, then, of -extension, and every unite of number, has a separate emotion attending -it when conceived by the mind; and though that emotion be not always -agreeable, yet, by its conjunction with others, and by its agitating -the spirits to a just pitch, it contributes to the production of -admiration, which is always agreeable. If this be allowed with respect -to extension and number, we can make no difficulty with respect to -virtue and vice, wit and folly, riches and poverty, happiness and -misery, and other objects of that kind, which are always attended with -an evident emotion.</p> - -<p>The second principle I shall take notice of is that of our adherence -to <i>general rules</i>; which has such a mighty influence on the actions -and understanding, and is able to impose on the very senses. When an -object is found by experience to be always accompanied with another, -whenever the first object appears, though changed in very material -circumstances, we naturally fly to the conception of the second, and -form an idea of it in as lively and strong a manner, as if we had -inferred its existence by the justest and most authentic conclusion -of our understanding. Nothing can undeceive us, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span> even our senses, -which, instead of correcting this false judgment, are often perverted -by it, and seem to authorize its errors.</p> - -<p>The conclusion I draw from these two principles, joined to the -influence of comparison above-mentioned, is very short and decisive. -Every object is attended with some emotion proportioned to it; a great -object with a great emotion, a small object with a small emotion. -A great <i>object</i>, therefore, succeeding a small one, makes a great -<i>emotion</i> succeed a small one. Now, a great emotion succeeding a small -one becomes still greater, and rises beyond its ordinary proportion. -But as there is a certain degree of an emotion which commonly attends -every magnitude of an object, when the emotion increases, we naturally -imagine that the object has likewise increased. The effect conveys -our view to its usual cause, a certain degree of emotion to a certain -magnitude of the object; nor do we consider, that comparison may -change the emotion without changing any thing in the object. Those -who are acquainted with the metaphysical part of optics, and know how -we transfer the judgments and conclusions of the understanding to the -senses, will easily conceive this whole operation.</p> - -<p>But leaving this new discovery of an impression that secretly attends -every idea, we must at least allow of that principle from whence the -discovery arose, <i>that objects appear greater or less by a comparison -with others</i>. We have so many instances of this, that it is impossible -we can dispute its veracity; and 'tis from this principle I derive the -passions of malice and envy.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident we must receive a greater or less satisfaction or -uneasiness from reflecting on our own condition and circumstances, -in proportion as they appear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span> more or less fortunate or unhappy, -in proportion to the degrees of riches, and power, and merit, and -reputation, which we think ourselves possest of. Now, as we seldom -judge of objects from their intrinsic value, but form our notions of -them from a comparison with other objects, it follows, that according -as we observe a greater or less share of happiness or misery in others, -we must make an estimate of our own, and feel a consequent pain or -pleasure. The misery of another gives us a more lively idea of our -happiness, and his happiness of our misery. The former, therefore, -produces delight, and the latter uneasiness.</p> - -<p>Here then is a kind of pity reverst, or contrary sensations arising -in the beholder, from those which are felt by the person whom he -considers. In general we may observe, that, in all kinds of comparison, -an object makes us always receive from another, to which it is -compared, a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct -and immediate survey. A small object makes a great one appear still -greater. A great object makes a little one appear less. Deformity of -itself produces uneasiness, but makes us receive new pleasure by its -contrast with a beautiful object, whose beauty is augmented by it; as, -on the other hand, beauty, which of itself produces pleasure, makes us -receive a new pain by the contrast with any thing ugly, whose deformity -it augments. The case, therefore, must be the same with happiness and -misery. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally gives us -pleasure, and therefore produces pain when compared with our own. His -pain, considered in itself, is painful to us, but augments the idea of -our own happiness, and gives us pleasure.</p> - -<p>Nor will it appear strange, that we may feel a reverst<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> sensation from -the happiness and misery of others, since we find the same comparison -may give us a kind of malice against ourselves, and make us rejoice for -our pains, and grieve for our pleasures. Thus, the prospect of past -pain is agreeable, when we are satisfied with our present condition; -as, on the other hand, our past pleasures give us uneasiness, when we -enjoy nothing at present equal to them. The comparison being the same -as when we reflect on the sentiments of others, must be attended with -the same effects.</p> - -<p>Nay, a person may extend this malice against himself, even to his -present fortune, and carry it so far as designedly to seek affliction, -and increase his pains and sorrows. This may happen upon two occasions. -<i>First</i>, Upon the distress and misfortune of a friend, or person dear -to him. <i>Secondly</i>, Upon the feeling any remorses for a crime of -which he has been guilty. 'Tis from the principle of comparison that -both these irregular appetites for evil arise. A person who indulges -himself in any pleasure while his friend lies under affliction, feels -the reflected uneasiness from his friend more sensibly by a comparison -with the original pleasure which he himself enjoys. This contrast, -indeed, ought also to enliven the present pleasure. But as grief is -here supposed to be the predominant passion, every addition falls to -that side, and is swallowed up in it, without operating in the least -upon the contrary affection. 'Tis the same case with those penances -which men inflict on themselves for their past sins and failings. When -a criminal reflects on the punishment he deserves, the idea of it is -magnified by a comparison with his present ease and satisfaction, which -forces him, in a manner, to seek uneasiness, in order to avoid so -disagreeable a contrast.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p> - -<p>This reasoning will account for the origin of envy as well as of -malice. The only difference betwixt these passions lies in this, -that envy is excited by some present enjoyment of another, which, by -comparison, diminishes our idea of our own: whereas malice is the -unprovoked desire of producing evil to another, in order to reap a -pleasure from the comparison. The enjoyment, which is the object of -envy, is commonly superior to our own. A superiority naturally seems to -overshade us, and presents a disagreeable comparison. But even in the -case of an inferiority, we still desire a greater distance, in order to -augment still more the idea of ourself. When this distance diminishes, -the comparison is, less to our advantage, and consequently gives us -less pleasure, and is even disagreeable. Hence arises that species of -envy which men feel, when they perceive their inferiors approaching or -overtaking them in the pursuit of glory or happiness. In this envy we -may see the effects of comparison twice repeated. A man, who compares -himself to his inferior, receives a pleasure from the comparison; and -when the inferiority decreases by the elevation of the inferior, what -should only have been a decrease of pleasure, becomes a real pain, by a -new comparison with its preceding condition.</p> - -<p>'Tis worthy of observation concerning that envy which arises from a -superiority in others, that 'tis not the great disproportion betwixt -ourself and another, which produces it; but, on the contrary, our -proximity. A common soldier bears no such envy to his general as -to his sergeant or corporal; nor does an eminent writer meet with -so great jealousy in common hackney scribblers, as in authors that -more nearly approach him. It may indeed be thought, that the greater -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> disproportion is, the greater must be the uneasiness from the -comparison. But we may consider on the other hand, that the great -disproportion cuts off the relation, and either keeps us from comparing -ourselves, with what is remote from us, or diminishes the effects of -the comparison. Resemblance and proximity always produce a relation of -ideas; and where you destroy these ties, however other accidents may -bring two ideas together, as they have no bond or connecting quality -to join them in the imagination, 'tis impossible they can remain long -united, or have any considerable influence on each other.</p> - -<p>I have observed, in considering the nature of ambition, that the great -feel a double pleasure in authority, from the comparison of their own -condition with that of their slaves; and that this comparison has a -double influence, because 'tis natural, and presented by the subject. -When the fancy, in the comparison of objects, passes not easily from -the one object to the other, the action of the mind is in a great -measure broke, and the fancy, in considering the second object, begins, -as it were, upon a new footing. The impression which attends every -object, seems not greater in that case by succeeding a less of the -same kind; but these two impressions are distinct, and produce their -distinct effects, without any communication together. The want of -relation in the ideas breaks the relation of the impressions, and by -such a separation prevents their mutual operation and influence.</p> - -<p>To confirm this we may observe, that the proximity in the degree -of merit is not alone sufficient to give rise to envy, but must be -assisted by other relations. A poet is not apt to envy a philosopher, -or a poet of a different kind, of a different nation, or a different -age.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> All these differences prevent or weaken the comparison, and -consequently the passion.</p> - -<p>This too is the reason why all objects appear great or little, merely -by a comparison with those of the same species. A mountain neither -magnifies nor diminishes a horse in our eyes; but when a Flemish and a -Welsh horse are seen together, the one appears greater and the other -less, then when viewed apart.</p> - -<p>From the same principle we may account for that remark of historians, -that any party in a civil war always choose to call in a foreign enemy -at any hazard, rather than submit to their fellow-citizens. Guicciardin -applies this remark to the wars in Italy, where the relations betwixt -the different states are, properly speaking, nothing but of name, -language, and contiguity. Yet even these relations, when joined with -superiority, by making the comparison more natural, make it likewise -more grievous, and cause men to search for some other superiority, -which may be attended with no relation, and by that means may have a -less sensible influence on the imagination. The mind quickly perceives -its several advantages and disadvantages; and finding its situation to -be most uneasy, where superiority is conjoined with other relations, -seeks its repose as much as possible by their separation, and by -breaking that association of ideas, which renders the comparison -so much more natural and efficacious. When it cannot break the -association, it feels a stronger desire to remove the superiority; -and this is the reason why travellers are commonly so lavish of their -praises to the Chinese and Persians, at the same time that they -depreciate those neighbouring nations which may stand upon a foot of -rivalship with their native country.</p> - - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p> - -<p>These examples from history and common experience are rich and -curious; but we may find parallel ones in the arts, which are no less -remarkable. Should an author compose a treatise, of which one part -was serious and profound, another light and humorous, every one would -condemn so strange a mixture, and would accuse him of the neglect -of all rules of art and criticism. These rules of art are founded -on the qualities of human nature; and the quality of human nature, -which requires a consistency in every performance, is that which -renders the mind incapable of passing in a moment from one passion and -disposition to a quite different one. Yet this makes us not blame Mr -Prior for joining his Alma and his Solomon in the same volume; though -that admirable poet has succeeded perfectly well in the gaiety of the -one, as well as in the melancholy of the other. Even supposing the -reader should peruse these two compositions without any interval, he -would feel little or no difficulty in the change of passions: why? but -because he considers these performances as entirely different, and, by -this break in the ideas, breaks the progress of the affections, and -hinders the one from influencing or contradicting the other.</p> - -<p>An heroic and burlesque design, united in one picture, would be -monstrous; though we place two pictures of so opposite a character in -the same chamber, and even close by each other, without any scruple or -difficulty.</p> - -<p>In a word, no ideas can affect each other, either by comparison, or by -the passions they separately produce, unless they be united together -by some relation which may cause an easy transition of the ideas, and -consequently of the emotions or impressions attending<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> the ideas, and -may preserve the one impression in the passage of the imagination -to the object of the other. This principle is very remarkable, -because it is analogous to what we have observed both concerning the -<i>understanding</i> and the <i>passions</i>. Suppose two objects to be presented -to me, which are not connected by any kind of relation. Suppose that -each of these objects separately produces a passion, and that these -two passions are in themselves contrary; we find from experience, -that the want of relation in the objects or ideas hinders the natural -contrariety of the passions, and that the break in the transition of -the thought removes the affections from each other, and prevents their -opposition. 'Tis the same case with comparison; and from both these -phenomena we may safely conclude, that the relation of ideas must -forward the transition of impressions, since its absence alone is able -to prevent it, and to separate what naturally should have operated -upon each other. When the absence of an object or quality removes any -usual or natural effect, we may certainly conclude that its presence -contributes to the production of the effect.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_7_13" id="Footnote_7_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_13"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Book I. Part III. Sect. 15.</p></div> - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a name="SECTION_IX_bII" id="SECTION_IX_bII">SECTION IX.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE MIXTURE OF BENEVOLENCE AND ANGER WITH COMPASSION AND MALICE.</h5> - - -<p>Thus we have endeavoured to account for <i>pity</i> and <i>malice</i>. Both these -affections arise from the imagination, according to the light in which -it places its object. When our fancy considers directly the sentiments<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span> -of others, and enters deep into them, it makes us sensible of all the -passions it surveys, but in a particular manner of grief or sorrow. -On the contrary, when we compare the sentiments of others to our own, -we feel a sensation directly opposite to the original one, viz. a joy -from the grief of others, and a grief from their joy. But these are -only the first foundations of the affections of pity and malice. Other -passions are afterwards confounded with them. There is always a mixture -of love or tenderness with pity, and of hatred or anger with malice. -But it must be confessed, that this mixture seems at first sight to be -contradictory to my system. For as pity is an uneasiness, and malice a -joy, arising from the misery of others, pity should naturally, as in -all other cases, produce hatred, and malice, love. This contradiction I -endeavour to reconcile, after the following manner.</p> - -<p>In order to cause a transition of passions, there is required a double -relation of impressions and ideas; nor is one relation sufficient to -produce this effect. But that we may understand the full force of this -double relation, we must consider, that 'tis not the present sensation -alone or momentary pain or pleasure, which determines the character of -any passion, but the whole bent or tendency of it from the beginning -to the end. One impression may be related to another, not only when -their sensations are resembling, as we have all along supposed in the -preceding cases, but also when their impulses or directions are similar -and correspondent. This cannot take place with regard to pride and -humility, because these are only pure sensations, without any direction -or tendency to action. We are, therefore, to look for instances of -this peculiar relation of impressions only in such affections as are -attended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> with a certain appetite or desire, such as those of love and -hatred.</p> - -<p>Benevolence, or the appetite which attends love, is a desire of the -happiness of the person beloved, and an aversion to his misery, as -anger, or the appetite which attends hatred, is a desire of the misery -of the person hated, and an aversion to his happiness. A desire, -therefore, of the happiness of another, and aversion to his misery, -are similar to benevolence; and a desire of his misery and aversion -to his happiness, are correspondent to anger. Now, pity is a desire -of happiness to another, and aversion to his misery, as malice is the -contrary appetite. Pity, then, is related to benevolence, and malice to -anger; and as benevolence has been already found to be connected with -love, by a natural and original quality, and anger with hatred, 'tis by -this chain the passions of pity and malice are connected with love and -hatred.</p> - -<p>This hypothesis is founded on sufficient experience. A man, who, from -any motives, has entertained a resolution of performing an action, -naturally runs into every other view or motive which may fortify that -resolution, and give it authority and influence on the mind. To confirm -us in any design, we search for motives drawn from interest, from -honour, from duty. What wonder, then, that pity and benevolence, malice -and anger, being the same desires arising from different principles, -should so totally mix together as to be undistinguishable? As to -the connexion betwixt benevolence and love, anger and hatred, being -<i>original</i> and primary, it admits of no difficulty.</p> - -<p>We may add to this another experiment, viz. that benevolence and anger, -and, consequently, love and hatred, arise when our happiness or misery -have any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span> dependence on the happiness or misery of another person, -without any farther relation. I doubt not but this experiment will -appear so singular as to excuse us for stopping a moment to consider it.</p> - -<p>Suppose that two persons of the same trade should seek employment in a -town that is not able to maintain both, 'tis plain the success of one -is perfectly incompatible with that of the other; and that whatever -is for the interest of either is contrary to that of his rival, and -so <i>vice versa</i>. Suppose, again, that two merchants, though living -in different parts of the world, should enter into co-partnership -together, the advantage or loss of one becomes immediately the -advantage or loss of his partner, and the same fortune necessarily -attends both. Now, 'tis evident, that, in the first case, hatred -always follows upon the contrariety of interests; as, in the second, -love arises from their union. Let us consider to what principle we can -ascribe these passions.</p> - -<p>'Tis plain they arise, not from the double relations of impressions and -ideas, if we regard only the present sensation. For, taking the first -case of rivalship, though the pleasure and advantage of an antagonist -necessarily causes my pain and loss, yet, to counterbalance this, -his pain and loss causes my pleasure and advantage; and, supposing -him to be unsuccessful, I may, by this means, receive from him a -superior degree of satisfaction. In the same manner the success of a -partner rejoices me, but then his misfortunes afflict me in an equal -proportion; and 'tis easy to imagine that the latter sentiment may, in -some cases, preponderate. But whether the fortune of a rival or partner -be good or bad, I always hate the former and love the latter.</p> - -<p>This love of a partner cannot proceed from the relation<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span> or connexion -betwixt us, in the same manner as I love a brother or countryman. A -rival has almost as close a relation to me as a partner. For, as the -pleasure of the latter causes my pleasure, and his pain my pain; so the -pleasure of the former causes my pain, and his pain my pleasure. The -connexion, then, of cause and effect, is the same in both cases; and -if, in the one case, the cause and effect has a farther relation of -resemblance, they have that of contrariety in the other; which, being -also a species of resemblance, leaves the matter pretty equal.</p> - -<p>The only explication, then, we can give of this phenomenon, is derived -from that principle of a parallel direction above-mentioned. Our -concern for our own interest gives us a pleasure in the pleasure, and -a pain in the pain of a partner, after the same manner as by sympathy -we feel a sensation correspondent to those which appear in any person -who is present with us. On the other hand, the same concern for our -interest makes us feel a pain in the pleasure, and a pleasure in the -pain of a rival; and, in short, the same contrariety of sentiments -as arises from comparison and malice. Since, therefore, a parallel -direction of the affections, proceeding from interest, can give rise to -benevolence or anger, no wonder the same parallel direction, derived -from sympathy and from comparison, should have the same effect.</p> - -<p>In general we may observe, that 'tis impossible to do good to others, -from whatever motive, without feeling some touches of kindness and -good will towards them; as the injuries we do not only cause hatred in -the person who suffers them, but even in ourselves. These phenomena, -indeed, may in part be accounted for from other principles.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span></p> - -<p>But here there occurs a considerable objection, which 'twill be -necessary to examine before we proceed any farther. I have endeavoured -to prove that power and riches, or poverty and meanness, which give -rise to love or hatred, without producing any original pleasure or -uneasiness, operate upon us by means of a secondary sensation derived -from a sympathy with that pain or satisfaction which they produce in -the person who possesses them. From a sympathy with his pleasure there -arises love; from that with his uneasiness, hatred. But 'tis a maxim -which I have just now established, and which is absolutely necessary -to the explication of the phenomena of pity and malice, "That 'tis not -the present sensation or momentary pain or pleasure which determines -the character of any passion, but the general bent or tendency of it -from the beginning to the end." For this reason, pity or a sympathy -with pain produces love, and that because it interests us in the -fortunes of others, good or bad, and gives us a secondary sensation -correspondent to the primary, in which it has the same influence with -love and benevolence. Since, then, this rule holds good in one case, -why does it not prevail throughout, and why does sympathy in uneasiness -ever produce any passion beside good will and kindness? Is it becoming -a philosopher to alter his method of reasoning, and run from one -principle to its contrary, according to the particular phenomenon which -he would explain?</p> - -<p>I have mentioned two different causes from which a transition of -passion may arise, viz. a double relation of ideas and impressions, -and, what is similar to it, a conformity in the tendency and direction -of any two desires which arise from different principles. Now I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span> -assert, that when a sympathy with uneasiness is weak, it produces -hatred or contempt by the former cause; when strong, it produces love -or tenderness by the latter. This is the solution of the foregoing -difficulty, which seems so urgent; and this is a principle founded on -such evident arguments, that we ought to have established it, even -though it were not necessary to the explication of any phenomenon.</p> - -<p>'Tis certain, that sympathy is not always limited to the present -moment, but that we often feel, by communication, the pains and -pleasures of others which are not in being, and which we only -anticipate by the force of imagination. For, supposing I saw a person -perfectly unknown to me, who, while asleep in the fields, was in danger -of being trod under foot by horses, I should immediately run to his -assistance; and in this I should be actuated by the same principle -of sympathy which makes me concerned for the present sorrows of a -stranger. The bare mention of this is sufficient. Sympathy being -nothing but a lively idea converted into an impression, 'tis evident -that, in considering the future possible or probable condition of any -person, we may enter into it with so vivid a conception as to make it -our own concern, and by that means be sensible of pains and pleasures -which neither belong to ourselves, nor at the present instant have any -real existence.</p> - -<p>But however we may look forward to the future in sympathizing with any -person, the extending of our sympathy depends in a great measure upon -our sense of his present condition. 'Tis a great effort of imagination -to form such lively ideas even of the present sentiments of others as -to feel these very sentiments; but 'tis impossible we could extend this -sympathy to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span> the future without being aided by some circumstance in the -present, which strikes upon us in a lively manner. When the present -misery of another has any strong influence upon me, the vivacity of the -conception is not confined merely to its immediate object, but diffuses -its influence over all the related ideas, and gives me a lively notion -of all the circumstances of that person, whether past, present, or -future; possible, probable, or certain. By means of this lively notion -I am interested in them, take part with them, and feel a sympathetic -motion in my breast, conformable to whatever I imagine in his. If I -diminish the vivacity of the first conception, I diminish that of the -related ideas; as pipes can convey no more water than what arises at -the fountain. By this diminution I destroy the future prospect which -is necessary to interest me perfectly in the fortune of another. I may -feel the present impression, but carry my sympathy no farther, and -never transfuse the force of the first conception into my ideas of the -related objects. If it be another's misery which is presented in this -feeble manner, I receive it by communication, and am affected with all -the passions related to it: but as I am not so much interested as to -concern myself in his good fortune as well as his bad, I never feel the -extensive sympathy, nor the passions related to <i>it</i>.</p> - -<p>Now, in order to know what passions are related to these different -kinds of sympathy, we must consider that benevolence is an original -pleasure arising from the pleasure of the person beloved, and a pain -proceeding from his pain: from which correspondence of impressions -there arises a subsequent desire of his pleasure, and aversion to his -pain. In order, then, to make a passion run parallel with benevolence, -'tis requisite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span> we should feel these double impressions, correspondent -to those of the person whom we consider; nor is any one of them -alone sufficient for that purpose. When we sympathize only with one -impression, and that a painful one, this sympathy is related to anger -and to hatred, upon account of the uneasiness it conveys to us. But as -the extensive or limited sympathy depends upon the force of the first -sympathy, it follows that the passion of love or hatred depends upon -the same principle. A strong impression, when communicated, gives a -double tendency of the passions, which is related to benevolence and -love by a similarity of direction, however painful the first impression -might have been. A weak impression that is painful is related to -anger and hatred by the resemblance of sensations. Benevolence, -therefore, arises from a great degree of misery, or any degree strongly -sympathized with: hatred or contempt from a small degree, or one weakly -sympathized with; which is the principle I intended to prove and -explain.</p> - -<p>Nor have we only our reason to trust to for this principle, but -also experience. A certain degree of poverty produces contempt; but -a degree beyond causes compassion and good will. We may undervalue -a peasant or servant; but when the misery of a beggar appears very -great, or is painted in very lively colours, we sympathize with him -in his afflictions, and feel in our heart evident touches of pity and -benevolence. The same object causes contrary passions, according to its -different degrees. The passions, therefore, must depend upon principles -that operate in such certain degrees, according to my hypothesis. The -increase of the sympathy has evidently the same effect as the increase -of the misery.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span></p> - -<p>A barren or desolate country always seems ugly and disagreeable, -and commonly inspires us with contempt for the inhabitants. This -deformity, however, proceeds in a great measure from a sympathy -with the inhabitants, as has been already observed; but it is only -a weak one, and reaches no farther than the immediate sensation, -which is disagreeable. The view of a city in ashes conveys benevolent -sentiments; because we there enter so deep into the interests of the -miserable inhabitants, as to wish for their prosperity, as well as feel -their adversity.</p> - -<p>But though the force of the impression generally produces pity and -benevolence, 'tis certain that, by being carried too far, it ceases -to have that effect. This, perhaps, may be worth our notice. When the -uneasiness is either small in itself, or remote from us, it engages -not the imagination, nor is able to convey an equal concern for the -future and contingent good, as for the present and real evil. Upon its -acquiring greater force, we become so interested in the concerns of the -person, as to be sensible both of his good and bad fortune; and from -that complete sympathy there arises pity and benevolence. But 'twill -easily be imagined, that where the present evil strikes with more than -ordinary force, it may entirely engage our attention, and prevent that -double sympathy above mentioned. Thus we find, that though every one, -but especially women, are apt to contract a kindness for criminals who -go to the scaffold, and readily imagine them to be uncommonly handsome -and well-shaped; yet one who is present at the cruel execution of the -rack, feels no such tender emotions; but is in a manner overcome with -horror, and has no leisure to temper this uneasy sensation by any -opposite sympathy.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span></p> - -<p>But the instance which makes the most clearly for my hypothesis, is -that wherein, by a change of the objects, we separate the double -sympathy even from a middling degree of the passion; in which case we -find that pity, instead of producing love and tenderness as usual, -always gives rise to the contrary affection. When we observe a person -in misfortune, we are affected with pity and love; but the author of -that misfortune becomes the object of our strongest hatred, and is the -more detested in proportion to the degree of our compassion. Now, for -what reason should the same passion of pity produce love to the person -who suffers the misfortune, and hatred to the person who causes it; -unless it be because, in the latter case, the author bears a relation -only to the misfortune; whereas, in considering the sufferer, we carry -our view on every side, and wish for his prosperity, as well as are -sensible of his affliction?</p> - -<p>I shall just observe, before I leave the present subject, that this -phenomenon of the double sympathy, and its tendency to cause love, -may contribute to the production of the kindness which we naturally -bear our relations and acquaintance. Custom and relation make us enter -deeply into the sentiments of others; and whatever fortune we suppose -to attend them, is rendered present to us by the imagination, and -operates as if originally our own. We rejoice in their pleasures, and -grieve for their sorrows, merely from the force of sympathy. Nothing -that concerns them is indifferent to us; and as this correspondence of -sentiments is the natural attendant of love, it readily produces that -affection.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_X_bII" id="SECTION_X_bII">SECTION X.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF RESPECT AND CONTEMPT.</h5> - - -<p>There now remains only to explain the passions of <i>respect</i> and -<i>contempt</i>, along with the <i>amorous</i> affection, in order to understand -all the passions which have any mixture of love or hatred. Let us begin -with respect and contempt.</p> - -<p>In considering the qualities and circumstances of others, we may either -regard them as they really are in themselves; or may make a comparison -betwixt them and our own qualities and circumstances; or may join these -two methods of consideration. The good qualities of others, from the -first point of view, produce love; from the second, humility; and, from -the third, respect; which is a mixture of these two passions. Their bad -qualities, after the same manner, cause either hatred, or pride, or -contempt, according to the light in which we survey them.</p> - -<p>That there is a mixture of pride in contempt, and of humility in -respect, is, I think, too evident, from their very feeling or -appearance, to require any particular proof. That this mixture arises -from a tacit comparison of the person contemned or respected with -ourselves, is no less evident. The same man may cause either respect, -love, or contempt, by his condition and talents, according as the -person who considers him, from his inferior, becomes his equal or -superior. In changing the point of view, though the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span> object may remain -the same, its proportion to ourselves entirely alters; which is the -cause of an alteration in the passions. These passions, therefore, -arise from our observing the proportion, that is, from a comparison.</p> - -<p>I have already observed, that the mind has a much stronger propensity -to pride than to humility, and have endeavoured, from the principles -of human nature, to assign a cause for this phenomenon. Whether my -reasoning be received or not, the phenomenon is undisputed, and appears -in many instances. Among the rest, 'tis the reason why there is a much -greater mixture of pride in contempt, than of humility in respect, and -why we are more elevated with the view of one below us, than mortified -with the presence of one above us. Contempt or scorn has so strong a -tincture of pride, that there scarce is any other passion discernible: -Whereas in esteem or respect, love makes a more considerable ingredient -than humility. The passion of vanity is so prompt, that it rouses at -the least call; while humility requires a stronger impulse to make it -exert itself.</p> - -<p>But here it may reasonably be asked, why this mixture takes place only -in some cases, and appears not on every occasion. All those objects -which cause love, when placed on another person, are the causes of -pride when transferred to ourselves; and consequently ought to be -causes of humility as well as love while they belong to others, and are -only compared to those which we ourselves possess. In like manner every -quality, which, by being directly considered, produces hatred, ought -always to give rise to pride by comparison, and, by a mixture of these -passions of hatred and pride, ought to excite contempt or scorn. The -difficulty then<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span> is, why any objects ever cause pure love or hatred, -and produce not always the mixt passions of respect and contempt.</p> - -<p>I have supposed all along that the passions of love and pride, and -those of humility and hatred, are similar in their sensations, and that -the two former are always agreeable, and that the two latter painful. -But though this be universally true, 'tis observable, that the two -agreeable as well as the two painful passions, have some differences, -and even contrarieties, which distinguish them. Nothing invigorates and -exalts the mind equally with pride and vanity; though at the same time -love or tenderness is rather found to weaken and enfeeble it. The same -difference is observable betwixt the uneasy passions. Anger and hatred -bestow a new force on all our thoughts and actions; while humility and -shame deject and discourage us. Of these qualities of the passions, -'twill be necessary to form a distinct idea. Let us remember that pride -and hatred invigorate the soul, and love and humility enfeeble it.</p> - -<p>From this it follows, that though the conformity betwixt love and -hatred in the agreeableness of their sensation makes them always be -excited by the same objects, yet this other contrariety is the reason -why they are excited in very different degrees. Genius and learning are -<i>pleasant</i> and <i>magnificent</i> objects, and by both these circumstances -are adapted to pride and vanity, but have a relation to love by their -pleasure only. Ignorance and simplicity are <i>disagreeable</i> and <i>mean</i>, -which in the same manner gives them a double connexion with humility, -and a single one with hatred. We may, therefore, consider it as -certain, that though the same object always produces love and pride, -humility and hatred, according to its different situations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span> yet it -seldom produces either the two former or the two latter passions in the -same proportion.</p> - -<p>'Tis here we must seek for a solution of the difficulty -above-mentioned, why any object ever excites pure love or hatred, and -does not always produce respect or contempt, by a mixture of humility -or pride. No quality in another gives rise to humility by comparison, -unless it would have produced pride by being placed in ourselves; -and, <i>vice versa</i>, no object excites pride by comparison, unless it -would have produced humility by the direct survey. This is evident, -objects always produce by <i>comparison</i> a sensation directly contrary to -their <i>original</i> one. Suppose, therefore, an object to be presented, -which is peculiarly fitted to produce love, but imperfectly to excite -pride, this object, belonging to another, gives rise directly to a -great degree of love, but to a small one of humility by comparison; -and consequently that latter passion is scarce felt in the compound, -nor is able to convert the love into respect. This is the case with -good nature, good humour, facility, generosity, beauty, and many other -qualities. These have a peculiar aptitude to produce love in others; -but not so great a tendency to excite pride in ourselves: for which -reason the view of them, as belonging to another person, produces pure -love, with but a small mixture of humility and respect. 'Tis easy to -extend the same reasoning to the opposite passions.</p> - -<p>Before we leave this subject, it may not be amiss to account for a -pretty curious phenomenon, viz. why we commonly keep at a distance -such as we contemn, and allow not our inferiors to approach too near -even in place and situation. It has already been observed, that almost -every kind of ideas is attended with some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> emotion, even the ideas of -number and extension, much more those of such objects as are esteemed -of consequence in life, and fix our attention. 'Tis not with entire -indifference we can survey either a rich man or a poor one, but must -feel some faint touches, at least, of respect in the former case, and -of contempt in the latter. These two passions are contrary to each -other; but in order to make this contrariety be felt, the objects must -be someway related; otherwise the affections are totally separate and -distinct, and never encounter. The relation takes place wherever the -persons become contiguous; which is a general reason why we are uneasy -at seeing such disproportioned objects as a rich man and a poor one, a -nobleman and a porter, in that situation.</p> - -<p>This uneasiness, which is common to every spectator, must be more -sensible to the superior; and that because the near approach of the -inferior is regarded as a piece of ill breeding, and shows that he is -not sensible of the disproportion, and is no way affected by it. A -sense of superiority in another breeds in all men an inclination to -keep themselves at a distance from him, and determines them to redouble -the marks of respect and reverence, when they are obliged to approach -him; and where they do not observe that conduct, 'tis a proof they are -not sensible of his superiority. From hence too it proceeds, that any -great <i>difference</i> in the degrees of any quality is called a <i>distance</i> -by a common metaphor, which, however trivial it may appear, is founded -on natural principles of the imagination. A great difference inclines -us to produce a distance. The ideas of distance and difference are, -therefore, connected together. Connected ideas are readily taken for -each other; and this is in general the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> source of the metaphor, as we -shall have occasion to observe afterwards.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_XI_bII" id="SECTION_XI_bII">SECTION XI.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE AMOROUS PASSION, OR LOVE BETWIXT THE SEXES.</h5> - - -<p>Of all the compound passions which proceed from a mixture of love and -hatred with other affections, no one better deserves our attention, -than that love which arises betwixt the sexes, as well on account of -its force and violence, as those curious principles of philosophy, for -which it affords us an uncontestable argument. 'Tis plain that this -affection, in its most natural state, is derived from the conjunction -of three different impressions or passions, viz. the pleasing sensation -arising from beauty; the bodily appetite for generation; and a generous -kindness or good will. The origin of kindness from beauty may be -explained from the foregoing reasoning. The question is, how the bodily -appetite is excited by it.</p> - -<p>The appetite of generation, when confined to a certain degree, is -evidently of the pleasant kind, and has a strong connexion with all -the agreeable emotions. Joy, mirth, vanity, and kindness, are all -incentives to this desire, as well as music, dancing, wine, and good -cheer. On the other hand, sorrow, melancholy, poverty, humility are -destructive of it. From this quality, 'tis easily conceived why it -should be connected with the sense of beauty.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p> - -<p>But there is another principle that contributes to the same effect. -I have observed that the parallel direction of the desires is a real -relation, and, no less than a resemblance in their sensation, produces -a connexion among them. That we may fully comprehend the extent of -this relation, we must consider that any principal desire may be -attended with subordinate ones, which are connected with it, and to -which, if other desires are parallel, they are by that means related to -the principal one. Thus, hunger may oft be considered as the primary -inclination of the soul, and the desire of approaching the meat as the -secondary one, since 'tis absolutely necessary to the satisfying that -appetite. If an object, therefore, by any separate qualities, inclines -us to approach the meat, it naturally increases our appetite; as on the -contrary, whatever inclines us to set our victuals at a distance, is -contradictory to hunger, and diminishes our inclination to them. Now, -'tis plain, that beauty has the first effect, and deformity the second; -which is the reason why the former gives us a keener appetite for -our victuals, and the latter is sufficient to disgust us at the most -savoury dish that cookery has invented. All this is easily applicable -to the appetite for generation.</p> - -<p>From these two relations, viz. resemblance and a parallel desire, -there arises such a connexion betwixt the sense of beauty, the bodily -appetite, and benevolence, that they become in a manner inseparable; -and we find from experience, that 'tis indifferent which of them -advances first, since any of them is almost sure to be attended with -the related affections. One who is inflamed with lust, feels at least -a momentary kindness towards the object of it, and at the same time -fancies her more beautiful than ordinary; as there are many,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span> who -begin with kindness and esteem for the wit and merit of the person, -and advance from that to the other passions. But the most common -species of love is that which first arises from beauty, and afterwards -diffuses itself into kindness, and into the bodily appetite. Kindness -or esteem, and the appetite to generation, are too remote to unite -easily together. The one is, perhaps, the most refined passion of the -soul, the other the most gross and vulgar. The love of beauty is placed -in a just medium betwixt them, and partakes of both their natures; from -whence it proceeds, that 'tis so singularly fitted to produce both.</p> - -<p>This account of love is not peculiar to my system, but is unavoidable -on any hypothesis. The three affections which compose this passion are -evidently distinct, and has each of them its distinct object. 'Tis -certain, therefore, that 'tis only by their relation they produce each -other. But the relation of passions is not alone sufficient. 'Tis -likewise necessary there should be a relation of ideas. The beauty of -one person never inspires us with love for another. This then is a -sensible proof of the double relation of impressions and ideas. From -one instance so evident as this we may form a judgment of the rest.</p> - -<p>This may also serve in another view to illustrate what I have insisted -on concerning the origin of pride and humility, love and hatred. I have -observed, that though self be the object of the first set of passions, -and some other person of the second, yet these objects cannot alone -be the causes of the passions, as having each of them a relation to -two contrary affections, which must from the very first moment destroy -each other. Here then is the situation of the mind, as I have already -described it. It has certain organs naturally<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> fitted to produce a -passion; that passion, when produced, naturally turns the view to a -certain object. But this not being sufficient to produce the passion, -there is required some other emotion, which, by a double relation of -impressions and ideas, may set these principles in action, and bestow -on them their first impulse. This situation is still more remarkable -with regard to the appetite of generation. Sex is not only the object, -but also the cause of the appetite. We not only turn our view to it, -when actuated by that appetite, but the reflecting on it suffices to -excite the appetite. But as this cause loses its force by too great -frequency, 'tis necessary it should be quickened by some new impulse; -and that impulse we find to arise from the <i>beauty</i> of the <i>person</i>; -that is, from a double relation of impressions and ideas. Since this -double relation is necessary where an affection has both a distinct -cause and object, how much more so where it has only a distinct object -without any determinate cause!</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_XII_bII" id="SECTION_XII_bII">SECTION XII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE LOVE AND HATRED OF ANIMALS.</h5> - - -<p>But to pass from the passions of love and hatred, and from their -mixtures and compositions, as they appear in man, to the same -affections as they display themselves in brutes, we may observe, not -only that love and hatred are common to the whole sensitive creation, -but likewise that their causes, as above explained, are of so simple -a nature that they may easily be supposed to operate on mere animals. -There is no force of reflection<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span> or penetration required. Every thing -is conducted by springs and principles, which are not peculiar to man, -or any one species of animals. The conclusion from this is obvious in -favour of the foregoing system.</p> - -<p>Love, in animals, has not for its only object animals of the same -species, but extends itself farther, and comprehends almost every -sensible and thinking being. A dog naturally loves a man above his own -species, and very commonly meets with a return of affection.</p> - -<p>As animals are but little susceptible either of the pleasures or pains -of the imagination, they can judge of objects only by the sensible -good or evil which they produce, and from <i>that</i> must regulate their -affections towards them. Accordingly we find, that by benefits or -injuries we produce their love or hatred; and that, by feeding and -cherishing any animal, we quickly acquire his affections; as by beating -and abusing him we never fail to draw on us his enmity and ill-will.</p> - -<p>Love in beasts is not caused so much by relation as in our species; and -that because their thoughts are not so active as to trace relations, -except in very obvious instances. Yet 'tis easy to remark, that on -some occasions it has a considerable influence upon them. Thus, -acquaintance, which has the same effect as relation, always produces -love in animals, either to men or to each other. For the same reason, -any likeness among them is the source of affection. An ox confined to a -park with horses, will naturally join their company, if I may so speak, -but always leaves it to enjoy that of his own species, where he has the -choice of both.</p> - -<p>The affection of parents to their young proceeds<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span> from a peculiar -instinct in animals, as well as in our species.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident that <i>sympathy</i>, or the communication of passions, takes -place among animals, no less than among men. Fear, anger, courage, -and other affections, are frequently communicated from one animal to -another, without their knowledge of that cause which produced the -original passion. Grief likewise is received by sympathy, and produces -almost all the same consequences, and excites the same emotions, as in -our species. The howlings and lamentations of a dog produce a sensible -concern in his fellows. And 'tis remarkable, that though almost all -animals use in play the same member, and nearly the same action as -in fighting; a lion, a tiger, a cat, their paws; an ox, his horns; -a dog, his teeth; a horse, his heels: yet they most carefully avoid -harming their companion, even though they have nothing to fear from his -resentment; which is an evident proof of the sense brutes have of each -other's pain and pleasure.</p> - -<p>Every one has observed how much more dogs are animated when they hunt -in a pack, than when they pursue their game apart; and 'tis evident -this can proceed from nothing but from sympathy. 'Tis also well known -to hunters, that this effect follows in a greater degree, and even in -too great a degree, where too packs that are strangers to each other -are joined together. We might, perhaps, be at a loss to explain this -phenomenon, if we had not experience of a similar in ourselves.</p> - -<p>Envy and malice are passions very remarkable in animals. They are -perhaps more common than pity; as requiring less effort of thought and -imagination.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_III_II" id="PART_III_II">PART III.</a></h5> - -<h4>OF THE WILL AND DIRECT PASSIONS.</h4> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_I_cII" id="SECTION_I_cII">SECTION I.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF LIBERTY AND NECESSITY.</h5> - - -<p>We come now to explain the <i>direct</i> passions, or the impressions which -arise immediately from good or evil, from pain or pleasure. Of this -kind are, <i>desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear.</i></p> - -<p>Of all the immediate effects of pain and pleasure, there is none more -remarkable than the <i>will</i>; and though, properly speaking, it be not -comprehended among the passions, yet, as the full understanding of its -nature and properties is necessary to the explanation of them, we shall -here make it the subject of our inquiry. I desire it may be observed, -that, by the <i>will</i>, I mean nothing but <i>the internal impression we -feel, and are conscious of, when we knowingly give rise to any new -motion of our body, or new perception of our mind</i>. This impression, -like the preceding ones of pride and humility, love and hatred, 'tis -impossible to define, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> needless to describe any farther; for -which reason we shall cut off all those definitions and distinctions -with which philosophers are wont to perplex rather than clear up this -question; and entering at first upon the subject, shall examine that -long-disputed question concerning <i>liberty and necessity</i>, which occurs -so naturally in treating of the will.</p> - -<p>'Tis universally acknowledged that the operations of external bodies -are necessary; and that, in the communication of their motion, in their -attraction, and mutual cohesion, there are not the least traces of -indifference or liberty. Every object is determined by an absolute fate -to a certain degree and direction of its motion, and can no more depart -from that precise line in which it moves, than it can convert itself -into an angel, or spirit, or any superior substance. The actions, -therefore, of matter, are to be regarded as instances of necessary -actions; and whatever is, in this respect, on the same footing with -matter, must be acknowledged to be necessary. That we may know whether -this be the case with the actions of the mind, we shall begin with -examining matter, and considering on what the idea of a necessity in -its operations are founded, and why we conclude one body or action to -be the infallible cause of another.</p> - -<p>It has been observed already, that in no single instance the ultimate -connexion of any objects is discoverable either by our senses or -reason, and that we can never penetrate so far into the essence and -construction of bodies, as to perceive the principle on which their -mutual influence depends. 'Tis their constant union alone with which -we are acquainted; and 'tis from the constant union the necessity -arises. If objects had not an uniform and regular conjunction with -each other, we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span> should never arrive at any idea of cause and effect; -and even after all, the necessity which enters into that idea, is -nothing but a determination of the mind to pass from one object to -its usual attendant, and infer the existence of one from that of the -other. Here then are two particulars which we are to consider as -essential to necessity, viz. the constant <i>union</i> and the <i>inference</i> -of the mind; and wherever we discover these, we must acknowledge a -necessity. As the actions of matter have no necessity but what is -derived from these circumstances, and it is not by any insight into -the essence of bodies we discover their connexion, the absence of -this insight, while the union and inference remain, will never, in -any case, remove the necessity. 'Tis the observation of the union -which produces the inference; for which reason it might be thought -sufficient, if we prove a constant union in the actions of the mind, -in order to establish the inference along with the necessity of these -actions. But that I may bestow a greater force on my reasoning, I shall -examine these particulars apart, and shall first prove from experience -that our actions have a constant union with our motives, tempers, and -circumstances, before I consider the inferences we draw from it.</p> - -<p>To this end a very slight and general view of the common course of -human affairs will be sufficient. There is no light in which we can -take them that does not confirm this principle. Whether we consider -mankind according to the difference of sexes, ages, governments, -conditions, or methods of education; the same uniformity and regular -operation of natural principles are discernible. Like causes still -produce like effects; in the same manner as in the mutual action of the -elements and powers of nature.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p> - -<p>There are different trees which regularly produce fruit, whose relish -is different from each other; and this regularity will be admitted as -an instance of necessity and causes in external bodies. But are the -products of Guienne and of Champagne more regularly different than -the sentiments, actions, and passions of the two sexes, of which the -one are distinguished by their force and maturity, the other by their -delicacy and softness?</p> - -<p>Are the changes of our body from infancy to old age more regular and -certain than those of our mind and conduct? And would a man be more -ridiculous, who would expect that an infant of four years old will -raise a weight of three hundred pounds, than one who, from a person of -the same age, would look for a philosophical reasoning, or a prudent -and well concerted action?</p> - -<p>We must certainly allow, that the cohesion of the parts of matter -arises from natural and necessary principles, whatever difficulty we -may find in explaining them: and for a like reason we must allow, that -human society is founded on like principles; and our reason in the -latter case is better than even that in the former; because we not -only observe that men <i>always</i> seek society, but can also explain the -principles on which this universal propensity is founded. For it is -more certain that two flat pieces of marble will unite together, than -two young savages of different sexes will copulate? Do the children -arise from this copulation more uniformly, than does the parents' care -for their safety and preservation? And after they have arrived at years -of discretion by the care of their parents, are the inconveniences -attending their separation more certain than their foresight of these -inconveniences, and their care of avoiding them by a close union and -confederacy?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p> - -<p>The skin, pores, muscles, and nerves of a day-labourer, are different -from those of a man of quality: so are his sentiments, actions, and -manners. The different stations of life influence the whole fabric, -external and internal; and these different stations arise necessarily, -because uniformly, from the necessary and uniform principles of human -nature. Men cannot live without society, and cannot be associated -without government. Government makes a distinction of property, and -establishes the different ranks of men. This produces industry, -traffic, manufactures, lawsuits, war, leagues, alliances, voyages, -travels, cities, fleets, ports, and all those other actions and objects -which cause such a diversity, and at the same time maintain such an -uniformity in human life.</p> - -<p>Should a traveller, returning from a far country, tell us, that he had -seen a climate in the fiftieth degree of northern latitude, where all -the fruits ripen and come to perfection in the winter, and decay in the -summer, after the same manner as in England they are produced and decay -in the contrary seasons, he would find few so credulous as to believe -him. I am apt to think a traveller would meet with as little credit, -who should inform us of people exactly of the same character with those -in Plato's republic on the one hand, or those in Hobbes's <i>Leviathan</i> -on the other. There is a general course of nature in human actions, as -well as in the operations of the sun and the climate. There are also -characters peculiar to different nations and particular persons, as -well as common to mankind. The knowledge of these characters is founded -on the observation of an uniformity in the actions that flow from them; -and this uniformity forms the very essence of necessity.</p> - -<p>I can imagine only one way of eluding this argument,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> which is by -denying that uniformity of human actions, on which it is founded. As -long as actions have a constant union and connexion with the situation -and temper of the agent, however we may in words refuse to acknowledge -the necessity, we really allow the thing. Now, some may perhaps find -a pretext to deny this regular union and connexion. For what is more -capricious than human actions? What more inconstant than the desires -of man? And what creature departs more widely, not only from right -reason, but from his own character and disposition? An hour, a moment -is sufficient to make him change from one extreme to another, and -overturn what cost the greatest pain and labour to establish. Necessity -is regular and certain. Human conduct is irregular and uncertain. The -one therefore proceeds not from the other.</p> - -<p>To this I reply, that in judging of the actions of men we must proceed -upon the same maxims, as when we reason concerning external objects. -When any phenomena are constantly and invariably conjoined together, -they acquire such a connexion in the imagination, that it passes from -one to the other without any doubt or hesitation. But below this there -are many inferior degrees of evidence and probability, nor does one -single contrariety of experiment entirely destroy all our reasoning. -The mind balances the contrary experiments, and, deducting the inferior -from the superior, proceeds with that degree of assurance or evidence, -which remains. Even when these contrary experiments are entirely equal, -we remove not the notion of causes and necessity; but, supposing that -the usual contrariety proceeds from the operation of contrary and -concealed causes, we conclude, that the chance or indifference lies -only in our judgment on account of our imperfect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span> knowledge, not in the -things themselves, which are in every case equally necessary, though, -to appearance, not equally constant or certain. No union can be more -constant and certain than that of some actions with some motives and -characters; and if, in other cases, the union is uncertain, 'tis no -more than what happens in the operations of body; nor can we conclude -any thing from the one irregularity which will not follow equally from -the other.</p> - -<p>'Tis commonly allowed that madmen have no liberty. But, were we to -judge by their actions, these have less regularity and constancy than -the actions of wise men, and consequently are farther removed from -necessity. Our way of thinking in this particular is, therefore, -absolutely inconsistent; but is a natural consequence of these confused -ideas and undefined terms, which we so commonly make use of in our -reasonings, especially on the present subject.</p> - -<p>We must now show, that, as the <i>union</i> betwixt motives and actions has -the same constancy as that in any natural operations, so its influence -on the understanding is also the same, in <i>determining</i> us to infer -the existence of one from that of another. If this shall appear, there -is no known circumstance that enters into the connexion and production -of the actions of matter that is not to be found in all the operations -of the mind; and consequently we cannot, without a manifest absurdity, -attribute necessity to the one, and refuse it to the other.</p> - -<p>There is no philosopher, whose judgment is so rivetted to this -fantastical system of liberty, as not to acknowledge the force of -<i>moral evidence</i>, and both in speculation and practice proceed upon -it as upon a reasonable foundation. Now, moral evidence is nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> -but a conclusion concerning the actions of men, derived from the -consideration of their motives, temper, and situation. Thus, when we -see certain characters or figures described upon paper, we infer that -the person who produced them would affirm such facts, the death of -Cæsar, the success of Augustus, the cruelty of Nero; and, remembering -many other concurrent testimonies, we conclude that those facts were -once really existent, and that so many men, without any interest, -would never conspire to deceive us; especially since they must, in the -attempt, expose themselves to the derision of all their contemporaries, -when these facts were asserted to be recent and universally known. The -same kind of reasoning runs through politics, war, commerce, economy, -and indeed mixes itself so entirely in human life, that 'tis impossible -to act or subsist a moment without having recourse to it. A prince who -imposes a tax upon his subjects, expects their compliance. A general -who conducts an army, makes account of a certain degree of courage. A -merchant looks for fidelity and skill in his factor or supercargo. A -man who gives orders for his dinner, doubts not of the obedience of -his servants. In short, as nothing more nearly interests us than our -own actions and those of others, the greatest part of our reasonings -is employed in judgments concerning them. Now I assert, that whoever -reasons after this manner, does <i>ipso facto</i> believe the actions of the -will to arise from necessity, and that he knows not what he means when -he denies it.</p> - -<p>All those objects, of which we call the one <i>cause</i> and the other -<i>effect</i>, considered in themselves, are as distinct and separate from -each other as any two things in nature; nor can we ever, by the most -accurate survey of them, infer the existence of the one from that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> -of the other. 'Tis only from experience and the observation of their -constant union, that we are able to form this inference; and even -after all, the inference is nothing but the effects of custom on the -imagination. We must not here be content with saying, that the idea -of cause and effect arises from objects constantly united; but must -affirm, that 'tis the very same with the idea of these objects, and -that the <i>necessary connexion</i> is not discovered by a conclusion of -the understanding, but is merely a perception of the mind. Wherever, -therefore, we observe the same union, and wherever the union operates -in the same manner upon the belief and opinion, we have the idea of -causes and necessity, though perhaps we may avoid those expressions. -Motion in one body, in all past instances that have fallen under our -observation, is followed upon impulse by motion in another. 'Tis -impossible for the mind to penetrate farther. From this constant union -it <i>forms</i> the idea of cause and effect, and by its influence <i>feels</i> -the necessity. As there is the same constancy, and the same influence, -in what we call moral evidence, I ask no more. What remains can only be -a dispute of words.</p> - -<p>And indeed, when we consider how aptly <i>natural</i> and <i>moral</i> evidence -cement together, and form only one chain of argument betwixt them, we -shall make no scruple to allow, that they are of the same nature, and -derived from the same principles. A prisoner, who has neither money nor -interest, discover the impossibility of his escape, as well from the -obstinacy of the gaoler, as from the walls and bars with which he is -surrounded; and in all attempts for his freedom, chooses rather to work -upon the stone and iron of the one, than upon the inflexible nature -of the other. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> same prisoner, when conducted to the scaffold, -foresees his death as certainly from the constancy and fidelity of -his guards, as from the operation of the axe or wheel. His mind runs -along a certain train of ideas: the refusal of the soldiers to consent -to his escape; the action of the executioner; the separation of the -head and body, bleeding, convulsive motions, and death. Here is a -connected chain of natural causes and voluntary actions; but the mind -feels no difference betwixt them in passing from one link to another; -nor is less certain of the future event than if it were connected -with the present impressions of the memory and senses by a train of -causes cemented together by what we are pleased to call a <i>physical -necessity</i>. The same experienced union has the same effect on the mind, -whether the united objects be motives, volitions and actions, or figure -and motion. We may change the names of things, but their nature and -their operation on the understanding never change.</p> - -<p>I dare be positive no one will ever endeavour to refute these -reasonings otherwise than by altering my definitions, and assigning a -different meaning to the terms of <i>cause, and effect, and necessity, -and liberty, and chance</i>. According to my definitions, necessity makes -an essential part of causation; and consequently liberty, by removing -necessity, removes also causes, and is the very same thing with chance. -As chance is commonly thought to imply a contradiction, and is at least -directly contrary to experience, there are always the same arguments -against liberty or free-will. If any one alters the definitions, I -cannot pretend to argue with him till I know the meaning he assigns to -these terms.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_II_cII" id="SECTION_II_cII">SECTION II.</a></h5> - -<h5>THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.</h5> - - -<p>I believe we may assign the three following reasons for the prevalence -of the doctrine of liberty, however absurd it may be in one sense, -and unintelligible in any other. First, after we have performed any -action, though we confess we were influenced by particular views and -motives, 'tis difficult for us to persuade ourselves we were governed -by necessity, and that 'twas utterly impossible for us to have acted -otherwise, the idea of necessity seeming to imply something of force, -and violence, and constraint, of which we are not sensible. Few are -capable of distinguishing betwixt the liberty of <i>spontaneity</i>, as it -is called in the schools, and the liberty of <i>indifference</i>; betwixt -that which is opposed to violence, and that which means a negation of -necessity and causes. The first is even the most common sense of the -word; and as 'tis only that species of liberty which it concerns us to -preserve, our thoughts have been principally turned towards it, and -have almost universally confounded it with the other.</p> - -<p>Secondly, there is a <i>false sensation or experience</i> even of the -liberty of indifference, which is regarded as an argument for its real -existence. The necessity of any action, whether of matter or of the -mind, is not properly a quality in the agent, but in any thinking or -intelligent being, who may consider the action, and consists<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> in the -determination of his thought to infer its existence from some preceding -objects: as liberty or chance, on the other hand, is nothing but the -want of that determination, and a certain looseness, which we feel -in passing or not passing from the idea of one to that of the other. -Now, we may observe, that though in reflecting on human actions, we -seldom feel such a looseness or indifference, yet it very commonly -happens, that, in performing the actions themselves, we are sensible of -something like it: and as all related or resembling objects are readily -taken for each other, this has been employed as a demonstrative, or -even an intuitive proof of human liberty. We feel that our actions -are subject to our will on most occasions, and imagine we feel that -the will itself is subject to nothing; because when, by a denial of -it, we are provoked to try, we feel that it moves easily every way, -and produces an image of itself even on that side on which it did not -settle. This image or faint motion, we persuade ourselves, could have -been completed into the thing itself; because, should that be denied, -we find, upon a second trial, that it can. But these efforts are all in -vain; and whatever capricious and irregular actions we may perform, as -the desire of showing our liberty is the sole motive of our actions, we -can never free ourselves from the bonds of necessity. We may imagine -we feel a liberty within ourselves, but a spectator can commonly infer -our actions from our motives and character; and even where he cannot, -he concludes in general that he might, were he perfectly acquainted -with every circumstance of our situation and temper, and the most -secret springs of our complexion and disposition. Now, this is the very -essence of necessity, according to the foregoing doctrine.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span></p> - -<p>A third reason why the doctrine of liberty has generally been better -received in the world than its antagonist, proceeds from <i>religion</i>, -which has been very unnecessarily interested in this question. There -is no method of reasoning more common, and yet none more blameable, -than in philosophical debates to endeavour to refute any hypothesis -by a pretext of its dangerous consequences to religion and morality. -When any opinion leads us into absurdities, 'tis certainly false; -but 'tis not certain an opinion is false, because 'tis of dangerous -consequence. Such topics, therefore, ought entirely to be foreborn, -as serving nothing to the discovery of truth, but only to make the -person of an antagonist odious. This I observe in general, without -pretending to draw any advantage from it. I submit myself frankly to an -examination of this kind, and dare venture to affirm, that the doctrine -of necessity, according to my explication of it, is not only innocent, -but even advantageous to religion and morality.</p> - -<p>I define necessity two ways, conformable to the two definitions of -<i>cause</i>, of which it makes an essential part. I place it either in the -constant union and conjunction of like objects, or in the inference -of the mind from the one to the other. Now, necessity, in both these -senses, has universally, though tacitly, in the schools, in the pulpit, -and in common life, been allowed to belong to the will of man; and no -one has ever pretended to deny, that we can draw inferences concerning -human actions, and that those inferences are founded on the experienced -union of like actions with like motives and circumstances. The only -particular in which any one can differ from me is, either that perhaps -he will refuse to call this necessity; but as long as the meaning is -understood, I hope the word can do no harm; or,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> that he will maintain -there is something else in the operations of matter. Now, whether it -be so or not, is of no consequence to religion, whatever it may be to -natural philosophy. I may be mistaken in asserting, that we have no -idea of any other connexion in the actions of body, and shall be glad -to be farther instructed on that head: but sure I am, I ascribe nothing -to the actions of the mind, but what must readily be allowed of. Let no -one, therefore, put an invidious construction on my words, by saying -simply, that I assert the necessity of human actions, and place them -on the same footing with the operations of senseless matter. I do not -ascribe to the will that unintelligible necessity, which is supposed -to lie in matter. But I ascribe to matter that intelligible quality, -call it necessity or not, which the most rigorous orthodoxy does or -must allow to belong to the will. I change, therefore, nothing in the -received systems, with regard to the will, but only with regard to -material objects.</p> - -<p>Nay, I shall go farther, and assert, that this kind of necessity is so -essential to religion and morality, that without it there must ensue -an absolute subversion of both, and that every other supposition is -entirely destructive to all laws, both <i>divine</i> and <i>human</i>. 'Tis -indeed certain, that as all human laws are founded on rewards and -punishments, 'tis supposed as a fundamental principle, that these -motives have an influence on the mind, and both produce the good and -prevent the evil actions. We may give to this influence what name we -please; but as 'tis usually conjoined with the action, common sense -requires it should be esteemed a cause, and be looked upon as an -instance of that necessity, which I would establish.</p> - -<p>This reasoning is equally solid, when applied to <i>divine</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> laws, -so far as the Deity is considered as a legislator, and is supposed -to inflict punishment and bestow rewards with a design to produce -obedience. But I also maintain, that even where he acts not in his -magisterial capacity, is regarded as the avenger of crimes merely on -account of their odiousness and deformity, not only 'tis impossible, -without the necessary connexion of cause and effect in human actions, -that punishments could be inflicted compatible with justice and moral -equity; but also that it could ever enter into the thoughts of any -reasonable being to inflict them. The constant and universal object -of hatred or anger is a person or creature endowed with thought and -consciousness; and when any criminal or injurious actions excite that -passion, 'tis only by their relation to the person or connexion with -him. But according to the doctrine of liberty or chance, this connexion -is reduced to nothing, nor are men more accountable for those actions, -which are designed and premeditated, than for such as are the most -casual and accidental. Actions are, by their very nature, temporary and -perishing; and where they proceed not from some cause in the characters -and disposition of the person who performed them, they infix not -themselves upon him, and can neither redound to his honour, if good, -nor infamy, if evil. The action itself may be blameable; it may be -contrary to all the rules of morality and religion: but the person is -not responsible for it; and as it proceeded from nothing in him that is -durable or constant, and leaves nothing of that nature behind it, 'tis -impossible he can, upon its account, become the object of punishment or -vengeance. According to the hypothesis of liberty, therefore, a man is -as pure and untainted, after having committed the most horrid crimes, -as at<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span> the first moment of his birth, nor is his character any way -concerned in his actions, since they are not derived from it, and the -wickedness of the one can never be used as a proof of the depravity of -the other. 'Tis only upon the principles of necessity, that a person -acquires any merit or demerit from his actions, however the common -opinion may incline to the contrary.</p> - -<p>But so inconsistent are men with themselves, that though they often -assert that necessity utterly destroys all merit and demerit either -towards mankind or superior powers, yet they continue still to reason -upon these very principles of necessity in all their judgments -concerning this matter. Men are not blamed for such evil actions -as they perform ignorantly and casually, whatever may be their -consequences. Why? but because the causes of these actions are only -momentary, and terminate in them alone. Men are less blamed for such -evil actions as they perform hastily and unpremeditately, than for such -as proceed from thought and deliberation. For what reason? but because -a hasty temper, though a constant cause in the mind, operates only by -intervals, and infects not the whole character. Again, repentance wipes -off every crime, especially if attended with an evident reformation of -life and manners. How is this to be accounted for? but by asserting -that actions render a person criminal, merely as they are proofs -of criminal passions or principles in the mind; and when, by any -alteration of these principles, they cease to be just proofs, they -likewise cease to be criminal. But according the doctrine of <i>liberty</i> -or <i>chance</i>, they never were just proofs, and consequently never were -criminal.</p> - -<p>Here then I turn to my adversary, and desire him to free his own system -from these odious consequences<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> before he charge them upon others. -Or, if he rather chooses that this question should be decided by fair -arguments before philosophers, than by declamations before the people, -let him return to what I have advanced to prove that liberty and chance -are synonymous; and concerning the nature of moral evidence and the -regularity of human actions. Upon a review of these reasonings, I -cannot doubt of an entire victory; and therefore, having proved that -all actions of the will have particular causes, I proceed to explain -what these causes are, and how they operate.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_III_cII" id="SECTION_III_cII">SECTION III.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE INFLUENCING MOTIVES OF THE WILL.</h5> - - -<p>Nothing is more usual in philosophy, and even in common life, than to -talk of the combat of passion and reason, to give the preference to -reason, and assert that men are only so far virtuous as they conform -themselves to its dictates. Every rational creature, 'tis said, is -obliged to regulate his actions by reason; and if any other motive or -principle challenge the direction of his conduct, he ought to oppose -it, 'till it be entirely subdued, or at least brought to a conformity -with that superior principle. On this method of thinking the greatest -part of moral philosophy, ancient and modern, seems to be founded; -nor is there an ampler field, as well for metaphysical arguments, as -popular declamations, than this supposed pre-eminence of reason above -passion. The eternity, invariableness, and divine origin of the former, -have been displayed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> the best advantage: the blindness, inconstancy, -and deceitfulness of the latter, have been as strongly insisted on. In -order to show the fallacy of all this philosophy, I shall endeavour to -prove <i>first</i>, that reason alone can never be a motive to any action -of the will; and <i>secondly</i>, that it can never oppose passion in the -direction of the will.</p> - -<p>The understanding exerts itself after two different ways, as the judges -from demonstration or probability; as it regards the abstract relations -of our ideas, or those relations of objects of which experience only -gives us information. I believe it scarce will be asserted, that the -first species of reasoning alone is ever the cause of any action. As -its proper province is the world of ideas, and as the will always -places us in that of realities, demonstration and volition seem upon -that account to be totally removed from each other. Mathematics, -indeed, are useful in all mechanical operations, and arithmetic in -almost every art and profession: but 'tis not of themselves they have -any influence. Mechanics are the art of regulating the motions of -bodies <i>to some designed end or purpose</i>; and the reason why we employ -arithmetic in fixing the proportions of numbers, is only that we may -discover the proportions of their influence and operation. A merchant -is desirous of knowing the sum total of his accounts with any person: -why? but that he may learn what sum will have the same <i>effects</i> in -paying his debt, and going to market, as all the particular articles -taken together. Abstract or demonstrative reasoning, therefore, never -influences any of our actions, but only as it directs our judgment -concerning causes and effects; which leads us to the second operation -of the understanding.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span></p> - -<p>'Tis obvious, that when we have the prospect of pain or pleasure from -any object, we feel a consequent emotion of aversion or propensity, -and are carried to avoid or embrace what will give us this uneasiness -or satisfaction. 'Tis also obvious, that this emotion rests not here, -but, making us cast our view on every side, comprehends whatever -objects are connected with its original one by the relation of cause -and effect. Here then reasoning takes place to discover this relation; -and according as our reasoning varies, our actions receive a subsequent -variation. But 'tis evident, in this case, that the impulse arises not -from reason, but is only directed by it. 'Tis from the prospect of pain -or pleasure that the aversion or propensity arises towards any object: -and these emotions extend themselves to the causes and effects of that -object, as they are pointed out to us by reason and experience. It can -never in the least concern us to know, that such objects are causes, -and such others effects, if both the causes and effects be indifferent -to us. Where the objects themselves do not affect us, their connexion -can never give them any influence; and 'tis plain that, as reason is -nothing but the discovery of this connexion, it cannot be by its means -that the objects are able to affect us.</p> - -<p>Since reason alone can never produce any action, or give rise to -volition, I infer, that the same faculty is as incapable of preventing -volition, or of disputing the preference with any passion or emotion. -This consequence is necessary. 'Tis impossible reason could have the -latter effect of preventing, volition, but by giving an impulse in a -contrary direction to our passion; and that impulse, had it operated -alone, would have been able to produce volition. Nothing can oppose or -retard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span> the impulse of passion, but a contrary impulse; and if this -contrary impulse ever arises from reason, that latter faculty must -have an original influence on the will, and must be able to cause, as -well as hinder, any act of volition. But if reason has no original -influence, 'tis impossible it can withstand any principle which has -such an efficacy, or ever keep the mind in suspence a moment. Thus, -it appears, that the principle which opposes our passion, cannot be -the same with reason, and is only called so in an improper sense. We -speak not strictly and philosophically, when we talk of the combat of -passion and of reason. Reason is, and ought only to be, the slave of -the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve -and obey them. As this opinion may appear somewhat extraordinary, it -may not be improper to confirm it by some other considerations.</p> - -<p>A passion is an original existence, or, if you will, modification of -existence, and contains not any representative quality, which renders -it a copy of any other existence or modification. When I am angry, I -am actually possest with the passion, and in that emotion have no more -a reference to any other object, than when I am thirsty, or sick, or -more than five feet high. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this passion -can be opposed by, or be contradictory to, truth and reason; since this -contradiction consists in the disagreement of ideas, considered as -copies, with those objects which they represent.</p> - -<p>What may at first occur on this head is, that as nothing can be -contrary to truth or reason, except what has a reference to it, and as -the judgments of our understanding only have this reference, it must -follow, that passions can be contrary to reason only, so far as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> they -are <i>accompanied</i> with some judgment or opinion. According to this -principle, which is so obvious and natural, 'tis only in two senses -that any affection can be called unreasonable. First, When a passion, -such as hope or fear, grief or joy, despair or security, is founded -on the supposition of the existence of objects, which really do not -exist. Secondly, When in exerting any passion in action, we choose -means sufficient for the designed end, and deceive ourselves in our -judgment of causes and effects. Where a passion is neither founded on -false suppositions, nor chooses means insufficient for the end, the -understanding can neither justify nor condemn it. 'Tis not contrary to -reason to prefer the destruction of the whole world to the scratching -of my finger. 'Tis not contrary to reason for me to choose my total -ruin, to prevent the least uneasiness of an Indian, or person wholly -unknown to me. 'Tis as little contrary to reason to prefer even my -own acknowledged lesser good to my greater, and have a more ardent -affection for the former than the latter. A trivial good may, from -certain circumstances, produce a desire superior to what arises from -the greatest and most valuable enjoyment; nor is there any thing more -extraordinary in this, than in mechanics to see one pound weight raise -up a hundred by the advantage of its situation. In short, a passion -must be accompanied with some false judgment, in order to its being -unreasonable; and even then, 'tis not the passion, properly speaking, -which is unreasonable, but the judgment.</p> - -<p>The consequences are evident. Since a passion can never, in any sense, -be called unreasonable, but when founded on a false supposition, -or when it chuses means insufficient for the designed end, 'tis -impossible, that reason and passion can ever oppose each other, or -dispute<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> for the government of the will and actions. The moment we -perceive the falsehood of any supposition, or the insufficiency of -any means, our passions yield to our reason without any opposition. -I may desire any fruit as of an excellent relish; but whenever -you convince me of my mistake, my longing ceases. I may will the -performance of certain actions as means of obtaining any desired good; -but as my willing of these actions is only secondary, and founded on -the supposition that they are causes of the proposed effect; as soon -as I discover the falsehood of that supposition, they must become -indifferent to me.</p> - -<p>'Tis natural for one, that does not examine objects with a strict -philosophic eye, to imagine, that those actions of the mind are -entirely the same, which produce not a different sensation, and are -not immediately distinguishable to the feeling and perception. Reason, -for instance, exerts itself without producing any sensible emotion; -and except in the more sublime disquisitions of philosophy, or in the -frivolous subtilties of the schools, scarce ever conveys any pleasure -or uneasiness. Hence it proceeds, that every action of the mind which -operates with the same calmness and tranquillity, is confounded -with reason by all those who judge of things from the first view -and appearance. Now 'tis certain there are certain calm desires and -tendencies, which, though they be real passions, produce little emotion -in the mind, and are more known by their effects than by the immediate -feeling or sensation. These desires are of two kinds; either certain -instincts originally implanted in our natures, such as benevolence and -resentment, the love of life, and kindness to children; or the general -appetite to good, and aversion to evil, considered merely as such. When -any of these passions are calm,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span> and cause no disorder in the soul, -they are very readily taken for the determinations of reason, and are -supposed to proceed from the same faculty with that which judges of -truth and falsehood. Their nature and principles have been supposed the -same, because their sensations are not evidently different.</p> - -<p>Beside these calm passions, which often determine the will, there are -certain violent emotions of the same kind, which have likewise a great -influence on that faculty. When I receive any injury from another, I -often feel a violent passion of resentment, which makes me desire his -evil and punishment, independent of all considerations of pleasure and -advantage to myself. When I am immediately threatened with any grievous -ill, my fears, apprehensions and aversions rise to a great height, and -produce a sensible emotion.</p> - -<p>The common error of metaphysicians has lain in ascribing the direction -of the will entirely to one of these principles, and supposing the -other to have no influence. Men often act knowingly against their -interest; for which reason, the view of the greatest possible good -does not always influence them. Men often counteract a violent passion -in prosecution of their interests and designs; 'tis not, therefore, -the present uneasiness alone which determines them. In general we may -observe, that both these principles, operate on the will; and where -they are contrary, that either of them prevails, according to the -<i>general</i> character or <i>present</i> disposition of the person. What we -call strength of mind, implies the prevalence of the calm passions -above the violent; though we may easily observe, there is no man so -constantly possessed of this virtue, as never on any occasion to yield -to the solicitations of passion and desire. From these variations -of temper proceeds the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> great difficulty of deciding concerning the -actions and resolutions of men, where there is any contrariety of -motives and passions.</p> - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a name="SECTION_IV_cII" id="SECTION_IV_cII">SECTION IV.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE CAUSES OF THE VIOLENT PASSIONS.</h5> - - -<p>There is not in philosophy a subject of more nice speculation than -this, of the different <i>causes</i> and <i>effects</i> of the calm and violent -passions. 'Tis evident, passions influence not the will in proportion -to their violence, or the disorder they occasion in the temper; -but, on the contrary, that when a passion has once become a settled -principle of action, and is the predominant inclination of the soul, -it commonly produces no longer any sensible agitation. As repeated -custom and its own force have made every thing yield to it, it directs -the actions and conduct without that opposition and emotion which so -naturally attend every momentary gust of passion. We must, therefore, -distinguish betwixt a calm and a weak passion; betwixt a violent and -a strong one. But notwithstanding this, 'tis certain that, when we -would govern a man, and push him to any action, 'twill commonly be -better policy to work upon the violent than the calm passions, and -rather take him by his inclination, than what is vulgarly called his -<i>reason</i>. We ought to place the object in such particular situations -as are proper to increase the violence of the passion. For we may -observe, that all depends upon the situation of the object, and that a -variation in this particular will be able to change the calm and the -violent passions into each other. Both these kinds of passions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> pursue -good, and avoid evil; and both of them are increased or diminished by -the increase or diminution of the good or evil. But herein lies the -difference betwixt them: the same good, when near, will cause a violent -passion, which, when remote, produces only a calm one. As this subject -belongs very properly to the present question concerning the will, we -shall here examine it to the bottom, and shall consider some of those -circumstances and situations of objects, which render a passion either -calm or violent.</p> - -<p>'Tis a remarkable property of human nature, that any emotion which -attends a passion, is easily converted into it, though in their -natures they be originally different from, and even contrary to, each -other. 'Tis true, in order to make a perfect union among the passions, -there is always required a double relation of impressions and ideas; -nor is one relation sufficient for that purpose. But though this be -confirmed by undoubted experience, we must understand it with its -proper limitations, and must regard the double relation as requisite -only to make one passion produce another. When two passions are already -produced by their separate causes, and are both present in the mind, -they readily mingle and unite, though they have but one relation, -and sometimes without any. The predominant passion swallows up the -inferior, and converts it into itself. The spirits, when once excited, -easily receive a change in their direction; and 'tis natural to imagine -this change will come from the prevailing affection. The connexion is -in many respects closer betwixt any two passions, than betwixt any -passion and indifference.</p> - -<p>When a person is once heartily in love, the little faults and caprice -of his mistress, the jealousies and quarrels to which that commerce is -so subject, however<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> unpleasant, and related to anger and hatred, are -yet found to give additional force to the prevailing passion. 'Tis a -common artifice of politicians, when they would affect any person very -much by a matter of fact, of which they intend to inform him, first to -excite his curiosity, delay as long as possible the satisfying it, and -by that means raise his anxiety and impatience to the utmost, before -they give him a full insight into the business. They know that his -curiosity will precipitate him into the passion they design to raise, -and assist the object in its influence on the mind. A soldier advancing -to the battle, is naturally inspired with courage and confidence, -when he thinks on his friends and fellow-soldiers; and is struck with -fear and terror, when he reflects on the enemy. Whatever new emotion, -therefore, proceeds from the former, naturally increases the courage; -as the same emotion, proceeding from the latter, augments the fear, -by the relation of ideas, and the conversion of the inferior emotion -into the predominant. Hence it is, that in martial discipline, the -uniformity and lustre of our habit, the regularity of our figures and -motions, with all the pomp and majesty of war, encourage ourselves and -allies; while the same objects in the enemy strike terror into us, -though agreeable and beautiful in themselves.</p> - -<p>Since passions, however independent, are naturally transfused into each -other, if they are both present at the same time, it follows, that when -good or evil is placed in such a situation as to cause any particular -emotion beside its direct passion of desire or aversion, that latter -passion must acquire new force and violence.</p> - -<p>This happens, among other cases, whenever any object excites contrary -passions. For 'tis observable that an opposition of passions commonly -causes a new emotion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> in the spirits, and produces more disorder than -the concurrence of any two affections of equal force. This new emotion -is easily converted into the predominant passion, and increases its -violence beyond the pitch it would have arrived at had it met with -no opposition. Hence we naturally desire what is forbid, and take a -pleasure in performing actions, merely because they are unlawful. -The notion of duty, when opposite to the passions, is seldom able to -overcome them; and, when it fails of that effect, is apt rather to -increase them, by producing an opposition in our motives and principles.</p> - -<p>The same effect follows, whether the opposition arises from internal -motives or external obstacles. The passion commonly acquires new -force and violence in both cases. The efforts which the mind makes to -surmount the obstacle, excite the spirits and enliven the passion.</p> - -<p>Uncertainty has the same influence as opposition. The agitation of the -thought, the quick turns it makes from one view to another, the variety -of passions which succeed each other, according to the different views; -all these produce an agitation in the mind, and transfuse themselves -into the predominant passion.</p> - -<p>There is not, in my opinion, any other natural cause why security -diminishes the passions, than because it removes that uncertainty which -increases them. The mind, when left to itself, immediately languishes, -and, in order to preserve its ardour, must be every moment supported by -a new flow of passion. For the same reason, despair, though contrary to -security, has a like influence.</p> - -<p>'Tis certain, nothing more powerful animates any affection, than to -conceal some part of its object by throwing it into a kind of shade, -which, at the same<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> time that it shows enough to prepossess us in -favour of the object, leaves still some work for the imagination. -Besides, that obscurity is always attended with a kind of uncertainty; -the effort which the fancy makes to complete the idea, rouses the -spirits, and gives an additional force to the passion.</p> - -<p>As despair and security, though contrary to each other, produce the -same effects, so absence is observed to have contrary effects, and, in -different circumstances, either increases or diminishes our affections. -The Duc de la Rochefoucault has very well observed, that absence -destroys weak passions, but increases strong; as the wind extinguishes -a candle, but blows up a fire. Long absence naturally weakens our idea, -and diminishes the passion; but where the idea is so strong and lively -as to support itself, the uneasiness, arising from absence, increases -the passion, and gives it new force and violence.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_V_cII" id="SECTION_V_cII">SECTION V.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE EFFECTS OF CUSTOM.</h5> - - -<p>But nothing has a greater effect both to increase and diminish our -passions, to convert pleasure into pain, and pain into pleasure, than -custom and repetition. Custom has two <i>original</i> effects upon the mind, -in bestowing a <i>facility</i> in the performance of any action, or the -conception of any object, and afterwards a <i>tendency or inclination</i> -towards it; and from these we may account for all its other effects, -however extraordinary.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p> - -<p>When the soul applies itself to the performance of any action, or the -conception of any object to which it is not accustomed, there is a -certain unpliableness in the faculties, and a difficulty of the spirits -moving in their new direction. As this difficulty excites the spirits, -'tis the source of wonder, surprise, and of all the emotions which -arise from novelty, and is in itself very agreeable, like every thing -which enlivens the mind to a moderate degree. But though surprise be -agreeable in itself, yet, as it puts the spirits in agitation, it not -only augments our agreeable affections, but also our painful, according -to the foregoing principle, <i>that every emotion which precedes or -attends a passion is easily converted into it</i>. Hence, every thing -that is new is most affecting, and gives us either more pleasure or -pain than what, strictly speaking, naturally belongs to it. When it -often returns upon us, the novelty wears off, the passions subside, the -hurry of the spirits is over, and we survey the objects with greater -tranquillity.</p> - -<p>By degrees, the repetition produces a facility, which is another -very powerful principle of the human mind, and an infallible source -of pleasure where the facility goes not beyond a certain degree. And -here 'tis remarkable, that the pleasure which arises from a moderate -facility has not the same tendency with that which arises from -novelty, to augment the painful as well as the agreeable affections. -The pleasure of facility does not so much consist in any ferment of -the spirits, as in their orderly motion, which will sometimes be so -powerful as even to convert pain into pleasure, and give us a relish in -time for what at first was most harsh and disagreeable.</p> - -<p>But, again, as facility converts pain into pleasure, so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span> it often -converts pleasure into pain when it is too great, and renders the -actions of the mind so faint and languid, that they are no longer able -to interest and support it. And indeed scarce any other objects become -disagreeable through custom, but such as are naturally attended with -some emotion or affection, which is destroyed by the too frequent -repetition. One can consider the clouds, and heavens, and trees, -and stones, however frequently repeated, without ever feeling any -aversion. But when the fair sex, or music, or good cheer, or any thing -that naturally ought to be agreeable, becomes indifferent, it easily -produces the opposite affection.</p> - -<p>But custom not only gives a facility to perform any action, but -likewise an inclination and tendency towards it, where it is not -entirely disagreeable, and can never be the object of inclination. -And this is the reason why custom increases all <i>active</i> habits, but -diminishes <i>passive</i>, according to the observation of a late eminent -philosopher. The facility takes off from the force of the passive -habits by rendering the motion of the spirits faint and languid. But as -in the active, the spirits are sufficiently supported of themselves, -the tendency of the mind gives them new force, and bends them more -strongly to the action.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_VI_cII" id="SECTION_VI_cII">SECTION VI.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE INFLUENCE OF THE IMAGINATION ON THE PASSIONS.</h5> - - -<p>'Tis remarkable, that the imagination and affections have a close union -together, and that nothing, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span> affects the former, can be entirely -indifferent to the latter. Wherever our ideas of good or evil acquire -a new vivacity, the passions become more violent, and keep pace with -the imagination in all its variations. Whether this proceeds from -the principle above-mentioned, <i>that any attendant emotion is easily -converted into the Predominant</i>, I shall not determine. 'Tis sufficient -for my present purpose, that we have many instances to confirm this -influence of the imagination upon the passions.</p> - -<p>Any pleasure with which we are acquainted, affects us more than any -other which we own to be superior, but of whose nature we are wholly -ignorant. Of the one we can form a particular and determinate idea: -the other we conceive under the general notion of pleasure; and 'tis -certain, that the more general and universal any of our ideas are, the -less influence they have upon the imagination. A general idea, though -it be nothing but a particular one considered in a certain view, is -commonly more obscure; and that because no particular idea, by which we -represent a general one, is ever fixed or determinate, but may easily -be changed for other particular ones, which will serve equally in the -representation.</p> - -<p>There is a noted passage in the history of Greece, which may serve -for our present purpose. Themistocles told the Athenians, that he had -formed a design, which would be highly useful to the public, but which -'twas impossible for him to communicate to them without ruining the -execution, since its success depended entirely on the secrecy with -which it should be conducted. The Athenians, instead of granting him -full power to act as he thought fitting, ordered him to communicate his -design to Aristides, in whose prudence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span> they had an entire confidence, -and whose opinion they were resolved blindly to submit to. The design -of Themistocles was secretly to set fire to the fleet of all the -Grecian commonwealths, which was assembled in a neighbouring port, -and which, being once destroyed, would give the Athenians the empire -of the sea without any rival. Aristides returned to the assembly, and -told them, that nothing could be more advantageous than the design of -Themistocles; but at the same time that nothing could be more unjust: -upon which the people unanimously rejected the project.</p> - -<p>A late celebrated historian<a name="FNanchor_1_14" id="FNanchor_1_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_14" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> admires this passage of ancient history -as one of the most singular that is any where to be met with. "Here," -says he, "they are not philosophers, to whom 'tis easy in their schools -to establish the finest maxims and most sublime rules of morality, who -decide that interest ought never to prevail above justice. 