{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_53791/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_53791","id":"gutenberg_53791","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53791","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Biographies","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Knowledge, Theory of","Philosophy, English -- 18th century"],"text":"THE\n\nPHILOSOPHICAL WORKS\n\nOF\n\nDAVID HUME.\n\n\nINCLUDING ALL THE ESSAYS, AND EXHIBITING THE\n\nMORE IMPORTANT ALTERATIONS AND CORRECTIONS\n\nIN THE SUCCESSIVE EDITIONS PUBLISHED\n\nBY THE AUTHOR.\n\n\nIN FOUR VOLUMES.\n\n\nVOL. I.\n\n\nEDINBURGH:\n\nPRINTED FOR ADAM BLACK AND WILLIAM TAIT;\n\nAND CHARLES TAIT, 63, FLEET STREET,\n\nLONDON.\n\nMDCCCXXVI.\n\n\n[Illustration: Allan Ramsey pinx.--Robert Grace Sculp.--David Hume]\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT.\n\n\nThe Philosophical Writings of Mr Hume are here for the first time\ncollected in a uniform edition. The Essays are reprinted from the\nEdition of 1777, in two octavo volumes, corrected by the Author for\nthe press, a short time before his death, and which he desired might\nbe regarded as containing his philosophical principles. The text of\nthat Edition has been faithfully adhered to in the present; but as\nit has been thought an interesting object of curiosity, to trace the\nsuccessive variations of sentiment and taste in a mind like that of\nHume, and to mark the gradual and most observable increase of caution\nin his expression of those sentiments, it has been the care of the\npresent Editor to compare the former Editions, of which a List is\nhere subjoined, and where any alterations were discovered, not merely\nverbal, but illustrative of the philosophical opinions of the author,\nto add these as Notes to the passages where they occur.\n\nThe Essays contained in the early Editions, but which were omitted\nin that of 1777, will be found at the end of the last volume of the\npresent Collection of his Works, together with the Two Essays, on\nSuicide, and the Immortality of the Soul.\n\nIn addition to the Author's Life, written by himself, the Account\nof the Controversy with M. Rousseau has also been prefixed. It was\noriginally printed in French, and shortly afterwards in English, in the\nyear 1766. The English translation was superintended by Mr Hume; and as\nit relates to an extraordinary occurrence in the Lives of these eminent\nphilosophers, has been thought a suitable appendage to the short Memoir\nof himself.\n\nEDINBURGH,\nJUNE 1825.\n\n\n\n\nEDITIONS OF THE ESSAYS COLLATED AND REFERRED TO.\n\n     Essays, Moral and Political. Edinburgh, Kincaid, 1741.\n     12mo. (A)\n\n     Essays, Moral and Political, Vol. II. Edinburgh, Kincaid,\n     1742. 12mo. pp. 105. (B)\n\n     Essays, Moral and Political, 2d Edition, corrected.\n     Edinburgh, Kincaid, 1742. 12mo. pp. 189. (C)\n\n     Essays, Moral and Political. By D. Hume, Esq. 3d Edition,\n     corrected, with additions. London, Millar, 1748. 12mo. (D)\n\n     Three Essays, Moral and Political, never before published,\n     which completes the former Edition, in two volumes octavo.\n     By D. Hume, Esq. London, Millar, 1748. 12mo. (E)\n\n     Political Discourses. By D. Hume, Esq. Edinburgh, Kincaid,\n     1752. Small 8vo. _To this Edition there is sometimes added\n     'a List of Scotticisms_.' (F)\n\n     Political Discourses. By D. Hume, Esq. 2d Edition.\n     Edinburgh, Kincaid, 1752. 12mo. _Merely a reprint of the\n     preceding_. (G)\n\n     Essays and Treatises on several Subjects. By D. Hume, Esq.\n     Vol. IV. containing Political Discourses. 3d Edition, with\n     Additions and Corrections. London, Millar, 1754. (H)\n\n     Four Dissertations: 1st, Natural History of Religion: 2d,\n     of the Passions: 3d, of Tragedy: 4th, of the Standard of\n     Taste. By D. Hume, Esq. London, Millar, 1757. 12mo. (I)\n\n     Philosophical Essays concerning Human Understanding. By the\n     Author of the Essays Moral and Political. London, Millar,\n     1748. 12mo. (K)\n\n     Philosophical Essays concerning Human Understanding. By\n     D. Hume, Esq. 2d Edition, with Additions and Corrections.\n     London, Millar, 1750. 12mo. (L)\n\n     An Enquiry concerning the Principles of Morals. By D. Hume,\n     Esq. London, Millar, 1751. (M)\n\n     Essays and Treatises on several Subjects. By D. Hume, Esq.\n     London, Millar, 1768. 2 vols. 4to. (N)\n\n     Essays and Treatises on several Subjects. By D. Hume, Esq.\n     London, Cadell, 1777. 2 vols 8vo. (O)\n\n     _The above List comprehends all the Editions which vary\n     materially from each other. Those which have been found on\n     examination to be mere reprints, are not included._\n\n\n\n\n    CONTENTS OF VOLUME FIRST.\n\n    Life of the Author\n    Letter from Adam Smith, LL.D. to William Strachan Esq.,\n      and Latter-will and Testament of Mr Hume\n    Account of the Controversy between Hume and Rousseau\n    List of Scotticisms\n\n    TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.\n\n    INTRODUCTION\n\n    BOOK I.--OF THE UNDERSTANDING.\n\n    PART I.\n\n    OF IDEAS, THEIR ORIGIN, COMPOSITION, CONNEXION, ABSTRACTION, &c.\n\n    Of the Origin of our Ideas\n    Division of the Subject\n    Of the Ideas of the Memory and Imagination\n    Of the Connexion or Association of Ideas\n    Of Relations\n    Of Modes and Substances\n    Of Abstract Ideas\n\n    PART II.\n\n    OF THE IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.\n\n    Of the infinite Divisibility of our Ideas of Space and Time\n    Of the infinite Divisibility of Space and Time\n    Of the other Qualities of our Ideas of Space and Time\n    Objections answered\n    The same Subject continued\n    Of the Idea of Existence, and of external Existence\n\n    PART III.\n\n    OF KNOWLEDGE AND PROBABILITY.\n    Of Knowledge\n    Of Probability, and of the Idea of Cause and Effect\n    Why a Cause is always necessary\n    Of the component parts of our Reasonings concerning Cause and\n      effect\n    Of the Impressions of the Senses and Memory\n    Of the Inference from the Impression to the Ideax\n    Of the Nature of the Idea or Belief\n    Of the Causes of Belief\n    Of the Effects of other Relations and other Habits\n    Of the Influence of Belief\n    Of the Probability of Chances\n    Of the Probability of Causes\n    Of unphilosophical Probability\n    Of the Idea of Necessary Connexion\n    Rules by which to judge of Causes and Effectsx\n    Of the Reason of Animals\n\n    PART IV.\n\n    OF THE SCEPTICAL AND OTHER SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY.\n\n    Of Scepticism with regard to Reason\n    Of Scepticism with regard to the Sensesx\n    Of the Ancient Philosophy\n    Of the Modern Philosophyx\n    Of the Immateriality of the Soul\n    Of Personal Identity\n    Conclusion of this Book\n\n\n\n\nLIFE OF THE AUTHOR BY HIMSELF.\n\n\n\n\nMY OWN LIFE.\n\n\nIt is difficult for a man to speak long of himself without vanity;\ntherefore, I shall be short. It may be thought an instance of vanity\nthat I pretend at all to write my life; but this Narrative shall\ncontain little more than the History of my Writings; as, indeed, almost\nall my life has been spent in literary pursuits and occupations. The\nfirst success of most of my writings was not such as to be an object of\nvanity.\n\nI was born the 26th of April 1711, old style, at Edinburgh. I was of a\ngood family, both by father and mother. My father's family is a branch\nof the Earl of Home's or Hume's; and my ancestors had been proprietors\nof the estate, which my brother possesses, for several generations. My\nmother was daughter of Sir David Falconer, President of the College of\nJustice; the title of Lord Halkerton came by succession to her brother.\n\nMy family, however, was not rich; and, being myself a younger brother,\nmy patrimony, according to the mode of my country, was of course very\nslender. My father, who passed for a man of parts, died when I was\nan infant, leaving me, with an elder brother and a sister, under the\ncare of our mother, a woman of singular merit, who, though young and\nhandsome, devoted herself entirely to the rearing and educating of\nher children. I passed through the ordinary course of education with\nsuccess, and was seized very early with a passion for literature, which\nhas been the ruling passion of my life, and the great source of my\nenjoyments. My studious disposition, my sobriety, and my industry, gave\nmy family a notion that the law was a proper profession for me; but I\nfound an unsurmountable aversion to every thing but the pursuits of\nphilosophy and general learning; and while they fancied I was poring\nupon Voet and Vinnius, Cicero and Virgil were the authors which I was\nsecretly devouring.\n\nMy very slender fortune, however, being unsuitable to this plan of\nlife, and my health being a little broken by my ardent application, I\nwas tempted, or rather forced, to make a very feeble trial for entering\ninto a more active scene of life. In 1734, I went to Bristol, with some\nrecommendations to eminent merchants, but in a few months found that\nscene totally unsuitable to me, I went over to France, with a view of\nprosecuting my studies in a country retreat; and I there laid that plan\nof life, which I have steadily and successfully pursued. I resolved\nto make a very rigid frugality supply my deficiency of fortune, to\nmaintain unimpaired my independency, and to regard every object as\ncontemptible, except the improvement of my talents in literature.\n\nDuring my retreat in France, first at Rheims, but chiefly at La Fl\u00eache,\nin Anjou, I composed my _Treatise of Human Nature_. After passing three\nyears very agreeably in that country, I came over to London in 1737.\nIn the end of 1738, I published my Treatise, and immediately went down\nto my mother and my brother, who lived at his country-house, and was\nemploying himself very judiciously and successfully in the improvement\nof his fortune.\n\nNever literary attempt was more unfortunate than my Treatise of Human\nNature. It fell _dead-born from the press_, without reaching such\ndistinction, as even to excite a murmur among the zealots. But being\nnaturally of a cheerful and sanguine temper, I very soon recovered\nthe blow, and prosecuted with great ardour my studies in the country.\nIn 1742, I printed at Edinburgh the first part of my Essays: the work\nwas favourably received, and soon made me entirely forget my former\ndisappointment. I continued with my mother and brother in the country,\nand in that time recovered the knowledge of the Greek language, which I\nhad too much neglected in my early youth.\n\nIn 1745, I received a letter from the Marquis of Annandale, inviting me\nto come and live with him in England; I found also, that the friends\nand family of that young nobleman were desirous of putting him under\nmy care and direction, for the state of his mind and health required\nit. I lived with him a twelvemonth. My appointments during that time\nmade a considerable accession to my small fortune. I then received\nan invitation from General St Clair to attend him as a secretary to\nhis expedition, which was at first meant against Canada, but ended\nin an incursion on the coast of France. Next year, to wit, 1747, I\nreceived an invitation from the General to attend him in the same\nstation in his military embassy to the courts of Vienna and Turin.\nI then wore the uniform of an officer, and was introduced at these\ncourts as _aide-de-camp_ to the General, along with Sir Harry Erskine\nand Captain Grant, now General Grant. These two years were almost the\nonly interruptions which my studies have received during the course\nof my life. I passed them agreeably, and in good company; and my\nappointments, with my frugality, had made me reach a fortune, which I\ncalled independent, though most of my friends were inclined to smile\nwhen I said so; in short, I was now master of near a thousand pounds.\n\nI had always entertained a notion, that my want of success in\npublishing the Treatise of Human Nature, had proceeded more from the\nmanner than the matter, and that I had been guilty of a very usual\nindiscretion, in going to the press too early. I, therefore, cast\nthe first part of that work anew in the Inquiry concerning Human\nUnderstanding, which was published while I was at Turin. But this piece\nwas at first little more successful than the Treatise of Human Nature.\nOn my return from Italy, I had the mortification to find all England\nin a ferment, on account of Dr Middleton's Free Inquiry, while my\nperformance was entirely overlooked and neglected. A new edition, which\nhad been published at London, of my Essays, Moral and Political, met\nnot with a much better reception.\n\nSuch is the force of natural temper, that these disappointments made\nlittle or no impression on me. I went down in 1749, and lived two years\nwith my brother at his country-house, for my mother was now dead. I\nthere composed the second part of my Essays, which I called Political\nDiscourses, and also my Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals,\nwhich is another part of my Treatise that I cast anew. Meanwhile, my\nbookseller A. Millar informed me, that my former publications (all\nbut the unfortunate Treatise) were beginning to be the subject of\nconversation; that the sale of them was gradually increasing, and that\nnew editions were demanded. Answers by Reverends, and Right Reverends,\ncame out two or three in a year; and I found, by Dr Warburton's\nrailing, that the books were beginning to be esteemed in good company.\nHowever, I had fixed a resolution, which I inflexibly maintained, never\nto reply to any body; and not being very irascible in my temper, I have\neasily kept myself clear of all literary squabbles. These symptoms of\na rising reputation gave me encouragement, as I was ever more disposed\nto see the favourable than unfavourable side of things; a turn of mind\nwhich it is more happy to possess, than to be born to an estate of ten\nthousand a year.\n\nIn 1751, I removed from the country to the town, the true scene for\na man of letters. In 1752, were published at Edinburgh, where I\nthen lived, my Political Discourses, the only work of mine that was\nsuccessful on the first publication. It was well received abroad\nand at home. In the same year was published at London, my Inquiry\nconcerning the Principles of Morals; which, in my own opinion (who\nought not to judge on that subject), is of all my writings, historical,\nphilosophical, or literary, incomparably the best. It came unnoticed\nand unobserved into the world.\n\nIn 1752, the Faculty of Advocates chose me their Librarian, an office\nfrom which I received little or no emolument, but which gave me the\ncommand of a large library. I then formed the plan of writing the\nHistory of England; but being frightened with the notion of continuing\na narrative through a period of 1700 years, I commenced with the\naccession of the House of Stuart, an epoch when, I thought, the\nmisrepresentations of faction began chiefly to take place. I was, I\nown, sanguine in my expectations of the success of this work. I thought\nthat I was the only historian that had at once neglected present\npower, interest, and authority, and the cry of popular prejudices; and\nas the subject was suited to every capacity, I expected proportional\napplause. But miserable was my disappointment: I was assailed by one\ncry of reproach, disapprobation, and even detestation; English, Scotch,\nand Irish, Whig and Tory, Churchman and Sectary, Free-thinker and\nReligionist, Patriot and Courtier, united in their rage against the\nman, who had presumed to shed a generous tear for the fate of Charles\nI. and the Earl of Strafford; and after the first ebullitions of their\nfury were over, what was still more mortifying, the book seemed to sink\ninto oblivion. Mr Millar told me, that in a twelvemonth he sold only\nforty-five copies of it. I scarcely, indeed, heard of one man in the\nthree kingdoms, considerable for rank or letters, that could endure the\nbook. I must only except the primate of England, Dr Herring, and the\nprimate of Ireland, Dr Stone, which seem two odd exceptions. These\ndignified prelates separately sent me messages not to be discouraged.\n\nI was however, I confess, discouraged; and had not the war been at that\ntime breaking out between France and England, I had certainly retired\nto some provincial town of the former kingdom, have changed my name,\nand never more have returned to my native country. But as this scheme\nwas not now practicable, and the subsequent volume was considerably\nadvanced, I resolved to pick up courage, and to persevere.\n\nIn this interval, I published at London my Natural History of Religion,\nalong with some other small pieces. Its public entry was rather\nobscure, except only that Dr Hurd wrote a pamphlet against it, with all\nthe illiberal petulance, arrogance and scurrility, which distinguish\nthe Warburtonian school. This pamphlet gave me some consolation for the\notherwise indifferent reception of my performance.\n\nIn 1756, two years after the fall of the first volume, was published\nthe second volume of my History, containing the period from the death\nof Charles I. till the Revolution. This performance happened to give\nless displeasure to the Whigs, and was better received. It not only\nrose itself, but helped to buoy up its unfortunate brother.\n\nBut though I had been taught, by experience, that the Whig party\nwere in possession of bestowing all places, both in the state and\nin literature, I was so little inclined to yield to their senseless\nclamour, that in above a hundred alterations, which farther study,\nreading or reflection, engaged me to make in the reigns of the two\nfirst Stuarts, I have made all of them invariably to the Tory side. It\nis ridiculous to consider the English constitution before that period\nas a regular plan of liberty.\n\nIn 1759, I published my History of the House of Tudor. The clamour\nagainst this performance was almost equal to that against the History\nof the two first Stuarts. The reign of Elizabeth was particularly\nobnoxious. But I was now callous against the impressions of public\nfolly, and continued very peaceably and contentedly in my retreat\nat Edinburgh, to finish, in two volumes, the more early part of the\nEnglish History, which I gave to the public in 1761, with tolerable,\nand but tolerable success.\n\nBut, notwithstanding this variety of winds and seasons, to which my\nwritings had been exposed, they had still been making such advances,\nthat the copy-money given me by the booksellers, much exceeded any\nthing formerly known in England; I was become not only independent, but\nopulent. I retired to my native country of Scotland, determined never\nmore to set my foot out of it; and retaining the satisfaction of never\nhaving preferred a request to one great man, or even making advances of\nfriendship to any of them. As I was now turned of fifty, I thought of\npassing all the rest of my life in this philosophical manner, when I\nreceived, in 1763, an invitation from the Earl of Hertford, with whom I\nwas not in the least acquainted, to attend him on his embassy to Paris,\nwith a near prospect of being appointed secretary to the embassy,\nand, in the meanwhile, of performing the functions of that office.\nThis offer, however inviting, I at first declined, both because I was\nreluctant to begin connexions with the great, and because I was afraid\nthat the civilities and gay company of Paris, would prove disagreeable\nto a person of my age and humour: but on his Lordship's repeating the\ninvitation, I accepted of it, I have every reason, both of pleasure and\ninterest, to think myself happy in my connexions with that nobleman, as\nwell as afterwards with his brother, General Conway.\n\nThose who have not seen the strange effects of Modes, will never\nimagine the reception I met with at Paris, from men and women of all\nranks and stations. The more I resiled from their excessive civilities,\nthe more I was loaded with them. There is, however, a real satisfaction\nin living at Paris, from the great number of sensible, knowing, and\npolite company with which that city abounds above all places in the\nuniverse. I thought once of settling there for life.\n\nI was appointed secretary to the embassy; and, in summer 1765, Lord\nHertford left me, being appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. I was\n_charg\u00e9 d'affaires_ till the arrival of the Duke of Richmond, towards\nthe end of the year. In the beginning of 1766, I left Paris, and\nnext summer went to Edinburgh, with the same view as formerly, of\nburying myself in a philosophical retreat. I returned to that place,\nnot richer, but with much more money, and a much larger income,\nby means of Lord Hertford's friendship, than I left it; and I was\ndesirous of trying what superfluity could produce, as I had formerly\nmade an experiment of a competency. But, in 1767, I received from Mr\nConway an invitation to be Under-secretary; and this invitation, both\nthe character of the person, and my connexions with Lord Hertford,\nprevented me from declining. I returned to Edinburgh in 1769, very\nopulent (for I possessed a revenue of 1000_l_. a year), healthy, and,\nthough somewhat stricken in years, with the prospect of enjoying long\nmy ease, and of seeing the increase of my reputation.\n\nIn spring 1775, I was struck with a disorder in my bowels, which at\nfirst gave me no alarm, but has since, as I apprehend it, become\nmortal and incurable. I now reckon upon a Speedy dissolution. I have\nsuffered very little pain from my disorder; and what is more strange,\nhave, notwithstanding the great decline of my person, never suffered\na moment's abatement of my spirits; insomuch, that were I to name the\nperiod of my life, which I should most choose to pass over again, I\nmight be tempted to point to this later period. I possess the same\nardour as ever in study, and the same gaiety in company. I consider,\nbesides, that a man of sixty-five, by dying, cuts off only a few\nyears of infirmities; and though I see many symptoms of my literary\nreputation's breaking out at last with additional lustre, I knew that\nI could have but few years to enjoy it. It is difficult to be more\ndetached from life than I am at present.\n\nTo conclude historically with my own character. I am, or rather was\n(for that is the style I must now use in speaking of myself, which\nemboldens me the more to speak my sentiments); I was, I say, a man\nof mild dispositions, of command of temper, of an open, social,\nand cheerful humour, capable of attachment, but little susceptible\nof enmity, and of great moderation in all my passions. Even my\nlove of literary fame, my ruling passion, never soured my temper,\nnotwithstanding my frequent disappointments. My company was not\nunacceptable to the young and careless, as well as to the studious and\nliterary; and as I took a particular pleasure in the company of modest\nwomen, I had no reason to be displeased with the reception I met with\nfrom them. In a word, though most men any wise eminent, have found\nreason to complain of calumny, I never was touched, or even attacked\nby her baleful tooth: and though I wantonly exposed myself to the\nrage of both civil and religious factions, they seemed to be disarmed\nin my behalf of their wonted fury. My friends never had occasion to\nvindicate any one circumstance of my character and conduct: not but\nthat the zealots, we may well suppose, would have been glad to invent\nand propagate any story to my disadvantage, but they could never find\nany which they thought would wear the face of probability. I cannot say\nthere is no vanity in making this funeral oration of myself, but I hope\nit is not a misplaced one; and this is a matter of fact which is easily\ncleared and ascertained.\n\nAPRIL 18. 1776.\n\n\n\n\nLETTER FROM ADAM SMITH, LL.D.\n\nTO\n\nWILLIAM STRACHAN, ESQ.\n\n\n                   _Kirkaldy, Fifeshire, Nov_. 9, 1776.\n\n\nDEAR SIR,\n\nIt is with a real, though a very melancholy pleasure, that I sit down\nto give you some account of the behaviour of our late excellent friend,\nMr Hume, during his last illness.\n\nThough, in his own judgment, his disease was mortal and incurable,\nyet he allowed himself to be prevailed upon, by the entreaty of his\nfriends, to try what might be the effects of a long journey. A few\ndays before he set out, he wrote that account of his own life, which,\ntogether with his other papers, he has left to your care. My account,\ntherefore, shall begin where his ends.\n\nHe set out for London towards the end of April, and at Morpeth met\nwith Mr John Home and myself, who had both come down from London on\npurpose to see him, expecting to have found him at Edinburgh. Mr Home\nreturned with him, and attended him during the whole of his stay in\nEngland, with that care and attention which might be expected from a\ntemper so perfectly friendly and affectionate. As I had written to my\nmother that she might expect me in Scotland, I was under the necessity\nof continuing my journey. His disease seemed to yield to exercise\nand change of air, and when he arrived in London, he was apparently\nin much better health than when he left Edinburgh. He was advised to\ngo to Bath to drink the waters, which appeared for some time to have\nso good an effect upon him, that even he himself began to entertain,\nwhat he was not apt to do, a better opinion of his own health. His\nsymptoms, however, soon returned with their usual violence, and from\nthat moment he gave up all thoughts of recovery, but submitted with the\nutmost cheerfulness, and the most perfect complacency and resignation.\nUpon his return to Edinburgh, though he found himself much weaker, yet\nhis cheerfulness never abated, and he continued to divert himself,\nas usual, with correcting his own works for a new edition, with\nreading books of amusement, with the conversation of his friends; and,\nsometimes in the evening, with a party at his favourite game of whist.\nHis cheerfulness was so great, and his conversation and amusements run\nso much in their usual strain, that, notwithstanding all bad symptoms,\nmany people could not believe he was dying. \"I shall tell your friend,\nColonel Edmondstone,\" said Doctor Dundas to him one day, \"that I left\nyou much better, and in a fair way of recovery.\" \"Doctor,\" said he, \"as\nI believe you would not choose to tell any thing but the truth, you\nhad better tell him, that I am dying as fast as my enemies, if I have\nany, could wish, and as easily and cheerfully as my best friends could\ndesire.\" Colonel Edmondstone soon afterwards came to see him, and take\nleave of him; and on his way home, he could not forbear writing him a\nletter bidding him once more an eternal adieu, and applying to him, as\nto a dying man, the beautiful French verses in which the Abb\u00e9 Chaulieu,\nin expectation of his own death, laments his approaching separation\nfrom his friend, the Marquis de la Fare. Mr Hume's magnanimity and\nfirmness were such, that his most affectionate friends knew that they\nhazarded nothing in talking or writing to him as to a dying man,\nand that so far from being hurt by this frankness, he was rather\npleased and flattered by it. I happened to come into his room while\nhe was reading this letter, which he had just received, and which he\nimmediately showed me. I told him, that though I was sensible how very\nmuch he was weakened, and that appearances were in many respects very\nbad, yet his cheerfulness was still so great, the spirit of life seemed\nstill to be so very strong in him, that I could not help entertaining\nsome faint hopes. He answered, \"Your hopes are groundless. An habitual\ndiarrhoea of more than a year's standing, would be a very bad disease\nat any age: at my age it is a mortal one. When I lie down in the\nevening, I feel myself weaker than when I rose in the morning; and when\nI rise in the morning, weaker than when I lay down in the evening. I\nam sensible, besides, that some of my vital parts are affected, so\nthat I must soon die.\" \"Well,\" said I, \"if it must be so, you have at\nleast the satisfaction of leaving all your friends, your brother's\nfamily in particular, in great prosperity.\" He said that he felt that\nsatisfaction so sensibly, that when he was reading, a few days before,\nLucian's Dialogues of the Dead, among all the excuses which are alleged\nto Charon for not entering readily into his boat, he could not find\none that fitted him; he had no house to finish, he had no daughter to\nprovide for, he had no enemies upon whom he wished to revenge himself.\n\"I could not well imagine,\" said he, \"what excuse I could make to\nCharon in order to obtain a little delay. I have done every thing of\nconsequence which I ever meant to do; and I could at no time expect\nto leave my relations and friends in a better situation than that in\nwhich I am now likely to leave them. I therefore have all reason to die\ncontented.\" He then diverted himself with inventing several jocular\nexcuses, which he supposed he might make to Charon, and with imagining\nthe very surly answers which it might suit the character of Charon\nto return to them. \"Upon further consideration,\" said he, \"I thought\nI might say to him, Good Charon, I have been correcting my works for\na new edition. Allow me a little time, that I may see how the public\nreceives the alterations.\" But Charon would answer, \"When you have seen\nthe effect of these, you will be for making other alterations. There\nwill be no end of such excuses; so, honest friend, please step into the\nboat.\" But I might still urge, \"Have a little patience, good Charon; I\nhave been endeavouring to open the eyes of the public. If I live a few\nyears longer, I may have the satisfaction of seeing the downfall of\nsome of the prevailing systems of superstition.\" But Charon would then\nlose all temper and decency. \"You loitering rogue, that will not happen\nthese many hundred years. Do you fancy I will grant you a lease for so\nlong a term? Get into the boat this instant, you lazy loitering rogue.\"\n\nBut, though Mr Hume always talked of his approaching dissolution\nwith great cheerfulness, he never affected to make any parade of his\nmagnanimity. He never mentioned the subject but when the conversation\nnaturally led to it, and never dwelt longer upon it than the course of\nthe conversation happened to require: it was a subject, indeed, which\noccurred pretty frequently, in consequence of the inquiries which his\nfriends, who came to see him, naturally made concerning the state of\nhis health. The conversation which I mentioned above, and which passed\non Thursday the 8th of August, was the last, except one, that I ever\nhad with him. He had now become so very weak, that the company of his\nmost intimate friends fatigued him; for his cheerfulness was still so\ngreat, his complaisance and social disposition were still so entire,\nthat when any friend was with him, he could not help talking more,\nand with greater exertion, than suited the weakness of his body. At\nhis own desire, therefore, I agreed to leave Edinburgh, where I was\nstaying partly upon his account, and returned to my mother's house\nhere, at Kirkaldy, upon condition that he would send for me whenever he\nwished to see me; the physician who saw him most frequently, Dr Black,\nundertaking, in the mean time, to write me occasionally an account of\nthe state of his health.\n\nOn the 22d of August, the Doctor wrote me the following letter:\n\n\"Since my last, Mr Hume has passed his time pretty easily, but is\nmuch weaker. He sits up, goes down stairs once a day, and amuses\nhimself with reading, but seldom sees anybody. He finds that even the\nconversation of his most intimate friends fatigues and oppresses him;\nand it is happy that he does not need it, for he is quite free from\nanxiety, impatience, or low spirits, and passes his time very well with\nthe assistance of amusing books.\"\n\nI received the day after a letter from Mr Hume himself, of which the\nfollowing is an extract.\n\n\n                     \"_Edinburgh_, 23_d August_, 1776.\n\n\"MY DEAREST FRIEND,\n\n\"I am obliged to make use of my nephew's hand in writing to you, as I\ndo not rise to-day.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I go very fast to decline, and last night had a small fever, which I\nhoped might put a quicker period to this tedious illness, but unluckily\nit has, in a great measure, gone off. I cannot submit to your coming\nover here on my account, as it is possible for me to see you so small a\npart of the day, but Doctor Black can better inform you concerning the\ndegree of strength which may from time to time remain with me. Adieu,\"\n&c.\n\nThree days after I received the following letter from Doctor Black.\n\n              \"_Edinburgh, Monday_, 26_th August_, 1776.\n\n\"DEAR SIR,\n\n\"Yesterday about four o'clock afternoon, Mr Hume expired. The near\napproach of his death became evident in the night between Thursday\nand Friday, when his disease became excessive, and soon weakened him\nso much, that he could no longer rise out of his bed. He continued to\nthe last perfectly sensible, and free from much pain or feelings of\ndistress. He never dropped the smallest expression of impatience; but\nwhen he had occasion to speak to the people about him, always did it\nwith affection and tenderness. I thought it improper to write to bring\nyou over, especially as I heard that he had dictated a letter to you\ndesiring you not to come. When he became very weak, it cost him an\neffort to speak, and he died in such a happy composure of mind, that\nnothing could exceed it.\"\n\nThus died our most excellent, and never to be forgotten friend;\nconcerning whose philosophical opinions men will, no doubt, judge\nvariously, every one approving, or condemning them, according as they\nhappen to coincide or disagree with his own; but concerning whose\ncharacter and conduct there can scarce be a difference of opinion.\nHis temper, indeed, seemed to be more happily balanced, if I may be\nallowed such an expression, than that perhaps of any other man I have\never known. Even in the lowest state of his fortune, his great and\nnecessary frugality never hindered him from exercising, upon proper\noccasions, acts both of charity and generosity. It was a frugality\nfounded, not upon avarice, but upon the love of independency. The\nextreme gentleness of his nature never weakened either the firmness of\nhis mind, or the steadiness of his resolutions. His constant pleasantry\nwas the genuine effusion of good nature and good humour, tempered\nwith delicacy and modesty, and without even the slightest tincture of\nmalignity, so frequently the disagreeable source of what is called wit\nin other men. It never was the meaning of his raillery to mortify;\nand therefore, far from offending, it seldom failed to please and\ndelight, even those who were the objects of it. To his friends, who\nwere frequently the objects of it, there was not perhaps any one of all\nhis great and amiable qualities, which contributed more to endear his\nconversation. And that gaiety of temper, so agreeable in society, but\nwhich is so often accompanied with frivolous and superficial qualities,\nwas in him certainly attended with the most severe application, the\nmost extensive learning, the greatest depth of thought, and a capacity\nin every respect the most comprehensive. Upon the whole, I have\nalways considered him, both in his lifetime and since his death, as\napproaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man,\nas perhaps the nature of human frailty will permit.\n\n             I ever am, dear Sir,\n\n                   Most affectionately yours,\n\n                                       ADAM SMITH.\n\n[Illustration: Drawn by A. Nasmyth--Engraved by W. Miller--HUME'S\nMONUMENT, CALTON HILL.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LATTER-WILL AND TESTAMENT OF DAVID HUME.\n\n\nI, David Hume, second lawful son of Joseph Home of Ninewells,\nadvocate, for the love and affection I bear to John Home of Ninewells,\nmy brother, and for other causes, DO, by these presents, under the\nreservations and burdens after-mentioned, GIVE and DISPOSE to the said\nJohn Home, or, if he die before me, to David Home, his second son,\nhis heirs and assigns whatsomever, all lands, heritages, debts, and\nsums of money, as well heritable as moveable, which shall belong to me\nat the time of my decease, as also my whole effects in general, real\nand personal, with and under the burden of the following legacies,\nviz. to my sister Catherine Home, the sum of twelve hundred pounds\nsterling, payable the first term of Whitsunday or Martinmas after my\ndecease, together with all my English books, and the life-rent of my\nhouse in St James's Court, or in case that house be sold at the time\nof my decease, twenty pounds a year during the whole course of her\nlife: To my friend Adam Ferguson, Professor of Moral Philosophy in\nthe College of Edinburgh, two hundred pounds sterling: To my friend\nM. d'Alembert, member of the French Academy, and of the Academy of\nSciences in Paris, two hundred pounds: To my friend Dr Adam Smith, late\nProfessor of Moral Philosophy in Glasgow, I leave all my manuscripts\nwithout exception, desiring him to publish my _Dialogues on Natural\nReligion_, which are comprehended in this present bequest; but to\npublish no other papers which he suspects not to have been written\nwithin these five years, but to destroy them all at his leisure: And\nI even leave him full power over all my papers, except the Dialogues\nabove mentioned; and though I can trust to that intimate and sincere\nfriendship, which has ever subsisted between us, for his faithful\nexecution of this part of my will, yet, as a small recompense of his\npains in correcting and publishing this work, I leave him two hundred\npounds, to be paid immediately after the publication of it: I also\nleave to Mrs Anne and Mrs Janet Hepburn, daughters of Mr James Hepburn\nof Keith, one hundred pounds a piece: To my cousin David Campbell, son\nof Mr Campbell, minister of Lillysleaf, one hundred pounds: To the\nInfirmary of Edinburgh, fifty pounds: To all the servants who shall be\nin my family at the time of my decease, one year's wages; and to my\nhousekeeper, Margaret Irvine, three year's wages: And I also ordain,\nthat my brother, or nephew, or executor, whoever he be, shall not pay\nup to the said Margaret Irvine, without her own consent, any sum of\nmoney which I shall owe her at the time of my decease, whether by bill,\nbond, or for wages, but shall retain in his hand, and pay her the legal\ninterest upon it, till she demand the principal: And in case my brother\nabove-mentioned shall survive me, I leave to his son David, the sum of\na thousand pounds to assist him in his education: But in case that by\nmy brother's death before me, the succession of my estate and effects\nshall devolve to the aforesaid David, I hereby burden him, over and\nabove the payment of the aforesaid legacies, with the payment of the\nsums following: To his brothers Joseph and John, a thousand pounds\na piece: To his sisters Catherine and Agnes, five hundred pounds a\npiece: all which sums, as well as every sum contained in the present\ndisposition (except that to Dr Smith), to be payable the first term of\nWhitsunday and Martinmas, after my decease; and all of them, without\nexception, in sterling money. And I do hereby nominate and appoint\nthe said John Home, my brother, and failing of him by decease, the\nsaid David Home, to be my sole executor and universal legatee, with\nand under the burdens above mentioned; reserving always full power and\nliberty to me, at any time of my life, even in deathbed, to alter and\ninnovate these presents, in whole or in part, and to burden the same\nwith such other legacies as I shall think fit. And I do hereby declare\nthese presents to be a good, valid, and sufficient evidence, albeit\nfound in my custody, or in the custody of any other person at the time\nof my death, &c. (_in common style_.) Signed 4 January 1776, before\nthese witnesses, the Right Honourable the Earl of Home, and Mr John\nMcGowan, Clerk to the Signet.\n\n                                      DAVID HUME.\n\nI also ORDAIN, that if I shall die any where in Scotland, I shall be\nburied in a private manner in the Calton churchyard, the south side\nof it, and a monument to be built over my body, at an expense not\nexceeding a hundred pounds, with an inscription containing only my\nname, with the year of my birth and death, leaving it to posterity to\nadd the rest.\n\n_At Edinburgh_, 15_th April_, 1776. DAVID HUME.\n\nI also leave for rebuilding the bridge of Churnside the sum of a\nhundred pounds; but on condition that the managers of the bridge\nshall take none of the stones for building the bridge from the quarry\nof Ninewells, except from that part of the quarry which has been\nalready opened. I leave to my nephew Joseph, the sum of fifty pounds to\nenable him to make a good sufficient drain and sewer round the house\nof Ninewells, but on condition that, if that drain and sewer be not\nmade, from whatever cause, within a year after my death, the said fifty\npounds shall be paid to the poor of the parish of Churnside: To my\nsister, instead of all my English books, I leave her a hundred volumes\nat her choice: To David Waite, servant to my brother, I leave the sum\nof ten pounds, payable the first term after my death.\n\nDAVID HUME.\n\n\n\n\nAN\n\nACCOUNT\n\nOF THE CONTROVERSY\n\nBETWEEN\n\nHUME AND ROUSSEAU.\n\n\nLONDON. M.D.CC.LXVI.\n\n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT OF THE FRENCH EDITORS.\n\n\nThe name and writings of Mr Hume have been long since well known\nthroughout Europe. At the same time, his personal acquaintance\nhave remarked, in the candour and simplicity of his manners, that\nimpartiality and ingenuousness of disposition which distinguishes his\ncharacter, and is sufficiently indicated in his writings.\n\nHe hath exerted those great talents he received from nature, and the\nacquisitions he made by study, in the search of truth, and promoting\nthe good of mankind; never wasting his time, or sacrificing his repose,\nin literary or personal disputes. He hath seen his writings frequently\ncensured with bitterness, by fanaticism, ignorance, and the spirit of\nparty, without ever giving an answer to his adversaries.\n\nEven those who have attacked his works with the greatest violence, have\nalways respected his personal character. His love of peace is so well\nknown, that the criticisms written against his pieces, have been often\nbrought him by their respective authors, for him to revise and correct\nthem. At one time, in particular, a performance of this kind was shown\nto him, in which he had been treated in a very rude and even injurious\nmanner; on remarking which to the author, the latter struck out the\nexceptionable passages, blushing and wondering at the force of that\n_polemic spirit_ which had carried him imperceptibly away beyond the\nfounds of truth and decency.\n\nIt was with great reluctance that a man, possessed of such pacific\ndispositions, could be brought to consent to the publication of the\nfollowing piece. He was very sensible that the quarrels among men\nof letters are a scandal to philosophy; nor was any person in the\nworld less formed for giving occasion to a scandal, so consolatory to\nblockheads. But the circumstances were such as to draw him into it, in\nspite of his inclinations.\n\nAll the world knows that Mr Rousseau, proscribed in almost every\ncountry where he resided, determined at length to take refuge in\nEngland; and that Mr Hume, affected by his situation, and his\nmisfortunes, undertook to bring him over, and to provide for him a\npeaceful, safe, and convenient asylum. But very few persons are privy\nto the zeal, activity, and even delicacy, with which Mr Hume conferred\nthis act of benevolence. What an affectionate attachment he had\ncontracted for this new friend, which humanity had given him! with what\naddress he endeavoured to anticipate his desires, without offending his\npride! in short, with what address he strove to justify, in the eyes of\nothers, the singularities of Mr Rousseau, and to defend his character\nagainst those who were not disposed to think so favourably of him as he\ndid himself.\n\nEven at the time when Mr Hume was employed in doing Mr Rousseau the\nmost essential service, he received from him the most insolent and\nabusive letter. The more such a stroke was unexpected, the more it was\ncruel and affecting. Mr Hume wrote an account of this extraordinary\nadventure to his friends at Paris, and expressed himself in his letters\nwith all that indignation which so strange a proceeding must excite.\nHe thought himself under no obligation to keep terms with a man, who,\nafter having received from him the most certain and constant marks\nof friendship, could reproach him, without any reason, as false,\ntreacherous, and as the most wicked of mankind.\n\nIn the mean time, the dispute between these two celebrated personages\ndid not fail to make a noise. The complaints of Mr Hume soon came to\nthe knowledge of the public, which at first hardly believed it possible\nthat Mr Rousseau could be guilty of that excessive ingratitude\nlaid to his charge. Even Mr Hume's friends were fearful, lest, in\nthe first effusions of sensibility, he was not carried too far, and\nhad not mistaken for wilful crimes of the heart, the vagaries of\nthe imagination, or the deceptions of the understanding. He judged\nit necessary, therefore to explain the affair, by writing a precise\nnarrative of all that passed between him and Mr Rousseau, from\ntheir first connection to their rupture. This narrative he sent to\nhis friends, some of whom advised him to print it, alleging, that\nas Mr Rousseau's accusations were become public, the proofs of his\njustification ought to be so too. Mr Hume did not give into these\narguments, choosing rather to run the risk of being unjustly censured,\nthan to resolve on making himself a public party in an affair so\ncontrary to his disposition and character. A new incident, however, at\nlength overcame his reluctance. Mr Rousseau had addressed a letter to\na bookseller at Paris, in which he directly accuses Mr Hume of having\nentered into a league with his enemies to betray and defame him; and\nin which he boldly defies Mr Hume to print the papers he had in his\nhands. This letter was communicated to several persons in Paris, was\ntranslated into English, and the translation printed in the public\npapers in London. An accusation and defiance so very public could not\nbe suffered to pass without reply, while any long silence on the part\nof Mr Hume might have been interpreted little in his favour.\n\nBesides, the news of this dispute had spread itself over Europe, and\nthe opinions entertained of it were various. It had doubtless been\nmuch happier, if the whole affair had been buried in oblivion, and\nremained a profound secret; but as it was impossible to prevent the\npublic interesting itself in the controversy, it became necessary at\nleast that the truth of the matter should be known. Mr Hume's friends\nunitedly represented to him all these reasons, the force of which he\nwas at length convinced of; and seeing the necessity, consented, though\nwith reluctance, to the printing of his memorial.\n\nThe narrative, and notes, are translated from the English.[1] The\nletters of Mr Rousseau, which serve as authentic proofs of the facts\nare exact copies of the originals.[2]\n\nThis pamphlet contains many strange instances of singularity, that\nwill appear extraordinary enough to those who will give themselves\nthe trouble to peruse it. Those who do not choose to take the trouble,\nhowever, may possibly do better, as its contents are of little\nimportance, except to those who are immediately interested.\n\nOn the whole, Mr Hume, in offering to the public the genuine pieces of\nhis trial, has authorized us to declare, that he will never take up the\npen again on the subject. Mr Rousseau indeed may return to the charge;\nhe may produce suppositions, misconstructions, inferences, and new\ndeclamations; he may create and realize new phantoms, and envelop them\nin the clouds of his rhetoric, he will meet with no more contradiction.\nThe facts are all laid before the public;[3] and Mr Hume submits his\ncause to the determination of every man of sense and probity.\n\n\n\n\n[1] And are now re-translated, for the most part, from the French,\nthe French editors having taken some liberties, not without Mr Hume's\nconsent, with the English original.--_English translator_.\n\n[2] in the present edition Mr Hume's letters are printed _verbatim_;\nand to Mr Rousseau's the translator hath endeavoured to do justice,\nas well with regard to the sense as the expression. Not that he can\nflatter himself with having always succeeded in the latter. He has\ntaken the liberty also to add a note or two, regarding some particular\ncircumstances which had come to his knowledge.\n\n[3] The original letters of both parties will be lodged in the British\nMuseum, on account of the above mentioned defiance of Mr Rousseau, and\nhis subsequent insinuation, that if they should be published, they\nwould be falsified.\n\n\n\n\nAN\n\nACCOUNT OF THE CONTROVERSY\n\nBETWEEN\n\nMR HUME AND MR ROUSSEAU.\n\n\n\n\n_August_ 1, 1766.\n\nMy connexion with Mr Rousseau began in 1762, when the Parliament of\nParis had issued an arr\u00eat for apprehending him, on account of his\n_Emilius_. I was at that time at Edinburgh. A person of great worth\nwrote to me from Paris, that Mr Rousseau intended to seek an asylum\nin England, and desired I would do him all the good offices in my\npower. As I conceived Mr Rousseau had actually put his design in\nexecution, I wrote to several of my friends in London, recommending\nthis celebrated exile to their favour. I wrote also immediately to Mr\nRousseau himself; assuring him of my desire to oblige, and readiness\nto serve him. At the same time, I invited him to come to Edinburgh,\nif the situation would be agreeable, and offered him a retreat in my\nown house, so long as he should please to partake of it. There needed\nno other motive to excite me to this act of humanity, than the idea\ngiven me of Mr Rousseau's personal character, by the friend who had\nrecommended him, his well known genius and abilities, and above all,\nhis misfortunes; the very cause of which was an additional reason to\ninterest me in his favour. The following is the answer I received.\n\n\n\n\nMR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.\n\n\n_Motiers-Travers_, _Feb_. 19, 1763.\n\n     SIR,\n\n     I did not receive till lately, and at this place, the\n     letter you did me the honour to direct to me at London, the\n     2d of July last, on the supposition that I was then arrived\n     at that capital. I should doubtless have made choice of\n     a retreat in your country, and as near as possible to\n     yourself, if I had foreseen what a reception I was to meet\n     with in my own. No other nation could claim a preference to\n     England. And this prepossession, for which I have dearly\n     suffered, was at that time too natural not to be very\n     excusable; but, to my great astonishment, as well as that\n     of the public, I have met with nothing but affronts and\n     insults, where I hoped to have found consolation at least,\n     if not gratitude. How many reasons have I not to regret\n     the want of that asylum and philosophical hospitality\n     I should have found with you! My misfortunes, indeed,\n     have constantly seemed to lead me in a manner that way.\n     The protection and kindness of my Lord Marshall, your\n     worthy and illustrious countryman, hath brought Scotland\n     home to me, if I may so express myself, in the midst of\n     Switzerland; he hath made you so often bear a part in our\n     conversation, hath brought me so well acquainted with your\n     virtues, which I before was only with your talents, that\n     he inspired me with the most tender friendship for you,\n     and the most ardent desire of obtaining yours, before I\n     even knew you were disposed to grant it. Judge then of the\n     pleasure I feel, at finding this inclination reciprocal.\n     No, Sir, I should pay your merit but half its due, if\n     it were the subject only of my admiration. Your great\n     impartiality, together with your amazing penetration and\n     genius, would lift you far above the rest of mankind,\n     if you were less attached to them by the goodness of\n     your heart. My Lord Marshal, in acquainting me that the\n     amiableness of your disposition was still greater than the\n     sublimity of your genius, rendered a correspondence with\n     you every day more desirable, and cherished in me those\n     wishes which he inspired, of ending my days near you. Oh,\n     Sir, that a better state of health, and more convenient\n     circumstances, would but enable me to take such a journey\n     in the manner I could like! Could I but hope to see you and\n     my Lord Marshal one day settled in your own country, which\n     should for ever after be mine, I should be thankful, in\n     such a society, for the very misfortunes that led me into\n     it, and should account the day of its commencement as the\n     first of my life. Would to Heaven I might live to see that\n     happy day, though now more to be desired than expected!\n     With what transports should I not exclaim, on setting foot\n     in that happy country which gave birth to David Hume and\n     the Lord Marshal of Scotland!\n\n     Salve, facis mihi debita tellus!\n     H\u00e6c domus, h\u00e6c patria est.\n                                           J.J.R.\n\n\n\nThis letter is not published from a motive of vanity; as will be seen\npresently, when I give the reader a recantation of all the eulogies it\ncontains; but only to complete the course of our correspondence, and to\nshow that I have been long since disposed to Mr Rousseau's service.\n\nFrom this time our correspondence entirely ceased, till about the\nmiddle of last autumn (1765), when it was renewed by the following\naccident. A certain lady of Mr Rousseau's acquaintance, being on a\njourney to one of the French provinces, bordering on Switzerland, had\ntaken that opportunity of paying a visit to our solitary philosopher,\nin his retreat at Motiers-Travers. To this lady he complained, that\nhis situation in Neufch\u00e2tel was become extremely disagreeable, as well\non account of the superstition of the people, as the resentment of the\nclergy; and that he was afraid he should shortly be under the necessity\nof seeking an asylum elsewhere; in which case, England appeared to\nhim, from the nature of its laws and government, to be the only place\nto which he could retire with perfect security; adding, that my Lord\nMarshal, his former protector, had advised him to put himself under my\nprotection, (that was the term he was pleased, to make use of), and\nthat he would accordingly address himself to me, if he thought it would\nnot be giving me too much trouble.\n\nI was at that time charged with the affairs of England at the court of\nFrance; but as I had the prospect of soon returning to London, I could\nnot reject a proposal made to me under such circumstances, by a man\nso celebrated for his genius and misfortunes. As soon as I was thus\ninformed, therefore, of the situation and intentions of Mr Rousseau, I\nwrote to him, making him an offer of my services; to which he returned\nthe following answer.\n\n\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.\n\n\n_Strasbourg_, _Dec_. 4, 1765.\n\n     SIR,\n\n     Your goodness affects me as much as it does me honour.\n     The best reply I can make to your offers is to accept\n     them, which I do. I shall set out in five or six days to\n     throw myself into your arms. Such is the advice of my Lord\n     Marshal, my protector, friend and father; it is the advice\n     also of Madam * * * [1] whose good sense and benevolence\n     serve equally for my direction and consolation; in fine,\n     I may say it is the advice of my own heart, which takes\n     a pleasure in being indebted to the most illustrious of\n     my contemporaries, to a man whose goodness surpasses his\n     glory. I sigh after a solitary and free retirement, wherein\n     I might finish my days in peace. If this be procured me by\n     means of your benevolent solicitude, I shall then enjoy at\n     once the pleasure of the only blessing my heart desires,\n     and also that of being indebted for it to you. I am, Sir,\n     with all my heart, &c.\n\n     J. J. R.\n\n\n[1] The person here mentioned desired her name might be suppressed.\n_French Editor_.\n\nAs the motive to the suppression of the lady's name can hardly be\nsupposed to extend to this country, the _English translator_ takes the\nliberty to mention the name of the Marchioness de Verdelin.\n\n\nNot that I had deferred till this time my endeavours to be useful to Mr\nRousseau. The following letter was communicated to me by Mr Clairaut,\nsome weeks before his death.\n\n\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO MR CLAIRAUT.\n\n\n_Motiers-Travers_, _March_ 3, 1765.\n\n     SIR,\n\n     The remembrance of your former kindness, induces me to\n     be again importunate. It is to desire you will be so\n     good, for the second time, to be the censor of one of\n     my performances. It is a very paltry rhapsody, which I\n     compiled many years ago, under the title of _A Musical\n     Dictionary_, and am now obliged to republish it for\n     subsistence. Amidst the torrent of misfortunes that\n     overwhelm me, I am not in a situation to review the work;\n     which, I know, is full of oversights and mistakes. If any\n     interest you may take in the lot of the most unfortunate\n     of mankind, should induce you to bestow a little more\n     attention on his work than on that of another, I should be\n     extremely obliged to you, if you would take the trouble to\n     correct such errors as you may meet with in the perusal.\n     To point them out, without correcting them, would be doing\n     nothing, for I am absolutely incapable of paying the\n     least attention to such a work; so that if you would but\n     condescend to alter, add, retrench, and, in short, use it\n     as you would do your own, you would do a great charity, for\n     which I should be extremely thankful. Accept, Sir, my most\n     humble excuses and salutations.\n\n     J. J. R.\n\n\nIt is with reluctance I say it, but I am compelled to it; I now know of\na certainty that this affectation of extreme poverty and distress was a\nmere pretence, a petty kind of imposture which Mr Rousseau successfully\nemployed to excite the compassion of the public; but I was then very\nfar from suspecting any such artifice. I must own, I felt on this\noccasion an emotion of pity, mixed with indignation, to think a man\nof letters of such eminent merit, should be reduced, in spite of the\nsimplicity of his manner of living, to such extreme indigence; and that\nthis unhappy state should be rendered more intolerable by sickness,\nby the approach of old age, and the implacable rage of persecution.\nI knew that many persons imputed the wretchedness of Mr Rousseau to\nhis excessive pride, which induced him to refuse the assistance of\nhis friends; but I thought this fault, if it were a fault, was a very\nrespectable one. Too many men of letters have debased their character\nin stooping so low as to solicit the assistance of persons of wealth\nor power, unworthy of affording them protection; and I conceived that\na noble pride, even though carried to excess, merited some indulgence\nin a man of genius, who, borne up by a sense of his own superiority and\na love of independence, should have braved the storms of fortune and\nthe insults of mankind. I proposed, therefore, to serve Mr Rousseau\nin his own way. I desired Mr Clairaut, accordingly, to give me his\nletter, which I showed to several of Mr Rousseau's friends and patrons\nin Paris. At the same time I proposed to them a scheme by which he\nmight be relieved, without suspecting any thing of the matter. This\nwas to engage the bookseller, who was to publish his _Dictionary_, to\ngive Mr Rousseau a greater sum for the copy than he had offered, and\nto indemnify him by paying him the difference. But this project, which\ncould not be executed without the assistance of Mr Clairaut, fell to\nthe ground at the unexpected decease of that learned and respectable\nacademician.\n\nRetaining, however, still the same idea of Mr Rousseau's excessive\npoverty, I constantly retained the same inclination to oblige him;\nand when I was informed of his intention to go to England under my\nconduct, I formed a scheme much of the same kind with that I could not\nexecute at Paris. I wrote immediately to my friend, Mr John Stewart of\nBuckingham Street, that I had an affair to communicate to him, of so\nsecret and delicate a nature, that I should not venture even to commit\nit to paper, but that he might learn the particulars of Mr Elliot\n(now Sir Gilbert Elliot), who would soon return from Paris to London.\nThe plan was this, and was really communicated by Mr Elliot some time\nafter to Mr Stewart, who was at the same time enjoined to the greatest\nsecrecy.\n\nMr Stewart was to look out for some honest discreet farmer in his\nneighbourhood in the country, who might be willing to lodge and board\nMr Rousseau and his gouvernante in a very decent and plentiful manner,\nat a pension which Mr Stewart might settle at fifty or sixty pounds a\nyear; the farmer engaging to keep such agreement a profound secret, and\nto receive from Mr Rousseau only twenty or twenty-five pounds a year, I\nengaging to supply the difference.\n\nIt was not long before Mr Stewart wrote me word he had found a\nsituation which he conceived might be agreeable; on which I desired he\nwould get the apartment furnished in a proper and convenient manner at\nmy expense. But this scheme, in which there could not possibly enter\nany motive of vanity on my part, secrecy being a necessary condition of\nits execution, did not take place, other designs presenting themselves\nmore convenient and agreeable. The fact, however, is well known both to\nMr Stewart and Sir Gilbert Elliot.\n\nIt will not be improper here to mention another plan concerted with\nthe same intentions. I had accompanied Mr Rousseau into a very\npleasant part of the county of Surry, where he spent two days at\nColonel Webb's, Mr Rousseau seeming to me highly delighted with the\nnatural and solitary beauties of the place. Through the means of Mr\nStewart, therefore, I entered into treaty with Colonel Webb for the\npurchasing the house, with a little estate adjoining, in order to make\na settlement for Mr Rousseau. If, after what has passed, Mr Rousseau's\ntestimony be of any validity, I may appeal to himself for the truth of\nwhat I advance. But be this as it will, these facts are well known to\nMr Stewart, to General Clarke, and in part to Colonel Webb.\n\nBut to proceed in my narrative. Mr Rousseau came to Paris, provided\nwith a passport which his friends had obtained for him. I conducted him\nto England. For upwards of two months after our arrival, I employed\nmyself and my friends in looking out for some agreeable situation for\nhim. We gave way to all his caprices; excused all his singularities;\nindulged him in all his humours; in short, neither time nor trouble\nwas spared to procure him what he desired;[2] and, notwithstanding he\nrejected several of the projects which I had laid out for him, yet I\nthought myself sufficiently recompensed for my trouble by the gratitude\nand even affection with which he appeared to repay my solicitude.\n\nAt length his present settlement was proposed and approved. Mr\nDavenport, a gentleman of family, fortune and worth, offered him his\nhouse at Wooton, in the county of Derby, where he himself seldom\nresides, and at which Mr Rousseau and his housekeeper are boarded at a\nvery moderate expense.\n\nWhen Mr Rousseau arrived at Wooton, he wrote me the following letter.\n\n\n[2] It is probably to this excessive and ill-judged complaisance Mr\nHume may in a great degree impute the disagreeable consequences that\nhave followed. There is no end in indulging caprice, nor any prudence\nin doing it, when it is known to be such. It may be thought humane\nto indulge the weak of body or mind, the decrepitude of age, and\nimbecility of childhood; but even here it too often proves cruelty to\nthe very parties indulged. How much more inexcusable, therefore, is it\nto cherish the absurdities of whim and singularity in men of genius and\nabilities! How is it possible to make a man easy or happy in a world,\nto whose customs and maxims he is determined to run retrograde? No.\nCapricious men, like forward children, should be left to kick against\nthe pricks, and vent their spleen unnoticed. To humour, is only to\nspoil them.--_English Translator_.\n\n\n\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.\n\n\n     _Wooton_, _March_ 22, 1766.\n\n     You see already, my dear patron, by the date of my letter,\n     that I am arrived at the place of my destination; but you\n     cannot see all the charms which I find in it. To do this,\n     you should be acquainted with the situation, and be able\n     to read my heart. You ought, however, to read at least\n     those of my sentiments with respect to you, and which you\n     have so well deserved. If I live in this agreeable asylum\n     as happy as I hope to do, one of the greatest pleasures of\n     my life will be, to reflect that I owe it to you. To make\n     another happy, is to deserve to be happy one's self. May\n     you therefore find in yourself the reward of all you have\n     done for me! Had I been alone, I might perhaps have met\n     with hospitality; but I should have never relished it so\n     highly as I now do in owing it to your friendship. Retain\n     still that friendship for me, my dear patron; love me for\n     my sake, who am so much indebted to you; love me for your\n     own, for the good you have done me. I am sensible of the\n     full value of your sincere friendship: it is the object of\n     my ardent wishes: I am ready to repay it with all mine,\n     and feel something in my heart which may one day convince\n     you that it is not without its value. As, for the reasons\n     agreed on between us, I shall receive nothing by the post,\n     you will be pleased, when you have the goodness to write to\n     me, to send your letters to Mr Davenport. The affair of the\n     carriage is not yet adjusted, because I know I was imposed\n     on. It is a trifling fault, however, which may be only the\n     effect of an obliging vanity, unless it should happen to be\n     repeated. If you were concerned in it, I would advise you\n     to give up, once for all, these little impositions, which\n     cannot proceed from any good motive, when converted into\n     snares for simplicity. I embrace you, my dear patron, with\n     the same cordiality which I hope to find in you.\n\n     J. J. R.\n\nSome few days after, I received from him another letter, of which the\nfollowing is a copy.\n\n\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.\n\n\n     _Wooton_, _March_ 29, 1766.\n\n     You will see, my dear patron, by the letter Mr Davenport\n     will have transmitted you, how agreeably I find myself\n     situated in this place. I might perhaps be more at my ease\n     if I were less noticed; but the solicitude of so polite an\n     host as mine is too obliging to give offence; and as there\n     is nothing in life without its inconvenience, that of\n     being too good is one of those which is the most tolerable.\n     I find a much greater inconvenience in not being able to\n     make the servants understand me, and particularly in my not\n     understanding them. Luckily Mrs le Vasseur serves me as\n     interpreter, and her fingers speak better than my tongue.\n     There is one advantage, however, attending my ignorance,\n     which is a kind of compensation; it serves to tire and keep\n     at a distance impertinent visitors. The minister of the\n     parish came to see me yesterday, who, finding that I spoke\n     to him only in French, would not speak to me in English, so\n     that our interview was almost a silent one. I have taken\n     a great fancy to this expedient, and shall make use of it\n     with all my neighbours, if I have any. Nay, should I even\n     learn to speak English, I would converse with them only in\n     French, especially if I were so happy as to find they did\n     not understand a word of that language; an artifice this,\n     much of the same kind with that which the Negroes pretend\n     is practised by the monkeys, who, they say, are capable of\n     speech, but cannot be prevailed upon to talk, lest they\n     should be set to work.\n\n     It is not true in any sense that I agreed to accept of\n     a model from Mr Gosset as a present. On the contrary, I\n     asked him the price, which he told me was a guinea and\n     half, adding that he intended to present me with it; an\n     offer I did not accept. I desire you therefore to pay him\n     for it, and Mr Davenport will be so good as repay you the\n     money. And if Mr Gosset does not consent to be paid for it,\n     it must be returned to him, and purchased by some other\n     hand. It is designed for Mr du Peyrou, who desired long\n     since to have my portrait, and caused one to be painted\n     in miniature, which is not at all like me. You were more\n     fortunate in this respect than me; but I am sorry that, by\n     your assiduity to serve me, you deprived me of the pleasure\n     of discharging the same friendly obligation with regard to\n     yourself. Be so good, my dear patron, as to order the model\n     to be sent to Messrs Guinand and Hankey, Little St Helen's,\n     Bishopsgate Street, in order to be transmitted to Mr du\n     Peyrou by the first safe conveyance. It hath been a frost\n     ever since I have been here; the snow falls daily; and the\n     wind is cutting and severe; notwithstanding all which, I\n     had rather lodge in the hollow trunk of an old tree, in\n     this country, than in the most superb apartment in London.\n     Good day, my dear patron. I embrace you with all my heart.\n     J. J. R.\n\n\nMr Rousseau and I having agreed not to lay each other under any\nrestraint by a continued correspondence, the only subject of our future\nletters was the obtaining a pension for him from the King of England,\nwhich was then in agitation, and of which affair the following is a\nconcise and faithful relation.\n\nAs we were conversing together one evening at Calais, where we were\ndetained by contrary winds, I asked Mr Rousseau if he would not accept\nof a pension from the King of England, in case his Majesty should be\npleased to grant him one. To this he replied, it was a matter of some\ndifficulty to resolve on, but that he should be entirely directed\nby the advice of my Lord Marshall. Encouraged by this answer, I no\nsooner arrived in London than I addressed myself to his Majesty's\nMinisters, and particularly to General Conway, Secretary of State, and\nGeneral Gr\u00e6me, Secretary and Chamberlain to the Queen. Application was\naccordingly made to their Majesties, who, with their usual goodness,\nconsented, on condition only that the affair should not be made public.\nMr Rousseau and I both wrote to my Lord Marshall; and Mr Rousseau\nexpressly observed in his letter, that the circumstance of the affair's\nbeing to be kept secret was very agreeable to him. The consent of my\nLord Marshall arrived, as may readily be imagined; soon after which Mr\nRousseau set out for Wooton, while the business remained some time in\nsuspense, on account of the indisposition of General Conway.\n\nIn the mean time, I began to be afraid, from what I had observed of\nMr Rousseau's disposition and character, that his natural restlessness\nof mind would prevent the enjoyment of that repose, to which the\nhospitality and security he found in England invited him. I saw, with\ninfinite regret, that he was born for storms and tumults, and that the\ndisgust which might succeed the peaceful enjoyment of solitude and\ntranquillity, would soon render him a burthen to himself and every body\nabout him.[3] But, as I lived at the distance of an hundred and fifty\nmiles from the place of his residence, and was constantly employed in\ndoing him good offices, I did not expect that I myself should be the\nvictim of this unhappy disposition.\n\n\n[3] In forming the opinion of Mr Rousseau's disposition, Mr Hume was by\nno means singular. The striking features of Mr Rousseau's extraordinary\ncharacter having been strongly marked in the criticisms on his several\nwritings, in the Monthly Review, particularly in the account of his\nLetters from the Mountains, in the appendix to the 31st vol. of that\nwork, where this celebrated genius is described, merely from the\ngeneral tenour of his writings and the outlines of his public conduct,\nto be exactly such a kind of person as Mr Hume hath discovered him from\nintimate and personal acquaintance.--_English translator_.\n\n\nIt is necessary to introduce here a letter, which was written last\nwinter, at Paris, in the name of the king of Prussia.\n\n\n     MY DEAR JOHN JAMES,\n\n     You have renounced Geneva, your native soil. You have been\n     driven from Switzerland, a country of which you have made\n     such boast in your writings. In France you are outlawed:\n     come then to me. I admire your talents, and amuse myself\n     with your reveries; on which, however, by the way, you\n     bestow too much time and attention. It is high time to grow\n     prudent and happy; you have made yourself sufficiently\n     talked of for singularities little becoming a truly great\n     man: show your enemies that you have sometimes common\n     sense: this will vex them without hurting you. My dominions\n     afford you a peaceable retreat: I am desirous to do you\n     good, and will do it, if you can but think it such. But\n     if you are determined to refuse my assistance, you may\n     expect that I shall say not a word about it to any one.\n     If you persist in perplexing your brains to find out new\n     misfortunes, choose such as you like best; I am a king,\n     and can make you as miserable as you can wish; at the same\n     time, I will engage to do that which your enemies never\n     will, I will cease to persecute you, when you are no longer\n     vain of persecution.\n\n     Your sincere friend, FREDERICK.\n\n\nThis letter was written by Mr Horace Walpole, about three weeks before\nI left Paris; but though we lodged in the same hotel, and were often\ntogether, Mr Walpole, out of regard to me, carefully concealed this\npiece of pleasantry till after my departure. He then showed it to some\nfriends, who took copies; and those of course presently multiplied; so\nthat this little piece had been spread with rapidity all over Europe,\nand was in every body's hands when I saw it, for the first time, in\nLondon.\n\nI believe every one will allow, who knows any thing of the liberty of\nthis country, that such a piece of raillery could not, even by the\nutmost influence of kings, lords and commons, by all the authority\necclesiastical, civil and military, be kept from finding its way to the\npress. It was accordingly published in the St James's Chronicle, and a\nfew days after I was very much surprised to find the following piece in\nthe same paper.\n\n\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ST JAMES'S CHRONICLE.\n\n\n     _Wooton_, _April_ 7_th_, 1766.\n\n     SIR,\n\n     You have been wanting in that respect which every private\n     person owes to crowned heads, in publickly ascribing\n     to the King of Prussia, a letter full of baseness and\n     extravagance; by which circumstance alone, you might be\n     very well assured he could not be the author. You have even\n     dared to subscribe his name, as if you had seen him write\n     it with his own hand. I inform you, Sir, that this letter\n     was fabricated at Paris, and, what rends and afflicts my\n     heart, that the impostor hath his accomplices in England.\n\n     In justice to the King of Prussia, to truth, and to myself,\n     you ought therefore to print the letter I am now writing,\n     and to which I set my name, by way of reparation for a\n     fault, which you would undoubtedly reproach yourself for\n     if you knew of what atrociousness you have been made the\n     instrument. Sir, I make you my sincere salutations.\n\n     J. J. R.\n\n\nI was sorry to see Mr Rousseau display such an excess of sensibility,\non account of so simple and unavoidable an incident, as the publication\nof this pretended letter from the King of Prussia. But I should have\naccused myself of a most black and malevolent disposition, if I had\nimagined Mr Rousseau could have suspected me to have been the editor of\nit, or that he had intentionally directed his resentment against me.\nHe now informs me, however, that this was really the case. Just eight\ndays before, I had received a letter, written in the most amicable\nterms imaginable.[4] I am, surely, the last man in the world, who, in\ncommon sense, ought to be suspected; yet, without even the pretence\nof the smallest proof or probability, I am, of a sudden, the first\nman not only suspected, but certainly concluded to be the publisher;\nI am, without further inquiry or explication, intentionally insulted\nin a public paper; I am, from the dearest friend, converted into a\ntreacherous and malignant enemy; and all my present and past services\nare at one stroke very artfully cancelled. Were it not ridiculous to\nemploy reasoning on such a subject, and with such a man, I might ask\nMr Rousseau, \"Why I am supposed to have any malignity against him?\"\nMy actions, in a hundred instances, had sufficiently demonstrated\nthe contrary; and it is not usual for favours conferred to beget ill\nwill in the person who confers them. But supposing I had secretly\nentertained an animosity towards him, would I run the risk of a\ndiscovery, by so silly a vengeance, and by sending this piece to the\npress, when I knew, from the usual avidity of the news-writers to find\narticles of intelligence, that it must necessarily in a few days be\nlaid hold of?\n\n[4] That of the 29th of March.\n\nBut not imagining that I was the object of so black and ridiculous a\nsuspicion, I pursued my usual train, by serving my friend in the least\ndoubtful manner. I renewed my applications to General Conway, as soon\nas the state of that gentleman's health permitted it: the General\napplies again to his Majesty: his Majesty's consent is renewed: the\nMarquis of Rockingham, first Commissioner of the Treasury, is also\napplied to: the whole affair is happily finished; and full of joy, I\nconveyed the intelligence to my friend. On which Mr Conway soon after\nreceived the following letter.\n\n\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO GENERAL CONWAY.\n\n\n     _May_ 12_th_, 1766.\n\n     SIR,\n\n     Affected with a most lively sense of the favour his\n     Majesty hath honoured me with, and with that of your\n     goodness, which procured it me, it affords me the most\n     pleasing sensation to reflect, that the best of Kings, and\n     the Minister most worthy of his confidence, are pleased\n     to interest themselves in my fortune. This, Sir, is an\n     advantage of which I am justly tenacious, and which I will\n     never deserve to lose. But it is necessary I should speak\n     to you with that frankness you admire. After the many\n     misfortunes that have befallen me, I thought myself armed\n     against all possible events. There have happened to me\n     some, however, which I did not foresee, and which indeed an\n     ingenuous mind ought not to have foreseen: hence it is that\n     they affect me by so much the more severely. The trouble\n     in which they involve me, indeed, deprives me of the ease\n     and presence of mind necessary to direct my conduct: all\n     I can reasonably do, under so distressed a situation,\n     is to suspend my resolutions about every affair of such\n     importance as is that in agitation. So far from refusing\n     the beneficence of the King from pride, as is imputed to\n     me, I am proud of acknowledging it, and am only sorry I\n     cannot do it more publicly. But when I actually receive\n     it, I would be able to give up myself entirely to those\n     sentiments which it would naturally inspire, and to have an\n     heart replete with gratitude for his Majesty's goodness and\n     yours. I am not at all afraid this manner of thinking will\n     make any alteration in yours towards me. Deign, therefore,\n     Sir, to preserve that goodness for me, till a more happy\n     opportunity, when you will be satisfied that I defer taking\n     the advantage of it, only to render myself more worthy of\n     it. I beg of you, Sir, to accept of my most humble and\n     respectful salutations.\n\n     J. J. R.\n\nThis letter appeared both to General Conway and me a plain refusal, as\nlong as the article of secrecy was insisted on; but as I knew that Mr\nRousseau had been acquainted with that condition from the beginning,\nI was the less surprised at his silence towards me. I thought that my\nfriend, conscious of having treated me ill in this affair, was ashamed\nto write to me; and having prevailed on General Conway to keep the\nmatter still open, I wrote a very friendly letter to Mr Rousseau,\nexhorting him to return to his former way of thinking, and to accept of\nthe pension.\n\nAs to the deep distress which he mentions to General Conway, and which,\nhe says, deprives him even of the use of his reason, I was set very\nmuch at ease on that head, by receiving a letter from Mr Davenport, who\ntold me, that his guest was at that very time extremely happy, easy,\ncheerful, and even sociable. I saw plainly, in this event, the usual\ninfirmity of my friend, who wishes to interest the world in his favour,\nby passing for sickly, and persecuted, and distressed, and unfortunate,\nbeyond all measure, even while he is the most happy and contented. His\npretences of an extreme sensibility had been too frequently repeated,\nto have any effect on a man who was so well acquainted with them.\n\nI waited three weeks in vain for an answer: I thought this a little\nstrange, and I even wrote so to Mr Davenport; but having to do with\na very odd sort of a man, and still accounting for his silence by\nsupposing him ashamed to write to me, I was resolved not to be\ndiscouraged, nor to lose the opportunity of doing him an essential\nservice, on account of a vain ceremonial. I accordingly renewed my\napplications to the Ministers, and was so happy as to be enabled to\nwrite the following letter to Mr Rousseau, the only one of so old a\ndate of which I have a copy.\n\n\n\n     MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.\n\n\n     _Lisle-street_, _Leicester-fields_, 19_th June_, 1766.\n\n     As I have not received any answer from you, I conclude,\n     that you persevere in the same resolution of refusing all\n     marks of his Majesty's goodness, as long as they must\n     remain a secret. I have therefore applied to General Conway\n     to have this condition removed; and I was so fortunate as\n     to obtain his promise that he would speak to the King for\n     that purpose. It will only be requisite, said he, that we\n     know previously from Mr Rousseau, whether he would accept\n     of a pension publicly granted him, that his Majesty may\n     not be exposed to a second refusal. He gave me authority\n     to write to you on that subject; and I beg to hear your\n     resolution as soon as possible. If you give your consent,\n     which I earnestly entreat you to do, I know, that I could\n     depend on the good offices of the Duke of Richmond, to\n     second General Conway's application; so that I have no\n     doubt of success. I am, my Dear Sir, Yours, with great\n     sincerity,\n\n     D. H.\n\n\nIn five days I received the following answer.\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.\n\n\n     _Wooton_, _June_ 23_d_, 1766.\n\n     I imagined, Sir, that my silence, truly interpreted by your\n     own conscience, had said enough; but since you have some\n     design in not understanding me, I shall speak. You have\n     but ill disguised yourself. I know you, and you are not\n     ignorant of it. Before we had any personal connections,\n     quarrels, or disputes; while we knew each other only by\n     literary reputation, you affectionately made me the offer\n     of the good offices of yourself and friends. Affected by\n     this generosity, I threw myself into your arms; you brought\n     me to England, apparently to procure me an asylum, but in\n     fact to bring me to dishonour. You applied to this noble\n     work, with a zeal worthy of your heart, and a success\n     worthy of your abilities. You needed not have taken so much\n     pains: you live and converse with the world; I with myself\n     in solitude. The public love to be deceived, and you were\n     formed to deceive them. I know one man, however, whom you\n     can not deceive; I mean myself. You know with what horror\n     my heart rejected the first suspicion of your designs. You\n     know I embraced you with tears in my eyes, and told you, if\n     you were not the best of men, you must be the blackest of\n     mankind. In reflecting on your private conduct, you must\n     say to yourself sometimes, you are not the best of men:\n     under which conviction, I doubt much if ever you will be\n     the happiest.\n\n     I leave your friends and you to carry on your schemes as\n     you please; giving up to you, without regret, my reputation\n     during life; certain that, sooner or later, justice will be\n     done to that of both. As to your good offices in matters\n     of interest, which you have made use of as a mask, I thank\n     you for them, and shall dispense with profiting by them. I\n     ought not to hold a correspondence with you any longer, or\n     to accept of it to my advantage in any affair in which you\n     are to be the mediator. Adieu, Sir, I wish you the truest\n     happiness; but as we ought not to have any thing to say to\n     each other for the future, this is the last letter you will\n     receive from me.\n\n     J. J. R.\n\nTo this I immediately sent the following reply.\n\n\n     MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.\n\n\n     _June_ 26_th_, 1766.\n\n     As I am conscious of having ever acted towards you the most\n     friendly part, of having always given the most tender, the\n     most active proofs of sincere affection; you may judge of\n     my extreme surprize on perusing your epistle. Such violent\n     accusations, confined altogether to generals, it is as\n     impossible to answer, as it is impossible to comprehend\n     them. But affairs cannot, must not remain on that footing.\n     I shall charitably suppose, that some infamous calumniator\n     has belied me to you. But in that case, it is your duty,\n     and I am persuaded it will be your inclination, to give me\n     an opportunity of detecting him, and of justifying myself;\n     which can only be done by your mentioning the particulars\n     of which I am accused. You say, that I myself know that\n     I have been false to you; but I say it loudly, and will\n     say it to the whole world, that I know the contrary, that\n     I know my friendship towards you has been unbounded and\n     uninterrupted, and that though instances of it have been\n     very generally remarked both in France and England, the\n     smallest part of it only has as yet come to the knowledge\n     of the public. I demand, that you will produce me the man\n     who will assert the contrary; and above all, I demand,\n     that he will mention any one particular in which I have\n     been wanting to you. You owe this to me; you owe it to\n     yourself; you owe it to truth, and honour, and justice, and\n     to every thing that can be deemed sacred among men. As an\n     innocent man; I will not say, as your friend; I will not\n     say, as your benefactor; but, I repeat it, as an innocent\n     man, I claim the privilege of proving my innocence, and of\n     refuting any scandalous lie which may have been invented\n     against me. Mr Davenport, to whom I have sent a copy of\n     your letter, and who will read this before he delivers it,\n     I am confident, will second my demand, and will tell you,\n     that nothing possibly can be more equitable. Happily I\n     have preserved the letter you wrote me after your arrival\n     at Wooton; and you there express in the strongest terms,\n     indeed in terms too strong, your satisfaction in my poor\n     endeavours to serve you: the little epistolary intercourse\n     which afterwards passed between us, has been all employed\n     on my side to the most friendly purposes. Tell me, what has\n     since given you offence. Tell me of what I am accused. Tell\n     me the man who accuses me. Even after you have fulfilled\n     all these conditions, to my satisfaction, and to that of Mr\n     Davenport, you will have great difficulty to justify the\n     employing such outrageous terms towards a man, with whom\n     you have been so intimately connected, and whom, on many\n     accounts, you ought to have treated with some regard and\n     decency.\n\n     Mr Davenport knows the whole transaction about your\n     pension, because I thought it necessary that the person who\n     had undertaken your settlement, should be fully acquainted\n     with your circumstances; lest he should be tempted to\n     perform towards you concealed acts of generosity, which, if\n     they accidentally came to your knowledge, might give you\n     some grounds of offence. I am, Sir,\n\n     D. H.\n\n\nMr Davenport's authority procured me, in three weeks, the following\nenormous letter; which however has this advantage, that it confirms all\nthe material circumstances of the foregoing narrative. I have subjoined\na few notes relative to some facts which Mr Rousseau hath not truly\nrepresented, and leave my readers to judge which of us deserves the\ngreatest confidence.\n\n\n\n     MR ROUSSEAU TO MR HUME.\n\n\n     _Wooton_, _July_ 10, 1766.\n\n     SIR,\n\n     I am indisposed, and little in a situation to write; but\n     you require an explanation, and it must be given you: it\n     was your own fault you had it not long since; but you did\n     not desire it, and I was therefore silent: at present you\n     do, and I have sent it. It will be a long one, for which I\n     am very sorry; but I have much to say, and would put an end\n     to the subject at once.\n\n     As I live retired from the world, I am ignorant of what\n     passes in it. I have no party, no associates, no intrigues;\n     I am told nothing, and I know only what I feel. But as care\n     hath been taken to make me severely feel; that I well know.\n     The first concern of those who engage in bad designs is to\n     secure themselves from legal proofs of detection: it would\n     not be very advisable to seek a remedy against them at law.\n     The innate conviction of the heart admits of another kind\n     of proof, which influences the sentiments of honest men.\n     You well know the basis of mine.\n\n     You ask me, with great confidence, to name your accuser.\n     That accuser, Sir, is the only man in the world whose\n     testimony I should admit against you; it is yourself. I\n     shall give myself up, without fear or reserve, to the\n     natural frankness of my disposition; being an enemy to\n     every kind of artifice, I shall speak with the same\n     freedom as if you were an indifferent person, on whom I\n     placed all that confidence which I no longer have in you.\n     I will give you a history of the emotions of my heart,\n     and of what produced them; while speaking of Mr Hume in\n     the third person, I shall make yourself the judge of what\n     I ought to think of him. Notwithstanding the length of\n     my letter, I shall pursue no other order than that of my\n     ideas, beginning with the premises, and ending with the\n     demonstration.\n\n     I quitted Switzerland, wearied out by the barbarous\n     treatment I had undergone; but which affected only my\n     personal security, while my honour was safe. I was going,\n     as my heart directed me, to join my Lord Marshal; when I\n     received at Strasburg, a most affectionate invitation from\n     Mr Hume, to go over with him to England, where he promised\n     me the most agreeable reception, and more tranquillity\n     than I have met with. I hesitated some time between my old\n     friend and my new one; in this I was wrong. I preferred\n     the latter, and in this was still more so. But the desire\n     of visiting in person a celebrated nation, of which I had\n     heard both so much good and so much ill, prevailed. Assured\n     I could not lose George Keith, I was flattered with the\n     acquisition of David Hume. His great merit, extraordinary\n     abilities, and established probity of character, made me\n     desirous of annexing his friendship to that with which\n     I was honoured by his illustrious countrymen. Besides,\n     I gloried not a little in setting an example to men of\n     letters, in a sincere union between two men so different in\n     their principles.\n\n     Before I had received an invitation from the King of\n     Prussia, and my Lord Marshal, undetermined about the place\n     of my retreat, I had desired, and obtained by the interest\n     of my friends, a passport from the Court of France. I made\n     use of this, and went to Paris to join Mr Hume. He saw,\n     and perhaps saw too much of, the favourable reception I\n     met with from a great Prince, and I will venture to say,\n     of the public. I yielded, as it was my duty, though with\n     reluctance, to that eclat; concluding how far it must\n     excite the envy of my enemies. At the same time, I saw\n     with pleasure, the regard which the public entertained for\n     Mr Hume, sensibly increasing throughout Paris, on account\n     of the good work he had undertaken with respect to me.\n     Doubtless he was affected too; but I know not if it was in\n     the same manner as I was.\n\n     We set out with one of my friends, who came to England\n     almost entirely on my account. When we were landed at\n     Dover, transported with the thoughts of having set foot in\n     this land of liberty, under the conduct of so celebrated a\n     person, I threw my arms round his neck, and pressed him to\n     my heart, without speaking a syllable; bathing his cheeks,\n     as I kissed them, with tears sufficiently expressive. This\n     was not the only, nor the most remarkable instance I have\n     given him of the effusions of a heart full of sensibility.\n     I know not what he does with the recollection of them, when\n     that happens; but I have a notion they must be sometimes\n     troublesome to him.\n\n     At our arrival in London, we were mightily caressed and\n     entertained: all ranks of people eagerly pressing to\n     give me marks of their benevolence and esteem. Mr Hume\n     presented me politely to every body; and it was natural\n     for me to ascribe to him, as I did, the best part of my\n     good reception. My heart was full of him, I spoke in his\n     praise to every one, I wrote to the same purpose to all\n     my friends; my attachment to him gathering every day new\n     strength, while his appeared the most affectionate to me,\n     of which he frequently gave me instances that touched me\n     extremely. That of causing my portrait to be painted,\n     however, was not of the number. This seemed to me to carry\n     with it too much the affectation of popularity, and had an\n     air of ostentation which by no means pleased me. All this,\n     however, might have been easily excusable, had Mr Hume\n     been a man apt to throw away his money, or had a gallery\n     of pictures with the portraits of his friends. After all,\n     I freely confess, that, on this head, I may be in the\n     wrong.