'Tis a whole -people interested in the proposal which is made to them, who consider -it as of importance to the public good, and who, notwithstanding, -reject it unanimously, and without hesitation, merely because it is -contrary to justice." For my part I see nothing so extraordinary in -this proceeding of the Athenians. The same reasons which render it so -easy for philosophers to establish these sublime maxims, tend, in part, -to diminish the merit of such a conduct in that people. Philosophers -never balance betwixt profit and honesty, because their decisions are -general, and neither their passions nor imaginations are interested -in the objects. And though, in the present case, the advantage was -immediate to the Athenians, yet as it was known only under the general<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span> -notion of advantage, without being conceived by any particular idea, it -must have had a less considerable influence on their imaginations, and -have been a less violent temptation, than if they had been acquainted -with all its circumstances: otherwise 'tis difficult to conceive, -that a whole people, unjust and violent as men commonly are, should -so unanimously have adhered to justice, and rejected any considerable -advantage.</p> - -<p>Any satisfaction which we lately enjoyed, and of which the memory is -fresh and recent, operates on the will with more violence than another -of which the traces are decayed, and almost obliterated. From whence -does this proceed, but that the memory in the first case assists the -fancy, and gives an additional force and vigour to its conceptions? -The image of the past pleasure being strong and violent, bestows these -qualities on the idea of the future pleasure, which is connected with -it by the relation of resemblance.</p> - -<p>A pleasure which is suitable to the way of life in which we are -engaged, excites more our desires and appetites than another which is -foreign to it. This phenomenon may be explained from the same principle.</p> - -<p>Nothing is more capable of infusing any passion into the mind, than -eloquence, by which objects are represented in their strongest and most -lively colours. We may of ourselves acknowledge, that such an object -is valuable, and such another odious; but till an orator excites the -imagination, and gives force to these ideas, they may have but a feeble -influence either on the will or the affections.</p> - -<p>But eloquence is not always necessary. The bare opinion of another, -especially when enforced with passion,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span> will cause an idea of good or -evil to have an influence upon us, which would otherwise have been -entirely neglected. This proceeds from the principle of sympathy or -communication; and sympathy, as I have already observed, is nothing -but the conversion of an idea into an impression by the force of -imagination.</p> - -<p>'Tis remarkable, that lively passions commonly attend a lively -imagination. In this respect, as well as others, the force of the -passion depends as much on the temper of the person, as the nature or -situation of the object.</p> - -<p>I have already observed, that belief is nothing but a lively idea -related to a present impression. This vivacity is a requisite -circumstance to the exciting all our passions, the calm as well as the -violent; nor has a mere fiction of the imagination any considerable -influence upon either of them. 'Tis too weak to take any hold of the -mind, or be attended with emotion.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_14" id="Footnote_1_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_14"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Mons. Rollin.</p></div> - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a name="SECTION_VII_cII" id="SECTION_VII_cII">SECTION VII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF CONTIGUITY AND DISTANCE IN SPACE AND TIME.</h5> - - -<p>There is an easy reason why every thing contiguous to us, either in -space or time, should be conceived with a peculiar force and vivacity, -and excel every other object in its influence on the imagination. -Ourself is intimately present to us, and whatever is related to self -must partake of that quality. But where an object is so far removed -as to have lost the advantage of this relation, why, as it is farther -removed, its idea becomes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> still fainter and more obscure, would -perhaps require a more particular examination.</p> - -<p>'Tis obvious that the imagination can never totally forget the -points of space and time in which we are existent; but receives such -frequent advertisements of them from the passions and senses, that, -however it may turn its attention to foreign and remote objects, it -is necessitated every moment to reflect on the present. 'Tis also -remarkable, that in the conception of those objects which we regard as -real and existent, we take them in their proper order and situation, -and never leap from one object to another, which is distant from it, -without running over, at least in a cursory manner, all those objects -which are interposed betwixt them. When we reflect, therefore, on -any object distant from ourselves, we are obliged not only to reach -it at first by passing through all the intermediate space betwixt -ourselves and the object, but also to renew our progress every moment, -being every moment recalled to the consideration of ourselves and our -present situation. 'Tis easily conceived, that this interruption must -weaken the idea, by breaking the action of the mind, and hindering the -conception from being so intense and continued, as when we reflect on -a nearer object. The <i>fewer</i> steps we make to arrive at the object, -and the <i>smoother</i> the road is, this diminution of vivacity is less -sensibly felt, but still may be observed more or less in proportion to -the degrees of distance and difficulty.</p> - - -<p>Here then we are to consider two kinds of objects, the contiguous and -remote, of which the former, by means of their relation to ourselves, -approach an impression in force and vivacity; the latter, by reason of -the interruption in our manner of conceiving them, appear in a weaker -and more imperfect light. This is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span> their effect on the imagination. -If my reasoning be just, they must have a proportionable effect on -the will and passions. Contiguous objects must have an influence much -superior to the distant and remote. Accordingly we find, in common -life, that men are principally concerned about those objects which are -not much removed either in space or time, enjoying the present, and -leaving what is afar off to the care of chance and fortune. Talk to a -man of his condition thirty years hence, and he will not regard you. -Speak of what is to happen to-morrow, and he will lend you attention. -The breaking of a mirror gives us more concern when at home, than the -burning of a house when abroad, and some hundred leagues distant.</p> - -<p>But farther; though distance, both in space and time, has a -considerable effect on the imagination, and by that means on the will -and passions, yet the consequence of a removal in <i>space</i> are much -inferior to those of a removal in <i>time</i>. Twenty years are certainly -but a small distance of time in comparison of what history and even -the memory of some may inform them of, and yet I doubt if a thousand -leagues, or even the greatest distance of place this globe can admit -of, will so remarkably weaken our ideas, and diminish our passions. -A West India merchant will tell you, that he is not without concern -about what passes in Jamaica; though few extend their views so far into -futurity, as to dread very remote accidents.</p> - -<p>The cause of this phenomenon must evidently lie in the different -properties of space and time. Without having recourse to metaphysics, -any one may easily observe, that space or extension consists of a -number of co-existent parts disposed in a certain order, and capable of -being at once present to the sight or feeling.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span> On the contrary, time -or succession, though it consists likewise of parts, never presents -to us more than one at once; nor is it possible for any two of them -ever to co-existent. These qualities of the objects have a suitable -effect on the imagination. The parts of extension being susceptible -of an union to the senses, acquire an union in the fancy; and as -the appearance of one part excludes not another, the transition or -passage of the thought through the contiguous parts is by that means -rendered more smooth and easy. On the other hand, the incompatibility -of the parts of time in their real existence separates them in the -imagination, and makes it more difficult for that faculty to trace any -long succession or series of events. Every part must appear single and -alone, nor can regularly have entrance into the fancy without banishing -what is supposed to have been immediately precedent. By this means any -distance in time causes a greater interruption in the thought than an -equal distance in space, and consequently weakens more considerably the -idea, and consequently the passions; which depend in a great measure on -the imagination, according to my system.</p> - -<p>There is another phenomenon of a like nature with the foregoing, viz. -<i>the superior effects of the same distance in futurity above that in -the past</i>. This difference with respect to the will is easily accounted -for. As none of our actions can alter the past, 'tis not strange it -should never determine the will. But with respect to the passions, the -question is yet entire, and well worth the examining.</p> - -<p>Besides the propensity to a gradual progression through the points of -space and time, we have another peculiarity in our method of thinking, -which concurs in producing this phenomenon. We always follow<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span> the -succession of time in placing our ideas, and from the consideration of -any object pass more easily to that which follows immediately after -it, than to that which went before it. We may learn this, among other -instances, from the order which is always observed in historical -narrations. Nothing but an absolute necessity can oblige an historian -to break the order of time, and in his <i>narration</i> give the precedence -to an event, which was in <i>reality</i> posterior to another.</p> - -<p>This will easily be applied to the question in hand, if we reflect -on what I have before observed, that the present situation of the -person is always that of the imagination, and that 'tis from thence -we proceed to the conception of any distant object. When the object -is past, the progression of the thought in passing to it from the -present is contrary to nature, as proceeding from one point of time -to that which is preceding, and from that to another preceding, in -opposition to the natural course of the succession. On the other hand, -when we turn our thought to a future object, our fancy flows along the -stream of time, and arrives at the object of an order, which seems -most natural, passing always from one point of time to that which is -immediately posterior to it. This easy progression of ideas favours -the imagination, and makes it conceive its object in a stronger and -fuller light, than when we are continually opposed in our passage, -and are obliged to overcome the difficulties arising from the natural -propensity of the fancy. A small degree of distance in the past -has, therefore, a greater effect in interrupting and weakening the -conception, than a much greater in the future. From this effect of it -on the imagination is derived its influence on the will and passions.</p> - -<p>There is another cause, which both contributes to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span> the same effect, and -proceeds from the same quality of the fancy, by which we are determined -to trace the succession of time by a similar succession of ideas. -When, from the present instant, we consider two points Of time equally -distant in the future and in the past, 'tis evident that, abstractedly -considered, their relation to the present is almost equal. For as the -future will <i>some time</i> be present, so the past was <i>once</i> present. -If we could, therefore, remove this quality of the imagination, an -equal distance in the past and in the future would have a similar -influence. Nor is this only true when the fancy remains fixed, and from -the present instant surveys the future and the past; but also when it -changes its situation, and places us in different periods of time. For -as, on the one hand, in supposing ourselves existent in a point of -time interposed betwixt the present instant and the future object, we -find the future object approach to us, and the past retire and become -more distant: so, on the other hand, in supposing ourselves existent -in a point of time interposed betwixt the present and the past, the -past approaches to us, and the future becomes more distant. But from -the property of the fancy above mentioned, we rather choose to fix -our thought on the point of time interposed betwixt the present and -the future, than on that betwixt the present and the past. We advance -rather than retard our existence; and, following what seems the natural -succession of time, proceed from past to present, and from present to -future; by which means we conceive the future as flowing every moment -nearer us, and the past as retiring. An equal distance, therefore, in -the past and in the future, has not the same effect on the imagination; -and that because we consider the one as continually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> increasing, and -the other as continually diminishing. The fancy anticipates the course -of things, and surveys the object in that condition to which it tends, -as well as in that which is regarded as the present.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_VIII_cII" id="SECTION_VIII_cII">SECTION VIII.</a></h5> - -<h5>THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.</h5> - - -<p>Thus, we have accounted for three phenomena, which seem pretty -remarkable. Why distance weakens the conception and passion: why -distance in time has a greater effect than that in space: and why -distance in past time has still a greater effect than that in future. -We must now consider three phenomena, which seem to be in a manner the -reverse of these: why a very great distance increases our esteem and -admiration for an object: why such a distance in time increases it -more than that in space: and a distance in past time more than that in -future. The curiousness of the subject will, I hope, excuse my dwelling -on it for some time.</p> - -<p>To begin with the first phenomenon, why a great distance increases our -esteem and admiration for an object; 'tis evident that the mere view -and contemplation of any greatness, whether successive or extended, -enlarges the soul, and gives it a sensible delight and pleasure. A wide -plain, the ocean, eternity, a succession of several ages; all these -are entertaining objects, and excel every thing, however beautiful, -which accompanies not its beauty with a suitable greatness. Now, when -any very distant object is presented to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span> imagination, we naturally -reflect on the interposed distance, and by that means conceiving -something great and magnificent, receive the usual satisfaction. But -as the fancy passes easily from one idea to another related to it, -and transports to the second all the passions excited by the first, -the admiration, which is directed to the distance, naturally diffuses -itself over the distant object. Accordingly we find, that 'tis not -necessary the object should be actually distant from us in order to -cause our admiration; but that 'tis sufficient if, by the natural -association of ideas, it conveys our view to any considerable distance. -A great traveller, though in the same chamber, will pass for a very -extraordinary person; as a Greek medal, even in our cabinet, is -always esteemed a valuable curiosity. Here the object, by a natural -transition, conveys our view to the distance; and the admiration which -arises from that distance, by another natural transition, returns back -to the object.</p> - -<p>But though every great distance produces an admiration for the distant -object, a distance in time has a more considerable effect than that -in space. Ancient busts and inscriptions are more valued than Japan -tables: and, not to mention the Greeks and Romans, 'tis certain we -regard with more veneration the old Chaldeans and Egyptians, than the -modern Chinese and Persians; and bestow more fruitless pains to clear -up the history and chronology of the former, than it would cost us to -make a voyage, and be certainly informed of the character, learning, -and government of the latter. I shall be obliged to make a digression -in order to explain this phenomenon.</p> - -<p>'Tis a quality very observable in human nature, that any opposition -which does not entirely discourage and intimidate us, has rather a -contrary effect, and inspires<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span> us with a more than ordinary grandeur -and magnanimity. In collecting our force to overcome the opposition, we -invigorate the soul, and give it an elevation with which otherwise it -would never have been acquainted. Compliance, by rendering our strength -useless, makes us insensible of it; but opposition awakens and employs -it.</p> - -<p>This is also true in the inverse. Opposition not only enlarges the -soul; but the soul, when full of courage and magnanimity, in a manner -seeks opposition.</p> - -<p> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 15%;">Spumantemque dari pecora inter inertia votis</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 15%;">Optat aprum, aut fulvum descendere monte leonem.</span><br /> -<br /> -</p> - -<p>Whatever supports and fills the passions is agreeable to us; as, on the -contrary, what weakens and enfeebles them is uneasy. As opposition has -the first effect, and facilitates the second, no wonder the mind, in -certain dispositions, desires the former, and is averse to the latter.</p> - -<p>These principles have an effect on the imagination as well as on the -passions. To be convinced of this, we need only consider the influence -of <i>heights</i> and <i>depths</i> on that faculty. Any great elevation of -place communicates a kind of pride or sublimity of imagination, and -gives a fancied superiority over those that lie below; and, <i>vice -versa</i>, a sublime and strong imagination conveys the idea of ascent and -elevation. Hence it proceeds, that we associate, in a manner, the idea -of whatever is good with that of height, and evil with lowness. Heaven -is supposed to be above, and hell below. A noble genius is called an -elevate and sublime one. <i>Atque udam spernit humum fugiente penna</i>. On -the contrary, a vulgar and trivial conception is styled indifferently -low or mean. Prosperity is denominated ascent, and adversity descent. -Kings and princes are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span> supposed to be placed at the top of human -affairs; as peasants and day-labourers are said to be in the lowest -stations. These methods of thinking and of expressing ourselves, are -not of so little consequence as they may appear at first sight.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident to common sense, as well as philosophy, that there is no -natural nor essential difference betwixt high and low, and that this -distinction arises only from the gravitation of matter, which produces -a motion from the one to the other. The very same direction, which in -this part of the globe is called <i>ascent</i>, is denominated <i>descent</i> in -our antipodes; which can proceed from nothing but the contrary tendency -of bodies. Now 'tis certain, that the tendency of bodies, continually -operating upon our senses, must produce, from custom, a like tendency -in the fancy; and that when we consider any object situated in an -ascent, the idea of its weight gives us a propensity to transport it -from the place in which it is situated to the place immediately below -it, and so on till we come to the ground, which equally stops the -body and our imagination. For a like reason we feel a difficulty in -mounting, and pass not without a kind of reluctance from the inferior -to that which is situated above it; as if our ideas acquired a kind of -gravity from their objects. As a proof of this, do we not find, that -the facility, which is so much studied in music and poetry, is called -the fall or cadency of the harmony or period; the idea of facility -communicating to us that of descent, in the same manner as descent -produces a facility?</p> - -<p>Since the imagination, therefore, in running from low to high, finds -an opposition in its internal qualities and principles, and since -the soul, when elevated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> with joy and courage, in a manner seeks -opposition, and throws itself with alacrity into any scene of thought -or action where its courage meets with matter to nourish and employ -it, it follows, that every thing which invigorates and enlivens the -soul, whether by touching the passions or imagination, naturally -conveys to the fancy this inclination for ascent, and determines it to -run against the natural stream of its thoughts and conceptions. This -aspiring progress of the imagination suits the present disposition of -the mind; and the difficulty, instead of extinguishing its vigour and -alacrity, has the contrary effect of sustaining and increasing it. -Virtue, genius, power and riches, are for this reason associated with -height and sublimity, as poverty, slavery and folly, are conjoined -with descent and lowness. Were the case the same with us as Milton -represents it to be with the angels, to whom <i>descent is adverse</i>, and -who <i>cannot sink without labour and compulsion</i>, this order of things -would be entirely inverted; as appears hence, that the very nature of -ascent and descent is derived from the difficulty and propensity, and -consequently every one of their effects proceeds from that origin.</p> - -<p>All this is easily applied to the present question, why a considerable -distance in time produces a greater veneration for the distant -objects than a like removal in space. The imagination moves with more -difficulty in passing from one portion of time to another, than in -a transition through the parts of space; and that because space or -extension appears united to our senses, while time or succession is -always broken and divided. This difficulty, when joined with a small -distance, interrupts and weakens the fancy, but has a contrary effect -in a great removal. The mind, elevated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> by the vastness of its object, -is still farther elevated by the difficulty of the conception, and, -being obliged every moment to renew its efforts in the transition -from one part of time to another, feels a more vigorous and sublime -disposition than in a transition through the parts of space, where -the ideas flow along with easiness and facility. In this disposition, -the imagination, passing, as is usual, from the consideration of the -distance to the view of the distant objects, gives us a proportionable -veneration for it; and this is the reason why all the relicks of -antiquity are so precious in our eyes, and appear more valuable than -what is brought even from the remotest parts of the world.</p> - -<p>The third phenomenon I have remarked will be a full confirmation of -this. 'Tis not every removal in time which has the effect of producing -veneration and esteem. We are not apt to imagine our posterity -will excel us, or equal our ancestors. This phenomenon is the more -remarkable, because any distance in futurity weakens not our ideas so -much as an equal removal in the past. Though a removal in the past, -when very great, increases our passions beyond a like removal in the -future, yet a small removal has a greater influence in diminishing them.</p> - -<p>In our common way of thinking we are placed in a kind of middle station -betwixt the past and future; and as our imagination finds a kind of -difficulty in running along the former, and a facility in following -the course of the latter, the difficulty conveys the notion of ascent, -and the facility of the contrary. Hence we imagine our ancestors to -be, in a manner, mounted above us, and our posterity to lie below us. -Our fancy arrives not at the one without effort, but easily reaches -the other: which effort weakens the conception, where the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span> distance is -small; but enlarges and elevates the imagination, when attended with a -suitable object. As on the other hand, the facility assists the fancy -in a small removal, but takes off from its force when it contemplates -any considerable distance.</p> - -<p>It may not be improper, before we leave this subject of the will, to -resume, in a few words, all that has been said concerning it, in order -to set the whole more distinctly before the eyes of the reader. What we -commonly understand by <i>passion</i> is a violent and sensible emotion of -mind, when any good or evil is presented, or any object, which, by the -original formation of our faculties, is fitted to excite an appetite. -By <i>reason</i> we mean affections of the very same kind with the former, -but such as operate more calmly, and cause no disorder in the temper: -which tranquillity leads us into a mistake concerning them, and causes -us to regard them as conclusions only of our intellectual faculties. -Both the <i>causes</i> and <i>effects</i> of these violent and calm passions are -pretty variable, and depend, in a great measure, on the peculiar temper -and disposition of every individual. Generally speaking, the violent -passions have a more powerful influence on the will; though 'tis -often found that the calm ones, when corroborated by reflection, and -seconded by resolution, are able to control them in their most furious -movements. What makes this whole affair more uncertain, is, that a calm -passion may easily be changed into a violent one, either by a change -of temper, or of the circumstances and situation of the object; as by -the borrowing of force from any attendant passion, by custom, or by -exciting the imagination. Upon the whole, this struggle of passion -and of reason, as it is called, diversifies human life, and makes men -so different not only from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span> each other, but also from themselves in -different times. Philosophy can only account for a few of the greater -and more sensible events of this war; but must leave all the smaller -and more delicate revolutions, as dependent on principles too fine and -minute for her comprehension.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_IX_cII" id="SECTION_IX_cII">SECTION IX.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE DIRECT PASSIONS.</h5> - - -<p>'Tis easy to observe, that the passions, both direct and indirect, -are founded on pain and pleasure, and that, in order to produce an -affection of any kind, 'tis only requisite to present some good or -evil. Upon the removal of pain and pleasure, there immediately follows -a removal of love and hatred, pride and humility, desire and aversion, -and of most of our reflective or secondary impressions.</p> - -<p>The impressions which arise from good and evil most naturally, and -with the least preparation, are the <i>direct</i> passions of desire and -aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, along with volition. The mind, -by an <i>original</i> instinct, tends to unite itself with the good, and -to avoid the evil, though they be conceived merely in idea, and be -considered as to exist in any future period of time.</p> - -<p>But supposing that there is an immediate impression of pain or -pleasure, and <i>that</i> arising from an object related to ourselves or -others, this does not prevent the propensity or aversion, with the -consequent emotions, but, by concurring with certain dormant principles -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> the human mind, excites the new impressions of pride or humility, -love or hatred. That propensity which unites us to the object, or -separates us from it, still continues to operate, but in conjunction -with the <i>indirect</i> passions which arise from a double relation of -impressions and ideas.</p> - -<p>These indirect passions, being always agreeable or uneasy, give in -their turn additional force to the direct passions, and increase -our desire and aversion to the object. Thus, a suit of fine clothes -produces pleasure from their beauty; and this pleasure produces the -direct passions, or the impressions of volition and desire. Again, -when these clothes are considered as belonging to ourself, the double -relation conveys to us the sentiment of pride, which is an indirect -passion; and the pleasure which attends that passion returns back to -the direct affections, and gives new force to our desire or volition, -joy or hope.</p> - -<p>When good is certain or probable, it produces <i>joy</i>. When evil is in -the same situation, there arises <i>grief or sorrow</i>.</p> - -<p>When either good or evil is uncertain, it gives rise to <i>fear</i> or -<i>hope</i>, according to the degrees of uncertainty on the one side or the -other.</p> - -<p><i>Desire</i> arises from good considered simply; and <i>aversion</i> is derived -from evil. The <i>will</i> exerts itself, when either the good or the -absence of the evil may be attained by any action of the mind or body.</p> - -<p>Beside good and evil, or, in other words, pain and pleasure, the direct -passions frequently arise from a natural impulse or instinct, which is -perfectly unaccountable. Of this kind is the desire of punishment to -our enemies, and of happiness to our friends; hunger, lust, and a few -other bodily appetites. These<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> passions, properly speaking, produce -good and evil, and proceed not from them, like the other affections.</p> - -<p>None of the direct affections seem to merit our particular attention, -except hope and fear, which we shall here endeavour to account for. -'Tis evident that the very same event, which, by its certainty, -would produce grief or joy, gives always rise to fear or hope, when -only probable and uncertain. In order, therefore, to understand the -reason why this circumstance makes such a considerable difference, we -must reflect on what I have already advanced in the preceding book -concerning the nature of probability.</p> - -<p>Probability arises from an opposition of contrary chances or causes, by -which the mind is not allowed to fix on either side, but is incessantly -tost from one to another, and at one moment is determined to consider -an object as existent, and at another moment as the contrary. The -imagination or understanding, call it which you please, fluctuates -betwixt the opposite views; and though perhaps it may be oftener turned -to the one side than the other, 'tis impossible for it, by reason of -the opposition of causes or chances, to rest on either. The <i>pro</i> and -<i>con</i> of the question alternately prevail; and the mind, surveying the -object in its opposite principles, finds such a contrariety as utterly -destroys all certainty and established opinion.</p> - -<p>Suppose, then, that the object, concerning whose reality we are -doubtful, is an object either of desire or aversion, 'tis evident -that, according as the mind turns itself either to the one side or -the other, it must feel a momentary impression of joy or sorrow. An -object, whose existence we desire, gives satisfaction, when we reflect -on those causes which produce it; and, for the same reason, excites -grief or uneasiness from the opposite<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span> consideration: so that as the -understanding, in all probable questions, is divided betwixt the -contrary points of view, the affections must in the same manner be -divided betwixt opposite emotions.</p> - -<p>Now, if we consider the human mind, we shall find, that, with regard -to the passions, 'tis not of the nature of a wind-instrument of music, -which, in running over all the notes, immediately loses the sound -after the breath ceases; but rather resembles, a string-instrument, -where, after each stroke, the vibrations still retain some sound, which -gradually and insensibly decays. The imagination is extremely quick -and agile; but the passions are slow and restive: for which reason, -when any object is presented that affords a variety of views to the -one, and emotions to the other, though the fancy may change its views -with great celerity, each stroke will not produce a clear and distinct -note of passion, but the one passion will always be mixt and confounded -with the other. According as the probability inclines to good or evil, -the passion of joy or sorrow predominates in the composition: because -the nature of probability is to cast a superior number of views or -chances on one side; or, which is the same thing, a superior number of -returns of one passion; or, since the dispersed passions are collected -into one, a superior degree of that passion. That is, in other words, -the grief and joy being intermingled with each other, by means of -the contrary views of the imagination, produce, by their union, the -passions of hope and fear.</p> - -<p>Upon this head there may be started a very curious question concerning -that contrariety of passions which is our present subject. 'Tis -observable, that where the objects of contrary passions are presented -at once, beside<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span> the increase of the predominant passion (which has -been already explained, and commonly arises at their first shock -or rencounter), it sometimes happens that both the passions exist -successively, and by short intervals; sometimes, that they destroy each -other, and neither of them takes place; and sometimes that both of them -remain united in the mind. It may therefore be asked, by what theory -we can explain these variations, and to what general principle we can -reduce them.</p> - -<p>When the contrary passions arise from objects entirely different, they -take place alternately, the want of relation in the ideas separating -the impressions from each other, and preventing their opposition. Thus, -when a man is afflicted for the loss of a lawsuit, and joyful for the -birth of a son, the mind running from the agreeable to the calamitous -object, with whatever celerity it may perform this motion, can scarcely -temper the one affection with the other, and remain betwixt them in a -state of indifference.</p> - -<p>It more easily attains that calm situation, when the same event is of -a mixt nature, and contains something adverse and something prosperous -in its different circumstances. For in that case, both the passions, -mingling with each other by means of the relation, become mutually -destructive, and leave the mind in perfect tranquillity.</p> - -<p>But suppose, in the third place, that the object is not a compound -of good or evil, but is considered as probable or improbable in any -degree; in that case I assert, that the contrary passions will both -of them be present at once in the soul, and, instead of destroying -and tempering each other, will subsist together, and produce a third -impression or affection by their union.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span> Contrary passions are not -capable of destroying each other, except when their contrary movements -exactly rencounter, and are opposite in their direction, as well as -in the sensation they produce. This exact rencounter depends upon the -relations of those ideas from which they are derived, and is more or -less perfect, according to the degrees of the relation. In the case -of probability, the contrary chances are so far related that they -determine concerning the existence or non-existence of the same object. -But this relation is far from being perfect, since some of the chances -lie on the side of existence, and others on that of non-existence, -which are objects altogether incompatible. 'Tis impossible, by one -steady view, to survey the opposite chances, and the events dependent -on them; but 'tis necessary that the imagination should run alternately -from the one to the other. Each view of the imagination produces its -peculiar passion, which decays away by degrees, and is followed by a -sensible vibration after the stroke. The incompatibility of the views -keeps the passions from shocking in a direct line, if that expression -may be allowed; and yet their relation is sufficient to mingle their -fainter emotions. 'Tis after this manner that hope and fear arise from -the different mixture of these opposite passions of grief and joy, and -from their imperfect union and conjunction.</p> - -<p>Upon the whole, contrary passions succeed each other alternately, when -they arise from different objects; they mutually destroy each other, -when they proceed from different parts of the same; and they subsist, -both of them, and mingle together, when they are derived from the -contrary and incompatible chances or possibilities on which any one -object depends. The influence of the relations of ideas is plainly -seen in this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span> whole affair. If the objects of the contrary passions -be totally different, the passions are like two opposite liquors in -different bottles, which have no influence on each other. If the -objects be intimately connected, the passions are like an <i>alkali</i> and -an <i>acid</i>, which, being mingled, destroy each other. If the relation -be more imperfect, and consists in the contradictory views of the same -object, the passions are like oil and vinegar, which, however mingled, -never perfectly unite and incorporate.</p> - -<p>As the hypothesis concerning hope and fear carries its own evidence -along with it, we shall be the more concise in our proofs. A few strong -arguments are better than many weak ones.</p> - -<p>The passions of fear and hope may arise when the chances are equal on -both sides, and no superiority can be discovered in the one above the -other. Nay, in this situation the passions are rather the strongest, as -the mind has then the least foundation to rest upon, and is tossed with -the greatest uncertainty. Throw in a superior degree of probability to -the side of grief, you immediately see that passion diffuse itself over -the composition, and tincture it into fear. Increase the probability, -and by that means the grief, the fear prevails still more and more, -till at last it runs insensibly, as the joy continually diminishes, -into pure grief. After you have brought it to this situation, diminish -the grief, after the same manner that you increased it, by diminishing -the probability on that side, and you'll see the passion clear every -moment, 'till it changes insensibly into hope; which again runs, after -the same manner, by slow degrees, into joy, as you increase that part -of the composition by the increase of the probability. Are not these -as plain proofs, that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> the passions of fear and hope are mixtures of -grief and joy, as in optics 'tis a proof, that a coloured ray of the -sun passing through a prism, is a composition of two others, when, as -you diminish or increase the quantity of either, you find it prevail -proportionably more or less in the composition? I am sure neither -natural nor moral philosophy admits of stronger proofs.</p> - -<p>Probability is of two kinds, either when the object is really in itself -uncertain, and to be determined by chance; or when, though the object -be already certain, yet 'tis uncertain to our judgment, which finds -a number of proofs on each side of the question. Both these kinds of -probabilities cause fear and hope; which can only proceed from that -property, in which they agree, viz. the uncertainty and fluctuation -they bestow on the imagination by the contrariety of views which is -common to both.</p> - -<p>'Tis a probable good or evil that commonly produces hope or fear; -because probability, being a wavering and unconstant method of -surveying an object, causes naturally a like mixture and uncertainty -of passion. But we may observe, that wherever, from other causes, this -mixture can be produced, the passions of fear and hope will arise, -even though there be no probability; which must be allowed to be a -convincing proof of the present hypothesis.</p> - -<p>We find that an evil, barely conceived as <i>possible</i>, does sometimes -produce fear; especially if the evil be very great. A man cannot think -of excessive pains and tortures without trembling, if he be in the -least danger of suffering them. The smallness of the probability is -compensated by the greatness of the evil; and the sensation is equally -lively, as if the evil were<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span> more probable. One view or glimpse of the -former has the same effect as several of the latter.</p> - -<p>But they are not only possible evils that cause fear, but even some -allowed to be <i>impossible</i>; as when we tremble on the brink of a -precipice, though we know ourselves to be in perfect security, and -have it in our choice whether we will advance a step farther. This -proceeds from the immediate presence of the evil, which influences the -imagination in the same manner as the certainty of it would do; but -being encountered by the reflection on our security, is immediately -retracted, and causes the same kind of passion, as when, from a -contrariety of chances, contrary passions are produced.</p> - -<p>Evils that are <i>certain</i> have sometimes the same effect in producing -fear, as the possible or impossible. Thus, a man in a strong prison -well-guarded, without the least means of escape, trembles at the -thought of the rack, to which he is sentenced. This happens only when -the certain evil is terrible and confounding; in which case the mind -continually rejects it with horror, while it continually presses in -upon the thought. The evil is there fixed and established, but the mind -cannot endure to fix upon it; from which fluctuation and uncertainty -there arises a passion of much the same appearance with fear.</p> - -<p>But 'tis not only where good or evil is uncertain, as to its -<i>existence</i>, but also as to its <i>kind</i>, that fear or hope arises. Let -one be told by a person, whose veracity he cannot doubt of, that one -of his sons is suddenly killed, 'tis evident the passion this event -would occasion, would not settle into pure grief, till he got certain -information which of his sons he had lost. Here there is an<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> evil -certain, but the kind of it uncertain: consequently the fear we feel on -this occasion is without the least mixture of joy, and arises merely -from the fluctuation of the fancy betwixt its objects. And though each -side of the question produces here the same passion, yet that passion -cannot settle, but receives from the imagination a tremulous and -unsteady motion, resembling in its cause, as well as in its sensation, -the mixture and contention of grief and joy.</p> - -<p>From these principles we may account for a phenomenon in the passions, -which at first sight seems very extraordinary, viz. that surprise is -apt to change into fear, and every thing that is unexpected affrights -us. The most obvious conclusion from this is, that human nature is -in general pusillanimous; since, upon the sudden appearance of any -object, we immediately conclude it to be an evil, and, without waiting -till we can examine its nature, whether it be good or bad, are at -first affected with fear. This, I say, is the most obvious conclusion; -but upon farther examination, we shall find that the phenomenon is -otherwise to be accounted for. The suddenness and strangeness of an -appearance naturally excite a commotion in the mind, like every thing -for which we are not prepared, and to which we are not accustomed. This -commotion, again, naturally produces a curiosity or inquisitiveness, -which, being very violent, from the strong and sudden impulse of -the object, becomes uneasy, and resembles in its fluctuation and -uncertainty, the sensation of fear, or the mixed passions of grief and -joy. This image of fear naturally converts into the thing itself, and -gives us a real apprehension of evil, as the mind always forms its -judgments more from its present disposition than from the nature of its -objects.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span></p> - -<p>Thus all kinds of uncertainty have a strong connexion with fear, even -though they do not cause any opposition of passions by the opposite -views and considerations they present to us. A person who has left his -friend in any malady, will feel more anxiety upon his account, than if -he were present, though perhaps he is not only incapable of giving him -assistance, but likewise of judging of the event of his sickness. In -this case, though the principle object of the passion, viz. the life or -death of his friend, be to him equally uncertain when present as when -absent; yet there are, a thousand little circumstances of his friend's -situation and condition, the knowledge of which fixes the idea, and -prevents that fluctuation and uncertainty so nearly allied to fear. -Uncertainty is, indeed, in one respect, as nearly allied to hope as to -fear, since it makes an essential part in the composition of the former -passion; but the reason why it inclines not to that side, is, that -uncertainty alone is uneasy, and has a relation of impressions to the -uneasy passions.</p> - -<p>'Tis thus our uncertainty concerning any minute circumstance relating -to a person, increases our apprehensions of his death or misfortune. -Horace has remarked this phenomenon:</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 15%;">Ut assidens implumibus pullus avis</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 16%;">Serpentium allapsus timet,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 15%;">Magis relictis; non, ut adsit, auxili</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 16%;">Latura plus presentibus.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>But this principle of the connexion of fear with uncertainty I carry -farther, and observe, that any doubt produces that passion, even -though it presents nothing to us on any side but what is good and -desirable. A virgin, on her bridal-night goes to bed full of fears and -apprehensions, though she expects nothing but pleasure<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> of the highest -kind, and what she has long wished for. The newness and greatness of -the event, the confusion of wishes and joys, so embarrass the mind, -that it knows not on what passion to fix itself; from whence arises -a fluttering or unsettledness of the spirits, which being, in some -degree, uneasy, very naturally degenerates into fear.</p> - -<p>Thus we still find, that whatever causes any fluctuation or mixture of -passions, with any degree of uneasiness, always produces fear, or at -least a passion so like it, that they are scarcely to be distinguished.</p> - -<p>I have here confined myself to the examination of hope and fear in -their most simple and natural situation, without considering all the -variations they may receive from the mixture of different views and -reflections. <i>Terror, consternation, astonishment, anxiety</i>, and -other passions of that kind, are nothing but different species and -degrees of fear. 'Tis easy to imagine how a different situation of the -object, or a different turn of thought, may change even the sensation -of a passion; and this may in general account for all the particular -subdivisions of the other affections, as well as of fear. Love may -show itself in the shape of <i>tenderness, friendship, intimacy, esteem, -good-will</i>, and in many other appearances; which at the bottom are the -same affections, and arise from the same causes, though with a small -variation, which it is not necessary to give any particular account of. -'Tis for this reason I have all along confined myself to the principal -passion.</p> - -<p>The same care of avoiding prolixity is the reason why I waive the -examination of the will and direct passions, as they appear in animals; -since nothing is more evident, than that they are of the same nature, -and excited by the same causes as in human creatures. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span> leave this to -the reader's own observation, desiring him at the same time to consider -the additional force this bestows on the present system.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_X_cII" id="SECTION_X_cII">SECTION X.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF CURIOSITY, OR THE LOVE OF TRUTH.</h5> - - -<p>But methinks we have been not a little inattentive to run over so -many different parts of the human mind, and examine so many passions, -without taking once into consideration that love of truth, which was -the first source of all our inquiries. 'Twill therefore be proper, -before we leave this subject, to bestow a few reflections on that -passion, and show its origin in human nature. 'Tis an affection of so -peculiar a kind, that it would have been impossible to have treated of -it under any of those heads, which we have examined, without danger of -obscurity and confusion.</p> - -<p>Truth is of two kinds, consisting either in the discovery of the -proportions of ideas, considered as such, or in the conformity of our -ideas of objects to their real existence. 'Tis certain that the former -species of truth is not desired merely as truth, and that 'tis not the -justness of our conclusions, which alone gives the pleasure. For these -conclusions are equally just, when we discover the equality of two -bodies by a pair of compasses, as when we learn it by a mathematical -demonstration; and though in the one case the proofs be demonstrative, -and in the other only sensible, yet generally speaking, the mind -acquiesces with equal assurance in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span> one as in the other. And in -an arithmetical operation, where both the truth and the assurance are -of the same nature, as in the most profound algebraical problem, the -pleasure is very inconsiderable, if rather it does not degenerate -into pain: which is an evident proof, that the satisfaction, which we -sometimes receive from the discovery of truth, proceeds not from it, -merely as such, but only as endowed with certain qualities.</p> - -<p>The first and most considerable circumstance requisite to render -truth agreeable, is the genius and capacity which is employed in its -invention and discovery. What is easy and obvious is never valued; -and even what is <i>in itself</i> difficult, if we come to the knowledge -of it without difficulty, and without any stretch of thought or -judgment, is but little regarded. We love to trace the demonstrations -of mathematicians; but should receive small entertainment from a person -who should barely inform us of the proportions of lines and angles, -though we reposed the utmost confidence both in his judgment and -veracity. In this case 'tis sufficient to have ears to learn the truth. -We never are obliged to fix our attention or exert our genius; which of -all other exercises of the mind is the most pleasant and agreeable.</p> - -<p>But though the exercise of genius be the principal source of that -satisfaction we receive from the sciences, yet I doubt if it be alone -sufficient to give us any considerable enjoyment. The truth we discover -must also be of some importance. 'Tis easy to multiply algebraical -problems to infinity, nor is there any end in the discovery of the -proportions of conic sections; though few mathematicians take any -pleasure in these<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span> researches, but turn their thoughts to what is -more useful and important. Now the question is, after what manner -this utility and importance operate upon us? The difficulty on this -head arises from hence, that many philosophers have consumed their -time, have destroyed their health, and neglected their fortune, in -the search of such truths, as they esteemed important and useful to -the world, though it appeared from their whole conduct and behaviour, -that they were not endowed with any share of public spirit, nor had -any concern for the interests of mankind. Were they convinced that -their discoveries were of no consequence, they would entirely lose all -relish for their studies, and that though the consequences be entirely -indifferent to them; which seems to be a contradiction.</p> - -<p>To remove this contradiction, we must consider, that there are certain -desires and inclinations, which go no farther than the imagination, -and are rather the faint shadows and images of passions, than any -real affections. Thus, suppose a man, who takes a survey of the -fortifications of any city; considers their strength and advantages, -natural or acquired; observes the disposition and contrivance of the -bastions, ramparts, mines, and other military works; 'tis plain that, -in proportion as all these are fitted to attain their ends, he will -receive a suitable pleasure and satisfaction. This pleasure, as it -arises from the utility, not the form of the objects, can be no other -than a sympathy with the inhabitants, for whose security all this art -is employed; though 'tis possible that this person, as a stranger or -an enemy, may in his heart have no kindness for them, or may even -entertain a hatred against them.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p> - -<p>It may indeed be objected, that such a remote sympathy is a very slight -foundation for a passion, and that so much industry and application, -as we frequently observe in philosophers, can never be derived from so -inconsiderable an original. But here I return to what I have already -remarked, that the pleasure of study consists chiefly in the action -of the mind, and the exercise of the genius and understanding in the -discovery or comprehension of any truth. If the importance of the truth -be requisite to complete the pleasure, 'tis not on account of any -considerable addition which of itself it brings to our enjoyment, but -only because 'tis in some measure requisite to fix our attention. When -we are careless and inattentive, the same action of the understanding -has no effect upon us, nor is able to convey any of that satisfaction -which arises from it when we are in another disposition.</p> - -<p>But beside the action of the mind, which is the principal foundation -of the pleasure, there is likewise required a degree of success in -the attainment of the end, or the discovery of that truth we examine. -Upon this head I shall make a general remark, which may be useful -on many occasions, viz. that where the mind pursues any end with -passion, though that passion be not derived originally from the end, -but merely from the action and pursuit, yet, by the natural course -of the affections, we acquire a concern for the end itself, and are -uneasy under any disappointment we meet with in the pursuit of it. -This proceeds from the relation and parallel direction of the passions -above-mentioned.</p> - -<p>To illustrate all this by a similar instance, I shall observe, that -there cannot be two passions more nearly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> resembling each other than -those of hunting and philosophy, whatever disproportion may at first -sight appear betwixt them. 'Tis evident, that the pleasure of hunting -consists in the action of the mind and body; the motion, the attention, -the difficulty, and the uncertainty. 'Tis evident, likewise, that these -actions must be attended with an idea of utility, in order to their -having any effect upon us. A man of the greatest fortune, and the -farthest removed from avarice, though he takes a pleasure in hunting -after partridges and pheasants, feels no satisfaction in shooting crows -and magpies; and that because he considers the first as fit for the -table, and the other as entirely useless. Here 'tis certain, that the -utility or importance of itself causes no real passion, but is only -requisite to support the imagination; and the same person who overlooks -a ten times greater profit in any other subject, is pleased to bring -home half a dozen woodcocks or plovers, after having employed several -hours in hunting after them. To make the parallel betwixt hunting and -philosophy more complete, we may observe, that though in both cases -the end of our action may in itself be despised, yet, in the heat of -the action, we acquire such an attention to this end, that we are very -uneasy under any disappointments, and are sorry when we either miss our -game, or fall into any error in our reasoning.</p> - -<p>If we want another parallel to these affections, we may consider the -passion of gaming, which affords a pleasure from the same principles -as hunting and philosophy. It has been remarked, that the pleasure of -gaming arises not from interest alone, since many leave a sure gain for -this entertainment; neither is it derived<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span> from the game alone, since -the same persons have no satisfaction when they play for nothing; but -proceeds from both these causes united, though separately they have -no effect. 'Tis here, as in certain chemical preparations, where the -mixture of two clear and transparent liquids produces a third, which is -opaque and coloured.</p> - -<p>The interest which we have in any game engages our attention, without -which we can have no enjoyment, either in that or in any other action. -Our attention being once engaged, the difficulty, variety, and sudden -reverses of fortune; still farther interest us; and 'tis from that -concern our satisfaction arises. Human life is so tiresome a scene, and -men generally are of such indolent dispositions, that whatever amuses -them, though by a passion mixed with pain, does in the main give them a -sensible pleasure. And this pleasure is here increased by the nature of -the objects, which, being sensible and of a narrow compass, are entered -into with facility, and are agreeable to the imagination.</p> - -<p>The same theory that accounts for the love of truth in mathematics -and algebra, may be extended to morals, politics, natural philosophy, -and other studies, where we consider not the abstract relations of -ideas, but their real connexions and existence. But beside the love of -knowledge which displays itself in the sciences, there is a certain -curiosity implanted in human nature, which is a passion derived from -a quite different principle. Some people have an insatiable desire of -knowing the actions and circumstances of their neighbours, though their -interest be no way concerned in them, and they must entirely depend on -others<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> for their information; in which case there is no room for study -or application. Let us search for the reason of this phenomenon.</p> - -<p>It has been proved at large, that the influence of belief is at once -to enliven and infix any idea in the imagination, and prevent all kind -of hesitation and uncertainty about it. Both these circumstances are -advantageous. By the vivacity of the idea we interest the fancy, and -produce, though in a lesser degree, the same pleasure which arises from -a moderate passion. As the vivacity of the idea gives pleasure, so its -certainty prevents uneasiness, by fixing one particular idea in the -mind, and keeping it from wavering in the choice of its objects. 'Tis a -quality of human nature which is conspicuous on many occasions, and is -common both to the mind and body, that too sudden and violent a change -is unpleasant to us, and that, however any objects may in themselves be -indifferent, yet their alteration gives uneasiness. As 'tis the nature -of doubt to cause a variation in the thought, and transport us suddenly -from one idea to another, it must of consequence be the occasion of -pain. This pain chiefly takes place where interest, relation, or the -greatness and novelty of any event interests us in it. 'Tis not every -matter of fact of which we have a curiosity to be informed; neither are -they such only as we have an interest to know. 'Tis sufficient if the -idea strikes on us with such force, and concerns us so nearly, as to -give us an uneasiness in its instability and inconstancy. A stranger, -when he arrives first at any town, may be entirely indifferent about -knowing the history and adventures of the inhabitants; but as he -becomes farther acquainted with them, and has lived any considerable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> -time among them, he acquires the same curiosity as the natives. When -we are reading the history of a nation, we may have an ardent desire -of clearing up any doubt or difficulty that occurs in it; but become -careless in such researches, when the ideas of these events are, in a -great measure, obliterated.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a><br /><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="BOOK_III" id="BOOK_III">BOOK III.</a></h5> - -<h4>OF MORALS.</h4> - - -<h5><a id="PART_I_III"></a>PART I.</h5> - -<h4>OF VIRTUE AND VICE IN GENERAL.</h4> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a><br /><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_I_aIII" id="SECTION_I_aIII">SECTION I.</a></h5> - -<h5>MORAL DISTINCTIONS NOT DERIVED FROM REASON.</h5> - - -<p>There is an inconvenience which attends all abstruse reasoning, that -it may silence, without convincing an antagonist, and requires the -same intense study to make us sensible of its force, that was at first -requisite for its invention. When we leave our closet, and engage -in the common affairs of life, its conclusions seem to vanish like -the phantoms of the night on the appearance of the morning; and 'tis -difficult for us to retain even that conviction which we had attained -with difficulty. This is still more conspicuous in a long chain of -reasoning, where we must preserve to the end the evidence of the first -propositions, and where we often lose sight of all the most received -maxims, either of philosophy or common life. I am not, however, without -hopes, that the present system of philosophy will acquire new force -as it advances; and that our reasonings concerning <i>morals</i> will -corroborate whatever has been said concerning the <i>understanding</i> and -the <i>passions</i>. Morality is a subject that interests us above all -others; we fancy the peace of society to be at stake in every decision -concerning it; and 'tis evident, that this concern must make our -speculations appear more real and solid, than where the subject is in -a great measure indifferent to us. What affects us, we conclude can -never be a chimera; and, as our passion is engaged<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span> on the one side -or the other, we naturally think that the question lies within human -comprehension; which, in other cases of this nature, we are apt to -entertain some doubt of. Without this advantage, I never should have -ventured upon a third volume of such abstruse philosophy, in an age -wherein the greatest part of men seem agreed to convert reading into -an amusement, and to reject every thing that requires any considerable -degree of attention to be comprehended.</p> - -<p>It has been observed, that nothing is ever present to the mind but its -perceptions; and that all the actions of seeing, hearing, judging, -loving, hating, and thinking, fall under this denomination. The mind -can never exert itself in any action which we may not comprehend -under the term of <i>perception</i>; and consequently that term is no less -applicable to those judgments by which we distinguish moral good and -evil, than to every other operation of the mind. To approve of one -character, to condemn another, are only so many different perceptions.</p> - -<p>Now, as perceptions resolve themselves into two kinds, viz. -<i>impressions</i> and <i>ideas</i>, this distinction gives rise to a question, -with which we shall open up our present inquiry concerning morals, -<i>whether 'tis by means of our ideas or impressions we distinguish -betwixt vice and virtue, and pronounce an action blameable or -praiseworthy</i>? This will immediately cut off all loose discourses and -declamations, and reduce us to something precise and exact on the -present subject.</p> - -<p>Those who affirm that virtue is nothing but a conformity to reason; -that there are eternal fitnesses and unfitnesses of things, which -are the same to every rational being that considers them; that the -immutable measures of right and wrong impose an obligation, not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span> -only on human creatures, but also on the Deity himself: all these -systems concur in the opinion, that morality, like truth, is discerned -merely by ideas, and by their juxtaposition and comparison. In order, -therefore, to judge of these systems, we need only consider, whether it -be possible, from reason alone, to distinguish betwixt moral good and -evil, or whether there must concur some other principles to enable us -to make that distinction.</p> - -<p>If morality had naturally no influence on human passions and actions, -'twere in vain to take such pains to inculcate it; and nothing would be -more fruitless than that multitude of rules and precepts with which all -moralists abound. Philosophy is commonly divided into <i>speculative</i> and -<i>practical</i>; and as morality is always comprehended under the latter -division, 'tis supposed to influence our passions and actions, and to -go beyond the calm and indolent judgments of the understanding. And -this is confirmed by common experience, which informs us, that men are -often governed by their duties, and are deterred from some actions by -the opinion of injustice, and impelled to others by that of obligation.</p> - -<p>Since morals, therefore, have an influence on the actions and -affections, it follows, that they cannot be derived from reason; and -that because reason alone, as we have already proved, can never have -any such influence. Morals excite passions, and produce or prevent -actions. Reason of itself is utterly impotent in this particular. The -rules of morality, therefore, are not conclusions of our reason.</p> - -<p>No one, I believe, will deny the justness of this inference; nor is -there any other means of evading it, than by denying that principle, -on which it is founded. As long as it is allowed, that reason has -no influence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span> on our passions and actions, 'tis in vain to pretend -that morality is discovered only by a deduction of reason. An -active principle can never be founded on an inactive; and it reason -be inactive in itself, it must remain so in all its shapes and -appearances, whether it exerts itself in natural or moral subjects, -whether it considers the powers of external bodies, or the actions of -rational beings.</p> - -<p>It would be tedious to repeat all the arguments, by which I have -proved,<a name="FNanchor_1_15" id="FNanchor_1_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_15" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> that reason is perfectly inert, and can never either prevent -or produce any action or affection. 'Twill be easy to recollect what -has been said upon that subject. I shall only recall on this occasion -one of these arguments, which I shall endeavour to render still more -conclusive, and more applicable to the present subject.</p> - -<p>Reason is the discovery of truth or falsehood. Truth or falsehood -consists in an agreement or disagreement either to the <i>real</i> relations -of ideas, or to <i>real</i> existence and matter of fact. Whatever therefore -is not susceptible of this agreement or disagreement, is incapable of -being true or false, and can never be an object of our reason. Now, -'tis evident our passions, volitions, and actions, are not susceptible -of any such agreement or disagreement; being original facts and -realities, complete in themselves, and implying no reference to other -passions, volitions, and actions. 'Tis impossible, therefore, they -can be pronounced either true or false, and be either contrary or -conformable to reason.</p> - -<p>This argument is of double advantage to our present purpose. For it -proves <i>directly</i>, that actions do not derive their merit from a -conformity to reason, nor their blame from a contrariety to it; and it -proves the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span> same truth more <i>indirectly</i>, by showing us, that as reason -can never immediately prevent or produce any action by contradicting or -approving of it, it cannot be the source of moral good and evil, which -are found to have that influence. Actions may be laudable or blameable; -but they cannot be reasonable or unreasonable: laudable or blameable, -therefore, are not the same with reasonable or unreasonable. The merit -and demerit of actions frequently contradict, and sometimes control -our natural propensities. But reason has no such influence. Moral -distinctions, therefore, are not the offspring of reason. Reason is -wholly inactive, and can never be the source of so active a principle -as conscience, or a sense of morals.</p> - -<p>But perhaps it may be said, that though no will or action can -be immediately contradictory to reason, yet we may find such a -contradiction in some of the attendants of the action, that is, in -its causes or effects. The action may cause a judgment, or may be -<i>obliquely</i> caused by one, when the judgment concurs with a passion; -and by an abusive way of speaking, which philosophy will scarce allow -of, the same contrariety may, upon that account, be ascribed to the -action. How far this truth or falsehood may be the source of morals, -'twill now be proper to consider.</p> - -<p>It has been observed, that reason, in a strict and philosophical sense, -can have an influence on our conduct only after two ways: either when -it excites a passion, by informing us of the existence of something -which is a proper object of it; or when it discovers the connexion of -causes and effects, so as to afford us means of exerting any passion. -These are the only kinds of judgment which can accompany our actions, -or can be said to produce them in any manner; and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> must be allowed, -that these judgments may often be false and erroneous. A person may be -affected with passion, by supposing a pain or pleasure to lie in an -object, which has no tendency to produce either of these sensations, or -which produces the contrary to what is imagined. A person may also take -false measures for the attaining of his end, and may retard, by his -foolish conduct, instead of forwarding the execution of any project. -These false judgments may be thought to affect the passions and -actions, which are connected with them, and may be said to render them -unreasonable, in a figurative and improper way of speaking. But though -this be acknowledged, 'tis easy to observe, that these errors are so -far from being the source of all immorality, that they are commonly -very innocent, and draw no manner of guilt upon the person who is so -unfortunate as to fall into them. They extend not beyond a mistake of -<i>fact</i>, which moralists have not generally supposed criminal, as being -perfectly involuntary. I am more to be lamented than blamed, if I am -mistaken with regard to the influence of objects in producing pain or -pleasure, or if I know not the proper means of satisfying my desires. -No one can ever regard such errors as a defect in my moral character. -A fruit, for instance, that is really disagreeable, appears to me -at a distance, and, through mistake, I fancy it to be pleasant and -delicious. Here is one error. I choose certain means of reaching this -fruit, which are not proper for my end. Here is a second error; nor is -there any third one, which can ever possibly enter into our reasonings -concerning actions. I ask, therefore, if a man in this situation, and -guilty of these two errors, is to be regarded as vicious and criminal, -however unavoidable they might have been? Or if it be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span> possible to -imagine, that such errors are the sources of all immorality?</p> - -<p>And here it may be proper to observe, that if moral distinctions be -derived from the truth or falsehood of those judgments, they must take -place wherever we form the judgments; nor will there be any difference, -whether the question be concerning an apple or a kingdom, or whether -the error be avoidable or unavoidable.</p> - -<p>For as the very essence of morality is supposed to consist in an -agreement or disagreement to reason, the other circumstances are -entirely arbitrary, and can never either bestow on any action the -character of virtuous or vicious, or deprive it of that character. To -which we may add, that this agreement or disagreement, not admitting of -degrees, all virtues and vices would of course be equal.</p> - -<p>Should it be pretended, that though a mistake of <i>fact</i> be not -criminal, yet a mistake of <i>right</i> often is; and that this may be -the source of immorality: I would answer, that 'tis impossible such -a mistake can ever be the original source of immorality, since it -supposes a real right and wrong; that is, a real distinction in morals, -independent of these judgments. A mistake, therefore, of right, may -become a species of immorality; but 'tis only a secondary one, and is -founded on some other antecedent to it.</p> - -<p>As to those judgments which are the <i>effects</i> of our actions, and -which, when false, give occasion to pronounce the actions contrary -to truth and reason; we may observe, that our actions never cause -any judgment, either true or false, in ourselves, and that 'tis only -on others they have such an influence. 'Tis certain that an action, -on many occasions, may give rise<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> to false conclusions in others; -and that a person, who, through a window, sees any lewd behaviour of -mine with my neighbour's wife, may be so simple as to imagine she is -certainly my own. In this respect my action resembles somewhat a lie or -falsehood; only with this difference, which is material, that I perform -not the action with any intention of giving rise to a false judgment -in another, but merely to satisfy my lust and passion. It causes, -however, a mistake and false judgment by accident; and the falsehood of -its effects may be ascribed, by some odd figurative way of speaking, -to the action itself. But still I can see no pretext of reason for -asserting, that the tendency to cause such an error is the first spring -or original source of all immorality.<a name="FNanchor_2_16" id="FNanchor_2_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_16" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p> - -<p>Thus, upon the whole, 'tis impossible that the distinction betwixt -moral good and evil can be made by reason; since that distinction has -an influence upon our actions, of which reason alone is incapable. -Reason and judgment may, indeed, be the mediate cause of an action, by -prompting or by directing a passion;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> but it is not pretended that a -judgment of this kind, either in its truth or falsehood, is attended -with virtue or vise. And as to the judgments, which are caused by our -judgments, they can still less bestow those moral qualities on the -actions which are their causes.</p> - -<p>But, to be more particular, and to show that those eternal immutable -fitnesses and unfitnesses of things cannot be defended by sound -philosophy, we may weigh the following considerations.</p> - -<p>If the thought and understanding were alone capable of fixing the -boundaries of right and wrong, the character of virtuous and vicious -either must lie in some relations of objects, or must be a matter -of fact which is discovered by our reasoning. This consequence is -evident. As' the operations of human understanding divide themselves -into two kinds, the comparing of ideas, and the inferring of matter -of fact, were virtue discovered by the understanding, it must be an -object of one of these operations; nor is there any third operation -of the understanding which can discover it. There has been an opinion -very industriously propagated by certain philosophers, that morality -is susceptible of demonstration; and though no one has ever been able -to advance a single step in those demonstrations, yet tis taken for -granted that this science may be brought to an equal certainty with -geometry or algebra.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span> Upon this supposition, vice and virtue must -consist in some relations; since 'tis allowed on all hands, that no -matter of fact is capable of being demonstrated. Let us therefore -begin with examining this hypothesis, and endeavour, if possible, -to fix those moral qualities which have been so long the objects of -our fruitless researches; point out distinctly the relations which -constitute morality or obligation, that we may know wherein they -consist, and after what manner we must judge of them.</p> - -<p>If you assert that vice and virtue consist in relations susceptible -of certainty and demonstration, you must confine yourself to those -<i>four</i> relations which alone admit of that degree of evidence; and in -that case you run into absurdities from which you will never be able -to extricate yourself. For as you make the very essence of morality to -lie in the relations, and as there is no one of these relations but -what is applicable, not only to an irrational but also to an inanimate -object, it follows, that even such objects must be susceptible of -merit or demerit. <i>Resemblance, contrariety, degrees in quality</i>, and -<i>proportions in quantity and number</i>; all these relations belong as -properly to matter, as to our actions, passions, and volitions. 'Tis -unquestionable, therefore, that morality lies not in any of these -relations, nor the sense of it in their discovery.<a name="FNanchor_3_17" id="FNanchor_3_17"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_17" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p> - -<p>Should it be asserted, that the sense of morality consists in -the discovery of some relation distinct from these, and that our -enumeration was not complete when we comprehended all demonstrable -relations under four general heads; to this I know not what to reply, -till some one be so good as to point out to me this new relation. 'Tis -impossible to refute a system which has never yet been explained. In -such a manner of fighting in the dark, a man loses his blows in the -air, and often places them where the enemy is not present.</p> - -<p>I must therefore, on this occasion, rest contented with requiring the -two following conditions of any one that would undertake to clear up -this system. <i>First</i>, as moral good and evil belong only to the actions -of the mind, and are derived from our situation with regard to external -objects, the relations from which these moral distinctions arise must -lie only betwixt internal actions and external objects, and must not be -applicable either to internal actions, compared among themselves, or to -external objects, when placed in opposition to other external objects. -For as morality is supposed to attend certain relations, if these -relations could belong to internal actions considered singly, it would -follow, that we might be guilty of crimes in ourselves, and independent -of our situation with respect to the universe; and in like manner, if -these moral<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> relations could be applied to external objects, it would -follow, that even inanimate beings would be susceptible of moral beauty -and deformity. Now, it seems difficult to imagine that any relation can -be discovered betwixt our passions, volitions and actions, compared -to external objects, which relation might not belong either to these -passions and volitions, or to these external objects, compared among -<i>themselves</i>.</p> - -<p>But it will be still more difficult to fulfil the <i>second</i> condition, -requisite to justify this system. According to the principles of those -who maintain an abstract rational difference betwixt moral good and -evil, and a natural fitness and unfitness of things, 'tis not only -supposed, that these relations, being eternal and immutable, are the -same, when considered by every rational creature, but their <i>effects</i> -are also supposed to be necessarily the same; and 'tis concluded they -have no less, or rather a greater, influence in directing the will -of the Deity, than in governing the rational and virtuous of our own -species. These two particulars are evidently distinct. 'Tis one thing -to know virtue, and another to conform the will to it. In order, -therefore, to prove that the measures of right and wrong are eternal -laws, <i>obligatory</i> on every rational mind, 'tis not sufficient to show -the relations upon which they are founded: we must also point out the -connexion betwixt the relation and the will; and must prove that this -connexion is so necessary, that in every well-disposed mind, it must -take place and have its influence; though the difference betwixt these -minds be in other respects immense and infinite. Now, besides what I -have already proved, that even in human nature no relation can ever -alone produce any action; besides this, I say, it has been shown, in -treating of the understanding,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> that there is no connexion of cause and -effect, such as this is supposed to be, which is discoverable otherwise -than by experience, and of which we can pretend to have any security by -the simple consideration of the objects. All beings in the universe, -considered in themselves, appear entirely loose and independent of each -other. 'Tis only by experience we learn their influence and connexion; -and this influence we ought never to extend beyond experience.</p> - -<p>Thus it will be impossible to fulfil the <i>first</i> condition required to -the system of eternal rational measures of right and wrong; because it -is impossible to show those relations, upon which such a distinction -may be founded: and 'tis as impossible to fulfil the <i>second</i> -condition; because we cannot prove <i>a priori</i>, that these relations, if -they really existed and were perceived, would be universally forcible -and obligatory.</p> - -<p>But to make these general reflections more clear and convincing, we may -illustrate them by some particular instances, wherein this character -of moral good or evil is the most universally acknowledged. Of all -crimes that human creatures are capable of committing, the most horrid -and unnatural is ingratitude, especially when it is committed against -parents, and appears in the more flagrant instances of wounds and -death. This is acknowledged by all mankind, philosophers as well as -the people; the question only arises among philosophers, whether the -guilt or moral deformity of this action be discovered by demonstrative -reasoning, or be felt by an internal sense, and by means of some -sentiment, which the reflecting on such an action naturally occasions. -This question will soon be decided against the former opinion, if we -can show the same relations in other objects, without the notion of -any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> guilt or iniquity attending them. Reason or science is nothing but -the comparing of ideas, and the discovery of their relations; and if -the same relations have different characters, it must evidently follow, -that those characters are not discovered merely by reason. To put the -affair, therefore, to this trial, let us choose any inanimate object, -such as an oak or elm; and let us suppose, that, by the dropping of -its seed, it produces a sapling below it, which, springing up by -degrees, at last overtops and destroys the parent tree: I ask, if, in -this instance, there be wanting any relation which is discoverable -in parricide or ingratitude? Is not the one tree the cause of the -other's existence; and the latter the cause of the destruction of the -former, in the same manner as when a child murders his parent? 'Tis -not sufficient to reply, that a choice or will is wanting. For in -the case of parricide, a will does not give rise to any <i>different</i> -relations, but is only the cause from which the action is derived; and -consequently produces the <i>same</i> relations, that in the oak or elm -arise from some other principles. 'Tis a will or choice that determines -a man to kill his parent: and they are the laws of matter and motion, -that determine a sapling to destroy the oak from which it sprung. Here -then the same relations have different causes; but still the relations -are the same: and as their discovery is not in both cases attended with -a notion of immorality, it follows, that that notion does not arise -from such a discovery.</p> - -<p>But to choose an instance still more resembling; I would fain ask any -one, why incest in the human species is criminal, and why the very -same action, and the same relations in animals, have not the smallest -moral turpitude and deformity? If it be answered, that this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span> action -is innocent in animals, because they have not reason sufficient to -discover its turpitude; but that man, being endowed with that faculty, -which <i>ought</i> to restrain him to his duty, the same action instantly -becomes criminal to him. Should this be said, I would reply, that this -is evidently arguing in a circle. For, before reason can perceive this -turpitude, the turpitude must exist; and consequently is independent -of the decisions of our reason, and is their object more properly than -their effect. According to this system, then, every animal that has -sense and appetite and will, that is, every animal must be susceptible -of all the same virtues and vices, for which we ascribe praise and -blame to human creatures. All the difference is, that our superior -reason may serve to discover the vice or virtue, and by that means -may augment the blame or praise: but still this discovery supposes -a separate being in these moral distinctions, and a being which -depends only on the will and appetite, and which, both in thought and -reality, may be distinguished from reason. Animals are susceptible of -the same relations with respect to each other as the human species, -and therefore would also be susceptible of the same morality, if the -essence of morality consisted in these relations. Their want of a -sufficient degree of reason may hinder them from perceiving the duties -and obligations of morality, but can never hinder these duties from -existing; since they must antecedently exist, in order to their being -perceived. Reason must find them, and can never produce them. This -argument deserves to be weighed, as being, in my opinion, entirely -decisive.</p> - -<p>Nor does this reasoning only prove, that morality consists not in any -relations that are the objects of science; but if examined, will prove -with equal certainty,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> that it consists not in any <i>matter of fact</i>, -which can be discovered by the understanding. This is the <i>second</i> part -of our argument; and if it can be made evident, we may conclude, that -morality is not an object of reason. But can there be any difficulty in -proving, that vice and virtue are not matters of fact, whose existence -we can infer by reason? Take any action allowed to be vicious; wilful -murder, for instance. Examine it in all lights, and see if you can -find that matter of fact, or real existence, which you call <i>vice</i>. In -whichever way you take it, you find only certain passions, motives, -volitions and thoughts. There is no other matter of fact in the case. -The vice entirely escapes you, as long as you consider the object. -You never can find it, till you turn your reflection into your own -breast, and find a sentiment of disapprobation, which arises in you, -towards this action. Here is a matter of fact; but 'tis the object of -feeling, not of reason. It lies in yourself, not in the object. So -that when you pronounce any action or character to be vicious, you -mean nothing, but that from the constitution of your nature you have a -feeling or sentiment of blame from the contemplation of it. Vice and -virtue, therefore, may be compared to sounds, colours, heat and cold, -which, according to modern philosophy, are not qualities in objects, -but perceptions in the mind: and this discovery in morals, like that -other in physics, is to be regarded as a considerable advancement of -the speculative sciences; though, like that too, it has little or no -influence on practice. Nothing can be more real, or concern us more, -than our own sentiments of pleasure and uneasiness; and if these -be favourable to virtue, and unfavourable to vice, no more can be -requisite to the regulation of our conduct and behaviour.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p> - -<p>I cannot forbear adding to these reasonings an observation, which may, -perhaps, be found of some importance. In every system of morality -which I have hitherto met with, I have always remarked, that the -author proceeds for some time in the ordinary way of reasoning, and -establishes the being of a God, or makes observations concerning human -affairs; when of a sudden I am surprised to find, that instead of the -usual copulations of propositions, <i>is</i>, and <i>is not</i>, I meet with no -proposition that is not connected with an <i>ought</i>, or an <i>ought not</i>. -This change is imperceptible; but is, however, of the last consequence. -For as this <i>ought</i>, or <i>ought not</i>, expresses some new relation or -affirmation, 'tis necessary that it should be observed and explained; -and at the same time that a reason should be given, for what seems -altogether inconceivable, how this new relation can be a deduction from -others, which are entirely different from it. But as authors do not -commonly use this precaution, I shall presume to recommend it to the -readers; and am persuaded, that this small attention would subvert all -the vulgar systems of morality, and let us see, that the distinction of -vice and virtue is not founded merely on the relations of objects, nor -is perceived by reason.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_15" id="Footnote_1_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_15"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Book II. Part III. Sect. 3</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_16" id="Footnote_2_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_16"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> One might think it were entirely superfluous to prove -this, if a late author, who has had the good fortune to obtain some -reputation, had not seriously affirmed, that such a falsehood is the -foundation of all guilt and moral deformity. That we may discover -the fallacy of his hypothesis, we need only consider, that a false -conclusion is drawn from an action, only by means of an obscurity of -natural principles, which makes a cause be secretly interrupted in its -operation, by contrary causes, and renders the connexion betwixt two -objects uncertain and variable. Now, as a like uncertainty and variety -of causes take place, even in natural objects, and produce a like -error in our judgment, if that tendency to produce error were the very -essence of vice and immorality, it should follow, that even inanimate -objects might be vicious and immoral. -</p> -<p> -'Tis in vain to urge, that inanimate objects act without liberty and -choice. For as liberty and choice are not necessary to make an action -produce in us an erroneous conclusion, they can be, in no respect, -essential to morality; and I do not readily perceive, upon this system, -how they can ever come to be regarded by it. If the tendency to cause -error be the origin of immorality, that tendency and immorality would -in every case be inseparable. -</p> -<p> -Add to this, that if I had used the precaution of shutting the windows, -while I indulged myself in those liberties with my neighbour's wife, I -should have been guilty of no immorality; and that because my action, -being perfectly concealed, would have had no tendency to produce any -false conclusion. -</p> -<p> -For the same reason, a thief, who steals in by a ladder at a window, -and takes all imaginable care to cause no disturbance, is in no -respect criminal. For either he will not be perceived, or if he be, -'tis impossible he can produce any error, nor will any one, from these -circumstances, take him to be other than what he really is. -</p> -<p> -'Tis well known, that those who are squint-sighted do very readily -cause mistakes in others, and that we imagine they salute or are -talking to one person, while they address themselves to another. Are -they, therefore, upon that account, immoral? -</p> -<p> -Besides, we may easily observe, that in all those arguments there is -an evident reasoning in a circle. A person who takes possession of -<i>another's</i> goods, and uses them as his <i>own</i>, in a manner declares -them to be his own; and this falsehood is the source of the immorality -of injustice. But is property, or right, or obligation, intelligible -without an antecedent morality? -</p> -<p> -A man that is ungrateful to his benefactor, in a manner affirms that -he never received any favours from him. But in what manner? Is it -because 'tis his duty to be grateful? But this supposes that there is -some antecedent rule of duty and morals. Is it because human nature is -generally grateful, and makes us conclude that a man who does any harm, -never received any favour from the person he harmed? But human nature -is not so generally grateful as to justify such a conclusion; or, if it -were, is an exception to a general rule in every case criminal, for no -other reason than because it is an exception? -</p> -<p> -But what may suffice entirely to destroy this whimsical system is, -that it leaves us under the same difficulty to give a reason why truth -is virtuous and falsehood vicious, as to account for the merit or -turpitude of any other action. I shall allow, if you please, that all -immorality is derived from this supposed falsehood in action, provided -you can give me any plausible reason why such a falsehood is immoral. -If you consider rightly of the matter, you will find yourself in the -same difficulty as at the beginning. -</p> -<p> -This last argument is very conclusive; because, if there be not -an evident merit or turpitude annexed to this species of truth or -falsehood, it can never have any influence upon our actions. For who -ever thought of forbearing any action, because others might possibly -draw false conclusions from it? Or who ever performed any, that he -might give rise to true conclusions?</p></div> - - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_17" id="Footnote_3_17"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_17"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> As a proof how confused our way of thinking on this -subject commonly is, we may observe, that those who assert that -morality is demonstrable, do not say that morality lies in the -relations, and that the relations are distinguishable by reason. They -only say, that reason can discover such an action, in such relations, -to be virtuous, and such another vicious. It seems they thought it -sufficient if they could bring the word Relation into the proposition, -without troubling themselves whether it was to the purpose or not. -But here, I think, is plain argument. Demonstrative reason discovers -only relations. But that reason, according to this hypothesis, -discovers also vice and virtue. These moral qualities, therefore, must -be relations. When we blame any action, in any situation, the whole -complicated object of action and situation must form certain relations, -wherein the essence of vice consists. This hypothesis is not otherwise -intelligible. For what does reason discover, when it pronounces any -action vicious? Does it discover a relation or a matter of fact? These -questions are decisive, and must not be eluded.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a id="SECTION_II_aIII"></a>SECTION II.</h5> - -<h5>MORAL DISTINCTIONS DERIVED FROM A MORAL SENSE.</h5> - - -<p>Thus the course of the argument leads us to conclude, that since vice -and virtue are not discoverable<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> merely by reason, or the comparison -of ideas, it must be by means of some impression or sentiment they -occasion, that we are able to mark the difference betwixt them. Our -decisions concerning moral rectitude and depravity are evidently -perceptions; and as all perceptions are either impressions or ideas, -the exclusion of the one is a convincing argument for the other. -Morality, therefore, is more properly felt than judged of; though this -feeling or sentiment is commonly so soft and gentle that we are apt to -confound it with an idea, according to our common custom of taking all -things for the same which have any near resemblance to each other.</p> - -<p>The next question is, of what nature are these impressions, and after -what manner do they operate upon us? Here we cannot remain long in -suspense, but must pronounce the impression arising from virtue to be -agreeable, and that proceeding from vice to be uneasy. Every moment's -experience must convince us of this. There is no spectacle so fair and -beautiful as a noble and generous action; nor any which gives us more -abhorrence than one that is cruel and treacherous. No enjoyment equals -the satisfaction we receive from the company of those we love and -esteem; as the greatest of all punishments is to be obliged to pass our -lives with those we hate or contemn. A very play or romance may afford -us instances of this pleasure which virtue conveys to us; and pain, -which arises from vice.</p> - -<p>Now, since the distinguishing impressions by which moral good or evil -is known, are nothing but <i>particular</i> pains or pleasures, it follows, -that in all inquiries concerning these moral distinctions, it will be -sufficient to show the principles which make us feel a satisfaction or -uneasiness from the survey of any character, in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span> order to satisfy us -why the character is laudable or blameable. An action, or sentiment, -or character, is virtuous or vicious; why? because its view causes -a pleasure or uneasiness of a particular kind. In giving a reason, -therefore, for the pleasure or uneasiness, we sufficiently explain -the vice or virtue. To have the sense of virtue, is nothing but to -<i>feel</i> a satisfaction of a particular kind from the contemplation of a -character. The very <i>feeling</i> constitutes our praise or admiration. We -go no farther; nor do we inquire into the cause of the satisfaction. -We do not infer a character to be virtuous, because it pleases; but in -feeling that it pleases after such a particular manner, we in effect -feel that it is virtuous. The case is the same as in our judgments -concerning all kinds of beauty, and tastes, and sensations. Our -approbation is implied in the immediate pleasure they convey to us.</p> - -<p>I have objected to the system which establishes eternal rational -measures of right and wrong, that 'tis impossible to show, in the -actions of reasonable creatures, any relations which are not found in -external objects; and therefore, if morality always attended these -relations, 'twere possible for inanimate matter to become virtuous -or vicious. Now it may, in like manner, be objected to the present -system, that if virtue and vice be determined by pleasure and pain, -these qualities must, in every case, arise from the sensations; and -consequently any object, whether animate or inanimate, rational or -irrational, might become morally good or evil, provided it can excite a -satisfaction or uneasiness. But though this objection seems to be the -very same, it has by no means the same force in the one case as in the -other. For, <i>first</i>, 'tis evident that, under the term <i>pleasure</i>, we -comprehend sensations,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span> which are very different from each other, and -which have only such a distant resemblance as is requisite to, make -them be expressed by the same abstract term. A good composition of -music and a bottle of good wine equally produce pleasure; and, what is -more, their goodness is determined merely by the pleasure. But shall we -say, upon that account, that the wine is harmonious, or the music of a -good flavour? In like manner, an inanimate object, and the character -or sentiments of any person, may, both of them, give satisfaction; -but, as the satisfaction is different, this keeps our sentiments -concerning them from being confounded, and makes us ascribe virtue to -the one and not to the other. Nor is every sentiment of pleasure or -pain which arises from characters and actions, of that <i>peculiar</i> kind -which makes us praise or condemn. The good qualities of an enemy are -hurtful to us, but may, still command our esteem and respect. 'Tis -only when a character is considered in general, without reference to -our particular interest, that it causes such a feeling or sentiment as -denominates it morally good or evil. 'Tis true, those sentiments from -interest and morals are apt to be confounded, and naturally run into -one another. It seldom happens that we do not think an enemy vicious, -and can distinguish betwixt his opposition to our interest and real -villany or baseness. But this hinders not but that the sentiments are -in themselves distinct; and a man of temper and judgment may preserve -himself from these illusions. In like manner, though 'tis certain a -musical voice is nothing but one that naturally gives a <i>particular</i> -kind of pleasure; yet 'tis difficult for a man to be sensible that the -voice of an enemy is agreeable, or to allow it to be musical. But a -person of a fine ear, who has the command<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> of himself, can separate -these feelings, and give praise to what deserves it.</p> - -<p><i>Secondly</i>, we may call to remembrance the preceding system of the -passions, in order to remark a still more considerable difference -among our pains and pleasures. Pride and humility, love and hatred, -are excited, when there is any thing presented to us that both bears -a relation to the object of the passion, and produces a separate -sensation, related to the sensation of the passion. Now, virtue and -vice are attended with these circumstances. They must necessarily be -placed either in ourselves or others, and excite either pleasure or -uneasiness; and therefore must give rise to one of these four passions, -which clearly distinguishes them from the pleasure and pain arising -from inanimate objects, that often bear no relation to us; and this is, -perhaps, the most considerable effect that virtue and vice have upon -the human mind.</p> - -<p>It may now be asked, <i>in general</i> concerning this pain or pleasure that -distinguishes moral good and evil, <i>From what principle is it derived, -and whence does it arise in the human mind</i>? To this I reply, <i>first</i>, -that 'tis absurd to imagine that, in every particular instance, -these sentiments are produced by an <i>original</i> quality and <i>primary</i> -constitution. For as the number of our duties is in a manner infinite, -'tis impossible that our original instincts should extend to each of -them, and from our very first infancy impress on the human mind all -that multitude of precepts which are contained in the completest system -of ethics. Such a method of proceeding is not conformable to the usual -maxims by which nature is conducted, where a few principles produce all -that variety we observe in the universe, and every thing is carried on -in the easiest<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span> and most simple manner. 'Tis necessary, therefore, to -abridge these primary impulses, and find some more general principles -upon which all our notions of morals are founded.</p> - -<p>But, in the <i>second</i> place, should it be asked, whether we ought to -search for these principles in <i>nature</i>, or whether we must look for -them in some other origin? I would reply, that our answer to this -question depends upon the definition of the word Nature, than which -there is none more ambiguous and equivocal. If <i>nature</i> be opposed to -miracles, not only the distinction betwixt vice and virtue is natural, -but also every event which has ever happened in the world, <i>excepting -those miracles on which our religion is founded</i>. In saying, then, that -the sentiments of vice and virtue are natural in this sense, we make no -very extraordinary discovery.</p> - -<p>But <i>nature</i> may also be opposed to rare and unusual; and in this sense -of the word, which is the common one, there may often arise disputes -concerning what is natural or unnatural; and one may in general affirm, -that we are not possessed of any very precise standard by which these -disputes can be decided. Frequent and rare depend upon the number of -examples we have observed; and as this number may gradually increase -or diminish, 'twill be impossible to fix any exact boundaries betwixt -them. We may only affirm on this head, that if ever there was any thing -which could be called natural in this sense, the sentiments of morality -certainly may; since there never was any nation of the world, nor any -single person in any nation, who was utterly deprived of them, and -who never, in any instance, showed the least approbation or dislike -of manners. These sentiments are so<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span> rooted in our constitution and -temper, that, without entirely confounding the human mind by disease or -madness, 'tis impossible to extirpate and destroy them.</p> - -<p>But <i>nature</i> may also be opposed to artifice, as well as to what is -rare and unusual; and in this sense it may be disputed, whether the -notions of virtue be natural or not. We readily forget, that the -designs and projects and views of men are principles as necessary in -their operation as heat and cold, moist and dry; but, taking them to be -free and entirely our own, 'tis usual for us to set them in opposition -to the other principles of nature. Should it therefore be demanded, -whether the sense of virtue be natural or artificial, I am of opinion -that 'tis impossible for me at present to give any precise answer to -this question. Perhaps it will appear afterwards that our sense of some -virtues is artificial, and that of others natural. The discussion of -this question will be more proper, when we enter upon an exact detail -of each particular vice and virtue.<a name="FNanchor_4_18" id="FNanchor_4_18"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_18" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p> - -<p>Mean while, it may not be amiss to observe, from these definitions of -<i>natural</i> and <i>unnatural</i>, that nothing can be more unphilosophical -than those systems which assert, that virtue is the same with what -is natural, and vice with what is unnatural. For, in the first sense -of the word, nature, as opposed to miracles, both vice and virtue -are equally natural; and, in the second sense, as opposed to what is -unusual, perhaps virtue will be found to be the most unnatural. At -least it must be owned, that heroic virtue, being as unusual, is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> as -little natural as the most brutal barbarity. As to the third sense of -the word, 'tis certain that both vice and virtue are equally artificial -and out of nature. For, however it may be disputed, whether the notion -of a merit or demerit in certain actions, be natural or artificial, -'tis evident that the actions themselves are artificial, and are -performed with a certain design and intention; otherwise they could -never be ranked under any of these denominations. 'Tis impossible, -therefore, that the character of natural and unnatural can ever, in any -sense, mark the boundaries of vice and virtue.</p> - -<p>Thus we are still brought back to our first position, that virtue is -distinguished by the pleasure, and vice by the pain, that any action, -sentiment, or character, gives us by the mere view and contemplation. -This decision is very commodious; because it reduces us to, this -simple question, <i>Why any action or sentiment, upon the general view -or survey, gives a certain satisfaction or uneasiness</i>, in order to -show the origin of its moral rectitude or depravity, without looking -for any incomprehensible relations and qualities, which never did exist -in nature, nor even in our imagination, by any clear and distinct -conception? I flatter myself I have executed a great part of my present -design by a state of the question, which appears to me so free from -ambiguity and obscurity.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_18" id="Footnote_4_18"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_18"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> In the following discourse, <i>natural</i> is also opposed -sometimes to <i>civil</i>, sometimes to <i>moral</i>. The opposition will always -discover the sense in which it is taken.</p></div> -<hr class="chap" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p> - - - -<h5><a name="PART_II_III" id="PART_II_III">PART II.</a></h5> - -<h4>OF JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.</h4> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a id="SECTION_I_bIII"></a>SECTION I.</h5> - -<h5>JUSTICE, WHETHER A NATURAL OR ARTIFICIAL VIRTUE?</h5> - - -<p>I have already hinted, that our sense of every kind of virtue is not -natural; but that there are some virtues that produce pleasure and -approbation by means of an artifice or contrivance, which arises from -the circumstances and necessity of mankind. Of this kind I assert -<i>justice</i> to be; and shall endeavour to defend this opinion by a short, -and, I hope, convincing argument, before I examine the nature of the -artifice, from which the sense of that virtue is derived.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident that, when we praise any actions, we regard only the -motives that produced them, and consider the actions as signs or -indications of certain principles in the mind and temper. The external -performance has no merit. We must look within to find the moral -quality. This we cannot do directly; and therefore fix our attention on -actions, as on external signs. But these actions are still considered -as signs;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> and the ultimate object of our praise and approbation is the -motive that produced them.</p> - -<p>After the same manner, when we require any action, or blame a person -for not performing it, we always suppose that one in that situation -should be influenced by the proper motive of that action, and we -esteem it vicious in him to be regardless of it. If we find, upon -inquiry, that the virtuous motive was still powerful over his breast, -though checked in its operation by some circumstances unknown to us, -we retract our blame, and have the same esteem for him, as if he had -actually performed the action which we require of him.</p> - -<p>It appears, therefore, that all virtuous actions derive their merit -only from virtuous motives, and are considered merely as signs of -those motives. From this principle I conclude, that the first virtuous -motive which bestows a merit on any action, can never be a regard -to the virtue of that action, but must be some other natural motive -or principle. To suppose, that the mere regard to the virtue of the -action, may be the first motive which produced the action, and rendered -it virtuous, is to reason in a circle. Before we can have such a -regard, the action must be really virtuous; and this virtue must be -derived from some virtuous motive: and consequently, the virtuous -motive must be different from the regard to the virtue of the action. -A virtuous motive is requisite to render an action virtuous. An action -must be virtuous before we can have a regard to its virtue. Some -virtuous motive, therefore, must be antecedent to that regard.</p> - -<p>Nor is this merely a metaphysical subtilty; but enters into all our -reasonings in common life, though perhaps we may not be able to -place it in such distinct philosophical terms. We blame a father -for neglecting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> his child. Why? because it shows a want of natural -affection, which is the duty of every parent. Were not natural -affection a duty, the care of children could not be a duty; and 'twere -impossible we could have the duty in our eye in the attention we give -to our offspring. In this case, therefore, all men suppose a motive to -the action distinct from a sense of duty.</p> - -<p>Here is a man that does many benevolent actions; relieves the -distressed, comforts the afflicted, and extends his bounty even to the -greatest strangers. No character can be more amiable and virtuous. We -regard these actions as proofs of the greatest humanity. This humanity -bestows a merit on the actions. A regard to this merit is, therefore, a -secondary consideration, and derived from the antecedent principles of -humanity, which is meritorious and laudable.</p> - -<p>In short, it may be established as an undoubted maxim, <i>that no action -can be virtuous, or morally good, unless there be in human nature some -motive to produce it distinct from the sense of its morality</i>.</p> - -<p>But may not the sense of morality or duty produce an action, without -any other motive? I answer, it may; but this is no objection to the -present doctrine. When any virtuous motive or principle is common in -human nature, a person who feels his heart devoid of that motive, may -hate himself upon that account, and may perform the action without the -motive, from a certain sense of duty, in order to acquire, by practice, -that virtuous principle, or at least to disguise to himself, as much -as possible, his want of it. A man that really feels no gratitude in -his temper, is still pleased to perform grateful actions, and thinks -he has, by that means, fulfilled his duty. Actions are at first only -considered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span> as signs of motives: but 'tis usual, in this case, as in -all others, to fix our attention on the signs, and neglect, in some -measure, the thing signified. But though, on some occasions, a person -may perform an action merely out of regard to its moral obligation, yet -still this supposes in human nature some distinct principles, which are -capable of producing the action, and whose moral beauty renders the -action meritorious.</p> - -<p>Now, to apply all this to the present case; I suppose a person to have -lent me a sum of money, on condition that it be restored in a few days; -and also suppose, that after the expiration of the term agreed on, -he demands the sum: I ask, <i>What reason or motive have I to restore -the money</i>? It will perhaps be said, that my regard to justice, and -abhorrence of villany and knavery, are sufficient reasons for me, if -I have the least grain of honesty, or sense of duty and obligation. -And this answer, no doubt, is just and satisfactory to man in his -civilized state, and when trained up according to a certain discipline -and education. But in his rude and more natural condition, if you are -pleased to call such a condition natural, this answer would be rejected -as perfectly unintelligible and sophistical. For one in that situation -would immediately ask you, <i>Wherein consists this honesty and justice, -which you find in restoring a loan, and abstaining from the property -of others</i>? It does not surely lie in the external action. It must, -therefore, be placed in the motive from which the external action -is derived. This motive can never be a regard to the honesty of the -action. For 'tis a plain fallacy to say, that a virtuous motive is -requisite to render an action honest, and, at the same time, that a -regard to the honesty is the motive of the action. We can never have a -regard to the virtue of an action,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span> unless the action be antecedently -virtuous. No action can be virtuous, but so far as it proceeds from a -virtuous motive. A virtuous motive, therefore, must precede the regard -to the virtue; and 'tis impossible that the virtuous motive and the -regard to the virtue can be the same.</p> - -<p>'Tis requisite, then, to find some motive to acts of justice and -honesty, distinct from our regard to the honesty; and in this lies the -great difficulty. For should we say, that a concern for our private -interest or reputation, is the legitimate motive to all honest actions: -it would follow, that wherever that concern ceases, honesty can no -longer have place. But 'tis certain that self-love, when it acts at its -liberty, instead of engaging us to honest actions, is the source of all -injustice and violence; nor can a man ever correct those vices, without -correcting and restraining the <i>natural</i> movements of that appetite.</p> - -<p>But should it be affirmed, that the reason or motive of such actions -is the <i>regard to public interest</i>, to which nothing is more contrary -than examples of injustice and dishonesty; should this be said, I -would propose the three following considerations as worthy of our -attention. <i>First</i>, Public interest is not naturally attached to the -observation of the rules of justice; but is only connected with it, -after an artificial convention for the establishment of these rules, -as shall be shown more at large hereafter. <i>Secondly</i>, If we suppose -that the loan was secret, and that it is necessary for the interest -of the person, that the money be restored in the same manner (as when -the lender would conceal his riches), in that case the example ceases, -and the public is no longer interested in the actions of the borrower; -though I suppose there is no moralist who will affirm that the duty<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span> -and obligation ceases. <i>Thirdly</i>, Experience sufficiently proves that -men, in the ordinary conduct of life, look not so far as the public -interest, when they pay their creditors, perform their promises, and -abstain from theft, and robbery, and injustice of every kind. That is a -motive too remote and too sublime to affect the generality of mankind, -and operate with any force in actions so contrary to private interest -as are frequently those of justice and common honesty.</p> - -<p>In general, it may be affirmed, that there is no such passion in -human minds as the love of mankind, merely as such, independent of -personal qualities, of services, or of relation to ourself. 'Tis true, -there is no human, and indeed no sensible creature, whose happiness -or misery does not, in some measure, affect us, when brought near -us, and represented in lively colours: but this proceeds merely from -sympathy, and is no proof of such an universal affection to mankind, -since this concern extends itself beyond our own species. An affection -betwixt the sexes is a passion evidently implanted in human nature; and -this passion not only appears in its peculiar symptoms, but also in -inflaming every other principle of affection, and raising a stronger -love from beauty, wit, kindness, than what would otherwise flow from -them. Were there an universal love among all human creatures, it would -appear after the same manner. Any degree of a good quality would cause -a stronger affection than the same degree of a bad quality would cause -hatred; contrary to what we find by experience. Men's tempers are -different, and some have a propensity to the tender, and others to -the rougher affections: but in the main, we may affirm, that man in -general, or human nature, is nothing but the object both of love and -hatred, and requires<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span> some other cause, which, by a double relation -of impressions and ideas, may excite these passions. In vain would -we endeavour to elude this hypothesis. There are no phenomena that -point out any such kind affection to men, independent of their merit, -and every other circumstance. We love company in general; but 'tis as -we love any other amusement. An Englishman in Italy is a friend; a -European in China; and perhaps a man would be beloved as such, were we -to meet him in the moon. But this proceeds only from the relation to -ourselves; which in these cases gathers force by being confined to a -few persons.</p> - -<p>If public benevolence, therefore, or a regard to the interests of -mankind, cannot be the original motive to justice, much less can -<i>private benevolence</i>, or a <i>regard to the interests of the party -concerned</i>, be this motive. For what if he be my enemy, and has given -me just cause to hate him? What if he be a vicious man, and deserves -the hatred of all mankind? What if he be a miser, and can make no use -of what I would deprive him of? What if he be a profligate debauchee, -and would rather receive harm than benefit from large possessions? What -if I be in necessity, and have urgent motives to acquire something to -my family? In all these cases, the original motive to justice would -fail; and consequently the justice itself, and along with it all -property, right, and obligation.</p> - -<p>A rich man lies under a moral obligation to communicate to those in -necessity a share of his superfluities. Were private benevolence the -original motive to justice, a man would not be obliged to leave others -in the possession of more than he is obliged to give them. At least, -the difference would be very inconsiderable. Men generally fix their -affections more on what they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> are possessed of, than on what they never -enjoyed: for this reason, it would be greater cruelty to dispossess a -man of any thing, than not to give it him. But who will assert, that -this is the only foundation of justice?</p> - -<p>Besides, we must consider, that the chief reason why men attach -themselves so much to their possessions, is, that they consider them -as their property, and as secured to them inviolably by the laws of -society. But this is a secondary consideration, and dependent on the -preceding notions of justice and property.</p> - -<p>A man's property is supposed to be fenced against every mortal, in -every possible case. But private benevolence is, and ought to be, -weaker in some persons than in others; and in many, or indeed in most -persons, must absolutely fail. Private benevolence, therefore, is not -the original motive of justice.</p> - -<p>From all this it follows, that we have no real or universal motive for -observing the laws of equity, but the very equity and merit of that -observance; and as no action can be equitable or meritorious, where -it cannot arise from some separate motive, there is here an evident -sophistry and reasoning in a circle. Unless, therefore, we will allow -that nature has established a sophistry, and rendered it necessary and -unavoidable, we must allow, that the sense of justice and injustice is -not derived from nature, but arises artificially, though necessarily, -from education, and human conventions.</p> - -<p>I shall add, as a corollary to this reasoning, that since no action can -be laudable or blameable, without some motives or impelling passions, -distinct from the sense of morals, these distinct passions must have a -great influence on that sense. 'Tis according to their general force -in human nature that we blame or praise. In judging of the beauty of -animal bodies, we always<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</a></span> carry in our eye the economy of a certain -species; and where the limbs and features observe that proportion which -is common to the species, we pronounce them handsome and beautiful. -In like manner, we always consider the <i>natural</i> and <i>usual</i> force of -the passions, when we determine concerning vice and virtue; and if the -passions depart very much from the common measures on either side, they -are always disapproved as vicious. A man naturally loves his children -better than his nephews, his nephews better than his cousins, his -cousins better than strangers, where every thing else is equal. Hence -arise our common measures of duty, in preferring the one to the other. -Our sense of duty always follows the common and natural course of our -passions.</p> - -<p>To avoid giving offence, I must here observe, that when I deny justice -to be a natural virtue, I make use of the word <i>natural</i>, only as -opposed to <i>artificial</i>. In another sense of the word, as no principle -of the human mind is more natural than a sense of virtue, so no virtue -is more natural than justice. Mankind is an inventive species; and -where an invention is obvious and absolutely necessary, it may as -properly be said to be natural as any thing that proceeds immediately -from original principles, without the intervention of thought or -reflection. Though the rules of justice be <i>artificial</i>, they are not -<i>arbitrary</i>. Nor is the expression improper to call them <i>Laws of -Nature</i>; if by natural we understand what is common to any species, or -even if we confine it to mean what is inseparable from the species.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_II_bIII" id="SECTION_II_bIII">SECTION II.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE ORIGIN OF JUSTICE AND PROPERTY.</h5> - - -<p>We now proceed to examine two questions, viz. <i>concerning the manner -in which the rules of justice are established by the artifice of men</i>; -and <i>concerning the reasons which determine us to attribute to the -observance or neglect of these rules a moral beauty and deformity</i>. -These questions will appear afterwards to be distinct. We shall begin -with the former.</p> - -<p>Of all the animals with which this globe is peopled, there is none -towards whom nature seems, at first sight, to have exercised more -cruelty than towards man, in the numberless wants and necessities -with which she has loaded him, and in the slender means which she -affords to the relieving these necessities. In other creatures, these -two particulars generally compensate each other. If we consider the -lion as a voracious and carnivorous animal, we shall easily discover -him to be very necessitous; but if we turn our eye to his make and -temper, his agility, his courage, his arms and his force, we shall -find that his advantages hold proportion with his wants. The sheep -and ox are deprived of all these advantages; but their appetites -are moderate, and their food is of easy purchase. In man alone this -unnatural conjunction of infirmity and of necessity may be observed -in its greatest perfection. Not only the food which is required for -his sustenance flies his search and approach, or at least requires his -labour to be produced, but he must be possessed of clothes and lodging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</a></span> -to defend him against the injuries of the weather; though, to consider -him only in himself, he is provided neither with arms, nor force, nor -other natural abilities which are in any degree answerable to so many -necessities.</p> - -<p>'Tis by society alone he is able to supply his defects, and raise -himself up to an equality with his fellow-creatures, and even acquire a -superiority above them. By society all his infirmities are compensated; -and though in that situation his wants multiply every moment upon him, -yet his abilities are still more augmented, and leave him in every -respect more satisfied and happy than 'tis possible for him, in his -savage and solitary condition, ever to become. When every individual -person labours apart, and only for himself, his force is too small to -execute any considerable work; his labour being employed in supplying -all his different necessities, he never attains a perfection in any -particular art; and as his force and success are not at all times -equal, the least failure in either of these particulars must be -attended with inevitable ruin and misery. Society provides a remedy for -these <i>three</i> inconveniences. By the conjunction of forces, our power -is augmented; by the partition of employments, our ability increases; -and by mutual succour, we are less exposed to fortune and accidents. -'Tis by this additional <i>force, ability</i>, and <i>security</i>, that society -becomes advantageous.</p> - -<p>But, in order to form society, 'tis requisite not only that it be -advantageous, but also that men be sensible of these advantages; and -'tis impossible, in their wild uncultivated state, that by study and -reflection alone they should ever be able to attain this knowledge. -Most fortunately, therefore, there is conjoined to those<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</a></span> necessities, -whose remedies are remote and obscure, another necessity, which, -having a present and more obvious remedy, may justly be regarded as -the first and original principle of human society. This necessity is -no other than that natural appetite betwixt the sexes, which unites -them together, and preserves their union, till a new tie takes place -in their concern for their common offspring. This new concern becomes -also a principle of union betwixt the parents and offspring, and forms -a more numerous society, where the parents govern by the advantage of -their superior strength and wisdom, and at the same time are restrained -in the exercise of their authority by that natural affection which they -bear their children. In a little time, custom and habit, operating on -the tender minds of the children, makes them sensible of the advantages -which they may reap from society, as well as fashions them by degrees -for it, by rubbing off those rough comers and untoward affections which -prevent their coalition.</p> - -<p>For it must be confest, that however the circumstances of human -nature may render an union necessary, and however those passions -of lust and natural affection may seem to render it unavoidable, -yet there are other particulars in our <i>natural temper</i>, and in our -<i>outward circumstances</i>, which are very incommodious, and are even -contrary to the requisite conjunction. Among the former we may justly -esteem our <i>selfishness</i> to be the most considerable. I am sensible -that, generally speaking, the representations of this quality have -been carried much too far; and that the descriptions which certain -philosophers delight so much to form of mankind in this particular, are -as wide of nature as any accounts of monsters which we meet with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</a></span> in -fables and romances. So far from thinking that men have no affect ion -for any thing beyond themselves, I am of opinion that, though it be -rare to meet with one who loves any single person better than himself, -yet 'tis as rare to meet with one in whom all the kind affections, -taken together, do not overbalance all the selfish. Consult common -experience; do you not see, that though the whole expense of the family -be generally under the direction of the master of it, yet there are few -that do not bestow the largest part of their fortunes on the pleasures -of their wives and the education of their children, reserving the -smallest portion for their own proper use and entertainment? This is -what we may observe concerning such as have those endearing ties; and -may presume, that the case would be the same with others, were they -placed in a like situation.</p> - -<p>But, though this generosity must be acknowledged to the honour of human -nature, we may at the same time remark, that so noble an affection, -instead of fitting men for large societies, is almost as contrary -to them as the most narrow selfishness. For while each person loves -himself better than any other single person, and in his love to others -bears the greatest affection to his relations and acquaintance, -this must necessarily produce an opposition of passions, and a -consequent opposition of actions, which cannot but be dangerous to the -new-established union.</p> - -<p>'Tis, however, worth while to remark, that this contrariety of -passions would be attended with but small danger, did it not concur -with a peculiarity in our <i>outward circumstances</i>, which affords it -an opportunity of exerting itself. There are three different species -of goods which we are possessed of; the internal satisfaction<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</a></span> our -minds; the external advantages of our body; and the enjoyment of such -possessions as we have acquired by our industry and good fortune. We -are perfectly secure in the enjoyment of the first. The second may be -ravished from us, but can be of no advantage to him who deprives us of -them. The last only are both exposed to the violence of others, and may -be transferred without suffering any loss or alteration; while at the -same time there is not a sufficient quantity of them to supply every -one's desires and necessities. As the improvement, therefore, of these -goods is the chief advantage of society, so the <i>instability</i> of their -possession, along with their <i>scarcity</i>, is the chief impediment.</p> - -<p>In vain should we expect to find, in <i>uncultivated nature</i>, a remedy to -this inconvenience; or hope for any inartificial principle of the human -mind which might control those partial affections, and make us overcome -the temptations arising from our circumstances. The idea of justice -can never serve to this purpose, or be taken for a natural principle, -capable of inspiring men with an equitable conduct towards each other. -That virtue, as it is now understood, would never have been dreamed -of among rude and savage men. For the notion of injury or injustice -implies an immorality or vice committed against some other person: And -as every immorality is derived from some defect or unsoundness of the -passions, and as this defect must be judged of, in a great measure, -from the ordinary course of nature in the constitution of the mind, -'twill be easy to know whether we be guilty of any immorality with -regard to others, by considering the natural and usual force of those -several affections which are directed towards them. Now, it appears -that, in the original<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</a></span> frame of our mind, our strongest attention -is confined to ourselves; our next is extended to our relations and -acquaintance; and 'tis only the weakest which reaches to strangers and -indifferent persons. This partiality, then, and unequal affection, must -not only have an influence on our behaviour and conduct in society, -but even on our ideas of vice and virtue; so as to make us regard any -remarkable transgression of such a degree of partiality, either by -too great an enlargement or contraction of the affections, as vicious -and immoral. This we may observe in our common judgments concerning -actions, where we blame a person who either centres all his affections -in his family, or is so regardless of them as, in any opposition -of interest, to give the preference to a stranger or mere chance -acquaintance. From all which it follows, that our natural uncultivated -ideas of morality, instead of providing a remedy for the partiality of -our affections, do rather conform themselves to that partiality, and -give it an additional force and influence.</p> - -<p>The remedy, then, is not derived from nature, but from <i>artifice</i>; -or, more properly speaking, nature provides a remedy, in the judgment -and understanding, for what is irregular and incommodious in the -affections. For when men, from their early education in society, have -become sensible of the infinite advantages that result from it, and -have besides acquired a new affection to company and conversation, and -when they have observed, that the principal disturbance in society -arises from those goods, which we call external, and from their -looseness and easy transition from one person to another, they must -seek for a remedy, by putting these goods, as far as possible, on the -same footing with the fixed and constant advantages of the mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</a></span> and -body. This can be done after no other manner, than by a convention -entered into by all the members of the society to bestow stability on -the possession of those external goods, and leave every one in the -peaceable enjoyment of what he may acquire by his fortune and industry. -By this means, every one knows what he may safely possess; and the -passions are restrained in their partial and contradictory motions. Nor -is such a restraint contrary to these passions; for, if so, it could -never be entered into nor maintained; but it is only contrary to their -heedless and impetuous movement. Instead of departing from our own -interest, or from that of our nearest friends, by abstaining from the -possessions of others, we cannot better consult both these interests, -than by such a convention; because it is by that means we maintain -society, which is so necessary to their well-being and subsistence, as -well as to our own.</p> - -<p>This convention is not of the nature of a <i>promise</i>; for even promises -themselves, as we shall see afterwards, arise from human conventions. -It is only a general sense of common interest; which sense all the -members of the society express to one another, and which induces them -to regulate their conduct by certain rules. I observe, that it will -be for my interest to leave another in the possession of his goods, -<i>provided</i> he will act in the same manner with regard to me. He is -sensible of a like interest in the regulation of his conduct. When -this common sense of interest is mutually expressed, and is known to -both, it produces a suitable resolution and behaviour. And this may -properly enough be called a convention or agreement betwixt us, though -without the interposition of a promise; since the actions of each of -us have a reference<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</a></span> to those of the other, and are performed upon the -supposition that something is to be performed on the other part. Two -men who pull the oars of a boat, do it by an agreement or convention, -though they have never given promises to each other. Nor is the rule -concerning the stability of possession the less derived from human -conventions, that it arises gradually, and acquires force by a slow -progression, and by our repeated experience of the inconveniences -of transgressing it. On the contrary, this experience assures us -still more, that the sense of interest has become common to all our -fellows, and gives us a confidence of the future regularity of their -conduct; and 'tis only on the expectation of this that our moderation -and abstinence are founded. In like manner are languages gradually -established by human conventions, without any promise. In like manner -do gold and silver become the common measures of exchange, and are -esteemed sufficient payment for what is of a hundred times their value.</p> - -<p>After this convention, concerning abstinence from the possessions of -others, is entered into, and every one has acquired a stability in -his possessions, there immediately arise the ideas of justice and -injustice; as also those of <i>property, right</i>, and <i>obligation</i>. The -latter are altogether unintelligible, without first understanding -the former. Our property is nothing but those goods, whose constant -possession is established by the laws of society; that is, by the laws -of justice. Those, therefore, who make use of the words <i>property</i>, -or <i>right</i>, or <i>obligation</i>, before they have explained the origin of -justice, or even make use of them in that explication, are guilty of -a very gross fallacy, and can never reason upon any solid foundation. -A man's<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</a></span> property is some object related to him. This relation is not -natural, but moral, and founded on justice. 'Tis very preposterous, -therefore, to imagine that we can have any idea of property, without -fully comprehending the nature of justice, and showing its origin in -the artifice and contrivance of men. The origin of justice explains -that of property. The same artifice gives rise to both. As our first -and most natural sentiment of morals is founded on the nature of our -passions, and gives the preference to ourselves and friends above -strangers, 'tis impossible there can be naturally any such thing as a -fixed right or property, while the opposite passions of men impel them -in contrary directions, and are not restrained by any convention or -agreement.</p> - -<p>No one can doubt that the convention for the distinction of property, -and for the stability of possession, is of all circumstances the most -necessary to the establishment of human society, and that, after the -agreement for the fixing and observing of this rule, there remains -little or nothing to be done towards settling a perfect harmony and -concord. All the other passions, beside this of interest, are either -easily restrained, or are not of such pernicious consequence when -indulged. <i>Vanity</i> is rather to be esteemed a social passion, and a -bond of union among men. <i>Pity</i> and <i>love</i> are to be considered in the -same light. And as to <i>envy</i> and <i>revenge</i>, though pernicious, they -operate only by intervals, and are directed against particular persons, -whom we consider as our superiors or enemies. This avidity alone, of -acquiring goods and possessions for ourselves and our nearest friends, -is insatiable, perpetual, universal, and directly destructive of -society. There scarce is any one who is not actuated by it; and there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</a></span> -is no one who has not reason to fear from it, when it acts without -any restraint, and gives way to its first and most natural movements. -So that, upon the whole, we are to esteem the difficulties in the -establishment of society to be greater or less, according to those we -encounter in regulating and restraining this passion.</p> - -<p>'Tis certain, that no affection of the human mind has both a sufficient -force and a proper direction to counterbalance the love of gain, -and render men fit members of society, by making them abstain from -the possessions of others. Benevolence to strangers is too weak for -this purpose; and as to the other passions, they rather inflame this -avidity, when we observe, that the larger our possessions are, the more -ability we have of gratifying all our appetites. There is no passion, -therefore, capable of controlling the interested affection, but the -very affection itself, by an alteration of its direction. Now, this -alteration must necessarily take place upon the least reflection; -since 'tis evident that the passion is much better satisfied by its -restraint than by its liberty, and that, in preserving society, we -make much greater advances in the acquiring possessions, than in the -solitary and forlorn condition which must follow upon violence and an -universal license. The question, therefore, concerning the wickedness -or goodness of human nature, enters not in the least into that other -question concerning the origin of society; nor is there any thing to -be considered but the degrees of men's sagacity or folly. For whether -the passion of self-interest be esteemed vicious or virtuous, 'tis all -a case, since itself alone restrains it; so that if it be virtuous, -men become social by their virtue; if vicious, their vice has the same -effect.</p> - -<p>Now, as 'tis by establishing the rule for the stability<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</a></span> of possession -that this passion restrains itself, if that rule be very abstruse -and of difficult invention, society must be esteemed in a manner -accidental, and the effect of many ages. But if it be found, that -nothing can be more simple and obvious than that rule; that every -parent, in order to preserve peace among his children, must establish -it; and that these first rudiments of justice must every day be -improved, as the society enlarges: if all this appear evident, as it -certainly must, we may conclude that 'tis utterly impossible for men to -remain any considerable time in that savage condition which precedes -society, but that his very first state and situation may justly be -esteemed social. This, however, hinders not but that philosophers -may, if they please, extend their reasoning to the supposed <i>state of -nature</i>; provided they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction, -which never had, and never could have, any reality. Human nature -being composed of two principal parts, which are requisite in all -its actions, the affections and understanding, 'tis certain that the -blind motions of the former, without the direction of the latter, -incapacitate men for society; and it may be allowed us to consider -separately the effects that result from the separate operations -of these two component parts of the mind. The same liberty may be -permitted to moral, which is allowed to natural philosophers; and 'tis -very usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and -consisting of two parts separate from each other, though at the same -time they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable.</p> - -<p>This <i>state of nature</i>, therefore, is to be regarded as a mere fiction, -not unlike that of the <i>golden age</i> which poets have invented; only -with this difference, that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</a></span> former is described as full of war, -violence and injustice; whereas the latter is painted out to us as -the most charming and most peaceable condition that can possibly be -imagined. The seasons, in that first age of nature, were so temperate, -if we may believe the poets, that there was no necessity for men to -provide themselves with clothes and houses as a security against the -violence of heat and cold. The rivers flowed with wine and milk; the -oaks yielded honey; and nature spontaneously produced her greatest -delicacies. Nor were these the chief advantages of that happy age. -The storms and tempests were not alone removed from nature; but those -more furious tempests were unknown to human breasts, which now cause -such uproar, and engender such confusion. Avarice, ambition, cruelty, -selfishness, were never heard of: cordial affection, compassion, -sympathy, were the only movements with which the human mind was yet -acquainted. Even the distinction of <i>mine</i> and <i>thine</i> was banished -from that happy race of mortals, and carried with them the very notions -of property and obligation, justice and injustice.</p> - -<p>This, no doubt, is to be regarded as an idle fiction; but yet deserves -our attention, because nothing can more evidently show the origin of -those virtues, which are the subjects of our present inquiry. I have -already observed, that justice takes its rise from human conventions; -and that these are intended as a remedy to some inconveniences, which -proceed from the concurrence of certain <i>qualities</i> of the human mind -with the <i>situation</i> of external objects. The qualities of the mind -are <i>selfishness</i> and <i>limited generosity</i>: and the situation of -external objects is their <i>easy change</i>, joined to their <i>scarcity</i> in -comparison of the wants and desires of men.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</a></span> But however philosophers -may have been bewildered in those speculations, poets have been guided -more infallibly, by a certain taste or common instinct, which, in most -kinds of reasoning, goes farther than any of that art and philosophy -with which we have been yet acquainted. They easily perceived, if every -man had a tender regard for another, or if nature supplied abundantly -all our wants and desires, that the jealousy of interest, which justice -supposes, could no longer have place; nor would there be any occasion -for those distinctions and limits of property and possession, which at -present are in use among mankind. Increase to a sufficient degree the -benevolence of men, or the bounty of nature, and you render justice -useless, by supplying its place with much nobler virtues, and more -valuable blessings. The selfishness of men is animated by the few -possessions we have, in proportion to our wants; and 'tis to restrain -this selfishness, that men have been obliged to separate themselves -from the community, and to distinguish betwixt their own goods and -those of others.</p> - -<p>Nor need we have recourse to the fictions of poets to learn this; -but, beside the reason of the thing, may discover the same truth -by common experience and observation. 'Tis easy to remark, that a -cordial affection renders all things common among friends; and that -married people, in particular, mutually lose their property, and are -unacquainted with the <i>mine</i> and <i>thine</i>, which are so necessary, and -yet cause such disturbance in human society. The same effect arises -from any alteration in the circumstances of mankind; as when there is -such a plenty of any thing as satisfies all the desires of men: in -which case the distinction of property is entirely lost, and every -thing remains in common.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</a></span> This we may observe with regard to air and -water, though the most valuable of all external objects; and may easily -conclude, that if men were supplied with every thing in the same -abundance, or if <i>every one</i> had the same affection and tender regard -for <i>every one</i> as for himself, justice and injustice would be equally -unknown among mankind.</p> - -<p>Here then is a proposition, which, I think, may be regarded as certain, -<i>that 'tis only from the selfishness and confined generosity of men, -along with the scanty provision nature has made for his wants, that -justice derives its origin</i>. If we look backward we shall find, -that this proposition bestows an additional force on some of those -observations which we have already made on this subject.</p> - -<p><i>First</i>, We may conclude from it, that a regard to public interest, or -a strong extensive benevolence, is not our first and original motive -for the observation of the rules of justice; since 'tis allowed, that -if men were endowed with such a benevolence, these rules would never -have been dreamt of.</p> - -<p><i>Secondly</i>, We may conclude from the same principle, that the sense -of justice is not founded on reason, or on the discovery of certain -connexions and relations of ideas, which are eternal, immutable, -and universally obligatory. For since it is confessed, that such an -alteration as that above-mentioned, in the temper and circumstances -of mankind, would entirely alter our duties and obligations, 'tis -necessary upon the common system, <i>that the sense of virtue is derived -from reason</i>, to show the change which this must produce in the -relations and ideas. But 'tis evident, that the only cause why the -extensive generosity of man, and the perfect abundance of every thing, -would destroy the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</a></span> very idea of justice, is, because they render it -useless; and that, on the other hand, his confined benevolence, and -his necessitous condition, give rise to that virtue, only by making -it requisite to the public interest, and to that of every individual. -'Twas therefore a concern for our own and the public interest which -made us establish the laws of justice; and nothing can be more certain, -than that it is not any relation of ideas which gives us this concern, -but our impressions and sentiments, without which every thing in nature -is perfectly indifferent to us, and can never in the least affect us. -The sense of justice, therefore, is not founded on our ideas, but on -our impressions.</p> - -<p><i>Thirdly</i>, We may farther confirm the foregoing proposition, <i>that -those impressions, which give rise to this sense of justice, are -not natural to the mind of man, but arise from artifice and human -conventions</i>. For, since any considerable alteration of temper and -circumstances destroys equally justice and injustice; and since such -an alteration has an effect only by changing our own and the public -interest, it follows, that the first establishment of the rules of -justice depends on these different interests. But if men pursued the -public interest naturally, and with a hearty affection, they would -never have dreamed of restraining each other by these rules; and if -they pursued their own interest, without any precaution, they would -run headlong into every kind of injustice and violence. These rules, -therefore, are artificial, and seek their end in an oblique and -indirect manner; nor is the interest which gives rise to them of a kind -that could be pursued by the natural and inartificial passions of men.</p> - -<p>To make this more evident, consider, that, though the rules of justice -are established merely by interest,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</a></span> their connexion with interest -is somewhat singular, and is different from what may be observed on -other occasions. A single act of justice is frequently contrary to -<i>public interest</i>; and were it to stand alone, without being followed -by other acts, may, in itself, be very prejudicial to society. When a -man of merit, of a beneficent disposition, restores a great fortune -to a miser, or a seditious bigot, he has acted justly and laudably; -but the public is a real sufferer. Nor is every single act of justice, -considered apart, more conducive to private interest than to public; -and 'tis easily conceived how a man may impoverish himself by a signal -instance of integrity, and have reason to wish, that, with regard to -that single act, the laws of justice were for a moment suspended in -the universe. But, however single acts of justice may be contrary, -either to public or private interest, 'tis certain that the whole plan -or scheme is highly conducive, or indeed absolutely requisite, both -to the support of society, and the well-being of every individual. -'Tis impossible to separate the good from the ill. Property must be -stable, and must be fixed by general rules. Though in one instance -the public be a sufferer, this momentary ill is amply compensated by -the steady prosecution of the rule, and by the peace and order which -it establishes in society. And even every individual person must find -himself a gainer on balancing the account; since, without justice, -society must immediately dissolve, and every one must fall into that -savage and solitary condition, which is infinitely worse than the worst -situation that can possibly be supposed in society. When, therefore, -men have had experience enough to observe, that, whatever may be the -consequence of any single act of justice, performed by a single person, -yet the whole system of actions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</a></span> concurred in by the whole society, -is infinitely advantageous to the whole, and to every part, it is not -long before justice and property take place. Every member of society -is sensible of this interest: every one expresses this sense to his -fellows, along with the resolution he has taken of squaring his actions -by it, on condition that others will do the same. No more is requisite -to induce any one of them to perform an act of justice, who has the -first opportunity. This becomes an example to others; and thus justice -establishes itself by a kind of convention or agreement, that is, by -a sense of interest, supposed to be common to all, and where every -single act is performed in expectation that others are to perform the -like. Without such a convention, no one would ever have dreamed that -there was such a virtue as justice, or have been induced to conform his -actions to it. Taking any single act, my justice may be pernicious in -every respect; and 'tis only upon the supposition that others are to -imitate my example, that I can be induced to embrace that virtue; since -nothing but this combination can render justice advantageous, or afford -me any motives to conform myself to its rules.</p> - -<p>We come now to the second question we proposed, viz. <i>Why we annex the -idea of virtue to justice, and of vice to injustice</i>. This question -will not detain us long after the principles which we have already -established. All we can say of it at present will be despatched in a -few words: and for farther satisfaction, the reader must wait till -we come to the <i>third</i> part of this book. The natural obligation to -justice, viz. interest, has been fully explained; but as to the <i>moral</i> -obligation, or the sentiment of right and wrong, 'twill first be -requisite to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</a></span> examine the natural virtues, before we can give a full -and satisfactory account of it.</p> - -<p>After men have found by experience, that their selfishness and confined -generosity, acting at their liberty, totally incapacitate them for -society; and at the same time have observed, that society is necessary -to the satisfaction of those very passions, they are naturally induced -to lay themselves under the restraint of such rules, as may render -their commerce more safe and commodious. To the imposition, then, and -observance of these rules, both in general, and in every particular -instance, they are at first induced only by a regard to interest; and -this motive, on the first formation of society, is sufficiently strong -and forcible. But when society has become numerous, and has increased -to a tribe or nation, this interest is more remote; nor do men so -readily perceive that disorder and confusion follow upon every breach -of these rules, as in a more narrow and contracted society. But though, -in our own actions, we may frequently lose sight of that interest which -we have in maintaining order, and may follow a lesser and more present -interest, we never fail to observe the prejudice we receive, either -mediately or immediately, from the injustice of others; as not being -in that case either blinded by passion, or biassed by any contrary -temptation. Nay, when the injustice is so distant from us as no way -to affect our interest, it still displeases us; because we consider -it as prejudicial to human society, and pernicious to every one that -approaches the person guilty of it. We partake of their uneasiness -by <i>sympathy</i>; and as every thing which gives uneasiness in human -actions, upon the general survey, is called Vice, and whatever produces -satisfaction,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</a></span> in the same manner, is denominated Virtue, this is the -reason why the sense of moral good and evil follows upon justice and -injustice. And though this sense, in the present case, be derived only -from contemplating the actions of others, yet we fail not to extend -it even to our own actions. The <i>general rule</i> reaches beyond those -instances from which it arose; while, at the same time, we naturally -<i>sympathize</i> with others in the sentiments they entertain of us.</p> - -<p>Though this progress of the sentiments be <i>natural</i>, and even -necessary, 'tis certain, that it is here forwarded by the artifice of -politicians, who, in order to govern men more easily, and preserve -peace in human society, have endeavoured to produce an esteem for -justice, and an abhorrence of injustice. This, no doubt, must have -its effect; but nothing can be more evident, than that the matter has -been carried too far by certain writers on morals, who seem to have -employed their utmost efforts to extirpate all sense of virtue from -among mankind. Any artifice of politicians may assist nature in the -producing of those sentiments, which she suggests to us, and may even, -on some occasions, produce alone an approbation or esteem for any -particular action; but 'tis impossible it should be the sole cause of -the distinction we make betwixt vice and virtue. For if nature did not -aid us in this particular, 'twould be in vain for politicians to talk -of <i>honourable</i> or <i>dishonourable, praiseworthy</i> or <i>blameable</i>. These -words would be perfectly unintelligible, and would no more have any -idea annexed to them, than if they were of a tongue perfectly unknown -to us. The utmost politicians can perform, is to extend the natural -sentiments beyond their original bounds; but still nature<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</a></span> must furnish -the materials, and give us some notion of moral distinctions.</p> - -<p>As public praise and blame increase our esteem for justice, so private -education and instruction contribute to the same effect. For as parents -easily observe, that a man is the more useful, both to himself and -others, the greater degree of probity and honour he is endowed with, -and that those principles have, greater force when custom and education -assist interest and reflection: for these reasons they are induced -to inculcate on their children, from their earliest infancy, the -principles of probity, and teach them to regard the observance of those -rules by which society is maintained, as worthy and honourable, and -their violation as base and infamous. By this means the sentiments of -honour may take root in their tender minds, and acquire such firmness -and solidity, that they may fall little short of those principles which -are the most essential to our natures, and the most deeply radicated in -our internal constitution.</p> - -<p>What farther contributes to increase their solidity, is the interest -of our reputation, after the opinion, <i>that a merit or demerit attends -justice or injustice</i>, is once firmly established among mankind. -There is nothing which touches us more nearly than our reputation, -and nothing on which our reputation more depends than our conduct -with relation to the property of others. For this reason, every one -who has any regard to his character, or who intends to live on good -terms with mankind, must fix an inviolable law to himself, never, by -any temptation, to be induced to violate those principles which are -essential to a man of probity and honour.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</a></span></p> - -<p>I shall make only one observation before I leave this subject, viz. -that, though I assert that, in the <i>state of</i> nature, or that imaginary -state which preceded society, there be neither justice nor injustice, -yet I assert not that it was allowable, in such a state, to violate -the property of others. I only maintain, that there was no such thing -as property; and consequently could be no such thing as justice or -injustice. I shall have occasion to make a similar reflection with -regard to <i>promises</i>, when I come to treat of them; and I hope this -reflection, when duly weighed, will suffice to remove all odium from -the foregoing opinions, with regard to justice and injustice.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_III_bIII" id="SECTION_III_bIII">SECTION III.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE RULES WHICH DETERMINE PROPERTY.</h5> - - -<p>Though the establishment of the rule, concerning the stability of -possession, be not only useful, but even absolutely necessary to human -society, it can never serve to any purpose, while it remains in such -general terms. Some method must be shown, by which we may distinguish -what particular goods are to be assigned to each particular person, -while the rest of mankind are excluded from their possession and -enjoyment. Our next business, then, must be to discover the reasons -which modify this general rule, and fit it to the common use and -practice of the world.</p> - -<p>'Tis obvious, that those reasons are not derived from any utility or -advantage, which either the <i>particular</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</a></span> person or the public may -reap from his enjoyment of any <i>particular</i> goods, beyond what would -result from the possession of them by any other person. 'Twere better, -no doubt, that every one were possessed of what is most suitable -to him, and proper for his use: But besides, that this relation of -fitness may be common to several at once, 'tis liable to so many -controversies, and men are so partial and passionate in judging of -these controversies, that such a loose and uncertain rule would be -absolutely incompatible with the peace of human society. The convention -concerning the stability of possession is entered into, in order to cut -off all occasions of discord and contention; and this end would never -be attained, were we allowed to apply this rule differently in every -particular case, according to every particular utility which might be -discovered in such an application. Justice, in her decisions, never -regards the fitness or unfitness of objects to particular persons, but -conducts herself by more extensive views. Whether a man be generous, or -a miser, he is equally well received by her, and obtains, with the same -facility, a decision in his favour, even for what is entirely useless -to him.</p> - -<p>It follows, therefore, that the general rule, <i>that possession must be -stable</i>, is not applied by particular judgments, but by other general -rules, which must extend to the whole society, and be inflexible -either by spite or favour. To illustrate this, I propose the following -instance. I first consider men in their savage and solitary condition; -and suppose that, being sensible of the misery of that state, and -foreseeing the advantages that would result from society, they seek -each other's company, and make an offer of mutual protection and -assistance. I also suppose that they are endowed with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</a></span> such sagacity as -immediately to perceive that the chief impediment to this project of -society and partnership lies in the avidity and selfishness of their -natural temper; to remedy which, they enter into a convention which for -the stability of possession, and for mutual restraint and forbearance. -I am sensible that this method of proceeding is not altogether natural; -but, besides that, I here only suppose those reflections to be formed -at once, which, in fact, arise insensibly and by degrees; besides this, -I say, 'tis very possible that several persons, being by different -accidents separated from the societies to which they formerly belonged, -may be obliged to form a new society among themselves; in which case -they are entirely in the situation above-mentioned.</p> - -<p>'Tis evident, then, that their first difficulty in this situation, -after the general convention for the establishment of society, and for -the constancy of possession, is, how to separate their possessions, -and assign to each his particular portion, which he must for the -future unalterably enjoy. This difficulty will not detain them long; -but it must immediately occur to them, as the most natural expedient, -that every one continue to enjoy what he is at present master of, and -that property or constant possession be conjoined to the immediate -possession. Such is the effect of custom, that it not only reconciles -us to any thing we have long enjoyed, but even gives us an affection -for it, and makes us prefer it to other objects, which may be more -valuable, but are less known to us. What has long lain under our eye, -and has often been employed to our advantage, <i>that</i> we are always the -most unwilling to part with; but can easily live without possessions -which we never have enjoyed, and are not accustomed to.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</a></span> 'Tis evident, -therefore, that men would easily acquiesce in this expedient, <i>that -every one continue to enjoy what he is at present possessed of</i>; and -this is the reason why they would so naturally agree in preferring -it.<a name="FNanchor_1_19" id="FNanchor_1_19"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_19" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</a></span></p> - -<p>But we may observe, that, though the rule of the assignment of property -to the present possessor be natural, and by that means useful, yet -its utility extends not beyond the first formation of society; nor -would any thing be more pernicious than the constant observance of -it; by which restitution would be excluded, and every injustice would -be authorized and rewarded. We must, therefore, seek for some other -circumstance, that may give rise to property after society is once -established; and of this kind I find four most considerable, viz. -Occupation, Prescription, Accession, and Succession. We shall briefly -examine each of these, beginning with <i>occupation</i>.</p> - -<p>The possession of all external goods is changeable and uncertain; -which is one of the most considerable impediments to the establishment -of society, and is the reason why, by universal agreement, express -or tacit, men restrain themselves by what we now call the rules of -justice and equity. The misery of the condition<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</a></span> which precedes this -restraint, is the cause why we submit to that remedy as quickly as -possible; and this affords us an easy reason why why annex the idea of -property to the first possession, or to <i>occupation</i>. Men are unwilling -to leave property in suspense, even for the shortest time, or open the -least door to violence and disorder. To which we may add, that the -first possession always engages the attention most; and did we neglect -it, there would be no colour of reason for assigning property to any -succeeding possession.<a name="FNanchor_2_20" id="FNanchor_2_20"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_20" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p>There remains nothing but to determine exactly what is meant by -possession; and this is not so easy as may at first sight be imagined. -We are said to be in possession of any thing, not only when we -immediately touch it, but also when we are so situated with respect -to it, as to have it in our power to use it; and may move, alter, -or destroy it, according to our present pleasure or advantage. This -relation, then, is a species of cause and effect; and as property is -nothing but a stable possession, derived from the rules of justice, -or the conventions of men, 'tis to be considered as the same species -of relation. But here we may observe, that, as the power of using any -object becomes more or less certain, according as the interruptions -we may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</a></span> meet with are more or less probable; and as this probability -may increase by insensible degrees, 'tis in many cases impossible to -determine when possession begins or ends; nor is there any certain -standard by which we can decide such controversies. A wild boar that -falls into our snares, is deemed to be in our possession if it be -impossible for him to escape. But what do we mean by impossible? How -do we separate this impossibility from an improbability? And how -distinguish that exactly from a probability? Mark the precise limits of -the one and the other, and show the standard, by which we may decide -all disputes that may arise, and, as we find, by experience, frequently -do arise upon this subject.<a name="FNanchor_3_21" id="FNanchor_3_21"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_21" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</a></span></p> - -<p>But such disputes may not arise concerning the real existence of -property and possession, but also concerning their extent; and these -disputes are often susceptible of no decision, or can be decided by no -other faculty than the imagination. A person who lands on the shore of -a small island that is desart and uncultivated<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</a></span> is deemed its possessor -from the very first moment, and acquires the property of the whole; -because the object is there bounded and circumscribed in the fancy, and -at the same time is proportioned to the new possessor. The same person -landing on a desart island as large as Great Britain, extends his -property no farther than his immediate possession; though a numerous -colony are esteemed the proprietors of the whole from the instant of -their debarkment.</p> - -<p>But if it often happens that the title of first possession becomes -obscure through time, and that 'tis impossible to determine many -controversies which may arise concerning it; in that case, long -possession or <i>prescription</i> naturally takes place, and gives a person -a sufficient property in any thing he enjoys. The nature of human -society admits not of any great accuracy; nor can we always remount -to the first origin of things, in order to determine their present -condition. Any considerable space of time sets objects at such a -distance that they seem in a manner to lose their reality, and have -as little influence on the mind as if they never had been in being. A -man's title that is clear and certain at present, will seem obscure -and doubtful fifty years hence, even though the facts on which it is -founded should be proved with the greatest evidence and certainty. -The same facts have not the same influence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</a></span> after so long an interval -of time. And this may be received as a convincing argument for our -preceding doctrine with regard to property and justice. Possession -during a long tract of time conveys a title to any object. But as 'tis -certain that, however every thing be produced in time, there is nothing -real that is produced by time, it follows, that property being produced -by time, is not any thing real in the objects, but is the offspring of -the sentiments, on which alone time is found to have any influence.<a name="FNanchor_4_22" id="FNanchor_4_22"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_22" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></p> - -<p>We acquire the property of objects by <i>accession</i>, when they are -connected in an intimate manner with objects that are already our -property, and at the same time are inferior to them. Thus, the fruits -of our garden, the offspring of our cattle, and the work of our slaves, -are all of them esteemed our property, even before possession. Where -objects are connected together in the imagination, they are apt to be -put on the same footing, and are commonly supposed to be endowed with -the same qualities. We readily pass from one to the other, and make no -difference in our judgments concerning them, especially if the latter -be inferior to the former. <a name="FNanchor_5_23" id="FNanchor_5_23"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_23" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</a></span></p> - -<p>The right of <i>succession</i> is a very natural one, from the presumed -consent of the parent or near relation,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</a></span> and from the general interest -of mankind, which requires that men's possessions should pass to those -who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</a></span> are dearest to them, in order to render them more industrious -and frugal. Perhaps these causes are seconded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</a></span> by the influence of -<i>relation</i>, or the association of ideas, by which we are naturally -directed to consider<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</a></span> the son after the parent's decease, and ascribe -to him a title to his father's possessions. Those goods must become the -property of somebody: but <i>of whom</i> is the question. Here 'tis evident -the person's children naturally present themselves to the mind; and -being already connected to those possessions by means of their deceased -parent, we are apt to connect them still farther by the relation of -property. Of this there are many parallel instances.<a name="FNanchor_6_24" id="FNanchor_6_24"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_24" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_19" id="Footnote_1_19"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_19"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> No questions in philosophy are more difficult, than when -a number of causes present themselves for the same phenomenon, to -determine which is the principal and predominant. There seldom is any -very precise argument to fix our choice, and men must be contented -to be guided by a kind of taste or fancy, arising from analogy, and -a comparison of similar instances. Thus, in the present case, there -are, no doubt, motives of public interest for most of the rules -which determine property; but still I suspect, that these rules are -principally fixed by the imagination, or the more frivolous properties -of our thought and conception. I shall continue to explain these -causes, leaving it to the reader's choice, whether he will prefer those -derived from public utility, or those derived from the imagination. We -shall begin with the right of the present possessor. -</p> -<p> -'Tis a quality which I have already observed(*) in human nature, that -when two objects appear in a close relation to each other, the mind is -apt to ascribe to them any additional relation, in order to complete -the union; and this inclination is so strong, as often to make us run -into errors (such as that of the conjunction of thought and matter) if -we find that they can serve to that purpose. Many of our impressions -are incapable of place or local position; and yet those very -impressions we suppose to have a local conjunction with the impressions -of sight and touch, merely because they are conjoined by causation, and -are already united in the imagination. Since, therefore, we can feign a -new relation, and even an absurd one, in order to complete any union, -'twill easily be imagined, that if there be any relations which depend -on the mind, 'twill readily conjoin them to any preceding relation, -and unite, by a new bond, such objects as have already an union in the -fancy. Thus, for instance, we never fail, in our arrangement of bodies, -to place those which are resembling in contiguity to each other, or at -least in <i>correspondent</i> points of view; because we feel a satisfaction -in joining the relation of contiguity to that of resemblance, or the -resemblance of situation to that of qualities. And this is easily -accounted for from the known properties of human nature. When the mind -is determined to join certain objects, but undetermined in its choice -of the particular objects, it naturally turns its eye to such as are -related together. They are already united in the mind: they present -themselves at the same time to the conception; and instead of requiring -any new reason for their conjunction, it would require a very powerful -reason to make us overlook this natural affinity. This we shall have -occasion to explain more fully afterwards when we come to treat of -<i>beauty</i>. In the mean time, we may content ourselves with observing, -that the same love of order and uniformity which arranges the books in -a library, and the chairs in a parlour, contributes to the formation -of society, and to the well-being of mankind, by modifying the general -rule concerning the stability of possession. And as property forms a -relation betwixt a person and an object, 'tis natural to found it on -some preceding relation; and, as property is nothing but a constant -possession, secured by the laws of society, 'tis natural to add it to -the present possession, which is a relation that resembles it. For -this also has its influence. If it be natural to conjoin till sorts of -relations, 'tis more so to conjoin such relations as are resembling, -and are related together. (*) Book I. Part IV. Sect. 5</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_20" id="Footnote_2_20"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_20"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Some philosophers account for the right of occupation, -by saying that every one has a property in his own labour; and when -he joins that labour to any thing, it gives him the property of the -whole: but, I. There are several kinds of occupation where we cannot be -said to join our labour to the object we acquire: as when we possess a -meadow by grazing our cattle upon it 2. This accounts for the matter by -means of <i>accession</i>; which is taking a needless circuit. 3. We cannot -be said to join our labour to any thing but in a figurative sense. -Properly speaking, we only make an alteration on it by our labour. -This forms a relation betwixt us and the object; and thence arises the -property, according to the preceding principles.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_21" id="Footnote_3_21"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_21"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> If we seek a solution of these difficulties in reason and -public interest, we never shall find satisfaction; and if we look for -it in the imagination, 'tis evident, that the qualities which operate -upon that faculty, run so insensibly and gradually into each other, -that 'tis impossible to give them any precise bounds or termination. -The difficulties on this head must increase, when we consider that our -judgment alters very sensibly according to the subject, and that the -same power and proximity will be deemed possession in one case, which -is not esteemed such in another. A person who has hunted a hare to -the last degree of weariness, would look upon it as an injustice for -another to rush in before him, and seize his prey. But the same person, -advancing to pluck an apple that hangs within his reach, has no reason -to complain if another, more alert, passes him, and takes possession. -What is the reason of this difference, but that immobility, not being -natural to the hare, but the effect of industry, forms in that case a -strong relation with the hunter, which is wanting in the other? -</p> -<p> -Here, then, it appears, that a certain and infallible power of -enjoyment, without touch or some other sensible relation, often -produces not property: and I farther observe, that a sensible relation, -without any present power, is sometimes sufficient to give a title to -any object. The sight of a thing is seldom a considerable relation, and -is only regarded as such, when the object is hidden, or very obscure; -in which case we find that the view alone conveys a property; according -to that maxim, <i>that even a whole continent belongs to the nation which -first discovered it</i>. 'Tis however remarkable, that both in the case of -discovery and that of possession, the first discoverer and possessor -must join to the relation an intention of rendering himself proprietor, -otherwise the relation will not have its effect; and that because the -connexion in our fancy betwixt the property and the relation is not so -great but that it requires to be helped by such an intention. -</p> -<p> -From all these circumstances, 'tis easy to see how perplexed many -questions may become concerning the acquisition of property by -occupation; and the least effort of thought may present us with -instances which are not susceptible of any reasonable decision. If we -prefer examples which are real to such as are feigned, we may consider -the following one, which is to be met with in almost every writer -that has treated of the laws of nature. Two Grecian colonies, leaving -their native country in search of new seats, were informed that a city -near them was deserted by its inhabitants. To know the truth of this -report, they despatched at once two messengers, one from each colony, -who finding, on their approach, that the information was true, begun a -race together, with an intention to take possession of the city, each -of them for his countrymen. One of these messengers, finding that he -was not an equal match for the other, launched his spear at the gates -of the city, and was so fortunate as to fix it there before the arrival -of his companion. This produced a dispute betwixt the two colonies, -which of them was the proprietor of the empty city; and this dispute -still subsists among philosophers. For my part, I find the dispute -impossible to be decided, and that because the whole question hangs -upon the fancy, which in this case is not possessed of any precise or -determinate standard upon which it can give sentence. To make this -evident, let us consider, that if these two persons had been simply -members of the colonies, and not messengers or deputies, their actions -would not have been of any consequence; since in that case their -relation to the colonies would have been but feeble and imperfect. Add -to this, that nothing determined them to run to the gates rather than -the walls or any other part of the city, but that the gates, being the -most *obviated*, and remarkable part, satisfy the fancy best in taking -them for the whole; as we find by the poets, who frequently draw their -images and metaphors from them. Besides, we may consider that the touch -or contact of the one messenger is not properly possession, no more -than the piercing the gates with the spear, but only forms a relation; -and there is a relation in the other case equally obvious, though not -perhaps of equal force. Which of these relations, then, conveys a right -and property, or whether any of them be sufficient for that effect, I -leave to the decision of such as are wiser than myself.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_22" id="Footnote_4_22"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_22"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Present possession is plainly a relation betwixt a person -and an object; but is not sufficient to counterbalance the relation of -first possession, unless the former be long and uninterrupted; in which -case the relation is increased on the side of the present possession by -the extent of time, and diminished on that of first possession by the -distance. This change in the relation produces a consequent change in -the property.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_5_23" id="Footnote_5_23"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_23"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> This source of property can never be explained but from -the imagination; and one may affirm, that the causes are here unmixed. -We shall proceed to explain them more particularly, and illustrate them -by examples from common life and experience. -</p> -<p> -It has been observed above, that the mind has a natural propensity to -join relations, especially resembling ones, and finds a kind of fitness -and uniformity in such an union. From this propensity are derived these -laws of nature, <i>that upon the first formation of society, property -always follows the present possession</i>; and afterwards, <i>that it arises -from first or from long possession</i>. Now, we may easily observe, that -relation is not confined merely to one degree; but that from an object -that is related to us, we acquire a relation to every other object -which is related to it, and so on, till the thought loses the chain by -too long a progress. However the relation may weaken by each remove, -'tis not immediately destroyed; but frequently connects two objects -by means of an intermediate one, which is related to both. And this -principle is of such force as to give rise to the right of <i>accession</i>, -and causes us to acquire the property, not only of such objects as we -are immediately possessed of, but also of such as are closely connected -with them. -</p> -<p> -Suppose a German, a Frenchman, and a Spaniard, to come into a room -where there are placed upon the table three bottles of wine, Rhenish, -Burgundy, and Port; and suppose they should fall a quarrelling about -the division of them, a person who was chosen for umpire would -naturally, to show his impartiality, give every one the product of his -own country; and this from a principle which, in some measure, is the -source of those laws of nature that ascribe property to occupation, -prescription and accession. -</p> -<p> -In all these cases, and particularly that of accession, there is first -a <i>natural</i> union betwixt the idea of the person and that of the -object, and afterwards a new and moral union produced by that right -or property which we ascribe to the person. But here there occurs a -difficulty which merits our attention, and may afford us an opportunity -of putting to trial that singular method of reasoning which has been -employed on the present subject. I have already observed, that the -imagination passes with greater facility from little to great, than -from great to little, and that the transition of ideas is always easier -and smoother in the former case than in the latter. Now, as the right -of accession arises from the easy transition of ideas by which related -objects are connected together, it should naturally be imagined that -the right of accession must increase in strength, in proportion as -the transition of ideas is performed with greater facility. It may -therefore be thought; that when we have acquired the property of any -small object, we shall readily consider any great object related to it -as an accession, and as belonging to the proprietor of the small one; -since the transition is in that case very easy from the small object -to the great one, and should connect them together in the closest -manner. But in fact the case is always found to be otherwise. The -empire of Great Britain seems to draw along with it the dominion of -the Orkneys, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and the Isle of Wight; but -the authority over those lesser islands does not naturally imply any -title to Great Britain. In short, a small object naturally follows a -great one as its accession; but a great one is never supposed to belong -to the proprietor of a small one related to it, merely on account of -that property and relation. Yet in this latter case the transition of -ideas is smoother from the proprietor to the small object which is -his property, and from the small object to the great one, than in the -former case from the proprietor to the great object, and from the great -one to the small. It may therefore be thought, that these phenomena are -objections to the foregoing hypothesis, <i>that the ascribing of property -to accession is nothing but an effect of the relations of ideas, and of -the smooth transition of the imagination</i>. -</p> -<p> -'Twill be easy to solve this objection, if we consider the agility and -unsteadiness of the imagination, with the different views in which it -is continually placing its objects. When we attribute to a person a -property in two objects, we do not always pass from the person to one -object, and from that to the other related to it. The objects being -here to be considered as the property of the person, we are apt to join -them together, and place them in the same light. Suppose, therefore, -a great and a small object to be related together, if a person be -strongly related to the great object, he will likewise be strongly -related to both the objects considered together, because he is related -to the most considerable part. On the contrary, if he be only related -to the small object, he will not be strongly related to both considered -together, since his relation lies only with the most trivial part, -which is not apt to strike us in any great degree when we consider the -whole. And this is the reason why small objects become accessions to -great ones, and not great to small. -</p> -<p> -'Tis the general opinion of philosophers and civilians, that the sea is -incapable of becoming the property of any nation; and that because 'tis -impossible to take possession of it, or form any such distinct relation -with it, as may be the foundation of property. Where this reason -ceases, property immediately takes place. Thus, the most strenuous -advocates for the liberty of the seas universally allow, that friths -and bays naturally belong as an accession to the proprietors of the -surrounding continent These have properly no more bond or union with -the land than the <i>Pacific</i> ocean would have; but having an union in -the fancy, and being at the same time <i>inferior</i>, they are of course -regarded as an accession. -</p> -<p> -The property of rivers, by the laws of most nations, and by the natural -turn of our thought, is attributed to the proprietors of their banks, -excepting such vast rivers as the Rhine or the Danube, which seem too -large to the imagination to follow as an accession the property of -the neighbouring fields. Yet even these rivers are considered as the -property of that nation through whose dominions they run; the idea of -a nation being a suitable bulk to correspond with them, and bear them -such a relation in the fancy. -</p> -<p> -The accessions which are made to lands bordering upon rivers, follow -the land, say the civilians, provided it be made by what they -call <i>alluvion</i>, that is, insensibly and imperceptibly; which are -circumstances that mightily assist the imagination in the conjunction. -Where there is any considerable portion torn at once from one bank, -and joined to another, it becomes not his property whose land it falls -on, till it unite with the land, and till the trees or plants have -spread their roots into both. Before that, the imagination does not -sufficiently join them. -</p> -<p> -There are other cases which somewhat resemble this of accession, -but which, at the bottom, are considerably different, and merit our -attention. Of this kind is the conjunction of the properties of -different persons, after such a manner as not to admit of <i>separation</i>. -The question is, to whom the united mass must belong. -</p> -<p> -Where this conjunction is of such a nature as to admit of <i>division</i>, -but not of <i>separation</i>, the decision is natural and easy. The -whole mass must be supposed to be common betwixt the proprietors -of the several parts, and afterwards must be divided according to -the proportions of these parts. But here I cannot forbear taking -notice of a remarkable subtilty of the Roman law, in distinguishing -betwixt <i>confusion</i> and <i>commixtion</i>. Confusion is an union of two -bodies, such as different liquors, where the parts become entirely -undistinguishable. Commixtion is the blending of two bodies, such as -two bushels of corn, where the parts remain separate in an obvious and -visible manner. As in the latter case the imagination discovers not so -entire an union as in the former, but is able to trace and preserve -a distinct idea of the property of each; this is the reason why the -<i>civil</i> law, though it established an entire community in the case of -<i>confusion</i>, and after that a proportional division, yet in the case of -<i>commixtion</i>, supposes each of the proprietors to maintain a distinct -right; however, necessity may at last force them to submit to the same -division. <i>Quod si frumentum Titii frumento tuo mistum fuerit: siquidem -ex voluntate vestra, communc est: quia singula corpora, id est, singula -grana, quæ a cujusque propria fuerunt, ex consensu vestro communicata -sunt. Quod si casu id mistum fuerit, vel Titius id miscuerit sine -tua voluntate, non videtur id communc esse; quia singula corpora -in sua substantia durant. Sed nec magis istis casibus commune sit -frumentum quam grex intelligitur esse communis, si pecora Titii tuis -pecoribus mista fuerint. Sed si ab alterutro vestrum totum id frumentum -retineatur, in rem quidem actio pro modo frumenti cujusque competit. -Arbitrio autem judicis, ut ipse æstimet quale cujusque frumentum -fuerit</i>. Inst. Lib. II. Tit I. § 28. -</p> -<p> -Where the properties of two persons are united after such a manner as -neither to admit of <i>division</i> nor <i>separation</i>, as when one builds a -house on another's ground, in that case the whole must belong to one of -the proprietors; and here I assert, that it naturally is conceived to -belong to the proprietor of the most considerable part. For, however -the compound object may have a relation to two different persons, and -carry our view at once to both of them, yet, as the most considerable -part principally engages our attention, and by the strict union draws -the inferior along it; for this reason, the whole bears a relation to -the proprietor of that part, and is regarded as his property. The only -difficulty is, what we shall be pleased to call the most considerable -part, and most attractive to the imagination. -</p> -<p> -This quality depends on several different circumstances which have -little connexion with each other. One part of a compound object may -become more considerable than another, either because it is more -constant and durable; because it is of greater value; because it is -more obvious and remarkable; because it is of greater extent; or -because its existence is more separate and independent. 'Twill be easy -to conceive, that, as these circumstances may be conjoined and opposed -in all the different ways, and according to all the different degrees, -which can be imagined, there will result many cases where the reasons -on both sides are so equally balanced, that 'tis impossible for us to -give any satisfactory decision. Here, then, is the proper business of -municipal laws, to fix what the principles of human nature have left -undetermined. -</p> -<p> -The superficies yields to the soil, says the civil law: the writing to -the paper: the canvas to the picture. These decisions do not well agree -together, and are a proof of the contrariety of those principles from -which they are derived. -</p> -<p> -But of all the questions of this kind, the most curious is that which -for so many ages divided the disciples of <i>Proculus</i> and <i>Sabinus</i>. -Suppose a person should make a cup from the metal of another, or a ship -from his wood, and suppose the proprietor of the metal or wood should -demand his goods, the question is, whether he acquires a title to the -cup or ship. <i>Sabinus</i> maintained the affirmative, and asserted, that -the substance or matter is the foundation of all the qualities; that -it is incorruptible and immortal, and therefore superior to the form, -which is casual and dependent. On the other hand, <i>Proculus</i> observed, -that the form is the most obvious and remarkable part, and that from -it bodies are denominated of this or that particular species. To which -he might have added, that the matter or substance is in most bodies -so fluctuating and uncertain, that 'tis utterly impossible to trace -it in all its changes. For my part, I know not from what principles -such a controversy can be certainly determined. I shall therefore -content myself with observing, that the decision of <i>Trebonian</i> seems -to me pretty ingenious; that the cup belongs to the proprietor of the -metal, because it can be brought back to its first form: but that the -ship belongs to the author of its form, for a contrary reason. But, -however ingenious this reason may seem, it plainly depends upon the -fancy, which, by the possibility of such a reduction, finds a closer -connexion and relation betwixt a cup and the proprietor of its metal, -than betwixt a ship and the proprietor of its wood, where the substance -is more fixed and unalterable.</p></div> - - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_6_24" id="Footnote_6_24"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_24"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> In examining the different titles to authority in -government, we shall meet with many reasons to convince us that the -right of succession depends, in a great measure, on the imagination. -Meanwhile I shall rest contented with observing one example, which -belongs to the present subject. Suppose that a person die without -children, and that a dispute arises among his relations concerning his -inheritance; 'tis evident, that if his riches be derived partly from -his father, partly from his mother, the most natural way of determining -such a dispute is, to divide his possessions, and assign each part to -the family from whence it is derived. Now, as the person is supposed -to have been once the full and entire proprietor of those goods, I -ask, what is it makes us find a certain equity and natural reason in -this partition, except it be the imagination? His affection to these -families does not depend upon his possessions; for which reason his -consent can never be presumed precisely for such a partition. And as to -the public interest, it seems not to be in the least concerned on the -one side or the other.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</a></span></p></div> - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_IV_bIII" id="SECTION_IV_bIII">SECTION IV.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE TRANSFERENCE OF PROPERTY BY CONSENT.</h5> - - -<p>However useful, or even necessary, the stability of possession may be -to human society, 'tis attended with very considerable inconveniences. -The relation of fitness or suitableness ought never to enter into -consideration, in distributing the properties of mankind; but we must -govern ourselves by rules which are more general in their application, -and more free from doubt and uncertainty. Of this kind is <i>present</i> -possession upon the first establishment of society; and afterwards -<i>occupation, prescription, accession</i>, and <i>succession</i>. As these -depend very much on chance, they must frequently prove contradictory -both to men's wants and desires; and persons and possessions must often -be very ill adjusted. This is a grand inconvenience, which calls for a -remedy. To apply one directly, and allow every man to seize by violence -what he judges to be fit for him, would destroy society; and therefore -the rules of justice seek some medium betwixt a rigid stability and -this changeable and uncertain adjustment. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</a></span> there is no medium -better than that obvious one, that possession and property should -always be stable, except when the proprietor consents to bestow them on -some other person. This rule can have no ill consequence in occasioning -wars and dissensions, since the proprietor's consent, who alone is -concerned, is taken along in the alienation; and it may serve to many -good purposes in adjusting property to persons. Different parts of the -earth produce different commodities; and not only so, but different -men both are by nature fitted for different employments, and attain -to greater perfection in any one, when they confine themselves to it -alone. All this requires a mutual exchange and commerce; for which -reason the translation of property by consent is founded on a law of -nature, as well as its stability without such a consent.</p> - -<p>So far is determined by a plain utility and interest. But perhaps 'tis -from more trivial reasons, that <i>delivery</i>, or a sensible transference -of the object, is commonly required by civil laws, and also by the laws -of nature, according to most authors, as a requisite circumstance in -the translation of property. The property of an object, when taken for -something real, without any reference to morality, or the sentiments of -the mind, is a quality perfectly insensible, and even inconceivable; -nor can we form any distinct notion, either of its stability or -translation. This imperfection of our ideas is less sensibly felt with -regard to its stability, as it engages less our attention, and is -easily past over by the mind, without any scrupulous examination. But -as the translation of property from one person to another is a more -remarkable event, the defect of our ideas becomes more sensible on that -occasion, and obliges us to turn ourselves on every side in search of -some remedy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</a></span> Now, as nothing more enlivens any idea than a present -impression, and a relation betwixt that impression and the idea; 'tis -natural for us to seek some false light from this quarter. In order -to aid the imagination in conceiving the transference of property, we -take the sensible object, and actually transfer its possession to the -person on whom we would bestow the property. The supposed resemblance -of the actions, and the presence of this sensible delivery, deceive the -mind, and make it fancy that it conceives the mysterious transition of -the property. And that this explication of the matter is just, appears -hence, that men have invented a <i>symbolical</i> delivery, to satisfy the -fancy where the real one is impracticable. Thus the giving the keys of -a granary, is understood to be the delivery of the corn contained in -it: the giving of stone and earth represents the delivery of a manor. -This is a kind of superstitious practice in civil laws, and in the laws -of nature, resembling the <i>Roman Catholic</i> superstitions in religion. -As the <i>Roman Catholics</i> represent the inconceivable mysteries of the -<i>Christian</i> religion, and render them more present to the mind, by -a taper, or habit, or grimace, which is supposed to resemble them; -so lawyers and moralists have run into like inventions for the same -reason, and have endeavoured by those means to satisfy themselves -concerning the transference of property by consent.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_V_bIII" id="SECTION_V_bIII">SECTION V.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE OBLIGATION OF PROMISES.</h5> - - -<p>That the rule of morality, which enjoins the performance of -promises, is not <i>natural</i>, will sufficiently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</a></span> appear from these two -propositions, which I proceed to prove, viz. <i>that a promise would not -be intelligible before human conventions had established it; and that -even if it were intelligible, it would not be attended with any moral -obligation</i>.</p> - -<p>I say, <i>first</i>, that a promise is not intelligible naturally, nor -antecedent to human conventions; and that a man, unacquainted with -society, could never enter into any engagements with another, even -though they could perceive each other's thoughts by intuition. If -promises be natural and intelligible, there must be some act of the -mind attending these words, I <i>promise</i>; and on this act of the mind -must the obligation depend. Let us therefore run over all the faculties -of the soul, and see which of them is exerted in our promises.</p> - -<p>The act of the mind, expressed by a promise, is not a <i>resolution</i> to -perform any thing; for that alone never imposes any obligation. Nor is -it a <i>desire</i> of such a performance; for we may bind ourselves without -such a desire, or even with an aversion, declared and avowed. Neither -is it the <i>willing</i> of that action which we promise to perform; for a -promise always regards some future time, and the will has an influence -only on present actions. It follows, therefore, that since the act of -the mind, which enters into a promise, and produces its obligation, -is neither the resolving, desiring, nor willing any particular -performance, it must necessarily be the <i>willing</i> of that <i>obligation</i> -which arises from the promise. Nor is this only a conclusion of -philosophy, but is entirely conformable to our common ways of thinking -and of expressing ourselves, when we say that we are bound by our -own consent, and that the obligation arises from our mere will and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</a></span> -pleasure. The only question then is, whether there be not a manifest -absurdity in supposing this act of the mind, and such an absurdity as -no man could fall into, whose ideas are not confounded with prejudice -and the fallacious use of language.</p> - -<p>All morality depends upon our sentiments; and when any action or -quality of the mind pleases us <i>after a certain manner</i>, we say it is -virtuous; and when the neglect or non-performance of it displeases -us <i>after a like manner</i>, we say that we lie under an obligation -to perform it. A change of the obligation supposes a change of the -sentiment; and a creation of a new obligation supposes some new -sentiment to arise. But 'tis certain we can naturally no more change -our own sentiments than the motions of the heavens; nor by a single -act of our will, that is, by a promise, render any action agreeable or -disagreeable, moral or immoral, which, without that act, would have -produced contrary impressions, or have been endowed with different -qualities. It would be absurd, therefore, to will any new obligation, -that is, any new sentiment of pain or pleasure; nor is it possible -that men could naturally fall into so gross an absurdity. A promise, -therefore, is <i>naturally</i> something altogether unintelligible, nor is -there any act of the mind belonging to it.<a name="FNanchor_7_25" id="FNanchor_7_25"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_25" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p> - -<p>But, <i>secondly</i>, if there was any act of the mind belonging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</a></span> to it, it -could not <i>naturally</i> produce any obligation. This appears evidently -from the foregoing reasoning. A promise creates a new obligation. A new -obligation supposes new sentiments to arise. The will never creates new -sentiments. There could not naturally, therefore, arise any obligation -from a promise, even supposing the mind could fall into the absurdity -of willing that obligation.</p> - -<p>The same truth may be proved still more evidently by that reasoning -which proved justice in general to be an artificial virtue. No action -can be required of us as our duty, unless there be implanted in -human nature some actuating passion or motive capable of producing -the action. This motive cannot be the sense of duty. A sense of -duty supposes an antecedent obligation; and where an action is not -required by any natural passion, it cannot be required by any natural -obligation; since it may be omitted without proving any defect or -imperfection in the mind and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</a></span> temper, and consequently without any -vice. Now, 'tis evident we have no motive leading us to the performance -of promises, distinct from a sense of duty. If we thought that promises -had no moral obligation, we never should feel any inclination to -observe them. This is not the case with the natural virtues. Though -there was no obligation to relieve the miserable, our humanity would -lead us to it; and when we omit that duty, the immorality of the -omission arises from its being a proof that we want the natural -sentiments of humanity. A father knows it to be his duty to take care -of his children, but he has also a natural inclination to it. And if -no human creature had that inclination, no one could lie under any -such obligation. But as there is naturally no inclination to observe -promises distinct from a sense of their obligation, it follows, -that fidelity is no natural virtue, and that promises have no force -antecedent to human conventions.</p> - -<p>If any one dissent from this, he must give a regular proof of these two -propositions, viz. <i>that there is a peculiar act of the mind annexed -to promises</i>; and <i>that consequent to this act of the mind, there -arises an inclination to perform, distinct from a sense of duty</i>. I -presume that it is impossible to prove either of these two points; and -therefore I venture to conclude, that promises are human inventions, -founded on the necessities and interests of society.</p> - -<p>In order to discover these necessities and interests, we must consider -the same qualities of human nature which we have already found to give -rise to the preceding laws of society. Men being naturally selfish, or -endowed only with a confined generosity, they are not easily induced to -perform any action for the interest of strangers, except with a view -to some reciprocal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</a></span> advantage, which they had no hope of obtaining -but by such a performance. Now, as it frequently happens that these -mutual performances cannot be finished at the same instant, 'tis -necessary that one party be contented to remain in uncertainty, and -depend upon the gratitude of the other for a return of kindness. But -so much corruption is there among men, that, generally speaking, this -becomes but a slender security; and as the benefactor is here supposed -to bestow his favours with a view to self-interest, this both takes -off from the obligation, and sets an example of selfishness, which -is the true mother of ingratitude. Were we, therefore, to follow the -natural course of our passions and inclinations, we should perform -but few actions for the advantage of others from disinterested views, -because we are naturally very limited in our kindness and affection; -and we should perform as few of that kind out of regard to interest, -because we cannot depend upon their gratitude. Here, then, is the -mutual commerce of good offices in a manner lost among mankind, and -every one reduced to his own skill and industry for his well-being -and subsistence. The invention of the law of nature, concerning the -<i>stability</i> of possession, has already rendered men tolerable to each -other; that of the <i>transference</i> of property and possession by consent -has begun to render them mutually advantageous; but still these laws -of nature, however strictly observed, are not sufficient to render -them so serviceable to each other as by nature they are fitted to -become. Though possession be <i>stable</i>, men may often reap but small -advantage from it, while they are possessed of a greater quantity of -any species of goods than they have occasion for, and at the same -time suffer by the want of others. The <i>transference</i> of property,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</a></span> -which is the proper remedy for this inconvenience, cannot remedy it -entirely; because it can only take place with regard to such objects -as are <i>present</i> and <i>individual</i>, but not to such as are <i>absent</i> or -<i>general</i>. One cannot transfer the property of a particular house, -twenty leagues distant, because the consent cannot be attended with -delivery, which is a requisite circumstance. Neither can one transfer -the property of ten bushels of corn, or five hogsheads of wine, by the -mere expression and consent, because these are only general terms, and -have no direct relation to any particular heap of corn or barrels of -wine. Besides, the commerce of mankind is not confined to the barter -of commodities, but may extend to services and actions, which we may -exchange to our mutual interest and advantage. Your corn is ripe -to-day; mine will be so to-morrow. 'Tis profitable for us both that I -should labour with you to-day, and that you should aid me to-morrow. I -have no kindness for you, and know you have as little for me. I will -not, therefore, take any pains upon your account; and should I labour -with you upon my own account, in expectation of a return, I know I -should be disappointed, and that I should in vain depend upon your -gratitude. Here, then, I leave you to labour alone: you treat me in the -same manner. The seasons change; and both of us lose our harvests for -want of mutual confidence and security.</p> - -<p>All this is the effect of the natural and inherent principles and -passions of human nature; and as these passions and principles are -unalterable, it may be thought that our conduct, which depends on them, -must be so too, and that 'twould be in vain, either for moralists or -politicians, to tamper with us, or attempt to change<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</a></span> the usual course -of our actions, with a view to public interest. And, indeed, did the -success of their designs depend upon their success in correcting the -selfishness and ingratitude of men, they would never make any progress, -unless aided by Omnipotence, which is alone able to new-mould the -human mind, and change its character in such fundamental articles. -All they can pretend to is, to give a new direction to those natural -passions, and teach us that we can better satisfy our appetites in an -oblique and artificial manner, than by their headlong and impetuous -motion. Hence I learn to do a service to another, without bearing him -any real kindness; because I foresee that he will return my service, -in expectation of another of the same kind, and in order to maintain -the same correspondence of good offices with me or with others. And -accordingly, after I have served him, and he is in possession of the -advantage arising, from my action, he is induced to perform his part, -as foreseeing the consequences of his refusal.</p> - -<p>But though this self-interested commerce of men begins to take place, -and to predominate in society, it does not entirely abolish the more -generous and noble intercourse of friendship and good offices. I may -still do services to such persons as I love, and am more particularly -acquainted with, without any prospect of advantage; and they may -make me a return in the same manner, without any view but that of -recompensing my past services. In order, therefore, to distinguish -those two different sorts of commerce, the interested and the -disinterested, there is a <i>certain form of words</i> invented for the -former, by which we bind ourselves to the performance of any action. -This form of words constitutes what we call a <i>promise</i>, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</a></span> is -the sanction of the interested commerce of mankind. When a man says -<i>he promises any thing</i>, he in effect expresses a <i>resolution</i> of -performing it; and along with that, by making use of this <i>form of -words,</i>, subjects himself to the penalty of never being trusted again -in case of failure. A resolution is the natural act of the mind, which -promises express; but were there no more than a resolution in the case, -promises would only declare our former motives, and would not create -any new motive or obligation. They are the conventions of men, which -create a new motive, when experience has taught us that human affairs -would be conducted much more for mutual advantage, were there certain -<i>symbols</i> or <i>signs</i> instituted, by which we might give each other -security of our conduct in any particular incident. After these signs -are instituted, whoever uses them is immediately bound by his interest -to execute his engagements, and must never expect to be trusted any -more, if he refuse to perform what he promised.</p> - -<p>Nor is that knowledge, which is requisite to make mankind sensible of -this interest in the <i>institution</i> and <i>observance</i> of promises, to be -esteemed superior to the capacity of human nature, however savage and -uncultivated. There needs but a very little practice of the world, to -make us perceive all these consequences and advantages. The shortest -experience of society discovers them to every mortal; and when each -individual perceives the same sense of interest in all his fellows, he -immediately performs his part of any contract, as being assured that -they will not be wanting in theirs. All of them, by concert, enter -into a scheme of actions, calculated for common benefit, and agree to -be true to their word; nor is there any thing requisite to form<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</a></span> this -concert or convention, but that every one have a sense of interest -in the faithful fulfilling of engagements, and express that sense to -other members of the society. This immediately causes that interest -to operate upon them; and interest is the <i>first</i> obligation to the -performance of promises.</p> - -<p>Afterwards a sentiment of morals concurs with interest, and becomes -a new obligation upon mankind. This sentiment of morality, in the -performance of promises, arises from the same principles as that -in the abstinence from the property of others. <i>Public interest, -education</i>, and <i>the artifices of politicians</i>, have the same effect -in both cases. The difficulties that occur to us in supposing a moral -obligation to attend promises, we either surmount or elude. For -instance, the expression of a resolution is not commonly supposed to -be obligatory; and we cannot readily conceive how the making use of a -certain form of words should be able to cause any material difference. -Here, therefore, we <i>feign</i> a new act of the mind, which we call the -<i>willing</i> an obligation; and on this we suppose the morality to depend. -But we have proved already, that there is no such act of the mind, and -consequently, that promises impose no natural obligation.</p> - -<p>To confirm this, we may subjoin some other reflections concerning -that will, which is supposed to enter into a promise, and to cause -its obligation. 