[5]\n\n     But what appears to me an act of friendship and generosity\n     the most undoubted and estimable, in a word, the most\n     worthy of Mr Hume, was the care he took to solicit for me,\n     of his own accord, a pension from the King, to which most\n     assuredly I had no right to aspire. As I was a witness\n     to the zeal he exerted in that affair, I was greatly\n     affected with it. Nothing could flatter me more than a\n     piece of service of that nature; not merely for the sake\n     of interest; for, too much attached, perhaps, to what I\n     actually possess, I am not capable of desiring what I have\n     not, and, as I am able to subsist on my labour, and the\n     assistance of my friends, I covet nothing more. But the\n     honour of receiving testimonies of the goodness, I will not\n     say of so great a monarch, but of so good a father, so good\n     a husband, so good a master, so good a friend, and, above\n     all, so worthy a man, was sensibly affecting: and when I\n     considered farther, that the minister who had obtained\n     for me this favour, was a living instance of that probity\n     which of all others is the most important to mankind, and\n     at the same time hardly ever met with in the only character\n     wherein it can be useful, I could not check the emotions of\n     my pride, at having for my benefactors three men, who of\n     all the world I could most desire to have my friends. Thus,\n     so far from refusing the pension offered me, I only made\n     one condition necessary for my acceptance; this was the\n     consent of a person, whom I could not, without neglecting\n     my duty, fail to consult.\n\n     Being honoured with the civilities of all the world, I\n     endeavoured to make a proper return. In the mean time,\n     my bad state of health, and being accustomed to live in\n     the country, made my residence in town very disagreeable.\n     Immediately country houses presented themselves in plenty;\n     I had my choice of all the counties of England. Mr Hume\n     took the trouble to receive these proposals, and to\n     represent them to me; accompanying me to two or three in\n     the neighbouring counties. I hesitated a good while in my\n     choice, and he increased the difficulty of determination.\n     At length I fixed on this place, and immediately Mr Hume\n     settled the affair; all difficulties vanished, and I\n     departed; arriving presently at this solitary, convenient,\n     and agreeable habitation, where the owner of the house\n     provides every thing, and nothing is wanting. I became\n     tranquil, independent; and this seemed to be the wished-for\n     moment when all my misfortunes should have an end. On the\n     contrary, it was now they began; misfortunes more cruel\n     than any I had yet experienced.\n\n     Hitherto I have spoken in the fulness of my heart, and to\n     do justice, with the greatest pleasure, to the good offices\n     of Mr Hume. Would to Heaven that what remains for me to say\n     were of the same nature! It would never give me pain to\n     speak what would redound to his honour; nor is it proper to\n     set a value on benefits till one is accused of ingratitude,\n     which is the case at present. I will venture to make one\n     observation, therefore, which renders it necessary. In\n     estimating the services of Mr Hume, by the time and the\n     pains they took him up, they were of an infinite value,\n     and that still more from the good will displayed in their\n     performance; but for the actual service they were of to\n     me, it was much more in appearance than reality. I did\n     not come over to beg my bread in England; I brought the\n     means of subsistence with me. I came merely to seek an\n     asylum in a country which is open to every stranger without\n     distinction. I was, besides, not so totally unknown as\n     that, if I had arrived alone, I should have wanted either\n     assistance or service. If some persons have sought my\n     acquaintance for the sake of Mr Hume, others have sought\n     it for my own. Thus, when Mr Davenport, for example, was\n     so kind as to offer my present retreat, it was not for the\n     sake of Mr Hume, whom he did not know, and whom he saw only\n     in order to desire him to make me his obliging proposal;\n     so that, when Mr Hume endeavours to alienate from me this\n     worthy man, he takes that from me which he did not give\n     me.[6] All the good that hath been done me, would have been\n     done me nearly the same without him, and perhaps better;\n     but the evil would not have been done me at all; for why\n     should I have enemies in England? Why are those enemies all\n     the friends of Mr Hume? Who could have excited their enmity\n     against me? It certainly was not I, who knew nothing of\n     them, nor ever saw them in my life. I should not have had a\n     single enemy had I come to England alone.[7]\n\n     I have hitherto dwelt upon public and notorious facts,\n     which, from their own nature, and my acknowledgment, have\n     made the greatest eclat. Those which are to follow are\n     particular and secret, at least in their cause; and all\n     possible measures have been taken to keep the knowledge of\n     them from the public; but as they are well known to the\n     person interested, they will not have the less influence\n     toward his own conviction.\n\n     A very short time after our arrival in London, I observed\n     an absurd change in the minds of the people regarding\n     me, which soon became very apparent. Before I arrived in\n     England, there was not a nation in Europe in which I\n     had a greater reputation, I will venture to say, or was\n     held in greater estimation. The public papers were full\n     of encomiums on me, and a general outcry prevailed on my\n     persecutors.[8] This was the case at my arrival, which\n     was published in the newspapers with triumph; England\n     prided itself in affording me refuge, and justly gloried\n     on that occasion in its laws and government; when all of a\n     sudden, without the least assignable cause, the tone was\n     changed, and that so speedily and totally, that, of all\n     the caprices of the public, never was known any thing more\n     surprising. The signal was given in a certain _Magazine_,\n     equally full of follies and falsehoods, in which the\n     author, being well informed, or pretending to be so, gives\n     me out for the son of a musician. From this time[9] I was\n     constantly spoken of in print in a very equivocal or\n     slighting manner.[10] Every thing that had been published\n     concerning my misfortunes was misrepresented, altered, or\n     placed in a wrong light, and always as much as possible to\n     my disadvantage. So far was any body from speaking of the\n     reception I met with at Paris, and which had made but too\n     much noise, it was not generally supposed that I durst have\n     appeared in that city, even one of Mr Hume's friends being\n     very much surprised when I told him I came through it.\n\n     Accustomed as I had been too much to the inconstancy of\n     the public, to be affected by this instance of it, I could\n     not help being astonished, however, at a change, so very\n     sudden and general, that not one of those who had so much\n     praised me in my absence, appeared, now I was present, to\n     think even of my existence. I thought it something very\n     odd that, immediately after the return of Mr Hume, who had\n     so much credit in London, with so much influence over the\n     booksellers and men of letters, and such great connections\n     with them, his presence should produce an effect so\n     contrary to what might have been expected; that among so\n     many writers of every kind, not one of his friends should\n     show himself to be mine; while it was easy to be seen,\n     that those who spoke of him were not his enemies, since,\n     in noticing his public character, they reported that I had\n     come through France under his protection, and by favour of\n     a passport which he had obtained of the court; nay, they\n     almost went so far as to insinuate, that I came over in\n     his retinue, and at his expense. All this was of little\n     signification, and was only singular; but what was much\n     more so, was, that his friends changed their tone with me\n     as much as the public. I shall always take a pleasure in\n     saying that they were still equally solicitous to serve\n     me, and that they exerted themselves greatly in my favour;\n     but so far were they from showing me the same respect,\n     particularly the gentleman at whose house we alighted on\n     our arrival, that he accompanied all his actions with\n     discourse so rude, and sometimes so insulting, that one\n     would have thought he had taken an occasion to oblige\n     me, merely to have a right to express his contempt.[11]\n     His brother, who was at first very polite and obliging,\n     altered his behaviour with so little reserve, that he\n     would hardly deign to speak a single word to me, even in\n     their own house, in return to a civil salutation, or to\n     pay any of those civilities which are usually paid in like\n     circumstances to strangers. Nothing new had happened,\n     however, except the arrival of J. J. Rousseau and David\n     Hume: and certainly the cause of these alterations did\n     not come from me, unless, indeed, too great a portion\n     of simplicity, discretion, and modesty, be the cause of\n     offence in England. As to Mr Hume, he was so far from\n     assuming such a disgusting tone, that he gave into the\n     other extreme. I have always looked upon flatterers with\n     an eye of suspicion: and he was so full of all kinds[12]\n     of flattery, that he even obliged me, when I could bear\n     it no longer,[13] to tell him my sentiments on that head.\n     His behaviour was such as to render few words necessary,\n     yet I could have wished he had substituted, in the room of\n     such gross encomiums, sometimes the language of a friend;\n     but I never found any thing in his, which savoured of true\n     friendship, not even in his manner of speaking of me to\n     others in my presence. One would have thought that, in\n     endeavouring to procure me patrons, he strove to deprive\n     me of their good will; that he sought rather to have me\n     assisted than loved; and I have been sometimes surprised at\n     the rude turn he hath given to my behaviour before people\n     who might not unreasonably have taken offence at it. I\n     shall give an example of what I mean. Mr Pennick of the\n     Museum, a friend of my Lord Marshal's, and minister of a\n     parish where I was solicited to reside, came to see me. Mr\n     Hume made my excuses, while I myself was present, for not\n     having paid him a visit. Doctor Matty, said he, invited us\n     on Thursday to the Museum, where Mr Rousseau should have\n     seen you; but he chose rather to go with Mrs Garrick to\n     the play: we could not do both the same day.[14] You will\n     confess, Sir, this was a strange method of recommending me\n     to Mr Pennick.\n\n     I know not what Mr Hume might say in private of me to his\n     acquaintance, but nothing was more extraordinary than\n     their behaviour to me, even by his own confession, and\n     even often through his own means. Although my purse was\n     not empty, and I needed not that of any other person,\n     which he very well knew, yet any one would have thought\n     I was come over to subsist on the charity of the public,\n     and that nothing more was to be done than to give me alms\n     in such a manner as to save me a little confusion.[15] I\n     must own, this constant and insolent piece of affectation\n     was one of those things which made me averse to reside in\n     London. This certainly was not the footing on which any\n     man should have been introduced in England, had there been\n     a design of procuring him ever so little respect. This\n     display of charity, however, may admit of a more favourable\n     interpretation, and I consent it should. To proceed.\n\n     At Paris was published a fictitious letter from the King\n     of Prussia, addressed to me, and replete with the most\n     cruel malignity. I learned with surprise that it was one\n     Mr Walpole, a a friend of Mr Hume's who was the editor; I\n     asked him if it were true; in answer to which question,\n     he only asked me, of whom I had the information. A moment\n     before he had given me a card for this same Mr Walpole,\n     written to engage him to bring over such papers as related\n     to me from Paris, and which I wanted to have by a safe hand.\n\n     I was informed that the son of that quack[16] Tronchin,\n     my most mortal enemy, was not only the friend of Mr Hume,\n     and under his protection, but that they both lodged in the\n     same house together; and when Mr Hume found that I knew\n     it, he imparted it in confidence; assuring me at the same\n     time that the son was by no means like the father. I lodged\n     a few nights myself, together with my governante, in the\n     same house; and by the air and manner with which we were\n     received by the landladies, who are his friends, I judged\n     in what manner either Mr Hume, or that man, who, as he\n     said, was by no means like his father, must have spoken to\n     them both of her and me.[17]\n\n     All these facts put together, added to a certain appearance\n     of things on the whole, insensibly gave me an uneasiness\n     which I rejected with horror. In the mean time, I found\n     the letters I wrote did not come to hand; those I received\n     had often been opened; and all went through the hands of\n     Mr Hume.[18] If at any time any one escaped him, he could\n     not conceal his eagerness to see it. One evening, in\n     particular, I remember a very remarkable circumstance of\n     this kind that greatly struck me.[19]\n\n     As we were sitting one evening, after supper, silent by\n     the fire-side, I caught his eyes intently fixed on mine,\n     as indeed happened very often; and that in a manner of\n     which it is very difficult to give an idea. At that time\n     he gave me a stedfast, piercing look, mixed with a sneer,\n     which greatly disturbed me. To get rid of the embarrassment\n     I lay under, I endeavoured to look full at him in my\n     turn; but, in fixing my eyes against his, I felt the most\n     inexpressible terror, and was obliged soon to turn them\n     away. The speech and physiognomy of the good David is that\n     of an honest man; but where, great God! did this good man\n     borrow those eyes he fixes so sternly and unaccountably on\n     those of his friends?\n\n     The impression of this look remained with me, and gave me\n     much uneasiness. My trouble increased even to a degree of\n     fainting; and if I had not been relieved by an effusion\n     of tears, I had been suffocated. Presently after this I\n     was seized with the most violent remorse; I even despised\n     myself; till at length, in a transport which I still\n     remember with delight, I sprang on his neck, embraced him\n     eagerly; while almost choked with sobbing, and bathed in\n     tears, I cried out, in broken accents, _No, no, David\n     Hume cannot be treacherous. If he be not the best of men,\n     he must be the basest of mankind_. David Hume politely\n     returned my embraces, and, gently, tapping me on the back,\n     repeated several times, in a good-natured and easy tone,\n     _Why, what, my dear Sir! Nay, my dear Sir! Oh, my dear\n     Sir!_ He said nothing more. I felt my heart yearn within\n     me. We went to bed; and I set out the next day for the\n     country.\n\n     Arrived at this agreeable asylum, to which I have travelled\n     so far in search of repose, I ought to find it in a\n     retired, convenient, and pleasant habitation; the master\n     of which, a man of understanding and worth, spares for\n     nothing to render it agreeable to me. But what repose can\n     be tasted in life, when the heart is agitated? Afflicted\n     with the most cruel uncertainty, and ignorant what to think\n     of a man whom I ought to love and esteem, I endeavoured to\n     get rid of that fatal doubt, in placing confidence in my\n     benefactor. For, wherefore, from what unaccountable caprice\n     should he display so much apparent zeal for my happiness,\n     and at the same time entertain secret designs against my\n     honour. Among the several observations that disturbed me,\n     each fact was in itself of no great moment; it was their\n     concurrence that was surprising; yet I thought, perhaps,\n     that Mr Hume, informed of other facts, of which I was\n     ignorant, could have given me a satisfactory solution of\n     them, had we come to an explanation. The only thing that\n     was inexplicable, was, that he refused to come to such\n     an explanation; which both his honour and his friendship\n     rendered equally necessary. I saw very well there was\n     something in the affair which I did not comprehend, and\n     which I earnestly wished to know. Before I came to an\n     absolute determination, therefore, with regard to him,\n     I was desirous of making another effort, and to try to\n     recover him, if he had permitted himself to be seduced by\n     my enemies, or, in short, to prevail on him to explain\n     himself one way or other. Accordingly I wrote him a letter,\n     which he ought to have found very natural,[20] if he were\n     guilty; but very extraordinary, if he were innocent.\n     For what could be more extraordinary than a letter full\n     of gratitude for his services, and at the same time, of\n     distrust of his sentiments; and in which, placing in a\n     manner his actions on one side, and his sentiments on the\n     other, instead of speaking of the proofs of friendship\n     he had given me, I desired him to love me, for the good\n     he had done me![21] I did not take the precaution to\n     preserve a copy of this letter; but as he hath done it,\n     let him produce it: and whoever shall read it, and see\n     therein a man labouring under a secret trouble, which he is\n     desirous of expressing, and is afraid to do it, will, I am\n     persuaded, be curious to know what kind of \u00e9claircissement\n     it produced, especially after the preceding scene. None.\n     Absolutely none at all. Mr Hume contented himself, in his\n     answer, with only speaking of the obliging offices Mr\n     Davenport proposed to do for me. As for the rest, he said\n     not a word of the principal subject of my letter, nor of\n     the situation of my heart, of whose distress he could not\n     be ignorant. I was more struck with this silence, than I\n     had been with his phlegm during our last conversation. In\n     this I was wrong; this silence was very natural after the\n     other, and was no more than I ought to have expected. For\n     when one hath ventured to declare to a man's face, _I am\n     tempted to believe you a traitor_, and he hath not the\n     curiosity to ask you _for what_,[22] it may be depended\n     on he will never have any such curiosity as long as he\n     lives; and it is easy to judge of him from these slight\n     indications.\n\n     After the receipt of his letter, which was long delayed, I\n     determined at length to write to him no more. Soon after,\n     every thing served to confirm me in the resolution to\n     break off all farther correspondence with him. Curious to\n     the last degree concerning the minutest circumstance of\n     my affairs, he was not content to learn them of me, in\n     our frequent conversations; but, as I learned, never let\n     slip an opportunity of being alone with my governante,[23]\n     to interrogate her even importunately concerning my\n     occupations, my resources, my friends, acquaintances, their\n     names, situations, place of abode, and all this after\n     setting out with telling her he was well acquainted with\n     the whole of my connections; nay, with the most jesuitical\n     address, he would ask the same questions of us separately.\n     One ought undoubtedly to interest one's self in the affairs\n     of a friend; but one ought to be satisfied with what he\n     thinks proper to let us know of them, particularly when\n     people are so frank and ingenuous as I am. Indeed all this\n     petty inquisitiveness is very little becoming a philosopher.\n\n     About the same time I received two other letters which had\n     been opened. The one from Mr Boswell, the seal of which\n     was so loose and disfigured, that Mr Davenport, when he\n     received it, remarked the same to Mr Hume's servant. The\n     other was from Mr d'Ivernois, in Mr Hume's packet, and\n     which had been sealed up again by means of a hot iron,\n     which, awkwardly applied, had burnt the paper round the\n     impression. On this I wrote to Mr Davenport to desire him\n     to take charge of all the letters which might be sent for\n     me, and to trust none of them in any body's hands, under\n     any pretext whatever. I know not whether Mr Davenport, who\n     certainly was far from thinking that precaution was to be\n     observed with regard to Mr Hume, showed him my letter or\n     not; but this I know, that the latter had all the reason\n     in the world to think he had forfeited my confidence, and\n     that he proceeded nevertheless in his usual manner, without\n     troubling himself about the recovery of it.\n\n     But what was to become of me, when I saw, in the public\n     papers, the pretended letter of the King of Prussia which\n     I had never before seen, that fictitious letter, printed\n     in French and English, given for genuine, even with the\n     signature of the King, and in which I knew the pen of Mr\n     d'Alembert as certainly as if I had seen him write it?[24]\n\n     In a moment a ray of light discovered to me the secret\n     cause of that touching and sudden change, which I had\n     observed in the public respecting me; and I saw the plot\n     which was put in execution at London, had been laid in\n     Paris.\n\n     Mr d'Alembert, another intimate friend of Mr Hume's, had\n     been long since my secret enemy, and lay in watch for\n     opportunities to injure me without exposing himself. He\n     was the only person, among the men of letters, of my old\n     acquaintance, who did not come to see me,[25] or send their\n     civilities during my last passage through Paris. I knew his\n     secret disposition, but I gave myself very little trouble\n     about it, contenting myself with advising my friends of it\n     occasionally. I remember that being asked about him one day\n     by Mr Hume, who afterwards asked my governante the same\n     question, I told him that Mr d'Alembert was a cunning,\n     artful man. He contradicted me with a warmth that surprised\n     me; not then knowing they stood so well with each other,\n     and that it was his own cause he defended.\n\n     The perusal of the letter above mentioned alarmed me a\n     good deal, when, perceiving that I had been brought over\n     to England in consequence of a project which began to be\n     put in execution, but of the end of which I was ignorant,\n     I felt the danger without knowing what to guard against,\n     or on whom to rely. I then recollected four terrifying\n     words Mr Hume had made use of, and of which I shall speak\n     hereafter. What could be thought of a paper in which my\n     misfortunes were imputed to me as a crime, which tended, in\n     the midst of my distress, to deprive me of all compassion,\n     and, to render its effects still more cruel, pretended\n     to have been written by a Prince who had afforded me\n     protection? What could I divine would be the consequence\n     of such a beginning? The people in England read the public\n     papers, and are in no wise prepossessed in favour of\n     foreigners. Even a coat, cut in a different fashion from\n     their own, is sufficient to excite a prejudice against\n     them. What then had not a poor stranger to expect in his\n     rural walks, the only pleasures of his life, when the good\n     people in the neighbourhood were once thoroughly persuaded\n     he was fond of being persecuted and pelted? Doubtless\n     they would be ready enough to contribute to his favourite\n     amusement. But my concern, my profound and cruel concern,\n     the bitterest indeed I ever felt, did not arise from the\n     danger to which I was personally exposed. I have braved\n     too many others to be much moved with that. The treachery\n     of a false friend,[26] to which I had fallen a prey, was\n     the circumstance that filled my too susceptible heart with\n     deadly sorrow. In the impetuosity of its first emotions, of\n     which I never yet was master, and of which my enemies have\n     artfully taken the advantage, I wrote several letters full\n     of disorder, in which I did not disguise either my anxiety\n     or indignation.\n\n     I have, Sir, so many things to mention, that I forget half\n     of them by the way. For instance, a certain narrative\n     in form of a letter, concerning my manner of living at\n     Montmorency, was given by the booksellers to Mr Hume, who\n     showed it me. I agreed to its being printed, and Mr Hume\n     undertook the care of its edition; but it never appeared.\n     Again, I had brought over with me a copy of the letters\n     of Mr du Peyron, containing a relation of the treatment I\n     had met with at Neufch\u00e2tel. I gave them into the hands of\n     the same bookseller to have them translated and reprinted.\n     Mr Hume charged himself with the care of them; but they\n     never appeared.[27] The supposititious letter of the King\n     of Prussia, and its translation, had no sooner made their\n     appearance, than I immediately apprehended why the other\n     pieces had been suppressed,[28] and I wrote as much to\n     the booksellers.[29] I wrote several other letters also,\n     which probably were handed about London; till at length\n     I employed the credit of a man of quality and merit, to\n     insert a declaration of the imposture in the public papers.\n     In this declaration, I concealed no part of my extreme\n     concern, nor did I in the least disguise the cause.\n\n     Hitherto Mr Hume seems to have walked in darkness. You will\n     soon see him appear in open day, and act without disguise.\n     Nothing more is necessary, in our behaviour towards cunning\n     people, than to act ingenuously; sooner or later they will\n     infallibly betray themselves.\n\n     When this pretended letter from the Ring of Prussia was\n     first published in London, Mr Hume, who certainly knew that\n     it was fictitious, as I had told him so, yet said nothing\n     of the matter, did not write to me, but was totally silent;\n     and did not even think of making any declaration of the\n     truth, in favour of his absent friend.[30] It answered his\n     purpose better to let the report take its course, as he did.\n\n     Mr Hume having been my conductor into England, he was of\n     course in a manner my patron and protector. If it were but\n     natural in him to undertake my defence, it was no less\n     so that, when I had a public protestation to make, I\n     should have addressed myself to him. Having already ceased\n     writing to him,[31] however, I had no mind to renew our\n     correspondence. I addressed myself therefore to another\n     person. The first slap on the face I gave my patron. He\n     felt nothing of it.\n\n     In saying the letter was fabricated at Paris, it was of\n     very little consequence to me whether it was understood\n     particularly of Mr d'Alembert, or of Mr Walpole, whose\n     name he borrowed on the occasion. But in adding that, what\n     afflicted and tore my heart was, the impostor had got his\n     accomplices in England; I expressed myself very clearly\n     to their friend, who was in London, and was desirous of\n     passing for mine. For certainly he was the only person in\n     England, whose hatred could afflict and rend my heart. This\n     was the second slap of the face I gave my patron. He did\n     not feel, however, yet.\n\n     On the contrary, he maliciously pretended that my\n     affliction arose solely from the publication of the\n     above letter, in order to make me pass for a man who was\n     excessively affected by satire. Whether I am vain or not,\n     certain it is I was mortally afflicted; he knew it, and\n     yet wrote me not a word. This affectionate friend, who had\n     so much at heart the filling of my purse, gave himself no\n     trouble to think my heart was bleeding with sorrow.\n\n     Another piece appeared soon after, in the same papers,\n     by the author of the former, and still if possible more\n     cruel, in which the writer could not disguise his rage\n     at the reception I met with at Paris.[32] This however\n     did not affect me; it told me nothing new. Mere libels\n     may take their course without giving me any emotion;\n     and the inconstant public may amuse themselves as long\n     as they please with the subject. It is not an affair of\n     conspirators, who, bent on the destruction of my honest\n     fame, are determined by some means or other to effect it.\n     It was necessary to change the battery.\n\n     The affair of the pension was not determined. It was\n     not difficult, however, for Mr Hume to obtain, from the\n     humanity of the minister, and the generosity of the King,\n     the favour of its determination. He was required to inform\n     me of it, which he did. This, I must confess, was one of\n     the critical moments of my life. How much did it cost me\n     to do my duty! My preceding engagements, the necessity\n     of showing a due respect for the goodness of the King,\n     and for that of his minister, together with the desire of\n     displaying how far I was sensible of both; add to these the\n     advantage of being made a little more easy in circumstances\n     in the decline of life, surrounded as I was by enemies\n     and evils; in fine, the embarrassment I was under to find\n     a decent excuse for not accepting a benefit already half\n     accepted; all these together made the necessity of that\n     refusal very difficult and cruel: for necessary it was, or\n     I should have been one of the meanest and basest of mankind\n     to have voluntarily laid myself under an obligation to a\n     man who had betrayed me.\n\n     I did my duty, though not without reluctance. I wrote\n     immediately to General Conway, and in the most civil and\n     respectful manner possible, without giving an absolute\n     refusal, excusing myself from accepting the pension for the\n     present.\n\n     Now, Mr Hume had been the only negociator of this affair,\n     nay the only person who had spoke of it. Yet I not only\n     did not give him any answer, though it was he who wrote to\n     me on the subject, but did not even so much as mention him\n     in my letter to General Conway. This was the third slap of\n     the face I gave my patron, which if he does not feel, it is\n     certainly his own fault, he can feel nothing.\n\n     My letter was not clear, nor could it be so to General\n     Conway, who did not know the motives of my refusal; but\n     it was very plain to Mr Hume, who knew them but too well.\n     He pretended nevertheless to be deceived as well with\n     regard to the cause of my discontent, as to that of my\n     declining the pension; and, in a letter he wrote me on the\n     occasion, gave me to understand that the King's goodness\n     might be continued towards me, if I should reconsider the\n     affair of the pension. In a word, he seemed determined,\n     at all events, to remain still my patron, in spite of my\n     teeth. You will imagine, Sir, he did not expect my answer;\n     and he had none. Much about this time, for I do not know\n     exactly the date, nor is such precision necessary, appeared\n     a letter, from Mr de Voltaire to me, with an English\n     translation, which still improved on the original. The\n     noble object of this ingenious performance, was to draw\n     on me the hatred and contempt of the people, among whom\n     I was come to reside. I made not the least doubt that my\n     dear patron was one of the instruments of its publication;\n     particularly when I saw that the writer, in endeavouring\n     to alienate from me those who might render my life\n     agreeable, had omitted the name of him who brought me over.\n     He doubtless knew that it was superfluous, and that with\n     regard to him, nothing more was necessary to be said. The\n     omission of his name, so impoliticly forgot in this letter,\n     recalled to my mind what Tacitus says of the picture of\n     Brutus, omitted in a funeral solemnity, viz. that every\n     body took notice of it, particularly because it was not\n     there.\n\n     Mr Hume was not mentioned; but he lives and converses\n     with people that are mentioned. It is well known his\n     friends are all my enemies; there are abroad such people\n     as Tronchin, d'Alembert, and Voltaire;[33] but it is much\n     worse in London; for here I have no enemies but what are\n     his friends. For why, indeed, should I have any other?\n     Why should I have even them?[34] What have I done to Lord\n     Littleton,[35] whom I don't even know? What have I done to\n     Mr Walpole, whom I know full as little? What do they know\n     of me, except that I am unhappy, and a friend to their\n     friend Hume? What can he have said to them, for it is only\n     through him they know any thing of me? I can very well\n     imagine, that, considering the part he has to play, he does\n     not unmask himself to every body; for then he would be\n     disguised to nobody. I can very well imagine that he does\n     not speak of me to General Conway and the Duke of Richmond\n     as he does in his private conversations with Mr Walpole,\n     and his secret correspondence with Mr d'Alembert. But let\n     any one discover the clue that hath been unravelled since\n     my arrival in London, and it will easily be seen whether Mr\n     Hume does not hold the principal thread.\n\n     At length the moment arrived in which it was thought proper\n     to strike the great blow, the effect of which was prepared\n     for by a fresh satirical piece put in the papers.[36] Had\n     there remained in me the least doubt, it would have been\n     impossible to have harboured it after perusing this piece,\n     as it contained facts unknown to any body but Mr Hume;\n     exaggerated, it is true, in order to render them odious to\n     the public.\n\n     It is said in this paper that my door was opened to the\n     rich, and shut to the poor. Pray, who knows when my door\n     was open or shut, except Mr Hume, with whom I lived, and by\n     whom every body was introduced that I saw? I will except\n     one great personage, whom I gladly received without knowing\n     him, and whom I should still have more gladly received if\n     I had known him. It was Mr Hume who told me his name when\n     he was gone; on which information, I was really chagrined,\n     that, as he deigned to mount up two pair of stairs, he was\n     not received in the first floor. As to the poor, I have\n     nothing to say about the matter. I was constantly desirous\n     of seeing less company; but as I was unwilling to displease\n     any one, I suffered myself to be directed in this affair\n     altogether by Mr Hume, and endeavoured to receive every\n     body he introduced as well as I could, without distinction,\n     whether rich or poor. It is said in the same piece that I\n     received my relations very coldly, _not to say any thing\n     worse_. This general charge relates to my having once\n     received, with some indifference, the only relation I have,\n     out of Geneva, and that in the presence of Mr Hume.[37] It\n     must necessarily be either Mr Hume or this relation who\n     furnished that piece of intelligence. Now, my cousin, whom\n     I have always known for a friendly relation and a worthy\n     man, is incapable of furnishing materials for public\n     satires against me. Add to this, that his situation in life\n     confining him to the conversation of persons in trade, he\n     has no connection with men of letters or paragraph writers,\n     and still less with satirists and libellers; so that the\n     article could not come from him. At the worst, can I help\n     imagining that Mr Hume must have endeavoured to take\n     advantage of what he said, and construed it in favour of\n     his own purpose? It is not improper to add, that, after my\n     rupture with Mr Hume, I wrote an account of it to my cousin.\n\n     In fine, it is said in the same paper that I am apt to\n     change my friends. No great subtlety is necessary to\n     comprehend what this reflection is preparative to.\n\n     But let us distinguish facts. I have preserved some very\n     valuable and solid friends for twenty-five to thirty years.\n     I have others whose friendship is of a later date, but no\n     less valuable, and which, if I live, I may preserve still\n     longer. I have not found, indeed, the same security in\n     general among those friendships I have made with men of\n     letters. I have for this reason sometimes changed them, and\n     shall always change them when they appear suspicious; for I\n     am determined never to have friends by way of ceremony; I\n     have them only with a view to show them my affection.\n\n     If ever I was fully and clearly convinced of any thing, I\n     am so convinced that Mr Hume furnished the materials for\n     the above paper.\n\n     But what is still more, I have not only that absolute\n     conviction, but it is very clear to me that Mr Hume\n     intended I should: For how can it be supposed that a man of\n     his subtlety should be so imprudent as to expose himself\n     thus, if he had not intended it? What was his design in\n     it? Nothing is more clear than this. It was to raise my\n     resentment to the highest pitch, that he might strike the\n     blow he was preparing to give me with greater eclat. He\n     knew he had nothing more to do than put me in a passion,\n     and I should be guilty of a number of absurdities. We are\n     now arrived at the critical moment which is to show whether\n     he reasoned well or ill.\n\n     It is necessary to have all the presence of mind, all\n     the phlegm and resolution of Mr Hume, to be able to\n     take the part he hath taken, after all that has passed\n     between us. In the embarrassment I was under in writing\n     to General Conway, I could make use only of obscure\n     expressions, to which Mr Hume, in quality of my friend,\n     gave what interpretation he pleased. Supposing, therefore,\n     for he knew very well to the contrary, that it was the\n     circumstance of secrecy which gave me uneasiness, he\n     obtained the promise of the General to endeavour to remove\n     it; but before any thing was done, it was previously\n     necessary to know whether I would accept of the pension\n     without that condition, in order not to expose his Majesty\n     to a second refusal.\n\n     This was the decisive moment, the end and object of all\n     his labours. An answer was required: he would have it. To\n     prevent effectually indeed my neglect of it, he sent to Mr\n     Davenport a duplicate of his letter to me; and, not content\n     with this precaution, wrote me word, in another billet,\n     that he could not possibly stay any longer in London to\n     serve me. I was giddy with amazement on reading this note.\n     Never in my life did I meet with any thing so unaccountable.\n\n     At length he obtained from me the so much desired answer,\n     and began presently to triumph. In writing to Mr Davenport,\n     he treated me as a monster of brutality and ingratitude.\n     But he wanted to do still more. He thinks his measures\n     well taken; no proof can be made to appear against him. He\n     demands an explanation: he shall have it, and here it is.\n\n     That last stroke was a masterpiece. He himself proves every\n     thing, and that beyond reply.\n\n     I will suppose, though by way of impossibility, that my\n     complaints against Mr Hume never reached his ears; that he\n     knew nothing of them; but was as perfectly ignorant as if\n     he had held no cabal with those who are acquainted with\n     them, but had resided all the while in China.[38] Yet the\n     behaviour passing directly between us; the last striking\n     words which I said to him in London; the letter which\n     followed replete with fears and anxiety; my persevering\n     silence still more expressive than words; my public\n     and bitter complaints with regard to the letter of Mr\n     d'Alembert; my letter to the Secretary of State, who did\n     not write to me, in answer to that which Mr Hume wrote to\n     me himself, and in which I did not mention him; and in fine\n     my refusal, without deigning to address myself to him, to\n     acquiesce in an affair which he had managed in my favour,\n     with my own privity, and without any opposition on my part;\n     all this must have spoken in a very forcible manner, I will\n     not say to any person of the least sensibility, but to\n     every man of common sense.\n\n     Strange that, after I had ceased to correspond with him for\n     three months, when I had made no answer to any one of his\n     letters, however important the subject of it, surrounded\n     with both public and private marks of that affliction\n     which his infidelity gave me; a man of so enlightened an\n     understanding, of so penetrating a genius by nature, and\n     so dull by design, should see nothing, hear nothing, feel\n     nothing, be moved at nothing; but, without one word of\n     complaint, justification, or explanation, continue to give\n     me the most pressing marks of his good will to serve me,\n     in spite of myself? He wrote to me affectionately, that he\n     could not stay any longer in London to do me service, as if\n     we had agreed that he should stay there for that purpose!\n     This blindness, this insensibility, this perseverance, are\n     not in nature; they must be accounted for, therefore, from\n     other motives. Let us set this behaviour in a still clearer\n     light; for this is the decisive point.\n\n     Mr Hume must necessarily have acted in this affair, either\n     as one of the first or last of mankind. There is no medium.\n     It remains to determine which of the two it hath been.\n\n     Could Mr Hume, after so many instances of disdain on my\n     part, have still the astonishing generosity as to persevere\n     sincerely to serve me? He knew it was impossible for me to\n     accept his good offices, so long as I entertained for him\n     such sentiments as I had conceived. He had himself avoided\n     an explanation. So that to serve me without justifying\n     himself, would have been to render his services useless;\n     this therefore was no generosity. If he supposed that in\n     such circumstances I should have accepted his services, he\n     must have supposed me to have been an infamous scoundrel.\n     It was then in behalf of a man whom he supposed to be a\n     scoundrel, that he so warmly solicited a pension from his\n     Majesty. Can any thing be supposed more extravagant?\n\n     But let it be supposed that Mr Hume, constantly pursuing\n     his plan, should only have said to himself, This is the\n     moment for its execution; for, by pressing Rousseau to\n     accept the pension, he will be reduced either to accept or\n     refuse it. If he accepts it, with the proofs I have in hand\n     against him, I shall be able completely to disgrace him:\n     if he refuses, after having accepted it, he will have no\n     pretext, but must give a reason for such refusal. This is\n     what I expect; if he accuses me, he is ruined.\n\n     If, I say, Mr Hume reasoned with himself in this manner,\n     he did what was consistent with his plan, and in that\n     case very natural; indeed this is the only way in which\n     his conduct in this affair can be explained, for upon\n     any other supposition it is inexplicable: if this be not\n     demonstrable, nothing ever was so. The critical situation\n     to which he had now reduced me, re-recalled strongly to my\n     mind the four words I mentioned above; and which I heard\n     him say and repeat, at a time when I did not comprehend\n     their full force. It was the first night after our\n     departure from Paris. We slept in the same chamber, when,\n     during the night, I heard him several times cry out with\n     great vehemence, in the French language, _Je tiens J. J.\n     Rousseau._ 'I have you, Rousseau.' I know not whether he\n     was awake or asleep.[39]\n\n     The expression was remarkable, coming from a man who is too\n     well acquainted with the French language, to be mistaken\n     with regard to the force or choice of words. I took these\n     words, however, and I could not then take them otherwise\n     than in a favourable sense: notwithstanding the tone of\n     voice in which they were spoken, was still less favourable\n     than the expression. It is indeed impossible for me to\n     give any idea of it; but it corresponds exactly with those\n     terrible looks I have before mentioned. At every repetition\n     of them I was seized with a shuddering, a kind of horror I\n     could not resist, though a moment's recollection restored\n     me, and made me smile at my terror. The next day all this\n     was so perfectly obliterated, that I did not even think of\n     it during my stay in London, and its neighbourhood. It was\n     not till my arrival in this place, that so many things have\n     contributed to recall these words to my mind; and indeed\n     recall them every moment.\n\n     These words, the tone of which dwells on my heart, as if\n     I had but just heard them; those long and fatal looks so\n     frequently cast on me; the patting me on the back, with the\n     repetition of _O, my dear Sir_, in answer to my suspicions\n     of his being a traitor: all this affects me to such a\n     degree, after what preceded, that this recollection, had I\n     no other, would be sufficient to prevent any reconciliation\n     or return of confidence between us; not a night indeed\n     passes over my head, but I think I hear, _Rousseau, I have\n     you_, ring in my ears as if he had just pronounced them.\n\n     Yes, Mr Hume, I know you _have me_; but that only by\n     mere externals: you have me in the public opinion and\n     judgment of mankind. You have my reputation, and perhaps my\n     security, to do with as you will. The general prepossession\n     is in your favour; it will be very easy for you to make me\n     pass for the monster you have begun to represent me; and\n     I already see the barbarous exultation of my implacable\n     enemies. The public will no longer spare me. Without any\n     farther examination, every body is on the side of those who\n     have conferred favours; because each is desirous to attract\n     the same good offices, by displaying a sensibility of the\n     obligation. I foresee readily the consequences of all this,\n     particularly in the country to which you have conducted me;\n     and where, being without friends, and an utter stranger\n     to every body, I lie almost entirely at your mercy. The\n     sensible part of mankind, however, will comprehend that I\n     must be so far from seeking this affair, that nothing more\n     disagreeable or terrible could possibly have happened to me\n     in my present situation. They will perceive that nothing\n     but my invincible aversion to all kind of falsehood, and\n     the possibility of my professing a regard for a person who\n     had forfeited it, could have prevented my dissimulation,\n     at a time when it was on so many accounts my interest. But\n     the sensible part of mankind are few, nor do they make the\n     greatest noise in the world.\n\n     Yes, Mr Hume, you _have me_ by all the ties of this life;\n     but you have no power over my probity or my fortitude,\n     which, being independent either of you or of mankind, I\n     will preserve in spite of you. Think not to frighten me\n     with the fortune that awaits me. I know the opinions of\n     mankind; I am accustomed to their injustice, and have\n     learned to care little about it. If you have taken your\n     resolution, as I have reason to believe you have, be\n     assured mine is taken also. I am feeble indeed in body, but\n     never possessed greater strength of mind.\n\n     Mankind may say and do what they will, it is of little\n     consequence to me. What is of consequence, however, is,\n     that I should end as I have begun; that I should continue\n     to preserve my ingenuousness and integrity to the end,\n     whatever may happen; and that I should have no cause to\n     reproach myself either with meanness in adversity, or\n     insolence in prosperity. Whatever disgrace attends, or\n     misfortune threatens me, I am ready to meet them. Though I\n     am to be pitied, I am much less so than you, and all the\n     revenge I shall take on you is, to leave you the tormenting\n     consciousness of being obliged, in spite of yourself,\n     to have a respect for the unfortunate person you have\n     oppressed.\n\n     In closing this letter, I am surprised at my having been\n     able to write it. If it were possible to die with grief,\n     every line was sufficient to kill me with sorrow. Every\n     circumstance of the affair is equally incomprehensible.\n     Such conduct as yours hath been, is not in nature: it is\n     contradictory to itself, and yet it is demonstrable to me\n     that it has been such as I conceive. On each side of me\n     there is a bottomless abyss! and I am lost in one or the\n     other.\n\n     If you are guilty, I am the most unfortunate of mankind;\n     if you are innocent, I am the most culpable.[40] You even\n     make me desire to be that contemptible object. Yes, the\n     situation to which you see me reduced, prostrate at your\n     feet, crying out for mercy, and doing every thing to obtain\n     it; publishing aloud my own unworthiness, and paying the\n     most explicit homage to your virtues, would be a state of\n     joy and cordial effusion, after the grievous state of\n     restraint and mortification into which you have plunged me.\n     I have but a word more to say. If you are guilty, write\n     to me no more; it would be superfluous, for certainly\n     you could not deceive me. If you are innocent, justify\n     yourself. I know my duty; I love, and shall always love\n     it, however difficult and severe. There is no state of\n     abjection that a heart, not formed for it, may not recover\n     from. Once again, I say, if you are innocent, deign to\n     justify yourself; if you are not, adieu for ever.\n\n     J. J. R.\n\n\n\n[5] The fact was this. My friend, Mr Ramsay, a painter of eminence,\nand a man of merit, proposed to draw Mr Rousseau's picture; and when\nhe had begun it, told me he intended to make me a present of it. Thus\nthe design of having Mr Rousseau's picture drawn did not come from\nme, nor did it cost me any thing. Mr Rousseau, therefore, is equally\ncontemptible in paying me a compliment for this pretended gallantry,\nin his letter of the 29th March, and in converting it into ridicule\nhere.--Mr HUME.\n\n[6] Mr Rousseau forms a wrong judgment of me, and ought to know me\nbetter. I have written to Mr Davenport, even since our rupture, to\nengage him to continue his kindness to his unhappy guest.--Mr HUME.\n\n[7] How strange are the effects of a disordered imagination! Mr\nRousseau tells us he is ignorant of what passes in the world, and yet\ntalks of the enemies he has in England. How does he know this? Where\ndid he see them? He hath received nothing but marks of beneficence and\nhospitality. Mr Walpole is the only person who hath thrown out a little\npiece of raillery against him; but is not therefore his enemy. If Mr\nRousseau could have seen things exactly as they are, he would have seen\nthat he had no other friend in England but me, and no other enemy but\nhimself.--Mr HUME.\n\n[8] That a general outcry should prevail against Mr Rousseau's\npersecutors in England, is no wonder. Such an outcry would have\nprevailed from sentiments of humanity, had he been a person of much\nless note; so that this is no proof of his being esteemed. And as to\nthe encomiums on him inserted in the public newspapers, the value of\nsuch kind of puffs is well known in England. I have already observed,\nthat the authors of more respectable works were at no loss what to\nthink of Mr Rousseau, but had formed a proper judgment of him long\nbefore his arrival in England. The genius which displayed itself in his\nwritings did by no means blind the eyes of the more sensible part of\nmankind to the absurdity and inconsistency of his opinions and conduct.\nIn exclaiming against Mr Rousseau's fanatical persecutors, they did\nnot think him the more possessed of the true spirit of martyrdom. The\ngeneral opinion indeed was, that he had too much philosophy to be very\ndevout, and had too much devotion to have much philosophy.--_English\nTranslator_.\n\n[9] Mr Rousseau knows very little of the public judgment in England,\nif he thinks it is to be influenced by any story told in a certain\nMagazine. But, as I have before said, it was not from this time that Mr\nRousseau was slightingly spoke of, but long before, and that in a more\nconsequential manner. Perhaps, indeed, Mr Rousseau ought in justice\nto impute great part of those civilities he met with on his arrival,\nrather to vanity and curiosity than to respect and esteem.--_English\nTranslator_.\n\n[10] So then I find I am to answer for every article of every Magazine\nand newspaper printed in England. I assure Mr Rousseau I would rather\nanswer for every robbery committed on the highway; and I am entirely as\ninnocent of the one as the other.--Mr HUME.\n\n[11] This relates to my friend Mr John Stewart, who entertained Mr\nRousseau at his house, and did him all the good offices in his power.\nMr Rousseau, in complaining of this gentleman's behaviour, forgets that\nhe wrote Mr Stewart a letter from Wooton, full of acknowledgments, and\njust expressions of gratitude. What Mr Rousseau adds, regarding the\nbrother of Mr Stewart, is neither civil nor true--Mr HUME.\n\n[12] I shall mention only one, that made me smile; this was, his\nattention to have, every time I came to see him, a volume of _Eloisa_\nupon his table; as if I did not know enough of Mr Hume's taste for\nreading, as to be well assured, that of all books in the world, Eloisa\nmust be one of the most tiresome to him.--Mr ROUSSEAU.\n\n[13] The reader may judge from the two first letters of Mr Rousseau,\nwhich I published with that view, on which side the flatteries\ncommenced. As for the rest, I loved and esteemed Mr Rousseau, and\ntook a pleasure in giving him to understand so. I might perhaps be\ntoo lavish in my praises; but I can assure the reader he never once\ncomplained of it.--Mr HUME.\n\n[14] I don't recollect a single circumstance of this history; but what\nmakes me give very little credit to it, is, that I remember very well\nwe had settled two different days for the purposes mentioned, that is,\none to go to the Museum, and another to the play.--Mr HUME.\n\n[15] I conceive Mr Rousseau hints here at two or three dinners, that\nwere sent him from the house of Mr Stewart, when he chose to dine at\nhis own lodgings; this was not done, however, to save him the expense\nof a meal, but because there was no convenient tavern or chop-house in\nthe neighbourhood. I beg the reader's pardon for descending to such\ntrivial particulars.--Mr HUME.\n\n[16] We have not been authorized to suppress this affronting term; but\nit is too gross and groundless to do any injury to the celebrated and\nrespectable physician to whose name it is annexed.--_French Editors_.\n\n[17] Thus am I accused of treachery, because I am a friend of Mr\nWalpole, who hath thrown out a little raillery on Mr Rousseau, and\nbecause the son of a man whom Mr Rousseau does not like lodges\nby accident in the same house; because my landladies, who do not\nunderstand a syllable of French, received Mr Rousseau coldly. As to the\nrest, all that I said to Mr Rousseau about the young Tronchin was, that\nhe had not the same prejudices against him as his father.--Mr HUME.\n\n[18] The story of Mr Rousseau's letters is as follows. He had often\nbeen complaining to me, and with reason, that he was ruined by postage\nat Neufch\u00e2tel, which commonly cost him about 25 or 26 louis d'ors a\nyear, and all for letters which were of no significance, being wrote,\nsome of them by people who took that opportunity of abusing him, and\nmost of them by persons unknown to him. He was therefore resolved, he\nsaid, in England to receive no letters which came by the post; and\nthe same resolution he reiterates in his letter to me dated the 22d\nof March. When he went to Chiswick, near London, the postman brought\nhis letters to me. I carried him out a cargo of them. He exclaimed,\ndesired me to return the letters, and recover the price of postage. I\ntold him, that, in that case, the clerks of the Post Office were entire\nmasters of his letters. He said he was indifferent: they might do with\nthem what they pleased. I added, that he would by that means be cut\noff from all correspondence with all his friends. He replied, that he\nwould give a particular direction to such as he desired to correspond\nwith. But till his instructions for that purpose could arrive, what\ncould I do more friendly than to save, at my own expense, his letters\nfrom the curiosity and indiscretion of the clerks of the Post Office?\nI am indeed ashamed to find myself obliged to discover such petty\ncircumstances.---Mr HUME.\n\n[19] It is necessary to explain this circumstance. I had been writing\non Mr Hume's table, during his absence, an answer to a letter I had\njust received. He came in, very anxious to know what I had been\nwriting, and hardly able to contain himself from desiring to read it.\nI closed my letter, however, without showing it him; when, as I was\nputting it into my pocket, he asked me for it eagerly, saying he would\nsend it away on the morrow, being post-day. The letter lay on the\ntable. Lord Newnham came in. Mr Hume went out of the room for a moment,\non which I took the letter up again, saying I should find time to send\nit the next day. Lord Newnham offered to get it inclosed in the French\nambassador's packet, which I accepted. Mr Hume re-entered the moment\nhis Lordship had inclosed it, and was pulling out his seal. Mr Hume\nofficiously offered his own seal, and that with so much earnestness,\nthat it could not well be refused. The bell was rung, and Lord Newnham\ngave the letter to Mr Hume's servant, to give it to his own, who waited\nbelow with the chariot, in order to have it sent to the ambassador.\nMr Hume's servant was hardly got out of the room, but I said to\nmyself, I'll lay a wager the master follows. He did not fail to do as\nI expected. Not knowing how to leave Lord Newnham alone, I staid some\ntime before I followed Mr Hume. I said nothing; but he must perceive\nthat I was uneasy. Thus, although I have received no answer to my\nletter, I doubt not of its going to hand; but I confess, I cannot help\nsuspecting it was read first.--Mr ROUSSEAU.\n\n[20] It appears from what he wrote to me afterwards, that he was\nvery well satisfied with this letter, and that he thought of it very\nwell.--Mr ROUSSEAU.\n\n[21] My answer to this is contained in Mr Rousseau's own letter of the\n22d of March; wherein he expresses himself with the utmost cordiality,\nwithout any reserve, and without the least appearance of suspicion.--Mr\nHUME.\n\n[22] All this hangs upon the fable he had so artfully worked up, as I\nbefore observed.--Mr HUME.\n\n[23] I had only one such opportunity with his governante, which was\non their arrival in London. I must own it never entered into my\nhead to talk to her upon any other subject than the concerns of Mr\nRousseau.--Mr HUME.\n\n[24] See Mr d'Alembert's declaration on this head, annexed to this\nnarrative.\n\n[25] Mr Rousseau declares himself to have been fatigued with the visits\nhe received; ought he therefore to complain that Mr d'Alembert, whom he\ndid not like, did not importune him with his?--Mr HUME.\n\n[26] This _false friend_ is, undoubtedly, myself. But what is the\ntreachery? What harm have I done, or could I do to Mr Rousseau? On\nthe supposition of my entering into a project to ruin him, how could\nI think to bring it about by the services I did him? If Mr Rousseau\nshould gain credit, I must be thought still more weak than wicked.--Mr\nHUME.\n\n[27] The booksellers have lately informed me that the edition is\nfinished, and will shortly be published. This may be; but it is too\nlate, and what is still worse, it is too opportune for the purpose\nintended to be served.--Mr ROUSSEAU.\n\n[28] It is about four months since Mr Becket, the bookseller, told Mr\nRousseau that the publication of these pieces was delayed on account\nof the indisposition of the translator. As for any thing else, I never\npromised to take any charge at all of the edition, as Mr Becket can\ntestify.--Mr HUME.\n\n[29] As to Mr Rousseau's suspicions of the cause of the _suppression_,\nas he calls it, of the Narrative and Letters above mentioned, the\ntranslator thinks it incumbent on him to affirm, that they were\nentirely groundless. It is true, as Mr Becket told Mr Hume, that the\ntranslator of the letters was indisposed about that time. But the\nprincipal cause of the delay was, that he was of his own mere motion,\nno less indisposed to those pieces making their appearance in English\nat all;(*) and this not out of ill will to Mr Rousseau, or good will to\nMr Hume, neither of which he ever saw, or spoke to, in his life; but\nreally out of regard to the character and reputation of a man, whose\ngenius he admired, and whose works he had translated: well knowing\nthe publication of such squabbles could do Mr Rousseau no good in\nthe opinion of the more judicious and sensible part of mankind. With\nregard to the translation of the narrative of his manner of living\nat Montmorency, I never saw it till it was actually printed, when Mr\nBecket put it into my hands, and I frankly told him that I thought it\na very unseasonable, puerile affair, and could by no means serve to\nadvance Mr Rousseau's estimation in the eyes of the public. It was\ncertainly of great importance to the good people of England, to know\nhow Mr Rousseau amused himself seven or eight years ago at Montmorency,\nthat he cooked his own broth, and did not leave it to the management\nof his nurse, for fear she should have a better dinner than himself!\nYet this is one of the most remarkable circumstances contained in\nthat narrative, except indeed that we are told, Mr Rousseau is a\nmost passionate admirer of virtue, and that his eyes always sparkle\nat the bare mention of that word.--O Virtue! how greatly is thy name\nprostituted! And how fair, from the teeth outward, are thy nominal\nvotaries!--_English Translator_.\n\n(*) For, so far were the booksellers from intending to _suppress_ these\npieces, that they actually reprinted the French edition of Peyrou's\nLetters, and published it in London.\n\n[30] No body could possibly be mistaken with regard to the letter's\nbeing fictitious; besides it was well known that Mr Walpole was the\nauthor of it--Mr HUME.\n\n[31] Mr Rousseau forgets himself here. It was but a week before that\nhe wrote me a very friendly letter. See his letter of the 29th of\nMarch.--Mr HUME.\n\n[32] I know nothing of this pretended libel.--Mr HUME.\n\n[33] I have never been so happy as to meet with Mr de Voltaire; he only\ndid me the honour to write me a letter about three years ago. As to Mr\nTronchin, I never saw him in my life, nor ever had any correspondence\nwith him. Of Mr d'Alembert's friendship, indeed, I am proud to make a\nboast.--Mr HUME.\n\n[34] Why indeed? except that sensible people in England are averse to\naffectation and quackery. Those who see and despise these most in Mr\nRousseau, are not, however, his _enemies_; perhaps, if he could be\nbrought to think so, they are his best and truest friends.--_English\nTranslator_.\n\n[35] Mr Rousseau, seeing the letter addressed to him in the name of\nVoltaire advertised in the public papers, wrote to Mr Davenport,\nwho was then in London, to desire he would bring it him. I told Mr\nDavenport that the printed copy was very faulty, but that I would\nask of Lord Littleton a manuscript copy, which was correct. This is\nsufficient to make Mr Rousseau conclude that Lord Littleton is his\nmortal enemy, and my intimate friend; and that we are in a conspiracy\nagainst him. He ought rather to have concluded, that the printed copy\ncould not come from me,--Mr HUME.\n\nThe piece above mentioned was shown to the _Translator_ before its\npublication, and many absurd liberties taken with the original pointed\nout and censured. At which time there did not appear, from the parties\nconcerned in it, that Mr Hume could have the least hand in, or could\nhave known any thing of the edition.--_English Translator_.\n\n[36] I have never seen this piece, neither before nor after its\npublication; nor has it come to the knowledge of any body to whom I\nhave spoken of it--Mr HUME.\n\nThe _translator_, who has been attentive to every thing that has come\nout from, or about Mr Rousseau, knows also nothing of this piece. Why\ndid not Mr Rousseau mention particularly in what paper, and when it\nappeared?--_English Translator_.\n\n[37] I was not present when Mr Rousseau received his cousin. I only\njust saw them afterwards together for about a minute on the terrace in\nBuckingham Street.--Mr HUME.\n\n[38] How was it possible for me to guess at such chimerical\nsuspicions? Mr Davenport, the only person of my acquaintance who then\nsaw Mr Rousseau, assures me that he was perfectly ignorant of them\nhimself.--Mr HUME.\n\n[39] I cannot answer for every thing I may say in my sleep, and much\nless am I conscious whether or not I dream in French. But pray, as Mr\nRousseau did not know whether I was asleep or awake when I pronounced\nthose terrible words, with such a terrible voice, how is he certain\nthat he himself was well awake when he heard them?--Mr HUME.\n\n[40] And does it depend on an _if_, after all Mr R's positive\nconviction, and absolute demonstrations?--_English Translator_.\n\n\nI hesitated some time whether I should make any reply to this strange\nmemorial. At length I determined to write Mr Rousseau the following\nletter.\n\n\n     MR HUME TO MR ROUSSEAU.\n\n\n     _Lisle-street, Leicester-fields, July_ 22_d_, 1766.\n\n     SIR,\n\n     I shall only answer one article of your long letter: it\n     is that which regards the conversation between us the\n     evening before your departure. Mr Davenport had imagined a\n     good natured artifice, to make you believe that a retour\n     chaise had offered for Wooton; and I believe he made an\n     advertisement be put in the papers, in order the better to\n     deceive you. His purpose was only to save you some expenses\n     in the journey, which I thought a laudable project; though\n     I had no hand either in contriving or conducting it. You\n     entertained, how ever, suspicions of his design, while we\n     were sitting alone by my fire-side; and you reproached me\n     with concurring in it. I endeavoured to pacify you, and to\n     divert the discourse; but to no purpose. You sat sullen,\n     and was either silent, or made me very peevish answers. At\n     last you rose up, and took a turn or two about the room;\n     when all of a sudden, and to my great surprise, you clapped\n     yourself on my knee, threw your arms about my neck, kissed\n     me with seeming ardour, and bedewed my face with tears.\n     You exclaimed, 'My dear friend, can you ever pardon this\n     folly! After all the pains you have taken to serve me,\n     after the numberless instances of friendship you have given\n     me, here I reward you with this ill humour and sullenness.\n     But your forgiveness of me will be a new instance of your\n     friendship; and I hope you will find at bottom, that my\n     heart is not unworthy of it.'\n\n     I was very much affected, I own; and I believe, there\n     passed a very tender scene between us. You added, by\n     way of compliment, that though I had many better titles\n     to recommend me to posterity, yet perhaps my uncommon\n     attachment and friendship to a poor unhappy persecuted\n     man, would not altogether be overlooked.\n\n     This incident, Sir, was somewhat remarkable; and it is\n     impossible that either you or I could so soon have forgot\n     it. But you have had the assurance to tell me the story\n     twice in a manner so different, or rather so opposite, that\n     when I persist, as I do, in this account, it necessarily\n     follows, that either you or I am a liar. You imagine,\n     perhaps, that because the incident passed privately without\n     a witness, the question will lie between the credibility\n     of your assertion and of mine. But you shall not have this\n     advantage or disadvantage, whichever you are pleased to\n     term it. I shall produce against you other proofs, which\n     will put the matter beyond controversy.\n\n     First, You are not aware, that I have a letter under your\n     hand, which is totally irreconcilable with your account,\n     and confirms mine.[41]\n\n     Secondly, I told the story the next day, or the day after,\n     to Mr Davenport, with a friendly view of preventing any\n     such good natured artifices for the future. He surely\n     remembers it.\n\n     Thirdly, As I thought the story much to your honour, I\n     told it to several of my friends here. I even wrote it to\n     Mde. de Boufflers at Paris. I believe no one will imagine,\n     that I was preparing beforehand an apology, in case of a\n     rupture with you; which, of all human events, I should then\n     have thought the most incredible, especially as we were\n     separated almost for ever, and I still continued to render\n     you the most essential services.\n\n     Fourthly, The story, as I tell it, is consistent and\n     rational: there is not common sense in your account. What!\n     because sometimes, when absent in thought, I have a fixed\n     look or stare, you suspect me to be a traitor, and you\n     have the assurance to tell me of such black and ridiculous\n     suspicions! Are not most studious men (and many of them\n     more than I) subject to such reveries or fits of absence,\n     without being exposed to such suspicions? You do not even\n     pretend that, before you left London, you had any other\n     solid grounds of suspicion against me.\n\n     I shall enter into no detail with regard to your letter:\n     the other articles of it are as much without foundation as\n     you yourself know this to be. I shall only add, in general,\n     that I enjoyed about a month ago an uncommon pleasure, when\n     I reflected, that through many difficulties, and by most\n     assiduous care and pains, I had, beyond my most sanguine\n     expectations, provided for your repose, honour and fortune.\n     But I soon felt a very sensible uneasiness when I found\n     that you had wantonly and voluntarily thrown away all these\n     advantages, and was become the declared enemy of your\n     repose, fortune, and honour: I cannot be surprised after\n     this that you are my enemy. Adieu, and for ever. I am, Sir,\n     yours,\n\n     D. H.\n\n[41] That of the 22d of March, which is entirely cordial; and proves\nthat Mr Rousseau had never, till that moment, entertained, or at least\ndiscovered the smallest suspicion against me. There is also in the same\nletter, a peevish passage about the hire of a chaise.--Mr HUME.\n\n\nTo all these papers, I need only subjoin the following letter of Mr\nWalpole to me, which proves how ignorant and innocent I am of the whole\nmatter of the King of Prussia's letter.\n\n\n\n\n     MR WALPOLE TO MR HUME.\n\n\n     _Arlington Street, July_ 26_th_, 1766.\n\n     I cannot be precise as to the time of my writing the King\n     of Prussia's letter, but I do assure you, with the utmost\n     truth, that it was several days before you left Paris,\n     and before Rousseau's arrival there, of which I can give\n     you a strong proof; for I not only suppressed the letter\n     while you staid there, out of delicacy to you, but it was\n     the reason why, out of delicacy to myself, I did not go to\n     see him, as you often proposed to me; thinking it wrong to\n     go and make a cordial visit to a man, with a letter in my\n     pocket to laugh at him. You are at full liberty, dear Sir,\n     to make use of what I say in your justification, either\n     to Rousseau or any body else. I should be very sorry to\n     have you blamed on my account: I have a hearty contempt of\n     Rousseau, and am perfectly indifferent what any body thinks\n     of the matter. If there is any fault, which I am far from\n     thinking, let it lie on me. No parts can hinder my laughing\n     at their possessor, if he is a mountebank. If he has a bad\n     and most ungrateful heart, as Rousseau has shown in your\n     case, into the bargain, he will have my scorn likewise, as\n     he will of all good and sensible men. You may trust your\n     sentence to such, who are as respectable judges as any that\n     have pored over ten thousand more volumes.\n\n     Yours most sincerely,\n\n     H. W.\n\n\nThus I have given a narrative, as concise as possible, of this\nextraordinary affair, which I am told has very much attracted the\nattention of the public, and which contains more unexpected incidents\nthan any other in which I was ever engaged. The persons to whom I have\nshown the original papers which authenticate the whole, have differed\nvery much in their opinion, as well of the use I ought to make of them\nas of Mr Rousseau's present sentiments and state of mind. Some of them\nhave maintained that he is altogether insincere in his quarrel with\nme, and his opinion of my guilt, and that the whole proceeds from that\nexcessive pride which forms the basis of his character, and which\nleads him both to seek the eclat of refusing the King of England's\nbounty, and to shake off the intolerable burthen of an obligation to\nme, by every sacrifice of honour, truth, and friendship, as well as of\ninterest. They found their sentiments on the absurdity of that first\nsupposition on which he grounds his anger, viz. that Mr Walpole's\nletter, which he knew had been every where dispersed both in Paris\nand London, was given to the press by me; and as this supposition is\ncontrary to common sense on the one hand, and not supported even by the\npretence of the slightest probability on the other, they conclude, that\nit never had any weight even with the person himself who lays hold of\nit. They confirm their sentiments by the number of fictions and lies\nwhich he employs to justify his anger; fictions with regard to points\nin which it is impossible for him to be mistaken. They also remark his\nreal cheerfulness and gaiety, amidst the deep melancholy with which\nhe pretended to be oppressed; not to mention the absurd reasoning\nwhich runs through the whole, and on which it is impossible for any\nman to rest his conviction. And though a very important interest is\nhere abandoned, yet money is not universally the chief object with\nmankind: vanity weighs farther with some men, particularly with this\nphilosopher; and the very ostentation of refusing a pension from the\nKing of England--an ostentation which, with regard to other Princes,\nhe has often sought--might be of itself a sufficient motive for his\npresent conduct.\n\nThere are others of my friends who regard this whole affair in a more\ncompassionate light, and consider Mr Rousseau as an object rather\nof pity than of anger. They suppose the same domineering pride and\ningratitude to be the basis of his character; but they are also willing\nto believe that his brain has received a sensible shock, and that his\njudgment, set afloat, is carried to every side, as it is pushed by the\ncurrent of his humours and of his passions. The absurdity of his belief\nis no proof of its insincerity. He imagines himself the sole important\nbeing in the universe: he fancies all mankind to be in a combination\nagainst him: his greatest benefactor, as hurting him most, is the chief\nobject of his animosity: and though he supports all his whimsies by\nlies and fictions, this is so frequent a case with wicked men, who are\nin that middle state between sober reason and total frenzy, that it\nneeds give no surprise to any body.\n\nI own that I am much inclined to this latter opinion; though, at\nthe same time, I question whether, in any period of his life, Mr\nRousseau was ever more in his senses than he is at present. The former\nbrilliancy of his genius, and his great talents for writing, are no\nproof of the contrary. It is an old remark, that great wits are near\nallied to madness; and even in those frantic letters which he has wrote\nto me, there are evidently strong traces of his wonted genius and\neloquence. He has frequently told me that he was composing his memoirs,\nin which justice should be done to his own character, to that of his\nfriends, and to that of his enemies; and as Mr Davenport informs me,\nthat, since his retreat into the country, he has been much employed in\nwriting, I have reason to conclude that he is at present finishing that\nundertaking. Nothing could be more unexpected to me than my passing\nso suddenly from the class of his friend to that of his enemies; but\nthis transition being made, I must expect to be treated accordingly;\nand I own that this reflection gave me some anxiety.[42] A work of\nthis nature, both from the celebrity of the person, and the strokes\nof eloquence interspersed, would certainly attract the attention of\nthe world; and it might be published either after my death, or after\nthat of the author. In the former case, there would be nobody who\ncould tell the story, or justify my memory. In the latter, my apology,\nwrote in opposition to a dead person, would lose a great deal of its\nauthenticity. For this reason, I have at present collected the whole\nstory into one Narrative, that I may show it to my friends, and at any\ntime have it in my power to make whatever use of it they and I should\nthink proper. I am, and always have been, such a lover of peace, that\nnothing but necessity, or very forcible reasons, could have obliged me\nto give it to the public.\n\n_'Perdidi beneficium. Numquid qu\u00e6 consecravimus perdidisse nos dicimus?\nInter consecrata beneficium est; etiam si male respondit, bene\ncollatum. Non est ille qualem speravimus; simus nos quales fuimus, ei\ndissimiles.'_\n\n                          SENECA DE BENEFICIIS, LIB. VII. CAP. 29.\n\n\n[42] In his letter of the 22d of March, he flatters me indirectly with\nthe figure I am to make in his Memoirs. In that of the 23d of June, he\nthreatens me. These are proofs how much he is in earnest.\n\n\n\n\nDECLARATION OF MR D'ALEMBERT, RELATING TO MR WALPOLE'S LETTER.\n\n\n(_Addressed to the French Editors_.)\n\nIt is with the greatest surprise I learn, from Mr Hume, that Mr\nRousseau accuses me of being the author of the ironical letter\naddressed to him, in the public papers, under the name of the King of\nPrussia. Every body knows, both at Paris and London, that such letter\nwas written by Mr Walpole; nor does he disown it. He acknowledges only\nthat he was a little assisted, in regard to the style, by a person he\ndoes not name, and whom perhaps he ought to name. As to my part, on\nwhom the public suspicions have fallen in this affair, I am not at\nall acquainted with Mr Walpole. I don't even believe I ever spoke to\nhim; having only happened to meet once occasionally on a visit. I have\nnot only had not the least to do, either directly or indirectly, with\nthe letter in question, but could mention above a hundred persons,\namong the friends as well as enemies of Mr Rousseau, who have heard me\ngreatly disapprove of it; because, as I said, we ought not to ridicule\nthe unfortunate, especially when they do us no harm. Besides, my\nrespect for the King of Prussia, and the acknowledgments I owe him,\nmight, I should have thought, have persuaded Mr Rousseau that I should\nnot have taken such a liberty with the name of that Prince, though in\npleasantry.\n\nTo this I shall add, that I never was an enemy to Mr Rousseau, either\nopen or secret, as he pretends; and I defy him to produce the least\nproof of my having endeavoured to injure him in any shape whatever. I\ncan prove to the contrary, by the most respectable witnesses, that I\nhave always endeavoured to oblige him, whenever it lay in my power.\n\nAs to my pretended _secret correspondence_ with Mr Hume, it is very\ncertain that we did not begin to write to each other till about five\nor six months after his departure, on occasion of the quarrel arisen\nbetween him and Mr Rousseau, and into which the latter thought proper\nunnecessarily to introduce me.\n\nI thought this declaration necessary for my own sake, as well as for\nthe sake of truth, and in regard to the situation of Mr Rousseau. I\nsincerely lament his having so little confidence in the probity of\nmankind, and particularly in that of Mr Hume.\n\nD'ALEMBERT.\n\n\n\n\nSCOTTICISMS.\n\n\n_Will_, in the first person, as _I will walk_, _we will walk_,\nexpresses the intention or resolution of the person, along with the\nfuture event: In the second and third person, as, _you will_, _he\nwill_, _they will_, it expresses the future action or event, without\ncomprehending or excluding the volition.\n\n_Shall_, in the first person, whether singular or plural, expresses\nthe future action or event, without excluding or comprehending the\nintention or resolution: But in the _second_ or _third_ person, it\nmarks a necessity, and commonly a necessity proceeding from the person\nwho speaks; as, _he shall walk_, _you shall repent it_.\n\nThese variations seem to have proceeded from a politeness in the\n_English_, who, in speaking to others, or of others, made use of the\nterm _will_, which implies volition, even where the event may be the\nsubject of necessity and constraint. And in speaking of themselves,\nmade use of the term _shall_, which implies constraint, even though the\nevent may be the object of choice.\n\n_Wou'd_ and _shou'd_ are conjunctive moods, subject to the same rule;\nonly, we may observe, that in a sentence, where there is a condition\nexprest, and a consequence of that condition, the former always\nrequires _shou'd_, and the latter _wou'd_, in the second and third\npersons; as, _if he shou'd fall, he wou'd break his leg_, &c.\n\n_These_ is the plural of _this_; _those of that_. The former,\ntherefore, expresses what is near: the latter, what is more remote. As,\nin these lines of the Duke of Buckingham,\n\n     \"Philosophers and poets vainly strove,\n      In every age, the lumpish mass to move.\n      But THOSE were pedants if compared with THESE,\n      Who knew not only to instruct, but please.\"\n\nWhere a relative is to follow, and the subject has not been mentioned\nimmediately before, _those_ is always required. _Those observations\nwhich he made_. _Those kingdoms which Alexander conquered_.\n\nIn the verbs, which end in _t_, or _te_, we frequently omit _ed_ in\nthe preterperfect and in the participle; as, _he operate_, _it was\ncultivate_. _Milton_ says, _in thought more elevate_; but he is the\nonly author who uses that expression.\n\n_Notice_ shou'd not be used as a verb. The proper phrase is _take\nnotice_. Yet I find Lord Shaftesbury uses _notic'd_, the participle:\nAnd _unnotic'd_ is very common.\n\n_Hinder to do_, is _Scotch_. The _English_ phrase is, _hinder from\ndoing_. Yet _Milton_ says, _Hindered not Satan to pervert the mind_.\nBook IX.\n\n\n\n        SCOTCH.                                  ENGLISH.\n\n    Conform to                               Conformable to\n    Friends and acquaintances                Friends and Acquitance\n    Maltreat                                 Abuse\n    Advert to                                Attend to\n    Proven, improven, approven               Prov'd, improv'd, approv'd\n    Pled                                     Pleaded\n    Incarcerate                              Imprison\n    Tear to pieces                           Tear in pieces\n    Drunk, run                               Drank, ran\n    Fresh weather                            Open weather\n    Tender                                   Sickly\n    In the long run                          At long run\n    Notwithstanding of that                  Notwithstanding that\n    Contented himself to do                  Contented himself with doing\n    'Tis a question if                       'Tis a question whether\n    Discretion                               Civility\n    With child to a man                      With child by a man\n    Out of hand                              Presently\n    Simply impossible                        Absolutely impossible\n    A park                                   An enclosure\n    In time coming                           In time to come\n    Nothing else                             No other thing\n    Mind it                                  Remember it\n    Denuded                                  Divested\n    Severals                                 Several\n    Some better                              Something better\n    Anent                                    With regard to\n    Allenarly                                Solely\n    Alongst. Yet the _English_\n    say both amid, amidst, among,            Along\n    and amongst\n    Evenly                                   Even\n    As I shall answer                        I protest or declare\n    Cause him do it. Yet 'tis\n    good _English_ to say, make         Cause him to do it\n    him do it\n    Marry upon                               Marry to\n    Learn                                    Teach\n    There, where                             Thither, whither\n    Effectuate. This word in _English_  Effect\n    means to effect with\n    pains and difficulty.\n    A wright. Yet 'tis good _English_   A Carpenter\n    to say, a wheelwright\n    Defunct                                  Deceast\n    Evite                                    Avoid\n    Part with child                          Miscarry\n    Notour                                   Notorious\n    To want it                               To be without a thing, even\n                                               though it be not desirable\n    To be difficulted                        To be puzzled\n    Rebuted                                  Discouraged by repulses\n    For ordinary                             Usually\n    Think shame                              Asham'd\n    In favours of                            In favour of\n    Dubiety                                  Doubtfulness\n    Prejudge                                 Hurt\n    Compete                                  Enter into competition\n    Heritable                                Hereditary\n    To remeed                                To remedy\n    Bankier                                  Banker\n    Adduce a proof                           Produce a proof\n    Superplus                                Surplus\n    Forfaulture                              Forfeiture\n    In no event                              In no case\n    Common soldiers                          Private men\n    Big with a man                           Great with a man\n    Bygone                                   Past\n    Debitor                                  Debtor\n    Exeemed                                  Exempted\n    Yesternight                              Last night\n    Big coat                                 Great coat\n    A chimney                                A grate\n    Annualrent                               Interest\n    Tenible argument                         Good argument\n    Amissing                                 Missing\n    To condescend upon                       To specify\n    To discharge                             To forbid\n    To extinguish an obligation              To cancel an obligation\n    To depone                                To depose\n    A compliment                             A present\n    To inquire at a man                      To inquire of a man\n    To be angry at a man                     To be angry with a man\n    To send an errand                        To send off an errand\n    To furnish goods to him                  To furnish him with goods\n    To open up                               To open, or lay open\n    _Thucydide, Herodot, Sueton,_       _Thucydides, Herodotus, Suetonius_\n    Butter and bread                         Bread and Butter\n    Pepper and vinegar                       Vinegar and pepper\n    Paper, pen and ink                       Pen, ink and paper\n    Readily                                  Probably\n    On a sudden                              Of a sudden\n    As ever I saw                            As I ever saw\n    For my share                             For my part\n    Misgive                                  Fail\n    Rather chuse to buy as sell              Rather chuse to buy than sell\n    Deduce                                   Deduct\n    Look't over the window                   Look't out at the window\n    A pretty enough girl                     A pretty girl enough\n    'Tis a week since he left this           'Tis a week since he left this\n                                                place\n    Come in to the fire                      Come near the fire\n    To take off a new coat                   To make up a new suit\n    Alwise                                   Always\n    Cut out his hair                         Cut off his hair\n    Cry him                                  Call him\n    To crave                                 To dun, to ask payment\n    To get a stomach                         To get an appetite\n    Vacance                                  Vacation\n\n\n\n\nA TREATISE OF HUMAN NATURE.\n\n\nBEING AN ATTEMPT TO INTRODUCE THE\n\nEXPERIMENTAL METHOD OF\n\nREASONING INTO\n\nMORAL SUBJECTS.\n\nRARA TEMPORUM FELICITAS, UBI SENTIRE, QU\u00c6 VELIS;\n\nET QU\u00c6 SENTIAS, DICERE LICET.\n\nTACITUS.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK I.\n\nOF THE UNDERSTANDING.\n\n\n\n\n_ADVERTISEMENT._\n\n_My design in the present Work is sufficiently explained in the\nIntroduction. The reader must only observe, that all the subjects I\nhave there planned out to myself are not treated in these two volumes.\nThe subjects of the Understanding and Passions make a complete chain\nof reasoning by themselves; and I was willing to take advantage of\nthis natural division, in order to try the taste of the Public. If I\nhave the good fortune to meet with success, I shall proceed to the\nexamination of Morals, Politics, and Criticism, which will complete\nthis Treatise of Human Nature. The approbation of the Public I consider\nas the greatest reward of my labours; but am determined to regard its\njudgment, whatever it be, as my best instruction._\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nNothing is more usual and more natural for those, who pretend to\ndiscover any thing new to the world in philosophy and the sciences,\nthan to insinuate the praises of their own systems, by decrying all\nthose which have been advanced before them. And indeed were they\ncontent with lamenting that ignorance, which we still lie under in the\nmost important questions that can come before the tribunal of human\nreason, there are few, who have an acquaintance with the sciences, that\nwould not readily agree with them. 'Tis easy for one of judgment and\nlearning, to perceive the weak foundation even of those systems, which\nhave obtained the greatest credit, and have carried their pretensions\nhighest to accurate and profound reasoning. Principles taken upon\ntrust, consequences lamely deduced from them, want of coherence in the\nparts, and of evidence in the whole, these are every where to be met\nwith in the systems of the most eminent philosophers, and seem to have\ndrawn disgrace upon philosophy itself.\n\nNor is there required such profound knowledge to discover the present\nimperfect condition of the sciences, but even the rabble without doors\nmay judge from the noise and clamour which they hear, that all goes\nnot well within. There is nothing which is not the subject of debate,\nand in which men of learning are not of contrary opinions. The most\ntrivial question escapes not our controversy, and in the most momentous\nwe are not able to give any certain decision. Disputes are multiplied,\nas if every thing was uncertain. Amidst all this bustle, 'tis not\nreason which carries the prize, but eloquence; and no man needs ever\ndespair of gaining proselytes to the most extravagant hypothesis, who\nhas art enough to represent it in any favourable colours. The victory\nis not gained by the men at arms, who manage the pike and the sword,\nbut by the trumpeters, drummers, and musicians of the army.\n\nFrom hence, in my opinion, arises that common prejudice against\nmetaphysical reasonings of all kinds, even amongst those who profess\nthemselves scholars, and have a just value for every other part of\nliterature. By metaphysical reasonings, they do not understand those\non any particular branch of science, but every kind of argument which\nis any way abstruse, and requires some attention to be comprehended.\nWe have so often lost our labour in such researches, that we commonly\nreject them without hesitation, and resolve, if we must for ever be\na prey to errors and delusions, that they shall at least be natural\nand entertaining. And, indeed, nothing but the most determined\nscepticism, along with a great degree of indolence, can justify this\naversion to metaphysics. For, if truth be at all within the reach\nof human capacity, 'tis certain it must lie very deep and abstruse;\nand to hope we shall arrive at it without pains, while the greatest\ngeniuses have failed with the utmost pains, must certainly be esteemed\nsufficiently vain and presumptuous. I pretend to no such advantage\nin the philosophy I am going to unfold, and would esteem it a strong\npresumption against it, were it so very easy and obvious.\n\n'Tis evident, that all the sciences have a relation, greater or less,\nto human nature; and that, however wide any of them may seem to run\nfrom it, they still return back by one passage or another; Even\n_Mathematics_, _Natural Philosophy_, and _Natural Religion_, are in\nsome measure dependant on the science of MAN; since they lie under the\ncognizance of men, and are judged of by their powers and faculties.\n'Tis impossible to tell what changes and improvements we; might make in\nthese sciences were we thoroughly acquainted with the extent and force\nof human understanding, and could explain the nature of the ideas we\nemploy, and of the operations we perform in our reasonings. And these\nimprovements are the more to be hoped for in natural religion, as it\nis not content with instructing us in the nature of superior powers,\nbut carries its views farther, to their disposition towards us, and our\nduties towards them; and consequently, we ourselves are not only the\nbeings that reason, but also one of the objects concerning which we\nreason.\n\nIf, therefore, the sciences of mathematics, natural philosophy, and\nnatural religion, have such a dependence on the knowledge of man, what\nmay be expected in the other sciences, whose connexion with human\nnature is more close and intimate? The sole end of logic is to explain\nthe principles and operations of our reasoning faculty, and the nature\nof our ideas; morals and criticism regard our tastes and sentiments;\nand politics consider men as united in society, and dependent on each\nother. In these four sciences of _Logic_, _Morals_, _Criticism_, and\n_Politics_, is comprehended almost every thing which it can any way\nimport us to be acquainted with, or which can tend either to the\nimprovement or ornament of the human mind.\n\nHere then is the only expedient, from which we can hope for success in\nour philosophical researches, to leave the tedious lingering method,\nwhich we have hitherto followed, and, instead of taking now and then a\ncastle or village on the frontier, to march up directly to the capital\nor centre of these sciences, to human nature itself; which being once\nmasters of, we may every where else hope for an easy victory. From this\nstation we may extend our conquests over all those sciences, which more\nintimately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed at leisure,\nto discover more fully those which are the objects of pure curiosity.