'Tis evident, that the will alone is never supposed -to cause the obligation, but must be expressed by words or signs, in -order to impose a tie upon any man. The expression being once brought -in as subservient to the will, soon becomes the principal part of the -promise; nor will a man be less bound by his word, though he secretly -give a different direction to his intention, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</a></span> withhold himself -both from a resolution, and from willing an obligation. But though the -expression makes on most occasions the whole of the promise, yet it -does not always so; and one who should make use of any expression of -which he knows not the meaning, and which he uses without any intention -of binding himself, would not certainly be bound by it. Nay, though he -knows its meaning, yet if he uses it in jest only, and with such signs -as show evidently he has no serious intention of binding himself, he -would not lie under any obligation of performance; but 'tis necessary -that the words be a perfect expression of the will, without any -contrary signs. Nay, even this we must not carry so far as to imagine, -that one, whom, by our quickness of understanding, we conjecture, from -certain signs, to have an intention of deceiving us, is not bound by -his expression or verbal promise, if we accept of it; but must limit -this conclusion to those cases where the signs are of a different kind -from those of deceit. All these contradictions are easily accounted -for, if the obligation of promises be merely a human invention for the -convenience of society; but will never be explained, if it be something -<i>real</i> and <i>natural</i>, arising from any action of the mind or body.</p> - -<p>I shall farther observe, that, since every new promise imposes a new -obligation of morality on the person who promises, and since this -new obligation arises from his will; 'tis one of the most mysterious -and incomprehensible operations that can possibly be imagined, and -may even be compared to <i>transubstantiation</i>, or <i>holy orders</i>,<a name="FNanchor_8_26" id="FNanchor_8_26"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_26" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> -where a certain form of words, along with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</a></span> a certain intention, -changes entirely the nature of an external object, and even of a -human creature. But though these mysteries be so far alike, 'tis very -remarkable that they differ widely in other particulars, and that this -difference may be regarded as a strong proof of the difference of their -origins. As the obligation of promises is an invention for the interest -of society, 'tis warped into as many different forms as that interest -requires, and even runs into direct contradictions, rather than lose -sight of its object. But as those other monstrous doctrines are mere -priestly inventions, and have no public interest in view, they are less -disturbed in their progress by new obstacles; and it must be owned, -that, after the first absurdity, they follow more directly the current -of reason and good sense. Theologians clearly perceived, that the -external form of words, being mere sound, require an intention to make -them have any efficacy; and that this intention being once considered -as a requisite circumstance, its absence must equally prevent the -effect, whether avowed or concealed, whether sincere or deceitful. -Accordingly, they have commonly determined, that the intention of -the priest makes the sacrament, and that when he secretly withdraws -his intention, he is highly criminal in himself; but still destroys -the baptism, or communion, or holy orders. The terrible consequences -of this doctrine were not able to hinder its taking place; as the -inconvenience of a similar doctrine, with regard to promises, have -prevented that doctrine from establishing itself. Men are always more -concerned about the present life than the future; and are apt to think -the smallest evil which regards the former, more important than the -greatest which regards the latter.</p> - -<p>We may draw the same conclusion, concerning the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</a></span> origin of promises, -from the force which is supposed to invalidate all contracts, and -to free us from their obligation. Such a principle is a proof -that promises have no natural obligation, and are mere artificial -contrivances for the convenience and advantage of society. If we -consider aright of the matter, force is not essentially different -from any other motive of hope or fear, which may induce us to engage -our word, and lay ourselves under any obligation. A man, dangerously -wounded, who promises a competent sum to a surgeon to cure him, would -certainly be bound to performance; though the case be not so much -different from that of one who promises a sum to a robber, as to -produce so great a difference in our sentiments of morality, if these -sentiments were not built entirely on public interest and convenience.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_7_25" id="Footnote_7_25"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_25"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> Were morality discoverable by reason, and not by -sentiment, 'twould be still more evident that promises could make -no alteration upon it. Morality is supposed to consist in relation. -Every new imposition of morality, therefore, must arise from some -new relation of objects; and consequently the will could not produce -immediately any change in morals, but could have that effect only by -producing a change upon the objects. But as the moral obligation of a -promise is the pure effect of the will, without the least change in -any part of the universe, it follows, that promises have no natural -obligation. -</p> -<p> -Should it be said, that this act of the will, being in effect a new -object, produces new relations and new duties; I would answer, that -this is a pure sophism, which may be detected by a very moderate share -of accuracy and exactness. To will a new obligation, is to will a new -relation of objects; and therefore, if this new relation of objects -were formed by the volition itself, we should, in effect, will the -volition, which is plainly absurd and impossible. The will has here -no object to which it could tend, but must return upon itself in -<i>infinitum</i>. The new obligation depends upon new relations. The new -relations depend upon a new volition. The new volition has for object a -new obligation, and consequently new relations, and consequently a new -volition; which volition, again, has in view a new obligation, relation -and volition, without any termination. 'Tis impossible, therefore, we -could ever will a new obligation; and consequently 'tis impossible the -will could ever accompany a promise, or produce a new obligation of -morality.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_8_26" id="Footnote_8_26"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_26"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> I mean so far as holy orders are supposed to produce -the <i>indelible Character</i>. In other respects they are only a legal -qualification.</p></div> - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a name="SECTION_VI_bIII" id="SECTION_VI_bIII">SECTION VI.</a></h5> - -<h5>SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING JUSTICE AND INJUSTICE.</h5> - - -<p>We have now run over the three fundamental laws of nature, <i>that of the -stability of possession, of its transference by consent</i>, and <i>of the -performance of promises</i>. 'Tis on the strict observance of those three -laws that the peace and security of human society entirely depend; nor -is there any possibility of establishing a good correspondence among -men, where these are neglected. Society is absolutely necessary for -the well-being of men; and these are as necessary to the supports<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</a></span> -of society. Whatever restraint they may impose on the passions of -men, they are the real offspring of those passions, and are only a -more artful and more refined way of satisfying them. Nothing is more -vigilant and inventive than our passions; and nothing is more obvious -than the convention for the observance of these rules. Nature has, -therefore, trusted this affair entirely to the conduct of men, and has -not placed in the mind any peculiar original principles, to determine -us to a set of actions, into which the other principles of our frame -and constitution were sufficient to lead us. And to convince us the -more fully of this truth, we may here stop a moment, and, from a review -of the preceding reasonings, may draw some new arguments, to prove that -those laws, however necessary, are entirely artificial, and of human -invention; and consequently, that justice is an artificial, and not a -natural virtue.</p> - -<p>I. The first argument I shall make use of is derived from the vulgar -definition of justice. Justice is commonly defined to be <i>a constant -and perpetual will of giving every one his due</i>. In this definition -'tis supposed that there are such things as right and property, -independent of justice, and antecedent to it; and that they would have -subsisted, though men had never dreamt of practising such a virtue. -I have already observed, in a cursory manner, the fallacy of this -opinion, and shall here continue to open up, a little more distinctly, -my sentiments on that subject.</p> - -<p>I shall begin with observing, that this quality, which we call -<i>property</i>, is like many of the imaginary qualities of the -<i>Peripatetic</i> philosophy, and vanishes upon a more accurate inspection -into the subject, when considered apart from our moral sentiments, 'Tis -evident<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[Pg 304]</a></span> property does not consist in any of the sensible qualities -of the object. For these may continue invariably the same, while the -property changes. Property, therefore, must consist in some relation of -the object. But 'tis not in its relation with regard to other external -and inanimate objects. For these may also continue invariably the -same, while the property changes. This quality, therefore, consists in -the relations of objects to intelligent and rational beings. But 'tis -not the external and corporeal relation which forms the essence of -property. For that relation may be the same betwixt inanimate objects, -or with regard to brute creatures; though in those cases it forms no -property. 'Tis therefore in some internal relation that the property -consists; that is, in some influence which the external relations of -the object have on the mind and actions. Thus, the external relation -which we call <i>occupation</i> or first possession, is not of itself -imagined to be the property of the object, but only to cause its -property. Now, 'tis evident this external relation causes nothing in -external objects, and has only an influence on the mind, by giving us -a sense of duty in abstaining from that object, and in restoring it to -the first possessor. These actions are properly what we call <i>justice</i>; -and consequently 'tis on that virtue that the nature of property -depends, and not the virtue on the property.</p> - -<p>If any one, therefore, would assert that justice is a natural virtue, -and injustice a natural vice, he must assert, that abstracting from the -notions of <i>property</i> and <i>right</i> and <i>obligation</i>, a certain conduct -and train of actions, in certain external relations of objects, has -naturally a moral beauty or deformity, and causes an original pleasure -or uneasiness. Thus, the restoring a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[Pg 305]</a></span> man's goods to him is considered -as virtuous, not because nature has annexed a certain sentiment of -pleasure to such a conduct with regard to the property of others, but -because she has annexed that sentiment to such a conduct, with regard -to those external objects of which others have had the first or long -possession, or which they have received by the consent of those who -have had first or long possession. If nature has given us no such -sentiment, there is not naturally, nor antecedent to human conventions, -any such thing as property. Now, though it seems sufficiently evident, -in this dry and accurate consideration of the present subject, that -nature has annexed no pleasure or sentiment of approbation to such a -conduct, yet, that I may leave as little room for doubt as possible, I -shall subjoin a few more arguments to confirm my opinion.</p> - -<p><i>First</i>, If nature had given us a pleasure of this kind, it would -have been as evident and discernible as on every other occasion; nor -should we have found any difficulty to perceive, that the consideration -of such actions, in such a situation, gives a certain pleasure and -sentiment of approbation. We should not have been obliged to have -recourse to notions of property in the definition of justice, and at -the same time make use of the notions of justice in the definition of -pro-property. This deceitful method of reasoning is a plain proof that -there are contained in the subject some obscurities and difficulties -which we are not able to surmount, and which we desire to evade by this -artifice.</p> - -<p><i>Secondly</i>, Those rules by which properties, rights and obligations -are determined, have in them no marks of a natural origin, but many -of artifice and contrivance. They are too numerous to have proceeded<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</a></span> -from nature; they are changeable by human laws; and have all of them a -direct and evident tendency to public good, and the support of civil -society. This last circumstance is remarkable upon two accounts. -<i>First</i>, Because, though the cause of the establishment of these laws -had been a <i>regard</i> for the public good, as much as the public good -is their natural tendency, they would still have been artificial, as -being purposely contrived, and directed to a certain end. <i>Secondly</i>, -Because, if men had been endowed with such a strong regard for public -good, they would never have restrained themselves by these rules; so -that the laws of justice arise from natural principles, in a manner -still more oblique and artificial. 'Tis self-love which is their real -origin; and as the self-love of one person is naturally contrary to -that of another, these several interested passions are obliged to -adjust themselves after such a manner as to concur in some system -of conduct and behaviour. This system, therefore, comprehending the -interest of each individual, is of course advantageous to the public, -though it be not intended for that purpose by the inventors.</p> - -<p>II. In the <i>second</i> place, we may observe, that all kinds of vice -and virtue run insensibly into each other, and may approach by such -imperceptible degrees as will make it very difficult, if not absolutely -impossible, to determine when the one ends and the other begins; and -from this observation we may derive a new argument for the foregoing -principle. For, whatever may be the case with regard to all kinds -of vice and virtue, 'tis certain that rights, and obligations, and -property, admit of no such insensible gradation, but that a man -either has a full and perfect property, or none at all; and is either -entirely obliged to perform any action, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</a></span> lies under no manner of -obligation. However civil laws may talk of a perfect <i>dominion</i>, and of -an imperfect, 'tis easy to observe, that this arises from a fiction, -which has no foundation in reason, and can never enter into our notions -of natural justice and equity. A man that hires a horse, though but -for a day, has as full a right to make use of it for that time, as he -whom we call its proprietor has to make use of it any other day; and -'tis evident that, however the use may be bounded in time or degree, -the right itself is not susceptible of any such gradation, but is -absolute and entire, so far as it extends. Accordingly, we may observe, -that this right both arises and perishes in an instant; and that a man -entirely acquires the property of any object by occupation, or the -consent of the proprietor; and loses it by his own consent, without any -of that insensible gradation which is remarkable in other qualities and -relations. Since, therefore, this is the case with regard to property, -and rights, and obligations, I ask, how it stands with regard to -justice and injustice? After whatever manner you answer this question, -you run into inextricable difficulties. If you reply, that justice -and injustice admit of degree, and run insensibly into each other, -you expressly contradict the foregoing position, that obligation and -property are not susceptible of such a gradation. These depend entirely -upon justice and injustice, and follow them in all their variations. -Where the justice is entire, the property is also entire: where the -justice is imperfect, the property must also be imperfect. And <i>vice -versa</i>, if the property admit of no such variations, they must also -be incompatible with justice. If you assent, therefore, to this last -proposition, and assert that justice and injustice are not susceptible -of degrees,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</a></span> you in effect assert that they are not <i>naturally</i> either -vicious or virtuous; since vice and virtue, moral good and evil, and -indeed all <i>natural</i> qualities, run insensibly into each other, and are -on many occasions undistinguishable.</p> - -<p>And here it may be worth while to observe, that though abstract -reasoning and the general maxims of philosophy and law establish this -position, <i>that property, and right, and obligation, admit not of -degrees</i>, yet, in our common and negligent way of thinking, we find -great difficulty to entertain that opinion, and do even secretly -embrace the contrary principle. An object must either be in the -possession of one person or another. An action must either be performed -or not. The necessity there is of choosing one side in these dilemmas, -and the impossibility there often is of finding any just medium, oblige -us, when we reflect on the matter, to acknowledge that all property and -obligations are entire. But, on the other hand, when we consider the -origin of property and obligation, and find that they depend on public -utility, and sometimes on the propensity of the imagination, which -are seldom entire on any side, we are naturally inclined to imagine -that these moral relations admit of an insensible gradation. Hence -it is that in references, where the consent of the parties leave the -referees entire masters of the subject, they commonly discover so much -equity and justice on both sides as induces them to strike a medium, -and divide the difference betwixt the parties. Civil judges, who have -not this liberty, but are obliged to give a decisive sentence on some -one side, are often at a loss how to determine, and are necessitated -to proceed on the most frivolous reasons in the world. Half rights -and obligations, which seem so natural in common<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</a></span> life, are perfect -absurdities in their tribunal; for which reason they are often obliged -to take half arguments for whole ones, in order to terminate the affair -one way or other.</p> - -<p>III. The <i>third</i> argument of this kind I shall make use of may be -explained thus. If we consider the ordinary course of human actions, -we shall find that the mind restrains not itself by any general and -universal rules, but acts on most occasions as it is determined by -its present motives and inclination. As each action is a particular -individual event, it must proceed from particular principles, and from -our immediate situation within ourselves, and with respect to the rest -of the universe. If on some occasions we extend our motives beyond -those very circumstances which gave rise to them, and form something -like <i>general rides</i> for our conduct, 'tis easy to observe that these -rules are not perfectly inflexible, but allow of many exceptions. -Since, therefore, this is the ordinary course of human actions, we -may conclude that the laws of justice, being universal and perfectly -inflexible, can never be derived from nature, nor be the immediate -offspring of any natural motive or inclination. No action can be either -morally good or evil, unless there be some natural passion or motive to -impel us to it, or deter us from it; and tis evident that the morality -must be susceptible of all the same variations which are natural to the -passion. Here are two persons who dispute for an estate; of whom one is -rich, a fool, and a bachelor; the other poor, a man of sense, and has a -numerous family: the first is my enemy; the second my friend. Whether -I be actuated in this affair by a view to public or private interest, -by friendship or enmity, I must be induced to do my utmost to procure -the estate to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</a></span> the latter. Nor would any consideration of the right and -property of the persons be able to restrain me, were I actuated only -by natural motives, without any combination or convention with others. -For as all property depends on morality, and as all morality depends -on the ordinary course of our passions and actions, and as these again -are only directed by particular motives, 'tis evident such a partial -conduct must be suitable to the strictest morality, and could never -be a violation of property. Were men, therefore, to take the liberty -of acting with regard to the laws of society, as they do in every -other affair, they would conduct themselves, on most occasions, by -particular judgments, and would take into consideration the characters -and circumstances of the persons, as well as the general nature of the -question. But 'tis easy to observe, that this would produce an infinite -confusion in human society, and that the avidity and partiality of men -would quickly bring disorder into the world, if not restrained by some -general and inflexible principles. 'Twas therefore with a view to this -inconvenience, that men have established those principles, and have -agreed to restrain themselves by general rules, which are unchangeable -by spite and favour, and by particular views of private or public -interest. These rules, then, are artificially invented for a certain -purpose, and are contrary to the common principles of human nature, -which accommodate themselves to circumstances, and have no stated -invariable method of operation.</p> - -<p>Nor do I perceive how I can easily be mistaken in this matter. I see -evidently, that when any man imposes on himself general inflexible -rules in his conduct with others, he considers certain objects as -their property, which he supposes to be sacred and inviolable.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</a></span> But -no proposition can be more evident, than that property is perfectly -unintelligible without first supposing justice and injustice; and that -these virtues and vices are as unintelligible, unless we have motives, -independent of the morality, to impel us to just actions, and deter -us from unjust ones. Let those motives, therefore, be what they will, -they must accommodate themselves to circumstances, and must admit of -all the variations which human affairs, in their incessant revolutions, -are susceptible of. They are, consequently, a very improper foundation -for such rigid inflexible rules as the laws of nature; and 'tis evident -these laws can only be derived from human conventions, when men have -perceived the disorders that result from following their natural and -variable principles.</p> - -<p>Upon the whole, then, we are to consider this distinction betwixt -justice and injustice, as having two different foundations, viz. -that of <i>interest</i>, when men observe, that 'tis impossible to live -in society without restraining themselves by certain rules; and that -of <i>morality</i>, when this interest is once observed, and men receive -a pleasure from the view of such actions as tend to the peace of -society, and an uneasiness from such as are contrary to it. 'Tis the -voluntary convention and artifice of men which makes the first interest -take place; and therefore those laws of justice are so far to be -considered as <i>artificial</i>. After that interest is once established and -acknowledged, the sense of morality in the observance of these rules -follows <i>naturally</i>, and of itself; though tis certain, that it is also -augmented by a new <i>artifice</i>, and that the public instructions of -politicians, and the private education of parents, contribute to the -giving us a sense of honour and duty, in the strict regulation of our -actions with regard to the properties of others.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_VII_bIII" id="SECTION_VII_bIII">SECTION VII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE ORIGIN OF GOVERNMENT.</h5> - - -<p>Nothing is more certain, than that men are in a great measure governed -by interest, and that, even when they extend their concern beyond -themselves, 'tis not to any great distance; nor is it usual for -them, in common life, to look farther than their nearest friends and -acquaintance. 'Tis no less certain, that 'tis impossible for men to -consult their interest in so effectual a manner, as by an universal and -inflexible observance of the rules of justice, by which alone they can -preserve society, and keep themselves from falling into that wretched -and savage condition which is commonly represented as the <i>state of -nature</i>. And as this interest which all men have in the upholding of -society, and the observation of the rules of justice, is great, so -is it palpable and evident, even to the most rude and uncultivated -of the human race; and 'tis almost impossible for any one who has -had experience of society, to be mistaken in this particular. Since, -therefore, men are so sincerely attached to their interest, and their -interest is so much concerned in the observance of justice, and this -interest is so certain and avowed, it may be asked, how any disorder -can ever arise in society, and what principle there is in human nature -so <i>powerful</i> as to overcome so strong a passion, or so <i>violent</i> as to -obscure so clear a knowledge?</p> - -<p>It has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that men are -mightily governed by the imagination, and proportion their affections -more to the light under<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</a></span> which any object appears to them, than to its -real and intrinsic value. What strikes upon them with a strong and -lively idea commonly prevails above what lies in a more obscure light; -and it must be a great superiority of value that is able to compensate -this advantage. Now, as every thing that is contiguous to us, either in -space or time, strikes upon us with such an idea, it has a proportional -effect on the will and passions, and commonly operates with more force -than any object that lies in a more distant and obscure light. Though -we may be fully convinced, that the latter object excels the former, we -are not able to regulate our actions by this judgment, but yield to the -solicitations of our passions, which always plead in favour of whatever -is near and contiguous.</p> - -<p>This is the reason why men so often act in contradiction to their known -interest; and, in particular, why they prefer any trivial advantage -that is present, to the maintenance of order in society, which so -much depends on the observance of justice. The consequences of every -breach of equity seem to lie very remote, and and are not liable to -counterbalance any immediate advantage that may be reaped from it. They -are, however, never the less real for being remote; and as all men are, -in some degree, subject to the same weakness, it necessarily happens, -that the violations of equity must become very frequent in society, -and the commerce of men, by that means, be rendered very dangerous -and uncertain. You have the same propension that I have in favour of -what is contiguous above what is remote. You are, therefore, naturally -carried to commit acts of injustice as well as me. Your example both -pushes me forward in this way by imitation, and also affords me a new -reason for any breach of equity,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</a></span> by showing me, that I should be the -cully of my integrity, if I alone should impose on myself a severe -restraint amidst the licentiousness of others.</p> - -<p>This quality, therefore, of human nature, not only is very dangerous -to society, but also seems, on a cursory view, to be incapable of any -remedy. The remedy can only come from the consent of men; and if men -be incapable of themselves to prefer remote to contiguous, they will -never consent to any thing which would oblige them to such a choice, -and contradict, in so sensible a manner, their natural principles and -propensities. Whoever chooses the means, chooses also the end; and -if it be impossible for us to prefer what is remote, 'tis equally -impossible for us to submit to any necessity which would oblige us to -such a method of acting.</p> - -<p>But here 'tis observable, that this infirmity of human nature becomes -a remedy to itself, and that we provide against our negligence about -remote objects, merely because we are naturally inclined to that -negligence. When we consider any objects at a distance, all their -minute distinctions vanish, and we always give the preference to -whatever is in itself preferable, without considering its situation and -circumstances. This gives rise to what, in an improper sense, we call -<i>reason</i>, which is a principle that is often contradictory to those -propensities that display themselves upon the approach of the object. -In reflecting on any action which I am to perform a twelvemonth hence, -I always resolve to prefer the greater good, whether at that time it -will be more contiguous or remote; nor does any difference in that -particular make a difference in my present intentions and resolutions. -My distance from the final determination makes all those minute -differences vanish,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</a></span> nor am I affected by any thing but the general and -more discernible qualities of good and evil. But on my nearer approach, -those circumstances which I at first overlooked begin to appear, and -have an influence on my conduct and affections. A new inclination to -the present good springs up, and makes it difficult for me to adhere -inflexibly to my first purpose and resolution. This natural infirmity -I may very much regret, and I may endeavour, by all possible means, to -free myself from it. I may have recourse to study and reflection within -myself; to the advice of friends; to frequent meditation, and repeated -resolution: And having experienced how ineffectual all these are, I -may embrace with pleasure any other expedient by which I may impose a -restraint upon myself, and guard against this weakness.</p> - -<p>The only, difficulty, therefore, is to find out this expedient, by -which men cure their natural weakness, and lay themselves under the -necessity of observing the laws of justice and equity, notwithstanding -their violent propension to prefer contiguous to remote. 'Tis -evident such a remedy can never be effectual without correcting -this propensity; and as 'tis impossible to change or correct any -thing material in our nature, the utmost we can do is to change our -circumstances and situation, and render the observance of the laws of -justice our nearest interest, and their violation our most remote. -But this being impracticable with respect to all mankind, it can only -take place with respect to a few, whom we thus immediately interest -in the execution of justice. These are the persons whom we call civil -magistrates, kings and their ministers, our governors and rulers, -who, being indifferent persons to the greatest part of the state, -have no interest, or but a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</a></span> remote one, in any act of injustice; and, -being satisfied with their present condition, and with their part in -society, have an immediate interest in every execution of justice, -which is so necessary to the upholding of society. Here, then, is the -origin of civil government and society. Men are not able radically to -cure, either in themselves or others, that narrowness of soul which -makes them prefer the present to the remote. They cannot change their -natures. All they can do is to change their situation, and render -the observance of justice the immediate interest of some particular -persons, and its violation their more remote. These persons, then, are -not only induced to observe those rules in their own conduct, but also -to constrain others to a like regularity, and enforce the dictates of -equity through the whole society. And if it be necessary, they may -also interest others more immediately in the execution of justice, and -create a number of officers, civil and military, to assist them in -their government.</p> - -<p>But this execution of justice, though the principal, is not the -only advantage of government. As violent passion hinders men from -seeing distinctly the interest they have in an equitable behaviour -towards others, so it hinders them from seeing that equity itself, -and gives them a remarkable partiality in their own favours. This -inconvenience is corrected in the same manner as that above mentioned. -The same persons who execute the laws of justice, will also decide all -controversies concerning them; and, being indifferent to the greatest -part of the society, will decide them more equitably than every one -would in his own case.</p> - -<p>By means of these two advantages in the <i>execution</i> and <i>decision</i> -of justice, men acquire a security against each other's weakness and -passion, as well as against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</a></span> their own, and, under the shelter of their -governors, begin to taste at ease the sweets of society and mutual -assistance. But government extends farther its beneficial influence; -and, not contented to protect men in those conventions they make for -their mutual interest, it often obliges them to make such conventions, -and forces them to seek their own advantage, by a concurrence in some -common end or purpose. There is no quality in human nature which causes -more fatal errors in our conduct, than that which leads us to prefer -whatever is present to the distant and remote, and makes us desire -objects more according to their situation than their intrinsic value. -Two neighbours may agree to drain a meadow, which they possess in -common: because 'tis easy for them to know each other's mind; and each -must perceive, that the immediate consequence of his failing in his -part, is the abandoning the whole project. But 'tis very difficult, and -indeed impossible, that a thousand persons should agree in any such -action; it being difficult for them to concert so complicated a design, -and still more difficult for them to execute it; while each seeks a -pretext to free himself of the trouble and expense, and would lay the -whole burden on others. Political society easily remedies both these -inconveniences. Magistrates find an immediate interest in the interest -of any considerable part of their subjects. They need consult nobody -but themselves to form any scheme for the promoting of that interest. -And as the failure of any one piece in the execution is connected, -though not immediately, with the failure of the whole, they prevent -that failure, because they find no interest in it, either immediate -or remote. Thus, bridges are built, harbours opened, ramparts raised, -canals formed, fleets equipped,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</a></span> and armies disciplined, every where, -by the care of government, which, though composed of men subject to -all human infirmities, becomes, by one of the finest and most subtile -inventions imaginable, a composition which is in some measure exempted -from all these infirmities.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_VIII_bIII" id="SECTION_VIII_bIII">SECTION VIII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE SOURCE OF ALLEGIANCE.</h5> - - -<p>Though government be an invention very advantageous, and even in some -circumstances absolutely necessary to mankind, it is not necessary in -all circumstances; nor is it impossible for men to preserve society -for some time, without having recourse to such an invention. Men, 'tis -true, are always much inclined to prefer present interest to distant -and remote; nor is it easy for them to resist the temptation of any -advantage that they may immediately enjoy, in apprehension of an evil -that lies at a distance from them; but still this weakness is less -conspicuous where the possessions and the pleasures of life are few -and of little value, as they always are in the infancy of society. -An Indian is but little tempted to dispossess another of his hut, or -to steal his bow, as being already provided of the same advantages; -and as to any superior fortune which may attend one above another in -hunting and fishing, 'tis only casual and temporary, and will have -but small tendency to disturb society. And so far am I from thinking -with some philosophers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</a></span> that men are utterly incapable of society -without government, that I assert the first rudiments of government -to arise from quarrels, not among men of the same society, but among -those of different societies. A less degree of riches will suffice -to this latter effect, is requisite for the former. Men fear nothing -from public war and violence but the resistance they meet with, which, -because they share it in common, seems less terrible, and, because it -comes from strangers, seems less pernicious in its consequences, than -when they are exposed singly against one whose commerce is advantageous -to them, and without whose society 'tis impossible they can subsist. -Now foreign war, to a society without government, necessarily produces -civil war. Throw any considerable goods among men, they instantly fall -a quarrelling, while each strives to get possession of what pleases -him, without regard to the consequences. In a foreign war, the most -considerable of all goods, life and limbs, are at stake; and as every -one shuns dangerous ports, seizes the best arms, seeks excuse for the -slightest wounds, the laws, which may be well enough observed while -men were calm, can now no longer take place, when they are in such -commotion.</p> - -<p>This we find verified in the American tribes, where men live in concord -and amity among themselves, without any established government, and -never pay submission to any of their fellows, except in time of war, -when their captain enjoys a shadow of authority, which he loses after -their return from the field and the establishment of peace with the -neighbouring tribes. This authority, however, instructs them in the -advantages of government, and teaches them to have recourse to it, -when, either by the pillage of war, by commerce, or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</a></span> by any fortuitous -inventions, their riches and possessions have become so considerable -as to make them forget, on every emergence, the interest they have in -the preservation of peace and justice. Hence we may give a plausible -reason, among others, why all governments are at first monarchical, -without any mixture and variety; and why republics arise only from the -abuses of monarchy and despotic power. Camps are the true mothers of -cities; and as war cannot be administered, by reason of the suddenness -of every exigency, without some authority in a single person, the same -kind of authority naturally takes place in that civil government which -succeeds the military. And this reason I take to be more natural than -the common one derived from patriarchal government, or the authority -of a father, which is said first to take place in one family, and to -accustom the members of it to the government of a single person. The -state of society without government is one of the most natural states -of men, and must subsist with the conjunction of many families, and -long after the first generation. Nothing but an increase of riches -and possessions could oblige men to quit it; and so barbarous and -uninstructed are all societies on their first formation, that many -years must elapse before these can increase to such a degree as to -disturb men in the enjoyment of peace and concord.</p> - -<p>But though it be possible for men to maintain a small uncultivated -society without government, 'tis impossible they should maintain a -society of any kind without justice, and the observance of those -three fundamental laws concerning the stability of possession, its -translation by consent, and the performance of promises. These are -therefore antecedent to government, and are supposed to impose an -obligation, before the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</a></span> duty of allegiance to civil magistrates has -once been thought of. Nay, I shall go farther, and assert, that -government, <i>upon its first establishment</i>, would naturally be supposed -to derive its obligation from those laws of of nature, and, in -particular, from that concerning the performance of promises. When men -have once perceived the necessity of government to maintain peace and -execute justice, they would naturally assemble together, would choose -magistrates, determine their power, and <i>promise</i> them obedience. As -a promise is supposed to be a bond or security already in use, and -attended with a moral obligation, 'tis to be considered as the original -sanction of government, and as the source of the first obligation to -obedience. This reasoning appears so natural, that it has become the -foundation of our fashionable system of politics, and is in a manner -the creed of a party amongst us, who pride themselves, with reason, on -the soundness of their philosophy, and their liberty of thought. 'All -men,' say they, 'are born free and equal: government and superiority -can only be established by consent: the consent of men, in establishing -government, imposes on them a new obligation, unknown to the laws -of nature. Men, therefore, are bound to obey their magistrates, -only because they promise it; and if they had not given their word, -either expressly or tacitly, to preserve allegiance, it would never -have become a part of their moral duty. This conclusion, however, -when carried so far as to comprehend government in all its ages and -situations, is entirely erroneous; and I maintain, that though the duty -of allegiance be at first grafted on the obligation of promises, and be -for some time supported by that obligation, yet it quickly takes root -of itself, and has an original obligation and authority,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</a></span> independent -of all contracts. This is a principle of moment, which we must examine -with care and attention, before we proceed any farther.</p> - -<p>'Tis reasonable for those philosophers who assert justice to be a -natural virtue, and antecedent to human conventions, to resolve all -civil allegiance into the obligation of a promise, and assert that 'tis -our own consent alone which binds us to any submission to magistracy. -For as all government is plainly an invention of men, and the origin of -most governments is known in history, 'tis necessary to mount higher, -in order to find the source of our political duties, if we would assert -them to have any <i>natural</i> obligation of morality. These philosophers, -therefore, quickly observe, that society is as ancient as the human -species, and those three fundamental laws of nature as ancient as -society; so that, taking advantage of the antiquity and obscure origin -of these laws, they first deny them to be artificial and voluntary -inventions of men, and then seek to ingraft on them those other duties -which are more plainly artificial. But being once undeceived in this -particular, and having found that <i>natural</i> as well as <i>civil</i> justice -derives its origin from human conventions, we shall quickly perceive -how fruitless it is to resolve the one into the other, and seek, in the -laws of nature, a stronger foundation for our political duties than -interest and human conventions; while these laws themselves are built -on the very same foundation. On whichever side we turn this subject, -we shall find that these two kinds of duty are exactly on the same -footing, and have the same source both of their <i>first invention</i> and -<i>moral obligation</i>. They are contrived to remedy like inconveniences, -and acquire their moral sanction in the same manner, from their -remedying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</a></span> those inconveniences. These are two points which we shall -endeavour to prove as distinctly as possible.</p> - -<p>We have already shown, that men <i>invented</i> the three fundamental -laws of nature, when they observed the necessity of society to their -mutual subsistence, and found that 'twas impossible to maintain any -correspondence together, without some restraint on their natural -appetites. The same self-love, therefore, which renders men so -incommodious to each other, taking a new and more convenient direction, -produces the rules of justice, and is the <i>first</i> motive of their -observance. But when men have observed, that though the rules of -justice be sufficient to maintain any society, yet 'tis impossible -for them, of themselves, to observe those rules in large and polished -societies; they establish government as a new invention to attain -their ends, and preserve the old, or procure new advantages, by a more -strict execution of justice. So far, therefore, our <i>civil</i> duties are -connected with our <i>natural</i>, that the former are invented chiefly for -the sake of the latter; and that the principal object of government -is to constrain men to observe the laws of nature. In this respect, -however, that law of nature, concerning the performance of promises, is -only comprised along with the rest; and its exact observance is to be -considered as an effect of the institution of government, and not the -obedience to government as an effect of the obligation of a promise. -Though the object of our civil duties be the enforcing of our natural, -yet the <i>first</i>[9] motive of the invention, as well as performance -of both, is nothing but self-interest; and since there is a separate -interest in the obedience to government, from that in the performance<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</a></span> -of promises, we must also allow of a separate obligation. To obey the -civil magistrate is requisite to preserve order and concord in society. -To perform promises is requisite to beget mutual trust and confidence -in the common offices of life. The ends, as well as the means, are -perfectly distinct; nor is the one subordinate to the other.</p> - -<p>To make this more evident, let us consider, that men will often bind -themselves by promises to the performance of what it would have been -their interest to perform, independent of these promises; as when they -would give others a fuller security, by superadding a new obligation -of interest to that which they formerly lay under. The interest in the -performance of promises, besides its moral obligation, is general, -avowed, and of the last consequence in life. Other interests may be -more particular and doubtful; and we are apt to entertain a greater -suspicion, that men may indulge their humour or passion in acting -contrary to them. Here, therefore, promises come naturally in play, and -are often required for fuller satisfaction and security. But supposing -those other interests to be as general and avowed as the interest in -the performance of a promise, they will be regarded as on the same -footing, and men will begin to repose the same confidence in them. Now -this is exactly the case with regard to our civil duties, or obedience -to the magistrate; without which no government could subsist, nor any -peace or order be maintained in large societies, where there are so -many possessions on the one hand, and so many wants, real or imaginary, -on the other. Our civil duties, therefore, must soon detach themselves -from our promises, and acquire a separate force and influence. The -interest in both is of the very same kind; 'tis general,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</a></span> avowed, -and prevails in all times and places. There is, then, no pretext of -reason for founding the one upon the other, while each of them has a -foundation peculiar to itself. We might as well resolve the obligation -to abstain from the possessions of others, into the obligation of a -promise, as that of allegiance. The interests are not more distinct in -the one case than the other. A regard to property is not more necessary -to natural society, than obedience is to civil society or government; -nor is the former society more necessary to the being of mankind, -than the latter to their well-being and happiness. In short, if the -performance of promises be advantageous, so is obedience to government; -if the former interest be general, so is the latter; if the one -interest be obvious and avowed, so is the other. And as these two rules -are founded on like obligations of interest, each of them must have a -peculiar authority, independent of the other.</p> - -<p>But 'tis not only the <i>natural</i> obligations of interest, which are -distinct in promises and allegiance; but also the <i>moral</i> obligations -of honour and conscience: nor does the merit or demerit of the one -depend in the least upon that of the other. And, indeed, if we consider -the close connexion there is betwixt the natural and moral obligations, -we shall find this conclusion to be entirely unavoidable. Our interest -is always engaged on the side of obedience to magistracy; and there is -nothing but a great present advantage that can lead us to rebellion, by -making us overlook the remote interest which we have in the preserving -of peace and order in society. But though a present interest may thus -blind us with regard to our own actions, it takes not place with regard -to those of others; nor hinders them from appearing in their true -colours, as highly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</a></span> prejudicial to public interest, and to our own in -particular. This naturally gives us an uneasiness, in considering such -seditious and disloyal actions, and makes us attach to them the idea -of vice and moral deformity. 'Tis the same principle which causes us -to disapprove of all kinds of private injustice, and, in particular, -of the breach of promises. We blame all treachery and breach of faith; -because we consider, that the freedom and extent of human commerce -depend entirely on a fidelity with regard to promises. We blame all -disloyalty to magistrates; because we perceive that the execution of -justice, in the stability of possession, its translation by consent, -and the performance of promises, is impossible, without submission to -government. As there are here two interests entirely distinct from each -other, they must give rise to two moral obligations, equally separate -and independent. Though there was no such thing as a promise in the -world, government would still be necessary in all large and civilized -societies; and if promises had only their own proper obligation, -without the separate sanction of government, they would have but little -efficacy in such societies. This separates the boundaries of our public -and private duties, and shows that the latter are more dependent on the -former, than the former on the latter. <i>Education</i>, and <i>the artifice -of politicians</i>, concur to bestow a farther morality on loyalty, and to -brand all rebellion with a greater degree of guilt and infamy. Nor is -it a wonder that politicians should be very industrious in inculcating -such notions, where their interest is so particularly concerned.</p> - -<p>Lest those arguments should not appear entirely conclusive (as I think -they are), I shall have recourse to authority, and shall prove, from -the universal consent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</a></span> of mankind, that the obligation of submission to -government is not derived from any promise of the subjects. Nor need -any one wonder, that though I have all along endeavoured to establish -my system on pure reason, and have scarce ever cited the judgment even -of philosophers or historians on any article, I should now appeal to -popular authority, and oppose the sentiments of the rabble to any -philosophical reasoning. For it must be observed, that the opinions of -men, in this case, carry with them a peculiar authority, and are, in -a great measure, infallible. The distinction of moral good and evil -is founded on the pleasure or pain which results from the view of any -sentiment or character; and, as that pleasure or pain cannot be unknown -to the person who feels it, it follows,<a name="FNanchor_10_27" id="FNanchor_10_27"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_27" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> that there is just so much -vice or virtue in any character as every one places in it, and that -'tis impossible in this particular we can ever be mistaken. And, though -our judgments concerning the <i>origin</i> of any vice or virtue, be not so -certain as those concerning their <i>degrees</i>, yet, since the question in -this case regards not any philosophical origin of an obligation, but a -plain matter of fact, 'tis not easily conceived how we can fall into -an error. A man who acknowledges himself to be bound to another for -a certain sum, must certainly know whether it be by his own bond, or -that of his father; whether it be of his mere good will, or for money -lent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</a></span> him; and under what conditions, and for what purposes, he has -bound himself. In like manner, it being certain that there is a moral -obligation to submit to government, because everyone thinks so; it must -be as certain that this obligation arises not from a promise; since no -one, whose judgment has not been led astray by too strict adherence to -a system of philosophy, has ever yet dreamt of ascribing it to that -origin. Neither magistrates nor subjects have formed this idea of our -civil duties.</p> - -<p>We find, that magistrates are so far from deriving their authority, and -the obligation to obedience in their subjects, from the foundation of -a promise or original contract, that they conceal, as far as possible, -from their people, especially from the vulgar, that they have their -origin from thence. Were this the sanction of government, our rulers -would never receive it tacitly, which is the utmost that can be -pretended; since what is given tacitly and insensibly, can never have -such influence on mankind as what is performed expressly and openly. -A tacit promise is, where the will is signified by other more diffuse -signs than those of speech; but a will there must certainly be in the -case, and that can never escape the person's notice who exerted it, -however silent or tacit. But were you to ask the far greatest part of -the nation, whether they had ever consented to the authority of their -rulers, or promised to obey them, they would be inclined to think very -strangely of you; and would certainly reply, that the affair depended -not on their consent, but that they were born to such an obedience. -In consequence of this opinion, we frequently see them imagine such -persons to be their natural rulers, as are at that time deprived of -all power and authority, and whom no man, however<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</a></span> foolish, would -voluntarily choose; and this merely because they are in that line -which ruled before, and in that decree of it which used to succeed: -though perhaps in so distant a period, that scarce any man alive could -ever have given any promise of obedience. Has a government, then, no -authority over such as these, because they never consented to it, -and would esteem the very attempt of such a free choice a piece of -arrogance and impiety? We find by experience, that it punishes them -very freely for what it calls treason and rebellion, which, it seems, -according to this system, reduces itself to common injustice. If you -say, that by dwelling in its dominions, they in effect consented to -the established government, I answer, that this can only be where they -think the affair depends on their choice, which few or none beside -those philosophers have ever yet imagined. It never was pleaded as an -excuse for a rebel, that the first act he performed, after he came -to years of discretion, was to levy war against the sovereign of the -state; and that, while he was a child he could not bind himself by his -own consent, and having become a man, showed plainly, by the first act -he performed, that he had no design to impose on himself any obligation -to obedience. We find, on the contrary, that civil laws punish this -crime at the same age as any other which is criminal of itself, -without our consent; that is, when the person is come to the full use -of reason: whereas to this crime it ought in justice to allow some -intermediate time, in which a tacit consent at least might be supposed. -To which we may add, that a man living under an absolute government -would owe it no allegiance; since, by its very nature, it depends not -on consent. But as that is as <i>natural</i> and <i>common</i> a government as -any, it must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</a></span> certainly occasion some obligation; and 'tis plain from -experience, that men who are subjected to it do always think so. This -is a clear proof, that we do not commonly esteem our allegiance to -be derived from our consent or promise; and a farther proof is, that -when our promise is upon any account expressly engaged, we always -distinguish exactly betwixt the two obligations, and believe the one to -add more force to the other, than in a repetition of the same promise. -Where no promise is given, a man looks not on his faith as broken -in private matters, upon account of rebellion; but keeps those two -duties of honour and allegiance perfectly distinct and separate. As -the uniting of them was thought by these philosophers a very subtile -invention, this is a convincing proof that 'tis not a true one; since -no man can either give a promise, or be restrained by its sanction and -obligation, unknown to himself.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_IX_bIII" id="SECTION_IX_bIII">SECTION IX.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE MEASURES OF ALLEGIANCE.</h5> - - -<p>Those political writers who have had recourse to a promise, or original -contract, as the source of our allegiance to government, intended -to establish a principle which is perfectly just and reasonable; -though the reasoning upon which they endeavoured to establish it, was -fallacious and sophistical. They would prove, that our submission to -government admits of exceptions, and that an egregious tyranny in the -rulers is sufficient to free the subjects from all ties of allegiance. -Since<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</a></span> men enter into society, say they, and submit themselves to -government by their free and voluntary consent, they must have in -view certain advantages which they, propose to reap from it, and for -which they are contented to resign their native liberty. There is -therefore something mutual engaged on the part of the magistrate, -viz. protection and security; and 'tis only by the hopes he affords -of these advantages, that he can ever persuade men to submit to him. -But when, instead of protection and security, they meet with tyranny -and oppression, they are freed from their promises, (as happens in -all conditional contracts), and return to that state of liberty -which preceded the institution of government. Men would never be so -foolish as to enter into such engagements as should turn entirely -to the advantage of others, without any view of bettering their own -condition. Whoever proposes to draw any profit from our submission, -must engage himself, either expressly or tacitly, to make us reap some -advantage from his authority; nor ought he to expect, that, without the -performance of his part, we will ever continue in obedience.</p> - -<p>I repeat it: This conclusion is just, though the principles be -erroneous; and I flatter myself, that I can establish the same -conclusion on more reasonable principles. I shall not take such a -compass, in establishing our political duties, as to assert that men -perceive the advantages of government; that they institute government -with a view to those advantages; that this institution requires a -promise of obedience, which imposes a moral obligation to a certain -degree, but, being conditional, ceases to be binding whenever the other -contracting party performs not his part of the engagement. I perceive, -that a promise itself arises entirely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</a></span> from human conventions, and is -invented with a view to a certain interest. I seek, therefore, some -such interest more immediately connected with government, and which may -be at once the original motive to its institution, and the source of -our obedience to it. This interest I find to consist in the security -and protection which we enjoy in political society, and which we can -never attain when perfectly free and independent. As the interest, -therefore, is the immediate sanction of government, the one can have no -longer being than the other; and whenever the civil magistrate carries -his oppression so far as to render his authority perfectly intolerable, -we are no longer bound to submit to it. The cause ceases; the effect -must cease also.</p> - -<p>So far the conclusion is immediate and direct, concerning the <i>natural</i> -obligation which we have to allegiance. As to the <i>moral</i> obligation, -we may observe, that the maxim would here be false, that <i>when the -cause ceases the effect must cease also</i>. For there is a principle -of human nature, which we have frequently taken notice of, that men -are mightily addicted to <i>general rules</i>, and that we often carry our -maxims beyond those reasons which first induced us to establish them. -Where cases are similar in many circumstances, we are apt to put them -on the same footing, without considering that they differ in the most -material circumstances, and that the resemblance is more apparent than -real. It may therefore be thought, that, in the case of allegiance, -our moral obligation of duty will not cease, even though the natural -obligation of interest, which is its cause, has ceased; and that men -may be bound by <i>conscience</i> to submit to a tyrannical government, -against their own and the public interest. And indeed, to the force of -this argument I so far submit,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</a></span> as to acknowledge, that general rules -commonly extend beyond the principles on which they are founded; and -that we seldom make any exception to them, unless that exception have -the qualities of a general rule, and be founded on very numerous and -common instances. Now this I assert to be entirely the present case. -When men submit to the authority of others, 'tis to procure themselves -some security against the wickedness and injustice of men, who are -perpetually carried, by their unruly passions, and by their present -and immediate interest, to the violation of all the laws of society. -But as this imperfection is inherent in human nature, we know that it -must attend men in all their states and conditions; and that those -whom we choose for rulers, do not immediately become of a superior -nature to the rest of mankind, upon account of their superior power and -authority. What we expect from them depends not on a change of their -nature, but of their situation, when they acquire a more immediate -interest in the preservation of order and the execution of justice. -But, besides that this interest is only more immediate in the execution -of justice among their subjects; besides this, I say, we may often -expect, from the irregularity of human nature, that they will neglect -even this immediate interest, and be transported by their passions -into all the excesses of cruelty and ambition. Our general knowledge -of human nature, our observation of the past history of mankind, -our experience of present times; all these causes must induce us to -open the door of exceptions, and must make us conclude, that we may -resist the more violent effects of supreme power without any crime or -injustice.</p> - -<p>Accordingly we may observe, that this is both the general practice and -principle of mankind, and that no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</a></span> nation that could find any remedy, -ever yet suffered the cruel ravages of a tyrant, or were blamed for -their resistance. Those who took up arms against Dionysius or Nero, or -Philip the Second, have the favour of every reader in the perusal of -their history; and nothing but the most violent perversion of common -sense can ever lead us to condemn them. 'Tis certain, therefore, that -in all our notions of morals, we never entertain such an absurdity -as that of passive obedience, but make allowances for resistance in -the more flagrant instances of tyranny and oppression. The general -opinion of mankind has some authority in all cases; but in this of -morals 'tis perfectly infallible. Nor is it less infallible, because -men cannot distinctly explain the principles on which it is founded. -Few persons can carry on this train of reasoning: 'Government is a mere -human invention for the interest of society. Where the tyranny of the -governor removes this interest, it also removes the natural obligation -to obedience. The moral obligation is founded on the natural, and -therefore must cease where <i>that</i> ceases; especially where the subject -is such as makes us foresee very many occasions wherein the natural -obligation may cease, and causes us to form a kind of general rule for -the regulation of our conduct in such occurrences.' But though this -train of reasoning be too subtile for the vulgar, 'tis certain that -all men have an implicit notion of it, and are sensible that they owe -obedience to government merely on account of the public interest; and, -at the same time, that human nature is so subject to frailties and -passions, as may easily pervert this institution, and change their -governors into tyrants and public enemies. If the sense of public -interest were not our original motive to obedience, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[Pg 335]</a></span> would fain ask, -what other principle is there in human nature capable of subduing -the natural ambition of men, and forcing them to such a submission? -Imitation and custom are not sufficient. For the question still recurs, -what motive first produces those instances of submission which we -imitate, and that train of actions which produces the custom? There -evidently is no other principle than public interest; and if interest -first produces obedience to government, the obligation to obedience -must cease whenever the interest ceases in any great degree, and in a -considerable number of instances.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_X_bIII" id="SECTION_X_bIII">SECTION X.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE OBJECTS OF ALLEGIANCE.</h5> - - -<p>But though, on some occasions, it may be justifiable, both in sound -politics and morality, to resist supreme power, 'tis certain that, in -the ordinary course of human affairs, nothing can be more pernicious -and criminal; and that, besides the convulsions which always attend -revolutions, such a practice tends directly to the subversion of -all government, and the causing an universal anarchy and confusion -among mankind. As numerous and civilized societies cannot subsist -without government, so government is entirely useless without an exact -obedience. We ought always to weigh the advantages which we reap from -authority, against the disadvantages: and by this means we shall become -more scrupulous of putting in practice the doctrine of resistance. The -common rule requires submission;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[Pg 336]</a></span> and 'tis only in cases of grievous -tyranny and oppression, that the exception can take place.</p> - -<p>Since, then, such a blind submission is commonly due to magistracy, -the next question is, <i>to whom it is due, and whom we are to regard -as our lawful magistrates</i>? In order to answer this question, let us -recollect what we have already established concerning the origin of -government and political society. When men have once experienced the -impossibility of preserving any steady order in society, while every -one is his own master, and violates or observes the laws of interest, -according to his present interest or pleasure, they naturally run into -the invention of government, and put it out of their own power, as far -as possible, to transgress the laws of society. Government, therefore, -arises from the voluntary convention of men; and 'tis evident, that the -same convention which establishes government, will also determine the -persons who are to govern, and will remove all doubt and ambiguity in -this particular. And the voluntary consent of men must here have the -greater efficacy, that the authority of the magistrate does <i>at first</i> -stand upon the foundation of a promise of the subjects, by which they -bind themselves to obedience, as in every other contract or engagement. -The same promise, then, which binds them to obedience, ties them down -to a particular person, and makes him the object of their allegiance.</p> - -<p>But when government has been established on this footing for some -considerable time, and the separate interest which we have in -submission has produced a separate sentiment of morality, the case -is entirely altered, and a promise is no longer able to determine -the particular magistrate; since it is no longer considered as the -foundation of government. We naturally<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[Pg 337]</a></span> suppose ourselves born to -submission; and imagine that such particular persons have a right to -command, as we on our part are bound to obey. These notions of right -and obligation are derived from nothing but the <i>advantage</i> we reap -from government, which gives us a repugnance to practise resistance -ourselves, and makes us displeased with any instance of it in others. -But here 'tis remarkable, that in this new state of affairs, the -original sanction of government, which is <i>interest</i>, is not admitted -to determine the persons whom we are to obey, as the original sanction -did at first, when affairs were on the footing of a <i>promise</i>. A -<i>promise</i> fixes and determines the persons, without any uncertainty: -but 'tis evident, that if men were to regulate their conduct in this -particular, by the view of a peculiar <i>interest</i>, either public or -private, they would involve themselves in endless confusion, and -would render all government, in a great measure, ineffectual. The -private interest of every one is different; and, though the public -interest in itself be always one and the same, yet it becomes the -source of as great dissensions, by reason of the different opinions -of particular persons concerning it. The same interest, therefore, -which causes us to submit to magistracy, makes us renounce itself in -the choice of our magistrates, and binds us down to a certain form of -government, and to particular persons, without allowing us to aspire -to the utmost perfection in either. The case is here the same as -in that law of nature concerning the stability of possession. 'Tis -highly advantageous, and even absolutely necessary to society, that -possession should be stable; and this leads us to the establishment of -such a rule: but we find, that were we to follow the same advantage, -in assigning particular possessions to particular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[Pg 338]</a></span> persons, we should -disappoint our end, and perpetuate the confusion which that rule is -intended to prevent. We must therefore proceed by general rules, and -regulate ourselves by general interests, in modifying the law of -nature concerning the stability of possession. Nor need we fear, that -our attachment to this law will diminish upon account of the seeming -frivolousness of those interests by which it is determined. The -impulse of the mind is derived from a very strong interest; and those -other more minute interests serve only to direct the motion, without -adding any thing to it, or diminishing from it. 'Tis the same case -with government. Nothing is more advantageous to society than such -an invention; and this interest is sufficient to make us embrace it -with ardour and alacrity; though we are obliged afterwards to regulate -and direct our devotion to government by several considerations which -are not of the same importance, and to choose our magistrates without -having in view any particular advantage from the choice.</p> - -<p>The <i>first</i> of those principles I shall take notice of, as a foundation -of the right of magistracy, is that which gives authority to all the -most established governments of the world, without exception: I mean, -<i>long possession</i> in any one form of government, or succession of -princes. 'Tis certain, that if we remount to the first origin of every -nation, we shall find, that there scarce is any race of kings, or form -of a commonwealth, that is not primarily founded on usurpation and -rebellion, and whose title is not at first worse than doubtful and -uncertain. Time alone gives solidity to their right; and, operating -gradually on the minds of men, reconciles them to any authority, and -makes it seem just and reasonable. Nothing causes any sentiment to have -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[Pg 339]</a></span> greater influence upon us than custom, or turns our imagination more -strongly to any object. When we have been long accustomed to obey any -set of men, that general instinct or tendency which we have to suppose -a moral obligation attending loyalty, takes easily this direction, and -chooses that set of men for its objects. 'Tis interest which gives the -general instinct; but 'tis custom which gives the particular direction.</p> - -<p>And here 'tis observable, that the same length of time has a different -influence on our sentiments of morality, according to its different -influence on the mind. We naturally judge of every thing by comparison; -and since, in considering the fate of kingdoms and republics, we -embrace a long extent of time, a small duration has not, in this -case, a like influence on our sentiments, as when we consider any -other object. One thinks he acquires a right to a horse, or a suit -of clothes, in a very short time; but a century is scarce sufficient -to establish any new government, or remove all scruples in the minds -of the subjects concerning it. Add to this, that a shorter period of -time will suffice to give a prince a title to any additional power -he may usurp, than will serve to fix his right, where the whole -is an usurpation. The kings of France have not been possessed of -absolute power for above two reigns; and yet nothing will appear -more extravagant to Frenchmen than to talk of their liberties. If we -consider what has been said concerning <i>accession</i>, we shall easily -account for this phenomenon.</p> - -<p>When there is no form of government established by <i>long</i> possession, -the <i>present</i> possession is sufficient to supply its place, and may -be regarded as the <i>second</i> source of all public authority. Right -to authority is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[Pg 340]</a></span> nothing but the constant possession of authority, -maintained by the laws of society and the interests of mankind; and -nothing can be more natural than to join this constant possession to -the present one, according to the principles above mentioned. If the -same principles did not take place with regard to the property of -private persons, 'twas because these principles were counterbalanced -by very strong considerations of interest; when we observed, that all -restitution would by that means be prevented, and every violence be -authorized and protected. And, though the same motives may seem to -have force with regard to public authority, yet they are opposed by a -contrary interest; which consists in the preservation of peace, and the -avoiding of all changes, which, however they may be easily produced in -private affairs, are unavoidably attended with bloodshed and confusion -where the public is interested.</p> - -<p>Any one who, finding the impossibility of accounting for the right of -the present possessor, by any received system of ethics, should resolve -to deny absolutely that right, and assert that it is not authorized -by morality, would be justly thought to maintain a very extravagant -paradox, and to shock the common sense and judgment of mankind. No -maxim is more conformable, both to prudence and morals, than to -submit quietly to the government which we find established in the -country where we happen to live, without inquiring too curiously into -its origin and first establishment. Few governments will bear being -examined so rigorously. How many kingdoms are there at present in the -world, and how many more do we find in history, whose governors have no -better foundation for their authority than that of present possession! -To confine<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[Pg 341]</a></span> ourselves to the Roman and Grecian empire; is it not -evident, that the long succession of emperors, from the dissolution -of the Roman liberty, to the final extinction of that empire by the -Turks, could not so much as pretend to any other title to the empire? -The election of the senate was a mere form, which always followed the -choice of the legions; and these were almost always divided in the -different provinces, and nothing but the sword was able to terminate -the difference. 'Twas by the sword, therefore, that every emperor -acquired, as well as defended, his right; and we must either say, that -all the known world, for so many ages, had no government, and owed no -allegiance to any one, or must allow, that the right of the stronger, -in public affairs, is to be received as legitimate, and authorized by -morality, when not opposed by any other title.</p> - -<p>The right of <i>conquest</i> may be considered as a <i>third</i> source of the -title of sovereigns. This right resembles very much that of present -possession, but has rather a superior force, being seconded by the -notions of glory and honour which we ascribe to <i>conquerors</i>, instead -of the sentiments of hatred and detestation which attend <i>usurpers</i>. -Men naturally favour those they love; and therefore are more apt to -ascribe a right to successful violence, betwixt one sovereign and -another, than to the successful rebellion of a subject against his -sovereign.<a name="FNanchor_11_28" id="FNanchor_11_28"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_28" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[Pg 342]</a></span></p> - -<p>When neither long possession, nor present possession, nor conquest take -place, as when the first sovereign who founded any monarchy dies; in -that case, the right of <i>succession</i> naturally prevails in their stead, -and men are commonly induced to place the son of their late monarch -on the throne, and suppose him to inherit his father's authority. The -presumed consent of the father, the imitation of the succession to -private families, the interest which the state has in choosing the -person who is most powerful and has the most numerous followers; all -these reasons lead men to prefer the son of their late monarch to any -other person.<a name="FNanchor_12_29" id="FNanchor_12_29"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_29" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p> - -<p>These reasons have some weight; but I am persuaded, that, to one who -considers impartially of the matter, 'twill appear that there concur -some principles of the imagination along with those views of interest. -The royal authority seems to be connected with the young prince even in -his father's lifetime, by the natural transition of the thought, and -still more after his death; so that nothing is more natural than to -complete this union by a new relation, and by putting him actually in -possession of what seems so naturally to belong to him.</p> - -<p>To confirm this, we may weigh the following phenomena, which are -pretty curious in their kind. In elective monarchies, the right of -succession has no place by the laws and settled custom; and yet its -influence is so natural, that 'tis impossible entirely to exclude it -from the imagination, and render the subjects<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[Pg 343]</a></span> indifferent to the son -of their deceased monarch. Hence, in some governments of this kind, -the choice commonly falls on one or other of the royal family; and -in some governments they are all excluded. Those contrary phenomena -proceed from the same principle. Where the royal family is excluded, -'tis from a refinement in politics, which makes people sensible of -their propensity to choose a sovereign in that family, and gives them -a jealousy of their liberty, lest their new monarch, aided by this -propensity, should establish his family, and destroy the freedom of -elections for the future.</p> - -<p>The history of Artaxerxes and the younger Cyrus, may furnish us with -some reflections to the same purpose. Cyrus pretended a right to the -throne above his elder brother, because he was born after his father's -accession. I do not pretend that this reason was valid. I would only -infer from it, that he would never have made use of such a pretext, -were it not for the qualities of the imagination above-mentioned, by -which we are naturally inclined to unite by a new relation whatever -objects we find already united. Artaxerxes had an advantage above his -brother, as being the eldest son, and the first in succession; but -Cyrus was more closely related to the royal authority, as being begot -after his father was invested with it.</p> - -<p>Should it here be pretended, that the view of convenience may be -the source of all the right of succession, and that men gladly take -advantage of any rule by which they can fix the successor of their -late sovereign, and prevent that anarchy and confusion which attends -all new elections; to this I would answer, that I readily allow that -this motive may contribute something to the effect; but at the same -time I assert, that,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[Pg 344]</a></span> without another principle, 'tis impossible such -a motive should take place. The interest of a nation requires that the -succession to the crown should be fixed one way or other; but 'tis the -same thing to its interest in what way it be fixed; so that if the -relation of blood had not an effect independent of public interest, it -would never have been regarded without a positive law; and 'twould have -been impossible that so many positive laws of different nations could -ever have concurred precisely in the same views and intentions.</p> - -<p>This leads us to consider the <i>fifth</i> source of authority, viz. -<i>positive laws</i>, when the legislature establishes a certain form -of government and succession of princes. At first sight, it may be -thought that this must resolve into some of the preceding titles of -authority. The legislative power, whence the positive law is derived, -must either be established by original contract, long possession, -present possession, conquest, or succession; and consequently the -positive law must derive its force from some of those principles. But -here 'tis remarkable, that though a positive law can only derive its -force from these principles, yet it acquires not all the force of the -principle from whence it is derived, but loses considerably in the -transition, as it is natural to imagine. For instance, a government is -established for many centuries on a certain system of laws, forms, and -methods of succession. The legislative power, established by this long -succession, changes, all on a sudden, the whole system of government, -and introduces a new constitution in its stead. I believe few of the -subjects will think themselves bound to comply with this alteration, -unless it have an evident tendency to the public good, but will think -themselves still at liberty to return to the ancient government. Hence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[Pg 345]</a></span> -the notion of <i>fundamental</i> laws, which are supposed to be unalterable -by the will of the sovereign; and of this nature the Salic law is -understood to be in France. How far these fundamental laws extend, is -not determined in any government, nor is it possible it ever should. -There is such an insensible gradation from the most material laws to -the most trivial, and from the most ancient laws to the most modern, -that 'twill be impossible to set bounds to the legislative power, and -determine how far it may innovate in the principles of government. That -is the work more of imagination and passion than of reason.</p> - -<p>Whoever considers the history of the several nations of the world, -their revolutions, conquests, increase and diminution, the manner in -which their particular governments are established, and the successive -right transmitted from one person to another, will soon learn to treat -very lightly all disputes concerning the rights of princes, and will be -convinced that a strict adherence to any general rules, and the rigid -loyalty to particular persons and families, on which some people set -so high a value, are virtues that hold less of reason than of bigotry -and superstition. In this particular, the study of history confirms the -reasonings of true philosophy, which, showing us the original qualities -of human nature, teaches us to regard the controversies in politics as -incapable of any decision in most cases, and as entirely subordinate -to the interests of peace and liberty. Where the public good does -not evidently demand a change, 'tis certain that the concurrence -of all those titles, <i>original contract, long possession, present -possession, succession</i>, and <i>positive laws</i>, forms the strongest title -to sovereignty, and is justly regarded as sacred and inviolable. But -when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[Pg 346]</a></span> these titles are mingled and opposed in different degrees, they -often occasion perplexity, and are less capable of solution from the -arguments of lawyers and philosophers, than from the swords of the -soldiery. Who shall tell me, for instance, whether Germanicus or Drusus -ought to have succeeded Tiberius, had he died while they were both -alive, without naming any of them for his successor? Ought the right -of adoption to be received as equivalent to that of blood, in a nation -where it had the same effect in private families, and had already, -in two instances, taken place in the public? Ought Germanicus to be -esteemed the eldest son, because he was born before Drusus; or the -younger, because he was adopted after the birth of his brother? Ought -the right of the elder to be regarded in a nation, where the eldest -brother had no advantage in the succession to private families? Ought -the Roman empire at that time to be esteemed hereditary, because of two -examples; or ought it, even so early, to be regarded as belonging to -the stronger, or the present possessor, as being founded on so recent -an usurpation? Upon whatever principles we may pretend to answer these -and such like questions, I am afraid we shall never be able to satisfy -an impartial inquirer, who adopts no party in political controversies, -and will be satisfied with nothing but sound reason and philosophy.</p> - -<p>But here an English reader will be apt to inquire concerning that -famous <i>revolution</i> which has had such a happy influence on our -constitution, and has been attended with such mighty consequences. -We have already remarked, that, in the case of enormous tyranny and -oppression, 'tis lawful to take arms even against supreme power; and -that, as government is a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[Pg 347]</a></span> mere human invention, for mutual advantage -and security, it no longer imposes any obligation, either natural or -moral, when once it ceases to have that tendency. But though this -<i>general</i> principle be authorized by common sense, and the practice -of all ages, 'tis certainly impossible for the laws, or even for -philosophy, to establish any <i>particular</i> rules by which we may -know when resistance is lawful, and decide all controversies which -may arise on that subject. This may not only happen with regard to -supreme power, but 'tis possible, even in some constitutions, where -the legislative authority is not lodged in one person, that there -may be a magistrate so eminent and powerful as to oblige the laws to -keep silence in this particular. Nor would this silence be an effect -only of their <i>respect</i>, but also of their <i>prudence</i>; since 'tis -certain, that, in the vast variety of circumstances which occur in -all governments, an exercise of power, in so great a magistrate, may -at one time be beneficial to the public, which at another time would -be pernicious and tyrannical. But notwithstanding this silence of -the laws in limited monarchies, 'tis certain that the people still -retain the right of resistance; since 'tis impossible, even in the -most despotic governments, to deprive them of it. The same necessity -of self-preservation, and the same motive of public good, give them -the same liberty in the one case as in the other. And we may farther -observe, that in such mixed governments, the cases wherein resistance -is lawful must occur much oftener, and greater indulgence be given to -the subjects to defend themselves by force of arms, than in arbitrary -governments. Not only where the chief magistrate enters into measures -in themselves extremely pernicious to the public, but even when he -would encroach on the other parts<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[Pg 348]</a></span> of the constitution, and extend his -power beyond the legal bounds, it is allowable to resist and dethrone -him; though such resistance and violence may, in the general tenor of -the laws, be deemed unlawful and rebellious. For, besides that nothing -is more essential to public interest than the preservation of public -liberty, 'tis evident, that if such a mixed government be once supposed -to be established, every part or member of the constitution must have -a right of self-defence, and of maintaining its ancient bounds against -the encroachment of every other authority. As matter would have been -created in vain, were it deprived of a power of resistance, without -which no part of it could preserve a distinct existence, and the whole -might be crowded up into a single point; so 'tis a gross absurdity to -suppose, in any government, a right without a remedy, or allow that the -supreme power is shared with the people, without allowing that 'tis -lawful for them to defend their share against every invader. Those, -therefore, who would seem to respect our free government, and yet deny -the right of resistance, have renounced all pretensions to common -sense, and do not merit a serious answer.</p> - -<p>It does not belong to my present purpose to show, that these general -principles are applicable to the late <i>revolution</i>; and that all the -rights and privileges which ought to be sacred to a free nation, were -at that time threatened with the utmost danger. I am better pleased to -leave this controverted subject, if it really admits of controversy, -and to indulge myself in some philosophical reflections which naturally -arise from that important event.</p> - -<p><i>First</i>, We may observe, that should the <i>lords</i> and <i>commons</i> in our -constitution, without any reason from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[Pg 349]</a></span> public interest, either depose -the king in being, or, after his death, exclude the prince, who, by -laws and settled custom, ought to succeed, no one would esteem their -proceedings legal, or think themselves bound to comply with them. -But should the king, by his unjust practices, or his attempts for a -tyrannical and despotic power, justly forfeit his legal, it then not -only becomes morally lawful and suitable to the nature of political -society to dethrone him; but, what is more, we are apt likewise to -think, that the remaining members of the constitution acquire a right -of excluding his next heir, and of choosing whom they please for his -successor. This is founded on a very singular quality of our thought -and imagination. When a king forfeits his authority, his heir ought -naturally to remain in the same situation as if the king were removed -by death; unless by mixing himself in the tyranny, he forfeit it for -himself. But though this may seem reasonable, we easily comply with the -contrary opinion. The deposition of a king, in such a government as -ours, is certainly an act beyond all common authority; and an illegal -assuming a power for public good, which, in the ordinary course of -government, can belong to no member of the constitution. When the -public good is so great and so evident as to justify the action, the -commendable use of this license causes us naturally to attribute to the -<i>parliament</i> a right of using farther licenses; and the ancient bounds -of the laws being once transgressed with approbation, we are not apt -to be so strict in confining ourselves precisely within their limits. -The mind naturally runs on with any train of action which it has begun; -nor do we commonly make any scruple concerning our duty, after the -first action of any kind which we perform. Thus at the <i>revolution</i>,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[Pg 350]</a></span> -no one who thought the deposition of the father justifiable, esteemed -themselves to be confined to his infant son; though, had that unhappy -monarch died innocent at that time, and had his son, by any accident, -been conveyed beyond seas, there is no doubt but a regency would have -been appointed till he should come to age, and could be restored to -his dominions. As the slightest properties of the imagination have -an effect on the judgments of the people, it shows the wisdom of the -laws and of the parliament to take advantage of such properties, and -to choose the magistrates either in or out of a line, according as the -vulgar will most naturally attribute authority and right to them.</p> - -<p><i>Secondly</i>, Though the accession of the Prince of Orange to the throne, -might at first give occasion to many disputes, and his title be -contested, it ought not now to appear doubtful, but must have acquired -a sufficient authority from those three princes who have succeeded -him upon the same title. Nothing is more usual, though nothing may, -at first sight, appear more unreasonable, than this way of thinking. -Princes often <i>seem</i> to acquire a right from their successors, as well -as from their ancestors; and a king who, during his lifetime, might -justly be deemed an usurper, will be regarded by posterity as a lawful -prince, because he has had the good fortune to settle his family on -the throne, and entirely change the ancient form of government. Julius -Cæsar is regarded as the first Roman emperor; while Sylla and Marius, -whose titles were really the same as his, are treated as tyrants and -usurpers. Time and custom give authority to all forms of government, -and all successions of princes; and that power, which at first was -founded only on injustice and violence, becomes in time legal and -obligatory. Nor does the mind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[Pg 351]</a></span> rest there; but, returning back upon -its footsteps, transfers to their predecessors and ancestors that -right which it naturally ascribes to the posterity, as being related -together, and united in the imagination. The present King of France -makes Hugh Capet a more lawful prince than Cromwell; as the established -liberty of the Dutch is no inconsiderable apology for their obstinate -resistance to Philip the Second.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_10_27" id="Footnote_10_27"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_27"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> This proposition must hold strictly true with regard to -every quality that is determined merely by sentiment. In what sense we -can talk either of a <i>right</i> or a <i>wrong</i> taste in morals, eloquence, -or beauty, shall be considered afterwards. In the mean time it may be -observed, that there is such an uniformity in the <i>general</i> sentiments -of mankind, as to render such questions of but small importance.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_11_28" id="Footnote_11_28"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_28"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> It is not here asserted, that <i>present possession</i> or -<i>conquest</i> are sufficient to give a title against <i>long possession</i> and -<i>positive laws</i>: but only that they have some force, and will be able -to cast the balance where the titles are otherwise equal, and will even -be sufficient <i>sometimes</i> to sanctify the weaker title. What degree of -force they have is difficult to determine. I believe all moderate men -will allow, that they have great force in all disputes concerning the -rights of princes.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_12_29" id="Footnote_12_29"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_29"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> To prevent mistakes I must observe, that this case of -succession is not the same with that of hereditary monarchies, where -custom has fixed the right of succession. These depend upon the -principle of long possession above explained.</p></div> - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a name="SECTION_XI_bIII" id="SECTION_XI_bIII">SECTION XI.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF THE LAWS OF NATIONS.</h5> - - -<p>When civil government has been established over the greatest part of -mankind, and different societies have been formed contiguous to each -other, there arises a new set of duties among the neighbouring states, -suitable to the nature of that commerce which they carry on with each -other. Political writers tell us, that in every kind of intercourse -a body politic is to be considered as one person; and indeed, this -assertion is so far just, that different nations, as well as private -persons, require mutual assistance; at the same time that their -selfishness and ambition are perpetual sources of war and discord. But -though nations in this particular resemble individuals, yet as they are -very different in other respects, no wonder they regulate themselves by -different maxims, and give rise to a new set of rules, which we call -<i>the laws of nations</i>. Under this head we may comprise the sacredness -of the persons of ambassadors, the declaration of war, the abstaining<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[Pg 352]</a></span> -from poisoned arms, with other duties of that kind, which are evidently -calculated for the commerce that is peculiar to different societies.</p> - -<p>But though these rules be superadded to the laws of nature, the former -do not entirely abolish the latter; and one may safely affirm, that the -three fundamental rules of justice, the stability of possession, its -transference by consent, and the performance of promises, are duties -of princes as well as of subjects. The same interest produces the same -effect in both cases. Where possession has no stability, there must -be perpetual war. Where property is not transferred by consent, there -can be no commerce. Where promises are not observed, there can be no -leagues nor alliances. The advantages, therefore, of peace, commerce, -and mutual succour, make us extend to different kingdoms the same -notions of justice which take place among individuals.</p> - -<p>There is a maxim very current in the world, which few politicians are -willing to avow, but which has been authorized by the practice of -all ages, <i>that there is a system of morals calculated for princes, -much more free than that which ought to govern private persons</i>. -'Tis evident this is not to be understood of the lesser <i>extent</i> of -public duties and obligations; nor will any one be so extravagant as -to assert, that the most solemn treaties ought to have no force among -princes. For as princes do actually form treaties among themselves, -they must propose some advantage from the execution of them; and the -prospect of such advantage for the future must engage them to perform -their part, and must establish that law of nature. The meaning, -therefore, of this political maxim is, that though the morality of -princes has the same <i>extent</i>, yet it has not the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[Pg 353]</a></span> same <i>force</i> as -that of private persons, and may lawfully be transgressed from a -more trivial motive. However shocking such a proposition may appear -to certain philosophers, 'twill be easy to defend it upon those -principles, by which we have accounted for the origin of justice and -equity.</p> - -<p>When men have found by experience that 'tis impossible to subsist -without society, and that 'tis impossible to maintain society, while -they give free course to their appetites; so urgent an interest -quickly restrains their actions, and imposes an obligation to observe -those rules which we call <i>the laws of justice</i>. This obligation of -interest rests not here; but, by the necessary course of the passions -and sentiments, gives rise to the moral obligation of duty; while we -approve of such actions as tend to the peace of society, and disapprove -of such as tend to its disturbance. The same <i>natural</i> obligation of -interest takes place among independent kingdoms, and gives rise to -the same <i>morality</i>; so that no one of ever so corrupt morals will -approve of a prince, who voluntarily, and of his own accord, breaks his -word, or violates any treaty. But here we may observe, that though the -intercourse of different states be advantageous, and even sometimes -necessary, yet it is not so necessary nor advantageous as that among -individuals, without which 'tis utterly impossible for human nature -ever to subsist. Since, therefore, the <i>natural</i> obligation to justice, -among different states, is not so strong as among individuals, the -<i>moral</i> obligation which arises from it must partake of its weakness; -and we must necessarily give a greater indulgence to a prince or -minister who deceives another, than to a private gentleman who breaks -his word of honour.</p> - -<p>Should it be asked, <i>what proportion these two species<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[Pg 354]</a></span> of morality -bear to each other</i>? I would answer, that this is a question to which -we can never give any precise answer; nor is it possible to reduce to -numbers the proportion, which we ought to fix betwixt them. One may -safely affirm, that this proportion finds itself without any art or -study of men; as we may observe on many other occasions. The practice -of the world goes farther in teaching us the degrees of our duty, -than the most subtile philosophy which was ever yet invented. And -this may serve as a convincing proof, that all men have an implicit -notion of the foundation of those moral rules concerning natural and -civil justice, and are sensible that they arise merely from human -conventions, and from the interest which we have in the preservation -of peace and order. For otherwise the diminution of the interest would -never produce a relaxation of the morality, and reconcile us more -easily to any transgression of justice among princes and republics, -than in the private commerce of one subject with another.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_XII_bIII" id="SECTION_XII_bIII">SECTION XII.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF CHASTITY AND MODESTY.</h5> - - -<p>If any difficulty attend this system concerning the laws of nature and -nations, 'twill be with regard to the universal approbation or blame -which follows their observance or transgression, and which some may not -think sufficiently explained from the general interests of society. -To remove, as far as possible, all scruples<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[Pg 355]</a></span> of this kind, I shall -here consider another set of duties, viz. the <i>modesty</i> and <i>chastity</i> -which belong to the fair sex: and I doubt not but these virtues will be -found to be still more conspicuous instances of the operation of those -principles which I have insisted on.</p> - -<p>There are some philosophers who attack the female virtues with great -vehemence, and fancy they have gone very far in detecting popular -errors, when they can show, that there is no foundation in nature for -all that exterior modesty which we require in the expressions, and -dress, and behaviour of the fair sex. I believe I may spare myself the -trouble of insisting on so obvious a subject, and may proceed, without -farther preparation, to examine after what manner such notions arise -from education, from the voluntary conventions of men, and from the -interest of society.</p> - -<p>Whoever considers the length and feebleness of human infancy, with -the concern which both sexes naturally have for their offspring, will -easily perceive, that there must be an union of male and female for the -education of the young, and that this union must be of considerable -duration. But, in order to induce the men to impose on themselves this -restraint, and undergo cheerfully all the fatigues and expenses to -which it subjects them, they must believe that their children are their -own, and that their natural instinct is not directed to a wrong object, -when they give a loose to love and tenderness. Now, if we examine the -structure of the human body, we shall find, that this security is very -difficult to be attained on our part; and that since, in the copulation -of the sexes, the principle of generation goes from the man to the -woman, an error may easily take place on the side of the former, though -it be utterly impossible with regard to the latter. From<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[Pg 356]</a></span> this trivial -and anatomical observation is derived that vast difference betwixt the -education and duties of the two sexes.</p> - -<p>Were a philosopher to examine the matter a <i>priori</i>, he would reason -after the following manner. Men are induced to labour for the -maintenance and education of their children, by the persuasion that -they are really their own; and therefore 'tis reasonable, and even -necessary, to give them some security in this particular. This security -cannot consist entirely in the imposing of severe punishments on any -transgressions of conjugal fidelity on the part of the wife; since -these public punishments cannot be inflicted without legal proof, which -'tis difficult to meet with in this subject. What restraint, therefore, -shall we impose on women, in order to counterbalance so strong a -temptation as they have to infidelity? There seems to be no restraint -possible, but in the punishment of bad fame or reputation; a punishment -which has a mighty influence on the human mind, and at the same time -is inflicted by the world upon surmises and conjectures, and proofs -that would never be received in any court of judicature. In order, -therefore, to impose a due restraint on the female sex, we must attach -a peculiar degree of shame to their infidelity, above what arises -merely from its injustice, and must bestow proportionable praises on -their chastity.</p> - -<p>But though this be a very strong motive to fidelity, our philosopher -would quickly discover that it would not alone be sufficient to that -purpose. All human creatures, especially of the female sex, are apt -to overlook remote motives in favour of any present temptation: the -temptation is here the strongest imaginable; its approaches are -insensible and seducing; and a woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[Pg 357]</a></span> easily finds, or flatters -herself she shall find, certain means of securing her reputation, and -preventing all the pernicious consequences of her pleasures. 'Tis -necessary, therefore, that, beside the infamy attending such licenses, -there should be some preceding backwardness or dread, which may prevent -their first approaches, and may give the female sex a repugnance to -all expressions, and postures, and liberties, that have an immediate -relation to that enjoyment.</p> - -<p>Such would be the reasonings of our speculative philosopher; but I am -persuaded that, if he had not a perfect knowledge of human nature, he -would be apt to regard them as mere chimerical speculations, and would -consider the infamy attending infidelity, and backwardness to all its -approaches, as principles that were rather to be wished than hoped -for in the world. For what means, would he say, of persuading mankind -that the transgressions of conjugal duty are more infamous than any -other kind of injustice, when 'tis evident they are more excusable, -upon account of the greatness of the temptation? And what possibility -of giving a backwardness to the approaches of a pleasure to which -nature has inspired so strong a propensity, and a propensity that 'tis -absolutely necessary in the end to comply with, for the support of the -species?</p> - -<p>But speculative reasonings, which cost so much pains to philosophers, -are often formed by the world naturally, and without reflection; as -difficulties which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over -in practice. Those who have an interest in the fidelity of women, -naturally disapprove of their infidelity, and all the approaches to it. -Those who have no interest are carried along with the stream. Education -takes possession of the ductile minds of the fair sex in their -infancy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[Pg 358]</a></span> And when a general rule of this kind is once established, -men are apt to extend it beyond those principles from which it first -arose. Thus, bachelors, however debauched, cannot choose but be shocked -with any instance of lewdness or impudence in woman. And though all -these maxims have a plain reference to generation, yet women past -child-bearing have no more privilege in this respect than those who -are in the flower of their youth and beauty. Men have undoubtedly an -implicit notion, that all those ideas of modesty and decency have a -regard to generation; since they impose not the same laws, <i>with the -same force</i>, on the male sex, where that reason takes not place. The -exception is there obvious and extensive, and founded on a remarkable -difference, which produces a clear separation and disjunction of ideas. -But as the case is not the same with regard to the different ages of -women, for this reason, though men know that these notions are founded -on the public interest, yet the general rule carries us beyond the -original principle, and makes us extend the notions of modesty over the -whole sex, from their earliest infancy to their extremest old age and -infirmity.</p> - -<p>Courage, which is the point of honour among men, derives its merit in a -great measure from artifice, as well as the chastity of women; though -it has also some foundation in nature, as we shall see afterwards.</p> - -<p>As to the obligations which the male sex lie under with regard to -chastity, we may observe that, according to the general notions of -the world, they bear nearly the same proportion to the obligations of -women, as the obligations of the law of nations do to those of the -law of nature. 'Tis contrary to the interest of civil society, that -men should have an <i>entire</i> liberty of indulging<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[Pg 359]</a></span> their appetites -in venereal enjoyment; but as this interest is weaker than in the -case of the female sex, the moral obligation arising from it must be -proportionably weaker. And to prove this we need only appeal to the -practice and sentiments of all nations and ages.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[Pg 360]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_III_III" id="PART_III_III">PART III.</a></h5> - -<h4>OF THE OTHER VIRTUES AND VICES.</h4> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a id="SECTION_I_cIII"></a>SECTION I.</h5> - -<h5>OF THE ORIGIN OF THE NATURAL VIRTUES AND VICES.</h5> - - -<p>We come now to the examination of such virtues and vices as are -entirely natural, and have no dependence on the artifice and -contrivance of men. The examination of these will conclude this system -of morals.</p> - -<p>The chief spring or actuating principle of the human mind is pleasure -or pain; and when these sensations are removed, both from our thought -and feeling, we are in a great measure incapable of passion or action, -of desire or volition. The most immediate effects of pleasure and pain -are the propense and averse motions of the mind; which are diversified -into volition, into desire and aversion, grief and joy, hope and fear, -according as the pleasure or pain changes its situation, and becomes -probable or improbable, certain or uncertain, or is considered as out -of our power for the present moment. But when, along with this, the -objects that cause pleasure or pain acquire a relation to ourselves or -others, they still continue to excite desire and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[Pg 361]</a></span> aversion, grief and -joy; but cause, at the same time, the indirect passions of pride or -humility, love or hatred, which in this case have a double relation of -impressions and ideas to the pain or pleasure.</p> - -<p>We have already observed, that moral distinctions depend entirely on -certain peculiar sentiments of pain and pleasure, and that whatever -mental quality in ourselves or others gives us a satisfaction, by the -survey or reflection, is of course virtuous; as every thing of this -nature that gives uneasiness is vicious. Now, since every quality -in ourselves or others which gives pleasure, always causes pride -or love, as every one that produces uneasiness excites humility or -hatred, it follows, that these two particulars are to be considered -as equivalent, with regard to our mental qualities, <i>virtue</i> and the -power of producing love or pride, <i>vice</i> and the power of producing -humility or hatred. In every case, therefore, we must judge of the one -by the other, and may pronounce any <i>quality</i> of the mind virtuous -which causes love or pride, and any one vicious which causes hatred or -humility.</p> - -<p>If any <i>action</i> be either virtuous or vicious, 'tis only as a sign -of some quality or character. It must depend upon durable principles -of the mind, which extend over the whole conduct, and enter into -the personal character. Actions themselves, not proceeding from any -constant principle, have no influence on love or hatred, pride or -humility; and consequently are never considered in morality.</p> - -<p>This reflection is self-evident, and deserves to be attended to, as -being of the utmost importance in the present subject. We are never -to consider any single action in our inquiries concerning the origin -of morals, but only the quality or character from which the action<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[Pg 362]</a></span> -proceeded. These alone are <i>durable</i> enough to affect our sentiments -concerning the person. Actions are indeed better indications of a -character than words, or even wishes and sentiments; but 'tis only so -far as they are such indications, that they are attended with love or -hatred, praise or blame.</p> - -<p>To discover the true origin of morals, and of that love or hatred which -arises from mental qualities, we must take the matter pretty deep, and -compare some principles which have been already examined and explained.</p> - -<p>We may begin with considering anew the nature and force of <i>sympathy</i>. -The minds of all men are similar in their feelings and operations; nor -can any one be actuated by any affection of which all others are not -in some degree susceptible. As in strings equally wound up, the motion -of one communicates itself to the rest, so all the affections readily -pass from one person to another, and beget correspondent movements -in every human creature. When I see the <i>effects</i> of passion in the -voice and gesture of any person, my mind immediately passes from these -effects to their causes, and forms such a lively idea of the passion as -is presently converted into the passion itself. In like manner, when I -perceive the causes of any emotion, my mind is conveyed to the effects, -and is actuated with a like emotion. Were I present at any of the more -terrible operations of surgery, 'tis certain that, even before it -begun, the preparation of the instruments, the laying of the bandages -in order, the heating of the irons, with all the signs of anxiety and -concern in the patient and assistants, would have a great effect upon -my mind, and excite the strongest sentiments of pity and terror. No -passion of another discovers itself immediately to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[Pg 363]</a></span> the mind. We are -only sensible of its causes or effects. From <i>these</i> we infer the -passion; and consequently <i>these</i> give rise to our sympathy.</p> - -<p>Our sense of beauty depends very much on this principle; and where -any object has a tendency to produce pleasure in its possessor, it is -always regarded as beautiful; as every object that has a tendency to -produce pain, is disagreeable and deformed. Thus, the conveniency of a -house, the fertility of a field, the strength of a horse, the capacity, -security, and swift-sailing of a vessel, form the principal beauty of -these several objects. Here the object, which is denominated beautiful, -pleases only by its tendency to produce a certain effect. That effect -is the pleasure or advantage of some other person. Now, the pleasure of -a stranger for whom we have no friendship, pleases us only by sympathy. -To this principle, therefore, is owing the beauty which we find in -every thing that is useful. How considerable a part this is of beauty -will easily appear upon reflection. Wherever an object has a tendency -to produce pleasure in the possessor, or, in other words, is the proper -<i>cause</i> of pleasure, it is sure to please the spectator, by a delicate -sympathy with the possessor. Most of the works of art are esteemed -beautiful, in proportion to their fitness for the use of man; and even -many of the productions of nature derive their beauty from that source. -Handsome and beautiful, on most occasions, is not an absolute, but a -relative quality, and pleases us by nothing but its tendency to produce -an end that is agreeable.<a name="FNanchor_1_30" id="FNanchor_1_30"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_30" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[Pg 364]</a></span></p> - -<p>The same principle produces, in many instances, our sentiments of -morals, as well as those of beauty. No virtue is more esteemed than -justice, and no vice more detested than injustice; nor are there -any qualities which go farther to the fixing the character, either -as amiable or odious. Now justice is a moral virtue, merely because -it has that tendency to the good of mankind, and indeed is nothing -but an artificial invention to that purpose. The same may be said of -allegiance, of the laws of nations, of modesty, and of good manners. -All these are mere human contrivances for the interest of society. And -since there is a very strong sentiment of morals, which in all nations -and all ages has attended them, we must allow that the reflecting on -the tendency of characters and mental qualities is sufficient to give -us the sentiments of approbation and blame. Now, as the means to an -end can only be agreeable where the end is agreeable, and as the good -of society, where our own interest is not concerned, or that of our -friends, pleases only by sympathy, it follows, that sympathy is the -source of the esteem which we pay to all the artificial virtues.</p> - -<p>Thus it appears, <i>that</i> sympathy is a very powerful principle in -human nature, <i>that</i> it has a great influence on our taste of beauty, -and <i>that</i> it produces our sentiment of morals in all the artificial -virtues. From thence we may presume, that it also gives rise to many -of the other virtues, and that qualities acquire our approbation -because of their tendency to the good of mankind. This presumption -must become a certainty, when we find that most of those qualities -which we <i>naturally</i> approve of, have actually that tendency, and -render a man a proper member of society; while the qualities which -we <i>naturally</i> disapprove of have a contrary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[Pg 365]</a></span> tendency, and render -any intercourse with the person dangerous or disagreeable. For having -found, that such tendencies have force enough to produce the strongest -sentiment of morals, we can never reasonably, in these cases, look for -any other cause of approbation or blame; it being an inviolable maxim -in philosophy, that where any particular cause is sufficient for an -effect, we ought to rest satisfied with it, and ought not to multiply -causes without necessity. We have happily attained experiments in the -artificial virtues, where the tendency of qualities to the good of -society is the <i>sole</i> cause of our approbation, without any suspicion -of the concurrence of another principle. From thence we learn the force -of that principle. And where that principle may take place, and the -quality approved of is really beneficial to society, a true philosopher -will never require any other principle to account for the strongest -approbation and esteem.</p> - -<p>That many of the natural virtues have this tendency to the good -of society, no one can doubt of. Meekness, beneficence, charity, -generosity, clemency, moderation, equity, bear the greatest figure -among the moral qualities, and are commonly denominated the <i>social</i> -virtues, to mark their tendency to the good of society. This goes so -far, that some philosophers have represented all moral distinctions -as the effect of artifice and education, when skilful politicians -endeavoured to restrain the turbulent passions of men, and make them -operate to the public good, by the notions of honour and shame. This -system, however, is not consistent with experience. For, <i>first</i>, -There are other virtues and vices beside those which have this -tendency to the public advantage and loss. <i>Secondly</i>, Had not men a -natural sentiment of approbation and blame, it could<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[Pg 366]</a></span> never be excited -by politicians, nor would the words <i>laudable</i> and <i>praiseworthy, -blameable</i> and <i>odious</i>, be any more intelligible than if they were -a language perfectly unknown to us, as we have already observed. -But though this system be erroneous, it may teach us that moral -distinctions arise in a great measure from the tendency of qualities -and characters to the interests of society, and that 'tis our concern -for that interest which makes us approve or disapprove of them. Now, -we have no such extensive concern for society, but from sympathy; and -consequently 'tis that principle which takes us so far out of ourselves -as to give us the same pleasure or uneasiness in the characters of -others, as if they had a tendency to our own advantage or loss.</p> - -<p>The only difference betwixt the natural virtues and justice lies in -this, that the good which results from the former arises from every -single act, and is the object of some natural passion; whereas a -single act of justice, considered in itself, may often be contrary -to the public good; and 'tis only the concurrence of mankind, in a -general scheme or system of action, which is advantageous. When I -relieve persons in distress, my natural humanity is my motive; and so -far as my succour extends, so far have I promoted the happiness of my -fellow-creatures. But if we examine all the questions that come before -any tribunal of justice, we shall find that, considering each case -apart, it would as often be an instance of humanity to decide contrary -to the laws of justice as conformable to them. Judges take from a poor -man to give to a rich; they bestow on the dissolute the labour of the -industrious; and put into the hands of the vicious the means of harming -both themselves and others. The whole scheme, however, of law and -justice is advantageous to the society; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[Pg 367]</a></span> 'twas with a view to this -advantage that men, by their voluntary conventions, established it. -After it is once established by these conventions, it is <i>naturally</i> -attended with a strong sentiment of morals, which can proceed from -nothing but our sympathy with the interests of society. We need no -other explication of that esteem which attends such of the natural -virtues as have a tendency to the public good.</p> - -<p>I must farther add, that there are several circumstances which render -this hypothesis much more probable with regard to the natural than -the artificial virtues. 'Tis certain, that the imagination is more -affected by what is particular, than by what is general; and that the -sentiments are always moved with difficulty, where their objects are -in any degree loose and undetermined. Now, every particular act of -justice is not beneficial to society, but the whole scheme or system; -and it may not perhaps be any individual person for whom we are -concerned, who receives benefit from justice, but the whole society -alike. On the contrary, every particular act of generosity, or relief -of the industrious and indigent, is beneficial, and is beneficial to -a particular person, who is not undeserving of it. 'Tis more natural, -therefore, to think that the tendencies of the latter virtue will -affect our sentiments, and command our approbation, than those of the -former; and therefore, since we find that the approbation of the former -arises from their tendencies, we may ascribe, with better reason, the -same cause to the approbation of the latter. In any number of similar -effects, if a cause can be discovered for one, we ought to extend -that cause to all the other effects which can be accounted for by -it; but much more, if these other effects be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[Pg 368]</a></span> attended with peculiar -circumstances, which facilitate the operation of that cause.</p> - -<p>Before I proceed farther, I must observe two remarkable circumstances -in this affair, which may seem objections to the present system. The -first may be thus explained. When any quality or character has a -tendency to the good of mankind, we are pleased with it, and approve -of it, because it presents the lively idea of pleasure; which idea -affects us by sympathy, and is itself a kind of pleasure. But as this -sympathy is very variable, it may be thought that our sentiments of -morals must admit of all the same variations. We sympathize more with -persons contiguous to us, than with persons remote from us; with our -acquaintance, than with strangers; with our countrymen, than with -foreigners. But notwithstanding this variation of our sympathy, we -give the same approbation to the same moral qualities in China as in -England. They appear equally virtuous, and recommend themselves equally -to the esteem of a judicious spectator. The sympathy varies without -a variation in our esteem. Our esteem, therefore, proceeds not from -sympathy.</p> - -<p>To this I answer, the approbation of moral qualities most certainly -is not derived from reason, or any comparison of ideas; but proceeds -entirely from a moral taste, and from certain sentiments of pleasure -or disgust, which arise upon the contemplation and view of particular -qualities or characters. Now, 'tis evident that those sentiments, -whencever they are derived, must vary according to the distance or -contiguity of the objects; nor can I feel the same lively pleasure from -the virtues of a person who lived in Greece two thousand years ago, -that I feel from the virtues of a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[Pg 369]</a></span> familiar friend and acquaintance. -Yet I do not say that I esteem the one more than the other; and -therefore, if the variation of the sentiment, without a variation of -the esteem, be an objection, it must have equal force against every -other system, as against that of sympathy. But to consider the matter -aright, it has no force at all; and 'tis the easiest matter in the -world to account for it. Our situation with regard both to persons and -things is in continual fluctuation; and a man that lies at a distance -from us, may in a little time become a familiar acquaintance. Besides, -every particular man has a peculiar position with regard to others; -and 'tis impossible we could ever converse together on any reasonable -terms, were each of us to consider characters and persons only as -they appear from his peculiar point of view. In order, therefore, to -prevent those continual <i>contradictions</i>, and arrive at a more <i>stable</i> -judgment of things, we fix on some <i>steady</i> and <i>general</i> points of -view, and always, in our thoughts, place ourselves in them, whatever -may be our present situation. In like manner, external beauty is -determined merely by pleasure; and 'tis evident a beautiful countenance -cannot give so much pleasure, when seen at a distance of twenty paces, -as when it is brought nearer us. We say not, however, that it appears -to us less beautiful; because we know what effect it will have in such -a position, and by that reflection we correct its momentary appearance.</p> - -<p>In general, all sentiments of blame or praise are variable, according -to our situation of nearness or remoteness with regard to the person -blamed or praised, and according to the present disposition of our -mind. But these variations we regard not in our general decisions, but -still apply the terms expressive of our liking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[Pg 370]</a></span> or dislike, in the same -manner as if we remained in one point of view. Experience soon teaches -us this method of correcting our sentiments, or at least of correcting -our language, where the sentiments are more stubborn and unalterable. -Our servant, if diligent and faithful, may excite stronger sentiments -of love and kindness than Marcus Brutus, as represented in history; -but we say not, upon that account, that the former character is more -laudable than the latter. We know that, were we to approach equally -near to that renowned patriot, he would command a much higher degree -of affection and admiration. Such corrections are common with regard -to all the senses; and indeed 'twere impossible we could ever make use -of language, or communicate our sentiments to one another, did we not -correct the momentary appearances of things, and overlook our present -situation.</p> - -<p>'Tis therefore from the influence of characters and qualities upon -those who have an intercourse with any person, that we blame or praise -him. We consider not whether the persons affected by the qualities -be our acquaintance or strangers, countrymen or foreigners. Nay, we -overlook our own interest in those general judgments, and blame not a -man for opposing us in any of our pretensions, when his own interest -is particularly concerned. We make allowance for a certain degree of -selfishness in men, because we know it to be inseparable from human -nature, and inherent in our frame and constitution. By this reflection -we correct those sentiments of blame which so naturally arise upon any -opposition.</p> - -<p>But however the general principle of our blame or praise may be -corrected by those other principles, 'tis certain they are not -altogether efficacious, nor do our<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_371" id="Page_371">[Pg 371]</a></span> passions often correspond entirely -to the present theory. 'Tis seldom men heartily love what lies at -a distance from them, and what no way redounds to their particular -benefit; as 'tis no less rare to meet with persons who can pardon -another any opposition he makes to their interest, however justifiable -that opposition may be by the general rules of morality. Here we are -contented with saying, that reason requires such an impartial conduct, -but that 'tis seldom we can bring ourselves to it, and that our -passions do not readily follow the determination of our judgment. This -language will be easily understood, if we consider what we formerly -said concerning that <i>reason</i> which is able to oppose our passion, and -which we have found to be nothing but a general calm determination -of the passions, founded on some distant view or reflection. When -we form our judgments of persons merely from the tendency of their -characters to our own benefit, or to that of our friends, we find so -many contradictions to our sentiments in society and conversation, and -such an uncertainty from the incessant changes of our situation, that -we seek some other standard of merit and demerit, which may not admit -of so great variation. Being thus loosened from our first station, we -cannot afterwards fix ourselves so commodiously by any means as by a -sympathy with those who have any commerce with the person we consider. -This is far from being as lively as when our own interest is concerned, -or that of our particular friends; nor has it such an influence on our -love and hatred; but being equally conformable to our calm and general -principles, 'tis said to have an equal authority over our reason, and -to command our judgment and opinion. We blame equally a bad action -which we read of in history, with one performed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_372" id="Page_372">[Pg 372]</a></span> in our neighbourhood -t'other day; the meaning of which is, that we know from reflection that -the former action would excite as strong sentiments of disapprobation -as the latter, were it placed in the same position.</p> - -<p>I now proceed to the <i>second</i> remarkable circumstance which I proposed -to take notice of. Where a person is possessed of a character that -in its natural tendency is beneficial to society, we esteem him -virtuous, and are delighted with the view of his character, even though -particular accidents prevent its operation, and incapacitate him from -being serviceable to his friends and country. Virtue in rags is still -virtue; and the love which it procures attends a man into a dungeon or -desart, where the virtue can no longer be exerted in action, and is -lost to all the world. Now, this may be esteemed an objection to the -present system. Sympathy interests us in the good of mankind; and if -sympathy were the source of our esteem for virtue, that sentiment of -approbation could only take place where the virtue actually attained -its end, and was beneficial to mankind. Where it fails of its end, 'tis -only an imperfect means; and therefore can never acquire any merit from -that end. The goodness of an end can bestow a merit on such means alone -as are complete, and actually produce the end.</p> - -<p>To this we may reply, that where any object, in all its parts, is -fitted to attain any agreeable end, it naturally gives us pleasure, -and is esteemed beautiful, even though some external circumstances be -wanting to render it altogether effectual. 'Tis sufficient if every -thing be complete in the object itself. A house that is contrived -with great judgment for all the commodities of life, pleases us upon -that account; though perhaps we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_373" id="Page_373">[Pg 373]</a></span> are sensible, that no one will ever -dwell in it. A fertile soil, and a happy climate, delight us by a -reflection on the happiness which they would afford the inhabitants, -though at present the country be desart and uninhabited. A man, whose -limbs and shape promise strength and activity, is esteemed handsome, -though condemned to perpetual imprisonment. The imagination has a set -of passions belonging to it, upon which our sentiments of beauty much -depend. These passions are moved by degrees of liveliness and strength, -which are inferior to <i>belief</i>, and independent of the real existence -of their objects. Where a character is, in every respect, fitted to be -beneficial to society, the imagination passes easily from the cause to -the effect, without considering that there are still some circumstances -wanting to render the cause a complete one. <i>General rules</i> create a -species of probability, which sometimes influences the judgment, and -always the imagination.</p> - -<p>'Tis true, when the cause is complete, and a good disposition is -attended with good fortune, which renders it really beneficial to -society, it gives a stronger pleasure to the spectator, and is attended -with a more lively sympathy. We are more affected by it; and yet we do -not say that it is more virtuous, or that we esteem it more. We know -that an alteration of fortune may render the benevolent disposition -entirely impotent; and therefore we separate, as much as possible, the -fortune from the disposition. The case is the same as when we correct -the different sentiments of virtue, which proceed from its different -distances from ourselves. The passions do not always follow our -corrections; but these corrections serve sufficiently to regulate our -abstract notions, and are alone regarded when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_374" id="Page_374">[Pg 374]</a></span> we pronounce in general -concerning the degrees of vice and virtue.</p> - -<p>'Tis observed by critics, that all words or sentences which are -difficult to the pronunciation, are disagreeable to the ear. There -is no difference, whether a man hear them pronounced, or read them -silently to himself. When I run over a book with my eye, I imagine -I hear it all; and also, by the force of imagination, enter into -the uneasiness which the delivery of it would give the speaker. The -uneasiness is not real; but, as such a composition of words has a -natural tendency to produce it, this is sufficient to affect the -mind with a painful sentiment, and render the discourse harsh and -disagreeable. 'Tis a similar case, where any real quality is, by -accidental circumstances, rendered impotent, and is deprived of its -natural influence on society.</p> - -<p>Upon these principles we may easily remove any contradiction which -may appear to be betwixt the <i>extensive sympathy</i>, on which our -sentiments of virtue depend, and that <i>limited generosity</i>, which I -have frequently observed to be natural to men, and which justice and -property suppose, according to the precedent reasoning. My sympathy -with another may give me the sentiment of pain and disapprobation, when -any object is presented that has a tendency to give him uneasiness; -though I may not be willing to sacrifice any thing of my own interest, -or cross any of my passions, for his satisfaction. A house may -displease me by being ill-contrived for the convenience of the owner; -and yet I may refuse to give a shilling towards the rebuilding of it. -Sentiments must touch the heart to make them control our passions: but -they need not extend beyond the imagination, to make them influence<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_375" id="Page_375">[Pg 375]</a></span> -our taste. When a building seems clumsy and tottering to the eye, it is -ugly and disagreeable; though we may be fully assured of the solidity -of the workmanship. 'Tis a kind of fear which causes this sentiment -of disapprobation; but the passion is not the same with that which we -feel when obliged to stand under a wall that we really think tottering -and insecure. The <i>seeming tendencies</i> of objects affect the mind: -and the emotions they excite are of a like species with those which -proceed from the <i>real consequences</i> of objects, but their feeling is -different. Nay, these emotions are so different in their feeling, that -they may often be contrary, without destroying each other; as when the -fortifications of a city belonging to an enemy are esteemed beautiful -upon account of their strength, though we could wish that they were -entirely destroyed. The imagination adheres to the <i>general</i> views of -things, and distinguishes the feelings they produce from those which -arise from our particular and momentary situation.</p> - -<p>If we examine the panegyrics that are commonly made of great men, we -shall find, that most of the qualities which are attributed to them -may be divided into two kinds, viz. such as make them perform their -part in society; and such as render them serviceable to themselves, and -enable them to promote their own interest. Their <i>prudence, temperance, -frugality, industry, assiduity, enterprise, dexterity</i>, are celebrated, -as well as their <i>generosity</i> and <i>humanity</i>. If we ever give an -indulgence to any quality that disables a man from making a figure in -life, 'tis to that of <i>indolence</i>, which is not supposed to deprive -one of his parts and capacity, but only suspends their exercise; and -that without any inconvenience to the person himself, since 'tis, in -some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_376" id="Page_376">[Pg 376]</a></span> measure, from his own choice. Yet indolence is always allowed to -be a fault, and a very great one, if extreme: nor do a man's friends -ever acknowledge him to be subject to it, but in order to save his -character in more material articles. He could make a figure, say they, -if he pleased to give application: his understanding is sound, his -conception quick, and his memory tenacious; but he hates business, and -is indifferent about his fortune. And this a man sometimes may make -even a subject of vanity, though with the air of confessing a fault: -because he may think, that this incapacity for business implies much -more noble qualities; such as a philosophical spirit, a fine taste, a -delicate wit, or a relish for pleasure and society. But take any other -case: suppose a quality that, without being an indication of any other -good qualities, incapacitates a man <i>always</i> for business, and is -destructive to his interest; such as a blundering understanding, and a -wrong judgment of every thing in life; inconstancy and irresolution; or -a want of address in the management of men and business: these are all -allowed to be imperfections in a character; and many men would rather -acknowledge the greatest crimes, than have it suspected that they are -in any degree subject to them.</p> - -<p>'Tis very happy, in our philosophical researches, when we find the -same phenomenon diversified by a variety of circumstances; and by -discovering what is common among them, can the better assure ourselves -of the truth of any hypothesis we may make use of to explain it. Were -nothing esteemed virtue but what were beneficial to society, I am -persuaded that the foregoing explication of the moral sense ought still -to be received, and that upon sufficient evidence: but this evidence -must grow upon us, when we find other kinds<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_377" id="Page_377">[Pg 377]</a></span> of virtue which will not -admit of any explication except from that hypothesis. Here is a man -who is not remarkably defective in his social qualities; but what -principally recommends him is his dexterity in business, by which he -has extricated himself from the greatest difficulties, and conducted -the most delicate affairs with a singular address and prudence. I -find an esteem for him immediately to arise in me: his company is a -satisfaction to me; and before I have any farther acquaintance with -him, I would rather do him a service than another whose character is -in every other respect equal, but is deficient in that particular. In -this case, the qualities that please me are all considered as useful -to the person, and as having a tendency to promote his interest and -satisfaction. They are only regarded as means to an end, and please me -in proportion to their fitness for that end. The end, therefore must -be agreeable to me. But what makes the end agreeable? The person is a -stranger: I am no way interested in him, nor lie under any obligation -to him: his happiness concerns not me, farther than the happiness -of every human, and indeed of every sensible creature; that is, it -affects me only by sympathy. From that principle, whenever I discover -his happiness and good, whether in its causes or effects, I enter so -deeply into it, that it gives me a sensible emotion. The appearance -of qualities that have a <i>tendency</i> to promote it, have an agreeable -effect upon my imagination, and command my love and esteem.</p> - -<p>This theory may serve to explain, why the same qualities, in all cases, -produce both pride and love, humility and hatred; and the same man -is always virtuous or vicious, accomplished or despicable to others, -who is so to himself. A person in whom we discover any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_378" id="Page_378">[Pg 378]</a></span> passion or -habit, which originally is only incommodious to himself, becomes always -disagreeable to us merely on its account; as, on the other hand, one -whose character is only dangerous and disagreeable to others, can -never be satisfied with himself, as long as he is sensible of that -disadvantage. Nor is this observable only with regard to characters and -manners, but may be remarked even in the most minute circumstances. A -violent cough in another gives us uneasiness; though in itself it does -not in the least affect us. A man will be mortified if you tell him he -has a stinking breath; though 'tis evidently no annoyance to himself. -Our fancy easily changes its situation; and, either surveying ourselves -as we appear to others, or considering others as they feel themselves, -we enter, by that means, into sentiments which no way belong to us, -and in which nothing but sympathy is able to interest us. And this -sympathy we sometimes carry so far, as even to be displeased with a -quality commodious to us, merely because it displeases others, and -makes us disagreeable in their eyes; though perhaps we never can have -any interest in rendering ourselves agreeable to them.</p> - -<p>There have been many systems of morality advanced by philosophers -in all ages; but if they are strictly examined, they may be reduced -to two, which alone merit our attention. Moral good and evil are -certainly distinguished by our <i>sentiments</i>, not by <i>reason</i>: but these -sentiments may arise either from the mere species or appearance of -characters and passions, or from reflections on their tendency to the -happiness of mankind, and of particular persons. My opinion is, that -both these causes are intermixed in our judgments of morals; after the -same manner as they are in our decisions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_379" id="Page_379">[Pg 379]</a></span> concerning most kinds of -external beauty: though I am also of opinion, that reflections on the -tendencies of actions have by far the greatest influence, and determine -all the great lines of our duty. There are, however, instances in cases -of less moment, wherein this immediate taste or sentiment produces our -approbation. Wit, and a certain easy and disengaged behaviour, are -qualities <i>immediately agreeable</i> to others, and command their love -and esteem. Some of these qualities produce satisfaction in others -by particular <i>original</i> principles of human nature, which cannot be -accounted for: odiers may be resolved into principles which are more -general. This will best appear upon a particular inquiry.</p> - -<p>As some qualities acquire their merit from their being <i>immediately -agreeable</i> to others, without any tendency to public interest; so some -are denominated virtuous from their being <i>immediately agreeable</i> -to the person himself, who possesses them. Each of the passions and -operations of the mind has a particular feeling, which must be either -agreeable or disagreeable. The first is virtuous, the second vicious. -This particular feeling constitutes the very nature of the passion; and -therefore needs not be accounted for.</p> - -<p>But, however directly the distinction of vice and virtue may seem -to flow from the immediate pleasure or uneasiness, which particular -qualities cause to ourselves or others, 'tis easy to observe, that it -has also a considerable dependence on the principle of <i>sympathy</i> so -often insisted on. We approve of a person who is possessed of qualities -<i>immediately agreeable</i> to those with whom he has any commerce, though -perhaps we ourselves never reaped any pleasure from them. We also -approve of one who is possessed of qualities that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_380" id="Page_380">[Pg 380]</a></span> are <i>immediately -agreeable</i> to himself, though they be of no service to any mortal. To -account for this, we must have recourse to the foregoing principles.</p> - -<p>Thus, to take a general review of the present hypothesis: Every quality -of the mind is denominated virtuous which gives pleasure by the mere -survey, as every quality which produces pain is called vicious. This -pleasure and this pain may arise from four different sources. For -we reap a pleasure from the view of a character which is naturally -fitted to be useful to others, or to the person himself, or which is -agreeable to others, or to the person himself. One may perhaps be -surprised, that, amidst all these interests and pleasures, we should -forget our own, which touch us so nearly on every other occasion. But -we shall easily satisfy ourselves on this head, when we consider, that -every particular person's pleasure and interest being different, 'tis -impossible men could ever agree in their sentiments and judgments, -unless they chose some common point of view, from which they might -survey their object, and which might cause it to appear the same to all -of them. Now, in judging of characters, the only interest or pleasure -which appears the same to every spectator, is that of the person -himself whose character is examined, or that of persons who have a -connexion with him. And, though such interests and pleasures touch us -more faintly than our own, yet, being more constant and universal, they -counterbalance the latter even in practice, and are alone admitted in -speculation as the standard of virtue and morality. They alone produce -that particular feeling or sentiment on which moral distinctions depend.</p> - -<p>As to the good or ill desert of virtue or vice, 'tis an evident -consequence of the sentiments of pleasure or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_381" id="Page_381">[Pg 381]</a></span> uneasiness. These -sentiments produce love or hatred; and love or hatred, by the original -constitution of human passion, is attended with benevolence or anger; -that is, with a desire of making happy the person we love, and -miserable the person we hate. We have treated of this more fully on -another occasion.</p> - - - -<hr class="tb" /> -<h5><a name="SECTION_II_cIII" id="SECTION_II_cIII">SECTION II.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF GREATNESS OF MIND.</h5> - - -<p>It may now be proper to illustrate this general system of morals, by -applying it to particular instances of virtue and vice, and showing how -their merit or demerit arises from the four sources here explained. We -shall begin with examining the passions of <i>pride</i> and <i>humility</i>, and -shall consider the vice or virtue that lies in their excesses or just -proportion. An excessive pride or overweening conceit of ourselves, -is always esteemed vicious, and is universally hated, as modesty, or -a just sense of our weakness, is esteemed virtuous, and procures the -good will of every one. Of the four sources of moral distinctions, this -is to be ascribed to the <i>third</i>; viz. the immediate agreeableness and -disagreeableness of a quality to others, without any reflections on the -tendency of that quality.</p> - -<p>In order to prove this, we must have recourse to two principles, -which are very conspicuous in human nature. The <i>first</i> of these is -the <i>sympathy</i> and communication of sentiments and passions above -mentioned. So close and intimate is the correspondence of human souls, -that no sooner any person approaches me, than<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_382" id="Page_382">[Pg 382]</a></span> he diffuses on me all -his opinions, and draws along my judgment in a greater or lesser -degree. And though, on many occasions, my sympathy with him goes not -so far as entirely to change my sentiments and way of thinking, yet it -seldom is so weak as not to disturb the easy course of my thought, and -give an authority to that opinion which is recommended to me by his -assent and approbation. Nor is it any way material upon what subject he -and I employ our thoughts. Whether we judge of an indifferent person, -or of my own character, my sympathy gives equal force to his decision: -and even his sentiments of his own merit make me consider him in the -same light in which he regards himself.</p> - -<p>This principle of sympathy is of so powerful and insinuating a nature, -that it enters into most of our sentiments and passions, and often -takes place under the appearance of its contrary. For 'tis remarkable, -that when a person opposes me in any thing which I am strongly bent -upon, and rouses up my passion by contradiction, I have always a -degree of sympathy with him, nor does my commotion proceed from any -other origin. We may here observe an evident conflict or rencounter -of opposite principles and passions. On the one side, there is that -passion or sentiment which is natural to me; and 'tis observable, that -the stronger this passion is, the greater is the commotion. There must -also be some passion or sentiment on the other side; and this passion -can proceed from nothing but sympathy. The sentiments of others can -never affect us, but by becoming in some measure our own; in which case -they operate upon us, by opposing and increasing our passions, in the -very same manner as if they had been originally derived from our own -temper<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_383" id="Page_383">[Pg 383]</a></span> and disposition. While they remain concealed in the minds of -others, they can never have any influence upon us: and even when they -are known, if they went no farther than the imagination or conception, -that faculty is so accustomed to objects of every different kind, that -a mere idea, though contrary to our sentiments and inclinations, would -never alone be able to affect us.</p> - -<p>The <i>second</i> principle I shall take notice of is that of <i>comparison</i>, -or the variation of our judgments concerning objects, according to -the proportion they bear to those with which we compare them. We -judge more of objects by comparison than by their intrinsic worth and -value; and regard every thing as mean, when set in opposition to what -is superior of the same kind. But no comparison is more obvious than -that with ourselves; and hence it is, that on all occasions it takes -place, and mixes with most of our passions. This kind of comparison is -directly contrary to sympathy in its operation, as we have observed in -treating of <i>compassion and malice</i>.<a name="FNanchor_2_31" id="FNanchor_2_31"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_31" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> <i>In all kinds of comparison, an -object makes us always receive from another, to which it is compared, -a sensation contrary to what arises from itself in its direct and -immediate survey. The direct survey of another's pleasure naturally -gives us pleasure; and therefore produces pain, when compared with our -own. His pain, considered in itself is painful; but augments the idea -of our own happiness, and gives us pleasure</i>.</p> - -<p>Since then those principles of sympathy, and a comparison with -ourselves, are directly contrary, it may be worth while to consider, -what general rules can be<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_384" id="Page_384">[Pg 384]</a></span> formed, beside the particular temper of -the person, for the prevalence of the one or the other. Suppose I am -now in safety at land, and would willingly reap some pleasure from -this consideration, I must think on the miserable condition of those -who are at sea in a storm, and must endeavour to render this idea as -strong and lively as possible, in order to make me more sensible of -my own happiness. But whatever pains I may take, the comparison will -never have an equal efficacy, as if I were really on the shore,<a name="FNanchor_3_32" id="FNanchor_3_32"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_32" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> and -saw a ship at a distance tost by a tempest, and in danger every moment -of perishing on a rock or sand-bank. But suppose this idea to become -still more lively. Suppose the ship to be driven so near me, that I can -perceive distinctly the horror painted on the countenance of the seamen -and passengers, hear their lamentable cries, see the dearest friends -give their last adieu, or embrace with a resolution to perish in each -other's arms: no man has so savage a heart as to reap any pleasure from -such a spectacle, or withstand the motions of the tenderest compassion -and sympathy. 'Tis evident, therefore, there is a medium in this case; -and that, if the idea be too faint, it has no influence by comparison; -and on the other hand, if it be too strong, it operates on us entirely -by sympathy, which is the contrary to comparison. Sympathy being the -conversion of an idea into an impression, demands a greater force and -vivacity in the idea than is requisite to comparison.</p> - -<p>All this is easily applied to the present subject. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_385" id="Page_385">[Pg 385]</a></span> sink very much -in our own eyes when in the presence of a great man, or one of a -superior genius; and this humility makes a considerable ingredient in -that <i>respect</i> which we pay our superiors, according to our foregoing -reasonings on that passion.<a name="FNanchor_4_33" id="FNanchor_4_33"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_33" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> Sometimes even envy and hatred arise -from the comparison; but in the greatest part of men, it rests at -respect and esteem. As sympathy has such a powerful influence on the -human mind, it causes pride to have in some measure the same effect as -merit; and, by making us enter into those elevated sentiments which the -proud man entertains of himself, presents that comparison, which is so -mortifying and disagreeable. Our judgment does not entirely accompany -him in the flattering conceit in which he pleases himself; but still -is so shaken as to receive the idea it presents, and to give it an -influence above the loose conceptions of the imagination. A man who, -in an idle humour, would form a notion of a person of a merit very -much superior to his own, would not be mortified by that fiction: but -when a man, whom we are really persuaded to be of inferior merit, is -presented to us; if we observe in him any extraordinary degree of pride -and self-conceit, the firm persuasion he has of his own merit, takes -hold of the imagination, and diminishes us in our own eyes, in the same -manner as if he were really possessed of all the good qualities which -he so liberally attributes to himself. Our idea is here precisely in -that medium which is requisite to make it operate on us by comparison. -Were it accompanied with belief, and did the person appear to have -the same merit which he assumes to himself, it would have a contrary -effect, and would operate on us by sympathy. The influence of that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_386" id="Page_386">[Pg 386]</a></span> -principle would then be superior to that of comparison, contrary to -what happens where the person's merit seems below his pretensions.</p> - -<p>The necessary consequence of these principles is, that pride, or -an overweening conceit of ourselves, must be vicious; since it -causes uneasiness in all men, and presents them every moment with a -disagreeable comparison. 'Tis a trite observation in philosophy, and -even in common life and conversation, that 'tis our own pride, which -makes us so much displeased with the pride of other people; and that -vanity becomes insupportable to us merely because we are vain. The gay -naturally associate themselves with the gay, and the amorous with the -amorous; but the proud never can endure the proud, and rather seek the -company of those who are of an opposite disposition. As we are all of -us proud in some degree, pride is universally blamed and condemned -by all mankind, as having a natural tendency to cause uneasiness in -others by means of comparison. And this effect must follow the more -naturally, that those, who have an ill-grounded conceit of themselves, -are for ever making those comparisons; nor have they any other method -of supporting their vanity. A man of sense and merit is pleased with -himself, independent of all foreign considerations; but a fool must -always find some person that is more foolish, in order to keep himself -in good humour with his own parts and understanding.</p> - -<p>But though an overweening conceit of our own merit be vicious and -disagreeable, nothing can be more laudable than to have a value for -ourselves, where we really have qualities that are valuable. The -utility and advantage of any quality to ourselves is a source of -virtue, as well as its agreeableness to others; and 'tis certain, that -nothing is more useful to us in the conduct of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_387" id="Page_387">[Pg 387]</a></span> life, than a due degree -of pride, which makes us sensible of our own merit, and gives us a -confidence and assurance in all our projects and enterprises. Whatever -capacity any one may be endowed with, 'tis entirely useless to him, if -he be not acquainted with it, and form not designs suitable to it. 'Tis -requisite on all occasions to know our own force; and were it allowable -to err on either side, 'twould be more advantageous to over-rate our -merit, than to form ideas of it below its just standard. Fortune -commonly favours the bold and enterprising; and nothing inspires us -with more boldness than a good opinion of ourselves.</p> - -<p>Add to this, that though pride, or self-applause, be sometimes -disagreeable to others, 'tis always agreeable to ourselves; as, on the -other hand, modesty, though it give pleasure to every one who observes -it, produces often uneasiness in the person endowed with it. Now, it -has been observed, that our own sensations determine the vice and -virtue of any quality, as well as those sensations, which it may excite -in others.</p> - -<p>Thus, self-satisfaction and vanity may not only be allowable, but -requisite in a character. 'Tis however certain, that good breeding and -decency require that we should avoid all signs and expressions, which -tend directly to show that passion. We have, all of us, a wonderful -partiality for ourselves, and were we always to give vent to our -sentiments in this particular, we should mutually cause the greatest -indignation in each other, not only by the immediate presence of so -disagreeable a subject of comparison, but also by the contrariety of -our judgments. In like manner, therefore, as we establish the <i>laws -of nature</i>, in order to secure property in society, and prevent the -opposition of self-interest, we establish the <i>rules of good breeding</i>, -in order<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_388" id="Page_388">[Pg 388]</a></span> to prevent the opposition of men's pride, and render -conversation agreeable and offensive. Nothing is more disagreeable than -a man's overweening conceit of himself. Every one almost has a strong -propensity to this vice. No one can well distinguish <i>in himself</i> -betwixt the vice and virtue, or be certain that his esteem of his -own merit is well-founded; for these reasons, all direct expressions -of this passion are condemned; nor do we make any exception to this -rule in favour of men of sense and merit. They are not allowed to do -themselves justice openly in words, no more than other people; and even -if they show a reserve and secret doubt in doing themselves justice -in their own thoughts, they will be more applauded. That impertinent, -and almost universal propensity of men, to overvalue themselves, has -given us such a <i>prejudice</i> against self-applause, that we are apt to -condemn it by a <i>general rule</i> wherever we meet with it; and 'tis with -some difficulty we give a privilege to men of sense, even in their -most secret thoughts. At least, it must be owned that some disguise in -this particular is absolutely requisite; and that, if we harbour pride -in our breasts, we must carry a fair outside, and have the appearance -of modesty and mutual deference in all our conduct and behaviour. We -must, on every occasion, be ready to prefer others to ourselves; to -treat them with a kind of deference, even though they be our equals; to -seem always the lowest and least in the company, where we are not very -much distinguished above them; and if we observe these rules in our -conduct, men will have more indulgence for our secret sentiments, when -we discover them in an oblique manner.</p> - -<p>I believe no one who has any practice of the world, and can penetrate -into the inward sentiments of men,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_389" id="Page_389">[Pg 389]</a></span> will assert that the humility which -good-breeding and decency require of us, goes beyond the outside, -or that a thorough sincerity in this particular is esteemed a real -part of our duty. On the contrary, we may observe, that a genuine and -hearty pride, or self-esteem, if well concealed and well founded, is -essential to the character of a man of honour, and that there is no -quality of the mind which is more indispensably requisite to procure -the esteem and approbation of mankind. There are certain deferences and -mutual submissions which custom requires of the different ranks of men -towards each other; and whoever exceeds in this particular, if through -interest, is accused of meanness, if through ignorance, of simplicity. -'Tis necessary, therefore, to know our rank and station in the world, -whether it be fixed by our birth, fortune, employments, talents, or -reputation. 'Tis necessary to feel the sentiment and passion of pride -in conformity to it, and to regulate our actions accordingly. And -should it be said, that prudence may suffice to regulate our actions in -this particular, without any real pride, I would observe, that here the -object of prudence is to conform our actions to the general usage and -custom; and that 'tis impossible those tacit airs of superiority should -ever have been established and authorized by custom, unless men were -generally proud, and unless that passion were generally approved, when -well-grounded.</p> - -<p>If we pass from common life and conversation to history, this reasoning -acquires new force, when we observe, that all those great actions and -sentiments which have become the admiration of mankind, are founded on -nothing but pride and self-esteem. 'Go,' says Alexander the Great to -his soldiers, when they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_390" id="Page_390">[Pg 390]</a></span> refused to follow him to the Indies, 'go tell -your countrymen, that you left Alexander completing the conquest of -the world.' This passage was always particularly admired by the prince -of Condé, as we learn from St Evremond. 'Alexander,' said that prince, -'abandoned by his soldiers, among barbarians not yet fully subdued, -felt in himself such a dignity and right of empire, that he could not -believe it possible any one could refuse to obey him. Whether in Europe -or in Asia, among Greeks or Persians, all was indifferent to him; -wherever he found men, he fancied he had found subjects.'</p> - -<p>In general, we may observe, that whatever we call <i>heroic virtue</i>, -and admire under the character of greatness and elevation of mind, is -either nothing but a steady and well-established pride and self-esteem, -or partakes largely of that passion. Courage, intrepidity, ambition, -love of glory, magnanimity, and all the other shining virtues of that -kind, have plainly a strong mixture of self-esteem in them, and derive -a great part of their merit from that origin. Accordingly we find, -that many religious declaimers decry those virtues as purely pagan -and natural, and represent to us the excellency of the <i>Christian</i> -religion, which places humility in the rank of virtues, and corrects -the judgment of the world, and even of philosophers, who so generally -admire all the efforts of pride and ambition. Whether this virtue of -humility has been rightly understood, I shall not pretend to determine. -I am content with the concession, that the world naturally esteems a -well-regulated pride, which secretly animates our conduct, without -breaking out into such indecent expressions of vanity as may offend the -vanity of others.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_391" id="Page_391">[Pg 391]</a></span></p> - -<p>The merit of pride or self-esteem is derived from two circumstances, -viz. its utility, and its agreeableness to ourselves; by which it -capacitates us for business, and at the same time gives us an immediate -satisfaction. When it goes beyond its just bounds, it loses the first -advantage, and even becomes prejudicial; which is the reason why we -condemn an extravagant pride and ambition, however regulated by the -decorums of good-breeding and politeness. But as such a passion is -still agreeable, and conveys an elevated and sublime sensation to the -person who is actuated by it, the sympathy with that satisfaction -diminishes considerably the blame which naturally attends its dangerous -influence on our conduct and behaviour. Accordingly we may observe, -that an excessive courage and magnanimity, especially when it displays -itself under the frowns of fortune, contributes in a great measure to -the character of a hero, and will render a person the admiration of -posterity, at the same time that it ruins his affairs, and leads him -into dangers and difficulties with which otherwise he would never have -been acquainted.</p> - -<p>Heroism, or military glory, is much admired by the generality of -mankind. They consider it as the most sublime kind of merit. Men -of cool reflection are not so sanguine in their praises of it. The -infinite confusions and disorder which it has caused in the world, -diminish much of its merit in their eyes. When they would oppose the -popular notions on this head, they always paint out the evils which -this supposed virtue has produced in human society; the subversion of -empires, the devastation of provinces, the sack of cities. As long as -these are present to us, we are more inclined to hate than admire the -ambition of heroes. But<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_392" id="Page_392">[Pg 392]</a></span> when we fix our view on the person himself, -who is the author of all this mischief, there is something so dazzling -in his character, the mere contemplation of it so elevates the mind, -that we cannot refuse it our admiration. The pain which we receive from -its tendency to the prejudice of society, is overpowered by a stronger -and more immediate sympathy.</p> - -<p>Thus, our explication of the merit or demerit which attends the -degrees of pride or self-esteem, may serve as a strong argument for -the preceding hypothesis, by showing the effects of those principles -above explained in all the variations of our judgments concerning -that passion. Nor will this reasoning be advantageous to us only by -showing, that the distinction of vice and virtue arises from the <i>four</i> -principles of the <i>advantage</i> and of the <i>pleasure</i> of the <i>person -himself</i> and of <i>others</i>, but may also afford us a strong proof of some -under parts of that hypothesis.</p> - -<p>No one who duly considers of this matter will make any scruple of -allowing, that any piece of ill-breeding, or any expression of pride -and haughtiness, is displeasing to us, merely because it shocks our -own pride, and leads us by sympathy into a comparison which causes the -disagreeable passion of humility. Now, as an insolence of this kind -is blamed even in a person who has always been civil to ourselves in -particular, nay, in one whose name is only known to us in history, it -follows that our disapprobation proceeds from a sympathy with others, -and from the reflection that such a character is highly displeasing -and odious to every one who converses or has any intercourse with -the person possest of it. We sympathize with those people in their -uneasiness; and as their uneasiness proceeds in part from a sympathy -with the person who insults<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_393" id="Page_393">[Pg 393]</a></span> them, we may here observe a double rebound -of the sympathy, which is a principle very similar to what we have -observed on another occasion.<a name="FNanchor_5_34" id="FNanchor_5_34"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_34" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_30" id="Footnote_1_30"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_30"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Decentior equus cujus astricta sunt ilia; sed idem -velocior. Pulcher aspectu sit athleta, cujus lacertos exercitatio -expressit; idem certamini paratior. Nunquam vero <i>species ab utilitate</i> -dividitur. Sed hoc quidem discernere, modici judicii est.—Quinct. lib. -8.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_31" id="Footnote_2_31"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_31"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> Book II. Part II. Sect 8.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_32" id="Footnote_3_32"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_32"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> -Suavi mari magno turbantibus æquora ventis<br /> -E terra magnum alterius spectare laborem;<br /> -Non quia vexari quenquam est jucunda voluptas,<br /> -Sed quibus ipse malis careas quia cernere suav'est.—<i>Lucret</i>.<br /> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_33" id="Footnote_4_33"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_33"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Book II. Part II. Sect 10.</p></div> - - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<h5><a name="SECTION_III_cIII" id="SECTION_III_cIII">SECTION III.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF GOODNESS AND BENEVOLENCE.</h5> - - -<p>Having thus explained the origin of that praise and approbation which -attends every thing we call <i>great</i> in human affections, we now proceed -to give an account of their <i>goodness</i>, and show whence its merit is -derived.</p> - -<p>When experience has once given us a competent knowledge of human -affairs, and has taught us the proportion they bear to human passion, -we perceive that the generosity of men is very limited, and that it -seldom extends beyond their friends and family, or, at most, beyond -their native country. Being thus acquainted with the nature of man, -we expect not any impossibilities from him; but confine our view to -that narrow circle in which any person moves, in order to form a -judgment of his moral character. When the natural tendency of his -passions leads him to be serviceable and useful within his sphere, -we approve of his character, and love his person, by a sympathy with -the sentiments of those who have a more particular connexion with -him. We are quickly obliged to forget<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_394" id="Page_394">[Pg 394]</a></span> get our own interest in our -judgments of this kind, by reason of the perpetual contradictions -we meet with in society and conversation, from persons that are not -placed in the same situation, and have not the same interest with -ourselves. The only point of view in which our sentiments concur with -those of others, is when we consider the tendency of any passion to -the advantage or harm of those who have any immediate connexion or -intercourse with the person possessed of it. And though this advantage -or harm be often very remote from ourselves, yet sometimes 'tis very -near us, and interests us strongly by sympathy. This concern we -readily extend to other cases that are resembling; and when these are -very remote, our sympathy is proportionably weaker, and our praise or -blame fainter and more doubtful. The case is here the same as in our -judgments concerning external bodies. All objects seem to diminish by -their distance; but though the appearance of objects to our senses -be the original standard by which we judge of them, yet we do not -say that they actually diminish by the distance; but, correcting the -appearance by reflection, arrive at a more constant and established -judgment concerning them. In like manner, though sympathy be much -fainter than our concern for ourselves, and a sympathy with persons -remote from us much fainter than that with persons near and contiguous, -yet we neglect all these differences in our calm judgments concerning -the characters of men. Besides that we ourselves often change our -situation in this particular, we every day meet with persons who are -in a different situation from ourselves, and who could never converse -with us on any reasonable terms, were we to remain constantly in that -situation and point of view which is peculiar to us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_395" id="Page_395">[Pg 395]</a></span> The intercourse -of sentiments, therefore, in society and conversation, makes us form -some general unalterable standard by which we may approve or disapprove -of characters and manners. And though the <i>heart</i> does not always take -part with those general notions, or regulate its love and hatred by -them, yet are they sufficient for discourse, and serve all our purposes -in company, in the pulpit, on the theatre, and in the schools.</p> - -<p>From these principles, we may easily account for that merit which is -commonly ascribed to <i>generosity, humanity, compassion, gratitude, -friendship, fidelity, zeal, disinterestedness, liberality</i>, and all -those other qualities which form the character of good and benevolent. -A propensity to the tender passions makes a man agreeable and useful -in all the parts of life, and gives a just direction to all his other -qualities, which otherwise may become prejudicial to society. Courage -and ambition, when not regulated by benevolence, are fit only to make -a tyrant and public robber. 'Tis the same case with judgment and -capacity, and all the qualities of that kind. They are indifferent in -themselves to the interests of society, and have a tendency to the -good or ill of mankind, according as they are directed by these other -passions.</p> - -<p>As love is <i>immediately agreeable</i> to the person who is actuated by it, -and hatred <i>immediately disagreeable</i>, this may also be a considerable -reason why we praise all the passions that partake of the former, -and blame all those that have any considerable share of the latter. -'Tis certain we are infinitely touched with a tender sentiment, as -well as with a great one. The tears naturally start in our eyes at -the conception of it; nor can we forbear giving a loose to the same -tenderness<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_396" id="Page_396">[Pg 396]</a></span> towards the person who exerts it. All this seems to me a -proof that our approbation has, in these cases, an origin different -from the prospect of utility and advantage, either to ourselves or -others. To which we may add, that men naturally, without reflection, -approve of that character which is most like their own. The man of a -mild disposition and tender affections, in forming a notion of the -most perfect virtue, mixes in it more of benevolence and humanity than -the man of courage and enterprise, who naturally looks upon a certain -elevation of the mind as the most accomplished character. This must -evidently proceed from an <i>immediate</i> sympathy, which men have with -characters similar to their own. They enter with more warmth into such -sentiments, and feel more sensibly the pleasure which arises from them.</p> - -<p>'Tis remarkable, that nothing touches a man of humanity more than -any instance of extraordinary delicacy in love or friendship, where -a person is attentive to the smallest concerns of his friend, and is -willing to sacrifice to them the most considerable interest of his own. -Such delicacies have little influence on society; because they make -us regard the greatest trifles: but they are the more engaging the -more minute the concern is, and are a proof of the highest merit in -any one who is capable of them. The passions are so contagious, that -they pass with the greatest facility from one person to another, and -produce correspondent movements in all human breasts. Where friendship -appears in very signal instances, my heart catches the same passion, -and is warmed by those warm sentiments that display themselves before -me. Such agreeable, movements must give me an affection to every one -that excites them. This is the case with every thing that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_397" id="Page_397">[Pg 397]</a></span> is agreeable -in any person. The transition from pleasure to love is easy: but the -transition must here be still more easy; since the agreeable sentiment -which is excited by sympathy, is love itself; and there is nothing -required but to change the object.</p> - -<p>Hence the peculiar merit of benevolence in all its shapes and -appearances. Hence even its weaknesses are virtuous and amiable; and a -person, whose grief upon the loss of a friend were excessive, would be -esteemed upon that account. His tenderness bestows a merit, as it does -a pleasure, on his melancholy.</p> - -<p>We are not, however, to imagine that all the angry passions are -vicious, though they are disagreeable. There is a certain indulgence -due to human nature in this respect. Anger and hatred are passions -inherent in our very frame and constitution. The want of them, on some -occasions, may even be a proof of weakness and imbecility. And where -they appear only in a low degree, we not only excuse them because they -are natural, but even bestow our applauses on them, because they are -inferior to what appears in the greatest part of mankind.</p> - -<p>Where these angry passions rise up to cruelty, they form the most -detested of all vices. All the pity and concern which we have for the -miserable sufferers by this vice, turns against the person guilty of -it, and produces a stronger hatred than we are sensible of on any other -occasion.</p> - -<p>Even when the vice of inhumanity rises not to this extreme degree, our -sentiments concerning it are very much influenced by reflections on -the harm that results from it. And we may observe in general, that if -we can find any quality in a person, which renders him incommodious -to those who live and converse with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_398" id="Page_398">[Pg 398]</a></span> him, we always allow it to be a -fault or blemish, without any farther examination. On the other hand, -when we enumerate the good qualities of any person, we always mention -those parts of his character which render him a safe companion, an easy -friend, a gentle master, an agreeable husband, or an indulgent father. -We consider him with all his relations in society; and love or hate -him, according as he affects those who have any immediate intercourse -with him. And 'tis a most certain rule, that if there be no relation -of life in which I could not wish to stand to a particular person, his -character must so far be allowed to be perfect. If he be as little -wanting to himself as to others, his character is entirely perfect. -This is the ultimate test of merit and virtue.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_5_34" id="Footnote_5_34"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_34"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> Book II. Part II. Sect. 5.</p></div> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_IV_cIII" id="SECTION_IV_cIII">SECTION IV.</a></h5> - -<h5>OF NATURAL ABILITIES.</h5> - - -<p>No distinction is more usual in all systems of ethics, than that -betwixt <i>natural abilities</i> and <i>moral virtues</i>; where the former are -placed on the same footing with bodily endowments, and are supposed -to have no merit or moral worth annexed to them. Whoever considers -the matter accurately, will find, that a dispute upon this head would -be merely a dispute of words, and that, though these qualities are -not altogether of the same kind, yet they agree in the most material -circumstances. They are both of them equally mental qualities: and both -of them equally produce pleasure; and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_399" id="Page_399">[Pg 399]</a></span> have of course an equal tendency -to procure the love and esteem of mankind. There are few who are not as -jealous of their character, with regard to sense and knowledge, as to -honour and courage; and much more than with regard to temperance and -sobriety. Men are even afraid of passing for good-natured, lest <i>that</i> -should be taken for want of understanding; and often boast of more -debauches than they have been really engaged in, to give themselves -airs of fire and spirit. In short, the figure a man makes in the -world, the reception he meets with in company, the esteem paid him -by his acquaintance; all these advantages depend almost as much upon -his good sense and judgment, as upon any other part of his character. -Let a man have the best intentions in the world, and be the farthest -from all injustice and violence, he will never be able to make himself -be much regarded, without a moderate share, at least, of parts and -understanding. Since then natural abilities, though perhaps inferior, -yet are on the same footing, both as to their causes and effects, with -those qualities which we call moral virtues, why should we make any -distinction betwixt them?</p> - -<p>Though we refuse to natural abilities the title of virtues, we must -allow, that they procure the love and esteem of mankind; that they give -a new lustre to the other virtues; and that a man possessed of them is -much more entitled to our good will and services than one entirely void -of them. It may indeed be pretended, that the sentiment of approbation -which those qualities produce, besides its being <i>inferior</i>, is also -somewhat <i>different</i> from that which attends the other virtues. But -this, in my opinion, is not a sufficient reason for excluding them -from the catalogue of virtues. Each of the virtues, even benevolence, -justice, gratitude, integrity,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_400" id="Page_400">[Pg 400]</a></span> excites a different sentiment or -feeling in the spectator. The characters of Cæsar and Cato, as drawn by -Sallust, are both of them virtuous, in the strictest sense of the word, -but in a different way: nor are the sentiments entirely the same which -arise from them. The one produces love, the other esteem; the one is -amiable, the other awful: we could wish to meet with the one character -in a friend, the other character we would be ambitious of in ourselves. -In like manner, the approbation which attends natural abilities, may -be somewhat different to the feeling from that which arises from the -other virtues, without making them entirely of a different species. And -indeed we may observe, that the natural abilities, no more than the -other virtues, produce not, all of them, the same kind of approbation. -Good sense and genius beget esteem; wit and humour excite love.<a name="FNanchor_6_35" id="FNanchor_6_35"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_35" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></p> - -<p>Those who represent the distinction betwixt natural abilities and -moral virtues as very material, may say, that the former are entirely -involuntary, and have therefore no merit attending them, as having no -dependence on liberty and free will. But to this I answer, <i>first</i>, -That many of those qualities which all moralists, especially the -ancients, comprehend under the title of moral virtues, are equally -involuntary and necessary with the qualities of the judgment and -imagination.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_401" id="Page_401">[Pg 401]</a></span> Of this nature are constancy, fortitude, magnanimity; -and, in short, all the qualities which form the <i>great</i> man. I might -say the same, in some degree, of the others; it being almost impossible -for the mind to change its character in any considerable article, or -cure itself of a passionate or splenetic temper, when they are natural -to it. The greater degree there is of these blameable qualities, -the more vicious they become, and yet they are the less voluntary. -<i>Secondly</i>, I would have any one give me a reason, why virtue and vice -may not be involuntary, as well as beauty and deformity. These moral -distinctions arise from the natural distinctions of pain and pleasure; -and when we receive those feelings from the general consideration -of any quality or character, we denominate it vicious or virtuous. -Now I believe no one will assert, that a quality can never produce -pleasure or pain to the person who considers it, unless it be perfectly -voluntary in the person who possesses it. <i>Thirdly</i>, As to free will, -we have shown that it has no place with regard to the actions, no more -than the qualities of men. It is not a just consequence, that what is -voluntary is free. Our actions are more voluntary than our judgments; -but we have not more liberty in the one than in the other.</p> - -<p>But, though this distinction betwixt voluntary and involuntary, be not -sufficient to justify the distinction betwixt natural abilities and -moral virtues, yet the former distinction will afford us a plausible -reason, why moralists have invented the latter. Men have observed, -that, though natural abilities and moral qualities be in the main on -the same footing, there is, however, this difference betwixt them, -that the former are almost invariable by any art or industry; while -the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_402" id="Page_402">[Pg 402]</a></span> latter, or at least the actions that proceed from them, may be -changed by the motives of rewards and punishment, praise and blame. -Hence legislators and divines and moralists have principally applied -themselves to the regulating these voluntary actions, and have -endeavoured to produce additional motives for being virtuous in that -particular. They knew, that to punish a man for folly, or exhort him to -be prudent and sagacious, would have but little effect; though the same -punishments and exhortations, with regard to justice and injustice, -might have a considerable influence. But as men, in common life and -conversation, do not carry those ends in view, but naturally praise -or blame whatever pleases or displeases them, they do not seem much -to regard this distinction, but consider prudence under the character -of virtue as well as benevolence, and penetration as well as justice. -Nay, we find that all moralists, whose judgment is not perverted by a -strict adherence to a system, enter into the same way of thinking; and -that the ancient moralists, in particular, made no scruple of placing -prudence at the head of the cardinal virtues. There is a sentiment -of esteem and approbation, which may be excited, in some degree, by -any faculty of the mind, in its perfect state and condition; and to -account for this sentiment is the business of <i>philosophers</i>. It -belongs to <i>grammarians</i> to examine what qualities are entitled to the -denomination of <i>virtue</i>; nor will they find, upon trial, that this is -so easy a task as at first sight they may be apt to imagine.</p> - -<p>The principal reason why natural abilities are esteemed, is because -of their tendency to be useful to the person who is possessed of -them. 'Tis impossible to execute any design with success, where it is -not conducted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_403" id="Page_403">[Pg 403]</a></span> with prudence and discretion; nor will the goodness -of our intentions alone suffice to procure us a happy issue to our -enterprises. Men are superior to beasts principally by the superiority -of their reason; and they are the degrees of the same faculty, which -set such an infinite difference betwixt one man and another. All the -advantages of art are owing to human reason; and where fortune is not -very capricious, the most considerable part of these advantages must -fall to the share of the prudent and sagacious.</p> - -<p>When it is asked, whether a quick or a slow apprehension be most -valuable? whether one, that at first view penetrates into a subject, -but can perform nothing upon study; or a contrary character, which must -work out every thing by dint of application? whether a clear head, or -a copious invention? whether a profound genius, or a sure judgment? in -short, what character, or peculiar understanding, is more excellent -than another? 'Tis evident we can answer none of these questions, -without considering which of those qualities capacitates a man best for -the world, and carries him farthest in any of his undertakings.</p> - -<p>There are many other qualities of the mind, whose merit is derived -from the same origin. <i>Industry, perseverance, patience, activity, -vigilance, application, constancy</i>, with other virtues of that kind, -which 'twill be easy to recollect, are esteemed valuable upon no other -account than their advantage in the conduct of life. 'Tis the same case -with <i>temperance, frugality, economy, resolution</i>; as, on the other -hand, <i>prodigality, luxury, irresolution, uncertainty</i>, are vicious, -merely because they draw ruin upon us, and incapacitate us for business -and action.</p> - -<p>As wisdom and good sense are valued because they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_404" id="Page_404">[Pg 404]</a></span> are <i>useful</i> to the -person possessed of them, so <i>wit</i> and <i>eloquence</i> are valued because -they are <i>immediately agreeable</i> to others. On the other hand, <i>good -humour</i> is loved and esteemed, because it is <i>immediately agreeable</i> to -the person himself. 'Tis evident, that the conversation of a man of wit -is very satisfactory; as a cheerful good-humoured companion diffuses -a joy over the whole company, from a sympathy with his gaiety. These -qualities, therefore, being agreeable, they naturally beget love and -esteem, and answer to all the characters of virtue.</p> - -<p>'Tis difficult to tell, on many occasions, what it is that renders one -man's conversation so agreeable and entertaining, and another's so -insipid and distasteful. As conversation is a transcript of the mind as -well as books, the same qualities which render the one valuable must -give us an esteem for the other. This we shall consider afterwards. -In the mean time, it may be affirmed in general, that all the merit -a man may derive from his conversation (which, no doubt, may be very -considerable) arises from nothing but the pleasure it conveys to those -who are present.</p> - -<p>In this view, <i>cleanliness</i> is also to be regarded as a virtue, -since it naturally renders us agreeable to others, and is a very -considerable source of love and affection. No one will deny that a -negligence in this particular is a fault; and as faults are nothing -but smaller vices, and this fault can have no other origin than the -uneasy sensation which it excites in others, we may in this instance, -seemingly so trivial, clearly discover the origin of the moral -distinction of vice and virtue in other instances.</p> - -<p>Besides all those qualities which render a person lovely or valuable, -there is also a certain <i>je-ne-sçai-quoi</i><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_405" id="Page_405">[Pg 405]</a></span> of agreeable and handsome -that concurs to the same effect. In this case, as well as in that of -wit and eloquence, we must have recourse to a certain sense, which -acts without reflection, and regards not the tendencies of qualities -and characters. Some moralists account for all the sentiments of -virtue by this sense. Their hypothesis is very plausible. Nothing but -a particular inquiry can give the preference to any other hypothesis. -When we find that almost all the virtues have such particular -tendencies, and also find that these tendencies are sufficient alone to -give a strong sentiment of approbation, we cannot doubt, after this, -that qualities are approved of in proportion to the advantage which -results from them.</p> - -<p>The <i>decorum</i> or <i>indecorum</i> of a quality, with regard to the age, -or character, or station, contributes also to its praise or blame. -This decorum depends in a great measure upon experience. 'Tis usual -to see men lose their levity as they advance in years. Such a degree -of gravity, therefore, and such years, are connected together in our -thoughts. When we observe, them separated in any person's character, -this imposes a kind of violence on our imagination, and is disagreeable.</p> - -<p>That faculty of the soul which, of all others, is of the least -consequence to the character, and has the least virtue or vice in its -several degrees, at the same time that it admits of a great variety -of degrees, is the <i>memory</i>. Unless it rise up to that stupendous -height as to surprise us, or sink so low as in some measure to affect -the judgment, we commonly take no notice of its variations, nor ever -mention them to the praise or dispraise of any person. 'Tis so far -from being a virtue to have a good memory, that men generally affect -to complain of a bad one; and, endeavouring to persuade<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_406" id="Page_406">[Pg 406]</a></span> the world -that what they say is entirely of their own invention, sacrifice it -to the praise of genius and judgment. Yet, to consider the matter -abstractedly,'twould be difficult to give a reason why the faculty -of recalling past ideas with truth and clearness, should not have as -much merit in it as the faculty of placing our present ideas in such -an order as to form true propositions and opinions. The reason of the -difference certainly must be, that the memory is exerted without any -sensation of pleasure or pain, and in all its middling degrees serves -almost equally well in business and affairs. But the least variations -in the judgment are sensibly felt in their consequences; while at -the same time that faculty is never exerted in any eminent degree, -without an extraordinary delight and satisfaction. The sympathy with -this utility and pleasure bestows a merit on the understanding; and -the absence of it makes us consider the memory as a faculty very -indifferent to blame or praise.</p> - -<p>Before I leave this subject of <i>natural abilities</i>, I must observe, -that perhaps one source of the esteem and affection which attends -them, is derived from the <i>importance</i> and <i>weight</i> which they bestow -on the person possessed of them. He becomes of greater consequence -in life. His resolutions and actions affect a greater number of his -fellow-creatures. Both his friendship and enmity are of moment. And -'tis easy to observe, that whoever is elevated, after this manner, -above the rest of mankind, must excite in us the sentiments of esteem -and approbation. Whatever is important engages our attention, fixes -our thought, and is contemplated with satisfaction. The histories of -kingdoms are more interesting than domestic stories; the histories of -great empires more than those of small<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_407" id="Page_407">[Pg 407]</a></span> cities and principalities; and -the histories of wars and revolutions more than those of peace and -order. We sympathize with the persons that suffer, in all the various -sentiments which belong to their fortunes. The mind is occupied by -the multitude of the objects, and by the strong passions that display -themselves. And this occupation or agitation of the mind is commonly -agreeable and amusing. The same theory accounts for the esteem and -regard we pay to men of extraordinary parts and abilities. The good -and ill of multitudes are connected with their actions. Whatever they -undertake is important, and challenges our attention. Nothing is to be -overlooked and despised that regards them. And where any person can -excite these sentiments, he soon acquires our esteem, unless other -circumstances of his character render him odious and disagreeable.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_6_35" id="Footnote_6_35"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_35"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> Love and esteem are at the bottom the same passions, and -arise from like causes. The qualities that produce both are agreeable, -and give pleasure. But where this pleasure is severe and serious; or -where its object is great, and makes a strong impression; or where -it produces any degree of humility and awe: in all these cases, the -passion which arises from the pleasure is more properly denominated -esteem than love. Benevolence attends both; but is connected with love -in a more eminent degree.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_V_cIII" id="SECTION_V_cIII">SECTION V.</a></h5> - -<h5>SOME FARTHER REFLECTIONS CONCERNING THE NATURAL VIRTUES.</h5> - - -<p>It has been observed, in treating of the Passions, that pride -and humility, love and hatred, are excited by any advantages or -disadvantages of the <i>mind, body</i>, or <i>fortune</i>; and that these -advantages or disadvantages have that effect by producing a separate -impression of pain or pleasure. The pain or pleasure which arises from -the general survey or view of any action or quality of the <i>mind</i>, -constitutes its vice or virtue, and gives<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_408" id="Page_408">[Pg 408]</a></span> rise to our approbation -or blame, which is nothing but a fainter and more imperceptible love -or hatred. We have assigned four different sources of this pain and -pleasure; and, in order to justify more fully that hypothesis, it may -here be proper to observe, that the advantages or disadvantages of -the <i>body</i> and of <i>fortune</i>, produce a pain or pleasure from the very -same principles. The tendency of any object to be <i>useful</i> to the -person possessed of it, or to others; to convey <i>pleasure</i> to him or -to others; all these circumstances convey an immediate pleasure to the -person who considers the object, and command his love and approbation.</p> - -<p>To begin with the advantages of the <i>body</i>; we may observe a phenomenon -which might appear somewhat trivial and ludicrous, if any thing -could be trivial which fortified a conclusion of such importance, or -ludicrous, which was employed in a philosophical reasoning. 'Tis a -general remark, that those we call good <i>women's men</i>, who have either -signalized themselves by their amorous exploits, or whose make of body -promises any extraordinary vigour of that kind, are well received by -the fair sex, and naturally engage the affections even of those whose -virtue prevents any design of ever giving employment to those talents. -Here 'tis evident that the ability of such a person to give enjoyment, -is the real source of that love and esteem he meets with among the -females; at the same time that the women who love and esteem him have -no prospect of receiving that enjoyment themselves, and can only be -affected by means of their sympathy with one that has a commerce of -love with him. This instance is singular, and merits our attention.</p> - -<p>Another source of the pleasure we receive from considering bodily -advantages, is their utility to the person<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_409" id="Page_409">[Pg 409]</a></span> himself who is possessed of -them. 'Tis certain, that a considerable part of the beauty of men, as -well as of other animals, consists in such a conformation of members as -we find by experience to be attended with strength and agility, and to -capacitate the creature for any action or exercise. Broad shoulders, -a lank belly, firm joints, taper legs; all these are beautiful in our -species, because they are signs of force and vigour, which, being -advantages we naturally sympathize with, they convey to the beholder a -share of that satisfaction they produce in the possessor.</p> - -<p>So far as to the <i>utility</i> which may attend any quality of the body. -As to the immediate <i>pleasure</i>, 'tis certain that an air of health, as -well as of strength and agility, makes a considerable part of beauty; -and that a sickly air in another is always disagreeable, upon account -of that idea of pain and uneasiness which it conveys to us. On the -other hand, we are pleased with the regularity of our own features, -though it be neither useful to ourselves nor others; and 'tis necessary -for us in some measure to set ourselves at a distance, to make it -convey to us any satisfaction. We commonly consider ourselves as we -appear in the eyes of others, and sympathize with the advantageous -sentiments they entertain with regard to us.</p> - -<p>How far the advantages of <i>fortune</i> produce esteem and approbation -from the same principles, we may satisfy ourselves by reflecting on -our precedent reasoning on that subject. We have observed, that our -approbation of those who are possessed of the advantages of fortune, -may be ascribed to three different causes. <i>First</i>, To that immediate -pleasure which a rich man gives us, by the view of the beautiful -clothes, equipage, gardens, or houses, which he possesses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_410" id="Page_410">[Pg 410]</a></span> <i>Secondly</i>, -To the advantage which we hope to reap from him by his generosity and -liberality. <i>Thirdly</i>, To the pleasure and advantage which he himself -reaps from his possessions, and which produce an agreeable sympathy -in us. Whether we ascribe our esteem of the rich and great to one or -all of these causes, we may clearly see the traces of those principles -which give rise to the sense of vice and virtue. I believe most people, -at first sight, will be inclined to ascribe our esteem of the rich -to self-interest and the prospect of advantage. But as 'tis certain -that our esteem or deference extends beyond any prospect of advantage -to ourselves, 'tis evident that that sentiment must proceed from a -sympathy with those who are dependent on the person we esteem and -respect, and who have an immediate connexion with him. We consider him -as a person capable of contributing to the happiness or enjoyment of -his fellow-creatures, whose sentiments with regard to him we naturally -embrace. And this consideration will serve to justify my hypothesis in -preferring the <i>third</i> principle to the other two, and ascribing our -esteem of the rich to a sympathy with the pleasure and advantage which -they themselves receive from their possessions. For as even the other -two principles cannot operate to a due extent, or account for all the -phenomena without having recourse to a sympathy of one kind or other, -'tis much more natural to choose that sympathy which is immediate and -direct, than that which is remote and indirect. To which we may add, -that where the riches or power are very great, and render the person -considerable and important, in the world, tire esteem attending them -may in part be ascribed to another source, distinct from these three, -viz. their interesting the mind by a prospect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_411" id="Page_411">[Pg 411]</a></span> of the multitude and -importance of their consequences; though, in order to account for the -operation of this principle, we must also have recourse to <i>sympathy</i>, -as we have observed in the preceding section.</p> - -<p>It may not be amiss, on this occasion, to remark the flexibility of -our sentiments, and the several changes they so readily receive from -the objects with which they are conjoined. All the sentiments of -approbation which attend any particular species of objects, have a -great resemblance to each other, though derived from different sources; -and, on the other hand, those sentiments, when directed to different -objects, are different to the feeling, though derived from the same -source. Thus, the beauty of all visible objects causes a pleasure -pretty much the same, though it be sometimes derived from the mere -<i>species</i> and appearance of the objects; sometimes from sympathy, -and an idea of their utility. In like manner, whenever we survey the -actions and characters of men, without any particular interest in them, -the pleasure or pain which arises from the survey (with some minute -differences) is in the main of the same kind, though perhaps there be -a great diversity in the causes from which it is derived. On the other -hand, a convenient house and a virtuous character cause not the same -feeling of approbation, even though the source of our approbation be -the same, and flow from sympathy and an idea of their utility. There -is something very inexplicable in this variation of our feelings; but -'tis what we have experience of with regard to all our passions and -sentiments.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_412" id="Page_412">[Pg 412]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="SECTION_VI_cIII" id="SECTION_VI_cIII">SECTION VI.</a></h5> - -<h5>CONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.</h5> - - -<p>Thus, upon the whole, I am hopeful that nothing is wanting to an -accurate proof of this system of ethics. We are certain that sympathy -is a very powerful principle in human nature. We are also certain -that it has a great influence on our sense of beauty, when we regard -external objects, as well as when we judge of morals. We find that -it has force sufficient to give us the strongest sentiments of -approbation, when it operates alone, without the concurrence of any -other principle; as in the cases of justice, allegiance, chastity, and -good manners. We may observe, that all the circumstances requisite for -its operation are found in most of the virtues, which have, for the -most part, a tendency to the good of society, or to that of the person -possessed of them. If we compare all these circumstances, we shall -not doubt that sympathy is the chief source of moral distinctions; -especially when we reflect, that no objection can be raised against -this hypothesis in one case, which will not extend to all cases. -Justice is certainly approved of, for no other reason than because it -has a tendency to the public good; and the public good is indifferent -to us, except so far as sympathy interests us in it. We may presume the -like with regard to all the other virtues, which have a like tendency -to the public good. They must derive all their merit from our sympathy -with those who reap any advantage from them; as the virtues, which have -a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_413" id="Page_413">[Pg 413]</a></span> tendency to the good of the person possessed of them, derive their -merit from our sympathy with him.</p> - -<p>Most people will readily allow, that the useful qualities of the -mind are virtuous, because of their utility. This way of thinking is -so natural, and occurs on so many occasions, that few will make any -scruple of admitting it. Now, this being once admitted, the force of -sympathy must necessarily be acknowledged. Virtue is considered as -means to an end. Means to an end are only valued so far as the end is -valued. But the happiness of strangers affects us by sympathy alone. -To that principle, therefore, we are to ascribe the sentiment of -approbation which arises from the survey of all those virtues that are -useful to society, or to the person possessed of them. These form the -most considerable part of morality.</p> - -<p>Were it proper, in such a subject, to bribe the reader's assent, or -employ any thing but solid argument, we are here abundantly supplied -with topics to engage the affections. All lovers of virtue (and such -we all are in speculation, however we may degenerate in practice) -must certainly be pleased to see moral distinctions derived from so -noble a source, which gives us a just notion both of the <i>generosity</i> -and <i>capacity</i> of human nature. It requires but very little knowledge -of human affairs to perceive, that a sense of morals is a principle -inherent in the soul, and one of the most powerful that enters into -the composition. But this sense must certainly acquire new force when, -reflecting on itself, it approves of those principles from whence it is -derived, and finds nothing but what is great and good in its rise and -origin. Those who resolve the sense of morals into original instincts -of the human mind, may defend the cause of virtue with sufficient -authority, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_414" id="Page_414">[Pg 414]</a></span> want the advantage which those possess who account for -that sense by an extensive sympathy with mankind. According to their -system, not only virtue must be approved of, but also the sense of -virtue: and not only that sense, but also the principles from whence -it is derived. So that nothing is presented on any side but what is -laudable and good.</p> - -<p>This observation may be extended to justice, and the other virtues of -that kind. Though justice be artificial, the sense of its morality is -natural. 'Tis the combination of men in a system of conduct, which -renders any act of justice beneficial to society. But when once it has -that tendency, we <i>naturally</i> approve of it; and if we did not so, -'tis impossible any combination or convention could ever produce that -sentiment.</p> - -<p>Most of the inventions of men are subject to change. They depend upon -humour and caprice. They have a vogue for a time, and then sink into -oblivion. It may perhaps be apprehended, that if justice were allowed -to be a human invention, it must be placed on the same footing. But the -cases are widely different. The interest on which justice is founded is -the greatest imaginable, and extends to all times and places. It cannot -possibly be served by any other invention. It is obvious, and discovers -itself on the very first formation of society. All these causes render -the rules of justice steadfast and immutable; at least, as immutable -as human nature. And if they were founded on original instincts, could -they have any greater stability?</p> - -<p>The same system may help us to form a just notion of the <i>happiness</i>, -as well as of the <i>dignity</i> of virtue, and may interest every principle -of our nature in the embracing and cherishing that noble quality. Who -indeed does not feel an accession of alacrity in his pursuits<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_415" id="Page_415">[Pg 415]</a></span> of -knowledge and ability of every kind, when he considers, that besides -the advantages which immediately result from these acquisitions, they -also give him a new lustre in the eyes of mankind, and are universally -attended with esteem and approbation? And who can think any advantages -of fortune a sufficient compensation for the least breach of the -<i>social</i> virtues, when he considers, that not only his character with -regard to others, but also his peace and inward satisfaction entirely -depend upon his strict observance of them; and that a mind will never -be able to bear its own survey, that has been wanting in its parts to -mankind and society? But I forbear insisting on this subject. Such -reflections require a work apart, very different from the genius of -the present. The anatomist ought never to emulate the painter; nor -in his accurate dissections and portraitures of the smaller parts of -the human body, pretend to give his figures any graceful and engaging -attitude or expression. There is even something hideous, or at least -minute, in the views of things which he presents; and 'tis necessary -the objects should be set more at a distance, and be more covered -up from sight, to make them engaging to the eye and imagination. An -anatomist, however, is admirably fitted to give advice to a painter; -and 'tis even impracticable to excel in the latter art, without the -assistance of the former. We must have an exact knowledge of the parts, -their situation and connection, before we can design with any elegance -or correctness. And thus the most abstract speculations concerning -human nature, however cold and unentertaining, become subservient to -<i>practical morality</i>; and may render this latter science more correct -in its precepts, and more persuasive in its exhortations.</p> - -<p>See Appendix at the end of the volume.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_416" id="Page_416">[Pg 416]</a><br /><a name="Page_417" id="Page_417">[Pg 417]</a><br /><a name="Page_418" id="Page_418">[Pg 418]</a><br /><a name="Page_419" id="Page_419">[Pg 419]</a></span></p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - - -<h3><a name="DIALOGUES" id="DIALOGUES">DIALOGUES</a></h3> - -<h3>CONCERNING</h3> - -<h3>NATURAL RELIGION</h3> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<h4>PAMPHILUS TO HERMIPPUS.</h4> - - -<p>It has been remarked, my Hermippus, that though the ancient -philosophers conveyed most of their instruction in the form of -dialogue, this method of composition has been little practised in -later ages, and has seldom succeeded in the hands of those who have -attempted it. Accurate and regular argument, indeed, such as is now -expected of philosophical inquirers, naturally throws a man into the -methodical and didactic manner; where he can immediately, without -preparation, explain the point at which he aims; and thence proceed, -without interruption, to deduce the proofs on which it is established. -To deliver a *SYSTEM in conversation, scarcely appears natural; and -while the dialogue-writer desires, by departing from the direct style -of composition, to give a freer air to his performance, and avoid the -appearance of <i>Author</i> and <i>Reader</i>, he is apt to run into a worse -inconvenience,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_420" id="Page_420">[Pg 420]</a></span> and convey the image of <i>Pedagogue</i> and <i>Pupil</i>. Or, -if he carries on the dispute in the natural spirit of good company, -by throwing in a variety of topics, and preserving a proper balance -among the speakers, he often loses so much time in preparations and -transitions, that the reader will scarcely think himself compensated, -by all the graces of dialogue, for the order, brevity and precision, -which are sacrificed to them.</p> - -<p>There are some subjects, however, to which dialogue-writing is -peculiarly adapted, and where it is still preferable to the direct and -simple method of composition.</p> - -<p>Any point of doctrine, which is so <i>obvious</i> that it scarcely admits -of dispute, but at the same time so <i>important</i> that it cannot be too -often inculcated, seems to require some such method of handling it; -where the novelty of the manner may compensate the triteness of the -subject; where the vivacity of conversation may enforce the precept; -and where the variety of lights, presented by various personages and -characters, may appear neither tedious nor redundant.</p> - -<p>Any question of philosophy, on the other hand, which is so <i>obscure</i> -and <i>uncertain</i>, that human reason, can reach no fixed determination -with regard to it; if it should be treated at all, seems to lead us -naturally into the style of dialogue and conversation. Reasonable men -may be allowed to differ, where no one can reasonably be positive: -Opposite sentiments, even without any decision, afford an agreeable -amusement; and if the subject be curious and interesting, the book -carries us, in a manner, into company; and unites the two greatest and -purest pleasures of human life, study and society.