\nThere is no question of importance, whose decision is not comprised\nin the science of man; and there is none, which can be decided with\nany certainty, before we become acquainted with that science. In\npretending, therefore, to explain the principles of human nature, we in\neffect propose a complete system of the sciences, built on a foundation\nalmost entirely new, and the only one upon which they can stand with\nany security.\n\nAnd, as the science of man is the only solid foundation for the other\nsciences, so, the only solid foundation we can give to this science\nitself must be laid on experience and observation. 'Tis no astonishing\nreflection to consider, that the application of experimental philosophy\nto moral subjects should come after that to natural, at the distance\nof above a whole century; since we find in fact, that there was about\nthe same interval betwixt the origins of these sciences; and that,\nreckoning from Thales to Socrates, the space of time is nearly equal to\nthat betwixt my Lord Bacon and some late philosophers[1] in England,\nwho have begun to put the science of man on a new footing, and have\nengaged the attention, and excited the curiosity of the public. So true\nit is, that however other nations may rival us in poetry, and excel us\nin some other agreeable arts, the improvements in reason and philosophy\ncan only be owing to a land of toleration and of liberty.\n\nNor ought we to think, that this latter improvement in the science\nof man will do less honour to our native country than the former in\nnatural philosophy, but ought rather to esteem it a greater glory,\nupon account of the greater importance of that science, as well as\nthe necessity it lay under of such a reformation. For to me it seems\nevident, that the essence of the mind being equally unknown to us with\nthat of external bodies, it must be equally impossible to form any\nnotion of its powers and qualities otherwise than from careful and\nexact experiments, and the observation of those particular effects,\nwhich result from its different circumstances and situations. And\nthough we must endeavour to render all our principles as universal as\npossible, by tracing up our experiments to the utmost, and explaining\nall effects from the simplest and fewest causes, 'tis still certain\nwe cannot go beyond experience; and any hypothesis, that pretends to\ndiscover the ultimate original qualities of human nature, ought at\nfirst to be rejected as presumptuous and chimerical.\n\nI do not think a philosopher, who would apply himself so earnestly to\nthe explaining the ultimate principles of the soul, would show himself\na great master in that very science of human nature, which he pretends\nto explain, or very knowing in what is naturally satisfactory to the\nmind of man. For nothing is more certain, than that despair has almost\nthe same effect upon us with enjoyment, and that we are no sooner\nacquainted with the impossibility of satisfying any desire, than the\ndesire itself vanishes. When we see, that we have arrived at the utmost\nextent of human reason, we sit down contented; though we be perfectly\nsatisfied in the main of our ignorance, and perceive that we can give\nno reason for our most general and most refined principles, beside our\nexperience of their reality; which is the reason of the mere vulgar,\nand what it required no study at first to have discovered for the most\nparticular and most extraordinary phenomenon. And as this impossibility\nof making any farther progress is enough to satisfy the reader, so\nthe writer may derive a more delicate satisfaction from the free\nconfession of his ignorance, and from his prudence in avoiding that\nerror, into which so many have fallen, of imposing their conjectures\nand hypotheses on the world for the most certain principles. When this\nmutual contentment and satisfaction can be obtained betwixt the master\nand scholar, I know not what more we can require of our philosophy.\n\nBut if this impossibility of explaining ultimate principles should be\nesteemed a defect in the science of man, I will venture to affirm,\nthat it is a defect common to it with all the sciences, and all the\narts, in which we can employ ourselves, whether they be such as are\ncultivated in the schools of the philosophers, or practised in the\nshops of the meanest artisans. None of them can go beyond experience,\nor establish any principles which are not founded on that authority.\nMoral philosophy has, indeed, this peculiar disadvantage, which is\nnot found in natural, that in collecting its experiments, it cannot\nmake them purposely, with premeditation, and after such a manner as to\nsatisfy itself concerning every particular difficulty which may arise.\nWhen I am at a loss to know the effects of one body upon another in\nany situation, I need only put them in that situation, and observe\nwhat results from it. But should I endeavour to clear up after the\nsame manner any doubt in moral philosophy, by placing myself in the\nsame case with that which I consider, 'tis evident this reflection and\npremeditation would so disturb the operation of my natural principles,\nas must render it impossible to form any just conclusion from the\nphenomenon. We must, therefore, glean up our experiments in this\nscience from a cautious observation of human life, and take them as\nthey appear in the common course of the world, by men's behaviour in\ncompany, in affairs, and in their pleasures. Where experiments of this\nkind are judiciously collected and compared, we may hope to establish\non them a science which will not be inferior in certainty, and will be\nmuch superior in utility, to any other of human comprehension.\n\n\n[1] Mr Locke, my Lord Shaftsbury, Dr Mandeville, Mr Hutchinson, Dr\nButler, &c.\n\n\n\n\nBOOK I.\n\nOF THE UNDERSTANDING.\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\nOF IDEAS, THEIR ORIGIN, COMPOSITION, CONNEXION,\n\nAND ABSTRACTION.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nOF THE ORIGIN OF OUR IDEAS.\n\n\nAll the perceptions of the human mind resolve themselves into two\ndistinct kinds, which I shall call _impressions_ and _ideas_. The\ndifference betwixt these consists in the degrees of force and\nliveliness, with which they strike upon the mind, and make their way\ninto our thought or consciousness. Those perceptions which enter with\nmost force and violence, we may name _impressions_; and, under this\nname, I comprehend all our sensations, passions, and emotions, as they\nmake their first appearance in the soul. By _ideas_, I mean the faint\nimages of these in thinking and reasoning; such as, for instance, are\nall the perceptions excited by the present discourse, excepting only\nthose which arise from the sight and touch, and excepting the immediate\npleasure or uneasiness it may occasion. I believe it will not be very\nnecessary to employ many Words, in explaining this distinction. Every\none of himself will readily perceive the difference betwixt feeling\nand thinking. The common degrees of these are easily distinguished;\nthough it is not impossible but, in particular instances, they may very\nnearly approach to each other. Thus, in sleep, in a fever, in madness,\nor in any very violent emotions of soul, our ideas may approach to\nour impressions: as, on the other hand, it sometimes happens, that\nour impressions are so faint and low, that we cannot distinguish them\nfrom our ideas. But, notwithstanding this near resemblance in a few\ninstances, they are in general so very different, that no one can make\na scruple to rank them under distinct heads, and assign to each a\npeculiar name to mark the difference.[1]\n\nThere is another division of our perceptions, which it will be\nconvenient to observe, and which extends itself both to our impressions\nand ideas. This division is into _simple_ and _complex_. Simple\nperceptions, or impressions and ideas, are such as admit of no\ndistinction nor separation. The complex are the contrary to these, and\nmay be distinguished into parts. Though a particular colour, taste and\nsmell, are qualities all united together in this apple, 'tis easy to\nperceive they are not the same, but are at least distinguishable from\neach other.\n\nHaving, by these divisions, given an order and arrangement to our\nobjects, we may now apply ourselves to consider, with the more\naccuracy, their qualities and relations. The first circumstance that\nstrikes my eye, is the great resemblance betwixt our impressions and\nideas in every other particular, except their degree of force and\nvivacity. The one seem to be, in a manner, the reflection of the other;\nso that all the perceptions of the mind are double, and appear both as\nimpressions and ideas. When I shut my eyes, and think of my chamber,\nthe ideas I form are exact representations of the impressions I felt;\nnor is there any circumstance of the one, which is not to be found in\nthe other. In running over my other perceptions, I find still the same\nresemblance and representation. Ideas and impressions appear always to\ncorrespond to each other. This circumstance seems to me remarkable, and\nengages my attention for a moment.\n\nUpon a more accurate survey I find I have been carried away too far\nby the first appearance, and that I must make use of the distinction\nof perceptions into _simple_ and _complex_, to limit this general\ndecision, _that all our ideas and impressions are resembling_. I\nobserve that many of our complex ideas never had impressions that\ncorresponded to them, and that many of our complex impressions never\nare exactly copied in ideas. I can imagine to myself such a city as the\nNew Jerusalem, whose pavement is gold, and walls are rubies, though I\nnever saw any such. I have seen Paris; but shall I affirm I can form\nsuch an idea of that city, as will perfectly represent all its streets\nand houses in their real and just proportions?\n\nI perceive, therefore, that though there is, in general, a great\nresemblance betwixt our _complex_ impressions and ideas, yet the rule\nis not universally true, that they are exact copies of each other. We\nmay next consider, how the case stands with our _simple_ perceptions.\nAfter the most accurate examination of which I am capable, I venture to\naffirm, that the rule here holds without any exception, and that every\nsimple idea has a simple impression, which resembles it, and every\nsimple impression a correspondent idea. That idea of red, which we form\nin the dark, and that impression, which strikes our eyes in sunshine,\ndiffer only in degree, not in nature. That the case is the same with\nall our simple impressions and ideas, 'tis impossible to prove by a\nparticular enumeration of them. Every one may satisfy himself in this\npoint by running over as many as he pleases. But if any one should deny\nthis universal resemblance, I know no way of convincing him, but by\ndesiring him to show a simple impression that has not a correspondent\nidea, or a simple idea that has not a correspondent impression. If he\ndoes not answer this challenge, as 'tis certain he cannot, we may, from\nhis silence and our own observation, establish our conclusion.\n\nThus we find, that all simple ideas and impressions resemble each\nother; and, as the complex are formed from them, we may affirm\nin general, that these two species of perception are exactly\ncorrespondent. Having discovered this relation, which requires\nno farther examination, I am curious to find some other of their\nqualities. Let us consider, how they stand with regard to their\nexistence, and which of the impressions and ideas are causes, and which\neffects.\n\nThe full examination of this question is the subject of the present\ntreatise; and, therefore, we shall here content ourselves with\nestablishing one general proposition, _That all our simple ideas in\ntheir first appearance, are derived from simple impressions, which are\ncorrespondent to them, and which they exactly represent_.\n\nIn seeking for phenomena to prove this proposition, I find only those\nof two kinds; but, in each kind the phenomena are obvious, numerous,\nand conclusive. I first make myself certain, by a new review, of what\nI have already asserted, that every simple impression is attended\nwith a correspondent idea, and every simple idea with a correspondent\nimpression. From this constant conjunction of resembling perceptions\nI immediately conclude, that there is a great connexion betwixt\nour correspondent impressions and ideas, and that the existence of\nthe one has a considerable influence upon that of the other. Such\na constant conjunction, in such an infinite number of instances,\ncan never arise from chance; but clearly proves a dependence of the\nimpressions on the ideas, or of the ideas on the impressions. That I\nmay know on which side this dependence lies, I consider the order of\ntheir _first appearance_; and find, by constant experience, that the\nsimple impressions always take the precedence of their correspondent\nideas, but never appear in the contrary order. To give a child an\nidea of scarlet or orange, of sweet or bitter, I present the objects,\nor, in other words, convey to him these impressions; but proceed not\nso absurdly, as to endeavour to produce the impressions by exciting\nthe ideas. Our ideas, upon their appearance, produce not their\ncorrespondent impressions, nor do we perceive any colour, or feel any\nsensation merely upon thinking of them. On the other hand we find, that\nany impression, either of the mind or body, is constantly followed\nby an idea, which resembles it, and is only different in the degrees\nof force and liveliness. The constant conjunction of our resembling\nperceptions, is a convincing proof, that the one are the causes of\nthe other; and this priority of the impressions is an equal proof,\nthat our impressions are the causes of our ideas, not our ideas of our\nimpressions.\n\nTo confirm this, I consider another plain and convincing phenomenon;\nwhich is, that wherever, by any accident, the faculties which give\nrise to any impressions are obstructed in their operations, as when\none is born blind or deaf, not only the impressions are lost, but also\ntheir correspondent ideas; so that there never appear in the mind the\nleast traces of either of them. Nor is this only true, where the organs\nof sensation are entirely destroyed, but likewise where they have never\nbeen put in action to produce a particular impression. We cannot form\nto ourselves a just idea of the taste of a pine-apple, without having\nactually tasted it.\n\nThere is, however, one contradictory phenomenon, which may prove,\nthat 'tis not absolutely impossible for ideas to go before their\ncorrespondent impressions. I believe it will readily be allowed,\nthat the several distinct ideas of colours, which enter by the eyes,\nor those of sounds, which are conveyed by the hearing, are really\ndifferent from each other, though, at the same time, resembling. Now,\nif this be true of different colours, it must be no less so of the\ndifferent shades of the same colour, that each of them produces a\ndistinct idea, independent of the rest. For if this should be denied,\n'tis possible, by the continual gradation of shades, to run a colour\ninsensibly into what is most remote from it; and, if you will not\nallow any of the means to be different, you cannot, without absurdity,\ndeny the extremes to be the same. Suppose, therefore, a person to have\nenjoyed his sight for thirty years, and to have become perfectly well\nacquainted with colours of all kinds, excepting one particular shade of\nblue, for instance, which it never has been his fortune to meet with.\nLet all the different shades of that colour, except that single one,\nbe placed before him, descending gradually from the deepest to the\nlightest; 'tis plain, that he will perceive a blank, where that shade\nis wanting, and will be sensible that there is a greater distance in\nthat place, betwixt the contiguous colours, than in any other. Now I\nask, whether 'tis possible for him, from his own imagination, to supply\nthis deficiency, and raise up to himself the idea of that particular\nshade, though it had never been conveyed to him by his senses? I\nbelieve there are few but will be of opinion that he can; and this may\nserve as a proof, that the simple ideas are not always derived from\nthe correspondent impressions; though the instance is so particular\nand singular, that 'tis scarce worth our observing, and does not merit\nthat, for it alone, we should alter our general maxim.\n\nBut, besides this exception, it may not be amiss to remark, on this\nhead, that the principle of the priority of impressions to ideas, must\nbe understood with another limitation, viz. that as our ideas are\nimages of our impressions, so we can form secondary ideas, which are\nimages of the primary, as appears from this very reasoning concerning\nthem. This is not, properly speaking, an exception to the rule so\nmuch as an explanation of it. Ideas produce the images of themselves\nin new ideas; but as the first ideas are supposed to be derived from\nimpressions, it still remains true, that all our simple ideas proceed,\neither mediately or immediately, from their correspondent impressions.\n\nThis, then, is the first principle I establish in the science of human\nnature; nor ought we to despise it because of the simplicity of its\nappearance. For 'tis remarkable, that the present question concerning\nthe precedency of our impressions or ideas, is the same with what has\nmade so much noise in other terms, when it has been disputed whether\nthere be any _innate ideas_, or whether all ideas be derived from\nsensation and reflection. We may observe, that in order to prove\nthe ideas of extension and colour not to be innate, philosophers do\nnothing but show, that they are conveyed by our senses. To prove the\nideas of passion and desire not to be innate, they observe, that we\nhave a preceding experience of these emotions in ourselves. Now, if\nwe carefully examine these arguments, we shall find that they prove\nnothing but that ideas are preceded by other more lively perceptions,\nfrom which they are derived, and which they represent. I hope this\nclear stating of the question will remove all disputes concerning it,\nand will render this principle of more use in our reasonings, than it\nseems hitherto to have been.\n\n\n[1] I here make use of these terms, _impression_ and _idea_, in a sense\ndifferent from what is usual, and I hope this liberty will be allowed\nme. Perhaps I rather restore the word idea to its original sense,\nfrom which Mr Locke had perverted it, in making it stand for all our\nperceptions. By the term of impression, I would not be understood to\nexpress the manner in which our lively perceptions are produced in the\nsoul, but merely the perceptions themselves; for which there is no\nparticular name, either in the English or any other language that I\nknow of.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nDIVISION OF THE SUBJECT.\n\n\nSince it appears, that our simple impressions are prior to their\ncorrespondent ideas, and that the exceptions are very rare, method\nseems to require we should examine our impressions before we consider\nour ideas. Impressions may be divided into two kinds, those of\n_sensation_, and those of _reflection_. The first kind arises in the\nsoul originally, from unknown causes. The second is derived, in a\ngreat measure, from our ideas, and that in the following order. An\nimpression first strikes upon the senses, and makes us perceive heat\nor cold, thirst or hunger, pleasure or pain, of some kind or other. Of\nthis impression there is a copy taken by the mind, which remains after\nthe impression ceases; and this we call an idea. This idea of pleasure\nor pain, when it returns upon the soul, produces the new impressions\nof desire and aversion, hope and fear, which may properly be called\nimpressions of reflection, because derived from it. These again are\ncopied by the memory and imagination, and become ideas; which, perhaps,\nin their turn, give rise to other impressions and ideas: so that the\nimpressions of reflection are only antecedent to their correspondent\nideas, but posterior to those of sensation, and derived from them. The\nexamination of our sensations belongs more to anatomists and natural\nphilosophers than to moral; and, therefore, shall not at present be\nentered upon. And, as the impressions of reflection, viz. passions,\ndesires, and emotions, which principally deserve our attention, arise\nmostly from ideas, 'twill be necessary to reverse that method, which\nat first sight seems most natural; and, in order to explain the nature\nand principles of the human mind, give a particular account of ideas,\nbefore we proceed to impressions. For this reason, I have here chosen\nto begin with ideas.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nOF THE IDEAS OF THE MEMORY AND IMAGINATION.\n\n\nWe find, by experience, that when any impression has been present with\nthe mind, it again makes its appearance there as an idea; and this it\nmay do after two different ways: either when, in its new appearance,\nit retains a considerable degree of its first vivacity, and is somewhat\nintermediate betwixt an impression and an idea; or when it entirely\nloses that vivacity, and is a perfect idea. The faculty by which we\nrepeat our impressions in the first manner, is called the _memory_, and\nthe other the _imagination_. 'Tis evident, at first sight, that the\nideas of the memory are much more lively and strong than those of the\nimagination, and that the former faculty paints its objects in more\ndistinct colours, than any which are employed by the latter. When we\nremember any past event, the idea of it flows in upon the mind in a\nforcible manner; whereas, in the imagination, the perception is faint\nand languid, and cannot, without difficulty, be preserved by the mind\nsteady and uniform for any considerable time. Here, then, is a sensible\ndifference betwixt one species of ideas and another. But of this more\nfully hereafter.[2]\n\nThere is another difference betwixt these two kinds of ideas, which is\nno less evident, namely, that though neither the ideas of the memory\nnor imagination, neither the lively nor faint ideas, can make their\nappearance in the mind, unless their correspondent impressions have\ngone before to prepare the way for them, yet the imagination is not\nrestrained to the same order and form with the original impressions;\nwhile the memory is in a manner tied down in that respect, without any\npower of variation.\n\n'Tis evident, that the memory preserves the original form, in which\nits objects were presented, and that wherever we depart from it in\nrecollecting any thing, it proceeds from some defect or imperfection\nin that faculty. An historian may, perhaps, for the more convenient\ncarrying on of his narration, relate an event before another to which\nit was in fact posterior; but then, he takes notice of this disorder,\nif he be exact; and, by that means, replaces the idea in its due\nposition. 'Tis the same case in our recollection of those places and\npersons, with which we were formerly acquainted. The chief exercise of\nthe memory is not to preserve the simple ideas, but their order and\nposition. In short, this principle is supported by such a number of\ncommon and vulgar phenomena, that we may spare ourselves the trouble of\ninsisting on it any farther.\n\nThe same evidence follows us in our second principle, _of the liberty\nof the imagination to transpose and change its ideas_. The fables we\nmeet with in poems and romances put this entirely out of question.\nNature there is totally confounded, and nothing mentioned but winged\nhorses, fiery dragons, and monstrous giants. Nor will this liberty of\nthe fancy appear strange, when we consider, that all our ideas are\ncopied from our impressions, and that there are not any two impressions\nwhich are perfectly inseparable. Not to mention, that this is an\nevident consequence of the division of ideas into simple and complex.\nWherever the imagination perceives a difference among ideas, it can\neasily produce a separation.\n\n\n[2] Part III. Sect. 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF THE CONNEXION OR ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS.\n\n\nAs all simple ideas may be separated by the imagination, and may\nbe united again in what form it pleases, nothing would be more\nunaccountable than the operations of that faculty, were it not guided\nby some universal principles, which render it, in some measure, uniform\nwith itself in all times and places. Were ideas entirely loose and\nunconnected, chance alone would join them; and 'tis impossible the same\nsimple ideas should fall regularly into complex ones (as they commonly\ndo), without some bond of union among them, some associating quality,\nby which one idea naturally introduces another. This uniting principle\namong ideas is not to be considered as an inseparable connexion; for\nthat has been already excluded from the imagination: nor yet are we to\nconclude, that without it the mind cannot join two ideas; for nothing\nis more free than that faculty: but we are only to regard it as a\ngentle force, which commonly prevails, and is the cause why, among\nother things, languages so nearly correspond to each other; Nature,\nin a manner, pointing out to every one those simple ideas, which are\nmost proper to be united into a complex one. The qualities, from which\nthis association arises, and by which the mind is, after this manner,\nconveyed from one idea to another, are three, viz. _resemblance,\ncontiguity_ in time or place, and _cause_ and _effect_.\n\nI believe it will not be very necessary to prove, that these qualities\nproduce an association among ideas, and, upon the appearance of one\nidea, naturally introduce another. 'Tis plain, that, in the course\nof our thinking, and in the constant revolution of our ideas, our\nimagination runs easily from one idea to any other that _resembles_\nit, and that this quality alone is to the fancy a sufficient bond and\nassociation. 'Tis likewise evident, that as the senses, in changing\ntheir objects, are necessitated to change them regularly, and take them\nas they lie _contiguous_ to each other, the imagination must, by long\ncustom, acquire the same method of thinking, and run along the parts\nof space and time in conceiving its objects. As to the connexion that\nis made by the relation of _cause and effect_, we shall have occasion\nafterwards to examine it to the bottom, and therefore shall not at\npresent insist upon it. 'Tis sufficient to observe, that there is no\nrelation, which produces a stronger connexion in the fancy, and makes\none idea more readily recal another, than the relation of cause and\neffect betwixt their objects.\n\nThat we may understand the full extent of these relations, we must\nconsider, that two objects are connected together in the imagination,\nnot only when the one is immediately resembling, contiguous to, or the\ncause of the other, but also when there is interposed betwixt them a\nthird object, which bears to both of them any of these relations. This\nmay be carried on to a great length; though, at the same time we may\nobserve, that each remove considerably weakens the relation. Cousins\nin the fourth degree are connected by _causation_, if I may be allowed\nto use that term; but not so closely as brothers, much less as child\nand parent. In general, we may observe, that all the relations of\nblood depend upon cause and effect, and are esteemed near or remote,\naccording to the number of connecting causes interposed betwixt the\npersons.\n\nOf the three relations above mentioned this of causation is the most\nextensive. Two objects may be considered as placed in this relation,\nas well when one is the cause of any of the actions or motions of\nthe other, as when the former is the cause of the existence of the\nlatter. For as that action or motion is nothing but the object\nitself, considered in a certain light, and as the object continues\nthe same in all its different situations, 'tis easy to imagine how\nsuch an influence of objects upon one another may connect them in the\nimagination.\n\nWe may carry this farther, and remark, not only that two objects are\nconnected by the relation of cause and effect, when the one produces\na motion or any action in the other, but also when it has a power of\nproducing it. And this we may observe to be the source of all the\nrelations of interest and duty, by which men influence each other in\nsociety, and are placed in the ties of government and subordination.\nA master is such a one as, by his situation, arising either from\nforce or agreement, has a power of directing in certain particulars\nthe actions of another, whom we call servant. A judge is one, who, in\nall disputed cases, can fix by his opinion the possession or property\nof any thing betwixt any members of the society. When a person is\npossessed of any power, there is no more required to convert it into\naction, but the exertion of the will; and _that_ in every case is\nconsidered as possible, and in many as probable; especially in the case\nof authority, where the obedience of the subject is a pleasure and\nadvantage to the superior.\n\nThese are, therefore, the principles of union or cohesion among\nour simple ideas, and in the imagination supply the place of that\ninseparable connexion, by which they are united in our memory. Here\nis a kind of _attraction_, which in the mental world will be found to\nhave as extraordinary effects as in the natural, and to show itself in\nas many and as various forms. Its effects are every where conspicuous;\nbut, as to its causes, they are mostly unknown, and must be resolved\ninto _original_ qualities of human nature, which I pretend not to\nexplain. Nothing is more requisite for a true philosopher, than to\nrestrain the intemperate desire of searching into causes; and, having\nestablished any doctrine upon a sufficient number of experiments, rest\ncontented with that, when he sees a farther examination would lead him\ninto obscure and uncertain speculations. In that case his inquiry would\nbe much better employed in examining the effects than the causes of his\nprinciple.\n\nAmongst the effects of this union or association of ideas, there are\nnone more remarkable than those complex ideas, which are the common\nsubjects of our thoughts and reasoning, and generally arise from some\nprinciple of union among our simple ideas. These complex ideas may be\ndivided into _relations, modes,_ and _substances_. We shall briefly\nexamine each of these in order, and shall subjoin some considerations\nconcerning our _general_ and _particular_ ideas, before we leave the\npresent subject, which may be considered as the elements of this\nphilosophy.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nOF RELATIONS.\n\n\nThe word _relation_ is commonly used in two senses considerably\ndifferent from each other. Either for that quality, by which two ideas\nare connected together in the imagination, and the one naturally\nintroduces the other, after the manner above explained; or for that\nparticular circumstance, in which, even upon the arbitrary union of\ntwo ideas in the fancy, we may think proper to compare them. In common\nlanguage, the former is always the sense in which we use the word\nrelation; and 'tis only in philosophy that we extend it to mean any\nparticular subject of comparison, without a connecting principle. Thus,\ndistance will be allowed by philosophers to be a true relation, because\nwe acquire an idea of it by the comparing of objects: but in a common\nway we say, _that nothing can be more distant than such or such things\nfrom each other, nothing can have less relation_; as if distance and\nrelation were incompatible.\n\nIt may, perhaps, be esteemed an endless task to enumerate all those\nqualities, which make objects admit of comparison, and by which the\nideas of _philosophical_ relation are produced. But if we diligently\nconsider them we shall find, that without difficulty they may be\ncomprised under seven general heads, which may be considered as the\nsources of all philosophical relation.\n\n1. The first is _resemblance_: and this is a relation, without which\nno philosophical relation can exist, since no objects will admit of\ncomparison, but what have some degree of resemblance. But though\nresemblance be necessary to all philosophical relation, it does not\nfollow that it always produces a connexion or association of ideas.\nWhen a quality becomes very general, and is common to a great many\nindividuals, it leads not the mind directly to any one of them; but,\nby presenting at once too great a choice, does thereby prevent the\nimagination from fixing on any single object.\n\n2. _Identity_ may be esteemed a second species of relation. This\nrelation I here consider as applied in its strictest sense to constant\nand unchangeable objects; without examining the nature and foundation\nof personal identity, which shall find its place afterwards. Of all\nrelations the most universal is that of identity, being common to every\nbeing, whose existence has any duration.\n\n3. After identity the most universal and comprehensive relations are\nthose of _space_ and _time_, which are the sources of an infinite\nnumber of comparisons, such as _distant, contiguous, above, below,\nbefore, after, &c_.\n\n4. All those objects, which admit of _quantity_ or _number_, may be\ncompared in that particular, which is another very fertile source of\nrelation.\n\n5. When any two objects possess the same _quality_ in common, the\n_degrees_ in which they possess it form a fifth species of relation.\nThus, of two objects which are both heavy, the one may be either of\ngreater or less weight than the other. Two colours, that are of the\nsame kind, may yet be of different shades, and in that respect admit of\ncomparison.\n\n6. The relation of _contrariety_ may at first sight be regarded as\nan exception to the rule, _that no relation of any kind can subsist\nwithout some degree of resemblance_. But let us consider, that no\ntwo ideas are in themselves contrary, except those of existence and\nnon-existence, which are plainly resembling, as implying both of them\nan idea of the object; though the latter excludes the object from all\ntimes and places, in which it is supposed not to exist.\n\n7. All other objects, such as fire and water, heat and cold, are only\nfound to be contrary from experience, and from the contrariety of their\n_causes_ or _effects_; which relation of cause and effect is a seventh\nphilosophical relation, as well as a natural one. The resemblance\nimplied in this relation shall be explained afterwards.\n\nIt might naturally be expected that I should join _difference_ to the\nother relations; but that I consider rather as a negation of relation\nthan as any thing real or positive. Difference is of two kinds, as\nopposed either to identity or resemblance. The first is called a\ndifference of _number_; the other of _kind_.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nOF MODES AND SUBSTANCES.\n\n\nI would fain ask those philosophers, who found so much of their\nreasonings on the distinction of substance and accident, and imagine we\nhave clear ideas of each, whether the idea of _substance_ be derived\nfrom the impressions of sensation or reflection? If it be conveyed\nto us by our senses, I ask, which of them, and after what manner? If\nit be perceived by the eyes, it must be a colour; if by the ears, a\nsound; if by the palate, a taste; and so of the other senses. But I\nbelieve none will assert, that substance is either a colour, or sound,\nor a taste. The idea of substance must therefore be derived from an\nimpression of reflection, if it really exist. But the impressions of\nreflection resolve themselves into our passions and emotions; none\nof which can possibly represent a substance. We have, therefore, no\nidea of substance, distinct from that of a collection of particular\nqualities, nor have we any other meaning when we either talk or reason\nconcerning it.\n\nThe idea of a substance as well as that of a mode, is nothing but\na collection of simple ideas, that are united by the imagination,\nand have a particular name assigned them, by which we are able to\nrecal, either to ourselves or others, that collection. But the\ndifference betwixt these ideas consists in this, that the particular\nqualities, which form a substance, are commonly referred to an unknown\n_something_, in which they are supposed to inhere; or granting this\nfiction should not take place, are at least supposed to be closely and\ninseparably connected by the relations of contiguity and causation.\nThe effect of this is, that whatever new simple quality we discover to\nhave the same connexion with the rest, we immediately comprehend it\namong them, even though it did not enter into the first conception of\nthe substance. Thus our idea of gold may at first be a yellow colour,\nweight, malleableness, fusibility; but upon the discovery of its\ndissolubility in _aqua regia_, we join that to the other qualities, and\nsuppose it to belong to the substance as much as if its idea had from\nthe beginning made a part of the compound one. The principle of union\nbeing regarded as the chief part of the complex idea, gives entrance to\nwhatever quality afterwards occurs, and is equally comprehended by it,\nas are the others, which first presented themselves.\n\nThat this cannot take place in modes, is evident from considering their\nnature. The simple ideas of which modes are formed, either represent\nqualities, which are not united by contiguity and causation, but are\ndispersed in different subjects; or if they be all united together,\nthe uniting principle is not regarded as the foundation of the complex\nidea. The idea of a dance is an instance of the first kind of modes;\nthat of beauty of the second. The reason is obvious, why such complex\nideas cannot receive any new idea, without changing the name, which\ndistinguishes the mode.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII.\n\nOF ABSTRACT IDEAS.\n\n\nA very material question has been started concerning _abstract_ or\n_general_ ideas, _whether they be general or particular in the mind's\nconception of them_. A great philosopher[3] has disputed the received\nopinion in this particular, and has asserted, that all general ideas\nare nothing but particular ones annexed to a certain term, which gives\nthem a more extensive signification, and makes them recal upon occasion\nother individuals, which are similar to them. As I look upon this to be\none of the greatest and most valuable discoveries that has been made\nof late years in the republic of letters, I shall here endeavour to\nconfirm it by some arguments, which I hope will put it beyond all doubt\nand controversy.\n\n'Tis evident, that, in forming most of our general ideas, if not all\nof them, we abstract from every particular degree of quantity and\nquality, and that an object ceases not to be of any particular species\non account of every small alteration in its extension, duration, and\nother properties. It may therefore be thought, that here is a plain\ndilemma, that decides concerning the nature of those abstract ideas,\nwhich have afforded so much speculation to philosophers. The abstract\nidea of a man represents men of all sizes and all qualities, which 'tis\nconcluded it cannot do, but either by representing at once all possible\nsizes and all possible qualities, or by representing no particular\none at all. Now, it having been esteemed absurd to defend the former\nproposition, as implying an infinite capacity in the mind, it has been\ncommonly inferred in favour of the latter; and our abstract ideas have\nbeen supposed to represent no particular degree either of quantity\nor quality. But that this inference is erroneous, I shall endeavour\nto make appear, _first_, by proving, that 'tis utterly impossible to\nconceive any quantity or quality, without forming a precise notion of\nits degrees; and, _secondly_, by showing, that though the capacity\nof the mind be not infinite, yet we can at once form a notion of all\npossible degrees of quantity and quality, in such a manner at least,\nas, however imperfect, may serve all the purposes of reflection and\nconversation.\n\nTo begin with the first proposition, _that the mind cannot form any\nnotion of quantity or quality without forming a precise notion of\ndegrees of each_, we may prove this by the three following arguments.\nFirst, we have observed, that whatever objects are different are\ndistinguishable, and that whatever objects are distinguishable are\nseparable by the thought and imagination. And we may here add, that\nthese propositions are equally true in the _inverse_, and that whatever\nobjects are separable are also distinguishable, and that whatever\nobjects are distinguishable are also different. For how is it possible\nwe can separate what is not distinguishable, or distinguish what is\nnot different? In order therefore to know whether abstraction implies\na separation, we need only consider it in this view, and examine,\nwhether all the circumstances, which we abstract from in our general\nideas, be such as are distinguishable and different from those, which\nwe retain as essential parts of them. But 'tis evident at first sight,\nthat the precise length of a line is not different nor distinguishable\nfrom the line itself; nor the precise degree of any quality from the\nquality. These ideas, therefore, admit no more of separation than they\ndo of distinction and difference. They are, consequently, conjoined\nwith each other in the conception; and the general idea of a line,\nnotwithstanding all our abstractions and refinements, has, in its\nappearance in the mind, a precise degree of quantity and quality;\nhowever it may be made to represent others which have different degrees\nof both.\n\nSecondly, 'tis confessed, that no object can appear to the senses; or\nin other words, that no impression can become present to the mind,\nwithout being determined in its degrees both of quantity and quality.\nThe confusion, in which impressions are sometimes involved, proceeds\nonly from their faintness and unsteadiness, not from any capacity in\nthe mind to receive any impression, which in its real existence has\nno particular degree nor proportion. That is a contradiction in terms;\nand even implies the flattest of all contradictions, viz. that 'tis\npossible for the same thing both to be and not to be.\n\nNow, since all ideas are derived from impressions, and are nothing but\ncopies and representations of them, whatever is true of the one must be\nacknowledged concerning the other. Impressions and ideas differ only in\ntheir strength and vivacity. The foregoing conclusion is not founded on\nany particular degree of vivacity. It cannot, therefore, be affected by\nany variation in that particular. An idea is a weaker impression; and,\nas a strong impression must necessarily have a determinate quantity and\nquality, the case must be the same with its copy or representative.\n\nThirdly, 'tis a principle generally received in philosophy, that every\nthing in nature is individual, and that 'tis utterly absurd to suppose\na triangle really existent, which has no precise proportion of sides\nand angles. If this, therefore, be absurd in _fact and reality_, it\nmust also be absurd _in idea_; since nothing of which we can form a\nclear and distinct idea is absurd and impossible. But to form the\nidea of an object, and to form an idea simply, is the same thing; the\nreference of the idea to an object being an extraneous denomination, of\nwhich in itself it bears no mark or character. Now, as 'tis impossible\nto form an idea of an object that is possessed of quantity and quality,\nand yet is possessed of no precise degree of either, it follows, that\nthere is an equal impossibility of forming an idea, that is not limited\nand confined in both these particulars. Abstract ideas are, therefore,\nin themselves individual, however they may become general in their\nrepresentation. The image in the mind is only that of a particular\nobject, though the application of it in our reasoning be the same as if\nit were universal.\n\nThis application of ideas, beyond their nature, proceeds from our\ncollecting all their possible degrees of quantity and quality in\nsuch an imperfect manner as may serve the purposes of life, which is\nthe second proposition I proposed to explain. When we have found a\nresemblance[4] among several objects, that often occur to us, we apply\nthe same name to all of them, whatever differences we may observe\nin the degrees of their quantity and quality, and whatever other\ndifferences may appear among them. After we have acquired a custom of\nthis kind, the hearing of that name revives the idea of one of these\nobjects, and makes the imagination conceive it with all its particular\ncircumstances and proportions. But as the same word is supposed to have\nbeen frequently applied to other individuals, that are different in\nmany respects from that idea, which is immediately present to the mind;\nthe word not being able to revive the idea of all these individuals,\nonly touches the soul, if I may be allowed so to speak, and revives\nthat custom, which we have acquired by surveying them. They are not\nreally and in fact present to the mind, but only in power; nor do we\ndraw them all out distinctly in the imagination, but keep ourselves in\na readiness to survey any of them, as we may be prompted by a present\ndesign or necessity. The word raises up an individual idea, along\nwith a certain custom, and that custom produces any other individual\none, for which we may have occasion. But as the production of all the\nideas, to which the name may be applied, is in most cases impossible,\nwe abridge that work by a more partial consideration, and find but few\ninconveniences to arise in our reasoning from that abridgment.\n\nFor this is one of the most extraordinary circumstances in the present\naffair, that after the mind has produced an individual idea, upon\nwhich we reason, the attendant custom, revived by the general or\nabstract term, readily suggests any other individual, if by chance we\nform any reasoning that agrees not with it. Thus, should we mention\nthe word triangle, and form the idea of a particular equilateral\none to correspond to it, and should we afterwards assert, _that\nthe three angles of a triangle are equal to each other_, the other\nindividuals of a scalenum and isosceles, which we overlooked at first,\nimmediately crowd in upon us, and make us perceive the falsehood of\nthis proposition, though it be true with relation to that idea which\nwe had formed. If the mind suggests not always these ideas upon\noccasion, it proceeds from some imperfection in its faculties; and\nsuch a one as is often the source of false reasoning and sophistry.\nBut this is principally the case with those ideas which are abstruse\nand compounded. On other occasions the custom is more entire, and 'tis\nseldom we run into such errors.\n\nNay so entire is the custom, that the very same idea may be annexed to\nseveral different words, and may be employed in different reasonings,\nwithout any danger of mistake. Thus the idea of an equilateral triangle\nof an inch perpendicular may serve us in talking of a figure, of a\nrectilineal figure, of a regular figure, of a triangle, and of an\nequilateral triangle. All these terms, therefore, are in this case\nattended with the same idea; but as they are wont to be applied in a\ngreater or lesser compass, they excite their particular habits, and\nthereby keep the mind in a readiness to observe, that no conclusion be\nformed contrary to any ideas, which are usually comprised under them.\n\nBefore those habits have become entirely perfect, perhaps the mind may\nnot be content with forming the idea of only one individual, but may\nrun over several, in order to make itself comprehend its own meaning,\nand the compass of that collection, which it intends to express by the\ngeneral term. That we may fix the meaning of the word, figure, we may\nrevolve in our mind the ideas of circles, squares, parallelograms,\ntriangles of different sizes and proportions, and may not rest on one\nimage or idea. However this may be, 'tis certain _that_ we form the\nidea of individuals whenever we use any general term; _that_ we seldom\nor never can exhaust these individuals; and _that_ those which remain,\nare only represented by means of that habit by which we recal them,\nwhenever any present occasion requires it. This then is the nature of\nour abstract ideas and general terms; and 'tis after this manner we\naccount for the foregoing paradox, _that some ideas are particular\nin their nature, but general in their representation_. A particular\nidea becomes general by being annexed to a general term; that is, to a\nterm which, from a customary conjunction, has a relation to many other\nparticular ideas, and readily recals them in the imagination.\n\nThe only difficulty that can remain on this subject, must be with\nregard to that custom, which so readily recals every particular idea\nfor which we may have occasion, and is excited by any word or sound\nto which we commonly annex it. The most proper method, in my opinion,\nof giving a satisfactory explication of this act of the mind, is\nby producing other instances which are analogous to it, and other\nprinciples which facilitate its operation. To explain the ultimate\ncauses of our mental actions is impossible. 'Tis sufficient if we can\ngive any satisfactory account of them from experience and analogy.\n\nFirst, then, I observe, that when we mention any great number, such as\na thousand, the mind has generally no adequate idea of it, but only a\npower of producing such an idea, by its adequate idea of the decimals\nunder which the number is comprehended. This imperfection, however,\nin our ideas, is never felt in our reasonings, which seems to be an\ninstance parallel to the present one of universal ideas.\n\nSecondly, we have several instances of habits which may be revived by\none single word; as when a person who has, by rote, any periods of\na discourse, or any number of verses, will be put in remembrance of\nthe whole, which he is at a loss to recollect, by that single word or\nexpression with which they begin.\n\nThirdly, I believe every one who examines the situation of his mind\nin reasoning, will agree with me, that we do not annex distinct and\ncomplete ideas to every term we make use of, and that in talking\nof _government, church, negociation, conquest_, we seldom spread\nout in our minds all the simple ideas of which these complex ones\nare composed. 'Tis however observable, that notwithstanding this\nimperfection, we may avoid talking nonsense on these subjects, and may\nperceive any repugnance among the ideas as well as if we had a full\ncomprehension of them. Thus, if instead of saying, _that in war the\nweaker have always recourse to negociation_, we should say, _that they\nhave always recourse to conquest_, the custom which we have acquired of\nattributing certain relations to ideas, still follows the words, and\nmakes us immediately perceive the absurdity of that proposition; in the\nsame manner as one particular idea may serve us in reasoning concerning\nother ideas, however different from it in several circumstances.\n\nFourthly, as the individuals are collected together, and placed under\na general term with a view to that resemblance which they bear to each\nother, this relation must facilitate their entrance in the imagination,\nand make them be suggested more readily upon occasion. And, indeed, if\nwe consider the common progress of the thought, either in reflection\nor conversation, we shall find great reason to be satisfied in this\nparticular. Nothing is more admirable than the readiness with which the\nimagination suggests its ideas, and presents them at the very instant\nin which they become necessary or useful. The fancy runs from one end\nof the universe to the other, in collecting those ideas which belong to\nany subject. One would think the whole intellectual world of ideas was\nat once subjected to our view, and that we did nothing but pick out\nsuch as were most proper for our purpose. There may not, however, be\nany present, beside those very ideas, that are thus collected by a kind\nof magical faculty in the soul, which, though it be always most perfect\nin the greatest geniuses, and is properly what we call a genius, is\nhowever inexplicable by the utmost efforts of human understanding.\n\nPerhaps these four reflections may help to remove all difficulties to\nthe hypothesis I have proposed concerning abstract ideas, so contrary\nto that which has hitherto prevailed in philosophy. But to tell the\ntruth, I place my chief confidence in what I have already proved\nconcerning the impossibility of general ideas, according to the common\nmethod of explaining them. We must certainly seek some new system on\nthis head, and there plainly is none beside what I have proposed. If\nideas be particular in their nature, and at the same time finite in\ntheir number, 'tis only by custom they can become general in their\nrepresentation, and contain an infinite number of other ideas under\nthem.\n\nBefore I leave this subject, I shall employ the same principles to\nexplain that _distinction of reason_, which is so much talked of, and\nis so little understood in the schools. Of this kind is the distinction\nbetwixt figure and the body figured; motion and the body moved. The\ndifficulty of explaining this distinction arises from the principle\nabove explained, _that all ideas which are different are separable_.\nFor it follows from thence, that if the figure be different from\nthe body, their ideas must be separable as well as distinguishable;\nif they be not different, their ideas can neither be separable nor\ndistinguishable. What then is meant by a distinction of reason, since\nit implies neither a difference nor separation?\n\nTo remove this difficulty, we must have recourse to the foregoing\nexplication of abstract ideas. 'Tis certain that the mind would never\nhave dreamed of distinguishing a figure from the body figured, as being\nin reality neither distinguishable, nor different, nor separable, did\nit not observe, that even in this simplicity there might be contained\nmany different resemblances and relations. Thus, when a globe of white\nmarble is presented, we receive only the impression of a white colour\ndisposed in a certain form, nor are we able to separate and distinguish\nthe colour from the form. But observing afterwards a globe of black\nmarble and a cube of white, and comparing them with our former object,\nwe find two separate resemblances, in what formerly seemed, and really\nis, perfectly inseparable. After a little more practice of this kind,\nwe begin to distinguish the figure from the colour by a _distinction\nof reason_; that is, we consider the figure and colour together, since\nthey are, in effect, the same and undistinguishable; but still view\nthem in different aspects, according to the resemblances of which they\nare susceptible. When we would consider only the figure of the globe of\nwhite marble, we form in reality an idea both of the figure and colour,\nbut tacitly carry our eye to its resemblance with the globe of black\nmarble: and in the same manner, when we would consider its colour only,\nwe turn our view to its resemblance with the cube of white marble. By\nthis means we accompany our ideas with a kind of reflection, of which\ncustom renders us, in a great measure, insensible. A person who desires\nus to consider the figure of a globe of white marble without thinking\non its colour, desires an impossibility; but his meaning is, that we\nshould consider the colour and figure together, but still keep in our\neye the resemblance to the globe of black marble, or that to any other\nglobe of whatever colour or substance.\n\n\n[3] Dr Berkeley.\n\n[4] 'Tis evident, that even different simple ideas may have a\nsimilarity or resemblance to each other; nor is it necessary, that the\npoint or circumstance of resemblance should be distinct or separable\nfrom that in which they differ. _Blue_ and _green_ are different simple\nideas, but are more resembling than _blue_ and _scarlet_; though\ntheir perfect simplicity excludes all possibility of separation or\ndistinction. 'Tis the same case with particular sounds, and tastes,\nand smells. These admit of infinite resemblances upon the general\nappearance and comparison, without having any common circumstance\nthe same. And of this we may be certain, even from the very abstract\nterms _simple idea_. They comprehend all simple ideas under them.\nThese resemble each other in their simplicity. And yet from their very\nnature, which excludes all composition, this circumstance, in which\nthey resemble, is not distinguishable or separable from the rest.\n'Tis the same case with all the degrees in any quality. They are all\nresembling, and yet the quality, in any individual, is not distinct\nfrom the degree.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nOF THE IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nOF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF OUR IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.\n\n\nWhatever has the air of a paradox, and is contrary to the first and\nmost unprejudiced notions of mankind, is often greedily embraced by\nphilosophers, as showing the superiority of their science, which could\ndiscover opinions so remote from vulgar conception. On the other hand,\nany thing proposed to us, which causes surprise and admiration, gives\nsuch a satisfaction to the mind, that it indulges itself in those\nagreeable emotions, and will never be persuaded that its pleasure is\nentirely without foundation. From these dispositions in philosophers\nand their disciples, arises that mutual complaisance betwixt them;\nwhile the former furnish such plenty of strange and unaccountable\nopinions, and the latter so readily believe them. Of this mutual\ncomplaisance I cannot give a more evident instance than in the doctrine\nof infinite divisibility, with the examination of which I shall begin\nthis subject of the ideas of space and time.\n\n'Tis universally allowed, that the capacity of the mind is limited, and\ncan never attain a full and adequate conception of infinity: and though\nit were not allowed, 'twould be sufficiently evident from the plainest\nobservation and experience. 'Tis also obvious, that whatever is capable\nof being divided _in infinitum_, must consist of an infinite number\nof parts, and that 'tis impossible to set any bounds to the number\nof parts without setting bounds at the same time to the division. It\nrequires scarce any induction to conclude from hence, that the _idea_,\nwhich we form of any finite quality, is not infinitely divisible, but\nthat by proper distinctions and separations we may run up this idea\nto inferior ones, which will be perfectly simple and indivisible. In\nrejecting the infinite capacity of the mind, we suppose it may arrive\nat an end in the division of its ideas; nor are there any possible\nmeans of evading the evidence of this conclusion.\n\n'Tis therefore certain, that the imagination reaches a _minimum_,\nand may raise up to itself an idea, of which it cannot conceive\nany subdivision, and which cannot be diminished without a total\nannihilation. When you tell me of the thousandth and ten thousandth\npart of a grain of sand, I have a distinct idea of these numbers and\nof their different proportions; but the images which I form in my mind\nto represent the things themselves, are nothing different from each\nother, nor inferior to that image, by which I represent the grain of\nsand itself, which is supposed so vastly to exceed them. What consists\nof parts is distinguishable into them, and what is distinguishable is\nseparable. But, whatever we may imagine of the thing, the idea of a\ngrain of sand is not distinguishable nor separable into twenty, much\nless into a thousand, ten thousand, or an infinite number of different\nideas.\n\n'Tis the same case with the impressions of the senses as with the ideas\nof the imagination. Put a spot of ink upon paper, fix your eye upon\nthat spot, and retire to such a distance that at last you lose sight\nof it; 'tis plain, that the moment before it vanished, the image, or\nimpression, was perfectly indivisible. 'Tis not for want of rays of\nlight striking on our eyes, that the minute parts of distant bodies\nconvey not any sensible impression; but because they are removed\nbeyond that distance, at which their impressions were reduced to a\n_minimum_, and were incapable of any farther diminution. A microscope\nor telescope, which renders them visible, produces not any new rays of\nlight, but only spreads those which always flowed from them; and, by\nthat means, both gives parts to impressions, which to the naked eye\nappear simple and uncompounded, and advances to a _minimum_ what was\nformerly imperceptible.\n\nWe may hence discover the error of the common opinion, that the\ncapacity of the mind is limited on both sides, and that 'tis impossible\nfor the imagination to form an adequate idea of what goes beyond a\ncertain degree of minuteness as well as of greatness. Nothing can be\nmore minute than some ideas which we form in the fancy, and images\nwhich appear to the senses; since there are ideas and images perfectly\nsimple and indivisible. The only defect of our senses is, that they\ngive us disproportioned images of things, and represent as minute and\nuncompounded what is really great and composed of a vast number of\nparts. This mistake we are not sensible of; but, taking the impressions\nof those minute objects, which appear to the senses to be equal,\nor nearly equal to the objects, and finding, by reason, that there\nare other objects vastly more minute, we too hastily conclude, that\nthese are inferior to any idea of our imagination or impression of\nour senses. This, however, is certain, that we can form ideas, which\nshall be no greater than the smallest atom of the animal spirits of\nan insect a thousand times less than a mite: and we ought rather to\nconclude, that the difficulty lies in enlarging our conceptions so much\nas to form a just notion of a mite, or even of an insect a thousand\ntimes less than a mite. For, in order to form a just notion of these\nanimals, we must have a distinct idea representing every part of them;\nwhich, according to the system of infinite divisibility, is utterly\nimpossible, and according to that of indivisible parts or atoms, is\nextremely difficult, by reason of the vast number and multiplicity of\nthese parts.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nOF THE INFINITE DIVISIBILITY OF SPACE AND TIME.\n\n\nWherever ideas are adequate representations of objects, the relations,\ncontradictions, and agreements of the ideas are all applicable to the\nobjects; and this we may, in general, observe to be the foundation of\nall human knowledge. But our ideas are adequate representations of\nthe most minute parts of extension; and, through whatever divisions\nand subdivisions we may suppose these parts to be arrived at, they\ncan never become inferior to some ideas which we form. The plain\nconsequence is, that whatever _appears_ impossible and contradictory\nupon the comparison of these ideas, must be _really_ impossible and\ncontradictory, without any farther excuse or evasion.\n\nEvery thing capable of being infinitely divided contains an infinite\nnumber of parts; otherwise the division would be stopped short by\nthe indivisible parts, which we should immediately arrive at. If\ntherefore any finite extension be infinitely divisible, it can be no\ncontradiction to suppose, that a finite extension contains an infinite\nnumber of parts: and _vice versa_, if it be a contradiction to suppose,\nthat a finite extension contains an infinite number of parts, no finite\nextension can be infinitely divisible. But that this latter supposition\nis absurd, I easily convince myself by the consideration of my clear\nideas. I first take the least idea I can form of a part of extension,\nand being certain that there is nothing more minute than this idea, I\nconclude, that whatever I discover by its means, must be a real quality\nof extension. I then repeat this idea once, twice, thrice, &c. and find\nthe compound idea of extension, arising from its repetition, always\nto augment, and become double, triple, quadruple, &c. till at last it\nswells up to a considerable bulk, greater or smaller, in proportion as\nI repeat more or less the same idea. When I stop in the addition of\nparts, the idea of extension ceases to augment; and were I to carry\non the addition _in infinitum_, I clearly perceive, that the idea of\nextension must also become infinite. Upon the whole, I conclude, that\nthe idea of an infinite number of parts is individually the same idea\nwith that of an infinite extension; that no finite extension is capable\nof containing an infinite number of parts; and, consequently, that no\nfinite extension is infinitely divisible.[1]\n\nI may subjoin another argument proposed by a noted author,[2] which\nseems to me very strong and beautiful. 'Tis evident, that existence\nin itself belongs only to unity, and is never applicable to number,\nbut on account of the unites of which the number is composed. Twenty\nmen may be said to exist; but 'tis only because one, two, three, four,\n&c. are existent; and if you deny the existence of the latter, that of\nthe former falls of course. 'Tis therefore utterly absurd to suppose\nany number to exist, and yet deny the existence of unites; and as\nextension is always a number, according to the common sentiment of\nmetaphysicians, and never resolves itself into any unite or indivisible\nquantity, it follows that extension can never at all exist. 'Tis in\nvain to reply, that any determinate quantity of extension is an unite;\nbut such a one as admits of an infinite number of fractions, and is\ninexhaustible in its subdivisions. For by the same rule, these twenty\nmen _may be considered as an unite_. The whole globe of the earth, nay,\nthe whole universe _may be considered as an unite_. That term of unity\nis merely a fictitious denomination, which the mind may apply to any\nquantity of objects it collects together; nor can such an unity any\nmore exist alone than number can, as being in reality a true number.\nBut the unity, which can exist alone, and whose existence is necessary\nto that of all number, is of another kind, and must be perfectly\nindivisible, and incapable of being resolved into any lesser unity.\n\nAll this reasoning takes place with regard to time; along with an\nadditional argument, which it may be proper to take notice of. 'Tis\na property inseparable from time, and which in a manner constitutes\nits essence, that each of its parts succeeds another, and that none\nof them, however contiguous, can ever be co-existent. For the same\nreason that the year 1737 cannot concur with the present year 1738,\nevery moment must be distinct from, and posterior or antecedent to\nanother. 'Tis certain then, that time, as it exists, must be composed\nof indivisible moments. For if in time we could never arrive at an\nend of division, and if each moment, as it succeeds another, were not\nperfectly single and indivisible, there would be an infinite number of\nco-existent moments, or parts of time; which I believe will be allowed\nto be an arrant contradiction.\n\nThe infinite divisibility of space implies that of time, as is evident\nfrom the nature of motion. If the latter, therefore, be impossible, the\nformer must be equally so.\n\nI doubt not but it will readily be allowed by the most obstinate\ndefender of the doctrine of infinite divisibility, that these arguments\nare difficulties, and that 'tis impossible to give any answer to\nthem which will be perfectly clear and satisfactory. But here we may\nobserve, that nothing can be more absurd than this custom of calling a\n_difficulty_ what pretends to be a _demonstration_, and endeavouring by\nthat means to elude its force and evidence. 'Tis not in demonstrations,\nas in probabilities, that difficulties can take place, and one argument\ncounterbalance another, and diminish its authority. A demonstration,\nif just, admits of no opposite difficulty; and if not just, 'tis\na mere sophism, and consequently can never be a difficulty. 'Tis\neither irresistible, or has no manner of force. To talk therefore of\nobjections and replies, and balancing of arguments in such a question\nas this, is to confess, either that human reason is nothing but a\nplay of words, or that the person himself, who talks so, has not a\ncapacity equal to such subjects. Demonstrations may be difficult to be\ncomprehended, because of the abstractedness of the subject; but can\nnever have any such difficulties as will weaken their authority, when\nonce they are comprehended.\n\n'Tis true, mathematicians are wont to say, that there are here\nequally strong arguments on the other side of the question, and that\nthe doctrine of indivisible points is also liable to unanswerable\nobjections. Before I examine these arguments and objections in detail,\nI will here take them in a body, and endeavour, by a short and decisive\nreason, to prove, at once, that 'tis utterly impossible they can have\nany just foundation.\n\n'Tis an established maxim in metaphysics, _That whatever the mind\nclearly conceives includes the idea of possible existence_, or, in\nother words, _that nothing we imagine is absolutely impossible_. We\ncan form the idea of a golden mountain, and from thence conclude, that\nsuch a mountain may actually exist. We can form no idea of a mountain\nwithout a valley, and therefore regard it as impossible.\n\nNow 'tis certain we have an idea of extension; for otherwise, why\ndo we talk and reason concerning it? 'Tis likewise certain, that\nthis idea, as conceived by the imagination, though divisible into\nparts or inferior ideas, is not infinitely divisible, nor consists\nof an infinite number of parts: for that exceeds the comprehension\nof our limited capacities. Here then is an idea of extension, which\nconsists of parts or inferior ideas, that are perfectly indivisible:\nconsequently this idea implies no contradiction: consequently 'tis\npossible for extension really to exist conformable to it: and\nconsequently, all the arguments employed against the possibility of\nmathematical points are mere scholastic quibbles, and unworthy of our\nattention.\n\nThese consequences we may carry one step farther, and conclude that all\nthe pretended demonstrations for the infinite divisibility of extension\nare equally sophistical; since 'tis certain these demonstrations cannot\nbe just without proving the impossibility of mathematical points; which\n'tis an evident absurdity to pretend to.\n\n\n[1] It has been objected to me, that infinite divisibility supposes\nonly an infinite number of _proportional_ not of _aliquot_ parts, and\nthat an infinite number of proportional parts does not form an infinite\nextension. But this distinction is entirely frivolous. Whether these\nparts be called _aliquot_ or _proportional_, they cannot be inferior\nto those minute parts we conceive; and therefore, cannot form a less\nextension by their conjunction.\n\n[2] Mons. Malezieu.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nOF THE OTHER QUALITIES OF OUR IDEAS OF SPACE AND TIME.\n\n\nNo discovery could have been made more happily for deciding all\ncontroversies concerning ideas, than that above mentioned, that\nimpressions always take the precedency of them, and that every idea,\nwith which the imagination is furnished, first makes its appearance in\na correspondent impression. These latter perceptions are all so clear\nand evident, that they admit of no controversy; though many of our\nideas are so obscure, that 'tis almost impossible even for the mind,\nwhich forms them, to tell exactly their nature and composition. Let us\napply this principle, in order to discover farther the nature of our\nideas of space and time.\n\nUpon opening my eyes and turning them to the surrounding objects,\nI perceive many visible bodies; and upon shutting them again, and\nconsidering the distance betwixt these bodies, I acquire the idea\nof extension. As every idea is derived from some impression which\nis exactly similar to it, the impressions similar to this idea of\nextension, must either be some sensations derived from the sight, or\nsome internal impressions arising from these sensations.\n\nOur internal impressions are our passions, emotions, desires, and\naversions; none of which, I believe, will ever be asserted to be\nthe model from which the idea of space is derived. There remains,\ntherefore, nothing but the senses which can convey to us this original\nimpression. Now, what impression do our senses here convey to us? This\nis the principal question, and decides without appeal concerning the\nnature of the idea.\n\nThe table before me is alone sufficient by its view to give me the\nidea of extension. This idea, then, is borrowed from, and represents\nsome impression which this moment appears to the senses. But my senses\nconvey to me only the impressions of coloured points, disposed in a\ncertain manner. If the eye is sensible of any thing farther, I desire\nit may be pointed out to me. But, if it be impossible to shew any thing\nfarther, we may conclude with certainty, that the idea of extension is\nnothing but a copy of these coloured points, and of the manner of their\nappearance.\n\nSuppose that, in the extended object, or composition of coloured\npoints, from which we first received the idea of extension, the points\nwere of a purple colour; it follows, that in every repetition of that\nidea we would not only place the points in the same order with respect\nto each other, but also bestow on them that precise colour with which\nalone we are acquainted. But afterwards, having experience of the other\ncolours of violet, green, red, white, black, and of all the different\ncompositions of these, and finding a resemblance in the disposition of\ncoloured points, of which they are composed, we omit the peculiarities\nof colour, as far as possible, and found an abstract idea merely on\nthat disposition of points, or manner of appearance, in which they\nagree. Nay, even when the resemblance is carried beyond the objects\nof one sense, and the impressions of touch are found to be similar\nto those of sight in the disposition of their parts; this does not\nhinder the abstract idea from representing both, upon account of their\nresemblance. All abstract ideas are really nothing but particular ones,\nconsidered in a certain light; but being annexed to general terms, they\nare able to represent a vast variety, and to comprehend objects, which,\nas they are alike in some particulars, are in others vastly wide of\neach other.\n\nThe idea of time, being derived from the succession of our perceptions\nof every kind, ideas as well as impressions, and impressions of\nreflection as well as of sensation, will afford us an instance of an\nabstract idea, which comprehends a still greater variety than that\nof space, and yet is represented in the fancy by some particular\nindividual idea of a determined quantity and quality.\n\nAs 'tis from the disposition of visible and tangible objects we receive\nthe idea of space, so, from the succession of ideas and impressions we\nform the idea of time; nor is it possible for time alone ever to make\nits appearance, or be taken notice of by the mind. A man in a sound\nsleep, or strongly occupied with one thought, is insensible of time;\nand according as his perceptions succeed each other with greater or\nless rapidity, the same duration appears longer or shorter to his\nimagination. It has been remarked by a great philosopher,[3] that our\nperceptions have certain bounds in this particular, which are fixed by\nthe original nature and constitution of the mind, and beyond which no\ninfluence of external objects on the senses is ever able to hasten or\nretard our thought. If you wheel about a burning coal with rapidity,\nit will present to the senses an image of a circle of fire; nor will\nthere seem to be any interval of time betwixt its revolutions; merely\nbecause 'tis impossible for our perceptions to succeed each other,\nwith the same rapidity that motion may be communicated to external\nobjects. Wherever we have no successive perceptions, we have no notion\nof time, even though there be a real succession in the objects. From\nthese phenomena, as well as from many others, we may conclude, that\ntime cannot make its appearance to the mind, either alone or attended\nwith a steady unchangeable object, but is always discovered by some\n_perceivable_ succession of changeable objects.\n\nTo confirm this we may add the following argument, which to me seems\nperfectly decisive and convincing. 'Tis evident, that time or duration\nconsists of different parts: for otherwise, we could not conceive a\nlonger or shorter duration. 'Tis also evident, that these parts are\nnot co-existent: for that quality of the coexistence of parts belongs\nto extension, and is what distinguishes it from duration. Now as time\nis composed of parts that are not co-existent, an unchangeable object,\nsince it produces none but co-existent impressions, produces none that\ncan give us the idea of time; and, consequently, that idea must be\nderived from a succession of changeable objects, and time in its first\nappearance can never be severed from such a succession.\n\nHaving therefore found, that time in its first appearance to the mind\nis always conjoined with a succession of changeable objects, and that\notherwise it can never fall under our notice, we must now examine,\nwhether it can be _conceived_ without our conceiving any succession\nof objects, and whether it can alone form a distinct idea in the\nimagination.\n\nIn order to know whether any objects, which are joined in impression,\nbe separable in idea, we need only consider if they be different from\neach other; in which case, 'tis plain they may be conceived apart.\nEvery thing that is different is distinguishable, and every thing\nthat is distinguishable may be separated, according to the maxims\nabove explained. If, on the contrary, they be not different, they are\nnot distinguishable; and if they be not distinguishable, they cannot\nbe separated. But this is precisely the case with respect to time,\ncompared with our successive perceptions. The idea of time is not\nderived from a particular impression mixed up with others, and plainly\ndistinguishable from them, but arises altogether from the manner in\nwhich impressions appear to the mind, without making one of the number.\nFive notes played on a flute give us the impression and idea of time,\nthough time be not a sixth impression which presents itself to the\nhearing or any other of the senses. Nor is it a sixth impression which\nthe mind by reflection finds in itself. These five sounds making their\nappearance in this particular manner, excite no emotion in the mind,\nnor produce an affection of any kind, which being observed by it can\ngive rise to a new idea. For _that_ is necessary to produce a new idea\nof reflection; nor can the mind, by revolving over a thousand times\nall its ideas of sensation, ever extract from them any new original\nidea, unless nature has so framed its faculties, that it feels some\nnew original impression arise from such a contemplation. But here it\nonly takes notice of the our the _manner_ in which the different sounds\nmake their appearance, and that it may afterwards consider without\nconsidering these particular sounds, but may conjoin it with any other\nobjects. The ideas of some objects it certainly must have, nor is it\npossible for it without these ideas ever to arrive at any conception of\ntime; which, since it appears not as any primary distinct impression,\ncan plainly be nothing but different ideas, or impressions, or objects\ndisposed in a certain manner, that is, succeeding each other.\n\nI know there are some who pretend that the idea of duration is\napplicable in a proper sense to objects which are perfectly\nunchangeable; and this I take to be the common opinion of philosophers\nas well as of the vulgar. But to be convinced of its falsehood, we need\nbut reflect on the foregoing conclusion, that the idea of duration is\nalways derived from a succession of changeable objects, and can never\nbe conveyed to the mind by any thing stedfast and unchangeable. For\nit inevitably follows from thence, that since the idea of duration\ncannot be derived from such an object, it can never in any propriety or\nexactness be applied to it, nor can any thing unchangeable be ever said\nto have duration. Ideas always represent the objects or impressions,\nfrom which they are derived, and can never, without a fiction,\nrepresent or be applied to any other. By what fiction we apply the idea\nof time, even to what is unchangeable, and suppose, as is common that\nduration is a measure of rest as well as of motion, we shall consider\nafterwards.[4]\n\nThere is another very decisive argument, which establishes the present\ndoctrine concerning our ideas of space and time, and is founded only on\nthat simple principle, _that our ideas of them are compounded of parts,\nwhich are indivisible_. This argument may be worth the examining.\n\nEvery idea that is distinguishable being also separable, let us\ntake one of those simple indivisible ideas, of which the compound\none of _extension_ is formed, and separating it from all others,\nand considering it apart, let us form a judgment of its nature and\nqualities.\n\n'Tis plain it is not the idea of extension: for the idea of extension\nconsists of parts; and this idea, according to the supposition, is\nperfectly simple and indivisible. Is it therefore nothing? That is\nabsolutely impossible. For as the compound idea of extension, which\nis real, is composed of such ideas, were these so many nonentities\nthere would be a real existence composed of nonentities, which is\nabsurd. Here, therefore, I must ask, _What is our idea of a simple and\nindivisible point_? No wonder if my answer appear somewhat new, since\nthe question itself has scarce ever yet been thought of. We are wont\nto dispute concerning the nature of mathematical points, but seldom\nconcerning the nature of their ideas.\n\nThe idea of space is conveyed to the mind by two senses, the\nsight and touch; nor does any thing ever appear extended, that is\nnot either visible or tangible. That compound impression, which\nrepresents extension, consists of several lesser impressions, that\nare indivisible to the eye or feeling, and may be called impressions\nof atoms or corpuscles endowed with colour and solidity. But this\nis not all. 'Tis not only requisite that these atoms should be\ncoloured or tangible, in order to discover themselves to our senses,\n'tis also necessary we should preserve the idea of their colour or\ntangibility, in order to comprehend them by our imagination. There is\nnothing but the idea of their colour or tangibility which can render\nthem conceivable by the mind. Upon the removal of the ideas of these\nsensible qualities they are utterly annihilated to the thought or\nimagination.\n\nNow, such as the parts are, such is the whole. If a point be not\nconsidered as coloured or tangible, it can convey to us no idea; and\nconsequently the idea of extension, which is composed of the ideas of\nthese points, can never possibly exist: but if the idea of extension\nreally can exist, as we are conscious it does, its parts must also\nexist; and in order to that, must be considered as coloured or\ntangible. We have therefore no idea of space or extension, but when we\nregard it as an object either of our sight or feeling.\n\nThe same reasoning will prove, that the indivisible moments of time\nmust be filled with some real object or existence, whose succession\nforms the duration, and makes it be conceivable by the mind.\n\n\n[3] Mr Locke.\n\n[4] Sect. 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOBJECTIONS ANSWERED.\n\n\nOur system concerning space and time consists of two parts, which\nare intimately connected together. The first depends on this chain\nof reasoning. The capacity of the mind is not infinite, consequently\nno idea of extension or duration consists of an infinite number of\nparts or inferior ideas, but of a finite number, and these simple\nand indivisible: 'tis therefore possible for space and time to exist\nconformable to this idea: and if it be possible, 'tis certain they\nactually do exist conformable to it, since their infinite divisibility\nis utterly impossible and contradictory.\n\nThe other part of our system is a consequence of this. The parts, into\nwhich the ideas of space and time resolve themselves, become at last\nindivisible; and these indivisible parts, being nothing in themselves,\nare inconceivable when not filled with something real and existent. The\nideas of space and time are therefore no separate or distinct ideas,\nbut merely those of the manner or order in which objects exist; or, in\nother words, 'tis impossible to conceive either a vacuum and extension\nwithout matter, or a time when there was no succession or change in\nany real existence. The intimate connexion betwixt these parts of our\nsystem is the reason why we shall examine together the objections which\nhave been urged against both of them, beginning with those against the\nfinite divisibility of extension.\n\nI. The first of these objections which I shall take notice of, is more\nproper to prove this connexion and dependence of the one part upon the\nother than to destroy either of them. It has often been maintained in\nthe schools, that extension must be divisible, _in infinitum_, because\nthe system of mathematical points is absurd; and that system is absurd,\nbecause a mathematical point is a nonentity, and consequently can\nnever, by its conjunction with others, form a real existence. This\nwould be perfectly decisive, were there no medium betwixt the infinite\ndivisibility of matter, and the nonentity of mathematical points. But\nthere is evidently a medium, viz. the bestowing a colour or solidity on\nthese points; and the absurdity of both the extremes is a demonstration\nof the truth and reality of this medium. The system of _physical_\npoints, which is another medium, is too absurd to need a refutation. A\nreal extension, such as a physical point is supposed to be, can never\nexist without parts different from each other; and wherever objects are\ndifferent, they are distinguishable and separable by the imagination.\n\nII. The second objection is derived from the necessity there would\nbe of _penetration_, if extension consisted of mathematical points.\nA simple and indivisible atom that touches another must necessarily\npenetrate it; for 'tis impossible it can touch it by its external\nparts, from the very supposition of its perfect simplicity, which\nexcludes all parts. It must therefore touch it intimately, and in its\nwhole essence, _secundum se, tota, et totaliter_; which is the very\ndefinition of penetration. But penetration is impossible: mathematical\npoints are of consequence equally impossible.\n\nI answer this objection by substituting a juster idea of penetration.\nSuppose two bodies, containing no void within their circumference, to\napproach each other, and to unite in such a manner that the body, which\nresults from their union, is no more extended than either of them; 'tis\nthis we must mean when we talk of penetration. But 'tis evident this\npenetration is nothing but the annihilation of one of these bodies, and\nthe preservation of the other, without our being able to distinguish\nparticularly which is preserved and which annihilated. Before the\napproach we have the idea of two bodies; after it we have the idea\nonly of one. 'Tis impossible for the mind to preserve any notion of\ndifference betwixt two bodies of the same nature existing in the same\nplace at the same time.\n\nTaking then penetration in this sense, for the annihilation of one body\nupon its approach to another, I ask any one if he sees a necessity that\na coloured or tangible point should be annihilated upon the approach\nof another coloured or tangible point? On the contrary, does he not\nevidently perceive, that, from the union of these points, there results\nan object which is compounded and divisible, and may be distinguished\ninto two parts, of which each preserves its existence, distinct and\nseparate, notwithstanding its contiguity to the other? Let him aid his\nfancy by conceiving these points to be of different colours, the better\nto prevent their coalition and confusion. A blue and a red point may\nsurely lie contiguous without any penetration or annihilation. For if\nthey cannot, what possibly can become of them? Whether shall the red or\nthe blue be annihilated? Or if these colours unite into one, what new\ncolour will they produce by their union?\n\nWhat chiefly gives rise to these objections, and at the same time\nrenders it so difficult to give a satisfactory answer to them, is\nthe natural infirmity and unsteadiness both of our imagination and\nsenses when employed on such minute objects. Put a spot of ink upon\npaper, and retire to such a distance that the spot becomes altogether\ninvisible, you will find, that, upon your return and nearer approach,\nthe spot first becomes visible by short intervals, and afterwards\nbecomes always visible; and afterwards acquires only a new force in\nits colouring, without augmenting its bulk; and afterwards, when it\nhas increased to such a degree as to be really extended, 'tis still\ndifficult for the imagination to break it into its component parts,\nbecause of the uneasiness it finds in the conception of such a minute\nobject as a single point. This infirmity affects most of our reasonings\non the present subject, and makes it almost impossible to answer in an\nintelligible manner, and in proper expressions, many questions which\nmay arise concerning it.\n\nIII. There have been many objections drawn from the _mathematics_\nagainst the indivisibility of the parts of extension, though at first\nsight that science seems rather favourable to the present doctrine; and\nif it be contrary in its _demonstrations_,'tis perfectly conformable\nin its _definitions_. My present business then must be, to defend the\ndefinitions and refute the demonstrations.\n\nA surface is _defined_ to be length and breadth without depth; a line\nto be length without breadth or depth; a point to be what has neither\nlength, breadth, nor depth. 'Tis evident that all this is perfectly\nunintelligible upon any other supposition than that of the composition\nof extension by indivisible points or atoms. How else could any thing\nexist without length, without breadth, or without depth?\n\nTwo different answers, I find, have been made to this argument,\nneither of which is, in my opinion, satisfactory. The first is, that\nthe objects of geometry, those surfaces, lines, and points, whose\nproportions and positions it examines, are mere ideas in the mind;\nand not only never did, but never can exist in nature. They never\ndid exist; for no one will pretend to draw a line or make a surface\nentirely conformable to the definition: they never can exist; for we\nmay produce demonstrations from these very ideas to prove that they are\nimpossible.\n\nBut can any thing be imagined more absurd and contradictory than this\nreasoning? Whatever can be conceived by a clear and distinct idea,\nnecessarily implies the possibility of existence; and he who pretends\nto prove the impossibility of its existence by any argument derived\nfrom the clear idea, in reality asserts that we have no clear idea\nof it, because we have a clear idea. 'Tis in vain to search for a\ncontradiction in any thing that is distinctly conceived by the mind.\nDid it imply any contradiction, 'tis impossible it could ever be\nconceived.\n\nThere is therefore no medium betwixt allowing at least the possibility\nof indivisible points, and denying their idea; and 'tis on this latter\nprinciple that the second answer to the foregoing argument is founded.\nIt has been pretended,[5] that though it be impossible to conceive a\nlength without any breadth, yet by an abstraction without a separation\nwe can consider the one without regarding the other; in the same manner\nas we may think of the length of the way betwixt two towns and overlook\nits breadth. The length is inseparable from the breadth both in nature\nand in our minds; but this excludes not a partial consideration, and a\n_distinction of reason_, after the manner above explained.\n\nIn refuting this answer I shall not insist on the argument, which I\nhave already sufficiently explained, that if it be impossible for\nthe mind to arrive at a _minimum_ in its ideas, its capacity must be\ninfinite in order to comprehend the infinite number of parts, of which\nits idea of any extension would be composed. I shall here endeavour to\nfind some new absurdities in this reasoning.\n\nA surface terminates a solid; a line terminates a surface; a point\nterminates a line; but I assert, that if the _ideas_ of a point, line,\nor surface, were not indivisible, 'tis impossible we should ever\nconceive these terminations. For let these ideas be supposed infinitely\ndivisible, and then let the fancy endeavour to fix itself on the idea\nof the last surface, line, or point, it immediately finds this idea\nto break into parts; and upon its seizing the last of these parts it\nloses its hold by a new division, and so on _in infinitum_, without\nany possibility of its arriving at a concluding idea. The number of\nfractions bring it no nearer the last division than the first idea\nit formed. Every particle eludes the grasp by a new fraction, like\nquicksilver, when we endeavour to seize it. But as in fact there must\nbe something which terminates the idea of every finite quantity, and as\nthis terminating idea cannot itself consist of parts or inferior ideas,\notherwise it would be the last of its parts, which finished the idea,\nand so on; this is a clear proof, that the ideas of surfaces, lines,\nand points, admit not of any division; those of surfaces in depth, of\nlines in breadth and depth, and of points in any dimension.\n\nThe _schoolmen_ were so sensible of the force of this argument, that\nsome of them maintained that nature has mixed among those particles of\nmatter, which are divisible _in infinitum_, a number of mathematical\npoints in order to give a termination to bodies; and others eluded\nthe force of this reasoning by a heap of unintelligible cavils and\ndistinctions. Both these adversaries equally yield the victory. A man\nwho hides himself confesses as evidently the superiority of his enemy,\nas another, who fairly delivers his arms.\n\nThus it appears, that the definitions of mathematics destroy the\npretended demonstrations; and that if we have the idea of indivisible\npoints, lines, and surfaces, conformable to the definition, their\nexistence is certainly possible; but if we have no such idea, 'tis\nimpossible we can ever conceive the termination of any figure, without\nwhich conception there can be no geometrical demonstration.\n\nBut I go farther, and maintain, that none of these demonstrations\ncan have sufficient weight to establish such a principle as this of\ninfinite divisibility; and that because with regard to such minute\nobjects, they are not properly demonstrations, being built on ideas\nwhich are not exact, and maxims which are not precisely true. When\ngeometry decides any thing concerning the proportions of quantity, we\nought not to look for the utmost _precision_ and exactness. None of\nits proofs extend so far: it takes the dimensions and proportions of\nfigures justly; but roughly, and with some liberty. Its errors are\nnever considerable, nor would it err at all, did it not aspire to such\nan absolute perfection.\n\nI first ask mathematicians what they mean when they say one line or\nsurface is _equal_ to, or _greater_, or _less_ than another? Let any\nof them give an answer, to whatever sect he belongs, and whether he\nmaintains the composition of extension by indivisible points, or by\nquantities divisible _in infinitum_. This question will embarrass both\nof them.\n\nThere are few or no mathematicians who defend the hypothesis of\nindivisible points, and yet these have the readiest and justest answer\nto the present question. They need only reply, that lines or surfaces\nare equal, when the numbers of points in each are equal; and that as\nthe proportion of the numbers varies, the proportion of the lines and\nsurfaces is also varied. But though this answer be _just_ as well as\nobvious, yet I may affirm, that this standard of equality is entirely\n_useless_, and that it never is from such a comparison we determine\nobjects to be equal or unequal with respect to each other. For as the\npoints which enter into the composition of any line or surface, whether\nperceived by the sight or touch, are so minute and so confounded with\neach other that 'tis utterly impossible for the mind to compute their\nnumber, such a computation will never afford us a standard, by which we\nmay judge of proportions. No one will ever be able to determine by an\nexact enumeration, that an inch has fewer points than a foot, or a foot\nfewer than an ell, or any greater measure; for which reason, we seldom\nor never consider this as the standard of equality or inequality.