</p> - -<p>Happily, these circumstances are all to be found in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_421" id="Page_421">[Pg 421]</a></span> the subject of -NATURAL RELIGION. What truth so obvious, so certain, as the being of a -God, which the most ignorant ages have acknowledged, for which the most -refined geniuses have ambitiously striven to produce new proofs and -arguments? What truth so important as this, which is the ground of all -our hopes, the surest foundation of morality, the firmest support of -society, and the only principle which ought never to be a moment absent -from our thoughts and meditations? But, in treating of this obvious and -important truth, what obscure questions occur concerning the nature of -that Divine Being, his attributes, his decrees, his plan of providence? -These have been always subjected to the disputations of men; concerning -these human reason has not reached any certain determination. But -these are topics so interesting, that we cannot restrain our restless -inquiry with regard to them; though nothing but doubt, uncertainty -and contradiction, have as yet been the result of our most accurate -researches.</p> - -<p>This I had lately occasion to observe, while I passed, as usual, -part of the summer season with Cleanthes, and was present at those -conversations of his with Philo and Demea, of which I gave you lately -some imperfect account. Your curiosity, you then told me, was so -excited, that I must, of necessity, enter into a more exact detail of -their reasonings, and display those various systems which they advanced -with regard to so delicate a subject as that of natural religion. The -remarkable contrast in their characters still farther raised your -expectations; while you opposed the accurate philosophical turn of -Cleanthes to the careless scepticism of Philo, or compared either of -their dispositions with the rigid inflexible orthodoxy of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_422" id="Page_422">[Pg 422]</a></span> Demea. My -youth rendered me a mere auditor of their disputes; and that curiosity, -natural to the early season of life, has so deeply imprinted in my -memory the whole chain and connexion of their arguments, that, I hope, -I shall not omit or confound any considerable part of them in the -recital.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_423" id="Page_423">[Pg 423]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_I" id="PART_I">PART I.</a></h5> - - -<p>After I joined the company, whom I found sitting in Cleanthes's -library, Demea paid Cleanthes some compliments on the great care -which he took of my education, and on his unwearied perseverance and -constancy in all his friendships. The father of Pamphilus, said he, was -your intimate friend: The son is your pupil; and may indeed be regarded -as your adopted son, were we to judge by the pains which you bestow in -conveying to him every useful branch of literature and science. You -are no more wanting, I am persuaded, in prudence than in industry. I -shall, therefore, communicate to you a maxim, which I have observed -with regard to my own children, that I may learn how far it agrees with -your practice. The method I follow in their education is founded on -the saying of an ancient, 'That students of philosophy ought first to -learn logics, then ethics, next physics, last of all the nature of the -gods.'<a name="FNanchor_1_36" id="FNanchor_1_36"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_36" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> This science of natural theology, according to him, being the -most profound and abstruse of any, required the maturest judgment in -its students; and none but a mind enriched with all the other sciences, -can safely be intrusted with it.</p> - -<p>Are you so late, says Philo, in teaching your children<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_424" id="Page_424">[Pg 424]</a></span> the principles -of religion? Is there no danger of their neglecting, or rejecting -altogether those opinions of which they have heard so little during -the whole course of their education? It is only as a science, replied -Demea, subjected to human reasoning and disputation, that I postpone -the study of Natural Theology. To season their minds with early piety, -is my chief care; and by continual precept and instruction, and I hope -too by example, I imprint deeply on their tender minds an habitual -reverence for all the principles of religion. While they pass through -every other science, I still remark the uncertainty of each part; -the eternal disputations of men; the obscurity of all philosophy; -and the strange, ridiculous conclusions, which some of the greatest -geniuses have derived from the principles of mere human reason. Having -thus tamed their mind to a proper submission and self-diffidence, I -have no longer any scruple of opening to them the greatest mysteries -of religion; nor apprehend any danger from that assuming arrogance -of philosophy, which may lead them to reject the most established -doctrines and opinions.</p> - -<p>Your precaution, says, Philo, of seasoning your childrens minds early -with piety, is certainly very reasonable; and no more than is requisite -in this profane and irreligious age. But what I chiefly admire in your -plan of education, is your method of drawing advantage from the very -principles of philosophy and learning, which, by inspiring pride and -self-sufficiency, have commonly, in all ages, been found so destructive -to the principles of religion. The vulgar, indeed, we may remark, who -are unacquainted with science and profound inquiry, observing the -endless disputes of the learned, have commonly a thorough contempt for -philosophy;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_425" id="Page_425">[Pg 425]</a></span> and rivet themselves the faster, by that means, in the -great points of theology which have been taught them. Those who enter -a little into study and inquiry, finding many appearances of evidence -in doctrines the newest and most extraordinary, think nothing too -difficult for human reason; and, presumptuously breaking through all -fences, profane the inmost sanctuaries of the temple. But Cleanthes -will, I hope, agree with me, that, after we have abandoned ignorance, -the surest remedy, there is still one expedient left to prevent this -profane liberty. Let Demea's principles be improved and cultivated: -Let us become thoroughly sensible of the weakness, blindness, and -narrow limits of human reason: Let us duly consider its uncertainty and -endless contrarieties, even in subjects of common life and practice: -Let the errors and deceits of our very senses be set before us; the -insuperable difficulties which attend first principles in all systems; -the contradictions which adhere to the very ideas of matter, cause and -effect, extension, space, time, motion; and in a word, quantity of all -kinds, the object of the only science that can fairly pretend to any -certainty or evidence. When these topics are displayed in their full -light, as they are by some philosophers and almost all divines; who -can retain such confidence in this frail faculty of reason as to pay -any regard to its determinations in points so sublime, so abstruse, -so remote from common life and experience? When the coherence of the -parts of a stone, or even that composition of parts which renders it -extended; when these familiar objects, I say, are so inexplicable, -and contain circumstances so repugnant and contradictory; with what -assurance can we decide concerning the origin of worlds, or trace their -history from eternity to eternity?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_426" id="Page_426">[Pg 426]</a></span></p> - -<p>While Philo pronounced these words, I could observe a smile in the -countenance both of Demea and Cleanthes. That of Demea seemed to -imply an unreserved satisfaction in the doctrines delivered: But, in -Cleanthes's features, I could distinguish an air of finesse; as if he -perceived some raillery or artificial malice in the reasonings of Philo.</p> - -<p>You propose then, Philo, said Cleanthes, to erect religious faith on -philosophical scepticism; and you think, that if certainty or evidence -be expelled from every other subject of inquiry, it will all retire to -these theological doctrines, and there acquire a superior force and -authority. Whether your scepticism be as absolute and sincere as you -pretend, we shall learn by and by, when the company breaks up: We shall -then see, whether you go out at the door or the window; and whether -you really doubt if your body has gravity, or can be injured by its -fall; according to popular opinion, derived from our fallacious senses, -and more fallacious experience. And this consideration, Demea, may, I -think, fairly serve to abate our ill-will to this humorous sect of the -sceptics. If they be thoroughly in earnest, they will not long trouble -the world with their doubts, cavils, and disputes: If they be only in -jest, they are, perhaps, bad railers; but can never be very dangerous, -either to the state, to philosophy, or to religion.</p> - -<p>In reality, Philo, continued he, it seems certain, that though a -man, in a flush of humour, after intense reflection on the many -contradictions and imperfections of human reason, may entirely renounce -all belief and opinion, it is impossible for him to persevere in -this total scepticism, or make it appear in his conduct for a few -hours. External objects press in upon him;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_427" id="Page_427">[Pg 427]</a></span> passions solicit him; his -philosophical melancholy dissipates; and even the utmost violence upon -his own temper will not be able, during any time, to preserve the poor -appearance of scepticism. And for what reason impose on himself such -a violence? This is a point in which it will be impossible for him -ever to satisfy himself, consistently with his sceptical principles. -So that, upon the whole, nothing could be more ridiculous than the -principles of the ancient Pyrrhonians; if in reality they endeavoured, -as is pretended, to extend, throughout, the same scepticism which they -had learned from the declamations of their schools, and which they -ought to have confined to them.</p> - -<p>In this view, there appears a great resemblance between the sects of -the Stoics and Pyrrhonians, though perpetual antagonists; and both -of them seem founded on this erroneous maxim, That what a man can -perform sometimes, and in some dispositions, he can perform always, -and in every disposition. When the mind, by Stoical reflections, is -elevated into a sublime enthusiasm of virtue, and strongly smit with -any <i>species</i> of honour or public good, the utmost bodily pain and -sufferings will not prevail over such a high sense of duty; and it is -possible, perhaps, by its means, even to smile and exult in the midst -of tortures. If this sometimes may be the case in fact and reality, -much more may a philosopher, in his school, or even in his closet, -work himself up to such an enthusiasm, and support in imagination the -acutest pain or most calamitous event which he can possibly conceive. -But how shall he support this enthusiasm itself? The bent of his mind -relaxes, and cannot be recalled at pleasure; avocations lead him -astray; misfortunes attack<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_428" id="Page_428">[Pg 428]</a></span> him unawares; and the <i>philosopher</i> sinks -by degrees into the <i>plebeian</i>.</p> - -<p>I allow of your comparison between the Stoics and Sceptics, replied -Philo. But you may observe, at the same time, that though the mind -cannot, in Stoicism, support the highest flights of philosophy, yet, -even when it sinks lower, it still retains somewhat of its former -disposition; and the effects of the Stoic's reasoning will appear in -his conduct in common life, and through the whole tenor of his actions. -The ancient schools, particularly that of Zeno, produced examples of -virtue and constancy which seem astonishing to present times.</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Vain Wisdom all and false Philosophy.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Yet with a pleasing sorcery could charm</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Pain, for a while, or anguish; and excite</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Fallacious Hope, or arm the obdurate breast</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">With stubborn Patience, as with triple steel.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>In like manner, if a man has accustomed himself to sceptical -considerations on the uncertainty and narrow limits of reason, he -will not entirely forget them when he turns his reflection on other -subjects; but in all his philosophical principles and reasoning, I dare -not say in his common conduct, he will be found different from those, -who either never formed any opinions in the case, or have entertained -sentiments more favourable to human reason.</p> - -<p>To whatever length any one may push his speculative principles of -scepticism, he must act, I own, and live, and converse, like other men; -and for this conduct he is not obliged to give any other reason, than -the absolute necessity he lies under of so doing. If he ever carries -his speculations farther than this necessity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_429" id="Page_429">[Pg 429]</a></span> constrains him, and -philosophizes either on natural or moral subjects, he is allured by a -certain pleasure and satisfaction which he finds in employing himself -after that manner. He considers besides, that every one, even in common -life, is constrained to have more or less of this philosophy; that -from our earliest infancy we make continual advances in forming more -general principles of conduct and reasoning; that the larger experience -we acquire, and the stronger reason we are endued with, we always -render our principles the more general and comprehensive; and that -what we call <i>philosophy</i> is nothing but a more regular and methodical -operation of the same kind. To philosophize on such subjects, is -nothing essentially different from reasoning on common life; and we -may only expect greater stability, if not greater truth, from our -philosophy, on account of its exacter and more scrupulous method of -proceeding.</p> - -<p>But when we look beyond human affairs and the properties of the -surrounding bodies: when we carry our speculations into the two -eternities, before and after the present state of things; into the -creation and formation of the universe; the existence and properties of -spirits; the powers and operations, of one universal Spirit existing -without beginning and without end; omnipotent, omniscient, immutable, -infinite and incomprehensible: We must be far removed from the smallest -tendency to scepticism not to be apprehensive, that we have here got -quite beyond the reach of our faculties. So long as we confine our -speculations to trade, or morals, or politics, or criticism, we make -appeals, every moment, to common sense and experience, which strengthen -our philosophical conclusions, and remove, at least in part, the -suspicion which we so justly entertain with regard<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_430" id="Page_430">[Pg 430]</a></span> to every reasoning -that is very subtile and refined. But, in theological reasonings, we -have not this advantage; while, at the same time, we are employed upon -objects, which, we must be sensible, are too large for our grasp, and -of all others require most to be familiarized to our apprehension. We -are like foreigners in a strange country, to whom every thing must seem -suspicious, and who are in danger every moment of transgressing against -the laws and customs of the people with whom they live and converse. We -know not how far we ought to trust our vulgar methods of reasoning in -such a subject; since, even in common life, and in that province which -is peculiarly appropriated to them, we cannot account for them, and are -entirely guided by a kind of instinct or necessity in employing them.</p> - -<p>All sceptics pretend, that, if reason be considered in an abstract -view, it furnishes invincible arguments against itself: and that we -could never retain any conviction or assurance, on any subject, were -not the sceptical reasonings so refined and subtile, that they are -not able to counterpoise the more solid and more natural arguments -derived from the senses and experience. But it is evident, whenever our -arguments lose this advantage, and run wide of common life, that the -most refined scepticism comes to be upon a footing with them, and is -able to oppose and counterbalance them. The one has no more weight than -the other. The mind must remain in suspense between them; and it is -that very suspense or balance, which is the triumph of scepticism.</p> - -<p>But I observe, says Cleanthes, with regard to you, Philo, and all -speculative sceptics, that your doctrine and practice are as much at -variance in the most abstruse points of theory as in the conduct of -common<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_431" id="Page_431">[Pg 431]</a></span> life. Wherever evidence discovers itself, you adhere to it, -notwithstanding your pretended scepticism; and I can observe, too, some -of your sect to be as decisive as those who make greater professions of -certainty and assurance. In reality, would not a man be ridiculous, who -pretended to reject Newton's explication of the wonderful phenomenon -of the rainbow, because that explication gives a minute anatomy -of the rays of light; a subject, forsooth, too refined for human -comprehension? And what would you say to one, who, having nothing -particular to object to the arguments of Copernicus and Galilæo for -the motion of the earth, should withhold his assent, on that general -principle, that these subjects were too magnificent and remote to be -explained by the narrow and fallacious reason of mankind?</p> - -<p>There is indeed a kind of brutish and ignorant scepticism, as you well -observed, which gives the vulgar a general prejudice against what they -do not easily understand, and makes them reject every principle which -requires elaborate reasoning to prove and establish it. This species of -scepticism is fatal to knowledge, not to religion; since we find, that -those who make greatest profession of it, give often their assent, not -only to the great truths of Theism and natural theology, but even to -the most absurd tenets which a traditional superstition has recommended -to them. They firmly believe in witches, though they will not believe -nor attend to the most simple proposition of Euclid. But the refined -and philosophical sceptics fall into an inconsistence of an opposite -nature. They push their researches into the most abstruse corners of -science; and their assent attends them in every step, proportioned -to the evidence which they meet with. They are even obliged to -acknowledge, that the most abstruse and remote<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_432" id="Page_432">[Pg 432]</a></span> objects are those which -are best explained by philosophy. Light is in reality anatomized: The -true system of the heavenly bodies is discovered and ascertained. But -the nourishment of bodies by food is still an inexplicable mystery: -The cohesion of the parts of matter is still incomprehensible. These -sceptics, therefore, are obliged, in every question, to consider -each particular evidence apart, and proportion their assent to the -precise degree of evidence which occurs. This is their practice in all -natural, mathematical, moral, and political science. And why not the -same, I ask, in the theological and religious? Why must conclusions -of this nature be alone rejected on the general presumption of the -insufficiency of human reason, without any particular discussion of the -evidence? Is not such an unequal conduct a plain proof of prejudice and -passion?</p> - -<p>Our senses, you say, are fallacious; our understanding erroneous; our -ideas, even of the most familiar objects, extension, duration, motion, -full of absurdities and contradictions. You defy me to solve the -difficulties, or reconcile the repugnancies which you discover in them. -I have not capacity for so great an undertaking: I have not leisure -for it: I perceive it to be superfluous. Your own conduct, in every -circumstance, refutes your principles, and shows the firmest reliance -on all the received maxims of science, morals, prudence, and behaviour.</p> - -<p>I shall never assent to so harsh an opinion as that of a celebrated -writer,<a name="FNanchor_2_37" id="FNanchor_2_37"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_37" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> who says, that the Sceptics are not a sect of philosophers: -They are only a sect of liars. I may, however, affirm (I hope without -offence),<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_433" id="Page_433">[Pg 433]</a></span> that they are a sect of jesters or railers. But for my -part, whenever I find myself disposed to mirth and amusement, I shall -certainly choose my entertainment of a less perplexing and abstruse -nature. A comedy, a novel, or at most a history, seems a more natural -recreation than such metaphysical subtilties and abstractions.</p> - -<p>In vain would the sceptic make a distinction between science and common -life, or between one science and another. The arguments employed in -all, if just, are of a similar nature, and contain the same force and -evidence. Or if there be any difference among them, the advantage lies -entirely on the side of theology and natural religion. Many principles -of mechanics are founded on very abstruse reasoning; yet no man who has -any pretensions to science, even no speculative sceptic, pretends to -entertain the least doubt with regard to them. The Copernican system -contains the most surprising paradox, and the most contrary to our -natural conceptions, to appearances, and to our very senses: yet even -monks and inquisitors are now constrained to withdraw their opposition -to it. And shall Philo, a man of so liberal a genius and extensive -knowledge, entertain any general undistinguished scruples with regard -to the religious hypothesis, which is founded on the simplest and most -obvious arguments, and, unless it meets with artificial obstacles, has -such easy access and admission into the mind of man?</p> - -<p>And here we may observe, continued he, turning himself towards Demea, -a pretty curious circumstance in the history of the sciences. After -the union of philosophy with the popular religion, upon the first -establishment of Christianity, nothing was more usual, among all -religious teachers, than declamations against<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_434" id="Page_434">[Pg 434]</a></span> reason, against the -senses, against every principle derived merely from human research -and inquiry. All the topics of the ancient academics were adopted by -the fathers; and thence propagated for several ages in every school -and pulpit throughout Christendom. The Reformers embraced the same -principles of reasoning, or rather declamation; and all panegyrics on -the excellency of faith, were sure to be interlarded with some severe -strokes of satire against natural reason. A celebrated prelate too,<a name="FNanchor_3_38" id="FNanchor_3_38"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_38" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> -of the Romish communion, a man of the most extensive learning, who -wrote a demonstration of Christianity, has also composed a treatise, -which contains all the cavils of the boldest and most determined -Pyrrhonism. Locke seems to have been the first Christian who ventured -openly to assert, that <i>faith</i> was nothing but a species of <i>reason</i>; -that religion was only a branch of philosophy; and that a chain of -arguments, similar to that which established any truth in morals, -politics, or physics, was always employed in discovering all the -principles of theology, natural and revealed. The ill use which Bayle -and other libertines made of the philosophical scepticism of the -fathers and first reformers, still farther propagated the judicious -sentiment of Mr Locke: And it is now in a manner avowed, by all -pretenders to reasoning and philosophy, that Atheist and Sceptic are -almost synonymous. And as it is certain that no man is in earnest when -he professes the latter principle, I would fain hope that there are as -few who seriously maintain the former.</p> - -<p>Don't you remember, said Philo, the excellent saying of Lord Bacon -on this head? That a little philosophy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_435" id="Page_435">[Pg 435]</a></span> replied Cleanthes, makes a -man an Atheist: A great deal converts him to religion. That is a very -judicious remark too, said Philo. But what I have in my eye is another -passage, where, having mentioned David's fool, who said in his heart -there is no God, this great philosopher observes, that the Atheists -now-a-days have a double share of folly; for they are not contented to -say in their hearts there is no God, but they also utter that impiety -with their lips, and are thereby guilty of multiplied indiscretion and -imprudence. Such people, though they were ever so much in earnest, -cannot, methinks, be very formidable.</p> - -<p>But though you should rank me in this class of fools, I cannot forbear -communicating a remark that occurs to me, from the history of the -religious and irreligious scepticism with which you have entertained -us. It appears to me, that there are strong symptoms of priestcraft in -the whole progress of this affair. During ignorant ages, such as those -which followed the dissolution of the ancient schools, the priests -perceived, that Atheism, Deism, or heresy of any kind, could only -proceed from the presumptuous questioning of received opinions, and -from a belief that human reason was equal to every thing. Education had -then a mighty influence over the minds of men, and was almost equal in -force to those suggestions of the senses and common understanding, by -which the most determined sceptic must allow himself to be governed. -But at present, when the influence of education is much diminished, -and men, from a more open commerce of the world, have learned to -compare the popular principles of different nations and ages, our -sagacious divines have changed their whole system of philosophy, and -talk the language of Stoics, Platonists, and Peripatetics,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_436" id="Page_436">[Pg 436]</a></span> not that of -Pyrrhonians and Academics. If we distrust human reason, we have now no -other principle to lead us into religion. Thus, sceptics in one age, -dogmatists in another; whichever system best suits the purpose of these -reverend gentlemen, in giving them an ascendant over mankind, they are -sure to make it their favourite principle, and established tenet.</p> - -<p>It is very natural, said Cleanthes, for men to embrace those -principles, by which they find they can best defend their doctrines; -nor need we have any recourse to priestcraft to account for so -reasonable an expedient. And, surely nothing can afford a stronger -presumption, that any set of principles are true, and ought to be -embraced, than to observe that they tend to the confirmation of true -religion, and serve to confound the cavils of Atheists, Libertines, and -Freethinkers of all denominations.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_36" id="Footnote_1_36"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_36"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Chrysippus apud Plut. de repug. Stoicorum.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_37" id="Footnote_2_37"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_37"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> L'art de penser.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_38" id="Footnote_3_38"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_38"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Mons. Huet.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_437" id="Page_437">[Pg 437]</a></span></p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> - - -<h5><a name="PART_II" id="PART_II">PART II.</a></h5> - - -<p>I must own, Cleanthes, said Demea, that nothing can more surprise -me, than the light in which you have all along put this argument. -By the whole tenor of your discourse, one would imagine that you -were maintaining the Being of a God, against the cavils of Atheists -and Infidels; and were necessitated to become a champion for that -fundamental principle of all religion. But this, I hope, is not by any -means a question among us. No man, no man at least of common sense, -I am persuaded, ever entertained a serious doubt with regard to a -truth so certain and self-evident. The question is not concerning the -*BEING, but the $NATURE of *GOD. This, I affirm, from the infirmities -of human understanding, to be altogether incomprehensible and unknown -to us. The essence of that supreme Mind, his attributes, the manner -of his existence, the very nature of his duration; these, and every -particular which regards so divine a Being, are mysterious to men. -Finite, weak, and blind creatures, we ought to humble ourselves in his -august presence; and, conscious of our frailties, adore in silence his -infinite perfections, which eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, -neither hath it entered into the heart of man to conceive. They are -covered in a deep cloud from human curiosity: It is profaneness to -attempt penetrating through these sacred obscurities: And, next to the -impiety of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_438" id="Page_438">[Pg 438]</a></span> denying his existence, is the temerity of prying into his -nature and essence, decrees and attributes.</p> - -<p>But lest you should think that my <i>piety</i> has here got the better of my -<i>philosophy</i>, I shall support my opinion, if it needs any support, by -a very great authority. I might cite all the divines, almost, from the -foundation of Christianity, who have ever treated of this or any other -theological subject: But I shall confine myself, at present, to one -equally celebrated for piety and philosophy. It is Father Malebranche, -who, I remember, thus expresses himself.<a name="FNanchor_1_39" id="FNanchor_1_39"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_39" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> 'One ought not so much,' -says he, 'to call God a spirit, in order to express positively what -he is, as in order to signify that he is not matter. He is a Being -infinitely perfect: Of this we cannot doubt. But in the same manner -as we ought not to imagine, even supposing him corporeal, that he is -clothed with a human body, as the Anthropomorphites asserted, under -colour that that figure was the most perfect of any; so, neither -ought we to imagine that the spirit of God has human ideas, or bears -any resemblance to our spirit, under colour that we know nothing -more perfect than a human mind. We ought rather to believe, that as -he comprehends the perfections of matter without being material.... -he comprehends also the perfections of created spirits without being -spirit, in the manner we conceive spirit: That his true name is, <i>He -that is</i>; or, in other words, Being without restriction, All Being, the -Being infinite and universal.'</p> - -<p>After so great an authority, Demea, replied Philo, as that which -you have produced, and a thousand more which you might produce, it -would appear ridiculous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_439" id="Page_439">[Pg 439]</a></span> in me to add my sentiment, or express my -approbation of your doctrine. But surely, where reasonable men treat -these subjects, the question can never be concerning the <i>Being</i>, -but only the <i>Nature</i>, of the Deity. The former truth, as you well -observe, is unquestionable and self-evident. Nothing exists without a -cause; and the original cause of this universe (whatever it be) we call -God; and piously ascribe to him every species of perfection. Whoever -scruples this fundamental truth, deserves every punishment which -can be inflicted among philosophers, to wit, the greatest ridicule, -contempt, and disapprobation. But as all perfection is entirely -relative, we ought never to imagine that we comprehend the attributes -of this divine Being, or to suppose that his perfections have any -analogy or likeness to the perfections of a human creature. Wisdom, -Thought, Design, Knowledge; these we justly ascribe to him; because -these words are honourable among men, and we have no other language -or other conceptions by which we can express our adoration of him. -But let us beware, lest we think that our ideas anywise correspond to -his perfections, or that his attributes have any resemblance to these -qualities among men. He is infinitely superior to our limited view and -comprehension; and is more the object of worship in the temple, than of -disputation in the schools.</p> - -<p>In reality, Cleanthes, continued he, there is no need of having -recourse to that affected scepticism so displeasing to you, in order -to come at this determination. Our ideas reach no farther than our -experience: We have no experience of divine attributes and operations: -I need not conclude my syllogism: You can draw the inference yourself. -And it is a pleasure to me (and I hope to you too) that just reasoning -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_440" id="Page_440">[Pg 440]</a></span> sound piety here concur in the same conclusion, and both of them -establish the adorably mysterious and incomprehensible nature of the -Supreme Being.</p> - -<p>Not to lose any time in circumlocutions, said Cleanthes, addressing -himself to Demea, much less in replying to the pious declamations of -Philo; I shall briefly explain how I conceive this matter. Look round -the world: contemplate the whole and every part of it: You will find it -to be nothing but one great machine, subdivided into an infinite number -of lesser machines, which again admit of subdivisions to a degree -beyond what human senses and faculties can trace and explain. All these -various machines, and even their most minute parts, are adjusted to -each other with an accuracy which ravishes into admiration all men who -have ever contemplated them. The curious adapting of means to ends, -throughout all nature, resembles exactly, though it much exceeds, the -productions of human contrivance; of human design, thought, wisdom, -and intelligence. Since therefore the effects resemble each other, we -are led to infer, by all the rules of analogy, that the causes also -resemble; and that the Author of Nature is somewhat similar to the -mind of man, though possessed of much larger faculties, proportioned -to the grandeur of the work which he has executed. By this argument -<i>a posteriori</i>, and by this argument alone, do we prove at once the -existence of a Deity, and his similarity to human mind and intelligence.</p> - -<p>I shall be so free, Cleanthes, said Demea, as to tell you, that from -the beginning I could not approve of your conclusion concerning the -similarity of the Deity to men; still less can I approve of the mediums -by which you endeavour to establish it. What! No demonstration of -the Being of God! No abstract arguments!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_441" id="Page_441">[Pg 441]</a></span> No proofs <i>a priori</i>! Are -these, which have hitherto been so much insisted on by philosophers, -all fallacy, all sophism? Can we reach no farther in this subject than -experience and probability? I will not say that this is betraying -the cause of a Deity; But surely, by this affected candour, you give -advantages to Atheists, which they never could obtain by the mere dint -of argument and reasoning.</p> - -<p>What I chiefly scruple in this subject, said Philo, is not so much -that all religious arguments are by Cleanthes reduced to experience, -as that they appear not to be even the most certain and irrefragable -of that inferior kind. That a stone will fall, that fire will burn, -that the earth has solidity, we have observed a thousand and a thousand -times; and when any new instance of this nature is presented, we draw -without hesitation the accustomed inference. The exact similarity -of the cases gives us a perfect assurance of a similar event; and a -stronger evidence is never desired nor sought after. But wherever you -depart, in the least, from the similarity of the cases, you diminish -proportionably the evidence; and may at last bring it to a very weak -<i>analogy</i>, which is confessedly liable to error and uncertainty. After -having experienced the circulation of the blood in human creatures, we -make no doubt that it takes place in Titius and Mævius: But from its -circulation in frogs and fishes, it is only a presumption, though a -strong one, from analogy, that it takes place in men and other animals. -The analogical reasoning is much weaker, when we infer the circulation -of the sap in vegetables from our experience that the blood circulates -in animals; and those, who hastily followed that imperfect analogy, are -found, by more accurate experiments, to have been mistaken.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_442" id="Page_442">[Pg 442]</a></span></p> - -<p>If we see a house, Cleanthes, we conclude, with the greatest certainty, -that it had an architect or builder; because this is precisely that -species of effect which we have experienced to proceed from that -species of cause. But surely you will not affirm, that the universe -bears such a resemblance to a house, that we can with the same -certainty infer a similar cause, or that the analogy is here entire and -perfect. The dissimilitude is so striking, that the utmost you can here -pretend to is a guess, a conjecture, a presumption concerning a similar -cause; and how that pretension will be received in the world, I leave -you to consider.</p> - -<p>It would surely be very ill received, replied Cleanthes; and I should -be deservedly blamed and detested, did I allow, that the proofs of a -Deity amounted to no more than a guess or conjecture. But is the whole -adjustment of means to ends in a house and in the universe so slight a -resemblance? The economy of final causes? The order, proportion, and -arrangement of every part? Steps of a stair are plainly contrived, that -human legs may use them in mounting; and this inference is certain and -infallible. Human legs are also contrived for walking and mounting; and -this inference, I allow, is not altogether so certain, because of the -dissimilarity which you remark; but does it, therefore, deserve the -name only of presumption or conjecture?</p> - -<p>Good God! cried Demea, interrupting him, where are we? Zealous -defenders of religion allow, that the proofs of a Deity fall short -of perfect evidence! And you, Philo, on whose assistance I depended -in proving the adorable mysteriousness of the Divine Nature, do you -assent to all these extravagant opinions of Cleanthes? For what other -name can I give them? or, why spare my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_443" id="Page_443">[Pg 443]</a></span> censure, when such principles -are advanced, supported by such an authority, before so young a man as -Pamphilus?</p> - -<p>You seem not to apprehend, replied Philo, that I argue with Cleanthes -in his own way; and, by showing him the dangerous consequences of his -tenets, hope at last to reduce him to our opinion. But what sticks most -with you, I observe, is the representation which Cleanthes has made of -the argument <i>a posteriori</i>; and finding that that argument is likely -to escape your hold and vanish into air, you think it so disguised, -that you can scarcely believe it to be set in its true light. Now, -however much I may dissent, in other respects, from the dangerous -principles of Cleanthes, I must allow that he has fairly represented -that argument; and I shall endeavour so to state the matter to you, -that you will entertain no farther scruples with regard to it.</p> - -<p>Were a man to abstract from every thing which he knows or has seen, he -would be altogether incapable, merely from his own ideas, to determine -what kind of scene the universe must be, or to give the preference -to one state or situation of things above another. For as nothing -which he clearly conceives could be esteemed impossible or implying -a contradiction, every chimera of his fancy would be upon an equal -footing; nor could he assign any just reason why he adheres to one idea -or system, and rejects the others which are equally possible.</p> - -<p>Again; after he opens his eyes, and contemplates the world as it really -is, it would be impossible for him at first to assign the cause of -any one event, much less of the whole of things, or of the universe. -He might set his fancy a rambling; and she might bring him in an -infinite variety of reports and representations.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_444" id="Page_444">[Pg 444]</a></span> These would all be -possible; but being all equally possible, he would never of himself -give a satisfactory account for his preferring one of them to the rest. -Experience alone can point out to him the true cause of any phenomenon.</p> - -<p>Now, according to this method of reasoning, Demea, it follows, (and is, -indeed, tacitly allowed by Cleanthes himself), that order, arrangement, -or the adjustment of final causes, is not of itself any proof of -design; but only so far as it has been experienced to proceed from -that principle. For aught we can know <i>a priori</i>, matter may contain -the source or spring of order originally within itself, as well as -mind does; and there is no more difficulty in conceiving, that the -several elements, from an internal unknown cause, may fall into the -most exquisite arrangement, than to conceive that their ideas, in the -great universal mind, from a like internal unknown cause, fall into -that arrangement. The equal possibility of both these suppositions is -allowed. But, by experience, we find, (according to Cleanthes), that -there is a difference between them. Throw several pieces of steel -together, without shape or form; they will never arrange themselves -so as to compose a watch. Stone, and mortar, and wood, without an -architect, never erect a house. But the ideas in a human mind, we see, -by an unknown, inexplicable economy, arrange themselves so as to form -the plan of a watch or house. Experience, therefore, proves, that there -is an original principle of order in mind, not in matter. From similar -effects we infer similar causes. The adjustment of means to ends is -alike in the universe, as in a machine of human contrivance. The -causes, therefore, must be resembling.</p> - -<p>I was from the beginning scandalized, I must own,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_445" id="Page_445">[Pg 445]</a></span> with this -resemblance, which is asserted, between the Deity and human creatures; -and must conceive it to imply such a degradation of the Supreme Being -as no sound Theist could endure. With your assistance, therefore, -Demea, I shall endeavour to defend what you justly call the adorable -mysteriousness of the Divine Nature, and shall refute this reasoning of -Cleanthes, provided he allows that I have made a fair representation of -it.</p> - -<p>When Cleanthes had assented, Philo, after a short pause, proceeded in -the following manner.</p> - -<p>That all inferences, Cleanthes, concerning fact, are founded on -experience; and that all experimental reasonings are founded on the -supposition that similar causes prove similar effects, and similar -effects similar causes; I shall not at present much dispute with -you. But observe, I entreat you, with what extreme caution all just -reasoners proceed in the transferring of experiments to similar cases. -Unless the cases be exactly similar, they repose no perfect confidence -in applying their past observation to any particular phenomenon. -Every alteration of circumstances occasions a doubt concerning the -event; and it requires new experiments to prove certainly, that the -new circumstances are of no moment or importance. A change in bulk, -situation, arrangement, age, disposition of the air, or surrounding -bodies; any of these particulars may be attended with the most -unexpected consequences: And unless the objects be quite familiar to -us, it is the highest temerity to expect with assurance, after any of -these changes, an event similar to that which before fell under our -observation. The slow and deliberate steps of philosophers here, if -any where, are distinguished from the precipitate march of the vulgar, -who, hurried<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_446" id="Page_446">[Pg 446]</a></span> on by the smallest similitude, are incapable of all -discernment or consideration.</p> - -<p>But can you think, Cleanthes, that your usual phlegm and philosophy -have been preserved in so wide a step as you have taken, when you -compared to the universe houses, ships, furniture, machines, and, from -their similarity in some circumstances, inferred a similarity in their -causes? Thought, design, intelligence, such as we discover in men -and other animals, is no more than one of the springs and principles -of the universe, as well as heat or cold, attraction or repulsion, -and a hundred others, which fall under daily observation. It is an -active cause, by which some particular parts of nature, we find, -produce alterations on other parts. But can a conclusion, with any -propriety, be transferred from parts to the whole? Does not the great -disproportion bar all comparison and inference? From observing the -growth of a hair, can we learn any thing concerning the generation of a -man? Would the manner of a leaf's blowing, even though perfectly known, -afford us any instruction concerning the vegetation of a tree?</p> - -<p>But, allowing that we were to take the <i>operations</i> of one part of -nature upon another, for the foundation of our judgment concerning the -<i>origin</i> of the whole, (which never can be admitted), yet why select -so minute, so weak, so bounded a principle, as the reason and design -of animals is found to be upon this planet? What peculiar privilege -has this little agitation of the brain which we call <i>thought</i>, that -we must thus make it the model of the whole universe? Our partiality -in our own favour does indeed present it on all occasions; but sound -philosophy ought carefully to guard against so natural an illusion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_447" id="Page_447">[Pg 447]</a></span></p> - -<p>So far from admitting, continued Philo, that the operations of a part -can afford us any just conclusion concerning the origin of the whole, -I will not allow any one part to form a rule for another part, if the -latter be very remote from the former. Is there any reasonable ground -to conclude, that the inhabitants of other planets possess thought, -intelligence, reason, or any thing similar to these faculties in men? -When nature has so extremely diversified her manner of operation in -this small globe, can we imagine that she incessantly copies herself -throughout so immense a universe? And if thought, as we may well -suppose, be confined merely to this narrow corner, and has even there -so limited a sphere of action, with what propriety can we assign it for -the original cause of all things? The narrow views of a peasant, who -makes his domestic economy the rule for the government of kingdoms, is -in comparison a pardonable sophism.</p> - -<p>But were we ever so much assured, that a thought and reason, resembling -the human, were to be found throughout the whole universe, and were -its activity elsewhere vastly greater and more commanding than it -appears in this globe; yet I cannot see, why the operations of a world -constituted, arranged, adjusted, can with any propriety be extended -to a world which is in its embryo-state, and is advancing towards -that constitution and arrangement. By observation, we know somewhat -of the economy, action, and nourishment of a finished animal; but we -must transfer with great caution that observation to the growth of a -foetus in the womb, and still more to the formation of an animalcule in -the loins of its male parent. Nature, we find, even from our limited -experience, possesses an infinite number of springs and principles, -which incessantly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_448" id="Page_448">[Pg 448]</a></span> discover themselves on every change of her position -and situation. And what new and unknown principles would actuate her in -so new and unknown a situation as that of the formation of a universe, -we cannot, without the utmost temerity, pretend to determine.</p> - -<p>A very small part of this great system, during a very short time, -is very imperfectly discovered to us; and do we thence pronounce -decisively concerning the origin of the whole?</p> - -<p>Admirable conclusion! Stone, wood, brick, iron, brass, have not, at -this time, in this minute globe of earth, an order or arrangement -without human art and contrivance; therefore the universe could not -originally attain its order and arrangement, without something similar -to human art. But is a part of nature a rule for another part very wide -of the former? Is it a rule for the whole? Is a very small part a rule -for the universe? Is nature in one situation, a certain rule for nature -in another situation vastly different from the former?</p> - -<p>And can you blame me, Cleanthes, if I here imitate the prudent reserve -of Simonides, who, according to the noted story, being asked by Hiero, -<i>What God was</i>? desired a day to think of it, and then two days more; -and after that manner continually prolonged the term, without ever -bringing in his definition or description? Could you even blame me, if -I had answered at first, <i>that I did not know</i>, and was sensible that -this subject lay vastly beyond the reach of my faculties? You might cry -out sceptic and rallier, as much as you pleased: but having found, in -so many other subjects much more familiar, the imperfections and even -contradictions of human reason, I never should expect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_449" id="Page_449">[Pg 449]</a></span> any success from -its feeble conjectures, in a subject so sublime, and so remote from the -sphere of our observation. When two <i>species</i> of objects have always -been observed to be conjoined together, I can <i>infer</i>, by custom, the -existence of one wherever I <i>see</i> the existence of the other; and -this I call an argument from experience. But how this argument can -have place, where the objects, as in the present case, are single, -individual, without parallel, or specific resemblance, may be difficult -to explain. And will any man tell me with a serious countenance, that -an orderly universe must arise from some thought and art like the -human, because we have experience of it? To ascertain this reasoning, -it were requisite that we had experience of the origin of worlds; and -it is not sufficient, surely, that we have seen ships and cities arise -from human art and contrivance.</p> - -<p>Philo was proceeding in this vehement manner, somewhat between jest -and earnest, as it appeared to me, when he observed some signs of -impatience in Cleanthes, and then immediately stopped short. What I had -to suggest, said Cleanthes, is only that you would not abuse terms, or -make use of popular expressions to subvert philosophical reasonings. -You know, that the vulgar often distinguish reason from experience, -even where the question relates only to matter of fact and existence; -though it is found, where that <i>reason</i> is properly analyzed, that -it is nothing but a species of experience. To prove by experience -the origin of the universe from mind, is not more contrary to common -speech, than to prove the motion of the earth from the same principle. -And a caviller might raise all the same objections to the Copernican -system, which you have urged against my reasonings. Have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_450" id="Page_450">[Pg 450]</a></span> you other -earths, might he say, which you have seen to move? Have....</p> - -<p>Yes! cried Philo, interrupting him, we have other earths. Is not the -moon another earth, which we see to turn round its centre? Is not -Venus another earth, where we observe the same phenomenon? Are not the -revolutions of the sun also a confirmation, from analogy, of the same -theory? All the planets, are they not earths, which revolve about the -sun? Are not the satellites moons, which move round Jupiter and Saturn, -and along with these primary planets round the sun? These analogies -and resemblances, with others which I have not mentioned, are the sole -proofs of the Copernican system; and to you it belongs to consider, -whether you have any analogies of the same kind to support your theory.</p> - -<p>In reality, Cleanthes, continued he, the modern system of astronomy -is now so much received by all inquirers, and has become so essential -a part even of our earliest education, that we are not commonly very -scrupulous in examining the reasons upon which it is founded. It is now -become a matter of mere curiosity to study the first writers on that -subject, who had the full force of prejudice to encounter, and were -obliged to turn their arguments on every side in order to render them -popular and convincing. But if we peruse Galilæo's famous Dialogues -concerning the system of the world, we shall find, that that great -genius, one of the sublimest that ever existed, first bent all his -endeavours to prove, that there was no foundation for the distinction -commonly made between elementary and celestial substances. The schools, -proceeding from the illusions of sense, had carried this distinction -very far; and had established the latter substances to be ingenerable, -incorruptible,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_451" id="Page_451">[Pg 451]</a></span> unalterable, impassible; and had assigned all the -opposite qualities to the former. But Galilæo, beginning with the moon, -proved its similarity in every particular to the earth; its convex -figure, its natural darkness when not illuminated, its density, its -distinction into solid and liquid, the variations of its phases, the -mutual illuminations of the earth and moon, their mutual eclipses, the -inequalities of the lunar surface, &c. After many instances of this -kind, with regard to all the planets, men plainly saw that these bodies -became proper objects of experience; and that the similarity of their -nature enabled us to extend the same arguments and phenomena from one -to the other.</p> - -<p>In this cautious proceeding of the astronomers, you may read your -own condemnation, Cleanthes; or rather may see, that the subject in -which you are engaged exceeds all human reason and inquiry. Can you -pretend to show any such similarity between the fabric of a house, find -the generation of a universe? Have you ever seen nature in any such -situation as resembles the first arrangement of the elements? Have -worlds ever been formed under your eye; and have you had leisure to -observe the whole progress of the phenomenon, from the first appearance -of order to its final consummation? If you have, then cite your -experience, and deliver your theory.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_39" id="Footnote_1_39"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_39"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Recherche de la Verité, liv. 3, cap. 9.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_452" id="Page_452">[Pg 452]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_III" id="PART_III">PART III.</a></h5> - - -<p>How the most absurd argument, replied Cleanthes, in the hands of a -man of ingenuity and invention, may acquire an air of probability! -Are you not aware, Philo, that it became necessary for Copernicus -and his first disciples to prove the similarity of the terrestrial -and celestial matter; because several philosophers, blinded by old -systems, and supported by some sensible appearances, had denied this -similarity? but that it is by no means necessary, that Theists should -prove the similarity of the works of Nature to those of Art; because -this similarity is self-evident and undeniable? The same matter, a -like form; what more is requisite to show an analogy between their -causes, and to ascertain the origin of all things from a divine purpose -and intention? Your objections, I must freely tell you, are no better -than the abstruse cavils of those philosophers who denied motion; and -ought to be refuted in the same manner, by illustrations, examples and -instances, rather than by serious argument and philosophy.</p> - -<p>Suppose, therefore, that an articulate voice were heard, in the clouds, -much louder and more melodious than any which human art could ever -reach: Suppose, that this voice were extended in the same instant -over all nations, and spoke to each nation in its own language and -dialect: Suppose, that the words delivered not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_453" id="Page_453">[Pg 453]</a></span> only contain a just -sense and meaning, but convey some instruction altogether worthy of a -benevolent Being, superior to mankind: Could you possibly hesitate a -moment concerning the cause of this voice? and must you not instantly -ascribe it to some design or purpose? Yet I cannot see but all the -same objections (if they merit that appellation) which lie against the -system of Theism, may also be produced against this inference.</p> - -<p>Might you not say, that all conclusions concerning fact were founded -on experience: that when we hear an articulate voice in the dark, -and thence infer a man, it is only the resemblance of the effects -which leads us to conclude that there is a like resemblance in the -cause: but that this extraordinary voice, by its loudness, extent, and -flexibility to all languages, bears so little analogy to any human -voice, that we have no reason to suppose any analogy in their causes: -and consequently, that a rational, wise, coherent speech proceeded, you -know not whence, from some accidental whistling of the winds, not from -any divine reason or intelligence? You see clearly your own objections -in these cavils, and I hope too you see clearly, that they cannot -possibly have more force in the one case than in the other.</p> - -<p>But to bring the case still nearer the present one of the universe, -I shall make two suppositions, which imply not any absurdity or -impossibility. Suppose that there is a natural, universal, invariable -language, common to every individual of human race; and that books -are natural productions, which perpetuate themselves in the same -manner with animals and vegetables, by descent and propagation. -Several expressions of our passions contain a universal language: all -brute animals have a natural speech, which, however limited, is very -intelligible to their own species. And as there<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_454" id="Page_454">[Pg 454]</a></span> are infinitely fewer -parts and less contrivance in the finest composition of eloquence, than -in the coarsest organized body, the propagation of an Iliad or Æneid is -an easier supposition than that of any plant or animal.</p> - -<p>Suppose, therefore, that you enter into your library, thus peopled by -natural volumes, containing the most refined reason and most exquisite -beauty; could you possibly open one of them, and doubt, that its -original cause bore the strongest analogy to mind and intelligence? -When it reasons and discourses; when it expostulates, argues, and -enforces its views and topics; when it applies sometimes to the pure -intellect, sometimes to the affections; when it collects, disposes, and -adorns every consideration suited to the subject; could you persist in -asserting, that all this, at the bottom, had really no meaning; and -that the first formation of this volume in the loins of its original -parent proceeded not from thought and design? Your obstinacy, I know, -reaches not that degree of firmness: even your sceptical play and -wantonness would be abashed at so glaring an absurdity.</p> - -<p>But if there be any difference, Philo, between this supposed case and -the real one of the universe, it is all to the advantage of the latter. -The anatomy of an animal affords many stronger instances of design than -the perusal of Livy or Tacitus; and any objection which you start in -the former case, by carrying me back to so unusual and extraordinary a -scene as the first formation of worlds, the same objection has place on -the supposition of our vegetating library. Choose, then, your party, -Philo, without ambiguity or evasion; assert either that a rational -volume is no proof of a rational cause, or admit of a similar cause to -all the works of nature.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_455" id="Page_455">[Pg 455]</a></span></p> - -<p>Let me here observe too, continued Cleanthes, that this religious -argument, instead of being weakened by that scepticism so much -affected by you, rather acquires force from it, and becomes more firm -and undisputed. To exclude all argument or reasoning of every kind, -is either affectation or madness. The declared profession of every -reasonable sceptic is only to reject abstruse, remote, and refined -arguments; to adhere to common sense and the plain instincts of -nature; and to assent, wherever any reasons strike him with so full -a force that he cannot, without the greatest violence, prevent it. -Now the arguments for Natural Religion are plainly of this kind; and -nothing but the most perverse, obstinate metaphysics can reject them. -Consider, anatomize the eye; survey its structure and contrivance; -and tell me, from your own feeling, if the idea of a contriver does -not immediately flow in upon you with a force like that of sensation. -The most obvious conclusion, surely, is in favour of design; and it -requires time, reflection, and study, to summon up those frivolous, -though abstruse objections, which can support Infidelity. Who can -behold the male and female of each species, the correspondence of -their parts and instincts, their passions, and whole course of life -before and after generation, but must be sensible, that the propagation -of the species is intended by Nature? Millions and millions of such -instances present themselves through every part of the universe; and -no language can convey a more intelligible irresistible meaning, than -the curious adjustment of final causes. To what degree, therefore, of -blind dogmatism must one have attained, to reject such natural and such -convincing arguments?</p> - -<p>Some beauties in writing we may meet with, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_456" id="Page_456">[Pg 456]</a></span> seem contrary to -rules, and which gain the affections, and animate the imagination, in -opposition to all the precepts of criticism, and to the authority of -the established masters of art. And if the argument for Theism be, as -you pretend, contradictory to the principles of logic; its universal, -its irresistible influence proves clearly, that there may be arguments -of a like irregular nature. Whatever cavils may be urged, an orderly -world, as well as a coherent, articulate speech, will still be received -as an incontestable proof of design and intention.</p> - -<p>It sometimes happens, I own, that the religious arguments have not -their due influence on an ignorant savage and barbarian; not because -they are obscure and difficult, but because he never asks himself any -question with regard to them. Whence arises the curious structure of -an animal? From the copulation of its parents. And these whence? From -<i>their</i> parents? A few removes set the objects at such a distance, that -to him they are lost in darkness and confusion; nor is he actuated by -any curiosity to trace them farther. But this is neither dogmatism -nor scepticism, but stupidity: a state of mind very different from -your sifting, inquisitive disposition, my ingenious friend. You can -trace causes from effects: You can compare the most distant and -remote objects: and your greatest errors proceed not from barrenness -of thought and invention, but from too luxuriant a fertility, which -suppresses your natural good sense, by a profusion of unnecessary -scruples and objections.</p> - -<p>Here I could observe, Hermippus, that Philo was a little embarrassed -and confounded: But while he hesitated in delivering an answer, luckily -for him, Demea broke in upon the discourse, and saved his countenance.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_457" id="Page_457">[Pg 457]</a></span></p> - -<p>Your instance, Cleanthes, said he, drawn from books and language, being -familiar, has, I confess, so much more force on that account: but is -there not some danger too in this very circumstance; and may it not -render us presumptuous, by making us imagine we comprehend the Deity, -and have some adequate idea of his nature and attributes? When I read -a volume, I enter into the mind and intention of the author: I become -him, in a manner, for the instant; and have an immediate feeling and -conception of those ideas which revolved in his imagination while -employed in that composition. But so near an approach we never surely -can make to the Deity. His ways are not our ways. His attributes are -perfect, but incomprehensible. And this volume of nature contains a -great and inexplicable riddle, more than any intelligible discourse or -reasoning.</p> - -<p>The ancient Platonists, you know, were the most religious and devout -of all the Pagan philosophers; yet many of them, particularly -Plotinus, expressly declare, that intellect or understanding is not -to be ascribed to the Deity; and that our most perfect worship of him -consists, not in acts of veneration, reverence, gratitude, or love; -but in a certain mysterious self-annihilation, or total extinction of -all our faculties. These ideas are, perhaps, too far stretched; but -still it must be acknowledged, that, by representing the Deity as so -intelligible and comprehensible, and so similar to a human mind, we are -guilty of the grossest and most narrow partiality, and make ourselves -the model of the whole universe.</p> - -<p>All the <i>sentiments</i> of the human mind, gratitude, resentment, love, -friendship, approbation, blame, pity, emulation, envy, have a plain -reference to the state and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_458" id="Page_458">[Pg 458]</a></span> situation of man, and are calculated for -preserving the existence and promoting the activity of such a being -in such circumstances. It seems, therefore, unreasonable to transfer -such sentiments to a supreme existence, or to suppose him actuated by -them; and the phenomena besides of the universe will not support us in -such a theory. All our <i>ideas</i> derived from the senses are confessedly -false and illusive; and cannot therefore be supposed to have place in -a supreme intelligence: And as the ideas of internal sentiment, added -to those of the external senses, compose the whole furniture of human -understanding, we may conclude, that none of the <i>materials</i> of thought -are in any respect similar in the human and in the divine intelligence. -Now, as to the <i>manner</i> of thinking; how can we make any comparison -between them, or suppose them any wise resembling? Our thought is -fluctuating, uncertain, fleeting, successive, and compounded; and -were we to remove these circumstances, we absolutely annihilate its -essence, and it would in such a case be an abuse of terms to apply to -it the name of thought or reason. At least if it appear more pious -and respectful (as it really is) still to retain these terms, when we -mention the Supreme Being, we ought to acknowledge, that their meaning, -in that case, is totally incomprehensible; and that the infirmities -of our nature do not permit us to reach any ideas which in the least -correspond to the ineffable sublimity of the Divine attributes.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_459" id="Page_459">[Pg 459]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_IV" id="PART_IV">PART IV.</a></h5> - - -<p>It seems strange to me, said Cleanthes, that you, Demea, who are so -sincere in the cause of religion, should still maintain the mysterious, -incomprehensible nature of the Deity, and should insist so strenuously -that he has no manner of likeness or resemblance to human creatures. -The Deity, I can readily allow, possesses many powers and attributes of -which we can have no comprehension: But if our ideas, so far as they -go, be not just, and adequate, and correspondent to his real nature, -I know not what there is in this subject worth insisting on. Is the -name, without any meaning, of such mighty importance? Or how do you -mystics, who maintain the absolute incomprehensibility of the Deity, -differ from Sceptics or Atheists, who assert, that the first cause of -all is unknown and unintelligible? Their temerity must be very great, -if, after rejecting the production by a mind, I mean a mind resembling -the human, (for I know of no other), they pretend to assign, with -certainty, any other specific intelligible cause: And their conscience -must be very scrupulous indeed, if they refuse to call the universal -unknown cause a God or Deity; and to bestow on him as many sublime -eulogies and unmeaning epithets as you shall please to require of them.</p> - -<p>Who could imagine, replied Demea, that Cleanthes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_460" id="Page_460">[Pg 460]</a></span> the calm -philosophical Cleanthes, would attempt to refute his antagonists -by affixing a nickname to them; and, like the common bigots and -inquisitors of the age, have recourse to invective and declamation, -instead of reasoning? Or does he not perceive, that these topics -are easily retorted, and that Anthropomorphite is an appellation as -invidious, and implies as dangerous consequences, as the epithet of -Mystic, with which he has honoured us? In reality, Cleanthes, consider -what it is you assert when you represent the Deity as similar to a -human mind and understanding. What is the soul of man? A composition -of various faculties, passions, sentiments, ideas; united, indeed, -into one self or person, but still distinct from each other. When it -reasons, the ideas, which are the parts of its discourse, arrange -themselves in a certain form or order; which is not preserved entire -for a moment, but immediately gives place to another arrangement. New -opinions, new passions, new affections, new feelings arise, which -continually diversify the mental scene, and produce in it the greatest -variety and most rapid succession imaginable. How is this compatible -with that perfect immutability and simplicity which all true Theists -ascribe to the Deity? By the same act, say they, he sees past, -present, and future: His love and hatred, his mercy and justice, are -one individual operation: He is entire in every point of space; and -complete in every instant of duration. No succession, no change, no -acquisition, no diminution. What he is implies not in it any shadow of -distinction or diversity. And what he is this moment he ever has been, -and ever will be, without any new judgment, sentiment, or operation. He -stands fixed in one simple, perfect state: nor can you ever gay, with -any propriety, that this act of his is different<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_461" id="Page_461">[Pg 461]</a></span> from that other; or -that this judgment or idea has been lately formed, and will give place, -by succession, to any different judgment or idea.</p> - -<p>I can readily allow, said Cleanthes, that those who maintain the -perfect simplicity of the Supreme Being, to the extent in which you -have explained it, are complete Mystics, and chargeable with all the -consequences which I have drawn from their opinion. They are, in a -word, Atheists, without knowing it For though it be allowed, that the -Deity possesses attributes of which we have no comprehension, yet -ought we never to ascribe to him any attributes which are absolutely -incompatible with that intelligent nature essential to him. A mind, -whose acts and sentiments and ideas are not distinct and successive; -one, that is wholly simple, and totally immutable, is a mind which has -no thought, no reason, no will, no sentiment, no love, no hatred; or, -in a word, is no mind at all. It is an abuse of terms to give it that -appellation; and we may as well speak of limited extension without -figure, or of number without composition.</p> - -<p>Pray consider, said Philo, whom you are at present inveighing against. -You are honouring with the appellation of <i>Atheist</i> all the sound, -orthodox divines, almost, who have treated of this subject; and you -will at last be, yourself, found, according to your reckoning, the -only sound Theist in the world. But if idolaters be Atheists, as, I -think, may justly be asserted, and Christian Theologians the same, what -becomes of the argument, so much celebrated, derived from the universal -consent of mankind?</p> - -<p>But because I know you are not much swayed by names and authorities, -I shall endeavour to show you, a little more distinctly, the -inconveniences of that Anthropomorphism,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_462" id="Page_462">[Pg 462]</a></span> which you have embraced; and -shall prove, that there is no ground to suppose a plan of the world to -be formed in the Divine mind, consisting of distinct ideas, differently -arranged, in the same manner as an architect forms in his head the plan -of a house which he intends to execute.</p> - -<p>It is not easy, I own, to see what is gained by this supposition, -whether we judge of the matter by <i>Reason</i> or by <i>Experience</i>. We are -still obliged to mount higher, in order to find the cause of this -cause, which you had assigned as satisfactory and conclusive.</p> - -<p>If <i>Reason</i> (I mean abstract reason, derived from inquiries <i>a priori</i>) -be not alike mute with regard to all questions concerning cause and -effect, this sentence at least it will venture to pronounce, That -a mental world, or universe of ideas, requires a cause as much, as -does a material world, or universe of objects; and, if similar in its -arrangement, must require a similar cause. For what is there in this -subject, which should occasion a different conclusion or inference? In -an abstract view, they are entirely alike; and no difficulty attends -the one supposition, which is not common to both of them.</p> - -<p>Again, when we will needs force <i>Experience</i> to pronounce some -sentence, even on these subjects which lie beyond her sphere, neither -can she perceive any material difference in this particular, between -these two kinds of worlds; but finds them to be governed by similar -principles, and to depend upon an equal variety of causes in their -operations. We have specimens in miniature of both of them. Our own -mind resembles the one; a vegetable or animal body the other. Let -experience, therefore, judge from these samples. Nothing seems more -delicate, with regard to its causes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_463" id="Page_463">[Pg 463]</a></span> than thought; and as these causes -never operate in two persons after the same manner, so we never find -two persons who think exactly alike. Nor indeed does the same person -think exactly alike at any two different periods of time. A difference -of age, of the disposition of his body, of weather, of food, of -company, of books, of passions; any of these particulars, or others -more minute, are sufficient to alter the curious machinery of thought, -and communicate to it very different movements and operations. As far -as we can judge, vegetables and animal bodies are not more delicate -in their motions, nor depend upon a greater variety or more curious -adjustment of springs and principles.</p> - -<p>How, therefore, shall we satisfy ourselves concerning the cause of that -Being whom you suppose the Author of Nature, or, according to your -system of Anthropomorphism, the ideal world, into which you trace the -material? Have we not the same reason to trace that ideal world into -another ideal world, or new intelligent principle? But if we stop, and -go no farther; why go so far? why not stop at the material world? How -can we satisfy ourselves without going on <i>in infinitum</i>? And, after -all, what satisfaction is there in that infinite progression? Let us -remember the story of the Indian philosopher and his elephant. It was -never more applicable than to the present subject. If the material -world rests upon a similar ideal world, this ideal world must rest upon -some other; and so on, without end. It were better, therefore, never -to look beyond the present material world. By supposing it to contain -the principle of its order within itself, we really assert it to be -God; and the sooner we arrive at that Divine Being, so much the better. -When you go one step beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_464" id="Page_464">[Pg 464]</a></span> the mundane system, you only excite an -inquisitive humour which it is impossible ever to satisfy.</p> - -<p>To say, that the different ideas which compose the reason of the -Supreme Being, fall into order of themselves, and by their own nature, -is really to talk without any precise meaning. If it has a meaning, I -would fain know, why it is not as good sense to say, that the parts -of the material world fall into order of themselves and by their own -nature. Can the one opinion be intelligible, while the other is not so?</p> - -<p>We have, indeed, experience of ideas which fall into order of -themselves, and without any <i>known</i> cause. But, I am sure, we have -a much larger experience of matter which does the same; as, in all -instances of generation and vegetation, where the accurate analysis of -the cause exceeds all human comprehension. We have also experience of -particular systems of thought and of matter which have no order; of the -first in madness, of the second in corruption. Why, then, should we -think, that order is more essential to one than the other? And if it -requires a cause in both, what do we gain by your system, in tracing -the universe of objects into a similar universe of ideas? The first -step which we make leads us on for ever. It were, therefore, wise in -us to limit all our inquiries to the present world, without looking -farther. No satisfaction can ever be attained by these speculations, -which so far exceed the narrow bounds of human understanding.</p> - -<p>It was usual with the Peripatetics, you know, Cleanthes, when the cause -of any phenomenon was demanded, to have recourse to their <i>faculties</i>, -or <i>occult qualities</i>; and to say, for instance, that bread, nourished -by its nutritive faculty, and senna purged by its purgative.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_465" id="Page_465">[Pg 465]</a></span> But it -has been discovered, that this subterfuge was nothing but the disguise -of ignorance; and that these philosophers, though less ingenuous, -really said the same thing with the sceptics or the vulgar, who -fairly confessed that they knew not the cause of these phenomena. -In like manner, when it is asked, what cause produces order in the -ideas of the Supreme Being; can any other reason be assigned by you, -Anthropomorphites, than that it is a <i>rational</i> faculty, and that -such is the nature of the Deity? But why a similar answer will not be -equally satisfactory in accounting for the order of the world, without -having recourse to any such intelligent creator as you insist on, may -be difficult to determine. It is only to say, that <i>such</i> is the nature -of material objects, and that they are all originally possessed of a -<i>faculty</i> of order and proportion. These are only more learned and -elaborate ways of confessing our ignorance; nor has the one hypothesis -any real advantage above the other, except in its greater conformity to -vulgar prejudices.</p> - -<p>You have displayed this argument with great emphasis, replied -Cleanthes: You seem not sensible how easy it is to answer it. Even in -common life, if I assign a cause for any event, is it any objection, -Philo, that I cannot assign the cause of that cause, and answer every -new question which may incessantly be started? And what philosophers -could possibly submit to so rigid a rule? philosophers, who confess -ultimate causes to be totally unknown; and are sensible, that the most -refined principles into which they trace the phenomena, are still to -them as inexplicable as these phenomena themselves are to the vulgar. -The order and arrangement of nature, the curious adjustment of final -causes, the plain use and intention of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_466" id="Page_466">[Pg 466]</a></span> every part and organ; all these -bespeak in the clearest language an intelligent cause or author. The -heavens and the earth join in the same testimony: The whole chorus of -Nature raises one hymn to the praises of its Creator. You alone, or -almost alone, disturb this general harmony. You start abstruse doubts, -cavils, and objections: You ask me, what is the cause of this cause? I -know not; I care not; that concerns not me. I have found a Deity; and -here I stop my inquiry. Let those go farther, who are wiser or more -enterprising.</p> - -<p>I pretend to be neither, replied Philo: And for that very reason, I -should never perhaps have attempted to go so tar; especially when I -am sensible, that I must at last be contented to sit down with the -same answer, which, without farther trouble, might have satisfied me -from the beginning. If I am still to remain in utter ignorance of -causes, and can absolutely give an explication of nothing, I shall -never esteem it any advantage to shove off for a moment a difficulty, -which, you acknowledge, must immediately, in its full force, recur -upon me. Naturalists indeed very justly explain particular effects by -more general causes, though these general causes themselves should -remain in the end totally inexplicable; but they never surely thought -it satisfactory to explain a particular effect by a particular cause, -which was no more to be accounted for than the effect itself. An ideal -system, arranged of itself, without a precedent design, is not a whit -more explicable than a material one, which attains its order in a like -manner; nor is there any more difficulty in the latter supposition than -in the former.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_467" id="Page_467">[Pg 467]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_V" id="PART_V">PART V.</a></h5> - - -<p>But to show you still more inconveniences, continued Philo, in your -Anthropomorphism, please to take a new survey of your principles. -<i>Like effects prove like causes</i>. This is the experimental argument; -and this, you say too, is the sole theological argument. Now, it is -certain, that the liker the effects are which are seen, and the liker -the causes which are inferred, the stronger is the argument. Every -departure on either side diminishes the probability, and renders the -experiment less conclusive. You cannot doubt of the principle; neither -ought you to reject its consequences.</p> - -<p>All the new discoveries in astronomy, which prove the immense grandeur -and magnificence of the works of Nature, are so many additional -arguments for a Deity, according to the true system of Theism; but, -according to your hypothesis of experimental Theism, they become -so many objections, by removing the effect still farther from all -resemblance to the effects of human art and contrivance. For, if -Lucretius,<a name="FNanchor_1_40" id="FNanchor_1_40"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_40" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> even following the old system of the world, could exclaim,</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Quis regere immensi summam, quis habere profundi</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Indu manu validas potis est moderanter habenas?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Quis pariter coelos omnes convertere? et omnes</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Ignibus ætheriis terras suffire feraces?</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Omnibus inque locis esse omni tempore præsto?</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_468" id="Page_468">[Pg 468]</a></span></p> - -<p>If Tully<a name="FNanchor_2_41" id="FNanchor_2_41"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_41" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> esteemed this reasoning so natural, as to put it into -the mouth of his Epicurean: 'Quibus enim oculis animi intueri potuit -vester Plato fabricam illam tanti operis, qua construi a Deo atque -ædificari mundum facit? quæ molito? quæ ferramenta? qui vectes? quæ -machinæ? qui minstri tanti muneris fuerunt? quemadmodum autem obedire -et parere voluntati architecti aer, ignis, aqua, terra potuerunt?' If -this argument, I say, had any force in former ages, how much greater -must it have at present, when the bounds of Nature are so infinitely -enlarged, and such a magnificent scene is opened to us? It is still -more unreasonable to form our idea of so unlimited a cause from our -experience of the narrow productions of human design and invention.</p> - -<p>The discoveries by microscopes, as they open a new universe in -miniature, are still objections, according to you, arguments, according -to me. The farther we push our researches of this kind, we are still -led to infer the universal cause of all to be vastly different from -mankind, or from any object of human experience and observation.</p> - -<p>And what say you to the discoveries in anatomy, chemistry, botany?... -These surely are no objections, replied Cleanthes; they only discover -new instances of art and contrivance. It is still the image of mind -reflected on us from innumerable objects. Add, a mind <i>like the human</i>, -said Philo. I know of no other, replied Cleanthes. And the liker the -better, insisted Philo. To be sure, said Cleanthes.</p> - -<p>Now, Cleanthes, said Philo, with an air of alacrity and triumph, mark -the consequences. <i>First</i>, By this method of reasoning, you renounce -all claim to infinity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_469" id="Page_469">[Pg 469]</a></span> in any of the attributes of the Deity. For, -as the cause ought only to be proportioned to the effect, and the -effect, so far as it falls under our cognizance, is not infinite; what -pretensions have we, upon your suppositions, to ascribe that attribute -to the Divine Being? You will still insist, that, by removing him so -much from all similarity to human creatures, we give in to the most -arbitrary hypothesis, and at the same time weaken all proofs of his -existence.</p> - -<p><i>Secondly</i>, You have no reason, on your theory, for ascribing -perfection to the Deity, even in his finite capacity, or for -supposing him free from every error, mistake, or incoherence, in his -undertakings. There are many inexplicable difficulties in the works of -Nature, which, if we allow a perfect author to be proved <i>a priori</i>, -are easily solved, and become only seeming difficulties, from the -narrow capacity of man, who cannot trace infinite relations. But -according to your method of reasoning, these difficulties become all -real; and perhaps will be insisted on, as new instances of likeness to -human art and contrivance. At least, you must acknowledge, that it is -impossible for us to tell, from our limited views, whether this system -contains any great faults, or deserves any considerable praise, if -compared to other possible, and even real systems. Could a peasant, -if the Æneid were read to him, pronounce that poem to be absolutely -faultless, or even assign to it its proper rank among the productions -of human wit, he, who had never seen any other production?</p> - -<p>But were this world ever so perfect a production, it must still remain -uncertain, whether all the excellences of the work can justly be -ascribed to the workman. If we survey a ship, what an exalted idea must -we form of the ingenuity of the carpenter who framed so complicated,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_470" id="Page_470">[Pg 470]</a></span> -useful, and beautiful a machine? And what surprise must we feel, when -we find him a stupid mechanic, who imitated others, and copied an art, -which, through a long succession of ages, after multiplied trials, -mistakes, corrections, deliberations, and controversies, had been -gradually improving? Many worlds might have been botched and bungled, -throughout an eternity, ere this system was struck out; much labour -lost, many fruitless trials made; and a slow, but continued improvement -carried on during infinite ages in the art of world-making. In such -subjects, who can determine, where the truth; nay, who can conjecture -where the probability lies, amidst a great number of hypotheses which -may be proposed, and a still greater which may be imagined?</p> - -<p>And what shadow of an argument, continued Philo, can you produce, from -your hypothesis, to prove the unity of the Deity? A great number of -men join in building a house or ship, in rearing a city, in framing a -commonwealth; why may not several deities combine in contriving and -framing a world? This is only so much greater similarity to human -affairs. By sharing the work among several, we may so much farther -limit the attributes of each, and get rid of that extensive power and -knowledge, which must be supposed in one deity, and which, according to -you, can only serve to weaken the proof of his existence. And if such -foolish, such vicious creatures as man, can yet often unite in framing -and executing one plan, how much more those deities or demons, whom we -may suppose several degrees more perfect!</p> - -<p>To multiply causes without necessity, is indeed contrary to true -philosophy: but this principle applies not to the present case. Were -one deity antecedently<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_471" id="Page_471">[Pg 471]</a></span> proved by your theory, who were possessed -of every attribute requisite to the production of the universe; it -would be needless, I own, (though not absurd), to suppose any other -deity existent. But while it is still a question, Whether all these -attributes are united in one subject, or dispersed among several -independent beings, by what phenomena in nature can we pretend to -decide the controversy? Where we see a body raised in a scale, we -are sure that there is in the opposite scale, however concealed from -sight, some counterpoising weight equal to it; but it is still allowed -to doubt, whether that weight be an aggregate of several distinct -bodies, or one uniform united mass. And if the weight requisite very -much exceeds any thing which we have ever seen conjoined in any single -body, the former supposition becomes still more probable and natural. -An intelligent being of such vast power and capacity as is necessary -to produce the universe, or, to speak in the language of ancient -philosophy, so prodigious an animal exceeds all analogy, and even -comprehension.</p> - -<p>But farther, Cleanthes: Men are mortal, and renew their species by -generation; and this is common to all living creatures. The two great -sexes of male and female, says Milton, animate the world. Why must -this circumstance, so universal, so essential, be excluded from those -numerous and limited deities? Behold, then, the theogony of ancient -times brought back upon us.</p> - -<p>And why not become a perfect Anthropomorphite? Why not assert the deity -or deities to be corporeal, and to have eyes, a nose, mouth, ears, &c.? -Epicurus maintained, that no man had ever seen reason but in a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_472" id="Page_472">[Pg 472]</a></span> human -figure; therefore the gods must have a human figure. And this argument, -which is deservedly so much ridiculed by Cicero, becomes, according to -you, solid and philosophical.</p> - -<p>In a word, Cleanthes, a man who follows your hypothesis is able perhaps -to assert, or conjecture, that the universe, sometime, arose from -something like design: but beyond that position he cannot ascertain one -single circumstance; and is left afterwards to fix every point of his -theology by the utmost license of fancy and hypothesis. This world, for -aught he knows, is very faulty and imperfect, compared to a superior -standard; and was only the first rude essay of some infant deity, who -afterwards abandoned it, ashamed of his lame performance: it is the -work only of some dependent, inferior deity; and is the object of -derision to his superiors: it is the production of old age and dotage -in some superannuated deity; and ever since his death, has run on at -adventures, from the first impulse and active force which it received -from him. You justly give signs of horror, Demea, at these strange -suppositions; but these, and a thousand more of the same kind, are -Cleanthes's suppositions, not mine. From the moment the attributes of -the Deity are supposed finite, all these have place. And I cannot, for -my part, think that so wild and unsettled a system of theology is, in -any respect, preferable to none at all.</p> - -<p>These suppositions I absolutely disown, cried Cleanthes: they strike -me, however, with no horror, especially when proposed in that -rambling way in which they drop from you. On the contrary, they give -me pleasure, when I see, that, by the utmost indulgence of your -imagination, you never get rid of the hypothesis<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_473" id="Page_473">[Pg 473]</a></span> of design in the -universe, but are obliged at every turn to have recourse to it. To -this concession I adhere steadily; and this I regard as a sufficient -foundation for religion.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_40" id="Footnote_1_40"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_40"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Lib. xi. 1094.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_41" id="Footnote_2_41"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_41"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> De Nat Deor. lib. i.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_474" id="Page_474">[Pg 474]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_VI" id="PART_VI">PART VI.</a></h5> - - -<p>It must be a slight fabric, indeed, said Demea, which can be erected -on so tottering a foundation. While we are uncertain whether there is -one deity or many; whether the deity or deities, to whom we owe our -existence, be perfect or imperfect, subordinate or supreme, dead or -alive, what trust or confidence can we repose in them? What devotion or -worship address to them? What veneration or obedience pay them? To all -the purposes of life the theory of religion becomes altogether useless: -and even with regard to speculative consequences, its uncertainty, -according to you, must render it totally precarious and unsatisfactory.</p> - -<p>To render it still more unsatisfactory, said Philo, there occurs to me -another hypothesis, which must acquire an air of probability from the -method of reasoning so much insisted on by Cleanthes. That like effects -arise from like causes: this principle he supposes the foundation of -all religion. But there is another principle of the same kind, no less -certain, and derived from the same source of experience; that where -several known circumstances are observed to be similar, the unknown -will also be found similar. Thus, if we see the limbs of a human body, -we conclude that it is also attended with a human head, though hid from -us. Thus, if we see, through a chink in a wall, a small part of the -sun, we conclude, that, were the wall<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_475" id="Page_475">[Pg 475]</a></span> removed, we should see the whole -body. In short, this method of reasoning is so obvious and familiar, -that no scruple can ever be made with regard to its solidity.</p> - -<p>Now, if we survey the universe, so far as it falls under our knowledge, -it bears a great resemblance to an animal or organized body, and -seems actuated with a like principle of life and motion. A continual -circulation of matter in it produces no disorder: a continual waste in -every part is incessantly repaired: the closest sympathy is perceived -throughout the entire system: and each part or member, in performing -its proper offices, operates both to its own preservation and to that -of the whole. The world, therefore, I infer, is an animal; and the -Deity is the soul of the world, actuating it, and actuated by it.</p> - -<p>You have too much learning, Cleanthes, to be at all surprised at this -opinion, which, you know, was maintained by almost all the Theists of -antiquity, and chiefly prevails in their discourses and reasonings. -For though, sometimes, the ancient philosophers reason from final -causes, as if they thought the world the workmanship of God; yet it -appears rather their favourite notion to consider it as his body, whose -organization renders it subservient to him. And it must be confessed, -that, as the universe resembles more a human body than it does the -works of human art and contrivance, if our limited analogy could ever, -with any propriety, be extended to the whole of nature, the inference -seems juster in favour of the ancient than the modern theory.</p> - -<p>There are many other advantages, too, in the former theory, which -recommended it to the ancient theologians. Nothing more repugnant -to all their notions, because nothing more repugnant to common -experience,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_476" id="Page_476">[Pg 476]</a></span> than mind without body; a mere spiritual substance, -which fell not under their senses nor comprehension, and of which -they had not observed one single instance throughout all nature. Mind -and body they knew, because they felt both: an order, arrangement, -organization, or internal machinery, in both, they likewise knew, after -the same manner: and it could not but seem reasonable to transfer this -experience to the universe; and to suppose the divine mind and body -to be also coeval, and to have, both of them, order and arrangement -naturally inherent in them, and inseparable from them.</p> - -<p>Here, therefore, is a new species of <i>Anthropomorphism</i>, Cleanthes, -on which you may deliberate; and a theory which seems not liable to -any considerable difficulties. You are too much superior, surely, to -<i>systematical prejudices</i>, to find any more difficulty in supposing -an animal body to be, originally, of itself, or from unknown causes, -possessed of order and organization, than in supposing a similar order -to belong to mind. But the <i>vulgar prejudice</i>, that body and mind -ought always to accompany each other, ought not, one should think, to -be entirely neglected; since it is founded on <i>vulgar experience</i>, -the only guide which you profess to follow in all these theological -inquiries. And if you assert, that our limited experience is an -unequal standard, by which to judge of the unlimited extent of nature; -you entirely abandon your own hypothesis, and must thenceforward -adopt our Mysticism, as you call it, and admit of the absolute -incomprehensibility of the Divine Nature.</p> - -<p>This theory, I own, replied Cleanthes, has never before occurred to me, -though a pretty natural one; and I cannot readily, upon so short an -examination and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_477" id="Page_477">[Pg 477]</a></span> reflection, deliver any opinion with regard to it. You -are very scrupulous, indeed, said Philo: were I to examine any system -of yours, I should not have acted with half that caution and reserve, -in starting objections and difficulties to it. However, if any thing -occur to you, you will oblige us by proposing it.</p> - -<p>Why then, replied Cleanthes, it seems to me, that, though the world -does, in many circumstances, resemble an animal body; yet is the -analogy also defective in many circumstances the most material: no -organs of sense; no seat of thought or reason; no one precise origin of -motion and action. In short, it seems to bear a stronger resemblance -to a vegetable than to an animal, and your inference would be so far -inconclusive in favour of the soul of the world.</p> - -<p>But, in the next place, your theory seems to imply the eternity of -the world; and that is a principle, which, I think, can be refuted by -the strongest reasons and probabilities. I shall suggest an argument -to this purpose, which, I believe, has not been insisted on by any -writer. Those, who reason from the late origin of arts and sciences, -though their inference wants not force, may perhaps be refuted by -considerations derived from the nature of human society, which is in -continual revolution, between ignorance and knowledge, liberty and -slavery, riches and poverty; so that it is impossible for us, from -our limited experience, to foretel with assurance what events may or -may not be expected. Ancient learning and history seem to have been -in great danger of entirely perishing after the inundation of the -barbarous nations; and had these convulsions continued a little longer, -or been a little more violent, we should not probably have now known -what passed in the world a few centuries before us. Nay, were it not<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_478" id="Page_478">[Pg 478]</a></span> -for the superstition of the Popes, who preserved a little jargon of -Latin, in order to support the appearance of an ancient and universal -church, that tongue must have been utterly lost; in which case, the -Western world, being totally barbarous, would not have been in a fit -disposition for receiving the Greek language and learning, which was -conveyed to them after the sacking of Constantinople. When learning -and books had been extinguished, even the mechanical arts would have -fallen considerably to decay; and it is easily imagined, that fable or -tradition might ascribe to them a much later origin than the true one. -This vulgar argument, therefore, against the eternity of the world, -seems a little precarious.</p> - -<p>But here appears to be the foundation of a better argument. Lucullus -was the first that brought cherry-trees from Asia to Europe; though -that tree thrives so well in many European climates, that it grows -in the woods without any culture. Is it possible, that throughout a -whole eternity, no European had ever passed into Asia, and thought of -transplanting so delicious a fruit into his own country? Or if the tree -was once transplanted and propagated, how could it ever afterwards -perish? Empires may rise and fall, liberty and slavery succeed -alternately, ignorance and knowledge give place to each other; but the -cherry-tree will still remain in the woods of Greece, Spain and Italy, -and will never be affected by the revolutions of human society.</p> - -<p>It is not two thousand years since vines were transplanted into France, -though there is no climate in the world more favourable to them. It -is not three centuries since horses, cows, sheep, swine, dogs, corn, -were known in America. Is it possible, that during<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_479" id="Page_479">[Pg 479]</a></span> the revolutions -of a whole eternity, there never arose a Columbus, who might open -the communication between Europe and that continent? We may as well -imagine, that all men would wear stockings for ten thousand years, and -never have the sense to think of garters to tie them. All these seem -convincing proofs of the youth, or rather infancy, of the world; as -being founded on the operation of principles more constant and steady -than those by which human society is governed and directed. Nothing -less than a total convulsion of the elements will ever destroy all -the European animals and vegetables which are now to be found in the -Western world.</p> - -<p>And what argument have you against such convulsions? replied Philo. -Strong and almost incontestable proofs may be traced over the whole -earth, that every part of this globe has continued for many ages -entirely covered with water. And though order were supposed inseparable -from matter, and inherent in it; yet may matter be susceptible of many -and great revolutions, through the endless periods of eternal duration. -The incessant changes, to which every part of it is subject, seem to -intimate some such general transformations; though, at the same time, -it is observable, that all the changes and corruptions of which we -have ever had experience, are but passages from one state of order to -another; nor can matter ever rest in total deformity and confusion. -What we see in the parts, we may infer in the whole; at least, that -is the method of reasoning on which you rest your whole theory. And -were I obliged to defend any particular system of this nature, which I -never willingly should do, I esteem none more plausible than that which -ascribes an eternal inherent principle of order to the world, though -attended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_480" id="Page_480">[Pg 480]</a></span> with great and continual revolutions and alterations. This at -once solves all difficulties; and if the solution, by being so general, -is not entirely complete and satisfactory, it is at least a theory that -we must sooner or later have recourse to, whatever system we embrace. -How could things have been as they are, were there not an original -inherent principle of order somewhere, in thought or in matter? And it -is very indifferent to which of these we give the preference. Chance -has no place, on any hypothesis, sceptical or religious. Every thing -is surely governed by steady, inviolable laws. And were the inmost -essence of things laid open to us, we should then discover a scene, -of which, at present, we can have no idea. Instead of admiring the -order of natural beings, we should clearly see that it was absolutely -impossible for them, in the smallest article, ever to admit of any -other disposition.</p> - -<p>Were any one inclined to revive the ancient Pagan Theology, which -maintained, as we learn from Hesiod, that this globe was governed -by 30,000 deities, who arose from the unknown powers of nature: you -would naturally object, Cleanthes, that nothing is gained by this -hypothesis; and that it is as easy to suppose all men animals, beings -more numerous, but less perfect, to have sprung immediately from a -like origin. Push the same inference a step farther, and you will find -a numerous society of deities as explicable as one universal deity, -who possesses within himself the powers and perfections of the whole -society. All these systems, then, of Scepticism, Polytheism, and -Theism, you must allow, on your principles, to be on a like footing, -and that no one of them has any advantage over the others. You may -thence learn the fallacy of your principles.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_481" id="Page_481">[Pg 481]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_VII" id="PART_VII">PART VII.</a></h5> - - -<p>But here, continued Philo, in examining the ancient system of the soul -of the world, there strikes me, all on a sudden, a new idea, which, if -just, must go near to subvert all your reasoning, and destroy even your -first inferences, on which you repose such confidence. If the universe -bears a greater likeness to animal bodies and to vegetables, than to -the works of human art, it is more probable that its cause resembles -the cause of the former than that of the latter, and its origin ought -rather to be ascribed to generation or vegetation, than to reason or -design. Your conclusion, even according to your own principles, is -therefore lame and defective.</p> - -<p>Pray open up this argument a little farther, said Demea, for I do not -rightly apprehend it in that concise manner in which you have expressed -it.</p> - -<p>Our friend Cleanthes, replied Philo, as you have heard, asserts, that -since no question of fact can be proved otherwise than by experience, -the existence of a Deity admits not of proof from any other medium. The -world, says he, resembles the works of human contrivance; therefore -its cause must also resemble that of the other. Here we may remark, -that the operation of one very small part of nature, to wit man, upon -another very small part, to wit that inanimate matter lying within -his reach, is the rule by which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_482" id="Page_482">[Pg 482]</a></span> Cleanthes judges of the origin of -the whole; and he measures objects, so widely disproportioned, by the -same individual standard. But to waive all objections drawn from this -topic, I affirm, that there are other parts of the universe (besides -the machines of human invention) which bear still a greater resemblance -to the fabric of the world, and which, therefore, afford a better -conjecture concerning the universal origin of this system. These parts -are animals and vegetables. The world plainly resembles more an animal -or a vegetable, than it does a watch or a knitting-loom. Its cause, -therefore, it is more probable, resembles the cause of the former. The -cause of the former is generation or vegetation. The cause, therefore, -of the world, we may infer to be something similar or analogous to -generation or vegetation.</p> - -<p>But how is it conceivable, said Demea, that the world can arise from -any thing similar to vegetation or generation?</p> - -<p>Very easily, replied Philo. In like manner as a tree sheds its seed -into the neighbouring fields, and produces other trees; so the great -vegetable, the world, or this planetary system, produces within itself -certain seeds, which, being scattered into the surrounding chaos, -vegetate into new worlds. A comet, for instance, is the seed of a -world; and after it has been fully ripened, by passing from sun to sun, -and star to star, it is at last tossed into the unformed elements which -every where surround this universe, and immediately sprouts up into a -new system.</p> - -<p>Or if, for the sake of variety (for I see no other advantage), we -should suppose this world to be an animal; a comet is the egg of this -animal: and in like manner as an ostrich lays its egg in the sand, -which,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_483" id="Page_483">[Pg 483]</a></span> without any farther care, hatches the egg, and produces a new -animal; so ... I understand you, says Demea: But what wild, arbitrary -suppositions are these! What <i>data</i> have you for such extraordinary -conclusions? And is the slight, imaginary resemblance of the world to -a vegetable or an animal sufficient to establish the same inference -with regard to both? Objects, which are in general so widely different, -ought they to be a standard for each other?