\n\nAs to those who imagine that extension is divisible _in infinitum_,\n'tis impossible they can make use of this answer, or fix the equality\nof any line or surface by a numeration of its component parts. For\nsince, according to their hypothesis, the least as well as greatest\nfigures contain an infinite number of parts, and since infinite\nnumbers, properly speaking, can neither be equal _nor_ unequal with\nrespect to each other, the equality or inequality of any portions\nof space can never depend on any proportion in the number of their\nparts. 'Tis true, it may be said, that the inequality of an ell and a\nyard consists in the different numbers of the feet of which they are\ncomposed, and that of a foot and a yard in the number of inches. But\nas that quantity we call an inch in the one is supposed equal to what\nwe call an inch in the other, and as 'tis impossible for the mind to\nfind this equality by proceeding _in infinitum_ with these references\nto inferior quantities, 'tis evident that at last we must fix some\nstandard of equality different from an enumeration of the parts.\n\nThere are some who pretend,[6] that equality is best defined by\n_congruity_, and that any two figures are equal, when upon the placing\nof one upon the other, all their parts correspond to and touch each\nother. In order to judge of this definition let us consider, that since\nequality is a relation, it is not, strictly speaking, a property in the\nfigures themselves, but arises merely from the comparison which the\nmind makes betwixt them. If it consists therefore in this imaginary\napplication and mutual contact of parts, we must at least have a\ndistinct notion of these parts, and must conceive their contact. Now\n'tis plain, that in this conception, we would run up these parts to the\ngreatest minuteness which can possibly be conceived, since the contact\nof large parts would never render the figures equal. But the minutest\nparts we can conceive are mathematical points, and consequently this\nstandard of equality is the same with that derived from the equality of\nthe number of points, which we have already determined to be a just\nbut an useless standard. We must therefore look to some other quarter\nfor a solution of the present difficulty.\n\nThere are many philosophers, who refuse to assign any standard of\n_equality_, but assert, that 'tis sufficient to present two objects,\nthat are equal, in order to give us a just notion of this proportion.\nAll definitions, say they, are fruitless without the perception of such\nobjects; and where we perceive such objects we no longer stand in need\nof any definition. To this reasoning I entirely agree; and assert, that\nthe only useful notion of equality, or inequality, is derived from the\nwhole united appearance and the comparison of particular objects.\n\n'Tis evident that the eye, or rather the mind, is often able at one\nview to determine the proportions of bodies, and pronounce them equal\nto, or greater or less than each other, without examining or comparing\nthe number of their minute parts. Such judgments are not only common,\nbut in many cases certain and infallible. When the measure of a yard\nand that of a foot are presented, the mind can no more question,\nthat the first is longer than the second, than it can doubt of those\nprinciples which are the most clear and self-evident.\n\nThere are therefore three proportions, which the mind distinguishes\nin the general appearance of its objects, and calls by the names of\n_greater, less_, and _equal_. But though its decisions concerning\nthese proportions be sometimes infallible, they are not always so;\nnor are our judgments of this kind more exempt from doubt and error\nthan those on any other subject. We frequently correct our first\nopinion by a review and reflection; and pronounce those objects to\nbe equal, which at first we esteemed unequal; and regard an object\nas less, though before it appeared greater than another. Nor is this\nthe only correction which these judgments of our senses undergo; but\nwe often discover our error by a juxta-position of the objects; or,\nwhere that is impracticable, by the use of some common and invariable\nmeasure, which, being successively applied to each, informs us of their\ndifferent proportions. And even this correction is susceptible of a new\ncorrection, and of different degrees of exactness, according to the\nnature of the instrument by which we measure the bodies, and the care\nwhich we employ in the comparison.\n\nWhen therefore the mind is accustomed to these judgments and their\ncorrections, and finds that the same proportion which makes two figures\nhave in the eye that appearance, which we call _equality_, makes them\nalso correspond to each other, and to any common measure with which\nthey are compared, we form a mixed notion of equality derived both from\nthe looser and stricter methods of comparison. But we are not content\nwith this. For as sound reason convinces us that there are bodies\n_vastly_ more minute than those which appear to the senses; and as a\nfalse reason would persuade us, that there are bodies _infinitely_ more\nminute, we clearly perceive that we are not possessed of any instrument\nor art of measuring which can secure us from all error and uncertainty.\nWe are sensible that the addition or removal of one of these minute\nparts is not discernible either in the appearance or measuring; and as\nwe imagine that two figures, which were equal before, cannot be equal\nafter this removal or addition, we therefore suppose some imaginary\nstandard of equality, by which the appearances and measuring are\nexactly corrected, and the figures reduced entirely to that proportion.\nThis standard is plainly imaginary. For as the very idea of equality\nis that of such a particular appearance, corrected by juxta-position\nor a common measure, the notion of any correction beyond what we\nhave instruments and art to make, is a mere fiction of the mind, and\nuseless as well as incomprehensible. But though this standard be only\nimaginary, the fiction however is very natural; nor is any thing more\nusual, than for the mind to proceed after this manner with any action,\neven after the reason has ceased, which first determined it to begin.\nThis appears very conspicuously with regard to time; where, though\n'tis evident we have no exact method of determining the proportions of\nparts, not even so exact as in extension, yet the various corrections\nof our measures, and their different degrees of exactness, have given\nus an obscure and implicit notion of a perfect and entire equality. The\ncase is the same in many other subjects. A musician, finding his ear\nbecome every day more delicate, and correcting himself by reflection\nand attention, proceeds with the same act of the mind even when the\nsubject fails him, and entertains a notion of a complete _tierce_ or\n_octave_, without being able to tell whence he derives his standard. A\npainter forms the same fiction with regard to colours; a mechanic with\nregard to motion. To the one _light_ and _shade_, to the other _swift_\nand _slow_, are imagined to be capable of an exact comparison and\nequality beyond the judgments of the senses.\n\nWe may apply the same reasoning to _curve_ and _right_ lines. Nothing\nis more apparent to the senses than the distinction betwixt a curve\nand a right line; nor are there any ideas we more easily form than\nthe ideas of these objects. But however easily we may form these\nideas, 'tis impossible to produce any definition of them, which will\nfix the precise boundaries betwixt them. When we draw lines upon\npaper or any continued surface, there is a certain order by which\nthe lines run along from one point to another, that they may produce\nthe entire impression of a curve or right line; but this order is\nperfectly unknown, and nothing is observed but the united appearance.\nThus, even upon the system of indivisible points, we can only form a\ndistant notion of some unknown standard to these objects. Upon that of\ninfinite divisibility we cannot go even this length, but are reduced\nmerely to the general appearance, as the rule by which we determine\nlines to be either curve or right ones. But though we can give no\nperfect definition of these lines, nor produce any very exact method\nof distinguishing the one from the other, yet this hinders us not from\ncorrecting the first appearance by a more accurate consideration, and\nby a comparison with some rule, of whose rectitude, from repeated\ntrials, we have a greater assurance. And 'tis from these corrections,\nand by carrying on the same action of the mind, even when its reason\nfails us, that we form the loose idea of a perfect standard to these\nfigures, without being able to explain or comprehend it.\n\n'Tis true, mathematicians pretend they give an exact definition of\na right line when they say, _it is the shortest way betwixt two\npoints_. But in the first place I observe, that this is more properly\nthe discovery of one of the properties of a right line, than a just\ndefinition of it. For I ask any one, if, upon mention of a right line,\nhe thinks not immediately on such a particular appearance, and if 'tis\nnot by accident only that he considers this property? A right line can\nbe comprehended alone; but this definition is unintelligible without a\ncomparison with other lines, which we conceive to be more extended. In\ncommon life 'tis established as a maxim, that the straightest way is\nalways the shortest; which would be as absurd as to say, the shortest\nway is always the shortest, if our idea of a right line was not\ndifferent from that of the shortest way betwixt two points.\n\nSecondly, I repeat, what I have already established, that we have no\nprecise idea of equality and inequality, shorter and longer, more than\nof a right line or a curve; and consequently that the one can never\nafford us a perfect standard for the other. An exact idea can never be\nbuilt on such as are loose and undeterminate.\n\nThe idea of a _plain surface_ is as little susceptible of a precise\nstandard as that of a right line; nor have we any other means of\ndistinguishing such a surface, than its general appearance. 'Tis in\nvain that mathematicians represent a plain surface as produced by the\nflowing of a right line. 'Twill immediately be objected, that our idea\nof a surface is as independent of this method of forming a surface, as\nour idea of an ellipse is of that of a cone; that the idea of a right\nline is no more precise than that of a plain surface; that a right line\nmay flow irregularly, and by that means form a figure quite different\nfrom a plane; and that therefore we must suppose it to flow along two\nright lines, parallel to each other, and on the same plane; which is a\ndescription that explains a thing by itself, and returns in a circle.\n\nIt appears then, that the ideas which are most essential to geometry,\nviz. those of equality and inequality, of a right line and a plain\nsurface, are far from being exact and determinate, according to our\ncommon method of conceiving them. Not only we are incapable of telling\nif the case be in any degree doubtful, when such particular figures are\nequal; when such a line is a right one, and such a surface a plain one;\nbut we can form no idea of that proportion, or of these figures, which\nis firm and invariable. Our appeal is still to the weak and fallible\njudgment, which we make from the appearance of the objects, and correct\nby a compass, or common measure; and if we join the supposition of\nany farther correction, 'tis of such a one as is either useless or\nimaginary. In vain should we have recourse to the common topic, and\nemploy the supposition of a Deity, whose omnipotence may enable him to\nform a perfect geometrical figure, and describe a right line without\nany curve or inflection. As the ultimate standard of these figures is\nderived from nothing but the senses and imagination, 'tis absurd to\ntalk of any perfection beyond what these faculties can judge of; since\nthe true perfection of any thing consists in its conformity to its\nstandard.\n\nNow, since these ideas are so loose and uncertain, I would fain ask\nany mathematician, what infallible assurance he has, not only of\nthe more intricate and obscure propositions of his science, but of\nthe most vulgar and obvious principles? How can he prove to me, for\ninstance, that two right lines cannot have one common segment? Or\nthat 'tis impossible to draw more than one right line betwixt any two\npoints? Should he tell me, that these opinions are obviously absurd,\nand repugnant to our clear ideas; I would answer, that I do not\ndeny, where two right lines incline upon each other with a sensible\nangle, but 'tis absurd to imagine them to have a common segment. But\nsupposing these two lines to approach at the rate of an inch in twenty\nleagues, I perceive no absurdity in asserting, that upon their contact\nthey become one. For, I beseech you, by what rule or standard do you\njudge, when you assert that the line, in which I have supposed them to\nconcur, cannot make the same right line with those two, that form so\nsmall an angle betwixt them? You must surely have some idea of a right\nline, to which this line does not agree. Do you therefore mean, that\nit takes not the points in the same order and by the same rule, as is\npeculiar and essential to a right line? If so, I must inform you, that\nbesides that, in judging after this manner, you allow that extension\nis composed of indivisible points (which, perhaps, is more than you\nintend), besides this, I say, I must inform you, that neither is this\nthe standard from which we form the idea of a right line; nor, if it\nwere, is there any such firmness in our senses or imagination, as to\ndetermine when such an order is violated or preserved. The original\nstandard of a right line is in reality nothing but a certain general\nappearance; and 'tis evident right lines may be made to concur with\neach other, and yet correspond to this standard, though corrected by\nall the means either practicable or imaginable.\n\nTo whatever side mathematicians turn, this dilemma still meets them.\nIf they judge of equality, or any other proportion, by the accurate\nand exact standard, viz. the enumeration of the minute indivisible\nparts, they both employ a standard, which is useless in practice,\nand actually establish the indivisibility of extension, which they\nendeavour to explode. Or if they employ, as is usual, the inaccurate\nstandard, derived from a comparison of objects, upon their general\nappearance, corrected by measuring and juxtaposition; their first\nprinciples, though certain and infallible, are too coarse to afford\nany such subtile inferences as they commonly draw from them. The first\nprinciples are founded on the imagination and senses; the conclusion\ntherefore can never go beyond, much less contradict, these faculties.\n\nThis may open our eyes a little, and let us see, that no geometrical\ndemonstration for the infinite divisibility of extension can have so\nmuch force as what we naturally attribute to every argument, which\nis supported by such magnificent pretensions. At the same time we\nmay learn the reason, why geometry fails of evidence in this single\npoint, while all its other reasonings command our fullest assent and\napprobation. And indeed it seems more requisite to give the reason\nof this exception, than to show that we really must make such an\nexception, and regard all the mathematical arguments for infinite\ndivisibility as utterly sophistical. For 'tis evident, that as no idea\nof quantity is infinitely divisible, there cannot be imagined a more\nglaring absurdity, than to endeavour to prove, that quantity itself\nadmits of such a division; and to prove this by means of ideas, which\nare directly opposite in that particular. And as this absurdity is\nvery glaring in itself, so there is no argument founded on it, which\nis not attended with a new absurdity, and involves not an evident\ncontradiction.\n\nI might give as instances those arguments for infinite divisibility,\nwhich are derived from the _point of contact_. I know there is no\nmathematician, who will not refuse to be judged by the diagrams he\ndescribes upon paper, these being loose draughts, as he will tell us,\nand serving only to convey with greater facility certain ideas, which\nare the true foundation of all our reasoning. This I am satisfied with,\nand am willing to rest the controversy merely upon these ideas. I\ndesire therefore our mathematician to form, as accurately as possible,\nthe ideas of a circle and a right line; and I then ask, if upon the\nconception of their contact he can conceive them as touching in a\nmathematical point, or if he must necessarily imagine them to concur\nfor some space. Whichever side he chooses, he runs himself into equal\ndifficulties. If he affirms, that in tracing these figures in his\nimagination, he can imagine them to touch only in a point, he allows\nthe possibility of that idea, and consequently of the thing. If he\nsays, that in his conception of the contact of those lines he must\nmake them concur, he thereby acknowledges the fallacy of geometrical\ndemonstrations, when carried beyond a certain degree of minuteness;\nsince, 'tis certain he has such demonstrations against the concurrence\nof a circle and a right line; that is, in other words, he can prove an\nidea, viz. that of concurrence, to be _incompatible_ with two other\nideas, viz. those of a circle and right line; though at the same time\nhe acknowledges these ideas to be _inseparable_.\n\n\n[5] L'Art de penser.\n\n[6] See Dr Barrow's Mathematical Lectures.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nTHE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED.\n\n\nIf the second part of my system be true, _that the idea of space\nor extension is nothing but the idea of visible or tangible points\ndistributed in a certain order_, it follows, that we can form no idea\nof a vacuum, or space, where there is nothing visible or tangible. This\ngives rise to three objections, which I shall examine together, because\nthe answer I shall give to one is a consequence of that which I shall\nmake use of for the others.\n\nFirst, it may be said, that men have disputed for many ages concerning\na vacuum and a plenum, without being able to bring the affair to a\nfinal decision: and philosophers, even at this day, think themselves\nat liberty to take party on either side, as their fancy leads them.\nBut whatever foundation there may be for a controversy concerning\nthe things themselves, it may be pretended that the very dispute is\ndecisive concerning the idea, and that 'tis impossible men could so\nlong reason about a vacuum, and either refute or defend it, without\nhaving a notion of what they refuted or defended.\n\nSecondly, if this argument should be contested, the reality, or at\nleast possibility, of the _idea_ of a vacuum, may be proved by the\nfollowing reasoning. Every idea is possible which is a necessary and\ninfallible consequence of such as are possible. Now, though we allow\nthe world to be at present a plenum, we may easily conceive it to be\ndeprived of motion; and this idea will certainly be allowed possible.\nIt must also be allowed possible, to conceive the annihilation of\nany part of matter by the omnipotence of the Deity, while the other\nparts remain at rest. For as every idea that is distinguishable is\nseparable by the imagination, and as every idea that is separable\nby the imagination may be conceived to be separately existent, 'tis\nevident, that the existence of one particle of matter no more implies\nthe existence of another, than a square figure in one body implies\na square figure in every one. This being granted, I now demand what\nresults from the concurrence of these two possible ideas of _rest_\nand _annihilation_, and what must we conceive to follow upon the\nannihilation of all the air and subtile matter in the chamber,\nsupposing the walls to remain the same, without any motion or\nalteration? There are some metaphysicians who answer, that since matter\nand extension are the same, the annihilation of the one necessarily\nimplies that of the other; and there being now no distance betwixt the\nwalls of the chamber, they touch each other; in the same manner as my\nhand touches the paper which is immediately before me. But though this\nanswer be very common, I defy these metaphysicians to conceive the\nmatter according to their hypothesis, or imagine the floor and roof,\nwith all the opposite sides of the chamber, to touch each other, while\nthey continue in rest, and preserve the same position. For how can\nthe two walls, that run from south to north, touch each other, while\nthey touch the opposite ends of two walls that run from east to west?\nAnd how can the floor and roof ever meet, while they are separated by\nthe four walls that lie in a contrary position? If you change their\nposition, you suppose a motion. If you conceive any thing betwixt them,\nyou suppose a new creation. But keeping strictly to the two ideas of\n_rest_ and _annihilation_, 'tis evident, that the idea which results\nfrom them is not that of a contact of parts, but something else, which\nis concluded to be the idea of a vacuum.\n\nThe third objection carries the matter still farther, and not only\nasserts, that the idea of a vacuum is real and possible, but also\nnecessary and unavoidable. This assertion is founded on the motion we\nobserve in bodies, which, 'tis maintained, would be impossible and\ninconceivable without a vacuum, into which one body must move in order\nto make way for another. I shall not enlarge upon this objection,\nbecause it principally belongs to natural philosophy, which lies\nwithout our present sphere.\n\nIn order to answer these objections, we must take the matter pretty\ndeep, and consider the nature and origin of several ideas, lest we\ndispute without understanding perfectly the subject of the controversy.\n'Tis evident the idea of darkness is no positive idea, but merely the\nnegation of light, or, more properly speaking, of coloured and visible\nobjects. A man who enjoys his sight, receives no other perception from\nturning his eyes on every side, when entirely deprived of light, than\nwhat is common to him with one born blind; and 'tis certain such a one\nhas no idea either of light or darkness. The consequence of this is,\nthat 'tis not from the mere removal of visible objects we receive the\nimpression of extension without matter; and that the idea of utter\ndarkness can never be the same with that of vacuum.\n\nSuppose again a man to be supported in the air, and to be softly\nconveyed along by some invisible power; 'tis evident he is sensible\nof nothing, and never receives the idea of extension, nor indeed any\nidea, from this invariable motion. Even supposing he moves his limbs to\nand fro, this cannot convey to him that idea. He feels in that case a\ncertain sensation or impression, the parts of which are successive to\neach other, and may give him the idea of time, but certainly are not\ndisposed in such a manner as is necessary to convey the idea of space\nor extension.\n\nSince, then, it appears that darkness and motion, with the utter\nremoval of every thing visible and tangible, can never give us the idea\nof extension without matter, or of a vacuum; the next question is,\nwhether they can convey this idea, when mixed with something visible\nand tangible?\n\n'Tis commonly allowed by philosophers, that all bodies which discover\nthemselves to the eye, appear as if painted on a plain surface,\nand that their different degrees of remoteness from ourselves are\ndiscovered more by reason than by the senses. When I hold up my hand\nbefore me, and spread my fingers, they are separated as perfectly by\nthe blue colour of the firmament, as they could be by any visible\nobject which I could place betwixt them. In order, therefore, to know\nwhether the sight can convey the impression and idea of a vacuum, we\nmust suppose, that amidst an entire darkness, there are luminous bodies\npresented to us, whose light discovers only these bodies themselves,\nwithout giving us any impression of the surrounding objects.\n\nWe must form a parallel supposition concerning the objects of our\nfeeling. 'Tis not proper to suppose a perfect removal of all tangible\nobjects: we must allow something to be perceived by the feeling; and\nafter an interval and motion of the hand or other organ of sensation,\nanother object of the touch to be met with; and upon leaving that,\nanother; and so on, as often as we please. The question is, whether\nthese intervals do not afford us the idea of extension without body.\n\nTo begin with the first case; 'tis evident, that when only two luminous\nbodies appear to the eye, we can perceive whether they be conjoined or\nseparate; whether they be separated by a great or small distance; and\nif this distance varies, we can perceive its increase or diminution,\nwith the motion of the bodies. But as the distance is not in this case\nany thing coloured or visible, it may be thought that there is here\na vacuum or pure extension, not only intelligible to the mind, but\nobvious to the very senses.\n\nThis is our natural and most familiar way of thinking, but which we\nshall learn to correct by a little reflection. We may observe, that\nwhen two bodies present themselves, where there was formerly an entire\ndarkness, the only change that is discoverable is in the appearance of\nthese two objects, and that all the rest continues to be as before, a\nperfect negation of light, and of every coloured or visible object.\nThis is not only true of what may be said to be remote from these\nbodies, but also of the very distance which is interposed betwixt them;\n_that_ being nothing but darkness, or the negation of light; without\nparts, without composition, invariable and indivisible. Now, since\nthis distance causes no perception different from what a blind man\nreceives from his eyes, or what is conveyed to us in the darkest night,\nit must partake of the same properties; and as blindness and darkness\nafford us no ideas of extension, 'tis impossible that the dark and\nundistinguishable distance betwixt two bodies can ever produce that\nidea.\n\nThe sole difference betwixt an absolute darkness and the appearance\nof two or more visible luminous objects consists, as I said, in the\nobjects themselves, and in the manner they affect our senses. The\nangles, which the rays of light flowing from them form with each other;\nthe motion that is required in the eye, in its passage from one to\nthe other; and the different parts of the organs which are affected\nby them; these produce the only perceptions from which we can judge\nof the distance. But as these perceptions are each of them simple and\nindivisible, they can never give us the idea of extension.\n\nWe may illustrate this by considering the sense of feeling, and the\nimaginary distance or interval interposed betwixt tangible or solid\nobjects. I suppose two cases, viz. that of a man supported in the air,\nand moving his limbs to and fro, without meeting any thing tangible;\nand that of a man, who, feeling something tangible, leaves it, and,\nafter a motion of which he is sensible, perceives another tangible\nobject; and I then ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt these\ntwo cases? No one will make any scruple to affirm, that it consists\nmerely in the perceiving those objects, and that the sensation,\nwhich arises from the motion, is in both cases the same; and as that\nsensation is not capable of conveying to us an idea of extension, when\nunaccompanied with some other perception, it can no more give us that\nidea, when mixed with the impressions of tangible objects, since that\nmixture produces no alteration upon it.\n\nBut though motion and darkness, either alone or attended with tangible\nand visible objects, convey no idea of a vacuum or extension without\nmatter, yet they are the causes why we falsely imagine we can form\nsuch an idea. For there is a close relation betwixt that motion and\ndarkness, and a real extension, or composition of visible and tangible\nobjects.\n\nFirst, we may observe, that two visible objects, appearing in the midst\nof utter darkness, affect the senses in the same manner, and form the\nsame angle by the rays which flow from them, and meet in the eye, as if\nthe distance betwixt them were filled with visible objects, that give\nus a true idea of extension. The sensation of motion is likewise the\nsame, when there is nothing tangible interposed betwixt two bodies, as\nwhen we feel a compounded body, whose different parts are placed beyond\neach other.\n\nSecondly, we find by experience, that two bodies, which are so placed\nas to affect the senses in the same manner with two others, that have\na certain extent of visible objects interposed betwixt them, are\ncapable of receiving the same extent, without any sensible impulse or\npenetration, and without any change on that angle, under which they\nappear to the senses. In like manner, where there is one object, which\nwe cannot feel after another without an interval, and the perceiving\nof that sensation we call motion in our hand or organ of sensation;\nexperience shews us, that 'tis possible the same object may be felt\nwith the same sensation of motion, along with the interposed impression\nof solid and tangible objects, attending the sensation. That is, in\nother words, an invisible and intangible distance may be converted into\na visible and tangible one, without any change on the distant objects.\n\nThirdly, we may observe, as another relation betwixt these two\nkinds of distance, that they have nearly the same effects on every\nnatural phenomenon. For as all qualities, such as heat, cold, light,\nattraction, &c. diminish in proportion to the distance; there is but\nlittle difference observed, whether this distance be marked out by\ncompounded and sensible objects, or be known only by the manner in\nwhich the distant objects affect the senses.\n\nHere then are three relations betwixt that distance, which conveys\nthe idea of extension, and that other, which is not filled with any\ncoloured or solid object. The distant objects affect the senses in the\nsame manner, whether separated by the one distance or the other; the\nsecond species of distance is found capable of receiving the first; and\nthey both equally diminish the force of every quality.\n\nThese relations betwixt the two kinds of distance, will afford us an\neasy reason why the one has so often been taken for the other, and\nwhy we imagine we have an idea of extension without the idea of any\nobject either of the sight or feeling. For we may establish it as a\ngeneral maxim in this science of human nature, that wherever there is\na close relation betwixt two ideas, the mind is very apt to mistake\nthem, and in all its discourses and reasonings to use the one for the\nother. This phenomenon occurs on so many occasions, and is of such\nconsequence, that I cannot forbear stopping a moment to examine its\ncauses. I shall only premise, that we must distinguish exactly betwixt\nthe phenomenon itself, and the causes which I shall assign for it; and\nmust not imagine, from any uncertainty in the latter, that the former\nis also uncertain. The phenomenon may be real, though my explication be\nchimerical. The falsehood of the one is no consequence of that of the\nother; though at the same time we may observe, that 'tis very natural\nfor us to draw such a consequence; which is an evident instance of that\nvery principle, which I endeavour to explain.\n\nWhen I received the relations of _resemblance, contiguity_, and\n_causation_, as principles of union among ideas, without examining\ninto their causes, 'twas more in prosecution of my first maxim, that\nwe must in the end rest contented with experience, than for want of\nsomething specious and plausible, which I might have displayed on that\nsubject. 'Twould have been easy to have made an imaginary dissection\nof the brain, and have shown, why, upon our conception of any idea,\nthe animal spirits run into all the contiguous traces, and rouze up\nthe other ideas that are related to it. But though I have neglected\nany advantage, which I might have drawn from this topic in explaining\nthe relations of ideas, I am afraid I must here have recourse to it,\nin order to account for the mistakes that arise from these relations.\nI shall therefore observe, that as the mind is endowed with a power of\nexciting any idea it pleases; whenever it despatches the spirits into\nthat region of the brain, in which the idea is placed; these spirits\nalways excite the idea, when they run precisely into the proper traces,\nand rummage that cell, which belongs to the idea. But as their motion\nis seldom direct, and naturally turns a little to the one side or the\nother; for this reason the animal spirits, falling into the contiguous\ntraces, present other related ideas, in lieu of that which the mind\ndesired at first to survey. This change we are not always sensible of;\nbut continuing still the same train of thought, make use of the related\nidea, which is presented to us, and employ it in our reasoning, as\nif it were the same with what we demanded. This is the cause of many\nmistakes and sophisms in philosophy; as will naturally be imagined,\nand as it would be easy to show, if there was occasion.\n\nOf the three relations above-mentioned that of resemblance is the\nmost fertile source of error; and indeed there are few mistakes in\nreasoning, which do not borrow largely from that origin. Resembling\nideas are not only related together, but the actions of the mind,\nwhich we employ in considering them, are so little different, that we\nare not able to distinguish them. This last circumstance is of great\nconsequence; and we may in general observe, that wherever the actions\nof the mind in forming any two ideas are the same or resembling, we\nare very apt to confound these ideas, and take the one for the other.\nOf this we shall see many instances in the progress of this treatise.\nBut though resemblance be the relation, which most readily produces a\nmistake in ideas, yet the others of causation and contiguity may also\nconcur in the same influence. We might produce the figures of poets\nand orators, as sufficient proofs of this, were it as usual as it\nis reasonable, in metaphysical subjects, to draw our arguments from\nthat quarter. But lest metaphysicians should esteem this below their\ndignity, I shall borrow a proof from an observation, which may be made\non most of their own discourses, viz. that 'tis usual for men to use\nwords for ideas, and to talk instead of thinking in their reasonings.\nWe use words for ideas, because they are commonly so closely connected,\nthat the mind easily mistakes them. And this likewise is the reason,\nwhy we substitute the idea of a distance, which is not considered\neither as visible or tangible, in the room of extension, which is\nnothing but a composition of visible or tangible points disposed in a\ncertain order. In causing this mistake there concur both the relations\nof _causation_ and _resemblance_. As the first species of distance is\nfound to be convertible into the second, 'tis in this respect a kind of\ncause; and the similarity of their manner of affecting the senses, and\ndiminishing every quality, forms the relation of resemblance.\n\nAfter this chain of reasoning and explication of my principles, I am\nnow prepared to answer all the objections that have been offered,\nwhether derived from _metaphysics_ or _mechanics_. The frequent\ndisputes concerning a vacuum, or extension without matter, prove not\nthe reality of the idea, upon which the dispute turns; there being\nnothing more common, than to see men deceive themselves in this\nparticular; especially when, by means of any close relation, there is\nanother idea presented, which may be the occasion of their mistake.\n\nWe may make almost the same answer to the second objection, derived\nfrom the conjunction of the ideas of rest and annihilation. When every\nthing is annihilated in the chamber, and the walls continue immovable,\nthe chamber must be conceived much in the same manner as at present,\nwhen the air that fills it is not an object of the senses. This\nannihilation leaves to the _eye_ that fictitious distance, which is\ndiscovered by the different parts of the organ that are affected, and\nby the degrees of light and shade; and to the _feeling_, that which\nconsists in a sensation of motion in the hand, or other member of the\nbody. In vain should we search any farther. On whichever side we turn\nthis subject, we shall find that these are the only impressions such an\nobject can produce after the supposed annihilation; and it has already\nbeen remarked, that impressions can give rise to no ideas, but to such\nas resemble them.\n\nSince a body interposed betwixt two others may be supposed to be\nannihilated, without producing any change upon such as lie on each\nhand of it, 'tis easily conceived, how it may be created anew, and\nyet produce as little alteration. Now the motion of a body has much\nthe same effect as its creation. The distant bodies are no more\naffected in the one case, than in the other. This suffices to satisfy\nthe imagination, and proves there is no repugnance in such a motion.\nAfterwards experience comes in play to persuade us that two bodies,\nsituated in the manner above described, have really such a capacity\nof receiving body betwixt them, and that there is no obstacle to the\nconversion of the invisible and intangible distance into one that is\nvisible and tangible. However natural that conversion may seem, we\ncannot be sure it is practicable, before we have had experience of it.\n\nThus I seem to have answered the three objections above mentioned;\nthough at the same time I am sensible, that few will be satisfied\nwith these answers, but will immediately propose new objections and\ndifficulties. 'Twill probably be said, that my reasoning makes nothing\nto the matter in hand, and that I explain only the manner in which\nobjects affect the senses, without endeavouring to account for their\nreal nature and operations. Though there be nothing visible or tangible\ninterposed betwixt two bodies, yet we find _by experience_, that the\nbodies may be placed in the same manner, with regard to the eye, and\nrequire the same motion of the hand in passing from one to the other,\nas if divided by something visible and tangible. This invisible and\nintangible distance is also found _by experience_ to contain a capacity\nof receiving body, or of becoming visible and tangible. Here is the\nwhole of my system; and in no part of it have I endeavoured to explain\nthe cause, which separates bodies after this manner, and gives them\na capacity of receiving others betwixt them, without any impulse or\npenetration.\n\nI answer this objection, by pleading guilty, and by confessing that\nmy intention never was to penetrate into the nature of bodies, or\nexplain the secret causes of their operations. For, besides that this\nbelongs not to my present purpose, I am afraid, that such an enterprise\nis beyond the reach of human understanding, and that we can never\npretend to know body otherwise than by those external properties,\nwhich discover themselves to the senses. As to those who attempt any\nthing farther, I cannot approve of their ambition, till I see, in\nsome one instance at least, that they have met with success. But at\npresent I content myself with knowing perfectly the manner in which\nobjects affect my senses, and their connexions with each other, as far\nas experience informs me of them. This suffices for the conduct of\nlife; and this also suffices for my philosophy, which pretends only to\nexplain the nature and causes of our perceptions, or impressions and\nideas.[7]\n\nI shall conclude this subject of extension with a paradox, which will\neasily be explained from the foregoing reasoning. This paradox is, that\nif you are pleased to give to the invisible and intangible distance,\nor in other words, to the capacity of becoming a visible and tangible\ndistance, the name of a vacuum, extension and matter are the same,\nand yet there is a vacuum. If you will not give it that name, motion\nis possible in a plenum, without any impulse _in infinitum_, without\nreturning in a circle, and without penetration. But however we may\nexpress ourselves, we must always confess, that we have no idea of any\nreal extension without filling it with sensible objects, and conceiving\nits parts as visible or tangible.\n\nAs to the doctrine, that time is nothing but the manner in which some\nreal objects exist; we may observe, that 'tis liable to the same\nobjections as the similar doctrine with regard to extension. If it\nbe a sufficient proof, that we have the idea of a vacuum, because we\ndispute and reason concerning it; we must for the same reason have\nthe idea of time without any changeable existence; since there is no\nsubject of dispute more frequent and common. But that we really have\nno such idea, is certain. For whence should it be derived? Does it\narise from an impression of sensation or of reflection? Point it out\ndistinctly to us, that we may know its nature and qualities. But if\nyou cannot point out _any such impression_, you may be certain you are\nmistaken, when you imagine you have _any such idea_.\n\nBut though it be impossible to show the impression, from which the idea\nof time without a changeable existence is derived, yet we can easily\npoint out those appearances, which make us fancy we have that idea. For\nwe may observe, that there is a continual succession of perceptions in\nour mind; so that the idea of time being for ever present with us, when\nwe consider a stedfast object at five o'clock, and regard the same at\nsix, we are apt to apply to it that idea in the same manner as if every\nmoment were distinguished by a different position, or an alteration\nof the object. The first and second appearances of the object, being\ncompared with the succession of our perceptions, seem equally removed\nas if the object had really changed. To which we may add, what\nexperience shows us, that the object was susceptible of such a number\nof changes betwixt these appearances; as also that the unchangeable\nor rather fictitious duration has the same effect upon every quality,\nby increasing or diminishing it, as that succession which is obvious\nto the senses. From these three relations we are apt to confound our\nideas, and imagine we can form the idea of a time and duration,\nwithout any change or succession.\n\n\n[7] As long as we confine our speculations to _the appearances_ of\nobjects to our senses, without entering into disquisitions concerning\ntheir real nature and operations, we are safe from all difficulties,\nand can never be embarrassed by any question. Thus, if it be asked, if\nthe invisible and intangible distance, interposed betwixt two objects,\nbe something or nothing: 'tis easy to answer, that it is _something_,\nviz. a property of the objects, which affect the _senses_ after such\na particular manner. If it be asked, whether two objects, having such\na distance betwixt them, touch or not: it may be answered, that this\ndepends upon the definition of the word _touch_. If objects be said to\ntouch, when there is nothing _sensible_ interposed betwixt them, these\nobjects touch: If objects be said to touch, when their _images_ strike\ncontiguous parts of the eye, and when the hand _feels_ both objects\nsuccessively, without any interposed motion, these objects do not\ntouch. The appearances of objects to our senses are all consistent; and\nno difficulties can ever arise, but from the obscurity of the terms we\nmake use of.\n\nIf we carry our inquiry beyond the appearances of objects to the\nsenses, I am afraid, that most of our conclusions will be full of\nscepticism and uncertainty. Thus, if it be asked, whether or not the\ninvisible and intangible distance be always full of _body_, or of\nsomething that by an improvement of our organs might become visible or\ntangible, I must acknowledge, that I find no very decisive arguments\non either side: though I am inclined to the contrary opinion, as\nbeing more suitable to vulgar and popular notions. If _the Newtonian_\nphilosophy be rightly understood, it will be found to mean no more.\nA vacuum is asserted; that is, bodies are said to be placed after\nsuch a manner as to receive bodies betwixt them, without impulsion or\npenetration. The real nature of this position of bodies is unknown.\nWe are only acquainted with its effects on the senses, and its power\nof receiving body. Nothing is more suitable to that philosophy, than\na modest scepticism to a certain degree, and a fair confession of\nignorance in subjects that exceed all human capacity.\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nOF THE IDEA OF EXISTENCE, AND OF EXTERNAL EXISTENCE.\n\n\nIt may not be amiss, before we leave this subject, to explain the\nideas of _existence_ and of _external existence_; which have their\ndifficulties, as well as the ideas of space and time. By this means\nwe shall be the better prepared for the examination of knowledge and\nprobability, when we understand perfectly all those particular ideas,\nwhich may enter into our reasoning.\n\nThere is no impression nor idea of any kind, of which we have any\nconsciousness or memory, that is not conceived as existent; and 'tis\nevident that, from this consciousness, the most perfect idea and\nassurance of _being_ is derived. From hence we may form a dilemma, the\nmost clear and conclusive that can be imagined, viz. that since we\nnever remember any idea or impression without attributing existence\nto it, the idea of existence must either be derived from a distinct\nimpression, conjoined with every perception or object of our thought,\nor must be the very same with the idea of the perception or object.\n\nAs this dilemma is an evident consequence of the principle, that every\nidea arises from a similar impression, so our decision betwixt the\npropositions of the dilemma is no more doubtful. So far from there\nbeing any distinct impression attending every impression and every\nidea, that I do not think there are any two distinct impressions which\nare inseparably conjoined. Though certain sensations may at one time\nbe united, we quickly find they admit of a separation, and may be\npresented apart. And thus, though every impression and idea we remember\nbe considered as existent, the idea of existence is not derived from\nany particular impression.\n\nThe idea of existence, then, is the very same with the idea of what we\nconceive to be existent. To reflect on any thing simply, and to reflect\non it as existent, are nothing different from each other. That idea,\nwhen conjoined with the idea of any object, makes no addition to it.\nWhatever we conceive, we conceive to be existent. Any idea we please\nto form is the idea of a being; and the idea of a being is any idea we\nplease to form.\n\nWhoever opposes this, must necessarily point out that distinct\nimpression, from which the idea of entity is derived, and must prove,\nthat this impression is inseparable from every perception we believe to\nbe existent. This we may without hesitation conclude to be impossible.\n\nOur foregoing reasoning[8] concerning the _distinction_ of ideas\nwithout any real _difference_ will not here serve us in any stead. That\nkind of distinction is founded on the different resemblances, which the\nsame simple idea may have to several different ideas. But no object can\nbe presented resembling some object with respect to its existence, and\ndifferent from others in the same particular; since every object that\nis presented, must necessarily be existent.\n\nA like reasoning will account for the idea of _external existence_.\nWe may observe, that 'tis universally allowed by philosophers, and is\nbesides pretty obvious of itself, that nothing is ever really present\nwith the mind but its perceptions or impressions and ideas, and that\nexternal objects become known to us only by those perceptions they\noccasion. To hate, to love, to think, to feel, to see; all this is\nnothing but to perceive.\n\nNow, since nothing is ever present to the mind but perceptions, and\nsince all ideas are derived from something antecedently present to\nthe mind; it follows, that 'tis impossible for us so much as to\nconceive or form an idea of any thing specifically different from\nideas and impressions. Let us fix our attention out of ourselves as\nmuch as possible; let us chase our imagination to the heavens, or to\nthe utmost limits of the universe; we never really advance a step\nbeyond ourselves, nor can conceive any kind of existence, but those\nperceptions, which have appeared in that narrow compass. This is the\nuniverse of the imagination, nor have we any idea but what is there\nproduced.\n\nThe farthest we can go towards a conception of external objects, when\nsupposed _specifically_ different from our perceptions, is to form a\nrelative idea of them, without pretending to comprehend the related\nobjects. Generally speaking, we do not suppose them specifically\ndifferent; but only attribute to them different relations, connexions,\nand durations. But of this more fully hereafter.[9]\n\n\n[8] Part I. Sect. 7.\n\n[9] Part VI. Sect. 2.\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\nOF KNOWLEDGE AND PROBABILITY.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nOF KNOWLEDGE.\n\n\nThere are seven different kinds of philosophical relation,[1] viz.\n_resemblance, identity, relations of time and place, proportion\nin quantity or number, degrees in any quality, contrariety, and\ncausation_. These relations may be divided into two classes; into\nsuch as depend entirely on the ideas, which we compare together, and\nsuch as may be changed without any change in the ideas. 'Tis from\nthe idea of a triangle, that we discover the relation of equality,\nwhich its three angles bear to two right ones; and this relation is\ninvariable, as long as our idea remains the same. On the contrary, the\nrelations of _contiguity_ and _distance_ betwixt two objects may be\nchanged merely by an alteration of their place, without any change on\nthe objects themselves or on their ideas; and the place depends on a\nhundred different accidents, which cannot be foreseen by the mind.\n'Tis the same case with _identity_ and _causation_. Two objects, though\nperfectly resembling each other, and even appearing in the same place\nat different times, may be numerically different: and as the power, by\nwhich one object produces another, is never discoverable merely from\ntheir idea, 'tis evident _cause_ and _effect_ are relations, of which\nwe receive information from experience, and not from any abstract\nreasoning or reflection. There is no single phenomenon, even the most\nsimple, which can be accounted for from the qualities of the objects,\nas they appear to us; or which we could foresee without the help of our\nmemory and experience.\n\nIt appears therefore that of these seven philosophical relations, there\nremain only four, which depending solely upon ideas, can be the objects\nof knowledge and certainty. These four are _resemblance, contrariety,\ndegrees in quality, and proportions in quantity or number_. Three\nof these relations are discoverable at first sight, and fall more\nproperly under the province of intuition than demonstration. When any\nobjects _resemble_ each other, the resemblance will at first strike\nthe eye, or rather the mind; and seldom requires a second examination.\nThe case is the same with _contrariety_, and with the _degrees_ of\nany _quality_. No one can once doubt but existence and non-existence\ndestroy each other, and are perfectly incompatible and contrary. And\nthough it be impossible to judge exactly of the degrees of any quality,\nsuch as colour, taste, heat, cold, when the difference betwixt them is\nvery small; yet 'tis easy to decide, that any of them is superior or\ninferior to another, when their difference is considerable. And this\ndecision we always pronounce at first sight, without any inquiry or\nreasoning.\n\nWe might proceed, after the same manner, in fixing the _proportions_\nof _quantity_ or _number_, and might at one view observe a superiority\nor inferiority betwixt any numbers, or figures; especially where the\ndifference is very great and remarkable. As to equality or any exact\nproportion, we can only guess at it from a single consideration; except\nin very short numbers, or very limited portions of extension; which are\ncomprehended in an instant, and where we perceive an impossibility of\nfalling into any considerable error. In all other cases we must settle\nthe proportions with some liberty, or proceed in a more _artificial_\nmanner.\n\nI have already observed, that geometry, or the _art_ by which we fix\nthe proportions of figures; though it much excels both in universality\nand exactness, the loose judgments of the senses and imagination; yet\nnever attains a perfect precision and exactness. Its first principles\nare still drawn from the general appearance of the objects; and that\nappearance can never afford us any security, when we examine the\nprodigious minuteness of which nature is susceptible. Our ideas seem\nto give a perfect assurance, that no two right lines can have a common\nsegment; but if we consider these ideas, we shall find, that they\nalways suppose a sensible inclination of the two lines, and that where\nthe angle they form is extremely small, we have no standard of a right\nline so precise as to assure us of the truth of this proposition. 'Tis\nthe same case with most of the primary decisions of the mathematics.\n\nThere remain therefore algebra and arithmetic as the only sciences, in\nwhich we can carry on a chain of reasoning to any degree of intricacy,\nand yet preserve a perfect exactness and certainty. We are possessed\nof a precise standard, by which we can judge of the equality and\nproportion of numbers; and according as they correspond or not to that\nstandard, we determine their relations, without any possibility of\nerror. When two numbers are so combined, as that the one has always an\nunite answering to every unite of the other, we pronounce them equal;\nand 'tis for want of such a standard of equality in extension, that\ngeometry can scarce be esteemed a perfect and infallible science.\n\nBut here it may not be amiss to obviate a difficulty, which may\narise from my asserting, that though geometry falls short of that\nperfect precision and certainty, which are peculiar to arithmetic\nand algebra, yet it excels the imperfect judgments of our senses and\nimagination. The reason why I impute any defect to geometry, is,\nbecause its original and fundamental principles are derived merely from\nappearances; and it may perhaps be imagined, that this defect must\nalways attend it, and keep it from ever reaching a greater exactness in\nthe comparison of objects or ideas, than what our eye or imagination\nalone is able to attain. I own that this defect so far attends it, as\nto keep it from ever aspiring to a full certainty: but since these\nfundamental principles depend on the easiest and least deceitful\nappearances, they bestow on their consequences a degree of exactness,\nof which these consequences are singly incapable. 'Tis impossible for\nthe eye to determine the angles of a chiliagon to be equal to 1996\nright angles, or make any conjecture, that approaches this proportion;\nbut when it determines, that right lines cannot concur; that we cannot\ndraw more than one right line between two given points; its mistakes\ncan never be of any consequence. And this is the nature and use of\ngeometry, to run us up to such appearances, as, by reason of their\nsimplicity, cannot lead us into any considerable error.\n\nI shall here take occasion to propose a second observation concerning\nour demonstrative reasonings, which is suggested by the same subject\nof the mathematics. 'Tis usual with mathematicians to pretend, that\nthose ideas, which are their objects, are of so refined and spiritual a\nnature, that they fall not under the conception of the fancy, but must\nbe comprehended by a pure and intellectual view, of which the superior\nfaculties of the soul are alone capable. The same notion runs through\nmost parts of philosophy, and is principally made use of to explain\nour abstract ideas, and to show how we can form an idea of a triangle,\nfor instance, which shall neither be an isosceles nor scalenum, nor be\nconfined to any particular length and proportion of sides. 'Tis easy\nto see why philosophers are so fond of this notion of some spiritual\nand refined perceptions; since by that means they cover many of their\nabsurdities, and may refuse to submit to the decisions of clear ideas,\nby appealing to such as are obscure and uncertain. But to destroy this\nartifice, we need but reflect on that principle so oft insisted on,\n_that all our ideas are copied from out impressions_. For from thence\nwe may immediately conclude, that since all impressions are clear and\nprecise, the ideas, which are copied from them, must be of the same\nnature, and can never, but from our fault, contain any thing so dark\nand intricate. An idea is by its very nature weaker and fainter than\nan impression; but being in every other respect the same, cannot imply\nany very great mystery. If its weakness render it obscure, 'tis our\nbusiness to remedy that defect, as much as possible, by keeping the\nidea steady and precise; and till we have done so, 'tis in vain to\npretend to reasoning and philosophy.\n\n\n[1] Part I. Sect. 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nOF PROBABILITY, AND OF THE IDEA OF CAUSE AND EFFECT.\n\n\nThis is all I think necessary to observe concerning those four\nrelations, which are the foundation of science; but as to the other\nthree, which depend not upon the idea, and may be absent or present\neven while _that_ remains the same, 'twill be proper to explain them\nmore particularly. These three relations are _identity, the situations\nin time and place, and causation_.\n\nAll kinds of reasoning consist in nothing but a _comparison_, and a\ndiscovery of those relations, either constant or inconstant, which two\nor more objects bear to each other. This comparison we may make, either\nwhen both the objects are present to the senses, or when neither of\nthem is present, or when only one. When both the objects are present to\nthe senses along with the relation, we call _this_ perception rather\nthan reasoning; nor is there in this case any exercise of the thought,\nor any action, properly speaking, but a mere passive admission of\nthe impressions through the organs of sensation. According to this\nway of thinking, we ought not to receive as reasoning any of the\nobservations we may make concerning _identity_, and the _relations_\nof _time_ and _place_; since in none of them the mind can go beyond\nwhat is immediately present to the senses, either to discover the real\nexistence or the relations of objects. 'Tis only _causation_, which\nproduces such a connexion, as to give us assurance from the existence\nor action of one object, that 'twas followed or preceded by any other\nexistence or action; nor can the other two relations ever be made use\nof in reasoning, except so far as they either affect or are affected\nby it. There is nothing in any objects to persuade us, that they are\neither always _remote_ or always _contiguous_; and when from experience\nand observation we discover, that their relation in this particular\nis invariable, we always conclude there is some secret _cause_ which\nseparates or unites them. The same reasoning extends to _identity_. We\nreadily suppose an object may continue individually the same, though\nseveral times absent from and present to the senses; and ascribe to\nit an identity, notwithstanding the interruption of the perception,\nwhenever we conclude, that if we had kept our eye or hand constantly\nupon it, it would have conveyed an invariable and uninterrupted\nperception. But this conclusion beyond the impressions of our senses\ncan be founded only on the connexion of _cause and effect_; nor can\nwe otherwise have any security that the object is not changed upon\nus, however much the new object may resemble that which was formerly\npresent to the senses. Whenever we discover such a perfect resemblance,\nwe consider whether it be common in that species of objects; whether\npossibly or probably any cause could operate in producing the change\nand resemblance; and according as we determine concerning these causes\nand effects, we form our judgment concerning the identity of the object.\n\nHere then it appears, that of those three relations, which depend not\nupon the mere ideas, the only one that can be traced beyond our senses,\nand informs us of existences and objects, which we do not see or feel,\nis _causation_. This relation therefore we shall endeavour to explain\nfully before we leave the subject of the Of the understanding.\n\nTo begin regularly, we must consider the idea of _causation_, and see\nfrom what origin it is derived. 'Tis impossible to reason justly,\nwithout understanding perfectly the idea concerning which we reason;\nand 'tis impossible perfectly to understand any idea, without tracing\nit up to its origin, and examining that primary impression, from which\nit arises. The examination of the impression bestows a clearness on the\nidea; and the examination of the idea bestows a like clearness on all\nour reasoning.\n\nLet us therefore cast our eye on any two objects, which we call\ncause and effect, and turn them on all sides, in order to find that\nimpression, which produces an idea of such prodigious consequence.\nAt first sight I perceive, that I must not search for it in any of\nthe particular _qualities_ of the objects; since, whichever of these\nqualities I pitch on, I find some object that is not possessed of it,\nand yet falls under the denomination of cause or effect. And indeed\nthere is nothing existent, either externally or internally, which is\nnot to be considered either as a cause or an effect; though 'tis plain\nthere is no one quality which universally belongs to all beings, and\ngives them a title to that denomination.\n\nThe idea then of causation must be derived from some _relation_ among\nobjects; and that relation we must now endeavour to discover. I find\nin the first place, that whatever objects are considered as causes or\neffects, are _contiguous_; and that nothing can operate in a time or\nplace, which is ever so little removed from those of its existence.\nThough distant objects may sometimes seem productive of each other,\nthey are commonly found upon examination to be linked by a chain of\ncauses, which are contiguous among themselves, and to the distant\nobjects; and when in any particular instance we cannot discover this\nconnexion, we still presume it to exist. We may therefore consider the\nrelation of _contiguity_ as essential to that of causation; at least\nmay suppose it such, according to the general opinion, till we can find\na more proper occasion[2] to clear up this matter, by examining what\nobjects are or are not susceptible of juxtaposition and conjunction.\n\nThe second relation I shall observe as essential to causes and effects,\nis not so universally acknowledged, but is liable to some controversy.\n'Tis that of _priority_ of time in the cause before the effect. Some\npretend that 'tis not absolutely necessary a cause should precede its\neffect; but that any object or action, in the very first moment of its\nexistence, may exert its productive quality, and give rise to another\nobject or action, perfectly cotemporary with itself. But beside that\nexperience in most instances seems to contradict this opinion, we may\nestablish the relation of priority by a kind of inference or reasoning.\n'Tis an established maxim both in natural and moral philosophy, that\nan object, which exists for any time in its full perfection without\nproducing another, is not its sole cause; but is assisted by some other\nprinciple which pushes it from its state of inactivity, and makes it\nexert that energy, of which it was secretly possessed. Now if any cause\nmay be perfectly cotemporary with its effect, 'tis certain, according\nto this maxim, that they must all of them be so; since any one of\nthem, which retards its operation for a single moment, exerts not\nitself at that very individual time, in which it might have operated;\nand therefore is no proper cause. The consequence of this would be\nno less than the destruction of that succession of causes, which we\nobserve in the world; and indeed the utter annihilation of time. For\nif one cause were cotemporary with its effect, and this effect with\n_its_ effect, and so on, 'tis plain there would be no such thing as\nsuccession, and all objects must be co-existent.\n\nIf this argument appear satisfactory, 'tis well. If not, I beg the\nreader to allow me the same liberty, which I have used in the preceding\ncase, of supposing it such. For he shall find, that the affair is of no\ngreat importance.\n\nHaving thus discovered or supposed the two relations of _contiguity_\nand _succession_ to be essential to causes and effects, I find I am\nstopped short, and can proceed no farther in considering any single\ninstance of cause and effect. Motion in one body is regarded upon\nimpulse as the cause of motion in another. When we consider these\nobjects with the utmost attention, we find only that the one body\napproaches the other; and that the motion of it precedes that of\nthe other, but without any sensible interval. 'Tis in vain to rack\nourselves with _farther_ thought and reflection upon this subject. We\ncan go no _farther_ in considering this particular instance.\n\nShould any one leave this instance, and pretend to define a cause, by\nsaying it is something productive of another, 'tis evident he would\nsay nothing. For what does he mean by _production_? Can he give any\ndefinition of it, that will not be the same with that of causation?\n\nIf he can, I desire it maybe produced. If he cannot, he here runs in a\ncircle, and gives a synonymous term instead of a definition.\n\nShall we then rest contented with these two relations of contiguity and\nsuccession, as affording a complete idea of causation? By no means. An\nobject may be contiguous and prior to another, without being considered\nas its cause. There is a _necessary connexion_ to be taken into\nconsideration; and that relation is of much greater importance, than\nany of the other two above mentioned.\n\nHere again I turn the object on all sides, in order to discover the\nnature of this necessary connexion, and find the impression, or\nimpressions, from which its idea may be derived. When I cast my eye\non the _known qualities_ of objects, I immediately discover that the\nrelation of cause and effect depends not in the least on _them_. When\nI consider their _relations_, I can find none but those of contiguity\nand succession; which I have already regarded as imperfect and\nunsatisfactory. Shall the despair of success make me assert, that I\nam here possessed of an idea, which is not preceded by any similar\nimpression? This would be too strong a proof of levity and inconstancy;\nsince the contrary principle has been already so firmly established,\nas to admit of no farther doubt; at least, till we have more fully\nexamined the present difficulty.\n\nWe must therefore proceed like those who, being in search of any thing\nthat lies concealed from them, and not finding it in the place they\nexpected, beat about all the neighbouring fields, without any certain\nview or design, in hopes their good fortune will at last guide them to\nwhat they search for. 'Tis necessary for us to leave the direct survey\nof this question concerning the nature of that _necessary connexion_,\nwhich enters into our idea of cause and effect; and endeavour to find\nsome other questions, the examination of which will perhaps afford\na hint, that may serve to clear up the present difficulty. Of these\nquestions there occur two, which I shall proceed to examine, viz.\n\nFirst, for what reason we pronounce it _necessary_, that every thing\nwhose existence has a beginning, should also have a cause?\n\nSecondly, why we conclude, that such particular causes must\n_necessarily_ have such particular effects; and what is the nature of\nthat _inference_ we draw from the one to the other, and of the _belief_\nwe repose in it?\n\nI shall only observe before I proceed any farther, that though the\nideas of cause and effect be derived from the impressions of reflection\nas well as from those of sensation, yet for brevity's sake, I commonly\nmention only the latter as the origin of these ideas; though I desire\nthat, whatever I say of them, may also extend to the former. Passions\nare connected with their objects and with one another; no less than\nexternal bodies are connected together. The same relation then of cause\nand effect, which belongs to one, must be common to all of them.\n\n\n[2] Part IV. Sect 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nWHY A CAUSE IS ALWAYS NECESSARY.\n\n\nTo begin with the first question concerning the necessity of a cause:\n'Tis a general maxim in philosophy, that _whatever begins to exist,\nmust have a cause of existence_. This is commonly taken for granted in\nall reasonings, without any proof given or demanded. 'Tis supposed to\nbe founded on intuition, and to be one of those maxims which, though\nthey may be denied with the lips, 'tis impossible for men in their\nhearts really to doubt of. But if we examine this maxim by the idea of\nknowledge above explained, we shall discover in it no mark of any such\nintuitive certainty; but on the contrary shall find, that 'tis of a\nnature quite foreign to that species of conviction.\n\nAll certainty arises from the comparison of ideas, and from the\ndiscovery of such relations as are unalterable, so long as the ideas\ncontinue the same. These relations are _resemblance, proportions in\nquantity and number, degrees of any quality, and contrariety_; none\nof which are implied in this proposition, _Whatever has a beginning\nhas also a cause of existence_. That proposition therefore is not\nintuitively certain. At least any one, who would assert it to be\nintuitively certain, must deny these to be the only infallible\nrelations, and must find some other relation of that kind to be implied\nin it; which it will then be time enough to examine.\n\nBut here is an argument, which proves at once, that the foregoing\nproposition is neither intuitively nor demonstrably certain. We can\nnever demonstrate the necessity of a cause to every new existence, or\nnew modification of existence, without showing at the same time the\nimpossibility there is, that any thing can ever begin to exist without\nsome productive principle; and where the latter proposition cannot be\nproved, we must despair of ever being able to prove the former. Now\nthat the latter proposition is utterly incapable of a demonstrative\nproof, we may satisfy ourselves by considering, that as all distinct\nideas are separable from each other, and as the ideas of cause and\neffect are evidently distinct, 'twill be easy for us to conceive\nany object to be non-existent this moment, and existent the next,\nwithout conjoining to it the distinct idea of a cause or productive\nprinciple. The separation therefore of the idea of a cause from that of\na beginning of existence, is plainly possible for the imagination; and\nconsequently the actual separation of these objects is so far possible,\nthat it implies no contradiction nor absurdity; and is therefore\nincapable of being refuted by any reasoning from mere ideas, without\nwhich 'tis impossible to demonstrate the necessity of a cause.\n\nAccordingly, we shall find upon examination, that every demonstration,\nwhich has been produced for the necessity of a cause, is fallacious\nand sophistical. All the points of time and place, say some\nphilosophers,[3] in which we can suppose any object to begin to\nexist, are in themselves equal; and unless there be some cause, which\nis peculiar to one time and to one place, and which by that means\ndetermines and fixes the existence, it must remain in eternal suspense;\nand the object can never begin to be, for want of something to fix\nits beginning. But I ask, is there any more difficulty in supposing\nthe time and place to be fixed without a cause, than to suppose the\nexistence to be determined in that manner! The first question that\noccurs on this subject is always, _whether_ the object shall exist\nor not: the next, _when_ and _where_ it shall begin to exist. If the\nremoval of a cause be intuitively absurd in the one case, it must be so\nin the other: and if that absurdity be not clear without a proof in the\none case, it will equally require one in the other. The absurdity then\nof the one supposition can never be a proof of that of the other; since\nthey are both upon the same footing, and must stand or fall by the same\nreasoning.\n\nThe second argument,[4] which I find used on this head, labours under\nan equal difficulty. Every thing, 'tis said, must have a cause; for if\nany thing wanted a cause, _it_ would produce _itself_, that is, exist\nbefore it existed, which is impossible. But this reasoning is plainly\nunconclusive; because it supposes that, in our denial of a cause, we\nstill grant what we expressly deny, viz. that there must be a cause;\nwhich therefore is taken to be the object itself; and _that_, no doubt,\nis an evident contradiction. But to say that any thing is produced, or,\nto express myself more properly, comes into existence, without a cause,\nis not to affirm that 'tis itself its own cause; but, on the contrary,\nin excluding all external causes, excludes _a fortiori_ the thing\nitself which is created. An object that exists absolutely without any\ncause, certainly is not its own cause; and when you assert, that the\none follows from the other, you suppose the very point in question,\nand take it for granted, that 'tis utterly impossible any thing can\never begin to exist without a cause, but that, upon the exclusion of\none productive principle, we must still have recourse to another.\n\n'Tis exactly the same case with the third argument,[5] which has\nbeen employed to demonstrate the necessity of a cause. Whatever is\nproduced without any cause, is produced by _nothing_; or, in other\nwords, has nothing for its cause. But nothing can never be a cause, no\nmore than it can be something, or equal to two right angles. By the\nsame intuition, that we perceive nothing not to be equal to two right\nangles, or not to be something, we perceive, that it can never be a\ncause; and consequently must perceive, that every object has a real\ncause of its existence.\n\nI believe it will not be necessary to employ many words in showing the\nweakness of this argument, after what I have said of the foregoing.\nThey are all of them founded on the same fallacy, and are derived from\nthe same turn of thought. 'Tis sufficient only to observe, that when\nwe exclude all causes we really do exclude them, and neither suppose\nnothing nor the object itself to be the causes of the existence;\nand consequently can draw no argument from the absurdity of these\nsuppositions to prove the absurdity of that exclusion. If every thing\nmust have a cause, it follows, that, upon the exclusion of other\ncauses, we must accept of the object itself or of nothing as causes.\nBut 'tis the very point in question, whether every thing must have a\ncause or not; and therefore, according to all just reasoning, it ought\nnever to be taken for granted.\n\nThey are still more frivolous who say, that every effect must have a\ncause, because 'tis implied in the very idea of effect. Every effect\nnecessarily presupposes a cause; effect being a relative term, of which\ncause is a correlative. But this does not prove that every being must\nbe preceded by a cause; no more than it follows, because every husband\nmust have a wife, that therefore every man must be married. The true\nstate of the question is, whether every object which begins to exist,\nmust owe its existence to a cause; and this I assert neither to be\nintuitively nor demonstratively certain, and hope to have proved it\nsufficiently by the foregoing arguments.\n\nSince it is not from knowledge or any scientific reasoning, that we\nderive the opinion of the necessity of a cause to every new production,\nthat opinion must necessarily arise from observation and experience.\nThe next question, then, should naturally be, _how experience gives\nrise to such a principle_? But as I find it will be more convenient\nto sink this question in the following, _why we conclude, that such\nparticular causes must necessarily have such particular effects, and\nwhy we form an inference from one to another_? we shall make that the\nsubject of our future inquiry. 'Twill, perhaps, be found in the end,\nthat the same answer will serve for both questions.\n\n\n\n[3] Mr Hobbes.\n\n[4] Dr Clarke and others.\n\n[5] Mr Locke.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF THE COMPONENT PARTS OF OUR REASONINGS CONCERNING CAUSE AND EFFECT.\n\n\nThough the mind in its reasonings from causes or effects, carries its\nview beyond those objects which it sees or remembers, it must never\nlose sight of them entirely, nor reason merely upon its own ideas,\nwithout some mixture of impressions, or at least of ideas of the\nmemory, which are equivalent to impressions. When we infer effects from\ncauses, we must establish the existence of these causes; which we have\nonly two ways of doing, either by an immediate perception of our memory\nor senses, or by an inference from other causes; which causes again we\nmust ascertain in the same manner, either by a present impression or\nby an inference from _their_ causes, and so on, till we arrive at some\nobject, which we see or remember. 'Tis impossible for us to carry on\nour inferences _in infinitum_; and the only thing that can stop them,\nis an impression of the memory or senses, beyond which there is no room\nfor doubt or inquiry.\n\nTo give an instance of this, we may choose any point of history, and\nconsider for what reason we either believe or reject it. Thus, we\nbelieve that C\u00e6sar was killed in the senate-house on the _ides_ of\n_March_, and that because this fact is established on the unanimous\ntestimony of historians, who agree to assign this precise time and\nplace to that event. Here are certain characters and letters present\neither to our memory or senses; which characters we likewise remember\nto have been used as the signs of certain ideas: and these ideas\nwere either in the minds of such as were immediately present at that\naction, and received the ideas directly from its existence; or they\nwere derived from the testimony of others, and that again from another\ntestimony, by a visible gradation, till we arrive at those who were\neye-witnesses and spectators of the event. 'Tis obvious all this chain\nof argument or connexion of causes and effects, is at first founded\non those characters or letters, which are seen or remembered, and\nthat without the authority either of the memory or senses, our whole\nreasoning would be chimerical and without foundation. Every link of\nthe chain would in that case hang upon another; but there would not be\nany thing fixed to one end of it, capable of sustaining the whole; and\nconsequently there would be no belief nor evidence. And this actually\nis the case with all _hypothetical_ arguments, or reasonings upon a\nsupposition; there being in them neither any present impression, nor\nbelief of a real existence.\n\nI need not observe, that 'tis no just objection to the present\ndoctrine, that we can reason upon our past conclusions or principles,\nwithout having recourse to those impressions, from which they first\narose. For even supposing these impressions should be entirely effaced\nfrom the memory, the conviction they produced may still remain; and\n'tis equally true, that all reasonings concerning causes and effects\nare originally derived from some impression; in the same manner, as\nthe assurance of a demonstration proceeds always from a comparison of\nideas, though it may continue after the comparison is forgot.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nOF THE IMPRESSIONS OF THE SENSES AND MEMORY.\n\n\nIn this kind of reasoning, then, from causation, we employ materials,\nwhich are of a mixed and heterogeneous nature, and which, however\nconnected, are yet essentially different from each other. All our\narguments concerning causes and effects consist both of an impression\nof the memory or senses, and of the idea of that existence, which\nproduces the object of the impression, or is produced by it. Here,\ntherefore, we have three things to explain, viz. _first_, the original\nimpression. _Secondly_, the transition to the idea of the connected\ncause or effect. _Thirdly_, the nature and qualities of that idea.\n\nAs to those _impressions_, which arise from the _senses_, their\nultimate cause is, in my opinion, perfectly inexplicable by human\nreason, and 'twill always be impossible to decide with certainty,\nwhether they arise immediately from the object, or are produced by\nthe creative power of the mind, or are derived from the Author of our\nbeing. Nor is such a question any way material to our present purpose.\nWe may draw inferences from the coherence of our perceptions, whether\nthey be true or false; whether they represent nature justly, or be mere\nillusions of the senses.\n\nWhen we search for the characteristic, which distinguishes the _memory_\nfrom the imagination, we must immediately perceive, that it cannot\nlie in the simple ideas it presents to us; since both these faculties\nborrow their simple ideas from the impressions, and can never go\nbeyond these original perceptions. These faculties are as little\ndistinguished from each other by the arrangement of their complex\nideas. For, though it be a peculiar property of the memory to preserve\nthe original order and position of its ideas, while the imagination\ntransposes and changes them as it pleases; yet this difference is not\nsufficient to distinguish them in their operation, or make us know the\none from the other; it being impossible to recal the past impressions,\nin order to compare them with our present ideas, and see whether their\narrangement be exactly similar. Since therefore the memory is known,\nneither by the order of its _complex_ ideas, nor the nature of its\n_simple_ ones; it follows, that the difference betwixt it and the\nimagination lies in its superior force and vivacity. A man may indulge\nhis fancy in feigning any past scene of adventures; nor would there be\nany possibility of distinguishing this from a remembrance of a like\nkind, were not the ideas of the imagination fainter and more obscure.\n\nIt frequently happens, that when two men have been engaged in any\nscene of action, the one shall remember it much better than the other,\nand shall have all the difficulty in the world to make his companion\nrecollect it. He runs over several circumstances in vain; mentions\nthe time, the place, the company, what was said, what was done on all\nsides; till at last he hits on some lucky circumstance, that revives\nthe whole, and gives his friend a perfect memory of every thing. Here\nthe person that forgets, receives at first all the ideas from the\ndiscourse of the other, with the same circumstances of time and place;\nthough he considers them as mere fictions of the imagination. But as\nsoon as the circumstance is mentioned that touches the memory, the\nvery same ideas now appear in a new light, and have, in a manner,\na different feeling from what they had before. Without any other\nalteration, beside that of the feeling, they become immediately ideas\nof the memory, and are assented to.\n\nSince therefore the imagination can represent all the same objects\nthat the memory can offer to us, and since those faculties are only\ndistinguished by the different _feeling_ of the ideas they present, it\nmay be proper to consider what is the nature of that feeling. And here\nI believe every one will readily agree with me, that the ideas of the\nmemory are more _strong_ and _lively_ than those of the fancy.\n\nA painter, who intended to represent a passion or emotion of any kind,\nwould endeavour to get a sight of a person actuated by a like emotion,\nin order to enliven his ideas, and give them a force and vivacity\nsuperior to what is found in those, which are mere fictions of the\nimagination. The more recent this memory is, the clearer is the idea;\nand when, after a long interval, he would return to the contemplation\nof his object, he always finds its idea to be much decayed, if not,\nwholly obliterated. We are frequently in doubt concerning the ideas\nof the memory, as they become very weak and feeble; and are at a loss\nto determine whether any image proceeds from the fancy or the memory,\nwhen it is not drawn in such lively colours as distinguish that latter\nfaculty. I think I remember such an event, says one; but am not sure. A\nlong tract of time has almost worn it out of my memory, and leaves me\nuncertain whether or not it be the pure offspring of my fancy.\n\nAnd as an idea of the memory, by losing its force and vivacity,\nmay degenerate to such a degree, as to be taken for an idea of the\nimagination; so, on the other Of hand, an idea of the imagination may\nacquire such a and force and vivacity, as to pass for an idea of the\nmemory, and counterfeit its effects on the belief and judgment. This\nis noted in the case of liars; who by the frequent repetition of their\nlies, come at last to believe and remember them, as realities; custom\nand habit having, in this case, as in many others, the same influence\non the mind as nature, and infixing the idea with equal force and\nvigour.\n\nThus it appears, that the _belief_ or _assent_, which always attends\nthe memory and senses, is nothing but the vivacity of those perceptions\nthey present; and that this alone distinguishes them from the\nimagination. To believe is in this case to feel an immediate impression\nof the senses, or a repetition of that impression in the memory. 'Tis\nmerely the force and liveliness of the perception, which constitutes\nthe first act of the judgment, and lays the foundation of that\nreasoning, which we build upon it, when we trace the relation of cause\nand effect.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nOF THE INFERENCE FROM THE IMPRESSION TO THE IDEA.\n\n\n'Tis easy to observe, that in tracing this relation, the inference we\ndraw from cause to effect, is not derived merely from a survey of these\nparticular objects, and from such a penetration into their essences as\nmay discover the dependence of the one upon the other. There is no\nobject which implies the existence of any other, if we consider these\nobjects in themselves, and never look beyond the ideas which we form\nof them. Such an inference would amount to knowledge, and would imply\nthe absolute contradiction and impossibility of conceiving any thing\ndifferent. But as all distinct ideas are separable, 'tis evident there\ncan be no impossibility of that kind. When we pass from a present\nimpression to the idea of any object, we might possibly have separated\nthe idea from the impression, and have substituted any other idea in\nits room.\n\n'Tis therefore by _experience_ only that we can infer the existence\nof one object from that of another. The nature of experience is this.\nWe remember to have had frequent instances of the existence of one\nspecies of objects; and also remember, that the individuals of another\nspecies of objects have always attended them, and have existed in a\nregular order of contiguity and succession with regard to them. Thus\nwe remember to have seen that species of object we call _fame_, and to\nhave felt that species of sensation we call _heat_. We likewise call\nto mind their constant conjunction in all past instances. Without any\nfarther ceremony, we call the one _cause_, and the other _effect_, and\ninfer the existence of the one from that of the other. In all those\ninstances from which we learn the conjunction of particular causes and\neffects, both the causes and effects have been perceived by the senses,\nand are remembered: but in all cases, wherein we reason concerning\nthem, there is only one perceived or remembered, and the other is\nsupplied in conformity to our past experience.\n\nThus, in advancing, we have insensibly discovered a new relation\nbetwixt cause and effect when we least expected it, and were entirely\nemployed upon another subject. This relation is their _constant\nconjunction_. Contiguity and succession are not sufficient to make us\npronounce any two objects to be cause and effect, unless we perceive\nthat these two relations are preserved in several instances. We may\nnow see the advantage of quitting the direct survey of this relation,\nin order to discover the nature of that _necessary connexion_ which\nmakes so essential a part of it. There are hopes, that by this means\nwe may at last arrive at our proposed end; though, to tell the truth,\nthis new-discovered relation of a constant conjunction seems to\nadvance us but very little in our way. For it implies no more than\nthis, that like objects have always been placed in like relations of\ncontiguity and succession; and it seems evident, at least at first\nsight, that by this means we can never discover any new idea, and can\nonly multiply, but not enlarge, the objects of our mind. It may be\nthought, that what we learn not from one object, we can never learn\nfrom a hundred, which are all of the same kind, and are perfectly\nresembling in every circumstance. As our senses show us in one instance\ntwo bodies, or motions, or qualities in certain relations of succession\nand contiguity, so our memory presents us only with a multitude of\ninstances wherein we always find like bodies, motions, or qualities,\nin like relations. From the mere repetition of any past impression,\neven to infinity, there never will arise any new original idea, such\nas that of a necessary connexion; and the number of impressions has in\nthis case no more effect than if we confined ourselves to one only. But\nthough this reasoning seems just and obvious, yet, as it would be folly\nto despair too soon, we shall continue the thread of our discourse;\nand having found, that after the discovery of the constant conjunction\nof any objects, we always draw an inference from one object to\nanother, we shall now examine the nature of that inference, and of the\ntransition from the impression to the idea. Perhaps 'twill appear in\nthe end, that the necessary connexion depends on the inference, instead\nof the inference's depending on the necessary connexion.\n\nSince it appears, that the transition from an impression present to\nthe memory or senses to the idea of an object, which we call cause or\neffect, is founded on past _experience_, and on our remembrance of\ntheir _constant conjunction_, the next question is, whether experience\nproduces the idea by means of the understanding or imagination; whether\nwe are determined by reason to make the transition, or by a certain\nassociation and relation of perceptions. If reason determined us, it\nwould proceed upon that principle, _that instances, of which we have\nhad no experience, must resemble those of which we have had experience,\nand that the course of nature continues always uniformly the same._\nIn order, therefore, to clear up this matter, let us consider all the\narguments upon which such a proposition may be supposed to be founded;\nand as these must be derived either from _knowledge_ or _probability_,\nlet us cast our eye on each of these degrees of evidence, and see\nwhether they afford any just conclusion of this nature.\n\nOur foregoing method of reasoning will easily convince us, that there\ncan be no _demonstrative_ arguments to prove, _that those instances\nof which we have had no experience resemble those of which we have\nhad experience_. We can at least conceive a change in the course of\nnature; which sufficiently proves that such a change is not absolutely\nimpossible. To form a clear idea of any thing is an undeniable argument\nfor its possibility, and is alone a refutation of any pretended\ndemonstration against it.\n\nProbability, as it discovers not the relations of ideas, considered\nas such, but only those of objects, must in some respects be founded\non the impressions of our memory and senses, and in some respects on\nour ideas. Were there no mixture of any impression in our probable\nreasonings, the conclusion would be entirely chimerical: and were there\nno mixture of ideas, the action of the mind, in observing the relation,\nwould, properly speaking, be sensation, not reasoning. 'Tis therefore\nnecessary, that in all probable reasonings there be something present\nto the mind, either seen or remembered; and that from this we infer\nsomething connected with it, which is not seen nor remembered.\n\nThe only connexion or relation of objects, which can lead us beyond\nthe immediate impressions of our memory and senses, is that of cause\nand effect; and that because 'tis the only one, on which we can found\na just inference from one object to another. The idea of cause and\neffect is derived from _experience_, which informs us, that such\nparticular objects, in all past instances, have been constantly\nconjoined with each other: and as an object similar to one of these\nis supposed to be immediately present in its impression, we thence\npresume on the existence of one similar to its usual attendant.\nAccording to this account of things, which is, I think, in every\npoint unquestionable, probability is founded on the presumption of a\nresemblance betwixt those objects of which we have had experience, and\nthose of which we have had none; and therefore 'tis impossible this\npresumption can arise from probability. The same principle cannot be\nboth the cause and effect of another; and this is, perhaps, the only\nproposition concerning that relation, which is either intuitively or\ndemonstratively certain.\n\nShould any one think to elude this argument; and without determining\nwhether our reasoning on this subject be derived from demonstration or\nprobability, pretend that all conclusions from causes and effects are\nbuilt on solid reasoning: I can only desire that this reasoning may be\nproduced, in order to be exposed to our examination. It may perhaps\nbe said, that after experience of the constant conjunction of certain\nobjects, we reason in the following manner. Such an object is always\nfound to produce another. 'Tis impossible it could have this effect, if\nit was not endowed with a power of production. The power necessarily\nimplies the effect; and therefore there is a just foundation for\ndrawing a conclusion from the existence of one object to that of its\nusual attendant. The past production implies a power: the power implies\na new production: and the new production is what we infer from the\npower and the past production.\n\n'Twere easy for me to show the weakness of this reasoning, were I\nwilling to make use of those observations I have already made, that\nthe idea of _production_ is the same with that of _causation_, and\nthat no existence certainly and demonstratively implies a power in\nany other object; or were it proper to anticipate what I shall have\noccasion to remark afterwards concerning the idea we form of _power_\nand _efficacy_. But as such a method of proceeding may seem either to\nweaken my system, by resting one part of it on another, or to breed a\nconfusion in my reasoning, I shall endeavour to maintain my present\nassertion without any such assistance.\n\nIt shall therefore be allowed for at moment, that the production of one\nobject by another in any one instance implies a power; and that this\npower is connected with its effect. But it having been already proved,\nthat the power lies not in the sensible qualities of the cause; and\nthere being nothing but the sensible qualities present to us; I ask,\nwhy in other instances you presume that the same power still exists,\nmerely upon the appearance of these qualities? Your appeal to past\nexperience decides nothing in the present case; and at the utmost\ncan only prove, that that very object, which produced any other, was\nat that very instant endowed with such a power; but can never prove,\nthat the same power must continue in the same object or collection of\nsensible qualities; much less, that a like power is always conjoined\nwith like sensible qualities. Should it be said, that we have\nexperience, that the same power continues united with the same object,\nand that like objects are endowed with like powers, I would renew my\nquestion, _why from this experience we form any conclusion beyond those\npast instances, of which we have had experience_? If you answer this\nquestion in the same manner as the preceding, your answer gives still\noccasion to a new question of the same kind, even _in infinitum_; which\nclearly proves, that the foregoing reasoning had no just foundation.\n\nThus, not only our reason fails us in the discovery of the _ultimate\nconnexion_ of causes and effects, but even after experience has\ninformed us of their _constant conjunction_, 'tis impossible for\nus to satisfy ourselves by our reason, why we should extend that\nexperience beyond those particular instances which have fallen under\nour observation. We suppose, but are never able to prove, that there\nmust be a resemblance betwixt those objects, of which we have had\nexperience, and those which lie beyond the reach of our discovery.\n\nWe have already taken notice of certain relations, which make us pass\nfrom one object to another, even though there be no reason to determine\nus to that transition; and this we may establish for a general rule,\nthat wherever the mind constantly and uniformly makes a transition\nwithout any reason, it is influenced by these relations. Now, this is\nexactly the present case. Reason can never show us the connexion of one\nobject with another, though aided by experience, and the observation\nof their constant conjunction in all past instances. When the mind\ntherefore passes from the idea or impression of one object to the idea\nor belief of another, it is not determined by reason, but by certain\nprinciples, which associate together the ideas of these objects, and\nunite them in the imagination. Had ideas no more union in the fancy,\nthan objects seem to have to the understanding, we could never draw any\ninference from causes to effects, nor repose belief in any matter of\nfact. The inference therefore depends solely on the union of ideas.\n\nThe principles of union among ideas, I have reduced to three general\nones, and have asserted, that the idea or impression of any object\nnaturally introduces the idea of any other object, that is resembling,\ncontiguous to, or connected with it. These principles I allow to be\nneither the _infallible_ nor the _sole_ causes of an union among ideas.\nThey are not the infallible causes. For one may fix his attention\nduring some time on any one object without looking farther. They are\nnot the sole causes. For the thought has evidently a very irregular\nmotion in running along its objects, and may leap from the heavens\nto the earth, from one end of the creation to the other, without any\ncertain method or order. But though I allow this weakness in these\nthree relations, and this irregularity in the imagination; yet I\nassert, that the only _general_ principles which associate ideas, are\nresemblance, contiguity, and causation.\n\nThere is indeed a principle of union among ideas, which at first sight\nmay be esteemed different from any of these, but will be found at the\nbottom to depend on the same origin. When every individual of any\nspecies of objects is found by experience to be constantly united with\nan individual of another species, the appearance of any new individual\nof either species naturally conveys the thought to its usual attendant.\nThus, because such a particular idea is commonly annexed to such a\nparticular word, nothing is required but the hearing of that word to\nproduce the correspondent idea; and 'twill scarce be possible for the\nmind, by its utmost efforts, to prevent that transition. In this case\nit is not absolutely necessary, that upon hearing such a particular\nsound, we should reflect on any past experience, and consider what idea\nhas been usually connected with the sound. The imagination of itself\nsupplies the place of this reflection, and is so accustomed to pass\nfrom the word to the idea, that it interposes not a moment's delay\nbetwixt the hearing of the one, and the conception of the other.\n\nBut though I acknowledge this to be a true principle of association\namong ideas, I assert it to be the very same with that betwixt the\nideas of cause and effect, and to be an essential part in all our\nreasonings from that relation. We have no other notion of cause and\neffect, but that of certain objects, which have been _always conjoined_\ntogether, and which in all past instances have been found inseparable.\nWe cannot penetrate into the reason of the conjunction. We only observe\nthe thing itself, and always find that, from the constant conjunction,\nthe objects acquire an union in the imagination. When the impression\nof one becomes present to us, we immediately form an idea of its usual\nattendant; and consequently we may establish this as one part of the\ndefinition of an opinion or belief, that 'tis _an idea related to or\nassociated with a present impression_.\n\nThus, though causation be a _philosophical_ relation, as implying\ncontiguity, succession, and constant conjunction, yet 'tis only so far\nas it is a _natural_ relation, and produces an union among our ideas,\nthat we are able to reason upon it, or draw any inference from it.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII.\n\nOF THE NATURE OF THE IDEA OR BELIEF.\n\n\nThe idea of an object is an essential part of the belief of it, but not\nthe whole. We conceive many things which we do not believe. In order\nthen to discover more fully the nature of belief, or the qualities of\nthose ideas we assent to, let us weigh the following considerations.\n\n'Tis evident, that all reasonings from causes or effects terminate\nin conclusions concerning matter of fact; that is, concerning the\nexistence of objects or of their qualities. 'Tis also evident, that the\nidea of existence is nothing different from the idea of any object, and\nthat when after the simple conception of any thing we would conceive\nit as existent, we in reality make no addition to or alteration on\nour first idea. Thus, when we affirm that God is existent, we simply\nform the idea of such a Being as he is represented to us: nor is\nthe existence, which we attribute to him, conceived by a particular\nidea, which we join to the idea of his other qualities, and can again\nseparate and distinguish from them. But I go farther; and, not content\nwith asserting, that the conception of the existence of any object\nis no addition to the simple conception of it, I likewise maintain,\nthat the belief of the existence joins no new ideas to those, which\ncompose the idea of the object. When I think of God, when I think of\nhim as existent, and when I believe him to be existent, my idea of him\nneither increases nor diminishes. But as 'tis certain there is a great\ndifference betwixt the simple conception of the existence of an object,\nand the belief of it, and as this difference lies not in the parts or\ncomposition of the idea which we conceive; it follows, that it must lie\nin the _manner_ in which we conceive it.\n\nSuppose a person present with me, who advances propositions, to which\nI do not assent, _that C\u00e6sar died in his bed, that silver is more\nfusible than lead, or mercury heavier than gold_; 'tis evident that,\nnotwithstanding my incredulity, I clearly understand his meaning, and\nform all the same ideas which he forms. My imagination is endowed with\nthe same powers as his; nor is it possible for him to conceive any\nidea, which I cannot conceive; or conjoin any, which I cannot conjoin.\nI therefore ask, wherein consists the difference betwixt believing\nand disbelieving any proposition? The answer is easy with regard to\npropositions, that are proved by intuition or demonstration. In that\ncase, the person who assents not only conceives the ideas according\nto the proposition, but is necessarily determined to conceive them in\nthat particular manner, either immediately, or by the interposition of\nother ideas. Whatever is absurd is unintelligible; nor is it possible\nfor the imagination to conceive any thing contrary to a demonstration.\nBut as, in reasonings from causation, and concerning matters of fact,\nthis absolute necessity cannot take place, and the imagination is free\nto conceive both sides of the question, I still ask, _wherein consists\nthe difference betwixt incredulity and belief_? since in both cases the\nconception of the idea is equally possible and requisite.\n\n'Twill not be a satisfactory answer to say, that & person, who does not\nassent to a proposition you advance; after having conceived the object\nin the same manner with you, immediately conceives it in a different\nmanner, and has different ideas of it. This answer is unsatisfactory;\nnot because it contains any falsehood, but because it discovers not\nall the truth. 'Tis confessed that, in all cases wherein we dissent\nfrom any person, we conceive both sides of the question; but as we can\nbelieve only one, it evidently follows, that the belief must make some\ndifference betwixt that conception to which we assent, and that from\nwhich we dissent. We may mingle, and unite, and separate, and confound,\nand vary our ideas in a hundred different ways; but 'till there appears\nsome principle, which fixes one of these different situations, we have\nin reality no opinion: and this principle, as it plainly makes no\naddition to our precedent ideas, can only change the _manner_ of our\nconceiving them.\n\nAll the perceptions of the mind are of two kinds, viz. impressions and\nideas, which differ from each other only in their different degrees of\nforce and vivacity.\n\nOur ideas are copied from our impressions, and represent them in all\ntheir parts. When you would any way vary the idea of a particular\nobject, you can only increase or diminish its force and vivacity. If\nyou make any other change on it, it represents a different object or\nimpression. The case is the same as in colours. A particular shade of\nany colour may acquire a new degree of liveliness or brightness without\nany other variation. But when you produce any other variation, 'tis no\nlonger the same shade or colour; so that as belief does nothing but\nvary the manner in which we conceive any object, it can only bestow on\nour ideas an additional force and vivacity. An opinion therefore or\nbelief may be most accurately defined, _a lively idea related to or\nassociated with a present impression_.[6]\n\nHere are the heads of those arguments, which lead us to this\nconclusion. When we infer the existence of an object from that of\nothers, some object must always be present either to the memory or\nsenses, in order to be the foundation of our reasoning; since the mind\ncannot run up with its inferences _in infinitum_. Reason can never\nsatisfy us that the existence of any one object does ever imply that of\nanother; so that when we pass from the impression of one to the idea or\nbelief of another, we are not determined by reason, but by custom, or\na principle of association. But belief is somewhat more than a simple\nidea. 'Tis a particular manner of forming an idea: and as the same idea\ncan only be varied by a variation of its degrees of force and vivacity;\nit follows upon the whole, that belief is a lively idea produced\nby a relation to a present impression, according to the foregoing\ndefinition.\n\nThis operation of the mind, which forms the belief of any matter of\nfact, seems hitherto to have been one of the greatest mysteries of\nphilosophy; though no one has so much as suspected, that there was\nany difficulty in explaining it. For my part, I must own, that I find\na considerable difficulty in the case; and that even when I think I\nunderstand the subject perfectly, I am at a loss for terms to express\nmy meaning. I conclude, by an induction which seems to me very evident,\nthat an opinion or belief is nothing but an idea, that is different\nfrom a fiction, not in the nature, or the order of its parts, but in\nthe _manner_ of its being conceived. But when I would explain this\n_manner_, I scarce find any word that fully answers the case, but am\nobliged to have recourse to every one's feeling, in order to give him\na perfect notion of this operation of the mind. An idea assented to\n_feels_ different from a fictitious idea, that the fancy alone presents\nto us: and this different feeling I endeavour to explain by calling\nit a superior _force_, or _vivacity_, or _solidity_, or _steadiness_.\nThis variety of terms, which may seem so unphilosophical, is intended\nonly to express that act of the mind, which renders realities more\npresent to us than fictions, causes them to weigh more in the thought,\nand gives them a superior influence on the passions and imagination.\nProvided we agree about the thing, 'tis needless to dispute about the\nterms. The imagination has the command over all its ideas, and can\njoin, and mix, and vary them in all the ways possible. It may conceive\nobjects with all the circumstances of place and time. It may set them,\nin a manner, before our eyes in their true colours, just as they might\nhave existed. But as it is impossible that that faculty can ever of\nitself reach belief; 'tis evident, that belief consists not in the\nnature and order of our ideas, but in the manner of their conception,\nand in their feeling to the mind. I confess, that 'tis impossible to\nexplain perfectly this feeling or manner of conception. We may make use\nof words that express something near it. But its true and proper name\nis _belief_, which is a term that every one sufficiently understands in\ncommon life. And in philosophy, we can go no farther than assert, that\nit is something _felt_ by the mind, which distinguishes the ideas of\nthe judgment from the fictions of the imagination. It gives them more\nforce and influence; makes them appear of greater importance; infixes\nthem in the mind; and renders them the governing principles of all our\nactions.\n\nThis definition will also be found to be entirely conformable to every\none's feeling and experience. Nothing is more evident, than that those\nideas, to which we assent, are more strong, firm, and vivid, than the\nloose reveries of a castle-builder. If one person sits down to read a\nbook as a romance, and another as a true history, they plainly receive\nthe same ideas, and in the same order; nor does the incredulity of the\none, and the belief of the other, hinder them from putting the very\nsame sense upon their author. His words produce the same ideas in both;\nthough his testimony has not the same influence on them. The latter has\na more lively conception of all the incidents. He enters deeper into\nthe concerns of the persons: represents to himself their actions, and\ncharacters, and friendships, and enmities: he even goes so far as to\nform a notion of their features, and air, and person. While the former,\nwho gives no credit to the testimony of the author, has a more faint\nand languid conception of all these particulars, and, except on account\nof the style and ingenuity of the composition, can receive little\nentertainment from it.\n\n\n[6] We may here take occasion to observe a very remarkable error,\nwhich, being frequently inculcated in the schools, has become a kind of\nestablished maxim, and is universally received by all logicians. This\nerror consists in the vulgar division of the acts of the understanding\ninto _conception, judgment_ and _reasoning_, and in the definitions\nwe give of them. Conception is defined to be the simple survey of one\nor more ideas: judgment to be the separating or uniting of different\nideas: reasoning to be the separating or uniting of different ideas\nby the interposition of others, which show the relation they bear to\neach other. But these distinctions and definitions are faulty in very\nconsiderable articles. For, _first_,'tis far from being true, that,\nin every judgment which we form, we unite two different ideas; since\nin that proposition, _God is_, or indeed any other, which regards\nexistence, the idea of existence is no distinct idea, which we unite\nwith that of the object, and which is capable of forming a compound\nidea by the union. _Secondly_, as we can thus form a proposition, which\ncontains only one idea, so we may exert our reason without employing\nmore than two ideas, and without having recourse to a third to serve as\na medium betwixt them. We infer a cause immediately from its effect;\nand this inference is not only a true species of reasoning, but the\nstrongest of all others, and more convincing than when we interpose\nanother idea to connect the two extremes. What we may in general affirm\nconcerning these three acts of the understanding is, that taking them\nin a proper light, they all resolve themselves into the first, and\nare nothing but particular ways of conceiving our objects. Whether\nwe consider a single object, or several; whether we dwell on these\nobjects, or run from them to others; and in whatever form or order we\nsurvey them, the act of the mind exceeds not a simple conception; and\nthe only remarkable difference, which occurs on this occasion, is, when\nwe join belief to the conception, and are persuaded of the truth of\nwhat we conceive. This act of the mind has never yet been explained by\nany philosopher; and therefore I am at liberty to propose my hypothesis\nconcerning it; which is, that 'tis only a strong and steady conception\nof any idea, and such as approaches in some measure to an immediate\nimpression.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VIII.\n\nOF THE CAUSES OF BELIEF.\n\n\nHaving thus explained the nature of belief, and shown that it consists\nin a lively idea related to a present impression; let us now proceed\nto examine from what principles it is derived, and what bestows the\nvivacity on the idea.\n\nI would willingly establish it as a general maxim in the science of\nhuman nature, _that when any impression becomes present to us, it\nnot only transports the mind to such ideas as are related to it, but\nlikewise communicates to them a share of its force and vivacity_.\nAll the operations of the mind depend, in a great measure, on its\ndisposition when it performs them; and according as the spirits are\nmore or less elevated, and the attention more or less fixed, the action\nwill always have more or less vigour and vivacity. When, therefore,\nany object is presented which elevates and enlivens the thought, every\naction, to which the mind applies itself, will be more strong and\nvivid, as long as that disposition continues. Now, 'tis evident the\ncontinuance of the disposition depends entirely on the objects about\nwhich the mind is employed; and that any new object naturally gives a\nnew direction to the spirits, and changes the disposition; as on the\ncontrary, when the mind fixes constantly on the same object, or passes\neasily and insensibly along related objects, the disposition has a\nmuch longer duration. Hence it happens, that when the mind is once\nenlivened by a present impression, it proceeds to form a more lively\nidea of the related objects, by a natural transition of the disposition\nfrom the one to the other. The change of the objects is so easy, that\nthe mind is scarce sensible of it, but applies itself to the conception\nof the related idea with all the force and vivacity it acquired from\nthe present impression.\n\nIf, in considering the nature of relation, and that facility of\ntransition which is essential to it, we can satisfy ourselves\nconcerning the reality of this phenomenon, 'tis well: but I must\nconfess I place my chief confidence in experience to prove so material\na principle. We may therefore observe, as the first experiment to our\npresent purpose, that upon the appearance of the picture of an absent\nfriend, our idea of him is evidently enlivened by the _resemblance_,\nand that every passion, which that idea occasions, whether of joy or\nsorrow, acquires new force and vigour. In producing this effect there\nconcur both a relation and a present impression. Where the picture\nbears him no resemblance, or at least was not intended for him, it\nnever so much as conveys our thought to him: and where it is absent as\nwell as the person; though the mind may pass from the thought of the\none to that of the other; it feels its idea to be rather weakened than\nenlivened by that transition. We take a pleasure in viewing the picture\nof a friend, when 'tis set before us; but when 'tis removed, rather\nchoose to consider him directly, than by reflection in an image, which\nis equally distant and obscure.\n\nThe ceremonies of the Roman Catholic religion may be considered\nas experiments of the same nature. The devotees of that strange\nsuperstition usually plead in excuse of the mummeries with which they\nare up-braided, that they feel the good effect of those external\nmotions, and postures and actions, in enlivening their devotion, and\nquickening their fervour, which otherwise would decay away, if directed\nentirely to distant and immaterial objects. We shadow out the objects\nof our faith, say they, in sensible types and images, and render\nthem more present to us by the immediate presence of these types,\nthan 'tis possible for us to do, merely by an intellectual view and\ncontemplation. Sensible objects have always a greater influence on the\nfancy than any other; and this influence they readily convey to those\nideas to which they are related, and which they resemble. I shall only\ninfer from these practices, and this reasoning, that the effect of\nresemblance in enlivening the idea is very common; and as in every case\na resemblance and a present impression must concur, we are abundantly\nsupplied with experiments to prove the reality of the foregoing\nprinciple.\n\nWe may add force to these experiments by others of a different\nkind, in considering the effects of _contiguity_, as well as of\n_resemblance_.'Tis certain that distance diminishes the force of\nevery idea; and that, upon our approach to any object, though it does\nnot discover itself to our senses, it operates upon the mind with an\ninfluence that imitates an immediate impression. The thinking on any\nobject readily transports the mind to what is contiguous; but 'tis\nonly the actual presence of an object, that transports it with a\nsuperior vivacity. When I am a few miles from home, whatever relates\nto it touches me more nearly than when I am two hundred leagues\ndistant; though even at that distance the reflecting on any thing in\nthe neighbourhood of my friends and family naturally produces an idea\nof them. But as in this latter case, both the objects of the mind are\nideas; notwithstanding there is an easy transition betwixt them; that\ntransition alone is not able to give a superior vivacity to any of the\nideas, for want of some immediate impression.[7]\n\nNo one can doubt but causation has the same influence as the other\ntwo relations of resemblance and contiguity. Superstitious people are\nfond of the relicks of saints and holy men, for the same reason that\nthey seek after types and images, in order to enliven their devotion,\nand give them a more intimate and strong conception of those exemplary\nlives, which they desire to imitate. Now, 'tis evident one of the best\nrelicks a devotee could procure would be the handy-work of a saint;\nand if his clothes and furniture are ever to be considered in this\nlight, 'tis because they were once at his disposal, and were moved\nand affected by him; in which respect they are to be considered as\nimperfect effects, and as connected with him by a shorter chain of\nconsequences than any of those, from which we learn the reality of his\nexistence. This phenomenon clearly proves, that a present impression\nwith a relation of causation may enliven any idea, and consequently\nproduce belief or assent, according to the precedent definition of it.\n\nBut why need we seek for other arguments to prove, that a present\nimpression with a relation or transition of the fancy may enliven any\nidea, when this very instance of our reasonings from cause and effect\nwill alone suffice to that purpose? 'Tis certain we must have an idea\nof every matter of fact which we believe. 'Tis certain that this idea\narises only from a relation to a present impression. 'Tis certain that\nthe belief superadds nothing to the idea, but only changes our manner\nof conceiving it, and renders it more strong and lively. The present\nconclusion concerning the influence of relation is the immediate\nconsequence of all these steps; and every step appears to me sure and\ninfallible. There enters nothing into this operation of the mind but\na present impression, a lively idea, and a relation or association in\nthe fancy betwixt the impression and idea; so that there can be no\nsuspicion of mistake.\n\nIn order to put this whole affair in a fuller light, let us consider\nit as a question in natural philosophy, which we must determine by\nexperience and observation. I suppose there is an object presented,\nfrom which I draw a certain conclusion, and form to myself ideas, which\nI am said to believe or assent to. Here 'tis evident, that however that\nobject, which is present to my senses, and that other, whose existence\nI infer by reasoning, may be thought to influence each other by their\nparticular powers or qualities; yet as the phenomenon of belief, which\nwe at present examine, is merely internal, these powers and qualities\nbeing entirely unknown, can have no hand in producing it. 'Tis the\npresent impression which is to be considered as the true and real cause\nof the idea, and of the belief which attends it. We must therefore\nendeavour to discover, by experiments, the particular qualities by\nwhich 'tis enabled to produce so extraordinary an effect.\n\nFirst then I observe, that the present impression has not this effect\nby its own proper power and efficacy, and, when considered alone\nas a single perception, limited to the present moment. I find that\nan impression, from which, on its first appearance, I can draw no\nconclusion, may afterwards become the foundation of belief, when I have\nhad experience of its usual consequences. We must in every case have\nobserved the same impression in past instances, and have found it to\nbe constantly conjoined with some other impression. This is confirmed\nby such a multitude of experiments, that it admits not of the smallest\ndoubt.\n\nFrom a second observation I conclude, that the belief which attends the\npresent impression, and is produced by a number of past impressions and\nconjunctions; that this belief, I say, arises immediately, without any\nnew operation of the reason or imagination. Of this I can be certain,\nbecause I never am conscious of any such operation, and find nothing\nin the subject on which it can be founded. Now, as we call every\nthing _custom_ which proceeds from a past repetition, without any new\nreasoning or conclusion, we may establish it as a certain truth, that\nall the belief, which follows upon any present impression, is derived\nsolely from that origin. When we are accustomed to see two impressions\nconjoined together, the appearance or idea of the one immediately\ncarries us to the idea of the other.\n\nBeing fully satisfied on this head, I make a third set of experiments,\nin order to know whether any thing be requisite, beside the customary\ntransition, towards the production of this phenomenon of belief. I\ntherefore change the first impression into an idea; and observe, that\nthough the customary transition to the correlative idea still remains,\nyet there is in reality no belief nor persuasion. A present impression,\nthen, is absolutely requisite to this whole operation; and when after\nthis I compare an impression with an idea, and find that their only\ndifference consists in their different degrees of force and vivacity,\nI conclude upon the whole, that belief is a more vivid and intense\nconception of an idea, proceeding from its relation to a present\nimpression.\n\nThus, all probable reasoning is nothing but a species of sensation.\n'Tis not solely in poetry and music we must follow our taste and\nsentiment, but likewise in philosophy. When I am convinced of any\nprinciple, 'tis only an idea which strikes more strongly upon me. When\nI give the preference to one set of arguments above another, I do\nnothing but decide from my feeling concerning the superiority of their\ninfluence. Objects have no discoverable connexion together; nor is it\nfrom any other principle but custom operating upon the imagination,\nthat we can draw any inference from the appearance of one to the\nexistence of another.\n\n'Twill here be worth our observation, that the past experience, on\nwhich all our judgments concerning cause and effect depend, may operate\non our mind in such an insensible manner as never to be taken notice\nof, and may even in some measure be unknown to us. A person, who stops\nshort in his journey upon meeting a river in his way, foresees the\nconsequences of his proceeding forward; and his knowledge of these\nconsequences is conveyed to him by past experience, which informs him\nof such certain conjunctions of causes and effects. But can we think,\nthat on this occasion he reflects on any past experience, and calls\nto remembrance instances that he has seen or heard of, in order to\ndiscover the effects of water on animal bodies? No, surely; this is not\nthe method, in which he proceeds in his reasoning. The idea of sinking\nis so closely connected with that of water, and the idea of suffocating\nwith that of sinking, that the mind makes the transition without the\nassistance of the memory. The custom operates before we have time for\nreflection. The objects seem so inseparable, that we interpose not\na moment's delay in passing from the one or the other. But as this\ntransition proceeds from experience, and not from any primary connexion\nbetwixt the ideas, we must necessarily acknowledge, that experience may\nproduce a belief and a judgment of causes and effects by a separate\noperation, and without being once thought of. This removes all pretext,\nif there yet remains any, for asserting that the mind is convinced\nby reasoning of that principle, _that instances of which we have no\nexperience, must necessarily resemble those of which we have_. For we\nhere find, that the understanding or imagination can draw inferences\nfrom past experience, without reflecting on it; much more without\nforming any principle concerning it, or reasoning upon that principle.\n\nIn general we may observe, that in all the most established and uniform\nconjunctions of causes and effects, such as those of gravity, impulse,\nsolidity, &c. the mind never carries its view expressly to consider\nany past experience: though in other associations of objects, which\nare more rare and unusual, it may assist the custom and transition\nof ideas by this reflection. Nay we find in some cases, that the\nreflection produces the belief without the custom; or, more properly\nspeaking, that the reflection produces the custom in an _oblique_ and\n_artificial_ manner. I explain myself. 'Tis certain, that not only in\nphilosophy, but even in common life, we may attain the knowledge of a\nparticular cause merely by one experiment, provided it be made with\njudgment, and after a careful removal of all foreign and superfluous\ncircumstances. Now, as after one experiment of this kind, the mind,\nupon the appearance either of the cause or the effect, can draw an\ninference concerning the existence of its correlative, and as a habit\ncan never be acquired merely by one instance, it may be thought that\nbelief cannot in this case be esteemed the effect of custom. But this\ndifficulty will vanish, if we consider, that, though we are here\nsupposed to have had only one experiment of a particular effect,\nyet we have many millions to convince us of this principle, _that\nlike objects, placed in like circumstances, will always produce like\neffects_; and as this principle has established itself by a sufficient\ncustom, it bestows an evidence and firmness on any opinion to which it\ncan be applied. The connexion of the ideas is not habitual after one\nexperiment; but this connexion is comprehended under another principle\nthat is habitual; which brings us back to our hypothesis. In all cases\nwe transfer our experience to instances of which we have no experience,\neither _expressly_ or _tacitly_, either _directly_ or _indirectly_.\n\nI must not conclude this subject without observing, that 'tis very\ndifficult to talk of the operations of the mind with perfect propriety\nand exactness; because common language has seldom made any very nice\ndistinctions among them, but has generally called by the same term\nall such as nearly resemble each other. And as this is a source\nalmost inevitable of obscurity and confusion in the author, so it may\nfrequently give rise to doubts and objections in the reader, which\notherwise he would never have dreamed of. Thus, my general position,\nthat an opinion or belief is _nothing but a strong and lively idea\nderived from a present impression related to it_, may be liable to the\nfollowing objection, by reason of a little ambiguity in those words\n_strong_ and _lively_. It may be said, that not only an impression\nmay give rise to reasoning, but that an idea may also have the same\ninfluence; especially upon my principle, _that all our ideas are\nderived from correspondent impressions_. For, suppose I form at present\nan idea, of which I have forgot the correspondent impression, I am able\nto conclude, from this idea, that such an impression did once exist;\nand as this conclusion is attended with belief, it may be asked, from\nwhence are the qualities of force and vivacity derived which constitute\nthis belief? And to this I answer very readily, _from the present\nidea_. For as this idea is not here considered as the representation\nof any absent object, but as a real perception in the mind, of which\nwe are intimately conscious, it must be able to bestow, on whatever\nis related to it, the same quality, call it _firmness, or solidity,\nor force, or vivacity_, with which the mind reflects upon it, and is\nassured of its present existence. The idea here supplies the place of\nan impression, and is entirely the same, so far as regards our present\npurpose.\n\nUpon the same principles we need not be surprised to hear of the\nremembrance of an idea; that is, of the idea of an idea, and of\nits force and vivacity superior to the loose conceptions of the\nimagination. In thinking of our past thoughts we not only delineate out\nthe objects of which we were thinking, but also conceive the action of\nthe mind in the meditation, that certain _je-ne-scai-quoi_, of which\n'tis impossible to give any definition or description, but which every\none sufficiently understands. When the memory offers an idea of this,\nand represents it as past, 'tis easily conceived how that idea may have\nmore vigour and firmness than when we think of a past thought of which\nwe have no remembrance.\n\nAfter this, any one will understand how we may form the idea of an\nimpression and of an idea, and how we may believe the existence of an\nimpression and of an idea.\n\n\n[7] Naturane nobis, inquit, datum dicam, an errore quodam, ut, cum\nea loca videamus, in quibus memoria dignos viros acceperimus multum\nesse versatos, magis moveamur, quam siquando eorum ipsorum aut facta\naudiamus, aut scriptum aliquod legamus? velut ego nunc moveor. Venit\nenim mihi Platonis in mentem: quem accipimus prinum h\u00eec disputare\nsolitum: cujus etiam illi hortuli propinqui non memoriam sol\u00fbm\nmihi afferunt, sed ipsum videntur in conspectu meo hic ponere. H\u00eec\nSpeusippus, hic Xenocrates, hic ejus auditor Polemo; cujus ipsa illa\nsessio fuit, quam videamus. Equidem etiam curiam nostram, hostiliam\ndico, non hanc novam, qu\u00e6 mihi minor esse videtur postquam est major,\nsolebam intuens Scipionem, Catonem, L\u00e6lium, nostrum vero in primis avum\ncogitare. Tanta vis admonitionis inest in locis; ut non sine causa ex\nhis memori\u00e6 ducta sit diciplina.--_Cicero de Finibus, lib. 5._\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IX.\n\nOF THE EFFECTS OF OTHER RELATIONS AND OTHER HABITS.\n\n\nHowever convincing the foregoing arguments may appear, we must not\nrest contented with them, but must turn the subject on every side, in\norder to find some new points of view, from which we may illustrate\nand confirm such extraordinary and such fundamental principles. A\nscrupulous hesitation to receive any new hypothesis is so laudable a\ndisposition in philosophers, and so necessary to the examination of\ntruth, that it deserves to be complied with, and requires that every\nargument be produced which may tend to their satisfaction, and every\nobjection removed which may stop them in their reasoning.\n\nI have often observed, that, beside cause and effect, the two relations\nof resemblance and contiguity are to be considered as associating\nprinciples of thought, and as capable of conveying the imagination from\none idea to another. I have also observed, that when of two objects,\nconnected together by any of these relations, one is immediately\npresent to the memory or senses, not only the mind is conveyed to\nits co-relative by means of the associating principle, but likewise\nconceives it with an additional force and vigour, by the united\noperation of that principle, and of the present impression. All this\nI have observed, in order to confirm, by analogy, my explication of\nour judgments concerning cause and effect. But this very argument may\nperhaps be turned against me, and, instead of a confirmation of my\nhypothesis, may become an objection to it. For it may be said, that\nif all the parts of that hypothesis be true, viz. _that_ these three\nspecies of relation are derived from the same principles; _that_ their\neffects, in enforcing and enlivening our ideas, are the same; and\n_that_ belief is nothing but a more forcible and vivid conception of an\nidea; it should follow, that that action of the mind may not only be\nderived from the relation of cause and effect, but also from those of\ncontiguity and resemblance. But as we find by experience that belief\narises only from causation, and that we can draw no inference from one\nobject to another, except they be connected by this relation, we may\nconclude, that there is some error in that reasoning which leads us\ninto such difficulties.\n\nThis is the objection: let us now consider its solution. 'Tis evident,\nthat whatever is present to the memory, striking upon the mind with\na vivacity which resembles an immediate impression, must become of\nconsiderable moment in all the operations of the mind, and must easily\ndistinguish itself above the mere fictions of the imagination. Of\nthese impressions or ideas of the memory we form a kind of system,\ncomprehending whatever we remember to have been present, either to our\ninternal perception or senses; and every particular of that system,\njoined to the present impressions, we are pleased to call a _reality_.\nBut the mind stops not here. For finding, that with this system of\nperceptions there is another connected by custom, or, if you will,\nby the relation of cause or effect, it proceeds to the consideration\nof their ideas; and as it feels that 'tis in a manner necessarily\ndetermined to view these particular ideas, and that the custom or\nrelation, by which it is determined, admits not of the least change,\nit forms them into a new system, which it likewise dignifies with the\ntitle of _realities_. The first of these systems is the object of the\nmemory and senses; the second of the judgment.\n\n'Tis this latter principle which peoples the world, and brings us\nacquainted with such existences as, by their removal in time and\nplace, lie beyond the reach of the senses and memory. By means of it\nI paint the universe in my imagination, and fix my attention on any\npart of it I please. I form an idea of Rome, which I neither see nor\nremember, but which is connected with such impressions as I remember\nto have received from the conversation and books of travellers and\nhistorians. This idea of Rome I place in a certain situation on the\nidea of an object which I call the globe. I join to it the conception\nof a particular government, and religion and manners. I look backward\nand consider its first foundation, its several revolutions, successes\nand misfortunes. All this, and every thing else which I believe, are\nnothing but ideas, though, by their force and settled order, arising\nfrom custom and the relation of cause and effect, they distinguish\nthemselves from the other ideas, which are merely the offspring of the\nimagination.\n\nAs to the influence of contiguity and resemblance, we may observe, that\nif the contiguous and resembling object be comprehended in this system\nof realities, there is no doubt but these two relations will assist\nthat of cause and effect, and infix the related idea with more force\nin the imagination. This I shall enlarge upon presently. Meanwhile I\nshall carry my observation a step farther, and assert, that even where\nthe related object is but feigned, the relation will serve to enliven\nthe idea, and increase its influence. A poet, no doubt, will be the\nbetter able to form a strong description of the Elysian fields, that he\nprompts his imagination by the view of a beautiful meadow or garden;\nas at another time he may, by his fancy, place himself in the midst of\nthese fabulous regions, that by the feigned contiguity he may enliven\nhis imagination.\n\nBut though I cannot altogether exclude the relations of resemblance and\ncontiguity from operating on the fancy in this manner, 'tis observable\nthat, when single, their influence is very feeble and uncertain. As\nthe relation of cause and effect is requisite to persuade us of any\nreal existence, so is this persuasion requisite to give force to these\nother relations. For where upon the appearance of an impression we not\nonly feign another object, but likewise arbitrarily, and of our mere\ngood-will and pleasure give it a particular relation to the impression,\nthis can have but a small effect upon the mind; nor is there any\nreason, why, upon the return of the same impression, we should be\ndetermined to place the same object in the same relation to it. There\nis no manner of necessity for the mind to feign any resembling and\ncontiguous objects; and if it feigns such, there is as little necessity\nfor it always to confine itself to the same, without any difference or\nvariation. And indeed such a fiction is founded on so little reason,\nthat nothing but pure _caprice_ can determine the mind to form it; and\nthat principle being fluctuating and uncertain, 'tis impossible it can\never operate with any considerable degree of force and constancy. The\nmind foresees and anticipates the change; and even from the very first\ninstant feels the looseness of its actions, and the weak hold it has\nof its objects. And as this imperfection is very sensible in every\nsingle instance, it still increases by experience and observation, when\nwe compare the several instances we may remember, and form a _general\nrule_ against the reposing any assurance in those momentary glimpses of\nlight, which arise in the imagination from a feigned resemblance and\ncontiguity.\n\nThe relation of cause and effect has all the opposite advantages. The\nobjects it presents are fixed and unalterable. The impressions of the\nmemory never change in any considerable degree; and each impression\ndraws along with it a precise idea, which takes its place in the\nimagination, as something solid and real, certain and invariable. The\nthought is always determined to pass from the impression to the idea,\nand from that particular impression to that particular idea, without\nany choice or hesitation.\n\nBut not content with removing this objection, I shall endeavour to\nextract from it a proof of the present doctrine. Contiguity and\nresemblance have an effect much inferior to causation; but still\nhave some effect, and augment the conviction of any opinion, and the\nvivacity of any conception. If this can be proved in several new\ninstances, beside what we have already observed, 'twill be allowed\nno inconsiderable argument, that belief is nothing but a lively idea\nrelated to a present impression.\n\nTo begin with contiguity; it has been remarked among the Mahometans\nas well as Christians, that those _pilgrims_, who have seen Mecca or\nthe Holy Land are ever after more faithful and zealous believers, than\nthose who have not had that advantage. A man, whose memory presents\nhim with a lively image of the Red Sea, and the Desert, and Jerusalem,\nand Galilee, can never doubt of any miraculous events, which are\nrelated either by Moses or the Evangelists. The lively idea of the\nplaces passes by an easy transition to the facts, which are supposed\nto have been related to them by contiguity, and increases the belief\nby increasing the vivacity of the conception. The remembrance of\nthese fields and rivers has the same influence on the vulgar as a new\nargument, and from the same causes.\n\nWe may form a like observation concerning _resemblance_. We have\nremarked, that the conclusion which we draw from a present object to\nits absent cause or effect, is never founded on any qualities which\nwe observe in that object, considered in itself; or, in other words,\nthat 'tis impossible to determine otherwise than by experience, what\nwill result from any phenomenon, or what has preceded it. But though\nthis be so evident in itself, that it seemed not to require any proof,\nyet some philosophers have imagined that there is an apparent cause\nfor the communication of motion, and that a reasonable man might\nimmediately infer the motion of one body from the impulse of another,\nwithout having recourse to any past observation. That this opinion is\nfalse will admit of an easy proof. For if such an inference may be\ndrawn merely from the ideas of body, of motion, and of impulse, it must\namount to a demonstration, and must imply the absolute impossibility of\nany contrary supposition. Every effect, then, beside the communication\nof motion, implies a formal contradiction; and 'tis impossible not only\nthat it can exist, but also that it can be conceived. But we may soon\nsatisfy ourselves of the contrary, by forming a clear and consistent\nidea of one body's moving upon another, and of its rest immediately\nupon the contact; or of its returning back in the same line in which\nit came; or of its annihilation, or circular or elliptical motion:\nand in short, of an infinite number of other changes, which they may\nsuppose it to undergo. These suppositions are all consistent and\nnatural; and the reason why we imagine the communication of motion\nto be more consistent and natural, not only than those suppositions,\nbut also than any other natural effect, is founded on the relation of\n_resemblance_ betwixt the cause and effect, which is here united to\nexperience, and binds the objects in the closest and most intimate\nmanner to each other, so as to make us imagine them to be absolutely\ninseparable. Resemblance, then, has the same or a parallel influence\nwith experience; and as the only immediate effect of experience is to\nassociate our ideas together, it follows that all belief arises from\nthe association of ideas, according to my hypothesis.\n\n'Tis universally allowed by the writers on optics, that the eye at\nall times sees an equal number of physical points, and that a man on\nthe top of a mountain has no larger an image presented to his senses,\nthan when he is cooped up in the narrowest court or chamber. 'Tis only\nby experience that he infers the greatness of the object from some\npeculiar qualities of the image; and this inference of the judgment\nhe confounds with sensation, as is common on other occasions. Now\n'tis evident, that the inference of the judgment is here much more\nlively than what is usual in our common reasonings, and that a man\nhas a more vivid conception of the vast extent of the ocean from the\nimage he receives by the eye, when he stands on the top of the high\npromontory, than merely from hearing the roaring of the waters. He\nfeels a more sensible pleasure from its magnificence, which is a proof\nof a more lively idea; and he confounds his judgment with sensation,\nwhich is another proof of it. But as the inference is equally certain\nand immediate in both cases, this superior vivacity of our conception\nin one case can proceed from nothing but this, that in drawing an\ninference from the sight, beside the customary conjunction, there is\nalso a resemblance betwixt the image and the object we infer, which\nstrengthens the relation, and conveys the vivacity of the impression to\nthe related idea with an easier and more natural movement.\n\nNo weakness of human nature is more universal and conspicuous than what\nwe commonly call _credulity_, or a too easy faith in the testimony of\nothers; and this weakness is also very naturally accounted for from\nthe influence of resemblance. When we receive any matter of fact upon\nhuman testimony, our faith arises from the very same origin as our\ninferences from causes to effects, and from effects to causes; nor\nis there any thing but our _experience_ of the governing principles\nof human nature, which can give us any assurance of the veracity of\nmen. But though experience be the true standard of this, as well as\nof all other judgments, we seldom regulate ourselves entirely by it,\nbut have a remarkable propensity to believe whatever is reported,\neven concerning apparitions, enchantments, and prodigies, however\ncontrary to daily experience and observation. The words or discourses\nof others have an intimate connexion with certain ideas in their mind;\nand these ideas have also a connexion with the facts or objects which\nthey represent. This latter connexion is generally much over-rated,\nand commands our assent beyond what experience will justify, which can\nproceed from nothing beside the resemblance betwixt the ideas and the\nfacts. Other effects only point out their causes in an oblique manner;\nbut the testimony of men does it directly, and is to be considered as\nan image as well as an effect. No wonder, therefore, we are so rash in\ndrawing our inferences from it, and are less guided by experience in\nour judgments concerning it, than in those upon any other subject.\n\nAs resemblance, when conjoined with causation, fortifies our\nreasonings, so the want of it in any very great degree is able almost\nentirely to destroy them. Of this there is a remarkable instance in\nthe universal carelessness and stupidity of men with regard to a\nfuture state, where they show as obstinate an incredulity, as they\ndo a blind credulity on other occasions. There is not indeed a more\nample matter of wonder to the studious, and of regret to the pious\nman, than to observe the negligence of the bulk of mankind concerning\ntheir approaching condition; and 'tis with reason, that many eminent\ntheologians have not scrupled to affirm, that though the vulgar have\nno formal principles of infidelity, yet they are really infidels in\ntheir hearts, and have nothing like what we can call a belief of\nthe eternal duration of their souls. For let us consider on the one\nhand what divines have displayed with such eloquence concerning the\nimportance of eternity; and at the same time reflect, that though in\nmatters of rhetoric we ought to lay our account with some exaggeration,\nwe must in this case allow, that the strongest figures are infinitely\ninferior to the subject: and after this, let us view on the other hand\nthe prodigious security of men in this particular: I ask, if these\npeople really believe what is inculcated on them, and what they pretend\nto affirm; and the answer is obviously in the negative. As belief is\nan act of the mind arising from custom, 'tis not strange the want of\nresemblance should overthrow what custom has established, and diminish\nthe force of the idea, as much as that latter principle increases it.\nA future state is so far removed from our comprehension, and we have\nso obscure an idea of the manner in which we shall exist after the\ndissolution of the body, that all the reasons we can invent, however\nstrong in themselves, and however much assisted by education, are never\nable with slow imaginations to surmount this difficulty, or bestow a\nsufficient authority and force on the idea. I rather choose to ascribe\nthis incredulity to the faint idea we form of our future condition,\nderived from its want of resemblance to the present life, than to that\nderived from its remoteness. For I observe, that men are every where\nconcerned about what may happen after their death, provided it regard\nthis world; and that there are few to whom their name, their family,\ntheir friends, and their country are in any period of time entirely\nindifferent.\n\nAnd indeed the want of resemblance in this case so entirely destroys\nbelief, that except those few who, upon cool reflection on the\nimportance of the subject, have taken care by repeated meditation\nto imprint in their minds the arguments for a future state, there\nscarce are any who believe the immortality of the soul with a true\nand established judgment; such as is derived from the testimony of\ntravellers and historians. This appears very conspicuously wherever\nmen have occasion to compare the pleasures and pains, the rewards and\npunishments of this life with those of a future; even though the case\ndoes not concern themselves, and there is no violent passion to disturb\ntheir judgment. The Roman Catholics are certainly the most zealous of\nany sect in the Christian world; and yet you'll find few among the\nmore sensible part of that communion who do not blame the Gunpowder\nTreason, and the massacre of St Bartholomew, as cruel and barbarous,\nthough projected or executed against those very people, whom without\nany scruple they condemn to eternal and infinite punishments. All we\ncan say in excuse for this inconsistency is, that they really do not\nbelieve what they affirm concerning a future state; nor is there any\nbetter proof of it than the very inconsistency.\n\nWe may add to this a remark, that in matters of religion men take a\npleasure in being terrified, and that no preachers are so popular as\nthose who excite the most dismal and gloomy passions. In the common\naffairs of life, where we feel and are with the solidity of the\nsubject, nothing can be more disagreeable than fear and terror; and\n'tis only in dramatic performances and in religious discourses that\nthey ever give pleasure. In these latter cases the imagination reposes\nitself indolently on the idea; and the passion being softened by the\nwant of belief in the subject, has no more than the agreeable effect of\nenlivening the mind and fixing the attention.\n\nThe present hypothesis will receive additional confirmation, if we\nexamine the effects of other kinds of custom, as well as of other\nrelations. To understand this we must consider that custom, to which\nI attribute all belief and reasoning, may operate upon the mind in\ninvigorating an idea after two several ways. For supposing that, in\nall past experience, we have found two objects to have been always\nconjoined together, 'tis evident, that upon the appearance of one of\nthese objects in an impression, we must, from custom, make an easy\ntransition to the idea of that object, which usually attends it; and\nby means of the present impression and easy transition must conceive\nthat idea in a stronger and more lively manner than we do any loose\nfloating image of the fancy. But let us next suppose, that a mere idea\nalone, without any of this curious and almost artificial preparation,\nshould frequently make its appearance in the mind, this idea must,\nby degrees, acquire a facility and force; and both by its firm hold\nand easy introduction distinguish itself from any new and unusual\nidea. This is the only particular in which these two kinds of custom\nagree; and if it appear that their effects on the judgment are similar\nand proportionable, we may certainly conclude, that the foregoing\nexplication of that faculty is satisfactory. But can we doubt of this\nagreement in their influence on the judgment, when we consider the\nnature and effects of _education_?\n\nAll those opinions and notions of things, to which we have been\naccustomed from our infancy, take such deep root, that 'tis impossible\nfor us, by all the powers of reason and experience, to eradicate them;\nand this habit not only approaches in its influence, but even on\nmany occasions prevails over that which arises from the constant and\ninseparable union of causes and effects. Here we must not be contented\nwith saying, that the vividness of the idea produces the belief:\nwe must maintain that they are individually the same. The frequent\nrepetition of any idea infixes it in the imagination; but could never\npossibly of itself produce belief, if that act of the mind was, by the\noriginal constitution of our natures, annexed only to a reasoning and\ncomparison of ideas. Custom may lead us into some false comparison\nof ideas. This is the utmost effect we can conceive of it; but 'tis\ncertain it could never supply the place of that comparison, nor produce\nany act of the mind which naturally belonged to that principle.\n\nA person that has lost a leg or an arm by amputation endeavours for\na long time afterwards to serve himself with them. After the death\nof any one, 'tis a common remark of the whole family, but especially\nthe servants, that they can scarce believe him to be dead, but still\nimagine him to be in his chamber or in any other place, where they\nwere accustomed to find him. I have often heard in conversation, after\ntalking of a person that is any way celebrated, that one, who has no\nacquaintance with him, will say, _I have never seen such a one, but\nalmost fancy I have, so often have I heard talk of him_. All these are\nparallel instances.\n\nIf we consider this argument from _education_ in a proper light, 'twill\nappear very convincing; and the more so, that 'tis founded on one\nof the most common phenomena that is any where to be met with. I am\npersuaded that, upon examination, we shall find more than one half of\nthose opinions that prevail among mankind to be owing to education, and\nthat the principles which are thus implicitly embraced, overbalance\nthose, which are owing either to abstract reasoning or experience.\nAs liars, by the frequent repetition of their lies, come at last to\nremember them; so the judgment, or rather the imagination, by the like\nmeans, may have ideas so strongly imprinted on it, and conceive them\nin so full a light, that they may operate upon the mind in the same\nmanner with those which the senses, memory, or reason present to us.\nBut as education is an artificial and not a natural cause, and as its\nmaxims are frequently contrary to reason, and even to themselves in\ndifferent times and places, it is never upon that account recognised\nby philosophers; though in reality it be built almost on the same\nfoundation of custom and repetition as our reasonings from causes and\neffects.[8]\n\n\n[8] In general we may observe, that as our assent to all probable\nreasonings is founded on the vivacity of ideas, it resembles many\nof those whimsies and prejudices which are rejected under the\nopprobrious character of being the offspring of the imagination. By\nthis expression it appears, that the word imagination, is commonly used\nin two different senses; and though nothing be more contrary to true\nphilosophy than this inaccuracy, yet, in the following reasonings, I\nhave often been obliged to fall into it. When I oppose the imagination\nto the memory, I mean the faculty by which we form our fainter ideas.\nWhen I oppose it to reason, I mean the same faculty, excluding only our\ndemonstrative and probable reasonings. When I oppose it to neither,\n'tis indifferent whether it be taken in the larger or more limited\nsense, or at least the context will sufficiently explain the meaning.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION X.\n\nOF THE INFLUENCE OF BELIEF.\n\n\nBut though education be disclaimed by philosophy, as a fallacious\nground of assent to any opinion, it prevails nevertheless in the world,\nand is the cause why all systems are apt to be rejected at first as\nnew and unusual. This, perhaps, will be the fate of what I have here\nadvanced concerning _belief_; and though the proofs I have produced\nappear to me perfectly conclusive, I expect not to make many proselytes\nto my opinion. Men will scarce ever be persuaded, that effects of\nsuch consequence can flow from principles which are seemingly so\ninconsiderable, and that the far greatest part of our reasonings, with\nall our actions and passions, can be derived from nothing but custom\nand habit. To obviate this objection, I shall here anticipate a little\nwhat would more properly fall under our consideration afterwards, when\nwe come to treat of the Passions and the Sense of Beauty.\n\nThere is implanted in the human mind a perception of pain and pleasure,\nas the chief spring and moving principle of all its actions. But pain\nand pleasure have two ways of making their appearance in the mind;\nof which the one has effects very different from the other. They may\neither appear an impression to the actual feeling, or only in idea, as\nat present when I mention them. 'Tis evident the influence of these\nupon our actions is far from being equal. Impressions always actuate\nthe soul, and that in the highest degree; but 'tis not every idea which\nhas the same effect. Nature has proceeded with caution in this case,\nand seems to have carefully avoided the inconveniences of two extremes.\nDid impressions alone influence the will, we should every moment of\nour lives be subject to the greatest calamities; because, though we\nforesaw their approach, we should not be provided by nature with any\nprinciple of action, which might impel us to avoid them. On the other\nhand, did every idea influence our actions, our condition would not be\nmuch mended. For such is the unsteadiness and activity of thought, that\nthe images of every thing, especially of goods and evils, are always\nwandering in the mind; and were it moved by every idle conception of\nthis kind, it would never enjoy a moment's peace and tranquillity.\n\nNature has therefore chosen a medium, and has neither bestowed on\nevery idea of good and evil the power of actuating the will, nor\nyet has entirely excluded them from this influence. Though an idle\nfiction has no efficacy, yet we find by experience, that the ideas\nof those objects, which we believe either are or will be existent,\nproduce in a lesser degree the same effect with those impressions,\nwhich are immediately present to the senses and perception. The effect\nthen of belief is to raise up a simple idea to an equality with our\nimpressions, and bestow on it a like influence on the passions. This\neffect it can only have by making an idea approach an impression in\nforce and vivacity. For as the different degrees of force make all\nthe original difference betwixt an impression and an idea, they must\nof consequence be the source of all the differences in the effects\nof these perceptions, and their removal, in whole or in part, the\ncause of every new resemblance they acquire. Wherever we can make\nan idea approach the impressions in force and vivacity, it will\nlikewise imitate them in its influence on the mind; and _vice versa_,\nwhere it imitates them in that influence, as in the present case,\nthis must proceed from its approaching them in force and vivacity.\nBelief, therefore, since it causes an idea to imitate the effects of\nthe impressions, must make it resemble them in these qualities, and\nis nothing but _a more vivid and intense conception of any idea_.\nThis then may both serve as an additional argument for the present\nsystem, and may give us a notion after what manner our reasonings from\ncausation are able to operate on the will and passions.\n\nAs belief is almost absolutely requisite to the exciting our passions,\nso the passions, in their turn, are very favourable to belief; and\nnot only such facts as convey agreeable emotions, but very often such\nas give pain, do upon that account become more readily the objects of\nfaith and opinion. A coward, whose fears are easily awakened, readily\nassents to every account of danger he meets with; as a person of a\nsorrowful and melancholy disposition is very credulous of every thing\nthat nourishes his prevailing passion. When any affecting object is\npresented, it gives the alarm, and excites immediately a degree of\nits proper passion; especially in persons who are naturally inclined\nto that passion. This emotion passes by an easy transition to the\nimagination; and, diffusing itself over our idea of the affecting\nobject, makes us form that idea with greater force and vivacity,\nand consequently assent to it, according to the precedent system.\nAdmiration and surprise have the same effect as the other passions;\nand accordingly we may observe, that among the vulgar, quacks\nand projectors meet with a more easy faith upon account of their\nmagnificent pretensions, than if they kept themselves within the\nbounds of moderation. The first astonishment, which naturally attends\ntheir miraculous relations, spreads itself over the whole soul, and so\nvivifies and enlivens the idea, that it resembles the inferences we\ndraw from experience. This is a mystery, with which we may be already a\nlittle acquainted, and which we shall have further occasion to be let\ninto in the progress of this Treatise.\n\nAfter this account of the influence of belief on the passions, we shall\nfind less difficulty in explaining its effects on the imagination,\nhowever extraordinary they may appear. 'Tis certain we cannot take\npleasure in any discourse, where our judgment gives no assent to those\nimages which are presented to our fancy. The conversation of those, who\nhave acquired a habit of lying, though in affairs of no moment, never\ngives any satisfaction; and that because those ideas they present to\nus, not being attended with belief, make no impression upon the mind.\nPoets themselves, though liars by profession, always endeavour to give\nan air of truth to their fictions; and where that is totally neglected,\ntheir performances, however ingenious, will never be able to afford\nmuch pleasure. In short, we may observe, that even when ideas have no\nmanner of influence on the will and passions, truth and reality are\nstill requisite, in order to make them entertaining to the imagination.\n\nBut if we compare together all the phenomena that occur on this head,\nwe shall find, that truth, however necessary it may seem in all works\nof genius, has no other effect than to procure an easy reception for\nthe ideas, and to make the mind acquiesce in them with satisfaction,\nor at least without reluctance. But as this is an effect, which may\neasily be supposed to flow from that solidity and force, which,\naccording to my system, attend those ideas that are established by\nreasonings from causation; it follows, that all the influence of\nbelief upon the fancy may be explained from that system. Accordingly\nwe may observe, that wherever that influence arises from any other\nprinciples beside truth or reality, they supply its place, and give\nan equal entertainment to the imagination. Poets have formed what\nthey call a poetical system of things, which, though it be believed\nneither by themselves nor readers, is commonly esteemed a sufficient\nfoundation for any fiction. We have been so much accustomed to the\nnames of Mars, Jupiter, Venus, that in the same manner as education\ninfixes any opinion, the constant repetition of these ideas makes them\nenter into the mind with facility, and prevail upon the fancy, without\ninfluencing the judgment. In like manner tragedians always borrow their\nfable, or at least the names of their principal actors, from some known\npassage in history; and that not in order to deceive the spectators;\nfor they will frankly confess, that truth is not in any circumstance\ninviolably observed, but in order to procure a more easy reception into\nthe imagination for those extraordinary events, which they represent.\nBut this is a precaution which is not required of comic poets, whose\npersonages and incidents, being of a more familiar kind, enter easily\ninto the conception, and are received without any such formality, even\nthough at first sight they be known to be fictitious, and the pure\noffspring of the fancy.\n\nThis mixture of truth and falsehood in the fables of tragic poets not\nonly serves our present purpose, by showing that the imagination can\nbe satisfied without any absolute belief or assurance; but may in\nanother view be regarded as a very strong confirmation of this system.\n'Tis evident, that poets make use of this artifice of borrowing the\nnames of their persons, and the chief events of their poems, from\nhistory, in order to procure a more easy reception for the whole, and\ncause it to make a deeper impression on the fancy and affections. The\nseveral incidents of the piece acquire a kind of relation by being\nunited into one poem or representation; and if any of these incidents\nbe an object of belief, it bestows a force and vivacity on the others,\nwhich are related to it. The vividness of the first conception diffuses\nitself along the relations, and is conveyed, as by so many pipes or\ncanals, to every idea that has any communication with the primary one.\nThis indeed can never amount to a perfect assurance; and that because\nthe union among the ideas is in a manner accidental: but still it\napproaches so near in its influence, as may convince us that they are\nderived from the same origin. Belief must please the imagination by\nmeans of the force and vivacity which attends it; since every idea,\nwhich has force and vivacity, is found to be agreeable to that faculty.\n\nTo confirm this we may observe, that the assistance is mutual betwixt\nthe judgment and fancy, as well as betwixt the judgment and passion;\nand that belief not only gives vigour to the imagination, but that a\nvigorous and strong imagination is of all talents the most proper to\nprocure belief and authority. 'Tis difficult for us to withhold our\nassent from what is painted out to us in all the colours of eloquence;\nand the vivacity produced by the fancy is in many cases greater than\nthat which arises from custom and experience. We are hurried away by\nthe lively imagination of our author or companion; and even he himself\nis often a victim to his own fire and genius.\n\nNor will it be amiss to remark, that as a lively imagination very often\ndegenerates into madness or folly, and bears it a great resemblance in\nits operations; so they influence the judgment after the same manner,\nand produce belief from the very same principles. When the imagination,\nfrom any extraordinary ferment of the blood and spirits, acquires such\na vivacity as disorders all its powers and faculties, there is no means\nof distinguishing betwixt truth and falsehood; but every loose fiction\nor idea, having the same influence as the impressions of the memory, or\nthe conclusions of the judgment, is received on the same footing, and\noperates with equal force on the passions. A present impression and a\ncustomary transition are now no longer necessary to enliven our ideas.\nEvery chimera of the brain is as vivid and intense as any of those\ninferences, which we formerly dignified with the name of conclusions\nconcerning matters of fact, and sometimes as the present impressions of\nthe senses.\n\nWe may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; and\nthis is common both to poetry and madness, that the vivacity they\nbestow on the ideas is not derived from the particular situations or\nconnexions of the objects of these ideas, but from the present temper\nand disposition of the person. But how great soever the pitch may be\nto which this vivacity rise, 'tis evident, that in poetry it never\nhas the same _feeling_ with that which arises in the mind, when we\nreason, though even upon the lowest species of probability. The mind\ncan easily distinguish betwixt the one and the other; and whatever\nemotion the poetical enthusiasm may give to the spirits, 'tis still\nthe mere phantom of belief or persuasion. The case is the same with the\nidea as with the passion it occasions. There is no passion of the human\nmind but what may arise from poetry; though, at the same time, the\n_feelings_ of the passions are very different when excited by poetical\nfictions, from what they are when they arise from belief and reality.\nA passion which is disagreeable in real life, may afford the highest\nentertainment in a tragedy or epic poem. In the latter case it lies\nnot with that weight upon us: it feels less firm and solid, and has no\nother than the agreeable effect of exciting the spirits, and rousing\nthe attention. The difference in the passions is a clear proof of a\nlike difference in those ideas from which the passions are derived.\nWhere the vivacity arises from a customary conjunction with a present\nimpression, though the imagination may not, in appearance, be so much\nmoved, yet there is always something more forcible and real in its\nactions than in the fervours of poetry and eloquence. The force of our\nmental actions in this case, no more than in any other, is not to be\nmeasured by the apparent agitation of the mind. A poetical description\nmay have a more sensible effect on the fancy than an historical\nnarration. It may collect more of those circumstances that form a\ncomplete image or picture. It may seem to set the object before us in\nmore lively colours. But still the ideas it presents are different to\nthe _feeling_ from those which arise from the memory and the judgment.\nThere is something weak and imperfect amidst all that seeming vehemence\nof thought and sentiment which attends the fictions of poetry.\n\nWe shall afterwards have occasion to remark both the resemblances and\ndifferences betwixt a poetical enthusiasm and a serious conviction. In\nthe mean time, I cannot forbear observing, that the great difference in\ntheir feeling proceeds, in some measure, from reflection and _general\nrules_. We observe, that the vigour of conception which fictions\nreceive from poetry and eloquence, is a circumstance merely accidental,\nof which every idea is equally susceptible; and that such fictions are\nconnected with nothing that is real. This observation makes us only\nlend ourselves, so to speak, to the fiction, but causes the idea to\nfeel very different from the eternal established persuasions founded on\nmemory and custom. They are somewhat of the same kind; but the one is\nmuch inferior to the other, both in its causes and effects.\n\nA like reflection on _general rules_ keeps us from augmenting our\nbelief upon every increase of the force and vivacity of our ideas.\nWhere an opinion admits of no doubt, or opposite probability, we\nattribute to it a full conviction; though the want of resemblance, or\ncontiguity, may render its force inferior to that of other opinions.\n'Tis thus the understanding corrects the appearances of the senses, and\nmakes us imagine, that an object at twenty foot distance seems even to\nthe eye as large as one of the same dimensions at ten.\n\nWe may observe the same effect of poetry in a lesser degree; only with\nthis difference, that the least reflection dissipates the illusions\nof poetry, and places the objects in their proper light. 'Tis however\ncertain, that in the warmth of a poetical enthusiasm, a poet has a\ncounterfeit belief, and even a kind of vision of his objects; and\nif there be any shadow of argument to support this belief nothing\ncontributes more to his full conviction than a blaze of poetical\nfigures and images, which have their effect upon the poet himself, as\nwell as upon his readers.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XI.\n\nOF THE PROBABILITY OF CHANCES.\n\n\nBut in order to bestow on this system its full force and evidence, we\nmust carry our eye from it a moment to consider its consequences, and\nexplain, from the same principles, some other species of reasoning\nwhich are derived from the same origin.\n\nThose philosophers who have divided human reason into _knowledge and\nprobability_, and have defined the first to be _that evidence which\narises from the comparison of ideas_, are obliged to comprehend all our\narguments from causes or effects under the general term of probability.\nBut though every one be free to use his terms in what sense he pleases;\nand accordingly, in the precedent part of this discourse, I have\nfollowed this method of expression; 'tis however certain, that in\ncommon discourse we readily affirm, that many arguments from causation\nexceed probability, and may be received as a superior kind of evidence.\nOne would appear ridiculous who would say, that 'tis only probable the\nsun will rise to-morrow, or that all men must die; though 'tis plain we\nhave no further assurance of these facts than what experience affords\nus. For this reason t'would perhaps be more convenient, in order at\nonce to preserve the common signification of words, and mark the\nseveral degrees of evidence, to distinguish human reason into three\nkinds, viz. _that from knowledge, from proofs, and from probabilities_.\nBy knowledge, I mean the assurance arising from the comparison of\nideas. By proofs, those arguments which are derived from the relation\nof cause and effect, and which are entirely free from doubt and\nuncertainty. By probability, that evidence which is still attended with\nuncertainty. 'Tis this last species of reasoning I proceed to examine.\n\nProbability or reasoning from conjecture may be divided into two kinds,\nviz. that which is founded on _chance_, and that which arises from\n_causes_. We shall consider each of these in order.\n\nThe idea of cause and effect is derived from experience, which,\npresenting us with certain objects constantly conjoined with each\nother, produces such a habit of surveying them in that relation, that\nwe cannot, without a sensible violence, survey them in any other. On\nthe other hand, as chance is nothing real in itself, and, properly\nspeaking, is merely the negation of a cause, its influence on the mind\nis contrary to that of causation; and 'tis essential to it to leave the\nimagination perfectly indifferent, either to consider the existence or\nnon-existence of that object which is regarded as contingent. A cause\ntraces the way to our thought, and in a manner forces us to survey such\ncertain objects in such certain relations. Chance can only destroy\nthis determination of the thought, and leave the mind in its native\nsituation of indifference; in which, upon the absence of a cause, 'tis\ninstantly reinstated.\n\nSince, therefore, an entire indifference is essential to chance, no\none chance can possibly be superior to another, otherwise than as it\nis composed of a superior number of equal chances. For if we affirm\nthat one chance can, after any other manner, be superior to another,\nwe must at the same time affirm, that there is something which gives\nit the superiority, and determines the event rather to that side than\nthe other; that is, in other words, we must allow of a cause, and\ndestroy the supposition of chance, which we had before established. A\nperfect and total indifference is essential to chance, and one total\nindifference can never in itself be either superior or inferior to\nanother. This truth is not peculiar to my system, but is acknowledged\nby every one that forms calculations concerning chances.\n\nAnd here 'tis remarkable, that though chance and causation be directly\ncontrary, yet 'tis impossible for us to conceive this combination of\nchances, which is requisite to render one hazard superior to another,\nwithout supposing a mixture of causes among the chances, and a\nconjunction of necessity in some particulars, with a total indifference\nin others. Where nothing limits the chances, every notion that the\nmost extravagant fancy can form is upon a footing of equality; nor can\nthere be any circumstance to give one the advantage above another.\nThus, unless we allow that there are some causes to make the dice fall,\nand preserve their form in their fall, and lie upon some one of their\nsides, we can form no calculation concerning the laws of hazard. But\nsupposing these causes to operate, and supposing likewise all the rest\nto be indifferent and to be determined by chance, 'tis easy to arrive\nat a notion of a superior combination of chances. A dye that has four\nsides marked with a certain number of spots, and only two with another,\naffords us an obvious and easy instance of this superiority. The mind\nis here limited by the causes to such a precise number and quality of\nthe events; and, at the same time, is undetermined in its choice of any\nparticular event.\n\nProceeding, then, in that reasoning, wherein we have advanced three\nsteps; _that_ chance is merely the negation of a cause, and produces a\ntotal indifference in the mind; _that_ one negation of a cause and one\ntotal indifference can never be superior or inferior to another; and\n_that_ there must always be a mixture of causes among the chances, in\norder to be the foundation of any reasoning. We are next to consider\nwhat effect a superior combination of chances can have upon the mind,\nand after what manner it influences our judgment and opinion. Here\nwe may repeat all the same arguments we employed in examining that\nbelief which arises from causes; and may prove, after the same manner,\nthat a superior number of chances produces our assent neither by\n_demonstration_ nor _probability_. 'Tis indeed evident, that we can\nnever, by the comparison of mere ideas, make any discovery which can\nbe of consequence in this affair, and that 'tis impossible to prove\nwith certainty that any event must fall on that side were there is a\nsuperior number of chances. To suppose in this case any certainty, were\nto overthrow what we have established concerning the opposition of\nchances, and their perfect equality and indifference.\n\nShould it be said, that though in an opposition of chances, 'tis\nimpossible to determine with _certainty_ on which side the event will\nfall, yet we can pronounce with certainty, that 'tis more likely and\nprobable 'twill be on that side where there is a superior number of\nchances, than where there is an inferior: should this be said, I\nwould ask, what is here meant by _likelihood and probability_? The\nlikelihood and probability of chances is a superior number of equal\nchances; and consequently, when we say 'tis likely the event will fall\non the side which is superior, rather than on the inferior, we do no\nmore than affirm, that where there is a superior number of chances\nthere is actually a superior, and where there is an inferior there is\nan inferior, which are identical propositions, and of no consequence.\nThe question is, by what means a superior number of equal chances\noperates upon the mind, and produces belief or assent, since it appears\nthat 'tis neither by arguments derived from demonstration, nor from\nprobability.\n\nIn order to clear up this difficulty, we shall suppose a person to take\na dye, formed after such a manner as that four of its sides are marked\nwith one figure, or one number of spots, and two with another; and to\nput this dye into the box with an intention of throwing it: 'tis plain,\nhe must conclude the one figure to be more probable than the other,\nand give the preference to that which is inscribed on the greatest\nnumber of sides. He in a manner believes that this will lie uppermost;\nthough still with hesitation and doubt, in proportion to the number of\nchances which are contrary: and according as these contrary chances\ndiminish, and the superiority increases on the other side, his belief\nacquires new degrees of stability and assurance. This belief arises\nfrom an operation of the mind upon the simple and limited object before\nus; and therefore its nature will be the more easily discovered and\nexplained. We have nothing but one single dye to contemplate, in order\nto comprehend one of the most curious operations of the understanding.\n\nThis dye formed as above, contains three circumstances worthy of our\nattention. First, certain causes, such as gravity, solidity, a cubical\nfigure, &c. which determine it to fall, to preserve its form in its\nfall, and to turn up one of its sides. Secondly, a certain number\nof sides, which are supposed indifferent. Thirdly, a certain figure\ninscribed on each side. These three particulars, form the whole nature\nof the dye, so far as relates to our present purpose; and consequently\nare the only circumstances regarded by the mind in its forming a\njudgment concerning the result of such a throw. Let us therefore\nconsider gradually and carefully what must be the influence of these\ncircumstances on the thought and imagination.\n\nFirst, we have already observed, that the mind is determined by custom\nto pass from any cause to its effect, and that upon the appearance\nof the one, 'tis almost impossible for it not to form an idea of the\nother. Their constant conjunction in past instances has produced such\na habit in the mind, that it always conjoins them in its thought, and\ninfers the existence of the one from that of its usual attendant. When\nit considers the dye as no longer supported by the box, it cannot\nwithout violence regard it as suspended in the air; but naturally\nplaces it on the table, and views it as turning up one of its sides.\nThis is the effect of the intermingled causes, which are requisite to\nour forming any calculation concerning chances.\n\nSecondly, 'tis supposed, that though the dye be necessarily determined\nto fall, and turn up one of its sides, yet there is nothing to fix the\nparticular side, but that this is determined entirely by chance. The\nvery nature and essence of chance is a negation of causes, and the\nleaving the mind in a perfect indifference among those events which\nare supposed contingent. When, therefore, the thought is determined\nby the causes to consider the dye as falling and turning up one of\nits sides, the chances present all these sides as equal, and make us\nconsider every one of them, one after another, as alike probable and\npossible. The imagination passes from the cause, viz. the throwing of\nthe dye, to the effect, viz. the turning up one of the six sides; and\nfeels a kind of impossibility both of stopping short in the way, and of\nforming any other idea. But as all these six sides are incompatible,\nand the dye cannot turn up above one at once, this principle directs us\nnot to consider all of them at once as lying uppermost, which we look\nupon as impossible: neither does it direct us with its entire force to\nany particular side; for in that case this side would be considered\nas certain and inevitable; but it directs us to the whole six sides\nafter such a manner as to divide its force equally among them. We\nconclude in general, that some one of them must result from the throw:\nwe run all of them over in our minds: the determination of the thought\nis common to all; but no more of its force falls to the share of any\none, than what is suitable to its proportion with the rest. 'Tis after\nthis manner the original impulse, and consequently the vivacity of\nthought arising from the causes, is divided and split in pieces by the\nintermingled chances.\n\nWe have already seen the influence of the two first qualities of the\ndye, viz. the _causes_, and the _number_, and _indifference_ of the\nsides, and have learned how they give an impulse to the thought, and\ndivide that impulse into as many parts as there are units in the number\nof sides. We must now consider the effects of the third particular,\nviz. the _figures_ inscribed on each side. 'Tis evident, that where\nseveral sides have the same figure inscribed on them, they must concur\nin their influence on the mind, and must unite upon one image or idea\nof a figure all those divided impulses, that were dispersed over the\nseveral sides, upon which that figure is inscribed. Were the question\nonly what side will be turned up, these are all perfectly equal, and no\none could ever have any advantage above another. But as the question\nis concerning the figure, and as the same figure is presented by more\nthan one side, 'tis evident that the impulses belonging to all these\nsides must re-unite in that one figure, and become stronger and more\nforcible by the union. Four sides are supposed in the present case\nto have the same figure inscribed on them, and two to have another\nfigure. The impulses of the former are therefore superior to those of\nthe latter. But as the events are contrary, and 'tis impossible both\nthese figures can be turned up; the impulses likewise become contrary,\nand the inferior destroys the superior, as far as its strength goes.\nThe vivacity of the idea is always proportionable to the degrees of the\nimpulse or tendency to the transition; and belief is the same with the\nvivacity of the idea, according to the precedent doctrine.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XII.\n\nOF THE PROBABILITY OF CAUSES.\n\n\nWhat I have said concerning the probability of chances, can serve to\nno other purpose than to assist us in explaining the probability of\ncauses; since 'tis commonly allowed by philosophers, that what the\nvulgar call chance is nothing but a secret and concealed cause. That\nspecies of probability, therefore, is what we must chiefly examine.\n\nThe probabilities of causes are of several kinds; but are all derived\nfrom the same origin, viz. _the association of ideas to a present\nimpression_. As the habit which produces the association, arises from\nthe frequent conjunction of objects, it must arrive at its perfection\nby degrees, and must acquire new force from each instance that falls\nunder our observation. The first instance has little or no force:\nthe second makes some addition to it: the third becomes still more\nsensible; and 'tis by these slow steps that our judgment arrives at\na full assurance. But before it attains this pitch of perfection, it\npasses through several inferior degrees, and in all of them is only to\nbe esteemed a presumption or probability. The gradation therefore from\nprobabilities to proofs is in many cases insensible; and the difference\nbetwixt these kinds of evidence is more easily perceived in the remote\ndegrees, than in the near and contiguous.\n\n'Tis worthy of remark on this occasion, that though the species of\nprobability here explained be the first in order, and naturally takes\nplace before any entire proof can exist, yet no one, who is arrived\nat the age of maturity, can any longer be acquainted with it. 'Tis\ntrue, nothing is more common than for people of the most advanced\nknowledge to have attained only an imperfect experience of many\nparticular events; which naturally produces only an imperfect habit\nand transition: but then we must consider, that the mind, having\nformed another observation concerning the connexion of causes and\neffects, gives new force to its reasoning from that observation; and\nby means of it can build an argument on one single experiment, when\nduly prepared and examined. What we have found once to follow from any\nobject, we conclude will for ever follow from it; and if this maxim be\nnot always built upon as certain, 'tis not for want of a sufficient\nnumber of experiments, but because we frequently meet with instances\nto the contrary; which leads us to the second species of probability,\nwhere there is a _contrariety_ in our experience and observation.\n\n'Twould be very happy for men in the conduct of their lives and\nactions, were the same objects always conjoined together, and we\nhad nothing to fear but the mistakes of our own judgment, without\nhaving any reason to apprehend the uncertainty of nature. But as 'tis\nfrequently found, that one observation is contrary to another, and that\ncauses and effects follow not in the same order, of which we have had\nexperience, we are obliged to vary our reasoning on account of this\nuncertainty, and take into consideration the contrariety of events. The\nfirst question that occurs on this head, is concerning the nature and\ncauses of the contrariety.\n\nThe vulgar, who take things according to their first appearance,\nattribute the uncertainty of events to such an uncertainty in the\ncauses, as makes them often fail of their usual influence, though\nthey meet with no obstacle nor impediment in their operation. But\nphilosophers observing, that almost in every part of nature there is\ncontained a vast variety of springs and principles, which are hid,\nby reason of their minuteness or remoteness, find that 'tis at least\npossible the contrariety of events may not proceed from any contingency\nin the cause, but from the secret operation of contrary causes. This\npossibility is converted into certainty by farther observation, when\nthey remark, that upon an exact scrutiny, a contrariety of effects\nalways betrays a contrariety of causes, and proceeds from their mutual\nhinderance and opposition. A peasant can give no better reason for\nthe stopping of any clock or watch than to say, that commonly it\ndoes not go right: but an artisan easily perceives, that the same\nforce in the spring or pendulum has always the same influence on the\nwheels; but fails of its usual effect, perhaps by reason of a grain of\ndust, which puts a stop to the whole movement. From the observation\nof several parallel instances, philosophers form a maxim, that the\nconnexion betwixt all causes and effects is equally necessary, and that\nits seeming uncertainty in some instances proceeds from the secret\nopposition of contrary causes.\n\nBut however philosophers and the vulgar may differ in their explication\nof the contrariety of events, their inferences from it are always of\nthe same kind, and founded on the same principles. A contrariety of\nevents in the past may give us a kind of hesitating belief for the\nfuture, after two several ways. First, by producing an imperfect habit\nand transition from the present impression to the related idea. When\nthe conjunction of any two objects is frequent, without being entirely\nconstant, the mind is determined to pass from one object to the other;\nbut not with so entire a habit, as when the union is uninterrupted, and\nall the instances we have ever met with are uniform and of a piece.\nWe find from common experience, in our actions as well as reasonings,\nthat a constant perseverance in any course of life produces a strong\ninclination and tendency to continue for the future; though there\nare habits of inferior degrees of force, proportioned to the inferior\ndegrees of steadiness and uniformity in our conduct.\n\nThere is no doubt but this principle sometimes takes place, and\nproduces those inferences we draw from contrary phenomena; though I\nam persuaded that, upon examination, we shall not find it to be the\nprinciple that most commonly influences the mind in this species of\nreasoning. When we follow only the habitual determination of the mind,\nwe make the transition without any reflection, and interpose not a\nmoment's delay betwixt the view of one object, and the belief of that\nwhich is often found to attend it. As the custom depends not upon any\ndeliberation, it operates immediately, without allowing any time for\nreflection. But this method of proceeding we have but few instances of\nin our probable reasonings; and even fewer than in those, which are\nderived from the uninterrupted conjunction of objects. In the former\nspecies of reasoning we commonly take knowingly into consideration\nthe contrariety of past events; we compare the different sides of the\ncontrariety, and carefully weigh the experiments, which we have on each\nside: whence we may conclude, that our reasonings of this kind arise\nnot _directly_ from the habit, but in an _oblique_ manner; which we\nmust now endeavour to explain.\n\n'Tis evident, that when an object is attended with contrary effects,\nwe judge of them only by our past experience, and always consider\nthose as possible, which we have observed to follow from it. And as\npast experience regulates our judgment concerning the possibility of\nthese effects, so it does that concerning their probability; and that\neffect, which has been the most common, we always esteem the most\nlikely. Here then are two things to be considered, viz. the _reasons_\nwhich determine us to make the past a standard for the future, and the\n_manner_ how we extract a single judgment from a contrariety of past\nevents.