</p> - -<p>Right, cries Philo: This is the topic on which I have all along -insisted. I have still asserted, that we have no <i>data</i> to establish -any system of cosmogony. Our experience, so imperfect in itself, and -so limited both in extent and duration, can afford us no probable -conjecture concerning the whole of things. But if we must needs fix -on some hypothesis; by what rule, pray, ought we to determine our -choice? Is there any other rule than the greater similarity of the -objects compared? And does not a plant or an animal, which springs from -vegetation or generation, bear a stronger resemblance to the world, -than does any artificial machine, which arises from reason and design?</p> - -<p>But what is this vegetation and generation of which you talk, said -Demea? Can you explain their operations, and anatomize that fine -internal structure on which they depend?</p> - -<p>As much, at least, replied Philo, as Cleanthes can explain the -operations of reason, or anatomize that internal structure on which -<i>it</i> depends. But without any such elaborate disquisitions, when I -see an animal, I infer, that it sprang from generation; and that with -as great certainty as you conclude a house to have been reared by -design. These words, <i>generation, reason</i>, mark only certain powers -and energies in nature, whose<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_484" id="Page_484">[Pg 484]</a></span> effects are known, but whose essence is -incomprehensible; and one of these principles, more than the other, has -no privilege for being made a standard to the whole of nature.</p> - -<p>In reality, Demea, it may reasonably be expected, that the larger the -views are which we take of things, the better will they conduct us in -our conclusions concerning such extraordinary and such magnificent -subjects. In this little corner of the world alone, there are four -principles, <i>reason, instinct, generation, vegetation</i>, which are -similar to each other, and are the causes of similar effects. What a -number of other principles may we naturally suppose in the immense -extent and variety of the universe, could we travel from planet to -planet, and from system to system, in order to examine each part of -this mighty fabric? Any one of these four principles above mentioned, -(and a hundred others which lie open to our conjecture), may afford -us a theory by which to judge of the origin of the world; and it is -a palpable and egregious partiality to confine our view entirely to -that principle by which our own minds operate. Were this principle -more intelligible on that account, such a partiality might be somewhat -excuseable: But reason, in its internal fabric and structure, is -really as little known to us as instinct or vegetation; and, perhaps, -even that vague, undeterminate word, <i>Nature</i>, to which the vulgar -refer every thing, is not at the bottom more inexplicable. The -effects of these principles are all known to us from experience; -but the principles themselves, and their manner of operation, are -totally unknown; nor is it less intelligible, or less conformable to -experience, to say, that the world arose by vegetation, from a seed -shed by another world, than to say that it arose from a divine reason -or<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_485" id="Page_485">[Pg 485]</a></span> contrivance, according to the sense in which Cleanthes understands -it.</p> - -<p>But methinks, said Demea, if the world had a vegetative quality, and -could sow the seeds of new worlds into the infinite chaos, this power -would be still an additional argument for design in its author. For -whence could arise so wonderful a faculty but from design? Or how can -order spring from any thing which perceives not that order which it -bestows?</p> - -<p>You need only look around you, replied Philo, to satisfy yourself with -regard to this question. A tree bestows order and organization on that -tree which springs from it, without knowing the order; an animal in -the same manner on its offspring; a bird on its nest; and instances -of this kind are even more frequent in the world than those of order, -which arise from reason and contrivance. To say, that all this order -in animals and vegetables proceeds ultimately from design, is begging -the question; nor can that great point be ascertained otherwise than by -proving, <i>a priori</i>, both that order is, from its nature, inseparably -attached to thought; and that it can never of itself, or from original -unknown principles, belong to matter.</p> - -<p>But farther, Demea; this objection which you urge can never be made -use of by Cleanthes, without renouncing a defence which he has already -made against one of my objections. When I inquired concerning the -cause of that supreme reason and intelligence into which he resolves -every thing; he told me, that the impossibility of satisfying such -inquiries could never be admitted as an objection in any species of -philosophy. <i>We must stop somewhere</i>, says he; <i>nor is it ever within -the reach of human capacity to explain ultimate causes, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_486" id="Page_486">[Pg 486]</a></span> show the -last connections of any objects. It is sufficient, if any steps, so -far as we go, are supported by experience and observation</i>. Now, that -vegetation and generation, as well as reason, are experienced to be -principles of order in nature, is undeniable. If I rest my system of -cosmogony on the former, preferably to the latter, it is at my choice. -The matter seems entirely arbitrary. And when Cleanthes asks me what is -the cause of my great vegetative or generative faculty, I am equally -entitled to ask him the cause of his great reasoning principle. These -questions we have agreed to forbear on both sides; and it is chiefly -his interest on the present occasion to stick to this agreement. -Judging by our limited and imperfect experience, generation has some -privileges above reason: for we see every day the latter arise from the -former, never the former from the latter.</p> - -<p>Compare, I beseech you, the consequences on both sides. The world, say -I, resembles an animal; therefore it is an animal, therefore it arose -from generation. The steps, I confess, are wide; yet there is some -small appearance of analogy in each step. The world, says Cleanthes, -resembles a machine; therefore it is a machine, therefore it arose from -design. The steps are here equally wide, and the analogy less striking. -And if he pretends to carry on <i>my</i> hypothesis a step farther, and -to infer design or reason from the great principle of generation, on -which I insist; I may, with better authority, use the same freedom -to push farther <i>his</i> hypothesis, and infer a divine generation or -theogony from his principle of reason. I have at least some faint -shadow of experience, which is the utmost that can ever be attained in -the present subject. Reason,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_487" id="Page_487">[Pg 487]</a></span> in innumerable instances, is observed to -arise from the principle of generation, and never to arise from any -other principle.</p> - -<p>Hesiod, and all the ancient mythologists, were so struck with this -analogy, that they universally explained the origin of nature from an -animal birth, and copulation. Plato too, so far as he is intelligible, -seems to have adopted some such notion in his Timæus.</p> - -<p>The Brahmins assert, that the world arose from an infinite spider, -who spun this whole complicated mass from his bowels, and annihilates -afterwards the whole or any part of it, by absorbing it again, and -resolving it into his own essence. Here is a species of cosmogony, -which appears to us ridiculous; because a spider is a little -contemptible animal, whose operations we are never likely to take for -a model of the whole universe. But still here is a new species of -analogy, even in our globe. And were there a planet wholly inhabited by -spiders, (which is very possible), this inference would there appear -as natural and irrefragable as that which in our planet ascribes the -origin of all things to design and intelligence, as explained by -Cleanthes. Why an orderly system may not be spun from the belly as well -as from the brain, it will be difficult for him to give a satisfactory -reason.</p> - -<p>I must confess, Philo, replied Cleanthes, that of all men living, the -task which you have undertaken, of raising doubts and objections, -suits you best, and seems, in a manner, natural and unavoidable to -you. So great is your fertility of invention, that I am not ashamed -to acknowledge myself unable, on a sudden, to solve regularly such -out-of-the-way difficulties as you incessantly start upon me: though -I clearly see,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_488" id="Page_488">[Pg 488]</a></span> in general, their fallacy and error. And I question -not, but you are yourself, at present, in the same case, and have not -the solution so ready as the objection: while you must be sensible, -that common sense and reason are entirely against you; and that such -whimsies as you have delivered, may puzzle, but never can convince us.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_489" id="Page_489">[Pg 489]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_VIII" id="PART_VIII">PART VIII.</a></h5> - - -<p>What you ascribe to the fertility of my invention, replied Philo, -is entirely owing to the nature of the subject. In subjects adapted -to the narrow compass of human reason, there is commonly but one -determination, which carries probability or conviction with it; and to -a man of sound judgment, all other suppositions, but that one, appear -entirely absurd and chimerical. But in such questions as the present, a -hundred contradictory views may preserve a kind of imperfect analogy; -and invention has here full scope to exert itself. Without any great -effort of thought, I believe that I could, in an instant, propose other -systems of cosmogony, which would have some faint appearance of truth; -though it is a thousand, a million to one, if either yours or any one -of mine be the true system.</p> - -<p>For instance, what if I should revive the old Epicurean hypothesis? -This is commonly, and I believe justly, esteemed the most absurd -system that has yet been proposed; yet I know not whether, with a few -alterations, it might not be brought to bear a faint appearance of -probability. Instead of supposing matter infinite, as Epicurus did, let -us suppose it finite. A finite number of particles is only susceptible -of finite transpositions: and it must happen, in an eternal duration, -that every possible order or position must be tried an infinite number -of times. This world, therefore,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_490" id="Page_490">[Pg 490]</a></span> with all its events, even the most -minute, has before been produced and destroyed, and will again be -produced and destroyed, without any bounds and limitations. No one, who -has a conception of the powers of infinite, in comparison of finite, -will ever scruple this determination.</p> - -<p>But this supposes, said Demea, that matter can acquire motion, without -any voluntary agent or first mover.</p> - -<p>And where is the difficulty, replied Philo, of that supposition? Every -event, before experience, is equally difficult and incomprehensible; -and every event, after experience, is equally easy and intelligible. -Motion, in many instances, from gravity, from elasticity, from -electricity, begins in matter, without any known voluntary agent: -and to suppose always, in these cases, an unknown voluntary agent, -is mere hypothesis; and hypothesis attended with no advantages. The -beginning of motion in matter itself is as conceivable <i>a priori</i> as -its communication from mind and intelligence.</p> - -<p>Besides, why may not motion have been propagated by impulse through all -eternity, and the same stock of it, or nearly the same, be still upheld -in the universe? As much is lost by the composition of motion, as much -is gained by its resolution. And whatever the causes are, the fact is -certain, that matter is, and always has been, in continual agitation, -as far as human experience or tradition reaches. There is not probably, -at present, in the whole universe, one particle of matter at absolute -rest.</p> - -<p>And this very consideration too, continued Philo, which we have -stumbled on in the course of the argument, suggests a new hypothesis -of cosmogony, that is not absolutely absurd and improbable. Is there a -system,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_491" id="Page_491">[Pg 491]</a></span> an order, an economy of things, by which matter can preserve -that perpetual agitation which seems essential to it, and yet maintain -a constancy in the forms which it produces? There certainly is such -an economy; for this is actually the case with the present world. -The continual motion of matter, therefore, in less than infinite -transpositions, must produce this economy or order; and by its very -nature, that order, when once established, supports itself, for many -ages, if not to eternity. But wherever matter is so poized, arranged, -and adjusted, as to continue in perpetual motion, and yet preserve a -constancy in the forms, its situation must, of necessity, have all the -same appearance of art and contrivance which we observe at present. All -the parts of each form must have a relation to each other, and to the -whole; and the whole itself must have a relation to the other parts -of the universe; to the element in which the form subsists; to the -materials with which it repairs its waste and decay; and to every other -form which is hostile or friendly. A defect in any of these particulars -destroys the form; and the matter of which it is composed is again set -loose, and is thrown into irregular motions and fermentations, till it -unite itself to some other regular form. If no such form be prepared -to receive it, and if there be a great quantity of this corrupted -matter in the universe, the universe itself is entirely disordered; -whether it be the feeble embryo of a world in its first beginnings -that is thus destroyed, or the rotten carcase of one languishing in -old age and infirmity. In either case, a chaos ensues; till finite, -though innumerable revolutions produce at last some forms, whose parts -and organs are so adjusted as to support the forms amidst a continued -succession of matter.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_492" id="Page_492">[Pg 492]</a></span></p> - -<p>Suppose (for we shall endeavour to vary the expression), that matter -were thrown into any position, by a blind, unguided force; it is -evident that this first position must, in all probability, be the -most confused and most disorderly imaginable, without any resemblance -to those works of human contrivance, which, along with a symmetry of -parts, discover an adjustment of means to ends, and a tendency to -self-preservation. If the actuating force cease after this operation, -matter must remain for ever in disorder, and continue an immense chaos, -without any proportion or activity. But suppose that the actuating -force, whatever it be, still continues in matter, this first position -will immediately give place to a second, which will likewise in all -probability be as disorderly as the first, and so on through many -successions of changes and revolutions. No particular order or position -ever continues a moment unaltered. The original force, still remaining -in activity, gives a perpetual restlessness to matter. Every possible -situation is produced, and instantly destroyed. If a glimpse or dawn -of order appears for a moment, it is instantly hurried away, and -confounded, by that never-ceasing force which actuates every part of -matter.</p> - -<p>Thus the universe goes on for many ages in a continued succession -of chaos and disorder. But is it not possible that it may settle at -last, so as not to lose its motion and active force (for that we -have supposed inherent in it), yet so as to preserve an uniformity -of appearance, amidst the continual motion and fluctuation of its -parts? This we find to be the case with the universe at present. -Every individual is perpetually changing, and every part of every -individual; and yet the whole remains, in appearance, the same. May we -not hope for such a position, or rather be assured of it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_493" id="Page_493">[Pg 493]</a></span> from the -eternal revolutions of unguided matter; and may not this account for -all the appearing wisdom and contrivance which is in the universe? -Let us contemplate the subject a little, and we shall find, that this -adjustment, if attained by matter of a seeming stability in the forms, -with a real and perpetual revolution or motion of parts, affords a -plausible, if not a true solution of the difficulty.</p> - -<p>It is in vain, therefore, to insist upon the uses of the parts in -animals or vegetables, and their curious adjustment to each other. I -would fain know, how an animal could subsist, unless its parts were so -adjusted? Do we not find, that it immediately perishes whenever this -adjustment ceases, and that its matter corrupting tries some new form? -It happens indeed, that the parts of the world are so well adjusted, -that some regular form immediately lays claim to this corrupted matter: -and if it were not so, could the world subsist? Must it not dissolve as -well as the animal, and pass through new positions and situations, till -in great, but finite succession, it fall at last into the present or -some such order?</p> - -<p>It is well, replied Cleanthes, you told us, that this hypothesis -was suggested on a sudden, in the course of the argument. Had -you had leisure to examine it, you would soon have perceived the -insuperable objections to which it is exposed. No form, you say, can -subsist, unless it possess those powers and organs requisite for its -subsistence: some new order or economy must be tried, and so on, -without intermission; till at last some order, which can support and -maintain itself, is fallen upon. But according to this hypothesis, -whence arise the many conveniences and advantages which men and all -animals possess? Two eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_494" id="Page_494">[Pg 494]</a></span> two ears, are not absolutely necessary for -the subsistence of the species. Human race might have been propagated -and preserved, without horses, dogs, cows, sheep, and those innumerable -fruits and products which serve to our satisfaction and enjoyment. If -no camels had been created for the use of man in the sandy deserts of -Africa and Arabia, would the world have been dissolved? If no loadstone -had been framed to give that wonderful and useful direction to the -needle, would human society and the human kind have been immediately -extinguished? Though the maxims of Nature be in general very frugal, -yet instances of this kind are far from being rare; and any one of them -is a sufficient proof of design, and of a benevolent design, which gave -rise to the order and arrangement of the universe.</p> - -<p>At least, you may safely infer, said Philo, that the foregoing -hypothesis is so far incomplete and imperfect, which I shall not -scruple to allow. But can we ever reasonably expect greater success -in any attempts of this nature? Or can we ever hope to erect a system -of cosmogony, that will be liable to no exceptions, and will contain -no circumstance repugnant to our limited and imperfect experience of -the analogy of Nature? Your theory itself cannot surely pretend to any -such advantage, even though you have run into <i>Anthropomorphism</i>, the -better to preserve a conformity to common experience. Let us once more -put into trial. In all instances which we have ever seen, ideas are -copied from real objects, and are ectypal, not archetypal, to express -myself in learned terms: You reverse this order, and give thought the -precedence. In all instances which we have ever seen, thought has no -influence upon matter, except where that matter is so conjoined<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_495" id="Page_495">[Pg 495]</a></span> with -it as to have an equal reciprocal influence upon it. No animal can move -immediately any thing but the members of its own body; and indeed, -the equality of action and re-action seems to be an universal law of -nature: But your theory implies a contradiction to this experience. -These instances, with many more, which it were easy to collect, -(particularly the supposition of a mind or system of thought that is -eternal, or, in other words, an animal ingenerable and immortal); these -instances, I say, may teach all of us sobriety in condemning each -other, and let us see, that as no system of this kind ought ever to be -received from a slight analogy, so neither ought any to be rejected on -account of a small incongruity. For that is an inconvenience from which -we can justly pronounce no one to be exempted.</p> - -<p>All religious systems, it is confessed, are subject to great and -insuperable difficulties. Each disputant triumphs in his turn; while he -carries on an offensive war, and exposes the absurdities, barbarities, -and pernicious tenets of his antagonist. But all of them, on the whole, -prepare a complete triumph for the <i>Sceptic</i>; who tells them, that no -system ought ever to be embraced with regard to such subjects: For -this plain reason, that no absurdity ought ever to be assented to with -regard to any subject. A total suspense of judgment is here our only -reasonable resource. And if every attack, as is commonly observed, and -no defence, among Theologians, is successful; how complete must be -<i>his</i> victory, who remains always, with all mankind, on the offensive, -and has himself no fixed station or abiding city, which he is ever, on -any occasion, obliged to defend?</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_496" id="Page_496">[Pg 496]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_IX" id="PART_IX">PART IX.</a></h5> - - -<p>But if so many difficulties attend the argument <i>a posteriori</i>, said -Demea, had we not better adhere to that simple and sublime argument <i>a -priori</i>, which, by offering to us infallible demonstration, cuts off -at once all doubt and difficulty? By this argument, too, we may prove -the INFINITY of the Divine attributes, which, I am afraid, can never be -ascertained with certainty from any other topic. For how can an effect, -which either is finite, or, for aught we know, may be so; how can such -an effect, I say, prove an infinite cause? The unity too of the Divine -Nature, it is very difficult, if not absolutely impossible, to deduce -merely from contemplating the works of nature; nor will the uniformity -alone of the plan, even were it allowed, give us any assurance of that -attribute. Whereas the argument <i>a priori</i>....</p> - -<p>You seem to reason, Demea, interposed Cleanthes, as if those -advantages and conveniences in the abstract argument were full proofs -of its solidity. But it is first proper, in my opinion, to determine -what argument of this nature you choose to insist on; and we shall -afterwards, from itself, better than from its <i>useful</i> consequences, -endeavour to determine what value we ought to put upon it.</p> - -<p>The argument, replied Demea, which I would insist on, is the common -one. Whatever exists must<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_497" id="Page_497">[Pg 497]</a></span> have a cause or reason of its existence; it -being absolutely impossible for any thing to produce itself, or be the -cause of its own existence. In mounting up, therefore, from effects -to causes, we must either go on in tracing an infinite succession, -without any ultimate cause at all; or must at last have recourse to -some ultimate cause, that is <i>necessarily</i> existent: Now, that the -first supposition is absurd, may be thus proved. In the infinite chain -or succession of causes and effects, each single effect is determined -to exist by the power and efficacy of that cause which immediately -preceded; but the whole eternal chain or succession, taken together, -is not determined or caused by any thing; and yet it is evident that -it requires a cause or reason, as much as any particular object -which begins to exist in time. The question is still reasonable, -why this particular succession of causes existed from eternity, and -not any other succession, or no succession at all. If there be no -necessarily existent being, any supposition which can be formed is -equally possible; nor is there any more absurdity in Nothing's having -existed from eternity, than there is in that succession of causes -which constitutes the universe. What was it, then, which determined -Something to exist rather than Nothing, and bestowed being on a -particular possibility, exclusive of the rest? <i>External causes</i>, there -are supposed to be none. <i>Chance</i> is a word without a meaning. Was it -<i>Nothing</i>? But that can never produce any thing. We must, therefore, -have recourse to a necessarily existent Being, who carries the REASON -of his existence in himself, and who cannot be supposed not to exist, -without an express contradiction. There is, consequently, such a Being; -that is, there is a Deity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_498" id="Page_498">[Pg 498]</a></span></p> - -<p>I shall not leave it to Philo, said Cleanthes, though I know that the -starting objections is his chief delight, to point out the weakness of -this metaphysical reasoning. It seems to me so obviously ill-grounded, -and at the same time of so little consequence to the cause of true -piety and religion, that I shall myself venture to show the fallacy of -it.</p> - -<p>I shall begin with observing, that there is an evident absurdity in -pretending to demonstrate a matter of fact, or to prove it by any -arguments <i>a priori</i>. Nothing is demonstrable, unless the contrary -implies a contradiction. Nothing, that is distinctly conceivable, -implies a contradiction. Whatever we conceive as existent, we can -also conceive as non-existent. There is no being, therefore, whose -non-existence implies a contradiction. Consequently there is no being, -whose existence is demonstrable. I propose this argument as entirely -decisive, and am willing to rest the whole controversy upon it.</p> - -<p>It is pretended that the Deity is a necessarily existent being; and -this necessity of his existence is attempted to be explained by -asserting, that if we knew his whole essence or nature, we should -perceive it to be as impossible for him not to exist, as for twice two -not to be four. But it is evident that this can never happen, while -our faculties remain the same as at present. It will still be possible -for us, at any time, to conceive the non-existence of what we formerly -conceived to exist; nor can the mind ever lie under a necessity of -supposing any object to remain always in being; in the same manner as -we lie under a necessity of always conceiving twice two to be four. The -words, therefore, <i>necessary existence</i>, have no meaning; or, which is -the same thing, none that is consistent.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_499" id="Page_499">[Pg 499]</a></span></p> - -<p>But farther, why may not die material universe be the necessarily -existent Being, according to this pretended explication of necessity? -We dare not affirm that we know all the qualities of matter; and for -aught we can determine, it may contain some qualities, which, were they -known, would make its non-existence appear as great a contradiction as -that twice two is five. I find only one argument employed to prove, -that the material world is not the necessarily existent Being; and -this argument is derived from the contingency both of the matter and -the form of the world. 'Any particle of matter,' it is said,<a name="FNanchor_1_42" id="FNanchor_1_42"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_42" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> 'may -be <i>conceived</i> to be annihilated; and any form may be <i>conceived</i> to -be altered. Such an annihilation or alteration, therefore, is not -impossible.' But it seems a great partiality not to perceive, that -the same argument extends equally to the Deity, so far as we have -any conception of him; and that the mind can at least imagine him to -be non-existent, or his attributes to be altered. It must be some -unknown, inconceivable qualities, which can make his non-existence -appear impossible, or his attributes unalterable: And no reason can -be assigned, why these qualities may not belong to matter. As they -are altogether unknown and inconceivable, they can never be proved -incompatible with it.</p> - -<p>Add to this, that in tracing an eternal succession of objects, it seems -absurd to inquire for a general cause or first author. How can any -thing, that exists from eternity, have a cause, since that relation -implies a priority in time, and a beginning of existence?</p> - -<p>In such a chain, too, or succession of objects, each part is caused -by that which preceded it, and causes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_500" id="Page_500">[Pg 500]</a></span> that which succeeds it. Where -then is the difficulty? But the WHOLE, you say, wants a cause. I -answer, that the uniting of these parts into a whole, like the uniting -of several distinct countries into one kingdom, or several distinct -members into one body, is performed merely by an arbitrary act of the -mind, and has no influence on the nature of things. Did I show you -the particular causes of each individual in a collection of twenty -particles of matter, I should think it very unreasonable, should you -afterwards ask me, what was the cause of the whole twenty. This is -sufficiently explained in explaining the cause of the parts.</p> - -<p>Though the reasonings which you have urged, Cleanthes, may well -excuse me, said Philo, from starting any farther difficulties, yet -I cannot forbear insisting still upon another topic. It is observed -by arithmeticians, that the products of 9 compose always either 9, -or some lesser product of 9, if you add together all the characters -of which any of the former products is composed. Thus, of 18, 27, -36, which are products of 9, you make 9 by adding 1 to 8, 2 to 7, 3 -to 6. Thus, 369 is a product also of 9; and if you add 3, 6, and 9, -you make 18, a lesser product of 9.<a name="FNanchor_2_43" id="FNanchor_2_43"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_43" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> To a superficial observer, so -wonderful a regularity may be admired as the effect either of chance -or design: but a skilful algebraist immediately concludes it to be -the work of necessity, and demonstrates, that it must for ever result -from the nature of these numbers. Is it not probable, I ask, that the -whole economy of the universe is conducted by a like necessity, though -no human algebra can furnish a key which solves the difficulty? And -instead of admiring the order of natural<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_501" id="Page_501">[Pg 501]</a></span> beings, may it not happen, -that, could we penetrate into the intimate nature of bodies, we should -clearly see why it was absolutely impossible they could ever admit of -any other disposition? So dangerous is it to introduce this idea of -necessity into the present question! and so naturally does it afford an -inference directly opposite to the religious hypothesis!</p> - -<p>But dropping all these abstractions, continued Philo, and confining -ourselves to more familiar topics, I shall venture to add an -observation, that the argument <i>a priori</i> has seldom been found -very convincing, except to people of a metaphysical head, who have -accustomed themselves to abstract reasoning, and who, finding from -mathematics, that the understanding frequently leads to truth through -obscurity, and, contrary to first appearances, have transferred the -same habit of thinking to subjects where it ought not to have place. -Other people, even of good sense and the best inclined to religion, -feel always some deficiency in such arguments, though they are not -perhaps able to explain distinctly where it lies; a certain proof that -men ever did, and ever will derive their religion from other sources -than from this species of reasoning.</p> - -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_42" id="Footnote_1_42"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_42"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> Dr Clarke.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_43" id="Footnote_2_43"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_43"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> République des Lettres, Août 1685.</p></div> - -<hr class="tb" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_502" id="Page_502">[Pg 502]</a></span></p> - - -<h5><a name="PART_X" id="PART_X">PART X.</a></h5> - - -<p>It is my opinion, I own, replied Demea, that each man feels, in a -manner, the truth of religion within his own breast, and, from a -consciousness of his imbecility and misery, rather than from any -reasoning, is led to seek protection from that Being, on whom he and -all nature is dependent. So anxious or so tedious are even the best -scenes of life, that futurity is still the object of all our hopes -and fears. We incessantly look forward, and endeavour, by prayers, -adoration, and sacrifice, to appease those unknown powers, whom we -find, by experience, so able to afflict and oppress us. Wretched -creatures that we are! what resource for us amidst the innumerable -ills of life, did not religion, suggest some methods of atonement, -and appease those terrors with which we are incessantly agitated and -tormented?</p> - -<p>I am indeed persuaded, said Philo, that the best, and indeed the only -method of bringing every one to a due sense of religion, is by just -representations of the misery and wickedness of men. And for that -purpose a talent of eloquence and strong imagery is more requisite than -that of reasoning and argument. For is it necessary to prove what every -one feels within himself? It is only necessary to make us feel it, if -possible, more intimately and sensibly.</p> - -<p>The people, indeed, replied Demea, are sufficiently convinced of this -great and melancholy truth. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_503" id="Page_503">[Pg 503]</a></span> miseries of life; the unhappiness -of man; the general corruptions of our nature; the unsatisfactory -enjoyment of pleasures, riches, honours; these phrases have become -almost proverbial in all languages. And who can doubt of what all men -declare from their own immediate feeling and experience?</p> - -<p>In this point, said Philo, the learned are perfectly agreed with the -vulgar; and in all letters, <i>sacred</i> and <i>profane</i>, the topic of -human misery has been insisted on with the most pathetic eloquence -that sorrow and melancholy could inspire. The poets, who speak from -sentiment, without a system, and whose testimony has therefore the -more authority, abound in images of this nature. From Homer down to Dr -Young, the whole inspired tribe have ever been sensible, that no other -representation of things would suit the feeling and observation of each -individual.</p> - -<p>As to authorities, replied Demea, you need not seek them. Look round -this library of Cleanthes. I shall venture to affirm, that, except -authors of particular sciences, such as chemistry or botany, who have -no occasion to treat of human life, there is scarce one of those -innumerable writers, from whom the sense of human misery has not, in -some passage or other, extorted a complaint and confession of it. At -least, the chance is entirely on that side; and no one author has ever, -so far as I can recollect, been so extravagant as to deny it.</p> - -<p>There you must excuse me, said Philo: Leibnitz has denied it; and is -perhaps the first<a name="FNanchor_1_44" id="FNanchor_1_44"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_44" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> who ventured<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_504" id="Page_504">[Pg 504]</a></span> upon so bold and paradoxical an -opinion; at least, the first who made it essential to his philosophical -system.</p> - -<p>And by being the first, replied Demea, might he not have been sensible -of his error? For is this a subject in which philosophers can propose -to make discoveries especially in so late an age? And can any man hope -by a simple denial (for the subject scarcely admits of reasoning), -to bear down the united testimony of mankind, founded on sense and -consciousness?</p> - -<p>And why should man, added he, pretend to an exemption from the lot of -all other animals? The whole earth, believe me, Philo, is cursed and -polluted. A perpetual war is kindled amongst all living creatures. -Necessity, hunger, want, stimulate the strong and courageous: Fear, -anxiety, terror, agitate the weak and infirm. The first entrance into -life gives anguish to the new-born infant and to its wretched parent: -Weakness, impotence, distress, attend each stage of that life: and it -is at last finished in agony and horror.</p> - -<p>Observe too, says Philo, the curious artifices of Nature, in order -to embitter the life of every living being. The stronger prey upon -the weaker, and keep them in perpetual terror and anxiety. The weaker -too, in their turn, often prey upon the stronger, and vex and molest -them without relaxation. Consider that innumerable race of insects, -which either are bred on the body of each animal, or, flying about, -infix their stings in him. These insects have others still less than -themselves, which torment them. And thus on each hand, before and -behind, above and below, every animal is surrounded with enemies, which -incessantly seek his misery and destruction.</p> - -<p>Man alone, said Demea, seems to be, in part, an exception to this rule. -For by combination in society,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_505" id="Page_505">[Pg 505]</a></span> he can easily master lions, tigers, and -bears, whose greater strength and agility naturally enable them to prey -upon him.</p> - -<p>On the contrary, it is here chiefly, cried Philo, that the uniform -and equal maxims of Nature are most apparent. Man, it is true, can, -by combination, surmount all his <i>real</i> enemies, and become master of -the whole animal creation: but does he not immediately raise up to -himself <i>imaginary</i> enemies, the demons of his fancy, who haunt him -with superstitious terrors, and blast every enjoyment of life? His -pleasure, as he imagines, becomes, in their eyes, a crime: his food and -repose give them umbrage and offence: his very sleep and dreams furnish -new materials to anxious fear: and even death, his refuge from every -other ill, presents only the dread of endless and innumerable woes. Nor -does the wolf molest more the timid flock, than superstition does the -anxious breast of wretched mortals.</p> - -<p>Besides, consider, Demea: This very society, by which we surmount those -wild beasts, our natural enemies; what new enemies does it not raise to -us? What wo and misery does it not occasion? Man is the greatest enemy -of man. Oppression, injustice, contempt, contumely, violence, sedition, -war, calumny, treachery, fraud; by these they mutually torment each -other; and they would soon dissolve that society which they had formed, -were it not for the dread of still greater ills, which must attend -their separation.</p> - -<p>But though these external insults, said Demea, from animals, from men, -from all the elements, which assault us, form a frightful catalogue -of woes, they are nothing in comparison of those which arise within -ourselves, from the distempered condition of our mind and body. How -many lie under the lingering torment<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_506" id="Page_506">[Pg 506]</a></span> of diseases? Hear the pathetic -enumeration of the great poet.</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Intestine stone and ulcer, colic-pangs,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Dire was the tossing, deep the groans: *DESPAIR</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Tended the sick, busiest from couch to couch.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">And over them triumphant *DEATH his dart</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Shook: but delay'd to strike, though oft invok'd</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">With vows, as their chief good and final hope.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>The disorders of the mind, continued Demea, though more secret, are -not perhaps less dismal and vexatious. Remorse, shame, anguish, rage, -disappointment, anxiety, fear, dejection, despair; who has ever passed -through life without cruel inroads from these tormentors? How many -have scarcely ever felt any better sensations? Labour and poverty, so -abhorred by every one, are the certain lot of the far greater number; -and those few privileged persons, who enjoy ease and opulence, never -reach contentment or true felicity. All the goods of life united would -not make a very happy man; but all the ills united would make a wretch -indeed; and any one of them almost (and who can be free from every -one?) nay often the absence of one good (and who can possess all?) is -sufficient to render life ineligible.</p> - -<p>Were a stranger to drop on a sudden into this world, I would show him, -as a specimen of its ills, an hospital full of diseases, a prison -crowded with malefactors and debtors, a field of battle strewed with -carcases, a fleet foundering in the ocean, a nation languishing under -tyranny, famine, or pestilence. To turn the gay side of life to him, -and give him a notion of its pleasures; whether should I conduct him? -to a ball, to an opera,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_507" id="Page_507">[Pg 507]</a></span> to court? He might justly think, that I was -only showing him a diversity of distress and sorrow.</p> - -<p>There is no evading such striking instances, said Philo, but by -apologies, which still farther aggravate the charge. Why have all men, -I ask, in all ages, complained incessantly of the miseries of life?.... -They have no just reason, says one: these complaints proceed only from -their discontented, repining, anxious disposition.... And can there -possibly, I reply, be a more certain foundation of misery, than such a -wretched temper?</p> - -<p>But if they were really as unhappy as they pretend, says my antagonist, -why do they remain in life?....</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Not satisfied with life, afraid of death.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>This is the secret chain, say I, that holds us. We are terrified, not -bribed to the continuance of our existence.</p> - -<p>It is only a false delicacy, he may insist, which a few refined spirits -indulge, and which has, spread these complaints among the whole, nice -of mankinds.... And what is this delicacy, I ask, which you blame? Is -it any thing but a greater sensibility to all the pleasures and pains -of life? and if the man of a delicate, refined temper, by being so much -more alive than the rest of the world, is only so much more unhappy, -what judgment must we form in general of human life?</p> - -<p>Let men remain at rest, says our adversary, and they will be easy. They -are willing artificers of their own misery.... No! reply I: an anxious -languor follows their repose; disappointment, vexation, trouble, their -activity and ambition.</p> - -<p>I can observe something like what you mention in some others, replied -Cleanthes: but I confess I feel<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_508" id="Page_508">[Pg 508]</a></span> little or nothing of it in myself, and -hope that it is not so common as you represent it.</p> - -<p>If you feel not human misery yourself, cried Demea, I congratulate -you on so happy a singularity. Others, seemingly the most prosperous, -have not been ashamed to vent their complaints in the most melancholy -strains. Let us attend to the great, the fortunate emperor, Charles -V., when, tired with human grandeur, he resigned all his extensive -dominions into the hands of his son. In the last harangue which -he made on that memorable occasion, he publicly avowed, <i>that the -greatest prosperities which he had ever enjoyed, had been mixed with -so many adversities, that he might truly say he had never enjoyed -any satisfaction or contentment</i>. But did the retired life, in which -he sought for shelter, afford him any greater happiness? If we may -credit his son's account, his repentance commenced the very day of his -resignation.</p> - -<p>Cicero's fortune, from small beginnings, rose to the greatest lustre -and renown; yet what pathetic complaints of the ills of life do his -familiar letters, as well as philosophical discourses, contain? And -suitably to his own experience, he introduces Cato, the great, the -fortunate Cato, protesting in his old age, that had he a new life in -his offer, he would reject the present.</p> - -<p>Ask yourself, ask any of your acquaintance, whether they would live -over again the last ten or twenty years of their life. No! but the next -twenty, they say, will be better:</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">And from the dregs of life, hope to receive</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">What the first sprightly running could not give.</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Thus at last they find (such is the greatness of human misery, it -reconciles even contradictions), that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_509" id="Page_509">[Pg 509]</a></span> complain at once of the -shortness of life, and of its vanity and sorrow.</p> - -<p>And is it possible, Cleanthes, said Philo, that after all these -reflections, and infinitely more, which might be suggested, you -can still persevere in your Anthropomorphism, and assert the moral -attributes of the Deity, his justice, benevolence, mercy, and -rectitude, to be of the same nature with these virtues in human -creatures? His power we allow is infinite: whatever he wills is -executed: but neither man nor any other animal is happy: therefore he -does not will their happiness. His wisdom is infinite: he is never -mistaken in choosing the means to any end: but the course of Nature -tends not to human or animal felicity: therefore it is not established -for that purpose. Through the whole compass of human knowledge, there -are no inferences more certain and infallible than these. In what -respect, then, do his benevolence and mercy resemble the benevolence -and mercy of men?</p> - -<p>Epicurus's old questions are yet unanswered.</p> - -<p>Is he willing to prevent evil, but not able? then is he impotent. Is -he able, but not willing? then is he malevolent Is he both able and -willing? whence then is evil?</p> - -<p>You ascribe, Cleanthes (and I believe justly), a purpose and intention -to Nature. But what, I beseech you, is the object of that curious -artifice and machinery, which she has displayed in all animals? The -preservation alone of individuals, and propagation of the species. It -seems enough for her purpose, if such a rank be barely upheld in the -universe, without any care or concern for the happiness of the members -that compose it. No resource for this purpose: no machinery, in order -merely to give pleasure or ease: no fund of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_510" id="Page_510">[Pg 510]</a></span> pure joy and contentment: -no indulgence, without some want or necessity accompanying it. At -least, the few phenomena of this nature are overbalanced by opposite -phenomena of still greater importance.</p> - -<p>Our sense of music, harmony, and indeed beauty of all kinds, gives -satisfaction, without being absolutely necessary to the preservation -and propagation of the species. But what racking pains, on the other -hand, arise from gouts, gravels, megrims, toothaches, rheumatisms, -where the injury to the animal machinery is either small or incurable? -Mirth, laughter, play, frolic, seem gratuitous satisfactions, which -have no farther tendency: spleen, melancholy, discontent, superstition, -are pains of the same nature. How then does the Divine benevolence -display itself, in the sense of you Anthropomorphites? None but we -Mystics, as you were pleased to call us, can account for this strange -mixture of phenomena, by deriving it from attributes, infinitely -perfect, but incomprehensible.</p> - -<p>And have you at last, said Cleanthes smiling, betrayed your intentions, -Philo? Your long agreement with Demea did indeed a little surprise me; -but I find you were all the while erecting a concealed battery against -me. And I must confess, that you have now fallen upon a subject worthy -of your noble spirit of opposition and controversy. If you can make out -the present point, and prove mankind to be unhappy or corrupted, there -is an end at once of all religion. For to what purpose establish the -natural attributes of the Deity, while the moral are still doubtful and -uncertain?</p> - -<p>You take umbrage very easily, replied Demea, at opinions the most -innocent, and the most generally received, even amongst the religious -and devout themselves: and nothing can be more surprising than to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_511" id="Page_511">[Pg 511]</a></span> -find a topic like this, concerning the wickedness and misery of man, -charged with no less than Atheism and profaneness. Have not all -pious divines and preachers, who have indulged their rhetoric on so -fertile a subject; have they not easily, I say, given a solution of -any difficulties which may attend it? This world is but a point in -comparison of the universe; this life but a moment in comparison of -eternity. The present evil phenomena, therefore, are rectified in -other regions, and in some future period of existence. And the eyes -of men, being then opened to larger views of things, see the whole -connection of general laws; and trace with adoration, the benevolence -and rectitude of the Deity, through all the mazes and intricacies of -his providence.</p> - -<p>No! replied Cleanthes, No! These arbitrary suppositions can never be -admitted, contrary to matter of fact, visible and uncontroverted. -Whence can any cause be known but from its known effects? Whence can -any hypothesis be proved but from the apparent phenomena? To establish -one hypothesis upon another, is building entirely in the air; and -the utmost we ever attain, by these conjectures and fictions, is to -ascertain the bare possibility of our opinion; but never can we, upon -such terms, establish its reality.</p> - -<p>The only method of supporting Divine benevolence, and it is what I -willingly embrace, is to deny absolutely the misery and wickedness of -man. Your representations are exaggerated; your melancholy views mostly -fictitious; your inferences contrary to fact and experience. Health is -more common than sickness; pleasure than pain; happiness than misery. -And for one vexation which we meet with, we attain, upon computation, a -hundred enjoyments.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_512" id="Page_512">[Pg 512]</a></span></p> - -<p>Admitting your position, replied Philo, which yet is extremely -doubtful, you must at the same time allow, that if pain be less -frequent than pleasure, it is infinitely more violent and durable. -One hour of it is often able to outweigh a day, a week, a month of -our common insipid enjoyments; and how many days, weeks, and months, -are passed by several in the most acute torments? Pleasure, scarcely -in one instance, is ever able to reach ecstasy and rapture; and in -no one instance can it continue for any time at its highest pitch -and altitude. The spirits evaporate, the nerves relax, the fabric is -disordered, and the enjoyment quickly degenerates into fatigue and -uneasiness. But pain often, good God, how often! rises to torture and -agony; and the longer it continues, it becomes still more genuine agony -and torture. Patience is exhausted, courage languishes, melancholy -seizes us, and nothing terminates our misery but the removal of its -cause, or another event, which is the sole cure of all evil, but -which, from our natural folly, we regard with still greater horror and -consternation.</p> - -<p>But not to insist upon these topics, continued Philo, though most -obvious, certain, and important; I must use the freedom to admonish -you, Cleanthes, that you have put the controversy upon a most dangerous -issue, and are unawares introducing a total scepticism into the most -essential articles of natural and revealed theology. What! no method of -fixing a just foundation for religion, unless we allow the happiness -of human life, and maintain a continued existence even in this world, -with all our present pains, infirmities, vexations, and follies, to be -eligible and desirable! But this is contrary to every one's feeling and -experience: It is contrary to an authority so established as nothing -can subvert.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_513" id="Page_513">[Pg 513]</a></span></p> - -<p>No decisive proofs can ever be produced against this authority; nor is -it possible for you to compute, estimate and compare, all the pains and -all the pleasures in the lives of all men and of all animals: And thus, -by your resting the whole system of religion on a point, which, from -its very nature, must for ever be uncertain, you tacitly confess, that -that system is equally uncertain.</p> - -<p>But allowing you what never will be believed, at least what you never -possibly can prove, that animal, or at least human happiness, in this -life, exceeds its misery, you have yet done nothing: For this is not, -by any means, what we expect from infinite power, infinite wisdom, and -infinite goodness. Why is there any misery at all in the world? Not by -chance surely. From some cause then. Is it from the intention of the -Deity? But he is perfectly benevolent. Is it contrary to his intention? -But he is almighty. Nothing can shake the solidity of this reasoning, -so short, so clear, so decisive; except we assert, that these subjects -exceed all human capacity, and that our common measures of truth and -falsehood are not applicable to them; a topic which I have all along -insisted on, but which you have, from the beginning, rejected with -scorn and indignation.</p> - -<p>But I will be contented to retire still from this intrenchment, for -I deny that you can ever force me in it. I will allow, that pain or -misery in man is <i>compatible</i> with infinite power and goodness in the -Deity, even in your sense of these attributes: What are you advanced by -all these concessions? A mere possible compatibility is not sufficient. -You must <i>prove</i> these pure, unmixt, and uncontrollable attributes -from the present mixt and confused phenomena, and from these alone. A -hopeful undertaking! Were the phenomena<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_514" id="Page_514">[Pg 514]</a></span> ever so pure and unmixt, yet -being finite, they would be insufficient for that purpose. How much -more, where they are also so jarring and discordant!</p> - -<p>Here, Cleanthes, I find myself at ease in my argument. Here I triumph. -Formerly, when we argued concerning the natural attributes of -intelligence and design, I needed all my sceptical and metaphysical -subtilty to elude your grasp. In many views of the universe, and of its -parts, particularly the latter, the beauty and fitness of final causes -strike us with such irresistible force, that all objections appear -(what I believe they really are) mere cavils and sophisms; nor can -we then imagine how it was ever possible for us to repose any weight -on them. But there is no view of human life, or of the condition of -mankind, from which, without the greatest violence, we can infer the -moral attributes, or learn that infinite benevolence, conjoined with -infinite power and infinite wisdom, which we must discover by the eyes -of faith alone. It is your turn now to tug the labouring oar, and to -support your philosophical subtilties against the dictates of plain -reason and experience.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_44" id="Footnote_1_44"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_44"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> That sentiment had been maintained by Dr King, and some -few others, before Leibnitz, though by none of so great fame as that -German philosopher.</p></div> -<hr class="tb" /> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_515" id="Page_515">[Pg 515]</a></span></p> - - -<h5><a name="PART_XI" id="PART_XI">PART XI.</a></h5> - - -<p>I scruple not to allow, said Cleanthes, that I have been apt to -suspect the frequent repetition of the word <i>infinite</i>, which we meet -with in all theological writers, to savour more of panegyric than of -philosophy; and that any purposes of reasoning, and even of religion, -would be better served, were we to rest contented with more accurate -and more moderate expressions. The terms, <i>admirable, excellent, -superlatively great, wise</i>, and <i>holy</i>; these sufficiently fill the -imaginations of men; and any thing beyond, besides that it leads into -absurdities, has no influence on the affections or sentiments. Thus, -in the present subject, if we abandon all human analogy, as seems your -intention, Demea, I am afraid we abandon all religion, and retain no -conception of the great object of our adoration. If we preserve human -analogy, we must for ever find it impossible to reconcile any mixture -of evil in the universe with infinite attributes; much less can we ever -prove the latter from the former. But supposing the Author of Nature -to be finitely perfect, though far exceeding mankind, a satisfactory -account may then be given of natural and moral evil, and every untoward -phenomenon be explained and adjusted. A less evil may then be chosen, -in order to avoid a greater; inconveniences be submitted to, in order -to reach a desirable end; and in a word, benevolence, regulated by -wisdom, and limited<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_516" id="Page_516">[Pg 516]</a></span> by necessity, may produce just such a world as -the present. You, Philo, who are so prompt at starting views, and -reflections, and analogies, I would gladly hear, at length, without -interruption, your opinion of this new theory; and if it deserve our -attention, we may afterwards, at more leisure, reduce it into form.</p> - -<p>My sentiments, replied Philo, are not worth being made a mystery of; -and therefore, without any ceremony, I shall deliver what occurs to -me with regard to the present subject. It must, I think, be allowed, -that if a very limited intelligence, whom we shall suppose utterly -unacquainted with the universe, were assured, that it were the -production of a very good, wise, and powerful Being, however finite, he -would, from his conjectures, form <i>beforehand</i> a different notion of it -from what we find it to be by experience; nor would he ever imagine, -merely from these attributes of the cause, of which he is informed, -that the effect could be so full of vice and misery and disorder, as -it appears in this life. Supposing now, that this person were brought -into the world, still assured that it was the workmanship of such a -sublime and benevolent Being; he might, perhaps, be surprised at the -disappointment; but would never retract his former belief, if founded -on any very solid argument; since such a limited intelligence must -be sensible of his own blindness and ignorance, and must allow, that -there may be many solutions of those phenomena, which will for ever -escape his comprehension. But supposing, which is the real case with -regard to man, that this creature is not antecedently convinced of a -supreme intelligence, benevolent, and powerful, but is left to gather -such a belief from the appearances of things; this entirely alters -the case, nor will he ever find any reason for such<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_517" id="Page_517">[Pg 517]</a></span> a conclusion. He -may be fully convinced of the narrow limits of his understanding; but -this will not help him in forming an inference concerning the goodness -of superior powers, since he must form that inference from what he -knows, not from what he is ignorant of. The more you exaggerate his -weakness and ignorance, the more diffident you render him, and give -him the greater suspicion that such subjects are beyond the reach of -his faculties. You are obliged, therefore, to reason with him merely -from the known phenomena, and to drop every arbitrary supposition or -conjecture.</p> - -<p>Did I show you a house or palace, where there was not one apartment -convenient or agreeable; where the windows, doors, fires passages, -stairs, and the whole economy of the building, were the source of -noise, confusion, fatigue, darkness, and the extremes of heat and -cold; you would certainly blame the contrivance, without any farther -examination. The architect would in vain display his subtilty, and -prove to you, that if this door or that window were altered, greater -ills would ensue. What he says may be strictly true: The alteration -of one particular, while the other parts of the building remain, may -only augment the inconveniences. But still you would assert in general, -that, if the architect had had skill and good intentions, he might -have formed such a plan of the whole, and might have adjusted the -parts in such a manner, as would have remedied all or most of these -inconveniences. His ignorance, or even your own ignorance of such a -plan, will never convince you of the impossibility of it. If you find -any inconveniences and deformities in the building, you will always, -without entering into any detail, condemn the architect.</p> - -<p>In short, I repeat the question: Is the world, considered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_518" id="Page_518">[Pg 518]</a></span> in general, -and as it appears to us in this life, different from what a man, or -such a limited being, would, <i>beforehand</i>, expect from a very powerful, -wise, and benevolent Deity? It must be strange prejudice to assert -the contrary. And from thence I conclude, that however consistent the -world may be, allowing certain suppositions and conjectures, with the -idea of such a Deity, it can never afford us an inference concerning -his existence. The consistence is not absolutely denied, only the -inference. Conjectures, especially where infinity is excluded from the -Divine attributes, may perhaps be sufficient to prove a consistence, -but can never be foundations for any inference.</p> - -<p>There seem to be <i>four</i> circumstances, on which depend all, or the -greatest part of the ills, that molest sensible creatures; and it -is not impossible but all these circumstances may be necessary -and unavoidable. We know so little beyond common life, or even of -common life, that, with regard to the economy of a universe, there -is no conjecture, however wild, which may not be just; nor any one, -however plausible, which may not be erroneous. All that belongs to -human understanding, in this deep ignorance and obscurity, is to be -sceptical, or at least cautious, and not to admit of any hypothesis -whatever, much less of any which is supported by no appearance of -probability. Now, this I assert to be the case with regard to all the -causes of evil, and the circumstances on which it depends. None of them -appear to human reason in the least degree necessary or unavoidable; -nor can we suppose them such, without the utmost license of imagination.</p> - -<p>The <i>first</i> circumstance which introduces evil, is that contrivance or -economy of the animal creation, by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_519" id="Page_519">[Pg 519]</a></span> which pains, as well as pleasures, -are employed to excite all creatures to action, and make them vigilant -in the great work of self-preservation. Now pleasure alone, in its -various degrees, seems to human understanding sufficient for this -purpose. All animals might be constantly in a state of enjoyment: -but when urged by any of the necessities of nature, such as thirst, -hunger, weariness; instead of pain, they might feel a diminution of -pleasure, by which they might be prompted to seek that object which -is necessary to their subsistence. Men pursue pleasure as eagerly as -they avoid pain; at least, they might have been so constituted. It -seems, therefore, plainly possible to carry on the business of life -without any pain. Why then is any animal ever rendered susceptible of -such a sensation? If animals can be free from it an hour, they might -enjoy a perpetual exemption from it; and it required as particular a -contrivance of their organs to produce that feeling, as to endow them -with sight, hearing, or any of the senses. Shall we conjecture, that -such a contrivance was necessary, without any appearance of reason? and -shall we build on that conjecture as on the most certain truth?</p> - -<p>But a capacity of pain would not alone produce pain, were it not for -the <i>second</i> circumstance, viz. the conducting of the world by general -laws; and this seems nowise necessary to a very perfect Being. It is -true, if every thing were conducted by particular volitions, the course -of nature would be perpetually broken, and no man could employ his -reason in the conduct of life. But might not other particular volitions -remedy this inconvenience? In short, might not the Deity exterminate -all ill, wherever it were to be found; and produce all good, without -any preparation, or long progress of causes and effects?</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_520" id="Page_520">[Pg 520]</a></span></p> - -<p>Besides, we must consider, that, according to the present economy of -the world, the course of nature, though supposed exactly regular, -yet to us appears not so, and many events are uncertain, and many -disappoint our expectations. Health and sickness, calm and tempest, -with an infinite number of other accidents, whose causes are unknown -and variable, have a great influence both on the fortunes of particular -persons and on the prosperity of public societies; and indeed all human -life, in a manner, depends on such accidents. A being, therefore, who -knows the secret springs of the universe, might easily, by particular -volitions, turn all these accidents to the good of mankind, and render -the whole world happy, without discovering himself in any operation. -A fleet, whose purposes were salutary to society, might always meet -with a fair wind. Good princes enjoy sound health and long life. -Persons born to power and authority, be framed with good tempers and -virtuous dispositions. A few such events as these, regularly and -wisely conducted, would change the face of the world; and yet would no -more seem to disturb the course of nature, or confound human conduct, -than the present economy of things, where the causes are secret, and -variable, and compounded. Some small touches given to Caligula's brain -in his infancy, might have converted him into a Trajan. One wave, a -little higher than the rest, by burying Cæsar and his fortune in the -bottom of the ocean, might have restored liberty to a considerable -part of mankind. There may, for aught we know, be good reasons why -Providence interposes not in this manner; but they are unknown to -us; and though the mere supposition, that such reasons exist, may be -sufficient to <i>save</i> the conclusion concerning the Divine attributes, -yet surely it can never be sufficient to <i>establish</i> that conclusion.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_521" id="Page_521">[Pg 521]</a></span></p> - -<p>If every thing in the universe be conducted by general laws, and if -animals be rendered susceptible of pain, it scarcely seems possible -but some ill must arise in the various shocks of matter, and the -various concurrence and opposition of general laws; but this ill -would be very rare, were it not for the <i>third</i> circumstance, which I -proposed to mention, viz. the great frugality with which all powers -and faculties are distributed to every particular being. So well -adjusted are the organs and capacities of all animals, and so well -fitted to their preservation, that, as far as history or tradition -reaches, there appears not to be any single species which has yet -been extinguished in the universe. Every animal has the requisite -endowments; but these endowments are bestowed with so scrupulous an -economy, that any considerable diminution must entirely destroy the -creature. Wherever one power is increased, there is a proportional -abatement in the others. Animals which excel in swiftness are commonly -defective in force. Those which possess both are either imperfect in -some of their senses, or are oppressed with the most craving wants. -The human species, whose chief excellency is reason and sagacity, is -of all others the most necessitous, and the most deficient in bodily -advantages; without clothes, without arms, without food, without -lodging, without any convenience of life, except what they owe to -their own skill and industry. In short, nature seems to have formed -an exact calculation of the necessities of her creatures; and, like -a <i>rigid master</i>, has afforded them little more powers or endowments -than what are strictly sufficient to supply those necessities. An -<i>indulgent parent</i> would have bestowed a large stock, in order to -guard against accidents, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_522" id="Page_522">[Pg 522]</a></span> secure the happiness and welfare of the -creature in the most unfortunate concurrence of circumstances. Every -course of life would not have been so surrounded with precipices, that -the least departure from the true path, by mistake or necessity, must -involve us in misery and ruin. Some reserve, some fund, would have been -provided to ensure happiness; nor would the powers and the necessities -have been adjusted with so rigid an economy. The Author of Nature is -inconceivably powerful: his force is supposed great, if not altogether -inexhaustible: nor is there any reason, as far as we can judge, to make -him observe this strict frugality in his dealings with his creatures. -It would have been better, were his power extremely limited, to have -created fewer animals, and to have endowed these with more faculties -for their happiness and preservation. A builder is never esteemed -prudent, who undertakes a plan beyond what his stock will enable him to -finish.</p> - -<p>In order to cure most of the ills of human life, I require not that -man should have the wings of the eagle, the swiftness of the stag, the -force of the ox, the arms of the lion, the scales of the crocodile -or rhinoceros; much less do I demand the sagacity of an angel or -cherubim. I am contented to take an increase in one single power or -faculty of his soul. Let him be endowed with a greater propensity to -industry and labour; a more vigorous spring and activity of mind; a -more constant bent to business and application. Let the whole species -possess naturally an equal diligence with that which many individuals -are able to attain by habit and reflection; and the most beneficial -consequences, without any allay of ill, is the immediate and necessary -result of this endowment. Almost all the moral, as well as natural -evils of human life, arise from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_523" id="Page_523">[Pg 523]</a></span> idleness; and were our species, by -the original constitution of their frame, exempt from this vice or -infirmity, the perfect cultivation of land, the improvement of arts and -manufactures, the exact execution of every office and duty, immediately -follow; and men at once may fully reach that state of society, which -is so imperfectly attained by the best regulated government. But -as industry is a power, and the most valuable of any, Nature seems -determined, suitably to her usual maxims, to bestow it on men with a -very sparing hand; and rather to punish him severely for his deficiency -in it, than to reward him for his attainments. She has so contrived -his frame, that nothing but the most violent necessity can oblige him -to labour; and she employs all his other wants to overcome, at least -in part, the want of diligence, and to endow him with some share of a -faculty of which she has thought fit naturally to bereave him. Here our -demands may be allowed very humble, and therefore the more reasonable. -If we required the endowments of superior penetration and judgment, of -a more delicate taste of beauty, of a nicer sensibility to benevolence -and friendship; we might be told, that we impiously pretend to break -the order of Nature; that we want to exalt ourselves into a higher rank -of being; that the presents which we require, not being suitable to our -state and condition, would only be pernicious to us. But it is hard; I -dare to repeat it, it is hard, that being placed in a world so full of -wants and necessities, where almost every being and element is either -our foe or refuses its assistance ... we should also have our own -temper to struggle with, and should be deprived of that faculty which -can alone fence against these multiplied evils.</p> - -<p>The <i>fourth</i> circumstance, whence arises the misery<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_524" id="Page_524">[Pg 524]</a></span> and ill of -the universe, is the inaccurate workmanship of all the springs and -principles of the great machine of nature. It must be acknowledged, -that there are few parts of the universe, which seem not to serve -some purpose, and whose removal would not produce a visible defect -and disorder in the whole. The parts hang all together; nor can one -be touched without affecting the rest, in a greater or less degree. -But at the same time, it must be observed, that none of these parts -or principles, however useful, are so accurately adjusted, as to keep -precisely within those bounds in which their utility consists; but -they are, all of them, apt, on every occasion, to run into the one -extreme or the other. One would imagine, that this grand production -had not received the last hand of the maker; so little finished is -every part, and so coarse are the strokes with which it is executed. -Thus, the winds are requisite to convey the vapours along the surface -of the globe, and to assist men in navigation: but how oft, rising -up to tempests and hurricanes, do they become pernicious? Rains are -necessary to nourish all the plants and animals of the earth: but how -often are they defective? how often excessive? Heat is requisite to all -life and vegetation; but is not always found in the due proportion. -On the mixture and secretion of the humours and juices of the body -depend the health and prosperity of the animal: but the parts perform -not regularly their proper function. What more useful than all the -passions of the mind, ambition, vanity love, anger? But how oft do they -break their bounds, and cause the greatest convulsions in society? -There is nothing so advantageous in the universe, but what frequently -becomes pernicious, by its excess or defect; nor has Nature guarded, -with the requisite accuracy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_525" id="Page_525">[Pg 525]</a></span> against all disorder or confusion. The -irregularity is never perhaps so great as to destroy any species; but -is often sufficient to involve the individuals in ruin and misery.</p> - -<p>On the concurrence, then, of these <i>four</i> circumstances, does all or -the greatest part of natural evil depend. Were all living creatures -incapable of pain, or were the world administered by particular -volitions, evil never could have found access into the universe: and -were animals endowed with a large stock of powers and faculties, -beyond what strict necessity requires; or were the several springs -and principles of the universe so accurately framed as to preserve -always the just temperament and medium; there must have been very -little ill in comparison of what we feel at present. What then shall -we pronounce on this occasion? Shall we say that these circumstances -are not necessary, and that they might easily have been altered in -the contrivance of the universe? This decision seems too presumptuous -for creatures so blind and ignorant. Let us be more modest in our -conclusions. Let us allow, that, if the goodness of the Diety (I mean -a goodness like the human) could be established on any tolerable -reasons <i>a priori</i>, these phenomena, however untoward, would not be -sufficient to subvert that principle; but might easily, in some unknown -manner, be reconcileable to it. But let us still assert, that as this -goodness is not antecedently established, but must be inferred from the -phenomena, there can be no grounds for such an inference, while there -are so many ills in the universe, and while these ills might so easily -have been remedied, as far as human understanding can be allowed to -judge on such a subject. I am Sceptic enough to allow, that the bad -appearances, notwithstanding all my reasonings,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_526" id="Page_526">[Pg 526]</a></span> may be compatible with -such attributes as you suppose; but surely they can never prove these -attributes. Such a conclusion cannot result from Scepticism, but must -arise from the phenomena, and from our confidence in the reasonings -which we deduce from these phenomena.</p> - -<p>Look round this universe. What an immense profusion of beings, animated -and organized, sensible and active! You admire this prodigious -variety and fecundity. But inspect a little more narrowly these -living existences, the only beings worth regarding. How hostile and -destructive to each other! How insufficient all of them for their own -happiness! How contemptible or odious to the spectator! The whole -presents nothing but the idea of a blind Nature, impregnated by a -great vivifying principle, and pouring forth from her lap, without -discernment or parental care, her maimed and abortive children!</p> - -<p>Here the Manichæan system occurs as a proper hypothesis to solve the -difficulty: and no doubt, in some respects, it is very specious, and -has more probability than the common hypothesis, by giving a plausible -account of the strange mixture of good and ill which appears in life. -But if we consider, on the other hand, the perfect uniformity and -agreement of the parts of the universe, we shall not discover in it any -marks of the combat of a malevolent with a benevolent being. There is -indeed an opposition of pains and pleasures in the feelings of sensible -creatures: but are not all the operations of Nature carried on by an -opposition of principles, of hot and cold, moist and dry, light and -heavy? The true conclusion is, that the original Source of all things -is entirely indifferent to all these principles; and has no more regard -to good above ill,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_527" id="Page_527">[Pg 527]</a></span> than to heat above cold, or to drought above -moisture, or to light above heavy.</p> - -<p>There may <i>four</i> hypotheses be framed concerning the first causes of -the universe: <i>that</i> they are endowed with perfect goodness; <i>that</i> -they have perfect malice; <i>that</i> they are opposite, and have both -goodness and malice; <i>that</i> they have neither goodness nor malice. Mixt -phenomena can never prove the two former unmixt principles; and the -uniformity and steadiness of general laws seem to oppose the third. The -fourth, therefore, seems by far the most probable.</p> - -<p>What I have said concerning natural evil will apply to moral, with -little or no variation; and we have no more reason to infer, that the -rectitude of the Supreme Being resembles human rectitude, than that -his benevolence resembles the human. Nay, it will be thought, that we -have still greater cause to exclude from him moral sentiments, such as -we feel them; since moral evil, in the opinion of many, is much more -predominant above moral good than natural evil above natural good.</p> - -<p>But even though this should not be allowed, and though the virtue which -is in mankind should be acknowledged much superior to the vice, yet so -long as there is any vice at all in the universe, it will very much -puzzle you Anthropomorphites, how to account for it. You must assign a -cause for it, without having recourse to the first cause. But as every -effect must have a cause, and that cause another, you must either carry -on the progression <i>in infinitum</i>, or rest on that original principle, -who is the ultimate cause of all things....</p> - -<p>Hold! hold! cried Demea: Whither does your imagination hurry you? I -joined in alliance with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_528" id="Page_528">[Pg 528]</a></span> you, in order to prove the incomprehensible -nature of the Divine Being, and refute the principles of Cleanthes, -who would measure every thing by human rule and standard. But I now -find you running into all the topics of the greatest libertines and -infidels, and betraying that holy cause which you seemingly espoused. -Are you secretly, then, a more dangerous enemy than Cleanthes himself?</p> - -<p>And are you so late in perceiving it? replied Cleanthes. Believe me, -Demea, your friend Philo, from the beginning, has been amusing himself -at both our expense; and it must be confessed, that the injudicious -reasoning of our vulgar theology has given him but too just a handle -of ridicule. The total infirmity of human reason, the absolute -incomprehensibility of the Divine Nature, the great and universal -misery, and still greater wickedness of men; these are strange topics, -surely, to be so fondly cherished by orthodox divines and doctors. -In ages of stupidity and ignorance, indeed, these principles may -safely be espoused; and perhaps no views of things are more proper to -promote superstition, than such as encourage the blind amazement, the -diffidence, and melancholy of mankind. But at present....</p> - -<p>Blame not so much, interposed Philo, the ignorance of these reverend -gentlemen. They know how to change their style with the times. Formerly -it was a most popular theological topic to maintain, that human life -was vanity and misery, and to exaggerate all the ills and pains which -are incident to men. But of late years, divines, we find, begin to -retract this position; and maintain, though still with some hesitation, -that there are more goods than evils, more pleasures than pains, even -in this life. When religion stood entirely<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_529" id="Page_529">[Pg 529]</a></span> upon temper and education, -it was thought proper to encourage melancholy; as indeed mankind never -have recourse to superior powers so readily as in that disposition. But -as men have now learned to form principles, and to draw consequences, -it is necessary to change the batteries, and to make use of such -arguments as will endure at least some scrutiny and examination. This -variation is the same (and from the same causes) with that which I -formerly remarked with regard to Scepticism.</p> - -<p>Thus Philo continued to the last his spirit of opposition, and his -censure of established opinions. But I could observe that Demea did not -at all relish the latter part of the discourse; and he took occasion -soon after, on some pretence or other, to leave the company.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_530" id="Page_530">[Pg 530]</a></span></p> - - - - -<h5><a name="PART_XII" id="PART_XII">PART XII.</a></h5> - - -<p>After Demea's departure, Cleanthes and Philo continued the conversation -in the following manner. Our friend, I am afraid, said Cleanthes, -will have little inclination to revive this topic of discourse, -while you are in company; and to tell truth, Philo, I should rather -wish to reason with either of you apart on a subject so sublime and -interesting. Your spirit of controversy, joined to your abhorence of -vulgar superstition, carries you strange lengths, when engaged in an -argument; and there is nothing so sacred and venerable, even in your -own eyes, which you spare on that occasion.</p> - -<p>I must confess, replied Philo, that I am less cautious on the subject -of Natural Religion than on any other; both because I know that I can -never, on that head, corrupt the principles of any man of common sense; -and because no one, I am confident, in whose eyes I appear a man of -common sense, will ever mistake my intentions. You, in particular, -Cleanthes, with whom I live in unreserved intimacy; you are sensible, -that notwithstanding the freedom of my conversation, and my love of -singular arguments, no one has a deeper sense of religion impressed -on his mind, or pays more profound adoration to the Divine Being, -as he discovers himself to reason, in the inexplicable contrivance -and artifice of nature. A purpose, an intention, a design, strikes -every where the most careless, the most stupid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_531" id="Page_531">[Pg 531]</a></span> thinker; and no man -can be so hardened in absurd systems, as at all times to reject it. -<i>That Nature does nothing in vain</i>, is a maxim established in all -the schools, merely from the contemplation of the works of Nature, -without any religious purpose; and, from a firm conviction of its -truth, an anatomist, who had observed a new organ or canal, would never -be satisfied till he had also discovered its use and intention. One -great foundation of the Copernican system is the maxim, <i>That Nature -acts by the simplest methods, and chooses the most proper means to -any end</i>; and astronomers often, without thinking of it, lay this -strong foundation of piety and religion. The same thing is observable -in other parts of philosophy: And thus all the sciences almost lead -us insensibly to acknowledge a first intelligent Author; and their -authority is often so much the greater, as they do not directly profess -that intention.</p> - -<p>It is with pleasure I hear Galen reason concerning the structure of -the human body. The anatomy of a man, says he,<a name="FNanchor_1_45" id="FNanchor_1_45"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_45" class="fnanchor">[1]</a> discovers above 600 -different muscles; and whoever duly considers these, will find, that, -in each of them, Nature must have adjusted at least ten different -circumstances, in order to attain the end which she proposed; proper -figure, just magnitude, right disposition of the several ends, upper -and lower position of the whole, the due insertion of the several -nerves, veins, and arteries: So that, in the muscles alone, above 6000 -several views and intentions must have been formed and executed. The -bones he calculates to be 284: The distinct purposes aimed at in the -structure of each, above forty. What a prodigious display of artifice, -even in these simple and homogeneous parts! But if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_532" id="Page_532">[Pg 532]</a></span> we consider the -skin, ligaments, vessels, glandules, humours, the several limbs and -members of the body; how must our astonishment rise upon us, in -proportion to the number and intricacy of the parts so artificially -adjusted! The farther we advance in these researches, we discover new -scenes of art and wisdom: But descry still, at a distance, farther -scenes beyond our reach; in the fine internal structure of the parts, -in the economy of the brain, in the fabric of the seminal vessels. All -these artifices are repeated in every different species of animal, with -wonderful variety, and with exact propriety, suited to the different -intentions of Nature in framing each species. And if the infidelity of -Galen, even when these natural sciences were still imperfect, could -not withstand such striking appearances, to what pitch of pertinacious -obstinacy must a philosopher in this age have attained, who can now -doubt of a Supreme Intelligence!</p> - -<p>Could I meet with one of this species (who, I thank God, are very -rare), I would ask him: Supposing there were a God, who did not -discover himself immediately to our senses, were it possible for him -to give stronger proofs of his existence, than what appear on the -whole face of Nature? What indeed could such a Divine Being do, but -copy the present economy of things; render many of his artifices so -plain, that no stupidity could mistake them; afford glimpses of still -greater artifices, which demonstrate his prodigious superiority above -our narrow apprehensions; and conceal altogether a great many from such -imperfect creatures? Now, according to all rules of just reasoning, -every fact must pass for undisputed, when it is supported by all the -arguments which its nature admits of; even though these arguments be -not, in themselves,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_533" id="Page_533">[Pg 533]</a></span> very numerous or forcible: How much more, in the -present case, where no human imagination can compute their number, and -no understanding estimate their cogency!</p> - -<p>I shall farther add, said Cleanthes, to what you have so well urged, -that one great advantage of the principle of Theism, is, that it is -the only system of cosmogony which can be rendered intelligible and -complete, and yet can throughout preserve a strong analogy to what -we every day see and experience in the world. The comparison of the -universe to a machine of human contrivance, is so obvious and natural, -and is justified by so many instances of order and design in Nature, -that it must immediately strike all unprejudiced apprehensions, -and procure universal approbation. Whoever attempts to weaken this -theory, cannot pretend to succeed by establishing in its place any -other that is precise and determinate: It is sufficient for him if -he start doubts and difficulties; and by remote and abstract views -of things, reach that suspense of judgment, which is here the utmost -boundary of his wishes. But, besides that this state of mind is in -itself unsatisfactory, it can never be steadily maintained against -such striking appearances as continually engage us into the religious -hypothesis. A false, absurd system, human nature, from the force of -prejudice, is capable of adhering to with obstinacy and perseverance: -But no system at all, in opposition to a theory supported by strong and -obvious reason, by natural propensity, and by early education, I think -it absolutely impossible to maintain or defend.</p> - -<p>So little, replied Philo, do I esteem this suspense of judgment in the -present case to be possible, that I am apt to suspect there enters -somewhat of a dispute of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_534" id="Page_534">[Pg 534]</a></span> words into this controversy; more than is -usually imagined. That the works of Nature bear a great analogy to -the productions of art, is evident; and according to all the rules of -good reasoning, we ought to infer, if we argue at all concerning them, -that their causes have a proportional analogy. But as there are also -considerable differences, we have reason to suppose a proportional -difference in the causes; and in particular, ought to attribute a much -higher degree of power and energy to the supreme cause, than any we -have ever observed in mankind. Here then the existence of a *DEITY is -plainly ascertained by reason: and if we make it a question, whether, -on account of these analogies, we can properly call him a <i>mind</i> -or <i>intelligence</i>, notwithstanding the vast difference which may -reasonably be supposed between him and human minds; what is this but -a mere verbal controversy? No man can deny the analogies between the -effects: To restrain ourselves from inquiring concerning the causes is -scarcely possible. From this inquiry, the legitimate conclusion is, -that the causes have also an analogy: And if we are not contented with -calling the first and supreme cause a *GOD or *DEITY, but desire to -vary the expression; what can we call him but *MIND or $THOUGHT, to -which he is justly supposed to bear a considerable resemblance?</p> - -<p>All men of sound reason are disgusted with verbal disputes, which -abound so much in philosophical and theological inquiries; and it -is found, that the only remedy for this abuse must arise from clear -definitions, from the precision of those ideas which enter into any -argument, and from the strict and uniform use of those terms which -are employed. But there is a species of controversy, which, from the -very nature of language<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_535" id="Page_535">[Pg 535]</a></span> and of human ideas, is involved in perpetual -ambiguity, and can never, by any precaution or any definitions, be -able to reach a reasonable certainty or precision. These are the -controversies concerning the degrees of any quality or circumstance. -Men may argue to all eternity, whether Hannibal be a great, or a very -great, or a superlatively great man, what degree of beauty Cleopatra -possessed, what epithet of praise Livy or Thucydides is entitled to, -without bringing the controversy to any determination. The disputants -may here agree in their sense, and differ in the terms, or <i>vice -versa</i>; yet never be able to define their terms, so as to enter into -each other's meaning: Because the degrees of these qualities are not, -like quantity or number, susceptible of any exact mensuration, which -may be the standard in the controversy. That the dispute concerning -Theism is of this nature, and consequently is merely verbal, or -perhaps, if possible, still more incurably ambiguous, will appear upon -the slightest inquiry. I ask the Theist, if he does not allow, that -there is a great and immeasurable, because incomprehensible difference -between the <i>human</i> and the <i>divine</i> mind: The more pious he is, the -more readily will he assent to the affirmative, and the more will he -be disposed to magnify the difference: He will even assert, that the -difference is of a nature which cannot be too much magnified. I next -turn to the Atheist, who, I assert, is only nominally so, and can never -possibly be in earnest; and I ask him, whether, from the coherence -and apparent sympathy in all the parts of this world, there be not -a certain degree of analogy among all the operations of Nature, in -every situation and in every age; whether the rotting of a turnip, the -generation of an animal, and the structure of human thought, be not -energies<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_536" id="Page_536">[Pg 536]</a></span> that probably bear some remote analogy to each other: It -is impossible he can deny it: He will readily acknowledge it. Having -obtained this concession, I push him still farther in his retreat; -and I ask him, if it be not probable, that the principle which first -arranged, and still maintains order in this universe, bears not also -some remote inconceivable analogy to the other operations of Nature, -and, among the rest, to the economy of human mind and thought. However -reluctant, he must give his assent. Where then, cry I to both these -antagonists, is the subject of your dispute? The Theist allows, that -the original intelligence is very different from human reason: The -Atheist allows, that the original principle of order bears some remote -analogy to it. Will you quarrel, Gentlemen, about the degrees, and -enter into a controversy, which admits not of any precise meaning, -nor consequently of any determination? If you should be so obstinate, -I should not be surprised to find you insensibly change sides; while -the Theist, on the one hand, exaggerates the dissimilarity between the -Supreme Being, and frail, imperfect, variable, fleeting, and mortal -creatures; and the Atheist, on the other, magnifies the analogy among -all the operations of Nature, in every period, every situation, and -every position. Consider then, where the real point of controversy -lies; and if you cannot lay aside your disputes, endeavour, at least, -to cure yourselves of your animosity.</p> - -<p>And here I must also acknowledge, Cleanthes, that as the works of -Nature have a much greater analogy to the effects of <i>our</i> art and -contrivance, than to those of <i>our</i> benevolence and justice, we have -reason to infer, that the natural attributes of the Deity have a -greater resemblance to those of men, than his moral have to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_537" id="Page_537">[Pg 537]</a></span> human -virtues. But what is the consequence? Nothing but this, that the moral -qualities of man are more defective in their kind than his natural -abilities. For, as the Supreme Being is allowed to be absolutely and -entirely perfect, whatever differs most from him, departs the farthest -from the supreme standard of rectitude and perfection.<a name="FNanchor_2_46" id="FNanchor_2_46"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_46" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></p> - -<p>These, Cleanthes, are my unfeigned sentiments on this subject; and -these sentiments, you know, I have ever cherished and maintained. But -in proportion to my veneration for true religion, is my abhorrence of -vulgar superstitions; and I indulge a peculiar pleasure, I confess, -in pushing such principles, sometimes into absurdity, sometimes into -impiety. And you are sensible, that all bigots, notwithstanding their -great aversion to the latter above the former, are commonly equally -guilty of both.</p> - -<p>My inclination, replied Cleanthes, lies, I own, a contrary way. -Religion, however corrupted, is still better than no religion at all. -The doctrine of a future state is so strong and necessary a security -to morals, that we never ought to abandon or neglect it. For if<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_538" id="Page_538">[Pg 538]</a></span> and -temporary rewards and punishments have so great an effect, as we daily -find; how much greater must be expected from such as are infinite and -eternal?</p> - -<p>How happens it then, said Philo, if vulgar superstition be so salutary -to society, that all history abounds so much with accounts of its -pernicious consequences on public affairs? Factions, civil wars, -persecutions, subversions of government, oppression, slavery; these -are the dismal consequences which always attend its prevalency over -the minds of men. If the religious spirit be ever mentioned in any -historical narration, we are sure to meet afterwards with a detail of -the miseries which attend it. And no period of time can be happier or -more prosperous, than those in which it is never regarded or heard of.</p> - -<p>The reason of this observation, replied Cleanthes, is obvious. The -proper office of religion is to regulate the heart of men, humanize -their conduct, infuse the spirit of temperance, order, and obedience; -and as its operation is silent, and only enforces the motives of -morality and justice, it is in danger of being overlooked, and -confounded with these other motives. When it distinguishes itself, and -acts as a separate principle over men, it has departed from its proper -sphere, and has become only a cover to faction and ambition.</p> - -<p>And so will all religion, said Philo, except the philosophical and -rational kind. Your reasonings are more easily eluded than my facts. -The inference is not just, because finite and temporary rewards and -punishments have so great influence, that therefore such as are -infinite and eternal must have so much greater. Consider, I beseech -you, the attachment which we have to present things, and the little -concern which we<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_539" id="Page_539">[Pg 539]</a></span> discover for objects so remote and uncertain. When -divines are declaiming against the common behaviour and conduct of -the world, they always represent this principle as the strongest -imaginable (which indeed it is); and describe almost all human kind as -lying under the influence of it, and sunk into the deepest lethargy -and unconcern about their religious interests. Yet these same divines, -when they refute their speculative antagonists, suppose the motives -of religion to be so powerful, that, without them, it were impossible -for civil society to subsist; nor are they ashamed of so palpable a -contradiction. It is certain, from experience, that the smallest grain -of natural honesty and benevolence has more effect on men's conduct, -than the most pompous views suggested by theological theories and -systems. A man's natural inclination works incessantly upon him; it -is for ever present to the mind, and mingles itself with every view -and consideration: whereas religious motives, where they act at all, -operate only by starts and bounds; and it is scarcely possible for them -to become altogether habitual to the mind. The force of the greatest -gravity, say the philosophers, is infinitely small, in comparison of -that of the least impulse: yet it is certain, that the smallest gravity -will, in the end, prevail above a great impulse; because no strokes or -blows can be repeated with such constancy as attraction and gravitation.</p> - -<p>Another advantage of inclination: It engages on its side all the wit -and ingenuity of the mind; and when set in opposition to religious -principles, seeks every method and art of eluding them: In which it -is almost always successful. Who can explain the heart of man, or -account for those strange salvos and excuses, with which people satisfy -themselves, when they follow their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_540" id="Page_540">[Pg 540]</a></span> inclinations in opposition to their -religious duty? This is well understood in the world; and none but -fools ever repose less trust in a man, because they hear, that from -study and philosophy, he has entertained some speculative doubts with -regard to theological subjects. And when we have to do with a man, who -makes a great profession of religion and devotion, has this any other -effect upon several, who pass for prudent, than to put them on their -guard, lest they be cheated and deceived by him?</p> - -<p>We must farther consider, that philosophers, who cultivate reason and -reflection, stand less in need of such motives to keep them under -the restraint of morals; and that the vulgar, who alone may need -them, are utterly incapable of so pure a religion as represents the -Deity to be pleased with nothing but virtue in human behaviour. The -recommendations to the Divinity are generally supposed to be either -frivolous observances, or rapturous ecstasies, or a bigotted credulity. -We need not run back into antiquity, or wander into remote regions, -to find instances of this degeneracy. Amongst ourselves, some have -been guilty of that atrociousness, unknown to the Egyptian and Grecian -superstitions, of declaiming in express terms, against morality; and -representing it as a sure forfeiture of the Divine favour, if the least -trust or reliance be laid upon it.</p> - -<p>But even though superstition or enthusiasm should not put itself in -direct opposition to morality; the very diverting of the attention, -the raising up a new and frivolous species of merit, the preposterous -distribution which it makes of praise and blame, must have the most -pernicious consequences, and weaken extremely men's attachment to the -natural motives of justice and humanity.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_541" id="Page_541">[Pg 541]</a></span></p> - -<p>Such a principle of action likewise, not being any of the familiar -motives of human conduct, acts only by intervals on the temper; -and must be roused by continual efforts, in order to render the -pious zealot satisfied with his own conduct, and make him fulfil -his devotional task. Many religious exercises are entered into with -seeming fervour, where the heart, at the time, feels cold and languid: -A habit of dissimulation is by degrees contracted; and fraud and -falsehood become the predominant principle. Hence the reason of that -vulgar observation, that the highest zeal in religion and the deepest -hypocrisy, so far from being inconsistent, are often or commonly united -in the same individual character.</p> - -<p>The bad effects of such habits, even in common life, are easily -imagined; but where the interests of religion are concerned, no -morality can be forcible enough to bind the enthusiastic zealot. The -sacredness of the cause sanctifies every measure which can be made use -of to promote it.</p> - -<p>The steady attention alone to so important an interest as that of -eternal salvation, is apt to extinguish the benevolent affections, -and beget a narrow, contracted selfishness. And when such a temper is -encouraged, it easily eludes all the general precepts of charity and -benevolence.</p> - -<p>Thus, the motives of vulgar superstition have no great influence on -general conduct; nor is their operation favourable to morality, in the -instances where they predominate.</p> - -<p>Is there any maxim in politics more certain and infallible, than that -both the number and authority of priests should be confined within very -narrow limits; and that the civil magistrate ought, for ever, to keep<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_542" id="Page_542">[Pg 542]</a></span> -his <i>fasces</i> and <i>axes</i> from such dangerous hands? But if the spirit of -popular religion were so salutary to society, a contrary maxim ought -to prevail. The greater number of priests, and their greater authority -and riches, will always augment the religious spirit. And though the -priests have the guidance of this spirit, why may we not expect a -superior sanctity of life, and greater benevolence and moderation, from -persons who are set apart for religion, who are continually inculcating -it upon others, and who must themselves imbibe a greater share of it? -Whence comes it then, that, in fact, the utmost a wise magistrate can -propose with regard to popular religions, is, as far as possible, to -make a saving game of it, and to prevent their pernicious consequences -with regard to society? Every expedient which he tries for so humble -a purpose is surrounded with inconveniences. If he admits only one -religion among his subjects, he must sacrifice, to an uncertain -prospect of tranquillity, every consideration of public liberty, -science, reason, industry, and even his own independency. If he gives -indulgence to several sects, which is the wiser maxim, he must preserve -a very philosophical indifference to all of them, and carefully -restrain the pretensions of the prevailing sect; otherwise he can -expect nothing but endless disputes, quarrels, factions, persecutions, -and civil commotions.</p> - -<p>True religion, I allow, has no such pernicious consequences: but we -must treat of religion, as it has commonly been found in the world; -nor have I any thing to do with that speculative tenet of Theism, -which, as it is a species of philosophy, must partake of the beneficial -influence of that principle, and at the same time must lie under a like -inconvenience, of being always confined to very few persons.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_543" id="Page_543">[Pg 543]</a></span></p> - -<p>Oaths are requisite in all courts of judicature; but it is a question -whether their authority arises from any popular religion. It is the -solemnity and importance of the occasion, the regard to reputation, -and the reflecting on the general interests of society, which are the -chief restraints upon mankind. Customhouse oaths and political oaths -are but little regarded even by some who pretend to principles of -honesty and religion; and a Quaker's asseveration is with us justly put -upon the same footing with the oath of any other person. I know, that -Polybius<a name="FNanchor_3_47" id="FNanchor_3_47"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_47" class="fnanchor">[3]</a> ascribes the infamy of Greek faith to the prevalency of the -Epicurean philosophy: but I know also, that Punic faith had as bad a -reputation in ancient times as Irish evidence has in modern; though we -cannot account for these vulgar observations by the same reason. Not to -mention that Greek faith was infamous before the rise of the Epicurean -philosophy; and Euripides,<a name="FNanchor_4_48" id="FNanchor_4_48"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_48" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> in a passage which I shall point out to -you, has glanced a remarkable stroke of satire against his nation, with -regard to this circumstance.</p> - -<p>Take care, Philo, replied Cleanthes, take care: push not matters too -far: allow not your zeal against false religion to undermine your -veneration for the true. Forfeit not this principle, the chief, the -only great comfort in life; and our principal support amidst all the -attacks of adverse fortune. The most agreeable reflection, which it is -possible for human imagination to suggest, is that of genuine Theism, -which represents us as the workmanship of a Being perfectly good, wise, -and powerful; who created us for happiness; and who,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_544" id="Page_544">[Pg 544]</a></span> having implanted -in us immeasurable desires of good, will prolong our existence to all -eternity, and will transfer us into an infinite variety of scenes, in -order to satisfy those desires, and render our felicity complete and -durable. Next to such a Being himself (if the comparison be allowed), -the happiest lot which we can imagine, is that of being under his -guardianship and protection.</p> - -<p>These appearances, said Philo, are most engaging and alluring; and with -regard to the true philosopher, they are more than appearances. But it -happens here, as in the former case, that, with regard to the greater -part of mankind, the appearances are deceitful, and that the terrors of -religion commonly prevail above its comforts.</p> - -<p>It is allowed, that men never have recourse to devotion so readily as -when dejected with grief or depressed with sickness. Is not this a -proof, that the religious spirit is not so nearly allied to joy as to -sorrow?</p> - -<p>But men, when afflicted, find consolation in religion, replied -Cleanthes. Sometimes, said Philo: but it is natural to imagine, -that they will form a notion of those unknown beings, suitably to -the present gloom and melancholy of their temper, when they betake -themselves to the contemplation of them. Accordingly, we find the -tremendous images to predominate in all religions; and we ourselves, -after having employed the most exalted expression in our descriptions -of the Deity, fall into the flattest contradiction in affirming that -the damned are infinitely superior in number to the elect.</p> - -<p>I shall venture to affirm, that there never was a popular religion, -which represented the state of departed souls in such a light, as would -render it eligible for human kind that there should be such a state. -These<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_545" id="Page_545">[Pg 545]</a></span> fine models of religion are the mere product of philosophy. For -as death lies between the eye and the prospect of futurity, that event -is so shocking to Nature, that it must throw a gloom on all the regions -which lie beyond it; and suggest to the generality of mankind the idea -of Cerberus and Furies; devils, and torrents of fire and brimstone.</p> - -<p>It is true, both fear and hope enter into religion; because both these -passions, at different times, agitate the human mind, and each of -them forms a species of divinity suitable to itself. But when a man -is in a cheerful disposition, he is fit for business, or company, or -entertainment of any kind; and he naturally applies himself to these, -and thinks not of religion. When melancholy and dejected, he has -nothing to do but brood upon the terrors of the invisible world, and -to plunge himself still deeper in affliction. It may indeed happen, -that after he has, in this manner, engraved the religious opinions deep -into his thought and imagination, there may arrive a change of health -or circumstances, which may restore his good humour, and, raising -cheerful prospects of futurity, make him run into the other extreme of -joy and triumph. But still it must be acknowledged, that, as terror -is the primary principle of religion, it is the passion which always -predominates in it, and admits but of short intervals of pleasure.</p> - -<p>Not to mention, that these fits of excessive, enthusiastic joy, by -exhausting the spirits, always prepare the way for equal fits of -superstitious terror and dejection; nor is there any state of mind -so happy as the calm and equable. But this state it is impossible to -support, where a man thinks that he lies in such profound darkness -and uncertainty, between an eternity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_546" id="Page_546">[Pg 546]</a></span> of happiness and an eternity of -misery. No wonder that such an opinion disjoints the ordinary frame -of the mind, and throws it into the utmost confusion. And though that -opinion is seldom so steady in its operation as to influence all the -actions; yet it is apt to make a considerable breach in the temper, and -to produce that gloom and melancholy so remarkable in all devout people.</p> - -<p>It is contrary to common sense to entertain apprehensions or terrors -upon account of any opinion whatsoever, or to imagine that we run any -risk hereafter, by the freest use of our reason. Such a sentiment -implies both an <i>absurdity</i> and an <i>inconsistency</i>. It is an absurdity -to believe that the Deity has human passions, and one of the lowest -of human passions, a restless appetite for applause. It is an -inconsistency to believe, that, since the Deity has this human passion, -he has not others also; and, in particular, a disregard to the opinions -of creatures so much inferior.</p> - -<p><i>To know God</i>, says Seneca, <i>is to worship him</i>. All other worship -is indeed absurd, superstitious, and even impious. It degrades him -to the low condition of mankind, who are delighted with entreaty, -solicitation, presents, and flattery. Yet is this impiety the smallest -of which superstition is guilty. Commonly, it depresses the Deity far -below the condition of mankind; and represents him as a capricious -demon, who exercises his power without reason and without humanity! And -were that Divine Being disposed to be offended at the vices and follies -of silly mortals, who are his own workmanship, ill would it surely fare -with the votaries of most popular superstitions. Nor would any of human -race merit his <i>favour</i>, but a very few, the philosophical Theists, -who entertain, or rather indeed endeavour<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_547" id="Page_547">[Pg 547]</a></span> to entertain, suitable -notions of his Divine perfections: As the only persons entitled to his -<i>compassion</i> and <i>indulgence</i> would be the philosophical Sceptics, a -sect almost equally rare, who, from a natural diffidence of their own -capacity, suspend, or endeavour to suspend, all judgment with regard to -such sublime and such extraordinary subjects.</p> - -<p>If the whole of Natural Theology, as some people seem to maintain, -resolves itself into one simple, though somewhat ambiguous, at least -undefined proposition, <i>That the cause or causes of order in the -universe probably bear some remote analogy to human intelligence</i>: -If this proposition be not capable of extension, variation, or more -particular explication: If it affords no inference that affects human -life, or can be the source of any action or forbearance: And if the -analogy, imperfect as it is, can be carried no farther than to the -human intelligence, and cannot be transferred, with any appearance of -probability, to the other qualities of the mind; if this really be the -case, what can the most inquisitive, contemplative, and religious man -do more than give a plain, philosophical assent to the proposition, -as often as it occurs, and believe that the arguments on which it -is established exceed the objections which lie against it? Some -astonishment, indeed, will naturally arise from the greatness of the -object; some melancholy from its obscurity; some contempt of human -reason, that it can give no solution more satisfactory with regard to -so extraordinary and magnificent a question. But believe me, Cleanthes, -the most natural sentiment which a well-disposed mind will feel on -this occasion, is a longing desire and expectation that Heaven would -be pleased to dissipate, at least alleviate, this profound ignorance, -by affording some more particular<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_548" id="Page_548">[Pg 548]</a></span> revelation to mankind, and making -discoveries of the nature, attributes, and operations of the Divine -object of our faith. A person, seasoned with a just sense of the -imperfections of natural reason, will fly to revealed truth with the -greatest avidity: While the haughty Dogmatist, persuaded that he can -erect a complete system of Theology by the mere help of philosophy, -disdains any further aid, and rejects this adventitious instructor. -To be a philosophical Sceptic is, in a man of letters, the first and -most essential step towards being a sound, believing Christian; a -proposition which I would willingly recommend to the attention of -Pamphilus: And I hope Cleanthes will forgive me for interposing so far -in the education and instruction of his pupil.</p> - -<p>Cleanthes and Philo pursued not this conversation much farther: and as -nothing ever made greater impression on me, than all the reasonings -of that day, so I confess, that, upon a serious review of the whole, -I cannot but think, that Philo's principles are more probable than -Demea's; but that those of Cleanthes approach still nearer to the truth.</p> -<hr class="r5" /> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_1_45" id="Footnote_1_45"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_45"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> De Formatione Foetus.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_2_46" id="Footnote_2_46"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_46"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> It seems evident that the dispute between the Sceptics and -Dogmatists is entirely verbal, or at least regards only the degrees -of doubt and assurance which we ought to indulge with regard to all -reasoning; and such disputes are commonly, at the bottom, verbal, and -admit not of any precise determination. No philosophical Dogmatist -denies that there are difficulties both with regard to the senses and -to all science, and that these difficulties are in a regular, logical -method, absolutely insolvable. No Sceptic denies that we lie under an -absolute necessity, notwithstanding these difficulties, of thinking, -and believing, and reasoning, with regard to all kinds of subjects, and -even of frequently assenting with confidence and security. The only -difference, then, between these sects, if they merit that name, is, -that the Sceptic, from habit, caprice, or inclination, insists most on -the difficulties; the Dogmatist, for like reasons, on the necessity.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_3_47" id="Footnote_3_47"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_47"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> Lib. vi. cap. 54.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a name="Footnote_4_48" id="Footnote_4_48"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_48"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> Iphigenia in Tauride.</p> - -<hr class="chap" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_549" id="Page_549">[Pg 549]</a><br /><a name="Page_550" id="Page_550">[Pg 550]</a><br /><a name="Page_551" id="Page_551">[Pg 551]</a></span></p></div> - - - - -<h4><a name="APPENDIX" id="APPENDIX">APPENDIX</a></h4> - -<h4>TO THE</h4> - -<h4>TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.</h4> - - -<p>There is nothing I would more willingly lay hold of, than an -opportunity of confessing my errors; and should esteem such a return to -truth and reason to be more honourable than the most unerring judgment. -A man who is free from mistakes can pretend to no praises, except from -the justness of his understanding; but a man who corrects his mistakes -shows at once the justness of his understanding, and the candour -and ingenuity of his temper. I have not yet been so fortunate as to -discover any very considerable mistakes in the reasonings delivered -in the preceding volumes, except on one article; but I have found by -experience, that some of my expressions have not been so well chosen -as to guard against all mistakes in the readers; and 'tis chiefly to -remedy this defect I have subjoined the following Appendix.</p> - -<p>We can never be induced to believe any matter of fact except where -its cause or its effect is present to us; but what the nature is of -that belief which arises from the relation of cause and effect, few -have had the curiosity to ask themselves. In my opinion this dilemma -is inevitable. Either the belief is some new idea, such as that of -<i>reality</i> or <i>existence</i>, which we join<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_552" id="Page_552">[Pg 552]</a></span> to the simple conception -of an object, or it is merely a peculiar <i>feeling</i> or <i>sentiment</i>. -That it is not a new idea, annexed to the simple conception, may be -evinced from these two arguments. <i>First</i>, We have no abstract idea of -existence, distinguishable and separable from the idea of particular -objects. 'Tis impossible, therefore, that this idea of existence can -be annexed to the idea of any object, or form the difference betwixt -a simple conception and belief. <i>Secondly</i>, The mind has the command -over all its ideas, and can separate, unite, mix, and vary them, as -it pleases; so that, if belief consisted merely in a new idea annexed -to the conception, it would be in a man's power to believe what he -pleased. We may therefore conclude, that belief consists merely in a -certain feeling or sentiment; in something that depends not on the -will, but must arise from certain determinate causes and principles -of which we are not masters. When we are convinced of any matter of -fact, we do nothing but conceive it, along with a certain feeling, -different from what attends the mere <i>reveries</i> of the imagination. -And when we express our incredulity concerning any fact, we mean, -that the arguments for the fact produce not that feeling. Did not the -belief consist in a sentiment different from our mere conception, -whatever objects were presented by the wildest imagination would be on -an equal footing with the most established truths founded on history -and experience. There is nothing but the feeling or sentiment to -distinguish the one from the other.</p> - -<p>This, therefore, being regarded as an undoubted truth, that <i>belief is -nothing but a peculiar feeling, different from the simple conception</i>, -the next question that naturally occurs is, <i>what is the nature of -this<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_553" id="Page_553">[Pg 553]</a></span> feeling or sentiment, and whether it be analogous to any other -sentiment of the human mind</i>? This question is important. For if it be -not analogous to any other sentiment, we must despair of explaining -its causes, and must consider it as an original principle of the human -mind. If it be analogous, we may hope to explain its causes from -analogy, and trace it up to more general principles. Now, that there -is a greater firmness and solidity in the conceptions, which are the -objects of conviction and assurance, than in the loose and indolent -reveries of a castle-builder, every one will readily own. They strike -upon us with more force; they are more present to us; the mind has -a firmer hold of them, and is more actuated and moved by them. It -acquiesces in them; and, in a manner, fixes and reposes itself on -them. In short, they approach nearer to the impressions, which are -immediately present to us; and are therefore analogous to many other -operations of the mind.</p> - -<p>There is not, in my opinion, any possibility of evading this -conclusion, but by asserting that belief, beside the simple conception, -consists in some impression or feeling, distinguishable from the -conception. It does not modify the conception, and render it more -present and intense: it is only annexed to it, after the same manner -that <i>will</i> and <i>desire</i> are annexed to particular conceptions of -good and pleasure. But the following considerations will, I hope, -be sufficient to remove this hypothesis. <i>First</i>, It is directly -contrary to experience, and our immediate consciousness? All men have -ever allowed reasoning to be merely an operation of our thoughts or -ideas; and however those ideas may be varied to the feeling, there is -nothing ever enters into our <i>conclusions</i> but ideas, or our fainter -conceptions. For<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_554" id="Page_554">[Pg 554]</a></span> instance, I hear at present a person's voice with -whom I am acquainted, and this sound comes from the next room. This -impression of my senses immediately conveys my thoughts to the person, -along with all the surrounding objects. I paint them out to myself -as existent at present, with the same qualities and relations that I -formerly knew them possessed of. These ideas take faster hold of my -mind, than the ideas of an enchanted castle. They are different to the -feeling; but there is no distinct or separate impression attending -them. 'Tis the same case when I recollect the several incidents of a -journey, or the events of any history. Every particular fact is there -the object of belief. Its idea is modified differently from the loose -reveries of a castle-builder: but no distinct impression attends -every distinct idea, or conception of matter of fact. This is the -subject of plain experience. If ever this experience can be disputed -on any occasion, 'tis when the mind has been agitated with doubts and -difficulties; and afterwards, upon taking the object in a new point of -view, or being presented with a new argument, fixes and reposes itself -in one settled conclusion and belief. In this case there is a feeling -distinct and separate from the conception. The passage from doubt -and agitation to tranquillity and repose, conveys a satisfaction and -pleasure to the mind. But take any other case. Suppose I see the legs -and thighs of a person in motion, while some interposed object conceals -the rest of his body. Here 'tis certain, the imagination spreads out -the whole figure. I give him a head and shoulders, and breast and neck. -These members I conceive and believe him to be possessed of. Nothing -can be more evident, than that this whole operation is performed -by the thought or imagination alone. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_555" id="Page_555">[Pg 555]</a></span> transition is immediate. -The ideas presently strike us. Their customary connexion with the -present impression varies them and modifies them in a certain manner, -but produces no act of the mind, distinct from this peculiarity of -conception. Let any one examine his own mind, and he will evidently -find this to be the truth.</p> - -<p><i>Secondly</i>, Whatever may be the case, with regard to this distinct -impression, it must be allowed that the mind has a firmer hold, or -more steady conception of what it takes to be matter of fact than of -fictions. Why then look any farther, or multiply suppositions without -necessity?</p> - -<p><i>Thirdly</i>, We can explain the <i>causes</i> of the firm conception, but not -those of any separate impression. And not only so, but the causes of -the firm conception exhaust the whole subject, and nothing is left to -produce any other effect. An inference concerning a matter of fact is -nothing but the idea of an object that is frequently conjoined, or is -associated with a present impression. This is the whole of it. Every -part is requisite to explain, from analogy, the more steady conception; -and nothing remains capable of producing any distinct impression.</p> - -<p><i>Fourthly</i>, The <i>effects</i> of belief, in influencing the passions -and imagination, can all be explained from the firm conception; and -there is no occasion to have recourse to any other principle. These -arguments, with many others, enumerated in the foregoing volumes, -sufficiently prove, that belief only modifies the idea or conception; -and renders it different to the feeling, without producing any distinct -impression.</p> - -<p>Thus, upon a general view of the subject, there appear to be two -questions of importance, which we may<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_556" id="Page_556">[Pg 556]</a></span> venture to recommend to -the consideration of philosophers, <i>Whether there be any thing to -distinguish belief from the simple conception, beside the feeling -or sentiment</i>? And, <i>Whether this feeling be any thing but a firmer -conception, or a faster hold, that we take of the object</i>?</p> - -<p>If, upon impartial inquiry, the same conclusion that I have formed -be assented to by philosophers, the next business is to examine the -analogy which there is betwixt belief and other acts of the mind, -and find the cause of the firmness and strength of conception; and -this I do not esteem a difficult task. The transition from a present -impression, always enlivens and strengthens any idea. When any object -is presented, the idea of its usual attendant immediately strikes us, -as something real and solid. 'Tis <i>felt</i> rather than conceived, and -approaches the impression, from which it is derived, in its force -and influence. This I have proved at large, and cannot add any new -arguments.</p> - -<p>I had entertained some hopes, that however deficient our theory of the -intellectual world might be, it would be free from those contradictions -and absurdities, which seem to attend every explication, that human -reason can give of the material world. But upon a more strict review of -the section concerning <i>personal identity</i>, I find myself involved in -such a labyrinth, that, I must confess, I neither know how to correct -my former opinions, nor how to render them consistent. If this be not -a good <i>general</i> reason for scepticism, 'tis at least a sufficient -one (if I were not already abundantly supplied) for me to entertain -a diffidence and modesty in all my decisions. I shall propose the -arguments on both sides, beginning with those that induced me to deny -the strict and proper identity and simplicity of a self or thinking -being.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_557" id="Page_557">[Pg 557]</a></span></p> - -<p>When we talk of <i>self</i> or <i>subsistence</i>, we must have an idea annexed -to these terms, otherwise they are altogether unintelligible. Every -idea is derived from preceding impressions; and we have no impression -of self or substance, as something simple and individual. We have, -therefore, no idea of them in that sense.</p> - -<p>Whatever is distinct, is distinguishable, and whatever is -distinguishable, is separable by the thought or imagination. All -perceptions are distinct. They are, therefore, distinguishable, and -separable, and may be conceived, as separately existent, and may exist -separately, without any contradiction or absurdity.</p> - -<p>When I view this table and that chimney, nothing is present to me but -particular perceptions, which are of a like nature with all the other -perceptions. This is the doctrine of philosophers. But this table, -which is present to me, and that chimney, may, and do exist separately. -This is the doctrine of the vulgar, and implies no contradiction. -There, is no contradiction, therefore, in extending the same doctrine -to all the perceptions.</p> - -<p>In general, the following reasoning seems satisfactory. All ideas are -borrowed from preceding perceptions. Our ideas of objects, therefore, -are derived from that source. Consequently no proposition can be -intelligible or consistent with regard to objects, which is not so -with regard to perceptions. But 'tis intelligible and consistent to -say, that objects exist distinct and independent, without any common -<i>simple</i> substance or subject of inhesion. This proposition, therefore, -can never be absurd with regard to perceptions.</p> - -<p>When I turn my reflection on <i>myself</i>, I never can perceive this <i>self</i> -without some one or more perceptions; nor can I ever perceive any thing -but the perceptions.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_558" id="Page_558">[Pg 558]</a></span> 'Tis the composition of these, therefore, which -forms the self.</p> - -<p>We can conceive a thinking being to have either many or few -perceptions. Suppose the mind to be reduced even below the life of an -oyster. Suppose it to have only one perception, as of thirst or hunger. -Consider it in that situation. Do you conceive any thing but merely -that perception? Have you any notion of <i>self</i> or <i>substance</i>? If not, -the addition of other perceptions can never give you that notion.</p> - -<p>The annihilation which some people suppose to follow upon death, and -which entirely destroys this self, is nothing but an extinction of all -particular perceptions; love and hatred, pain and pleasure, thought and -sensation. These, therefore, must be the same with self, since the one -cannot survive the other.</p> - -<p>Is <i>self</i> the same with <i>substance</i>? If it be, how can that question -have place, concerning the subsistence of self, under a change of -substance? If they be distinct, what is the difference betwixt them? -For my part, I have a notion of neither, when conceived distinct from -particular perceptions.</p> - -<p>Philosophers begin to be reconciled to the principle, <i>that we have -no idea of external substance, distinct from the ideas of particular -qualities</i>. This must pave the way for a like principle with regard to -the mind, <i>that we have no notion of it, distinct from the particular -perception</i>.</p> - -<p>So far I seem to be attended with sufficient evidence. But having thus -loosened all our particular perceptions, when I proceed to explain -the principle of connexion, which binds them together, and makes us -attribute to them a real simplicity and identity, I am sensible that my -account is very defective, and that nothing but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_559" id="Page_559">[Pg 559]</a></span> seeming evidence -of the precedent reasonings could have induced me to receive it. If -perceptions are distinct existences, they form a whole only by being -connected together. But no connexions among distinct existences are -ever discoverable by human understanding. We only <i>feel</i> a connexion -or determination of the thought to pass from one object to another. It -follows, therefore, that the thought alone feels personal identity, -when reflecting on the train of past perceptions that compose a mind, -the ideas of them are felt to be connected together, and naturally -introduce each other. However extraordinary this conclusion may seem, -it need not surprise us. Most philosophers seem inclined to think, that -personal identity <i>arises</i> from consciousness, and consciousness is -nothing but a reflected thought or perception. The present philosophy, -therefore, has so far a promising aspect. But all my hopes vanish, when -I come to explain the principles that unite our successive perceptions -in our thought or consciousness. I cannot discover any theory, which -gives me satisfaction on this head.</p> - -<p>In short, there are two principles which I cannot render consistent, -nor is it in my power to renounce either of them, viz. <i>that all -our distinct perceptions are distinct existences, and that the mind -never perceives any real connexion among distinct existences</i>. Did -our perceptions either inhere in something simple and individual, or -did the mind perceive some real connexion among them, there would be -no difficulty in the case. For my part, I must plead the privilege -of a sceptic, and confess, that this difficulty is too hard for my -understanding. I pretend not, however, to pronounce it absolutely -insuperable. Others, perhaps, or myself, upon more mature reflections, -may discover some hypothesis that will reconcile those contradictions.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_560" id="Page_560">[Pg 560]</a></span></p> - -<p>I shall also take this opportunity of confessing two other errors of -less importance, which more mature reflection has discovered to me in -my reasoning. The first may be found in Vol. I. page 85, where I say, -that the distance betwixt two bodies is known, among other things, by -the angles which the rays of light flowing from the bodies make with -each other. 'Tis certain, that these angles are not known to the mind, -and consequently can never discover the distance. The second error may -be found in Vol. I. p. 132, where I say, that two ideas of the same -object can only be different by their different degrees of force and -vivacity. I believe there are other differences among ideas, which -cannot properly be comprehended under these terms. Had I said, that -two ideas of the same object can only be different by their different -<i>feeling</i>, I should have been nearer the truth.</p> - - - -<h4>END OF VOLUME SECOND.</h4> - - - -<p style="margin-left: 10%;"> -<span class="caption">INDEX.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -ABASEMENT, consequence of superstition, iv. 479.<br /> -Abilities, natural, merit of, ii. <a href="#Page_398">398</a>, <a href="#Page_406">406</a>.<br /> -Abstract or general ideas, how formed, i. 37, 56.<br /> -Abstract reasoning, objectionable, iv. 10, 182.<br /> -Absurdity, not peculiar to the ancient mythology, iv. 481.<br /> -Academic philosophy, excellence of, iv. 50, 175.<br /> -Accession, right of, ii. <a href="#Page_282">282</a>, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Acheans, their democracy the most perfect, iii. 517<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their numbers, 481.</span><br /> -Acquaintance, a source of attachment, ii. <a href="#Page_95">95</a>.<br /> -Actions, virtuous, what constitutes, ii. <a href="#Page_246">246</a>, <a href="#Page_361">361</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—moral distinctions of, iv. 305, 351.</span><br /> -Addison, iii. 101—quoted, 152, 218—iv. 204.<br /> -Ælius Lampridius, iii. 467.<br /> -Æschines, iii. 363, 476, 454.<br /> -Æschines Socraticus, iv. 406.<br /> -Ætolians, their numbers, iii. 481.<br /> -Ægina, number of slaves in, iii. 478<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—factions in, iv. 505.</span><br /> -Agathocles, his cruelty, iii. 455, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Age, golden, a fiction, ii. <a href="#Page_264">264</a>—iv. 259.<br /> -Agreeableness, a source of attachment, iv. 327, 339.<br /> -Agriculture, iii. 293<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how best encouraged, 465.</span><br /> -Agrigentum, number of its inhabitants, iii. 468.<br /> -Agrippa, saying of, iv. 457.<br /> -Alcibiades, his policy, iii. 375.<br /> -Alcoran, its ethics, iii. 258.<br /> -Alexander, the impostor, iv. 139.<br /> -Alexander the Great, saying of, ii. <a href="#Page_390">390</a>—iv. 329<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his cruelty, iii. 479, (<i>Note</i>)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his toleration, iv. 477</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his emulation of Bacchus, 479.</span><br /> -Alexandria, ancient, its size and population, iii. 488, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Allegiance, foundation of, ii. <a href="#Page_321">321</a>—iv, 278<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—obligations to, ii. <a href="#Page_325">325</a>, <a href="#Page_332">332</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—objects of, <a href="#Page_338">338</a>, &c.—iii. 526</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—measure of, 520, 534.</span><br /> -Allegory, natural to polytheism, iv. 458.<br /> -Allegory of love and Hyraen, iv. 526,<br /> -Allegory of virtue and vice, iv. 520.<br /> -Ambitious Stepmother, play of, iii. 254.<br /> -American tribes, some without government, ii. <a href="#Page_319">319</a>.<br /> -Anacharsis, an observation of, iii. 321.<br /> -Anacreon, iv. 423.<br /> -Analogy, a source of probability, i. 190<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—use of, in reasoning, iv. 121.</span><br /> -Analogies, their use in jurisprudence, iv. 267, 393.<br /> -Anaxagoras, a theist, yet accused of atheism, iv. 456, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Ancillarioli, a term of reproach, iv. 427, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Anger, different from hatred, ii. <a href="#Page_113">113</a>—when vicious, <a href="#Page_397">397</a>.<br /> -Animals, their reason, i. 232—iv. 122, &c.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their, pride and humility, ii. <a href="#Page_63">63</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their affections and passions, <a href="#Page_148">148</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—national character of, iii. 229.</span><br /> -Antients, their philosophy imperfect, i. 282—ii. <a href="#Page_11">11</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their notions of virtue, iv. 403.</span><br /> -Antient nations, their public treasures, iii. 391<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their bloody wars, 449.</span><br /> -Anthropomorphites, ii. <a href="#Page_460">460</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—consequences of their principles, <a href="#Page_468">468</a>.</span><br /> -Antipater, his repartee, iii. 198.<br /> -Antioch, its size, iii. 488.<br /> -Antoninus Marcus, his superstition, iv. 495.<br /> -Appian, on the riches of the Ptolemies, iii, 364<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—quoted, 417, 440, 446, 450, 453, 459, 470—iv. 415</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on the population of Gaul, iii. 498.</span><br /> -Areopagites, iii. 114—iv. 461.<br /> -Ariosto, his character as a writer, iii. 262.<br /> -Aristides, the sophist, his account of Rome, iii. 483, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Aristocracy, Polish and Venetian, compared, iii. 16.<br /> -Aristophanes, quoted, iii. 435<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his representations of the gods not deemed impious, iv. 452.</span><br /> -Aristotle, quoted, iii. 241, 435, 478, 491, 404—iv. 27, 342, 404, 444.<br /> -Armenians, their probity, iii. 232.<br /> -Arminians in Holland, friends of liberty, iii. 70.<br /> -Armstrong, Dr, quoted, iv. 402.<br /> -Arnobius, quoted, iv. 453, 461.<br /> -Artaxerxes, his right to the throne, ii. <a href="#Page_343">343</a>.<br /> -Arts mechanical, advantageous, iii. 298.<br /> -Arrian, quoted, iii. 22, 142, 391, 462—iv. 477, 479.<br /> -Atheism, whether possible, iv; 174.<br /> -Athensus, quoted, iii. 474, 478, (<i>Note</i>.) 503.<br /> -Athens, its extent, iii. 290<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its wealth, 363, 462</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its population, 473, 475</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its statistics, 477, 517.</span><br /> -Athenians, their extraordinary regard for justice, ii. <a href="#Page_180">180</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their character, iii. 232—iv. 416</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their democracy, iii, 412, 461</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their tyranny, 456</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their expenses, 457, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their vanity, iv. 337</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their law respecting marriage, iii. 207—iv. 281, 414 <i>et seq</i>.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their man of merit, 415.</span><br /> -Attalus his cruelty, iii. 442.<br /> -Association of ideas, i. 26—iv. 24 <i>et seq</i>.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of impressions, ii. <a href="#Page_13">13</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—influence of, on pride and humility, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</span><br /> -Augustine, St, his dogmatism, iv. 489.<br /> -Augustus, his age compared with that of Camillus, iii. 290<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his impiety and superstition, iv. 453, 477, 490.</span><br /> -Aunoy, Madame de, quoted, iii. 212.<br /> -Aurelius Marcus, his theism, iv. 457.<br /> -Austria, house of, causes of its decay, iii. 379.<br /> -Authority, perpetually opposed by liberty, iii. 41.<br /> -Avarice, a proper subject for satire or comedy, iv. 533.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Bacon, Lord, quoted ii. <a href="#Page_434">434</a>—iii. 58, 102, 237, 299—iv. 153, 464.<br /> -Balance of trade, errors respecting, iii. 348, &c.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of power, partially understood by the ancients, 373, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—better known but not practised by modern states, 379.</span><br /> -Banks and paper-currency, whether beneficial, iii. 319, 357, &c.<br /> -Bank-credit, origin and nature of, iii. 359.<br /> -Bartoli's plans of ancient buildings, iii. 483.<br /> -Barrow, Dr, his definition of equality, i. 70.<br /> -Batavians, ancient, iii. 233.<br /> -Bayle, ii. <a href="#Page_434">434</a>—iv. 272, 480.<br /> -Beauty, what, ii. <a href="#Page_31">31</a>—iii. 260<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—why an object of pride or pleasure, ii. <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_363">363</a>—iv. 207</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—moral, compared with natural, iv. 373.</span><br /> -Belgium, its population, iii. 499.<br /> -Belief, what, i. 120, 135—ii. <a href="#Page_552">552</a>—iv. 60<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—causes of, i. 136, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—influence of, 160, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—difference between it and fiction, iv. 58, 373.</span><br /> -Bellarmine, Cardinal, a saying of, iv. 480.<br /> -Benevolence, different from love, ii. <a href="#Page_113">113</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—not a motive of justice, 250</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—what constitutes, 395, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—recommendation and merit of, iv. 247, &c. 335</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—two kinds of, 381; (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Bentivoglio, Cardinal, iii. 239.<br /> -Berkeley, Dr, his doctrine of general ideas, i. 34<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of national character, iii. 238</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a sceptic, iv. 180.</span><br /> -Berne, canton of, its treasurer, iii. 364<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its population, 500.</span><br /> -Black, Dr, letter from, i. xxiii.<br /> -Boccaccio, iii. 200, 282—iv. 30, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Bodily accomplishments source of pride or humility, ii, <a href="#Page_33">33</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—love or hatred <a href="#Page_86">86</a>—iv. 208, 320.</span><br /> -Body, advantages of, ii. <a href="#Page_408">408</a>.<br /> -Blame and praise, variableness of, ii, <a href="#Page_369">369</a>.<br /> -Boileau, iv. 330.<br /> -Bolingbroke, quoted, iii. 27, 47, 117<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his style, 121.</span><br /> -Bomilcar, iv. 508.<br /> -Boulainvilliers, Count de, iii. 531—iv. 467.<br /> -Brahmins, their cosmogony, ii. <a href="#Page_487">487</a>.<br /> -Britons, ancient, their marriages, iii. 207<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their superstition, 234.</span><br /> -Britain, her opposition to France often injudicious<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">and injurious, iii. 380.</span><br /> -British government, nature of, iii. 52<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—proposed improvements on, 576.</span><br /> -Brasidas, a saying of, iv. 480.<br /> -Brumoy, Pere, iv. 452.<br /> -Butler, Bishop, iv. 14.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Cæsar, quoted iii. 229, 306, 446, 499—iv. 452, 462<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—the numbers killed in his wars, iii. 452, 470</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—compared with Sylla and Marius, ii. <a href="#Page_350">350</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—with Cato, 400—iv. 401.</span><br /> -Cambyses, his impiety, iv. 483.<br /> -Capitolinus, quoted, iii. 529.<br /> -Carlisle, Earl of, quoted, iii. 150.<br /> -Cartesians, their doctrine of essence and innate ideas, i. 211, &c.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—decline of their philosophy, iii. 135.</span><br /> -Carthage, its population, iii. 492.<br /> -Carthaginians, their human sacrifices, iii. 60—iv. 477.<br /> -Catholics, use of their ceremonies, i. 137—ii. 290—iv. 62<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their sects, iii. 88, 454</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their intolerance, 280, 559</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—absurdities and anecdotes of their religion, iv. 484, &c.</span><br /> -Cato, de Re Rustica, iii. 436, 438.<br /> -Cato of Utica, his speech to Cæsar, iii. 306.<br /> -Catullus, iii. 143, 222.<br /> -Caunii, their superstition, iv. 452.<br /> -Cause, why necessary, i. 110, &c.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—idea of, whence derived, 121, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—definitions of, iv. 90.</span><br /> -Cause and effect, idea of, derived from experience, i. 170—ii. <a href="#Page_158">158</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—relation of, i. 224, 240</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—rules by which to judge of, 228</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how we arrive at the knowledge of, iv. 35.</span><br /> -Causes, efficacy and agency of, i. 208<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—all of the same kind, 226.</span><br /> -Causes, moral, their influence on national character, iii, 225<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—physical do., 227.</span><br /> -Causation, a principle of association, i. 99—iv. 62<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—idea of, whence derived, i. 105.</span><br /> -Cavalier, and Roundhead, parties of, iii. 72.<br /> -Cervantes, iii. 218, 224.<br /> -Chance, what, i. 170<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its influence on human affairs, iii. 124</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on the refined arts, 127.</span><br /> -Characters, national, varieties of accounted for, iii. 224.<br /> -Charles II. policy of, iii. 73.<br /> -Charles V. his estimate of human life, ii. <a href="#Page_508">508</a>.<br /> -Charles XII. of Sweden, his character, iii. 558—iv. 337.<br /> -Chastity, virtue of, ii. <a href="#Page_354">354</a>—iv. 280, 314.<br /> -Cheerfulness, its merit, iv. 327.<br /> -China, peculiarities in its laws and customs, iii. 136, 298, 331, 353, 443.<br /> -Chinese, uniformity of their character, iii. 231, 236<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their superstition, iv. 451.</span><br /> -Christian religion, argument against its historical evidence, i. 194<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—causes of its early persecution, iii. 64</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—founded in faith, not in reason, iv. 153.</span><br /> -Chrysippus, saying of, ii. <a href="#Page_423">423</a>.<br /> -Cicero, quoted, i. 139—ii. <a href="#Page_468">468</a>, <a href="#Page_508">508</a>—iii. 19, 68, 104, 109, 110<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—<i>et seq.</i> 144, 292, 377, 385, 418, 429, 452, 460, 463, 474, 486</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 63, 246, 249, 260, 317, 403, 424, 488, 490, 496, 557</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his consolation for deafness, iii. 198</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his eloquence, 115, 248</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his character, 143.</span><br /> -Claudius, Emperor, abolishes Druidism, iii. 64, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Clairault, Rousseau's Letter to, i. xli.<br /> -Clarendon, Lord, iii. 253.<br /> -Clark, Dr, i. 112—ii. <a href="#Page_499">499</a>.<br /> -Cleanliness, a virtue, ii. <a href="#Page_404">404</a>—iv. 345.<br /> -Clergy, no friends to liberty, iii, 69<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their hypocrisy, ambition, &c. 226, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Cold, greater in ancient times, iii. 493.<br /> -Colonnesi and Orsini, parties in modern Rome, iii. 59.<br /> -Columella, quoted, iii. 346, 423, 428, 432, 439, 440, 496.<br /> -Comitia centuriata et tributa, their different powers, iii. 416.<br /> -Comet, whether a world in embryo, ii. <a href="#Page_482">482</a>.<br /> -Commerce, cannot flourish but under a free government, iii. 103<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—source of wealth and happiness, 287</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—foreign, its advantages, 296</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—favourable to industry, 369</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—has flourished under natural disadvantages, 385.</span><br /> -Commodus, Emperor, cruelty and death of, iii. 528.<br /> -Commonwealth, theory of a perfect, iii. 564.<br /> -Commons, House of, iii. 35, 46, 543.<br /> -Companionable qualities, iv. 340.<br /> -Comparison, the foundation of all reasoning, i, 103<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—the origin of envy, ii. <a href="#Page_124">124</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of ourselves, 383</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—between men and animals, ii. <a href="#Page_234">234</a>—iii. 92</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—between nature and art, 177</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—between ourselves and others, 201</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—necessary to forming the taste, 269.</span><br /> -Compassion, origin of, iv. 220.<br /> -Complex ideas threefold division of, i. 29.<br /> -Condé, Prince of, ii, <a href="#Page_390">390</a>—iii. 133—iv. 330.<br /> -Confucius, his disciples deists iii 88.<br /> -Congreve, iii. 220—iv. 30.<br /> -Conquest, right of, ii. <a href="#Page_341">341</a>.<br /> -Constant conjunction, relation between cause and effect, i. 122, 228.<br /> -Constantine, his oppressive tax, iii. 388.<br /> -Constitution, British, excellence of, iii. 27<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—nature of, 46, 50, &c.</span><br /> -Consuls, Roman, their powers, iii. 131.<br /> -Contempt, whence it arises, ii. <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.<br /> -Contrariety, a species of philosophical relation, i. 99.—iv. 25.<br /> -Contiguity, a principle of association, i. 27—iv. 62<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its influence, i. 138, 151—ii. <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</span><br /> -Contract, original, whether the foundation of government, iii. 509.<br /> -Conventions, whether the foundation of justice, iv. 390.<br /> -Convents, evils of, iii. 441.<br /> -Conviction, its feebleness in matters of religion, iv. 491.<br /> -Copernicus, his system, ii. <a href="#Page_433">433</a>, <a href="#Page_531">531</a>—iv. 50—iii. 187.<br /> -Corn, quantity imported at Athens, iii. 478<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—to whom distributed in Rome, 485, &c.</span><br /> -Corneille, quoted, iii. 25, 154<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—compared with Congreve, 220—iv. 542.</span><br /> -Cornelia, her saying to her sons, ii. <a href="#Page_83">83</a>.<br /> -Cornelius Nepos, quoted, iii. 434.<br /> -Corpus juris civilis, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_286">286</a>—iii. 436, (<i>Note</i>.) 451.<br /> -Courage, how far national, iii. 240<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—utility of, iv. 331.</span><br /> -Cowley, iii. 222.<br /> -Crassus, his wealth, iii. 51.<br /> -Credit, public, its abuses, iii. 392, &c.<br /> -Custom, its effects, i. 157—ii. <a href="#Page_177">177</a>—iv. 52.<br /> -Customs, remarkable ones in the Athenian democracy, iii. 412<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—in the Roman republic, 416</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—in the British constitution, 419.</span><br /> -Cynics, i. 344.<br /> -Cyrus, his claim to the throne, ii. <a href="#Page_343">343</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—boasts of his drunkenness, iii. 242</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a wise decision of; iv. 389.</span><br /> -Czar, of Russia, iii. 129.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -D'Alembert, i. cxx.<br /> -Darius Hystaspes, inscription on his tomb, iii. 242.<br /> -Datames, a skilful general, iii, 309.<br /> -Davenport, Mr, Rousseau's host, i. xlvi, &c.<br /> -Decency, its merits, whence, iv. 345.<br /> -Debt, national, its advantages, iii. 395<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its disadvantages, 397</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—scheme for the payment of, 405.</span><br /> -Deformity, an object of humility, ii. <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.<br /> -Deists, unite in politics with the independents, iii. 88.<br /> -Deity, his nature incomprehensible, ii. <a href="#Page_437">437</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his existence whether proved <i>a posteriori</i>, <a href="#Page_440">440</a>, <a href="#Page_446">446</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—<i>a priori</i>, <a href="#Page_496">496</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—moral attributes of, <a href="#Page_509">509</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—energy and operation of, iv. 84.</span><br /> -Delicacy of taste, improves our sensibility, iii. 4<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—favourable to love and friendship, 6.</span><br /> -Democracy, without a representative, hurtful, iii. 16.<br /> -Demosthenes, character of his oratory, iii. 116<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—quoted, 363, 374, 412, 415, 426, 429, 434, 446, 474—iv. 456</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his patrimony, iii. 435, 463, 476.</span><br /> -Descartes, iv. 86, 175.<br /> -Desire and aversion, ii. <a href="#Page_197">197</a>—iv. 196.<br /> -Dialogue, advantages of, ii. <a href="#Page_420">420</a>.<br /> -Diodorus Siculus, quoted, iii. 22, 116, 241, 290, 375, 447, 451, 454,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">458, 461, 462, 464, 468, &c.—iv. 250, 321, 449, 452, 454, 508</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on the population of ancient cities, iii. 468, 507</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—list of massacres in Greece, iii, 454. (<i>Note.</i>)</span><br /> -Diogenes Laertius, quoted, iii. 469—iv. 461.<br /> -Diogenes, the Cynic, contrasted with Pascal, iv. 429<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a saying of, 545.</span><br /> -Dion Cassius, quoted, iii. 345.<br /> -Dionysius Halicarnassæus, quoted, iii. 216, 229, 458, 483—iv. 447, 457.<br /> -Dionysius the elder, his massacres, iii. 454, 464<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his standing army, 290, 471.</span><br /> -Discretion, excellence of, iv. 312.<br /> -Distance, its effects on the mind, i. 138—ii. <a href="#Page_346">346</a>.<br /> -Division of land, favourable to population, iii. 447.<br /> -Divisibility, not infinite, i. 50, <i>et seq.</i> 68, &c.<br /> -Divorce, whether allowable, iii. 213.<br /> -Domestic economy, of ancients and moderns, compared, iii. 426.<br /> -Domitian, iii. 194.<br /> -Don Quixotte, quoted, iii. 265.<br /> -Dorians and Ionians, their different characters, iii. 240.<br /> -Drusus and Germanicus, ii. <a href="#Page_346">346</a>.<br /> -Dryden, quoted, iv. 488.<br /> -Dubos, l'Abbé, quoted, iii. 44, 246, 354, 493, 502.<br /> -Duelling, a barbarous practice, iv. 422.<br /> -Duration, idea of, whence derived, i. 59.<br /> -Dutch, first introduced borrowing at low interest, iii. 107.<br /> -Duties, connexion between civil and natural, ii. <a href="#Page_323">323</a>.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Eclectics, sect of, iii. 137.<br /> -Education, its influence, i. 159—iv. 287.<br /> -Egypt, its traffic in slaves, iii. 441<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its population, 469, 503. (<i>Note.</i>)</span><br /> -Egyptians, their gaiety, iii. 100, 236<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their intolerance and superstition, iv. 487</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—similarity of their religion to the Jewish, 486, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Elizabeth, Queen, hypothesis of her resurrection to disprove miracles,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">iv. 151.</span><br /> -Eloquence, its effects, ii. <a href="#Page_182">182</a>—iii. 248<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—superiority of the ancients in, 110, 120</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—causes of its decline, 113, &c.</span><br /> -Emperors Greek and Roman, foundation of their authority, ii. <a href="#Page_341">341</a>.<br /> -Empires great, injurious, iii. 382.<br /> -Energy, mental, whether it suggests the idea of necessary connexion,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">iv. 76, <i>et seq.</i> 84.</span><br /> -English, mixture of their character, iii. 119; 234<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their writers deficient in elegance, 102.</span><br /> -Enthusiasm, poetical, i. 168<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—religious, its origin and character, iii. 82,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—friendly to civil liberty, 88.</span><br /> -Envy, its origin, ii. <a href="#Page_124">124</a>—iv. 220<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—in animals, ii. <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</span><br /> -Epaminondas, his character, iv. 321.<br /> -Epictetus, his philosophy, iv. 404<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his superstition, 495.</span><br /> -Epicurus an anthropomorphite, ii. <a href="#Page_471">471</a>, <a href="#Page_509">509</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—an atheist, iv. 157</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—hypothetical defence of, 158, <i>et seq.</i></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how he became a philosopher, 456.</span><br /> -Epicureans their cosmogony, ii. <a href="#Page_489">489</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their theory of happiness iii. 156, &c.</span><br /> -Epirus, population of, iii. 481.<br /> -Equality, notion of, whence derived, i. 71<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of rights, impracticable, iv. 265.</span><br /> -Ergastula, common among the Romans, iii. 428, 441.<br /> -Errors in Mr Hume's reasoning, ii. <a href="#Page_551">551</a>.<br /> -Essay-writing, utility of, iv. 538.<br /> -Euclid, iii. 187.<br /> -Euripides quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_543">543</a>—iv. 405, 448<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a woman-hater, iii. 207.</span><br /> -Evils, possible and certain, ii. <a href="#Page_199">199</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—influence of, on the passions, 200.</span><br /> -Europe, its natural advantages iii. 135, 137.<br /> -Evidence, natural and moral, of the same kind, iv. 105.<br /> -Exiles, in Greece, their numbers iii. 454, <i>et seq</i>.<br /> -Existence, idea of explained, i. 95<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—causes of our belief in, 245, &c.—iv. 56.</span><br /> -Experience, nature of, i. 121, 154<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—foundation of all reasoning on matters of fact, iv. 35, 128</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—why we reason from, 40, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—often synonymous with reason, 53. (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—evidence of, 130.</span><br /> -Exposing of slaves, iii. 428—of children, 442.<br /> -Extension, whether infinitely divisible, i. 50—iv. 182<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—idea of, i. 55, 301</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—arguments against the infinite divisibility of, 63, <i>et seq.</i></span><br /> -External existence; various systems of, examined, i. 246—280.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Factions personal and real, their evils, iii. 58, <i>et seq</i>.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—religious 63—violent among the ancients, 451.</span><br /> -Facility, principle of, ii. <a href="#Page_178">178</a>, <i>et seq</i>.<br /> -Fame, desire of, ii. <a href="#Page_58">58</a>—iv. 356.<br /> -Fanatics in England, iv. 265.<br /> -Fenelon, iv. 333.<br /> -Fiction, influence of, i. 161.<br /> -Flattery, influence of i. 201, <i>et seq</i>.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—an ingredient in superstitions, iv. 465.</span><br /> -Florence, though not a free state, produced eminent men, iii. 101.<br /> -Florus, quoted, iii. 441.<br /> -Flux and reflux of religions, iv. 471.<br /> -Fontaine, iv. 30—his opinion of female infidelity, 427.<br /> -Fontenelle, quoted, iii. 7, 198, 507—iv. 382, 452<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—character of his pastorals, 221</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his theory of pleasure and pain, 247.</span><br /> -Fortune, how far it produces esteem, ii. <a href="#Page_409">409</a>.<br /> -Franks, their character, iii. 234.<br /> -Free government, nursery of the arts and sciences, iii. 128, &c.<br /> -French, their genius not suppressed by absolute government, iii. 101.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their eloquence, 118, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—ridiculous delicacy of, 145</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their character, 236—iv. 341</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their resemblance of the Athenians, iv. 319.</span><br /> -Frugality, its excellence, iv. 313.<br /> -Funding, a modern expedient, iii. 392.<br /> -Future State, why men are so careless about, i. 155<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—hypothetical argument against, iv. 165.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Galen, on the structure of the body, ii. <a href="#Page_531">531</a>.<br /> -Galileo, his dialogues quoted, ii, <a href="#Page_450">450</a>.<br /> -Gallantry of civility, natural, iii. 148<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of intrigue, iv. 427.</span><br /> -Gaming, passion of, ii. <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.<br /> -Gamesters and sailors, superstitious, iv. 447.<br /> -Garcilaso de la Vega, quoted, iii. 344.<br /> -Gascons, their gaiety, iii, 232.<br /> -Gauls, their character, iii. 234, 241, 499.<br /> -Gaul, climate of, iii. 494<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—population of, 498, <i>et seq</i>. (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Gee, Mr, quoted, iii. 350.<br /> -General rules, their influence on the judgment, i. 196<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on imagination, 260</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on pride and humility, ii. <a href="#Page_24">24</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on the passions, iv. 217.</span><br /> -Genoa, bank of, iii. 24, 358<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—factions in, 359.</span><br /> -Geometry, definitions of often indeterminate, i. 76, 100.<br /> -Germanicus, his right of succession, ii. <a href="#Page_346">346</a>.<br /> -Germany, population of, iii. 497.<br /> -Getes, fanatics, iii. 450, 497<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their creed, iv. 470.</span><br /> -Good-breeding, ii. <a href="#Page_388">388</a>, <a href="#Page_423">423</a>, <a href="#Page_487">487</a>, iv. 282.<br /> -Good sense, how far essential to taste, iii. 212.<br /> -Goodness of character, qualities essential to, ii. <a href="#Page_395">395</a>.<br /> -Gorgias Leontinus, his eloquence, iii. 116.<br /> -Government, origin of, ii. <a href="#Page_312">312</a>, &c.—iii. 37, 510, 515<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—advantages of ii. <a href="#Page_317">317</a>, <i>et seq</i>.—iii. 132</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—all at first monarchical, ii, <a href="#Page_320">320</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—resistance to, seldom justifiable, <a href="#Page_335">335</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—British, compared with the Roman, iii. 10</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—modern improvements in, 105</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—theory of a perfect, 565, <i>et seq</i>.</span><br /> -Gracchi, laws of, iii, 440.<br /> -Grecian colonies, dispute betwixt, ii. <a href="#Page_280">280</a>, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Greek faith, ii. <a href="#Page_543">543</a>.<br /> -Greece, its natural advantages, iii. 134, 137<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—extremely populous, 447, 482</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—violent factions and wars in, 450, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—military force of, 482</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—number of its inhabitants, 473.</span><br /> -Greeks, modern, character of, iii. 233<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—ancient, iv. 425.</span><br /> -Grotius quoted, iv. 391, (<i>Note.</i>)<br /> -Guelf and Ghibelline parties, iii. 60.<br /> -Guicciardin quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_126">126</a>—iii. 307—iv. 224, 297<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his character of Pope Alexander VI., 405.</span><br /> -Gustavus Vasa, iii. 70.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Happiness, nature of, iii. 157<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—the universal wish, 167</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—what constitutes, 189.</span><br /> -Happiness of states, depends not on money, iii. 324.<br /> -Hanoverian succession, advantages of, iii. 550<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—disadvantages of, 553.</span><br /> -Hardouin, Pere, quoted, iii. 485.<br /> -Harrington, quoted, iii. 50, 102<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—defects of his Oceana, 563.</span><br /> -Hatred, object and causes of, ii. <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.<br /> -Heliogabalus, image of, iv. 461.<br /> -Helotes, iii. 289, 478.<br /> -Helvetia, size and population of, iii. 500.<br /> -Henry IV. of France, character of, iii. 15—iv. 336<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a saying of, iii 409.</span><br /> -Henry IV. and VII. of England, their title, iii. 517.<br /> -Hereditary right, importance of, iii 548<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—preferable to a parliamentary, 556.</span><br /> -Heresy, nature of, iv. 482.<br /> -Heroic and burlesque, incompatible, ii. <a href="#Page_127">127</a>—iv, 225.<br /> -Heroism, different views of, ii. <a href="#Page_391">391</a>.<br /> -Hero-worship, iv. 458,<br /> -Herodian, quoted, iii. 22, 489, 498, 529—iv. 461.<br /> -Herodotus, quoted, iii. 462, 469, 474, 481<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 333, 452, 471, 476, 500, 505.</span><br /> -Hertha, a Saxon goddess, iv. 462.<br /> -Hesiod, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_480">480</a>, <a href="#Page_487">487</a>—iii. 437—iv. 444, 454, 459, 468.<br /> -Hiero, king of Syracuse, his policy, iii. 378.<br /> -History, study of, recommended, iv, 528.<br /> -Hirtius, quoted, iii. 453, 500.<br /> -Hobbes, i, 111—ii, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>—iv, 260, 380.<br /> -Homer, quoted, iii. 258, 279—iv. 30, 452, 460, 468.<br /> -Honesty, excellence of, iv. 314.<br /> -Honour, violations of, inexcusable, i. 202.<br /> -Hope and fear, passions of, ii. <a href="#Page_202">202</a>, <i>et seq.</i><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—degrees of, 207—iv. 197, <i>et seq</i>.</span><br /> -Horace, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_206">206</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iii. 102, 128, 143, 144, 151, 219, 276, 434, 489, 493</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 200, 294, 423.</span><br /> -Hospitals, whether beneficial, iii. 444.<br /> -Hostis, its primitive signification, iii. 292, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Huet, Monsieur, ii. <a href="#Page_434">434</a>.<br /> -Huygens, on the figure of the ship, iii. 562.<br /> -Human nature, different views of, iii. 90, <i>et seq.</i><br /> -Human life, different sentiments on, iii. 180<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how to render it happy; 190</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—influence of philosophy on, 194, <i>et seq.</i></span><br /> -Humility, causes and object of, ii. <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>—iv. 203, 215<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whether an innate passion, ii. <a href="#Page_18">18</a>, <i>et seq.</i></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a Christian virtue, <a href="#Page_390">390</a>.</span><br /> -Hunting and philosophy, parallel betwixt, ii. <a href="#Page_212">212</a>.<br /> -Hutcheson, Mr, his theory of morals, iv. 13.<br /> -Hutchison, Mr, his scheme for paying the national debt, iii. 405.<br /> -Hyde de religione Persarum, quoted, iv. 470, 476.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -James I., anecdote of, iii. 551, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Jansenists, their character, iii. 89.—iv. 145. (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Ideas, definition and origin of, i. 15, <i>Sec</i>.—iv. 18<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—qualities which connect them, i. 26—iv. 25</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of space and time, whether infinitely divisible, i. 46, 62—94</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of time, whence derived, 56</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of space, 60</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of external existence, explained, 97</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whether innate, iv. 23.</span><br /> -Identity, philosophical, i. 98, 260<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—personal, 319, <i>et seq.</i></span><br /> -Idolatry, origin of, iv. 443, &c.<br /> -Jesuits, their character, iii. 89, 232—iv. 272, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Jews, iii. 232—iv. 490, 502, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Images, worship of, not allowed by Jews and Mahometans, iv. 473.<br /> -Imagination, in what different from memory; i. 119<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—lively, allied to madness, 166</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how it influences belief, 271</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—cooperates with the passions, ii. <a href="#Page_79">79</a>, <a href="#Page_179">179</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how affected by distance, &c. <a href="#Page_184">184</a>.</span><br /> -Immaculate conception, mystery of, iv. 467.<br /> -Impieties, in false religions, iv. 498.<br /> -Impressions, defined, i. 15—iv. 118<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—two kinds of, i. 22—ii. <a href="#Page_3">3</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—three kinds of, conveyed by the senses, i. 250.</span><br /> -Impotence and barrenness, iv. 322—iii. 436; (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Incest, crime of; ii. <a href="#Page_233">233</a>—iv. 281.<br /> -Incredulity, different from belief, i. 131.<br /> -Independents, iii. 84.<br /> -Indians, treatment of, iv. 262.<br /> -Indolence, ii. <a href="#Page_375">375</a>.<br /> -Industry, merit of, iv. 313.<br /> -Ingratitude, ii. <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.<br /> -Injury, idea of, whence, ii. <a href="#Page_93">93</a>.<br /> -Intention, requisite to excite love or hatred, ii. <a href="#Page_90">90</a>.<br /> -Interest, rate of, depends not on the quantity of the precious<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">metals, iii. 333</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—high, causes of, 335</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how affected by commerce, 341</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—low, symptom of national prosperity, 342</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—mistakes concerning, 343, <i>et seq</i>.</span><br /> -Jonson, Ben, his Volpone, iii. 443.<br /> -Josephus, quoted, iii. 488, (Note)—503, (Note.)<br /> -Joy, explained, ii. <a href="#Page_23">23</a>—iv. 196—cause of, ii. <a href="#Page_197">197</a>.<br /> -Iphicrates, a saying of, iv. 343.<br /> -Isocrates, quoted, iii. 435, 456, 457.<br /> -Ireland, barbarous state of, iii. 454; (<i>Note</i>)—iv. 333.<br /> -Italians, their degeneracy, iii. 309, 501.<br /> -Italy, its population, iii. 501—climate of, 493, 495.<br /> -Judgments, erroneous; whether immoral; ii. <a href="#Page_226">226</a>; (Note.)<br /> -Julian, quoted, iii. 470.<br /> -Justice, not a natural but a conventional virtue, ii. <a href="#Page_244">244</a>, <a href="#Page_258">258</a>, <a href="#Page_267">267</a>, <a href="#Page_303">303</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 390—origin of, ii. <a href="#Page_253">253</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—regulated by utility, <a href="#Page_257">257</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—why a virtue, <a href="#Page_269">269</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—necessary to society, iv. 253.</span><br /> -Justin, quoted, iii. 482, 501.<br /> -Justus Lipsius, quoted, iii. 437.<br /> -Juvenal, quoted, iii. 143, 149, 238, 493—iv. 247, 427, 497.<br /> -Lacedemonians, their superstition, iv. 453.<br /> -Language, national character of, iii. 237.<br /> -Languedocians, iii. 232.<br /> -Laplanders, their deities, iv. 452.<br /> -Latin, preserved by the Popes, ii, <a href="#Page_478">478</a>.<br /> -Laws, positive, ii. <a href="#Page_344">344</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of nature, ii. <a href="#Page_295">295</a>, <a href="#Page_302">302</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of nations, <a href="#Page_322">322</a>, 351—iv. 279</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of the twelve tables, iii. 131, 451</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of justice—iv. 264</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of society, 283.</span><br /> -Legislators; greatest honour due to, iii. 57.<br /> -Leibnitz, ii. <a href="#Page_503">503</a>.<br /> -Liberty, civil, compared with despotism, iii. 99<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—friendly to arts and sciences, 100, 128.</span><br /> -Liberty, two kinds of, ii. <a href="#Page_160">160</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—doctrine of, why more prevalent than that of</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 3em;">necessity, 162, <i>et seq</i>.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—moral, defined, iv. 111.</span><br /> -Liberty and necessity, examination of, ii. <a href="#Page_151">151</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a dispute of words, iv. 95</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—mode of reconciling it, 109</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—both essential to morality and religion, 115</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—effects not man's responsibility, 117, <i>et seq</i>.</span><br /> -Liberty of the press, why peculiar to Britain, iii. 8<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—advantageous, 11.</span><br /> -Liquor, love of, why peculiar to northern nations, iii. 241.<br /> -Livy, quoted, iii. 25, 60, 233, 290, 364, 377, 446, 450, 454, 461,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">479, 481, 500—iv. 505</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his character of Hannibal, 405</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his superstition, 494.</span><br /> -Locke, Mr, quoted, i. 113, 208—ii. <a href="#Page_434">434</a>—iii. 102, 235<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 6, 23, 67, 75, 86, 380, 532.</span><br /> -Longinus, iii. 100, 111, 115—iv. 329, 452.<br /> -Louis XIV, number of his armies, iii. 307—epigram on, iv. 488.<br /> -Love and hatred, object and causes of, ii. <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>—iv. 218.<br /> -Lucan, quoted, iii. 441.<br /> -Lucian, quoted, iii. 199, 443, 479<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 156, 318, 418, 452, 454, 494, 500, 501.</span><br /> -Lucretius, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_384">384</a>, <a href="#Page_467">467</a>—iii. 143, 220—iv. 149, 460, 533.<br /> -Lucullus, first brought cherry-trees to Europe, ii. <a href="#Page_478">478</a>.<br /> -Luxemburg, Duke of, ii. <a href="#Page_90">90</a>.<br /> -Luxury, definition of, iii. 302<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its advantages, 304</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—effects falsely ascribed to, 310</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its evils, 313</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—why regarded a vice, iv. 251.</span><br /> -Lycurgus, iii. 359.<br /> -Lysias, genius of his eloquence, iii. 121<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—quoted, 452, 456, 457, 462, 469, 473, 476—iv. 425.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Macedon, wealth of, iii. 364.<br /> -Machiavel, quoted, iii 21, 98, 278, 376, (<i>Note</i>.) 564—iv. 313<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his reflexions on Christianity, iv. 480.</span><br /> -Magians, their faith, iv. 469.<br /> -Magistracy, foundation of, ii, <a href="#Page_338">338</a>.<br /> -Magistrates, whence their authority, ii. <a href="#Page_328">328</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whom lawful, <a href="#Page_336">336</a>.</span><br /> -Maillet, Monsieur, his account of Egypt, iii. 441, 496.<br /> -Malebranche, quoted, i. 210—ii. <a href="#Page_438">438</a>—iv. 86, 269.<br /> -Malezieu, an argument of, i. 51.<br /> -Malice, what, ii. <a href="#Page_114">114</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—origin of, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>—iv. 220, &c.</span><br /> -Man, social by necessity, ii. <a href="#Page_95">95</a>, <a href="#Page_253">253</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—active, iii. 166—iv. 7.</span><br /> -Mandeville, Dr, quoted, iii. 315.<br /> -Manicheans, their theory of good and ill, ii <a href="#Page_526">526</a>—iv. 301.<br /> -Manilius, quoted, iv. 452.<br /> -Mantinea, its size and population, iii. 480.<br /> -Marcellinus, Ammianus, quoted, iii. 488.<br /> -Marcus Brutus, ii. <a href="#Page_370">370</a>.<br /> -Marriage, different modes of, iii. 206<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—European mode preferable, 217.</span><br /> -Marshall, Lord, friend of Rousseau, i. xxxvii.<br /> -Martial, quoted, iii. 222, 433, 440, 502—iv. 427.<br /> -Massacres ancient, account of, iii. 455, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Mathematics, advantages of, in reasoning, iv. 71.<br /> -Maximilian, Emperor, nickname of, iii. 325.<br /> -Maurice, Prince, saying of, iv. 343.<br /> -Mediocrity, advantages of, iv. 551, &c.<br /> -Melon du Tot, Monsieur, quoted, iii. 288, 324, 394.<br /> -Memory, ideas of, more lively than those of fancy, i. 24, 119<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—character of, ii. <a href="#Page_405">405</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—importance of, iv. 317.</span><br /> -Menander, quoted, iii. 226, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Merchants origin of, iii. 338.<br /> -Merit, influence of, on the passions, iv. 206<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—personal, 242, 347.</span><br /> -Metaphysics, nature and use of, iv. 8. <i>et seq.</i><br /> -Milton, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_506">506</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—criticised, iii. 237—iv. 31, 439.</span><br /> -Misery, human, universal complaints on, ii. <a href="#Page_503">503</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—why permitted, 515, &c.</span><br /> -Miracles defined, iv. 133<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—incapable of proof from testimony, 135</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—can never prove the truth of any religion, 150.</span><br /> -Moderation, in parties, recommended, iii. 26.<br /> -Modesty, female, ii. <a href="#Page_355">355</a>—character of, iv. 341.<br /> -Moliere, iii. 154.<br /> -Molinists character of their religion, iii. 89—iv. 146.<br /> -Monarchy, elective, ii. <a href="#Page_342">342</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—absolute, preferable to a republic in Britain, iii. 55</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—compared with republic, 139.</span><br /> -Money, disadvantages of, iii. 318<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—favourable to industry, 322</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—level of, 351</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—accumulation of, injurious, 361.</span><br /> -Montaigne, quoted, iv. 269, 342.<br /> -Montesquieu, quoted, iii. 213, 424, 504—iv. 269.<br /> -Montgeron, Mons. his book on Miracles iv. 145.<br /> -Moors civil wars of, iii. 61.<br /> -Morals, not founded on reason, ii. <a href="#Page_221">221</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—nor on the fitness of things, <a href="#Page_228">228</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—origin of, <a href="#Page_362">362</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—systems of reducible to two, <a href="#Page_378">378</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of princes <a href="#Page_352">352</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—disputes concerning, iv. <a href="#Page_239">239</a>, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—principles of, discussed, <a href="#Page_366">366</a>.</span><br /> -Moral duties, two kinds of, iii. 524.<br /> -Moral sense, an innate sentiment, ii. <a href="#Page_236">236</a>.<br /> -Moral reasoning, iv. 192—sentiment, 356.<br /> -Motives, determine the quality of actions, ii. <a href="#Page_245">245</a>.<br /> -Muscovites, their marriages, iii. 150, 243.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Nature, definition of, ii. <a href="#Page_241">241</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—state of, fictitious, <a href="#Page_253">253</a>, <a href="#Page_263">263</a>—iv. 253</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—various hypotheses on, 260.</span><br /> -Natural evils, ii. <a href="#Page_504">504</a>, <a href="#Page_520">520</a>.<br /> -Natural religion, whether proved from reason, ii. <a href="#Page_429">429</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—from works of creation, <a href="#Page_446">446</a>, <a href="#Page_465">465</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—from the structure of animal bodies, <a href="#Page_455">455</a>, <a href="#Page_469">469</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—from the condition of human life, <a href="#Page_502">502</a>.</span><br /> -Necessity, idea of, how formed, i. 206—iv. 96<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—definitions of, i. 220—ii. <a href="#Page_162">162</a>—iv. 113</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—not subversive of religion, ii. <a href="#Page_163">163</a>—iv. 114</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—various theories of, confuted, ii. <a href="#Page_75">75</a>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>, <a href="#Page_80">80</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whence it arises, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</span><br /> -Necessity of a cause, theory of Hobbes, Clarke and Locke, examined,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">i. 111—arguments concerning analyzed, 117.</span><br /> -Negroes, an inferior race, iii. 236.<br /> -Newton, perpetuity of his philosophy, iii. 135—iv. 86,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">(<i>Note</i>) 277, 555.</span><br /> -Newton, Locke, Clarke, Arians or Socinians, iv. 496.<br /> -Nicolas, St, a favourite of the Muscovites, iv. 467.<br /> -Nine, curious property of, ii. <a href="#Page_500">500</a>.<br /> -Nisus, suggests not the true idea of power, iv. 79.<br /> -Northern nations, their swarms, no proof of populousness, iii 497.<br /> -Numitianus, the poet, his contempt of Christianity, iv. 489.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Oaths, different kinds of, ii. <a href="#Page_543">543</a>.<br /> -Obedience, passive, proper limits of, iii. 534.<br /> -Occupation, a right of property, ii. <a href="#Page_277">277</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—several kinds of, <a href="#Page_278">278</a>, (<i>Note.</i>)</span><br /> -Oliver Cromwell, ii. <a href="#Page_90">90</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his military force, iii. 472.</span><br /> -Olympiodorus, quoted, iii. 486.<br /> -Opinion, foundation of all government, iii. 31<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—changeableness of, 54,</span><br /> -Orange, Prince of, accession of, ii. <a href="#Page_350">350</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—partisans of, iii. 70.</span><br /> -Orators, modern, inferiority of, iii. 110, 113, &c.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—causes of this decline, 114</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—French, 118, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Original contract, the best but seldom the sole foundation of<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">government, iii. 518</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—theory of, erroneous, 532,</span><br /> -Ostracism and Petalism, iii. 375.<br /> -Ovid quoted, iii. 6, 127, 143, 429, 494, 454—iv. 454, 504.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Pain and pleasure, chief springs of human actions, i. 160—ii. <a href="#Page_360">360</a>.<br /> -Painters, often unhappy in their subjects, iii. 254.<br /> -Painting, may flourish under tyrannical governments, iii. 101.<br /> -Paris, L'Abbé de, his miracles, iv. 145, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Parents and children, relation between, ii. <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <i>et seq.</i><br /> -Parliament, how far it should be independent, iii. 47.<br /> -Parliament, of love, iv. 283.<br /> -Parnell, Dr, iii. 222.<br /> -Parties, court and country, iii. 42, (<i>Note</i>.) 62<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—among the ancients, 59</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—ecclesiastical, 64, 68</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—first rise of, in England, 70.</span><br /> -Pascal, his character, iv. 147, 430.<br /> -Passions, direct and indirect, ii. <a href="#Page_5">5</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their object, <a href="#Page_9">9</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—transition of, <a href="#Page_129">129</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—calm and violent, <a href="#Page_173">173</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—contrariety of, <a href="#Page_199">199</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—sympathy of, <a href="#Page_396">396</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—selfish and benevolent, iv. 13</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how affected by good or evil, 195</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—by general rules, 217</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—by reason, 226.</span><br /> -Passions, amorous, ii. <a href="#Page_144">144</a>—iii. 148—iv. 221.<br /> -Pausanias, quoted, iii. 481.<br /> -Pay, military, of the ancients, iii. 445.<br /> -Penetration of bodies, impossible, i. 63.<br /> -Perceptions, two kinds of, i. 15—iv. 18<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on the continued existence of, i. 271, <i>et seq.</i></span><br /> -Pericles, his eloquence, iii. 122<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—saying of, iv. 246</span><br /> -Peripatetic philosophy, i. 285—ii. <a href="#Page_464">464</a>—iii. 135—iv. 309.<br /> -Persecution, religious, causes of, iii. 64, <i>et seq.</i><br /> -Persians, ancient, their manners, iii. 21, 22, (<i>Note</i>), 236, 242.<br /> -Personification, origin of polytheism, iv. 446.<br /> -Petrarch, quoted, iii. 281.<br /> -Petronius, quoted, iii. 454, 494—iv. 423.<br /> -Phædrus, quoted, iii. 145:—iv. 280.<br /> -Philip of Macedon, anecdote of, iii. 145, 199<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his armies, 482</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his character, 377—iv. 332.</span><br /> -Philips, Mr, his poem on Cider, ii. <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.<br /> -Philosophy, false suggestions of, iii. 195<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—the obvious and abstruse, iv. 4.</span><br /> -Phocion, a saying of, iv. 330.<br /> -Physical causes, their influence on population, iii. 423.<br /> -Pity, what, ii. <a href="#Page_114">114</a>—peculiarities of, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>.<br /> -Plato, quoted, iii. 99, 275, 391, 532—iv. 260, 280, 313, 406, 456,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">495, 497.</span><br /> -Platonists, their opinion of the Deity, ii. <a href="#Page_457">457</a>—iii. 137<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—of the creation, ii, <a href="#Page_487">487</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their doctrines, iii. 175.</span><br /> -Plautus, quoted, iii. 476.<br /> -Pliny, quoted, iii. 64, 142, 149, 252, 331, 346, 364, 432, 439, 440,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">447, 471, 484,502—iv. 443, 474, 490, 568, 576.</span><br /> -Plutarch, quoted, iii. 146, 147, 196, 197, 198, 232, 242, 321, 391,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">413, 428, 435, 440, 442, 451, 461, 506—iv. 132, 420, 476, 500.</span><br /> -Poetry, effects of, i. 166—rules of, iv. 28.<br /> -Poisoning, frequent among the ancients, ii. <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.<br /> -Poland, state of, iii. 311.<br /> -Politeness, causes of, iii. 142—character of, iv. 339,<br /> -Political customs of antients and modems compared, iii. 444.<br /> -Pollia and Papiria, Roman factions, iii. 59.<br /> -Polybius, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_543">543</a>—iii. 20, 22, 48, 145, 292, 331, 363, 376,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">378, 446, 469, 480, 490, 497, 504—iv. 316, 402, 406</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—his theory of morals, 288.</span><br /> -Polygamy, evils of, iii. 210.<br /> -Polytheism, the most ancient religion, iv. 436, &c.<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—forms of, 458.</span><br /> -Pompey, his superstition, iv. 490.<br /> -Pope, Mr, iii. 14, 197, 215, 220—iv. 537<br /> -Population, checks to, among the ancients, iii. 428<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—comparison of, among ancients and moderns, 426, 444, 448, 466</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—false statements of, 468.</span><br /> -Possession, stability of, ii. <a href="#Page_274">274</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—what constitutes, <a href="#Page_278">278</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a source of authority, <a href="#Page_338">338</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—right of, iv. 393.</span><br /> -Power, idea of whence, i. 217—iv. 76<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—what, ii. <a href="#Page_46">46</a>—iv. 73</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—an ambiguous term, 91, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Praise, pleasure arising from, ii. <a href="#Page_61">61</a>.<br /> -Prejudice, iii. 270—moral; iv. 543.<br /> -Presbyterians, their attachment to the family of Orange,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;">iii. 70, 79, (<i>Note.</i>)</span><br /> -Presence real, absurdity of, iv. 484.<br /> -Prescription, right of, ii. <a href="#Page_281">281</a>.<br /> -Priests, their character, iii. 83, 226, (<i>Note</i>)<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their origin, 85.</span><br /> -Priestcraft, ii. <a href="#Page_435">435</a>.<br /> -Pride, cause of, ii. <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_37">37</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—when vicious; <a href="#Page_386">386</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—when essential; <a href="#Page_389">389</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—merit of, whence, <a href="#Page_391">391</a>.</span><br /> -Prior, Mr, his Alma and Solomon, ii. <a href="#Page_127">127</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—quoted, iii. 159.</span><br /> -Priority, relation of, i. 106.<br /> -Probable reasoning, what, i. 142.<br /> -Probability, two kinds of, i. 170, 238—ii. <a href="#Page_103">103</a>—iv. 67, 198<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—influence of, on the passions, ii. <a href="#Page_198">198</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on belief, iv. 70.</span><br /> -Proclus and Sabinus, curious dispute between, ii. <a href="#Page_287">287</a>.<br /> -Promise, what, and whence its obligation, ii. <a href="#Page_290">290</a>, <a href="#Page_297">297</a>, <a href="#Page_302">302</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whether the foundation of allegiance, <a href="#Page_324">324</a>.</span><br /> -Proof, what, iv. 67.<br /> -Property, a source of pride, ii. <a href="#Page_44">44</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—idea of, whence, <a href="#Page_260">260</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—right of, explained, <a href="#Page_282">282</a>, (<i>Note</i>)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—transference of, <a href="#Page_288">288</a>—nature of, <a href="#Page_303">303</a>—iv. 212</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on the origin of, 391.</span><br /> -Providence, particular, hypothetical arguments against, iv. 158.<br /> -Protestant succession, advantages and disadvantages of, iii. 548,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2em;"><i>et seq.</i></span><br /> -Public interest, how far a motive to justice, ii. <a href="#Page_248">248</a>.<br /> -Punic faith, ii. <a href="#Page_543">543</a>.<br /> -Pyrrhonians, their scepticism, ii. <a href="#Page_427">427</a>—iv. 188.<br /> -Pyrrhus, his saying of the Romans, iii. 309.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Quakers, iii. 84.<br /> -Qualities, occult, i. 286<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—sensible and primary, 294</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—often in the mind and not in the object, iii. 103.</span><br /> -Queen of Spain, anecdote of, iii. 212.<br /> -Quintilian, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_363">363</a>—iii. 111, 115, 223, 238—iv. 299, 343.<br /> -Quintus Curtius, quoted, iii. 242, 391—iv. 453, 572.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Racine, his character, iii. 220—quoted, 281—iv. 247. (<i>Note</i>,) 542.<br /> -Raleigh, Sir Walter, iii. 552.<br /> -Ramsay, Chevalier, quoted, iv. 502. (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Reason, as opposed to passion, ii. <a href="#Page_166">166</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its influence on action, <a href="#Page_222">222</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—twofold object of, iv. 32</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whether the source of morals, 238, 366</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—contrasted with taste, 376.</span><br /> -Reasons of state, iv. 279.<br /> -Reformers, character of, ii. <a href="#Page_434">434</a>.<br /> -Refinement in writing, rules for, iii. 220<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—excess of, in taste, 223.</span><br /> -Relation, philosophical, seven kinds of, i. 98—iv. 25.<br /> -Relics, why coveted by the superstitious, i. 139—iv. 63.<br /> -Religion natural, doubts upon, ii. <a href="#Page_424">424</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—consequences falsely ascribed to, <a href="#Page_538">538</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—excess of joy and terror in, <a href="#Page_544">544</a>—iii. 81—iv. 498</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—origin of, 436.</span><br /> -Resemblance, a principle of association, i. 99, 151—iv. 61<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how far a source of pride, ii. <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.</span><br /> -Respect, whence it arises, ii. <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.<br /> -Retz, Cardinal, de, quoted, i. 203—iii. 572—iv. 143.<br /> -Revolution of 1688, ii. <a href="#Page_346">346</a>—iii. 74<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—reflexions on, ii. <a href="#Page_349">349</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—did not recognise the principle of popular contract, iii. 517</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—at Athens and Rome, 452.</span><br /> -Rhamadan, the Turkish Lent, iv. 506.<br /> -Rhodes, population of, iii. 479.<br /> -Riches, why a source of pride and pleasure, ii. <a href="#Page_50">50</a>, 101—iv. 213<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—determine the different ranks of men, ii. <a href="#Page_106">106</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—why esteemed, iv. 323.</span><br /> -Rochefoucault, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_177">177</a>—iv. 399.<br /> -Rochester, Lord, iii. 143.<br /> -Rollin, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_181">181</a>.<br /> -Rome, ancient, state of learning in, iii. 100, 505<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its size and population, 483, <i>et seq.</i> (<i>Note</i>)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—name of its tutelar deity concealed, iv. 474, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Roman soldiers, pay of, iii. 318, (<i>Note</i>), 446<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—Greek, 445.</span><br /> -Roman history, partly fabulous, iii. 376, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Roman empire, when most flourishing, iii. 502.<br /> -Roman law, a remarkable subtlety of, ii. <a href="#Page_285">285</a>, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Rousseau, refuses a pension from the King of England, i. lviii, xcv<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—quoted, iii. 142.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Sadder, morality of, iv. 505.<br /> -Sallee, Prince of, quoted, iv. 486.<br /> -Sallust, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_400">400</a>—iii. 104, 143, 310, 453, 486<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 322, 401, 497, 509.</span><br /> -Saint Evermond, quoted, iv. 312, 329.<br /> -Sannazarius, his pastorals, iv. 296.<br /> -Saracens, their conquests, iii. 230.<br /> -Satire, character of, i. 201.<br /> -Scapulaire, religious use of, iv. 470.<br /> -Sceptics, compared with the Stoics, ii. <a href="#Page_427">427</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their disputes with the Dogmatists, <a href="#Page_537">537</a>.</span><br /> -Scepticism, with regard to reason, i. 236—iv. 181<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—the senses, i. 280—iv. 176</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—to knowledge and religion, ii; <a href="#Page_428">428</a>, &c.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—philosophy, iv. 32</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—different kinds of, 175</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—objections of, 186.</span><br /> -Sciences, mathematical and moral compared, iv. 71.<br /> -Scriptures, quoted, iv. 255, 404.<br /> -Scriptural and traditional religion compared, iv. 492.<br /> -Scythians, barbarity of, iv. 333.<br /> -Seamen, pressing of, a barbarous and illegal practice, iii. 419.<br /> -Seleucia, population of, iii. 492.<br /> -Self, object of pride or humility, ii. <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.<br /> -Self-love, whether the origin of morals, iv. 289, 293<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whether consistent with benevolence, 397.</span><br /> -Selfishness, as opposed to justice, ii. <a href="#Page_264">264</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a natural propensity, <a href="#Page_294">294</a>—iii. 95.</span><br /> -Seneca quoted, i. cxix—ii. <a href="#Page_546">546</a>,—iii. 429, 438, 442—iv. 386, 453, 563.<br /> -Sentiment, how far the source of morals, iv. 238, 366.<br /> -Senses, whether they suggest the idea of external existence, i. 246, 250.<br /> -Sensibility, iii. 3—a source both of happiness and misery, ib.<br /> -Sextus Empiricus quoted, iii. 442—iv. 250, 280, 497.<br /> -Shaftesbury, Lord, quoted, i. 324—iii. 42, 95, 101, 147, 415.<br /> -Shakespeare quoted, iii. 251—iv. 328.<br /> -Sight, informs us not of material existence, i. 249.<br /> -Simonides, his answer to Hiero, ii. <a href="#Page_448">448</a>.<br /> -Simple ideas, whence derived, i. 18.<br /> -Simplicity in writing, iii. 220.<br /> -Slavery, among the ancients, iii. 428<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—hurtful to population, 440.</span><br /> -Smith, Dr Adam, letter from, i. xvi.<br /> -Sneezing, god of, iv. 444.<br /> -Society, political, ii. <a href="#Page_317">317</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—advantages of, <a href="#Page_254">254</a>—iv. 263, 278.</span><br /> -Socrates, his character, iv. 334.<br /> -Soil, fertile, not always beneficial, iii. 300.<br /> -Soldier, character of, iii. 225.<br /> -Solidity, idea of whence derived, i. 295.<br /> -Sorbonnists, creed of, iv. 486.<br /> -Sophocles, his character as a writer, iii. 220.<br /> -Soul, immateriality of, i. 300<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—doctrine of, leads to atheism, 312</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—metaphysical arguments for, inconclusive, 318.</span><br /> -Soul, immortality of, not proved by abstract reasoning, iv. 569<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a doctrine of revelation, 577.</span><br /> -Spain, population of, iii. 500.<br /> -Spaniards, character of, iii. 233<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—politeness of, iv. 340.</span><br /> -Sparta, prosperity of, iii. 289<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—laws of, 291</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—population of, 477, 481.</span><br /> -Spartian, quoted, iii. 486—iv. 490.<br /> -Spencer quoted, iv. 333.<br /> -Spinoza, his principles examined, i. 307, <i>et seq.</i><br /> -Sportula, bad tendency of, iii. 502.<br /> -Stanian, quoted, iii. 364.<br /> -States, increased by trade, iii. 293<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—small, advantageous, 444.</span><br /> -Stoics, erroneous maxims of, ii. <a href="#Page_427">427</a>—iii. 137<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—philosophy of, 165</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their views of natural evil, iv. 118</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—their superstition, 494.</span><br /> -Strabo, quoted, iii. 392, 432, 472, 473, 474, 483, 488, 497, 505<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 449.</span><br /> -Strength of mind, importance of, iv. 315.<br /> -Stuart dynasty, fatal to the peace and prosperity of the country,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">iii. 554, 558.</span><br /> -Substance, idea of, i. 33—what, 299.<br /> -Succession, right of, ii. <a href="#Page_283">283</a>, <a href="#Page_342">342</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—relation of, between cause and effect, i. 107.</span><br /> -Suetonius, quoted, iii. 20, 64, 428, 432, 478, 573—iv. 453<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—compared with Tacitus, iv. 299.</span><br /> -Suevi, a peculiarity of their character, iv. 332.<br /> -Suicide, defended, iv. 558<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—not prohibited in Scripture, 567.</span><br /> -Suidas, quoted, iii. 122, 503, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Superstition, contrasted with philosophy, i. 343<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—sources of, iii. 81</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—favourable to priestly power, 83</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—with regard to meats, dresses, &c. iv. 270.</span><br /> -Surprise, its connexion with <i>fear</i>, ii. <a href="#Page_205">205</a>.<br /> -Swift, Dr, a polished writer, iii. 102<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—quoted, 350, 366, 459.</span><br /> -Sybaris, number of its inhabitants, iii. 468.<br /> -Sycophant, origin of the name, iii. 348.<br /> -Sympathy, nature and effects of, ii. <a href="#Page_52">52</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>, <a href="#Page_362">362</a>, <a href="#Page_381">381</a>—iv. 294<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its influence on pride and humility, ii. <a href="#Page_57">57</a>, <a href="#Page_385">385</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on our esteem for the rich, <a href="#Page_103">103</a>, <a href="#Page_107">107</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on human happiness, <a href="#Page_108">108</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on animals, <a href="#Page_149">149</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—on virtue and vice, <a href="#Page_379">379</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—chief source of all moral distinctions, <a href="#Page_412">412</a>.</span><br /> -Syracuse, its size and population, iii. 473.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Tacitus, quoted, iii. 10, 20, 70, 130, 147, 408, 432, 437, 439, 450, 520<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 142, 331, 332, 462, 486, 493, 564.</span><br /> -<br /> -Tasso, quoted, iii. 161.<br /> -<br /> -Taste, delicacy of, iii. 4<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—varieties of, 256</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—general principles of, 264</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—improvement of, 268</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—changes of 276.</span><br /> -<br /> -Taxes, advantages and disadvantages of, iii. 365, 387<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a cause of the destruction of the Roman Empire, 388</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—cannot be imposed by the Turkish Emperor, 389.</span><br /> -Temple, Sir William, quoted, iii. 240, 386, 472.<br /> -Terence, iii. 147, 220, 222, 275, 278.<br /> -Tertullian, quoted, iii. 502.<br /> -Testimony, evidence of, iv. 130.<br /> -Thebes, population of, iii. 479.<br /> -Thebans, their character, iii. 232.<br /> -Theism, dispute concerning, ii. <a href="#Page_535">535</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—origin of, iv. 463</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—compared with polytheism, 474, &c.</span><br /> -Theists, ancient, their <i>anima mundi</i>, ii. <a href="#Page_475">475</a>.<br /> -Themistocles, project of, ii, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>—saying of, iv. 415.<br /> -Theocritus, iii. 469.<br /> -Theology, Pagan, ii. <a href="#Page_480">480</a>.<br /> -Thinkers, shallow and abstruse, iii. 285.<br /> -Thucydides, quoted, iii. 22, 200, 290, 363, 373, 446, 454, 463<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—iv. 142, 297, 479.</span><br /> -Tillotson, his argument against transubstantiation, iv. 127.<br /> -Time, idea of, whence derived, i. 56.<br /> -Timoleon, his policy, iii. 447,<br /> -Timon of Athens, a saying of, iv. 301.<br /> -Timotheus, his hymn to Diana, iv. 500.<br /> -Toleration, why generally disallowed, iii. 12, (<i>Note</i>)<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—permitted in Paganism, iv. 475.</span><br /> -Tonquin, peculiar marriages at, iii. 206.<br /> -Tory party, iii. 73<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—conduct of, at the Revolution, 75</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—properly none in Scotland, 77, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—theory of their principles, iv. 441, 548.</span><br /> -Tournefort, quoted, iii. 211, 495.<br /> -Tragedy, why a source of pleasure, iii. 248.<br /> -Tranquillity, iv. 333.<br /> -Transubstantiation, doctrine of, monstrous, ii: <a href="#Page_301">301</a>.—iv. 273, (<i>Note.</i>)<br /> -Tribonian, decision of, ii. <a href="#Page_287">287</a>.<br /> -Truth, two kinds of, ii. <a href="#Page_208">208</a>—love of, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>.<br /> -Turks, their jealousy, iii. 211<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—bravery, 233, 236</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—government, 389.</span><br /> -Turkish ambassador, anecdote of, iii. 210.<br /> -Tycho Brahe, iii. 224.<br /> -Tyrannicide, extolled by the ancients, iv. 250.<br /> -Tyranny, how far it exempts from allegiance, ii. <a href="#Page_331">331</a>, <a href="#Page_334">334</a>.<br /> -Tyrants, ancient, their cruelty, iii. 454.<br /> -Tyrians, their superstitions, iv. 453.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Uncertainty, a cause of fear, ii. <a href="#Page_206">206</a>.<br /> -Understanding, errors concerning it, i. 132<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its office, ii. <a href="#Page_167">167</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—differences in, iv. 124.</span><br /> -Union, principles of, among ideas, i. 29, 127—iv. 25.<br /> -Union of 1708, advantages of, iii. 354.<br /> -Unity, necessarily indivisible, i. 51<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—essential in poetry and history—iv. 26. (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Ustariz*, Geronimo de, quoted, iii. 426.<br /> -Usurpation, the foundation of almost all governments, iii. 518, 522.<br /> -Utility, merit of, iv. 248—pleasure derived from, 285—whether the origin<br /> -of morals, 253, 293, 306.<br /> -Utrecht, peace of, iii. 380.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Vacuum, idea of, possible, i. 80.<br /> -Vain man, description of a, ii. <a href="#Page_45">45</a>.<br /> -Valerius Maximus, quoted, iii. 483.<br /> -Vanity, sources of, ii. <a href="#Page_40">40</a>, &c.—iv. 208<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—a bond of union, ii. <a href="#Page_261">261</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—allied to virtue, iii. 97</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—when blameable, ii. <a href="#Page_387">387</a>—iv. 344.</span><br /> -Varro, quoted, iii. 432, 439.<br /> -Vasa, Gustavus, iii. 70.<br /> -Vauban, Mareschal, quoted, iii, 356.<br /> -Velleius Paterculus, iii. 364.<br /> -Venetians, their government, iii. 16<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—inferiority of their genius, 101.</span><br /> -Verdelin, Marchioness de, i. xl.<br /> -Verna, family slave, iii. 433, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Verney, Paris de, quoted, iii. 324.<br /> -Vespasian, a miracle of, iv. 142.<br /> -Vice and virtue, distinction betwixt, ii. <a href="#Page_28">28</a>, <a href="#Page_270">270</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—not founded on reason but feeling, <a href="#Page_238">238</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—whence it arises, <a href="#Page_392">392</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—often confounded with talents and defects, iv. 397.</span><br /> -Victor, Aurelius and Publius, quoted, iii. 485, 486, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -Virgil, quoted, ii. <a href="#Page_191">191</a>—iii. 145, 187, 220, 275—iv. 386, 501.<br /> -Virgin Mary, favourite Saint of the Catholics, iv, 466.<br /> -Virtues, natural, ii. <a href="#Page_365">365</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—heroic, 391</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—social, iv. 287, 361, 380</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—excellence of, 360, 363.</span><br /> -Vis inertiæ, iv. 86, <i>(Note</i>.)<br /> -Vitellius, Emperor, a saying of, iv. 330.<br /> -Vitruvius, quoted, iii. 483, (<i>Note</i>.)?484.<br /> -Voltaire, quoted, iii. 10.<br /> -Vopiscus, quoted, iii. 480, 485, 489, 490.<br /> -Vossius, quoted, iii. 485, (<i>Note</i>), 424.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Wallace, Rev. Dr, on the numbers of mankind, iii. 421. (<i>Note</i>)<br /> -Waller, the poet, iii. 117, 154.<br /> -Walpole, Horace, letter of, to Rousseau, i. lii, cxiv.<br /> -Walpole, Sir Robert, character of, iii. 30. (<i>Note.</i>)<br /> -Whigs, iii. 73—a theory of their principles, 539.<br /> -Will, definition of, ii. <a href="#Page_150">150</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—error of metaphysicians respecting, <a href="#Page_172">172</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—how far influenced by reason; <a href="#Page_166">166</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—by passion, <a href="#Page_195">195</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—its power over the body, iv. 77</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—in promises, 272.</span><br /> -Wisdom, why valued, ii. <a href="#Page_403">403</a>.<br /> -Wit, true and false, ii. <a href="#Page_29">29</a>—iv. 207<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—agreeable, ii. <a href="#Page_379">379</a>, <a href="#Page_404">404</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—definition of, iv. 340.</span><br /> -Wolsey, Cardinal, his insolence, iii. 146.<br /> -Women, timorous and superstitious, iv,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—better judges of polite writing than men, 541.</span><br /> -Woolaston, Mr, iv. 260, (<i>Note</i>.)<br /> -World, not eternal, ii. <a href="#Page_479">479</a><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—conjectures concerning its origin, <a href="#Page_491">491</a>, <a href="#Page_490">490</a>—iv. 454.</span><br /> -Writing, observations on, iii. 142, 220, 261,<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Xenophon, quoted, iii. 22, 29, 107, 151, 375, 438, 445, 456, 465, 476,<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">480, 497—iv. 415, 453, 475—his superstition, iv. 495, (<i>Note</i>.)</span><br /> -Xerxes, his reward for a new pleasure, iii. 157<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1.5em;">—numbers in his armies, 496.</span><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -Zaleucus, his laws, iv. 504.<br /> -Zamolxis, iv. 470.<br /> -Zealots in religion, ii. <a href="#Page_541">541</a>.<br /> -Zeno, school of, ii. <a href="#Page_428">428</a>.<br /> -Zopyrus, a general under Darius, iii. 22.<br /> -Zoroaster, his religion, iv. 250.<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<br /> -FINIS.<br /> -</p> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Philosophical Works, v. 2 (of 4), by David Hume - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PHILOSOPHICAL WORKS, V. 2 (OF 4) *** - -***** This file should be named 53792-h.htm or 53792-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/7/9/53792/ - -Produced by Madelaine Kilsby and Marc D'Hooghe at Free -Literature (back online soon in an extended version, also -linking to free sources for education worldwide ... 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