\n\nFirst we may observe, that the supposition, _that the future resembles\nthe past_, is not founded on arguments of any kind, but is derived\nentirely from habit, by which we are determined to expect for the\nfuture the same train of objects to which we have been accustomed. This\nhabit or determination to transfer the past to the future is full and\nperfect; and consequently the first impulse of the imagination in this\nspecies of reasoning is endowed with the same qualities.\n\nBut, _secondly_, when in considering past experiments we find them\nof a contrary nature, this determination, though full and perfect in\nitself, presents us with no steady object, but offers us a number of\ndisagreeing images in a certain order and proportion. The first impulse\ntherefore is here broke into pieces, and diffuses itself over all\nthose images, of which each partakes an equal share of that force and\nvivacity that is derived from the impulse. Any of these past events\nmay again happen; and we judge, that when they do happen, they will be\nmixed in the same proportion as in the past.\n\nIf our intention, therefore, be to consider the proportions of contrary\nevents in a great number of instances, the images presented by our past\nexperience must remain in their _first form_, and preserve their first\nproportions. Suppose, for instance, I have found, by long observation,\nthat of twenty ships which go to sea, only nineteen return. Suppose I\nsee at present twenty ships that leave the port: I transfer my past\nexperience to the future, and represent to myself nineteen of these\nships as returning in safety, and one as perishing. Concerning this\nthere can be no difficulty. But as we frequently run over those several\nideas of past events, in order to form a judgment concerning one\nsingle event, which appears uncertain; this consideration must change\nthe _first form_ of our ideas, and draw together the divided images\npresented by experience; since 'tis to _it_ we refer the determination\nof that particular event, upon which we reason. Many of these images\nare supposed to concur, and a superior number to concur on one side.\nThese agreeing images unite together, and render the idea more strong\nand lively, not only than a mere fiction of the imagination, but also\nthan any idea, which is supported by a lesser number of experiments.\nEach new experiment is as a new stroke of the pencil, which bestows\nan additional vivacity on the colours, without either multiplying or\nenlarging the figure. This operation of the mind has been so fully\nexplained in treating of the probability of chance, that I need not\nhere endeavour to render it more intelligible. Every past experiment\nmay be considered as a kind of chance; it being uncertain to us,\nwhether the object will exist conformable to one experiment or another:\nand for this reason every thing that has been said on the one subject\nis applicable to both.\n\nThus, upon the whole, contrary experiments produce an imperfect belief,\neither by weakening the habit, or by dividing and afterwards joining\nin different parts, that _perfect_ habit, which makes us conclude\nin general, that instances, of which we have no experience, must\nnecessarily resemble those of which we have.\n\nTo justify still farther this account of the second species of\nprobability, where we reason with knowledge and reflection from\na contrariety of past experiments, I shall propose the following\nconsiderations, without fearing to give offence by that air of\nsubtilty, which attends them. Just reasoning ought still, perhaps,\nto retain its force, however subtile; in the same manner as matter\npreserves its solidity in the air, and fire, and animal spirits, as\nwell as in the grosser and more sensible forms.\n\nFirst, we may observe, that there is no probability so great as not\nto allow of a contrary possibility; because otherwise 'twould cease\nto be a probability, and would become a certainty. That probability\nof causes, which is most extensive, and which we at present examine,\ndepends on a contrariety of experiments; and 'tis evident an experiment\nin the past proves at least a possibility for the future.\n\nSecondly, the component parts of this possibility and probability are\nof the same nature, and differ in number only, but not in kind. It has\nbeen observed, that all single chances are entirely equal, and that\nthe only circumstance, which can give any event that is contingent a\nsuperiority over another, is a superior number of chances. In like\nmanner, as the uncertainty of causes is discovered by experience, which\npresents us with a view of contrary events, 'tis plain that, when we\ntransfer the past to the future, the known to the unknown, every past\nexperiment has the same weight, and that 'tis only a superior number\nof them, which can throw the balance on any side. The possibility,\ntherefore, which enters into every reasoning of this kind, is composed\nof parts, which are of the same nature both among themselves, and with\nthose that compose the opposite probability.\n\nThirdly, we may establish it as a certain maxim, that in all moral\nas well as natural phenomena, wherever any cause consists of a\nnumber of parts, and the effect increases or diminishes, according\nto the variation of that number, the effect, properly speaking, is\na compounded one, and arises from the union of the several effects,\nthat proceed from each part of the cause. Thus, because the gravity\nof a body increases or diminishes by the increase or diminution of\nits parts, we conclude that each part contains this quality, and\ncontributes to the gravity of the whole. The absence or presence of a\npart of the cause is attended with that of a proportionable part of the\neffect. This connexion or constant conjunction sufficiently proves the\none part to be the cause of the other. As the belief, which we have of\nany event, increases or diminishes according to the number of chances\nor past experiments, 'tis to be considered as a compounded effect,\nof which each part arises from a proportionable number of chances or\nexperiments.\n\nLet us now join these three observations, and see what conclusion\nwe can draw from them. To every probability there is an opposite\npossibility. This possibility is composed of parts that are entirely of\nthe same nature with those of the probability; and consequently have\nthe same influence on the mind and understanding. The belief which\nattends the probability, is a compounded effect, and is formed by the\nconcurrence of the several effects, which proceed from each part of the\nprobability. Since, therefore, each part of the probability contributes\nto the production of the belief, each part of the possibility must have\nthe same influence on the opposite side; the nature of these parts\nbeing entirely the same. The contrary belief attending the possibility,\nimplies a view of a certain object, as well as the probability does\nan opposite view. In this particular, both these degrees of belief are\nalike. The only manner then, in which the superior number of similar\ncomponent parts in the one can exert its influence, and prevail above\nthe inferior in the other, is by producing a stronger and more lively\nview of its object. Each part presents a particular view; and all these\nviews uniting together produce one general view, which is fuller and\nmore distinct by the greater number of causes or principles from which\nit is derived.\n\nThe component parts of the probability and possibility being alike in\ntheir nature, must produce like effects; and the likeness of their\neffects consists in this, that each of them presents a view of a\nparticular object. But though these parts be alike in their nature,\nthey are very different in their quantity and number; and this\ndifference must appear in the effect as well as the similarity. Now, as\nthe view they present is in both cases full and entire, and comprehends\nthe object in all its parts, 'tis impossible that, in this particular,\nthere can be any difference; nor is there any thing but a superior\nvivacity in the probability, arising from the concurrence of a superior\nnumber of views, which can distinguish these effects.\n\nHere is almost the same argument in a different light. All our\nreasonings concerning the probability of causes are founded on the\ntransferring of past to future. The transferring of any past experiment\nto the future is sufficient to give us a view of the object; whether\nthat experiment be single or combined with others of the same kind;\nwhether it be entire, or opposed by others of a contrary kind. Suppose\nthen it acquires both these qualities of combination and opposition,\nit loses not, upon that account, its former power of presenting a view\nof the object, but only concurs with and opposes other experiments that\nhave a like influence. A question, therefore, may arise concerning the\nmanner both of the concurrence and opposition. As to the _concurrence_\nthere is only the choice left betwixt these two hypotheses. _First_,\nthat the view of the object, occasioned by the transference of each\npast experiment, preserves itself entire, and only multiplies the\nnumber of views. Or, _secondly_, that it runs into the other similar\nand correspondent views, and gives them a superior degree of force and\nvivacity. But that the first hypothesis is erroneous, is evident from\nexperience, which informs us, that the belief attending any reasoning\nconsists in one conclusion, not in a multitude of similar ones, which\nwould only distract the mind, and, in many cases, would be too numerous\nto be comprehended distinctly by any finite capacity. It remains,\ntherefore, as the only reasonable opinion, that these similar views run\ninto each other and unite their forces; so as to produce a stronger and\nclearer view than what arises from any one alone. This is the manner in\nwhich past experiments concur when they are transferred to any future\nevent. As to the manner of their _opposition_,'tis evident that, as the\ncontrary views are incompatible with each other, and 'tis impossible\nthe object can at once exist conformable to both of them, their\ninfluence becomes mutually destructive, and the mind is determined to\nthe superior only with that force which remains after subtracting the\ninferior.\n\nI am sensible how abstruse all this reasoning must appear to the\ngenerality of readers, who, not being accustomed to such profound\nreflections on the intellectual faculties of the mind, will be apt\nto reject as chimerical whatever strikes not in with the common\nreceived notions, and with the easiest and most obvious principles of\nphilosophy. And, no doubt, there are some pains required to enter into\nthese arguments; though perhaps very little are necessary to perceive\nthe imperfection of every vulgar hypothesis on this subject, and the\nlittle light, which philosophy can yet afford us in such sublime and\nsuch curious speculations. Let men be once fully persuaded of these\ntwo principles, _that there is nothing in any object, considered in\nitself, which can afford us a reason for drawing a conclusion beyond\nit_; and, _that even after the observation of the frequent or constant\nconjunction of objects, we have no reason to draw any inference\nconcerning any object beyond those of which we have had experience_;\nI say, let men be once fully convinced of these two principles, and\nthis will throw them so loose from all common systems, that they\nwill make no difficulty of receiving any, which may appear the most\nextraordinary. These principles we have found to be sufficiently\nconvincing, even with regard to our most certain reasonings from\ncausation: but I shall venture to affirm, that with regard to these\nconjectural or probable reasonings they still acquire a new degree of\nevidence.\n\n_First_,'tis obvious that, in reasonings of this kind, 'tis not the\nobject presented to us, which, considered in itself, affords us any\nreason to draw a conclusion concerning any other object or event. For\nas this latter object is supposed uncertain, and as the uncertainty is\nderived from a concealed contrariety of causes in the former, were any\nof the causes placed in the known qualities of that object, they would\nno longer be concealed, nor would our conclusion be uncertain.\n\nBut, _secondly_,'tis equally obvious in this species of reasoning, that\nif the transference of the past to the future were founded merely on\na conclusion of the understanding, it could never occasion any belief\nor assurance. When we transfer contrary experiments to the future,\nwe can only repeat these contrary experiments with their particular\nproportions; which could not produce assurance in any single event upon\nwhich we reason, unless the fancy melted together all those images\nthat concur, and extracted from them one single idea or image, which\nis intense and lively in proportion to the number of experiments from\nwhich it is derived, and their superiority above their antagonists.\nOur past experience presents no determinate object; and as our belief,\nhowever faint, fixes itself on a determinate object, 'tis evident that\nthe belief arises not merely from the transference of past to future,\nbut from some operation of the _fancy_ conjoined with it. This may lead\nus to conceive the manner in which that faculty enters into all our\nreasonings.\n\nI shall conclude this subject with two reflections which may deserve\nour attention. The _first_ may be explained after this manner: When\nthe mind forms a reasoning concerning any matter of fact, which is\nonly probable, it casts its eye backward upon past experience, and,\ntransferring it to the future, is presented with so many contrary\nviews of its object, of which those that are of the same kind uniting\ntogether and running into one act of the mind, serve to fortify and\nenliven it. But suppose that this multitude of views or glimpses of an\nobject proceeds not from experience, but from a voluntary act of the\nimagination; this effect does not follow, or, at least, follows not in\nthe same degree. For though custom and education produce belief by\nsuch a repetition as is not derived from experience, yet this requires\na long tract of time, along with a very frequent and _undesigned_\nrepetition. In general we may pronounce, that a person, who would\n_voluntarily_ repeat any idea in his mind, though supported by one\npast experience, would be no more inclined to believe the existence of\nits object, than if he had contented himself with one survey of it.\nBeside the effect of design, each act of the mind, being separate and\nindependent, has a separate influence, and joins not its force with\nthat of its fellows. Not being united by any common object producing\nthem, they have no relation to each other; and consequently make no\ntransition or union of forces. This phenomenon we shall understand\nbetter afterwards.\n\nMy _second_ reflection is founded on those large probabilities which\nthe mind can judge of, and the minute differences it can observe\nbetwixt them. When the chances or experiments on one side amount to ten\nthousand, and on the other to ten thousand and one, the judgment gives\nthe preference to the latter upon account of that superiority; though\n'tis plainly impossible for the mind to run over every particular view,\nand distinguish the superior vivacity of the image arising from the\nsuperior number, where the difference is so inconsiderable. We have a\nparallel instance in the affections. 'Tis evident, according to the\nprinciples above mentioned, that when an object produces any passion in\nus, which varies according to the different quantity of the object; I\nsay, 'tis evident, that the passion, properly speaking, is not a simple\nemotion, but a compounded one, of a great number of weaker passions,\nderived from a view of each part of the object; for otherwise 'twere\nimpossible the passion should increase by the increase of these parts.\nThus, a man who desires a thousand pounds has, in reality, a thousand\nor more desires which, uniting together, seem to make only one passion;\nthough the composition evidently betrays itself upon every alteration\nof the object, by the preference he gives to the larger number, if\nsuperior only by an unit. Yet nothing can be more certain, than that\nso small a difference would not be discernible in the passions, nor\ncould render them distinguishable from each other. The difference,\ntherefore, of our conduct in preferring the greater number depends not\nupon our passions, but upon custom and _general rules_. We have found\nin a multitude of instances that the augmenting the numbers of any sum\naugments the passion, where the numbers are precise and the difference\nsensible. The mind can perceive, from its immediate feeling, that three\nguineas produce a greater passion than two; and _this_ it transfers\nto larger numbers, because of the resemblance; and by a general rule\nassigns to a thousand guineas a stronger passion than to nine hundred\nand ninety-nine. These general rules we shall explain presently.\n\nBut beside these two species of probability, which are derived\nfrom an _imperfect_ experience and from _contrary_ causes, there\nis a third arising from _analogy_, which differs from them in some\nmaterial circumstances. According to the hypothesis above explained,\nall kinds of reasoning from causes or effects are founded on two\nparticulars, viz. the constant conjunction of any two objects in all\npast experience, and the resemblance of a present object to any one\nof them. The effect of these two particulars is, that the present\nobject invigorates and enlivens the imagination; and the resemblance,\nalong with the constant union, conveys this force and vivacity to\nthe related idea; which we are therefore said to believe or assent\nto. If you weaken either the union or resemblance, you weaken the\nprinciple of transition, and of consequence that belief which arises\nfrom it. The vivacity of the first impression cannot be fully conveyed\nto the related idea, either where the conjunction of their objects\nis not constant, or where the present impression does not perfectly\nresemble any of those whose union we are accustomed to observe. In\nthose probabilities of chance and causes above explained, 'tis the\nconstancy of the union which is diminished; and in the probability\nderived from analogy, 'tis the resemblance only which is affected.\nWithout some degree of resemblance, as well as union, 'tis impossible\nthere can be any reasoning. But as this resemblance admits of many\ndifferent degrees, the reasoning becomes proportionably more or less\nfirm and certain. An experiment loses of its force, when transferred to\ninstances which are not exactly resembling; though 'tis evident it may\nstill retain as much as may be the foundation of probability, as long\nas there is any resemblance remaining.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XIII.\n\nOF UNPHILOSOPHICAL PROBABILITY.\n\n\nAll these kinds of probability are received by philosophers, and\nallowed to be reasonable foundations of belief and opinion. But there\nare others that are derived from the same principles, though they\nhave not had the good fortune to obtain the same sanction. The _first_\nprobability of this kind may be accounted for thus. The diminution of\nthe union and of the resemblance, as above explained, diminishes the\nfacility of the transition, and by that means weakens the evidence;\nand we may farther observe, that the same diminution of the evidence\nwill follow from a diminution of the impression, and from the shading\nof those colours under which it appears to the memory or senses. The\nargument which we found on any matter of fact we remember is more\nor less convincing, according as the fact is recent or remote; and\nthough the difference in these degrees of evidence be not received by\nphilosophy as solid and legitimate; because in that case an argument\nmust have a different force to-day from what it shall have a month\nhence; yet, notwithstanding the opposition of philosophy, 'tis certain\nthis circumstance has a considerable influence on the understanding,\nand secretly changes the authority of the same argument, according to\nthe different times in which it is proposed to us. A greater force and\nvivacity in the impression naturally conveys a greater to the related\nidea; and 'tis on the degrees of force and vivacity that the belief\ndepends, according to the foregoing system.\n\nThere is a _second_ difference which we may frequently observe in our\ndegrees of belief and assurance, and which never fails to take place,\nthough disclaimed by philosophers. An experiment that is recent and\nfresh in the memory, affects us more than one that is in some measure\nobliterated; and has a superior influence on the judgment as well as\non the passions. A lively impression produces more assurance than a\nfaint one, because it has more original force to communicate to the\nrelated idea, which thereby acquires a greater force and vivacity. A\nrecent observation has a like effect; because the custom and transition\nis there more entire, and preserves better the original force in the\ncommunication. Thus a drunkard, who has seen his companion die of a\ndebauch, is struck with that instance for some time, and dreads a like\naccident for himself; but as the memory of it decays away by degrees,\nhis former security returns, and the danger seems less certain and real.\n\nI add, as a _third_ instance of this kind, that though our reasonings\nfrom proofs and from probabilities be considerably different from each\nother, yet the former species of reasoning often degenerates insensibly\ninto the latter, by nothing but the multitude of connected arguments.\n'Tis certain, that when an inference is drawn immediately from an\nobject, without any intermediate cause or effect, the conviction\nis much stronger, and the persuasion more lively, than when the\nimagination is carried through a long chain of connected arguments,\nhowever infallible the connexion of each link may be esteemed. 'Tis\nfrom the original impression that the vivacity of all the ideas is\nderived, by means of the customary transition of the imagination; and\n'tis evident this vivacity must gradually decay in proportion to the\ndistance, and must lose somewhat in each transition. Sometimes this\ndistance has a greater influence than even contrary experiments would\nhave; and a man may receive a more lively conviction from a probable\nreasoning which is close and immediate, than from a long chain of\nconsequences, though just and conclusive in each part. Nay, 'tis seldom\nsuch reasonings produce any conviction; and one must have a very\nstrong and firm imagination to preserve the evidence to the end, where\nit passes through so many stages.\n\nBut here it may not be amiss to remark a very curious phenomenon which\nthe present subject suggests to us. 'Tis evident there is no point of\nancient history, of which we can have any assurance, but by passing\nthrough many millions of causes and effects, and through a chain of\narguments of almost an immeasurable length. Before the knowledge of the\nfact could come to the first historian, it must be conveyed through\nmany mouths; and after it is committed to writing, each new copy is a\nnew object, of which the connexion with the foregoing is known only by\nexperience and observation. Perhaps therefore it may be concluded, from\nthe precedent reasoning, that the evidence of all ancient history must\nnow be lost, or at least will be lost in time, as the chain of causes\nincreases, and runs on to a greater length. But as it seems contrary\nto common sense to think, that if the republic of letters and the art\nof printing continue on the same footing as at present, our posterity,\neven after a thousand ages, can ever doubt if there has been such a man\nas Julius C\u00e6sar; this may be considered as an objection to the present\nsystem. If belief consisted only in a certain vivacity, conveyed from\nan original impression, it would decay by the length of the transition,\nand must at last be utterly extinguished. And, _vice versa_, if belief,\non some occasions, be not capable of such an extinction, it must be\nsomething different from that vivacity.\n\nBefore I answer this objection I shall observe, that from this topic\nthere has been borrowed a very celebrated argument against the\n_Christian Religion_; but with this difference, that the connexion\nbetwixt each link of the chain in human testimony has been there\nsupposed not to go beyond probability, and to be liable to a degree of\ndoubt and uncertainty. And indeed it must be confessed, that in this\nmanner of considering the subject (which, however, is not a true one),\nthere is no history or tradition but what must in the end lose all\nits force and evidence. Every new probability diminishes the original\nconviction; and, however great that conviction may be supposed, 'tis\nimpossible it can subsist under such reiterated diminutions. This is\ntrue in general, though we shall find afterwards,[9] that there is one\nvery memorable exception, which is of vast consequence in the present\nsubject of the understanding.\n\nMeanwhile, to give a solution of the preceding objection upon the\nsupposition that historical evidence amounts at first to an entire\nproof, let us consider, that, though the links are innumerable that\nconnect any original fact with the present impression, which is the\nfoundation of belief, yet they are all of the same kind, and depend\non the fidelity of printers and copyists. One edition passes into\nanother, and that into a third, and so on, till we come to that volume\nwe peruse at present. There is no variation in the steps. After we know\none, we know all of them; and after we have made one, we can have no\nscruple as to the rest. This circumstance alone preserves the evidence\nof history, and will perpetuate the memory of the present age to the\nlatest posterity. If all the long chain of causes and effects, which\nconnect any past event with any volume of history, were composed of\nparts different from each other, and which 'twere necessary for the\nmind distinctly to conceive, 'tis impossible we should preserve to the\nend any belief or evidence. But as most of these proofs are perfectly\nresembling, the mind runs easily along them, jumps from one part to\nanother with facility, and forms but a confused and general notion of\neach link. By this means, a long chain of argument has as little effect\nin diminishing the original vivacity, as a much shorter would have if\ncomposed of parts which were different from each other, and of which\neach required a distinct consideration.\n\nA fourth unphilosophical species of probability is that derived from\n_general rules_, which we rashly form to ourselves, and which are the\nsource of what we properly call _prejudice_. An Irishman cannot have\nwit, and a Frenchman cannot have solidity; for which reason, though the\nconversation of the former in any instance be visibly very agreeable,\nand of the latter very judicious, we have entertained such a prejudice\nagainst them, that they must be dunces or fops in spite of sense and\nreason. Human nature is very subject to errors of this kind, and\nperhaps this nation as much as any other.\n\nShould it be demanded why men form general rules, and allow them to\ninfluence their judgment, even contrary to present observation and\nexperience, I should reply, that in my opinion it proceeds from those\nvery principles on which all judgments concerning causes and effects\ndepend. Our judgments concerning cause and effect are derived from\nhabit and experience; and when we have been accustomed to see one\nobject united to another, our imagination passes from the first to the\nsecond by a natural transition, which precedes reflection, and which\ncannot be prevented by it. Now, 'tis the nature of custom not only\nto operate with its full force, when objects are presented that are\nexactly the same with those to which we have been accustomed, but also\nto operate in an inferior degree when we discover such as are similar;\nand though the habit loses somewhat of its force by every difference,\nyet 'tis seldom entirely destroyed where any considerable circumstances\nremain the same. A man who has contracted a custom of eating fruit by\nthe use of pears or peaches, will satisfy himself with melons where he\ncannot find his favourite fruit; as one, who has become a drunkard by\nthe use of red wines, will be carried almost with the same violence to\nwhite, if presented to him. From this principle I have accounted for\nthat species of probability, derived from analogy, where we transfer\nour experience in past instances to objects which are resembling,\nbut are not exactly the same with those concerning which we have had\nexperience. In proportion as the resemblance decays, the probability\ndiminishes, but still has some force as long as there remain any traces\nof the resemblance.\n\nThis observation we may carry farther, and may remark, that though\ncustom be the foundation of all our judgments, yet sometimes it has an\neffect on the imagination in opposition to the judgment, and produces\na contrariety in our sentiments concerning the same object. I explain\nmyself. In almost all kinds of causes there is a complication of\ncircumstances, of which some are essential, and others superfluous;\nsome are absolutely requisite to the production of the effect, and\nothers are only conjoined by accident. Now we may observe, that when\nthese superfluous circumstances are numerous and remarkable, and\nfrequently conjoined with the essential, they have such an influence\non the imagination, that even in the absence of the latter they\ncarry us on to the conception of the usual effect, and give to that\nconception a force and vivacity which make it superior to the mere\nfictions of the fancy. We may correct this propensity by a reflection\non the nature of those circumstances; but 'tis still certain, that\ncustom takes the start, and gives a bias to the imagination.\n\nTo illustrate this by a familiar instance, let us consider the case of\na man, who, being hung out from a high tower in a cage of iron, cannot\nforbear trembling when he surveys the precipice below him, though he\nknows himself to be perfectly secure from falling, by his experience\nof the solidity of the iron which supports him, and though the ideas\nof fall and descent, and harm and death, be derived solely from custom\nand experience. The same custom goes beyond the instances from which it\nis derived, and to which it perfectly corresponds; and influences his\nideas of such objects as are in some respect resembling, but fall not\nprecisely under the same rule. The circumstances of depth and descent\nstrike so strongly upon him, that their influence cannot be destroyed\nby the contrary circumstances of support and solidity, which ought to\ngive him a perfect security. His imagination runs away with its object,\nand excites a passion proportioned to it. That passion returns back\nupon the imagination, and enlivens the idea; which lively idea has a\nnew influence on the passion, and in its turn augments its force and\nviolence: and both his fancy and affections, thus mutually supporting\neach other, cause the whole to have a very great influence upon him.\n\nBut why need we seek for other instances, while the present subject\nof philosophical probabilities offers us so obvious an one, in\nthe opposition betwixt the judgment and imagination, arising from\nthese effects of custom? According to my system, all reasonings are\nnothing but the effects of custom, and custom has no influence, but\nby enlivening the imagination, and giving us a strong conception of\nany object. It may therefore be concluded, that our judgment and\nimagination can never be contrary, and that custom cannot operate on\nthe latter faculty after such a manner, as to render it opposite to\nthe former. This difficulty we can remove after no other manner, than\nby supposing the influence of general rules. We shall afterwards[10]\ntake notice of some general rules, by which we ought to regulate\nour judgment concerning causes and effects; and these rules are\nformed on the nature of our understanding, and on our experience\nof its operations in the judgments we form concerning objects. By\nthem we learn to distinguish the accidental circumstances from the\nefficacious causes; and when we find that an effect can be produced\nwithout the concurrence of any particular circumstance, we conclude\nthat that circumstance makes not a part of the efficacious cause,\nhowever frequently conjoined with it. But as this frequent conjunction\nnecessarily makes it have some effect on the imagination, in spite of\nthe opposite conclusion from general rules, the opposition of these\ntwo principles produces a contrariety in our thoughts, and causes us\nto ascribe the one inference to our judgment, and the other to our\nimagination. The general rule is attributed to our judgment, as being\nmore extensive and constant; the exception to the imagination, as being\nmore capricious and uncertain.\n\nThus, our general rules are in a manner set in opposition to each\nother. When an object appears, that resembles any cause in very\nconsiderable circumstances, the imagination naturally carries us to a\nlively conception of the usual effect, though the object be different\nin the most material and most efficacious circumstances from that\ncause. Here is the first influence of general rules. But when we\ntake a review of this act of the mind, and compare it with the more\ngeneral and authentic operations of the understanding, we find it to\nbe of an irregular nature, and destructive of all the most established\nprinciples of reasonings, which is the cause of our rejecting it. This\nis a second influence of general rules, and implies the condemnation\nof the former. Sometimes the one, sometimes the other prevails,\naccording to the disposition and character of the person. The vulgar\nare commonly guided by the first, and wise men by the second. Meanwhile\nthe sceptics may here have the pleasure of observing a new and signal\ncontradiction in our reason, and of seeing all philosophy ready to be\nsubverted by a principle of human nature, and again saved by a new\ndirection of the very same principle. The following of general rules\nis a very unphilosophical species of probability; and yet 'tis only by\nfollowing them that we can correct this, and all other unphilosophical\nprobabilities.\n\nSince we have instances where general rules operate on the imagination,\neven contrary to the judgment, we need not be surprised to see their\neffects increase, when conjoined with that latter faculty, and to\nobserve that they bestow on the ideas they present to us a force\nsuperior to what attends any other. Every one knows there is an\nindirect manner of insinuating praise or blame, which is much less\nshocking than the open flattery or censure of any person. However he\nmay communicate his sentiments by such secret insinuations, and make\nthem known with equal certainty as by the open discovery of them,\n'tis certain that their influence is not equally strong and powerful.\nOne who lashes me with concealed strokes of satire, moves not my\nindignation to such a degree, as if he flatly told me I was a fool and\na coxcomb; though I equally understand his meaning, as if he did. This\ndifference is to be attributed to the influence of general rules.\n\nWhether a person openly abuses me, or slily intimates his contempt,\nin neither case do I immediately perceive his sentiment or opinion;\nand 'tis only by signs, that is, by its effects, I become sensible of\nit. The only difference then, betwixt these two cases, consists in\nthis, that in the open discovery of his sentiments he makes use of\nsigns, which are general and universal; and in the secret intimation\nemploys such as are more singular and uncommon. The effect of this\ncircumstance is, that the imagination, in running from the present\nimpression to the absent idea, makes the transition with greater\nfacility, and consequently conceives the object with greater force,\nwhere the connexion is common and universal, than where it is more rare\nand particular. Accordingly, we may observe, that the open declaration\nof our sentiments is called the taking off the mask, as the secret\nintimation of our opinions is said to be the veiling of them. The\ndifference betwixt an idea produced by a general connexion, and that\narising from a particular one, is here compared to the difference\nbetwixt an impression and an idea. This difference in the imagination\nhas a suitable effect on the passions, and this effect is augmented by\nanother circumstance. A secret intimation of anger or contempt shows\nthat we still have some consideration for the person, and avoid the\ndirectly abusing him. This makes a concealed satire less disagreeable,\nbut still this depends on the same principle. For if an idea were not\nmore feeble, when only intimated, it would never be esteemed a mark of\ngreater respect to proceed in this method than in the other.\n\nSometimes scurrility is less displeasing than delicate satire, because\nit revenges us in a manner for the injury at the very time it is\ncommitted, by affording us a just reason to blame and contemn the\nperson who injures us. But this phenomenon likewise depends upon the\nsame principle. For why do we blame all gross and injurious language,\nunless it be, because we esteem it contrary to good breeding and\nhumanity? And why is it contrary, unless it be more shocking than any\ndelicate satire? The rules of good breeding condemn whatever is openly\ndisobliging, and gives a sensible pain and confusion to those with\nwhom we converse. After this is once established, abusive language is\nuniversally blamed, and gives less pain upon account of its coarseness\nand incivility, which render the person despicable that employs it. It\nbecomes less disagreeable, merely because originally it is more so; and\n'tis more disagreeable, because it affords an inference by general and\ncommon rules that are palpable and undeniable.\n\nTo this explication of the different influence of open and concealed\nflattery or satire, I shall add the consideration of another\nphenomenon, which is analogous to it. There are many particulars in\nthe point of honour, both of men and women, whose violations, when\nopen and avowed, the world never excuses, but which it is more apt to\noverlook, when the appearances are saved, and the transgression is\nsecret and concealed. Even those who know with equal certainty that\nthe fault is committed, pardon it more easily, when the proofs seem\nin some measure oblique and equivocal, than when they are direct and\nundeniable. The same idea is presented in both cases, and, properly\nspeaking, is equally assented to by the judgment; and yet its influence\nis different, because of the different manner in which it is presented.\n\nNow, if we compare these two cases, of the _open_ and _concealed_\nviolations of the laws of honour, we shall find, that the difference\nbetwixt them consists in this, that in the first case the sign, from\nwhich we infer the blameable action, is single, and suffices alone\nto be the foundation of our reasoning and judgment; whereas in the\nlatter the signs are numerous, and decide little or nothing when alone\nand unaccompanied with many minute circumstances, which are almost\nimperceptible. But 'tis certainly true, that any reasoning is always\nthe more convincing, the more single and united it is to the eye,\nand the less exercise it gives to the imagination to collect all its\nparts, and run from them to the correlative idea, which forms the\nconclusion. The labour of the thought disturbs the regular progress of\nthe sentiments, as we shall observe presently.[11] The idea strikes not\non us with such vivacity, and consequently has no such influence on the\npassion and imagination.\n\nFrom the same principles we may account for those observations of\nthe Cardinal de Retz, _that there are many things in which the world\nwishes to be deceived_, and _that it more easily excuses a person in\nacting than in talking contrary to the decorum of his profession and\ncharacter_. A fault in words is commonly more open and distinct than\none in actions, which admit of many palliating excuses, and decide not\nso clearly concerning the intention and views of the actor.\n\nThus it appears, upon the whole, that every kind of opinion or\njudgment which amounts not to knowledge, is derived entirely from\nthe force and vivacity of the perception, and that these qualities\nconstitute in the mind what we call the _belief_ of the existence\nof any object. This force and this vivacity are most conspicuous in\nthe memory; and therefore our confidence in the veracity of that\nfaculty is the greatest imaginable, and equals in many respects the\nassurance of a demonstration. The next degree of these qualities is\nthat derived from the relation of cause and effect; and this too is\nvery great, especially when the conjunction is found by experience\nto be perfectly constant, and when the object, which is present to\nus, exactly resembles those, of which we have had experience. But\nbelow this degree of evidence there are many others, which have an\ninfluence on the passions and imagination, proportioned to that degree\nof force and vivacity, which they communicate to the ideas. 'Tis by\nhabit we make the transition from cause to effect; and 'tis from some\npresent impression we borrow that vivacity, which we diffuse over the\ncorrelative idea. But when we have not observed a sufficient number\nof instances to produce a strong habit; or when these instances are\ncontrary to each other; or when the resemblance is not exact; or the\npresent impression is faint and obscure; or the experience in some\nmeasure obliterated from the memory; or the connexion dependent on a\nlong chain of objects; or the inference derived from general rules,\nand yet not conformable to them: in all these cases the evidence\ndiminishes by the diminution of the force and intenseness of the idea.\nThis therefore is the nature of the judgment and probability.\n\nWhat principally gives authority to this system is, beside the\nundoubted arguments, upon which each part is founded, the agreement of\nthese parts, and the necessity of one to explain another. The belief\nwhich attends our memory is of the same nature with that which is\nderived from our judgments: nor is there any difference betwixt that\njudgment which is derived from a constant and uniform connexion of\ncauses and effects, and that which depends upon an interrupted and\nuncertain. 'Tis indeed evident, that in all determinations where the\nmind decides from contrary experiments, 'tis first divided within\nitself, and has an inclination to either side in proportion to the\nnumber of experiments we have seen and remember. This contest is at\nlast determined to the advantage of that side where we observe a\nsuperior number of these experiments; but still with a diminution of\nforce in the evidence correspondent to the number of the opposite\nexperiments. Each possibility, of which the probability is composed,\noperates separately upon the imagination; and 'tis the larger\ncollection of possibilities, which at last prevails, and that with\na force proportionable to its superiority. All these phenomena lead\ndirectly to the precedent system; nor will it ever be possible upon any\nother principles to give a satisfactory and consistent explication of\nthem. Without considering these judgments as the effects of custom on\nthe imagination, we shall lose ourselves in perpetual contradiction and\nabsurdity.\n\n\n[9] Part IV. Sect. 1.\n\n[10] Sect. 15.\n\n[11] Part IV. Sect. 1.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XIV.\n\nOF THE IDEA OF NECESSARY CONNEXION.\n\n\nHaving thus explained the manner _in which we reason beyond our\nimmediate impressions, and conclude that such particular causes must\nhave such particular effects_; we must now return upon our footsteps\nto examine that question[12] which first occurred to us, and which we\ndropped in our way, viz. _What is our idea of necessity, when we say\nthat two objects are necessarily connected together_? Upon this head\nI repeat, what I have often had occasion to observe, that as we have\nno idea that is not derived from an impression, we must find some\nimpression that gives rise to this idea of necessity, if we assert\nwe have really such an idea. In order to this, I consider in what\nobjects necessity is commonly supposed to lie; and, finding that it is\nalways ascribed to causes and effects, I turn my eye to two objects\nsupposed to be placed in that relation, and examine them in all the\nsituations of which they are susceptible. I immediately perceive that\nthey are _contiguous_ in time and place, and that the object we call\ncause _precedes_ the other we call effect. In no one instance can I go\nany farther, nor is it possible for me to discover any third relation\nbetwixt these objects. I therefore enlarge my view to comprehend\nseveral instances, where I find like objects always existing in like\nrelations of contiguity and succession. At first sight this seems to\nserve but little to my purpose. The reflection on several instances\nonly repeats the same objects; and therefore can never give rise to a\nnew idea. But upon farther inquiry I find, that the repetition is not\nin every particular the same, but produces a new impression, and by\nthat means the idea which I at present examine. For after a frequent\nrepetition I find, that upon the appearance of one of the objects, the\nmind is _determined_ by custom to consider its usual attendant, and to\nconsider it in a stronger light upon account of its relation to the\nfirst object. 'Tis this impression, then, or _determination_, which\naffords me the idea of necessity.\n\nI doubt not but these consequences will at first sight be received\nwithout difficulty, as being evident deductions from principles which\nwe have already established, and which we have often employed in our\nreasonings. This evidence, both in the first principles and in the\ndeductions, may seduce us unwarily into the conclusion, and make us\nimagine it contains nothing extraordinary, nor worthy of our curiosity.\nBut though such an inadvertence may facilitate the reception of this\nreasoning, 'twill make it be the more easily forgot; for which reason\nI think it proper to give warning, that I have just now examined one\nof the most sublime questions in philosophy, viz. _that concerning the\npower and efficacy of causes_, where all the sciences seem so much\ninterested. Such a warning will naturally rouse up the attention of\nthe reader, and make him desire a more full account of my doctrine,\nas well as of the arguments on which it is founded. This request is\nso reasonable, that I cannot refuse complying with it; especially as\nI am hopeful that these principles, the more they are examined, will\nacquire the more force and evidence.\n\nThere is no question which, on account of its importance, as well as\ndifficulty, has caused more disputes both among ancient and modern\nphilosophers, than this concerning the efficacy of causes, or that\nquality which makes them be followed by their effects. But before they\nentered upon these disputes, methinks it would not have been improper\nto have examined what idea we have of that efficacy, which is the\nsubject of the controversy. This is what I find principally wanting in\ntheir reasonings, and what I shall here endeavour to supply.\n\nI begin with observing, that the terms of _efficacy, agency, power,\nforce, energy, necessity, connexion_, and _productive quality_, are\nall nearly synonymous; and therefore 'tis an absurdity to employ any\nof them in defining the rest. By this observation we reject at once\nall the vulgar definitions which philosophers have given of power and\nefficacy; and instead of searching for the idea in these definitions,\nmust look for it in the impressions from which it is originally\nderived. If it be a compound idea, it must arise from compound\nimpressions. If simple, from simple impressions.\n\nI believe the most general and most popular explication of this\nmatter, is to say,[13] that finding from experience that there are\nseveral new productions in matter, such as the motions and variations\nof body, and concluding that there must somewhere be a power capable\nof producing them, we arrive at last by this reasoning at the idea\nof power and efficacy. But to be convinced that this explication is\nmore popular than philosophical, we need but reflect on two very\nobvious principles. _First_, that reason alone can never give rise\nto any original idea; and, _secondly_, that reason, as distinguished\nfrom experience, can never make us conclude that a cause or productive\nquality is absolutely requisite to every beginning of existence. Both\nthese considerations have been sufficiently explained; and therefore\nshall not at present be any farther insisted on.\n\nI shall only infer from them, that since reason can never give rise\nto the idea of efficacy, that idea must be derived from experience,\nand from some particular instances of this efficacy, which make\ntheir passage into the mind by the common channels of sensation or\nreflection. Ideas always represent their objects or impressions;\nand _vice versa_, there are some objects necessary to give rise to\nevery idea. If we pretend, therefore, to have any just idea of this\nefficacy, we must produce some instance wherein the efficacy is\nplainly discoverable to the mind, and its operations obvious to our\nconsciousness or sensation. By the refusal of this, we acknowledge,\nthat the idea is impossible and imaginary; since the principle of\ninnate ideas, which alone can save us from this dilemma, has been\nalready refuted, and is now almost universally rejected in the learned\nworld. Our present business, then, must be to find some natural\nproduction, where the operation and efficacy of a cause can be clearly\nconceived and comprehended by the mind, without any danger of obscurity\nor mistake.\n\nIn this research, we meet with very little encouragement from\nthat prodigious diversity which is found in the opinions of those\nphilosophers who have pretended to explain the secret force and\nenergy of causes.[14] There are some who maintain, that bodies operate\nby their substantial form; others, by their accidents or qualities;\nseveral, by their matter and form; some, by their form and accidents;\nothers, by certain virtues and faculties distinct from all this.\nAll these sentiments, again, are mixed and varied in a thousand\ndifferent ways, and form a strong presumption that none of them have\nany solidity or evidence, and that the supposition of an efficacy in\nany of the known qualities of matter is entirely without foundation.\nThis presumption must increase upon us, when we consider, that these\nprinciples of substantial forms, and accidents, and faculties, are not\nin reality any of the known properties of bodies, but are perfectly\nunintelligible and inexplicable. For 'tis evident philosophers would\nnever have had recourse to such obscure and uncertain principles, had\nthey met with any satisfaction in such as are clear and intelligible;\nespecially in such an affair as this, which must be an object of the\nsimplest understanding, if not of the senses. Upon the whole, we may\nconclude, that 'tis impossible, in any one instance, to show the\nprinciple in which the force and agency of a cause is placed; and\nthat the most refined and most vulgar understandings are equally at\na loss in this particular. If any one think proper to refute this\nassertion, he need not put himself to the trouble of inventing any long\nreasonings, but may at once show us an instance of a cause, where we\ndiscover the power or operating principle. This defiance we are obliged\nfrequently to make use of, as being almost the only means of proving a\nnegative in philosophy.\n\nThe small success which has been met with in all the attempts to fix\nthis power, has at last obliged philosophers to conclude, that the\nultimate force and efficacy of nature is perfectly unknown to us,\nand that 'tis in vain we search for it in all the known qualities of\nmatter. In this opinion they are almost unanimous; and 'tis only in\nthe inference they draw from it, that they discover any difference in\ntheir sentiments. For some of them, as the Cartesians in particular,\nhaving established it as a principle, that we are perfectly acquainted\nwith the essence of matter, have very naturally inferred, that it is\nendowed with no efficacy, and that 'tis impossible for it of itself to\ncommunicate motion, or produce any of those effects, which we ascribe\nto it. As the essence of matter consists in extension, and as extension\nimplies not actual motion, but only mobility; they conclude, that the\nenergy, which produces the motion, cannot lie in the extension.\n\nThis conclusion leads them into another, which they regard as perfectly\nunavoidable. Matter, say they, is in itself entirely unactive, and\ndeprived of any power, by which it may produce, or continue, or\ncommunicate motion: but since these effects are evident to our senses,\nand since the power that produces them must be placed somewhere, it\nmust lie in the Deity, or that Divine Being who contains in his nature\nall excellency and perfection. 'Tis the Deity, therefore, who is the\nprime mover of the universe, and who not only first created matter, and\ngave it its original impulse, but likewise, by a continued exertion of\nomnipotence, supports its existence, and successively bestows on it\nall those motions, and configurations, and qualities, with which it is\nendowed.\n\nThis opinion is certainly very curious, and well worth our attention;\nbut 'twill appear superfluous to examine it in this place, if we\nreflect a moment on our present purpose in taking notice of it. We\nhave established it as a principle, that as all ideas are derived\nfrom impressions, or some precedent _perceptions_,'tis impossible we\ncan have any idea of power and efficacy, unless some instances can\nbe produced, wherein this power _is perceived_ to exert itself. Now,\nas these instances can never be discovered in body, the Cartesians,\nproceeding upon their principle of innate ideas, have had recourse\nto a Supreme Spirit or Deity, whom they consider as the only active\nbeing in the universe, and as the immediate cause of every alteration\nin matter. But the principle of innate ideas being allowed to be\nfalse, it follows, that the supposition of a Deity can serve us in no\nstead, in accounting for that idea of agency, which we search for in\nvain in all the objects which are presented to our senses, or which\nwe are internally conscious of in our own minds. For if every idea\nbe derived from an impression, the idea of a Deity proceeds from the\nsame origin; and if no impression, either of sensation or reflection,\nimplies any force or efficacy, 'tis equally impossible to discover\nor even imagine any such active principle in the Deity. Since these\nphilosophers, therefore, have concluded that matter cannot be endowed\nwith any efficacious principle, because 'tis impossible to discover\nin it such a principle, the same course of reasoning should determine\nthem to exclude it from the Supreme Being, or, if they esteem that\nopinion absurd and impious, as it really is, I shall tell them how they\nmay avoid it; and that is, by concluding from the very first, that\nthey have no adequate idea of power or efficacy in any object; since\nneither in body nor spirit, neither in superior nor inferior natures,\nare they able to discover one single instance of it.\n\nThe same conclusion is unavoidable upon the hypothesis of those, who\nmaintain the efficacy of second causes, and attribute a derivative, but\na real power and energy to matter. For as they confess that this energy\nlies not in any of the known qualities of matter, the difficulty still\nremains concerning the origin of its idea. If we have really an idea\nof power, we may attribute power to an unknown quality: but as 'tis\nimpossible that that idea can be derived from such a quality, and as\nthere is nothing in known qualities which can produce it, it follows\nthat we deceive ourselves, when we imagine we are possessed of any idea\nof this kind, after the manner we commonly understand it. All ideas are\nderived from, and represent impressions. We never have any impression\nthat contains any power or efficacy. We never, therefore, have any idea\nof power.\n\nSome have asserted, that we feel an energy or power in our own mind;\nand that, having in this manner acquired the idea of power, we transfer\nthat quality to matter, where we are not able immediately to discover\nit. The motions of our body, and the thoughts and sentiments of our\nmind (say they) obey the will; nor do we seek any farther to acquire\na just notion of force or power. But to convince us how fallacious\nthis reasoning is, we need only consider, that the will being here\nconsidered as a cause, has no more a discoverable connexion with its\neffects, than any material cause has with its proper effect. So far\nfrom perceiving the connexion betwixt an act of volition and a motion\nof the body, 'tis allowed that no effect is more inexplicable from\nthe powers and essence of thought and matter. Nor is the empire\nof the will over our mind more intelligible. The effect is there\ndistinguishable and separable from the cause, and could be foreseen\nwithout the experience of their constant conjunction. We have command\nover our mind to a certain degree, but beyond _that_ lose all empire\nover it: and 'tis evidently impossible to fix any precise bounds to\nour authority, where we consult not experience. In short, the actions\nof the mind are, in this respect, the same with those of matter. We\nperceive only their constant conjunction; nor can we ever reason beyond\nit. No internal impression has an apparent energy, more than external\nobjects have. Since, therefore, matter is confessed by philosophers to\noperate by an unknown force, we should in vain hope to attain an idea\nof force by consulting our own minds.[15]\n\nIt has been established as a certain principle, that general or\nabstract ideas are nothing but individual ones taken in a certain\nlight, and that, in reflecting on any object, 'tis as impossible to\nexclude from our thought all particular degrees of quantity and quality\nas from the real nature of things. If we be possessed, therefore, of\nany idea of power in general, we must also be able to conceive some\nparticular species of it; and as power cannot subsist alone, but is\nalways regarded as an attribute of some being or existence, we must\nbe able to place this power in some particular being, and conceive\nthat being as endowed with a real force and energy, by which such a\nparticular effect necessarily results from its operation. We must\ndistinctly and particularly conceive the connexion betwixt the cause\nand effect, and be able to pronounce, from a simple view of the one,\nthat it must be followed or preceded by the other. This is the true\nmanner of conceiving a particular power in a particular body: and a\ngeneral idea being impossible without an individual; where the latter\nis impossible, 'tis certain the former can never exist. Now nothing\nis more evident, than that the human mind cannot form such an idea of\ntwo objects, as to conceive any connexion betwixt them, or comprehend\ndistinctly that power or efficacy, by which they are united. Such a\nconnexion would amount to a demonstration, and would imply the absolute\nimpossibility for the one object not to follow, or to be conceived not\nto follow upon the other: which kind of connexion has already been\nrejected in all cases. If any one is of a contrary opinion, and thinks\nhe has attained a notion of power in any particular object, I desire he\nmay point out to me that object. But till I meet with such a one, which\nI despair of, I cannot forbear concluding, that since we can never\ndistinctly conceive how any particular power can possibly reside in any\nparticular object, we deceive ourselves in imagining we can form any\nsuch general idea.\n\nThus, upon the whole, we may infer, that when we talk of any being,\nwhether of a superior or inferior nature, as endowed with a power\nor force, proportioned to any effect; when we speak of a necessary\nconnexion betwixt objects, and suppose that this connexion depends upon\nan efficacy or energy, with which any of these objects are endowed; in\nall the expressions, _so applied_, we have really no distinct meaning,\nand make use only of common words, without any clear and determinate\nideas. But as 'tis more probable, that these expressions do here lose\ntheir true meaning by being _wrong applied_, than that they never have\nany meaning; 'twill be proper to bestow another consideration on this\nsubject, to see if possibly we can discover the nature and origin of\nthose ideas we annex to them.\n\nSuppose two objects to be presented to us, of which the one is the\ncause and the other the effect; 'tis plain that, from the simple\nconsideration of one, or both these objects, we never shall perceive\nthe tie by which they are united, or be able certainly to pronounce,\nthat there is a connexion betwixt them. 'Tis not, therefore, from any\none instance, that we arrive at the idea of cause and effect, of a\nnecessary connexion of power, of force, of energy, and of efficacy.\nDid we never see any but particular conjunctions of objects, entirely\ndifferent from each other, we should never be able to form any such\nideas.\n\nBut, again, suppose we observe several instances in which the same\nobjects are always conjoined together, we immediately conceive a\nconnexion betwixt them, and begin to draw an inference from one\nto another. This multiplicity of resembling instances, therefore,\nconstitutes the very essence of power or connexion, and is the source\nfrom which the idea of it arises. In order, then, to understand the\nidea of power, we must consider that multiplicity; nor do I ask more\nto give a solution of that difficulty, which has so long perplexed\nus. For thus I reason. The repetition of perfectly similar instances\ncan never _alone_ give rise to an original idea, different from what\nis to be found in any particular instance, as has been observed, and\nas evidently follows from our fundamental principle, _that all ideas\nare copied from impressions_. Since, therefore, the idea of power is\na new original idea, not to be found in any one instance, and which\nyet arises from the repetition of several instances, it follows, that\nthe repetition _alone_ has not that effect, but must either _discover_\nor _produce_ something new, which is the source of that idea. Did the\nrepetition neither discover nor produce any thing new, our ideas might\nbe multiplied by it, but would not be enlarged above what they are upon\nthe observation of one single instance. Every enlargement, therefore,\n(such as the idea of power or connexion) which arises from the\nmultiplicity of similar instances, is copied from some effects of the\nmultiplicity, and will be perfectly understood by understanding these\neffects. Wherever we find any thing new to be discovered or produced by\nthe repetition, there we must place the power, and must never look for\nit in any other object.\n\nBut 'tis evident, in the first place, that the repetition of like\nobjects in like relations of succession and contiguity, _discovers_\nnothing new in any one of them; since we can draw no inference from\nit, nor make it a subject either of our demonstrative or probable\nreasonings; as has been already proved.[16] Nay, suppose we could draw\nan inference, 'twould be of no consequence in the present case; since\nno kind of reasoning can give rise to a new idea, such as this of power\nis; but wherever we reason, we must antecedently be possessed of clear\nideas, which may be the objects of our reasoning. The conception always\nprecedes the understanding; and where the one is obscure, the other is\nuncertain; where the one fails, the other must fail also.\n\nSecondly, 'tis certain that this repetition of similar objects in\nsimilar situations, _produces_ nothing new either in these objects, or\nin any external body. For 'twill readily be allowed, that the several\ninstances we have of the conjunction of resembling causes and effects,\nare in themselves entirely independent, and that the communication of\nmotion, which I see result at present from the shock of two billiard\nballs, is totally distinct from that which I saw result from such an\nimpulse a twelvemonth ago. These impulses have no influence on each\nother. They are entirely divided by time and place; and the one might\nhave existed and communicated motion, though the other never had been\nin being.\n\nThere is, then, nothing new either discovered or produced in any\nobjects by their constant conjunction, and by the uninterrupted\nresemblance of their relations of succession and contiguity. But 'tis\nfrom this resemblance, that the ideas of necessity, of power, and of\nefficacy, are derived. These ideas therefore represent not any thing,\nthat does or can belong to the objects, which are constantly conjoined.\nThis is an argument, which, in every view we can examine it, will be\nfound perfectly unanswerable. Similar instances are still the first\nsource of our idea of power or necessity; at the same time that they\nhave no influence by their similarity either on each other, or on any\nexternal object. We must therefore turn ourselves to some other quarter\nto seek the origin of that idea.\n\nThough the several resembling instances, which give rise to the idea\nof power, have no influence on each other, and can never produce any\nnew quality _in the object_, which can be the model of that idea,\nyet the _observation_ of this resemblance produces a new impression\n_in the mind_, which is its real model. For after we have observed\nthe resemblance in a sufficient number of instances, we immediately\nfeel a determination of the mind to pass from one object to its usual\nattendant, and to conceive it in a stronger light upon account of that\nrelation. This determination is the only effect of the resemblance;\nand therefore must be the same with power or efficacy, whose idea is\nderived from the resemblance. The several instances of resembling\nconjunctions lead us into the notion of power and necessity. These\ninstances are in themselves totally distinct from each other, and have\nno union but in the mind, which observes them, and collects their\nideas. Necessity, then, is the effect of this observation, and as\nnothing but an internal impression of the mind, or a determination to\ncarry our thoughts from one object to another. Without considering it\nin this view, we can never arrive at the most distant notion of it,\nor be able to attribute it either to external or internal objects, to\nspirit or body, to causes or effects.\n\nThe necessary connexion betwixt causes and effects is the foundation of\nour inference from one to the other. The foundation of our inference is\nthe transition arising from the accustomed union. These are therefore\nthe same.\n\nThe idea of necessity arises from some impression. There is no\nimpression conveyed by our senses, which can give rise to that idea.\nIt must, therefore, be derived from some internal impression, or\nimpression of reflection. There is no internal impression which has any\nrelation to the present business, but that propensity, which custom\nproduces, to pass from an object to the idea of its usual attendant.\nThis, therefore, is the essence of necessity. Upon the whole, necessity\nis something that exists in the mind, not in objects; nor is it\npossible for us ever to form the most distant idea of it, considered as\na quality in bodies. Either we have no idea of necessity, or necessity\nis nothing but that determination of the thought to pass from causes\nto effects, and from effects to causes, according to their experienced\nunion.\n\nThus, as the necessity, which makes two times two equal to four, or\nthree angles of a triangle equal to two right ones, lies only in the\nact of the understanding, by which we consider and compare these\nideas; in like manner, the necessity of power, which unites causes and\neffects, lies in the determination of the mind to pass from the one to\nthe other. The efficacy or energy of causes is neither placed in the\ncauses themselves, nor in the Deity, nor in the concurrence of these\ntwo principles; but belongs entirely to the soul, which considers the\nunion of two or more objects in all past instances. 'Tis here that\nthe real power of causes is placed, along with their connexion and\nnecessity.\n\nI am sensible, that of all the paradoxes which I have had, or shall\nhereafter have occasion to advance in the course of this Treatise,\nthe present one is the most violent, and that 'tis merely by dint of\nsolid proof and reasoning I can ever hope it will have admission, and\novercome the inveterate prejudices of mankind. Before we are reconciled\nto this doctrine, how often must we repeat to ourselves, _that_ the\nsimple view of any two objects or actions, however related, can never\ngive us any idea of power, or of a connexion betwixt them: _that_ this\nidea arises from the repetition of their union: _that_ the repetition\nneither discovers nor causes any thing in the objects, but has an\ninfluence only on the mind, by that customary transition it produces:\n_that_ this customary transition is therefore the same with the power\nand necessity; which are consequently qualities of perceptions, not\nof objects, and are internally felt by the soul, and not perceived\nexternally in bodies? There is commonly an astonishment attending every\nthing extraordinary; and this astonishment changes immediately into\nthe highest degree of esteem or contempt, according as we approve or\ndisapprove of the subject. I am much afraid, that though the foregoing\nreasoning appears to me the shortest and most decisive imaginable, yet,\nwith the generality of readers, the bias of the mind will prevail, and\ngive them a prejudice against the present doctrine.\n\nThis contrary bias is easily accounted for. 'Tis a common observation,\nthat the mind has a great propensity to spread itself on external\nobjects, and to conjoin with them any internal impressions which they\noccasion, and which always make their appearance at the same time that\nthese objects discover themselves to the senses. Thus, as certain\nsounds and smells are always found to attend certain Visible objects,\nwe naturally imagine a conjunction, even in place, betwixt the objects\nand qualities, though the qualities be of such a nature as to admit\nof no such conjunction, and really exist no where. But of this more\nfully hereafter.[17] Meanwhile, 'tis sufficient to observe, that the\nsame propensity is the reason why we suppose necessity and power to\nlie in the objects we consider, not in our mind, that considers them;\nnotwithstanding it is not possible for us to form the most distant idea\nof that quality, when it is not taken for the determination of the mind\nto pass from the idea of an object to that of its usual attendant.\n\nBut though this be the only reasonable account we can give of\nnecessity, the contrary notion is so riveted in the mind from the\nprinciples above-mentioned, that I doubt not but my sentiments will\nbe treated by many as extravagant and ridiculous. What! the efficacy\nof causes lie in the determination of the mind! As if causes did not\noperate entirely independent of the mind, and would not continue their\noperation, even though there was no mind existent to contemplate them,\nor reason concerning them. Thought may well depend on causes for its\noperation, but not causes on thought. This is to reverse the order of\nnature, and make that secondary, which is really primary. To every\noperation there is a power proportioned; and this power must be placed\non the body that operates. If we remove the power from one cause, we\nmust ascribe it to another: but to remove it from all causes, and\nbestow it on a being that is no ways related to the cause or effect,\nbut by perceiving them, is a gross absurdity, and contrary to the most\ncertain principles of human reason.\n\nI can only reply to all these arguments, that the case is here much the\nsame, as if a blind man should pretend to find a great many absurdities\nin the supposition, that the colour of scarlet is not the same with the\nsound of a trumpet, nor light the same with solidity. If we have really\nno idea of a power or efficacy in any object, or of any real connexion\nbetwixt causes and effects, 'twill be to little purpose to prove,\nthat an efficacy is necessary in all operations. We do not understand\nour own meaning in talking so, but ignorantly confound ideas which\nare entirely distinct from each other. I am, indeed, ready to allow,\nthat there may be several qualities, both in material and immaterial\nobjects, with which we are utterly unacquainted; and if we please to\ncall these _power_ or _efficacy_,'twill be of little consequence to the\nworld. But when, instead of meaning these unknown qualities, we make\nthe terms of power and efficacy signify something, of which we have a\nclear idea, and which is incompatible with those objects to which we\napply it, obscurity and error begin then to take place, and we are led\nastray by a false philosophy. This is the case when we transfer the\ndetermination of the thought to external objects, and suppose any real\nintelligible connexion betwixt them; that being a quality which can\nonly belong to the mind that considers them.\n\nAs to what may be said, that the operations of nature are independent\nof our thought and reasoning, I allow it; and accordingly have\nobserved, that objects bear to each other the relations of contiguity\nand succession; that like objects may be observed, in several\ninstances, to have like relations; and that all this is independent\nof, and antecedent to, the operations of the understanding. But if we\ngo any farther, and ascribe a power or necessary connexion to these\nobjects, this is what we can never observe in them, but must draw the\nidea of it from what we feel internally in contemplating them. And this\nI carry so far, that I am ready to convert my present reasoning into\nan instance of it, by a subtility which it will not be difficult to\ncomprehend.\n\nWhen any object is presented to us, it immediately conveys to the mind\na lively idea of that object which is usually found to attend it; and\nthis determination of the mind forms the necessary connexion of these\nobjects. But when we change the point of view from the objects to the\nperceptions, in that case the impression is to be considered as the\ncause, and the lively idea as the effect; and their necessary connexion\nis that new determination, which we feel to pass from the idea of the\none to that of the other. The uniting principle among our internal\nperceptions is as unintelligible as that among external objects, and\nis not known to us any other way than by experience. Now, the nature\nand effects of experience have been already sufficiently examined and\nexplained. It never gives us any insight into the internal structure\nor operating principle of objects, but only accustoms the mind to pass\nfrom one to another.\n\n'Tis now time to collect all the different parts of this reasoning,\nand, by joining them together, form an exact definition of the\nrelation of cause and effect, which makes the subject of the present\ninquiry. This order would not have been excusable, of first examining\nour inference from the relation before we had explained the relation\nitself, had it been possible to proceed in a different method. But as\nthe nature of the relation depends so much on that of the inference,\nwe have been obliged to advance in this seemingly preposterous manner,\nand make use of terms before we were able exactly to define them, or\nfix their meaning. We shall now correct this fault by giving a precise\ndefinition of cause and effect.\n\nThere may two definitions be given of this relation, which are only\ndifferent by their presenting a different view of the same object, and\nmaking us consider it either as a _philosophical_ or as a _natural_\nrelation; either as a comparison of two ideas, or as an association\nbetwixt them. We may define a _cause_ to be \"An object precedent and\ncontiguous to another, and where all the objects resembling the former\nare placed in like relations of precedency and contiguity to those\nobjects that resemble the latter.\" If this definition be esteemed\ndefective, because drawn from objects foreign to the cause, we may\nsubstitute this other definition in its place, viz. \"A _cause_ is an\nobject precedent and contiguous to another, and so united with it that\nthe idea of the one determines the mind to form the idea of the other,\nand the impression of the one to form a more lively idea of the other.\"\nShould this definition also be rejected for the same reason, I know no\nother remedy, than that the persons who express this delicacy should\nsubstitute a juster definition in its place. But, for my part, I must\nown my incapacity for such an undertaking. When I examine, with the\nutmost accuracy, those objects which are commonly denominated causes\nand effects, I find, in considering a single instance, that the one\nobject is precedent and contiguous to the other; and in enlarging my\nview to consider several instances, I find only that like objects are\nconstantly placed in like relations of succession and contiguity.\nAgain, when I consider the influence of this constant conjunction, I\nperceive that such a relation can never be an object of reasoning,\nand can never operate upon the mind but by means of custom, which\ndetermines the imagination to make a transition from the idea of one\nobject to that of its usual attendant, and from the impression of\none to a more lively idea of the other. However extraordinary these\nsentiments may appear, I think it fruitless to trouble myself with any\nfarther inquiry or reasoning upon the subject, but shall repose myself\non them as on established maxims.\n\n'Twill only be proper, before we leave this subject, to draw some\ncorollaries from it, by which we may remove several prejudices and\npopular errors that have very much prevailed in philosophy. First,\nwe may learn, from the foregoing doctrine, that all causes are of\nthe same kind, and that, in particular, there is no foundation for\nthat distinction which we sometimes make betwixt efficient causes,\nand causes _sine qua non_; or betwixt efficient causes, and formal,\nand material, and exemplary, and final causes. For as our idea of\nefficiency is derived from the constant conjunction of two objects,\nwherever this is observed, the cause is efficient; and where it is not,\nthere can never be a cause of any kind. For the same reason we must\nreject the distinction betwixt _cause_ and _occasion_, when supposed to\nsignify any thing essentially different from each other. If constant\nconjunction be implied in what we call occasion, 'tis a real cause; if\nnot, 'tis no relation at all, and cannot give rise to any argument or\nreasoning.\n\nSecondly, the same course of reasoning will make us conclude, that\nthere is but one kind of _necessity_, as there is but one kind of\ncause, and that the common distinction betwixt _moral_ and _physical_\nnecessity is without any foundation in nature. This clearly appears\nfrom the precedent explication of necessity. 'Tis the constant\nconjunction of objects, along with the determination of the mind, which\nconstitutes a physical necessity: and the removal of these is the same\nthing with _chance_. As objects must either be conjoined or not, and as\nthe mind must either be determined or not to pass from one object to\nanother, 'tis impossible to admit of any medium betwixt chance and an\nabsolute necessity. In weakening this conjunction and determination you\ndo not change the nature of the necessity; since even in the operation\nof bodies, these have different degrees of constancy and force, without\nproducing a different species of that relation.\n\nThe distinction, which we often make betwixt _power_ and the _exercise_\nof it, is equally without foundation.\n\nThirdly, we may now be able fully to overcome all that repugnance,\nwhich 'tis so natural for us to entertain against the foregoing\nreasoning, by which we endeavoured to prove, that the necessity of a\ncause to every beginning of existence is not founded on any arguments\neither demonstrative or intuitive. Such an opinion will not appear\nstrange after the foregoing definitions. If we define a cause to be _an\nobject precedent and contiguous to another, and where all the objects\nresembling the former are placed in a like relation of priority and\ncontiguity to those objects that resemble the latter_; we may easily\nconceive that there is no absolute nor metaphysical necessity, that\nevery beginning of existence should be attended with such an object.\nIf we define a cause to be, _an object precedent and contiguous to\nanother, and so united with it in the imagination, that the idea of\nthe one determines the mind to form the idea of the other, and the\nimpression of the one to form a more lively idea of the other_; we\nshall make still less difficulty of assenting to this opinion. Such\nan influence on the mind is in itself perfectly extraordinary and\nincomprehensible; nor can we be certain of its reality, but from\nexperience and observation.\n\nI shall add as a fourth corollary, that we can never have reason to\nbelieve that any object exists, of which we cannot form an idea.\nFor, as all our reasonings concerning existence are derived from\ncausation, and as all our reasonings concerning causation are derived\nfrom the experienced conjunction of objects, not from any reasoning or\nreflection, the same experience must give us a notion of these objects,\nand must remove all mystery from our conclusions. This is so evident\nthat 'twould scarce have merited our attention, were it not to obviate\ncertain objections of this kind which might arise against the following\nreasonings concerning _matter_ and _substance_. I need not observe,\nthat a full knowledge of the object is not requisite, but only of those\nqualities of it which we believe to exist.\n\n\n[12] Sect. 2.\n\n[13] See Mr Locke; chapter of Power.\n\n[14] See Father Malebranche, Book VI. Part II. Chap. 3, and the\nillustrations upon it.\n\n[15] The same imperfection attends our ideas of the Deity; but this can\nhave no effect either on religion or morals. The order of the universe\nproves an omnipotent mind; that is, a mind whose will is _constantly\nattended_ with the obedience of every creature and being. Nothing more\nis requisite to give a foundation to all the articles of religion; nor\nis it necessary we should form a distinct idea of the force and energy\nof the Supreme Being.\n\n[16] Section 6.\n\n[17] Part IV. sect 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XV.\n\nRULES BY WHICH TO JUDGE OF CAUSES AND EFFECTS.\n\n\nAccording to the precedent doctrine, there are no objects which, by the\nmere survey, without consulting experience, we can determine to be the\ncauses of any other; and no objects which we can certainly determine in\nthe same manner not to be the causes. Any thing may produce any thing.\nCreation, annihilation, motion, reason, volition; all these may arise\nfrom one another, or from any other object we can imagine. Nor will\nthis appear strange if we compare two principles explained above, _that\nthe constant conjunction of objects determines their causation_,[18]\nand _that, properly speaking, no objects are contrary to each other\nbut existence and non-existence_. Where objects are not contrary,\nnothing hinders them from having that constant conjunction on which the\nrelation of cause and effect totally depends.\n\nSince, therefore, 'tis possible for all objects to become causes or\neffects to each other, it may be proper to fix some general rules by\nwhich we may know when they really are so.\n\n1. The cause and effect must be contiguous in space and time.\n\n2. The cause must be prior to the effect.\n\n3. There must be a constant union betwixt the cause and effect. 'Tis\nchiefly this quality that constitutes the relation.\n\n4. The same cause always produces the same effect, and the same effect\nnever arises but from the same cause. This principle we derive from\nexperience, and is the source of most of our philosophical reasonings.\nFor when by any clear experiment we have discovered the causes or\neffects of any phenomenon, we immediately extend our observation to\nevery phenomenon of the same kind, without waiting for that constant\nrepetition, from which the first idea of this relation is derived.\n\n5. There is another principle which hangs upon this, viz. that where\nseveral different objects produce the same effect, it must be by means\nof some quality which we discover to be common amongst them. For as\nlike effects imply like causes, we must always ascribe the causation to\nthe circumstance wherein we discover the resemblance.\n\n6. The following principle is founded on the same reason. The\ndifference in the effects of two resembling objects must proceed from\nthat particular in which they differ. For as like causes always\nproduce like effects, when in any instance we find our expectation to\nbe disappointed, we must conclude that this irregularity proceeds from\nsome difference in the causes.\n\n7. When any object increases or diminishes with the increase or\ndiminution of its cause, 'tis to be regarded as a compounded effect,\nderived from the union of the several different effects which arise\nfrom the several different parts of the cause. The absence or presence\nof one part of the cause is here supposed to be always attended with\nthe absence or presence of a proportionable part of the effect. This\nconstant conjunction sufficiently proves that the one part is the cause\nof the other. We must, however, beware not to draw such a conclusion\nfrom a few experiments. A certain degree of heat gives pleasure; if you\ndiminish that heat, the pleasure diminishes; but it does not follow,\nthat if you augment it beyond a certain degree, the pleasure will\nlikewise augment; for we find that it degenerates into pain.\n\n8. The eighth and last rule I shall take notice of is, that an object,\nwhich exists for any time in its full perfection without any effect, is\nnot the sole cause of that effect, but requires to be assisted by some\nother principle, which may forward its influence and operation. For as\nlike effects necessarily follow from like causes, and in a contiguous\ntime and place, their separation for a moment shows that these causes\nare not complete ones.\n\nHere is all the _logic_ I think proper to employ in my reasoning;\nand perhaps even this was not very necessary, but might have been\nsupplied by the natural principles of our understanding. Our scholastic\nheadpieces and logicians show no such superiority above the mere\nvulgar in their reason and ability, as to give us any inclination\nto imitate them in delivering a long system of rules and precepts\nto direct our judgment in philosophy. All the rules of this nature\nare very easy in their invention, but extremely difficult in their\napplication; and even experimental philosophy, which seems the most\nnatural and simple of any, requires the utmost stretch of human\njudgment. There is no phenomenon in nature but what is compounded\nand modified by so many different circumstances, that, in order to\narrive at the decisive point, we must carefully separate whatever is\nsuperfluous, and inquire, by new experiments, if every particular\ncircumstance of the first experiment was essential to it. These new\nexperiments are liable to a discussion of the same kind; so that the\nutmost constancy is required to make us persevere in our inquiry,\nand the utmost sagacity to chuse the right way among so many that\npresent themselves. If this be the case even in natural philosophy,\nhow much more in moral, where there is a much greater complication\nof circumstances, and where those views and sentiments, which are\nessential to any action of the mind, are so implicit and obscure,\nthat they often escape our strictest attention, and are not only\nunaccountable in their causes, but even unknown in their existence? I\nam much afraid, lest the small success I meet with in my inquiries,\nwill make this observation bear the air of an apology rather than of\nboasting.\n\nIf any thing can give me security in this particular, 'twill be the\nenlarging the sphere of my experiments as much as possible; for which\nreason, it may be proper, in this place, to examine the reasoning\nfaculty of brutes, as well as that of human creatures.\n\n\n[18] Part I. Sect 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION XVI.\n\nOF THE REASON OF ANIMALS.\n\n\nNext to the ridicule of denying an evident truth, is that of taking\nmuch pains to defend it; and no truth appears to me more evident, than\nthat the beasts are endowed with thought and reason as well as men. The\narguments are in this case so obvious, that they never escape the most\nstupid and ignorant.\n\nWe are conscious, that we ourselves, in adapting means to ends, are\nguided by reason and design, and that 'tis not ignorantly nor casually\nwe perform those actions which tend to self-preservation, to the\nobtaining pleasure, and avoiding pain. When, therefore, we see other\ncreatures, in millions of instances, perform like actions, and direct\nthem to like ends, all our principles of reason and probability carry\nus with an invincible force to believe the existence of a like cause.\n'Tis needless, in my opinion, to illustrate this argument by the\nenumeration of particulars. The smallest attention will supply us with\nmore than are requisite. The resemblance betwixt the actions of animals\nand those of men is so entire, in this respect, that the very first\naction of the first animal we shall please to pitch on, will afford us\nan incontestable argument for the present doctrine.\n\nThis doctrine is as useful as it is obvious, and furnishes us with a\nkind of touchstone, by which we may try every system in this species\nof philosophy. 'Tis from the resemblance of the external actions of\nanimals to those we ourselves perform, that we judge their internal\nlikewise to resemble ours; and the same principle of reasoning, carried\none step farther, will make us conclude, that, since our internal\nactions resemble each other, the causes, from which they are derived,\nmust also be resembling. When any hypothesis, therefore, is advanced to\nexplain a mental operation, which is common to men and beasts, we must\napply the same hypothesis to both; and as every true hypothesis will\nabide this trial, so I may venture to affirm, that no false one will\never be able to endure it. The common defect of those systems, which\nphilosophers have employed to account for the actions of the mind, is,\nthat they suppose such a subtility and refinement of thought, as not\nonly exceeds the capacity of mere animals, but even of children and the\ncommon people in our own species; who are, notwithstanding, susceptible\nof the same emotions and affections as persons of the most accomplished\ngenius and understanding. Such a subtility is a clear proof of the\nfalsehood, as the contrary simplicity of the truth, of any system.\n\nLet us, therefore, put our present system, concerning the nature of the\nunderstanding, to this decisive trial, and see whether it will equally\naccount for the reasonings of beasts as for those of the human species.\n\nHere we must make a distinction betwixt those actions of animals, which\nare of a vulgar nature, and seem to be on a level with their common\ncapacities, and those more extraordinary instances of sagacity, which\nthey sometimes discover for their own preservation, and the propagation\nof their species. A dog that avoids fire and precipices, that shuns\nstrangers, and caresses his master, affords us an instance of the\nfirst kind. A bird, that chuses with such care and nicety the place\nand materials of her nest, and sits upon her eggs for a due time, and\nin a suitable season, with all the precaution that a chemist is capable\nof in the most delicate projection, furnishes us with a lively instance\nof the second.\n\nAs to the former actions, I assert they proceed from a reasoning, that\nis not in itself different, nor founded on different principles, from\nthat which appears in human nature. 'Tis necessary, in the first place,\nthat there be some impression immediately present to their memory or\nsenses, in order to be the foundation of their judgment. From the\ntone of voice the dog infers his master's anger, and foresees his own\npunishment. From a certain sensation affecting his smell, he judges his\ngame not to be far distant from him.\n\nSecondly, the inference he draws from the present impression is built\non experience, and on his observation of the conjunction of objects in\npast instances. As you vary this experience, he varies his reasoning.\nMake a beating follow upon one sign or motion for some time, and\nafterwards upon another; and he will successively draw different\nconclusions, according to his most recent experience.\n\nNow, let any philosopher make a trial, and endeavour to explain that\nact of the mind which we call _belief_, and give an account of the\nprinciples from which it is derived, independent of the influence of\ncustom on the imagination, and let his hypothesis be equally applicable\nto beasts as to the human species; and, after he has done this, I\npromise to embrace his opinion. But, at the same time I demand as an\nequitable condition, that if my system be the only one, which can\nanswer to all these terms, it may be received as entirely satisfactory\nand convincing. And that 'tis the only one, is evident almost without\nany reasoning. Beasts certainly never perceive any real connexion among\nobjects. 'Tis therefore by experience they infer one from another.\nThey can never by any arguments form a general conclusion, that those\nobjects of which they have had no experience, resemble those of which\nthey have. 'Tis therefore by means of custom alone that experience\noperates upon them. All this was sufficiently evident with respect to\nman. But with respect to beasts there cannot be the least suspicion of\nmistake; which must be owned to be a strong confirmation, or rather an\ninvincible proof of my system.\n\nNothing shows more the force of habit in reconciling us to any\nphenomenon, than this, that men are not astonished at the operations\nof their own reason, at the same time that they admire the _instinct_\nof animals, and find a difficulty in explaining it, merely because it\ncannot be reduced to the very same principles. To consider the matter\naright, reason is nothing but a wonderful and unintelligible instinct\nin our souls, which carries us along a certain train of ideas, and\nendows them with particular qualities, according to their particular\nsituations and relations. This instinct, 'tis true, arises from past\nobservation and experience; but can any one give the ultimate reason,\nwhy past experience and observation produces such an effect, any more\nthan why nature alone should produce it? Nature may certainly produce\nwhatever can arise from habit: nay, habit is nothing but one of the\nprinciples of nature, and derives all its force from that origin.\n\n\n\n\nPART IV.\n\nOF THE SCEPTICAL AND OTHER SYSTEMS OF PHILOSOPHY.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION I.\n\nOF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO REASON.\n\n\nIn all demonstrative sciences the rules are certain and infallible;\nbut when we apply them, our fallible and uncertain faculties are very\napt to depart from them, and fall into error. We must therefore in\nevery reasoning form a new judgment, as a check or control on our\nfirst judgment or belief; and must enlarge our view to comprehend a\nkind of history of all the instances, wherein our understanding has\ndeceived us, compared with those wherein its testimony was just and\ntrue. Our reason must be considered as a kind of cause, of which truth\nis the natural effect; but such a one as, by the irruption of other\ncauses, and by the inconstancy of our mental powers, may frequently be\nprevented. By this means all knowledge degenerates into probability;\nand this probability is greater or less, according to our experience of\nthe veracity or deceitfulness of our understanding, and according to\nthe simplicity or intricacy of the question.\n\nThere is no algebraist nor mathematician so expert in his science, as\nto place entire confidence in any truth immediately upon his discovery\nof it, or regard it as any thing but a mere probability. Every time\nhe runs over his proofs, his confidence increases; but still more by\nthe approbation of his friends; and is raised to its utmost perfection\nby the universal assent and applauses of the learned world. Now, 'tis\nevident that this gradual increase of assurance is nothing but the\naddition of new probabilities, and is derived from the constant union\nof causes and effects, according to past experience and observation.\n\nIn accounts of any length or importance, merchants seldom trust to\nthe infallible certainty of numbers for their security; but by the\nartificial structure of the accounts, produce a probability beyond\nwhat is derived from the skill and experience of the accountant. For\nthat is plainly of itself some degree of probability; though uncertain\nand variable, according to the degrees of his experience and length\nof the account. Now as none will maintain, that our assurance in a\nlong numeration exceeds probability, I may safely affirm, that there\nscarce is any proposition concerning numbers, of which we can have a\nfuller security. For 'tis easily possible, by gradually diminishing\nthe numbers, to reduce the longest series of addition to the most\nsimple question which can be formed, to an addition of two single\nnumbers; and upon this supposition we shall find it impracticable to\nshow the precise limits of knowledge and of probability, or discover\nthat particular number at which the one ends and the other begins. But\nknowledge and probability are of such contrary and disagreeing natures,\nthat they cannot well run insensibly into each other, and that because\nthey will not divide, but must be either entirely present, or entirely\nabsent. Besides, if any single addition were certain, every one would\nbe so, and consequently the whole or total sum; unless the whole can be\ndifferent from all its parts. I had almost said, that this was certain;\nbut I reflect that it must reduce _itself_, as well as every other\nreasoning, and from knowledge degenerate into probability.\n\nSince, therefore, all knowledge resolves itself into probability, and\nbecomes at last of the same nature with that evidence which we employ\nin common life, we must now examine this latter species of reasoning,\nand see on what foundation it stands.\n\nIn every judgment which we can form concerning probability, as well as\nconcerning knowledge, we ought always to correct the first judgment,\nderived from the nature of the object, by another judgment, derived\nfrom the nature of the understanding. 'Tis certain a man of solid sense\nand long experience ought to have, and usually has, a greater assurance\nin his opinions, than one that is foolish and ignorant, and that our\nsentiments have different degrees of authority, even with ourselves,\nin proportion to the degrees of our reason and experience. In the man\nof the best sense and longest experience, this authority is never\nentire; since even such a one must be conscious of many errors in the\npast, and must still dread the like for the future. Here then arises a\nnew species of probability to correct and regulate the first, and fix\nits just standard and proportion. As demonstration is subject to the\ncontrol of probability, so is probability liable to a new correction by\na reflex act of the mind, wherein the nature of our understanding, and\nour reasoning from the first probability, become our objects.\n\nHaving thus found in every probability, beside the original uncertainty\ninherent in the subject, a new uncertainty, derived from the\nweakness of that faculty which judges, and having adjusted these two\ntogether, we are obliged by our reason to add a new doubt, derived\nfrom the possibility of error in the estimation we make of the truth\nand fidelity of our faculties. This is a doubt which immediately\noccurs to us, and of which, if we would closely pursue our reason,\nwe cannot avoid giving a decision. But this decision, though it\nshould be favourable to our preceding judgment, being founded only\non probability, must weaken still further our first evidence, and\nmust itself be weakened by a fourth doubt of the same kind, and so\non _in infinitum_; till at last there remain nothing of the original\nprobability, however great we may suppose it to have been, and however\nsmall the diminution by every new uncertainty. No finite object can\nsubsist under a decrease repeated _in infinitum_; and even the vastest\nquantity, which can enter into human imagination, must in this manner\nbe reduced to nothing. Let our first belief be never so strong, it must\ninfallibly perish, by passing through so many new examinations, of\nwhich each diminishes somewhat of its force and vigour. When I reflect\non the natural fallibility of my judgment, I have less confidence in\nmy opinions, than when I only consider the objects concerning which I\nreason; and when I proceed still farther, to turn the scrutiny against\nevery successive estimation I make of my faculties, all the rules of\nlogic require a continual diminution, and at last a total extinction of\nbelief and evidence.\n\nShould it here be asked me, whether I sincerely assent to this\nargument, which I seem to take such pains to inculcate, and whether I\nbe really one of those sceptics, who hold that all is uncertain, and\nthat our judgment is not in _any_ thing possessed of _any_ measures of\ntruth and falsehood; I should reply, that this question is entirely\nsuperfluous, and that neither I, nor any other person, was ever\nsincerely and constantly of that opinion. Nature, by an absolute and\nuncontrollable necessity, has determined us to judge as well as to\nbreathe and feel; nor can we any more forbear viewing certain objects\nin a stronger and fuller light, upon account of their customary\nconnexion with a present impression, than we can hinder ourselves from\nthinking, as long as we are awake, or seeing the surrounding bodies,\nwhen we turn our eyes towards them in broad sunshine. Whoever has\ntaken the pains to refute the cavils of this _total_ scepticism, has\nreally disputed without an antagonist, and endeavoured by arguments to\nestablish a faculty, which nature has antecedently implanted in the\nmind, and rendered unavoidable.\n\nMy intention then in displaying so carefully the arguments of that\nfantastic sect, is only to make the reader sensible of the truth of my\nhypothesis, _that all our reasonings concerning causes and effects,\nare derived from nothing but custom; and that belief is more properly\nan act of the sensitive, than of the cogitative part of our natures_.\nI have here proved, that the very same principles, which make us\nform a decision upon any subject, and correct that decision by the\nconsideration of our genius and capacity, and of the situation of our\nmind, when we examined that subject; I say, I have proved, that these\nsame principles, when carried farther, and applied to every new reflex\njudgment, must, by continually diminishing the original evidence, at\nlast reduce it to nothing, and utterly subvert all belief and opinion.\nIf belief, therefore, were a simple act of the thought, without any\npeculiar manner of conception, or the addition or a force and vivacity,\nit must infallibly destroy itself, and in every case terminate in\na total suspense of judgment. But as experience will sufficiently\nconvince any one, who thinks it worth while to try, that though he\ncan find no error in the foregoing arguments, yet he still continues\nto believe, and think, and reason, as usual, he may safely conclude,\nthat his reasoning and belief is some sensation or peculiar manner of\nconception, which 'tis impossible for mere ideas and reflections to\ndestroy.\n\nBut here, perhaps, it may be demanded, how it happens, even upon my\nhypothesis, that these arguments above explained produce not a total\nsuspense of judgment, and after what manner the mind ever retains a\ndegree of assurance in any subject? For as these new probabilities,\nwhich, by their repetition, perpetually diminish the original\nevidence, are founded on the very same principles, whether of thought\nor sensation, as the primary judgment, it may seem unavoidable, that\nin either case they must equally subvert it, and by the opposition,\neither of contrary thoughts or sensations, reduce the mind to a total\nuncertainty. I suppose there is some question proposed to me, and\nthat, after revolving over the impressions of my memory and senses,\nand carrying my thoughts from them to such objects as are commonly\nconjoined with them, I feel a stronger and more forcible conception\non the one side than on the other. This strong conception forms my\nfirst decision. I suppose, that afterwards I examine my judgment\nitself, and observing, from experience, that 'tis sometimes just and\nsometimes erroneous, I consider it as regulated by contrary principles\nor causes, of which some lead to truth, and some to error; and in\nbalancing these contrary causes, I diminish, by a new probability,\nthe assurance of my first decision. This new probability is liable to\nthe same diminution as the foregoing, and so on, _in infinitum_. 'Tis\ntherefore demanded, _how it happens, that, even after all, we retain\na degree of belief, which is sufficient for our purpose, either in\nphilosophy or common life?_\n\nI answer, that after the first and second decision, as the action of\nthe mind becomes forced and unnatural, and the ideas faint and obscure,\nthough the principles of judgment, and the balancing of opposite causes\nbe the same as at the very beginning, yet their influence on the\nimagination, and the vigour they add to, or diminish from, the thought,\nis by no means equal. Where the mind reaches not its objects with\neasiness and facility, the same principles have not the same effect as\nin a more natural conception of the ideas; nor does the imagination\nfeel a sensation, which holds any proportion with that which arises\nfrom its common judgments and opinions. The attention is on the\nstretch; the posture of the mind is uneasy; and the spirits being\ndiverted from their natural course, are not governed in their movements\nby the same laws, at least not to the same degree, as when they flow in\ntheir usual channel.\n\nIf we desire similar instances, 'twill not be very difficult to find\nthem. The present subject of metaphysics will supply us abundantly. The\nsame argument, which would have been esteemed convincing in a reasoning\nconcerning history or politics, has little or no influence in these\nabstruser subjects, even though it be perfectly comprehended; and that\nbecause there is required a study and an effort of thought, in order\nto its being comprehended: and this effort of thought disturbs the\noperation of our sentiments, on which the belief depends. The case is\nthe same in other subjects. The straining of the imagination always\nhinders the regular flowing of the passions and sentiments. A tragic\npoet, that would represent his heroes as very ingenious and witty in\ntheir misfortunes, would never touch the passions. As the emotions of\nthe soul prevent any subtile reasoning and reflection, so these latter\nactions of the mind are equally prejudicial to the former. The mind,\nas well as the body, seems to be endowed with a certain precise degree\nof force and activity, which it never employs in one action, but at\nthe expense of all the rest. This is more evidently true, where the\nactions are of quite different natures; since in that case the force\nof the mind is not only diverted, but even the disposition changed, so\nas to render us incapable of a sudden transition from one action to\nthe other, and still more of performing both at once. No wonder, then,\nthe conviction, which arises from a subtile reasoning, diminishes in\nproportion to the efforts which the imagination makes to enter into the\nreasoning, and to conceive it in all its parts. Belief, being a lively\nconception, can never be entire, where it is not founded on something\nnatural and easy.\n\nThis I take to be the true state of the question, and cannot approve\nof that expeditious way, which some take with the sceptics, to reject\nat once all their arguments without inquiry or examination. If the\nsceptical reasonings be strong, say they, 'tis a proof that reason may\nhave some force and authority: if weak, they can never be sufficient\nto invalidate all the conclusions of our understanding. This argument\nis not just; because the sceptical reasonings, were it possible for\nthem to exist, and were they not destroyed by their subtilty, would\nbe successively both strong and weak, according to the successive\ndispositions of the mind. Reason first appears in possession of the\nthrone, prescribing laws, and imposing maxims, with an absolute sway\nand authority. Her enemy, therefore, is obliged to take shelter under\nher protection, and by making use of rational arguments to prove the\nfallaciousness and imbecility of reason, produces, in a manner, a\npatent under her hand and seal. This patent has at first an authority,\nproportioned to the present and immediate authority of reason, from\nwhich it is derived. But as it is supposed to be contradictory to\nreason, it gradually diminishes the force of that governing power and\nits own at the same time; till at last they both vanish away into\nnothing, by a regular and just diminution. The sceptical and dogmatical\nreasons are of the same kind, though contrary in their operation and\ntendency; so that where the latter is strong, it has an enemy of equal\nforce in the former to encounter; and as their forces were at first\nequal, they still continue so, as long as either of them subsists; nor\ndoes one of them lose any force in the contest, without taking as much\nfrom its antagonist. 'Tis happy, therefore, that nature breaks the\nforce of all sceptical arguments in time, and keeps them from having\nany considerable influence on the understanding. Were we to trust\nentirely to their self-destruction, that can never take place, 'till\nthey have first subverted all conviction, and have totally destroyed\nhuman reason.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION II.\n\nOF SCEPTICISM WITH REGARD TO THE SENSES.\n\n\nThus the sceptic still continues to reason and believe, even though he\nasserts that he cannot defend his reason by reason; and by the same\nrule he must assent to the principle concerning the existence of body,\nthough he cannot pretend, by any arguments of philosophy, to maintain\nits veracity. Nature has not left this to his choice, and has doubtless\nesteemed it an affair of too great importance, to be trusted to our\nuncertain reasonings and speculations. We may well ask, _What causes\ninduce us to believe in the existence of body_? but 'tis in vain to\nask, _Whether there be body or not_? That is a point, which we must\ntake for granted in all our reasonings.\n\nThe subject, then, of our present inquiry, is concerning the _causes_\nwhich induce us to believe in the existence of body: and my reasonings\non this head I shall begin with a distinction, which at first sight\nmay seem superfluous, but which will contribute very much to the\nperfect understanding of what follows. We ought to examine apart those\ntwo questions, which are commonly confounded together, viz. Why we\nattribute a _continued_ existence to objects, even when they are not\npresent to the senses; and why we suppose them to have an existence\n_distinct_ from the mind and perception? Under this last head I\ncomprehend their situation as well as relations, their _external_\nposition as well as the _independence_ of their existence and\noperation. These two questions concerning the continued and distinct\nexistence of body are intimately connected together. For if the objects\nof our senses continue to exist, even when they are not perceived,\ntheir existence is of course independent of and distinct from the\nperception; and _vice versa_, if their existence be independent of\nthe perception, and distinct from it, they must continue to exist,\neven though they be not perceived. But though the decision of the one\nquestion decides the other; yet that we may the more easily discover\nthe principles of human nature, from whence the decision arises, we\nshall carry along with us this distinction, and shall consider, whether\nit be the _senses, reason_, or the _imagination_, that produces the\nopinion of a _continued_ or of a _distinct_ existence. These are the\nonly questions that are intelligible on the present subject. For as to\nthe notion of external existence, when taken for something specifically\ndifferent from our perceptions, we have already shown its absurdity.[1]\n\nTo begin with the _senses_,'tis evident these faculties are incapable\nof giving rise to the notion of the _continued_ existence of their\nobjects, after they no longer appear to the senses. For that is a\ncontradiction in terms, and supposes that the senses continue to\noperate, even after they have ceased all manner of operation. These\nfaculties, therefore, if they have any influence in the present case,\nmust produce the opinion of a distinct, not of a continued existence;\nand in order to that, must present their impressions either as images\nand representations, or as these very distinct and external existences.\n\nThat our senses offer not their impressions as the images of something\n_distinct_, or _independent_, and _external_, is evident; because\nthey convey to us nothing but a single perception, and never give us\nthe least intimation of any thing beyond. A single perception can\nnever produce the idea of a double existence, but by some inference\neither of the reason or imagination. When the mind looks farther than\nwhat immediately appears to it, its conclusions can never be put to\nthe account of the senses; and it certainly looks farther, when from\na single perception it infers a double existence, and supposes the\nrelations of resemblance and causation betwixt them.\n\nIf our senses, therefore, suggest any idea of distinct existences,\nthey must convey the impressions as those very existences, by a kind\nof fallacy and illusion. Upon this head we may observe, that all\nsensations are felt by the mind, such as they really are, and that,\nwhen we doubt whether they present themselves as distinct objects, or\nas mere impressions, the difficulty is not concerning their nature, but\nconcerning their relations and situation. Now, if the senses presented\nour impressions as external to, and independent of ourselves, both the\nobjects and ourselves must be obvious to our senses, otherwise they\ncould not be compared by these faculties. The difficulty then, is, how\nfar we are _ourselves_ the objects of our senses.\n\n'Tis certain there is no question in philosophy more abstruse than that\nconcerning identity, and the nature of the uniting principle, which\nconstitutes a person. So far from being able by our senses merely to\ndetermine this question, we must have recourse to the most profound\nmetaphysics to give a satisfactory answer to it; and in common life\n'tis evident these ideas of self and person are never very fixed nor\ndeterminate. 'Tis absurd therefore to imagine the senses can ever\ndistinguish betwixt ourselves and external objects.\n\nAdd to this, that every impression, external and internal, passions,\naffections, sensations, pains and pleasures, are originally on the\nsame footing; and that whatever other differences we may observe among\nthem, they appear, all of them, in their true colours, as impressions\nor perceptions. And indeed, if we consider the matter aright, 'tis\nscarce possible it should be otherwise; nor is it conceivable that\nour senses should be more capable of deceiving us in the situation\nand relations, than in the nature of our impressions. For since all\nactions and sensations of the mind are known to us by consciousness,\nthey must necessarily appear in every particular what they are, and be\nwhat they appear. Every thing that enters the mind, being in _reality_\nas the perception, 'tis impossible any thing should to _feeling_ appear\ndifferent. This were to suppose, that even where we are most intimately\nconscious, we might be mistaken.\n\nBut not to lose time in examining, whether 'tis possible for our\nsenses to deceive us, and represent our perceptions as distinct from\nourselves, that is, as _external_ to and _independent_ of us; let us\nconsider whether they really do so, and whether this error proceeds\nfrom an immediate sensation, or from some other causes.\n\nTo begin with the question concerning _external_ existence, it may\nperhaps be said, that setting aside the metaphysical question of the\nidentity of a thinking substance, our own body evidently belongs\nto us; and as several impressions appear exterior to the body, we\nsuppose them also exterior to ourselves. The paper, on which I write\nat present, is beyond my hand. The table is beyond the paper. The\nwalls of the chamber beyond the table. And in casting my eye towards\nthe window, I perceive a great extent of fields and buildings beyond\nmy chamber. From all this it may be inferred, that no other faculty is\nrequired, beside the senses, to convince us of the external existence\nof body. But to prevent this inference, we need only weigh the three\nfollowing considerations. _First_, that, properly speaking, 'tis not\nour body we perceive, when we regard our limbs and members, but certain\nimpressions, which enter by the senses; so that the ascribing a real\nand corporeal existence to these impressions, or to their objects, is\nan act of the mind as difficult to explain as that which we examine at\npresent. _Secondly_, sounds, and tastes, and smells, though commonly\nregarded by the mind as continued independent qualities, appear not to\nhave any existence in extension, and consequently cannot appear to the\nsenses as situated externally to the body. The reason why we ascribe a\nplace to them, shall be considered afterwards.[2] _Thirdly_, even our\nsight informs us not of distance or outness (so to speak) immediately\nand without a certain reasoning and experience, as is acknowledged by\nthe most rational philosophers.\n\nAs to the _independency_ of our perceptions on ourselves, this can\nnever be an object of the senses; but any opinion we form concerning\nit, must be derived from experience and observation: and we shall see\nafterwards, that our conclusions from experience are far from being\nfavourable to the doctrine of the independency of our perceptions.\nMeanwhile we may observe, that when we talk of real distinct\nexistences, we have commonly more in our eye their independency than\nexternal situation in place, and think an object has a sufficient\nreality, when its being is uninterrupted, and independent of the\nincessant revolutions, which we are conscious of in ourselves.\n\nThus to resume what I have said concerning the senses; they give us\nno notion of continued existence, because they cannot operate beyond\nthe extent, in which they really operate. They as little produce the\nopinion of a distinct existence, because they neither can offer it to\nthe mind as represented, nor as original. To offer it as represented,\nthey must present both an object and an image. To make it appear as\noriginal, they must convey a falsehood; and this falsehood must lie in\nthe relations and situation: in order to which, they must be able to\ncompare the object with ourselves; and even in that case they do not,\nnor is it possible they should deceive us. We may therefore conclude\nwith certainty, that the opinion of a continued and of a distinct\nexistence never arises from the senses.\n\nTo confirm this, we may observe, that there are three different kinds\nof impressions conveyed by the senses. The first are those of the\nfigure, bulk, motion, and solidity of bodies. The second, those of\ncolours, tastes, smells, sounds, heat and cold. The third are the\npains and pleasures that arise from the application of objects to our\nbodies, as by the cutting of our flesh with steel, and such like.\nBoth philosophers and the vulgar suppose the first of these to have\na distinct continued existence. The vulgar only regard the second as\non the same footing. Both philosophers and the vulgar, again, esteem\nthe third to be merely perceptions; and, consequently, interrupted and\ndependent beings.\n\nNow, 'tis evident, that, whatever may be our philosophical opinion,\ncolour, sounds, heat and cold, as far as appears to the senses,\nexist after the same manner with motion and solidity; and that the\ndifference we make betwixt them, in this respect, arises not from the\nmere perception. So strong is the prejudice for the distinct continued\nexistence of the former qualities, that when the contrary opinion is\nadvanced by modern philosophers, people imagine they can almost refute\nit from their feeling and experience, and that their very senses\ncontradict this philosophy. 'Tis also evident, that colours, sounds,\n&c. are originally on the same footing with the pain that arises from\nsteel, and pleasure that proceeds from a fire; and that the difference\nbetwixt them is founded neither on perception nor reason, but on the\nimagination. For as they are confessed to be, both of them, nothing\nbut perceptions arising from the particular configurations and motions\nof the parts of body, wherein possibly can their difference consist?\nUpon the whole, then, we may conclude, that, as far as the senses are\njudges, all perceptions are the same in the manner of their existence.\n\nWe may also observe, in this instance of sounds and colours, that we\ncan attribute a distinct continued existence to objects without ever\nconsulting _reason_, or weighing our opinions by any philosophical\nprinciples. And, indeed, whatever convincing arguments philosophers may\nfancy they can produce to establish the belief of objects independent\nof the mind, 'tis obvious these arguments are known but to very few;\nand that 'tis not by them that children, peasants, and the greatest\npart of mankind, are induced to attribute objects to some impressions,\nand deny them to others. Accordingly, we find, that all the conclusions\nwhich the vulgar form on this head, are directly contrary to those\nwhich are confirmed by philosophy. For philosophy informs us, that\nevery thing which appears to the mind, is nothing but a perception,\nand is interrupted and dependent on the mind; whereas the vulgar\nconfound perceptions and objects, and attribute a distinct continued\nexistence to the very things they feel or see. This sentiment, then,\nas it is entirely unreasonable, must proceed from some other faculty\nthan the understanding. To which we may add, that, as long as we take\nour perceptions and objects to be the same, we can never infer the\nexistence of the one from that of the other, nor form any argument\nfrom the relation of cause and effect; which is the only one that can\nassure us of matter of fact. Even after we distinguish our perceptions\nfrom our objects, 'twill appear presently that we are still incapable\nof reasoning from the existence of one to that of the other: so that,\nupon the whole, our reason neither does, nor is it possible it ever\nshould, upon any supposition, give us an assurance of the continued and\ndistinct existence of body. That opinion must be entirely owing to the\n_imagination_: which must now be the subject of our inquiry.\n\nSince all impressions are internal and perishing existences, and\nappear as such, the notion of their distinct and continued existence\nmust arise from a concurrence of some of their qualities with the\nqualities of the imagination; and since this notion does not extend\nto all of them, it must arise from certain qualities peculiar to some\nimpressions. 'Twill, therefore, be easy for us to discover these\nqualities by a comparison of the impressions, to which we attribute\na distinct and continued existence, with those which we regard as\ninternal and perishing.\n\nWe may observe, then, that 'tis neither upon account of the\ninvoluntariness of certain impressions, as is commonly supposed, nor of\ntheir superior force and violence, that we attribute to them a reality\nand continued existence, which we refuse to others that are voluntary\nor feeble. For 'tis evident, our pains and pleasures, our passions and\naffections, which we never suppose to have any existence beyond our\nperception, operate with greater violence, and are equally involuntary,\nas the impressions of figure and extension, colour and sound, which we\nsuppose to be permanent beings. The heat of a fire, when moderate, is\nsupposed to exist in the fire; but the pain which it causes upon a near\napproach is not taken to have any being except in the perception.\n\nThese vulgar opinions, then, being rejected, we must search for some\nother hypothesis, by which we may discover those peculiar qualities\nin our impressions, which makes us attribute to them a distinct and\ncontinued existence.\n\nAfter a little examination, we shall find, that all those objects, to\nwhich we attribute a continued existence, have a peculiar _constancy_,\nwhich distinguishes them from the impressions whose existence depends\nupon our perception. Those mountains, and houses, and trees, which lie\nat present under my eye, have always appeared to me in the same order;\nand when I lose sight of them by shutting my eyes or turning my head,\nI soon after find them return upon me without the least alteration.\nMy bed and table, my books and papers, present themselves in the same\nuniform manner, and change not upon account of any interruption in my\nseeing or perceiving them. This is the case with all the impressions,\nwhose objects are supposed to have an external existence; and is the\ncase with no other impressions, whether gentle or violent, voluntary or\ninvoluntary.\n\nThis constancy, however, is not so perfect as not to admit of very\nconsiderable exceptions. Bodies often change their position and\nqualities, and, after a little absence or interruption, may become\nhardly knowable. But here 'tis observable, that even in these changes\nthey preserve a _coherence_, and have a regular dependence on each\nother; which is the foundation of a kind of reasoning from causation,\nand produces the opinion of their continued existence. When I return\nto my chamber after an hour's absence, I find not my fire in the same\nsituation in which I left it; but then I am accustomed, in other\ninstances, to see a like alteration produced in a like time, whether\nI am present or absent, near or remote. This coherence, therefore, in\ntheir changes, is one of the characteristics of external objects, as\nwell as their constancy.\n\nHaving found that the opinion of the continued existence of body\ndepends on the _coherence_ and _constancy_ of certain impressions, I\nnow proceed to examine after what manner these qualities give rise\nto so extraordinary an opinion. To begin with the coherence; we may\nobserve, that though those internal impressions, which we regard as\nfleeting and perishing, have also a certain coherence or regularity\nin their appearances, yet 'tis of somewhat a different nature from\nthat which we discover in bodies. Our passions are found by experience\nto have a mutual connexion with, and dependence on each other; but\non no occasion is it necessary to suppose that they have existed and\noperated, when they were not perceived, in order to preserve the same\ndependence and connexion, of which we have had experience. The case\nis not the same with relation to external objects. Those require\na continued existence, or otherwise lose, in a great measure, the\nregularity of their operation. I am here seated in my chamber, with\nmy face to the fire; and all the objects that strike my senses are\ncontained in a few yards around me. My memory, indeed, informs me of\nthe existence of many objects; but, then, this information extends not\nbeyond their past existence, nor do either my senses or memory give any\ntestimony to the continuance of their being. When, therefore, I am thus\nseated, and revolve over these thoughts, I hear on a sudden a noise as\nof a door turning upon its hinges; and a little after see a porter, who\nadvances towards me. This gives occasion to many new reflections and\nreasonings. First, I never have observed that this noise could proceed\nfrom any thing but the motion of a door; and therefore conclude, that\nthe present phenomenon is a contradiction to all past experience,\nunless the door, which I remember on t'other side the chamber, be still\nin being. Again, I have always found, that a human body was possessed\nof a quality which I call gravity, and which hinders it from mounting\nin the air, as this porter must have done to arrive at my chamber,\nunless the stairs I remember be not annihilated by my absence. But this\nis not all. I receive a letter, which, upon opening it, I perceive by\nthe handwriting and subscription to have come from a friend, who says\nhe is two hundred leagues distant. 'Tis evident I can never account\nfor this phenomenon, conformable to my experience in other instances,\nwithout spreading out in my mind the whole sea and continent between\nus, and supposing the effects and continued existence of posts and\nferries, according to my memory and observation. To consider these\nphenomena of the porter and letter in a certain light, they are\ncontradictions to common experience, and may be regarded as objections\nto those maxims which we form concerning the connexions of causes and\neffects. I am accustomed to hear such a sound, and see such an object\nin motion at the same time. I have not received, in this particular\ninstance, both these perceptions. These observations are contrary,\nunless I suppose that the door still remains, and that it was opened\nwithout my perceiving it: and this supposition, which was at first\nentirely arbitrary and hypothetical, acquires a force and evidence by\nits being the only one upon which I can reconcile these contradictions.\nThere is scarce a moment of my life, wherein there is not a similar\ninstance presented to me, and I have not occasion to suppose the\ncontinued existence of objects, in order to connect their past and\npresent appearances, and give them such an union with each other, as I\nhave found, by experience, to be suitable to their particular natures\nand circumstances. Here, then, I am naturally led to regard the world\nas something real and durable, and as preserving its existence, even\nwhen it is no longer present to my perception.\n\nBut, though this conclusion, from the coherence of appearances, may\nseem to be of the same nature with our reasonings concerning causes\nand effects, as being derived from custom, and regulated by past\nexperience, we shall find, upon examination, that they are at the\nbottom considerably different from each other, and that this inference\narises from the understanding and from custom, in an indirect and\noblique manner. For 'twill readily be allowed, that since nothing is\never really present to the mind, besides its own perceptions, 'tis\nnot only impossible that any habit should ever be acquired otherwise\nthan by the regular succession of these perceptions, but also that\nany habit should ever exceed that degree of regularity. Any degree,\ntherefore, of regularity in our perceptions, can never be a foundation\nfor us to infer a greater degree of regularity in some objects which\nare not perceived, since this supposes a contradiction, viz. a habit\nacquired by what was never present to the mind. But, 'tis evident that,\nwhenever we infer the continued existence of the objects of sense from\ntheir coherence, and the frequency of their union, 'tis in order to\nbestow on the objects a greater regularity than what is observed in our\nmere perceptions. We remark a connexion betwixt two kinds of objects\nin their past appearance to the senses, but are not able to observe\nthis connexion to be perfectly constant, since the turning about of our\nhead, or the shutting of our eyes, is able to break it. What, then, do\nwe suppose in this case, but that these objects still continue their\nusual connexion, notwithstanding their apparent interruption, and that\nthe irregular appearances are joined by something of which we are\ninsensible? But as all reasoning concerning matters of fact arises only\nfrom custom, and custom can only be the effect of repeated perceptions,\nthe extending of custom and reasoning beyond the perceptions can\nnever be the direct and natural effect of the constant repetition and\nconnexion, but must arise from the cooperation of some other principles.\n\nI have already observed,[3] in examining the foundation of mathematics,\nthat the imagination, when set into any train of thinking, is apt to\ncontinue even when its object fails it, and, like a galley put in\nmotion by the oars, carries on its course without any new impulse. This\nI have assigned for the reason, why, after considering several loose\nstandards of equality, and correcting them by each other, we proceed\nto imagine so correct and exact a standard of that relation as is\nnot liable to the least error or variation. The same principle makes\nus easily entertain this opinion of the continued existence of body.\nObjects have a certain coherence even as they appear to our senses;\nbut this coherence is much greater and more uniform if we suppose the\nobjects to have a continued existence; and as the mind is once in the\ntrain of observing an uniformity among objects, it naturally continues\ntill it renders the uniformity as complete as possible. The simple\nsupposition of their continued existence suffices for this purpose, and\ngives us a notion of a much greater regularity among objects, than what\nthey have when we look no farther than our senses.\n\nBut whatever force we may ascribe to this principle, I am afraid\n'tis too weak to support alone so vast an edifice as is that of the\ncontinued existence of all external bodies; and that we must join the\n_constancy_ of their appearance to the _coherence_, in order to give\na satisfactory account of that opinion. As the explication of this\nwill lead me into a considerable compass of very profound reasoning, I\nthink it proper, in order to avoid confusion, to give a short sketch or\nabridgment of my system, and afterwards draw out all its parts in their\nfull compass. This inference from the constancy of our perceptions,\nlike the precedent from their coherence, gives rise to the opinion\nof the _continued_ existence of body, which is prior to that of its\n_distinct_ existence, and produces that latter principle.\n\nWhen we have been accustomed to observe a constancy in certain\nimpressions, and have found that the perception of the sun or ocean,\nfor instance, returns upon us, after an absence or annihilation, with\nlike parts and in a like order as at its first appearance, we are not\napt to regard these interrupted perceptions as different (which they\nreally are), but on the contrary consider them as individually the\nsame, upon account of their resemblance. But as this interruption of\ntheir existence is contrary to their perfect identity, and makes us\nregard the first impression as annihilated, and the second as newly\ncreated, we find ourselves somewhat at a loss, and are involved in a\nkind of contradiction. In order to free ourselves from this difficulty,\nwe disguise, as much as possible, the interruption, or rather remove it\nentirely, by supposing that these interrupted perceptions are connected\nby a real existence, of which we are insensible. This supposition, or\nidea of continued existence, acquires a force and vivacity from the\nmemory of these broken impressions, and from that propensity which\nthey give us to suppose them the same; and according to the precedent\nreasoning, the very essence of belief consists in the force and\nvivacity of the conception.\n\nIn order to justify this system, there are four things requisite.\n_First_, to explain the _principium individuations_, or principle of\nidentity. _Secondly_, give a reason why the resemblance of our broken\nand interrupted perceptions induces us to attribute an identity to\nthem. _Thirdly_, account for that propensity, which this allusion\ngives, to unite these broken appearances by a continued existence.\n_Fourthly_, and lastly, explain that force and vivacity of conception\nwhich arises from the propensity.\n\nFirst, as to the principle of individuation, we may observe, that\nthe view of any one object is not sufficient to convey the idea of\nidentity. For in that proposition, _an object is the same with itself_,\nif the idea expressed by the word _object_ were no ways distinguished\nfrom that meant by _itself_; we really should mean nothing, nor would\nthe proposition contain a predicate and a subject, which, however, are\nimplied in this affirmation. One single object conveys the idea of\nunity, not that of identity.\n\nOn the other hand, a multiplicity of objects can never convey this\nidea, however resembling they may be supposed. The mind always\npronounces the one not to be the other, and considers them as forming\ntwo, three, or any determinate number of objects, whose existences are\nentirely distinct and independent.\n\nSince then both number and unity are incompatible with the relation\nof identity, it must lie in something that is neither of them. But to\ntell the truth, at first sight this seems utterly impossible. Betwixt\nunity and number there can be no medium; no more than betwixt existence\nand non-existence. After one object is supposed to exist, we must\neither suppose another also to exist; in which case we have the idea\nof number: or we must suppose it not to exist; in which case the first\nobject remains at unity.\n\nTo remove this difficulty, let us have recourse to the idea of time\nor duration. I have already observed,[4] that time, in a strict\nsense, implies succession, and that, when we apply its idea to any\nunchangeable object, 'tis only by a fiction of the imagination by\nwhich the unchangeable object is supposed to participate of the\nchanges of the co-existent objects, and in particular of that of our\nperceptions. This fiction of the imagination almost universally takes\nplace; and 'tis by means of it that a single object, placed before\nus, and surveyed for any time without our discovering in it any\ninterruption or variation, is able to give us a notion of identity.\nFor when we consider any two points of this time, we may place them in\ndifferent lights: we may either survey them at the very same instant;\nin which case they give us the idea of number, both by themselves and\nby the object; which must be multiplied in order to be conceived at\nonce, as existent in these two different points of time: or, on the\nother hand, we may trace the succession of time by a like succession\nof ideas, and conceiving first one moment, along with the object\nthen existent, imagine afterwards a change in the time without any\n_variation_ or _interruption_ in the object; in which case it gives\nus the idea of unity. Here then is an idea, which is a medium betwixt\nunity and number; or, more properly speaking, is either of them,\naccording to the view in which we take it: and this idea we call that\nof identity. We cannot, in any propriety of speech, say that an object\nis the same with itself, unless we mean that the object existent at\none time is the same with itself existent at another. By this means we\nmake a difference betwixt the idea meant by the word _object_, and that\nmeant by _itself_, without going the length of number, and at the same\ntime without restraining ourselves to a strict and absolute unity.\n\nThus the principle of individuation is nothing but the _invariableness_\nand _uninterruptedness_ of any object, through a supposed variation of\ntime, by which the mind can trace it in the different periods of its\nexistence, without any break of the view, and without being obliged to\nform the idea of multiplicity or number.\n\nI now proceed to explain the _second_ part of my system, and show why\nthe constancy of our perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect\nnumerical identity, though there be very long intervals betwixt their\nappearance, and they have only one of the essential qualities of\nidentity, viz. _invariableness_. That I may avoid all ambiguity and\nconfusion on this head, I shall observe, that I here account for the\nopinions and belief of the vulgar with regard to the existence of\nbody; and therefore must entirely conform myself to their manner of\nthinking and of expressing themselves. Now, we have already observed,\nthat however philosophers may distinguish betwixt the objects and\nperceptions of the senses; which they suppose co-existent and\nresembling; yet this is a distinction which is not comprehended by\nthe generality of mankind, who, as they perceive only one being, can\nnever assent to the opinion of a double existence and representation.\nThose very sensations which enter by the eye or ear are with them the\ntrue objects, nor can they readily conceive that this pen or paper,\nwhich is immediately perceived, represents another which is different\nfrom, but resembling it. In order, therefore, to accommodate myself to\ntheir notions, I shall at first suppose that there is only a single\nexistence, which I shall call indifferently _object_ or _perception_,\naccording as it shall seem best to suit my purpose, understanding by\nboth of them what any common man means by a hat, or shoe, or stone, or\nany other impression conveyed to him by his senses. I shall be sure to\ngive warning when I return to a more philosophical way of speaking and\nthinking.\n\nTo enter therefore upon the question concerning the source of the\nerror and deception with regard to identity, when we attribute it\nto our resembling perceptions, notwithstanding their interruption,\nI must here recal an observation which I have already proved and\nexplained.[5] Nothing is more apt to make us mistake one idea for\nanother, than any relation betwixt them, which associates them together\nin the imagination, and makes it pass with facility from one to the\nother. Of all relations, that of resemblance is in this respect the\nmost efficacious; and that because it not only causes an association\nof ideas, but also of dispositions, and makes us conceive the one\nidea by an act or operation of the mind, similar to that by which we\nconceive the other. This circumstance I have observed to be of great\nmoment; and we may establish it for a general rule, that whatever ideas\nplace the mind in the same disposition or in similar ones, are very\napt to be confounded. The mind readily passes from one to the other,\nand perceives not the change without a strict attention, of which,\ngenerally speaking, 'tis wholly incapable.\n\nIn order to apply this general maxim, we must first examine the\ndisposition of the mind in viewing any object which preserves a\nperfect identity, and then find some other object that is confounded\nwith it, by causing a similar disposition. When we fix our thought\non any object, and suppose it to continue the same for some time,\n'tis evident we suppose the change to lie only in the time, and never\nexert ourselves to produce any new image or idea of the object. The\nfaculties of the mind repose themselves in a manner, and take no\nmore exercise than what is necessary to continue that idea of which\nwe were formerly possessed, and which subsists without variation or\ninterruption. The passage from one moment to another is scarce felt,\nand distinguishes not itself by a different perception or idea, which\nmay require a different direction of the spirits, in order to its\nconception.\n\nNow, what other objects, beside identical ones, are capable of placing\nthe mind in the same disposition, when it considers them, and of\ncausing the same uninterrupted passage of the imagination from one idea\nto another? This question is of the last importance. For if we can\nfind any such objects, we may certainly conclude, from the foregoing\nprinciple, that they are very naturally confounded with identical\nones, and are taken for them in most of our reasonings. But though\nthis question be very important, 'tis not very difficult nor doubtful.\nFor I immediately reply, that a succession of related objects places\nthe mind in this disposition, and is considered with the same smooth\nand uninterrupted progress of the imagination, as attends the view of\nthe same invariable object. The very nature and essence of relation is\nto connect our ideas with each other, and upon the appearance of one,\nto facilitate the transition to its correlative. The passage betwixt\nrelated ideas, is therefore so smooth and easy, that it produces little\nalteration on the mind, and seems like the continuation of the same\naction; and as the continuation of the same action is an effect of the\ncontinued view of the same object, 'tis for this reason we attribute\nsameness to every succession of related objects. The thought slides\nalong the succession with equal facility, as if it considered only one\nobject; and therefore confounds the succession with the identity.\n\nWe shall afterwards see many instances of this tendency of relation\nto make us ascribe an _identity_ to _different_ objects; but shall\nhere confine ourselves to the present subject. We find by experience,\nthat there is such a _constancy_ in almost all the impressions of the\nsenses, that their interruption produces no alteration on them, and\nhinders them not from returning the same in appearance and in situation\nas at their first existence. I survey the furniture of my chamber; I\nshut my eyes, and afterwards open them; and find the new perceptions\nto resemble perfectly those which formerly struck my senses. This\nresemblance is observed in a thousand instances, and naturally connects\ntogether our ideas of these interrupted perceptions by the strongest\nrelation, and conveys the mind with an easy transition from one to\nanother. An easy transition or passage of the imagination, along the\nideas of these different and interrupted perceptions, is almost the\nsame disposition of mind with that in which we consider one constant\nand uninterrupted perception. 'Tis therefore very natural for us to\nmistake the one for the other.[6]\n\nThe persons who entertain this opinion concerning the identity of\nour resembling perceptions, are in general all the unthinking and\nunphilosophical part of mankind, (that is, all of us at one time or\nother), and, consequently, such as suppose their perceptions to be\ntheir only objects, and never think of a double existence internal and\nexternal, representing and represented. The very image which is present\nto the senses is with us the real body; and 'tis to these interrupted\nimages we ascribe a perfect identity. But as the interruption of the\nappearance seems contrary to the identity, and naturally leads us to\nregard these resembling perceptions as different from each other,\nwe here find ourselves at a loss how to reconcile such opposite\nopinions. The smooth passage of the imagination along the ideas of the\nresembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them a perfect identity. The\ninterrupted manner of their appearance makes us consider them as so\nmany resembling, but still distinct beings, which appear after certain\nintervals. The perplexity arising from this contradiction produces\na propension to unite these broken appearances by the fiction of a\ncontinued existence, which is the _third_ part of that hypothesis I\nproposed to explain.\n\nNothing is more certain from experience than that any contradiction\neither to the sentiments or passions gives a sensible uneasiness,\nwhether it proceeds from without or from within; from the opposition\nof external objects, or from the combat of internal principles. On\nthe contrary, whatever strikes in with the natural propensities, and\neither externally forwards their satisfaction, or internally concurs\nwith their movements, is sure to give a sensible pleasure. Now, there\nbeing here an opposition betwixt the notion of the identity of\nresembling perceptions, and the interruption of their appearance, the\nmind must be uneasy in that situation, and will naturally seek relief\nfrom the uneasiness. Since the uneasiness arises from the opposition\nof two contrary principles, it must look for relief by sacrificing\nthe one to the other. But as the smooth passage of our thought along\nour resembling perceptions makes us ascribe to them an identity,\nwe can never, without reluctance, yield up that opinion. We must\ntherefore turn to the other side, and suppose that our perceptions\nare no longer interrupted, but preserve a continued as well as an\ninvariable existence, and are by that means entirely the same. But\nhere the interruptions in the appearance of these perceptions are so\nlong and frequent, that 'tis impossible to overlook them; and as the\n_appearance_ of a perception in the mind and its _existence_ seem\nat first sight entirely the same, it may be doubted whether we can\never assent to so palpable a contradiction, and suppose a perception\nto exist without being present to the mind. In order to clear up\nthis matter, and learn how the interruption in the appearance of a\nperception implies not necessarily an interruption in its existence,\n'twill be proper to touch upon some principles which we shall have\noccasion to explain more fully afterwards.[7]\n\nWe may begin with observing, that the difficulty in the present case\nis not concerning the matter of fact, or whether the mind forms such\na conclusion concerning the continued existence of its perceptions,\nbut only concerning the manner in which the conclusion is formed, and\nprinciples from which it is derived. 'Tis certain that almost all\nmankind, and even philosophers themselves, for the greatest part of\ntheir lives, take their perceptions to be their only objects, and\nsuppose that the very being which is intimately present to the mind,\nis the real body or material existence. 'Tis also certain that this\nvery perception or object is supposed to have a continued uninterrupted\nbeing, and neither to be annihilated by our absence, nor to be brought\ninto existence by our presence. When we are absent from it, we say it\nstill exists, but that we do not feel, we do not see it. When we are\npresent, we say we feel or see it. Here then may arise two questions;\n_first_, how we can satisfy ourselves in supposing a perception to be\nabsent from the mind without being annihilated. _Secondly_, after what\nmanner we conceive an object to become present to the mind, without\nsome new creation of a perception or image; and what we mean by this\n_seeing_, and _feeling_, and _perceiving_.\n\nAs to the first question, we may observe, that what we call a _mind_,\nis nothing but a heap or collection of different perceptions, united\ntogether by certain relations, and supposed, though falsely, to\nbe endowed with a perfect simplicity and identity. Now, as every\nperception is distinguishable from another, and may be considered as\nseparately existent; it evidently follows, that there is no absurdity\nin separating any particular perception from the mind; that is, in\nbreaking off all its relations with that connected mass of perceptions\nwhich constitute a thinking being.\n\nThe same reasoning affords us an answer to the second question. If the\nname of _perception_ renders not this separation from a mind absurd\nand contradictory, the name of _object_, standing for the same thing,\ncan never render their conjunction impossible. External objects are\nseen and felt, and become present to the mind; that is, they acquire\nsuch a relation to a connected heap of perceptions as to influence them\nvery considerably in augmenting their number by present reflections\nand passions, and in storing the memory with ideas. The same continued\nand uninterrupted being may, therefore, be sometimes present to the\nmind and sometimes absent from it without any real or essential change\nin the being itself. An interrupted appearance to the senses implies\nnot necessarily an interruption in the existence. The supposition of\nthe continued existence of sensible objects or perceptions involves\nno contradiction. We may easily indulge our inclination to that\nsupposition. When the exact resemblance of our perceptions makes us\nascribe to them an identity, we may remove the seeming interruption\nby feigning a continued being, which may fill those intervals, and\npreserve a perfect and entire identity to our perceptions.\n\nBut as we here not only _feign_ but _believe_ this continued existence,\nthe question is, _from whence arises such a belief_? and this question\nleads us to the _fourth_ member of this system. It has been proved\nalready, that belief, in general, consists in nothing but the vivacity\nof an idea; and that an idea may acquire this vivacity by its relation\nto some present impression. Impressions are naturally the most vivid\nperceptions of the mind; and this quality is in part conveyed by the\nrelation to every connected idea. The relation causes a smooth passage\nfrom the impression to the idea, and even gives a propensity to that\npassage. The mind falls so easily from the one perception to the other,\nthat it scarce perceives the change, but retains in the second a\nconsiderable share of the vivacity of the first. It is excited by the\nlively impression, and this vivacity is conveyed to the related idea,\nwithout any great diminution in the passage, by reason of the smooth\ntransition and the propensity of the imagination.\n\nBut suppose that this propensity arises from some other principle,\nbesides that of relation; 'tis evident, it must still have the same\neffect, and convey the vivacity from the impression to the idea. Now,\nthis is exactly the present case. Our memory presents us with a vast\nnumber of instances of perceptions perfectly resembling each other,\nthat return at different distances of time, and after considerable\ninterruptions. This resemblance gives us a propension to consider these\ninterrupted perceptions as the same; and also a propension to connect\nthem by a continued existence, in order to justify this identity, and\navoid the contradiction in which the interrupted appearance of these\nperceptions seems necessarily to involve us. Here then we have a\npropensity to feign the continued existence of all sensible objects;\nand as this propensity arises from some lively impressions of the\nmemory, it bestows a vivacity on that fiction; or, in other words,\nmakes us believe the continued existence of body. If, sometimes we\nascribe a continued existence to objects, which are perfectly new to\nus, and of whose constancy and coherence we have no experience, 'tis\nbecause the manner, in which they present themselves to our senses,\nresembles that of constant and coherent objects; and this resemblance\nis a source of reasoning and analogy, and leads us to attribute the\nsame qualities to the similar objects.\n\nI believe an intelligent reader will find less difficulty to assent\nto this system, than to comprehend it fully and distinctly, and will\nallow, after a little reflection, that every part carries its own proof\nalong with it. 'Tis indeed evident, that as the vulgar _suppose_ their\nperceptions to be their only objects, and at the same time _believe_\nthe continued existence of matter, we must account for the origin of\nthe belief upon that supposition. Now, upon that supposition, 'tis a\nfalse opinion that any of our objects, or perceptions, are identically\nthe same after an interruption; and consequently the opinion of\ntheir identity can never arise from reason, but must arise from the\nimagination. The imagination is seduced into such an opinion only by\nmeans of the resemblance of certain perceptions; since we find they are\nonly our resembling perceptions, which we have a propension to suppose\nthe same. This propension to bestow an identity on our resembling\nperceptions, produces the fiction of a continued existence; since that\nfiction, as well as the identity, is really false, as is acknowledged\nby all philosophers, and has no other effect than to remedy the\ninterruption of our perceptions, which is the only circumstance that\nis contrary to their identity. In the last place, this propension\ncauses belief by means of the present impressions of the memory; since,\nwithout the remembrance of former sensations, 'tis plain we never\nshould have any belief of the continued existence of body. Thus, in\nexamining all these parts, we find that each of them is supported by\nthe strongest proofs; and that all of them together form a consistent\nsystem, which is perfectly convincing. A strong propensity or\ninclination alone, without any present impression, will sometimes cause\na belief or opinion. How much more when aided by that circumstance!\n\nBut though we are led after this manner, by the natural propensity of\nthe imagination, to ascribe a continued existence to those sensible\nobjects or perceptions, which we find to resemble each other in their\ninterrupted appearance; yet a very little reflection and philosophy\nis sufficient to make us perceive the fallacy of that opinion. I have\nalready observed, that there is an intimate connexion betwixt those\ntwo principles, of a _continued_ and of a _distinct_ or _independent_\nexistence, and that we no sooner establish the one than the other\nfollows, as a necessary consequence. 'Tis the opinion of a continued\nexistence, which first takes place, and without much study or\nreflection draws the other along with it, wherever the mind follows\nits first and most natural tendency. But when we compare experiments,\nand reason a little upon them, we quickly perceive, that the doctrine\nof the independent existence of our sensible perceptions is contrary\nto the plainest experience. This leads us backward upon our footsteps\nto perceive our error in attributing a continued existence to our\nperceptions, and is the origin of many very curious opinions, which we\nshall here endeavour to account for.\n\n'Twill first be proper to observe a few of those experiments, which\nconvince us, that our perceptions are not possessed of any independent\nexistence. When we press one eye with a finger, we immediately perceive\nall the objects to become double, and one half of them to be removed\nfrom their common and natural position. But as we do not attribute a\ncontinued existence to both these perceptions, and as they are both\nof the same nature, we clearly perceive, that all our perceptions\nare dependent on our organs, and the disposition of our nerves and\nanimal spirits. This opinion is confirmed by the seeming increase and\ndiminution of objects according to their distance; by the apparent\nalterations in their figure; by the changes in their colour and\nother qualities, from our sickness and distempers, and by an infinite\nnumber of other experiments of the same kind; from all which we learn,\nthat our sensible perceptions are not possessed of any distinct or\nindependent existence.\n\nThe natural consequence of this reasoning should be, that our\nperceptions have no more a continued than an independent existence;\nand, indeed, philosophers have so far run into this opinion, that they\nchange their system, and distinguish (as we shall do for the future)\nbetwixt perceptions and objects, of which the former are supposed to be\ninterrupted and perishing, and different at every different return; the\nlatter to be uninterrupted, and to preserve a continued existence and\nidentity. But however philosophical this new system may be esteemed,\nI assert that 'tis only a palliative remedy, and that it contains\nall the difficulties of the vulgar system, with some others that are\npeculiar to itself. There are no principles either of the understanding\nor fancy, which lead us directly to embrace this opinion of the double\nexistence of perceptions and objects, nor can we arrive at it but by\npassing through the common hypothesis of the identity and continuance\nof our interrupted perceptions. Were we not first persuaded that our\nperceptions are our only objects, and continue to exist even when they\nno longer make their appearance to the senses, we should never be led\nto think that our perceptions and objects are different, and that our\nobjects alone preserve a continued existence. \"The latter hypothesis\nhas no primary recommendation either to reason or the imagination, but\nacquires all its influence on the imagination from the former.\" This\nproposition contains two parts, which we shall endeavour to prove as\ndistinctly and clearly as such abstruse subjects will permit.\n\nAs to the first part of the proposition, _that this philosophical\nhypothesis has no primary recommendation, either to reason or the\nimagination_, we may soon satisfy ourselves with regard to _reason_,\nby the following reflections. The only existences, of which we are\ncertain, are perceptions, which, being immediately present to us\nby consciousness, command our strongest assent, and are the first\nfoundation of all our conclusions. The only conclusion we can draw\nfrom the existence of one thing to that of another, is by means of the\nrelation of cause and effect, which shows, that there is a connexion\nbetwixt them, and that the existence of one is dependent on that of\nthe other. The idea of this relation is derived from past experience,\nby which we find, that two beings are constantly conjoined together,\nand are always present at once to the mind. But as no beings are ever\npresent to the mind but perceptions, it follows, that we may observe\na conjunction or a relation of cause and effect between different\nperceptions, but can never observe it between perceptions and objects.\n'Tis impossible, therefore, that from the existence or any of the\nqualities of the former, we can ever form any conclusion concerning the\nexistence of the latter, or ever satisfy our reason in this particular.\n\n'Tis no less certain, that this philosophical system has no primary\nrecommendation to the _imagination_, and that that faculty would never,\nof itself, and by its original tendency, have fallen upon such a\nprinciple. I confess it will be somewhat difficult to prove this to the\nfull satisfaction of the reader; because it implies a negative, which\nin many cases will not admit of any positive proof. If any one would\ntake the pains to examine this question, and would invent a system, to\naccount for the direct origin of this opinion from the imagination,\nwe should be able, by the examination of that system, to pronounce a\ncertain judgment in the present subject. Let it be taken for granted,\nthat our perceptions are broken and interrupted, and, however like,\nare still different from each other; and let any one, upon this\nsupposition, show why the fancy, directly and immediately, proceeds\nto the belief of another existence, resembling these perceptions in\ntheir nature, but yet continued, and uninterrupted, and identical; and\nafter he has done this to my satisfaction, I promise to renounce my\npresent opinion. Meanwhile I cannot forbear concluding, from the very\nabstractedness and difficulty of the first supposition, that 'tis an\nimproper subject for the fancy to work upon. Whoever would explain the\norigin of the _common_ opinion concerning the continued and distinct\nexistence of body, must take the mind in its _common_ situation, and\nmust proceed upon the supposition, that our perceptions are our only\nobjects, and continue to exist even when they are not perceived. Though\nthis opinion be false, 'tis the most natural of any, and has alone any\nprimary recommendation to the fancy.\n\nAs to the second part of the proposition, _that the philosophical\nsystem acquires all its influence on the imagination from the\nvulgar one_; we may observe, that this is a natural and unavoidable\nconsequence of the foregoing conclusion, _that it has no primary\nrecommendation to reason or the imagination_. For as the philosophical\nsystem is found by experience to take hold of many minds, and, in\nparticular, of all those who reflect ever so little on this subject, it\nmust derive all its authority from the vulgar system, since it has no\noriginal authority of its own. The manner in which these two systems,\nthough directly contrary, are connected together, may be explained as\nfollows.\n\nThe imagination naturally runs on in this train of thinking. Our\nperceptions are our only objects: resembling perceptions are the\nsame, however broken or uninterrupted in their appearance: this\nappearing interruption is contrary to the identity: the interruption\nconsequently extends not beyond the appearance, and the perception\nor object really continues to exist, even when absent from us: our\nsensible perceptions have, therefore, a continued and uninterrupted\nexistence. But as a little reflection destroys this conclusion, that\nour perceptions have a continued existence, by showing that they have a\ndependent one, 'twould naturally be expected, that we must altogether\nreject the opinion, that there is such a thing in nature as a continued\nexistence, which is preserved even when it no longer appears to the\nsenses. The case, however, is otherwise. Philosophers are so far from\nrejecting the opinion of a continued existence upon rejecting that of\nthe independence and continuance of our sensible perceptions, that\nthough all sects agree in the latter sentiment, the former, which is\nin a manner its necessary consequence, has been peculiar to a few\nextravagant sceptics; who, after all, maintained that opinion in words\nonly, and were never able to bring themselves sincerely to believe it.\n\nThere is a great difference betwixt such opinions as we form after\na calm and profound reflection, and such as we embrace by a kind of\ninstinct or natural impulse, on account of their suitableness and\nconformity to the mind. If these opinions become contrary, 'tis not\ndifficult to foresee which of them will have the advantage. As long as\nour attention is bent upon the subject, the philosophical and studied\nprinciple may prevail; but the moment we relax our thoughts, nature\nwill display herself, and draw us back to our former opinion. Nay she\nhas sometimes such an influence, that she can stop our progress, even\nin the midst of our most profound reflections, and keep us from running\non with all the consequences of any philosophical opinion. Thus, though\nwe clearly perceive the dependence and interruption of our perceptions,\nwe stop short in our career, and never upon that account reject the\nnotion of an independent and continued existence. That opinion has\ntaken such deep root in the imagination, that 'tis impossible ever to\neradicate it, nor will any strained metaphysical conviction of the\ndependence of our perceptions be sufficient for that purpose.\n\nBut though our natural and obvious principles here prevail above our\nstudied reflections, 'tis certain there must be some struggle and\nopposition in the case; at least so long as these reflections retain\nany force or vivacity. In order to set ourselves at ease in this\nparticular, we contrive a new hypothesis, which seems to comprehend\nboth these principles of reason and imagination. This hypothesis is the\nphilosophical one of the double existence of perceptions and objects;\nwhich pleases our reason, in allowing that our dependent perceptions\nare interrupted and different, and at the same time is agreeable to\nthe imagination, in attributing a continued existence to something\nelse, which we call _objects_. This philosophical system, therefore,\nis the monstrous offspring of two principles, which are contrary to\neach other, which are both at once embraced by the mind, and which\nare unable mutually to destroy each other. The imagination tells us,\nthat our resembling perceptions have a continued and uninterrupted\nexistence, and are not annihilated by their absence. Reflection tells\nus, that even our resembling perceptions are interrupted in their\nexistence, and different from each other. The contradiction betwixt\nthese opinions we elude by a new fiction, which is conformable to the\nhypotheses both of reflection and fancy, by ascribing these contrary\nqualities to different existences; the _interruption_ to perceptions,\nand the _continuance_ to objects. Nature is obstinate, and will not\nquit the field, however strongly attacked by reason; and at the same\ntime reason is so clear in the point, that there is no possibility\nof disguising her. Not being able to reconcile these two enemies, we\nendeavour to set ourselves at ease as much as possible, by successively\ngranting to each whatever it demands, and by feigning a double\nexistence, where each may find something that has all the conditions it\ndesires. Were we fully convinced that our resembling perceptions are\ncontinued, and identical, and independent, we should never run into\nthis opinion of a double existence; since we should find satisfaction\nin our first supposition, and would not look beyond. Again, were we\nfully convinced that our perceptions are dependent, and interrupted,\nand different, we should be as little inclined to embrace the opinion\nof a double existence; since in that case we should clearly perceive\nthe error of our first supposition of a continued existence, and would\nnever regard it any farther. 'Tis therefore from the intermediate\nsituation of the mind that this opinion arises, and from such an\nadherence to these two contrary principles, as makes us seek some\npretext to justify our receiving both; which happily at last is found\nin the system of a double existence.\n\nAnother advantage of this philosophical system is its similarity to\nthe vulgar one, by which means we can humour our reason for a moment,\nwhen it becomes troublesome and solicitous; and yet upon its least\nnegligence or inattention, can easily return to our vulgar and natural\nnotions. Accordingly we find, that philosophers neglect not this\nadvantage, but, immediately upon leaving their closets, mingle with the\nrest of mankind in those exploded opinions, that our perceptions are\nour only objects, and continue identically and uninterruptedly the same\nin all their interrupted appearances.\n\nThere are other particulars of this system, wherein we may remark its\ndependence on the fancy, in a very conspicuous manner. Of these, I\nshall observe the two following. _First_, we suppose external objects\nto resemble internal perceptions. I have already shown, that the\nrelation of cause and effect can never afford us any just conclusion\nfrom the existence or qualities of our perceptions to the existence of\nexternal continued objects: and I shall farther add, that even though\nthey could afford such a conclusion, we should never have any reason\nto infer that our objects resemble our perceptions. That opinion,\ntherefore, is derived from nothing but the quality of the fancy\nabove explained, _that it borrows all its ideas from some precedent\nperception_. We never can conceive any thing but perceptions, and\ntherefore must make every thing resemble them.\n\nSecondly, as we suppose our objects in general to resemble our\nperceptions, so we take it for granted, that every particular object\nresembles that perception which it causes. The relation of cause and\neffect determines us to join the other of resemblance; and the ideas\nof these existences being already united together in the fancy by the\nformer relation, we naturally add the latter to complete the union.\nWe have a strong propensity to complete every union by joining new\nrelations to those which we have before observed betwixt any ideas, as\nwe shall have occasion to observe presently.[8]\n\nHaving thus given an account of all the systems, both popular and\nphilosophical, with regard to external existences, I cannot forbear\ngiving vent to a certain sentiment which arises upon reviewing those\nsystems. I begun this subject with premising, that we ought to have an\nimplicit faith in our senses, and that this would be the conclusion I\nshould draw from the whole of my reasoning. But to be ingenuous, I feel\nmyself _at present_ of a quite contrary sentiment, and am more inclined\nto repose no faith at all in my senses, or rather imagination, than to\nplace in it such an implicit confidence. I cannot conceive how such\ntrivial qualities of the fancy, conducted by such false suppositions,\ncan ever lead to any solid and rational system. They are the coherence\nand constancy of our perceptions, which produce the opinion of their\ncontinued existence; though these qualities of perceptions have no\nperceivable connexion with such an existence. The constancy of our\nperceptions has the most considerable effect, and yet is attended with\nthe greatest difficulties. 'Tis a gross illusion to suppose, that\nour resembling perceptions are numerically the same; and 'tis this\nillusion which leads us into the opinion, that these perceptions are\nuninterrupted, and are still existent, even when they are not present\nto the senses. This is the case with our popular system. And as to\nour philosophical one, 'tis liable to the same difficulties; and is,\nover and above, loaded with this absurdity, that it at once denies and\nestablishes the vulgar supposition. Philosophers deny our resembling\nperceptions to be identically the same, and uninterrupted; and yet\nhave so great a propensity to believe them such, that they arbitrarily\ninvent a new set of perceptions, to which they attribute these\nqualities. I say, a new set of perceptions: for we may well suppose in\ngeneral, but 'tis impossible for us distinctly to conceive, objects to\nbe in their nature any thing but exactly the same with perceptions.\nWhat then can we look for from this confusion of groundless and\nextraordinary opinions but error and falsehood? And how can we justify\nto ourselves any belief we repose in them?\n\nThis sceptical doubt, both with respect to reason and the senses, is\na malady which can never be radically cured, but must return upon us\nevery moment, however we may chase it away, and sometimes may seem\nentirely free from it. 'Tis impossible, upon any system, to defend\neither our understanding or senses; and we but expose them farther\nwhen we endeavour to justify them in that manner. As the sceptical\ndoubt arises naturally from a profound and intense reflection on those\nsubjects, it always increases the farther we carry our reflections,\nwhether in opposition or conformity to it. Carelessness and inattention\nalone can afford us any remedy. For this reason I rely entirely upon\nthem; and take it for granted, whatever may be the reader's opinion at\nthis present moment, that an hour hence he will be persuaded there is\nboth an external and internal world; and, going upon that supposition,\nI intend to examine some general systems, both ancient and modern,\nwhich have been proposed of both, before I proceed to a more particular\ninquiry concerning our impressions. This will not, perhaps, in the end,\nbe found foreign to our present purpose.\n\n\n[1] Part II. Sect. 6.\n\n[2] Sect. 5.\n\n[3] Part II. Sect. 4.\n\n[4] Part II. Sect. 5.\n\n[5] Part. II. Sect. 5.\n\n[6] This reasoning, it must be confessed, is somewhat abstruse, and\ndifficult to be comprehended; but it is remarkable, that this very\ndifficulty may be converted into a proof of the reasoning. We may\nobserve, that there are two relations, and both of them resemblances,\nwhich contribute to our mistaking the succession of our interrupted\nperceptions for an identical object. The first is, the resemblance of\nthe perceptions: the second is, the resemblance which the act of the\nmind in surveying a succession of resembling objects, bears to that in\nsurveying an identical object. Now these resemblances we are apt to\nconfound with each other; and 'tis natural we should, according to this\nvery reasoning. But let us keep them distinct, and we shall find no\ndifficulty in conceiving the precedent argument.\n\n[7] Sect. 6.\n\n[8] Sect. 5.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION III.\n\nOF THE ANCIENT PHILOSOPHY.\n\n\nSeveral moralists have recommended it as an excellent method of\nbecoming acquainted with our own hearts, and knowing our progress in\nvirtue, to recollect our dreams in a morning, and examine them with the\nsame rigour that we would our most serious and most deliberate actions.\nOur character is the same throughout, say they, and appears best\nwhere artifice, fear and policy, have no place, and men can neither\nbe hypocrites with themselves nor others. The generosity or baseness\nof our temper, our meekness or cruelty, our courage or pusillanimity,\ninfluence the fictions of the imagination with the most unbounded\nliberty, and discover themselves in the most glaring colours. In like\nmanner, I am persuaded, there might be several useful discoveries made\nfrom a criticism of the fictions of the ancient philosophy concerning\n_substances, and substantial forms, and accidents, and occult\nqualities_, which, however unreasonable and capricious, have a very\nintimate connexion with the principles of human nature.\n\n'Tis confessed by the most judicious philosophers, that our ideas of\nbodies are nothing but collections formed by the mind of the ideas of\nthe several distinct sensible qualities, of which objects are composed,\nand which we find to have a constant union with each other. But however\nthese qualities may in themselves be entirely distinct, 'tis certain\nwe commonly regard the compound, which they form, as _one_ thing,\nand as continuing the _same_ under very considerable alterations.\nThe acknowledged composition is evidently contrary to this supposed\n_simplicity_, and the variation to the _identity_. It may therefore be\nworth while to consider the _causes_, which make us almost universally\nfall into such evident contradictions, as well as the _means_ by which\nwe endeavour to conceal them.\n\n'Tis evident, that as the ideas of the several distinct _successive_\nqualities of objects are united together by a very close relation, the\nmind, in looking along the succession, must be carried from one part\nof it to another by an easy transition, and will no more perceive the\nchange, than if it contemplated the same unchangeable object. This easy\ntransition is the effect, or rather essence of relation; and as the\nimagination readily takes one idea for another, where their influence\non the mind is similar; hence it proceeds, that any such succession\nof related qualities is readily considered as one continued object,\nexisting without any variation. The smooth and uninterrupted progress\nof the thought, being alike in both cases, readily deceives the mind,\nand makes us ascribe an identity to the changeable succession of\nconnected qualities.\n\nBut when we alter our method of considering the succession, and,\ninstead of tracing it gradually through the successive points of time,\nsurvey at once any two distinct periods of its duration, and compare\nthe different conditions of the successive qualities; in that case\nthe variations, which were insensible when they arose gradually, do\nnow appear of consequence, and seem entirely to destroy the identity.\nBy this means there arises a kind of contrariety in our method of\nthinking, from the different points of view, in which we survey the\nobject, and from the nearness or remoteness of those instants of time,\nwhich we compare together. When we gradually follow an object in its\nsuccessive changes, the smooth progress of the thought makes us ascribe\nan identity to the succession; because 'tis by a similar act of the\nmind we consider an unchangeable object. When we compare its situation\nafter a considerable change the progress of the thought is broke; and\nconsequently we are presented with the idea of diversity; in order\nto reconcile which contradictions the imagination is apt to feign\nsomething unknown and invisible, which it supposes to continue the same\nunder all these variations; and this unintelligible something it calls\na _substance, or original and first matter_.\n\nWe entertain a like notion with regard to the _simplicity_ of\nsubstances, and from like causes. Suppose an object perfectly simple\nand indivisible to be presented, along with another object, whose\n_co-existent_ parts are connected together by a strong relation, 'tis\nevident the actions of the mind, in considering these two objects, are\nnot very different. The imagination conceives the simple object at\nonce, with facility, by a single effort of thought, without change or\nvariation. The connexion of parts in the compound object has almost the\nsame effect, and so unites the object within itself, that the fancy\nfeels not the transition in passing from one part to another. Hence the\ncolour, taste, figure, solidity, and other qualities, combined in a\npeach or melon, are conceived to form _one thing_; and that on account\nof their close relation, which makes them affect the thought in the\nsame manner, as if perfectly uncompounded. But the mind rests not here.\nWhenever it views the object in another light, it finds that all these\nqualities are different, and distinguishable, and separable from each\nother; which view of things being destructive of its primary and more\nnatural notions, obliges the imagination to feign an unknown something,\nor _original_ substance and matter, as a principle of union or cohesion\namong these qualities, and as what may give the compound object a title\nto be called one thing, notwithstanding its diversity and composition.\n\nThe Peripatetic philosophy asserts the _original_ matter to be\nperfectly homogeneous in all bodies, and considers fire, water, earth,\nand air, as of the very same substance, on account of their gradual\nrevolutions and changes into each other. At the same time it assigns to\neach of these species of objects a distinct _substantial form_, which\nit supposes to be the source of all those different qualities they\npossess, and to be a new foundation of simplicity and identity to each\nparticular species. All depends on our manner of viewing the objects.\nWhen we look along the insensible changes of bodies, we suppose all of\nthem to be of the same substance or essence. When we consider their\nsensible differences, we attribute to each of them a substantial and\nessential difference. And in order to indulge ourselves in both these\nways of considering our objects, we suppose all bodies to have at once\na substance and a substantial form.\n\nThe notion of _accidents_ is an unavoidable consequence of this method\nof thinking with regard to substances and substantial forms; nor can\nwe forbear looking upon colours, sounds, tastes, figures, and other\nproperties of bodies, as existences, which cannot subsist apart,\nbut require a subject of inhesion to sustain and support them. For\nhaving never discovered any of these sensible qualities, where, for\nthe reasons above mentioned, we did not likewise fancy a substance\nto exist; the same habit, which makes us infer a connexion betwixt\ncause and effect, makes us here infer a dependence of every quality on\nthe unknown substance. The custom of imagining a dependence has the\nsame effect as the custom of observing it would have. This conceit,\nhowever, is no more reasonable than any of the foregoing. Every quality\nbeing a distinct thing from another, may be conceived to exist apart,\nand may exist apart not only from every other quality, but from that\nunintelligible chimera of a substance.\n\nBut these philosophers carry their fictions still farther in their\nsentiments concerning _occult qualities_, and both suppose a substance\nsupporting, which they do not understand, and an accident supported,\nof which they have as imperfect an idea. The whole system, therefore,\nis entirely incomprehensible, and yet is derived from principles as\nnatural as any of these above explained.\n\nIn considering this subject, we may observe a gradation of three\nopinions that rise above each other, according as the persons who\nform them acquire new degrees of reason and knowledge. These opinions\nare that of the vulgar, that of a false philosophy, and that of the\ntrue; where we shall find upon inquiry, that the true philosophy\napproaches nearer to the sentiments of the vulgar than to those of a\nmistaken knowledge. 'Tis natural for men, in their common and careless\nway of thinking, to imagine they perceive a connexion betwixt such\nobjects as they have constantly found united together; and because\ncustom has rendered it difficult to separate the ideas, they are apt\nto fancy such a separation to be in itself impossible and absurd. But\nphilosophers, who abstract from the effects of custom, and compare\nthe ideas of objects, immediately perceive the falsehood of these\nvulgar sentiments, and discover that there is no known connexion among\nobjects. Every different object appears to them entirely distinct and\nseparate; and they perceive that 'tis not from a view of the nature\nand qualities of objects we infer one from another, but only when in\nseveral instances we observe them to have been constantly conjoined.\nBut these philosophers, instead of drawing a just inference from this\nobservation, and concluding, that we have no idea of power or agency,\nseparate from the mind and belonging to causes; I say, instead of\ndrawing this conclusion, they frequently search for the qualities\nin which this agency consists, and are displeased with every system\nwhich their reason suggests to them, in order to explain it. They\nhave sufficient force of genius to free them from the vulgar error,\nthat there is a natural and perceivable connexion betwixt the several\nsensible qualities and actions of matter, but not sufficient to keep\nthem from ever seeking for this connexion in matter or causes. Had\nthey fallen upon the just conclusion, they would have returned back\nto the situation of the vulgar, and would have regarded all these\ndisquisitions with indolence and indifference. At present they seem to\nbe in a very lamentable condition, and such as the poets have given\nus but a faint notion of in their descriptions of the punishment of\nSisyphus and Tantalus. For what can be imagined more tormenting than\nto seek with eagerness what for ever flies us, and seek for it in a\nplace where 'tis impossible it can ever exist?\n\nBut as Nature seems to have observed a kind of justice and compensation\nin every thing, she has not neglected philosophers more than the rest\nof the creation, but has reserved them a consolation amid all their\ndisappointments and afflictions. This consolation principally consists\nin their invention of the words _faculty_ and _occult quality_. For\nit being usual, after the frequent use of terms, which are really\nsignificant and intelligible, to omit the idea which we would express\nby them, and preserve only the custom by which we recal the idea at\npleasure; so it naturally happens, that after the frequent use of\nterms which are wholly insignificant and unintelligible, we fancy them\nto be on the same footing with the precedent, and to have a secret\nmeaning which we might discover by reflection. The resemblance of their\nappearance deceives the mind, as is usual, and makes us imagine a\nthorough resemblance and conformity. By this means these philosophers\nset themselves at ease, and arrive at last, by an illusion, at the\nsame indifference which the people attain by their stupidity, and true\nphilosophers by their moderate scepticism. They need only say, that\nany phenomenon which puzzles them arises from a faculty or an occult\nquality, and there is an end of all dispute and inquiry upon the matter.\n\nBut among all the instances wherein the Peripatetics have shown they\nwere guided by every trivial propensity of the imagination, no one is\nmore remarkable than their _sympathies, antipathies, and horrors of\na vacuum_. There is a very remarkable inclination in human nature to\nbestow on external objects the same emotions which it observes in\nitself, and to find every where those ideas which are most present to\nit. This inclination, 'tis true, is suppressed by a little reflection,\nand only takes place in children, poets, and the ancient philosophers.\nIt appears in children, by their desire of beating the stones which\nhurt them: in poets by their readiness to personify every thing; and in\nthe ancient philosophers, by these fictions of sympathy and antipathy.\nWe must pardon children, because of their age; poets, because they\nprofess to follow implicitly the suggestions of their fancy; but\nwhat excuse shall we find to justify our philosophers in so signal a\nweakness?\n\n\n\n\nSECTION IV.\n\nOF THE MODERN PHILOSOPHY.\n\n\nBut here it may be objected, that the imagination, according to my own\nconfession, being the ultimate judge of all systems of philosophy, I\nam unjust in blaming the ancient philosophers for making use of that\nfaculty, and allowing themselves to be entirely guided by it in their\nreasonings. In order to justify myself, I must distinguish in the\nimagination betwixt the principles which are permanent, irresistible,\nand universal; such as the customary transition from causes to effects,\nand from effects to causes: and the principles, which are changeable,\nweak and irregular; such as those I have just now taken notice of. The\nformer are the foundation of all our thoughts and actions, so that\nupon their removal, human nature must immediately perish and go to\nruin. The latter are neither unavoidable to mankind, nor necessary, or\nso much as useful in the conduct of life; but, on the contrary, are\nobserved only to take place in weak minds, and being opposite to the\nother principles of custom and reasoning, may easily be subverted by a\ndue contrast and opposition. For this reason, the former are received\nby philosophy, and the latter rejected. One who concludes somebody to\nbe near him, when he hears an articulate voice in the dark, reasons\njustly and naturally; though that conclusion be derived from nothing\nbut custom, which infixes and enlivens the idea of a human creature, on\naccount of his usual conjunction with the present impression. But one,\nwho is tormented he knows not why, with the apprehension of spectres\nin the dark, may perhaps be said to reason, and to reason naturally\ntoo: but then it must be in the same sense that a malady is said to\nbe natural; as arising from natural causes, though it be contrary to\nhealth, the most agreeable and most natural situation of man.\n\nThe opinions of the ancient philosophers, their fictions of substance\nand accident, and their reasonings concerning substantial forms and\noccult qualities, are like the spectres in the dark, and are derived\nfrom principles, which, however common, are neither universal nor\nunavoidable in human nature. The _modern philosophy_ pretends to be\nentirely free from this defect, and to arise only from the solid,\npermanent, and consistent principles of the imagination. Upon what\ngrounds this pretension is founded, must now be the subject of our\ninquiry.\n\nThe fundamental principle of that philosophy is the opinion concerning\ncolours, sounds, tastes, smells, heat and cold; which it asserts to\nbe nothing but impressions in the mind, derived from the operation\nof external objects, and without any resemblance to the qualities of\nthe objects. Upon examination, I find only one of the reasons commonly\nproduced for this opinion to be satisfactory; viz. that derived from\nthe variations of those impressions, even while the external object,\nto all appearance, continues the same. These variations depend upon\nseveral circumstances. Upon the different situations of our health:\na man in a malady feels a disagreeable taste in meats, which before\npleased him the most. Upon the different complexions and constitutions\nof men: that seems bitter to one, which is sweet to another. Upon the\ndifference of their external situation and position: colours reflected\nfrom the clouds change according to the distance of the clouds, and\naccording to the angle they make with the eye and luminous body. Fire\nalso communicates the sensation of pleasure at one distance, and that\nof pain at another. Instances of this kind are very numerous and\nfrequent.\n\nThe conclusion drawn from them, is likewise as satisfactory as can\npossibly be imagined. 'Tis certain, that when different impressions of\nthe same sense arise from any object, every one of these impressions\nhas not a resembling quality existent in the object. For as the same\nobject cannot, at the same time, be endowed with different qualities\nof the same sense, and as the same quality cannot resemble impressions\nentirely different; it evidently follows, that many of our impressions\nhave no external model or archetype. Now, from like effects we\npresume like causes. Many of the impressions of colour, sound, &c.,\nare confessed to be nothing but internal existences, and to arise\nfrom causes, which no ways resemble them. These impressions are in\nappearance nothing different from the other impressions of colour,\nsound, &c. We conclude, therefore, that they are, all of them, derived\nfrom a like origin.\n\nThis principle being once admitted, all the other doctrines of that\nphilosophy seem to follow by an easy consequence. For, upon the removal\nof sounds, colours, heat, cold, and other sensible qualities, from the\nrank of continued independent existences, we are reduced merely to\nwhat are called primary qualities, as the only _real_ ones, of which\nwe have any adequate notion. These primary qualities are extension and\nsolidity, with their different mixtures and modifications; figure,\nmotion, gravity and cohesion. The generation, increase, decay and\ncorruption of animals and vegetables, are nothing but changes of figure\nand motion; as also the operations of all bodies on each other; of\nfire, of light, water, air, earth, and of all the elements and powers\nof nature. One figure and motion produces another figure and motion;\nnor does there remain in the material universe any other principle,\neither active or passive, of which we can form the most distant idea.\n\nI believe many objections might be made to this system; but at present\nI shall confine myself to one, which is, in my opinion, very decisive.\nI assert, that instead of explaining the operations of external objects\nby its means, we utterly annihilate all these objects, and reduce\nourselves to the opinions of the most extravagant scepticism concerning\nthem. If colours, sounds, tastes and smells be merely perceptions,\nnothing, we can conceive, is possessed of a real, continued, and\nindependent existence; not even motion, extension and solidity, which\nare the primary qualities chiefly insisted on.\n\nTo begin with the examination of motion; 'tis evident this is a quality\naltogether inconceivable alone, and without a reference to some other\nobject. The idea of motion necessarily supposes that of a body moving.\nNow, what is our idea of the moving body, without which motion is\nincomprehensible? It must resolve itself into the idea of extension or\nof solidity; and consequently the reality of motion depends upon that\nof these other qualities.\n\nThis opinion, which is universally acknowledged concerning motion, I\nhave proved to be true with regard to extension; and have shown that\n'tis impossible to conceive extension but as composed of parts, endowed\nwith colour or solidity. The idea of extension is a compound idea; but\nas it is not compounded of an infinite number of parts or inferior\nideas, it must at last resolve itself into such as are perfectly simple\nand indivisible. These simple and indivisible parts not being ideas of\nextension, must be nonentities, unless conceived as coloured or solid.\nColour is excluded from any real existence. The reality therefore of\nour idea of extension depends upon the reality of that of solidity; nor\ncan the former be just while the latter is chimerical. Let us then lend\nour attention to the examination of the idea of solidity.\n\nThe idea of solidity is that of two objects, which, being impelled\nby the utmost force, cannot penetrate each other, but still maintain\na separate and distinct existence. Solidity therefore is perfectly\nincomprehensible alone, and without the conception of some bodies which\nare solid, and maintain this separate and distinct existence. Now,\nwhat idea have we of these bodies? The ideas of colours, sounds, and\nother secondary qualities, are excluded. The idea of motion depends on\nthat of extension, and the idea of extension on that of solidity. 'Tis\nimpossible, therefore, that the idea of solidity can depend on either\nof them. For that would be to run in a circle, and make one idea depend\non another, while, at the same time, the latter depends on the former.\nOur modern philosophy, therefore, leaves us no just nor satisfactory\nidea of solidity, nor consequently of matter.\n\nThis argument will appear entirely conclusive to every one that\ncomprehends it; but because it may seem abstruse and intricate to\nthe generality of readers, I hope to be excused if I endeavour to\nrender it more obvious by some variation of the expression. In order\nto form an idea of solidity, we must conceive two bodies pressing on\neach other without any penetration; and 'tis impossible to arrive at\nthis idea, when we confine ourselves to one object, much more without\nconceiving any. Two nonentities cannot exclude each other from their\nplaces, because they never possess any place, nor can be endowed with\nany quality. Now I ask, what idea do we form of these bodies or objects\nto which we suppose solidity to belong? To say that we conceive them\nmerely as solid, is, to run on _in infinitum_. To affirm that we paint\nthem out to ourselves as extended, either resolves all into a false\nidea, or returns in a circle. Extension must necessarily be considered\neither as coloured, which is a false idea, or as solid, which brings us\nback to the first question. We may make the same observation concerning\nmobility and figure; and, upon the whole, must conclude, that after the\nexclusion of colours, sounds, heat and cold, from the rank of external\nexistences, there remains nothing which can afford us a just and\nconsistent idea of body.\n\nAdd to this, that, properly speaking, solidity or impenetrability is\nnothing but an impossibility of annihilation, as has been already\nobserved:[8] for which reason 'tis the more necessary for us to form\nsome distinct idea of that object whose annihilation we suppose\nimpossible. An impossibility of being annihilated cannot exist, and can\nnever be conceived to exist, by itself, but necessarily requires some\nobject or real existence to which it may belong. Now, the difficulty\nstill remains how to form an idea of this object or existence, without\nhaving recourse to the secondary and sensible qualities.\n\nNor must we omit, on this occasion, our accustomed method of examining\nideas by considering those impressions from which they are derived.\nThe impressions which enter by the sight and hearing, the smell and\ntaste, are affirmed by modern philosophy to be without any resembling\nobjects; and consequently the idea of solidity, which is supposed to\nbe real, can never be derived from any of these senses. There remains,\ntherefore, the feeling as the only sense that can convey the impression\nwhich is original to the idea of solidity; and, indeed, we naturally\nimagine that we feel the solidity of bodies, and need but touch any\nobject in order to perceive this quality. But this method of thinking\nis more popular than philosophical, as will appear from the following\nreflections.\n\nFirst, 'tis easy to observe, that though bodies are felt by means\nof their solidity, yet the feeling is a quite different thing from\nthe solidity, and that they have not the least resemblance to each\nother. A man who has the palsy in one hand has as perfect an idea of\nimpenetrability, when he observes that hand to be supported by the\ntable, as when he feels the same table with the other hand. An object\nthat presses upon any of our members meets with resistance; and that,\nresistance, by the motion it gives to the nerves and animal spirits,\nconveys a certain sensation to the mind; but it does not follow that\nthe sensation, motion and resistance, are any ways resembling.\n\nSecondly, the impressions of touch are simple impressions, except when\nconsidered with regard to their extension; which makes nothing to the\npresent purpose: and from this simplicity I infer, that they neither\nrepresent solidity, nor any real object. For let us put two cases, viz.\nthat of a man who presses a stone or any solid body with his hand, and\nthat of two stones which press each other; 'twill readily be allowed\nthat these two cases are not in every respect alike, but that in the\nformer there is conjoined with the solidity a feeling or sensation of\nwhich there is no appearance in the latter. In order, therefore, to\nmake these two cases alike, 'tis necessary to remove some part of the\nimpression which the man feels by his hand, or organ of sensation; and\nthat being impossible in a simple impression, obliges us to remove the\nwhole, and proves that this whole impression has no archetype or model\nin external objects; to which we may add, that solidity necessarily\nsupposes two bodies, along with contiguity and impulse; which being a\ncompound object, can never be represented by a simple impression. Not\nto mention, that, though solidity continues always invariably the same,\nthe impressions of touch change every moment upon us, which is a clear\nproof that the latter are not representations of the former.\n\nThus there is a direct and total opposition betwixt our reason and our\nsenses; or, more properly speaking, betwixt those conclusions we form\nfrom cause and effect, and those that persuade us of the continued and\nindependent existence of body. When we reason from cause and effect, we\nconclude, that neither colour, sound, taste nor smell, have a continued\nand independent existence. When we exclude these sensible qualities,\nthere remains nothing in the universe which has such an existence.\n\n\n[8] Part II. Sect. 4.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION V.\n\nOF THE IMMATERIALITY OF THE SOUL.\n\n\nHaving found such contradictions and difficulties in every system\nconcerning external objects, and in the idea of matter, which we fancy\nso clear and determinate, we shall naturally expect still greater\ndifficulties and contradictions in every hypothesis concerning our\ninternal perceptions, and the nature of the mind, which we are apt\nto imagine so much more obscure and uncertain. But in this we should\ndeceive ourselves. The intellectual world, though involved in infinite\nobscurities, is not perplexed with any such contradictions as those we\nhave discovered in the natural. What is known concerning it, agrees\nwith itself; and what is unknown, we must be contented to leave so.\n\n'Tis true, would we hearken to certain philosophers, they promise to\ndiminish our ignorance; but I am afraid 'tis at the hazard of running\nus into contradictions, from which the subject is of itself exempted.\nThese philosophers are the curious reasoners concerning the material\nor immaterial substances, in which they suppose our perceptions to\ninhere. In order to put a stop to these endless cavils on both sides,\nI know no better method, than to ask these philosophers in a few\nwords, _What they mean by substance and inhesion?_ And after they have\nanswered this question, 'twill then be reasonable, and not till then,\nto enter seriously into the dispute.\n\nThis question we have found impossible to be answered with regard to\nmatter and body; but besides that in the case of the mind it labours\nunder all the same difficulties, 'tis burthened with some additional\nones, which are peculiar to that subject. As every idea is derived from\na precedent impression, had we any idea of the substance of our minds,\nwe must also have an impression of it, which is very difficult, if not\nimpossible, to be conceived. For how can an impression represent a\nsubstance, otherwise than by resembling it? And how can an impression\nresemble a substance, since, according to this philosophy, it is not a\nsubstance, and has none of the peculiar qualities or characteristics of\na substance?\n\nBut leaving the question of _what may or may not be_, for that other\n_what actually is_, I desire those philosophers, who pretend that we\nhave an idea of the substance of our minds, to point out the impression\nthat produces it, and tell distinctly after what manner that impression\noperates, and from what object it is derived. Is it an impression of\nsensation or reflection? Is it pleasant, or painful, or indifferent?\nDoes it attend us at all times, or does it only return at intervals?\nIf at intervals, at what times principally does it return, and by what\ncauses is it produced?\n\nIf, instead of answering these questions, any one should evade\nthe difficulty, by saying, that the definition of a substance is\n_something which may exist by itself_, and that this definition ought\nto satisfy us: should this be said, I should observe, that this\ndefinition agrees to every thing that can possibly be conceived;\nand never will serve to distinguish substance from accident, or the\nsoul from its perceptions. For thus I reason. Whatever is clearly\nconceived, may exist; and whatever is clearly conceived, after any\nmanner, may exist after the same manner. This is one principle which\nhas been already acknowledged. Again, every thing which is different is\ndistinguishable, and every thing which is distinguishable is separable\nby the imagination. This is another principle. My conclusion from both\nis, that since all our perceptions are different from each other,\nand from every thing else in the universe, they are also distinct\nand separable, and may be considered as separately existent, and may\nexist separately, and have no need of any thing else to support their\nexistence. They are therefore substances, as far as this definition\nexplains a substance.\n\nThus, neither by considering the first origin of ideas, nor by means\nof a definition, are we able to arrive at any satisfactory notion\nof substance, which seems to me a sufficient reason for abandoning\nutterly that dispute concerning the materiality and immateriality of\nthe soul, and makes me absolutely condemn even the question itself. We\nhave no perfect idea of any thing but of a perception. A substance is\nentirely different from a perception. We have therefore no idea of a\nsubstance. Inhesion in something is supposed to be requisite to support\nthe existence of our perceptions. Nothing appears requisite to support\nthe existence of a perception. We have therefore no idea of inhesion.\nWhat possibility then of answering that question, _Whether perceptions\ninhere in a material or immaterial substance_, when we do not so much\nas understand the meaning of the question?\n\nThere is one argument commonly employed for the immateriality of the\nsoul, which seems to me remarkable. Whatever is extended consists\nof parts; and whatever consists of parts is divisible, if not in\nreality, at least in the imagination. But 'tis impossible any thing\ndivisible can be _conjoined_ to a thought or perception, which is a\nbeing altogether inseparable and indivisible. For, supposing such a\nconjunction, would the indivisible thought exist on the left or on\nthe right hand of this extended divisible body? On the surface or in\nthe middle? On the back or fore-side of it? If it be conjoined with\nthe extension, it must exist somewhere within its dimensions. If it\nexist within its dimensions, it must either exist in one particular\npart; and then that particular part is indivisible, and the perception\nis conjoined only with it, not with the extension: or if the thought\nexists in every part, it must also be extended, and separable,\nand divisible, as well as the body, which is utterly absurd and\ncontradictory. For can any one conceive a passion of a yard in length,\na foot in breadth, and an inch in thickness? Thought therefore and\nextension are qualities wholly incompatible, and never can incorporate\ntogether into one subject.\n\nThis argument affects not the question concerning the _substance_ of\nthe soul, but only that concerning its _local conjunction_ with matter;\nand therefore it may not be improper to consider in general what\nobjects are, or are not susceptible of a local conjunction. This is a\ncurious question, and may lead us to some discoveries of considerable\nmoment.\n\nThe first notion of space and extension is derived solely from the\nsenses of sight and feeling; nor is there anything, but what is\ncoloured or tangible, that has parts disposed after such a manner\nas to convey that idea. When we diminish or increase a relish, 'tis\nnot after the same manner that we diminish or increase any visible\nobject; and when several sounds strike our hearing at once, custom and\nreflection alone make us form an idea of the degrees of the distance\nand contiguity of those bodies from which they are derived. Whatever\nmarks the place of its existence, either must be extended, or must be a\nmathematical point, without parts or composition. What is extended must\nhave a particular figure, as square, round, triangular; none of which\nwill agree to a desire, or indeed to any impression or idea, except\nof these two senses above-mentioned. Neither ought a desire, though\nindivisible, to be considered as a mathematical point. For in that case\n'twould be possible, by the addition of others, to make two, three,\nfour desires; and these disposed and situated in such a manner, as to\nhave a determinate length, breadth, and thickness; which is evidently\nabsurd.\n\n'Twill not be surprising after this, if I deliver a maxim, which is\ncondemned by several metaphysicians, and is esteemed contrary to the\nmost certain principles of human reason. This maxim is, _that an object\nmay exist, and yet be no where_: and I assert, that this is not only\npossible, but that the greatest part of beings do and must exist after\nthis manner. An object may be said to be no where, when its parts are\nnot so situated with respect to each other, as to form any figure or\nquantity; nor the whole with respect to other bodies so as to answer\nto our notions of contiguity or distance. Now, this is evidently the\ncase with all our perceptions and objects, except those of the sight\nand feeling. A moral reflection cannot be placed on the right or on\nthe left hand of a passion; nor can a smell or sound be either of a\ncircular or a square figure.\n\nThese objects and perceptions, so far from requiring any particular\nplace, are absolutely incompatible with it, and even the imagination\ncannot attribute it to them. And as to the absurdity of supposing them\nto be no where, we may consider, that if the passions and sentiments\nappear to the perception to have any particular place, the idea of\nextension might be derived from them, as well as from the sight and\ntouch; contrary to what we have already established. If they _appear_\nnot to have any particular place, they may possibly _exist_ in the same\nmanner; since whatever we conceive is possible.\n\n'Twill not now be necessary to prove, that those perceptions, which\nare simple, and exist no where, are incapable of any conjunction in\nplace with matter or body, which is extended and divisible; since 'tis\nimpossible to found a relation but on some common quality.[9] It may\nbe better worth our while to remark, that this question of the local\nconjunction of objects, does not only occur in metaphysical disputes\nconcerning the nature of the soul, but that even in common life we have\nevery moment occasion to examine it. Thus, supposing we consider a\nfig at one end of the table, and an olive at the other, 'tis evident,\nthat, in forming the complex ideas of these substances, one of the most\nobvious is that of their different relishes; and 'tis as evident, that\nwe incorporate and conjoin these qualities with such as are coloured\nand tangible. The bitter taste of the one, and sweet of the other, are\nsupposed to lie in the very visible body, and to be separated from\neach other by the whole length of the table. This is so notable and so\nnatural an illusion, that it may be proper to consider the principles\nfrom which it is derived.\n\nThough an extended object be incapable of a conjunction in place\nwith another that exists without any place or extension, yet are\nthey susceptible of many other relations. Thus the taste and smell\nof any fruit are inseparable from its other qualities of colour and\ntangibility; and whichever of them be the cause or effect, 'tis certain\nthey are always co-existent. Nor are they only co-existent in general,\nbut also cotemporary in their appearance in the mind; and 'tis upon\nthe application of the extended body to our senses we perceive its\nparticular taste and smell. These relations, then, of _causation, and\ncontiguity in the time of their appearance_, betwixt the extended\nobject and the quality, which exists without any particular place,\nmust have such an effect on the mind, that, upon the appearance of\none, it will immediately turn its thought to the conception of the\nother. Nor is this all. We not only turn our thought from one to the\nother upon account of their relation, but likewise endeavour to give\nthem a new relation, viz. that of _a conjunction in place_, that we\nmay render the transition more easy and natural. For 'tis a quality,\nwhich I shall often have occasion to remark in human nature, and shall\nexplain more fully in its proper place, that, when objects are united\nby any relation, we have a strong propensity to add some new relation\nto them, in order to complete the union. In our arrangement of bodies,\nwe never fail to place such as are resembling in contiguity to each\nother, or, at least, in correspondent points of view: why? but because\nwe feel a satisfaction in joining the relation of contiguity to that\nof resemblance, or the resemblance of situation to that of qualities.\nThe effects of this propensity have been already observed[10] in that\nresemblance, which we so readily suppose betwixt particular impressions\nand their external causes. But we shall not find a more evident effect\nof it than in the present instance, where, from the relations of\ncausation and contiguity in time betwixt two objects, we feign likewise\nthat of a conjunction in place, in order to strengthen the connexion.\n\nBut whatever confused notions we may form of an union in place betwixt\nan extended body, as a fig, and its particular taste, 'tis certain\nthat, upon reflection, we must observe in this union something\naltogether unintelligible and contradictory. For, should we ask\nourselves one obvious question, viz. if the taste, which we conceive to\nbe contained in the circumference of the body, is in every part of it,\nor in one only, we must quickly find ourselves at a loss, and perceive\nthe impossibility of ever giving a satisfactory answer. We cannot reply\nthat 'tis only in one part: for experience convinces us that every part\nhas the same relish. We can as little reply that it exists in every\npart: for then we must suppose it figured and extended; which is absurd\nand incomprehensible. Here, then, we are influenced by two principles,\ndirectly contrary to each other, viz. that _inclination_ of our fancy\nby which we are determined to incorporate the taste with the extended\nobject, and our _reason_, which shows us the impossibility of such an\nunion. Being divided betwixt these opposite principles, we renounce\nneither one nor the other, but involve the subject in such confusion\nand obscurity, that we no longer perceive the opposition. We suppose\nthat the taste exists within the circumference of the body, but in\nsuch a manner, that it fills the whole without extension, and exists\nentire in every part without separation. In short, we use, in our most\nfamiliar way of thinking, that scholastic principle which, when crudely\nproposed, appears so shocking, of _totum in toto, et totum in qualibet\nparte_; which is much the same as if we should say, that a thing is in\na certain place, and yet is not there.\n\nAll this absurdity proceeds from our endeavouring to bestow a place on\nwhat is utterly incapable of it; and that endeavour again arises from\nour inclination to complete an union which is founded on causation and\na contiguity of time, by attributing to the objects a conjunction in\nplace. But if ever reason be of sufficient force to overcome prejudice,\n'tis certain that, in the present case, it must prevail. For we have\nonly this choice left, either to suppose that some beings exist without\nany place, or that they are figured and extended; or that when they\nare incorporated with extended objects, the whole is in the whole, and\nthe whole in every part. The absurdity of the two last suppositions\nproves sufficiently the veracity of the first. Nor is there any fourth\nopinion: For as to the supposition of their existence in the manner of\nmathematical points, it resolves itself into the second opinion, and\nsupposes, that several passions may be placed in a circular figure,\nand that a certain number of smells, conjoined with a certain number\nof sounds, may make a body of twelve cubic inches; which appears\nridiculous upon the bare mentioning of it.\n\nBut though in this view of things we cannot refuse to condemn, the\nmaterialists, who conjoin all thought with extension; yet a little\nreflection will show us equal reason for blaming their antagonists,\nwho conjoin all thought with a simple and indivisible substance. The\nmost vulgar philosophy informs us, that no external object can make\nitself known to the mind immediately, and without the interposition of\nan image or perception. That table, which just now appears to me, is\nonly a perception, and all its qualities are qualities of a perception.\nNow, the most obvious of all its qualities is extension. The perception\nconsists of parts. These parts are so situated as to afford us the\nnotion of distance and contiguity, of length, breadth and thickness.\nThe termination of these three dimensions is what we call figure. This\nfigure is moveable, separable, and divisible. Mobility and separability\nare the distinguishing properties of extended objects. And to cut short\nall disputes, the very idea of extension is copied from nothing but an\nimpression, and consequently must perfectly agree to it. To say the\nidea of extension agrees to any thing, is to say it is extended.\n\nThe freethinker may now triumph in his turn; and having found there are\nimpressions and ideas really extended, may ask his antagonists, how\nthey can incorporate a simple and indivisible subject with an extended\nperception? All the arguments of theologians may here be retorted\nupon them. Is the indivisible subject or immaterial substance, if you\nwill, on the left or on the right hand of the perception? Is it in\nthis particular part, or in that other? Is it in every part without\nbeing extended? Or is it entire in any one part without deserting the\nrest? 'Tis impossible to give any answer to these questions but what\nwill both be absurd in itself, and will account for the union of our\nindivisible perceptions with an extended substance.\n\nThis gives me an occasion to take anew into consideration the question\nconcerning the substance of the soul; and though I have condemned that\nquestion as utterly unintelligible, yet I cannot forbear proposing some\nfarther reflections concerning it. I assert, that the doctrine of the\nimmateriality, simplicity, and indivisibility of a thinking substance\nis a true atheism, and will serve to justify all those sentiments for\nwhich Spinoza is so universally infamous. From this topic I hope at\nleast to reap one advantage, that my adversaries will not have any\npretext to render the present doctrine odious by their declamations\nwhen they see that they can be so easily retorted on them.\n\nThe fundamental principle of the atheism of Spinoza is the doctrine\nof the simplicity of the universe, and the unity of that substance\nin which he supposes both thought and matter to inhere. There is\nonly one substance, says he, in the world, and that substance is\nperfectly simple and indivisible, and exists every where without\nany local presence. Whatever we discover externally by sensation,\nwhatever we feel internally by reflection, all these are nothing but\nmodifications of that one simple and necessarily existent being, and\nare not possessed of any separate or distinct existence. Every passion\nof the soul, every configuration of matter however different and\nvarious, inhere in the same substance, and preserve in themselves their\ncharacters of distinction, without communicating them to that subject\nin which they inhere. The same _substratum_, if I may so speak,\nsupports the most different modifications without any difference in\nitself, and varies them without any variation. Neither time, nor place,\nnor all the diversity of nature are able to produce any composition or\nchange in its perfect simplicity and identity.\n\nI believe this brief exposition of the principles of that famous\natheist will be sufficient for the present purpose, and that without\nentering farther into these gloomy and obscure regions, I shall be able\nto show, that this hideous hypothesis is almost the same with that of\nthe immateriality of the soul, which has become so popular. To make\nthis evident, let us remember,[11] that as every idea is derived from\na preceding perception, 'tis impossible our idea of a perception, and\nthat of an object or external existence, can ever represent what are\nspecifically different from each other. Whatever difference we may\nsuppose betwixt them, 'tis still incomprehensible to us; and we are\nobliged, either to conceive an external object merely as a relation\nwithout a relative, or to make it the very same with a perception or\nimpression.\n\nThe consequence I shall draw from this may, at first sight, appear a\nmere sophism; but upon the least examination will be found solid and\nsatisfactory. I say then, that since we may suppose, but never can\nconceive, a specific difference betwixt an object and impression,\nany conclusion we form concerning the connexion and repugnance of\nimpressions, will not be known certainly to be applicable to objects;\nbut that, on the other hand, whatever conclusions of this kind we form\nconcerning objects, will most certainly be applicable to impressions.\nThe reason is not difficult. As an object is supposed to be different\nfrom an impression, we cannot be sure, that the circumstance, upon\nwhich we found our reasoning, is common to both, supposing we form the\nreasoning upon the impression. 'Tis still possible, that the object may\ndiffer from it in that particular. But when we first form our reasoning\nconcerning the object, 'tis beyond doubt, that the same reasoning\nmust extend to the impression: and that because the quality of the\nobject, upon which the argument is founded, must at least be conceived\nby the mind, and could not be conceived, unless it were common to an\nimpression; since we have no idea but what is derived from that origin.\nThus we may establish it as a certain maxim, that we can never, by any\nprinciple, but by an irregular kind of reasoning from experience,[12]\ndiscover a connexion or repugnance betwixt objects, which extends not\nto impressions; though the inverse proposition may not be equally\ntrue, that all the discoverable relations of impressions are common to\nobjects.\n\nTo apply this to the present case; there are two different systems\nof beings presented, to which I suppose myself under a necessity of\nassigning some substance, or ground of inhesion. I observe first the\nuniverse of objects or of body: the sun, moon, and stars; the earth,\nseas, plants, animals, men, ships, houses, and other productions either\nof art or nature. Here Spinoza appears, and tells me, that these\nare only modifications and that the subject in which they inhere is\nsimple, uncompounded, and indivisible. After this I consider the other\nsystem of beings, viz. the universe of thought, or my impressions and\nideas. There I observe another sun, moon, and stars; an earth, and\nseas, covered and inhabited by plants and animals; towns, houses,\nmountains, rivers; and in short every thing I can discover or conceive\nin the first system. Upon my inquiring concerning these, theologians\npresent themselves, and tell me, that these also are modifications, and\nmodifications of one simple, uncompounded, and indivisible substance.\nImmediately upon which I am deafened with the noise of a hundred\nvoices, that treat the first hypothesis with detestation and scorn, and\nthe second with applause and veneration. I turn my attention to these\nhypotheses to see what may be the reason of so great a partiality;\nand find that they have the same fault of being unintelligible, and\nthat, as far as we can understand them, they are so much alike, that\n'tis impossible to discover any absurdity in one, which is not common\nto both of them. We have no idea of any quality in an object, which\ndoes not agree to, and may not represent a quality in an impression;\nand that because all our ideas are derived from our impressions. We\ncan never therefore find any repugnance betwixt an extended object as\na modification, and a simple uncompounded essence, as its substance;\nunless that repugnance takes place equally betwixt the perception or\nimpression of that extended object, and the same uncompounded essence.\nEvery idea of a quality in an object passes through an impression;\nand therefore every _perceivable_ relation, whether of connexion or\nrepugnance, must be common both to objects and impressions.\n\nBut though this argument, considered in general, seems evident beyond\nall doubt and contradiction, yet to make it more clear and sensible,\nlet us survey it in detail; and see whether all the absurdities,\nwhich have been found in the system of Spinoza, may not likewise be\ndiscovered in that of theologians.[13]\n\nFirst, it has been said against Spinoza, according to the scholastic\nway of talking, rather than thinking, that a mode, not being any\ndistinct or separate existence, must be the very same with its\nsubstance, and consequently the extension of the universe must be in\na manner identified with that simple, uncompounded essence in which\nthe universe is supposed to inhere. But this, it may be pretended, is\nutterly impossible and inconceivable unless the indivisible substance\nexpand itself, so as to correspond to the extension, or the extension\ncontract itself, so as to answer to the indivisible substance. This\nargument seems just, as far as we can understand it; and 'tis plain\nnothing is required, but a change in the terms, to apply the same\nargument to our extended perceptions, and the simple essence of the\nsoul; the ideas of objects and perceptions being in every respect the\nsame, only attended with the supposition of a difference, that is\nunknown and incomprehensible.\n\nSecondly, it has been said, that we have no idea of substance, which\nis not applicable to matter; nor any idea of a distinct substance,\nwhich is not applicable to every distinct portion of matter. Matter\ntherefore is not a mode but a substance, and each part of matter is\nnot a distinct mode, but a distinct substance. I have already proved,\nthat we have no perfect idea of substance; but that taking it for\n_something that can exist by itself_, 'tis evident every perception\nis a substance, and every distinct part of a perception a distinct\nsubstance: and consequently the one hypothesis labours under the same\ndifficulties in this respect with the other.\n\nThirdly, it has been objected to the system of one simple substance in\nthe universe, that this substance, being the support or _substratum_\nof every thing, must at the very same instant be modified into forms,\nwhich are contrary and incompatible. The round and square figures\nare incompatible in the same substance at the same time. How then is\nit possible, that the same substance can at once be modified into\nthat square table, and into this round one? I ask the same question\nconcerning the impressions of these tables; and find that the answer is\nno more satisfactory in one case than in the other.\n\nIt appears, then, that to whatever side we turn, the same difficulties\nfollow us, and that we cannot advance one step towards the establishing\nthe simplicity and immateriality of the soul, without preparing the\nway for a dangerous and irrecoverable atheism. 'Tis the same case,\nif, instead of calling thought a modification of the soul, we should\ngive it the more ancient, and yet more modish name of an _action_.\nBy an action we mean much the same thing as what is commonly called\nan abstract mode; that is, something which, properly speaking, is\nneither distinguishable, nor separable from its substance, and is only\nconceived by a distinction of reason, or an abstraction. But nothing is\ngained by this change of the term of modification for that of action;\nnor do we free ourselves from one single difficulty by its means, as\nwill appear from the two following reflections:\n\nFirst, I observe, that the word _action_, according to this explication\nof it, can never justly be applied to any perception, as derived from a\nmind or thinking substance. Our perceptions are all really different,\nand separable, and distinguishable from each other, and from every\nthing else which we can imagine; and therefore, 'tis impossible to\nconceive how they can be the action or abstract mode of any substance.\nThe instance of motion, which is commonly made use of to show after\nwhat manner perception depends as an action upon its substance, rather\nconfounds than instructs us. Motion, to all appearance, induces no real\nnor essential change on the body, but only varies its relation to other\nobjects. But, betwixt a person in the morning walking in a garden,\nwith company agreeable to him; and a person in the afternoon enclosed\nin a dungeon, and full of terror, despair and resentment, there seems\nto be a radical difference, and of quite another kind, than what is\nproduced on a body by the change of its situation. As we conclude from\nthe distinction and separability of their ideas, that external objects\nhave a separate existence from each other; so, when we make these ideas\nthemselves our objects, we must draw the same conclusion concerning\n_them_, according to the precedent reasoning. At least, it must be\nconfessed, that having no idea of the substance of the soul, 'tis\nimpossible for us to tell how it can admit of such differences, and\neven contrarieties of perception, without any fundamental change; and,\nconsequently, can never tell in what sense perceptions are actions of\nthat substance. The use, therefore, of the word _action_, unaccompanied\nwith any meaning, instead of that of modification, makes no addition\nto our knowledge, nor is of any advantage to the doctrine of the\nimmateriality of the soul.\n\nI add, in the second place, that if it brings any advantage to that\ncause, it must bring an equal to the cause of atheism. For, do our\ntheologians pretend to make a monopoly of the word _action_, and may\nnot the atheists likewise take possession of it, and affirm that\nother plants, animals, men, &c., are nothing but particular actions\nof one simple universal substance, which exerts itself from a blind\nand absolute necessity? This you'll say, is utterly absurd. I own\n'tis unintelligible; but, at the same time assert, according to the\nprinciples above explained, that 'tis impossible to discover any\nabsurdity in the supposition, that all the various objects in nature\nare actions of one simple substance, which absurdity will not be\napplicable to a like supposition concerning impressions and ideas.\n\nFrom these hypotheses concerning the _substance_ and _local\nconjunction_ of our perceptions, we may pass to another, which is more\nintelligible than the former, and more important than the latter, viz.\nconcerning the _cause_ of our perceptions. Matter and motion, 'tis\ncommonly said in the schools, however varied, are still matter and\nmotion, and produce only a difference in the position and situation of\nobjects. Divide a body as often as you please, 'tis still body. Place\nit in any figure, nothing ever results but figure, or the relation\nof parts. Move it in any manner, you still find motion or a change\nof relation. 'Tis absurd to imagine, that motion in a circle, for\ninstance, should be nothing but merely motion in a circle; while motion\nin another direction, as in an ellipse, should also be a passion or\nmoral reflection: that the shocking of two globular particles should\nbecome a sensation of pain, and that the meeting of two triangular ones\nshould afford a pleasure. Now as these different shocks and variations\nand mixtures are the only changes of which matter is susceptible, and\nas these never afford us any idea of thought or perception, 'tis\nconcluded to be impossible, that thought can ever be caused by matter.\n\nFew have been able to withstand the seeming evidence of this argument;\nand yet nothing in the world is more easy than to refute it. We need\nonly reflect on what has been proved at large, that we are never\nsensible of any connexion betwixt causes and effects, and that 'tis\nonly by our experience of their constant conjunction, we can arrive\nat any knowledge of this relation. Now, as all objects, which are not\ncontrary, are susceptible of a constant conjunction, and as no real\nobjects are contrary; I have inferred from these principles,[14] that\nto consider the matter _a priori_, any thing may produce any thing,\nand that we shall never discover a reason, why any object may or may\nnot be the cause of any other, however great, or however little the\nresemblance may be betwixt them. This evidently destroys the precedent\nreasoning concerning the cause of thought or perception. For though\nthere appear no manner of connexion betwixt motion or thought, the\ncase is the same with all other causes and effects. Place one body\nof a pound weight on one end of a lever, and another body of the\nsame weight on another end; you will never find in these bodies any\nprinciple of motion dependent on their distances from the centre, more\nthan of thought and perception. If you pretend, therefore, to prove,\n_a priori_, that such a position of bodies can never cause thought;\nbecause, turn it which way you will, 'tis nothing but a position of\nbodies; you must, by the same course of reasoning conclude, that it\ncan never produce motion; since there is no more apparent connexion\nin the one case than in the other. But as this latter conclusion is\ncontrary to evident experience, and as 'tis possible we may have a like\nexperience in the operations of the mind, and may perceive a constant\nconjunction of thought and motion; you reason too hastily, when, from\nthe mere consideration of the ideas, you conclude that 'tis impossible\nmotion can ever produce thought, or a different position of parts give\nrise to a different passion or reflection. Nay, 'tis not only possible\nwe may have such an experience, but 'tis certain we have it; since\nevery one may perceive, that the different dispositions of his body\nchange his thoughts and sentiments. And should it be said, that this\ndepends on the union of soul and body, I would answer, that we must\nseparate the question concerning the substance of the mind from that\nconcerning the cause of its thought; and that, confining ourselves\nto the latter question, we find, by the comparing their ideas, that\nthought and motion are different from each other, and by experience,\nthat they are constantly united; which being all the circumstances that\nenter into the idea of cause and effect, when applied to the operations\nof matter, we may certainly conclude, that motion may be, and actually\nis, the cause of thought and perception.\n\nThere seems only this dilemma left us in the present case; either to\nassert, that nothing can be the cause of another, but where the mind\ncan perceive the connexion in its idea of the objects: or to maintain,\nthat all objects which we find constantly conjoined, are upon that\naccount to be regarded as causes and effects. If we choose the first\npart of the dilemma, these are the consequences. _First_, we in reality\naffirm, that there is no such thing in the universe as a cause or\nproductive principle, not even the Deity himself; since our idea of\nthat Supreme Being is derived from particular impressions, none of\nwhich contain any efficacy, nor seem to have _any_ connexion with _any_\nother existence. As to what may be said, that the connexion betwixt the\nidea of an infinitely powerful Being and that of any effect, which he\nwills, is necessary and unavoidable; I answer, that we have no idea of\na Being endowed with any power, much less of one endowed with infinite\npower. But if we will change expressions, we can only define power by\nconnexion; and then in saying, that the idea of an infinitely powerful\nBeing is connected with that of every effect which he wills, we really\ndo no more than assert, that a Being, whose volition is connected with\nevery effect, is connected with every effect; which is an identical\nproposition, and gives us no insight into the nature of this power or\nconnexion. But, _secondly_, supposing that the Deity were the great and\nefficacious principle which supplies the deficiency of all causes, this\nleads us into the grossest impieties and absurdities. For upon the same\naccount that we have recourse to him in natural operations, and assert\nthat matter cannot of itself communicate motion, or produce thought,\nviz. because there is no apparent connexion betwixt these objects; I\nsay, upon the very same account, we must acknowledge that the Deity\nis the author of all our volitions and perceptions; since they have\nno more apparent connexion either with one another, or with the\nsupposed but unknown substance of the soul. This agency of the Supreme\nBeing we know to have been asserted by several philosophers[15] with\nrelation to all the actions of the mind, except volition, or rather\nan inconsiderable part of volition; though 'tis easy to perceive, that\nthis exception is a mere pretext, to avoid the dangerous consequences\nof that doctrine. If nothing be active but what has an apparent\npower, thought is in no case any more active than matter; and if this\ninactivity must make us have recourse to a Deity, the Supreme Being is\nthe real cause of all our actions, bad as well as good, vicious as well\nas virtuous.\n\nThus we are necessarily reduced to the other side of the dilemma,\nviz. that all objects, which are found to be constantly conjoined,\nare upon that account only to be regarded as causes and effects. Now,\nas all objects which are not contrary, are susceptible of a constant\nconjunction, and as no real objects are contrary; it follows, that, for\nought we can determine by the mere ideas, any thing may be the cause\nor effect of any thing; which evidently gives the advantage to the\nmaterialists above their antagonists.\n\nTo pronounce, then, the final decision upon the whole: the question\nconcerning the substance of the soul is absolutely unintelligible:\nall our perceptions are not susceptible of a local union, either with\nwhat is extended or unextended; there being some of them of the one\nkind, and some of the other: and as the constant conjunction of objects\nconstitutes the very essence of cause and effect, matter and motion\nmay often be regarded as the causes of thought, as far as we have any\nnotion of that relation.\n\n'Tis certainly a kind of indignity to philosophy, whose sovereign\nauthority ought every where to be acknowledged, to oblige her on every\noccasion to make apologies for her conclusions, and justify herself\nto every particular art and science, which may be offended at her.\nThis puts one in mind of a king arraigned for high treason against\nhis subjects. There is only one occasion when philosophy will think\nit necessary and even honourable to justify herself; and that is,\nreligion may seem to be in the least offended; whose rights are as dear\nto her as her own, and are indeed the same. If any one, therefore,\nshould imagine that the foregoing arguments are any ways dangerous to\nreligion, I hope the following apology will remove his apprehensions.\n\nThere is no foundation for any conclusion _a priori_, either concerning\nthe operations or duration of any object, of which 'tis possible for\nthe human mind to form a conception. Any object may be imagined to\nbecome entirely inactive, or to be annihilated in a moment; and 'tis\nan evident principle, _that whatever we can imagine is possible_.\nNow this is no more true of matter, than of spirit; of an extended\ncompounded substance, than of a simple and unextended. In both cases\nthe metaphysical arguments for the immortality of the soul are equally\ninconclusive; and in both cases the moral arguments and those derived\nfrom the analogy of nature are equally strong and convincing. If my\nphilosophy therefore makes no addition to the arguments for religion, I\nhave at least the satisfaction to think it takes nothing from them, but\nthat every thing remains precisely as before.\n\n\n[9] Part I. Sect. 5.\n\n[10] Sect 2, towards the end.\n\n[11] Part. II. Sect. 6.\n\n[12] Such as that of Sect. 2, from the coherence of our perceptions.\n\n[13] See Bayle's Dictionary, article of Spinoza.\n\n[14] Part III. sect. 15.\n\n[15] As Father Malebranche and other Cartesians.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VI.\n\nOF PERSONAL IDENTITY.\n\n\nThere are some philosophers, who imagine we are every moment intimately\nconscious of what we call our _self_; that we feel its existence and\nits continuance in existence; and are certain, beyond the evidence\nof a demonstration, both of its perfect identity and simplicity. The\nstrongest sensation, the most violent passion, say they, instead of\ndistracting us from this view, only fix it the more intensely, and make\nus consider their influence on _self_ either by their pain or pleasure.\nTo attempt a farther proof of this were to weaken its evidence; since\nno proof can be derived from any fact of which we are so intimately\nconscious; nor is there any thing, of which we can be certain, if we\ndoubt of this.\n\nUnluckily all these positive assertions are contrary to that very\nexperience which is pleaded for them; nor have we any idea of _self_,\nafter the manner it is here explained. For, from what impression could\nthis idea be derived? This question 'tis impossible to answer without\na manifest contradiction and absurdity; and yet 'tis a question which\nmust necessarily be answered, if we would have the idea of self pass\nfor clear and intelligible. It must be some one impression that gives\nrise to every real idea. But self or person is not any one impression,\nbut that to which our several impressions and ideas are supposed to\nhave a reference. If any impression gives rise to the idea of self,\nthat impression must continue invariably the same, through the whole\ncourse of our lives; since self is supposed to exist after that manner.\nBut there is no impression constant and invariable. Pain and pleasure,\ngrief and joy, passions and sensations succeed each other, and never\nall exist at the same time. It cannot therefore be from any of these\nimpressions, or from any other, that the idea of self is derived; and\nconsequently there is no such idea.\n\nBut farther, what must become of all our particular perceptions upon\nthis hypothesis? All these are different, and distinguishable, and\nseparable from each other, and may be separately considered, and may\nexist separately, and have no need of any thing to support their\nexistence. After what manner therefore do they belong to self, and how\nare they connected with it? For my part, when I enter most intimately\ninto what I call _myself_, I always stumble on some particular\nperception or other, of heat or cold, light or shade, love or hatred,\npain or pleasure. I never can catch _myself_ at any time without a\nperception, and never can observe any thing but the perception. When\nmy perceptions are removed for any time, as by sound sleep, so long am\nI insensible of _myself_, and may truly be said not to exist. And were\nall my perceptions removed by death, and could I neither think, nor\nfeel, nor see, nor love, nor hate, after the dissolution of my body,\nI should be entirely annihilated, nor do I conceive what is farther\nrequisite to make me a perfect nonentity. If any one, upon serious and\nunprejudiced reflection, thinks he has a different notion of _himself_,\nI must confess I can reason no longer with him. All I can allow him is,\nthat he may be in the right as well as I, and that we are essentially\ndifferent in this particular. He may, perhaps, perceive something\nsimple and continued, which he calls _himself_; though I am certain\nthere is no such principle in me.\n\nBut setting aside some metaphysicians of this kind, I may venture to\naffirm of the rest of mankind, that they are nothing but a bundle or\ncollection of different perceptions, which succeed each other with an\ninconceivable rapidity, and are in a perpetual flux and movement. Our\neyes cannot turn in their sockets without varying our perceptions.\nOur thought is still more variable than our sight; and all our\nother senses and faculties contribute to this change; nor is there\nany single power of the soul, which remains unalterably the same,\nperhaps for one moment. The mind is a kind of theatre, where several\nperceptions successively make their appearance; pass, repass, glide\naway, and mingle in an infinite variety of postures and situations.\nThere is properly no _simplicity_ in it at one time, nor _identity_\nin different, whatever natural propension we may have to imagine that\nsimplicity and identity. The comparison of the theatre must not mislead\nus. They are the successive perceptions only, that constitute the mind;\nnor have we the most distant notion of the place where these scenes are\nrepresented, or of the materials of which it is composed.\n\nWhat then gives us so great a propension to ascribe an identity to\nthese successive perceptions, and to suppose ourselves possessed of an\ninvariable and uninterrupted existence through the whole course of our\nlives? In order to answer this question, we must distinguish betwixt\npersonal identity, as it regards our thought or imagination, and as it\nregards our passions or the concern we take in ourselves. The first\nis our present subject; and to explain it perfectly we must take the\nmatter pretty deep, and account for that identity, which we attribute\nto plants and animals; there being a great analogy betwixt it and the\nidentity of a self or person.\n\nWe have a distinct idea of an object that remains invariable and\nuninterrupted through a supposed variation of time; and this idea we\ncall that of _identity_ or _sameness_. We have also a distinct idea\nof several different objects existing in succession, and connected\ntogether by a close relation; and this to an accurate view affords\nas perfect a notion of _diversity_, as if there was no manner of\nrelation among the objects. But though these two ideas of identity,\nand a succession of related objects, be in themselves perfectly\ndistinct, and even contrary, yet 'tis certain that, in our common\nway of thinking, they are generally confounded with each other. That\naction of the imagination, by which we consider the uninterrupted and\ninvariable object, and that by which we reflect on the succession of\nrelated objects, are almost the same to the feeling; nor is there much\nmore effort of thought required in the latter case than in the former.\nThe relation facilitates the transition of the mind from one object\nto another, and renders its passage as smooth as if it contemplated\none continued object. This resemblance is the cause of the confusion\nand mistake, and makes us substitute the notion of identity, instead\nof that of related objects. However at one instant we may consider\nthe related succession as variable or interrupted, we are sure the\nnext to ascribe to it a perfect identity, and regard it as invariable\nand uninterrupted. Our propensity to this mistake is so great from\nthe resemblance above mentioned, that we fall into it before we are\naware; and though we incessantly correct ourselves by reflection,\nand return to a more accurate method of thinking, yet we cannot long\nsustain our philosophy, or take off this bias from the imagination.\nOur last resource is to yield to it, and boldly assert that these\ndifferent related objects are in effect the same, however interrupted\nand variable. In order to justify to ourselves this absurdity, we often\nfeign some new and unintelligible principle, that connects the objects\ntogether, and prevents their interruption or variation. Thus, we feign\nthe continued existence of the perceptions of our senses, to remove\nthe interruption; and run into the notion of a _soul_, and _self_, and\n_substance_, to disguise the variation. But, we may farther observe,\nthat where we do not give rise to such a fiction, our propension to\nconfound identity with relation is so great, that we are apt to imagine\nsomething unknown and mysterious,[16] connecting the parts, beside\ntheir relation; and this I take to be the case with regard to the\nidentity we ascribe to plants and vegetables. And even when this does\nnot take place, we still feel a propensity to confound these ideas,\nthough we are not able fully to satisfy ourselves in that particular,\nnor find any thing invariable and uninterrupted to justify our notion\nof identity.\n\nThus, the controversy concerning identity is not merely a dispute\nof words. For, when we attribute identity, in an improper sense,\nto variable or interrupted objects, our mistake is not confined to\nthe expression, but is commonly attended with a fiction, either of\nsomething invariable and uninterrupted, or of something mysterious and\ninexplicable, or at least with a propensity to such fictions. What\nwill suffice to prove this hypothesis to the satisfaction of every\nfair inquirer, is to show, from daily experience and observation, that\nthe objects which are variable or interrupted, and yet are supposed\nto continue the same, are such only as consist of a succession of\nparts, connected together by resemblance, contiguity, or causation.\nFor as such a succession answers evidently to our notion of diversity,\nit can only be by mistake we ascribe to it an identity; and as the\nrelation of parts, which leads us into this mistake, is really nothing\nbut a quality, which produces an association of ideas, and an easy\ntransition of the imagination from one to another, it can only be from\nthe resemblance, which this act of the mind bears to that by which we\ncontemplate one continued object, that the error arises. Our chief\nbusiness, then, must be to prove, that all objects, to which we ascribe\nidentity, without observing their invariableness and uninterruptedness,\nare such as consist of a succession of related objects.\n\nIn order to this, suppose any mass of matter, of which the parts are\ncontiguous and connected, to be placed before us; 'tis plain we must\nattribute a perfect identity to this mass, provided all the parts\ncontinue uninterruptedly and invariably the same, whatever motion or\nchange of place we may observe either in the whole or in any of the\nparts. But supposing some very _small_ or _inconsiderable_ part to\nbe added to the mass, or subtracted from it; though this absolutely\ndestroys the identity of the whole, strictly speaking, yet as we seldom\nthink so accurately, we scruple not to pronounce a mass of matter\nthe same, where we find so trivial an alteration. The passage of the\nthought from the object before the change to the object after it, is so\nsmooth and easy, that we scarce perceive the transition, and are apt to\nimagine, that 'tis nothing but a continued survey of the same object.\n\nThere is a very remarkable circumstance that attends this experiment;\nwhich is, that though the change of any considerable part in a mass\nof matter destroys the identity of the whole, yet we must measure\nthe greatness of the part, not absolutely, but by its _proportion_\nto the whole. The addition or diminution of a mountain would not be\nsufficient to produce a diversity in a planet; though the change of a\nvery few inches would be able to destroy the identity of some bodies.\n'Twill be impossible to account for this, but by reflecting that\nobjects operate upon the mind, and break or interrupt the continuity of\nits actions, not according to their real greatness, but according to\ntheir proportion to each other; and therefore, since this interruption\nmakes an object cease to appear the same, it must be the uninterrupted\nprogress of the thought which constitutes the imperfect identity.\n\nThis may be confirmed by another phenomenon. A change in any\nconsiderable part of a body destroys its identity; but 'tis remarkable,\nthat where the change is produced _gradually_ and _insensibly_, we\nare less apt to ascribe to it the same effect. The reason can plainly\nbe no other, than that the mind, in following the successive changes\nof the body, feels an easy passage from the surveying its condition\nin one moment, to the viewing of it in another, and in no particular\ntime perceives any interruption in its actions. From which continued\nperception, it ascribes a continued existence and identity to the\nobject.\n\nBut whatever precaution we may use in introducing the changes\ngradually, and making them proportionable to the whole, 'tis certain,\nthat where the changes are at last observed to become considerable, we\nmake a scruple of ascribing identity to such different objects. There\nis, however, another artifice, by which we may induce the imagination\nto advance a step farther; and that is, by producing a reference of the\nparts to each other, and a combination to some _common end_ or purpose.\nA ship, of which a considerable part has been changed by frequent\nreparations, is still considered as the same; nor does the difference\nof the materials hinder us from ascribing an identity to it. The\ncommon end, in which the parts conspire, is the same under all their\nvariations, and affords an easy transition of the imagination from one\nsituation of the body to another.\n\nBut this is still more remarkable, when we add a _sympathy_ of parts\nto their _common end_, and suppose that they bear to each other the\nreciprocal relation of cause and effect in all their actions and\noperations. This is the case with all animals and vegetables; where not\nonly the several parts have a reference to some general purpose, but\nalso a mutual dependence on, and connexion with, each other. The effect\nof so strong a relation is, that though every one must allow, that in\na very few years both vegetables and animals endure a _total_ change,\nyet we still attribute identity to them, while their form, size and\nsubstance, are entirely altered. An oak that grows from a small plant\nto a large tree is still the same oak, though there be not one particle\nof matter or figure of its parts the same. An infant becomes a man, and\nis sometimes fat, sometimes lean, without any change in his identity.\n\nWe may also consider the two following phenomena, which are remarkable\nin their kind. The first is, that though we commonly be able to\ndistinguish pretty exactly betwixt numerical and specific identity, yet\nit sometimes happens that we confound them, and in our thinking and\nreasoning employ the one for the other. Thus, a man who hears a noise\nthat is frequently interrupted and renewed, says it is still the same\nnoise, though 'tis evident the sounds have only a specific identity or\nresemblance, and there is nothing numerically the same but the cause\nwhich produced them. In like manner it may be said, without breach\nof the propriety of language, that such a church, which was formerly\nof brick, fell to ruin, and that the parish rebuilt the same church\nof freestone, and according to modern architecture. Here neither the\nform nor materials are the same, nor is there any thing common to the\ntwo objects but their relation to the inhabitants of the parish; and\nyet this alone is sufficient to make us denominate them the same. But\nwe must observe, that in these cases the first object is in a manner\nannihilated before the second comes into existence; by which means,\nwe are never presented, in any one point of time, with the idea of\ndifference and multiplicity; and for that reason are less scrupulous in\ncalling them the same.\n\nSecondly, we may remark, that though, in a succession of related\nobjects, it be in a manner requisite that the change of parts be not\nsudden nor entire, in order to preserve the identity, yet where the\nobjects are in their nature changeable and inconstant, we admit of a\nmore sudden transition than would otherwise be consistent with that\nrelation. Thus, as the nature of a river consists in the motion and\nchange of parts, though in less than four-and-twenty hours these be\ntotally altered, this hinders not the river from continuing the same\nduring several ages. What is natural and essential to any thing is,\nin a manner, expected; and what is expected makes less impression,\nand appears of less moment than what is unusual and extraordinary.\nA considerable change of the former kind seems really less to the\nimagination than the most trivial alteration of the latter; and by\nbreaking less the continuity of the thought, has less influence in\ndestroying the identity.\n\nWe now proceed to explain the nature of _personal identity_, which\nhas become so great a question in philosophy, especially of late\nyears, in England, where all the abstruser sciences are studied with a\npeculiar ardour and application. And here 'tis evident the same method\nof reasoning must be continued which has so successfully explained the\nidentity of plants, and animals, and ships, and houses, and of all the\ncompounded and changeable productions either of art or nature. The\nidentity which we ascribe to the mind of man is only a fictitious one,\nand of a like kind with that which we ascribe to vegetables and animal\nbodies. It cannot therefore have a different origin, but must proceed\nfrom a like operation of the imagination upon like objects.\n\nBut lest this argument should not convince the reader, though in my\nopinion perfectly decisive, let him weigh the following reasoning,\nwhich is still closer and more immediate. 'Tis evident that the\nidentity which we attribute to the human mind, however perfect we may\nimagine it to be, is not able to run the several different perceptions\ninto one, and make them lose their characters of distinction and\ndifference, which are essential to them. 'Tis still true that every\ndistinct perception which enters into the composition of the mind,\nis a distinct existence, and is different, and distinguishable,\nand separable from every other perception, either contemporary or\nsuccessive. But as, notwithstanding this distinction and separability,\nwe [suppose] the whole train of perceptions to be united by identity,\na question naturally arises concerning this relation of identity,\nwhether it be something that really binds our several perceptions\ntogether, or only associates their ideas in the imagination; that is,\nin other words, whether, in pronouncing concerning the identity of a\nperson, we observe some real bond among his perceptions, or only feel\none among the ideas we form of them. This question we might easily\ndecide, if we would recollect what has been already proved at large,\nthat the understanding never observes any real connexion among objects,\nand that even the union of cause and effect, when strictly examined,\nresolves itself into a customary association of ideas. For from thence\nit evidently follows, that identity is nothing really belonging to\nthese different perceptions, and uniting them together, but is merely\na quality which we attribute to them, because of the union of their\nideas in the imagination when we reflect upon them. Now, the only\nqualities which can give ideas an union in the imagination, are these\nthree relations above mentioned. These are the uniting principles in\nthe ideal world, and without them every distinct object is separable\nby the mind, and may be separately considered, and appears not to have\nany more connexion with any other object than if disjoined by the\ngreatest difference and remoteness. 'Tis therefore on some of these\nthree relations of resemblance, contiguity and causation, that identity\ndepends; and as the very essence of these relations consists in their\nproducing an easy transition of ideas, it follows, that our notions of\npersonal identity proceed entirely from the smooth and uninterrupted\nprogress of the thought along a train of connected ideas, according to\nthe principles above explained.\n\nThe only question, therefore, which remains is, by what relations this\nuninterrupted progress of our thought is produced, when we consider\nthe successive existence of a mind or thinking person. And here 'tis\nevident we must confine ourselves to resemblance and causation, and\nmust drop contiguity, which has little or no influence in the present\ncase.\n\nTo begin with _resemblance_; suppose we could see clearly into the\nbreast of another, and observe that succession of perceptions which\nconstitutes his mind or thinking principle, and suppose that he always\npreserves the memory of a considerable part of past perceptions, 'tis\nevident that nothing could more contribute to the bestowing a relation\non this succession amidst all its variations. For what is the memory\nbut a faculty, by which we raise up the images of past perceptions? And\nas an image necessarily resembles its object, must not the frequent\nplacing of these resembling perceptions in the chain of thought, convey\nthe imagination more easily from one link to another, and make the\nwhole seem like the continuance of one object? In this particular,\nthen, the memory not only discovers the identity, but also contributes\nto its production, by producing the relation of resemblance among the\nperceptions. The case is the same, whether we consider ourselves or\nothers.\n\nAs to _causation_; we may observe, that the true idea of the human\nmind, is to consider it as a system of different perceptions or\ndifferent existences, which are linked together by the relation of\ncause and effect, and mutually produce, destroy, influence, and\nmodify each other. Our impressions give rise to their correspondent\nideas; and these ideas, in their turn, produce other impressions. One\nthought chases another, and draws after it a third, by which it is\nexpelled in its turn. In this respect, I cannot compare the soul more\nproperly to any thing than to a republic or commonwealth, in which\nthe several members are united by the reciprocal ties of government\nand subordination, and give rise to other persons who propagate the\nsame republic in the incessant changes of its parts. And as the same\nindividual republic may not only change its members, but also its\nlaws and constitutions; in like manner the same person may vary his\ncharacter and disposition, as well as his impressions and ideas,\nwithout losing his identity. Whatever changes he endures, his several\nparts are still connected by the relation of causation. And in this\nview our identity with regard to the passions serves to corroborate\nthat with regard to the imagination, by the making our distant\nperceptions influence each other, and by giving us a present concern\nfor our past or future pains or pleasures.\n\nAs memory alone acquaints us with the continuance and extent of this\nsuccession of perceptions, 'tis to be considered, upon that account\nchiefly, as the source of personal identity. Had we no memory, we never\nshould have any notion of causation, nor consequently of that chain of\ncauses and effects, which constitute our self or person. But having\nonce acquired this notion of causation from the memory, we can extend\nthe same chain of causes, and consequently the identity of our persons\nbeyond our memory, and can comprehend times, and circumstances, and\nactions, which we have entirely forgot, but suppose in general to have\nexisted. For how few of our past actions are there, of which we have\nany memory? Who can tell me, for instance, what were his thoughts and\nactions on the first of January 1715, the eleventh of March 1719, and\nthe third of August 1733? Or will he affirm, because he has entirely\nforgot the incidents of these days, that the present self is not the\nsame person with the self of that time; and by that means overturn\nall the most established notions of personal identity? In this view,\ntherefore, memory does not so much _produce_ as _discover_ personal\nidentity, by showing us the relation of cause and effect among our\ndifferent perceptions. 'Twill be incumbent on those who affirm that\nmemory produces entirely our personal identity, to give a reason why we\ncan thus extend our identity beyond our memory.\n\nThe whole of this doctrine leads us to a conclusion, which is of great\nimportance in the present affair, viz. that all the nice and subtile\nquestions concerning personal identity can never possibly be decided,\nand are to be regarded rather as grammatical than as philosophical\ndifficulties. Identity depends on the relations of ideas; and these\nrelations produce identity, by means of that easy transition they\noccasion. But as the relations, and the easiness of the transition may\ndiminish by insensible degrees, we have no just standard by which we\ncan decide any dispute concerning the time when they acquire or lose a\ntitle to the name of identity. All the disputes concerning the identity\nof connected objects are merely verbal, except so far as the relation\nof parts gives rise to some fiction or imaginary principle of union, as\nwe have already observed.\n\nWhat I have said concerning the first origin and uncertainty of our\nnotion of identity, as applied to the human mind, may be extended\nwith little or no variation to that of _simplicity_. An object, whose\ndifferent co-existent parts are bound together by a close relation,\noperates upon the imagination after much the same manner as one\nperfectly simple and indivisible, and requires not a much greater\nstretch of thought in order to its conception. From this similarity\nof operation we attribute a simplicity to it, and feign a principle\nof union as the support of this simplicity, and the centre of all the\ndifferent parts and qualities of the object.\n\nThus we have finished our examination of the several systems of\nphilosophy, both of the intellectual and moral world; and, in our\nmiscellaneous way of reasoning, have been led into several topics,\nwhich will either illustrate and confirm some preceding part of this\ndiscourse, or prepare the way for our following opinions. 'Tis now time\nto return to a more close examination of our subject, and to proceed in\nthe accurate anatomy of human nature, having fully explained the nature\nof our judgment and understanding.\n\n\n[16] If the reader is desirous to see how a great genius may be\ninfluenced by these seemingly trivial principles of the imagination, as\nwell as the mere vulgar, let him read my Lord Shaftsbury's reasonings\nconcerning the uniting principle of the universe, and the identity of\nplants and animals. See his _Moralists_, or _Philosophical Rhapsody_.\n\n\n\n\nSECTION VII.\n\nCONCLUSION OF THIS BOOK.\n\n\nBut before I launch out into those immense depths of philosophy which\nlie before me, I find myself inclined to stop a moment in my present\nstation, and to ponder that voyage which I have undertaken, and which\nundoubtedly requires the utmost art and industry to be brought to a\nhappy conclusion. Methinks I am like a man, who, having struck on many\nshoals, and having narrowly escaped shipwreck in passing a small frith,\nhas yet the temerity to put out to sea in the same leaky weather-beaten\nvessel, and even carries his ambition so far as to think of compassing\nthe globe under these disadvantageous circumstances. My memory of past\nerrors and perplexities makes me diffident for the future. The wretched\ncondition, weakness, and disorder of the faculties, I must employ in\nmy inquiries, increase my apprehensions. And the impossibility of\namending or correcting these faculties, reduces me almost to despair,\nand makes me resolve to perish on the barren rock, on which I am at\npresent, rather than venture myself upon that boundless ocean which\nruns out into immensity. This sudden view of my danger strikes me with\nmelancholy; and, as 'tis usual for that passion, above all others, to\nindulge itself, I cannot forbear feeding my despair with all those\ndesponding reflections which the present subject furnishes me with in\nsuch abundance.\n\nI am first affrighted and confounded with that forlorn solitude in\nwhich I am placed in my philosophy, and fancy myself some strange\nuncouth monster, who, not being able to mingle and unite in society,\nhas been expelled all human commerce, and left utterly abandoned and\ndisconsolate. Fain would I run into the crowd for shelter and warmth,\nbut cannot prevail with myself to mix with such deformity. I call\nupon others to join me, in order to make a company apart, but no one\nwill hearken to me. Every one keeps at a distance, and dreads that\nstorm which beats upon me from every side. I have exposed myself to\nthe enmity of all metaphysicians, logicians, mathematicians, and even\ntheologians; and can I wonder at the insults I must suffer? I have\ndeclared my disapprobation of their systems; and can I be surprised\nif they should express a hatred of mine and of my person? When I look\nabroad, I foresee on every side dispute, contradiction, anger, calumny\nand detraction. When I turn my eye inward, I find nothing but doubt and\nignorance. All the world conspires to oppose and contradict me; though\nsuch is my weakness, that I feel all my opinions loosen and fall of\nthemselves, when unsupported by the approbation of others. Every step\nI take is with hesitation, and every new reflection makes me dread an\nerror and absurdity in my reasoning.\n\nFor with what confidence can I venture upon such bold enterprises,\nwhen, beside those numberless infirmities peculiar to myself, I find so\nmany which are common to human nature? Can I be sure that, in leaving\nall established opinions, I am following truth? and by what criterion\nshall I distinguish her, even if fortune should at last guide me on\nher footsteps? After the most accurate and exact of my reasonings, I\ncan give no reason why I should assent to it, and feel nothing but a\n_strong_ propensity to consider objects _strongly_ in that view under\nwhich they appear to me. Experience is a principle which instructs me\nin the several conjunctions of objects for the past. Habit is another\nprinciple which determines me to expect the same for the future; and\nboth of them conspiring to operate upon the imagination, make me form\ncertain ideas in a more intense and lively manner than others which\nare not attended with the same advantages. Without this quality, by\nwhich the mind enlivens some ideas beyond others (which seemingly is so\ntrivial, and so little founded on reason), we could never assent to any\nargument, nor carry our view beyond those few objects which are present\nto our senses. Nay, even to these objects we could never attribute any\nexistence but what was dependent on the senses, and must comprehend\nthem entirely in that succession of perceptions which constitutes our\nself or person. Nay, farther, even with relation to that succession, we\ncould only admit of those perceptions which are immediately present to\nour consciousness; nor could those lively images, with which the memory\npresents us, be ever received as true pictures of past perceptions. The\nmemory, senses, and understanding are therefore all of them founded on\nthe imagination, or the vivacity of our ideas.\n\nNo wonder a principle so inconstant and fallacious should lead us into\nerrors when implicitly followed (as it must be) in all its variations.\n'Tis this principle which makes us reason from causes and effects; and\n'tis the same principle which convinces us of the continued existence\nof external objects when absent from the senses. But though these two\noperations be equally natural and necessary in the human mind, yet in\nsome circumstances they are directly contrary;[17] nor is it possible\nfor us to reason justly and regularly from causes and effects, and at\nthe same time believe the continued existence of matter. How then shall\nwe adjust those principles together? Which of them shall we prefer? Or\nin case we prefer neither of them, but successively assent to both, as\nis usual among philosophers, with what confidence can we afterwards\nusurp that glorious title, when we thus knowingly embrace a manifest\ncontradiction?\n\nThis contradiction[18] would be more excusable were it compensated\nby any degree of solidity and satisfaction in the other parts of our\nreasoning. But the case is quite contrary. When we trace up the human\nunderstanding to its first principles, we find it to lead us into\nsuch sentiments as seem to turn into ridicule all our past pains and\nindustry, and to discourage us from future inquiries. Nothing is more\ncuriously inquired after by the mind of man than the causes of every\nphenomenon; nor are we content with knowing the immediate causes, but\npush on our inquiries till we arrive at the original and ultimate\nprinciple. We would not willingly stop before we are acquainted with\nthat energy in the cause by which it operates on its effect; that tie,\nwhich connects them together; and that efficacious quality on which\nthe tie depends. This is our aim in all our studies and reflections:\nand how must we be disappointed when we learn that this connexion,\ntie, or energy lies merely in ourselves, and is nothing but that\ndetermination of the mind which is acquired by custom, and causes us\nto make a transition from an object to its usual attendant, and from\nthe impression of one to the lively idea of the other? Such a discovery\nnot only cuts off all hope of ever attaining satisfaction, but even\nprevents our very wishes; since it appears, that when we say we desire\nto know the ultimate and operating principle as something which resides\nin the external object, we either contradict ourselves, or talk without\na meaning.\n\nThis deficiency in our ideas is not indeed perceived in common life,\nnor are we sensible that, in the most usual conjunctions of cause and\neffect, we are as ignorant of the ultimate principle which binds them\ntogether, as in the most unusual and extraordinary. But this proceeds\nmerely from an illusion of the imagination; and the question is,\nhow far we ought to yield to these illusions. This question is very\ndifficult, and reduces us to a very dangerous dilemma, whichever way we\nanswer it. For if we assent to every trivial suggestion of the fancy,\nbeside that these suggestions are often contrary to each other, they\nlead us into such errors, absurdities, and obscurities, that we must\nat last become ashamed of our credulity. Nothing is more dangerous to\nreason than the flights of the imagination, and nothing has been the\noccasion of more mistakes among philosophers. Men of bright fancies\nmay in this respect be compared to those angels, whom the Scripture\nrepresents as covering their eyes with their wings. This has already\nappeared in so many instances, that we may spare ourselves the trouble\nof enlarging upon it any farther.\n\nBut, on the other hand, if the consideration of these instances makes\nus take a resolution to reject all the trivial suggestions of the\nfancy, and adhere to the understanding, that is, to the general and\nmore established properties of the imagination; even this resolution,\nif steadily executed, would be dangerous, and attended with the\nmost fatal consequences. For I have already shown,[19] that the\nunderstanding, when it acts alone, and according to its most general\nprinciples, entirely subverts itself, and leaves not the lowest degree\nof evidence in any proposition, either in philosophy or common life.\nWe save ourselves from this total scepticism only by means of that\nsingular and seemingly trivial property of the fancy, by which we\nenter with difficulty into remote views of things, and are not able to\naccompany them with so sensible an impression, as we do those which\nare more easy and natural. Shall we, then, establish it for a general\nmaxim, that no refined or elaborate reasoning is ever to be received?\nConsider well the consequences of such a principle. By this means you\ncut off entirely all science and philosophy: you proceed upon one\nsingular quality of the imagination, and by a parity of reason must\nembrace all of them: and you expressly contradict yourself; since this\nmaxim must be built on the preceding reasoning, which will be allowed\nto be sufficiently refined and metaphysical. What party, then, shall\nwe choose among these difficulties? If we embrace this principle,\nand condemn all refined reasoning, we run into the most manifest\nabsurdities. If we reject it in favour of these reasonings, we subvert\nentirely the human understanding. We have therefore no choice left,\nbut betwixt a false reason and none at all. For my part, I know not\nwhat ought to be done in the present case. I can only observe what\nis commonly done; which is, that this difficulty is seldom or never\nthought of; and even where it has once been present to the mind, is\nquickly forgot, and leaves but a small impression behind it. Very\nrefined reflections have little or no influence upon us; and yet we do\nnot, and cannot establish it for a rule, that they ought not to have\nany influence; which implies a manifest contradiction.\n\nBut what have I here said, that reflections very refined and\nmetaphysical have little or no influence upon us? This opinion I can\nscarce forbear retracting, and condemning from my present feeling and\nexperience. The _intense_ view of these manifold contradictions and\nimperfections in human reason has so wrought upon me, and heated my\nbrain, that I am ready to reject all belief and reasoning, and can\nlook upon no opinion even as more probable or likely than another.\nWhere am I, or what? From what causes do I derive my existence, and to\nwhat condition shall I return? Whose favour shall I court, and whose\nanger must I dread? What beings surround me? and on whom have I any\ninfluence, or who have any influence on me? I am confounded with all\nthese questions, and begin to fancy myself in the most deplorable\ncondition imaginable, environed with the deepest darkness, and utterly\ndeprived of the use of every member and faculty.\n\nMost fortunately it happens, that since reason is incapable of\ndispelling these clouds, Nature herself suffices to that purpose, and\ncures me of this philosophical melancholy and delirium, either by\nrelaxing this bent of mind, or by some avocation, and lively impression\nof my senses, which obliterate all these chimeras. I dine, I play a\ngame of backgammon, I converse, and am merry with my friends; and\nwhen, after three or four hours' amusement, I would return to these\nspeculations, they appear so cold, and strained, and ridiculous, that I\ncannot find in my heart to enter into them any farther.\n\nHere, then, I find myself absolutely and necessarily determined to\nlive, and talk, and act like other people in the common affairs of\nlife. But notwithstanding that my natural propensity, and the course\nof my animal spirits and passions reduce me to this indolent belief\nin the general maxims of the world, I still feel such remains of my\nformer disposition, that I am ready to throw all my books and papers\ninto the fire, and resolve never more to renounce the pleasures of life\nfor the sake of reasoning and philosophy. For those are my sentiments\nin that splenetic humour which governs me at present. I may, nay I\nmust yield to the current of nature, in submitting to my senses and\nunderstanding; and in this blind submission I show most perfectly my\nsceptical disposition and principles. But does it follow that I must\nstrive against the current of nature, which leads me to indolence\nand pleasure; that I must seclude myself, in some measure, from the\ncommerce and society of men, which is so agreeable; and that I must\ntorture my brain with subtilties and sophistries, at the very time that\nI cannot satisfy myself concerning the reasonableness of so painful an\napplication, nor have any tolerable prospect of arriving by its means\nat truth and certainty? Under what obligation do I lie of making such\nan abuse of time? And to what end can it serve, either for the service\nof mankind, or for my own private interest? No: if I must be a fool, as\nall those who reason or believe any thing _certainly_ are, my follies\nshall at least be natural and agreeable. Where I strive against my\ninclination, I shall have a good reason for my resistance; and will no\nmore be led a wandering into such dreary solitudes, and rough passages,\nas I have hitherto met with.\n\nThese are the sentiments of my spleen and indolence; and indeed I must\nconfess, that philosophy has nothing to oppose to them, and expects a\nvictory more from the returns of a serious good-humoured disposition,\nthan from the force of reason and conviction. In all the incidents of\nlife, we ought still to preserve our scepticism. If we believe that\nfire warms, or water refreshes, 'tis only because it costs us too much\npains to think otherwise. Nay, if we are philosophers, it ought only to\nbe upon sceptical principles, and from an inclination which we feel to\nthe employing ourselves after that manner. Where reason is lively, and\nmixes itself with some propensity, it ought to be assented to. Where it\ndoes not, it never can have any title to operate upon us.\n\nAt the time, therefore, that I am tired with amusement and company,\nand have indulged a _reverie_ in my chamber, or in a solitary walk\nby a river side, I feel my mind all collected within itself, and am\nnaturally _inclined_ to carry my view into all those subjects, about\nwhich I have met with so many disputes in the course of my reading and\nconversation. I cannot forbear having a curiosity to be acquainted with\nthe principles of moral good and evil, the nature and foundation of\ngovernment, and the cause of those several passions and inclinations\nwhich actuate and govern me. I am uneasy to think I approve of one\nobject, and disapprove of another; call one thing beautiful, and\nanother deformed; decide concerning truth and falsehood, reason and\nfolly, without knowing upon what principles I proceed. I am concerned\nfor the condition of the learned world, which lies under such a\ndeplorable ignorance in all these particulars. I feel an ambition to\narise in me of contributing to the instruction of mankind, and of\nacquiring a name by my inventions and discoveries. These sentiments\nspring up naturally in my present disposition; and should I endeavour\nto banish them, by attaching myself to any other business or diversion,\nI _feel_ I should be a loser in point of pleasure; and this is the\norigin of my philosophy.\n\nBut even suppose this curiosity and ambition should not transport\nme into speculations without the sphere of common life, it would\nnecessarily happen, that from my very weakness I must be led into such\ninquiries. 'Tis certain that superstition is much more bold in its\nsystems and hypotheses than philosophy; and while the latter contents\nitself with assigning new causes and principles to the phenomena which\nappear in the visible world, the former opens a world of its own, and\npresents us with scenes, and beings, and objects, which are altogether\nnew. Since, therefore, 'tis almost impossible for the mind of man to\nrest, like those of beasts, in that narrow circle of objects, which\nare the subject of daily conversation and action, we ought only to\ndeliberate concerning the choice of our guide, and ought to prefer that\nwhich is safest and most agreeable. And in this respect I make bold to\nrecommend philosophy, and shall not scruple to give it the preference\nto superstition of every kind or denomination. For as superstition\narises naturally and easily from the popular opinions of mankind, it\nseizes more strongly on the mind, and is often able to disturb us in\nthe conduct of our lives and actions. Philosophy, on the contrary, if\njust, can present us only with mild and moderate sentiments; and if\nfalse and extravagant, its opinions are merely the objects of a cold\nand general speculation, and seldom go so far as to interrupt the\ncourse of our natural propensities. The _Cynics_ are an extraordinary\ninstance of philosophers, who, from reasonings purely philosophical,\nran into as great extravagancies of conduct as any _monk_ or _dervise_\nthat ever was in the world. Generally speaking, the errors in religion\nare dangerous; those in philosophy only ridiculous.\n\nI am sensible, that these two cases of the strength and weakness of the\nmind will not comprehend all mankind, and that there are in England,\nin particular, many honest gentlemen, who, being always employed in\ntheir domestic affairs, or amusing themselves in common recreations,\nhave carried their thoughts very little beyond those objects, which\nare every day exposed to their senses. And indeed, of such as these I\npretend not to make philosophers, nor do I expect them either to be\nassociates in these researches, or auditors of these discoveries. They\ndo well to keep themselves in their present situation; and, instead\nof refining them into philosophers, I wish we could communicate to\nour founders of systems, a share of this gross earthy mixture, as an\ningredient, which they commonly stand much in need of, and which would\nserve to temper those fiery particles, of which they are composed.\nWhile a warm imagination is allowed to enter into philosophy, and\nhypotheses embraced merely for being specious and agreeable, we can\nnever have any steady principles, nor any sentiments, which will suit\nwith common practice and experience. But were these hypotheses once\nremoved, we might hope to establish a system or set of opinions, which\nif not true (for that, perhaps, is too much to be hoped for), might at\nleast be satisfactory to the human mind, and might stand the test of\nthe most critical examination. Nor should we despair of attaining this\nend, because of the many chimerical systems, which have successively\narisen and decayed away among men, would we consider the shortness of\nthat period, wherein these questions have been the subjects of inquiry\nand reasoning. Two thousand years with such long interruptions, and\nunder such mighty discouragements, are a small space of time to give\nany tolerable perfection to the sciences; and perhaps we are still in\ntoo early an age of the world to discover any principles, which will\nbear the examination of the latest posterity. For my part, my only hope\nis, that I may contribute a little to the advancement of knowledge,\nby giving in some particulars a different turn to the speculations of\nphilosophers, and pointing out to them more distinctly those subjects,\nwhere alone they can expect assurance and conviction. Human Nature is\nthe only science of man; and yet has been hitherto the most neglected.\n'Twill be sufficient for me, if I can bring it a little more into\nfashion; and the hope of this serves to compose my temper from that\nspleen, and invigorate it from that indolence, which sometimes prevail\nupon me. If the reader finds himself in the same easy disposition,\nlet him follow me in my future speculations. If not, let him follow\nhis inclination, and wait the returns of application and good humour.\nThe conduct of a man who studies philosophy in this careless manner,\nis more truly sceptical than that of one who, feeling in himself an\ninclination to it, is yet so overwhelmed with doubts and scruples,\nas totally to reject it. A true sceptic will be diffident of his\nphilosophical doubts, as well as of his philosophical conviction; and\nwill never refuse any innocent satisfaction which offers itself, upon\naccount of either of them.\n\nNor is it only proper we should in general indulge our inclination\nin the most elaborate philosophical researches, notwithstanding our\nsceptical principles, but also that we should yield to that propensity,\nwhich inclines us to be positive and certain in _particular points_,\naccording to the light in which we survey them in any _particular\ninstant_. 'Tis easier to forbear all examination and inquiry, than\nto check ourselves in so natural a propensity, and guard against\nthat assurance, which always arises from an exact and full survey\nof an object. On such an occasion we are apt not only to forget our\nscepticism, but even our modesty too; and make use of such terms as\nthese, _'tis evident, 'tis certain, 'tis undeniable_; which a due\ndeference to the public ought, perhaps, to prevent. I may have fallen\ninto this fault after the example of others; but I here enter a\n_caveat_ against any objections which may be offered on that head; and\ndeclare that such expressions were extorted from me by the present view\nof the object, and imply no dogmatical spirit, nor conceited idea of\nmy own judgment, which are sentiments that I am sensible can become\nnobody, and a sceptic still less than any other.\n\n\n[17] Sect. 4.\n\n[18] Part III. Sect. 14.\n\n[19] Section 1.\n\n\nEND OF VOLUME FIRST.","title":"Philosophical Works, v. 1 (of 4): Including All the Essays, and Exhibiting the More Important Alterations and Corrections in the Successive Editions Published by the Author","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":130356}